#Trini x reader

[glimmerlofsea]

Jason Scott x Reader

RANGER WHAT?

PT. 1.

Warning : Fightinggg

WC; 3,5k

#TALKISSA; This part two of 'Ranger What'!

Jason explain it to you all the parts and every detail. That Jason and his friends are the Power Rangers, heroes of Angel Grove— well, your brain can still accept it. But not when he started mentioning that you were the next Ranger, the Lost Ranger, the White Ranger with their instinct abilities, and other nonsensical things.

You sat on a chair in the empty room, Jason sat next to you,

"...And we purposely arranged the tour to come to this museum, because we just found out that our last coin was here, Y/N. And it called you, didn't it? That means you are-"

"A Ranger, yes I know." You replied, cutting him off, still trying to digest what he said.

Your gaze was locked on the floor, Jason said being a Ranger required great sacrifice, even if you guys had to die you had to be ready- but you couldn't. Never will.

"Jason." You turned to him, "I have a family, Jeremy is not old enough to be able to take care of my father who is getting older, if I do this and what if I die? What if I fall? I'm not a soldier. I'm just a girl-"

"Hey, hey."

You stop what you're talking about,

"I won't let that happen. We won't let that happen."

He held your hand, holding it tightly, "We take care, we protect each other because that is our principle."

You controlled your breath, "I can't. I still can't."

"The coin chose you, Y/N. It has to be you. Somehow, the coin believes that you are the right choice for it." Kimberly said which made you looking at her.

You could feel Jason releasing his grip, "How about we get reacquainted first?"

"Y/N. I'm Jason Scott, The Red Ranger."

"Kimberly Hart. Kim, The Pink Ranger."

"Billy Cranston. The Blue Ranger."

"Zack Taylor, The Black Ranger."

"Trini Kwan. The Yellow Ranger."

You look at the girl named Trini, she looked petite and very beautiful, she looked like she had Latin blood.

"I love yellow." You said while smiling slightly looking at her, she smiled, "Thank you."

"Your turn, Y/N." Jason said.

You nodded and looked at them all, "Y/N Y/L/N."

They all seemed to be waiting for you to say what color Ranger you got, you smiled awkwardly and shook your head, "No. That's not gonna happen and I won't say it."

"You're still in denial, I get it, Y/N. But the coin chose you. There's nothing we can do about that, and we can't just change it." Trini said walking towards you.

You took a breath.

And here you are, trying to accept the fact that you were one of them, the heroes of Angel Grove.

You and the others are walking towards a mine that is still under construction.

Trini and Kim were seen early in front, Billy and Zack chatted and joked, you walked alone behind. Your mind is not in sync with your body, as if someone is taking over your body.

You felt your feet slipping, until finally a hand grabbed yours,

You widened your eyes with what just happened, you could have died.

"Careful, White." Jason said smiling, you faked a smile, "Yeah, thank you, Red." He chuckled at your reply.

He matched his footsteps with yours, "Jason,"

He cleared his throat, you opened your mouth, "The huge sacrifice that a ranger requires... Have you ever done it? I mean- on the verge of death and so on?"

He smiled, "No. You know, the last time Angel Grove was under siege by evil—like huge gold-plated monsters was a few months ago, so that's when me and the others were really fighting for our lives."

You nodded and took a breath, "Hey," he said which made you look at him, "I know maybe you're nervous, feel weird, scared, and so on, believe me, I was like that too when I first experienced it. But, Y /N, everything will be fine. We'll just take you to Zordon and you'll take a little training."

You nod again,

"Guys, we have reached the edge of the cliff. Do you want to jump first or jump straight into the water?"

You heard Zack screaming. Slowly you advanced your steps— and saw how high it was to reach the surface of the water. You didn't know the Angel Grove mine had this.

"Forget it, I'll go straight into the water." Zack said, he looked at you and waved his hand, "See you, odd girl."

He immediately dropped to the surface there, you swallowed your thirst, Billy followed Zack, Trini grabbed your shoulder before she caught up with Billy and Zack, Kim approached you, "Don't worry, we won't die." She smiled and jumped.

You just stay silent, it was just you and Jason left up there. You looked at Jason who smiled at you, “Jump together?”

"I would love to do that."

Jason took your hand to hold it, "Ready?" You nodded.

You can't explain the situation, but when you jump you scream as loud as you can and it feels like you're in the air for a long time, like you're moving in slow motion, you know?

Once you reach the surface of the air, you close your nose to not let air in.

You floated in the air and saw Zack, Kim, Trini, Billy, and Jason looking at you. You rubbed your face so the air on your face wouldn't interfere with your vision, feeling strange that they were all staring at you, you let out a voice, "What?"

"You are the brightest." Billy said.

You were confused, but after seeing their bodies glow according to the color they had, you looked at your own body which was surrounded by white light. You let out a smile, happy to see the radiation of the light you had.

"Okay. Without further ado, let's go to Zordon?" Kim said a little hesitantly.

You nod, they start to dive back down, you follow them, and suddenly in your blurred vision in the water you see them slowly disappear as they touch the reflection of the water. Only yourself is left in the water, you are out of breath, for now you won't ask too many questions, you follow them.

Touch the reflection and everything is upside down, you fall due to gravity. Luckily you didn't fall right to the bottom of the rock, you groaned and then realized you were on top of someone, you widened your eyes when you realized you were on top of Jason, your hair was still wet, dripping onto Jason's shirt.

"Hello there," he said with a sly smile, you stiffened and immediately smiled awkwardly, maybe you could say you were a little comfortable with that position...?

You heard Billy clear his throat, you immediately got up and stood up straight, "Sorry,"

"No problem." Jason smiled back, he also aroused himself like you.

You shook the dirt off your clothes, that's when you realized that you were in a cave.

"Come on," said Trini.

You follow them, and are amazed by what you see, a large ship hiding in the cave. Long story short, they take you on the ship,

"Zordon! Zordon! Zordon! She's here! The white ranger is here!"

You hear a shrill voice shout. That's when you see robot prototypes walking around. You were so confused that you put on your stupid face, you heard Jason chuckle, “Come here.”

You follow Jason, "That's Alpha 5. Weird I know, but can we say he's like our mentor's assistant?"

You nod.

You are taken to a room that could be said to be the heart of this ship,

"Y/N Y/L/N. White ranger. Welcome back."

You were speechless... What really spoke to you was just a face, "Oh my fucking god." you whispered.

You heard the face chuckle, "I know it's weird, as do the rest of your friends when they set foot here. And I'm so glad our missing Ranger is back. It was nice meeting you, Y/N."

You smiled awkwardly, "Nice to meet you too, Zordon?" Your tone sounds unsure.

"I'm sure Jason has explained everything to you?" Zordon asked, you nodded, “Then today we will try to get you to morph into your costume, understand?” You nodded your head a second time.

"And how?"

You are taken to another cave on the ship, but Zordon's voice can still be heard.

"Actually, our previous enemy has fallen... And I'm not sure I would use a hologram of our old enemy. So, Y/N, you will fight your friend." Alpha 5 said, at first you were confused, “What?”

Until you see the 5 Angel Grove heroes in their costumes, you chuckle in disbelief, "I won't fight them in those costumes, right?" You looked at Alpha 5, he didn't say anything back, "I wish you a good luck, Y/N."

You looked back at those who were really ready to fight you, "Great. I'm fucking dying."

You prepare your moves, you actually don't know how to actually fight, it's only because you often watch several movies that you know some of the moves you have to use when fighting.

The blue one stepped forward— Billy came forward to fight you, his movements were very fast, he threw a punch but you quickly dodged and kicked him, your legs were in pain from the attack of the silver plated costume, "Damn it!"

Not long after, Trini and Kimberly came forward, Trini managed to land a punch on your face while Kim aimed for your stomach, you felt cramps all over your body, you tried to fight it, slowly you twisted your leg so that Trini suddenly fell, when Kim's attention was distracted by Trini, you punched her in the face which was visible through her mask.

You felt blood flowing from your nose, you saw Zack who was advancing his steps, you immediately wiped your blood, he pushed you until you were cornered on the rocks of the cave, you hit his back using your elbow, you thought you were starting to get used to the presence of this coin on you. You feel.. Stronger.

You kicked Zack's genitals with your knee, cliche but successful enough to send Zack sprawling on the floor. You immediately chuckled at him.

No sooner had you seen Jason standing side by side with Kim, as if they were ready to fight you, again, than you groaned, “Ugh.”

Kim goes forward and throws all the punches she can, you grab her hand and twist it so she groans, you immobilize her on the surface and push her far away.

You looked at Jason who was taking off his mask, he smiled, "You're getting used to it, aren't you?"

You smiled and he put his mask back on, "Take it easy on me, Red." You said before your fight started.

Your fight with Jason didn't require what you went through with all of them, he didn't hesitate to throw punches, kicks and whatever he had to paralyze you. You threw your fists, but he grabbed your hands and lifted you onto his shoulders then pushed you back, making you groan, you took the opportunity to wrap your legs around his neck.

"Sorry." You said before hitting him on the head again with your elbow, making him lose his balance and the two of you just fell.

"It's so tense here!" shouted Alpha 5.

As you fell together, Jason and you looked at each other before you were completely pressed against him, he was on top of you, holding your hand with both of his. Your breathing is irregular, you try to control your breath.

He took off his mask and showed a sly smile, "Am I 'take it easy on you', White?"

You smiled, “Sure you are.”

You heard a lot of fake coughs, as did Jason, you immediately stood up, you were amazed to see that their costumes had completely changed to how they were before.

You sigh, "So what? I don't see me 'morphing'?"

Trini looked at Kim, then Kim looked at you, "If this doesn't work, then we'll do something else."

"Oh, please, don't fight anymore. My body hurts so bad." You whined.

Jason chuckled, "No, we won't. Come on."

You follow them, they take you to the edge of the mine which is not far from Zack's residence, he said. You sat around the campfire, you sat between Zack and Jason.

You took off your leather jacket to reveal yourself wearing only a white tank top, you looked behind your shoulder which had many wounds, you thought that during the fight you accidentally rubbed against a rock.

"So what are we going to do? I don't think I have much time because my dad will be worried and I really need to treat this." Your words ended by pointing to several wounds on your face.

Zack chuckled, "You pretty much beat us there, Y/N. I mean... You're cool because you can fight us in costume."

You smiled, "Thank you. And I'm sorry for kicking your dick."

Zack was seen feeling embarrassed while the others laughed. You brought out your sly smile.

“Did you learn martial arts, Y/N?” Trini asked, you shook your head, “I watched a lot of movies, plus this coin's ability, I think I became more… I don't know, stronger?”

Trini smiled and nodded.

“So, the first thing we do when we can't change is open up to each other, Y/N.” Kim said.

You nod your head, “Okay, then my assignment is open to you all?” You looked at everything slowly, until your gaze stopped on Jason who nodded.

You don't mind sharing your story, "Okay.. I'm Y/N Y/L/N, a new kid from a town far from here. I live with my dad and my little brother, Jeremy, who really likes you guys. I mean, really. Like a maniac. And you have a lot of that maniacs, Scott." You said looking at Jason, the others groaned making Jason chuckle shyly.

You smile.

"Where is your mom?" Billy asked, your smile faded, things got quiet, Zack slapped Billy lightly on the chest, "Dude."

Billy, who looked confused, showed his flat face, "What?"

You smiled, "It's okay. Actually I don't know. And I never want to know. She was rude. To me, to my father, and before she managed to touch Jere, my father decided to move first leaving my mother. And I'm glad he did it."

"She was not only physically abusive... But mentally, she often cursed me with obscene words, such as being called a odd girl, a worthless girl, kind of a bitch, and other insults."

Recalling all those bad memories made you stare straight at the fire and felt warm drops of water fall from your face, you felt someone gently caress your back—and without you looking you knew it was Jason.

You blinked a few times and tried to smile, “That's all I think?”

“I'm sorry, Y/N.” Kim said followed by nods from Billy and Trini.

You smiled, "No need, Kim. But thanks."

"Okay... And as I remember the last time we morphing there must have been a sacrifice?" Zack asked.

You looked at him quickly, your whole face tensing up, Zack chuckled, "No, I'm kidding. It's just because of that creepy witch, Rita."

You breathed a sigh of relief.

At first Zack chuckled, but his smile disappeared again when he looked at you, again and again you were confused, they all looked at you, "What?"

You looked at Jason who smiled in awe, "You did morphing."

You look at your own body in a white costume... You did it! Whatever the term, you morphed!

But it's strange that you don't wear a mask like them...

“But why isn't she wearing a mask?” Billy asks which one is confusing you.

“Take her to Zordon, perhaps?” Trini suggested.

"Good job, Y/N. I didn't expect you to change so quickly." Zordon said to you.

"Thank you. But do you have a reason why I'm not wearing a mask?"

"Oh! Of course. Don't panic, the White Ranger doesn't have a mask because its ability is specifically for physical contact. If you want to use your contact ability, you need eyes to see clearly without a mask."

Ah, that makes sense.

"So cool! Can I be white?!" Zack exclaimed while laughing.

"No." Zordon answered, making you laugh a little.

"However, Y/N. Promise me, all of us, to use your abilities only for good, only for Ranger purposes, and no evil."

You nodded your head, “Thank you for entrusting this coin to me.”

You could see Zordon smile, "You're the one who deserves it, kid. Wear it well."

After that you separated from Trini, Kim, Zack, and Billy. Jason offered to take you home since he was the one who caused all this. If I'm not mistaken, you only got home at 2 in the morning.

The streets were very quiet, Angel Grove was very quiet, only Jason and your footsteps could be heard.

Until you were in front of your house, "This is where we have to part ways." You said with a smile.

He smiled, "It's a shame I still want to spend time with you."

You chuckled, "Thank you. Thank you for promising me and believing in me, Jace."

He chuckled, "Jace? I love that. And also, anytime, Y/N. And everything I said on the bus, it's true, I watch you a lot in class."

You stepped forward and kissed his cheek, then stood up again, “Goodnight.”

Before you heard his answer, you went straight into your house, usually your father would turn on the lights if you weren't home yet, but not this time. Something is wrong and you don't like it.

You open your door... The door is unlocked.

You felt something was wrong, because you felt Jason was still there you screamed his name, "Jason!"

You see your house is completely a mess. Your family photo frame is broken, scattered on the floor,

"What's wrong?!" Jason exclaimed.

You didn't answer him, your breath was already short, you were afraid, you were afraid that the consequences you got as a Ranger would be passed on to your father, and what was worse... to Jeremy.

You took your steps towards Jeremy's room, "Jere?!" Your voice trembled, but there was no answer at all.

The room is no less messy than your living room... What actually happened?

You sobbed, you put one hand on your waist while the other hand you held tightly to your hair, Jason noticed that and held your hand gently so as not to hurt yourself, "Hey. Hey, breathe."

You cried uncontrollably, "What happened? Where are my father and brother, Jason?"

He pulled you into his arms, gently stroking your back, "Sshh. It's okay. We'll figure it out together, okay?"

You cried into his chest. Now the house that was once filled with your father's laughter and Jeremy's jokes has dimmed, even the light that illuminated your own father no longer appears in the house. Where are they? What really happened? You don't like this.

Author Note : I apologize profusely if there are any typos because I originally wrote this from a first point of view... Hihi. I really hope you enjoy it, issea! and I'm really bad at writing fights...

[amberbeach]

'HEIGHTS'

gif belongs to me

After helping Billy fight against the putties on the rocky hillside Trini became determined to climb the rope at the Youth Centre. You were at home when she called, asking you to meet her there, and knew from her voice that she was nervous about conquering her fear of heights.

Trini was sitting chatting to Ernie when you arrived and you both headed to the rope. You heard her exhale and put your hands on her arms, rubbing gentle patterns with your thumbs. "You've got this. I'll be right here ready to catch you."

She placed a hand over yours before approaching the rope. She took a deep breath before beginning to pull herself higher up the rope. When the rope began to swing, she tightened her grip and looked down at you, seeing the smile on your lips.

"I've got you. Don't worry. Just keep looking up."

Jason, Kimberly, Billy, and Zack arrived, the latter keeping his hands behind his back as everyone watched Trini climb higher. When she reached the top, you grinned as the others cheered.

"You did it!"

In her excitement Trini loosened her grip, slipping down slightly and she quickly clutched the rope, looking down and immediately regretting it.

"It's alright, climb on down." You reassured her.

Trini shook her head, closing her eyes until she heard you say, "I've got you. I promise I won't let you fall."

She took a deep breath, nodding, before slowly beginning to descended the rope. When your hand reached her thigh, you grinned as she let go and held her to your chest, spinning her around before setting her feet on the ground.

"I told you, you could do it!"

"Yeah, that was great climbing." Kimberly smiled.

Trini smiled as she stared up at you for a moment before turning to her friends, her eyes widening when Zack jumped forward wearing a Halloween mask, and you watched as she shrieked, climbing the rope in less than a minute. Your eyebrows raised in surprise and amusement which you tried to hide when she looked down at you all from the top.

"Yeah, it really looks like you've overcome your fear of heights."

He took the mask off, chuckling as he waved it around. You suppressed the smile on your lips as Trini shook her head, rolling her eyes to the ceiling before she began to climb down, much more confidently this time. You rested your hands on her waist as she dropped the remaining distance to the ground.

She turned to meet your gaze, "I saw you smiling."

A chuckle left your lips, and you cleared your throat trying to disguise it, but failed to do so. "You climbed the rope really fast, it has to break some kind of record."

She attempted to maintain an annoyed expression but a smile formed on her lips, and you kissed her forehead. "I'm proud of you for conquering your fear of heights."

"Thank you."

[bowdre]

Fury OC

Character used in Fury Fanfic, posted on Wattpad.

ꜰᴜʀʏ - Sam - Wattpad

i. Basics

•Name•

Natalia Jordie Travis

•Nickname•

Dove

•Age•

During African Campaign> 19. In 1945> 22

•Birthday•

June 19th, 1923

•Gender•

Female

•Sexuality•

Straight

•Zodiac•

Gemini

•Height•

5'4"

•Occupation•

M6 Heavy Tank Assistant Gunner

ii.Relationship Status

Courtship with Don since 1943.

At first, Don wasn't too thrilled about having a young female in his crew. His standards were low, though Natalia proved herself, just like she always does. Their friendship soon turned into a relationship when they become increasingly physical, and eventually became wordlessly committed to each other. The man is significantly older than Natalia, but neither of them never cared about that. Grady never paid any mind to his sergeant being soft on his sister. Before Don's death, he promised to go back to America with Natalia and make her his wife.

iii. Appearance

(Liana Liberato)

•Hair colour•

Light brunette

•Hair length•

Midback

•Eye colour•

Golden brown

•Skin tone•

Honey

iv. Personality

•Good traits•

Ambitious, persistent, loyal, athletic, protective

•Bad traits•

Impatient, greedy

•Strengths•

 Brave, charismatic

•Weaknesses•

Lacks empathy

•Like•

Hot meals, clean clothes, black coffee 

•Dislikes•

Nazis

•Habits•

Picking at scabs when anxious

•Talents/skills•

Use of a firearm/military equipment, reading people's emotions

v. Relationships

•Mother•

Morgan Travis

•Father•

Ray Travis

•Siblings•

Gary (Grady) Travis

•Friends•

Don (War Daddy) Collier, Boyd (Bible) Swan, Trini (Gordo) Garcia, Red, Norman (Machine) Ellison, Roy Davis, Warren Peterson

•Close friends•

Pete Binkowski

vi. Backstory

Natalia was born into a family with a work-a-holic father and depressive mother. The girl, along with her older brother, were borderline neglected during their childhood. Natalia herself was never physically harmed, though she was a witness to her father abusing her brother on the daily. The siblings always had a close bond, so much so, Natalia followed Gary into war like a lost puppy.

 Natalia adored her brother, she wanted to be just like him. He was her protector, her best friend, not a day went by when they weren't together. There was no way in hell she was allowing her brother to go off to war without her. Now, it was both their duties to protect each other.

•Military Rank•

Private First Class

•Medals•

Africa Star, Silver Star, Bronze Star, World War II Victory Medal, Purple Heart

•Wounded•

Natalia was wounded by a Nazi soldier at the crossroads. She emerged from the tank into the smoky atmosphere and failed to see the Nazi directly in front of her. She was shot in the right shoulder, and probably would have died if Norman didn't stop the bleeding.

•Death of the Crew•

Grady- Natalia's brother's death was sudden, and brutal. Almost instinctively her hands found their way to his face, cradling him in her arms. It took all of Gordo's might to pull her away.

Bible- Natalia turned to ask the preacher man for a new can, and what she got horrified her. His body lay lifeless, and all she could do was scream his name in agony as tears fell from her eyes.

Gordo- Natalia blamed herself for Trini's death. If she had been fast enough, if her reaction time was quicker, he may have had a chance at survival.

War Daddy- Natalia found herself trying to fix Don's bullet wounds before her own. She was prepared to sit with him until his last breath, but when he convinced her and Norman to escape, she kissed him goodbye before slipping down the hatch.

•TW:SUICIDE•

Dove- Natalia was rescued, alongside her friend Norman. She was pronounced a hero, and sent back home to America. She didn't manage much though, only 5 months after the fate of the Fury Crew, she committed suicide by the use of her own firearm. She left her dog tags on the kitchen table of her parents house as something to remember her by.

[writingsbytee]

THE HOTLINE

SEX OPERATOR TERRY RICHMOND x BLACK FEM READER

*Remember, you are in charge of your own consumption. 18+ up audiences only; minors, please don’t interact!* THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION AND HAS NOT BEEN PROOFREAD

*Please do not plagiarize, repost, or steal my work. This doesn’t count for re-blogs!*

SUMMARY: Set in the early 2000s. Taking your best friend’s tipsy advice, you decide to call a sex hotline for help with dirty talk and your overall insecurities surrounding sex. When you call your local sex hotline, you get more than what you bargained for when Terry pics up the other line. 

PAIRING: Terry Richmond x Blaire (reader)

WARNINGS: 18+; explicit dirty talk, mutual masturbation

AUTHOR’S NOTE: My brain is being CONSUMED by Aaron right now, so enjoy this piece that's been sitting in my drafts for months because I was too scared to finish it!

WORD COUNT: 3.7k

PART 2

TAGLIST

@blackgurlnhermoods @theereina @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @uzumaki-rebellion @keehendrixx @keyaho @megamindsecretlair @dxddykenn @pinkkycherrishh @pinkkycherrish @episodes-ff @kimuzostar @urfavblackbimbo @kianaleani @shallipii @pocketsizedpanther @mymindisneverhere @onherereading @nayaesworld @earthchica @simplyzeeka @skyesthebomb @gg-trini @blyffe @melalsworld @mogul93 @ms-mosley-ifunastyyy @sweettea-and-honeybutter @notapradagurl7 @miyuhpapayuh @playgurlxoxo @yassbishimvintage @dbaileyblog @jimmybutlrr @versaceslutz @ruewritesoccasionally @kaylalb @rose-bliss

Divider: @anitalenia

“I’m sorry Blaire, I just don’t think we’re sexually compatible,”Devin, your now ex, says. Popping the top off a bottle of Don Julio, you start to make yourself a drink. 

“Okay, you can see yourself out” you say, not even bothering to look at him.

“So that’s it? We’re just done?!” Devin shouts.

“Well according to all the bitches you’ve been talking to, this is long overdue. So Devin, like I said, please get the fuck out of my house,” I look up at him, flashing a sickeningly sweet smile.

“Good luck finding a man who’ll fuck a frigid bitch like you,” Devin snarled, grabbing his coat. 

You rolled your eyes and scoff, trying to act like his words don’t phase you. The rapid beat of your heart says otherwise. “Just get the fuck out,” you say, now bored with this interaction. Devin huffs more insults at you as he grabs the rest of his shit, leaving for good. When you hear the click of my front door, you lock it, grab your drink and settle into the sofa, cutting on the TV. 

You’re on your third drink and feeling a little tipsy, when your home phone rings from it place on the coffee table. A small smile graces your face when I see your best friend Nina’s name on the caller ID. 

Blaire: “Hello?”

Nina: “So, how’d it go?”

Blaire: sighs “We never even made it that far. He broke up with me.”

Nina: “He’s a fucking asshole! All because you and sex don’t have a good relationship?”

Blaire: “Apparently, we weren’t sexually compatible. I mean, he never made me feel comfortable. Never tried to get me in the mood, I’m not just a ‘get up and go’ kind of girl. I need romance, sexual tension, and desire. Devin never tried to help me overcome my insecurities around sex, as long as he got off it was fine.”

Nina: “I’m so sorry boo, you deserve so much better than that!”

Blaire: *voice breaking* “I don’t know what’s wrong with me! I don’t want to be like this forever, broken”

Nina: “You are not broken. You just haven’t found anyone who you’ve felt vulnerable enough with to let that side of you come out. Wait, have you tried calling a sex hotline?”

You nearly spit out your drink.

Blaire: “You’re kidding right? No I haven’t tried one, I wouldn’t even know what to say”

Nina: “That’s the thing they’ll do all the prompting for you. It’s helped me just overcome the underlying embarrassment that I’ve had with dirty talk. You should definitely give it a go Blaire. What do you have to lose?”

You contemplated the idea, it never occurred to you to try a sex hotline for your chronic bedroom shyness. What the hell, it couldn’t hurt and, if it turns out to be a complete failure you won’t call ever again. 

Blaire: “Okay, give me the number.”

It’s 11:30 and you’re settled in bed in an oversized tee and fuzzy socks. Twisting up your light pink hair into a claw clip, you flop onto your stomach, turning on the TV. Your  twinkling lights reflect off your tumbler, bathing your room in an ethereal glow. The crumbled piece of paper sits on your nightstand, taunting you. Worrying your lip between your  teeth, you try to weigh the pros and cons. 

“Fuck it,” you mumble, reaching for your phone and the number. With shaky fingers you dial the number, your heart rate skyrocketing when you hear the tell tale dial tone. 

“Thanks for calling ‘the hotline’, how can we help you come today?”, a sultry woman’s voice answers the phone.

“I- I don’t really know what I need,” you say, a slight tremble in your voice.

“Well that’s okay sweetie, what do you want to get accomplished tonight?” the mysterious woman asks. 

“I just want to feel more comfortable talking dirty, and taking initiatives when being intimate. I’m tired of feeling sub-par when it comes to sex. I want to be desired like every other woman” you  said, twirling the phone cord around your finger. 

“Okay, I think I have someone for you. Are you interested in men or women?” She asks.

“Men please,” you say, timidly.

“Perfect! Terry’s going to knock the shyness right out of you. Hold a minute while I connect you. Just remember sweetie, relax and have fun.” With that, she disconnects our call and I hear the beeps of her transferring me. 

There’s a pause on the other end before you hear a throat clear, “Hello?”, a voice that sounds like melted velvet bleeds its way through your phone speakers almost causing you to drop it.

“H- Hi”, you say, the nerves clear as day in your voice. 

“Hey now, don’t be nervous, we're friends, aren’t we baby?”immediately your pussy quivers at the tone of his voice.Who knew a man could sound so sexy? Just the sound of his voice alone was enough to melt the panties of every woman in a five mile radius.

“Sorry, I’ve just never done anything like this before”you said, nervously.

“Well, let’s start slow. I’m Terry, and you are?” Terry asked.

“I’m Blaire. It’s nice to meet you Terry” you say shyly. You hear a raspy chuckle on the other end of the line before Terry says, “Pretty name, and I know the face matches.” Terry stopped tossing the stress ball between his fingers. Something in her voice caused him to lean forward, wanting to hear more, know more about the stranger with the voice like silk.

“What brings you to my little corner of the world, beautiful?”Terry asks, a curious frown on his face. This didn’t sound like one of the usual women he’d talk to. She sounded softer, sweeter, like she had no business calling a sex hotline.  Normally, he’s not supposed to ask for names. Keeping the anonymity was a  part of the thrill for most people, but he also wanted to know your name for his own personal stalker-ish reasons. 

You groan, an embarrassed laugh leaving your lips, “My boyfriend broke up with me today because we aren’t ‘sexually compatible’”

Terry feels his frown deepen in sympathy, “I’m sorry to hear that love. Break-ups are never easy, and let’s face it if you guys aren't ‘sexually compatible’, he probably couldn’t make you come anyway.”

A satisfied smirk makes its way onto Terry’s face when he hears your laugh on the other end of the phone.  

“C’mon sweetheart, tell me I’m wrong,” Terry coaxed, wanting to hear more of your voice. A dramatic sigh leaves your lips as you flip over.

“You’re right. He never made me feel anything south of the equator, which is probably why the sex was horrible. Like not even a twinge,” you finished with a giggle, the liquor getting to you. 

“Well I hope I’m more successful,” Terry says, his voice dropping an octave. You’d only been on the phone with him for a few minutes, but his voice was already working its magic on you. The flush of heat, leading to the gentle flip of your belly. A welcome feeling that you thought might never return. 

“You’re already doing more than he ever did,” you mumble, getting up. 

“Oh am I?” Terry asked, the smirk on his face beginning to darken. He was going to have fun with you.

The silence on your end of the phone was beginning to stretch. Your mind begins to wander, wondering if you made the right decision.

“I’m sorry! This is my first time doing something like this and I don’t know how I should act.”

“Just be yourself baby. I’ll take the lead if that’s okay with you?” Terry asks. He can already feel his balls tightening. Her voice, her innocence, it was beginning to affect him.

“I’d like that, thank you, Terry” you say, settling deep into the comfort of your bed. Your plush pillows surround you while your silk sheets rub against your freshly shaved body. 

“What are you doing now?” Terry asked. Another giggle left your lips as you replied, “Laying in bed watching jeopardy, and talking to you of course.”

“I see we have something in common, I’m a Jeopardy fan myself. Now, tell me beautiful, what are you wearing?” Terry asks, his voice dropping an octave. You feel yourself dampen between your legs at the question. 

“Just an oversized t-shirt and fuzzy socks,” you say your voice taking on a breathy tone.

“I want you to do something for me,” Terry asks. He wanted to make sure you were comfortable.

“That depends, what do you need me to do Terry?” you ask, a smirk slowly spreading across your face. 

“You’ll let me know if anything I say makes you uncomfortable, yeah?” Terry asks. 

A small hum leaves your lips, your horniness hits you all at once. Blanketing your brain in a haze, “Yes, Terry. I can do that,” your voice already taking on a breathy tone. A low groan leaves Terry’s lips on the other side of the phone. He flexes his hand, itching to wrap it around your throat. 

“Good, I want you to relax for me baby, can you do that?” Terry said, palming his hardening dick.

“Can you help me relax Terry? I’m sound wound up,”you say, not knowing where this burst of confidence came from. It must be the liquor, you thought. 

“Easy love, just breathe for me yeah? Do you want me there with you? So I can rub you down, feel your muscles relax and loosen under my touch. Imagine us lying together, skin pressed close, hearts beating in tandem. I can make you feel so good baby.”Terry coaxed, his own breathing slowing to match yours. His words painted a comforting picture in your mind. You could feel your nipples beginning to harden under the thin sleep shirt. 

Your breathing picked up, his words, his voice igniting something in you that you thought had long been extinguished. Desire. Your body started to warm as horniness hazed your vision. 

“Mm, I wish I could see your face, Terry. I would love to see who’s behind the voice that has my panties so wet,”you purred. Terry’s eyes widened on his side. Your increasing confidence was turning him on, making him hot under the collar. 

“Damn, baby I wish I could see you too. I’m loving this confidence, now tell me sweetheart are you relaxed?” Terry asks. He raises up from his lounge chair in his studio, yanking down his sweats, boxers, and grabbing his baby-oil. 

“What can I say? You bring it out of me. I’d be more relaxed if you were here with me, but this will have to do for now,” you tease. 

“ I love how you’re opening up for me baby.”Terry said. His balls aching with a need to release. You were doing a number on him and you didn’t even know it. Sure he got off with a client every one in a while, but there was something about you that drew him in. Making him want to know more about you, and not just sexually. 

“Are you wet right now pretty girl?” Terry asks, his hand coming up slowly to stroke his dick.

“If I wasn’t I am now,” you say with a slight giggle.

‘That’s my girl,” Terry chuckles. “Put two fingers in your mouth and swirl them around. Let me hear it,” 

A nervous laugh leaves your lips, “You want to hear it, Terry?” Terry groans at the way your name leaves his lips. “Yes baygirl, I want to hear every noise you make. I want to know what I do to you, how I make you feel. Every moan you release is all mine, so you better make sure I fucking hear it.”

A whimper leaves your lips at the dominant tone that Terry’s switched to. As if on autopilot, you bring your hand up to your lips and slide two fingers in. The slick wet noises of your fingers being wet by your tongue travel from your ears to Terry’s. A small moan releases from you at the pure nastiness of it all. Your drool practically leaking down to your wrist. 

“Listen to you, moaning already. You haven’t even touched that pussy for me yet. Blaire, is she wet for me?” Terry groans. His dick bobbed with attention, begging him to wrap his fist around it and tug. 

“I’m so fucking wet, Terry. My thighs are sticking together, when can I touch myself baby? I need to touch myself,” you moaned around your fingers. 

“Soon baby, take that shirt off for me, I need you naked for what I have planned,” Terry rips his own shirt off. His chocolate nipples tighten as they meet the cool air. 

“Rub your nipples for me Blaire. Tease them, tug at them, coat them in your drool until they look like shiny hershey kisses” Terry’s voice had taken on a hard edge, he was getting close and he barely touched himself. As he heard the sweet mewls you released he knew he needed you, and not just for phone sex. 

“You’re doing things to me baby. I usually don’t get like this but I need this, I need you. Can I have you Blaire? Will you be mine?” Terry sounded like a desperate man, begging for pussy but he didn’t care.

“Yess baby I’m yours, I’m yours!,” a high pitched moan leaves your lips as you tweak your right nipple a little too hard. The pain sent a jolt of pleasure right down to your clit. You couldn’t believe yourself, you were opening like a flower to a man you’d never met. 

“Your fingers are now mine baby girl, visualize me tracing my hands along your inner thighs, tracing patterns. Grabbing onto your luscious thigh kneading and tugging, slowly making my way upward, but not close enough to where you want me.”Terry voice lowers, the huskiness of it sounds like a growl. 

“Can I touch myself please Terry? I’m so wet” your moans spurring him on. 

“Can’t say I’m surprised baby. You’ve been wet since you heard my voice haven’t you?” Terry purred, his voice a seductive rumble. “Take a minute and focus on how wet you are. Feel it pooling between your legs, dripping down your ass, and wetting up your sheets. Feel how your body responds just at the thought of me, of what I plan to do to you when I finally get you alone.” Terry’s breath hitched as he listened to your needy whines and whimpers. 

“You want to touch yourself, don’t you baby?” Terry asks. Your reply is almost instant, “Yes please Terry! Can I?”

“Go ahead baby, give yourself some relief. But just know it won’t compare to how my fingers will feel, my lips, and my dick in that wet ass pussy,” his voice thick with need. “Make sure I hear everything, every moan, every gasp, the slick sound of your fingers as they play with my pussy.”

Your fingers glide down your body to come in contact with your wet pussy. A mess of whimpers and moans can be heard through the phone. “Tell me what you want to do to me Terry, are you  going to make me feel good?” you ask, a panting mess.

“I’m going to make you feel better than good baby. Fuck, my dick is rock hard for you Blaire,”Terry moaned, you could hear the slick sounds through the phone as he stroked himself. “I can’t wait to sink this dick deep inside of you, to feel that tight pussy wrap my dick in a warm, wet hug.” Terry’s hand moved faster, pumping his shaft with an increasing urgency as he continued to describe his fantasies out loud. 

His voice dropping to a husky purr, his voice dripping with raw, unbridled lust. “Oh baby, I can’t wait to have you spread open so I can claim you as mine. Eat that sweet pussy until you’re crying, begging me to stop,” his free hand cupping his heavy balls as he stroked his aching dick. 

You’re a moaning mess on the phone. Practically hypnotized by Terry’s words, “I need you, Terry!’ the needy whine left your lips without a second thought. When you dialed your local sex hotline you never thought the man on the other line would excite you, let alone hurl you toward one of the best orgasms you’ve had in months. 

“Fuck baby, you have no idea how much I need you. How bad I want to feel that pussy come for me,” he rasped, his breathing ragged. 

“Tell me how bad you need me baby,” You moan, your fingers form a mind of their own as they find their way inside your warm cunt. Breathless pants and whimpers bleed through the phone spurring on Terry’s need to get you as close as he is. 

“I’d drag you onto the nearest flat surface and fuck you however you want me to. Do you like it rough? I’ll give it to you rough. What about loving and soft, because I can do that too, baby. Your pleasure is my only concern..fuck. I’m hard as fuck for you baby,” he palmed his aching dick harder, the friction sending jolts of pleasure down his spine. 

Your fingers found your g-spot during Terry’s rant, eliciting high pitched squeals from you. “Terry, you have no idea how bad I wish you could be here with me. Nobody’s ever made me feel..unh. Feel like this before”

Terry’s chest heaved with a shuddering sigh at your confession. His heart ached at the longing in your voice, he had to meet you. “Babygirl, I’ve never felt like this before either. I want to meet you baby, can I do that? Can I meet my pretty girl?” This call reduces you both to babbling messes, too consumed in each other to pay attention to the outside world. “If I could only be there in person, baby, feeling your soft lips against mine, tasting how sweet you are,” he murmured, his thumb rubbing over the sensitive head of his dick. 

“I’d fuck you right here on this call, if technology allowed. I’d push into that tight pussy so deep, so hard, that you’d for- forget your own name,” Terry’s voice dropped to a sensual purr, his imagination running wild at the thought of finally getting you alone.

“Come to me, Terry! Fuck! I need you here, I want you baby please! Can’t you hear how wet I am for you? How bad I want you, don’t leave me hanging, please,” more needy cries leave your lips and meet Terry’s ears. He was going to lose his mind if he didn’t have you. 

Terry’s breath caught in his throat as he listened to your sultry whispers, his mind reeling with the intensity of his arousal. “Blaire, baby, you’re killing me with these sexy ass words of yours. I can almost feel your breath on my ear, begging me to take you harder, deeper,” he groaned, hips rocking instinctively as he continued to stroke his engorged member. 

With a deep breath, Terry opened his mouth to say something that would absolutely get him fired, “Give me your address sweet girl, and I’ll be there. I’ll fuck you all night, every way you want me to, don’t you want me there with you baby. I’ll take care of you, I’ll hold you, please you in ways you’ve never felt. Just a few numbers and a street name and I’ll be there.” The horny declaration leaves his heaving chest, but Terry doesn’t regret anything. He just hopes you’ll say yes and give him that address. 

You contemplate the idea. Should you really give your address to a phone sex operator, no matter how sexy the voice. Your buzz had mostly worn off, in its place a crippling horniness. Terry made you feel things you thought were once dead inside you, how could you deny yourself the opportunity that is this man. Being a single black female in a semi-big city, you weren’t an idiot. You had protective measures in place. So with a sigh and a shy giggle to read off your address to Terry. 

“Can you do something for me Blaire?” Terry asks, yanking his sweats up over his aching dick. It’s taking everything in him to stop, but he has to get to you. He has to meet the vixen that's taken hold of him almost instantly. 

“Anything,”you say, so delirious right on the edge of cumming.

“Don’t come until I can get my hands on you,” Terry hangs up the phone, promptly ending your session. Your chest heaving in frustration and desire at Terry’s command, you had something for his ass when he got there.

OH MY GOD!! OBVIOUSLY THERE’S A PART 2 COMING!! 

I could never leave y’all hanging like that, but be warned it might be a while. Getting back into the groove of things and starting a second job has taken up a lot of my time. I’m finding my footing though so more consistent work will be coming. As always I always accept criticism, but please be gentle, I’m a tad but sensitive about my writing. Send me asks and requests, I love reading what you guys come up with! I love y’all to the moon and back thank you so much for consuming my work. 

UNTIL NEXT TIME

TEE <3

[iamquiantrelle]

BLOOD OATH (chapter 1) • iamquaintrelle

# pairings: mob!lewis hamilton x black reader (☔️⚡️)

# tags: @queenshikongo3 @httpsserene-main @simplyyalika @peyiswriting @sunfairyy @yeea-nah @nichmeddar @gg-trini @serpenttines @lewisroscoelove @purplelewlew @henneseyhoe @saturnville @donteventry-itdude @snowseasonmademe @szariahwroteit @amirawrah @imjustheretomanifest @iamryanl @greedyjudge2 @beauty-gurl @hotfudgeslug @jessnotwiththemess

# summary: A marriage of convenience between crime families was supposed to be simple. No one mentioned it would be this complicated...or this deadly. masterlist

# a/n: I'm here for a good time not a long time....trying something new and don't worry I will come back to Wilo & Juju but I needed some rest out of the footballer world.

next chapter |

Sunday mornings in the Ricci household were sacred— literally. No matter what blood had been spilled or what deals had been struck the night before, the family attended 9 a.m. mass at St. Anthony's without exception. Your father, Salvatore Ricci, would sooner put a bullet in a man's head than miss confession.

Last night's cleanup had been particularly messy. You'd overheard enough on your way to bed to know someone had talked to the feds. By morning, the problem had been "resolved," and your father had prayed extra long during confession.

You adjusted the simple gold cross around your neck as you sat in the third pew, the same spot your family had occupied for as long as you could remember. Your three younger sisters fidgeted beside you while your mother gently shushed them, her dark hands elegant against their designer dresses. Francesca Ricci, née Williams, had become the very picture of a mafia wife over the past thirty years, though the journey hadn't been easy. Being Black in the traditional Italian underworld had meant proving herself twice over, earning respect through unflinching loyalty and quiet strength.

You'd inherited her brown skin and sharp eyes, along with what your father called "that stubborn American backbone." The combination of your mother's Jamaican-American heritage and your father's Calabrian blood had given you a face that turned heads—not that anyone in your father's circle would dare look too long. Not after what happened to Tommy Venucci, who'd made a crude comment about mixing bloodlines at a family gathering three years ago. He still walked with a limp.

As Father Donato delivered his homily about the prodigal son, you found your mind wandering to the meeting scheduled for that afternoon. Suitor number four. The mysterious Englishman you'd heard whispers about for weeks. Your father's capos had been arguing about this one—bringing in an outsider, a non-Italian, was controversial. But his reputation preceded him: ruthlessly efficient, technologically savvy, and with legitimate business fronts that even the FBI couldn't crack.

Three men had already come to present their cases to your father. Three men had measured you like prized livestock, their eyes calculating your worth in territory and influence rather than seeing a woman with a mind of her own. The Sicilian had practically drooled, his reputation for violence preceding him—you'd seen the photos of what he'd done to a rival, the body barely recognizable afterward. The Irishman had been old enough to be your grandfather, his breath reeking of whiskey even at noon, hands stained with decades of other people's blood. And the Cuban... just the memory of his eyes on you made your skin crawl. Your father's men had whispered about his "special room" where women who displeased him disappeared for days.

"Peace be with you," Father Donato intoned, snapping you back to the present.

"And with your spirit," you murmured along with the congregation.

Your mother squeezed your hand, somehow sensing the direction of your thoughts. She'd been in your position once—the daughter offered as a bridge between families, though in her case it had been to bring peace between rival factions in New York. Your grandfather had run numbers in Harlem until the Italian families decided to expand their territory. Instead of war, they'd chosen marriage. At least she and your father had found genuine love over the years. You couldn't imagine being so lucky.

"He'll be here at three," your mother whispered as you all stood for the final blessing. "I've heard he's... different from the others."

Different. You'd been hearing that word a lot lately. Different business model. Different approach. Different standards. But at the end of the day, he was still a man looking to acquire you like a business asset.

Back at the estate, you changed from your church clothes into something more appropriate for meeting a potential husband—a knee-length navy dress that was modest enough to please your father but tailored enough to command respect. You weren't about to present yourself as either a nun or a trophy.

From your bedroom window, you could see your father's men patrolling the grounds, Berettas and Glocks barely concealed under their jackets. Through the iron gates, you caught glimpses of the cars parked along the street—not just your father's security, but watchers from other families. The Sicilians in particular had been keeping eyes on the estate since their heir had been rejected. In this world, wounded pride often led to bloody retribution.

"You're not even trying to look excited," Sophia, your youngest sister at seventeen, lounged across your bed, scrolling through her phone. "I'd be thrilled if Papa was setting me up with a hot British guy."

"You don't know that he's hot," you replied, securing your hair into a sleek twist. "And I'm not excited because I'm being traded like a racehorse."

"Better than being stuck with Lorenzo Bianchi," she shuddered, referring to the Sicilian. "Did you see those teeth? Like a shark that chews tobacco. And those gross neck tattoos that look like he let a drunk toddler draw on him."

You couldn't help but smile at her assessment. "True. Or Patrick O'Malley with his wandering hands and breath that could strip paint. Pretty sure he was checking out your ass too, by the way."

"Ugh, stop! I still have nightmares." She made a gagging sound. "At least the Cuban was good looking, even if he gave off serial killer vibes."

"Raúl Suarez doesn't just give off those vibes. Why do you think Papa suddenly had that basement remodeled after his visit?" You raised an eyebrow meaningfully.

Sophia's eyes widened. "Wait, seriously? I thought that was just a rumor."

"Talia in the kitchen overheard Papa and Uncle Paolo talking. Three girls went missing from his clubs in Miami last year. No bodies, no witnesses."

"Jesus Christ," Sophia whispered, crossing herself reflexively. "And Papa was still considering him?"

"The Suarez connection would have opened up shipping routes we need," you explained, repeating what you'd overheard at the door of your father's study. "Business is business."

"See? That's why this British guy might be better!" Sophia sat up, suddenly serious. "Papa wouldn't choose someone horrible for you. Not really."

The faith your sisters had in your father was touching, if naive. Salvatore Ricci loved his daughters fiercely, but business was business. The empire always came first—an empire built on gambling, protection rackets, and increasingly, designer drugs that catered to Wall Street instead of street corners. Class had always been your father's obsession; he wanted the Ricci family mentioned alongside the Gambinos and Genoveses, not relegated to some minor footnote in mafia history.

A knock at your door announced your mother, elegant as always in a simple black dress, gold at her throat and wrists—the uniform of a donna who knew her worth.

"He's arrived," she said simply. "Your father wants you downstairs in ten minutes. Not before."

The power play was familiar—make the suitor wait, establish dominance from the start. You nodded, applying a final touch of lipstick.

"Is he..." you hesitated, unsure what you even wanted to ask.

Your mother seemed to understand anyway. "He's older. Established. Carries himself with confidence." She paused, something like surprise crossing her face. "And he's... not what I expected. Quite striking, actually."

That piqued your interest. Your mother wasn't easily impressed by men's appearances.

"And he came alone," she added. "No entourage."

That was unusual. Most made a show of strength, bringing captains and consiglieres to these meetings.

"Smart," you mused aloud. "One man alone in the lion's den shows he's either foolish or fearless."

"We'll see which," your mother replied with the faintest smile. "Ten minutes."

You used all ten, not out of vanity but strategy. The longer this Lewis Hamilton waited, the more you could observe without being observed in return. The security feed on your tablet showed the grand study where these meetings always took place, giving you a perfect view of the potential fourth suitor.

He sat perfectly at ease in one of your father's leather armchairs, legs crossed casually, declining the offered espresso with a polite gesture. Not a hint of nervousness or impatience crossed his face as the minutes ticked by. Unlike the others who had fidgeted, paced, or tried too hard to impress your father with crude jokes, this man simply existed in the space like he belonged there.

What struck you immediately was how different he looked from what you'd expected. Your father's world was full of either old-school traditionalists in tailored suits or younger men trying too hard with flashy designer clothes. Lewis Hamilton was neither. His suit was impeccably tailored, yes, but modern in cut. More noticeable were his looks—his hair styled in neat braids with a precise fade at the sides, double nose piercings glinting subtly in the light, and multiple earrings in both ears. Tattoos covered his hands in intricate patterns, and you could see more ink peeking above his collar.

Your father, old-school to his core, would typically dismiss such a man instantly. The fact that he hadn't spoke volumes about what Hamilton must be bringing to the table.

At thirty-nine, he had fourteen years on you, but carried them well. Not a young hothead with something to prove, but not an old fossil clinging to outdated ways either. Even on the grainy security feed, you could see his eyes were sharp, missing nothing.

"Time," your mother called softly from the hallway.

You tucked the tablet away and took a steadying breath. Whatever game this Englishman was playing, you weren't about to be a passive piece on the board. If your hand in marriage was the prize, you'd make damn sure everyone understood exactly what they were getting.

The walk downstairs felt longer than usual, each step bringing you closer to a future being decided by men's ambitions rather than your own desires. But unlike many in your position, you weren't entering this blind. Years of listening at doors, reading files left unattended, and cultivating your own network of informants meant you knew more about your father's business than he realized. You knew about the cops on payroll, the judges who could be bought, and exactly how many bodies were buried in the foundation of your father's newest hotel development. Knowledge was the only power you'd been able to accumulate—and you intended to use it.

As you approached the study doors, you heard your father's distinctive laugh—a rare sound in business meetings. Whatever Hamilton had said had genuinely amused him, which was either very good or very dangerous.

You straightened your shoulders, lifted your chin, and nodded to Marco, your father's most trusted guard, to announce your arrival.

The conversation inside went quiet as Marco opened the door. "Signorina Ricci," he announced formally, a small nod of encouragement just for you.

Three sets of eyes turned as you entered—your father's familiar scrutiny, your uncle Paolo's curious assessment, and the cool, evaluating gaze of Lewis Hamilton, who rose smoothly to his feet.

Up close, his presence was even more striking. The tailored suit couldn't quite mask the physicality beneath—this wasn't a soft businessman but someone who clearly maintained his body as meticulously as his appearance. The tattoos on his hands were mathematical in design, all clean lines and precise geometry, nothing like the crude symbols the Irish thugs or Italian soldiers typically wore. His braids were perfectly maintained, the fade on the sides mathematically precise. The piercings that should have looked rebellious somehow just enhanced the sharp angles of his face.

Your father gestured you forward. "My daughter," he said simply. "The jewel of our family."

You extended your hand as you'd been taught, expecting the usual kiss that suitors performed with varying degrees of sincerity. Instead, Hamilton clasped it firmly in a handshake, as if greeting a business equal rather than a prospective bride.

"Ms. Ricci," he said, his British accent crisp and refined. "Lewis Hamilton. I've heard a great deal about you."

"Strangely," you replied, meeting his gaze directly, "I've heard very little about you."

A flicker of something—surprise, perhaps amusement—crossed his face so quickly you might have imagined it. Your father cleared his throat in warning, but Hamilton didn't seem offended by your directness.

"Perhaps we can remedy that," he said, releasing your hand and gesturing for you to sit.

As you took your place in the chair beside your father, you noted how Hamilton waited until you were settled before sitting himself—a small courtesy the others hadn't bothered with. He moved with the fluid economy of someone comfortable in his own skin, his attention seemingly casual yet you could feel the intensity of his observation.

This was a man who missed nothing, categorized everything, and revealed only what served his purpose. In that, at least, he was like every other man in this room.

"Mr. Hamilton was just explaining his unique business structure," your father said, the enthusiasm in his voice telling you he was already impressed.

"Legitimate enterprises supporting our more... specialized operations," Hamilton explained, his voice low and measured. "Technology has changed our world. The old ways of doing business leave too many vulnerabilities."

"And what exactly are your specialized operations, Mr. Hamilton?" you asked, earning another warning look from your father.

But Lewis Hamilton didn't seem troubled by your question. In fact, the corner of his mouth quirked up slightly, not quite a smile but an acknowledgment.

"Let's just say I provide certain hard-to-acquire items to people with specific needs," he replied smoothly. "And ensure that financial matters remain... private. In today's digital world, that's becoming quite the valuable service."

Guns and money laundering. The cornerstones of power in your world, dressed up in polite euphemisms. You'd seen the reports on your father's desk—Hamilton's operation was smaller than the traditional families, but his weapons were military-grade, his financial networks impenetrable even to federal investigators. He'd built something sleek and modern while the old families were still using ledger books and cash drops.

"My daughter has been educated at the finest schools," your father interjected, clearly trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground. "Fluent in four languages, accomplished in music and art."

You fought the urge to roll your eyes. The sales pitch was always the same—as if your college degrees and cultural accomplishments were nothing more than decorative features, like listing the premium options on a luxury car.

"Brilliant," Hamilton nodded, but his eyes remained on you rather than shifting to your father. "And what gets you going beyond your formal education? What interests you?"

The question caught you off guard. None of the others had bothered to ask about your interests. They'd been content to let your father extol your virtues while they imagined you in their bed.

"I'm particularly interested in business strategy," you answered honestly, curious to see his reaction. "Especially how traditional operations can adapt to changing markets and technologies."

Your father shifted uncomfortably beside you, but Hamilton leaned forward slightly, his interest seemingly genuine.

"Any specific areas?" he pressed, ignoring your father's obvious desire to change topics.

"Digital currency," you replied, deciding to test how seriously he'd take you. "Its implications for our particular... industry. The blockchain creates both opportunities and vulnerabilities that most traditional families haven't begun to address."

A flash of genuine surprise crossed Hamilton's face before his expression settled back into its usual controlled mask. "I'd be proper interested in hearing your thoughts on that sometime," he said, a hint of his British vernacular slipping through the polished exterior.

The conversation shifted then, your father guiding it toward the proposed alliance between families. You sat quietly, observing rather than participating, noting how differently Hamilton conducted himself compared to the others. Where they had boasted and promised, he stated facts. Where they had emphasized tradition, he spoke of innovation. Where they had leered, he maintained respectful distance.

It didn't mean he wasn't dangerous. If anything, the control he exhibited made him more so. This was a man who wouldn't lose his temper and lash out—he would calculate exactly how much force was needed and apply it with surgical precision. You'd heard whispers about his operation in London—small but lethal. People who crossed Lewis Hamilton didn't end up beaten or threatened; they simply disappeared without a trace.

As the meeting concluded, Hamilton rose, shaking your father's hand and your uncle's before turning to you once more.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Ricci," he said, his eyes meeting yours directly. "I look forward to our next conversation."

The certainty in his voice suggested he already knew your father's decision—or was confident enough in his proposal not to doubt it. Either way, something told you Lewis Hamilton wasn't a man accustomed to hearing the word "no."

"Until next time, Mr. Hamilton," you replied neutrally, giving nothing away.

As Marco escorted him out, you felt your father's eyes on you, assessing your reaction.

"Well?" he asked, unusually interested in your opinion. "What do you think?"

You considered your answer carefully. "He's different from the others," you admitted.

"Those piercings," your uncle Paolo muttered, shaking his head. "And the tattoos. Like some street thug."

Your father waved his brother's concerns away. "Times are changing, Paolo. His operation is smaller, but cleaner. More modern. The connections to legitimate business would give us protection we currently lack."

Protection. That was what this had always been about. Your father had built an empire on blood and loyalty, but times were changing. The old ways were becoming more dangerous, and Salvatore Ricci had no son to guide the family into the future.

Just four daughters, with you as the eldest—the crown princess who could never wear the crown yourself, but could place it on the head of a worthy husband.

"You'll have dinner with him tomorrow night," your father said, not a question but a command. "Alone. I want to see how he conducts himself with you when we're not watching."

A test, then. For him, or for you, or perhaps for both.

"Whatever you think is best, Papa," you agreed, mind already racing with possibilities.

Lewis Hamilton was undoubtedly the most intriguing of your suitors, but that didn't change the fundamental truth of your situation. You were still a commodity being traded, a bridge between empires.

The question now was whether you could turn this arrangement to your advantage—and whether the careful control you'd glimpsed in Lewis Hamilton would prove to be your prison or your opportunity.

*************************************************

The next evening found you standing in front of your closet, contemplating the impossible task of dressing for a dinner with a man who might own you by the end of the month. Too conservative would suggest meekness, too bold would offend your father, and either way, you'd be telling Lewis Hamilton something about yourself before you were ready for him to know it.

"The black Tom Ford," your mother suggested from the doorway, always able to read your mind. "Elegant but not trying too hard."

You nodded, pulling out the dress in question—a simple black sheath with architectural details at the neckline that walked the perfect line between sophisticated and interesting. Like armor disguised as silk.

"You know you don't have to do this if you truly don't want to," your mother said quietly, closing the bedroom door behind her. It was a conversation you'd had before, one that always ended the same way.

"And what's the alternative, Mama?" You slipped off your robe, stepping into the dress. "I run away and do what exactly? With what money? What protection? How long before someone uses me to get to Papa?"

Your mother sighed, moving behind you to zip the dress. "I just want you to have choices I didn't have."

"You chose Papa," you reminded her, meeting her eyes in the mirror. "Eventually."

"I grew to love your father," she clarified. "I was lucky. Not every arranged marriage turns out that way."

You turned to face her. "Do you think he's decided already? On Hamilton?"

Your mother's expression was measured. "Your father was impressed. And the message that arrived from the Bianchi family this morning may have sealed it."

"What message?" This was news to you.

"Lorenzo's father sent over a 'reconsideration' proposal. Doubled the territory offer, added shipping routes through Sicily."

You couldn't hide your disgust. "So he's literally trying to outbid Hamilton for me?"

"It's business," your mother said simply, the phrase all of you used to rationalize the uglier aspects of your life. "But your father was... displeased with the approach. Said Bianchi should have led with their best offer, not tried to undercut after the fact."

You turned back to the mirror, applying your lipstick with perhaps more force than necessary. "And the Cuban? Has Suarez given up?"

Your mother's expression darkened. "He sent flowers. Again. With a note your father wouldn't let me read."

That explained the fresh roses on the foyer table that hadn't been there this morning. Raúl Suarez's idea of courtship had a distinctly threatening undertone, like each bouquet carried an implicit "or else."

"So I'm still on the auction block," you said, keeping your voice even. "With Hamilton as the current high bidder."

"It's not—"

"It's exactly like that, Mama. Let's not pretend."

Your mother didn't argue the point. Instead, she reached for your jewelry box, selecting a pair of diamond studs. "Hamilton requested to meet in the city. Your father agreed, but only with security protocols in place."

That was unexpected. Most meetings happened on family territory, where your father controlled every variable. Allowing you to go into Manhattan, even with security, was a significant concession.

"Where in the city?" you asked, suddenly more interested. It had been months since you'd had an excuse to leave the compound in Mill Neck. Your father's insistence that you live at home "for your safety" had become increasingly restrictive over the past year, as tensions with rival families escalated.

"Eleven Madison Park," your mother replied, a hint of approval in her voice. At least Hamilton had good taste. "Antonio will drive you. Marco and Luca will provide security, but they'll maintain distance unless needed."

You nodded, a small thrill running through you despite everything. An evening in Manhattan, away from the estate's watchful eyes and your father's immediate presence, felt like temporary freedom—even if it was just an illusion.

"Is this Hamilton's way of testing boundaries?" you wondered aloud. "Seeing how much control he can take from the start?"

"Or offering you neutral ground," your mother suggested. "A place where neither family has home field advantage."

You hadn't considered that perspective. "Interesting theory."

"Just... keep an open mind," your mother advised, squeezing your shoulders gently. "And remember everything I taught you about reading men."

You smiled at that. While your father had trained you in the visible aspects of the business—the legitimate enterprises, the social connections, the charitable foundation that laundered both money and the family's reputation—your mother had taught you the more subtle arts. How to read microexpressions, how to extract information while appearing to share nothing, how to make men believe your ideas were actually theirs.

"I'll read him like a book," you promised, securing your mother's diamond studs in your ears. "But I doubt he'll be that easy to decipher."

"No," she agreed thoughtfully. "But that might make him more interesting than the others."

The others. As if on cue, your phone buzzed with a text. Lorenzo Bianchi's name flashed on the screen, the fifth message today. You showed it to your mother with a raised eyebrow.

"He's persistent," she acknowledged. "And his family is dangerous when rejected."

"They're all dangerous," you reminded her, deleting the message without reading it. "That's the whole point of this arrangement. Finding the devil whose hell I can live with."

Your mother didn't contradict you, just helped you select a simple gold bracelet to complete your outfit. "Antonio will be ready at six. That should put you at the restaurant by seven, even with city traffic."

An hour in the car each way. Normally that would seem tedious, but tonight you welcomed it. The ride from your family's North Shore estate into Manhattan would give you time to prepare mentally. To strategize. To remember that no matter how intriguing Lewis Hamilton might be, this was still a business transaction at its core.

At precisely six, you descended the grand staircase to find not just Antonio waiting, but your father as well. He stood in the foyer, examining you with a critical eye.

"You look beautiful," he said after a moment, the compliment sounding oddly formal. "Remember who you are tonight. You represent our family."

"I always do, Papa," you replied, accepting his kiss on both cheeks.

"Hamilton is... unconventional," your father continued, walking you to the door. "But he's smart. Connected. His operation in London has expanded into five countries in just eight years. No arrests, no leaks."

You nodded, understanding what your father was really saying. Lewis Hamilton represented new blood, new methods. A way to modernize the Ricci empire without sacrificing its core business.

"The Bianchis have been calling all day," your father added, his expression hardening. "Lorenzo claims he's in love with you. After meeting you once."

You couldn't help the derisive sound that escaped you. "Lorenzo Bianchi wouldn't know love if it stabbed him in the chest. Which, according to what I've heard, is his preferred method of solving problems."

Your father didn't deny it. "Just be careful. These rejected suitors... their pride is wounded."

"I'll have Marco and Luca," you reminded him, though the concern in his voice was touching. For all his faults, your father did love you. He just loved the family business more.

"Yes, well." He adjusted his tie, a nervous gesture you rarely saw. "Hamilton strikes me as capable of handling himself if trouble arises. But still, be cautious."

The idea that your father was entrusting your safety partly to Hamilton was telling. Perhaps his mind was already made up about this match.

"I'll text when I arrive at the restaurant," you promised, stepping outside where the black Escalade waited, engine running.

Antonio, your family's most trusted driver, held the door for you with a respectful nod. At thirty-five, he'd been with the family since before you were born, rising from teenage errand boy to become one of your father's most reliable soldiers. If trouble found you in the city, Antonio was nearly as deadly as Marco and Luca combined.

As the car pulled down the long, tree-lined driveway of the estate, you felt the familiar mix of relief and anxiety that always came with leaving the compound. Your family's ten-acre property in Mill Neck represented both prison and protection—a gilded cage that kept you safe from enemies while simultaneously restricting your freedom.

The gates swung open, revealing a black sedan parked just outside the property. You didn't need to see the occupants to know it was Bianchi's men, maintaining their unwelcome surveillance. They'd been there for three days now, ever since Lorenzo's proposal had been declined.

"Persistent bastards," Antonio muttered, accelerating past them.

You watched in the side mirror as the sedan pulled out to follow at a discreet distance. "They're still tailing us?"

"Don't worry," Antonio assured you, his hand moving briefly inside his jacket where you knew he kept his Glock. "Luca and Marco are right behind them. They won't get close in the city."

You nodded, settling back against the leather seat. This was your normal—being followed, guarded, watched from all sides. Sometimes by people who wanted to protect you, sometimes by those who wanted to use you as leverage against your father. The distinction hardly mattered when the end result was the same: limited freedom.

As the Escalade merged onto the highway, you watched Long Island's affluent suburbs give way to increasingly urban landscapes. The city gradually appeared on the horizon, a collection of glittering towers against the darkening sky. Despite everything, you felt a flutter of excitement. It had been nearly three months since you'd been to Manhattan, your movements increasingly restricted as multiple families vied for alliance through marriage.

"Looking forward to dinner?" Antonio asked, catching your eye in the rearview mirror.

"I'm looking forward to something different," you replied honestly. "Even if it's just another man evaluating me like a prize thoroughbred."

Antonio had the grace to look uncomfortable at your candor. He'd known you since childhood, had taught you to drive (secretly, against your father's wishes) when you were sixteen, had even covered for you once when you'd snuck out to a college party. But the realities of your position in the family were something even loyal Antonio couldn't change.

"This Hamilton," he said carefully. "Word is he's formidable. Not like the others."

"So I've gathered," you replied. "Is that good or bad, in your opinion?"

Antonio considered this as he navigated through increasing traffic. "Good, maybe. A man secure in his power doesn't need to prove it constantly. Might make him a more... reasonable husband."

The word "husband" still sent an uncomfortable jolt through you. This time tomorrow, your father might well have decided to give you to Lewis Hamilton for the rest of your life.

"We'll see," was all you said, turning your attention to the city lights now fully visible ahead.

Your phone buzzed again. This time it wasn't Lorenzo Bianchi but Raúl Suarez. A photo message that you opened against your better judgment.

It was a picture of you. From yesterday. Walking from the house to the garden, completely unaware you were being photographed.

Looking forward to changing your mind, belleza, the accompanying text read. I'm a patient man.

You deleted it immediately, suppressing a shiver. The Cuban's tactics were becoming increasingly concerning. At least Bianchi limited himself to excessive texts and flowers.

"Everything okay?" Antonio asked, noticing your expression.

"Fine," you lied smoothly. "Just another reminder of why I need to choose the least objectionable option."

As the Manhattan skyline enveloped you, traffic slowing to the typical crawl of early evening, you found yourself wondering what kind of man Lewis Hamilton really was beneath the controlled exterior and strategic business proposal. Was he truly different, as everyone kept suggesting? Or just better at disguising the same possessive, controlling nature that seemed endemic to men in your world?

You'd find out soon enough. For now, you were determined to enjoy this rare taste of the city, this brief illusion of freedom before decisions were made that would determine the rest of your life.

And if Lewis Hamilton thought you'd be an easy acquisition, a docile addition to his growing empire, he was about to discover exactly how mistaken he was.

Eleven Madison Park glowed with understated elegance, its Art Deco interior a testament to old New York money and taste. The maître d' greeted you by name before you could even introduce yourself, suggesting that Lewis had ensured they knew exactly who to expect.

"Mr. Hamilton is already seated," the man informed you with a deferential nod. "If you'll follow me."

You felt eyes tracking your movement through the restaurant—the curse of being a Ricci in Manhattan, where your family name was whispered in both boardrooms and back alleys. Marco and Luca had already positioned themselves strategically at the bar, pretending to be just another pair of Wall Street types unwinding after hours, but their eyes constantly scanned for threats.

Lewis rose as you approached the table, set in a discreet corner that offered both privacy and a clear view of all entrances. The tactics of a man who never let his guard down. He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit that somehow made his tattoos and piercings look deliberate rather than rebellious, like they were as much a part of his carefully crafted image as the Italian leather of his shoes.

"Ms. Ricci," he greeted you, that British accent wrapping around your name in a way that was irritatingly pleasant to the ear. "Thank you for joining me."

"As if I had a choice," you replied, allowing him to pull out your chair.

Instead of looking offended, a small smile played at the corner of his mouth. "There are always choices. Even when they're all bad ones."

You settled into your seat, noting how he waited until you were comfortable before sitting down himself. "Is that supposed to be comforting?"

"Just honest." He signaled to the sommelier, who appeared instantly at his side. "The Puligny-Montrachet we discussed earlier, please."

You raised an eyebrow. "Ordering for both of us already?"

"Just the wine," he clarified. "Unless you'd prefer something else?"

The challenge in his tone suggested he'd done his homework—probably knew that white Burgundy was your preference, information easily obtained from any of the high-end restaurants your family frequented. You decided not to give him the satisfaction.

"That's fine," you conceded. As the sommelier departed, you added, "Though I'm surprised you didn't choose something British."

A subtle shift crossed his features—not quite a smile, but the suggestion of amusement. "British wine is improving, but I'm not a patriot when it comes to vintages."

"Just when it comes to business?"

"Especially when it comes to business." His dark eyes held yours with unsettling directness. "I value loyalty above all else, Ms. Ricci. To people, not countries."

The sommelier returned with the wine, going through the tasting ritual with Hamilton, who handled it with the practiced ease of someone used to fine dining. Once your glasses were poured and you were alone again, you decided to cut through the preliminary niceties.

"So why exactly are we here, Mr. Hamilton? My father could have made his decision without this... interview."

"Interview?" He seemed genuinely amused now. "Is that what you think this is?"

"Isn't it? You're evaluating whether I'll be suitable for whatever role you've envisioned in this merger of empires." You took a deliberate sip of wine, noting that it was, annoyingly, excellent. "Or did you just want to see the merchandise up close before finalizing the purchase?"

Something flickered in his expression—a brief hardening of his features that vanished so quickly you might have imagined it, replaced by that same controlled composure. But in that fleeting moment, you glimpsed what might happen to anyone who truly crossed Lewis Hamilton. It wasn't hot rage like the Sicilians or cruel pleasure like the Cuban—just cold, efficient finality.

"If I viewed this as a purchase, Ms. Ricci, I wouldn't have bothered with dinner," he replied evenly. "Business transactions can be handled over the phone."

"Then what is this?"

"A conversation between two adults who might be spending quite a bit of time together in the future," he said simply. "I find it's useful to know who you're dealing with before making commitments."

The waiter appeared, saving you from having to respond immediately. You both ordered—you, the sea bass; him, the duck—and when you were alone again, you decided to press further.

"Why me? Why the Ricci family? Your operation seems entirely self-sufficient."

Hamilton considered his answer, turning his wine glass slowly between tattooed fingers. "Expansion requires allies. Your father has established routes and connections I could use. I have technological innovations and legitimate business fronts he needs. It's symbiotic."

"And I'm the connective tissue in this symbiotic relationship," you finished for him. "How flattering."

"You're underestimating your importance," he countered. "Your father doesn't need a son-in-law. He needs a successor he can trust. There's a difference."

The distinction was meaningful, suggesting he'd actually thought about this beyond mere territorial acquisition. Still, you weren't convinced.

"And what exactly do you get out of it?" you pressed. "Besides the business advantages, which you could negotiate without marriage. Why tie yourself to a woman fourteen years younger? I'm sure there are plenty of eligible women in London closer to your age who'd be more... compatible."

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips, unexpected and transformative. It didn't soften him, exactly, but it added a dimension you hadn't anticipated.

"Perhaps I appreciate the view beyond the business benefits," he said, his eyes making a deliberate, assessing sweep that should have felt offensive but somehow didn't. It wasn't leering, just honest appreciation.

Before you could respond, he added, "Age is largely irrelevant. I've met twenty-year-olds with the cunning of veteran strategists and sixty-year-olds with the wisdom of children. You're not some naive girl, Ms. Ricci, regardless of your birth year."

"Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

"It's supposed to be an answer. I'm not interested in this arrangement because of your age, but despite it. Your father has kept you involved in enough of the business that you understand the world we operate in. You're educated, strategic, and from what I can tell, not easily intimidated." His eyes locked with yours. "All useful qualities in a partner."

The word "partner" caught you off guard. Not "wife" or "possession" but "partner"—suggesting if not equality, then at least value beyond decoration or bloodline.

"Most men in your position want docile trophy wives," you noted, watching his reaction carefully. "Not partners."

"Most men in my position are fools," he replied without hesitation. "Wasting half the intelligence available to them out of archaic notions of gender. I don't have that luxury."

Your first course arrived, temporarily pausing the conversation. You used the moment to study him more carefully. His movements were precise, economical. Nothing wasted. The tattoos on his hands were intricate geometric patterns, almost mathematical in their precision. His braids were immaculate, suggesting attention to detail that extended to every aspect of his presentation.

"Your security detail is quite good," he commented casually, gesturing subtly toward Marco and Luca at the bar. "Though they might want to vary their positioning. Too predictable."

This surprised you. Most people never noticed your family's security arrangements. "You have men here too?"

His smile was brief but genuine. "What makes you think I need men?"

Something about the way he said it sent a chill down your spine. The rumors about Hamilton handling his own enforcement suddenly seemed very plausible. His athletic build wasn't just for show, and those hands with their beautiful, precise tattoos had probably ended lives with the same efficiency they now used to cut into perfectly prepared duck.

"I heard you dealt with problems personally in your early days," you said, testing the waters. "Is that still your preference?"

He regarded you steadily. "I find that delegation is necessary for growth, but direct intervention is occasionally... clarifying for those who might misunderstand my intentions."

It was the most diplomatic description of enforcement you'd ever heard, but no less chilling for its restraint.

"Like the situation with the Brennan family in Dublin?" you asked, dropping the reference deliberately.

His expression didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, that you knew about an operation that had been kept remarkably quiet. Three years ago, a Dublin crime family had tried to hijack one of Hamilton's weapons shipments. All five men involved had disappeared without a trace. No bodies, no witnesses, just gone—along with the family's patriarch a week later.

"You've done your homework, Ms. Ricci," he acknowledged, neither confirming nor denying.

"As have you, apparently," you countered. "The wine choice, the restaurant reservation under my name rather than yours, the awareness of my security. You've been watching me."

"Prudent research before a significant investment," he replied smoothly. "As I'm sure you've done as well."

The main course arrived, giving you a moment to recalibrate. Hamilton was harder to read than you'd expected. The calculated control you'd sensed at yesterday's meeting extended to every aspect of his behavior, yet didn't feel like the facade that so many men in your world maintained. This was simply who he was—disciplined, precise, lethal when necessary but not gratuitously cruel.

"May I ask you something direct, Mr. Hamilton?" you said after a few bites of excellent sea bass.

"Please do."

"If we were to move forward with this arrangement, what exactly would you expect from me? As your... partner."

He set down his fork, giving the question his full attention. "Loyalty, above all. Discretion. Intelligence applied to our mutual benefit." His gaze was unwavering. "I don't require you to love me, Ms. Ricci, but I do expect your allegiance to be absolute. No divided loyalties between my interests and your father's once we're married."

The bluntness was almost refreshing after the veiled language of most business discussions in your world.

"And what would I get in return?" you challenged. "Besides the obvious financial security that I already have."

"Protection. Freedom to pursue your own interests within reason. Respect." He took a careful sip of wine. "And a certain degree of autonomy that I suspect you haven't been permitted under your father's roof."

He'd identified perhaps the one thing that might actually tempt you—the promise of freedom, even if limited. The ability to move through the world without constant supervision, to make decisions without your father's approval.

"That's quite an offer," you said carefully. "But words are easy. How do I know you'd follow through?"

"You don't," he admitted. "Just as I don't know for certain that you wouldn't betray my trust at the first opportunity. Marriage is a risk, Ms. Ricci, even when it's a business arrangement."

You considered this, appreciating his honesty if nothing else. "And if I said no? Hypothetically."

"Then I'd finish this excellent meal, thank you for your time, and pursue a different approach to expansion." His tone was matter-of-fact. "Your father would likely move on to the next suitable candidate for your hand, and our paths might not cross again."

The complete lack of threat was notable, especially compared to how the Sicilian and Cuban had responded to the mere suggestion of rejection. Either Hamilton was supremely confident that the deal would proceed regardless of your opinion, or he genuinely wouldn't force the issue.

"I find that hard to believe," you said. "Men like you don't simply walk away from strategic advantages."

"Men like me?" His eyebrow raised slightly. "You seem to have placed me in a category, Ms. Ricci. I'm curious which one."

"Dangerous men who build empires and eliminate obstacles," you replied without hesitation. "Men who don't take no for an answer."

That small smile returned, transforming his severe features momentarily. "I always accept 'no' in personal matters. It's more efficient than the alternative." He leaned forward slightly. "But in this case, I don't think you want to say no. I think you're considering whether being tied to me would be better or worse than your current circumstances."

The accuracy of his assessment was unsettling. He read people too well—a dangerous quality when combined with everything else you knew about him.

"And what's your assessment?" you asked, meeting his gaze directly.

"I think you're calculating whether I'd be a prison or a pathway. Whether trading your father's control for a husband's would improve your situation or merely change the scenery of your confinement." He said this without judgment, simply stating what he observed. "It's the logical analysis, given your position."

Before you could respond, a commotion near the entrance caught your attention. Marco had shifted position, his hand moving subtly toward his concealed weapon. A group of men had entered—three Italians in expensive suits who were definitely not there for the cuisine.

Hamilton noticed your attention shift and glanced casually over his shoulder. "Friends of yours?"

"Bianchi's men," you replied quietly. "The rejected Sicilian. Apparently he's not taking no for an answer."

Instead of looking concerned, Hamilton merely nodded, returning to his meal with infuriating calm. "They won't approach while you're with me."

"You seem very confident about that," you observed, noting that Marco and Luca were now on high alert, communicating silently across the room.

"They've already seen me," Hamilton replied, cutting into his duck with precise movements. "They know who I am and what would happen if they created a scene."

You studied him with new interest. "And what exactly would happen, Mr. Hamilton?"

He met your eyes, and in that moment, you saw it again—that flash of cold finality that suggested absolute certainty in his ability to handle any threat. "They'd regret it deeply in whatever time they had left."

The matter-of-fact way he said it, without bravado or theatrics, made it all the more chilling. This wasn't a man who made threats; this was someone stating simple causality. Action and consequence.

True enough, Bianchi's men maintained their distance, settling at the bar where they could watch but not interfere. Your security team adjusted accordingly, creating a careful balance of power across the restaurant floor.

"Tell me something, Ms. Ricci," Hamilton said, smoothly changing the subject as if the potential threat were inconsequential. "If you weren't bound by family obligation, what would you do with your life?"

The question caught you off guard—no one had asked you that in years, perhaps ever. "I—" you hesitated, unused to such direct inquiry about your own desires rather than your family's needs.

"That's not a fair question," you finally said. "I've never had the luxury of that kind of thinking."

"Humor me," he pressed, those dark eyes fixed on yours with unexpected intensity. "If you could choose any path, what would it be?"

You considered deflecting again, then decided against it. This man might own half your life soon; he might as well know what he was buying.

"I'd want to build something of my own," you admitted. "Not separate from the family business necessarily, but something that was mine to shape. I have ideas about expansion into tech and legitimate finance that my father considers too risky."

Hamilton nodded, looking genuinely interested. "Forward-thinking. Your father mentioned you studied finance at Columbia?"

"And computer science," you added. "Though he prefers to emphasize my language skills and social graces when presenting me to potential husbands."

A brief smile touched his lips again. "The criminal world is changing. Technology and finance are the future. Your father knows it, whether he admits it or not. It's why he's considering me despite—" he gestured to his appearance, "my departure from traditional values."

The rest of dinner passed with surprising ease. Hamilton asked about your ideas for modernizing operations, listening with what seemed like genuine interest rather than performative attention. You found yourself speaking more freely than you had in months, outlining concepts for digital money laundering and secure communication networks that you'd never dared share with your father.

As dessert arrived, you realized with some surprise that you'd almost forgotten this was essentially a business meeting disguised as a date. Hamilton was unexpectedly easy to talk to when he chose to be, his questions precise and thoughtful, pushing you to expand on your ideas rather than simply agreeing.

"You're not what I expected," you admitted as you finished your chocolate soufflé.

"Is that good or bad?" he asked, watching you with those calculating eyes.

"I haven't decided yet," you replied honestly. "But it's... interesting."

He nodded, accepting this assessment without pressing for more. As he signaled for the check, you noticed Bianchi's men were still at the bar, watching with poorly disguised resentment.

"They'll follow us out," you said quietly.

"Probably," Hamilton agreed, signing the check without even glancing at the total. "Though they won't get close."

"Because of Marco and Luca?"

"Among other reasons." His tone suggested something you couldn't quite identify.

As you both stood to leave, Hamilton offered his arm in a surprisingly old-fashioned gesture. You took it, aware of the statement it made to the watching eyes. Bianchi's men would report back that you seemed comfortable with Hamilton, that there was a connection forming. Whether true or not, perception mattered in your world.

"I'll walk you to your car," Hamilton said as you exited the restaurant into the cool evening air.

"That's not necessary. I have security."

"I'm aware." Something in his tone made you look up at him. "But I'd like to anyway."

Against your better judgment, you nodded. As you walked the short distance to where Antonio waited with the Escalade, you felt Bianchi's men emerge from the restaurant behind you. Marco and Luca immediately moved to intercept, creating a buffer between you and the potential threat.

Hamilton continued walking as if completely unconcerned, his hand coming to rest lightly on the small of your back—proprietary but not controlling. The gesture shouldn't have felt as reassuring as it did.

When you reached the car, Antonio opened the door, his face carefully neutral despite the unusual situation. Before you stepped in, Hamilton turned to face you.

"Thank you for dinner, Ms. Ricci," he said formally, mindful of the watching eyes from multiple directions. "I look forward to continuing our conversation."

"As do I, Mr. Hamilton," you replied with equal formality.

He took your hand, and instead of the handshake you expected, raised it to his lips in the briefest, most controlled kiss. The gesture was calculated, you knew—a clear signal to Bianchi's watching men about his intentions. Yet something about the fleeting pressure of his lips against your knuckles sent an unwelcome shiver up your arm.

"I'll be speaking with your father tomorrow," he said, his voice low enough that only you could hear. "If you have any objections to moving forward, now would be the time to voice them."

The question surprised you—again, he was offering a choice where none was expected. You studied his face, trying to discern his true intentions behind the controlled exterior.

"No objections," you heard yourself say. "Yet."

That subtle smile appeared again, transforming his severe features for just a moment. "Prudent. Never commit without leaving yourself an exit strategy."

With that, he stepped back, allowing you to enter the car. As Antonio closed the door, you watched through the window as Hamilton turned to face the direction where Bianchi's men stood. He didn't approach them or make any obvious threat, just stood perfectly still, watching them with the focused intensity of a predator assessing prey.

Even from inside the car, you could see the Sicilians' discomfort grow under that unwavering gaze until they finally retreated to their own vehicle.

"Home, Miss?" Antonio asked, interrupting your observation.

"Yes," you replied, your mind already racing ahead. "Home for now."

As the Escalade pulled away from the curb, you found yourself wondering if Lewis Hamilton represented a different kind of cage or the key to one you'd been in your entire life. Either way, you suspected your father's decision was already made—and for once, you weren't entirely opposed to the arrangement.

Dangerous men were common in your world. But dangerous men who saw you as more than decoration or a means to an end? Those were rare enough to warrant further investigation.

Tomorrow would determine whether you'd found a partner or simply a more sophisticated jailer than the others who had sought your hand.

*******************************************

Your father summoned you to his study the following afternoon. You'd barely slept, your mind replaying every moment of the dinner with Hamilton, analyzing his words, his carefully controlled expressions, the brief moments when something genuine seemed to break through his disciplined exterior.

When you entered the study, your father wasn't alone. Uncle Paolo sat in his usual chair by the window, while your mother stood behind your father's desk—her presence unusual for these kinds of meetings. Whatever decision had been reached, it was significant enough to warrant the family's core leadership.

"Sit," your father said without preamble.

You took the chair across from his desk, smoothing your skirt with practiced composure. The heavy silence told you everything before a word was spoken.

"Hamilton has made a formal offer," your father finally said, gesturing to a folder on his desk. "The terms are... substantial."

"I'm sure they are," you replied evenly. "Since I'm such a valuable asset."

Your father's eyes narrowed slightly. "This isn't the time for attitude. This is business."

"It's my life, Papa."

"It's both," your mother interjected softly. "Which is why we want to know your thoughts before proceeding."

This was unexpected. Your father rarely solicited your opinion on family matters, let alone ones that involved strategic alliances.

"My thoughts?" you echoed, careful to keep the surprise from your voice.

Your father leaned forward. "Hamilton specifically requested your consent be part of the agreement. Said he has no interest in an unwilling partner." A flicker of annoyance crossed his features. "Very modern of him."

That explained it. Your opinion wasn't being sought out of respect for your autonomy but because Hamilton had made it a condition. Interesting that he'd actually followed through on the choice he'd offered you last night.

"So if I said no, this deal wouldn't proceed?" You tested the boundaries of this supposed freedom.

Uncle Paolo scoffed. "Let's not be dramatic. The alliance has significant benefits for both families. Hamilton is simply being... diplomatic."

Translation: Your consent was expected regardless of how it was framed.

"What exactly are the terms?" you asked, redirecting to practical matters.

Your father pushed the folder toward you. "Marriage within the month. You would relocate to London initially, though Hamilton maintains properties in several countries. Your trust fund remains independently yours, with additional provisions from both families."

You opened the folder, scanning the documents inside. Legal language camouflaged what was essentially the transfer of partial ownership of you from one man to another, albeit with surprisingly favorable conditions. Hamilton had negotiated for your financial independence and included provisions for your continued education if desired—details most traditional suitors wouldn't have bothered with.

"And the business arrangements?" you asked, knowing that was the true heart of the agreement.

"Access to his distribution networks in Europe. Technology integration for our financial operations. Weapons procurement without the usual middlemen." Your father couldn't hide the satisfaction in his voice. "In exchange for our established routes in North America and our political connections."

"Hamilton also has legitimate businesses that could help launder our more... problematic income streams," Uncle Paolo added. "Very sophisticated setups. Even the feds haven't been able to crack them."

You continued reading, noting the careful delineation of territories and responsibilities. Unlike most alliance agreements you'd seen, this one didn't simply absorb one organization into the other. It created distinct spheres of influence with clear boundaries.

"And the Bianchis? The Suarez family? How are they taking this?" you asked, thinking of the men who had watched you at the restaurant last night.

Your father's expression darkened. "Not well. Lorenzo Bianchi has been particularly vocal about his... disappointment."

"That's why we need to move quickly," Uncle Paolo interjected. "The longer this drags out, the more opportunity for interference."

"Interference," you repeated. "You mean attempts to kill Hamilton? Or me? Or both?"

"Don't be dramatic," your father snapped, but the tightness around his eyes confirmed your suspicions. "Appropriate security measures will be in place."

"Including Hamilton's own people," your mother added. "He's sent two advance team members who arrived this morning."

That explained the unfamiliar faces you'd glimpsed patrolling the grounds. Hamilton was already moving pieces into position, securing his investment.

"So it's decided then," you said, closing the folder. "I'm to be Mrs. Hamilton by the end of the month."

"Not if you truly object," your mother said, earning a sharp glance from your father. "Lewis was quite clear about that condition."

You studied your mother's face, wondering if she actually believed you had a choice or was simply playing her role in this carefully choreographed negotiation. Either way, the question remained: did you want to object?

Hamilton was dangerous, certainly. But so were all the men in your world, including your father. At least Hamilton seemed to value your mind alongside your family connections. And despite the age gap, he was undeniably intriguing in ways that Lorenzo Bianchi and Raúl Suarez could never be.

"I don't object," you finally said. "But I'd like to speak with Hamilton again before anything is finalized. Alone."

Your father's eyebrows rose. "That's not traditional."

"Neither is he," you countered. "If I'm going to bind my life to his, I want to be clear about certain... expectations."

Uncle Paolo looked scandalized, but your mother nodded slightly, understanding passing between you. Every marriage in your world involved unspoken rules and boundaries. Better to establish them early than discover incompatibilities too late.

"Fine," your father conceded. "He's coming here tonight to discuss final arrangements. You can have thirty minutes with him beforehand."

"An hour," you negotiated automatically. "And in the garden, not the house."

A flash of irritation crossed your father's face, but to your surprise, he nodded. "You're already taking after him. Negotiating everything."

You accepted this as the backhanded compliment it was intended to be. "What time?"

"Eight o'clock. Don't be late." Your father turned his attention to other papers on his desk, a clear dismissal.

As you rose to leave, your mother followed you out, closing the study door behind her.

"A word," she said quietly, guiding you toward her private sitting room where conversations couldn't be overheard.

Once inside with the door secured, she turned to you with an expression more candid than she usually allowed herself.

"You should know that your father has additional expectations from this union that aren't in the formal agreement," she said without preamble.

"Let me guess. Grandchildren." It wasn't a question.

Your mother nodded. "Within the first two years of marriage. He sees Hamilton's bloodline as... advantageous for the family's future."

You couldn't help the bitter laugh that escaped you. "Of course. Not only am I being traded like a thoroughbred, I'm expected to breed like one too."

"That's the reality of our world," your mother said, not unkindly. "I just wanted you to be prepared when the subject arises."

"Is that what happened with you and Papa? Was a baby part of the merger agreement?"

Your mother's expression softened slightly. "Yes. Though in our case, we were fortunate enough to develop genuine feelings before you were born." She touched your cheek gently. "I hope the same for you, whatever you may think of the arrangement now."

You leaned into her touch briefly before pulling away. "Did Hamilton agree to this... breeding schedule?"

"It wasn't presented to him directly. Your father considers it a family matter, not a negotiation point."

"How convenient," you muttered. "Anything else I should know before I'm shipped off to London?"

Your mother hesitated, then said, "Hamilton has a reputation for certain... tastes. Nothing concerning," she added quickly, seeing your expression. "Just... particular."

"What kind of particular?" You weren't naive about what happened in bedrooms, but your experience was admittedly limited—a college boyfriend your father had eventually scared away, and a brief affair with an Italian businessman that had fizzled when you realized he was more interested in your family connections than you.

"Controlled. Dominant." Your mother chose her words carefully. "But not cruel, from what I understand. Unlike some in our circle." The unspoken reference to men like Raúl Suarez hung in the air.

"Wonderful," you said dryly. "I'm to be the obedient wife in the boardroom and the bedroom."

"Not necessarily." Your mother's tone suggested she knew more than she was saying. "Just... be prepared to discuss boundaries clearly. Men like Hamilton respect directness more than they let on."

The conversation left you with more questions than answers, but at least you were forewarned. As you headed back to your room to prepare for the evening's meeting, your mind raced with everything you wanted to establish before signing your life away.

********************************************

The garden at dusk held a particular magic, the fading light softening the carefully manicured grounds of the estate. You'd chosen this setting deliberately—outside the confines of the house, away from listening ears and watchful eyes, but still within the secure perimeter of the property.

You wore a simple wrap dress, casual enough to suggest this wasn't a formal negotiation but elegant enough to maintain the upper hand. Your hair hung loose around your shoulders, a small rebellion against your father's preference for the sleek, controlled styles he considered appropriate for business meetings.

At precisely eight o'clock, you heard footsteps on the stone path. Lewis Hamilton moved with that same contained grace you'd noticed at dinner, his attention seemingly casual but missing nothing as he scanned the garden. He wore dark jeans and a black button-down with the sleeves rolled to reveal more of the intricate tattoos on his forearms. Less formal than yesterday, but no less commanding.

"Ms. Ricci," he greeted you, those dark eyes taking in your appearance with that same assessing gaze. "Thank you for agreeing to meet."

"I'm the one who requested it," you reminded him, gesturing to the bench beside the rose trellis. "Please, sit."

He complied, maintaining a respectful distance as you settled beside him. The evening air carried the scent of late summer blooms and the faint spice of his cologne.

"I understand congratulations are in order," he said, those eyes never leaving your face. "Your father has accepted my proposal."

"With the condition of my consent," you noted. "Which was an interesting stipulation to include."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "I don't believe in forced partnerships. They tend to... malfunction at critical moments."

"How pragmatic of you."

"I'm a pragmatic man." He leaned back slightly, one arm extending along the back of the bench though he didn't touch you. "I assume you have questions or concerns you wanted to address privately."

"Several," you confirmed. "Starting with what happens after the wedding. You mentioned London?"

He nodded. "Initially. I maintain a residence there, another in Amsterdam, properties in several other locations. I thought we might begin in London while you acclimate to the arrangement, then discuss preferences."

"And my involvement in the business?"

Something like approval flickered across his features. "That depends on your interests and aptitudes. From our dinner conversation, I gather you have significant insights into modernization opportunities. I'd welcome your input in those areas, to start."

"To start," you repeated. "With the possibility of expansion."

"Precisely." He studied you for a moment. "You seem surprised."

"Most men in your position view wives as decorative accessories, not business partners."

"Most men in my position are shortsighted," he replied simply. "I prefer to utilize all available resources effectively."

"Is that what I am? A resource?" You kept your tone neutral despite the provocation.

That slight smile appeared again. "We all are, in different contexts. The question is whether we're valued appropriately for what we bring to the table."

It was a fair point, if somewhat coldly phrased. "And what exactly do you think I bring to the table, Mr. Hamilton?"

"Intelligence. Strategic thinking. Social connections my organization currently lacks in certain circles. Perspective from a different generation." His assessment was calm, matter-of-fact. "And of course, the Ricci family alliance, which opens doors that would otherwise remain closed to me."

"That's quite a list." You weren't sure whether to be flattered or offended by his inventory of your attributes. "And what about the personal aspects of this arrangement? I assume you've considered those as well."

"Of course." If your directness surprised him, he didn't show it. "Marriage typically involves certain... intimacies."

"Is that what we're calling it?" you asked dryly. "Intimacies?"

For the first time, a genuine smile broke through his controlled expression. "What would you prefer to call it? Fucking? Sleeping together? Making heirs for our respective families?"

The crude language from his cultured British accent was jarring, but not unwelcome. At least he wasn't treating you like some delicate flower who'd wilt at plain speaking.

"All of the above, apparently," you replied, matching his bluntness. "My father expects grandchildren within two years, though he didn't include that in the formal agreement."

Hamilton's eyebrow rose slightly. "Interesting that he'd leave such an important detail out of the negotiations."

"He considers it a family matter, not a business point."

"When in fact it's both," Hamilton observed. His gaze turned more assessing. "And how do you feel about this... breeding arrangement?"

The crass term made you wince, though it accurately described your father's approach. "I haven't decided. Children weren't in my immediate plans, but I always assumed they'd be part of my future eventually."

"Regardless of your father's timeline, that particular aspect would be between us," Hamilton said firmly. "Not subject to external schedules."

The clear boundary he established around your shared decisions versus family expectations was unexpectedly reassuring. "And the... physical aspects of marriage in general? What are your expectations there?"

Hamilton considered you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "I expect mutual respect and clear communication about boundaries and preferences. I don't believe in coercion of any kind, but I do value honesty."

"That's very diplomatic," you noted. "But not very specific."

"Would you prefer specifics?" he asked, that dangerous edge suddenly more apparent beneath his controlled exterior. "I can be quite direct, Ms. Ricci, but most find it... uncomfortable."

"I'm not most people," you countered. "And if we're to be married, I think I deserve to know what I'm agreeing to."

A brief nod acknowledged your point. "Very well. I enjoy control—giving it completely in business settings tends to make one appreciate having it in private ones. I prefer partners who understand the value of clearly defined roles and boundaries." His gaze was unwavering. "I don't believe in ownership or subjugation, but I do expect a certain level of... deference in intimate settings."

The frankness of his assessment sent an unexpected heat through you that you hoped wasn't visible in the fading light. "And if that arrangement doesn't appeal to me?"

"Then we negotiate alternatives," he replied simply. "As I said, coercion has no place in my world. But I've found that compatibility in these matters tends to reveal itself naturally, given time and trust."

The conversation should have been mortifying—discussing sexual dynamics with a virtual stranger who might soon be your husband. Instead, you found his directness refreshing after a lifetime of veiled implications and unspoken expectations.

"Any other concerns you wish to address?" he asked, seeming entirely comfortable with the turn the conversation had taken.

"Freedom of movement," you said, returning to practical matters. "My father keeps me under constant surveillance for 'protection.' Would I be exchanging one form of confinement for another?"

"Security is necessary in our world," Hamilton acknowledged. "But I don't believe in cages, golden or otherwise. With appropriate measures in place, you would be free to pursue your own interests, travel within reason, maintain your own social connections."

"Within reason," you repeated. "And who defines what's reasonable?"

"We would—together. Based on security assessments and legitimate risk factors, not arbitrary restrictions." His tone suggested this was non-negotiable. "I won't apologize for prioritizing your safety, but I have no interest in controlling your every movement."

It was a fair compromise, better than you'd expected and certainly better than your current situation. "And fidelity? What are your expectations there?"

"Absolute," he replied without hesitation. "On both sides. Anything else introduces unnecessary vulnerabilities and complications."

"At least we agree on something," you said, surprising yourself with the admission. Infidelity was common in your world—your father had kept mistresses over the years despite his genuine love for your mother—but you'd always found it distasteful and dangerous.

"We'll likely agree on more than you expect," Hamilton said, his voice softening slightly. "This arrangement may be unconventional in its origins, but that doesn't mean it can't evolve into something mutually beneficial on multiple levels."

The diplomatic phrasing couldn't quite disguise what sounded dangerously close to optimism about your potential relationship. You weren't sure what to make of that.

"One last question," you said, aware that your allotted time was nearly up. "Why me, really? Beyond the business advantages and family connections. You could have pursued alliances with a dozen other families, many with more extensive operations than ours. Why choose the Ricci family? Why choose me?"

Hamilton was quiet for a moment, considering his answer carefully. When he spoke, his voice held a different quality than before—less measured, more genuine.

"Your family's operation is smaller than some, yes, but more adaptable. Old enough to have established roots but not so entrenched that evolution is impossible." His eyes held yours steadily. "As for you specifically... I make decisions based on careful assessment of potential and compatibility. You possess qualities I consider valuable—intelligence, adaptability, strategic thinking, resilience."

"You gleaned all that from one dinner and a brief meeting at my father's house?" Your skepticism was evident.

"I've been researching your family for months," he admitted without apology. "You specifically for weeks. The dinner merely confirmed what my investigation suggested."

The revelation shouldn't have surprised you, yet somehow it did. "That's... thorough."

"I don't leave important decisions to chance or superficial impressions." His gaze was unwavering. "Marriage is a significant commitment, even when it's primarily strategic."

Before you could respond, the garden lights activated automatically with the deepening dusk, illuminating the space around you. In the sudden brightness, you could see Hamilton more clearly—the precise lines of his face, the intensity of his gaze, the subtle pattern of the tattoo visible at his collar.

"Our time is nearly up," he observed. "Your father will be expecting me in the study."

"Yes," you agreed, oddly reluctant to end the conversation. "I suppose he will."

Hamilton rose, offering his hand to help you up. You took it, noting the controlled strength in his grip, the warmth of his palm against yours. He held on a moment longer than necessary, his eyes searching yours.

"Have I addressed your concerns adequately, Ms. Ricci?" he asked, his voice pitched low enough that only you could hear it. "Or do you have objections to proceeding?"

The question echoed the one from last night—again offering you a choice, or at least the illusion of one. You considered your options realistically. Refusing would create chaos in the family, potentially trigger violence from rejected suitors, and leave you back where you started—under your father's thumb, awaiting the next strategic match.

Accepting meant embarking on a life with a dangerous, controlled man who nonetheless seemed to see you as more than a decorative accessory or breeding stock. A man who, despite the age gap and cultural differences, offered something resembling partnership rather than ownership.

"No objections," you said finally. "Though I reserve the right to revisit these discussions as needed."

Something like satisfaction crossed his features. "I would expect nothing less." He released your hand slowly. "Shall we join your father?"

As you walked together toward the house, you were acutely aware of the weight of the decision you'd just made. Within weeks, you would be bound to this man—leaving behind the familiar constraints of your father's house for the unknown territory of marriage to Lewis Hamilton.

Whether that represented freedom or simply a different form of captivity remained to be seen. But for the first time in years, you felt something dangerously close to hope about your future.

"One last thing," Hamilton said as you reached the terrace doors. "Once we're married, I'd prefer you call me Lewis. 'Mr. Hamilton' seems excessively formal for a wife, don't you think?"

The request was so unexpectedly ordinary after the intensity of your conversation that you couldn't help a small, genuine smile. "I'll consider it... Lewis."

His name felt strange on your tongue, intimate in a way that caught you off guard. The slight widening of his eyes suggested he felt it too—this small shift from formal negotiation toward something more personal.

Without another word, he opened the door for you, and together you stepped back into the house to finalize the arrangement that would bind your lives together—for better or worse.

…….tbd

[lotusarchon]

I heard you write for POC? Could you write some sfw and nsfw headcanons of wukong reacting to the reader wearing waist beads, I don't think waist beads is very common in china so maybe it's his first time seeing them?

back to the kitty cause she's kinda pretty (sun wukong x reader)

content warnings: female reader, second pov (you/your), info gathered from wikipedia so may not be accurate completely, reader is of african descent (trini specifically because yes 🇹🇹), fluffy headcanons, sun wukong being curious as ever, nsfw headcanons, minors + ageless blogs DNI, gentle sex, p in v, cowgirl position, mild breeding kink

author's notes: okay so imma bfr right: this is the first time I've genuinely heard of waist beads, like ever, so Wukong here is a reflection of my own surprise and interest too

SFW;

𐙚 I can personally see Wukong being genuinely intrigued when you bring them up the first time. Mind you, he's never been beyond China and while he has borderline visited India on occasion, that really is about the limit he's done on traveling with his free time. So, naturally, his interest is piqued when you mention them.

𐙚 Wukong's the type of guy to ask you a lot of questions when curious. Though you haven't shown him the waist beads due to cultural reasons, he asks you a lot of questions, like what are their purpose, what do the symbolize, how are they made, etc. It's a good thing he has an amazing memory, but you have to pray he gives you a break between questions. (Which, knowing Wukong, might genuinely be never.)

𐙚 He gives you such a puppy eyed stare to see those waist beads 🥺 please show him, he's just so curious, and you love him, don't you? Don't you wanna show him your pretty waist beads? Pretty please?

𐙚 Dear god he's practically in awe. He wants to touch them so bad―he finds the uniqueness of the chosen gems and your favorite seashells handcrafted by your mother to be gorgeous. The way they settle against your skin and rustle when you move, gods he just wants to touch so bad, but at the same time, he respects you and wouldn't do anything that might make you sad.

𐙚 Consider him surprised when he finds out that in some cultures, the waist beads are intended to be seen only by your significant other. When you confirm he's the first, he is thrilled. To know that you trust him enough to show him…dear god this man is jumping up and down with utter glee. He is not shutting up about it and might also beat up anyone that asks to see it.

𐙚 If it was possible, Wukong would beg you to let him wear one too. He finds them cute and even aesthetically appealing, especially knowing that you don't need them to be all fancy looking or rich. Too bad he's not a girl…

NSFW;

𐙚 Watch him go from sad he can't wear one to intrigued when he finds out in (Igbo) culture, not only does a groom have to give his bride a Mgbájí (waist beads) to ensure her attire is complete, but it's pleasing to watch as the bride dances to her new husband.

𐙚 Well, you know Wukong. Till death till you both part, and he has zero intention of parting with you. You're both practically married at this, point, so wouldn't you love him enough to put on a dance for him, as good wife should?

𐙚 Of course, if you didn't want too, he wouldn't have forced you, but when you wholeheartedly agreed with his request, Wukong thought his dick was gonna bust through his pants.

𐙚 The way the beads looked against your dancing figure, your alluring smile…gah, did he mention how much he loves you? Because, he does, and once you're within grabbing distance he yanks you forward and smooches you so hard.

𐙚 Don't expect to have those waist beads removed, oh hell no. Wukong insists you keep them on, and while he strips you bare, he ensures they're not even hurt by his actions. He wants to see them on your body while he fucks you.

𐙚 His cock literally throbs inside you while you ride him, and the shift of your waist beads while his hands squeeze your ass and your arms are wrapped around his neck are enough to send him over the edge. It genuinely takes a lot for him not to just bend you over right then and there, because he likes watching the beads shift against your body while you bounce on him.

𐙚 Maybe it's your imagination, but you swear he mutters something about knocking you up? And getting you another pair of waist beads to match the one you were gifted with from your mother? Something about you being so utterly divine in this moment, the idea of stuffing you to the brim with his cum and having you as his wife forever and ever..?

𐙚 Long story short, Wukong gives you a baby and keeps his word about granting you another pair of waist beads with pretty flower seeds and shells. Yay.

@lotusarchon, 26.11.2024, all rights reserved. do not copy, repost or translate my works without permission. likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated!!

[becauseimswagman1]

Kelvin Harrison Jr. x reader x Aaron Pierre

A/N: apart of the "Lightskin brothaa" universe. Check "blurbs" on my master list to find the other short fics

----------------------------

“We should roleplay.”

“DO WHAT?” Kelvin yelled, sitting up from his spot on the bed.

“Roleplay.” you shrugged cause what is his deal? This is most absolutely the tamest thing you’ve said today.

“Aaron, baby, back me up here,” he said.

Aaron put down his book, “I don’t know. It could be fun. What did you have in mind?”

“I was thinking that two of us pretend that we don’t know the other person and have a whole “We saw you from across the bar” moment.”

“Okay, but I have to be the other person,” Kelvin said.

Aaron looked at him, “And why do you have to? Why can’t it be me?”

“Because not only am I the better actor, but you two are hot as fuck together and it would be perfect.”

Aaron opened his mouth to speak but you spoke first, “Wait, it can be you two! If last night is any proof, it’s that y’all are everybody’s dream!”

“Okay, first off, we’re both very talented thank you and I like our love’s idea.”

Kelvin rolled his eyes, “You always take her side.”

“Well, of course I do. She’s all throat and you’re… a little too toothy.”

You busted out laughing and fell off the bed doing so.

Kelvin’s eyes widened and he practically pounced on Aaron, “I’m, like, new to the whole sucking dick thing?? You can’t hold that against me! And you’re like fucking massive!” He put a hand over his chest, “What the hell am I, a beginner, actually supposed to do with a thing like that?

Aaron looked up at him, “We can always train you.”

You got up from the floor, “Yeah, babe, we could. It’ll be fun.”

“We could train you when we do the roleplay thing. You can be the unsuspecting guy at the bar.”

Kelvin sat up on his lap and patted his chest, “Best idea you’ve had all day, baby.”

You smiled and giggled, “Great! We’ll do it tonight. I have so much to prepare for.” you rushed off to the closet.

“Is she serious?” Kelvin said.

“AS A HEART ATTACK!”

Aaron and Kelvin laughed at your ability to be dramatic, but they knew they’d have to “pop out and show niggas”, to quote you quoting Kendrick Lamar. Tonight is gonna be a movie.

----------------------------

Taglist (comment to be added, dm to be removed): @femdisa @luvrsluxe @ayeeeitsmiracle @sharmelasworld @papithetia @mzv11 @gg-trini @iveseenstrangerthings @kneelarmhstrung

[rainbowmoonstonestories]

A Bounty As Boundless As The Sea | Chapter 8

Chapters: 8/? Fandom: One Piece (Liveaction 2023) Rating: Explicit Relationships Dracule Mihawk x F!Reader Characters: Dracule Mihawk, Original Characters, Akagami no Shanks, Roronoa Zoro , Perona. Warnings: Mention of blood and physical torture, violence, 18+ content (minors DNI), explicit sexual content, POV switching. Summary: Constantly evading capture due to a bounty on your head, you were forced to embrace the life of a pirate, despite your initial desire for a thrilling adventure and a simple exploration of the world. One fateful day, the Marines dispatched Dracule Mihawk to hunt you down, plunging you into a game of hide and seek with the formidable Warlord of the sea throughout the East Blue. However, to your surprise, the man proved to be less bloodthirsty and hostile than you had anticipated. His piercing, hawk-like eyes, shimmering with a deep golden hue, left an indelible impression on your mind, while his apathetic yet self-assured demeanor ignited a newfound sense of intrigue within you.

Credits: The divider was made by firefly-graphics.

Tagging: @gg-trini, @commanderfreethatdust, @canthebest1, @shakysif, @i-am-vita. If anyone else wants to be tagged in the future chapters, feel free to drop me a comment!

Read on AO3

As time progressed, the distance between you and Mihawk became increasingly frustrating to maintain. Concurrently, despite your bounty being cancelled, potential risks from undisclosed parties may still persist.

Author's note: It's hard to believe we're in 2025 already. The story is flowing well, and I expect the first part to conclude within the next chapter or two. I had planned to include an important scene with a major OP character in this update, but space constraints prevented it. I'll incorporate it in the next chapter alongside other plot developments.

The second part shouldn't be particularly long, but I want to write about daily life on Kuraigana Island. This means readers who haven't read the manga or watched the anime will encounter some spoilers. Since we don't know how many seasons the live-action will cover, it might take years before they film that storyline.

I wish you all a wonderful 2025!

You awoke to birds chirping, their gentle whistles drawing you back to reality. When you opened your eyes, sunlight streamed directly into them, causing you to squint and roll away from the harsh rays onto the cool grass. 

Upon discovering Mihawk's departure, a sense of melancholy settled over you. His solemn promise lingered in your thoughts, accompanied by memories of ardent kisses and gentle touches. The previous evening had marked a significant development in your relationship; you had simply held each other, finding peace and contentment in a quiet embrace with no need for anything more. 

Though naturally reserved, Mihawk revealed his softer side in private through subtle gestures of intimacy and affection. His tenderness emerged in the way he welcomed your presence and left thoughtful gifts on your pillow—each action carrying the same quiet precision that defined his character.

An involuntary sigh escaped your lips as his absence weighed heavily upon your consciousness. Yet you chose to trust his resolve, hoping he would return before the ache of separation could truly take hold.

You pushed yourself up from the ground, stretching to shake off the last traces of sleep. Making your way down the hill toward the village, you noticed townspeople already bustling between the harbor and main streets. Fresh fish scented the air while seagulls wheeled overhead, and the sounds of merchants setting up their stalls echoed off the surrounding walls. You'd nearly forgotten the vitality of your homeland during these early dawn hours.

Life had a peculiar way of shifting perspectives. Not long ago, you would have given anything to return home and forget your dream of adventure, one that had twisted into a nightmare of betrayal and deceit. Now you found yourself unwilling to stay, unable to give up the life at sea you had built through hard work, determination, and sacrifice.

A life with the ocean breeze blowing through your hair, and Dracule Mihawk by your side.

Mary-Ann visited the tavern in the early afternoon, choosing the quiet lull for an intimate conversation. Since your arrival, moments alone together had been extremely rare, and she craved the kind of private chat that only two best friends, separated by time and distance, could finally have. 

The tavern was comfortably warm, wisps of steam curling up from your drinks. Mary-Ann sat in thoughtful silence, choosing her next words carefully.

"So, I heard something interesting this morning," she said, sipping her tea with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"Oh? Do tell," you replied with a smile.

"Your boyfriend came all this way just to see you, didn’t he? What a shame I wasn't here to meet him in person."

You pursed your lips and cast a suspicious glance at your cousin, who was casually wiping down tables nearby. "Runa told you, didn't she?"

Mary-Ann shrugged. "You know how she is. She said he's quite the handsome fellow. And judging by those old bounty posters, I'd say she's absolutely right."

“I mean—”

"You're not going to deny it, are you?" she teased. "Go on, don't stop on my account."

A wider grin tugged at your lips as thoughts of the Warlord drifted through your mind once more. "He's gorgeous, Mary-Ann. Breathtakingly so. But that's not the main reason I care for him."

"I bet. You've always been able to look beyond the surface. When I first heard the rumors about you two, I was skeptical… after all, he has quite the reputation. And those eyes of his..."

"Trust me, I was terrified when I first realized he was pursuing me."

Mary-Ann froze with her mug suspended in mid-air, unblinking. "Wait, he was?"

“Crazy, right?”

She sighed, setting the beverage down on the table. "Damn, sweetie. You've been through quite a journey out there."

"That's putting it mildly."

Her cheerful expression faded as a shadow crossed her face, giving way to a more serious tone. "So, he was chasing you because the Marines ordered him to? How did you get from there to this?"

You chuckled. "I honestly don't know. It just... happened naturally. Mihawk was never truly interested in capturing or killing me, he was fascinated by what I'd accomplished."

Her eyebrow arched impossibly high. "Seriously? Everyone says Dracule Mihawk is heartless and a savage on the battlefield."

"That's what I thought too. But believe me, he's the very reason I'm sitting here with you today."

She nodded. "Right, because he got your bounty cancelled. Runa told me about that too."

"Can't that girl keep anything to herself?"

Mary-Ann shook her head with a smile. "Can you really blame her for being excited?"

“Not really, but…”

The atmosphere grew heavy as Mary-Ann's face tensed, her gaze holding the weight of a thousand unspoken concerns as her lips formed a straight line. 

"You disappeared for weeks, Y/N, and we had no idea where you'd gone. Then suddenly we learned the World Government wanted you dead. Can you imagine how terrified I was for you?"

“I—”

"Look, I don't mean to sound harsh," she cut in. “I know it was difficult, and I understand why you couldn't reach out to us after that. But every day, I dreaded hearing news of your execution. I would break down in tears just thinking about it."

You had feared your family and friends would see you as just another wayward criminal lost to the sea, someone who could only disappoint them for committing what seemed like an unpardonable act. You were terrified to reach out, knowing the Marines could track any communication and endanger your loved ones. Yet you had failed to consider the most crucial aspect: how intensely frightened they all would be for your safety.

Your shoulders sagged. "I'm sorry, Mary-Ann. I know I've caused you all so much worry."

"I'm not blaming you, I know it wasn’t your fault. Though I have to admit, I spent a long time being angry that you chose such a dangerous dream."

Your eyes flickered as you fidgeted with your hands in your lap. "Actually, there were times when I regretted my decision."

Mary-Ann's warm smile returned as she settled in her chair. "If I were in your shoes, I couldn't have endured that alone. The way you found the courage to stand on your own, without support… it's truly admirable. I'm just so grateful you didn't give up."

“Why?”

She looked at you thoughtfully, her face glowing in the warm sunlight. "Because I've never seen you this happy before."

Oh.

"Whatever people say about Mihawk, I trust your judgment. And seeing how much you like this guy, I'm certain he's not the mindless World Government’s lapdog that everyone makes him out to be.

Your fingers reached for the cross pendant, subconsciously toying with it. "No. He's complex and contemplative, far more than just empty words and violence. He's direct, honest, and believes in me more than I've ever believed in myself."

Mary-Ann sipped her now-cold tea with a satisfied hum. "You spent time with him last night, didn't you?"

“Yeah.”

"Are you going to tell me what happened?"

"Nothing, actually. We just slept."

She propped her elbow on the table, resting her chin in her hand. "Slept, sure."

"Is that really any of your business?" you asked with a playful smirk.

"You're my best friend, of course it is."

"Well, you're in for a disappointment; we really did just sleep. Get your mind out of the gutter."

“Mhh.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice to a whisper. "But that's not all you've done together, is it?"

"Nope, not going there."

"Come on, spill!” She exclaimed, clapping her hands enthusiastically. “With his fierce prowess in battle, I bet he's just as wild in the bedroom—"

"Oh for fuck's sake. Stop it!"

She erupted into laughter, clutching her stomach and nearly toppling backward in her chair. Her booming voice echoed through the tavern so powerfully you worried she might shake the rafters loose. 

"You should see your face right now. You're as red as your mother's tomato soup!"

"Well, who do I have to thank for that?"

"Alright, alright. My apologies. I can see you'd rather not discuss those details."

"For good reason,” you retorted, crossing your arms. “I never ask you about your husband’s performance during sex, do I?"

"Ah, I'd be happy to tell you all about it. You see, there's this special thing he does with his ton—"

You waved your hands frantically. "No, no, please. I'm perfectly fine not knowing. I'd rather be able to look him in the eye without any disturbing mental images."

Mary-Ann dissolved into uncontrollable giggling, just like in the old days. Wiping tears of joy from her eyes, she finally caught her breath and composed herself. "I didn't realize how much I've missed this."

“I missed it too.”

"But not enough to make you want to stay, right?"

You released a gentle sigh, tilting your head. "It's not that I don't want to."

"I understand. Your heart belongs to the sea now… and to Dracule Mihawk."

Lost in thought, you gazed through the window at the pristine sky above. The salty scent of the ocean had become part of your essence, clinging to your skin and dancing on your lips no matter how much you washed or what foods and drinks you tasted. And the distinctive aroma of the man you had fallen in love with, like the finest spice in a gourmet kitchen, had woven itself into your being, remaining a constant presence in your life.

"Yes," you whispered, blinking back tears before they could fall. "It does."

The seven days spent in your homeland proved transformative, offering insights into aspects of life previously overlooked. This period of reflection facilitated personal rediscovery, lending new perspective to familiar routines and emphasizing the importance of rest. The nurturing presence of family and friends served as a powerful source of rejuvenation for your spirit.

Runa struggled the most with your impending parting, retreating to her room the moment she noticed your packed belongings. After half an hour of coaxing, she finally opened the door, her face tear-stained, her breath hitching with crying. 

"Why do you have to go?" she asked, curling into a ball on her bed. "Why did you have to meet that Warlord?"

"Runa, it's not that simple," you said softly, placing a gentle hand on her knee. "I have a whole life waiting for me; a job, someone counting on my services, and so many places still to explore."

"But it's so dangerous out there!" 

"I can’t deny that, Ru. But I know you're mature enough to understand why I need to follow this path."

"No," she sniffled. "I know why you want to go, but I just can't make sense of it. Why risk your life when you could be safe and comfortable? It's not like you're planning to sail the Grand Line."

You hesitated, unable to find the right words to offer. The idea of venturing further had been growing in your mind—a chance to push beyond familiar waters. Though the East Blue was vast, you felt you had visited every corner of it, from remote islets to bustling cities. While you once dismissed the Grand Line as too risky, you now wondered if you might be ready to take on its challenges somehow.

Your silence made Runa's eyes widen in panic. "Wait… you won't go to the Grand Line, right? Please tell me you won't!"

"To be honest, Runa, I'm not sure,” you admitted. “While I haven't made any specific plans, I can't promise I won't consider that possibility someday."

"You can't do that! You may never return!"

A soft smile tugged at your lips. It seemed a flair for the dramatic truly ran in your family.

"Ru, I know I'm asking a lot. I don't expect everyone to agree with my choices. All I'm asking for is your acceptance of the journey I must take."

"Well, I refuse," she declared between hiccups, tears streaming down her face in endless rivulets.

“Ru—”

"No, I mean it. I don't want Dracule Mihawk to take you away from us. I don't want you to go to the Grand Line. I don't want you to be a pirate. And I certainly don't want you to put your life in danger every single day."

You exhaled deeply, brushing her damp hair away from her eyes. "Nobody is taking me away from you, and being a pirate doesn't mean I'm going to become a bad person."

"It's not about that. Being a pirate puts a target on your back, doesn't it?"

"I only became a target because of bad luck,” you explained. “A chain of unfortunate events forced me to do something terrible, something I would never choose unless I had no other option."

She bit her lower lip hard enough to nearly make it bleed. "And what if you find yourself in that situation again? What if you need to survive and the World Government condemns whatever means you have to use? I doubt even Mihawk can protect you from that all the time. How well do you know this man, anyway?"

Knowing there was no response that could contradict the truth of your cousin’s statements, you took her hand and gave it a light squeeze. "I can't promise you that things will be easy. All I can do is assure you that I'll be as careful as I can be, and call you at least once a week to keep you updated about my whereabouts."

"How can I be sure you won't end up with another bounty?"

"The reason I got a bounty in the first place was my inexperience."

She pouted, her throat tightening with emotion. "It's not enough, Y/N."

"I know, and I wish I could give you more reassurance."

"You're going to leave regardless of what I say, aren't you?"

“Yes.”

Her lips quivered as fresh tears soaked into her shirt. "Fine. Go ahead and do whatever you want, then."

The resentment was clear in her voice, anger and disappointment blazing in her darkened eyes. It pained you deeply to leave her this way; hurt, angry, and utterly miserable. Knowing she might hold a grudge against you made your determination waver, but abandoning your commitments and chosen destiny was simply not an option you were willing to consider.

With a gentle kiss on her forehead, you rose from your position. Maintaining your poise, you proceeded toward the door, accepting that you must once again depart from your cherished foundations in pursuit of a life that promised the fulfillment you had yet to discover in your hometown.

And of a man whose undefined role in your relationship held profound significance.

Before you could leave the room, Runa called your name, halting you mid-stride. You turned to look at your cousin one last time, as she hesitated, getting up slowly from the bed but staying a few paces away.

Finally, she ran to you for a tight hug, wrapping her arms around your neck and pulling you against her. She breathed heavily into your hair, whimpering and shaking, barely releasing you to say, "If that guy ever dares to hurt you, I swear I'll kill him with my own hands. I don't care how massive that sword of his is.”

Embracing her tightly, you felt your own tears cascade down your cheeks while a soft laugh escaped your lips. After dabbing your eyes dry, you pulled back to take in the fierce look on her face, which gave her a maturity you had never seen in her before.

"I'll take your word for it."

It had been three weeks since you'd last seen Mihawk. You dove back into your sea routine with renewed intensity, sailing tirelessly from port to port. 

Each day brought pleas to Isaiah for more assignments as you tried to outrun time's sluggish pace. While the busy schedule didn't quite ease your restlessness, it at least kept your mind from lingering too long on thoughts you'd rather avoid. 

The Warlord had returned to the Grand Line, withdrawing into his usual silence without any communication. You wanted to trust him—truly—and a part of you would never doubt his word. Yet the uncertainty of when he would return created an unbearable emptiness in your heart, one that left an aching void nothing else could fill.

Every night felt dull and meaningless, your bed suddenly becoming colder and much too spacious for you alone. The bathtub was stifling, each soak a reminder of your passionate moment with the swordsman, awakening desires you struggled to contain. Your cabin was so quiet you could hear a pin drop, and every solitary meal tasted bland and lifeless. A deep ache consumed you, for your loved ones back home, for Mihawk's presence beside you, and for companionship to fill the endless lonely days.

Though you didn't lament leaving home again, the extended isolation was beginning to take its toll.

Fueled by pent-up emotions, you began picking fights more often than necessary. You weren't actively looking for confrontations, but after the incident on Mirror Ball Island, your patience with profiteering scoundrels had worn thin. You refused to let anyone take advantage of your services again.

One day, you stood with unwavering confidence before another fool who tried to cheat you out of your fair price, methodically counting the banknotes between your fingers. The thug snarled, blood dripping from his thrice-broken nose as he twisted against the ropes binding his hands. While you preferred peaceful solutions, mercy had no place in this world.

"This is more like it," you said smugly, securing your Berries into the inside pocket of your jacket. "It was nice doing business with you."

"You damned witch," he snarled in response. "If you think this is over—"

"Oh, it is," you cut him off sharply. "I wasn't the one who violated our agreement in the first place."

"Tch."

"Smart of you to stay quiet."

You pivoted on your heels and strode down the empty hallway, your sword and pistols echoing with metallic clinks against your sides. Before you could round the corner toward the harbor, the man called out from behind, his harsh voice booming with arrogance, causing you to stop abruptly.

"Must be real nice having that infamous Warlord watching your back and cleaning up your messes."

Your jaw clenched at the insult, striking a raw nerve. You turned menacingly, boots grinding against the dirt as you stalked back to where the man lay sprawled, each step deliberate and radiating malice. The man's smug expression wavered under your piercing gaze, but his words hung irretrievably in the air. 

You crouched down, your voice lowering to a deadly whisper that carried the same bone-chilling edge as Mihawk's infamous demeanor. "If you think he's my babysitter, you're dangerously mistaken."

The thug’s breath hitched, but you didn’t stop there. Your hand shot out, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and yanking him closer. “I fight my own battles. I settle my own scores. And I certainly don’t need anyone to clean up after me. So, unless you want me to show you just how much I don’t rely on him, you’ll keep your mouth shut.”

You let him go with a forceful shove, standing tall as you dusted off your hands. The scammer scrambled backward, his face pale as he muttered half-hearted apologies. But then, under his breath, emboldened by the distance between you, he sneered, "Figures a brute like him would choose someone just as savage. Warlord or not, he's still a glorified pirate.”

The muscles in your shoulders tensed visibly, your expression cold and unyielding as a storm brewing on the horizon. “What did you just say?”

His bravado faltered again, but he pressed on, perhaps out of misplaced courage or sheer stupidity. “I’m just saying, someone like him thinks he’s above the law because he waves a giant sword around and terrorizes everyone who crosses his path. It’s pathetic. You’re both—”

He didn’t get the chance to finish. In a blur of movement, you grabbed him by the collar and yanked him to his feet with surprising strength. “Listen closely,” you hissed, your face inches from his. “You don’t get to speak his name, let alone insult him.”

Your grip tightened, and the scammer squirmed, realizing too late that he had pushed far beyond the limits of your tolerance.

“That ‘glorified pirate’ could destroy you and everything you’ve ever known with a flick of his wrist. Do you know why he doesn’t?”

The thug shook his head frantically.

“Because unlike you,” you spat, “he has honor. He got strength you couldn’t even begin to understand, and he doesn’t waste it on cowards who can’t even win a simple scam. Next time you even think about speaking ill of him, ask yourself—are you prepared to deal with the consequences of your actions?”

You dropped him to the ground like a sack of bricks, leaving him gasping for air. "You are the only pathetic one here."

Without another word, you strode back toward your ship, your blood still boiling with rage. As you disappeared into the crowd, you grumbled curses and complaints under your breath, uncaring about the passersby who eyed you as if you had lost your sanity.

Heavens above, you longed desperately to see Mihawk again.

Weeks had turned into months, and it had become overwhelmingly unbearable. 

The Warlord's extended absence had created a palpable void across the East Blue region and in your personal life. Despite your resolute exterior, the question gnawed at you: would he honor his promise and return, proving his commitment to the bond you'd forged together? Though you wanted to believe in his reappearance, doubt crept in like an unwelcome shadow. You waited for any indication of presence, whether through reported sightings or even a single communication via transponder snail—none of which had materialized.

It unsettled you to realize how deeply he had influenced your thoughts, each day without him intensifying the craving that consumed both your soul and flesh. Even self-gratification brought no relief to your nerves, feeling hollow and incomparable to his touch. 

Missing him was truly maddening, but you could only wait and hold fast to his promise.

Meanwhile, your dealing job continued with more excursions and fruitful exchanges, immersing you in dynamic expeditions that provided just the right balance of stability and excitement. It was a good consolation, something that brought joy and gave your days purpose when you woke each morning with the sun rising. This was exactly what you'd always wanted; a life you wholeheartedly enjoyed, one you had chosen regardless of its lurking dangers over the comfort and security of your hometown. 

Still, as months went by, it became clear that the East Blue's opportunities were growing scarce. The region's limitations had become increasingly apparent, with Isaiah himself noticing the declining quality of your acquisitions. Though he was understanding about it, you both recognized that your finds were now predictable and less remarkable than before.

In hindsight, you should have anticipated his proposal.

"Wait, are you serious?" you asked, knitting your eyebrows.

"I know this is sudden, but honestly... I've been considering it for a while now."

"I thought you preferred avoiding the Grand Line," you remarked. "How are you planning to get there?"

He drew in a deep breath, folding his hands on the lantern-lit table. "I haven't the faintest idea."

"That's quite the plan to start with."

He laughed. "I know. I have no means to cross the Reverse Mountain, and I'd rather take the other route if I could."

"You can't simply sail through the Calm Belts in an ordinary ship."

"I'm aware. At minimum, I'd need one with a Seastone-lined hull,” he said firmly.

"Isaiah, let's be realistic. Seastone is an extremely rare mineral that only the Marines and World Government have access to."

He massaged his temples. "Yeah, that's the problem."

"So, you're only speaking hypothetically here."

"I am and I’m not. Look, I've always said I was content living here, but I'm getting tired of seeing the same faces and following this mundane routine. Even you know the East Blue has its limits. Sooner or later, there won't be anything left for us here."

Your eyes narrowed. “Maybe. But why are you speaking in plural?"

"Because this isn't just about me, Y/N. I want you to be part of this."

A heavy silence fell as you turned his words over in your mind, trying to make sense of them.

“Isaiah, what—”

"I know I don't have the means right now, but I've got connections. People who could help us form the crew we need and obtain some Seastone."

You exhaled. "Isaiah, listen to me for a second. While I've considered reaching the Grand Line someday, even a Seastone-lined ship wouldn't fully protect us from Sea Kings. They can still spot ships from the surface and attack any areas not protected by the mineral."

Isaiah nodded. "Exactly, we need to gather skilled people. Sailors with real talent and experience navigating the Calm Belts."

You sat in contemplation, weighing the risks against the potential rewards.

"Think about it. You could benefit too; after all, doesn't Mihawk have a residence in the Grand Line?"

“He does, but…”

"If we bypass Reverse Mountain, we could travel through the Calm Belts and establish the most efficient route."

"Come on, the Grand Line is vast. Some parts of it take years to reach."

"And it could take us years just to leave the East Blue anyway. I'm only asking you to consider the possibility."

This thought had been weighing on your mind more and more. If your relationship with Mihawk deepened further, you knew he couldn't simply abandon his duties to visit you in the East Blue. It would be unreasonable to expect him to give up his title and retire, reducing Yoru to a mere wall decoration. 

And certainly, enstablishing a long-distance relationship simply wasn't an option you could accept.

Yet, could you and Isaiah realistically cross the Calm Belts without being thrown overboard and devoured by a Sea King? While Reverse Mountain seemed like the better alternative in theory, it came with its own deadly risks. Put simply, neither path seemed safe enough for you to attempt at this time.

"I will, of course," you replied. "But I can't make any promises."

"That's fine. I would love to have you as part of my crew, Y/N, but I won't pressure you into it."

A smile crossed your face as he left his seat, bid you goodnight, and retreated to his room with measured steps. Your thoughts swirled in disarray as you stared at the lantern's glow—your mind adrift in possibilities— transfixed by its golden hues. 

Like the mesmerizing amber glow of Mihawk's piercing eyes.

Four long months had passed without a glimpse of the Warlord. From time to time, you asked Isaiah whether his contacts had heard any news of Mihawk's location or caught wind of rumors from across the four seas. So far, no significant news had emerged—his activities in the Grand Line had been unusually quiet and uneventful, nothing noteworthy enough to stir up any gossip.

As disappointing as it was, you had long since accepted it. Your faith in him remained unshaken, as you knew in your heart he would honor his promise and return to the East Blue for you, without fail. The ache of separation endured, but your strength of character carried you through each day, bolstered by your independence and resilience in your work.

However, nothing could have prepared you for what would become the most terrifying, life-threatening experience of your maritime career.

Notwithstanding prior experience and better judgment, you found yourself venturing once again into potentially hostile territory. 

The initial contact seemed legitimate and innocent enough: a potential client at a local tavern presented what appeared to be a straightforward business transaction of modest scale. The rendezvous point was on an inhabited island, with nothing outwardly suspicious about the arrangement. Red flags immediately went up when you arrived to find the meeting site was an isolated warehouse, completely cut off from civilization with no nearby buildings. The deal's questionable legality didn't faze you, that was normal in your line of work. But the circumstances raised significant concerns that warranted immediate withdrawal rather than merely exercising heightened vigilance.

No matter how capable you had become, certain battles were not meant to be fought alone.

You crept forward with caution, one hand resting on the sword at your hip while the other hovered near your holstered pistol. The decrepit wooden structure loomed ahead, its unstable frame making your skin crawl in alarm. 

A prudent course of action would have been to withdraw to your vessel without engagement. Still, something compelled you onward as you pushed open the door with a disturbing creak. The interior was dim and barren, containing nothing but scattered hay and broken planks, with decaying support beams that somehow still held the structure upright. 

The vast space had only a single entrance; the doorway you had just passed through. Though the contractor might simply be running late, your mind filled with darker possibilities, drowning out any optimistic thoughts. Before you could return outside to wait, the door slammed shut with a thunderous bang that echoed through the hollow chamber, making you jump and gasp.

An eerie silence descended, with no indication of activity outside. Upon attempting to exit, you discovered the door was immovable, refusing to yield even a fraction despite applying considerable force against the deteriorating structure.

You slammed against it repeatedly with your shoulder, until the acrid smell of smoke filled the air. Dark wisps curled up from beneath the door frame, forcing you to stumble backward as flames suddenly erupted in an incandescent blaze. You stared in horror at the advancing inferno, your eyes wide as the temperature soared with each lick of fire.

You spun around, desperately searching for another escape route, but found none. The wood greedily absorbed the flames, swallowing you into a scorching circle. You ran from one side to another, pounding your feet against the planks in hopes of creating an opening to slip through. Unfortunately, by the time you managed to make cracks and fracture pieces, the fire had effectively blocked your way to freedom.

The gravity of the situation took a moment to sink in. Your breath shortened as you panted and coughed, the smoke burning through your nose and filling your lungs. Sweat trickled from your hairline down your face as pieces of wood broke and fell from the roof. 

You leaped aside to dodge a massive girder crashing to the ground, but the sudden movement sent you reeling back toward the flames. A tongue of fire lashed out and caught your neck, searing pain shooting through you as your skin blistered and tore. You screamed in agony, clutching the burn with trembling hands as tears welled up, both from the excruciating sting and the dire reality of your predicament.

Though your smoke-filled lungs struggled for air, you refused to accept defeat. Your vision blurred as you climbed along the remaining foundations, only to slip and lose your balance, crashing onto your back. Your life flashed before your eyes, memories of childhood, faces of loved ones, and recalled Runa's distressed countenance as she implored you to reconsider your departure.

“This isn't just about me, Y/N. I want you to be part of this."

A heavy silence fell as you turned his words over in your mind, trying to make sense of them.

“Isaiah, what—”

"I know I don't have the means right now, but I've got connections. People who could help us form the crew we need and obtain some Seastone."

You pictured Isaiah's determined expression as he shared his aspirations of venturing to the Grand Line, an ambitious journey he envisioned undertaking together.

"This isn't farewell."

"Really?"

With a sigh, Mihawk sat up straight, facing you. His expression was serious and resolute. "You ought to have more faith in what I say."

Although his repeated assurances and actions could prove his sincerity, a persistent doubt was rooted in the recesses of your psyche. His motives were clearly not a pretense, yet that skeptical inner voice refused to be silenced completely.

"What further proof do you require from me?"

You pressed your lips together, contemplating the most appropriate response to give him. As silence lingered, Mihawk reached for the golden pendant hanging around your neck. "I don't give meaningless gifts. This necklace is more than mere decoration."

“I know.”

"If you do, then cease doubting my will to see you again."

Your thoughts turned to Mihawk, and you were gripped by a crushing despair. The bitter realization dawned that he would return to find only ashes where your life had been claimed by these merciless flames.

"I'm just wondering if I should start shopping for a wedding outfit," Micah teased. "I don't want to miss out.”

A bitter laugh escaped between your sobs as you struck the ground with your fist. Life held so much more in store for you, so many experiences yet to come, so many reasons to keep fighting and survive. 

“I don’t have the patience to constantly remind you of your worth, Y/N.”

Your grin vanished instantly, replaced by an expression of utter shock. Countless thoughts raced through your mind, but you couldn't focus on any of them. All you could process was the sound of your name, spoken aloud by Mihawk for the very first time since you'd known him.

And it felt exquisite, resonating in your ears like a perfectly struck chord.

“What did you just say…?”

"Has your hearing suddenly failed you?"

"No, I mean—" You touched his warm cheek with trembling fingers, his sideburns gently prickling your sensitive skin. "You said my name. You've never done that before."

"Unless you prefer I address you as 'Cutthroat' instead."

With a rapid intake of breath, you grasped the lapels of his coat and pulled him into another, fervent kiss. "Don't you fucking dare."

A guttural wail erupted from your throat, straining your vocal cords as your eyes burned with the same intensity as the surrounding blaze. Clutching the golden necklace with your hand, you hoped for a miracle to occur, for anyone in the distant villages to notice the rising smoke and come to your rescue before the flames consumed you. Digging your nails into the dirt, you prayed between choked weeping, casting your pride aside as the fire advanced.

Then, like a mirage, a possible route to salvation appeared in front of you. The fallen rafter had created an acute angle against one of the last standing supports. Above it, an opening in the roof revealed the sky, so blue and beautiful it seemed like divine intervention. You assessed the situation methodically, mapping out each critical point along the potential trajectory, your heart hammering in your chest. It was perilous, considering you could easily lose your footing once more and plunge into the flames below. 

With the limited alternatives available, this presented a more viable choice than remaining passive and succumbing to the inevitable.

Inhaling deeply, as far as your body allowed, you forced yourself to your feet and took a running start, racing along the rafter and leaping onto the support before it could collapse. You clung to it with your arms and legs like a monkey on a tree, carefully sliding up toward the roof as holes and tears formed in your jacket from the crackling flames. The heat was unbearable, the smoke rising so high it seemed to chase you to the top. Your right boot slid from the wooden pillar, but you maintained your grip by channeling all your strength into your arms. 

You were so close now, reaching for the ceiling boards and twisting your torso, your legs painfully crossed around the foundation piece. Gritting your teeth, you fought against your blurring vision and fading focus, summoning one final burst of willpower to propel yourself upward and slam against the edge of the broken roof. Your feet swung precariously close to the flames as your hands clawed frantically ahead, dragging you to safety. 

Finally, you were outside, gulping in fresh air between violent coughs that expelled ash from your airways. As you lifted your head, you caught sight of a small vessel in the distance, its Marine flag billowing, sailing away from the island's port. 

Whether that meant anything in relation to the arson or not, there was no time to dwell on it. The warehouse was on the verge of collapse, with parts of the roof crumbling and melting away. You made it back to the ground through unsteady movements and collisions with the walls, managing to limp away mere seconds before the building exploded. The force of the blast sent you flying, leaving you rolling across the grass with groans of pain.

Voices approached from the woods as townspeople rushed toward the unexpected explosion. Fighting through the sharp pain in your neck and the various aches throughout your body, you dragged yourself up without pause. You quickly retreated from the scene to avoid potential misconceptions about your involvement. Given your history, being discovered at the site could result in unwarranted accusations and legal complications, particularly concerning an incident that  posed significant risk to the surrounding area. No authority would consider your injuries with a lack of evidence against the real perpetrators, given your prior status as a fugitive in international law enforcement records.

As you walked, you discarded your ruined jacket and wrapped your belt scarf around your burned neck for protection. Brushing off as much soot as possible from your face, hair, and clothes, you forced a natural gait to reach your ship without garnering unwanted attention.

"Isaiah," you rasped through the portable transponder, collapsing onto your bed as the island faded behind you. The burn on your neck throbbed and stained your scarf with blood, your muscles and joints throbbing and creaking as though you had been crushed by a ship at full speed. 

"I need your help."

"Y/N, I've got just one question for you: what the actual fuck?"

You winced as Isaiah tended to your burn, carefully cleaning and disinfecting the wound.

"I didn't exactly plan on getting trapped in a burning building," you retorted.

"Oh please, don't clutch at straws now. You've got to stop charging headfirst into dangerous situations like this."

“I don’t.”

"No? Didn't I warn you that the Mirror Ball invitation might be a trap?"

“You did.”

"But you went anyway. And you ended up in serious trouble there too."

You clenched your teeth and gripped your thighs as he dried the injury, dabbing gently at the damaged skin. "What are you trying to get at?"

"All I'm saying is that you should be more mindful of yourself," he explained. "Mihawk isn’t even in this part of the sea now. He won't always be there for you."

"You think I don't realize that? I saved myself today, in case you hadn't noticed."

Isaiah let out a deep sigh as he set aside the bloodied cloth and washed his hands. "Don't get angry, I'm not trying to diminish your abilities."

"No, you're just implying that I rely on Mihawk for my safety."

"That's not what I meant at all," he said softly, applying a big plaster to your burn. "Y/N, you don't need to prove your strength, we both know how capable you are. But when your instincts warn you of danger, you need to take precautions instead of walking blindly into the unknown. What will you accomplish besides getting yourself killed?"

Though difficult to acknowledge, Isaiah's assessment was accurate. Perhaps you had subconsciously anticipated that Mihawk would sense your peril and arrive in time to rescue you from the flames. With him being on the far side of Reverse Mountain, such wishful thinking was absurd.

Your shoulders slumped in defeat. "Yeah, I get it. I don't know why I still went to that warehouse."

"You're lucky the burn isn't too severe. I'm not a doctor, but with time, the scar should fade."

You gently brushed your fingertips along the bandage, flinching as your skin still stung beneath it.

"Yes, ah, maybe don't touch it and make it worse now."

You chuckled, pouring quality rum into your empty glasses. "I'm sorry for snapping at you, by the way."

"No worries, I understand. That must have been absolutely terrifying."

"I truly thought I was done for, Isaiah."

He nodded, clinking his glass against yours in a silent toast. "I bet. But who would want to do something like that? Is there anyone there with a grudge against you?"

You shook your head. "You're the one with all the connections, I barely know anyone in the East Blue."

Suddenly, you remembered the Marine vessel you had observed from your elevated position. Through the thick smoke, you could clearly discern their official flag with its characteristic, simplified seagull emblem and "MARINE" inscription, billowing against the horizon. 

"Although..."

“Yeah?”

You hesitated, downing your rum in one swift motion and recoiling at its bitter taste. "I'm not entirely sure, but... I think I've noticed something."

"What did you notice?"

Could the World Government truly be pursuing you still, despite Mihawk's influence and intervention on your behalf? Or was this the work of an independent group, operating covertly for their own agenda?

"After escaping, I saw a Marine vessel leaving the island. A small one, unlike their usual ships."

"Seriously? And you think they were behind this?"

You shrugged. "I don't really know. They could have been there for completely different reasons, leaving on their own by the time the warehouse exploded. There's no way to prove whether the World Government or Marines are behind my attempted murder."

Isaiah slammed his glass onto the table. "Well, if you ask me, you've got quite a clue."

"You don't trust them at all, do you?"

"Like hell I do. Y/N, we know how corrupt these people are. Most Marines are rotten to the core, they rarely do things properly or care about our interests and safety. The World Government can easily keep its hands clean by having their lower-ranking pawns do the dirty work."

You pursed your lips thoughtfully. "If you're right, then not having a bounty doesn't mean I'm safe from trouble."

"I'm not trying to alarm you. No hunters have come after you since your bounty was removed. But if we're right about this and the Marines are still targeting you, it means even Dracule Mihawk doesn't wield the authority over them that we assumed he did."

The mere mention of his name sent your heart fluttering and your stomach twisting. "This is completely messed up."

“The whole world is, my dear. If I can give you some advice, maybe try to lay low for a while. Forget about work and stay vigilant. I can reach out to my contacts and see if they've heard anything suspicious.”

You couldn't bear the thought of idleness, which likely explained your reckless decision to enter the warehouse even though your instincts warned against it. You sought professional engagement to occupy your thoughts, finding it preferable to focusing on Mihawk's inaction and how much you missed him. You let your feelings take control, consuming and commanding you. Your promise to Runa about self-preservation remained unfulfilled as you continued falling into familiar patterns of risky behavior. While your devotion to the Warlord ran deep, managing these impulsive tendencies required immediate attention. 

For your own wellbeing, your family's peace of mind, and for Isaiah, whose steadfast support had guided you through countless challenges.

And above all, for Mihawk himself, who recognized and nurtured your inherent capabilities, preserving your life with the expectation that you would value and protect it accordingly.

"Thank you, Isaiah. I'll actually follow your advice this time."

The subsequent week passed in relative tranquility as you kept to strict isolation to facilitate proper healing of your neck injury. Isaiah diligently managed your recovery, performing regular bandaid changes every 48-72 hours while following thorough antiseptic protocols for the affected area. Though the recovery process remained uncomfortable, the wound showed gradual improvement with diminishing inflammation and more manageable pain levels.

While Isaiah's network had begun investigating the attack, their findings proved inconclusive. Rumors suggested Marine officials were unhappy about the removal of your bounty, but no concrete evidence could be established linking them directly to the incident. Dismissing the matter without further probe could potentially expose you to similar risks in the future.

"No word in the newspapers or on the streets about your death," Isaiah observed. "My guess is that someone inspected the scene, and they've reported the absence of your body to the mastermind behind this attempt."

"Well, at least my family won't be panicking for nothing."

"Yeah, that's not something any parent should ever have to endure."

"Or uncles, cousins, and friends."

Isaiah offered a smile, but his tense posture and unfocused gaze betrayed his underlying concern.

“Are you okay?”

"Yes, I'm just worried about you, that's all."

"I appreciate your concern, but please don't worry too much."

He scoffed. "How can I not? Y/N, you could've died!"

"I was there. I know exactly what happened. Thank you."

"Then please, stop pretending this isn't serious."

You swallowed hard and looked down, absently twirling the pen between your fingers as the open journal rested in your lap. "Someone has to. Otherwise, those images will haunt me day and night."

“Y/N…”

"I see the fire whenever I close my eyes. I feel the heat on my skin, and the smell of smoke follows me everywhere; in every corner of this place, on every piece of clothing I wear, even in my hair. I've showered twice today, yet it doesn’t go away."

Isaiah ran his fingers through his hair as your voice cracked. You could no longer keep up the façade of being strong and unshakeable.

"I can't stop thinking about how my family wouldn't even have had a body to mourn if I had failed."

"I get it, I really do. But—"

“And the truth is... I miss him, Isaiah. I miss him so much it hurts."

Isaiah remained silent, pursing his lips and clearing his throat as he straightened his posture. His eyes darted back and forth, suggesting he knew something you had yet to realize.

"Well... about that..."

You wiped your eyes, fighting back tears. "You must think I'm being ridiculous."

"No, not at all. I'd never mock someone who's in love. Actually, there's something else I need to tell you."

Your body stiffened as the journal and pen tumbled from your lap, your attention suddenly focused. "Did you hear something?"

"Indeed. And it's quite interesting," he replied with a grin.

"Well, might as well keep me in suspense for a moment," you remarked sarcastically.

Isaiah's smile widened. "I could, but I'm not that cruel."

"Oh, just tell me already!"

“Sorry! Okay. He's here in the East Blue."

Your breath escaped just as it had in the fire, constricting your chest and draining the blood from your face at this sudden revelation.

“What?!”

"From what I've heard, he was pursuing Don Krieg and his fleet. Needless to say that he succeeded effortlessly in his task."

"Uh-huh..."

"He was last spotted at the Baratie restaurant. Apparently, he's carrying out some mission for Vice Admiral Garp, though the specifics remain unclear."

“Oh…”

So, Mihawk's presence in the East Blue stemmed from his official duties rather than any personal motivations regarding your whereabouts.

"Where is he right now?"

"I'm afraid I don't know his exact location. He's constantly on the move. But from what I understand, he's always been the one to find you, hasn't he?"

“Yes…”

He settled more comfortably on the couch, stretching his legs out. "Just relax then."

"That's easier said than done, you know."

He groaned, tipping his head backwards with a loud grunt. "Look, I love you, but sometimes you really drive me insane."

"I'm sorry, it's just hard to control my feelings."

"Listen, Y/N. That man is crazy about you."

"What makes you say that all of a sudden?"

"You look and act like a beaten puppy just because he's busy elsewhere instead of coming straight to you."

Indignant, you lifted your chin with a scowl. "That's not true."

"Yes, it absolutely is," he countered firmly. “Sweetheart, have you noticed how he practically burned holes through me with his glare? I've never seen anyone look more jealous. How could a man show such possessiveness if he didn't truly care about you?"

"Logically, I understand what you're saying. Still, here he is sailing through the East Blue, and I knew nothing about it."

"He likely has his reasons. Being a Warlord comes with privileges, but it also requires following orders from the World Government. That's the agreement these pirates made with the higher ups.”

Exhaling softly, you contemplated his words. "I know that. But Isaiah, there's still nothing official between us yet."

"That doesn't mean anything. What happened to your faith and conviction? You were so sure he would come back to you. That necklace he gave you must mean something, right?"

"It's not that I've lost faith, but it's been months. Words and gifts can be fleeting—what holds meaning today might lose its value tomorrow. Now that he's back in these waters, am I supposed to just sit here waiting?"

Isaiah scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Unless you want to wander aimlessly across the East Blue searching for him. And frankly, I'd rather know you're safe."

"I can't stay here indefinitely. We may never find the perpetrator."

He pressed his lips into a tight line, clasping his hands as he leaned forward on his elbows. "You might have a point there. It's just..."

"You're worried about me."

"I really care about you, Y/N. You're my best friend. I couldn't bear the thought of losing you."

Over time, Isaiah had transformed from a trusted professional contact into an essential part of your life at sea. What began as mutual respect had deepened into an unshakeable bond of friendship that you treasured above all else, along with a brief romantic connection that had naturally run its course.

Your love for Mihawk had become unshakable, but the camaraderie you had formed with Isaiah was timeless.

You extended your hand with a warm smile, and he gently clasped it in his own without a moment's pause. "You won't lose me, Isaiah. I know this might sound like an empty vow, but I swear I'll be more careful from now on."

"It's not just about being careful. When someone wants you dead, they'll keep trying until they succeed. Every place you go could turn into a battleground."

"So what's the solution then? Should I just lock myself away in your headquarters?"

"No, of course not."

"You have a good network of contacts. Now we know what we're up against."

"Perhaps. But there's only so much I or my informants can do."

You shook your head. "It's more than I could ask for."

Isaiah released your hand with a composed chortle, looking at you with pride in his eyes. "I do believe Mihawk knows how lucky he is to have your heart. But if he doesn't, I should probably remind him of how amazing you are."

"Just be careful not to become minced meat."

“So comforting, thanks," he groaned with exasperation.

As you burst into a hearty laughter, Isaiah joined in, the tension dissipating from the room as your shared mirth echoed through the space like a cheerful melody.

The peaceful rhythm of waves against the vessel's hull provided a serene backdrop to the bustling activity of Marines aboard, who diligently attended to their duties - tending to the sails, securing rigging, swabbing decks, and servicing artillery.

As the Vice Admiral proceeded to his office, his face betrayed mounting ire at reports confirming your continued survival and evasion of capture. Evidently, he had significantly underestimated your capabilities, regardless of whether fortune had played a role in your survival. His hasty plan had proven insufficient to eliminate someone so tough, he required something smarter, something that even your determination couldn't withstand.

Upon entering his private quarters in the late hours, he was met with minimal illumination from a solitary desk lamp. As he proceeded to loosen his collar, his expression etched with weariness, he suddenly froze at an unexpected presence in the room.

He blinked repeatedly, attempting to dismiss the apparition, but his heart rate accelerated upon realizing the figure seated comfortably in his chair was indeed real.

Right there before him was Hawk-Eyes Mihawk. His legs were propped on the desk, crossed at the ankles, while his trademark hat cast a shadow over his piercing, unyielding eyes. Yoru, his colossal black blade, rested across the table, its edge gleaming ominously in the lamplight.

The officer's hand instinctively moved toward his sword, but Mihawk's low, velvety voice stopped him cold. "That would be unwise," the Warlord drawled, his tone deceptively calm yet brimming with malice.

He remained motionless, not even sparing a glance at the man's weapon. The air in the room grew thick and heavy, weighed down by the sheer force of his aura.

“How did you—” the officer stammered, his words faltering.

Mihawk moved forward deliberately, his boots landing heavily on the floor. His right forearm came to rest on the desk as his fingers drummed a quiet rhythm against the wood. "The how is irrelevant," he said. "What matters is why I'm here."

The Vice Admiral swallowed hard, trying to mask his fear. “I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

"You set a trap," Mihawk interrupted, his voice cutting like Yoru's blade. His golden eyes narrowed, their intensity rooting the man to the spot. "You failed," he said simply. "But not from lack of effort. And for that..." His voice dropped to a whisper that carried the weight of an executioner's blade. "You will pay."

The officer staggered backward, his knees threatening to give way beneath him. "I... I was following orders," he croaked, his voice thick with desperation.

"Oh no," Mihawk replied coldly. "It was personal."

"That—that bitch slaughtered my father like a pig! Of course it was bloody personal!!!"

Mihawk stood slowly, his movement unhurried yet reminiscent of a predator coiling to strike. He loomed over the desk, Yoru's hilt within easy reach. "You chose her as your target. You attempted an ambush, imprisoned her, and set the flames. A coward's approach befitting your mediocrity. This matter has become... very personal indeed."

His suffocating presence dominated the room as he towered over the officer, who trembled in fear. "I could end you now," Mihawk murmured, his fingers grazing the blade's hilt. "It would be easier than drawing breath."

The man recoiled, his eyes darting to the sword, but Mihawk made no motion to take it. Instead, he straightened to his full height, his stare as cold and impenetrable as steel.

"But that would be too merciful for someone like you," Mihawk continued, his voice dripping with venom. "You will live. And every moment of your existence will be haunted by my presence."

The officer’s eyes widened in terror, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

"You'll look over your shoulder at every sound, at every shadow," Mihawk continued, his tone unnervingly silken. "You'll wonder if today is the day I choose to end this. You will not sleep. You will not know peace. You will live in constant fear, knowing that I can—and will—appear when you least expect it."

With fluid grace, Mihawk lifted Yoru from the desk as if the massive blade were weightless. He secured it to his back in one practiced, graceful maneuver, his predatory stare fixed unwaveringly on the trembling Marine.

"Consider this your punishment," he said, turning toward the door. "A life spent waiting for the inevitable."

With that, the Warlord strode out, his coat sweeping behind him like a dark omen. In the suffocating silence of his office, the man crumpled to the floor, face drained of color, hands quaking uncontrollably. Calling for backup would be futile against an opponent like Mihawk, who could easily split the entire ship in half, just as he had done with Don Krieg's fleet.

From that night forward, every creak, every gust of wind, every flicker of shadow became a harbinger of doom. He would wake in cold sweats, feeling the phantom weight of Mihawk's oppressive glare weighing down on him.

Isaiah thoroughly analyzed his collection of notes, books, and maps, trying to devise a strategic plan. Now that you had returned to your vessel and resumed maritime operations, he was particularly concerned with assembling a qualified crew capable of ensuring your safety.

Reaching the Grand Line through the Calm Belts had become an increasingly tangible goal, but the time wasn't right. Isaiah insisted on thorough preparation, ensuring every detail was in place before such a momentous undertaking.

Engrossed in his analysis, Isaiah methodically traversed the room while reviewing documents, failing to notice the presence of a figure who had silently entered and now observed him from just a few paces away. He spoke to himself, alternating between nods of approval and whispered curses.

Upon turning around, he nearly collided with the unexpected visitor. His eyes widened in recognition as he found himself face-to-face with those distinctive, piercing golden hawk-like eyes, dropping his papers as he let out a startled gasp.

Mihawk stood motionless, his head tilted slightly as he observed the scene. His gaze swept over Isaiah with calculating intensity, causing the latter to swallow nervously and take a cautious step backward.

"Damn, a warning would've been nice," he stuttered. "If you're looking for her, she's not here."

"That is not the purpose of my visit," Mihawk responded.

"No..? Then... what can I do for you?"

Mihawk stepped forward, his sword gliding with a metallic clink against his back. "I have something for you. And in return, you will do something for me."

Isaiah exhaled a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. When Mihawk dropped the large bag he was carrying, which looked far too heavy for casual transport, Isaiah tentatively reached for the thick cord keeping it closed.

When he opened it, a blue glow emanated from the pile of minerals inside. The stones looked almost otherworldly, encapsulating all the color, magic, and translucency of the ocean.

Isaiah was transfixed, momentarily speechless at the contents before him. The bag contained an extensive collection of premium Seastone crystals, meticulously extracted and of exceptional purity—a treasure of immense value and rarity.

Isaiah looked up to meet Mihawk’s stoic expression, the Warlord standing watchful in absolute silence. "Holy hell, man."

Upon disembarking from your vessel, the familiar atmosphere of the island struck you with immediate recognition. Isaiah had maintained an unusually upbeat demeanor while being deliberately cryptic, selecting this location as the meeting point for a prospective arrangement with one of his trusted associates.

When you inquired about this contact, Isaiah maintained an enigmatic air of mystery, offering only reassurances about their reliability. He arranged your travel to the location with complete confidence, his usual concerns notably absent.

The scene was precisely as it had been etched in your memory: the shadowed entrance of the cave where you had discovered the emerald ring—now a permanent fixture on your finger—the soft yet distinct sound of sand shifting beneath your footfalls, and the subtle tropical fragrance of palm trees and coconut carried on the breeze. Mihawk's voice seemed to echo in your mind, though you stood alone in this familiar place.

You walked along the shore at a leisurely pace, placing one foot in front of the other. You kicked a few rocks as you went, watching them roll away and come to rest in the distance. You waited in the tranquil oasis, touching your stomach as a sudden twinge made its presence felt.

The physical proximity yet distance between you and Mihawk was excruciating. Reports from Isaiah's network indicated that the Warlord remained within the East Blue region, having not yet returned for the Grand Line. Were his duties truly so demanding that he couldn't spare a moment to find you? During your first encounter there, he had made it clear that he operated on his own terms, refusing to be bound by orders that conflicted with his personal interests or convictions.

You snorted, gazing at the horizon while the coastal wind whispered past. At the sound of approaching footsteps, you steadied yourself, smoothing your hair back and relaxing your shoulders. However, when an unexpected voice cut through the peaceful ambience, you felt your heart freeze and swell in your ribcage.

“You are quite challenging to track down.”

Mihawk stood mere inches behind you, echoing his words from your first conversation. His proximity was palpable, his breath ghosting against your hair as warmth emanated from his form.

Your lower lip quivered as words caught in your throat, refusing to emerge. Your fingers curled into fists at your sides as your eyes squeezed shut, then fluttered open.

Finally, when you found your voice again, you were able to speak. “Not that much for you, apparently,” you repeated softly, a gentle smile spreading across your face. "Took you long enough," you added.

"I had urgent matters to attend to," he replied. "Affairs that could not wait."

You swiveled on your feet, meeting his eyes again after what felt like an eternity. His keen attention was captured by the large plaster on your neck, his golden irises following its line along your skin as darkness clouded his gaze.

"Ah, this," you said, brushing your fingers against the fabric covering your wound. "Just another scar to add to my collection, I guess. It should fade eventually."

"I hope so," he responded, his tone stern.

“Does it disturb you that much?" you asked.

"The mark itself doesn't trouble me."

You reached for the front of his coat, sliding your hand along its lapel until it hovered over his cross knife. "Have you heard what happened?"

Mihawk’s eyes met yours once more. "I’ve heard enough.”

A deafening silence hung between you, filled with tension and anticipation.

“And?” you pressed. "Do you know who was responsible?"

He didn't reply immediately. Instead, he closed his hand over yours, stilling your restless movements against his coat and chest. He was calm, yet carried an unmistakable edge, like a perfectly honed blade. "The answer should be quite evident."

"You do, of course," you concluded. "So the World Government wants me dead?" 

"No. Just one arrogant fool who believed himself clever enough to evade my notice."

"And who might that be?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“The identity of that person no longer matters. I ensured he understands what it means to make a mistake of such magnitude. That lesson will haunt him for the rest of his life.”

There was no need to ask for details, you knew Mihawk well enough to understand that his vengeance would be methodical, calculated, and as terrifying as the man himself.

"I shouldn't have expected anything less," you whispered.

Though Mihawk's countenance remained impassive, he moved his hand to rest delicately upon your waist. He pulled you nearer with effortless precision, his face inclining until his nose gently grazed yours. "What is mine shall remain safeguarded. Without exception."

His words reverberated powerfully, each one sinking into you like an anchor, grounding you in the depths of his devotion and commitment. Unable to resist any longer, you gripped his collar, pressing your lips against his in a fiery collision. You savored their salty taste as if starved, the kiss searing and desperate, completely unrestrained.

For a moment, Mihawk was still, caught off guard by the force of your passion. His response was controlled yet equally consuming as his tongue darted forward, seeking yours in an entwining dance.

When you finally parted, your breath came in ragged gasps, your chest heaving as you stared up at him. His eyes now held an unmistakable warmth, a quiet acknowledgment of both your fervor and his own.

"You've been holding onto that for a while," he remarked, the faintest hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

"I missed you too," you said teasingly. "No need to be so maddeningly composed."

"Someone has to keep balance when you're set on tipping the scales.”

"Then it’s a good thing you’re mine to tip.”

The storm between you had been unleashed, surging like wildfire in the aftermath of your kiss.

His lips quirked ever so slightly, his golden eyes steady as they locked with yours. "That much has never been in question.”

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 (currently reading) Go to Chapter 9 (coming soon) ->

[pienchann]

REQUESTS: OPEN

Queue: 8

My ko-fi❤❤

RULES:

The only smut i won't write is p€d0 things and things with feces ๑•͈ᴗ•͈๑, other than that, request the FREAKIEST, DIRTIEST, SMUTTIEST SMUT you want❤❤

Please specify in your request if its for female, male or gender neutral reader! If you won't specify then i'll automatically pick what i find the easiest for a story

I do NOT write character x character, i strictly only write x reader

I do write dark themes (yandere, CNC, etc) so please feel free to request

I won't write things that contain homophobia, racism, xenophobia, etc.

WHO I WRITE FOR:

Demon slayer: Hashiras - Uppermoons - Muzan - Tanjiro - Zenitsu - Kanao - Inosuke - Shinjuro - Tamayo - Yushiro

The conjuring franchise: Ed Warren - Lorraine Warren

My Hero Academia: Class 1A - the pro heroes - Dabi - Toga - Shigaraki - Overhaul

Slashers: michael Myers - Ghostface (Stu and/or Billy) - Jason Voorhees - Chucky(doll) - Jigsaw - Leatherface - the Sinclair siblings - Hannibal (Hannibal rising and TV series)

Peaky Blinders: Tommy Shelby - Arthur Shelby - Johnny Shelby - Luca Changretta - Alfie Solomons - Finn Shelby

Creepypasta: Slenderman - Jeff The Killer - Eyeless Jack - Ben Drowned - Laughing Jack - Ticci Toby

FNAF(game): William Afton - Michael Afton - Springtrap

Youtubers: Sam Golbach - Colby Brock - Caseoh

Harry Potter: Draco Malfoy - Harry Potter - Lucius Malfoy - Serverus Snape - Cedric Diggory

Fury(2014): Grady - Norman - Trini - Don(wardaddy) - Boyd

Kpop: Stray Kids (together or seperate members)

This list CAN update so please dont be sad if someone you want isn't in here! You can always also just ask in requests and i'll see if i know the character! Since i don't remember if i put everything on this list (lol)

[deliciousspecimen]

Hello my friend, I hope that you are having a good day! 😊 Well, For my first request, I wanted to see if you could do a headcanon with Demon Slayer AU x short black!reader (Short meaning like 5’2 in height and who’s ended up in Japan but has Trinidad and Tobago Caribbean roots/culture which includes the accent,food and of course Soca Carnival) who they date, want to marry and have children with in the future? ( You can choose how many kids each of them should have!)🐦‍🔥🌺🏝️🍹

A/N: Absolutely, @lelewright1234! I want to make it known, though- I am Indonesian-American. So, white and Asian. I did my best, though, with some research! If there is anything that is wrong, or inaccurate, please tell me! It's purely from me being ignorant. I did five characters to start with, if you want a part two, just request it and I'll start working on it :}

Carnival Hearts

Tanjiro, Inosuke, Zenitsu, Nezuko, and Genya x Fem!Black!Reader Headcannons

Warnings: None that I can tell :}

Word Count: 3054

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

Tanjiro:

- The first time Tanjiro hears (Y/N)’s accent, he’s absolutely stunned: His eyes widen, he blinks a few times, and stammers, “Wh-what? Say that again?” Her voice is melodic to him, like music- rhythmic, warm, and full of life. Even when he doesn’t understand the slang, he’s enchanted by the way she speaks.

- Tanjiro becomes obsessed with (Y/N)’s cooking- deeply: The man had never tasted pelau, bake and shark, or curry chicken before… but now? He begs for them constantly. He’s always right beside her in the kitchen, apron on and eyes sparkling. “Okay, so I flip the roti- wait, why is it sticking- oh no, I messed it up again!”

- (Y/N)’s Music: When she hums soca music while cleaning, the first time, Tanjiro freezes mid-sweep. “What is this magical, energetic sound?! Why does it make me want to dance and fight demons at the same time??” Now, that music means good vibes, her, and home.

- Ever the gentleman: Tanjiro always leans down slightly to speak with (Y/N) since she’s only 5’2”- even if she insists it’s unnecessary. “Sorry!” he’d laugh, “You’re just so cute down there, I can’t help it!”

- Protective doesn’t even cover it: If anyone dares make fun of (Y/N)’s height or culture, Tanjiro remains sweet- but his glare? Cold as ice. It’s the kind of look that shuts an entire room up. “Speak with respect. Or don’t speak at all.”

- He’s a nickname machine: From “Tiny Tempest,” to “My Lil Firecracker,” to “Sunshine,” or simply a tender “(Y/N)-chan,” he always has something sweet on his lips when it comes to her.

- They balance each other perfectly: (Y/N) brings boldness, rhythm, and color into his world- while he offers peace, patience, and grounding. Together, they’re a heart-shaped hurricane of love.

- When Tanjiro proposes, it’s intimate and heart-melting: No grand show- just pure emotion. He might write to (Y/N)’s family back home to ask for their blessing, or maybe even learn to play a steelpan to perform a song. He could propose during Carnival, surrounded by joy and music, whispering, “You’ve brought so much light and color into my life. I want to dance through every day with you- through sunshine and storm. Will you marry me?”

- He’s all in for a culturally blended wedding: Traditional Japanese elements meet vibrant Trini culture. Yes, he wears the feathers. Yes, he’s bashful. But he does it with the softest smile, all for her.

- As a father? Tanjiro is dad of the year: Warm, affectionate, and involved. He teaches their kids sword forms, calligraphy, and compassion. (Y/N) teaches them how to cook Caribbean dishes, to limbo, and to live like joy is a celebration. “You are strong, kind, and beautiful,” he tells them. “From your mother, you carry music in your soul. From me, you carry strength and love. Never forget that.”

- Carnival becomes a yearly tradition for the whole family: The first time he joins (Y/N)’s family in Trinidad, Tanjiro is overwhelmed- in the best way. Their children race around in glittering costumes, she glows in feathers and color, and Tanjiro just stands there, heart bursting, whispering, “This… this is home.”

Inosuke: 

- First Impressions & Height Obsession: The first thing Inosuke noticed was (Y/N)’s height- or lack thereof. “OI! WHY IS SHE SO TINY?!” he’d shout, poking the top of her head like she was some strange woodland creature. But the moment she scolded him with that sharp, melodic accent, he froze. Eyes wide. Brain malfunctioning. He’d never heard anyone sound like that before- and something in him loved it. From that moment on, he started listening to her more than he ever admitted.

- Food is Love: (Y/N) introduced him to Caribbean food, and it ruined every bland meal that came after. Inosuke devoured curry chicken, red beans, fried plantains, pelau, and especially roti like a man starved. “WHAT’S THIS? ROTI?? I WANT ROTI EVERY DAY, WOMAN!!” he’d shout with a satisfied grin. He boasted to the entire Corps that only he got to eat her cooking. It was sacred. No one else was allowed.

- Culture Shock (But He’s Thriving): Soca music confused him at first. “WHY’S IT SO GOOD?!” he’d demand, as if the music offended him. But soon enough, he was obsessed. Couldn’t get enough. He’d hum it during training sessions, during patrols- he even hummed it in battle.

- Carnival Chaos: (Y/N) took him to Carnival once, and he thought he was stepping into a war zone. “THIS IS THE BEST FIGHT PARTY EVER!!” he roared, covered in glitter and feathers. “It’s a celebration, not a brawl,” she had tried to explain- but by then he was whining his hips, downing rum, and dancing like he’d been born on to do it. She laughed so hard, she cried.

- Mutual Respect & Affection: Inosuke was fiercely protective of her, but never controlling. He loved how fiery she was- whether they were sparring, dancing, or teasing each other. He saw her as unstoppable, and he adored that.

- Constant Flexing: He never shut up about (Y/N). “MY WOMAN COULD BEAT YOU IN A FIGHT AND STILL MAKE A BETTER CURRY THAN YOUR MOM.” He'd randomly scream, “I’M GONNA MARRY HER!!” even if she wasn’t there. Zenitsu rolls his eyes “Dude, she’s not even here-” “I KNOW. SHE’LL FEEL IT.”

- Marriage… Inosuke Style: He didn’t really understand traditional proposals, so one day he just declared: “WE’RE MARRIED NOW.” “We are NOT- where’s the ring?!” “I CAN GET YOU A ROCK FROM THE FOREST.” Eventually, with some guidance, he pulled together a proper proposal. He placed a shiny ring inside a coconut shell lined with flowers. “It looks like you,” he said. (Y/N) melted.

- The Wedding: Their wedding was a chaotic, glorious fusion of both of their cultures. Steel pan music rang out, the food was a rainbow of flavor, and the dancing was vibrant and wild. Inosuke wore his haori- with added feathers, of course- and went absolutely feral on the dance floor. Tanjiro cried. Zenitsu fainted. Tengen declared it the party of the year.

- Kids, Kids, Kids: “I WANT FIVE,” he blurted out one day, unprompted. (Y/N) nearly choked. They ended up raising a wild little gang- Inosuke trained them like baby boars. Tree climbing, bug hunting, sword swinging. She balanced that chaos with rhythm, affection, culture, and soca music. She taught them how to cook, how to speak proper Trini slang, and how to carry themselves with fire.

- Family Vibes: All of their kids had a little lilt in their voices, and Inosuke was obsessed. He bragged constantly, “YOUR MOTHER ONCE MADE CURRY BEFORE STABBING A DEMON. THE CURRY TASTED BETTER BECAUSE OF IT.”

- Jealous Husband Energy: Sometimes the kids clung to (Y/N) a little too much for his liking. “OI! SHE’S MY WIFE FIRST!!” She’d just smile, kiss his cheek, and whisper, “Don’t worry, you’re still my big baby.”

Zenitsu:

- First Impressions and The Accent That Changed His Life: Zenitsu fell hard the moment he heard (Y/N) speak. Her accent hit his ears like a thunderclap wrapped in silk, and he turned beet red on the spot. “M-Marry me!!” came out before he even asked her name. Flustered and starstruck, he started babbling about angels and destiny. Tanjiro had to physically hold him back to stop him from proposing on the spot.

- The Way to His Heart: (Y/N)’s cooking became his favorite form of magic. The first time she made pelau, he shed actual tears. His soul ascended after one bite of bake and shark. And don’t even get him started on callaloo. After tasting her food, he’d clutch his chest dramatically and proclaim, “This has healing properties… my bones feel younger!” He always tried to help in the kitchen, but usually ended up snacking on half the ingredients. “I’m sorry! It smells too good! Are you using love as a seasoning?!”

- Culture Shock (and Awe): The first time he heard soca, Zenitsu looked like he’d been struck by lightning. “It’s so intense!!” he screamed- before learning to dance to it with full chaotic commitment. “I’m trying to whine for you, babe!!” he’d cry while flailing wildly. Carnival was even more intense. At first, he thought it was a battlefield, then a blessing. “ARE WE UNDER ATTACK OR IS THIS… THE BEST PARTY EVER?!”

- Dazzled at Carnival: The first time he saw (Y/N) in Carnival attire, his jaw hit the floor. His soul left his body. From that moment on, he walked beside her like a bodyguard on royal duty. “STEP ASIDE! THIS IS MY GIRLFR- I MEAN FUTURE WIFE!!” He refused to let go of her hand, even while hiding behind her during the loudest parts. After the parade, glitter on his cheeks and hands still clasped in hers, he fell asleep mumbling, “I wanna do this every year… with you.”

- Forever Starts Early: Zenitsu talked about marriage way too early- but he meant every word. “What kinds of have engagement customs do you have? Should I bring mangoes? Do I ask a grandparent? I want to do it right!” He dreamed of a wedding that fused both their worlds. Kimonos and Carnival feathers, sakura petals raining on soca dancers, sushi and curry goat side by side. “I want our kids to eat roti and mochi. To dance like you and train like me. I want that life with you.”

- Soft-Dad Supreme: He cried when the baby kicked. Cried when they said papa. Cried when they sneezed. Every milestone felt like a divine experience. He proudly tried to teach them Thunder Breathing, though they leaned more into music and dance- just like their mama. “You must whine at Carnival and meditate under the stars. That’s your birthright!”

- Compliments Hit Different: (Y/N)’s accent was a weapon of emotional destruction. One soft “Good job, Zen” and he was emotionally spinning through the air. The first time she told him she loved him, he went completely silent for ten minutes, just… stared at a tree. Later, he tried to write her a poem but cried halfway through every draft. “You’re fire and storm and sun and… and I’m lucky I even get to stand next to you.”

- He Adores (Y/N) Completely: Zenitsu adored everything about her- her strength, her rhythm, her voice, her culture. He genuinely believed she was a miracle in human form, and loving her made him braver than he ever thought possible. “You make me feel like lightning can be soft… like I’m more than just fear. I love you. I choose you.”

Nezuko:

- First Impressions: Even before she could speak, Nezuko was drawn to (Y/N). It wasn’t just the kindness- it was the energy. She moved with rhythm in her step, laughed like the world wasn’t burning, and wore sunshine like perfume. Nezuko hadn’t seen sunlight in years... until she met her. Barely 5'2, yet her presence filled every room. And Nezuko watched, enchanted.

- Food and Comfort: The first time (Y/N) introduced Nezuko to her cooking- doubles, bake and shark, pelau- Nezuko was visibly shaken (in the best way). Words weren’t necessary; the tug on the sleeve and the pointed finger at the pot said it all, “More, please.” She always saved the last bite for Nezuko, and Nezuko always offered it right back.

- Music and Moonlight: One night, (Y/N) hummed soft Soca beneath the moonlight. Nezuko tilted her head, curious, then began to sway. Gently, she took Nezuko’s hands and guided her into the rhythm, fireflies glowing around them like tiny Carnival lights. At first, Nezuko mimicked her moves- but soon, she was dancing beside her like she’d been doing it her whole life.

- The Accent: Nezuko adored (Y/N)’s accent. Even after regaining her voice, she would listen like each word was a melody. Whenever she used Trini slang, Nezuko would pout in confusion, then burst into laughter with her. Sometimes, she’d try to mimic the phrases- badly. But that only made her laugh harder.

- Physical Affection: Nezuko was a cuddler through and through. With (Y/N) being so small, she often wrapped herself around her like a protective vine. Her favorite place was curled into her chest, listening to soft lullabies while fingers played gently through her hair. After nightmares, her voice was the only thing that could soothe Nezuko back to sleep.

- In Battle: (Y/N) had the charisma and quick wit- Nezuko was the shield and the fire. If anyone dared threaten her, Nezuko didn’t hesitate. No words, just fangs, flames, and unyielding fury. After every fight, she was the first to check on Nezuko. And though Nezuko always insisted she was fine, one gentle “sweet girl” would have her melting into her arms.

- Dreams and Futures: Nezuko’s dream was simple. Peace, a garden, and a home where she was safe. She pictured kissing (Y/N)’s hands in the open, no fear, no muzzle- just freedom. In her quiet moments, she imagined them walking hand-in-hand on beaches. One Carnival, she was gifted a small ring made of seashells. She cried. She wore it like it was made of diamonds.

- Motherhood: Nezuko wanted children- not from duty, but from love. When she looked at (Y/N), she saw a future full of joy. She imagined barefoot little ones laughing with their mother’s vibrant spirit and growing strong with her Kamado heart. She’d teach them to make onigiri, while their mother taught them to wind their waist to Bunji Garlin. She let them paint her nails, sticker her face- each one worn with pride. Together, they’d raise them on calypso lullabies, warmth, and wild joy.

- All She Wants Is (Y/N): Nezuko never needed riches or recognition. All she wanted was her- a life where love was louder than fear, where two cultures danced and bloomed into something whole. A home filled with music, sun-warmed skin, soft words, and love that echoed through time.

Genya:

- First Impressions: Genya didn’t know what hit him when he first met (Y/N). She was short- barely reaching his chest- but her presence filled the room like sunlight. When she locked eyes with a demon twice her size and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll go handle it,” before body-slamming the creature into the dirt, he was stunned. She was powerful, radiant, and her voice? Hypnotic. From the moment she spoke, he was completely captivated.

- Trying to Keep His Distance (and Failing): He told himself (Y/N) would never go for someone like him- too bright, too bold, too far out of his league. But she kept choosing him. Sitting next to him during breaks. Calling him “pretty boy.” Offering him food from her plate. Slowly, all the defenses he’d built began to crumble. She didn’t just see him- she wanted him. And that meant everything.

- The Soca Incident: On a rest day, (Y/N) tugged him up and started dancin while softly singing. He froze- eyes wide, cheeks red- while she danced like rhythm lived in her bones. He didn’t move that time, but the memory stayed etched in his brain. That moment? It haunted him- in the best way.

- PDA and Soft Affection: Genya had never known casual affection. It always felt foreign. But with (Y/N)? She kissed his forehead like it was the most natural thing in the world. Held his face and called him “my handsome warrior.” Every time, he melted a little more. Eventually, he started leaning into it- hungry for the gentle kind of love she gave so freely.

- Obsessed With (Y/N)’s Accent: He loved her accent. Completely obsessed. When he was alone, he’d mimic her phrases under his breath. The first time she caught him doing it, he panicked. “I wasn’t making fun of you! I- I just like how you talk, okay?!” From then on, it became their little joke… and his quiet comfort.

- Food Is His Love Language (Well, (Y/N)’s): The first time she made him pelau, he swore he saw heaven. Roti? Devoured. She warned him about the pepper sauce- he ignored her. Instantly regretted it. Still cried his way through the heat, sweat and tears mixing as he mumbled, “It’s so good…”

- Homesick Days: On the rare days homesickness crept in, (Y/N) would talk about home- about Carnival, the sea breeze, the music, the smell of spices in the air. He didn’t always understand, but he listened. Held her close. Asked questions. And when she smiled again, he’d hum the soca songs she loved, hoping it made her feel a little closer to home.

- Quiet Proposal, Loud Love: He didn’t need a grand gesture. Just (Y/N). One night during a festival, while fireworks lit the sky, he slipped a ring onto her finger with a trembling hand. When she turned to him, he was already looking at her like she was the only thing that mattered. No speech. Just, “You’re my home. Stay?”

- Visiting Trinidad and Tobago: He went home with (Y/N). Tried his best to speak patois- fumbled it, of course- but she giggled every time, gently correcting him. Carnival overwhelmed him at first, but she dressed him up in glitter and feathers, and he followed her into the crowd. Nervous, dazzled… and completely in love.

- The Softest, Most Anxious Dad: The first time he held their child, he sobbed. Couldn’t stop. He was consumed with protecting them- checking their breath, their warmth, their blanket. But when (Y/N) danced around the room holding the baby to a soca beat, he stood there in awe. Then he joined- awkward, stumbling, but smiling wider than ever.

- Culture Keeper: He learned every recipe (Y/N) offered- pelau, callaloo, bake, macaroni pie. Not just for her, but for their children. So they’d know where they came from. Every time she leaned over his shoulder and said, “You're getting it, babe,” he lit up with pride.

- Raising Strong, Joyful Kids: Together, they raised children rooted in both worlds- (Y/N)’s vibrant culture and his quiet strength. Their kids danced to soca, sparred with wooden swords, and laughed with wild joy. Watching them, Genya saw everything he’d ever hoped for- two hearts' love blooming into something unforgettable.

[bullet-prooflove]

The Thrill of the Chase: Tim Gutterson x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @noxytopy @elenavampire21 @floralfloyd @lamaudite

Summary: After months of hiding your relationship an interaction with a private contractor leads you to come clean.

Companion piece to:

Lucky - Tim's assignment doesn't go to plan.

Stars - Tim's not like the other guys.

Out On That Ledge - Tim's there to pull you back when you are out on that ledge.

Chocolate - Tim saves the last bar for you while you're off base.

The Good Book - Tim makes you a promise you don't think he can keep.

Sharpnel - You make sure Tim has a piece of you when he's airlifted to Germany for surgery.

Germany - You and Tim spend some time together during a three hour lay over in Germany.

Getting Out - Tim's forced participation in an event leads you both to discuss your careers in the military.

Prequel to:

Checkmate - You make sure Tim never has to go through that again.

The House On The Quarter - Tim realises that time's run out on a dream of yours.

Bad Timing - You and Tim have always had a case of bad timing.

Straight From The Heart - Tim speaks from the heart during a late night phone call.

Missed Call - Tim's world crumbles when he listens to your voicemail.

Stars Align - Things start to go wrong just as Tim and yours stars align.

A Ramblin’ Man - Tim makes you a promise about the future.

A Patient Man - Tim awaits news on your condition.

Wait And See - Tim gets creative when it comes to your recovery.

Breaking Point - You and Tim get to a breaking point after you reveal your deal has been pulled due to the shooting.

The Sofa (NSFW) - Tim finds a unique way to win his side of the argument.

You hate private contractors.

They’re obnoxious, entitled fucks who walk around like they own the place because the military pays them an exorbitant fee to be here. They tend to garner a lot of attention because they’re not bound by the same rules as the rest of you, they can fraternize with anyone they want and not be punished for it.

You’re self-aware enough to understand that your jealous of that, the ability to be with someone so freely without the fear of consequences. This thing with you and Tim it’s been going on for almost nine months now, stolen kisses by the sandbags, climaxing with his hand over your mouth to stay quiet, him slipping out in the early hours of the morning so people don’t question him leaving.

It feels like a relationship and it doesn’t at the same time.

When Trini from Lexicon starts to flirt with Tim you try to ignore it. He’s handsome, a Sergeant in the Rangers, a sniper, the best of the best. A catch compared to most of the other men on this base with his wry humour and competency.

Trini, she’s a Tracker, a hired gun brought here to hunt down insurgents in the hills, she enjoys the thrill of the chase and she always gets her man, at least that’s what you’re told around the camp fire.

It escalates over the course of a couple of evenings, the more disinterest he shows, the harder she pushes until she drifts past him one night to grab a beer, her hand reaching between the two of them, stroking his cock. You see him flinch and you know in that moment, he’s taken back to that night a couple of months ago with Hina Faazi. Your eyes lock across the flames and you can see the distress in his features before he clears his throat and looks away.

That’s when you realise you’re done, done hiding your feelings for the man you love, done pretending that you don’t care about someone who means the entire world to you. You have two more weeks until you’re shipped out of here, honourably discharged back into normal society. What’s the worst they can do?

Brig time? It would be pointless, you’re on the way out anyway.

You raise to your feet, making your way around the camp fire, until you’re standing in front of Tim as he sits in one of those worn out camping chairs you all use.

“Lieutenant.” He greets as he tilts his head up towards you. There’s always a sharpness in his voice when he uses your rank, as if he has to remind himself of the professional division between the two of you.

“Lucky.” You correct him as you sink down into his lap, your thighs encompassing his hips. The atmosphere shifts around you as you cradle his face between your palms, his eyes softening as his hands come to rest on your hips, holding you steady.

“You’re mine.” You whisper, your lips ghosting over his. “And I’m going to make sure every single person here knows it.”

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[joannasteez]

tanks of blood (7) - eighteen is dangerous

pairing: biker!roman reigns x black reader warning: lots of teenage angst. descriptions of body insecurity. descriptions of alcohol consumption and reckless behavior (getting in a pool while drunk is very reckless, don't do that please!!) consensual underage intimacy (just a kiss!) reader is going through it unfortunately, sorry authors note: this is a flashback. reader is eighteen and roman is nineteen. word count: 7300 tagging: @333creolelady @harmshake @theninthwonder @thesamoanqueen @kill-the-artiste @empressdede @sortudademais @gg-trini @southerngirl41 @2-muchsauce

eighteen is a dangerous age to be alive. all of your almost adult thoughts and ideas and intentions strewn together by wild, colorful imagination, but, at times, for the sake of another. in front of your mirror, picking at your hair and pinching the elastic of a maybe too tight swim suit. the back cut out to reveal skin and your legs thicker now than they were last summer. frustration brimming harsh in your blood so well it's knotting in your throat. tears pricking your eyes. doom in your bones. because, fucking boys and their oh so amazing pool parties. water every place you step and the torment of maybe getting thrown in for shitty amusement. beer bottles floating everywhere and just-finished-with-high-school-teenagers too lightweight to hold their stomachs. not that you're any better. but at least you know that much about yourself. the pool, party and house courtesy of seth and the kegs of beer to come courtesy of dean no doubt. a friend of a friend of his who wants clout with the club so badly that he swiped his card on kegs for underaged leather bound boys. fucking men. 

and seth's guest bedroom is hot. sweltering so much that it nearly leaves you damp with sweat. your fingers undone with a trembling ache as you pull a pair of shorts over your thighs. overthinking on over drive. because he and his cousins and the rest of the "vip's" have yet to make an appearance. the common people waiting with bated breath for their loud, grimy noise filled entrance. a rumbling, chaotic spectacle filled with air's and aura's of a specific importance and nature that you'll always find too high maintenance to keep up with. but that's why eighteen is such a terrible time, despite maybe your exaggerations about the angst of it. this weird refurbishing of the soul. his mighty self importance aside, romans thoughts and opinions mattering now much more than they used to. your eyes yours still, brown and "shaped so prettily", as your mother likes to say, but not really. going about a constant examination for someone else. shaped against your face perfectly but living outside to look inward too. 

because would he like what you've done with your hair? the earrings you've decided on for the night? the way the swimsuit cuts out at the back? toes painted a different color from your fingernails but oddly cute all the same, because you couldn't be bothered with changing the shade. your tummy not as flat as last year and that scar still embedded in the center of your palm. eyes working for you but at the service of another. him. yes. eighteen is goddamn dangerous. 

that sweet silver necklace he gave you sometime ago. eyes all nervous and his fingers shaky as it clasped the lock of it before you kissed him. a warmth to his skin you never knew existed till that moment. the cool of the metal resting on your skin. dipping low a bit more than usual. the swimsuit made with built in cups. accentuating indeed. because swiping for it at the register of the sports store was easy. naomi at your side smiling bright and excited with a matching style in a different color. the try on process quick and sure with a good natured finality because her eyes were different. lacking that air of intense appraisal. a girls girl for you in the truest sense. her eighteen and your eighteen so similar sometimes. her dealings with jimmy like yours with roman. 

a knock against the bedroom, like a warning, before naomi bursts through. red solo cups in hand and a frustration running lines into her face. long, waist length braids, ponytailed up and away from her face. the bright neon of her swimsuit wet, and her legs dripping some on the carpet. 

you shift quick from the mirror. a creeping heat in your cheeks rising till it settles about your forehead. heart hammering before it plummets to your empty belly. the idea of somebody, anybody, finding you amidst such a vulnerable moment of self brought on scrutiny, absolutely troubling. embarrassing even. a damn scary state of affairs that nearly makes all the doubts and uncertainties breathe harder, heavier. with a better purpose. 

"you went to the pool?"

plopping to lay against the made bed. the fluff of the sheets comfortable despite the heat. maybe even comfortable enough to stay laid up against. a decision that feels more and more appetizing by the second. 

she stands just near the mirror where you'd been, setting down the cups to readjust her hair. a strong presence living along with her reflection. unflinching and sure and at ease. "i took a dip. enough not to get my hair wet", she starts. still corralling the long waist length hair. "i was tryin to wait around for you but somebody decided to abandon me last minute to come up here", giving a pointed look through the mirror. slivers of guilt slipping under your skin. but her fuss of it doesn't last very long, eyes rolling as she dips into an annoyance. "they all down there standin around all brainless n'shit, like they need to be told when to get in the pool. half of them is only here just to say they came anyways...". her steps shuffling over the carpet, cups in hand again. "...followers irk my nerves", she groans. eyes dropping quick over your body. "why are your shorts on?" 

you sit up. a quick, abrupt movement. driven by that suffocating air of hesitation you've fought with since slipping on the swimsuit. 

"should i take them off?"

and maybe naomi doesn't understand the painstaking work of such hesitation, or even if she does, it isn't shown. eyes living with all of the opposite actually. "where is this coming from? it was fine when we bought it, it's fine now", her body plopping beside yours. eyes shining with a scrutiny towards you for the first time tonight, and maybe the first time ever. but oddly enough, it doesn't burn the skin, and neither does it make your esteem shrivel. a sigh leaving her. hardened eyes, protective and familiar in their way, like you could have maybe felt them once before in another lifetime. something similar to how a sister looks to her less stronger one. "if you're worried about what he thinks, then forget his ass. he should be lucky you even lettin him breathe your air". 

and your nerves don't fall away all that quickly, but the air is less thick now. breathable. your eyes interested now in the cups she's bought. both filled with something pink, but the smell of it like that faithful burn of tequila. 

"you're right". 

she smiles."have i ever been wrong?"

your eyes rolling playfully. "no"

"exactly". shoving a cup in your hand before bursting up excited. "so sip on this and lets go mingle". 

and maybe you're like your mom about these things but "mingling" is for the fucking birds. an unexcitable process of small talk that does your head in. because no one actually cares about anything real, or different, or new, they just want to make good on first time impressions. all the real things, these scary little bits of air and unspoken moments between the words. something something, if we make the daughter of the vice president of the most infamous, illustrious, biker club in all of florida laugh and smile and twiddle her fucking thumbs, then we've made it to the inner inner ring, of the inner circle. which is a lie and a half. sweaty shoulders rubbing up at yours and the dampness nearly folding over your stomach with disgust as you follow naomi through to a less busy area of the backyard. the heat steeping in and weighing over everywhere. the crowd as idle as she said it was. hesitation in their bones as they wait for some fearless leader to make the first move of jumping in, so they of course then, can follow. 

you sip at your cup, and then nearly guzzle it the rest of the way. a cold, fruity bite to your tongue that helps ease the angst. 

your eyes peering over to the sliding door that connects the backyard and the inside of the house. like a mere gazing over would summon the not so true bane of your existence. a nineteen year old boy with a penchant for unscrewing your nerves loose. your words tongue tied when they aren't soothed into an easy quiet submission by the sweetness of his mouth. groaning little kisses that leave you frenzied and a little dazed and scared. because he has that way about him unfortunately. a lax sort of domineer. flirtatious eyes and quick little phrases that make your skin crawl something horrendous but excellent just the same. you literally despise him. mouth seeking your cup again. already at the end of your drink and feeling the hard rush in of it in your blood. warmth in your belly and a dizzying effect that loosens your anxieties. the type of buzz that asks for more. 

a small little table exists near a group of shrubs. a cloth bag nestled in a particularly thick way of leaves. your hand sticking down and into the bag to pull out a bottle of tequila. because seth said "only my buddies get the good shit", everyone else suffering with cheap beer they bought, waiting for dean and his kegs to arrive.  

 and with a harsh splash of water—some rando a little less than recklessly diving into the pool—does the party finally actualize. bodies corralling quickly in that cold wash of blue and the music a little louder. this concoction of whatever on your tongue and your urges less accounted for. 

surely this is what naomi means when she says "mingle". forgetting about yourself a little and just being. a hard task made easier when tequila doesn't give two shits about what it means to be perceived. eighteen not as dangerous when you've got liquid courage to slot a small battery in your back. 

"samir right?", his name calling sweetly on your tongue. the leaving of it gentle as you make to get closer to him. a tall-ish boy—but certainly not taller than roman—with a rich dark caramel complexion. charming hooded eyes and the cutest nose. his beer clutched for dear life in his hand like he'd maybe pay to be anywhere else. 

"uh, yeah". a cautious sort of surprise. like the possibility of speaking to him was slim to none. "how'd you know-"

"i seen you with yah dad before...", memory working amidst the alcohol. your words a little loose. stepping closer to him to get over the loud play of the music. his cologne nice in your nose. the type of scent made for double takes and "where'd you get it from?" questions. a silent wingman working as a possible conversation opener for anxious girls who maybe don't know that being this close makes for a heavier suggestion of familiarity. an intimate proximity like you know him more than just from seeing him around. "...he brings his car around my pops shop for tune ups n stuff. you look like him", and maybe the smile after that comment with the way you stand next to him implies something more than it should or more than you want it to but you don't notice. the fuzz of your brain winning the 'i dont give a fuck about being perceived' war. 

but samir is smiling and his shoulders are maybe not as slacked and bored. squared now with a new sense of purpose and open and facing you, like he's giving you the space to be as close as you'd like. like for some odd reason, if you fell into him, he'd catch you better, not that there'd be any reason for that but yeah...whatever, and the buzz is so obviously shaping your blood to run with a renewed sense of unawareness of present situations. thoughts roaming off to weird deep ends before they slip back close to where they belong. sipping at your cup again before you peer up to find him staring. a quick wandering of his earthy brown eyes, maybe at the silver of your necklace or the cup at your lips or maybe even a little below where your necklace dips in. 

samir's eyes bug. an embarrassment clinging to the shape. like he's just snatched himself out of the daze of staring at you. a throat clear that exposes the uncomfortableness in his own body at being made. "what're you drinkin?" 

"it's just juice and tequila, fruit punch i think...", taking a sip. "...beers not my thing". 

"s'not mine either", he gives. looking at his beer bottle unsatisfied. "kinda just grabbed it, cuz it's the only thing here". 

and maybe he'd have more fun if he were where you are? loose and slightly adrift. carefree amidst a sea of people who care too much. "if i say where the stash is, you won't tell right?"

"not a soul". 

your head juts, a motion for him to follow. his steps in rhythm with yours and that cologne staining his skin still flirting with your nose. like a light goading. this silent attempt to lure you into something unfamiliar. because all you know is the cool silver of this necklace, strong teasing fingers and that dark rumbling engine. the nineteen year old boy—who you don't think to name at the moment, not even in the secrecy of your thoughts—this not so true bane of your existence, is still, to you, a great big world of an almost man. tall and surrounding and new and the whole of what you feel for him still uncovered. so maybe it isn't exactly smart—even if such a rebellion lives in the name of a not so odd, half baked, tequila born, self esteem boost—to live so deeply in this state of coyness. a realization, or rather a confession, that threatens the carelessness binding your bones. 

eighteen a little dangerous still, playing loose and a little faster in your blood. because the liquid courage gives you this two-fold, uncanny, brazen sort of awareness. convictions flowing strong, parentally charged in a way that makes your ego break against it in bursting acts of rebellion. the midnight summer air sticky against the skin and baiting. the warmth like a second rushing in, a muggy air of defiance living beside the heat in your belly and the sweet flavor on your tongue. 

you push through that grouping of shrubs, revealing the hefty bottle. 

"shot?", a question but not really. more like a soft demand, styled with a smile and inviting eyes. 

the pour of it playing over samir's voice. a near drown out. "sure", he gives. the cup in his hand already before his decision can come into any finality. "cheers", the words slipping off to linger in the air like he's trying out the phrasing. like he's trying to please your excitement enough to keep it there on your lips. 

you take the stain of it on your tongue quickly. a clear burn that conquers easily on its way down. your throat humming to give it some ease but poor samir is reducing more by the seconds into a fit of coughs. the dry dirtiness of the tequila new for him. not yet to be overcome by the looseness it'll give his bones. 

you laugh. a fit of giggles living a little less than controllable. mixing a more digestible drink into his cup. something more similar to yours. "you don't drink too much huh?"

"nah", his face scrunching. expression embarrassed. "not really". 

"here", passing the cup back to him again. "try this". 

he sips at your concoction. face less screwed as the sweetness of it tempers the bitterness in his mouth. "s'pretty good", natural dark eyes a little brighter. a spark struck across them even. surely not made from janky pool lights that work no better than the old neighborhood street lamps. a courage to him that seems to settle in after he sips again. a courage that leaps with fresh legs. "you have, really, really beautiful eyes", tumbling out. unable to be stopped. the thought perhaps always there but now given the freedom to breathe. to walk and run.

"oh". dumbstruck. a load of giggling that bursts abrupt. not malicious, no. just the sort of drunken amusement caught from the suddenness of a thing. untamable almost if not for the fall of his face. making you feel awful, like shit. "i-..."

samir blinks. like he's just been un-dazed from a dream. "that was corny, i'm sorry".

"no, no, no, it's fine, i just-", your fingers trembling slightly. reaching across the little table to touch him. hands in his, to give him surety "i just-i didn't expect you to say that. thank you". 

"i'm interruptin something?" 

the question teasing as it leaves. flip flops shuffling before they flap down, smacking against the wet cement surrounding the pool. an obnoxious, creeping, entrance. it makes your blood more solid. hearing that mocking tone he gives. roman and the forever glimmer of mischief, spread about his eyes and his lips. like he's hinting the possibility of a storm. gaze drifting over your hands, the way they leave samir's, the proximity of your bodies and the ease of it. a knot in your belly, corralling in with a load of dirty little feelings. roman tall and broad. suffocatingly so. annoyingly so. like a tower. like a mountain that blocks the sun to cast a shadow. that burst of brazenness spreading fun under your skin, now tugging itself along to shuffle back into the dark nothing of a corner. but why should you have to cringe and recoil in and from your innocent fun? why couldn't you delight yourself in a little attention? was that so horrible? your arms crossing over. disruption, childlike and eager, running alongside the bold streak. 

"no". your smile tight lipped. voice bright. "just poppin samir's tequila cherry". 

samir chokes. coughs dangerously hard. roman's eyes slitting to narrow. his jaw giving a small clench before he returns your expression. a mirthless grin. "how nice. i hope he enjoyed it". 

"i think he did". 

roman's brows lift. your audaciousness funny. "lets ask". attention directing itself toward samir, who seems to be the most uncomfortable. 

"i uh", his hand setting the cup down. nervous, antsy and it irks you whole. "yeah, it was. it-it was fine". 

roman hums. shuffles up more till he's nearly flushed against your back. the fabric of his tank top blowing with the heat of the slim midnight breeze, hitting whats exposed of your skin. a reminder. your fists clenching. fucking asshole. the necklace at your chest still cool. in agreement with him. his presence this annoying, territorial claim. possessive and unwavering. your belly empty, your head swimming and frustration clinging to your nerves so well that it's stupid. because this is stupid. because annoyance shouldn't live like this, shouldn't find even ground with enjoyment so well. blood hot, something dizzy working behind your eyes. a complicated, rush of a feeling that has yet to be totally deciphered. 

"you're one of seth's buddies right?"

"yeah something like that". samir appearing less tall. shrunken in and a half step from paper frail. less willing to indulge his eyes. the interest in them gone and refusing to meet your face. and it sours whatever unnamed sweetness held for him. your curiosities gone. because allowing roman to destabilize him so easily. unbalanced and too shy for proper confidence. where was the fun, competitive edge, in that? a bold streak of something uneasy and conflicting and tricky. not simply rolling over and letting him win. thats what this was supposed to be. a riot for some damn reclamation. "i'm just gonna go", samir says. your eyes rolling as he gathers himself to leave the small safety of the table. 

you peer up at roman. the source of all this bullshit angst housed in your person. his face soft but angular somehow. tender lips existing as the object of your lingering desires. his shoulders wide and his body thick thanks to home cooked meals and too much football. your fists balling till they ache. tequila dulling the pain of your nails but doing nothing for the baseless frustration. this boy... this man... this whatever he is, so pretty and exacting and sure all the damn time. always testing and making attempts and looking. your skin less like skin and more like metal. like the tinny cold make of one of his many football trophies. and now you feel no better, no greater than samir. shrinking in and your throat tight again. dizzy and trembly. a leaf in the breeze. like you're back upstairs in seth's guest room, peering into the mirror. eyes yours, but more useful for him now. 

hate isn't too strong a word is it? your father says it sometimes. like the word is venom born, made to poison. says it and then kisses your mother anyways. kisses and hugs her and churns her indifference into pretty, wispy noise. rich and thick. honey inspired. so if that works. venom and honey. both thick and useful. then maybe they're the same. 

"you're such a dick", you cut at him. eyes rolling hard. making to step around him. but he's so tall and everywhere. a world and a half. 

and he laughs. like everything is so funny. like you're funny. a joke. sweetened tequila on the tongue. bathing your stomach. fuzzily in the brain. he thinks you're a joke. 

"how would you know, you've never seen one". 

you gasp. your shoulder trying it's hardest to check him. a barely registered move that gets you past him and closer to the pool. "ass", you yell. loud enough for people to hear. 

skin sticky. trembling still. exasperated. your feet a harsh descending as you stalk to the opposite edge of the pool. the beginning steps of the shallow end. dean there with a cup of beer in hand. hair long and already damp. 

"trouble in paradise?" 

your eyes cut. a sharp look to warn him. a deep breath as you breach the water with your foot. trying the cool of it. "your friend is a fuckin asshole", you give. 

he chuckles. like maybe he knows that to be a little true. "what'd he do?" and when you don't answer, occupied with settling into the chill of the pool, he turns his attention over to his friend. chuckling still. "what the hell did you do?"

roman flips his hand. a 'whatever' motion, like he couldn't be bothered to even care. 

your blood boils. loose and on fire. "what doesn't he do?!" loud and irritated enough for dean to hear. loud enough for roman. for seth and the twins and everyone else in between. but it doesn't stop the party. just adds to the air. to the drone of the festivities. to splashes of water, and the splatting smack of beach balls. to good feeling breezy wind and the thumping bass of music. to guys trying to flirt with girls and girls trying to quell their boyish half baked charms with coyness and shooing splashes of water. the party in full effect and alive. pulsing and balanced. and maybe you shouldn't be in the pool, all loose-brained and dizzy feeling. but the water feels good and the distance from roman is a welcomed addition. gets his cologne out of your nose and rids you of the sensation of his body along your back. 

but his mischief isn't done. stretches with a fresh awakened need to stress your nerves. the pull up and discard of his tank top a sensational performance. like he's mocking and poking and punishing you with the gasp and squeals of girls who pry at him with sharp hopeful eyes. his body dipping into the pool on the deep end before breaching up with his hair slicked back and dusting his shoulders. curling up as it meets the air all finger provoking like. 

you hate him. 

feet splashing behind you. dean stepping to sink further and further into the icy blue of the pool. a quick, resolute voice of mediation. "aaalright...", he draws out. "...none of this shitty, sulky, energy". his back to you, arms stretched out and waiting, like a human pool noodle. "hop on". 

but the water is safe here at the shallow end. close to the stairs and faraway from eyes and his prying little stare that grows more amused by the minute as you fight and fail to ignore it. "dean, i don't think thats a good—", your body up ended. water splashing as you panic. a fast jostling maneuver that forces you to grapple him as he lifts you onto his back. "dean!!!", thrilled and pissed and dazed behind the eyes still. arms and legs wrapping tight about him as he treads into the deep end. 

and he's all smiley, the little shit. "you don't got much of a choice unfortunately".

"i can't swim". 

"i know", patting the clinging wrap around of your arm. reassurance that barely makes a full registration about the body. "i ain't gonna let you drown sweets".

"sweets?"

"new nickname for you", he hums. satisfied with the ring of it.  

and you snort. set your head atop of his as he treads the water. because dean—and though it's unusual for him to fail at many things—is unfailing at pleasing his penchant for nicknaming people. you in particular. a little list of moniker's reflecting the growth of your relationship. from 'sis', at sixteen, to 'sissy' at seventeen, and then a very offhanded 'babe' for sometime. a jokey little term of affection you accepted, because the humor of it proved stupid and weird and annoying for roman. always silently bristling about it. these wordless little shifts in his expression. a disapproval he felt was maybe too childish to name properly. but dean didn't linger on it too long. a little razz of a name before moving on back to just calling you by your government. but 'sweets' is new. promotes something, maybe, a bit more delicate than the others. more endearing. 

"cute", you approve. "where are we going?"

"where the party is". 

your arms grow tighter. cinched threateningly at his neck. his little laughs and the edge of his weight against yours not doing much to make your irritations any true problem. but you try anyways. "i swear to God, and Jesus freakin Christ ambrose...", your voice biting. words slipping through your teeth. "...if you take me over to him on some kum ba yah bullshit, i will drown you. i will use all of my weight and pin you to the floor of this pool...", his sputters, chuckles flaming your blood. "...i will end you. i don't wanna talk to him". 

"you two go at it like a fuckin married couple, just—"

your name shrieks across the pool. a drawl of a mezzo soprano voice. pretty and clear like freshly cut diamonds. sing song like and attention grabbing. enough for dean to halt his treading and pivot. curiosities a shitty merging with some low level form of dread. tequila swimming in your stomach, this large, prong attached battery. a careless, suspicious, jolt of energy about your blood as you get closer to chauncey hayes and her mini crowd of personality destitute friends. and no, the dread doesn't spring off from some shriveling form of a fear absolute, but rather the regular anxieties of interacting with a girl too boy obsessed to think straight. because chauncey still roams free and ditsy-like in the halls of tenth grade socialization. a shark of a particular caliber. too small to be truly frightening but existing large enough to annoy already poorly wired nerves. tonight is not the night for this. tonight is not the night for chauncey hayes. 

"just the girl i wanted to chat it up with", she smiles. a little looser than tight lipped. like the work of ingratiating herself to you is a goal but not a top priority. sincerity casting bright for some seconds as she drops her eyes. "hi dean".

"ladies", he gives, to her and all her friends. polite and smirky like. their reactions amusing. 

"what's up?", you ask. ready to get it over with. your arms and legs clinging to dean still. less vexed. seeking comfort. 

"so um...", a faux bout of rumination. her eyes a light bright warm brown, glowing to contrast the cool blue of the pool. a summery colored bathing suit fitting her skin and her hair loose and curly. "...you're cool with the twins right?", her eyes flicking to jimmy and jey. reverential, bordering needy and crazed even. naomi atop jimmy in a similar fashion to how you cling to dean. but her body proves less anxious, more affectionate. the boys cornered and laughing gut deep with roman and seth. "like...deep family connects and all that good stuff?" 

"how federal of you", dean mumbles. 

and yes, blame it on the alcohol. spirits saturating your veins. curiosities fortified and blindly misguiding. so much so that your clues as to where this might lead are a bit blurred. a nameless teenaged ruin. oh yes, just blame everything on that fruity, semi-acrid taste steeped into your tongue. "i guess you could say that, yeah". 

"so whats the status on them then? ... like, i know jimmy and naomi are connected at the hip but roman specifically...", a rushing in where words intend to flow. heat and blood. the inner parts of your ears muddied with an ill feeling. a disruptive sensation. fingers alive with these little twitches. belly swimming. nausea maybe. a well, wet with liquor and a deep vexing. because what the actual hell? "...like what's his deal? is he taken?" 

dean laughs. from the base of his gut. abrupt and ill-controlled. amusement full in his cheeks. "oh young and the restless, eat shit, this is magic", he barks. 

"dean. shut. the fuck. up", you cut. tongue sharp like obsidian. shifting along his back. re-hooking your legs and focusing your eyes from that loose daze. for what? better posture maybe? a maneuvering perhaps that gives one of your arms more reach, more freedom. a reason unknown really. but your human pool noodle takes it as a sign to tread a step backwards. like he knows something you don't. "why do you ask?", your eyes slitting. no less curious, but the anxieties are fallen away to leave a spark of something vicious feeling in it's wake. an unchallenged sensation housed in your chest. a beating, a pulse. the pump of it venturing out to the center of your forehead and the tips of your toes. a thorough spreading about till you're filled with the brutality of it. a dangerous feeling. whole and sweet and grimy. 

"i mean...what do you mean why?", chauncey flicking her shitty little eyes over to roman. a dazzling appreciation in them that aches your teeth. "have you seen him?" 

you grin. mirthlessly. "what makes you think i'd know what he likes?" 

"you're always hanging around...", a patronizing go of words. her eyes rolling, the thought of it sticking to her odd and unwanted. like your proximity to him is more of a nuisance than a fulfillment of his own wants. of each others wants. "...i figured you had a little insider information". 

and the way your arms wrap around dean for stability, fingers clutching nails into his pale skin. anger attempting to be tempered but proving formidable and real bitchy. his throat grunting as he feels the violence of it. "ouch...", he pats your arm for reprieve. to draw you back off the ledge. that resolute voice of mediation coming back in full stride. awkward and stuttered. "...ok uh, so i think maybe...maybe in the spirit of pool parties and um...buoyancy? ...yeah that sounds right... that we should do a breathing exercise...y'know just something to chill us out—"

you cut off his rambling. "is this you trying to be funny?", his hands digging into your thighs to keep you up as you press forward. "your town cryin ass is always ten steps ahead on gossip but you don't know him and i are together?...", voice louder than before. erupting till its bouncing off pool waves to ripple out to the deep end. "...have been together?" 

she scoffs. fighting not to shrink. "he doesn't even talk you up, i—"

"ok, ok, wait!", dean calls out. bewildered at chauncey's nonchalance. treading back.

"girl are you fucking dense?", you yell. 

"ah shit", dean mumbles. backing away slowing. bones heavy amidst the water. 

but you keep going. laughing with teeth. a mild mannered hysteria. "do you not like your life?"

"are you threatening me?", chauncey shrieks. trembling but warring against it.   

"you know who i am", you give. amused and loose blooded. 

"ok, i think thats enough magic for tonight", dean mumbles. his thumb rubbing into your knee as he holds and carries you to the stairs resting at the center edge of the pool. 

the metal curve of the stepping rods cold to the touch. your bones tired and heavy. skin wet. an empty, drained, sensation coddling terribly well everywhere. that short bout of hysteria dead. the party goers unsure of when or how to resume. awkwardly existing under the torture of your fire. the buzz once sizzling your blood, growing neutral and ill-suited for this new lane of emotion. a merging onto something quiet and dejected. the thump of the music never returning to it's former glory, even as your feet press forward into the house. tracking in wet, an untouched collection of dry towels hanging near the entrance. your hand snatching one up, making a b-line for the other side of seth's house. his kitchen scarce of teenage bullshit—apart, of course, from your own—and the loud song of too trivial chatter. the large towel wrapping your body, a tender lean against the counter, trembling softly, waiting for the chill to stop. 

a gut wrenching sort of enervation plays dutifully under the skin. on cue and terribly in the pocket. a grimace worthy rhythm. it makes a disgusting, beautiful, cruel tune out of your nerves. bursting and wild, like the roar of an old iron made engine. a rumbling orchestra, dirty in its symphony, those residuals of anger oh so noisy in the body. feeling mighty and familiar. a fire and grime inherited surely. because who are you that it'd pass you by without troubling skin and bones and the thoughts made ready to leave your mouth?  and sure, maybe in her mischief, chauncey deserved to be dug into the ground, her knowing bright eyes filled with wanting to tear you apart for the fun of it, but not with the easy mean speak of your father. she didn't deserve the grime and blast of that tough leathery part of his nature. at least not from you. being a vessel, holding this much in the same way, it hurts too badly to keep in. hurts more letting it go. 

and roman is light footed as he steps into the kitchen. silent but full in presence. shaping the room to his body. but then again, everything looks quite too large for understanding when you've gone under such a quick, awful diminishing.

"sober yet?" 

"almost". 

he huffs through his mouth. a deep, amusing breath. "it's always the lightweights causing all the trouble", leaning up against the island that runs parallel to the counter. his eyes stitching to your skin. sewing in and binding themselves. "you gave the normals a show though, they'll have something to talk about for the rest of the summer". 

your eyes roll, turning away from him. opening the kitchen fridge to grab a bottle of water. opening it to take a sip, before the sarcasm drips. "m'so happy i could give your fans free entertainment, apparently the little strip tease wasn't enough for them". 

"takin my shirt off at a pool party is regular shit. i can't help it if girls like the way i look. i can't control how people react...", his face running hot with irritation. his cheeks dusting a faint red. loose curls joining up in his hands as he ties them into a small knot. " ...at least i wasn't baitin nobody. you get a little buzz and forget i exist apparently". 

but samir was an empty rebellion. not forgetfulness. a coup against the self to rid of the overpower of his influence. an attempt at reclamation—of eyes and thoughts and opinions—at not caring and just being. was it misguided? sure, but not malicious.  

"i can't help it if boys like the way i look". 

"you was eatin it up...", he flares. not loud but deep. accusatory and pissed. "...all giggly n'shit, like you never heard a compliment before". his body shuffling closer to gain advantage in your line of sight. "i give you compliments all the time and you act all meek like you can't take it". 

the plastic of the bottle gives a crinkling groan from the grip in your hand. your tired eyes meeting his. those last bits of looseness giving you the wherewithal to speak. "you wanted me to be a dick about it?" 

"have the same energy or somethin", he grits. "you damn near threatened chauncey". 

"she was makin it seem like i barely existed next to you!"

"because...you maybe don't", he breaks. urgent. his shoulders falling, unweighted now. like the thought has lived and shaped well in his mind for sometime. his face closer and troubled. a confusion born from frustration. "you don't want me next to you, you barely want me to touch you, and you hate when i look at you for too long, but you want everybody and they damn mama knownin we together". 

that nausea. dizziness behind the eyes. "thats not true—"

"are we together?" he asks. 

the air feeling harder to breathe. that bottle no longer clutched in your hand but too cold still and your ears flooding to the tips with heat. pressure welling up in your throat too much it starts to ache. fingers gathering to ball, nothing between them but the bite of your nails into the palms. the phantom of a thing they hold against for dear life. eyes prickling with a stabbing pain. the beginning of salty warmth that burns the skin. 

you chuckle. mirthless and panicked. "thats not a real question. you can't be for real right now". 

"you got somethin real to say to me then?" 

and it's all resting palpable at the tip of your tongue. but it lacks the proper brilliance. makes no quarrel with itself of possibly being undigestible. it lives wholly uncomfortable, eagerly so, with a streak of menace. and this, he wants you to spit out? to let fall and burn and weight over the air. displeasure true in the heart of your chest, melted and flamed and dangerous like the inner core of the earth. 

"why you so pressed to hear about what i got to say all the time? always lookin and diggin for stuff that don't matter". 

"if its you, it matters", he stresses. confusion wearing well in his eyes but his words sure. "if it's not, then whatever. i don't care". 

and this must be what drowning feels like. the flail of feet and arms and a hopeless horror. water sucked into the lungs, salty and raging against the palate. sinking the words with an evil diligence. but the body has a way about it. an uncanny, needy, pestering desire to survive. to live. so the drowning is not quick. and you are not overcome quickly. coughing and screaming, skin hot and cold and pale and wrinkling. blurry eyes and a gasp too large to contain for long enough. fingers pushing water to rush it behind, a play at propelling the weight of your bones beyond the surface. to say something, to be asked to speak truth to a wordless dread, is the painstaking performance of drowning. "...you have things... you have the club... all of your friends are my friends... it's easy, you get up one day and decide i'm not what you want, you can just leave". 

"no". an instant thing, thick fingers cradling your face. his eyes frightened and brown and displeased. "no". resolute. always so damn sure of himself. his hands pulling, a soft embrace and gesture, your eyes unable to leave him. frightful of being seen but too weak to leave the meeting of his. "that's not true. and you boxin me in like that, it's not fair". your fingers tired, clutched and nailing into his arms. his face, a world of a thing. freckled and soft and tanned. cutting sharper at the jaw but gentle still around the eyes. mouth and tongue delicate despite the cool edge of him, his nature. "when i said, way back before ,that i gotchu, it wasn't me gassin yah head up. i was being real". 

but he doesn't stop. doesn't drown under the roll in of a tumultuous wave. 

his thumb sweeping your cheek. to soothe the skin. to persuade it of his care. "i'm never lookin at you to find somethin wrong or to find a reason not to look", his eyes a slow wandering pace. brushing smooth over your features. your lips and cheeks blooming with a sensation only admiration can give. "it's hard not lookin at you". chuckling and his eyes rolling. "and yeah the way he said it was corny as hell, but samir ain't wrong. you never not look good to me". 

you can feel his breaths here. the draw of his mouth as his appreciation leads him closer. a bright sweetness on his tongue that quickens your blood. his nose a short dainty nudge into yours. anticipation filling the well of your body. 

"i like being next to you". tall body slipping up calm. closer. surrounding you against the kitchen counter. "i like touching you". thumb skimming along your lips. "ain't nothin awful about all that huh?" 

you shiver. the curl up of it riding along your spine. "no". 

"exactly". convincing brown eyes and an exacting little grin. "and nothin bad is gonna happen either. i gotchu. you're mine".

his words a sweet working spell. lips a teasing slot along yours, but never making the full embrace of a kiss. your desperation for it pure. dampens the odd, dirty, hard to digest ideas. 

he smiles. amused. "i snacked on a mint before i came in here so... you kinda gotta kiss me now".

you snort. slipping your fingers over his arms. holding tighter. the fresh scent on his tongue a gentle persuasion. 

"it's mandatory huh?" 

"yeah cause you been fallin off a lot actually. missin weekly quotas. thats real bad for business". 

"something's gotta be done i guess". 

he hums. planting tender and simple. tiny little pecks that lure you further into the give of his lips. a hand sweeping low, his arm curling about your waist, palms splayed. his fingers there bending and running dull to feel the supple fabric of your swimsuit beneath the towel. touching and testing his limits. seemingly waiting for you to pry yourself away. you breathe into his mouth, the air funneling out of your lungs. teeth a teasing bite into his lip. smiling and falling into him. his other hand meeting the exploration of the first. an unhurried pace over your body, along the line of your back. pressing in as it trails. a gasp melting on his tongue as it sweeps in, holding the tremble of you. "so pretty", he gives. littering your jaw with the affections of his mouth. your everything, feather feeling, weightless, arrested and held up in the strength of him. his smile curving into where he purses into your neck. the rhythm of your pulse playing into his kiss. 

[amberbeach]

'RANGER BAIT'

gif belongs to me

There were many times when Trini believed she could trust you with her secret. One afternoon during a picnic in the park, when your relationship hit the third month mark, she considered telling you, but you had been dating for a little over eight months now and her guilt grew with each day that her secret identity as the Yellow Ranger remained hidden from you.

She knew she could trust you to keep her secret, and the identity of the team a secret, but her biggest fear was how you would react. For the entirety of your relationship, she had lied about where she went every time her watch beeped and the only reason you hadn't figured it out yet was because the others always corroborated with her stories.

When you approached her locker that morning she knew then it was time to tell you the truth. She just hoped her lies wouldn't be the end of your relationship. You agreed to meet at Ernie's later but when you were late, Trini knew something was wrong, but she tried not to worry and waited. After twenty minutes she went to use Ernie's telephone to call your house, wanting to believe you had forgotten - something you had never done before - but when her watch beeped Trini predicated what Zordon would tell them.

She stared at the viewing globe as Zordon explained Rita's plans, fiddling with the necklace around her neck that you had gotten her two months ago for your anniversary, saving money from your job for weeks to buy it for her. Her eyes took in the scene. You were forced to sit on a metal chair, putty patrollers tying your hands behind the metal chair, while Goldar barked orders at the foot soldiers.

"Rita captured Y/N knowing how much he means to you. Her goal is to weaken you, and destroy the Power Rangers."

Trini's lips parted when she saw your expression as putty patrollers surrounded you before the viewing globe grew misty. "Oh no,"

"Don't worry, Trini, we'll get him back." Billy assured her, placing a hand on her back.

"Yeah, the three of us," Jason gestured to Billy and Zack, "will distract Goldar while you and Kimberly defeat the putties and get Y/N out of there."

Her eyes darted around the hillside, the gravel crunching beneath her feet as they headed further up the hill. A few miles later they found the cave and morphed before rushing inside.

After nearly an hour in the company of Goldar and the putties, your fears had dwindled as you tried to twist the rope off your wrists. Goldar listed all the things he would do once the Rangers were defeated, unaware that the team had arrived.

The Red Ranger struck first, then the Black Ranger, followed swiftly by Blue, and the three led Goldar further into the cave, and away from you. You looked at a putty that fell to the ground, seeing a blur of Pink briefly before the Yellow Ranger appeared and the two fought off the putties before the Pink Ranger untied your ankles. You looked over your shoulder to find the Yellow Ranger untying your hands and stood up once you were free, rubbing your wrists which were raw from your attempts to break free.

"Thanks." You looked between the two.

"Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

"Apart from my pride? No." Your words cause Trini to smile behind her helmet. You noticed Goldar running towards you, the three Rangers scrambling to their feet to follow him, but he reached you first and you ducked down when he swung his sword, looking at the Pink and Yellow Rangers when they pulled you towards the light streaming into the cave.

"Go, run!"

More putties arrived when you got outside and you counted at least fourteen of them. "Oh no!" The Pink Ranger groaned.

You pulled the two Rangers aside when Goldar rushed towards where you were standing, and he struck down several putties, growling as he turned to you. With no other option, the three of you headed inside the cave, and the two Rangers stepped in front of you.

"Stay behind us." The Yellow Ranger said. "When it's clear, get out of here."

You watched the two face off against Goldar, joined by the other Rangers who divided their attention between the putties who were easily defeated. But Goldar was stronger and more skilled. Sparks flew from the Black Ranger's suit as he was struck with the sword and the Pink Ranger was pushed against the wall, falling to the ground. The Blue Ranger landed next to the Black Ranger moments later, all groaning in pain.

You heard a cry come from the Yellow and Red Ranger as they were struck down and rolled a few feet across from you. Their suits disappeared and your eyes widened when you saw Trini groaning in pain.

"Trini? Trini!" You raced forward, sliding next to her, "Trini? Trini?"

You held her to your chest as Goldar laughed, and she met your gaze as she clutched her stomach. "I'm sorry -"

You shook your head, "Don't be sorry." You placed a hand on her cheek, "I knew you were special from the moment I laid eyes on you. I just never realized how special you are."

She smiled softly, gasping when Goldar approached.

"How touching."

"Do you ever stop talking?" Zack spoke up from behind him and Jason jumped to his feet, helping Zack fend off Goldar. Kimberly and Billy moved around, making it harder for Goldar to fend off all four Rangers.

You pulled Trini to her feet and she smiled brightly before going to help the others, morphing as she ran to their aid. You kept to the side lines, watching the group you had become good friends with since you started dating Trini, and were in awe of their strength and dedication that sent Goldar fleeing back to Rita.

The group removed their suits, and your eyebrows raised as they walked towards you. "You're all Power Rangers?"

"Yeah," Zack grinned. "Pretty sweet moves, right?"

"The sweetest." You grinned as you performed a bro-shake with him before looking at Trini with concern. "Are you okay?"

The group moved away as she walked closer to you, smiling over at you both as they gave you privacy to talk.

She nodded, "Are you?"

"I found out my girlfriend is the Yellow Power Ranger." You sent her a bright smile before your expression changed as you spoke, eyebrows furrowing as you tried to find the words to describe how you felt. "I'm worried, but mainly I'm really proud of you."

"I wanted to tell you - I was planning on telling you soon -" She took your hands and you sent her a smile to ease the guilt she was feeling. You could always read her better than anyone. "I'm sorry for lying to you. If I had explained, then maybe Rita wouldn't have brought you here."

"I was Ranger bait." You deduced. "Instead they were sent running. Literally." You smiled, kissing her forehead, placing an arm around her as you headed out of the cave, the other Rangers falling into step behind you. "You look really great in yellow, have I ever told you that?"

Trini smiled, leaning into your chest, and nodding her head. "You may have mentioned it before."

You smiled as you placed a kiss on her head. From the moment you met Trini Kwan, you knew she would be important in your life. She was a special person, and that day you found out that she shared the burden of saving the Earth from Rita who had been wrecking havoc for months now. That day you realized the word 'special' was not enough to describe her. And proved that all her doubts weren't true as you supported her, and understood the importance of her identity remaining a secret, as you always did.

[seresinhangmanjake]

The One I Want moodboard (jake seresin x plus size!reader)

"We've lived together for months, and I've been deep in it, beautiful." - Jake Seresin

I'm not the greatest at moodboards but I felt a need to try 😊

The One I Want tag list:

@elite4cekalyma @buckysteveloki-me @tgmavericklover @shelbycillian @kissmethric3 @fox-bee926 @hangmandruigandmav @waltermis @fandom-life-12 @a-serene-place-to-be @bruher @tngrace @emma8895eb @mamaskillerqueen @benedictsvestcollection @blackwidownat2814 @himbos-on-ice @entertainmentalgal8 @hookslove1592 @whoeverineedtobe @alwaysclassyeagle @chaytea06 @cherrycolas-things @turtle-in-a-tornado @have-a-nice-day-k @inkandarsenic @kidd3ath @coldmuffinbanditshoe @rae-you-gotta-be-kidding-me @appledressing @jenniferpendragon @tempt-ress @swiftsgirlfriend @luxebeautystyle @yukosworld @ash5monster01 @mongoosesthings @whatislovevavy @missymisha @shellbilee @marantha @alexa4040 @apollos-arc @sarahwasfound @gg-trini @i-came-as-bostonian

[writingsbytee]

Rivalry & Romance

Enemies to Lovers workplace romance

*Remember you are in charge of your own consumption. 18+ up audiences only; minors please don’t interact!* THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION 

*Please do not plagiarize, repost, or steal my work. This doesn’t count for re-blogs!*

*the book excerpt above is from ‘The Cruel Prince’  by Holly Black

SUMMARY: I think I’m obsessed with the early 2000s. But this is set in the era of MapQuest and Motorola Razrs. You and Terry have been at each other’s throats for months. Putting the term “Workplace rivalry” to shame. 

PAIRINGS: Terry x Tatum (black, fem, reader)

WARNINGS: Terry being an asshole

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is going to be a slow burn, So there won’t be any smut in this fic. Just simple character building.

TAGLIST

@nayaesworld @keehendrixx @theereinawrites @theereina @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @megamindsecretlair @episodes-ff @blackgurlnhermoods @dxddykenn @pinkkycherrish @pinkkycherrishh @uzumaki-rebellion @urfavblackbimbo @kianaleani @shallipii @mymindisneverhere @onherereading @skyesthebomb @gg-trini @blyffe @melalsworld @mogul93 @ms-mosley-ifunastyyy @sweettea-and-honeybutter @notapradagurl7 @miyuhpapayuh @simplyzeeka @playgurlxoxo @yassbishimvintage @dbaileyblog @jimmybutlrr @versaceslutz @ruewritesoccasionally @kaylalb @noir-lullaby @jadatingz @madamedantes @charmedthoughts @daughterofapollo-7 @cardi-bre91 @thabiddie23 @mama200195-blog @venusincleo @slvt4her @skvrpion @constanthavok @dutifulliythoughtfulenthusiast @massivenightdreamer @astasteofmir @callingallbaddies @nubiawrites @nubiagurllll @theglamclosetsl @alicewonderringland @kumkaniudaku @zunibugsiren @secrettawolfpanda @fakxmbj @zunibugsiren

If I missed anybody, please comment and let me know!

“I told you to make a left three miles back!” you exclaimed, crossing your arms in frustration. 

“I swear to god if you say that one more time, I’ll pull this car over. I’m literally an ex-marine, I know my way around a map,” Terry said, his voice taking on a rumbling growl. You roll your eyes, huffing as you turn away from him to look out the window. Your cybersecurity company planned a business retreat for you and your coworkers as a way to celebrate the huge account they just obtained and boost morale. Pairing you with your ‘least compatible match’, your boss thought it’d be a great way for you and Terry to try and get along.

FLASHBACK

“Nora please! Pair me with anyone but him,” you begged your boss. You knew it was a strong possibility that she’d pair you with Terry, that doesn’t mean that you weren’t going to fight it.

“Tatum, try and look at it from my perspective. I’ve got two team leads who don’t get along, which is making it really hard for me to conduct meetings. You two can’t be in the same room for more than 5 minutes without world war three happening.”Nora says, closing her laptop. 

“Look at it like this, if my top two performers of my team are constantly butting heads, what kind of example do you think that’s going to set for your subordinates? You and Terry either find a way to deal with each other or both of you will have to think of a change in departments.” She finishes, her tone signifying that there’s no room for discussion. 

With a sigh you say, “Fine, I’ll do my best. Just make sure you tell that meathead the same thing.”

END FLASHBACK

With a huff you say, “I can’t believe Nora actually though pairing us together would work. We still have 3 hours left on the road.”

“It’ll go by quicker if you shut up,”Terry grumbles, reaching forward to turn his playlist up. 

“Ugh! And do we have to listen to classic rock the whole way? Nobody wants their eardrums to bleed  24/7 like you do” You add, positioning your body to stare Terry down. Despite hating his guts, Terry was fucking hot, and boy did he know it too. 

“Well, it’s better than listening to your voice all day, or at all for that matter,” Terry glances over at you, a teasing half smirk on his face. He reaches  for the volume switch on his steering wheel, turning the volume up yet again. 

He wasn't exactly sure how your rivalry started but Terry knew that he couldn’t stand you. How you were always so warm and glowy. Flashing your grossly attractive smile around the office like those knuckleheads deserved to be graced by the sun each morning. Walking around in your stupid clothes that seemed to cling to every curve, his eyes would always be drawn to your annoyingly plump ass. Terry hated your guts, but he could appreciate a fine woman. 

You roll your eyes at Terry’s comments, not wanting to further this verbal sparring session. Sliding your eye mask over your eyes, “Just wake me up when we get there,” you said, reclining your chair back.  

Terry lets out a defensive snort, clearly unimpressed with your dismissive attitude. “Fine, princess. Don’t let me disturb your beauty sleep.”

You roll your eyes, sitting in silence at Terry’s harsh words. “You’re insufferable,”you mumble under your breath. 

Terry just smirks, he laughs,a deep mocking sound that echoes throughout the car. “Insufferable? That’s rich coming from you Tatum. At least I’m honest about who I am and what I want.”

You snatched the eye mask off your face, a gentle rage brewing under the surface. “Don’t pretend that you know anything about me, Terry.”

Another chuckle leaves his mouth, a cold and mirthless sound. “Oh, I know plenty about you, Tatum. More than you like probably. After all, it's not hard to figure out what makes you tick when you’re so transparent.” He reaches forward, turning down the volume slightly, “You’re a puzzle, sure, but not a particularly complex one. Jealous, insecure, and secretly craving validation from those you despise.”

You scoff, meeting his eyes, “Please remind me when I asked for your lackluster input. You know nothing about me Terry.”

He raises both hands in mock surrender, a teasing smirk adorning his infuriatingly handsome face,”You didn’t have to ask, it’s written all over you. I figured since we’re stuck on this drive together, I might as well entertain myself by analyzing your pathetic attempts at independence.”

“Why are you like this?” you ask with a shake of your head. 

Terry pins you with his piercing green eyes, “We don’t have enough time to go through all of that, princess.”

“Well whether we like it or not we’re stuck together for the weekend. Obviously it seems like we’re not going to make any progress so how about we don’t speak to one another unless it’s absolutely necessary,”you say your hands wringing together. All of this hostility was triggering you, and you didn’t want to have a full fledged episode in front of Terry. 

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, “If that’s what you want, then so be it.” He adjusts his hands on the steering wheel focusing on the road. Terry looked seemingly lost in thought, but the set of his jaw and the rigid line of his shoulders betrayed his true state. You got under his skin, and he couldn't put his finger on why. Terry just knew he had to get you out of his system one way or another. 

You however, were fuming inside. How dare Terry pretend to even know a thing about you. It pissed you off even more to know that he was right. 

“You’ve been avoiding me around the office,” you start. “Whenever we need to come up with a proposal together, you send someone else in your place. You always leave the room when I enter it. What did I do to you to make you dislike me so much?”, you ask, your eyes burning holes in the side of his head. 

Terry sighs, “Avoiding you implies that I care more than I should. That is not the case.” His words are dismissive, but the way he keeps glancing at you could indicate otherwise. 

You huff in frustration, you’re not getting through to him, “So if you’re not avoiding me, what would you call it?”you press, tilting your head to the side slightly. “Because it feels like you’ve been going out of your way to avoid me these past few weeks.”

Terry flicks on the blinker before exiting the highway, within the next six minutes you’re parked at a ‘Buc-ee’s’. You watch as Terry takes a deep breath, seemingly composing himself before saying, “I’m focused on my work, performing well and efficiently. I don’t understand why you can’t get that through your thick fucking skull.”

The deflection pisses you off, “So why me then? You’re perfectly pleasant with everyone else in the office, but when I’m involved it’s different.” 

Terry’s eyes drift over you, a mask of indifference painting his face. “Is this conversation going anywhere? Or are you going to keep whining about not being liked?” 

You sigh with defeat, turning to face forward you decide to keep your mouth shut, this conversation doing more harm than good. 

“I’m just going to fill up and grab something to eat, do you want anything from inside?” Terry asks, grabbing his keys and wallet. You shake your head, ready for a few minutes alone to screw your head on straight. 

“Suit yourself, just don’t bother me if you’re hungry in an hour,” and with that, Terry gets out of the car. Halfway into the store, Terry turns back and spots you wiping your eyes. Something in his chest tightens at the fact that he made you cry. Your verbal sparring sessions would always be the highlight of his day, you always had a witty comeback, giving him a run for his money. He’s so lost in his thoughts about you, he doesn’t even realize that he’s next up in line. Terry places his order, getting something additional for you, then heads out. 

Back in the car, you call your mom, needing a pep talk from her. “Baby, sometimes two people just don’t get along. Just keep being you, that’s all you can do. I’m sure he’ll come around, what’s not to like?”

You sigh, “But mama, you don’t get it! He’s so frustrating, nobody’s ever gotten under my skin like this. It’s like he knows where and how to press my buttons. It’s getting tiring, Nora said we need to get along or she’ll transfer both of us.”

Your mother stays silent on her side of the phone. She knows her daughter, and her daughter just might have a crush on her work rival. “Are you sure there’s no other reason why you two don’t get along?”

Her statement stuns you, your train of thought coming to a complete halt. “Mama be serious, he’s told me time and time  again that I’m not his cup of tea,”you say, wrapping your cardigan tighter around midsection. Looking up you see Terry come out of the Buc-ee’s, bags in hand, making his way to the car.

“Look mama, I have to go but I’ll call you once we get settled in. I love you , bye” you say ending your call. Terry watches as you hang up the phone and pull down the sun visor to wipe away any moisture gathered under your eyes. Guilt heavy like a rock sat uncomfortably in his gut. He never wanted to make you cry, or feel bad about yourself. The truth is, he admires you, how you never seem to let the pressures of the day get to you. How you had a smile for everyone in the office, including Greg, who obviously wanted to fuck you. Always smiling your perfect smile at these people who didn’t deserve it, him included. 

Walking to the passenger side window, Terry taps twice to grab your attention. With a start, you meet Terry’s gaze through the tempered glass. Rolling your window down, you look at Terry over your librarian-esque glasses, something he finds oddly cute. 

Passing the bags of food through the open window. “I wasn’t sure what you liked so I got chicken, beef and tofu in case that’s your thing,” Terry said, his eyes refusing to meet yours. This was uncharted territory for him, he wasn’t the ‘thinking about others feelings’ type.  He liked to avoid attachments, they slow him down. Terry didn’t need another person he cared about being ripped from his life, he couldn’t take that pain again. 

“Terry? Are you good?” you ask when you notice Terry’s eyes went unfocused and he was lost inside his head.

Terry nods his head, handing you the food, “Yeah sweet girl, hold these for me. I’m going to fill up so we can hit the road.” You barely have time to respond before Terry’s on the other side of the car filling up. 

Where the fuck did that come from? You thought. Reaching into the back you pull out a chicken sandwich. Reaching for your drink, you notice Terry bought your favorite. His thoughtfulness sends a shiver down your spine. Terry might not think you’re a puzzle, but he definitely is, infuriating and alluring in equal measure. 

Once the tank is full, Terry slides back into the driver’s seat. You can feel the energy shift as he settled in. You glance over at him and you’re startled to find he’s already looking at you. 

“Look, I don’t want to spend the rest of this retreat biting each other’s heads off. Believe it or not Tatum, I don’t want to fight with you. It’s clear we both are passionate and have strong viewpoints.  For the sake of our jobs, and a cohesive work environment, I think we should just pretend to get along for the duration of the trip.” Terry looks over at you apprehensively, hoping what he just said didn’t piss you off. 

You sighed before turning your body to face Terry, “I don’t want to argue with you either, but pretending isn’t going to help anything when we have to go back to the office next week. I’ll do my best to not piss you off, all I ask is that you do the same.” You state, finally meeting Terry’s eyes. He’s looking at you with apprehension, sizing you up. 

“You’ve got a deal,” he says, outstretching his hand. You place your hand in his, the familiar spark shooting up your arm. Terry quickly slides his hand out of yours, starting the vehicle, you both head back out on the road. 

3 HOURS LATER 

“Well, look who finally decided to show up!” Nora exclaims, as Terry rolls both your suitcases into the hotel lobby. Despite being a complete asshole at least Terry was raised as a gentleman.

“Ha Ha, very funny Nora. Those directions you sent sucked,” Terry grumbled, taking his room key from Nora’s outstretched hand, not noticing the devious smirk her face held. You follow behind Terry outstretching your hand as well.  

Nora’s face pinches with nervousness, “So, umm, little mix-up with the rooms.” Terry stops abruptly. You watch his head hang, shoulders sag, and you hear a deep sigh come from him. 

“Does this mean what I think it does?” Terry asks, turning to face Nora. 

“Well somewhere during the registration process, the amount of rooms needed got mixed up. And since you two were the last to make it in, you guys have to room together. And before you ask, the hotel is fully booked for some medical conference.” Nora finished. This was obviously an uncomfortable conversation for her to have. Her face was red as hell. 

The last thing you wanted right now is to be rooming with Terry. But, being the people pleaser you are, you give Nora a small smile. “It’s only a few days Nora, I’m sure we won’t burn the hotel down.”

You hear Terry scoff behind you, “Speak for yourself.” You roll your eyes at his comment before patting Nora on the shoulder. With the deepest sigh you can muster, you head toward the elevator. 

“Tatum, wait,” Terry says. You turn and Terry takes in your exhausted expression. “I don’t think anyone should be subjected to my snoring. That’s all I meant,” Terry said, with a shrug of his shoulders. A sheepish smile forms on his lips.

Another heavy sigh leaves  your lips, “This isn’t ideal for me either, Terry. Do you think I want to be trapped in a room with someone who would rather be anywhere else?” Your enthusiasm meter had finally reached E. All you wanted was a hot shower, a face mask, and a glass or three of wine. Now you’d be spending your evening undoubtably bickering with Terry over what to watch. 

Terry’s smile fades, replaced by a grimace of discomfort. “Look, Tatum, I didn’t ask for this anymore than you did.” He rakes his hand down his face, the action oddly attractive to you. 

“But let’s get something straight: this isn’t personal. It’s complicated.” Your gaze flickers away from him, unable to hold his stare for long. “We can figure out a way to coexist, can’t we?” he asked, the smirk returning. 

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s about fifty other things I’d rather be doing.” Terry turns, clearly dismissing you. 

An unamused chuckle leaves your lips as you stride past Terry toward the elevators. You may or may not have called him an asshole along the way. Terry scoffed, following behind you. A dark smirk rose on his face as he watched your ass move in the leggings you wore. Not that you needed it, but Terry could really see the difference the pilates classes were making. 

You two ride up the elevator in tense, annoyed silence. Terry insists on carrying both your luggage all the way to the room. “You can have the shower first, I’ll run out and grab us something to eat. So you can have privacy. Just text me when you’re decent.” Terry says, placing our luggage in a corner then heading to the bathroom. 

“Terry?” you ask, nervousness creeping its way up your spine. To your left there was one king bed. The indication is clear that you’d either be sharing a bed with Terry, or sleeping on a very unappealing loveseat.

A small sigh leaves Terry’s lips. He needed to put some distance between you two if he was going to keep his head in straight for the rest of this trip. “Yeah, Tatum?” he asks, you can hear the tiredness seep through the edges of his voice. 

With a deep breath you say, “I know this arrangement isn’t ideal for either of us. But, I appreciate you being a gentleman about everything. I think we’re both adult enough to manage sleeping next to each other for a few days. And don’t try to be coy about it, you can’t sleep on the floor for 3 nights. I won’t let you.” 

Terry opens his mouth to argue with you, but he sees the determination settled into your features and concedes. Usually, with anyone else he’d put up a fight,” Fine, fine, I’m sure we’ll figure something out.”

A triumphant smile blooms on your face, and Terry looks away. Your brows crease in confusion, until you see the tips of his ears begin to turn red. 

“Well, I’ll just go take a shower now. You don’t have to wait, I should be done in like an hour and a half.” You say, bending over to open your suitcase. You smirk deviously when you hear Terry’s sharp intake of breath behind you. 

“Right. I’ll see you in an hour and a half.” Terry says, and then he’s out the door. Before you have time to dwell on Terry’s abrupt exit, your phone rings. A small smile erupts when you see your sister’s contact appear on the tiny screen. Flipping open your phone, you press the green button, and put the phone up to your ear.

“Taryn, you always call when I’m about to do something,” you teased. You can practically hear your sister’s eyes roll through the phone.

“My timing is perfect then. I’m with mama we’re calling to check in on you,” your sister replies. 

You smile and shake your head, “We just got in. Apparently there was a mix-up with the reservation so Terry and I are going to be sharing a room for the next three days.” You say, pulling out everything you need for your shower routine. On the other side of the line your mom and sister are staring at each other, mouths hanging open. 

“Wait, you're going to share a room with someone you once called ‘green goblin’. And I don’t think you meant it in a nice way,” your sister said.

You sighed and rolled your eyes, “When is calling someone a goblin ever a term of endearment? Terry and I came to an agreement while we’re here, we’ll do our best to try and get along. Or we’ll fake it.” You finish with a shrug. 

“Riiight, an agreement. That hotel is going to burn down,” your sister finished with a cackle. 

You rolled your eyes, a dry chuckle leaving your lips. You’re sitting on the bathroom sink yapping with your sister and mom. Before you knew it you glanced at the clock and 30 minutes had passed. “Taryn I appreciate you and mama calling to check on me, but I need to shower before Terry gets back with the food. I’ll talk to y’all later. I love you.” Your sister, mother, and you all exchange goodbye’s and you hang up. 

Turning on the radio nestled on your nightstand, you start to gather everything for your extensive night routine. Landing on a random station, the sensual voice of Dru Hill floods your suite. Humming the melody, you begin to undress. Your body taking on an autopilot, the regular routine of cleansing yourself putting your stimulated mind at ease. It was nice to shut your brain off after spending all day at war with your emotions about your current predicament. 

You always admired Terry, his calm but loud presence, how self assured he was, and how he always seemed to know the answer before the question was asked. Searching through memories, you tried to find one that could pinpoint when the animosity started to take root, but you came up empty. Shaking your head, you try to ignore thoughts of Terry and focus on your shower. 

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

TERRY

“So, how was the drive up?” Maurice (co-worker) snickered, passing Terry a beer. 

Terry’s eyes were going to get stuck as much as he rolled them today. “Don’t even start that shit man, I came down here for a minute of peace.” Terry says, grabbing the beer and taking a large gulp. 

“So I take it you two didn’t solve your issues,” Maurice teases as he watches his usually calm, cool, and collected co-worker break a sweat. 

Terry scoffed, setting his beer down with a little more force than necessary, “No, Mo, we didn’t. In fact, she suggested that we just fake getting along for appearances.” Maurice studies his friend, the former marine usually never let anything get to him. Yet, here he was about to blow a gasket over their fine ass co-worker. His knee bouncing in irritation, the subtle but constant tick of his jaw.

“Aye, T, are you sure you’re good man? You just don’t usually get this rattled. Did Nora say something?” Maurice asked.

Terry shook his head, a grimace turning his face down. “Basically she told us if we can’t find a way to get along, then we’re both out.” Terry sighs, running his hand over his face in exasperation.

”I don’t know what it is, man. It’s like she found her way under my skin and is stuck there. Everything she does annoys me, c’mon man, you’ve seen how she is around the office.”Terry said, motioning the bartender to bring him another beer. 

“C’mon what? She’s a nice girl, cool to work with, really pretty, and has a great ass. What’s not to like?” Mo teases, hoping to get Terry riled up. 

Terry could feel his chest tighten at his friend’s obvious approval of your appearance. It was the same chest tightness he got when Greg would hold open doors for you and bring you your favorite Starbucks order.

“Aye, T, I’m going to say something. When I say this, just think, don't give me an answer. But have you ever thought that maybe you’re attracted to her?”

The question hits Terry like a ton of bricks, his beer frozen mid-air as Maurice looks at him with a knowing smile on his face. Was Terry attracted to you? ‘He couldn’t be’, he thought. But, deep down he knew the answer to Maurice’s question. Of course he was attracted to you. 

A knowing smile appears on Maurice’s face at Terry’s lack of answer,”You have three days to change her mind and think you aren’t the asshole you pretend to be. Look man, I get it, some people really just don’t like each other. But, I don’t think that’s the case here. Give Tatum a chance, she isn’t all bad. Figure it the fuck out, for everyone’s sake,” Maurice finishes. With two slaps to the back, Maurice leaves Terry in the hotel bar with his thoughts.

Was he attracted to you? Terry scoffed to himself, you were beautiful obviously. Intelligent, charming, funny as hell, and as much as he hated to admit it he loved working with you. The bickering arguments were the highlight of his day. Terry always made his coffee at 7:42am, because he knew 3-5 minutes later you would come strolling in, and he’d have the perfect view of your early morning strut, beaming smile, and a figure to kill for. 

The waiter comes out with a huge to-go bag full of foods that Terry thought you would like. With a deep sigh, Terry grabs his beer and the food, heading back up to your room.

The seductive sounds of Dru Hill filters through the bathroom door as Terry enters the suite. He tenses, muscles in his jaw ticking as he can hear you singing softly. 

He closes his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nose, an attempt to calm his suddenly racing heart. The image of you, naked and wet under the cascading water, flashes through his mind like abrupt bursts of light. He shakes his head, trying to banish his sinful thoughts of you. 

Walking over to the small kitchenette , Terry placed down the bag of food. Plating it, and setting out a glass of wine for you and beer for him. In the bathroom, you’re completely unaware of Terry’s presence. The cherry blossom scent of your shampoo fills your nose, its familiarity bringing you a sense of calm. 

Not to mention the radio station you picked was playing all your favorites. Detangling through your curls, you sang Mariah Carey’s ‘Obsessed’ damn near at the top of your lungs. Terry sat on the other side of the door with a small smile on his face at your carefree singing. Unable to sit any longer, Terry rises from the bed and begins to pace the room. His thoughts waging a war in his head. He stops in front of the window in your room, staring out at the city lights below without truly seeing them.

Whether he liked it or not, somehow you’d managed to worm your way under Terry’s skin. He had yet to decide if this was a good or bad thing for him. 

The bathroom door creaks open and Terry hears the startled gasp you let out behind him. “Oh, did I take too long? You set all the food up, thank you Terry!” You cooed, patting your hair dry with an oversized t-shirt.

You watch Terry’s tense shoulder as he turns to face you. You had forgone your contacts, black cat eye frames sat on your nose giving you an innocence that made Terry clench his fist. You looked so soft, not the office siren that strutted around and ruled her team with an iron fist. Just Tatum. 

You watch as Terry scratches the back of his neck, “Yeah, no problem. Think of it as phase one of my apology.”

Your eyes widen as you take in Terry's words, “Wait, did I transport to a parallel universe in the shower? You’ve never apologized to me before,” you say, skeptically. Your mind was reeling, there’s no way this is the same guy you arrived with. 

A bashful grin spreads across Terry’s face at your acceptance, “I’m turning over a new leaf here, now come please sit down,” he gestures to the sofa. “C’mon, sit with me,” Terry says, as he pats the spot next to him. 

You eye the food, then back up to Terry before saying, “Sure, just give me a minute, I don’t want my hair dripping all over you.” 

Terry nods, shooting you a small smile, “If your food gets cold, it’s on you,” he finishes, with a teasing tilt in his voice. You playfully roll your eyes as you try your best to soak up your damp hair with a t-shirt. 

“So what are we watching?” You ask, sitting next to Terry. The gentle brush of your bare thigh against his, causing goosebumps to bloom across your skin. 

Terry clears his throat before mumbling, “sports highlights.” He turns up the TV signaling that he wants silence.

A dry chuckle leaves your lips, “I see the asshole is back.” Reaching for your kindle and your food you settle into the couch completely prepare to tune Terry out for the rest of dinner, this was going to be a long 3 days. 

Okay y’all! Please Tell me what you guys think! I think this could be a 4 -5 part series. I hope you guys like it! I just wanted to get this out before I start flooding y’all with sinners/ MBJ fics. 

UNTIL NEXT TIME <3

TEE

[thiccevangeline]

♡Summary:König was just a regular nobody to you until he started sitting next to you in science class♡

MDNI

🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷

Uhmm,warnings are: blowjob,Virgin König x experienced reader,groping yk normal sht

Reader is plus size and black that eh neva goin an change 🇹🇹🇹🇹🇹🇹trini to do bone

♡ Nerd König who sits next to you in science class.

♡Nerd König who can't help but sneakily steal peeks at your cleavage even though he feels bad for doing so

♡Nerd König who gets nervous when you look at him thinking you caught him staring, when in reality you just wanted to ask him if he understood what the teacher said about some guy named Newton

♡Nerd König who nods in agreement dragging his book closer to yours ready to explain

♡Nerd König who doesn't realize you're not paying attention, too busy reciting the 2nd law of gravity to you while you stare at his big ,veiny hands ,one gripping the pen making it look comically small and the other flat on the table holding the book open,you wandered what else he could do with them............. maybe they could satisfyingly grope at your large plush titts,probably they could plant a heavy smack to your big, soft,thick, brown ass ,or painfully but pleasurably stretch your tight lil cunt open on his thick calloused digits,even flick the sensitive little nub or perhaps wrap around the whole expanse of your delicate neck giving a soft but sturn grip.......you bite you lips at the thought, rubbing you stocking clad knees together, soaking through your underwear and probably the ridiculously small piece of fabric you claimed to be a skirt which bearly covers your ass

♡Nerd König who realizes you were squirming uncomforta- bly asking if you were okay, the bell rang just as you nodded in response grabbing his hand; you both pick up your belongings and leave, you take note of how hot ,heavy and calloused his hand is

♡Nerd König who clumsily follows behind your smaller form,(now...you are not short by any means but this man's size is just ridiculous, inhumane if you will) having no clue of where you're taking him, he still just follows, you finally reach your dorm fumbling with the key to unlock the door revealing your unbelievably PINK room , he looked at what he could see,plushies,posters,furniture etc all PINK, you push him towards your bed and he off balances and falls flat on his ass on your soft mattress, he tries not to move around to much not wanting to mess up the perfectly fixed duvet

♡Nerd König who's eyes widen when he realizes that you were stripping ,you stood before him in your pink hello kitty print underwear set and knee high stockings that you bundled up at your ankles, you slowly gave him a 360 of your body turning again so your back was to him ,giving him a goooood view of that perfect ,plush , tatted ass that was greedily swallowing up that thong strap

♡Nerd König who's dick immediately started to harden at the sight,with a smirk on your face you backed up lowering your ass to sit on his wide spread lap purposely smushing his erection against your ass and his leg earning a surprisingly high pitched moan from him,you didn't expect it simply because of his share size but you liked it ,you found it cute, you then grabbed his hands placing them on your titts keeping your hand on his in order to guide him on how exactly to caress them,you groan at the feeling of his calloused palms pawing at your stiff ,clothed nipples,you also began slowly grinding your ass onto his lap, the feeling of his warm breath against your neck

♡Nerd König who starts rutting his hips into yours moaning and the grip he has on your titts tighten, panting harder and letting out a string of muffled moans,wanting to hear him better you crane your neck to face him removing his face mask,as he was about to protest you smash your slightly bruised glossed lips into his all the while still grinding on him , with the way his teeth clash with yours and he clumsy tries to suck your tounge;you could tell that it was his first kiss,a virgin, you thought

♡Nerd König who pants heavily after you break the kiss,still I disbelief that a girl as pretty as you kissed him,a girl as beautiful as you was on his lap grinding on him,he honestly could not believe it he honestly thought he was dreaming, what brought him back from day dreaming though is when he felt your hands paw at his zipper struggling a bit because of the length of your nails,you ask him " is this your first time big boy?" He responds with a bearly audible " ja", you nod knowingly pulling down his boxers to reveal his thick massive cock, you licked your lips at the sight of thick beads of precum dribbling out of his hole, you fisted him slowly with one hand staring at the foreskin rolling over the tip and with the other you fumbled his big heavy balls, at this point all the poor man could do was moan ,whimper and gently paw at you hands in attempt to stop you from jerking him off,all you did was coo at him ,telling him it was alright and that you were going to make him feel good,you brought your lips to his red swollen tip and gave it a few kisses and some kitten licks before you took him in you mouth hollowing your cheeks,gagging on half then stroking the rest with your hand

♡Nerd König who moans out begging you to stop because he said it feels weird "Oh mein Gott, bitte, bitte, ich ... ich fühle mich komisch, ohh" ( Oh my god, please, please, I... I feel weird, ohh) he writhes and whimpers begging you to stop while you mercilessly deep throat him ,he's so deep in your throat that your nose is smashed against his bushy pubes,you finally let up when you feel him grab onto your head and press down emptying his ridiculously huge load down you tight throat and you choke on it ,you remove your head to sit up and catch your breath, still coughing you look up at him who lays motionlessly on your bed breathing heavily muttering something incoherent between breath "danke, danke, danke," He then sits up "Ah Scheiße, geht es dir gut, Liebling?"( Oh shit,are you okay darling?),you stare at him a bit confused but with a smile,and he waves his hand in apology before saying "are you okay ?" He then looks at you as a way of asking if you understood what he said and you nodded in reply "are you okay? And he nodded as well, he helps you of the floor and you stand in front of him,he giggles at the fact that you're the same height as him even though he's sitting, you're quick to kiss him and he kisses you back, he breaks the kiss and removes his shirt; using it to wipe up the excess cum off your chin and chest,you smile at him and push your weight on him so he falls back on the bed,you both lay there,enjoying each other's silence ,soon enough you drift off

AN:soooooo it's my first time,don't come for meeeee😭😭😭but if you want to cum for me you can😏😏jk jk jk well,I hope yall enjoy 😉 😘 💖 and if any fellow authors read this gimme some feedback plsss it would be greatly appreciated 😊 ☺️ 😄 😘

@chrollohearttags @sincerlycas hey babes I'm new,but saw yall followed, yall are great writers btwwww💋💋💋love from Trinidad 🇹🇹 ❤️