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loganlermanstanaccount · 2 years ago

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Can you write a college roommate head cannon for miguel O’Hara ( 18+ f!reader)

ik you asked for HCs but I have no self control... my bad, anon!

College Roommate!Miguel O'Hara Headcanons

(AO3 Mirror), Main Masterlist

pairing: College Roommate!Miguel O'Hara x f!reader

summary: Miguel is your roommate. And he’s hot. That’s it, that’s the tweet.

warnings: 18+ as fuuuck. F-receiving oral, using toys, masturbation, voyeurism (-ish), grinding, praise, service dom (idk?) Miguel, recreational drug use (reader and Miggy smoke a blunt). Minors DNI

a/n: I am a firm believer that modern day Miguel listens to 90s rnb, back when men were men: unabashedly, unashamedly down so fucking bad for their partners. he just gives me those vibes!!

edit: I'm writing a full fic for this! Rigor Mortis, college au fic, read here.

wc: 6k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm thinking you become roommates but he's your last choice.

Very last minute: you have a big falling out with your now ex-boyfriend, and the plans for flatsharing next semester goes right out the window.

So all the good places are taken, and you're going apartment-hunting, but everywhere's either too expensive, too dirty, or there's a predatory clause hidden in the lease: shitty landlords and blaring red flags in 9pt Times New Roman.

When you stumble upon Miguel O'Hara; a student in private accomodation who, lucky you, is in need of a roommate; it feels like a godsend.

Rent is affordable and he's nice enough; refusing to grunt more than a few words to you, but is clean, organised, and from what you can tell, is barely in the apartment.

You sign onto the lease, desperately, hoping you've just been lucky and trying not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

You give a thousand mile stare at the blank document in front of you. A bullshit paper due in exactly 12 hours. Yes, you left it until the final stretch, and yes, it's 10k words. Very doable. You're not fucked. Nope.

You blame it on the banging from next door. Paper thin walls; obscene noises. Cries of Yes Miguel and Just like that, daddy have been plaguing you for almost an hour. His stamina must be superhuman, the way the woman in his bed has been howling. Howling may seem extreme, but she sounds like a dying cat: cock drunk and babbling over Miguel O'Hara?

Your new roommate had been nice enough. Quiet, unassuming, and seemed more than absorbed in his schoolwork. So you didn't expect him to unashamedly fuck the girl he's been tutoring for the past week. It all clicks. The "perfect roommate" turned out to have one teeny tiny little flaw: loud, obnoxious sex, well into the early hours of the morning.

On autopilot, you're clicking through tabs on your bed. Perhaps you're a prude, but the sex noises are abrasive, excessive, to the point of parody. Persistent, Miguel's low voice reverberates in the walls of your bedroom; making heat pool at the base of your stomach.

"You want it, hermosa? Tell me…. such a pretty girl… like that?" It's muffled, but his voice is unmistakable. Low, greedy, heavy with want. God, the last time someone's spoken to you like that was…

You shake your head free of cobwebs. No. You're not rewarding him. You can't . Your roommate is shameless, and inconsiderate, and really fucking annoying .

The smacking noises increase, coupled with banging on his side of the wall. Resolute, your face hardens. From where you perch on your bed, you slam the wall with the side of your fist.

"O'Hara! Keep it the fuck down!"

~~~

He's a biochem major, up to his ass in assignments and he still has time for societies, internships and tutoring.

The only times he'd be in the apartment really was an impromptu session, and you didn't notice at first, but it became more obvious as the semester went on.

As a so-called tutor, he only seemed to pick the prettiest girls - they would twirl their hair on your kitchen counter and bat their pretty lashes at him when they didn't understand. Favours for a couple of friends, is his only response when you ask.

It felt like you'd open the door to a new girl every week and you are baffled. Donned in makeup and short skirts, they'd waddle in asking for Miggy, or drop off half-finished assignments whilst craning their head through, trying to catch a glimpse of him.

The absurdity would make you laugh if it wasn't affecting your sleep.

Not that he's not absolutely gorgeous, but he's so quiet you would never have thought he had it in him: to have a revolving door of women lining up to lay underneath him.

This time, her name is Sarah: pretty little thing in Miguel's Advanced Math class. She perches on a stool, wearing a tight dress that is wholly not appropriate for a tutoring session. She's one of his regulars, if you can call it that, and has been failing for at least 2 semesters. You flash her a smile as you pad through the kitchen, searching the cupboards for a snack. God, she is gorgeous; dolled up for another long session with Miguel, no doubt.

"Where's he gone?" She asks politely.

You shrug. "I couldn't tell you, sorry."

"It's okay… I'm just a bit stuck." You almost snort and catch yourself. For some reason, you didn't think they actually did any work, merely a pretense for the… cardio later on in the day.

You glance at her sheet of paper, scribbles in purple pen with large swathes crossed out. Leaning over, you scan the page.

"Right here." You point and she follows with a manicured finger. "You fucked up with this integral and I think… yeah, I think that messes with the whole thing."

Her eyes light up as she follows you, explaining with a piece of cookie hanging out of your mouth. She's definitely smart, just a few little mistakes here and there that you're happy to point out. Thanking you fervently, she rushes to correct it.

"Ah, it's no problem. I get mixed up with it too." You smile and notice Miguel by the doorway, watching with a strange look in his face. You roll your eyes as you walk past. What a fucking weirdo.

"Thought I was the tutor?" He croons.

You raise an eyebrow, voice low as Sarah is engrossed in her work. "...I don't want to fuck her, Miggy , if that's what you're worried about."

A little cruelly you push past him, shoulders clashing against one another. Is he smiling ? For now, you blame your perpetual tiredness when you think you catch the hint of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

~~~

You're a light sleeper, and it all makes for a tired, delirious combo. You sleepwalk through the day, scramble to finish assignments and whilst it's not all O'Hara's fault, you can't help but blame him for a lot of it.

After you successfully get through one long week, you decide to celebrate. That means a couple hours of mindless hedonism: your favourite movie, greasy food…. and your trusty dildo. Not at the same time, of course.

Miguel's not home, and he's not tearing down the walls with some other girl, for once, so you decide to treat yourself.

You've been going through a dry patch, and you'd hate to admit it, but he does sound good through the thin drywall.

It was a joke gift; given to you by a friend for your birthday. An obnoxiously purple dildo with a suction cup at its base. Aptly named Hugh, due to its - ahem - large stature. Standing tall at 7 or 8 inches, far bigger or thicker than any partner you've taken in the past. Sitting around a small diner booth with your friends and opening the bag to reveal him, had been quite the experience, for sure.

It wasn't your fault you had gone through a dry spell in the past few months. With work, with school, with relationship issues, you hadn't had the time or energy to sleep around. Not that you were desperate for drunk, lackluster sex, followed by an awkward dance of ubers and shitty coffee in the morning. Like many, you preferred to do it yourself.

Laptop open, you ease yourself onto the toy, already slick with lube. Prepping yourself with your fingers had been quite the task, tabs open to something on a lewd website. It's cheesy, but you didn't really like the bright lights and plastic of usual porn. The moans felt too fake, the sex devoid of any real passion. So you found a couple of independent creators; couples, mostly; carnal fucking with fervour only borne from real love . It's embarrassing to admit it, but your favourite parts are the little kisses and touches in between, or light laughter after a rough session. As if to say: it's okay and I'm still here.

On your screen now is a longtime favourite video, a broad man bullying his fat cock into his partner. You can't help but think he looks like Miguel, not as pretty but tan with strapping shoulders, and large hands that wrap around the neck of the girl in the video.

" F-Fuck," You breathe, sinking down onto your toy. You bet Miguel's palm on your throat would be deliciously rough, and you imagine how he'd fuck the brat out of you like the man on your screen.

What hadn't occurred to you, however, was that the thin walls went both ways. Whilst you were quieter than many of the girls Miguel brought home, you were fairly shameless with the moans and curses that fell from your lips. Headphones on, you were blissfully unaware that Miguel had slipped into the apartment some time ago. The slap of your thighs to the floor, the desperate whine as you roll your hips over the toy - he can hear it all.

Miguel has a conscience, so he does feel some amount of shame when he slips a hand down his trousers and presses an ear to your shared wall. He closes his eyes and bites down lusty groans, fisting his cock to your pretty noises. Noises he's been wanting to hear from you for months, now, imagining it was you underneath him instead of his usual partners.

He times it just right, squeezing around his tip in time with the steady slap just beyond the wall. Are you fucking yourself? On your knees, hands flat on the floor, churning up your insides with a toy… or maybe ass up, dildo attached to something…? He almost cums with that mental image, wondering what you'd look like on your knees for him. Is the dildo as big as him? He knows you, knows you'd want it to hurt - for his cock to stretch out your pretty pussy when he cums deep inside you.

All things he thinks about with a hand around his cock, and he's already close. But he wants to cum with you, listening intently for the signs.

" Fuck," Your voice comes out muffled, but it makes him buck up into his fist all the same. " Need it… oh God, I-"

He speeds up, wondering what it would be like to have your thighs shake underneath him, what it would take to have you babbling and begging for more. How would he break you? Maybe on his cock, where he'd watch you squirm as you take his length. Or on your knees, choking around him and licking up his cum. Or, God, thighs wrapped around his head, riding out your high with his mouth sealed on your clit, crying for him slow down, for him to-

" H-Harder, Miguel, please."

He releases, sudden and intense, spilling white ropes into his boxers.

" Fuck, Miguel…"

He fucks his fist through it, overstimulated from the way you say his name. It feels like the only way it should be said; spilling from your mouth, haphazard and desperate. Like honey, like treacle; sweet things he didn't know he had the capacity for. He lets that feeling wash over him, panting, bringing his forehead to rest on cool wall.

~~~

He's hot. He's smart. He's a whore.

A total blindspot for you, and no matter how much you can't stand him; you still find yourself stealing glances whenever he's home.

And he does seem to be home a lot more, often choosing to study on the dining table rather than his room. It's like he does it on purpose, using the warmer weather as an excuse to wear tiny tank tops and loose gray sweats - showing off the muscles of his broad back and arms perfectly.

Funnily enough, when he's not around those girls, he's bearable - seems to have grown a couple of brain cells in those short few days between sessions.

You laugh and joke, sometimes, and he surprises you by suggesting a movie one quiet night.

He offers you his sweater to snuggle into, you eat your weight in greasy takeout, and your roommate seems like an actually decent guy??

You had fallen into an easy routine: O'Hara leaves a flask of coffee for you to snatch up in the morning, hair damp from the shower and all, and you meet him with netflix and instant noodles in the evening. A push and pull that works in the little space - much smoother than your rocky beginnings.

After a truly shitty day, you come home to a quiet apartment. Almost sleeping through an exam, forgetting lunch, missing the bus home, and having to trek back through pouring rain in a thin coat. Everything that could go wrong, did, and you are left with the pieces. You trudge through the living room into the kitchen, the wet squelch of socks on laminate floor haunting every step. Shedding your limp outerwear, you lay the contents of your backpack onto the kitchen counter: clumps of loose paper, the damp leftovers of a textbook, bleeding ink. Your main concern, however, is your laptop slick with rain water.

With baited breath, you put it on the slab, and press the power button. A click, a stuttering whir, and the screen flickers on. Then, just as strained, it putters off. Dead. Completely dead. Your legs almost give out, and you lean on the counter to steady yourself. Half of your life was there; including the final project that would make up a good chunk of your grade. It takes you everything not to collapse onto the floor right then and there.

"How was it?" You hear the click of a door and Miguel calls out from the hallway.

You wince."...F-Fine?"

You hear footsteps, as he gets closer. "Are you asking or telling me?"

You clear your throat, desperately trying to keep your voice steady. "Fine. It was fine. I'm just… it was fine."

Back still turned, you fumble around with the wet contents of your bag, hoping he doesn't notice.

"Long day?" He says warmly, head poking into the kitchen. Haphazardly, you spare him a glance from behind your shoulder. He's dressed in a sweater that fits snug around his chest, rolled up to expose his forearms, and loose sweats. In his hands, he drinks from a cheesy mug - your mug, donning a stupid pun. He looks warm. Cosy. Domestic. For some, reason it makes your heart sink even further.

Long day? "Something like that." You manage to squeeze out. There's a pregnant pause as he comes closer. Rummaging blindly through a cupboard, you try to hide behind its door. If he sees you like this, now, you don't know if you'll be able to hold it together.

You close the door, and all of a sudden he's there, mug in hand.

" Fuck, man- " It makes you jump, as he squints and takes a sip of his coffee.

"You look… wet."

"That's because it rained, Miguel." Snapping at him, your tone is biting. You're tired, stressed and in desperate need of a cry, but he is unrelenting in his gaze.

"Are you ok?" He asks, unfazed.

There's a lump in your throat and all you can do is nod with a tight expression. His eyes flicker towards the counter and you shuffle, trying to cover up the mess. And then you watch it happen; initial confusion, a flash of realisation, and then worry; all in the space of a couple seconds.

Gently, he pulls you aside to inspect the damage. "Mierda. This is pretty bad. You sure you're ok?"

He's got a hand on your arm now, The dam breaks and you crumple into tears in the kitchen floor. Of course, he comes with you, rubbing your back as you blubber through the details.

" Nothing's going right for me… and I've got my final project on there… I'm barely keeping up as it is…" All he does is nod, face tight with something you can't quite name. It must seem pathetic to him, you think, shamelessly crying on the kitchen floor, complaining to your poor roommate. He can't leave you like this, because he's a decent person - but internally, he must think you're going crazy.

It helps, having him there: a steady presence by your side. Slowly but surely, your tears subside.

"You could've asked me to pick you up." He hands you some tissues off the counter, and watches as you mop up the tears. "I would've come, if you called."

"I didn't… I didn't think we were…" You search for the right word.

"...friends?" He offers, with a small smile. "You think I let just anyone steal my sweaters?"

"First of all," It makes you laugh, despite yourself. "You offered. And second, I've seen what you do with your friends, and I don't know if I have the energy for it."

"Ouch." Bashful, he rubs his chest like it aches. He sits a little close to you, knocking your shoulders with his own. "I know this girl who's crazy good with computers. I could ask her to take a look, if you'd like? Might not be able to save it but maybe we could recover the files?"

"...I'd like that, to be honest."

"Muy bien ." He leaps to his feet, palm stretched towards you to help you up. "I'll run you a warm bath or something. You're creating a puddle and it's going to ruin my floor."

"Our floor, asshole. I pay rent here, too."

~~~

You find that you enjoy being around him, and he feels the same.

You can't help but compare him to your shitty ex who you were planning to move in with: and even with his quirks, Miguel is better in every way.

There is harmony in your household, for a while, and you almost look forward to coming home to him after class. Almost.

It doesn't last long, because of course it doesn't. You'd thought you'd come to a tentative ceasefire, able to casually rib and joke with each other - takeout and B-roll movies aside. He leaves you leftovers from food he makes, you turn down your music when he's studying, and he even woke you up the other day when you had slept through your alarm.

Beyond the wall, his music is loud: a playlist you recognise as the one he puts on to (unsuccessfully) mask the noise of his usual late night adventures. Cheesy love ballads, heady RnB that leaks into your own room. You'd rather die than admit his taste in music isn't horrible, but it usually means a long, long night for everyone around. With finals around the corner, there's no way you can let this stand.

What kind of person does that? Lull you into a false sense of security with Snakes on a Plane and pepperoni pizza?

Absorbed in your own work, you hadn't even realised he had someone over; let alone was gearing up for obnoxious sex. You'd bang on the wall, but you feel like you guys are past that: crossed a threshold of intimacy that means you can shout at him up close and personal.

So you stomp over to the hallway, banging at the door to his room. In the short trip there, you've worked yourself into a frenzy. How many times have you told him to keep it down? That it was rude and inconsiderate to flaunt his sex life in your face; to fuck other women so loud you were practically involved? There was something about the little smile he would give you afterwards, when you catch him shepherding his latest out the door in the morning - like he gets off on it, enjoys it, when you react. Even when you think you're over it, he still manages to drive you absolutely crazy.

“Miguel? Open the fuck up!"

You're still fuming when the door opens with a click, and Miguel appears in the sliver of the doorway. He opens it so that his frame is half swallowed by the door, top half peeking through with a lazy hand in his hair. And of his top half, he's bare from the waist up, black band of his boxers sitting low on his v-line and loose sweats.

All the wind is knocked from your sails, and you lose your train of thought.

"Yeah?"

"I…" You clear your throat. "I don't care who you fuck, but when I'm doing work-"

"-I'm not." He chuckles. "There's no one here, hermosa. Just me. And you, I guess…"

There's something about the way he says it, lazily, as if it's his first time saying those words - wrapping his tongue around your name to see how it fits. If it fits, how it tastes. His relaxed posture, the way his hair falls…

"You're high." Your brow shoots up. "... you're high!"

With a finger pressed to his lips, he grabs your hand and pulls you into his room, eyes darting around the hallway.

"Shhh! You can't-" Now, he gets close, whispering like he's saying something he shouldn't. "You can't tell anyone. "

"I won't." You breathe. His face is serious at first, and then you're both giggling. You've never seen him so carefree, and it's nice to see Miguel walking around without the weight of the world on his shoulders.

He's still holding your hand, pressed close, and you see him drag his eyes up and down your figure. "You want do something you'll regret…?"

"...I've got a 9am, tomorrow, I really-"

"-shouldn't?" He finishes, dragging his hand up your bare arm, pupils blown. He gets up to your shoulders, tucking your hair behind your ear. It's sinful, the way his touch is gentle but gaze heavy - violent in the way he practically eyefucks you. You feel bare, in little sleep shorts and a t-shirt.

He steps back, lounging on his bed, and makes for a half finished blunt by the adjacent window sill. Sighing, you sit by him, sinking into the mattress. He pats you closer, dangerously close, and you comply. One arm curled by your waist, the other brings the blunt up close and you wrap your lips around it. When Miguel brings a lighter to the blunt, you lean into it, knuckles brushing your lips.

You take a drag, long, heavy, eyes closed. And when they open, you're met with his own. Maybe it's the weed, maybe it's the heady atmosphere, but you swear his eyes are low and deep with lust.

"Good girl." He rumbles, cupping your chin and tracing a thumb to your lips. He separates, bringin the blunt to his own lips before leaning back to pass it to you. As quick as he gets close, he pulls away; leaning back into the expanse of his large bed. And he looks good, head drawn back and the curve of his tan arm drawn upwards. Tufts of hair from his chest, the trail that leads down suggestively - and without inhibition, you basically drool over him. God, there it is. You feel it kick in and let it wash over you.

His music, long forgotten, blends into your downy haze. You want to sit in his lap, rest your head on his chest. You get it now: if this is the view all those women he tutors get to have, then you finally understand.

"Come closer, hermosa ." You barely register the nickname, only focused on the way he says it, the delicious way it rolls off of his tongue. You nod, and shuffle closer. His siren song sounds sweeter, somehow, up close.

You pass the blunt between you both, and watch it dwindle to the last dregs. Lying down next to him, he clutches your hand and takes the butt between his fingers, letting its flames die as you watch. You giggle and his gaze softens.

"I didn't expect this from you." You look up to see an upside-down Miguel, hiding a smile.

"Expect what?" He drags himself downwards, to rest his head by your side.

"All…" You gesture vaguely. "This. Don't even think I've been in your room for this long, before."

His room looks exactly how you'd expect it: tidy and modest, a row of trophies neatly lined up on a shelf, a telescope pointing out towards a window. There are posters by his bed; science related, mostly. You tilt your head in the direction of one of them.

"Is this what they see?" You mumble to no one in particular.

He manages to catch it, sluggish in his response. "...Is this what who sees?"

"All the girls you fuck." It tumbles your of your mouth, before you can help it.

He tilts his head too, looking at the poster and you watch the sharp lines of his jaw besides you. Even at this angle, he's so pretty.

"Huh. I guess they do."

"It's not very romantic, is it?" You blink, oblivious. Your question is met with a noncommittal shrug. "What was her name last time? Cassie, Clara-something…"

"Katie." He hums.

"Katie." Ignoring the twinge of disappointment at his quick response, you hope it's the weed and not jealousy that made you pretend to forget her name.

You sit up on your haunches, tracing the valleys and mountains of his bare chest with a leisurely finger. You try not to notice the way he shivers at your touch.

"I could hear everything. Every, 'Yes daddy'," You feign a moan by curling your lips into an O-shape. You bring your other hand to your hair, head tilted back with exaggerated movement. "And 'right there, Miggy, right fuckin' there' ."

Technically, you're making fun of him and laughing, expecting him to follow. But he doesn't, head back and eyes boring into you - only bringing a hand to press yours at his chest.

"Thin walls, Miguel." You clear your throat, sensing a shift in the atmosphere. Too far, probably. "Sorry, shit. I didn't mean-"

"I hear you too." He says softly. "I heard you, the other day."

Head filled with cotton, it takes a moment for his words to really click. So he elaborates, lacing his fingers with your own.

"Fucking yourself, hermosa ." He says it lazily, like the vulgarity of the act doesn't register.

Your eyes widen in horror. How much exactly did he hear?

"...and I heard you say my name."

"It was…. i-it wasn't like that-" Fuck. You can't think straight as it is: and his voice is low and silky, rubbing circles on your hand close to his chest. Even now, he oozes confidence, the steady thump-thump of his heart giving away nothing.

"Hmmm? Then what is it like?" You blink at him, unable to answer. "You're a hypocrite. You complain about all these women I supposedly fuck, but then-"

He pulls you closer, so that your lips almost touch his. "-you lock yourself in your room, touching yourself and thinking about your poor roommate. What am I meant to do with you?"

A pause, and in your daze, you can't breathe. For all your theatrics, it's too easy for him - to prod and tease, and for you to chase after him. You move to kiss him, but he grabs your chin at the last second. "Not quite. I want to hear you say it."

"Fuck- " You crumple, hiding your head in the crook of his shoulder. Even in your haze, the nerves bubble up from the base of your stomach. "Fuck me, please , Miguel."

He places a hand on your thigh, leading you to straddle his middle, other hand wrapped around your waist. He grinds your lower half into his, leaning up to bring your lips together.

He tastes sweet, greedily lapping up your moans in the clash. You're not thinking, not really, lost in the heat of his body, desperate and eager when you kiss. To contrast, Miguel cups your chin, pulling you away for air whenever you sink too deep. Somehow, he still manages to look smug, taunting you with a flash of his little fangs whenever you separate. If you weren't feeling the effects of that blunt, you may have had the means to be embarrassed at how much you want him - needily grinding against him and pawing at his chest.

It's too slow, too leisurely, like a punishment; and he refuses to give you what he knows you want. Your whines betray you when he finally slips a hand down your shorts.

"¿Paciencia, hmm?" He grabs a handful of your ass, clothed cock catching on your clit. It rips another moan from you, which he happily swallows with another kiss. "Patience, princesa."

You hump against one another like teenagers, your hands planted by his head for purchase. Hips moving of their own accord, you chase the relief Miguel provides: with his hands kneading your ass, length catching at your clit, and teeth nipping at your bare neck.

He licks a stripe up your collarbone, soothing the blossoming hickeys with a hum.

Fuck, how can he be so casual ? You don't know if it's the weed or something else, but he is in his element, hand dipping down your back to graze at your pussy from behind. He hisses when he realises how wet you are, swiping his fingers down your slit and taking them out to pop them in his mouth.

Now, flushed and face hot with embarrassment, you look up at him with big doe eyes. It makes Miguel feel guilty for stopping you so close to your climax. Beautiful : lower lip hooked under your teeth, plump and swollen and kissable. He'll make up for it later: a promise he whispers into skin.

"You're soaked." He cups your cheek to press a kiss to your forehead, and all you can do is whine. His gaze dips down, to the swell of your tits in that thin shirt..

"What did you think about when you touched yourself?" It's soft, said in the warm press of your bodies; hook-shaped and hazy and you fit like you were made for one another. The thought lingers, plants a dangerous seed that makes you forget that the man underneath you is your roommate : unrepentant whore, Miguel O'Hara.

"You." You've seen it first hand, he eats hearts for breakfast; and yours is on a platter for him to devour.

He laughs, deep and rumbling, hands resting on your waist. "I know that, baby. You don't have fantasies? Fuck yourself to the thought of someone touchin' you just right?"

Not just someone, him, you think. Your voice dies in your throat at the way he looks at you. "Just… n-nothing really-"

He hums, grinding your hips onto his. "Speechless, I can't believe it. Is this what I need to do to get some fucking peace around here?"

You roll your eyes, "Don't be a dick, Miguel. When I shout, it's because you deserve it."

"...there it is." Eyes shining, his face stretches into a shit-eating grin. Wide, unabashed, unambiguous. "You back with the living, sweetheart?"

It makes you laugh, even though you hate to give him the satisfaction.

"What do you want?" He kneads your thigh and pleasure pools at the base of your stomach.

You mumble something begrudgingly.

"Hmm? Can't hear you, baby."

Louder, now. "...want to sit on your face, Miguel."

Lowly, he groans, shaking his head. "Mierda… of course you do."

Expertly, he helps you take your shorts off, dragging the thin material down your thighs. You clambers upwards, wrapping them around his shoulders, watching intently as he kneads the soft skin. It's tentative, at first, and you place your hands on the headboard to perch just above his mouth.

He licks, diving in with the flat of his tongue: a long upwards stroke that ends with him sucking your clit. Moaning, your hips jump and he chases your pretty pussy up, large palms pushing you back down. He concentrates on your bundle of nerves, lips around your clit like a man on a mission.

And, God, does it feel good; he watches and learns from your every movement, committing your body to memory. His moans vibrate deliciously, tension building at that spot faster than your mind can register it. Then, you clench around nothing, gushing into his mouth whilst he eases you through it. The noises he makes are obscene; one leg off the bed and a hand snaked under his boxers. He's getting off on it; watching you crumple and sob around his tongue.

And when you begin to move off, thighs sore, he doesn't relent, sealing his mouth on your pretty little hole.

"Miguel.. fuck-" After your first orgasm, it surprises you when he continues, tongue fucking you with fervour. He presses you close, impossibly close, and your body fights against his ministrations. Heat, everywhere, and it's too much. The haze of the blunt begins to wear off and you are left with biting clarity. You want more of him, deeper; drunk off of just his tongue.

You card your hands in his hair, and he moans: deep and wanton, with his eyes fluttering shut. He wants to look, to watch you when you cum on his tongue for a second time. Back arched, the curve of your tits peeking through a tiny top, fucking yourself on his face. He wants it hard , wants you to take control and use him to get off.

"Right there, fuck… "

Like you can hear his thoughts, you press yourself down harder, riding the deep ridge of his nose for relief. Miguel complies and leans into it. He eats you out like a man starved and the carnality of it all brings you to a second peak. You cum once again, legs wrapped tight around his face. Head back, he laps it up readily.

You separate with a wet pop, and Miguel looks blissful : fucked out and panting, wiping the slick off of his face with a forearm. Exhausted, you lean back onto the mattress beside him.

"That was…" He searches for the right word, and it's your turn to finish for him.

"... good. " Scarily good. So good you won't be able to see him around the apartment without remembering what he looks like trapped between your thighs.

Gently, he turns to cup your cheek and bring your lips to his. It starts off sweet and deepens rapidly, making that thread at the pit of your stomach tighten, again. He grabs your thigh, bringing it closer, and you feel his length poking your stomach. Fuck.

"You haven't…?" Your hand makes for his trousers, and he stops you. "I want to, Miguel. Want you to feel good too."

His head sinks into your shoulder. "I know, baby, I know. Not like this. Not yet."

You nod, still wrapped up in his arms. You haven't even fucked, and it feels more intimate than it should.

"You've got a 9am tomorrow." He smiles with a hand underneath his head.

"I've got a 9am tomorrow," You repeat, sighing. "...and my life is falling apart. I'm failing half of my classes as it is."

He turns to you, lazily.

"I could tutor you, if you'd like."

…

"That's not fucking funny, Miguel."

Miguel taglist: @d1lf-loverrr, @afro-hispwriter @ilovemiguelohara @weedxgirlx420 @ladydovahkiin180 @aaliyuh3 @sweetanimebakery @vvitcxen @rosecoloredlenses708 @daikondal @magikmina @impettywhenyouare @alonelygirlsuicidenote @plushyplants @javi0ca @rheeves @starrfruit @nikirikii @marsbars09 @foxglove-grove @mimooyi @crosshairclown @dead-by-light @kynamitedessert @naarra @wanderlustingcastaway @sagejin @cookielovesbook-akie @tangerineloverrr @gobblegluckgluckgod @wolfiepirate @jxxey3 @ebrysteria @elliemm @manchuria @youngghostpeachslime @weasleybuns @ilovemuppets @vauriz @bonbyon @aimno256 @ancientbeing10 @tvije @venus1224idkpleaze @neteyamsbulletwound @chickenjefferson-blog @maki-z @jasjasthings

edit: the full fic xx

#i am very very close to making this a full fic #(implying that this isn't alr basically a full fic lmfao)#miguel o hara x reader #miguel o'hara x reader #across the spiderverse #kat_writes😼#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara smut #miguel o'hara headcanons #spiderman 2099 masterlist #spiderman 2099 x reader

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tossawary · 1 year ago

Text

Rewatched the Howl's Moving Castle movie (fantastic animated movie, definitely inspired by more than an adaptation of the book) while doing something else and I was struck this time by the fact that the Prince (Turniphead the Scarecrow) says that he intends to go tell his king to call off the war, but THEN he intends on COMING BACK to Ingary to shoot his shot with Sophie again because (as he says to the flirtatious Witch of the Wastes) "hearts change".

And maybe he will come back to make Sophie an offer of marriage and then leave again when he's turned down, but I imagined for a moment that the Prince (who is possibly the movie's version of Prince Justin, so let's call him Justin) might just... move back into Howl's house without asking and stay there. There are several cases of precedent for this. Also, as Turniphead, he's shown several times helping Sophie with laundry, or playing with Markl, or helping the Witch of the Wastes move around, and Sophie deserves that kind of help around the house! Howl isn't going to reliably do chores.

And you know what? I think Howl would be into that shit. There's something very Wynne-Jonesian about it all still. It's tempting to write a post-canon fic about this situation from the movie with an extra dash of flavoring from the books. Like:

This is the infamous wizard Howl Pendragon/Jenkins, a vain draft-dodging flirt who likes to build moving castles to evade taxes too. The beautifully angry young woman with the silver hair over there is his wife, Sophie Hatter, who may or may not be an extremely powerful witch, but right now she's dusting and do not get in her way. This is Calcifer, the fire demon who used to have Howl's heart and is arguably his other life partner and also might be in love with Sophie, and this is arguably kind of actually his house. The old lady smoking a cigar over there is Howl's ex-girlfriend and former nemesis, the Witch of the Wastes, who now lives in their house. This is Markl, Howl's apprentice, kind of his kid, and there is no explanation of where he comes from or what happened to his parents. The dog used to be(?) the Royal Wizard's spy (Howl used to be her apprentice and potential successor) but now he also just lives here. And that's Prince Justin of Strangia, Sophie's house-boyfriend. Don't listen to the propaganda, he wasn't kidnapped by a heart-eating wizard; he used to be a cursed scarecrow and now he wants to be here to help Sophie do laundry. He's trying to homewreck and Howl thinks it's both funny and hot.

#tossawary hmc #fic ideas #howl pendragon #sophie hatter #prince justin turniphead

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00valentina-writes00 · 4 days ago

Note

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.

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soreconom · 2 months ago

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Hihi!! I just read your Sevika HCs and I absolutely love them!! I wanted to know if you could (please) write HCs for Sevika and Vi after an argument with their partner? :) Whether it’s an argument the reader started or they started can be completely up to you! Or you could even do both scenarios if you prefer! 💕

Thank you and I hope you have a nice day/evening 💖

🖤Sevika and Vi after an Argument🖤

men dni men dni men dni men dni men dni men dni men dni

🤎Sevika🤎

I don’t think arguments would be common in a relationship with Sevika.

When she locks into a serious relationship, she means serious. She covers all the important bases for a healthy relationship; communication, loyalty, respect, trust, and so much more.

Covering these bases, especially communication, helps to avoid frequent arguments.

It won’t completely cut out the occasional argument though.

When you two do argue, it’s almost always about bigger things. For example, her working so much and not taking much time for herself, or maybe her drinking and smoking.

Post-argument time usually has as “how can we avoid this in the future” moment where you guys have a heart to heart about whatever started the argument.

If you start an argument:

Be prepared to apologize first. And only apologize if you’re really sorry.

You should always finish what you start, after all.

Your apology may be met with an affectionate an eye roll and a huff.

She never stays mad at you for long.

Once you apologize she usually makes space for you wherever she’s sitting and wraps her arm around just to let you know it’s really okay.

If you’re just apologizing because you feel like you need to, don’t. She can see right through you if you’re bullshitting her.

If you’re stubborn like her, sometimes apologizing can genuinely be difficult. She gets that. Which is why her patience with you is a blessing.

Again, when you’re ready to apologize , she’s affectionate and accepts it.

If she starts an argument:

This woman is stubborn. For her to apologize, it just doesn’t feel right.

She’s only ever been truly sorry a few times in her life. In the Undercity, living a life like hers, she never had time to be sorry.

Being sorry gets you hurt. It gets you killed.

But…

It’s obviously different when it’s you. You aren’t a big bad wolf waiting around the corner. You’re her partner, her ride-or-die.

In the heat of the moment, what she said felt right. It felt like something you needed to hear.

The thought of you feeling hurt by something she said just eats her alive.

She comes to you first.

It isn’t anything crazy, usually just a simple, gruff “I’m sorry.”

She’s awkward and stiff about it, but completely genuine.

Asks what she can do to make it up to you, if anything.

❤️Vi❤️

Violet runs hot. She isn’t a loose cannon but someday’s it can be hard trying to keep all of her emotions under wraps.

This has definitely lead to arguments over petty things like dishes in the sink or eating the last of her favorite snack.

It’s also lead to arguments about very serious things. Her pit fighting, drinking, and her occasional impulsivity.

Arguments always hit her hard, even the petty ones. No matter how old she gets, arguments always make her feel like a little kid, just waiting for the ball to drop. The ball being losing you.

That feeling of dread, like this argument could be the last, if that makes sense.

Physical touch is usually present in the make up process after an argument. It helps ground her.

The good news is, the two of you always make up very quickly.

If you start an argument:

If the argument is a petty spat about dishes or snacks, she still apologizes first, albeit rather begrudgingly.

This links back to her feeling like this argument could be the last. What if she never hears “You promised you’d take out the trash this week” ever again?

You, however, shut that down. “It’s my fault, I should be the one apologizing.” You tell her.

These arguments are extremely easy to come back from because you two are always on the same level. Two halves to make a whole, equals

There isn’t a point in staying hung up on petty nonsense for long.

If you start a big argument, you apologize first.

She distances herself and you have to go to her.

You’ll usually find her someplace where she shouldn’t be, like a bar. Or, you might find her someplace safe, like with Loris or another friend she feels comfortable around.

Not only should you apologize, but it would also be a good chance to thoroughly explain why you’re upset or might think something is a bad idea.

Once you do that, she’ll open her arms up to you and usually things can be resolved somewhat easily after that.

If she starts an argument:

Again, she apologizes first.

If she starts an argument, big or small, the dread of possibly losing you over this hits her like bricks.

For smaller arguments, she approaches you casually. If you let her, she’ll wrap her arms around you. An apology hug, if you will.

Says, “I’m sorry, baby,” in the softest voice she can muster.

These smaller arguments are always easier to come back from just because she’s so sweet. How can you ever stay upset when she’s such a sweetie?

Big arguments are something else though.

After she’s said whatever it is that she’s said, the weight of it all is suffocating.

If she said something really stupid and hurtful in the heat of the moment, she might need some space for a bit. Things like that take her back to that day.

But she’ll come to you when she’s ready.

May or may not have a little gift for you for extra measure. Usually it’s something simple like your favorite candy bar.

She tells you she’s sorry and explains why she got so worked up. Usually this leads to a steady and warm embrace and you let her know it’s okay.

hello!!! thank you for the request ♥️ please let me know if you enjoyed it or not. i had so much fun writing these. i kind of got carried away with vi’s headcanons 🙈. . i was purposefully vague about what started the argument so you can sort of imagine your own scenario for why the argument started!🎠

ask box is open for multiple fandoms and nearly every arcane character! check my pinned for rules, fandoms, and characters. i write headcanons, reactions, drabbles, and more!

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kitchen-spoon · 1 year ago

Text

Steddie where Eddie moves into a small house in a retirement mobile home park. He is the youngest guy there and is pretty handy. All the old ladies in the neighbourhood start to talk about him when he begins to offer his handyman skills to them as well.

One day after finishing up winterizing Mrs. Harrington’s water supply to her trailer she invites Eddie inside for some tea to warm up. Winter hadn’t hit yet but it was already nippy out she told him. Once inside she invites him to come over Sunday night to join her and her friends ‘book club’. At first Eddie politely declines but once she explains to him that its all the old ladies in the neighbourhood sitting around drinking wine, smoking joints, and gossiping he’s in.

Enter Steve who visits his grandma every Sunday for dinner and sometimes stays for her gossip sessions with all the other bitties in the neighbourhood because the snacks are always great. Steve is surprised that week when the door bell rings and a hot long haired pierced man covered in tattoos is standing there instead of another old woman handing him her coat and cane. Steve sputters for a moment but then his grandmother is coming up behind him explaining this is the young man who fixed her water supply for her.

“Well um, thank you for that.” Steve nods awkwardly, watching over his shoulder as his grandmother waddled away back to her friends. “You didn’t have to come though, sorry if she twisted your arm about it, she’s stubborn.” He rubbed at the back of his neck with a small chuckle.

“It’s okay I really don’t mind.” Eddie smiled easily, inching his way into the house and Steve’s personal space. “Smoking weed with a bunch of old ladies and gossiping about my new neighbours sounds like a great way for me to spend my Sunday.” He winked.

“I- yeah it is pretty fun.” Steve agreed having not moved at all. “The snacks are always great too, you’ll have to try Betty’s blondie cake it’s always my favourite.” Steve leaned in to whisper conspiratorially.

Eddie beamed back at him, eyes roving all over Steve’s face before pausing at his lips for a second then darting back up to his eyes. “Lead the way then big boy.” Eddie bit his lip at how red Steve’s face got, he decided to push it slipping his hand into Steve’s.

“Yeah- uh sure yeah.” Steve nodded dumbly staring at their connected hands for a moment before snapping out of it and tugging Eddie along. “Everything is set up in the living room, I just got the fire going to so it should be warm.”

By the end of the night Eddie and Steve were melted into one another on a small single seater in the corner of the room. They watched as all the ladies gathered their coats one by one as their husbands came to collect them.

“It’s sweet.” Steve sighed unprompted, his head lolled against Eddie’s shoulder. Eddie made a questioning noise so he continued. “Seeing their husbands come walk them back home at the end of the night. They aren’t annoyed that their wives are giggly and a bit wobbly they are just happy they are happy and want to be there to take care of them.”

“You are a sappy stoner Steve.” Eddie teased, he moved his hand over and dropped it onto Steve’s thigh giving it a squeeze. “Can’t say I blame you though, it is very cute to see.” Eddie sighed before unsticking himself from Steve’s side and making his way to the door himself. “I better get going, no husband to come walk me home”. He blushed at the implication of his own words.

“I’ll be your husband.” Steve blurted then immediately turned red. “I mean- I meant that I uhum-“

“You can walk me home Steve.” Eddie smiled wide and teasingly. He looked his arm through Steve’s and tugged him through the door, waving goodbye to Mrs.Harrington with a promise to be back next week.

The walk was short considering Eddie was only 2 houses down and one across. They kept their arms looped the entire 3 minutes they walked, and once they reached the door Steve still hadn’t let go.

“Well goodnight.” Steve spoke first, ducking his head away. He took a deep breath then looked back to Eddie determination on his face when he spoke. “See you next week?”

Eddie smiled but shook his head, “I was hoping sooner, how does Wednesday sound?” He moved in closer his hand sliding down to Steve’s waist.

“Wednesday is great I love Wednesday.” Steve nodded frantically then cringed. “I mean I don’t actually love all Wednesday’s just this one because we are-“

Eddie cut his rambling off with a kiss. He leaned in and connected their lips, his free hand coming up to cradle the back of Steve’s head.

Steve melted into the kiss, his body going lax in Eddie’s hold, “Thanks for saving me from embarrassing myself further.”

“Anytime sweetheart.”

#eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie #stranger things ships #steve x eddie #stranger things #stranger things one shot #meet cute #strangers to lovers #flustered steve Harrington #eddie munson has peircings and tattoos #eddie munson knows how to flirt #confident eddie munson #gay steve harrington #steve harrington pov #handy eddie munson #gay eddie munson

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deansbeer · 3 months ago

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♱ american made ⎯⎯ SOLDIER BOY.

⎯⎯ your encounter with soldier boy at the flatiron building proves he's nothing like his disappointing son, homelander.

YAP SESH! so this was meant to be posted days ago … but i got super busy 'n totally forgot about it. but it's finally up <3 love me some soldier boy every once in awhile too.

୨ৎ JENSEN'S LIBRARY.

୨ৎ CAI BOT — based off this FIC.

you hadn't expected to find soldier boy lounging on butcher's desk, smoke curling from his lips as he took another hit from his joint. the flatiron building was usually empty this time of night, save for butcher who you could hear talking in the other room.

"well. if it isn't america's former sweetheart," soldier boy drawled, his eyes trailing over you with an intensity that made your breath catch. "came to see the brit?"

you shifted your weight, suddenly aware of how alone you were with him. "i needed to discuss some things about homelander."

"that fucking disappointment," he scoffed, taking another drag. "you know, hughie told me about you. america's sweetheart turned rebel. gotta say, that's pretty hot."

the way he said it made heat pool in your stomach. you'd heard stories about soldier boy, about his reputation before payback turned their backs on him, but nothing prepared you for the raw magnetism he exuded. maybe it was because he reminded you of homelander — or rather, homelander reminded you of him. but there was something different about soldier boy. something more primal, more authentic.

"what else did hughie tell you?" you asked, taking a step closer.

soldier boy's lips curved into a smirk. "enough to know that you're wasted on my sorry excuse of a son." he stubbed out the joint and stood up, closing the distance between you in two long strides. "tell me, sweetheart, did he ever make you feel like a real woman?"

your breath hitched as he backed you against the desk, his hands gripping the wooden edge on either side of you. "soldier boy—"

"ben," he corrected, his breath hot against your neck. "my name's ben."

what happened next was a blur of sensations. his lips crashed against yours, tasting of marijuana and whiskey. your hands found their way to his shoulders, feeling the solid muscle beneath his suit. he lifted you onto the desk with ease, stuff scattering to the floor.

"fuck butcher and his precious fucking desk," he growled, pushing you back until you were lying flat on the wooden surface. "been wanting to do this since i first heard about you."

your clothes seemed to disappear under his experienced hands, and soon you were bare beneath him. soldier boy took his time, his eyes drinking in every inch of you. "now this is what i call a view," he muttered, his voice rough with desire.

you could hear butcher still on the phone in the next room, his muffled british accent a reminder of where you were. but soldier boy didn't seem to care, and truthfully, neither did you.

he knew exactly how to touch you, where to kiss you, how to make you fall apart. each thrust was calculated, powerful, making you bite your lip to keep from crying out. his experience showed in every movement, every angle he hit perfectly.

"you're all mine," he growled in your ear, his pace relentless. "no other man gets to touch you, look at you, think about you. understood?"

you nodded desperately, your nails digging into his back.

"say it," he demanded, slowing his movements teasingly.

"i'm yours," you gasped, and he rewarded you by picking up his pace again.

the desk creaked beneath you, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you wondered if butcher would notice the scattered papers, the slightly askew angle of his workspace. but those thoughts disappeared as soldier boy brought you to the edge again and again.

when it was over, he helped you straighten your clothes, a possessive glint in his eyes. "you should come around more often," he said, lighting another joint. "might make these meetings with butcher more interesting."

you couldn't help but smile, even as you heard butcher's footsteps approaching. soldier boy didn't move away from you, if anything he moved closer, making it clear to anyone who walked in exactly what had happened.

from that moment on, everyone knew you belonged to soldier boy. the boys never commented on it directly, but they saw the marks he left on your neck, the way his eyes followed you whenever you were in the room, the possessive hand he kept on your lower back.

and honestly? you wouldn't have it any other way.

#kari ♡ writes.#soldier boy #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy x you #soldier boy x female reader #soldier boy x y/n #the boys #the boys x reader #the boys x you #the boys x y/n #homelander #homelander x reader

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nanivinsmoke · 4 months ago

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❥ DADDY’S DEALINGS

patch!wolverine (logan) x fem!reader

summary ❥ dont fuck with him while he’s working. you knew that, but what happens when you try to fuck on him during work?

warnings: telekinetic reader & code name is diamond, mentions of blood, semi-public sex (in an empty casino), multiple orgasms, creampies, hair pulling, choking, spanking, teasing, rough sex

note: round two, enjoy! wc: 2.7k, m.list here

men in suits sat at the round poker table. laughing, smoking and having a grand ole time. it seemed like a regular poker night with friends, however it was not. all these men were successful businessmen, but one of them was tonight’s target.

and the two of you were here to uncover who that was. patch sat at the table, keeping a blank face while playing the game. however, he was really reading the room. trying to find one slip up so he could take whomever out.

and he couldn’t do it alone, that’s why you were here. you were the distraction, a man’s weakness was a beautiful woman and that you were. the ruby red spaghetti strapped dress clung to you like another set of skin, catching the eyes of the men in there when you walked in. the gleam of your jewelry blinded them, but the scent of your perfume as you passed by only made them want you even more.

you sat at the bar, ordering something light, not wanting anything to get you drunk, but enough to give you a little buzz. you turned in your and watched the game of poker progress, while glancing at patch.

he looked so good sitting there. muscles flexing each time he moved a chip, thick fingers covered in rings—which you wished were deep inside of you, splitting you open—and the eyepatch that was slapped across his face and covered one of his beautiful hazel eyes; still made him even more sexier than ever.

you couldn’t help but to press your thighs together, mind starting to cloud with lewd thoughts of him bottoming out inside of you. until you were snapped out of your daze by the bartender handing you your drink.

you sighed, sipping on the fruity drink you ordered and taking in your surroundings, hoping the target for tonight’s mission would fuck up and show themselves; so you could finally go home and have hot sweaty sex with patch.

however, as time passed, you realized you were going to be here for a while. the game still went on and nobody moved an inch, boring you to death. but, as you sipped on your third drink for the night, you were hornier than ever. you were dripping, aching for some attention and you were going to get it.

the mission was far from your mind as you got up from the bar and sashayed over to the table, standing between patch and another gentleman , before bending over—your cleavage catching the attention of the other man, while your presence gained the attention of your partner. “mind if i join in?” you asked and the stranger got up from his seat in a hurry.

“you can take my spot miss. im losing anyways,” you smiled and sat down, taking his spot and looking down at your cards. you could feel patch boring holes into your face, but you paid him no mind. you knew you weren’t supposed to interfere with his mission unless he wanted you to, but you didn’t care. you had your own mission to worry about.

“you look a little empty there, can i buy you a refill?” you asked him, leaning over to get in his personal space, so you could whisper in his ear. “ ‘m horny. take me home?”

he glared at you before throwing out one of his cards, “no. busy, working.” you whined and sat back in your chair, following suit and throwing out cards as well. you flagged down a waiter and ordered a margarita, telling him to keep it coming before trying to focus on the game in front of you.

however, the more you sat next to him the more aroused you became. it didn’t help that his cologne turned you on, you wanted to pounce on him right then and there. you slid your heeled foot next to his, teasing him by rubbing it against him—only for him to pull his away. he grunted in response, but never turning to look at you.

you weren’t going to give up either. using your powers, you made the waiter bringing your drink, trip causing him to crash into another waiter, making a big commotion; which distracted the other players. using this as an opportunity to speak to him again, you whispered in his ear—voice soft and sexy.

“please, fuck me. need you so bad” he could smell how bad you wanted him, the moment you sat down, but he didn’t have time for that right now. a new scent took over his nose and he glanced around the room, spotting an older man walking in the room; with two girls on each of his arms and two guards behind him. “they’re here. focus.”

by now the waiter had cleaned up his mess and came back with a fresh drink, handing it to you and apologizing for the first one. you sent him a smile before dismissing him, sipping on the cold drink—watching the new player join the game. he sat across from you and you flashed him a smile, immediately gaining his attention.

the male whispered to his guards, before one of them came over to you. “the gentleman over there wants to know if you could sit next to you and could he buy you another drink?” you glanced at him and he winked. smiling at him, you nodded your head and the guy made his way over; dismissing the women.

he sat next to you and you smiled, taking a look at every detail of his face. he was attractive and you couldn’t help smirk to yourself. you knew exactly how to get patch to pay attention towards you.

“what can I get you to drink?” he asked and you slightly turned towards him, putting out the last of your cards, losing the game. “scotch, on the rocks.”

he smiled in amusement, not many of the girls he came across liked dark liquors. “not good at poker?” you shook your head and he smiled, motioning for the dealer to bet him in. “i’ll teach a pretty lil thing like you how to play. name's richard, but you can call me, dick.”

“diamond,” you moved your chair closer to his, glancing over at patch an evil glint in your eyes. you were playing a dangerous game and you were ready for the consequences. as he taught you how to play, patch watched with a clench jaw. he wanted to rip the guys head off for even talking to you, but he knew what was at stake. all he needed was the guy to touch you and he’d take him out right then and there.

“got a boyfriend diamond?”

“complicated,” that slipped off your tongue too fast for patch’s liking, making him grunt loudly, gaining the attention of dick. “is there a problem?”

“focus on the game, bub.” dick chuckled and stared at patch, wondering who the hell he was. and before he could fix his mouth to say something, your drinks came; gaining his attention. you thanked the waiter and held up your glass, lipstick spreading when you smiled.

“you gonna teach me or what?” you got up from your seat, the frame of your body being outlined by your dress, made his breath get caught in his throat—eyes glued to every curve, watching as you sat down on his lap. the way you sat gave you full view of patch, who was seething. and when dick placed his hand on your hip, he had enough. he jumped up, claws unsheathing, sticking them into richard’s guards—their blood splattering against his white suit.

the people in the private casino scurried away in a hurry, trying to make sure they’re not next to get taking out. more of dick’s guards came running in, guns in their hands, ready to attack—until you appeared in front of them. “sorry boys, you’re not getting through.” you sent them flying into the other room, crashing against the slot machines; knocking them out cold. and for good measure, you picked one up and dropped it on them.

one’s that slipped past were slice up by patch, their bodies dropping at dick’s patent shoes. patch huffed, eyes glued onto richard’s.

“you fucking b—.” his head was sliced clean off, dropping next to the pile of bodies. the rugged man didn’t have time for monologues, he was pissed. pissed at you. the people that were still hiding in the room, peeked their heads out; hoping that it was safe, yet there were proven wrong by the feral looking man in front of them.

“GET THE FUCK OUT!” his claws retracted and they all ran out, not trying to be the next person to piss him off. you tried sneaking out with them, only for him to grab you, slinking you over his shoulder. “baby! wait—fuck!” he said nothing and sent a hard smack to your ass, the vibration from it made the stinging sensation linger a little longer. oh you were in for it.

he slapped everything off of the poker table before propping you up on there, your hands and knees pressing into the plush green surface. he hiked your dress up to the middle of your back, grunting when he seen the wet spot in the middle of your black panties. with another powerful smack to your ass, you yelped out, only for him to grip your hair—pulling you towards his chest.

“like having that jerk feel up on you. he makes you wet?” his hand massaged your cheeks, easing the stinging sensation he caused. you whimpered and shook your head, “no baby—only you.”

he slapped both of your cheeks, the wet spot on your panties growing by the second as he took his frustrations out on you. it was one thing to try and sabotage the mission, he’d deal with that later, but to sit on another man’s lap in front of him? oh you deserved this punishment.

you were practically drooling, from both sets of lips, while he continued the torment on your ass—his hand prints now molded on your cheeks. he moved his hand from your hair and slid it down to your cunt, pressing two of his fingers against your clit; your slick immediately seeping through the fabric and onto his fingers.

he grunted and massaged his finger on your clit, eliciting whines from you. you backed your ass up in his palm, trying to add some more friction to your cunt, but he stopped you.

“ ‘m in charge here, doll.” you could hear the clinking of his belt buckle and it excited you. from the way he manhandle you and forced your back down, deepening your arch, you knew he was going to fuck you so good.

your panties were pulled down, exposing your bare—slick coated cunt to him and he let out a low groan. he took your panties and brought it up to his nose, smelling your arousal; his cock becoming stiff behind his boxers—before he reached around and placed them into your mouth.

your moans were muffled as you turned your head slightly to see him pull his underwear down, revealing his fat beer can shaped cock. he fisted his cock for a bit, globs of his precum coating his hand, before he pushed through your entrance; your juices coating his dick immediately.

he didn’t even need to prep you to take him, you were beyond soaked, making it easier for him to slide ride in—rubbing right against your spot. “fuck. gotta keep this pussy to myself.”

you moaned into your panties, while he gripped the side of your hips and began to pound your pussy, splitting you open with each stroke. your ass rippled against him and you struggled to throw it back on him, causing him to smack one of your plump cheeks.

“f-fuck me back…..atta girl,” you started to bounce back on him, the poker table shaking with each thrust. your eyes rolled back into your head, the pleasure so unspeakably intense. he knew exactly how to hit your spot with each thrust, which made your legs shake uncontrollably and an orgasm course through you prematurely.

he felt you clench around him and he stopped his movements, pulling out of you slowly; your bottom lip trembling as you turned to look at him. “did you just fucking cum?” you nodded and his eyes darkened. before you could even process what was happening, you were on your back with ankles pointing up to the ceiling.

the red dress that was hiked up was now on the bar not too far away from you both, and your soiled panties were finally removed from your mouth, allowing you to finally moan freely, as he plunged back into your sopping wet cunt.

he was abusing your cunt each time his cock pistoned in and out of you, cock bullying your walls, sending bolts of electricity towards your clit. you reached down and tried to rub the sensitive bud, but he slapped your hands away causing you to cry out. “nope. you wanted this dick, so that’s what you’re gonna get. got it?” you nodded your pretty little head, earning a powerful smack to your cunt—making you gush around him.

“words. i wanna hear it.”

“yes! yes! fuck—daddy. you’re so deep!” rough calloused hand found its way around your throat, turning you on even more. the look on his face, the way his cock filled you up and how he treated you like his fuck toy, had you wanting more.

the squelching sound that followed when he was balls deep inside of you, made that knot in your stomach become tighter. you were so close and with him twitching inside of you, you knew he was too.

with the help of your powers, you brought him closer to you. his white, blood stained blazer pressed against your breasts, adding some stimulation to your tender nipples; which helped speed up your orgasm. you whimpered, staring into his uncovered eye, cumming for the second time; without him.

specks of white blurred your vision as you came undone. the grip around his shaft, tightening with each thrust that hit your spot over and over again.

he was pissed. first you tried to ruin the mission and had some guy all over you, but now you came twice? oh he was more than pissed.

his grip around your neck loosened and he moved his hand up to your cheeks, gripping them; causing them to puff up in his hands. his stroke was faster and deeper, practically kissing your cervix—making you whine out.

“ ‘s too much! please daddy, can’t take it.” you were able to huff out, but he ignored your pleas, still treating you like a common slut.

“gonna breed this pussy. have you dripping cum for days when im done with you—let everyone know who owns this pussy.” he pounded deeper, his vision getting blurry and his stroke becoming sloppier; before he let go—emptying himself deep inside of you.

he let out a primal growl, sporadically twitching inside of you, before pulling out, globs of his cum slowly starting to pool out; until he plugged it back in with his fingers. you squirmed, but he held you down, making you take the extra pleasure—leading to squirting against his palm.

the wet gushy mess, combined with the previous fluids, stained the plush green fabric underneath you and the bottom of his blazer. patch removed his fingers and sucked your juices off, before he pulled his pants up and snapped his belt on. he pulled your panties back on and walked over to the bar to retrieve your dress, tossing it at you.

“get dressed. you’re punishment isn't over yet.”

#logan smut #PSYKINKTOBER #logan howlett smut #patch wolverine #patch wolverine x reader #patch wolverine smut #patch wolverine oneshot #patch wolverine x you #patch wolverine x y/n #wolverine smut #wolverine variant #logan wolverine #wolverine x reader #logan x reader smut

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playnextdoor · 5 months ago

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Take it off

summary: fwb!sub!abby x reader

warnings: fwb! abby, mentions of marijuana usage, sub! abby, teasing, nipple play, cunnilingus, making out, fingering, needy abby because it's my favorite. proof read-ish. lmk if i missed anything

Fall time was the best time. The stuffy, clammy summer air is gone, and the brisk fall air enters your lungs. The sound of the crunchy leaves under your feet, warm drinks, and smoke seshes in your nice, warm home. You love it.

But.. it also means cuffing season, and you weren't getting any of that because Abby decided to stop seeing you. You know you are not supposed to get attached while being friends with benefits, but fucking hell, it was Abby for crying out loud. It was normal for Abby to ghost you for 2-3 days, but a whole week? The beginning of the season has been shit for you.

You set up your nightly, ritually smoke sesh in your room. Sitting down on your cozy floor table, convenient for times like these, you start preparing your spread. Rolling papers that left a lingering taste of strawberries, the grinder that you decorated with stickers, your lucky lighter that is always with you, and finally, your precious herb that was in a small glass jar. You put on your favorite show and start getting comfortable until you hear Abby’s signature two knocks. You feel your heart drop literally to your ass. You wait for about 2 minutes until you listen to it again.

Knock, knock.

“Are you fucking kidding me..” you mutter, pushing the table as you stretch your legs. Grabbing the first item of clothing in your hamper, you slip on a hoodie and quickly walk to the door. Opening the door where you meet a deliciously looking blonde-haired girl. Hair out of her braid and shorts that accentuate the muscles on her thighs. She looks too good, and she knows it.

“What do you need?” you said, not even a hello and not even opening the door all the way. Abby puts her arm in the doorway.

“Aw, did you miss me?” she asks, using her body weight to push the door open, pushing you with it. She lets herself inside, already looking around your living room.

“C’mon, Abby. What do you need? You want to call us off for a week and show up at my house without letting me know?” You say as you close the door, following her into your living room. You instantly regret letting this woman back into your home again. The smell of her pine body wash, the sandalwood perfume she wore, and the warmth she emitted from her was enough to open your arms(or your legs) to her again.

“The thing is..” Abby starts, but as she sits on the couch, a sly smirk creeps on her face. You bite your bottom lip, aware of the effect Abby has on you, so if she smiles, you can’t help but smile.

“Take it off,” Abby says, making herself comfortable by spreading her legs, seeing how her shorts ride up and can get a peek of her baby blue spandex shorts. You feel your face warm up, trying to keep your eyes above her waist.

“E-excuse me?” was all you could say as you stared at her in disbelief.

She raises her eyebrows. “That hoodie,” she says, pointing to the exact hoodie you had on. “I came to get it back with a few of my other things.”

Shit.

“Look, I'm sorry,” sighing to mostly yourself. Abby reminded you that she wanted her stuff back, and because of the sudden disconnect between you two, you didn’t have the time. You took a moment to look around you, seeing if there were any remnants of her presence still lingering in your home. “I haven't done any laundry and just grabbed whatever was in my hamper. Tomorrow, I'll have a look around.”

Abby shakes her head with that same stupid smirk on her face. She flips her hair to the side and loosens the neck of her hoodie collar Was she hot..?

“No. I want you to take it off. Right now,” She says in that tone that you're familiar with. A deep, dulcet, yet desperate.

You feel this fluttering hurt in your stomach, the good kind. You haven’t slept with anyone since Abby, and she looks like she needs you…

Fuck it.

You grab the bottom of the hoodie, lifting it and revealing your naked top half. Your skin litters with goosebumps, feeling the slight chill air around you, but the warm liquid swimming in your belly is another thing. You see the light pink blush painting Abby’s cheeks as you toss the hoodie. Fuck she’s so cute. Abby catches it but tosses the hoodie to the side and yanks your hand as you fall on top of her.

“Abby!” you let out a small yelp as she melts her lips to yours. The way Abby was kissing you was enough to tell you that this girl was needy. Hertongue finds yours, teeth clashing, letting out small, quiet moans and whines as her grip on your arm tightens. You break the kiss, taking a good look at her glossy lips, her eyes drooped with arousal, and how her hair is already mused.

“And you said that I missed you? Look at you, poor baby.” You whisper in the space between the two of you, letting your lips linger but not enough for the needy girl below you to get another taste.

Abby’s eyes widen for a second, opening her mouth to say something but closing it with a flustered face.

“You missed me so much,” You say as your hand creeps up on the muscular thigh, so close to where she needs you. She shifts, wanting to get you between her legs, but you’re already one step ahead of her. You move your knee, having good pressure against Abby that has her slightly bucking her eager hips. “That you came over to get a stupid sweater?”

Abby’s eyebrows furrow, and she shakes her head. This cute, puzzled look on her face makes you want to bury her in kisses, but you’re supposed to be mad at her. You lean back into her lips, biting, sucking, anything that works her up. Abby is putty below you. She lets out these moans that you’ve never heard before, high-pitched mewls that make you bite her lip harder. Your hand creeps up her thigh, up into the crewneck, and you are met with her bare, sensitive chest, rising and falling rapidly You smile into the kiss, not wanting to embarrass her even more for coming over prepared. You grope her chest, fondling with the fat that lay there and playing with the pebbling nipple. Abby breaks the kiss, inhaling sharply.

“Ah- please.” She gasps, bucking her hips again. This was a completely different side of her. Abby has received from you, and she is pretty vocal in bed, but this fucking submissive? It makes you want to deprive her for weeks on end. You break the kiss, hurridly helping Abby take off her crewneck and attaching your mouth to her boob. Circling your tongue around the rose-colored nipple has Abby holding her breath. After a few minutes of playing with her chest, you trail kisses down to the navel. You didn’t even have to ask, as Abby was quick to slip her shorts off, tossing them somewhere in the living room.

“Mmm, needy, aren’t we?” looking into her eyes as you mutter against her hip bone, skin almost feverish to how warm she was. Abby rolls her eyes, the sass still somehow in her.

“Fuck yes, ok? Please, baby,” Abby whines, throwing her head back onto the couch armrest. She reveals her neck, sweat droplets cascade slowly, accentuating the veins that played there. Fingers are dancing up her leg, in between where you see how desperate her cunt is. Glistening, soft pink flesh and her musk have you blacking out slightly.

“I want you to look at me, Abby.” You said, patting her thigh to grab her attention as you met with her eyes. It’s as if she was god himself. Her fucked out expression made you clench around nothing.

“Good girl” was the last thing you said as you stuck your tongue out and licked a fat stripe of her pussy. Abby can't help but close her eyes, too overwhelmed by your teasing tongue.

“Nuh uh, look at me. I want you to watch, baby,” putting your tongue away, smoothing her shaking thighs over with your hands. She nods eagerly, raking her hair out of her face. You bite back a smile before diving in again. Spreading her open with your mouth, Abby was so wet. Slick coating your chin, you move your hand over to pull back her clit to kiss it. Moans strung out from the blonde above, not caring how loud she was getting. She grabs your hair and makes a satisfying pull to your scalp that has you groaning into her cunt. You alternate between sucking, licking, sucking, licking. Your head is spinning as you prop yourself on your elbows, applying the pressure of two fingers dancing on her clit, your jaw feeling sore. Smiling at the cute, blissed-out expression on Abby’s face makes you want to be between her legs all night.

“Are you close?” you ask, voice hoarse after not speaking for the last 3 minutes. Abby doesn't dare to open her eyes, knowing that if she makes eye contact with you, she’ll come too fast. She nods, eyebrows furrowed as she nibbles on her swollen bottom lip from the constant biting she does. You allow it this time, allowing Abby to take in the euphoric blooming in her stomach. You really shouldn’t, wishing you had prolonged her orgasm as a punishment for ghosting you and making you suffer every night.

“Come for me, baby, yeah? Show me how bad you want this” Famous last words before you attached your mouth back onto her clit, switching your finger to easily slip into her. Pumping your index finger in a “come hither” motion, feeling her clench around you.

“Fuck fuck, please, I’m coming. K-keep-ah-doing that,” She hisses as her body seizes, fingers gripping so good in your scalp. Strong thighs clamp around your head as you lazily lick at her rosy clit with a grin.

Who knew Abby could be so fucking needy?

a/n: heyyyyyyy, sorry i was on hiatus for a while. i suddenly got the motivation to write, so do what you will with this

#abby anderson x reader #abby anderson #abby anderson smut #abby anderson x you #abby anderson drabble #orion's writing

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iwashie · 18 days ago

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Harleys in Hawaii

biker!sevika x biker!reader; strangers; one night stand; +18

Just imagine traveling around the world alone in your bike, and your destination now is Hawaii. Riding your bike around the region, feeling the gentle breeze in your body, the smell of nature everywhere, the sound of the ocean, and pacif life; that's the best feeling in the world.

You park in a bar, see another bike like yours, and nod in approval, getting off of your bike and entering the place. The smell of food, beer, smoke, and nature creating a strange and good mix of smell. The heads turns to you and you smiled at them, receiving smiles back and heads to the counter, putting your helmet along the other helmet next to a tall, sturdy woman smoking and probably the owner of that bike.

"Good bike of yours." You commented, eating your food and drinking; a small smiling appeared when she looked at you. Damn, what a fucking hot woman looking you up and down and smiling, thanking you. You made small talk with that woman, getting to know a little about her and shared the love for bikers.

The day passed in between laughter, stories, food, drinks, smokes and music; you sang a music, slowly dancing while looking at her, smiling and playing your cards, knowing that her grey eyes were glued on you.

You could feel she was into just as you was into her, tiptoeing around each other during the day, flashing those looks and smiles, getting closer and closer to you, sharing her cigarette with you while you touched your knee onto hers.

The purple and pinky in the sky painted the most beautiful scenario along the green nature and ocean while you descended the stairs, almost tripping. Sevika followed right behind you, grabbing your waist to hold and put your back on your feet.

"Not surviving the ride back like this, doll." Her hands still in you hips and you giggled, sliding your hands up to her shoulders. Oh god, she was so tall, muscular and hot.

"Too high for that, vika... Why don't you give me a ride to the hotel?" You said, playing your cards and listened to her laugh. "And how are you paying me after?" She asked and you were too invested in her to notice that you were approaching her lips, and she was letting you do so. "However you like, Sevika."

"We're seeing when we get there, doll." She said, and after you secured your bike with the owner of the bar, you two left the place on her bike.

You rested your head on her broad back, your hands wrapped tightly around her waist, feeling the cold wind and the smell of her perfume mixed with cigarettes as the landscape passed by in a colorful blur until you arrived at the hotel.

She dropped you at your door with a firm hand on your waist and before you could speak she left to her room, leaving you biting your lower lip and thinking about her.

The next morning you were up early, getting back your bike and seizing the opportunity to swim. When you came back from the water you saw a tall figure near your bike, smoke covering the person face from afar, but you knew it was Sevika.

"You didn't let me thank you the proper way for yesterday night." You shouted as you approached and shivered at her eyes roaming your wet body, eyes lingering on your breasts and back to yours eyes. You stopped a few centimeters from her, looking up at those grey eyes and smiled. "Let me pay you, Sevika."

She let out the smoke, taking too long to respond, her eyes going to the scenarios behind you and on your figure again. "There's nothing I want from you, doll."

You stepped forward, making her sit on your bike and open her thick legs to accommodate you between them. You licked your lip, her eyes following the movement and copying, making you laugh and take the cigarette from her hand, inhaling and exhaling the smoke out slowly. "But I want something from you, Sevika."

"What is it, doll?" You leaned closer, hands on her thighs, going up and down in a caress, face close to her, your puppy eyes and pouty mouth so closer to hers. "You know what I want, vika."

There were a silent for a moment but the intensity she looked at you, her eyes demanding you to take an action and her body language calling you in. The electricity shared between you two since the first day at the bar, you two slowly getting in touch.

She finished her cigarette and her right hand found it's way to your salt, tangled hair, her left hand grabbing your waist and pulling you in a kiss. You wrapped your arms around her neck and kissed back, liking the way her lips fitted into yours, tongues in tune in the cigarette-tasting kiss while her hand roamed your body, squeezing your thigh and ass, pulling you onto her lap.

You didn't need to say, she was already pulling you riding pillion on your bike back to the hotel, hurried steps to her room in a messy make-out session in the hall. Your upper clothes were off your body as soon as the door closed on its way, and her hands were all over your body.

You fell sitting on the bed, hands going after her clothes, taking her coat and tank top in a hurry, sliding your hands down her torso while your lips marked where you reached. She grabbed your wrist when you opened her pants and threw you back on the bed, crawling over to you, pining you down.

"I'm getting my payment the way I like, doll." She skirted her thumb over your lips, and you nodded, licking the tip of her fingers as you caressed her thick thighs.

You grabbed her hair and body as she peppered your body with open mouth kisses, licking and sucking on your boobs at her liking, feeling your shiver and sigh.

"Vikaaa!" You hang your head back when she scratched your pussy over the fabric on purpose while getting down, kissing and biting your skin. She huffed a laughter on your pelvic, sliding your shorts and underwear off of your legs, raising her hands to your thighs, kneading the flesh and open them. "This wet already, doll."

She laughed when you grumbled and kissed your inner thigh before diving in your pussy, her flat tongue licking from bottom to top, giving a light kiss to your clit; you trembled from head to toes, hands grabbing the sheets, and when she opened your folds with her fingers, licking and sucking hard every part of your pussy, nose buried in your clit, tongue up and down, swirling, in and out of you, you cried her name, holding her head in place with trembling hands, your legs shaking so much as she devoured you so well.

"Vika.. Ngh! Oh, fuckk, vikaa!" You felt your orgasm coming, your whole body trembling, eyes shut and mouth opened, shouting her name in pure bliss. You arched your back, choking on a moan whe she thrusted two fingers inside your pussy and curled them up, hitting the right spot to make you squirt on her. "Vikaa!"

You were melting on the sheets and she had barely begun with you. She crawled up and kissed you hard, gripping your boobs and waist, pulling you on her thighs, her hands caressing your back and ass as you humped her thighs, too horny for that woman.

Sevika touched, stated, kissed and molded your body with care, attention and passion, having you wrapped around her fingers, making you see stars and call her name aloud when cumming so much, staining the sheets.

You two spent the day inside her room, enjoying the day together, having some food and shared smoke in between kisses, touches and conversation, too exhausted and fucked up too have more sex.

When the night come, after a long, hot shower you two went to beach, strolling around and appreciating the steamy night to get into the water. You threw some water at her and backed away with a squeal when she kicked more water at you, both of you laughing and happy with the moment.

You two had dinner at a local restaurant, you insisted on paying both meals, but she shushed you with a look and go back to the hotel with you saying you couldn't feel your legs, making her laugh and hold you by your hips.

She kissed you at your door, lingering while putting a lock of your hair behind your ear with one hand and the other on your back. She didn't say goodnight, she just walked over to her door and before she opened it, you pulled her into your room.

The next morning, you wake up all sore and feeling crushed by a heavy weight, glancing to your side and seeing Sevika sound asleep, one arm threw over your waist. You smiled, turning to her and appreciated that moment, knowing that it was your last day in Hawaii.

You didn't say goodbye neither she. She just accompanied you to the airport, helped with your stuff, and waited for you to take action. You stepped closer, hands os her face as she smoked, and you leaned in to shotgun kiss her, your tongue sliding past her parted lips in a last kiss, receiving a hard squeeze on your ass and walked over to the airport door.

Sevika got out of the place with a loud engine honking, and you smiled openly, wishing to find that woman again somewhere.

@iwashie 2025, please do not translate, modify or republish my works

#iwashie work #iwashie writes #sevika x y/n #sevika x reader #sevika x you #sevika smut #sevika arcane #arcane x reader #wlw #Spotify

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good-griief · 5 months ago

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losing game pt. 1

HEYYYY i'm actually back with a lil smutty angsty ellie fic bc i needed to write for this woman... anyway here's part one its only a lil angsty i just wanted an excuse to write rly gay smut so enjoy and p2 tmrw!!

as most of yall know any reader i write (as a poc writer) has no race, i just wanted to use a picture of taylor momsen bc i love tpr and that's definitely the vibe of the music in this fic

part two part three

read me click me

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Being in the rock scene was your dream. You started with small gigs, then small venues and festivals, and now you had a band to go along with your music. Your career was kicking off and it felt like heaven; every performance, every song, all the adrenaline made for some of the best nights of your life.

When you picked your band, you hand-selected each member, and to say you picked your guitarist for any reason other than how pretty she was would be a lie. Yes, she was amazing, but you also couldn’t speak when she walked in for her interview. She just smiled, laughing at the way you stared at her before your manager started talking for you. He often did, she came to realize.

She still accepted the moment you offered her the position, but she made it clear that she didn’t like your manager. She accepted for you; to be with you.

And she slowly became your favorite part of performing. You had this way of connecting with each other — of course, you were close with all of your band members, but she was different. You’d spend time together one-on-one, smoking a joint and talking about nothing until one of you had to force yourself to go. You’d get coffee together, have dinners, and even spend the night at each other’s apartments. Whenever someone asked about you two, you said you were best friends. Even when she was waiting for you at the end of the carpet, and you both laughed at your answer like it was some kind of inside joke.

Even when you were onstage, on your knees, singing your most sensual song to her as she melted to your level, smirking as her hips thrust against the electric guitar. Sometimes, she even sang with you. You’d hold her face, or thread your fingers through her hair as you held eye contact or rested your forehead against hers with shut eyes, and if there was a break in the song you’d kiss her hard — a stage kiss that the crowd would erupt in cheers over. But they happened offstage, too… after a shared joint or during a party. Nothing more.

She’d let you place your fingers on the strings of her guitar to find the chords as you stood behind her, her head leaning back on your shoulder in a way that showed the muscles on her neck as she breathed in heavy, hot breaths. She let you wrap your hand around her throat, groaning in your ear as fans caught pictures of you dragging your tongue over her sweat-ridden jaw or biting her shoulder as she grinned.

There was one night you let her take over the mic as you danced along. She played her guitar, singing and watching you until you sang with her. Your hands drifted down her thighs as you kneeled behind her, the crowd screaming as you lifted her shirt and came around to kiss the line of hair below her belly button. She smirked, stopping her playing and fisting your hair to pull your head back as you laughed.

Nights when you’d take off your shirt, tossing it into the audience and pouring your water on yourself before she came to lick it up, tongue dragging over top of your breasts as you sang breathlessly. There were times she had to wrap her arm around your back to keep you standing when she did that, the action so intimate, so arousing, that it was hard to remember why you were on stage and not in your dressing room, alone with her. Some nights she’d take her shirt off and give it to you if she didn’t want anyone else to see you, smiling at you with her shirt on before you came over to kiss her cheek.

There were moments with other band members, but none of them were like her. They didn’t make you feel the same — none of them were her.

So, when the end of her contract came up and she talked to you about leaving to pursue other things, you were devastated. You didn’t think she’d leave, but after a talk with your manager, her decision was set.

“I think you should,” you told her anyway. “Whatever makes you happy, Els, seriously. I’ll support whatever you do.” She smiled, taking your hand to kiss. On the inside of her fingers, and yours, you could see the matching tattoos you got months ago, threading your fingers together so they match up.

You dedicated your last show with her to her. It was a surprise, and she cried when you said it in the beginning, but she just turned away to shake it off quickly. At least, she did until you started crying during a song you wrote for her — it was another surprise from you and the rest of the band, but the minute she saw you crying she couldn’t keep it together. She came over to hug you, kissing the top of your head as she let you hide your face in her chest. The crowd awed, but Ellie took the mic to say you’d be back. She set it down and lifted your head to make you look at her. “I love you, pretty girl,” she said, away from the microphone so no one heard her, but they could sound it out if they wanted to. “Please don’t cry.” She wiped beneath your eyes, ignoring the camera flashes and screams from the crowd. “I hate that I can’t do anything about it right now.”

You smiled. “I’m gonna miss you so much.”

She laughed at you. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere.” She nodded to the microphone. “Finish my song, I wanna hear the rest.”

“You’re an idiot,” you said, now standing at the mic and making the audience laugh.

You were such an idiot.

She never told you what other things she wanted to pursue, but you should’ve known.

Of-fucking-course she was pursuing her own music. Of-fucking-course she was starting her own band. With yours. Of-fucking-course all of their contracts ending over the course of a few months would amount to this. Of-fucking-course each last show you dedicated to them meant nothing.

You couldn’t even be mad. It was smart. But you were beyond hurt.

And she still dedicated her first show to you. She texted you herself, asking you to come.

When would you learn your lesson?

“I just want to thank you guys for coming,” she said to an audience of mostly your fans. “You might know me — us — from a backup band, but we got a little tired of being backup, didn’t we?” The band laughed. “So, uh, my name’s Ellie if you don’t know… probably don’t,” she laughed as if you’d never thanked or introduced your band before. “And I just want to dedicate this show to the previous artist I worked with. I wouldn’t be here without her, so she means… a lot,” she said it so fucking snarky, “to me, and… I have a few songs for her… if you all wanna guess which ones they are.”

And her first song was the biggest Fuck You song you’d ever heard.

Still, she texted you after the show.

She didn’t ask you to come to another show, and maybe that was because you announced a break from music, or because she was getting so much attention that she didn’t care. You saw her at award shows sometimes, and she would cheer when you won. Of course, you’d cheer for her too, but it never went beyond that. Almost like it was an unspoken rule that you weren’t on speaking terms.

But the minute you came back to the scene, almost a year later, she texted you for the first time since her first show.

You didn’t reply at first. You hadn’t kept up with her at all during your break, your manager telling you to stay away from any of her and her band's promotions and interviews. He had you block all of them and their numbers, but you couldn’t bring yourself to block Ellie’s. And you were glad you didn’t. Usually, you didn’t have your phone on you until late at night, your manager having your assistant handle your messages and social media, but you were about to fall asleep when she texted. As if she remembered your schedule.

And it prompted you to look her up. Then her and you, and you could see countless videos.

every time ellie has mentioned “her” compilation was what you decided to click on. It was made by an account that was clearly a big fan of hers, so you readied yourself for any hate that’d be thrown your way.

The first clip was an interview, asking her why she split from your team. “You know, I really loved her and her team,” she said, “still really love her. It’s just hard being reminded, constantly, that you're a stepping stone and your time is running low, you know? We might’ve held her back if we stayed, and she was moving on to better things,” it sounded like she was quoting someone else. “—I mean, she always wanted us to shine, and I’m so grateful for her. I really miss being on stage with her, but I don’t miss anything else besides her and I think that says a lot.”

Another was on her way into a hotel, a reporter asking if you congratulated her on an award. You could remember seeing her at the show before your manager called you over just as she was walking your way. She laughed, “haven’t talked to her in months.”

Another of a sit-down interview with the whole band, your name being brought up and Ellie snapping at them, “You know I really wish people would stop asking me about her.” She got choked up as the others answered, nose reddening when the question finally circled back to her. “We’re not friends, we don’t talk, she doesn’t want anything to do with us, so...” She shrugged, pissed off.

The next was another interview. It seemed she was just having to get used to being asked about you. “I’ve tried to reach out,” she said, “maybe she changed her number.”

Another. “She was my best friend, I miss her a lot. I hope she’s doing okay.”

And another, asking about her songs. “Yeah, I wrote a lot about her — No, I don’t regret it. I feel like it reflects a moment in time, you know? It was a really nice moment — I mean, I still have our matching tattoos,” she laughed, showing the tattoos on the insides of her fingers.

Another, after a show. She was always emotional after shows, and it made it harder to watch as she wiped her eyes when the interviewer asked what your relationship really was. “I don’t fucking know,” was her answer before she walked away.

Some of them were sweet, memories you shared that made you laugh. Others made you sick with guilt, like when she mentioned your lack of response or you blocking the band. Some just made you sad. And you felt like an idiot for doing this, but after reading the comments, some defending you for not running your socials or phone, or angry with you for the same reason, you played a compilation of the two of you together from the same account.

Then you called Ellie.

It rang once before sending you to voicemail and you just hung up. You kept your attention on the video to distract yourself from how much that stung.

But she called right back.

You stared at the phone for a moment, seeing the contact poster of the two of you at her last show with you lighting up your screen and feeling your words get caught in your throat as your eyes stung. You grabbed the phone, answering quickly. “Ellie?” It was silent, “Ellie, I just wanted to say, I had no idea… I understand if you never want to talk to me again, but I—“ You cleared your throat, trying not to sound like you were about to cry. “I’m really sorry.”

“I thought — I didn’t think you were going to — It feels so good to hear your voice,” was what she settled on after stammering through a few sentences. “You have no idea how much I’ve, just, wanted to talk to you…”

You bit down on your lip as you listened to her. She didn’t sound angry, but she clearly had so much to say to you. Her voice was filled with feeling as she went on, trying to get everything out as if she thought you’d hang up the phone at any minute. You just listened, shutting your eyes and bringing your hand over your face as hot tears spilled down your cheeks. You couldn’t bring yourself to understand why you were so emotional, maybe it was the fact that you misunderstood her so easily, or that your manager had ruined your relationship with her, or maybe it was even that you were just getting to hear her talk after so long, but she paused the moment she heard you trying to calm your breathing.

“Please don’t cry.” She already knew. “I hate it when you cry and I can’t do anything about it.”

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled. “Keep talking. What were you saying?” You looked at your computer, auto-playing something else of the two of you. It was clips of you on stage and during interviews, heads on each other's shoulders, hugging, kissing each other’s cheeks, singing together. You pursed your lips, tears coming quicker as you slammed your laptop closed. “Ellie,” you cut her off, biting at your lip as you looked at the empty spot on your bed she used to take some nights, “what are you doing right now?”

“I’m on my way,” she said quietly, and you could hear her shuffling on the other line. She was probably getting ready to go to sleep, and wake up to no response just like every other time she messaged you. And you would have woken up with no idea she even texted you. “Do you want me to stay on the phone?”

“If you’re already headed to sleep—“

“I’m coming over,” she said. “I’m already in the car, I’ll be there in ten, okay?”

“Okay…” Now you felt bad for making her leave her house, looking outside at the snowfall and sniffling as you tried to wipe your eyes. “I’ll see you soon.” You hung up the phone and groaned at yourself, shoving your head in your pillow.

You opened your laptop, typing in the song names people speculated she wrote for you and queuing them all. Not one was the one you heard during her first show, and it made you feel even worse by the time the doorbell rang. You moved off of your bed, wiping your eyes and going to the door to buzz her up to your apartment.

You waited by the door, balls of your feet kicking at the floor as you crossed your arms and waited for her to knock. It was the same rhythm she used to knock in, and where it usually made you smile, it made you cry more. God, you missed her, and you didn’t even realize how much until now. You took too long to open the door and you heard the lock click. She still had her set of keys, and that made you feel worse, too. She’d probably texted you about returning them, and you never got to see it. Nothing was making you feel better as she opened the door, and seeing her face just made it worse.

“God,” she muttered, immediately bringing her arms around your waist. She tucked her head into your shoulder, shutting her eyes as your arms went around her shoulders. Her hands held you like you’d disappear the minute she let go, thumbs running soothingly back and forth over your shirt. “I missed you so much,” she said. “They all wanted me to get over it, but I knew there was no way — I knew we had something more than just — fuck, I know you better than they do. I know I do.” Her lips brushed your skin with every word. “I missed you so fucking much,” she repeated, hugging you tighter.

Just her touch made your tears slow to a stop, relaxing into her hold and hugging her so tight, but she didn’t care. She was happy to be back in your arms. Your hand drifted to her hair, cradling her head to your shoulder. You could remember the nights you spent playing with her hair until you fell asleep and the thought made you run your fingers through it. She sighed, pulling her head back but refusing to let you go.

There was a silence as you moved her hair out of her face, tucking the strands behind her ear. Slowly, your hand cupped her cold, flushed cheek. She leaned into your touch, eyes falling to your lips as your thumb stroked her cheek.

“Ellie,” you muttered and she hummed, turning her head to kiss the inside of your palm. “I missed you, too,” was all you chose to say despite the wanting in the way you said her name. Her hand took yours as she kissed the inside of your wrist. “So much…” Her kisses trailed up your arm, with more of a meaning behind them than any of the kisses you’d given each other before.

You moved your hand back to her face, turning her head toward you. She met your eyes, hers shining in the low light. They fell to your lips again and she leaned in, kissing your cheek. She kissed away every tear stain, still wet and warm. She moved closer and closer to your mouth, but never kissed you, kissing away the stains on your other cheek instead.

Then you turned your head, catching her lips for a brief moment before she pulled back. There was a moment of hesitation, neither of you able to speak before she pressed her lips to yours. They were still cold from being out in the snow, but they warmed as you kissed her back, pressing your body impossibly closer to hers as she sighed into your mouth. She couldn’t tell you how long she had wanted this, but she knew it was long enough that her waiting for you was pathetic.

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henneseyhoe · 5 months ago

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What A Woman Wants; Taste

Trevante Rhodes x BLACK!FEM!Reader

WARNINGS: SMUT, Chiron an eater in this but when is he not, pussy slapping, slut shaming (kinda), fingering, dirty talk, drug use(just a luh weed) no actual PinV, !!Unedited!!.

SUMMARY: The beginning of various stories about the reader, her diary and her many favorites.

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Whore, slut, fast, hot, easy. What really is the definition of promiscuity? Maybe just a woman who sleeps around. Or someone who’s had many boyfriends and flings. Would she be a whore if she slept with a married man? What if she didn’t know? Would she still be a whore?

The word was as complex as sexual relations in itself, but in her mind, everyone was a whore. Everyone had whorish ways. Some people liked to be smacked on the ass when they fucked, some liked to be spat on, tied up, scratched, degraded, praised, and then some. So what was the problem that she got what she liked but from different people? Nothing, she thought.

She had men from one end to the other side of the pond. Short, tall, muscular, skinny, masculine, feminine, you name it. She’s seen dicks nearly the size of her forearm all over the globe. She kept track of the ones she liked in a diary and tossed the ones that were no fun.

One of her favorites who also happens to be an old classmate from college ate pussy like a starved man and only got up when she told him to, and that’s exactly how she liked her men; doing what she told them to do.

A blunt in hand and tattooed legs spread from one end of the bed to the other, he drank from her fountain, quenching his thirst as she gushed around his fingers. His other free hand softly caressed her bare pussy, fingertips dancing along her mound before they pressed against her aching clit.

Pulling his tongue from alongside his thrusting fingers, he looks down and admires the wet and dirty scene in front of him, the second pair of your lips shining like he had just applied baby oil to her.

“Pretty ass pussy”

“Yeah?”

He nods. “Mhm. Looking like this and you expect me to keep my mouth off of you?”

She hums out a moan, her pretty toes curling at that.

“I missed you all month, you might be in this position for a while”

He smirked and pulls out of her, watching as her hole winked and shrunk back to it’s small size that once accommodated his thick fingers. Pulling the hood of her clit back, the pink button pops up from underneath, greeting him with a few twitches as her pussy clenched around nothing.

“Fuck, baby…”

She watched him with just as much affection, but his eyes were too fixed on her heat to glare back at her. Blowing cold air onto the bundle of nerves, he pulls a long moan from her and he smiles in return before taking four of his fingers a licking across the tips of them, his other hand still occupied with the hood of her clit as he did so.

He pumped fake a few times, lifting that hand to her pussy and making her flinch before his hand finally came down and spanked her sensitive clit, the woman nearly dropping the spliff in her hand as her chest rises, a shock of both pain and pleasure running through her core.

“Fuck!” She breathes, smoke exiting her mouth. She was quick to sit the drug down in an ashtray laid on the bed next to her, the man on his knees in front of her still laying smacks to her pussy until her legs were shaking and she was squirting all over herself. Swirls in her stomach and stars in her eyes, she almost thanked god that her ass was halfway off of the bed so her sheets didn’t get wet but she soon realized she celebrated too early, the large palm of his hand beginning to rub her entire pussy instead and replace the teasing strikes, all of the juices that were once just falling on the hardwood floor spraying on anything within ten inches of her. That included on herself too.

She couldn’t speak and tell him to let up off of her if she wanted to, her stomach felt like it caved in as she had yet to let go of her breath to continue receiving oxygen.

He opened his mouth and welcomed all that she gave onto his tongue, a smile also playing on his face. He loved it when it was messy, wet to the point where it could be considered soaked even. His goatee covered in pussy juice showed and proved that to be true, droplets of her dripping from his chin.

Even after she was finished he still went in and licked her up from her clit to the puckering rim of her asshole, fixated upon the idea to make her cum again if she’d let him.

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💌~ startin this thang off with some good ole pussy eatin, iktr!😼💀 hope yall enjoyed tho, i think imma really enjoy this lil series just cause it’s a bunch of random shorts and not an actual storyline 😭 like everything and everyone is connected still but it doesn’t matter until brought up lmao.

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jinxed-newyork · 3 months ago

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SMOKE & FOG

0.1 Red Smoke

pairing: jinx x reader (romantic) , isha x reader (siblings)

synopsis: Your entire life has been dictated by a debt you owe to Smeech, one that grows with every move you make. He holds your sister and you on a tight leash, one mistake leads to your sister being taken and your only option is to fight or die.

word count: 2.7K

warnings: villainous activity, murder, oppression, mistreatment, blood & gore, hurt/comfort, drugs & drug use, canon violence, suggestive themes, angst, spoilers, cursing, fighting !!

Red smoke filled the air, perhaps it was the blood dribbling that mixed with the air around it, or it was the suffocating rage from every child who watched as their parents, cousins, siblings and friends were torn to shreds by the flying bullets. There was no one who could save the poor souls on that bridge, there was barely anyone left alive except for Vander, his grunts of pain and adrenaline could be heard through the bridge, screams and cries of pain and terror came from those he faced off against and yet after a moment, it just stopped. There was nothing. Just silence. My body was hunched under a rock, shielding my little sister’s extremely frail body in my arms, she was a baby, still wrapped up in a little blanket that we could barely afford, her cries came from every loud noise and all I could do was attempt to shush her– fear and adrenaline being the only reminder of why I was still under here with her. However whenever the loud noises stopped and shooting gave out, what replaced it were footsteps. The relief that coursed through my body was unimaginable. Finally, it was over, win or lose. I didn't care, I just wanted to escape back home with Isha and our parents.

There was a silence that raged over the bridge as I climbed out, bodies piling on top of others, eyes wide open with dread still stricken upon their face, they all looked scared as if they weren’t ready for death and yet here their lifeless bodies laid. It was sickening, a soft cry escaped my lips as tears welled up in my eyes, where were our parents? Where did they go? They were on this bridge just like everyone else so where were they? I couldn’t run, as much urgency was in my body, I couldn’t move my legs fast enough to form a sprint, I just walked. Shielding the little girl in my arms from all the pain and terror, I wouldn’t let her see this, I wouldn’t let her remember this, I wouldn’t let her grow up in a time like this– it was all gonna change, it was gonna be different whenever she was growing up. Those thoughts in my head were the only thing that kept my head up high as I walked past the bodies. The bodies of friends and our parents, the bodies of those who fought so hard for something that should be a human right, whether they were from Zaun or from Piltover. The bodies of those who fought for Respect.

The rain is riotous, beating down on the small covers and hoods of those walking the streets of the undercity, no man or woman laid safe. One foot in front of the other, don’t look around. My gaze held towards the floor, looking around would only drag me into the reality I live in. Children on the streets without parents, working for scammers and con artists, insufferable and disgusting but we had to make money somehow. Not everyone was gifted with a silver spoon in their mouth and a warm bed to sleep in, not everyone was given private dance lessons and piping hot food that could feed an entire village for just one meal. Not everyone was born in Piltover and the price? Your life. There was no respect in the city of Zaun, at least not anymore, Vander was killed by Silco in some raging fight that took place in a warehouse and he was the people’s last standing symbol of peace. After Silco took over, shimmer raged through the streets and took over like a disease, even after his death it still runs rampant thanks to his goons. I am one of those goons, I am someone keeping it on the street, money is money and a job is a job, it hurts so many people but I do what I have to do to keep my family safe.

A small groan of annoyance escaped my mouth. I was only 17 years old but I had the weight of another human laid atop my shoulders. She could be no older than 7 but definitely not younger than 5 years of age, Isha, my sister. I don’t really know when her birthday is, not like we could celebrate it anyways, there are no birth certificates or calendar here, so we just assumed that it's sometime during the end of the year because that's whenever our parents would say happy birthday. 11/16, that is the birthday I have written down for her, the only one we care to acknowledge. My mind filled with grief as I entered the booming building, music blaring from the speakers and the cacophony of deals being made by every wall in his building was overwhelming and sickening. I turned my nose up in disgust (not like I was any better than them), as I turned towards the office building, a high rise, with glass windows to watch over the place as if he was some ghost. Smeech, one of the worst men I have ever met in my entire life, he had no good qualities, I would have rather he not offered me this job at all then let me watch as people waste their lives trying to get even a sniff of shimmer. Good and bad news was that the selling rate was down, more people were getting snatched off the streets while trying to find buyers and the production rate was too high to keep up with the missing sellers so whoever was left had to pick up the pace.

Caitlyn Kiramman’s enforcers were running circles around us, she made us look like chickens with our heads up off, which wouldn’t have mattered to me if it wasn’t for the fact that I couldn’t keep up. I had too many boxes on me at a time and too many lurkers and followers while trying to do my job, if he kept pushing me like this then I’d certainly get caught. With a heavy knock on his door, I pushed it open without waiting for confirmation– this was important. The rat creature moaned in annoyance upon even seeing my face.

“What do you want, child?” The sickening smoke of shimmer made its way out of his mouth while he smoked, filling the room with its pungent smell. Had it not been such an addictive drug I would have been turned away but something kept my feet from moving, a small inhale was all I took before turning my head away from his nonsense. “Less materials on my person. I’m carrying way too much cargo with not enough people to give it to. All my regulars are in hiding because of the enforcers or have already been grabbed! I have no one to sell to and walking around with even a drop of shimmer will get people arrested nowadays. What do you think they’ll do to me with eight vials full of it?” Despite the urgency in my voice, I didn’t raise my volume or lose my cool, I knew better than that, I knew my place, I wasn’t gonna be killed over such a trivial thing. I couldn’t be killed, I had to make it back home to raise Isha and make sure that she wasn’t alone, if I didn’t do it then no one would. “You’re a smart enough kid, you can figure it out. You sell the product, you get the money and you give it back to me. You’re already behind on repaying this debt of yours, don’t make me charge you an annoyance fee.” My debt.

I owed him my life because he was willing to take me in and promised that as soon as I paid him off he would let me and Isha go however every time I got even remotely close to freeing us, he would charge me some random out of the blue fee and added it to my tab making it once again out of reach. I knew it was on purpose, I knew he was never truly going to let us go but there was a small hope in that mind that maybe one day I could make enough money so that he doesn’t expect it, so that he has to let us go. A whine escaped my throat as I tried to reason with him, as I pleaded. “But sir-” “Make it a stupidity fee, how are you this incompetent? It’s just business sweetheart, and you’re behind on your dues anyways, there isn’t much room for you to be arguing with me. Out.”

I didn’t say a word after that, I couldn’t, I took whatever strength I had that would carry me out of the room and pushed until it led me out of the building.

Two hours later and I’ve only sold two vials, one to an elderly woman who looked like she was well on her way to death’s door, I tried to convince her that it wasn’t actually worth it to buy but she didn’t listen, something about being glad that she didn’t have to spend another moment down here was freeing to her and the second vial to someone from Silco’s old crew. They could buy plenty more but they chose not to directly interact with Smeech himself so they went through his buyers and even though we aren’t supposed to sell it to them, I did anyway. I tossed the gold coins up into the air with a smile, I completely overcharged him but who cares? “When did we say selling to Silco’s crew was back on the table, blighter?” Debt collectors, they roamed the streets while we were making deals, my head wasn’t in the right place, I completely forgot. Stuffing the coins into the small bag across my waist, I shrugged. “What’s it to you? We’re all charlatans, are we going to bypass the fact that you guys are charging children for crimes they didn’t commit to keep them in your debt? Or the old people you trick into owing their entire lives to you knowing that they won’t be able to afford it?”

My teeth clicked in arrogance, I held nothing over them but calling them out felt good to roll off the tongue, they needed to be checked every now and then too. “You’re just blood thirsty animals.” They scoffed at me, scoffed, my presence to them was insignificant, that I was aware of but seeing it play out in front of me still stabbed at my heart a little bit. “You forget yourself blighter. Perhaps we should.. remind you? Yeah?” The confirmation wasn’t for me and yet I couldn’t stop my head from shaking. This was going to end in bloodshed, there was no avoiding it but I wasn’t scared, I couldn't be scared of them. One thing went through my mind, I have to get home to Isha. My hands raised to cover my face, eyes peeking out behind my clenched fists to stare them down, I was ready for a fight.

I shouldn’t have been so naive to think that I could fight all three of them at once, however it was the only option. The taller gentleman rushed towards me first, swinging his arms in whatever way they would move towards my body. I looked like a child compared to them, they were unnaturally tall and buff and their suits didn’t hide it at all. My body dipped towards the floor as his hands rammed into the wall, I swore I could feel the ground shake, but that didn’t waver my spirit. I struck his chest with every force in my body, it wasn’t a lot but enough to knock him back up against that very same corner, not even a second to breath as I was bombarded with another man racing towards me, his palm struck my side, launching me into the wall. It cracked upon impact and my body felt like it shattered, every limb hurt to move, with a split second I moved to the right, his second punch landing into the wall right next to me. My eyes expanded and my pupils dilated and I pulled away from the wall and steadied my body and stance once again, but arms wrapped around me, a crushing weight that stayed on top of me and kept me in place. A scream erupted from my throat as I tried to escape, struggling in every direction as the weight on top of me only got worse, it got tighter, more restricting until crack. The vials. The shimmer, it was still in my bag, how many vials did he crush? Was it seeping into my skin? My mind went blank, the weight was no longer crushing me but I didn’t know what was happening? My face connected with the floor, was I dropped or did I hurt him? I didn’t mean to hurt them, even though they probably could have killed me. The intention wasn’t to get anyone hurt besides a simple warning.

When my eyes opened again all of them were on the floor, blood spilled out of wounds I didn’t remember making and my hands were covered in it. I tried wiping my face but it only smeared the blood already there, what have I done? Before I could make sense of anything the screeching from an enforcer came from the other side of the alleyway. I shook my head, this wasn’t me, I didn’t do this! I was innocent! Why wouldn’t my mouth open to explain? I opened up the pouch and raised one of the vials, I still had four safe but two of them were cracked, those were probably the two affecting my mind, my heart, my body. I could hear my heart in my ears, the thumping and beating as if I was inhuman, was I still human at this point? As soon as I raised the vial of shimmer, their guns were out? Panic was sewn into my nerves, I couldn’t get shot, were they gonna kill me? Leave my body for dead? Would I ever be found? Isha. My mind went blank and my eyes were bloodshot, I couldn’t think straight, I couldn’t see straight, I blacked out.

When I woke all I could feel was crimson dripping down my hand, the puddle beneath me only growing wider, spreading through the cracks in the small alleyway. Enforcers. Dead. Three Enforcers were dead and three debt collectors right next to them. The topsiders would hear news of this soon and my boss would hear about his debt collectors being missing but I couldn’t worry about it, what was the last thing I was thinking about? Isha? Isha. Where was she? Where is my sister? I couldn’t care less about the head I bashed into the wall just a moment ago or the knife I plunged into another man’s throat or the Enforcer’s gun that I lodged into a man’s side as a distraction before his untimely death. Smeech’s debt collectors would probably be after her especially if they were after me, they knew where I was so they certainly had to know where she was.

I needed to get back to my sister. My sister. My sister, Isha, I need to get back to her. Ichor running down my arm no longer bothered me, the ever growing pain in my abdomen only lingered as I ran and yet I didn’t stop. I couldn’t even remember how I got that injury but I couldn’t stop, my legs carried me to the last place I saw her. Three more dead debt collectors (this seemed to be a brand), shot straight through the head. Clean. Not a single mistake, completely intentional, whoever made the shot knew exactly what they were doing. A waft of pink smoke wavered from the body, it was fre- pink? shit. Jinx. There was only one person in town creating such imagery and also being such a great shot, no enforcers were in town (not anymore) and to be honest none of them were this great of a shot even if it was close range. The wanted posters of her face made her look psychotic, terrifying, right on brand to what the topsiders thought everyone looked like. I couldn’t let this go, I was still alive and the dead men meant that my sister was still out there too.

A/N: I hope everyone enjoyed the very first chapter!

taglist ; @llycrow @katethejinxwife @hank-girl @ayedomino0 @jiunxo @vivispace @d-demqn

#arcane #arcane season two #arcane spoilers #arcane jinx #jinx x reader #jinx x y/n #isha arcane

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sceletaflores · 7 months ago

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"Dependence Is Weakness, Darling."

pairing: older!patrick zweig x fem!reader

summary: it wasn’t just the cigarettes or the lighters. it was the way you still find yourself thinking about him. patrick, with his tangled emotions and overwhelming presence, had left an inescapable mark on your life. and as much as you wished it, he wasn’t someone you could easily erase from yourself.

—or: it's been a little over twelve years since you've seen patrick zweig.

word count: 7.8k (hopefully this is long enough lol)

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, p in v, rough sex but in a loving way, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it y’all!), semi-public sex (fucking in a car, you know i had to...), angst, swearing, cigarette smoking as a love language, slight mommy issues lmao, hints of mean!reader cause i still live for that shit, love confessions, rain scene cause i'm corny as hell, porn with SOOOO much plot, no use of y/n.

author's note: this might me the filthiest thing i've ever written lols. i actually DID get a couple asks for some more angsty patrick fics and ofc i love writing angst i'm just a girl i live for that shit. look at me doing what was asked of me and not just whatever i wanted! i'm a giver, what can i say. this fic was revived because of a few anon's who demanded it and i'm so glad they did. you guys got me to give this a second chance and i'm so proud of how it turned out. extra special shout out to @bii-aan-ckaa who fiercely advocated and waited very patiently for this! i'm so obsessed with you and your beautiful kind words. hope you love it! mwah xoxo.

Fifteen minutes.

That’s how long you can stomach sitting in the sticky booth of the bar watching Patrick Zweig flirt with a woman you don't recognize across the dimly lit room. Fifteen measly minutes until you were giving your friends some lame excuse of needing fresh air and leaving the table to escape out into the alley.

It’s been a little over twelve years since you’ve seen Patrick. A little over twelve years since you turned your back on him with tears spilling down your cheeks and your favorite racket a mangled, smashed mess gripped tightly in your shaking hand as you walked out of his life forever.

Or at least what you thought was forever, you guess you were wrong.

To put it lightly, your relationship with Patrick was…complicated. You met him the summer before you started at Stanford. He was tall with green eyes and curly hair and he was kind of an asshole but he made you laugh, so you let him fuck you anyway. At the time, you thought that was it. One really good fuck with a really hot guy you’d never see again.

You thought you were hallucinating when you saw him on the campus courts two months later, when he sauntered up to you with an unmistakable “I know what you look like naked” smirk on his face. He was just as tall and had the same green eyes and the same curly hair and was an even bigger asshole than he was before. You still let him fuck you anyway.

You never thought you’d get sucked into the storm that was whatever the fuck was going on between Art, Patrick and Tashi. Never thought that it would completely ruin your self esteem, your tennis, your everything.

You weren’t particularly close to Art or Tashi in college. Sure, you were all in the same circle. That didn’t make you best friends. Art was nice enough, but he never went out of his way to talk to you. You and Tashi were on the same team but that didn’t mean anything. You respected the hell out of her and her game, and you could tell she felt the same. Even with that respect, there was still a tiny part of you that resented her.

She was number one, the pride and joy of Stanford, had a constant slew of brands and scouts up to her ears. It seemed like no matter how hard you worked that she would always be number one. It felt like you were always just inches behind her.

Clawing and scratching your way through the ranks since you were twelve to be second best was never the plan. Your mother made sure to remind you of that every chance she got.

Then slowly, she started beating you at more than just tennis. Patrick wanted her, it was more than obvious. At first you didn’t care, he wasn't your boyfriend. He was just a guy you fucked, he could do whatever he wanted. You were friends. There wasn’t a problem.

When you realized you knew more about Patrick than just how he worked dick, then there was a problem.

At first, all the things you knew about him were boiled down to the vulgar little tidbits you’d notice when he fucked you. You know that he has a birthmark on his lower back. You know when he’d be close because he’d always bite your shoulder before he came. You know his favorite position was really missionary even though he told everyone it was doggy.

Knowing all that was fine.

You also know that he’s allergic to kiwi. You know that he only holds his cigarettes with his thumb and his pointer finger. You’d always know when he was nervous because he’d start tapping his fingers on his thigh. You know that when he’d listen to music he loved, that his right hand would drum along to the beat just a little bit faster than his left would.

You knew all those things because you were falling in love with him, and Patrick Zweig is not someone you fall in love with. Especially not with Tashi Duncan in the picture.

You tried your best to push it down, to pretend you weren’t hurt every time Patrick chose Tashi over you. When he’d miss your games because he was with Tashi, when he’d blow you off to go meet Tashi, when he started to stop returning your calls or replying to your texts. All things you never cared about before started slowly eating at you. You felt awful most days, holed up in your room wallowing in self-pity. Your GPA was steadily dropping as the semester went on. Even your tennis started slipping, and you lost your winning streak to a fucking scrub. When you finally cracked and broke down to your mother over the phone one night she just scoffed.

“Well what did you think would happen when you started to depend on that boy? Dependence is weakness, darling.”

Dependence is weakness. You blocked Patrick’s number that same night.

It all came to a head when he blew up at you after Tashi’s injury. Everyone was pretty shaken up about it. You’d never forget the way it buckled, the way the sharp snap rang through the court, the way she fell to the ground screaming. You’d never seen her cry before.

Patrick found you later that night, all alone on the practice courts trying to burn the day out of your mind by serving balls till you collapsed. It was the first time he talked to you in weeks. He was pissed. Screaming at you, calling you every nasty thing he could think of, getting up in your face. It was a fucking mess. You both said some things that should have never been said, but it ended when Patrick accused you of somehow being the cause of all of it.

“You hate Tashi, fucking hate her. You wanted something like this to happen. I bet you’re just over the fucking moon that she’s finally out and you can take her place. You can finally be number one seed and you're fucking ecstatic, aren't you? You’re so fucking pathetic, so desperate for validation. Maybe if mommy paid attention to you for once, you wouldn’t be so fucking needy. You're just a sad, delusional fucking runner-up, grasping at whatever shreds of importance you think you still have.”

You stood there, stunned by his outburst, each word hitting you like a physical blow. It was insane, nothing but Patrick blowing things way out of proportion in the midst of his anger.

You wanted to scream, to deny it vehemently, but the hurt and frustration choked off your words. Tears welled up in your eyes, a mixture of anger and heartbreak swirling in you. Vision blurring out everything but Patrick's face twisted up with rage as he glared at you, his words lingering in the air like poison.

You told him about your mother because you thought you could trust him. You thought he was the only person that really understood you, his dad was a piece of shit too. Him using something so delicate as material to hit you where it hurts was the last straw.

You blew up, all the things you’d been keeping bottled up for months finally boiled over in you swinging your racket down on the green concrete over and over until there was nothing left of it to break. You didn’t even look at Patrick as you walked away. You never saw him again.

You’d love to say it was also the last time you thought about him, but that would be a lie. As much as he hurt you, and as much as you hated him for it, your mind refused to let you forget him.

You still smoke Camel Blues because that was your guys’ brand, even when you should have quit years ago anyway. You still buy the same color lighter, pink. You tell yourself it’s nothing more than an easy choice, that it’s a good color. It’s not at all because you can still hear Patrick’s teasing voice in the back of your head bitching, “I can’t believe you make me use a pink lighter.” when he always forgot his and had to borrow yours.

It’s not based on a compulsive need to be reminded of him every single time you use it. It’s just convenient, okay.

You know deep down that they were the only remnants of a past that you still couldn’t fully let go of. As much as you tried to bury those memories, they lingered, melded into the corners of your mind like stubborn stains.

It wasn’t just the cigarettes or the lighters. It was the way you still find yourself thinking about him. Patrick, with his tangled emotions and overwhelming presence, had left an inescapable mark on your life. And as much as you wished it, he wasn’t someone you could easily erase from yourself.

Even twelve years later you’re still trying to convince yourself that dependence is weakness, that you were better off without him. But sometimes, in the quiet moments like this when the smoke curls from your cigarette and the pink lighter flickers in your hand, you wonder if he ever thinks of you, if he regrets how things ended between the two of you.

Maybe it's not that you can't escape Patrick's grip on you after all these years, it's that you just won't.

You’re so lost in your own thoughts that you don't hear the heavy door to the bar swinging open, or the sound of gravel crunching underneath approaching footsteps.

“Holy shit,” a deep voice rings out from your right, “someone pinch me.”

Your whole body tenses, your cigarette freezing a few inches away from your lips. Something like fight or flight starts to quietly buzz beneath your skin. You’d recognize that voice anywhere, even despite the gruffer, more grown up tone that wasn’t there the last time you heard it.

Your heart’s already kicking into overdrive when you finally start to hesitantly turn your head, time almost slowing down as your eyes sweep over the alley. You kind of don’t want to believe that your luck is this shitty. That maybe it was all in your imagination, that you were thinking about him so much you were starting to hear things that weren’t really there, that he was still back in the bar feeling up that blonde girl. But it can never be that easy, and sure enough, there he is.

Patrick Zweig is standing a few feet away from you with both hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans and a wide, achingly familiar grin lighting up his face.

You’re quiet for a few long moments, completely shocked into silence. Your mind races with a million different things you want to say but can’t find the voice to. You should be causing a scene. You should be losing it, screaming, crying, throwing things, slapping him hard across his unfairly handsome face. But you don’t, too surprised to even move.

Patrick speaks again, taking several steps towards you. “It is really you, right?” he asks, eyes wide and mouth pulling into an easy, lopsided grin. To anyone else, the laid back, carefree tone he was going for would sound genuine. You can barely pick up on the stunned, almost breathless edge lacing his words, like he also can’t believe you’re standing right in front of him.

He steps into the light shining from a dingy lamp above the door, it basks around him in a yellow orange glow.

Same eyes, same ears, same Patrick.

For years you’ve thought about this exact moment, what you’d say if you ever saw him. You lose all of that practice the closer he gets. He’s less than a foot away from you now, an expectant look on his face. He’s waiting for you to say something.

You feel like running, like stubbing your cigarette on the pavement and making a break for the door. You already ran from him once, but old habits die hard.

You don’t run, you refuse to take the easy way out. You’re a grown woman, you’re stronger than you were in college, you’re going to the goddamn Olympics. It’s only Patrick for Christ’s sake.

“What are you doing here?” It sounds harsher than you meant, but that’s probably for the best. He doesn’t deserve kindness from you.

“Tennis.” Is all he says, fishing out a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. Camel blues. “What are you doing here?” He parrots back, smacking the bottom of the carton, plucking the one that shakes out between his long fingers. “I’d think that Miss. Team USA would be too busy for bar crawls.”

You bristle, eyes narrowing skeptically. You can’t tell if he’s making fun of you or not. “It’s not a bar crawl,” you shoot back childishly, feeling defensive under his heavy gaze. “We’re celebrating.”

Patrick just nods, letting out a small hum in lieu of replying. He's close enough now that you can see gray strands streaked through his hair. He looks older, a few barely there wrinkles creasing his skin as he pops his cigarette between his lips. “Got a light?” he asks around the filter, holding his hand out expectantly before you even answer.

It’s still just as annoying. You roll your eyes, sighing dramatically as you fish your lighter out of your skirts pocket. You place it in the open palm of his hand, ignoring the fireworks that go off at the base of your spine when his fingers catch on your wrist as you pull away.

He mumbles out a half-assed thanks, cupping his hand around the flame to shield it from the wind. If he notices the color, he doesn’t say anything. It feels wrong that he doesn’t tease you about it, staying silent as he tosses it back to you when his cigarette finally lights. You ignore the hurt blooming in your chest as you pocket it.

Patrick takes a deep inhale, the tip of his cigarette burns bright red. The way his lips wrap around the filter has heat spreading through you. “Shocked you’re still smoking,” he waves his free hand at you vaguely, smoke flowing from his lips as he speaks. “It’s not super admirable.”

You let out a dry laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “That’s really how you want to start this?

“Start what?” he asks coyly, leaning his shoulder too close to you against the brick. He’s playing dumb, the smirk on his face gives him away.

You say nothing, not trusting yourself to speak. He has a beard now, sort of patchy and fairly new looking. You wrinkle your nose up at it.

It doesn’t surprise you that he’s acting like this. All calm and collected like he’s catching up with an old friend, like he didn’t say all those horrible things to you. As if every single word he said that night isn’t still engraved in your mind and carried with you through your whole career.

Patrick’s quiet for a bit, taking another slow drag. “Have you seen either of them?” His voice is hesitant, like he’s treading the water of your boundaries by bringing this up. “Or am I your first?” He lets the innuendo hang in the air, trying to joke his way through something neither of you really want to talk about.

You don’t look at him, keeping your eyes trained on the part of the street you can see through the alleys opening.

You don’t need to ask who “them” is.

You just shake your head no, not wanting to have to say anything out loud and make this into a whole thing. The smoke from your cigarette swirls through your lungs, warm and familiar.

You’ve seen them both at multiple tennis events. Things like matches, and galas, and charity auctions. Hell, they watched from the stands when you won Wimbledon for the first time. You just make sure and avoid them like the plague, always running the other direction the second you see a short bob and cropped blonde hair.

You’ve been in the same room with them countless times over the years but you might as well have been in separate worlds. The only “contact” you’ve had with them since you all graduated was weirdly ominous.

Art followed you on Instagram after you got your third career slam, but he doesn’t like any of your posts. You’re one of the mere twenty accounts in his following. You never followed him back.

Then, when your career first started taking off, the press somehow learned about your past with Tashi. They started using it to their advantage when picking headlines for any pieces written about you. “The only woman in the world to beat Tashi Duncan!” It pissed you off to no end. It was stupid, a way to get clicks on their sad little gossip sites. And it wasn’t even fucking true.

They finally stopped when you threatened to sue their asses. Apparently, Tashi noticed.

She sent you flowers. You threw them out.

Patrick nods back, taking his own slow drag. The sound of traffic hums in the background, the music from the bar bleeding through the wall mutely.

“Congrats on that,” he says casually, looking you up and down slowly. You fight not to squirm under his gaze. “On making the team. That’s some serious shit. I always knew it’d be you, out of all of us.”

It’s a blatant lie. You were always four out of four in college, the one person in the group with the least potential for stardom. If it wasn’t for Tashi’s injury, she’d definitely be in your place — on top of the world.

He’s trying to pacify you, to butter you up. All it does is grate on your nerves and leaves a sour taste in your mouth.

“Did you just come out here to interrogate me? To mess with me?” you ask sharply, frustration starting to get the better of you. “Do you want a fucking autograph or something?”

Patrick laughs, throwing his head back. “Nope, I wanted to catch up. It's been a while.” he shrugs, eyes darkening ever so slightly. “I just know how much you like talking about yourself, that’s all.”

You pause, picking up on the clear implication of his words. “Excuse me?” you question, turning towards him.

“Just saying,” he says, raising his hands in surrender. “When we were younger everyone always thought I was this arrogant, cocky, self obsessed prick…” he trails off, an infuriating smirk still playing on his lips. It does nothing to soothe you, only adding fuel to the fire of your anger. “And they were all right, I was. But, that’s also exactly what you are right now.” he finishes, tapping the ash off his cigarette.

You feel it, all the emotions swirling inside you of at seeing Patrick again threatening to burst. Anger and misery waging a war in your stomach. The wind is starting to pick up around you, making goosebumps break out over your skin. The fabric of your skirt swishes around your thighs. You feel clammy, but it has nothing to do with the temperature drop.

“Was?” you ask, condescending and mean, crossing your arms across your chest defensively. “You really don’t think you’re still all of those things?”

Patrick chuckles, shoulders shaking with amusement. He goes to say something, but you beat him to it. “I’ve changed, Patrick.” you say sternly, brows furrowing in displeasure. Your tone is hard, frustration seeping into your words. Considering the last time the two of you spoke, this was almost going well. It’s just like Patrick to ruin something before he needs to.

You know distantly that you could deescalate the situation, but maybe you’re more alike than you thought. Maybe you’re just too greedy to keep the peace. “So fucking sorry that I’m not the same person I was in college, but I actually chose to grow up.”

Patrick snorts, exhaling a plume of smoke through his nose. “Yeah, clearly.” he mutters under his breath, it’s condescending and sarcastic. It pisses you off.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask sharply, cigarette now forgotten and steadily burning away at your side.

Patrick shrugs, like it’s obvious. “You’re still so lost. I sure as shit don’t have a red, white, and blue track suit hanging in my closet, but at least I know who I am.” He doesn't sound angry, only sure of himself, like he may have been thinking about this for a while. His face is passive, body relaxed as he leans against the hard brick.

Your jaw clenches, anger running hot through your veins. He doesn’t know anything about you, hasn’t for over ten years. He doesn’t have the right to try and talk down to you, not after all the hard work you put in to get to where you are.

“My wrist alone is worth ten million. What are you worth now, Patrick?” You’ll be embarrassed about bringing up status later, you always try to stay as humble as possible, but you’re too mad to care. You just need to hurt him, to hurt him like he hurt you. You’d heard from a friend of a friend that Patrick’s parents cut him off a while ago, that he’s been slumming it ever since. “I know exactly who I am, I’m a fucking Olympian.”

The venom in your tone is sharp, each word from your lips like a knife stabbing through the tense air trying to draw blood. “You’re a fucking nobody, Patrick. You’re irrelevant. Washed up. Buried. Forgotten.” You pause when your voice starts to shake, taking a deep inhale of smoke to try and calm yourself. Your hand is shaking too, ash falls from the burnt out tip down to the gravel. Patrick just watches you, his expression doesn’t change. Smoke billows from between your lips, blowing away with the wind. “We’re not on the same level, not anymore.”

Patrick’s unfazed, staring back at you with his cigarette dangling from his lips. He takes it between his fingers, letting his arm drop to hang at his side. “I’ve been thinking about you.” he says casually, head lolling to the side lazily. He looks at you through his lashes, eyes sweeping over your face slowly. “I was just thinking about you, and now you’re here. Right fucking in front of me.” he shakes his head with a dry laugh. “You look…” he trails off, green eyes taking in every inch of you. “You look amazing.”

Your pulse flutters wildly, you feel so light headed, like you could pass out any second. “I’ve missed you, missed you everyday since that night.” His expression is that same half cocked grin from before, all smooth bravado and easy smiles as if he’s not staring at you like you’re the very blood coursing through his veins. All the air drains from your lungs, mind racing what feels like a thousand miles per second.

He sounds like he means it. He looks like he means it. He can’t possibly mean it.

A loud chant ringing through your skull is the only coherent thing screaming through all the mess. Don’t fall for it, don’t fall for it, don’t fall for it, don’t fucking fall for it–

“Well I don’t miss you.” A lie. “You were nothing to me, Patrick.” Another lie. “You were just easy dick.” Your stomach twists painfully, like your body is physically trying to stop you from lying to yourself any further.

His face stays neutral, it frustrates you to no end that you can’t tell what he’s thinking. Patrick had a terrible poker face in college, you could read him like a book with a single glance. It was one of your favorite things about him, how expressive his face always was.

Now he’s just staring down the bridge of his nose at you passively, the picture of indifference. It’s another reminder of how long it’s been, that he’s lived a whole life without you in all that time. He takes a long drag off his cigarette, never breaking eye contact with you as he does.

His lips are slick and pink, just how you remember them. The beard isn’t so bad, it makes him look more rugged, more like a man. It’s the most drastic change in his appearance, far different from the smooth skinned pretty boy he was before.

He exhales, a long stream of smoke blowing past your ear. “What are you still doing here then?” he muses with a small shrug. He leans in even closer, slowly, like you were a cornered animal he didn’t want to spook. You can smell him, something woodsy with a hint of musk. You can see the clusters of freckles scattered over the bridge of his nose, almost completely faded. “If I’m nothing,” he clarifies, simple, easy. “Why are you here?”

It’s a loaded question, one he obviously knows the answer to. It’s a dick move, forcing you to confront what you’re really feeling. Your eyes start to sting, complicated emotions welling up in your throat. “Fuck you Patrick.” you whisper weakly, all the bite in your tone getting lost in your dejection. Your lip wobbles warningly, you try your best to stifle it. You refuse to cry in front of him.

Patrick’s face does something funny, turning his eyes to the sidewalk. “I need someone like that again. Someone that isn’t afraid to fucking check me, that wants me to do better and not because they just see a check or a legacy or whatever the fuck else my parents expected from me. Someone that wants me to do better because they actually believe in me.”

The honesty in his voice takes you by surprise. He gets more worked up the longer he talks, chest rising and falling a lot faster than before. Rare vulnerability slipping through the cracks of his hardened exterior. “I fucked up that night, I know. Now my life’s a fucking mess, and I need someone to help make it make sense again.“

You scoff thickly, shaking your head in disbelief as you fight back tears. “And I’m that person?” you ask skeptically, brow raised in question.

“You always were,” he replies easily, his face forming into a sad smile. He almost sounds like his old self. Your brain flashes the image of Patrick leaning outside the door of your science lecture, waiting to walk you back to your dorm. He’s smiling wide enough to show teeth, looking down at you with brilliant green eyes, just like he is right now.

Suddenly, he wasn’t the boy that broke your heart on a tennis court twelve years ago.

He was the boy that held your hair back when you threw up after drinking too much at a frat party and still stayed the night even though you didn’t hook up, his chest pressed against your back like a security blanket the whole night. He was the boy that let you make friendship bracelets on the handle of his favorite racket, and secretly kept the one you made for him braided around the neck for weeks until you finally noticed the fraying blue strings still in place when he forgot his tennis bag at your dorm room one night.

Suddenly he wasn’t anything but the boy you fell in love with when you were eighteen years old.

You swallow hard, heart pounding against your ribcage. Your cigarette falls from the slack grip of your fingers, plummeting to your feet where it burns out on the pavement.

It’s like you lose control of yourself, like all your morals get shot out of a cannon into the sun. You’re lunging forward before you know what you’re doing, fisting the fabric of Patrick’s shirt and pulling him down to meet you halfway. Your first kiss with Patrick in twelve years.

It’s a mess of teeth clashing together roughly, with way too much tongue and spit to be classified as romantic. It’s desperate. It’s angry. It’s fucking filthy and it’s exactly what you need.

Your tongue forces its way between Patrick’s lips when he gasps in shock, mapping out the familiar territory of his mouth like muscle memory. His big hands fly up to hold onto your hips as he eagerly returns your kiss, pressing you up against the brick and sucking your tongue lewdly. He tastes like smoke and bottom shelf whiskey. You moan into his mouth, wetness starting to seep through the thin material of your panties.

You stay like that for a while, just kissing until Patrick slides the hard line of his cock against your hip strategically. You moan at the size of it pressing onto you through his jeans, breaking the kiss to inhale a couple lungfuls of air. “You’re not fucking me in an alley.” You say bluntly as he trails wet kisses down the side of your throat.

He laughs, nipping at your collarbone teasingly. “My car’s a block away,” he offers between kisses.

You think about it for a second. Deciding on whether or not you’re going to let Patrick fuck you in the backseat of his car like you’re two horny teenagers and not full grown adults.

“Lead the way.” Is all you say, finally letting yourself smile when Patrick starts to drag you away from the bar.

You shoot your friends a quick text letting them know you decided to head home early, already in the uber you ordered when you’re actually letting Patrick drag you across a blessedly empty parking lot to an old SUV parked in the middle. A completely one-eighty from the Porsche he used to drive.

He takes a second to press you against the door, capturing your lips with his again. It’s a slower kiss, sweeter than the one you shared outside the bar. You feel butterflies erupt in your stomach when he cups your face, gently rubbing his thumb over your cheekbone. He fumbles blindly for the car door with his other hand, pulling it open and pushing you into the back. He follows closely, climbing in and shutting the door behind him.

Patrick’s back on you in less than a second, yanking at the buttons of your shirt impatiently, fingers too big to work them through the holes as fast as he wants to. He lets out a frustrated growl, grabbing both sides and pulling hard. The buttons all go flying in different directions, landing in different spots around you.

“That was three hundred dollars,” you mumble against his lips, not wanting to stop kissing him for even a second. He looms over you, broad and all encompassing. He sits up to yank his own shirt over his head, tossing it aside and popping open the button of his jeans.

“You can buy another one,” he says simply, shucking his jeans and boxers off all in one go. His dick is long and lovely, tip red and drooling pre-cum that drips all the way down to his balls. Your mouth waters, desperate to taste it, to feel the weight of it on your tongue and down your throat. You push it to the back of your mind. There’s no time for that, both of you too keyed up to do anything other than fuck.

Patrick leans down, biting your bottom lip hard enough to make you moan. He turns his attention to your pulling skirt down, panties going with it and getting tossed onto the floorboard carelessly. His eyes zero in on your bare pussy, wet and on display. The cool air shocks your system, making you want to press your thighs together but Patrick’s hands keep you spread open.

“Fuck,” he whispers quietly, moving to roll the knuckle of his right index finger over your slick entrance, just barely rocking it into you. You gasp, your whole body trembling with need. “Just like I remember.” He mutters to himself, pushing in the smallest bit deeper.

Your leg kicks out, patience starting to wear thin. “C’mon, Pat.” you mewl sweetly, bucking your hips up in a clear invitation. “Fuck me.”

Patrick shifts up onto his knees, silently shuffling closer to your spread thighs. His cock juts out from his body, so thick and heavy that it doesn’t point straight up, instead hangs angry and red between his legs. His big hands slide halfway up your thighs, you shiver at the way they skirt across your skin lightly. He presses you backwards by them, leaning over you with your legs slung across his shoulders.

His cock drags across your inner thigh, trailing a sloppy line of pre-come as it does. You nearly wail, wrapping your arms around Patrick’s broad shoulders as you beg for him to give you what you want.

“God Patrick! Put it in. Please, put it in. Let me have it, please, fuck–,” you beg frantically, arms tightening around his shoulders like you’re trying to drag him impossibly closer to you. He goes willingly, burying his nose in the soft skin of your neck. He presses a small kiss directly over your pulse.

“I’m gonna give you this cock, baby.” he whispers lowly, hot lips brushing against your skin with every word. He slides the head of his cock through your wet folds, stopping to rub it over your swollen clit a few times. “Gonna get all up inside you and fuck you exactly how you like.” He slides the length down, letting his tip catch on your empty, clenching hole.

You’re so damn worked up, writhing and pushing back and begging Patrick to just fuck you already, that you can’t take anymore teasing. Your hole contracts around the tip of his dick like it’s trying to suck him in. He sinks in deeper, slowly feeding every thick inch into your aching cunt.

“God,” Your name falls from his lips in a shuddery breath that fans over your fluttering pulse. “You still smell the same.” It’s the same stunned, breathless tone from when he first saw you. He presses his face cheek to cheek with yours, the rough texture of his beard scraping against your skin.

Patrick moves his hips against you slowly, deep strokes that drag every thick inch of him against the walls of your cunt. The tip of his cock stabbing that sweet spot inside you that makes stars glow bright on the ceiling of his car each time you blink. The angle has his balls pressing against your cunt as he fucks into you, the excessive pre-come leaking from his tip mixing with the sticky wetness of your juices leaves an obscene ring of creamy white around the spread hole of your cunt. It sticks wetly to the base of Patrick’s cock with each thrust, shining back at you on his skin when he pulls out.

The slow thrusts feel amazing, but you know it’s not enough. You need him to pound into you, to bully his big cock into your cunt like he’s getting back at you for shutting him out. You need him to fuck you.

“Harder, Pat…” you whine breathlessly, clawing desperately at the polyester seats.

He groans loudly, hips immediately speeding up, getting rougher, meaner. He leans up to get more power behind his thrusts, breaking your tight hold on his shoulders. “This is where you belong,” he grits out, sweat dripping from his forehead to fall onto your heaving chest. The sharp smack smack smack of his hips bruising your ass gets louder, the lewd noise filling the car. “Where you should have been this whole fucking time, spread open on my cock.”

The only thing you can even get out anymore are pleading whines and loud moans of Patrick’s name as he pounds into you like he’s trying to kill you. The harsh snap of his hips inching you further up the backseat until your head’s knocking against the doors handle on each mean thrust. Your feet bounce by his ears, body almost completely folded in half so all you can do is lie there and take it.

The car rocks steadily, anyone who spares a glance at the SUV will know what’s going on inside.

Patrick sneaks a hand between your legs, fingers sliding over your swollen clit. You scream, throwing your head back in pleasure as the calloused tips over his fingers work you over. “Fuck yeah,” Patrick mutters, turning his head to lick and bite at your ankle. “You’re so fucking sexy, so fucking beautiful. I missed you so much, missed this pussy.” His voice is pinched, hips fucking into you impossible faster.

The wet squelching noise of your cunt is filthy, splattering against Patrick’s heavy balls with each thrust. “I know she missed me too, didn’t she baby?” he taunts, eyes wild and blown out. “Taking my cock so well, squeezing me so fucking good.”

“Close,” you gasp out. Patrick pitches forward, licking into your parted lips as he rubs tight circles over your clit faster. He kisses you sloppily, smearing spit all over your lips and chin. His sweat drips onto your face and mixes with your own, it should be gross, but it makes you even wetter. The primal part of your brain overjoyed to be claimed by him. He lifts his fingers up the tiniest bit, smacking them over your clit with the smallest amount of force.

Your orgasm hits you suddenly, back arching off the seat wildly as you gush around his cock. You claw at his back desperately, nails raking down his skin hard enough to leave angry red welts in their wake.

“Shit– that’s good, milk it out of me baby, work for this fucking load.” he groans, hips not slowing down as he chases his own release. His breath puffs over your skin, the rhythm of his hips starting to falter the closer he gets. You whine, trying your best focus on clenching your cunt over his cock in your fucked out state. “That’s it, baby– God – you’re gonna make me come, squeezing me so tight I can barely fucking move…” he growls, teeth sinking into your neck hard.

You hiss sharply, nails digging into his skin as the pleasure starts to become too much. He licks over the bite mark, like he’s apologizing. “Gonna fucking come inside you, fill you up so good, fuck–”

His rambling dissolves into a loud groan, hips giving one last thrust as he buries himself as deep in your cunt as he can. You feel rope after rope of warm come flood your insides, painting your walls with it. It feels like hours, him unloading into you with cut off moans and grunts.

You're still desperately trying to catch your breath when he finally starts to pull out of you as gently as he can. The red tip of his cock popping free lets the river of his come leak out from your abused hole, spilling out of you to drip onto the car’s seat.

Patrick curses at the sight, scooping the white, creamy mess onto his fingers so he can fuck it back into you. You hiss at the over stimulation, thighs squeezing together around his hand. Your chest is still heaving, breathing erratic as you slowly come down from your orgasm. Patrick tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear, smiling warmly as he takes you into his arms and shifts around until he’s sitting up against the door with you curled into his chest.

The windows are steamy, melting all the streetlights outside into a swamp of warm colors on the glass. They shine through the car like sunlight piercing through a stained glass window. You feel light and hazy, like you’re in a dream. Patrick’s body grounds you, firm and familiar against your back. It’s quiet for a long time, only the sound of soft breathing fills the car. You're scratching your nails through the hair on Patrick’s chest when he finally breaks the silence.

“There’s…” he says into your hair, trailing off near the end. He’s idly tracing shapes on your lower back. A circle, a square, a circle, a diamond, a square, a heart. “There’s this challenger in New Rochelle in a couple weeks, I’m entering it. You should come.”

Your heart drops, the delicate cloud encompassing you and Patrick forcefully ripped away in less than a second. You’ve already heard of this challenger, seen all the publicity it’s been getting since Art’s name came up in the conversation surrounding it. The ‘Phil’s Tire Town Challenger’ is all anyone can talk about.

If Art’s there, she will be too. Sitting in the stands in a classy Ralph Lauren two piece, watching her husband and Patrick on the court, looming over the two of them for the first time in years. You can’t stomach the thought of seeing her. You can’t stomach the thought of Patrick seeing her, terrified that the second she spares him a glance you’ll be right back where you were in college, an afterthought left in the dust for something better.

Your stomach lurches violently, you feel nauseous. The heat of Patrick’s backseat becomes almost unbearable, making it harder to breathe. You rip yourself away from him, tearing through the backseat to find your clothes.

Patrick startles, sitting up with a concerned look on his face. “Jesus, what's wrong?” You can feel the warmth of his hands hovering over your back, not sure if he should touch. “What did I do?”

You don’t say anything, you can’t. Your throat feels tight, chest constricted and heavy as you try to take in lungfuls of air. You tug on your skirt and panties haphazardly, grabbing the first shirt you find strewn across the car's floor and yanking it on. You know it’s not yours but you don’t care, too busy trying to shove your shoes back onto your feet and push open the door all at once.

Patrick questions you the entire time, voice confused and insistent as you tumble out into the parking lot. The cool air feels like a life jacket, the smell of rain fills your nose as you try to steady your erratic breathing. You’re still trying to tug your right shoe on as you start to speed walk away from his car.

You can hear the sound of feet slapping behind you on the pavement as you walk. A strong hand wraps around your bicep, whipping you around. Patrick only has his pants on, shirtless and barefoot in his haste to catch up with you.

“What the fuck are you doing? What’s wrong?” He sounds genuinely concerned, his eyes searching your face closely. It makes tears burn hot at your waterline, blurring your vision and falling to trickle down your cheeks when you try to blink them away.

“This was a mistake, Patrick.” your voice is thick with emotion, you try to wrench your arm out of his grip. He doesn’t let go, not squeezing tight enough to hurt but to try and keep you in place. You need to leave, to get as far away from Patrick as you can before you’re in too deep. “Please, let go.” Your voice is small, shaky and weak and so unlike you. The panic from the car is still wrapped around you, growing tighter every second you spend with him.

Patrick shakes his head wildly, raindrops slowly start to fall onto his bare shoulders. “No, fuck no! We can talk about this. We just need to talk–”

“Patrick stop!” Your voice cracks embarrassingly, loud and desperate as you double your efforts to free your arm. “Please just let me go!”

You don’t know if it’s the way you said it or the look on your face, maybe it’s a bit of both, but something makes Patrick let you go. Dropping your arm from his grip and letting his own hang limply at his side.

Rain starts to come down all around you, large drops hitting your skin and soaking the cotton of your shirt. You let yourself meet his eyes, they're sad in a way you’ve never seen before. The green turned dull and lifeless. It looks wrong on him.

When you can’t stand the hurt look on his face any longer, you leave. Walking away deeper into the rain, small puddles splashing up around your shoes with every step. You hope Patrick doesn’t follow you, that he lets you go. You’re doing him a favor by making the choice for him, it’s easier this way.

“You know, I think I really loved you.” He calls from behind you as the rain really starts to pick up. His voice almost gets swallowed by the thunder, you wish it would have.

Against your better judgment, you look back. Patrick hasn't moved, still standing in the middle of the parking lot. The rain is making his hair stick to his forehead, starting to seep into the denim of his jeans to darken the gray.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly, voice tiny and pathetic. Patrick probably couldn’t even hear you over the wind whipping through the air. He stares back at you, there's too much distance for you to see the look on his face. You turn on your heels and keep walking.

It’s nostalgia in its sickest form, the dark familiarity of the situation washing over you with the rain as you walk away from Patrick again. Ignoring every call of your name and desperate pleas for you to come back is new, you can’t tell if it hurts more or less than the silence of last time.

You wrap your arms around yourself, tears mixing with the trails of rain running down your cheeks. It’ll make it easier to convince yourself later on that you weren’t really crying, that it was just the rain. Tomorrow you’ll wake up and this will all be behind you. Patrick will be fine, he doesn’t really love you. In a few weeks he’ll go to the challenger and forget all about you.

You hear your mothers voice ring out in the back of your head as you walk.

"It's for the best, my love. Dependence is weakness."

You hope to God that she's right.

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