#impasse of biting

[wanderingblindly]

I'd like to inform you that I fucking finally got someone (shockingly enough someone who's not even like, into f1 put has, even more shockingly, been putting up with my ramblings) to read Impasse of Biting!!! on my 3rd attempt of getting someone to read it!!! (in their defense getting recommended anything with the sidenote of "this actually destroyed me emotionally" probably doesn't. uh. encourage)

her reaction was, and I quote (and translate): "no words for that other than: WOW" and "very brutal; and thus beautiful" which is better than I even could've put it tbh. love u please say hi to baby for me!! 🫶

NEB WHAT IF I CRIED!! IM ACTUALLY TEARING UP NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!!!!!!

I’ve never considered that someone who’s not already knee deep in landoscar hell would care even remotely about the nonsense I’m spewing on the internet, this is. Deeply touching in a way I cannot articulate. Please give them the biggest hug in my honor 😭😭

Also the baby says hi!!! Here she is tormenting a worm on a string!

[asoiafreadthru]

A Game of Thrones, Tyrion III

“If I touch Ghost, will he chew my hand off?”

“Not with me here,” Jon promised.

Tyrion scratched the white wolf behind the ears. The red eyes watched him impassively.

The beast came up as high as his chest now.

Another year, and Tyrion had the gloomy feeling he’d be looking up at him.

[twicecut]

I don't think we talk enough about how badass it is that while in a 1960s asylum, Diego successfully escaped a straitjacket by forcibly dislocating his arm (ow), and picked the lock to his cell with a pen (?) he smuggled in despite being in massive pain and presumably high on the cocktail of drugs the nurses would have kept him on in order to keep him agreeable.

[solxamber]

You Try to Sleep on the Couch after an Argument with: Housewardens

Other Parts: Vice-Housewardens; First Years ; Cater, Floyd, Silver, Rollo

Riddle Rosehearts

The house was quiet, save for the occasional creak of wood and the rustle of fabric as you flopped onto the couch with all the grace of a cat forcibly denied its favorite sunny spot.

The argument still hung in the air, an unspoken tension that neither you nor Riddle were willing to breach—at least not yet. He wasn’t wrong, not entirely, but he wasn’t right either. The impasse was as thick as the silence between you.

Determined to make a statement, you yanked the blanket off the couch arm and cocooned yourself in it, defiantly turning your back to the door. No way were you crawling back to bed tonight. Your pride wouldn’t let you. Let him stew in his perfectly fluffed, oversized bed.

Meanwhile, in his room, Riddle’s impeccable composure was fraying at the edges. He lay stiff as a board under his duvet, staring at the ceiling like it held the answers to all his mistakes. His pillows seemed unusually hard, the blankets too suffocating, and no matter how he adjusted, something felt... wrong.

It didn’t take him long to figure out the culprit: you weren’t there.

He groaned softly into the darkness. Guilt clawed at his insides, sharp and relentless, each tick of the clock making it harder to bear. He’d handled things poorly—he could admit that, now that the heat of the argument had ebbed. And worse, he couldn’t bear the thought of you being upset, out there on the couch, all because of his stubbornness.

With a heavy sigh and an even heavier heart, he threw off his blanket and shuffled into the living room. His breath caught when he saw you.

There you were, fast asleep, your cheek smushed against the arm of the couch, one arm dangling off the side. The sight was far too adorable for the emotional train wreck he’d become. His guilt doubled.

Riddle knelt by the couch quietly, determined not to wake you. But as he crouched there, the exhaustion hit him—of the argument, the guilt, the restless tossing and turning. Maybe just sitting here would suffice. He wouldn’t disturb you.

A few minutes turned into an hour. Before he knew it, he’d slumped sideways against the couch, head lolling onto his arms, fast asleep in what had to be the most uncomfortable position imaginable.

When you stirred awake, the morning light was peeking through the curtains. Groggily, you rubbed your eyes, the previous night’s anger feeling like a distant shadow. That was when you noticed him—his normally pristine figure curled up on the floor, head resting uncomfortably close to your dangling hand.

Your chest ached at the sight. The idiot. The sweet, guilty idiot.

You reached out, brushing your fingers lightly against his hair. “Riddle,” you whispered. “Hey… wake up.”

He stirred, blinking up at you with sleep-clouded eyes, disoriented but instantly softening when he saw your face. Without a word, he shifted closer, arms wrapping around your middle as he buried his face against your stomach.

“Don’t go,” he mumbles, voice thick and quiet.

You freeze but quickly recover, leaning into his embrace. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, voice muffled by your blanket. “I didn’t mean for it to get so out of hand.”

Your throat tightened, and you found yourself carding your fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry too,” you whispered. “Let’s not fight like that again.”

For a moment, the two of you just stayed like that, wrapped up in quiet forgiveness. When he finally looked up at you, there was a hesitant, hopeful smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Will you come back to bed now?” he asked softly.

“Only if you promise to use it too. No more couch-floor accommodations,” you teased, pinching his cheek lightly.

“Deal,” he murmured, and together, you made your way back—closer than before, warmth filling the space where anger once was.

Leona Kingscholar

The argument had been sharp, biting, and the kind of fight where you both refused to back down. Storming out of the bedroom felt dramatic enough to match the vibe, so you grabbed a blanket, stomped to the living room, and threw yourself onto the couch with the weight of your indignation. “Fine,” you muttered into the cushions. “Let him have the stupid bed. I don’t care.”

And at the time, you didn't. You were replaying his snarky remarks and cursing his stubborn attitude. But the couch was lumpy, the blanket too short, and sleep came grudgingly after what felt like hours of stewing.

When you finally woke, disoriented and achy, something felt...off. For starters, you weren’t on the couch anymore. You were in the bed, wrapped snugly in the comforter that still carried Leona’s scent.

Blinking against the sunlight, you sat up, confusion clouding your thoughts. At the foot of the bed was the blanket you’d dragged out last night, now neatly folded like some taunting symbol of Leona’s existence.

And Leona himself? Missing.

You slid out of bed and wandered to the living room, where the answer to your mystery lay sprawled across the couch. The sight of him, however, made your irritation waver.

Leona was far too large for the couch. His long legs hung over the edge at weird angles, and one arm was slung over his face to block the light filtering through the curtains. He looked wildly uncomfortable, but his usual arrogance softened in sleep, his face peaceful and unguarded.

It didn’t take a genius to piece it together. He must have carried you to bed sometime in the night, only to exile himself to the lumpy couch. The guy could be maddeningly stubborn, but this... this unexpected gesture had you torn between wanting to yell at him or simply kissing him awake.

Ultimately, you decided to settle for the middle ground.

Crouching next to the couch, you reached out and brushed the stray strands of hair from his face. Before you could withdraw, one eye cracked open, and a lazy grin spread across his lips.

“Caught ya,” he drawled, voice rough from sleep.

You raised an eyebrow. “You moved me to the bed, didn’t you?”

He huffed, clearly uninterested in owning up to the sentimentality of it. “Couldn’t leave you out there whining in your sleep.”

“I wasn’t whining!” you protested, even though your cheeks were burning.

“Sure you weren’t,” he replied smoothly, grabbing your wrist before you could retreat. With a sharp tug, he pulled you down, practically pinning you against him. “Don’t see the big deal. You’re mine, aren’t ya? ‘Course I’m gonna take care of you.”

The casual way he said it didn’t make it any less sincere.

You sighed, melting into his warmth despite yourself. “I hate how sweet you can be when I’m trying to stay mad at you.”

His smirk widened, and he tucked you closer, burying his face in your hair. “Didn’t mean to piss you off,” he murmured against your temple. “But you’re not leaving this couch till we make up. Deal?”

You rolled your eyes, but your voice softened. “Deal.”

As the tension melted away and his arms tightened around you, the couch didn’t seem quite so lumpy anymore. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad place to be.

Azul Ashengrotto

The argument had been tense, the kind where you both said things you probably shouldn’t have. Frustrated and too stubborn to stay in the same space as Azul, you grabbed a pillow and marched out to the couch. He’d barely tried to stop you, his pride seemingly keeping him rooted in the bedroom.

But pride was a fickle thing, and now you were left trying to fall asleep on the stiff cushions. Every creak of the floorboards made you feel a little guilty, knowing exactly who it was.

You didn’t even need to look; you could feel Azul’s presence lingering in the doorway, his usual composure clearly absent. The sound of shuffling footsteps returned to the bedroom, and you thought maybe he’d finally leave you alone—only to hear those same footsteps inch closer again a minute later.

"Azul, I know you're there," you muttered, cracking an eye open and turning toward the doorway. Sure enough, there he was, peeking out. His glasses caught the faint glow of the hallway light, and he immediately froze like he’d been caught stealing treasure.

“I-I wasn’t...” he started, before trailing off, clearly scrambling for an excuse.

You sighed and sat up, your frustration ebbing in the face of how uncharacteristically sheepish he looked. This was Azul Ashengrotto, the calculating businessman who could sell ice to Yetis—and yet he couldn’t even apologize without peering at you like a child who’d been scolded.

“If you’re just going to lurk there all night, we’re both going to lose sleep,” you said, finally beckoning him over with a wave.

Azul hesitated for a fraction of a second before his composure cracked, and he shuffled toward the couch. “I didn’t mean for things to escalate...” he started, sitting next to you, his head ducked low, voice soft.

You smirked despite yourself. “You’re cute when you’re embarrassed, you know that?”

He bristled, his dignity rallying as he cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. “I am not—”

“You’re very cute,” you interrupted, and the smallest flicker of a pout crossed his lips.

Azul looked away, a hint of color dusting his pale cheeks. “You’re the worst.”

“And you still love me,” you countered, pulling him down beside you. “Truce?”

He glanced at you, the beginnings of a smile tugging at his lips. “Truce.”

Apologies came in murmured exchanges after that, both of you acknowledging where you’d gone wrong. You knew you’d both let pride get in the way—typical for two people as headstrong as yourselves.

Eventually, Azul’s head rested on your shoulder, his warm weight grounding you. You leaned back against the couch, and despite its discomfort, it felt perfect with him there.

“You know,” you whispered, running a hand gently through his hair, “for a guy who’s made half of Twisted Wonderland sign contracts, you really can’t stand your ground for the life of you.”

Azul huffed, turning his face into your shoulder to hide. “Do you want me to apologize again?”

You chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Nope. I think I’ll just enjoy this.”

And with that, the two of you finally let the tension of the argument melt away, falling asleep together on the couch in an imperfect, perfectly “you and Azul” sort of peace.

Kalim Al-Asim

The argument had been uncharacteristically heated—rare for someone as sunny and easygoing as Kalim—but even he had limits, and so did you. When your stubborn streak flared, it ended with you grabbing a blanket and storming off to the couch.

“No, Kalim, I’m fine. You sleep in the bed, I’ll sleep here,” you snapped, cutting off his attempts to follow you. His face fell, but for once, he didn’t argue, retreating to the bedroom with a defeated slump of his shoulders.

You burrowed into the couch cushions, determined to stay mad, but as sleep started to claim you, the anger dulled into annoyance. It didn’t matter. He started it, you thought stubbornly, clutching the blanket tighter.

A soft rustle of fabric woke you, tugging you from the edges of sleep. Blinking groggily, you turned your head to see Kalim crouched beside the couch, carefully tucking another blanket over you. He had his tongue poking out slightly in concentration, his touch so gentle that it was clear he didn’t want to wake you.

“What are you doing?” you mumbled, voice hoarse with sleep.

Kalim flinched, looking at you like a startled puppy caught raiding the kitchen. “Oh, I—uh—I just thought you might be cold, so I…”

He trailed off, clearly expecting you to brush him off again. Instead, you sighed, your irritation melting as you realized just how ridiculous he looked, trying to coddle you even while you were angry at him.

“Come here,” you said, sitting up and pulling the blanket back a bit.

“What? No, I don’t want to—”

“Kalim.”

His protest crumbled immediately, and he slid onto the couch beside you, tucking his legs up awkwardly. You wrapped the blanket over both of you, and after a moment of stunned hesitation, Kalim relaxed into the embrace, resting his head against your shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his voice small and earnest. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

You sighed, tilting your head to rest on his. “I’m sorry too. I overreacted.”

He perked up slightly at that, his usual cheer trying to peek through. “So… does this mean you won’t sleep out here alone again?”

“You’re lucky I’m even letting you under this blanket, Asim,” you teased, though your smile softened the words.

Kalim beamed, his arms wrapping snugly around your middle. “I knew you couldn’t stay mad at me forever!”

You rolled your eyes fondly, leaning back into the cushions. The couch wasn’t exactly built for two people, but the warmth of his presence made it easy to ignore. Slowly, you both drifted to sleep, Kalim murmuring sweet nothings even as his breaths evened out.

Maybe next time, you thought sleepily, you’d just let him win.

The argument left both of you simmering in silence, which for Vil was a rarity. Instead of his usual icy composure, he seemed genuinely rattled. You, however, weren’t in the mood to care. Grabbing a blanket with theatrical flair, you stomped to the couch.

“You can have your perfectly fluffed pillows and skincare routine in peace,” you muttered, tucking yourself in with a spiteful sense of triumph.

Once comfortably cocooned, you scrolled on your phone, trying to drown out the lingering annoyance. That’s when you heard it—sharp, purposeful footsteps marching toward you.

Before you could react, Vil appeared like a vengeful storm god, looking every bit as flawless as a deity would while furious. With a huff that could make kingdoms tremble, he reached for your arm and began dragging you back to the bedroom.

“Vil, what are you—let me go! I’m fine out here!” you protested, but his grip was firm, his annoyance palpable.

Once you were unceremoniously deposited by the bed, he turned to you, pointing at your neatly made side. “You are sleeping there,” he declared.

You folded your arms. “I’m sleeping on the couch. Deal with it.”

He tilted his head, his expression a dangerous blend of frustration and disbelief. “Absolutely not. You’ve ruined my entire evening, and now you expect me to suffer further by sleeping alone?”

“Ruined? Seriously?” you shot back.

“Yes! I require my beauty sleep, and I can’t possibly get it knowing you’re out there, sulking on a couch. It’s impossible to relax without you next to me—so you, are going to have to take responsibility!”

The sheer audacity of his statement left you blinking. It was so dramatic and entirely Vil that you couldn’t help it—you laughed. Not a little chuckle, but a full-bodied, slightly wheezing laugh that made you clutch your sides.

Vil crossed his arms, arching an offended brow. “I fail to see what’s funny.”

“You,” you said between giggles. “This whole ‘it’s your fault I can’t sleep because I love you’ nonsense. You’re ridiculous.”

He didn’t deny it. Instead, he sighed, and once your laughter subsided, he gestured to the bed again, this time more softly. “Please. Don’t make me sleep without you.”

You relented, sliding under the blankets. As you settled in, Vil switched off the lights, the room going still.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly after a moment. His tone was sincere, lacking the sharp edges from earlier.

You shifted closer to him, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him gently against you. “I’m sorry too.”

Vil let out a contented hum, nestling into your hold. With your body heat mingling and the earlier tension dissipating, it didn’t take long for both of you to fall asleep—together, as it should be.

The argument had been rough—sharp words, bitter edges, the kind of fight that left your chest heavy. It didn’t matter how much Idia stammered his way through an apology or tried to explain his side; you weren’t ready to hear it yet. So, in an act of frustrated finality, you grabbed a blanket and retreated to the couch, refusing to spare him another glance.

Sleep came in patches, your mind replaying the fight in a loop. At some point, the dull ache in your bladder forced you to stumble toward the bathroom. On your way back, you froze, hearing quiet, panicked murmurs drifting from Idia’s room.

“Ortho, what do I do? I think I really messed up this time,” his voice wavered, thick with worry. “They probably hate me now. Like, actual hate—no respawn, no restart. I mean, who else would put up with me? I’ve completely blown it.”

You sighed, anger ebbing as guilt trickled in. You hadn’t meant to push him that far, and his usual self-deprecating spiral sounded more frayed than usual.

Pushing the door open, you caught the tail end of Ortho’s voice. “Big Brother, you should—oh!” His robotic eyes darted to you, scanning the scene. A moment later, he gave a tiny thumbs-up and practically zoomed out of the room, leaving you and Idia alone.

Idia froze when he noticed you. His shoulders hunched as if he could shrink his already wiry frame. “I-I didn’t mean for you to hear that. Sorry for being pathetic. Again.”

Rolling your eyes fondly, you stepped forward and opened your arms. “Come here, you dramatic dork.”

His eyes widened, hesitation etched into every inch of his posture. When you didn’t move or drop your arms, he finally shuffled over, nervously slipping into your embrace. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him securely, and his entire body seemed to deflate as tension drained out of him.

“I thought you weren’t coming back,” he admitted, voice muffled against your shoulder.

You huffed softly, rubbing his back. “Idia, I wasn’t leaving. Just... needed space to cool off. And honestly, hearing you lose your mind over it made it hard to stay mad.”

“Cool. Cool, cool, cool,” he mumbled, the words tumbling in an embarrassed rush. “Um, does this mean...?”

“It means I still love you,” you interrupted gently.

His grip on you tightened for a moment before he pulled back, pink dusting his cheeks and his hair glowing pink at the ends. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice so soft you almost missed it.

“I’m sorry too,” you replied, kissing his cheek and earning a startled squeak.

Together, you made your way back to bed. As you settled under the blankets, his fingers tangled hesitantly with yours. The argument seemed miles away now, replaced by the steady warmth of simply being with him.

“I’ll try to be better,” he murmured into the quiet.

“You’re already enough, Idia,” you replied, squeezing his hand.

And as you drifted off to sleep, you felt his thumb rubbing gentle circles against your knuckles, grounding both of you in the quiet comfort of reconciliation.

The argument left both of you tense, and you were too mad to deal with Malleus' brooding silence. Grabbing a blanket, you stormed off toward the couch, refusing to even glance at him. "I'm sleeping on the couch," you announced. "Goodnight."

Malleus stood frozen for a moment, processing your declaration, and you could feel his pout even with your back turned. "You do not need to sleep on the couch," he finally said.

"I'm not changing my mind," you shot back, tossing the blanket onto the couch for emphasis.

There was a brief, sulking pause. Then, he went quiet—suspiciously quiet. You peeked over your shoulder just in time to catch him crossing his arms with a look of smug triumph spreading across his face.

“Malleus—”

Before you could finish the thought, a flash of green lightning struck the couch, reducing it to a pile of ash with alarming precision. You stood there, jaw dropping as the faint smell of charred upholstery wafted in the air.

"Well," Malleus said, ever so matter-of-factly, "it seems the couch is… out of commission. A most unfortunate turn of events."

You turned to him, dumbfounded. "Did you seriously just smite your own couch?"

He looked at you expectantly, his lips pressed into an overly calm smile. "The bed is still available," he offered, gesturing toward the bedroom as though that solved everything.

Your anger reignited—if that was even possible after witnessing such sheer audacity. Without a word, you dropped your blanket onto the floor, flopping down dramatically as if making it your personal mission to out-stubborn a dragon fae.

He stared at you in bewilderment, clearly expecting a different outcome. For a long moment, he didn’t move, as though trying to process your act of defiance. Then, with an audible sigh, he finally caved.

“Alright,” he said softly, crouching to your level. His eyes held a rare vulnerability. “I… overreacted. I apologize for upsetting you.”

You bit back a smirk, pretending to be unimpressed even as you felt your resolve softening. "I wasn’t thrilled about it, yeah."

Malleus tilted his head, something of a pout returning to his expression. “Will you come back to bed, then? The floor hardly befits someone so precious to me.”

“Only if you promise not to zap anything else," you teased, finally relenting as you reached out to take his offered hand.

He helped you up gently, his grip firm but careful, as though he feared breaking you. “I cannot promise to never act rashly in defense of my love,” he murmured, leading you back to the room.

Settling into the bed together, you couldn’t resist poking at him one last time. “You really destroyed your own couch just to keep me near you, huh? You know they make couple’s therapy for this, right?”

He chuckled softly, pulling you close. “I would smite an entire castle if it meant you stayed by my side.”

“Noted,” you said, rolling your eyes, though you couldn’t hide the warmth in your chest. As you both drifted off, tangled in the sheets, you couldn’t help but think how absurdly lucky you were to be loved by someone so dramatic—and so utterly devoted.

Masterlist

[zhelin-thames]

Sixteen Bucks and a Grudge

Inspired by this post

Masterpost

The Batcave descended into silence as the glowing figure hovered ominously, his voice reverberating through the space. Everyone stared at Bruce, whose face remained impassive, though there was a faint twitch in his left eye.

"Bruce," Danny's eldritch voice echoed again, the flickering green light from his form illuminating the cave. "You promised."

Jason was the first to break the silence, biting back a laugh. "Wait, hold up. Bats, you owe this guy—" he gestured at the spectral figure, "—sixteen bucks? And you didn’t pay him back?"

Tim blinked in disbelief. "Sixteen dollars? That’s it? Why not just pay him?"

Bruce’s jaw clenched. "It’s the principle."

"The principle?" Danny’s ethereal voice sharpened. "The principle is that you owe me money. I spotted you when you conveniently ‘forgot’ your wallet on that mission in Prague. Fifteen years, Bruce. Fifteen. Years."

Dick swung down from the obstacle course, landing with a flourish. "Bruce, this is... shocking. You didn’t pay back a friend? A ghostly friend?"

"Former associate," Bruce corrected, standing straighter.

"You don’t even have an excuse," Damian said, crossing his arms. "Father, this is shameful."

Cass, who had been silently observing, tilted her head at Danny and then at Bruce. "Pay him," she signed.

"Thank you!" Danny exclaimed, throwing up his hands. "See? She gets it!"

Steph nudged Duke, grinning. "This is the best thing that’s happened all week. I’m rooting for the glowing guy."

Jason smirked, holstering his guns. "Hey, Phantom—what happens if he doesn’t pay up? Do you haunt him or something?"

Danny’s eyes gleamed mischievously. "I’ve had fifteen years to think about that. Let’s just say Bruce would learn the true meaning of regret."

Bruce let out a long-suffering sigh, finally reaching into a compartment in his utility belt. He produced a crisp twenty-dollar bill and held it out toward Danny.

"Here."

Danny crossed his arms, floating closer but making no move to take it. "Sixteen. Not twenty. I’m not taking tips from someone who stiffed me for a decade and a half."

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, then withdrew a smaller wad of cash and counted out exactly sixteen dollars. He handed it over wordlessly.

Danny plucked the money from Bruce’s hand with a smirk. "Pleasure doing business, old friend."

With that, Danny dissolved back into the glowing green portal, leaving the Batcave in a dim eerie glow for a few moments before it faded entirely.

As silence returned, Jason leaned back, arms crossed, grinning like a Cheshire cat. "So, Bruce, what’s the real story here? Because I need to know why you’d rather let a ghost King hunt you down than pay sixteen dollars."

Bruce turned back to his computer. "Get back to work."

Tim was already typing away. "Oh no, I’m finding the mission logs. There’s no way we’re letting this go."

"Sixteen years of holding a grudge," Dick added, shaking his head. "That guy has serious commitment."

Jason laughed. "Sounds like he’d fit right in."

[senascoop]

ꣀ꣒ ASKING ENHYPEN — HOW MANY KIDS THEY WANT? . . 엔하이펜 ☁︎

pairing, enhypen × afab reader . . . genre, scenario(s), fluff, reactions . . . word count, 190-240 each . . . [LIBRARY]

. , LEE HEESEUNG ☁︎ 이희승 !

“Hee,” you called quietly, sipping on your hot chocolate while the warmth permeated the serene void between you. You leaned against the armrest and kept watching Heeseung as he scrolled through social media to the sound of his almost inaudible humming amidst the stillness of the room. “You never told me how many kids you want,” you said as if you really were trying to find out.

Heeseung paused for a moment before a slow smile spread over his face, his eyes wide and animated as he put his phone down. It was clear that he had been waiting for this question. “Three. Definitely,” he said, nodding with the kind of certainty one might expect after years of pondering. You arched your brow, trying not to laugh. “But then what's it going to be like when you have three mini Heeseungs running wild? A nightmare,” you stated, looking at him impassively.

His eyes widened, and he shot you a mock parody glare that could only be described as mild offense. “What did you just say?” He said, leaning in closer and speaking as though utterly astonished. You just couldn't help it anymore: a laugh escaped you in the form of a chesty giggle, and you leaned back, confiding in your hot chocolate for salvation. “I'm just kidding!” you squeaked through the giggles.

. , PARK JONGSEONG ☁︎ 박종성 !

“Baby, how many kids do you want?” you asked, slipping your arms around Jay’s waist from behind, your chin resting on his shoulder as he stirred the steaming pot of noodles on the stove. “Did my cooking skills impress you that much?” he teased, glancing at you with a smirk. His free hand reached down to pat yours, resting comfortably on his stomach.

You laughed softly. “Maybe,” you admitted, your voice warm with affection. “But I’m serious. How many kids do you want?” Jay paused, the sound of bubbling noodles filling the momentary silence. His gaze grew thoughtful as he tilted his head slightly. “Two,” he said confidently, his tone steady. “It’d be nice to have one of each—a boy and a girl. Balance, you know?”

You grinned, nuzzling closer. “What if they’re both boys? Or both girls?” you pressed, curious to hear his answer. Jay hummed, as if mulling it over, before turning off the stove and setting the spoon down. He spun around in your arms to face you, his expression playful yet soft. “Honestly?” he said, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “As long as they’re healthy, I couldn’t care less. But if they’re both boys…” He paused, raising an eyebrow. “Double trouble.”

You giggled, swatting his chest lightly. “And if they’re both girls?” He grinned, pulling you closer. “Guess I’ll just be outnumbered, won’t I?”

. , SIM JAEYUN ☁︎ 심재윤 !

“How many kids do you want?” you asked, casually breaking the silence while the two of you sat tangled on the couch, the light of the television casting shadows. His gaze dropped unstably from the screen to you, amusement winking in constricted lines across his brow of confusion. “We already have one: Layla,” he declared, pointing to the dog stretched across his lap, her head comfortably laid on his thigh.

Rolling your eyes, you let out a huff. “Jake. I meant a human baby,” you explained, resting your chin on his shoulder to gauge his expression. He hesitated in thought, his fingers mindlessly playing with Layla's ear. “One is enough,” he said offhandedly between mouthfuls of popcorn, as though deciding the fate of your entire future after that bite.

For a moment, you grinned in mock disbelief. “One? Just like that? What if I want two?” He just turned to you, slipping into a devilish smile. “One is a smart number. Two? Think of the double the mess and double the drama. One? We can keep ‘em outnumbered,” he explained in a teasing tone, though his eyes sparkled with affection.

. , PARK SUNGHOON ☁︎ 박성훈 !

“Hey Hoon,” you said rather casually, tracing invisible patterns on the couch while leaning against him. “In the future when we have kids...would you want a boy or a girl?”

Sunghoon felt his face flush immediately; it was as if he had not expected you to ask the question. He nervously cleared his throat and shifted a little. “Is this a test?” he asked in a higher-than-usual voice. You could see the moment of hesitation that was thinking there could be something to it-a faint worry on the face of being caught in trickery, because he knew you would ask many innocent questions previously that often spiraled into an argument.

You shook your head, smiling and trying to play it light. “Don't worry, I'm just curious.” He paused for a second, biting his lip, returned his gaze to you, carefully considering his answer. “A girl...?” he murmured, a slight tremble in his voice. There was something very sweet about him being shy; you liked it. “A girl, huh? Well, I like that. Sometimes I think I'd like to ask you a real question: how many kids do you want?”

This caught Sunghoon off guard again because of your sudden shift; he blinked at this. He took a second, his face still a little flushed as he whispered slowly, “Umm... probably... one...?” you blinked, trying not to laugh at how serious he was about it. “Just one? You aren't even considering the option of having a second or a third in the future?” He shrugged, his expression softening as he leaned closer. “One should suffice for me, especially if it is a girl."

. , KIM SUNOO ☁︎ 김수누 !

“Babe...” you started, your voice soft with a hint of nervousness as you gazed at Sunoo, who was casually sipping his water. You felt a flutter in your chest, wondering how he'd respond. “How many kids do you want in the future?” Sunoo didn’t even hesitate. His eyes twinkled as he smiled at you, the corners of his lips lifting in that signature grin that always made your heart skip. With a playful sparkle in his eyes, he held up three fingers, still holding his bottle of water, clearly not bothered by the question at all.

You raised an eyebrow, amused by how easily he had the answer ready. “Three?” you repeated, trying to hide your smile. It was clear he’d thought about this a lot, and you couldn’t help but admire how effortlessly he was embracing the idea of the future with you. “Yep, three,” he confirmed, his grin widening as he swallowed the water. He set the bottle down and nudged your shoulder, leaning in closer. “You know, one for you, one for me, and one for us. Perfect team.”

Your heart melted at his words, and you leaned into him, feeling a warmth spread through you. Sunoo was everything you could ever want, and the thought of a future with him felt like a dream come true.

. , YANG JUNGWON ☁︎ 양정원 !

Jungwon wasn’t surprised by your random question—it was just another one of those things you did. As you straddled his lap on the couch, your fingers brushing through his hair, you asked casually, “How many kids do you want?” He paused, his lips curving into a small, knowing smile before planting a quick peck on your lips. “One,” he muttered against your mouth, as if it was the most natural answer.

You blinked, taken aback. “That’s it?” you asked, genuinely curious. You expected something a little more ambitious, but there he was, casually dropping his answer like it was no big deal. Jungwon stifled a chuckle, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Why?” he asked, genuinely curious at your reaction. You puffed out your cheeks in mock frustration. “Why not more? I mean, we’re both working, we can afford it,” you reasoned, trying to make your case.

He nodded, a soft smile still playing at the corners of his lips. “True,” he agreed. “But... the living costs, you know?” You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could get the words out, he pulled you closer, his hands gently resting on your hips. “One is still enough, sweetie,” he whispered, his tone light but affectionate. The sincerity in his eyes melted your protest away. “Fine,” you muttered, resting your forehead against his. “I guess one sounds perfect with you.”

. , NISHIMURA RIKI ☁︎ 리키 !

“Riki, how many kids do you want to have?” you asked casually, mushing against his chest, your arms lazily around his neck in your usual cuddle contentment. His hands are frozen. Random shapes traced on your back now are interrupted mid-motion. Before you could think, he switched positions: he flipped you onto your back and pinned you beneath him in one smooth shift.

“What are you doing?” you squeaked, heart thumping as his dark eyes watched yours. That was when he came closer, softly brushing a stray strand of hair from your face with a teasing smirk that left your stomach feeling some weird emotion. “We just became adults and you are already talking about babies?” he tormented in low teasing tones, the corners of his mouth twitching to stop a laughter. “You're bold, you know that.”

You opened and moved to argue, but he lowered his mouth and pressed a soft, deliberate kiss against your lips. Not to shut you up—this was the kind of kiss that turned your thoughts into mush and spread bright warmth across your cheeks. He pulled away just enough to talk, lips pressed close to yours, and whispered, “Why have kids when we can have fun?”

© senascoop | tumblr

[pseudowho]

Fire and Iron

Forced to stay the night with Nanami Kento, the town's blacksmith, after tending to his wounds, you find yourself smouldering in his irresistible flame.

Warnings: 18+, fluff and smut, loss of virginity

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Your boots cracked through the ice-topped slurry puddles scattering the mud path in the village. The shawl bundled over your shoulders was not enough, and the biting cold wind whipped your cloak back, stripping its usefulness off your shivering shoulders.

Townsfolk waved to you, nodding, smiling; greetings for a familiar face, many of them grateful for your travels to their icy town over the years, lacking even a basic healer of their own, let alone one so talented.

Passing by the blacksmith's hut on your way, you paused out the front, feeling the heat bellowing forth like dragon's breath. You tipped your head back, the smell of ash and steel filling your nose. As you paused, moments after, so did the clang of hammer on anvil.

You opened your eyes, stinging in the brutal cold and smoke. You, once more, like a hundred times before, had caught the eye of the blacksmith. He, whose name you did not know. He, who looked but never touched. He, to whom you had passed so many thousands of hours of your life, and his life to you, through gaze alone.

Stood proud at the anvil, shadowing the forge like the door to hell behind him, his broad shoulders wore only an open-chested white linen shirt, and a thick brown leather apron. With his ashy blond hair, and the lines of his face filled with soot, he was ageless and unknowable. He looked to you, his sharp face quiet and impassive; expression always somewhere between fury and tranquility.

Your lips parted once, as if to speak, and it jumped the blacksmith to life. With a barely perceptible nod, and a grunt, he swung his hammer back, brought down in beautiful accuracy, shaping smouldering steel. The clang rung through you, your chest jolting with a short gasp, and you collected yourself, stepping onwards. You were sure you could feel his cool gaze through the back of your head.

Another patient; another healed. Another grateful family; another life prolonged. The days were short now, and as you stepped out of the house of rough-hewn wood and stone, the forest pines were bathed in dying light, netting the low winter sun above the horizon. It was a punishing journey home, on foot, and the horses were long since put to bed.

The blacksmith's hut held its own sunset, the forge open but unattended. You heard stamps, heavy feet and cursing. You paused in the burst of warmth, illuminated, listening. Curiosity carried your feet into the hut, the heavy wet hem of your skirts collecting ashes, absorbing the blacksmith's domain.

"Are you...are you alright?" You called, uncertain, "Sir?" The footsteps, the swearing, had stopped. You stepped further in, feeling the forge belch at you, almost excruciatingly hot now.

"Get away from there!" The bark, deep and commanding, made you squeak and stumble. Darting through the side door, the blacksmith looped one thick arm round your waist before you fell towards the forge, effortlessly lifting you round, his back to the furnace, his face in shadow.

He was close; close enough that you could smell the soft sweat, the tang of fire and metal. He hissed as your hands dropped to his forearm, and you felt a cold dripping cloth draped over it.

"Do you often wander into places uninvited?" He snipped at you. You recognised the cadence in his low voice-- pain.

"I-- ...you're hurt," you insisted, voice barely above a whisper. Looking up, your eyes tried to gauge his unreadable face in the gloom. You felt him huff, warm air across your cheeks. His arm loosened, releasing you. As he stepped back, turning away to close the forge, you saw the blacksmith's mountainous shoulders tense, twitching.

"It's nothing," he retaliated, brisk. You stepped forwards again, placing a soft hand on his shoulder. At first, he flinched, then begrudgingly allowed you to turn him, and lift the damp rag covering his forearm. A thick welting burn, running the length of his forearm, lay weeping and angry on his skin, already nicked with so many little scars. You heard his teeth grit as the air hit his wound.

"Nothing," you scoffed, "this needs dressing. Let me help you." You felt him flinch beneath your hands, hesitant. He felt his skin prickle under yours, finding such curious pleasure in your touch alongside his pain. Your beseeching eyes took him the rest of the way, and he found himself accepting you.

"I...not here," the blacksmith toned, his eyes flitting to the town around him, "if they believe me injured, I'll lose business." You nodded, rummaging in your overburdened satchel, until he took you gently by the hand.

"My home," he began, hesitant, your hand so soft and small in his broad calloused palm, "you'll...you are welcome. It is clean. Quiet. I...I will not harm you. I promise."

Aware of his size and strength, aware of the air of mystery surrounding him amongst the townsfolk, the blacksmith was quick to reassure you. Your eyes softened, and his thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles at your words, electricity crackling up your arm.

"I know you won't," you assured. The briefest smile graced his severe face when you offered your name. You felt it warm you from the belly downwards. As he pulled encouragingly on your fingers, leaving the forge to die naturally with the approaching nightfall, you were led through the back of the hut, seeing a newly revealed sprawling cabin of wood and stone, at the edge of the forest. You felt the first kiss of snow upon your cheek.

"Nanami Kento," the blacksmith replied, welcoming you over the threshold. You smiled up at him, taking in his home; barely lit, at first, until he struck a lantern to life. You placed your bag upon a table, rummaging for salves as Kento began to build the fire, skilled and efficient.

You basked in the homely room; autumnal tapestries lining the walls, skin rugs on the floor and furs on the chairs, hanging herbs above a countertop, circled with hung skillets and pans. You relaxed easily into the sincerity of Kento's welcome. A frigid wind slapped the windows, rattling the door.

Before long, an enormous cast iron pot boiled with water, and you knelt before Kento, appraising his wound in the orange glow. Cleaning your hands, wetting a rag with clean water, you moved to clean the ash from his arm before pausing.

"This will hurt," you apologised, looking up to him. Kento's heart stuttered; how many hours had he spent, imagining those sweet eyes, those gentle fingers? Too long. Too many words unspoken over too many years. He was not used to such tenderness.

"I am used to pain," he hushed, smooth and barely audible above the crackle of flame, "my job has certain...hazards, after all." You hummed, swiping the cloth gently, removing dirt and debris.

"Still," you hummed, "I don't like to hurt a friend." Kento chuckled, and you felt yourself blush from hairline to toes at the rich mirth of it.

"We are...friends, are we?" His voice was low and conspiratorial, and you felt it stir a hunger deep within you. You smiled back, mulish as you dabbed salve onto his burn. His knees were parted, with you knelt between them, and your elbows rested on the thick muscle of his thighs. You felt safe, warm, held.

"All those years, passing back and forth," you sighed, teasing, "and not one hello? Just lots of nods," your stomach swooped as Kento laughed again, "and our friendship is just that. An accumulation of nods."

"Would we have stopped at 'hello'?" Kento retaliated. He caught the brief pause in your bandaging, before you continued. You spoke, uncertain again.

"Well," you hummed, testing the water, "offer me one now...and we shall see where it goes." Looking up, you gasped to find your face just inches from Kento's. He smiled at you, his eyes flicking briefly to your lips and back up again.

"Hello," he whispered, quiet and mischievous, "and thank you."

Your breath fluttered out; Kento could feel it against his lips, beckoning him.

"I...it's getting late," you started, and Kento blinked out of his reverie, glancing to the inky black outside his windows, "I should go."

Kento grasped your fingers once more, rising with you as he stood, your shawl shushing against his chest, barely covered by his soft linen shirt. Kento hummed, sounding grave, stepping to the other side of the room.

"It is night," he said, hands cupped around his eyes as he squinted out of the windows, "and the woods are barely safe in the day. I...I cannot allow you to travel. Alone, in the snow. You must stay."

His tone broached no argument, yet still you tried, packing your bag, your cheeks aflame.

"I...it isn't..." you stuttered, and Kento turned to you, chin inclined to the floor, one fine eyebrow raised. You took a deep breath, certain that if you didn't leave now, you may fall too deeply into Kento's insistent heat. Yet...you knew he was right. The path was treacherous. The snow would take you before the dawn.

"Would you like a bath?" Kento offered, turned away to save you your blushes; a gentleman.

"I-- please don't go to any trouble--" Kento swiftly ignored you, beginning to grasp the enormous iron pot, lifting it with stunning ease. His voice didn't even hitch.

"It's no trouble. I bathe every night. You can go before me." Kento carried the pan, stepping behind a folding wooden screen, and you followed him as if to argue, watching him begin to fill an enormous copper bathtub. Your hands shook as you began to remove your shawl, still blushing, so briefly overwhelmed before squashing it down.

Kento glanced up at you, pausing as he poured hot water, "This will take me some time," he said, apologetic, "please make yourself comfortable. I'll call for you."

You nodded, clearing your throat, hands twisting in your removed shawl. Kento chastised himself for admiring the soft curve of your breasts into your waist, the hidden delight of the swelling of your hips beneath your heavy skirts. He did not see how the steam rose fast, dampening his white shirt, how you could see all the way to his navel as he leaned over the bath. Neither of you knew how the other stirred within.

As you walked the length of the room, your fingertips brushing tapestries and grazing over warm furs, your curiosity drew you to a wide, flat trinket box, inlaid with mother of pearl, the colours an aurora in the rolling firelight. You stroked the box just once, before lifting the lid.

Your eyes crinkled immediately with joy at the treasures within; the box was full of lovingly crafted necklaces of gold, silver, pearl and gem, the chains finer and softer than any you had ever seen. You did not feel Kento approach as you admired them.

"I'd like for you to choose one," he offered, sincere, as you spun to face him. He raised his hands placatingly, a smile at the edge of his mouth, "not in lieu of payment, of course. A gift, I...made them with no real aim as to who should receive them."

"You made these?" You gaped, unable to fathom how such enormous hands crafted such intricate delights, "Kento, I-- they're beautiful, I couldn't possibly..."

If Kento had held any reservation, after hearing his name tumble from your lips, he was filled with the burning certainty that the jewellery should be for you, and you alone. His hand closed over yours as you moved to shut the box.

"Please," he breathed, so close, "choose one, or I shall give you them all." Swallowing, your hand hovered over a fine chain of silver and emerald, your fingertips brushing the gem. Kento hummed his approval, before picking it up, his calloused fingers all softness and grace.

"My favourite, too," he rumbled, brushing your hair off the nape of your neck as he clipped the necklace into place. You shivered at the feeling of his fingers on your neck, and almost ran as he whispered beside your ear, "Your bath is ready."

Stripping behind the wooden screen, hearing Kento amble around the room beyond, you sighed as the hot water enveloped you. Washing yourself with a soft sponge, cleaning off the grime of the day, your hand wandered absentmindedly downwards, fingertips grazing through your folds, naturally moving to relieve yourself of the building tension--

"I've left you a shirt." Your hand darted upwards with a guilty splash, Kento's voice only meters away behind the screen.

"Thank-- thank you," you squeaked, blushing, before climbing out, so naked apart from your exquisite new necklace. Drying on a soft towel, your hand hesitated over the shirt draped over the screen, before pulling it on over damp skin. It reached down your thighs, but left little else to the imagination.

Kento remained outwardly stoic, unreadable, averting his gaze as you crept out, arms holding yourself and squashing your breasts together, the colour of your nipples as faint as a ghost under the white linen shirt. He cleared his throat, coughing lightly before skirting past to the bath. You felt heat creep up your neck at the gossamer hush of his clothes hitting the floor, the shifting water as he stepped in, the way he sighed in relief, almost as if--

"I shall sleep in the chair tonight," Kento said, slow and considered, "and you shall have my bed." You felt indignation roll within you.

"Don't be ridiculous," you scolded, "you're injured, and this is your home--"

'-- and you are my guest," he grumbled.

"I won't allow it," you insisted, almost forgetting yourself as you approached the wooden screen, "I'll put some furs on the floor and--"

"You believe I would let you sleep on the floor?" He growled, furious at your suggestion, "I should rather you have me share the bed with you over that--"

"Fine. Then we shall share the bed. And there will be no more argument." You clapped a hand over your mouth as the words tumbled forth, unbidden. Mortified by your own suggestion, you removed your hand to speak again.

Kento stepped round from behind the screen, his towel draped lazily round his waist. You gaped up at him, stunned. He was...younger than you thought, his blond hair now soft and floppy, the ash removed from the lines in his face, taking ten years off him. You faced him, his towering form, the practiced rolls, peaks and planes of muscle belonging to a working man, his forearms so thick--

"Then...we should get to bed," Kento insisted, stepping past you, through a doorway to his bedroom, where you heard him rummaging for clothes, "it is late and I am up with the lark."

You hesitated where you stood, feeling your heartbeat between your legs, desperately curious, but paralysed.

"I don't bite," Kento called out, and you gulped down the sounds of soft fabric dropping over his body, still crippled with indecision and embracing yourself as he stepped out to put out the fire. You were lost momentarily in darkness before he stepped to you, the lantern between you, a beacon in the dark. You felt his hand close around your fingers again. You heard him whisper.

"It will become cold quickly, now the fire has died. Come. Stay warm."

You allowed yourself to be led to Kento's bedroom, hypnotised by the small swinging lantern. Kento led your hand downwards, placing it to the edge of the bed for you to feel your way, your fingers gliding through soft fur and cool sheets. With shaking hands, you crawled across to the head of the bed. Kento waited for you, flipping down the sheets, flipping them back up to your chin as you both slipped between them.

You heard nil but your own heartbeat. Kento faced you, the torch light embering behind him leaving him only just visible as your eyes adjusted to the light. The sheets had not yet warmed from your bodies, and you shivered. You felt Kento shift beside you.

"You...are cold," he stated as if in question. You remained quiet, gripping your hands to your chest lest they reach out for him.

"I'm...I'll warm up. Soon," you reassured yourself as much as him. You heard one doubtful grunt from him. Five minutes passed, and still, Kento felt you shiver against the sheets. Pulling a fur up to your chins, he felt prickles up his legs as one of your feet reached hesitantly out to touch him. He felt rather than heard you sigh.

"So warm," you whispered, your little voice soft with comfort in the dark. Kento's breath caught in his chest, feeling his cock twitch inside his soft trousers.

"Do you...need me?" He offered. He felt your other foot reach out in answer, cold toes wiggling against the downy hair on his leg. He felt a dangerous, needy arousal thread through him.

Reaching out his uninjured arm, he hooked it round your waist, chuckling as you squeaked when he pressed against you. You hummed in pleasure at the heat rolling off him, basking in his warmth, forgetting your awkwardness for a moment. Kento and you lay intertwined like that, with you softening like butter in his arms.

After a few minutes, you shifted against him, about to drift off to sleep. Kento must have been near sleep as well, groaning into your hair as you shifted, reflexively clinging you closer to him. Your bottom, completely bare with his shirt shifted up your body, pressed back to his groin. His clothed cock was hard and barely restrained in his loose trousers, and pressed between your thighs.

You felt a jolt run through you, feeling a warm trickle of arousal, so alien to you, seep out between your thighs. Kento almost saw stars as it dampened the trousers over his cockhead, and he frowned, his forehead pressed to your shoulder blade in apology and embarrassment.

"I-- I'm sorry, I--...it's been so long...since I've felt a woman-- shit, I'm--" Kento rested his nose against your neck, unable to stop himself from ghosting his lips there. You dropped your head back to him, and he growled in appreciation, nuzzling your neck, feeling your thighs clamp around the tip of his cock, your arousal seeping through his trousers and mixing with his own.

"I've never--" you whispered, blushing furiously, drunk on the feeling of his body against yours, feeling so curiously empty and aching to be filled. Kento understood immediately, and moved to pull back.

"No!" You squeaked, holding onto his arm, pushing yourself back to chase him along the bed, "Please, I-- I want--...you. I want you." Your words sat heavy in the air. Kento shifted behind you, at war with himself.

"You don't know what you're asking," he growled, fighting against you to remove his arm, "I am no boy."

"And I'm no girl, nor stupid," you reassured, "I'm not ignorant."

In an instant, Kento moved above you, on all fours, his arms caging you in, corseting you to his bed. He stared down at you, enormous chest heaving, eyes roving down your body, quickly intoxicated by your peaked nipples, beneath his shirt, the hem of it barely covering your sex, still feeling your arousal dampening his cock.

He leaned down, nestling his mouth against your neck again, tongue flicking out, tasting you. He felt you still under his lips, just a little mouse, in the jaws of a bear.

"And yet, all that knowledge is just academic, until you're crying out that my cock is too big for you," he growled, warning you away, barely able to stop himself. He felt you squirm beneath him, his head swimming with you. He was lost, then, to your tiny whisper in the gloom.

"Show me-- please." Kento shuddered, a drop of pre-cum seeping out of his cock, soaking through his trousers and your-- his-- shirt, to dampen your belly. You shivered, desperate to know Kento biblically, desperate for this fabled ecstasy.

Kento raised his mouth from your neck, reading your eyes, seeing such certainty in them. Tangling his fingers with yours beneath the sheets, he pressed the length of his body down against you as he kissed you, his other hand framing your jaw, gently encouraging it open to slide his tongue against yours. Your soft little moan was like music to his ears.

Kissing you deeply, learning your voice and your mouth, letting you learn the peaks and planes of his body with your free hand, Kento kept your other hand plaited with his own, fearful of leaving you to take this journey alone.

He felt himself shudder with the unbridled privilege of being able to worship you, jealously grateful that you had not been left to some boy. He was overwhelmed by the need to set your standards high at the first hurdle.

"Let me taste you," he murmured into your mouth, and you hesitated, unsure of what he meant. Swiping his thumb across your palm, Kento's mouth ventured downwards, sucking the skin of your neck, nipping before soothing the skin with his tongue, feeling you become pliable, supple as water. His fingers danced over the laces holding your shirt together, giving you opportunity to stop him, before untying them, freeing your breasts.

Laying his tongue flat over one nipple, Kento allowed it to curve to the shape of you, to know you, before drawing it into his mouth, sucking on your nipple while his hand toyed with and kneaded the other. He revelled in your whines, a high, keening mewl as you arched off the bed into his mouth. You felt his licks and sucks, curiously, between your legs, and you could not help but buck up against him.

Kento grunted at the feeling of your pussy pressing against his thigh, and moved one hand down to hold your hips still.

"Slow down-- let me show you," he ordered, gentle in his insistence. You trembled under his fingertips, your hips settling back to the bed. He rumbled his approval, rolling your nipple under his tongue again until you sighed, breathy and ecstatic, "Good girl."

In reward, his mouth continued to trail downwards, and your eyes fluttered closed, one hand coming to rest on the back of his head, your fingernails scratching through his damp hair. Kento shivered at the sensation, feeling his cock leap against his thigh.

When his mouth reached your mound, you squeaked out in alarm, flipping the blankets down to see Kento, illuminated in the orange light.

"What are you-- your mouth, Kento--" Kento's eyes crinkled up at you, and two arms came to loop round the top of your thighs, pulling you down the bed towards him, your shirt being rucked up against the drag of the mattress to completely expose your glistening pussy to him.

Maintaining eye contact with you, you trembled with anticipation as Kento poked his tongue out into a point, first grazing your folds, before stroking from side to side to ease in between them. The sound that broke out from you as his tongue stroked over your clit, hot and wet, was one Kento masturbated to for years to come.

You felt as though you had been lifted from earth and dropped amongst the clouds as he licked at you, sucking, stroking, tasting, the pleasure so otherworldly compared to what your own hand could achieve, that you felt yourself being rushed towards your peak at speed.

Twisting and squirming against his mouth, you reflexively tried to pull your pussy away from Kento's attentions. His arms tightened around the tops of your thighs, growling into you, pulling you back as you tried to scoot away. Your hand tugged at his hair as you arched, whimpering, coated in a fine sweat. As Kento groaned into your cunt, you watched his hips roll and hump against the bed, the sight alone enough to send your orgasm crashing through you, and you worshipped his name in a long, keening cry.

Kento let his laps and sucks become softer, languid, letting you float through the haze of your pleasure. Nuzzling at you, tasting you as you trailed lazy blissful fingers through his hair, Kento planted soft kisses to your inner thigh.

Moving back up, stroking his nose against your neck, Kento felt your hand move down his shoulders and back, before coming round to ghost over the front of his trousers. Kento shuddered, kneeling above you to remove his shirt, skin prickling with the need to feel yours against his own.

Gazing down at you, his eyes like whiskey in the flickering light, he grazed a palm from in between your breasts, down to the hem of your shirt, pulling it up over your head in one swift tug, exposing you completely to him.

Your hand still trailed over his groin as he knelt, and you were captivated, obsessed with the shape, weight and length of his cock in your hands, blissfully unaware of what you were doing to him. As you grasped the lace at the front of his trousers, undoing it, and squeezing the head of his cock between your fingers, Kento moaned, ragged, leaning one hand sideways to support himself.

"Fuck-- I haven't-- not for so long," he moaned, low and husky, feeling your inexperienced fingers explore his cock and balls in a way that felt almost abusively naive. As your thumb glided beneath his foreskin, collecting the wetness of his pre-cum, exploring his slit, Kento hissed, panting and grabbing your hand.

You broke out of your reverie, blushing with mortification, tears pricking in your eyes as you began to apologise. Kento interrupted, shushing you, one hand still gripping your fingers around his cock, the other coming up to cup your face, his thumb swiping across your cheek.

"Not you," he huffed, stroking your cheek, smiling down at you with fevered eyes, "me, it's-- I-- I'll cum in your hand if you carry on." Your eyes glimmered, hungry to see how he looked as you pleasured him, and you moved yourself, leaning close, squeezing him again beneath his own hand, and he cried out in pleasure. You felt another drip of his arousal across your fingers, and you gulped, your tongue darting out across your lips.

As you lowered yourself to his lap, Kento's eyebrows raised in shock, and desperate awe, as you licked the weeping cockhead sticking out from your joined enclosed hands.

A low rumble ebbed through Kento, his eyes suddenly dark and hungry as he looked down at you, wordlessly using your hand inside his own, to pump the length of his cock. Feeling the intoxicating glide of soft skin over woody hardness, you let him use your hand to masturbate himself as you took the head of his cock into your mouth, licking, tasting the musty pre-cum there.

Every instinct screamed at Kento to chase his orgasm, to press your head further down his cock so he could use your little hand to jack off into your mouth, and he felt overwhelmed by the innocent licks and sucks you gave him, eyes cast upwards to see what effect they had on him. Kento moaned desperately, twisting on his haunches, fingers in turn tangling into your hair and coming away, clenching and unclenching at speed.

He felt the approaching rush of divine ecstasy, thrumming up his back in waves, his balls tightening up against the base of his cock--

Snapping, Kento pulled your hand and mouth off him, heaving you up the bed and back onto the pillows, before pinning you down with his body, panting into your neck, trying not to spill his seed over your belly. You were thrilled, ecstatic with Kento's pleasure, eager to see more of it.

You crept your hips up to his, trying to ease his cock into you. Kento huffed, his hand shooting down to press your hips down again.

"--going to kill me-- I swear-- no idea...you have no idea what you're doing to me--" Kento panted, quaking above you, one forearm planted above your head. As his peak ebbed away, Kento plaited his hand with your own again, above your head. He felt his cockhead resting against the smooth resistance of your entrance, and he suddenly felt so responsible for you.

"I don't want to hurt you," he huffed, aware he was bigger than average, but knowing from the fevered look in your eyes that he could not dissuade you-- not that he wanted to, at this point, his cock throbbing with urgent need.

"Please," you begged, "please." You felt Kento's hips press forwards into your soaking wet heat, feeling a slight sting as it met resistance. Kento rested his nose to yours, his eyes still feverish, his body still smelling of iron and ash and smoke.

"On one condition," he pressed, authoritative as his cockhead pressed deeper against your stinging resistance, breaking past thin membrane, gripping your thigh up to his hip as you trembled, biting your lip, tears in your eyes as you nodded-- anything, you thought, anything.

"Marry me," he whispered against your lips, and you squeaked as you felt a twang of pain, his cock suddenly nestled deeply inside you. Kento rocked his hips gently, shushing you, soothing you, his thumb stroking your palm. Not moving, just holding you as you adjusted to feeling so full, Kento waited for an answer.

"Y--yes...yes," you mewled, and Kento growled his approval against your neck, slowly pulling out of you before rutting back into your wet, tender pussy again, so intimate and deep that you cried out for him.

Kento rolled his hips, like a boat on the waves, whispering into you, certain he wouldn't last long; "First-- I'll cum inside you-- then I'll treat you like a queen...haaah...for the rest of my days."

You clung to Kento, lost in the ecstasy of him plowing into you, delighted by his rumbling groans in your ears, blissfully proud of being able to make such an unflappable man fall apart inside you. When his grip on your hip faltered, his shaking hand dropping to stroke quick little circles around your clit, Kento growled and bit into your neck to feel you rock your hips upwards to meet his own.

The sting almost completely eased, you felt quick pangs of pleasure, rising with every beat of your fast little heart, completely carried along by the eroticism of Kento's frantic groans and mumbles into your ear.

"My love I-- you feel so good...so good...god, I need to cum, need you to cum I-- aahhhh, fuck--" Kento felt your pussy clench around him, and he came inside you as you drank down his moans, fascinated by how they matched up with the bounding twitch of his cock, how his hips juddered into you involuntarily, how his face contorted, jaw clenched, somewhere between rage and serenity.

You were famished, starved of him, immediately desperate for more, and you felt him crumple into you, caging you in, shoulders heaving and spent. Kento chuckled as you peppered him with kisses, gripping your thighs round him and rolling him over so you lay above him, straddling him as his cock softened within you.

With his chin on his chest to look down to you, and a lazy lopsided smile across his face, Kento played idly with your hair, stroking your nose, your cheeks. He proudly fingered the beautiful necklace, resting against your breasts, squashed and plush against him.

"You meant it?" He asked, eager, concerned.

You hummed in delight, pressing a tender kiss to his chest as you nodded; "You had me at 'hello'."

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Would the anon who requested Blacksmith!Kento PLEASE STAND UP so I can credit you for breaking my brain.

[eatfishies]

Intoxicated By Your Sweet Taste 🔞

summary: Zayne thinks he hasn’t given you much attention due to his work.

or

Pussy drunk! Zayne can’t get enough of you.

word count: 2k tags: NSFW, zayne x reader (afab), no plot just filth, oral sex, oral fixation, cunnilingus, clit play, swearing, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, overstimulation, coming multiple times, domestic fluff at the end, pet names, breeding kink, creampie, established relationship fish notes: as always, pls heed the tags ~ nevertheless, this fic was inspired by this twt here ! hope all of u enjoy <3 ── ao3 link ★ ˙ ̟ | my twt !

It was past midnight when the door creaked open, revealing a tired looking Zayne. She was already in bed, snuggled up with the plushies her dear lover got for her. Zayne smiled at the sight before striding towards her, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.

That action caused her to stir, fluttering her eyes open to look at her partner. “You’re back.” She mumbled sleepily.

Zayne gently stroked her hair, lulling her back to sleep. “Go back to sleep, love.” He said as he continued to play with her hair.

“I’ll only sleep if you do too.” She replied, which earned her a small smile from Zayne.

Once he had finished showering, she couldn’t help but marvel at his chiseled chest, glistening with droplets of water, running down ever so slowly. She tore her eyes away, feeling a little bit flushed.

It doesn’t go unnoticed by her observant lover though as Zayne pointed out, “Weren’t you half awake earlier? It seems like you’ve got your attention elsewhere now.”

She didn’t even bother to attempt and deflate herself because it’s true. She is enjoying this view very much.

Just like that, she hoisted herself up and had her eyes solely on him. Desire and lust coursing through her veins. “Yeah… you’re not wrong. It’s because you’re so fucking hot, you know that?”

A chuckle rumbled out of Zayne, a little surprised by her bold declaration, considering how sleepy she was earlier. “Ah, so that’s what caught your attention?”

Before she could even reply, Zayne is already making his way to the bed. Her eyes widened slightly as he pushed her down gently, making her gaze up at him.

“Have I neglected my darling? Am I not pleasuring you enough?” He spoke as his face inched closer. She felt her breath hitched in her throat as the pit of her stomach coiled with pure lust.

The words she wanted to say were caught up, speechless by the sudden mood change. She bit her lip, “What are you gonna do if I say yes?”

Thick, strong fingers found its way to cup her face, “Then I shall take it upon myself to satisfy you until all your needs are met.” Without any hesitation, Zayne closed the distance between them and passionately kissed her.

She gasped as his other hand went to grab her hips, keeping her firmly in place as his tongue explored her mouth. Every ounce of sleepiness she had in her quickly vanished, instantly replaced by a primal hunger for him. She needs, no, she yearned to be one with him. To feel him in every way possible.

“Don’t… hold back.” He murmured in between her lips before he moved to trail kisses down on her neck, eliciting moans and whimpers. She closed her eyes shut, taking in the pleasure she’s receiving as he continued to suck and bite on her neck, leaving behind marks.

It was just a pure coincidence that she decided to wear a nightgown but she’s thankful nevertheless since it gave Zayne easy access to slip his hand up and caress her soft skin, feeling her up. She can feel her pussy growing needier and wetter with each touch he makes.

She sucked in a deep breath when his fingers began to rub against her slick, “Someone’s excited.” Zayne remarked as he suddenly pulled his fingers away and moved down to crouch in between her legs.

Instinctively, she spread wide open, staring down at him. “So wet for me… you really want this, hm?” She nodded eagerly, “Please… I need it.”

The once impassive doctor morphed into something else entirely. His expression held a plethora of emotions behind them as he felt his own hardness beneath his towel. “Very well. Scream for me princess.”

Any sort of thoughts she conjured up turned into nothing the moment Zayne licked her drooling pussy. His tongue expertly flicked her clit as she laid back down on the bed and writhed in intense pleasure.

“F- fuck! Zayne… hghh!” She moaned out as Zayne lapped at her needy cunt, savoring all of her wetness, wanting to taste all of her.

Her hands immediately tugged onto his hair, pulling him closer to her crotch as she screamed out his name repeatedly. It was too good that she could barely keep still, Zayne held onto her thighs to stop her from squirming.

The familiar pit in her stomach intensified, itching her closer to release. “Hahh…! Z- Zayne! I’m close, I’m so close!” She whined out, to which he kept tonguing her entrance vigorously until she arched her back and came all over his face.

Zayne pulled away slightly and licked his lips. There are traces of pussy juice on his mouth but he didn’t care. Not when his precious sweetheart tastes so divine. Before she could even beg him to put his hard shaft inside her, she gasped once she felt Zayne’s tongue on her folds again.

“W- wait! I… I just came!” She exclaimed, feeling like her legs were gonna give out from pleasure. But Zayne paid no mind as he resumed his ministrations on her sopping wet cunt. Even after orgasming, her pussy still throbbed for more.

At this point, she’s pretty sure she’s on cloud nine, especially when Zayne sucked on her nub, making her tremble. Green eyes observing her movements, watching as she moans and whimpers. Looking beautiful like this, Zayne wanted to keep this memory etched into his mind forever.

It was unbearable, she tried to push him away but he kept a strong grip on her legs, his tongue relentlessly flicking her eager pussy, swallowing all of her juices. He can feel himself getting intoxicated by her dripping cunt. There is nothing more rewarding than coming home everyday and getting to lap at her entrance like a starved man whilst also relishing her delightful sounds.

“C- coming!” Her hands scrambled for purchase as she came undone. Zayne lifted his head and spoke in a raspy voice, “Did you feel good, honey?”

There was no single coherent thought in her mind right now. She couldn’t even think properly, it’s all a muddled mess, too foggy with pleasure. Sensing her pliant demeanor, Zayne moved to her side, brushing off the strands of her hair from her face.

“You’re so good for me, dear.” Was the only thing she heard before Zayne trailed his fingers down to caress her inner thighs, igniting goosebumps all over. She weakly muttered, “What are you doing?” Instead of responding, Zayne leaned down and pecked her lips. “Are you a good girl for me?”

His finger easily slipped in her gaping pussy, thrusting it in and out, earning a mewl from her. She bit her lips, “T- too sensitive... Zayne…” She clutched onto his arm, looking at him with glassy eyes.

“I said, are you a good girl?” Zayne repeated his question but this time, he inserted another finger in, taking away all of her last resolve.

“Mhmm… ah! Yes! Yes!” That further drove Zayne to keep plunging his fingers deep inside her gummy walls.

It has been hours since Zayne has been pushing her far off into her limits. Sleep be damned as he is now lapping up at her loose, dripping cunt. She could only let out soft mewls and moans whenever he skillfully buried his head in between her thighs. No amount of protest could get him to stop. It’s like Zayne has been possessed by an insatiable lust demon or some sort, at least that’s what she thought.

Tears stained her cheeks as she stared at Zayne who was lazily eating her out. “Zayne… please…”

He gave her pussy one last lick before meeting her teary gaze, “Please what?”

“Please… fuck me…” She pleaded, her hands reaching out to pull him on top of her. “You’ve been torturing my pussy non-stop… I want to make you feel good too.”

“Ah, I see. So, my needy princess wants it that bad?” He spoke as he discarded his towel. It’s kind of amazing at how he managed to hold back his desire to mount her completely, especially since she looked ravishing like this. Blissed out and glowing from the amount of orgasm she lets out.

She nodded eagerly, “Give it to me, please? I’ve been so good.” To emphasize, she wrapped her legs around his hips, trying to close the gap between them and feel his body against hers.

“I guess someone deserves it, after all.” With ease, Zayne lined his cock on her entrance, sliding it in and immediately began to thrust.

While their love-making session was always tender, albeit sometimes a bit passionate, it was never really like this. Intense and unrelenting with vigor as Zayne continued to pound into her deep. Her cunt spasming and clenching tightly around his cock. “Fuck… you feel so wonderful around me, sweetheart.”

Even if she wanted to say something, each thrust made her eyes roll back. Her mind is running into an overdrive as Zayne picks up his pace, unfaltering and burning with the need to come inside her.

Noticing Zayne’s furrowed brows and his eyes closed shut, “Come for me. Come inside me, baby. Want you to breed me.” She spoke, her voice laced with urgency and desperation.

At last, Zayne thrusted inside her hard before stilling, heaving and burying his face in her neck. She smiled at him dazedly as she cards her fingers through his hair. When Zayne pulled out, he watched in fascination at how her cunt drooled with cum. The sight alone made him want to ravage her right then and there, but he knew, they both had to sleep.

So, instead, Zayne helped clean her up and cuddled her as they both drifted off to slumber.

Something was wet… and there were sounds of shuffling. When she woke up, her eyes widened as she saw Zayne languidly circling her clit with his tongue. “H- huh?” She uttered out, confused and yet, Zayne only mumbled out, “Lay back. Let me please you once more before I leave for work.”

How could she refuse when her lover had asked so sweetly? She did as he instructed and laid back down on the soft bed, letting him spread her wide open. At this point, she had lost track of how many times she came, especially from last night.

This time, Zayne made sure to take his time, flicking her folds ever so slowly. One part of her felt like he was torturing her but another part of her couldn’t help but preened at how good it feels when he’s savoring her like this.

The morning sun casted a soft glow around the room, making this even more enjoyable as she focused on Zayne, tasting every drop her cunt oozed, not letting any of it go to waste. The slurping sound reverberated across the walls as she flushed.

Despite coming so many times, the familiar pit in her stomach still lingered, coiling and intensifying as she neared her climax. “Hghh… Zayne… baby, I’m so close.” She meekly mewled out, her legs shaking. Zayne sucked on her nub and sneakily thrusted a finger into her cunt, scissoring her whilst he ate her out.

Just like that, it was enough to drive her to the edge. She came, hard on his face. Her vision blurs and she shuts her eyes closed, letting the euphoria wash over her.

She faintly heard Zayne uttering a soft, “I love you” to her before getting up and tucking her in bed.

The second time she woke up, she found that Zayne had already left for work. She groggily got out of bed and headed to the kitchen. There, she found a plate of breakfast ready made for her and a bouquet of flowers.

Her body was sore all over but this gesture made it all worth it. Smiling, she walked up to the table and picked up the bouquet, smelling the flowers before sitting down and stuffing the food, the tiredness fading away and was replaced by hunger.

Luckily for her, she had a day off today and was able to cozy up at home until Zayne comes back. He gave her a fond smile as he placed the bag on the coffee table, “I got you macarons from the cafe. What do you feel like having for dinner? Let me cook for you.”

Safe to say, she is indeed a lucky girl to be able to love and be with Zayne.

[seraphdreams]

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MEGUMI!" | MEGUMI FUSHIGURO.

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃— synopsis. it would be so very cruel of you to not show your appreciation for your best friend, especially on his birthday.

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃— cw. smut, college au, reader calls him “megs”, mention of “angelcunt”, unprotected love-making, bimbo!reader / best friend!megumi, a bit of asphyxiation, megumi with a crush! fingering, and praise. mdni <3

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃— word count. 1.7k, a quick read !!

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — dolled up! hellooo !! it’s a real one’s birthday, this is the least i could do to celebrate. i’m trying to get back into the groove of writing again so stay tuned n ready 4 fics in the future !! sweet college au best friend megumi is always on my mind, something about a stoic but secretly in love trope .. (he’s no better than his father, sigh) .. as always, if you enjoyed this, please reblog / comment. i’ll bake u you’re favorite sweets if u do !! thank u ♡

megumi has always been there for you. through ups and downs, taxing breakups, even the times you’d get exceedingly inebriated and ramble endlessly about your ever-growing appreciation for him — there was no denying the cordiality he’d shown throughout the many years of your friendship. sure, he could be quite cold, maybe even grumpy; but that was just the joy of megumi fushiguro.

and for that, it’d only be right to repay him.

for all of the times he would show up uninvited to your dorm with the notes of the lecture you’d fortuitously missed, blaming the absence on the absurdly quiet lull of your alarm clock, or when he’d let you have the last bite of his food, because only god knows megumi was never above tolerating you. it’d be the work of a terrible friend to let it all go unnoticed, especially on a special day like today.

“happy birthday, megs!” there you stood,

bubbly and bright as ever, in the doorway of his bedroom, clad in nothing but a tiny pink pajama set with a top reigning transparency, it barely left the skin beneath to the imagination.

he had invited you, along with yuuji and nobara, over to his dorm the previous night to keep him company after class — which led to a kugisaki-induced movie marathon, and eventually phased out into the four of you passed out on the fushiguro’s couch, hues of light omitting from the colorful rays of the forgotten television screen and onto your slumbering faces.

with megumi holding the title of competency within the friend group, it came as no shock when he’d woken up the others to send them on their merry way. all except you, of course. the light throw-over blanket clinging to your body neatly as you slept, soft snores resonating within your being aided in megumi’s decision to give you a few extra minutes to rest.

he could never interfere with your comfort.

after your unanticipated birthday wishes, it took a moment for megumi to come to, blinking away his awareness for your scantily clothed body and opting for a more stoic expression.

“thanks,” he replied, tone low and clouded with an air of vague appreciation.

“wanna know what i got you for your birthday?” your query was that of a sing-song manner as you swayed in place. megumi was used to being around absolute rays of sunshine, but you? you were different. it was as if you were the sun itself; warm and inviting yet shone luminous enough to blind onlookers. you were tooth-rottingly sweet, and as bubbly as you were naive.

matters weren’t made any better forgoing the fact that megumi had true feelings for you. it was a running gag within your friend group, jokes that itadori and nobara would make concerning the contrast between megumi’s unwelcoming behavior when it came to them, and impassive patience had times fell upon you.

in fact, obliviousness was your specialty in being ignorant to the feelings of the fushiguro. it wasn’t your fault, you truly didn’t know.

megumi responds curtly, although with a hint of sarcasm, “a break?”

you pout as you rest your head against the lacquered doorframe, reigning defeated already despite the conversation barely racking up a minute’s time. “no, silly.” the words come out as a giggle. “i got you me!”

a hint of confusion glosses over his features before it morphs into that of a neutral expression. shirtless from his shower just minutes prior, and puzzled from what your mind had conjured up this time, he questions again. “you? you got me you?”

you shake your head affirmatively as he starts up once more. “and what do i do with you?”

clear as day, your exchange took a rather suggestive turn, one that neither of you were intending. “well, you can do a lot of things with me,” now stepping into the room to close the distance between your bodies, your response is thick with an air of lust that megumi noticed seemed to come naturally for you. his heart picks up in pace from the sight of your pretty face, and even prettier eyes looking vacantly into his, as if you weren’t aware of the trap you set up for yourself.

he brushed off the slight arousal brewing up within him, chose to play it off as mirth like he usually did when it came to you. “i guess so.”

you held onto his arm, a more distinct, yet adorable look of seriousness on your features. truly, you were a little doll. “i’m for real, megs. it’s your birthday, i’ll let you do anything you want.”

yeah. you’re really going to regret this one.

the word “anything” came with free reign. and even though megumi thought of himself as anyone but a pervert, he certainly was bound to start acting like one.

“anything?” his question came out as if he was treading lightly while he moved to dig through his drawer, perhaps looking for a shirt.

you stepped back to allow him the space of rummaging, while nodding your head and confirming his suspicions. “anything.”

“let’s fuck, then.”

his tone was nonchalant, easy on your ears as his speaking voice regularly sounded, and you would have missed his request had he not straightened up to search your countenance for an answer — deadpan, as if he hadn’t said a thing.

in that moment, all of what you hadn’t noticed, no. all of what you chose to deny had finally been put into perspective.

megumi fushiguro was fucking hot.

“i mean, if that’s what you want then i don’t mind.” your response was succinct, gentle on your tongue and provided him the response he’d been aiming for.

this might be his best birthday yet.

he strode closer to you in light steps before his large, glacial hand found its place on your cheek and silken lips met yours, pulling you into a salacious kiss filled with hunger and want. the press of his tongue begging to be allotted within the slot of your lips was accepted with your own muscle dancing against his. it was dizzying, and dissimilar. for all your years of knowing megumi, you would’ve never thought up the occuring situation.

lithe fingers danced up the skin of your thighs where you part them on instinct, allowing his digits to work on their own to slip past the barrier of elastic fabric and into your little lace panties, softly drumming along the puffy nub of your clit.

“megumi,” you rasp against his lips, swirling your hips over his hand to build up the sweet friction surging from your core. the saccharine croon of his name tasted sugary like vanilla rolling off of your tongue and onto his. he was in pure bliss; ready to take everything you gave to him.

his body responded to your need, fingertips at your clit circling tightly, an action that pulled a string of mewls from you before you gasped at the intrusion of his long fingers dipping into your core. they curled upwards against your gummy walls just until they increased in pace while his thumb pivoted at your sensitive nub, and fuck! where’d he learn how to do that?

he pulled away only slightly to read your expression, the tent in his pants growing taller, tip leaking carelessly at the onsight of your face, screwed taut in pleasure — plump, glossy lips that were slick with spit and moans slipping past without prevail.

underneath him, your legs felt feeble, as if they’d fall beneath you from the surgence of pleasure. “m-megumi, wait, ‘m gonna!-“ you held onto his shoulders for leverage, your warnings of orgasm falling on deaf, distracted ears, until finally, you were a gushing mess in his palm, coating his digits in your essence.

“fuck. you’re so pretty when you cum,” in that moment, he gave you no chance to react when he gently positioned you over his dresser, pulling down your little shorts until they pooled around your knees.

“y’made me so hard, y/n. can you feel it?” he grinded himself over the plush of your ass, teasing before pulling his sweats down just enough so that his hard, throbbing and leaking, length could be free. it bobbed ever so under its weight while one hand began to pump from base to shaft to soothe the excruciating ache. once he felt satisfied in his ministrations, he lined his cock along your awaiting slit.

“a condom, megs.” your reminder came in the form of a soft lull. after all, you two were just free-spirited college students, unable to pay the consequences of spontaneous actions. “don’t have any.” with that, he sunk his cock inside to the hilt, a low groan rippling from his throat at just how tight your pussy clamped around him. it felt like fucking heaven. he could die in your cunt and be at peace.

while you adjusted to the stretch, he began to move; slow, deep strokes as if he were savoring this moment forever. who knows when he’ll be able to have the luxury to sink inside your perfect angelcunt again? you bit your lip to stave off impending moans which ultimately failed when his arms snaked around your body — one hand underneath the cloth of your shirt and pinching at your perked nipples while the other finds its place right back at your clit.

“sh-shit!” you cry out, eyes rolling and mind hazy from the pleasure. his rhythm increased gradually until he built up a vigorous pace. “i’ve been needing y-you so bad.” megumi groans along the shell of your ear. how he got so lucky as to have his dream girl engulfed around his cock, he doesn’t know. all he’s aware of was the tightening of his abdomen, signaling his own impending orgasm.

white hot pleasure replace all feeling in your body, counting down its time until the familiar numbness washed over you in euphoria. a pitchy moan sounded from your lips and an even whorish whimper when the warmth from spurts of his cum coated your insides.

after what felt like a minute of the two of you recollecting your breaths, megumi finally pulled out, shuddering at the added stimulation at his oversensitive cock.

he leaned your head back to meet his lust-filled gaze; calmness of his deep navy orbs now deepened with sin. megumi pressed gentle kisses all over your face while his hands took purchase at your now, exposed, neck and squeezed tight enough to keep you lightheaded.

“you’re the best birthday present.”

[wanderingblindly]

hi, hello! hope you are doing alright, had an awesome xmas (if celebrated!) and don't mind me being here and yapping (ill try to keep it short) a bit about Impasse of biting🥺

I read it when it first came out, absolutely loved it, Landos loneliness kinda hurt, i was a bit confused about his friendship with Charles and just found Osc like super adorable. I read the fic again a few times after that, but then didn't for a while.

So since the last read and today i did alot of self work, soul searching, therapy, the whole deal. And lemme tell you when i read it again today, and then the ask about Landos loneliness i cried like a baby (and i never before cried reading fics or books!)

The way you describe his emotions, that this is not just a case of being an awkward introvert but something so much deeper, the kind of being alone that you can feel in your bones. It felt like i was him at some points. I've never read anything that described so well what i felt for so long. The first time i read it i didn't even realize this loneliness inside of me but today it just broke me. That feeling of yknow, maybe it is not just you that experiences this.

The way you write really makes the reader feel like they are right there in the scene, or that they are half the character. I could feel all their emotions inside me. Such an incredible, incredible work. I'm coming back for this fic and all others a million more times.

Thank you for writing this, for letting us read it. It did make me cry as a baby at 5pm on a friday, but at the same time it made me feel so seen, for probably the first time in a while.

Thank you again, i hope you have the best time ever for the rest of the time🥰

-💫 (this ended up not being short, so for that, im sorry!😬)

(impasse of biting)

Hi hello and merry Christmas yourself love!!! (If you celebrate!)). As a chronically long winded person, never even worry about keeping shit short around here lol. I love Words and I want to hear all your thoughts!!

Firstly I’d like to say that I’m really proud of you for putting in the work to learn about and care for yourself. Therapy and self discovery can be really scary for some (I hope it wasn’t for you!!) and you deserve a lot of praise for getting yourself through it 💖 it means the world to me that the emotions in this fic — especially lando’s inner world — resonates with you. Like, of course I’m extremely sorry that you’ve ever been made to feel that way, but I’m honored to know I did some justice to your experience

I could cry over this ask — THANK YOU 🥺😭 at the time, impasse of biting was my biggest emotional work. It was probably my most ambitious project in terms of emotional complexity on both sides of the relationship, with the added difficulty of only one narrative perspective to show it through. Hearing that it made you feel like you where there has me in T E A R S thank you thank you thank you

I’m sorry it punched you in the gut a little (even if that was my intent), but I’m so glad it made you feel seen. If my asks about this fic are any indicator, you are so so so far from alone 💖

Sending you a big hug 💫anon, if you’d like it 💖💖

[i2sunric]

𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐖 (p.js)

PAIRING: hades!jay x persephone!reader

SUMMARY: labelled as unable of being loved, jay decides to steal a mortal to rule his realm with. what he hasn’t expected, though, is that it wasn’t you who he kidnapped, you had stolen his heart.

WARNINGS: kidnapping, enemies to lovers (but only reader hates jay), greek mythology, mentions of other idols as Gods, kisses. lmk if more. NOT PROOFREAD.

PUBLISHED: 22nd December 2024

WC: 3.5k

TAGLIST: (permanent) @stolasisyourparent @jaeyunsbimbo @jwnghyuns @bangtancultsposts @shawnyle @jooniesbears-blog @skzenhalove @ro-diaries @onlyhyunjin @xcosmi @strawberrhypen @heeheeswifey @jakeflvrz @astratlantis @tunafishyfishylike @branchrkive @insommni4 @kirinaa08 @leiclerc @nxzz-skz @laurradoesloveu @beomluvrr @heeshlove @17ericas @riribelle @cloud-lyy @who-tf-soddhi (oneshot) @monstaxdirtywonk @love4choso @heechwe

a/n: guess who’s back, back again. lol, i’m so happy with how this turned out! and i sincerely hope y’all like it too 🩷 have some nice holidays!

The gods of Olympus were never silent. Their laughter and taunts echoed across the heavens, filling their golden halls with noise and light.

Among them, Hades — so few knew him as Jay — was the quiet shadow in their midst.

Rarely did he grace their celebrations, his duties below pulling him away from the vanity of their world.

But he wasn't deaf to their jests.

“He'll never know love," Hermes — whose former name was Jungwon — had said to one banquet, leaning onto his caduceus with a smirk.

"Who would want to walk in those dark halls with him?" Aphrodite chimed in, her melodic laughter cutting through the room.

Jay had sat silent, his face impassive, but their words lodged deep within him.

He had never been a creature of longing— his domain demanded stern control, not vulnerability. And yet, as centuries passed, a hollow ache had begun to grow.

Perhaps the others were right. Perhaps he would remain alone. But then, there was the smallest flicker of rebellion within him.

“Let them doubt me," he whispered, his voice cold as the mist of the Styx. "I will find someone who can see me for what I really am."

♡.

Jay seldom visited the mortal world. It was too loud, too bright, too alive.

But something had pulled him there that day, a whisper in the back of his mind, a tenuous tug he could not ignore. And so, he walked among the mortals, his dark robes altered to blend in with their simple garb.

The sun beat above, merciless. Apollo — also known as Heeseung — really enjoyed making mundanes suffer. Mortals bustled around him, their voices a cacophony of trivial concerns.

He had nearly given up, retreating toward the shaded edge of a golden orchard, when his eyes fell on you.

You stood beneath an ancient apple tree, reaching up toward the highest branches.

Your hands grasped the fruit carefully, inspecting each apple before placing it in your basket.

The sun played in your hair, catching the edges of your figure like a halo. But it wasn't your beauty that arrested him; it was the way you moved— with confidence, with purpose.

Suddenly, a strange thought assailed him: You belonged in no one's shadow. It seemed as if not even the apple’s shadow could make you lose your spark.

A step closer he came, and almost faltered. You laughed softly as you took a bite of the sweet fruit, a slice of sound that cut through the din around him. Something in his chest stirred. An unfamiliar pull, sharp and insistent.

Before he knew better, he acted.

The earth had shaken beneath your feet, and you had stood stock-still, startled.

A chill had saturated the air, unnatural and heavy. You turned, your gaze darting around for the source, but the orchard had fallen silent.

Then the earth rent asunder. Shadows poured from it, twisting and coiling like living things. Swimming around you like water would from a waterfall.

Up from the chasm rose a chariot of black iron, its wheels spinning silently above the broken earth. The horses were ghostly, their eyes glowing like dying embers.

Your breath caught in your throat as a figure stepped from the chariot, the bitten apple falling on the ground, rolling. He was cloaked in darkness, his hood obscuring his face, but his presence was overwhelming.

Power radiated from him, pressing down on your chest like a physical weight.

"Who—" Your voice broke, trembling with fear and defiance. "Who are you?"

He didn't answer, only lifted a hand. The shadows surged forward, binding your legs like chains. You cried out, struggling against them, but they held fast.

"Let me go!" you shouted, anger flashing through your terror.

Jay raised a brow; he moved closer, and for the first time, you caught a glimpse of his face beneath the hood.

His features were sharp, almost otherworldly, and his eyes were a cold, unyielding gray.

"I cannot," he whispered, and then before you could reply, he took you into his embrace.

You struggled against him, your fists pounding against his chest, but it was like hitting stone. He stepped back onto the chariot, holding you fast as the horses reared and plunged into the chasm.

The world above disappeared in a swirl of darkness as you lost your senses.

♡.

When you awoke, you were no longer in the orchard.

The air was cool and heavy, carrying a faint metallic tang that sent shivers down your spine.

You sat up slowly, your heart pounding as you took in your surroundings. The chamber was huge, its walls carved from gleaming black stone that seemed to drink in the dim red light emanating from the ceiling.

And there, sat on an obsidian throne on the other end of the room, was him.

He watched you intently— his hood discarded, with pale skin and a face chiseled, striking yet severe. His dark eyes felt to see right through you, and you hated the way your breath caught under his gaze.

Hades. Ruler of the Underworld.

"Why?" you demanded, your voice hoarse. You stood shakily, glaring at him. "Why did you bring me here?"

"I needed a queen," he said simply, as if that explanation was enough.

You laughed bitterly, the sound echoing off the walls. "A queen? You think I'd ever agree to rule this… this pit with you?"

His expression didn't change, though you could have sworn you saw a flicker of something in his eyes-annoyance, perhaps, or amusement.

"You misunderstand," he said, his voice calm but firm. "You don't have a choice."

That struck a nerve. Your hands curled into fists, and despite the fear twisting in your gut, you stepped closer. "No one owns me," you hissed. "Not you, not anyone.”

For the first time, his calm cracked.

He rose with a slow, deliberate movement, and all the weight of his presence came down on you.

"I am Hades," he said, his voice thundering with power. "God of the Underworld, you are here because I chose you, and you will learn to accept that."

Your heart hammered in your chest, but you refused to back down. "And if I don't?"

The silence hung heavy between you for a moment. Then, to your surprise, he looked away. "Then you'll remain here as my prisoner. Either way, you belong to me now."

You swallowed hard, anger and fear warring within you. But one thought rose above the rest: You will not let him break you.

With the snap of his fingers, two servants in the form of a skeleton appeared in front of you. They looked at you with their void eyes and then turned around, walking.

You glanced up at Jay, who only beckoned you to follow them.

A scoff escaped your lips as you did just that, anything would be better than staying in the same room as him.

The skeleton's bones made a funny noise as they walked you down the neve -ending hallways. The castle was huge, crimson coated the walls as well as dark black.

“So,” you cleared your throat “Is your boss always like that? Or does he change expressions sometimes?” you tried to joke, but the skeletons didn’t reply.

Of course, they didn’t even have lips, “You can’t tell me anything, uh? Not even where the exit is?”

They just stopped in front of a door, opening it for you. Taking the hint, you slowly stepped inside, cautious.

The chamber was so spacious for only one person, a bed stood in the middle of the room, its sheets a dark shade of red.

The walls were coated with drawings of black dahlias, the ceiling so high it made you think the room never actually ended.

The skeletons closed the door behind your back, leaving you there, alone.

You walked to the bed, sitting on its edge. At least, the mattress was soft, the sheets silk and warm.

You finally allowed a sob to escape your lips, another followed and then another again.

Gods always did what they wanted, never truly considering someone’s feelings. You hated them, but more than anything, you hated Hades.

Your fingers gripped the sheets, if he wanted a wife, you’d show him just what you were made of.

♡.

The tension hung between you like a storm cloud.

Jay had come to visit you when you woke up, followed by a skeleton that placed a trail of pomegranate on your bed.

You didn’t know how much you slept, neither of it was morning or night. The Underworld had no light.

“I hope the chamber is of your likings.” He spoke after an awkward silence. You dared glance at him, but daren’t reply.

Jay let out a soft sigh, “It is the only fruit that grows in my realm, if you want anything in particular, I’ll have one of my servants fetch you something from the orchard in the Olympus.”

Finally, you reached down, picking up the pomegranate. Its scent was sweet, and the faint shimmer of the seeds made them look like tiny jewels.

Usually, you’d go crazy for the bittersweet fruit, but the Underworld made even that look dead, poisonous.

You turned it in your hands as if inspecting it. "And what if I refuse to eat?" you asked, tone sharp.

Jay's lips quirked in what might have been amusement, though it was fleeting. "You won't," he said simply, his voice soft but sure.

Your glare deepened. "How do you know?"

"Because you don't hate life," he said. "Even here, in this place you claim to despise, you'll find a reason to keep going.”

The words struck deeper than you wanted to admit. You opened your mouth to fire back a retort, but no words came.

You picked up one of the seeds between your fingers, observing the way the surface shimmered before finally placing it into your mouth.

The flavor burst on your tongue, sweet and tart, and for a moment, you were reminded of the orchards above— the sun on your skin, the breeze in your hair, the simple joy of being free.

Jay watched you in silence, his expression unreadable. When you finally set the pomegranate down, he inclined his head slightly. "I'll leave you to your evening," he said, turning to go.

So, it was evening.

But before he could go, your voice stopped him. "Wait."

He turned back; his eyes were steady but questioning.

"Why do you keep trying?" you asked, quieter now. "Why not just leave me to my misery? Use me just for your plans?” after all, it would be typical of the Gods.

For a moment, he said nothing. Then, stepping closer, he spoke in a voice so soft it barely carried across the room, “Because I've spent eternity surrounded by shadows, and for the first time, there's a light here."

His words had left you speechless for a moment. He bowed his head slightly and then left the room, the door clicking softly behind him.

♡.

The Underworld had a strange beauty to it, though you’d fought to see it.

The palace gardens, in particular, drew your attention on restless nights— or days. They were like nothing you’d ever encountered in the mortal world.

The flowers glowed faintly, their petals a soft silver-blue, and streams of water that sparkled like liquid starlight wove between them.

It was here, one evening, that you sat on a stone bench, your eyes fixed on the ghostly blooms. You didn't hear Jay approach until he spoke.

"You come here often," he said, his voice quiet.

You startled slightly but didn't turn. "I don't have many options," you replied, your tone still edged with defiance.

You had tried to wander around the castle, and Jay let you, but whenever you came too close to the exit, a puddle of shadows rose from the ground and brought you back to your chamber.

Jay sat beside you, leaving enough space to show he wasn't trying to intrude. He looked out at the garden, his gray eyes contemplative. "These flowers," he said after a moment, "Only grow here, nowhere else in existence."

You glanced at him, surprised by the hint of pride in his voice. "You care about them?"

"They're life in a place where life shouldn't exist," he said simply.

The words hung in the air between you, and for the first time, you felt a flicker of understanding: the Underworld wasn't just a prison to him— it was a responsibility, a realm he nurtured despite its darkness.

It was the realm given to him by his father, and it was his job to keep it going, no matter how much he despised it.

After a moment, you exhaled, leaning back slightly. "Why do you do that?"

He looked at you, brow furrowed. "Do what?

“Say things that make it hard to hate you,” you said, a faint, reluctant smile tugging at your lips.

You didn’t know how much time had passed, perhaps weeks or months. Time seemed to flow slower there.

But you thought it would be easier to hate him, had he been scarier and less gentle. His sharp edges always seemed to soften whenever you walked into the room, and his clothes clung to his form, revealing a body any girl from your village would go crazy about.

Not that you stared at it too much, of course.

To your surprise, Jay’s lips curved into a faint smile of his own. “I thought you’d hate me forever.”

“I’m still considering it,” you shot back, though the teasing note in your voice was unmistakable.

Jay chuckled softly, the sound low and unfamiliar. For the first time, the weight between you seemed to lift, if only slightly.

“Will you ever let me see the light again? The orchard?” or your family. Would your parents be worried, or had Jay already cast a spell on them?

“Depends,” he spoke, “Will you run away if I do.” fair point. The moment the sun kissed your skin again, you were sure you wouldn’t step inside this gloomy castle anymore.

Seeing your lack of reply, Jay just got up and turned around, murmuring “That’s what I thought.”

And for a seconds, you thought you saw something like hurt flicker in his eyes.

♡.

More time passed, and though you had resisted at first, you found yourself softening toward Jay. He had a quiet strength about him, a steady patience that wore down your walls like water against stone.

You spent most of your days in the library. Though your eyes weren’t used to the light anymore, your imagination worked just as fine.

You daydreamed of the life outside the suffocating walls of the Underworld’s castle, you dreamed of someone rescuing you.

And sometimes — but just sometimes — you fantasised about Jay, and his heart made of iron.

One night, as you sat by the fire in the great hall, he joined you, a small bundle wrapped in dark cloth clutched in his hand. "I have something for you," he said; his voice held a rare note of uncertainty. You lifted an eyebrow, curiosity pricked despite yourself. "Another 'gesture'?"

"Of a sort," he said. He unwrapped the bundle, revealing a delicate necklace of silver and black opals.

The stones shimmered like starlight, their glow faint but mesmerizing.

You stared at it, then at him. "Why?"

"It reminded me of you," he said simply. "Strong.. luminous, unyielding."

Your heart skipped a beat, though you fought to keep your expression neutral. "You think flattery will make me forgive you?"

"No," he said, holding the necklace out to you. "But it's the truth."

You hesitated, then reached out to take it. The metal was cool against your skin and for a moment, an odd sense of belonging overtook you, like this place, this moment wasn't entirely foreign.

"Thank you," you said softly and surprised yourself.

Jay's eyes relaxed, and for the first time, you saw not the god who had stolen you but the man beneath— the one who had spent centuries in solitude, yearning for connection.

for someone understanding, someone to love. Perhaps, you could learn to be just that.

You handed the necklace back to him, he looked at it, hurt. He thought you had rejected his gift, but as you turned around and held your hair up, his breath hitched.

“Would you help me put it on?” you questioned, your voice soft, unlike the usual bite it held.

“Of course.” Jay murmured quietly, his touch gentle as he put the jewel around your neck.

It fit perfectly, the dark necklace adorning your once tanned skin.

You smiled. holding it between your fingers, “It’s beautiful.”

He smiled.

Your eyes widened when he took in the sight, he smiled so warmly, and for a moment he even looked human.

“You’re beautiful.” Jay spoke, his voice so soft.

“Hades—“ You said, but he shook his head “Call me Jay.”

You gulped, the room suddenly feeling too hot, “Jay.” you repeated, the name rolling sweetly down your tone.

He let out a soft groan, like it both pained and healed him.

“I know you keep thinking ‘Why me?’” He murmured, caressing your cheek. The first time his skin met yours voluntarily “But for me, it has always been you— from the moment I saw you picking those apples, my heart belonged to you.”

You didn’t even have time to think about it, but your feet went on their tip-toes as you pressed your soft lips on his.

To say he was taken aback was an understatement. His eyes wide as body rigid, and for a moment you thought if maybe, he didn’t love you as much as he claimed.

But then, his hand held your face, the other tangled in your hair as his own lips moved on yours passionately.

Your fingers curled around his shirt, grounding you as uou got lost in the taste of him.

You took the hand that was on your cheek and guided it to rest on your racing heart, “Maybe you have the same effect on me.” You murmured on his lips.

His eyes darkened and he pulled away, “Will you marry me?”

You blinked faintly, your breath hitching at his straight-forwardness.

“Do I have a choice?” He stepped away, his breath still heavy from the kiss, “Yes— yes, I’m giving it to you right now.”

Your brows furrowed, so he added “If you think your future still belongs in the Olympus, then go. The door is actually just around the throne room.”

Jay gulped, hope flickering in his usually gloomy eyes “But if you have some sense of future here, with me, then stay. Stay and let me be your husband.”

You clenched your jaw and looked at the door of the throne room. If you exited it and followed the long hallway, you would be out.

You would see the light, feel the sun tickle your skin, see your family, your friends.

But you weren’t sure that was what you wanted anymore.

Your eyes set again on Jay. His expression had lost hope, like he had already lost.

But you smirked, crossing your arms over your chest “So,” you cleared your throat “When’s the wedding?”

A smile, brother than Apollo’s sun lit up his face as he closed the distance he had put and claimed your lips once more.

“Whenever you want, Y/N.”

♡.

In time, the Underworld became your home. Though the darkness remained, it no longer felt oppressive. The palace, once cold and foreign, now echoed with your laughter. And Jay, once a figure of hate, had become something else entirely.

One day, as you stood by the garden's edge, watching the silver streams flow, he approached you. His steps were quiet, but you felt his presence before you turned.

"You've changed this place," he said, his voice filled with quiet reverence.

You looked at him, a faint smile playing on your lips. "And you've changed me.

He reached out and took your hand in his, holding it to his lips and pressing a soft kiss on the ring. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence between you heavy with meaning.

Then he bowed his head slightly, his voice a low murmur "Will you teach me how to love you right?”

You looked at him, at the man who had once been your captor but was now so much more.

Slowly, you nodded. "I will."

[puppym3]

'*•.¸♡ off-road ride ♡¸.•*'

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

lee minho x fem!reader

a result of the poll win! (car sex w minho)

summary: you and minho are on your way to meet up with your friends, but get distracted along the way.

wc: 3k

warnings: MDNI! 18+, established relationship, dom!minho, brat!reader, a lot of teasing, fingering (f. rec), rough sex, spanking, safeword mentioned (not used), piv, unprotected sex, creampie, riding, choking, overstim, begging, (lmk if i missed any)

a/n: i've been realizing that the poll has been going in age order so far, so i might just release all of the fics in age order to keep the pattern going. also i loved writing this, hopefully next time i can write a fluffier minho smut!!

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

The winding roads blurred past as Minho deftly steered the car, the engine's purr adding a soundtrack to your animated voice. Your friend's laughter was bubbling over and filling the car with cheerful energy as you spoke on the phone.

“Mmm, no, we should totally do that next weekend,” you were saying, still chuckling at a joke your friend had made. “I just think we should invite the whole group.”

Lee Know’s jaw tightened. He knew you had been out and about with your friends lately, and he didn’t want to be jealous, but... he was. It felt like you were paying more attention to everyone else lately than to him.

“We’re so close now,” you said, leaning over to Minho to point at the map. You had meticulously planned the route and confidently guided him whenever needed. “Maybe about fifteen minutes away, I'd say.”

“Great,” Minho replied, his voice low and warm, though his eyes betrayed a hint of irritation as he kept glancing at you.

“Hey, hold on, my phone’s going crazy.” You pulled the phone away from your ear, glancing down at the screen. Your eyes went wide, and you started giggling, turning back to look at Minho with a playful smile.

“What?” he asked, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Oh, it’s just my friend being ridiculous.”

“Mm. Can’t leave them hanging, then, right?”

“I guess not.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m still here. We’re so close now.”

“Are you?” your friend purred from the other end, causing you to laugh again.

“Okay, not that close.” You glanced over at Minho, smiling, before focusing on the road.

“Are you sure? Because I was thinking maybe you’d like to come over after the party…”

“Hmmm, and why is that?” You were grinning now, unable to help yourself.

“Well, there’s this guy that’s been flirting with me, and I don’t really like him that way, but I don’t know how to let him down. I was hoping you’d come over and help me out.”

“What’s your plan?” You bit your lip, glancing over at Minho, who was gripping the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles white.

“Well, if you’d be willing to kiss me for a while, that might get the message across.”

“You want me to kiss you?” You widened your eyes, Minho’s head snapping towards you, before quickly looking back at the road as if he were pretending he totally wasn’t listening.

You didn’t realize how bad it could sound out of context, and Minho’s frustration was evident.

“Haha, you know I was joking, girl. I’m just not good at confrontation, and I know you are. You know how to bite back at people.”

“I’m not so sure that’s what you meant, but if you need some help, then I’ll be happy to come over.”

“Awesome, thanks. So, I can’t wait to meet Lee Know. You talk about him all the time; he sounds really sweet.” Her tone was sweeter and more sincere.

Suddenly, you felt a warm hand gently land on your thigh, the touch sending a shiver down your spine as it traced teasing patterns on the exposed skin where your skirt had ridden up. Minho's touch was deliberate, and you could feel the heat radiating from his fingers as they traced teasing patterns on your skin.

You turned your head to stare at Minho, whose gaze was locked on the road ahead. His face was impassive, but there was a steely edge to his eyes that betrayed his annoyance.

“Um, yeah,” you managed, feeling Minho’s hand slip higher up your thigh. “He’s great.”

“What’s going on? You okay?” your friend asked, her concern evident in her voice as she picked up on your distracted tone.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you said, gasping quietly as Minho’s fingers gripped your inner thigh, his touch becoming more insistent.

You grabbed Lee Know’s misbehaving hand before it could go any further. His touch was electrifying, and despite your attempts to focus on the conversation, the heat of his fingers was impossible to ignore.

“Uh, I just... got distracted,” you stammered, trying to keep your voice steady. “We’re almost there, so maybe I should call you back later?”

“Sure, no problem,” your friend agreed, her tone tinged with concern. “Just let me know if you need anything.”

“Will do,” you replied, ending the call quickly. As soon as the phone disconnected, Minho’s hand withdrew, and he turned to you with a look of feigned innocence.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice deceptively casual as he focused on the road ahead.

“I could ask you the same thing,” you shot back, glaring at him but with a teasing glint in your eyes. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Minho said, his lips curling into a playful pout. “I guess I just didn’t like hearing my girlfriend sounding all flirty on the phone with someone else.”

You tried to hold back a laugh, your irritation melting into amusement. “Minho, she was joking with me.”

“Yeah, well,” Minho said, his tone softening as he glanced at you with a hint of vulnerability. “I just want your attention too.”

Your heart melted at his words. The way he looked at you, so earnest and a bit pouty, was impossible to resist.

You grabbed one of his hands, guiding it back to rest on your leg. You could see the way his breath caught in his throat as he realized what you were doing.

His fingers slowly inched up your skirt, brushing over your heated skin. You trembled, attempting to stay quiet as Minho's hands caressed your bare thighs, his touch sending sparks of electricity through your body.

"Baby," you murmured, "I can't have you driving off the road because you're distracted."

"I'm not distracted," Minho insisted, his fingers dancing along the edge of your panties. "I'm focused."

"Really?" You arched an eyebrow, glancing over at him.

"Mm-hmm." His fingers slipped beneath the lace of your panties, brushing against your sensitive flesh.

You gasped, grabbing his wrist to try and still his movements. "Minho," you warned, a slight tremor in your voice.

"What's wrong, baby? Didn't you want me to do this?" he asked, his voice dripping with mock innocence as he slid his finger along your slit.

"Min," you hissed, squeezing your thighs together. The friction of his fingers sent shivers of pleasure through your body, and you bit your lip to stifle a moan.

"That's right," he said. "Don't forget, you're mine."

"Yours," you gasped, arching against him as his finger flicked at your clit.

The sensation was almost too much, and you had to fight the urge to writhe in your seat.

"Good," Minho said, his voice rough with arousal as he pressed his finger deeper, sliding it inside you.

Your head fell back, and you closed your eyes, lost in the feeling of his touch.

"You're so wet," Minho teased. "Just from me touching your thigh?"

"Mm," you whimpered, gripping the armrest as Minho's finger curled inside you.

"Only pay attention to me," he commanded.

You shivered at his possessive words, your back arching against the chair.

"Shit," he murmured, his eyes struggling to stay on the road. "You make me want to pull the car over and fuck you right here."

Your breath hitched, and your core tightened at his words. "Do it," you challenged, your voice shaky.

"What?" he asked, glancing at you briefly.

"Pull the car over," you repeated, "and fuck me."

Minho sucked in a sharp breath, his grip on the steering wheel tightening with tension.

"Don't tempt me," he warned, his voice husky.

"Please," you begged, your body craving his touch. "I want you, Min."

"Be patient," he warned, his finger curling up into you and hitting you in the perfect spot.

You moaned, your head falling back against the seat. "I can't," you whined, your hips rolling against his hand.

"You can, and you will," he said, his thumb brushing over your clit as his index and middle fingers worked their way into you.

"Min, I need it," you groaned, your hips grinding against his hand, seeking relief.

Minho breathed, his fingers thrusting deeper into you, "You're so desperate for me."

"Please," you pleaded, "I'm desperate, I can't hold on."

"You're lucky I'm even entertaining you now," Minho said, his cock obviously hard in his pants.

You could feel the tension in his body and the way his fingers moved inside you with a renewed fervor.

"Don't pretend like you're not just as turned on," you teased, your fingers gripping the armrest as his hand began to pick up its pace.

"I am," Minho conceded, "but I have a little more self-control than you."

"Don't have self-control," you groaned, your hips rocking against his hand as you sought release.

"You're a little slut for my cock, aren't you? Can't even wait." He smirked.

You bit your lip, unable to argue, as his fingers thrust deeper inside you.

"Just give me what I want, Min," you whined, the pressure building in your core.

"So impatient," he said, his fingers curling again, repeatedly hitting the same spot.

You gasped, your back arching as the pleasure overwhelmed you.

"Minho," you pleaded.

"Let go," he commanded, his thumb teasing your clit with purpose.

You cried out, your orgasm crashing over you as his fingers worked you through your high, feeling yourself clench over his fingers.

You whimpered, the aftershocks of your climax making your body tremble with desire.

Minho pulled his hand away, his breath shaky as he brought his fingers up to your mouth.

"Lick it up," he said, his voice low and commanding.

You obliged, licking the salty-sweet taste from his fingers.

"Good girl," he praised, his cock visibly twitching in his pants.

Your body is still aching for him inside of you; just the sight of it makes your mouth water.

"Fuck me," you pleaded. "Please."

Minho shook his head. "I can't do this here, not yet. We're almost there."

"But,"

"Behave and wait," he commanded, his voice firm and unwavering.

You squirmed in your seat, the lingering burn of desire coursing through your body.

"Stop acting like a brat," he scolded.

Your hand meets his thigh now, trailing up.

"Oh, but what if I am?"

"Stop trying to rile me up," he said, his voice like a warning.

You grinned, enjoying the effect you had on him.

"Or what?"

"Or I'll spank you," he threatened, his eyes locking on the road.

You bit your lip, feeling a mischievous idea taking shape in your mind.

"Pull the car over and do it, then," you teased, your hand reaching out to brush against the bulge in his pants, tracing a line down.

Minho hissed, his hips involuntarily jerking against your touch.

"We're going to be late," he warned.

"Let's be late, then."

Minho let out a breath, his knuckles white on the steering wheel as he struggled to maintain control.

"If I pull the car over now, you're going to regret it later."

You bit your lip, playing with your seatbelt.

"Is that a promise?"

"Fine," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You want to be fucked so bad?"

He pulled the car over to the side of the road, putting the car in park, right on a dirt path with only a single tree covering the view.

He unbuckled your seatbelt and picked you up to lay across his lap.

He lifted your skirt and yanked your panties down, and you could feel his erection straining against his pants.

You gasped, feeling the cool air against your ass, exposed and ready.

"You remember the safeword, mm?"

You nodded, a shiver of excitement running down your spine.

"Beg," he ordered, his voice rough and commanding.

"Please," you pleaded, your voice desperate. "Please, fuck me."

"Again."

"Min, please," you moaned, the friction of his cock rubbing against your sensitive spots driving you crazy. "Please, I want your cock. I need it."

"Tell me what a slut you are."

"I'm... " You inhaled sharply, a mix of sensations flooding you as his hand made contact, your thoughts clouding with each touch.

"Say it," he insisted, his hand massaging your reddened cheeks and his fingers pressing into your tender skin.

"I'm your slut," you moaned, the shame and humiliation only making the heat between your legs grow.

"Good girl," he praised, his hand caressing the curve of your ass.

You whimpered, the sensation overwhelming as he teased you.

When he readjusted you to sit in your lap, the sting was evident.

He undid his pants and let his cock spring free. He was huge and throbbing, a bead of precum glistening at the tip.

You couldn't help but stare at the sight of his cock, which sent a jolt of pleasure through your body.

You needed him, you wanted him, and you could barely hold back.

"Fuck me," you whined, desperate for him to fill you up.

He took his time, his cock grinding against your wetness, coating the length of him in your arousal.

"Please," you begged, his cock brushing against your clit, the sensation making you gasp.

"Patient," he warned, his hips rolling forward as his cock rubbed against your folds.

You moaned, the friction against your clit driving you crazy.

"I need you," you pleaded, the ache between your legs becoming unbearable.

He sighed out, the head of his cock finally pressing against your entrance.

You gasped, your body trembling with anticipation as he slowly pushed into you.

The stretch was almost too much, but the pain mixed with pleasure was intoxicating. You whimpered, your walls clenching around him.

You moaned, the sensation of his cock filling you up nearly driving you over the edge.

"Minho, fuck, please move." you pleaded after a few seconds of him settling inside you.

His eyes hit yours like daggers, his stare sharp. "You wanted my cock so bad, so you're going to do it yourself."

You blinked at him, not fully comprehending what he meant.

Minho grabbed your hips, lifting you up and down his shaft.

Your eyes widened, realizing what he meant. You began to move your hips up a little, your hands laid on his chest for support.

"There we go," he cooed, his fingers digging into your hips as you rode him. "Just like that."

You bit your lip, the feeling of his cock hitting you in all the right places driving you crazy.

Leaning forward, he captured your mouth in a hungry kiss. You moaned into his mouth as his cock hit your walls perfectly, eliciting a deep pleasure.

Lee Know broke the kiss, his hand tangling in your hair, pulling your head back.

He kissed your neck, biting the sensitive skin. The pleasure and pain mingled together, making you cry out.

"Keep going," he instructed, his tongue tracing a path along your jawline.

You obeyed, persisting in moving your hips as he drove his cock into you, the angle enabling him to penetrate even deeper.

You moaned, the sensation becoming almost unbearable.

Suddenly, you felt his hand lightly wrap around your neck, the pressure adding to the overwhelming pleasure.

You gasped, the sensation sending a powerful jolt through your body when he lightly squeezed, just enough to drive you wild.

You felt the pressure intensifying, your inner walls starting to flutter around his throbbing cock. Your breathing quickened as you felt yourself nearing the edge, the combination of his touch and the intense stimulation pushing you closer to the brink of ecstasy.

With one final, deep thrust, you felt a wave of pleasure wash over you as you reached your peak, your body wracked with waves of intense pleasure.

Your hips jerked, riding out the aftershocks of your orgasm, and you collapsed against him, completely spent.

Minho grabbed at your hips, continuing to pound deeper into you, his movements becoming more frantic as he chased his own release.

His breathing grew ragged, his hands gripping you tight as he fucked you with renewed vigor, his cock hitting your walls in just the right place, causing tears to form in your eyes from the overstimulation.

Finally, with a moan, his body tensed, his cock twitching inside you as he spilled his release.

After a moment, he pulled out, his breathing heavy as lay his head against the headrest.

Your legs were trembling from the overstimulation, your face was flushed with a tear streaming down, and your hair was tousled.

Not to mention you now had marks on your neck and ass.

You were too tired to move, it felt like your body turned into lead.

He held you in his arms, brushing his fingers through your hair.

You closed your eyes and let the sound of his heartbeat lull you to sleep.

-

"Hey, are you okay?"

You opened your eyes, your vision blurred.

"Huh?"

You looked around and realized you were in your own bed, not the car.

You glanced over at Minho, his gaze soft as he watched you.

"What happened?" you asked, still disoriented.

"You fell asleep on me," he chuckled. "This is why I suggested we don't go all the way..."

The realization fully hit you, you picked up your phone to find multiple messages from your friends telling you to 'get better soon' and others asking where you were.

"Sorry for getting carried away," you apologized, looking down, and feeling slightly embarrassed.

Minho grabbed your hand, interlacing his fingers with yours.

"It's okay, it was worth it."

You looked at him, his eyes full of affection.

You smiled, squeezing his hand.

"I love you."

You leaned over, placing a soft kiss on his lips.

"I love you, too."

He returned the gesture, pulling you close.

The two of you stayed like that for a while, wrapped in each other's arms, until Minho's phone began to vibrate.

He glanced at it, sighing.

"It's Chan again."

"We should get going," you said, not wanting to keep them waiting any longer.

"Are you sure about that?" he asked, with the cocky look on his face back again.

You tried to sit up but immediately felt your body protest, the soreness kicking in.

"Fuck," you muttered, flopping back down onto the mattress.

"I did warn you," he smirked, his hands rubbing at your sore legs.

"Don't touch me," you said, trying to swat his hand away.

He laughed, kissing your forehead.

"Don't be mad, I told you this was a bad idea."

You frowned, your heart melting a little at his cute gesture.

"You win."

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

[yikes-aemond]

I love you. It's ruining my life.

pairing: Benjicot Blackwood x Bracken!fem!reader (no descriptions of reader except that she wears a dress and has "flowing hair")

warnings: canon typical violence, cursing 

summary: You meet Benjicot Blackwood in the woods and continue to pine after him for years. 

word count: 2.9k

part II can be found here. part III can be found here. part iv can be found here.

You were bleeding the first time you saw Benjicot Blackwood. 

At the age of three and ten you had thought yourself invincible. So careless in your disregard for your father’s rules about minding the boundary stones that you crossed into Blackwood territory. So careless that you sought to climb a ravine that was nearly impassable. So careless that you lost your footing, scrambled to find purchase, cutting your hands and tearing your dress. So careless that you twisted your ankle and cried out in pain, alerting all those in the surrounding area to your presence. 

Face down in the dirt and sobbing, you did not hear him approach. But when you felt his touch at your shoulder, you jerked in response and tried to roll away. 

Through your tears, you saw a figure crouching before you. His face was almost entirely blank except for the furrow of his brow. Dark, messy hair that had likely never seen a comb. Stormy eyes that flitted across your person, assessing and calculating. A slight tremble to his fingers, fidgeting with the dagger at his waist. A black and red cloak, with a raven sigil pinned at the shoulder. No mistaking a Blackwood. And not just any Blackwood—Benjicot Blackwood, heir to Raventree Hall. 

You screamed, whether from the pain or fright, you could not be sure. You tried to push yourself up to flee, but your ankle would not bear any weight. 

You fell back to the dirt, spitting a curse that you had heard your cousin Aeron use when he thought you were not around. 

Benjicot raised to his feet. “I would not recommend that, my lady.”  

You were sure that he knew who you were. Your gold dress might have been torn and dirty, but the red stallion detail was clear as day. You sat up and tried to brush the tears from your face, but there was no hiding your fear. You were trapped on Blackwood land, in violation of the assize and without any way to escape. 

Benjicot’s gaze had not left your face. From your Septa’s lessons, you knew that he was not much older than you. Maybe only a year or two. But even at five and ten his presence was imposing. He walked with a confidence of someone years older, so clearly comfortable in his own skin. 

Panting, you managed to gulp down enough air to make out, “If you’re going to kill me, then get on with it.”

Benjicot’s expression did not change, except for the almost unpercetable raise of his eyebrows. Unsheathing his dagger, Benjicot slowly circled your form before lowering and stopping right in front of you. He was so close that you could feel his hot breath. Smell his leathers and the soap he had likely used to wash that morning. Bringing his dagger to just under your chin, he forced your head to raise and meet his eyes. 

The cold sting of the blade made your breath hitch. Your body trembled, but you dared not look away. 

Leaning further into your personal space and pressing the dagger into your skin, Benjicot asked, “Are you so eager for death, my lady?” 

You pressed yourself into the dagger, feeling the bite of the blade cut into your skin. Warm blood trickled down your neck and soaked into the front of your gown. You watched Benjicot trace the path of the blood. Saw his breath catch ever so slightly at your actions. 

But he did not withdraw the blade and you did not move away. “There are fates worse than death, my lord.” 

An emotion flashed across Benjicot’s face, but it was gone before you could place it. Removing the blade from your neck, he leaned away from you and sat back on the ground. “One could say that a quick death is too good for a Bracken.”

You could hear the smile and jest in his voice. For the first time since falling in the ravine, you felt like you could breathe. Whatever had just passed between you and Benjicot, you were now sure that he wasn’t going to harm you. 

“And one could also say that being killed by a Blackwood is likely to bring shame upon my entire family.” You flopped onto your back, giving up on any attempt to stand. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Benjicot twirl the dagger between his fingers. When his hand stilled, you shifted your gaze fully back onto him. “What do you plan on doing with me, my lord?” Your voice did not come out as strong as you would like, but you felt a shift in Benjicot’s disposition. You could tell that he had reached some kind of decision. 

Benjicot leaned back into your space, his face directly above yours. Your heart started beating faster. Your stomach clenched and dipped. And for one fleeting moment, you thought that he might kiss you. 

His face drew closer and closer, but instead of your lips, he sought your ear. “Remember this well, my lady. This land is not for Brackens.” You tried to keep your breathing even, but with his body so close and his voice so raspy, you felt bewitched. You, the helpless prey to his predator. 

“Should you wander into these woods again, I cannot guarantee that you will meet the same fate.” His lips brushed the side of your face, whether intentionally or not, you did not know. “Sleep well, my lady.” And before you could react, Benjicot brought the hilt of his dagger against your temple, sending you into darkness. 

Six years had passed since that fateful day. You will never forget waking on Bracken soil, cold and alone and in pain. But other than the injuries you sustained because of your own stupidity, you were unharmed. Benjicot had knocked you unconscious and carried you home. 

You lied through your teeth when your father and Aeron questioned you about what happened. You claimed to have suffered a hit to the head (not untrue) and could not recall how you made it home. When your story did not change, they eventually gave up asking. 

You had seen Benjicot sparingly over the years and only ever in passing or from across a crowded room. But you watched him—oh, how you watched him. 

Each year you begged your father to allow you to attend the Riverrun assize just for the chance to see him. From afar, you watched him grow taller and more handsome. A lean build and broad shoulders developed from years of sparring and training. His reputation for violence and ruthlessness made all Bracken guards nervous. Bloody Ben, indeed.

And at the last assize you knew he was watching you, too. Each time you entered a room, you felt his eyes track you and linger. Felt his gaze sweep across you; your skin flushing and hot at the thought he might find you as desirable as you found him. 

On the last night of the assize, Lord Tully held a feast to celebrate a successful negotiation of the boundary stones. You were passing tables upon tables of lords, knights, and squires, trying to make it to your seat without being crushed. 

But then you saw Benjicot. Walking in your direction. 

Your eyes caught, and what you would have given to be anywhere else in that moment. Alone with him. 

To outsiders, Benjicot’s face was indifferent, blank. But you knew his eyes were mirrors of your own—an intoxicating mix of intrigue and longing. As you passed each other, you felt the hairs breath of space between your hands. You had not touched, but your hand flinched as if burned. Propriety demanded that you keep your gaze forward, so you fought the urge to watch Benjicot walk away, but only just barely. 

That was almost a year ago. No matter how many times you walked the tree line separating the Bracken and Blackwood lands, you never saw him. You thought of writing him a letter but feared interception and rejection. And what could you possibly say? Thank you, Lord Blackwood, for saving me six years ago. In case you were curious, I have been infatuated with you ever since. Surely not.

So, imagine your surprise that on an otherwise unremarkable day, when you were merely walking the pastures with Aeron, that you were finally granted the opportunity to see him. 

Aeron and the other young men walking with you had stopped just short of the boundary stones. The day was relatively cool, and the fields were still damp from last night’s rain. You stood a short distance away from the others, preferring to settle against a rock formation and wait for the men to finish their work.

“Can you even get that thing up?” 

You heard Aeron unsheathe his sword. “Well enough for killing Blackwoods.” The others laughed at Aeron’s joke while you rolled your eyes at their arrogance. 

“Bracken!” A voice rang out from across the field. 

Your heart leapt to your throat as you swung your head around to see Benjicot approach with a host of Blackwood men. You heard a roaring in your ears as your focus narrowed on the scene before you. 

Aeron and the others had turned toward the direction of the Blackwood lands. From where you stood, you could see the tension line their bodies. Their laughter dying in the wind. 

Walking with purpose and determination, Benjicot demand, “Put the boundary stones back.”

Aeron hesitated briefly before approaching, “We didn’t move them—”

“Oh, so they just moved themselves, then?” Benjicot cut off. “Just rolled their way over so Bracken cows could fill their bellies on Blackwood grass.”

Aeron tried to argue, “The assize at Riverrun—”

But Benjicot wasn’t having it. “Fuck the assize,” he paused before adding, “and fuck you. This is our land.”

You were paralyzed. You did not know if Benjicot had spotted you yet, but even if he had, you were not sure your presence would matter. Blackwoods and Brackens never needed an excuse to shed each other’s blood. 

You watched unease flicker across Aeron’s face before resolving into determination. “It’s Bracken land.”

Benjicot’s face clouded over. And when Aeron mumbled “Babe-killer,” you saw rage and anger bubble to the surface.

“What did you say?”

Aeron turned back toward the Blackwoods, disgust marring his features. “Your false Queen Rhaenyra is a kinslayer,” Aeron accused.  

Never mind that Aemond Targaryen drew first blood in this conflict by killing Rhaenyra’s son. Not that Aeron bothered listening to you when you pointed this out. 

Benjicot grimaced before asking, “Your uncle declared for Aegon, did he?” But he knew the answer. No matter that your father had sworn fealty to Queen Rhaenyra nearly two decades ago. No matter that rumors spread wild about Aegon’s drunken, lecherous ways. No matter that this conflict was sure to result in war and death and famine and fire. 

Benjicot had reached his limit. “Well then, let me tell you. Aegon Targaryen is no true king,” he paused before continuing, “just as you are no true knight.” 

With each word, Benjicot advanced until he stood chest to chest Aeron. “You’re both craven”—shove—“little”—another shove—“cunts!” With a final shove, Benjicot pushed Aeron into another Bracken man, sending him to the ground. 

But Aeron had reached his limit too. Unsheathing his sword, Aeron pointed the blade at Benjicot’s chest. 

And Benjicot could not have been more delighted. A crazed look came over this face—Bloody Ben rising to the surface to meet battle. Smirking and laughing, he advanced toward Aeron’s sword and said, “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Stop!” You shrieked, finally finding your voice and your legs. You sprinted to the both of them, shoving the Bracken men out of the way when they tried to hold you back. 

You stood between the two of them, wrenching Aeron’s sword away from Benjicot’s chest so that it pointed at your own. You faced toward Aeron, eyes pleading to back down from this challenge. “That is enough.”

You missed the look of panic on Benjicot’s face as you stepped in front of the sword. Missed the way he nearly lunged for you to pull you out of the way. Missed how his eyes settled and softened at the edges when taking in the sight of you. Your golden dress and flowing hair. Gods, how he wanted you.

And if Aeron did not move that fucking sword away from you in five seconds, Benjicot was going to kill him. Consequences be damned. 

Your interference seemed to strike Aeron dumb. He did not know what to do, but when he finally realized that his sword was directed toward you, he sheathed the blade. He made to grab you but you resisted, flinging your hands out to both sides in a bid to stop the two of them. 

Your chest was rising and falling rapidly, betraying your panic and fear. But when you spoke, your voice was strong. “There is no need for violence.” 

Turning toward Benjicot, your breath caught in your throat. His attention was on you. His eyes glued to your form. You were not even sure he was blinking. You fought the heat that threatened to crawl across your cheeks and expose your feelings. 

For the first time in six years, you spoke to Benjicot. “We will move the boundary stones back.” Out of all the things you had imagined saying to him, boundary stones had never once crossed your mind. But such is your luck in this life. 

Aeron stiffened and started, “We will do no such—”

You did not see Benjicot move, but suddenly he was in front of Aeron again. “Are you going to defy an order from your lady, you craven cunt?” 

You did not bother pointing out as your father’s heir, Aeron ranked higher than you in House Bracken. 

No, instead you watched Aeron pull back his arm to swing at Benjicot. You were not sure what possessed you—love, most likely—but you found yourself shoving Benjicot aside and stepping into the line of Aeron’s fist. By the time Aeron and Benjicot realized what happened, Aeron had already struck you across the face. 

Your face whipped to the side from the force of Aeron’s punch, causing you to lose your balance and fall to the ground. You were stunned from the hit. And when you gingerly touched the side of your mouth, your hand revealed blood. 

When you looked up to Benjicot and Aeron, you were not sure who was more shocked. Aeron looked sick with himself, but Benjicot—oh, Benjicot was enraged. How dare anyone strike you?  How dare anyone make you bleed? 

Benjicot unleashed his fury. You could hear bone snap from the force of Benjicot’s punches and strikes. Aeron tried to block, but Benjicot was too fast and too angry to be slowed. 

“You call yourself a knight?” Benjicot spat at Aeron. “Hiding behind your lady and letting her fight your battles? You fucking worthless excuse for a man. I should cut off your godsdamn balls and hang you with them.”

When Benjicot drew his dagger, you knew you had to put an end to this. Picking yourself up off the ground, you approached the fight. Of all the foolish and ill-thought plans you had ever had in your life, interrupting a fight between a Blackwood and Bracken may have been the stupidest. 

Just as Benjicot was about to strike, you placed your hand on his back. He was hot and hard and you felt a shock surge up your arm where the two of you connected. Instantly, Benjicot lowered his weapon and turned toward you. 

He was breathing heavily, but the crazed look in his eye faded when he beheld you. He could see the tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. See the shallow cut on your mouth. See the fear and hurt and longing in your gaze. His knees threatened to buckle. 

Keeping your hand on his back, you whispered, “Please, stop.” 

You forgot about the men surrounding you. Forgot about propriety. Forgot about the boundary stones. Forgot about your feuding families. Forgot about everything except for the man in front of you. The man you loved.

Quick as lightening, Benjicot sheathed his dagger. He longed to grab your hand and pull you into his arms and assess your injuries. But unlike you, Benjicot did not forget himself. Not when there were those here who could still harm you, whether by word or deed. 

So he simply said, “As you wish, my lady.”

My lady. Oh, your heart squeezed at the sound of that. 

Holding your gaze, Benjicot returned to his men. In the distance, you heard the Bracken men help Aeron stand, hurling insults to the Blackwoods as if Benjicot had not just thoroughly bested their lord. 

Clearing your throat, you repeated, “We will return the boundary stones. Let that be the end of this matter.” 

As you turned away from Benjicot and crossed back onto Bracken land, you let a sob escape. Hoping that the others would blame it on your injuries, you avoided their looks of concern and confusion. You ignored Aeron’s apologies. You wanted to get as far away as possible. But with each step you took, you felt your heart break just a little bit more, realizing that your love was an impossible dream. 

--I hope you enjoyed! Let me know if I should do a part two.

[00valentina-writes00]

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

✞⛧ Spoils of war ✞⛧

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

Word count: 20k…

The air is thick with the scent of death.

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

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

You do not look at the bodies.

You do not search for familiar faces in the ruins.

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

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

Ambessa Medarda.

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

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

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

She looks at you.

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

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

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

“Interesting,” she murmurs.

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

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

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

You let her touch you.

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

The compliment feels like an insult.

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

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

Your knees are unsteady, but you refuse to falter.

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

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

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

——

Your new prison is gilded.

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

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

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

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

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

Tonight, she invites you to dinner.

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

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

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

You do not touch it.

A beat of silence.

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

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

“Is the food not to your liking?”

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

The air shifts.

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

“You haven’t eaten all day.”

You do not respond.

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

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

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

Her tone is not one of jest.

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

Ambessa watches.

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

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

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

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

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

When the meal ends, you stand to leave.

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

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

It is not a request.

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

The Medarda estate is a gilded prison.

And Ambessa Medarda is its warden.

——

Your charm is your best weapon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you move.

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

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

You are almost there.

And then you feel it.

A presence.

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

You stop.

And when you lift your gaze, she is there.

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

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

You do not move.

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

Then—

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

You lunge.

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

But Ambessa is faster.

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

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

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

She leans in slightly, voice a quiet rumble.

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

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

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

Not because you have won. Because she allows it.

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

You do not move.

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

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

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

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

Ambessa gestures for you to sit. You do not.

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

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

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

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

You do, if only to avoid another power play.

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

Eventually, she speaks again.

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

You say nothing.

Ambessa glances at you then, eyes dark and knowing.

“I will tame you, however.”

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

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

You hate her.

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

You do not eat.

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

When the meal ends, she stands.

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

Then—

A touch.

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

A test.

Your breath stills.

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

“Try again, little fox.”

Then she leaves.

You remain seated long after she is gone, seething.

Plotting.

——

Your punishment is swift.

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

Your quarters are revoked.

You are to stay in her chambers now.

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

You do not argue.

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

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

But she is not a fool.

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

She is merely waiting.

And so are you.

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

And you loathe being here.

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

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

She sleeps without fear, without hesitation.

Like a lioness in her own den.

You wonder if she underestimates you.

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

It does not.

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

The knife is small, easily hidden.

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

And now, it is here.

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

You are careful. Measured.

A predator stalking another predator.

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

And then—

A hand.

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

You barely have time to gasp before she moves.

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

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

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

She merely smirks.

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

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

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

She leans in, her breath ghosting against your cheek.

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

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

Her smirk widens.

“Good.”

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

You do not.

Not yet.

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

Ambessa studies you, eyes dark and knowing.

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

You remain where you are, staring at the ceiling.

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

You want to scream.

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

Ambessa watches, her expression unreadable.

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

“Try again tomorrow.”

She closes her eyes.

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

You are not hunting Ambessa Medarda.

You are being trained.

——

You have tried everything.

Escape, deception, violence.

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

So you try a different tactic.

Temptation.

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

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

She does not look up when you enter.

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

Only silk.

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

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

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

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

You smile.

Just slightly.

Baiting.

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

The silence stretches.

Then—

Ambessa exhales a quiet chuckle.

It is not soft. Not kind.

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

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

“Did you really think that would work?”

The words cut deeper than any sword.

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

Ambessa sees it. Of course, she does.

Her smirk deepens.

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

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

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

Her voice drops, low and indulgent.

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

Your breath catches.

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

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

You refuse to answer.

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

The words strike like a slap.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or if it was you who fell into hers.

——

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

For the first time, Ambessa takes you outside.

Not as a prisoner. Not as a hostage.

As something else.

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

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

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

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

You wonder if she ever truly stops watching.

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

And there it is.

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

Your breath catches.

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

Once.

Your fingers twitch at your sides.

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

Why would she?

Your people are dust beneath Noxian boots.

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

What would be the point?

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

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

Ambessa follows.

She does not stop you.

Not yet.

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

Your homeland was nothing like this.

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

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

Ambessa stands beside you, silent.

You do not look at her.

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

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

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

Inevitable.

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

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

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

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

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

There is something unreadable in her expression.

Not indifference. Not amusement.

Something else.

Guilt? Reflection?

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

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

Then she has no excuse.

Then she knew what she was doing.

And she did it anyway.

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

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

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

It is not an apology.

Of course, it isn’t.

Ambessa Medarda does not deal in apologies.

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

But she does not look away.

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

——

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

Ambessa lies beside you.

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

Except her.

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

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

Never when she was unaware.

Never when she was vulnerable.

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

You could kill her.

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

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

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

Yet you do not move.

Instead, you watch.

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

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

She looks different like this.

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

Peaceful.

The word unsettles you.

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

She should not be capable of peace.

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

Your throat tightens.

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

Your fingers twitch at your side.

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

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

Just to remind yourself that she is real.

But you are not that brave.

So you stay where you are.

Silent.

Still.

Watching.

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

And pretend you were never awake.

——

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You are not sure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something of her.

And you cannot take it. Not yet.

You force yourself to let go of the bundle.

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

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

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

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

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

She leaves you with the gift.

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

——

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

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

But instead, you take another drink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ambessa doesn’t flinch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Because they weren’t strong enough.”

Your breath catches in your throat. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

——

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

——

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

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

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

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

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

And then, unexpectedly, she speaks.

“What’s your favorite flower?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

——

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

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

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

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

You exhale, steadying yourself. This is your moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that means more than anything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

——

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She’s kind of hot.

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

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

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

——

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But what happens now?

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

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

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

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

——

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mel,

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

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

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

Always,

Ambessa.”

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

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

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

“Mel,

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

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

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

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

With all my heart,

Ambessa.”

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

You weren’t supposed to care.

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

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

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

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

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

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

——

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

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

But then there’s Ambessa.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, she kisses you.

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

You don’t pull away. You can’t.

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

And you hate yourself for it.

You hate how much you want more.

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

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

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

And that’s the worst part of all.

——

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you hate how much you need it.

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

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

“Say it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t resist. Not anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now, tell me again.”

——

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You are hers.

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

[crushmeeren]

Hiii I hope you’re doing well!! I was wondering if you could write Hitoshi shinsou x reader of him absolutely destroying our guts 😊

Thank you!!!

-🐞

♡ Master List Link

♡ Everyone is 18+/aged up — scroll or block if that bothers you.

﴿ Note ⇢ Hello friend! I am doing well and I can definitely write this. I hope you enjoy!

﴿ Another note ⇢ P.S. I write it as ꙳ ﹡ FEM READER ꙳ ﹡ unless specified, but I did try to refrain from using things like good girl, pretty girl, etc. because I wasn’t sure. I did however use female anatomy.

You slam the front door shut so violently the frame rattles, threatening to crack under pressure.

“Everything alright baby?” Hitoshi’s smokey timbre calls out cautiously from the kitchen. He was forewarned about your god awful day out on patrol, so he’s treading carefully.

Your fingernails sink into your palms, teeth creaking as you round the corner to your kitchen. There’s a fury boiling in your chest that’s about to overflow.

“What the fuck do you think? You know how to read, don’t you? Because I already texted you what happened.” There’s a nasty bite to your words, eyes narrowing as your lip curls upwards.

Silence hangs heavily in the air for a few beats.

Hitoshi’s face remains impassive as he stands across the island from you. Casually, he folds his arms over his chest, arching one singular eyebrow at your bitchy tone.

Hitoshi may as well exhale frost when he replies.

“Do you really want to walk down this road tonight?”

Apparently, you do.

When Hitoshi bends you over the side of your bed five minutes later, you’re entirely naked.

He’s got your arms bent and twisted behind your back in the most uncomfortable position as Hitoshi ties your wrists together with part of his capture weapon.

It’s tight — you can barely wiggle your fingers, heartbeat thudding in your fingertips.

A brutal swirl of exasperation and anticipation churns in your stomach. When the underground hero yanks the material even tighter, a layer of sticky sweat gathers in the valley between your tits, and you spasm against the blankets.

“Hitoshi!” You squeak, sucking in air through your teeth. “That hurts, you jerk!” You rise up on your tip toes to try and pull away from his grip, but your shoulders only twinge in protest. Hitoshi looms behind you, snickering as he wrenches your bound wrists upwards and forces you to still.

“Too late sweetheart, you’ve been way too much of a brat tonight for me to care about your comfort. Now, I’m gonna teach you a lesson and fuck that shitty attitude out of you,” he says hotly, confirming what you already knew he was going to do.

A calloused palm presses down in between your shoulder blades, shoving you further down into the bed.

You don’t speak, clenching your jaw in frustration when a hot flush pours over your cheeks. The material of your current restraints dig annoyingly into your skin each time you flex your wrists.

Hitoshi’s hand rains down on your ass, a sharp sting radiating up to your tailbone. He made it his mission for that one to hurt.

A muffled scream of his name punches out of you into the sheets below.

“What is it sweetheart?” He snarls, teasing the soft tip of his cock between the lips of your pussy. “Can’t handle the punishment for being so fucking rude to me?”

Your breath catches, goosebumps taking over your arms. Your clit pulses, pussy eager to swallow his cock whole.

“Well?” He urges, yanking your forearms backwards until your spine arches, lifting your face from the blankets.

Your shoulders ache, throbbing dully and then suddenly a switch flips, all traces of your previous rage draining from your veins.

“I’m sorry Hitoshi!” You sob, voice scratchy and breaking. You shove your hips backwards, trying to get him inside you.

“That’s it pretty baby, good job,” he purrs, gifting you mercy and sliding his cock inside with one effortless motion.

Hitoshi starts fucking you as if he’s attempting to carve a space out inside your guts just for himself. Hips bouncing off your ass until your muscles are going taut, slick pussy suffocating his cock.

He fucks you until you’re a gooey, brain melted mess beneath him. Encouraging you to keep cumming for him, his husky moans dancing in the air when you curse his name.

Afterwards, once your chest stops heaving and your soul has returned to your body, you’re infinitely grateful for a boyfriend like Hitoshi.

“Hitoshi, thank you. I really needed that,” you mumble, throat raw as sandpaper. Hitoshi hums as he swiftly works to free your hands.

“No worries baby. I’ll fuck you into your place anytime you need it,” he teases, tilting his head back in laughter as you punch his shoulder halfheartedly.

Your wretched day is entirely forgotten as you climb into bed that night.

[dieseldame]

𝗕𝗲𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗔𝗺𝗯𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗮’𝘀 𝗚𝘂𝗮𝗿𝗱 𝗗𝗼𝗴 𝗪𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗕𝗲 𝗟𝗶𝗸𝗲:

You don’t serve Ambessa Medarda—you belong to her. A blade sharpened by her hand, a weapon unleashed only when she deems it necessary. And when she calls you back, you come. Not because you want to, but because you must.

“ Her voice cut through the chaos of the battlefield, low and commanding: — Enough.

You froze mid-swing, the blade in your hand slick with blood. Around you, the enemy staggered back, their fear palpable. But it wasn’t them you feared. It was her.

Ambessa stood at the edge of the carnage, the crimson banner of Noxus billowing behind her like a storm. Her gaze locked onto yours, sharp as the sword in her hand.

— Heel. — she said, and you obeyed. Because that’s what a good dog does.

Your loyalty to Ambessa is absolute—but it’s not without its own jagged edges. She saved you from the gutter, pulled you out of the mud and gave you purpose. But she also knows how to keep you in line.

“ — You’d be nothing without me. — she said once, her voice a razor slicing through the air.

You didn’t flinch. — And you’d be dead without me.

The corner of her mouth twitched—approval or amusement, you couldn’t tell. — Careful, — she warned, her tone dripping with danger. — You’re biting the hand that feeds you.

— Maybe the hand should stop teasing. — you shot back, your lips curling into a feral grin.

When she unleashes you, there’s no holding back. You don’t just fight—you decimate. You are her wrath given form, a storm of blood and steel that leaves nothing standing.

“ The first man fell before he even saw you move. The second barely had time to scream. By the time the last one dropped, your hands were slick with blood, the taste of iron thick in the air.

Ambessa watched from a distance, her expression impassive. When it was over, she approached, stepping over bodies as if they were nothing more than broken tools.

— Messy, — she said, her voice calm. — But effective.

You wiped the blade on your sleeve, smirking up at her. — Isn’t that what you wanted?

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. The weight of her gaze was enough.

For all your ferocity, there’s no question who holds the leash. She doesn’t need to shout or threaten. A single look from Ambessa, and you fall in line.

“ She leaned in close, her breath warm against your ear. — Do I need to remind you who’s in control?

Your pulse quickened, but you didn’t falter. — You could try. — you said, the defiance in your voice a thin veneer over the truth.

Her hand wrapped around your chin, firm but not cruel. She tilted your head, forcing you to meet her gaze. — Good dogs don’t bite. — she murmured, her tone laced with warning.

You swallowed hard, your throat dry. — Good dogs protect their masters.

Her lips twitched into a smirk. — And that’s why I keep you.

Your relationship isn’t just about loyalty—it’s about survival. You’d die for her, and she knows it. But deep down, you know she’d do the same for you.

“ — Why do you keep me around? — you asked once, the question slipping out before you could stop it.

Ambessa didn’t answer right away. She took a sip of her wine, her gaze distant. Then she turned to you, her expression unreadable.

— Because every blade needs a sheath, — she said finally, her voice soft but firm. — And every storm needs a calm.

It wasn’t the answer you expected, but it was the only one she’d give.

There’s a fire between you, unspoken but ever-present. Every glance, every touch lingers just a little too long, charged with a tension that neither of you will name.

“ Her hand brushed against yours as she handed you the blade, and for a moment, the world stilled.

— Careful, — she said, her voice low and deliberate. — That’s a dangerous weapon.

You met her gaze, your breath hitching. — So are you.

She didn’t reply, but the corner of her mouth twitched into a smirk. The air between you crackled, heavy with something more dangerous than steel.

Ambessa doesn't need to command you often. You know her expectations, and you exceed them without question. But when she does pull your leash, it's always at the exact moment your bloodlust threatens to consume you.

“ The enemy commander fell to their knees, gasping, clawing at the gaping wound you'd left in their chest.

— Kill them. — your instincts roared, muscles tensed and ready to strike again.

— Stop.

Ambessa's voice cut through the red haze like a blade, and your hand froze mid-swing. You turned to her, chest heaving, fury still burning in your veins.

— Not yet, — she said, stepping closer, her gaze locking onto yours. — Let them crawl. Let them beg. We'll show them mercy when it suits us.

Your grip tightened on your weapon, your jaw clenched, but you didn't move. You didn't need chains to be bound to her will-her words alone were iron.

You are more than her protector-you are her shadow, ever-present and unrelenting. Where she goes, you follow, your presence a silent promise of violence.

“ The nobles whispered as she entered the hall, their eyes flickering to you as you trailed behind her like a ghost.

— Is that really necessary? — one of them sneered, gesturing toward you. — This is a banquet, not a battlefield.

Ambessa smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. — A good general knows that every room is a battlefield.— she said smoothly.

Her hand brushed against yours as she passed, the briefest touch grounding you. You didn't speak-you didn't need to. Your silence was louder than any threat.

Your relationship is a constant push and pull, a power struggle where the stakes are as high as the tension between you.

“ — You think you could lead without me? — you challenged, your voice low and laced with defiance.

Ambessa's eyes narrowed, her presence filling the room like a storm. — Careful. — she warned, her tone a blade at your throat.

— Or what? — you pressed, stepping closer, your pulse pounding.

Her hand shot out, gripping your chin, forcing you to meet her gaze. — Or you'll find out what happens to dogs who forget their place. — she said, her voice calm but seething with authority.

You didn't pull away. You couldn't. The power in her eyes held you captive, and for all your bravado, you knew she'd already won.

Every scar on your body is a testament to your loyalty to the battles you fought for her, the blood you spilled in her name. But some wounds cut deeper than flesh.

“ — You shouldn't have taken that blow. — she said, her voice hard as she stitched the wound in your side.

— I couldn't let them touch you. — you replied, your tone matter-of-fact.

Her hands stilled for a moment, and you thought you saw something flicker in her eyes-anger, or perhaps something softer.

— Fool. — she muttered, resuming her work. But her touch was gentler than before, her fingers lingering just a little longer on your skin.

For all the battles you've fought, the fiercest one is the unspoken tension between you. Every glance, every word is a spark, threatening to ignite the storm that rages beneath the surface.

“ — You're reckless. — she said, stepping closer, her voice a low growl.

— And you're controlling. — you shot back, your breath hitching as she invaded your space.

Her eyes bore into yours, and for a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of you. The air crackled with tension, heavy and electric.

— If I didn't control you, — she murmured, her lips brushing against your ear, — you'd burn the world down.

— Maybe the world deserves it. — you replied, your voice barely above a whisper.

ㅤㅤㅤ