#it will be something along the lines of that

[canisalbus]

✦ Sanctuary ✦

[momspren]

This is the spiritual opposite to the sign outside the DSHS office in Olympia, WA

I don't remember exactly what it said

But it warned you of a large very territorial bird that would attack you for no reason and with no warning.

I fended it off once. Terrifying creature.

[awrkive]

[TEASER] CATCH YOUR WAVE (m) — JJK.

the last thing you expected when you strolled into your new school is to become the favorite project of the 5’11” tatted-up overly enthusiastic, golden-retriever-in-human-form PE teacher, jeon jungkook. he’s all goofy grins, bad math puns, and relentless charm, while you’re busy pretending you’re immune to his antics... spoiler alert: you’re not. and that infuriates you. 

alternatively, jungkook tries to prove that opposites don’t just attract — they collide. a classic case of one plus one equals: “oh, no. i like him.”

PAIRING jeon jungkook x (female) reader

GENRE r18+ (fuff, slight angst, mature content) MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

WORD COUNT ~15k (still working around the final wc)

TEASER WORD COUNT 1.8k words

WARNINGS/MISC teachers!au, pe teacher!jk, math teacher!reader, seven!jungkook, himbo!jk, coworkers!au (works in the same school), oc gets kinda mean sometimes but jungkook likes it lmfao, extremely corny pick up lines.. he tries 💔 2000s romcoms references (sorry) warnings for this teaser: nothing major. just bad math puns delivered by himbo jungkook :')

NOTES inspired by the whole “can she gaf me💔” vibes in the seven mv (by jungkook) and ultimately the click five’s song, catch your wave (hence the title🥸 pls listen to the song for the whole vibes hehe <3). ive been wanting to write himbo jk for awhile bcs all my jks are like … smart so far so i thought wait we need to change that. gahhhh im so so freaking excited ive been thinking about writing this ever ever since i wrote that one himbo jk drabble 💃🏼

[ CYW MOODBOARD ] • [ MAIN MASTERLIST ]

RELEASE DATE 2025, FEBRUARY 15TH | 01:00 AM KOREAN STANDARD TIME (GMT+9)

They say life is a balance of good and bad days, and you’re not a pessimistic person, but sometimes enough is enough. How is your week already this bad when it’s just barely started? 

Sunday morning, when you picked up your laundry from the shop, you were too late to realize that you mixed not just one but two white underwear with the colored loads. You’d blame it on the fact that they were too tiny, too flimsy for you to notice. But you know you should’ve double-checked before putting them in the machine. And now you have lost two panties. And in this economy? That shit cost a ton. 

When Monday came and the head of the Math Department informed you there was a sudden shift in your schedule for the semester, it meant that instead of teaching three Algebra classes for tenth graders, you’re also teaching pre-Algebra for eighth graders, meaning you’re gonna have to cross the long walk from the high school building to the middle school one, the latter being all the way to the left wing, completely the opposite side of the right wing where the faculty room and your initial classes are. 

Today, you’ve woken up with your WiFi not connected to the internet (something you have to talk to your landlord about when you come back home) and just two minutes ago, you realized you forgot to take your coffee order with you from the cafe across your school building, the sad garlic bread you bought along with it staring right at you without its beloved beverage pair. 

Truthfully, it might be your last straw. How the hell is this happening to you out of all people? The semester is just starting, for god’s sake, and you’re already hanging on by a thread. 

You take a deep breath on your seat before standing up from your cubicle, heading to the coffee machine by the snack bar.

You hate the coffee here. Whatever brand they keep on stocking the pantry with, it’s too naturally sweet – and you don’t like your coffee with sugar. 

But you have no choice but to make do. The cafe’s too far out and your first class starts in about twenty minutes. 

“Good morning, Ms. Math Genius – ready to crunch some numbers today?” 

As if this day couldn’t get any worse, you shut your eyes close for a moment when you hear the familiar voice. 

You stir your coffee with downturned lips.

“Only if you promise to flex those brain muscles—” You say, turning to look to the side. Much to your expectation, it’s Jeon Jungkook, leaning casually against the wall with that usual faux suave he keeps on around you – which you can’t take seriously because his big doe eyes tell you a completely different story. He’s wearing some Nike dri fit shirt, one that’s too tight around his chest and accentuates a comparatively tiny waist that you have to force your eyes upwards. But as they do, they land on the biceps that are straining against the poor material. It wasn’t lost on you though that one second after, they’re suddenly flexing. You arch your brow as you glance a look on his face. “—as much as you flex those biceps.” 

Jungkook’s lips curl into a huge grin, expecting the jab. 

“You know it!” He chuckles, running his fingers through his bangs. “I’m all about solving problems, and I’d say my favorite equation is you plus me equals a perfect start to the day.” 

You fight a loud groan from escaping your lips as soon as he says that, giving him a certain look before shaking your head and going back to your coffee. 

But you should’ve known better by now, because Jungkook – aside from being a PE teacher extraordinaire and every student’s favorite at that, Thee Football Coach, 5’11” tatted brunette with a long, fluffy hair paired with an objectively, annoyingly attractive face – is persistent. 

Most especially when it comes to annoying you. 

A few steps, and then you feel him getting closer to you. 

“Did you know that—” 

You roll your eyes. That’s it. If it’s another one of his corny math pick-up lines again you swear to god— 

“Jungkook, you don’t have to keep doing this everyda—” 

“—we’re like parallel lines?” 

“What.”

“Did you know that we’re like parallel lines?” Jungkook repeats earnestly, just like he always does. When he’s up in your personal space like this, it’s easy to get a waft of his cologne – and your annoyance could’ve been justified if he smelled like shit but somehow, even though he looks like he just got back from a run judging by his running shoes and gym bag, he still smells… okay. 

Just okay. As in, you don’t care how good he smells like or how he smells at all.

You make sure to keep that thought at the back of your head. 

“No.” You say, hoping to dismiss the conversation right there as you pick up the cup of coffee from the machine, ready to turn on your heel, but then Jungkook laughs ever so slightly and gives your arm a barely-there poke.

“Come on, entertain me a little.” 

You squint your eyes at him. He challenges your stare with a growing smile on his face. Scoffing, you roll your eyes again before you put the paper cup back on the table. With a sigh, you cross your arms and look at Jungkook. For a split second, his eyes cast downwards to your chest level but he quickly snaps out of it. 

“Okay… we’re like parallel lines… why? Because we’ll never meet?” You say in response to his little request, keeping your tone impassive. 

Jungkook’s eyes slowly widen at your words, smile slowly dropping – as if the logic of your words have ruined one of his million pick-up lines again. 

“I– no! What? I meant, we’re like, always running to each other! Side by side. Parallel lines.”

“Okay… so still never meeting?” You ask impatiently, brows furrowing. 

Jungkook mirrors your confusion. Then, he raises a hand, one finger up. “One second. I’ll fix this–” he takes his phone out from his pocket, types on it quickly, lip jutting out as he reads whatever he’s looking up, and then, “Ohh, I might have meant asymptote lines. We’re like asymptote lines.” 

Your face contorts into even deeper confusion. Holy shit, you’re not dealing with this very early on in the morning, especially not after the circumstances of the past hours.

“Asymptote lines are more depressing than parallel lines if we’re talking metaphorically.” 

Jungkook squints his eyes at you, suspicious. “Are you sure?”

“I would hope I know my lines, Jungkook. I teach them everyday.” 

He laughs again, eyes crinkling at the corners cutely, and you hate how that tugs something at your heartstrings. 

You catch yourself right at that moment.

Jeon Jungkook is not cute. You keep in mind. He’s not cute. 

Jungkook thinks you’re so cute. Gorgeous, most of all, and unbelievably so. You and your signature furrowed brows and pink pouty lips.

As usual, you have your hair up in a clean bun today, and Jungkook can smell the lace of sweet vanilla from you as he takes a step closer to get a cup for himself. 

He loves the coffee here. Whatever brand they keep stocking the pantry with, it’s sweet as fuck. Just like how Jungkook likes his caffeine dose. Kind of like you, he thinks. 

Jungkook casts a quick glance at you again, can't really help himself when you're so pretty, although he makes sure to be subtle about it.

You’re wearing another one of your pencil skirts, one that he has to avoid staring at for longer than three seconds lest his mind takes him too far – but the upper view is even more of a torture, unfortunaly for him. Because as much as you wear the same outfit every single day and it should mean that Jungkook should get used to it by now, he can never be immune to your silk long sleeves, where you keep the top three buttons open – and as much as Jungkook tries to pry his gaze away from the exposed skin down from your neck, it’s like there’s a strange force in the universe that keeps him on it. Doesn’t really help that you like crossing your arms under your chest, too, making his mind run a mile per minute at the thoughts that form inside his head when a very apparent cleavage shows—

Alright. Damn. It’s like 8 am. 

And you were saying something about lines…

“Yeah? I hope you can teach me too, I need to—” 

“Goodbye, Mr. Jeon.” You cut him off before he can even finish his sentence, taking your coffee with you as you head to the direction of your cubicle. 

The nickname makes Jungkook’s lips curl up. He probably shouldn’t smile, given that you only ever call him that when you want to cut the conversation with him short. But he can’t help it, it sounds sweet coming from your pretty lips. 

In an attempt to not look like a fool, Jungkook bites his lip as he watches your disappearing figure, your heels clicking on the floor as you walk away. Your legs look so long in that grey pencil skirt, and it really should be criminal how you look like that even when you’re just showing your back. 

In his trance, he forgets about the brewing coffee in his cup and absentmindedly takes it out while the machine is still running, the hot liquid pouring from the nozzle quickly burning the skin on his finger. 

“Oh, shit!” He hisses, jumping from the shock, almost knocking his coffee out but thankfully he manages to catch it on time, just as when another member of the faculty walks by the snack bar. 

With an awkward smile, Jungkook raises a thumbs up to Mrs. Lee. 

“Good morning, Mrs. Lee. Looking rad as always.” He cheerfully greets, and Mrs. Lee’s confusion from seeing him fumble with his cup earlier quickly turns into a coo. 

“Oh, Mr. Jeon, you charming kid. I was just gonna get my cup of coffee.” She says, walking towards his direction. 

Jungkook adjusts the strap of his gym bag to his shoulder and takes a cup for Mrs. Lee with a grin, making her smile. 

She thanks him and with a playful salute, Jungkook goes toward the general direction of his cubicle, and because the PE department and Math department are just across from each other, he walks past you, typing something on your iPad before you look around and catch his gaze.

Jungkook automatically waves, smiling brightly, but you only frown, shutting your iPad close and ignoring him.

Amused, Jungkook tries to fight off a huge grin, taking a few long strides to get to his own cubicle. 

His day is already off to a good start.

© 𝐀𝐖𝐑𝐊𝐈𝐕𝐄 2025. all rights reserved. copying, editing, reposting and/or translating any of my works are not allowed.

[homunculus-argument]

My problem with communicating urgency is that I'm from a family where needing to get something done in 30 seconds means needing to get it done in 30 seconds - there was one time I was eating a sandwich when my mom asked me whether I could take the dogs outside. I was holding the half-eaten piece of bread in my hand, presenting it to her and saying "yes, but can I finish eating this first?" and she said okay, you finish it first. She was out of the door with the dogs before I was done with eating half a sandwich. Right now means right now.

So when I say "okay, just a second, I'll be right there" it means something along the lines of "I have something on the stove/loose needles scattered everywhere/I am covered in ants, and I only literally need a handful of seconds to put my work away safely before I can get there", but people who weren't raised this way interpret it either as "I will be there to help you in 5-15 minutes" or "I'll get there in 3-5 business days and if you haven't fixed your shit on yor own by the time I get there, I'm going to beat you with it."

[slvttyplum]

✮ part two of: roomie suguru wants to fuck you.

the question hit you like a truck, suguru's hands fidgeting and sweating as he looked at you with pleading eyes, the stirring in his jeans starting again.

please say yes, please say yes, please say yes, please say-

"where do you get off talking like that?" taking a step back into your room, but your eyes not letting you look away from him, slowly sliding down to his shirtless frame, then to his pajama pants that were so low you could almost see it.

dear lord.

"hopefully to you." a slight smirk as he says it, trying to put on his best poker face, covering up that corny-ass line. his eyes slowly follow your curves and the way your clothes hug your body just right.

he had to have you; this was a matter of life and death. his fucking dick was going to fall off from all the swelling, but it was partially his fault because he just couldn't stop staring, and neither could you.

his eyes slowly slide back up to meet yours.

"we're both adults here; let's not think too much about it."

those words made something shift inside of you, a tingle erupting throughout your body but mostly in your panties, almost like a green light.

fuck.

suguru didn't waste a second; once you slipped off your shorts and panties, suguru was snug in between your thighs, his legs snaking around your thighs as he got comfortable.

so many conflicting thoughts were swarming through your mind; this was weird, right? two roommates hooking up? this is bad; you just couldn't think straight, but suguru was way more calm about this.

"wait, no, this is a mistake." your hand pushing his forehead back as he grips your thighs, straightening himself in between you to make himself comfortable.

his dick pushing against his pants and against the mattress, his heart racing and his face already flushed, his mouth salivating.

"you want to know what's a mistake? not doing this sooner." finally sliding his tongue out and over your slit, then immediately to your clit, softly licking back and forth.

the pleasure hit you hard, your heart pounding and your hands trembling. this felt different than the usual pussy eating you received, and suguru read that.

licking over your clit again, then slowly unhooking one of his arms and sliding a finger inside of you, curling it up, trying to feel you out and feel how you reacted.

your breath hitched as you grabbed a handful of his hair, your throat tightening along with your walls that clung around his fingers that were pumping away.

suguru moaned into your dripping core as his lower body pushed into the bed, moving his hips back and forth, trying to get some friction working out; he felt like he was going to explode.

maybe he didn't have to fuck you; maybe this was enough to hold him by, his eyes closing as his nose pushes against your core, wetting it up.

your moans were quiet, but your body did most of the talking for you, your toes curling and your knuckles sore from how hard you were holding him in place.

he was looking right at you, his gaze both captivating and piercing; he was focused on you and only you, his pace getting sloppy but still making sure you felt everything he was doing.

bucking your hips into him, getting his face all wet, letting all your worries on whether or not this was a bad idea let go.

"right there, don't stop."

suguru closing his eyes again right as the waterworks begin, his nose wet along with the rest of his face, his hair slowly coming out of a bun and a few strands sticking to his face.

you couldn't process anything; your eyes had those floaters, and your legs started to cramp.

the air was thick, and the silence spoke volumes.

your breathing was uneven, and your chest rose and fell rapidly; there were no words that could be spoken. he exceeded your expectations, and that turned you on.

suguru licked his fingers and threw a blanket over you, sitting by you and placing a hand on your thigh, the touch comforting for him; he almost wanted to cuddle you in his arms.

"text me if you ever wanna fuck; i'll drop everything." patting your thigh and leaving the room, softly closing the door behind him, his heart beating so fast he thought he was going to faint.

you, on the other hand, were still recovering, trying to get up to wash and change the sheets, smiling to yourself knowing you were going to be texting him soon.

[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.

[lunavagans]

I‘m bored, so.

1: Biological dad overwhelmingly neutral. He‘s there. Biological mother, 50/50, it‘s good now, didn‘t use to be, still nervous around her. Step-parent I get along well with, but not all too open with.

2: Nobody ever as far as I know. If I have, it was my cat.

3: So many things. I would‘ve done few differently. Still regret them.

4: Yes.

5: Single.

6: I don‘t care much, as long as it‘s painless and I outlive my pets.

7: Toasted bread with boiled egg slices for a small dinner.

8: No.

9: No.

10: Never had one.

11: Romantically, maybe. I‘m not sure. Rarely see her, anyway, the chance that something might become of it is tiny.

12: No.

13: Yes. Two teachers I had that treated me horribly for reasons I still don‘t understand. Maybe also my grandfather? Unsure.

14: Yes. Many people.

15: Yes, two cats.

16: Bored. Kind of numb.

17: No.

18: Yes.

19: No? Depends. In my own life, no. Back to the dinosaur age, yes.

20: Never kissed someone, so y‘know.

21: Maybe go to a protest depending on how I feel by then on Saturday, on Sunday an outing with my father to get him off my back for a while.

22: None of my own. Could imagine raising some that a partner brings with them, or adopting some. Two at most, though.

23: No.

24: Not sure. My best ones were english, german and art.

25: So, so many people. Mostly acquaintances I didn‘t become friends with but thought I could.

26: … Relief from my back pain maybe?

27: No, don‘t think so.

28: No.

29: No.

30: I‘ve been procrastinating studying for a while now.

31: I hope so. I think my mother does.

32: Orange.

33: Might have. I think it‘s more along the lines of abandonment issues.

34: I never remember my dreams.

35: I can‘t remember. The last times I cried, I did so in private. Except for that one time a bee bit my lip?? But that was in pain and fear, not much more. It really hurt.

36: I never have, nobody ever really wronged me. I think I would, but I‘d try to cut them off if they messed up again.

37: To forget.

38: I wish.

39: Haven‘t had it yet. Kind of glad.

40: Yes, on the balconey as a child. I wanted to get fresh laundry to get dressed but didn‘t see the point in covering up for ten seconds, since nobody could really see, anyway.

51: Salmon with rice and lemon sauce.

52: The reason can be coincidence, so yes.

53: Brush my teeth. Last night I was too tired to do much else.

54: No.

55: I can be, sometimes. Usually, I don‘t notice because I don‘t control my tone of voice well or things like that.

56: Nobody.

57: No.

58: Sunny.

59: Yes.

60: Yes.

61: Depends on the tone.

62: Warm laundry. My cats. Oranges. Getting a question right. Noticing progress in a language. Making progress with a WIP. Spaghetti ice cream.

63: Yes.

64: Never kissed someone.

65: Don‘t have friends. I‘d think it‘s cool, though. Maybe I‘d want to kiss them at least once. I don‘t know.

66: I don‘t have anybody I can do that with.

67: My step-parent.

68: I don‘t remember. It‘s been a while.

69: No.

70: Yes. Now that I think about it, more than I‘d like.

70 horrible questions ... Fuck it

01: Do you have a good relationship with your parents? 02: Who did you last say “I love you” to? 03: Do you regret anything? 04: Are you insecure? 05: What is your relationship status? 06: How do you want to die? 07: What did you last eat? 08: Played any sports? 09: Do you bite your nails? 10: When was your last physical fight? 11: Do you like someone? 12: Have you ever stayed up 48 hours? 13: Do you hate anyone at the moment? 14: Do you miss someone? 15: Have any pets? 16: How exactly are you feeling at the moment? 17: Ever made out in the bathroom? 18: Are you scared of spiders? 19: Would you go back in time if you were given the chance? 20: Where was the last place you snogged someone? 21: What are your plans for this weekend? 22: Do you want to have kids? How many? 23: Do you have piercings? How many? 24: What is/are/were your best subject(s)? 25: Do you miss anyone from your past? 26: What are you craving right now? 27: Have you ever broken someone’s heart? 28: Have you ever been cheated on? 29: Have you made a boyfriend/girlfriend cry? 30: What’s irritating you right now? 31: Does somebody love you? 32: What is your favourite color? 33: Do you have trust issues? 34: Who/what was your last dream about? 35: Who was the last person you cried in front of? 36: Do you give out second chances too easily? 37: Is it easier to forgive or forget? 38: Is this year the best year of your life? 39: How old were you when you had your first kiss? 40: Have you ever walked outside completely naked? 51: Favourite food? 52: Do you believe everything happens for a reason? 53: What is the last thing you did before you went to bed last night? 54: Is cheating ever okay? 55: Are you mean? 56: How many people have you fist fought? 57: Do you believe in true love? 58: Favourite weather? 59: Do you like the snow? 60: Do you wanna get married? 61: Is it cute when a boy/girl calls you baby? 62: What makes you happy? 63: Would you change your name? 64: Would it be hard to kiss the last person you kissed? 65: Your best friend of the opposite sex likes you, what do you do? 66: Do you have a friend of the opposite sex who you can act your complete self around? 67: Who was the last person of the opposite sex you talked to? 68: Who’s the last person you had a deep conversation with? 69: Do you believe in soulmates? 70: Is there anyone you would die for?

[imsofreakingtired]

Hiii I love ur writing 💕 and I was wondering if u had any cowboy sevika hcs :)

anon i know you asked for headcanons but my maladaptive brain took me elsewhere-

destined to meet again

artist: @/olgasnoww on twitter

content warning(s): set in a wild west au; some au-typical violence (masc fem reader, but ambiguously described)

"it's been a shining star, it's been a blue sky gonna tell you something 'bout my story."

~~~

Dusk was falling, and the salon was still and nearly empty. The hot, dry air was putting everyone in a stupor, and the wind whistled a lonely song across the brittle grass and sweeping sand. 

With a bang, the doors of the salon swung open violently. Heads snapped toward the noise. Standing in the doorway was a tall figure in a dusty red cape. She wore a wide brimmed hat with a bandanna covering half her face. Peering over the cloth flashed steely grey eyes. 

Immediately, the three men sitting at the front table jumped up, pistols pointed at the stranger. 

It happened in a heartbeat. The cape whipped aside, a glint of the revolver, three gunshots. The men lay dead. 

The stranger sauntered over to the bar, where the barkeep stood quaking in terror. She sat down, tapped the table lazily with her right hand. Then she pulled down the mask. 

If he didn’t know it from the moment she walked into the salon, the barkeep knew he was a dead man now. The silver lined scars webbed over the left side of the stranger’s face were recognizable to every single person living in this side of the West, from the old men in their banks to the little children who heard of those scars as bedtime stories to scare them into good behavior. Rumor had it that she had tattooed the silver along her very scars, to bear them as a trophy and a warning to strangers. It matched the grey in her eyes. Many a rancher who survived an encounter with her weren’t able to recall those cold grey eyes without a shudder. 

The barkeep’s throat went dry. 

Sevika Jain—the Brute of the West—was in town. 

She gestured to the bottles lining the pantry. With shaking hands he poured her a drink, which she tipped back. As he refilled the glass, she looked over at the bodies on the floor. 

“Hope they got a chance to tell their wives they loved ’em,” she mused with a dry chuckle. Her voice was deep and smooth, as if she held the wind of the west in her lungs. “Isn’t that right, Chuck?”

The barkeep’s heart quailed with loathing. “You ain’t got a heart in that chest of yours,” he said furiously, despite the sweat staining his underarms. 

She just laughed again. 

A door banged shut in the back of the salon. The barkeep heard this, and took renewed courage. “In trouble now, aren’t you?” 

She swirled the whiskey in the glass. “What makes you think that?” 

“You wouldn’t have come crawlin’ back to this town if you weren’t in some pinch. Your men finally walked, didn’t they?” 

Idly, she pulled aside her cape, and for the first time revealed the infamous mechanical arm. As it gleamed in the fading light, the barkeep shrank back. It was a sinister contraption imitating the shape of a human arm, except there was a shining revolver in the place of where the hand should have been. It was this arm that rippled terror throughout the west. The arm that earned her her titles. 

“S’long as I got her, there’s nothin’ but the devil that can bring me to the ground.” 

She downed the second drink. Wiping her mouth with the back of her human hand, she glanced at the barkeep. “I got a meeting with your mayor.” 

He gave her a nervous jeer. “You’ll get it in prison where you belong.” 

The revolver clicked. “No,” she said. “I’ll get it now.” 

Outside the salon, a voice thundered, “You’re done for, Jain!” 

Sevika turned around. She could hear hooves pawing the dusty ground outside the door. She stood and walked slowly out the doors, and found herself face to face with a half circle of six armed men, the sheriff at the center. 

“Hands where I can see ’em!” He barked at her. 

She raised her right hand, brought it to her shoulder, and ripped off the cape. Before they knew what was happening, she raised her left arm to the signboard of the salon and shot it off. It crashed to the ground with a billow of dust. The sheriff and his men began shooting, and Sevika disappeared into the salon. They charged after her. 

Glasses shattered and tables cracked and splintered under the feet of the horses as they galloped through the salon. Sevika jumped over the bar counter for cover, turned around, and took out three of the six men in a single line of shots. Then she turned her revolver to the liquor bottles lining the shelf and shot them through, drenching the place with alcohol. With a spark from her gun she lit up the table. 

A rush of flames and smoke overwhelmed the place. Gunshots fired at random, bullets whistling over the crackle of burning wood. By the time they had made it out of the wreck, a horse from the salon stable was missing, and Sevika was nowhere to be seen. 

☆

You stood in front of the mirror in your bedroom, inspecting your reflection. You had just taken a bath to clean the smell of sex and cigarette smoke off your skin. Your poor mayor father, running the town and living the height of propriety, could never know that his daughter was running off every other night to meet her girls at Red’s House of Sin. 

Visits to Red’s always left you winded and a little bored. The initial thrill was ebbing away, and you knew the day was drawing closer and closer when your father would attempt to marry you off to the stuffy old doctor in town. You were thirsting for a way out, one way or another—out of this town, away from the miles and miles of dusty canyons and sharp toothed hares. 

You mused over the rumors you heard at Red’s tonight—the place was buzzing with talk of some notorious outlaw having been spotted on the plains. What was the alias? The Brute? Some of the girls claimed that they’d had her once or twice before, but when you pressed them they insisted they couldn’t remember what she looked like. All they knew was that she had a fearsome scar on her face and a gun for a left arm. And that she was as handsome as the devil. 

You snorted at that. There was room for only one handsome woman in town. 

Suddenly, you heard your window shatter and a muffled curse. You whirled around. A tall, muscular figure hoisted herself clumsily over the windowsill and sank down to the floor with a loud groan. The right sleeve of her shirt was bloody, the left sleeve—wasn’t there. In its place was a mechanical arm ending with a shining silver revolver. You stared at her. She looked up at you and raised an eyebrow in mock surprise. Her crooked lips curled into a smirk, she reached up and tipped her hat at you.

~~~

a/n: this has, quite against my best wishes, ballooned into an idea for a whole ass fic so umm,, to be continued 😭

[animamii]

i need some locked up toji headcannons real bad 😩

ohhh bebecita I gotchuu c; this is something slightt inbox me 4 more

lockedup!Toji always ends his phone calls with you by asking "So... whatcha wearing right now, princess?" Which you always respond with something along the lines of "you're ridiculous... you're impossible... you're too much..." along with that sweet lil giggle he loves so much.

lockedup!Toji always begs for you to send him pretty pictures with your letters. He misses seeing that face of yours. It always makes him smile when it's a simple, cute selfie. "There's my pretty girl..." he'd say to himself as his fingers brush over it. Then he gets to a picture of you showing too much cleavage or something a little more revealing and he's likeee AWOOOGAAA 😍😍 lmfao. But forreal he shuts his cell door and needs a little him time.

lockedup!Toji is addicted to his damn Honey Buns. His favorites are the creamy curl and jelly swirl. Something about that chocolate and cream. "The middle is all creamy, it reminds me of you." His nasty self would say.

lockedup!Toji would come out of the pen being a damn chef though. Since he had to use nasty ass processed food to make prison meals, he knows exactly how to use different ingredients to make some bomb ass food. But still,,,, he wants his damn honey buns and maybe will eat a jail spread occassionally.

lockedup!Toji always loves when you use those Hello Kitty stamps on the letters you send. Ofc his favorite sanrio character is Badtz Maru. But his favorite stamps are the ones of Hello Kitty and Dear Daniel. It always reminds him of you two.

lockedup!Toji always dedicates music to you, whether he tells it to you over the phone or in his letters. He always includes one song. Wholeheartedly dedicated Kiss Me Thru The Phone to you, lmfao and Honey Bun by Kodak Black. *I have a whole ass playlist for Toji + Sweetheart i luvvv it*

lockedup!Toji begging you to marry him so you can get conjugal visits. He can't stand seeing you looking so pretty from the other side of a glass. He needs to feel you and touch you and actually be fucking inside of you.

lockedup!Toji starts thinking about his future with you a lot. He wants to start a family with you, wants kids and a white picket fence house and all that shit. So he starts writing down baby names and all that stuff. He wants another son so bad, wants to name him Malachi.

lockedup!Toji always bragging about you to everyone else. It's commissary day, where he gets the packages you send + he gets to buy whatever he wants from the commissary store with the money on his books (he has Shiu send him some hideaway money he stashed every week). But all he really cares about is the packages you send. It's all so personal, every little touch you put into it *thinking ab doing a whole drabble on this lmk bbs's* "look at what my girl sent this time." He'd say to his celly with a smirk as he holds up all the snacks and cute little notes you write.

[fairqves]

୨୧ DON’T FORGET TO KISS ME

───── IN WHICH you prank the members and dodge their attempts at kissing you!

(🐰) ⟡ 𝗖𝗔𝗧𝗔𝗟𝗢𝗚𝗨𝗘 — 𝒽yung line! enha & 𝑓! reader .. fluff, established relationship ♡ ◞ wc 0.2K each 𓂅 warnings : not proofread, skinship, kissing.

𝖱𝖤𝖡𝖫𝖮𝖦𝖲 𝖠𝖯𝖯𝖱𝖤𝖢𝖨𝖠𝖳𝖤𝖣 ૮₍ ˃ ⤙ ˂ ₎ა

LEE HEESEUNG

IN THE BEGINNING, heeseung simply thought you dodging his kisses was truly a pure coincidence.

the first time you turned away, he barely notices—the second time, he pauses for a second, but he shakes it off.

but by the third time? his eyes glow in realization, and a mischievous, knowing smirk creeps onto his face.

“oh? so that’s how you wanna play?”

you may love teasing him—but the one thing you didn’t take into consideration was that heeseung holds the title of being the biggest tease ever, so there’s no way he’s letting you get away with this.

the next time you try to dodge, he suddenly grabs your waist and spins you around so fast you barely process it before his lips crash against yours, breathless and dizzying. ── 𝖱𝖤𝖲𝖳 𝖡𝖤𝖫𝖮𝖶 ♡

“you thought you could escape my kisses?” he whispers against your lips with a grin, his voice smug as he kisses you again and again, deeper each time.

after that, heeseung literally makes it his mission to kiss you at the most unexpected times—ambushing you when you’re reaching for something, cornering you against the counter, sneaking up behind you and placing pecks along your jaw before you can escape.

“you started this babe,” he teases, pressing another smooch to your cheek, “so now you have to deal with the consequences.”

and those consequences? neverending kisses.

PARK JONGSEONG

THE FIRST TIME you dodge jay’s kiss, he barely reacts.

the second time, he tilts his head with confusion flickering in his eyes. and the third time, he freezes.

“…did you just—” he blinks, looking genuinely taken aback.

when you dodge him again, jay just stares at you as if you just broke his heart. his eyebrows furrow, his lips part slightly, and his entire face radiates hurt puppy energy.

“why are you running from me?” his voice is soft and whiny, almost pouty. you’re trying so hard not to laugh, but the moment you see his lips form into a pout, you nearly break.

he sighs dramatically, falling back onto the couch as if the weight of your rejection is too much to bear.

“oh, i see how it is,” he mutters, crossing his arms stubbornly. “i cook for you, i take care of you, and this is how you treat me?”

you’re about to tell him it’s just a joke, but before you can, he suddenly pulls you down onto his lap, wrapping his arms tight around your waist so you can’t escape.

his chin rests on your shoulder as he lets out another exaggerated sigh. “you owe me now,” he mumbles, his lips brushing your neck. “i expect at least ten kisses as payment.”

and when you finally do give in and kiss him? he hums in satisfaction, nuzzling into you like a content cat.

“…make it twenty.”

SIM JAEYUN

AT FIRST WHEN you dodge jake’s kiss, he literally pauses mid-way, blinking in confusion.

the second time, he lets out a small laugh in disbelief, as if he can’t fathom what’s happening.

the third time you dodge, his jaw drops.

“babe,” he whines, eyes wide with betrayal. “what did i do?!”

you try to act as if you have no idea what he’s talking about, but the moment he starts following you around the house like a sad puppy, you almost break.

every time you move, he moves. every time you sit, he sits closer.

after your fourth dodge, jake dramatically collapses onto the couch, spreading his arms out.

“this is it,” he groans. “just say you wanna break up.”

but when you giggle and dodge him again, something in him snaps. suddenly, he scoops you up, throwing you over his shoulder as if you weigh nothing.

“that’s it,” he announces, spinning you around as you shriek. “i tried to be nice.”

you’re laughing so hard you can barely breathe, and before you know it, he’s got you pinned to the couch, his face hovering inches over yours.

“you really thought you could get away with this, huh?” he teases, breathless from chasing you. then, before you can react, he peppers kisses everywhere—your cheeks, your forehead, your nose, every spot he missed earlier.

by the time he finally lets you go, you’re dizzy from all the affection.

“that’s what you get,” he says, grinning like a kid who just won a prize. “next time, just kiss me and save yourself the trouble.”

PARK SUNGHOON

THE VERY FIRST ATTEMPT, sunghoon doesn’t react. when you dodged, he simply raised an eyebrow. the second time, his lips twitch.

but by the third time? his entire expression goes blank.

“oh.” his voice is completely neutral, but you can tell he’s analyzing every past interaction, trying to figure out where he went wrong.

you expect him to fight for your affection like the videos you’ve seen of other couples, but instead…he just shrugs.

“okay then.”

and then he stops trying.

no more sneaky kisses. no more casual pecks. no more attempts to close the distance. instead, he just leans back and watches you with unreadable eyes.

at first, you’re fine. it was just a joke, after all. but after a while, the lack of affection gets to you. you’re used to sunghoon pulling you in by the waist, used to the intimacy between the two of you.

so when he sits on the other side of the couch, scrolling through his phone as if he doesn’t care, you start to panic.

“hoon…” you inch closer. he doesn’t react.

you poke his cheek. no reaction. finally, you swallow your pride and kiss his jaw softly. he immediately turns, raising an eyebrow. “oh? i thought you didn’t want kisses.”

you groan, hiding your face in his shoulder. “it was just a joke!”

he smirks. “oh, i know.” and then he decides to be a menace—he gets revenge. he ignores you for the rest of the day, dodging your kisses instead.

when you finally pin him down, desperate for his affection, he just grins. “guess you learned your lesson, huh?”

and of course—he kisses you senseless after that.

© FAIRQVES 2025 do not repost, plagiarize, or translate.

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄. i’m almost at 2000 followers idk what’s going on anymore. wdym 2000 people enjoy my works… i need to process this help 😦

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓. @mioons @nshmuras @suneng @pnghoon @shawnyle @laylasbunbunny @privareum @briefsaladfun @cyjzzl @sol3chu @txtlyn @d-dilemma @deezbin @iluvnikism @rikibwn @chaeneu @wonsprincess @niawonn @pockyyasii @kiss4noo @nineooooo @loves0ft @ancnymcnzjy @dazzlingjaeyun

[riotouseaterofflesh]

The last couple paragraphs made me think of another thought along these lines:

When the universe is already in the process of unmaking itself, when this unmaking of itself is the first condition and the final truth of its unreal existence, abolishing it means something very different from destroying it. Our slogans are short and rousing (“Fuck the moon!”), but we intend to abolish outer space out of love.

if you’re ever in the position to choose between giving up and accepting defeat, and actually trying to fight the ancient unkillable god that is about to peel apart reality like a string cheese, remember this: scientifically speaking, you might as well give it a shot!

1.there were trees at the beginning of the world! there were trees so long ago that they predate bacteria that causes wood to decay. when a tree fell, it would lie there in stasis and there wasn’t any way of breaking down wood xylem on a molecular level in that way.

2. it seems obvious to say, but wood eating bacteria are literally incapable of comprehending what they’re breaking down. It’s just not information conciously available to a microorganism. they don’t know what they’re deconstructing, where it came from, bacteria have no way to even fathom the existence of a tree as a concept.

3. Regardless of the facts above, the world we live in today is a world where wood inevitably decomposes

it is worth fighting the unkillable god no matter how pointless it seems. it is worth taking the risk even though youre trying to accomplish something impossible. the reality in which you live was also once reality in which trees didn’t rot. You live in a reality that allows for existence before the possibility of destruction. you live in a reality where uncomprehending microbes break down matter that is so far beyond the scope of their comprehension that it feels comical to specify something so obvious. you live in a reality that occasionally allows unshakeable physical truths to be altered with no warning.

It is worth fighting the unkillable god because trees are so old they predate the source of their destruction, and it still did not spare them. It is worth fighting the unkillable god because bacteria rots unthinkingly, because there is room in our cosmos for destruction without comprehension on the part of the destroyer. It is worth fighting the unkillable god because now and then reality retracts the promise of immortality without fanfare, and when that happens there is no mercy for the ancient. the unmaking is not softer for the desecrators ignorance. for all things, existence is endless until the exact point where it ends.

so you might as well try to kill the unkillable god. it doesn’t seem likely, but at the beginning of the world, trees didn’t rot. so you never know! you never know

[omgfangirlland]

The Shadows That Nurture 6

Enjoy Chapter 6! Ch8 will be a look into what has been happening in Ghotam and Ch9 will probably follow the first episode of Invincible.

We're slowly approaching the main timeline age, so if ya'll want a specific character to make an appearance or would like to see a specific plot line this is your time to speak now or forever remain silent /j

Masterlist || First || previous<< Chapter 6 >>next

He is crazy- he can’t just- He-!

You couldn’t even know where to begin telling what happened. One moment you were relaxing, enjoying the sun, living the dream- and then this old, 6 feet and 2 inches of pure muscle, alien-man thing just up and kidnaps you. Omni-Man kidnapped you with a simple “Hello, kid. Let’s go home.” You were more shocked than angry, to be honest, the man was just spewing nonsense as he flew you across the states.

Now, Nolan wouldn’t call it kidnapping- why, he’d never! He was just- cleaning up the streets, helping a homeless kid, even though he knew where she lived- it was adopting without all the other steps!

He was meticulous in his watching, not stalking, but watching, observing. When Cecil first called him, bringing to his attention a mysterious flying person coming and going from NYC, he was ready for a villain, an alien preparing to overtake NYC, anything but a tween kid shakily flying, almost hitting buildings and nearly being taken down by other flying heroes.

He knew she was no threat; he told Cecil as much- but he kept coming back. Something kept making him come back, just to look, to make sure she didn’t hurt herself or others- he kept telling himself. He knew deep inside why he came back every day for a year, it was the same reason why he married Debbie, it was the same reason why he couldn’t bring himself to hate his son.

Sure, she was living well, but the food she ate, if she remembered to, wasn’t sustainable, she needed home-cooked food, she needed socializing and training, she needed- she needed a family and stability. Nolan took the initiative to pack her bags and everything in her little apartment and move her into his and Debbie’s house, in the room next to Mark’s. And then, he took her.

You didn’t put up much of a fight if one at all, but really what could you say or do when Omi-Man has deemed you his and his wife’s kid, the man spoke of her highly, his son too, but still- He kidnapped you, you wouldn’t just stay- “And Debbie is making this roast beef with baked potatoes-“…

Some would call you weak, others would say you can be easily bought, but this was the greatest roast beef you had tasted in a long while. “This is amazing food, Mrs. Grayson.” You could play along for a while. The woman just smiled and thanked you, insisting on you calling her Debbie. The offer of ice cream made you sure you could play along for a long while.

She wasn’t initially happy with Nolan coming with a random kid under his arm, but one look at your disheveled appearance and wide eyes made her rethink everything. A daughter wouldn’t hurt, two kids would make the house happier, and you reminded her of those scuffed up little kittens, she didn’t have it in her to let you go without a meal at least.

Over dinner, you answered every question they threw at you, from your name to Mark asking if you like comics, but when they asked your age, you just shrugged. “Around 13-14? Can’t quite remember, I haven’t celebrated my birthday ever, mom just told me how old I was and then-“ Your body went rigid.

You were telling too much, getting too comfortable- but, maybe this was your chance at a true family. Can’t back down now, you could always just leave if you really wanted. The two adults understood as soon as you tensed up, Debbie immediately acting as her hand soothingly rubbed at your shoulder and back while they let you decide whether to continue or change the subject. “She died when I was five.”

She smiled at you softly, apologizing for prying and giving their condolences, something not even Alfred did. All Nolan saw was an opportunity to grab you and never let go, to give you what the father that clearly wasn’t in the picture never gave.

Mark just grabbed your wrist, a sad frown on his face. “I can share my parent with you. I know I’d be sad if mom or dad were gone. We can be siblings!” His bright smile was contagious, making you smile just as bright before your hopeful eyes met Debbie’s. She was sold a while back, as soon as you called her pretty while calling Nolan a bum and asking how she had the misfortune of marrying a brute, making the man grumble as he sat you on the couch, your hopeful glance just set it in stone.

Despite having a room all to yourself, you wanted to push. They were different to the Waynes, that was clear. They were warmer, talked to you, and it all felt so much better. So, you wanted to test the water by asking Mark if he’d be willing to share his bedroom with you tonight, not wanting to be alone. Not when you had the opportunity to soak in any attention they give you.

The boy was excited to have a sleepover in his room, eager to show you all the comics and toys he had- and neither Debbie nor Nolan could say no. Not to two pairs of puppy eyes. The adults were sure this weakness to saying no wouldn’t last… Hopefully.

Spending the night with Mark was amazing, it was everything you thought Dick and the other would give you. He showed you all his comics, letting you read all of them, and as the night settled and the stars were high in the sky you taught him about them. In the end, you both fell asleep in the pillow fort you made, comic books lying open around you. Your plans of escape quickly went out the window, this family thing with them felt like it was worth trying. You liked NYC, but maybe Chicago is where you belonged. And if the adults heard you two giggle and fuss around all night, they didn’t say anything.

By next week you were a Grayson, thanks to Cecil’s string-pulling. Looks like Nolan knew exactly what to say to make the man agree.

Tag list: @bat1212 @trashlanternfish360 @shycreatorreview @syrooo @a-lurking-fae @alittletiredcry @kittzu @plsfckmedxddy @blackhood1229 @nxdxworld @leeiasure @dandelion-delusion @lovebug-apple

my greatest fear is misspelling a name and tagging someone who has never seen this 🫠

[elysianightsss]

AAAHHHHH! HI! So sorry to bother you, but I read the neurodivergent reader x 141 and AHHHHH I AM LITERALLY SCREAMING, DROOLING, CHEWING AT THE BARS OF MY ENCLOSURE they wont let me out

i have a little idea… how would poly 141 react when they find out your job isnt this cute barista or something along those lines, but just a regular stocking associate or a cashier for some huge corporation. like, they know you work. and every time you leave, they see you die a little on the inside from having to go to *insert shitty job*. They just didnt know that you were working there and now they are trying whatever they can to convince you to quote your job and stay home… i know i would rather stay home and take care of them than going to my job…

Oh anon I love your brain! As someone who used to be a cashier before I got my fucking wonderful, literally no joke amazing office job, I fuck with this. I’m writing them as roommates tho don’t know why just deal with it😘

It starts off with a debate over what time you get up in the mornings given how tired you seemed today. But then they realise, they don’t even know what you do for work. Johnny predicts that you’re one of those cute baristas in sweet little aprons with how good the flavoured coffees you make him in the morning when he’s back from his run, are.

Kyle can’t seem to fathom you’re not the office sweetheart he seems to picture you as. Though you’d been living with them for almost over a year now, the guys were gone before you left for work and back long after you arrived home. Still he had it in his head the whole time that you were putting on tight pencil skirts and heels in the morning before going off to work. Something he argues tooth and nail with Johnny about.

John scoffs hearing the guys argue, usually keeping out of it, but this time he can’t help himself when he interjects with, “Yer both chattin shit. She’s obviously a baker with those mouth watering pastries she makes us.” Now that opens up the argument further.

Simon is the only one who doesn’t speculate, instead he walks right up to you on a Sunday night as the guys are all readying themselves for bed and you’re making your lunch for tomorrow. “Luv.” He calls, you glance at him, eyes honing in on the way his grey sweatpants hang low on his hips. Dangerous, dangerous man.

Looking back to the fruit you were slicing, you hum in acknowledgment, “Wot’s ya job?”

You bite back the grin that fights to split your face in two, turning to him you see he visibly softens at your little smile, “I’m a cashier.” You answer, ears tinging red a little. In all honesty you were embarrassed that you worked for one of those big corporations. The dreams you had once but were never able to reach are like a damp on your heart. Like a festering mould that only grows in the worst conditions.

Sometimes you enjoy the people, there are some nice ones that overcome the bad interactions. But everyday you pull on the trousers and trainers, and that itchy uniform top, you wish that a snowstorm would lock you inside the house. You pray to receive a call telling you not to come in due to a fire that started in the bakery. Your heart aches to be told you’re allowed to go home early even if you won’t be paid as much at the end of the month.

Simon hadn’t said much after you told him, his eyes darkened a little when he asked if you enjoyed it and you had answered swiftly and without hesitation; no.

Then suddenly, the guys are leaving for work a little later in the morning. The same time as you. John offering you a lift to work, Johnny making you coffee instead of the other way around, Kyle giving you one of his soft jackets so at least your arms will be comfortable even if your torso is covered in that itchy material.

Simon is the one who places his hand on your forehead and tuts beneath his black surgical mask. You scoff when Simon says he doesn’t think you should go in today, “I feel fine.” You counter with a frown, pushing his big paw away and shoving your feet into the uncomfortable trainers.

John stares down at them like they’ve offended him personally, “You own comfier shoes lass.” Johnny comments and Kyle nods in agreement.

“I have to wear them.” You say quietly wondering why they suddenly have such an interest in your work attire. Have to. Well, that just wasn’t acceptable. The guys didn’t think you should have to do anything.

The weekends were a little weird too. You would usually cook them meals and sweet pastries or cakes with how hard they worked, they deserved nothing less. But Johnny is ushering you away from the kitchen when you walk past the dining table and the marble counter island to make him a coffee.

John says no thank you in the most strained way you’ve ever heard it when you offer to make him a sweet treat. He deflates even further into the sofa when you look offended at his decline. Kyle pulls you close to him on the other side of the couch, putting an arm around you, he continues reading his book but it’s out loud this time.

You sigh snuggling close to him, head on his shoulder when Simon brings over one of the many plushies you’d left on the floor of the lounge, again, and one of the many soft blankets you’d unnecessarily bought for the house. Maybe you could get used to this, you thought as your eyes started to blink slower. It had been a really long week, with lots of assholes. A week of sitting in that uncomfortable chair had done a number on your back too.

You’re just lucky that you’d said from the very beginning that you won’t work weekends, at least you could have those to yourself. The guys became even more attentive, not that they weren’t before, but it increased tenfold. And you wondered why.

Why Kyle is packing you a lunch box everyday now. Why Johnny is cuddling up to you at night just so you sleep warmer, better. Why John is willing to race away from very important paperwork to sit outside the big supermarket you worked at just so you didn’t have to take the bus home. Why Simon keeps buying you lush smelling soaps, bath salts and those sparkly bathbombs he knows you love, you have so many now you don’t know what to do with them. Even when you ask him to stop, he shakes his head and grunts out, “Baths are good for sore muscles.” And that’s all you get.

You just want to know why, what brought all of this on. And most of all why it all suddenly stops.

Almost like a calculated mission, like a big discussion had happened before hand. All of it stopped. They had left long before you got up for work, no lunch ready to go, no soft jacket waiting by the door, no cuddle reading sessions on the weekend, no more new bath stuff, no more lifts and an expectant look in John’s eyes when it gets to dinner time.

They’d done a total three sixty. Like they wanted to show you how good it could be with their help, how much easier life could be, going to work could be, only just to take it all away.

That’s exactly what their plan had been, Simon’s idea mostly with little suggestions made by the rest of them. They all executed it thoroughly, now all that’s left for them is to compete the final step.

“Doll I think you should quit your job.” John goes first, you frown excessively. What the hell is he talking about, you think.

“Have you gone mad?” You huff. John knows you’re annoyed with them, hell they all know you’re angry by their actions. But it’s a necessary evil.

“Not yet I don’t think,” John jokes and feels a little lighter when the corner of your lip quirks up slightly, “I am serious.” He says simply, his blue eyes burning into you before he walks away. You think it so odd, strange that he says that out of the blue.

And then Kyle says it too. Coming into your room with the same baby Yoda squishmallow Simon had placed in your lap two weeks ago, and the same blanket. He gestures towards your bed, it’s subtle but you nod. Failing to hide his grin, Kyle gets snuggled up under the blanket with you, your arms wrapped around the plushie.

He’s halfway through the book, hand brushing through your hair scratching at your scalp deliciously when he broaches the subject, “Bun?” You scrunch up your nose, blinking your eyes open to look at him accusingly. The sight makes him chuckle softly, you’re screaming with your eyes, how dare you make me open my eyes and be fully conscious.

He leans forward before he can stop himself and rubs his nose against yours sweetly, something he tells himself later was just to butter you up before talking. It wasn’t.

“I don’t think you should go to work anymore.” He says simply, with ease, his voice calm.

“What?” You blink rapidly waking yourself up fully to actually take in what he just said.

“Just something to think about bunny.” He shrugs and goes back to reading with that damn lulling voice. You don’t stop him, don’t interrupt but your mind is swirling the same way it had the day before when John had said something similar.

Johnny is not so tactful, shovelling his breakfast in his mouth. Half masticated bacon and scrambled eggs rolling around in his wide open trap, when he spits out the words. “Quit yer job lass, no one wants to be stackin shelves and scannin someone else’s shit all day.” He scoffs washing his food down with the caramel flavoured coffee you made him five minutes ago. He’s quick to put the plate in the sink and place a sloppy kiss on your cheek. His head bend slightly, eyes level with you, “Think about it pet.” He pats your cheek lightly and earns a much more harsh smack to the back of his head by Kyle on the way out of the house.

And finally Simon…well Simon…um Simon just did what he thought was best, what he thought was necessary, what he thought would get you to comply the quickest…

You pant harshly, fingers gripping onto the light bronde hair painfully hard, yanking with each stripe Simon licked up your cunt. You barely noticed John walking passed your open bedroom door with a smirk, Simon had his face buried so deep in your pussy it was hard to think, hard to conjure up your own name let alone open your eyes and catch Kyle and Johnny pushing your door open a little wider and watching for a moment before Kyle drags Johnny away.

Simon’s broken too many times to fix, crooked nose brushed against your clit wonderfully, tongue fucking into your quivering hole making you buck your hips desperate for the release he’d been denying you for around twenty minutes now.

“Say it.” Simon cooed, encouraging you gently. Shaking your head, teeth biting down on your lip, holding on as tightly to your words as you held onto Simon.

Simon grips your jaw in his big paw, a sharp look comes across his features as though he’s about to scold you when you meet his gaze, thumb rubbing your clit in tight, rough circles to keep the stimulation enough, to keep you there on the edge so he has you right where he wants you.

“Say it and you can cum.” He promises, your eyes widen, stinging harshly with their own promise of tears should you keep this up.

“b-but-“

“No buts. We’ll take of everything sweetheart, oll ya afta to do is write the resignation letter, then stay here as our pretty little housewife.” He kissed your clit before moving his thumb back in its place, circling slower this time. You gasp, a broken sob wrenching itself from your chest as your orgasm starts to slip away with the lack of stimulation.

“Please! Please Si! I-“

“Oll ya afta do is say it. Quit, find yourself a cute hobby, cook and clean for us a little. Oll ya afta do is say yes and I’ll let ya cum luv.” He grins evilly when you whine, blowing on your cunt before licking a hard long stripe from your puckered asshole to your swollen, throbbing clit.

“yes! please yes I’ll quit just pl-“

Simon doesn’t let you finish your plea, devouring your pussy like a man starved. He licks, sucks, and flicks your clit, slipping his thick fingers inside your clenching, empty hole thrusting them in and out doing his best to match the pace he set with his tongue on your clit.

You cum hard, untamed. Back arching uncomfortably, limbs shaking rigorously and Simon slurps up everything you give him. You lay there trying to catch your breath when Simon crawls up your body to hover over you. His eyes meet yours when he grins, “Good girl. Now why don’t we get started on that resignation letter hmm.” It wasn’t a question.

Safe to say you happily quit your job.

[yey56]

HARLEY SAWYER X PSYCHOLOGIST READER (morally grey)

You have been working at Playtime CO for some years now, you worked as the head department of psychology but most of your work consisted on providing profiles of the children in the lower levels or as your coworker called them, experiments.

Over the years of working with them and knowing what they are being turned into, you've learned to work with them pre and post experimentation. Another thing you've learned through time was to deal with the partner you were assigned for the project. Harley sawyer.

What is there to say about that man. He is the head scientist in the project but he is absolutely horrible at dealing with them, or with anyone. That's how you were assigned to work along side him . He made the experiments and you maintained them under control.

Initially the ones who needed to be under control where you two because of your crashing personalities. While he was a serious control freak and borderline antisocial you one the contrary seemed to not take things seriously, constantly taunting him and the other stuff and with a permanent sarcastic tone in your voice voice.

Of course at first he didn't like you much, and to be fair you didn't make it easy. Everything he said refering to the experiments was refuted by your obsession to keep a mildly stable mental health in the subject.

Dr Harley sighed heavily looking your way with an annoyed look- What now?- he asked

If you keep treating the subjects like that your are going to break them.-you said in the observation room with him while you were both supervising experiment 1355, a young girl turned into a smiley unicorn.

They're toys, they can be fixed easily- he responded as if he had repeated you that phrase for the 11th time (he did)

You know what I mean Sawyer, they are of no use if their minds break-you explained with a calm smile- or have you forgotten what kind of problems an unstable subject could bring?- your asked him, your question mocking him.

It turned out well with Yarnaby or have you forgotten Dr/Dra (Y/L/N)?- he said imitating your question

You laughed slowly- ah yes the kid you isolated as your pet, great example Dr-

Harley Sawyer was well know for working alone, he didn't like others company and whenever he got an assistant or a guard, he scared them off by being authoritarian or exposing them to dangerous situation. You were the only one at the company who actually could keep up with him.

In the interviews with the children you would lead the conversation while Harley observed and took notes. In the laboratory you were more of an assistant, helping the Dr with whatever tool he needed or just preparing the chemicals.

Even though he hated to admit it, his experiments have been more controlable and causing less troubles since you started working together.

You would be unbothered by the kids, showing enough compassion for them to not recognise you as a threat, but showing not an ounce of regret in your eyes while seeing how Harley turned them into toys.

Do I have to remind you that compassion is useless in this job?- Sawyer said while closing a wound he had made on the experiment while operating

You haven't realised how much time have passed since your prior conversation have ended. It was strange for the doctor to initiate them, usually preferring silence but you weren't complaining.

Compassion can make a person go through great lengths- you said- But I understand that in this line of work it's nothing but a limit, a wall that needs to be broken in order to obtain results.-

For once in a long time both you and Harley agreed on something.

He finally stopped sewing the toys fresh wound and started reading the inform you had redacted about the psychological profile of the child before the operation- you should do another one once she wakes up (Y/L/N)- he reminded you while reading the little notes and highlights you left about her.

You always reserved a space the paper work to express your personal opinions on the experiment and Harley always read them. It's another thing he started doing, considering your opinions and advice as something worth of noticing.

-Doc...-

-Sawyer...-

-Sawyer??...-

-HARLEY!!-

He looked at you not noticing how he had spaced out of his mind for a moment while reading your report.

What is it?- he asked actually surprised that he was actually distracted enough to not hear you.

I was asking you about the experiment 1322, Doey. How are the three conscience developing? are they getting used to they're new body?-you asked. Doey was your favourite experiment so far, it was the one you have showed more interest in and your involvement with him was way bigger than with others. Sawyer didn't understood your fascination with Doey.

Since you both started developing the project, you had shown special interest in the idea of three people combined in a toy. In fact, the reason you had starting working more time with the doctor was because of your eagerness to see how the experiment would turn out.

You have become much more comfortable with one another, even after years of coexisting with each other in the lower levels of Playtime.

Sometimes he would catch himself looking at you while you were with the kids in the interviews. He observed your calm demeanor through the crystal of the observation room. He could see how the children grew more confortable with you while you were joking.

The cognitive abilities of the toys were improving each day thanks to your work so of course the bosses permitted you both to perform as many experiments as needed.

Another thing Harley noticed about the last week's was how you would spend most of your time testing and conversing with 1322. He had grown so used to your presence that it was getting harder to work without you present.

He would never admit that he missed your sarcastic comments about the designs of the toys or how he missed to call you a germ, his germ, whenever you were getting to annoying.

Sometimes when you went to the cafeteria upstairs to get some coffee or a sandwich to eat, you would get him something too.

You haven't brought anything recently and that was because of your new obsession.

He finally finished the last transformation successfully, now the only thing left was for the experiment to wake up and for you to examine them.

Harley wandered through the corridors searching for the one room he knew you would be in, this time, he was the one bringing you a coffee.

He watched you through the crystal of the observation room. You always insisted on talking face to face with Doey. The mass of doe seemed calmer with you around. The two more peaceful personalities of Doey talked to you, voicing their regrets and fears. Though the violent part of the creature always seemed reluctant to talk to you. Not responding what was asked of him or simply not responding at all.

Dra/Dr ( Y/L/N), your presence is required in the observation room number 29- Sawyer interrupted your conversation. Doey seemed afraid for a moment only to turn his expression into an angry one. With a gesture of your hand you calmed him down and signaled silently for Harley to turn on the ice so the doe wouldn't scape.

You exited the room to find your coworker handing you a cup of coffee. You looked at him with a raised brow but accepted it either way.

Well, look who it is.-you said with satisfied grin- I thought you were supervising Yarnaby?- you commented

Yes I was, are you aware of how much time you spend with that... Mass?- he said with contempt- what's so fascinating about him anyways? He's only been trouble.

You're only trouble as far as I'm aware- he rolled his eyes you sipped again- he's a time bomb and I want to be there to see it explode- you finally responded- I want to be the germ that makes him mutate.

Germ... It's a fitting name for you- he laughed with a smooth voice.-

You both stayed silent in the middle of the room, he looked at you calmly while you ended your coffee. He was looking at you trough his glasses without blinking, with his tired eyes.

You looked back at him and when you realised he had his fist raised at you, brushing with his tumb the remaining coffee right next to your upper lip.

Neither of you realised how close you where, the dim light of the room illuminated both of your bodies. Yours against the door and his right in front of you, your external layers of clothing touching lightly.

He got even closer, feeling his breath against your own. His thumb caressing your cheek

He thought about everything that had happened recently. How Pierre and the ones closer to him had started to go against you both in the semanal meeting with the executives regarding the experiments. Pierre's demands being met by your indifference, claiming that you will keep securing the experiments as much as possible.

The doctor remembered how you, just as him, were completely devoted to the project. He had became paranoic for the past months. More irritable, unwilling to socialise with someone who wasn't you or the toys

He got even closer to you, he though he heard you whisper his name. You closed the gap between the both of you. Hands on his shoulders

Lip against lip, his hand still in your face. You felt that Harley was the only human you could trust down here. No one understood you like he did. Your desperation to contribute to humanity, your desire of achieving a more lasting body. One that could endure more.

If you ever shared this with anyone else, you'll probably be in trouble.

Your closeness with Harley and his with you was out of understanding, a feeling of trust and comfortability that had just materialised thought he kiss you were sharing with each other.

He slowly pulled apart, his breathing uneven and one of his locks of hair misplaced a slight smile on his face. His forehead touched yours and he whispered just above your lips- My germ~

Only if you knew... That exact same day Harley Sawyer would be reduce no nothing more than a system, a screen, a conscience.

At the mercy of playtimes desires while you... Well ... Your whereabouts were unknown, even though they knew you didn't get out of the building.

Somewhere... hiding between wires and toy corpses...

I'm in love with the voice of the doctor AKA Harley Sawyer.

My drawing of Harley Sawyer:

[jasontoddsotherhalf]

Hey guys, I gave it a try lol let me know what yall think!

Jason Todd isn't a cruel guy.

Not on purpose, anyways. He saw some shit as a kid, as any kid did growing up in Crime Alley. His parents were murdered when he was still very young and he'd been taken in by THE Batman. Regardless of what anyone says, beating criminals up every night of your tween years does affect one's physce. Getting beat with a crowbar and killed by Joker does worse.

But now Jason is back, and he's stronger, and he's smarter. Sure he's scarred up and violent, but he's finally his own soilder, his own dog. And Jason really does love helping people. Which is why along side running the biggest crime ring Gotham had seen in years, he also works for a Mental Health Helpline.

He didn't get many calls directed to him, but he did get one tonight as he sat in his shitty apartment in Gotham, tending to a wound on his leg a few days old. He answered the phone, putting it on speaker and laying it on the coffee table.

"Hello, Gotham Mental Health Hotline. How may I help you tonight?"

A deep voice comes from the other side of the phone, a voice that Jason had heard in his dreams for years, praising him, scolding him, reading him stories to help him get to bed, waking up from resting to go fight crime.

"I'm not at risk. I don't need help." Bruce Wayne says slowly.

Jason clears his throat, his eyes narrowing. Would Bruce know it was him. Would Bruce ever be able to recognize him at all?

"I understand." Jason answered. "Is there any way I can help?"

Bruce took a shakey breath. "I don't need...help. I just...I have some heavy regrets waying on me. Mistakes that I've carried with me, guilt that acts like a noose, tighter recently than it has been in years. My son...I messed up so badly with my son. I want to fulfill my promise to him. I want to make it all okay again for my boy."

Jason shivered. He's not talking about you, idiot. He tells himself. He doesn't care that you're dead. He never cared. He's talking about perfect Dick or clever Tim. Not better-off-dead Jason Fucking Todd.

Jason slowly went back to tending to the open wound, which had started bleeding from how hard he was unintentionally prodding at it. "Have you tried talking to him? I'm sure he'd understand." Jason said through gritted teeth. It wasn't him. Batman didn't need Jason, so Bruce certainly didn't either.

"I would tell him. If he ever showed up. God, I'd tell him anything and everything." Something screeched in the background on Bruce's end and Bruce swore softly. Jason pictured him suddenly speeding through Gotham streets, the Batmobile swerving dangerously, recklessly.

Jason didn't say anything, just waited for his father- for Bruce Wayne- to keep speaking. He continued, after a moment. "I only see him sometimes, when I dream. And he's in my arms again, young and bright and so full of life and potential." So he was talking about Dick. The first Robin who had grown up, fought with Batman, and left, never to return, not as he had been. Dick was Nightwing now, and led his own team, though he was still close with Bruce. Jason relaxed. This call was not about him. He could continue with his plans of vengeance without feeling guilty. I'm sure I'll laugh about this later.

"I'm sorry sir..." Jason trailed off awkwardly. Bruce spoke before Jason could say anything else.

"He's...he's dead." Jason froze. Everything went still. It seemed as though the cars outside all went skidding to a halt, the blood in Jason's veins went cold. The only sound was the old light above him flickering. Jason stuttered slightly as he quickly searched up both Nightwing and Robin on line, a dark part of him hoping one of them had died. But no, there were only two articles published within the last few hours and it was about a case Robin, Nightwing, and Batman had dismantled the previous night.

Jason swallowed. "I'm...so sorry, sir. Do you want to talk about him?" Jason wanted him to say no, needed Bruce to say no. For once he wanted Bruce to close off everything and everyone and retreat back to the dark corner of his mind where he told no one anything.

And there was a long silence between them, Jason was sure Bruce would hang up.

Batman would have. But Bruce didn't. "His name was Jason. And he was the most golden and beautiful boy on this planet. You would have never thought so from judt glancing at him once. His hair was flat and dark, And he was short and skinny and always had dirt on him somewhere. But it was in his eyes, and in his laugh. That's where his love was held. He cared so much. About everyone. He always wanted to help. He would always rush forward, even if it put him at risk. He didn't care about himself. He cared more about the wellbeing of others. He was so sweet and..." Bruce's voice cracked. "I just want my son back. My sweet boy." Jason didn't say anything. He felt his throat burn and his eyes blur. "I-i'm sorry sir. He sounds...amazing. I'm sure whatever it is you feel guilty over..." Jason took a deep breath. "I'm sure he forgives you." He lied. Partially lied. Jason didn't know anymore. One conversation where one participant didn't even know who the other was did not count as closure, and nothing was different. But it wasn't the same either. Bruce cared. All this time Jason had been looking for Batman to show the effect Jason's death had on him, when really it was Bruce he should have been looking at.

Bruce was quiet for a long long time. "I wish that was true, son. But I don't think so. Still, thank you for saying so. And thank you for listening. You're a good kid." Bruce didn't say anything else before hanging up. Jason sat in silence for a moment, frozen in time, feeling dizzy. Then he sprung up, his injured leg aching and dripping blood onto the floor, and he ran to the bathroom, falling in front of the toilet and throwing up anything he had eaten in the past 24 hours.

AU, where Jason returns to Gotham, but in between of his evil mastermind plans and managing the criminal empire, he starts working in this anonymous psychological hotline services.

And gets a call from Bruce-fucking-Wayne.

Well. It is not like Bruce announces that he is Bruce Wayne — it is anonymous, after all — but Jason knows his father's voice, alright?

'I don't need a physiological help,' his father tells him the minute he picks up the phone.

Jason... Snorts.

'Of course,' he nods, making his voice nicer. 'How can I help you?'

Bruce pauses, his breath hitching for a second; almost as if he recognized Jason's voice.

'My... my son thinks I need it, but I am fine,' Bruce insists. 'Still... I want to, well, fulfil a promise I gave... for once.'

Jason rolls his eyes, a familiar irritation flaring up in green flames before his eyes. He wonders who is this lucky son that gets to have such a diligent, responsible father - Dickhead? Tim? Damian?

'I see,' he breathes out, trying to follow a protocol of the calls. 'I am sure he will appreciate your loyalty. Will you tell him about it?'

'If he appears,' something screeches in the background, and if Jason closes his eyes, he can easily imagine Bruce leaning back on the armchair, in the Batcave. 'I... He only ever appears in my dreams, my boy.'

Jason freezes.

'Excuse me?'

'I... He is dead, my son.'

Had someone else died? Jason frowns, reaching for his phone, typing anxiously Nightwing and Robin in the search bar, trying to see if there is something serious happened; because he can't be talking about the second Robin, can he-

'I am sorry,' he blurts out, eyes drifting back to notes on the table, with some common phrases that can be used in this situation. 'I... Do you want to talk about, sir?'

Bruce is silent for a while. Jason thinks he is about to drop the call, but then, he sighs heavily on the line:

'His name was Jason. And he was the brightest boy.'

Jason mutes the microphone. He thinks he is going to vomit.

[honeyyyblue]

✧ it's hard to spend time together when satoru is barely ever home, always away with some mission, due to his reputation as 'the strongest'.

that's why he spends the time he does get buried deep inside you because he knows how rare moments like these are.

moments like right now.

he's fucking you from behind, your tear-streaked face pressed against the mattress as he pounds into you. your molten walls clench around his girthy length and he groans at the feeling.

'that's it, good girl. fuck, you're taking it so well, precious.'

''toru, ngh-,' you're so fucked out you can't even form actual words.

'what's that, sweetheart?'

you manage to mumble something along the lines of 'so full, need more, 'toru'.

satoru's cock hurts at how desperate you sound.

'look at you,' he coos 'always begging for my cock.' you whine into the mattress when he punctuates his sentence with an exceptionally harder and deeper thrust.

'you used to be my sweet angel, so innocent and pure,' he hisses when you clench around him, harder this time 'since when did you become such a cockhungry little slut?'

your cheeks flame crimson. you're embarrassed because, well, he's right. every moment he's away has you thinking about him. his cock, his hands until your own hands creep down your body to in between your legs until you have yourself whimpering his name out to nothing.

you were down bad. and it's not any different for satoru.

'don't worry, baby. if you want cock so bad, i'll give it to you. i'll give you anything- everything.'

he hooks his arm around your waist and pulls you up, your back flush against his broad chest. the new position makes him shift inside you and the feeling has you sobbing.

''toru, please.'

'please what? use your words, baby,' the grin on his face is huge as he watches you try form coherent sentences. his other hand wraps around your throat, pressing just hard enough to weaken the airflow to your head.

''toru, i'm gonna cum,' your head is spinning and you're pawing at the hand at your throat.

'aw, does my baby want to come?' he purrs in your ear.

'yes,' you manage to breathe out.

'then, beg.'

cocky little shit.

'pleasee, 'toru,' you whine, helplessly 'please, please, please. i've been a good girl. just please let me.'

he leans in to press a kiss against your shoulder his snowy hair tickling your skin. 'go ahead,' he whispers against your neck 'come for me, love.'

and god, oh, yes, you do.

your orgasm has you seeing stars, your vision going a little blurry at the white hot pleasure.

the sensation of your walls spasming around his length sends him over the edge, a few more thrusts and you feel him empty inside, his thick release painting your walls white. his hold on your throat loosens and you catch your breaths together as you come down from your high.

he pulls out of you and gently lays you down on the bed, joining you momentarily. you've lost all feeling in your legs and there's a dull ache between them. you slowly turn towards satoru to find him smiling drowsily at you, bright blue eyes hooded from exhaustion. you smile back at him, too tired to formulate a thought. he pulls you toward him and nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck.

'i love you, sweetheart' was the last thing you heard before you drifted off to sleep.

please do not steal, modify, or translate my work.