18+ | 23 | Loves art and fiction | I do read dark! Content so beware | Current obsession is the Dimitrescu women | I am on Wattpad and AO3 under the same name I only read and comment there though | Shameless Milf Hunter
Hi everyone this is my first time writing so hopefully you like. Forgive me for bad grammar for I a self proclaimed intellectual do not care where commas are actually supposed to go so enjoy me using commas for my own purpose. I wrote based on this by @homoo-wan-kenobi I saw their post and went ooh I want to write something so here it is, Enjoy!
Summary: Alcina is looking for you around the castle and she happens upon you reprimanding a new servant.
image is from google she’s giving you kissy face
“Hold her down and give me her hand,” you tell the cook, looking at how the cleaver glints in the light as you examine the blade not even the slightest concerned with the look of horror that crosses the young servant girls face. Her pleas and struggling are muffled under the strength of the cook holding her down. “You know you’re very lucky it was I who caught your thieving, I’ve seen first hand what our beloved Countess does to those who displease her...” Twisting the glinting blade even more in your hands as your thoughts trail off into a memory of when you first arrived, waking up in the dungeon seeing what had become of the Head of Staff before you. She was lucky to have become victim to the creatures that roam the castle and not Alcina herself or even her daughters, but nonetheless you would handle this situation accordingly.
You raise the blade high in the air above and bring it down with resounding force and immediately bring forth the wails and whimpers of the young maiden, even getting louder once she realizes she still has her hand which only irks you further. You grab her jaw and smush her cheeks in an iron grip and speak, “Stop your sniveling! Should I figure you acquire anymore items in your possession that do not belong to you I will see to it that you do more than soil yourself and lose more than your dignity!” The venom in your voice sends a shiver through the Lady of the castle almost stopping her trek to you down the corridor as she listens from afar. “I will not have my reputation as Head of Staff sullied because you cannot keep your hands where they belong! You’d do well to mind yourself closely from now on now get out of my face.” You stand and watch her scurry from the room as she releases a quick sobbing ‘Yes Ma’am’ holding the hand she almost lost close to her chest while you straighten your uniform and send a nod to Abraham who grunts in response.
Turning into the corridor you stop in your tracks as you see a dress and set of hips you’re intimately acquainted with and are met with the amused smile of your Lady as she tilts your chin with a finger watching as the look in your eyes eases into submission. “Such a stark contrast to you attitude during our nightly activities,” she releases in a sultry tone. “We can explore that attitude in bed later Darling but now I need the lounge prepared for a guest. Notify the girls that Heisenberg is coming.”
You feel heat make it’s way through your body and settle nicely in your core as you avert your eyes to the ground at her words. “Yes, my Lady” and thankfully you don’t stutter or trip as you make your way to one of the hidden servants passageways littered throughout the castle, feeling the heat of her gaze even as you shut the wallpapered door.
A/N: I didn’t know what the hell to title this I bet you can tell but I sincerely hoped y’all liked this and again it is my first time writing a little fic so give me a bit of leeway. I know this is more like what happened before kenobi’s prompt blurb thing but maybe if enough people reblog and like it i’ll write a second half and attempt smut
lowdown ☆ after homelander names you the seventh member of the seven, soldier boy learns exactly what your pretty little party trick can do.
ride or die ☆ soldier boy x supe!reader ( f )
miles ☆ 9335 ride style ☆ smut !!!
danger on the trail ☆ explicit sexual content, rough sex, dirty talk, soldier boy being soldier boy, power dynamics, canon-typical toxicity, vought/the seven toxicity, homelander being unsettling, emotional manipulation/power use, public humiliation, manhandling, thigh grabbing, light choking, mirror sex, semi-public risk/vought surveillance implications, praise/degradation, possessive behavior, no actual romance.
liv's log ☆ a little self indulgent because i couldn't get this scenario out of my head after doing my compound v manifestation report .ᐟ 𐚁
the elevator climbs so smoothly, you almost don’t feel it move.
it’s intentional. vought doesn’t let important people feel machinery. it hides all the ugly effort behind glass, gold trim, soft lighting, clean mirrors, polished metals that do not dare show a fingerprint unless someone very rich has approved it. even the elevator is expensive—sterile and floral, some corporate interpretation fo calm sprayed into the vents so no one has a panic attack on the way to meet america’s most unstable collection of national assets.
sage stands behind you with her hands folded in front of her, perfectly still, perfectly bored.
she hasn’t looked at you once since the doors shut. you watch her reflection instead.
“homelander likes symbols,” she says. her voice is flat enough that it could mean nothing. but she is the smartest woman on the planet, so it doesn’t.
you tilt your head slightly, watching the numbers climb. “does he?”
“he likes completion. loyalty. visible gratitude. people who understand their place before he has to explain it to them.”
you smile a little, because the cameras in the elevator don’t even pretend to be hidden. “good thing i’m very grateful.”
sage’s reflection looks at you then. her posture doesn’t move entirely, just her eyes. “are you?”
“i’m here, aren’t i?”
that’s not the same thing. you know it. she knows it. somewhere above you, homelander probably knows that too. he chose you. that matters. not in the sweet way vought will sell it tomorrow morning, with your face lit gold on every screen in the lobby and some expensive headline about a new dawn for the seven. it matters because homelander is not making choices as a leader right now—he’s making them as a man trying to build a room where no one can leave him.
that makes you useful. that makes you dangerous. that makes you careful.
“he wants the seven to have seven members,” sage continues. “the joke got old.”
“must’ve been a very painful time for branding.”
“branding survives pain better than people do.”
you almost laugh, but you don’t. the elevator keeps climbing, and for a second, in the reflection of the doors, you catch yourself the way the world is going to catch you: clean hair, warm skin, mouth soft enough to trust, eyes bright enough to make people nervous if they look too long.
the suit helps. vought has never met a woman it didn’t want to turn into a product first and a person never. yours is golden and cream and fitted close to the body without tipping into firecracker’s cheap little flag-bikini theater. elegant, they called it. aspirational. high-necked but not modest, with a sculpted bodice that catches the light when you breathe and a deep, curved line across the chest that makes a point without begging for one. the fabric hugs the waist, your hips, the tops of your thighs, tailored and expensive and just armored enough to pretend it’s practical.
sage notices you looking at yourself. “don’t overplay it.”
you drag your gaze back to the doors. “my face?”
“your devotion.”
that one lands. the bitch is smart. her words aren’t a warning, but they don’t land cruel, either. they’re just enough to remind you she didn’t get her place here by missing things.
you turn your smile into something smaller, sweeter, easier to swallow. “i would never.”
“everyoen says that before they do.”
the elevator dings and sage steps forward first. you follow.
the hallway outside is colder, brighter—the kind of white that makes everyone look a little guilty. the seven’s meeting room waits at the end of it behind massive doors.
homelander stands when you enter. that’s the first thing everyone notices. not you. not the suit. not sage’s hand gesturing lazily in your direction as if she’s presenting a weather update instead of the newest member of the most powerful team on earth.
homelander stands, and the room changes around him. firecracker’s smile sharpens in a way that shows she’s trying to decide whether she hates you or wants to be photographed next to you. black noir says nothing, which makes ridiculous contrast with whatever the deep is thinking while his eyes briefly dip below your face. you let him look. then you meet his eyes. he looks away immediately, straightening up in his seat.
soldier boy, seated with one boot braced against the base of the table, doesn’t move at all. he just looks you over with the bored entitlement of a man who has survived too many decades of being told he’s the prize.
he’s bigger in person. uglier too—but not in the face. the face is unfortunately good. it’s the rest of him that’s ugly: the easy arrogance, the bored set of his mouth, the old-world confidence sitting on his shoulders like a coat he has never had to take off.
homelander smiles warmly at you.
“there she is,” he says, and the room listens because he says it like a benediction. “halo fever.”
you dip your chin just enough. not a bow. not submission. appreciation wrapped humbly. “sir.”
his smile deepens. “no, no, none of that.” he gestures you closer, palm open, inviting. “we’re family here.”
you walk further into the room, heels quiet against the floor, and stop near the empty chair at the end of the table. the seventh seat. the one vought has probably been polishing for a press release before they knew what name would be attached to it.
“everyone knows who you are,” homelander continues, still watching with that bright, hungry pride. “but i wanted to do this properly. after all the betrayal… after all the instability… after people treating this team like some kind of revolving door…” his jaw tightens for half a second—there and gone. “we are moving forward. together.”
firecracker nods vigorously. “amen.”
the deep nods a beat too late.
sage continues watching the entire room.
and soldier boy snorts. not loud, exactly. it doesn’t need to be; in a room trained around homelander’s breathing, even disrespect has a spotlight.
everyone looks. homelander’s smile doesn’t drop, but something behind it tightens. so many daddy issues.
soldier boy is either too stupid or too committed to being himself to care. his eyes remain on you, amused, unimpressed, dragging over the gold of your suit before landing on your face with a little curl of his mouth.
“sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “just thought the seven was supposed to be superheroes, not a beauty pageant.”
the room goes quiet. it honestly wasn’t the worst thing he could’ve said. and no one in the room is innocent enough for shock. but there is that pause people take around a loaded gun when someone taps the barrel for fun.
you feel homelander’s attention shift to soldier boy first. then to you. waiting. measuring. the situation just turned into a fucking test.
you could be offended. maybe you are, somewhere under the polished surface. maybe some part of you recoils at how casually he spits in your face—how easily men from his century and yours dress contempt up as charm and expect you to laugh because they smiled while cutting. but offense is not useful unless you know where to put it.
so you smile. soft. lovely. almost forgiving. “that’s okay. i know it’s hard when new things happen.”
the deep makes a noise that dies instantly when soldier boy’s eyes flick toward him.
the cheaper version of captain america’s grin widens, meaner now. “new? sweetheart, i’ve seen plenty of girls with pretty lights.”
“oh, i’m sure.”
“most of ‘em didn’t need a cape to get attention.”
firecracker’s mouth twitches. sage’s face doesn’t move.
homelander is simply enjoying the spectacle. “halo fever,” he calls you.
it’s not a warning, yet you turn immediately. you don’t ignore him. you don’t make him repeat himself. you look at him the second he calls; almost like his voice has weight in your body. here, it does. it has to.
“yes, sir?”
his eyes search your face, pleased by your attention, curious about your restraint. “you alright?”
“of course.” you let the warmth enter your expression before the room can mistake your calm for weakness. “i just think soldier boy might benefit from a demonstration. if you think that’s appropriate.”
you ask. not because you need permission from a man to defend yourself, but because this room doesn’t belong to you. not yet. and because homelander chose you, and that means every public move you make in front of him has to confirm his choice—not compete with it.
homelander’s gaze flicks between you and soldier boy. for one thin second, he looks almost boyish. a little kid, pocking with a wooden stick at the weird gooey thing he found on the floor.
“a demonstration,” he repeats, tasting the idea.
soldier boy scoffs and leans back in his chair. “oh, please.”
homelander turns his smile on him now. “scared?”
the word barely changes soldier boy’s face. it would be easy to miss if you weren’t already looking for the seam. you are always looking for the seam.
“of her pretty party trick?” soldier boy laughs once.
homelander looks back at you, lifting a hand in invitation. “go ahead.”
your pulse answers before you do. the power awakes under your skin, golden and warm, sliding up through your chest, your throat, the backs of your hands. you keep it low.
the room brightens by half a shade, as if the sun has shifted closer to the windows, and the deep blinks too many times. noir tilts his head. firecracker’s fingers curl around the armrest of her chair. and soldier boy doesn’t move.
his mistake.
you take one step toward him.
“that’s close enough,” he says.
“is it?”
his mouth opens, probably to say something filthy and outdated and deeply impressed with itself. you touch the air between you instead. not him. not his body. not even the edge of his chair. just the feeling sitting behind his ribs.
it’s almost embarrassingly easy to find.
soldier boy has been exposed in public too many times now. america knows his face, his legacy, his son, his failures. vought can polish the story all they want, but the wounds are not buried—they are barely even covered. a father returned to a world that no longer bends for him. a legend introduced as someone else’s bloodline. a weapon thawed out and placed beside the thing that replaced him. he has so much pride packed over the damage that all you have to do is press where it shines.
the gold under your skin flares.
soldier boy’s breath catches. it’s small… but oh, it’s everything. his boot drops from the table with a dull thud, one hand clamps around the armrest; the other curls into a fist so tight the leather of his glove creaks. for half a second, his face stays locked in that arrogant mask, jaw set, eyes hard, mouth ready to sneer.
then his chest starts to glow. not the violent red everyone has seen on shaky footage and classified clips. not the nuclear burn. this is different. gold, faint at first, spreading beneath the dark green of his suit from the center of his sternum, warm and pulsing, like something inside him has been caught answering you before he could stop it. this is the party trick—the glow. the real show is about to present itself.
his pupils widen. you feel it spill up in him: anger first; humiliation right after it, sour and hot; then the thing underneath, the old bruised need to matter so badly it almost feels young. it hits the air between you in a rush he cannot hide from anyone in the room—not with your power wrapped gently around the truth and pulling.
his chair scrapes back an inch. “cut it out!” his voice is lower now, strained.
you tilt your head, still smiling, still sweet enough for every camera in the room. “i thought it was a party trick.”
his lips part. nothing comes out. that is it. not the glow. not the heat. not the way the deep stares with his mouth slightly open or the way firecracker’s expression flattens into something sharper, threatened despite herself. it’s soldier boy, america’s first great brute, suddenly silent because his body has betrayed him before his mouth can save him.
you could push harder. that’s the ugly truth. you could make him choke on the rest of it. make him feel every scrap of envy, want, loneliness, resentment, make him burn gold from the inside out until the whole room understands exactly how much of his swagger is just exposed scar tissue. you could make him look at homelander and feel it—the son, the mirror, the replacement.
your fingers twitch once. then you stop. the warmth snaps back into you so cleanly it almost hurts.
soldier boy inhales hard through his nose. the glow in his chest fades under the suit, leaving nothing but the brutal rise and fall of his breathing and the furious look he pins to your face.
You give him your prettiest smile. “cute party trick, huh?”
no one laughs except for homelander. just a pleased little breath, this private sound of satisfaction, and somehow it’s worse than the whole room mocking soldier boy.
homelander looks around the table as if waiting for everyone else to understand what he already has: you’re not starlight. you’re not a trembling moral lesson in a white cape. you’re not here to cry under fluorescent lights and beg the machine to become kind. you are the machine’s newest favorite blade.
“see?” homelander says, spreading his arms slightly. “that. that is what i’m talking about.”
soldier boy says nothing. his stare promises several forms of retaliation. you look away first because you can afford it.
homelander moves to the head of the table, energized now, shining with the glow of a man who has mistaken control for love and found a room willing to play along. “this is the team,” he says. “this is what we were missing. strength. loyalty. purpose.”
sages watches him with the faintest turn of her mouth. firecracker nods again, but this time her eyes cut toward you with something new in them. wariness.
soldier boy leans back slowly, recovering inch by inch, but you can still see it in the tightness around his mouth. he felt it. he knows you felt him feeling it. that is worse than pain for a man like him.
homelander places a hand on the back of your chair. “sit.” he commands, gently enough for the word to sound like a gift.
and you do. the seventh seat is cold beneath you.
homelander keeps his hand there a second longer than necessary before pulling away, and you keep your face open, grateful and bright. you play the part because the part keeps you alive. because this whole building runs on performance and fear and the kind of devotion people offer when they’re smart enough to know worship is safer than honesty.
“now,” homelander continues, smiling wide enough to make the room obey. “no more empty seats. no more betrayal. no more jokes.”
his eyes land on you again. chosen. that is what he wants ypu to feel. so you let the gold warm under your skin, just enough to make the room soften around him, just enough to make his smile stay beautiful and terrible.
“the seven,” homelander murmurs. “is complete.”
the room empties in pieces.
firecracker is the first to stand, heels clicking against the floor as she collects herself with that too-bright smile still stuck to her face, all gloss and teeth and badly disguised insecurity. she gives you one last look before she leaves—not hatred, not yet. this is thinner. something that says she understands attention as a limited resource, and you have just made a show of stealing some of hers.
“welcome to the family,” she says, syrupy sweet.
you smile back. “thank you.”
her eyes flick toward homelander, then away again. “you’ll fit right in.” that one is not sweet.
noir passes behind her without a word. the deep almost trips over his own chair because he’s still trying not to look at you and somehow making the effort more obvious than just looking would have been. homelander notices—he notices everything here. his mouth twitches with something between amusement and disdain before his attention returns to you.
that’s the thing about homelander—when he looks at you, it feels less like being seen andn more like being selected from a shelf. “big day,” he says.
you stand beside the seventh seat because staying seated after he rises feels stupid. “yes, sir.”
his expression warms again at the title. he pretends to dislike it. you’re beginning to understand he likes pretending almost as much as he likes obedience.
“you did well.” not good. not great. well. a measured thing. a reward, not a compliment.
you lower your eyes just enough to make the gratitude visible without making it pathetic. “i’m glad you think so.”
“i do.” he steps closer, and the whole room seems to tighten around the movement. “what you did with him—” his eyes cut toward soldier boy, who hasn’t moved from his chair. “that was impressive.”
soldier boy gives a humorless little breath through his nose.
homelander hearts it and lets it live. “controlled,” homelander looks back at you. “tasteful. strong.”
“i didn’t want to overstep.”
“no.” his smile brightens. “you didn’t.”
and he shows it again—the pleasure. not because you were kind or harmless. because you understood the order of the room and acted inside it. because the show happened under his hand, with his blessing. because you asked.
homelander likes loyalty, sage had said. you disagree. homelander likes proof.
“your suite is already prepared,” he says. “sage will show you. anything you need, you can ask. we take care of our own here.”
our own. you know better than to buy into the fantasy.
“thank you. that means a lot.”
“it should.”
and then he smiles like he has given you something sacred—a place in the seven, a family, a new beginning. like you are supposed to feel reborn because he decided you are useful enough to keep close.
you let yourself glow. only a touch beneath the skin, a warmth that softens the air around him, gentle enough that it can pass for admiration if anyone in the room is foolish enough to believe in clean things. homelander’s shoulders ease by a fraction and his smile steadies. some deep, hungry part of him accepts the warmth and calls it devotion because that is what he needs it to be.
sage watches from the doorway as homelander leaves, cape sweeping behind him in a ridiculous bright flash that would look stupid on anyone less terrifying. the room keeps his shape for a moment after he’s gone. then, sage speaks:
“this way.”
you turn from soldier boy without looking like you’re turning from soldier boy. he has been watching you since the glow faded from his chest. not speaking during the rest of the meeting. not moving. just sitting there with his jaw tight and his eyes ugly, furious in a way that feels almost clean compared to everyone else’s careful performance. anger is easy to read. anger tells you what door to open.
you follow sage into the hallway. she doesn’t ask if you enjoyed yourself and you almost respect her for it.
the walk to your suite takes longer than it needs to. vought tower has always been designed to make distance feel ceremonial. halls that shine too much, walls lined with screens, employees who glance up, recognize the suit, recognize sage, and immediately learn the floor again.
your face is already on one of the monitors near the elevator bank, a still from an interview you gave, gold light washing across your cheekbones under the headline: halo fever joins the seven: a new dawn for america’s heroes.
you nearly laugh. they work fast.
sage notices without looking at the screen. “they had drafts prepared.”
“for me?”
“for everyone.” she presses her thumb against a private access panel beside a set of double doors. “you were just the first one homelander wanted this week.” honest. cruel. useful.
the lock clicks open.
your suite is beautiful. so much so that it becomes a problem—so beautiful that, for one second, your body wants to trust it completely. cream walls, gold accent, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city in glittering indifferent pieces. a pale sofa curved around a glass coffee table. fresh flowers on the sideboard. a vanity lit soft and warm, covered with unopened products in your colors, your shades, your approved scent profile. a garment rack waits near the bedroom door with press outfits steamed and arranged by occasion—daytime interviews, evening events, crisis appearances, charity softness, televised grief.
they have made you a home out of costumes.
your boxes sit near the far wall, ordinary and brown and almost embarrassing against all that glass.
sage stops beside you. “security is internal. external press access is controlled. household staff comes through twice a day unless you request otherwise. anything private should not be assumed private.”
your lips press together as you absorb the information. “sweet.”
“nothing about this is sweet.”
“i didn’t mean it literally.”
“i know.”
you look at her then. sage’s eyes move over the suite with the same bored precision she gives everything else, but there is something almost human in the corner of her mouth. not kindness. that would be pushing it. maybe recognition. maybe the dull amusement of watching another woman learn the shape of her cage.
“he’ll test you,” she says.
“homelander?”
sage’s gaze shifts toward the hall behind you. “both of them.”
you don’t answer, because nothing is private and she doesn’t look like someone you can trust fully.
she turns to leave, then pauses at the threshold. “soldier boy doesn’t like being made small.”
you glance toward her. “does anyone?”
“no. but most people don’t have decades of national mythology rotting under the skin.” her eyes settle on your face. “don’t confuse humiliation with victory. it’s noisy. victory is quieter.”
“is that advice?”
“it’s information.” then she leaves.
the doors shut behind her with a soft, expensive click.
for the first time since the elevator, you’re alone.
you exhale and let your shoulders drop. not all the way. never all the way. but enough to feel the ache under the suit, the pinch fo the bodice, the place where the fabric presses too perfectly at your ribs. your reflection catches in the dark window, all gold and cream and vought-approved radiance, and for a second you stare at yourself the way you stared in the elevator.
the world is going to love this version of you.
you start with the boxes. the first one has books, framed pictures wrapped in sweaters, a small ceramic dish you bought because it was pretty and useless and nobody at vought would have picked it for you. the second has clothes. actual clothes—soft ones; the kind no stylist has touched; folded shirts, worn jeans, a cardigan you have no business owning now that you are supposed to be a golden national asset; and three little perfume bottles stuffed inside socks so they wouldn’t break. you set one on the vanity and watch it look immediately out of place.
the door opens behind you. you don’t even need to turn around.
“didn’t hear a knock.”
soldier boy steps inside anyway. his reflection appears in the window first: broad shoulders, dark suit, mouth set in that tired cruel line, eyes moving across the room with open judgment. he doesn’t look ashamed to be there—men like him rarely do—shame would require manners.
“door was open.”
“no, it wasn’t.”
“it wasn’t locked.”
you glance back over your shoulder. “that’s not the same thing.”
he closes the door behind him. slowly. the soft click sounds louder with him in the room.
you go back to unpacking because reacting too fast would make him happy, and soldier boy looks like he has already had a difficult enough day without you handing him a present.
“nice place.”
he walks farther in, boots heavy against the polished floor. vought’s pretty little suite looks different with him inside it. he picks up the ceramic dish from the vanity, turns it over once in his hand, then puts it down in the wrong place. you correct it immediately.
his mouth twitches. “you always this particular?”
“you always this invasive?”
“usually worse.”
he moves to the garment rack next, flicking through the outfits with two fingers. cream dress. gold blazer. while silk blouse. fitted trousers. a gown with a slit cut high enough for vought to call it empowering in a press memo.
he gives that one a second look. “they dress you up nice.”
“that supposed to be a compliment?”
“depends on how sensitive you are.”
you fold a shirt and place it into a drawer. “you came all the way here to find out?”
he looks at you then. not the way deep had done—not at the suit, or boobs, or your mouth. at you. it’s the first quiet thing he’s done. for half a second, the air changes, and you understand sage’s warning differently.
he’s not here because he thinks you’re pretty—though, he does. he’s here because, in that meeting room, you reached into him and found something he didn’t give you permission to touch. for soldier boy that wasn’t intimacy—it was trespassing.
“what the hell did you do to me back there?” he asks.
you keep folding. “a demonstration.”
“don’t give me that shit,” he spits out.
“then don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.”
he steps closer. “you think because homelander let you play with your little light show that means you can do it again?”
you smile down at the drawer. “let me?” you repeat.
“you heard me.”
“i asked because he enjoys being asked. not because i need him to hold my hand.”
his jaw shifts.
you slide the drawer shut and turn to face him fully. “and i didn’t play with anything. if i had, you would’ve known.”
soldier boy’s eyes narrow. he’s too close now. not touching yet—but close enough that you can smell him beneath the tower’s clean air: leather, smoke, whiskey buried under mint, something warm and metallic that might be his suit or his skin or the violence he carries without thinking. his anger has settled since the meeting, but not disappeared. it sits in him low and restless, circling the same bruised place you pressed.
you could touch it again. but you don’t.
that restraint seems to irritate him more than the threat would. “you like doing that? digging around in people’s heads?”
“it’s not mind control.” you scoff. “i’m not in anyone’s heads.”
“whatever.”
“and no.” you pause. “not always.”
“bullshit.”
you lean back against the dresser, crossing your arms. “you’re very committed to having a bad time in my room.”
“your room.” he looks around, unimpressed. “you been here five minutes.”
“still mine.”
he lets out a low laugh. “everything in this building belongs to vought.”
you smile. “careful. that includes you.”
his expression goes flat and it’s beautiful and dangerous. then, he looks away. he’s choosing not to reach, which is different and somehow more telling.
he walks past you, deeper into the bedroom area, where the boxes are messier, where the suite begins to lose its showroom shine. he looks at the framed pictures waiting on the bed, the small pile of personal jewelry, the open suitcase with soft cotton and lace peeking through.
“don’t touch my thing,” you warn. still, he picks up a framed photo. you sigh. “selective hearing. great.”
he studies the picture longer than you expect. not because he cares who’s in it, maybe. more because he’s looking for something he can use. something normal. something soft. proof that the woman who made his chest glow in a room full of monsters still has people in frames and old sweaters in boxes.
“this your boyfriend?” he asks.
you cross the room and take the frame from his hand. “no.”
he picks another one. “girlfriend?”
“no.”
“fan?”
“are you always this desperate for personal information?”
“are you always this defensive?” he argues back.
“only when strange men walk into my bedroom and start touching my things.”
his eyes drop briefly to your hand on the frame. then to your face. “strange?”
“would you prefer elderly?”
his mouth curls. there he is again. meaner when amused. easier to deal with when he’s trying to insult you than when he’s trying to understand you.
“you’ve got a mouth on you.”
“and yet you keep inviting it.”
the words land before you can decide whether you meant to say them exactly that way. soldier boy’s eyes darken a fraction. not much. but definitely enough.
you turn away first this time. heat is useful until it starts making decisions for you. then it’s just stupid. “i have things to unpack. you can go brood somewhere else.”
“brood?”
“sulk, then.”
“i don’t sulk.”
“you followed me across the tower because i embarrassed you in front of your son.”
the silence after that is immediate and ugly. you definitely reached too far. maybe not far enough. you feel the room tighten around his body with a violence that doesn’t require performance because everyone’s seen what he’s capable of.
when he speaks again, his voice is lower. “watch it.”
you look back slowly. this is the line—where a joke stopes being a joke and becomes a hand near a trigger.
you don’t apologize. you also don’t press. smart is knowing the difference between fear and timing.
“then stop acting like i chased you here,” you say, and there’s a drop in your tone—softer now, almost bored. “you came into my room, soldier boy. not the other way around.”
his stare holds yours. then, because he’s either incapable of leaving well enough alone or allergic to losing the last word, he turns and opens the nearest drawer.
you move instantly. “hey!” too late.
his hand disappears into lace. soldier boy looks down and then he smiles—slowly. “well.”
“put it back.”
he lifts a pair of panties from the drawer like he has discovered classified intelligence. they are pretty—pale gold with delicate lace at the edges, soft enough to look innocent if he wasn’t holding them in his big, careless hand. the sight of it does something irritating to your stomach—not embarrassment, exactly.
you refuse to name it.
“these vought-issued too?” he asks. fucker.
“put. them. back.”
he rubs the lace between his thumb and forefinger, inspecting it with the kind of obscene focus that makes your jaw tighten. “nah. i’m gonna keep ‘em.”
you step toward him. “i’m not joking.”
“neither am i.”
“soldier boy—”
he looks up at your voice. “ben.” the correction is sudden enough to catch.
you stop half a step away.
he watches you register it, and his smile changes. smug again, but not only that—there’s something underneath it, too, now. a hook thrown into the water just to see what bites.
“if you’re gonna threaten me in your underwear drawer,” he taunts, “you might as well use my name.”
you hate that your pulse reacts. you hate it more that it’s so visible he sees it.
“ben,” you say, clipped and sweet. “put them back.”
his gaze drops to your mouth for one heavy second. then, he lifts the panties higher. you reach for them, which only causes him to raise his arm above his head—easy, lazy, infuriating—using every inch of height and strength. you step closer without thinking, hand catching at his wrist, and suddenly there’s no polite distance left between you. just him—solid and warm and too close.
his chest is right there. no longer glowing now, but you remember how it looked. gold blooming under the green. his breath catching. his silence. the place beneath his ribs where pride turned soft and furious when you touched it.
he remembers, too. you can tell by the way his smile thins when your eyes flick down. “don’t you think about it.”
“what?”
“using that little power of yours.”
you look back up at him. “i’m not using it.”
“sure about that?” the question is quieter than the rest.
for all his arrogance, all his filthy little games, there is a piece of him that genuinely doesn’t know. not fully. he doesn’t know where your powers ends and his reaction begins. he doesn’t know whether the pull in the room belongs to you, to him, or to the ugly private thing you made visible in front of everyone.
good. let him wonder.
“i don’t need it for this.”
his eyes hold yours and you see something shift across his face, almost imperceptible, like he likes the answer and resents you for giving it to him.
your fingers tighten around his wrist. “last chance.”
“or what?”
you lift your chin. the move brings you closer—close enough that the front of his suit brushes the sculpted gold of yours; close enough that you feel his breath warm against your cheek when he laughs under his breath. not much of a laugh. more of a dare learning how to stand on its own two feet.
you keep your voice calm. “don’t make me ask again.”
soldier boy looks at your hand on his wrist; then at the lace dangling above your head. his smile comes slow as his eyes finally meet yours—mean, curious, hungry in a way he probably thinks he’s hiding.
“or what?” he asks again. “you gonna make glow, doll?”
you look at him for a second too long. his arm is still raised above your head, your panties caught in his fist, his body too close for this to be funny anymore. it stops being a game between his breath touching your cheek and your hand closing tighter around his wrist. the room is quiet around you, all cream walls and gold light and vought-approved luxury, but he has made the space feel less decorated.
“no,” you breathe out, gaze flickering down to his mouth then back up. “i want you to know this is you.”
his smile fades by a fraction.
you reach higher, fingers tightening on his wrist, not really trying to win anymore. you both know you can’t overpower him that way. that’s not the point—it’s the way his pulse kicks under your fingers. it’s the way his eyes don’t leave your face. it’s that his body has already started answering, and there is no glow in the room expect the faint warmth under your skin.
“put them down,” you tell him.
for once, he does. the lace drops to the floor between your feet, soft and forgotten immediately, because his freed hand comes to your jaw before you can breathe. his palm is rough against your cheek, thumb pressing under your chin to tilt your face up, and the touch is not gentle. it’s too sure of itself. too familiar for someone who has no right.
“tell me to leave,” his voice is lower now. still arrogant; still him—but stripped of the perfomance sitting around it before. no audience. no homelander smiling from the head of the table. no firecracker watching for weakness. no sage quietly filing away every reaction. just him. just you. just the bad idea already breathing between you.
you hold his stare. “if i wanted you gone, you’d be.”
his jaw flexes once. then he kisses you. his mouth hits yours hard enough to make your back brush the dresser, his hand still on your jaw while the other catches your waist and pulls you into him.
you make a sound against his mouth, sharp and surprised, and he swallows it before it can become anything useful and sane.
soldier boy kisses like he fights—direct, hungry, impatient with anything that isn’t surrender.
you don’t surrender. not in the way he’d want. you kiss him back with your fingers fisted in the front of his suit, dragging him closer even as every smart part of you starts listing reasons to why this is a terrible thing to let happen. he’s soldier boy. he’s homelander’s father. he’s angry because you exposed him, and you’re turned on because he came back anyway. there’s no soft moral angle to polish this with. no clean explanation. just his tongue in your mouth and your body going hot under his hands.
his hand slides from your waist to your hip, gripping hard, testing the give of you through the fitted gold fabric. the suit is too tight. it looks made for cameras, not for the way his thigh presses between yours, breaking your breath when he forces your stance open. the edge of the dresser bites lightly into the backs of your legs.
“all that control,” he murmurs against your mouth. “and this is all it takes?”
you bite his lower lip and he groans. you feel it in his chest where it presses against yours, and the sound goes straight through you, low and ugly and satisfying.
“don’t talk.”
his mouth drags to your jaw. “make me stop.”
you tug at his hair hard enough to pull his head back. his eyes flash—dark and bright—furious that he likes it. you can feel the heat coming off him now, the hard press of him against your stomach. no power needed. no trick. no excuse left for him to hide behind.
“you came to my room,” you remind him. “touched my things.”
“mhm.”
“you wanted this before i did.”
his grip tightens on your hip and the gold under your skin flickers. his eyes drop to it. “there she is…”
“i’m not using it.”
“you’re glowing.”
“because you’re pissing me off.”
he leans close enough that his mouth brushes your ear. “then you’re gonna light up the whole damn tower.”
your breath catches before you can stop it, and that gives him the opening he wants. his mouth finds your throat, teeth scraping over the sensitive place under your jaw, then lower—rough kisses pressed down the side of your neck while his hands start working at the back of your suit.
he finds the zipper too fast. his knuckles graze your spine as he pulls it down, and the sound is obscene in the quiet room, the slow parting of fabric, the private little surrender of something designed to make you untouchable.
cool air touches your back. then his mouth. you close your eyes.
“look at that,” he murmurs, voice rougher now.
you open them because there is a mirror above the dresser and he has turned you toward it, one hand spread against your stomach, the other peeling the suit down your shoulders. you see yourself flushed and bright-eyed, the gold fabric loosing over your body, your mouth swollen from him. you see him behind you—bigger, his face close to your neck, his eyes lifted to the reflection—watching you watch.
the suit slips lower, catching at your waist, and your breasts spill free into his hands.
his breath changes. that tiny break in him is better than a compliment.
his palms cover you, heavy and warm, thumbs brushing over your nipples until your body arches despite every ounce of pride you still have left.
“sensitive.”
“you like it.”
his hand closes more firmly around your breast—enough to make your head tip back against his shoulder. “i like this.”
his other hand slides down your stomach in a slow treacherous pace. you grip the edge of the dresser as his fingers move under the loosened suit, beneath the lace at your hips, and when he touches you, when the rough pad of his finger drags through the wet heat of you, both of you go still.
his forehead lowers briefly to your temple. “fuck.”
you part your thighs without meaning to, and his fingers follow the invitation immediately, stroking you with a confidence that makes your knees loosen. your glow pulses brighter in the mirror, gold threading over your collarbones, down your arms, blooming where his hands touch you.
“all this from a kiss?” he asks, but the arrogance is fraying at the edges.
“don’t flatter yourself.”
he pushes on finger into you. your answer breaks into a moan.
his hand tightens on your breast. “say that again.”
you can’t. not cleany.
his finger works into you slow, then curls, and the pleasure lands low and sharp enough that your hips press back into him on instinct. he makes a rough sound against your neck, then adds a second finger, stretching you open while his thumb circles your clit with dirty, unhurried pressure.
his name comes out before you can stop it, “ben—”
his mouth opens against your shoulder, teeth pressing there as if he needs somewhere to put the reaction. “again.”
you shake your head once, stubborn even with his fingers buried inside you. he trusts them deeper.
your fingers slip against the dresser. “ben.”
“there you go,” his voice drops, thick and pleased. “knew you could ask nice.”
“i’m not asking.”
“you will.”
you should hate him. you should shove him back, pull the suit over your chest, kick him out, and let him spend the rest of the night wondering if he imagined how close he came to losing himself in your room.
instead, you reach behind you an grab the back of his neck, pulling his mouth to yours. the kiss turns filthy, all tongue and teeth and broken breath. his fingers are still moving between your legs, your hips rocking into his hand now. he groans into your mouth when you grind back against him, when your ass presses against the hard length of him throuhg his suit.
he pulls his fingers out suddenly and you actually whine.
“pretty,” his eyes sharpen.
then he turns you around. your back hits the dresser again, and he’s on you before you can catch your balance, one hand gripping your thigh and hauling it up around his waist. his mouth drags down your chest—hot and rough—and when he takes one nipple into his mouth, you nearly unfold. his tongue works over you, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp, while his hands keep your thigh high against his hip.
the suit hangs around your waist now, half-off, ruined. your vought-approved armor turned into a mess of gold fabric bunched between your body and his.
“this thing cost them a fortune,” you manage.
he lifts his head, mouth wet, eyes dark. “then they can buy you another.”
his hand moves between you, fingers finding you again, slickinmg through the wetness he already pulled from you. you bite your lip hard, but not fast enough. the sound slips out anyway, and soldier boy looks at you with a satisfaction that makes heat twist through your stomach.
“don’t hold back now,” he says. “room’s probably soundproof.”
“probably?”
his smile is brief and wicked. “guess we’ll find out.”
you pull at the front of his suit. “off.”
that’s all you say. it works better than any long, clever line would have.
something in him snaps into focus. he strips down only as much as he needs to—impatient and rough with the fastenings—his mouth finding yours between movements because apparently even underessing is too much distance. when his cock is finally in his hand, thick and hard and flushed at the head, your mouth goes dry.
he tears open a condom with his teeth, rolls it on, and steps back between your thighs. one hand settles at your waist; the other grips your thigh higher, opening you for him.
he pushes in slow enough that you feel every inch. the stretch is immediat and deep and almost too much—your body forced to open around him while your fingers dig into his shoulders. he curses under his breath, head dropping forward, mouth near yours but not kissing. not yet. he watches your face instead—watches the way your lips part, the way your brows pull together, the way your glow flares hot under your skin.
“fuck,” he groans. “you’re tight.”
you let out a shaky breath that turns into his name halfway through.
he stills when he’s fully inside you.
your leg tightens around his waist, pulling him closer even though there’s nowhere closer to go. the dresser presses into your back. his hand presses into your hip. the room narrows to the heavy fullness of him inside you and the sound of both of you breathing.
“look at me,” he says.
you do. which is a mistake. his face is wrecked in the most brutal way—jaw clenched, eyes blown dark, sweat starting at his temple, control held together by spite and not much else. you can feel him trying not to move; the restraint in the tremor of his hand on you.
“ben,” you whisper.
his hips snap forward and your head falls back with a cry.
there's no gentle build after that. he fucks you hard agaisnt the dresser, one hand under your thigh, the other braced beside you, each thrust driving the air out of your lungs. bottles rattle behind you. the mirror shakes. your suit slides lower on your hips and he watches every inch of you come apart under him with a hunger that makes your skin burn.
“take it,” he manages.
you mean and his rhythm falters for half a second. enough for your power to answer. gold light spreads across your chest, down your stomach, over the hand he has on your thigh. his own chest flickers against yours, faint at first, hidden under the loosened suit, but you feel the heat of it.
so does he.
his mouth crashes back to yours before you can say anything.
you kiss him through it, messy and desperate—fingers in his hair, nails scraping the back of his neck. he groans into your mouth when you clench around him, and the sound does something vicious to you. makes you tighten again just to hear it.
“shit,” he breathes. “you feel that? squeezing me every time i make a noise.”
“i’m the one making you—”
he thrust deeper. you cry out. “me too, sweetheart.”
his mouth moves over your throat, your collarbone, the top of your breast, leaving heat wherever he touches. one of his hands slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, and the pleasure spikes so sharply your nails bite into his shoulder.
“oh, god.”
he lifts his head, eyes on your face. “wrong guy.”
you almost laugh, but his thumb presses harder and the laugh breaks into a moan. he watches it solemnly; watches you lose the shape of the response; watches your mouth open and your eyes go unfocused, and something about that seems to hit him harder than the glow ever did.
“that’s it,” he murmurs. “that’s what you need.”
“don’t get smug.”
“too late.”
“ben—”
“i know,” his voice drops. “i can feel you.”
he can. there’s no hiding it now, your body is tightening around him, pleasure building fast and hot, your glow bright enough to wash the room in soft gold. his chest answers more strongly this time, pulsing against yours with every deep thrust, and you feel a vicious little thrill at the evidence of it. he’s not untouched. he’s not above this. he’s not standing outside the fire making jokes about it. he’s burning too.
“you’re glowing again,” you whisper.
his hand moves to your throat, applying just the right amount of pressure to hold your attention in place. “so are you.”
your lashes flutter. he feels that too.
“you like that?” he asks, voice darkening. “like my hand there?”
you don’t answer, holding onto the faintest shred of pride you’ve got left.
his thumb strokes once along the side of your throat, almost tender if not for the way his hips keep driving into yours. “tell me.”
“yes.”
his exhale is rough. “good girl.”
the words land low in your stomach.
he kisses you again, and this time there’s less fight in it. his mouth stays on yours while his thumb works you faster, while his cock drags deep and thick inside you, while your leg starts to tremble around his waist. you’re close. too close. embarrassingly fast, maybe, but there’s nothing neat about this. he has a hand at your throat, his body between your thighs, his chest glowing because of you, and the entire rooms feels fever-warm from the power spilling off your skin.
“come on,” he mutters against your mouth. “let me feel it.”
you shake your head, breathless. it’s not because you don’t want to—but because the edge comes too fast and too bright.
“yes,” he squeezes once. “don’t pull away from me now.”
your body obeys before your mouth agrees. pleasure snaps through you, sudden and blinding, your glow flaring so hard the mirror catches nothing but gold for one broken second. you come around him with a cry you can’t swallow, hips jerking, fingers locked in his hair, body clenching down until he curses and buries his face against your neck.
“fuck,” he groans. “that’s it. that’s it.”
he keeps moving through it, slower but deep, dragging the orgasm out until your legs shake and your breath turns thin.
his control is worse now. you can feel it slipping in the roughness of his thrusts, the way his hand tightens on your hip, the way his mouth presses hot and open to your shoulder because he has stopped pretending he doesn’t need somewhere to put the sound.
when your body softens, he pulls out just enough to turn you. you’re still half catching your breath when he spins you around with that same blunt strength that makes your pulse kick. your hands hit the dresser. the mirror steadies in front of you, reflecting your flushed face, your half-undone suit, the gold light still shimmering under your skin.
one hand spreads between your shoulder blades, easing you down until your elbows press to the dresser. the other grips your hip. you see him in the mirror, big and tense and behind you, jaw tight, chest glowing faintly beneath the open front of his suit.
“watch,” he commands before he pushes back inside.
the angle steals whatever breath you had left.
you moan, louder this time, fingers curling agains tthe polished surface as he fills you again from behind. he pauses when he bottoms out, just long enough for you to feel the full weight of him, the heat of his body curved over yours, his breath at your ear.
“look at you,” he growls. “taking me so good.”
your eyes close from please.
his hand catches your jaw immediately, turning your face toward the mirror. “no. watch.”
you do. you watch him start to move. you watch his hips snap into yours, your own body jolt forward with every thrust, breasts brushing the cool dresser, mouth falling open as the pleasure builds again too soon. it’s filthy seeing it this way—him behidn you, his hands on you, your gold suit shoved around your waist, his cock disappearing int you over and over while the room glows warmer with every broken sound you make.
“ben,” you gasp.
his eyes lift to yours in the mirror. that does something to him.
his rhythm roughens. “louder, doll.”
“ben.”
“again.”
you say it again, and he fucks you harder, one hand gripping your hip while the other slides around your waist and down between your thighs. your body jerks when his finger find your clit again, still sensitive.
“i can’t—”
“yes, you can.”
“fuck, no—”
“you can.” his voice is low at your ear. “give me another one.”
you push back against him, helplessly chasing and resisting at once—your body split between too much and not enough. he feels it. he feels everything. every clench. every tremble. every time your breath catches instead of becoming a moan. his hand works you through it, his thrusts deep and relentless, his mouth pressing against the side of your neck.
“that’s it. c’mon, baby. one more.”
the words hit before you can brace for them. your body clamps down around him. his hips stutter and you see it in the mirror—the way his mouth opens, the way his brows draw tight, the way the gold in his chest flares bright enough to paint the edges of your reflection.
he sees you seeing it and he doesn’t have the breath to deny it. “fuck.”
“there you are,” you taunt.
he grips your jaw tighter while he drives into you hard enough to make the dresser knock against the wall. “don’t start.”
he’s falling apart now. you feel it in the shape of his body over yours. in the rough drag of his breath. in the way his dirty mouth is actually loosing it’s stamina.
“so damn tight,” he mutters. “fuck. you feel so good. knew you would. knew you’d take it.”
your second orgasm builds meaner than the first—dragged out of an already-sensitive body. the gold under your skin pulses wildly. your reflection blurs with it. you’re glowing everywhere—chest, cheeks, throat, the backs of your hands braced on the dresser. he looks ruined behind you.
“come for me.”
it takes a couple more seconds before your body locks around him. the orgasm tears through you hot and hard, your cry spilling into the room with no attempt to soften it. soldier boy groans behind you, hips driving deep as you clench around him.
he comes with your name half-buried in a curse.
his body shudders over yours, one hand braced beside yours on the dresser. the other still grips your waist hard enough to leave memory if not bruises. you feel every pulse through the condom as he stays buried deep, breathing hot against your shoulder.
his forehead lowers to your shoulder for one heavy second after the worst of it passes. neither of you moves. the suite hums quietly around you.
your skin is damp. your thighs tremble. your suit is ruined around your hips, your hair mussed, your mouth swollen, your body still clenching faintly around him as the last waves roll through.
his glow fades before yours does.
he pulls out carefully. you straighten slowly, palms still on the dresser, trying to gather yourself into something that looks less thoroughly taken apart.
behind you, he deals with the condom, tucks himself away, closes his suit enough to look almost respectable if someone ignores the mouth and the hair.
you turn around.
your panties are still on the floor and you watch as he bends and picks them up.
for one stupid second, you think he’s going to hand them to you. then, he puts them in his pocket instead.
you stare at him, an incredulous laugh escaping you. “seriously?”
his eyes move over you, slower now, less performative. “yeah.”
“give them back.”
“no.”
your body is too tired for the argument, but your mouth is not. “you’re unbelievable.”
“you were saying my name a minute ago.”
you step closer, still half-dressed, still glowing softly where his hands had been. “next time you walk into my room without knocking, i’ll make you cry.”
his gaze drops to your mouth. then back to your eyes. “next time?”
you hate that your pulse reacts. so you smile, pretty and warm and mean enough to be useful. “get out, ben.”
he watches you for one more second, hand still in his pocket around stolen lace. then he turns toward the door.
at the threshold, he pauses. “i’m keeping these.”
you’re glad he didn’t turn around to face you. the smile is on your face, stupid and a little naive. as he keeps walking, the door shutting behind him with a heavy click. only then do you let the last of the gold fade from your skin.
Summary: Natasha never looked your way… or at least, not how you wanted her to. But maybe it was silly to think that the world’s greatest spy didn’t notice you.
18+
Author’s note: Buckle up, because there’s a whole lot of misinterpretation and yearning in this one
Natasha’s hands move to grip your waist, gently keeping you in place so she can pass you in the kitchen without bumping into you as she makes her way toward the coffee maker.
You don’t startle or stiffen. You know who the hands belong to. You’re familiar with their hold, with the feeling of their fingertips on you.
“Just me,” she murmurs anyway, voice soft in the early morning, giving you an affectionate squeeze before she lets go.
You turn, offering her a smile in greeting, one of your own hands raising to lightly brush along her back as she walks by.
This is the norm: Natasha’s touch on you, your touch on her. Her knee always manages to bump yours underneath the table during meals, your hand for some reason always reaches up to push a strand of fiery red hair behind her ear.
You’ve been best friends for years, the comfort you two feel with each other something that doesn’t come to many. It’s always felt different with Natasha than with anyone else. Easy, natural, innate.
Natasha is a constant, steadfast and dependable, loyal to a fault. No matter what happens, you know you’ll always have her.
“Are they…?” Steve asks one day, watching how Natasha’s arm is draped over your shoulders as you both sit much too close to one another for it to be platonic on the sofa, some forgotten show, you both prioritizing chatting, playing on the screen.
“Nope,” Wanda replies, the witch only ever getting more and more exasperated at the affectionate behavior that neither of you capitalize on with each day that passes.
“But-”
“I know,” she cuts him off.
That’s the end of it.
The party is well underway, and Natasha is pressed up against you constantly. She keeps telling herself that it’s just due to the crowd.
But regardless of her reason, you’re relishing in it, soaking up her hand against the small of your back leading you as you make your way through the ballroom, basking in the feeling of her shoulder grazing your own whenever you two stand side by side. Natasha’s eyes are on you tonight, her focus never straying, never distracted, never diverting, and you can almost trick yourself into thinking that she likes you as more than a friend too.
“May I have this dance?” Natasha asks a few hours into the party, smirk on her face, her hand extended toward you as an offer.
With the playful tone, you know that you can’t take the question seriously, can’t presume that she means it in any other way than just two friends dancing, but as usual, hope makes a home of your chest anyway.
You bite your lip shyly and nod, accepting her hand, fingers interlocking as Natasha gently tugs you toward the dance floor.
The song is slow, and when the hand not tangled with yours comes to settle on your waist, its warmth bleeding through the material of your dress, you curse the universe yet another time for making you have a crush on your best friend.
You’ve been cursing the universe a lot lately. Every time you notice your gaze lingering a second too long as Natasha peacefully reads in the armchair by the window, every time you find your voice softening when you shift from talking to someone else to talking to her, every time you realize that the reason you touched her was simply an aimless excuse.
Despite it all, despite you knowing you shouldn’t—you shouldn’t long for more, you shouldn’t pretend, you shouldn’t fantasize that this is real—you tuck your head into the crook of Natasha’s neck, resting your cheek against her collarbone as you sway to the music. Natasha suppresses a shiver at your warm breaths puffing along her skin.
You spend the rest of the night glued to her, one dance leading to another and then another. And still, once you finish dancing, your closeness isn’t severed. You both walk over to the couches, Natasha pulling you onto her lap, her arms wrapping around you as she holds you in a way that no one without further intent ever should.
You lean back into her without thinking about it, the movement second nature as touching Natasha has come to be, and you spend the rest of the party there. You’re curled into her body, snuggled into her chest, legs stretched out over her lap. At a certain point, you somehow manage to push yourself even closer, shifting until your head once again finds a way to be nuzzled under her chin.
“I think I’m going to turn in,” you tell the redhead after another couple of hours, words mumbled against her before pulling your head away to look up at her face. You don’t want to end the night, to remove yourself from her arms, but you’re growing tired, yawning constantly, and you have an early start to tomorrow. The party is slowly coming to an end anyway, the sea of people diminishing as many attendees are also electing to go home.
“Want me to walk you to your room?” Natasha asks, slackening her hold just a fraction, “Just so you don’t get lost.”
“I think I can manage to find my way to my bedroom,” you tease.
“For protection purposes then,” she playfully changes course… anything to prolong her time with you.
You roll your eyes at her new reason, but it’s a cover for the way warmth blooms within you at her seemingly wanting to you to stay. “I’ve got it,” you reassure, and for a moment—brief but unignorable—you consider pressing a kiss to the apple of her cheek in goodbye, you imagine what her skin would be like under your lips. The gesture feels right right now, the action feels like it’d be natural, but you force yourself to hold back, not wanting to cross any lines even though they’ve perhaps already been crossed too many times before.
“Alright,” Natasha replies, giving you the adoring smile that causes your traitorous heart to flip flop with the belief that maybe she feels the same, “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Bright and early for training,” you answer her, nodding.
Her hand comes up to cup your cheek. Damn her hands for always wanting to touch you. “Rest well,” Natasha murmurs.
You give her one last sweet smile of your own before walking away, dress trailing behind you with each step, Natasha watching your form as you go. She forcefully pushes down the longing for something more that always seems to come about with every look at you, refusing to acknowledge it as usual.
Only moments after you head down the hallway, rounding the corner toward the elevator, Wanda is at Natasha’s side.
She doesn’t ease into the topic. “You have to know how she feels about you.”
“What are you talking about?” Natash feigns ignorance, not glancing over at the witch, gaze still locked onto where you just disappeared.
“Natasha,” Wanda admonishes, well aware that she doesn’t need to elaborate.
Natasha closes her eyes as she sighs, mentally preparing for the conversation she’s always avoided, even with herself. “We’re friends, Wanda. Just friends.”
“Friends don’t look at each other the way she looks at you,” Wanda pauses for a moment before adding tentatively, “Or the way you look at her.”
Natasha stiffens at the implication.
“We’re friends,” she repeats more firmly, shutting down any potential of more from this exchange.
Wanda purses her lips, growing tired of Natasha’s stubbornness and of you doubting your significance to her. “If you aren’t going to let yourself have this, then you need to stop and let her move on.”
When Natasha doesn’t answer that, Wanda sighs as well and turns on her heel to return to what’s left of the party. There’s not much more to say to the obstinate redhead.
You’ve already made it back to your room, your dress half unzipped, when you realize that you forgot your phone at the party, having given it to Steve for safekeeping when you danced with Natasha.
You let out a tired exhale and rezip your dress, smoothing out the material before striding to your door. Your stare drifts to your heels that you hastily discarded upon your return, your feet aching at just the sight of them, and you elect to throw on a comfier pair of sneakers. The elevator ride to the ballroom is short, your fingers tapping out an anxious rhythm on your thigh as the number goes down. You get to see Natasha again.
But what you see, you never expected.
Your stomach drops, your entire being faltering when you enter the ballroom and witness Natasha speaking to another woman. They’re close—too close—and Natasha has that look in her eye. You know that look; you’re well-acquainted with it. But it’s always been pointed at you every time you’ve seen it previously. It’s what made you feel like there was something between you two, and even though you’ve told yourself not to, you’ve always taken it as hopeful evidence that she returns your affections.
The woman’s hand comes up to brush against Natasha’s arm, the action blatantly suggestive, and Natasha doesn’t stop her. If anything, the redhead’s smile widens.
You turn around and quickly flee the ballroom, phone forgotten.
Natasha’s smile does widen at the woman’s advances, flattered, but what you fail to see after taking off is Natasha gently removing her hand from her bicep, Natasha politely turning her down, Natasha unable to bring herself to view anyone the way she views you.
You don’t make it to training the next morning, and you can’t find it in yourself to give Natasha a heads up. You can’t look at the text chain, can’t bear to see her name on your phone followed by the heart emoji that Natasha insisted you add. You can’t stomach the contact photo of her smiling.
Everything feels different now, your friendship—because that’s what this has always been despite you hoping that it was more, right?—feels tainted by the fact that you saw her with another woman. Everything’s changed. Has she always been talking to others, and you just never knew? Were you never special? Never significant? Never notable in her eyes?
What hurts the most is that, in spite of it all, you can’t villainize her. It’s not her fault you fell, it’s not her fault she doesn’t reciprocate, and it’s not her fault she was flirting with someone else. She doesn’t owe you anything. It only makes sense that others would want her like you do. There’s simply no way someone could see the redhead and not be in awe of her. The marvel that is Natasha Romanoff is unmissable.
But they don’t want her like you do, not really. Because they don’t know her like you do. You want her… every bit of her that you’ve already been given and more.
But that doesn’t matter now. It’s been months of pushing it off, but you’re finally telling yourself that you need to move on. It’s finally time. Your affections toward her are no longer able to be sheltered; your body is no longer a safe place for them now that your mind swirls with the newfound knowledge that Natasha doesn’t feel the same. Having confirmation that your feelings are unrequited—no longer in limbo like before when you were able to foolishly play make-believe that you two might’ve had a future—you can no longer remain just friends. You know you aren’t strong enough to handle the indirect rejections and constant heartbreak.
Natasha waits for you in the gym, warming up for longer than necessary, stalling until your arrival. But you never show, and her confusion and worry only grow with each passing minute. You’ve never stood her up before.
Eventually she abandons the pretense of working out, grabbing her towel and water bottle and leaving the gym, ending the session early when, after over an hour, there’s still no sign of you. With a puzzled expression on her face, she heads to your room.
She knocks. You know it’s her. You don’t respond.
She calls your name through the door. You pretend you don’t hear.
“You didn’t show up for training,” Natasha says, tone hesitant in a way it’s never been with you, “I just wanted to check up on you…” She trails off. “I don’t know if maybe you’ve just slept in, or…” There’s another pause. “Just, if you can hear me, come find me later?”
It’s phrased as a question. Your lack of response, your lack of acknowledgement, is throwing her for a loop. You’ve never ignored her before. Maybe you really are just still asleep, but she can’t shake the feeling that something is off.
And the feeling only furthers as time goes on.
You don’t find her later that day, or the next day, or the next.
You’re avoiding her. Not obviously, not enough to be called out on it yet, but breakfasts are cut short, and you take a seat on the opposite side of the table. You no longer attend movie nights, always giving the excuse that you’re too tired to make it through a film. During training with the team, you two used to immediately make eye contact and silently communicate that you’d be sparring partners—as if anyone was going to try and come between the two of you anyway—but now you’ve been voluntarily pairing yourself up with Wanda. And worst of all, you won’t let her touch you anymore.
There are no more late-night talks, no more sleepovers, no more lunches at the nearby cafe together, and Natasha feels as though a part of her is lost. She’s never been unsure of where she stood with you; you’ve never rebuffed her like this. The void you’ve left with her is not one she could’ve prepared for, not one she ever thought she’d have to fill.
Natasha doesn’t know how it could get any worse, but it does.
She arrives back from a mission, her body aching, everything in her begging for her to lay down. All she wants to do is to curl up on your bed, to have you run your hands through her hair just like you used to, her head in your lap. But for some still unknown reason, she’s lost her right to do that now.
As she trudges through the halls, practically dragging her feet in exhaustion, she passes by the common room on her way to her quarters and freezes at what she hears.
You’re laughing—giggling—at something some man sitting next to you said, and you’re leaning against him.
It’s the first time Natasha’s seen you in days, and you’re cuddled up next to some man? She can’t hold her tongue. “Who’s this?” she asks bluntly, announcing her presence.
You glance over the back of the sofa, eyes widening in surprise as you notice the redhead standing in the entryway. “Natasha,” you exhale her name, your voice softening involuntarily. You mentally berate yourself for that even though you know it was an inevitability.
You almost feel sheepish, almost feel guilty, like you’re doing something you aren’t supposed to, like you’re betraying her, but then the memory of the night of the party flits through your head, and your resolve strengthens along with the despair that has been a constant ever since seeing her with another. “I didn’t know you had gotten back already.”
She wants to say that that’s because you no longer wait for her in the landing bay like you used to, that you’re no longer there to greet her when she returns, your hands tracing over her body carefully, thoroughly checking her for injuries, worry radiating off of you until you’re certain that she’s come home unharmed, before you pull her into you for a hug.
But she doesn’t.
Her gaze flicks toward the man, a silent question.
“Oh,” you start awkwardly before introducing him. He’s still too close to you; his arm is still around you. If anything, he tightens his grip as if he can sense the unspoken feelings and tension in the air.
“He’s my-” You can’t finish. The word ‘partner’ feels wrong in your mouth. It feels like it’s getting stuck in your teeth. It doesn’t taste sweet the way thought it would, the way you know it would if you were talking about Natasha instead of him. You try to push that thought away.
“I’m her partner.” the man supplies next to you, finishing your sentence. If he picks up on your hesitation, your reluctance, he doesn’t voice it, and you nod in uncomfortable confirmation.
“My partner,” you agree quietly, and Natasha’s feels something in her break.
Natasha doesn’t like him. She doesn’t know him, but she doesn’t like him.
She doesn’t like the way he compliments you and the way you smile bashfully back. She doesn’t like the kisses he peppers across your face and how you ask for more. And fuck, she doesn’t like that he is always at the Compound, always near you, always touching you, always in the room.
She can never get a second alone with you anymore… not that you’d let her get close these days anyway.
Still, she tries. Her hand still reaches out for you habitually when you walk by, intending on skimming across your shoulder; her body still craves yours. She just wants to know where she went wrong.
She misses you.
She doesn’t realize that you miss her too—more than anything—that everything with the man is an act, an ultimately unsuccessful attempt to keep yourself away from the redhead who you’ve convinced yourself doesn’t love you the way you love her. Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? It’s not a crush. It’s love.
Natasha brightens one afternoon when she sees you walking alone. For once, he’s not here.
“Hey, wait up a sec!” she calls out from down the hall, long steps quickly letting her catch up to you, her expression a hopeful smile that won out even over her nerves. This is it. This is when she finally gets to talk to you, to tell you how much she misses you, to tell you how she thinks brunch is way overdue and that you need to catch up, to tell you how watching you with him has been killing her.
Her hand raises to touch your arm as it would on any other day like before, but, to her dismay, you sidestep the gesture… because this isn’t any other day like before. Things have shifted between the two of you as much as she wishes they didn’t. She wonders if, by now, the distance is irreversible. She wonders if, at this point, telling you how she feels would even make a difference.
You give her a returning smile, but it comes off more like a grimace. She falters. You don’t want to see her. “Hey, I really have to go,” you answer her weakly, “I have a date. He’s- he’s probably already waiting for me.”
And then you’re rushing off without letting her respond, not looking back behind you.
Natasha just stands there, her hand still raised midair, and Wanda sees the whole thing.
Despite being happy for you, despite knowing that you deserve to move on, Wanda can’t help but feel sympathetic toward the woman who is standing there in front of her looking beyond heartbroken at your retreating figure.
“Natasha,” she says gently, walking over, her hand coming up to rest on Natasha’s shoulder, “You chose to turn a blind eye. It’s only fair that she moves on. You have to let her.”
Days pass; weeks pass. Your relationship with Natasha continues to dwindle. She becomes an observer of your life, an outsider, no longer welcome to the day to day. You don’t come to her with your highs and lows. She has to assume that means you’re going to him.
It’s agony, being without you, not having you as a pivotal piece of her life anymore. She thinks about you with him at night when you’d usually be with her in her room, the two of you watching your favorite show before you eventually fall asleep with your head resting on her shoulder. She checks her phone periodically to see if you’ve maybe texted her, the two of you usually constantly sending messages back and forth, jokes or banter or updates throughout the day. She waits and waits for any sign that you may be coming back to her, may remember that she’s still there, still present, still cares for you, but she never receives one, and the loneliness is ever growing, ever pervading.
Until there’s a knock on her door one night.
Natasha, annoyed with whoever is knocking at this late hour, interrupting her wallowing, yanks open her door, ready to reprimand whoever is on the other side, but her demeanor changes when she sees it’s you, her face shifting from irritation to concern.
You’re crying. Tears are trailing down your cheeks.
She says your name, soft in the way that’s still only reserved for you even if you no longer know it.
Your bottom lip wobbles at the familiar sound of her voice, and it takes you a second to find your own, but when you do… “He broke up with me,” you whisper, and you suck in an uneven breath when you voice it out loud.
Natasha’s world screeches to a halt at your statement. You just said that he broke up with you?
“What?” she asks, needing you to say it again… because it can’t be true. It can’t.
You just nod sadly, another tear dropping. They’re not even because the breakup happened. Sure, it was out of nowhere, jarring, but for some reason, you’re not particularly torn up about it, and that’s the worst part. Your feelings regarding it—or lack thereof—only further cement the fact that you’re not actually over the redhead standing in front of you. You’ve been desperately trying to move on, but this only proves that you haven’t even come close to succeeding despite your best efforts.
“Are you okay?” Natasha questions gently, prompting, trying to tell you that you can talk to her if you need to… or that you can simply take comfort in her presence like you used to. She hopes that you still do even though it’s been a while.
“Y-yeah,” you stutter out, words interrupted by shaky breaths, “Yeah, I’m- I’m fine. I think that’s the hard part.”
Natasha frowns at that. “What do you mean?”
“I guess- I guess I just never really liked him anyway.”
“What?” Hope flares within her even though maybe it shouldn’t.
You can’t answer.
Natasha says your name another time, imploring, almost begging, longing for one answer in particular.
“Natasha, I-” you break off, “I can’t do this with you anymore.”
“Do what?”
“Pretend. Hide. Dance around it.”
The hope flares brighter.
“I like you. I love you. I’ve tried so fucking hard to ignore it, to move on, to-” You shake your head, frustrated at your words, at the situation, at yourself. “Look, I just- I just need you to tell me that you don’t feel the same. Maybe then I can-”
Natasha’s hand makes its way to your face, palm warm against your cheek, the action halting you in the middle of your sentence.
You look up at her questioningly, nervously.
“Can I kiss you?” she breathes out.
Your mind goes blank. You’re positive you didn’t hear her right. You don’t respond.
“Can I kiss you?” Natasha repeats again, and she can’t help the desperation that’s seeping into her tone.
Then you nod, slowly, dumbly, as if you can’t believe that what’s about to happen is about to happen.
And Natasha’s lips are on yours.
It isn’t short; it isn’t a gentle brush of the lips. It’s charged, all of the longing and desire and pain that’s been coursing through her these past weeks, all of the longing and desire and need that’s been festering these past years, coming out in the kiss.
When you break apart for air, both of your eyes still closed, Natasha leans her forehead against yours for a few seconds. She tilts her head to affectionately nudge your nose with hers before pressing one more kiss, much softer this time, to the corner of your mouth.
“You look like you need to catch your breath,” Natasha says when she finally opens her eyes to gaze at you again.
“I think I do,” you say, because you’re definitely breathless after that.
“Me too,” Natasha murmurs, but she doesn’t give either of you another moment to do so, her hands grabbing at your shirt, your body, and pulling you into her room, the door slamming closed behind you when you’re pushed up against it.
Your back hits the wood, and her lips reattach to yours. You shudder not only at the feeling of her tongue tracing your bottom lip but also her touch back on you after being so long without it.
Natasha’s hands are teasingly trailing up and down your side before moving under your shirt. Her fingers skim along your bare skin, and you can’t help but moan, the redhead taking advantage of your parted lips, her tongue now meeting yours.
But then you’re abruptly pulling back for some reason. “Wait, wait, Natasha, that woman-”
She pauses in her ministrations, her brain taking a moment to catch up to your words, her mind hazy from getting lost in you. “What woman?” she asks hoarsely.
“That woman from the party-” you try again.
It clicks in her head. She doesn’t know how, but you saw. “That woman from the party meant nothing,” she reassures you quickly, willing to give you more, to give you as much as you need, but hoping that that’s enough, because, fuck, she wants her lips back on yours as soon as possible.
You search her face, trying to gauge her sincerity, and you only find her gaze steady and unwavering, filled with earnestness and dedication. Your mouth reconnects with hers, tongue immediately requesting entrance again as you resume the kiss where it was at.
You’re too preoccupied with kissing her that you don’t realize her hand is traveling down to your thigh until she’s tugging it up and hooking it around her waist. Natasha swears her own core is overheating when you become flush against her in this way. She can feel you pulsing with need against her leg.
“Is this okay?” she asks, needing your permission despite your seemingly blatant desire, needing you to confirm that you’re just as desperate for her as she is for you.
“Yes, yes. Natasha, please.” It comes out a whimper, a beg.
Natasha then hurriedly shoves up your shirt at your consent, impatiently dragging down your bra, your breasts spilling out of it, and she whines when she gets her first look at you. Your nipples are achingly hard from both the chill in the air and her kisses, and her body thrums with something hot and sharp and dangerous as she takes you in. Your hair is a mess, your body is trembling, your clothes are rumpled from her rough handling. You’re beautiful.
She wastes no more time, unzipping your jeans and shoving her hand into them. She needs to touch you. Now.
And you’re absolutely soaked.
Your hips jerk like you can’t control them, and you can’t, your body moving completely on its own, following instinct, needing any and all stimulation that Natasha is currently willing to provide, and she doesn’t hesitate to press the tip of her middle finger to your clit, beginning to leisurely circle it. Your eyes slip shut.
“Tell me,” Natasha demands, voice low, “Did you think of me when he touched you?”
“He-” you stop, gasping, both pleasure and embarrassment stealing your words, “He never-”
“He never, what?” Natasha asks, her finger slowing further.
“He never touched me,” you finally choke out, voice breathy from a mix of need and shame. You’re grateful that your eyes are closed because you don’t want to see the look of pity on her face.
Natasha only just manages to catch and prevent herself from reacting when you admit that he never touched you, never brought you pleasure, never fulfilled you the way deserve. It’s not pity. It’s surprise; it’s anger.
“Well, then he’s a fool,” she answers quietly, “Leaving you untouched like that, letting his hands go to waste when they could’ve been on you, letting his fingers go to waste when they could’ve been in you.”
You shudder at the tone of her voice, and your hips buck off the door another time, your body restless, aching. You can feel yourself dripping, stickiness coating your thighs, and you know the woman is front and center to every response and reaction she receives from your body. You know she can feel just how much you want her. “Please, Natasha. Please touch me.”
“I’m going to make you feel so good, detka,” Natasha promises. It’s a vow. She’s determined to make up for every moment that the man neglected you, to replace them with love, with adoration, with her. Her touch was always made for you, after all.
Her finger abandons your sensitive bundle of nerves, and you whine, but your whine quickly transitions into a loud cry of her name when she suddenly shoves two fingers into your hole, your pussy immediately clenching around her digits.
Natasha’s breath stutters as she hears you. She wants to memorize every sound that escapes; she wants to press her mouth to your throat and feel them directly from the source. But she can’t. She needs to watch you, needs to see the way your brows scrunch up in focus, needs to witness the expression on your face when your entire body vibrates with desperation.
“Your body is mine. Your sounds are all for me,” she growls, but it’s not just possessive, and that’s what gets you. It’s worshipful in a way you’ve never experienced from anyone before. You’ve always wished for Natasha to be the one to show you what devotion truly is, and now that it’s happening, it feels like a dream.
Because her touch isn’t just dominating. It’s reverential. And you feel another gush of wetness leak from your pussy in response to the delicate way she’s holding you juxtaposed with the insistent way she’s fucking you.
You nod in agreement, irregular inhales and exhales leaving you nonstop, unable to do anything but plead for more, because… she’s right. You’re hers; you’ve always been hers.
“Say it,” she commands softly.
Her fingers speed up as well as if to prove her point, pistoning in and out of you, her pace quick and relentless as she waits for you to respond.
She fucks the words right out of you.
“I’m yours,” you moan, voicing the sentiment you’ve always felt but kept inside, “I’m yours. I’m yours, Natasha. I’m yours.”
Your vision is blurring with pleasure, your body is shaking, your pussy throbbing, and when you come, your back against Natasha’s door, your pants hastily pulled down, her fingers still plunging into you, caressing your walls with each stroke, her free hand everywhere, she doesn’t stop.
She makes you come again and again, until your body simply cannot handle another climax, until you fall limp against her chest, too tired to keep your eyes open, your knees giving out and you being held up only by her arms.
You wake the next morning in Natasha’s bed, curled into her sheets comfortably just like you’ve been hundreds of times before. Her mattress feels familiar, her pillow under your head feels familiar, but her arm around your waist feels different this time around, protective and securing. She’s holding you as if you’re still hers even in the light of day.
You roll over until you’re facing Natasha, your eyes fixated on her face, calm, relaxed from sleep.
You’re silent as you study her.
And her eyes flutter open slowly to find you staring. You don’t say anything, just gazing up at the woman who has stolen your breath away, but Natasha doesn’t take it as a good sign.
Her hold on you loosens. She begins to pull her arm away. “Are you regretting it now that morning has arrived?” she asks quietly, regarding you closely, watching your face as if it will give her an answer.
“No,” you murmur, unsure how to convey that your silence is simply due to awe: awe at the sight of her, awe at the fact that last night transpired, awe at the knowledge that she feels for you what you always thought she’d never return. “I could never regret you.”
can you do more ambessa x reader 😩 i feel like ive read most and can’t find moreee omgg there’s a scarcity, but no pressure !! love ur writing 🥹
Hiii! Yes of course!!!!! Know that feeling of not finding any more fics 😭😭😭 Sorry for taking so long, I hope you’ll enjoy this type of scenario! Thank you so much for your kind words🥹🫶💕
A marriage of Empire
Ambessa x reader
Summary: A political marriage meant to secure power becomes something far more dangerous when neither bride nor general is willing to kneel. In the quiet tension between strategy and desire, two forces learn that partnership can be more powerful than conquest.
You knew of Ambessa Medarda long before you were ever meant to stand beside her. Everyone did.
Her name carried weight across borders, spoken in council chambers and whispered in war tents alike. She was not merely a general, nor simply a noble. She was the kind of woman who reshaped territories with patience and force in equal measure. Trade shifted when she desired it. Alliances formed when she allowed them. Empires did not threaten her lightly.
You had heard stories, of campaigns won through strategy rather than numbers, of negotiations where seasoned diplomats left feeling as though they had been dissected and catalogued. She was not reckless. She was precise.
Which made your father’s tone that evening all the more unsettling.
He had summoned you to the council chamber just before dusk. The long windows cast gold across the polished floor, painting everything in warmth that did not reach his expression.
You expected a discussion of trade routes. Border tensions. Perhaps another tedious debate over tariffs.
Instead, he dismissed the servants. The door closed.
And he said, calmly, as though remarking on the weather, “You are to be married.” You held his gaze.
It was not unusual. Marriage had always been a political tool in your house. You had been raised knowing affection was secondary to alliance.
“To whom?” you asked. He did not hesitate.
“Ambessa Medarda.”
Silence followed, not explosive, not dramatic. Just heavy. You had prepared yourself for many futures. None of them included standing beside the most formidable woman in Noxus.
“She requires strengthened access to our ports,” your father continued, folding his hands behind his back. “In exchange, she offers military protection and expanded trade dominance. This union ensures stability.”
Stability.
Such a gentle word for something so binding.
You did not flinch. You did not protest.
You had been trained better than that.
“And my consent?” you asked evenly.
His eyes flickered, just slightly, surprised you would phrase it so plainly.
“This benefits our house.” That was not an answer. You inclined your head once. “I see.”
You did. You understood the logic. The strategy. The inevitability of it.
What you did not know was what kind of woman you would be expected to become beside her.
A silent ornament? A political extension? Or something else entirely?
Your father studied you for a long moment, as if expecting tears, anger, resistance. You gave him none.
“When do we depart?” you asked. His approval was subtle, but present.
“At first light.”
————-
That night, sleep did not come easily.
You sat by the window of your chamber, watching the torches burn low along the courtyard walls. The future felt less like a path and more like a shift in terrain, unfamiliar ground you would have to learn quickly.
You were not naïve.
You knew Ambessa did not marry for affection.
She married for advantage.
Which meant she would assess you the same way she assessed territory, for value. The thought should have frightened you.
nstead, it steadied something in your spine. If she intended to measure you, then you would give her something worth measuring.
The journey to Noxus was long enough to think. Long enough to understand that once you crossed its borders, you would not return as you had left.
The capital rose from the horizon like a declaration of dominance, black stone, red banners, walls that did not suggest defense so much as inevitability. This was not a kingdom that feared attack. It was one that expected victory.
You did not allow yourself to stare. Inside the gates, soldiers moved with disciplined precision. No wasted motion. No idle chatter. Even the air felt sharper here, thinner somehow.
You were escorted through towering corridors lined with war trophies and carved victories. Every inch of the architecture was intentional, a reminder that this was a house built on conquest.
And at its center, she waited. Ambessa did not sit on a throne. She stood. Armor dark and immaculate, gold catching the torchlight along its edges. One hand rested behind her back. The other at her side, relaxed but ready. She did not shift when you entered the hall. She did not need to.
The room belonged to her.
The guards announced your name. Your lineage. Your house.
You walked forward alone.
Each step deliberate. Measure with controll.
You stopped several paces away and inclined your head, respectful, but not submissive. Her eyes were already on you. They were sharper than you expected.
“You have traveled far,” she said.
Her voice was lower than rumor described. Controlled. Even.
“Yes,” you replied. “As have you, I imagine.”
A subtle pause. You had not answered as expected. Most would have expressed gratitude. Or flattery. Her gaze lingered on your posture. Your hands. Your expression.
“You understand why you are here,” she continued. It was not phrased as a question.
“I do,” you answered.
“And you accept it?”
There it was. The test. You held her eyes steadily.
“I understand the necessity of it.”
A muscle shifted in her jaw.
“Necessity does not imply acceptance.”
“No,” you agreed calmly. “But I was not raised to mistake duty for personal preference.”
Silence fell over the chamber. You were aware of every soldier in the room listening.
Ambessa stepped forward then, not quickly, not dramatically. Just enough that the distance between you shortened.
Up close, she was larger than life. Presence heavy, like standing too near a storm.
“Most,” she said quietly, “would tremble.”
“I was taught composure,” you replied. “Not fear.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
“You think you have nothing to fear?”
You considered the question honestly.
“I think fear is unhelpful if one intends to survive.”
For the first time, something shifted.
Not warmth. But some kind of interest.
She circled you slowly, boots echoing faintly against the stone floor. You remained still, though you were acutely aware of her proximity. The weight of her observation was tangible.
“You stand very straight,” she murmured behind you.
“It is how I was trained.”
“To obey?”
You turned slightly to face her again.
“To endure.”
That made her stop. There it was again, that pause. Small. But real. Ambessa did not pause often. When she faced you fully once more, there was something different in her expression. Not softened. But sharpened in a new way.
“You will kneel during the ceremony,” she said.
It was not cruel. It was fact. You inclined your head once. “As tradition requires.”
“And outside of tradition?” You met her gaze.
“I will show you respect,” you said carefully. “But I will not kneel in private.”
The air in the hall shifted. Not because you had challenged her. But because you had drawn a line without raising your voice. For a long moment, she simply looked at you.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched the corner of her mouth. “You are either very brave,” she said softly, “or very foolish.”
You did not look away.
“I have not yet decided.”
A quiet exhale left her, almost a laugh, but not quite.
“Good,” she murmured. “I have little patience for weakness.”
She turned then, dismissing the guards with a flick of her fingers. The chamber slowly emptied, leaving only the two of you beneath the vaulted ceiling.
When the doors closed, the atmosphere changed. Less political. More personal.
Ambessa stepped closer again, close enough that you could see the faint scar tracing her collarbone beneath the edge of her armor.
“You understand,” she said quietly now, “that this marriage will not be gentle.”
“I do not require gentleness,” you replied.
Her eyes flicked over your face once more.
“No,” she agreed. “I suspect you do not.”
And for the first time since you arrived, you felt it. Not dominance. Not threat. But the beginning of something far more dangerous.
Respect.
————-
The wedding hall was larger than the council chamber. Deliberately so.
Noxus did not celebrate quietly. It declared.
Red banners fell from the vaulted ceiling like rivers of conquest. Braziers burned along the walls, smoke curling upward in slow spirals. Nobles lined either side of the aisle, armored generals and silk draped politicians alike watching with sharp, calculating eyes.
You could feel it. They were not here for romance. They were here to measure you. At the far end of the hall stood Ambessa. Not in battle armor this time. Ceremonial.
Gold etched into dark steel, crimson fabric draped at her shoulders, every detail crafted to project strength. She did not fidget. Did not shift her weight. She stood like a monument carved into flesh. Waiting.
The music began, low drums, steady and unyielding. You walked forward alone. Each step echoed.
You felt the weight of eyes on your back. On your spine. Waiting for it to bend prematurely. Waiting for nerves. Hesitation. You gave them none.
When you reached her, you did not immediately kneel. You met her gaze first. Just for a moment. The faintest acknowledgment passed between you. This is the line.
The officiant spoke, voice echoing across stone. “This union binds house to house, strength to strength—”
You barely heard the words. Because this part mattered.
“Kneel.”
The word was ceremonial. Expected. You lowered yourself to one knee. You kept your head lifted. That did not go unnoticed.
A murmur rippled faintly through the hall. Tradition allowed kneeling. It did not require lowered eyes. Ambessa looked down at you. There was no cruelty in her expression. No satisfaction. Only scrutiny.
Her hand came to rest beneath your chin, fingers firm but not forcing. She tilted your face upward fully, ensuring every noble in that chamber could see it. You did not resist. But you did not soften either.
“You kneel for Noxus,” she said, voice carrying through the hall. Not for me. It was subtle. But intentional. You held her gaze steadily.
“For Noxus,” you echoed.
A flicker in her eyes. Approval.
She drew a ceremonial blade, not to harm, but to mark alliance. The flat of it brushed lightly against your shoulder, cool metal against skin.
“Rise.”
You stood smoothly. And when you did, you did not stand behind her. You stood beside her. That was not tradition. That was choice. Another murmur passed through the hall, sharper this time. Ambessa noticed.
She could have corrected you. Could have shifted you back half a step and reasserted dominance in front of her entire court.
Instead, she remained where she was. Shoulder nearly touching yours. The officiant declared the union complete. Applause followed, controlled and political. But Ambessa did not look at the crowd. She looked at you.
Low enough that only you could hear, she murmured, “You test boundaries boldly.”
You answered just as quietly. “You allowed it.” A beat of silence.
The faintest curve of her mouth. “For now.”
Her hand slid to the small of your back, not possessive, not crushing, but unmistakably claiming. The hall saw it. So did you. This was not affection. This was strategy evolving.
And as the court bowed in acknowledgment of your new title, you understood something vital. You had not been brought here to kneel. You had been brought here to endure.
And perhaps, to stand. The celebrations continued long after the ceremony ended.
Laughter echoed through the halls. Wine flowed. Nobles whispered behind jeweled fans and polished goblets, speculating about you, your posture, your composure, the way you had stood beside her instead of behind.
You felt their eyes even as the music swelled.
Ambessa did not acknowledge them.
When the final toast concluded, she dismissed the court with a single look.
“Enough,” she said.
No one argued.
You were escorted to her private chamber, not adorned in excess, but in strength. Dark stone walls. Weapons displayed with purpose rather than decoration. A war table positioned near the window overlooking Noxus’ burning torches.
She entered after you.
The door shut with a heavy, deliberate sound.
For the first time since your arrival, there was no audience.
No politics.
Just the two of you.
Ambessa removed her ceremonial cloak slowly, folding it with precision before setting it aside. She did not rush. She did not fill the silence.
She let it stretch.
Testing.
“You stood beside me,” she said at last, without turning.
“Yes.”
“That was not tradition.”
“No.”
She turned then.
Her gaze was sharper in private. Less curated. More direct.
“You are aware I could have corrected you.”
“I am.”
“And yet you did it.”
You met her eyes evenly. “You did not move me.”
A slow step forward.
“You presume much.”
“I observed.”
That made her pause again, just briefly.
“You do not fear me,” she said.
It was not a question. It was an assessment.
You considered your answer carefully.
“I respect your power,” you said. “But I do not fear being your equal in private.”
The words were dangerous.
You knew that.
So did she.
Ambessa closed the remaining distance between you until only inches separated your bodies. You could feel the heat radiating from her armor, the steady rhythm of her breath.
Her hand came up, not violent, not harsh, but firm as it settled at your jaw, tilting your face upward.
“If you mistake this marriage for equality,” she said quietly, “you will be disappointed.”
“I do not mistake it for equality,” you replied calmly. “I intend to earn it.”
Silence.
Her thumb pressed slightly against your skin, testing for tremor.
There was none.
“You speak of earning as though I am the prize,” she murmured.
“You are,” you said. “As am I.”
You found mutual recognition. Her grip loosened slightly.
“You kneel for Noxus,” she said again, echoing her words from the ceremony.
“Yes.”
“But you will not kneel for me.”
“No.”
A long pause. She stepped back. Not in rejection. In decision.
“You will stand beside me,” she said. “In council. In war. In court.”
It was not phrased romantically.
It was not gentle.
It was deliberate.
“And if I find you lacking?”
You held her gaze.
“You will correct me.”
The faintest hint of a smile touched her lips.
“You will be tested,” she warned.
“I expect to be.”
She studied you one last time, slower now. Not dissecting. Weighing. Then she removed her gauntlets, setting them aside with a quiet clink of metal.
“When I chose this alliance,” she said, voice lower now, less performative, “I expected a political asset.”
Her eyes met yours again. “I did not expect a spine.”
“You will do.”
It was not poetic. It was not a confession.
But from Ambessa, it was acceptance.
Her hand moved to the small of your back once more, firmer now. Not to push you forward. Not to force you down.
To position you beside her.
“Rest tonight,” she said quietly. “Tomorrow, we begin.”
Not as captor and ornament. Not as conqueror and prize. But as something far more dangerous.
Could I please make request for ambessa having a crush on reader who doesn't feel the same way or is oblivious to her feelings?
Hi! Yes of course! I hope you’ll enjoy!
The general who waited
Ambessa x crush! Reader
Ambessa had built her life on certainty.
Campaigns were calculated. Alliances negotiated. Even betrayals, when they came, were rarely surprising. She understood motive. She understood ambition. She understood desire.
What she did not understand was you.
You had been introduced to the council as an advisor, sharp minded, measured, far less intimidated by Noxian authority than most. The first time you spoke against one of her proposals, the chamber had fallen silent in a way it never did for anyone else.
“With respect,” you had said calmly, fingers resting against the edge of the war table, “that maneuver secures territory but destabilizes supply lines. The cost outweighs the gain.”
You did not tremble as you said it. You did not rush to soften your words.
You simply waited.
Ambessa had expected defiance to feel like a challenge.
Instead, it felt… refreshing.
She adjusted the strategy.
The room noticed.
So did you.
But where others would have interpreted that adjustment as favor, you treated it as professional acknowledgment. Nothing more.
That, perhaps, was where it began.
You did not seek her approval. You did not linger after meetings in the hope of praise. When summoned, you came. When dismissed, you left. Your composure never wavered into flattery.
And yet, over time, Ambessa found herself prolonging discussions unnecessarily. Requesting clarification she did not truly need. Asking for your assessment even when her own conclusion was already formed.
You answered every inquiry with the same steady tone. There was no reverence in your voice. No fear. And no flirtation.
You treated her not as a conqueror, but as an equal mind.
It unsettled her more than opposition ever had.
One evening, long after the council had dispersed, you remained at the war table organizing parchment maps into neat stacks. Candlelight cast long shadows across the chamber, softening the hard lines of steel and stone.
Ambessa had not left.
“You challenge me often,” she said at last.
You did not look startled. You rarely did.
“I challenge inefficiency,” you replied, eyes still scanning a map.
“And you believe I am inefficient?”
Your gaze lifted then, steady and unafraid. “No. But no strategist is infallible.”
There was no edge in your voice. No desire to provoke.
You were simply honest.
Ambessa stepped closer, boots echoing faintly across the stone floor. She had stood in battlefields drenched in blood without hesitation. Yet this quiet distance between you felt infinitely more precarious.
“You speak boldly,” she observed.
“I was invited here to think,” you said. “Not to agree.”
A corner of her mouth almost curved.
Almost.
You returned to your maps, unaware that her gaze lingered longer than it should have.
It was not admiration alone that grew.
It was the way you listened when she spoke, not in awe, but in engagement. The way you met her eyes without shrinking. The way you never reached for her authority as leverage in conversation.
You were not dazzled by her reputation.
You were not afraid of her power.
And most dangerously of all, you did not seem to notice the shift in her attention.
The first time someone else noticed, it was subtle.
A visiting noble, wine glass tilted lazily in his hand, glanced between the two of you during council.
“A curious dynamic,” he remarked lightly. “Our general seems particularly attentive to this advisor.”
The implication hung in the air like smoke.
Ambessa’s expression did not change. “I value competence.”
You, however, frowned slightly in confusion. “I assure you,” you added calmly, “I receive no special consideration.”
A ripple of restrained amusement moved through the chamber.
Ambessa did not look at you.
She dismissed the council shortly thereafter.
When the doors closed and silence reclaimed the hall, she remained still for a long moment before speaking.
“You are unaware,” she said.
“Of what?” you asked.
Her gaze settled on you, direct, searching.
“Of the effect you have.”
The words were deliberate. Controlled.
You blinked once, as if recalibrating.
“I had not intended to create any… misunderstanding,” you said carefully.
There was no coyness in your tone. No teasing denial.
Just genuine uncertainty.
Ambessa studied your face for signs of manipulation.
She found none.
You truly had not seen it.
Had not considered that her attention might extend beyond strategy.
A strange sensation tightened in her chest, something far less familiar than battlefield tension. Vulnerability.
“I do not mistake your conduct,” she said evenly. “Nor do I expect reciprocation.”
You seemed to relax at that.
“I respect you deeply,” you replied. “And I value our discussions. But I had not thought of them as anything beyond that.”
She appreciated honesty. Even when it cost her something. Ambessa inclined her head slightly. “Then we proceed as we have.”
Professional and measured, making the structure restored.
And yet, as you gathered your documents and turned to leave, you paused.
“For what it is worth,” you added quietly, “your presence is… grounding.”
It was not a confession. Not an invitation. But it was not nothing.
Ambessa watched you exit the chamber, posture steady, steps unhurried. She did not call you back, or press further.
She had conquered kingdoms through force and precision. This, however, would not be conquered.
If affection were ever to exist between you, it would not be taken. It would be chosen.
And Ambessa Medarda, for all her victories, had learned that the rarest forms of power were the ones that waited.
period blood. munch!alcina. blooddrunk!alcina. overstimulation. biting. brief mommy kink. strap usage. period sex(bite me).
♱ Alcina is the love of your life. She treats you as if you were her own precious. Now, by all means, she wasn’t soft with you. She was less firm and strict with you. She loved you dearly, yes, but she won’t baby you. Cherish, she did. Always have and will. Alcina is always there for her dearest lover—always by your side or sending her best servants to tend to you.
However, this was something the servants couldn’t help. Your stomach cramped and ached, lower back ached, and you just wanted to stay in bed all day. The servants knew what was wrong, but they couldn’t help. Not how Alcina could. They always called her right away when times were like this. “Who has called for me?” Her voice echoed through the room, narrowing her eyes down at the anxious servants. They were always so skittish around her, unlike you. You were more lenient. “Well, uh…My Lady, your dearest is in pain at the moment. W-we figured to call you as you know how to, um…help.”
Alcina’s eyes flickered away from the servants to look at you, watching you curl into a ball to alleviate the torture your uterus was enduring. “Sweetie, it’s fine…just need to rest…” She didn’t believe your protest, especially with how your brows furrowed and lips pursed into a thin line as you groaned. Her jaw clenched slightly as she loathed the sight of you in pain.
It was a beat of silence before she briskly excused the servants. “Leave us.” Not another word was said as the servants were already out the door, murmuring hushed whispers. Her eyes stayed locked onto you as she took off her hat, stalking closer to you. “Oh, my sweet flower. In pain, yes?”
“Alci, ‘m fine—“
“Don’t lie to me. I can smell her. She weeps for me.”
You almost cringed at her words. As much as she seemed so calm, she was restraining herself from devouring you. She absolutely looked when this time came. She got to satiate her taste for blood and also have a taste of you, but more richer in flavor. “It feels dirty.” She simply laughed at your weak words, settling next to you on the wide bed as she pulled you to settle on her lap, “Oh please, darling. I’m only helping your ache and allowing myself to eat.”
Her lips found yours in a tender, but hungry kiss. She tasted of wine and grapes. Her fingers trailed slowly over your body before stopping back down at your stomach. Her lips danced with yours before she pulled away, chuckling as you tried to chase her lips until she found the sweet flesh of your neck. Her teeth sunk into the tender flesh of you, savoring the small whimper and how she could practically hear your pulse bound against your neck. It was only then until she pulled away, looking over your skin with satisfaction with the litter of purple and maroon.
A beat of silence paused before she murmured, “Not that I’ve heard you complain as I feasted.”
She was insufferable.
The spacious room echoed with the sounds of moans and broken whines, allowing for anyone who walked by to hear your sweet melodies. Though you complained how dirty it felt, you couldn’t deny how good her tongue felt dipping into your gaping hole and over your hypersensitive clit. Alcina was drowning in it all, but happily. Her mouth was covered in slick and blood, along with the slight bits of clots. It was a disgusting sight, yes, but you ignored it for now as she was practically sucking your soul from your cunt.
The more she devoured you, the more rough she got with you. Her hands held your thighs up and apart, pushing them back so you wouldn’t squirm your way out. The lewd slurping sounds and her low growls filled your head, making you whine as your body warmed with such an overwhelming fire. “Alcina—h-ha….e-ease up a little..” It was as if your words fell on to deaf ears. She knew it wasn’t too much for you, you were just a bit more sensitive due to your cycle. It was only then until she pulled away, revealing her bloodied-slicked chin as she gazed up at you with those piercing eyes. “Hush now, love. Don’t you think it’s rude to interrupt a lady while she’s eating, no? Let alone making her lover feel bliss?”
Your lips trembled slightly as you were a bit dazed for words, but a sharp slap to your thigh caught your attention immediately. “Y-yes! Yes ma’am….it’s rude….’m sorry.” “Good.” That was all she said before diving back in, but more frivolous. Your head fell back in the sheets as you grasped at the satin fabric, whining and whimpering as she sucked over your clit with such suction. It was like she was trying to drain you completely. “Oh—shit, Cina! Mgh—please…” A pleased hum was heard from her at your pleads, prompting her to double down her efforts. Two of her fingers slipped into you with a loud squelch, making you gasp at the stretch and the pornographic noise. She curled her fingers as she moved them with an alarming speed, making you cry out as your thighs quaked.
“A-Alcina!”
She knew that cry like the back of her hand, smirking against your folds before she pulled away, but giving a quick stride of her tongue over your sensitive clit. “There she is. If I recall, didn’t you say this felt dirty, hm?” You couldn’t even try to back up your words, only moaning and whining incoherent sentences as you writhed. She only chuckled before she gripped your chin, forcing your flittering eyes up at her as she sped up her fingers. “No? I didn’t think so. You always end up like this for me, my dear. Nothing but a moaning mess, leaking over my precious sheets. Such a messy little thing…go on. Show me how messy my precious really is.”
And just like that, the band in your stomach snapped; cumming with a loud, broken cry as your body seized. Your trembling thighs quaked around her wrist before she pulled them apart, making your body jolt as you tried to squirm. Your head swirled in bliss. Sex with your dearest was always amazing, but during times like this? It was ask if you were floating on a cloud of bliss and ecstasy. However, she wasn’t done, no. During your time of bliss, she was already undressing herself and hooking the strap to her hips. The faux dick hung heavy between her legs, almost intimidating. Your breath hitched at the sight before you—her being completely bare—you could only thank the universe for having her. “Oh, come now. Don’t tell me my sweet thought this was over?” She chided lowly as she wiped away the leftover blood from her chin, “You must forget who you married, no?”
That’s how you found yourself here; moaning weakly as she split you on her dick. back against her voluptuous breast. legs spread apart with her thighs. her fingers skillfully playing over your clit as if it was harp. Your head leaned against her shoulder as your mouth spilled open with moans and whines, feeling your body burn with each thrust. Her unoccupied hand held your hip tightly, guiding your movements as you bounced. “That’s it. Feels much better, hm?” You nodded mindlessly as you whimpered, trying your absolute hardest not to cum already. “I-It’s too much! H-ha….‘s much…can feel you…”
“You’re doing good, so good. You’ve taken me before.” She leaned to whisper in your ear, “And you’ll keep doing so. Don’t you want to feel good? Stop those miserable cramps? Don’t you want to be good for me, hm?” You couldn’t help but nod desperately, it was almost pathetic, “Y-yes—hngh! Yes—-‘m gonna be so good…wanna feel good—‘m close…” Her lips curled into a sinful smirk before she trailed her lips from your ear to your neck, biting down on the sweet flesh; making you cry out. Your walls instinctively clamped down around her, prompting you to thrust down harder—hitting that spot that made you see universities beyond the stars. “There she is. There’s my little flower. Come on…give it to me.”
With only a few more bounces and slow circles over your buzzing clit, you were crashing down. Your body seized up as you trembled against her, back arching from her chest as you were reduced to a broken, whimpering mess. Those sharp, yellow eyes gaze down to the sticky, maroon color that coated your thighs and hers. It sparked something in her. Your body laid exhausted against her until you felt her arm sneak to hold your waist against her firmly, slowly thrusting back into you with a slow squelch.
Dark Lady Jessica Atreides /Reader | Read More Fanfics Here
Warnings : DUNE (part2) Oneshot / Spoilers / Bene Gesserit Reader/ Gom Jabbar - Needle / Box Test / Concubine / fremen / S&M/ Control Kink / Pain Kink / Power Play / Power Dynamic / Older Woman / The Voice / Spit Kink / Licking Kink / Moisture as Prize / Submission / Tattoo Kink / 18+
“You Bene Gesserit made me a freak! TAKE ME BACK!” You scream in the small room, knowing that no one would come back for you. But your body responds - a coldness follows in your body as you twist and see The Reverend Mother.
The Reverend Mother.
Standing straight, fabric around her shoulders, not at all how you had imagined her.
The facial tattoos and blue eyes from spice made her ethereal. Those eyes, the eyes of Ibad.
They sliced at your soul. She hadn’t yet used the voice, but she was assessing you now.
Lady Jessica was gorgeous, older, and more refined; small scars on her hands proved the stories weren’t fiction. She had truly fought all her life to be here. The prominent facial tattoos are a reminder of a life lived before you were even studying as a witch.
You gulp dryly, inside of the great house, no one wears stillsuits. Though you’ve only had the pleasure a few times.
It was looked down upon; you’d come from good stock, studied and mastered the teachings, learned the voice. Worked hard to be in the Bene Gesserit, to learn their ways.
But you had been beaten physically, thrown aside by your own kind, you were too angry to lay and manipulate a ruler. Too powerful to be killed, truly a problem.
That’s how you’d been for a while now, until today, where you had been used as a gift, a bargaining chip. The Lisan Al Gaib, the Emperor, the great Paul Atreides, had accepted you.
Only you were not meant to be his; the man had only helped aid in your travel to his front door, agreed to the bribe that came with your purchase.
You found out quickly you were not Paul's gift, but The Reverened Mothers.
With the long-dead Duke Leto, the strong ruler gone, it seemed for the first time - Lady Jessica would take a concubine.
Whispers that she had waited for you to come filled the darkest corners of theImperium.
You didn’t believe it, this was not to be love.
You were to be the Sayyadina’s young whore.
Whatever strange things The Reverend Mother would require of you. To say the least, you were ready to die. Die before drinking worm piss. Die before bedding a Bene Gesserit.
Not because the woman standing before you was a woman, not because you knew the horrible acts she’d delivered without mercy, the lies, the power she wielded as a witch, not even her age, no.
You would not comply because you would not bend as a simple sex object, wouldn’t be anyone's concubine. A slick entrance for stress release.
You had no choice, though. When the Bene Gesserit had whispered your name. Saying that you were to be in the thread - this was destined. You were a part of a much bigger plan. One that not even Paul Atreides would scoff at, once his mother commanded something to be.
The Reverend Mother didn’t speak; you both stared at one another. You were wearing fabrics, and yet you felt completely bare in front of her now.
Even now, you refused to believe the rumor. For you, this was a death sentence, proof the Bene Gesserit were full of shit. Your life meant nothing; you were a speck of sand in the grand Imperium. Not even spice, instead something common and forgettable.
“Careful,” Jessica says, so stern that you work not to tremble, but so quietly you could have missed it.
“Reverend Mother,” you say, doing the smallest of bows in her presence. A reminder from your elders, a formality that the older woman seemed to find entertaining.
Though you could not read her microexpressions, she’d spent far too long learning how to make people perceive her.
“In private, you will address me as Lady Jessica, or Jessica. In front of another soul, I am Reverend Mother. Do you understand?”
“Yes…….Lady Jessica…” You say, wondering who the last person to call her by her first name was.
“You are just as I foretold.”
You scoff now, rudely in her presence, and Jessica arches an eyebrow.
You turn cold, realizing that you had disrespected her, and that only punishment would follow such an act.
“I-” You start but she turns her head to the right just so and you stop speaking.
Command so subtle yet so intense.
Her power comes off like waves, only to remind you of the heat of the sun. Or the bubbling on your tongue from a burn.
“You will not lie. Not even when it suits the situation. Not to me, not ever.” The powerful woman waited for you to say something in retaliation.
“You will not punish me?”
“You will find that my punishments are not the same as the walls of your haunted, stale childhood.” She says slowly, unblinking at you.
You don’t want to run for some reason, and the idea makes you think that perhaps she has already started her manipulations.
“You are curious, aren’t you?”
“When will it begin?”
Now her lips curl, and you see it.
“When will what begin?” Her voice is low.
“The torture, the breaking of my bonds, when will the pain start?”
Jessica steps forward, her footfall is silent, which only makes you more afraid. If a killer can command, can create war at the smallest flick of her wrist, and create not a single sound. What was to stop her?
“Pain?” Jessica repeats, you forget your training, you forget that The Reverend Mother is not to be enjoyed. Your eyes cast down her neck; it shouldn’t catch your attention. Such an embarrassing display of tattered self discipline. But who wouldn’t covet such beauty?
“Agony.” You replace the word, and Jessica comes closer, her hair normally away from view falls around her shoulder, just a strand, giving the illusion of softness. A lie.
“Is that how you enjoy things?”
“What?” You scrunch your face in confusion.
“Do. You. Need. Pain?” Jessica punctuates every word, venom splitting, and you’re sure you’ve studied every language spoken with lips. But you don’t understand her now.
Jessica closes the distance, her face comes to your own neck, you still, but you are sure she can feel your heart racing.
The Reverend Mother does the unthinkable after being around fremen for so long, she extends her tongue long and flat.
Then, like a mothering animal, she cleans you - only it has a very different effect on the the both of you. Arousal bleeding into both sets of your fabrics.
Her long, wet tongue moves down your throat, sacred moisture used freely for pleasure. Just as you had longed to do to her moments ago.
like your eyes had presumptuously done to her own neck. You hate how your body quivers under her strong, damp muscle.
She’d read you in mere seconds, and she’d figured correct.
You work hard to suppress a moan as her mouth comes to your ear.
“You’ve been taught how to lie with a man?”
“B-bene Gesserit insist on it for training.” You stutter like a fool and don’t see Jessica smile as her hot breath whispers against you.
“That is a shame, I would have enjoyed the blood.”
You moan now, and she moves calculated, your eyes do not track it, far too thrown off guard with enjoying this new type of pleasure, one that you’ve never known.
The meeting of flesh had never evoked this chemical reaction inside of you, and it was almost akin to being taken by the voice.
Control seemed without you.
“You require control to be taken, pain to be pinpointed, then let us begin.” Jessica’s voice echoes in your mind, and now you are sure you two have been speaking telepathically like so many Bene Gesserit before you. Only you had no idea when she’d entered your mind.
The air on your wet neck has you trying to turn to see the offending object.
“Shhhh, my, my, you taste of something I have not tasted since my last love…Perhaps not even then.”
You can’t imagine what you taste like, the salt from your sweat, the oils and herbs you bathed with, what was this mighty seer tasting?
Jessica pushes you into an armchair, and you plop down unceremoniously. You ache for her to straddle you, but she looms over you, not touching. Holding power over you in every way.
You wish to rid her of all that material, to see whats underneath.
Where had your mind gone?
Jessica licks the otherside of your neck, then along your jaw she moans at the flavor.
You feel a headhigh that nothing could touch.
“Your love?” You think for a moment, stupidly. The image passes through your mind, the history you’d known. You say her dead partner's name outloud-
“Duke-Let-”
Jessica does not want this, her voice is harsher now.
“No, don’t speak of his name. Not here, not now. You know what I hold?” There is a strain to her now.
Your eyes cast down to the right armrest of the chair you sit in, The Box.
The Box.
A needle at your neck.
The Test,
The one that you’ve already passed. Spending hours with your hand in that stupid box. Understanding what pain and control was, ‘"An animal caught in a trap will gnaw off its own leg to survive, what will you do?" You heard your teacher, you had spent far too long with your demons, with the Gom Jabbar only centimeters away from piercing you - killing you.
How had you upset Jessica so intensely that she use these old tactics?
Her spit still sits on your skin, you wanted that back, something deep inside of you was, was hungry for it - all of what Jessica could give you.
How do you apologize?
“Lady Jessica-I-I have already passed the test, I am not a mere animal I hold the power, I wield the voice - You think me small-or-or weak-”
“No, none of those things. I think you need to be reintroduced to pain.”
You don’t breathe, but close your eyes, working to use your talents.
What you do not expect is your clothes to be pushed aside, lifted to the side, then for fingers to cup your sex.
You hate the knowledge that the licking and prospects of Lady Jessica taking your life and holding it in her hands…The intimacy of that, it had made you wet. Wetter than you’d ever willed your body to become while lying with someone.
It seemed the carnal delight had spread without your consent.
Making you an embarrassment as a Bene Gesserit.
You lose your concentration, Jessica inches your knees apart. Then, like the ruler she always has been. The Reverend Mother swipes at your sex with her fingers and brings the digits to her lips, then hums in delight.
Drinking you from the source.
“K'tah mélange” Jessica said once she’d savored your taste.
“W-what?” You were sure you hadn’t understood those words. You search your mind for the root of it and come up blank.
Jessica smiled now, broad and delighted, you found her stunning.
“It’s my name for you now,” the witch is so sure.
“Why do you have or….need Gom Jabbar, the box, have I-”
“No, none of that, now listen to me, put your hand inside. You put your hand inside of the box. Then you’ll wear my mark - for all to know. No one will ever touch you again. Look at you, you want to fear the pain - but even now you want something you’ve never even dreamed of. But I know your dreams, my K'tah mélange. You want to put your hand in the box.”
“Lady Jessica,” part of you longs to tell her no. That you won’t, that you won’t perform for her. That you won’t put yourself through the grief.
Your hand inches forward, finger curling into a small fist, but you hesitate.
What sort of test for a concubine was this?
“You want to belong to me. I don’t need to use the voice, you know that deep down. That is why you never fit with any placement. Because you needed to come home to me, you know this now.”
You fuss like an infant, lips curling sour, not about to let in. Her piercing blue spice eyes burrow into your mind like the sand splitting for a sandworm.
Gom Jabbar stays in The Reverend Mother's unshaking hold.
The box sits in front of you.
This is wrong, this must be a lie, a trick, you shouldn’t feel this way. You won’t be used as a pawn, not for entertainment or a pound of flesh.
“You cannot manipulate me just because I am your concubine. I’m not your concubine.” You want to shift backwards, back away and be sent away, another failed placement.
“You forget K'tah mélange, I too was a concubine. Look at all I have become. You desire what only I can give. Look at your body now, bending forward, inching closer.” Jessica says it, and you realize she’s correct. You're drawn to her heat, her violence just under the surface, her knowledge, her touch.
Even as her non-dominant hand holds the Gom Jabbar.
Holds your death so close.
You exhale long and lost, a tear escapes your left eyeline, and Jessica holds herself back from licking it. Like she will so many of your tears in the future.
“I can’t-Ican’t” You quiver under the pull that can only be reflective of bones snapping - breaking your ribs in your chest.
“You must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. You will face your fears. You will permit it to pass over you and through you. And when it has gone past you will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.” Jessica tells you, words you’ve heard so many times. But never like that, not once like that.
Your legs open further, making her smile so primal.
The stray tear falls down your chin and onto the box.
Your heart slows, synchronizing with The Reverend Mother, both of you breathing the same eerily calm breath.
Your eyes stay on Jessica as you insert your hand.
The needle at the side of your neck.
The pain begins like tiny shards of glass slicing through your hand. Moving to bigger and bigger nerve pain, it crawls up your forearm, it spreads like all fear must.
You remember this; no soul could forget this lesson.
Your face shakes but you stay resolute; you don’t look away.
“You speak of pain, my concubine. Is this what you know of pain? Is this all they’ve shown you?” Jessica seems to have her own need to bring shame upon the Bene Gesserit name. You don’t speak, can’t speak as pain has crawled into your chest.
It’s tearing into the back of your skull. Worse than any physical slicing, this pain is deep, it’s breaking fibers of your every inch. Reminding you of your worst fears.
Your eyes twitch, your breathing stays even, you do not know, as Jessica will never tell you, but she’s impressed by this.
You stay in her rhythm, in her shadow, in her hold.
You stare into those blue eyes, visions begin to thread through the pain.
Visions: Your naked as Jessica stretches you by low light, covered in oils. Her fists find their home inside of you.
You see fire, bloodshed, ruin - it’s so real.
Your eyes stay on Jessica, but she’s seeing you, your connection too easily open now.
“This pain, is this what you know? Is this needle what keeps you alive just as it threatens your end? Did you see me all those hours spent with the box. When you looked into pains eyes, did my love glare back at you?” The Reverend Mothers fingers twitch, just a bit, just enough for her to know that you matter to her now, that sentiments have set in.
You don’t see it, you’re in your body so deep. A meditative state as your body is burning from the inside out.
You keep your hand in the box, Jessica keeps the Gom Jabbar at her concubine's pulse point.
You refuse to shake, refuse to cry out, no - you will let the pain pass through you. Only Jessica will remain.
“Is this the final lesson you were missing?” Jessica asks as her freehand once again dives into your gown. She enters you, two fingers easily penetrating the wet heat.
Enough to make a Fremen think your cunt was the most sacred deep well of hidden sietches.
You keep your hand in the ancient box, you think the pain has reached something new - but your attention instead turns to Jessica's rubbing of your insides.
Her hand finds the rough spot inside of you, and you have never bucked your hips so fast.
You don’t care about the box, don’t care about the Gom Jabbar promising instant death.
You moan and throw your head back.
“You are a wild thing, my concubine, my devious K'tah mélange. You feel no pain now, now that the control is laced with pleasure, you feel only me. As only I remain.
You don’t feel the pain in your hand very much still in the box, but instead you are euphoric, ready for more. Your nipples strain in the fabric as your eyes grow glassy, hazed over with desire.
“The whole of the Imperium will know what you are to me,” Jessica swears to you, as your mind teeters on the edge you try so hard to hold steady, denying yourself pleasure and managing your passion. Just as your elders had forced upon you.
But that is not the way The Reverend Mother wants you to behave.
The Voice cracked your eardrums.
“Ejaculate down my hand, you cum on command, you are mine.”
You practically black out, eyes flipping visions of your face heavily tattooed, your eyes blue, blood everywhere.
When you come back to your body, you are naked, in the bed, a very naked Jessica holding you, cradling your body. Something maternal and dominant, her hands hold no room for questioning what you are to her now.
You breathe in slowly, body now trained to match hers.
For not wanting to be her concubine, you sure bent fast.
You gaze disinterestedly around the room, and Jessica pushes your hair away from your forehead, she kisses your temple as though it, was a palace for her to roam free in.
“You are trying to find the box.”
“Was it ever even here?” The answer only brings more questions.
“Would it matter if it had been, you only needed permission.” Jessica said as though a hallucination you might have just had was trivial. Nothing in the grand scheme of the stars. Nothing in her plans for you.
You had opened your legs, had soaked down The Revernd Mothers arm.
Tomorrow she would hold you in that meditative state, she’d tattoo you, not just your face….but your body. Shaving the bit of hair over your cunt. She’d make ancient letters that spelled out only her name. Not only for her to trace in the early morning when the light touched the sand. But for Jessica to use as a reminder to you, and anyone who gazed upon you.
Ownership was a heavy hand in the Imperium. Rumors and legends were as valued as any Spice. Lady Jessica had so many plans.
You were still floating in a high, and the voice had tickled your whole being.
Being Bene Gesserit made you immune to the voice, or so you’d thought. You suppose it might have never applied to Jessica Atreides.
You try to remember your life before but find even your name is like a distant memory, something that you could never see again.
You think back to past sexual encounters, to the hard muscle of man, it makes your stomach churn with sickness. The soft body behind you that held you so close tightened, her breasts hanging lower still, reacted to your warm embrace. Jessica had not been touched with warmth in so long. That she made the decision there and then to have you in her bed every night.
“Your mind is coming to, but I do not understand why the sickness?”
“Can’t you just read my mind?” You smile but turn your face to nuzzle against her cheek.
“If you desire me to, but I don’t enjoy seeing you with past conquests. Merely business or not, it enrages me. A sensation I have not experienced in so very long.” Jessica’s voice is so calm and smooth that her words do not match up in the least.
“There’s a sandworm joke about penises versus what we just did that I won't make.”
Jessica rumbles with what you realize must be laughter, but she’s out of practice.
“For being a terrifying Mother, you cuddle like a sentimental young love.” You say, wondering if you’ll be cast to the floor and deprived of a meal for such words. But Jessica’s hand cups under your breast, her fingers brushing against your nipples like a queen would jewels in her treasure trove.
“You thought me unable to have sentiment for you?” Jessica asks, and you blink open lazily, seeing her face tattoos so close now, your hand cups her cheek. Both of your hands are roaming without fear now. Such a simple change, yet so profound that you are a stranger to yourself.
“K'tah mélange, what does it mean?” You ask instead, because how could you begin to answer her?
Jessica pushes both of you down the bed further so that you are resting on her fully now. Her embrace keeps you safe from all the wickedness.
“K'tah means…mm baby, or little. Because you’re such a young little thing. Mélange, well, that means spice. You taste spicy, but all-consuming like how our world weighs spice. So that is why I call you K'tah mélange. Your name before is null, for you and I have much to do. We will rewrite history- but first, I will teach you so much more about pleasure. About control….”
Jessica trails off, and you notice that you are inside of her mind, too. What a strange sensation to be with someones deepest darkness. You see more than you try to; it’s too easy, too close.
“It is true, the visions, your- You are going to mark me tomorrow…” You whisper in the dark of the silence. Jessica runs one hand down your stomach to your pussy mound, already clear what you were looking like, full of ink.
In a moment, you will learn how to swallow her own slick, because the idea or you marked only churns out Jessica to need release.
Her other hand holds your face, your lips closer now, a second before your shared first kiss. Jessica stops to give you a promise to seal this meeting of lips.
“You and I have much to do.”
Read More MultiFandom Fanfics Here | Darkfic +DeadDove List | Requested Stories | My Stories MasterList | AO3
I CRAVINGS ALCINA GIVE HER WIFE A BACKSHOT 🤤 THAT WOULD BE SO GOOD!!! THEY FUCKING IN ALCINA'S OFFICE 😈 MUAHAHAHAHAAHH (I TRUST YOU W THE REST AND THANK YOU SO MUCH 🫶🏻 LOVE YOU'RE WORK FUCKING MUCH 🔥🔥 AND SORRY IF IM NOT GOOD AT EXPLAIN 💔)
HIII THERE!! Thanks for requesting, and thanks for those nice words:D I will admit I've got absolutely no clue how the back door works, but I tried my best😅 Apologies for any imperfections! I hope you like it, and thanks for your patience ♡
Your wife walked with nothing but pure confidence, her head held high no matter how exhausted she was, or how much her feet hurt. Alcina could smoothly talk to anyone; she was brilliant with each card she played. In return, she built up an empire of luxurious wine only the richest could ever buy.
Alcina worked hard, most of the time she worked too hard. Her heels echoed as they clicked across the marble tiles, her long strides took her to the wine room, the meeting room, back to the wine room, back to the meeting room. Her days spent at work were often repetitive.
You offered to help, more than once; each time you were met with a stern, ‘no’ and, ‘if you ever have to work, I've failed as a wife’.
She was stubborn..and utterly dramatic, you always told her that. Though she never failed to push her platinum card towards you, insisting you go on another shopping spree. If you refused, she'd pout until you gave in.
Alcina even went as far as to set an alert to her card. Not to negatively monitor what you're spending, no, far from it. She used the notifications as a form of motivation, she'd get on to you at home if you hadn't bought anything that day.
To say you had little to do was an understatement. In a way, you loved being spoiled, but the boredom caught up quick. There were only so many times you could re-clean the house until the polished floors nearly became blinding. Of course, you cooked for her, pretty much every meal for everyday. Though, Alcina often rushed out in the mornings, forgetting to take her breakfast and/or lunch.
Bringing you to now. You felt a little silly entering her fabulous building in the city of Bucharest, Romania, only carrying a tote bag of your wife's food containers.
You had visited her building many times before, some she brought you along for a tour of how the wine is going, others simply because you could tell by the dry texts that she was having a hard day.
The latter was part of the reason why you showed up in the first place. When you had texted her your plans for dinner, and only received that blood boiling thumbs up emoji, you knew Alcina was in critical condition.
Her food being forgotten in the fridge was just the cherry on top. Not only was she business stressed, but she was hungry, too?
You knew your wife, you had her studied down to the details that even she didn't know. So, in an effort to not have to bail her out of jail on the account of attempted murder, you clicked the button on the first floor, calling for the elevator doors to open.
Upon stepping out, you politely greeted her employees, who were dressed to the nines, with a nod and smile. Suddenly, you felt hyper aware of the fact that you were only wearing a hoodie, loose pants and tennis shoes. You and your wife were from completely different worlds, where Aclina was posh and professional, you were comfy and cozy.
You walked up to her shut double doors, finding they were locked when you tried to turn the knob. Alcina must've heard the rattle, as she called from the inside, “Away! I'm busy.”
You arched a brow, clearly the storm had already rolled in.
“It's just me, Alcina.”
You could hear fumbling from the other side of the door, small grunts followed by something falling over. The doorknob jiggled aggressively as she unlocked it, swinging it open to reveal her disheveled appearance.
“Dragă mea, I'm so sorry. I didn't know you were coming.”
You drank in her half buttoned blouse, her slightly messy hair, and her glasses nearly falling from her nose. You smiled with a mix of amusement and desire,
“You..forgot your food.” You held up the tote as proof.
Her fingers touched yours as she took the bag, her face instantly softening as she leaned down to kiss you.
You hummed against her lips, your hands working to smooth out a stray curl by her ear.
“You're a mess.” You teased with a small giggle, Alcina only pouted. Her head tilted down as she examined herself, her face flushing.
“It's been a rough day. Will you stay?”
Before you could reply, her warm hand had taken yours, dragging you further into the spacious office. The large doors had shut and automatically locked behind you.
You stumbled along her enthusiastic pace, and with practiced ease, she had guided you to be sitting longways on her lap.
You heard the rustling of the bag, followed by the opening sound of the containers. Alcina was more than excited to be eating, her cheeks already puffed out with the first bite of her food.
“My, what would you do without me?” You teased, scratching at the nape of her neck. Her eyes fluttered shut as she hummed, leaning further into your touch. She said something in reply, though it was more of an incomprehensible mumble.
It wasn't unusual for Alcina to be clingy, though it was odd that she was clingy at work. She snapped into a different mind space whenever she was at the office, one that was no nonsense and all productivity.
Your thoughts were disrupted when she nuzzled closer, nearly falling asleep against you while simultaneously still chewing. Somehow, she subconsciously kept that cute pout on her lips. She wasn't immune to bad days at work, mostly those were all she had. Though you've visited during those times before, never had she given you the reaction she is now.
You studied her carefully, taking note that once she finished her food, her hand found placement on your upper thigh, the other holding you suspiciously by your lower back. A small smirk hung your lips when you felt her place hot, open mouth kisses to your neck. Your grasp around her baby hairs tightened ever so slightly, your mouth opening to release a small gasp.
“Alcina,” You breathed out, smiling. “What's gotten into you?”
She responded without a small whimper, you then became hyper focused on how you were sitting, and just what you were sitting on. Beneath your ass, you felt her bulge tightening through her dress pants.
“You should get off.” Her voice came out in a thick rasp, she started to shift under you. You mockingly hummed, purposely moving your hips to sit fully on top of her, your back pressed to Alcina's front, “Why so? You pulled me in your lap first.”
Alcina whined, her head dropping to your shoulder, her hands squeezing each side of your hips.
“Yes, but now you've become distracting.”
She tried to inch you off, though you refused. Alcina's small noises filtered through your ears, each one tinted in a voice crack whenever you grinded on her hardening dick.
She huffed in frustration, her jaw clenching tightly.
You turned your head, lifting your hand to grab her chin. Once you pulled her face towards your direction, you met her lips in a heated kiss.
Alcina made an undignified noise, her breath becoming labored as your tongues found each other.
It didn't take long for the kiss to be broken by her shaky pleas,
“Please, can-can I-” Alcina malfunctioned with your eyes locking into hers. Her usually composed sentences were nothing but mere stutters. It was adorable.
“Proper words, pretty girl.” You squeezed her chin a little harder before relaxing again.
Alcina's cheeks lit up, her eyes staring down at your lips,
“Can I fuck you?” She whispered, hardly audible but you caught it. You arched a teasing brow, hovering your lips just above hers, “Here? In your office?”
Alcina's eyes fluttered shut, she nodded.
“The doors are locked.” She argued, “And-and I can be quiet. I just-oh, please, dragă.” Her lips were back to attaching your neck, licking and sucking across every piece of skin she could reach. Her hips were subconsciously bucking up, making your eyes shut as her dick poked further against you.
With a half hum, half moan, you slithered off of her lap, turning around to face her, and dropping to your knees with planned grace.
Alcina's eyes widened at the loss of the very faint friction, she was preparing to pout and beg you to come back. However, her breath hitched when she felt your hands unbutton her pants, her gaze watching you intently.
“You look so good.” She whispered, her accent growing thick with desire.
“I'm literally dressed in a hoodie and sweats.”
“And it's driving me insane.” Her hands found your hair just as yours undid her zipper. She lifted her hips slightly, allowing you to pull the fabric down. The sight of her boxers made your heart leap. Eagerly, your hands worked to reveal her length, sliding her underwear off just enough.
Alcina's head fell backwards against her chair when your hand made first contact. You coated your fingers in saliva, moving so that some dropped from your mouth onto her tip. Alcina frantically thrusted her hips into every small touch you gave her, clearly she was already overly sensitive.
Slowly, you wrapped your mouth around her tip, taking in just enough to have her squirm, but not enough for any real release of pleasure. Each time Alcina tried to thrust, she was met with a slap to her clothed thigh. Your hand rested around the base of her dick, though not squeezing, not moving, just..touching. You stared up at her, watching in amusement as she huffed and pouted in frustration. You took notice of her hand tightening in your hair, trying to push your head further down. That also resulted in another harsh slap to her thigh.
After a few minutes, Alcina was a trembling, babbling mess. You had no idea what she was trying to say, and in all honesty, Alcina didn't know either. Her mind was no longer busy with work, instead now, it was far too clogged with burning need.
“Pl-please, please don't tease..”
You didn't pay any mind to her noises.
“Darling.” She whined loudly, her chest heaving. The sheer desperation grasped your attention, it was rare Alcina ever got so..vocal.
You released her tip with a soft pop, your index finger's nail dragging up and down her length at an agonizingly slow speed.
“What do you want?”
She shivered, her dick leaking precum that you diligently licked up. It took Alcina several tries to get her words out, as her mouth just opened and closed like a fish.
“I want..you. Over the desk.”
Your movements came to a halt, you tilted your head; the wicked smirk reappearing on your face.
“Over..the desk?”
She nodded shyly.
“As in anal?”
Alcina swallowed thickly in pure embarrassment, though ever so slowly, she nodded in confirmation.
You let out a small laugh, not many times had she suggested that position before, and certainly not on her perfectly organized desk. You stood up, your knees and calves burning from your previous position. Your stomach tightened at the idea, and before you could psych yourself out of it, your palm cleared an area of her desk, causing a few papers to float to the floor.
Alcina hastily stood, only to be pushed back down by your hand on her shoulder,
“Ask me nicely.” You purred, adoring how her face brightened even more.
she looked up at you with confused eyes, her pupils blown, “I-what?”
“I said..” you leaned down, your nose touching hers. So close to kissing, close enough for her to whine again.
“..ask me nicely.”
Her hand instinctively went down to soothe her throbbing dick, though you stopped her before any relief could be formed. Holding her hands down tightly on the arm rests of her chair, Alcina's eyes watered.
“Please! God, dragă mea, let me have you. I'll make you feel so good, I promise.”
You smiled triumphantly, straightening back to your full height. With your pointer finger, you gestured for her to stand as well.
“Be quiet or we'll stop.”
Alcina sharply inhaled at the threat, nodding in understanding. You turned around to face the desk, feeling her arms slink over your waist from behind. Her dick pressed to your clothed back, a shaky sigh escaping her lips at the slight friction. Her fingers curled your waistband, pulling your pants and underwear down in one go.
Alcina's hands pressed on your back, guiding you to lean over the desk. The wood was cold, even through your hoodie. Yet, the burning anticipation growing within your stomach was drowning the feeling out.
You felt her cock brush over your ass, your eyes fluttered shut as she whimpered. You inhaled, forcing your body to relax instead of screaming at her to hurry up.
After she recoated her length in saliva, she pressed the tip against your back entrance. Both of you made a similar, high pitched noise in response. Alcina went slow, giving you plenty of time to adjust. You were so tight around her, and her stomach was already flexing like she was on edge. Each time she pushed a little further in, her knees weakened.
She kept one hand on your hip, the other rubbing soft, comforting circles on your back. Alcina didn’t rush, she was desperate, yes, but she wouldn't hurt you because of it. Only when she bottomed you out, and when you gave her the okay nod, did she pull her hips out and slowly thrust them back.
She kept a gentle pace at first, the office absorbing each noise coming from either of you. You wanted to scold Alcina for being so loud, yet when she fell into a quicker pace, you weren't any quieter.
Your body heated, your eyes fought to stay open. Sure, you and her had done this before, but you forgot just how good it felt. Alcina eventually leaned over your back, her mouth just beside your ear. She breathed against you, her moans and whimpers edging you on even more. She kissed your cheek, moving one of her hands to grab a fist of your hair, pulling you closer against her.
You were gasping, your legs already shaking uncontrollably. The sinful sounds of skin meeting skin filled the room, and the faint feeling her nails digging into you did nothing to help the coil that was building.
You felt Alcina's hand slip beneath you, her fingers gliding towards your clit. You reached down, slapping her hand away with a small echo.
“Hands on the desk.” You ordered, and when
she hesitated like she was intending to argue, you turned your head, now leaving you panting against her lips.
“Hands on the desk, Alcina.”
She whined, her brows furrowing as reluctantly, she placed her hands on the desk to either side of you.
“Please, my love. I'm so..God.”
You tsked, your own fingers replacing where hers once were.
“Hold it.” You gasped at the added feeling of stimulation on your clit, your hand rubbing faster than you intended it too.
Alcina was quickly falling apart behind you, her body glistening in a thin layer of sweat. Her chest beneath her half-opened blouse bounced slightly with each thrust, and her bottom lip was swollen from where she had bitten it.
“Fuck..” Her curses varied from English to Romania, turning you on more, yet amusing you at the same time.
“I can't-please..I'm..”
She tried to slow her movements, much to your disapproval. Using the last remains of your strength, you slammed back into her, gliding across the smooth wood as you began to meet her thrusts half way.
Alcina let out a small cry, biting into your shoulder to quiet herself. The sharp, stinging pain vibrated through your bones, sending you dramatically closer to the edge.
Tears were falling down her cheeks in the most beautiful, pathetic way possible. Your hand still aggressively worked at your clit, the cold sensation of overstimulation felt significantly better than it should've.
“Alcina-Oh, fuck.”
She moaned, her hips becoming wobbly with each thrust.
“Are you okay?” She breathed out, a whimper following.
“Close..” Your words cut off with a raw moan, your mouth hanging open. Alcina continued her movements, albeit a little harder now. Her eyes closed, her forehead resting on the back of your shoulder. She'd been close since your earlier teasing, if she was being honest. You were so warm around her, she was completely addicted to you as if you were the strongest drug she'd ever had. Her lipstick smeared across the back of your neck from her messy kisses, and your hip was red from how tightly she'd been holding you.
When she started to hit your sensitive spots even deeper, the impending wave of pleasure had finally hit you before you could warn her. Your fingers dug into her desk, no doubt leaving tiny nail markings to be discovered another day. Your vision turned white, your ears rang, and your body trembled. You must've been hypocritically loud, as Alcina's hand shot up to cover your mouth.
In the midst of your own high, you heard her broken sounds from behind. Following your pleasure, warm liquid spilled inside of your body, some dragging out with each continued thrust. Alcina's hand flew to your hair, grabbing at it roughly as she fucked herself through her orgasm. She grunted softly, reluctantly slowing her movements. You were panting into her hand, your body limping against the desk. Her arms circled around you, holding you against her instead.
She didn't make much effort to pull out at first, but upon regaining her thoughts, she realized how uncomfortable you might have been in your current position, even if you were already half asleep.
She pulled out, her weakening dick aching and covered in her white essence. There wasn't much to clean with, and she realized that she had definitely ruined her pants, which were now stained where her cum had dripped. She bit the inside of her cheek, torn between finding that irritating and finding it incredibly attractive.
She readjusted herself the best she could, cooing you as she lifted your body. You were much smaller compared to her, and she had developed the ability to lift you with ease throughout your marriage. Alcina carried you bridal style, never being as grateful for her private, built in bathroom as she was now.
You grumbled against her, obviously very grumpy about being moved.
“For someone so dominant, you sure do get sleepy fast.” She teased, sitting you carefully on the counter beside the sink. She was slow, not wanting to discomfort where you would definitely be sore.
You grumbled, saying the only Romanian curse word you knew, yet not bothering to open your eyes.
Alcina's smile grew, she grabbed a cloth and soaked it with the warm water, beginning to clean you up.
“So sassy, too.” She kissed you, “Always so sassy...but helpful.”
CW: Language, violence, blood, moral ambiguity, murder, sexual themes and situations 18+ only
Chapter 7: Imagination
Zoro's friend Usopp showed up, with Zoro, at 10am on Saturday. You all sat down and talked about options and modifications and what Usopp could and couldn't install. When you started asking him about possible off-the-record modifications, Usopp seemed to get uncomfortably nervous about the idea, so you let it drop.
By the end of the conversation, you'd agreed to a few things, and had set a date for Usopp to come back, along with Zoro again, to get it all installed. Usopp left and Zoro stayed behind for a little while.
"He seemed completely determined to not once be in the house with me by himself." You muse, handing Zoro a beer and sitting in the recliner.
"I told him about the time the jack failed in Eustass' shop and you lifted the car off Wire." Zoro says. "I think he's worried you'd break him in half. He's a good guy, but he's skittish."
You laugh, half-grumbling about it, "Eustass wouldn't shut up about it for a month, and I swear my arms were noodles for a week after. I couldn't do it again though. It was pure adrenaline and nothing else. But that's why there's a strict multi-jack policy in place at the shop now."
"Still," You muse putting your own drink to your lips and taking a gulp. "I can't imagine people being afraid of me. I barely clear 60 inches, Eustass calls me mouse, for fuck's sake."
"(Y/N)." Zoro is giving you a look.
"Yeah, okay. I get it, I get it." Zoro had almost joined Pops' crew, and he was best friends with Luffy. You knew each other because you grew up around the boys – specifically, you grew up around them learning how to fight and as such had learned how to defend yourself. Thatch said you could've made money doing MMAs and boxing if you'd wanted, but while you didn't dislike fighting, you didn't have a passion for it.
"Besides, Eustass only calls you Mouse because he's half a mountain on his own."
You almost choke. "Yeah, I used to think the only person who had more presence was Pops, but Zoro if you ever get to meet this Donquixote guy, he makes Eustass look short."
Zoro raises an eyebrow. "Gonna let someone new in?"
"Eh." You shrug and take another drink, a ring of the doorbell gets your attention and you set your drink down and go to answer the door. "I suppose it has been a long time."
A young man with blonde hair in bike shorts, a tight t-shirt, and heels is standing on the porch with a suitcase. You tilt your head at him in confusion and he smiles.
"Young master said to deliver this package to you, Miss (Y/N)." He states cheerfully.
"Oh! Oh, right. Yeah, thank you, uh?"
"Dellinger, Miss (Y/N)."
"Dellinger." You smile. "Killer heels, kid, sweet outfit too."
Dellinger's face lights up and he bounds off the porch and back to the bike he'd apparently ridden to get here. Kid had legs like Sanji's. Well, less hairy, but he looked like he could knock someone senseless with a well-placed kick.
Zoro raises an eyebrow after you close the door.
"Tomorrow I am being repaid for saving the latest stray." You explain, tilting your head up and putting on an air of haughtiness. "I kept refusing, and this was the compromise – he gets a day of my time, and I'm sure I'm going to get a couple free meals out of it." Setting the suitcase on the floor, you pop it open and look inside.
"Clothes?" You mutter, holding up a pair of new comfy looking sweatpants. "I guess tomorrow has a dress code, and he wanted to be sure I could comply. Ah, a letter."
Miss (Y/N),
I was unsure if your recent uninvited guests had damaged anything you may need for our time together tomorrow, so please forgive me for ensuring you would have the items required.
Below that was a list of things included and when you were expected to utilize them. A shirt and sweatpants set for a relaxing breakfast, a swimsuit with an additional note that you didn't need to participate in swimming if it would be uncomfortable. There was a nice dress for an evening dinner, and all the required accessories along with it.
You took out the dress and held it up against yourself, standing up and giving it a look over. It was modest and quite beautiful, a gradient lavender that deepened into dark purple at the bottom. The accents and embellishments weren't over the top, and it was the right length.
Zoro lets out a low whistle.
"Right?" You agree. "Man's got taste, I'll admit." You carefully return it to the suitcase. "I'm not even going to be surprised if this all fits like a glove either."
"It's not at all unsettling?"
"Honestly, no it's not." You shrug. "It's almost flattering to be paid attention to so closely. Now, if things go south and I want to leave and he turns into a stalker, then it'll be less flattering." You clarify. "But if it gets to that point, I have a good idea of what he's capable of and I'll be able to plan what I need to do more effectively."
Zoro grunts, and you assume he's agreeing with your point.
"Hm?" You look back down at the letter and realize there's more on the back after the list of items and the notations beside them. Laughing, you read it out loud, doing your best Doflamingo impression.
"If anything isn't up to your exacting standards, my dear, please call the number below and I'll be sure to meet your requirements." You laugh. "My exacting standards, huh? What a delightfully smarmy bastard."
Zoro doesn't say anything, but you catch the smirk he tries to hide behind his drink.
"Shut up." You quip.
"I didn't say anything."
"You pantomimed with that smirk. I heard it – er, saw it." You grouse, and then your face splits into a devious grin. "I wonder what dear old dad would think about this." The dripping sarcasm in your voice makes it obvious you're not referring to Pops.
Zoro was quiet for a moment. "When's the last time you talked to him?"
"It's still been fifteen years." You admit. "If he even knows I'm alive, I'd be surprised."
"You're not worried about this 'Mingo guy sorting out who he is?"
"No." You sit back down now that you've tucked the suitcase back into its original state. "If things get serious I was going to tell him anyway. Besides, what good would knowing do? My father would shoot me through the head if it resulted in just one more criminal off the streets.
"Besides, Pops and the boys are better family, even if it's all unofficial."
You finished your drinks quietly before Zoro leaves. It's mid-afternoon, and you find you'd pulled yourself into a downer of a mood reminiscing about your biological father. You pull out your phone and turned it over in your hands for a moment, wondering who you could call to distract yourself, when you smile.
Typing in the "Unknown Caller" number that had appeared last night you sent a text.
(Y/N): I commend your taste in attire, and graciously accept your altruism.
You smile as you hit send, you feel like 'altruism' isn't a word often associated with Doflamingo. The cover company Smile does have some charity donations done on its behalf, but almost every business does that nowadays to at least seem caring.
You save his number into your contact under 'Trouble' and get a reply shortly after.
Trouble: I am hardly altruistic.
Chuckling, you notice more coming in, so you give him a moment to continue.
Trouble: If I were truly altruistic, I would've accepted your desire that I leave your debt unpaid.
(Y/N): Ah, so tomorrow is for your own selfishness as well?
Trouble: Indeed, though I believe you will enjoy it.
(Y/N): Not much of a payment if there's that much pleasure for you.
You grin at your own cheekiness. The one drink wasn't enough for you to be able to blame it on the alcohol, but ruffling this guy's feathers was fun even while sober. The longer you interacted with him the more you wanted to push him off his game. He was too calm, too collected, too aggravatingly cool.
You wanted to hear him stammer or see his jaw go slack just once. Maybe twice.
Trouble: Then I will simply have to try harder after tomorrow to see you repaid properly.
Okay, one drink on an empty stomach might have been too much, because you could feel yourself sober up at the implication of his text. It took you longer to form a reply than you had liked.
(Y/N): Proper repayment would've been no repayment. Tomorrow is the compromise.
His only response was the sunglasses emoji, and the lop-sided smirk on the simple graphic seemed to say far more than intended. You could feel yourself being hunted, and you weren't entirely sure you wanted to evade it.
If you didn't cool your jets before tomorrow, you were going to be a mess of sensitive skin and red cheeks. You had been glad to know that while some of your more embarrassing toys had been discovered, they hadn't been tossed like everything else. Whoever Doflamingo's traitor had been, gods rest his corpse at this point you're sure, they had at least had the good sense to leave your battery-operated boyfriends alone.
Because of that, you were certain that whoever tidied up in here had also had the good sense to be discreet or leave the box alone completely. Either way, you were relieved to find that everything was how you had left it.
After an impressive number of rounds you extracted yourself from the bed and went about cleaning up yourself and the toys. you weren't sure it had the desired effect, however, since you kept hearing his voice rumble in your ears while you were failing to imagine any other scenario. You even tried to picture Law instead. You hadn't done anything like that together, but he was good looking.
Okay, he was hot, he was super-hot, and if he wasn't a cranky over worked bastard with his own family ties, you probably would've done something like that at some point. But while your imagination had started out the right way, you very quickly found yourself in the clinic room with Doflamingo, already shirtless, managing to look delicious even under harsh light.
CW: Language, violence, blood, moral ambiguity, murder, sexual themes and situations 18+ only
Chapter 1 - Table of Consent -
Chapter 6: Proper Gentleman
The only feedback you get from Pops was that he couldn't give you a solid yes or no. It would be hypocritical of him to allow you to be around him and his boys, but then tell you that you can't interact with Doflamingo. He did fill you in on what he knew of him though.
Despite his years in modeling and his continued time in the limelight as CEO, he was only ever seen with his "family". None of whom were related to him by blood, save a younger brother who owned his own smaller business. This cadre of about 20 people hadn't changed much over the last decade, most of them coming with him from his modeling work into Smile, Inc.
When exactly the shady side of business became a part of things, Pops had no idea. It was very plausible that the shady side came first, and the eventual legitimate business ventures were funded by those preceding roots. If that's where they got their start, then Sunday's events weren't surprising in the least.
In a way legitimate ventures with a shady side had a harder time defending themselves. They had to be squeaky clean inside and out to be able to fend off competitors who thought they could just whisper a few words to the police and crumble you from the inside.
You weren't expecting to come away from additional information with a newfound sense of respect for Doflamingo and his family, but here you were. You couldn't hold a whole lot against him either, you didn't even skip gently along the lines of the law, you'd shattered it a few times. Sure, there was stuff you'd rather not dirty your own hands with, but there was stuff Pops did you didn't know that you'd be able to do, and you didn't hold it against him either.
When you worked outside the law, you couldn't work within the law to resolve things. If you had to go to extremes to protect what you had and who depended on you, then you could understand that. Even if you weren't sure you could cross those lines yourself.
Laying on your bed you flipped the card in your hands, staring more at the ceiling than anything else, as your brain replays the day's events. Between the café and the conversation with Pops, it had been a full Friday. Usopp was due to come over tomorrow, you were going to give him a tour of the place, and then you could talk shop about what options you had.
It wasn't too late in the evening, so you gave the number on the card a call.
After a couple rings a very pleasant lady-voice answers the phone. "Good evening this is Violet, you may recite your code if you have one, or allow me to assist you." The words were automatic, but her customer service voice was a step above yours.
"Ah, no code today, Violet, I was hoping I could leave a message for Mr. Donquixote?"
"I can certainly take one, though if the young master replies or not, I cannot promise."
"That's fair. Can you let him know that (Y/N) called, my number is (y/#), and my earliest available day is this Sunday."
"Of course, Miss (Y/N), and I do apologize for my earlier statement, since it's you, I'm quite sure you can expect a response. Is there any additional information you'd like me to add?"
"I guess, I'm having an in-home consultation for an alarm system, if he calls tomorrow and I don't answer, I," you heave a sigh, people don't get this word out of you often, "promise I will call him back as soon as I'm able."
"Noted. Is there anything else?"
"No – thank you for help Miss Violet, I appreciate it."
"You're quite welcome Miss (Y/N), have a pleasant evening."
You chuckle as the line went dead. Two customer service workers having a politeness battle over the phone. Not that you did much customer service in the first place, and almost none of it was over the phone.
You start peeling off your clothes and getting ready for a shower when your phone rings. You quirk an eyebrow at the unknown number and answer it the wrong way.
"You've reached the Hip Nips shop where no tassel's a hassle, what can I do ya' for?"
"(Y/N)."
"Holy hells!" Yelping at the sound of Doflamingo's voice on the other end of the line, you end up dropping your damn phone in the process. Scrambling to pick it up, red as a tomato from your head to your shoulders you do your very best to steady your voice.
"I was not expecting your call so soon, Mr. Donquixote." You say as flatly as humanly possible.
"So it seems." He replies, and you could hear the grin in his voice. "Am I to assume you've started yet another job?"
You groan internally and close your eyes. "A proper gentleman doesn't tease a lady, Mr. Donquixote."
"Mmm, I don't recall labeling myself a proper gentleman."
You bit your knuckle and stomped your foot on the ground, to keep the effect he was having on you tucked away. No one should be allowed to sound that delicious without warning. But now the ball was in your court.
"Mmm," You repeat back to him. "I don't know that I can go on 'something like a date' with someone who isn't a proper gentleman."
"Touché, Miss (Y/N). I shall conduct myself as a proper gentleman during our time together. Since you provided an available day, I believe I am safe in assuming you've acquiesced."
Given your own current state of mortified embarrassment you didn't want to further poke the bear. "I suppose I have. Have you already decided on all the details like the mega star you are, or should I expect another call tomorrow with more information?"
That rumbled laugh hits your ear again and you suppress the urge to just invite the man over right now. "Your intuition continues to impress me, my dear. You should expect a package tomorrow, and your chariot shall arrive at 8am Sunday. I would prefer to start with breakfast if you would allow me."
"I did promise a day of my time, so I can't really argue."
"That's true, but I would rather you to be comfortable and have a good time. This is for you, after all."
You laugh, "As long as it's not as thrilling as last Sunday I'm sure I will have a good time." You chuckle a bit, thinking about it now that it's all said and done. "Speaking of, may I ask a question?"
"Of course."
"How're your injuries?"
"I've suffered no infections, if that's what you're worried about, Miss Field Medic."
You smile at the nickname. "I was, so I'm glad to hear that."
"Concerned about me, were you?"
You scoff, but it's obvious you're joking. "Concerned about my reputation, more like. My ego would bruise terribly if I'd only made things worse while trying to help."
"I do hope your friend didn't mind you using his clinic."
"Nah, doc's a long-time friend. I didn't break anything, and you survived, so he won't have any complaints." You stretch as you answer the question. "I apologize, but I was getting ready to grab a shower and head to bed, unless there's something more you needed to say, Mr. Donquixote."
"Then you will regretfully bid you farewell, Miss (Y/N). I look forward to seeing you Sunday."
"Indeed." You manage the reply as evenly as possible, but your face aches from how red it is. Laying back on the bed you let out a long breath, and when you let your eyes close you can almost feel him breathing those last words into your ear.
He is dangerous. This is playing with fire. Can I even have a simple fling with someone like that? I realize I'm not all that removed from that kind of life, but I feel like a minnow in a shark tank – I'm only okay cause I'm too small to bother eating.
You let the hot water of the shower try to help relax you, but when you close your eyes you could imagine him in the steamy room with you. Unyielding will, unyielding body, unyielding desires. Given how he kept moving on Sunday despite his wounds and blood loss his stamina was probably just as a massive as any other part of him.
"Haaa... oh I am in danger." Your mind sinks thoroughly into the gutter. You take a deep breath and let it out as the water runs down your back. "Just make it through this date, (Y/N). Enjoy yourself, be gracious, and then maybe fake your own death or something." You laugh at yourself, but your intuition has you sure that his interest could easily become desire, and you don't believe he's a man who lets something he desires escape his grasp.
You might be the only person who would feel stifled by living a life of luxury in whatever castle he calls home, but as much danger as there is on the streets, there is also life. You've enjoyed weaving yourself into that life, all these years, on your own. The idea of bodyguards, or assassins, or of needing to do anything you didn't want to do felt far too heavy.
Regretfully.
Maybe it was childish to continue thinking that way.
CW: Language, violence, blood, moral ambiguity, murder, sexual themes and situations 18+ only
Chapter 5: Repayment
Everything in your home had been restored and cleaned. Nothing was put back, but things were organized and stacked neatly, and it wouldn't take you long to get it all back where you had it. Apparently Doflamingo and/or his people had come in and at least undone the damage that had been done, without getting too deep into your private life.
The intent was appreciated, but now you were doubly glad you'd agreed to let Ace and Sabo sleep over. They helped you get the odds and ends put away and it was nice to have people to talk to while you were still dealing with the physical parts of the home invasion. You didn't let them keep you up too late either, glad that you'd offered to work a shift for Zoro the next day.
Working a shift with Zoro gave you a chance to catch him up on all the details you hadn't wanted to throw at people over and over. When you mentioned your house getting tossed you could feel the anger rolling off him, even if his face was neutral.
"I can ask Usopp to give you a security system quote." He offers, knowing you would turn down any other requests he might have offered. "I know you know all the ins and outs of 'em, but Usopp's as good with that stuff as Eustass is with cars."
"I won't turn down a quote." You admit, loading up the van. "I can't promise I'll buy what he offers, but if he's as capable as you say, then it might surprise me."
You noticed Zoro had a flower on his clip board. "What's that?"
"Eh? Oh, Robin clipped it there when I delivered flowers to her this morning. Said it was a gift." He replies absentmindedly, filling out information on the clipboard.
You raise your eyebrows, licking your lips to suppress the massive grin threatening to spread across your face and pulled yourself back into a neutral expression before Zoro looks up at you.
"You know her flower language stuff, (Y/N), what's it mean?"
You shrug, turning away and putting the last few boxes in. "You'll have to actually go in and read the board yourself, Marimo." You weren't going to tell him it meant 'Affection', especially since Robin hadn't asked for your help in hooking them up.
Zoro grunts. Sanji had started calling him that ages ago, due to his perpetually green hair, and the name had stuck. Generally, you only used it when you were teasing him though.
The next day you were working at Sanji's. This was the only job where you had to dress up a little bit to do it. Robin didn't have any uniform requirements for her flower shop, and you usually took care of the backroom and inventory for her more than anything else. So it wasn't like you were dealing with customers like you did at the café.
You wore some light makeup, broke out the nice short-heeled shoes, and had your long hair pulled into a bun with some random wooden hair sticks you'd bought when Sanji requested you not use pencils for it. Here's where you'd refined your Customer Service Voice™ to professional levels.
Today you had a nice blouse on, and a loose-fitting skirt that went down just past your knees, along with a pair of saddle shoes. It was comfortable enough, and while you didn't wear skirts often, you had nothing against them. Dressing up was fun to do occasionally, but you didn't generally have the occasion anymore. You went all out for the seasonal formals at school, because you not only liked dressing up, but you enjoyed people's reactions when the usually scruffy you was suddenly elegant.
Messing with people was one of the reasons you had studied linguistics. Code switching was a useful skill, and while a lot of people did it regularly, linguistics helped you to really drive it deep when you wanted.
The usual rush of the café came and went and just as Sanji and you had gotten everything back in order, two impressively tall men in suits stepped into the small space. You recognized them as two of the people who'd gotten out of the SUVs when things finally concluded Sunday. They weren't as tall as Doflamingo, but they weren't small men either.
"Gentlemen, you seem a tad early." You say, letting Sanji know these men were associated with your impending meeting.
The sterner of the two looks down at you and gave a solid professional smile. "We needed to verify the café was secure prior to the meeting, Miss (Y/N)." He bows a little and then looks over at Sanji.
"Tch." Sanji sours. "I'm the owner," He replies with an edge to his voice. "I'm not leaving."
"I'm more comfortable with my boss around as well," You add. "He can stay in the back, I'm sure he won't do anything rude."
The man's smile falters just a little, but then he nods in agreement. You learned later that the man who spoke was named Diamante, and his silent partner was Vergo.
You and Sanji made some light foods to go with the tea, and the table was set just as Trouble walked in through the front door. Taking off your apron, you stepped to the side of his seat, and pull it out for him. You could hear a soft bemused chuckle slip through the café as Sanji heads into the back room.
He accepts the offered seat with an even, "Why, thank you." And remains silent until you sit across from him. He was in casual attire, or at least casual for him, you imagined. A pastel pink button up shirt, no tie, and khaki style slacks. His shoes were even a kind of brown cream color, that matched well with the rest of his outfit.
Of course, he still had those damnable shades on. Not only did he use them to full advantage to flash his eyes when he wanted, but it was difficult to read him without being able to see his eyes.
"Right on time for my break." You state with a sly grin. "Which should give us just enough time to discuss the business you wanted?"
"Indeed it does." He replies, taking a sip of the tea that was set before him. "I also appreciate your understanding that I would want to keep this short, Miss (Y/N)."
"Business should be concise." You agree. "Since treating me to afternoon tea isn't enough to appease your sense of debt, what did you have in mind?"
You could see the smile slip across his lips, and you wondered if he had dug into your past while looking for you. Did he know you had a Masters in Linguistics? Considering your first meeting you expected him to be more surprised about the change of words and tone comparatively, but he seemed to be taking it in stride.
"I had hoped to literally pay off my debt to you," He begins, but his pause was enough for you to interject.
"I have enough money, I decline."
"Fufufu," It was the same laugh that slipped through the air earlier. "As I expected. I could offer you the opportunity to work for the lighter side of my company. Even if you don't stay with us long, I assure it would look good on your resume for future endeavors."
"Assuming the darker side of your business doesn't come to light." You scoff taking a sip and missing his reaction to your statement. Setting down the teacup you look at him with your business smile. "I currently have four jobs because I enjoy being able to help my friends. It's worked out well for me so far, so I will have to politely decline."
You had expected by this point that you was either irritating him or running him out of options. However, you couldn't detect a hint of anything except polite neutrality in his features. Very frustrating polite neutrality.
You see him move to pull something from his shirt, and admittedly you were suddenly concerned you had honestly upset this bearest of bears, when he held out a business card.
Well, it was no longer possible for you to deny who he was. Donquixote Doflamingo CEO of Smile, Inc. International. The damnable card in your hand had a single number on it, and on the back in excessively neat handwriting were collection of letters and numbers. You tilted your head, you understood the business card itself, but not the code on the back.
The inquisitive tilt prompts him to speak. "Consider it a single I.O.U." He says, "You can call the number on the front at any time, give them the code, and make a request. I'll see it done."
An IOU from arguably the most well-connected man in the world. If you picked your request correctly, you could change the lives of everyone in the city.
No, no. Don't. This is too much. There's too much weight to this card, I cannot accept it.
You move to hand it back. "I can't-." You stop and a smile spreads across your face. "No, wait, I suppose I can. I can call it tomorrow and request a pizza delivery. There's a place I really like that's close to Q's that doesn't deliver to my house." You are slipping into your usual form of speech because right now you're intentionally being a brat and don't want to hide it.
No twitch, no sigh, no anger. Damn this man and his hidden eyes.
"I can accept that on a single condition." He speaks evenly, but his voice was giving away more than his face, and it was laced with similar mischief to your own.
"Hmm?" you prompt, taking another sip.
"I would like a day of your time." He offers. "I would like the opportunity to repay you in a way that meets my own standards. Nothing untoward, no more perhaps than a glorified date."
"So like, dinner and a movie?"
"Close enough to that, yes."
You look the business card over again and give a cheeky grin. "If Pops says it's okay, I suppose I could graciously accept your request." You turn the card over in your fingers lazily, Doflamingo sitting across from you still so frustratingly unreadable.
"Pops... Newgate?" He questions, there's a bemused chuckle when you nod. "I didn't realize you were one of his boys."
You snort at the implication.
"I'm not one of Pops', blood or otherwise." You admit. "Pops saved me when I was younger, and if I had to admit to having any kind of family, I guess it'd be him and his boys." You lean forward, still relaxed, tapping the business card on the table. "You're in the same line of work obviously, but I assume given the proximity, that Pops' work and your work don't wholly overlap. You didn't use a tone like you had when talking about your friend."
He sounded like he had been talking about someone below him, but you weren't going to vocalize that part.
A smile crosses his lips and you're not entirely sure what's behind it. It's not menacing, but there's an edge to it, one you think is your fault.
"Your intuition is surprisingly accurate, my dear." The tone in his voice is jovial, but there's a sudden sensation like this man has shifted gears. Earlier he was hellbent on repaying his debt to you, and it felt like business.
Now though, this felt like interest. Suddenly the whole give-no-shits attitude plan seemed like it was backfiring, and you're sure it really is your fault. Feeling caught in the crosshairs, you did your best to play it off, putting the business card in your skirt pocket and extending a hand.
"I'm afraid my break is coming to an end, it's been a pleasure Mr. Donquixote. Like I said, once I talk to Pops I'll contact you."
A chuckle rumbles in his chest, and you swear internally at how much you like the sound of it.
"Very well, Miss (Y/N), I look forward to your acquiescence." He shakes your hand in return, though you have a strong feeling that he wants to kiss the back of your hand instead. You feel a shiver of electricity run up your arm at the idea of it.
Watching as he left the café, his men abandoning their post at the entrance as well, you wondered what kind of trouble he would turn out to be. Sanji came from the back with a cigarette in his mouth and set a fresh cup of tea in front of you. You both stood in silence for a moment, taking the whole thing in.
Looking down at the table Sanji let out a sound between a whistle and a hum. "Well, he compensated me for the inconvenience well enough."
"Eh?" You look down and see several hundred-dollar bills tucked under the saucer of his drink. "When in the hells did he do that? I was keeping an eye on him the whole time; I never saw him do that!"
"You missed a slip," Sanji shrugs. "It's not like he lifted your wallet."
You grimace. "Sanji I haven't missed someone doing a slip OR a lift in years – and DON'T say 'well maybe you've lost your touch', cause that ain't it."
"Oooooh ho ho ho," His obviously bemused tone did not go unnoticed. You growl as he laughs. "Piquing your interest isn't easy, what a slick bastard."
"Yeah, yeah. C'mon boss, back to work." You say with an air of faked long-suffering. "And you're taking all of that money, I expressly told him I didn't need any, so I refuse to have that included in tips."
"Aye, aye Captain (Y/N)." Sanji replies letting you move him bodily back behind the counter after stuffing the money in his hand.
CW: Language, violence, blood, moral ambiguity, murder, sexual themes and situations 18+ only
Chapter 4: Sorted
Against your wishes, or rather, before they even asked for your opinion, Luffy and Ace had called all the places you worked and had reorganized your schedule. Not that you could give them credit for the new schedule, apparently Eustass had taken over that in the middle of the makeshift conference call the boys had set up and done most of the heavy lifting.
You weren't going to work at Robin's flower shop for the next week, and you only had a couple shifts at Sanji's café. No deliveries with Zoro - while Zoro was strong, the deliveries themselves were the issue. It was a security nightmare, and everyone was trying to keep you safe. Most of your shifts were going to be tucked in the back of Eustass' body shop doing bookkeeping and paperwork.
Easily defensible, and it kept you out of sight the most. Plus, you got to sit while you worked, and after the whole ordeal with Trouble and the Break-in at your place, you were actually relieved to be able to take it easy a little.
Two days later you were organizing the paperwork for Eustass' shop, humming a little song to yourself and starting to feel a little antsy. You'd had one short 2-hour shift at Sanji's shop to help with rush hour, and everything else had been here so far.
"Hey Mouse, how're you holding up in your new mouse hole?" Eustass asks, coming into the back office for the first time that day. He was covered in grease smears, and had a series of parts over one shoulder, wiping his grimy hands onto a nearly equally grimy rag.
"Starting to feel like I should risk the farmer's cat," You reply. "I don't mean to complain, but I'm basically in a friends-with-benefits relationship with house arrest."
Eustass snorts. "Sabo's out front, I'm sure you could convince him to go on a walk with you or something."
You sigh. "Nah, it'd just stress him out to be on high alert the whole time. The boys're doing me a huge favor, I should do my best to appreciate that."
"Yer not wrong, mouse." He goes back into work mode and had you retrieve some paper work for him. Better you than him, at least one of you had truly clean hands. Grinning inwardly, you started to wonder if maybe the reason Law had disdain for Eustass was because he was a germaphobe. It was a perk to have as a doctor, but on the other extreme you'd seen Eustass use glue on a cut, without washing it, and then go right back to whatever he was working on.
You swore the only reason he hadn't gotten a bad infection was because germs were afraid of him. He was a big, broad-shouldered, temperamental asshole – right until you really got to know him, then he wasn't much more than a big, sarcastic, lovable asshole. Protective too, you were sure he'd strong armed having you at the shop so much because if anything happened he wanted to be able to get his hits in.
"Alright, head up front, man the desk for me." Eustass says with a grin. "It's not a walk around the block, but it's a change of scenery, much as I can offer."
You grin. "Thanks Brimstone." You hear him grunt in response. Eustass didn't like being called Red, and after a delightful series of terrible nickname choices, you settled on calling his best friend Fire and him Brimstone. Like how you called Marco and Thatch, Marco Polo. Killer protested his name of Fire, but you told him unless he was going to tame that wild hair of his, that it technically suited him.
After you got settled in at the front desk, Sabo disappeared somewhere else. He'd told you before that it was easier for him to guard someone if no one was expecting there to be a guard. He wasn't the 'big burly guy in a suit meant to be a deterrent' kind of guard. He was more of a from the shadows kind of guard.
You helped a few people, but the morning stretched into afternoon and you were playing solitaire on the desk computer on the hardest settings you could set it to, just to keep your brain going. You'd already organized and tidied the entire front area, and had to threaten Heat and Wire to stop them from trying to help you. It was sweet they wanted to help, but you were trying to keep busy.
A yawn escapes you as the door chimes, signaling that someone was coming in. Sucking in a breath at the end of your yawn, you start coughing in surprise.
In walked seven feet of a tailored white suit, pastel pink tie, silver-rimmed glasses with red lenses, some of the blondest blonde hair you'd ever seen, and a smile that made you grateful your face was already red from choking on your own yawn. You put a hand up to keep him from speaking as he got the desk and took a drink of water.
Composing yourself, you lace your fingers together, and put on the best customer service smile you had, before it turned into a deep scowl.
"What in the actual fuck are you doing here, Trouble?" You yell, smacking your hands on the desk as his smile only got bigger. You'd yelled louder than intended, and there a knock on the glass separating the shop from the reception area. Looking over, you saw Eustass looking back, and you made a heart-shape with both your hands and then waved him off.
"Our ordeal came to a close, young lady." He says in a voice that was as dangerous as you expected it would be. "I would like to repay my debt."
Narrowing your eyes for a minute, you sigh in defeat. It shouldn't be surprising someone with his connections was able to find you, but it was still a little unnerving.
You're silent for a moment and then your face lights up. "Great, you can take care of whoever tossed my place." You say, knowing that if he found you here, he had to know about that incident as well.
His smile doesn't falter. "That matter has been resolved, but it was a personal issue for me, so I can't say I believe it to be satisfactory compensation."
"I didn't save you for compensation." You grumble.
"While I appreciate your altruism, young lady, I don't want to leave this matter unpaid."
Twitching, you snap back a reply with more bite than you intended. "I appreciate you're being polite, Trouble, but stop calling me 'young lady'."
He raises an eyebrow and something in his grin and almost purring voice makes your fight or flight response twitch. "Mmmm... Then how would you prefer I address you, Miss?"
The heat rises in your cheeks, as you realize you had walked right into that. Heavens above, you were willing to drag this smarmy bastard into the backroom and do unspeakable things to him. Really fun unspeakable things. He seemed like the right kind of guy for it too, you bet Trouble was 100% okay with non-commitment type relationships for the sake of mutual pleasure.
"(Y/N)," you admit in defeat. It would be a bigger battle of wills than you were up for to continue to dodge giving this man your name. Especially since you technically knew his, even if he had refrained from giving it to you directly. "So, can I assume it's safe for me to go back to my usual routine?"
He hums positively and nods along with it. "My apologies I wasn't efficient enough in dealing with my... friend, to avoid having caused you additional displeasure."
Oh no, he wasn't about to do what you thought he was.
"I would like to make up for that as well."
Fuck. Of course, he did exactly what you thought he was going to do.
You open your mouth to protest when he lowers his sunglasses and peers over the rims to meet your eyes in a steady gaze that causes you to close your mouth and mentally revisit the logistics of the backroom. People often dismissed brown eyes as boring, but you were certain at that point that people were fools.
"I do hope you don't intend to deny me the pleasure of giving my thanks, Miss (Y/N)."
(Y/N).exe has encountered an error. Your brain stops working for a second and your only clear thought is 'so that's how you hold the reins to an international organization at such a young age'. You couldn't return his gaze and had to look away before you were able to swallow and find your voice.
"I knew you were trouble." You grouse quietly, as you pull out a pen and tore a piece of paper from a nearby pad. You write down the address to Sanji's café along with a date and time. "My friend is an exceptional cook, and since you look like the refined type Trouble, I imagine afternoon tea is something you can acquiesce to?"
"Deciding all the details for me, Miss (Y/N), seems you are the type to take charge in all manner of situations." His tone was all business, but that mischievous grin played at the corners of his smile.
You let any possible innuendo slip right by you and your customer service smile. "I'm sure someone as in control of things as you are, can make it work."
Okay, it was a bit of a jab since your first meeting had been in the midst of his not being in control, but you hadn't been in control this whole conversation and you were annoyed. Annoyed enough to poke the bearest bear to ever wander into your life so far. It was probably safer to swear at Pops for a full hour than tease someone you didn't know much about, aside from the size of his... connections.
His smirk never falters. "I'm sure I can." He tucks the paper into a pocket on the inside of his suit jacket and turns to leave. "It's been a pleasure, Miss (Y/N), I look forward to our meeting."
One he was gone, you texted Marco, holding a finger up toward Kid before he even walked into the reception space.
(Y/N): Trouble™ just came into Eustass' body shop. Says he's sorted his internal issue. Can you get someone to go check my place?
After sending the text, you look over at Eustass, who'd been standing nearby. "Well, that's one problem down, I guess."
"No more being holed up in the back office then, mouse?"
"I'm free to steal the farmer's cheese again," you reply with your best smile. The running joke of you being a mouse, society being a farmer, and your cash stash being cheese had been going on for so long you'd forgot when it started. It was dorky as hell, but a good way to relieve tension with humor in times like these.
"S'almost a shame." Eustass says, reaching out with one grimy hand and ruffling your hair. "Was nice to have you caught in my shop for so long."
"Aww, I love you too, Red." you say, and laugh hysterically when he throws his oil rag in your face.
He reaches over to mock strangle you when your phone dings with a reply from Marco. Sabo's walked into the reception area at the same time, coming over to the desk and standing with you.
Marco: I'll head over myself. Told Pops. Any ideas?
"Any ideas? About what Marco?" You grumble.
"About how he found you here." Eustass answers and Sabo nods. Looking up you realized he and Sabo had been wondering the same thing. You had too, when you first started talking to him, but you'd forgotten by the end of the conversation.
Replying to Marco you spoke at the same time so you could answer everyone at once.
(Y/N): Nothing concrete. Figured him being him meant he had plenty of strings to pull. Pops said he was international.
Eustass raises his brow at that and gives a low whistle. He wasn't in the same circles as The Boys, but he was friends with you and Luffy, so he was aware of the kind of things Newgate and sons did. Kid might have what people would consider a gang of sorts, but it was just him and his friends who had built up the shop together. They labeled him boss at some point, and he's done a good job of it.
Sabo didn't say anything, but his face suggests you were probably right.
Marco: Fair.
Marco: Does it bother you?
Thinking about it for a second, you spoke your reply again, keeping them all in the loop of the conversation.
(Y/N): A tiny bit at first. But no, not really. Better to have people like you and him watching out for me than not, I suppose.
Marco replies with a heart and wink emoji that make you feel better.
"I know you like your space, (Y/N)," Sabo says as you smile at Marco's reply. "But I don't have anything else for today, so I can stay with you for a bit longer."
"I think I'd like that. Plus, everyone and their brother is worried about me still, so it'll keep everyone else from pestering me too soon." You admit, as Sabo smiles and Eustass grunts.
"You can log out and go run free if you want, mouse." Kid states, looking around the reception area. "We ain't been busy today, and there's not a lot of appointments left. I can shove Wire or Heat up front."
"I'll take you up on that. I've been feeling restless the last few hours." Everything went down Sunday early morning, your home got tossed that afternoon, and now it was Wednesday. The meeting with Doflamingo was this Friday. It had felt like an eternity, but everyone had come together to make it as painless as possible, and you had to admit – Mr. Donquixote worked fast. You'd expected to be stuck away from home and surrounded by bodyguards for at least a week or two.
The whole timetable left you little concerned. There was no way those wounds healed up in such a short amount of time. But there'd been zero indication he was in any sort of pain, or on any pain relievers, during your little tête-à-tête earlier.
As Sabo and you walked, you were sending out texts to the others. You let Robin know she could schedule you as needed, told Sanji about the meeting for Friday, asked Zoro if you could help at all tomorrow, and let Law know that your space invaders had been sorted. Sabo kept you from walking into people or traffic while you sent and received the small flurry of texts.
"Your first night back home," Sabo starts, an apologetic tone of concern in his voice. "You mind if Ace and I sleep over?"
Without Luffy around, Ace and Sabo were comparatively mellow, and two of the lightest sleepers among all the boys. Ace slept so lightly he'd often power nap throughout the day because he wasn't actually getting good rest at night. Sabo was so devoted to his role in the family that you'd seen him snatch a nerf dart out of the air before when Luffy and you tried to get him in his sleep.
"Sabo, you're being considerate."
"I'm trying." He smiles.
You laugh at his response. Sabo was always considerate, almost too considerate sometimes, but right now it was nice.
"Yeah, actually, I think having people I've invited over myself and in my space with me for a night will make it a lot easier to be there on my own later." Putting an arm around his shoulder causing him to hunch down a little to accommodate you. "Speaking of sleep overs, did you finally give that girl Koala the flowers Robin suggested?"
Sabo turns red surprisingly fast and looks away. "I... kind of." He pulls his newsie style cap down over his face. "I gave her some apple blossoms."
"I prefer you before all?" you question, making sure you was remembering Robin's The Language of Flowers board that decorated her shop correctly.
Sabo nods.
"Aww, you adorable little rapscallion, you!" You ruffle his hat as he protests, slipping out from under your arm to fix his hair and hat. "I'm proud of you."
CW: Language, violence, blood, moral ambiguity, murder, sexual themes and situations 18+ only
Chapter 3: Home Sweet Invasion
You had such a long day yesterday, and you had all of today to yourself, so it was no wonder you didn't even twitch until about 2pm. You did your 'morning' routine and put on a tee and some jeans before heading out to Pops' place. You should've gone there first thing after last night, but you wanted to sleep more than anything else, and sleeping at Pops' place was near impossible.
Besides, you weren't one of Pops' boys, so you were doing him a favor updating him on last night. Unless he already knew about it.
Your pace down the street slowed as you realize that you might've botched one of Pops' own jobs on accident. Well, whether you had or hadn't, you needed to make sure he knew. Because if someone other than him found out you'd botched their hit on Doflamingo you were going to need Pop to protect you.
You turned your phone on when you got on the train, and realized that the doc, Trafalgar Law, had called a few times. Then texted. He wasn't mad mad, he sounded more concerned than anything else. You decided to text him back instead of trying to have an ambiguous conversation on a packed train.
(Y/N): On a train. Don't blow a gasket, I'm okay. Wasn't me. Patched up a stray.
The little dots that indicate typing were going for a long time, and when the message finally comes through you realize he must've been typing and retyping quite a few times before deciding what to send.
Law: Clinic. Not a pet hospital.
You laugh at the idea of Doflamingo being someone's pet.
(Y/N): I didn't use anything expensive, did I?
Law: No.
(Y/N): Bill me then, or let me know if you need a hand and I'll work it off.
Law: You work at a café, a flower shop, a delivery service, and that other place. How can you even offer to work here?
That other place huh? You smirk at the screen, you are well aware Law doesn't get along with Eustass, but the guy had built up a successful auto-body shop from literal scrap. It was worth at least a little recognition.
(Y/N): I'd make it work. Let me know.
Law: Your stray survive?
(Y/N): I imagine so.
It took ten minutes to reach your stop. You walk briskly the rest of the way to Pops' place. If you had been thinking at all when you woke up, you would've called and asked Marco or Thatch to come pick you up. Getting around on your own was a habit, but if you had screwed up royally last night, asking for the ride would've been the smarter move.
Getting to the gate was the first time you'd relaxed since leaving your apartment.
There was a bit of static and a beep before Sabo's voice came through. "(Y/N)?" You look into the camera and make a funny face in response. "Come in, come in." Sabo laughs and the gate buzzes, opening up and letting you through.
Jogging up the driveway you notice Thatch outside smoking. "Hey, is Pop home?"
He nods, "You missed breakfast, but it won't be too much longer until dinner." Thatch offers automatically and then gets a better look at you. "(Y/N), you alright?"
Taking a moment to consider things, you shake your head. "Thatch. I need to talk to Pops. Like, now now."
Thatch puts out his smoke and turns toward the doors alongside you. He calls to Marco when you got inside and then makes a gesture you don't catch. Marco nods, and you and Thatch continue upstairs. The boys were a mess most of the time – loud, rowdy, it was amazing this manor could handle it, but when things were serious, so were they.
You saw them shift gears one time with some punks when you were all hanging out back in your school days. The creeps didn't realize who they were, and were being disrespectful, but it wasn't bothering any of them. You pipped up because you all were running late and one of the punks turned too fast and accidentally hit you with the back of his hand.
Things went from 1 to 'oh no' in a split second. Ace had scared you a little, wanting to know if he should break fingers individually or all in one go. It took you two agonizingly long minutes to get everyone to chill and get the klutz who smacked you off with a bruise on his wrist, only cause Sabo had snatched it out of the air so fast.
It's nice to know you're loved, but mob boys are overprotective.
Thatch knocks on the study doors for you. "Hey Pops, (Y/N)'s here and she needs to speak to you."
"Come in, come in!" Pops sounds like Santa Claus when he's in a good mood. You know the big red gift giver isn't real, but Pops had that same big jovial voice and presence. Like he was an entity much larger than his appearance would suggest, and his appearance was by no means small.
Thatch opens it up and lets you step in. Pops, Edward Newgate to most folks, had his arms out for a hug, but the smile on his face relaxes when he realizes Thatch wasn't coming in with you. You give him a hug, you weren't here because you were mad at him, so hugs were in order.
"What happened, lass?" He asks. His voice was still kind, but it was stern, and a little comforting as well.
"I hope nothing bad, but you're going to have to tell me, Pop." He gestures to a seat, and after you sink into the big chair you start telling him about last night, or rather this morning. He doesn't say anything while you talk, doesn't even hardly move as a matter of fact. When you finish, you looked up at him with concern.
"Look, my biggest worry is I messed up a job you were overseeing."
Newgate shakes his head. "I know you know we're not exactly legal, but we don't facilitate hits. Especially not against an international organization like his."
"In... INTERNATIONAL?" Your eyes nearly fell out of your head before you sink back into the seat. "Aw fu---uuudge." Pops doesn't like his kids swearing, and while you might not be one technically, you don't test something like that.
"Are you willing to stay here for a few days, (Y/N)?" He folds his hands together and leans forward on the desk. "Doflamingo won't do you any harm, but it sounds like him and his Family are going to be recovering for a couple days whether they want to or not. Whoever had betrayed him might have enough connections to figure you out, and we can at least keep you safe for now."
You make a face, one torn between wanting to stay safe, and not wanting to spend a few days in a row around all of Pops' sons. You loved them, but they also loved you, and it was all very sibling-like and that meant it was not going to be relaxing at all.
Plus, it meant not working, and if you weren't working you were fidgety. You had plenty of funds tucked away, because while you worked a lot, you didn't spend much. You didn't work because you were desperate for cash, you just preferred to be busy versus not.
You make frustrated grunting noises for a moment and then sigh. "Can I borrow someone to come with me while I go to my jobs for a couple days, or is that asking too much?"
Pops smiles. "I do admire your work ethic." He ponders your request for a moment. "Take Marco and Thatch with you to your place, get some clothes and whatever else you need. I'll have Sabo set up the guest room for you, and I'll work out a schedule so that at least one of the boys are with you at all times."
"And you won't reach out to Doflamingo and tell him I'm the one who helped him, right?"
"Won't?"
"Won't." You insist.
Pops shrugs. "I suppose I won't."
He calls all the boys into his office and explains what was going on. They got that 'serious business' look on their faces for a second, but then everyone was patting your shoulders and ruffling your hair and promising that you weren't going to have anything to worry about.
.
.
.
Thatch and Marco drove you back to your apartment, well, duplex-surrounded-by-other-duplexes. You had two floors to yourself, but it was still a tight community. Nice, but not upscale, plenty of eyes watching, but not necessarily snooping. It was exactly the kind of balance you preferred.
The three of you were all laughs and light conversation until you open your front door. Marco pulls you back and he and Thatch had guns in their hands in an instant.
"Keep behind me, yoi." Marco instructs, and you tap his back to show you understood. He and Thatch step in, covering each other as they work their way into your home. They knew the place well enough that there weren't going to be any nasty surprises for them to worry about. You followed in behind them, staying only where it was explicitly clear.
You weren't devastated at the destructive tornado that had blown through your home, but you were unsettled by it. Having left a little after 2pm, It was barely 5pm as the two eldest Newgate sons were walking through your home making sure there wasn't anyone still around.
Pulling out your phone you send a text to Law.
(Y/N): My stray might've had an owner last night.
Taking a picture of the upheaval in the front room you send it with the text.
Law: Tell me you're not in that alone.
(Y/N): Nah, Marco 'n' Polo are here.
Law: Stay. With. Them.
(Y/N): I'm gonna. They're here with me cause it was already decided. You be careful.
Law: I will.
Doc had his own connections, or was his own connections, sometimes you weren't really sure which it was, but you still wanted to make sure he had as much of a heads up as possible. Once you knew Law was okay you catch yourself starting to shake. Thatch comes back downstairs and gives you hug after tucking his gun away.
"Marco's making you a bag. We'll swing by the store if you need any lady stuff." He says matter-of-factly. "It's gonna be okay, kiddo."
Nodding, you try to speak, but instead, just start crying. Someone was in your home, putting their hands on your stuff, inside of a very short window of time in which you could've still been here for it. You didn't care that the place was a mess, you cared someone came uninvited into your home. Thatch hugs you tighter and lets you cry for a few minutes. Marco stops on the stairs and waits for you as well, your suitcase in his hands.
You imagine they were both considering taking revenge on Doflamingo's behalf, but they wouldn't do something like that unless you'd been hurt. Stepping in on another man's revenge over some furniture wasn't a good enough reason.
The car ride back was silent. Thatch drove, Marco sat in the back with you and kept petting your hair while you dozed off and tried to stay calm.
CW: Language, violence, blood, moral ambiguity, murder, sexual themes and situations 18+ only
Chapter 2: Gob-smacked
You go out to the front, flicking on some lights for a moment and shuffling things around on the front desk to look like you're the poor schmuck that got stuck on the late shift. You lock up the front same as you opened the back door and are extra grateful you can make this look like a finicky key and not just a set of lockpicks.
There's no one immediately around, but you can hear voices grousing further down the street. Not far enough away for your liking, but not close enough to delay you leaving. Turning down the back alley, you collect Trouble from the operating room, and lock up before heading deeper into the alleyways.
Trouble's a little unstable on his feet, you imagine because he's woozy from blood loss at this point, but the man's a damn tank with how well he's holding on. You've only seen Pops fair this well after such a beating – and there's no adrenaline rush left to keep pushing him forward anymore.
Plenty of adrenaline for you though. You don't want to get shot helping this guy, but you can't just drop things here and leave. You're invested. Half of it is Law's fault; he gets unreasonably angry when he fixes someone up only to have them end up back in the clinic because they didn't take it easy.
Your new friend stumbles pretty hard, and his size nearly takes you with him. You were so focused on listening for pursuers that it catches you off guard. Despite yourself, you yelp, then swear, and then you drag-run with Trouble and tuck yourselves deeper into the alley, just in time to have lights flood down through it and angry voices echo down the bricks.
Closing your eyes, you lean your head back and internally curse yourself into the abyss.
"It was a clinic bitch." One guy hisses. "I told you it was weird, someone coming out of there this late."
Ah well, crap.
"Shut yer gob." Another voice hisses back. These fools think they're being quiet just because they're not speaking normally. "If we don't find Doflamingo and finish this, we're not gonna be able to get far enough away."
Your blood freezes. Doflamingo. As in Don-fucking-quixote Doflamingo? You look over at Trouble. He's pressed against the wall, and you could see one of his eyes past his glasses from your shared position pressed against the bricks. It's a sharp gaze, and you understand why he wore shades all the time – you think people's under garments would just hurl themselves at him if he showed everyone that gaze.
Flying bras and panties, chaos in the streets. You smile despite the situation and the lead weight growing in the pit of your stomach.
Your brain races at the bits of information you know about him. Ex-model, big shot CEO, 30-some year old Donquixote Doflamingo had launched himself into celebrity status in his twenties and you're pretty sure he was still rising. Pops had said something about the business being legit, but in his words 'those shades are hiding more than his eyes'.
Apparently, you're going to have to start paying attention to the magazines like Nami does, because you did not recognize this bastard on your own. At least not by his appearance, but you certainly knew the man's name.
Holding your breath as the pursuers pass you, watching the lights of their flashlights sliding over the trash and detritus of the back alley, waiting for them to either notice you or not. A minute, two minutes, the sounds were far away and you didn't hear anything else. You point down the smaller alley you were hiding in, and urge Trouble to head that way. The gap was almost too small for his shoulders to fit in, and while you didn't like having him step out first, options were limited.
When he steps out first, you hear a click and freeze as a gun barrel is leveled at him. You can't see the shooter, and the shooter can't see you. Trouble was breathing heavy, trying not to lean against the building so as to maintain his intimidating glare. A glare that was surprisingly effective from behind those shades.
"You got the devil's own luck." The gunman snickers. "But, it had to run out at some point."
You tense your muscles and make your choice. If the gun went off then all your efforts up to now were wasted, and you highly doubt you were going to be left alone anyway. You couldn't shuffle back into the alley - you'd make too much noise. It was either take this guy out without the gun going off, or just resign yourself to an aggravatingly short life.
If you tackle him directly, the shock could cause him to pull the trigger and that would be the end of it all. Your best best was to surprise him mentally, and do something completely unexpected.
You just hope Trouble can survive your decision.
You body check Doflamingo, throwing the other guy off his guard. The look of shock on his face almost makes you laugh, but this is what you wanted. Planting your feet you drove your fist into his gut as hard and as hooked as you could, and thanked your luck he wasn't wearing a bullet proof vest.
Driving the air out of him, he vomits and drops the gun. Grabbing the barrel, you slam the butt of it into the back of his head and drive him into the ground. Keeping an eye, and the gun, levelled at him you took a step back toward Trouble. You were breathing hard, but it was mostly adrenaline pumping through you, not exhaustion.
Okay, maybe some of it was exhaustion. How long had you been awake at this point?
"Trouble?" You question, not taking your eyes off the guy you think you just gave a wicked concussion, and hoping you weren't the straw that broke your patient's literal back.
"I'm up."
"Good." Emptying the bullets from the revolver into your hand you chuck them down the alley before turning to him and wiping the gun with your shirt as you both move down the street. You had curiosity questions, but now wasn't the time. After getting a few blocks closer to Q's you drop the empty gun into the sewers.
A moment after that your adrenaline starts crashing. You nearly burp, feeling nerves roil your stomach, mutter a quiet 'wait', and turn back into the alley you'd just exited to empty what little was left of your dinner into the trash. Trouble doesn't say anything, but you do.
"I've been up and working since 4am," You grouse, feeling as though you'd earned being able to complain a bit. "Then this. It's been a day, Trouble."
Getting up on shaky legs you have him leaning against you again, but when you got to the corner your heart sinks.
Three black SUVs surround you both. One from the left, two from the right. You hadn't even heard the sound of cars and were too exhausted to run by yourself, let alone yank him along with you. You swear, but stay standing.
"It's alright." His voice slips down to you and comforts you. "These are my people."
Most of the people who spilled out of the SUVs were loud. Loud in every imaginable way. Loud in their movements, in their speech, in their dress. It was an assault after working so hard to be quiet all this time. It wasn't too dissimilar from Pops' boys though, and felt like a proper rowdy family. A very relieved, and very happy rowdy family at that.
Everybody shouts his name, and so you guess at this point there wasn't any way you could deny it. Whether you wanted to have helped save someone as notorious as Donquixote Doflamingo was a moot point, the deed was done.
There were bits and pieces about traitors getting away, and a lot of his people looked almost as bad as he did. You took in a few faces and scanned to see who was paying attention to what, but it wasn't your circus anymore.
At the peak of the chaos, you slip away. You are practically a mouse among giants as it was, there were so many big people in that group, and one of the things you were best at was being quiet. You could hear the low rumble of his voice, but you couldn't make out the words. The tone and volume of the people who had rushed to him changed as well.
Melting into the alley ways you'd grown up in, you felt a small pang as you realized they were looking for you, but you had done your part. It was 25 hours after you'd first woke up for the day that you got into your own home and slept.
CW: Language, violence, blood, moral ambiguity, murder, sexual themes and situations 18+ only
Summary: "It is in love, and murder, that we are sincere." He states, breath tickling your lips as he leans closer. "And I adore your sincerity, (Y/N)."
Modern Mafia AU style story - sorry, I don't really know what else to say about it ^^;
Chapter 1: Trouble
Working a lot of odd jobs, meant working a lot of odd hours, and most of the time it didn't bother you, but today was an eighteen-hour day and you put in time in three jobs. It had been long, and both your mind and your body were effectively exhausted. Peeking at your phone as you walked, you realized it was more like a 24-hour day, since it was already past midnight.
Ugh, I've been up since 4am, today was nuts. You grumble internally.
You kept your monologue internal so you could keep your senses external. Walking home this late wasn't super safe, but you're also not exactly easy pickings, so you weren't terribly worried. A dropped guard though, is no guard, so while you might have looked distracted, you weren't.
You hear a low groan from ahead of you, and the shifting of clothes and back-alley trash. It wasn’t loud, but you were on alert and there wasn’t much other noise around here at this time of night. Making yourself quieter than you had been, you crept into the alley and took in the scene.
A man in a nice, if not torn and bloody suit, is propped against the wall of building, breathing ragged puffs into the cooler air. He’s tall with blonde hair, sunglass – at night? What a choice. – and an old flintlock gun in his hand. It’s hard to see in the dark, but from his posture, he looks beat to all hell.
You slip closer, softer than the air, and put a hand over his flintlock and his mouth at the same time, staring into his eyes well as you could against the glasses. He jerks, but he doesn’t make a sound, and you don’t feel him struggle against you. Taking a closer look, you realize he isn’t just beat all to hells, he is hurt enough to be on the edges of death.
Looking around for signs of whoever is on his tail you then lean in close and hiss in a whisper. “Fight me on trying to help you and I leave you to die.” You warn. “If you lean on me, think you can stand?”
You didn’t move your hand from his mouth or his firearm yet, but he nods without any real hesitation. “Your pursuers,” You whisper, releasing your grip and bracing to help him to his feet, pointing with your chin as you spoke. “In the alley or main?”
He points to the alley and lets out a low grunt from behind clenched teeth as you get him on his feet. “Alright. Stuff your questions and your voice, now move.”
He towers over you. You were short by normal standards, and he had to have two feet on you easy. But for all he leaned into you, you pushed back, giving as much support as you could physically muster. You would’ve fireman carried him, but something told you that unless he was completely unconscious there’s no way he was going to suffer being hauled around like that.
You stop from time to time to listen, and then adjust your course or get off the main street entirely. You were making your way to your friend’s clinic, it was closed but locks were just a suggestion, and the doc wouldn’t press charges against you anyway.
"Where?" His voice was deep, but as soft and quiet as you imagined it could hope to be.
“Somewhere safe and discreet to stop the bleeding.” You pause, listen, and catch the first real sounds of actual pursuit so you push him a little faster. “After that depends.”
He seemed content with that answer, and you could feel him trying to push him body to move faster.
It only took a couple of minutes to reach the clinic. You prop him against the wall. “Don’t fall down big guy,” You whisper, pulling out your lockpicks and opening the door almost as fast as if you’d had a key. It was no surprise, you practiced on this door for years with Law’s permission. He’d meant for you to be able to come in if you had an emergency for yourself, but that wasn’t your problem right now.
You get the big guy in, and the door shuts quietly behind you both. Setting him on the exam table, closing interior doors and making sure there was no way for light to spill into the front of the clinic before turning on the room’s light you go about gathering supplies.
"Why?" That rumble of a voice was nice. You appreciate him keeping his noise making minimal as well.
"Bored." You snort derisively. You speak quietly, barely above a whisper, the room wasn't soundproof, but it was brick with a heavy door. You don't look at him as you move around the room. With the supplies gathered, it was time to prep the station and then clean everything. "You like that suit?"
"Not sentimentally." He states flatly. His tone suggests he does like it for more practical reasons.
You bite back a laugh. "Strip what you can and lay down."
"You're a doctor?" His voice was like thunder and velvet, you would almost hate to hear it when he's at full health, you imagine it'd be easy to get swept away by that voice.
"Field medic if anything." You answer. "You're in the loving hands of someone with practical experience but no degree." You finish prepping as he lays down with a restrained groan, his suit jacket, tie, and undershirt on the floor. "We can compare scars la... ter." You turn toward him after scrubbing your hands and see the extent of the wounds.
At least three bullet holes and two gashes. Bruises and scrapes too, but those weren't your problem. With this level of hurt he's probably got a fracture or two at the minimum.
"Anything I can't see?" You ask, cleaning up the absolute mess his torso had become. "Stabbed in the back? Shot in the leg? Those pants are kind of blood-colored, I don't want to waste time hunting for holes."
"One back wound." He replies. "Left leg outer thigh."
Concise, you appreciate concise. You glance down and see the tear and the blood, pulling the tear you rip the pants a bit and clean the area up with the towel. "Lucky bastard, the shot's shallow, it'll be easy to fix. I'll get your front patched up and we'll look at that back wound. I don't wanna go flipping you over and over."
You hand him a clean towel. "You look like a tough bastard, but I don't thief the doc's meds, so if you have to, bite this and keep as quiet as fucking possible if you don't want your friends to come in uninvited."
You go to work. You'd assisted the doc before, and you'd actually patched yourself up a few times too. Not because you were full of bullets and had pissed people off, but you got into fights and accidents and hospitals weren't cheap. Plus, time around the boys meant patching Pops' crew often enough, and those cheeky bastards never wanted to admit that anything hurt.
This guy could've won their fights though, he was using the towel as a pillow, and the harsh light of the room was enough for you to see the outline of his eyes through his glasses while you work. He does grunt and twitch a time or two, but he is impressively stoic.
"You lost a lot of blood, mister." You remark. Rambling while you worked helped you keep focus. "I can't fix that either, but at least we're plugging the leaks. I bet with that suit you're wearing you can get proper care later, but I feel like your friends out there are the clingy types. And pretty well-prepared too, to do all this, you don't strike me as a guy caught off guard much."
There was a silence at first, and when you were between wounds a single word. "Traitor." There's a weight to that word that almost sinks your soul down to your feet. If that traitor survived tonight, you had a feeling he wouldn't survive many more if this man had his way.
"Explains the wound in the back then. Tough luck." You pat his chest as you finish up the last wound and raise an eyebrow. This guy is solid. Handsome bastard too, especially if he can look this good while being in this bad of shape. You swallow and refocus. "Let me deal with your leg, then you can turn over."
Moving closer to it you pull the fabric a little more to make more room. "At least I hope we can turn you over after this. I'm not exactly a power lifter, and you're a touch bigger than me."
A bemused chuckle fills the air and you smile. A sense of humor, and being able to appreciate that humor, are good signs in situations like this.
His muscles ripple as he turns over and crosses his arms in front of himself, resting his chin on them. You took a moment to appreciate what this man did to maintain his body and felt a swift pang of guilt that your stitches weren't better.
"Do you know who I am?"
"Trouble." You answer and earn another smooth rumbly chuckle. You clean the wound on his back, just barely to the side of his spine, and are getting ready to stitch it. "And Trouble, I don't want to know any other name you have, and there's no reason to give you mine."
"I'd like to properly thank you for all this."
You grunt. "This ain't over yet, and if it goes bad then you'll just have to appreciate our time in my friend's clinic."
You resist the urge to slap his ass when you finish. He's not one of the boys, and you're not looking to make friends with Trouble - so there's no need to be cheeky.
"Get dressed, I'm going to go out the front and at least pretend to be locking up so I can see if your friends are around." You pull the gloves off and toss 'em in the wrong bin specifically so Law'll know it was you. "After that we can make our way to Q's, since the cabbies hang out there, and get you a lift to wherever you want.
