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electric-guillotines · 2 days ago

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An Absolute Menace

Wanda x female reader

Summary: Of course you were ovulating on a day when Wanda had to go in for what amounted to superhero office work. Obviously, the only right thing to do was make it her problem as well...

Content: 🔞 fluff, smut, mommy kink, finger sucking, dom/sub, dommy mommy wanda, enchanted strap, ovulation, dumbification, breeding (if you squint), praise and degradation

Word Count: 3, 639 Can be read below but is also available on [AO3]

This is a follow up to a previous story, Take Me Softly

You were disturbed from sleep by the press of lips against your brow and a hand gently shaking your shoulder, and despite the softness of it you can’t help but whine as you hear;

“I have to go, malysh (baby.) ”

Petulant though you were, you opened your eyes to see Wanda hovering over you, smiling so sweetly, dressed to leave, and you pouted, winding your arms around her neck.

“Don’t forget your lunch,” you murmured sleepily. “I put it on the top shelf.”

Wanda chuckled warmly at your expression. “Thank you. Always thinking of me even when you look like a kicked puppy,” she teased, stroking a finger down your nose.

Rather than fix your face, you grumbled a protest against such comparisons, only making it worse as the sound of Wanda’s laughter graced your ears again.

Warmth bloomed in your chest.

Smiling despite yourself, you let out a dramatic sigh and flopped limply on the bed like a wilting flower. “I cannot thrive in these conditions, abandoned, alone, oh! I will wither without my hourly dose of affection, I will!”

“Is that right?”

“Yes. This is common knowledge about girlfriends.”

You could hear the smirk in Wanda’s voice, a rush of warm air tickling your skin. “Wouldn’t that apply to me?”

You looked up at her, nodding solemnly. “Which is why you should stay.”

Wanda let out a reluctant groan. “Steve insisted they need me to come in. I’m the only witch on hand after all.”

Right, the team needed Wanda’s help with something about magic.

Sighing, albeit with far less theatrics, you sat up to hug your girlfriend. “Go,” you said, kissing her cheek. “Go be amazing. I will survive. Barely.”

Wanda laughed, hugging you nearly tight enough to press the air from your lungs, like she could somehow carry the imprint of your body the rest of the day. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she assured, gently pushing you back down into the blankets, “go back to sleep, malysh (baby.) ”

You hardly needed the encouragement, drifting back into peaceful oblivion as soon as she left the room. It wasn’t until you stirred again later and stretched out in search of your absent girlfriend that the petulant yearning returned, simmering in your chest, leaden and warm.

The more you lingered in bed, contemplating the empty space beside you, the more that sour tug in your chest wormed its way down your spine, the warmth becoming heat, the yearning becoming hunger.

No.

Starvation.

Biting your lip, you rose from bed and tried to shake off the sudden longing. Despite your dramatics earlier, you were in fact an adult, capable of self-sufficiency and independence. You could get through the day without Wanda, you had been without her for longer and this would be nothing, so you showered, dressed, and went about your day.

Coffee was brewed, breakfast was had, emails were checked—the morning run was uneventful. After a quick shower, you settled into the den with your tablet, ready to pass the time by drawing whatever came to mind as you watched a guilty pleasure of yours from the late 2000s.

Lost Tapes was a speculative series centred on the existence of cryptids and folkloric creatures, using the framing device of found footage. It struck just the right mix of absurd earnestness to make it both easy background noise and a source of inspiration.

Usually, after a few episodes you would have a couple pages worth of sketch dumps, yet…

You found yourself distracted, mind wandering to dark, needy corners and nudging your hand every other pen stroke. What came to life on the tablet wasn’t a collection of monsters but a pair of tangled bodies, ravenous and sensual.

Staring down at the sketch, you chewed your lip, trying to ignore the slow burning heat in your gut.

A devious little voice in your head suggested sending the image to Wanda.

Your skin tingled.

Unconsciously, you deepened some of the details, the dip of nails into back muscles, the shine of a leather harness, the tapestry of scratches across both bodies.

The thought of Wanda pinning you down and ravishing you wasn’t a new one, but it was always one that delighted you. For whatever reason, today the thought burned through you like a grease fire spilling across the floor, dangerous and hard to control.

Swallowing, it occurred to you how sensitive your body felt. Your nerves were buzzing, the heat pulsed between your thighs, and every little movement made you painfully aware of how wet you were.

Pulling out your phone, you quickly opened the period tracking app to double check where you were in your cycle.

Of course.

You were ovulating.

On a day when Wanda had to go in for what amounted to superhero office work.

Against the tiniest voice of reason in your head, you sent the sketch to Wanda with a text;

Did some drawing in the den, thought of you ❤️

Five minutes later, Wanda responded;

That’s quite the vivid thought you were having, malysh. The line weight is beautiful x

Tactful, composed—that wouldn’t do.

I would love to bring it to life right now, let mommy ruin me until I forget my own name, pinning me under her body as she makes me hers over and over again…

The response took longer, the three dots stopping and starting multiple times until Wanda finally replied;

You are playing a dangerous game teasing mommy while she’s away.

All you sent in response was a heart and closed your phone.

Determined to get through the rest of the day, you made sure to tidy up around the house, prep food for later, and do laundry, but while you took care of such domestic endeavours you continued sending messages. Little reminders of your vivid thoughts, and pictures of you throughout the day that skirted a razor fine edge between innocent and provocative.

Each time the message status changed to ‘seen’ sent a pleased little thrill through you, unconsciously clenching your thighs together and biting your lip as you waited to see if Wanda would take the bait again.

She warned you only twice more and nothing further, but Wanda kept looking at each new message, still read the words and lingered on the pictures as her icon shifted from offline to online and back again.

You knew it was getting to her and the thought of how she would be when she got home had your head feeling warm and foggy by the time you heard her keys in the door.

It was with a heavy, honey-like sense of heat in your belly that you listened for her, sitting quietly in the den.

There was no call, no announcement of her presence in the house, she hadn’t even sent a text to tell you she was on her way back. Instead, you barely allowed yourself to breathe as you heard the light thud of her footsteps moving down the hall, the floorboards softly creaking here and there the closer she got, until finally Wanda stepped into the doorway.

Your breath caught in your throat, taking in the sight of her looming at the threshold, the bright hallway and the dim light of the cosy den leaving her partially silhouetted.

The faintest red glow lit Wanda’s eyes like embers in a campfire.

You just peered up at her, your eyes black and your limbs darkened, dressed in soft pajama shorts and a patterned red sweater that hung off one shoulder. It belonged to Wanda once upon a time, it was the first item of clothing you ever borrowed from her, and kept borrowing whenever you wanted her affection but couldn’t get it.

The weight of her presence pinned you in place, watching her approach with slow, deliberate strides until she was standing over you, eyes devouring every inch of bare skin she could see.

Finally, Wanda muttered, “you have been an absolute menace today.”

The heat in her voice made you shift on the spot.

Lifting a hand to your face, she tucked a lock of hair behind your ear, traced the curve of your cheek, and captured your chin in a firm but gentle grip.

You remained perfectly still as she leaned down until your noses almost touched, the glow of her eyes playing on your skin.

Wanda sighed, not from annoyance but in an attempt to maintain control of herself, her breath carrying the slightest tremor of energy wound tight, a coil ready to crack. “I thought you liked being my good girl.”

A whine lurched from the back of your throat. “I could not stop thinking about you,” you rushed to explain yourself, your accent thicker with the fog of your thoughts. “I felt sensitive and warm all day and I wanted you here. I am ovulating.”

The tension in Wanda softened just a little and her head slowly tilted to the side, her smouldering eyes sweeping over you with something dark and appreciative.

With gentle pressure she slid her fingers into your hair and dropped the hand holding your chin to your throat, not squeezing, simply resting there. You almost went limp in her grasp.

Wanda locked eyes with you again, calmly tilting your head back and admiring the way you arched into her touch, pliant and eager. “Ohhh,” she crooned, “my pretty little dolly just needed me so much did she?”

The playful condescension made you drip into your shorts and you squirmed, nodding

Wanda gave your hair a light tug. “Words, dolly.”

You scrambled to answer her. “Yes, Mommy, I needed you, I need you, please.”

Humming in approval, Wanda finally kissed you, slow, deep and savouring, possessive as the hold on your throat tightened just enough to be felt.

At the brush of her tongue against your lips you moaned and let her in, delighting in how eagerly she devoured you, your thoughts becoming increasingly liquid.

Wanda broke off with a shaky breath, brow pressed to yours. “I want you to go upstairs, pick out a size, and lie down on the bed,” she husked, “and don’t undress just yet, dolly.”

She pulled you to your feet effortlessly, sending you on your way with a light slap to your bottom.

You scampered upstairs to the bedroom with barely contained energy, doing exactly as Wanda asked and opening the drawer that held your joint collection of toys, a vibrant array of colours, sizes, and shapes. You picked out a girthier one than usual, grabbed the harness, and placed both on top of the drawers.

Climbing up on the cool sheets of the bed, you laid down on your stomach, knowing full well how Wanda wanted you.

It didn’t take long for her to enter the room, and though silent her presence was like a heavy fog washing over you, the weight of it secure and reassuring.

Obediently, you remained still, listening to the rustle of fabric, to metallic clinks and leather scuffs, and you could feel her approach the bed, stopping just short.

Gently, she asked, “what is your colour, malen’kiy prizrak (little ghost) ?”

You blinked slowly as the question registered. “Green, mommy,” you said, calm and clear.

Finally you felt a dip in the mattress behind you.

Wanda climbed over you, straddling your thighs. She barely gave you enough time to register her bare skin against yours before she rocked against your clothed ass, trapping the toy between your bodies.

The desperate whimper would have embarrassed you in any other situation. As it was, all you could think to do was raise your hips for her.

Leaning down, Wanda pressed flush against you, licking a searing path from your shoulder to the hollow space below your ear. She dragged her teeth against the shell of it, “you’re just a needy little slut for mommy, aren’t you, dolly?”

Heat flushed your face, her tone dripping in faux sympathy that had you trembling.

She smiled against your skin, rocking against you and letting you feel just how big the toy you’d chosen was. “All day with such big thoughts swirling around that pretty little head of yours,” Wanda cooed, “you don’t have to think any more, dolly. Mommy can do it for you, can’t she? Mommy knows what’s best for you, doesn’t she?”

Between her words and the hard length pinned against your ass, it was becoming quite hard to think anything coherent, sinking into that warm liquid haze where all you had to worry about was being her good little dolly.

Whimpering, you nodded. “Yes, mommy.”

Wanda’s hand snaked down under your belly and hooked into the waistband of your pajama shorts. She pulled until the seam rode up against your cunt, providing sudden friction to your throbbing clit.

You jolted, moaning shamelessly. “Mommy!”

Wanda ground down, forcing your hips to move and rub against your shorts.

The heat in your gut began to tighten and you clawed at the sheets, whining low in your throat.

With a dark chuckle, Wanda pulled back. “Such a naughty dolly.”

You shook your head frantically.

Wanda leaned down, stroking a hand through your hair. Her nails lazily scratched at your scalp, sending pleasurable shivers down your spine.

She looked at you with a sympathetic pout, the red glow of her eyes all but mesmerising you. “No?” she asked, sweetly mocking. “You don’t think you’ve been naughty?”

“No, mommy, please.”

“Mmh, no, you’re right, malysh.”

She sighed, kissing your hairline. “It isn’t your fault your cunt is so needy,” she said, her voice like dark honey that had your pussy clenching around nothing. “My pretty dolly is just too dumb to know what her body is doing, isn’t she? She needs Mommy to take care of it.”

The nod was automatic. “Yes, Mommy.”

Wanda kissed you, licking into your mouth as if she could sweep every last thought out of your mind with her tongue. It certainly made your head swim.

Pulling away, Wanda grabbed one of the pillows and murmured soft praise when you lifted your hips high enough to slip it under. She hooked her fingers into the back of your shorts and pulled them down just enough to expose your soaking cunt.

Wanda hissed, “ yebat (fuck) .”

You briefly heard the slick sound of lubricant being spread on the toy before the cool, rounded tip pressed against your folds, sliding down to your clit then up until it caught against your entrance.

Pressing a hand flat against the small of your back, Wanda slowly worked the toy inside, stretching you out in deliriously wonderful intervals, every inch making your breathing heavier until her hips were flush with yours and you felt delightfully full.

Wanda cursed again, her breath coming out shaky as she were trying to contain herself, and it occurred to you that she must have enchanted the strap.

Then she swivelled her hips in a lazy, stirring motion and an embarrassingly needy whimper tumbled out of you.

Shame was quite beyond you. “Please,” you begged. “Use me, Mommy, want to be your toy.”

You smiled when you heard Wanda growl above you.

Glowing threads of scarlet energy wrapped around your wrists and pulled them to the small of your back, allowing Wanda to slide a hand into your hair and push your head down against the mattress, steadying herself with her other hand on your hip.

Raggedly, Wanda said, “don’t hold back, dolly, Mommy wants to hear how much you love it when she uses you.”

There was no further warning and you wouldn’t have it any other way, crying out as Wanda began to fuck you in earnest, from deep, hard thrusts that knocked the air from your lungs to the indulgent rol and grind of her hips that had you seeing stars. You begged and moaned and babbled through it all, utterly helpless beneath her and loving every second of it.

The way you stretched around her cock over and over again, the sting of the harness against your skin each time your hips met, the fabric of the sweater riding up your body and your shorts digging into your thighs, her fingers in your hair—you could barely focus on any one sensation.

The heat built and coiled in the pit of your belly and you yelped, “mommy, close!”

Wanda dug her nails into your hip. “Go on, baby,” she urged, voice dripping with pride.

The orgasm crashed through you in shuddering waves, bright and burning and delirious, and not enough, but your mommy knew that. That’s why she didn’t stop, she continued fucking you, cooing sickly sweet praises that made you whimper and shiver in her grip.

Wanda moaned above you, her rhythm deepening, slowing. “Mommy’s going to make you forget how to walk, dolly,” she husked, emphasising her point with a particularly harsh thrust that had your eyes rolling. “Keep you here in bed, use your pretty body whenever I want.”

You flushed at her words. “Please, Mommy, fill!” you pleaded, barely grasping for what you wanted.

Wanda crooned. “My little slut, so eager for whatever Mommy gives you.”

You whined under her, trying to angle your hips so she could fuck you deeper.

She noticed, of course she did, and she laughed, the sound hungry and sweet.

Pleased, she released the magic around your wrists so she could press against your back, the hand on your hip sliding up to your throat. “Pretty little dollies like you don’t need to think, do they? They just need to take it, and you can do that, can’t you, baby?”

You opened your mouth to answer her and whatever you were going to say dissolved and dripped out your ears as her fingers slid between your lips.

Sucking on them, you let go of silly things like words or thoughts and surrendered completely, moaning as you felt Wanda’s hips stutter against you.

Warmth erupted inside you, pearlescent liquid magic like shimmering glass spilled and spilled until you could feel it dripping around the stretch of her cock.

Wanda growled against your skin, her hips picking up to go again.

Willing though you were, the position was beginning to feel a little too much, and you had just enough awareness to grab her wrist, squeezing twice.

Yellow.

Immediately she stopped and pulled her fingers from your mouth, holding your hand. “What is it, malen’kiy prizrak ?” she asked, firm and gentle.

“Need to see you, Mommy. Need to hold you.”

“Of course, thank you for telling me.”

She kissed the crown of your head and carefully withdrew, helping you turn over.

The pajama shorts were slipped off your legs and you wrapped them around Wanda’s hips, arms looping around her neck to pull her close again. The warm length of her strap rubbed up against you, nudging your clit and making you shiver.

Wanda brushed her nose against yours. “Better?”

You nodded. “Yes, Mommy.”

She smiled, her eyes soft. “Colour?”

Sliding a hand into her hair, you kissed the tip of her nose, almost shy. “Green.”

Pleased, Wanda slipped back inside, making both of you groan.

She worked her way up to a pounding rhythm, hissing praise every time your nails raked across her back hard enough to draw blood, muttering into your ear how much she loved the way you clenched around her, whimpered for her, eager to take everything she could give you. And oh, how beautiful you were each time you unravelled, twitching and gasping beneath her, glistening with sweat, clinging to her like the only solid ground in a storm.

Sometimes she let you arch away from her, eyes falling shut as the pleasure overtook you, but other times she gripped your hair and dared you to look away, staring into your eyes and watching your face shift as you made a mess of her cock all over again, the intensity of it overwhelming in the best way.

When at last you were both exhausted, all you could feel was a heavy warmth in your belly, no longer burning and tight but the last remnants of a bonfire, smouldering down to ash, your body liquid and spent.

Registering movement above you, you tried to reach out to stop the pleasant weight on top of you from moving away, whining and pawing needily.

Red eyes settled on you. “Shhh, dolly,” Wanda soothed, brushing hair out of your eyes with the back of her hand. “It’s okay. We just need to get cleaned up.”

The tone calmed you more than the words, a collection of syllables you only vaguely grasped in your current state of exhausted bliss.

Wanda gently pulled out much to your displeasure, though the feeling of loss was quickly followed by the syrupy sensation of her magic leaking out of you, making you quake.

After removing the harness, Wanda fetched a warm washcloth and gently wiped you down, murmuring sweet praise as she did so. You sank into the feeling, letting it and the sound of her voice slowly pull you back to yourself.

Briefly, she disappeared into the bathroom again only to return with a glass of water, coaxing you to sit up and take a drink. The cool liquid felt like it washed away some of the lingering fog.

With a sleepy smile, you nudged the glass back to her, a silent demand for her to drink as well and she did.

Finally crawling under the covers, you settled against her chest, soothed by the sound of her heart and her arms around your shoulders.

You smiled against her skin. “You were wonderful,” you whispered, snuggling closer. “Thank you.”

Wanda kissed the top of your head, squeezing you as if she could physically impart all her love by doing so. “Of course. Thank you for trusting me, malysh. "

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x fem!reader #wanda x reader #reader insert #wlw fanfic #wlw smut #wanda maximoff #lesbian #wanda smut #marvel smut #series: Her Lovely Shadow

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mullermilkshake · 2 days ago

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The missing mother

Part 18 <- Part 19 -> Part 20

Hae-in is missing. She's in the most unsuspecting place.

Yandere!Jinwoo Sung x Fem Hunter!reader Tags. - DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT Pregnant reader, emotional distress, restraints, needles, arguing (kinda), medical stuff, (TW) high risk pregnancy

<<< For more Dark/Yandere content, click this link to go back to the Masterlist! >>>

<<< Or back to this fic's Master list. >>>

I have only watched the anime and haven't gotten round to reading the manhwa yet. Please refrain from spoilers.

TAG LIST CLOSED

I wanted to make this chapter longer, but I felt the end was a good cut off point and didn't want to put just some filler in that didn't help advance the plot, but I hope you still enjoy it. 🤗

So, Jong-in disrupted Jinwoo’s moment with you, because he couldn’t find his bit on the side?

Because that’s all Hae-in was to him, right? Now the man had another hunter pregnant, he’d probably toss her aside too. Hae-in most probably saw her worth and disappeared with her baby to get away from all the dramatic shit.

Just like now, with Jong-in on Jinwoo’s doorstep, worse for wear and looking dishevelled after some kind of all-nighter, but in truth, he looked hungover.

“You can’t find her?” You asked, your hand holding your belly for comfort.

Jinwoo wanted to kick himself, he hoped at least this time, you would actually listen to him and stay in the bedroom. Of course not. He adjusted the door to keep Beru hidden, casually leaning against the door with an invisible huff he forced himself to choke down.

“I went to see her this morning, to check on her. But she wasn’t there, she told the doctors that she was going out for an early walk this morning like she's been doing the entire pregnancy, but she hasn’t come back. I’ve been losing my mind trying to look for her, I didn’t know who else to turn to. I apologize for how late it is.”

You lost your baby mama and now decide to make it our problem?

Jinwoo didn’t want you getting involved, not with Jong-in. Any time together was far too much in his eyes and a recipe for disaster.

“We’ll help you, right Jinwoo?” You watched him with cautious eyes, telling him a message with your expression.

Not asking. Telling.

“We’ll help, but you can stay at your place. I can use my shadows, so there’s no point in everyone going out at night.”

“You want me to just wait here?” Jong-in was ever the polite one, even if he was reacting to being turned away.

Jinwoo nodded nonchalantly. “Yeah. That’s exactly what I want you to do, there’s no point in getting worked up. I’ll find her.”

He would essentially still have to traipse out and look for her manually if Igris couldn't find her, he just didn’t want Jong-in sniffing about. The shadow he used initially was sitting nestled in Jong-in’s shadow, Not Hae-in’s.

You, however, must have caught on to that.

“Jong-in, can you wait outside for a moment?” You walked up and closed the door before he could answer, your brows together with a hidden scowl. “I know that you need to be close or something to put one of your shadows on people, just like you put Igris on me. What’s your deal? You’re coming off as really combative.”

He threw up his hands in surrender. “I’m not, I just don’t see the point in us all going out in the dark. Hae-in’s capable. We can’t treat her like she’s made of glass and fragile, neither of you are. So, I’ll go and look for her, I'll have my shadows patrolling the city, something will pop up eventually. It’s late and you’re exhausted.”

You yawned as he said that, but shook it off. “No, there’s something else. You always get tense around Jong-in and I just… I can’t tell what you’re thinking. Care to tell me why?”

What could he honestly tell you? That he was growing a type of hatred towards the man like a tumour, every second you were in his presence. Or that he'd thought of many ways to make him disappear or suffer just to put a smile on Jinwoo's face. Sometimes fantasising wasn't enough, and the only reason he hadn't done anything yet was because of you.

If you knew the sort of dark things he kept a lid on, you would leave him in a heart beat.

Yeah, none of those explanations were acceptable.

“Will you let me go do this if I don’t say anything?”

“No.”

Jinwoo whispered, forgetting that Beru still stood there, awaiting the drama so that he could finish his show. “Because he’s in love with you. You just never noticed.”

“Me?!” You matched Jinwoo’s volume, but shouted in a hushed tone to scold him. “He’s not in love with me, are you for real right now?! There’s no evidence to substantiate that, there never was.”

Were you for real?

"It’s there written on his face every time he looks at you, you just don’t see it. He was disappointed that he was never paired with you, he told us that he wanted that but settled for Hae-in.”

Okay, Jong-in never said that, but the only people currently in the room that recalled the conversation that day was Jinwoo, so who was counting?

You wanted to speak and you even stuttered a little, your mouth moving and closing into utter speechlessness. The cogs were turning in your brain, realisation perhaps? If an opportunity presented itself, Jinwoo had to take it. To drive the wedge that had already grown distant between you and Jong-in further than ever. To sever it completely.

“I’m sorry I’m naturally defensive around someone who's in love with my girlfriend.”

“But… Why is he so upset about Hae-in then? It doesn’t make sense- I saw yesterday that she was head over heels for Jong-in now, it was so obvious. Even with the other woman he's paired with. Why would you feel like that? They have literally nothing to do with us."

Jinwoo couldn’t exactly say that he was territorial and growing more and more possessive over you as time went on either. It took everything in his power not to lose himself like did in the beginning with the headquarters staff member.

Okay, Okay... The first guy really was a fluke. But I'd do it again.

He lied when you asked him if he’d kill for you. While it took him by surprise, it was more headway than he thought was possible this side of the pregnancy. You were still independent a lot of the time and owning your own thoughts.

Yet you still asked him.

It was a given that he would kill for you, but what he wanted to say to you, was that he would abstain from killing, which he had done since. It never made his impulsive thoughts easy to deal with, and despite it all, he managed it.

Because it was for you.

“I feel like that, because I’m in love with you. You’re pregnant and we don’t need the extra drama he’s bringing on our doorstep. I’ll go and find her, because it’s Hae-in. And it’s for you. Not for him.”

Was it a dick move to say that? Yes. Did it make him better in his head that you knew part of the truth now? Definitely.

Jinwoo opened the door before you even made a sound. Jong-in still stood there like a petrified deer in headlights. “I’ll go find Hae-in, you go get some sleep. I’ll let you know when I find her.”

The night should have long since been over. Jinwoo should have had you in sprawled in bed all fucked out after one thing leading to another, which it would have done had Jong-in not knocked. Then, Jinwoo would have laid in bed with your head on his chest, entangling his fingers in your hair waiting for the twins to move so he could feel it.

But Jong-in robbed that of him.

“Then I’m coming with you, you aren’t going on your own.”

Before Jinwoo could protest, you left the hall towards the bedroom, Beru still stood behind Jinwoo getting antsy but still remaining silent.

“Beru, go and watch your show.” He ignored the little happy dance Beru did and tried not to pay attention to the almighty thud on the couch.

He’ll trash the apartment at this rate.

Coming back to Jong-in, he didn’t seem to notice anything. But he was getting on Jinwoo’s nerves just standing there, not being his usual self, like he cared. “I’ll come with you-”

“It’s fine. Get some rest.” And he closed the door on him without another word.

When you emerged, you took note of Beru’s position on the sofa and Jong-in's lacking presence. “Where did he go?”

“He went back to his apartment. It’ll be better if I just go- Igris, come out here.”

Igris appeared on cue, wisping out of your shadow and kneeling at Jinwoo’s feet. “Go and find Hae-in, let me know when you do.”

The shadow vanished, Jinwoo took the opportunity to take a glance at the spyhole through the door to await Jong-in’s departure. He was no longer there, whether he did as he was told, or went back out to find Hae-in was another matter Jinwoo did not care to think about.

He just couldn’t stand the man. In the eyes of everyone else, including you, he’d done Jinwoo no harm. Even so, it was the potential to ruin everything that Jinwoo had worked for that turned his stomach at the man who otherwise did absolutely nothing.

“Alright, we’ll go together. But if it gets too much, you’re coming straight home.”

“Jinwoo, I’m pregnant, not unwell. I’m sure I’ll manage.”

There’s that attitude I admire. Shame it's coming at the wrong time. “Alright then.”

By the time Jinwoo grabbed his jacket, you were half way out of the door. He turned to Beru who was still in the same place, eyes peeled to the screen of two characters dancing, or were they fighting? He wasn’t sure, but he called to him like a father ensuring the teenager left in charge wouldn’t burn the apartment down.

“We’re leaving, keep the noise down and come back to me when your show is finished.”

“Yes, Sire!”

Hae-in was probably off somewhere to get some peace and quiet, you made weird comments about the facility from what you had heard. How noisy it was, the lack of privacy due to constant tests that Hae-in mentioned, poking and prodding her with large needles. whether it was entirely true and not an overexageration because of exhaustion and other contributing factors were to be revealed.

However, that could have been you last night had Jinwoo not thought on his feet. Never would he allow you to go anywhere. Never. Never.

By the time the elevator made its way up to the floor, you were already stepping in, anxiously biting at the dead skin on your fingers and tapping your feet like it was making the elevator move faster. “I knew it was a bad idea Jong-in letting her go to that place. She’s all on her own, it must be so lonely. Why didn't he fight for her?”

"Fighting requires effort. It depends how much pressure he's under from the association."

"You fought for me."

Jinwoo snapped his gaze at you, surprised at your forwardness, slipping your hand into his like a real real couple. It nearly made his heart explode. "I did. I always will."

You never let go, but you dropped the deep inhale too were keeping in your chest. "Why did all of this get so fucked up? I mean, from what I've seen of Hae-in, she seemed so calm and steady. running off like this is unlike her, I guess."

Anyone could pull there jerk reactions from a hat under the right circumstances, even docile hearted Jong-in. "What would you do if you were in her position? Where would you go?”

The question caught you off guard, Jinwoo saw it but how you watched him closely, your body closer yet you said nothing at first.

“I would… I’d go to the place I felt most safe if I was feeling lonely.”

“Which is?” He knew already, well, he hoped. Jinwoo wanted to hear it from your lips.

“Home... In the apartment. With you.”

"It's home to me, too.," Jinwoo smiled, he wanted to kiss you, and he almost did, but the pit of his stomach twisted.

It was Igris.

“He found her. That was too quick to have found her- hold on to me, I’ll exchange- I’m sorry, but it’s going to make you sick.”

“It’s fine.” You didn’t need telling twice, vigourously shaking your head like it would dispel the link from your brain to your stomach.

Jinwoo held you close whilst you clung to him, and he switched places with Igris.

What the- This is the association facility.

You let go immediately and heaved, hunching over the nearest trash can. A miniature one in the corner invited you, Jinwoo shook away his astonishment on Jong-in’s part and held your hair back. Moaning into the metal container made it echo, your groans of how unfair things were, something about your mana and that you really weren't ever doing that again.

Jinwoo's attention fell on the walls of the facility, cold and modernised with a blinding white artificial overhead light that barely peeked through the overwhelming stench of rubbing alcohol and bitter antiseptic. The linoleum stuck to Jinwoo's shoes, almost crispy from the overuse of cleaning substances and misused adhesives under the mislaid grey carpet that was just as dull as at the illness posters on the wall.

How the fuck did Jong-in not look in the place Hae-in was living in?

Idiot.

“Let me go! Stop it!” The room at the end of the hall.

It’s where you instinctively ran to, holding yourself and wiping your face with your sleeve as you did so. Jinwoo followed close behind and prevented you from entering into the commotion.

Hae-in laid in bed, restrained to the side bars in wide eyed tears mixed with the perspiration of an athlete across her forehead. She noticed you first before Jinwoo.

Well, this was anticlimactic, she was here all along.

“You came- you came! You have to get me out, they’re crazy!”

She tugged through gritted teeth, and hissed at the red swelling over her jittery wrists. Hae-in naturally relaxed a fraction in your presence, you rushed over and tried the restraints, noting the padlock on each cuff.

“Holy shit- Jinwoo, help me!”

“You have to get me out of here- I can’t be here anymore. I want to go back to the apartment, help me get back to Jong-in, I don’t want to be here anymore!”

Hae-in thrashed around at Jinwoo’s hesitancy. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to help her, it was because something didn’t sit right. If she was here the entire time, then why did Jong-in come to the apartment looking for her?

To get time with you? No. Jong-in’s had plenty of other opportunities to speak to you about other things and he hasn’t, he’s just picking odd times. There has to be something more to this.

“Jinwoo! Snap out of it and help me!”

Shit. The room stood still for Jinwoo, not for anyone else in the room. He came over and took a look at the locks, an easy break with his bare hands, he managed one with no effort.

“I’d stop that if I were you-”

“Oh, fuck!” You gasped and pawed at your chest, turning and slipping between Jinwoo’s arms. “Doctor, I didn’t see you there.”

She smiled, though it never reached her troubled eyes. “It’s alright, I get that a lot. I didn't mean to scare you.”

The dark pits under her eyes looked right back at Jinwoo, diabolical in nature to make her dishevelled appearance. A running theme tonight. She did her best to adjust her lab coat and smooth down her hair, but undid everything by rolling up her sleeves.

“Stay away the hell away from me!” Hae-in kicked off the bed covers into a slumped pile on the floor and yanked the digging chain on her other wrist.

“Hunter Cha.” The Doctor slipped a clip into her hair, rushing to open the medicine box on the wall. “Please. You need to calm down, this isn’t good for you or your baby.”

You blinked rapidly, they gaze between Hae-in and the medical professional. “What is going on, doctor? She’s hurting, you need to let her go. This isn't good for her.”

“I will, as soon as she calms down- we found her by the bay, wet and barely dressed, shivering to death. She’s extremely stressed and her pregnancy has become high risk, she needs strict bed rest or she could end up labouring early- Hunter Cha, you're putting your life at risk, your baby's life, please take a deep breath, your blood pressure is through the roof!"

She was distressed and sweaty, wiping away what perspiration she could from her forehead before preparing a syringe to which Hae-in recoiled at. She was hysterical, pulling at the restraint which could dislocate his arm at any time.

“Hae-in, calm down.” You said. “The doctor’s trying to help you, let her help you. You’ll pop a blood vessel like this!”

“No, no, no, no! Get that away from me- I don’t want it, I want to go back- let me go back!”

“Hae-in!”

The doctor came round to her free arm and tried to catch it swinging for her face. “I’m so sorry, I really am- your health is at risk, you need to listen me and calm down. I really want to help you.”

She snatched her arm at the first chance she got and held it to inject her, Hae-in amped the reaction like the doctor was radioactive.

Jinwoo was curious. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked. “Hae-in, what’s gotten you so upset?”

She was struggling for breath behind her distraught tears and wails. “They want- they want to take my baby away!”

What?

Part 18 <- Part 19 -> Part 20

Thank you for reading and all of the support on this fic! ❤️ Likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated and I appreciate you all! See you next time 🤗

Tag list - @bubera974 @snowy-violet @sky2lar @starrynights23x @kamiliora

@yessirr7 @aussie-boys-wife @yihona-san06 @mashiromochi @daiyanomochi

@justatimidcreator @alia-17 @otomegamesforlife @m00n-estelle @towomatos

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DISCLAIMER - Crossposted from my AO3 - I do not own any of the characters or anything from the anime or manhwa. This is a work of fan fiction and is absolutely not representative of the views or intentions of the original creator(s).

Also please don’t post any of my work without permission thank you!

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sweettoothedtrickster13 · 1 day ago

Text

Image ID under the cut

[Image ID: Tumblr user lipstick lesbia prefaces the image with:

"I will never stop thinking about this poem my Greek professor showed us."

The image is a poem entitled 'After my brother's death, I reflect on the Iliad' by Elisa Gonzalez. The poem reads:

"The water cuts out while shampoo still clogs my hair. The nurse who swabs my nose hopes I don't have the virus, it's a bitch. The building across from the cemetery calls itself Life Storage.

My little brother was shot, I tell the barista who asks how things have been, and tip extra for her inconvenience. We speak only to the dead, someone tells me- to comfort, I assume, or inspire, but I take it literally, as I am wont: even my 'shut up' and 'fuck' and 'let's cook tonight', those are for you, Stephen. You won't come to me in my dreams, so I must communicate by other avenues.

A friend sends an image from Cy Twombly's 'Fifty Days at iliam'- a red bloom, the words 'like a fire that consumes all before it'- and asks: Have you seen this? It's at the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

If I have, I can't remember, though I did visit with you, when you were eleven or twelve, when you tripped silent alarm after silent alarm, skating out of each room as guards jostled in, and I- though charged with keeping you from trouble- joined the game, and the whole time we never laughed, not till we were released into the grand air we couldn't touch and could.

You are dead at twenty-two. As I rinse dishes, fumble for my keys, buy kale and radishes, in my ear Priam repeats, I have kissed the hand of the man who killed my son. Why would I do that? I ask as I pass the store labelled Signs Signs.

I've studied the mug shot of the man who killed you; I can imagine his hands. Of course I would. Each finger, even. To hold your body again. And to resurrect you? Who knows what I am capable of. If I were. Nights, I replay news footage: your blood on asphalt, sheen behind caution tape. Homer's similes, I've been told, are holes cut in the cloth between the world of war and another, more peaceful world. On rereading, I find even there, a man kills his neighbor.

"Let Achilles cut me down, / as soon as I have taken my son into my arms and have satisfied my desire for grief" - this, my mind's new refrain in the pharmacy queue, in the train's rattling frame.

The same friend and I discuss a line by Zbigniew Herbert "where a distant fire is burning / like a page of the Iliad." It's nearly an ontological question, my friend says, the instability of reference;

The fires in the pages of the poem, the literal page set afire.

We see double.

You are the boy in the museum. You are the body consumed, ash.

Alone in a London museum, I saw a watercolor of twin flames, one black, one a gauzy red, only to learn the title is 'Boats at Sea.' It's like how sometimes I forget you're gone. But it's not like that, is it? Not at all. When in this world, similes carry us nowhere.

And now I see again the boy pelting through those galleries a boy not you, a flash of red, red, chasing, or being chased- Or did I invent him? Mischief companion. Brother. Listen to me plead for your life though even in the dream I know you're already dead.

How do I insure my desire for grief is never satisfied? Was Priam's ever? I tell my friend, I want the page itself to burn."

Under the poem is italicized text that provides context on the author. It reads:

"Elisa Gonzalez, the winner of a 2020 Rona Jaffe Foundation Writers' Award, is at work on her first book. Read More." Read more is in blue, indicating a link.

End Image ID]

i will never stop thinking about this poem my greek professor showed us

#transcribed

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save-the-villainous-cat · 2 days ago

Text

“Feeling lonely, hm?”

The hero didn’t burden their head with turning towards the voice. They weren’t in the mood for cruel charades.

Instead, they stared at the TV they hadn’t turned on in over a month and debated if not showing up at work would cause any huge conflicts.

Probably.

They closed their eyes.

“Don’t tell me you’re ignoring me,” the villain’s voice purred. “Me.”

“You’re not real, so it’s my obligation to ignore you,” the hero said. They stared at their hands and couldn’t help but feel like their physique had changed. They didn’t seem to be as muscular as before. They didn’t seem all that healthy either.

“Not real, huh?” The villain walked towards the hero’s armchair and let themselves drop lazily. “Now that’s a bit unfair.”

“Yeah,” the hero said. They stared at the coffee table with the empty coffee mug. “Some things have been pretty unfair.”

“I thought you were supposed to ignore me.”

“R-right.” The hero looked away and once again, their heart got quite heavy. They couldn’t sleep at night, that was one of the more annoying things. Eating was also difficult, working was…unbearable. They couldn’t think straight.

And above all those hallucinations…their eyes went back to the villain who was stretching in their chair.

Usually, those hallucinations made one mistake. Or better, that part of the hero’s brain that was responsible, made a mistake. Mischaracterising the villain in such a way that the entire illusion shut down entirely.

The hero hadn’t told their doctors about their imaginary nemesis. But that was mainly because the hero would probably not be allowed to work as a superhero for a few weeks.

They clenched their fists, dug their fingernails into their own flesh.

“You look troubled,” the villain said. “Are you eating enough? You’ve lost weight.”

“I’m fine,” the hero whispered back. They looked up at the ceiling.

“You miss me.” Every single time. The hallucination said that every single time. The hero turned their gaze towards the villain’s image and stared.

“Yes, I do. So what?”

“Most people feel some sense of accomplishment after beating their enemies,” the villain said. They put one of their thighs on the other. “And two months is quite enough time to find a new enemy worth your time.”

The hero’s eyes widened.

“I don’t want someone else. And I…technically, I didn’t defeat you. I didn’t kill you, I didn’t arrest you. You just…” The hero’s throat burnt like acid and their bottom lip trembled. “…you just died.”

They swallowed the pain and leaned forward.

“Just wish I could’ve said goodbye,” they mumbled. This time, the hallucination didn’t answer. “That wasn’t fair. Our relationship didn’t deserve that end.”

“I didn’t think you’d care about the end,” the villain said.

“Isn’t the end the most important part?” the hero asked. The taste on their tongue was extremely bitter and they knew it didn’t come from the coffee they had finished an hour ago. “Either way, you are haunting me. So, I guess once again I get the worst of it all. You got the easy way out. As always.”

“Haunting you?”

“Yeah.”

“You must really like me, then,” the villain said. They chuckled sweetly, like they had whenever the hero was embarrassing themselves. For some reason, the pit in the hero’s stomach grew, that unsettling feeling spread.

The hallucination had never been cruel enough to laugh. It was such a wonderful sound that even the hero’s lips curved into a smile.

“Yeah, can you blame me? I must’ve fallen a few months ago.” Suddenly, the hallucination was quiet again.

Their eyes met and for a second, the hero swore it was the real villain in front of them. They tilted their head.

“You never mentioned that.”

“Too afraid of rejection, I suppose,” the hero answered. They shrugged. “Any rejection would have been better than this, though.”

The hallucination got up from the chair and slowly walked to the couch where the hero was sitting on.

“I would have never rejected you, you dense…” The hallucination was even capable of blushing. The hero frowned. “Whatever.”

Ultimately, the illusion grabbed them, sat down on the hero’s lap and kissed them.

It took the hero a few more seconds to realise what was really happening.

#laufey when I catch you…when I catch you…#writing snippet #heroxvillain prompt #heroxvillain snippet #heroes and villains #hero #villain #hero x villain #heroxvillain #an answer for an ask #request

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salynaa · 3 days ago

Text

“Look of love”

Warnings : None, fluff, bad writing.

Characters ; Burning Spice, Pure Vanilla, Shadow Milk, Wind Archer.

Synopsis : They lived beneath the weight of every gaze, flashes of awe, shadows of disdain, the hush of judgment.. But never had they met the eyes of love. Until yours. What would they do, when faced with such gentle gaze?

Author note : My bad if I didn’t really catch the character right in the personality or lore!! I don’t read it at all tbh. The Shadow Milk and Wind archer part are the best one, more accurate!!🫶

Burning Spice

He knows what it is to be admired. Revered, even. His name was spoken with awe, with fear, with reverence. A name carved into legend by fire and fury. Crowds didn’t love him, they worshipped his strength, his power to reduce anything to ashes. But love? No. That was something else entirely.

And nothing he’s known before feels anything like what you give him.

Your love doesn’t come with fireworks or fanfare. It arrives quietly, like embers on a cold night. It lingers in your gaze when you look at him, not with fear, not pity, not with worship, but with something much gentler. Something warmer. Something he doesn’t know what to do with.

He doesn’t understand it. Doesn’t want to. Because understanding means thinking, and thinking means remembering. And memory is dangerous for someone like him. It means facing what he’s done, the lives turned to cinders in his wake, the silence after the storm. It means standing in the ruins of the past and admitting that somewhere, a part of him is still burning.

He has lived a life forged in heat and destruction. He’s been a weapon, a wildfire. It’s easier not to think. Easier to keep moving, to keep burning.

But you, you're a different kind of flame.

You're the softness he was never meant for someone like him to touch. You speak gently, as if your voice might soothe the parts of him that scream. You look at him like he's someone worth loving. You see him, not the destroyer, not the legend, but the Cookie underneath. And that shakes him.

Why? Why do you look at him like that? Why do you stay, when you know what he’s capable of? He’s scorched entire landscapes, left nothing but ruin behind. You know this. You’ve heard the stories, maybe even stood in the smoke of what he left behind. And still… you stay.

At first, he resented you. Hated you, even. Because you made him feel. Made him remember. You forced open doors he had slammed shut long ago. You planted something in him he didn't ask for, hope. Longing. And worse, need.

But that bitterness has melted into something else, something deeper, something terrifying.

Because now, he would do anything to protect this fragile peace you’ve given him. He would scorch the skies, split the earth, ignite every battlefield again, if it meant keeping you safe. Keep that sweet peace that lies in the rest of the crumbles.

Pure Vanilla

There are many who love Pure Vanilla.

They love the idea of him, the monarch, the healer, the forgiving heart. A symbol of hope wrapped in warmth, glowing with the soft brilliance of truth. They gather around him like moths to a lantern, asking for guidance, comfort, absolution. And he gives it, always. Without hesitation. Without resentment.

That’s what it means to be him.

He listens. He forgives. He heals.

He shines, even when the light sometimes loses its brilliance.

And yet, with every wound he mends, he forgets a little more what it feels like to be tended to. With every soul he lifts, his own sinks a little deeper into quiet sorrow. No one sees it, not really. Not behind the ever present smile, the soft voice, the unwavering calm.

No one sees, until you.

You don’t come to him with prayers or praise. You don’t speak to him like a saint or a symbol. You don’t ask him for miracles. Instead, you ask how he’s doing.

And when he tries to answer with the same gentle, polished words he offers to everyone, “I’m well. Thank you for asking.”, you simply blink, tilt your head, and say :

“...Are you sure?”

He doesn’t know how to respond.

Because you mean it. He can tell. Your eyes hold no awe, no worship. Only honesty. Concern. That quiet softness he gives to everyone else, you’re giving it to him. And it feels… foreign. Strange.

And yet, he can’t look away.

He finds in your gaze a kind of light that is not his own. A light that doesn’t ask him to be anything, not perfect, not powerful, not even good. Just present. Just himself.

He doesn’t know what to do with that.

He tries to keep his distance at first. Not because he dislikes you, but because he’s afraid. Afraid that if he lets himself be seen too closely, the cracks in him will show. That the perfect image everyone believes in will begin to fall apart under your gaze.

And then what would be left?

But you never asked him to be perfect.

You sit beside him during quiet evenings outside, never pressing. You speak of simple things, flowers, dreams, stories from your day. And little by little, he begins to speak back about himself. Just softly. Just enough. Until one day, he says something he never thought he would.

“I… don’t always know how to carry it.”

You don’t ask what “it” means.

You just reach out, gently, and take his hand in yours. When his hands tremble just slightly. You never mention it. You never ask why his smile sometimes falters when you reach for him. But you notice. And that's what makes it real. You see his grief, his weariness, his regrets, and still, you choose to stay.

And he thinks, this is what it must feel like.

To be held. Not because he is needed. Not because he is useful. But just because he exists.

You never try to fix him. Never try to tell him to stop carrying the burdens he’s chosen. You simply remind him that he doesn’t have to carry them alone. That even light needs rest. That even kindness needs to be met, not just given.

And over time, the weight in his chest begins to shift.

He still shines. He still heals. But now, when he looks at you, there is something new in his eyes. Not just gratitude, but longing. Safety. Love. A quiet promise he’s never made before, not to the kingdom, not to his friends, not even to himself.

Only to you.

That if he must carry hope for the world, maybe he could allow himself to be carried for once?

Shadow Milk

“Seriously… what is wrong with you?”

That’s what he always says, sharp, mocking, laced with that smirk he wears like armor. His voice cuts like the shadow of a blade, playful but biting, every word dripping with disbelief. He leans in close, just enough to unsettle you, eyes narrowed in suspicion and something far more dangerous, curiosity.

“What’s going on in that silly little head of yours, hmm?” he murmurs. “What are you really trying to do?”

Because surely, surely, you’re trying to trick him.

You must be. Everyone lies. Everyone wants something. And you, you, with your soft eyes and steady voice, with the way you look at him like he’s something more than just a clever mask and a whisper in the dark, you must be playing a game. Right?

You must be lying.

Trying to trap him with affection, lure him with kindness. Pretending to care, just to see if the beast will bare his teeth or show you something broken beneath them. That’s what this is. It has to be.

Because no one, no one, looks at Shadow Milk Cookie like that and tells the truth.

But then your gaze meets his.

And something in him falters.

Just for a second.

There’s no deceit in your eyes. No hidden agenda, no gleam of manipulation or shadowed intent. There’s just… sincerity. So soft it hurts. So warm it disorients. You look at him like you see past every trick, every cruel smile, every little lie he’s ever told, and still choose him.

And that?

That’s the most terrifying thing of all.

Because he knows lies. He lives in lies. He is the lie. He’s twisted truths into knots so tight they choke. He’s laughed while pulling strings, smiled while watching others fall for illusions he crafted just for fun. Deceit is his nature. His playground. His weapon.

But you…

You don’t play.

You don’t twist.

You don’t pretend.

You look at him like he’s real.

And now? He’s the one who doesn’t know what’s real anymore.

He tries to shake it off. Scoffs. Rolls his eyes. Throws his usual venom into the air like smoke. “Tch. You really think I’m going to fall for that?” he hisses, always with the same sharp. “You think you can fool me? The beast of deceit himself?”

But the truth is, it’s already too late.

Because you’re not fooling him.

You’re undoing him.

You’re dragging light into corners of him that haven’t seen it in ages. You’re whispering kindness into a soul that only knows how to echo back lies. You’re seeing him, and for the first time in forever, he doesn’t want to run. Doesn’t want to hide behind smoke and shadow.

He wants to believe.

But belief is dangerous. It’s soft. Fragile. Exposed.

And Shadow Milk is not fragile.

At least, he thought. Until now.

So he stares at you longer than he should. Quiet. Still. His grin doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His usual retorts hang silent in his throat.

Because deep down, where the lies go quiet and the mask begins to slip, he knows.

You’re not trying to trick him.

You love him. Honestly. Genuinely. Without condition.

And he doesn't know how to survive that.

So he’ll laugh. He’ll taunt. He’ll spin another web, play another game. But something in his voice will shake. Something in his gaze will soften. Because now, your truth lives in him like a splinter of light.

And no matter how many shadows he casts, it won’t stop glowing.

Wind Archer

He has known many silences.

The hush of a forest at dawn. The sacred stillness before rainfall. The sigh of leaves in the wake of a passing breeze. These were once his companions, soft, wordless things. He did not need voices when the world spoke to him through petals and branches, through the rustle of trees and the kiss of the wind.

Once, he was the wind. Light and unburdened. Wild and aimless. He danced through the forest, carrying fragrance and joy wherever he passed. That was before.

Before the darkness came.

Before the stillness he loved turned brittle and heavy with dread.

Before he was given form.

Now, he walks not as a whisper, but as a warrior.

Wind Archer Cookie, the protector of the forest. A title. A duty. A weight he bears not with bitterness, but with quiet solemnity. He knows what he was given. He knows what he must do. He carries hope like a flame in his chest, shielding it from every gust that threatens to snuff it out.

But hope, even in the purest heart, can falter when it has no place to rest.

Then came you.

You, with eyes like spring and a presence like sunlight through the canopy. A soul not forged in battle, not wrapped in the vines of destiny, but open. Kind. Alive.

He found, in the depths of your gaze, the same quiet he once found in the forest, but warmer. Where the forest asks nothing, you invite. You offer. You welcome.

You are not a duty. You are not a purpose. You are simply there.

And somehow, that undoes him.

He has stood against storms, faced down corruption, whispered prayers to ancient trees. But he is helpless before the softness in your eyes. Before the way you smile at him not as a guardian, not as a legend, but simply... as a Cookie. As if he’s not some sacred sentinel, just someone you care about.

At first, he did not know how to be near you.

He kept his distance, watched you in silence, like one might observe a sunrise, too beautiful to touch. You reminded him of what he had once been. Free. Unburdened. He told himself that was enough.

But he lingered.

Every time your laughter echoed through the trees, he paused. Every time your hand brushed against the bark of an ancient tree with reverence, he watched. Every time you looked at him, truly looked, he felt something stir beneath the wind and leaves and purpose.

A longing.

Not to run. Not to hide.

But to rest.

You speak to him not with grand declarations, but in the way you exist. Peaceful. Steady. Real. You do not pull him from his duty, but you give him something he has never had.

A place where the wind can stop moving.

A place where it can simply be.

He doesn’t know how to ask for it. He doesn’t even know if he should. The forest still needs him. The darkness still creeps. Hope is still a fire he must carry.

But sometimes, when your hand brushes his, and you meet his gaze with that quiet warmth that says stay, he wonders.

If maybe... just maybe... he’s allowed to be more than the wind.

————————————————————————

Hope you guys liked!!🫶🍊 Give feedback y’all, and maybe I would do a part two?? Say who you would like to see!!

Coems🤑 I don’t know SHIT about the deep lore of the characters except smc, so probably not accurate at all!! And the burning spice part was terrible, I know.

#salynaa #cookie run kingdom #cookierunkingdom #crk #crk x y/n #self insert #cookie run x reader #crk x reader #crk x you #shadow milk cookie #shadow milk x reader #pure vanilla x reader #burning spice x reader #pure vanilla cookie #burning spice cookie #wind archer x reader #wind archer cookie

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peachdues · 3 days ago

Note

What do you think of a farmer!reader x Sanemi? 👀

the stardew valley brainrot has taken over with the demon slayer mod

Farmer!Reader and farmhand!Sanemi? You mean a big, strong man who can help you sling vegetables and fruits in half the time? The one you call when a dumb piece of farm equipment breaks down, even though you’re more than capable of fixing it yourself because he’s liable to get sweaty and wipe his brow with the hem of his t-shirt, letting you sneak a peek at those sinfully toned abs you fantasize running your tongue over?

Farmhand!Sanemi, whose skin is a delicious nut brown under the blazing heat of the sun, who has hair the color (and texture) of cornsilk. He’s quick to help you with something heavy and you’re quick to let him — any chance to ogle those biceps, right?

Oh, but he’s also sweet even if in a gruff sort of way. Maybe not super talkative, at least, not at first. Ply him with enough iced tea and a few sweet treats, however, and he’ll gradually open up. Sure, he probably doesn’t know how to flirt (no matter how hard you try), but he does know how to fix that one burner on your stove that doesn’t work, or the tear in your screen door. Some days you walk back into your house and find him tackling another project you didn’t know needed attention, but you’re always happy for the help.

And Sanemi might be dense when it comes to the affairs of the heart, but he knows he watches you as much as you watch him. Too often he finds himself fixating on how tenderly you plant your seeds, your hands delicate but precise. Would your fingers comb through his hair the same way they rake through the dirt, confident but gentle? Day after day, he watches you coax life and abundance out of even the most stubborn little plant. He can’t help but wonder whether you might be able to do the same to him. If you haven’t already begun to do so.

Don’t even get me started on his hands. How big and warm they would be, or how, despite the roughness of the thick calluses lining his fingers and palm, they would be so gentle sliding down your waist or running between your thighs…

Oh yes, sweet anon, I am a VERY big fan of this idea.

#🍑’s asks #sanemi shinazugawa #demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #kny #kny x reader #kny fanfic #kny sanemi #sanemi x reader #demon slayer x reader #sanemi x you #demon slayer x you #kny x you

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iamquiantrelle · 2 days ago

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BLOOD OATH (chapter 12) • iamquaintrelle

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

# tags: @queenshikongo3 @peyiswriting @ggaslyp1 @pickingupmymercedes @donteventry-itdude @snowseasonmademe @szariahwroteit @beauty-gurl @jessnotwiththemess @sailurmewn @lewismcqueen @purplerain-94 @vintagesoul-01 @saintslewis @cocobutterqwueen @purplelewlew @imjustheretomanifest @mauvecherie-writes @httpsserene-main @peaceiswonderful @scorpiobleue @deeziee @krystiana @maximofflove @palefacestudentlove @justagirlwho-believes13 @fadedintime @theoriginalgirll

# 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

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Three days after Hernandez, the nightmares still came. You'd wake gasping, the sound of gunshots echoing in your mind, the feel of the trigger beneath your finger replaying in endless loops. The first kill was supposed to change you—that's what you'd always heard, at least. Your father's men spoke of it in hushed tones, this crossing of a threshold that separated those who could survive in your world from those who couldn't.

What disturbed you wasn't that you felt changed, but how natural it had felt. How right. How justified. Shouldn't there be more guilt? More hesitation when you remembered how easily you'd pulled that trigger three times?

Morning light filtered through the pool house curtains, casting warm patterns across the bed as you blinked away the remnants of another restless night. Lewis was already up—you could hear the quiet sounds of movement from the adjoining bathroom, the precise routine he maintained regardless of circumstances.

You pulled yourself up against the headboard, running fingers through your tangled hair as Lewis appeared in the doorway, already dressed in slacks and a cashmere sweater despite the early hour.

"Nightmares again?" he asked, his perceptive gaze missing nothing.

You nodded, not bothering to hide it. "Same one."

Lewis crossed to the bedside, setting down a steaming mug of tea on your nightstand—the perfect temperature, with the exact amount of honey you preferred. This small domestic ritual had become part of your mornings in the days since Hernandez, Lewis providing wordless comfort in his characteristically practical way.

"It gets easier," he said, perching on the edge of the bed beside you. "Not because you become callous, but because you learn to compartmentalize."

"Is that what you do?" you asked, wrapping your hands around the warm mug. "Compartmentalize?"

Something flickered across his features—a brief glimpse behind the controlled exterior he maintained so effortlessly. "It's the only way to function in our world. To separate the necessary violence from the rest of life."

His hand found yours, fingers intertwining with casual intimacy that still sometimes caught you by surprise. In the seven weeks since your wedding, these small gestures of connection had gradually increased, accelerating since Scotland and even more since the night you'd killed Hernandez. As if that final proof of your capability had removed some last barrier between you.

"Does it bother you?" you asked, the question that had been circling your mind for three days finally finding voice. "What I did?"

Lewis studied you, his dark eyes holding yours with unexpected warmth. "No," he said simply. "Should it?"

"Most husbands probably wouldn't want to see their wives kill someone."

The corner of his mouth lifted in that almost-smile that had become increasingly familiar. "I think we established quite some time ago that this isn't a typical marriage."

You couldn't help but smile in return. "I suppose we did."

A knock at the door interrupted the moment, Miles's voice calling from outside. "Lewis? Naomi's here with those reports you asked for."

Lewis's expression shifted seamlessly back to business mode, though his hand lingered on yours a moment longer. "Tell her I'll be right there."

"You should go," you said, taking a sip of the perfectly prepared tea. "I'm fine, really."

Lewis studied you for a moment longer, as if assessing the truth of your statement, before nodding once. "We'll talk more later. My mother called again yesterday—apparently Roscoe is driving her mad. She says he misses you."

The mention of the bulldog brought a genuine smile to your face. "I miss him too. When do you think it'll be safe to get back to him?"

"Soon," Lewis promised, rising from the bed with that fluid grace that made even simple movements seem deliberate. "Once the Suarez situation is fully resolved."

You nodded, understanding the reality beneath the simple statement. Until Suarez was killed, no one in your orbit was truly safe—not even a wrinkly-faced bulldog who'd claimed your affection during those first uncertain weeks in London.

"Go," you urged, settling back against the pillows. "Don't keep Naomi waiting. I'll meet you at the main house later."

With a final assessing look, Lewis departed, leaving you alone with your tea and the lingering warmth of his presence.

An hour later, showered and dressed, you made your way across the snowy grounds to the main house. Security personnel nodded respectfully as you passed—a subtle but significant shift from the polite dismissal they'd shown before Hernandez. Word had spread quickly, the details likely embellished with each retelling, your status within both your father's organization and Lewis's permanently altered by three bullets and unflinching resolve.

You found Lewis in your father's study with Miles and Naomi, their voices low but tense as you approached the partially open door.

"—make sense given what we know about his movements," Naomi was saying, her pragmatic tone carrying that edge of frustration it always held when her insights were being questioned. "The timing of his communications with Suarez coincided too perfectly with separate information breaches."

"We've been through this," Miles countered, fatigue evident beneath his usual easy manner. "Hernandez had access to all the compromised systems. We've run full security audits on everyone else in the organization."

"And found nothing," Naomi acknowledged. "Which either means we're missing something, or—"

"Or someone is hiding their tracks very well," Lewis finished, his voice carrying that quiet authority that commanded attention without volume.

You pushed the door open fully, drawing all three pairs of eyes to you. Lewis's expression softened fractionally, an almost imperceptible shift that few would notice but which you'd learned to recognize as his version of a welcome.

"Sorry to interrupt," you said, though the apology was mere formality given your position.

"Not an interruption," Lewis replied, gesturing you into the room. "Naomi was just updating us on her continuing investigation into Hernandez's contacts."

Naomi nodded, her professional demeanor never wavering despite the circumstances. "I still think there's more to this than just Hernandez."

"Have you discussed this with my father?" you asked, moving to stand beside Lewis's chair with natural ease.

"Not yet," Lewis replied, his hand finding yours with casual possession that still occasionally surprised you with its openness. "I wanted more concrete evidence before bringing it to him."

"Wise," you acknowledged, understanding the delicate politics involved.

"If I may," Naomi continued, her focus unwavering despite the subtle shift in the room's dynamic with your arrival, "I'd like permission to conduct a more thorough investigation of this."

Lewis glanced at you, a silent exchange passing between you.

"Do it," you said, the easy authority in your voice sending a flicker of surprise across Miles's face though Lewis merely nodded in agreement. "But discretely."

"Understood," Naomi replied, the barest hint of approval crossing her usually impassive features before she gathered her files and departed with professional efficiency.

Miles followed a moment later, leaving you alone with Lewis in the study that had once been the exclusive domain of your father's business. The change wasn't lost on you—how naturally you now occupied this space, how easily you'd stepped into partnership with Lewis.

"Your sisters were looking for you earlier," Lewis mentioned once the door closed behind Miles. "Something about plans for the afternoon."

You smiled, grateful for the change in topic from security breaches to family matters. "Probably another scheme to get Gabriella out of her pre-Milan panic. She's been reorganizing her closet daily since finalizing her study abroad arrangements."

"Nervous about leaving home?" Lewis asked, his perceptiveness extending even to your sisters' emotional states.

"More excited than nervous," you replied, settling into the chair Miles had vacated. "But you know how it is with Italian families—leaving, even temporarily, is treated like some grand tragedy in the making."

The corner of Lewis's mouth lifted. "I've noticed."

"Will you join us?" you asked, the invitation spontaneous but genuine. "The girls were talking about watching movies in the theater room, maybe ordering in from that Italian place down the road."

Something like surprise flickered across Lewis's features—not at the invitation itself, but perhaps at how naturally it had been extended, how easily you'd included him in these casual family moments.

"If you want me there," he said simply.

"I do," you confirmed, meaning it more than you might have expected even a week ago. Since Hernandez, something had shifted between you yet again—the partnership deepening beyond strategic alliance into something neither of you had fully defined but which felt increasingly necessary.

The afternoon unfolded with surprising normalcy, you and your sisters sprawled across the plush couches in the estate's theater room while debating movie choices with the passionate intensity only Ricci women could bring to such trivial matters.

"Not another superhero movie, Sophia," Maria groaned, tossing a handful of popcorn at her youngest sister. "If I have to watch men in spandex punching each other one more time, I might actually lose my mind."

"It's not just men in spandex," Sophia protested, dodging the popcorn with practiced ease. "It's art. Cultural commentary. Right, Lewis?"

All eyes turned to Lewis, who had settled beside you with characteristic composure despite the chaotic energy of three Ricci sisters in full debate mode. He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused despite his neutral expression.

"I'm afraid I haven't kept up with the current superhero cinematic universes," he admitted, earning dramatic groans from Sophia.

"You're useless," she declared with typical teenage dismissiveness. "What about you, Gabby? Back me up here."

Gabriella, curled at the other end of the couch with her phone perpetually in hand, barely glanced up. "Don't care. As long as it's not another one of Maria's depressing European films where everyone dies at the end and we're supposed to feel enlightened by the experience."

"That was ONE TIME," Maria defended, throwing more popcorn that Gabriella dodged without looking up from her screen. "And it won at Cannes!"

"Which should have been your first warning," Gabriella muttered, her thumbs flying over her phone in what appeared to be an intense text conversation.

You leaned against Lewis's shoulder, these familiar sisterly dynamics creating a strange bubble of normalcy in the midst of everything else happening in your world. His arm settled around you with casual intimacy, his body a solid presence beside yours as the debate continued around you.

"They're always like this," you explained in a low voice, watching as Sophia physically wrestled the remote from Maria while Gabriella continued ignoring them both. "Wait until family dinner tonight with the cousins. It's going to be complete chaos."

Lewis's thumb traced small circles against your arm, the gesture absent-minded but comforting. "I'm beginning to understand why your father spent so much time in his study."

You couldn't help the laugh that escaped you. "Strategic retreat. The only defense against Ricci women in full force."

The afternoon passed in a blur of movies (Sophia won the first selection, Maria the second), take-out containers from your favorite local Italian restaurant ("It's not as good as Nonna's, but it'll do," was Sophia's ringing endorsement), and the kind of easy banter that only siblings could maintain without causing permanent offense.

What surprised you most was how naturally Lewis integrated into these moments—not fully relaxed, perhaps, but present in a way you hadn't witnessed before. Offering dry commentary on plot holes that sent Sophia into fits of laughter. Listening with genuine interest as Gabriella described the business program she'd be studying in Milan. Observing it all with that careful attention he brought to everything, but without the calculating edge that usually accompanied it.

By the time evening approached and preparations for the extended family dinner began, you found yourself watching Lewis with renewed curiosity. The man who had entered your father's study as potential husband less than two months ago continued to reveal unexpected layers beneath his controlled exterior.

"Earth to big sis," Sophia's voice broke through your thoughts, her finger poking your arm incessantly. "You've been staring at Lewis for like, five straight minutes. It's getting weird."

Heat rushed to your face as you swatted her hand away. "I was not staring."

"You absolutely were," Gabriella confirmed without looking up from her phone. "Major heart-eyes situation happening. Very embarrassing for all of us, honestly."

"Shut up," you muttered, throwing a decorative pillow that Gabriella dodged with irritating ease.

Lewis, who had stepped away to take a call from Miles, returned in time to catch the tail end of this exchange. His eyebrow raised in silent question, amusement evident in his eyes despite his composed expression.

"Ignore them," you advised, rising from the couch with as much dignity as you could muster. "We should get ready for dinner. Vinny and the others will be here soon."

"Vinny's bringing his new girlfriend," Sophia announced with gleeful anticipation of drama. "Aunt Claudia is going to hate her."

"Aunt Claudia hates everyone Vinny dates," Maria corrected, gathering empty takeout containers with uncharacteristic tidiness. "It's her default setting."

"Yes, but this one has tattoos," Sophia countered, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "And she's a bartender at that club in the city. You know, the one Uncle Paolo pretends he doesn't go to."

"This dinner is going to be a nightmare," Gabriella predicted, finally looking up from her phone with something like anticipation. "I can't wait."

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

Two hours later, the formal dining room buzzed with the controlled chaos that defined Ricci family gatherings. Your father sat at the head of the table, your mother at the opposite end, with extended family filling the spaces between—Uncle Paolo and his wife Claudia, their son Paolo Jr., Uncle Paolo's daughter Gia from his first marriage, and your other cousins Vinny and Carmine.

Lewis had taken his place beside you with the calm assurance that had marked his presence in family gatherings since the De Garza situation solidified his position. If the boisterous energy of your extended family bothered him, he showed no sign, his composed demeanor providing an interesting counterpoint to the theatrical Italian dynamics playing out around him.

"So, Gabriella," Vinny said through a mouthful of pasta, his gesture with his fork sending a flicker of disapproval across your mother's face. "When do you leave us for the sophisticated European life? Uncle Sal's already talking about how we'll need to find you an Italian husband while you're there. Keep it in the motherland, you know?"

Gabriella rolled her eyes with such force it seemed physically painful. "I'm going to study business, not husband-hunting. And if Papa thinks I'm letting him arrange my marriage like it's 1950, he's completely delusional."

"Worked out okay for your sister," Vinny countered, his gaze shifting meaningfully between you and Lewis. "Arranged marriages are making a comeback, cugina."

"I think one strategic alliance is enough for this generation," you replied dryly, feeling Lewis's hand settle on your knee beneath the table.

"Besides," Vinny continued, turning his attention to Maria, "you're probably next in line anyway. Unless you've already got someone picked out, Uncle Sal?"

Your father made a noncommittal sound, too focused on his osso buco to engage with Vinny's needling. "Maria has time yet."

"Shut up, Vinny," Maria muttered, her fork stabbing with unnecessary force into her salad.

"Gabby already has a boyfriend," Paolo Jr. announced with the gleeful obliviousness of a seven-year-old dropping conversational bombs. "I saw them kissing near the playground!"

The table fell silent for one perfect, crystallized moment before erupting into a cacophony of overlapping reactions.

"What do you mean, a boyfriend?" your father demanded, his fork clattering against his plate as his full attention snapped to his middle daughter.

"Paolo doesn't know what he's talking about," Gabriella insisted, her face flushing despite her attempt at casual dismissal.

"Are you calling my son a liar?" Claudia's grainy New Jersey accent cut through the noise, her expression sharpening as she leaned forward. She was only eight years older than Gia, a fact that created perpetual tension between the two women seated across from each other.

Gabriella gave her a look that clearly communicated 'chill, lady' without saying the words aloud. "I'm saying he's seven and probably confused about what he saw."

"I'm not confused!" Paolo Jr. protested indignantly. "You were kissing that boy with the black hair and glasses!"

You squinted at this description, something tugging at your memory. Black hair and glasses sounded remarkably familiar—specifically, like Giovanni Castellano's son, Marco. The same Castellano boy whom you exaggerated was still communicating with Gabriella while you were talking to his father in Geneva. You'd never thought that that little white lie was indeed the truth.

Another perfect silence descended, this one heavier than the first.

Your father's eyebrows had practically disappeared into his hairline. "Gabriella, is there something you want to tell us?"

Gabriella maintained a stubborn silence, pushing food around her plate with studied concentration.

"Come on, Gabby," Vinny pressed, clearly enjoying the drama he hadn't even needed to create. "You can tell us. Who's the mystery man Paolo caught you with?"

After a long moment, Gabriella sighed dramatically, setting down her fork with precise control. "It's no big deal. We've only been seeing each other for a few months."

"A few months?" your father repeated, his tone suggesting this timeline was somehow the most offensive part of the revelation.

"Who is he?" Sophia demanded, practically vibrating with curiosity. "And why didn't you tell me? I thought we told each other everything!"

Gabriella shrugged, maintaining her mysterious air despite being clearly cornered. "You'll see."

"Is he Italian, at least?" Carmine asked, his expression suggesting this was the bare minimum requirement for family approval.

Gabriella nodded slowly as she continued eating, offering the smallest concession to the interrogation.

"That's good then," Vinny declared with obvious relief. "A nice Italian boy. We don't need any more Brits here." He glanced at Lewis with a smirk. "No offense, pal."

Lewis returned the look with a steel-like glare that had Vinny's Adam's apple bobbing nervously. "None taken," Lewis replied, his tone carrying that subtle edge that never failed to remind people exactly who he was beneath the polished exterior.

"How's he going to feel about you going to Milan for a year?" Maria asked, skillfully redirecting the conversation away from Lewis's intimidating stare and back to Gabriella's revelation.

Gabriella's lips curved into a knowing smile. "He'll be fine."

Something about her confident tone suggested there was so much more to the story, but before anyone could press further, Marco appeared at your father's shoulder, bending to whisper something in his ear.

Salvatore's expression darkened immediately. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he muttered, throwing his napkin onto the table. "It's always something happening! Can't even have a nice dinner with family these days." He looked at Marco with barely contained irritation. "Tell him I'll meet with him shortly."

As Marco departed, your father turned to your mother with an apologetic shrug that didn't quite mask his underlying tension. "I have to handle some business with Tommy V and the guys," he explained. Your father's gaze shifted to Lewis, something calculating entering his expression. "Lewis, come join us. We have to handle business in AC."

Atlantic City. The destination alone told you what kind of "business" this would be—the strip clubs there served as neutral meeting grounds for certain negotiations that required distance from New York territories.

Lewis glanced at you, a silent question in his eyes—would you be alright without him, given the nightmares and the lingering aftermath of Hernandez?

You nodded slightly. "I'll see you later."

With that subtle permission granted, Lewis leaned in to place a kiss on your cheek, then turned back to your father. "Of course." Your father nodded approvingly before Lewis addressed Miles, who had been sitting quietly near the door as was his custom during family meals. "Miles, stay with my wife. Make sure Naomi and Jensen maintain security protocols while we're gone."

Miles didn't look pleased with the assignment—clearly preferring to accompany Lewis—but nodded his agreement without protest.

As your father, Uncle Paolo, and Lewis prepared to depart, the remaining family members exchanged knowing looks. Business in Atlantic City meant not just meetings but the inevitable distractions such establishments offered—beautifully appropriate for the men who had just been interrogating Gabriella about her love life to now disappear to a strip club for "business."

"Be safe," your mother called after them, her tone suggesting she was well accustomed to these sudden departures despite the tension that never quite left her eyes when your father headed into potentially volatile negotiations.

The door had barely closed behind them when Sophia turned to Gabriella with renewed determination. "Okay, spill. Who is this Italian boyfriend and why is it such a big secret?"

As Gabriella deflected with practiced ease, you found your thoughts following Lewis. The contrast struck you suddenly—how naturally he had fit into your family dinner, how easily he now moved between your world and his own. The man who had entered your father's study as potential husband less than two months ago had somehow become an integral part of your reality, his presence no longer foreign but necessary.

Miles caught your eye from his position near the door, his professional manner not quite masking his obvious concern about Lewis heading into negotiations without him. You offered a small, reassuring smile—both of you knowing that whatever business awaited in Atlantic City, Lewis was more than capable of handling it.

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

The Atlantic City strip club pulsed with muted bass and strategic lighting, designed to flatter both the dancers and the clientele while maintaining enough shadow for private conversations. Lewis followed Sal and Paolo through the main floor, his expression betraying nothing despite the performances happening on elevated platforms around them.

Tommy Venucci waited in a private room toward the back, his slight limp evident as he rose to greet Salvatore with exaggerated deference. "Don Ricci," he said, the formality deliberate in the presence of others. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."

Sal's nod was barely perceptible as he took his seat at the head of the small table. "This better be worth interrupting my family dinner, Tommy."

"It is, I promise," Tommy assured him, his gaze shifting nervously to Lewis before returning to Sal. "The Colombians are here. They want to renegotiate distribution terms."

Lewis maintained his position slightly behind Sal's right shoulder, the traditional place for a trusted lieutenant—or in this case, son-in-law, who had proven his loyalty. From this vantage point, he had clear sightlines to both entrances and could observe everyone's expressions without being the direct focus of attention.

The door opened again, admitting three men whose expensive suits and careful movements marked them as something other than ordinary club patrons. The leader stepped forward, his face breaking into genuine surprise as he caught sight of Lewis.

"Hamilton," he said, his Colombian accent wrapping around the name with familiar ease. "I didn't expect to see you here."

Lewis stepped forward, extending his hand with the confidence of established connection. "Alejandro. It's been a while."

Salvatore's eyebrows rose slightly, his gaze shifting between the two men with newfound interest. "You know each other?"

"We've done business for years," Alejandro confirmed, his handshake with Lewis lingering with the weight of shared history. "Hamilton's weapons have helped us maintain certain competitive advantages in disputed territories."

Salvatore's expression shifted from surprise to satisfaction, as if Lewis's connection further validated his choice in arranging the marriage. "Small world."

"Getting smaller every day," Alejandro agreed before turning back to Lewis. "Congratulations are in order, I hear. Marriage suits you."

Lewis nodded, accepting the comment with characteristic restraint. "Thank you."

"And to a Ricci daughter, no less," Alejandro continued, genuine admiration in his tone as he glanced at your father. "You chose well, Don Ricci. Hamilton's reputation for loyalty is legendary in our circles."

Sal couldn't quite hide his pleasure at this endorsement, his chest puffing slightly with pride as if he'd somehow discovered Lewis rather than simply selecting from options presented to him. "My daughter deserves the best."

As the men settled around the table to begin their negotiations, Lewis resumed his position behind Sal, his attention divided between the business discussion and the subtle dynamics playing out between old and new alliances. What had begun as Sal's strategic arrangement had evolved in unexpected ways, creating connections that benefited not just the Ricci organization but Hamilton operations as well.

The thought of you waiting back at the estate crossed his mind briefly—your strength in executing Hernandez, your natural command with his people, your easy integration of him into family moments. Not at all what he had expected when entering that study seven weeks ago to negotiate for your hand, but increasingly valuable beyond any strategic calculation.

"Hamilton," Alejandro's voice pulled him back to the present moment. "Your thoughts on this distribution proposal?"

Lewis stepped forward, seamlessly joining the negotiation with practiced ease. "The percentages are fair, but your timeline needs adjustment. Three shipments in the first quarter creates unnecessary risk with the increased Coast Guard presence."

Alejandro nodded thoughtfully, clearly valuing Lewis's input. "What do you suggest?"

"Two larger shipments instead of three smaller ones. Same volume, lower profile," Lewis explained, his tone carrying that quiet authority that commanded attention without force. "I can provide additional security measures for the increased payload."

The discussion flowed smoothly after that, the Colombian's trust in Lewis clearly easing tensions that might otherwise have complicated negotiations with Salvatore. Within an hour, terms had been agreed upon, papers signed, and handshakes exchanged with the practiced formality of men accustomed to sealing deals in unconventional locations.

As Alejandro and his associates departed, Salvatore leaned back in his chair with evident satisfaction. "Good work, Hamilton."

Lewis nodded his acknowledgment, already calculating how long it would take to return to the estate. To you.

But Salvatore had other ideas. His attention had shifted to the main stage where a new dancer had appeared—tall and statuesque with mocha skin and long, flowing hair that cascaded down her back. Her movements were hypnotic, a practiced sensuality that commanded the attention of every man in the room.

"No rush to get back, is there?" Salvatore said, his expression shifting to something more relaxed, more indulgent. "Let's enjoy the entertainment for a while. It's been a successful night."

Lewis maintained his neutral expression despite his growing unease. This aspect of business negotiations had never appealed to him—the objectification, the performance of masculinity, the expected participation in rituals he found unnecessary at best, distasteful at worst.

Salvatore gestured toward a booth with a clear view of the stage, clearly interpreting Lewis's silence as agreement. With no graceful way to refuse without potentially offending his father-in-law, Lewis followed, taking a seat with calculated composure.

The dancer moved with fluid grace, her routine clearly well-rehearsed yet performed with an artistry that elevated it above mere exploitation. Salvatore watched with unabashed appreciation, while Lewis maintained his stoic demeanor, his thoughts elsewhere despite his physical presence.

Noticing Lewis's evident discomfort, Salvatore leaned over with a knowing smirk. "What she doesn't know won't kill her," he said, the implication clear in his tone.

Lewis kept his expression neutral, neither agreeing nor openly disagreeing with his father-in-law's philosophy. The tension in his jaw was the only indicator of his discomfort, a tell so subtle most would miss it entirely.

A server approached their table, offering a tray of expensive cigars with practiced deference. Salvatore selected one immediately, while Lewis hesitated before eventually taking one as well. The server leaned down to light it for him, her low-cut top providing a deliberately provocative view of her breasts as she did so. Her eyes met his with calculated invitation, a silent offer of more than just service.

Lewis didn't react beyond a polite nod of thanks, taking a slow draw from the cigar as the server moved away, clearly disappointed by his lack of response.

Salvatore chuckled, clapping Lewis on the shoulder with unexpected familiarity. "Look at you, finally letting loose a little," he commented, misreading Lewis's acceptance of the cigar as some kind of concession to the environment.

"Your daughter is waiting for me back at the estate," Lewis replied simply, the statement both explanation and reminder of his priorities.

Something in Salvatore's expression shifted—surprise, perhaps even respect. He studied Lewis with newfound consideration before nodding slowly. "You're truly a loyal man, Hamilton. We need more of you in this world. I'm glad we chose you."

"Thank you," Lewis responded, the sincerity behind the words evident despite his characteristic restraint.

Salvatore leaned back to sit more comfortably, his own cigar held expertly between his fingers as he turned his attention back to the stage. "But a man needs vices, you know. Something to keep him sane, from going over the edge."

"Like your daughter," Lewis reminded him, taking another measured draw from his cigar. "She's my vice."

The statement hung between them, weighted with meaning beyond the simple words. Salvatore gave him a curt nod, understanding dawning in his expression.

"I see how this is going down," Salvatore conceded with surprising grace. "I won't push you anymore, but I am allowed to have my own vices." He gestured toward the dancers on stage, the motion encompassing the entire environment.

"You are," Lewis concurred, neither judging nor endorsing his father-in-law's choices.

Tommy Venucci appeared beside Salvatore, leaning down to whisper something in his ear before handing him a stack of ones. Salvatore's face lit up with boyish enthusiasm that seemed strangely at odds with his usual commanding presence.

"Tommy's arranged a private dance," he explained to Lewis, already rising from his seat. "You're welcome to join, or—"

"I'll wait here," Lewis replied smoothly, relieved at the opportunity to maintain some distance while not openly refusing his father-in-law's hospitality.

Over the next hour, Lewis found himself politely declining numerous offers—drinks from servers with suggestive smiles, dances from performers with practiced seduction techniques, even a direct proposition from a woman who claimed to be "not really a dancer, just filling in" with an emphasis that suggested higher-end companionship.

Through it all, he maintained his composed exterior while his thoughts repeatedly returned to you—to the complex, capable woman who had executed Hernandez with unflinching resolve, who had stood up to her father with unexpected authority, who had somehow become essential to him in ways that transcended their strategic beginning.

When Salvatore finally emerged from the private room, slightly disheveled but evidently satisfied with the evening's entertainment, Lewis rose immediately. "Shall we head back?" he suggested, careful to keep any hint of judgment from his tone.

The drive back to the estate was conducted mostly in silence, Salvatore occasionally breaking it with observations about the Colombians or comments on business matters, while Paolo dozed in the back seat, clearly having indulged more heavily in the club's offerings.

It was late when they finally arrived, the estate quiet under the watchful eyes of security personnel who nodded respectfully as Lewis made his way to the pool house after brief goodbyes to Salvatore and Paolo. The night air was crisp against his skin, carrying the scent of snow and the promise of another storm approaching.

Inside the pool house, he moved quietly through the darkened living area, assuming you would be asleep given the hour. But as he entered the bedroom, he could sense your presence immediately—awake, alert, waiting. You sat up against the headboard, makeup removed, hair wrapped neatly in your bonnet, expression unreadable in the dim light filtering through the curtains.

"You smell like them," you said, disgust evident in your voice as Lewis closed the door behind him.

"My apologies. I'll take a shower then," he replied, neither defensive nor apologetic, simply acknowledging the reality.

"You had fun, didn't you? With the guys?" Your tone carried an edge that drew a dark chuckle from Lewis, surprising both of you with the sound.

"Do you really want to go down this route, babygirl?" he asked, his eyes finding yours in the darkness. "You know me. You know who I am."

You scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest defensively. "You're a man, Lewis, and men—"

"I am not the same as other men," he interrupted, a brief flare of frustration breaking through his usual control. "You could've said no, right? You could've told me not to go tonight."

"I know that, Lewis," you replied in an obvious tone, watching intently as he slowly removed his clothing, methodically undressing to reveal the tattooed skin beneath.

"So why are you upset? Or is this jealousy then?" The question was direct, characteristic of his preference for clarity over emotional games.

You gasped at the accusation, though its accuracy was evident in your reaction. Lewis clicked his tongue disapprovingly, a smirk gradually forming on his face as understanding dawned.

"Oh babygirl, you don't need to be jealous, at least not with me. I'm devoted to you," he said, the statement simple but carrying unmistakable weight.

"Are you?" you countered, the sass in your tone deliberate, challenging.

Your words made Lewis's eyes darken, his expression shifting to something more primal than his usual controlled demeanor. "There she is, my little brat coming out to play. We're doing this?" he asked, finally removing the last of his clothing, standing before you with confidence that bordered on arrogance.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you replied, feigning innocence despite the tension crackling between you.

"Don't play coy," Lewis said, approaching the bed with deliberate slowness. "I know how this game works, and I was willing to not probe and wait until you were ready, especially after what happened... but it seems as if you are."

A weighted silence fell between you, a battle of wills conducted through unwavering gazes.

"You always take the whole rope, don't you?" he observed, the metaphor deliberate and loaded with meaning.

"I—"

"Come 'ere," he commanded, his voice dropping to that dominant register that never failed to send a shiver down your spine.

"Lewis—"

The look he gave you stopped your words instantly, his raised eyebrow making it clear that refusal wasn't worth the effort. Slowly, you swept the covers off and padded toward him, your heartbeat accelerating with each step, goosebumps forming on your skin in anticipation.

Once you stood before him, Lewis pulled you close, allowing you to fully experience the scent of strippers and cigar smoke still lingering on his skin. Your face contorted in disgust as you tried to pull back.

"You still smell like them," you protested, attempting to create distance that Lewis immediately negated by drawing you closer.

"Then let's clean me off," he challenged, already leading you toward the bathroom with determined purpose.

You turned slightly to reach for a towel or maybe even to catch your breath, but Lewis was already there—right behind you, tugging at the hem of your night slip.

The slip lifted slowly over your body, the hem brushing up your thighs, over your hips, then higher still. He didn’t rush it. He wanted to feel the drag of the fabric, wanted to take in every inch of you as you were revealed. The material caught briefly on your breasts before he pulled it free, exposing your bare skin to the cooler air. Your nipples pebbled instantly, sensitive under his gaze.

Lewis leaned down, breath warm against you before his mouth met your skin. He kissed the slope of one breast, then the other, taking your nipple into his mouth and sucking with just enough pressure to make you gasp. His tongue lapped softly before switching sides, wet and deliberate.

You steadied yourself against his shoulders, trying not to lose your footing, but he didn’t give you the chance to recover. His hands were already on your waist, thumbs stroking your sides as he kissed a slow path across the curve of your chest.

His body was already pressed against yours—hot and solid and unmistakably male. The lean muscle of his frame held tension just beneath the surface, the compass tattoo on his chest inked in precise black lines that pointed north even as he lowered his mouth to worship you. His collarbones were inked too—faint script, sharp lines—and a trail of tattoos stretched along his forearms, disappearing under the flex of muscle as he moved. You traced one absentmindedly as he kissed you, hand drifted lower, brushing against his abdomen, and then lower still where his dick—thick, hard, and already flushed—rested against your belly. You felt it twitch slightly as you leaned into him, the intimacy of it dizzying.

He grinned against your skin before pulling back just enough to turn on the shower. The water hissed to life behind him, steam already curling toward the ceiling. Then he turned back to you—naked and gorgeous, the kind of man who should be carved into marble.

"Get in," he ordered, voice low and full of heat.

You moved to obey, but not before he delivered a sharp slap to your ass, the sound echoing off tile. You yelped, more from surprise than pain, but you didn’t stop. He followed you into the shower a moment later, stepping under the spray just enough to let it soak his braids before he pulled you close again.

The water coursed over both of you, hot and heavy, but Lewis kept you shielded from the brunt of it, positioning his body like a wall. His mouth found yours immediately—sloppy, needy, possessive kisses that had your knees wobbling. You melted into him, fingers exploring his back, your hands smoothing over damp, tattooed skin.

His lips moved over yours, then to your jaw, then your neck, nipping just enough to leave a mark.

"Clean me," he rasped against your throat. “Since you hate how I smell so much.”

You reached for the soap without breaking eye contact, and he smirked like he’d won something. You started at his chest, gently soaping over the compass tattoo, then moved up to his collarbones, your fingers tracing the script there as you worked the lather in slow, circular motions.

He watched you the whole time, his breathing low and steady.

You moved down his arms next, hands smoothing over thick biceps and forearms, gently scrubbing around the lines of his ink. When you finally dropped to your knees, it wasn’t submission—it was ritual. You worked carefully down his torso, around the rose on his ribs, then along the sharp lines of his hips.

"Delicate hands," he murmured, voice thick with pride and desire.

You didn’t respond. You didn’t have to.

When your hands reached his dick, you were gentle. Not teasing—just reverent. You cleaned him like it mattered, like it meant something. You soaped the length of him slowly, tenderly, your hands light but sure.

Lewis hissed softly, head tipping back.

"Fuck, babygirl… you’re too good at this," he groaned, hips twitching slightly as your fingers worked around his base.

You rinsed him just as carefully, letting the water do the work, your hands smoothing over him like you’d been made for this.

"You’re not mad anymore," he noted, looking down at you, water dripping from his lashes. "Or maybe you are. You just like proving a point."

"I’m not proving anything,” you muttered, rising to your feet. "Just cleaning off the smell of other women."

He laughed low in his throat, pulling you back into his chest. "There’s my little brat," he said again, kissing you hard—like a punishment, like a reward.

Water poured down both of you, heat rising with every second.

And the night was far from over.

That same controlled power you enjoyed—calm on the surface but storming underneath—followed Lewis out of the shower as he dried the both of you off. His touch was rougher now, more possessive, the soft towel brushing across your skin before he let it fall to the floor. Your heart fluttered with every pass of his hands, trailing over your body like he was reacquainting himself with what was his.

And you were his.

He led you back into the bedroom, the air was cooler now against your damp skin, but you barely noticed. Lewis's hand on the small of your back was a tether, keeping you grounded in the rising heat between you.

He kissed you before you even hit the mattress—his mouth hot and consuming, tongue demanding entry and devouring yours the second you parted your lips. It wasn’t soft or patient, it was primal. Starved. He maneuvered you back, your thighs opening automatically as he settled between them, mouth never leaving yours.

"Still want to act like I’m not loyal to you?” he murmured between kisses, lips dragging down your neck, teeth grazing your collarbone.

You whined, toes curling as he kissed lower, slow, wet presses of his mouth down the valley of your breasts. Your nipples, already sensitive from the shower, were lavished with his tongue again before he continued his descent—over your stomach, the dip of your navel, every deliberate press igniting something wild in you.

And then he got there.

He pulled your thighs apart like he had every right to—and he did—shoulders wedging them open as he dipped his head and flattened his tongue against your pussy with no warning.

"Fuck—Lewis!" you cried out, your hips jerking, but his strong forearms anchored you down.

He was loud. Sloppy. Deliberate. Moaning against you as if he was tasting something decadent and rare, his beard scraping your thighs just enough to drive you mad. Your hands tangled in his braids, gripping for dear life as he flicked, sucked, devoured your clit like it was his last meal.

"Mmhm... yeah, make that sound for me," he groaned against you. "All that attitude, and now you’re just whining like a little slut for me."

Your back arched off the bed, cries of his name leaving your lips as he pushed you further, tongue teasing your entrance, nose rubbing your clit, his rhythm relentless.

"Lewis—" you gasped. "I’m—Lewis, I’m gonna—"

"Do it," he growled, fingers digging into your hips. "I want to feel you come all over my face."

And you did. Violently. Loudly.

You screamed his name as your orgasm tore through you, body trembling, legs shaking uncontrollably. He licked you through it like a man possessed, slowing only when you whimpered from the sensitivity.

Only then did he crawl back up your body, kissing your thighs, your stomach, your breasts, and finally your mouth—letting you taste yourself on his lips. The kiss was messy and sweet and dripping with want.

"Please," you whispered between kisses, batting your lashes at him with a pout. "I need you. Now."

Lewis paused, his dark eyes raking over you, hand braced beside your head.

“I’m not sure you deserve a reward, babygirl,” he said lowly, voice wrapped in amusement and threat. “The way you acted earlier? Accusing me. Throwing your little jealous fit.”

“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I shouldn’t have. I was just... I was jealous. I missed you.”

Lewis gave a dark chuckle, sharp and knowing. “You are a little jealous thing, aren’t you?” His hand came up and tugged gently on your bottom lip. “Fine. You want a reward that badly?”

You nodded eagerly, and before you could reply, Lewis’s large palm pressed firmly against your chest, pushing you flat onto the mattress.

You gasped at the sudden dominance, but your grin betrayed you.

Lewis lined himself up between your thighs, his tip dragging slow and sticky over your slit, teasing, watching your eyes flutter in desperation.

"You’ve been teasing me all night," you whined.

"Good,” he said, eyes locked on where you were soaked for him. “Now you’ll remember who you belong to.”

And then he pushed in.

Your mouth fell open in a silent moan as he filled you inch by slow inch, the stretch delicious and deep. Lewis hissed between his teeth, head falling forward.

“Shit, you feel so fucking good. Tight as ever.”

His hips started to move, long, deep thrusts that hit your spot just right—each one stealing breath from your lungs. His rhythm was patient, controlled at first. But when you clawed at his back and wrapped your legs around his waist, he snapped.

“You want it rough now, huh?” he groaned, voice wrecked as he began to fuck you harder, the slap of skin-on-skin echoing through the room. “You’re going to whine again? Beg again? Tell me how sorry you are while I’m splitting you open?”

“I’m sorry,” you sobbed, head tipping back as he pounded into you. “I was wrong. You’re mine. I’m yours. Please—don’t stop.”

Lewis growled and leaned down to kiss you hard, biting your lip before whispering against your mouth, “You’re damn right you’re mine. And I’m not stopping until I’ve ruined you.”

Your body met every thrust, desperate and slick and trembling, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer. This wasn’t just sex. It was punishment. It was a claim.

And when your release hit again—sudden and brutal—you screamed for him, nails digging into his tattooed shoulders, heart pounding so fast it nearly hurt.

Lewis kissed you through it, hips slowing just enough to let you breathe. His lips brushed your ear as he whispered, “That's it, babygirl. Let me feel that pussy grip me. Let me know who owns it.”

You could only moan in reply, completely undone beneath him.

And still, he wasn’t finished with you.

You were breathless, spent—and still, he kept moving inside you, now slow and deep, grinding into that tender spot that had your thighs twitching.

“Lewis…” you whimpered, voice barely a sound.

“Shhh,” he murmured against your neck, licking a stripe up to your jaw. “You can take it. You will take it. After all that shit you talked, baby? This is what you earned.”

His thrusts slowed even further, but they hit deeper, rougher with the way he angled his hips. Every drag of him inside you made your body clench and your hands grasp for something, anything—his shoulders, the sheets, the edge of sanity.

“You feel that?” he whispered, his breath warm against your cheek. “That’s mine. You’re mine.”

“Yours,” you repeated, voice wrecked. “I’m yours.”

He kissed you again, filthier than before, tongue fucking your mouth the way he’d just been fucking your body—commanding, devouring, relentless.

And you kissed him back like you were starving, tasting your own pleasure on his tongue, sighing into the soft pull of his lips. Even now, when your limbs were jelly and your skin was burning, you wanted more.

He pulled back, staring down at you with a smirk, braids damp and hovering around his face.

“You still begging?” he asked, that glint in his eye making your core throb again.

You nodded, lips parted. “Please…”

That wicked smile curved deeper, and he picked up the pace again, fucking you slow and mean, grunting softly every time your pussy squeezed around him. “One more, then. You come one more time, and I’ll let go too.”

Your nails dragged down his back, your body arched into his, everything inside you unraveling at his command. And when that third orgasm crashed over you—sharp, unexpected, and blinding—you cried out his name again, over and over like a broken record.

Lewis cursed, burying his face in your neck as he finally let go, hips jerking, spilling deep inside you with a guttural groan.

He didn’t move right away.

Instead, he stayed there, pressed against you, breathing hard, lips brushing over your shoulder. One hand tangled with yours above your head, the other smoothing over your waist like he was grounding both of you.

You stayed like that for a long moment—sweaty, tangled, and sated.

Eventually, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression softer now, even as that cocky smirk lingered on his lips.

“You really need to stop doubting me,” he muttered, kissing your cheek. “Because if this is what jealousy gets me? You’re going to give me a damn heart attack.”

You giggled, too spent to even sass him back. “Shut up and hold me.”

Lewis chuckled and pulled you into his arms, settling you against his chest. You could already feel the slow thump of his heartbeat, warm and steady beneath your ear.

And as you drifted off in his embrace, your body wrecked but your heart full, you knew two things for sure:

One, you were definitely going to be sore in the morning.

And two, you wouldn’t trade it for the world.

......tbd

#quainwritings #blood oath #lewis hamilton fanfiction #lewis hamilton fic #lewis hamiton #mob!lewis hamilton #mob!boss lewis hamilton #sir lewis hamilton fic #sir lewis hamilton fanfiction #sir lewis hamilton #lewis hamilton x black reader #lewis hamilton x black oc #lewis hamilton fanfic #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton x you #lewis hamilton au

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sukunahs · 2 days ago

Text

to distant lands - ch.1: nightmare | ryomen sukuna

pairing: ryomen sukuna x fem!reader (medieval fantasy au)

summary: It’s expected for a princess to have a personal guard, especially when you’re an only child and heir to the kingdom. The knight who has watched over you since childhood is retiring and, much to your dismay, your father decides to put his best soldier on the job as his replacement - Ryomen Sukuna, the Kingdom’s most vicious warrior and far from your biggest fan.

Little did you know that Sukuna would end up tangling himself in your life in ways you never could’ve anticipated.

word count: 7.8k

fic content: 18+ mdni, eventual smut, enemies to lovers, slow-burn(ish), forbidden relationship, medieval fantasy setting, fluff, angst, protective sukuna

More to be added to the list as the chapters come out.

authors note: I've been consuming a lot of fantasy writing and media lately and all I've been able to think about is knight!sukuna! I'm not sure how many chapters this will have but I've got a lot in my plan for this one!

series masterlist | AO3 | next chapter (coming soon)

The first time that you’d ever encountered Sukuna was four years ago. The Cerulean Kingdom, led by your father: King Kashimo, had been at war with the Zenin Nation who had been trying to expand their land into a neighbouring kingdom.

That war came to an end in just six months. It was practically unheard of for conflict to be resolved between nations so swiftly. Usually battles would take place over years until one side begrudgingly agreed to a peace treaty. But no such thing was required on this occasion.

It was all due to Sukuna.

Sukuna, the twenty-two year old Knight, was such a force of nature on the battlefield that he single-handedly pushed back the Zenin troops. He took the head of their main General with ease and left their forces scattered and afraid. The Zenin King, Naobito, had no choice but to pull back, to give up on his attempt at taking land - he had no soldiers capable of taking on a man like Sukuna.

So Sukuna had returned to your Kingdom as a legend. Every Knight respected him, any woman that crossed his path swooned at the mere sight of him, and your father was completely captivated by him.

Even you, the sole Princess of the Cerulean Nation would confess to having been taken by his status as a legend at first, for he reminded you of tales of King Arthur and his Knights, a shining beacon of bravery.

Your father had thrown a whole celebration for him when he returned from war, a massive banquet where Sukuna was to be commended for his bravery. Kashimo had given you the responsibility of awarding him the medal, knowing how captivated you were with stories of legendary Knights, knowing that you’d be eager to meet one in the flesh.

As Sukuna had approached you in the great hall, he had dropped to his knees at your feet, as was custom. Leaning forward you’d placed the medal around his neck.

“You’re a hero.” You’d whispered softly, heart pounding at the proximity. “You kept me safe from this country’s ruin, thank you for doing your duty.”

He looked up at you then, his eyes meeting yours. You expected to see pride and loyalty reflected in those red orbs, but instead all you saw was disdain.

“I didn’t do it for you, princess.” He said, keeping his voice low enough that he wouldn’t be overheard by anyone else. “I couldn’t care less about what happens to some spoiled little dreamy-eyed brat. There’s no duty for me, your father just pays better than anyone else, and I get to crack a few skulls in the process.”

And just like that, the illusion was destroyed. He was no chivalrous Knight of old, but a selfish man filled with bloodlust. More of a mercenary than anything else, his loyalty not with the Kingdom but with the pay that your father could provide him.

And thus, your dislike of Sukuna began.

Your view of him only tumbled downhill from there, for from that moment onwards he seemed to get a kick out of the disappointment that would flash in your eyes when he would do something unbefitting of a Knight.

When he caught you in private he’d tell you the crudest stories of his bloody feats on the battlefield. In public he’d do his best to make you trip up, to subtly infuriate you in front of your subjects, just trying to pull a reaction out of you.

You’d yelled at him once, when you were all alone, telling him to cut it out, to leave you be. A number of insults that had never passed your lips before that moment were hurled at him. But somehow that seemed to just egg him on, a look of pure elation on his face as you screamed at him - you supposed all he really wanted was a reaction.

It was hard for you to comprehend what his problem was with you. You knew that there were people who held general disdain for the royal family, so perhaps that was it? But his unsavoury nature always felt very specific to you, as though your very existence was an offence to him.

Regardless of his reasoning, the two of you had been at this standoff for years, and now it was coming to a head in the worst way possible.

—

“No.” You said firmly as you glared up at Kashimo.

You stood before your father’s throne, with Yaga standing tall at your side. The two men had just informed you that Yaga would be retiring, that he would have to be replaced with a new Knight.

The narrative that they’d both fed you was that Yaga was getting too old for the position now, that he was too slow to adequately fend off an attacker should it ever come to that. But you weren’t buying it for a second, Yaga had never failed you before, and you’d never even been attacked anyway, so what did it matter?

“I’m sorry, princess–” Yaga started to speak again, but you cut him off, your sharp gaze fixated on your father.

“You’re older than Yaga but I don’t see you retiring from your post.”

“Don’t be childish.” Your father warned. “It's Yaga’s choice to retire, for twenty-three years he’s watched over you, let the man rest.” You said nothing, your brow furrowing. It was hard to fight with that sentiment.

“Besides, with the political unrest between nations right now I need your Knight to be on high alert. Daughters of Kings are always the prime targets to be kidnapped for ransom, and I won’t have you be put at risk.”

You rolled your eyes at that, you felt that your father always overestimated the level of danger that you were in. No one had ever tried to kidnap you before, and you doubted they would now. But there was no arguing with the man when it came to matters of your safety.

“Who’s the replacement?” You asked.

“Go back to your quarters.” He ordered, “I’ll send him up to you shortly. Do try your best to get along.”

That had you concerned. It was evident that your father didn’t wish to tell you who it was himself, perhaps to avoid an argument? You opened your mouth to ask further questions but he silenced you with a sharp glare - a look that told you he was in no mood to entertain you further.

So, just like a good daughter should, you scampered back to your quarters, waiting to see what fate had in store for you.

You hadn’t anticipated that waiting for the time to pass would be agony. You’d done everything that you could to entertain yourself: reading, drawing, braiding and unbraiding your hair in front of the mirror, staring aimlessly out of the window onto those gorgeous green mountains that loomed up on the horizon, just beyond the castle walls. Nothing was easing the growing anxiety in your stomach over who your father had chosen to protect you.

So instead of trying to occupy your time, you’d taken to just lying on your canopy bed, gazing up at the blue material draped across the four intricately carved wooden posts. A flower pattern embroidered in a darker blue shade adorned the material. Your mother had sewed it when you were young - embroidery was always her main joy and subsequently, many of your childhood dresses had been made by her.

She’d passed before you’d grown to be an adult, so none of your current dresses had been crafted by her. It was a shame, the royal tailors couldn’t do half the job that she could.

It was because of her death that your father was so unbelievably protective over you. You were his only child, and that made you heir to the throne - even if you were a woman.

It was highly irregular, usually the throne would go to the next living male relative, but Kashimo had no brothers to hand the crown over to. Most people had assumed that once your mother had passed he would marry another woman, try for another child - hopefully a boy this time to be his heir. He never did. Kashimo had married for love, and his soul was shattered when his wife died, he didn’t want to share his bed with anyone else - he would remain alone until he met his own end.

So, you were all he had - his one shining light. You knew that you should make more of an effort to understand his perspective, that all of his decisions were out of his love for you, but it didn’t make you feel any less like a bird trapped in a gilded cage.

A sharp knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts, and you shot to your feet. For a moment you considered not opening the door, keeping yourself locked in your room in protest. Perhaps you could even climb out the window and give your new Knight a really hard first day, prove to your father that this fool could do no better a job at protecting you than Yaga did.

But you were fully aware of just how childish that would be.

So you let out a sigh and pulled open the door, only to be met with a sight that you could only describe as being your absolute worst case scenario.

Ryomen Sukuna.

Standing there in your doorway at almost 7ft tall, tattoos winding over his tanned skin, and red eyes so sharp that his gaze constantly felt like it was piercing you. He was adorned in his usual silver armor, intricate patterns running over the metal.

When your father has said that he’d be sending one of his best Knights, you certainly hadn’t been expecting him to provide his favourite.

Sukuna had been a Knight for the Cerulean Nation for around ten years now, since he was sixteen years old. He’d climbed his way through the ranks quickly, and had gained the approval of the King himself. He was one of the most capable and lethal Knights in the army, the type of man who would always get the job done, who would kill without remorse on behalf of his King.

The way that your father spoke about Sukuna, in this awe-filled manner, always had you rolling your eyes. You wondered sometimes if your father wished that Sukuna was his own son with the way that he’d obsess over every little thing that he did. You’d think that he was a miracle-maker from the praise Kashimo would heap on him whenever he returned from a quest.

But he didn’t have you fooled. He was attractive, yes - but that was all he had going for him. He was immensely unpleasant to be around, an arrogant and ill-tempered man who believed that the world revolved around him. He’d look in disdain at those he didn’t respect and that happened to include you.

You despised him.

Yet here he was, leaning against your door with a big grin spread across his handsome features. This man, who had done nothing but make things difficult for you, was supposed to put his life on the line to protect you? You’d be lucky if you didn’t end up dead or kidnapped by the time the sun set.

“You’ve got to be joking.” You hissed.

“Unfortunately not.” Sukuna said with a wide grin, striding into your chambers as though they belonged to him. “Cute little room you’ve got here,” he snickered. You felt as though he’d already got you on the backfoot - it was embarrassing to have someone like him scrutinise your living space, especially considering you’d hardly made any effort to clean things up.

“I always did take you as the type to sleep with a stuffed toy.” He said with a laugh as he wandered over to your bed, picking up the well-loved rabbit plushie that sat on top of the duvet. “Does it have a name?”

“That’s none of your business.” You snapped, trying to grab the plushie from his hands. The bunny did have a name, but there was no way that you were going to grace him with an answer. He held the toy rabbit just out of your reach, stopping you from snatching it back.

“So it does.” he said, amusement laced in his tone.

“Give him back.”

“Him huh? Tell me what he's called and I will.”

You pouted and crossed your arms. You weren’t about to give him what he wanted, if you gave in now it would set the precedent that he could just push you around whenever he wanted.

Sukuna shrugged, his eyes roaming to the open window, a wicked grin crossing his face. “If you don’t tell me his name, Mr Rabbit might just take a tumble out of the tower.” He said as he wandered over to the window, holding the bunny out in the open air.

Your face contorted with rage as you ran over to him. “Stop it! Give him back!” Sukuna fended you off with one hand as you grabbed at him, he seemed to be thoroughly enjoying his newfound power over you.

“I will, if you just tell me his name.” He teased. You weren’t sure that he’d really drop the toy out of the window, but you didn’t want to take any chances. That bunny had been in your life from childhood, had fended away many a nightmare, you weren’t going to have him chucked out of a window just because of some jerk of a Knight.

“It's Sir Bounce-a-lot.” You whispered, face flushed red with embarrassment. Sukuna was so surprised that you’d actually given in that he almost dropped the bunny by accident.

“Sir Bounce-a-lot..?” He asked, clearly unsure if he’d heard you correctly.

“Yeah…” You mumbled, a feeling of humiliation creeping into your chest as he openly laughed at you, placing the bunny back into your hands. You pulled the plushie to your chest, shielding him from Sukuna’s cruel hands.

“Like Sir Lancelot?”

Your father had always been fond of telling you those stories when you were a child, your bookshelves filled with tomes recounting the great legends of King Arthur and the Knights of the Roundtable. Hearing those tales always filled you with a strange feeling, as even though your own life was filled with Knights and Kings, your existence felt so mundane compared to the characters in those legends.

Most of your time was just spent sitting alone in your chambers, and the Knights that you encountered seemed to be the furthest thing from chivalrous. You highly doubted that Lancelot ever threatened to throw Guinevere’s treasured possessions out of a window.

“Yeah.” You weren’t willing to give him any more of an answer, you didn’t want him to know anything about you.

Sukuna continued to poke his way around your room, much to your dismay. He made a few comments here and there about things you had on display, his thoughts on the decoration and colour scheme. You mostly stayed silent, still trying to process that his presence was your new reality.

Once bored with assessing your room he took a seat in an armchair in the corner, sprawling himself out across it as though he belonged there. You found yourself once again frustrated by the audacity of this man, but held your tongue. There was no point in engaging in bickering with him for now, you were sure that your father would replace him with someone else once you expressed how difficult he was.

“So…what now?” He asked.

“What?” You asked incredulously.

“What are we meant to do now?” He asked, speaking slowly as though he thought you’d been too stupid to understand his first question.

“I just…do whatever I want and you’re meant to make sure that I don’t get assassinated.”

Sukuna let out a deep sigh, throwing his head back against the armchair. His red eyes were closed and he dragged a hand down his face in frustration. “That’s it? All I can do is sit here and watch you…” he paused for a moment in thought. “What do you even do with your time?”

You were a little offended by his tone. Sure, it wasn’t like you got to go out much, but you had your hobbies - it wasn’t as though you were sitting motionless day after day like some porcelain doll.

“Well, sometimes I stay in here and read or paint. Sometimes I go out for walks in the gardens. Occasionally I’ll go shopping in the town…” He didn’t look impressed with your list, so you scrambled for something more interesting to add. “I go to social events too! Balls and tea parties with other nobles.”

He rolled his eyes. “Lame.” He said.

“Excuse me?” You squeaked.

“You heard me. Fuck, I can’t believe the old man really stationed me here.” For some reason, his sentiment offended you. Even though you had no desire to have him as your Knight, you despised the idea that he also didn’t want to be at your side. It should be a blessing to serve a princess.

“It's a coveted position, you know.” You hissed out before you could stop yourself.

Scoffing, he shook his head at you. “Maybe for soft little Knights who shit themselves at the thought of actual combat - like that old man you had before, not sure he’s ever laid eyes on a battlefield.”

“If you don’t want to be here, why don’t you just leave.” You shot back, internally begging whatever gods listening that he’d take you up on that offer. Maybe your father would be more inclined to listen to his golden-boy of a Knight than the will of his own daughter. The look on Sukuna’s face told you otherwise.

“Like I have a choice. Do you think I’m happy about this arrangement, princess?” He asked mockingly. “Do you really think I’d rather be in here watching over some spoiled little girl when I could be out on the field?”

“Probably not.” You mumbled. His reputation for bloodlust was well-known. He wasn’t the sort of Knight who killed because he must, he killed because he enjoyed slaughtering his enemies on the battlefield. Being separated from all that was likely agony for him.

“Obviously not. But your daddy goes mad with worry over you. He has this insane paranoia that the entire world is out to take his daughter away, so now here I am. His finest soldier, tasked with protecting some brat when I could be pushing back our enemies.”

You didn’t have a response to that. He was right, it was odd that your father would leave him here with you. Your own feelings aside, taking Sukuna away from the army felt like a sure-fire way to weaken his forces. Although the Kingdom was technically in peace time at the moment, political unrest aside. Perhaps he felt that an assassination attempt was more likely than a war right now.

“You should ask him to send you back.” You suggested. “I don’t want you here either, so it would be a win for us both.”

Sighing, he shook his head. “I tried that already, princess. Face it, we’re stuck together.”

A sense of horror washed over you at that statement, that couldn’t just be it. You’d had Yaga as your Knight for twenty-three years, would you have to suffer Sukuna for that long? Perhaps even longer?

As your eyes trailed over to him, taking note of the amusement written on his face, you found your resolve. You could accept that Yaga needed to retire, but you were not going to accept him as your Knight.

No, you were going to do everything in your power to get rid of Ryomen Sukuna.

—

As the days started to pass by following Sukuna’s assignment as your personal Knight, you thought that you’d grow at least a little accustomed to his presence, that he’d just start to fade into the background and you’d get to continue on mostly in the way that you always have.

Back when Yaga was still your Knight he’d always do an excellent job of making himself scarce, only ever there in your peripheral vision, always knowing when he wasn’t welcome in the room, taking the opportunity to stand guard outside and leave you to your privacy.

Sukuna had no such compulsion.

On the contrary, his presence was stifling. He was always right there, demanding your presence at any given moment.

When you were in public, he’d be right at your side, joining in on your conversations with palace staff, ruffling your hair and teasing you openly in front of others, knowing that you’d do nothing to tarnish your image by snapping at him if there were people around to see it.

If you were in your room, then he was in there too, sprawled across the armchair or occasionally even lying on your bed. That alone would’ve been fine if it weren’t for the running commentary that he brought with him. No matter what you tried to do, he had something to say about it.

Brushing your hair had him telling you that you were too vain, that guys didn’t like women who tried too hard.

Reading had him passing judgement on every book that you opened, sneering at the sight of a romance book that you’d picked up, stating that all romance novels were worthless and written for lonely old women.

Painting had him criticising everything that appeared on the canvas, telling you that the perspective was off, that the colours weren’t mixed properly, and the worst one of all: that he didn’t ‘get’ it. You weren’t sure what there was to get in a simple landscape painting of the garden, but it got under your skin all the same.

It got to the point where you’d stopped trying to do anything, at least then he couldn’t offer any opinions to grate at your nerves.

You’d taken to spending all of your days the same way. You’d wake up late, the sun already high in the sky by the time you’d stumble down to the dining hall for breakfast. Sukuna would always be waiting just outside the doors of your chambers for your appearance. You were fortunate that he didn’t spend his nights in the room with you, that was the rare respite that you got from him, with the quarters for your personal Knight being one room down from yours.

Together you’d eat breakfast - this was usually in silence, at least from your side. Sukuna would poke and prod at you until it was clear that you weren’t going to rise to it, before submitting himself to the quiet. Your father would join you in the dining hall whenever he wasn’t busy with Kingly duties - those times were always the most painful because you were forced to make polite conversation with Sukuna to avoid a scolding from the King.

You’d already learned the hard way that you couldn’t speak negatively about or to Sukuna. On the day he’d been assigned as your Knight you’d gone running to your father to complain, only to be told that you needed to ‘grow up and get used to it’.

Sukuna clearly loved it when Kashimo would join the two of you. He’d take the opportunity to ask you endless questions about yourself, ones that you’d begrudgingly answer to avoid your father’s wrath, but knowing that Sukuna would use all of this newfound information against you once you were left alone again.

Once you’d had your breakfast, you’d generally head straight back to your room, where you’d enact Operation: Make Sukuna so frustrated that he loses his mind and quits. The operation was simple, you’d spend the whole day lying still on your bed with the hopes that Sukuna would fall apart from boredom before you did.

Luckily, you’d had plenty of experience with boredom as a princess, likely more than Sukuna had - you were pretty confident that he would crack long before you would. So you laid there, day after day, staring up at the canopy. You’d often keep Sir Pounce-a-Lot clutched to your chest, still wary that Sukuna might threaten to throw him out of the window again.

You’d do your best to completely ignore Sukuna, a task that you found wasn’t particularly tricky after the first few days. He’d originally tried to make conversation, to aggravate you with his comments. When you’d given him nothing he’d quietened down and the two of you started a long-running stand-off of existing in silence in that decadent room.

Until Sukuna hatched a plan of his own.

You’d become vaguely aware of him moving about the room while you laid there, but you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of your attention. You’d hoped that his movement was a sign of his restlessness, that it meant that your days of lying idle would soon be over.

Sukuna had said that your father wouldn’t bend on his decision on where he posted his star Knight, so if Sukuna really did get frustrated enough to quit, he’d be quitting your father’s service altogether, and then you’d never have to see his frustratingly handsome face again - the perfect outcome.

As you daydreamed about a life free of Sukuna’s presence, the man in question settled back down into his chair. Unbeknownst to you he had found something very interesting as he’d rummaged through your drawers - something that could signify the end to this annoying little game that you were playing with him.

You’d half drifted off to sleep when his deep voice cut through the silence. At first you’d tuned it out, decidedly uninterested in whatever he had to say, until his sentences started to sound more familiar to you. “Looking up at the king she felt desire deep in her gut, her body naked before him, giving herself over to him in ways that she had never given herself to a man before–”

You shot up into a sitting position, your eyes wide in sheer horror at the words coming out of his mouth, words that you’d only ever read by candlelight when everyone else in the castle was asleep. Heart racing you looked over at him, sitting spread out on the armchair as he continued to read aloud.

In his hands sat a tattered pink book. It had some art of a beautiful woman on the cover, being held gently by some handsome prince. This book in particular had not been on your bookshelf with the others, mostly because you were a little ashamed to own it.

Your friend Yuki, one of the noblewomen that you spent a lot of time with, had gifted the book to you. She’d told you that it was a good learning resource for womanly matters.

The story itself was pretty cliche: a protagonist who was whisked away to the court of an evil and attractive king, with said king actually turning out to have several layers to him, and the characters ultimately falling in love. But you weren’t really reading it for the plot, instead you’d spent many an evening re-reading one particular scene, where the main character finally gave herself to the king, letting him take her virginity.

The scene always served to rile you up, you’d never encountered such content written down before. All of your knowledge of sex came from what Yuki would tell you about her relationship with her husband Choso. Outside of that no one had told you anything. Your mother had passed away before you were old enough to have such conversations, and your father certainly wasn’t going to approach the subject, most likely deeming it as a job for your future husband.

So this book was akin to the holy grail for you, allowing you to live vicariously through the character and fantasise about what it might be like to one day have sex. It allowed you to brush aside the worries that your father would marry you off to some gross old man, and indulge in the thought that you too would get to find your own version of the book’s evil king.

But that information, the deep desires that the book stirred in you, were meant to be for you alone. So the humiliation that ran through you as Sukuna read from the page that you had bookmarked was unparalleled.

“-and as he crawled on top of her, he lined himself up with her entrance, pushing himself in–”

“Please stop.” You pleaded softly. You wanted to yell and scream at him but you were afraid that your father might come in if there was too much commotion, and you certainly didn’t want him to see the book.

He looked at you with a sharp grin. “There we go.” He said, as he snapped the book shut. He placed it back in the drawer where he’d found it, even going as far as to bury it beneath the pile of clothes that it had originally been hidden under.

“Are you done with your little tantrum now? Or do you want me to read more of that smut aloud for you?”

“I fucking hate you.” You said, still shaking with embarrassment.

“At least you’re talking again.” He said. “I know you’re trying to get rid of me, but I get good pay working for your father. I’m not going to quit just because some little brat gives me the silent treatment.”

He took a seat on the edge of your bed and leant in close. Perhaps it was because of the words from the book that had just been spilling from his lips, but you felt a little flustered with the heat of his body so near to yours.

“If you want me gone, princess, you’ll have to work so much harder than that.” He reached out and brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“You have no idea what I’m capable of.” Your voice came out shakier than you would’ve liked it to. You didn’t want his presence to affect you in such a way, but this was the closest a man had ever been to you, and his gaze was so intense that you were quickly losing your nerve.

You were sure that was how he wanted you to feel though, so you needed to pull it together quickly to not lose face in this battle of wills.

“Mmm, do your worst.” He said, that shit-eating grin never leaving his face.

—

Your first operation had been a colossal failure. You could hardly look Sukuna in the eye after the filth that he’d so proudly recited from that book of yours. In the future you’d need to be more careful about where you were putting your things to make sure that he didn’t stumble across your diary or something else equally personal that he could weaponise against you.

If you couldn’t force him to quit by boring him, you’d just have to get rid of him another way.

One of the only times that Sukuna ever really left you alone was when you were with your handmaid, Shoko. Despite his frustrating knack for constantly being at your side, even he knew that it was inappropriate for him to be present when you were bathing or getting dressed up.

Shoko was gently brushing your hair as you stared down your reflection in the mirror, completely lost in thought. The handmaid was content with the silence, she’d been working with you for a few years now and had become accustomed to reading your moods, always doing her best to match your energy.

“What would you do to get rid of him?” You asked, eyes moving to meet hers in the mirror.

Shoko shrugged as she placed the hairbrush down on the vanity, her hands going back to your hair as she began to braid it. She didn’t have to ask who you were talking about, your dislike for Sukuna had been all you’d been able to talk about for the last few days.

You’d thought that she was going to provide no further response, that she’d grown weary of Sukuna talk, before her neutral tone cut through the silence.

“Make him look like he’s doing a bad job.” You raised a brow at her in interest. “For example, if you went to the King and told him that I was intentionally pulling hard at your hair whenever I brushed it, he’d probably fire me and bring you a new handmaid.”

You turned that thought over in your mind for a moment before shaking your head. “No, he worships the ground that Sukuna walks on, he’d probably just yell at me and say I was making stuff up.”

“What if it wasn’t made up?” She suggested. “Sneak out or something, go hide at your friend Yuki’s house. Sukuna will have to confess that he’s lost you and then your father will fire him for being incompetent.”

So that was exactly what you did.

That night, you waited until Sukuna had retired to his quarters, giving it another hour to ensure that he wasn’t coming in to check on you before you put your plan into action.

Sneaking out of your window was not new to you. Back when Yaga was your Knight you would often climb down the lattice outside one of your windows, allowing you to drop down onto the ramparts, giving you free run of the castle. There was no real reason for you to do it back then beyond the rush that it gave you of doing something forbidden. Usually you’d wander around the castle halls aimlessly before heading back to your room - you’d never snuck out properly, always staying within the relative safety of the castle walls.

This time there could be no half-measures. If you were going to really highlight Sukuna’s incompetence, you needed to leave the castle and strike out into the town itself. Once you were out you could run straight to Yuki’s doorstep and wait until your father came to find you.

You scrambled down the lattice and onto the ramparts below, taking a moment to check both directions before slipping down a hidden passage that would lead you to the ground level of the castle. As a child you had spent a large amount of your free time discovering every nook and cranny of the castle grounds, so you were fairly comfortable with getting around quickly and unseen.

It's because of that exploration that you were aware of a passage that ran beneath the castle wall and into the sewers beneath the town that surrounded the castle. You headed into the garden, brushing aside shrubbery until you found the metal covering to the passage. Pushing it aside, you grabbed a lit torch from the garden wall and dropped down into the hole.

So far so good.

It had been a while since you’d been down here, but you were pretty sure you could remember the way. Following the winding path along until it opened up into the sewers. This was where things got a little more tricky - you weren’t exactly sure which sewer grate opened out into an ideal location, and the last thing you wanted was to emerge in the middle of a busy street.

You weren’t even disguised, so you certainly didn’t want to be sighted by commoners while smelling like the sewer, that would do irreparable damage to your reputation.

Doing your best to mentally map out the town above you, you snaked your way through the sewer passages, marking your way with chalk on the wall here and there so you could backtrack if you needed to.

Eventually you reached a ladder heading up to the surface. By your calculations, you were quite far from the main bustling part of town. You made your way up the ladder and pushed the sewer grate aside, trying to move it as quietly as possible, not wanting the sound of the metal scraping against the cobbles to draw attention.

Popping your head out of the hole you thanked the gods that you had ended up in a completely deserted alleyway. You scrambled out from the sewers and quickly replaced the grate.

Taking in your surroundings you figured that you’d come out in the upper district of the city, where all of the larger houses of nobles were situated - exactly where you’d been trying to get to. You took a moment to get your bearings, trying to figure out the fastest way to get to Yuki’s house from your current position before heading out of the alley.

Your journey was a relatively easy one. The upper district was an area that had a high presence of city guards, meaning that the crime rates were low. As such, the streets were mostly empty and risk free, with you only running across the odd guard and late night reveller.

Why did you even need a personal Knight anyway? You were getting along just fine without him.

As you approached Yuki’s house you noted that all of the windows were dark, not a single lit candle in sight. You supposed that made sense, it must’ve been approaching 1am at that point, and you hadn’t written to tell her to expect you. You hadn’t wanted to risk Sukuna intercepting your letter and finding out - he had no real respect for your privacy so you didn’t think it would be beyond the realms of possibility for him to do such a thing.

But now concern was gnawing at your belly. What if you knocked on the door and she didn’t wake up to answer it. Or worse, what if her sensible husband Choso opened the door and took you back to the palace? He was unwaveringly loyal to your father, and you considered that he may not be willing to risk Kashimo’s wrath for the sake of your little game.

Lost in thought, you didn’t hear the footsteps behind you until it was too late.

A hand clamped firmly over your mouth, swallowing the sound of your scream as another hand snaked firmly around your waist. You were pulled back against a large body, the figure yanking you into a side-alley. Tears brimmed at your eyes as you desperately tried to struggle against the man, but to no avail. His grip was iron-clad.

Fear overcame you at the possibilities of what could happen to you next, were you going to be taken away? Killed? Tortured? Was your father actually right? Maybe you should’ve listened to him about needing Sukuna, if you hadn’t been so stubborn you wouldn’t be in this situation.

All of those thoughts and regrets instantly dissipated when a familiar laugh sounded from behind you, his hands loosening their grip and releasing you as you spun around to look at him.

Sukuna was peering down at you, his red eyes were lit up with amusement. He was still wearing his Knight’s armor, but he’d concealed it with a long black cloak that he’d likely been using to blend into the background. The look on his face told you just how elated he was that he’d caught you, like this was all some big game of cat and mouse to him.

“Aw, are you scared, princess?” He asked, a hint of laughter still present in his tone.

“What’s your problem?” You hissed. “I thought that was real, I could’ve–”

“Exactly.” He cut you off, his voice surprisingly serious now. “It could’ve been real. Someone could’ve whisked you away just then, done whatever they wanted with you. Aren’t you lucky that it was just me?”

You opened your mouth to protest, but his hands were on you again, pressing you up against the stone wall of the alley. “And that’s why we don’t run away. Good thing you’ve got such an attentive Knight huh?”

“The only threat out here was you.” He rolled his eyes and brought his face closer to you, so close that his nose was practically touching yours.

“That doesn’t sound like a thank you to me.” His warm breath fanned over your face, and he grinned at you condescendingly, his smile so wide that you could see his fang-like canines.

“I’m not going to thank you for giving me the scare of my life.” You said, your hands bracing against his armored chest to try and push him away a little, his close proximity was stifling. “How did you even find me?”

He scoffed. “That was easy, you and your handmaid don’t talk as quietly as you think you do, I’m very familiar with your whole little plot to get rid of me.”

Well, that was not ideal. You considered denying it, but that felt like a waste of time - he’d already heard the entire conversation, lying wouldn’t really get you anywhere.

“Mmm, any pointers so I can succeed next time?” You asked dryly, and he laughed - it was a more genuine and joyful laugh than you were used to hearing from him, and it caught you off guard.

“Make sure I’m definitely not listening next time you hatch a plan, that would be a big one.”

You nodded, a little deflated. “Noted. Are you going to tell my dad about this?”

“The sneaking out? Or your evil plan?”

“Both, I suppose.” You mumbled. Ideally, your father would never find out about this situation at all. You’d get scolded for sneaking off, and your credibility for accusing Sukuna of anything in the future would completely disappear. It would essentially ensure that he would stay as your Knight for the foreseeable future.

“I won’t tell him about either.” Sukuna said simply, an unreadable expression on his face.

Your brow furrowed with confusion, trying to understand what game he was playing. The only person who benefitted from your father not knowing was you, Sukuna had every right to tell him what was going on, it was only fair in this petty little game you were playing.

“Why?” You asked with uncertainty.

“Because this is enjoyable. I like watching you come up with all these cute little plots to get rid of me, it keeps me on my toes.”

You couldn’t decide how you felt about that. Nothing about this was supposed to be entertaining for him, it was meant to be torturous. He was meant to despise you for putting him through hell, and yet here he was talking about it like you were taking part in some trivial competition.

“And,” he continued, “I thoroughly enjoy thwarting your little plans. I’m not going to ruin my own fun by bringing your father into this.” He brushed a hand through your hair and brought his lips to your ear. “This is between you and me, princess.”

An involuntary shiver ran down your spine, the hairs on your arms standing up at the feeling of his warm breath on your ear and neck. You were quick to side step away from him, thoroughly flustered by his behaviour. He was smirking back at you.

Smug bastard.

“Anyway. We should head back.” Before you could say anything, he stalked over to you and hoisted you over his shoulder. You let out a little yelp of surprise, adrenaline rushing through you as you were manhandled into the air.

“H-hey! Put me down!” You demanded. When he didn’t respond, you started to beat your fists against his back, desperately trying to get his attention. He seemed completely unbothered by the action, striding through the streets with you firmly in his grip, as though the weight of your fists was no more irritating than a fly buzzing around his head.

“You might want to quieten down, I’ll be carrying you back all the way through town - wouldn’t want your citizens to see you making a scene now would you?”

You froze. He had you down on that front. In private you’d be as difficult as you liked, throw your temper tantrums at him or at you dad. But never in public. That’s a value that your mother had instilled in you from childhood. Image was everything for a princess, you couldn’t have the common folk thinking ill of you, it was your job to be a shining example of elegance and grace.

So you stopped struggling against Sukuna, going limp in his hold and allowing him to carry you back to the castle.

Fortunately for your sanity, the late hour meant that very few people got to see you in your humiliated state. A few townsfolk spared you a glance before going on with their nights, and the guard stationed at the castle gate had a good laugh at you before letting Sukuna by. He and Sukuna seemed plenty chummy with one another, with Sukuna slipping him a gold coin in exchange for his discretion on this situation.

Sukuna insisted on carrying you all the way to your chambers, going so far as to tuck you into your bed. You were so disoriented by the events that had transpired across the night that you didn’t even have it in you to verbally chastise him, silently going along with his actions.

“Thereee you go.” He said softly as he pushed Sir Bounce-a-lot to your chest, your hands instantly gripping at the bunny. You were livid, this felt like some sort of sick humiliation ritual, but you felt too tired to really push back against his actions.

Not to mention, it was hard to spit vitriol in his direction when your brain wouldn’t stop replaying the way that he’d manhandled you to get you back to the castle, flinging you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing.

It had been so embarrassing, and yet your traitorous body still burnt hot at the thought of it, at how his big, warm hands had felt against your skin, how the low rumble of his voice had reverberated through his body beneath you as he’d carried you back to the safety of your chambers.

You realised a moment too late that your gaze had been lingering on Sukuna for too long. You looked away swiftly, but not before you caught the flicker of interest that appeared in his deep red eyes.

“Goodnight princess.” He said softly. You couldn’t tell if his tone was mocking or genuine. Either way you’d have to save yelling at him for the morning.

Then it would be time to work on a new plan to get rid of him.

a/n: thanks for reading! I'm going to try and get the next chapter out in the next week!

let me know if you wanted to be added to the taglist.

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potatodemon-beesensible · 3 days ago

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Personal and deeply emotional rant incoming. Unrelated to ai but very much so related to identity, trauma, and harassment. Also a vent. Not everyone would wanna read this kinda thing so here’s a markdown. To specify, I’m doing alright and am vibing. It’s just healthy to express this stuff.

This is my attitude with many things tbh. Even if ya can’t win, make it incredibly inconvenient for whoever you despise. Not in a petty way, if I can leave something and vibe happily I will leave it. HOWEVER. If a statement must be made a statement must be made. Fingers may be bitten off. If someone doesn’t take no for an answer and they’re harassing me… submitting to it brings back too much trauma. They will get hurt. I’m a very controlled person, and I’m not losing that control again. I will almost always make the choice to leave something and deal with it. I’m just… very earnestly terrified of going through all that again for no good reason.

To specify, this is also if I can’t simply avoid them and a higher up won’t do anything about it even after I bring it up with how much it’s impairing me. Oftentimes with harassment… you can’t really avoid it. It’s usually in areas you either HAVE to go to or simply enjoy going to. If something’s important enough to me, I’m not ‘sucking it up’ as some idiots like to say. I know what it’s like to give up… and just- no. Not again. I don’t even think I’m capable of giving up at this point. I just… want a job and I wanna chat with my friends. That’s basically it.

My dad does actually piss me off at times… just with some things he says in response when I try explaining this. He struggles to wrap his head around it. I genuinely respect and admire him but… I guess someone who hasn’t lost their entire sense of self before wouldn’t get it. It is frustrating to try explaining to him. I’d mainly relate it to coming out of the closet with being lgbt for the first time, being shoved back in, then coming out again much more firmly being EXTREMELY averse to not presenting as your true self/gender.

Like- it feels like he doesn’t believe me when I explain it to him. Like the concept of me having THAT extreme of an aversion to being dehumanized/harassed is insane to him. And that hurts.

I have been to family gatherings in fem clothing, seen some of the looks people give me, and immediately go into fight or flight mode basically. If they approach me about to say something, I will take in every bit of their body language to try and get a read on them. And I am actively thinking about the nastiest most hurtful possible thing to say to them if they try putting me down for wearing something ‘not fitting for a guy’. If I don’t know anything about them I’ll just grin from stress and tell them to “Stop talking and leave”. But if I do have any knowledge on something personal and emotional to them, I absolutely will not hesitate to say it. To me, it doesn’t even matter how they take it. Just that I said the worst possible thing I could think of and did not take any bullcrap. If I downplayed and degraded them for their pain and personal experiences, good. That was a proper response.

To specify, this is only if they actually say something horrible. Doesn’t matter if they put it nicely. Like- obviously I have self control. I don’t get so pissed off that I can’t help myself. I very much so have the self control to CHOOSE not to say something back. And I won’t if I’m actually in a dangerous/unpredictable setting. I value my safety above all of this and I refuse to let myself get hurt if it can be prevented, I’m not worrying my friends for that.

It’s just that the point is that I CHOSE to say something absolutely cruel and horrendous to someone else when I did not have to. I will literally say anything in response to “You shouldn’t be dressing like that”. Anything. I will make them cry if I’m able to. And if they run off that’s a breath of fresh air.

Like… I feel like my dad’d just get upset with me in this scenario. When really now the reason why I’m like this is because no one stood up for me when it mattered. And this is the raw, genuine product. There is one Chara comic I relate to quite a lot… I genuinely feel it and it hits for me. But not fully. Like- it’s more on the lines of “Chara makes an outright death threat” whereas I’m just… not that. I’m not what one would call aggressive. I’m always going to be passive in any situation, it’s just that I know when to rev it up when necessary. Funnily enough I think I also get Bruce Banner’s line of “I’m always angry” before he turns into the hulk. Once you have that trauma… it’s just there. Even when you’re not feeling it it’s in some part of your mind. I guess that’s why I can get so intense at times. It’s just… always there to tap into when something actually matters to me. I work much better under stress, yes. I’m much more productive. But I don’t WANT to use that side of myself for that. Just… no. It’s part of why I’ve taken so much time for myself after I graduated. I… didn’t want to move forward tapping into that part of me for work. So I think that a Nurse job’d be really good for me. I have caring and nurturing instincts separate from my trauma. So… I figure I won’t have to revert to a lotta my coping mechanisms when under stress for that kinda job. I can just nurture and care about what I’m doing, letting that get me through the day.

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wendichester · 2 days ago

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Hi, i’m never done this before and i’m nervous lol

so i was wondering if you could write something with Sam x fem!reader, the reader is a reporter of the town where the boys have a case and she is very attached to the case because there’s a lot of murders and wanna know what’s happening so she decided to do her own research and there is when she meet the winchester

i imagine the reader sassy, impulsive and very very sarcastic (that would make Sam hate her in the beginning) but very kind, sweet and funny at the same time idk like Lois Lane type of person you know? well i don’t know if you know but yeah

well that’s it omg i hope you get the idea and i’m so sorry if this doesn’t make any sense i don’t speak english and i tried my best 😔 i forgot the grammatical tenses and everything 😭

have a good day/night you sweet person ok bye

˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ink-stained,

summary. you've been investigating a series of murder in your hometown. way past work-level healthy. it's getting personal now.

pairing. sam winchester x reporter!reader genre. fluff

wordcount. 561

notes / warnings. thank you for requesting bubs! i hope you like this ehe // mentions of murder investigations (no graphic content), reader gives Sam a headache and a crush at the same time

You stick your pen behind your ear, flip your notebook shut, and square up to the man currently glaring at you like you’re an inconvenient fly buzzing around his very serious man-face.

“Well, Agent Ham-and-Egger,” you say, with a sugary-sweet smile, “since the cops don’t seem to know squat, maybe you’d like to share what exactly the FBI is doing sniffing around this town’s murder scenes like dogs at a barbecue?”

He exhales hard. Tall and already regretting his life choices. “We’ve got it under control.”

“Do you?” You tap your notebook against your palm. “Because the last three victims were drained of blood and left in a perfectly staged tableau. That doesn’t scream ‘under control’ to me, G-Man.”

Sam Winchester’s jaw ticks.

You clock it. And grin.

You don’t know who this guy is—not really. He’s traveling with that other one, the smirking flirt in the leather jacket who practically winked at your recorder. But this one? This tall drink of broody fedsuit? He hates you already.

Good. That makes this more fun.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss details,” he says through clenched teeth. “And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t interfere.”

You give him your brightest, most annoying smile. “Oh sweetie, you’ll learn. I don’t wait for answers. I dig them up.”

Dean strolls over then, holding two coffees and way too much charm. “Everything okay over here, Sammy?”

You raise a brow. “Sammy? Oh, that’s adorable. I was gonna go with Special Agent Grumpy Pants.”

Sam exhales again—louder this time.

Dean smirks like he’s watching the best soap opera of his life.

You don’t mean to follow them.

Okay, that’s a lie. You absolutely mean to follow them.

There’s something weird about this case, and you know in your gut these two are more than they say they are. No FBI agent works a case this deep in the dirt, in a town this small, unless there’s something extra going on.

So when they head to the morgue, you’re not far behind.

You’re also not as stealthy as you think.

Sam catches you red-handed, lurking in the hallway like a raccoon in lipstick.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he groans.

You grin, flipping open your notepad. “So. Vampires? Or are we going full ritualistic cult?”

He narrows his eyes. “How do you even know to ask that?”

You shrug. “I was raised on myth and murder. And my ex-boyfriend was obsessed with horror movies. I absorbed some stuff.”

Sam stares at you like you’re a puzzle he doesn’t want to solve but absolutely has to. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

He scrubs a hand down his face. “You’re gonna get yourself killed.”

You wink. “Not if I stay close to tall, broody, and capable.”

And just like that—he blushes. Barely. But it’s there.

You smirk. “Gotcha.”

He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “insufferable woman,” but doesn’t tell you to leave. Doesn’t walk away either.

You lean on the wall beside him, triumphant.

“What now?” you ask.

He sighs. “Now, we talk. Because if I don’t give you something, you’re gonna tail us until you get yourself eaten.”

You blink.

And then: “So it is vampires.”

His jaw drops. “I didn’t say that!”

You smirk. “You didn’t have to.”

You have him fuming, but also kind of bothered. And Sam isn't sure it's hate or something else.

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husbandjoel · 2 days ago

Text

first burn | tlou jesse pt. 4

pt. 1 pt. 2 and pt. 3

summary: seattle is at boiling point and the revenge you sought after strikes you at your core

pairing: tlou!jesse x fem!reader

word count: 5.9k

content: angry jesse, arguing, tension between jesse and reader. kissing, tlou gore, blood and self loathing to its finest. dialogue taken directly from the game cause FUCK what jesse said in the finale. reader dgaf about abby during THAT moment iykyk. character death 🙂‍↕️ guns and pure heartbreak sprinkled with survivors guilt

a/n: here we go fellas!! the last instalment of first burn. thank u for reading and supporting, ur feedback on each chap is so appreciated!! love u forever jesse lemme do a fix it fic for u <3 also, just to add, reader is not incapable or stupid by any means but seattle is WILD and the team just don’t have time for that

taglist: @beelee-cotton @lostbee20 @pupupwa @ilovetoomanymen @derangeddementor3 @keseqna @blackravena @cxcilla @hsangel64 @tillywasneverhere @peachyxlynch @toesucker59 @antlcrqueen - tysm for reading 🫶

“I don’t think killing them will bring the peace Ellie thinks it will.”

Jesse’s words played on thick, a scratched recorded in your mind as boots pummelled into the muddy sludge, your ankle pulsating with pain with every determined stride you took. You followed close behind Jesse and Dina, the female cradled into his chest and she went in and out of consciousness.

The events that had occurred were not the restoration of peace you had glorified on the back of Zombie on your way to Seattle. Severely humbled, you were taught that sheer confidence on a daydreamed scenario, did not equate to the capability you needed to even survive a day in the city. Nose broken, you knew it would leave a scar, to remind you that your decision was wholeheartedly based on naivety and this was your sudden karma.

Joel Miller was still dead. And, he would remain in the ground, swallowed by nature even after you left Seattle. The Miller brother, rough around the edges but a warmth to those that grew close to him, wouldn’t resurrect you to shower you in gratitude for your selflessness. No. As you thought about it, you would presume it would be the opposite; because you had been selfish.

Head pounded from exhaustion, you hated the way your stomach churned at the thought. The end goal was to do right by Joel Miller, but, you hadn’t. In fact, not a single Wolf suffered at your hands for his death.

Jesse glanced over his shoulder at you to ensure you had remained close in the marathon back to the theatre. Your eyes met for a brief moment, a raw emotion flickered across your face: you were scared. Eyes tracked back in front of him, you huffed out a breath, throat scorched from the excessive running and lack of water amidst the chaos. You were close, you knew by the buildings even in the darkened night, heavy clouds weighed above to signal a change in severe weather.

You rounded the corner and there it was, your base. Jesse slowed down and ordered you to open the door so he could slip Dina in with ease. Adhering to his instruction, you grunted at the weight of the theatre door, Jesse and Dina concealed; you followed a close second.

“Here.” You went to drag a chaise lounge, your muscles weak, and Jesse pushed past you to place Dina down gently. You stared at her, paled and soaked in her own sweat, blood and vomit smeared across her face. She looked as if she could die and that panicked you, “Jesse—”

“—Sit the fuck down and stay quiet.” Jesse bit and you flinched. He gently tapped at Dina’s face which reawakened her into the reality of the searing pain in her knee. Jesse was quick to press his forearm against her chest as she sat up, “Alright, this is going to hurt.” He rummaged in his backpack and Dina panted with a whine.

“No. It already fucking hurts.” Her hand reached out for yours and you hesitantly stepped from behind Jesse who ushered you with annoyance. Dina stared down at her leg as Jesse fumbled with supplies, “Jesse, I can’t die. You can’t let me die—”

“—Yeah, I know.”

“No. You don’t.” She began to cry.

You felt helpless. Her head swayed as Jesse continued to explain that he couldn’t pull the arrow out without tearing an artery. He’d have to push it. They bickered and you stood, silent as told, throat clenched with nausea at the sight of Dina’s open wound.

“Dina, shut up.” Jesse snapped and Dina fell silent in her protests, her clammy hand squeezed yours. Jesse took a breath, “I’ve got you, Dina. Alright? I’ve got you.” He began to pour at the arrow in her knee with alcohol and Dina threw her head back in hot pain. “Here. Have some of this. It’s going to help. Have some.”

You stared at Dina when she gritted her teeth. You wondered if it was an appropriate time for her to tell him she was growing his child in her womb. It would be a little unorthodox, but high levels of stress made your mind askew.

“I said no.” She spat.

OK. So, she wouldn’t tell him.

Your hand braced against hers as if you were entered into an arm wrestle, your body bent at the waist to offer some support as Jesse forced the arrow through her leg. She let out a wail that sent goosebumps up your arm, her body slumped as she fell unconscious, her breathing laboured. You felt her pulse for a moment. Still alive.

Kneeling down next to Jesse, you watched his hands make quick work to unravel the gauze. There had been many times he had returned home, wounds a plenty from his patrol and you would tend to them with warm kisses and tender touch. It was something you had become good at, because you always wanted to be there for Jesse in the rarity of his weakened moments.

Your fingertips went to grab the gauze from Jesse, allow him to take a break. In turn, he pulled away sharply, haphazardly wrapping it around Dina’s bleeding leg.

“Barricade the entries.” Jesse muttered to you. His words hit a wall in front of your face and his patience grew thin, your name liked venom on the tip of his tongue. “I said, go barricade the doors.”

It took almost two hours as you limped around all possible entries into the theatre, once Dina was dabbed with a damp cloth to take her temperature down, Jesse joined efforts with you, taking the larger furniture that you struggled to push and doing the job himself.

You were walking — limping — on eggshells around him. Jesse hadn’t been a male that expressed a need to make you nervous in his presence, but, the way he stormed around the room made you wince; worried that one flicker of a match and he would blow up in your face. Your hands wrung as you watched him pace back and forth with heavy items, a grunt escaped his lips as the sofa dropped against the cabinets to create a barricade. Hands brushed against each other, he turned to look at you.

You felt small. Pinned under his bitter gaze.

His finger pointed to your ankle, “Let me take a look.” You looked down at the mess of your ankle and shook your head which made Jesse sigh. You were always so fucking stubborn. “Please.”

It wasn’t hard to give into Jesse. You loved him. Backside against the tabletop, Jesse knelt at your feet, his hand delicately taking your busted ankle into his grasp to inspect it. Perhaps, you thought, he was looking for a bite mark so he had a reason to shoot you in the head.

He was angry after all.

“Why did you lie to me?” There it was. The burning question you were waiting for. His tone was monotonous as he prodded at your wound.

You flinched, “I would call it an evasion of truth. I didn’t specifically relay to you that I wasn’t going to Seattle.” You paused as he met your eyes, “So, if we are going by technicalities—”

“—Do you have to do that?”

“What?”

Jesse pulled more gauze out.

“A sarcastic retort.” He mumbled, “You’re being dismissive of the situation.”

He was right. You blew hot air through your lips, “I—Sure. I thought you knew how I felt about the outcome of the Council vote. Part of me expected you to put the pieces of the puzzle together. I was always going to go.”

“Oh, I knew.” Jesse paused and let out a soft chuckle — a slip up on his act.

“You knew?” You tried to calculate how many times you had been blatantly obvious about your intentions with Seattle before you left. “Then. . . Why didn’t you stop me?”

“Because. I believed that you loved me enough to not lie about entering a war-torn city on horseback with three weeks worth of one-to-one combat.” He felt himself become angered in bringing up what hurt him the most, “You should’ve waited. I would’ve come. You knew that.”

Actually, you didn’t. That part shocked you.

You blinked, “Jesse. You were adamant on your stance that the Council voted to stay put in Jackson.” Ankle smeared in agony as Jesse continued to wrap it up, “How the fuck would I have known you would go against your own word?”

Immediately, you regretted what you had threw back at him. His fingers stopped tending to your ankle, his posture straightened as his lips pulled into a thin line. Even when crouched before you, it felt as if Jesse towered over you with his face thunderous.

Your heart stammered. The formidable fear that you were losing him struck you down the middle. The conversation was sprung upon you, and after escaping death by a fraction, your brain hadn’t been in the function to comprehend the emotional maturity it required to mend the fractures of your relationship.

You were losing Jesse before your very eyes.

“I had to say that, so you wouldn’t go do something rash. I couldn’t live with myself if you got hurt, or worse in Seattle.” Jesse felt himself become emotional at the forefront, “And yet, you still fucking did it. You’re still hurt, because you chose to leave, and that responsibility weighs heavy on my shoulders. You know why? Because, it’s evident that my love was not enough for you to stay. This is now my problem.”

“Jesse. I do love you.”

“Then why did you leave?” He raised his voice, “A fucking note to say goodbye. What kind of boyfriend am I, if I can’t even protect you?”

“Did it ever cross your mind that I don’t need you to protect me, Jesse? I’m capable of looking after myself.” You crossed your arms defensively before Jesse took a moment to stand, a patronising laugh escaped his lips and you frowned, “What is suddenly funny?”

He pointed to your grazed chin and broken nose, “Look at your capability.” He then dropped his finger to your busted ankle, “It’s gotten you far in your little escapade to Seattle.”

An insult forming on your tongue, Jesse was saved by the pounding of a fist against the door closest to your bodies. Immediately, Jesse put himself between you and the door, his gun dropped from his shoulder and aimed in front of him with ease.

“Jesse, Dina—!” And your name followed.

“What’s the name of your horse?” Jesse kept the gun aimed even in the obvious state that Ellie Williams was on the other side.

Ellie called, “Shimmer. I’m alone.” There was a pause, “Open the fucking door!”

Jesse dropped his aim and took a couple of strides to the door, shoving the sofa propped up against cabinets to allow himself to open the door for Ellie. She stumbled in, eyes wild, slick with mud — and by the looks of it, not her own blood. She was frantic in her movements, scanning the area to locate the one person that was above the rest.

“Where is she?”

“Dina?” You asked stupidly and Ellie threw you a look, “She’s OK. She’s in the Dressing Room—”

Jesse interjected, “—Where were you?” Ellie ignored his query and shoved past you toward the location of Dina, “Ellie!”

After Ellie had disappeared to tend to Dina, you had slumped against your own rucksack on the floor. Uncomfortable, but it would suffice. Your nose had it’s own pulse, alongside your ankle as you attempted to slip into an unconscious state. Irritated, you turned onto your side, shoulder cracking in the process as your eyes narrowed to Jesse, who had fallen asleep sitting up — gun propped up against his shoulder.

He would be enraged, but there wasn’t an appropriate requirement to shake him from his slumber. Instead, you pushed off of the floor, your backpack dragged alongside you as you dropped next to his sleeping frame. Your own gun laid next to your thigh, you took it upon yourself to override Jesse’s night watch for his own sanity. You were aware of the motive behind the whole group’s presence in Seattle, and as a qualified leader, you knew Jesse would be first pick when it came down to Ellie’s choice of person.

You would help where you could.

The sun began to rise, a red sky warned before it darkened to grey, the swell of the clouds burst and rainfall came heavy. Your own eyes began to drop from your own lack of sleep, just as Jesse began to stir next to you.

He groaned, neck rolled from falling asleep with his chin tucked into his chest. Eyes bleary, he blinked the sleep away, head shifting in a panic before his stare settled on you.

You offered him a shy smile, testing the waters. His frown grew where his patience lacked, and he stood with an immediate cause. His chest puffed, “Don’t ever do that again for me. If I fall asleep, wake me up for my watch.”

“Yes, sir.” You saluted him mockingly and he stalked off to find Ellie in the Dressing Room.

Without a turn to sleep, you threw yourself into distractions. Busied with drying off Ellie’s weapons for her next rendezvous with Joel’s killers, you sat hunched on the floor where Jesse had left you, scrubbing at bullets whilst you muttered under your breath about the tedious task. You were silently demoted and it began to frustrate you. Ellie and Jesse spoke amongst themselves just far enough out of reach of your hearing abilities, hushed tones as they mapped out logical moves; something you wouldn’t be apart of.

You were capable to a degree. However, the past twenty-four hours had shred the confidence that Ellie — let alone Jesse — had in you. There were no second chances, but you were determined to prove yourself in little actions such as becoming Ellie’s drying rack for her weapons.

As you placed another bullet down, alarmed at the sheer volume that Ellie had on her person, Jesse slumped down next to you. His shoulder bumped yours as you dropped the damp rag in your hand. You were busy — or, acting as if you were — so your eyes didn’t trail up to look at his face. You had no right to be mad at him, you were the one who left everything behind on a lie whilst the sun met the horizon.

Busying himself by mirroring you, Jesse stood his gun between his legs and began to polish the sides. From your peripheral, you could see he wasn’t really cleaning his gun from the minor flaws such as splattered mud. If your conversation hours prior hadn’t escalated, you might’ve thrown a sarcastic remark his way, a laugh shared to follow. You had been in this situation before, after an argument, Jesse would find closeness with you and perform a mundane task to grab your attention.

If Jesse didn’t have the words to cut the chord on the tension, he’d act out until resolved enough to talk.

He feigned a spit against the rag, and you let yourself stare with petulance. Jesse paused his motions to look back at you with an innocence, his head turned to look behind him before returning his eyes back to you.

“Stop it.” You warned.

“Stop what, exactly?” He queried, “I’m just cleaning my gun.”

You scoffed, “You’re pretending.” Palms against the floor, you leant your weight into your arms, “If you want to talk to me, Jesse, you can just say that instead of pretending to spit in a rag to clean the mud off of your gun. Which — by the way — hasn’t budged since you started.”

“Hm.” Jesse tucked the cloth into his pocket, “Ellie and I will be heading out soon to find Tommy.”

“OK. I’ll get ready—”

“—That wasn’t an invitation. You’re staying here with Dina.” He gestured with his head to the resting girl, “You’d be one hell of a liability. With or without a ruined ankle.”

His remark scathed you, “You don’t have to be so mean.”

“OK.” Jesse agreed, a small smirk noticeable on his face, “I love you. And I want you safe. So, please stay within the confines of the theatre with Dina.”

“You still love me?” It had your chest aching. His casualness caught you off guard, nonplussed by such nonchalance over a confession you had assumed was buried six feet beneath dirt; decayed and soon forgotten.

Jesse stood as Ellie threw a nod to signal their departure. He slung his gun back round his shoulder, “Unfortunately, for me. Yes. You’re not off the hook, but I’d be a liar — just like you — to say I didn’t love you anymore.” A lopsided smile exchanged the smirk, “You made a mistake. Everyone makes them.”

“Here.” Unsure of how to follow his confessional up, you slipped one of the only remaining food packs into Jesse’s hand which he took willingly. “Break a leg food. Or—Or be safe food. Whatever one works in the moment.”

Jesse flipped the pack in his hand, “Did you steal this from Patrol?”

“OK. Now you’re beginning to split hairs for the sake of splitting—”

Jesse cut you off. Large palm to the back of your head, he pulled you in and pressed a firm kiss to your lips. You let your hands clasp his forearms before you slipped them around his neck, bending backwards slightly so he could chase your lips.

His warmth consumed you whole. Your chest pressed against his, hearts threaded back together after being so carelessly torn apart, suddenly the dying world around you seized to exist. It was only Jesse and you. Privileged to survive together, and that is the only thing that mattered to you. Because, once your hands were washed clean from the death of the W.L.F. members who took Joel Miller’s life, your life had to continue; and you decided you needed Jesse to be apart of that.

Once pulled back, Jesse pressed his forehead against yours. His eyes shut for a moment to digest that he may be saying goodbye. Seattle had slowly unfolded to be a bigger situation than any of you could have anticipated, and leaving the walls of your base meant that you may never return.

You were a little shocked by Jesse to say the least. One eye peeled open, you had to make sure that he wasn’t kissing you out of spite.

Fingertips traced every feature on his face, as if you were memorising it all for the final time.

“I love you too, Jesse.” You whispered and with that, Jesse pulled away, the jaws of emptiness snapped around your ankles and dragged you away from him. Arms wrapped around your own torso, you watched Jesse and Ellie slip out of the theatre into the war in Seattle.

The silence was overwhelming, your head turned to see Dina return to the couch to prop her wounded leg up. An unspoken wedge had formed between the pair of you, even when you clutched at her hand as the arrow was pushed through the flesh of her leg. The looming shadow of the conversation you needed to have with her, peering at you from every corner of your dreams. She was pregnant with Jesse’s baby. It should have been the least of your worries considering the circumstances that had unfolded; but it still clawed at your mind all the same.

You sat at the edge of the couch. Hands neatly placed into your lap as you stared out into the emptiness of the room. Dina watched you for a moment, amusement crossed her features until you met her gaze — suddenly your odd behaviour wasn’t particularly funny anymore.

She spoke your name, “What’s wrong?”

Part of her knew. Where you lacked in intelligence to survival, you made up for in piecing things together. You had been attentive to Dina since your arrival in the theatre, but she could notice the distance, the barricaded wall put before your words. Eyes empty, a frown on your face when you handed the ginger biscuit before framing yourself with a faux smile.

It was only a matter of time before the question cropped up. You were straight to the point throughout your blossoming friendship, Dina knew you wouldn’t beat around the bush to salvage her feelings.

You sighed to her question. A stomachache from nerves from trying to approach the subject with the right tone.

“Dina—” You started, a look thrown her way that made her chest constrict, “You’re pregnant with Jesse’s baby. Aren’t you?”

She nodded. She couldn’t lie.

“Can you give specifics of how far along you are?” Oh. Dina thought. You were prodding at a dead carcass. You squeezed one eye shut, “I’ll try stay calm, you know.”

Dina smoothed the hairs at her forehead, “We weren’t together, when you two became a thing. If that’s what you’re getting at. I—I don’t know how far long I am, but, it’ll be further than when you and Jesse started seeing each other.”

“Right.” You nodded, not wholly convinced.

Dina repeated your name, her hand reached for yours for sincerity, “Jesse was—is crazy about you. The moment you entered Jackson, we all knew our situation was over because he looked at you as if you hung the stars before ever fucking speaking to you.” She laughed at the memory, “I remember he practiced what he was going to say to you on Ellie, of all fucking people.”

“That would’ve been a sight.” You laughed with Dina momentarily, it quick to die on your tongue, “I’m sorry. For accusing you.”

“Hey. I would too.” Dina said, “You were pretty nice about it.”

“I should learn not to be.” You joked a little. The fleeting moment of normalcy struck your core and your face dropped the act. Satisfied with the outcome, you chose not to linger, “I’m just going to check on Zombie. I’m surprised he hasn’t eaten one of us whilst we slept.”

You didn’t wait for Dina’s answer. Leaving her to rest, you got up from the couch and strolled to the room where Zombie had been kept. He had grown irritated, hooves stomping at the carpeted floor, head shaking in disdain as you neared him with one of the last apples from your rationed pack from Jackson.

Palm flat out with the apple shown as a prize for Zombie, the Appaloosa huffed before taking the fruit from your hand; turning his back on you to eat it alone.

“You know, just because you can’t see me, doesn’t mean I can’t see you, Zombie.” You patted his stomach and he turned away again, earning a chuckle from your lips, “Zombie. It is not my fault you’re cooped up in here like a caged animal. . . In fact, it is my fault, but we’ll be out of here soon.”

Zombie whinnied and you nodded, “Trust me. I want to be out of Seattle, just as much as you.”

Spending a couple of hours in Zombie’s presence — surprisingly — finding him calming as you managed to scoop up the horseshit and throw it out the door, unnoticed. The hay was becoming limited, but there was enough to see him through another night. And, it felt as though things were coming to a head in Seattle, so you had confidence you would all be returning to Jackson by the next morning.

Water collected from the rainfall, you poured it into a spare bucket you had found for Zombie, disbelieving that you were retracing your days work from Jackson in a theatre in Seattle whilst the patrol members went on their trails.

“This is such fucking bullshit.” You had grown angry as you slammed the pale of water down for the horse. Your hands thrown out in frustration, “I should be out there, don’t you think? I might’ve been a major help finding Tommy.”

Zombie snorted.

“Traitor.” Just as you crossed your arms, the thunder cracked and muffled banging came from the doors where you had left Dina. You sprung into action, swearing when you rolled over your bad ankle as you ran to meet Dina who had begun limping toward to the door, “Woah—Do you know who it is?”

“It’s them.” You felt goosebumps rise and Dina continued, “Our group.”

Quicker together, you managed to lean against the sofa long enough so Dina could let the group in. Hit with the sideways rainfall, you turned your face to the side to prevent being hit directly in the face. Jesse and Tommy Miller filtered through, soaked to the bone and faces stoic, Jesse quick to press his forearm to the sofa you wobbled to keep upright. The question on your tongue, where the fuck is Ellie? died when the very person trudged in, her soul miles away as she stared blankly upon entry.

Jesse met your curiosity over Ellie’s behaviour with a shake of his head. Wet tendrils dangled in front of his face, but you knew his eyes were telling you not to poke the bear.

Dina followed Ellie into the Dressing Room and you were left with Jesse and Tommy who peeled their wet clothes from their bodies, immediately jumping into speaking of tactics against the stage, whilst you organised their weapons for drying.

Once handling a couple of rounds, you took a break, head titled from the seats as you watched the backs of Tommy Miller and Jesse pointing at the map they had sprawled out. Boots kicked off of the chair in front, you made it down to them where they were quick to quieten down in your presence.

That irked you.

“Don’t stop just because I’m here.” You insisted, face warmed under Tommy Miller’s watchful eye.

He looked like he was trying to recognise you.

His fingers snapped together, “You’re that girl banned from Patrol.” Fucking perfect. Tommy nodded to his revelation as Jesse’s shoulders began to shake with humour, “Yeah. The late one. How’d you end up gettin’ here?”

“She came by herself.” Jesse spoke for you, a hand massaged your shoulder, “A valiant knight with little experience.”

You swatted at his hand, “I have experience. I just got unlucky.”

“You tell yourself that.” Jesse tugged your earlobe in subtle affection, Tommy crossed his arms watching in amusement. Jesse added, “We’re going home.”

As the reply of excitement left your mouth, Ellie opened the doors from the stage, her face paled but her emotions collected. She looked to the three of you before catching the map at Tommy and Jesse’s elbows. She knelt down, before swinging her legs over the edge of the stage, a decent bruise noticeable across her cheek.

Without further questioning, Tommy and Jesse launched into talking shop with Ellie.

“Hey—” Tommy halted their plans, “They got what they deserved.” You were none the wiser but able to piece things together as Ellie responded, Tommy quick to reply about her quip on — presumably — Abby Anderson’s survival, “Yeah. . . Is that OK?”

All eyes went to Ellie.

She sighed, “It’s going to have to be.”

That was the confirmation Tommy Miller was heeding. Ellie Williams, albeit plagued by the obsession of Abby Anderson’s desired death, would settle for retiring to Jackson, Wyoming. This granted the passage for the four of you to retrieve your belongings and escape the jaws of Seattle unscathed further by the war that settled in it’s belly.

Without Ellie’s reinforcement of the plan. You had feared you may have been stuck in time until the deed was done.

“What you should be worried about is what Maria’s gonna do to you when we get home.” Jesse rubbed at your back, insinuating that Tommy Miller was in for a rough welcoming from his wife.

Tommy straightened, “We’ve been through worse. However, I was passing through some ritzy section of town. Came across this necklace.” He elaborated, “Sparkles a lot. I think it’s real gold.”

“You think it’s real gold?” You asked.

Tommy nodded, “It’s real gold.” Jesse was quick to ask to see it and Tommy pushed himself off of the stage, hand to his lower back, “I know what real gold looks like.”

“If it’s legit, can we say it’s from all of us?”

“Ha!” Tommy teased, “You find your own damn bribes.”

He stalked off up to the back of the theatre, leaving you alone with Jesse and Ellie.

Jesse took a moment before he turned his attention to Ellie, “How are you doing?” He asked and Ellie was quick to retaliate with a falsified answer. Jesse side-eyed you, “Ellie.”

She looked to her feet, a tick of silence, “Thanks for coming back for me.”

“My friends problems are my problem.” Jesse shrugged at Ellie, his hand smoothed against your hip to tug you into his side. His lips pressed to your temple before he nudged your side to look up at him. Ellie grunted in disgust when he pulled you in for a tender kiss. Unspoken promises of love that would continue on your return to Jackson. Things would be OK.

“You’re such a sap.” Ellie mocked.

“Alright. How about, my friends can’t get out of their own damn way.” Jesse teased and pinched your hip, “That includes you.” Followed up with your name for a direct call out.

Ellie let herself laugh softly, “That’s better.”

The moment was peaceful. Your return home was on the precipice, too engulfed in the agony to leave Seattle behind to add to the two friend’s conversation.

As tactile as he could be, Jesse rubbed at your neck, the moment of bliss soon disrupted by a cluttered noise toward the direction that Tommy had exited in. Hand dropped from your neck, all three bodies turned to the noise before a muffled grunt — no mistaking it to be Tommy’s — sent alarm bells through you. Ellie jumped down from the stage, muttering a ‘Shit’ in passing as she yanked her gun from her holster.

Unable to sit by and allow them to see the commotion through, you copied Ellie and Jesse’s movements. Your gun tucked into the waistband, haphazardly pulled, safety clicked off as you followed them closely up the aisle and to the doors that concealed Tommy.

Both Jesse and Ellie swung the wooden doors open with ease, you were just a hair away from Jesse as he held out his gun to shoot the threat. A gunshot rang through the air, and your feet tripped over the sudden slump of his body. You hissed as your cheek burnt across the carpet, eyes scrunched as you looked back to check on Jesse — he was never one to trip with such precision in his every move.

Blood poured from the exposed bullet wound, Jesse laid dead and within seconds you scrambled to him, your hands shaking at his broad shoulders. Ellie called out his name in the softest tone you had managed to hear through the ringing of your ears.

"Stand up!" A female voice ordered when the tears began to blind your vision, hands to Jesse's face, nail beds painted in his blood. "Hands in the air, or I shoot this one too!"

Tommy Miller laid flat against the floor, his dignity clutching on by a thread in his weakened position against Abby Anderson. You remained knelt with Jesse's body, your fingers pressed to his neck pleading for a pick up on a pulse.

In response to your disobedience, Abby shot at you and a perfect hit embedded into your shoulder, your vision white from the hot searing pain. Ellie yelled for your protection when you let out a wail from the unprecedented agony Abby had inflicted on you.

On a high from adrenaline, the bullet in your shoulder proved to be a pain lessened by the sight of Jesse drained of colour. His hair began to saturate with his thick blood, your fingertips stroked through the strands, spit dropped from your mouth onto his flannel, as your body shuddered out a sob.

The outside noise drowned out.

Abby seemingly decided to spare you.

Now, it was just you and Jesse. The last of the strength you could muster, you had half pulled him onto your lap, his head lolled and you wretched. The wound on his cheek gaped and exposed flesh beneath the skin surface, your fingers avoided tracing across it.

Every decision made by you had a Butterfly Effect that gifted people with death. From what you had presumed, your three strikes had earned Joel Miller a death sentence. And now, as Jesse stilled, eyes glazed over, the fourth — and unexpected — strike scraped across you.

Jesse came on horseback to Seattle with the intention of bring his friends back, bringing you back to Jackson wrapped up in his safety. Now, as he laid deceased upon your lap, eyes wide to the atrocities, Jesse would never return to his position in Jackson and his last moments consumed by fear that his promise wasn’t followed through.

Stomach churned with devastation and guilt, you leant your forehead against Jesse’s and immediately recoiled. You couldn’t feel him anymore. Slowly, as his own blood pooled beneath him, Jesse was becoming a shell of who he once was and the one person amidst the blistering chaos that was brought by the Virus, that could make you feel something again.

Your head rolled back, unable to catch a breath, hands slick with the blood of your boyfriend, you let your eyelids close — unable to process the commotion happening within the room. For, nothing else mattered, your brain rewired from the fixation of avenging a man named Joel Miller, to assuring that Jesse’s body was retrieved and taken back to his home, Jackson, Wyoming, to receive the upmost respect of a burial and a headstone that read of his leadership qualities, and the type of person that made falling in love easier than falling asleep.

Finding the energy to peel your eyelids open, you took one deep breath before the butt of a gun was brutally smacked against your temple; body slumped next to Jesse’s, your clothes saturated in his blood, your hand still laid onto his body.

You would find the capability to somehow survive this attack. For Jesse; you would return home to Jackson.

#🔖 koolie writes #tlou jesse x reader #jesse x reader #tlou jesse x fem!reader #the last of us #tlou #tlou spoilers #tlou2 #ellie williams #tlou dina #tommy miller #tlou jesse

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