#smart men are my weakness

[dawnbreakersgaze]

LMAO IT JUST KEEPS GETTING FUNNIER?!?!?!

Poor Grey shows up late, hungry, grumpy, and the first thing that happens to him in office is he bumps into his chief surgeon.

And what does said chief surgeon do? Steals his fucking book 🤣🤣🤣

His man cannot catch a break I'm DEAD 😂

Y'all I'm soooo past the point of down bad lmao. We need a new term. I'm down dastardly. I'm down abysmally. I'm down past the point of no return. At this point papergames could send an agent to my home with a Fey contract for my soul or a first born child in exchange for this man and I'd sign it without a second thought lmao.

[lizardho]

Before I knew I was bisexual I was just insanely dramatic and weird around guys I liked. I had a crush on this guy in my ward - he was older than me, he played bagpipes and had a cheerful dog and an old Volkswagen bus that he worked on all the time. He also had nice scruff and unnaturally attractive hands and a good sense of humor, so I was like FULLY smitten.

I talked about him a lot and about how he was just so dang COOL, dang it, because he was so frickin’ cool. And I really liked him. I thought he was funny and smart and interesting and cool and fascinating and a bunch of other weird feelings I barely had the attention span to think about (I think my ADHD may have prevented me from coming out for a while tbh).

One day, I’m like 14-15, his dad is called to be my Sunday School teacher. His dad is this ex-military hardass with a chip on his shoulder for absolutely no reason and unattainable standards for his children. He spent most of Sunday School talking shit about his eldest boy and how he was rebellious and didn’t listen to him and how that was going to make him a bad adult and a bad son forever. How his son was too lazy and unmotivated to be successful because he didn’t listen to his advice on how to read the scriptures. He complained about how our generation was too weak to do things right and that our generation would surely be the one that brought the world’s downfall because of our laziness and sin.

And like, first of all, that guy can already go fuck himself for that. To clarify, that’s already stupid. BUT. He was talking about the man I had uncomfortable dreams about at least once a month. I couldn’t stand it. I’d get so mad I’d go home shaking sometimes because how fucking DARE he insult his hardworking stunning son by calling him lazy? For not reading the Bible the way his dad wants? When he’s already spending his time learning bagpipes? And fixing cars? And being cool? And cute? Who the fuck even cares if he uses the footnotes in the Book of Mormon? Who gives a rotten rat’s ass if he doesn’t use the scripture study manual his dad uses? He’s so cool he doesn’t even need it? So fuck off?

And eventually I got fucking Sick Of It and decided to mutiny. And by mutiny, I mean skip class. I’d just not go. And after a bit, adults started noticing and bugging me about it. At first, this was put off by small talk and excuses, but as my absence from Sunday School became more well-known, my excuses began to be rejected.

“Oh, Lizard, why aren’t you in class?” Uhm idk because my Sunday School teacher is mean to his kid and that makes me so mad wtf do you want from me? 🫠🤔

“Where’s your class, I’ll go with you!” Oh no ty I’d rather peel my own eyes than have my taste in men critiqued tyty 🩷

“Lizard, you should go to class, I’m sure they miss you!” And I miss the innocent days where my stomach didn’t hurt when a cool boy I knew was being belittled but unfortunately for us both those days are LONG gone and all that’s left is a budding psychosexual clusterfuck that will render me almost fully incapable of functioning for the better part of a decade so Bye Bye, sister Smith 🙂‍↕️

It had gotten to the point that ward leadership was involved. I was being approached by members of the Young Men’s presidency and the Bishopric to try and make me to back to class. They were telling me God had told them to find me and instruct me on my rebelliousness. This is where I implemented my secret weapon - women. Mormons are weird as hell about a lot of things, but especially about women. And I was GREAT with women. So to combat the leadership’s attention, I started helping women.

Our ward had a lot of new moms with babies who were, as babies tend to be, fussy. But for Mormon women the church is often their only social outlet, so they try to power through as long as they can even if it means enduring the exhausting ordeal of taking care of a fussy baby at church.

For what it’s worth, I have a lot of sway with babies. I got baby street cred. Me and babies have a rapport. I have always known this. I have always loved this. And in this crucial gay time in my faggot life my baby mind powers came in clutch - Every time I saw a member of the bishopric getting close, or a young men’s leader giving me side-eye, I’d start walking slowly towards class, passing by relief society. I’d wait until a mom’s baby had gotten too fussy and needed to leave the room, and I’d swoop in like a knight. “Oh, don’t you worry sister, I’ll bounce him a bit. You go back and hang out with your friends in class. You deserve a break.”

If it was a diaper change or something they’d tell me no. But if it was just some good old-fashioned baby fusses, I mean, they’d be moved almost to tears. They just got their social time back AND a free babysitter who is renowned as the Baby Whisperer. And because I was holding a baby as a favor for someone else, I of course could not reasonably be bothered to return to class.

So just like that, I was out of everyone’s sights. This went on for about a month before the straw that broke the camel’s back, which was that without my class participation the classes were quiet and awkward. I’d often take the brunt of Sunday school lectures by answering questions impulsively and over explaining myself enough that the clock could run out without anyone needing to do or say much. My absence meant everyone else was getting hit with the full unpleasantness of this guy’s bullshit. And so slowly, one-by-one, I had a group of about 8 kids on baby-holding duty. These new moms were so overjoyed, they and their husbands were both so actively in our corner that now chastising us was untenable. Now we had bargaining power. So the Bishopric approached us, confused beyond confused and uncomfortable beyond uncomfortable, and said,

“What’s it gonna take to get you back to class?”

The POWER I possessed in that moment was addictive. By being kind to the women of the ward and ignoring the Mormon de facto Rule of Law of following rules en-masse so the rule breakers feel left out, there were now so many people breaking ranks that we had effectively enacted a church boy labor strike. And they crumbled so fast it was almost like we had swayed God himself to our cause.

“I want brother assholedad gone. He sucks at teaching.”

I didn’t even have to say it. One of my rebels said it for me. I just nodded sagely and said “Yes, his class is not edifying. It’s better to not go and hold babies.”

And just like that, with a snap of my limp-wristed, Christ-wounding, bottom-brained fingers my faggot will was enacted. God’s revelation that brother shitdad was his chosen Sunday school teacher flipped on a dime. Suddenly brother shitdad was asked to be an usher and the fun dad of another one of my crushes was called in to teach us. I still stayed to hold babies a lot, but the rest of the class returned and all was well again.

Although I didn’t recognize it then, I think that was a formative moment for me in a lot of ways. I learned that being really persistently annoying will get me what I want from authority eventually. I learned that God’s will can be swayed by going in strike. I learned that ignoring men’s made up authority forces them to level with you as a person. I learned that caring for women, especially vulnerable women, can make a whole world happier. I learned that letting women rest can help them feel more love for the things that matter in their life. I learned that social bonds make everyone stronger and happier. And I learned that loving others in a gay way can change the world.

Be gayer. Read Terry Pratchett. I love y’all 💕

[mossmx]

I'm rewatching Space Seed (khan episode) and literally all of it could have been avoided if I was the history ensign, once again billion of people could be saved by asexuality XD

[gatorpond]

"transandrophobia isn't real bc men aren't oppressed for being men, only for other marginalizations they face"

okay well i am a brown disabled trans masc person and i'm telling you i DO experience oppression on the basic of being what ppl perceive as me "being a man."

what is it when Black men are treated like violent, scary criminals? it's racism, yes, but it's also a specific form of racism that applies especially to Black MEN.

what is it when Indigenous men are expected to be "noble s*vages" in a way that is distinct from the way Indigenous women and nonbinary ppl are categorized?

what is it when disabled men are explicitly harmed for being weak or "not real men?" what is it called? is it JUST ableism? if so, why does gender continuously play a part in the harm?

what is it when trans men are assaulted or killed for not being "man enough?" what do we get to call transphobia that we, specifically, face for being masculine?

what about my fellow Black and brown trans dudes who hesitated to transition for fear of being fucking killed by cops? or are they just imagining it too?

why is it that when WE acknowledge our pain and oppression, we're suddenly just men and apparently aren't smart enough to know our own experiences? why do you get to tell me these things aren't real?

y'all will really talk about how patriarchy hurts everyone and then turn around and tell afab ppl whose genders you think are too privileged to sit down and be quiet. as if we didn't hear that from everyone else in our lives since birth. as if this isn't aimed at us SPECIFICALLY bc we're not the group YOU think deserves safety and respect. fuck you.

[importantpuppystarfish]

Total Mass Destruction of Wonyoung!

Male reader or Y/N x Wonyoung

Warning: Very much hardcore & rough, humiliation, degrading, whipping, BBC, extreme deepthroat, total mess in facefucking, pissing & gangbang (in pt2)

Note: please this is all just a fantasy for reading and stuff, this can be uncomfortable to read so if ur weak hearted or a fluff enjoyer, typically do not read.

part one:

Wonyoung, the gorgeous Kpop idol, with her stunning visuals and captivating stage presence, she has millions of adoring fans around the world.

But she has a naughty secret - she's obsessed with big black cock. Her stash of videos consists entirely of BBC gangbangs. She fantasizes constantly about being stuffed and breed by multiple strong black men. Her skinny Korean frame aches to feel the immense girth and length only they can provide. Yet she keeps this side of herself hidden from her cutesy idol image.

While in the US for her group's performances, Wonyoung can't hold her curiosity any longer. She decides to go to a popular nightclub known for bringing out the biggest, blackest cocks in town. Her heart races thinking about finally living out her fantasy. She slips out of the hotel after wearing a revealing outfit to show off her famous figure, ready for anything.

Wonyoung is not a virgin anymore and has already been intimate with her own family members, satisfying her brother and father already. Now she burns with desire for something new - the bbc which she sees in porn videos.

She sees a huge smart guy approaching her. He's wearing a suit and handsome.. The guy welcomes Wonyoung to the area and asks her if she is new and where is she from.

Wonyoung's heart leaps as she spots the imposing figure of the well-dressed, rich-looking black man. She steps closer to make out his deep, rumbling voice.

"Oh I just arrived here from Korea," Wonyoung responds sweetly with a flirtatious bat of her eyelashes. "My name is Wonyoung. And you?"

She can feel something stir behind his suit as he looks down at her body up and down. A knowing grin spreads across his face.

"Pleasure to meet the beautiful Korean princess Wonyoung," he purrs, extending a large hand. "I'm Y/N."

Wonyoung gets excited when she hears his deep voice and sees his big hands… Wonyoung replies "Pleasure to meet u too. What do you do?"

"I'm a business and an influencer from California," Y/N says mysteriously, sending Wonyoung's interest soaring even higher. She realizes the guy must be very more richer than her.

Wonyoung feels his hot breath on her ear and shivers. "How old are you beautiful?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

"19 and you?."

Y/N grins. "19? Haha I actually expected that. You do look like a young teenager." Y/N chuckles. "A girl should be curious about a man's age. I'm 35 but don't let that fool you, I've got the stamina of a much younger man."

"Interested to go and eat something somewhere private?" He whispers, his voice husky.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As they develop a positive relationship, Y/N takes Wonyoung to an upscale sushi restaurant where they enjoy a private dining experience. He orders expensive champagne and sushes her questions about herself while blatantly checking out her body. Wonyoung flirts shamelessly in return, feeling giddy and alive. She's living out her fantasy – seducing an older, wealthy black man. By dessert, his hand rests high up her thigh under the table. Wonyoung doesn't know whats coming next.

As they have few conversations on the date, y/n takes Wonyoung to his place after the date. They enter the luxurious penthouse. Wonyoung's eyes widen at the view of the city and how rich Y/N is.

Wonyoung follows Y/N into his stunning penthouse, amazed by the opulence. She turns in a circle, taking it all in – the floor-to-ceiling windows, marble floors, expensive artwork on the walls.

"Your place is incredible," she breathes out. Y/N leads her to his bed. Wonyoung is amazed to see such a huge bed. Wonyoung asks if he stays alone.

"Yes sweet thing, I stay here alone." He confirms, sitting down on the edge of the huge bed and patting the space next to him for Wonyoung to join. "My last few girlfriends couldn't handle being with an older, successful black man. They ran scared."

Y/N gives Wonyoung a smug look, his eyes roaming over her body possessively.

"Oh damn? How many girlfriends do u have?", Wonyoung asks curiously. "Let's see… I lose count after a dozen or so. Different women but they all want this but couldn't handle me." He gestures down at his crotch, bulge visibly straining against his pants. "I'm assuming you don't get intimidated easily?"

He reaches out to trace a finger lightly along Wonyoung's thigh.

As Wonyoung sat near him. She feels so small next to him. "Haha, I only had sexual stuff with my own brother." Wonyoung says.

Y/N's eyebrow shoots up at Wonyoung's admission but a hungry look fills his eyes. "Is that right? Your own brother eh?"

He grabs her chin firmly, tilting her face up to look at him. "And what about your daddy? Did you play with him too?" He asks bluntly, his deep voice sending a shiver down Wonyoung's spine.

"You're quite the naughty girl aren't you?"

"Wait how did u know? Yes…but i didnt feel like mentioning it.." She admits sheepishly.

Y/N chuckles darkly, clearly thrilled by Wonyoung's confession. "Baby you don't have to hide anything from me. I love that sweet little mouth of yours has been used so much already."

He pulls her closer by the hip until she's straddling his lap. "Mmm and now I get to use it."

One big hand cradles her jaw again as he draws her into a deep interracial forceful kiss, staking his claim on the young Kpop idol.

Wonyoung kisses back deep. They start french kissing. It's Wonyoung first time kissing with a black guy.

Y/N groans against her lips, tasting her sweet innocence. As he explores Wonyoung's mouth, his large hand slides under her top, palming one of her perky breasts over her bra.

The contrast between Wonyoung's petite frame and Y/N's muscular form is stark as they kiss. She sits tiny and delicate on his lap, his dark hand standing out against her fair skin as he fondles her. Their mouths move hungrily together, Wonyoung's small lips parted allowing his tongue inside. She clings to his broad shoulders as they French kiss, her face flushed with excitement. Y/N devours her young lips, clearly dominating the kiss, making it clear who is in charge.

Y/N grabs Wonyoung tighter. She feels his strong arms wrapped around. She can feel his chest too. Wonyoung feels so small, so breakable in his arms.. Y/N tears her outfit. Wonyoung is shocked as her outfit gets torn so easily, also it was very expensive.

"I'm going to ruin you darling…" Y/n growls, making no move to stop the destruction of her outfit.

"B-but Y/N…this is Gucci!" Wonyoung exclaims in shock, referring to her ripped top.

Y/N laughs at her. "I've got hundreds of thousands of gucci outfits more expensive tied up in this place and those clothes would also look good on you but still they doesn't suit you. Naked does."

He stands suddenly, holding Wonyoung by the wrists, he pushes Wonyoung on the bed and tears off all her clothes.

Wonyoung starts to feel uncomfortable as her outfit is totally torn and destroyed. Lying there completely exposed beneath Y/N makes Wonyoung feel incredibly small and vulnerable. His dark form looms over her petite frame as he begins unzipping his pants, freeing his massive, throbbing erection.

"You're u scared and skinny.," he purrs, kneeling between her thighs. "I'm gonna tear you apart now."

He runs his fingers roughly over her inner thighs, gradually moving closer to her folds.

Y/N is way too strong for Wonyoung. She feels like a fragile sex doll in front of him. He could easily crush her with his fingers. Wonyoung gets scared.

"Take it inside ur mouth!" y/n grins. Wonyoung opens her mouth welcoming the huge giant black length.

Y/N guides his engorged tip to her lips, a drop of pre-cum glistening there. As Wonyoung parts them obediently, he slowly pushes forward, his thick shaft entering her mouth.

"Good girl…" Y/n praises, the heat of her mouth enveloping him, her tiny tongue trying to accommodate his girth. He groans out in pleasure, a hand cradling the back of her head.

Inch by inch, Wonyoung feels him stretching her oral cavity to its limit. Saliva drips down as y/n invades her throat. y/n seems determined to make her choke and gag on every inch.

Despite Wonyoung's best efforts, Y/N's enormous size proves too much for her mouth. With a wicked grin, he sees that his full length cannot fit.

"Aww…" y/n drawls mockingly, pulling her head forward to try shoving the final inches in. She chokes and gags as her lips reach the base of his shaft, tears welling in her eyes from the effort.

"Looks like your little mouth just can't take all of me can it?"

Y/n withdraws from her mouth, a thin string of saliva breaking as his tip pops free. Wonyoung gasps for air, coughing and wheezing as she clutches her throat.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wonyoung's eyes go wide with fear as Y/N ignores her discomfort, forcing his colossal rod back into her mouth. She feels powerless to stop him as the massive rod stretches her oral cavity to its absolute limit. Her lips are crushed beneath his girth, saliva dripping down in abundance. Tears stream down her face as she gags and chokes repeatedly, her muffled cries stifled by his relentless thrusts.

Each deep push into her mouth bruises her throat, leaving her feeling used and violated. She tries in vain to push away but he holds her head firmly in place, intent on violating her mouth regardless of the agony he inflicts.

Y/N sets a brutal pace, fucking Wonyoung's mouth without mercy now. His powerful hips snap forward, driving his black beast into her throat over and over with such force the bed shakes. Her whole head bobs along with his thrusts as he uses her mouth like a cheap fleshlight.

Wonyoung's eyes bulge as she feels him strike the back of her throat on every downward plunge. She's completely at his mercy, gagging and retching with each deep invasion. Saliva dripsdown her chin and chest in waves, drool puddling beneath her as she's ruthlessly facefucked without concern for her wellbeing. He pays no mind to her choking cries, consumed by his own pleasure as he claims her innocence in the most degrading way.

She can't breathe. She tries to pull back but he holds her head down, pushing further.

"Don't fight it bitch, be a good slut and take this cock." Y/N growls and reveals his dark side. His grip tightening as he forces her head down even deeper.

"You wanted this when you let me tear those clothes off slut!."

He looks down cruelly as tears stream down Wonyoung's red, splotchy face. Ignoring her pained gasps, he continues his aggressive facefucking, determined to break her.

"That's it, choke on this dick you little whore. You're learning your place aren't you?"

Wonyoung is choking hard now. Her eyes rolling back a bit. She tries to grab his arm but he slaps her face hard. Y/n continues facefucking her.

Y/N seems to enjoy the feel of Wonyoung's tiny hands attempting to push him away, so he decides to punish her further. His free hand strikes her inner thigh, leaving a red handprint on her delicate skin.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"No using hands slut, mouth only."

He resumes his brutal pace, his hips pounding against her as he splits her mouth more wide open out of her limits. She's completely at his mercy, her body shaking and convulsing from lack of air. Saliva and tears mix on her face in a sad puddle. Each thrust makes her body lurch but he pays it no mind, intent on using her pretty face to satisfy himself.

"Look at you…a total mess already…and we're just getting started…" he taunts with a twisted grin.

Her vision starts to blur, she feels lightheaded and dizzy…

As Y/N reaches his limit deepthroating her, Wonyoung feels hot jets painting her tongue and throat, his seed pouring into her stomach without pause. Simultaneously, a warm, bitter liquid fills her mouth - it's his piss. He shows no mercy, marking every inch of her young mouth.

"Drink it up," he demands, holding her head in place as his fluids overwhelm her senses. She struggles weakly beneath him but cannot escape. His piss mixing with his load, it's too much, she has no choice but to swallow or drown.

"Mmm wow, you've proven your mouth belongs to me." Y/N pulls out, leaving Wonyoung gasping for breath. Wonyoung starts coughing continuously.

Wonyoung gasps for air desperately, her throat raw and hoarse from Y/N's brutal use of her mouth. She coughs and retches, trying to expel the bitter tastes coating her insides.

Her eyes water as she glances up at him, a mixture of fear and humiliation shining back. She shakily tries to push herself into a seated position, her hands bracing on the bed.

At this moment, Y/N rises from the bed and casually strolls over to a closet in the corner of the room. He returns with a wicked-looking leather whip and a coil of thick rope in hand. Wonyoung's eyes widen in terror as she sees what y/n just bought, her body shuddering.

"Now that you've tasted a sample, it's time for the real fun to begin." His voice is dark and promising punishment.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wonyoung scoots backward on the floor, away from him, her vulnerability evident. She tries to speak again but only a raspy whimper escapes her swollen, used lips.

Wonyoung tries to run away. She understood its her fault to seduce black guys and shes not in the level for taking them ---- but its too late.

Y/N laughs cruelly as Wonyoung tries to flee, easily grabbing her ankle before she can get far.

"Oh no you don't."

He yanks her back roughly, sending her crashing to her belly on the floor. Pinning her down with his knee, he reaches for the rope.

"Stay still for me darling." He commands, his expression serious.

Before she can escape or struggle again, he binds her wrists together behind her back with tight knots. She thrashes beneath him but it's no use - the rope holds firm.

"You shouldn't try to leave when I've made it clear you belong to me now."

Wonyoung trembles, knowing her punishment is coming and shes fully tied up. Wonyoung looks at him pleadingly, her eyes wide with terror and regret. "Please sir..don't…" she whimpers, tugging at the rope binding her..

Y/N's eyes gleam with malicious delight at Wonyoung's pitiful begs. "You should have thought of that before that pretty mouth of yours tempted me."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He brings the whip cutting through the air and smashes her backside with a loud smack. Red welts immediately rise under the harsh lashes as she cries out in a mix of pain and shame.

Another strike rains down, harder this time, and he watches the young girl screaming. She is completely at his mercy now, helpless and vulnerable as he carries out his dark desires.

The pain is intense but Wonyoung knows she has to obey. With each subsequent strike, Wonyoung's cries grow louder and more raw. Her high pitched wails fill the room, laced with agony and defeat. As the whip bites into her tender flesh again and again, her voice cracks and breaks.

"AHH! !" She sobs, her body shuddering violently. Each new cry echoes off the walls, a haunting symphony of torment. Her throat begins to burn from the excessive screaming but she knows she must keep counting or face even worse consequences.

Y/n now positions Wonyoung to fuck her.

"Please…be gentle…" Wonyoung begs with her broken voice.

He pulls back up to stare down at her with a wicked grin. "Gentle isn't what you need."

"Ready or not, here I come."

With a single powerful thrust he plunges into her innocence, ripping through her barrier and making her cry out sharply in a combination of searing pain and fullness. This time Y/N continues still to whip her chest & tits.

She cries, the whip has marked her deeply. Her chest is now all red and bruised from the harsh lashes. Wonyoung near faints from the relentless pain and punishment. Her throat gets raw from screaming.

"Look at the beautiful mess I made of you." Y/N groans approvingly, pausing to take in the damage he's inflicted.

Wonyoung's cries turn to weak whimpers as she hangs limply, on the brink of unconsciousness. Her mangled body shakes beneath him.

"Still with me cutie?" He taunts, reaching down to run a gentle finger along her jawline.

Ignoring her pathetic state, Y/N begins to move within her, the wet slap of flesh echoing off the walls. He starts a brutal rhythm, using her sore, torn holes without care or concern for her welfare.

He leans down to bite down hard on her shoulder to muffle any louder sounds, savoring dominance over the broken girl.

Wonyoung screams at the top of her lungs, the pain unbearable. She loses consciousness, hanging limply now. Y/N continues fucking her anyway, not caring about her state.

Wonyoung's lack of response and only screaming only fuels his sadism further. He grips her hair, yanking her head back at an uncomfortable angle as he drives deeper.

With a more deep thrust, Y/N forces his entire length brutally into Wonyoung's tiny, ravaged pussy. She's so weak and unconscious that she doesn't fight back. The extreme intersection of his rod inside her stretches her to her limits causes Wonyoung's inner walls to tear painfully.

Y/N does not finish and doesn't pulls out. Wonyoung is a destroyed mess. She's out cold. Y/n seems to continue tearing Wonyoung inside apart, not stopping even once. Wonyoung's insides feel like mush.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Y/N's sadistic bloodlust knows no bounds as he continues mutilating Wonyoung's innermost depths without mercy. Her inner walls are in tatters beneath his relentless pounding. Thick fluid drips down his length each time he withdraws just to spear her open body again and again.

"Fuck yes…take it u little whore," he roars, oblivious to anything but causing her maximum pain. His heavy sack slaps against her destroyed entrance with every brutal thrust.

He doesn't care that she's unconscious, barely holding together. The lewd wet sounds of tearing flesh fill the room including Wonyoung's crying noises. When he eventually does tire, it's not from exhaustion - just a wicked hunger satiated, if only temporarily.

Finally as Y/n reaches his own limits, spending himself, Y/N feels victorious as his hot seed fills Wonyoung's mutilated core. Wonyoung is totally breeded by y/n, her pussy full with his seed. Yet his cruelty isn't finished.

He aims to Wonyoung's face and begins to urinate directly onto her mouth & face. The warm liquid rains down, mixing with his cum flooding her mouth, nose, eyes. It's a brutal, degrading bath that shows just how little she means to him beyond a receptacle for his waste.

"Drink it up you filthy bitch!" He demand to Wonyoung cruelly, not stopping until he's emptied himself over her bruised and broken features. Wonyoung faints and collapses at the moment.

Even unconscious, Y/N's property must endure his most base impulses. With a final kick to her side, he withdraws from her violated body, leaving her a bruised, torn, piss-soaked mess.

He wears his clothes back with a satisfied swagger. The room reeks of their depravity now. Crumpled ribbons of rope and discarded clothes litter the floor. Y/N pauses, bending to retrieve his phone and snapping a pic of her broken, unconscious form before she regains consciousness to ruin it further.

"Enjoy your nap, princess." He purrs mockingly. "When you wake, things will only get worse."

With that chilling promise hanging in the air, he lets himself out, eagerly anticipating round two. Wonyoung is all his now - a plaything for his darkest desires.

part two:

1 hour later, Wonyoung starts to regain consciousness. Her body aches and stings all over. She can feel something warm and sticky dripping from…down there…

As her hazy eyes open, the world spins dizzily. A dry, cracked tongue flicks across parched lips trying to find moisture. The scent of sex and urine assaults her nose, the source immediately clear as she gazes down at her violated body.

Y/N's seed and piss trickle from swollen, wounded folds. She cries at the burning pain radiating through her pussy, each throb a harsh reminder of the beast who'd used her so brutally while she was unable to stop it.

"Oh god…" she whispers, the words barely audible.

She sees the restraints around her hands still tied…She tries to move but every inch of her body hurts.

Her heart pounds as the sound of footsteps approach, dread filling her to the core.

"Good, you're awake." Y/N says, voice dripping with malice as he reenters the room. "Miss me?"

This is far from over...he's just getting started. 9 friends of y/n enters the room. All are BBC and giant compared to wonyoung.

Wonyoung's eyes go wide with pure terror as she sees the group of imposing black men file into the room, their massive sizes dwarfing her skinny frame. She shakes her head frantically, whimpering "No, please no…"

Y/N grins wickedly at her panic. "Looks like I got you a little party, cutie."

The men lick their lips as they approach, their massive rods clearly visible through their pants. Wonyoung thrashes against the restraints, her body shuddering. She knows she cannot handle any more but she is completely at their mercy now.

One of the men kneels down, forcing her chin toward him. "You gonna be a good girl and open up?" He asks menacingly.

1 of them grabs her chin roughly, another one unbuttons himself. Wonyoung feels like she's going to pass out again just from the sight of them. 3 of them come closer, pulling off their shirts. She see their ripped muscles. One of them speaks up "You ready to be used like a hole? .. Others start touching Wonyoung's pure naked body, hungry to taste and eat her.

Wonyoung trembles violently as the trio of hulking men expose their chiseled physiques, beads of sweat glistening on tanned skin. She tries to shrink away from their roaming hands but there is nowhere to hide, trapped as she is.

"Please, no more…I can't…" she begs through choked sobs.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"We gonna destroy every last hole, girl."

Panic overwhelms her as they position themselves, the leader at her mouth, another at her sore pussy, and a third readying to claim her backside. They smirk down at her maliciously, ready to make her break completely.

3 more friends join, making it 12 total. They start untying Wonyoung's ropes and drag her to the middle of the room. She's completely surrounded. 2 of them grab her arms and legs to hold her down. She tries to struggle but their strength is unprecedented. They start to fuck her now.

Wonyoung cries out as the men overpower her tiny frame between them, rendering her limp body immovable as they use her limbs as they wish. She's sandwiched between 3 of them now, each plowing into a different hole without care for her screams and pleas to stop.

"Getting tighter!" One grunts as he pummels her raw entrance.

"I like it when she fights!" Another laughs, gripping her throat with a hand.

The room echoes with the lewd smacks of flesh colliding, the acrid smell of sex, Wonyoung's loud screams of horror and exertion thick in the air.

The additional men take turns at her mouth and backside, stretching her limits impossibly further. She feels like she's being torn apart as they claim every inch relentlessly.

The men laugh manically as two of them force her legs back towards her head, exposing Wonyoung completely.

"Get ready slut, you wanted this," one growled before spitting on her exposed holes.

To her horror, two of them position themselves at her asshole (rear entrance) and pussy simultaneously. There's no preparation, no mercy. With a brutal thrust they drive into her at once, tearing her apart with the double penetration on both her pussy and asshole at the same time.

Wonyoung's screams become a hoarse, wailing shriek. Her body convulses, sensation overwhelming every nerve. More agony than she ever thought possible. Just when she thinks it can't get worse, a third man slides his tip into her mouth, silencing her cries.

The mens begin moving in rhythm, the friction and impactsend white hot pain shooting through her core. She feels like a ragdoll being used, stuffed full by these giant cocks. They pound without pause, grunting and swearing. Her limp body shakes violently beneath them.

Now as the triple penetration initiates, Wonyoung's scream reverberates through the room, raw and primal. The men work methodically - fucking her mouth, fucking her pussy, and fucking her asshole.

Slowly but surely they force their impressive girths into her tight holes. She feels utterly and completely full beyond anything imaginable. Hot shafts glide alongside each other within her, the thin walls separating her holes offering no resistance anymore as they violate every depth.

"Fuck yes, stretch that pretty little whore out!" One of them roars, savoring the vice-like grip of her body accommodating three beasts simultaneously.

Wonyoung's vision blurs from the intense sensation. Her insides are being rearranged, the men's powerful thrusts sawing in and out of her in a grueling rhythm. They use her mouth, pussy and ass as one connected pipeline, their movements synchronized to maximize her suffering.

"Damn…so fucking tight…gonna pop these bitches…" another grunts, picking up speed.

Wonyoung has never been so utterly and completely taken, stuffed to the limit in the most depraved way imaginable.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wonyoung's screams morph into wordless cries of torment and agony as her body is pushed to its extreme limits. Her voice cracks and give out from the intense overstimulation. She's little more than a ragdoll sandwiched between the mass of men, taking them all simultaneously.

2 cocks in her mouth, one in each hand, another 3 in her pussy, and 3 more stretching her anus - a total of 10 dicks claiming every hole at once. She's being utterly and completely ruined.

Her mind goes blank as she's pounded without mercy. The men above her use her lifeless form like a fucktoy, their flesh meeting with obscene squelching sounds. Each deep thrust draws more whimpers from her lips, her body shaking from the force of it all.

Wonyoung has shattered. Her spirit lies in tatters, beaten down by the relentless barrage of man meat. She no longer tries to resist or escape - she simply accepts, knowing she cannot fight back against these numbers. She's just a vessel for their carnal pleasure now.

Her holes feel utterly devastated and destroyed after taking 10 dicks simultaneously. The delicate tissues have been stretched beyond limits nature intended, left raw, swollen and bleeding from the brutal stretching.

Wonyoung can hardly feel anything besides a deep, throbbing ache - her nerves overwhelmed into hypersensitivity.

The constant gangbang fucking is unbearable, yet the men show no signs of stopping. Her holes are totally ruined permanently and torn apart. Slick fluids mix and drip down her thighs as wet, sloppy sounds fill the room with lewd evidence of her defilement.

It feels as though she'll never be whole again after this - that she'll carry the memory of this violence forever etched on her wounded flesh.

As Y/n takes his length out from Wonyoung's anus after fucking it deep, he starts to deepthroat her mouth as he slaps her face roughly, letting Wonyoung taste the insides of her own anus.

The dehumanizing "gawk gawk gawk" sounds she makes send a shiver down his spine, knowing he broke her completely.

He forces her head to bob faster on his length, face twisted in dark delight. The other men cheer at the spectacle, still pounding away at her ruined holes.

She simply accepts whatever they do to her mouth like a mindless automaton.

Y/N feels close. "Get ready for your last order, pet." He says coldly before shoving her head down hard, holding her in place as he reaches his climax directly into her throat.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

4 friends roughly grab Wonyoung's arms and legs, holding her down on the floor.

Wonyoung offers no resistance as the men seize her limp limbs, pinning her prone body to the cold floor. Her breaths come in short, ragged gasps, her voice hoarse and sore from screaming and gagging.

With her held down, all the men exchange hungry grins, their eyes manic with depraved delight.

One gives the signal - it's time.

They all target their hard length across her face, specifically her mouth. Wonyoung feels them swell, knowing what's coming next.

"Get ready for your shower, whore," Y/N growls.

The first hot jet strikes her chest, warm liquid running down her tits. Others join in, raining down on her face, in her hair, over her used, abused body. She's powerless to escape as they mark their territory.

"Let it all out boys, drench her!" a voice calls out.

Streams of yellow join the torrent, the humiliation complete as they piss on Wonyoung like an animal. Tears well up again but don't mask the shock etched on her features. She's utterly degraded, soiled and saturated from their release and waste. A used, broken toy left discarded on the floor.

As the hot, bitter liquid splashed over her face and body, Wonyoung tried to turn away but the men kept her pinned down firmly. Her face was instantly drenched, eyes stinging from the onslaught. Piss trickled into her gasping mouth and nose, choking her.

She shook her head from side to side but it only served to spread it through her silken hair.

As more and more hot liquid continues to fill her mouth, Wonyoung is forced to drink all of their urine spilling over as she tries to consume it all. Wonyoung closes her eyes, surrendering completely now.

She feels the warmth spreading through as she gulps down load after load, the smell of urine now thick in her nostrils. It's disgusting yet something about submitting to this vile act makes her body tremble.

The men laugh and high-five as she dutifully drinks their offerings, leaving her belly bloated and full. She's their obedient little toilet, and a dark part of her responds to pleasing them this way. When they finally finish, she lies there panting, piss dripping from her mouth, hair totally wet, face totally full of piss.

Wonyoung's body trembles uncontrollably, her legs spread and shaking. Her holes are gaping open, lewdly stuffed with ropes of white seed oozing out to mix with the spent yellowed streams covering her.

She feels raw, used up, and yet…alive.

As she lays there exposed, dazed eyes drifting shut, she knows she's changed irrevocably by this brutal encounter. A dark, insatiable hunger stirs within her now craving more. More humiliation, more depravity - does wonyoung still yearn for it?

[deadsetobsessions]

Danny used to be a vigilante, firmly on the side of good. Like, illegally, but morally good.

Danny’s 100% sure that whatever he is now, it’s not good.

Is Gotham’s influence just Like That?

He was homeless when he got to this thrice damned city (literally, because Lady Gotham was so cursed) and now he’s… here? In a mid-level penthouse with a rotation of homeless kids going in and out of his kitchen and eating out his pantry??

Danny adjusted the cuffs of his dress shirt, making the conscious decision to ditch the tie. He’s a tall 6ft 4 now, taking after his Dad. His head smarted all of the time, hitting doorframes when he was being a bit clumsier than the normal ghost-like grace he had learned to channel as The Phantom.

The Phantom instead of just Phantom. Why? Because Phantom was the name of a teenage vigilante in another dimension. The Phantom, on the other hand, is an intimidatingly tall, deceptively kind, extremely dangerous kingpin.

Honestly? Danny didn’t even want this life. Like, he had no idea it would snowball like this??

He supposed that it all started when the Penguin was trying to snatch kids off of his block on Crime Alley. Not officially his block, of course, because Danny didn’t actually enter this city to be a crime-shadow thing. But he hadn’t lost enough of Phantom the Vigilante to ignore kids getting hurt. He still hasn’t, if he’s being honest. He flew into a frantic search, tracking down the missing kids to Penguin’s bar. The Iceberg Lounge. Apparently, he wanted the kids to do some menial tasks and what not. Danny, rage flickering through his core, intangibly went in and robbed Penguin of every coin and secret the man kept.

Then? Danny blackmailed the Penguin to guarantee his kids a measure of safety from the Rogue. That began the slippery slope into whatever it is he does now. Penguin was being kept in line by Danny’s threats, the grip he had on the Rogue’s weak points, and a wonderful bit of intimidation.

——

“What, you stinking phantom? I’m stickin’ to yer rules!” Penguin snarled, forced to his knees by invisible blob ghosts.

Danny, salty and pissy from the lack of sleep he’d experienced trying to keep Penguin’s men in line as a result of Penguin trying to test where Danny’s lines were, dropped the temperature to the point where Penguin started shivering. Considering the place was already cold- the Iceberg lounge lived up to its name- it meant that Danny was standing nonchalantly in a room that was negative twenty five degree Celsius in a sweatshirt, Danny was already making good on his natural intimidation factor.

“It’s The Phantom to you, Oswald.” Danny said, in the tone of someone saying “it’s the shit, to you.”

Danny narrowed his blue eyes, letting a tiny tint of ectoplasm make his eyes glow a bit in the suddenly icing over room.

“Your people have been getting on my nerves, Oswald. Roughing up kids is so… uncultured. Are you sure you’re a Cobblepot?”

Penguin snarled, the effect of which was rendered ineffective due to his increasingly violent shivers. Plus, Danny loomed over him without even trying.

Danny, annoyed and asking himself “What Would Dan Do To Intimidate This Guy?”, gripped Penguin’s shoulder and hauled him up one handed. He dragged the mob boss over to one of the booths, avoiding the bodies he’d dropped (non-lethally) when Danny first walked in to ruin Penguin’s night. He shoved Penguin in chair he iced over, because Danny’s petty and if he saw one more bruise on his kids at Penguin’s hands, Danny was gonna go full Dan the Murderer.

He at least allowed to room to warm up before laying into Penguin, though. He stayed standing. Hey, he had the height advantage to use. He could have kept Penguin kneeling, but it was probably god the best that the mob boss got some sense of pride back.

(Danny had no idea that sitting as someone loomed over you to lecture and threaten you was even worse than kneeling. At least with kneeling, you knew where you stood. But sitting? It leaves you horribly off kilter.)

“I told you to keep your people in line. Kids are off limits, Oswald.”

“I kept them in line!”

Never let it be said that Oswald Cobblepot had a normal functioning sense of self preservation.

“Really?” Danny jabbed his pointer finger lightly on top of Penguin’s trachea and allowed his fingernails to sharpen into Phantom’s sharper digits. Penguin tried to lean away. “Then why did they start a gun fight when there were kids visible on the street? Why did I see one of my kids get hit by one of your poor excuses of a bouncer?”

“I-”

“Don’t care much for your excuses, if I’m being honest. I let you mess around with the little projects you have, without even breathing a whisper of your secrets. Sionis would love to know how you double crossed him the last deal, yeah?”

“I- I’ll keep them in line!” Penguin stuttered.

“Well, I believe in second chances,” Danny bullshitted. Ancients, how was this even working? “So I suggest you make an example of the guy that smacked Hailey around before I make an example out of you, Oswald.”

“Fine! Fine!”

——

And with that, he got access to Penguin’s resources and men and more importantly, the corrupt police officers. He made Penguin “boot out” the pedophilic ones (in a very violent way) and kept the rest.

Then? Mr. Freeze froze over the god damn pipes and Danny had to intimidate and make a deal with the Rogue so he and his increasing roster of orphans had access to warm water.

In exchange for Danny’s restorative and, more importantly, unmelting ice, Mr. Freeze was now Danny’s… on-call enforcer?? When he’s not researching cures for his frozen in a pod wife, that is.

Danny was satisfied with that. He was! But then Black Mask happened, with the man trying to engage in a battle of wits with Danny over the control of Crime Alley which, at that point, was firmly Danny’s territory.

The thing is, Danny doesn’t play nice anymore. Why bother with pointless mind games when he could just…

——

“So, you’re The Phantom.”

“And you’re Sionis.”

Black Mask twitched at the name, gloved hands pulling out his guns. Danny sat on the counter, head touching mid cabinet, and sipped out of Sionis’ favorite mug.

Because Danny broke into Black Mask’s safe house and stole his quality coffee. The man’s eyes were wary.

“How did you get in here?”

Danny shrugged. “Walked.”

Danny held the coffee out of the way as Sionis unloaded a clip into his chest and lunged forward to slap a mask onto Danny’s face. After waiting a bit, as Black Mask’s smug triumph bled into shock, Danny laughed and, using a bit of his natural strength, tossed the guy off of him. He casually took the mask off of his face.

“Jeez, I’m trying to be nice, here.”

“So, you’re a Meta.”

Danny grinned. “Eh. And you’re a cult leader with a mask fetish.”

Danny tuned out the rant about the “true face of Gotham” or whatever, already bored, and sipped at Sionis’ coffee. The ass might be a psycho, but his coffee tastes were wonderful. Danny stood up, rinsed his mug, and turned back to Black Mask.

“You’re trafficking people. Kids.” He said, cutting through Sionis’ chatter. He was sly about it too, committing violence and torture in a way that would ensure obedience and fear. Danny probably would have never caught on, Black Mask’s schemes being so ingeniously created and executed, had he not kept a hawk’s eyes on the more vulnerable members of Crime Alley’s community. And the rest of Gotham’s vulnerable communities, of course.

“My, a wonderfully obvious conclusion. Now, Phantom, I have a proposition for you.”

Sionis seemed to have gotten his bearings back. Danny tilted his head at him, looking down.

“You can work for me,” Sionis said, before opening a laptop with video feed to one of his masked men or whatever holding a knife to one of Danny’s more fearless kids. Danny snarled.

“Or, refuse, and your kid will lose a finger for every instance of your defiance.”

“I told you not to touch the kids, Sionis. I don’t allow trafficking either.”

Black Mask chuckled. “Cut off a finger, Sadness.”

“Yes, bos- ARGHHHH!”

Danny watched as Mr. Freeze froze the goon’s arms before breaking them.

“I’ve got her, Phantom.”

Danny nodded at Freeze, keeping an eye on Sionis in case the fool bolts.

“So, what are your cards now, Sionis? You’ve sure pissed me off with nothing to show for it.”

And that was the last night anyone heard from the one that was supposed to be the King of Crime.

But Gotham knew the head mounted on a pike at one of Black Mask’s hastily abandoned bases was a warning, that The Phantom was watching.

——

Then he somehow got a gaggle of more orphans that were undead zombie “Talons?”

From there, he just obtained influence over the crime bosses of Gotham. Because his Talons kept bringing him heads and blackmail and his crime alley kids and Gotham orphans kept bringing him information for food and safety?

But like, Danny never wanted anything in exchange for the safety he provided. His core could give less of a shit whether he got anything in return. But he couldn’t convince his kids of that! They’re putting themselves in danger and ugh-!

Danny checked himself once more in the mirror. Ready, he stepped out into the night to wait for the Bats at his new favorite VIP spots.

On the way, he passed Ivy and Harley, who he waved to. Pamela worked under him because he controlled Gotham’s criminal underground (which also mean the official parts of the city considering the sheer amount of corruption) and influenced them into more plant friendly methods. His dominion over Undergrowth also helped immensely.

Harley? They’re friends. He beat up and crippled her abusive ex. She gave him therapy and stopped torturing people for fun.

Danny stepped into the back door of the Iceberg Lounge. No one stopped him. No one dared to.

He settled onto a velvet couch, nodding respectfully at the server that had immediately and nervously set down his mai tai. He glanced around for cameras and wire taps, before giving up and upping his ectoplasmic output to short any recording devices out.

He sipped his drink as he waited.

“Batman.”

“Phantom.”

“Oh, good. You didn’t bring Robin,” Danny said, watching Batman tense. “Kids shouldn’t be in places like these.”

Batman stayed silent.

“Come on, sit.” Danny gestured to the couch across from him.

“This isn’t a social call. I’ll stop whatever you’re scheming-” Batman growled.

“Oh my god, you’re so dramatic. Is this where Nightwing gets it from?”

Batman snarled.

“Sit, sit.” Danny rolled his eyes.

Batman stayed stubbornly looming. Danny sighed, allowing his voice to slip into velvet danger.

“I told you to sit, Bruce Wayne.”

“You-”

“I won’t repeat myself again, Bruce. You’re testing my patience.”

Bruce sat, wary and hyper vigilant. Danny sighed, settling back in his chair.

“You’ve heard of Red Hood, yes? Don’t answer that, it was hypothetical. I know you’ve heard of him.” Danny waved a hand impatiently. “I don’t really care why he’s setting up shop in my Alley, but he’s upsetting the other crime lords. They’re asking me to interfere.”

“I don’t work for you.”

“No,” Danny acknowledged with a nod. “But I could make you, if you push it. Politeness would serve you much better right now, Bruce, seeing as I am doing you a… favor. And since I’m not shouting to the world who you are under the cowl.”

Danny gave Batman a pointed, patented, mom glare.

“… Apologies.”

“Now, you might be wondering what that favor is.” Danny watched Batman’s cowled face carefully. “I thought you should know that the Red Hood is your “Jason Todd.’”

Batman was still. And then Batman leapt at him, snarling, “How dare you-!”

Danny caught the vigilante by the throat and squeezed.

Batman’s flurry of punches- which, mildly ow, those gauntlets kind of hurt- quickly changed to clawing and maneuvers to get out of the choke hold. Danny held steady, cutting off the vigilante’s air supply until he began to go limp. He’s not Superman. Danny will bruise and kill, if he had to.

“Are you going to listen to me now?” Danny asked mildly, emulating both Black Mask’s drawl and Dan’s effortless psychosis.

Batman gave a weak nod. Danny plopped him unceremoniously back onto his couch. He sipped on his drink once more as he waited for Batman to cough some sweet air back into his lungs.

“I’m telling you to get your little birds in line before I have to go hunting, yeah? Keep your kids out of danger, Bruce, and I won’t have to step in.”

“He- how do you know..?” The growl isn’t there anymore, and Danny felt a smug sense of vindication of having smothered it out of the guy. Woah, no, that thought was too Dan and too little Danny. Danny handed him a cup of water, which Batman didn’t drink.

Danny rolled his eyes and raised an eyebrow. “Drink. If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it by now. And as for how I know…”

Danny held up a beat up copy of Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility, filled with Jason’s writing. He tossed it to Batman, who caught it with blank eyes.

“Water,” Danny reminded him firmly, feeling like a mother hen. Batman gulped down his water, eyes flicking between the pages of Jason’s annotated book. Ancients, Danny couldn’t believe he annotated his book. A crime lord, like that? Well, it’s not like Danny could say anything.

Batman looked up at him, a silent demand- no, plea, because he’s not in a position to make demands- for an answer.

“Broke into his safe house. You should contact your fling, Talia. Seems like she dunked him into these “Lazarus pits” and told him you replaced him with the current Robin.”

Danny could see Batman’s emotional gears hard at work and honestly, he doesn’t have time for that.

“Now, we’re done here. You owe me one for the information. I’ll collect later.” Danny grabbed the Dark Knight, who stayed oddly unresisting (shock, maybe?) , and hauled him up.

“Tell Tim Drake to eat more. He looks too skinny.” With that, Danny dragged the Dark Knight to the window and punted him out. His kids were waiting on hot chocolate night and Danny had to go shopping for quality ingredients.

——

“YOU COULDN’T HAVE TOLD ME THE BIGGEST CRIME LORD OF YOUR CITY WAS THE FUCKING HIGH KING OF THE INFINITE REALMS?!”

“Hn.”

“BLOODY HELL, DON’T YOU GRUNT AT ME, YOU BROODY BASTARD!”

Constantine let out a scream. Shite, the king who held his soul contract was a crime lord. Great.

——

The reason intelligence and convoluted schemes and genius doesn’t work against Danny is because he’s got weird standards of what he’ll tolerate and the fact is that his normal dumbassery and mother hen tendencies cancels out and coherent thoughts or plans he might have had.

[oceantornadoo]

ch2 something borrowed something blue (mafia!price x simon's sister!reader)

masterlist | next

You hate John Price because he ruined your childhood. Or at least, his father did.

Growing up as a bastard was hard. You do thank your lucky stars that you were a bastard in modern-day society, and not during some time when your mother could have had her head chopped off. It’s the small things.

Your mother was Mr. Riley’s nanny. How original. 

Mrs. Riley, Simon and Tommy’s mother, did not like her husband. Smart woman. He was cruel, knew how to poke at scars until they opened and bled down bruised skin. They had an heir and a spare, neither of which she was particularly attached to. It was enough to fulfill their marriage contract, so she got to live out the rest of her days in a beachside condo in Cornwall. Simon and Tommy were raised properly, the Riley way, in Greater Manchester. In a mansion bought by blood and exploitation, guns and gold. 

With the wife out of the way and two boys under five, Mr. Riley hired a nanny. The way your mother tells it, only after three glasses of wine before the sun sets, she was low on cash and desperate for a place to stay. The whispers about the Riley family were loud, but the grumbling of her stomach was louder. It’s a phrase she repeated over and over during your childhood, as you hopped from international school in Paris to private school in New York City, wherever your father decreed was safer. You tell her she doesn’t need to justify it, even now as you live with your brother and she stays countries away, but she’ll just give you that same tightlipped smile. She still doesn’t forgive herself for who your father was, so you have to forgive her for the both of you.

She couldn’t say no to Mr. Riley. Maybe it was the sight of her with his kids or her constant proximity, but he claimed he was in love. You can’t say no to the head of a gang, especially if you’re an employee. And once she became pregnant, he tightened the reins. Pulled strings to become your legal primary caregiver so she couldn’t leave the country. It was only after a robbery went wrong, where Mr. Riley lost almost a quarter of his wealth, he invited others to weigh in on the situation. Or at least, Mr. Price.

You were seven, Tommy was ten, and Simon was fourteen. Simon said he was too grown up to play with a baby like you, but Tommy always stuck around. Tommy just beat you in hide and seek, again, and frustration seeped out of your skin. He always caught you, no matter where you hid. He was counting down to another round and you were determined to win this time. There was one place he wouldn’t think of - your father’s office.

There have been a lot more men around lately. Mama had told you to keep upstairs, out of eyesight, but you wanted to win this time. Tommy was counting from sixty, too fast in your opinion, so you creeped down the stairs at warp speed. There was a secret door to Father’s office, mainly for the maids, and it had a door for your dog. Riley was huge, so the flap took up a third of the door. You were still small enough to scurry through, though it was becoming a tighter fit lately. Determined, you popped through the flap, being sure not to disturb Father. There was a chair for you to hide behind, a perfect angle to hide from the man on the other side of Father’s desk while still keeping an eye out for Tommy’s feet.

“They hit you because you’re weak.” The man’s voice was familiar. Mr. Price. He was around more and more, always bringing his annoying son John. He was sixteen and thought he was so cool, bossing around the staff like he was, well, the boss. And he never wanted to play. 

“They hit us because my idiot men weren’t watchin’ the cameras.” Father replied. He sounded angry. He always snorted like a bull before he started yelling, and you could hear him huffing. “Y’ve got a bastard an’ ‘er mother yankin’ ya by the balls. She’s the help, for god sake. The scousers see an opportunity.” You knew that word. Bastard. Simon had called you bastard once, a year ago when you took his stuffed animal that he hid from Father. Mama told you it was a mean word, only said by people with too-small hearts. When Simon said it, you cried for an hour. He apologized, hugging you like a baby until the tears receded. Then, he promised to hurt anyone who said that word to you. 

“What do you suggest?” Father didn’t say anything about the mean word. He was like that, he didn’t protect you like Tommy or Simon. “Send them away. Make your enemies forget about your weakness. Bring Simon into the fold.” That wasn’t Mr. Price speaking, it was John. He wanted to send you away? You prayed not to Cornwall, where Simon’s mom lived. She was scary.

“I second John. You need strength, not complication. Focusin’ on Simon learnin’ the ropes will emphasize your heir, not the help y’ forgot to wear a rubber with. ‘Least til she’s eighteen an’ can be married.” Mama wasn’t married, so you didn’t want to be either. “Appreciate the help, gentlemen. Now about the Chester deal…” You tuned them out. Sent away? You had to tell Mama. Slipping away like a cat, you ran to find Mama, not stopping even when Tommy found you. He’d won, again.

Without John’s suggestion, you might have stayed. You might have gotten a real relationship with your brothers. You might have prevented Tommy from walking into that gunfight and- that’s where the hypotheticals stopped. Who knows what would have happened? What you know is that, despite being provided for and with your mom, there was always that what if? clinging to the back of your brain.

Your father died when you were twenty-two. Months after he’d paid your last college bill, thankfully. Simon called you during your summer of freedom, a twenty-nine-year-old man with no clue how to run an empire. A lost younger brother between you. He’d promised to protect you, and that was your chance to return the favor. Family first, the Riley way.

-

Now, years later, the hate for John Price has turned from a boil to a simmer. Something you don’t think about constantly until he’s right in front of you. It’s hard to blame a man for a teenage hypothetical, but that doesn’t mean you couldn’t insult him for being a pompous git. A mafia brat. Decades of being shitty to each other have turned the cord of your relationship rotted black, a frayed string connected by the fact you can’t physically hurt the other. You’ve got no clue why he wants to marry you of all people, so you’re determined to scare him off. This should be fun.

-

“Quaint,” John mutters to Gaz, who scoffs. They took the jet, a quick hour trip, and brought Laswell, his trusted lawyer. The bookstore is off a side street in Greater Manchester, next to a cafe and a flower shop for god sake. He has to give it to Ghost; it’s a good place to clean cash or lay low. Discreet. No clue why the spitfire’s running it, though. He’s surprised it’s not gone to ruin.

The bell over the door makes a faint tinkling sound as they enter. Gaz goes first, ready for an ambush like the control freak he is, and John can see you smiling at him. It’s a smile he’s never seen, unbidden and shy. It immediately sours once John emerges, turning into a faint frown. “You actually came.” You say it like you aren’t discussing a marriage contract to tie you together for eternity. It’s been a year since John last saw you. Your meetings are infrequent, mainly in passing during weddings and funerals. He knows it’s been years since you came back to Manchester, but you finally seem to have…matured. More confident with your movements, at ease behind the counter of your bookstore. If he were a different man, your confidence would be attractive, but in this world, something about it irritates him.

He sees you pick up your phone, a battered thing, and fire off a short text. Not five seconds later, Soap and Ghost emerge from the shadows of the backroom, men in suits at their shoulders. The shop is immediately crowded, and you cringe at the change in atmosphere. “You’re lucky I closed the store today. Your vibe would freak out the customers. Come on.” John is already practicing restraint, biting his tongue so he doesn’t reply like a scorned teenager. He’s too grown for this. 

Soap leads the way, opening a hidden door to the basement by tugging at a dusty bookshelf in the back. He holds the door open for everyone, trading looks with Ghost before nodding to the Price group. “What do ya do if a customer pulls that book by accident?” Gaz wonders out loud, snorting to himself as he approaches the door. “Dosnae happen, Garrick.” Gaz grins and John sighs inwardly. “Usin’ last names now, MacTavish? I can play that game too.” Gaz dips down the staircase before Soap can answer, presumably needing to have the last word. Between you and Soap, this is going to be a long meeting.

The bookstore might be old and dusty, but the basement is sleek and modern. John passes a small med bay, fully stocked, before they reach a large conference room, equipped with TVs and enough office chairs for a small army. Even Gaz lets out a low whistle, while Laswell hums thoughtfully. Kate’s probably memorizing the layout for another upgrade to her office.

As everyone sits, two waiters make their rounds, taking drink orders. He gets a tea and thanks the waiter, catching your brows furrowing after he murmurs his gratitude. Odd.

“Right so-” Soap starts, but Gaz cuts him off. “You’re a bloody barrister?” Soap practically growls at his tone. “Solicitor. Not jus’ a pretty face, Garrick.” It’s silent as the two stare, a contest only broken when Simon clears his throat. “Get on with it, haven’t got all day.” Soap starts again, mainly talking with Kate as they go through the contract. John has it practically memorized. 25% of his businesses, mainly the ones not in London, in exchange for their weight in Ghost’s gold, something he desperately needs. Relinquishing his claims to border territory between Manchester and Liverpool, something that would make his father turn in his grave, for thousands of weapons. Guns, bullets, tracking equipment - anything he can use that has removable identity numbers. It’s a deal that’ll help him win against Shepherd’s men. All for the small price of being married to you, of course.

“Ms. Riley will marry Mr. Price and produce a minimum of two children within ten years. In case of fertility struggles, one child will suffice, only with a board of doctors agreement. If infertility persists and no children are produced, we have clauses for that.” The statement rolls off Laswell’s tongue easily, but John can tell the moment it reaches your brain. Your eyebrows go sky high, and you almost stand until Simon puts a firm hand on your shoulder, keeping you in place. “Board of doctors? What, so if I can’t get pregnant, I have to inform an entire hospital just so I don’t get shot? That’s barbaric.” You spit out, and John can’t help but agree. If the situation comes to it, he wouldn’t want the future mother of his child having to humiliate herself like that. Thoughts of you being a mother are turned away, a dreary thought for another day.

John murmurs instructions to Laswell, who notes them down with ease. He can tell she approves as her shoulders relax slightly. “We can amend this line. It’ll only require one doctor, not a board, and it can be your current gyno or someone else. The matter will stay between Ms. Riley, Mr. Price, and Mr. Riley if it comes to be.” Laswell replies. You huff, irritated that John agreed, and he smirks at you from across the table. You’re so easy to tease, probably because you’re snooty and spoiled.

“What about my bookstore?” The question escapes you after another ten minutes of Laswell droning on about childcare protocol. How if there’s no child in ten years, and all avenues have been explored, the marriage will be dissolved. “What about it?” Laswell asks smoothly. Your eyes dart between her’s and John’s. “Well, I’ll hire a manager for the Riley store, but what about in London?” John considers it, running a hand through his beard. It’s a safety risk, but who knows what havoc you’ll wreak on his home if you’re bored 24/7. Something to do would be nice.

“‘Ve got a few closed storefronts I own. You could take one.” Your mouth drops. You didn’t expect him to agree, to be honest. Imagined yourself chained to his property, playing housewife night and day. “I want to own it. Buy it from you so the deed is in my name.” You cross your arms on your chest, quirking an eyebrow like it’s a challenge.

“Fine. But you’ll let it up once there’s kids.”

“Not happening.”

“First few years, at least.”

“And are you taking a few years off for paternity leave?” Well, no. But he’s running an organized crime unit of over 5,000 members and you’re running a bookstore. John can’t have other families seeing his wife working when she’s supposed to be resting or raising his heir.

“First year after every new kid. That’s what I’ll agree to.” Soap murmurs something in your ear and you sigh with defeat. “Fine. But you have to sell me the property at fair market value and you can’t use it for any business. And I get to pick any property not in use.” This seems to be the hill you’re dying on. If you were a Made Man, he’d add in flowery language, guaranteeing you the cheapest property. But he’s already taking your home and your business from you, not to mention your womb and ten years of your life. He can spare a building.

“Agreed. Next.”

Soap continues on, his leg bouncing under the table with so much force that it’s shaking. He’s eager to get out, that’s for sure, and John can’t help but wonder why. “Ms. Riley will reside with Mr. Price at his permanent London residence. If she wishes t’ leave city limits, she must request written permission.” John quirks an eyebrow. Surely you’ll bite at this one.

“I’m not even dignifying that with a response.” Is what eventually comes out of your mouth. Took you almost thirty seconds to say it. He could see you weighing your options in your mind, the price of too many amendments versus your freedom. He almost respects the move, until he remembers this is the Riley brat. Not someone to be respected.

“‘S for your safety.” He croaks out, throat dry from lack of use. Speaking to you is like breaking the fourth wall, an unsettling feeling. The full force of your glare is blazing hot, the pits of Hell contained in two eyes. “I can take care of myself. I’ve always got a gun and a man on me.” You challenge him.

“Guns run out of bullets. Men die.” He replies, smug with the fact you can’t particularly deny what he’s saying. You turn to Soap, muttering your dissent. He shakes his head, then looks over at Ghost. The bastard has his mask on, but even a blind man could see he agrees with the statement. He wants to protect his sister, a trait John knew he could rely on.

“Fine. Oral works.” You say the words like they’re bitter on your tongue, something you want to spit out. “Does it, sweetheart? Good t’ know.” You roll your eyes, then shove Soap’s shoulder for him to continue. “Can’t believe I’m marrying a manchild.” If you’d said it in front of his men, he’d have to reprimand you, but he can drop the mask in this room. He’s not going to punish his future wife this early. It would throw off the wedding atmosphere.

Laswell marks the change from written to oral permission then continues. She’s at the last few lines, thankfully. “The marriage cannot be dissolved unless in the case of maltreatment or abuse. If there is evidence of Ms. Riley cheating, 50% of the Riley Family assets will be transferred to the Price Family and the marriage will be dissolved. Any bastards will not be recognized and will be given no child support.” The word bastard echoes around the room. Laswell could say she didn’t realize the context of the word but, knowing her, it was probably used on purpose. A test.

You roll your shoulders back. Ghost’s eyes narrow into black pits. Soap’s hands clench and unclench on the table. Despite the obvious tension, there’s no immediate reaction. You don’t jump on the table and curse his ancestors or pull out a gun and start shooting. Both he expected more than the actual outcome, which is…nothing. You nod at Soap and Ghost, gesturing at them to continue. 

It should be a victory. Gaz is nudging him under the table, his right-hand man all too proud that he riled up the Rileys. The feeling of success is hollow as John tracks your tense muscles, the way you turn your gaze to the contract in front of you and don’t move, even when Laswell finishes reading it. You’re just…frozen. It’s too human of a look on you, and John wonders if this is what your marriage will be like. Cold. Distant. Robotic fucking, just enough to make heirs. A fidelity clause only for you, while John can do whatever he wants as long as there aren’t any kids made. It’s a point he would have let you argue, let you add a fidelity clause for him too, but you take it on the chin. Is it punishment for the family sin you didn’t commit? The mantle of knowledge is heavy on his shoulders.

John signs. You sign. Ghost signs then hands it to the lawyers. Gaz is the witness. In five minutes, John has turned his mafia into a militarized mob and gained a wife who hates him. Every man’s dream.

Papers are gathered as the waiters clear glasses from the table. He stands only after you do, observing how Ghost has to touch your shoulder to get you to pay attention. Soap leads the way again, but John hangs back until he’s shoulder to shoulder with you. The dislike is still there, a plant that sprouted roots eons ago, but the urge to be a good husband is there as well. He was raised with the standards of chivalry, to be the picture of a gentleman. He will not treat the mother of his children like how his father treated his mother. He will be better.

“Alrigh’?” He nudges your shoulder. It snaps you out of your daydream, glassy eyes meeting his own as you take stock of the situation. “Fuckin’ mint, thanks.” It’s the most Manc thing he’s ever heard you say. “Remember bein’ promised tea, but not a biscuit t’ be found.” You snort and he’s glad for it. You seem to finally be out of whatever funk came over you. He lets you go in front of him on the staircase, keeping his eyes firmly on the sliver of skin that shows as you move and the outline of a gun tucked in your waistband. John Price does not stare at his fiancee’s arse at all. Mostly.

“Guess I’m not wife material, Price. Looks like you’re getting the shitty end of this deal.” You shoot him a cheeky grin once you’re on the main floor, and he’s glad it looks mostly genuine. You’re easier to deal with when you’re bantering, not whatever that was back there. “Jus’ bought ya for some guns, sweetheart. Not lookin’ good on the husband front, either.” You roll your eyes, biting your cheek so he doesn’t sense a laugh. The whole group is at the door now, awkwardly standing on opposite sides of the room as the two of you talk. Is this what your wedding will be like?

“I’ll, uh, see you Saturday.” At our wedding. To each other. Jesus, this is a bleak future he’s thinking of.

“See you Saturday, John.” You stand in the center of your store. Sunlight is streaming through the windows as the sun goes down, and if John were a different man, he’d tell you you look beautiful. He’d kiss your cheek, then your forehead, assuring you that your years of spats were just a form of foreplay. He’d squeeze your shoulder in reassurance, murmur a sweet nothing in your ear. Fortunately, or unfortunately, John is not that man.

“Remember, somethin’ borrowed, somethin’ blue.” He winks but there’s no charm behind it. He thinks.

“Something old, something new. A sixpence in your shoe.” You whisper it just to him, like a secret, and then turn away. Like he was never there.

John turns away, feeling oddly flustered, and doesn’t catch Gaz’s eye as they leave. He avoids Gaz’s gaze as he shakes Ghost’s and Soap’s hands. He’s still avoiding it when they get into the car, Laswell splitting off to her own chartered vehicle. It’s only when the doors close his right-hand man decides to speak.

“You’re fucked.” He says it sternly, like a teacher scolding his student. The kid’s a decade younger than John but acts like he’s his father.

“Piss off.” He’s got no idea what he’s talking about. There’s nothing between you and John. That bridge has been burned, ashes turning to dust in the wind.

Of that, he’s almost sure.

-

I hope the background wasn’t too boring! Stay tuned for a chaotic wedding week 😁lmk if you want to be tagged (please remember this is 18+)

-

@heretoreadanddrinktea

@peachyxrosie

@joufrance

@galactict3a

@exactlyyoungchaos

@trulovekay

@alleycc

@abox-of-rocks

@orangehibiscus

[ghostfacd]

𝙄𝙉 𝘼 𝙒𝙊𝙍𝙇𝘿 𝙁𝙐𝙇𝙇 𝙊𝙁 𝙈𝙀𝙉, 𝙃𝙀’𝙎 𝘼 𝙂𝙀𝙉𝙏𝙇𝙀𝙈𝘼𝙉

pairing: lorenzo berkshire x fem!slytherin!reader

genre: fluff, sweetheart enzo, brief suggestive content, enzo is a big softie basically

summary: in a world filled with men, there’s lorenzo berkshire, a sweetheart and gentleman

Lorenzo Berkshire was a sweetheart.

Everybody knew that the down to earth Slytherin couldn’t hurt a fly even if he wanted to, and weirdly did not fit the stereotypical mean Slytherin persona despite hanging with Draco and his friends.

In fact, a lot of things that Lorenzo did were out of the ordinary for his crowd of people. Whenever Draco would pull a first year by their backpacks so their bodies would fling back, Lorenzo always muttered an apology after, offering the first year a cookie the next day. It was just who he was; he was a sweet boy, and that often meant he was also very clueless.

Sure, he was smart in his classes, but in everything else? Lorenzo was practically the virgin of all virgins.

“Her eyes are up here Enzo,” Pansy teased, watching as Lorenzo’s eyes finally shifted off your chest to look at Pansy in the eyes.

“Huh?”

“Well I know they’re nice,” you tease further, “but it’s rude to stare, y’know.”

“Oh,” Lorenzo’s eyebrows furrow, clearly confused. He’s either great at playing the dumb role or he genuinely has no idea what you and Pansy are inciting.

“What do you mean?” Lorenzo then moves his hand over to touch the gold colored necklace on your neck. “I was just looking at the new necklace you got. It’s nice.”

Oh. You didn’t think anyone would notice your new necklace. You bought it over the holidays when you went back home with your family, and had just started wearing it now.

“Thanks Enzo,” you say, placing a kiss on his cheek. He pulls back flustered, but he mutters a you’re welcome under his breath.

“LO BOY!” Lorenzo is quickly pulled into a headlock by no other than Draco Malfoy, who seems to find his friend struggling hilariously funny. “Oh what’s wrong Lo? Got your head in a knot?”

“Boys.” You and Pansy mutter, rolling your eyes as you both get up from your seats, heading to the much more quiet Great Hall.

- - -

The next time you see Lorenzo is in your Potions class. He’s on the left of you, and you’re almost falling asleep at the boring lecture of your professor. He always seem to talk more than actually teach how to mix potions.

“Pssst,��� Lorenzo mutters to your partner as he hands her a slip of paper. “Be a peach and pass it to Y/N?”

Your partner, who has developed a little crush on Lorenzo only blushes, accepting the piece of paper and tapping you on the shoulder.

“Here,” she says, “it’s from Lorenzo.”

Your eyebrows quirk up, slowly unfolding the crinkled paper.

Your hair is pretty today

You bite your lip, trying to suppress a smile. Lorenzo just knew how to swoon a girl over, didn’t he? He doesn’t even have to try and your knees would still feel weak.

So my hair isn’t pretty on other days?

You scribble down, passing it back to your partner who passes it to Lorenzo.

His eyes grow wide when he reads it, opting to shake his head quickly.

“Not what I meant,” Lorenzo mouths.

“I know,” you mouth back, giving him a smirk. “Thank you Enzo.”

And you both end up more pink than the potions that were made in class that day.

- - -

“What do you even do in your free time?” Theodore asks, poking Lorenzo’s cheek repeatedly to annoy him. “Like read?”

“Like read?” Lorenzo mimics back. “Yes, I read. You should too Teddy, it’d be good for you.”

Theodore rolls his eyes, “I don’t need to read. And don’t call me Teddy.”

When you arrive in the dining hall, Theodore and Lorenzo already make a space for you to sit in between them. Usually, Pansy and Draco would be sitting across from the three of you, but today, they were off doing Godric knows what.

“Pans and Draco not here today?” Lorenzo asks, still focusing on the assignment he was finishing up before dinner ends.

“Nope,” you say, popping the p. “No idea what they’re doing.”

“Oh,” Theodore chuckles, “I have a few ideas.”

That makes the two of you burst out laughing, and Lorenzo finally looks up from his paper.

“What?” He asks. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh Enzo,” Theodore places a hand on his friend’s back, “never change.”

Lorenzo rolls his eyes, shrugging Theodore’s hand off. “Whatever that means.”

When Theodore finally heads off to the Slytherin common room, you and Lorenzo are left alone, the small conversations of the other students surrounds the two of you.

“Working hard on that assignment,” you say quietly to Lorenzo, bringing up your hand to pull a few strings of hair that were poking his eyes.

“Well someone’s gotta be the smart one in our friend group,” he says teasingly.

“Oh, so you’re saying I’m not smart?” Your hands start to wander, coming to each of Lorenzo’s sides to tickle him. He was especially ticklish around his abdomen.

“H-hey! Stop that!” He laughs, pushing your hands away. “Okay okay, we’re both the smart ones.”

“And Pansy,” you add.

“And Pansy.”

- - -

When you walked out to the lake that sat across from the Slytherin common room, you didn’t expect to find Lorenzo feeding the ducks. He was crouching, softly throwing a few pieces of crushed up bread at the ducks that now surrounded him.

“What are you doing Lo?” You ask, walking beside him.

“Not too loud,” Lorenzo says, “you’ll scare them away.”

He continues doing what he does before he runs all out, deciding to finally turn to you and throw an arm around your shoulder. “Evening.”

“Evening Enzo,” you say, pressing a kiss to his cheek. It was out of habit, and you did it regularly, but it didn’t stop Lorenzo from blushing every time it happened.

“I was feeding the ducks,” he explains, although it was pretty clear what he was doing. “I like them, they’re nice and pretty. Draco sometimes throws rocks at them, so it’s kind of my way of apologizing for him.”

You ruffle Lorenzo’s hair slightly, giving him a small kiss on the cheek. “Oh Enzo, you sweetheart.” But he doesn’t hear you, instead, choosing to admire the scenery of the lake.

- - -

“You know what’d be funny?” Mattheo says, already laughing before he could get out the rest of his sentence. “If we pied the girls. Pansy and Y/N.”

Lorenzo’s ears perk up at this, but he keeps quiet. Why was his friends always looking to get into trouble?

“They’d totally kill us,” Theodore comments.

“That’s why we have to do it.”

The boys had already gotten two pies and their plan figured out before Lorenzo could stop them. He watched as they hide it behind their backs, approaching you and Pansy who were both engrossed in your conservation.

“Wait,” Lorenzo mumbles, quickly following his group of friends. When he sees their hand from their back move as they speak to you and Pansy, he steps in front of the two of you, getting hit straight in the face with the two pies.

“Huh..” Lorenzo says, wiping away the whipped cream that was covering his eyes. “Key lime.”

“Enzo,” you say, knowing that this was probably one of Mattheo or Draco’s dumb ideas again. “You guys apologize to Lorenzo right now.”

The three boys sigh defeatedly, muttering a quiet sorry to their brunette friend who’s still wiping the whipped cream from his face.

“Why’d you do that Enzo?” You ask him as the two of you sat down on the grass. You’d finally got all the whipped cream off his face with a towel, and although Enzo won’t admit it, he was kind of grateful he did end up getting pied. After all, a pretty girl was cleaning him up after all, and not just any pretty girl, his close friend.

“Cause you’re too pretty to get pied.” He shrugs, which makes you smirk.

“Too pretty?”

“Well yeah,”

You laugh at Lorenzo’s honesty, and finally, you lean in to give him a kiss on the lips instead of the side of his cheek.

“Did you just-”

“Shh,” you say, grabbing ahold of his hand. “Just let me appreciate you right now. In a world full of just men, you’re a gentleman Enzo.”

And Lorenzo only smiles, knowing he’s finally got the girl of his dreams.

[greenwitchfromthewoods]

baby girl. l Clint "Freaky Tales"

Summary: you barely knew him, but he was the one who helped you

Warnings: angst, fluff, smut (+18), aggressive boyfriend and toxic relationship, violence (mentioned, but also described a bit), some blood, unprotected sex (don't do that), fingering

A/N: my first story for this character. please be gentle. i don't know if i'll go down this path, i wanted to try and maybe i pushed myself too hard. let me know what you think.

your feedback is very important to me and I want to thank you for all the reblogs, comments and likes. I secretly hope you like this story.🖤 sorry for all the mistakes

[my masterlist]

"Girls like you aren't common here."

A low but pleasant voice reached you despite the music playing in the dim pub. You tore your gaze away from the group of men playing pool on the other side and looked at the guy who was leaning against the bar right next to you.

A black leather jacket hugged his broad shoulders. His dark hair was slicked back, but you could see a few strands of gray in it. A prominent nose, brown eyes that looked almost black in this poor lighting, a mustache, and a light stubble. The scar marred his face, but also gave him a dangerous look of a guy not to be trifled with.

Clint. You knew his name, although it was the first time you had heard his voice.

"What kind of girl do you mean?" you asked, turning your gaze back to the players.

"Smart. Sly." you smiled, shaking your head "Delicate. Beautiful. With a good heart."

"I'm neither of them." you replied.

"Are you sure?"

Your gaze wandered back to Clint, who took a sip of beer and seemed to pay no attention to you. He was a frequent guest here, but you had never talked before. Honestly, it was rare for a guy in this place to talk to you. The girls were more like decorations here, trophies that accompanied their men. Or maybe owners? Clint always came alone though.

You knew that well, because there was no way you could miss his presence. Quiet, commanding respect. However, when your eyes met sometimes, you noticed a slight nod, a quiet greeting, to which you responded with a barely noticeable smile.

"Maybe you really aren't that smart." he muttered after a moment as if thinking it over "You're hanging around with that shitty guy from Max."

"Hey, you're talking about my boyfriend." you hissed, feeling it was your duty to defend someone who hadn't paid attention to you for almost an hour.

"I know who I'm talking about. And you know I'm right." Clint took another sip of beer. "You didn't meet him in the library, so how did you get into this?"

You didn't answer for a moment, staring at Clint's profile and wondering where this conversation was headed.

"What's your problem? And why do you care?" you finally replied. "I am where I want to be."

He nodded, accepting your weak answer and not asking any more questions. He finished his beer in silence, put a few dollars on the bar, and then reached into his other pocket and pushed a rectangular note towards you.

"If you need help," he added quietly.

You glanced at the phone number written on the note. "What made you think I'd need it?"

Clint shrugged, then looked over at the guys playing pool. "Just a hunch."

You bit your lip when you heard the connection sound in the receiver.

"C'mon, c'mon..." you repeated quietly, drumming your fingers on the steering wheel.

Maybe no one will pick up? Maybe it was a sign that you shouldn't do this? You were about to hang up when you heard a familiar voice on the other end. You closed your eyes feeling relieved.

"Clint?" you whispered.

"Hey, baby girl. What happened?"

He didn't expect to hear your sobbing and immediately felt a cold shiver run down his spine. "Where are you?" a short question, one of a few he had to ask you.

"I-I..." you stuttered, but you took a deep breath and finished "I'm in the car, on the side of the road outside the city."

"Okay. Are you hurt?"

Another deep breath. "N-No, not really. We started arguing. He was drunk, he started shouting and, and then..."

The silence on the other end was so loud that you were at a loss for words. You gripped the steering wheel tighter and looked around the dark area. It was already around midnight. Finally, Clint's voice rang through the receiver again.

"There's a motel not far from where you are."

"The Misty Valley. I saw a sign. But what..."

"Go there. Michael will give you a room, tell him I sent you."

"Clint, I can't!" you whined, tears escaping from under your eyelids. "I should... I should go back."

"No." He interrupted you abruptly, you heard a slam like a car door closing. "Go where I told you. And wait."

"For what?"

The phone fell silent.

You didn't know if it was what you expected when you dialed Clint's number. A few weeks have passed since your conversation. You didn't talk much, it was rather quiet nods, gentle smiles. His hand, which brushed your arm slightly, so that only the two of you knew about it.

You met him once in the city. That was the first time he called you "baby girl", and you didn't protest. You didn't protest either when he put his hand on the small of your back and offered to give you a ride. It was the beginning of the end.

The soft carpet muffled your steps as you walked through the small hotel room for the hundredth time. The clock on the nightstand showed that it was already after one in the morning, but you didn't feel sleepy at all. Adrenaline was coursing through your veins like a drug not allowing your brain and muscles to rest.

Your phone was silent. Michael asked you to close the door properly and you did so without asking unnecessary questions. Every now and then you would sit on the bed, but then you would get up again and walk around in circles.

Only a knock on the door made you snap out of your trance.

"It's me, baby girl." a familiar voice rang out, and you sighed with relief.

With trembling hands you took off the chain and opened the door, noticing a familiar face behind it.

"It's you." you whispered.

But Clint didn't smile at the sight of you. Quite the opposite. He frowned and made a move as if he wanted to step back and leave, but in the end he nodded. His hand went to your face, he watched you closely.

"You didn't say anything about that..." he said indignantly "Fucking bastard!"

"It's nothing." you tried to calm him down, your fingers tightened around his wrist, drawing his attention to you again "What did you..."

"Not enough." he interrupted you "Can I come in?"

You opened the door wider and stepped back, smelling the cigarettes and remnants of Clint's cologne. The door closed with a quiet click and the hotel room became your safe place. 

Clint took off his jacket without a word, threw it on the armchair, went to the bathroom and returned a moment later with a wet cloth.

“Sit down,” he ordered, and you wordlessly complied, sitting on the bed.

He sat down next to you and you hissed in pain when he put the cloth to your lip. The intense emotions made you completely forget about what had happened. You knew about the cut lip because you could taste the blood, you could also have a swollen cheek.

"Son of a bitch." Clint hissed. "Did he do this for the first time?"

You nodded.

"Good girl. Although you should have left earlier. I saw him dragging you..."

"It was nothing. It was just today... He was furious and..."

Clint's dark eyes met yours. You had the impression that he was scanning you through, that he read your face before you said anything.

"What was it about?" he asked.

"You."

You saw that he swallowed hard. He could probably guess it. But that wasn't important now.

"What did you do, Clint?" Brown eyes averted from yours. "Did you..."

"I didn't kill him, even though he deserved it." he replied, his voice stern and cold. "You can be sure that he'll think twice before he lays a finger on a woman. And I also met with Max. He'll take care of him properly."

Although his voice scared you, you felt a spark of satisfaction burning in your chest. Your guy wasn't perfect, but you didn't expect that from him. The infatuation made you blind to his dark side and it was only what happened that brought you back to earth.

"Thank you..." your voice was quiet but determined "Thank you, Clint."

"He'll never touch you again, I promise. And if he tried..."

He flinched as he felt your hand close around his and squeeze slightly.

"Thank you."

He looked at you. Clint's eyes were full of everything, even the things he couldn't say.

"You know, he was jealous of you." You said, looking down, feeling how pathetic your words might be. "I told him that we were just friends, that he had nothing to worry about. That you never looked at me differently. But he..."

Clint cleared his throat and straightened up. "What did he say?"

"Ummm, he said that one of his friends saw us. He also knew that we met a few times at the video store." You snorted. "I told him that we never... That it was stupid, because you never..."

"He was right to feel insecure." Clint mumbled. "But I would never do something that you wouldn't want me to do."

It was a shock. You stared at Clint like he was crazy. Yes, he was nice to you, he treated you differently than your boyfriend and his friends, but you would never think...

And those accidental touches? His lingering gaze, even when you weren't looking? And somehow you always met him when you were alone and in neutral places. Clint never treated you like others. He was different. Maybe you even waited for these meetings?

"I should apologize to you." he said after a moment of silence. "If I knew that my attention would bring something like this to you... You didn't deserve it."

"Clint, you're not the one who did this to me. Don't say that. If I had something against it, or if you crossed the line, I would have told you, I swear."

"But if it wasn't for me..."

"I don't want to think about what would have happened if it wasn't for you."

Your words hung between you. Clint stared at you, and you didn't look away either. Maybe that's when it hit you. You were free. You were safe. And it was all thanks to Clint.

"Thank you, Clint. Thank you for what you did. You didn't have to..."

"But I wanted to, baby girl. I would have done much more to keep you safe."

You didn't need more. Your warm hands cupped his face, and you moved closer, kissing his soft lips tenderly. You were pleased to feel his hands grip your waist, kneading your body gently. He wanted you, what a relief.

Clint ran his tongue over your lower lip, and when you spread them apart, he pushed it deeper, drawing a sweet moan from your throat. You had no idea how long he had been waiting for this, to be able to feel your taste, or the warmth of your body. You didn't protest when he laid you on the bed and covered you with his solid body. Kisses went down to your neck and collarbone, his hand slid under your shirt.

"Tell me you want this..." he whispered. "Tell me you want me."

"I want you. I want you so bad, Clint."

He wanted to have time to take care of you, to caress your body like you deserved, but that would have to wait until next time. Deft fingers unbuttoned the belt of his pants and his hard cock slipped out of his jeans, leaking and hot.

"Shit!" he hissed as you grabbed him, stroking several times. "I've thought about it so many times. About you."

"Yeah? And what did you think?" you whispered, seeing him close his eyes from the pleasure you were giving him.

"I've thought about what I would do with you if I had the chance and if you only wanted me. You were always so fucking hot with that expression on your face."

"What?" you chuckled. "What are you talking about?"

He smiled as if he remembered something pleasant. A colossal hand pulled up your denim skirt and grabbed the edge of your panties.

"I-don't-give-a-damn-about-you-all" face." he replied, sliding them down your thighs to your ankles "But when you looked at me, that's when I saw the real you. Just the way you are, baby girl."

You were speechless for a moment. 

"Does that surprise you?" he asked, his fingers sliding over your slippery folds "I wouldn't be in this shit hole if it wasn't for you. And that weird idiot who thought you were his." Two fingers slid inside you unexpectedly stretching you pleasantly. "You deserve a real man who will take care of you, the way it should be done."

The fingers started moving faster and you clenched your hands on Clint's broad shoulders trying to hold back a moan. His thumb found your clit and pressed it, then began to make small and fast circles. Your nerves were raging, and your walls were spasmodically clenching around his fingers. You didn't even feel when his lips pressed against your collarbone and left a mark there, a mark that you were his.

"Oh, I can feel you squeezing my fingers. I'm sure you'll do the same with my cock, right? Good girl." his lips brush your ear. "Come, come on my fingers, then I'll give you what you really want."

Your body was completely obedient to him, in an instant your walls tightened around his fingers, and a moan of ecstasy escaped your throat. It was as if someone had restarted your brain and you finally started seeing everything clearly.

It wasn't accidental, nothing with Clint was accidental. Of course, he didn't want to expose you, he knew that your guy could be impulsive and stupid, he counted on you to understand what you got yourself into. So he was next to you, watching over you even though you didn't know about it. 

All those tender and small touches, accidental glances - those were his stolen moments with you. That was all until you looked at him differently, until you saw that you could be treated better. Because Clint would definitely treat you like his lady.

"I want you inside." You panted, and he smiled "I want you inside me, Clint. Now."

"What my baby girl wants, she gets." he murmured.

His tip slid over your heated entrance and he slid inside you in one hard motion, all the way to the base. Damn, he was huge and for a moment you lost your breath.

"I've got you. I've got you. I know it's a lot, but you're doing great." he murmured, kissing your neck and chin. "Now I'm going to start moving. Slowly and..."

Neither of you were ready for this. Your bodies seemed to work together perfectly, as if they had always fit together. Eventually, the room filled with your quickened breaths, moans, and the sounds of skin slapping against skin. 

Even though he seemed dominant, you didn't feel threatened by him, quite the opposite. His eyes stared at you with delight. Clint wanted to see everything, every grimace, hear every sigh he had caused. To him, you were a dream come true, something he wanted to hold in his arms but didn't believe would ever happen.

But in that moment, you were real. His cock deep inside you, your thighs gripping him tightly, and your nails digging into his shoulders. He didn't want to be anywhere else but right there with you.

"I've wanted you for so long." he gasped, feeling like he couldn't hold it in any longer.

"And now you have me... You have me, Clint."

As he kissed your lips your body gave in, another wave of pleasure flooded your senses, your back arched and legs clenched tighter, pressing Clint harder against you. He only managed to slam into you a few more times as he flooded your walls with warm seed. A strangely but familiar taste appeared in his mouth and he opened his eyes, moving his face away from yours.

"Oh, poor thing." he sighed.

Your lower lip, from the force of his kiss, cracked again and began to bleed slightly. Clint rubbed it and kissed it lightly.

"What now?" you asked. "I can't stay here."

“Let’s stay here for a while. Michael won’t be mad.” Clint replied and slid off of you, laying on his side and watching you carefully. “You can stay with me if you want. Would you like that?”

For a moment you stared at the creamy ceiling, feeling his cum lazily drip down your thigh. In a few hours, everything changed. The pace was terrifying, but Clint… You felt like you really wanted to jump on that train. Take a chance.

"Yeah, I guess so." You replied.

You smiled, feeling his fingertips run over your chin, neck all the way to your sternum. His eyes were glued to you, he wanted to remember you from that first time with him. Your glowing skin, parted lips, tousled hair... Everything about you was perfect.

"Will you have breakfast with me? I know a good place."

You turned your head and smiled. "Breakfast? Don't you want to invite me to dinner?"

"Breakfast will be sooner, baby girl." Clint replied and leaned down, kissing your lips gently.

"I would love to."

You jumped on that train and let yourself be carried away.

With Clint.

☆☆☆☆

Thank you for your time.

[anika-ann]

The (Un)Expected - S.R.

Type: one-shot, soulmate AU, good ol' meet-cute (soulmates meeting for the first time prompt)

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader   Word Count: 8k

Summary: 

A soulmark shows the first words your soulmate will speak to you. A soulmark tells you there is the person for you out there. A soulmark tells you what to expect.

For that, Steve’s is a source of comfort and anxiety to him. You always had a complicated relationship with yours.

But maybe they will teach you a lesson in the end – that the only thing one should really expect, is the unexpected.

Warnings: brief angst, mention of cancer (not reader), canon-typical violence, mention of death (no major character), blood and injuries, language, FLUFF so take it easy on sugar before reading

A/N: written for the Community Revival Extravaganza hosted by the wonderful @stargazingfangirl18 and @labella420 . Thank you both so much for hosting and stirring life in the fandom! I loved seeing the traffic and positivity on my dash - you're doing god's work 💕

A/N 2: DIVIDER by @firefly-graphics; enjoy y'all 🥰

Steve Rogers was a sickly child.

He spent too much time to his liking in his bed – and even more time outside of it despite feeling sick for he couldn’t bear resting anymore, craving to explore the world instead – and was sneaked into a doctor’s office by his mother quite often as well. She only got him in as a favour, courtesy of her own good name – a nurse working double shifts and lending a helping hand wherever she could, a single mother working herself to a bone to take care of and set example to her only son.

A single mother, a nurse, a good person – a beautiful soul. She left this world too soon, but she left an imprint on Steve’s heart larger than any other person, perhaps besides Bucky, ever could.

All that told him, even as indirectly, that his soulmate would be one special dame. She would be kind, she would be brilliant and for that alone, he knew she would be beautiful.

Steve knew that as soon as he could read, as soon as he could decipher the words on his skinny forearm.

In a world where first words your soulmate would tell you were laced into your skin for you and your soulmate’s eyes to see only, his words told him his soulmate was a little miracle.

'I’m not a doctor yet.'

Steve had spent a fair amount of time around nurses and doctors to know that all nurses were women and the overwhelming majority of doctors were men – by the time he was ten, barely a few women were allowed to attend medical schools, let alone graduate. But you, you would be on your way to reach that. Brilliant. Driven. Desiring to help people, to heal.

It was only when other children, other guys and girls alike, began laughing at him for being too little, too weak, too bony, when his heart began to ache for a different reason than illness. If you were to be all these amazing things he had dreamed of, what were you to do with a sickly fella like him? With your words to him being these, it was a fair assumption to make that you would meet due to his health issues, perhaps a smart dame taken under a more experienced doctor’s wing during your studies. How disappointed you would be when your soulmate, the one person meant for you and chosen by destiny itself, would be… that?

That upsetting idea haunted him, hurting more than the bruises that had formed under fists of bullies Steve kept trying to save those even weaker than him from, more than stick and stones and words alike.

Then again… there was a little silver of hope in his heart, a little shy voice in his head. If you were to be his true love, then certainly you’d accept him, yes? If he tried, if he tried hard enough to be a good man, the best possible version of himself, if he worked hard to protect and feed his future family, set a good example for your future children as his mother had, worked towards making a better world, you’d accept him? If he could live with not being as great as others but never stopped trying, you would respect him and perhaps even loved him for what he was?

Then, of course, war came and those thoughts were pushed aside.

Then, he grabbed at his chance to fight that war, to do his part, to help – and incidentally, he also earned his chance to literally grow. Healthy. Strong. More worthy; but remaining good, because that was the one part of him he wanted to hold on to no matter what, that one part he would wish his love, wherever she was, would love him for, even if he suddenly shrank back into the back of skin and bones he used to be.

Then, he lost his best friend Turned into a failure.

And then… then he died.

One of his last thoughts were of you, a beautiful woman with vague appearance but strikingly kind heart and sharp mind. He prayed you’d get a new soulmate somehow, even as those cases weren’t heard of. He prayed you’d live a happy healthy life without him, at least as good as he would have tried his best to give you, to build with you, even as his own heart was breaking to pieces, regret veiling his body as water and snow and icy wind would, regret for missing his chance to meet the most special person in his world.

When he closed his eyes and still saw the white of ice and the blue of the deep sea, he’d swear he saw your face, crystal clear, for the first time – and the last time – in his life.

Seeing you, a stunning mirage, his last thought was that you were an angel gently leading him into afterlife.

When he woke up to a new millennium, one of the first things he did was checking his forearm; he words still sat there, taunting, mocking and heartbreaking, another screaming reminder of him not belonging here.

As years passed by, the sense of alienation subdued. Steve Rogers learned to belong, even as a piece of his heart was missing, longing for the past life – and the life he had never got to have – always humming in his chest quietly.

The mark on his forearm remained, a sad memento to a soulmate he had never met, turning him into a martyr.

But many people had rejected the idea of soulmates in this time, rebelling against their so-called fate, taking off on a path of searching love on their own. Steve learned they did so for various reasons – a sense of adventure before they’d truly find their one true love, a quest to choose the fortune and love on their own terms, a fuck-you to the universe when their soulmate turned out to be less than they imagined and hoped.

His own reasons, as he reluctantly started to look for a person to share his life with, were rather unique, but no one looked at him through their fingers for that. If anything, those who cared about him encouraged him, wishing for his happiness.

It was only when he got Bucky back – one of his greatest regrets not erased, not lessened since Bucky had endured unimaginable pain, but transformed, a piece of Steve’s past brought back to life – that he began to wonder about the almost blasphemous thought he had forbid himself from entertaining when he had been first brought back to life from ice.

Were you still there somewhere?

And then, a shier thought:

Is there still a chance for me to find my true soulmate?

And then, the shiest one of them all:

Is there a chance for me to find happiness with you?

When he had thought of that before, he was certain that since you were still alive – he had read reports of people claiming their soulmark changed colours if their loved one died – he had thought of you as an old lady who had hopefully lived her life as he had genuinely wished for her.

But what if fate, that little minx who had taken his best friend for life from him only to give him back, had somehow blessed Steve with a soulmark decades before you were even born? What he hadn’t lost his chance, what if you were still young enough to build a life with him? Was that even possible? There were aliens, flying suits of armour, other realms, downright magical weapons… he had been given a second chance at life. There were things happening Steve would have never thought possible before. So was there a chance…?

The idea of you being a doctor became much more plausible too – in this century, female doctors were a much more common occurrence. That, naturally, did not diminish your brilliance whatsoever, the fundamental idea of who you’d be never changing in Steve’s mind. The image only became less surreal in one way and a whole lot more surreal in another.

For his own sake, he didn’t give in into that hope fully; at least he told himself that despite lying awake at night, a ghost of a woman he had never met lying next to him, radiating non-existent warmth he wished with his whole being he could touch.

He wasn’t chasing after the ghost, didn’t allow himself that – there was no way to do so to his knowledge anyway – for the chances of success were rather slim.

But there was always hope, wasn’t there?

And the longing for love, whether it was in the hands of fate or in his own to find it, remained, built into his very body; etched into his bones, flowing through his veins, laced into his skin beyond the words on his forearm, always humming quietly in his heart.

In the age of information and science, the concept of having your ideal partner for life chosen by some mysterious abstract entity called Fate was literally otherworldly. Alien. Absurd even.

And yet, it still ruled the lives of many.

Which, in all honesty, was almost even more fascinating than the existence of soulmarks itself – the belief people had for them despite being no logic to them at all.

Perhaps it was the little piece of human soul, an inner child people so desperately wanted to cling to for its own beauty and purity, a child who never wanted to stop believing in magic, fate, dragons, mighty knights and kind-hearted ladies, in all things of fairytales and happy-endings the most. Because to a point, that was what soulmarks were – and little fairytale-like book of destiny.

One that not even science seemed capable of beating.

And you should know; you were somewhat of a scientist yourself. And despite how unfathomable the nature of soulmates was, you could not say that you rejected the idea of them, of someone who was born to belong with you, someone you could share your life with, the right partner in the crime of life. Basic bodily needs aside, wasn’t that the most fundamental need of all? To love and be loved; to belong?

Who wouldn’t wish for that reassurance that they could have that, that some strange force of universe itself created a person like that for them? They were the god’s strongest soldiers you supposed; because you were certainly not immune to that tempting comfort.

But you weren’t obsessed – and you prided yourself in the fact. Mostly because the sheer fanaticism of the world over soulmarks, the one thing that kept defying science – besides alien portals, magical blue cubes, demigods walking the Earth and things alike – was dialled up ad absurdum.

There could be billions of dollars poured into research of curing cancer. Cure autoimmune diseases. Helping the homeless. Slowing down global warming. Erasing poverty and famine. Protecting nature, endangered species. Discovering new worlds, exploring space.

But no. Governments poured billions of dollars into researching soulmarks. How was it they existed? How was it you could cut through skin, you could cut off skin and the mark would reappear somewhere else? What was the grand scheme of them? Why was it that only two people who belonged together could see them and the person speaking the words could only see it on their soulmate’s skin after they spoke the words, almost like a fail-safe that couldn’t seem to be broken with any tricks?

It wasn’t a question of physics as far as people knew; they had tried to build sets-up of various optics, thermovision cameras and complex sets of lenses and mirrors, and none of the reports you had ever heard of claimed success. It wasn’t genetic markers either; no one had discovered a sequence of DNA responsible for soulmarks, let alone turned whatever discovery they would have made into a tool of reading anyone’s but their own and their soulmate’s mark. It didn’t seem to be chemistry either; no one had made a groundbreaking discovery or at least they hadn’t informed the scientific or any other community so far.

But by gods, forget the space race. Attempting to be the first one to somehow read everyone’s soulmark and then create an algorithm to monetize it as the one and only soulmate dating app, now that was a competition overflowing with cutthroat madmen. Not to mention the crowds looking to temper with soulmarks, to make another one appear on someone’s body; or worse, to erase the original soulmark and instead design one capable of manipulating the outcome of a soulmate match.

You found the force of that obsession insane – and frankly, all the attempts morally wrong. While dedicated to science and loyal to discovery, you found soulmarks to be something sacred, one of the things that should not be touched by filthy human hands; god knew humanity, while doing a lot of good, had mucked up about just as much.

You were not alone in that belief. There were, in fact, numerous demonstrations against scientists experimenting with soulmarks, people protesting against anyone creating such tool and using it to temper with natural course of things no one fully understood, not for the lack of trying. However – as expected everywhere where politics and money were involved – these protests were in vain.

They were as vain and futile as the research of the marks itself.

As for your own soulmark, you had a rather complicated relationship with it.

On one hand, it gave you a sense of peace – there was someone for you, even as sometimes it did not feel plausible at all. You had time too – because based on those words, you would not meet your soulmate until in your twenties at least. You had plenty of time to become who you were meant to be before a man could turn your life upside down, even as that was not supposed to be what soulmates did, at least not in a bad sense of the word.  

On the other hand, it was a ball and chain. You would not find you soulmate sooner than in your twenties and sometimes, you missed them despite not having met yet. When imagining what your meeting could be like based on their first words etched into your skin, you feared they might be a little disappointed – even as you did not let that stop you from pursuing the life you wanted. And despite you wanting to choose the career either way, it felt like someone – be it god, fate or another cosmic entity humanity was yet to discover – had chosen the path for you the moment you had been born if not before.

'Doctor, are you alright?'

Four simple words that couldn’t be more ordinary and yet extraordinary for they represented one of the most meaningful encounters of your life. The source of as much comfort as anxiety.

You couldn’t stand hospitals ever since you were a child. The cold environment reminded you of the strange icy feeling that had settled in your chest over the months you had been visiting your dying father, your naïve eyes watching cancer bite off his energy and smiles first, before it swallowed his whole body and soul. He had been a ghost long before he passed; and in your mind, despite all rationality even years after, that ghost haunted any hospital you visited.

Learning what your soulmark was as a child, you had spent countless nights crying, soul torn into pieces, pushed and pulled between the visceral desire to live up to your soulmark and the crippling nausea at the mere thought of dealing with people drowned in misery caused by any illness in the cold institution they called a hospital.

However, the curious kid you had been, you had fallen in love with science itself.

And that one day at school, when a classmate of yours had brought their father to the class to talk about his job as a doctor, you had burst into tears. You began to sob in the middle of him explaining to third-graders that he was not a medical doctor, but a physicist with a doctorate earning him the degree of a doctor as well. You remembered your teacher leading you outside of class, concerned and absolutely baffled, trying to sooth you helplessly even as you were completely inconsolable – because you did not need consolation.

You were crying the happiest, most relieved tears of your life.

You could still be a ‘doctor’. And you genuinely wanted to be one, not just because of what your soulmark read. You had always wished to help people indirectly, even as you looked back at your life now. Sure, your soulmark could have been adding fuel to your drive when your motivation had been running low, but this was who you desired and was meant to become.

A molecular biologist. A doctor in making. Researching the effects of medicinal drugs with hopes to improve them.

A scientist not researching soulmarks, thank you very much.

And yes, there was the lingering feeling of missing a person you hadn’t even met yet – especially when Doctor Simmons’ face lit up like fluorodeoxyglucose in PET scans whenever she saw Doctor Fitz – but you had other things to focus on. And you had time. There was no pressure.

You were not a doctor yet, after all.

Naturally, just because you dodged the joys and sorrows of being a medical student and later on, a medical doctor, it did not mean that you had it easy. No one working on their doctorate did. But when you decided to pursue your degree and work in research, you signed up for that.

You signed up for a lot of things.

It was a little peculiar for you to be on the SHIELD campus in the science division without a doctorate. It was a known fact that SHIELD only recruited best of the best, this Science ad Technology in particular: you needed at least one doctorate to even walk through the door, which was something you were reminded a lot because you did not meet that requirement and here you were.

But SHELD owned the best equipment and you were fortunate enough to get in by the lovely game of fate, being good and driven enough and having met the right people at the right time. SHIELD Academy’s Science & Tech division had the unique equipment you often needed for your research. Your research was interesting enough for people who had perhaps more power over your little life than fate itself. Stars aligned.

It was no walk in a parc, but you were no fool; jumping after that opportunity after having one too many doors shut into your face was a no-brainer. Even though it meant signing up for a whole extra load of shit.

You signed up to be the weird girl. The privileged girl. Hell, even the stupider than local average girl, because you were only an engineer at this point.

You signed up for being the young girl, even as you had met a few people there who had started younger, having actually earned their first PhD at age 17 or less.

You signed up for mockery and misogyny, for as you were aware the level was blissfully low here compared to other workplaces, especially where science was concerned; in exact science, you observed, more than anywhere you ever heard of, it was customary to keep that one insufferable employee, because they were simply that good at their job, no matter that they had cost the department a few other employees.

You signed up for living on campus with other SHIELD recruits, which meant living in close quarters with other divisions; as a result, some days the whole area seemed to swim in testosterone emitted by the hulking special agents in making from Operations.  

But that was okay. You could do it.

There were bright sides too, many of them. Like pursuing your dream career. Being among like-minded people whose brain, to a large point, ran on the same wavelength. Hooking up with a handsome but notbrainless recruit from Operations or Communication here and there, some flings, some relationships, because if you were to wait for the love of your life, you might as well not wither completely. You were only human and you had needs along with your lifegoals.

You more than willingly signed up for working with Agent slash Doctor Jemma Simmons.  With her two PhDs and rich experience from the field, she had left the action behind in order to work on her third PhD and help humanity without having her life on the line every day. She was hard-working, with no-nonsense approach and lovely sense of humour with plenty of stories to back it up; she was overall pleasant person to work and be friends with and despite having been through amazing and terrifying experiences other people couldn’t even imagine, she remained surprisingly down-to-Earth.

Sure, she had her quirks like insisting on having a gun at hand at all times and stashing a few small vials of altered Molotov cocktail, a mixture of chemicals which would ignite upon the vial breaking, in one of the nearby cabinets – but you supposed there were worst things to get used to than that in a coworker or a friend. She used to be an active agent after all; in fact, unofficially, she remained one. Much like anyone, you knew that certain habits died hard and being through what she had been – she confessed to you that she once spent months on a nearly deserted ancient planet, among other things – left a mark. If this made her feel safer, you’d take it.

Another great thing about Jemma, Doctor Simmons, was that she was adorably English and was in dedicated relationship with Doctor Fitz who was a Scotsman, so that was the spice of long workdays at times; especially if you agreed to play Scrabble with them and a few friends in the evening.

But there were things you had not signed up for when following the alluring promise of a prestigious spot and unique equipment.

And one of them was a damn Nazi revival group in the form of fucking HYDRA attacking the lab while you were in the peaceful process of waiting for your PCR to finally be finished.

Influx of men in full tactical gear interrupting Jemma updating you the vacation plans, Fiji and all the rare species of fishes that could be observed there when scuba diving.

When you heard the first shouts, breaking of glass and dull echoes of gunshots from afar, your immediate thought was that you had been having a good day and that the experiment had been coming along nicely – and that whatever mess was happening was for sure about to ruin all your progress.

By the time panic settled in, Jemma was practically tackling you down, hand over your mouth to muffle your startled squeak at the sudden movement, her eyes alert and serious, screaming at you to keep quiet.

The sickening shouts of HAIL HYDRA, COOPERATE AND YOU’LL GET HURT LESS was what sent your brain crashing into reality; that and the distant agonized cries of people, coworkers and recruits you knew and met in the hallways every day, following the sounds of gunshots growing in volume and frequency.

You could hear Jemma shuffling next to you further.

You yourself were unable to move beyond stifling a cry behind your suddenly sweaty palm as another female voice wailed in pain.

Blood seemed to freeze in your veins despite your heart thundering in your ribcage and your temples and it helped you shit at all that you were aware that was such thing was literally impossible. By the time Jemma’s hand grabbed yours again and squeezed hard, you realized you were shaking – half in anger, half in paralyzing fear, half in utter shock. It didn’t matter it didn’t add up.

What mattered was the gun in Jemma’s hand. She was holding a gun, ready to shoot, because there were enemy agents, fucking HYDRA burst through the door, guns blazing. And killing people.

You were whispering with exasperation worth of a shout before you knew what you were doing.

“Why?! Why the fuck-“

“Probably the samples they brought in today, precious cargo,” Jemma whispered back frantically, loading the gun and reaching into another cabinet behind her. You only stared at her in utter confusion and mute horror, rapid heavy footsteps approaching and sending your already racing heart into a madness. “Gun or cocktails?”

“I can’t shoot a-!”

Before you could finish, the familiar sound of the sliding door opening and a horrifying echo of tactical boots reached your ears, a set of vials pressed into your palm.

You gulped, pulse thundering in your temples.

Those goddamn Simmons’ cocktails as you named them since she had insisted on keeping around.

You couldn’t believe the moment was here that you were actually grateful for them, even as they seemed to burn in your hand even with the vials themselves intact.

Your eyes snapped to Jemma’s face to question it wordlessly at least, but she wasn’t looking at you; she was listening intently, lying in wake as if she was the predator and not the prey you felt like.

Your own breathing seemed too loud as you allowed yourself to squeeze your eyes shut for but a moment, a desperate attempt to wake up from the nightmare; but the morning didn’t come.

Instead, a gunshot rang in the room, glass shattering somewhere above your head to your right, sending a waterfall of shards flying next to you.

And causing you to cry out in fright.

Which revealed your position to the agents flowing into the lab.

Without a thought you snapped your eyes opened, jumped to your feet and threw two vials in the direction of a black blur with a shockingly clear red patch of the mythical Hydra monster in the middle; peripherally, you saw Jemma attacking as well, deafening noise of gunshot nearly blowing your eardrum.

You crouched back behind the counter so fast you felt vertigo swing you to the left, sharp pain erupting from your palm. It was pure miracle your right hand didn’t clench in instinct and shatter the two remaining vials, setting yourself on fire as well.

As well.

Someone was screaming – a man, you realized – the acid smell of burned flesh and plastic and various chemicals punching your nose and your stomach hard. You had hit someone with the vial. They screamed because of what you had done. You had-

You had no time to feel sorry. You had no time to properly think fucking serves them right.

More steps, more gunshots, movements you weren’t sure how happened or came to you in the first place, flashes of light and crimson and noise and godawful smell--- and pain erupting in the back of your head and suddenly you were barely catching yourself on the counter with your slippery palm--- your fingers brushed metal, knees weak but hands grabbing with all your might, lifting and swinging, a sickening crack on your right before you were falling, landing on your wrist, back hitting the cabinet door and making even more noise as you sent equipment clattering around.

However, the loudest sound was another gunshot; but the strangest sound was unfamiliar whizzing and metal hitting metal and someone most definitely shouting “clear!” that sounded as distant as a whisper over the ringing in your ears.

Instinctively, your head snapped to the voice as you tried to prop up on your hands to see; the world swam in front of your eyes, dizziness forcing you to fall back on your ass and squeeze your eyes shut in hopes to stop the world from spinning, a sting in your palm drawing a hiss from your lips.

You could hear Jemma’s talking to someone, her words blurred into a mumble despite her voice sounding firm and methodical; footsteps, quick and heavy but somewhat soft, accompanied by a brush of air against your skin, making you open your eyes again just as navy blue with speckles of silvery grey glinting in a flickering light filled your vision.

Then, a face; an extremely handsome face even as a helmet made of blue similar to the rest of his suit covered the upper half of it, framing a pair of the dreamiest blue eyes you had ever seen, as beautiful as blurry as a dream indeed.

Somewhere in the back of your brain it started clicking into place – that the man in front of you looked a whole lot like Captain America and he was there to kick HYDRA’s ass; he was hunk and looked righteous and unfairly pretty, the cut of his jaw sharp enough to appear as if sculpted by ancient masters of art and it might be softened by the leather strap holding his helmet in place but that only brought out the sheer beauty of his lips even with a small bloody split on them.

And he was talking to you, his leather-clad hand gently grasping your arm as you involuntarily swayed to side when moving your head to take in the entirety of his large figure.

“Doctor, are you alright?” he asked slowly, velvety voice sweet and heavy with concern at once, the gentle but firm hold on your arm growing stronger when you blinked owlishly, the connection between the meaning of his words and his apparent intention to talk to you slow and fragile.

Your tongue felt as if made of lead even as it tasted of bitterness of adrenalin, but you willed yourself to answer, a knee-jerk reaction more than anything else.

“’mm… not a doctor yet.”

As you responded, you brain began to clear; and it occurred to you that it was a fair assumption for him to make.

You had grown used to clarifying, but hadn’t done so in months, because everyone already knew. However, he was an outsider to this lab and he couldn’t know you were the exception to the local rule. And you were wearing a lab coat, one that now had to be covered in mixture of chemicals you did not wish to identify, but perhaps you should try, because your forearm was beginning to burn.

The beautiful man kneeling in front of you silently observed you for what seemed like an eternity and half, surprise written all over his face. You couldn’t blame him; you were the weirdo of the lab. The fact the person who had purposely stacked explosives at hand was less of an anomaly than that was a thing to consider, but your head hurt too much to think about that and your heart was still beating unhealthily fast and his error seemed so insignificant in the grand scheme of things of HYDRA having attacked your lab and Captain America being right in front of you, holding onto your arm.

His soft baffled smile as he hung his head and shook it a bit with a breathless chuckle, and then lifted his downright shining gaze back to you, well that certainly made for a spectacular distraction from such unimportant thoughts.

Did his thumb just brush your arm as he still held you up a bit?

And had anyone ever told him he had a stunning smile that could melt hearts even if it was barely there and it was certainly melting yours?

“Apologies, miss. I’m going to help you get to medical, alright?” he suggested, those damn gorgeous eyes roaming your face with what almost seemed like wonder, even as his voice sounded all kinds of reassuring. “You’re safe now, I promise.”

Safe. You were safe. Because there had been HYDRA agents, but Captain America and actual SHIELD operatives had come to the rescue. And because Jemma was-

Jemma. Your straightened, dull ache pounding in your back as you did so, vision clearing a fraction with the sudden realization that you couldn’t hear your friend anymore. Your friend whom you owed your life very likely, but even if you didn’t, you would have-

You craned your neck over Captain America’s impressive frame, head snapping from left to right, nausea rising with the movement, but that didn’t matter, you had to-

You turned your alarmed gaze back to the man who was still holding you, an urgent question on your lips.

“Jemma? Is she--- Doctor Simmons, brunet, lab coat-“ you paused, realizing bitterly that you had just described half of the Science and Technology. “Female. She’s a doctor and an agent too, she was with me had a gu-“

A warm squeeze on your arm, the concern which had grown even more evident on Captain’s face melting away and giving way to a soothing smile.

“She’s alright. She’s already left to be checked up and to give her statement.”

Your shoulders sagged, your head dropping a bit; the violent vertigo that seized your body at that was not pleasant and you tried to blink it away, gaze catching the reflection of the still-blinking fluorescent lamp on the Captain’s shield.

Oh. That was probably what had made the whizzing sound before. As your brain conjured an image of that, a spinning shield flying through the air, you cursed yourself mentally for letting your mind even go there since you had already felt like you were the flying piece of metal and the thing you’d hit eventually would be the floor.

“My head is spinning,” you muttered absently as you attempted to refocus your gaze, praying to gods of religion and science alike you wouldn’t throw up on the poor caring man.

Why was he still sitting here with you? Surely there were much more important things to tend to than one little post-grad? How was he so kind and gentle? Wasn’t he known for inspiring speeches in a deep serious voice and for beating up villains with both his physical strength and brains?

So many questions and no answer in those pretty blue eyes.

In fact, the number of your questions grew exponentially when the hand on your arm released the pressure and gently rubbed your elbow instead; his free hand carefully cradled the back of your other hand, the contrast of leather and his warm skin surprisingly sensual, suddenly making you understand why so many regency era literature spoke of hand-holding as indecent even as it was barely Fifty Shades of Grey level of filth.  

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Captain Rogers said, snapping you from your thoughts. “Let me help you up and they’ll check you up too, including this nasty cut, okay?”

Huh?

Purposely slowly as not to make the vertigo worse, you glanced at your hand in his, feeling a fresh sting just by looking at your palm, your gaze instantly snapping away.

And falling straight onto two intact vials full of liquid of a distinct colour, lying carelessly about two feet away from Steve Rogers’ tactical boots. Your heart jumped in your chest, your hazy mind finally growing aware of your surroundings.

“Shoot! Careful around those, they’re highly flammable!” you warned him swiftly, his gaze snapping to the vials in question, while ours slowly trailed over the utter, utter messthe lab had become.

The sheer amount of broken glass, spilled chemicals, broken pipettes, torn papers and unidentifiable piles of junk was staggering and it was actually a miracle nothing had exploded yet – and as a cherry on top, a few feet away, a relatively small portable PCR machine, the very equipment you had been using, downright murdered along with your experiment and a smudge of blood around it. Jesus.

“Okay, that’s good to know. More the reason to get out,” Captain Rogers remarked, slight amusement lacing his voice, only growing stronger as he continued. “Keep a lot of these around?”

You could have scoffed, but you didn’t. You have no idea, pal.

“My friend is paranoid…” you explained, still staring at them, even as you mentally added ‘or not’, since those little things might have very well saved your life. As your gaze returned to Captain Rogers, your eyes caught on something else, having you sit up straighter in sheer horror. “Is that a stab wound?!”

You gulped at the sight, even as your uninjured hand instinctively reached out towards it – as if you could fix it. The already dark suit, a lovely navy blue, appeared downright black at left his side, right where it seemed to be singed by a flame.

Had that injury been there the whole damn time he had been sitting here with you, eternally patient with your slowed brain, Simmons’ cocktails lying around in one huge chemical dump in risk of exploding any damn minute?

You logically knew the answer had to be yes, but it made zero sense – and his answer made even less sense.

“Bullet, actually. Some sort of chemical damaged the Kevlar lining and they got a lucky hit. It’s just a graze.”

“A gra-“ you choked on the word, spit stuck in your throat causing you to cough and a groan escape past your lips as the sudden rapid movement sent your head pounding again.

“Hey, you-“

“You’ve been shot and you called my cut nasty?” you questioned through the tears, earning a smile worth giving up a career for – painfully warm, kind and… almost fond.

You truly must have hit your head hard.

…as if it hadn’t been evident before.

“I heal fast. You don’t need to worry about me. I’ll be alright, doc.”

A knee-jerk reaction – again. What was it with him? Had he hit his head, forgetting you had already explained – you had, you hadn’t imagined that, right? – and now he called you a doctor again, turned into a familiar nickname, no less.

“I’m not a doct---- holy shit.”

It slammed into you like a train, struck you like a lightning, even as neither of those things had ever happened to you – yet, you imagined it had to feel like this.

A massive force, a force of nature, realization as bright and as unexpected as a lightning from a clear sky.

Doctor, are you alright?

He had asked that. He had asked that. He had said your words. He had said your goddamn soulmate’s first words to you, what must have been minutes ago, and only now it hit you.

You were left staring at him with wide eyes, myriad of emotions written all over his face, including  slight amusement and what you had earlier inexplicably identified as fondness, because the reason why he was still sitting here with you – though perhaps that was what he always did when rescuing, what did you know, you didn’t, this was your first meeting, that was why he had said the words – was that unlike you, he had realized you were his soulmate right away.

He kept watching you, silently letting you process the crucial revelation, a tight but no less kind smile on his lips.

“You said my words,” you said oh so intelligently. “You--- what… what did I—say?”

It was perhaps the stupidest question of all you could have come up on the spot, but you genuinely couldn’t remember – and wanted to know what words he had been looking at his whole life.

…this part of life? Or before the ice too? How did he feel about that? How did he feel about you? Was he disappointed? He didn’t look like he was, but didn’t even know what you had said—

What you did know and remember was that you were supposed to be smart and yet it had taken you an eternity to even notice you were facing your soulmate you had been probably spewing complete nonsense, you were now stammering like an idiot and for someone who had been worried, always, even if in the back of their mind, if their soulmate would find them good enough, you were generally making a bloody awful first impression.

But seriously, what had been your first words-

“You said you weren’t a doctor yet,” Captain Rogers reminded you, voice soft with affection of someone who had imagined hearing those words at least as many times as you had wondered about yours, hoping they would be pronounced by someone who’d respect you and cared about what kind of person you were, and would hopefully, eventually care for you. Loved you even. The tender way the syllables rolled of his tongue, spoken as if they tasted of honey, nearly chased fresh tears to your eyes. Alright, perhaps your first impression hadn’t been as bad as it appeared in your – albeit injured – head.  “But if you really don’t remember saying that, that’s not a good sign. We need to get you medical attention. Come on. Hold on.”

Blinking slowly, still processing the light and yet suffocating feeling that found residence in your chest as it was starting to truly settle that this man, this painfully beautiful and criminally gentle man, was your soulmate, he was leaning closer to you, his hands guiding yours to wrap around his neck, a wordless order you had obediently followed, and then one of his arms was sliding under your knees and his other wrapping around the middle of your back.

And then your vertigo hit you anew because you were suddenly up in the air, hands gripping hard at anything you could reach – conveniently, the only thing was him, because he had lifted you upin his arms, some of your weight resting against his chest – despite the pain that shot up your left hand.

“Whoa-“ And then, because your memory did serve you at least a little: “You--- have been stabbed.”

“Shot,” he repeated patiently, fondly almost, and you did recall he had said that.

You recalled despite the scent of pleasant aftershave and peak man suddenly enveloping you as much as his arms and the firm armour – or perhaps that was the muscles underneath? And those pretty blue eyes were watching you with a glint of amusement and a surprising amount of affection for a guy saying he had been hit by a bullet, while effortlessly carrying the girl he had just met in his-- very, very strong, muscly arms and perhaps your head was not only spinning because of the sudden height you found yourself at.

…amusement? How was he amused? Was that-- was that a joke? Was he making fun of his bullet wound, playing it down? 

“That’s… really not better.”

He grinned down at you as he made his way to the exit.

Walking. Watching you. Grinning and not even really looking where he was stepping.

Oh no.

Oh no, he was one of those people. You had met men like him at Operations, except for some reason – perhaps some sort of a soulmate telepathy – you had a feeling in him, that the peculiar recklessness many people from suffered, the disregard for their safety, because they could handle it, was dialled up to eleven in him. On a one to five scale. Because scaling mattered; you were a scientist. You’d know.

However, he did make it out of the laboratory without blowing anything up – perhaps at least that recklessness was balanced up by enhanced senses of a supersoldier and indeed, healing fast. And you hoped with your whole heart that walking out unscathed was a conscious effort, be it for him (somehow you doubted that) or for the cargo he was carrying (you had no doubt about that, not when he was looking at you like that). At least he had kept the helmet on; you were thankful for that, even as you’d love to see him without it.

See your soulmate.

You knew what he looked like everyone knew what he looked like. If they had missed the WW II. ed, they could barely miss the news about an alien invasion he had had a hand in stopping, the fall of majority of SHIELD, and other exciting horrifying news.

“I’ll be fine, doc. Now let’s get you away from exploding vials and lab equipment you could knock me out with. I’d rather be safe when I ask you out for dinner.”

You gulped, gripping him a bit tighter as a memory hit you – literally.

The PCR machine. You had done that. You had grabbed it and used it to smash into a HYDRA agent’s face, using the nearest improvised tool of defence. Jesus.

I really did that?

“You… saw that?” was what you asked instead, a few second ticking by as the rest of his words registered in your brain – and god, you really hoped your cognitive abilities would restore soon and the head injury had not caused permanent damage. “Oh.”

As much as your heart started pounding at that, a pleasant somersault in your stomach for a change, it was a little unfair to sort-of ask you when you were in your current predicament. Being carried like that, so close to him, so gentlemanly and tenderly handled despite your weight no doubt straining him, especially since he had been shot – grazed –, yoursenses wrapped in everything that was him and pulling you in, you were fairly certain you might say yes to just about anything he’d ask.

And not just because he was your soulmate.

Your soulmate carrying you in his arms, while wearing a very flattering suit of armour.

“If you’d like, of course,” he added with slight hesitance that only made your heart race further, because he was laying out his own heart for you already, expressive, genuine, and maybe sweetly handsy but not pushy despite his title and rank technically giving him every right to do whatever the hell he wanted. “But either way, I’ll save the real question for when I know you’re not suffering from a concussion. That sounds good?”

“Yes, Captain,” you replied dutifully. It did sound good, his consideration warming you from inside out. His voice sounded good too. “Sounds good to me.”

His smile was bright as the sun itself and basking in its light and warmth felt just as precious. Except he was to be your private sun forever shared with other to a point, but yours. Chosen by fate itself, defying all you had ever believed, beating time by decades, only so you could find each other.

“Looking forward to it, doc. Maybe I’ll get to know your name too while we’ll be at it,” he teased lightly, but without malice. “My name is Steve.”

Steve.

You knew that. You liked that.

Hand trembling a little, but not because you worried he’d drop you as you partly let go of his shoulders, you reached for the clasp on his helmet, a fluttery feeling in your chest eager to indeed see Steve rather than the Captain.

You felt your lips curl up and mirror his when he gave a tiny nod at your brief hesitation, your fingers finally undoing the strap and revealing his face with his help.

His hair was adorably ruffled, a slight shade of dust on his cheeks whispering of where the protective gear had been; but scientifically speaking, as well as speaking directly from heart, he was absolutely beautiful, his tender smile telling you he thought the very same about you.

He was meant to be yours; as you were meant to be his.

And you couldn’t wait to get to know him.

You could tell there were people around you and they were probably staring; but for the moment, you didn’t care at all. You had just met your soulmate.

And you weren’t even a doctor yet.

“It’s really nice to meet you, Steve. But I have to admit…” you said, teasing him with a pause, rewarded by his eyes earning a curious glint, “that the Doc nickname is kinda growing on me.”

Complete masterlist

Steve Rogers masterlist

Oh this feels like coming back to my roots 🤭 but hey, this challenge is a revival of all thigs good of the past, so why not go with the good old-fashioned soulmate meet-cute with a little angst beforehand, right?

AND BEHOLD I WROTE SOMETHING SHORTER THAN 10K. SHORTER THAN 8K ACTUALLY! It’s an extravaganza miracle 😂

Also. There might be some unrelated smut in the works, but I will not finish that today so... won't be part of the cum together extravaganza... ah well 🤭

Thank you for reading and potential feedback 💕

May the Fourth be with you and the rest of May be kind ✨

[wcnderlnds]

breathe on me | ham dae-gil

・❥・ summary: daegil teaches you how to play cards so you take it one step further challenging him to a game of strip poker ・❥・word count: 2.2k ・❥・warnings: 18+, MDNI. unprotected p in v, oral (f reciveing), fingering, slight overstimulation, a little rough??, female reader, gambling, smoking ・❥・ authors note: ...this might be the filthiest thing i've wrote so far im so sorry. i just love tazza and daegil 😭 also shoutout to my girl @infinetlyforgotten for giving me the idea for this <3

The world of gambling was a dangerous game. All it took was for someone to get involved in one game and they were hooked. Winning or losing didn’t matter, it was the promise of the possibility of money that kept the gambling world afloat. As long as people thought they’d win, there would never be a shortage of gambling dens and casinos. It could be a dark, dark world. Often people went missing, injured or even had their organs taken if they couldn’t pay back the money they owed. It wasn’t for the weak-hearted.

A job was a job so when you had been offered one in the casino, you decided to take it. There was nothing special about it; all you had to do was take drinks to people and look pretty. It was easy and who didn’t love an easy job for some cash? Sure, some of the men were vile, expecting you to offer other services but you made it very clear that if they even tried, you’d make them regret it. In this world, you had to be strong willed, sure of yourself and thankfully, you were. It did make you wonder why someone like Ham Daegil was part of this world, though. That was until you saw him play.

He was one of the best players you’d seen. His fingers fast, his brain constantly turning as he figured out his next move. He was a true hustler, the cocky smirk when he knew he was about to win, it did something to you. There was an aura about him, he was someone that people were easily drawn to – you included. There had been times you’d seen him around the casino, offering him a drink and taking part in idle chit-chat but that had been about it until one day when you finally caved and asked him the question that had been plaguing your mind since you’d first laid eyes on him.

“How’d you do it?” You asked, handing over the drink he’d asked for.

His brows furrowed in confusion, head tilting to the side as he looked at you. “Do what?”

“Come on! You win every game. There’s got to be a trick to it.”

“Hmm. Maybe.”

“Teach me?” You blurted out before you could even stop yourself.

Daegil looked at you, really looked at you before he slowly nodded his head. What harm could it do to teach you a few tricks?

Over the next few weeks, the two of you met up at his place so he could teach you how to play Hwatu. The first few times, you had failed miserably but as the days passed, you slowly got better. All you had to do was pay attention to Daegil, watch his hands and listen to the words he was saying which in itself was a task because he was a distraction all on his own. He’d sit there in front of you, cross legged in one of his suits looking like sin. It was hard not to be obvious as your eyes often flickered to his lips. He had noticed – of course he had but he was biding his time, making you wait. He wanted you desperate for him, practically begging.

You had clocked on to what he was doing immediately. The way he’d let his fingers skim over yours, the way he placed his hand on the small of your back as he led you through his door. The lingering touches, the way you’d often catch him adjusting his pants when you leaned forward to collect your cards, giving him a clear shot of your cleavage. It was a race to see who would cave in first at this point.

Unfortunately, it ended up being you.

One night while you were playing cards, you had the smart idea to turn it into a game of strip poker. The first few rounds you had won which meant Daegil had taken off his jacket and shirt leaving him shirtless in front of you. It was hard to tear your eyes from his bronze skin, his abs looking utterly sinful. That had been your downfall because suddenly he started winning, most of your clothes on a pile on the floor beside you leaving you only in your bra and panties.

“This isn’t fair,” you pouted.

“Distracted?” That cocky smirk was plastered on his face as he brought his cigarette up to his mouth to take a drag. 

“Only as distracted as you are.” You placed your cards down, crawling over towards him. You didn’t miss the way his eyes instantly shot to your breasts. This gave you ample opportunity to pick the cigarette out of his hands and take a drag of it yourself, nonchalantly blowing it back into his face. You were almost sure you heard him groan, it was quiet but it was there. “What? Cat got your tongue?”

He pulled the cigarette from your fingers, stubbing it out in the ashtray beside him, rising to his knees slightly, his arm snaking around your waist. “No but maybe if you stop being a fucking tease, you will.”

That caused you to laugh breathlessly, palm resting on his chest as he tugged you closer to him. There was no chance now you were this close to him, your hand snaking up to reach behind his neck, tugging him forward to crash his lips against yours. Instantly, his lips moved against yours, his tongue dragging along your bottom lip begging for entrance. You happily obliged, parting your lips and tangling your tongue with his. He tasted of whiskey and tobacco – a flavour you knew you were about to get addicted to. His hands slid down to your ass, giving it a quick squeeze as he laid you back to the carpeted floor. His soft lips trailed along your jaw, nipping at your earlobe. “You’ve been begging for this for weeks, huh?” His voice was a husky whisper in your ear.

“Show me what other tricks you can do with those fingers,” you breathed, pushing your hips up into his. He pressed his own hips back against you, grinding against your core. The feel of his length through his pants rubbing against you was delicious but not enough. 

As if sensing it, he let his lips leave a trail of open mouthed kisses down the column of your neck, his hand sliding up the inside of your thigh, stopping as he reached your core. He nipped at the skin on your neck, leaving his mark. When you felt his fingers dip between your panties, it was all over. His slender fingers sliding through your folds with ease. “All this for me, baby? Got you this wet and I’ve barely done anything yet. You really are desperate.”

His thumb found your clit, rubbing slow, tortuous circles against the sensitive bud. He had your back arching, a breathy moan slipping past your parted lips. He was teasing you on purpose, it was payback for all the weeks of this little game you’d been playing with him. He slipped a finger inside you, dragging it in and out slowly until he pushed another one inside. A loud gasp from you filled the air as he suddenly started moving his fingers inside you at a fast pace, curling them at just the right point to make you see stars. The drag of his long fingers inside you was driving you insane, your hips grinding against his hand. You were on the edge, so close and he knew it. His fingers worked double time, his thumb finding your clit once again and that was it. You were done for. His name flew from your mouth in a moan, body arching as you came around his fingers.

Just when you thought you could relax, have a moment to recuperate, Daegil’s fingers were hooking into your panties, pulling them down off your legs and discarding them somewhere over his shoulders. He wasted no time diving down, his tongue licking a long, flat stripe up your pussy. The moan that he drew from you was a whiny whimper, your hands flying to tangle in his dark locks. That drew a groan from him, reverberating through your body. His tongue found your clit, flicking it before sucking on it gently. He really was trying to kill you. 

“Daegil,” you whined, hips bucking up into his mouth. You were already sensitive from your recent orgasm, a second one fast approaching. He didn’t stop, ignoring your whines and proceeding to eat you out like a man starved. Of course he was just as skilled with his tongue as he was with his fingers. His tongue dipped inside, moving it a little and that was what drew your second orgasm from you. You tugged at his hair, body arching up off the floor. You were sure you almost blacked out, Daegil licking one more stripe along your folds before he pulled back. As you looked at him through hazy eyes, you could see your essence over his mouth. It was maybe one of the hottest things you’d ever seen, only doubled when he used the back of his hand to wipe it away.

“Such a good girl,” he praised, climbing up your body. His lips found yours once again, a slow, sensual kiss this time as he let you taste yourself on him. While he kissed you, you slid your hand between your bodies, popping the button on his pants and sliding them off as much as you could. Sensing what you were doing, he pulled back, standing up momentarily to discard himself of his pants and his boxers. He tilted his head as he eyed you, like a predator sizing up his prey. You were propped up on your elbows, chest rising and falling as you gazed up at him through your eyelashes. “On your hands and knees, baby.”

There was no way you were going to argue. Now you’d seen what he was packing you were more than ready to be fucked stupid by him even if you were oversensitive from your previous two orgasms. It was embarrassing how quickly you obeyed him, rising to your hands and knees, presenting yourself to him. Daegil pressed behind you, his hands gripping your hips, rubbing his erection against you to tease you. “Since you like begging for it, a little more won’t hurt you. Go on. Beg for it. Tell me how badly you want me.”

“Daegil, please.” It was a breathless whine, your hips pushing back against him. “Please, I need you. I want you. Fuck me, please.”

As much as he tried to hide it, he couldn't stop the moan that fell from his own lips at the sound of your breathy pleas, the way you were so desperately trying to press against him, begging for him to be inside you. Without a second thought, he grabbed his cock, pushing it into you in one fluid motion. He bottomed out, holding your hips against him. He stayed like that for a moment, giving you time to adjust to the feeling of him inside you… and maybe also because the feeling of being inside you finally almost made him cum instantly. Once he’d composed himself, he drew his hips back, slamming back into you with force. He set a hard, fast pace. The moans filling the room were loud enough for his neighbours to hear but he didn’t care. One of his slid up your back, fisting your hair into a makeshift ponytail as he pulled you up so he could see you. “This what you wanted?” He gruffed, his fingers digging into the skin of your hips hard enough to leave bruises.

All that came out from your mouth was a garbled ‘yes’. He let go of your hair, pushing your head down, your arms giving way. He was so close, his teeth gritted as he pounded into you to bring you both to ecstasy. “I’m so fucking close, baby. I know you are, too. Let go. Now.”

It was one hard thrust that sent you spiraling, a scream of his name echoing off the walls of his apartment. He groaned loudly, stilling as he emptied himself inside of you, your own name like a symphony from his lips. You both collapsed to the floor, panting heavily. His body pressing against your back as he caught his breath. Once he could finally think straight again, he pulled out of you. He threw himself down beside you, laying on his back, one hand on his chest as the other fished out his cigarettes from his pants laying beside him. He lit one, taking a drag before handing it over to you.

“That was something,” he chuckled, watching you blow the smoke from your kiss swollen lips. His arm wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. 

“Yeah, definitely something. Let’s make a deal.”

“Hmmm?”

“We have a repeat of this everytime I bet you at a game.”

Daegil laughed, his dimples prominent which caused your heart to melt. A stark contrast to the desire you had just felt for him. “You just want me to lose on purpose.”

Maybe you did but if it meant more time with him teaching you how to play and repeat performances of this? You weren’t complaining.

taglist (ask to be added): @ldydeath @infinetlyforgotten @aizshallnotbefound @justsisse

[iamquiantrelle]

BLOOD OATH (chapter 3) • iamquaintrelle

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

# tags: @queenshikongo3 @peyiswriting @yeea-nah @ggaslyp1 @pickingupmymercedes @donteventry-itdude @snowseasonmademe @szariahwroteit @amirawrah @beauty-gurl @jessnotwiththemess @sailurmewn @lewismcqueen @purplerain-94 @vintagesoul-01 @aykxz98 @thepointlessideas @lostennyc @saintslewis @cocobutterqwueen @purplelewlew @imjustheretomanifest @a-moment-captured @mauvecherie-writes @httpsserene-main

# wc: long af...

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

previous chapter | next chapter

The security briefing took place in Lewis's office—a realm of sleek surfaces and muted colors that revealed more about your new husband than perhaps he intended. Multiple screens displayed security feeds alongside financial data that shifted in real-time, the digital heartbeat of his empire. Unlike your father's wood-paneled study with its traditional trappings of power, this space was ruthlessly modern, as precisely calibrated as the man who occupied it.

With military-straight posture and eyes that missed nothing, Lewis' security chief, Jensen, outlined the restrictions bluntly. He didn't soften the edges for your benefit—a refreshing departure from how your father's men typically treated you, as though you were made of glass rather than Ricci blood.

"One-week lockdown protocol," he explained, pulling up a schematic of the property that glowed blue against the dark screen. "Any movement outside the residence requires advance notice and full security detail."

You studied the layout, the walls of this gilded cage already closing in despite the expansive grounds displayed in the rendering. "And after one week? Do I get upgraded to a longer leash, or is this my new normal?"

Lewis answered before Jensen could, his voice measured but firm. "We reassess based on intelligence. Depends what Bianchi and Suarez do." His eyes met yours, a flash of something almost like apology crossing his features before disappearing beneath the usual control. "Won't be permanent."

The subtext hummed beneath his words—plans were already in motion. Your father would have detailed exactly how he intended to dismember his enemies, would have relished describing the message their bodies would send. Lewis's approach was different, but you suspected no less lethal.

You leaned closer to the display, practiced eyes searching for weaknesses with the assessment skills your father had drilled into all his children. "There's a gap in the eastern perimeter," you noted, pointing to a section of garden wall where the security coverage looked thinner. "Deliberate?"

Jensen's eyebrows lifted slightly—surprise at your observation quickly masked by professional respect. "Controlled vulnerability. Creates the appearance of weakness while directing any intrusion attempt to a preset interception point."

"A honeypot," you translated, familiar with the tactic from overheard conversations in your father's study. "Smart. Create the path you want them to take."

Lewis and Jensen exchanged a glance that spoke volumes about their operational approach—strategy over brute force, calculated risk over impenetrable barriers. Where your father relied on overwhelming firepower, Lewis crafted systems that turned an enemy's aggression against itself.

When Jensen left, the office suddenly felt smaller, more intimate. Lewis shut down the security displays with a few quick taps, the screens fading to black like windows closing on a world of threats.

"Your security's impressive," you said, meaning it. "Different approach than my father would take."

"Traditional methods leave blind spots," Lewis replied, his fingers briefly tapping a rhythm on the desk's surface, the smallest tell in his otherwise perfect composure. "Especially now, with everything going digital."

You nodded, thinking of the arguments you'd overheard at home. "He still swears by men with guns and loyalty oaths, as if it were still 1990. Refuses to believe you can't solve every problem by adding more soldiers."

"Loyalty matters," Lewis acknowledged, his eyes meeting yours directly. "But systems matter more. The most devoted soldier can't stop what he doesn't see coming." He then cleared his throat. "Dinner's at seven," he said, shifting topics with smooth efficiency. "Unless you'd rather be alone tonight. The flight was long, and it's been... an eventful day."

The small consideration—acknowledging your potential need for space—was unexpected. Your father would have simply demanded your presence at his table, preferences be damned. Even your mother, for all her subtle influence, maintained certain rigid expectations about family appearances.

"Seven works," you replied, surprising yourself with the genuine sentiment behind the words. "Though fair warning, I might not be the best company today. Still processing... everything."

Something that might have been amusement crossed Lewis's features—a subtle softening around the eyes, the ghost of a smile that vanished almost before it formed. "Not looking for entertainment. Just thought you might not want to eat alone your first night in a strange house."

"Thanks," you said simply, the word conveying more than either of you acknowledged.

Lewis nodded once. "Got some calls before then. Feel free to explore the house. Naomi's around if you need anything."

As you turned to leave, movement caught your eye—a photograph on one of the bookshelves that stood out amid the carefully curated business texts and historical biographies. Lewis kneeling beside his bulldog in what appeared to be a London park, smiling with unguarded warmth that transformed his severe features into something unexpectedly appealing. The complete absence of the calculated control that defined his professional persona was jarring, like glimpsing a completely different man beneath the crime lord exterior.

Before you could comment, a distinctive snuffling sound came from the doorway. You turned to find a stocky English bulldog waddling into the office with determined purpose, tongue lolling and eyes fixed on Lewis with pure, uncomplicated adoration.

"Roscoe," Lewis explained unnecessarily, his tone softening in a way it hadn't for any human since your arrival. "He heard me talking and decided the no-interruptions rule doesn't apply to him."

The dog made his way directly to Lewis, who scratched behind his ears with the easy familiarity of long companionship. Then, surprising both of you, Roscoe turned his attention to you, head tilted in obvious assessment. His wrinkled face was comically serious, eyes narrowed as though evaluating a potential security threat or, perhaps more accurately, competition for his master's attention.

"He's evaluating the new addition to his household," Lewis explained, watching the interaction with unexpected intensity. As if his dog's judgment carried actual weight in your place here.

You crouched down, offering your hand to Roscoe with proper respect for his territory. "Hello there. I promise I'm not here to steal your spot on the couch."

The bulldog sniffed thoroughly, his expression matching Lewis's focus with eerie similarity. Whatever test he was conducting, you apparently passed, because he pushed his head against your hand in clear demand for attention, eyes half-closing in pleasure when you found the perfect spot behind his ears.

"Well," Lewis observed, something like approval in his voice. "That's settled then."

"What is?" you asked, scratching Roscoe's head as he leaned heavily against your leg, nearly knocking you off balance.

"Roscoe doesn't warm to many people," Lewis replied, watching you both. "He's an excellent judge of character. Better than most of my security team, if I'm honest."

Roscoe, having deemed what was sufficient pets from you, waddled over to a nearby dog bed. Huffing out a sigh as he got comfortable, his eyes still closely trained on you.

"He'll be keeping an eye on both of us now," Lewis noted with that almost-smile. "He takes his supervisory duties very seriously."

"I feel safer already," you replied dryly, but the brief moment of lightness settled something in your chest that had been tight since leaving New York. Not exactly comfort, but perhaps the possibility of it, eventually.

Back in your suite, you took advantage of the unexpected privacy to properly explore your new home. The attention to detail was striking—the bathroom stocked with the exact products you used at home, down to the particular shade of lipstick you favored. The closet had been organized according to your usual system, with space for the rest of your wardrobe that would arrive in the coming days. The small office adjoining the bedroom was equipped with technology that matched your working style, neither flashy nor outdated.

The effort that had gone into preparing for your arrival went beyond what you'd expected. Lewis might view your union primarily as business, but he'd clearly invested in ensuring your comfort within that arrangement—a consideration that spoke to either exceptional strategic thinking or something more personal than you'd initially given him credit for.

You spent the next hours unpacking the essentials you'd brought on the plane, arranging possessions to make the space feel less like a hotel suite and more like somewhere you might actually live.

When your phone buzzed with a text from Sophia, the familiar name on the screen sent an unexpected pang through you.

Landed safely? Is the house nice? What about the dog?

The message, so perfectly Sophia in its blend of concern and irreverent curiosity, made you smile despite the heaviness that had settled in your chest since the wedding. You typed back:

Safe. House is ridiculous—will give you the full tour when you visit. Roscoe is cute.

Her response came immediately:

Already planning our trip. Maria says two weeks. I say less because I'm dying to see everything. Miss you already.

You swallowed against the sudden tightness in your throat. Miss you too. Tell everyone I'm fine.

Will do. Gotta run—Dad's having some kind of meeting and we're being "encouraged" to be scarce. Love you!

The casual reference to your father's business sent another pang through you—the familiar rhythms of the Ricci household continuing without you, your sisters navigating the usual patterns while you started from scratch in a new country.

At seven, you made your way to dinner with Naomi's quiet guidance. The dining room Lewis had chosen was smaller than the formal one you'd seen during the tour—intimate without being romantic, elegant without being showy. Warm woods and subtle lighting created an atmosphere both refined and comfortable, nothing like the ostentatious displays many in your world used to showcase their wealth.

"Thought this might be better than the state dining room," Lewis explained as you entered. "Less formal for everyday."

"It's perfect," you agreed, appreciating both the aesthetic and the consideration. Like everything in Lewis's world, the choice revealed careful thought rather than casual decision.

The food was excellent and the conversation flowed more easily than you'd anticipated, moving between London operations and New York territories, touching on business structures and market adaptations with occasional ventures into less professional topics.

Halfway through the meal, a now-familiar snuffling announced Roscoe's arrival. The bulldog made a perfunctory visit to Lewis before settling beside your chair with obvious expectation, eyes fixed on your plate with transparent hope.

"He never begs with me," Lewis observed, watching as Roscoe gazed up at you with shameless manipulation in his wrinkled face. "He knows better."

"But I'm new," you noted, resisting those liquid eyes with effort. "And clearly need training."

That rare smile appeared briefly, transforming Lewis's severe features. "He's testing boundaries. Seeing what he can get away with."

"Smart," you acknowledged, seeing the parallels that Lewis didn't need to articulate. Like dog, like owner—both testing limits, assessing reactions, determining the parameters of new relationships. The difference was that Roscoe's methods were considerably cuter.

"Your London operation feels so established," you observed over dessert—a dark chocolate tart paired perfectly with the remaining wine.

Lewis considered this, his movements precise as always. "London was where I started. Built everything from nothing, my way."

"Without family connections or inherited territory," you added, recalling details from your research. "That's rare in our world."

"Some see that as weakness," he replied, watching you over his glass. "I found it freeing. No outdated loyalties, no old grudges to inherit, no established methods to defend beyond their usefulness."

"Just the challenge of building credibility without a family name," you said, understanding how difficult that would be in your world where bloodlines often mattered more than capability.

"Results speak louder than names," Lewis said with quiet certainty. "If you're patient enough."

"Until Bianchi and Suarez," you noted, bringing the conversation back to the present concerns. "They clearly see our marriage as a threat rather than opportunity."

"They lack vision," Lewis replied with no emotion. "They see territory lines instead of market evolution. Momentary power instead of sustainable advantage."

"And will they pay for that?" The question was direct, but your world made it reasonable—retribution was the currency of respect, the language everyone understood.

Lewis's eyes met yours, that controlled intensity fully focused. "Everyone eventually pays."

The statement wasn't a threat but a certainty, a cool assessment rather than emotional reaction. Where your father would orchestrate public displays of retribution to send messages throughout the underworld, Lewis's approach would be measured, precise, and likely more devastating for its subtlety.

Throughout dinner, you studied him with the careful attention your mother had taught you, noting the subtle cues beneath his controlled exterior. The way his shoulders relaxed incrementally as Roscoe settled at his feet. The precision with which he selected each word. The barely perceptible softening around his eyes when discussing his early days building his organization.

"Am I still being analyzed?" Lewis asked suddenly, catching your observation.

You smiled, caught but not embarrassed. "Yes, sorry."

"Don't be," he noted perceptively. "The careful observation is key. Your mother taught you well."

"She had to," you replied. "Women in our world gather intelligence differently. We watch what men miss while they're busy showing each other how important they are."

Lewis nodded, genuine respect in his expression. "An advantage. Many in my position overlook information that doesn't come through official channels."

As the evening wound down, you found yourself surprisingly reluctant for it to end. The conversation with Lewis had been engaging in ways you hadn't expected, challenging without being combative, professional without being sterile.

"Thanks for dinner," you said as you both stood. "It was... nicer than I expected."

"Given the circumstances?" Lewis asked, that hint of dry humor appearing.

"All of them," you admitted with unexpected honesty. "Though I'm finding the reality less... transactional than the arrangement suggested."

Something shifted briefly in Lewis's expression—a crack in the perfect control, quickly sealed but not before you'd glimpsed it. Interest, perhaps, or satisfaction at your assessment.

"Mutual respect improves most arrangements," he said, his tone measured but not entirely formal. "Regardless of how they start."

It was perfectly calibrated—acknowledging possibility without creating expectation. Like everything about Lewis Hamilton.

"Goodnight, Lewis," you said, using his first name deliberately, testing the subtle shift in dynamics.

"Goodnight," he replied, the brief pause before he added your name creating a moment of unexpected connection. "Sleep well."

In your suite, Roscoe had somehow preceded you, already settled on a dog bed near the sitting area that hadn't been there earlier. His appearance conveyed a message clearer than words—you had been claimed as part of his territory, his protection now extended to include you.

As exhaustion finally overcame the mental processing that usually kept you awake in new environments, your last conscious thought was that Lewis was more complex than his reputation suggested. The controlled exterior hid depths you were just beginning to glimpse, capacity for loyalty, for protection, for connection beyond strategic advantage.

For better or worse, your life was now bound to his. The question that had followed you from New York remained, but perhaps with the first hints of an answer beginning to form: not simply constraint or opportunity, but a complex combination of both.

Lewis would defend what belonged to him. And for reasons both strategic and surprisingly personal, that now included you.

one week later…..

Morning light filtered through unfamiliar curtains, casting golden patterns across the bed that reminded you this was no longer your childhood room at the Ricci estate. One week in London, and the Hamilton residence still felt like borrowed space—beautiful but not quite yours. The silence was different here, lacking the familiar sounds of your sisters moving through the hallways, your mother's soft voice coordinating with staff, your father's security team changing shifts at dawn with the metallic click of holstered weapons.

You stretched beneath sheets that cost more than most people's monthly rent, fingers instinctively moving to the weight of your wedding band and engagement ring. The physical reminder of your new identity still startled you occasionally—Mrs. Hamilton. A name that carried different weight than Ricci, different expectations, different power. Like slipping into clothes tailored for someone almost your size, but not quite.

A familiar snuffling sound broke the morning quiet as Roscoe pushed the door open with his broad head. The bulldog had appointed himself your personal alarm clock, appearing precisely at seven each morning as if operating on an internal timer that military commanders would envy. His wrinkled face peered up at you from beside the bed, eyes simultaneously judgmental and adoring in that uniquely canine paradox.

"Good morning to you too," you murmured, reaching down to scratch behind his ears.

He leaned into your touch with a contented grunt before turning to waddle toward the door, pausing to look back with clear expectation. The message was unmistakable: time to start the day, whether you were ready or not. The world of criminal empires waited for no woman, not even the newly minted wife of London's most dangerous mastermind.

"Demanding little dictator, aren't you?" you said, but found yourself smiling despite the early hour.

Following the dog's imperious lead, you slipped on a silk robe over your pajamas and made your way to the en suite bathroom. The space was still a marvel after a week—all marble and glass, with a rainfall shower large enough for three people and a soaking tub you'd indulged in more than once. These small luxuries were perhaps the easiest adjustment you'd made to your new life.

Twenty minutes later, dressed in tailored pants and a cashmere sweater that balanced comfort with the polish expected of your position, you followed Roscoe downstairs. The grand staircase still intimidated with its sweeping elegance, but you'd learned to descend it with the confidence expected of the lady of the house, even if you still felt like an imposter in the role.

The Hamilton household ran with the precision of a Swiss watch—appropriate given your husband's obsession with control in all things. Staff moved with practiced coordination around the vast space. They acknowledged you with respectful nods—warmer than the first days but still reserved, still assessing where you fit in the household hierarchy beyond your title.

Lewis was already at the breakfast table adjoining the kitchen, dressed for the day in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit. His attention was divided between a tablet displaying financial data and a printed report bound in a black folder. Roscoe made a beeline for his master, receiving an absent scratch before settling at Lewis's feet.

"Morning," Lewis said without looking up, somehow aware of your presence without seeing you. "Sleep well?"

"Well enough," you replied, pouring yourself coffee from the carafe a staff member had silently placed within reach. "Though I'm still adjusting to the silence. The estate was never quiet, even at night."

Lewis glanced up at that, studying you with that focused intensity that still caught you off guard sometimes. "Security makes rounds throughout the night here too. Just more discreet than your father's approach."

"Everything about your operation is more discreet than my father's," you observed, selecting fruit and toast from the offerings arranged on the sideboard. "He believes intimidation works better when it's visible."

"Different philosophies," Lewis acknowledged, shutting down his tablet as you took a seat across from him. "Both have their applications."

The moment felt almost domestic—morning coffee and conversation about operational styles, as if this were a normal marriage rather than a strategic alliance still finding its footing. Lewis had maintained careful boundaries throughout the week, professional without being cold, attentive without being presumptuous. The separate bedrooms remained separate, though connecting doors existed should circumstances change.

"Excited for your first day at work?" Lewis asked, returning to business matters smoothly. "Claire will walk you through the systems before introducing the team."

Claire Chen, Lewis's brilliant chief financial officer who'd built the digital infrastructure that made his operation virtually untraceable. You'd met her briefly during your initial introductions to key personnel, impressed by both her intelligence and the subtle power she wielded within the organization.

"I've been reviewing the materials she sent over," you replied, not bothering to hide your enthusiasm for finally seeing the operation in action. "Your laundering systems are more sophisticated than anything my father's people have implemented. The blockchain integration alone is years ahead."

Something like approval flickered in Lewis's eyes. "Claire's innovations have given us significant advantages. She'll appreciate your technical understanding—most people's eyes glaze over when she explains the infrastructure."

"Most people lack imagination," you said, echoing your father's frequent complaint about his more traditional capos. "They can't see beyond what's worked before."

"A limitation in rapidly changing markets," Lewis agreed, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "Adaptability matters more than tradition now."

The conversation turned to practical matters—schedules, expectations for your first official introduction to the financial team, security protocols for the trip to the office complex that housed Lewis's legitimate business fronts.

"Naomi will coordinate with Jensen on the security detail," Lewis explained, his attention briefly returning to the report in front of him. "Standard precautions, but stay alert. The Bianchi situation is... evolving."

The careful phrasing caught your attention. "Evolving how, exactly? I thought we had an agreement about transparency regarding threats."

Lewis met your eyes directly, weighing something before responding. "Lorenzo Bianchi was seen at Heathrow yesterday. We're monitoring, but haven't confirmed his purpose yet."

The information sent a chill through you, coffee suddenly bitter on your tongue. "He's here in London? That's more than evolving, Lewis. That's an escalation."

"Hence the standard security precautions becoming less standard," he replied, his tone neutral though his eyes had hardened. "I was waiting for confirmation before concerning you with it."

"Concerning me?" you repeated, unable to keep the edge from your voice. "It's my life they're threatening. Full transparency was one of our conditions."

Lewis set down the report, giving you his complete attention—a rarity even in private conversations. "You're right. I should have mentioned it immediately. Old habits of handling threats internally."

The direct acknowledgment of error caught you off guard—powerful men in your world rarely admitted mistakes so plainly. Your father would have dismissed your concerns, reminded you that protection was his domain, not yours to worry about.

"What's being done?" you asked, returning to the practical matter at hand.

"Surveillance on Bianchi's known associates in London. Heightened security on all properties and businesses. Accelerated timeline on certain... preventative measures that were already in motion."

The careful phrasing couldn't disguise the likely reality: Lewis was moving against Bianchi more aggressively than originally planned, eliminating the threat directly rather than waiting for it to develop further.

"And Suarez? Any sign of him?"

Lewis shook his head. "Still in Miami according to our sources. But he and Bianchi have established regular communication channels, which suggests coordination."

You considered this, mind already analyzing potential scenarios and countermeasures. Strategy had always been your strength, seeing patterns where others focused on individual threats.

"Bianchi's move doesn't make sense in isolation," you said slowly, thinking aloud. "He lacks the networks here to operate effectively without local support. Unless..."

"Unless he's connecting with someone who has established London operations," Lewis finished, nodding slightly. "We're looking into possible alliances with the Clerkenwell families or the Essex group."

That aligned with your own thinking. Bianchi would need local muscle to make any significant move against Lewis on his home territory. The Italian families based in London would be the obvious choice—traditional in structure like the Bianchis, likely resentful of Lewis's more modern operation expanding into their territories.

"The Martinelli family had ties to Bianchi's grandfather," you offered, recalling connections your father had mentioned during territory discussions years ago. "Old alliances that might be revived if properly motivated."

Lewis's eyebrows rose slightly, a flash of surprise quickly masked. "That connection wasn't in our intelligence. Good to know."

The small moment of contributing valuable information felt disproportionately satisfying—proof that your knowledge had practical application beyond your status as a Ricci daughter.

"I'll have Jensen adjust security protocols accordingly," Lewis continued, making a note on his phone. "The Martinellis control certain areas we weren't monitoring as closely."

As breakfast finished and staff cleared the remains, you found yourself studying Lewis with renewed attention. The calm calculation with which he addressed threats was both reassuring and slightly unnerving—nothing like your father's volcanic reactions to challenges or the Sicilian's notorious temper. Lewis processed danger like equations to be solved rather than insults to be avenged.

"I should get ready for the office," you said, rising from the table. "What time is Naomi taking me?"

"Eight-thirty," Lewis replied, standing as well with ingrained courtesy. "I've got meetings until late afternoon, but we can debrief on your impressions of the financial operation over dinner if you'd like."

The suggestion held no pressure—a genuine option rather than a veiled command. Another small difference from your experiences with powerful men who phrased orders as requests.

"I'd like that," you agreed, meaning it. Despite the complex circumstances of your marriage, conversations with Lewis had proven consistently engaging throughout the week, challenging your thinking without dismissing your perspective.

As you turned to leave, Lewis spoke again, his tone shifting subtly. "About Bianchi—I meant what I said about transparency. It won't happen again."

You paused, struck by both the sincerity and the implicit acknowledgment that your opinion mattered. "Thank you. Partnership works better with shared information."

"Partnership," Lewis repeated, something unreadable flickering in his expression. "Yes, it does."

The word hung between you, loaded with implications neither of you had fully explored yet—the potential for your arrangement to evolve beyond strategic alliance into something more collaborative, more meaningful than the traditional marriages that dominated your world.

Upstairs, you found Naomi waiting outside your suite, her casual posture belying the constant alertness in her eyes. "Morning," she greeted you with professional warmth. "Ready for your first day at the office?"

"More than ready," you admitted. "A week of house tours and introductions has been informative but..."

"Boring as hell?" Naomi supplied with a hint of genuine humor. "I figured you were going stir-crazy by day three."

You smiled despite yourself. Naomi's direct manner had grown on you throughout the week—her professionalism never slipping into subservience, her protection never feeling like surveillance. "Is it that obvious?"

"To someone paying attention," she replied, following you into the suite where you'd prepare for the day. "Most people in your position would be content with the lady-of-the-manor role. You've been itching to see the actual operation since you arrived."

By nine-thirty, you were being escorted by Naomi to Lewis's financial hub, housed within a legitimate tech company that served as the gleaming public face of operations considerably darker and more complex than corporate tax filings would suggest.

Claire Chen, Lewis's frighteningly brilliant CFO, had spent the day guiding you through the labyrinthine systems that transformed blood money into respectable investments with such elegant efficiency that even seasoned financial investigators rarely found the seams. Unlike your father's organization, where women were decorative accessories regardless of their capabilities, Claire commanded the respect of everyone in the room through sheer competence rather than borrowed power.

The day passed in a blur of blockchain discussions and digital currency channels, your contribution to Singapore regulations actually earning grudging respect from the team rather than the polite tolerance you'd expected as the boss's new wife. For once, your Columbia education served practical purpose beyond making your father appear cultured for having an educated daughter.

By five o'clock, your mind was swimming with new information—technical details that would have made your father's eyes glaze over but that formed the invisible skeleton supporting Lewis's empire. You were reviewing final notes with Claire when movement near the elevator caught your attention. Lewis stood in the doorway, his perfect suit somehow unwrinkled despite the long day, his expression unreadable as he observed the busy floor. The sight of him among the computers and analysts was jarring—the predator suddenly appearing in a space of prey, regardless of how well-dressed the predator might be.

"Is there a problem?" you asked Claire quietly, surprised by his unexpected appearance. In your father's organization, the boss arriving unannounced usually signaled trouble imminent enough that someone would be bleeding before sunset.

Claire glanced up, equally surprised but seemingly unconcerned. "Not that I'm aware of. He rarely comes to the financial floor unless there's a major development."

Lewis made his way toward you, acknowledging staff with brief nods as conversations quieted in his wake. The respect was evident but different from the fear-tinged deference your father's presence inspired—professional rather than servile, earned rather than demanded. Still, you noticed how people straightened unconsciously as he passed, how eyes carefully avoided prolonged contact, how breathing patterns subtly changed.

"Everything alright?" you asked as he approached, scanning his expression for clues.

Something like amusement flickered across his features—there, then gone, like sunlight glinting off a knife blade. "Everything's fine. I came to pick you up for dinner."

The simple explanation caught you completely off guard. In your world, men of Lewis's stature didn't personally collect their wives from work—they sent drivers, made arrangements, expected accommodation rather than providing it.

"You... came yourself?" You couldn't quite keep the surprise from your voice. "I mean, I know you own the building, but I assumed Naomi would—"

"I finished early," he said, that ghost of a smile appearing briefly before vanishing beneath his usual control. "Thought it might be nice to drive together. Unless you'd prefer the usual security arrangement."

"No, it's fine, just unexpected," you replied, gathering your things with slightly less composure than usual. The small gesture—mundane in normal marriages, extraordinary in your world—caught you more off-balance than any complex financial discussion could have.

"Claire," Lewis acknowledged your companion with a respectful nod. "How's everything going?"

"Productive," she replied, her professional demeanor unchanged despite the boss's presence. "Your wife's identified improvements for the Singapore integration that we've been missing. The academic perspective is proving valuable."

Lewis's eyes moved to you, something unreadable in their depths. "I'm not surprised. Her insights on digital currency applications were what caught my attention initially."

The statement was both compliment and revelation—confirmation that your technical knowledge had factored into his interest beyond just the family connection. A small piece of information that shifted your understanding of the arrangement's origins. Not merely a Ricci daughter with valuable bloodlines, but perhaps also a mind worth acquiring. The distinction was subtle but significant, like the difference between being valued as a painting or as a weapon.

The elevator ride to the parking garage was quiet, the transition from work environment to personal space creating a momentary awkwardness neither of you seemed quite sure how to navigate. Lewis stood with his usual controlled posture, close enough for propriety but maintaining the careful physical distance he'd established since your arrival in London—near enough to suggest connection, far enough to avoid imposing it.

"How was your first day in the operation?" he asked as the elevator descended, his reflection in the polished doors a study in controlled power.

"Fascinating," you admitted honestly. "Claire's systems are designed very well. More sophisticated than anything my father's people have."

"She built most of it from scratch," Lewis noted, pride evident despite his measured tone. "Revolutionized how we handle digital transfers after coming over from legitimate banking. She's worth every penny of her obscene salary."

"She treats me like an actual team member," you observed, the realization still slightly surprising after years of being humored but never fully included in your father's business discussions.

Lewis's expression shifted subtly, something almost like offense crossing his features. "That was the agreement. A real role, not a ceremonial title. Claire wouldn't pretend even if I asked her to—which I wouldn't."

The parking garage was nearly empty when you reached it, most staff having departed for the day. Instead of the usual security vehicle with its bulletproof glass and reinforced doors, Lewis led you to a sleek black Aston Martin parked in a reserved space—elegant but understated in the way of true wealth that needs no announcement.

"Your car?" you asked, admiring the vehicle's lines despite yourself. Your father preferred Italian sports cars, flashy displays of power rather than refined performance.

"One of them," Lewis acknowledged, opening the passenger door with that same automatic courtesy he'd displayed since your first meeting. "Security features with better aesthetics than the standard vehicles."

The interior was all soft leather and polished surfaces, the engine coming to life with a quiet purr rather than the aggressive roar your father's cars always produced. Lewis navigated out of the garage with practiced ease, hands steady on the wheel as he merged into London's evening traffic. You couldn't help noticing how differently he handled the car compared to your father's drivers—no aggressive acceleration to prove dominance, no unnecessary lane changes to demonstrate superiority, just precise, efficient movement through the urban landscape.

"Claire says you'll be working directly with the Singapore team," he said as you moved through the city, the statement casual though his attention remained focused on the road. "First day in and already improving systems."

"Just building on their existing work," you replied, though the acknowledgment pleased you more than you wanted to admit. "The foundations were already strong."

"Claire doesn't give praise easily," Lewis noted, that hint of a smile appearing briefly. "If she says you contributed, you made a genuine impression."

The validation shouldn't have mattered so much—you were a Ricci, raised to expect respect rather than earn it—but somehow Claire's professional acknowledgment felt more substantive than years of ceremonial deference from your father's associates.

You'd barely made it five blocks when Lewis's phone rang through the car's system. He glanced at the display, his expression hardening instantly as if a mask had been lowered over his features.

"Need to take this," he said, switching to the car's secure system with a quick tap.

"Hamilton." His voice changed subtly—harder, more clipped, the controlled businessman replaced by something colder and more dangerous. The transformation was subtle but unmistakable, like watching water freeze in real time.

The voice that responded was male, tense with barely contained urgency. "We've located Bianchi. He's meeting with Martinelli's people at the location you specified."

Lewis's entire demeanor shifted, the change remarkable to watch like a switch being flipped between carefully controlled executive and the ruthless operator his reputation described.

"Confirmation on all parties?" he asked, each word precise and cold.

"Visual on both principals and three lieutenants," the voice confirmed. "They're discussing terms for cooperation. Explicitly mentioned targeting your shipping routes through Rotterdam."

"Understood." Lewis's fingers tightened on the steering wheel, the only visible sign of reaction. "No witnesses, no traces. Put a bullet in his head, then make sure Martinelli understands the cost of poor judgment."

The clinical precision of the order sent a chill down your spine despite your lifetime surrounded by similar conversations. There was something a bit unsettling about hearing death ordered with the same tone one might use to request coffee—not heated with anger like your father's commands, but cold with absolute certainty. Not personal vendetta but business necessity, like pest control rather than revenge.

"Confirmed. Timeline?"

"Immediate. Report back when complete." Lewis ended the call with a quick tap, the car falling into heavy silence.

You felt his glance toward you, assessing your reaction to this glimpse of the dangerous reality beneath his controlled exterior. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the ordered execution hanging between you like a physical presence—the ghost of Lorenzo Bianchi suddenly occupying the back seat.

"I apologize," Lewis finally said, his voice returning to its usual measured tone though something harder lingered beneath it. "That wasn't a conversation I planned to have before dinner."

His statement was considerate in a strange way—respecting your sensibilities while not pretending to be something he wasn't.

"I suppose appetizers will have to suffice," you replied with some lightness, dark humor surfacing as it often did in your family when business turned lethal. "Nothing kills the appetite for a main course quite like an actual killing."

Lewis looked at you sharply, surprise briefly overtaking his face before understanding registered. The gallows humor was familiar in your world—a coping mechanism for the realities of power maintained through violence.

"The restaurant does excellent starters," he replied after a moment, picking up the thread with unexpected ease. "We can always reassess the main course situation after I know whether Bianchi's blood ruined anyone's evening wear."

For the first time since arriving in London, you felt a genuine point of connection beyond strategic alliance or professional respect. The language of violence translated perfectly between your worlds, even when other communications sometimes didn’t.

"My father would have wanted details," you revealed as Lewis turned onto a less congested street. "Exactly how it happened, what was said, photographic evidence for his collection. He keeps trophies."

Lewis's expression shown distaste briefly before returning to neutral. "Inefficient and unnecessary. Results matter, not spectacle."

"Another philosophical difference," you noted. "He believes fear works better when people can visualize consequences. Like the Roman crucifixions along the Appian Way—a warning to anyone thinking of rebellion."

"Fear is a limited motivator," Lewis replied. "Respect for capability lasts longer than terror of retribution. Dead men tell no tales, but they also pay no tribute."

Lewis continued to move through London's streets toward whatever restaurant he had selected. It should have been disturbing—this calm analysis of ordered death over early evening traffic—but instead felt like another piece of understanding falling into place between you.

"Is killing Bianchi likely to accelerate Suarez's response?" you asked, naturally shifting into planning as you would have in your father's study.

Lewis glanced at you briefly, that flicker of approval crossing his features. "Almost certainly. They've been coordinating, but Suarez was letting Bianchi take point in London. With him gone, Suarez will either retreat to regroup or escalate directly."

"My money's on escalation," you said, thinking of what you knew about the Cuban's psychology. "His pride won't allow retreat after such a public failure of their alliance. He'll want to demonstrate that losing Bianchi doesn't weaken his position."

"My assessment as well," Lewis agreed, turning into the car park of what appeared to be an unassuming restaurant tucked between more prominent establishments. "Which is why we're accelerating countermeasures in Miami. Suarez's organization has vulnerabilities he doesn't recognize yet."

Lewis shut off the engine, turning slightly to face you before exiting. "Are you comfortable proceeding with dinner? We can head back to the house if you prefer."

Your father would never have considered that ordered violence might affect anyone's appetite or plans. In the Ricci household, blood and business were acceptable dinner conversation, reactions be damned.

"I'm perfectly fine," you assured him. "I grew up with dinner conversations about who needed to disappear by dessert. At least your approach is efficient rather than theatrical."

Something like genuine amusement crossed Lewis's features. "Efficient. Not a description most people would apply to an ordered hit."

"We're not most people," you reminded him, the simple truth encompassing everything about your shared reality.

"No," he agreed, studying you with that focused intensity that still made your pulse quicken slightly despite yourself. "We're certainly not."

The restaurant was nothing like you expected—no Michelin stars or pretentious minimalism, just a small establishment with well-worn wooden tables and the rich aroma of authentic cooking wafting from the kitchen. The clientele was clearly regulars rather than tourists or scene-seekers. It reminded you of those rare nights in your childhood when your father would take the family to places that existed before his name became feared, where he could momentarily pretend to be just another father rather than a man whose orders created widows.

The maître d' greeted Lewis with familiar respect. "Mr. Hamilton, your usual table is ready."

Lewis nodded in acknowledgment as you were led to a corner booth with excellent sightlines to all entrances and exits—strategic positioning disguised as preference for privacy. Old habits died hard in your world, even during supposedly relaxed dinners. You noted how Lewis took the seat with his back to the wall, how his eyes performed a quick, professional scan of the room before settling into apparent ease that wasn't really ease at all. The predator might be resting, but never truly relaxed.

"You come here often enough to have a usual table?" you asked once you were seated, genuinely curious about this glimpse into Lewis's personal routines.

"Best food in this part of London," he replied, a flicker of something almost like enthusiasm breaking through his composed exterior. "Found it by accident three years ago when a meeting ran late. The owner's from Manchester, does everything the old way."

As if summoned by mention, an older man with silver hair and a weathered face appeared at your table, regarding Lewis with obvious affection before turning curious eyes to you.

"Mark, this is my wife," Lewis introduced you simply.

The man's eyebrows rose dramatically. "Wife? You've gone and got married without telling us? And here I thought you were married to that phone of yours." He turned to you with a wide smile. "Has he been treating you right? This one works too much, needs someone to remind him there's more to life than business."

"He's been a perfect gentleman so far," you replied with a small smile, oddly charmed by the man's directness. "But I'll come to you for reinforcement if that changes."

Mark laughed delightedly. "She'll keep you in line," he told Lewis with approval. "I can already tell—not impressed by all this serious business nonsense you carry around."

"Among her many qualities," Lewis agreed, that rare almost-smile appearing briefly once more.

"Tonight we celebrate," Mark declared. "No menus. I'll bring my specialties for both of you."

He disappeared toward the kitchen before either of you could respond, clearly accustomed to taking charge of Lewis's dining experience despite his formidable reputation. The small interaction revealed yet another facet of your husband—his willingness to cede control in certain contexts, to allow genuine connections with people outside the world of power and strategy.

"Mark doesn't know what you do, does he?" you asked once the owner was out of earshot.

"He thinks I'm in international security consulting," Lewis replied. "Close enough to explain certain habits without revealing specifics. He doesn't need the complications of knowing more."

The consideration was practical but also strangely protective—shielding someone he clearly respected from the darker realities of his actual business. Another distinction from your father, who seemed to relish revealing his true nature to civilians, enjoying their fear as confirmation of his power.

Wine appeared without being ordered, a rich red decanted by Mark himself before you were left alone again. The first sip confirmed it was excellent—not showy or excessively expensive, just perfectly selected for the coming meal. Like everything in Lewis's world, quality without ostentation, function before flash.

"Earlier you mentioned your father collecting trophies," Lewis said after a moment, his tone careful but curious. "Physical evidence of enforcement actions?"

"Photos mostly," you confirmed, the practice so normalized in your childhood that you'd never questioned it until seeing Lewis's reaction. "Sometimes more tangible items. He has a room in the basement where he keeps what he calls his 'reminders of consequences' collection."

Lewis's expression revealed another moment of brief distaste before returning to neutral. "Unprofessional and unnecessarily risky. Evidence is leverage against you in the wrong circumstances."

"It's about power display for him," you explained, understanding your father's psychology even while recognizing its flaws. "He believes respect comes from visible demonstrations of what happens to enemies. The severed finger in the velvet box sends a clearer message than rumors of disappearance."

"That approach has limitations," Lewis observed, swirling wine in his glass with precise movements. "Creates enemies motivated by revenge rather than allies motivated by mutual benefit."

This aligned with your own observations of your father's increasingly isolated position in recent years—former associates distancing themselves as his theatrical approaches to conflict resolution created more problems than they solved.

"Your method seems effective but less... satisfying," you noted, genuinely curious about his psychological approach to violence. "Don't you ever want people to know exactly who ended them and why?"

Lewis considered this thoughtfully, neither dismissing the question nor reacting defensively. "There's a difference between satisfaction and effectiveness. Personal gratification from violence is a liability in our world—leads to mistakes, creates patterns law enforcement can track."

"Clinical detachment as strategic advantage," you translated.

"Precisely." He met your eyes directly. "The goal is elimination of threats and advancement of interests, not emotional release. The latter is unpredictable and ultimately counterproductive."

"Yet you clearly feel something about all this," you observed, the insight flowing naturally from a week of careful observation. "The control itself suggests strong emotions being managed rather than absent."

Something flickered in Lewis's expression—surprise at your perception, perhaps, or recognition of being truly seen beneath the carefully maintained façade. For a moment, the mask slipped slightly, revealing deeper complexity in those dark eyes.

"Perceptive," he acknowledged quietly. "Control doesn't mean absence of feeling, just mastery over its expression. In our world, displaying emotion is displaying vulnerability."

"Unless it's calculated to achieve specific outcomes," you added, thinking of your mother's careful management of which feelings to reveal when, how to use emotional displays as strategic tools without being governed by them.

"A skill your mother excels at," Lewis noted. "I observed her subtle influence during our negotiations. Your father likely believes many of her suggestions originated with him."

You couldn't help smiling at the accuracy. "She's had thirty years to perfect the art of guiding him while letting him believe he's independently reached the right conclusion."

"An effective approach with certain personality types," Lewis acknowledged. "Though I prefer more direct communication when possible. Less room for misinterpretation."

Food began arriving—dishes arranged with casual elegance, everything appearing in leisurely succession rather than rigid courses.

Throughout dinner, you found yourself studying Lewis once again with the careful attention your mother had taught you to apply to powerful men—noting the subtle cues beneath his controlled exterior.

"Still being analyzed?" Lewis asked suddenly, catching your observation.

You smiled widely. "Always."

As he drove back to the house, you thought about the time you had with your husband. The conversation with Lewis had been as engaging as the others. London's lights glittered against the darkening sky as he navigated through neighborhoods that grew progressively more exclusive, the security measures more discreet but no less effective.

"Thank you for dinner," you said as the car turned into the long driveway leading to the house.

"Despite arranging a hit for Bianchi?" Lewis asked, that hint of dry humor appearing.

"Yes," you admitted with unexpected honesty and a smile.

Interest crossed his features before it quickly faded away. A comfortable silence hung between you as the car pulled to a stop in front of the main entrance. The house loomed ahead, security lights illuminating its elegant façade, staff waiting discreetly to resume the carefully orchestrated dance of protection and service that defined life within its walls.

Lewis shut off the engine, turning slightly to face you before exiting. "I have a meeting with Jensen to discuss the Bianchi situation and its implications. But I enjoyed dinner. Your insights on both business and personal matters are... valuable."

The carefully selected compliment managed to acknowledge both professional contribution and personal connection without overstepping the boundaries both of you continued to maintain. Typical Lewis—precise, controlled, yet gradually revealing more layers.

"I enjoyed it too," you replied with equal care. "It feels good to apply knowledge rather than just theoretically."

Lewis nodded, understanding the deeper significance beyond the simple statement. "That's the plan moving forward. Real responsibility. You've earned it based on merit, not marriage."

The distinction mattered more than you wanted to admit. Validation of your capabilities separate from your status as his wife or Salvatore Ricci's daughter. For the first time since arriving in London, you felt like more than a strategic piece moved across territories, more than a connection between families.

"Goodnight, Lewis," you said as you both exited the car, the familiar phrase carrying slightly different weight after an evening of deeper connection.

"Goodnight," he replied, that brief pause before adding your name now familiar yet still creating a moment of unexpected intimacy. "Sleep well."

As you entered the house separately—him toward the security wing for his meeting with Jensen, you toward the main staircase leading to your suite—you found yourself thinking about the strange growth of your relationship. One week in London had shifted something in the arrangement, moving it steadily from purely strategic toward something more complex neither of you had fully defined yet.

In your suite, Roscoe had somehow anticipated your return, already settled on his dog bed near the sitting area as if he'd been waiting for hours. His wrinkled face lifted at your entrance, eyes following your movements with that mixture of assessment and acceptance that reminded you eerily of his master.

"Just us tonight, buddy," you told him, scratching behind his ears as he leaned heavily against your leg. "Your dad has business to handle."

As you prepared for sleep, removing jewelry and makeup, you found yourself studying your reflection in the mirror. The woman looking back appeared unchanged on the surface—composed, controlled, every inch the mafia princess you'd been raised to be.

But something had shifted beneath that carefully maintained exterior. Your father had traded you as a strategic asset, expecting you to function as a decorative accessory to Lewis's operation. Instead, you were becoming something more complex and potentially more valuable—a partner with genuine contributions beyond familial connection.

As you slipped between the sheets, Roscoe's gentle snoring providing unexpected comfort in the unfamiliar space, you found yourself cautiously intrigued by the possibilities unfolding rather than merely resigned to the arrangement that had brought you here.

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

The sound jolted you awake—glass shattering followed by a muffled shout. Your eyes snapped open to darkness, heart instantly racing as you oriented yourself. Not a dream. The sounds had come from somewhere downstairs, echoing through the otherwise silent house.

Years of living in your father's world had conditioned you to react to nighttime disturbances with alertness rather than panic. You slipped from bed in a single fluid movement, mind already cataloging potential threats and escape routes as you reached for the silk robe draped across a nearby chair.

Roscoe was already at attention, head lifted from his bed, ears perked toward the door. Unlike his usual easy-going demeanor, his body was tense, eyes alert but not alarmed—suggesting he recognized whatever commotion was happening below.

Another crash, followed by a voice you recognized instantly as Lewis's—though pitched in a way you'd never heard before. Not the controlled, measured tones you'd grown accustomed to, but something raw and jagged with barely contained fury.

"—don't fucking care what protocols dictated! You had him and you lost him!"

The uncharacteristic emotional outburst froze you momentarily. In a week of careful observation, you'd never witnessed even a hint of Lewis losing control. It was like seeing a statue suddenly bleed—shocking not just for the blood itself but for the revelation that something so seemingly immutable could contain such human vulnerability.

Roscoe moved toward the door with purpose, clearly intending to investigate. You followed, bare feet silent against plush carpet as you made your way into the darkened hallway. The house's security lighting cast elongated shadows across marble floors as you moved toward the staircase, guided by Roscoe's determined trajectory.

The voices grew clearer as you descended—Lewis's continued with that unfamiliar edge of barely restrained violence, Jensen's responding with tense but measured tones, Naomi's occasionally cutting through with sharp precision.

You paused at the bottom of the stairs, remaining in shadow as you assessed the situation. The light from Lewis's study spilled into the hallway, and Lewis stood with his back partially toward you, one hand submerged in a crystal ice bucket while the other gestured sharply. Blood dripped steadily from his knuckles into the ice, turning the water a pale pink that reminded you of the watered-down cranberry juice your mother used to give you as a child. Jensen stood at attention, his military bearing more pronounced under stress, while Naomi leaned against the desk, arms crossed, expression grim.

"He had inside help," Naomi was saying, her typically calm demeanor strained but holding. "Someone got Suarez's man past our perimeter protocols. There's no other explanation for how he reached the east wing security blind spot."

"Find them," Lewis's voice had dropped dangerously low, controlled fury replacing the shouting but somehow more terrifying for its intensity. "I want names by morning. Every staff member, every security detail, every contractor who's accessed this property in the past month. Someone betrayed us, and I want their fucking throat in my hands."

The visceral imagery was jarring coming from someone whose approach to violence you'd witnessed as clinical and detached just hours earlier. This was different—personal in a way that suggested whatever had happened had struck closer to home than business operations.

Roscoe chose that moment to announce your presence, trotting into the study with confident familiarity. All three heads turned sharply toward the door, Jensen's hand automatically moving toward his concealed weapon before recognizing the bulldog.

Lewis's eyes followed his dog's path, landing on you still half-hidden in shadow. For a moment, something dangerously volatile flashed across his features before recognition registered, followed by a visible effort to bring himself back under control. Like watching someone wrestle a wild animal back into a cage—impressive but unsettling to witness the struggle.

"What happened?" you asked, stepping into the light, refusing to pretend you hadn't heard the commotion or witnessed his uncharacteristic rage.

A heavy silence fell, Jensen and Naomi exchanging glances before looking to Lewis for direction. Blood continued to drip steadily from his knuckles into the ice, his skin split open across all four knuckles in a pattern that suggested repeated impact against something—or someone.

"We had an intruder," Lewis finally said, his voice forcibly returned to something similar to his usual control, though tension vibrated beneath each word like a plucked wire. "One of Suarez's specialists. Made it past the perimeter security."

The implications sent a chill through you. The Hamilton residence was supposed to be impenetrable, protected by layers of both human and technological safeguards. A breach suggested something far more concerning than ordinary territorial aggression.

"How?" you asked, moving fully into the study, closing the distance between you and the tense group. "The security systems—"

"Were compromised," Jensen interrupted, his expression hardening. "Someone with inside knowledge provided access codes and patrol schedules. We're looking at an internal breach."

Internal breach—the euphemism barely disguised the ugly reality. Betrayal from within Lewis's organization, someone trusted enough to have access to security protocols. In your world, such betrayal warranted punishment far worse than simple elimination. It demanded example-making, the kind that left witnesses with nightmares for years afterward.

"Did you capture him?" you asked, eyes moving to Lewis's bloodied hand with new understanding. The raw knuckles suggested interrogation rather than defense—the kind that involved breaking more than just skin.

"Temporarily," Naomi answered when Lewis remained silent. "He got away during transport. Used a cyanide capsule hidden in a false tooth before we could extract information."

The old-school suicide method was signature Suarez—theatrical but effective, ensuring his people couldn't be interrogated regardless of capture. Your father had mentioned the Cuban's paranoia about information security, his preference for operatives who couldn't talk even under extreme duress.

"What was the target?" you asked, the question that mattered most in assessing the immediate threat.

Lewis's eyes met yours directly, something fierce and possessive darkening their depths. "Your suite."

The two words landed like physical blows. Not a general security breach or territorial challenge—a direct attempt on you specifically. Suarez moving faster than anticipated, targeting the most personal vulnerability in Lewis's domain rather than business operations.

"He never made it past the second-floor security checkpoint," Jensen added quickly, perhaps noting your expression. "Our layered approach worked as designed. But he got closer than should have been possible."

Lewis pulled his hand from the ice bucket, blood immediately welling fresh from split knuckles as he reached for a towel. "Someone gave him the codes to the east wing access and details on patrol rotations," he said, voice deadly quiet. "Someone inside my organization decided their loyalty was negotiable."

The betrayal clearly cut deeper than the security breach itself—Lewis Hamilton prided himself on inspiring loyalty through respect rather than fear, on building an organization where people remained faithful out of genuine belief in his leadership.

"You think it was someone close," you observed, reading the particular quality of controlled rage in his posture—the kind that came from personal betrayal rather than merely professional compromise.

"Has to be," Naomi confirmed grimly. "The access codes change daily. The rotation schedules aren't distributed beyond senior security personnel. Whoever did this has significant position within the operation."

The implications hung heavy in the air—not just external threat but internal rot, cancer within what Lewis had built with such careful precision. No wonder his control had fractured, however temporarily. This wasn't just business; this was personal violation of what he valued most.

"The intruder," you said, circling back to Lewis's bloodied knuckles. "Did he provide any information before his... death?"

Lewis's lips pressed into a thin line. "Enough to confirm Suarez's direct involvement. Said I should have 'kept better track of what's mine' if I wanted to keep it."

The message was crude but effective—targeting you not just as strategic asset but as possession, deliberately challenging Lewis's ability to protect what belonged to him. Classic psychological warfare designed to provoke emotional rather than strategic response.

"And clearly it worked," you noted, gesturing toward his hand. "He got exactly the reaction he wanted. You lost control."

Jensen and Naomi tensed, clearly unused to anyone speaking so directly to Lewis in this state. But you'd grown up with volatile men whose power made others afraid to state obvious truths. Sometimes the only way to break the cycle of rage was direct confrontation from someone they couldn't simply kill.

Lewis's eyes narrowed, that dangerous intensity focusing entirely on you for a moment that stretched like piano wire ready to snap. Then, unexpectedly, something shifted in his expression—recognition, reassessment, the first hints of his usual calculated control reasserting itself.

"You're right," he acknowledged, the admission clearly costing him. "Emotional reaction rather than strategic response. Exactly what Suarez intended."

The simple acknowledgment of error was something you'd never witnessed from your father or any other man in his position—admission of vulnerability that demonstrated greater strength than continued pretense of perfection.

"We should clean that properly," you said, nodding toward his hand where blood continued to seep through the hastily applied towel. "Before infection further complicates things."

Lewis studied you for a moment, something unreadable passing behind his eyes before he nodded once. "Jensen, implement full lockdown protocols and begin personnel screening. Naomi, check on the additional security measures for the Geneva trip. I want redundancies for every system."

Both nodded sharply before exiting, leaving you alone with Lewis in the study. Roscoe had settled on his bed in the corner, watchful eyes tracking between you as if assessing this new dynamic—the dog who had witnessed all of Lewis's moods understanding that something significant was shifting between his humans.

"First aid kit?" you asked, keeping your tone practical rather than concerned. In your world, concern was often perceived as weakness, and weakness was a luxury you couldn't afford, especially in moments of crisis.

"Cabinet behind the desk," Lewis replied, moving to sit in his chair with controlled precision that couldn't quite hide the tension still vibrating through him like an electrical current.

You retrieved the kit, surprisingly comprehensive for what most would consider minor injuries. "You used his face as a punching bag," you observed, not a question as you examined the damage to Lewis's knuckles. The pattern of splits and bruising indicated repeated impacts against bone rather than soft tissue—cheekbones and jaw rather than stomach or chest.

"He was resistant to more refined methods of conversation," Lewis replied, his tone almost back to its usual controlled neutrality despite the evidence of recent violence literally written across his skin.

You cleaned the wounds with methodical efficiency, skills honed through years of patching up your father's men after "business discussions" turned physical. Your mother had insisted all her daughters learn basic field medicine—"Because men will always find reasons to bleed, and someone must always clean up after them." Lewis watched your movements with that focused intensity, neither flinching when antiseptic burned nor attempting unnecessary conversation.

"The intruder targeted my suite specifically," you said finally, applying butterfly bandages to the deepest splits. "Not your room, not the offices, not any of the operational spaces. Why?"

Lewis's expression darkened, shadows deepening the angles of his face. "Psychological warfare. Suarez knows he can't touch my business operations directly, so he's targeting what he perceives as personal vulnerability."

"Me," you translated, the implication hanging in the air between you like smoke.

"Yes." Lewis's eyes met yours directly, nothing hidden in their depths for once. "Bianchi was business. This is Suarez making it personal. Attempting to demonstrate that I can't protect what's mine."

The possessive phrasing would have bothered you in most contexts, but in this situation carried different weight—acknowledgment of responsibility rather than claim of ownership. Lewis protected what belonged to his world, and for better or worse, that now included you.

"He miscalculated," you said, finishing with the bandages and beginning to pack away the supplies. "I'm not some helpless accessory to be snatched for leverage."

Something that might have been approval flickered across Lewis's features. "No, you're not. But Suarez is operating on outdated intelligence. He sees you as a traditional mafia wife—decorative asset rather than strategic partner."

"His mistake," you replied simply. "One he'll likely regret when this plays out."

Lewis studied you with renewed intensity, as if seeing something he hadn't fully registered before. "You're remarkably calm about a kidnapping attempt."

You couldn't help the harsh laugh that escaped you. "I grew up with Salvatore Ricci as my father. The first attempt on our family was when I was seven—rival family tried to grab Maria and me from the car after school. The driver and two guards died making sure we got home safely."

The memory surfaced with unexpected clarity—blood spattered across Mary Janes you'd been so proud of that morning, your mother's hands shaking as she scrubbed your skin raw in the bathtub afterward, your father's cold fury as he made arrangements for retribution that would echo through New York's underworld for years afterward. Three bodies had been found in the East River, tongues cut out and sewn into their hands—your father's symbolic message about talking too much and acting too little.

"This isn't my first threat," you continued, meeting Lewis's gaze steadily. "Probably won't be my last. The difference is that now I'm not just a target because of my father's name—I'm a target because of my own position. There's a certain twisted progress in that."

Lewis's expression shifted from assessment to something more complex—respect tinged with concern, calculation layered with what might have been regret. "I didn't bring you into this life," he acknowledged. "But I've certainly complicated your position within it."

"We complicated each other's positions," you corrected, closing the first aid kit with a decisive snap. "That was the point of the arrangement, wasn't it? Mutual strategic advantage with corresponding mutual risks."

Lewis nodded slowly, something like genuine connection passing between you—understanding beyond words, recognition of shared reality few people could comprehend, let alone navigate with such clear-eyed pragmatism.

"The Geneva trip moves forward," he said after a moment, decision crystallizing visibly. "But with enhanced security and accelerated timeline. We leave tomorrow night instead of next week. The jet will be ready by seven."

The adjustment made strategic sense—removing you both from compromised territory while simultaneous protocols were implemented to identify the traitor and eliminate the immediate threat. Geneva had been planned as a business trip to Lewis's Swiss banking connections, but would now serve double duty as security measure.

"I'll be ready," you assured him. Adapting to shifting circumstances was survival skill in your world, flexibility more valuable than rigid planning when violence could redirect trajectories at any moment.

Lewis rose from his chair, towering over you slightly with his considerable height. For the first time, you noticed blood spatter across his otherwise immaculate white shirt—evidence of the interrogation that had preceded your arrival, stark reminder of the violence that underpinned your shared existence. There was something almost biblical about the image, the pristine white marred by crimson droplets, sacrifice and power intertwined.

"You should get some rest," he said, voice softening slightly though tension still lined his features. "It's been an eventful day, and tomorrow will require clear focus."

The consideration—acknowledgment of human limits even amid security crisis—continued to surprise you despite its consistency. Your father would have expected perfect performance regardless of circumstances, viewing basic physical needs as weaknesses to be overcome rather than realities to be accommodated.

"What about you?" you asked, genuinely curious about his approach to crisis management. "Sleep doesn't seem likely given the circumstances."

"I have loose ends to address before we leave," Lewis replied, vague enough to maintain deniability while clear enough in implication. Arrangements would be made, resources deployed, mechanisms set in motion to identify the traitor and respond to Suarez's provocation. None of it would be gentle or forgiving. Even with his controlled approach, Lewis's vengeance would be absolute, just executed with surgical precision rather than theatrical flourish.

As you turned to leave, Lewis spoke again, his tone careful but determined. "I meant what I said earlier about partnership rather than ceremonial status. That extends to security matters as well. You have insights and perspectives valuable beyond your family connections."

"Then as your partner," you replied, meeting his gaze directly, "I suggest focusing on identifying the traitor rather than accelerating direct retaliation against Suarez. He's expecting emotional response. Strategic patience would unsettle him more effectively than immediate escalation."

Lewis considered this, his expression shifting from initial resistance to thoughtful assessment. "Letting him believe his provocation failed to achieve desired reaction."

"Exactly." You nodded, warming to the strategic approach. "While using his overconfidence to identify his network here. He'll be expecting chaos—give him calculated patience instead. Make him wonder what you're planning rather than confirming his expectations."

Something like genuine respect crossed Lewis's features, quickly followed by that rare almost-smile. "Psychological countermeasures. Playing the longer game rather than immediate satisfaction."

"Results over spectacle," you reminded him, deliberately echoing his own philosophy back to him. "Isn't that your approach?"

The callback to his own words wasn't lost on him, that brief flicker of connection passing between you again—recognition of aligned thinking despite your different backgrounds and approaches. For all the complications of your arranged marriage, this at least was genuine—shared understanding of strategic thinking in a world where most operated on emotional impulse disguised as business necessity.

"Goodnight, Lewis," you said finally, turning toward the door where Roscoe waited with expectant patience. "Try not to bleed on anything important."

The deliberately light comment drew an actual smile this time, brief but genuine, transforming his severe features momentarily as tension fractured beneath unexpected humor. "I'll do my best. Goodnight."

As you returned to your suite, Roscoe padding faithfully beside you through darkened hallways now bristling with additional security personnel, you found yourself contemplating the strangeness of your situation. In your father's house, an assassination attempt would have meant immediate, visible retribution, bodies appearing in public places, messages sent through theatrical violence designed to restore perception of strength.

Lewis's approach was different—controlled even in rage, strategic even in response to personal provocation. The fury you'd witnessed was real, the violence evident in his bloodied knuckles, but still managed to be somewhat contained.

But as you slipped back between sheets still warm from your earlier departure, Roscoe settling with protective vigilance near the door, you found yourself strangely energized rather than frightened by the night's developments.

After all, if Suarez thought targeting you was Lewis's vulnerability, he'd soon discover his intelligence was severely outdated. You weren't some helpless mafia princess to be used as leverage—you were a Ricci daughter through and through, with all the dangerous capability that it implied.

Let him come. Unlike previous threats throughout your life, this time you wouldn't be merely protected asset but active participant in the response. The thought was more satisfying than it should have been, but then, you'd never claimed to be anything other than your father's daughter in certain fundamental ways.

The difference was that now you had genuine partner rather than protective patriarch—the distinction subtle but significant in ways that continued to unfold with each new development in your unconventional marriage.

Whatever response would eventually find its way to Raúl Suarez's door, not with theatrical flourish like your father but with the precise, calculated finality that characterized everything in Lewis's carefully controlled world.

.........tbd

[phyrestartr]

Love Is Not My Right | Sukuna x M!Reader

W/C: 1.1k

#NSFW, bottom!reader, top!sukuna, reader is early thirties, sukuna is mid twenties, reader is a uni prof, sukuna is a uni student, DON'T SLEEP WITH YOUR PROFS IRL PLS THANK YOU, questionable relationship, smut, fluff, angst, self-deprecating reader, soft sukuna?, sukuna has daddy and mommy issues, not edited that much lol IT'S A DRABBLE STFU

tags: @kamote-kuneho @better-imagination-9 @flowersatwork (SOZ IF Y'ALL HAVE ALREADY READ THIS HFOHGIOHG JUST REMEMBERED I DIDN'T ADD TAGS)

“Fuck, Teach,” Sukuna groaned. His hips pistoned against yours harder, accentuated by the sharp clap of skin meeting skin. He squeezed your thigh, the one of the leg thrown over his shoulder, before slapping the side of your ass as his head tilted back with a throaty groan.

You, on the other hand, were a trembling mess--and at the hands of your student, no less. Everything about this was uncouth as could be; Sukuna was nearly a decade your junior, he was in your class, and he had zero qualms about the fact that you were his professor. He saw you, decided he wanted you, and would therefore have you.

It was easy saying no in the beginning. He was a typical punk with sharp wit and a sharper tongue--many men like him had made passes at you in the confines of your classroom, but Sukuna had the smarts and charisma to back up his flirtatious remarks and daring whispers.

But, if you were being honest, maybe it was because you'd been engaged twice, un-engaged thrice (long story). Maybe it was because you'd been cheated on and dumped on loop. Maybe it was because you'd given up on romance and sex and everything else and–well, maybe that was why you succumbed to his advances. Maybe you were just sad and lonely, willing to be taken advantage of under the man's misguided thought that you'd give him a better grade if he fucked you good enough. You wouldn't. But he never asked for it, either.

You jumped when another sharp spank sent ripples of bitter pleasure and pinching pain fluttering across your skin. The simple feeling had you clamping down around the man and gasping.

“Itadori-kun–”

“What did I say?” Sukuna groaned, spanking you again and adjusting the leg hooked over his shoulder. “First name.”

Your eyes blurred slightly from the embarrassment and pleasure of it all. “I--but that's–”

“I'm ‘boutta cum in your ass, ‘n you're worried about honorifics?” Sukuna cackled, holding your thigh with both hands as he focused harder on moving his hips faster and faster. “‘M fucking you…in your own fuckin’ bed…and you're–ah–worried about–fuck, you're so fucking good--fuck.”

The searing friction eating you alive tripled in Sukuna's frenzy to reach his second high of the night. You burned alive, shyly crying out as he hit your soft spot over and over, tightening up more and more until you plummeted into your third (fourth? Fifth?) orgasm dealt by Itadori Sukuna's hand. Well, hand, mouth, and cock.

“Sukuna,” you gasped, curling into yourself and subsequently toward him, fisting one hand into his dark hoodie to try and ground yourself against the relentless assault.

His hips stuttered when you called his name. His lips crashed against yours, then, with teeth clacking together and tongue bullying into your mouth as he trembled and slammed in with too-much strength to pour his cum into your core.

“F-fuck. Love that sh-shit,” he stuttered as his stomach tightened and contracted, his eyes rolling back before they fell closed to indulge in the pleasure crashing down on him. But his body's seizing didn't stop his hips from moving–he kept pushing and pushing, hard and sloppy and weak but so, so desperate to jam more and more deeper and deeper into you.

Eventually, when you were both threadbare and burnt out, he pulled out and collapsed beside you with a pleased sigh. You hugged a pillow and fought to catch your breath, but Sukuna, the brat he was, tugged away your life boat to replace it with himself.

You sighed, baffled and exhausted. “Sukuna–”

“What? ‘M allowed to fuck you but not–”

“You–I–we shouldn't be–I shouldn't be doing this,” you argued. “You're too young, I'm your professor. You should be looking for people your own age–”

“Not like I fucking chose this for the thrill,” he scoffed, tucking his arm under his head as he looked at your tired face. “This looks bad on me, too. Looks like I'm tryna fuck good grades out of you.”

You huffed and fixed his hoodie's tangled drawstrings. “You already get good grades. No one would believe that.”

“‘M a fucking genius. Everyone knows,” he agreed with a smirk. “But the other extras in your class? They'll act like it's somethin’ else. They'll jump on whatever the fuck they can to make their own pathetic asses feel less guilty for sucking so hard at life.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn't help a smile. “Well, this'll look worse on me. Either you did fuck grades out of me, or I'm holding said grades hostage ‘n making you sleep with me lest they suddenly drop.”

Sukuna hummed and slid a hand to your bare waist. “Ho? I like the sound of that. Guess I'll have to try harder to make sure I stay your favourite. I could go for a 4.4."

“Please–don't roleplay that,” you begged, feeling more tired by the second. “Just promise me you'll move on and forget about this after finals. Please. It's in your best interest.”

“Yeah? ‘N what's in your best interest, Teach?” Sukuna wondered. His knuckles brushed against the curve of your cheek, and you felt your heart ache with loneliness. But you'd never admit you wanted this. You'd never admit you wanted a cure for being unlovable.

“Keeping you safe,” you said, pulling his hand from your face and squeezing it tightly, “Is in my best interest. I want you to be happy, to stay out of trouble. And this? This can only breed trouble.”

“Trouble ain't so bad.”

“Sukuna.”

“After finals, ‘m not your student anymore,” Sukuna reminded.

Your face got a little hot. “Don't twist this–”

“Twist it? Tch. It's just facts.” He looped his arms around your smaller frame and tugged you in close. “So I'm gonna keep taking my daddy issues out on you even after the semester ends.”

You had to laugh. “That's–you're a little too self-aware–”

“Pretty sure that's a good thing, no?” He yawned and tugged the blankets up over the both of you. “You're starting to piss me off with all the resistance. Just take it. Like how you take my cock.”

You sighed and sat up, pulling the blanket over the younger man more. “You have a dangerous mouth on you, y’know that?”

Sukuna smirked. “Like hearin' that from you.”

“Right. Well, I need to wash up.” You brushed his hair back against your better judgment. “You need anything?”

The look he sent you made everything ache more; it was something so warm and lazy, half-lidded eyes fighting to stay open as your tender touches lulled him to sleep. It was so strange, the apparent peace you brought to such an explosive soul. It almost made you think this could work.

“Jus’ make sure you come back,” he grumbled before letting his eyes fall closed. “Fucking kill you if you don't.”

You smiled the tiniest bit as you brushed his hair back a few more times. “Promise I will,” you whispered, earning a soft grunt of approval in return.

But as you sauntered to the bathroom, shedding whatever clothes you somehow still had on, you cried.

[flamingtouya]

𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤 𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐩 (𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐨 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐞) —

pairing: dabi + f!reader

word count: 4381

cw: getting to know each other (against your better intuition), flirting, bad flirting,some explicit language but nothing too bad, no quirk AU, dabi commits a crime or two

summary: In which Dabi meant to text Toga instead of a random stranger. But these things happen, and you were never one to shy away from troublesome men. This whole thing is told entirely through text messages.

a/n: check out my AO3 for different formatting! :)

Mar 02  10:07 PM

Unknown: Grab bleach while you’re out Unknown: And paper towels

You: who is this??

Unknown: So funny

You: u got the wrong number my guy 

Unknown: Shit Unknown: You don’t happen to have some bleach at your disposal rn? 

You: try the convenience store You: where’s the body at, anyways

Unknown: Ohara street by the fitness park, you should come check it out

You: sounds enticing You: i’ve always wanted to be on a true crime podcast

You: sort of expected myself to be the alive one though

Unknown: I was taught that women tend to be smart about stranger danger and stuff Unknown: You're out to prove me wrong

You: how’d you know i’m a woman? 🤨

Unknown: U sound cute Unknown: And men don’t listen to true crime

You: that’s so sexist You: and correct You: you'd do numbers on reddit

Mar 03 00:16 AM

You: hey don’t leave now

Mar 03 00:34 AM

Unknown: Had a body to take care of

You: you didn’t wait for me? :(

Unknown: … Unknown: Are u fr

You: ofc not You: i don’t hang out with edgelords

Unknown: Whatever u r probably boring anyways

You: entertaining enough for u to keep texting me

Unknown: We all have our moments of weakness 

Mar 03 01:09 AM

Unknown: So wyd

You: you don’t have anybody else to bother?

Unknown: I do Unknown: I want to bother you tho

You: damn, what’d i do to deserve this

Unknown: Is that a complaint

You: i have uni tomorrow and ur buzzing keeps waking me up

Unknown: Mute your phone, stupid 

You: can’t mute unknown numbers

Unknown: Save this one then Unknown: Or block me idc

You: what name should i put it under

Unknown: Dabi 

You: lmao i knew you were an edgelord

Dabi: Stfu

You: good night to you too

Mar 03  07:58 AM

You: fuck

Mar 03 3:56 PM

Dabi: Did you miss me that bad 

Mar 03 4:32 PM

You: i overslept and am blaming you entirely

Mar 03 5:19 PM 

Dabi: Sucks to be a useful member to society

You: why what do you do

Dabi: I'm actually a bit of a part-time freelancer, you regular uni folk just wouldn't get it

You: freelancing around ohara at 1 in the morning sounds like the truly fulfilling purpose we all long for You: did you just get up

Dabi: Hey now  Dabi: Yes  Dabi: I’m still in bed technically, looking at the ceiling fan is so interesting when I don't want to move a muscle

You: you are everything I am jealous of

Dabi: I promise you it’s not that good 

You: first time a guy’s been honest right away. i applaud u

Dabi: Omg no way 

Mar 03 5:40 PM

You: no way what

Dabi: No way you said something witty 

Dabi: Maybe you’re fun after all

You: i’ll have u know that deep down, i’m just a fragile being trying to make it thru this bitch of a world, running on fumes and caffeine all while chasing a childhood dream that i'll never be able to reach anyways because of my parents' expectations of me crushing my soul

Dabi: Damn, being vulnerable already 

You: your turn

Dabi: I’m not sad. My life is great and my parents never expected anything of me

Dabi: That was a lie 

You: so you’re a liar

Dabi: I suppose I might be

You: that counts as being vulnerable. i’m so proud of us. &lt;3

Mar 03 9:12 PM

You: you probably have daddy issues

Mar 03 11:34 PM 

Dabi: Mind your business 

You: so i’m right

Dabi: Nosy sounds more like it

You: that’s a yes then

Dabi: When I tell you he SUCKS so bad 

You: LMAO You: i’m guessing you don’t particularly like your family then

Dabi: It's not the type of stuff I'd tell anybody, especially not to some nosy individual whose number is one or two digits off

You: alright i’ll stop digging You: wait how old are you You: am i talking to some 50 y/o dude You: please no

Mar 04 00:02 AM

Dabi: Chill I’m 48

Mar 04 00:06 AM 

You: say sike right now You: if u rly are then i’m half your age

Dabi: You thought Dabi: Are you actually 24 tho

You: give or take a few days lol

Dabi: When’s your birthday 

You: do you want my social and tax numbers while we’re at it

Dabi: Stfu I wanna see if I’m older 

You: 🤨 You: it’s at the end of this month

Dabi: Baby 

You: are u flirting with me or insulting me

Dabi: Can’t I be doing both 

Mar 04 06:30 AM

You: love me a guy who can multitask You: did you ever get your bleach and paper towels

Mar 04 11:11 AM

You: it’s 11:11 make a wish

Mar 04 2:02 PM

You: my wish is that you’d commit to a humane sleeping schedule

Mar 04 2:59 PM 

Dabi: Anybody hear sum 

You: i heard you’re a lazy bitch You: who doesn’t even do his own grocery shopping

Dabi: Maybe I do. Maybe I got the bleach all on my own like a big boy

You: X

Dabi: What's that mean

You: X for doubt You: it’s a meme

Dabi: Here I thought we were about to get spicy 😔

You: ew

Dabi: I was joking  Dabi: …unless 

You: has anybody ever told you that your flirting is immaculate

Mar 04 7:10 PM

Dabi: What do you study 

You: are you trying to find out my location

Dabi: Let it be known I’m terrible at geography and if I wanted to stalk you I'd already be on it

You: that’s a consolation You: forensic science You: i actually can’t wait for the semester to be over bc my professor is one of the most annoying individuals i have ever had the displeasure of meeting

Dabi: So you do have bleach 

You: never said i didn’t

Dabi: What do I have to do to make the list of annoying individuals. What's my current score

You: we haven’t met You: and i’m not sure if i’d survive u

Dabi: You have a point, I'm super nice tho

You: bet You: are you handsome You: asking for a friend You: the handsome ones are usually more annoying

Dabi: I'll say I’m frighteningly unique-looking 

You: ...well played

Mar 04 10:09 PM 

Dabi: My boss is making me do errand work in the morning like I'm some kind of functioning human being with principles Dabi: The next piercing I’m getting is a lobotomy 

You: thought you were “freelancing”

Dabi: Freelancing only gets you so far. You'll understand when you're my age

You: can't imagine what the back pain must be like You: do you have a tongue piercing 👀

Dabi: Perhaps I do

You: u r so mysterious You: tell me an opinion 

Dabi: Mint ice cream makes my teeth feel weird 

You: that’s not an opinion 

Dabi: Alright, more foods should have mint in them. And coriander. I want to make things inedible for 80% of the human population

You: nvm keep your opinions to yourself 

Mar 05 02:26 AM

Dabi: I've gotta burn this number. Txt u in a few 

Mar 05 05:16 AM

You: what are you, some kind of druglord This message could not be delivered.

You: I knew it This message could not be delivered.

Mar 0512:03 PM

You: ayo are you still there This message could not be delivered.

You: this is only funny if you come clean right now This message could not be delivered.

Mar 05 4:16 PM

You: "text you in a few" minutes? hours? days? This message could not be delivered.

You: just know that if it takes to long i'll forget about u This message could not be delivered.

You: won't even miss u This message could not be delivered.

Mar 06 09:00 AM

You: hello is this thing on This message could not be delivered.

Mar 07 3:15 PM

You: my social security number is 6007 0023 6799 0324 This message could not be delivered.

Mar 07 8:46 PM

You: eggs, vinegar, panko, sprite, sliced ham, parmesan, deodorant sencha if they have the good one ground pepper, lemon juice This message could not be delivered.

Mar 08 04:44 AM

Unknown: Am I still the man of ur dreams

You: I'm killing you You: violently

Unknown: I was hoping softly Unknown: With your song

You: are these messages being monitored You: am i a suspect

Unknown: If they were, could I write that I'm a ruthless baby killer anti-government fuck the police pro abortion the prime minister is an idiot bomb. bomb at the airport, terrorism, detonate Unknown: I guess now they are

Dabi was added as a contact.

You: just when i thought i'd have to find another witty asshole with a tongue piercing

Dabi: Aw you missed me Dabi: Does my tongue piercing make me hot be honest

You: what are my chances of getting an explanation for the past few days You: are u a murderer fr, that would be so cool You: i totally didn't use our abandoned chat as a grocery list btw

Dabi: The only thing I slay is pussy 😎

You: somehow i have doubts about that statement You: animal abuse is no joke

Dabi: I'm thinking of a number between 1 and 100, if you guess it correctly I'll tell u everything

You: 69

Mar 08 08:21 AM

Dabi: It was 72 Dabi: Because you were so close I'll give u one free question. But I want another one in return

You: you're a dirty little gremlin who plays dirty little games You:: do i get to ask a follow-up question

Dabi: No

You: in that case You: which of the following activities did you partake in? 1.) vandalism 2.) drug dealing 3.) drug trafficking 4.) violent crimes 5.) violent crimes that resulted in the death of one or more individuals 6.) assisting someone in a violent crime 7.) assisting someone in a non-violent crime 8.) theft 9.) robbery 10.) hate crimes against a minority 11.) politically motivated acts of defiance 12.) consumption of illegal substances 13.) running and/or hiding from law enforcement 14.) domestic terrorism 15.) human trafficking 16.) money laundering 17.) having a good time

Dabi: What the fuck Dabi: What is this, a multiple choice? Dabi: 1, 4, 6, 7, 8, 13 Dabi: My turn Dabi: What's your favourite food

You: fr, just like that You: that's your one question out of everything you could ask? am i really that boring

Dabi: I ask what I ask

You: spicy miso ramen with minced pork You: can we go back to the part where you ran from law enforcement

Dabi: Don't we all have demons that we run from Dabi: Mine are just a bit more persistent

Mar 08 10:52 AM

You: i want another question

Dabi: If you come up with one that's not related to the past few days, go ahead

You: fine i'll take it You: have you ever been caught and gotten in legal trouble for one of your… dubious activities

Dabi: Yeah

You: …and?

Dabi: That's another question. Gonna trade?

You: fine

Dabi: When I was 16, two Officers Of The Law 🐷 caught me dumpster diving behind a 7/11 Dabi: The dumpster diving wasn't the crime but because it was on private property they charged me with trespassing

You: damn, that's a lot of truth from u in just two sentences You: i wanna know ur tragic backstory so bad

Dabi: You could try to get me all sentimental for the 6 minutes after really good sex before the post nut clarity sets in

You: uh huh, taking notes You: anyway. you get one question. think hard

Dabi: If you couldn't have minced pork on your ramen, what would your second topping choice be

You: you're impossible

Mar 08 1:27 PM

You: tori karaage or extra ni-tamago i guess

Mar 08 2:23 PM

Dabi: Doesn't the Karaage lose its crispiness if it's in the broth for too long Dabi: I wouldn't know

You: please let me recommend you a good ramen place, you seem like you'd need it

Dabi: You have no idea. Take me out

You: like romantically? or are you asking me to murder you

Dabi: I love surprises

You: i just laughed out loud in the middle of my lecture

Mar 08 7:18 PM

Dabi: Need your forensic expertise for a sec

You: …oh no

Dabi: It's a purely hypothetical scenario

You: alright lay it on me big boy

Dabi: If a 176 cm tall and 67 kg heavy person were to climb over a 4,60 meter high fence that has electrical wiring on it Dabi: What would the most likely way for them to die be?

You: this is not forensic at all You: how strong is the electricity You: is there a way to shut it off You: where would you hold onto the fence You: can it be damaged

Dabi: Not me, a 176 cm tall and 67 kg heavy person

You: where would THE 176 CM TALL AND 67 KG HEAVY PERSON HOLD ONTO THE FENCE

Dabi: The only points that provide decent grip surface are the hooks holding the wires in place

You: so the most likely way to die would be electrocution You: will that be all

Dabi: How would one determine whether the electricity has been properly shut off Dabi: In the theoretical scenario that you couldn't get close enough to hear

You: the 176 cm tall and 67 kg heavy person should tap the wiring from the bottom with the back of their hand You: that way their fingers curl downwards and not around the wire You: so the person won't DIE from ELECTROCUTION

Mar 09 00:08 AM

Dabi: Excellent Dabi: Gonna do some field research Dabi: Will report back in maybe a day

Mar 09 08:01 AM

You: i'm gonna be so mad if you die before you've had decent karaage This message could not be delivered.

Mar 11 6:10 PM

Unknown: So it turns out that the person did not have to climb the fence after all. Pliers are such useful tools Unknown: Thanks for the electricity tip tho

Mar 11 6:39 PM

Dabi was added as a contact.

You: you're so hot when you're alive 

Mar 11 9:14 PM

Dabi: Do u think I'm a catch 😏

You: judging by the way law enforcement is trying to get their hands on you, i'd say you're pretty slippery

Dabi: The slipperiest Dabi: You couldn't handle me

You: i'd trap you using cheese and a paper box  You: put you in a jar and turn you into spicy miso broth 

Dabi: Would you hold the jar tight at night and tell me everything's going to be okay 

You: of course 

Dabi: I'm liking this scenario 

Mar 12 01:07 AM 

Dabi: Ever thought about what Mint Karaage would taste like

Mar 12 01:23 AM

You: i need u 

Dabi: Tell me more

You: to shut your mouth

Dabi: Are you trying to romance me

Mar 12 07:15 AM

You: i'm actually so upset right now  You: can i vent

Mar 12 07:27 AM

Dabi: Listening Dabi: Am I gonna have to get the tissues out

You: you're not empathetic enough for that 

Dabi: How would you know 

You: call it a woman's intuition  You: i just need someone to bother about my hot girl troubles

Dabi: Let's hear it girl  Dabi: Men ain't shit 💅

You: damn right they aren't You: but unrelated to that You: i ran out of my medication a few days ago and thought if i stretched the remaining 3 pills to last me 6 days i'd be able to make it till the end of the week  You: now my doctor's office is closed and i can't seem to get an appointment anywhere You: and i'm super jittery and on edge and almost had a panic attack just trying to make coffee

Dabi: What type of medication 

You: Ativan You: it's prescription only

Dabi: Nothing is ever "prescription only" 

You: i'm not gonna try some experimential backalley drug You: just feel like dying rn

Dabi: Who said anything about backalley? You actually came to the right guy for this  Dabi: What's the name of the nearest druggery 

You: ...fukuju pharmacy

Dabi: So I've been talking to a Setagaya girl 

You: only moved here for uni, hate to disappoint if ur expecting a wealthy maiden 

Mar 12 10:02 AM

Dabi: Don't you feel like getting a snack from the vending machine  Dabi: Specifically the one next to the pharmacy  Dabi: A bag of skittles sounds nice, doesn't it?

You: ? ? ?

Mar 12 10:34 AM 

You: did you commit a crime for me  You: how did you get your hands on actual fucking Ativan this fast

Dabi: I don't kiss and tell

You: did you follow me home  You: is this how i die

Dabi: You make it so hard to be nice to you Dabi: What do you think I am, a creep

You: if you were here i'd suck you off so good rn

Dabi: Whore Dabi: (Respectfully)

You: lmao ur right You: thank you for real though

Dabi: Stfu

Mar 12 1:33 PM

Dabi: Do u like cats

You: yes

Dabi sent an image.

Dabi: Noodle thieving menace 

You: 🥹 You: that has got to be the fattest street cat i’ve ever seen

Dabi: He’s hella fast 

You: how does it feel to be the one chasing the culprit for once

Dabi: Not nearly as thrilling as being the one committing the crime 

Mar 13 00:00 AM

Unknown: Congratulations! You have been selected as an eligible member for a free trial of Osaka Daily Post. Unknown: If you would like information about your benefits, reply 'BENEFIT' Unknown: If you would like to stop receiving these messages, reply 'STOP' 

You: i know it's you shithead

Unknown: Your message could not be processed. 

You: this is the unfunniest you've ever been ngl

Unknown: Your message could not be processed. 

You: you're truly one of the most annoying individuals in my life

Unknown: Your message could not be processed. 

You: STOP

Unknown: LMAO you thought

Dabi was saved as a contact. 

You: i'm reconsidering if the tongue piercing is really worth it 😤

Mar 13 04:55 AM

Dabi: Any particular reason why you chose forensics 

Mar 13 06:09 AM

You: i've always admired criminals but been to scared to become one You: and if i know about psychotic assholes it might help me to steer clear of them, or so i thought

Dabi: Is it working

You: evidently not

Dabi: Use me in ur thesis  Dabi: I'll be your lab rat

You: nah you're more beneficial to me when you're not stuck behind bars You: what do you have me saved as in your phone

Dabi: I don't save contacts  Dabi: Especially not yours  Dabi: You mean nothing to me 

You: aww do you know my number by heart, that's adorable You: i'm kinda genuinely impressed at how persistent you are at bothering me, it's almost like you like me or smth

Dabi: No fr though lmao if anybody finds my phone you'd be on a list

You: do u delete these chats

Dabi: Always

You: that's so romantic You: admit it you're actually a softie

Dabi: Would that make you more interested in me  Dabi: Then I'm the softest 

You: what do i need to do to make you the hardest

Dabi: ... Dabi: There's absolutely no correct way for me to respond to that  Dabi: You've left me speechless 

You: 🥵🥵

Dabi: What's your worst quality  Dabi: Besides being an irresistible smartass  Dabi: *irritating 

You: was that a freudian slip You: you're so obsessed with me it's adorable

Dabi: Proving my point so diligently 

You: you don't seem like the kind of person who would use words like 'diligently' You: i'm rather talkative at times You: to the point where it gets unbearable to listen to me

Dabi: I never would've guessed

You: what's yours? You: besides the obvious

Dabi: Still putting up with you 

Mar 13 7:45 PM

Dabi: Wyd 

You: i burned my rice a little You: but it's edible

Dabi: Don't you have a rice cooker? Who raised you 

You: my very strict but sweet and committed grandmother who made the best teriyaki salmon in the whole world You: i'd kill another human being to eat her home cooked food one more time

Dabi: So your parents ain't shit either 

You: eh, they're alright You: they're Business People overseas and aren't around a whole lot, means i get my own place though You: so i can have visitors at any desired hour 😏

Dabi: Omg sick Dabi: Me next

You: it was implied

Mar 13 11:11 PM

Dabi: Ok but do u actually wanna meet up sometime  Dabi: No strings attached ofc 

You: i'm down

Dabi: What if I'm a creep after all

You: if anything, it means i won't have to attend my lecture about carbon dots tmrw

Dabi: I can't tomorrow  Dabi: What about the day after Dabi: I'll give u my credit card info if it makes you feel more safe, don't bother trying to buy anything with it tho, you'll be disappointed

You: you may not show it a whole lot, but are you actually a considerate person? You: the day after sounds good

Dabi: Preem

You: oreryu shio ramen, right by harajuku station You: about time you had some good karaage You: my treat You: unless that's too far away for u

Dabi: I would fly across the world for u Dabi: Yes Harajuku works fine

Mar 14 08:49 AM

You: how will i recognise u You: what do u look like

Dabi: As my dad once said. I'm impossible to miss 

You: i laughed

Dabi: Guess it was all worth it then  Dabi: Do tattoos scare you

You: i was gonna ask cause there's no way you got only a tongue piercing and nothing else You: stand there with your tongue out

Dabi: Shouldn't we at least get to know each other before 😳

You: don't get any ideas  You: i don't intend to fuck u You: ...for now

Dabi: That's a relief, I thought I might have to file a restraining order afterwards 

Mar 14 1:42 PM 

Dabi sent an image. 

Dabi: If u see this guy u can still run the other way 

You: hhh fuck You: are u trying to intimidate me You: how do you have so many tattoos but no bedframe

Dabi: Cut me some slack, I just moved into this place 

You: fair warning i'm not as hot as u

Dabi: Bet 

You sent an image. 

Dabi: Why do women always lie. I thought you were better. I thought you were different

You: 😳 You: i'm actually worse

Dabi: We're such a good match

You: don't get ahead of urself. u r still a guy with no bedframe

Dabi: Please shut up

Mar 14 4:16 PM

Dabi: To be clear I'm not bringing flowers or anything  Dabi: And I'm actually willing to let you pay this time lol 

You: you have such a unique way with words 

Dabi: A bit tight on money rn but I'll pay u back some other way 

You: can we make that the first line in our sextape  You: dw i said it's my treat and i mean it You: does that make you feel emasculated

Dabi: Who would I be to say no to free food tf Dabi: If there's a next time I can take you out for drinks  Dabi: Nothing fancy but an old friend of mine owns a bar downtown and his girlfriend mixes a killer mule 

You: if you're gonna poison me after gaining my trust over my favourite food i will be incredibly sad 

Dabi: Give me some credit here. I'm trusting u to not rat me out to law enforcement 

You: you're giving me ideas You: is there a bounty on your head

Dabi: I'm not that important 

Mar 14 9:44 PM

You: so you're just too good to get caught

Dabi: Both flattering and factually correct Dabi: For the record I've never harmed anybody that didn't deserve it 

You: thanks for clarifying  You: i feel so safe now 

Dabi: Anytime  Dabi: If you're having second thoughts lmk before 10 am so I won't spend time getting ready for nothing 

You: 10 am is crazy  You: u r so vain 

Dabi: Alright then I won't 😔

You: i take it back You: be pretty for me

Mar 15 5:30 AM

You: can't sleep 

Mar 15 7:12 AM

Dabi: How the turntables  Dabi: Are you alright

You: yes  You: it's the good kind of sleepless 

Dabi: It's fine if you're having second thoughts, I won't hold it against you at all  Dabi: Just texting like this is nice too

You: fuck no i wanna meet the man behind the screen You: the myth, the legend, the crimelord himself 

Dabi: I'm never showing consideration for ur wellbeing ever again 

You: should've ghosted me before i got attached

Mar 15 9:54 AM

Dabi: Last chance to bail gracefully  

You: you make it so tempting 

Dabi: Getting out of bed then 

You: it's not a bed if it doesn't have a bedframe

Dabi: Shut, and I mean this in the gentlest way possible, the hell your mouth

Mar 15 12:08 PM

Dabi sent a location pin.

Dabi: Is this the place

You: that's the one  You: be there in a few minutes 

Dabi: I'm waiting outside 

Mar 15 12:13 PM

You: omg i think i see u You: im shy

Dabi: U literally have so much blackmail material on me 

You: give me a second You: alright I'm coming over This message could not be delivered.

[comicaurora]

I'm sorry that the terfs made their way onto your blog but it does feel good to see you support trans people. Thank you for that

Always.

I think, charitably, that the discourse going down on that post is an extrapolation and over-focus on one element of the point I was making: that for me, determining with certainty that I was cis was a rather fraught process. I was presented with many alternatives, but underlying their imposition on me was the oddly regressive idea that the things I liked, the principles I valued, the parts of myself I was proud of were not permitted of women. My whole life I got smacked with the background radiation that I couldn't like being strong because women aren't allowed to be stronger than men. I couldn't like being loud and boistrous because women aren't allowed to take up space. I couldn't be a math geek because women aren't smart. It was all deeply regressive misogyny from day one, but I started getting hit with it slathered in a fresh coat of paint - all those assumptions still held to be true, but now there was the out that I could do all those things if I just wasn't a woman.

Concluding that the underlying bioessentialist premise was wrong was very important. Absolutely none of those statements were true, and were only ever maintained by cultural saturation, goalpost-readjustment when they were actively disproven, and the occasional bout of lying with statistics to pretend they weren't just Shit All The Way Down. The core premise that certain things were only permitted of or possible for men was bullshit, and I didn't need to surrender the gender I liked best in order to play in the spaces I wanted to. I could simply exist the way I was already existing. I didn't need anything else.

The misinterpretation is the assumption that this being true of me means this is everybody's relationship with gender. I turned out to be cis, so for me, feeling that holding onto my assigned gender wasn't allowed was distressing - just another invocation of the same bioessentialist bullshit I'd been dealing with since the preschool playground. This is because misgendering is fundamentally denying that a person has the right to express themself the way they want. When aimed at me, it says I'm not performing traditional femininity well enough to deserve my pronouns. The same disrespect is the root of misgendering when aimed at trans people. "Perform your gender to my satisfaction or I will confiscate it."

The problem is, bioessentialism is 100% ingrained into the terf playbook, which is why, for instance, all their shitty talking points about trans athletes eventually boil down to "no woman can ever defeat a man in any contest because we are simply naturally weak and stupid and there is nothing we can do about it" and quite frankly nothing disgusts me more than the defeatist acceptance of the very lie that feminism is dedicated to overcoming. Instead of accepting that the paradigm of bioessentialism is a false dichotomy right from the jump, they embrace and weaponize it against the people whose existence proves the dichotomy is a lie. If gender essentialism is fundamentally false, then it is nobody's fucking business what anybody does with their gender. If the lines don't exist, nobody needs to enforce them. And yet there the terfs go, hunting down people whose lives are none of their business and trying to argue that they represent some great and terrible evil, some downfall of society made flesh, something that makes it totally correct and normal for them to spend so much time thinking about strangers' genitalia. They want this to be a noble crusade so badly they won't even examine what flag they're flying.

I love and support the trans people in my life and will always, always stand on the side of your right to exist, but alongside that, terf rhetoric especially disgusts and infuriates me because it is, at its heart, utter cowardice. The world told them they were weak and stupid and inferior and they fucking believed it. And now they think Fighting The Good Fight For Women means turning around and using the same paradigmatic weapon that hurt them to hurt the people whose existence outside the binary proves the weapon is a lie. They're the same shithead schoolyard bullies who made me believe my entire existence was foundationally wrong for years of my life and I will never, ever side with them or the shitty, cowardly rhetoric that contributed to the loneliest years of my life.

Figure out who you are and do it on purpose. Find the real source of the misery in your life and try fighting that instead of the other crabs in the bucket. Trans rights.

[lovedreamer11]

The day people realize that a strong female character is not just a woman in armor with a sword in her hands who regrets that she was not born a man will be one of the best days of my life.

Because what happens to Emma's character, and to any female character in HotD, is truly pathetic.

Yes, in Asoiaf and Got there are strong female warriors Arya, Brienne, Alyssa Targaryen, Baela, Ygritte, Meera, Black Aly, Asha, Obara and Nymeria Sand.

But were Olenna, Margaery, Queen Rhaenys, Missandei, Val, Tyene and Sarella Sand, Daenerys, Sansa, Shiera, Elaena, Rhaenyra, Alysanne, Rhaena, even Alicent, weak just because they were feminine and did not fight with physical force? Or even Meria Martell, the old Yellow Toad of Dorne, who was not a warrior, but it was during her reign that Dorne remained unconquered, and one of the Conquerors fell in battle along with his dragon.

Visenya and Daena fit both of these categories. They were both fierce beauties who could be feminine when they wanted to, but they could also defend themselves and were skilled in the use of weapons.

In any case, to be strong and be an influential person, it is not necessary to envy men and constantly wear armor. But it is much easier for the creators of HotD to give a woman a weapon or turn her into a victim than to make her character smart, charismatic and ambitious.

Everyone screams that HotD is feminist, but no. This show is as anti-feminist as possible.