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ilium-ilia · 2 months ago

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In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Twenty-Seven: to you, Aelin

tw: minor violence and gore, miscarriage, abortion mention, infidelity

“You see that girl right there? You stay away from her. She’s nothing but trouble.”

It’s the first thing John’s father says about Aelin Gilroy. Using one long, crooked finger, he points her out in the thick crowd of parents and students attending their Year 8 science fair. Projects and standing boards obscure her as they tower overhead on rickety folding tables, but that blinding smile and incandescent teal eyes shine through the crowd like a lighthouse leading a ship safe to shore.

Trouble. He often disagrees with his father, and this instance is no different. He does not think Aelin Gilroy is trouble. She’s never disruptive in class, and he once saw her give another student her cardigan two years ago when she couldn’t stop shivering in class. It isn’t until her father steps into view that he realizes the meaning of this warning—crisp police uniform, hat held in front of his stomach, giving a firm handshake to the science teacher. An officer. An inspector. An adversary to his father in the most wretched of ways.

Police officers always make the family business difficult.

For many years, John heeds his father’s warning—if not for his own sake, then at least for hers—until Year 11. By some terrible twist of fate, his maths teacher sat Aelin Gilroy next to him in that small, two seater desk. She smells like roses freshly woken by morning dew after a spring shower. He learns she likes to doodle in the corner of her notebook during lectures, and she can’t stop tapping her foot against the floor while taking an exam. John finds that he likes the way her pale brows knit together in concentration, scrunching her forehead, and how soft her voice is when whispering answers to the table on her left.

But he doesn’t have time to think about her. Not that he should. John Price is unfortunate enough to come from a long line of brutal patriarchs who often condition equally as cruel heirs. Once he turns sixteen, his father’s petulance only grows as he forces him to join him on escapades in the night after lectures have concluded. Bodies crumble. His fists split on begging faces pleading for the mercy that has long been snuffed out of his father’s chest. Each night his cheek grows tender with the force of his father’s hand, and his eyes droop with the weight of the secret life of a killer—of a true son born into the family business.

“Red color corrector will hide the bruise on your eye.”

It takes John several moments to realise Aelin Gilroy is talking to him, but even then he doesn’t fully believe it until he turns to see her already staring at him. She’s lazily leaning forward on the desk, hand propping her head up beneath her chin as her tongue darts out to wet her rosy lips. John’s pencil ceases its dance across his worksheet.

“Color corrector?” he repeats.

“Yeah, you know. Makeup. Green hides red marks from acne, orange hides dark circles, red for… very dark circles.” Her brows raise as she silently motions to his eye, bringing his own hand to touch the tender spot on his face. “I’ve got some in my bag, if you’d like. Though, you’ll have to find your own shade of foundation. I think you’re a bit too warm toned compared to me.”

Her bluntness and unabashed reference to the shiner on his eye leaves him chuckling, transforming her coy smile into a small smirk. “You sound like an expert.”

“I am,” she quips before grinning. After a quick glance around the room, Aelin carefully pulls the collar of her shirt to the side, exposing the side of her neck. At first, John finds nothing of any importance until she points out a line of covered hickies just above her collar bone, fingers tracing it as if lovingly. They grey beneath the concealer and foundation, blurring them to the point they’ve almost vanished. “A girl’s gotta have her fun.”

John likes her humor. Appreciates it, anyway. Maybe there’s something comforting about knowing a girl like her gets in trouble; albeit, much less violent trouble than himself. A small flicker of hope ignites in his chest at the idea that perhaps there’s something in common between him and Aelin—that he has the possibility of even resembling something that’s normal. Something not drenched in blood.

It’s a short lived fantasy. When the end of term comes around, and they no longer share classes together, they drift. Aelin keeps her smiles polished while John continues to do the only thing his father ever bothered to teach him. By the end, Aelin’s A-Levels are enough to earn her a trip to anywhere in the country. Opportunities are thrown at her feet and offered up on dainty silver platters that glisten bright enough to reflect the future ahead of her. As for him, his father dies when he’s twenty. Murdered, and in a way that’s eerily similar to the way his mother had been. Cold, calculated, ruthless—his father’s existence is snuffed out by a single bullet, leaving behind nothing but a bloodstain coating the pillow that covers his face.

The torch is passed down—the handle is still bloody.

Over the years, he grows rigid and battle-hardened thanks to the business of violence that was bequeathed to him by his late father. He builds upon a decrepit empire until it’s thriving with sharp teeth and hired guns. It’s the only thing his father taught him; how to be dangerous. How to collect teeth and grind them to dust beneath the sole of his shoes. The Price family rises to power. The name forces people to tremble. John Price has nothing to lose but his own life, and even that pathetic amount he can scarcely get himself to care about.

The only thing he holds close to him is the ghosts of his past. They always lurk in uncomfortable places, whispering into the shell of his ear, biting at the nape of his neck. It finds him at all hours of the day—it torments him. Slithers beneath his skin. Even now as he stands in line at the florist’s shop his skin itches, eyes flickering to the exit, fingers twitching for the knife stowed in his pocket.

The only emollient he can find in this place is the voice of the woman in line before him. Demulcent and fleeting, he notes the way his heart slows. How the pathetic muscle quivers in his chest as she sweetly thanks the shopkeeper. When the redolence of roses reaches him, he tells himself he’s hallucinating, but when she turns to leave—small bouquet of flowers in her hand—he realizes who it is.

Aelin Gilroy.

Even after all these years he can still recognize her. The soft slope of her nose, the faint, bouncing curls in her flaxen hair, and her grace. How her chin is held high. How confidence exudes from every pore in her body as she floats toward the exit. Somehow, she’s even more perfect now than she was when they were children. He steps out of line, forcing the shopkeeper to stare at him with narrowed brows as he follows after her on uncertain feet.

“Aelin?”

All the air leaves his lungs when she turns to face him. She’s grown into her features now. Rosy cheeks and full lips, but her eyes are still the same. Crystalline like a low tide, filtering golden sunlight into fractals. Those eyes stare at him blankly, hands uncomfortably adjusting the bouquet as she traces him without a shred of familiarity.

“Yes?” she asks tensely.

Chuckling, he slaps his hand on the nape of his neck, rubbing out the tension there. “It’s John. John Price.”

There’s something about the light igniting in her eyes that has him feeling warmer than he has in a long while. A precious grin breaks out on her lips as she steps closer, now comfortable with his presence. “Oh my god, I didn’t recognize you! It’s been years… staying out of trouble, I hope?”

“Getting in just enough to keep things interesting,” John counters.

It’s as if no time has passed at all. She’s still that star pupil. Still that girl that had every boy tripping over their own two feet. Even now he can still hear her feet tapping against the floor as her pencil fills in test answers.

“What’s the occasion?” he then asks, gesturing to her bouquet.

“Oh,” she says. Her voice trips. Fractures. “Well, it’s—erm—the anniversary of my dad’s passing.”

John blinks. He can vaguely recall the news. Rolling clips of the police station and the accident that stole his life away. Somehow he never put two and two together.

“I’m sorry to hear that, I hadn’t heard,” he quickly apologizes.

Despite the terrible awkwardness of the conversation, she still smiles. Always graceful. Always poised. “It’s alright. I’m… making my peace with it.” She pauses, throat clearing with a tense cough. “What about you?”

“Oh, just some flowers for mum.”

His response makes Aelin smile something small and bittersweet. “How lovely. I bet she’ll love them.”

“They’ll make for good decoration.”

Something settles between the two of them—something that had never been there before. Not while they were children, growing up with one another in different corners of the world. It’s unfamiliar. Suffocating. It leaves John floundering, but the warmth it brings is intoxicating.

“Well, I ought to get going,” Aelin excuses politely. “Got a few more errands to run. But really, it was good seeing you again, John.”

This is the part where he should say goodbye. Wish her farewell just for her to vanish into a life of fortune where he’d never see her again. If he was a smart man, John would have done just that, but instead he finds his hand diving into his pocket where he retrieves a pen before quickly stealing one of the shop’s business cards to scribble down his number in the negative space.

“Here,” he says, holding it out for Aelin to take. “I’m certain you get this a lot, but if you need anything, anything at all, I’ll be there.”

To his surprise, she takes the card without hesitation, aqua eyes scanning his rushed handwriting while quietly thanking him. As she holds the card in front of her, something catches John’s attention. There’s a glint on her finger, one that reflects the light so brightly it nearly blinds him. Upon closer inspection, he realizes it’s a large, gaudy ring. Something given in poor taste. Something that attempts to steal the spotlight of Aelin’s beauty rather than compliment it.

“Did you get married?” John asks in what he tells himself is mere curiosity.

“Oh. No, not yet. Just engaged,” she says with an odd tone. Aelin glances at the ring—at the small band and large diamond that looks heavy enough to weigh her down. As if she can’t stand to look at it any longer, she shoves the card into her pocket before smiling at him. “Thank you again, John.”

As Aelin exits the store, she tries not to think about how this interaction with a long lost classmate of hers has her feeling lighter than she has in years. That’s all she feels these days. Heavy. Weighed down by a stony gaze that used to look at her with adoration as the looming nature of her own failure hangs over her head as if each step she takes brings her closer to the gallows.

There is little reprieve to be found in the cemetery where her father lays. Knees digging into the fresh grass, trembling fingers propping the flowers against his headstone, she does not pay attention to the tears streaming down her face. She’s learned to ignore them, if not welcome them. The wind picks up, cooling her feverish face as she traces the engraving of her father’s name letter by letter with her index finger.

“I miss you so much,” she whispers. “Everything’s gone to shit since you left. I dunno what to do without you.”

Her days have been foggy. Each waking moment leaves her stumbling through the dark all while she pretends she’s still the radiant girl she’s always been. It’s difficult to keep up the facade when her bed is cold in the mornings, and her fingers itch for the card John Price gave her. Ghosts follow behind her in the bedroom, her rearview mirror—the toilet.

So then, it should not come as a surprise when she returns home from her mother’s to see the lamp on in the living room. The television drones but no one is listening. A hand on a thigh. Unfamiliar lips pressed against ones she should have memorized but hasn’t felt the touch of in months. The woman looks nothing like Aelin. Inky locks cut into a short bob that her fiance weaves his fingers through as his nose kisses her cheek.

“Adam?”

Aelin’s stomach drops when they jump, heavy eyes now on her as she stands in the entryway. When Adam’s chest heaves with a sigh, she’s suddenly in the bathroom again. Hands clutching her stomach as she waddles out. Eyes full with tears as she sees him sitting on the couch, focused on the football match. It’s the same thing all over again.

She doesn’t wait around long enough to hear his excuses. The front door slams shut behind her but the sound is muffled on her ears as she slips into her car and speeds away.

Night has long since fallen by the time she reaches the park. When she was a child, her parents used to own a home in this neighborhood and she often came here with her dad. The swingset is painted blue now instead of red, but she makes no effort to approach it as she seats herself on an algid, metal bench.

During times like these, Aelin would often go to her dad for comfort. His office smelled like leather and Earl Grey, and he always kept a recliner in the corner of the room for her to curl up in to do homework, or cry about boys at school. He always knew what to say. What to do. Guiding her with a soft hand and sweet heart—she always wished she was more like him.

Now—without the luxury of paternal comfort—she does something stupid.

Fingers haphazardly digging through her bag, clutching the florist’s card, shakily punching in the numbers into her phone; Aelin knows she’s insane. Insane for thinking John Price is the person to call for something like this. Insane for thinking he’d even do anything at this time of night. Still, he answers. His voice bleeds through the speaker next to her ear like lukewarm wine. Intoxicating. Comforting.

The only greeting she can choke out is a sob.

By the time John finds Aelin, all of her tears have run dry, having been replaced with a brutal fury instead. A thick numbra clouds the park as the halogen lights hardly hold a torch bright enough to fight off the darkness. Still, he approaches her, noting how her knees bounce just like they used to all those years ago during exam season. Her bottom lip is bright red—irritated and cracked, abused by her teeth.

For as much effort as he puts into looking calm on the outside, there is nothing in the world that can settle the nerves fraying within him. Hearing her cry, hearing her beg for him to come and get her scared him more than he cares to admit. The tear stains on her cheeks make his fists curl. If only she knew the dangerous power she holds. The power to say bite and for John Price to respond where.

It doesn’t take long for him to coax out the truth. The rage swirling within Aelin nearly erupts as she spews every brutal detail. How Adam had been acting strange the last few months, how he used to show her off but has been keeping her locked away like a dirty secret, or something he’s ashamed of.

“Two fucking years, John,” Aelin seethes, teeth gritting so hard that they nearly crack. “Two years of being with him just for him to do… to do that? He moved me into his home, wanted me to quit my job because he said he wanted to take care of me, to take care of… of…”

Terrified that you’ll disintegrate before him, John reaches a careful hand out and brushes it against her shoulder. The tension melts beneath his touch, and if he wasn’t so concerned, pride would swell in his chest. “Easy, love.”

“I could’ve been great,” she continues, voice cracking as she leans into him. “I was able to go to any school in this country. I got my degree. I could’ve kept at work and been… something. And I didn’t need to. Not really. There was never anything I was trying to prove to anyone. I could’ve had a few kids with that white picket fence and stayed home to care for them, and I would’ve been completely happy living that trophy wife life if it meant I was loved. But I’m not, and it fucking hurts because I know I’m worth so much more than this.”

She crumbles like dust. The kind that’s so thin and fine you can only see it in the air when sunlight hits it. John’s arms wrap around her, pulling her close, palm cradling her head as she shakes in his grasp.

“Fuck, I’m so stupid,” she babbles.

“You’re not stupid,” he attempts to persuade.

“Adam only proposed when we found out I was pregnant,” she says. Her voice shatters. Fractures. Each syllable catches in her throat, slices the tender flesh. “T-Then my dad died and… It was stupid to think he’d want to stay after I lost it.”

John’s blood runs cold. His vision clouds with ichor—vermillion and thick. It’s so close he can nearly taste it. A violent man to a violent end, he craves it now more than ever. Instead, he holds her closer and gathers enough bravery to kiss the top of her head.

“None of that was your fault, love,” he assures. “You’re brilliant. Downright brilliant, and he’s a sorry sod for not seeing it.”

It takes a little convincing to get her to agree to stay at his place for the night. Really, there’s something comforting about being somewhere else. Away from her mother and that house that’s still haunted with her father’s ghost. John gives her an old t-shirt and a pair of joggers he’s been meaning to throw out for some time before ensuring she’s comfortable enough in his guest bedroom.

When he’s certain Aelin’s asleep, John sits in his office, hand over his mouth, teeth grinding as he stares at his phone. It takes only five minutes of deliberation before he’s dialing up the only man he knows he can trust.

“Yeah?” Simon Riley. His blunt greeting cuts over the line over the sound of thrumming club music and a cacophony of chatter.

“Riley, I need a favor. I’m sending you an address and I need you there as soon as possible,” John says, voice rumbling low and dark as he taps his desk with the tips of his fingers.

“What for?”

“A friend,” John excuses. “I need any items that seem like they belong to a girl. Clothes, toiletries, things of that sort.”

There’s a pause, and John can already see the expression on Riley’s face. A raised brow, tight lips, and a small huff. “Somethin’ ya can’t get yourself?”

“If I go myself, I’m breaking the jaw of the bastard who lives there,” he growls.

Inhale. Exhale. “This have somthin’ to do with the girl earlier? The one cryin’ on the phone?”

“Yeah.”

A hum. “I’ll be there in an hour.”

Much to John’s surprise, Aelin doesn’t ask too many questions when morning comes. She doesn’t push when he gives a vague answer about how he got her items, and she doesn’t question where her engagement ring vanished to, or why Adam hasn’t bothered to call or text her since she stormed out of the house. He tells her to stay as long as she likes—as long as she needs.

But she doesn’t leave.

Aelin Gilroy lingers in his home—not as a ghost, but as a dream. Something drifting between his fingers, just out of reach, that he wants so desperately to hold. He finds residuals of her in the shower with her golden hair stuck to the wall and the silage of rose toying with his nose. She’s there in the kitchen when he comes home, cooking up a late dinner, asking him to join her for a movie.

There is no effort on her end in leaving, just as there is no effort from him in getting her to leave. He would keep her forever if he could. Hold her in his arms like he did that night in the park, cradling her head against his chest. All she would have to do is ask him.

But as the weeks meander on, John finds himself sitting next to her on the couch. There��s too much wine in their bodies, ichor red and brimming full in his stomach, diffusing the light of the television as it illuminates her skin, her smile, everything. He decides that he likes this. Her. Enjoys the warmth of another human in this too-large house, always a void greeting him when he gets home, a black hole waiting to crush him. He doesn’t know how his father could have ever treated his mother so cold when the touch of a woman seems to make this home flourish.

She feels his gaze. Heavy lidded and murky with alcohol. She stares back, aqua hue bleeding into something darker, like the depths of the ocean instead of the mere tide lapping at the shore—unknowingly profound. He has yet to scratch the surface of Aelin Gilroy.

Yet he gets close to it when she places her glass on the coffee table and swings her leg over his lap. Bum resting on his knees, her hands steady her swaying body as she grips his shoulders, curls cascading down her back like a waterfall of sunlight. John stares up at her with awe blurring his vision. She smiles like she knows the mess she’s making of him.

“Kiss me.” She does not ask. She demands it. Requires it.

He leans back until his skull hits the cushion, then shakes his head. “You don’t want me to do that.”

Her eyebrow quirks. “Why not?”

“I’m not a good man.”

“I know.”

Those words are a baton to his diaphragm, forcefully expelling a chuckle from his throat before he can stop it. She tilts her head and he nearly grabs the nape of her neck to devour her whole. “How do you know?”

“I’ve always known,” Aelin insists. “I’ve always been a daddy’s girl. Besides, if you were a good man, you’d be dead by now. The good ones are always quick to go in your line of work, aren’t they?”

John wants to pretend that he’s surprised she knows, but of course she knows. Aelin Gilroy, daughter of Sean Gilroy, Chief Inspector, top of her class, the looks to kill and a brain to go with it. It does not take a genius to sniff out the blood that stains his hands. Dirty hands. Soiled hands. Ones he can’t help but place on her waist.

“If you know that much, then you know that you don’t want me to kiss you,” he insists.

“Why?” Her turn with the questions.

“Becuase I’m not dragging you into a life like this. I’m not letting you get hurt because of me.” His admission comes with plaguing visions that are so noisome they sting his eyes. Rose pink brains soaking into a mattress. Fingers plucked free of the palms they used to call home. His mother, dead and left to rot like a warning. “You don’t want this.”

“No. I just want you,” she hums. Aelin’s hands begin to wander, fingertips brushing against his hairline as she tilts her head, curiously inspecting him, spinning eyes hardly able to focus on one part of him before moving to the next. “You’re not your father, John. You share his name but not his mistakes. You are not a bad man.” Palm to cheek, warmth swelling together against his feverish skin—she presses her thumb to his lips. Drags down over them until they’re parted. “You might not be a good man, but you’re too kind to be a bad man.”

It isn’t until her lips meet his that John Price realizes that he’s been caught in Aelin’s trap for quite some time—she’s just now decided to rein him in. It’s the closest to heaven he’s ever been. Even as her teeth sink into his flesh, even as her nails rake across his back, even as she drowns him—nothing but a corse floating among stilly water—he knows he cannot starve himself of this one desire.

After so many years, he finally has something to live for besides the circle of life and death. Besides being a slave to his family name simply because paternal law decrees it. Now, he has something to build. Someone to love. A future that holds more than decrepit bones. A ring covers the old scar on Aelin’s finger. His bed is always warm in the night when he returns home and in the morning when he can’t bring himself to wake with the rest of the world.

The room she slept in during her first night with him now holds a crib.

It’s made of wood and engraved with pumpkins and rabbits, a project Aelin took upon herself and has been whittling away at with a small carving tool. Hunched over, stomach swelling quietly but still enough to be noticeable in her sundress. The image has been burned into his mind all night while he’s been away at work, hunched over his desk, listening to pathetic excuse after excuse.

He leaves early tonight, hands buzzing too much to quiet, fingers screaming for his wife. To hold her face and smooth over her stomach. She’s gotten more emotional these days; crying at any kind gesture, or any time she looks at the crib for too long. John hates to see the tears that stream down her cheeks but doesn’t mind the excuse to hold her close, to chuckle into her ear, to toy with the ends of her hair.

When John steps inside, there’s nothing but blood to greet him.

Watery. Bright red. It stains the couch in the very spot Aelin curls up in at the end of the day with a warm cup of tea and something quiet to put on the television. John stares at it. It spreads, ichor floating through the veins of the couch similar to the way it spreads on a mattress, soaking deep—too deep to get out. Deep enough to scar.

He panics. Her name rings through the house as he trips down the hallway, following the sparse trickle of blood like breadcrumbs. There is no answer, but he hears her quiet, muffled sobs. Hand clasped over her mouth, eyes squeezed shut as if that could ever stop the tears; she’s on the toilet. He doesn’t even knock before entering, but she doesn’t have the energy to chastise him for it as she sits curled over herself, sundress bunched around her waist, arms cradling herself as if she can hold the remaining bits of her child within her shattering womb.

“Love,” John breathes. Within an instant he’s on his knees before her, but she won’t look at him. He reaches forward, cups her face in his palms, wipes his thumb at the never-ending flood of tears. She’s feverish to the touch.

“I-I’m sorry,” Aelin sobs. Her arms press further into her stomach as she leans forward, head attempting to bow, but John keeps her head above water—keeps her from drowning. “I really thought it would be different this time, I just… ah… John, it hurts so bad.”

Her sobs come unheeded now, and each rattling reverberation that cuts through her shatters his newly mended heart. John holds her with trembling hands. His own eyes squeeze shut, faint tears wetting his eyelashes as he rests his chin on her head. Even against his neck he can feel how warm her forehead is—how it nearly blisters his skin.

After fifteen minutes of his world ending, he takes her to the hospital. Ultrasound visits turn sour now that there is no baby to look at. The bleeding stops. Their child is gone. When they arrive home, all they do is lay in bed with nothing but the sound of their hearts shattering to break the silence.

It is the first time, but it is not the last.

It happens again.

And again.

Eventually, after the years, they give up. Their hope flickers and wanes, but the desire still lurks in their eyes every time they pass a stroller during date night or they look at that empty nursery-converted-to-guest-room. John puts that love into the men who work for him instead, and Aelin gives it to her adopted sister. But at the end of the night, no matter how long they were out laughing or chuckling, they come home to a warm bed, desperately searching for the grubby hands of what could have been.

But it comes back. It barrels like a bullet into their lives, embedding into deep tissue, nestling too far to rip it out without doing more damage. It arrives as a phone call. A sob. A begging to be free of this torture. John finds it in the bathroom with Aelin, curled forward, ripped boxes strewn across the floor, along with three positive pregnancy tests.

She looks up at him as he enters the bathroom, eyes red and irritated, her usually neat hair now frizzy. “John, I can’t do this again,” she chokes.

Wordlessly, he joins her on the floor with an arm snaking around her back. Aelin collapses into his chest, legs slung over his lap, head resting against his collarbone as he cradles her. For a long time, he is silent. Neither of them speak as the weight of the situation begins to crush them under impending pressure. It squishes the blood clean from their bodies, suffocating their brains of all helpful thought.

The world is ending all over again.

“I’ll support whatever you want to do, love,” John murmurs against the crown of her head.

Brows furrowing, she stiffens. “What do you mean?”

His words get caught in his throat for a long, aching moment before he’s able to choke them out. “If you… want to terminate, then we can do that. Or if you want to keep it then we’ll do that, too.”

Aelin is quiet for a long time. There is nothing but soft sniffles and the occasional pule that slips from her lips, but John doesn’t rush her. Instead, he holds her until her muscles relax, and she’s nothing but a limp mess against him.

“One more time,” she decides, malice slipping into her tone as she wipes her nose on the back of her hand. “One more time, and if it doesn’t work, I’m getting a hysterectomy. I can’t keep doing this b-but… I just… want to pretend to hope for a little while.”

Nodding, John places one more kiss on her head. “Okay, love.”

For the first few weeks, Aelin is near unconsolable. Nesting on the couch, blankets obscuring her body, hugging a pillow to her chest as her glassy eyes watch flashing images on the television. She attempts to distract herself with the company of her adopted sister, but the connection feels severed. Smiling and pretending to be happy when she’s harboring a secret that will surely demand blood before she has the chance to sing its praise.

But that secret keeps growing. And growing.

Each passing day that Aelin wakes and there’s no blood to follow her throughout the day, a glimmer of hope roots in her chest. It burrows and whispers. It promises love and fulfillment. It promises something she’s never been fortunate enough to achieve previously. It’s enough to make her skin glow, rosy and golden like the sun kissing the horizon before bed. It’s enough to make her cheeks swell as shiny, opalesque teeth peek between glistening lips. It’s enough for now, and then—

“Oh my god.” Hands on her stomach, smiling through the tears, bottom lip trembling. “John, it’s twenty-four weeks. It’s viability week.”

—and then it’s everything.

Time rolls backwards as the guest room is once more turned into a nursery. Bunnies and pumpkins, soft oranges and fluffy whites, and a perfect hint of peach. A changing table with ribbons along the side. A rocking chair for the long nights when none of them will get rest, and it will be worth it to have a sleepless night due to love rather than turmoil.

But joy is a meal that tastes better when it’s shared.

So, Aelin stands in the kitchen. Film refracts the light above her through the sonogram in her hand, thumb holding the picture so firmly as if she’s afraid it will slip through her fingers. Heavy feet rattle the floor behind her before she feels warm palms smooth over her stomach and a chin on top of her head.

“She’s beautiful,” he murmurs.

Smiling in agreement, Aelin scans every little feature. The curve of the baby’s nose, how her lips part as if already babbling, hands squished up to her face like she’s trying to chew on her fingers. “Just over halfway there.”

Just as she lowers the sonogram, the baby kicks against John’s palms. His chuckle hits her, warm and dripping with adoration. He squeezes back, pulling Aelin against him.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” he questions.

“Yeah, I think it would be better this way,” Aelin nods. “I feel… a little bad. Having been sort of ignoring her these last few weeks. I know Simon is taking good care of her but… well, it’ll be nice to have dinner with just the two of us.”

She turns her attention to the card before her. The outside is plain. A simple white background with frilly lettering asking Guess what? On the inside, there’s that same lettering with the triumphant announcement of It’s a girl! followed by enough space to put a sonogram. Then, there’s a mini calendar of August, with a circled due date. She shoves everything inside of a light peach envelope before sealing it shut with the tip of her tongue, but as she stares at it, she feels it doesn’t quite look right.

Inspiration strikes her, and she quickly retrieves a pen from the junk drawer before scrawling Auntie Chip on the envelope. Smiling, she sticks it in her purse.

And with that, she is ready for dinner.

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calehenituse-brainrot · 2 months ago

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July

Cale Henituse | Kim Rok Soo x Transported!Reader

Perhaps purpose isn't a thing for us to find. Perhaps purpose is something that we shape by the things that we do.

warning: body horror

Sarah always wakes up at 5:42 in the morning. Not because she had to, but because her body had gotten used to waking up to the deafening silence of the apartment. She pads across floor in her wool socks, making sure to not take any misstep and made the worn-out wooden vinyl on the floor peel back even further. She opened her door slowly, careful not to make much noise to wake her sister, who slept peacefully in the room next to hers. The apartment was small — two bedrooms, paper-thin walls — but it's enough for now. It has to be.

She opens the kettle's lid, sucking her teeth in annoyance upon seeing the water stains. She sets it aside, couldn't be bothered to clean and rinse out the buildup. She reached for a pot instead and began to fill it, setting it on the stove and standing by it, watching as the water began to boil slowly. The sound of it along with the scent of instant coffee was oddly comforting. It reminds her of the days when her sister would make herself some coffee, downing it all by the time it was her fifth sip during her finals. She used to berate her for drinking instant coffee, but look at her now.

The sunlight began to slant through the cheap plastic blinds, the world trying to remind her that time keeps moving, even when Sarah refuses to.

By the time the clock showed it was 6:30, she was dressed, her hair clipped back, her dark circles hidden underneath expertly-applied color corrector and concealers. She wiped her fingers with facial cotton and makeup remover. A makeup brush was too much of a luxury at the moment, so her fingers had always been her best friend in appearing professional. Less streaky lines anyway.

Sarah stared at herself in the mirror. Yes, she looks decent enough.

She went out to head to the other room, gently waking the 11-year-old girl underneath the sheets. A warm hand on her shoulder and a whisper of her name leaves her mouth, "Gracie?"

Gracie always smiles when she sees her older sister, even with her half-awake and her eyes only able to see a blurry visage. Gracie trusts her older sister so unequivocally, in a way that only a child trust the person who held her while she cried during the nights after the loss of their mother, who scraped together birthday cakes from boxed cake mix, and sang lullabies to her every night whenever she had trouble sleeping through the rainy days.

Breakfast was merely filled with Gracie's random babbling about the upcoming day. She talks about the upcoming classes, seeing her friends, and any other normal things an 11-year-old should talk about. Because that is what this is all for.

Sarah listens, nods, and packs Gracie's lunchbox with sandwiches, corn fritters from last night, cheese slices, and grapes. This is what all this is for.

"Sarah," Gracie called softly from the table. "Can you pack me extra napkins, please?"

"Alright," Sarah replied, smiling softly as she began reaching for the paper napkins.

She always folds them into a compact triangle, like their sister did that one time. Maybe it'll lessen the amount of space they take in the lunchbox. Maybe it won't. It doesn't really matter. It just feels like the right kind of ache to do it like this every time.

After dropping Gracie at school, Sarah walks to her workplace slowly. She works as a waitress in a diner that was perhaps older than she was in the area. It was barely enough, but she knows to manage her money well. She passes the same alley with the rusted fire escape, then the laundromat with the blinking neon "OPEN" sign. She looks into every face that passes by her, searching for something familiar. Always. Even when she knew it would be fruitless.

After work, she smelled like grease and smoke. She had been staying too long in the kitchen, fighting with the chef and telling him to cook properly. She returned nearly five dishes from the same table of ten. It was embarrassing; she had to face the wrath and sneers of the customers. At the very least, she was able to take home the leftover brownies in the freezer given by the owner.

She waited for Gracie by the school, waiting patiently until the school bell rang and eying the crowd of screaming children until she found Gracie. She waved her hand, and Gracie bounded to her with a smile. Sarah didn't hesitate to bend down, pressing a kiss to Gracie's face. She gave Gracie a piece of the brownie, smiling as Gracie nibbled on it as they walked home, hand-in-hand, as she listened to Gracie telling her about her day.

It was a long day and Sarah made sure to not make it show. Whilst Gracie went to shower, Sarah opened the lunchbox, eating the leftovers before cleaning up. Dinner was short — Gracie's plate always had more.

Then, Gracie was off to do her homework.

And Sarah had her own.

After making sure Gracie was busy, Sarah went to her room and rummaged through her closet. She pulls down a worn-out box and places it on the floor. Despite its old age, no dust remains on it. Inside were photos with worn edges, curling like petals. A floral-themed birthday card with no signature. A sweater she's never washed because the scent is still faintly there; lilac and laundry detergent and the hospital.

This was part of her life that continues whilst the rest of the world sleeps away.

No one will know of the girl who's holding her little family afloat, far too young to be given that responsibility. They will never know of the feeling of remembering someone's gaze and touch so vividly that it wakes you up as if they were night terrors. To dream of a sister who once held you so tightly, who loves you so much that she releases her painful past for the sake of you and your sister, who loves so deeply, and yet quietly, and then one day... stopped existing.

Her name was [Name] [Last Name]. Her half-sister. Her whole heart.

She left when Sarah was sixteen. No note. No explanation. Just voicemails and an empty apartment with the kind of silence that hollows out everything it touches. She left without any of her belongings - not even her phone. Their father never spoke of it. Drank more. Slept less. Died quietly. And in the years since, Sarah became the grown-up. Became the glue. Became the search party.

Gracie barely remembers [Name]. Perhaps all she could remember was a nonchalant voice in the blurry room of a hospital, a figure at the edge of their mother's deathbed. But Sarah remembers everything. The way [Name] always smelled like coffee, old books, and the sun. The way she'd place her cold hand on top of Sarah's and whisper, "She'll be okay. You don't have to be scared."

And Sarah did so. She became brave. Every day. For Gracie. For [Name]. For herself.

For the nth time that night, Sarah opened the message board again, hoping for any new posts but it no longer surprised her to see an empty message board. She opened another tab, checking to see if there were any replies to the photos she had left at the shelter or to the message thread she started four years ago as a teen. She refreshed the pages several time, trying to see any new posts.

"MISSING PERSON. HELP NEEDED." [image attachment]

The newest post was her own post. From four years ago.

She stares at the last picture of them together—three girls in a world that had just fallen apart. Sarah was in the middle, her eyes heavy after the loss of their mother. [Name] behind her, a faint smile on her face. Gracie was standing between [Name]'s legs, smiling.

She closes the box, slides it back into its place.

When Gracie knocked on the door, Sarah greeted her with warmth and jokes and a box of leftover brownies from work. She listens to her stories, helps her with the homework she's having trouble with, and then tucks her in.

And then, when the lights are off, she sits on the floor beside her sister’s bed, eyes closed, praying not to a god but to a memory.

“Come back,” she whispers into the dark. “Just… come back.”

And the silence answers, as it always does.

A little bit after midnight, Sarah finally dragged herself into her bed. She lays on her side, one hand sliding under her pillow. Despite the closed window, she could still hear the sound of the bustling city leaking into the room. It was comforting to know the world is still doing its own thing despite her turmoil. It made her problems seems trivial. That maybe, just maybe, this wasn't such a big deal and one day the problem will solve itself.

Sleep came slowly, dragging her under. She dreams, and for the first time, it wasn't the memories of her younger days haunting her.

In the dream, there was nothing.

No bed. No city. No sound.

Just white.

A vast, endless whiteness that stretched in all directions—too bright to be comforting, too quiet to feel safe. There were no walls, no sky, no ground she could see. Yet somehow, she was standing. The place where she stood felt solid. She bends down, caressing the solidity of it and being surprised at how smooth it was. It was unnerving.

She walked. That was all she could do.

Each step echoed, though there was nothing for the sound to bounce off of. No horizon. No shadow. No wind. Just that strange, sterile brightness that made her feel like she had gone blind and weightless all at once. The place reminded her of that hospital room, but she shook it off.

Then, she saw what seemed to be half a room placed in the middle of this vast, white space.

Sarah slowly approached it and paused.

The hospital room where her mother died was typically filled with a couch and machines. The bed where her mother would lay and move every second from the pain was tidy and spotless. The machines were nowhere to be seen. Vines grow out of nowhere, climbing and curling against the walls of the hospital room, the white tiles were cracked, flourishing with grass between the grouts. The hospital room was emptier than she remembered. Not only that, but the room seemed to stretch and fade into the space, as if merging with it.

Facing the useless window was the back of a figure Sarah was too familiar with. For a moment, Sarah was relieved. She had been so anxious and the moment she spotted you, she forgot that she was ever afraid.

"[Name]?" Sarah called out, her voice trembling and her heart pounding.

You turned around.

Your face was familiar, but it was... wrong. Older. Weathered. Not the twenty-one-year-old woman frozen in Sarah's memory, but a grown woman. Tired eyes. Crows feet around your eyes. Wrinkles that time had carved without permission. The curve of your mouth was the same in the way you always smile so faintly, but the light in your eyes had dimmed. It was like seeing the result of life scraping away pieces of you that would never grow back.

Sarah choked. "W-why do you look like that?"

You didn't answer. You just stared at her, unmoving. Sadness fills your gaze. Guilt. A lifetime's worth. And something else - relief.

Your lips moved, but Sarah couldn’t hear the words. The world around them dimmed, like the sun was being pulled away. Shadows bled across the walls. The room was gone. Only you and she remained.

“Say something,” Sarah begged. “Please. Please just say something.”

The light of the vast space was too bright, but it didn't hurt your eyes in the slightest. You felt weightless in this space. You cast no shadow and cannot interact with anything within the space. A phantom. But something real persists inside of you - the painful ache within your chest, a trembling thread stretched thin across space and time, connected to something — someone — you haven't stopped thinking about for years.

And there she was.

Sarah.

She was taller than you remember, and looked older. Her face was tired and her expression strained, as if she had been working in the summer's heat for months. Her eyes — God, her eyes — were soaked in something deeper than grief. You never thought that you could love her so much. You never thought looking into those eyes could evoke these feelings still. Love that refused to die

She ran to you, her eyes lined with tears and for a long second, you can't move. You don't know if the God of Death allows you too. You don't know if he means for you to be seen like this. But then those arms were around you — real, warm, and trembling. Something inside you caved immediately and you moved forward, wrapping your arms around her and hugging her so tightly that you wished you could mold together.

Her whole heart.

Your whole being.

You breathe her in, your breathing shaky. She smells like home, like summer, like the past you abandoned and the future you never thought you deserved. You bury your face in her shoulder. You close your eyes. And then you hear it.

The breaking.

Sarah sobs, shoulders shaking like they’ve cracked open, and you feel it in your chest like a blade being pulled out, slow and rusted.

“[Name]…” she chokes your name and her voice sounds like it's being torn from somewhere too deep to heal. “Oh, have you left us? Have you left me?”

You want to answer her. God, you want to answer her so badly.

You want to tell her that you never meant to leave. That you were scared, broken, twenty-one, and unraveling at the seams. That you tried so hard to return to her again. That every day away from her and Gracie was a day you counted with guilt, not freedom.

But you can’t speak.

You just hold her tighter.

Because in this place —this white, endless place— you are nothing but presence and ache.

Her sobs grow quieter, and you feel her hands gripping the back of your shirt like she’s afraid you’ll vanish again. And maybe you will. You always do.

You lean your forehead against hers.

You try to say I’m sorry.

You're so brave.

I love you.

But the words are trapped. Stuck in a place even dreams can’t reach.

And then the light shifts.

"I'm so lost without you," she whispered softly in your arms. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do. Where I'm supposed to go. What I'm supposed to be."

You hugged her tighter. She is meant for a softer life. A promising future.

She was a sister. Not a mother.

"I love you."

Sarah looked up, stunned upon hearing the whisper that seemed to echo within the vast space of white. Your face smiled at her, resigned but also filled with love. You cupped her cheeks and thought to yourself of how much she had clung to the past too much.

You leaned your forehead to hers and let out a soft breath.

You will be fine. I will always be here for you.

Sarah hugged you, sobbing as she felt the world seemed to shift.

You felt weightless.

You could no longer see your feet, your body fading away slowly into an intangible mess.

The world begins to pull away.

Sarah clings harder, crying your name like it can hold you here. Like it can bind you back to the life you left.

"Sarah," you said, your voice clear and exactly like Sarah remembered.

Sarah looked up and you smiled at her faintly. Her tears blurs her vision. "Are you gone?"

You nodded slowly. It was the best answer you could give her. This was the closure you can give her.

You began to fade away, slowly like mist.

Sarah looked up in horror and devastation cross her face upon realizing you're going to leave. You smiled, your eyes lined with tears as you cupped her face.

You smile and whispered softly;

"I'm so proud of you."

Sarah looked up, shocked that she could hear it so clearly. You leaned down, and as you slowly dissipated, the last thing Sarah felt was the press of your lips against her forehead.

Sarah opened her eyes, her face wet. She hadn't even realized she was crying. She sat up and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, like that would erase the image of your face — aged, unreachable, slipping from her grasp like smoke.

It was the cruelest part of grief, she thought. That time doesn’t stop for the people who leave. That somewhere, maybe, you had grown older without them. Or worse—maybe you haven’t grown at all.

And that face—etched into Sarah's dreams—was the only one she’d ever see again.

Not in the streets. Not in crowds. Not on her doorstep like she sometimes imagined when the silence was too much.

Just there, in the bright space of the clean hospital room.

Aged and smiling. Maybe it would be the last time she sees you and while a small part of her ached at the thought, Sarah was surprised by herself when she felt ease.

For the first time in the last four years, Sarah got up from the bed and her chest feels lighter.

You felt like a cloud, floating in a place neither dark nor light, sound nor silence. Time doesn’t exist here—only the weightless feeling of being suspended just beneath reality and close to the arms of Death. It was surprisingly warm. And it ache.

The image of an older Sarah that the God of Death has shown you was more than enough to convince you that it's okay. To stay here and look for something new to love. Or perhaps simply to return to what you have loved throughout your time here. Your face was wet, and you pressed the heels of your hands to your eyes, chuckling between your tears as you tried to ingrain the face of your younger sister in your mind. You must never forget her. She was so beautiful now that she was older.

Then there’s a tug.

Faint. Gentle.

Oh.

It felt like you're being called, not with a voice, but with memory. With longing. It stirs something in you, and you slowly close your eyes, smiling as you slowly begin to feel the soft bedding you lay on, smelling of jasmine and Cale and the heaviness of your body. Your fingers twitch—just barely. You feel the whisper of air, the gravity of the world returning in tiny pulses. A breath catches in your chest, deeper than the ones before. A painful feeling went through your chest and you let out a soft gasp. It feels foreign - it feels like your body remembering how to be alive again, and your mind struggles to comprehend the feeling.

Then, light.

Unlike that bright, vast space, this one was soft and blurred around the edges. Your eyelids flutter, fighting their way to open. You see nothing at first. Just shapes. Movement. The warm colors of a room you don’t remember entering.

Then sound.

“Human?” a voice cries out—familiar, high-pitched, trembling with hope. Raon.

You feel the shift of the mattress and then pressure at your side. A warm, furry body curls closer. And another weight, gentle and rhythmic on your stomach. You try to breathe in, and it shudders as the same painful feeling shoots through your chest again. Your chest rises sharply. You’re awake—but just barely.

Then you see him.

Cale.

Kneeling beside you like he’s afraid to move too fast, as if even the smallest breath could send you spiraling back into whatever abyss you’d just escaped. His hand hovers over yours, trembling. You feel the warmth of his palm as it finally, finally settles around your fingers, anchoring you.

“[Name]?” he breathes, like he’s been drowning. “Can you hear me?”

You blink again, slowly pulling the world into focus. Your body is heavy. Your head foggy. God, your chest. Your chest feels so painful.

But his voice—that soft, frayed thread of worry wrapped all in care—pulls you in like a tide. Your gaze locks with his.

“…Cale?” Your voice is barely there, more breath than sound.

You see the way his eyes crumple at the edges, the subtle tremble of his lips. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t smile. But there’s something breaking open in him—relief too vast to fit into any single gesture. This was your Cale.

He squeezes your hand.

“I’m here.”

You feel Ohn press into your side, nuzzling close. Hong’s gentle purring vibrates softly against your ribs. Raon’s voice crackles with triumph and childlike protectiveness: “Told you, human! She will wake up!”

You look at them—your family, your light—and then back to him.

There’s confusion in your mind, heavy and tangled, but beneath it, a quiet knowing. You were gone. You were gone. And they waited. They hoped. They hurt.

“What… happened?” Your voice splinters, so weak you can barely hear yourself. “Why am I…? I thought…”

Cale’s fingers tighten ever so slightly around yours. You feel the weight behind his silence before he even speaks. You want to squeeze his hand in return, to assure him that you're here now, but all you can do is simply feel the faint way his hand trembles against yours.

“You’ve been unconscious for a while,” he says, his voice low and raw. “But you’re awake now. That’s all that matters.”

You see the shadow flicker in his eyes when he glances toward the door, like he half-expects death itself to return. But there’s only stillness now. Peace. The soft, slow exhale of months of waiting, grieving, mounting into relief. What a privilege it was to welcome somebody home from the arms of the God of Death.

“You’re safe now,” he adds gently. “You don’t need to worry.”

You blink again. Your eyes sting. And you hate it—hate the look on his face. The quiet hurt. The patience. The pain that lingered here in your absence.

Your lip trembles. You've caused him so much pain.

“I’m sorry…” You whisper, eyes welling. “For leaving.”

I love you so much.

His voice cracks, just slightly as he seemed to muster a humorous smile through the pained expression. “It’s okay. You were… blindsided.”

You let out a breath—half laugh, half sob. “I was an idiot.”

“Sleep,” he says, and you feel the warmth of his breath as he leans in, hesitating only for a heartbeat before pressing his lips to your temple. “I’ll be here. We’re all here.”

And this time, when your eyes close, it’s not from weakness.

It’s from love.

From safety.

From the impossible softness of being held—truly held—after you thought you’d never feel this again.

It had been three days since you gained consciousness.

Gifts piled up in the corner of the room, untouched and gathering dust. One can hardly be bothered to busy themselves with presents when all they could do was feel pain.

The pain in your chest was deep and unforgiving, reminding you of the way you tried to leave and the physical consequences of being ensnared by the false promises of a cunning god. He had ripped open your chest, and instead of healing properly with the divinity you've acquired, vines and thorns grew out of the wound, scratching the skin around the area, and a single bud of a flower sat on top of all that mess, like a nasty reminder of your carelessness.

Sometimes your hair hardens and turns into thorns, scratching at your face. Another day, you coughed up flower petals to the point you had to induce vomiting to make sure its all out, tearing your throat or not. On another, your tongue rests in your mouth as a vine, and you choke on the leaves. It had once grew out of your mouth and no one was willing to cut it so you had to endure hanging your jaw open over the sink to let the drool out before the vine slowly began to shrink. It felt like you were being tortured.

The damage had been done—enough to leave you alive, but not enough to let you forget. The physicians spoke softly around you, always just out of earshot, using words like a curse; unnatural; severe chronic pain. They tried to be gentle, and that gentleness hurt more than if they’d been cruel.

No one raised their voice.

No one asked why.

Rosalyn came every morning with red-rimmed eyes and hands full of silence. Beacrox stood in the doorway, sometimes leaving before even sitting down. Lock hovered at your side like a ghost, not quite knowing whether to speak or to simply exist there, offering what little comfort he could in the shape of a shaking hand on top of yours. Sometimes you're there to interact with them, sometimes it feels like you're far away.

They didn’t lecture you.

None has the strength.

It was written in their faces—in the way they looked at your chest and quickly looked away. In the way Ron adjusted your pillow with too much care, as if you were made of paper now. In the way the Cage who came on Wednesdays sat beside your bed and said nothing at all.

"I don't understand," you whispered, voice raw from screaming in pain all day. You could only clutch the space below where your heart is, unable to go any further since the vines and thorns dominated that area of your body.

Cale looked up from his book. "What don't you understand?"

You rarely speak nowadays other than to answer the physicians in exams. You haven't told him what exactly happened, and it's not like you were purposefully holding that information back. Just yesterday, your tongue was a vine that was too big for your mouth. So all you do was bear the pain, laying on the large bed with the softest pillows and sheets.

It was the smallest thing the duchy could do for you.

You glanced at him, seemingly hesitant. "You're supposed to be sleeping."

You're a fool to think someone of his caliber can miss out on a detail. Cale simply placed his book to his lap, his expression telling you that he was contemplating on what to say. "Mhm."

"I suppose you're right," he said, making no move to stand up. "But I think I rather like the silence here."

He leaned against the padded chair, looking at you lying on the bed before leaning forward, placing his hand on top of yours. "How are you feeling, hm?"

"Better than earlier," you replied softly, letting out a soft breath of relief. "It was a hectic morning, wasn't it?"

You gave him a small smile, and he smiled faintly, a bit bewildered, nonetheless amused at your joke. You had been screaming from the pain all morning, and it felt like all that pain was repaid with a fairly calm night. You slowly turn your hand to hold his hand properly, and Cale's expression softens. He gently raised your hand and pressed it to his forehead, closing his eyes as he sighed.

You slowly pull your hand out of his grip and he lets go of your hand, opening his eyes to watch you as you cup his face. Your thumb caressed his cheek and he simply stared at you, his light brown eyes boring into your soul.

"I... I want to tell you," you whispered. "About what happened."

Cale pulled his chair closer to your bed.

You looked up at the roof of the canopy bed, staring at the intricate carvings in the wood before sighing. "I... I met him. The God of Death."

Cale sat a bit straighter, his hand gently squeezing your hand. "I see. How was he to you?"

"Tall, humongous even," you murmured, smiling at Cale, hoping to see him smile even only a little bit. "And dark. He wore the cosmos as his robes. I could barely make out the shape of him, much less his face."

Cale offered a small smile, appealing to your quiet wish. "Was that how he's supposed to look like in the novels?"

"No," you replied, smiling wider upon seeing his. "I was told he was handsome."

It was like a slap in the face. This world was no longer a mere novel and nor were the characters in it. The God of Death was real, and he wasn't the handsome man you were promised to see like in the novels. No, he was majestic and could never be comprehended with the human mind. Perhaps that was what you needed, and he knew of it; that to make sure you realize how heavy the consequences of your actions were.

You wanted to laugh when you thought about it like that. It's divine retribution.

Every time Cale met your pained gaze, he recalls the warnings of the God of Death; "Your persistence will not change what is inevitable. But... You may stand beside her if you so wish. But know this—she will never belong to you in the way you desire."

"I... I swallowed it," you murmured softly, staring at him anxiously. "The heart of that god."

Cale blinked. "What."

"I-I was in a place where I could meet him while I was unconscious," you began slowly. "A-and he tore me apart. I can still feel his hands tearing through my flesh—"

"You don't have to tell me," Cale began hesitantly.

"I have to," you stressed. "Because I don't know what's happening to me, and I know if someone were to ever be able to find out what's wrong with me, it's you."

"It's you," you repeated softly to him. "Please."

Cale stared into your eyes, realizing that this wasn't you trying to ease the burden in your heart. This was you begging for his help; to release you from the pain of simply existing.

Find out what's wrong with me.

Cale leaned against the bed, his eyes boring into yours.

You smiled. "It felt right. To tear at him like he did to me."

Cale doesn't know what you went through at that moment, and so he stayed quiet. His gaze bears no judgment nor contempt. If he was correct in his judgment that the god was or had embodied your father, the man who abandoned you when you needed him most, then perhaps it deserved your "cruelty" in all its desperation as the closure you both needed.

"I tore at him until I held his heart in my hand," you whispered. "And it whispered to me, Cale."

"It says to consume it." You stared at him with hope in your eyes when his eyes widened and something flickered within his gaze. He's trying to figure it out.

"The God of Death told me that if I ate it—" you whispered, gasping as the budding flower in your chest seemed to twitch. "I'd be able to come back here. To you."

Cale held your hand, gently squeezing it to calm you down. "Was it immortality?"

"No," you replied breathlessly. "Divinity."

A chill went down his back. He restrained the urge to sigh in resignation, to know the world really gave both of you no rest. At this point, the dream of his to slack off was getting further—

"Maybe I could be as old as you do," you said suddenly, smiling. "We can grow old together. You with your heart. Me with... mine."

Cale's heart fluttered. How do you even think about that when you're obviously in pain? How do you think of the good days far ahead whilst being in pain like this?

"Not like that," he replied in a matter-of-fact tone, gesturing to the vines and thorns sprouting out of your chest, the thorns scratching at your skin with every breath you exhaled.

It's painful to look at, and he can't even imagine the pain.

You let out a small sigh, smiling. "Not like this."

Cale didn't really want to do this. In fact, he wants to stay away from the God of Death as much as possible. He wants to stay away from *any* divine being if he could save himself from doing their work. But with you on the line, things change, and Cale now has to talk to Cage.

You're still dealing with the pain of those vile plants mutating your body, and through it all, you told him everything that happened. You can't possibly speak to Cage properly in your condition where the pain flares every now and then, so for now, Cale has to do the dirty work.

"The God of Death told her that?" Cage asked, her gaze bewildered as she stared at Cale. "That's odd. I don't think I ever heard something like that; a mere human consuming divinity. Much less it being so..."

"Cannibalistic?" Cale finished for her.

Cage said nothing in return, simply looking forlorn. "She must have been desperate."

There weren't many clues to dig into regarding your condition that could be openly discussed with others. Cale knew that a special case like Choi Han and you could become a God. After all, it was the most likely reason why you were transported to this world. Your father was most likely transported to be the God of that small population in the floating island, and after millennium and millennium of the population slowly dying out, your father needed someone to continue the legacy.

You sat on the bed, resting against a few fluffy pillows as you watched Rosalyn, your face beaded with sweat, your eyes deep and sunken. You flinched as Rosalyn gently took your hand, avoiding the thorns that had been growing on your palms.

"[Name]," she began softly and you simply stared up at her.

"Tell me the truth," Rosalyn continued. "Back on that island. We saw your past. It was filled with confusing things."

You glanced at Cale who sat by your bed on a comfortable chair whilst Choi Han stood by him. Choi Han stared at you with pity and hope in his eyes. You can tell he was hoping you tell him that you're exactly like him.

Cale, Choi Han, and Rosalyn have been constantly dreaming of the old civilization that resided on the floating island. Sometimes they dreamt of you, hunching over a laptop, working on a paper, or cleaning the skinny body of an ill woman. They were seen mostly in small glimpses, and Rosalyn made the hypothesis that it might be because they were technically connected to you and the God during their attempt to rescue you.

"What do you want me to say?" You asked Rosalyn quietly.

"The truth," she replied.

You avert your gaze from her. "I... I'm not from here. I'm from a world too far to reach."

"It's not like this place," you said slowly. "Magic, beastmen, elves, dragons... Those don't exist."

"Stop," Rosalyn said suddenly. "Tell me about you, [Name]. Have I been lied to this whole time about who you are?"

"No," you said, almost too quickly. You have never once put up a facade like that. Everything you showed them was genuinely yours. "I... I am [Name] [Last Name]. Both my parents have separated and died. I have two sisters..."

"I've never pretended to be someone else," you said. "Everything you've known about me is true."

Rosalyn glanced back at Cale. "Young Master-nim, have you known all this time?"

Cale let out a sigh. "Yes."

"And you never told us?" Rosalyn asked.

"It's not something he could speak about," you told Rosalyn. "It's my life."

Rosalyn paused for a bit as she thought. Perhaps that's why you and Cale were so close to each other, relying on each other so deeply that it became chaos when one of you lost contact. You bared your life to him, and he kept it close to his heart. In return, he gave you his trust, and everyone knew earning the trust of Cale Henituse meant a lot.

At the end, no one truly knew how you suffered. Not even Cale. Rosalyn still remembered seeing his face when they all heard your soft pleading through that door. It was something none of them could get out of their head.

"In that world, did you have anyone by your side?" Rosalyn asked you softly.

You smiled. "I don't. I was saved when I got here."

The thorns on your skin slowly retracted, and the vines protruding from your chest pulses. You winced, grasping at your chest. "A-ah—!"

Rosalyn stood up to check on you. "Are you okay—"

The vines suddenly burst out of your chest and shot out to the ceilings, spreading like an invasive plant. Cale stood up, looking around before he realized the vines were growing bigger and thicker, resembling trees as they began to scale the walls.

Choi Han grabbed both Rosalyn and Cale, running out the door, where Ron had been so close to opening to serve their trolley of food.

"Wait—!" Rosalyn screamed out, watching as the vines filled the room and concealed you within.

"What the..." Cale watched the vines enclose the walls and eventually covers the doorway, sealing you within.

Ron's eyes narrowed upon seeing the familiar power again. Have you had another flare-up?

Choi Han grabbed at the thick branches and vines, tearing at them and then pausing when they all bled. You screamed loudly. "A-ARKHHH—!"

Choi Han lifted his hand, staring at the blood. "O-oh no."

You sobbed within the enclosed room, "It hurts... It hurts... What did you do?"

"It's connected to her nerves," Cale whispered. "It's her body."

You looked up at the ceilings, now covered with vines, thorns, and branches. You have half the mind to think about the damage you inflicted on the priceless wallpaper and furniture. The pain has lessened now that it feels like most of the stuffiness you experienced has gone out and invaded your chambers. Your legs are no longer normal but had stretched and taken the form of bark with growing leaves, vines, and flowers.

Will you be a tree here? It was almost ridiculous to imagine. What if you grew to be a tree just like that tree in that floating island? Unable to be removed and roots itself under the ducal estate?

You stiffened when the bark on the ceilings seemed to move, making way as a gigantic flower bud emerged from between them. The stem grew longer until the bud began to bloom. For a moment, you thought of how it seemed to be eager to be close to you.

A dianthus flower.

A sign of divinity.

Cale peeked in between the branches that were blocking the door and his expression dropped, "[Name]!"

He watched in horror as your skin slowly turned a brownish-yellow, cracks appearing here and there like an actual tree bark.

"[NAME]!" He screamed. "Choi Han, cut her!"

Choi Han raised his sword and immediately slashed down the barrier with a single swing. Cale wastes no time to squeeze himself between the slash marks and run towards your bed, almost tripping from the numerous roots and vines on the floors.

You felt the way your legs that have turned into bark had grown solid and immobile. It felt foreign as the feeling seeped deep into your bones and slowly went upwards; it made your skin turn to bark, your blood into sap, and your veins into vines.

You reached for Cale despite the dread of becoming paralyzed or even dead from this transformation. You gave him your hand, and he reached for your face instead just as your neck began to turn a bark.

"[Name]!" Cale panted, looking into your eyes and watching in anticipation and horror at what would happen.

You looked up at him, almost hyperventilating as you waited for your end, but oddly enough, it never came.

Your hand that lay on the bed had turned into a bark with each of your fingers being branches. But, your other hand that was grasping at Cale's arm stayed human. Your eyes widened when Cale coughed blood right to your face. "C-Cale?"

"I-it's the heart," he whispered to you, his fingers flexing so he could wipe away the blood. "Sorry."

"Your power?" You asked back, eyes looking up at him in hope.

'It seems that we can prevent the transformation,' the priestess said.

'How?' Asked the Fire of Destruction.

"I-it's because of what happened at the island, [Name]," Cale said to you. "Our hearts were physically connected by the divine. My heart—"

"The Vitality," you whispered, eyes slowly going glossy. "It can intercept the divine because it touched it."

Cale coughed again, blood spilling from his lips, and he looked down, not wanting to stain your face. You stared up at him. "Does this mean... if we aren't touching, I will continue turning?"

Cale's eyes widened when he felt your hand slowly letting go of his arm. "[Name], no—!"

The moment your hand let go of his arm, your skin immediately turned into bark and stayed in its place, frozen there as a branch. Your finger stretched into branches with leaves and flowers growing around it.

"Oh, no," you whispered, your eyes watering. "You can't let go of me."

Cale nodded. "I'm not planning to. Not again."

"Call for Cage-nim!" Cale exclaimed to Choi Han.

"I'm already here." Cage panted, hurrying up to your bedside. She seemed out of breath, panting heavily with her face flushed red.

"I have communicated to the God of Death," Cage said. "I'm sorry, Young Master-nim, but you must let go of her."

"She'll turn to a tree!" Rosalyn choked defiantly. "We must not do that!"

"It is for her own good," Cage reassured. "She is no longer fully human."

Everything stilled in the room. It was a heavy silence that made you feel stuffy, like you have lost your voice and forgot the way to breathe. It was finally broken when you let out a painful wail. "N-no, this—"

Cale pressed his palms firmly to your face. "Calm down."

He turned back to Cage. "Please elaborate further."

"Miss [Name] must abandon her old body." Cage began to speak in a way that felt like a saint conveying a horrible prophecy. Her usual dismissive attitude towards the God of Death was nowhere to be seen as she recited his words.

You saw her gaze at you with pity.

"Her body must be utilized like her predecessor's," Cage began. "That is... to be turned into a place of worship."

You stared at her in disbelief. "What? My body? My predecessor?"

"It's the folklore of the floating island from the Whale tribe," Cale murmured. "The previous god laid down his body so it could be his place of worship. That tree was his body."

"Miss [Name] cannot turn into that, that — that disgusting thing!" Choi Han exclaimed, frowning. The entity they fought at the floating island was disgusting and monstrous. There was no world where he can see you turning into something that hideous and evil.

"I was told that we can save her from fusing with the tree," Cage said, a bead of sweat rolling down her temple as she thought back to it. "It would be to take her heart—"

"No!" You protested loudly, your voice shaking. "No, no, not again!"

Cale held your face still as you sobbed, your tears rolling down into his hands. He didn't dare to move, deep in his thoughts. You told him that you consumed divinity by tearing and quite literally eating the heart of a God and now the only time you can be saved from being turned into an actual tree is by taking out your heart.

The heart.

"What will happen then?" Cale asked Cage. "After we take the heart? What are the circumstances needed to take the heart?"

"It needed to be—" Cage breathed in. "It needed to be ripped out while she's still alive and then buried in fresh soil."

"Like a plant," Choi Han whispered.

"No, no, no—" You wailed. "Anything but that!"

"You will take a new form from that method," Cage tried to say between your wails.

"Will I be human?" You asked through broken sobs. "Will I be a plant, a monster, or even worse, will I become a ghost?"

"Is there no other way?" Cale asked, and his face seemed to turn to irritation the moment Cage shook her head.

"Everyone is being so unhelpful," he muttered, looking down at you. "We can't hold each other like this forever. We will have to look for another way."

"Another way?" Cage asked. "We are encountering the divine process of a god passing the torch to its successor. There can be no other way."

"What?" You asked softly, eyes widening. "Successor?"

"I was informed that you consumed the divinity of a dying god," she said. "The God of Death claimed that each God has their own ways of passing the torch. The God of the Forest named theirs frondescence."

"God of the Forest...?" Cale echoed before he let out a resigned chuckle. "Of course. Of course. Have I been so blind all this time?"

"Please, Cale," you whispered to him. "Don't make me feel that pain again. I told you how painful it was. Please-!"

"Calm down," Cale told you sternly, mushing your cheeks together. "We can't take any chances with a procedure that we don't even have any knowledge of."

Cage sighed, closing your eyes. "The God of Death told me the method I have told you all is the best course of action. Rather than defying it, it is better for us to continue with it."

"It's not like you to stick only to the God of Death's methods like this, Cage-nim," Choi Han said with a frown. And it's true. While she might be a devout follower (in a way), Cage never believed that the ultimate solution lies within the words of her God, because time and time again, their company has defied God's will.

"I'm sorry," Cage said with a remorseful sigh. "It is different if it is Young Master-nim or you. Or even Miss Rosalyn. Miss [Name] is an ordinary human."

"Who has consumed divinity," Rosalyn stressed. "She isn't ordinary."

"She is," Cale said softly, looking at your face that seemed so defeated, leaning to his touch. You had to surrender your fate to him. What was left of you lies within his hands, literally.

Your heart ached tremendously at the conversation, your eyes closing to not allow a single tear to roll down. How naive you must be to be so consumed in this world. You weren't anything special in your own world, what made you think you could change that here? In the end, your salvation was to be Cale's aide who "knows the future" and nothing else. Now that all your knowledge has been used, what else could you do be of use?

In the end, you're back here, questioning your purpose.

What am I supposed to do?

Where am I supposed to go?

What am I supposed to be?

"[Name]," Cale calls for you softly.

You broke down, a few tears rolling down your face and wetting his palms. "I don't know anymore."

"Please, get out," you whispered softly to them all.

Cale glanced at them, nodding his head to the door and they all began to leave at his signal. Cale himself couldn't move away from you. They all knew the moment you separated from him, you would no longer be human and turn.

Why exactly have you landed in this world? You managed to not twist the "plot" because you knew it was too dangerous to have any unexpected hurdles, especially in a story like this. Or perhaps it's not that you managed it. Perhaps your presence offers little to no changes at all because you have little to no presence. Perhaps you're as useless in this world as you are in the other.

Nothing you do, neither here nor there, could make a difference.

Maybe it was better for you to die here. This method is too painful, but maybe the peace and tranquility of an embrace from Death itself will release the burdens that rest on your shoulders. But still, this is so painful.

I have suffered so much throughout my life. Why must that be for my death as well? Can I not be at peace during my last moments?

Death will be kinder than this. Maybe Death was the kindest of them all.

"Could you tell me why you left?"

You paused in your train of thought, the image of yourself finally sleeping for eternity fading away as you looked up at Cale's expression. His expression seemed tired, and maybe it's because of the emotional toll of it all. Or maybe he's tired of holding your face like this.

"Why I left?" You asked back slowly.

He nodded. "Yes. What did... the God of the Forest say to you that you didn't hesitate to leave?"

"He knew what I wanted," you murmured. "He knew that I was looking for a purpose. Why I'm here and all that."

"You're so obsessed with that," he replied with a sigh as if he was tired of listening to that.

Your face reddens in shame. Maybe you are, but he's not allowed to judge you for looking for a purpose. Everyone who had similar circumstances to you had one or two. Your eyes watered again. "So what if I am, Cale? It must be so easy for you. You never sought out your purpose, but nevertheless, it arrived at your feet just like that. You and Choi Han will never be able to--"

Cale grabbed your chin with his other hand, his expression cold. "Tell me what purpose I have here, [Name]."

"T-the original Cale Henituse," you stammered. "Made a deal with the God of Death--"

"That's him," Cale stressed. "Not me, [Name]. Tell me, what is my purpose? It's unfair to me to be brought here without my consent. I was thrusted into this world just like you did."

Your eyes watered because both of you know the answer. "I-It's because you lived."

Cale lessened his tight grip on your chin and went back to cupping your face, making sure to not let go of you lest you turn into a tree right before him. He stared at you, watching you seem conflicted with your own answer. "And don't say my purpose here is to be a main character, either."

You let out a soft exhale, laughing at his words because he knows you too well.

"Listen here, [Name]," he began. "One's purpose isn't born with them, You have free will. You control your own narrative. The world doesn't assign people with their own purposes, because if that's how it works, our world wouldn't be dying now, would it?"

"What if I tell you that I want to be destined for something bigger?" You asked softly. "I have been in so much pain all my life, Cale. What will all this pain amount to? Will it be a good thing that I have suffered, or will all that be in vain?"

"It is no issue if you want to think that you're fated for something bigger," he answered patiently, wiping a tear. "Because we both know that the hope keeps you going, doesn't it?"

"But you must know that your purpose isn't out there as if it's something to find. It's with you. You serve a purpose wherever you are." He gently caressed your cheek with his thumb before he leaned his forehead to meet yours. "No place in this world can you serve no purpose, [Name]. You are a good person."

"Do you truly believe that?" You asked him, looking up at him with bloodshot eyes.

Cale nodded firmly. "I know that it's the truth."

You leaned to him, your eyes closing as you thought about his words. "Is my purpose to continue the divine line?"

"I don't know," he answered. "Is it?"

Your father became a god and the reason why you transmigrated here was to gather believers for when you take his place. It was too personal for this to not be something that you can escape from. But maybe you could have escaped this all had you been honest in the first place.

You control your own narrative.

This was the ending you chose.

"Please," you pleaded. "Take my heart."

Cale has been far too familiar with feeling the warmth leave someone's body once they passed and he doesn't think he'll get used to it every time he feels it. But this time, it was different, and he didn't know if he should be relieved or not.

Choi Han stood on the other side of your bed, his hands being washed attentively by Cage in a washbasin while Rosalyn lingered by the wall. She hasn't spoken a word ever since you pleaded with Cale to take your heart. She looked exhausted and resigned. Perhaps she has come to the conclusion that, at the very least, this was a choice you made on your own. Cale could faintly hear the children outside the door. You insisted that they shouldn't enter because it wasn't good to let kids see bad things. Eruhaben had the duty to look after them.

An iron chest was open by the bed, having been washed and scrubbed meticulously until it had no grime and placed on a folded dry towel. Beacrox and Ron entered the room, pushing a trolley of washbasins filled with crushed ice. They began to move the crushed ice into the iron chest while Cage was drying Choi Han's hands.

You will die at the hands of the two men who shared your circumstances. It would have been nice to wait for a while before they did this, but you knew you couldn't expect Cale to hold you forever. It was best to be done also before you changed your mind and got scared.

"Please be understanding, Choi Han," you muttered, smiling as he grabbed one of your shoulders.

Choi Han's face crumbled into an expression of deep sadness and regret as he felt around the hard bark for where your heart was. He placed a hand where he could feel a faint beating and nodded to Cage. "It hasn't turned yet. It's still beating."

You turned to look at Cale. "Remember. The moment he pierced my heart, you must let me go. Don't make me suffer."

Cale nodded. This time it's different. He will let go of your warmth and then will not be able to feel it go cold. He doesn't know if that relieved him or not and he doesn't really think he has the time to dwell on that.

Choi Han glanced at Cale silently and Cale leaned forward, moving his hand to cover your eyes. "Relax, [Name]. This will be swift."

You let out an exhale and not even a second after, you let out a choked gasp when you feel a sensation similar to having your chest shoved harshly and then the excruciating pain. In a moment, you felt Cale's hands on you, and then when he let go, your eyes landed on him.

"Ca--" You feel your mouth becoming immobile. Within seconds, you could no longer talk, your tongue weightless as your whole mouth followed the fate of your body, turning into a bark. Soon, you no longer smell the blood. You stared at Cale before slowly closing your eyes, your eyelids turning into bark and your lashes becoming moss. Your hair turns into roots, seeping itself into the bed.

"Hurry!" Cage exclaimed at Choi Han as he grabbed at your heart and then placed it carefully into the iron chest before they sealed it shut.

Cage immediately took the sealed iron chest and Cale grabbed her arm. "Let's go!"

He gathered wind to his legs and hoisted Cage with him, both of them immediately headed to the Forest of Darkness, Choi Han running after them. The Super Rock Villa will be your last resting place. It was safe and secluded from the world. No one would be able to consume your heart if they ever came across this legend. Cale had made a promise to himself that you would no longer be at the mercy of those who use and abuse you.

Choi Han dug into the fresh soil of the garden, making an appropriate-sized hole as if they were going to grow a plant. Cage opened the iron chest, the red, bloodied heart staring at her back and she had to remind herself that this was her friend. This was the heart that had given you so much life.

Cale watched as Cage gently placed your heart into the hole before slowly covering it with the fresh soil. "She will return us one day."

"When will that be?" Cale asked, watching as Cage poured the watery blood from the iron chest onto the freshly dug soil.

"After winter," Cage murmured. "The God of the Forest will unfurl itself in the first morning of spring."

"How fitting," Choi Han said with a faint smile.

This will be the first winter without you.

#trash of the count's family #cale henituse #totcf #lout of count's family #lcf #x reader

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salty-tang · 1 month ago

Text

favours owed (three-shot pt2)

Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Congresswoman!Reader (mostly canon compliant)

Summary: Congressman Bucky Barnes does not like owing favours, least of all to you.

congressman bucky x congresswoman reader (set just before, and crosses into the beginning of, Thunderbolts*)

Warnings/tags: EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, Porn With Plot, Explicit Sexual Content, Oral Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Teasing, Massage, Begging, Cunnilingus, Semi-Public Sex, Political Drama, No established relationship, Enthusiastic Consent, Female Orgasm bucky barnes may not know how to politic but he does know how to eat a lady out, Congressman Bucky Barnes, Congresswoman Reader, mild thunderbolts* (the movie) spoilers

A/N: If you wish to skip the graphic sex scene (or jump straight to it, no judging) it's bracketed by these ~*~ text breakers

favours owed masterpost || AO3 || congressman bucky masterpost

9 months later, The Battle of New York First Responders’ Fundraiser Ball

This time you get the chance to sneak up on Bucky Barnes as he stands in front of the large ‘A’ sign that used to adorn the Avengers Tower. It’s being exhibited to be auctioned off later in the evening. To be frank, there’s no way you could ever truly sneak up on the man, but you like to think you caught him a little off-guard with your arrival, especially with the sharp way he looks at you as you clear your throat.

It is not a common occurrence, but Bucky was lost in his thoughts – something that only really ever happens when he’s standing in front of ghosts.

“That was Mel, wasn’t it?” you say, offering him both a quiet smile and the other glass of wine in your hands. “I didn’t think I’d find you here otherwise.”

Bucky sighs, hearing the smugness in your tone as he accepts your offering with a tired smile. He digs his free hand deep into the pocket of his dress pants as he turns to regard you and you take the chance to take him in.

He’s in the exact same suit that he wore at the House of Representatives Ball. Though this time, he’s got a bowtie, and his hair is slicked back. A strong 5 o’clock shadow is developing along his jawline and puffy eyebags have formed under his eyes. To your dismay, those crystal blue eyes had lost a little bit of their usual shine.

It was fair to say that the last nine months haven’t been kind to him. It’s been long days and even longer nights of attending committee meetings, drafting bills, and meeting with constituents. Even with this being your second term, you carry the weight just as heavily; the exhaustion settling between the both of you like an unspoken truth.

You certainly don’t look any better yourself, your dark circles are expertly hidden beneath layers of colour correctors and concealers, but the weariness still seeps through. At the very least, you have a different dress this time – a lovely fuchsia pink Tom Ford silk-crepon gown with a high neckline and a tasteful keyhole cutout. The matching sheer cape cascades down your shoulders, swaying gracefully with your every movement.

“I thought you weren’t coming.” Bucky says, brushing past your question about Mel as if it hardly matters. His attention is fixed on you, like your attendance, one of over two hundred, is the most important thing right now.

He scans you with that now-familiar intensity, and you resist the urge to straighten up. You have to give yourself a mental flogging – since when did his approval start meaning something to you?

“I wanted a quiet night in to rot in peace, but Derek – you’ve met him before, my Chief of Staff – insisted I make the rounds to fundraise for the next campaign. Barely just won this one and he’s already thinking about the next.” You grumble instead and Bucky chuckles.

“Tell me about it. Mine has grandiose ideas of Presidency.”

The two of you share a look and break out in low laughter. A Bucky Barnes presidency? That’s comedy at its finest. It’s already bad enough he shares a name with a former president – he’d never hear the end of it.

Besides, you’ve seen the man drowning in paperwork.

Once, late at night in the DC offices, you passed by his suite and caught a glimpse: him at the centre of a war zone of legislative binders and red-lined drafts, sleeves rolled up, jaw clenched, eyes tracking margin notes like they were enemies on a battlefield. You almost said hello, but he looked so thoroughly overwhelmed that you decided it was best not to interrupt a man clearly losing a fight with committee memos.

Hard workers have always had your respect. And Bucky Barnes, you have to admit, is one of them.

He’s carved out his place as a political force to be reckoned with, his thoughts sharp and his questions sharper still. It helps, of course, that he is enthusiastically backing all your proposals. Maybe this was his way of paying back the ‘favours’ that he thinks he owes you. Not that you’re keeping score, but if you were, you’re pretty sure you’re still ahead since you haven’t been asking things in return. Not when you helped him push through his staff vetting process. Not when you slipped him that early intelligence on Senator Gary’s leanings, and certainly not when you quietly smoothed over that awkward encounter with the press on his behalf.

It has fostered a subtle closeness, one stitched together by favours and shared battles, with a warmth beneath the surface that neither of you quite acknowledge but both feel.

Since the last Ball, you’ve watched quietly from the sidelines as he and Senator Gary inch closer to impeaching Valentina de Fontaine – cheering him on in silence, applauding every hard-won victory from a safe distance. You’ve already played all your cards. You’re not eager to stick your neck out again just to impress Bucky Barnes – or for something as benign as affection.

You are way too busy with your own matters. And frankly, you value your life.

Still, standing beside him again now, close enough to share a pocket of quiet in the middle of a crowded room – you realise just how much you’ve missed him.

He’s always been your political ally first. A friend, occasionally. A headache, reliably.

But lately, lately you’ve been feeling the weight of how much you’ve given. And how deeply – quietly – you’ve started to hope that maybe, one day, he might give something back.

“Gods, the things I’d do to catch a break,” you sigh with feeling, rolling your shoulders and allowing yourself to slouch just a little as the last nine months wash over you. Bucky hums in agreement, a mono-syllabic sound that conveys more empathy than most people manage with full speeches.

“At least I’m not wearing those,” he says, nodding down to the pair of towering heels that you have on tonight. They are slowly murdering your feet in exchange for the privilege of looking down on most of the other men here. With Bucky, you can just barely meet him eye to eye.

“They make my calves look great,” you mutter, shifting your weight from one burning foot to the other. “But I’m throwing them out the window the second I get home.”

“You’ll traumatize someone on the sidewalk,” Bucky says drily.

“I mean, at worst it’s a misdemeanour,” you add with mock seriousness. “Campaign finance violations are still worse.”

Bucky hums, considering. “Could probably spin it as performance art. Civic awareness.”

You look at him. “You gonna bail me out?”

He tilts his glass. “I’ll vote to censure you. Publicly condemn your actions. Privately cover the legal fees.”

You snort. “God, you are getting good at this.”

There’s a pause – long enough to settle between you, easy but charged.

Then, there’s a subtle flicker of his eyes beyond your shoulder, and his body tenses just slightly.

You catch it instantly, though you resist the urge to glance behind you.

“What?” you ask, tilting your head. “Valentina?”

“No – it’s nothing,” he says, but there is something weighty in his expression that suggests that there is more going on than he lets on.

“That doesn’t look like nothing,” you prod.

He flashes you a crooked grin. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

“Me?”

“Yeah. Got me forgettin’ things I shouldn’t.”

You chuckle softly, but before you can press him any further, he clears his throat and takes a long sip of wine. The moment recedes, swallowed back into the hum of the room. The clinking of glasses and the low tide of conversation pull the both of you back into the present.

“Just another hour more of cocktails, then the auction,” you sigh. “I’m doing my best, but I’m not sure I’ll make it through the night.”

Your feet are on fire. Every step feels like a walk across hot needles, and the leather has been sawing into your pinkie toe in a way that promises to blister mercilessly. You can’t wait for the auction to start, just so you have the excuse to sit down.

“I should let you go do the rounds,” you say, turning half-heartedly toward the crowd again. “And I’m going to find a seat before my toes give out. No one’s going to sponsor me if I have no toes.”

Bucky chuckles, but his voice is laced with genuine concern when he says, “there are no seats in this hall.”

“You’re kidding,” you whine as frustration bubbles up. You’re half a breath from arguing the point – because you, stubborn politician that you are, have to at least get a word in – until you remember who you’re dealing with. Of course, Bucky’s already swept the hall. Probably mapped ingress points, escape routes, and yes, even chair availability.

“Sorry,” he says, although he doesn’t have anything to apologise for. “If you’re not particular,” he continues, hesitating for just a beat too long, “I do know a spot where you could put your feet up for a bit. It’s quieter. Private.”

He hesitates. Then, under his breath, almost like he doesn’t mean for you to hear it, he says, “least I can do. After everything.”

You pretend that you did not hear him when you arch a brow. “Bucky Barnes, since when do you ‘know a spot’?” you can’t help but tease.

A faint smirk tugs at his lips. “Been hanging around the new interns too much, they’ve made it their mission to modernize my vocabulary or die trying.”

“Well then,” you say, stepping in closer, “lead the way, Congressman.”

⁕⁕⁕

The ‘spot’ that Bucky spoke of didn’t look very far away from the ‘A’ sign that the both of you were standing in front of. But the throng of attendees all clamouring for both of your attentions made the journey painstakingly slow. It would have been even slower if Bucky wasn’t wearing his signature surly expression – the one that works wonders in parting a crowd.

Eventually, you make it through and slip down a discreet side corridor to ride a service service elevator up just two floors. The elevator doors open to a deserted floor, dimly lit by a few soft lighting fixtures that feel like they’re left perpetually on. The hum and chatter of the museum floor fades out behind the both of you.

Bucky walks on with purpose, passing several other doors before opening one to reveal a hospitality suite. Inside, a well-stocked kitchenette and bar island greet you, but what captures your attention is a row of cushioned settees lined neatly up in the middle of the room, all facing a darkened glass window.

There are very many questions that buzz at the tip of your tongue, they are promptly ignored as you make a beeline for the nearest seat, grateful for the refuge.

The moan you let out as your bottom hits soft fabric can only be described as indecent, but right now you’ve thrown all forms of propriety to the wind. You close your eyes briefly as you relish in the feeling of sheer relief as you kick your feet up. You stretch out along the couch, not giving a damn how slovenly you look. You have a feeling that Bucky wouldn’t mind – in fact, you catch the faintest flicker of amusement in his gaze before he turns away to busy himself at the bar.

Speaking of the man, you can’t quite put a finger on what he is doing, but you do hear several cabinet doors flick open and shut in quick succession.

“You’re a life-saver, Barnes,” you speak to the room at large, hoping he hears you. “This one goes on your tab.”

You hear him snort. “If this was all I needed to do, I would have done it a lot earlier.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you say, tone deliberately light and teasing. “You told me once you don’t leave debts unpaid. And If I remember correctly... you still owe me at least one more.”

You’d said it as a joke, but you both know it’s only half a lie. You never cashed in the real favours – not the staff vetting, not the intel on Gary. Never ever asks for anything.

Bucky glances at you, and for the briefest moment, something flickers behind his eyes. He remembers. Of course he does.

“Not really,” he counters after a beat, “you gave me the tip on Gary, I’ll give you that. But the jury’s still out on Mel.”

“She’ll come around, I’ve been buttering her up.”

“Buttering her up,” he echoes flatly. You hear the sounds of a tap running.

“You know how miserable employees are always on LinkedIn looking for their out? I’ve been reposting and commenting on all those ‘social good’ stories so it shows up on her feed. Subliminal messaging and all that.”

Bucky gives you a look – some amusement, mostly exasperation. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

You shrug, unbothered. “It’s persistence! Or psychological manipulation. Depends on who’s asking really.”

A smile tugs at the corner of his lips, but he says nothing. The silence between the both of you stretches out just long enough to make you glance after him.

When he returns, he’s holding two folded towels, which he hands to you without ceremony. His fingers lightly graze yours in the exchange – and you force yourself to play it cool.

They’re warm.

Your confusion must show, because he exhales through his nose, patient but just that little bit pointed.

“Heat helps with the soreness,” he says, voice low. “If you wrap your calves now, they won’t cramp up later. Trust me, I’ve had to learn the hard way.”

He shifts slightly, voice softer. “You’re the one always offering help – advice, cover, strategy… You never really ask for anything.”

He glances at you. “Maybe I should change that.”

He offers the towels with that quiet insistence that leaves little room for refusal. You take them from him, still warm from being soaked in piping hot water. You eye your heels like they’ve personally offended you (and they have – there’s no cushioning and all those criss-crossing ties are certainly the work of the devil) and you sigh again.

“This is going to be a whole thing,” you mutter under your breath, bracing yourself for the awkward bend.

Before you can even so much as reach in the direction of the first tie, Bucky crouches in front of you with the same quiet efficiency he approaches everything with – purposefully, and without asking for permission.

“Relax.” His voice is low, that familiar mix of dry patience and something steadier underneath. “You’ll pull something if you’re this tense all the time.”

You freeze up. You can’t help it.

You’re not afraid – it’s the opposite. He’s close. Closer than he’s ever been. You’re close enough that you can see all his finest details – the scar near his temple, right over his eyebrow, the texture of his skin, the exact shade of stormy blue his eyes shift to in the low light. It’s the kind of close that makes it hard to think about anything other than him, and how easily he’s settled there right before you.

Your heart threatens to give out when his fingers find the knotted tie that’s keeping your strappy heeled sandals together. There’s no hesitation in his movements, just calm, deliberate care. One heel slides off, then the other.

“You really don’t have to–” you start, but the sentence goes nowhere. Because he’s already wrapping the towels around your calves, snug and warm and startlingly gentle.

“I know,” he says simply. “Let me.”

And that – well, what can you say to that? It does something to you. More than his hands. More than the heat sinking into your muscles. It’s the quiet way he says it, like it’s not a favour or his flirtatious nature, just a fact. Just something he wants to do.

Then his thumbs start to move.

You almost jolt but catch yourself at the last moment. Every part of you is suddenly thrumming with barely restrained energy.

His actions are not rough or showy, just... precise. Like he’s done this before, like he knows what he's doing and exactly what kind of pressure to apply to make you exhale through your nose and try not to melt into the damn couch.

“This okay?” he asks, glancing up. His hands haven’t stopped moving. You’re not sure if they ever should.

You nod, probably too fast. “Yeah – didn’t know this came with the package.”

His mouth quirks. “Occupational hazard. Fieldwork’s hell on the legs. You learn a few tricks.”

Right. Experience. Of course, he knows exactly where the ache is deepest, and how to press just hard enough to coax it loose. Of course he’s the one doing this, hands firm and warm and devastatingly unhurried as if he is mapping the contours of your body, committing it to memory.

Your eyes flutter shut for half a second before you force them open again. He’s still there, still focused, still close. And for the life of you, you can’t remember what the hell your next move is supposed to be.

Because if this is him not getting ahead of himself, you’re not sure what you’ll do when he does.

⁕⁕⁕

Bucky Barnes knows he’s going to hell.

A lifetime – several lifetimes, really – of bad things done will make sure of that (and he can still hear his therapist’s voice telling him, ‘you can’t blame yourself for what you were forced to do’. But he still does anyway. He always will).

But this, this is the fucking whipped cream and cherry on top of a long, damning list. Because every conscious step he’s taken to lead him to this very moment is dripping in self-indulgence, sin, indecency.

In his defence, his original intentions were pure.

He was watching you from the very moment you walked into the museum, a vision in pink. He watched as you worked the room effortlessly, smiling as you greeted friends and potential donors alike, all with that practiced ease that he’s come to appreciate more and more every time he’s forced to do the same.

He’d also caught the look you shot him while he was talking to Mel – sizing up the angle, calculating your next move. You are always trying to catch him off guard, a little game you like to play, even if it’s ultimately a fool’s mission.

And of course, you are an open book to him – he sees the way you carry your tension in your shoulders, the way your complexion was just beginning to take on a bit of a grey pallor from too many sleepless nights.

If he had any say in the matter, you shouldn’t be here tonight. He would have chided you for it – almost, because he knows that it is an exercise in futility to change your mind when it’s set on something.

So instead, he does what he can do, following behind like quiet backup, ready to step in if you stumble.

The hospitality suite wasn’t much, an old relic from when the museum still hosted private performances. Donated by the Maria Stark Foundation, the space was designed to entertain in elegance, quiet, and comfort.

Not that any of the Avengers were big patrons of the arts, but it was reassuring to know that if Bucky flipped a certain combination of switches, one of the walls would open to reveal a cache of supplies – weapons, medical kits, that sort of thing. It’s one of many others, tucked away in unassuming locations picked precisely to be convenient and discreet.

And they call me the paranoid, over-prepared one, Bucky thinks as he collects clean towels from a linen cabinet and runs them under a stream of blistering hot water.

He turns around – and stops at the sight of you. You’re draped over the settee like some ancient ruin – head thrown back across the backrest of the settee, one arm flung tiredly across your eyes, beautiful gauzy fabric of slipping along the length of your outstretched legs, all silk and sighs and bare skin.

Completely unguarded.

Soft.

You look so soft.

Too soft for someone like him with all his broken and jagged edges.

Still, he can’t help the gentle smile that creeps onto his face as he approaches you. You’d tear him a new one if he ever voiced that thought out loud.

But this is how it begins. The slow erosion. The first breach in the wall.

He doesn’t consider himself a religious man, not anymore (whatever faith he once had was buried somewhere in the rubble of the fourth war), but as he kneels by your side and begins to gently wrap the hot towels around your legs, he fleetingly thinks of worship, of penance.

Of what it means to kneel.

Before you, these hands, once forged and hardened by battle and death and killing, have the chance to do something else – something better, something kinder.

He tells himself that he only came tonight to talk about the housing bill. It should’ve been clean – a quick ask, a downright easy pivot into business matters.

But then he saw you – draped in pink, heels too high, smile stretched just a little too tight. And all that resolve evaporated.

Your exhaustion is bone-deep.

And for reasons he doesn’t want to examine too closely, he decided you needed a break more than he needed your vote.

So he stays quiet.

Finds you a seat.

Your skin is warm and soft under his fingertips, and the way your breathing begins to catch ignites dark pleasure within him. His dick hardens without him noticing, and it strains uncomfortably against the thick fabric of his dress pants.

And the bill’s the last thing on his mind.

Mindlessly, his hands drift upwards, just past your knee, seeking the warm fleshy curve of your inner thighs.

You don’t move, don’t speak. It’s all that you can do to just focus on breathing.

He tells himself that he’s just checking for tension, for swelling. For the heat that might signal something torn or strained. But he knows that’s not why he’s still touching you.

You’re soft here. Pliant.

You give under his hands in a way that makes something deep in his chest clench, a flash of hunger so sudden and sharp it almost hurts like physical pain.

You shouldn't let him do this.

He shouldn't let him do this.

But you do.

And he does.

His metal hand stays anchored at your calf, cool and grounded. But his other continues upward, mapping slow circles into the tender skin above the towel, just shy of indecent.

You sigh. Not in protest. Never in protest.

He bites the inside of his cheek.

You’re tired. You trust him. You always have, maybe more than you should. You don’t know what it’s doing to him for you to allow him to be allowed this close. To touch you like this. To feel like this.

He presses the flat of his palm against your thigh, not squeezing, just holding.

Gods above and below, it feels too good.

And maybe that’s the worst part, that something so gentle, so quiet and reverent, could feel like the most dangerous thing he’s ever done. He really shouldn’t be doing this. You shouldn’t be letting him. But neither of you move. The only sound is your breathing – slow, tight, ragged.

And then –

“Shit,” you hiss, jerking slightly as his fingers dig in too hard.

It’s as if a gun has gone off in the room.

He snatches his hand back as if burned, suddenly slapped back into reality. He looks at you with wild abandon, breath catching, muscles tensing,

Really, what the hell is he doing?

This is you. His colleague, his fellow Representative. The woman who will stubbornly die on every small hill, and will lecture the legislative importance of a balance between a purposive and textualist approach to anyone who would listen. The woman who once called him a “misguided libertarian with a saviour complex” in front of three interns and the Vice President.

Now?

Now the exact tenor of your moans is carved into the deepest recess of his memory.

Worse still, the horrible, terrible, sinful truth of this situation is that he wants more. He wants all of it. Your gasps, your sighs, your whimpers, your pleads. He wants to be the reason for every last exquisite sound out of your pretty little mouth. With his hands, with his mouth, with everything he has.

Anything.

He would do anything to keep you going like this.

⁕⁕⁕

“No…” you whine instinctively. Not in protest, but in ache. In regret, maybe, for the moment that he’s just taken away from you.

You sit up quickly, cheeks flushing beet red, eyes wide as you take him in – kneeling, hands stilled, his broad shoulders between your legs. And the situation all comes crashing down on you.

What are you doing?

This is James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes, your colleague, your fellow Representative. A war hero (war criminal?), an Avenger, a man who refuses to use the office’s coffee faucet on principle and so will walk four blocks in the middle of a DC winter to the only 24-hour coffee joint in the area just to be caffeinated. And now his (very large, very nice, very capable) hands are creeping up your legs and you are spiralling –

“We should not be doing this,” you manage to croak, and you hate the way that your voice betrays you. You wanted to sound firm, resolute. What comes out is desperate and breathy and pitched barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t flinch or move back.

“Then tell me to stop,” comes the reply. His voice low and so, so dangerous.

He’s still between your knees, still watching you with scorching intensity. He’s still touching you – barely. His thumb moves in slow, cruel circles against your skin, like he knows exactly what it’s doing to you.

Your body betrays you completely. Your thighs are pressed so tight they are trembling with restraint, and you are soaked through with want. Your mouth is so dry that swallowing feels impossible. Your brain is screaming, spiralling, trying to claw back some semblance of rationality.

You can’t breathe.

You don’t want to breathe.

You want his hands to wander higher. You want his fingers to bruise your inner thighs as he splays your legs wide open and make you come with his mouth over and over. Until your voice is hoarse from screaming his name. You want to beg him for more and mean it.

You don’t just want it – you need it unlike anything else you have desired in your life.

You swallow.

Fuck it.

“Don’t stop.” You tell him quietly.

When his eyes snap up to meet yours – hungry, feral, devout – you swear you forget how to think entirely.

~*~

Those two little words are all the permission Bucky needs. His hands still for half a heartbeat, but his eyes are locked on yours, dark and feral. Without a word, he resumes his maddeningly slow ascent.

You can feel the smugness radiating off him as he watches you writhe beneath his touch, the curve of his mouth twitching in satisfaction each time your hips buck or your breath catches. He’s taking his time, deliberately cruel in the way his fingers trace higher and higher, just brushing the edge of where you want him.

The simple truth is this – he wants it too. Maybe even more desperately than you do. There’s an unfamiliar desire coursing through his veins. It’s not just lust, it’s a hunger that makes him burn in a way he has not in decades. It scorches through him like wildfire, burning everything else away except the single-minded need to bury his face between your thighs and lose himself in the way you fall part.

He breathes in the scent of your arousal like it’s oxygen, like it’s salvation. His hands pause just short of the wet heat between your legs, like he’s savouring the moment before the fall. His jaw clenches like he’s trying to keep himself on a leash, but it's a losing battle. It’s one he’s not sure he wants to win anyway.

He wants more. Needs more.

This position won’t do – not for what he plans to do, so without warning, he wraps his hand around your waist, strong and sure, and lifts you with startling ease.

You let out a startled little squeak, and he grins like a devil.

Before you can even protest, he sets you down on the settee properly and drops to his knees like a man in holy prayer. At some point (when, you have no idea – you are barely paying attention) he’s lost the bowtie and the jacket. The discarded articles lie forgotten on the floor, joining your heels. He’s pushing up the white sleeves of his dress shirt up his forearms, slow and deliberate, revealing sinewy muscle and the glint of that metal arm like he’s preparing for work.

Serious, filthy, goddamn reverent work.

If your brain was a little less lust-addled, you would have giggled.

As you are, up to your eyeballs in want and desire, it just makes you ache for him to bury his dick deep inside you.

Without any fanfare, or so much as a by-your-leave, he shifts, hooking one of your legs up and over his shoulder with careless strength, and pressing the other wide open under his hand. You’re so vulnerable right now – every inch of your need is laid bare on display for him. You feel how soaked you are, how your panties cling on like a second skin, and shame crawls up your throat at just how obvious your desperation is.

But he does not mind, doesn’t even dream of looking away. In fact, he likes the way your arousal is as plain as day, soaking through your underwear.

Gentle and deliberate, he presses a kiss onto your knee, the start of a trail of messy, feverish kisses that he drags down your thigh in a crooked, wet path. Then, he slips a hand under your ass, gripping you hard enough for the pain to be pleasurable.

And isn’t this the most exquisite form of torture? He shows no sense of urgency as he nips at unmarked skin, alternating between pressing hot open mouth kisses and sucking bruises into the fleshiest parts of your skin. Your senses are dialled to a hundred, making you painfully aware that he always stops just shy of your dripping, aching cunt.

You’re a proper mess now – babbling, whining, hands clawing at the settee like you’re trying to dig your way out of your own need.

Blood roars in his ears. You’re begging. You’re begging for him. It almost does his head in, the sheer thought that someone would want him so much that they are reduced to this spluttering, trembling, gasping, mess.

His free hand, the metal on, reaches around, fingers pushing aside the hopelessly soaked cotton with ease (they were doing nothing to hide what you are, anyway) to rub at the dark pink folds of your cunt.

Cold vibranium slides over hot, flushed skin.

You choke out a sound – half moan, half cry – the cool sensation of metal coming into contact with your slick wetness is a feeling unlike anything you’ve ever had before. Your mouth waters, the contrast of heat and cold makes your toes curl, your hips buck. You are already fantasising about what those cold, unyielding fingers would feel like inside.

But then – he stops.

“Still with me, darlin’?” He says, gently untangling his hands from you with unbearable care. He can’t bear not touching you, so they come to a rest on your waist. They knead at your side in slow, grounding circles, like he’s trying to tether you down to this earth.

“Put it in – I need – Please, please – ” you hear yourself whine. You don’t even know what you’re begging for anymore. You just need.

Your own hands that were just gripping the settee paw helplessly at his, trying to pull him closer, push him where you want him.

Anywhere.

Everywhere.

Bucky has the audacity to laugh, a low dark sound that rumbles through his chest and makes your heart clench. “As the lady wishes,” he mumbles against your thigh as he angles himself just so. His fingers hook onto the sides of your panties, and he tugs them off in one swift motion. They’re tossed aside like the rest of your ruined, beautiful evening.

He leans back down, and slowly, as if he were savouring the most exquisite of cuisines, deliberately licks a wet, hot strip from your entrance to your clit. Your taste fills his mouth, hot and salty and utterly addicting. His beard scratches your skin, raw from his earlier ministrations. You are already sore and sensitive from all the bites he had been doling out and this just about sends you over the edge. It hurts in the most perfect, perfect way.

His nose bumps against your clit with every lick, long and deep, and you don’t recognise the person who grinds her hips against his eager mouth. You’re a stranger to your own body, chasing relief like a woman possessed.

Your hands find purchase his hair and you tug at silky locks, but it seems to only spur him on. He groans again, tongue pressing deeper into you.

You are so plush and warm and smooth that he wants to mark you and sink into you so that you never ever leave. You drive him crazy. He wants some part, any part, of himself inside you. The need thrums through him as his right hand slides up to your cunt. Two fingers moisten themselves on your wetness and you moan – loudly, obscenely – as he slowly slides both digits in.

He too, groans as you flutter and clench around his fingers, and he’s barely all the way in yet. He’s wrecked by just how tight, how perfect, how right you feel around him.

His cock is screaming out with desperate desire to replace his hand, but no, today is not about him.

He steadies you with his other hand, fingers splayed reassuringly across your lower tummy as he mutters sweet words of encouragement as you get used to his size. He feels you loosen up around him, and that is his cue to move his fingers in and out of you. Slowly, at first, until he finds that perfect pacing that makes your whimpers louder, needier.

He is almost too much – you feel like you’re going to shatter into a million pieces – but you don’t care, urging him on with every pant and gasp that leaves your mouth. His pace never falters, and he is quick study at what makes you tick. Before long, he settles on a brutal rhythm that has him pushing – harder, faster, deeper – fingers crooking just right as he works on you in messy, practiced strokes.

You think that this is it, that this is what is going to be your undoing, until he bends his head down again, lavishing attention on your cunt with both his mouth and fingers, and you change your mind, because this, this is exactly what is going to break you. His mouth meanders along the planes of your body, unhurried, until he finds what he is looking for.

He sucks at your clit, and you see stars.

There are actual tears in your eyes as both your legs snap around his shoulders in a tight squeeze. You’re not sure if you’re trying to find some measure of respite from this onslaught of pleasure, or if you’re trying to keep him there so that he can keep pleasuring you forever.

Gods, this is – this is – everything. Like the sky cracking open in a thunderstorm. Like the moment a star goes supernova. Like the silence that swells just before a wave breaks, raw and utterly alive.

You are at the edge, head thrown back, spine arching up from the settee. And that is when you notice yourselves faintly reflected in the dark glass in front of you. You see your lips parted, your chest heaving, Bucky’s dark head between your legs as you dig your heels into his back.

You get to see the moment where he pushes you right over – you’re coming, shaking so hard that you cry. And Bucky keeps going.

God, he keeps going. His fingers work you through the orgasm, mouth dragging back slowly, licking up everything you spill for him with biblical greed. He watches you break all around him with an expression that comes very close to holy reverence.

And when it finally becomes too much, too sensitive, you reach down and regretfully push him away with trembling hands. He rises up over you, settling beside you with a low exhale, arms opening wide. He allows you to bury your face in his chest as aftershocks continue to shudder through you.

“My darlin’s so pretty when she comes,” he mumbles into your hair, voice rough, thick with something close to awe. You hear him, hear the second time he calls you ‘darlin’ – and you want to argue, want to laugh, want to tell him that you’re nobody’s darling (maybe, just maybe, you’d let yourself be his).

And if you had any energy left, you would have protested that this was all him – that the thin sheen of sweat on his body is testament to the fact that he has practically done everything to facilitate the most intense orgasm of your life.

Then he asks softly, “you still think I was buttering you up?”

You glance at him sideways, already half-curled against his chest. “Weren’t you?”

He lets out a soft laugh, almost embarrassed. “I was going to ask you to co-sponsor the housing bill.”

You blink. “You never did.”

“Got distracted,” he says. Then, quieter, “you looked tired. Figured you needed to sit more than I needed your vote.”

It’s the kind of thing you didn’t know you’d been waiting nine months to hear.

~*~

Bucky watches you carefully as you straighten yourself up, eyes scanning for any flicker of discomfort or regret. He finds none.

By the grace of waterproof cosmetics, your makeup does not run, and you seem quietly relieved, checking your reflection in the darkened glass, patting your hair back into place. His own shirt is rumpled, but it’s nothing his suit jacket cannot hide.

He watches you potter around the room, face flushing again as you gather your discarded shoes and panties and hand him his jacket and tie. He can still taste you on his tongue, heady and addicting, better than Asgardian mead.

You knew there are going to be consequences for hooking up with Bucky, but you’ve braced for the emotional ones – not the logistical nightmare of getting him back into public-facing shape and sneaking back into the event. You chew your lip, eyeing the state of his hair. His carefully gelled-back hair has been painfully mussed to a point of no return. With an exaggerated huff, you card your hands through the locks, trying to salvage what you can. His fringe disobediently flops into his face, untamed. He still looks nice, but nothing like how he walked into this event. You turn your attention to something you can fix – his bowtie.

He smirks. “And whose fault is that?”

You scowl and tug at the knot of his bowtie, a little harder than strictly necessary. It’s been a while since you did one of those and you are concentrating hard to make sure you get it just right (Bucky doesn’t tell you that he could have tied it himself – how else did he get it on in the first place? He likes you close).

He shrugs it off with a grin that makes him look as young as the interns. “You should worry about yourself,” he mutters, eyes raking down your body. “You look like you rolled down the stairs.”

You look down. Your dress is a roadmap of sin – creased, twisted, hopelessly revealing of exactly where his hands had been.

“And whose fault is that?” you echo, though like him, you are also smiling. “We’ll just have to tell everyone we got into some kind of rough-and-tumble.”

“Oh, sure.” He can’t help but chuckle, deep and unrepentant. “I’m sure the New York Times would love to hear about the kind of rough-and-tumble two of their political darlings got into. In a private hospitality suite. During a charity event. For first responders.”

“Shut up.” You reply, embarrassed. No need to dwell on the depravity. You were there; you have the bruises to prove it.

You both know you have to go back to the fundraiser – face the music, the donors, the polite small talk over flat champagne and canapé trays. But for a moment, you linger. You take a half-step back to admire your handiwork (you know he can tie his own tie, but damn if are going to give up another opportunity to be all up him). Better, much better.

Wordlessly, he raises his left arm. You step into it without hesitation, tucking yourself into his side. You’re still a little unsteady on your feet, but he doesn’t let you falter. He just slips an arm around you, like it’s instinct.

Together, you sweep out of the room–shoulders squared, expressions schooled, veneers sliding into place.

But your eyes meet just before you cross the threshold, and in that glance is everything – the spark of something new, something wild and unspoken.

A promise. A threat. A next time.

Whatever this is – it’s not over.

Not even close.

⁕⁕⁕⁕⁕⁕⁕⁕⁕

A/N: And that's a wrap!

I actually have a third chapter that's their respective team's reactions to all this sneaking around (because that's my favourite thing to read), which will be uploaded in due time, but consider the main story finished and that as a ~post credit scene~

I also have some small out takes/ deleted scenes that I still love, which will be uploaded. It's a bit empty now, but I promise I'll flesh it out and I am always open to chats, saying hi, or even requests <3

See ya'll around!!

<<pt 1 || AO3 || pt3 >>

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kittysdiary · 2 years ago

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Any tips on ways to naturally enhance your face?

How to naturally enhance your face:

Skincare

Your top priority should be focusing on your skincare so that any makeup application will go flawlessly.

Cleansers, moisturizers, toners, masks + spf are essential

Lip masks to hydrate and nourish your lips

Eye creams to help with depuffing and dark circles

Spot treat any areas of concern (ex: hyperpigmentation, acne + scarring)

Jade or rose quartz facial rollers to help with lymph drainage

Dermaplaning to help get rid of dead skin, hairs and to help shape eyebrows

Use eyelash and eyebrow growing serum

Makeup

Makeup will help enhance certain features of your face that you want to accentuate. For a full guide to understand your face + eye shape check out my post here: 🎀

Play around with eyeshadow styles that compliments your eye shape

Pick a good foundation so your face becomes a clean canvas before makeup application

Contour + highlight to compliment your face shape

Use lipliner to shape your lips

Use concealer and color corrector to brighten your under eyes and to correct hyperpigmentation or redness on the face

Use brow pens to add color and shape to your brows

Curl your lashes

Add false lashes or get lash extensions

Use eyeliner to shape your eyes

Use a touch of highlighter in the inner corner of your eyes to brighten them up

Use two lip colors to enhance your lips

Use a brightening powder to brighten your under eyes

Use bronzer and blush to enhance color on your face

#my post #tips #cute tips from an esthetician 🎀

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yooniesim · 10 months ago

Text

I refuse to post anything but nonsims content 😂 but two very different questions for yall today

a) for my kpop stans, what songs have yall been obsessed with lately? for me it's crazy by le sserafim and chaconne by enhypen. for my stays, pls suggest ur fav songs, currently I like back door the most and maniac (mostly the chorus part). I know nothing about the group yet, just intrigued by those songs ajsjdkd

b) for my poc makeup wearers (especially black ppl) that have genetic hyperpigmentation like dark circles, how do yall cover correct/improve it? I don't mind it when I'm bare faced, but the gray undereye effect with concealer is killing me... iykyk 😂 so far I've tried orange and pink corrector but neither helps... 🤔 I'm a light neutral-cool olive but my circles are quite dark brown... confuzzled 🤔

My random topics of the day, hope yall are doing well 💜

#ceci speaks #nonsims #text #delete later

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aajjks · 7 months ago

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I genuinely don't know how to do my makeup. I know almost nothing about it and then I see all these beautiful and amazing women on the internet doing it and looking even more gorgeous than they already are. I watch them doing all these different looks and all these tips and tricks that they share and i think I can learn only if I start practising. The thing is, apart from family functions that happen only a few times throughout the year I don't ever wear makeup. I can literally count on my fingers the number of days I've put on makeup on my face. And the only thing I know how to do is... I just put on some primer, blush (I fuck up most of the time so my sister applies it for me), eyeshadow, mascara and lipstick. I Can do a decent eyeliner tho. These days I've been using a colour corrector for my dark circles when I have to attend any events and I'm not the best at it but I'm not bad as well. That's all I know how to do. Even when I go to class I just put on some moisturizer and a tinted lip balm which is totally fine but I wanna learn how to do more ☹️

I can only do my make up 😭 but you will learn it like it’s really simple just don’t fret it

#asks

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rachelshen · 1 year ago

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Dr Sabrina Dark Circle Corrector System To Reduce Dark Circles

Achieve brighter, beautiful eyes with Dr Sabrina Dark Circle Corrector System. Reduce dark circles for a radiant look with our scientifically curated formula.

#dark circle corrector system #color corrector system #eye care

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awh-bowie · 9 months ago

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🎀 Dolluxe Issue #1🎀

🌸 Pre-Night Out Survival Guide 🌸

I don't know about you, but for me, getting ready to go out is half the fun! Be it with friends or alone, pampering myself sets the mood for the night ahead. ( ˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈♡)

i. Skincare

Cleanse: Start with a gentle cleanser to get rid of any oil or makeup from the day. You want your skin to be clean but not stripped, so I recommend using an oil cleanser. Follow up with a water-based cleanser for extra freshness, if needed.

Dermaplaning (optional): Use a dermaplaning tool to exfoliate and create a smooth base.

Moisturize: A light moisturizer or hydrating serum will keep your skin dewy and prepped for makeup.

Sunscreen: If you're heading out while the sun's still up, remember to protect your skin.

ii. Body Care

Exfoliate: Use a body scrub to smooth your skin, if time allows.

Moisturize: Slather on your favorite lotion or body butter. Bonus points for layering your perfume with it!

Perfume: A few spritzes on pulse points (wrists, neck, behind the ears) will have you smelling divine.

iii. Makeup

Primer & Foundation: Use a lightweight primer to smooth skin, then follow up with foundation or BB cream.

Concealer & Color Correcting: Use concealer to hide dark circles and blemishes. Use a color corrector for an extra touch!

Eyeshadow & Mascara: Go for colorful, glittery shadows! Pair with curled lashes and mascara for a dramatic look.

Highlighter/Blush: Add some shimmer to your cheekbones and a flush of color with blush.

Lips: Opt for an easy-to-reapply gloss or long-lasting lip stain.

iv. Bag Essentials

Lip Gloss or Lipstick: For touch-ups throughout the night.

Blotting Papers: Keep the shine in check.

Perfume Roller or Mini Spray: Freshen up your fragrance on the go.

Hand Sanitizer: Stay clean and safe!

Hair Ties and Pins: Always a necessity.

Protection: Safety first!

🎶 October Playlist 🎶

Here’s what I’ve been listening to this month! ♪(๑ᴖ◡ᴖ๑)♪

✨ Cards and Stars: November Zodiac ✨

For November's zodiac readings, I asked the cards one simple question: “What is a prediction that can apply to those born under [sign]”. Here are the results!

Aries 🐏 – Knight of Wands: Aries, you're ready to charge forward! This is a time of bold action and exciting adventures.

Taurus 🐂 – Six of Pentacles: Taurus, you're entering a time of giving and receiving! Balance is key, and abundance flows to you.

Gemini 🦋 – Queen of Cups: Gemini, you're tapping into your emotional depths. Trust your intuition and nurture yourself and others.

Cancer 🦀 – The Fool: Cancer, you're embarking on a fresh, exciting journey! Take a leap of faith.

Leo 🦁 – The Moon: Leo, you're navigating through a time of introspection. Trust your instincts and embrace the unknown.

Virgo 🌾 – Queen of Pentacles: Virgo, you're stepping into a nurturing phase. Focus on your finances and well-being.

Libra 🕊️ – Page of Pentacles: Libra, new opportunities are calling! Set practical goals and embrace growth.

Scorpio 🦂 – Ace of Pentacles: Scorpio, a new financial opportunity is on the horizon.

Sagittarius 🐎 – Five of Swords: Sagittarius, you're facing a challenge. Be mindful of your actions during this time.

Capricorn 🐐 – The Emperor: Capricorn, it's time to take charge! Step into a leadership role and embrace discipline.

Aquarius 🌬️ – Nine of Pentacles: Aquarius, you're enjoying the fruits of your labor. Indulge in your success.

Pisces 🐠 – Four of Cups: Pisces, you're feeling emotionally stuck. Reassess what you want and break free from stagnation.

🎀 November Trend Predictions 🎀

I. Molten Metallics: Fluid, molten metallic fabrics take center stage in gowns and suits.

II. Faux Fur Fantasy: Oversized faux fur brings bold luxury to outerwear.

III. Bejeweled Everything: Rhinestones and crystals embellish everything from clothes to beauty looks.

IV. Jelly Fashion: '90s-inspired jelly shoes and bags are back, adding playful nostalgia.

V. Interesting Silhouettes: Oversized embellishments and paired with tight base pieces create bold silhouettes.

VI. Bleached Brows: Bleached brows make a bold fashion statement.

VII. Slingback Heels: Retro slingbacks return in both classic and bold designs.

VIII. Fringe and Ruffles: Fringe and ruffles add playful texture to outfits.

IX. Deco Brows: Hear me out!!

Thank you so much for reading the first edition of Dolluxe! Make sure to follow me for more issues in the near future! (｡♥‿♥｡)

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georgiapeach30513 · 2 years ago

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How do you cover dark circles and bags without looking bad, and noticable that there's make up there in a cheap way? I'm not good at this stuff,

Bags are a bit harder to cover up. Think of makeup as paint. If there’s texture, it doesn’t make it disappear, it’s a camouflage.

For the bags, I’d start with a caffeine serum. The Ordinary has one that is affordable, and works well. It lasts forever because you need a drop for both eyes.

Moisturize well!! Always always moisturize!

If you have dark circles you need to know the undertone of those circles. Are they purple/blue? Are they more red? So if you want to cancel out a color, look at the color wheel, find the closest color to what you want to cancel out, and go to the opposite side of the wheel. For purple it’s yellow. For green it’s pink.

Use that shade to cancel out the color. Color correctors are a little bit trickier to find inexpensive. But it can be done. Also, Made By Mitchell has this color case that is amazing and you can use for your entire face. If you’re not in the UK you can get it on BeautyBay.com

After you color correct then you want to conceal. One of my favorite drugstore concealer for years has been the Maybelline Instant Age Rewind. I always take the puff off the end.

After you conceal, move on to something else and let the concealer settle a bit. After at least five minutes, go back. Pat out any creases and then set with powder.

#makeup

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brian-bobo · 1 year ago

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10 Must-Have Makeup Products for a Flawless Look

Did you know that the global beauty industry is estimated to be worth $532 billion by 2027? It's clear that people around the world are embracing their love for beauty and fashion, and there's no better way to enhance your natural beauty than with the right makeup products.

In this section, we will share our top 10 makeup products that are essential for achieving a flawless look. These products have been expertly curated for beauty and fashion enthusiasts, ensuring that your makeup game is on point. Get ready to glow with these must-have beauty essentials.

Key Takeaways:

Discover the top 10 makeup products for a flawless look.

These products are expertly curated for beauty and fashion enthusiasts.

Enhance your natural beauty with must-have beauty essentials.

Foundation: The Base for a Flawless Canvas

A flawless look starts with a good foundation. It serves as the base that creates a perfect canvas for the rest of your makeup. At [Beauty Brand], we understand the importance of finding the right foundation that suits your skin type and desired coverage. Whether you prefer a lightweight formula for a natural everyday look or a full-coverage foundation for special occasions, we have the perfect options to meet your needs.

Lightweight Foundations for a Natural Finish

If you're looking for a foundation that provides a natural-looking finish, our range of lightweight foundations is your go-to choice. These formulas are designed to even out your skin tone and blur imperfections while allowing your skin to breathe. With a seamless application and buildable coverage, they offer a beautiful, radiant look that lasts all day.

Full-Coverage Foundations for a Flawless Complexion

For those who desire flawless coverage and a radiant complexion, our full-coverage foundations are the answer. These foundations are specially formulated to provide maximum coverage, masking any blemishes or discolorations on your skin. With their long-lasting and smudge-proof formulas, you can be confident that your flawless look will stay intact throughout the day.

Our foundation range is carefully curated to include a diverse selection of shades to suit all skin tones. We believe that everyone deserves to find their perfect match and feel confident in their own skin.

When choosing a foundation, it's essential to consider your skin type and undertone. Our team of experts is here to assist you in finding the perfect shade and formulation that caters to your unique needs. Trust us to provide you with high-quality beauty products that enhance your natural beauty and elevate your makeup game.

Discover the power of a flawless canvas with our top-of-the-line foundations. Visit our website or store today and experience the transformative effects of a perfect foundation match.

Concealer and Corrector: Erasing Imperfections

Concealer and corrector are essential tools in any makeup routine, helping to hide imperfections like dark circles, blemishes, and redness. At [Brand Name], we understand the importance of achieving a flawless complexion, which is why we have carefully selected the best concealers and correctors available in the beauty and fashion industry.

Our collection of concealers and correctors is designed to cater to a variety of skin tones and concerns. Whether you're looking to brighten under-eye circles, cover up acne scars, or neutralize redness, we have the perfect product for you. Our range includes both liquid and cream formulas, offering options for every preference and skin type.

When applying concealer and corrector, it's important to use the right technique to ensure a seamless finish. Start by applying a small amount of product to the desired area using a concealer brush or your fingertips. Gently blend the product into the skin until it seamlessly merges with your foundation, creating a natural-looking result.

For under-eye circles, we recommend using a peach or salmon-toned corrector to neutralize any blue or purple discoloration before applying your concealer. This will help to brighten and awaken the under-eye area, giving you a fresh and well-rested appearance.

Expert Tip: To prevent your concealer from creasing throughout the day, set it with a translucent powder. This will help to lock the product in place and ensure long-lasting coverage.

To assist you in finding the perfect concealer or corrector, we have created a comprehensive table highlighting the key features of our top picks:

ProductKey FeaturesShades[Brand Name] ConcealerFull coverage, lightweight formula10 shades[Brand Name] CorrectorPeach-toned formula for color correction6 shades[Brand Name] Cream ConcealerBuildable coverage, hydrating formula8 shades[Brand Name] Stick ConcealerConvenient and travel-friendly4 shades

As you can see, our range of concealers and correctors caters to a diverse range of preferences and needs. Whether you prefer a full coverage concealer or a lightweight corrector, we have the perfect option to help you achieve a flawless complexion.

Highlighter: Enhancing Your Natural Glow

Want to achieve that lit-from-within glow? Highlighter is the secret weapon. In this section, we will reveal the best highlighters that will enhance your natural features and give you that radiant look. Get ready to shine with these beauty must-haves.

Highlighters have become a staple in every makeup enthusiast's collection. These iridescent powders or creams are designed to add a luminous sheen to your cheekbones, brow bones, and other high points of your face. By catching the light, they create a flattering dimension and enhance your natural beauty.

When it comes to choosing the perfect highlighter, there are a few factors to consider. The first is the formula. Highlighters come in powder, cream, and liquid forms, each offering a different finish and level of intensity. Powder highlighters are great for an intense glow, while creams and liquids provide a more natural-looking sheen.

The next consideration is the shade. Highlighters are available in various shades, ranging from champagne and gold to rose gold and icy silver. The key is to select a shade that complements your skin tone and undertones, creating a seamless and radiant look.

Another important aspect to keep in mind is the application technique. Whether you prefer a fan brush, a tapered brush, or your fingertips, the way you apply the highlighter can make a significant difference in achieving the desired effect. Experiment with different techniques to find what works best for you.

Now, without further ado, let's dive into our top recommendations for the best highlighters:

Anastasia Beverly Hills Amrezy Highlighter

Fenty Beauty Killawatt Freestyle Highlighter

Becca Shimmering Skin Perfector Pressed Highlighter

NARS Illuminator

Hourglass Ambient Lighting Powder

These highlighters not only deliver an intense and long-lasting glow but also blend effortlessly into the skin, leaving you with a flawless finish. Whether you prefer a subtle radiance or a blinding highlight, there is a shade and formula for everyone.

"Highlighter adds that perfect touch of luminosity to your makeup look, making you appear radiant and fresh. It's the final step in achieving a flawless glow." - Beauty Expert

Remember, when applying highlighter, less is often more. Start with a small amount and build up the intensity as desired. For a natural-looking glow, focus on the high points of your face where the light naturally hits.

So, if you're ready to take your makeup to the next level and enhance your natural glow, these highlighters are a must-have addition to your beauty collection. Get ready to shine bright like a diamond!

Top 5 Highlighters

Highlighter Formula Shade

1.Anastasia Beverly Hills Amrezy Highlighter Powder Champagne

2.Fenty Beauty Killawatt Freestyle Highlighter

Powder Gold

3.Becca Shimmering Skin Perfector Pressed Highlighter

Powder Rose Gold

4.NARS Illuminato

LiquidIcy Ic Silver

5.Hourglass Ambient Lighting Powder Various Shades

Mascara: Luscious Lashes for a Dramatic Effect

Nothing completes a flawless makeup look like long and voluminous lashes. Beautifully framed eyes can instantly enhance your overall appearance and add an air of drama. To achieve this effect, investing in the right mascara is essential.

At our beauty and fashion studio, we have carefully selected the best mascaras to deliver luscious lashes that demand attention. Our collection includes lengthening and volumizing formulas that cater to diverse beauty needs and preferences.

When it comes to mascara, it's important to stay in sync with the latest beauty trends. Experiment with different styles and techniques to find what works best for you. Whether your goal is a natural everyday look or a bold and dramatic finish, our range of mascaras has got you covered.

Discover the latest makeup essentials and beauty products that will elevate your flawless look:

Lengthening mascaras: These beauty heroes feature innovative wands and formulas specifically formulated to extend the appearance of your lashes. Achieve beautifully defined eyes with just a few swipes.

Volumizing mascaras: For those seeking extra fullness and depth, our volumizing mascaras are a game-changer. Their unique formulations and brush designs add instant volume and create a mesmerizing effect.

Curling mascaras: Want to emphasize your lashes' natural curl? Our curling mascaras are designed to enhance and lift your lashes, creating a captivating and glamorous look.

Experience the power of our handpicked mascaras and stay at the forefront of beauty trends. Our extensive collection boasts high-quality brands that have become staples in the beauty industry, ensuring that you always have access to the best beauty products on the market.

Enhance your makeup routine with the perfect mascara and achieve the flawless look you desire. Be confident and let your eyes shine with our range of beauty must-haves.

Expert Tip:

For optimal results, we recommend applying mascara from the root to the tip of your lashes in a gentle zigzag motion. This technique ensures even coverage and prevents clumping. Remember to let each coat dry before applying additional layers to achieve your desired look.

Lipstick: Adding Color and Confidence

A swipe of lipstick can instantly elevate your look. Whether you're going for a bold, dramatic statement or a soft, natural finish, the right lipstick shade can add color and confidence to your makeup routine. In this section, we will showcase the best lipstick shades and finishes that are currently trending in the beauty and fashion industry. From stunning reds to subtle nudes, there's a perfect lip color for everyone.

Discover Your Signature Shade

Choosing the right lipstick shade can be overwhelming with so many options available. To find your perfect match, consider your skin tone and undertone. For fair skin tones, rosy pinks and peachy nudes are great choices. If you have a medium skin tone, try mauves and berries. Deep reds and plums complement darker skin tones beautifully.

Don't be afraid to experiment with different finishes as well. Matte lipsticks offer a sophisticated and long-lasting look, while creamy formulas provide a hydrating and comfortable wear. If you want to add some shine and dimension, opt for a glossy finish. And for those who love a statement-making pout, metallic and glitter lipsticks are on-trend choices.

Stay on Top of Beauty Trends

In the ever-evolving world of beauty, lipstick trends come and go. To stay up-to-date and embrace the latest beauty trends, keep an eye out for popular lipstick colors and finishes that are making waves in the industry. From vibrant neon shades to ombré and gradient effects, there's always something new to try.

If you're feeling adventurous, try layering different lipstick shades to create your own unique color. You might discover a fabulous combination that becomes your signature look.

Complete Your Look

Remember, your lips are just one part of your overall makeup look. To achieve a truly flawless finish, pair your lipstick with complimentary eye makeup, blush, and foundation. The key is to create balance and harmony between all elements of your makeup.

So whether you're attending a special event or just want to feel extra confident in your everyday life, the right lipstick can make all the difference. Explore different shades, finishes, and trends to find your favorites. With the perfect lipstick, you'll not only add color to your face but also boost your confidence and make a lasting impression.

Eyeshadow Palette: Creating Eye-catching Looks

Eyeshadow palettes are a beauty lover's playground. They offer endless possibilities for creating mesmerizing eye looks that will make heads turn. In this section, we are excited to introduce you to the most versatile and on-trend eyeshadow palettes that will help you achieve eye-catching looks.

When it comes to eyeshadow, diversity is key. Our curated selection of palettes includes a range of textures, finishes, and colors to suit every occasion and style. From everyday neutrals to bold and vibrant hues, these palettes are designed to let your creativity shine.

Experiment with different eye looks using these high-quality eyeshadows that blend effortlessly and deliver intense pigmentation. Whether you prefer a soft and natural look or a dramatic smokey eye, these palettes have got you covered.

With a mix of matte, shimmer, and metallic shades, you can easily transition from day to night and create a variety of stunning looks. Define your crease, add depth to your eyes, and highlight your brow bone with precision using these versatile eyeshadows.

Stay on-trend with our top eyeshadow palettes:

1. Urban Decay Naked3 Palette - Embrace your femininity with this stunning palette featuring rosy hues that flatter all skin tones.

2. Anastasia Beverly Hills Soft Glam Palette - Achieve a timeless and elegant look with this versatile palette filled with warm and neutral shades.

3. Huda Beauty Desert Dusk Palette - Embrace the beauty of the desert with this exotic palette featuring rich and vibrant colors.

4. Too Faced Sweet Peach Palette - Add a touch of sweetness to your eyes with this delightful palette inspired by juicy peaches.

5. Morphe x James Charles Palette - Unleash your creativity with this colorful and inclusive palette designed in collaboration with beauty influencer James Charles.

These eyeshadow palettes are not just about beautiful shades; they also offer exceptional quality and long-lasting wear. Whether you are a makeup enthusiast or a professional artist, these palettes are essential tools for creating stunning eye-catching looks.

Elevate your eye makeup game and explore the endless possibilities that these eyeshadow palettes have to offer. Get ready to turn heads and make a statement with your eyes.

Expert Tip: Experiment with Different Finishes

To create dimension and depth in your eye looks, don't be afraid to mix and match different finishes. Combine matte shades for crease definition, shimmers for inner corner highlights, and metallics for a bold pop on the lid. Play with textures and finishes to create stunning eye-catching looks.

Setting Spray: Locking in Your Flawless Look

What's the secret to making your flawless makeup last all day? Setting spray. This underrated beauty essential is the final step in achieving a long-lasting and flawless look. Whether you have a busy day at the office or a night out on the town, a setting spray will ensure that your makeup stays intact, giving you the confidence to conquer the day.

At [Brand Name], we understand the importance of setting sprays in the beauty routine. Our curated collection of setting sprays offers a range of options tailored to meet your specific needs. From mattifying sprays for oily skin to dewy sprays for a luminous finish, we have the perfect product to lock in your flawless look.

Our setting sprays are formulated with advanced technology to provide exceptional longevity, ensuring that your makeup doesn't smudge, fade, or transfer throughout the day. The lightweight formula creates a breathable barrier that keeps your foundation, concealer, and other makeup products in place, even in challenging weather conditions.

But it's not just about longevity. Our setting sprays also provide additional skincare benefits. Infused with nourishing ingredients like hyaluronic acid and antioxidants, our sprays hydrate and protect your skin, leaving it looking fresh and healthy.

The Perfect Finishing Touch

Using a setting spray is easy. After applying your makeup, hold the bottle at arm's length and mist the spray over your face in a gentle, sweeping motion. Allow it to dry naturally and voila! Your flawless look is set for the day or night ahead.

"Using a setting spray is like applying a protective shield over your makeup," says [Makeup Artist Name], a renowned beauty expert. "It helps to fuse all the layers of your makeup together, giving you a seamless and polished finish."

"A setting spray is the cherry on top of your flawless makeup routine. It not only prolongs the wear of your makeup but also adds a luminous glow to your skin," adds [Makeup Artist Name].

Whether you prefer a subtle glow or a matte finish, there's a setting spray out there for you. Explore our range of setting sprays and find the perfect one to elevate your makeup game. Don't let all your hard work go to waste - lock in your flawless look with a high-quality setting spray from [Brand Name].

Remember, beauty trends may come and go, but a flawless look never goes out of style. Invest in a setting spray today and experience the difference it can make in your beauty routine.

Conclusion

In conclusion, these 10 must-have makeup products are essential for achieving a flawless look. From foundation to setting spray, each product plays a crucial role in creating a seamless and radiant makeup look. Our expertly curated selection ensures that you have all the necessary makeup essentials to stay on top of the latest beauty trends.

With a good foundation as the base, the right concealer and corrector to hide imperfections, a highlighter to enhance your natural glow, mascara for luscious lashes, and a lipstick to add color and confidence, you can create stunning makeup looks for any occasion.

Don't forget to experiment with eyeshadow palettes and make use of a setting spray to lock in your flawless look all day. Incorporate these beauty products into your daily routine and elevate your beauty and fashion game to the next level. Stay up-to-date with the latest beauty trends and make these makeup essentials a part of your beauty collection.

FAQ

What are the top 10 must-have makeup products for a flawless look?

The top 10 makeup products for a flawless look include foundation, concealer and corrector, highlighter, mascara, lipstick, eyeshadow palette, and setting spray. These essentials help create a smooth, even complexion, enhance natural features, and make your makeup last all day.

How do I choose the right foundation for my skin?

To choose the right foundation for your skin, consider factors like your skin type, coverage preference, and undertone. Test different shades on your jawline and select the one that seamlessly blends with your neck. If you're unsure, consult a beauty expert or get shade-matched at a makeup store.

How do I apply concealer and corrector for a flawless complexion?

To apply concealer and corrector for a flawless complexion, start by applying corrector on areas with discoloration or darkness. Then, use a small brush or your fingertips to gently blend concealer over the corrected areas. Set it with a translucent powder for long-lasting coverage.

How can I achieve a natural, lit-from-within glow with highlighter?

To achieve a natural, lit-from-within glow with highlighter, apply it on the high points of your face, including the cheekbones, brow bone, cupid's bow, and the bridge of your nose. Use a fluffy brush or your fingertips to blend the product for a seamless finish.

What mascara can I use to achieve long and voluminous lashes?

To achieve long and voluminous lashes, look for mascaras that offer lengthening and volumizing effects. Consider mascaras with unique brush designs and formulas that add drama and fullness to your lashes. Waterproof mascaras are also great for smudge-proof, all-day wear.

What are the best lipstick shades and finishes for everyday wear?

For everyday wear, opt for lipstick shades that complement your skin tone, such as nude, pink, or MLBB (my lips but better) shades. Choose finishes like satin or creamy matte for a comfortable and long-lasting wear. Experiment with different shades to find your perfect everyday lip color.

Which eyeshadow palettes are versatile and trendy?

There are many versatile and trendy eyeshadow palettes available. Look for palettes that offer a mix of matte and shimmer shades, as well as a range of neutrals and vibrant colors. Popular brands like Urban Decay, Anastasia Beverly Hills, and Too Faced offer a variety of eyeshadow palettes to suit different preferences.

How do I make my makeup last all day with setting spray?

To make your makeup last all day with setting spray, shake the bottle well and hold it about six inches away from your face. Close your eyes and mist the spray in a "T" and "X" motion for even distribution. Let it dry naturally. The setting spray will lock in your flawless look and keep your makeup fresh throughout the day.

Why are these 10 makeup products essential for a flawless look?

These 10 makeup products are essential for a flawless look because they provide a solid base with foundation, conceal imperfections, enhance natural features, add color and confidence, and lock in the look with setting spray. Together, they help achieve a seamless and radiant makeup look that lasts all day.

#beauty and fashion #beauty trends #fashion news #skincare tips #makeup tutorials #latest fashion #beauty products #style tips

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