#assassin!fem!reader

[lowrisemiller]

ꜰᴏʀ ɪ'ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴀ ᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛʀᴇꜱꜱ ᴛᴏᴏ ʟᴏɴɢ

ᴊᴜꜱᴛ... ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴀ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ

ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴀ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴀ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ ɪ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴡᴀɴɴᴀ ʙᴇ ᴀ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ ⧗

one - shot inspired by the song “Glory Box” by Portishead — also a tad inspired by @artficlly ‘s lessons in love making

winter soldier!bucky x black widow!femreader

She's Red Room. He's Winter Soldier. Neither remembers what it feels like to be touched without orders, to be wanted without purpose. Hydra pairs them as weapons, but in the quiet between missions—in bruised silence and shared Russian—they begin to find something unspoken. Something fragile. Something theirs.

masterlist | 5.9k words | photos do not depict what fem!reader looks like | mentions of torture, trauma, brainwashing, illusions to assault yk normal red room/hydra things, wee bit of violence and blood, praise, grinding, handjob, unprotected piv sex (not rlly tho if yk black widow lore…) and that’s it pls lmk if there’s more

You were transferred in a box.

Not literally, of course—but it felt that way. Blacked-out convoy. Shackled wrists. A one-way ride from the remnants of the Red Room to a Hydra-controlled facility somewhere in the Balkans. No name. No destination. Just cold metal under your thighs and a silence that felt worse than any scream.

You’d heard whispers of this place. Of him.

They called him the Winter Soldier.

Hydra didn’t send many female agents here. They kept you in Moscow, mostly—tight, quiet, obedient. But after your last handler died during a failed seduction op, you were labeled unstable. Too volatile. Too effective. Hydra saw potential where the Red Room saw disobedience. So they made a deal.

You became someone else’s problem.

The Hydra base was underground, cold as a morgue, walls humming with electricity and cruelty.

They didn’t assign you a name. They gave you a number: Agent 47.

Your first few weeks passed in silence. You trained alone. Slept under surveillance. But being from the Red Room you hacked the camera. Ate without speaking. No one told you why you were there. Not until you saw him.

They wheeled him out of cryo like a weapon being unsheathed.

You were at the edge of the training floor, bandaging your knuckles from solo drills when he appeared—broad, silent, wrapped in shadow and control. Long hair. Muzzle mask. That metal arm. He didn’t look at you. Not at first.

But you looked at him. And you knew.

He was just like you. A ghost in someone else’s skin.

You were paired together two missions later. No warning. No introduction.

They handed you a brief, said “You’ll go with him,” and shoved you toward the drop point.

You didn't ask his name. He didn’t offer it.

The first op was simple. A kill mission in Istanbul. You were bait, dressed like a party favor, coaxing the target toward a hotel balcony. Bucky waited in the hallway like a shadow. The kill was clean. Fast. He didn’t say a word the entire flight home.

You were used to silence. But his silence felt different. It was less about obedience, more about weight. As if words were too dangerous to carry.

You watched him when he wasn’t looking. The way his hand sometimes tremble after a kill. The way he stared at the wall like it was going to scream.

You recognized it. The fracture. The absence of self.

It took three more missions before he looked you in the eye.

Just a glance. After a messy clean-up in Kraków, blood is still damp on your collar. You were wiping a cut on your lip, sitting on the tailgate of the evac van. He stood across from you, face unreadable. Then his gaze flicked to yours.

Not curious. Not judgmental.

Just... knowing.

As if he saw you. Not the mask. Not the makeup. You.

Your fingers twitched.

You didn’t smile. Neither did he.

But something shifted.

Mission Location: Bucharest, Romania Objective: Eliminate asset defecting to S.H.I.E.L.D. Cover Story: Tourist couple at Hotel Beron

You hate hotels.

Not because of the sheets—they’re always clean, bleached, starched into fake softness. Not because of the lighting, though that’s usually cheap and flickering. You hate them because of what they mean: appearances. Playing and acting. Your body as a bargaining chip. Your face as a lie.

Tonight is no different.

You slip the gold earring into your ear with steady fingers, check your reflection one last time. The Red Room taught you to dress fast and fight faster. Hydra doesn't care what you wear, only that the target dies before he talks. Still, the dress they chose for you is low-cut and wine-red, tailored like a weapon.

Across the room, he doesn’t look at you. He’s adjusting the sight on a sniper rifle, calm as the grave.

The Winter Soldier wears a suit like a soldier wears a uniform—wrong, like it's just a disguise for the kill underneath.

You don’t speak. He doesn’t either.

That’s how it works between you.

The hotel bar is warm, glowing with amber light and careless laughter. You step into it like a ghost wrapped in silk.

Your heels click softly against the marble floor, your smile painted on with surgical precision. You're here to lure the target—a Hydra informant who decided to jump ship to S.H.I.E.L.D. You only have to keep him busy long enough for your partner to get in position.

You spot him at the bar. Older. Nervous. Talking too fast to a bartender who couldn’t care less.

You slide into the seat next to him like gravity pulled you there. A warm laugh. A brush of your shoulder. The same tired seduction dance the Red Room taught you at fifteen.

I’ve been a temptress too long.

He looks at you like every man does. Wants you like every man does. You feed it to him like honey over poison.

But as he starts to relax—fingers inching toward yours on the bar—you feel it: a prickle on your spine. The shift in air. The knowledge that he’s watching.

You don't need to turn. You know where he is.

Across the bar, tucked in the shadows near the back service door, sits the Winter Soldier. No mask. No rifle. Just a man in a suit too nice for the way his eyes scan the room—lethal and unblinking.

No one notices him. But you do.

He’s waiting.

The target gets comfortable fast. Too fast. He leans closer, asks if you want to go upstairs. You smile and say yes.

Your earpiece crackles with static, then his voice—cold, barely there.

“Level 5. West hallway. Blind spot in 40 seconds.”

You don't reply. You don’t have to.

The elevator ride up is silent, except for the elevator music and your heartbeat.

The hallway is dim. Carpet muffles your steps. When the door to 509 clicks shut behind you, you let the man touch your arm. You don’t flinch. You’ve played this role before. You already know how it ends.

You count down in your head.

Three... two...

The window explodes inward.

A blur of motion. Shattered glass. You duck before you even register the gunshot. The target stumbles back, screaming—blood blooming from his throat like a second collar.

You look up through your own hair, breathing hard.

He’s standing in the broken window frame.

Wind whips through the curtains. Gun still raised. Eyes locked on yours.

The Winter Soldier.

Back in the extraction van, it’s silent as always.

Your dress is ripped at the hem. There’s a scratch on your collarbone that stings. You can smell the powder burn still clinging to his jacket beside you.

You glance at him. His gaze is forward, unreadable.

But something about the way he watches the road—jaw clenched, fingers twitching—tells you he didn’t like what he saw in that room.

Not the blood. Not the kill.

You.

You wonder if he saw through the act.

You wonder if he saw how your hand shook when the man touched you.

Give me a reason to be a woman, not just a weapon.

He doesn’t speak. But just before the van turns, you feel it—his hand, brief and accidental, brushing yours where it rests on the bench.

He doesn’t pull away fast enough.

The building smells like antiseptic and cement. Cold, old-world concrete, retrofitted with modern surveillance tech and the stench of fear.

You haven’t been back in months. Not since the transfer.

The Red Room occupies the eastern wing; Hydra’s Moscow cell lives in the west. Where steel doors outnumber smiles and most conversations happen under cameras.

You walk the hallway beside him in silence.

The echo of your boots and his heavier tread match in rhythm—military, precise. You glance at his shoulder once, just once. The black tactical coat fits over the metal arm too cleanly, like it was sewn around the violence.

Neither of you speak until you’re summoned.

Inside the glass-walled debriefing chamber, the temperature drops by several degrees.

Your superior sits across from you—Director Volkov, thick-fingered, well-fed, and always two steps away from cruelty. Behind him, an aide prepares the recorder.

“Садитесь,” Volkov says without looking up. Sit.

You and the Winter Soldier obey in unison. Side by side. Chairs too straight to relax in.

Volkov doesn’t waste time.

“Доклад,” he says, motioning lazily with one hand. Report.

You glance once at Bucky. He stays still, metal fingers twitching once before stilling.

You begin.

“Цель устранена. Враг не передал информацию Щ.И.Т.,” you say clearly. Target eliminated. Enemy did not pass information to S.H.I.E.L.D.

“Свидетели?” Witnesses?

“Нет. Один охранник — был устранён.” No. One guard—eliminated.

Volkov raises an eyebrow. Then turns his attention to Bucky.

“And you?” he says in Russian, but slower. As if testing him.

Bucky’s voice is low, sharp like ice cracking.

“Всё прошло по плану.” Everything went according to plan.

His accent is almost native. Almost. But there's something strange in the way he says it—mechanical, hollow. Like he’s repeating words pulled from an old program.

Volkov watches him for a beat too long.

Then: “Хорошо.” Good.

But his gaze slides to you.

“Ты выглядишь усталой, девочка.” You look tired, girl.

Your jaw flexes.

“Я выполняю свою работу.” I do my job.

He leans back, smirking. “Иногда ты больше, чем просто работа.” Sometimes, you're more than just a job.

The edge behind his words makes your stomach tighten. A test. A threat. You don’t blink.

But you feel it.

A shift beside you. The faintest sound—leather glove tightening around a fist.

You don’t look at him. But you feel the Winter Soldier bristle, just for a second.

He heard it. He understood.

Volkov notes the silence like a man lighting a match near gasoline. He lets it burn a moment. Then shrugs.

“Свободны,” he says. You’re dismissed.

You both stand without hesitation.

But as you turn to leave, he speaks again.

“Солдат.” Soldier.

Bucky stops.

Volkov doesn’t look up as he says it.

“Девушка — хрупкая. Не дай ей сломаться.” The girl is fragile. Don’t let her break.

You look over your shoulder.

Bucky doesn’t respond. Doesn’t twitch. Just walks out, silent as death.

You follow.

In the elevator, no one speaks.

Not until the doors close and the security light turns green.

Then, in Russian—so quiet it almost doesn’t reach you—he says:

“Ты не хрупкая.” You are not fragile.

You stare straight ahead. Your heart stutters once behind your ribs.

After a long pause, you whisper back:

“И ты не только оружие.” And you are not only a weapon.

Location: Hydra Training Compound, Belarus Objective: Infiltrate and surveil ex-Hydra weapons broker operating under a NATO-aligned cover Alias Names: Alina & Ivan Morozov Cover Story: Married couple visiting from Kaliningrad for black-market tech negotiation

The base is colder than Moscow.

Not in temperature—though it’s frigid at dawn—but in design. Gray walls. Glass panels. Doors with no handles unless they want to be opened. The kind of place where every hallway feels like a test, and every reflection in the steel has eyes.

You stand in the armory, adjusting your tactical vest, eyes on the mission file. The photos are grainy, black-and-white. Surveillance stills of a man named Konstantin Mirov, former Hydra quartermaster turned freelance weapons broker.

Your job? Get into his meeting. See who he’s selling to. Get out without making noise.

No seduction this time. No backless gowns or hotel bar whispers.

This one’s quiet. Careful. Married couple traveling for business, Hydra’s handler had said.

You’d snorted. The Winter Soldier hadn’t reacted at all.

Now he enters the room, dressed not in his usual black ops gear—but something more civilian. Dark gray slacks. Black sweater. No gloves.

You glance at the arm.

He doesn’t bother to hide it.

Bold.

Or suicidal.

You zip your coat, grab your compact pistol, and glance at him. He’s adjusting his earpiece, expression unreadable.

Your handler enters with a clipboard and two forged passports.

“Your aliases are Alina and Ivan Morozov,” she says, Russian clipped and cold. “You’ve been married for five years. No children. No friends. You’re a quiet couple from Kaliningrad who want to buy access to Mirov’s smart-tech vault.”

She hands Bucky the ring box like it’s a threat.

He opens it.

Two simple wedding bands inside.

You stiffen. “Is this necessary?”

The handler smiles, teeth like knives. “You’ll be staying in a private villa. Shared bed. If Mirov suspects you’re spies, he’ll kill you. Or worse—he’ll sell your location to S.H.I.E.L.D.”

You take the ring.

Bucky slides his on with mechanical ease.

You follow.

Infiltration Point: Moldova border, safehouse en route to Mirov’s estate

The drive is quiet. Trees blur past the windows, and you feel the weight of the silence settle between you like fog. The radio crackles occasionally—local news, rain reports, nothing useful.

He’s driving with one hand, the metal one. The flesh one rests on his thigh, fingers tapping once, twice, in thought.

You speak without looking at him.

“Are you comfortable with close contact?”

He doesn’t respond right away.

Then: “I don’t need comfort. I need control.”

You glance at him. “That wasn’t the question.”

He doesn’t answer.

The Estate — Mirov’s Private Villa

By the time you arrive, the act has begun.

You’re greeted by a security detail with mirrored sunglasses and thick accents. They scan your car. Search your bags. But they don’t find the tracker tucked beneath the spare tire, or the bone mic embedded behind your left ear.

Inside, the villa is all excess. Marble floors. Velvet drapes. Surveillance in every corner. You walk in like you belong.

Your room is on the top floor. One bed. No cameras inside, but you know better. Hidden mics, pressure sensors under the floorboards.

You wait until the guards leave before speaking.

“You take the side near the door.”

He nods once. No questions.

You unpack. Slowly. Deliberately. The room is small. Every time you turn, he’s close. Too close.

You kneel to unzip your weapons case and find yourself eye-level with the holster strapped to his thigh.

He doesn’t move.

Your fingers brush the hem of his coat as you reach for your knife.

He still doesn’t move.

Your heartbeat spikes—briefly.

I’ve been a temptress too long.

Now I just want to be human.

But I don’t know how to be near him without wanting something I shouldn’t.

Later That Night

The mission recon begins at the gala in Mirov’s garden.

You’re dressed in black. Minimal makeup. Armed with a compact camera hidden in your pendant. Bucky wears a suit again—same fit as Bucharest—but this time, you’re on his arm.

For show.

You link arms. Skin to skin.

He is warm.

You keep your smile fixed and your eyes on the crowd. Inside, you whisper:

“Three o’clock. Red dress. That’s the American buyer.”

He leans in slightly—lips brushing your temple in a way that makes your stomach knot.

“She’s carrying,” he mutters. “Ankle holster. SIG P365.”

You smile and laugh, loud enough for Mirov’s man to hear. Just two lovers sharing a joke.

But when you turn away, his hand on your back doesn’t drop right away.

You feel the heat of it through your dress.

You don’t speak on the walk back to the villa.

The guards let you through without questions. One of them gives you a knowing smirk, like he expects you to fuck as loudly as you kill. You offer him the barest smile in return—just enough to keep him stupid.

Inside, the bedroom light is low. Amber and shadow and the faint buzz of some generator humming through the floor.

You unclip your earrings and place them on the nightstand.

Bucky’s already unbuttoning his cuffs. No words. No wasted movement. Just a slow, methodical undoing of the man he pretended to be tonight.

You glance over.

He hasn’t looked at you once.

But his jaw is tight.

You strip off your dress with your back to him. No flourish, no invitation. Just routine. Your spine is bare and littered with scars in the mirror. You catch his reflection when he finally turns.

His eyes flick to yours, just once, before dropping.

He looks away like it hurts.

You slide on the black sleep shirt. One of the few things in your duffel that’s actually yours. Cotton. Worn thin at the collar.

Bucky changes into a pair of Hydra-issued sweats and a black t-shirt. The metal arm gleams under the soft light, all tension and symmetry and weaponized restraint.

He takes the side nearest the door, just like you asked.

You slide under the covers beside him.

The silence is too loud.

The bed dips beneath his weight but doesn't move again. He’s still. A wall of heat and control.

You close your eyes.

And then—after several long breaths—you whisper, in Russian:

“Ты не расслаблялся ни на секунду.” You haven’t relaxed once.

He exhales through his nose.

Then:

“Слишком опасно.” Too dangerous.

You open your eyes. The ceiling is textured with shadow.

“Мне казалось, ты был другим, когда мы танцевали.” You seemed different when we danced.

He doesn’t answer.

But he’s listening. You can feel it. His focus, always so sharp in combat, is now centered entirely on you.

You turn on your side, facing him in the dark. His profile is a study in contrast—scar and softness, human and not. The kind of face built for silence.

“I forgot who I was for a minute,” you murmur. “On the balcony. When you touched my back.”

His jaw tenses.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says.

You swallow hard.

“I didn’t want you to stop.”

The air between you thickens. Warmer now. And dangerous in a different way.

This isn’t flirtation. It's a confession. Two ghosts pressing against the skin of the living.

You feel his fingers move—just barely.

Then:

“Why are you telling me this?”

You don’t know.

Maybe because it’s dark. Maybe because he saw you undressed without leering. Maybe because when you kissed him in Bucharest, he didn’t pull away—he just stood there, stunned, as if you’d woken something up.

“I want to know if you felt it too,” you whisper.

His voice is a thread of breath:

“I don’t let myself feel things.”

You reach for his hand under the sheet. Not the metal one. The other.

Your fingers find his fingers.

And he lets them.

He doesn’t pull away.

You fall asleep like that. Not tangled. Not pressed together. Just a point of contact—skin to skin.

A line crossed.

And neither of you can go back.

Location: Hydra Training Compound Day Three Post-Mission

They call it “recalibration,” but it feels like punishment.

Mission successful. Mirov neutralized. Intel secure. And still, they’re back on the mat like it means nothing. Hydra doesn’t reward precision. It doesn’t reward loyalty.

It rewards silence.

You’re already in the training gear—black compression top, reinforced leggings, bare feet on the polished floor. Your knife is strapped to your thigh even though it won’t be used today. Just a habit.

Across from you, Bucky stands shirtless, gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips, hair damp from the shower.

His metal arm catches the light like a warning.

You circle each other in silence. There’s no music, no overseer today. Just the distant hum of the base and the scuff of movement on the mat.

Then, in Russian:

“Готова?” Ready?

You nod.

He lunges first—fast, controlled, mechanical. You drop low, sweep a leg, and he pivots instead of falling. His movements are brutal but beautiful, like clockwork designed to hurt.

You block a palm strike, twist under his arm, shove your elbow toward his ribs.

He lets you connect.

Not full force. Not enough to bruise.

Just enough.

You both freeze.

Your breath hitches.

He stepped into it—on purpose.

Why would he let me land a hit like that?Why does it matter that he did?

You disengage fast, roll back onto your feet. He stays still, watching.

Eyes unreadable.

Then, quieter:

“Ты теряешь фокус.” You're losing focus.

You sneer. “Ты проиграл.” You lost.

He steps forward again—slow this time. Less like a soldier, more… man. His chest rises and falls in an even rhythm.

“I let you win,” he says.

There’s no arrogance in it. No mocking.

Just a fact.

You bristle. “Why?”

His eyes flick to yours—then lower. Just briefly. Enough to notice the slight swelling on your lip from the earlier blow he did land.

“Because you’re tired.”

You swallow, throat tight.

He noticed. And he cared. Not because Hydra told him to. Not because it helped the mission.Because it’s me.And that scares me more than it should.

You don’t reply.

You rush him again, but this time it’s sloppier. Emotion leaking in through the cracks. He catches your wrist mid-strike, and for one heartbeat, you’re just… there. Trapped in his grip.

His fingers tighten—then loosen.

He releases you.

Your skin burns where he touched it.

You step back.

“Again,” you say.

He hesitates. Just a flicker.

Then nods.

You spar for thirty minutes. No talking. Just the sound of bodies hitting mats, of breath caught and released, of two people pretending not to feel what they feel.

And after the last round—when you’re both on the floor, sweating, chests heaving, his arm braced beside your shoulder—

You ask, quiet:

“Why are you different with me?”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it:

“Because you don’t look at me like I’m a weapon.”

You look at me like I’m still human.You look at me like I deserve to be one.

You could kiss him right now.

You don’t.

You just stay there, breathing next to him.

Neither of you moves.

The sparring is over, but it’s still clinging to you—under your skin, in the beat of your pulse, in the shallow ache of your left wrist.

You sit on the bench in the armory locker room. Shirt discarded. Wrist tender. It throbs in waves now that the adrenaline’s worn off.

Hydra’s med supplies are cold and clinical: gauze, antiseptic, wraps. No painkillers. No comfort.

You’re wrapping the bandage sloppily, one-handed.

“Дай мне.” Let me.

His voice is low. Behind you.

You flinch, but you don’t stop him when he kneels in front of you.

You offer your wrist.

The metal hand holds it steady. Too gentle. The human one does the wrapping.

He’s meticulous. One layer. Then another. His breath fans across your forearm.

Your voice is soft:

“Ты заботишься.” You care.

He pauses.

Then—barely above a whisper:

“Ты не должна была заметить.” You weren’t supposed to notice.

You study him as he works. Down here, kneeling, close like this—he doesn’t look like a ghost. Or a soldier. He just looks... tired.

And young. Younger than you imagined, when he’s not under command.But you’ve seen his file. You know that doesn’t make sense. Unless something’s been taken from him.Time. Memory. Self.

“What do they call you?” you ask quietly.

He doesn’t look up.

“They don’t.”

Not a name. Just a directive. A ghost.Winter Soldier. Asset. 

You nod once. You won’t ask again. You’ve done worse to people with names.

When he finishes the wrap, he doesn’t let go right away.

His thumb brushes the edge of the gauze. Not by accident.

Your breath stutters.

He touches like he’s afraid he’ll break you. Like no one taught him how to be soft, but he’s trying anyway.And you… you need it.God, you need it.

“You stay too long after the others leave,” you whisper.

He looks up at you. Those eyes—gray and still and far away.

“So do you.”

You pull your wrist back, slowly. His hand follows for a second longer than it should.

You rise.

He doesn’t stop you.

But before you turn to leave, you glance over your shoulder.

“What's on your mind,” you say in Russian. “Just one thing.”

He looks at you for a long moment. Like he’s trying to remember what counts as real.

Then, finally:

“Я боюсь забыть, каково это — не быть один.” I’m afraid of forgetting what it feels like to not be alone.

You don’t speak.

But something inside you breaks.

And you don’t fix it.

There are nights when the base goes too quiet.

Not silent—because no Hydra base is ever truly silent. There’s always the dull hum of the server banks, the pressurized hiss of sealed doors, the echo of boots in the corridor above.

But this? This is quieter. Hollow. Heavy.

You can’t sleep.

Your bed is too narrow, your bones too wired. There’s a tremor in your hands you can’t shake. Not fear, exactly. Just… residue. From training. From life.

From him.

You slip from your quarters, barefoot. In a tank top and soft black shorts. You don’t bother to put boots on.

The halls feel colder at night. You glide through them like smoke.

Down one floor. Then two.

You know where he’ll be.

There’s a small chamber near the weapons lab—an auxiliary control room that no one uses after hours. No windows. Just a slatted steel vent near the ceiling where moonlight slices in, pale and ghostlike.

He sits there in the corner, on the floor.

Back against the wall.

Awake.

He’s always awake.

You don’t speak when you step into the doorway.

He lifts his eyes. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t rise.

Just looks at you like he knew you’d come.

You sit across from him, knees pulled up. The cold seeps through the floor into your skin.

For a long time, neither of you speaks.

But that’s never mattered. Not with him.

The quiet between you has its own language.

He finally says, “Ты тоже не можешь спать?”

You can’t sleep either?

You shake your head. “Слишком много шума.”

Too much noise.

He nods.

You don’t mean the base.

You mean the static in your blood. The ghost-thoughts. The bruises that don’t bloom until morning.

You watch him. The way he sits so still. But you’ve seen him move—he’s lethal in motion, but now, in this shadowed room, he’s just… there.

Like a monument to some war no one ever won.

You speak again.

“Do you remember who you were… before?”

His jaw flexes. Not anger—hesitation.

Then he says, “No.”

Just that. One syllable that splinters something in you.

“I think I was someone else, too,” you whisper. “Before the Red Room.”

And maybe neither of you can get back to that person.

Maybe that’s what this is. Two weapons sitting in the dark, trying to remember how to feel like people.

You shift a little closer. Not touching. Just near.

“I think about it sometimes,” you say. “What it might feel like. To live outside these walls. Outside orders.”

He doesn’t respond. But his eyes are on you like he’s trying to see that world through yours.

You whisper, “Give me a reason.”

His brow furrows.

You search his face in the low light.

“Give me a reason to feel like a woman again. Not a tool. Not a weapon.”

A pause.

Then he leans forward—barely, barely—and says, so low you almost don’t hear it:

“Because when I look at you, I forget I’m a weapon.”

The air between you crackles.

But neither of you reaches across the space.

You just sit there, two shadows in the dark, a heartbeat apart from ruin.

But after a while sitting on the hard floor gets uncomfortable so you rise up slowly.

You guide him by the wrist—his flesh one, calloused and warm—and not his metal one. That’s on purpose.

He follows you without a word, boots silent on concrete. You don’t need to look back to know he’s watching you. You always know when he’s watching.

Your room’s a concrete box. No windows, no comforts. Just a cot, a gray blanket, a single lamp. But it’s private. It’s yours. And he’s never been here before.

You close the door behind you, fingers slipping the lock into place.

“C’mere,” you whisper, and he does.

He’s quiet, always quiet. That’s how they trained him. But he looks at you like you’re the only real thing in the whole damned place. Like your hands are the only ones he trusts not to hurt him. You pull him close, let your forehead rest against his chest. The cool metal of his arm touches your back as he hesitates—then wraps it around you.

He doesn’t know how to ask. But he wants this.

So you climb onto the cot, pull him down with you. No words, just breathing. The way his nose presses into your neck. The way his body curls toward yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. You pet his hair. His breathing slows. You feel the tension drain from his body, even if only a little. You fall asleep like that—his arms around your waist, your hand over his heart.

But sometime in the dark, you feel it.

A slow press of his hips against your ass. The warm breath hitching against your neck. His hand twitching on your belly, the tremble of restraint in his thighs.

You shift, just slightly. You feel the outline of him—hard. Needy.

You whisper into the dark quiet of the room: “Soldat.”

He flinches like he’s been caught doing something wrong. But he doesn’t move away. Doesn’t deny it.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he mumbles, voice rough and ruined with shame. “I— I didn’t mean—”

“Hey,” you say softly, reaching back to touch his thigh, grounding him. “It’s okay.”

He goes still. Like he’s waiting to be punished.

You turn over in the narrow bed, face to face now. You tuck his hair behind his ear. “You want help, soldier?”

His eyes widened—blue and glassy and desperate.

“You sure?” you ask, your fingers brushing down his bare torso, over the soft ridges of his abs. “We don’t have to if—”

“Yes,” he breathes out, like it’s been torn from him. “Please. I don’t… I’ve never…”

That makes your heart ache. But it also makes heat twist low in your belly.

“Let me take care of you, then.”

You kiss him first. He doesn’t expect it, but melts into it like he’s starved for it. Like he doesn’t even know how to kiss back but he’s trying so hard it hurts. His metal hand grips the edge of the bed; his flesh one grabs your hip like he’s afraid you’ll float away.

You straddle him slowly. He’s shirtless, boxers straining against his hard length. His breath shudders when you grind down, rubbing against him through the fabric.

“Fuck,” he mutters, eyes fluttering shut. “It feels… s’good. Don’t stop.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” you whisper, dragging your lips down his jaw. “Just let me.”

He nods, breathing hard. He’s so worked up already, hips twitching under you.

You take your time. Slide your fingers beneath his waistband, and he gasps when you wrap your hand around him. He’s hot, flushed, leaking already. You stroke him slowly, watching him fall apart.

His head tips back against the pillow. His thighs tremble. He whimpers when you twist your wrist just right.

“You like that?” you ask, voice dark and honey-sweet.

“Y-yeah. Shit. Don’t stop—please.”

You press kisses to his chest, his neck, then whisper against his ear, “You wanna come like this? Or inside me?”

He chokes on air, like his brain short-circuits.

“I—inside,” he groans, eyes pleading. “Please.”

You slip your shorts off. Tug his boxers down. You don’t tease. You just line yourself up, wet and ready, and sink onto him slow. He shudders beneath you, fingers digging into your hips.

“Oh fuck,” he groans, brow furrowed, chest heaving. “You feel—god, you feel so warm, so tight—I can’t—”

“Shhh,” you murmur, rocking gently. “You’re doing so good, baby.”

He whines at the praise. Whines.

You ride him slow, deep, keeping your forehead pressed to his, your hands in his hair. Every thrust makes him gasp. Every grind makes him moan, softer than you thought a killer like him could.

You rub your clit, and he watches, eyes glassy and wide like it’s the most intimate thing he’s ever seen.

When you tighten around him, he loses it.

His whole body locks up, and he spills into you with a broken cry, hips bucking helplessly. You don’t stop. You work yourself over him until you come too, clenching tight around him, panting into his mouth.

You collapse on top of him. He wraps both arms around you—flesh and metal—and for the first time, he doesn’t look like the Winter Soldier.

He just looks like a man who’s finally been given something he didn’t have to earn.

The room is quiet again.

You’re both breathing hard, chests pressed together. His skin is slick with sweat, still flushed from the high. But his hands haven’t moved—still holding you like he’s afraid to let go, like the second he does you’ll be taken from him.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, voice hoarse against your neck.

You shake your head slowly, nuzzling into him. “No.You were perfect.”

He lets out a breath, shaky and full of disbelief. You reach up and brush his hair back, gentle fingers gliding over his cheek. You don’t need to say anything else. You don’t need to tell him how good he was, or how beautiful he looked begging under you. He’s still figuring out how to believe those things. But you’ll show him. Again and again, if that’s what it takes.

You shift off of him gently, and he lets you go, reluctantly. You feel him twitch at the loss of contact.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, grabbing the blanket and pulling it over both your bodies. “I’m not going far.”

He blinks up at you, eyes glassy in the dim light. “Can I… hold you?”

“Of course you can.” You curl into him, tangle your legs with his, tuck your head beneath his chin. His arms tighten around you immediately—strong and possessive and scared.

You kiss his collarbone. His breath hitches again.

Neither of you says anything for a while. You just lay there, wrapped around each other. Listening to the hum of the base outside the door, far away from this little world you’ve built.

Eventually, his voice breaks the silence, soft and so vulnerable you almost don’t recognize it.

“I didn’t think it could be like that,” he murmurs.

“Like what?”

“Like it meant something. Like I got to feel good. Like… you wanted me.”

You tilt your head up and meet his eyes. “I do want you. Not just this.” You brush your fingers over his chest, feeling his heart pounding beneath your palm. “All of you. Even the parts they tried to erase.”

He closes his eyes. A tear escapes down his cheek, but he doesn’t wipe it away. You do it for him.

“I don’t want this to be the last time,” he says.

You rest your forehead to his. “It won’t be.”

“You’ll stay?”

You nod. “As long as you’ll have me.”

That does something to him. His jaw trembles. He doesn’t speak. Just tugs you tighter into his chest and buries his face in your hair.

Eventually, his breathing slows again. You feel his body finally begin to relax beneath you. His grip loosens—not because he’s letting go, but because he trusts you won’t leave.

You fall asleep like that, curled around each other in a narrow cot in a concrete room under Hydra’s nose. But none of that matters. Not now. Not here.

For once, he isn’t a weapon.

And for once, you both believe—just a little—that maybe this, whatever this is between you, could be real. That maybe you’ll find freedom not just from Hydra, but from the cold, lonely lives they built for you.

Together.

dividers by @cursed-carmine & @hyuneskkami 🏷️ @zevrra @millersdoll @littlemillersbaby @stell404 @perpetually-fangirling-blog @veraarora @layaispunk @surebutwhy @m00ngazing @devilslittlehelper @bxtchboy69 @cinderblock24 @lilylovesu

[greengoblinswifey]

Reunited— Luigi Mangione x Fem!Reader

summary— You’re reunited with your boyfriend luigi and he shows you just how much he missed you.

warnings— fingering, slight voyeurism, oral(f!receiving) praise kink, bit of crying but luigi comforts you, L bombs, unprotected sex, breeding kink, creampie, aftercare, fluff.

a/n— originally posted on my ao3, where there’s another luigi fic <3 FREE MY MF MAN!

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿

Luigi Mangione was not just another face in the crowd, he was a polarizing figure. He gained national attention after allegedly carrying out a calculated act of vengeance against a corrupt CEO you couldn’t care less about. He claimed his actions were a response to widespread exploitation and inequality in the healthcare system and you were 100% on board.

After leaving behind a manifesto that exposed systemic greed and corruption, he disappeared, sparking an instant nationwide search. Supporters hailed him as a modern day vigilante, while detractors condemned him as a criminal. You were by his side through it all, not only as his girlfriend but as his confidant and staunchest ally.

You had met Luigi three years ago at a charity gala. While his presence was understated, his charisma was undeniable. You had a passion for uncovering the truth and you were drawn to his fiery intellect and his conviction to make a difference. When he confided in you about his disillusionment with the corporate world and his dream to spark real change, you stood by him, even as the risks escalated.

When the authorities finally caught him, it shattered your world. Luigi was supposed to be halfway across the country by then, safe and untouchable. But fate had other plans.

After days of navigating legal hurdles, your boyfriend was granted bail thanks to the efforts of the legal team you assembled and the donations pouring in from his legion of supporters. The day you picked him up from jail was a whirlwind of emotions. Crowds of people gathered outside the facility, holding signs and chanting his name. The media swarmed like vultures, cameras flashing as Luigi emerged, his posture unyielding despite the chaos.

The car was parked a block away, avoiding the thick of the chaos. As he stepped out, the crowd screamed. He lifted his hand in acknowledgment, his voice cutting through the noise.

“Read the manifesto,” he said, his tone commanding yet calm. “The answers you seek are in there.”

The crowd erupted, some cheering, others debating. But Luigi didn’t linger. He moved toward you, his gaze softening the moment he saw you waiting.

The lawyer drove the two of you to a safe house on the outskirts of the city. You couldn’t take your eyes off him, noticing the tension in his shoulders and the faint bruising along his jawline.

“Baby, did they hurt you?” you asked, your voice trembling.

He exhaled, brushing your concern aside. “Nothing I couldn’t handle. I’m just angry they didn’t let me speak.”

You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers with his. “They’ll hear you soon enough. You’ve already started something they can’t ignore.”

His eyes softened as he turned to you. “I missed you,” he murmured, his hand finding your thigh. “Every damn second I was in that shithole.”

You smiled, leaning closer. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

He kissed you deeply, his hand tightening its grip. “You’ve been my anchor through all of this. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

The car ride felt impossibly long as the reality of the situation weighed down on you. You kept glancing at Luigi, his sharp profile shown by the fleeting city lights. Despite the calm mask he wore, you could see the exhaustion in his eyes.

You reached over, your fingers brushing his arm. “I was so scared for you,” you whispered, your voice breaking. Tears began to spill before you could stop them.

Luigi turned to you immediately, his expression softening. “Don’t cry, amore. I’m here now,” he murmured, pulling you closer. He pressed a series of tender kisses to your cheeks, wiping away the tears with his thumbs.

“It’s just so unfair,” you choked out. “The media, the critics—they don’t know you like I do. You’re not some monster. You’re brave, kind, and caring. You only wanted to help people.”

He cupped your face, his gaze locking with yours. “Let them say what they want. I don’t need their approval. I have you, and that’s all I care about.”

You leaned into him, his words wrapping around your heart like a balm. “I just don’t want to lose you again.”

“You won’t,” he promised, his voice low and steady. “No one can keep me from you.”

As the car drove deeper into the night, Luigi’s hand found its way to your thigh, his touch warm against your skin. He glanced down at your dress, his lips curving into a sly smile.

“You look so sexy in this,” he murmured, his voice a husky whisper. “Did you wear it for me?”

“Yes,” you admitted, heat rushing to your face.

He chuckled softly, his fingers tracing circles on your thigh. “Good. Because it’s driving me crazy.”

He leaned closer, his lips brushing against your neck. You shivered as he placed a trail of slow kisses along your skin. “You smell amazing,” he murmured against you.

His hand slid higher, and when his fingers brushed your bare pussy, he froze for a moment before letting out a low, appreciative moan. “You’re not wearing anything underneath?” he asked.

You shook your head, your breath hitching.

“Naughty girl,” he whispered, his voice laced with both amusement and desire. His fingers trailed to your clit, the heat of his touch making you bite your lip to keep from making a sound.

“Luigi,” you whispered, your voice trembling with both anticipation and the need for discretion.

“Shh, amore,” he said, his lips still pressed to your neck. “Be good for me. Stay quiet.”

His fingers moved with purpose, his slow circles on your clit sending your nerves into a frenzy. “You’re so perfect,” he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. “I missed this, missed you.”

The car hit a bump, jolting you both, and you bit back a gasp as he slipped a finger into you immediately, your hand gripping his arm tightly.

Up front, the lawyer cleared his throat, oblivious. “Almost there,” he said.

Luigi smirked, his fingers still working their magic. “Good. But not soon enough,” he whispered, his lips brushing your ear as he praised you softly.

His touch became more deliberate, his fingers moving in a way that left you struggling to suppress your reactions. His gaze flicked up to yours, a teasing smirk playing on his lips.

“You’re doing so well for me, amore,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “I can feel how much you missed me from how wet you are.”

Your breath hitched as he praised you, his movements precise and slow, building that feeling inside. He kissed the side of your neck again, murmuring against your skin, “I love seeing you like this, knowing I’m the only one who can make you feel this way.”

You buried your face in the crook of his neck, biting to suppress your moans as his fingers curled inside you with his thumb rubbing your clit.

“I can’t—” you breathed, biting your lip to quiet yourself as your orgasm built.

“Cum for me, beautiful,” he whispered, speeding up his movements.

You bit onto his shoulder, using your other hand to pull him onto you as your orgasm ripped through you like a knife. You really hoped the seats weren’t messy.

The car slowed as it neared the safe house, and Luigi reluctantly withdrew his hand, his eyes dark with unspoken promises. “Just wait til’ we’re inside,” he said softly, his fingers brushing your chin as he gave you a quick, knowing smile.

His lawyer parked the car in front of the nondescript safe house, stepping out to hold the door for both of you. Luigi exited first, straightening his suit jacket before reaching for your hand. “Thank you,” he said curtly to the lawyer, who nodded and drove off into the night.

The moment you were inside, Luigi shut the door, locking it and turned to you, his expression filled with an intensity that took your breath away.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he said, his voice rough as he pulled you close. His hands framed your face as he kissed you deeply, his body pressing you back against the nearest wall.

“Lui—,” you whispered, your hands tangling in his hair as his lips moved to your neck, leaving a trail of kisses that made your knees weak.

“You’re mine,” he said firmly, his voice filled with both affection and possessiveness.

His hands roamed down your sides, gripping your waist as he pulled you even closer. “I’m going to remind you how much I missed you,” he said, his voice a mix of promise and passion.

Luigi carried you effortlessly, his strong arms wrapping you in the warmth of safety as he navigated the unfamiliar safe house. He gently kicked open the door to what you assumed was the bedroom, setting you down on the soft mattress. His touch was soft, fingers lingering on your shoulders as he slid your straps off, his eyes scanning every inch of you like he was seeing you for the first time.

“Do you have any idea how much I missed you?” he murmured, his voice filled with longing.

Your response was barely a whisper. “I’ve thought about you every second.”

He tilted your chin upward, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that deepened with every passing moment. As he undid the zipper of your dress, his movements were deliberate yet gentle. The fabric pooled at your feet, and his breath hitched slightly as his gaze took your naked body in.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, his tone awestruck. His fingers threaded through your braids, tugging softly as he kissed you again, his lips tracing a path down your jawline and neck.

Your hands instinctively found his curls, tangling in them as he lowered himself to his knees before you. “Baby,” you whispered, the emotion in your voice evident.

“Shh,” he replied softly, his lips brushing your skin. “I need to take care of you first. Tell me how much you missed me.”

“I missed you so much,” you said, voice trembling with emotion. “I love you, Luigi.”

“I love you more than anything. Let me show you just how much,” he replied.

His hands caressed your thighs, his lips trailing kisses down your skin. His touch was reverent, almost as if he were worshiping every inch of you, his deep brown eyes gazing up with adoration.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured, his voice soft yet full of conviction. “Every part of you.”

His lips pressed against your pelvis, leaving a trail of warmth and affection that sent a shiver through your body. Each kiss was slow and deliberate, his presence grounding you even as your heartbeat quickened.

“Luigi,” you breathed, your voice trembling with emotion and pleasure. Your hand instinctively reached for his curls, tangling in them as he smiled against your pussy.

“Let me take care of you,” he said. “You’ve been so good for me—so patient, so strong.”

Your head tilted back, overwhelmed by the sensation of his devotion. His praises washed over you like a balm, soothing the ache of the days you’d spent apart.

His tongue moved with precision, licking your clit as he used his fingers to spread your juices across your hole. A gasp left your lips as he moved down, slipping his tongue inside your pussy then continuing his movements on your clit.

“You’re everything to me,” he continued, his hands gently gripping your hips as he sucked your clit. “I don’t deserve how good you’ve been throughout this, but I’ll spend my life proving how much I love you.”

His voice alone sent a rush of warmth through you, every syllable filled with sincerity. “I love you too,” you whispered, your voice breaking slightly as your emotions surged.

Luigi’s lips curved into a small smile. “You’re too good to me, but I’ll never take it for granted.”

The sincerity in his voice made your heart swell. Every touch, every flick of his tongue was a promise that he would always cherish you, protect you.

He didn’t rush a single movement, cherishing the connection between you. You cried out as you gripped his curls tighter, your orgasm threatening to spill over.

“God baby, I can feel you clamping around my tongue, it’s okay, you can cum for me,” he urged.

With his name on your lips like a prayer, you trembled as you squirted on his tongue. He slurped your juices, guiding you through your high and savoring your taste.

When he finally finished and stood up, his arms pulled you close, cradling you as if shielding you from the world. “You’re my everything,” he whispered. “I’ll never let anything happen to us. I promise you that.”

Your hand rested on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “I believe you,” you said softly.

He smiled, brushing a strand of your braids from your face. “Good.”

Luigi’s chuckled as you gently ran your fingers along his chest, stripping him off his clothes then pushing him to sit on the edge of the bed. His dark eyes glimmered with warmth, his hands lightly brushing against your waist.

“You’ve done so much for me,” you murmured, leaning closer, your voice low but full of intent. “Now it’s my turn to show you how much I’ve missed you.”

His gaze softened, his hands sliding to your wrists as if to stop you. “You don’t have to do anything, amore,” he said, his voice tender. “Just having you here, holding you, it’s enough.”

You pouted but decided not to be a brat this once. “Whatever you say baby, anything you want.”

Luigi sat back, his strong arms pulling you onto him as if he couldn’t bear even a second without your closeness. He settled you against his chest, your bodies perfectly aligned, his heart beating steadily beneath your ear. “So obedient,” he murmured, his lips brushing your temple before moving to your forehead for a lingering kiss.

He tilted your chin up gently, his dark eyes locking with yours. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly. “I need to hear you say it.”

You nodded, your breath catching. “I’ve been craving this—craving you—this whole time,” you whispered, your words trembling with sincerity.

That was all the encouragement he needed. His lips met yours in a deep kiss, one that spoke of everything unspoken, the longing, the love, the relief of being together again. His hands caressed your ass, grounding you as he shifted beneath you.

He paused, his movements deliberate, as he guided his cock against your pussy. “Slowly, baby,” he murmured, his hands firm but gentle on your hips. “I want you to feel every inch of me.”

A gasp escaped your lips as he sank deep inside you, your body adjusting to the slow, deliberate rhythm he set. “That’s it,” he praised, his voice rough with restrained need. “You’re perfect—so tight, so ready for me.”

Your nails dug lightly into his chest as the intensity built, his words spurring you on. “You can take it, baby,” he murmured, his lips ghosting over your collarbone. “You’re so incredible.”

Luigi's praises, whispered against your skin, grounded you in the moment. “You feel like heaven, amore,” he said, his voice breaking slightly as he kissed you again, swallowing your soft cries.

Luigi’s grip on your hips tightened, as he guided you into a slow, deliberate rhythm. Each thrust was purposeful, his body rising to meet yours. “That’s it, princess,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your jawline. “You’re so perfect. I’ve missed you more than you can imagine.”

You clung to him, your fingers tangling in his curls as he set a steady pace. Every thrust was measured, filling you and making your breath hitch. “You’re taking me so well,” he whispered, his voice breaking with restrained emotion. “I can feel how much you’ve missed me.”

Your head tilted back, exposing your throat as his lips pressed against your skin, leaving a trail of kisses that make you shiver. “Luigi,” you gasped, your voice trembling.

“Shh, amore,” he soothed, his hands running up and down your spine as he adjusted the angle slightly, his cock moving inside your wet pussy deliberate and controlled. “Let me take care of you. Just feel me.”

His thrusts deepened, his hips rolling in a way that sent shivers down your spine. “You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmured, his dark eyes locked on yours, filled with unspoken affection and need. “So perfect for me.”

“Lu— I’m gonna cum,” you cried, your fingers gripping his hair tighter.

“I know baby, do it for me, cum on my cock,” he muttered.

Your body convulsed on top of him, your breath catching in your throat as your orgasm hit you like a truck. He continued thrusting inside you, guiding you through the intensity of the moment.

Without missing a beat, he flipped you so that he was on top of you, his cock still inside you. His soft lips came down onto your tits, swirling his tongue around your nipples as soft whimpers left you. You tried to grip onto him but he pinned your arms above your head, leaving you completely at his mercy.

He thrusted into you deeply, your body jolting upwards as you cried out.

“Oh, fuck, that feels amazing,” you moaned, feeling him continuously brush that sweet spot inside you.

He went faster at your praises, his hips snapping to meet yours. “God, you’re so wet for me, beautiful.”

His large hands gripped your waist, slamming you onto his thick cock. His hand then moved to your lower abdomen, pressing against the outline of his cock moving inside you.

“Feel me baby? Feel how deep I am inside you?” he murmured, pressing on your abdomen and slamming into you.

“S-so deep,” you whimpered.

He reached down to rub your clit, feeling your pussy flutter around him as his pace never faltered.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum baby, I know you are too. I’m gonna cum deep inside you, gonna breed this pretty fucking pussy,” he said.

You wrapped your legs around him, grinding against him. “That’s my good girl, trap me in baby, cum with me while I fuck a baby into you.”

His words sent you over the edge and you moaned his name as you felt his hot load spurt deep inside you. “Take it, take it, take it, beautiful,” he gasped, fucking you as ropes of his cum spurted inside you.

You babbled incoherent words, shivering under him as the intensity of the moment was almost too much.

“Now, when you get pregnant, you’ll always have a piece of me,” he cooed. He stayed buried inside you, relishing in the warmth and wetness of your pussy.

Luigi gently pulled out of you, his hands steady as he helped you shift. His concern for you was immediate, his touch soft as he carefully helped you to your feet. “Let’s take care of you,” he whispered, his voice filled with care. He guided you to the bath, his eyes never leaving you, as if making sure you were okay, every part of you.

He settled behind you in the large, warm tub, the water soothing as he wrapped his arms around you, his chest against your back. You leaned into him, feeling the warmth of his body surround you, as he gently massaged the soap across your skin. His hands were steady and comforting, washing away the physical remnants of the day, but it was more than that—he was taking care of you in every way, his touch full of tenderness and love.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, kissing the back of your neck softly. “I promise, I won’t let them take me away again. We’ll fight this, together.”

You closed your eyes, your heart swelling with emotion as you leaned back against him. His hands gently cupped your face, turning you to look at him. “I really hope so,” you whispered, the fear from earlier still lingering, but his presence grounding you. “I’ll always be by your side, Luigi. No matter what happens.”

He smiled, a soft, knowing smile that reached his eyes. “I know,” he whispered, his voice full of reassurance. “And I’ll never let you go.”

As the warm water surrounded you both, the world outside seemed so far away. All that mattered was the two of you, in that moment, connected in a way that nothing could tear apart.

[chimcess]

⚔︎ Chapter 0: The Prologue Pairing: Taehyung x Reader Other Tags: Assassin!Taehyung, Assassin!Reader, Assassin!Jimin, Dad!Jimin, Assassin!Yoongi, Gang Leader!Yoongi, Assassin!Namjoon, Swordmaster!Hoseok, Chef!Hoseok, Pimp!Seokjin Genre: Assassins! AU, Exes!AU, Lovers to Enemies, Action, Comedy, Suspense, Martial Arts, Drama, Thriller, Romance (if you squint), Heavy Angst, Violence, 18+ only Word Count: 3.3k+ Summary: A former assassin awakens from a four-year coma after her ex-lover Taehyung tries to kill her on her wedding day. Driven by revenge for the loss of her unborn child and stolen life, she creates a hit list and embarks on a ruthless mission to take down everyone responsible. Warnings: toxic relationship, death, blood, pregnant woman being badly injured, guns, gunshot, this is just the prologue so there's not much here, let me know if I missed anything... A/N: Chapters will start officially dropping July 5th. Thanks for reading!

masterlist || next

The chapel should’ve been silent.

It was an old place in a small washed up town just out of El Paso, Texas. Wooden and made for no more than fifty people at a time. Places like this were built for quiet. Women fanning themselves, whispered prayers, the stillness when they bowed their heads. A paster who spoke softly and with a slight lisp. But this one wasn’t still.

Light filtered through the fractured stained glass in strange, broken beams. The familiar colors—once soft blues and radiant golds—were twisted now, bleeding together in sickly smears. That light didn’t warm the room. It landed in slashes, casting jaundiced yellows and bruised purples across the pews.

Everything in that chapel was not as it should have been.

The pews were gashed and gouged, varnish long gone in patches where children’s fingernails had worn it away. Places where fingers once folded in reverence were now sticky with rot or worn bare by time. Whatever prayers had been whispered here—if they were ever answered—no one would know now.

When the police would come just ten minutes later, the church would be demolished a few short weeks later. The folks of Canutillo did not want to be reminded of the Two Pines Masacre nor the family that was butchered within it.

The air hung thick, not just with heat but with something worse. It clung to the skin, damp and cloying, as if the chapel itself was sweating. It stank of iron, fresh and metallic, and beneath it, something sweeter curled. Rotten sweet. Like fruit left too long in the sun, or perfume curdled by time. A scent that turned your stomach.

At the front of the chapel, just below the altar, the bride lay crumpled.

A tangle of limbs and torn fabric, folded in on herself like she’d been cast down from a height and left to break where she fell. One leg bent the wrong way beneath her. The other twitched, small and aimless. Her arms were pulled tight to her chest, fists curled as if she’d tried to hold something that was already gone.

What was left of her dress was soaked in her blood, shredded and barely able to cover her. It clung to her in blood-slick folds. The bodice had been split straight down the center

The blood came slow, thick. It soaked into the stone beneath her in sluggish waves. And still, somehow, she breathed. Just barely. Wet, shallow gasps that scraped through her throat like they hurt to take. Her skin glistened with sweat, her color all wrong—an almost bruised color and waxy.

Her face was swollen, broken in places. One eye sealed shut beneath a crust of blood. Her jaw looked fractured. Her lips cracked. The other eye fluttered—just enough to show she was still in there. Somewhere.

But it wasn’t hope in that eye. Hope had left long before the blood spilled.

What was left was something raw. Maybe fury. Maybe instinct. Maybe the thought of someone else, someone small and helpless, curled inside her. Someone she’d tried to shield. Someone she was losing now.

This place was supposed to be her sanctuary. Now it was a grave.

The stone floor around her was littered. Shell casings glinted in the crooked light, catching just enough glow to show they were fresh. Still warm. Red and white roses lay crushed beside them, petals trampled and turning brown, some plastered to the blood. The air reeked of gunpowder, sharp and bitter, cutting through the sweeter rot.

And in the middle of the wreckage, Taehyung Kim stood.

Nothing about him was out of place. The suit was charcoal, sharp at the edges, made to measure and too expensive for a place like this. The shirt beneath it was blindingly white, clean and untouched. Three of its buttons were left undone and you could see a thin, gold chain dangling from his neck.

The world around him was torn to pieces—blood smeared across the floor, bullet casings still spinning in the dust, the air thick with what had just transpired not even twenty minutes before—but he stood there like none of it had touched him. Not even in passing. He looked like a mourner. Maybe even a priest. But he wasn’t either.

He was the reason why the entire Groban family was gone, and the bride to be was laying on those steps.

The light caught his face in strange ways, shadows carving into the sharp lines of his jaw and beneath his eyes. His expression didn’t give anything away. No guilt. No satisfaction. Just… stillness. That dangerous, unreadable kind. Behind him, the crucifix hung crooked on the wall, blackened with time, the figure above warped by rot. Its arms stretched wide, but it didn’t look like salvation anymore.

It looked like surrender.

And then, Taehyung moved.

No hurry. No sound. Just a single step down the aisle, then another, cutting through the streaks of blood like he couldn’t feel them. When he reached her, he didn’t hesitate. He dropped to one knee beside her the way some men kneel before a proposal, or a grave.

Like it was familiar.

His hands rested on his thighs. He didn’t reach for her. Didn’t try to help. He just watched. Quiet. Careful.

The blood had dried into a crusted line at her temple, cracking where it clung to the fine hairs around her face. Her lip was split, puffy, dark with bruising. Her dress hung in shreds, soaked and torn, the fabric stuck to her skin like a second, ruined layer. Her chest moved—barely—with each breath, and every rise and fall looked like a negotiation her body was losing.

Taehyung didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

Whatever emotion passed behind his eyes was faint—almost nothing—but it was there. A flicker. Not guilt, not quite. Something murkier. Something harder to name. Maybe recognition. Maybe the aftertaste of a feeling he'd long stopped claiming.

She was still alive. Barely.

Her breath rattled in her chest, dragging in air with a sound that didn’t quite resemble breathing anymore. More like something breaking, slowly.

He reached into his jacket.

There was no urgency in the motion. He pulled out a handkerchief—folded tight, corners crisp. White, like the shirt. A monogram in navy blue stitched into one edge: T.K. Simple serif letters. A detail meant for someone who believed their things mattered enough to mark them.

He unfolded it with care. Almost like he was preparing for something sacred.

Then he leaned in and began to wipe the blood from her face.

The movement was slow. Precise. Her temple first. Then the curve of her cheek. The corner of her mouth. His hand barely touched her skin, the cloth gliding with an eerie gentleness—like he wasn’t cleaning a dying woman, but handling something fragile. Precious. A relic he didn’t want to break any further.

The handkerchief turned red instantly. It soaked up the blood like it had been waiting for it.

She twitched. It was the smallest thing. A spasm. A tremor. Enough to show she was still in there somewhere.

Her one good eye peeled open—just a sliver—and found him. Locked onto him like a compass needle. Even through the haze, even drowning in pain, she saw him. Really saw him.

And what was in her gaze wasn’t surrender.

It was fire. Small. Fading. But still alive.

Anger. Refusal. A jagged piece of something that refused to die just because everything else already had.

Taehyung smiled.

A twitch of his mouth. Not a grin. Not warmth. Just the echo of something old—some past life where he knew how to smile like a person. It didn’t fit here. Not in this broken chapel. Not above this broken body.

But he let it sit there anyway.

When he spoke, his voice was low, casual. Like they were sharing a memory.

“Do you find me sadistic?”

He asked it like it was a real question. No sarcasm. No menace. Just curiosity. Like he honestly wanted to know.

She didn’t answer.

Her mouth parted, but all that came out was air. A dry, ragged sound caught somewhere between a breath and a refusal. Her jaw clenched. Her eye never left him.

She never looked away.

His gaze drifted away from her, slow and unhurried, as if he were walking through a memory instead of a crime scene.

Down the aisle. Across pews littered with the dead—bodies collapsed where they’d fallen, limbs twisted awkwardly, some with eyes still open, staring at nothing. The light coming through the broken stained glass scattered in warped patches, crawling across the stone floor like shards of color spilled from a broken bottle.

And there, near the altar—Thomas Groban. Tommy Boy. Face down. One arm caught underneath him, the other stretched out like he’d tried to reach her in those final seconds. The gold ring on his finger caught a sliver of that fractured light—just enough to glint, just enough to remind anyone watching that once, not so long ago, he’d stood right here. Beside her. Holding her hand. Promising things like always and forever.

Now there was only silence.

Taehyung sneered at his mop of golden blonde hair. Tommy's blue eyes were curiously looking at him nearly twenty minutes before. Now he was staring at nothing but the cold wooden floor of the chapel and his own blood. He stared at the Groban boy for a while. Longer than the moment called for. Something flickered behind his eyes, but it didn’t settle into an expression.

Then he turned back to the bride. She was staring at him with unadulterated hatred. Taehyung knew that look all too well, and he had been on the receiving end of it quite a few times. Back then, though, he would call her a cunt and she’d laugh. Then they’d kiss and make up. Now, he knew how this was going to end, and there would be no laughter or kisses. There would never be another make up. Today was the end.

“In another time,” he said quietly, like the thought had come to him just then, “men like me were called kings.”

There was no irony in it. Just a simple truth spoken into the stillness. He let it hang in the air for a second.

“In this one?” His breath slipped out with a humorless laugh—dry, like old dust. “We get called monsters. Or CEOs.”

He reached again for the handkerchief, though by now it was ruined—red soaked deep into the white cotton, no part of it clean. Bending down, he adjusted his pants before reaching up to her face. He dabbed at her cheek and the blood smeared more than it cleared. Still, he kept at it.

She flinched, pain blossoming on her skin. Still, she held his gaze. Taehyung’s expression was blank but his voice seemed almost warm. Sweet, even. Like he was talking to a child. It reminded her of the times they would lay around the fire pit in his backyard and stare at the stars.

And his voice lowered, barely more than a breath. “But you,” he said, “you made it difficult.”

His jaw tightened. He swallowed hard. “You shouldn’t have made me love you.”

He looked down. Not at her—just at the space between them.

“You know, kiddo…” he murmured, the nickname burning a hole in her chest, “I like to think you’re still aware enough to understand this isn’t sadism.”

His voice stayed calm.

“This is me at my most masochistic.”

She coughed.

The sound tore through the air—wet and sharp, like something inside her had given way. Blood slid from the corner of her mouth, catching on her teeth, her chin, her collarbone. Her lips moved again, slower this time. Straining.

He leaned in close, just enough to catch it.

“Tae…” she whispered.

It stopped him. Not for long. Just a moment. But it was enough to freeze the air between them, to crack open the part of him he’d been holding shut for too long.

He stood. Slowly. His hand moved to the holster at his side, pulling the revolver free in one smooth motion. The gun gleamed even in the fractured light—a sleek, polished silver that looked like it belonged on display, not in a place like this. Not surrounded by bodies and blood and ruin.

She would’ve recognized it.

She’d given it to him once, back when gifts meant something, back when she was his viper and he still believed he could tame her. Back when they were dangerous together—but not deadly. Back when he had loved her and made her world go round.

Now it was just another line they couldn’t uncross.

He raised it. The barrel stopped a breath above her brow. Steady. Unshaking.

She didn’t move. Didn’t close her eyes. Her lips parted, working around one last breath, one last word, shaped with whatever strength she had left.

“It’s your bab—”

The shot cut her off mid-sentence. One sharp, shattering crack. The sound lashed through the wooden beams, rang off the stone walls, and bounced back.

Her head snapped back as if yanked by some invisible string, then lolled forward. Her eye, the one still visible, stared blankly ahead.. Her lips parted slightly as if to finish her thought, but no sound came. Her fingers, once tense, unfurled slowly, releasing nothing at all.

Taehyung stood over her.

His hand still held the revolver, lowered now, almost forgotten. The weight of it felt heavier than before. There was something tight in his chest, a pressure that wasn’t grief—not quite. And it wasn’t regret either, not in any clean, mournful way. It was rawer than that. Messier. A jagged sensation, like something vital had been torn from him, and only now did his body begin to register the pain.

The rage that had consumed him minutes earlier had burned out too quickly. All that remained were embers and smoke. Ashes in his throat. He’d come here with purpose, driven by a need to end something—to make her silence permanent, to settle old scores. Now it was done. The story had ended. But the weight didn’t lift.

His breath came low and steady, more habit than will. He looked down at his hands. Blood streaked across his knuckles. Must have blown back on him. Slowly, methodically, he wiped them clean on a torn handkerchief pulled from his pocket. The fabric, already covered in Y/N’s blood, soaked up the red greedily. He folded it neatly, each crease sharp, precise. He tucked it back into his coat.

He smoothed the front of his jacket. Adjusted the cuffs. Straightened his spine. A last defense against what was unraveling inside. And then he looked at her one final time.

That was all he would allow himself.

Her words clung to the edges of his memory, a whisper threatening to root itself deeper. He didn’t know if he believed her. He wasn’t sure it mattered anymore. Maybe it was true. Maybe it was just a final ploy—her last hand played too late. A lie meant to break his resolve. She had always known how to twist the blade.

But none of that could be undone now.

He would have to tell Namjoon. There was no avoiding that. His younger brother would be waiting just beyond the chapel doors—pacing the gravel path, fists clenched, rage simmering under the surface. Taehyung could already feel the tension pressing in from outside, a storm gathering breath, waiting to break. Namjoon had opposed this from the very start. He had argued, pleaded, demanded another way. But in the end, he'd relented—not because he agreed, but because Taehyung had asked him to.

None of them had truly wanted this—not in their hearts, not when stripped of loyalty and obligation. Not even Jimin, who perhaps had the most personal reason to see it done. Not even Yoongi, who had once loved Y/N with a quiet intensity that still lingered even when he said it hadn’t.

Brandi had wanted it. Eagerly. Almost too much. Her hate for Y/N had always burned wild and senseless, a deep-rooted bitterness that Taehyung had never fully understood. The others chalked it up to jealousy—said Y/N had something Brandi never could. But that answer felt too simple. Brandi’s rage was deeper than a simple jealousy, and Y/N had never stopped herself from biting back ten times harder when they would get into their spats. And now that Y/N was dead, she’d probably smile in the mirror and try her best to get back into Taehyung’s bed.

Not that he would ever put up much of a fight.

Jimin and Yoongi had followed for reasons far more transactional. Yoongi had secured control of Busan through his compliance—he played the long game and played it well. Jimin had been promised his freedom, the chance to leave the dirt behind and chase something gentler: Loretta Bell, the doctor with warm hands and soft eyes waiting for him in California. That was enough for him.

Namjoon had followed for only one reason: because his brother asked. Because Taehyung needed him to. That loyalty was a burden now, and it would cost them both.

Because this—this changed everything.

If what she said was true… If the child was his…

Then no one would forgive him. Not fully. Maybe not ever. Maybe not even himself.

Brandi would stay by his side—that much was certain. She always did. But her loyalty wasn’t born of belief or conviction. It was hunger. A calculated desire to win him over, to be the last one left standing beside him, no matter what it cost. She had always wanted to please him ever since he saved her from the shithole she called a life.

Namjoon would erupt. Taehyung could already hear the sharp edge in his brother’s voice, the disbelief curdling into fury. He would see this not as a necessary act, not as strategy, but as betrayal. As murder. As something that went past whatever moral line Taehyung had left.

Yoongi would go silent. That was his way. But silence didn’t mean peace. He had claimed he was done with Y/N, that whatever they’d once had was long extinguished. But Taehyung had never fully bought it. There was still a softness in Yoongi, buried under all the steel and shadows, and it had always been reserved for her.

If Yoongi even suspected the baby wasn’t Tommy Groban’s…

He would disappear without ceremony. Vanish deeper into the folds of the South Korean underworld, taking Lynn Easton with him. No more border runs. No more favors. Busan would swallow him whole. And it would take Taehyung years—if ever—to earn his trust back.

Jimin would be angry, too. Quietly, bitterly so. But he would compartmentalize it like he did everything else. He’d take the freedom he’d been promised and Loretta Bell’s waiting hand, and he’d vanish into the California haze, determined to start fresh. He wouldn’t look back.

Taehyung closed his eyes for half a second, then forced the thoughts away. He buried them deep, past the guilt, past the confusion, past the splinter of fear he hadn’t dared name. He couldn’t afford to unravel now. Not here. Not yet.

Y/N had always known how to twist him into knots—how to pull at the seams. Even dead, she still had a hand around his throat. She had been brilliant. Beautiful. Dangerous in ways he hadn’t seen coming until it was too late. A born liar who wielded the truth like a blade. She could say a thing so convincingly it felt like gospel, even when it was poison.

And now, she’d left behind one final snare. One last doubt. A whisper that would haunt him, nested in blood and smoke and silence.

Even in dying, she had made sure he wouldn’t walk away clean.

His footsteps echoed across the chapel floor—sharp, deliberate, precise. The sound reverberated through the wreckage, past shattered glass and stained wood. The air hung heavy with the acrid stench of gunpowder and blood, laced with fading incense and the ghost of prayers that no longer mattered.

He moved past her body, still at the altar. Past the ruined pews and broken vows. Past the promises whispered into darkness, too late to be kept.

He didn’t look back.

There was nothing behind him worth remembering.

Taglist: @haru-jiminn @fancypeacepersona @futuristicenemychaos @cranberrycupcake @mar-lo-pap @wannaghostbts @solephile @paramedicnerd004 @stargirl-mayaa

[acourtofchaos]

I CAN SMELL YOUR SICKNESS | Assassin!Theodore Nott x Assassin!Reader

Summary: He didn't know why you'd chosen him of all people to toy with, turning your work into a twisted game, a deadly chase, but he would make sure that you knew it was the worst mistake you had ever made. [5.8k]

C/W: 18+. Violence. Murder. Rough sex. Piv. Blowjob. Dirty talk. Dacryphilia. Biting. Angry and obsessive Theo. Kind of batshit crazy reader (i love her). Kind of cheating - its mentioned theo has a wife but its a for show kind of marriage.

A/N: did i fall in love with both theo and the reader whilst writing this??? yes i did 🤭

Theo thrived on order.

His entire life was compartmentalised, his home, his work - his other work.

There was a reassurance that calmed him knowing that the lines would never blur, that he'd gotten far too good at what he did to ever let them, that every kill he made was quick and neat, flawless. Beautifully untraceable.

He never got more involved than was necessary, not when he had perfected the art of sweeping in like a ghost and disappearing just as quick. Only ever leaving behind a dead body and a perfectly curated set-up to point to what was, quite obviously, a mere tragic accident and absolutely not the result of anything far more sinister.

But you.

God help him, you were the personification of mess. A savage storm raging between tissue and bone, a waking fucking nightmare, a harbinger of death in its most brutal form.

You thrived on chaos and it curled around you like smoke, like the inky spill of pitch black night, seeping into the crisp, clean edges of Theo's life the same way you seeped into his mind. Beneath his skin and into his bloodstream, spreading, festering, like an infection.

He'd never wanted someone to kill someone like he yearned to kill you, to feel the hot splash of your blood stain his hands and watch with some viciously rooted, fucked up delight as that ever taunting smile dropped from your lips.

He didn't know why you'd chosen him of all people to toy with, turning your work into a twisted game, a deadly chase, but he would make sure you knew it was the worst mistake you had ever made before the light faded from your eyes.

****

When another name appeared before him, his mind was still silently reeling from your first encounter.

The bold ruthlessness of your kill, the playful glint in your eyes when you'd turned and found him watching with his gun aimed at your blood spattered chest. The soft, threatening purr of your voice.

He'd mistaken you for the victim’s companion, a soon to be unfortunate in a ��terrible mugging gone wrong’, his lip curling in disgust when he’d followed the two of you into an alley at the back of a seedy club and watched as the man had groped at you. Shoving his tongue gracelessly inside your mouth whilst you'd moaned, loud and dramatic.

But then a wicked flash had caught his eye and he’d froze, faintly stunned as you’d pushed the man back, twin daggers in your hands that you crossed at his throat before slashing them down with a dramatic flourish.

He'd watched in disbelief whilst you observed the thud of slack limbs hitting the floor with a dark, gleaming satisfaction.

And even when you had elegantly stepped over the body, avoiding the blood that crept over the ground close to your feet, and caught sight of him standing there, that look had never once faltered.

Instead you had smiled, sticky sweet and pretty as sin.

“Theodore, I assume?” You’d murmured silkily, grinning when those cold eyes of his narrowed, his body stiffening. Finger twitching over the trigger. “Fancy being a sweetheart and cleaning that up? I have somewhere to be and it would be poor manners to show up all bloody, don't you think?"

What. the. fuck.

His mind had raced, tongue turning to lead in his mouth as you’d winked at him.

The fucking nerve of you.

The stupidity.

You’d just killed someone in front of a witness, revealed yourself as a threat to a man with a gun aimed on you, how had you not realised he was seconds from putting a bullet through that gorgeous skull?

He just needed to sate the violent screeching of alarm bells in his head first. The itch of worry beneath his skin that if he was compromised, were the others too?

Were they in danger? Were you here to kill him and then his friends, his strange little family?

"Who are you? He'd hissed, large hands caging your delicate wrists when he'd struck, swift as an arrow, and slammed you into the wall. “How the fuck do you know my name?”

You should have fought back, that was his first thought, but your blood soaked blades had remained dangling in a hold that was barely there, let alone tense enough to fight.

Then he thought there should have been at least some hint of fear, that your pupils should have dilated or your skin should have trembled even lightly beneath the imposing weight of his body pressing you into the cold, damp brick.

But instead, you’d only smiled wider. Leant in close enough for your nose to nudge at the sharp curve of his jaw, a sly grin tugging at your lips when he swallowed harshly.

"Oh Teddy, I know all about you and your little team. I have to know who my competition is after all."

In his surprise you had slipped away from him, disappeared into the night like smoke on the wind and he'd been forced to make the call only seconds later to put his entire team on finding out who you were.

Yet, infuriatingly, he was still no closer to that little discovery.

You hadn't resurfaced since and there had been no physical evidence to find, no sign or hint you existed, not even a whisper, and Theo was pretty sure that his team thought he was losing it.

That the years of being the emotional equivalent of a black hole had left his sanity fragile, as crackable at a moment's notice as an eggshell from the crushing weight of everything he had done teetering on top of it.

But there was no way in hell he was hallucinating you, as much as it may have felt like you were his own personal demon risen from the pits of a hell he didn't believe in to torment him.

Not even his head was that fucked up.

Only just enough, he supposed, for him to be thankful for the distraction when the next slip of paper came through, another unsuspecting name printed in weathered ink that he barely glanced at before reaching for his laptop and doing a little research. Booking a flight to Barcelona– Pansy would be jealous – next day return.

He never took time to explore places after his work like some of the others did, didn't like to linger where he killed, but at least it was a chance to get you out of his head for a day or two. To work some of that frustrated energy that he'd been carrying around out on a kill.

He was almost looking forward to it.

But then the first postcard shortly followed.

It arrived at his desk without fuss, no explanation or sender information. Just his name, the address of his work and a single sentence written on the back of a picture of La Sagrada Família.

See you soon.

****

Four postcards were in his hand at the end, pointing to Spain, France, Italy and England.

A game of cat and mouse played across each country a member of his team called home that had gradually caused Theo’s ironclad control to slip.

He was furious, caring less and less about the target with each destination, each taunting sentence scrawled across a creamy card staring back at him as he grew steadily more unhinged.

See you soon.

Too slow, handsome, try to keep up.

I feel like you're not even trying, Teddy bear.

And finally;

The name of a hotel and a room number in central London, followed by a cheeky don't keep me waiting.

He saw red then, brilliant bursts of crimson, hellish scorches of black.

The cards were crumpled in his grip, ruined in the agonisingly tight fist of his hand because the only way he could fucking breathe through the fury whipping around inside him was by imagining it was your throat, your delicate skin he was crushing beneath his fingertips.

And when he stalked out into the night, his blood bubbling in his veins and teeth grinding almost painfully, he told himself you would be dead by the end of it. Reduced to nothing more than a fleeting nuisance in his life that he intended to eradicate.

He didn't need to know who you were or how you know the things that you did to put a single bullet in that pretty little head.

All he needed was the rage soaring to a new, deadly height inside of him and the knowledge that he fucking despised you.

****

The hotel was all bright marble and low lighting, lavish furniture that didn't look comfortable in the slightest, elegant statues that probably should have been in an museum instead of some reception, and he wanted to roll his eyes at the fact you would lure him somewhere like here.

Of course you couldn't just go for somewhere quiet or understated, somewhere there was no risk of drawing attention.

It forced him to wonder if you'd had a hand in the target's wearabouts all along, plucking the strings like a puppet master to position both her and Theo the way you wanted them. In all the places you could use to burrow under his skin that little bit more.

He had to admit there was a relentlessness to you that he would have admired if things had been different. A dedication without rival in anyone he knew or even Theo himself.

You must have spent ages implanting yourself in the targets life to pull this off. To remain so close the entire time and hold so much sway as to where she went, where she stayed, ate, leisured, and it reminded him of the night he met you.

The way you had let that mark get so close, smearing unworthy kisses over your perfect skin, amateurish hands grabbing at you sloppily before you’d eventually torn him open.

Did you get that close to all of them?

Did they all get to kiss the tempting swell of your lips, lick the taste of chaos and death from your mouth and feel the dizzying press of your body against theirs.

Fuck, he needed to get it together.

He tasted the familiar, copper tang of his own blood where his teeth had scored the thick of his tongue and it was enough to snap him out of the debauched fantasy that plagued him and back into the cold, sharp sting of reality.

It wasn't his place to be jealous of who you fucked.

In fact, it opened up a pit of violent disgust in his stomach that he had even thought about it, that he'd imagined himself in a faceless person's place whilst fisting his throbbing cock at the thought of hearing you moan his name.

At least he had only done it once.

Twice.

Fine, it had become a major problem that everytime he touched himself he thought of you. That everytime he closed his eyes, he pictured you beneath him. Above him. Curled so tightly around him it was impossible to tell where one of you began and the other ended.

It was a temporary insanity.

He'd deal with it.

But when he finally reached the room, you were ready for him in a way that he could never replicate. The sight of you always a shock to the system, a debilitating blow to the gut whilst you were the absolute picture of calm, smug elegance.

Wrapped in a crisp, unbuttoned white shirt tucked into dark pants and hair strewn over the side of the plush armchair you were sprawled across.

There was a glass of whiskey in one hand and one of your daggers in the other, the blade dancing effortlessly around your nimble fingers whilst your eyes gleamed as you watched him over the rim of your glass.

His gun was aimed at you in seconds and a slow, feral grin spread across your lips at the sight.

"I take it you didn't appreciate the little trail of breadcrumbs I left for you then." You sighed, all faux heartbreak and wounded misery, pouting at him mockingly before your tinkling laugh echoed through the silence of the room.

He fucking hated it.

Hated the way it set his blood aflame and made his slacks that much tighter as his gaze on you snapped hot with rage.

"I don't appreciate you fucking with my work." He snarled, taking a single, intimidating step closer. "I don't know why you dragged me here, why you didn't just kill the target when you first caught up to her, why you chose to play this twisted fucking game with me but you're about to regret all of it."

You rolled your eyes then, swung your legs elegantly from the arm of the chair and dropped them to the ground as you leaned towards him. Placing the glass and the dagger on the floor before shrugging like it was all so obvious.

"I wanted to see if you'd follow."

Theo blinked at you.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean."

"You said it yourself." You answered slowly, gaze calculated, glinting with something that made his fingers itch to pull the trigger just so he wouldn't have to hear what you said next. "I could have killed her in Spain and again in France, Italy was more of a holiday, you know you should really check in with your family more, but anyway, you knew I had got there first every single time yet still you followed the cards. Why?"

Theo couldn't answer.

At least he couldn't with anything he would ever fucking admit, he'd rather shoot himself first. But he was obsessed, there was no denying it.

It was as blatant as a pistol whip across the face, the deep slice of a knife from sternum to navel, cleaving him raw and bloody in the sick truth of it.

It had never been about finding the mark and completing the job, it had always been about finding you and fuck, did the realisation make the hate he felt flood his tongue, thick and bitter as poison.

He hissed. "I followed only for the pleasure of putting you down. Nothing more."

Your smile was indulgent when you arched a brow at him, eyes glittering with amusement as you slipped from the chair and slowly stalked towards him.

It felt like there was an alarm screeching in his brain, the word danger flashing over and over in bright neon fucking light, and still all he did was watch you creep closer. Watched you lift your hands to where his were clasped around his gun, stroking his skin and making him shudder before taking one final step and raising your joint hands to press the gun to your own forehead.

"Go right ahead." You taunted softly. "This is the second time you've had a gun pointed at me, told me your cute little fantasy of putting a bullet in me, but honestly Teddy, I'm really starting to doubt your commitment."

He felt the surprise slacken his face before he could stop it, his suspicious gaze flickering over your features, trying to figure out what the game it was you were playing before it narrowed further.

"What have you done with her? The target." He bit out and you smirked.

Fucking. Smirked.

"Dead, just moments before you arrived actually.” You answered mildy, innocently, as if you were telling him something mundane, like how it would rain tomorrow, and not that you had murdered someone. “So I guess either you kill me now or your entire trip has been for nothing."

There was a beat of silence.

A sharp breath.

And then Theo exploded.

****

He didn’t even consider shooting you after that, he just lunged like some kind of vicious beast, burning dark and wild with the need to tear you apart with his own hands.

And only then did you suddenly burst violently to life.

The second he slammed you against the wall your teeth were bared, a flash of perfect bone white ready to be sunken in deep and turned red, your head rearing back before you smashed it forward into his face and made him reel back as he temporarily saw stars.

His fist collided with your jaw before you could duck around him and you hissed like a rabid animal, dodging the next swing and kicking him savagely in the gut when he tried to fly for you again.

Despite his body fighting to double over on itself he managed to work through it and catch you around the waist, swinging you hard into a solid wood cabinet that buried its edges into your side and punched the air from your chest with the pain that exploded through you.

Taking advantage of your dazed state he surged forward then, shoving you back against the wall and slipping a hand to your throat to crush your windpipe like he'd imagined.

But then something changed.

He didn’t know how nor did he know who moved first, all he knew was that your eyes blew wide the instant his fingers squeezed your neck and then his mouth was slamming down against yours in a furious kiss. That when you moaned hot into his mouth, Theo was fucking done for.

He sunk his teeth into the tender give of your lip and sucked at the iron tang of your blood, shoving his tongue deep into the cavern of your mouth to brush with yours over and over.

It felt like he'd been starving his whole life and he'd only just realised when he'd tasted you, the desperation burning away at him endlessly, like he would die of it if he didn’t swallow every last part of you down, possess you in every single way he could think of.

Had already thought of, if his many fantasies whilst he fucked his own hand picturing you were anything to go by.

His hands tore at your clothes, ripping the fabric as the buttons went clattering to the floor and then his eyes went wide, his breath hitching as you threw him off you.

There was something predatory in the way you moved after him, features shadowed in hunger when you knotted your fingers in his shirt to wrench him around and shove him up against the vanity.

He didn't have time to spit curses at the satisfied grin you gave him when the mirror splintered at his back, shards falling from the frame to clatter near his splayed hands, not when you were on him again in seconds.

Lips demanding in a kiss that was all frenzied desire and little softness, another kind of fight whilst your fingers buried in his hair and pulled meanly.

The bright spark of pain caused his neck to arch back, made his cock throb painfully behind the restrictive press of his zipper, and then his hands were snatching at your waist, sliding roughly down to grab at your arse and hauling your hips against him. Grinding into you whilst you mouthed bruises across his jaw and down the muscular line of his throat that drove him wild.

He was fucking lost to the fever you had lit in his blood, delirious almost as it crept through every part of him, scorching. Branding.

Theo let you peel the shirt from his chest, a ragged groan working its way out of his throat when you raked your nails down his stomach.

"Fuck." He exhaled roughly, abs tensing and his hips lurching when you repeated the action before sinking to your knees with a sly grin.

"Is this what you wanted, Theodore? Just needed someone to suck the stress right out of you?” You cooed, a patronising thing that set his teeth on edge. “You could have just asked instead of trying to kill me, baby, no need to choose the boring option."

Even on your knees you were still fucking teasing him, still being cheeky with that sharp tongue of yours and it made him want to lunge for you again. Made him want to throw you on the bed, flip you on to your knees and shove your face into the sheets and teach you a lesson as he drove mercilessly into your dripping cunt until you couldn't fucking speak. Voice broken from screaming for him.

But then you were sliding his zipper down, reaching inside his boxers to free his thick length, and all that escaped him was a softly hissed. "Fuck you."

You chuckled low in your throat, peering up at him coyly from beneath your lashes as you pumped him infuriatingly slow.

"Oh you will, but first–"

He groaned when you flattened your tongue and dragged a wet line up the underneath of his cock to his tip, thighs twitching when you took him into the soft heat of your mouth.

Theo's eyes never left your face, not for second, not that he could have even remembered how to when he was pretty fucking sure you were trying to kill him slowly.

The image of you was seared in his mind, doe eyes staring up at him so sweetly, those perfect lips wrapped around him. Lashes fluttering as you took more and more until your nose nudged the soft curls at the base of him.

Fuck.

He pulsed on your tongue and you moaned around him, the vibration sending a sharp bolt of pleasure slashing down his spine and making him crack that little bit more.

One of his hands shot out to fist at your hair, grasping tight as his hips stuttered and he could barely wait for your subtle nod, slack-jawed and panting, before he was yanking himself back only to thrust his cock back down the soft cushion of your throat the very next second.

You gagged and the wet sound of it echoed around the room, a rabid noise wrenched from his chest when you ripped his slacks down further and sank your nails into his arse to pull him into you.

It sent him careening into a frenzy, snapping his hips against your face and cursing hotly as his length surged in and out of your mouth, harder than he'd ever been in his life and shining wet with your spit.

"You look so fucking pretty like this." He praised roughly, thrusts growing harsh as you hummed around him, pleased. "Taking my cock so well– shit– so fucking perfect– gonna fill that pretty little mouth up and watch you swallow every last drop."

You sucked at him harder, traced the thick veins and ridges with your tongue before burying him deep in your throat and every little part of him that was bunched up tight, all that tension and stoicism that he carried, knotted and stiff in his head and his chest, fucking unravelled.

His stomach muscles clamped down and his orgasm ripped through him, white hot and blinding, hips stuttering as he spilled down your throat for what felt like an eternity before he slipped from your mouth and pulled back to stare at you dazedly.

You looked an absolute mess. A gorgeous wreck with spit-slick, swollen lips from his mouth and cock, your shirt torn open, black lace bra on display, courtesy of his desperate hands, and it all stirred something possessive in Theo’s blood.

Something that had him yanking you back to your feet so he could reclaim your mouth with his, burying the overwhelming feeling by feeding it to his lust and pushing it into you anyway he could.

"Theo." You breathed, needy and wanting, and it killed him to realise he was addicted to his name on your tongue. That it took an unnatural amount of willpower not to command you to say it again. "Wanna feel you, want you to fuck me."

He was tearing at your pants before you could even finish. Ripping them from you along with your pretty, lace underwear, damp from how badly you needed him, and pulling the tattered remains of your shirt from your torso before ridding you of your bra.

You dragged him with you until your back hit the wall, hooking a leg around his hip to pull him into you and he got the hint. His fingers burrowing into the plush backs of your thighs and then both your legs were wound around him. Body caught between cold marble and the flushed heat of his chest and he groaned when his cock slipped against your warm cunt.

He wrapped an arm tight around your waist and buried his free hand between you, sweeping the pads of his fingers over your soaked slit and grinning something dark, more than a little depraved. “Poor little thing, so desperate for my cock aren't you, what makes you think you deserve it, dolcezza?"

You snarled at him then, any sweetness evaporating and the first flash of your anger breaking through that air of superiority you'd held since he'd walked in the room.

He relished it, lapped it up like the sweetest victory, eyes dark on yours, unyielding, as you ground your teeth in frustration.

"How about the fact that I just sucked your dick better than I bet that little doll of a wife of yours has ever been able to." You spat and he immediately tore his hand away from your aching cunt to deliver a sharp slap across your arse.

It made you choke down a moan, defiant, eyes blazing and breath turning jagged.

"Don't be such a fucking brat or I won't touch you and you can use your those cute fingers to try and get yourself off." He warned, cocky with it, so smug that for once it felt like the tables had turned. That he was deep beneath your skin, plucking at your nerves, thinning out your patience.

“My fingers can make me cum better than your cock ever could so go right ahead." You snarked at him and his temper flared red hot, jaw clenching as his eyes narrowed to slits.

He reached between you again and guided his cock against you, deliberately nudging the head against your clit and smirking when it made you jolt, a soft whine slipping from between your teeth.

“Is that so?” Theo murmured, voice dropping low. Huskier. “You think your fingers could fill you the way I could, think they can get nice and deep, hit that place inside you that's gonna make your legs fucking shake for me.”

He kept at it until you were panting, until your glazed eyes fluttered closed and then he snapped his hips and sunk to the hilt inside you with one smooth, mind-shattering thrust.

You gasped, a silent scream catching in your throat as his face dropped to the crook of your neck with a groan, his mouth a punishing heat on your skin whilst he distracted himself. Scattering as many marks as it took for the searing heat in his veins, his stomach, to ebb.

And when it finally did, he drew nearly all the way out before pushing back in achingly slow. A taunt. The crawling pace just enough to stoke that molten burn he could sense simmering beneath your skin just like his own.

It made you rake your nails over him, made your hand find its way to the hair at the nape of his hair and yank it roughly, eyes snapping open to glare at him.

“Yes.” You bit out. Voice noticeably strained.

And Theo fucking grinned.

"Yeah? How many do you think it would take to stretch you like this?” He rasped, a wild noise clawing through his chest when you clenched tight around him. "Do you think your needy little cunt would get them all nice and wet the same way it's drenching my cock right now?"

"Fuck you, Theo– oh my god."

He slammed into you, fucking you raw and desperate inbetween the priceless art that hung on the walls whilst you cried out. Sounding ruined as you squeezed your legs tighter over his hips and told him to go deeper, harder, to not fucking stop.

Your nails scored pretty lines of red down his back before they swept back up and bit into the sweat-damp expanse of his shoulders as he scraped his teeth across your throat. He made an animalistic sound, muffled by the sweet give of your flesh between his teeth, and he was glad you were out of it enough that you didn’t realise how it sounded a hell of a lot like ‘again’.

That you didn't notice he had just lost his head and begged you to mark him, to make him bleed. Gift him lovely, crescent moon scars that he couldn't just wash away or forget about when his team almost had him convinced again that you weren't real.

He didn't know how he was supposed to still kill you when you had him spiralling like this, how he was ever supposed to be rid of you now he knew the heaven that was your perfect cunt wrapped around his cock, clamping down on him so greedily that his head fucking spun.

It made the punch of his hips grow bruising, manic, each spear of his thick cock through your walls knocking you up the wall whilst you clung to him. Pleasure-drunk and gasping.

He felt feral with it, the noises slipping past your parted lips making his blood burn as you rolled your hips frantically into his, and then there was suddenly madness within him. The kind that only you had ever inspired, making him hunger, making him crave, and as he drowned in it he lunged forward to sink his teeth deep into your collarbone.

Hard enough that your blood bloomed hot on his tongue, hard enough that he'd marked you just as savagely as you had marked him and it was enough to have your muscles locking up tight, back arching off the wall and thighs trembling violently around his waist.

You came around him with a sob so intense, it was as if he had thrust his hand through your chest, tangled his fingers in the branches of your lungs, and ripped it out. Whimpers fluttering into his mouth as he raised his head to crush his lips to your own, swallowing them down greedily and smearing your blood between you.

“That's it– fuck– look at the mess you're making, dolcezza.” He groaned, low and filthy. Voice aching whilst he pressed his head to yours and forced you to look down at where you were joined, where he was still viciously fucking up into your fluttering cunt. To where both of you were glistening wet with your release.

“Should I make you clean it up?” Theo murmured darkly. “Make you get on your knees and use that quick tongue of yours to get rid of one of your own messes for once.”

“I'd like to see you try, Teddy.” You spat, and maybe your vehemence would be a little more terrifying if you weren't still gasping and shaking against him.

If there weren't tears of pleasure spilling down your cheeks and dripping between yours and his already slick skin. Instead he laughed, the sound of it rasping, and then his hand was on your chin, lifting your face up so he could drag his tongue over a falling tear as the brutal snap of his hips grew sharper.

“Maybe if you ask nicely, if you begged me for it, I'd do it for you.” He husked and fuck, you were shuddering in his arms, pupils blowing out as you started tightening around him again. “I'd clean you up, taste every fucking inch of you, eat you where your all messy with me, and then I'd fuck you again. And again.”

This was dangerous.

He was becoming unhinged, posessed.

Yet he couldn't stop.

Theo ducked his head to latch his mouth to your nipple as if it would keep him from talking, from revealing the effect you had on him. How much he wanted to fucking devour you whole or unravel you at the seams so he could step between your bones and lock himself inside your ribs.

And maybe you knew, maybe there was something telling in the way he buried you deeper into the wall at his own words, the way his hands were bruising your skin and a rough noise caught at the back of his throat when you rolled your hips just right.

Because you keened at the swipe of his tongue and then your fingers were curling in his hair to wrench his head back, revealing his feral, pleasure-stricken expression to your wild gaze. Your fight returning full force.

“I don't fucking beg, but trust me Teddy, you will.” You whispered against his mouth, licking the rust from where it had dried after he'd bitten you. And then you're hand was slipping between your bodies, snaking down to your clit to touch it in quick movements that had your cunt trying to milk his cock for all its worth.

Doubled with the way your rocking against him, moving in a way that had Theo’s eyes rolling back, his knees threatening to buckle, it felt like he couldn't fucking breathe. Like you were killing him and he couldn't do a damn thing to stop you. Instead the heat in his belly bloomed and bloomed until he spat out a furious curse.

Until you licked the sound of your name from his desperate mouth, the bitten off, reluctant whisper of please, fuck—please, and with a savage grin you let yourself break around him, dragging him violently into ecstasy when he followed the very next second. Cock pulsing as he spilled inside you with a ruined groan.

****

Thanks to the moment of weakness he had displayed, Theo had been determined to regain at least some control, refusing to leave at a disadvantage with the unholy cracking of his begging voice lingering in his ears.

Instead he'd ignored the fact that he should have been putting as much distance between him, you and this hotel as possible, that he should have been heading to the airport and booking an earlier flight to get the fuck away from whatever the hell had happened.

Instead of walking away without another glance, he'd had you again. And again. And again. He'd settled for dragging orgasm after orgasm out of your trembling body until you had kicked him away and eventually begged yourself, pleading for him to let you rest.

And then it wasn't as if he had expected to fall asleep there, to slip into the most peaceful sleep he'd had in years in the circle of your arms with his head pillowed on your chest.

But when he awoke there was no sign you were ever even there, only the smell of your perfume clinging to his skin, the raw sting of your marks and another cream coloured card with his name scrawled on it.

No photo this time.

Just a couple of sentences that made him burn.

Body is in the bathroom, be a darling and take care of it, will you? I'll see you soon, Teddy.

God, he fucking hated you.

[imyourbratzdoll]

𝒈𝒍𝒂𝒛𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒚 𝒐𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒓𝒖𝒊𝒕 𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒏

🍓the strawberry shack masterlist🍓

summary - tangerine treats himself at the strawberry shack.

warning - smut, oral, gloryhole, swearing.

18+ only please, the gif and headers I use aren't mine.

Warnings and Reminders - Please do not plagiarise, copy, repost/republish, adapt, or translate any of my work on any social media platforms, apps, or third-party sites. The only platforms I post my work on are: Tumblr and Wattpad. I do not own any character of any franchise (Marvel etc.) All my works are fiction and may be dark or triggering content: READ ALL WARNINGS BEFORE PROCEEDING.

Tangerine had just finished a job and he felt good. He felt like he was walking on cloud 9 and he felt like he deserved a treat. A cigarette dangled loosely between his lips as he headed to the one place that he knew would give him just that. Tangerine smirked up at the glowing pink sign that read ‘The Strawberry Shack’. If he could, he’d spend all of his pay here, which wouldn’t be a stretch from what he seems to spend now. 

He took one last puff of his cigarette before flicking it onto the sidewalk and walked in, a giant grin on his face as he slapped down a wad of cash on the receptionist's desk. “Hello, Darlin’. Is my favourite girl in?” 

The woman hums, grabbing the money. “Of course she is, you can go right through. She’ll be happy to hear from you again, you’re one of her favourite customers.” She gives him a wink as she finishes her sentence.

Tangerine smirks, walking straight through the door and towards you. It wasn’t hard to find you, you had the prettiest set up out of all the women here. He stops in front of your hole, already unzipping his pants and tugging his hard cock out. “How’s my favourite cockslut doing?” 

You moan, leaning against the wall, already ready to take his cock in your mouth. “I’ve been good, Sir. I missed your cock though.” 

Tangerine grunts, sliding his cock through the hole and immediately into your mouth. “That’s a good girl. This is why you’re my favourite.” You hum around his cock, taking him deeper as your tongue swirls around it. Tangerine moans, resting his hand on the wall while the other reaches down and fondles his balls. 

Your head bobs back and forth, taking him deeper and lubricating his cock with your spit as you continue. You pull back, keeping his tip in your mouth as you pay special attention to it, you let out a small moan, enjoying how his cock twitches from the vibrations. You begin to suck and lick his tip, swiping your tongue against his slit before taking him all the way in again. 

“Fuck! Oh my fucking god! You always give me the best head, Love.” His hips thrust forward, enjoying the slurping sounds coming from your mouth as you suck him harder. He grunts, feeling his orgasm already approaching. “Fuck, Love. I’m going to cum.” 

You hum, bobbing your head faster as you suck him harder, wanting to taste him. 

Tangerine throws his head back as his hips stutter, his cock twitching like crazy as cum pours out of his tip, filling your mouth with thick loads. When he finishes, he groans and pulls his cock out of the hole, tucking it back into his pants. “Thank you, Love. You’re a fuckin’ dream.” 

You swallow his cum and then smile to yourself at his words. “Hopefully you won’t keep me waiting so long next time, Sir.” 

“Course not. Next time I’m planning on filling you up until you’re full and dripping, so be ready.” He bids his goodbyes and walks out of the building, the grin never leaving his face as he heads home.

thank you for reading!

feedback and reblogs are greatly appreciated.

[viixenvi]

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥 | 18+

Summary: You friend drags you to a celebrity house party since she's a famous influencer. You get very bad anxiety and hide in the master bedroom, unbeknownst to you, Mitch comes up to get away from his party and finds you in his room. And God, does he like the way you look on his bed.

Characters: Famous!Mitch Rapp x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Oral (fem receiving), makeouts, pet names (baby, love), Mitch is drunk, Reader is tipsy, Reader receives mostly, p in v penetration (no sex), cockwarming

A/N: Not proofread or edited! also I tried something different with cockwarming, idk if yall will like it but oh well. I'm trying a lot of new things with coming up fics! (possible pt 2 where we get rough Dom!Mitch?)

𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐃𝐍𝐈

As much as you loved your best friend, she never seemed to understand that you hated parties. Nevertheless, you always went with her when she invited you. Mostly just to look out for her.

Here you were, at a celebrity's house party in LA. Its funny, you don't recognize a single person you've seen so far. Leah, your best friend, took shots with you and you ended up losing her in the crowd.

As the party grew larger, you got more anxious. You'd much rather be home, in the comfort of your own home. You were now tipsy and made yourself upstairs carefully.

It was less crowded upstairs but still not quiet enough for you. You slowly made your way down the hall and to the only room that seemed to be closed.

You walk right in, shutting the door behind you and sitting down on the bed. Your clothes felt uncomfortable now, so you pulled off your shirt. You are left in a bralette and skirt.

"God, why do I say yes to her," you groan to yourself, laying back onto the bed. You stare at the ceiling, there is nothing there but it seems more interesting then the party outside of the room.

The music is so loud that you don't even hear the door open or close. Mitch is staring at you for a few seconds, soaking in your looks, before he says anything.

You are startled by the clearing of his throat and you jump up. He chuckles and sits on his bed, opposite of you. "What are you doing here?" You question.

"I can't come to my own room?" he jokes, you blush a little in embarrassment and look at the ground.

"Oh, I'm sorry I didn't know this was your house."

"I should ask you why you are here actually," he turns to look at you, smiling. You cant look away from his eyes. He's gorgeous.

"I just got anxiety out there. I'm not the party type, especially celebrity parties," you laugh, picking at your finger. Mitch nods and looks away from you for a moment.

"Yea, I didn't even want to host this party. My manager thought it would be good to announce my newest movie. I'm Mitch by the way."

"I'm Y/n, it's nice to meet you. Are you an actor?" you shake his hand. His look seems to linger on your chest and you almost forget you are in a bralette that is mostly see through.

"Yea, I guess I am," Mitch chuckles. You have no idea that he's one of the biggest actors currently and he seems to like that. It's refreshing to him.

You look down and only now realize how you look. You scramble to find your shirt and cover up your chest. "Oh I'm so sorry! It just got so hot in here!"

Mitch shakes his head and slowly pulls away the shirt. "Nothing to be ashamed of, you are beautiful," your shit is disregarded on the floor and Mitch is now close enough that you can smell the alcohol on him.

You can't even stop to think before you push your lips onto his. Suddenly you are on his lap and his hands are running down your body.

"Fuck. I can't believe im doing this," You whisper against his lips. He chuckles and flips you over so your back is on the bed. He kisses your neck, moving his hands to unclip your bralette.

You pull it off and he stops just to stare at you. "You're beautiful, baby." He continues kissing down your body. You almost shiver at the kisses he placed right at your hips.

His fingers hook at the top of your skirt and he taps your hips. "Up." You push your lower body up and he pulls the skirt off easily.

Your hands are on his hair the moment he starts kissing you again. He presses both hands to your thighs and pushes them open, pulling you to the edge of the bed.

He doesn't hesitate before pushing his face against your pussy. His tongue swirls against you and you bite back moans that ultimately make their way out.

He hums at your pleasure, enjoying all the noises you are making. You press his head down more and he doesn't seem to care.

"Fuck!!" you moan out, letting go of his hair and gripping the sheets instead. There's a hot feeling in your stomach and the pressure builds up heavily.

"Go ahead, cum for me baby." Your legs shake, pushing together on his head as you cum.

It feels so good you almost see white for a moment. Mitch continues to lick your clit after you cum and it may be the most heavenly think you have felt.

When he finally pulls away, his face is covered in your juices. He smiles at you, and you want to kiss him so badly for how sexy he looks.

You don't hesitate pulling him in for a kiss, making him climb on the bed. His hands run up your body, pinching your nipples. Pleasure courses through your body and you moan into the kiss.

"I need you," You whisper out, he pulls away from the kiss. He moves away for a moment, pulling the rest of his clothes off. You can't stop staring at his cock.

You reach over to give him a handjob but he pushes your hand away gently. "Shh. I want to fuck you when I'm sober." You nod, moving to grab your clothes but he stops you. "I never said I wanted you to leave, pretty girl," he says, pulling your back to his chest. He pulls the blanket over you two.

"What are you doing?" you ask when you feel his cock press against your hole. He chuckles and pushes himself into you, causing you to moan.

"Just gettin' warm. Go to sleep, baby."

[kiatheinsomniac]

❝contains: evie frye, jacob frye❞ ✩ — fan favourite ♡ — contains smut

ᯓ★ 𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐬:

encyclopedia of the gods, their associations and what one may offer them

ᯓ★ 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐬:

you've stolen my heart

12 red tulips

ᯓ★ 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬:

slowly falling for a another female assassin

her s/o is insecure of their looks/skills

ᯓ★ 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐬 / 𝐦𝐢𝐱𝐞𝐝 / 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬:

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬 [discontinued] a highschool au featuring a variety of characters

ᯓ★ 𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐬:

gods au masterlist

encyclopedia of the gods, their associations and what one may offer them

ᯓ★ 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐬:

ransom

spontaneity ♡

yandere drabble

jealousy

always on my mind

meeting in the schoolyard

cuddles

deep breaths now honey, you're okay, you're safe

tea and cake

night thoughts

warming up on a rainy day ♡

bonfire night

marry me? (broken as I am) ♡

upon thames

ᯓ★ 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬:

the type of person he'd hate

with a tall s/o

with an s/o in recovery from anorexia

his s/o is cold but only tender around him

being his big spoon

with a goth s/o

with a depressed s/o

his reaction to surprise hugs

what he calls his s/o

first kiss

reacting to you being hurt

making love while it rains ♡

meeting a non-assassin s/o

mini spicy headcanons ♡

on his s/o's birthday

his s/o falls asleep next to him

his s/o shares his personality

valentines headcanons

his s/o is terrified of frogs

as a voice actor

his s/o is scared of storms

falling for a friend who's terrified of love

when his s/o gets catcalled

when he sees you in a tank top and shorts

meeting your parents

finding out you have a hidden tattoo

his s/o is shy

boyband au

finding out he missed your birthday

staying the night at yours for the first time

when his s/o doesn't want a baby

body preferences for his s/o

his s/o is really good at giving massages

his child asks where children come from + for a sibling

his type in a s/o

with an insecure, plus-sized, dark-eyed reader

he wakes up and finds his s/o in his robes

he finds his s/o masturbating ♡

his s/o is insecure of their looks/skills

how he reacts to having a sleepy s/o

when his s/o has a scar with a funny story

how he reacts to his s/o in a cat maid outfit

his s/o is hispanic/latina

he has a nightmare where his s/o dies

with a touch-starved reader

when there's only one bed

his s/o has a nightmare

what he smells like

his s/o loves giving head ♡

his s/o gets really sick

with a muslim s/o

when his s/o wants to grind on his thigh ♡

when his s/o passes out

ᯓ★ 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐬 / 𝐦𝐢𝐱𝐞𝐝 / 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬:

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧'𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐯𝐞 [archived] my very old oneshots from my pre-tumblr days

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬 [discontinued] a highschool au featuring a variety of characters

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟑 a collaborative event with @itseivwhore

⊹₊ liked it? why not: ∘ buy me a coffee? ∘ comms. ∘ taglist ∘ follow/reblog

[elfven-blog]

Milking Session

Summary: You work at 'The Aquila Bovine Sanctuary' and it's milking day for the Italian Bull Ezio. BullHybrid!Ezio Auditore x F!Reader CW: MDNI, 18+ only, blowjob, handjob, he is a hybrid (cannot stress this enough). Word Count: 1.8K

Working at ‘The Aquila Bovine Sanctuary’ had been a weird experience to say the least, when you had applied to be a farmhand you had expected your duties to be cleaning the stalls, feeding the hybrids and maybe helping with the calves. Originally they had put you with the heifers’ and cows’ which had led to you blushing and shifting awkwardly the first time you had helped with a ‘milking’ session. The more experienced cows had started doting on you, stroking your hair and crowing about how sweet you were and gentle too. Over the past year or so you had become more calm about your job and had no worries anymore, especially when you made friends with some of the cows and heifers.

Unfortunately you had to be moved to the Bull area, which was far less peaceful. Some of the bulls did not care for fighting or dominance or any of that, but then some of them seemed to do nothing but fight or ramp each other up. It was a very different experience compared to what you had become used to. That’s not to say the women didn’t fight, they did. Often. But then they seemed to go back to being kind with each other very swiftly, a bull fight seemed to be able to last for days.

To make it all worse, today was a milking day. Milking day with the bulls was ever so slightly different, after all they didn’t produce milk…what they did produce however was seed.

The thought had you almost scowling, you didn’t hate it. It was a job and that’s all you thought about it as, you were sure in the same way many escorts and dominatrix’s thought of their own jobs. 

It’s just that, quite often, it was messy. One time a Bull’s cum had gotten inside your glove, one of your colleagues had underestimated the amount and had dumped what would have been half a bucket more on the floor.

Today would most likely be just the same, at least the stories you swapped with your fellow handlers were funny. No one else seemed to understand your work and your nose scrunched as you remembered when you started working here, you had told one of your friends about a shift and that friend had a rather harsh reaction.

The wind grazed across the back of your neck and your body tensed for a moment before you shook your head and continued walking towards the bull field. Your hands immediately rested on the wood to help as you pushed yourself up to try and find the bull you were after.

A loud moo rang through and then the slam of horns against horns attracted your attention, and there he was. Ezio. He wasn’t the largest bull in the field but he was one of them, originally he had been kept in Italy but a few months ago they’d shipped him over to Aquila Bovine’s when he’d gotten into a rather messy situation and lost half a horn.

He seemed to have settled in quite nicely, none of the bulls were particularly aggravated with each other and most fights were really just them playing.

You yelled to the Italian bull, watching as his head shot up from the bull he was fighting and his mouth stretched into a grin before he was practically bolting over to you. His hands either side of yours as he panted down at you, his long tail flicking behind him and sweat dripped down his tanned skin.

“Tesoro!” he chimed at you, bending down to huff at your hair, seemingly taking rather long deep breaths “Where have you been?” Your body freezes at the feeling of pressure from his nose practically huffing you like glue, your hand moving to pat his arm until he decides he’s had enough and pulls away.

“I have other duties to attend to Ezio” you answer with a shrug but it doesn’t seem enough for the bull as he shakes his head and stamps his hoof “But don’t worry, I’m all yours for the moment.”

The gate is, surprisingly, easy to unlock so you make a mental note to get it checked by maintenance. You wouldn’t want the bulls escaping.

The gate itself is nearly pulled off its hinges as Ezio all but rags it open so that he can be on the same side as you, he closes it and gives you an awkward smile as he does so. The look on your face makes him bend his head and nudge you with it, he is careful of his horns but rather insistent on getting your touch so he knows you are not mad at him.

When your hand finally reaches up to stroke his hair and then at the base of his horns where you know he struggles to itch himself, his weight starts to lean on you as his eyes close and that rumbling purr sounds from him. It’s more like a groan to you, but the other handlers say it’s a purr so you go with it. 

“Ezio! Ezio!” You panic slightly until his eyes open and he stands up again with that charming half-smile he has, one of his hands awkwardly resting on his neck as he pulls away and you simply shake your head as you make sure the gate is completely locked before gesturing for the Bull to follow you.

Technically you’re meant to put him in a harness or halter but Ezio’s always good. Following after you like a lost puppy rather than a bull, it’s only when you go past the cows and heifers that he seems to struggle. His head turning to their field and his nostrils flaring as he halts in his tracks, eyes searching for someone but you’re quick to tug his tail and he happily follows after you again. The distraction forgotten as you make your way to the milking room.

You can see his nose scrunch as you enter the room that had been booked out for his milking session, the Italian unhappy with the scents surrounding him. “Sorry, bud” You said as your hand patted him on the arm before slipping down and curling your hand in his to pull him over towards the milk stand. 

It wasn’t a machine, just a bench where he would kneel and his hands would be slotted in and secured so that he couldn’t grab hold of you. The metal creaked under his weight as he leant on the plush pillow provided for his knees while you secured the straps around his wrists.

Once he was secured you grabbed the bucket and placed it just below him. When you looked up to speak to him, you found the bull already looking down at you. His pupils blown wide and his chest heaving with each breath he took as his eyes trained on you.

“You look so pretty like this” Ezio murmured to you in that rumble, his voice deeper from the arousal coursing through his veins which was made even more evident when your gloved hand wrapped around the base of his cock, the Italian pulling at his straps already with a hiss “So so pretty” he mumbled.

Your hand moves up the length of his prick, making him whine and buck his hips at the feeling. His head thrown back as he lets himself fall into that pleasure you’re offering him, ezio’s thighs tense as you tease the head of his cock with your thumb and it draws a low moan from the bull, the precum starts to drool from the slit which you use as lube to make it easier to pump your hand up and down him. You can hear his tail swaying behind him in excitement and it makes you smile more than it should.

His hips buck again as your hand slides down and squeezes the base of him, your eyes fall to the heavy set of balls to watch as they draw up to his body before relaxing again. Even though he’s now oozing precum, he’s not close enough to release yet which makes the corners of your mouth turn down as your pace increases. The bull’s eyes roll as his breathing quickens, his cock twitching in your palm but it’s still not enough even as his hips chase your hand every time.

Your eyes jump to the clock and you realise you’ve been in here for a good few minutes already with nothing to show for it. Which is why you lean forward and press a kiss to the head of his cock, Ezio’s mouth falls open with a loud groan and he mutters praises above you as your tongue flattens against his tip, swirling once, twice before you sink down on to him.

This is against the rules, something you’re definitely not meant to do but the poor bull was having trouble. Your hand moves to cup his balls, gently rolling them in your hand while the other one continues to pump around him. Your eyes close as you focus on tasting him, but it’s difficult to focus on making sure you do your job when his hips buck and force you to take more of him into your mouth.

You try not to gag from the sudden stretch of your jaw, his cock making you ache as he loses himself in the feeling of your warm throat around him. He tugs at the bindings on his wrists, groaning as his eyes roll and flutter, his mouth slack at the feeling of a wet mouth pleasing him. Your tongue tracing at the prominent veins on the underside of his cock as he fucks into your mouth until you are gagging around him.

There’s not much you can do as your hand slips from the base of his cock, his pace speeding up as he keeps humping into you and you can feel his balls drawing up again as he mumbles and moans above you “So so good”, “What a pretty girl” and “Feels so good dolcezza” all fall as praise from his mouth. His tail swaying more and more as the bench creaks from his movements, the bull chasing his high with the feeling of your mouth consuming him.

Your eyes widen as you feel him tense, his thighs shaking and his cock twitching in your mouth as he pulls at the bindings again and you’re barely able to pull off to grab the bucket before there’s white ropes of cum spurting from his cock, oozing down into the bucket as he moans. His head lolling back as he goes almost limp from his orgasm, cock twitching with the last few bits drooling from him as his eyes flutter. And you can’t stop your mind from wandering at the sight of him like this, you’ve never been so affected by your job before but there’s something about seeing the Italian so blissed out on the bench, or maybe it’s the spit covered cock that’s still hard between his thighs.

But either way, you’re really starting to enjoy working with the bulls at the sanctuary.

[gatitties]

hiii!! can I request some HCs for bonten!Mikey x Mother!Assassin!Reader where Reader and Mikey have a 17 years old secret love child. The scene is Bonten Executives and Assassin!Reader is eating in just yk a local ramen shop and Mikey is asking Reader that he wants to become a father to their child ykyk bcs reader kept it a secret that she was pregnant and raised the child all by herself T__T and when the school called Reader bcs their child stabbed a male student with scissors in their school, Sanzu said "I guess she took her mother's talent. you're in that age too, weren't you?" and reader just went batshit crazy bcs reader doesn't want her child to become like her </3 so reader threw a knife that got stuck in a wooden wall just close enough to make Sanzu's neck bleed a little and after that reader said "If you ever say that again, I'll kill you with the most dullest knife in the world." and then reader left. I WANT TO SEE MIKEY'S AND OTHER EXECUTIVES' REACTION TOO TO THIS HAPPENINGS IF THEY'RE GONNA GO CRAZY TOO OR WHATEVER 🤩🤩 thank u so much!

─Bonten!Mikey x mother!assassin!reader

─Summary: You don't like that your kid looks like you because you don't have the best manners or work

─Warnings: none

─ You weren't proud of your fame as a assassin in the underworld, but work was work.

─ Several years ago you got involved with the leader of Bonten, a one-night stand ended up being something and you started working as an executive for your boyfriend.

─ Although in a 'small accident' you ended up having a child, you weren't sure if Mikey would like to be a father considering his position in society, and despite the fact that you didn't have the best reputation either, you decided to take it on the sly.

─ How you managed to hide your child for seventeen years is a feat knowing the people you associated with, but you were grateful that they didn't poke their noses into your business and that Mikey was a busy man.

─ Of course, you were very lucky during all that time, but it came to an end and he decided to confront you for hiding from him that he had a child.

─ Although you had an argument about that, you reached a halfway point, Mikey wanted to take care of his child and get to know them, however you denied that your little baby knew the dark side of both.

─ Your kid was a little skeptical at first with their 'new' father, but they started to get along after a few months, becoming a relatively normal family if you ignored all the corpses you both carried on your back.

─ Of course, the other executives got to know your kid because it was more difficult to hide that the leader of Bonten was more absent, so now your kid had a few uncles.

─ Now… when they called from school because your 'baby' had fought, rather stabbed another child with scissors, you didn't know how to react, Mikey was the one who took charge of going to school while you stayed at home.

─ At that moment you were all eating, since you had invited them to your house, everyone listened but decided that they had nothing to comment until Sanzu had to open his mouth. "I guess they took their mother's talent, you're in that age too, weren't you?"

─ It took you a few seconds to analyze what the drug addict had dared to say, everyone knew that you didn't like that your kid was involved with the shit they did and you lost it.

─ You grabbed the first sharp object you had at hand, a knife, and you threw it in such a way that Sanzu's neck had a millimeter cut, the knife went past, sticking into the wall. "If you ever say that again, I'll kill you with the dullest knife in the world."

─ The table was silent except for Sanzu's complaints when being lightly treated by Kakucho, everyone looked at each other deciding to shut their mouths knowing that you were upset.

─ The Haitani brothers were trying not to burst out laughing at seeing how you humiliated their co-worker, Mochizuki, Takeomi and Kokonoi were amazed with your aim since they had never seen you doing your job, this scene would definitely be something to talk about if word gets out.

─ The tension in the room didn't go away until you saw your boyfriend and kid appear at the door, although now it was your turn to give your child a talk for having done that.

─ Mikey smiled when he found out what you had done, he wasn't angry about his child's attitude, he simply asked if they had won the fight or not (the result was obvious but he wanted to check it).

─ No one dared to comment on what happened that day and you punished your kid for a week.

[greengoblinswifey]

Club Rendezvous—Luigi Mangione x Fem!Reader

summary— while on spring break, you cross paths with Luigi Mangione at a club, sparking an immediate connection that leads to a night in your hotel room. based on this request.

warnings— grinding, drinking, fingering, cunnilingus, praise kink, unprotected sex, creampie, aftercare.

a/n— Those photos are so fratboy Luigi coded, idk I like this little mood board, enjoy <3 I really hope he’s doing well, my heart aches when I think about him.

The club was alive, the high energy vibes only spring break could deliver. Neon lights flashed across the crowd, music boomed loud enough to shake the walls, and you and your friends were in the middle of it all. Drinks in hand, laughter over the music, you were living your best life. Your group wasn’t shy about taking over the dance floor, swaying your hips to the beat, your confidence catching more than a few eyes.

Among those eyes were his. Some tall, dark curly haired guy leaned casually against the bar, drink in hand, charm on full display. His backwards cap barely kept his dark curls in check, and his sleeveless shirt revealed toned arms. He was the type of guy who made heads turn without even trying. And tonight, his focus was on you.

You noticed him when you turned toward the bar, locking eyes for the briefest second. His smirk was teasing, and when he tipped his drink in your direction, you knew the game was on.

“Who’s that fine ass staring at you like you’re the last shot at the bar?” your friend shouted over the music, nudging you.

“Probably just some frat boy who thinks he’s cute,” you replied, though your smile betrayed you.

“Girl, he’s cute!” another friend chimed in. “Go dance with him!”

You rolled your eyes playfully but turned your attention back to the dance floor. It wasn’t long before he made his move, walking through the crowd until he was standing close enough for you to feel his presence.

“You dance as good as you look?” he asked, his voice low and teasing.

“Why don’t you find out?” you shot back, challenging him.

He laughed, the sound sexy and confident. “I was hoping you’d say that, I’m Luigi by the way.”

“And I’m Y/N,” you flirted.

Before you knew it, he was behind you, his hands resting respectfully at your hips, waiting for your cue. When you started to move, he followed your lead effortlessly, the two of you in sync. The beat pulsed through your body as you threw your ass back, his grip tightening slightly to match your rhythm.

Your friends were cheering you on from the sidelines, one even yelling, “Get it, girl! Pull him in!”

“Your friends are wild,” Luigi said with a chuckle, his lips close enough to your ear to send a shiver down your spine.

“They’re hyping me up,” you replied, glancing back at him. “Don’t let ‘em down.”

“Oh, I won’t,” he promised, his cute smirk widening.

You felt on top of the world as you moved together, his presence grounding you while the world spun around you. The chemistry was undeniable, and the looks your friends shot your way only fueled your confidence.

“You’re stealing the show out here,” he murmured.

“Good,” you said, flashing him a grin over your shoulder. “I’m worth it.”

When the song ended, you turned to face him, breathless but grinning. He looked at you like you were the only person in the room, and for a moment, it felt like maybe you were.

“Wanna grab a drink?” he asked, his tone a mix of boldness and uncertainty.

“Depends,” you said, tilting your head. “Are you buying?”

“For you?” He laughed, already nodding. “Absolutely.”

As you walked toward the bar together, your friends erupted into cheers behind you.

“Go get your white boy, queen!” one shouted, and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Guess I’ve got a lot to live up to,” Luigi joked, glancing at your retreating friends.

“You better,” you replied, “Think you can handle it?”

“With you?” His smirk softened into something genuine. “I’ll try my best.”

Spring break had just gotten a whole lot more interesting.

The bass of the club faded slightly as you and Luigi leaned against the bar, drinks in hand. He hadn’t stopped smiling since he’d introduced himself, and you couldn’t deny how charming his boyish confidence was. You had a good feeling about him.

“So, what’s your story?” Luigi asked, sipping his drink and leaning closer to hear you over the music.

“Just here for spring break with my girls,” you said with a shrug, “What about you?”

“Same,” he said, his eyes lingering on yours, “Though I’m thinking this night just got a lot better.”

“You’ve got lines, huh?”

“Only when they’re true,” he replied, raising his glass toward you.

Feeling bold, the words spat out of your mouth before you could overthink them. “You wanna come back to my hotel?”

Luigi’s thick eyebrows raised slightly, his grin widening. “I’d love to,” he said, “But only if I get to take you on a date tomorrow morning.”

“Deal.”

Within minutes, he’d called an Uber he paid for, and the two of you were in the backseat, the city lights blurring past the windows. Luigi had his arm draped casually along the back of the seat, his fingers brushing your shoulder. You turned to him, and before you knew it, his lips were on yours.

The kiss was soft at first, testing, but quickly deepened. His hand slid to cup your jaw, pulling you closer. “You taste like trouble,” he murmured against your lips, his breath warm and intoxicating.

“You’re one to talk,” you whispered, nipping at his bottom lip, earning a low chuckle from him.

By the time you reached the hotel, the air between you was charged. In the elevator, the doors had barely closed before Luigi pressed you against the wall, his lips capturing yours in a feral kiss. His hands roamed over your sides before one slid lower, fingers trailing into your bottoms.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he whispered.

“Luigi,” you breathed out, your knees going weak as his fingers found your pussy.

“You’re so wet for me,” he said, his voice low as his fingers thrusted in slow strokes. “You’re so tight.”

You bit your lip, trying to stay quiet, but the soft whimper you let out when his thumb pressed against your clit betrayed you. His lips found your ear. “Don’t you dare hold those moans. I wanna hear you.”

When the elevator dinged, you both barely managed to pull yourselves together, your face dazed and breaths uneven. Stumbling down the hallway, Luigi was still kissing your neck as you fumbled with the keycard, his lips sending shivers down your spine.

The door finally opened, and the two of you stumbled inside, laughing softly before his lips found yours again. You fell back onto the bed, Luigi bracing himself above you as his kisses moved down your neck to your collarbone.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured, his hands tracing your sides. “I’ve never seen anyone like you.”

“You’re just saying that,” you teased.

He shook his head, his eyes meeting yours with a seriousness that made your heart race. “Nah, I mean it. You’re stunning, and you’re driving me insane.”

His lips claimed yours again, his praise melting into your skin as his hands explored, every touch making you feel like he meant what he said.

His hands worked at the hem of your top, his lips brushing against your jawline. His fingers grazed your skin, pulling off your bottoms next slowly, leaving you in your bra and panties.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered, his eyes roaming over you like you were something rare. “I don’t think you even realize.”

You felt the warmth rise to your cheeks, your fingers tugging at the hem of his shirt in response. “You first,” you teased.

With a smirk, Luigi pulled off his shirt, revealing a toned torso with abs that had your breath hitching. When his hands worked to remove your bra, his fingers grazed your nipples. Once he freed you from it, he paused, staring at you as if committing every detail to memory.

“You’re perfect,” he said.

Your panties were the last to go, and when you reached for his waistband, he let out a soft laugh, his hands gently stopping yours. “Let me take care of you first, pretty girl. Tonight’s about you.”

Your lips parted in surprise, but Luigi was already lowering himself onto his knees at the edge of the bed. “Can I?” he asked, fingers resting on your thighs.

You nodded, unable to find your voice, and he flashed you a small, reassuring smile. “Good girl,” he murmured.

The first stroke of his tongue had you gasping, your back arching slightly. He knew what he was doing, his mouth working against you with a precision that had your legs trembling. You couldn’t help but run your fingers through his soft curls, tugging gently as he grinned against your skin.

“You taste incredible,” he murmured, his voice muffled as he continued, “I could stay here all night.”

“Luigi,” you breathed, your voice breaking as he pressed his tongue in deeper, his hands gripping your thighs to keep you steady.

“You like that, don’t you?”

Your only response was a soft whimper, your head falling back as his tongue worked wonders against your quivering pussy. He lapped at your juices like a man starved, leaving not one inch of your pussy untouched. When your body finally gave in, shuddering beneath him and creaming, he pulled away, lips and chin glistening to smirk at you.

“You’re a dream,” he whispered, licking his lips and climbing back onto the bed.

You tugged him down for a kiss, tasting yourself on his lips. “Lemme take care of you now,” you offered breathlessly, reaching for his waistband again.

Luigi caught your hand, shaking his head with a smirk. “Another time. Tonight, it’s all about you. You’ve got no idea how lucky I feel.”

He leaned down, kissing your forehead, his tenderness making you realize you had scored the jackpot. He stood at the edge of the bed, his hands moving to unbuckle his pants as your gaze followed him. When he finally slipped them off, your eyes widened in disbelief at the sheer size of his hard dick.

“You’re joking,” you murmured, earning a low chuckle from him.

“Don’t worry, baby” he said, leaning down to kiss you softly. “You can take it. I’ll make sure of it.”

He brushed a strand of hair from your face, his eyes locking onto yours. “Are you sure you wanna do this?” he asked his tone serious.

“Yes,” you replied, your voice steady despite the butterflies in your stomach.

“We can stop anytime,” Luigi reminded you, cupping your cheek. “Just say the word.”

“I’m sure, Luigi,” you assured him.

“Okay, amore,” he whispered, the word rolling off his tongue effortlessly. It sent a shiver down your spine.

Luigi positioned himself above you, one hand gripping yours as he lined his cock with your entrance. His lips brushed against your temple as he slowly pushed in, both of you hissing at the sensation.

“Luigi,” you whimpered, gripping his hand tightly.

“You’re doing so well, baby,” he praised. He set a steady rhythm, his strokes careful but deep enough to find your sweet spot. “You feel so good.”

“You’re so big,” you panted, your head falling back against the pillows.

“Yeah?” he smirked, leaning down to kiss you. “Who’s making you feel good?”

“You are, Luigi,” you gasped, your body reacting to every word and thrust.

“That’s right,” he murmured against your lips. “Only me.”

He quickened his pace slightly, his hand slipping to your waist to steady you. The pleasure was becoming too much as he bottomed out and slammed back in, each thrust making your pussy quiver. “Cum on my dick, amore,” he coaxed, his voice soft.

Your pussy obeyed, a wave of release coursing through you as his thrusts slowed down, pressing gentle kisses along your jaw. “You’re amazing,” he whispered, his lips curving into that beautiful smile.

Before you could fully recover, Luigi flipped you onto your stomach, his hand sliding down your back. “You look so good like this,” he murmured, gripping your hips as he started again.

You pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, the pleasure building faster this time. “I— I don’t know if I can hold on,” you stammered, your voice trembling.

“You don’t have to,” he reassured. “Cum for me baby. I’ve got you.”

Your body surrendered again, practically soaking his cock and the sheets, and he leaned down, pressing kisses along your shoulder. He gently turned you onto your side, lifting your leg as he settled behind you. His pace was slower now, deeper inside you, his hand brushing over your thigh as he whispered praises into your ear and you moaned his name like it was the only word you knew.

“You’re amazing, amore,” he said, his lips brushing against your neck. “I love this pussy.”

You reached back to touch his arm, your breathing steadying as he continued to hold you close. He pressed kisses to the side of your face, his grip tightening on your leg as he rolled his hips with precision. You were so sensitive, all in your mind was his cock slamming into you then retreating with just the tip before he thrusted back in again. He found your sweet spot each time, your pussy quivering with every movement.

“Luigi,” you moaned, feeling your orgasm approaching.

“I know baby, I know. Cum with me. Can I cum inside you,” he asked.

“Mhmm—please, cum inside me,” you whimpered.

He reached down to rub your clit and it sent you right over the edge. You cried out, your body shaking under his touch as a wave of liquid sprayed from your pussy. He fucked you through your orgasm and soon you felt the feeling of warm sticky cum filling you to the brim.

You both lay there panting, and you could feel his cum oozing from your pussy as he pulled out.

“I’ll be right back,” he whispered, disappearing into the bathroom.

You barely had the energy to lift your head, but moments later, he returned with a warm, damp towel in hand. Sitting beside you, he placed a hand on your thigh and smiled. “Let me take care of you.”

He started cleaning you up carefully. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, glancing at you with concern.

“No,” you replied, your voice a little hoarse. “I’m good. Just tired.”

He chuckled, setting the towel aside and lying down beside you. “Tired? I’ll take that as a compliment,” he teased, brushing a stray curl from your face.

“You would,” you murmured, cracking a small smile.

He shifted closer, pulling the blanket over both of you. “So,” he started, “was it as good as you imagined it would be?”

“Confident much?” you said as you rolled your eyes playfully.

He grinned, leaning on his elbow to look at you better. “Hey, I’m just asking. You’re the one who moaned ‘Luigi’ about a hundred times.”

“Oh, shut up,” you grew flustered and hit his arm lightly.

“Now, tomorrow before the date, breakfast on the beach? Or room service?”

“Surprise me,” you said, already feeling your eyes grow heavy.

He settled in beside you, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you close. “Deal. Sweet dreams, amore.”

“Night, Luigi,” you murmured, your head resting against his chest as you drifted off, feeling completely safe and cared for.

[chimcess]

Pairing: Taehyung x Reader Summary: A former assassin awakens from a four-year coma after her ex-lover Taehyung tries to kill her on her wedding day. Driven by revenge for the loss of her unborn child and stolen life, she creates a hit list and embarks on a ruthless mission to take down everyone responsible.

Release Date: TBD...

[thegamingcatmom]

Eivor is the type of gf who will encourage your stupidity because she is stupidity.

Kassandra is the type of gf who will scold tf outta you both mostly Eivor though cause you're her angel.

[neon-junkie]

OMFG ITS A WIN FOR THE FUCKING GAYS!! ONCE AGAIN!! If you want to do any requests for fem eivor I’d love your takes on her kinks/ general sex headcanons you may have ❤️❤️

Hell yes!!! I started being down bad for fem!Eivor the second I began playing as her. She's just so... *clenches fist*

I don't see Eivor as being the type to go wild when it comes to kinks. She's definitely not vanilla, but not extremely taboo either.

Outdoor sex is an obvious one, given that she spends 90% of her time out in the wilderness, and fucking in the longhouse isn't as private as she wants it to be. 

Nothing beats lounging around in a meadow, cuddling in a bed of flowers, watching the clouds drift overhead as Eivor holds you in her arms.

She's a switch. Always happy to take the ropes, or submit to you. It's your call, really.

There are times when she needs you to care for her, such as after a devastating loss in battle.

And other times when she needs to be in charge, fuelled by the adrenaline from a bloody victory.

Eivor is a giver. She's going to go down on you, drawing orgasm after orgasm until you're literally having to peel her off you.

"You want me to stop? Give me one good reason why I shouldn't continue picking you apart, using my tongue alone."

Over-stimulation? Yeah, you better get used to it. Eivor isn't going to stop when your thighs are shaking around her head. She wants to see you utterly debauched.

And if you try to give her the same treatment? Good luck. She's a strong woman who will literally pick you up and throw you around like a rag doll. That is, if you want it.

"You're so adorable when you try to boss me about. You seem to forget which one of us is taking charge tonight. Here, let me remind you..."

Skin contact is appreciated, but not essential. There's something feral about having Eivor pin you down whilst she's still in her full gear, blood stained and all.

However, when Eivor wants to be tender and romantic, then the clothes are coming off!

A little bit of bondage may enter your sex life. Nothing too wild, just your wrists tied together, or a makeshift gag whenever you're being too loud.

Eivor isn't going to go out of her way to introduce toys. Why bother? Her fingers and mouth work perfectly fine. But if you suggest it, then Eivor will listen, although she knows they will never compete with her skills.

After care is very essential to Eivor. Nothing beats a kiss and a cuddle, no matter if you're out in the wilderness, or cooped up in a bed of furs.

Expect a few courting braids to be in your hair once Eivor is done with you. It's a key part of her after care routine.

[guilty-ff]

𝐁𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐌𝐢𝐝𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐏𝐭. 𝟏

ᡕᠵ᠊ᡃ່࡚ࠢ࠘ ⸝່ࠡࠣ᠊߯᠆ࠣ࠘ᡁࠣ࠘᠊᠊ࠢ࠘𐡏 ˚⁎⁺˳ .

𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐞𝐚𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐀𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐬, 𝐘/𝐧 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐩𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭. 𝐒𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐁𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞 , 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝- 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐢𝐝𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭. 𝐀𝐬 𝐚 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐨, 𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐬, 𝐲𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐢𝐬 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞. 𝐀𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞, 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐉𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐓𝐨𝐝𝐝- 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐭𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐰 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝.

This story takes place after Jason's death (warning: not 100% Comic accurate)

Pairings: Dick Grayson/Nightwing x (fem!Reader) Slight Jason Todd/Red hood x (fem!Reader)

Genre: Action, Angst, Revenge, Violence, DC

Warnings: Comic Spoilers!, Explicit content, Child abuse, swearing, torture, mental health, weapons

Word count: 4178

Y/n lay curled on the cold stone floor of a dim chamber, the hard surface beneath her bruised body unforgiving. Faint, flickering candlelight licked at the ancient walls, casting restless shadows around the room. She awoke from a fitful sleep, startled by footsteps echoing down the narrow corridor outside.

Pain grew with her every movement, her muscles worn and aching from hours of brutal sparring against her grandfather, Ra's al Ghul. Each session with him left new bruises, deeper aches, and a burdening doubt that clung to her like a shadow she couldn't shake.

But even through the soreness and exhaustion, a trained instinct in her forced her to her feet, to ready herself. She barely had time to stretch her limbs when the door swung open, and Ra's himself stepped into the room, his gaze piercing and severe, his presence casting a weight that even the flickering candlelight seemed to shrink from. He did not say a word, simply gestured to the center of the room with a single, commanding flick of his wrist. It was time to spar again.

Y/n dragged herself upright, feeling the ache in her bones but refusing to let it show. She squared her shoulders, locking her eyes on him. This time, she told herself, this time I won't lose. But she could not ignore the tiredness that seeped into her very core. She took her stance, her fists raised, ready to face him.

Ra's circled her, his gaze unrelenting. "Your posture is sloppy, child," he sneered, his voice like venom. "That fatigue- you let it weaken you. A true warrior rises above physical limitations."

Y/n gritted her teeth, trying not to let his words affect her. She needed to focus. She needed to keep her cool. But Ra's knew exactly how to break her.

He lunged toward her without warning, his movements precise and lethal. Y/n barely had a second to react, her hands fumbling to reach down to her boots, where she kept her daggers hidden. She managed to draw one, its edge glinting in the candlelight as she raised it defensively. She aimed a calculated strike toward his shoulder, hoping to throw him off-balance. But he moved with practiced ease, sidestepping her attack and catching her arm with a bone-crushing grip.

Ra's twisted her arm, forcing her to drop the dagger. It clattered to the floor as he kicked her back, causing her to fall to the ground. Her body screamed in protest as she tried to roll back to her feet, scrambling to retrieve her fallen weapon. She snatched it up, but Ra's was already advancing, his expression mocking.

"Pathetic," he taunted, sidestepping another one of her attacks. "You waste your energy on emotion, and it makes you weak."

Anger surged within her, giving her the strength to attempt another swing, her blade slashing through the air toward him. But he was faster, his movements fluid and effortless.

He caught her wrist, twisting it painfully, until the dagger slipped from her grasp once more. Then he brought his other hand down, a brutal strike that landed against her ribs, knocking the wind out of her lungs.

Y/n stumbled back, gasping for breath. Her vision swam, but she forced herself to keep her gaze fixed on him. She could feel his contempt radiating, a burning heat that made her blood boil.

"Is that all you have?" he scoffed, his voice like ice. "I expected more from you, the daughter of Talia and my former student."

The mention of her father sliced through her like a knife. The man who had abandoned her, the one her mother had spoken of only in hushed tones filled with pain. Her mother had told her that she wanted to keep her safe, away from the world that Ra's had built- a world of blood and brutality.

Talia had spoken of a plan once, how she would even try to send Y/n away, to give her a chance to escape this life. She would whisper to Y/n about lying to her lover, telling him that she had a miscarriage and died immediately after birth, unable to bear the thought of their love creating something that would be raised in this darkness.

Yet here she was, her mother's plan twisted and crushed by Ra's iron will, and her father- a man she had never met, who had not cared enough to search for her- was just a painful ghost in her mind. She had no loyalty to him, no desire for his approval, but hearing her family used against her, ignited something fierce and unyielding in her heart.

Fueled by anger and defiance, Y/n dove for her second dagger, lunging at Ra's with renewed fury. She swung with precision, aiming for his side, but he parried her strike with ease, twisting her arm again until pain shot through her shoulder. She cried out, trying to twist free, but he slammed his elbow into her back, forcing her down to one knee.

"Anger without control is nothing more than recklessness," he hissed, tightening his grip until she could feel her bones creak. "You think you are strong, but you are nothing more than a disappointment."

The words stung worse than any physical blow, and she fought to keep her composure, fighting the tears that pricked at her eyes. He released her roughly, and she staggered, barely managing to stay on her feet.

"You let your emotions control you," he said, voice low, triumphant. "A real assassin knows that anger is a weakness, a gap in one's armor. Until you learn control, you are nothing but a reckless child."

Y/n glared up at him, her chest heaving, every inch of her aching. She wanted to lash out, to prove herself, but she knew he was right. She had let her anger take control, and it had cost her the match, again.

Ra's released her with a shove, and she collapsed onto her knees, her fists clenched. Her grandfather's cold gaze lingered on her for a moment before he turned away, pacing slowly.

"Get up," he ordered, not even looking back at her. "There is much you still lack. You have no discipline, no restraint. Tomorrow, you have an important task. One you cannot fail."

She struggled to her feet, holding back the sharp words she wanted to throw at him. "What task?" she managed, her voice low and filled with defiance.

"You will see in time," he replied dismissively. "Rest, if you can manage even that." He cast one last look of disapproval her way before leaving the room, his footsteps echoing down the darkened hall.

As she sank back onto the ground, exhaustion settled over her like a heavy blanket. She could not deny the bitterness building inside her- toward her grandfather, toward this life that demanded so much from her. A flicker of sadness washed over her as she thought of her younger brother, Damian, separated from her for years, was undergoing his own trials somewhere out in this vast, hellish empire her grandfather had built.

The last time she would seen him, he would been smaller- still with the innocent and rebellious curiosity in his eyes that had not yet hardened into Ra's brutal expectations. She wondered if he, too, had been subject to this same torment, if he was enduring the same impossible lessons drilled into his spirit. Her fists tightened at the thought of him, alone and unprotected.

──────────────────────The following day, she arrived at the designated location, a small building in the heart of the compound. Inside, it was dimly lit, the air thick with the smell of disinfectant.

A handful of assassins stood guard around the room, their gazes expressionless. Near the back was a small medical station, complete with a heart monitor and surgical tools that gleamed in the sparse light. The setup sent a chill down her spine.

Ra's stood at the center, next to a medic. He gestured toward a chair in the middle of the room, a chair with thick leather straps at the arms and legs. She hesitated, glancing around the room, confusion and unease knotting in her stomach.

"Sit," Ra's commanded, his voice carrying an edge of finality.

Her instincts told her something was wrong, but this was her grandfather. She had been raised to trust his judgment, to believe in his vision. She took a breath and sat down, allowing the guards to bind her wrists and ankles to the chair.

As the leather straps tightened around her, she looked up at Ra's, her eyes questioning. "What is this?"

He gave her a thin smile, something almost like pride mingling with a cold calculation. "This is for your own good, my child. And for the future of the League of Assassins."

She clenched her fists, anxiety twisting in her chest. "What- are you going to do?"

The medic stepped forward, holding a n injection filled with a dark fluid. Ra's took the injection, studying it for a moment before turning his gaze back to her.

"This is a serum that will strengthen you, enhance your endurance, and allow you to reach heights no assassin has before," he said.

"It is a gift, one that will push you beyond human limits."

A part of her wanted to resist, to question him. But she forced herself to relax, to trust. She nodded, her jaw clenched as she prepared herself for whatever was to come.

Ra's gave a nod to the medic, who adjusted the monitor and placed it on her chest. The screen came to life, beeping with each steady heartbeat. Y/n took a deep breath, keeping her gaze on her grandfather as he approached.

"This will hurt," he said with a hint of warning, though his voice lacked sympathy.

He slid the needle into her arm and pressed the plunger down, injecting the dark fluid into her veins. Immediately, a sharp, searing pain exploded in her arm, spreading like fire through her bloodstream. She clenched her teeth, trying to keep still, but the pain intensified, radiating through her body with a burning intensity that made her gasp.

The medic watched with a calculating gaze, his attention fixed on the monitors as they beeped and whirred. "The formula seems stable," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Ra's looked on impassively, his gaze unmoved by her pain. "Increase the dosage," he commanded, his tone clipped.

The medic hesitated. "It could push her beyond her limit."

Ra's raised an eyebrow, a hint of displeasure flashing in his eyes. "If she breaks, she was not worthy of the League to begin with."

The medic obeyed, pressing another dose into her. The pain intensified, a white-hot blaze tearing through her body. She tried to fight it, to hold on, but her vision began to blur, her mind slipping into darkness as her heart pounded erratically.

Her vision blurred, her muscles tightening as the serum pulsed through her veins. It felt like her blood was being set alight, as if every cell was being ripped apart and rebuilt all at once. Her body trembled, her breath coming in shallow, panicked gasps as she fought to stay conscious.

The medic glanced at Ra's, his brow furrowing. "The reaction is... extreme. Perhaps her body is rejecting it?"

Ra's narrowed his eyes, watching her with an unreadable expression. "She will survive. She must. The pain is necessary."

Y/n could barely process their words through the haze of agony, her world reduced to the relentless fire tearing through her. Her heartbeat quickened, the beeping of the monitor escalating into a rapid staccato. She tried to focus, tried to breathe, but it felt as if her very soul was being consumed by the serum.

Her vision swam, the edges darkening. She heard a faint, distant voice- her own, whispering a desperate plea that she barely recognized.

Please... stop...

But the pain only grew, swelling into a hurricane that drowned out every thought, every sensation. Her body shattered, her vision fading completely as a single, high-pitched beep filled the room. The medic's voice echoed somewhere far away, filled with panic.

"She's crashing! We're losing her-"

The last thing Y/n saw was her grandfather's cold, unwavering gaze as the world faded to black.

Here she was. Abandoned and tossed away, as it always has been.

─────────────────────

Darkness swallowed her whole as she slipped into unconsciousness, but her mind refused to stay still. It dragged her into a whirlwind of twisted memories, pain, and a rage that had no end.

She could feel herself spiraling, a hollow, sinking feeling in her chest as memories surfaced- shit, she would tried to push down, bury, forget. But they clawed their way up, bringing all her nightmares with them, every goddamn thing she wished she could rip out of her own mind.

She was back there, seven years old, sitting on the cold, stone floor with bruised knees and chapped lips, staring up at Ra's. He towered above her, looking down with that ice-cold, unfeeling stare that made her want to run and hide or, hell, to fight him until her knuckles bled.

In his hand, he held a small bottle, filled with some sickly green liquid that looked wrong. She would heard the whispers from the others, the talk about "training" that went beyond fists and blades. But nothing could have prepared her for this.

He would handed it to her, a simple, unforgiving command. "Drink." His voice, as sharp as steel, gave her no chance to hesitate, no chance to refuse. Her small fingers shook as she lifted the bottle to her lips and swallowed.

The taste was worse than anything she would ever felt; bitter and oily, coating her throat as it burned its way down. Within seconds, her stomach twisted, her head went light, and a wave of nausea tore through her, bringing her to her knees. She tried to breathe, to focus, but the poison was like fire in her veins, searing her insides until all she could do was choke back sobs.

"Good," he would murmured, watching her squirm with a sick kind of satisfaction. "This is how you build strength. Pain reminds you of weakness. Endure it, and you will become immune."

She remembered the rage, the fear, the aching need to scream at him, to fight him, even though she knew it would not change a damn thing. He watched her without flinching, like her suffering was just part of the plan.

To him, I was nothing more than a weapon, she thought, bitter and young, still too naive to understand just how deep that truth ran. But she did know one thing, even back then: she was alone. Her mother, her brother, her father- none of them could save her from him, from what he wanted her to become.

As the memory faded, a dull, sinking pain settled in her chest. She was still that child on the floor in his eyes, wasn't she? A tool, a pawn for him to mold. And no matter how far she pushed herself, how much blood she shed, it would never be enough. She would always be left searching for approval, chasing shadows, bending under the weight of his expectations.

The world around her shifted, her thoughts slipping, her mind dragging her deeper into the dark. A voice echoed somewhere in her mind, her own voice but darker, colder, taunting. You think you are something more now? You are still his weapon. Just a puppet in his game.

A feeling of cold dread twisted in her gut, gripping her so tightly she felt like she was drowning in it, in the memories, the scars, the poison. She tried to fight it, tried to pull herself out, but the darkness would not let go. And the last thing she felt before everything faded was that cold, hard floor, and her own desperate, unsteady heartbeat fighting to stay alive.

Then, a sharp light cut through the haze.

As her senses sharpened, she realized she was lying on a narrow bed in a sterile, dimly lit room. The faint hum of machines was the only sound, each beep a reminder of her pulse, steady but weak. CCTV cameras sat ominously in the corners, red lights blinking as they watched her every movement, and a monitor beside her displayed a barrage of medical statistics she barely understood.

She shifted slightly, feeling the stiffness in her limbs. Her memory flickered, bringing back only fragmented flashes of pain, the biting grip of leather straps, and her grandfather's cold gaze.

A medic rushed in, his coat brushing against the metallic table beside her as he leaned over, checking the various monitors. "How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice neutral, though his gaze was intense as he studied her face.

"What...what happened to me?" she murmured, her voice scratchy, throat raw as if from screaming. "I remember... pain. And then... nothing."

He did not answer immediately, instead adjusting one of the IV drips at her side. "Your body's adjusting. The injection had... expected effects," he said, sidestepping her question. "You survived. That's what matters."

She frowned, narrowing her eyes. "Expected effects? You mean whatever you injected into me was supposed to feel like... like dying?"

The medic looked down, his expression tightening, though he did not respond directly. Instead, he muttered, "You should focus on resting. You'll need your strength." He moved away, but Y/n could feel the tension lingering, thick in the air like the shadow of an unspoken warning.

Before she could demand further answers, the heavy door opened, and Ra's al Ghul entered, his silhouette casting a shadow across the dim room. She felt her muscles stiffen instinctively, a lingering resentment growing.

He stepped forward, his eyes sweeping over her, assessing her with the same calculating coldness he always wore. "My weapon," he began, his voice a chilling calm, "is looking sharper already."

She forced herself to sit up, her body protesting with every movement, but she met his gaze, defiance burning behind her exhaustion. "Weapon?" she repeated, her tone laced with contempt. "Is that all I am?"

Ra's gave a small, humorless smile. "You are precisely what you are meant to be- what you were always destined to become." He paused, his gaze hardening. "A weapon, yes, but one that will serve a purpose greater than yourself. Soon, you will meet someone who will help you understand this purpose."

She frowned, gripping the edge of the bed. "Who? Who am I supposed to meet?"

"That is not your concern yet," he replied, dismissing her question with a wave of his hand. "In three days, you will be ready. For now, rest." He glanced at the medic, giving a subtle nod before he turned and swept out of the room, leaving her with more questions than answers, each one tightening around her like a vice.

──────────────────────Three days passed slowly, a blur of loneliness, rest, and uneasy recovery. On the third day, as she lay half-asleep in bed, she heard the door creak open.

Her mother, Talia, stepped inside, her movements hesitant, her face plastered with an expression Y/n had rarely seen, fear. Talia's eyes glistened with unshed tears, and before Y/n could react, her mother crossed the room and enveloped her in an embrace, her grip tight, desperate.

"My child," Talia whispered, her voice trembling. "I... I never wanted this for you. Not this. I thought I could... protect you." Her words came out in choked fragments, as though each one pained her.

Y/n stiffened, unused to this softness from her mother. But she could feel Talia's shoulders shaking, the rare vulnerability in her mother's touch. Despite her own bitterness, Y/n found herself whispering, "It's... it's not your fault, Mother. You couldn't have changed his mind." The words felt heavy, a lie that scraped at her own heart.

Talia pulled back slightly, her eyes searching her face, filled with regret. "When you were born... I thought of sending you away, giving you a life untouched by all of this." She took a shaky breath. "But I couldn't do it. I told... him... that you were gone, that I'd lost you. It was the only way I could think to keep you safe. But then-"

Her voice broke, and she lowered her head, grief pooling in her eyes. Y/n felt her throat tighten, her resentment momentarily melting away in the face of her mother's raw pain.

"You did what you could," she whispered, though it felt hollow. Deep down, her own anger and resentment pulsed, a silent accusation, though she could not bear to voice it now.

Talia held her gaze, tears slipping down her cheeks. "I only wanted you to be safe," she murmured, barely audible. Y/n forced herself to offer a faint smile, a mask to soothe her mother's guilt. Yet, inside, her heart ached, the weight of everything pressing down, suffocating.

After a long silence, Talia finally released her, helping her stand with a steadiness Y/n had not felt in days. "There is someone you need to see," she said softly, her tone laced with a strange mix of hope and reluctance.

Y/n followed her mother out of the compound, walking through the winding corridors until they reached an opening that led to a hidden cave deep within the mountains.

The air grew damp and thick, carrying the faint smell of something metallic, ancient. At the center of the cavern was a pool of murky, green-tinged water, the infamous Lazarus Pit that she would heard whispers about her entire life. Its ominous glow bathed the cave in a sickly green light.

Beside the pit lay a man, half-naked and visibly scarred, likely in his twenties. His skin pale against the dark stone floor. His black hair fell over his eyes, though a striking streak of white cut through his bangs, an unnatural contrast to the rest. He seemed dazed, disoriented, though the fury in his gaze was unmistakable as he glared at her, his breathing ragged and shallow.

He looked around wildly, his eyes darting between Y/n, Talia, and Ra's, who now stood at the edge of the cavern, watching with cold satisfaction.

"Who are you people?" he snarled, voice hoarse, his gaze landing on Talia and narrowing. "Where am I? Where's Batman? And... the Joker..." His voice faltered slightly, an edge of agony creeping in before he masked it with renewed rage.

Y/n remained silent, her own confusion growing. She glanced at Ra's, who stepped forward, his expression one of grim satisfaction.

"This," Ra's began, gesturing to the man, "is our guest, found at death's door, and brought back to life by the power of the Lazarus Pit." His eyes gleamed with a cruel satisfaction as he looked down at the man. "A gift of resurrection... though I'm sure it's left you with memories you'd rather not confront."

The man struggled to sit up, his muscles tensing as he looked around, his eyes blazing with anger. "What did you do to me?" he demanded, his voice a low growl.

Ra's simply watched him, unperturbed. "What I did, I did for a purpose greater than you. You will serve the League in return for the gift of life-"

"I didn't ask for your 'gift,'" he spat, glaring up at Ra's, his gaze cold. "I don't owe you anything."

Ra's lips curled into a faint smile, his gaze shifting to Y/n. "You may not feel inclined to serve us now, but that will change. You will find that we can be... persuasive."

He turned to Y/n, his expression stern. "This man will help you hone your skills and strength in a way I cannot. You are both the weapons this League needs." His voice softened slightly, taking on an almost mocking tone. "And perhaps, you both have something to learn from each other."

She looked down at the man, who met her gaze with fierce distrust and hostility. His hands clenched into fists, and she could see the tension in his posture, the resistance and defiance etched in every line of his body. She felt her own sense of rage rise. It was not pity she felt for him, but a recognition of the same anger that burned within her.

Without breaking eye contact, she reached out a hand to him, an invitation to stand, to fight, to accept this fate they would both been forced into. Her hand hovered in the air between them, unwavering.

"My name is Y/n," she said quietly, her voice steady. "If we're both trapped here... then we might as well work together."

The man hesitated, his eyes flickering between her face and her outstretched hand. Finally, he reached up, clasping her hand in his with a firm, defiant grip.

"Jason," he replied, his voice dark. "Jason Todd."

Part 2

[alessiathepirate]

Assassin's Creed: Mirage

THE ART OF PICKPOCKETING: Basim Ibn Ishaq x fem!reader

Summary: Basim Ibn Ishaq really liked to think of himself as someone, who's impossible to pickpocket -- and she finally found the opportunity to prove him wrong.

Notes: English isn't my first language. I apologize for any mistake I may have made while I wrote this short story.

Warnings: none

•••

Basim Ibn Ishaq really liked to think of himself as someone, who's impossible to pickpocket.

And whenever he said that thought out loud, she wanted nothing more than to prove him wrong.

She sometimes liked to include the children too, who were free to do whatever they wanted after finishing the task Dervis had given them. They liked to be the distraction, while she did her best to sneak up on him and take the little blue charm from his scarf. When she failed Basim chuckled while the children laughed. Nehal just stood not far away, shaking her head as she tried to hide a smile.

All her attempts had failed. None of them worked.

Basim always seemed to expect all her ideas and tries, and he was holding a firm grip on her wrist the moment her fingertips were touching his clothes.

She almost gave up, accepting defeat. Almost.

Because soon the right moment presented itself.

She just came back from an errand Dervis had given her -- an easy task; just a go in - grab the small chest of dirhams - then get out without getting caught. She was on her way to give Dervis the chest when she ran into Basim - or rather: Basim jumped her in a tight alleyway.

She was startled and almost dropped the dirhams, what would've gotten her a long, endless, angry speech from Dervis himself. She playfully hit Basim on the shoulder as he laughed.

"You're such a child sometimes, I swear." she shook her head disapprovingly, hiding a smile.

"Oh, come on! You left me all alone today with nothing to do!"

"Wasn't Nehal around?" she asked with a raised eyebrow as she continued to walk toward Dervis' place.

Basim followed her closely.

"Nehal isn't you." he complained and she felt a blush threatening to appear on her cheeks. "Besides, she never wants to come with me to see what the Hidden Ones are up to!"

"Because you annoy her a bit too much with that." she chuckled as Basim pouted at her teasing tone. "And it's not a bad thing that at least one of us isn't suicidal."

"Do you have any other errands to do after this one?" Basim asked.

"No. Why? Is there something you'd like to do?"

"I was thinking, maybe we could go and practice."

"Practice what?" confusion was the only visible emotion on her face.

"Pickpocketing."

She stopped so suddenly that Basim almost bumped into her. It was Basim's turn to look confused and hers to pout.

She looked at him as if he just hurt her feelings. Her eyebrows were raised as if challenging him to continue. When he didn't, she decided to voice her anger.

"Pickpocketing? You think I need to practice pickpocketing?" her voice was higher than usual and Basim just scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, not really knowing what to say.

"Well, everyone needs to practice..."

"Basim!" she could imagine his heart jumping at her tone. "Do you think I need to practice?"

He crossed his arms in front of his chest and did his very best to look confident, but he couldn't really fool her. She knew him too well. And she knew he wasn't feeling overly confident at all.

"Well, I did follow you and you didn't even notice me until I jumped you. And you still can't pickpocket me."

If looks could kill...

"So you're telling me that no one could possibly surprise you? Not like you suprised me?"

A quiet understanding ran through Basim's eyes, as if he finally realized that he set up a trap for himself. Her eyes were shining with mischief as she was waiting for an answer, and his body became more rigid, feeling a storm coming.

"That's exactly what I'm saying..."

Always acting so confident, always hiding the side of him she loved the most - the side that loved poetry, and softness, and the thought of love itself...

"If that's what you think, Basim..."

She put the chest between her left arm and her side to keep her right hand free. Then, she took a step or two toward Dervis' place to let Basim feel safe and give him the false feeling of relief.

The moment she heard him take the first step, she turned around, grabbed his scarf and pulled him down into a kiss.

She closed her eyes, but she could imagine the surprised look on his face. She could imagine him blushing and she could imagine his eyes being wide open. And those thoughts made her grin.

She made sure to kiss him with passion. To show him the feelings she has been having for him since the beginning of time. She made sure to kiss him roughly, she made sure it made him lose all his senses. She made sure it was a great distraction.

By the time Basim collected himself and found the courage in himself to kiss back, she already let go of his scarf and pulled away.

His flushed face made her smile widely.

"So this wasn't surprising... At all..."

"No, I--"

She grinned.

"It's alright Basim. It happens to the best of us."

She started to walk again and after a few long seconds Basim began to follow her.

Some of the children noticed them and ran toward them to greet them. She just giggled and raised her left hand high, showing them the blue charm what she was holding in a tight grip.

"I finally did it!"

The cheering was almost comical. So was the laughter what came after Basim touched his scarf with a confused expression, not believing that the charm was gone.

"Oh, don't worry Basim, we all need our practice!" she teased and the children laughed harder.

"That's cheating!" Basim argued with a blush. "Give it back!"

"Get it back!" she shouted as she began to run, dropping the chest of dirhams not caring if Dervis gets his money or not; or if he gets angry or not.

Victory just felt too good. So did Basim's lips on hers.

Their game of cat and mouse didn't last long. After a few minutes Basim managed to tackle her on one of the rooftops - and she gladly let him turn her around and kiss her with so much passion, she had to whimper.

Yet the minute Basim's fingertips touched the charm, she grabbed his wrist, pulling him away from her prize.

"Don't you dare." she warned.

Basim grinned. She did too. Then his lips were on hers again as her free hand held onto his shoulder tight.

[afkmylajah]

Asano Gakuhō was one of my first hear me out. From one of my first ever anime’s Assassination Classroom. I’m making a yandere one shot of him making him a sugar daddy/mob boss right now.