#one of the only assassins i enjoy playing

[suliigwp]

"Only Mercy I Could Give

King Maximilian Verstappen x Assassin!Reader

part of the TRONAB series

First Read All You Need To Know Here

SULI: PART TWO IS HERE YES— get ready it's a long one. I'm sure you sensed from the first part yes this is heavily inspired by GOT which I'm not hiding the books are an absolute masterpiece

Hope you enjoy this🥹

PART ONE OF THIS STORY HERE

Warnings: Betrayal, sex scene MDNI, duel, murder, blood

The fire in the study was low, barely more than a shimmer behind the grate. The hour was too late for strategy, too early for sleep. Max stood by the arched window, crownless, cloakless, his hands resting lightly on the stone ledge. Below, the courtyard was quiet. Wind in the trees. No guards at the gate — he’d dismissed them all.

Behind him, the door clicked shut. He didn’t have to turn to know it was her.

“I assume you don’t call me at this hour to talk of roses, Your Majesty.”

That voice — precise, soft, never sweet. She didn’t bow. She never did in private. He had never told her not to. But she’d decided. As she did with everything.

He turned, slow, expression unreadable. “No.”

A pause. She stood perfectly still, as if sculpted from darkness itself. Her veil was off — she rarely wore it in these private meetings now. He wondered when he’d stopped expecting it.

“I need your eyes on something,” he said.

“Yours not sharp enough?”

“Not for this.”

She tilted her head. It was not surprise. It was curiosity. That was worse.

He walked to the heavy table, unrolling the map in silence. Cities and riverways. Markings drawn in red ink — recent movement in the eastern border. Refugees. Tensions with the Myrellian tribes.

Her gaze swept over the lines once. Twice. Then she said:

“You’re planning a show of force."

“A measured one.”

She looked up. “Measured shows of force are like careful poisonings. They only feel clean to the hand that pours.”

Max didn’t flinch. He met her eyes.

“I don’t trust their envoy,” he said. “He delays answers. Dodges specifics. He brings gifts and offers only riddles. If they mean to stall, I want to show them I know how to end a silence.”

A breath.

Then — her hands, gloved in black, moved forward across the table, brushing a different point on the map.

“You want to threaten without striking.” Her fingers traced the smaller city near the border. “Then don’t send soldiers. Send resources. Grain. Wood. Medicine. Reinforce the border by healing it.”

Max stared at her.

“That doesn’t show strength.”

She raised her eyes again. There was steel in them. “No. It shows power. Strength can be challenged. Power cannot.”

He said nothing.

Because she was right.

Because he hated that she was right.

And because no one had ever spoken to him like this. Not without fear. Not without flattery. Only her.

“What would you do,” he asked quietly, “if you were me?”

She considered this. The fire cracked in the silence.

“I’d send the aid. Make it public. I’d send someone clever to speak to the envoy, someone he’ll underestimate. And I’d let him know — not by words, but by results — that I already know the ending to the game he’s playing.”

Another silence.

He looked at her.

“You’re not afraid I’ll take your advice and have you blamed if it fails?”

“No,” she said. “Because you won’t.”

He frowned. “I won’t take it?”

“You won’t let it fail.”

That… did something to him. He didn’t show it. Not in his face. But it hit somewhere below the armor. Somewhere closer to human.

And then she did something rare.

Something he wasn’t prepared for.

She smiled.

Not the wry twist of her lips. Not the blade behind the veil.

A real one. Small. Sincere. Like this moment mattered.

He didn’t know what to say.

Didn’t know what it meant.

But he knew this: he’d come to test her. To measure her mind. To catch her in ambition or arrogance.

Instead… she steadied something in him.

And that was more dangerous than any weapon she could’ve drawn.

...

It begins with a letter. A plain thing. Cream parchment, crimson wax. Delivered at breakfast by a junior scribe who looked like he wanted to vanish into the floor. Max cracked the seal absently, not expecting anything of weight. But the words struck like steel.

"Your Majesty, the envoy from Arkessia arrived early. He requests an audience — but first met privately with Lady Meravin. For nearly an hour."

Max stared at the parchment. The envoy wasn’t due until next week. And no one meets a foreign diplomat before the king. Not unless they want to make a statement. Or pass something. Or plan something.

He dismissed the scribe without comment. Then sat. And stewed.

She entered the war room less than an hour later. Not hurried. Not apologetic. Her hair was braided tight, the coils pinned with silver. Her gown was ceremonial black and deep pewter, the colors of mourning. Of memory. Of her house. Her veil obscured much, but Max saw everything he needed. She moved like she belonged. And that—more than anything—struck him. She bowed only faintly. Took her place at the edge of the map table without being summoned. Without explaining. As if nothing was wrong. As if she hadn’t done exactly what would get any other courtier exiled.

She didn’t bow properly. She didn’t ask permission. She knows that I know.

And she said nothing. Which was worse than anything she could have said.

That night, he walked the halls alone. No guards. No armor. Just boots on polished marble, echoing through silence. His thoughts were knives.

His feet took him to the north wing. Past locked archives, past stone balconies shivering with wind. Until he stopped before her door. His fist hovered near the wood. Raised. Shaking.

What if she was warning the envoy? What if she’s part of something larger? What if she’s playing the long game?

He heard her voice. Soft. Low. Speaking to someone inside. A woman—likely her handmaid. But not in Vessic. Not the dialect of the court. A language he did not know. Slipping and smooth. Fluid.

Max’s blood ran cold. He stepped back. And walked away before he could do something he’d regret.

He didn’t sleep. The fire had died to ash. He sat on the edge of his bed, shirt loose, hands laced in front of his mouth like he was praying to no god at all.

"She was raised among diplomats. Of course she knows foreign tongues." "She met the envoy early because she knew I’d be late." "It was a calculated advantage. Not a betrayal." "She knows I’m watching her." "She wouldn’t make a mistake."

And finally: "She wouldn’t betray me."

He paused. Sick. Staring at that word. Me. Not the crown. Not the kingdom. When did it become personal?

"You don’t get to think like that," he whispered aloud. But it was too late. He already had.

The next morning, he watched from the top landing near the armory wing. She stood near the garden corridor, speaking to a stablehand. Young. Nervous. Max couldn’t hear the words, but he saw the sweat on the boy’s neck, the way his eyes flicked toward the hallway like he knew this conversation should not be happening.

She leaned in. Spoke low. The boy passed her something. Small. Folded. A parchment scrap. She accepted it with grace. Folded it into her sleeve with no hesitation. No glance. No flinch. Just turned and walked away. Like she hadn’t just done something deeply suspicious in open daylight.

Intercepting messages. Hidden meetings. A courier’s gesture. A look of guilt. Every alarm in Max’s body screamed. But he didn’t move. Didn’t call for her. Didn’t question the boy.

"It could be innocent," he told himself. "She might have been retrieving something on my behalf." "She has been loyal. Every time."

But beneath the excuses: You don’t want to know the answer. Because if she is loyal, you’ve already fallen. And if she’s not— She’s the only one who could bring you down.

By midday, the thought had rotted him from the inside out. He barely noticed the council’s talk of troop movement. He signed a parchment he didn’t read.

Until Lando found him. The guard captain entered quietly. No armor today. Just the dark wool of his station, marked by the sword badge on his chest.

"Max," he said, not bothering with formality. Not here.

Max didn’t look up. "If you’ve come to talk about the envoy, I don’t want to hear it."

"That’s not what I came for," Lando replied.

He hesitated, then added, "I came because the others are starting to whisper. About her. About how close she is to you. About things they’re seeing."

"What things?" Max's voice was flat.

"She receives messages at odd hours. She walks halls no one assigns her to. She’s never surprised when new information breaks."

"That sounds like someone doing her job."

Lando tilted his head. "It also sounds like someone who already knows what the outcome will be."

A silence stretched between them. Then:

"Your Majesty. Shall we begin monitoring Lady Meravin more closely? There are... patterns."

Max looked up slowly. His eyes were tired. Hollow.

"No," he said. "You’ll do nothing."

Lando frowned. "You sure about that?"

Max didn’t answer.

Lando pressed, more gently this time. "You don’t usually doubt your instincts. But this—this feels like something’s twisting them. Like she’s already under your skin."

Max closed his eyes. "She’s under my protection."

The words tasted wrong. Felt heavier than steel.

Lando went still. "That didn’t sound like a king talking. That sounded like a man trying to protect something he already lost to."

Max didn’t flinch. He just said, quietly: "Then pray I haven’t."

Lando didn’t speak again. He just left.

And Max sat there in the growing dark, not a king, not a strategist. Just a man drowning in the echo of his own certainty.

...

The great hall was filled with flickering gold light. Torches set in stone. Braziers glowing low. The hush before court was never truly quiet — the rustle of silks, the murmured gossip, the tension in waiting.

Max entered last, as always.

Cloak trailing, crown perfectly aligned. He took his place on the throne without a glance toward the courtiers.

And beside him — the seat on the right.

Still empty.

As it had been for years.

Not since the war. Not since the betrayal.

The left was for function — military counsel, advisors. That seat changed often.

But the right?

It had remained untouched.

Until now.

He let the chamber settle into silence. Nobles bowed. Scribes stood ready. The council waited for him to speak.

Instead, he turned his head — not far, not dramatically — and looked toward her.

Lady Meravin stood among the gathered retainers, clothed in the same black and silver she always wore. Her hands were folded, her expression calm.

Then his voice broke the hush.

“Lady Meravin.”

She inclined her head. “Your Majesty.”

He gestured.

“To me. Sit.”

A flicker in the crowd. Eyes darted. Whispers started before they could be stifled.

That seat.

That chair.

Her?

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile. Didn’t question.

She stepped forward with the poise of someone who understood gravity — and carried it anyway.

Her slippers made no sound against the stone as she walked. Every movement deliberate. She didn’t hesitate as she reached the dais. Didn’t falter when she passed the line that marked where courtiers ended and power began.

She stood beside him.

And waited.

He met her eyes, just once.

Then nodded — the smallest thing.

And she sat.

On the right.

The hall seemed to inhale. Someone dropped a parchment. A lady covered her mouth with a fan.

But Max didn’t explain.

He didn’t speak.

He just looked ahead, as if this had always been the arrangement.

As if her presence there — so close, so chosen — wasn’t history shifting beneath them.

He felt the heat of her near him. Felt the precise calm she radiated.

She didn’t speak.

She didn’t need to.

Because in that moment, she understood.

This wasn’t favor.

This wasn’t strategy.

This was trust.

The kind of trust that said: If you turn, I won’t look away. If you strike, I won’t stop you. But until then...

You sit beside me.

The court was in full swing now.

Lords from the southern provinces argued trade routes. A noblewoman from Varneth claimed grain shortages. The High Chamberlain droned on about road repairs and merchant taxes, his voice like a slow bleed.

Max sat tall, motionless on the throne.

But his mind drifted. Not away from the discussion — but toward the presence at his right.

Lady Meravin.

She sat as if carved from stillness. Hands resting lightly in her lap, posture perfect, veil tucked back behind one ear so she could listen more clearly. Her face gave nothing. Not boredom. Not opinion. Only thought.

But he felt it.

She was listening harder than any man in the room.

And then, as the Duke of Grenell raised a pompous complaint about northern tariffs, Max felt it:

A shift.

Her shoulder brushing his — a deliberate, slow lean. Not so close that anyone would call it improper. But close enough that the air changed.

Her voice was velvet against his ear. Not breathy. Not coy.

Precise.

“He’s inflating the numbers. Grenell's mines haven’t been operational since last spring. He’s hiding a loss.”

A heartbeat.

Max didn’t turn his head.

He didn’t have to.

Another whisper. Lower.

“If he gets more grain, he’ll trade it under the table to Arkessia. He owes them favors. Don’t let him dress it up as desperation.”

Max’s hand tensed on the armrest.

Grenell was still speaking, oblivious.

Max raised a hand — just one finger.

Silence fell instantly.

He turned his eyes toward Grenell. Calm. Cold.

“Your records will be reviewed independently,” he said. “If even a margin of this claim is false… the punishment will match the deception.”

Grenell stuttered. Bowed. “O-of course, Your Majesty.”

Max didn’t look at him again.

He leaned back.

And felt her settle beside him once more, silent as the night she came from.

His pulse was steady, but his thoughts were not.

Because her mouth had been so close.

Because no one in this hall saw what he did — the way she moved without fear, whispered like a blade sliding past armor.

And he had listened.

More than that — he’d acted on her word.

She didn’t smile. Didn’t shift.

But he could feel something electric in the space between them now. A quiet acknowledgment.

They had just drawn blood, together, without standing.

...

The door to the vaulted chamber shut with a dull finality.

No guards outside. No scribes. No torches in the hall. Just four men already waiting at the circular table beneath the carved lion emblem of House Verstappen.

Max removed his cloak and tossed it onto the chair beside him.

Oscar stood first. He didn’t bow — not here. None of them did.

“Your Majesty.”

“Oscar.”

He nodded to the others: Lewis, seated back with his fingers steepled in thought; Charles, glancing up from the sealed letters in front of him; Lando, pacing with his arms crossed.

This was the room where wars began and ended. Not on maps — but here. In strategy. In shadow.

Max took his seat.

“Talk.”

Lando stepped forward first, a scroll in hand. “We’ve traced correspondence between the envoy from Arkessia and one of Grenell’s men — the timing matches Lady Meravin’s warning.”

Max’s jaw didn’t move, but something flickered in his eyes. “She was right.”

“She was,” Charles murmured, flicking a glance his way. “But that doesn’t mean she’s safe.”

Max’s eyes narrowed. “Explain.”

Lewis shifted forward, his voice low and measured. “We’ve all seen what she’s capable of. She doesn’t miss details. Doesn’t waste words. She’s too perfect.”

Oscar, quiet until now, added: “And the right kind of perfect makes people nervous.”

Max didn’t respond right away.

Then: “You think she’s lying to me.”

Lando hesitated. “Not necessarily. But we think she’s hiding things.”

Max’s fingers tapped once against the wood.

“What do we know about her history?”

Charles opened a slim leather ledger. “Northern court. Her father was a military diplomat. Died under suspicious circumstances. Mother vanished. No siblings on record. No surviving staff from her household, either.”

Lewis raised an eyebrow. “Clean. Too clean.”

Oscar spoke again — softer this time. “Max, you placed her at your right. You understand what that looks like to the court.”

“I don’t care what it looks like,” Max snapped.

A pause.

Then: “She’s done more in a month than half the court has in five years.

“Which is exactly why it matters,” Lewis said, sharp now. “If she turns—”

“She won’t.”

The silence was deafening.

The others looked at each other, then at Max.

And finally, Lando — carefully — stepped forward and placed a folded slip of paper on the table.

“She passed this note during court. The stablehand swore it was a supply request, but it was encoded.”

Max’s eyes darkened.

“And?”

Lando hesitated. “Encrypted using your father’s cipher. The one you had buried with him.”

A beat.

Max stared at the parchment.

Oscar said it gently. “We don’t want to be right. But we can’t afford to be wrong.”

Max didn’t speak. Just stared at the folded message, his fingers still against the table. His eyes unreadable.

Then, quietly: “I’ll speak to her. Alone.”

Lewis frowned. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

“I don’t need wise,” Max said. “I need answers.”

And with that, he stood.

The others watched him leave — a king with too much silence in his eyes, and far too much already unraveling beneath the surface.

...

The court had emptied an hour ago.

The torches had burned low. The war table was bare, maps rolled and sealed, ink drying in glass bottles. Outside, the halls were hushed. Only the fire remained, crackling low behind the iron grate.

She entered without ceremony.

No veil tonight. Her hair was still pinned high, the silver comb glinting faintly in the hearthlight. She wore deep charcoal, not mourning black — still somber, but softer at the edges. Shadows kissed the curves of her cheekbone as she stepped forward.

“You called for me,” she said. Not cold. Just simple.

Max stood near the fireplace, one hand curled around a glass he hadn’t touched. He looked up only when the door shut behind her.

“I wanted to ask,” he said, “how you knew about Grenell.”

She didn’t hesitate.

“I saw his third-in-command at the Arkessian camps two months ago. Said he was hunting smugglers. Didn’t bring back any prisoners. Just a cart full of coin.”

A pause. She walked closer.

“And you watched him?” Max asked.

“I watched everyone.”

She said it like it was obvious. Like breathing.

That answer should’ve made him bristle. But it didn’t. It made something inside him shift — unfamiliar and careful.

He studied her for a long beat.

“You say that like you’re not part of them,” he murmured.

“I’m not.”

“Then what are you?”

She glanced toward the fire. Then, without asking, crossed to the chair opposite him and sat.

Still poised. Still sharp. But quieter now.

“I was taught to be what the moment needs,” she said. “Sometimes that means a diplomat. Sometimes a threat. Sometimes… a shadow.”

Max tilted his head. “And what are you now?”

She didn’t smile, but something flickered in her expression.

“Right now?” she said softly. “I think I’m tired.”

The honesty caught him off guard.

It broke the rhythm of interrogation. Shattered it with something… human.

“about the note you passed during court. The one our men found.”

She paused, but only for a breath.

“I assume you want to know what it said.”

“Yes.”

The firelight catching the sharp line of her jaw.

“It was a request for supplies,” she said quietly. “Grain and medical herbs. Nothing more.”

Max’s eyes narrowed. “Encoded.”

“Old family cipher,” she admitted. “My father taught me — as a precaution. Not as a secret.”

His fingers clenched briefly on the glass. “To whom was it sent?”

“An old ally of my house,” she replied. “Now a merchant in the eastern borders. Someone who’s no threat to you. Or me.”

He studied her.

“The cipher is yours. The message is yours. And yet, you didn’t tell me about it.”

She gave a faint shrug.

“Trust is a currency, Your Majesty. I don’t spend it lightly. But I also don’t owe you every thought.”

Her voice softened, just barely.

“I wanted you to find it for yourself.”

Max took a slow breath.

He looked away.

When he met her eyes again, the suspicion hadn’t left — but it was tempered.

“Why?”

“Because,” she said, “I want you to trust me without needing to watch every step.”

The fire flickered between them.

Silence settled like a third presence.

Then she took a step back, breaking the weight of the moment.

“I’ve told you what I can. What I can’t say, I hope you understand.”

Max said nothing.

He only nodded once.

And in that quiet, unspoken exchange, something fragile and dangerous settled.

He leaned back in his chair. Set the glass down. For once, he didn’t follow the thread of suspicion. He didn’t press.

Instead, he asked:

“Where were you raised?”

She blinked. Slowly.

“Does that matter?”

“I don’t ask questions unless I want the answers.”

A beat.

She looked into the fire. Her voice, when it came, was quieter than he expected.

“A northern court. Cold walls. No laughter. I learned to read lips before I learned to read books. Power wasn’t something given. It was something you had to take before someone took it from you.”

Max watched her face. She wasn’t giving him information. She was… remembering.

He didn’t interrupt.

And she didn’t stop.

“My father used to say, ‘Trust is for the softhearted and the dead.’ I believed him for a long time.”

She finally looked at him then.

“But I’m starting to wonder if he was wrong.”

Something moved in Max’s chest. Not sharp. Not violent.

Just quiet. Like warmth through cold stone.

“I think,” he said slowly, “you’re the only person in this court who speaks to me like I’m just… a man.”

“I think,” she replied, “you’re the only one who ever listens like one.”

Their eyes locked.

The fire cracked. Somewhere beyond the door, a bell tolled the hour.

But neither of them moved.

Not toward each other.

Not away.

Just… still.

For once, silence wasn’t strategy. It wasn’t a game.

It was a shared breath in a world that rarely gave them space to exhale.

...

The council meeting had dragged on for hours. Max sat at the head of the table, maps and reports scattered before him, but his attention wasn’t on the details.

It was on her.

Lady Meravin sat quietly to his right, listening. Not interrupting. Not demanding. But every now and then, her gaze would flicker up, sharp and unguarded, meeting his.

He found himself looking back longer than he intended.

The way her fingers tapped a slow rhythm on the table — a subtle dance of patience and calculation.

The faint crease of her brow when she considered the words of the general.

The slight tilt of her head when the youngest advisor spoke, a silent question hanging in the air.

He realized with a start: he was studying her. Not as a subject to be judged or a threat to be managed, but as something… else.

A strange warmth pooled beneath the weight of his crown.

He caught himself.

And pulled his gaze away.

But the feeling lingered.

Like a whispered promise in the quiet of the hall.

...

The castle was quiet. The distant murmur of servants fading with the night. Only the soft crackle of the hearth filled the chamber where Max stood, the firelight flickering against the stone walls and casting long shadows.

His gaze was fixed—unbidden and relentless—on Lady Meravin as she moved gracefully through the room. She seemed unaware, or perhaps deliberately indifferent, to the way the flickering light caught the soft silver threads woven through her dark hair, or how the delicate curve of her neck invited a gaze that he chastised himself for stealing.

This is no way for a king to regard a lady, he told himself, the voice of duty harsh and unyielding in his mind.

But the truth was sharper, more insistent.

He was caught in the quiet pull of something far beyond respect or politics.

His chest tightened as he noticed the slight parting of her lips when she spoke softly to the shadows, the way her hands folded before her with a grace that was both poised and vulnerable.

He didn’t desire her as a prize to be claimed or a conquest to be won.

No, this was something deeper, something tender.

He longed to reach out—not to seize or command—but to touch her gently. To trace the fine lines of her face, the arch of her brow, the sweep of her lashes.

To hold her—not in possession, but in protection.

His heart hammered, each beat a slow, aching echo that reverberated through his entire being.

He clenched his fists as if to hold himself together, to quiet the storm of feelings raging just beneath the surface.

You must not think this way, he whispered fiercely to himself. You are a king. She is a lady of the court. There is honor in restraint.

Yet, even as his mind waged war against his desire, his body betrayed him.

Every glance, every breath she took, drew him closer—not physically, but in a way that burned hotter than any flame in the hearth.

He found himself imagining the softness of her skin beneath his fingertips, the warmth of her cheek pressed against his palm, the steady beat of her heart beneath his hand.

He wanted to cradle her, to be the strength she could lean on—a sanctuary amid the dangers that surrounded them both.

And in that silence, filled only with flickering shadows and the echo of his own breath, Max understood the truth he had long resisted:

He was falling—completely and irrevocably—for Lady Meravin.

A truth as fragile and fierce as the dawn.

...

The grand library lay silent under the heavy dusk, its towering shelves casting long shadows that mingled with the soft glow of a single candle flickering between them on the massive oak table. The scent of aged parchment and beeswax filled the air, wrapping the space in a hushed reverence. Outside, the castle settled into stillness, the distant echo of footsteps fading into the night.

Max sat across from Lady Meravin, his posture uncharacteristically relaxed, the usual kingly rigidity softened by the intimacy of the moment. His eyes, sharp and calculating by day, now held a quiet vulnerability that no courtier had ever seen. The weight of his crown seemed to slip from his shoulders, replaced by the fragile hope that perhaps here, among these ancient tomes, he could be something more than a ruler.

She met his gaze steadily, her usual composed mask replaced by a raw openness — eyes that spoke of battles fought in silence and walls built around a guarded heart.

“I’ve lived my life with every word weighed like gold,” she began, voice low and steady, “in courts where trust is scarce and betrayal lies in every shadow. To be seen is to be vulnerable, and vulnerability can be fatal.” She paused, fingers tracing the rim of the candle’s brass holder. “It’s lonely… more than I ever thought it would be.”

Max’s breath caught, the ache in her admission striking a chord deep within him.

“I understand more than you might believe,” he confessed quietly. “A throne is built on suspicion, alliances forged with one eye always watching. The king’s mask is worn to hide the man beneath — a man who fears losing everything he’s sworn to protect.”

Her gaze softened, and for a moment, the grandeur of the throne room, the burdens of rulership, and the endless dance of politics fell away between them.

Silence stretched, but it was not empty. It was full — charged with something neither dared to name.

“I don’t want to face this alone anymore,” she whispered, voice trembling with a rare fragility. “If you would let me… I want to be someone you can lean on. Not just a shadow at court, but something real.”

His chest tightened, the walls he had so carefully built around his heart beginning to crack.

“I want that too,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “Someone who stands beside me — not above, not beneath — but equal. Someone to share the weight when it becomes too much to bear alone.”

Their eyes locked, and in that suspended moment, the world outside ceased to exist. The flickering candlelight danced in her eyes, reflecting his own longing and fear.

Slowly, she reached out, fingers trembling ever so slightly as they brushed a stray lock of hair from his brow. The touch was feather-light, but it sent a shock of warmth through his veins.

His hands found hers on the table, warm and steady, gripping gently as if anchoring himself to this newfound truth.

Their breaths mingled in the hush of the library, the flickering candle casting dancing shadows across their faces. Max’s hands, still cradling hers, trembled slightly with the weight of everything unspoken. Time seemed to slow, the world narrowing to the space between them.

He leaned in cautiously, as if fearing the moment might shatter like glass at the slightest touch. His eyes flickered to hers, searching for permission, and found only a quiet, steady invitation.

Their lips met softly at first — a tentative brush, light as a whisper. The kiss held the delicate promise of new beginnings and unspoken confessions. Max’s breath caught, the warmth of her lips igniting something deep within him, a fire he hadn’t dared to name.

She responded, parting her lips slightly, inviting him in with a quiet surrender. The kiss deepened slowly, each movement measured and full of reverence — not a desperate grasp, but a gentle exploration, as if learning the contours of a fragile dream.

His hands tightened around hers before sliding up to cradle her face, thumbs brushing along her cheekbones. The feel of her skin beneath his fingertips was intoxicating — real, grounding, and yet utterly electrifying.

Her hands rose, one resting on his chest, feeling the steady pounding of his heart beneath the heavy fabric of his tunic. The other tangled lightly in his light hair, pulling him closer, erasing the last of the distance.

The library around them faded into silence, broken only by the soft sighs that escaped between kisses. Each moment stretched longer, richer — a slow unraveling of restraint, a surrender to the raw, aching need that had been simmering beneath their every glance.

When they finally broke apart, foreheads resting together, breaths mingling in the quiet, Max’s voice was a rough whisper, trembling with a vulnerability he rarely allowed.

“You’re... everything I didn’t know I needed.”

And in her eyes, reflecting the flickering candlelight, he saw the same fierce, fragile truth — that this kiss was not just an end, but the beginning of something impossible to ignore.

They stayed like that for a long moment—foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling in the quiet library. The world outside had ceased to matter. The firelight softened their features, painting them both with warmth and shadow.

Max’s hands lingered gently on her cheeks, as if afraid to let go and lose the reality of her touch. His chest rose and fell unevenly, the steady rhythm of a king’s heart now beating wildly for a woman.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, he pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. The vulnerability there caught him off guard — no more walls, no more masks.

“I never thought…” he began, voice low and rough, “that I could want something — someone — like this.”

She smiled, small and shy, a sweetness he’d never seen before. “Nor I,” she whispered. “But… I think we both deserve more than secrets and silence.”

He nodded, the weight of his crown suddenly feeling less like a burden and more like a promise he wanted to keep.

For the first time, he felt he wasn’t alone in the vastness of his responsibility.

“You’re not just a lady at court,” he said softly. “You’re my strength. My sanctuary.”

Her eyes glistened, and she reached up to rest her hand over his heart. “And you… are someone I can finally trust.”

They lingered there in the quiet, the candle’s flame flickering low, a symbol of something fragile yet fiercely alive.

Max swallowed the lump in his throat. “We’ll need to be careful.”

She nodded, the trace of a smile curving her lips. “Always.”

But beneath the caution was an unspoken truth neither dared say aloud yet:

They had crossed a line from which there was no turning back.

And somehow, neither wanted to.

...

The heavy wooden door of her chambers shut behind her with a soft thud, sealing her away from the quiet warmth of the castle halls. The flickering candlelight barely touched the edges of the room, leaving shadows to crowd the corners like silent witnesses.

She sank onto the edge of her bed, hands trembling, heart pounding wildly as if it would burst free from her chest.

What is happening? The thought echoed relentlessly in her mind, louder than the stillness around her.

I should be planning. Planning the moment I end him. The moment I take back what was stolen. But instead…

Her breath hitched as the memory of the kiss—the softness of his lips, the way his hands held hers—flared fresh and impossible to ignore.

I kissed the king.

The words felt foreign, almost a betrayal to the cold resolve she had held for so long. She pressed her shaking hands to her face, trying to steady herself, but the panic twisted tighter.

This isn’t what I’m supposed to feel.

With trembling fingers, she reached to the small wooden box hidden beneath her bed — the one that held all the secret letters, the coded messages, the cold instructions from her shadowed mission.

Her hands shook as she lifted the fragile parchment, scanning the familiar script that had always been so clear and certain.

Do I still believe it? she wondered, voice barely a whisper.

She unfolded one letter after another, reading and rereading the cold words that once steeled her heart:

> “He is a tyrant who must fall.”

“Your loyalty lies with the realm, not with the man.”

“Do not falter.”

But now, those words felt like echoes from another life — a life where she was certain, ruthless, unyielding.

She bit her lip, fighting the rising tide of doubt.

Because the truth was undeniable.

She was falling for him.

Not as a pawn falling to a king’s hand, but as a woman drawn to the man beneath the crown.

Her breath hitched again, a soft, painful sound swallowed by the dark.

What am I doing? she repeated, clutching the letters to her chest, the mission and the man tangled impossibly inside her.

The cold certainty of her purpose was cracking.

And in its place, a fragile, terrifying hope was taking root.

...

On another stolen afternoon, they met in the library—among ancient tomes and fading light. The weight of the world pressed outside the heavy oak doors, but here, time slowed.

They bent over a map sprawled across a table, voices low and conspiratorial.

“I’ve been considering the northern passes,” she murmured, tracing a route with a slender finger. “If the enemy expects us to guard the obvious roads, a surprise could turn the tide.”

Max watched her — how her eyes sparkled with quiet determination, how every calculated word held the promise of something more than politics.

She leaned toward him, lowering her voice even further. “There’s a hidden path near the cliffs. It’s treacherous, but a small force could slip through unseen.”

His breath caught as she whispered the plan into his ear, the heat of her voice sending a thrill that had nothing to do with strategy.

He turned his head just slightly, their faces inches apart.

Her eyes flicked to his, a spark of something unspoken passing between them.

“Your confidence in me is... reassuring,” he said softly, voice barely above a breath.

She smiled — a secret smile meant only for him.

One night, passing through a dimly lit corridor, their paths crossed unexpectedly.

Neither was prepared.

She carried a scroll; he held a leather-bound journal.

They stopped, the quiet of the castle amplifying the rapid beat of their hearts.

“You’re always where I least expect you,” he said with a teasing edge, but his eyes betrayed the tenderness beneath.

“And you,” she replied, “have a habit of appearing when I need you most.”

They shared a brief laugh, the tension easing just enough to breathe.

For a heartbeat, they looked at each other—no titles, no schemes—just two people daring to be seen.

Slowly, Max reached out, brushing a stray curl from her face.

She didn’t pull away.

The brush of his fingers left a trail of heat, the kind that promised more than words could say.

Once, when court intrigues threatened to overwhelm them both, they met atop the castle battlements, the night wind tugging at their cloaks.

Side by side, they gazed out over the kingdom—a tapestry of forests, rivers, and distant fires.

Neither spoke at first.

Then, she whispered, “Sometimes, the greatest battles are fought within.”

He nodded, his hand finding hers in the darkness.

“No one else knows this kingdom as we do,” he said softly.

She squeezed his hand, a quiet pact forged in shadow.

Each stolen moment was a thread, weaving them closer — a tapestry of trust, desire, and fragile hope.

Yet beneath the warmth was the ever-present danger—the knowledge that any misstep could shatter everything.

And still, they kept coming back to these moments—because sometimes, the heart demands to be heard even when the world insists on silence.

In the quiet corners of the castle, away from prying eyes, Max found himself utterly undone.

His hands itched with a hunger he’d never known—a desperate need not to possess, but to simply hold her. To trace the curve of her neck, the delicate line of her jaw, the soft sweep of her hair.

Every time she drew near, his fingers twitched, aching to brush away a stray lock or linger on the gentle slope of her shoulder.

But he fought himself fiercely.

She is not a prize, he reminded himself, biting back the raw desire that threatened to consume him.

Still, the temptation was relentless.

During council meetings, his eyes betrayed him — flickering to her hands folded calmly in her lap, the way her sleeves brushed the table’s edge.

When they walked through the halls, his hand brushed hers by accident — once, twice, then too many times to be coincidence.

Each accidental touch sent a jolt racing through him, a sweet torment that made him ache to do more.

One evening, as they stood beneath the starlit sky in the garden, the world shrank until only she existed.

His hand hovered near hers, trembling with need.

Finally, unable to bear it, his fingers curled around her wrist — gentle, reverent, but utterly claiming.

Her eyes met his, dark and shining.

No words were needed.

He pulled her closer, the heat of her body igniting every nerve.

His hands traced the elegant lines of her arms, the soft fabric of her gown.

He wanted to memorize every inch of her — not as a conquest, but as a sanctuary.

His voice was barely a whisper. “I can’t keep my hands to myself.”

She smiled, a slow, knowing smile that promised she felt it too.

And in that charged silence, every restraint slipped away—just for a moment—two souls burning with need but tethered by respect and something infinitely deeper.

The moment she stepped forward, closing the distance between them, Max felt the world tilt. Her body met his with a quiet certainty, soft curves pressing into his chest. She rested her head lightly against him, the heat of her breath warm against his heart.

His breath caught—the steady thump beneath her cheek sounded like a drum calling him home. His arms instinctively circled her waist, a careful hold that spoke of reverence and restraint. Every fiber of him ached to pull her closer, to shield her from every shadow and danger.

But he kept still, afraid that any movement might shatter this fragile moment.

This is more than desire, he thought, this is a need to protect. To be the one she trusts.

His fingers traced a slow, trembling path along her back, memorizing the feel of her, the fragile strength beneath her calm exterior. He wanted to whisper promises, but the words caught in his throat.

In that silence, he simply held her—letting the unspoken speak volumes.

Her heart thundered against his chest, but inside, a war raged—silent and relentless.

This isn’t just closeness. Her mind whispered the harsh truth.

This is a line being crossed.

She rested there for a moment, savoring the rare comfort of his steady heartbeat, the warmth of his body like a shield against the cold world outside.

But the mission—her purpose—pulled taut beneath the surface.

I am here to end him, she reminded herself, voice cold and sharp in the back of her mind.

Yet the warmth in his arms muddled her resolve. Every gentle touch, every quiet breath between them, chipped away at the icy armor she had worn so long.

Am I falling? The question was a bitter taste on her tongue.

Her fingers curled lightly against his side—not a surrender, but a silent plea to hold onto this moment, fragile and fleeting.

She didn’t know what the future held, only that in this stolen breath, she was no longer the hunter or the pawn.

She was simply a woman, leaning on the only man she had ever truly trusted.

...

The evening air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and distant fires. They sat side by side on the low stone wall overlooking the castle’s northern gardens, their shoulders just barely touching. A basket of fresh fruit sat forgotten beside them, the night’s seriousness momentarily set aside.

Max glanced at her, a teasing spark lighting his eyes. “You know, for someone so precise and deadly, you’re surprisingly bad at choosing fruit.”

She laughed, the sound soft and genuine, a rare melody that seemed to warm even the chill around them. “And you, Your Majesty, are the most pompous man I’ve ever met to criticize my taste in apples.”

He grinned, leaning in to pluck a plum from the basket and hold it out to her. “Consider this a royal correction.”

She accepted it with a playful roll of her eyes, biting into the fruit with a dramatic flair that made him chuckle.

“Perhaps I should teach you how to choose properly,” he offered, voice low.

“Only if you promise not to make me eat brussels sprouts,” she teased.

They fell into easy conversation then — stories from their youth, odd habits of the court, the little absurdities that no one else would ever hear.

Laughter came freely between them, unguarded and healing.

At one point, she nudged him gently, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Remember that time you tried to joust and ended up flat on your back?”

Max’s cheeks flushed, but he laughed harder. “Only because you distracted me with your ridiculous helmet.”

Their smiles lingered, the distance between them shrinking like the night around.

Without thinking, Max reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers brushed her cheek, thumb lingering with a softness that said more than words.

After a moment, Max’s tone softened. “Tell me something about your childhood. You’ve been at court for some time now, but I realize I know very little about the woman beside me.”

She hesitated, then smiled wistfully. “It’s... complicated. I grew up in a place where silence was often louder than words. My days were filled with lessons in patience and observation, much like here. But there was also fear — not from enemies outside, but from those within. Family can be a stranger you live with.”

Max listened, his gaze steady but shadows flickering in his eyes. There was something beneath her words — something guarded, almost haunted. A story half-told, layered with secrets she hadn’t intended to reveal.

He shifted slightly, unease settling deep in his chest.

The family that was killed before you were ten?

What are you hiding, Lady Meravin?

She caught his glance, perhaps sensing his tension, and changed the subject with a soft chuckle.

The evening light faded, replaced by stars winking to life overhead.

Max reached out then, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers brushed her cheek, thumb lingering with a softness that said more than words.

She leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering closed for a heartbeat.

Slowly, deliberately, their lips met — warm, sweet, and tender, a gentle sealing of the trust and affection growing between them.

When they pulled apart, her smile was brighter than any star above.

“Not bad for a king,” she whispered.

“And not bad for a stubborn subject,” he replied, voice thick.

...

The king’s chambers were cloaked in shadows, the only light spilling from a flickering candle perched precariously on a carved wooden table. The heavy scent of beeswax mixed with faint traces of lavender, a rare softness in the austere room. Outside, the castle slept, but inside, the silence was thick—charged with all the things neither dared to say.

Max stood by the window, gazing out into the moonlit gardens but clearly not seeing them. His jaw was tight, brows drawn together, as if wrestling with some invisible weight. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost hesitant.

“You’ve been quieter these past days. The court has its whispers, but you… you seem elsewhere.”

Lady Meravin’s eyes met his briefly, the usual calm veneer flickering for a heartbeat before she masked it again. “There are matters I cannot share. Shadows I must carry alone.”

He turned fully to face her, closing the distance between them by a careful step. “You don’t have to carry them alone,” he said gently, his gaze searching, patient.

She swallowed hard, the barest tremor in her fingers betraying her steadiness. “Trust is a dangerous thing, Your Majesty. In this castle, even the walls listen.”

Max’s mouth curved into a small, soft smile — not amused, but tender. “Perhaps. But even the strongest walls need windows. Let me be one for you.”

Her eyes softened, but a shadow still lingered there — a mixture of pain and fear. “There are nights when the weight of it all threatens to break me. When duty and desire blur until I don’t know which is which, or who I am beneath them.”

His breath caught, a shiver running down his spine as if her words touched a place inside him few had reached. He stepped closer, his hand lifting to rest near hers on the table, fingers barely grazing but full of promise.

“You don’t have to be what others expect,” he murmured. “Not here. Not with me.”

Her gaze dropped to where their hands nearly touched. The space between them pulsed with an electric tension—both fragile and undeniable. Slowly, hesitantly, she took a step forward until their bodies were so close she could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath his tunic.

His hands rose, trembling just slightly, as they slid to rest gently on her waist. She shivered, but did not pull away. Instead, she leaned into the warmth, a subtle invitation.

Their breaths mingled — shallow, quick, desperate.

And then, as if held back by fragile threads that finally snapped, his lips brushed hers — soft, tentative, as though afraid to break the fragile moment.

She responded, her arms winding around his neck, pulling him closer with a fierce tenderness that startled them both.

The kiss deepened slowly, a careful exploration of new, uncharted territory. His hands cupped her face, thumbs tracing along her cheekbones, memorizing the softness he had never dared to touch before.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, nails grazing lightly, anchoring them to the here and now as the rest of the world fell away.

Time blurred, the only certainty the heat blossoming between them — desire, trust, and something far more profound.

When they finally broke apart, breaths heavy and mingled, Max rested his forehead against hers, voice raw with feeling.

“You’re more than I ever dared hope for.”

Her smile was a whisper, a fragile promise. “And you… are the one I never saw coming.”

The kiss deepened, their breaths mingling as desire flickered and roared between them. Max’s hands trembled as they slid down her sides, pulling her impossibly closer. Without breaking the kiss, he lifted her effortlessly, a breathless weight in his arms.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, holding on as he carried her across the room, every step steady and sure. The warmth of his body pressed against hers sent a thrill that made her heart race.

He reached the bed, a sturdy frame draped in fine linens, and slowly lowered her onto his lap. Their lips parted just enough for a soft gasp to escape her, eyes locked in a heated, unspoken conversation.

Max’s fingers found the delicate laces at the back of her gown — slow, deliberate. Each tug undone was a quiet promise, a careful reveal. His touch was gentle, reverent, as if she were the most precious secret in the world.

Her skin flushed beneath his hands, every inch alive to his careful exploration. The room hummed with quiet tension, the only sound their shared breaths and the faint rustle of silk slipping free.

He rested his forehead against hers, voice a low whisper, “I don’t want to rush this… not a single moment.”

She smiled, eyes shining, “Neither do I.”

And in that suspended breath of time, two souls began to merge — bound by more than duty or desire, but by the fragile, fierce hope of something real.

The laces fell loose beneath his hands, one by one.

He moved slowly — not out of hesitation, but reverence — his fingers brushing down her back as he loosened the gown she had worn like armor since the day they met. The fabric gave with a sigh, pooling where her shoulders met his chest. Her skin, newly revealed to the firelight, was warm beneath his palms, soft and trembling.

She didn't look away. She didn’t hide.

Max didn’t either.

He pressed a kiss to the curve of her shoulder — slow, aching — and the way her breath caught against his neck nearly undid him. Her arms looped around him, fingers clutching at the collar of his tunic as if she needed the anchor.

It was quiet.

Just the crackle of embers. The faint night wind pressing against the windows.

And the space between two people who had danced around each other for too long.

She leaned in, and he met her halfway — another kiss, this one deeper, needier, full of all the things neither had dared say aloud. His hands held her waist firmly, guiding her closer onto his lap as if afraid she might vanish if he let go. Her thighs settled around him, her forehead pressed to his, and her lips brushed his again, this time with purpose.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered.

She shook her head — not a word, just that single, steady gesture. And he understood.

His hands moved with care, peeling away the layers that separated them, slow enough that her heart had time to catch up to her skin. When her gown slipped away fully and she sat before him — bare, unflinching — he looked at her like she was something holy.

And she, despite everything she had ever learned about control and secrets and silence, let him.

Max laid her down gently across his bed, following her like a tide pulled by something greater than gravity. He undressed with none of the grace she had, but with a kind of raw need that made her breath catch. When their skin met fully, it was not fire at first — it was warmth. Familiar. Human.

He kissed every part of her like it mattered.

Like she mattered.

And when he slid inside her, it wasn’t rushed or desperate. It was slow — drawn out — the kind of connection built not on heat alone, but on everything they had withheld until now. Her gasp, his soft curse, the way her hands gripped his shoulders — all of it wrapped around them like a prayer.

They moved together with quiet urgency, rising and falling like the tide.

And he couldn’t stop saying her name.

As if speaking it made her real. As if it would keep her with him, here, in this one moment where nothing else could touch them — not crowns, not bloodlines, not betrayal waiting in the dark.

Only this.

Only them.

And when it was over — when their bodies stilled and sweat cooled between them — he didn’t roll away. He didn’t dress.

He stayed.

And so did she.

For a while, she lay curled against his chest, tracing lazy patterns on his skin. Neither of them spoke. There were no lies tonight. No secrets spoken into the dark.

Just silence.

And the quiet ache of something they both knew could not last.

The candle had burned halfway down when she woke.

The sheets were still warm beside her, his scent lingering faintly on the linen — firewood, pine, and something deeper, uniquely him. Her fingers brushed over the empty space before slowly pulling the robe folded neatly at the foot of the bed — not hers. His.

And yet it fit her perfectly.

She slipped it on, the fabric thick and lined with fur, and pulled it tight across her chest. The embroidery along the collar was unmistakable — his royal house. But he’d laid it there for her, she was sure of it. Folded with care while she slept.

Her bare feet touched the cold stone as she padded to the open doors of his balcony.

Outside, the night was quiet. Endless stars stared down from the heavens, and the wind moved gently through the trees below. She stepped into the moonlight, letting the cold air wake her further, letting it ground her in the silence she so often craved.

But tonight, it unsettled her.

She was still sore where he had touched her — not in pain, but in presence. Her skin remembered him too easily. Her heart was worse.

What are you doing? her thoughts whispered, sharper than any blade. This was never part of the plan.

She gripped the stone ledge, staring out into the darkness that cloaked the sleeping realm. She should’ve been thinking of her next step — of how close she was to him now. How dangerous that made it. How powerful.

And yet, her chest ached. Not with strategy.

With something far more treasonous.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

His voice was soft behind her — rough with sleep, threaded with concern. She turned slightly, catching the sight of him in the doorway, shirtless, his hair mussed, a blanket still trailing from one hand.

He took a few steps forward, the moonlight catching on his bare chest, his expression gentle.

“You disappeared,” he murmured. “I thought—”

“I just needed air,” she said quickly, not quite looking at him. Her hands stayed tight on the stone rail. “The room felt… full.”

He didn’t question it. Didn’t press.

Instead, he moved behind her, wrapping the blanket he’d carried over her shoulders like a shield. His arms slipped around her waist, pulling her gently back into his chest.

She leaned into him instinctively, her eyes fluttering shut at the feel of his breath in her hair.

“You’re not alone anymore,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Not here. Not with me.”

Those words were a balm and a wound.

She wanted to believe him. So badly. Wanted to fall back into the warmth of that bed and forget the blood that had marked her path to his door.

But she didn’t answer.

Not yet.

He pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head, his fingers grazing her hands where they gripped the ledge. “Come back to bed,” he whispered. “Please.”

And for just one more night, she let herself obey.

...

The days that followed should have been triumphant. Peaceful. The court whispered softer when she entered. She sat at his right hand now, offering counsel in measured tones, her eyes steady, her voice thoughtful.

Max found himself seeking her gaze before every decision. Relying on her silence more than his advisors’ words. Sleeping better with her in his bed. Breathing easier when she walked beside him in the corridors, veil half-lifted in the wind.

But slowly—too slowly to name—it began to gnaw.

Not at her.

At everything else.

It started with Lando.

He didn’t speak often in meetings unless pressed, but Max caught the way his gaze lingered after Meravin spoke — sharp, calculating, unsure. One morning, just before dawn, Lando found Max in the sparring yard, blades ringing in the silence.

“Did you know,” Lando began without greeting, “that she speaks three dialects of Arkessian?”

Max didn’t look up. “She’s a diplomat. A strategist.”

“Diplomats don’t usually know how to bypass seal-based encryption.”

That made Max falter. Just for a second.

Lando tilted his head. “I ran across an old report from our northern embassy. It detailed a meeting four years ago—where a masked informant provided codes that unraveled half our spy net in Caelore. Guess who they described?”

Max’s grip on the blade tightened. “You’re reaching.”

“Am I?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Because deep down, he remembered the night she leaned in during council, whispering something into his ear. Something about troop movement. Something she shouldn’t have known.

At the time, he’d smiled. Trusted. Listened.

Now, it echoed louder than he wanted it to.

He tried to ignore it.

Tried to go on as if nothing had changed.

But the silence between his men grew heavier.

Oscar was the next to break.

At a quiet table in the back of the strategy hall, he slid a letter across the wood to Max — unsigned, stained with wax, the seal broken.

'Your King is compromised. Your right hand is a blade. But it is not yours.'

Max stared at it for a long time. Too long.

Max started waking before her.

Not because he needed to.

Because he wanted to see her asleep.

Because she never looked like someone planning betrayal when her cheek was pressed to his shoulder, lips parted, arms tucked around his ribs like she was holding herself in place.

Because he wanted to remind himself that this — she — was real.

But then one night, she spoke in her sleep.

Words in a language he didn’t know.

Not court dialect. Not her native tongue.

Something older. Sharper.

He lay awake after that, every minute stretched into hours, her breath warm against his chest, his heartbeat a quiet war drum beneath her palm.

He was unraveling.

And he knew it.

Because when Charles brought him the folded parchment — an intercepted note bearing her house sigil, but sealed with a cipher from a fallen enemy kingdom — Max didn’t open it.

He burned it.

Right there, in the fireplace of the war room, without reading a word.

Charles watched him in silence.

“You’re in love with her,” he said flatly.

Max didn’t answer. His jaw clenched too tight.

“You’re protecting her from us,” Charles continued. “From the truth.”

“I’m protecting her,” Max said hoarsely, “because no one else ever has.”

And the moment the words left his mouth, he realized what he’d confessed.

Not to them.

To himself.

...

The doors to the war chamber shut behind them with a sound like judgment. The fire was low. Smoke curled toward the carved ceiling beams, thick with dust and tension. Max didn’t sit. None of them did. He stood at the head of the map table, one hand pressed to the wood as if bracing against a storm he could already feel gathering in his chest. Across from him, Lando stepped forward, quiet, careful—like someone approaching a wounded beast.

“We found something,” he said.

Max didn’t move. “You summoned me. I assumed it wasn’t for a drink.”

Lando’s jaw clenched. He pulled a battered scroll from the leather satchel at his side and set it on the table. “This came in three nights ago. Intercepted at the eastern port. A message. Meant for a handler.”

Max’s gaze didn’t shift, not even when he saw the seal. Black wax. Arkessian. Not official—but unmistakable. He knew what that color meant. Only one network in the realm still used it.

He reached for the scroll. His hand hovered. Then closed. He cracked the seal without ceremony.

'Target contact made.

Infiltration complete.

Gained access to war table.

Crown vulnerable.

Awaiting final order.'

Silence.

He read it once. Then again.

Target contact made. Infiltration complete. Gained access to war table. Crown vulnerable. Awaiting final order.

No names. No dates. Just lines written like death.

But at the bottom—there it was.

A cipher. Simple. Slanted. Hidden in a flourish of ink.

He had seen it before.

The night of the coastal council, when she leaned in beside him, her sleeve brushing his. Whispering about fleet numbers and misreported outposts. He hadn’t even noticed the edge of her parchment, how it curled with that same shape. That mark. It had looked like a flourish then. Now, it felt like a knife.

Oscar’s voice came quiet. “You recognize it.”

Max didn’t speak. His hand tightened, crumpling the parchment slightly.

Charles stepped forward. “Say it.”

The fire snapped in the hearth. Max’s breath left like a crack.

“It’s hers.”

The words barely made it out.

Lando’s voice was softer now. “We don’t know that for certain—”

“I do.” Max cut him off. He looked at none of them. Only at the scroll. Only at the evidence in his hands that felt heavier than any blade he’d ever lifted. He saw her face, calm and close beside him in council. The way she spoke with ease about things only his commanders knew. The way she’d slipped through the court like water, soft and uncatchable.

He thought it was brilliance. Grace. Loyalty.

He thought it was love.

His grip shifted. The broken wax sliced his palm. He didn’t react. Only watched as blood smeared the words.

“Bring me the next one,” he said.

His voice was steel.

“I want to see everything.”

...

He found her himself. No guards. No blades drawn. No royal decree to storm the halls.

Just him.

Rain clung to his shoulders like a second cloak, boots trailing water across the marble floor as he walked with quiet, steady purpose through the palace. He passed courtiers who lowered their eyes, servants who vanished into alcoves, knights who opened their mouths to speak and closed them just as quickly.

They had seen the scrolls. The signatures. The seal.

And he had said nothing.

Because he was going to see her.

Not her chambers. Not the gardens. No.

His.

She was in his tower. Where she had stood behind him during council. Where she had kissed him with fire-soft lips, where she had whispered his name when no one else could hear.

She was waiting. By the hearth. Her veil gone. Hair loose. Wrapped in stormlight.

She turned when the door opened. Slowly. Carefully. Like she already knew.

“Max—” she said, quiet.

“Don’t.”

His voice was not loud.

But it was jagged.

And she froze.

He stepped inside. Closed the door behind him.

In his hands were the letters — the intercepted scrolls, the ciphered map, the kill order. Stained from his blood where the wax had cut him.

His sword hung from his belt, untouched.

“I trusted you,” he said, pacing forward with every word like each one was heavier than the last. “I let you into my council. My war table. My home.” He stopped. Looked at her like she was a stranger. “I let you into my bed.”

She looked down.

“And all this time—” His hand snapped. The papers flew from his grip, scattering across the stone like broken glass. “You were sent to kill me.”

“Max, I—” she began, breath catching.

“Let me explain—” he said, voice mocking her.

She swallowed. “It wasn’t like that.”

He laughed. Once. Sharp. “Wasn’t it?”

She took a step forward. “You don’t understand—”

“WHO ARE YOU?”

The words echoed off the stone.

It was the first time she’d seen him unguarded. Not furious. Not regal. But broken.

Like the man she had touched beneath the covers. The man who whispered, stay.

She flinched, just slightly. Her voice came smaller than she wanted. “I wasn’t supposed to become part of this.”

“Part of what?” His voice cracked. “The plan? The execution?”

“You were a target,” she said, forcing the words out. “Just a target.”

He stepped back like she’d slapped him.

She tried to hold his gaze.

But she couldn’t.

“And now?” he asked. Quiet. So quiet. It hurt.

She looked at him.

At the man she wasn’t supposed to touch.

The king she wasn’t supposed to love.

The guilt crawled up her throat.

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

And that’s what ruined him.

Not the lies.

Not the contract.

Not the silence.

But that — that quiet confession — from the only person who had ever made him want something more than power.

She didn’t know.

Because she hadn’t meant for this either.

The tower doors burst open.

And now, neither of them knew who was bleeding more.

The silence that followed her whisper wasn’t quiet. It roared.

He took a step back, hands curled at his sides, like holding himself together took effort.

Her breath caught.

She’d said too much.

He reached for his sword.

Steel hissed from its sheath, silver catching the firelight like lightning trapped in metal.

Her eyes locked on the blade. She didn’t move.

“Draw your weapon,” Max said.

“No.”

“I said draw it.”

She stayed still. “I’m not your enemy.”

He stepped forward, the edge of the sword glinting inches from her throat. “Then why were you sent to kill me?”

Her voice cracked. “Because you were becoming too powerful.”

His eyes flashed. “And now?”

Her voice broke. “Now I don’t know how to leave you.”

The sword dropped — not all the way, but slightly. His grip faltered.

And she moved.

She spun, drawing her own blade in a blur, stepping back with precision, cloak swirling behind her like smoke.

Steel met steel.

The sound rang through the tower like a scream.

“You lied to me!” he shouted, striking forward. She parried easily, stepping around him with practiced ease. “Every word — every touch — was that a lie too?”

“No!” she snapped, deflecting his blade and slicing a shallow cut across his arm. “But what choice did I have?”

“You had me!”

They circled. Breathing hard. Blades catching firelight.

“I gave you my trust,” he growled.

“I didn’t want it!”

“That’s the problem,” he snarled, lunging.

She blocked. Twisted. Knocked him back a step.

He was stronger. But she was faster.

“You let me fall for you,” he hissed, chest rising and falling.

“You let yourself fall.”

“Was it fun? Sleeping next to the man you were sent to kill?”

She hesitated — just a heartbeat.

He saw it. He struck again. She dodged.

But now they were close — too close — close enough to see the hurt in his eyes, not just the rage.

“You made me think I was safe with you,” he whispered.

“You were,” she breathed.

“You still are.”

The words stopped him. And that was her mistake. Because now he was breaking.

He swung again — but slower. Less sure.

She twisted, disarmed him, blade at his chest.

He didn’t move. Blood trickled from his lip. His arms dropped.

“Do it,” he whispered. “Finish it.”

Her sword trembled in her hand.

She raised it—

Then stopped.

“Do it,” he said again, broken.

She looked into his eyes, the same eyes that had looked at her like she was something to be saved. “I can’t.”

Her blade dropped.

He flinched at the sound it made on the stone.

She looked like she might collapse. “I should’ve done it the night I met you.”

“But you didn’t.”

They stood there, breathing like they’d run for miles, staring at each other across a battlefield neither of them had won.

She turned. Backed away. Steps light. Controlled.

He didn’t follow.

He couldn’t.

Because for the first time in his life, he didn’t know whether letting her go would save him— or destroy him.

She ran.

Cloak torn, boots slick with blood—his, hers, theirs—it didn’t matter anymore. The castle spun around her in blurred flashes of torchlight and stone. She’d trained for this. She knew every hall, every servant’s path, every silent escape carved into the bones of the palace.

But she hadn’t expected to run from him.

The blood on her sleeve wasn’t deep. A graze. But it felt like fire now.

A shout rose behind her—“There she is!”

She didn’t look back.

Steel whistled near her head. She ducked. Slashed. The guard dropped without sound.

Another came at her from the left—too slow. Her blade met his throat before he could raise his shield.

A third blocked the corridor ahead. Young. She could see his fear. She didn’t hesitate.

Three bodies in two minutes.

She didn’t want to kill them. But she didn’t hesitate.

Because he hesitated.

And now she was doing what he should have.

She turned the corner—almost to the servant’s wing where the lower vaults would let her slip out through the tunnels—

—but stopped.

Too fast.

Steel sang in front of her.

Blocking the passage: Ser George. Silver-armored. A Lady Knight whose name struck fear across borders, most loyal to Max.

To her right: Prince Charles. His sword already drawn, jaw clenched tight. Blood on his temple—she’d forgotten he fought dirty when provoked.

Behind her: the footsteps closed in. Trapped.

“Don’t make us hurt you,” George said, calm as ice. “You’re already bleeding.”

Charles took a slow step forward. “You killed three of our men.”

“They tried to stop me,” she said.

“You tried to kill our king,” George replied.

Her fingers tightened on her sword. “No.”

Charles blinked. “No?”

She took a breath that shook. “I didn’t try.”

“Then what was that up there?” he spat.

She looked down. Said nothing.

“Drop the blade,” George said.

She glanced around — one exit, three threats. She could take one of them. Maybe two.

But not all three.

And she wasn’t going to die in a hallway like an animal.

She let the sword fall.

It clattered to the stone with a sound that echoed louder than any battle cry.

George stepped forward. Chains in hand.

She didn’t resist.

Not until Charles moved to take her arm.

Then her voice cut the air like glass.

“Let Max be the one to speak to me.”

Charles paused. His hand dropped.

“She wants the king,” he muttered.

George looked at her. Frowned. “You really think he’ll come?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

But her voice betrayed her.

Because she hoped.

...

The throne room of Valtarys is quiet now.

Not empty. Never empty. Not in a kingdom like this.

But quiet in the way a battlefield is once the dying stops.

The flames in the braziers crackle, slow and sullen. Smoke clings to the stone. Banners of victory—scarlet and ash—still hang high above the throne. Torchlight dances across the polished marble, unable to reach the corners where old blood once dried.

King Maximilian sits alone.

The throne beneath him is carved of ironwood and onyx, a brutal thing made to outlast empires. He sits without his crown. No one has dared to ask why.

Outside, the city sings.

A full year since the last of the rebel kings fell. A full year since the war drums ceased and Valtarys swallowed the last sovereign star.

Inside, there is only him.

And her.

She kneels on the cold floor before him.

Not in prayer. Not in surrender. Just still.

She bleeds from her lip. Dried blood curves along the collar of her tunic, where one of his guards struck her too hard. Her wrists are bound in iron. Her blade—the one they caught her with—is gone.

But she holds his gaze like a soldier awaiting a verdict she already knows.

Assassin. Spy. Traitor.

The woman who escaped Valtarys three times in the span of five years.

The woman he loved once, and lost twice.

The woman who now kneels before him for the last time.

He hasn’t spoken in hours.

She’s waited in silence.

She lifts her chin.

And in the flicker of firelight, he sees it again—

The girl in the moonlit garden.

The voice that whispered strategy in his war room.

The hands that once undid the lace of her dress in his bed, trembling and brave all at once.

“You should’ve done it,” he says.

His voice is rough. War-dry. Frayed with something barely held together.

“I was alone that night,” he continues. “I invited you to me like a fool."

He pauses. “You would’ve succeeded.”

She doesn’t speak.

That silence—measured and endless—tells him everything.

She couldn’t do it either.

His jaw clenches. His fingers twitch against the armrest.

“I trusted you,” he breathes, rising. “I defended you in rooms where your name shouldn’t have dared be spoken. I spared you in front of generals who bled for this crown. And all this time—”

He throws the stack of letters to the floor. The contract. The map. The sealed cipher.

“You were sent to kill me.”

Her voice, when it comes, is hoarse and cracked.

“I wasn’t supposed to become part of this.”

“Then what were you supposed to be?” His voice rises. “Just a knife?”

“You were a target,” she says, each word quieter than the last. “That’s all you were meant to be. I already told you-"

“And I'll ask again—What am i now?”

She hesitates.

And that hesitation wounds more than any blade.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t know what you are to me now.”

He walks down the steps of the throne. Slowly. No guards. No steel.

Only her.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t rise. Just watches as he stops in front of her.

“Do you know what they’ll do to me if they find out I let you live?” he asks.

His voice is barely more than breath.

“They’ll call it treason. They’ll burn me for it.”

Her hands tremble once in the iron chains. But not from fear.

“I never.... didn't want you dead,” she says.

“And I never wanted to fall in love with a liar.”

That silences them both.

Then he says, softer, stranger:

“I haven’t slept in three nights. I’ve tried to picture it—your body hanging in the courtyard. Blood on the stone. My name on your death warrant.”

He looks down at her. And for the first time in months—he looks broken.

“I feel like I’m dying with you.”

She can’t breathe.

He steps back. And in the moment she thinks it’s done—that he’ll call the guards—he speaks again.

“I have to make them believe you’re dead.”

Her eyes widen.

“I’ll burn a body in your place. I’ll bury it under false marble and say the assassin was executed in secret. I’ll hold a ceremony. We’ll hang your blade in the Hall of Betrayal.”

She stares at him.

“And you?” she whispers.

His voice cracks.

“I’ll write a war poem about you.”

Silence.

Then—

“You have to go. Tonight. Far. Where even I won’t find you.”

She should rise. She should run.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she whispers:

“…You’ll look for me anyway.”

His throat tightens.

He doesn’t deny it.

He never will.

...

Two weeks after the false execution

The forest near the western border of Volar is thick with fog and frost. The trees rise like black spires above her, their branches reaching for the gray sky like fingers.

She hasn’t spoken in days.

Her blade is dull. Her boots are split. The gash across her ribs is shallow but angry.

But she walks.

Each step is colder than the last.

Until, at last, she sees it.

Smoke.

And then—shadows between the trees. Men in worn leathers. Gold sigils barely visible beneath the mud. A forgotten crest: the sun and stag of the deposed royal family.

She steps forward. Hands raised. Hood down.

They raise their weapons instantly.

But she doesn’t flinch.

“I’m here to speak with the Prince,” she says, voice hoarse from silence. “Now.”

They hesitate.

Until a voice—calm, young, low—calls from behind them.

“Let her through.”

The guards part.

And there he is.

Prince Carlos.

Dressed in soldier’s black. No crown. No jewels. Just sharp eyes and sharper instincts.

Besides him stands a woman in heavy armor, hand already on her blade, ready to strike if she made a wrong move.

He looks at her like he’s not surprised.

“Dead women don’t usually walk this far,” he says.

She says nothing.

He steps closer. Looks her over once—rips, blood, the iron-cold look in her eye.

“What do you want?”

She holds out a bloodstained scroll. The edge is burned—on purpose. To hide the signature.

But he’ll recognize the seal: Valtarys.

He looks up at her again, eyes dark.

“I bring you something Maximilian never meant to lose.”

Carlos raises a brow. “What’s that?”

She meets his gaze, unwavering.

“Me.”

TRONAB taglist, comment to be added; @trashmouthsahra @lalala-by-bbnos @fergalaxy @maxswhore33 @b0nesandgh0sts

Taglist, comment to be added; @angstynasty @cryinghotmess @mits-vi @dramaticpiratellamas @mimisweetz @mrssaturday @chiara8104 @moonlight-girls-posts @linnygirl09 @rue-t @danielricroll @the-vex-archives @trees-are-books @blodwyn4u @yoruse @ccrickett-t @l-a-u-r-aaa @multifans-things @woderfulkawaii @azrinableuet @mayax2o07 @everyday-is-sunday365 @devilacot @faithxyu @freyathehuntress make sure you can be tagged!

[corpscs]

emergency contact ‎⚕️paramedic!yelena x f!reader

♡ wlw , fluff , no use of y/n , reader has undisclosed medical condition , aquarium date , reader likes the ocean , reader has trinkets lol , the girls are flirting , this was edited by my cat so ignore any spelling or grammar mistakes i will probably find them later , images are from pinterest , divider , russian is from google/reddit

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ♡ ty ochen krasivaya - you look beautiful , spasibo - thank you , brelok - keychain/toy

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ♡ masterlist , word count 2.4k

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ♡ part 1 ♡ part 2 ♡ part 3

bones’ now playing ▶︎ emergency contact - corook

“you can’t ditch.” john said. “we have assigned teams for a reason. now the whole just concept falls apart.”

“walker, i do not care about the teams right now.” yelena continued packing up her bag as he scoffed.

“so that’s it? you’re just ditching go-karts for a girl?” he pressed.

“no, i’m ditching go-karts for a pretty girl.” yelena corrected.

“no way!” ava gasped from her spot on her bunk. yelena was surprised she was even paying attention to the conversation amidst her doom scroll session. “you asked the pretty bracelet girl on a date?”

“i did.”

“the girl from the subway fall?” bob gasped holding his pillow in both his hands.

“yes, bob.” she sighed answering the same question for a third time.

had it been anyone but robert keeping the personal conversation going, yelena would have been far less kind. bob was a rookie that yelena had decided to take under her wing. he didn’t deserve the hazing from the other guys and any anyone in the station would eat a bullet before crossing her.

the room collectively jumped when chief was suddenly standing at the door like some ghostly assassin. “you asked one of your patients on a date?” bucky asked with an unimpressed expression.

“oh my god!” yelena groaned leaning her head back. she zipped up her duffle, slinging the bag over her shoulder. bucky stepped through the doorway to let her pass through.

“why not call my dad and tell him too! maybe even commissioner de fontaine, i am sure she would also love to know.” she called as she retreated down the hallway.

ཐི⋆⚰︎⋆ཋྀ

yelena hadn’t seen you since the day she was dispatched to your fall, but you had texted frequently. your asleep schedule was so off that you eved helped get yelena through her graveyard rotation with random late night texts. she had made a mental note to ask you about your sleeping habits more.

she used her first off day to catch up on her own sleep, planning their date on the following. yelena had left you in the dark, only telling you where to meet and that she’s almost certain you will not faint again. the only info she gave you was how much walking you would do, the train length and times so you could you pack anything you needed ahead of time.

the address she gave you was a cafe. as you got closer to the building, you could see her standing amongst the crowd wearing a long patterned coat. her hair was down and she was wearing more jewelry, a few layered necklaces, ring stacks and the same collection of earrings with a few swapped out.

your breathing tightened as you approached her. yelena had a resting bitch face hard enough enough to kill a man. to any passing stranger she was probably one of the most intimidating woman on the block, but her face cracked into a grin when she saw you approaching.

“look at you, all upright and stable.” she greeted.

“for now.” you joked.

“ha, ha, you are so funny.” she fake-laughed, “your job of the day is staying awake.” she pushed off the wall as you two began walking towards the cafe door and holding it open for you. “this place is so cute.” you observed the outer decor before stepping inside.

“it is cute.” she agreed. “we had a call across the street a while back. bob insisted we come inside.”

“bob?”

“bob is a rookie.” she explained. “big cutie, you would enjoy him.” you two placed your order to go. yelena paid, but offered to maybe let you pay on the next date.

you two sat off at an empty table waiting for your order. yelena eyes wandered over your face before she spoke. “ty ochen krasivaya.”

she wore a gentle smile on her face that made your face feel warm. you waited for her to maybe tell you what she had said but, no, she just continued to smile.

“don’t make me pull up google translate.” you threatened with a giggle. yelena’s face flashed a look of contemplation before she relented.

“i was saying that you look beautiful.”

you blinked twice quickly, “thank you,” your grin widened as you retuned the compliment. “you make a very pretty civilian,” you responded honestly. “but i will admit i like your uniform.”

“oh so you you have a thing for women in uniform, huh?” she teased. “is that why you agreed to this date?”

“just a bonus.” you shrugged. “how do you say thank you in russian?” you asked her tilting your head.

“spasibo.” you shamelessly watched her lips enunciate the word and clumsily repeated it.

your conversation was interrupted by the barista calling your order out and placing it you on the counter. while leaving you opened the door for her this time, she was holding her own coffee and the pastry bag, which you took and placed in your day bag once you were outside.

when you glanced down at your hand you saw the barista’s scribbling on the sides of the cup. your order on one side and under your palm was, ‘good luck on your date’ you turned your hand to show yelena your cup. she laughed, flashing you her own cup which read ‘she’s totally into you’.

you allowed yelena to lead you to a subway station on 34th. the yellow lights of the station flickered occasionally as you descended down the staircase. when you reached about two thirds to the bottom of the stairs you glanced back to her. “are you walking behind me like a fall risk on purpose, or is it habit?” she was a step behind you, stood slightly to the side, her right arm hung parallel to the middle of your back, coffee in her left hand.

“i met you on the floor of a subway station, can you not blame me for this?” yelena shrugged.

the station wasn’t overly crowded since it was already late morning and most people where minding their business. save for a guy in a red hat arguing with an invisible man across the tracks. the two of yoi watched the man yap about so much but absolutely nothing at all for the entire four minute wait.

“c’mon.” yelena looped her arm into your elbow when the correct train arrived.

you read off the letter of the train you looked to her, “are we going where i think we’re going?” you smiled excitedly.

she shrugged. “i don’t know, you will just have to wait and see.”

the train was already pretty crowded so yelena gave you the first open seat she saw opting to stand in front of you. she seemed to understand the implication of the position and gave you a look. as she adjusted her footing, the both of you silently giggled trying to maintain good train etiquette. but it is new york, and you have seen some less than savory things in your travels. by the fourth stop, yelena was able to snag the seat next to you. the old woman sitting beside you gave your leg a little pat with a smile before she shuffled off the train.

“old people are so cute.” you said quietly.

yelena made a thinking sound while sipping from her cup, “sometimes.” you assumed she had more than enough stories from work to dispute your claim, but she changed the subject before you could ask.

“i wanted to ask you about the brelok.” you tilted your head as yelena snapped twice. “the keychains,” she corrected herself. clipped to your bag was a sunflower lanyard along with various other items. “what is this little furry monster bunny… baby?” she reached out to grab the head. “what are you?” she asked it.

“it’s a labubu.” you told her.

she blinked. “that did not explain to me what it is.”

“it’s a monster character thing that come in a mystery bag.” her face melted into understanding.

“and what about the cat wearing a tiny gingham suit and tiny matching hat?” she poked at the squirrel. “he is very stylish.”

“it’s a calico critter.” you said.

“ooh i know what this is!” she stated proudly while pointing to your penguin jellycat. “bob has a little dog on his bunk.” you truly did begin to think that you and bob would get along.

“our stop.” yelena stood up before the train came to the next stop, bracing herself by shifting her weight. she offered you her hand before you made your way off the train.

when you recognized your surroundings and you were correct. yelena had taken you to the aquarium.

she looked a little nervous as the two of you headed to large canopy entrance to get a spot in line. “i’m glad you are excited. i saw the penguin and the fish pin and gambled.” the fish pin was ponyo but you weren’t going to ruin that for her.

“well jackpot, i love the aquarium.” you assured her, gripping her hand tighter.

before you started the exhibits you sat and ate what you got at the cafe on a bench. you had pulled your phone out of your bag to show yelena sylvaniandrama to explain the calico critter but she let out a choked laugh before you even pressed play.

“why is this tiny baby looking at me?” her eyes never even looked at the screen, too focused on the naked baby stuck on your case. you couldn’t control the laughter that escaped you. “it’s another mystery bag thing. it’s a sheep angel!” you pointed to its head. when your giggles died down enough for you to how her the video, her returning laughter only spurred on your own.

“i will admit they are cute.” she her voice breathy from laughing.

“well, next date we can find you some.”

ཐི⋆⚰︎⋆ཋྀ

“you know, female angelfish often pair up together.” you said staring at a yellow striped one through the glass. “but i guess sometimes they cannibalize.”

“that seems to be a theme with lesbians,” yelena joked. “maybe it is mother natures’ irony.” you snorted and looked away from the tank to face her.

“well, there’s also amazon mollies.” you offered. “tiny fish that are all female and technically asexually reproduce.”

“i like them.” she decided with a small nod. you had reached the end of this exhibit and where moving were

“you know a lot about fish.” yelena said as the two of you walked down a darker corridor, you felt a featherlight touch of her hand on your back when she noticed you slow down slightly.

“i sometimes have too much free time.” you chuckled, yelena made a face of understanding. you paused briefly, not wanting her to feel awkward. “there’s a fish that lives out in the desert that can’t survive anywhere outside of that one geothermic hole.”

“oh, that is so pathetic.”

“they live in the devils hole.”

yelena practically cackled. “the devils hole?” she parroted. “no,” she called out your name, “you’re lying to me again.”

“it’s a desert, it’s hot.” you explained, but she continued to laugh at you.

“you’re making it sound worse.” she elbowed you. “so, what do they call the fish in the devils hole?” her question died back into a giggle.

“pupfish.” the cackle was back.

“oh my god!” she gasped. “even with the word devil the name is pathetic.”

soon the two of you were back outside and made your way to the underwater viewing of the otter that you were so excited about.

“okay, i get it, they are cute.” yelena relented as she watched one of the otters rub it’s face with it’s little paws.

“they get emotionally attached to a specific rock.”

“stop it.” she warned.

“they also sleep holding hands so they don’t drift from each other at night.” you continued.

“oh my god.” she pouted at the glass.

“they’re actually really freaky.” you said quietly.

“you make me love them and now you’re going to ruin it.” she lightly tugged the sleeve of your shirt.

deciding to save yelena’s image of the otters you decided to be vague, “if they were human they’d be getting capital punishment.”

yelena pulled her phone from her back pocket. you watched her type from the corner of your eye, still watching the otters. “oh no.” she said immediately clicking into a link. after two minutes of silent anticipation yelena spoke again. “jesus christ.” her head nodding back up to the glass.

you shrugged. “maybe these ones are okay.” with that final thought to leave yelena spiraling, you to moved to the penguins, then the sharks.

there was a small break where you decided to sit down and have some water. you had apologized when yelena made sure you were fine, but she didn’t think twice about sitting down next to you. not counting the sit down as a loss of time she chatted the minutes away doing most of the talking allowing you to catch up a bit.

not before long you were at the touch tanks.

“it’s slimy.” yelena withdrew her hand from the tank, as she touched a ray.

“their skin actually kind of feel like cat tongues.” you blurted. “they’re just coated in mucus.” yelena’s nose wrinkled.

“you know everything.” she noted.

“only the weird shit.” you laughed. “speaking of, i wanna see the octopus before we leave.”

ཐི⋆⚰︎⋆ཋྀ

this took me way too long to churn out i’m sorry i rewatched thunderbolts yesterday and i have ideas.

also hello to all the new gay people in my phone 🫵

masterlist | 𓉸 ♡, bones

[jedimaesteryoda]

"The day Lord Stark lost his head, I was there, watching. Afterward I went into the Great Sept and thanked the seven gods that Joffrey had stripped me of my cloak." "Stark was a traitor who met a traitor's end." "Your Grace," said Selmy, "Eddard Stark played a part in your father's fall, but he bore you no ill will. When the eunuch Varys told us that you were with child, Robert wanted you killed, but Lord Stark spoke against it. Rather than countenance the murder of children, he told Robert to find himself another Hand." "Have you forgotten Princess Rhaenys and Prince Aegon?" "Never. That was Lannister work, Your Grace." "Lannister or Stark, what difference? Viserys used to call them the Usurper's dogs. If a child is set upon by a pack of hounds, does it matter which one tears out his throat? All the dogs are just as guilty. The guilt …" The word caught in her throat.

I admit for a lot of fans, we have seen characters badmouth Ned before, but it's usually by unlikeable characters like Cersei, Joffrey, Viserys or Jorah or even pre-changed Jaime. This time it's by one of our most beloved characters.

Daenerys overlooked that Barristan included Ned's beheading when he told the tale of how he turned his back on the Baratheon regime, and mentions that right before entering the Great Sept to be thankful for being stripped of his cloak. That at least infers that Barristan didn't see his execution as a good thing.

She basically responds that Ned got what he deserved. While Barristan usually goes along with her when condemning the Baratheons or Lannisters, he does the opposite with Ned and actually defends him.

He mentions that Ned resigned in protest over Robert's decision to have her assassinated "rather than countenance the murder of children." One would at least infer that Ned had some standards from that. When she points to the Sack of King's Landing, Viserys told her it was the work of the Starks and Lannisters, but Barristan corrected her, saying that it was just the Lannisters and Ned had nothing to do with that.

He should have followed up by mentioning Ned's reaction to the fate of Aegon and Rhaenys where it took the literal death of his sister to reconcile him with his king. I doubt Barristan didn't know about Ned and Robert's public blowout. But Daenerys didn't seem in the mood to listen as she was already doubling down.

It's noticeable that she responds "Viserys used to call them the Usurper's dogs." Even though she recognizes him as an abuser and a bad king, a lot of the narrative he indoctrinated her with her still resides within.

She's overlooking that Jorah himself once said "Ned Stark a traitor? Not bloody likely. The Long Summer will come again before that one would besmirch his precious honor." Jorah was exiled over Ned wanting to execute for selling his smallfolk into slavery when she herself had slavers executed. And she once thought to herself that Barristan would have forgotten more than Jorah and Viserys ever remembered.

It is a lapse in judgment, but one must remember that she is still age-wise a high schooler, and unfortunately, that kind of defensive reaction isn't uncommon even among full-grown adults. When people are presented new information that challenges their pre-existing beliefs, they can get defensive and double-down. She has shown a willingness to listen about the "rest", but stopped Barristan in the middle of talking about her father's madness. This is especially difficult for her given this is an issue very personal to Daenerys since it is about her own family that she never knew and herself by extension. This is the legacy she inherited and she identifies with.

She grew up a largely homeless orphan in a miserable life of poverty and abuse with the dream of returning home being the only dream she had or was allowed. In her mind, had it not been for the Usurper and his dogs, she would have enjoyed a much happier life as a princess with the family she never knew. They were responsible for taking from her more than just her crown, but the life and home she could have had.

Daenerys keeps the narrative that her royal family was overthrown and murdered by the Usurper and his dogs, and forced her and her brother into exile. They were also on the run from hired knives which were just Viserys's fevered imagination. The story ends when Daenerys comes and takes back the Iron Throne, righting the wrongs done and bringing justice to the land.

Barristan's words about Ned complicate that narrative. It invites unwanted questions such as "if Ned was so honorable, then why did he rebel against his king?" It suggests the possibility that Ned might have had justifiable reasons for rebelling against her father, a road she doe not wish to ride. Instead of being a black and white story of heroes vs villains, it means there were both sets on both sides.

The idea of her father being a mad tyrant who burned people in wildfire, violated the feudal contract and turned his own bannermen against him would be a lot for her emotionally. We saw her reaction to learning the truth of Aerys actually being mad as she starts to wonder "Am I mad? Do I have the taint?"

Her reaction to the full truth would be hard. She'd be asking questions like if her father wasn't the hero or rather the villain, and was guilty for the things he did then what will that make her in trying to regain the Iron Throne? Does that mean she is just as guilty as well? Is she a villain as well?

It will likely be a while before she learns the whole truth about Robert's Rebellion and the person of Ned Stark. It will not be a comfortable experience for her as it means unlearning much of what she knew and grappling with the actual legacy. She will likely be forced to acknowledge the uncomfortable truth that Ned was a good man when she learns of the other remaining Targaryen that he hid and raised.

[brawlina]

Hi! Do you have any headcannons for Buzz?

Also, I love Odd Trios and Things! It’s one of my favorite Brawl Stars fanfics I’ve read :)

Aww, thank you so much! I'm glad you're enjoying OTT. It's one of my favorite things to write.

As for Buzz, I've actually got a lot about him so this will be fun.

Buzz HCs

Buzz ending up at Starr Park was a pretty mundane thing. He needed a job and saw that there were job openings. A new water park area was gonna open that needed a life guard and he had experience there, so why not apply?

Even though Buzz's role in the park is as a lifeguard, hes a creative at heart and loves making and involving himself in projects. (Thats why hes got a lot of skins lol).

Part of what catapulted him into being a Brawler was him forming the Bad Randoms.

Originally he tried to do it with some of the non-Brawler employees of the park, but no one bit. Then when he heard Poco and Stu play their instruments, he kinda cornered them and pitched his idea. They thought it was cool and agreed. Management heard about this and thought it was a new amazing idea and that helped secure his Brawler position.

Originally he was just gonna be the vocalist there, but after Poco made some points about band structures, he also picked up a bass to play. He doesnt always do it though.

He does play the trombone, but hasnt figured out how to work that into a performance in the park yet. Maybe one day?

He does tend to be overzealous, both in his lifeguard duties and other projects. While it does show his dedication to things, it can feel quite overbearing at times.

Lola and Mico absolutely HATE Buzz. He's not even an actor and yet he seems to be in a lot more stuff than either of them. Whats up with that?! Gray is neutral but friendly towards Buzz.

By contrast, Fang and Buster love Buzz since hes also a big movie buff like them. Maisie is mre neutral but she doesnt have a problem with him.

Kit thinks that Buzz has potential to be a full on actor if he ever decides to drop his lifeguard duties. Maybe he can even mentor him.

Buzz gets along well with the members of his band, which also includes Bibi (as their security and manager) and Janet (as part of the Good Randoms). Draco is technically also in this category despite not really being in the band.

Doug is his bestie, and one of the only few people who can get him to chill out and relax once hes locked in on an idea or project.

Buzz is actually a master of makeup. Or at least of Body paint, considering how much of it he uses for all the different roles (skins) he plays in the park.

Buzz likes to drink tea to help his voice. Shouting at rule breakers and singing takes a lot out of a guy and hes gotta fix that.

Buzz loves word play and alliteration. The only thing stopping him from doing it all the time is practicality.

He has a deaf bulldog named Daizie that he loves very much (Its the dog in the Born Bad skin)

[sieglinde-freud]

today i FINALLY got a friend that i have been asking for YEARS to play fire emblem (crazy part is i wasnt even the one who brought up fire emblem today. it was a whole thing and actually it was my other friend who just started who did most of the convincing for me (hence the YEARS ive been trying not being successful up until now) probably because shes normal about fire emblem) so i gave her my three houses copy bc. yanno. 60 dollar game. just play mine. unfortunately i am still right in the middle of fodlan brainrot and my golden deer playthrough. but luckily, i still have this:

THREE HOUSES: 2!!!!!!

[russianyoshkinaneko]

while looking through games i've played (for the Game Challenge on bluesky) i have (re)discovered my now 12 year old video of my favorite thing to do in Assassin's Creed 1.

wanted to add a couple of other vids of me doing the same thing back in 2022, but tmblr doesn't allow more than 1 file in a post :(

so i compiled all the vids into one

(the old one had no audio so the first ~30sec is silent ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ )

[shadyfestivalperfection]

Fifth Time’s The Charm~Oneshot

Summery: Every date gets interrupted before they can steal the deal. By the fifth one, they’re both so wounded up, it turns explosive-in the best way

Characters: Bucky Barnes x F!reader

Vibes/warning: Sexual tension, mutual pining, flirty banter, interrupted make out sessions, smut, tension building.

Note: All characters except y/n are not mine.

||Master List||

🌙 Date One: Rooftop Romance & a Falcon Crash

Bucky’s hand is warm as it slides over yours, his vibranium arm resting on the rooftop table like it belongs there.

The rooftop restaurant is quiet. Just a few candle-lit tables surrounded by fairy lights, with soft jazz playing through overhead speakers. The skyline behind him glows like a dream. And Bucky?

He’s in a button-up. Sleeves rolled to his forearms. Hair tied back. Eyes locked on you like he still can’t believe you said yes to dinner.

“So,” you murmur, swirling the wine in your glass, “this is… kind of perfect.”

Bucky smiles. “I figured if I’m going to ruin someone’s night, might as well do it with a view.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re not ruining anything, Barnes. Though I’m still not convinced this isn’t some weird pity date.”

He leans forward, eyes twinkling. “Sweetheart, if this were a pity date, I wouldn’t have rehearsed what to say in front of my mirror five times before picking you up.”

Your heart flips.

It’s funny—everyone sees Bucky Barnes as the brooding soldier, the stone-faced assassin, the Winter Soldier. But here, tonight, he’s just Bucky. Soft-spoken. Charming. A little shy. And very into you.

“So… what’d you rehearse?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

He groans, covering his face with his hand. “Nope. That was supposed to stay buried.”

You grin. “Come on. You owe me at least one line.”

He groans again. “Fine. I was gonna say…” He sits up straighter, exaggerating the delivery. “‘You look beautiful tonight, doll.’ And then maybe something cheesy like… ‘Nothing in this city shines as bright as you.’”

You blink. “That’s… actually good.”

“Right?” he says, pleased. “Sam told me it was too much. Said I sounded like I was

quoting a romance novel.”

You’re about to respond—something flirty and appreciative—when your phone buzzes on the table. You glance down, but Bucky shakes his head.

“Don’t check it. I’m trying to live in the moment.”

You nod. “Me too.”

You don’t even notice how close you’ve gotten until his knee brushes yours beneath the table. His eyes drop to your lips for just a second. And your breath catches.

He leans in.

You lean closer.

He’s inches away. One hand rising to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His voice drops—

“I’ve been wanting to do this since the first time you handed me a cup of coffee in the break room—”

CRASH.

A loud thump echoes above you. Then—

“Shit! Sorry!”

You both jump as something heavy hits the rooftop ledge and rolls, a few pebbles scattering across the floor.

Bucky’s eyes go wide. “No. No no no—”

“BUCKY!”

You turn to see Sam Wilson—in full Falcon gear—tangled in his own wings, skidding to a stop right in front of your table.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Bucky hisses, standing up.

Sam grins sheepishly. “Hey, man. Didn’t know you were up here. Testing some tech. Kinda… overshot the landing.”

You just blink. “That’s… impressive. Actually.”

Bucky runs a hand down his face. “Sam. I swear to God.”

Sam glances between the two of you. “Oh. OHHHH. Shit—were you two—”

“Yes, Sam,” Bucky snaps. “We were on a date.”

Sam’s mouth opens. Then closes. Then he shrugs.

“Well… my bad. I’ll just… backflip off the side and leave you to it.”

“You do that.”

With a whoosh of his wings, Sam vaults back off the building—leaving behind only a couple of knocked-over chairs, one blown-out candle, and the unmistakable sound of Bucky’s teeth grinding together.

You burst out laughing.

Bucky glares at you—but it’s mostly mock offense. “Glad you’re enjoying the death of our first date.”

You reach across the table and take his hand again. “Okay, it was interrupted, not dead. Honestly? I like that he crashed it. Now you owe me a second date.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“Mhm.” You squeeze his hand. “Next time… somewhere Falcon-proof.”

His grin is soft. Wicked. “Anywhere you want, sweetheart.”

You smirk. “As long as I get that kiss you were about to give me.”

His eyes darken. “Oh, you’ll get it. Trust me.”

🎬 Date Two: Movie Night & Third-Wheel Steve

The sound of a movie plays quietly in the background, but neither of you’s really paying attention.

You’re curled up on Bucky’s couch, under a fleece blanket, one of his old sweatshirts hanging off your shoulder. He sits behind you, legs spread, body warm and solid, and you’re tucked between them like you belong there.

Spoiler: You do.

“I swear,” you mumble, reaching for more popcorn without taking your eyes off the screen, “if this ends with another crash landing, I’m suing Sam for emotional damages.”

Bucky laughs into your shoulder, breath hot against your skin. “This one’s Falcon-free, I promise.”

“You said that last time.”

He groans, playful. “C’mon, don’t hold that against me. It was one crash.”

“It was our almost first kiss, Barnes. That’s a felony in some states.”

He leans closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You want me to make it up to you?”

Your breath catches. “Yeah. I do.”

You twist in his arms, shifting so you’re straddling his lap, knees on either side of his hips. The movement is smooth. Bold. A little reckless.

But he doesn’t mind. In fact, he looks thrilled.

“Well damn,” he says, hands gripping your thighs through the thin fabric of your pajama shorts. “Is this part of the movie, or…?”

You smile, teasing. “Bonus content.”

His eyes flick to your lips, then back to your eyes. “You’re killin’ me, doll.”

And then his hands slide up your thighs, fingers curling around your waist. You can feel him underneath you—hard, hungry, ready—and you’re barely even kissing yet.

His voice drops, rough with restraint. “Tell me to stop now if you want to.”

“I don’t want to,” you whisper, breathless.

That’s all he needs.

His lips crash into yours—hot, intense, a kiss you’ve both been aching for since the rooftop. His tongue teases your bottom lip, and you open for him, moaning into his mouth as his hands tighten on your hips. You rock forward instinctively, and he groans, hips bucking beneath you.

“Fuck,” he whispers, “you’re gonna make me—”

BANG. BANG. BANG.

A heavy knock slams against the front door, startling you both.

You freeze.

“No,” Bucky mutters against your neck, lips still brushing your skin. “No. Not again.”

“Ignore it,” you whisper, grinding against him a little just to tease.

He groans. “Oh, sweetheart. You’re gonna kill me.”

BANG. BANG. BANG.

“Bucky!” a familiar voice calls from the hallway. “I brought pizza!”

You pull back, blinking. “Is that—?”

“STEVE,” Bucky growls.

You scramble off his lap, cheeks blazing as Bucky nearly explodes off the couch.

The front door swings open—of course he still gives Steve a key—and there stands Captain America himself, smiling, holding two pizza boxes and a six-pack of root beer.

“Hey,” Steve says, totally oblivious, “movie night?”

Bucky’s expression is somewhere between a murder charge and emotional devastation. “STEVE.”

Steve blinks. “What?”

Bucky gestures wildly. “What does it look like?!”

Steve finally notices your flushed cheeks, the messed-up blanket, the very awkward distance you’re both now keeping.

“Oh,” he says.

There’s a pause.

Then: “Should I… leave?”

Bucky looks like he wants to throw him through a wall. You try not to laugh.

“Probably,” you say, standing and adjusting the oversized sweatshirt. “Unless you wanna be very scarred tonight.”

Steve holds up the pizza hopefully. “I brought pepperoni?”

You groan. “Okay, fine. But I’m picking the movie and you’re sitting at the other end of the couch.”

Bucky mutters something under his breath about “damn super soldiers and their terrible timing,” but you give his hand a squeeze as you walk by.

When your eyes meet, he mouths:

“Next time. You’re mine.”

And something about the heat in his stare tells you next time’s gonna be very worth the wait.

🖼️ Date Three: Art, Anticipation & An Unwelcome Mission

The Met is unusually quiet for a Saturday evening. Dimmed lights. Velvet ropes. Elegant, whispered conversations.

But Bucky’s not paying attention to the Monet in front of him.

No—he’s watching you.

Your dress hugs your curves too perfectly. Your eyes shine every time you pause in front of a new piece. And when you tilt your head, smiling at some abstract sculpture like it just told you a dirty joke, he damn near loses his mind.

“You’ve been staring at me for the last ten minutes,” you murmur, not even turning around.

“You make it hard not to,” he replies, stepping closer, voice low. “You know that dress should be illegal, right?”

You smirk, still pretending to focus on the painting. “So arrest me, Sergeant Barnes.”

His fingers brush your lower back. Soft. Teasing. “You sayin’ you want me to cuff you, sweetheart?”

You shoot him a warning look, cheeks heating. “This is a museum.”

“This is foreplay,” he corrects, voice deep and delicious in your ear.

You nearly choke on a laugh. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet…” His metal hand slides down your waist, resting right at the curve of your hip, “…you still came out with me.”

You turn to face him, caught in that pull he always seems to have over you.

“I came because I like the way you look when you pretend to care about art,” you tease.

He raises an eyebrow. “I do care. Especially about the nudes.”

“Bucky!”

But you’re laughing, and he’s leaning in—smirking, dangerous, beautiful. The tension between you crackles like electricity in the air.

“I need to kiss you,” he whispers. “Right now.”

“Not in the middle of the sculpture room.”

His smirk grows. “Then come with me.”

Before you can protest, he takes your hand and tugs you down a quiet side hallway labeled “Staff Only.”

“Bucky,” you hiss, half laughing, “we’re gonna get kicked out—”

“I’ll make it worth it,” he says, pulling you into the shadows.

The hallway is dark. Silent. Cold stone walls and empty echo. And Bucky?

He’s all heat and hands and hunger.

His mouth finds yours like it’s been waiting too long. You melt into the kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck as his hands grip your hips and press you against the wall. His tongue slips into your mouth, and you whimper—soft, needy—hips rocking forward just slightly.

The sound he makes? Absolutely feral.

“God, doll,” he groans, grinding into you. “You keep makin’ those noises and I’m not gonna make it to date five.”

You gasp against his lips. “Then make this one count.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. His lips travel down your jaw, nipping along your throat. One hand slides under your dress, brushing the inside of your thigh—and you know if anyone catches you right now, you’d be banned for life.

And honestly? Worth it.

Just as his fingers start to trail higher—

Bzzt. Bzzt.

His phone vibrates hard against his chest.

Bucky groans like he’s in actual pain. “Ignore it.”

But it buzzes again. And again.

And then your phone starts to vibrate in your bag.

You both freeze.

He curses softly, reaching into his coat. The moment he checks the screen, everything changes.

His entire posture shifts. Military. Tense. Ready.

“What?” you ask, straightening, heart dropping.

“It’s Sam,” he mutters, already walking back down the hallway. “HYDRA hit a black site in Berlin. Nat’s down. Cap’s calling us in.”

You’re suddenly cold all over.

He turns back to you, jaw clenched, eyes apologetic. “I have to go.”

“I know,” you say quietly, following him.

“This isn’t how I wanted tonight to end,” he admits, pulling you into a brief, fierce kiss that tastes like regret.

“I know,” you whisper again. “Just… come back in one piece, Barnes.”

He cups your face, thumb stroking your cheek. “You too.”

And then he’s gone.

You’re left standing in that dim, forgotten hallway—heart pounding, skin still tingling from his touch—wondering what the hell it’ll take to finally finish one damn date with him.

🌧️ Date Four: Rain, Restraint & a Damn Phone Call

It starts as a simple walk after dinner.

You and Bucky wander through downtown Brooklyn, hands tangled together like you’ve been doing it for years. The streets are damp, slick from a light drizzle that started an hour ago, but neither of you care.

You’re laughing. Warm. Buzzed off good food and wine and him.

He keeps sneaking glances at you like you’re the most stunning thing in the entire city. And truth be told, the way the rain makes your dress cling to your curves? He

might be right.

“You cold, doll?” he asks, pulling you a little closer under his umbrella.

“Not with you like this,” you reply, and rest your hand on his chest. It’s firm, warm even through his jacket, and you feel the way he subtly leans into your touch.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “You say things like that, I’m gonna have to press you against this brick wall and make out with you like we’re in a damn movie.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

His smirk could melt steel. “Why don’t we find out?”

And that’s all it takes.

You stop walking.

Grab the front of his coat.

And pull him into the nearest alley.

“Holy shit,” he laughs, stunned, as you shove him gently against the damp brick. “You’re serious.”

“I’ve waited long enough, Barnes,” you say, pressing your body to his, looking up through soaked lashes. “Every single date, someone or something gets in the way. Not this time. I want you. Right now.”

He growls low in his throat, both hands grabbing your waist with barely restrained hunger. “You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me, sweetheart.”

Then he kisses you—hard.

Tongue, teeth, rain-slick lips. It’s messy and desperate and hot. One hand slides down to your ass, gripping it like it belongs to him, while the other slides up under your dress, metal fingertips dragging fire across your thigh.

You whimper against his mouth, grinding into him. He’s already hard, pressed right against your core, and the friction makes your knees damn near give out.

“You feel that?” he rasps against your throat, dragging his mouth down to your collarbone. “That’s what you do to me. Every time.”

You moan, tugging at his belt. “Then do something about it, James.”

The way he groans at that—your real name for him, full of need—it’s feral. You feel him fumbling to push your panties aside, fingers sliding through your slick folds, and—

RING. RING.

You both freeze.

The loud, shrill ring echoes in the alley.

“No,” you gasp, panting. “No. Don’t you dare—”

He pulls back just enough to glance at his phone, face wild with frustration.

“Ignore it,” you plead, nails scraping down his chest.

“I want to, believe me,” he groans. “But it’s Sam.”

You nearly scream.

He kisses you again—fast, deep, like a fucking apology—then answers the call with a snarl in his voice.

“What?” he snaps.

You can hear Sam on the other end: “Uh… hate to ruin your date again, but we’ve got a situation.”

Bucky closes his eyes and lets his head thunk back against the brick wall.

You adjust your dress and sigh, already knowing the answer.

⸻

Fifteen minutes later, you’re back at his place, soaked and pissed off, watching Bucky gear up like he’s going into war. (He is. Kinda.)

“I’m starting to think the universe hates our sex life,” you say flatly, arms crossed.

He gives you a tight smile as he straps on his thigh holster. “I’m gonna kill something just for interrupting us.”

You walk up to him, grab him by the collar, and pull him in for a slow, intense kiss. Your lips barely part, breath warm and heavy between you.

“When you come back,” you whisper, “you’re not getting another first date.”

He nods. “When I come back, you’re getting every inch of me.”

Your cheeks heat. “Bold talk for someone who’s gotta run.”

He presses his forehead to yours, voice ragged. “I’ll be back soon. And when I am… we’re not stopping.”

You don’t say goodbye.

You just let the promise hang between you—thick with tension, soaked in heat, and aching to be fulfilled.

💥 Date Five: No More Waiting

He doesn’t knock when he comes back.

He storms through the front door, drenched in rain and adrenaline, chest heaving like a man who’s run straight through hell just to get to you.

And when he sees you—curled up in one of his shirts, waiting on the couch with wide eyes and bare thighs—he stops.

You rise slowly, heart thudding, drinking him in. His hair’s wet and messy, jaw tight, dog tags clinking as he drops his gear to the floor.

“Bucky—”

“No more interruptions,” he growls, striding toward you. “No more missions. No more waiting.”

You don’t speak. Just back toward the bedroom.

He follows.

You barely make it through the door before he has you pressed against the wall, kissing you like it’s the last oxygen on Earth. Tongue, teeth, need. You moan into it, fingers already tugging at his shirt.

“Off,” you breathe. “Want to feel you.”

He rips the shirt over his head in one fluid motion, muscles rippling as he tosses it aside. You press your palms to his chest—scarred and strong—and slide down, mouth open as your lips trail kisses across his pecs, down his abs.

But he stops you with a growl, metal hand in your hair.

“Not tonight, doll,” he says, voice rough with control. “Tonight’s about you.”

He lifts you easily—like you weigh nothing—lays you gently on the bed, and kneels between your legs.

“Bucky—”

“You’ve been so damn patient,” he murmurs, dragging your borrowed shirt up your torso, kissing every new inch of skin he exposes. “Four. Fucking. Dates. And every single one? Ruined.”

His mouth ghosts over your navel. “I haven’t touched you the way I want to.”

“Then touch me now,” you whisper.

He looks up at you—eyes dark, starved, desperate.

“Oh, sweetheart… I’m gonna do more than that.”

And then he slides your panties down your legs and devours you.

His mouth is sinful—hot tongue swirling, slow licks that make your hips jerk, breath catch. He doesn’t rush it. He feasts. Like you’re dessert and he’s been starving.

“Oh fuck,” you moan, back arching as his tongue circles your clit.

He groans into you, loving the sounds you make, the way your thighs shake around his head.

“Let go, baby,” he murmurs against your heat. “Come on my tongue.”

You do.Hard.

Your climax crashes over you like a goddamn wave, and Bucky doesn’t stop. He guides you through it, tongue relentless, even as you squirm and gasp from overstimulation.

“Too much—” you whisper.

But he pulls back, just enough to kiss your trembling inner thigh. “Too much? Or not enough?”

You blink, dazed. “Bucky—”

“I need you,” he growls, standing, shedding his pants, revealing just how ready he’s been. “Been dreaming about this. About you. Every fuckin’ night.”

He climbs over you, forearms braced beside your head, his tip sliding along your still-wet folds.

“You want me?” he asks, voice thick.

“Yes. Please—”

He sinks into you in one smooth, slow thrust, and everything else disappears.

Your moan is filthy, and his? It’s practically a growl.

“You’re so fuckin’ tight,” he hisses, forehead resting against yours. “God, you feel perfect.”

He starts to move—slow at first, deep and steady—rocking into you like he’s savoring every inch.

“You take me so good, baby,” he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Like you were made for me.”

Your nails dig into his back. You wrap your legs around his waist. “Harder.”

He obeys instantly.

His thrusts pick up speed, power—his metal hand gripping your thigh, keeping you spread wide as he pounds into you with deep, possessive strokes.

The headboard hits the wall. The bed creaks. The room fills with the sound of skin, breath, moans.

“Fuck—Bucky—yes, just like that—”

He leans down, nipping your jaw, your throat. “You’re mine,” he groans. “This pussy? Fuckin’ mine.”

“Yours,” you gasp. “All yours.”

He kisses you then—hungry, messy, like he’s claiming you—and slips a hand between you to rub your clit, fast and perfect.

You shatter around him a second time, crying out his name, your entire body trembling. He follows moments later, burying himself deep, moaning low in your ear as he comes.

He doesn’t move for a moment.

Just holds you, breathless, bodies tangled, hearts racing.

Eventually, he rolls onto his back and pulls you with him, cradling you on his chest.

“Worth the wait?” he murmurs, brushing your hair from your sweaty face.

You hum, nuzzling into him. “Absolutely.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Next time,” he whispers, “we skip the date and go straight to dessert.”

You laugh softly, eyes fluttering closed.

And for the first time in weeks, nothing interrupts the night.

-The end

(Yes, I know that I said I don’t write smut. I am not good at it. But… I gave it a shot to see how it goes.)

[just-aake]

Whispered in Russian Part 2

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: Part 2 of Whispered in Russian. Natasha takes you to meet her family for the first time.

A/n: this was inspired from a request. I hope you'll enjoy it.

Warnings: fluff, suggestive themes, Russian translations from google

Words: 4990

You fidget with the ribbon on the container nestled in your lap, your fingers adjusting and retightening the bow for what has to be the fifth time since the car ride began. The satin already lies perfectly in place, but your nerves won’t settle unless your hands stay busy.

From the driver’s seat, Natasha casts a quick glance your way, catching the subtle tremble in your fingers.

“Rasslab’sya, detka,” she murmurs, her voice calm and low as her hand reaches over to still yours. Her touch is warm and grounding.

You exhale slowly, relaxing like she tells you to, trying to ease the anxiety fluttering in your chest. You turn your hand beneath hers, intertwining your fingers with hers, but the tension doesn’t quite fade.

After a moment, you groan and let your head fall back dramatically against the seat. You twist to look at her with exasperation, eyes wide.

“Oh, this is bad. Not even your Russian is helping me calm down right now.”

A small, knowing smirk plays on Natasha’s lips. Without taking her eyes off the road, she lifts your joined hands and presses a soft kiss against your knuckles.

“I thought you said my Russian does the opposite,” she says with a teasing lilt. Then, without warning, her voice dips into something darker, silkier—something meant only for you.

“Tebe uzhe stanovitsya zharko?”

Are you getting hot yet?

You gasp, jerking your hand back before she gets any more ideas, warmth blooming fast across your cheeks.

“Natasha!” you hiss. “We’re about to have dinner with your family. This is not the time to rile me up.”

Her grin only widens.

“You know I’m great at multitasking,” she replies breezily, her hand casually returning to rest on your thigh. But then it moves, slowly tracing delicate circles that make your breath hitch.

You clamp your hand over hers before it can travel any higher. 

“Focus,” you warn, your voice a mix of stern and pleading. “I’m already a wreck as it is. I’m trying to make a good impression.”

Natasha eases up, her touch softening but not quite withdrawing, thumb brushing along the hem of your skirt. She knows this matters to you.

It’s your first time meeting her family—the one she didn’t grow up with but still calls hers. Melina. Alexei. Yelena. All ex-assassins and one genetically enhanced super soldier. You’re not exactly bringing cookies to your average suburban dinner.

The nerves creep back in at the thought. You glance down at the container again, doubt flickering in your eyes.

“Maybe I should’ve brought something else,” you murmur. “Cookies feel…underwhelming.”

Natasha chuckles softly. 

“Well, if they don’t want them,” she says, squeezing your thigh gently, “I’ll eat them all myself.”

You gape at her. “So they’re not enough?”

She huffs a laugh through her nose, clearly entertained, as she mutters under her breath.

“Bozhe, kakoy ty milyy…”

God, you’re cute…

Your face warms immediately. You scoff, turning away so she won’t see the rising blush.

“You know I can still understand you even when you whisper,” you grumble. Then, quieter.

“Ty ne tonkiy.”

You’re not subtle.

She laughs under her breath, clearly delighted by your flustered state. You squeeze her hand lightly, a gentle reprimand.

“Your Russian’s gotten better,” she remarks, glancing sideways at you with a smirk.

“Of course it did,” you reply proudly. “I had a great teacher. Very strict. Very sexy.”

That earns a genuine laugh from Natasha. 

“Really now? Should I be worried?”

You grin, fiddling with her fingers as you lean in just slightly.

“Mmm, maybe. Our night sessions are my favorite.”

Natasha raises an amused brow but says nothing, letting you press the advantage while she drives.

“Oh?” she prompts coolly. “And why’s that?”

You lift her hand to your lips, delicately kissing her fingertip. Your voice drops to a whisper.

“Because I never want her to stop.”

The only response is the soft hum in Natasha’s throat—and the way her grip on the steering wheel subtly tightens.

You trail another kiss along her knuckle.

“So I tell her…”

You pause, eyes gleaming as you kiss a second finger, your voice sultry now.

“Yeshchyo…”

More…

Then, a third kiss, slower this time, into the center of her palm.

“Pozhaluysta, day yeshchyo…Natalia.”

Please, give me more…Natalia.

The car suddenly veers with precision into a parking lot, tires crunching against the gravel. The motion is smooth but decisive, too smooth to be spontaneous.

Before you can react, Natasha shifts the gear into park and turns to you. Her free hand reaches for your chin, firm but gentle, tilting your face toward hers.

Her eyes—deep, dark, and undeniably burning—flick to your lips, then back to your gaze.

“You really want to test me before dinner?” she asks, her voice a whisper against your mouth as she leans in just enough to brush her lips over yours.

You shiver at the contact, your heart racing.

“Now, who’s riling up who?” she murmurs before pressing her lips more firmly into yours, the teasing gone now—replaced with something deeper, more indulgent. 

Her hand curls at the back of your neck, anchoring you gently in place as she kisses you like she has all the time in the world.

And for a moment, you melt into it completely, a quiet hum escaping your throat—soft, pleased, and entirely content.

Your hand rests lightly on her chest, fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt. Her lips are warm and familiar, coaxing you to stay a little longer in this bubble she’s wrapped around the two of you.

But just over her shoulder, a gleam of amber light catches your eye.

You blink, breathless, and squint through the driver-side window at the storefront across the street.

Vinoteka Zvezda

Wine Star 

A small, charming little wine shop, the kind that screams “curated” and “family-owned.” An idea sparks in your brain, chasing away the last haze of Natasha’s kiss.

“That’s it!” you gasp, pulling back with sudden clarity.

Natasha remains frozen in place, her lips still slightly parted in protest, eyes fluttering open as she chases the space you just left. Her hand on your neck lingers, as does the ghost of the kiss on your lips.

She tries to lean back in, muttering against your mouth, “Chto—what’s it?”

You flash her a grin and press a quick, consoling peck to her lips.

“A bottle of wine,” you explain brightly, already reaching for your seatbelt. “It’s the perfect thing to bring.”

Unbuckling yourself, you shift in your seat and pop the door open before Natasha can reel you back in.

“Wait here,” you say, already halfway out. “I’ll be right back!”

The car door shuts behind you, leaving Natasha staring at the empty seat beside her.

She exhales through her nose in exasperation, slumping back into the leather of her seat as she watches you skip across the street, determination lighting up your features. She tracks how you enter the wine shop and immediately start talking animatedly to the shopkeeper, your hands gesturing in passionate, sweeping arcs as you describe the kind of bottle you’re searching for.

Natasha tilts her head, her lips curling into something soft and helpless.

“Kak milo…”

So cute…, she murmurs under her breath, shaking her head slightly at how easily you fluster and focus in the same breath.

She rests her elbow on the window ledge, her chin in her hand now, eyes never leaving you through the windshield. Even with the nerves, planning, and chaos, you still light up any room you walk into. And despite the teasing earlier, this…this is the part that gets her the most.

The part where you care so much.

Where you want to get it right.

And you don’t even realize how much you’ve already impressed her.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Natasha watches you out of the corner of her eye as you readjust everything in your arms—a wine bottle in one hand, the container of cookies balanced carefully in the other, and a bouquet of flowers tucked into the crook of your elbow. 

You’d made her stop at a roadside cart twenty minutes ago, determined to make the best possible impression. 

She’d offered—twice—to hold something, but you waved her off with that same stubborn confidence she’s grown increasingly fond of.

You shift your weight, square your shoulders, and glance at the front door with the kind of intensity you’d usually reserve for mission briefings.

“Okay,” you say, exhaling once. “I’m ready.”

Natasha gives you a once-over, lips twitching upward.

“You’re sure?”

You bump her with your shoulder. 

“Just knock already, Romanoff.”

She huffs but obeys, rapping her knuckles against the heavy door.

You barely have a second to mentally run through the Russian greetings you practiced before the door swings open—and any preparation you had dissolves on sight.

A tall, broad-shouldered man fills the doorway, eyes narrowed slightly, arms folded across his chest. His imposing figure, tangled beard, and the sheer weight of his stare make your spine straighten instinctively.

And you forget how to speak.

The man squints at you. Then, his gaze shifts to Natasha.

In an instant, his whole demeanor changes, and his eyes light up. 

“Ahh! My daughter has come home!” he booms, voice reverberating through the hallway before he steps forward and engulfs Natasha in a bear hug.

“Oof,” Natasha grunts as he pulls her in, her arms pinned awkwardly at her sides. “Alexei,” she mutters in protest, clearly used to this. “That’s enough.”

She peels herself out of his grip with practiced effort and steps back, brushing off her jacket. Then she gestures toward you with a small, subtle smile.

“This is my girlfriend.”

The word lands with a deliberate weight, and your heart skips at hearing her say it so directly.

Alexei blinks, then his head tilts slightly toward you. His brow furrows again, but this time in contemplation rather than challenge. His eyes dart to your full hands. 

“Girlfriend, da,” he echoes, nodding slowly. “A strong one, from the looks of it.”

You offer him a nervous smile. 

He opens his arms for a hug, but Natasha swiftly plants a palm on his chest.

“No.”

Alexei pauses, sighs theatrically, and switches tactics by offering his hand instead—before realizing you can’t take it. His gaze drops to the bottle.

You quickly shift and lift the wine toward him. 

“A gift. I thought it might go well with dinner.”

He takes it from you with a hum of approval, turning the label to inspect the vintage. 

“Ahh...1986. Hah! That year, I was invited to drink with high officials for my work as the Red Guardian. They only brought out the good stuff when I was in the room.” He winks at you before waving you both inside. “Come, come. We will drink this after dinner and toast to our victories!”

You follow Natasha in, carefully stepping around a pair of discarded combat boots and a black and red shield by the entryway. The smell of stewing herbs wafts in from the kitchen.

As you near the threshold, Alexei continues regaling you with some half-fantastical tale involving a Siberian embassy, three political defectors, and a wine-fueled arm-wrestling match.

“Alexei,” comes a sharp voice from the kitchen, cutting him off mid-story, “this is not the time. Go watch the pot before it boils over.”

You glance in and spot an older woman, her hair tied back, her sleeves rolled up, and a wooden spoon in hand. She doesn’t even look up at him to see if he’ll follow her words.

“Alright, Melina,” Alexei grumbles under his breath and trudges off.

After handing him the spoon, Melina approaches Natasha before placing her hands on either side of her daughter’s face and tilting it side to side with a critical eye.

“You’re looking healthy,” she remarks thoughtfully, then squints at her lips. “Though your lipstick is smeared. You may want to fix that before dinner.”

You immediately cough, embarrassed, breath catching in your throat at the reason it’s smeared. Natasha throws you a sidelong look and smirks, not even pretending to hide her amusement.

Melina turns to you next, her expression unreadable for a beat—then softens slightly.

“And you must be the one I’ve heard about.”

You offer her a respectful nod and a warm smile. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Vostokoff. These are for you.” You gently extend the bouquet.

Melina blinks in mild surprise as she accepts the flowers. 

“Oh...these are quite lovely,” she says, turning the stems in her fingers with practiced interest. Then she adds casually, “You know, with the right compound mixture, the petals of these can be distilled into a knockout gas that masks itself with floral pheromones.”

You blink once. Twice.

“I…didn’t know that.”

She hums.

“Thank you for these. I’ll be sure to use them effectively.” 

“Right…,” you swallow your nerves before continuing. “I also made these.” You offer her the container of cookies. “Thought it might be a nice dessert.”

Melina accepts them with a nod. 

“You baked them yourself?”

Before you can answer, a blonde-haired figure sweeps into the room.

“I can take that,” she announces, reaching for the container.

Melina immediately smacks her hand away. 

“Not now, Yelena, dinner first,” she says sharply. “Or else you’ll ruin your appetite.”

Yelena pouts, rubbing the back of her hand as she grumbles under her breath.

Melina takes the flowers and cookies into the kitchen without another glance.

Now left in the entryway with you and Natasha, Yelena crosses her arms and eyes you like she’s trying to gauge your combat level.

“So,” she starts, “you’re the one my sister wants to ma—”

She doesn’t finish the sentence. Natasha’s foot connects with her shin, and Yelena yelps.

“Ow! That hurt!”

Natasha shrugs unapologetically. 

“My foot slipped.”

Yelena narrows her eyes as if looking for an opening to retaliate against her sister before Melina’s voice calls out from the kitchen again.

“Yelena! Come set the table.”

With a dramatic sigh and a half-glare thrown over her shoulder, Yelena mutters, “This isn’t over,” before disappearing into the kitchen.

The hallway finally settles into a quiet hum.

You glance at Natasha, but she’s already looking at you. Her brow lifts slightly.

“You okay?”

To her surprise, you let out a soft, breathy laugh and shift your weight, taking her hand in yours.

“They’re…different,” you say thoughtfully, “but somehow they’re also…normal. Like a family. A real one.”

Natasha’s expression softens as she watches you, her thumb gently brushing the inside of your wrist where your pulse flutters beneath her touch. Then she lifts her other hand, brushing a stray curl away from your face, her gaze warm and steady.

“You’re not scared off?” she asks, quieter now like she almost doesn’t want to break the moment.

You meet her eyes and give a small, sincere smile.

“No. Honestly?” You shrug lightly. “I think I like them.”

A short laugh escapes from her—one part fondness, one part disbelief, because of course you would. Her eyes crinkle slightly at the corners as she leans in, her hand rising to cradle your face.

She’s just about to kiss you.

“Natasha,” Melina’s voice cuts through from around the corner, sharp and efficient.

You instinctively pull back, straightening like you’ve been caught in the act. 

Natasha groans softly in frustration, her lips parted in a half-formed complaint as her hand reluctantly drops back to her side.

You offer her an apologetic smile, squeezing her fingers in consolation just as Melina steps into view.

“Alexei and Yelena can handle the finishing touches on dinner,” Melina says, glancing briefly at you before continuing with a subtle weight in her tone. “The item you requested? It arrived yesterday. If you want to come see it.”

Natasha immediately perks up, something close to anticipation flickering behind her eyes.

“I do,” she says, already moving. Then she pauses when she notices you falling in step beside her.

She turns, steps into your path, and gently touches your arm.

“Why don’t you wait in the kitchen?” she suggests lightly, nodding toward the other end of the house. “We won’t be long.”

You raise an eyebrow, lips twitching.

“Abandoning me to the wolves already?”

Natasha leans in and presses a quick kiss to your cheek, the soft brush of her lips barely enough to make up for the one Melina interrupted.

“You’ll survive,” she says, her voice low, amused, and just the tiniest bit smug.

You huff out a playful breath. 

“We’ll see,” you mutter as you turn, giving her one last look before making your way toward the kitchen.

The closer you get, the more you slow your pace as the nerves settle back in. You can hear Alexei’s deep voice rumbling through the space, followed by Yelena’s sharper reply, the familiar cadence of Russian drifting toward you.

“Gde tvoya mat’?”

“Where’s your mother?” Alexei asks, casual, distracted, and likely chopping something from the sound of the knife.

“Navernoye, otdat’ Natasha kol’tso, kotoroye prishlo,”

“Probably giving Natasha the ring that arrived,” Yelena replies without hesitation.

There’s a beat of silence.

“Аh…chtoby sdelat' predlozheniye.”

Ah…so she can propose.

Your stomach flips as your eyes widen slightly. You come to a complete stop at the entryway, hidden from sight as they continue.

Alexei hums in contemplation. 

“Yeyo devushka khoroshaya. Mne ona nravitsya.”

Her girlfriend seems good. I like her, Alexei says with a note of approval.

Yelena makes a faint sound of agreement, then adds, “I pechen’ye vkusnoye.”

And the cookies are delicious.

You blink, trying to process the whiplash of implications in their conversation. Ring? Proposal? Is that why Natasha wanted you to meet her family?

Not wanting to be caught eavesdropping, you clear your throat softly and step into the kitchen with your best attempt at casual nonchalance.

“Hey,” you say. “Need any help in here?”

Both Alexei and Yelena freeze at your presence. Alexei’s hand hovers awkwardly over a bowl while Yelena stands motionless with a half-eaten cookie in hand.

You raise a brow, hiding your amusement at their synchronized panic.

Yelena is the first to recover. She gestures toward the side counter. 

“Sure,” she says smoothly. “Can you help with setting the plates? We’re almost done with the food.”

You nod and walk over to the stack of dishes she points to, quietly beginning to lay them out on the table in the dining room.

Behind you, you catch the low whisper of Alexei’s voice again.

“Kak vy dumayete, ona chto-nibud’ slyshala?”

Do you think she heard anything?

Yelena responds under her breath, “Steny zdes' ne sovsem zvukonepronitsayemyye, Alexei. No, k schast’yu, ona ne govorit po-russki.”

These walls aren’t exactly soundproof, Alexei. But luckily she doesn’t speak Russian.

You suppress a smile as you gently place down the last plate, all while perfectly understanding every word.

The moment is interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps, and Melina’s voice returns with crisp authority as she steps into the kitchen.

“Looks like everything’s ready. Let’s start dinner.”

Natasha enters just behind her, eyes sweeping the room. Her gaze finds you almost immediately, her lips quirking up in something soft and private, like she knows you’ve handled her family better than she ever could’ve predicted.

You meet her eyes and smile back, warmth blooming in your chest at the revelation of what she wants for your future.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Dinner is warm in more ways than one. The scent of roasted herbs and buttery vegetables fills the room, clinking utensils and soft conversation creating a domestic hum around the table.

Natasha rests her chin against her palm, elbow propped lazily on the table as she watches you. Her gaze trails the subtle movement of your lips as you speak, the easy rhythm of your laughter, the way your hand flicks slightly when telling a story. 

She isn’t even pretending to eat. Her fork idles in her other hand, forgotten.

“You’re staring,” Melina remarks coolly, not even looking up from her plate. “As charming as it is to be hopelessly enamored, Natasha, you should eat before the food gets cold.”

You turn toward her just in time to catch the faintest flush of color on Natasha’s cheeks.

“Can’t really blame her,” you tease, casting Natasha a sly smile, your nerves completely vanishing in the warm, lively energy of her family. “I am objectively captivating.”

Natasha huffs through her nose but says nothing to tease you back. Instead, she nudges her chair just a little closer to yours. Barely noticeable to anyone else.

You glance at her curiously, but don’t press, returning your attention to Alexei across the table as he picks up where he’d left off.

“So you stopped the entire team of enemy operatives alone?” you ask, half in disbelief, half wanting to see how far this story goes.

Alexei puffs up with delight, always eager to relive his Red Guardian glory days for someone who hasn’t heard every exaggerated detail before.

“Alone? Pffft. Of course, alone. You think they could hold me with chains? Bah! They tried. I flexed. One shoulder pop and snap—bindings gone! Like thread around a bear.”

As he gestures grandly—mimicking his escape with dramatic flair—you nod along, engaged, even as Natasha slowly moves her food around her plate, her fork barely tapping the surface.

And then…you feel it.

A warm, deliberate hand slides beneath the edge of the table and lands lightly on your thigh—right at the hem of your skirt. Your back straightens in an instant. Your shoulders square. You glance sharply at her from the side, jaw tight in warning.

But Natasha? She’s chewing quietly, face entirely innocent. Her eyes don’t leave her plate.

You try to focus as Alexei mimics the sounds of panicked guards, but then her fingers give a little squeeze.

You twitch slightly, feet shifting under the table. 

Her hand slides upward, just a little, fingertips brushing the inside of your thigh.

Your breath hitches.

Just as her fingers begin to dip higher—exploring—you act fast, clamping your thighs together and catching her hand right in place.

Her fingers wriggle playfully, trapped now, but not at all deterred. In fact, from the subtle upturn of her lips, she looks positively smug.

Across the table, Melina suddenly turns to Natasha, shifting the attention just enough.

“Are you keeping yourself safe during missions?” she asks, tone sharp but not unkind. “I saw that latest intel packet. That explosion was too close.”

Natasha rolls her eyes.

“Define ‘safe,’” she mutters. “People keep shooting at me.”

“That’s why she has me,” you chime in, clearing your throat and adjusting slightly in your seat as you discreetly reach under the table to grab her hand, intertwining them together and firmly placing them between the two of you. “To pull her out of those things. Preferably before the explosions happen.”

Alexei laughs heartily at that, reaching for his glass.

“I like her,” he says to Melina. “Ona ostraya.”

She’s sharp.

Melina tuts. “It’s rude to speak about her like that right in front of her, Alexei.”

Natasha, without missing a beat, smirks.

“She understands Russian.”

Alexei chokes on his drink. Melina blinks once, then tilts her head, intrigued.

“You do?” she asks you. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

You shrug with a slight grin.

“I’m still learning.”

Melina hums, impressed. 

“Well. In that case, come sit with me. Let’s see how much you do know. Bring the wine.”

She rises and gestures for you to follow her into the living space.

You stand, giving Natasha a squeeze of her fingers in playful chastising for her earlier teasing before letting go.

Natasha watches you and Melina disappear from the kitchen, her eyes trailing after you fondly until she notices the quiet shift in the atmosphere.

She glances back at the table.

Yelena and Alexei are both frozen.

Yelena’s hand hovers just over the container of cookies, and Alexei’s head is bent low, scratching at the back of his neck with obvious guilt.

Natasha narrows her eyes.

“This is suspicious,” she says flatly, rising from her seat and stalking over to her sister.

Yelena stiffens. 

“Suspicious, how?” she mutters casually, reaching for a cookie.

Natasha closes the lid of the container and snatches it away before Yelena can grab it. 

“What did you two do?”

Alexei mumbles something into his hand, but Natasha’s already locked on to Yelena, who winces.

“Your girlfriend may have…possibly overheard us talking.”

“About what?” Natasha presses.

“Your ring that you got her,” Yelena admits, bracing for impact, before adding. “And Alexei mentioned you wanting to propose.”

Natasha groans and rubs a hand down her face.

“You two,” she mutters. “I swear to god…”

“Hey, how were we supposed to know she understood Russian?” Yelena defends.

“Da, you should’ve told us, Natasha,” Alexei agrees, crossing his arms.

Natasha just rolls her eyes before glancing toward the living room and sees you laughing softly with Melina as you both talk animatedly in Russian. Instantly, her irritation melts into something softer.

Because you heard. And the information didn’t seem to scare you off.

Placing the container back on the table, Natasha moves to join you. When she enters the living room, the soft clink of glass meeting wood draws her gaze immediately to where you’re seated with Melina. 

You’re curled comfortably into the armchair, cheeks tinged with warmth that isn’t entirely from the room’s temperature. Melina sits in the other armchair beside you, calmly refilling your glass with a steady pour and a faint, impressed smile on her lips.

You don’t even hesitate, raising the glass with a small toast and murmuring thanks in Russian. But your pronunciation is just slightly off. The syllables slur at the edges, your usual clarity muddled.

Natasha narrows her eyes.

She mentally counts—two glasses during dinner, one more after you stepped out with Melina… and now a fourth. Her eyes flick to the bottle on the side table, noting the high alcohol content. 

With a quiet sigh, Natasha strides over. You’re just lifting the glass to your lips again when she gently intercepts it, slipping it from your grasp before you can take another sip.

“Hey…” you whine softly, blinking up at her with a pout.

“Detka,” Natasha sighs, “my family has an elevated alcohol tolerance. You have a normal one.”

Melina lets out a quiet chuckle, unbothered. 

“I’m sorry,” she says with an amused twinkle in her eye. “You were such good company, I may have lost track.”

“It was really nice talking with you,” you say, voice lilting sweetly. “Even if your flower stories scare me a little.”

Melina gives you an affectionate pat on the arm before excusing herself. 

“I’ll leave you alone now. I need to check on the other two before they get into some trouble.”

“Too late,” Natasha mutters.

Once she’s gone, Natasha slides onto the armrest beside your chair, perched just above your shoulder. She’s watching you with the kind of expression that’s both exasperated and deeply fond.

“So,” she says, brow arched. “How are we feeling?”

You beam up at her with the kind of drunken smile that melts her on the spot. 

“S’good,” you say cheerfully, tapping her thigh like you’re letting her in on a secret. “I asked your mom to teach me something.”

Natasha’s brow furrows, intrigued.

“Oh yeah? What’d she teach you?”

You straighten slightly, gathering all your focus like it’s a mission. You take her hand in yours, lifting it gently between you.

You blink once, twice, then look her dead in the eye with as much serious gravity as you can summon in your wine-softened state.

“Natalia Alianovna Romanoff,” you say, slow and deliberate.

Natasha huffs in surprise, a low chuckle escaping her throat, at her full name that you probably got from her mother.

You take a breath, your accent slightly clumsy but the intent is crystal clear as you look up at her and say in Russian.

“Ty vyy-desh' za men-ya za…muzh?”

Will you marry me?

The room stills.

Your voice is slightly off, but the meaning—the emotion—lands with devastating clarity.

Natasha’s heart skips. Her fingers twitch slightly in yours.

“What do you think?” you ask, eyes wide. “Was it close?”

Natasha lets out a slow, shaky laugh and leans in closer, brushing a knuckle under your chin. 

“It was close,” she murmurs, then repeats it back to you, softer and steadier, in her perfect Russian accent.

“Ty vyydesh' za menya zamuzh?”

Will you marry me?

Your breath catches, a quiet smile blooming across your face. And you whisper back. 

“S udovol’stviyem.”

I’d love to.

Natasha leans in and kisses you, slow and gentle, her hand cradling your cheek with a tenderness that quiets everything else. When she pulls back, her lips hover close to yours.

“That’s nice to hear,” she says. “But…even if my family did ruin the surprise, you’re still going to have to wait for the proposal I planned before you get the ring.”

You blink up at her, your smile turning into a small pout that Natasha promptly kisses away.

“Preferably,” she adds, “when you don’t have four glasses of wine in you.”

You giggle softly. 

“So that means I’ll need to visit your family more. That way, your mom can help me practice my vows.”

Natasha gasps in mock hurt, shaking her head as she laughs. 

“Are you replacing me with my mom as your Russian tutor?”

You hum, resting your head briefly against her leg, tracing delicate patterns with your finger.

“You’ll always have the night sessions.”

Natasha’s breath catches at that. She lifts your chin gently, and her lips brush against yours in a lingering kiss. When she pulls away, her voice drops to a whisper.

“Obeshchayesh’?” 

Promise?

You smile, gaze soft as you press your forehead up against hers and whisper back, your voice trembling just slightly from the weight of it.

“Segodnya. Etoy noch’yu. I kazhdyy den’ dal’she. YA s toboy, Natasha.”

Today. This night. And every day after that. I’m with you, Natasha.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

a/n: thank you for reading!

[narriose]

Saint Nerevar’s Companions

Queen Almalexia ☆ Alandro Sul ☆ Sotha Sil ☆ King Dumac ☆ Voryn Dagoth ☆ Vivec

Aka I’ve seen so many people described as his close companions, I’m convinced it’s an allegory atp.

Headcanons/Straight up fanfic about these relationships

Almalexia

I feel like her ruthless/soft duiality was there from the beginning, but she never showed the latter due to being afraid of any sort of vulnerability. I think maybe she was threatened by rumors of some upstart warrior preaching unity and organizing on her land and she might have even tried to kill him. I think then Nerevar would drop everything and march up to her castle dropping a blade of the assassin by her feet. Almalexia would ask "What else is a queen to do in a situation like this?" Maybe Nerevar says “A queen is to elect a general.” To which Almalexia would respond “It I would be scandalous to elevate and outsider to such a prestigious role.” Then Nerevar would go like “Then we’ll have to remedy that.” with bedroom eyes etc etc. I think maybe she was able to feel vulnerable around him for the first time, which scared her. Also possibly what here corruption spiral was about that she got from the tools. Something about expecting Nerevar to betray her first. And then later her motherly nature as a god is another mask on top of her ruthless self so she could be in total control.

Alandro Sul:

We do not know much about him but I suspect he met Nerevar when he was uniting the Ashlander tribes. I personally see one of the tribe tasks be something like defeating Alandro Sul in battle of honor, which proved his strength and resolve. I like to also think that like the claim that he was Azura's son is mainly because he was serving her to the very end, pursuing the tribunal after what happened at red mountain.

Sotha Sil:

In my mind's eye he was very reclusive and resigned due to a chronic and potentially terminal illness(an interpretation of his childhood) and perhaps offered to help Nerevar who was traveling with Vivec at the time with magical aspects of their adventures? something something, navigating ancestral tombs and dealing with daedric shrines. Maybe he taught Vivec to read and write? Idk I see Nerevar inspiring Sil to feel life and passion again. I picture his corruption train of thought to be that despite his resignation as a sagely character prepared for his fate, he still wanted to live so much and seeing godhood as his way to do it.

Dumac:

We don't know much about him but I think that perhaps he enjoyed Nerevar's company precisely because he wasn't highborn and knew of other places in the world. I picture them playing some kind of strategy board game and having long conversations. Nerevar would intently listen to everything Dumac would say about the Dwemer society(He was eager for his society to thrive too) and that intrigued Dumac. At some point he was spilling secrets he was not supposed to, and I think when Dumac realize that Nerevar did not expose that information to anyone, that he could really trust him. I think maybe he was one of the few people that Nerevar expressed doubt about not feeling confident enough to accomplish his task of unification causing Dumac to commission the Moon-and-Star ring which turned out to be a placebo, because Nerevar already had what it took. (Seriously the stats on that ring are hilarious)

Voryn Dagoth:

So before meeting Nerevar, he was a leader in his own right and a powerful mage. I feel like the way they met was: Nerevar wanted an in with the dwarves but he needed an introduction. House Dagoth was supposedly the only house the Dwemer had good relations with and so Nerevar went to Kogoruhn. I think his house would be very very traditional and uptight, without any nonsense but sort of had a strange nobility to it. Nerevar would aproach Voryn and before he would even say anything, Voryn would straight up go "Are you just here to butter me up for a reference" and Nerevar would go "So it's not working?" And I think this sort of like honest disregard for procedure and playfully terrible diplomacy is what drew him in. Eventually he would soon go from a solemn, responsible leader, to Nerevar's servant wrapped around his finger. Nerevar's advances at first would be treated without any regard for the longest of time. "I'm not your wife" Voryn would say and then one day he found himself by Nerevar's side, ready to move mountains for him. And his corruption would be around being tired of feeling like a servant and wanting to feel more equal to him.

Vivec:

I like to picture him having like a Senpai/Kouhai thing with Nerevar with a serious case of hero worship.(Based on even his name being inspired by Nerevar) To me, before ages made him the person we meet in Morrowind, he had sort of the same vibe as a kid that got famous online too soon and too far, stunting hisdevelopment in weird ways. Maybe Nerevar saw the potential in him and asked Sotha Sil to teach him how to read and write. Maybe after a lifetime spent as a brute, his creativity exploded leading to him eventually becoming worthy of being Nerevar's advisor. I do think that at first it was Vivec reading a bunch of bad poems to them and Nerevar encouraging him. And his corruption would probably have to do with wishing for Nerevar's spotlight. Like I feel like Vivec was not a balanced and wise sounding god figure for the longest of time judging by his writing and what people say about him. I also like to picture him and Almalexia competing for Nerevar's attention.

Anyway, that's what I've got, feel free to add or correct or anything.

[natalianovnas]

༄ `. 𝐂𝐀𝐍'𝐓 𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐏

summary : you couldn't sleep, so you decided to do the most rational thing — visit your favorite assassin in the middle of the night.

genre : avenger!nat x college!student!reader

warnings : fully fluffy.

words count : 0.9k // masterlist

an : a little fic to makeup for my inability to post (it has been in my drafts for a while.) © to obsessedwithNat on c.ai bcs this shot was inspired by it.

After quietly sneaking through the Avengers compound, you found yourself standing in the dark next to Natasha's bed as she was looking at you with a sleepy glare.

"Hi," You greeted in a sweet, cheeky tone, waving happily at the redhead as you royally ignored her glare.

Natasha groaned and sat up. She glanced at the time that read 2:11am. 

Typical you.

"And what are you doing here at this time of the night, hm?"

"I figured I'd pay a visit to my favorite person." You answer with a shrug.

Natasha let out a soft scoff. She couldn't be mad at you for long, even if she tried. She scooted over, giving you enough space to sit on the bed. "At 2am? You know I need my beauty sleep, little girl, or how else would I keep being your favorite assassin?"

You didn't hesitate and slipped under the covers as she scooted over. At her words, your brows raises as you contemplated your thoughts with an adorable frown. "Well, you said I could come over to you whenever I wanted."

"Can't argue with that, I suppose," Natasha chuckled and wrapped a protective arm around you, pulling your body close to her. She let her hand rest on your leg after pulling the covers over you. "I always keep my word. Though, sometimes, you test my patience, little princess."

Your smug smile returned but you didn't say anything.

Natasha rolled her eyes, her hand on your leg slowly sliding up until she got a good grip of your hip, she pulled you closer, your bodies pressed against one another. "You know, you're lucky you're cute or else I would've already kicked you out."

A soft laugh is heard from you. Natasha shook her head, amused. She lets her eyes roam up and down your form. She was very perceptive, and it didn't take her a minute to notice you were wearing her favorite sweater.

"And what's that you're wearing, hmm? Looks awfully familiar.." 

You decide to play coy. "Oh, does it?"

Natasha hummed, a small smirk playing on her lips as her hand on your hip slowly wandered up, sliding under the sweater, her fingers dancing over your sides. "Oh yeah, it looks suspiciously like my favorite sweater, little troublemaker.."

You let out a long exhale, feigning exhaustion just so you could snuggle closer to her. As you speak, your voice ends up sounding slightly muffled as you had buried your face in her neck. "It was the only clean one left.."

Natasha huffed but didn't fight it, she actually found it kind of cute, her arm wrapped over your body, holding you closer to her, sometimes slipping under the sweater. "Out of all of your huge wardrobe, this is the only clean one? Very suspicious if you ask me."

"Too lazy to do laundry," 

 Natasha let out a soft chuckle and ran her fingers through your hair, gently scratching your scalp. She gently pulled you even closer, practically pulling you on top of her, her grip on your body soft but gentle. "Or it's just because you love pissing me off?"

You grinned as she pulled you on top of her, your face still buried in the crook of her neck as you enjoyed the scent of the citrus haze she'd spray at nighttime. You hummed, pretending to think. You actually wore her sweater because you thought about her, not that it wasn't something she didn't knew already. "Hmm? Maybe.."

Natasha smirked and moved her hands lower, resting them on your hips. She gently squeezed them and let her hands slip under her sweater, "You're doing great at keeping my life interesting, I'll give you that. Though, what did I always told you about stealing my stuff?"

"I should always ask before taking.'" You murmured like a scolded child.

Natasha hummed and slowly started caressing your skin, her fingers drawing invisible lines on your back as she smiled softly after hearing your statement. She grabbed your hips and moved you closer. She lowered her hands to the back of your thighs, parting them so you straddled her waist. "You're not even going to deny, you admit you're stealing?"

You quickly pulled you face away from the crook of her neck to look in her eyes and defend yourself. "It's not stealing when you forgot it at my place."

She chuckled with a small smirk on her face. She moved on hand to your jawline, grabbing your chin gently as her thumb caressed your lips, "I guess I can make an exception for you, as always.."

You hummed then laid your head back on her chest, settling comfortably as your thoughts going back to the real reason why you actually came over. "I couldn't sleep so I came."

"I figured as much, darling. I could tell by the look in your eyes," She placed a soft kiss on top of your head, pulling you closer as her fingers played with your hair.

Natasha continued playing with your hair as her hand ran on your back gently in soothing motions. Her eyelids felt heavy and her movements went slower. It was late and even if she enjoyed your visits, she was tired because of your late nights shenanigans.

"Nigh, Natty.." You murmured after a yawn, letting sleep consume you. You had found so much comfort with the redheaded woman that her warmth and presence alone was enough to provide you the sleep you yearned for. 

 "Good night, darling." And a few moments just after that, Her quiet steady breathing told you that she had finally fell asleep.

an : live laugh love soft natty <3

[l0s3rd0wnt0wn]

"You surely don't believe...you can beat me?"

Bio: Since everyone liked the first one, I made another based on this post.

Lili Rochefort!reader x yandere batfam

The next Iron Fist tournament was being held in Gotham, and you were bouncing up and down with excitement, giggling like a schoolgirl. Of course, you signed up, writing your name on the dotted line with a pink pen. Little did you know your family would be attending, so when it was your turn to fight, you saw them in their fancy suits and dresses. But you wouldn't let them ruin your fun. You strutted down to the ring, flipping your blonde hair to the side and gently wiping it away from your face. Your pink, little, open-finger boxing gloves and stylish pink dress, along with heels—yes, not fighting-proof, but who cares?—were quite a sight. You saw a dude wearing a tiger head, but when they spotted you taking a fighting stance, let's just say they were having a full-on heart attack. I mean, you dressed like a princess, acted like a princess, and enjoyed sweet peppermint tea with cookies. You do not fight!

Bruce is absolutely confused. Why are you in the tournament? He thought you were doing this for attention or were just an announcer, but when you roundhouse kicked a man cold onto the mat, he was in pure shock. His daughter, who used to play with dolls and have tea parties with a teddy bear, is not fighting grown men in a tournament ring. He's sitting at the edge of his chair, watching you dodge every punch and every hit, hoping they don't touch your sweet face. He's terrified but also very impressed. How did you learn to move like that? Is that one of your ballet moves he watched you do when you played the Swan Princess? He's so confused and scared. If you wanted a good fight, the two of you could have brawled, but he would be gentle, of course your still his little girl.

Dick just came back with the drinks and snacks, only to see your last fight on the big screen. Your finishing move—a flip into a kick—was amazing! How did you make gymnastics look so elegant, and ballet look so violent? You're so good, and you're doing all this in heels! He literally dropped his popcorn on Jason, who was sitting in the second row, making him look up at the big screen to see what Dick was gawking at. And that spoiled Bart is a fighter, and a good one at that. You're taking out guys twice your size and beating literal assassins. He did watch you leave the family gym all tired; he thought it was just gym and ballet, not fighting. But he feels some pride seeing you fight. If those losers touch a hair on your head, they're dead.

Tim is analyzing your fighting style and how you're able to put all your weight into one kick. He is intrigued and completely engrossed in the fight, but as he watched you, all you care about is the fight. You don't care for the trophy, award money, or the Mishima company; you just want to fight. He sees it in your crazed smile that you try to hide behind a girlish giggle and little taunts, how you flip your hair after every [action] to hide how giddy you are—a little devil in angel clothes. He is studying you like never before, plus you like the attention.

Duke and Steph are cheering; their names are the only ones in the family actively yelling at the tournament. Their eyes never leave you—each kick, each punch, each dodge. It's like you're a butterfly, so sweet and graceful, but your kicks are as bruising as a bee's. You can't help but blush as you hear them yell your name from the stands. Why do you care now, all of a sudden? You let it slide, but when the big screen switches to them shouting your name, you hide your face behind your blond locks. They're killing your vibe. Cassandra is in pure awe of the way you fight; it's making her wish she were in the ring against you. She never paid you any mind, thinking you were just weaker prey, something she had to protect and take care of from afar. But when she sees you go all out, you're not some pretty house cat; you're a lioness stalking her prey. She must fight you; the two of you must go toe-to-toe as sisters of course, and no one else can be your opponent, obviously.

Damian, don't get me started. His face is full of scowl; sure, he likes the fights, but you should not be there. Remember, you're a Wayne. For God's sake, you're ruining your reputation by being a fighter in some stupid tournament. If you wanted a good fight, he would be a great option, or he could get some of his assassins from Ra's estate to fight you. It's some cry for attention because it's clearly working, but when someone lands a hit on you, giving you a small bloody nose, security has to hold him back while a small dagger is in his hands. No one puts their hand on you, and I repeat, no one!!!

[inseobts]

Hey Princess pt.1

zoro x fem!reader

part 2

you find freedom, love, and a true family among pirates—only to risk everything, even your life, to protect them from the chains of your past.

words count: 4.2k

tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, banter, mystery backstory, angst and fluff

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The sea glows soft and orange under the sunset. The Thousand Sunny cuts through the waves like it’s dancing. Luffy leans over the railing, grinning like a kid with candy.

“She’s cool, right?” he says.

Zoro crosses his arms and stares at you with one eyebrow raised “She hasn’t said ten words since she got here.”

“I’m observing.” you answer, voice calm. You stand straight, posture perfect, one hand lightly on the sword at your hip. Not because you plan to use it yet, but because it’s habit. You were trained that way.

“She’s mysterious!” Luffy laughs “That’s perfect for a spy. I always wanted one of those on the crew!”

You look over your shoulder at him “I’m not a spy.”

“But you sneak around like one,” he says “You climb walls and vanish. That’s spy stuff.”

You sigh “That’s just training.”

“Same thing.”

Zoro scoffs “Spy, huh. You look more like a princess pretending to play ninja.”

You stiffen. It’s small, but Sanji notices.

“Don’t talk to her like that, mosshead,” he snaps, stepping between you and Zoro with a hand on his chest like a knight “She’s a lady.”

“She’s hiding something” Zoro mutters.

“And you’re hiding brain cells” Sanji shoots back.

You sigh again and turn toward the door to the girls’ quarters “I’m going to unpack.”

As you leave, Zoro’s voice follows “See you around, Princess.”

You pause, just for a second. But you don’t look back.

Later, after dinner, Nami leans on the table, watching you clean a dagger with a white cloth.

“You’re really good,” she says “Where did you learn that?”

You smile “Somewhere far.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I know.”

Usopp leans closer “Are you like… an assassin? Or like a ninja? Or—”

“I’m just me,” you say “I help people. When I can.”

Robin smiles softly “That’s vague. I like it.”

You return the smile. Nami doesn’t press. Not tonight.

Outside, Zoro trains on the deck. You watch him from the shadows of the upper floor. He moves like a force of nature. Sharp. Focused. Angry.

He pauses. Looks up “Enjoying the show?”

You step into the light “You make too much noise for a swordsman.”

“You sneak too much for a crew mate.”

You raise an eyebrow “Not everyone needs to swing swords like a caveman.”

Zoro smirks “Still think you’re too fancy for this crew?”

“No,” you say “But maybe you are.”

He laughs once “I’m not the one with perfect hair and manners.”

You smile politely “Maybe you should try both sometime.”

His grin widens “Sure, Princess.”

Your smile fades “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?” he asks, wiping sweat from his face “It fits.”

You don’t answer. You just turn and leave.

Inside, Sanji greets you with tea “You okay, mademoiselle?”

You nod “Just tired.”

He watches you a little too long “If he bothers you again—”

“I can handle it.”

He nods. But you can tell he still wants to say something.

You go to bed and stare at the ceiling. You hate that nickname. You hate that it still hurts.

But tomorrow is another day. Another show. Another fight.

You’ll stay calm. Classy. Like always. And maybe Zoro will stop... Eventually.

Right?

It’s been three months.

Three months of shared meals, sea storms, and late-night watches under the stars. Three months of hearing Luffy laugh so loud it shakes the whole ship, of Sanji offering you tea every evening, and of Zoro calling you Princess every damn day.

But now, when he says it, you roll your eyes instead of going quiet. And you call him something back.

“Hey, Princess, your fancy dagger’s missing. Lose it in your closet full of gowns?”

You glance up from the map you’re helping Nami mark “Careful, Muscle-for-Brains, I might mistake your head for a training dummy.”

He smirks like it’s a compliment “You’re starting to sound more like a pirate.”

“And you’re still sounding like a caveman” you shoot back.

Usopp snorts from the side “I give it a week before one of you throws the other off the ship.”

Franky whistles “I give it three days.”

Zoro sits down across from you like he’s making a point “Bet you still sleep sitting up like some stiff little soldier.”

“I’ve seen you nap in the crow’s nest with your mouth open like a confused seagull” you fire back.

“Oooooh!” Luffy howls with laughter “She got you, Zoro!”

You smile. Not perfect. Not practiced. Just real.

Time passes and you start laughing more. Playing cards with Robin and Nami. Racing Chopper through the ship. Letting yourself eat two slices of cake, not one. You wear your hair messy sometimes. You yell when Luffy breaks the kitchen door again. You fall asleep in the sun with a book on your chest.

And it feels… good.

Even if the past still taps on your shoulder sometimes, like a shadow you can’t shake.

It’s a quiet night when you and Zoro end up on watch together. The sky’s clear. The stars are sharp.

You lean against the rail. He sits nearby, sword across his lap.

“You always this serious when it’s your turn?” you ask.

He shrugs “I take my job seriously.”

You glance at him “Didn’t expect that.”

“Didn’t expect you to stop walking like a statue” he says.

You laugh under your breath “Statues don’t trip over Luffy’s sandals.”

“You did?”

“I absolutely did.”

You both fall quiet for a minute.

Then he asks, “Why do you hate it?”

You look over “What?”

“The nickname. Princess.” His voice is steady, not mocking.

You stare out at the waves “Because I wasn’t one.”

He doesn’t say anything. But he doesn’t look away either.

You add, softer, “Not even close.”

Another pause.

Zoro finally says, “Well. Now you just sound like a gremlin with good posture.”

You huff “Thanks, Seaweed Samurai.”

“New nickname, huh?”

You smirk “You started it.”

Zoro shakes his head, but he’s smiling. Just a little.

You let the silence stretch after that. But this time, it’s comfortable. Not perfect. Not polished. But real. And maybe real is better.

The Sunny rocks gently on calm waters, shining through golden light. The crew’s loud somewhere probably arguing over snacks or music, but you’re on deck, stretching after training.

You reach up, arms high above your head. Your shirt lifts slightly, damp with sweat.

“You always do that in front of people, or am I just lucky?”

Zoro’s voice comes from behind you.

You don’t turn.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Seaweed” you say coolly.

“Didn’t say I minded the view” he mutters.

You do turn at that, raising an eyebrow “You watching me, Zoro?”

He shrugs, resting against the mast, towel slung over his shoulder “You’re hard to miss. Always moving around like a damn cat in silk.”

You walk past him slowly, purposefully “Careful. If you keep paying attention, you might fall in love.”

He scoffs, but something flickers in his eyes “Yeah? Then what?”

You pause beside him, eyes narrowed “Then we have a problem.”

He leans closer, voice low “I like problems I can fight.”

You smile sweetly “You’d lose this one.”

“You sure about that, Princess?”

The name doesn’t sting like before. Not now. Not when it rolls off his tongue like a dare.

“You know,” you murmur, stepping in close enough to brush shoulders, “you keep calling me that like it means something.”

“It does,” he says. His tone is light, but his eyes aren’t “Means you’re trouble wrapped in expensive taste.”

“And you’re what? A blade with no brain?”

“Damn right” he grins.

Your lips twitch.

The air between you hums. Too hot for the distance. Too close for comfort.

Then someone yells.

“LUNCH!”

Zoro steps back, breaking the tension “You coming?”

You arch a brow “You offering to carry me there, swordsman?”

He smirks “Please. You’d stab me for touching you.”

“…Maybe,” you say, already walking past him “Unless you asked nicely.”

Zoro chuckles under his breath, following you toward the smell of Sanji’s cooking.

Neither of you says it, but it’s there, building, beneath the insults, behind the banter. It's something hot, something sharp, something waiting.

The new island is small but full of noise. Music drifts up from the port, and colorful flags wave in the wind. Luffy’s already halfway down the dock before anyone can stop him.

“Let’s split up!” he shouts “Find meat!”

Nami sighs “He means food and information. Let’s go.”

Everyone starts filing off. You linger on the deck.

“I’ll stay behind...” you say lightly “Someone should guard the ship.”

It’s too casual. Too controlled. And it’s not like you.

Zoro notices first. Sanji notices next. Then Robin. Then everyone. But only those two speak.

Sanji steps toward you, soft and sweet “Ma chérie, I’ll stay. I don’t trust this island either.”

You force a smile “Sanji… they might need you for supplies.”

He hesitates. You never push him away, not like this.

Then Zoro’s voice cuts in, low and lazy “Didn’t you hype up the food here all morning, curly-brow? Go drool over a buffet or something. I was planning to nap anyway.”

Sanji frowns “You? Volunteering?”

Zoro shrugs “Less talking, more walking.”

You glance at Zoro. He’s leaning on the railing, looking like he couldn’t care less. But you see it in his eyes, he does. He’s not tired. He’s not bored.

He just didn’t want to leave you alone.

You nod once “Thanks.”

And then you go inside.

Hours pass. The ship is quiet. You sit in your room for a long time. Not reading. Not training. Just… sitting.

Eventually, your stomach grumbles.

You make your way to the kitchen, silent as ever.

There’s a plate waiting for you. Still warm. Covered gently with a cloth.

You blink at it.

When did Sanji even…?

You smile, small but real. You grab the plate, then pause. Maybe…

You carry it up to the deck.

Zoro’s sitting with his back against the mast, one leg up, one arm resting lazily on his knee. Eyes open. Bored.

“Nap’s over?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

He doesn’t move “Didn’t feel like it.”

“Liar.”

He smirks “Didn’t want to dream about curly-brow feeding seagulls again.”

You chuckle and sit down beside him, cross-legged.

“I brought food.”

“Thought you said you were guarding the kitchen like a dragon.”

“Even dragons eat.”

You hand him half the plate. He doesn’t say thank you. He just takes it, like it’s normal now. Like you are.

You both eat in silence for a bit. Then you nudge him with your foot.

“Wanna play something?”

He raises an eyebrow “Like what?”

You think. Then smirk “It’s called One Truth, One Lie.”

He looks suspicious “Sounds dumb.”

“Chicken?”

His eye twitches “Fine. Rules?”

“I tell you two things. One is true. One is false. You guess which is which. Then you go.”

Zoro snorts “You made that up just now.”

“Maybe… or maybe not.”

He leans back “Alright. Try me.”

You grin “Okay. First round: I’ve stolen a crown before. And… I’ve kissed a prince.”

Zoro narrows his eyes at you “Stealing sounds like you. Prince kissing? Too much sparkle.”

You give him a look “Wrong. I kissed a prince.”

He coughs “What?”

You grin “I stole his crown after.”

Zoro stares “What kind of missions were you on?!”

“My turn’s done.”

He shakes his head “You’re insane.”

“You’re stalling.”

He rolls his eyes “Fine. I once drank thirty beers in one night. And… I can play the shamisen.”

You blink “You? Play an instrument?”

“Make your guess, Princess.”

You squint at him “The beer one’s true. No way you’re musical.”

Zoro smirks “Wrong.”

You gasp “You don’t drink like a tank?”

“Oh no, that part’s true. I just also play the shamisen.”

You blink “You’re messing with me.”

“Swear on my swords.”

You laugh, head shaking “Okay. Next round.”

You both go back and forth. The questions get bolder. The lies get riskier. The truths get more intimate.

You’re both smiling too much.

Then he says, “Last one. I call you Princess because it annoys you… and because it doesn’t suit you at all.”

You pause “And the other option?”

“I call you Princess because it annoys you… and because it suits you more than you think.”

Your heart trips a beat.

Zoro’s watching you now. Really watching. His voice is low, but not teasing.

You look at him, try to read past the usual smirk “The lie is that it suits me.”

He stares at you a moment longer.

“Wrong again.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you look away. And laugh. Softly “That’s cheating.”

“Don’t like losing?”

“I don’t like being seen.”

“I like watching…” he says as if there was something more to that phrase. As if he actually wanted to day “I like watching… you”

“Then if I was you I’d use my good eye to watch something more interesting.”

“There’s none.”

You blink at the surprise of that answer and then reply “There’s way too much actually.”

He doesn’t respond. But the silence is different now. Not heavy. Just… full.

You stay like that, side by side under the stars, the empty plate between you.

Staring softly at each other, and for once, you don’t feel like running from the quiet.

It happens fast.

One moment you’re finishing the last crumbs of food with Zoro under the stars, still warm from laughter and the closeness you’ve been too scared to name.

The next, the ship shudders.

BOOM.

Smoke. A cannonball explodes against the sea just yards away from the Sunny.

You both stand instantly.

Zoro unsheathes Wado Ichimonji without a word. You pull two blades from your thigh holsters.

“Marines,” Zoro growls, already scanning the distance “Too close.”

You nod “Too fast. We need to leave the island.”

He turns to you “Go get the others.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” he says, eyes sharp “Go. We can’t take them all without the crew.”

You take a step forward “I’m not leaving you alone—”

“I’m not alone,” he snaps “This is a delay squad. I’ll handle them. But if you don’t bring the others back, we’re all screwed.”

Your hands tighten around your blades. You hate this. But he’s right.

You nod once, heart pounding “Don’t get yourself killed.”

“Not planning on it, Princess.”

You hesitate at the nickname. His voice is tight, focused, not teasing this time.

Then you run.

You’re halfway to the port when it happens.

A young marine stumbles out from behind a cart, gun raised, shaking slightly. He’s too fresh. Probably new. Definitely not ready.

He sees your face and freezes.

“…Princess Y/N?”

You stop.

Time stops.

Your blood turns to ice.

Zoro’s voice calls from behind “Oi! What did he just call you?”

Before the boy can speak again, Zoro’s blade is already on him. He hits the marine hard and fast—non-lethal, clean, efficient.

The boy crumples.

Zoro’s breathing hard now. He looks at you “Go.”

You don’t move.

“Go!” he barks.

You run.

You find Sanji first.

He’s flirting with a waitress, of course. But one look at your face and he’s dead serious.

“Trouble?” he asks, already cracking his knuckles.

“Marines. Zoro’s holding them off. We have to go. Now.”

“On it.”

He grabs your hand, not romantically, just tightly, and you sprint together. You find Luffy, Chopper and Brook next, then Nami and Robin shopping for books and jewelry.

Jinbe’s the last. He’s speaking with a merchant about fish when Sanji nearly drags him mid-sentence.

Back to the ship. Fast. No time.

The battle’s already started when you return. Smoke. Screams. Blades. Zoro is fighting six marines at once, shirt ripped at the side, blood at his temple.

But he’s still standing. Of course he is.

Sanji launches into the fray, kicking through two men with one move. Jinbe bellows like thunder and slams into a marine squad. Nami brings down lightning. Brook sings a haunting note that freezes the air. Robin grows arms and breaks weapons. Chopper hulks out and punches straight through their front line. And Luffy is Luffy of course.

You fight too, elegant and brutal. Quick and precise.

You don’t look like a princess now.

You look like a weapon.

Eventually, the last marine ship flees.

The Sunny sets sail fast, with Franky shouting commands and everyone catching their breath.

You finally sit. Arms shaking. Blood drying. Exhausted.

But you feel his eyes.

Zoro stands a few feet away, arms crossed, a new bruise on his cheek.

His gaze is not angry. Not smug.

Just… focused. Tight.

He’s thinking.

You look down at your hands.

He starts walking toward you.

You panic.

“I’m going to bed” you blurt, already turning.

“Wait—”

You don’t.

You walk away before he can say what you know he wants to.

Because that word the marine said "Princess Y/N" wasn’t a joke.

It was your name.

And Zoro just found out that he’s been teasing you with the same title you’ve spent your whole life trying to escape.

You’ve mastered the art of avoiding him.

For days, you change your training hours, your nap spots, even your routes to the kitchen. Zoro is a hunter by instinct but you’re trained to vanish. And for now, you’re winning.

The rest of the crew, though? They’re not blind.

Brook whispers to Robin, “The lovely lady keeps dodging the swordsman. Ah… the rhythm of tension, yohohoho.”

Chopper tilts his head “Are they mad at each other? Should I make tea?”

Even Luffy notices “Hey, why don’t you and Zoro fight anymore? I liked the yelling!”

Nami gives you a sharp look every time you enter a room and Zoro leaves it or the other way around.

Still, no one says anything outright.

Until the morning she does.

“Mail’s here!” Nami calls, flipping through the newspaper and a thick envelope dropped off by News Coo “Looks like updated bounties—oh.”

She goes still.

You pause at the edge of the deck, where you’re pretending to study the sea charts.

“What is it?” Robin asks, sipping tea beside her.

Nami turns the paper around. Slowly.

Your face stares back.

Not the one they know now, no. The one from before. The mask you buried.

Perfect hair. Polished clothes. A cool, too-composed stare.

Above it: “WANTED – PRINCESS Y/N OF VIRELIA – 300,000,000 BERRIES”

Below it: “ONLY ALIVE.”

The world stops.

Luffy blinks “Wait. Princess? That’s not—like—Zoro’s joke, right? OMG they heard Zoro adìnd thought he was being for real??”

Sanji’s already walking toward you, newspaper clenched “Y/N. What is this?”

You don’t answer.

Your feet feel heavy. Like someone chained your ankles.

Franky whistles low “Only alive? That’s a weird order.”

Jinbe looks serious “That bounty… is political.”

Robin’s eyes are on you now, soft but sharp “You ran from something powerful.”

And then Zoro walks in, towel around his neck, sword at his hip.

He stops mid-step. Sees everyone circled. Sees you. And the poster in Nami’s hands.

He says nothing. But his jaw tightens.

He looks right at you. Like he already knew… but needed to see it.

You meet his eyes for the first time in days and you want to disappear.

So you run.

The moment you meet Zoro’s eyes and see the weight behind his silence, your feet move on instinct.

You don’t even realize you’re breathing hard until the door slams shut behind you.

Your room is dark, lit only by the sea-colored light slipping through the porthole. You lock the door, press your back against it, and slide down slowly to the floor.

You hear voices outside.

Sanji: “What the hell is that bounty about—”

Nami: “Did she really—”

Brook: “A real princess? How poetic!”

Chopper: “Should we check on her?”

Then Luffy’s voice cuts through everything. Loud. Sharp. Final.

“Leave her alone.”

Silence.

You close your eyes. That was Luffy’s captain voice. The one no one questions.

Time passes. You don’t move. You don’t cry either, you stopped doing that a long time ago.

Then… a soft knock.

You freeze.

Then, gently “Y/N, it’s me.”

Sanji.

You unlock the door slowly and open it a crack.

He’s holding a covered tray, the smell of your favorite dish escaping into the room.

“I figured you wouldn’t come out to eat,” he says softly “Can I… come in?”

You nod.

He steps inside like he’s entering a shrine. He doesn’t push. He sets the tray down on your small table and gives you space.

You sit opposite him, quiet.

“You knew” you say.

“I knew something,” he replies “Not this.”

He lifts the lid of the tray. Steam curls up, warm and fragrant.

You don’t eat right away.

Sanji watches you for a second, then leans back “You know… my poster once said Only Alive, too.”

You look up.

He smiles, but it’s not a happy one “Back then, I thought it was funny. Felt like a joke. But the truth? Someone out there wanted me under their control. Wanted me alive so they could put me back in a box I crawled out of.”

You stare at him.

He gives a small shrug “I’m not saying I know what yours means. But that look in your eyes? I’ve worn it.”

He pauses “I also know what it feels like to run away and finally be free, only for the past to reach out and grab your ankle again.”

Your throat tightens.

Sanji doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask. He just watches you like you’re something delicate but not weak. Like he understands what silence can mean.

You nod, just once. Barely. But it says everything.

He stands slowly “I’ll leave you to rest. There’s no pressure, Y/N. Not from me. Not from the crew.”

He heads to the door, then stops. Opens it.

You hear it too late. The sound of boots.

Zoro is standing right outside.

He doesn’t look surprised.

Of course he was listening.

Sanji steps out, lowers his voice “Don’t hurt her.”

Zoro’s eye narrows “What the hell do you think I’m gonna do?”

“I don’t know,” Sanji says, calm but firm “But I saw your face when you saw that poster with that name. And I know yours isn’t just about teasing anymore.”

Zoro doesn’t answer. He just watches Sanji walk away, slow and deliberate.

He turns his head toward your door.

Still closed.

Still locked.

And on the other side, your hand is still resting against it. Holding it shut.

You can feel him there. But you don’t open it. Not yet.

You sit at the edge of your bed, tray balanced on your lap.

Sanji’s food is still warm. Perfect, even hours after it was made.

You take a bite.

It’s just rice and meat, just seasoning and sauce, just something meant to bring comfort... but your throat closes anyway.

You chew slowly, blinking. Another bite. Another wave of heat but not from the food, but from something buried so deep inside you that you forgot it could still rise.

And then the tears come. Quiet. Stubborn. They roll down your cheeks with no sobs, no drama.

Just… exhaustion, guilt and shame.

You’re not the person on that poster anymore. But the world doesn’t care. It still sees the crown they forced on your head.

Outside your door, Zoro hears the sound of your breath hitching. He hears the scrape of the tray, the stifled sniff, the silence that wraps around.

He doesn’t say anything.

He just stays seated, back to the wall across from your room. Elbows on his knees. Fists tight. Jaw locked.

He doesn’t knock. Doesn’t ask to come in.

But he stays.

Minutes pass. You eat. You cry. And finally…

You open the door.

It’s quiet. Careful. Like you might change your mind.

He’s the first thing you see right there in front of you, still sitting like a sentinel. His eyes snap up when the light hits his face.

You stop in the doorway. Neither of you speaks.

Then, slowly, you reach down.

You take his hand.

Zoro doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t move. Until you tug lightly.

You don’t have the strength to pull him up but he rises anyway. Not because you can force him, but because he lets you. Because he wants to.

His hand is warm. Rough. Bigger than yours. You keep holding it as you guide him down the hall.

He doesn’t ask where.

He just follows.

The kitchen is full.

Luffy is chewing meat with his usual noise. Nami is nursing a drink, eyes sharp. Robin has a book open. Brook is playing soft notes. Chopper’s legs swing from a chair. Franky and Usopp are arguing about cola refills.

But when you enter, silence falls like a curtain.

Every head turns toward you, and toward your hand still laced with Zoro’s.

Zoro stiffens slightly, but he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t even look confused, just still. Focused. Watching you.

You feel every stare in the room. But for once, you don’t shrink under it.

You just walk over to the table and sit down.

Zoro sits beside you. His calloused hand holds yours beneath the table, unmoving, steady.

You’re not sure why you started holding it. You’re even less sure why you haven’t let go.

The others don’t ask questions. But they’re waiting. Gently. Silently. Like they’re giving you the space you need to begin.

Your eyes stay on the table.

On your joined hands.

“I’m a real princess.”

[elodieunderglass]

You posted a while ago about Grant Howitt's RPG There But For The Geese of God, where the players are archangelic geese trying to shepherd Martin de Tours into sainthood by whatever means necessary; you might also be interested in

His RPG Everyone is Seagulls, where the players are a flock of 30 seagulls and you can only communicate by loudly yelling at each other what you want to do, and

Sean Bean Quest, which is a modification of his RPG Goblin Quest in which you play five Seans Bean (in series, not in parallel), trying to ensure that at least one of you survives until the end of the movie.

Thank you so so much for thinking of me. I am hanging this up in my house in a beautiful frame and adjusting it so that it’s beautiful. I am grateful for your friendship and good taste.

I should be honest though. I actually know fuckall about roleplaying games. Absolute black hole of knowledge actually. People kindly and generously sent me the goose one because it’s highly elodie-coded (and you can see why! It’s elodie reblog bait!) and I admired and reblogged accordingly in complete support of the vision. No further thoughts or opinions. HEAD EMPTY. “Haha sounds great!” I say, instantly filing it where I put the isogenic cryptography I had to learn about against my will for work and which I refused to retain in any meaningful way. My brain has simply left the building to pick flowers. “I would enjoy that it’s right up my alley,” I say, eating the bottoms of the grass blades vacantly.

I have exactly three experiences of tabletop roleplaying games ever in my life and i should write a post about them but

- single session of dnd with older guys when I was a teenager

- shepherding children through an interactive storybook in which Bug, 4, simply kept assassinating their older sibling (they were not supposed to be able to do this??)

- playing a small amount of gloomhaven: jaws of the lion, in which I became distracted by hating the whole concept of unpainted ugly gaming miniatures so much that I made my own and then. Wandered off. Apparently forever

Anyway even if it’s wasted on me these are delightful and I’m happy to admire them conceptually and share them and hang them on the wall

[dark-l-angel]

A/N : You know what? I adore this request. It’s playful, it’s layered, and it’s begging for that “behind-closed-doors” tenderness.

Now be a good girl and sit back.. let me spoil you with this.. I'll do all four batboys, because you deserve the full banquet, not just the appetizer. Cuz

Batfam x silent, shy mischaracterized reader

Dick grayson - Jason todd - Tim Drake - Damian Wayne

Dick Grayson :

Dick is the kind of man who sees through the mask. People might call you "cold" or "weird," but the first time he sees your eyes soften just a bit when you think no one's looking? Hooked. Absolutely gone.

He'll be the sunshine to your clouded day.. always teasing you gently in public, trying to coax out even the smallest smile, but never pushing.

The first time you finally let loose in private and start talking a mile a minute about something random? He just stares at you with the stupidest, most lovestruck grin.

"Oh my god, babe, this is what you were hiding? I'm the luckiest man alive."

He keeps your wild side a sacred secret. He adores that it’s his privilege alone.

He’ll even tease you about it when you're out: leans in and whispers "Careful, angel. Don't let them see how fun you are, they'll all want a piece of you."

And behind closed doors? He's either the loudest participant in your chaos, or he’s watching you go off with heart eyes, nodding like a dork.

Jason Todd :

Oh, Jason gets it. People call him intimidating too. He notices you straight away because your quiet is not absence.. it’s presence.

People whisper about you, call you scary or “odd,” and Jason internally rolls his eyes like, amateurs. They don’t know brilliance when it’s right in front of them.

The first time you finally talk his ear off in private? He melts. He doesn’t say anything at first, just listens with that soft, crooked smirk that means he’s head over heels.

He’ll tease you about your "silent assassin" public image, claiming you’re his partner in crime.

"Yeah, she doesn’t say much. But if she does? Better listen, ‘cause it’s probably the most interesting thing you'll hear all day."

In private, he loves instigating your chaotic side: random debates over silly things, sneaky pranks, or just wild storytelling sessions where you’re the main character and he’s your loyal audience.

Protective and proud. He loves that only he gets to see your untamed side.

Tim Drake :

Oh, you had this detective hooked at "mysterious."

Tim sees the layers immediately. He’s intrigued by your quietness, and while others get uncomfortable, he feels right at home.

When you finally open up in private, his brain short-circuits.. in the best way possible.

He'll obsess (lovingly) over the way you light up talking about your interests. Expect soft smiles and attentive listening, like you’re explaining the secrets of the universe.

He also gets very soft when you get animated. He low-key records little audio memos when you go off on your rambles, not to share, just to listen to later when he’s working late at the tower.

"People think you’re quiet, but honestly? You’re louder than my thoughts, and that’s saying something."

He encourages your chaotic side gently, always ready to dive deep into your interests with you.

Bonus: If anyone dares mischaracterize you in front of him, he’ll subtly but savagely correct them with facts that leave them blinking.

Damian Wayne :

Damian adores the fact that others misunderstand you.. it means they’re too simple to deserve your energy.

He respects your silence like a fellow warrior respects the sharpness of a hidden blade.

The first time you explode with excitement in private? He’s stunned, but deeply honored.

He won’t say it out loud (he has pride, after all), but internally? Finally. She trusts me.

"Your restraint in public is admirable," he'll say with a proud little smirk, "but I prefer you like this."

He loves your chaotic side.. he calls it your "fire beneath the ice." He’ll even play along with your madness, acting all serious, but secretly enjoying every second.

Damian will cut anyone down with words if they dare to misread you. He does not tolerate disrespect towards you.

Also? He deeply respects that you only let your true self show to a chosen few. That exclusivity is something he understands all too well.

Anyway.. they are obsessed with the fact that the world sees you as an enigma, but they get the backstage access to your beautiful, chaotic soul. You’re their favorite contradiction.

To everyone else? Silent stormcloud.

To them? Thunder and lightning, baby. Loud, wild, glorious, and full of life.

A/N : my dear, you just described a dream dynamic.. truly.. and I hope you feel a little seen in this. Actually, I’ll tell you something bold: your "resting bitch face" and quiet aura? It's a power. The real fun is knowing not everyone deserves to see your wild heart. But the ones who do? Oh, they’ll never get enough of you.

[mononijikayu]

casual crazy — fushiguro toji.

“You’re staring.” His voice is deep, casual, but there’s something about it that makes your stomach flip. You don’t look away. Why should you? He’s a sight, broad shoulders stretching his dark shirt, the veins in his arms just there, teasing your drunken brain into all sorts of bad ideas. “So?” you couldn’t help but garble, setting your empty glass down with a clumsy clink. “Can’t help it. You’re kinda hard not to look at.” His smirk deepens. “Are you always this bold, or is it the liquor talking, hm?”

GENRE: alternate universe - canon convergence;

WARNING/S: smut, romance (sorta), enemies to lovers (sorta), assasins and hitmen, friends with benefits, nsfw, rated 18 and above, explicit content, porn with plot, kissing, making out, rough sex, p to v sex, bathroom/toilet sex, orgasm, tension, lust, power play, dirty talk, sexual tension, public sex, size difference, dom/sub undertones, drunken flirting, casual sex turned complicated, humor, profanity, pet names (baby, sweetheart, good girl, etc), jealousy, characters speaking in sexual innuendo, mention of sexual euphemisms, depiction of explicit sexual content, assassin! toji, assassin! reader;

WORD COUNT: 5.7k words.

NOTE: i remember writing this while i was going through the horny thoughts i couldn't avoid. genuinely, need to be done dirty like this, i fear. i made my friend beta read this and they were like, 'actually if he calls me good girl again, im gonna lose it' and the reaction was totally worth it. anyway, i hope you enjoy it as much as we did. i love you all <3

masterlist

if you want to, tip! <3

YOU HAVE A VERY BAD RELATIONSHIP WITH ALCOHOL. You’ve long admitted that to yourself. Yet, you’ve done very little about it over the past few years, no matter the amount of therapy or rehab you’ve done.

There just really wasn’t any escape from the addiction that made you feel alive. But that’s just the life of an assassin, you supposed. You had to have something that keeps you alive, that keeps you going, in this line of work.

Your calloused fingers clutch the sweating glass, the whiskey inside sloshing dangerously close to spilling. You should probably slow down, but the warmth spreading through your veins is the only thing keeping you steady. Or maybe it’s the opposite. Hard to tell at this point.

And then, all of a sudden, the devil hands you a brand-new temptation. One far more intoxicating than the burn of whiskey down your throat. The familiar craving for alcohol vanishes in a blink, cast aside as something far more potent takes hold. Lust. Raw and unfiltered, creeping into your veins like wildfire. Because there he is.

Fushiguro Toji.

The dark haired man looks like he’s danced with the devil and walked away grinning, untouched, undefeated. They even say so, all the other assassins. They say he wears sin like a second skin, so easily, so unapologetic, so effortless. And seeing it for yourself, it was actually impressive. 

There’s a weight to him, something heavy and dark, yet he carries it with an ease that shouldn’t be possible. Perhaps that’s why he could live easily as an assassin more than most. That lazy confidence rolls off him in waves, an unspoken challenge to the world.

It was as if nothing—no god, no fate, no consequence, could ever chain him down. 

Nothing in the world could bring this dangerous man to his knees.

After all, that’s why he’s Shiu’s favorite out of the scores of assassins like you.

The scar at the corner of his mouth twitches when he smirks, a wicked little tell that gives nothing away and yet says everything. His sharp blue—green eyes was interesting to look at, you think. 

In some ways, you know you could not read the truth behind those emotions that spiral through those orbs. Yet, it was obvious what intentions they had. And that makes your skin crawl to no end. It was eager, hungry, cutthroat, knowing. 

Amusement, intrigue… danger.

You didn’t care for the precisement emotion.

That’s when you knew you were already lost.

“You’re staring.”

His voice is deep, casual, but there’s something about it that makes your stomach flip. You don’t look away. Why should you? He’s a sight, broad shoulders stretching his dark shirt, the veins in his arms just there, teasing your drunken brain into all sorts of bad ideas.

“So?” you couldn’t help but garble, setting your empty glass down with a clumsy clink. “Can’t help it. You’re kinda hard not to look at.”

His smirk deepens. “Are you always this bold, or is it the liquor talking, hm?”

You hum, tilting your head as if actually thinking about it. The room sways a little, but before you can fall off your stool, a firm hand wraps around your arm, steadying you with ease. His fingers are rough, warm, and entirely too comfortable where they are.

“Whoa there, [last name].” he murmurs, close enough now that you can smell him. All smoke, steel, and something faintly sweet. “Didn’t take you for a lightweight.”

“I’m not, Fushiguro.” you protest, frowning up at him. “I just… you’re distracting right now.”

He chuckles, low and deep, and it rumbles through you in a way that makes you grip the edge of the bar. He still hasn’t let go of your arm, and you’re suddenly very aware of how big his hand is, how easily he could manhandle you if he wanted to.

“Distracting, huh?” He tilts his head, watching you like a cat watches a mouse that’s just a little too cocky for its own good. “So, what? You tryna flirt with me?”

Your grin is slow, lazy. “That depends.” you murmur, dragging your fingers up his arm, feeling the way the muscle tenses slightly beneath your touch. “Is it working?”

For a second, he just watches you, unreadable.

Then, he huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

“Damn. You are drunk.” He snickers at you. “Not what I expected from you.”

You pout. “That a no?”

He leans in, just a little, enough that his breath fans against your cheek. “That’s a be careful, doll.” he says, voice like gravel, mischievous eyes gleaming with something that makes your throat dry up. “I don’t play nice. I never have.”

Your heart stumbles over itself. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the way he looks at you like he already knows exactly what would make you fall apart, but you find yourself leaning closer instead of backing off.

“Who said I wanted to be nice?”

His fingers tighten around your arm just slightly, his smirk curling into something more dangerous. “…Now that’s interesting.”

Toji exhales a quiet chuckle, his grip on your arm firm but not restraining. He could let go anytime, you could have just as much let go. But neither of you move to do anything. Instead, the tension only builds, like waves crashing over itself over and over.

His eyes flick over you, slow and assessing, like he’s deciding whether you’re a good bet or just another bad decision waiting to happen. Not that he seems like the type to care about bad decisions.

“You got a death wish or somethin’?” he murmurs, tilting his head, the scar on his lip twitching.

You smirk, fingers playing at the rim of your glass. “I dunno,” you say, voice dipping lower, hazier. “Depends. Are you planning on killing me?”

His grin sharpens. “Not unless you ask really nicely, doll.”

A shiver runs down your spine. It was one that had nothing to do with alcohol, that was quite certain. You should probably tread carefully, but the way he’s looking at you, like you’re something worth toying with, tasting. You suppose that makes you bold. Or maybe just stupid. You couldn’t decide the distinction.

“So what if I did?” You lean in, resting your chin on your palm, eyes locked on his. “What if I wanted a little danger?”

Toji hums, like he’s amused. “Doll, you’re too confident about it, don’t you think? I doubt you could handle it.”

You scoff, but before you can argue, he moves. Just a slight shift, but suddenly, he’s closer. He shook his head at you, full of intrigue. In an instant, his massive knee brushes yours under the bar, his breath teasing your ear as he murmurs, 

“You’re drunk. That liquid courage’s talkin’ for you.”

Your fingers trail up his forearm, slow, deliberate. “And what if it’s not?”

He watches you, blue–green eyes dark and unreadable, his lips hovering just out of reach. The tension hums between you, thick and charged, like a wire stretched too tight. You swear the whole bar fades away, until it’s just the two of you and the heat simmering between your bodies. 

All of the noise from the bar counter, the clinking glasses of little cheers, the other patrons dancing and singing, being the obnoxious humans they were. None of that truly ever mattered t at that moment. Toji tilts his head, considering. Then, just as slowly, he pulls back, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest.

“Tempting, isn’t it?” he murmurs, tossing back the last of his drink. “But you’d regret it.”

Your stomach twists—frustration? Curiosity? Maybe it was a little of both. “And what if I wouldn’t?”

He smirks, standing from his stool. He towers over you, his presence alone enough to make your breath hitch. “Then that would be even worse.”

“You make it sound like it’s the worst thing in the world.” You hiccuped in reply.

He snickers back at you as he taps two fingers against the bar, signaling for another drink before glancing down at you one last time, his gaze lingering. “Drink some water, doll. Clear that head of yours. An assassin can’t let their guard down.” 

You exhale, heart pounding against your ribs.

Well, damn.

You don’t think. 

You just move.

Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you. It was like he’s already decided you’re trouble, but he’s entertained enough to stick around and see what kind. Maybe it’s just that you don’t want to let this moment slip away, not when the air between you is crackling, thick with something sharp and wanting.

So when he turns away, you reach out, fingers curling around his wrist—firm but not desperate. Just enough to make him pause. He looks down at your hand, then back at you, one brow quirking up in silent question.

And then you kiss him.

You don’t even give him a chance to smirk, to throw some smug remark about how bold you are. You just let go. You just go for it. Your lips press against his, the taste of whiskey and smoke flooding your senses, and for a second, he doesn’t move. 

It’s like he’s caught off guard, like you actually surprised him. But then—then—he takes a moment to exhale a quiet grunt, and his hand is suddenly on your waist, pulling you in just enough to keep you steady.

The kiss is messy, a little too eager, too animalistic. But you don’t care. You can feel the curve of his smirk against your lips, the way he lets you take the lead just long enough to lull you into a false sense of control. Because then, he takes it back.

Fushiguro Toji kisses like he fights. And he liked it that way. It was all too sharp, and devoid of mercy. It was deliberate, like he knows exactly where to hit to make you weak. His teeth graze your bottom lip before he deepens it, tongue sliding against yours, and fuck, you’re dizzy all over again, but this time it has nothing to do with the alcohol.

His fingers dig into your waist, pulling you flush against him, and it sends a spark straight down your spine. He tastes dangerous, and it makes your head spin worse than any drink. And then just as suddenly as he let you have him, he pulled back.

You’re left breathless, your lips tingling, your pulse hammering. He watches you through half-lidded eyes, looking entirely too amused, like he just figured something out about you that even you didn’t know.

His thumb brushes over your lip, slow, lazy. “Huh.” he murmurs, voice husky. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

You swallow hard, trying to regain your balance. “Yeah, well… maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”

He chuckles, low and deep, thumb still idly tracing your lip like he’s considering whether he wants another taste. “Maybe not, doll.” he agrees, stepping back.

“What are you thinking now?”

His grip lingers just a second too long before he finally lets go. He slyly smiles at you. “I’m startin’ to think I should.”

You should say something witty, something cocky, anything to keep this game going but your brain is still scrambling from the way he kissed you like he was meant to. Toji smirks like he can see exactly what he did to you. Then, with one last lingering look, he turns back toward the bar, tossing a few bills down before sliding his hands into his pockets.

“You comin’, or you just gonna sit there lookin’ dazed?”

Your breath catches. “Where to?”

He glances at you over his shoulder. “Outta here,” he says simply. “Unless you just wanted a kiss and nothin’ more, doll.”

It’s a challenge. A dare. One you have no intention of backing down from. You slide off the stool, shaking off whatever remains of your hesitation, and follow him to wherever he was taking you. After all, you realized you were crazy. You might as well act like crazy, too.

IT DIDN’T TAKE VERY LONG FOR YOU TO END UP WHERE YOU WERE. You and Toji slipped away from the crowded room, making your way to the nearby comfort room. As soon as the door closed behind you, Toji pushed you against the wall, his lips crashing against yours in a heated kiss. 

His hands roamed your body, gripping and squeezing as he pressed his hips against yours.You could feel his hardness through his pants, grinding against your core. Toji's lips trailed down your neck, his teeth nipping at the sensitive skin.

"Someone’s getting quite impatient, isn’t she?" he murmured against your throat, his voice husky with desire. His hands slid under your shirt, his fingers tracing the curves of your breasts.

Your hands tangled in Toji's hair, pulling him closer as you deepened the kiss. His tongue explored your mouth, dueling with yours in a passionate dance. Toji's fingers deftly unhooked your bra, his hands sliding up to cup your breasts. He kneaded the soft flesh, his thumbs brushing against your hardening nipples.

A moan escaped your lips, your hips bucking against his. Toji's other hand slid down, popping the button of your jeans and slipping inside. His fingers brushed against your core, finding you already wet with desire

"Fuck, you're so ready for me, aren’t you?" Toji groaned, his breath hot against your skin, his voice thick with satisfaction. His fingers traced slow, teasing circles over your clit, the deliberate motion sending sparks of pleasure crackling through your nerves.

He didn’t just touch you, no. He consumed you whole. He commanded your body, every movement calculated to pull a reaction from you. And he got it. A sharp gasp, a desperate arch of your hips, a needy little whimper that only made his smirk deepen.

He pushed two fingers inside you, the stretch delicious and unrelenting. The slow, slick glide of them made you shudder, your walls tightening around him instinctively. His touch was maddening and all the while measured, knowing, dragging pleasure out of you inch by inch.

“Can you feel it?” he murmured, voice like gravel, like temptation itself. His thumb pressed a little harder against your clit, his fingers curling just right. “Feel how wet you already are? Fuck, you’re gripping me so tight.”

"Hhnnn… your fingers feel so good…” you cooed against him, voice breathy, barely there, your mind slipping under the weight of sensation. “Toji…..fuck…..”

Toji chuckled, low and rough, his amusement edged with something darker—something possessive. "Yeah? Then take ‘em."

His fingers plunged deeper, stretching, stroking, his pace quickening with a ruthless precision. Every twist, every push, every brush against that perfect spot sent you unraveling further. Your body tensed, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter, climbing toward an inevitable, overwhelming crescendo.

Toji’s lips ghosted over your ear, his voice nothing but a sinful whisper. “Let me hear you, baby. I wanna feel you come on my fingers.”

His fingers moved with unrelenting precision, pushing deeper, curling just right, stroking over that devastatingly sensitive spot that made your breath catch. Every motion was deliberate, every flick of his wrist measured to wring another shudder from you.

The heat in your core coiled tighter, pleasure winding sharp and insistent. Your legs trembled, muscles clenching, but Toji wasn’t about to let you squirm away. His free hand pressed against your stomach, pinning you down, his grip firm all too possessive.

"You’re so desperate for it," he murmured, his voice laced with amusement, with something darker. "Fucking clenching around me like you’re already close."

A whimper slipped past your lips, and Toji chuckled, the sound rough, pleased. His breath ghosted over your ear, teasing, taunting. "Gonna come for me just like this?" His thumb pressed harder against your clit, circling with slow, devastating intent. "Or do you need more?"

Your body answered before your lips could. Your back arched, fingers grasping for something—anything—to ground yourself against the overwhelming sensation. But Fushiguro Toji had you exactly where he wanted you, held firm in his grasp, unraveling beneath his touch.

His lips brushed against the shell of your ear, voice a husky whisper. "Go on, baby. Let me feel it."

The pressure inside you snapped, pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave, leaving you trembling, breathless. Toji held you through it, drawing out every last shudder, his fingers working you through the aftershocks, never once letting up.

When he finally withdrew, his fingers slick and glistening, he brought them to his lips, watching you with that same lazy smirk. The one that sent heat pooling low in your stomach all over again. He sucked them into his mouth, tasting every bit of you with a satisfied hum.

Toji then dragged his cum stained fingers down your thigh, his touch deliberate, lingering, as if savoring the way your body still trembled beneath him. His smirk never wavered, that lazy confidence settling deep in his stance, in the sharp glint of his eyes.

"You look real pretty when you come, pretty." he mused, voice low and rough, like he was speaking more to himself than to you. His gaze flicked over you—your parted lips, the rise and fall of your chest, the dazed look in your eyes. "Bet you’d look even prettier coming on my cock."

The way he said it, like a promise, like an inevitability, sent a fresh wave of heat through you. It was all too much, this sensation. You’ve never truly felt it before, not even with your other partners. Fushiguro Toji was the first to take you down this path. 

“But I’m not giving it to you easily, doll.” He smiles at you, overtly sadistic. “You gotta work for it, hm?”

“Toji, this is so cruel!”

He laughs. “But isn’t that how pleasure works? You gotta earn it.”

“But I’m desperate!”

"Tell me, doll." he murmured, fingers tracing up your inner thigh, stopping just shy of where you needed him most. "You want more, don’t you?"

You stared at him for a while, groaning as he got to your cunny again.

Your breath hitched, your hips shifting toward his touch on instinct. 

But Toji only chuckled, his grip tightening just enough to keep you still.

"Use your words, doll." he coaxed, his thumb ghosting over your already swollen clit, featherlight, teasing. "You begged so sweetly before. Let me hear it again."

Your pulse pounded, every nerve alight, but he wasn’t going to give you what you wanted so easily. You know that now. He wanted to hear you say it, to watch you squirm, to make you admit just how badly you needed him.

"Please…" The word came out breathless, barely there.

Toji hummed, tilting his head like he was considering whether or not to give you what you wanted. "Mmm. That’s not enough, sweetheart." His fingers flexed against your thigh. "Tell me exactly what you need."

You swallowed hard, heat creeping up your neck. 

He was enjoying everything about this situation.

He liked this, how he was dragging it out, making you work for it.

"I need you, you bastard." you finally admitted, voice unsteady but desperate, raw. "I need you inside me. Please, Toji."

Something dark and satisfied flickered across his face, and in an instant, his teasing patience snapped. "That’s more like it, doll." he growled.

Your breath hitched as Toji held you there, his grip firm, unyielding, like he had all the time in the world to savor this moment, to savor you. His thick, calloused fingers pressed deeper into your hips, holding you steady beneath him, his touch branding you, leaving no room for escape. Not that you wanted one.

His lips ghosted over your jaw, the heat of his breath sending shivers down your spine. “Takin’ me so well again. You’re such a good girl.” he murmured, his voice deep, rough around the edges, like he was barely holding himself back. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

The question hung between you, thick with expectation, and you couldn’t do anything but nod, your body taut with anticipation, with need. But it was obvious that this wasn’t enough for him just yet, no. He still wanted more. And you still did too, pushing against his long massive fingers, letting the edge of pleasure hit you again in the pandemonium of overstimulation.

“Say it.” Toji ordered, his tone carrying that unmistakable edge, a command wrapped in dark amusement. He wanted to hear it, to pull the words from your lips just like he pulled every other reaction from your body.

Your fingers curled against his arms, nails digging into the hard muscle there, seeking something to anchor yourself to as you gasped out, “Feels—feels so good, Toji.”

A low, satisfied hum rumbled in his chest. “That’s my pretty girl.”

His movements were deliberate, controlled, a stark contrast to the raw hunger in his eyes. He wanted to see you come undone beneath him, to watch every tremor of pleasure ripple through your body. His thumb found your clit, circling in slow, devastating strokes that made your breath hitch, made you gasp his name like a prayer.

Toji leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice nothing but a dark promise. “Now show me something beautiful, doll.”

The dark haired man’s fingers continued their relentless pace, drawing out your pleasure. His thumb circled your clit, the sensitive nub throbbing under his touch. Your body shuddered, waves of ecstasy crashing over you.

"Fuck, you're so responsive, aren’t you?" Toji groaned, his voice strained with desire. His fingers pumped slowly, gentler now, as he helped you ride out the final waves of your second orgasm. "That's it, baby. Let go for me."

He leaned in, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. His tongue danced with yours, swallowing your moans and cries of pleasure. As your overbearing orgasm finally subsided, Toji's fingers withdrew slowly, leaving you feeling empty and wanting more. His eyes, dark with lust, met yours.

"You okay?" he asked softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

You nodded, your chest heaving as you caught your breath. "More than okay." you murmured, a satisfied smile on your lips.

Toji's grin was wicked, his hand sliding up your thigh. "Good, because we're just getting started." 

He lifted you effortlessly, carrying you over to the nearby counter. He set you down, stepping between your legs. Toji's lips crashed against yours, his kiss demanding and passionate. His hands roamed your body, touching and teasing every inch.

"I'm going to fuck you so hard, doll." he promised, his voice low and husky."I'm going to make you scream my name."

His fingers slowly hooked into the waistband of your skirt, tugging them down along with your already wet underwear, He narrowed his eyes at the wetness that stained your underwear. You watched as Toji's eyes darkened further as he then took in the sight of you, bare and exposed.

“Tell me, pretty little doll……What do you want? Say it for me, loud and clear.”

You barely had the breath to answer. “Please… make me feel good.” Your voice trembled, your hips rocking into his touch, desperate for more. “I need you inside me. I need your cock.”

Something dark flickered behind his blue–green eyes, endless hunger twisting his expression into something wicked. A slow smirk stretched his lips. “With pleasure.” he growled, pulling his fingers from you.

Toji stripped away his lower garments, his thick cock springing free from its confines, hard and heavy against his abdomen. The sight alone had your mouth running dry. He stepped between your legs, the head of his cock teasing your entrance, dragging slick over your swollen folds.

His fingers dug into your hips, hard enough to bruise. “Look at me, pretty doll.” he ordered, voice edged with command. “I wanna see your face when I stretch you open.”

You met his gaze just as he thrust forward, spearing you open in one swift stroke. The stretch burned, a mix of pain and unbearable pleasure, your walls squeezing around his thick length as he filled you to the hilt. A strangled moan tore from your throat, your head knocking back against the counter, legs trembling from the force of it.

“Fuck, you’re tight.” Toji groaned, his forehead dropping to your shoulder for a second as he fought for control. “Feel so good wrapped around me like this.”

He pulled back, only to slam forward again, setting a slow, punishing rhythm. Each thrust was deep, measured, deliberate. It was driving the air from your lungs, sending shockwaves of sensation through every nerve ending.

The room filled with the obscene sound of skin meeting skin, your moans tangled with his rough grunts. Toji leaned in, his breath hot against your ear, his voice low and guttural. “You like this, don’t you?” 

“F….fu…..I–I do! I…I liiiiikeeee—”

His teeth grazed your earlobe before he sucked it between his lips. “Like being fucked open on my cock?”

The filthy words sent a violent shudder through your body, your walls clenching around him in response. Toji could feel it overwhelm him. He felt everything. A growl ripped from his chest as his pace turned brutal, desperate.

His hips slamming into yours with enough force to jolt the counter beneath you. One hand slipped between your bodies, his calloused fingers finding your clit, rubbing rough circles that sent you hurtling toward the edge.

“Come for me, pretty doll.” he commanded, voice strained, raw, demanding. “Come all over my cock.”

It was too much for you to even bear. It was all too good, all too intense, all too overwhelming. You could feel everything in your body tightening, pleasure coiling sharp and hot in your core before snapping all at once. 

Toji's grip on your hips tightened, his fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to bruise and burn. His thrusts became more aggressive, each snap of his hips driving into you with a brutal force that stole the air from your lungs. 

The shitty counter creaked beneath you, the heavy sound of its movement mingling with your cries of pleasure and pain. Toji's breath came in ragged pants against your neck, his teeth sinking into the sensitive skin.

"You're mine now, aren’t you?"he growled possessively, his voice low and dangerous. "Say it."

His hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat. His other hand slid down to grip your jaw, forcing you to meet his intense gaze. You could feel drool sliding down both sides of your lips as you shook over and over again against his intense movements.

"Say you're mine." His hips pounded into you relentlessly, his cock hitting your deepest spots with merciless precision. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming sensation, your body shaking with each thrust.

"Please..." you gasped, your voice hoarse and strained. Toji's eyes flashed with a mix of desire and dominance. 

"Please what?" he demanded, his thrusts slowing to a torturous pace. "Tell me what you need."

His grip on your hair tightened, pulling your head back further. His thumb pressed against your lips, forcing them open. "Beg for it."

Your heart raced, your body trembling with a heady mix of fear and arousal. The dominant side of Fushiguro Toji was terrifying and exhilarating all at once. It made you wet and it made you on your guard. It made you want to be possessed and it made you want to be let go. And yet, you knew what you would choose. You knew what you wanted more than being free.

"Please..." you whispered again, your tongue darting out to lick his thumb. "Fuck me harder. Use me. Make me yours."

A wicked grin spreads brutishly across Toji's face, his blue–green eyes darkened with lust at the sight of your surrender to him, to your lust. To his pleasure. To the horridness and the craziness of all of this.

"Good girl." he murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction. 

Without warning, he pulled out, only to flip you over onto your stomach. And then all the strength of him, pushed his weight on you once again and pushed inside, earning an illicit moan from you, that now repeats like a symphony.

Toji gripped your hips, pulling them up to meet his thrusts. His hand cracked across your ass, the sting mixing with the pleasure coursing through your veins. "You like that, don't you?" he growled, his voice low and husky.

"Like being punished for being such a greedy little slut." His hips snapped forward, burying himself to the hilt.He leaned over you, his chest pressing against your back, his breath hot against your ear.

"I'm going to fuck you until you can't walk straight, doll." he promised, his words sending shivers down your spine."Until the only thing you can think about is my cock."

His fingers dug into your hips, his pace becoming more frenzied. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, punctuated by your moans and Toji's grunts of pleasure. He reached around, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing it in tight circles. 

"Come for me." He whispers hotly against your ears. “Go on, be a good girl, doll.”

“I–I can’t!” You cried out, slurring at your words as you moved against him, letting his pace ruin you. “Too….Too good, fucccckkkkk!”

"Do it, doll. Be a good girl f’r me." Toji demanded, his fingers moving faster against your clit. "I want to feel you squeeze my cock as you come apart."

His thrusts became more erratic, his breathing ragged against your neck. He bit down on your shoulder, marking you as his.The combination of sensations was overwhelming, pushing you closer to the edge.Your body tensed, your inner walls clamping down on Toji's length.

"That's it, pretty girl!" he growled, his hips pistoning into you. "Come on my cock. Now."

His command was all it took to send you spiraling over the precipice. Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, your body convulsing with the force of it. Toji's hips snapped forward one last time, burying himself deep as he found his own release. He groaned loudly, his hot seed filling you up, one thrust after the other.

The air was thick with heat, the scent of sweat and sex still lingering in the dimly lit comfort room of the assassin’s bar. Your legs felt like jelly, like your entire body was going to collapse from the force of his push and pull.

You could feel your body still humming from the intensity of what just happened, yet Fushiguro Toji, the absolute menace that he was, looked completely unbothered about it. It was like he hadn’t just rearranged your entire existence against a suspiciously sturdy sink in this bar comfort room.

His breath was still rather heavy, his body slick with piling golden sweat, but his lazy smirk was back in full force as he finally pulled away. He cracked his neck, stretched like he’d just finished a workout, then gave you a once-over, his green eyes gleaming with amusement.

“Damn.” he muttered, running a hand through his damp dark hair. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

You glared at him, or at least tried to, but your legs wobbled the moment you moved, forcing you to grip the sink for support. Toji, ever the bastard, caught it immediately. “I hate you.”

His grin widened. “Aw, what’s wrong, sweetheart? Legs ain’t workin’?”

Your eye twitched. “You—shut up.”

Toji laughed, full and deep, the sound bouncing off the grimy tiled walls. “Tch, that’s what happens when you get greedy, doll.” he mused, zipping up his pants with a satisfied hum. “Didn’t expect you to be such a lil’ freak, though.”

Your face burned, but before you could snap back, a loud bang rattled the door. “OI, HURRY THE FUCK UP!” a voice bellowed from the other side. “Some of us actually need to piss, y’know!”

Oh. Right. The fact that you were in a goddamn assassin’s bar and had just let Fushiguro Toji ruin you and rearrange your guts in the bar comfort room like a couple of horny teenagers had completely slipped your mind. 

The depths of the alcohol you had drunk tonight had long slipped away from you and now you were sober. The wanton greed from you had all but disappeared and only replaced by the embarrassment you feel. 

You whipped around, hurriedly smoothing down your clothes, heart hammering in mortification. Still trying to make sure his cum doesn’t spill from your thighs, still trying to make yourself presentable. 

Meanwhile, Toji took his sweet time adjusting himself and his pants, looking completely unbothered. He even had the audacity to yawn. “Hold your damn horses, you idiots.” he called out lazily. “Some of us were busy.”

Loud groans and swearing erupted from the other side, followed by someone grumbling, “I swear to god, if they clogged the sink again—”

You nearly choked. “Again? What the fuck does that mean, Fushiguro?”

Toji snorted, tossing you a smug look. “Told ya, this ain’t my first time in here for a round. It's always casual. Or crazy Or both. Whichever is preferred.”

You gaped at him, scandalized. “You absolute piece of shit! You fucked me here—”

Another furious bang cut you off, and this time, the doorknob actually rattled. “I SWEAR TO FUCK, IF YOU TWO DON’T OPEN THIS DOOR—”

Toji just laughed, grabbing your wrist before you could fully process what was happening. “Time to go, doll.”

And just like that, he swung the door open, stepping out like he didn’t just defile the bar’s restroom, greeting the pissed-off assassins outside with a lazy smirk and a casual, “Sorry ‘bout that.”

You, on the other hand, nearly tripped over yourself as you followed, trying very hard to ignore the furious glares of the men who had just spent the last twenty minutes listening to your, uh… indiscretions. Toji slung an arm around your shoulders, leading you back toward the bar like it was just another regular night.

“You’re buying the next round.” you grumbled under your breath, face still burning. “And get me new underwear and pants, you fiend.”

Toji grinned, pressing a kiss to your temple like an asshole. “Worth it, though.”

You elbowed him in the ribs.

He only laughed harder.

[strawberrymochin]

𝐈𝐭'𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐬, 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠!

𝐲𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐢 𝐧𝐚𝐠𝐮𝐦𝐨 𝐱 𝐛𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐫!𝐟𝐞𝐦 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 | ch 1 | ch 2 |

synopsis- Yoichi nagumo has always regarded the decision of sakamoto retiring from being an assassin— very blithe, he considered it was very indiscreet of him to leave all of a sudden for someone he claims he loved. After rion akao’s death and sakamoto’s retirement it was only him left in the JAA. Love? it’s humorous how he'd never understand sakamoto…..or this feeling of care and vulnerability. That's what he thought, until he met you.

series warnings- MDNI, extremely FLUFFY, nagumo gets HEADS over HEELS for reader, NAGUMO is so down in LOVE (wanna cry), baker!reader, ANGSTYYY, comfort, omg sakamoto and shin enjoy teasing nagumo, heisuke as our wingman, explicit SMUT, sloppy kisses, counter sex, unprotected p in v sex, nagumo's DICE, fingering, cunnilingus, wreaking orgasms, semi public(kinda), nagumo CRIES overwhelmed, reader ISN'T AWARE of nagumo’s profession, lots of lies, mentions of assassination exhibition arc, blood, nagumo is ready to tear the world apart for you, order members, omg so much more…. HAPPY ENDING.

w.c- ch 1- 2.7k | ch 2- ytc

trisha's mail- i am insufferable for characters who wear a baby face and kill mercilessly, thus I had to present my new man, my yoichi a fic, since tumblr doesn't has many, am I the only one who's hooked into sakadays?

🍡Ch 1🍡

Yoichi nagumo stood infront of the sakamoto stores, his back heavy with the compact case of his red tainted weapons. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his brown overcoat, surprisingly warm in contrast to his cold hands he scrubbed clean, washing away the splattered blood from his previous assassination.

His face held a smile. A smile so neat and so polite that it could only be defined as a boastful grin of a liar.

Shall he disguise himself? Maybe play a prank or two…he will be seeing one of his friends started out with, after so long— taro sakamoto.

Nagumo darted his eyes, taking full account of the store, which was small and surprisingly neat. It was a two storeyed building, nagumo criticized the open signboard hung in front of the glass entrance. He, then, scanned inside of the store, smile widening a bit when he found no human presence lingering around. How about he disguises as sakamoto himself, plus it'd be fun to see how his old friend reacts after his retirement.

Entering the store, disguised as sakamoto, he went behind the counter and took a seat he supposed sakamoto might take. Spread out on the counter was newspaper folded messily, a cranky cash register, and some small spreads of candy, snacks and other daily convenience necessities. He picked up on the newspaper pretending to read it as he picked up on the dull sound of approaching footsteps.

A guy with blonde hair, middle partition and some shaggy clothes entered, with a green apron and his name batch pinned over it. Shin was printed on it.

Nagumo noticed. ‘Shin asakura’ and he recognised. The esper guy Sakamoto worked with after leaving the order. He had also heard that Shin had too left being an assassin and joined being an assistant in this store. He searched for a red haired chinese girl, who is also said to have started here a few days ago.

Nagumo waited patiently, subsiding his giggles inside he darted his eyes again on the door seeing a girl enter lazily. Ahh lu shaotang— the other assistant, whose main job is to make pork buns.

He sat quietly pretending to read the newspaper.

It wasn't long until both of them started arguing, making Nagumo's dopamine rush through his veins. With a bang on the counter table, shin whined “sakamoto san, we have to fire this girl!” pointing an accusatory finger on his back over the girl with pink jacket, who didn't cared even a bit.

Nagumo contemplated a little what shall he say? Maybe behave a little out of it, it'd be fun to see both of their stupefied reactions.

“Now, now shin!” He said, “We don't say mean things like that here.” taking both of them by surprise, who aren't able to comprehend how come their boss all of a sudden became so chatty, and started questioning his sudden behaviour.

Its fun, nagumo thought. Why not enjoy it with more spice. “How rude.” He replied to their thread of questions. “I will kill you.”

And this was enough to gawk both of the assistants, enough to let their jaw wide open touching the floor, but before nagumo to have anymore of fun the door opened again and his friend entered, unphased by seeing his doppelganger infront of him.

Nagumo knew sakamoto realised it was him, but I'd be more fun to attack with a knife to shake up both of the assistants even more. But most of all he wanted to see, if sakamoto’s senses dulled over the span of 5 years.

Instantly he pulled out a knife and stuck it in the newspaper sakamoto picked up, which was disregarded by him a few minutes ago. Tearing the newspaper from the middle he saw sakamoto dodge the attack, before getting hold of a cutter, threatening his neck.

He was no less of a deal too, in a blink his gun stayed plastered to sakamoto's head, before sakamoto pulls back the cutter and draws the blade back in. “Long time no see, nagumo.” His glasses gleamed, as his face fat made his voice sound a little thicker than nagumo had heard years ago.

“I see you can still move, Sakamoto!” He said chirpy, before dismissing the disguise, shocking shin and lu. And it wasn't long for them to throw hands at him. Nagumo was right, sakamoto's senses haven't dulled but it has rusted a bit. He wondered how fast he would have thrown his body to the ground, back slammed on the floor and instead of a paper cutter, sakamoto's hand would have adorned his signature gun he never swapped out after graduating from JCC, if he had not retired already.

Who knew the legendary Hitman would chicken out of the game one day in the name of…..love?

And get this bulky. For once nagumo thought to slap his huge round belly to see if the fat ripples through.

After another thread of lies, he was bound on a chair by sakamoto's two assistants, it's not like he can't break apart the rope but he just didn't. “there’s a bounty on sakamoto's head. The reward is one billion yen.”

He explained, as his assistants refused to believe him, but their doubts were soon dispelled as soon as they took down the pizza assassin.

Nagumo only wanted to inform his friend about the bounty on his head. That's why he visited. Or that's what he was trying to tell himself. He didn't quite understand why he visited after so many years….after rion akao died, it was both of them. Nagumo thought since sakamoto is still there it'd be okay. But it wasn't long until he retired saying he fell in love. Sakamoto quitted the order, and eventually wiped his hands of assassination. Without even saying a goodbye. He married and had a child. And nagumo was left all alone. Though he never stopped smiling.

And after 5 years when he learned about the bounty on his friend’s head, he couldn't help but feel a bit odd. What an odd world of liars he lives in?

Akao said she would graduate with both of them. Yet, she didn't.

Sakamoto said he would be there till the end, yet he didn't.

“Why did both of you left me alone?” He wanted an answer, but he never asked. Knowing one isn't alive to answer and the other would just dismiss his question.

He disposed the body of the pizza assassin near the garbage disposal area. He smiled another gleeful smile, before taking out his fist from his coat pockets and rolled the small white dice on the road.

The dive stopped rolling. One dot. Nagumo chuckled. “I wouldn't consider it unlucky…” he said, before dismantling his compact of weapons as a curved blade of an arms length slipped right through his fingers, which ended up landing into the pizza assassin’s fourth and fifth rib.

A shriek of unpleasant screaming rose through the air, and intensified even more as nagumo twisted the blade with his index and thumb. Filthy red splattered over his silhouette, as if the strokes of a frizzy brush from someone who attempted to paint the crimson flowers of death. How sad he will have to pay for his laundry again.

After changing his clothes, which he always keeps a set of two at hand, he set out his foot towards home. He'd a call from the JAA headquarters, Tokyo to attend the next day. Ofcourse he wouldn't want to get any less of sleep.

He knew sakamoto won't kill anyone, and even though he wouldn't show it on his face, the reason sakamoto stopped killing cringes him. If anything love only brings in vulnerability, and loss of power.

And if anything he'd learned all these years being in assassination field, he knew that power is easy to gain than to hold on. He'd seen his friends gaining the very top before falling down from the peak. Except for sakamoto who chose to step down.

Nagumo’s smile lines faded a bit, expression grave, will he too oneday lose all of it? Nothing is certain in life, it flows and changes its direction like a river, ticks away with time and evolves into new colours with each season. However, ever since he joined the order his season of life has always been the same: the fall.

All the dried crinkly leaves fell off years ago, yet no tree has ever sprouted a lively green. The winter keeps snowing, covering the mud with its dusty white, but the spring never comes.

Nagumo kept walking without noticing where his feets were leading him, his head faced down and hands in his coat, eyes simply gazed over the red old tiles, the footpath, and the small black lines dividing each section. At moments of his trance, he felt someone bumping into him.

He would have normally walked away, without bothering to peer at the person, but for some reason he felt a tug on his right sleeve. The person was refusing to let go. A muscle ticked in his arm, ready on first instinct to throw a punch over the face, “excuse me?”

A girl's voice?

Nagumo's body soothed as he turned to take proper account of you. Your one hand was clasping over his coat’s fabric, whereas the other was fumbling the inside of her tote bag.

You take out a hello kitty bandaid and shove it towards him. Confused, Nagumo tilts his head, face has regained its merry rictus.

“Yes?”

“Your hand is bleeding…”

Nagumo's eyes widen a bit as he speculates his hand and then looks at the bright red stain on his coat. Another laundry. He looked at the cut between his fingers, which must have sliced through when he was pulling out the blades. “Is it?” He faked his astonishment.

“That seems to be deep…you should disinfect it right away. How did you get hurt?” You bat your innocent eyes at him, before taking a look at the compact case hanging on his back with the help of a strap looped over his body. Nagumo felt his mouth dry. Well umm how does he even phrase it properly…

“A technician? You carry tools in that?” Nagumo stared at you blankly, as his brain stopped processing his thoughts, “yes” a lie slipped off pretty easily from his mouth. It's easy and convenient to lie.

You bring Nagumo's hand gently, while applying the bandaid, looped perfectly over his cuts, when he doesn't make the move to accept the help. “You should take care of yourself.” You say frowning your brows a bit at him.

“Yeah I will. Thanks.”

You smile at him before turning and taking your leave. Whereas nagumo stayed glued to the spot, watching you disappear among crowds. He peered down his hand, the hello kitty doodles stared back at him. What just happened?

Ever since that incident nagumo has lost half a quarter of his sleep, astir for no reason. Could it be the pressure of the work and the mysterious massacre caused by slur— or could it be him drifting into a relentless void staring at the hello kitty band aid given by you which he, for some ridiculous reason, framed it.

Or it could be for the number of times he visited the same alley hoping to catch sight of your fuzzy white scarf and maybe a hello kitty bandaid to offer…

Why was he even doing that?

Has he gone crazy?

Well, probably he has.

Whatever he was, Nagumo had less time to criticize himself for his sleep schedule or find the reason of trigger to his insomnia. He was on a mission to execute— find the B-grade assassin, who is suspected to have hands knotted with slur— Edo Nakamura.

And surprisingly enough his last sightings were spotted in the same alley nagumo was granted to lay his eyes on your soft frame.

After collecting several pieces of information about Edo’s past from the mission handler, nagumo noted 3 facts about him.

Edo had a history with an illegal orphanage which was later burned down for certain unknown reasons.

His speciality was poisons. He was among the very few male students from the poison department of jcc. After graduation he joined the Tokyo quarters before vanishing into thin air right when the massacre started.

And lastly, he was said to have a sister.

And that specific sister runs her own bakery, which is also somewhere situated amidst the nooks and hooks of this alley.

Edo is suspected of treachery and might have caused the opening to the breaking of the Tokyo headquarters. And from what the papers suggests, it took less than a millisecond for nagumo to come to the conclusion that Edo might have visited his sister before his traces faded.

And that sister might lead to the advantage of revealing the pathway to slur’s so-called puppet ‘Edo’.

‘Little a lot’— was the name of the bakery….and it wasn't a hassle when just a few turns led to the vibrant blue of old summer sky drew him in.

Nagumo thought to himself, what'd this serene peace of blue would look like if he rather tainted it with splatters of chaotic blood.

What if the slow tendrils of this freshly baked bread had a hint of metallic, iron like pungency? His lips creaked as corners turn upwards in a gleaming smile. Shall he force edo’s sister to lure him in here and satisfy the itch of his palm?

‘Clang-dong'

A step echoed as he entered the bakery. It was quiet inside and the owner wasn't seen to be near.

Nagumo swallowed his chuckle. It'd be so fun to break this silent melody with wretched screams. Shall he hide? Oh it'd be very fine to kill them both wouldn't it? the brother and the sister, both? After all, they might feel lonely if one crossed the line of death but the other didn't. Wouldn't they?

‘Clang-dong’

“Oh, a customer! I'm sorry I wasn't around, what would you need si— hey aren't you the guy from the other day?”

“...huh?”

“Is your wound healed now?... don't you remember me? I'm the one who offered you a bandaid that day when—”

Nagumo interrupts, “are you the owner of this bakery?”

“Um yeah?...” You tilt your head in confusion at the black haired guy you met a few days ago. “Do you need something from here?”

“Uh…yeah anything baked you feel’d be the best.” Nagumo answers after a while. What was it supposed to mean? You were Edo’s…sister? The broad plan of executing double murders was long forgotten from his mind, replaced by a dull throb in his chest and ragged breaths.

You nodded your head slipping behind the counter and packing some of the freshly baked blueberry muffins from the oven into the takeout box. Your delicate fingers brushed back your strands of hair, before drawing out a paper bag to proceed with his order.

“That'd be 3,500 yen. I…uh.. packed you blueberry muffins.” You stated, a bit nervously as the huge man kept staring at you with blank eyes.

“...yeah. thanks.” Nagumo handed down the cash to the coin tray on the counter with one hand while the other took his unplanned pakage after shoving his wallet back to his pocket.

Your fingers brushed with his ever so slightly and the dull throb on his chest intensified. He felt delirious, dizzy and unorganised. What was wrong, wasn't he supposed to stop with his bullshit and rather execute his mission?

He didn't stop walking until he was out of the bakery. Or till the some sort of intensified throb on his chest calmed. Only then did he walk back in.

He'd straight go to work. Get the details about edo and—

“You forgot something, Sir?”

Silence.

“Uh…your name?” what the heck? Wasn't he about to ask about edo?

“Y/n. And yours?” You said, shades of faint red painting your cheeks. Your name was so beautiful, he thought.

“yoichi. Nagumo yoichi.”

Back on his way home, he repeated your name several times in several different tones and felt an unusual rush of fervor delight rushing through his veins, similar yet even more intense than when he kills on his missions.

Mission?

Wait? He didn't inquire anything about edo!!!

“What the heck is wrong with me?”

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