#electric knife sharpener

[chaotic-pulsar]

Did I just spend $111 on an electric knife sharpener? Yes, yes I did

LISTEN MAN LIFE IS TOO SHORT TO SPEND ON HATING YOUR KNIVES FOR NOT BEING SHARP

[goshyesvintageads]

Dormeyer Corp, 1960

[houseofknivesaustralia]

Chef's Choice Electric Knife Sharpener Australia - Efficient and Reliable Sharpening Solution

Discover the best Chef's Choice electric knife sharpener Australia. Our sharpeners are designed to provide efficient and reliable sharpening for your knives. With our electric knife sharpener, you can easily restore the sharpness of your blades, ensuring precise and effortless cutting. Buy the Chef's Choice electric knife sharpener in Australia today and experience professional-level sharpening at home.

[southernsmokebbq]

[insidekatmind]

Jealousy~Berlin(Song Jung-ho)

Wearning: +18,smut, degratation, public, age-gap

Request: yes!

The roar of gunshots and muffled screams echoes through the Palazzo della Zecca. The tension is electric, and every step you take seems to echo through the corridors like a death knell. But you keep your cool. You have to. Everyone is counting on you.

You’re there as part of the gang, your face hidden behind the red mask, but your most precious secret is another. You and Berlin are in a relationship. Something forbidden, dangerous and at the same time impossible to ignore. He is the relentless genius who orchestrates the plan with lethal elegance, and you… are the only one capable of breaking through his icy armor.

No one knows. No one must know. And yet, Denver continues to try to get to you. His open smiles and cheeky jokes follow you everywhere. Many times you’ve laughed, trying to ignore the jabs and attempts at flirting, but every time it happens, you feel Berlin’s eyes fixed on you. Cold and fierce.

“Hey, girl, how about we run away from this madhouse together when this is all over?” Denver jokes one day, with that naive, charming boyish smile.

You pretend to ignore him, to concentrate on your station, but his playful tone is hard to completely push away. What you don’t expect, though, is the sudden grip of a hand around your wrist. Strong. Relentless.

“Come with me. Now.” Berlin’s voice is sharp, cold as a freshly sharpened knife.

You don’t have time to protest. He drags you into another room, away from the others, his furious footsteps echoing on the floor. He slams the door shut and stares at you, eyes burning with barely contained anger.

“What do you think you’re doing messing with Denver?” His voice is a low growl, but the trembling in his hands reveals an emotion far deeper than anger: fear.

“I… I wasn’t… It’s not what you think.” You try to explain, but he’s already too blinded by jealousy to really listen.

“I don’t want to see you even talk to him.” He presses you against the wall, his presence intrusive and possessive. “You’re mine. Only mine.”

Your heart is racing, but there’s something about the way he looks at you that takes your breath away. It’s not just desire, but a desperate need, a terror hidden behind the mask of control.

You hugged him softly. "I'm only yours, love," you whispered softly. His grip tightened around you, his fingers digging into your skin. "Damn right you are," he growled, his breath hot against your ear. "You're mine, and don't you fucking forget it."

He pulled back suddenly, grabbing your chin roughly and forcing you to look at him. His eyes were dark, filled with a possessive intensity. "I don't share, got it? You belong to me, and only me. If I ever catch you looking at another guy, or god forbid, touching one... I'll make you regret it."

His thumb pressed hard against your jaw, his grip painful. "Understand, whore"

You nodded and stroked his arm. You knew he was still angry and decided to make it up to him. You lowered your hand to his crotch, squeezing it. His eyes flashed with anger and desire as you touched him. "You think you can just touch me like that and everything will be okay?" he sneered, grabbing your wrist and squeezing hard. "You're gonna have to do a lot more than that to make it up to me, slut."

He pushed you down onto the bed, climbing on top of you and pinning your arms above your head. "I'm gonna fuck you so hard, you won't be able to walk straight for a week," he promised darkly, his free hand tearing at your clothes. "And if you dare to make a sound, I'll gag you. Got it?"

His hips ground against yours, his hardness evident through his jeans. "Now be a good little whore and take what's coming to you."

You nodded as you looked at him. He smirked cruelly at your submission, his grip on your wrists tightening. "That's right, nod like the obedient little fucktoy you are," he mocked, leaning down to bite at your neck hard enough to leave a mark.

His hands roamed your body roughly, squeezing and groping as he pleased. "You're nothing but a hole for me to use," he whispered harshly in your ear. "A warm, wet place for my cock to disappear into."

He sat back, unbuckling his belt slowly. "I'm going to destroy this pretty little cunt of yours," he promised, pulling out his hard, thick cock. "And you're going to take every inch like the desperate slut you are."

He positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against you. "Beg for it," he demanded, his voice cold and commanding. "Beg me to fuck you like the worthless whore you are."

“Please fuck me,” you whisper softly. You knew you had to make it up to him. His lips curled into a sneer at your whispered plea. "Louder, slut. I want all to hear what a desperate whore you are for my cock."

He pressed the head of his dick against your entrance, teasing you with the promise of penetration. "Beg like you mean it, or I'll make you suffer all night long."

His free hand came up to wrap around your throat, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. "Come on, whore. Tell me how much you need my dick inside you. How much you crave being used and abused by me."

He leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke in a low, menacing tone. "Because if you don't, I might just decide to leave you empty and aching. Would you like that, you pathetic little slut?"

“Please Berlin,” you said louder, stroking his shoulders. His grip on your throat tightened at the sound of his name, a cruel smile spreading across his face. "There's a good girl," he purred mockingly. "At least you know how to beg properly."

Without warning, he slammed his hips forward, burying himself balls deep inside you in one brutal thrust. He didn't give you any time to adjust, immediately setting a punishing pace as he fucked you mercilessly.

"You're so fucking tight," he growled, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. "Like a virgin's cunt."He leaned down, biting at your neck and shoulders, marking you as his.

You groaned and scratched his back. "Berlin," you groaned. His back arched at the feeling of your nails digging into his skin, a hiss escaping his lips. "Fuck, yes," he groaned, his hips snapping forward even harder. "Mark me up, you little slut. Show the world who I belong to."

He grabbed your legs, pushing them back and spreading you wide open. The new angle allowed him to go even deeper, his cock hitting your cervix with every thrust. "Take it, whore," he snarled. "Take every fucking inch of my dick."

You screamed in both pain and pleasure. “Oh,” you said.

His eyes flashed with sadistic pleasure at your scream, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "That's it, scream for me," he demanded, his pace never faltering. "Let all know what a dirty little slut you are."

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a brutal kiss, his teeth biting at your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. "You love this, don't you?" he panted against your mouth. "Being used and degraded by me. Having your cunt stretched out by my big, thick cock."

His hand cracked across your face, the sharp sting sending a jolt of electricity through your body. "That's right, moan for me, you worthless whore," he sneered, his hips pistoning in and out of you at a brutal pace.

He slapped you again, and again, each strike sending you spiraling further into a haze of pain and pleasure. "You're mine," he growled possessively. "My personal fucktoy to use and abuse as I please."

He grabbed your jaw roughly, forcing your mouth open. "Open wide, slut," he commanded, before spitting a thick glob of saliva directly into your mouth. "Taste what a dirty whore you are."

His grip on your jaw tightened, his fingers digging into your skin as he continued to fuck you relentlessly. "You're nothing but a hole for me to fill," he snarled. "A warm, wet place for my cum to leak out of."

He leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke in a low, menacing tone. "And when I'm done with you, I'm going to fill that pretty little mouth of yours with my seed. Make you choke on it like the cum slut you are."

You swallow his spit and moan as you cling to him. His eyes darkened with lust as you swallowed his spit, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. "Good girl," he praised mockingly. "Such a obedient little whore, swallowing my spit like it's the nectar of the gods."

He gripped your hips tightly, his fingers digging into your flesh as he pounded into you mercilessly. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with your moans and his grunts of exertion.

"You're so fucking close, aren't you?" he sneered, his thumb finding your clit and pressing down hard. "I can feel your cunt tightening around my cock. Beg for permission to come, slut. Beg me to let you find your release."

“Please daddy, make me come and fill me with your cum,” you beg. His eyes flashed with sadistic glee at your desperate plea, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "Since you asked so nicely," he purred, his thumb circling your clit rapidly.

His hips snapped forward one last time, burying himself deep inside you as he came with a roar. "Fuck, take it all, you little cum slut," he growled, his cock pulsing as he filled you with his hot seed.

As your orgasm crashed over you, he leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear. "Remember this feeling, whore," he whispered menacingly. "Remember who owns this cunt. Who fills it with cum. You belong to me, and only me."

You moaned at his words and took his face and kissed him. He kissed you back roughly, his tongue invading your mouth and dominating yours. His hands gripped your hair, pulling your head back to deepen the kiss as he continued to thrust lazily into your sensitive, cumfilled hole.

When he finally broke the kiss, his eyes were cold and calculating. "You're mine, understood?" he said firmly, his grip on your hair tightening painfully. "I own every inch of you. Your body, your mind, your soul. You exist solely for my pleasure."

You caressed his cheeks. "Honey, I love you. I'm sorry if you felt jealous. No one can take your place," you whispered softly. His expression softened slightly at your words, but the possessive glint remained in his eyes. "I love you too, you stupid girl," he muttered, leaning into your touch. "But don't think that means I'll go easy on you. You're still a brat who needs to be put in her place sometimes."

He pulled out of you abruptly, his cum leaking out of your wellused hole. "Clean me up," he ordered, pushing your head down towards his stillhard cock. "And then get on your knees. It's time for your next lesson in obedience."

You smiled sweetly and muttered a 'yes daddy' and sucked his cock. He groaned as you took his cock into your mouth, his hand gripping the back of your head tightly. "That's it, suck it like the good little slut you are," he praised, his hips rocking forward to fuck your face.

His other hand came up to grab your chin, forcing you to look up at him as he used your mouth. "You look so pretty with my dick stretching your lips," he sneered, his eyes filled with lust and dominance.

He held your head still, his cock hitting the back of your throat repeatedly. "Gag on it, whore. Show me how much you love choking on my fat cock."

You moaned on his cock as you choked. You loved being choked on his cock and Berlin knew it. You moaned and continued to suck him. At that moment Denver enters the room and Berlin continues to fuck your face to make him understand that you are his. Berlin's eyes flicked to Denver as he entered the room, a smirk spreading across his face. He didn't even pause in his brutal facefucking, wanting to make sure Denver got a good view of his possession.

"Look at her, Denver," he sneered, gripping your hair tighter. "Look at my little whore, choking on my cock like the slut she is. She's mine, understand? Her mouth, her cunt, her ass, everything belongs to me."

He pulled you off his dick, letting you gasp for air. "Tell him, slut," he ordered, his hand wrapping around your throat. "Tell Denver who you belong to."

“I'm his,” you said and went back to sucking Berlin's cock. Berlin's grin widened at your words, his grip on your throat tightening possessively. "That's right, you're mine," he growled, thrusting his hips forward and burying his cock back in your mouth.

He glanced at Denver again, his expression daring him to challenge his claim. "She's my personal fucktoy," he sneered. "I can use her whenever and however I want. Isn't that right, slut?"

You moaned in response on his cock, licking and sucking it more. Berlin's eyes gleamed with sadistic pleasure as you moaned around his cock, your enthusiasm only fueling his dominance. "Fuck, listen to her," he taunted Denver, his grip on your hair tightening. "She loves sucking my dick, doesn't she? She's addicted to the taste of my cum."

He pulled you off his cock again, this time holding you by the back of the neck. "Open wide, slut," he commanded, his other hand pumping his shaft rapidly. "I'm going to mark your face with my cum, so everyone knows you're mine."

His face contorted in pleasure as he came, thick ropes of cum splattering across your cheeks and lips. "Take it, whore," he groaned, his hips jerking forward as he coated you in his seed. "Take my mark."

He held you in place, making sure every drop landed on your face. "There, now everyone will know who you belong to," he sneered, wiping the excess cum off his dick with your hair. "You're mine, and only mine."

He looked at Denver, a cruel smirk on his face. "See that, Denver? That's what happens when you try to take something that belongs to me. She's mine, and I'll do whatever the fuck I want with her."

[venomvalley]

GOOD VIBRATIONS

leon kennedy x afab!reader // 3.4k+ words

summary: Resigned to the long-distance nature of your relationship, Leon gifts you an app-controlled vibrator to use during his time away.

warnings: 18+!!! vibrators used discreetly in public, exhibitionism (idk if it fully applies but. to be safe), edging/orgasm denial, humiliation kink, explicit mentions of consent, phone sex, oral sex (m receiving), ro takes a light-hearted concept and brings feelings into it yet again

notes: after a solid month, @glacierclear raised me from my writing grave with this post and i absolutely knew i had to write something for it hehe

Leon, retroactive man that he is, loves to solve problems. Act first, think later.

You both share in bone-rending loneliness during his weeks-long absences from home, and it’s one problem he’s never been able to fix with all the brute force and secret agent skill under his belt. Until he texts one day, says he’s finally found a solution to the problem (the problem being feelings and longing and all the visceral build-up that he’d rather scrape off with a filet knife, like carving out the innards of a rotted fish).

An app-controlled vibrator created specifically for long-distance couples. God fucking bless technology.

You open the link he sent to an adult toy website and are greeted with a professional looking page and a picture showcasing a u-shaped vibrator, perfect for g-spot and clitoral stimulation. We-Vibe: a very on-the-nose name for such a product.

It’s perfect.

In a sickly-sweet way, you’ll know he’s still alive when the humming begins. When the texts come in to play your little game.

It’s ordered then delivered within ten days. A cute little thing, soft as silk, fits snug inside you. After a bit of set-up, you try the thing out and gush to him about its deceptive power. Rules are laid out and a secret phrase is decided upon for when either of you are in the mood to use it: wanna play?

Excitement—yeah, that’s an understatement.

~

You take back everything you said. Leon is an asshole and you hate this fucking vibrator.

He knows your body well enough to anticipate when your orgasm nears, even halfway across the world, and the setting he refuses to change leaves you teetering between too much and not enough. Overwhelm against your g-spot, but too little stimulation against your clit to send you just that little bit over the edge. And when you do get close, so close your teeth grit and your belly tenses and an electric balm washes over you, the vibrator shuts off. Muscles relax, your breathing evens, but anger—hot white, blinding, not unlike the precipice he robbed you of—leaves you grimacing and teary-eyed.

Even worse: you can only cum from the vibrator. One of his little rules that you agreed to in starry-eyed excitement. You should’ve known. Leon loves his unfair, sadistic rules.

But it gets even worse. Or better, depending on how you look at it. Whether you prefer optimism or pessimism for the day.

What began as a nightly, at-home routine transitioned into wearing it outside the comfort of your bedroom (or couch, or bathtub, or dining table). Before your first visit to the store since owning the cursed thing, he texts you. Offers up a suggestion and the mere thought—wetting the seat of your underwear while strangers pass by unawares, while you try to complete a normally mundane task as he leads you across the razor-wire of pleasure—burns something hot and needy deep in the pit of your stomach. Makes you wish you could finish yourself off, start over with a clean slate, it’s only been a week and you’re already sharpened teeth and grinding nerves and stiff in the neck—

So you agree. Of course. Why wouldn’t you?

Another thing about Leon: he’s smug. Rubs his unbotheredness in your face, in his tone when he calls, the things he says through text.

He’s halfway across the world, dressed to the nines for some work meeting, and your chest might cave due to the rapid beat of your heart as you walk through the aisles. And he doesn’t care. Little more than a puppet master amused by his own creation.

You just hope he doesn’t decide to lift his teasing today. Couldn’t take the embarrassment because you tread over the line of exhibitionism yet an orgasm in public is not a boundary you wish to cross. But you know him. He cradles many things close to his chest, keeps private things private. You received the same treatment in the beginning, sustained yourself on breadcrumbs of basic information universally viewed as inconsequential. But not to him.

So why, then, would he risk sharing you with the world? With anyone else?

Besides, he promised you. Just a simple text (flashlight, you decided) and this stops.

The thought comforts you, and the anticipation of biting back noises and locking your knees and feigning your expressions to keep your secret gets to you a lot more than it should. It’s all about anticipation, you realize. That’s what the butterflies in your stomach represent:

When?

Thirty minutes into your trip and three ingredients marked off your list, while reading dates on the milk, your insides clench around the sudden start of vibration. The lowest setting that blisters your blood, that almost doubles you over and leaves you gripping the shelf. Not enough but still so fucking good, like scratching a week-long itch, a mosquito bite that you know will keep itching and itching until you soothe it with a cream (in this scenario, the cream is, well—).

A pricing label slides sideways beneath your palm, almost bending in half when the thrum increases in severity, and you inhale deep to steady your breathing. You turn to find the aisle barren of customers, and relief floods through you. So does something else, something heady and thick that pools then coils between your legs. Your insides clench around the toy, then the rhythmic pulse of a second heartbeat. The nape of your neck burns with heat, licking up the back of your skull.

This is humiliating. It’s humiliating and you fucking love it. Should you love it this much?

You receive your answer while searching for the brand of bread he prefers. A swell of vibration against your clit makes you bite back a gasp. Your eyes shut against the slick glide, body-warm silicone fitting perfect against swollen flesh between the cross of your legs.

Bread. Bread. What kind of bread does he like again? The bag is red, you think. Maybe blue?

Never mind that—the buzzing increases, leaves you lowering onto your haunches before the array of powdered donuts on the bottom shelf. Every atom in your body strains to keep you from reaching between your legs, shoving a hand in your underwear, and either ripping the vibrator out to stop the wonderful, soul-squeezing torture or finishing yourself off right in the goddamn bread aisle.

But you don’t. Instead, you squeeze your legs together and steady yourself with a hand on the cool metal of the shelf, face dug into the arm of your sweatshirt.

“Goddamn it, Leon.”

Then everything stops, and you wait one, five, ten minutes for the humming to return. It never does. You continue shopping in silence, peace, each step sparking static against the slick mess of your clit, swollen and sensitive.

The cashier smiles at you and you hate yourself a bit. Something fierce and toothy burns the nape of your neck:

Humiliation, yes, that’s the word.

He messages you two hours later, once the groceries have been tucked away and you recline on the couch for a long-awaited nap:

Sorry. Had business to take care of.

You swear you see his grin through the screen.

~

So. You don’t wish to do that again.

No, that’s a lie. Something you tell yourself to feel better because you should not have liked it as much as you did. And you did. It’s all you can think about as you clean the house and go to work and shower and sit in your car on the way home.

Which is where you currently find yourself. Stuck in a line of cars miles long, something about an accident two hours out from re-opening your current route. On top of normal quick time work traffic, you’re set to be here a while.

It’s a stupid idea—you play with fire, bring the torture on yourself—but you pull out your phone despite the blaring inside your brain and send the text that seals your fate:

Wanna play?

He responds almost immediately, praises your perfect timing because today’s been horrible and he sits at the hotel all alone and… well, he doesn’t say it, but frustration is better shared with someone else. You, specifically.

He calls you this time, voice weak as snuffed-fire woodsmoke. Grumbly, muffled, face half-buried in his pillow. You’re quick to find your vibrator (stuffed to the very bottom of your bag), discreet in the way you slide it beneath pants and underwear. The silicone glides cool and soft inside you, flexible enough to curl against your g-spot.

“Okay—“ Before you finish your sentence, the vibration begins, leaves you crossing your legs at the knee, bumping into the steering wheel.

“How’s your day been?” he asks, fabric rustling in your ear.

“Awful,” you say, slightly breathless, head slumped against the seat.

If you close your eyes, you focus far too much on the wet warm wonderful sensations, so you stare ahead at the car before you, tail lights blaring stop-sign red as the sun begins to set. On your left, the lone occupant slouches in the driver’s seat, elbow balanced on the console (god, if only this stranger knew what you were doing just a few feet over). To your right sits a parking lot belonging to some new restaurant you can’t remember the name of.

“That makes two of us.”

Amidst the subsequent silence, he fiddles with the settings. Maxes out the vibration until your hips arch off the seat, until you hear the low thrum beneath two layers of clothing, until you gasp out in the muted silence of your car before he shuts it off completely. Over and over again, until you’re gripping the console and catching your breath.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

He takes a moment to answer, exhales in a half-muffled laugh. “Playing.”

“You’re evil.”

“And you’re rude.” His voice lowers to an almost rumble within the cavernous depths of his chest. “Let me hear you.”

Fuck him.

You know that sigh he gives you, a little rickety at the edges, and the distant, wet sound of his hand on his cock.

Oh. Oh god.

“Fuck, are you… ?”

It’s something you’ve never done before. You’ve breached the topic on occasion because of course he masturbates while he’s gone and of course he thinks of you, but maybe this has all fucked him up, too. This newfound control of your orgasm—maybe the only thing he can control in his life.

Your forehead thumps against the steering wheel as your insides flutter around the toy. Too small, too inorganic, miss his heat his tongue the taste of his skin him him him—

If you think too hard, you can taste him at the back of your throat, salt-slick and musky. It makes you dizzy.

He hums his assent, sucks a breath through grit teeth as the noises grow louder. “Rules don’t apply to me, remember?”

If you could speak at this point, you would aim every insult in your arsenal at his head. But language transcends words right about now. Can’t think of much else besides the familiarity of his sounds, reminiscent of the slick sheath of your cunt, the rhythmic way he fucks into you.

You know—god, you know—that he envisions the brain-burned memory as well.

“I miss you,” said on the tail end of a whine, pitiful and tender, bone-deep longing a fresh bruise upon your skin. A re-opened wound.

“Me too,” he says, more breath than syllable, and you know what comes next. The expectation sets your teeth on edge.

He relieves the static coil of your muscles as you relax into the electric tingle against your clit, huffing out a low moan. You find yourself at a breaking point, all cragged edges and hairline fractures. In the car beside you, the driver sits slumped against the window, each slow breath fogging up the glass. Asleep.

Nothing stopping you now.

“More.” He falls silent on the other end of the line, maybe holding his breath as the sounds grow louder. “Please, Leon?”

That’s all it takes. He curses under his breath, sighs out your name, and you can see him plain as day: face and neck sweatslick, brows twisted into a furrow, lips parted. Cumming milky stripes over the trail of hair on his belly. God, he’ll make a mess of himself—something you ache to see in person again.

The vibrator shuts off. You almost sob in mourning.

“I’ll be home Saturday,” he says, a salve for licked-raw wounds.

Saturday. Four days from now.

You can wait. You have to.

The drive home is spent in silence.

~

He perches on the edge of the bed, phone in one hand (the app’s interface mocks you, glares bright from the corner of your vision) and the back of your head cradled in the other, your naked body seated between the inviting spread of his legs. He shudders against the licking kiss you press to the underside of his cock, lips framing the thick vein that thrums warm and heavy beneath your touch.

You missed him, a cavernous yearning as carnal and animalistic as instinct itself. The Leon that bleeds through messages could never compare to flesh and blood, to the lilt of his voice, to the witness of a sudden grin that stretches wide across his face. To eyes that crinkle at the edges, a gut-deep fire built from tinder and stone visible in the low-light blue of his irises.

Your mouth drops open as the unyielding vibration finally begins, simmers heat at the apex of your thighs. A roaring fire immune to snuffing, gasoline-fed, led to destruction by the app on Leon’s phone. Highest setting, no fucking doubt.

“I can be nice, you know,” he says, syllables lengthy and teasing.

All he knows to do is tease, you think. With words, touches, and even now, he has you on your knees with his dick in your mouth and that still isn’t enough to break him. You smooth tightened fingers over the flesh of his thighs, a brittle moan muffled around the salt-musk taste of him. A hand curls over the back of your head, threatens to press, coax, but he stops himself with a heavy sigh, massages blunt nails over your scalp. Begs, instead: deeper, more, please.

He never forces you, something bare-minimum in the way you love that about him. He takes as good as he gives, swallows his pride when required, and you think a large part of him loves the play. The cat and mouse, push-and-pull of your relationship.

You pull away with an open mouth, eyes squeezed shut, a string of spit roped between your bottom lip and the head of his cock. Thinking is difficult, one misfired synapse away from impossible, but you know that you can’t give him what he wants. Not after the month of teeth-gnashed edging he’s put you through.

He exhales through flared nostrils, a lick of frustration etching in the sharp knit of his brow. But he says nothing, spreads his legs a little wider when you rest a cheek upon his inner thigh, hair sparse and fuzzy against your skin.

Then an inevitability, an unstoppable force tightens full-body muscles before you cum hard and sudden from where you kneel on the floor. So powerful you sob on each exhale, speckled static popping across the expanse of blackhole vision. Faintly, he mutters nonsense, huffed-out words of praise (there you go, so good for me, look so pretty like this), and you watch the slick glide of a milking fist around his cock—yours, you realize.

Too much in an instant, atom-rending pleasure to knife-tipped pain, but just as your lips part to voice discomfort, everything stops. You sag against him as his phone drops to the comforter, jumps just enough to slide off the bed with a dull clatter. Neither of you move to fetch it, face down by your knee as it lay.

“That wasn’t part of the plan,” he says, leans forward, cups your cheeks to lift your face for a kiss. Almost bruising in his fervor, rough as he nicks your lower lip with the blunt edge of his front teeth, wet when you open your mouth for him and his tongue drools over yours.

You part from him long enough to gasp out a laugh, fist continuing its slick twist over the length of his cock. “You had a plan?”

He struggles to reply, choking on a breath, a laugh of his own, “More like an idea.”

He kisses you again, all languid heat and roaming hands, and your insides clench around the toy, slick pooling on the floor between your knees. Need him to fuck you, can already imagine the stretch, the fill, the sticky mess of his cum—

As if omnipotent, Leon takes you by the arms and hauls you to your feet, coaxing you to sit on his lap with large hands splayed around the back of your thighs, pressure insistent. Needy as you.

Good. Good.

You smile. “What, you think it’s gonna be that easy?”

Against your own hunger, your baser instincts, you stay put. The gaze once focused on the glistening skin between your thighs, framing the soft curve of the vibrator still inside you, now darts up to your face. Surprise foundational to reverence, a cliff-edged gleam in his eyes, and his fingers dimple your skin.

You card a hand through dark blond hair, soft as silk, freshly washed. He leans into your touch, eyes closing, and something swells against your ribs. Hurts in the best way.

Love. It’s love, all-consuming, infinite, painful at its most potent. What a beautiful thing, to love so deeply your brain short-circuits, your breath struggles to empty, your bones creak and ache beneath the weight of it.

You aren’t sure why or when you begin to cry, but your body sags beneath the weight of it, and he’s there—always, always there—to keep you upright, hands tight around your waist. It feels like home, everything: the salt of his skin, the remnant smell of his body wash, the callouses stamped into his fingertips.

It’s love. Unfair, indecipherable, hard-wired into each insignificant atom of the universe. He’s real, tangible, here. Someone for you to sink your teeth into, to flay open (leave him as raw as he makes you feel), to worship.

When you were younger, you craved this kind of love. The transcendence of universes, lifetimes, death itself. A silly thing to wish for, catalyzed by one too many romance novels read same-day in middle school.

But you think you’ve found it.

“Gonna take this out now,” he whispers, breath a warm puff against your cheek, and the ghost of his fingers against your labia leaves you sighing into his neck.

He’s gentle, so gentle as he slides the toy out, as he pulls you into his lap and you steady yourself with a hand on each of his bare shoulders. A new spatter of freckles dust the skin, a new mole kissing his collarbone. He’s been somewhere with a bright sun, hopefully a beautiful ocean to swim in. Maybe you stared up at the same moon, found connection through the pull of the tides.

The whiskers of his beard rasp against the curve of your neck as you sink down onto him in one smooth glide, insides tender and gummy and impossibly wet. He laves sucking kisses down the thrum of your pulse, pulls you close with a hand at the base of your spine. If possible, you would’ve melded together long ago, lived within each other, shared heartbeat and breath and blood.

The teasing, the phone sex, the messages at three in the morning—they’re all great. An unfortunate requirement of long distance that you survive on. But nothing will ever, can never be better than this. The real thing.

For the next two weeks, the We-Vibe is repackaged then left at the bottom of your underwear drawer.

A few nights after he leaves, around two-thirty in the morning, your phone dings with a text message:

Wanna play?

[kii-nami]

WHITE COMET'S DESCENT | IL CAPITANO

You never state for what reason you are holding him back, but it is already obvious. The Commander of the Khaenri’ahn army went missing with one swift strike of the starbound ice. You don’t seem to think of people as disposable yet cannot bring yourself to warm the snake’s nest willingly. Thrain shares the sentiment: he has never been a fan of holding his enemies closer than his friends. And despite your peculiar character, this is definitely something Thrain cannot fault you for. Queen [Name] Einherjar is incapable of trusting even herself. He fears that one day it can become your downfall. He accepts the position with no hesitation, yet it does not save either of you from damnation.

CW: 7K WORDS; PART ONE OF TWO; FEM!MC; MADE-UP KHAENRI'AHN LORE; OCS MENTIONED; PART OF A WIDER GENSHIN AU BY ME AND MY FRIEND; THRAIN GET BEHIND ME THEY'RE BURYING YOU ALIVE

The rightful heir is beautiful even when drowning in the blood of the usurper king.

The crimson is dripping down your fingers like holy water, just like the unstoppable streams of stars that the royal astrologers love to blabber about so much. Not that Thrain cares for things like that, at least not right now.

Irmin’s decapitated head is on the table, and you’re occupying the seat of the Vinster King with the grace of inteyvat, silks swaying with your each move akin to the petals trembling under the lukewarm currents. His wife, stars save her soul, cannot find peace even in death, following her unwilling husband into eons of non-existence. The golden-haired youth, the one Irmin cracked the red skies and split the white stones for, stands to your right with nothing but a morose distaste woven into her silence. Yet it is directed not at you, the one who is stealing her heavy crown with one slash of a sharpened blade and two shards of glowing ice, but the last supper of those who stand against you.

She seemed so eager to please the king not so long ago yet now she denounces even the remains of the usurper who granted her the reign over the nation with little wits yet all the madness put behind his reasons. Where such defiance came from is unclear, even how this alliance she has with you came to be is uncertain, but it is not something he understands. Neither is he meant to. Thrain is a simple knight, despite the strenuous burden forced upon him by those higher than him. Deciphering things like these is better suited for the likes of Surtalogi or Vedrfolnir, incapacitated as he may be.

What Thrain is truly interested in is the blade carelessly dropped on the dining table, a misplaced butter knife amidst the finest porcelain. The sword, the one that was deemed forever lost amongst the thousands winds of time, is also painted the same crimson as the silks of your sleeves. Hundreds of cheap copies of it are floating around the markets, dozens of recreations worth a small fortune are gathering dust in the collections of the rich that just get richer. None of them come even close to the sheer power of the true Blade of Fólkvangr. It cracks and buzzes, sparks of lights sizzling like electricity, responding the each and every move of your chest. Inhale. Exhale. The banquet room is silent, fallen in a deep courtesy, everyone fears for their life.

“Rise, Khaenri’ah.” Your voice is even yet soft, and somehow, a stark contrast to your appearance, nonetheless.

Nobody moves except for you, as the golden-haired youth offers you her steady hand. Thrain does not pride himself in knowing much about poetry, yet the sentiment is there. Your fingers stain her palm with red, the remnants of the crimson moon glimmer in your eyes in the shape of a star long fallen. You wish for Khaenri’ah to rise, and so you do.

“You shall not bow any longer.” His heart hurts when he lifts his heavy head. All that is left of it is rushing to win a race that simply does not exist. The Blade hums the song of frostborn starlight, the lost souls yearn for something he could never truly grant them. Yet you, whoever you are and whatever your name may be; the one made of burning shards of shattered sky and the freezing rubble of broken stone; the one in the image of the marble still polished, you can. And you will.

“This torturous eon of suffering has finally come to its end and now it’s time for you to seize the freedom that has been taken from you by the Vinster King’s rule.” The rightful heir is as well versed in the way of the word as she is in the way of the bloodshed. Next to him, a blonde Æsir woman stares up at you with a masterfully hidden horror, given away only by the tremble of her wet lashes. Tense palm on the small of her back, Surtalogi is uncharacteristically solemn. “The walls must be broken. The ties must be restored. Khaenri’ah must become whole again. The sun shall rise above our heads and drown our lands in light. For I, [Name] Einherjar, am your rightful queen.”

Well-polished marble indeed. The dull ache of his all-inviting heart never goes away even after the crowd accepts a new monarch with a bit more hope than yesterday. The king is dead, long live the queen. Or however it goes.

Maybe he should start this new chapter by reading some more poetry.

Queen [Name] of the House Einherjar, the Second of Her Name, Supreme Sovereign of Khaenri’ah, trusts no one despite appearing as if she trusts all.

Surtalogi has been staring at the parchment in his hands for a little while now. Enough for Thrain to understand that nothing good would come out of it, not that he faults the man for being apprehensive. Despite not actively participating in the conversation or being asked to voice his opinion, this meeting – the first of many tiresome discussions of the nation’s future with its greatest of minds present – has been long and taxing on both soul and body. Even the reason for acquiring a place at this table remains a little vague at best, yet he stays seated. Orders are orders and Thrain is not yet included in Khaenri’ah’s brightest constellation despite his tremendous responsibility.

“If I so may… There is a peculiar clause I cannot seem to wrap my head around.” When Surtalogi finally speaks, the tension snaps in the form of Lady Syn’s heavy sigh. The Æsir woman is not good with dealing with men having opinions, Thrain gathers easily. She is conservative in her beliefs, and you allow her to be; the thin line between reparations and indulgence is never crossed and something tells him you agree with most of her sentiments, anyway. “You titled my future wife a princess, yet you state none of her children can inherit the throne. It seems rather… discriminating… to exclude her this way, don’t you think?”

Surtalogi is careful in choosing words, especially in the presence of the leader of a rebellious faction that just happens to be that aforementioned future wife’s maternal aunt. You have gathered quite a circle around yourself, and the voices remind him that nothing in this world is a coincidence, but everything is destiny. Whether this fate leads you to ruin is another question entirely and Thrain wishes not to explore it. The new era only just began, and it seems as promising at the sunlight that a lot of god-defying refugees claim to miss. Neither you nor Syn seem perplexed by Surtalogi’s incriminating claims either, so why should someone like Thrain dwell on it any longer.

“This title is nothing but a meaningless word. Saga is a princess in the same way Lumine is.” You state firmly. The scroll in your grasp snaps closed, the golden-haired youth – Lumine – reaches to remove it from the table entirely. She still doesn’t mind being robbed of authority, if anything, she looks relieved by it being taken off her palms. “She is a princess by her good deeds and gracious nature, yet there is nothing about her or her blood that is strong enough to hold the weight of the Bough.”

“That is not what he asked, my lady.” Something about Vedrfolnir’s lack of accountability is unsettling, but Thrain can only guess that playing the role of a blinded prophet for so long strips one off their sense of self-preservation entirely. “If something were to happen, who would be the next in line to inherit your will? Should this not be a pressing matter?”

Under the sparkling rain of diamonds covering your face, you smile, “Am I expected to die soon, Vedrfolnir? Since you seem to be so worried about my ability to produce an heir.”

Thrain can never discern whether you take things seriously or not, the sheer coat of frost forbids everyone from seeing the you that is authentic. Or maybe he is simply way too guarded and is looking for something that isn’t there to begin with. Thrain is not the one for political games and the court intrigue, that is not what he signed up for entering the Khaenri’ahn military. Yet just like with poetry, with being invited here he guesses he must start learning.

“No, no, that is not what I meant.” Vedrfolnir is quick to dismiss your – however faux they may be – worries. Or smooth out a vague threat he made on your life with pleasantries; Thrain is yet to pick which one is more scandalous.

No matter that royal conspiracies, Syn’s patience is as frail as it is fleeting, so it blows up quite loudly and echoes for far too long, “Then you should stop questioning your queen. This is a matrilineal monarchy, not a democracy.”

Surtalogi has a way of speaking over his soon-to-be-wife in a style that is almost endearing, if it wasn’t for the fact that she is yet to voice her own opinion on the matter. And Khaenri’ah is indeed a matrilineal monarchy. At least it used to be before Irmin usurped the Bough from its rightful barer. And now that the crown is back home, there is nothing stopping you from reverting back to the old world if you so wish.

Despite having all the rights to, however, the newly crowned Princess doesn’t appear to mind such a transgression. And Thrain knows little of Saga Trygg. She is as cautious as she is protected; and despite finding the woman quite pleasant, something tells him it’s better to keep his distance. Nothing good can come out of mingling with the Bough and its thorns.

“Lady Syn, with all due respect, don’t you find it humiliating?” This time Surtalogi is direct and open with his accusations.

You still do not pay him any mind, the diamonds of your overly complicated headpiece glimmer with the identical glow as that of the Holy Blade. Mismatched eyes catch his gaze, your expression doesn’t change. You know something others don’t, that is what his heart tells him. And Thrain has collected too many a lost soul in the emptiness of his ribcage to doubt this premonition.

“I was the one to suggest this.” Syn spits with such ferocity, the red of her lips could be mistaken for blood. “The Bough must remain with the Einherjars, there is a million other ways to unite this nation.”

She is objectively correct, even someone like Thrain – so far removed from politics yet far too entangled in the remembrance of the past – knows that Khaenri’ah can only thrive with the blood that fertilized the soil for the inteyvat to bloom. No technological progress could save the nation from damnation of soul and corrosion of memories, as it is slowly being swallowed by the abyss.

Those unworthy can never get to the Plane of Fólkvangr. And they all have been unworthy for centuries. For so long, in fact, that even Irmin’s hopeless wife – your unfortunate mother you have slain with your own hands – could not summon the Blade and slice open the fabric of time and space to visit the land of the dead even if it was her duty to do so.

All in due time and all with due fate. Maybe under your rule there would be no need for artificial ley lines forged out of human hearts. Maybe with the Bough finally home, everyone would be able to rest in peace, and not in the hollowness of his being.

Surtalogi frowns; as always, he is playing up his true emotional state with an exaggerated furrow of his eyebrows, “Not going to lie, Lady Syn, I feel a little hurt.”

The Æsir huffs, “I do not care for the feelings of men. You are all disposable and serve no purpose outside of your dick and balls.”

Lumine stiffens an amused scoff, the pinnacle of emotional expression coming from Irmin’s chosen heir. You simply raise your hand in a polite wave, reminding the woman where she is right now, “Lady Syn, please do be more tactful.”

“No place for tact in the throne room.” Despite her words, Syn does not interfere any longer. Simply crossed her hands over her chest, a disappointed shake of her head when she noticed Saga readying herself to speak.

“[Name], please answer his question.” Thrain has no clue what exactly she’s doubting. Whether it is your faith in her or the level of care you hold for her. Whatever it is, there is something more to this conversation than just a simple debate over a hypothetical untimely death of a new queen. And you know it. Orchestrated or not, there is something brilliant in a way everything plays out in a way you seemingly expect, “What is the purpose of naming me a princess yet not allowing my children to inherit the throne?”

The air cracks with a chilling wave of buzz, you get up from your chair. Step after careful step you stop right beside Saga and kneel before her. The Blade in your arm is glistening with a sheen of starlight. You ask for her hand with a silent motion, and she opens her palm readily. The troubled wrinkle between her eyebrows deepens. Alice and Gold cannot seem to stop arguing over semantics of magic related physics, and Skirk – ever the voice of reason – doesn’t rush to separate them this time around.

“If you truly desire the crown so bad, then may I offer you my life right now?” You ask, the sword hovering over Saga’s trembling hand. “You are the only one capable of spilling my blood, after all.” When you suddenly drop it, beside Thrain, Dainsleif winces. Everyone in this room knows what is about to happen, yet somehow the tension remains impossibly strained. As if transparent, the Blade of Fólkvangr falls right through Saga’s shaky palm, right through the marble floors of the palace and then emerges back at your side, fully tangible and real in your hold. Alice remains victorious: one can never reign over a concept that is not of their creation. “Otherwise, I shall live long enough for you to never need to carry a burden that your shoulders are incapable of withstanding, my most beloved friend.”

You get up on your feet, dusting the sheer tulle of your dress and silently stroll back to your seat, deeming this discussion finally over. A firm hand on your wrist, Vedrfolnir is extremely capable of pinpointing object’s location while being completely blinded under Irmin’s crazed commands. It is then that Thrain decides that no, the line must be drawn somewhere. He can appreciate the intricate poetry of dramatic irony yet if everything about royalty is akin to this, then he wishes to stay as far away from the courtroom politics as possible. Against his better judgment, Thrain will soon find out that his endeavor has proven to be unsuccessful the second he crossed the threshold of this room.

“You have always been so cold.” Despite the blindfold covering Vedrfolnir’s missing eyes, Thrain can almost see the mischievous glimmer lighting them up when the prophet smiles at you. “Do you not trust us, my dear?”

You dismiss the insubordination, arm limp in his hold and turn to look at the man through the hundreds of diamonds obscuring your vision. “On the contrary, I have all the faith in humanity.”

You too, choose your words with the extreme expertise of someone who was born into a lie and then decided to remain living in it. You may have faith in all of humanity, but you do not trust a single person in this room; that is what the voices tell Thrain is true. He does not doubt it even for a second.

Whether Vedrfolnir catches it is a question that Thrain does not care to reveal the answer to, however. Nor does Vedrfolnir himself seem to be interested in musing over your precise choice of vocabulary, instead opting for asking something else entirely, “Should I expect my brother to be promoted then, since you have such faith in us?”

“No, Twilight Sword must remain with the Royal Guard.” You reject a question – an offer, a suggestion, a statement, an order? – rather bluntly, “I shall appoint the new Commander today. Lady Syn is correct; Khaenri’ah is not a democracy.”

“Ah, how disappointing indeed.” An exaggerated whine falls from Vedrfolnir’s lips, although the smile he’s wearing turns a tad bit too sinister for a second, “Makes me wish to call for the last payment, darling.”

“Vedrfolnir.” You utter his name with the eons of exhaustion woven into your breath, yet complain you do not, “Anything you want, as promised.”

The prophet’s hold on you tightens, “I wish for something that is a one of many, yet also something that is one of a kind.” It is suited for a tortured fortune-teller to speak in riddles, yet the overarching theme of this conversation is a bit too thick right now and Thrain has half a mind to curse the peculiar ruby-eyed witch for snatching him from the training grounds just to forcibly tangle him into shadow politics.

For a fraction of a second you are silent in your musings. Beside Thrain, Dainsleif is as stiff as a board. Then you reach for Vedrfolnir’s face, palm warming his cheek, and press your lips to his. One second. Maybe five. However long for it to remain just on the line of barely appropriate. When you pull away, the crimson hue is bleeding all over Vedrfolnir’s mouth.

“My first.” You clarify offhandedly, noticing the confusion blossoming on the prophet’s visage along with the flush of embarrassment. “One of many, yet the one I could never replicate.” Then you laugh, unrestrained and unapologetic, yet the biting cold never leaves your vocal cords, “Or did you think I was going to promise you the rights on sharing blood with my firstborn daughter, Vedrfolnir?”

Vedrfolnir says nothing. Alice cackles as if woman possessed and grants herself departure even before you offer it to her. The Royal Mage, once discarded by the Vinster King yet welcomed back into the palace by your personal wish, heaves a heavy sigh of disappointment. Thrain cannot exactly pinpoint whether it’s Vedrfolnir’s audacity, your debauchery or Red Witch’s wickedness – maybe even all three – that has the old man lose his last wits. Not that it matters much in the grand scheme of things.

“If there are no further questions, you are dismissed.” Immensely glad to be allowed to leave, Thrain holds onto the exhale of relief for when he is away from the castle walls yet has no chance to. You stop him before he can even move his chair. “Except you, Sentinel Knight. You must stay.”

You never state for what reason you are holding him back, but it is already obvious. The Commander of the Khaenri’ahn army went missing with one swift strike of the starbound ice. You don’t seem to think of people as disposable yet cannot bring yourself to warm the snake’s nest willingly. Thrain shares the sentiment: he has never been a fan of holding his enemies closer than his friends. And despite your peculiar character, this is definitely something Thrain cannot fault you for. Queen [Name] Einherjar is incapable of trusting even herself. He fears that one day it can become your downfall.

He accepts the position with no hesitation, yet it does not save either of you from damnation.

Her Majesty finds solace in a routine that would make a demon god’s teeth rot.

It is not everyone who can brag about being invited to have tea with the Queen, yet Thrain doesn’t think you care much about the honor you’re extending to him. What you do care about is what the both of you can gain from those hushed meetings.

The first time Thrain enters your study, you offer him a seat at the small, low table that can only fit four people. It’s a specific seat, not the one opposite of you but the one to your left. Lumine, the ever-haunting presence, quirks a questioning eyebrow at your action; you say nothing. Deciding to not occupy the space to you right any longer, the golden-haired outlander departs quietly, leaving only the rustle of silks in her wake. A rook moves on its own. His knees are not as reliable as Thrain thought they were, as by the time you win – or lose – the game against yourself, his legs are completely numb, and each minuscule moment sends pins and needles right into his tense muscles.

The question comes before he can even weight the pros and cons of voicing it, “Do you often play by yourself, Your Majesty?”

You shrug, a light chime of diamonds of your dress echoes through the room, “Not many are willing to face the consequences of my loss.”

Thrain can’t help but think back to your one-sided game of chess now that you admitted your defeat with the ease of someone who has tasted it fresh far too many times. Checkmate. Utter devastation for your side of the board with not much left standing. He isn’t one for overdramatic sentiments, yet something about this specific time brings a solemn dryness to his throat.

And maybe you notice it as well, reaching for a teapot, “Tea?” There must be something on his face that gives away the absurdity of your actions for your smile to peek through the shimmering veil of your headpiece, “Maybe coffee? Alice said this drink is getting quite popular above ground.”

The obscenity of a queen offering to pour tea for her subject is not lost on either of you, yet you seem to find amusement in his inability to figure you out. In his ten years in the Khaenri’ahn military, Thrain got used to carrying out royal whims with swift precision. Failure meant being disposed, and nobody wished to die knowing there would be nothing left of them to remember them by.

You seem to value human life a lot more than the Vinster King did, despite your quick action to remove those who were still hesitant to part with Irmin’s ideals. But you’re also hard to grasp; you hide your face by heaps of diamonds and stars, you wrap yourself in the finest of silks and tulles, you do anything to separate yourself from the world you clearly cherish so dearly.

Thrain guesses that it’s only fair: your wisdom may be far beyond that of an average person and the distance you are willing to cross for the prosperity of the nation seemingly has no limit, but you are still young. The same age Thrain himself was when he so foolishly gave up his life for the king. Naïve and gullible, Thrain’s twenty-year-old self thought he would be doing good by this country. Now ten years later, disillusioned and jaded, heart far too full and head far too misty, he understands how much of a fool he has been.

In hindsight, it was fairly obvious that Khaenri’ah had been exploited by Irmin long before he turned his coup d'état into the rule of tyranny. For what exactly nobody would ever know, the usurper king took this knowledge with him to his grave. Not that someone as ordinary as Thrain should be privy to such revelations.

You, Thrain is sure, still know something that nobody else does. And this is precisely why you are so distrustful of everything. Thrain may not be a prophet, or a fallen star from a foreign world, neither is he a trusted handmaiden, nor an all-knowing witch, and definitely not the master of khemikhal arts, yet the artificial ley line of his heart seems to help him see what others don’t. When those in the shadows are still following the word of the late mad king, your chess board is preoccupied with a devastation far greater than any court conspiracy. Maybe that’s why you are constantly on the lookout for people you can put even a fraction of your trust in.

For once in his life Thrain is aware of the perils lying ahead, he is even given a convoluted warning albeit with no clear sign of what kind of danger he is getting himself into. Mysterious you may be, but your soul is honest, and your intentions are pure. If death is inevitable, it’s better to die for the liege who stands side by side with you in battle than the one who only dictates whichever hand you should swing your blade with.

“Tea.” He took a little too long to answer so it sounds more like an order than a request. Someone else would have already had his head on a silver platter. Your puzzling smile under the veil of stars only keeps growing. Yet as lenient as you may be, Thrain must fix himself before the Red Witch has any more material to use against him, “If that is not too bold of a request.”

You wave him off, “Oh, never. I must warn you, however…” You pour the drink in the two matching cups, offering one to him gently. “My tea is not for the weak.”

The liquid is deep red, almost black, and the scent that fills the room is not something Thrain has ever experienced in his life. Your words of caution are taken into account, yet Thrain can’t help but doubt them. Unless it’s poison, there is little a man like him cannot stomach. And something tells him you are above working with poisons. If you were, the Vinster King would have wound up dead long before you had to battle your flesh and blood for the key to the underworld.

Legs still numb and a strange tingle in his fingers, Thrain lifts a cup to his mouth. The sweetness hits him before his body can process the pleasant aroma of this deathly concoction. You seem unfazed by this honeyed herbal water solution, however, indulging in it even. Eyebrow raised in a silent question, you’re waiting for his reaction with way too much mirth pooling in the light of your mismatched eyes.

“It’s quite…” he hesitates. Lying to you isn’t something Thrain wishes to do and disrespecting Her Majesty’s peculiar tastes does not spell a very bright future in most case scenarios. Unless, of course, you’re testing him in some convoluted way. Thrain isn’t made for court intrigues, neither is he a master of word picking. But it’s getting progressively more obvious that you wish for him to learn. “Unhealthy tasting.”

“Indeed.” You agree, satisfied and not even the slightest bit offended. Then you down the scorching liquid in one swift gulp, gaze searching for something Thrain isn’t sure you can find on his person. Yet you do, “If you come again next week, I promise to ask for less sweetener. Would you?”

Thrain nods, being difficult for the sake of doing so, “The will of the Queen is the will of the nation.”

“That is not what I asked.” You quip, placing your empty cup back on the tray and beginning to rearrange the chess board once again.

Thrain knows, but the only way to evolve is to mimic. You are a master of khemia, you should understand that better than anyone. “If some free time presents itself.”

Diamonds scatter around the floor in a heap of dying stars. Your face, not obscured by the shadows of light, is still glazed with a thin layer of ice. The white pawn moves on its own. “Care for a game then, Commander?”

Thrain never finishes the tea, but you do it for him. If there was poison in it, then it was made of your own blood, and you have bled so much over the years that it simply cannot faze you anymore. The ache in his chest won’t seem to go away, however. It must be the phantom of memories long gone from souls long lost.

What else could it possibly be?

This tradition continues as the years go by. The ice may not melt, but everyone who has grazed the warmth of your light knows that Her Majesty’s closest companions always walk the path in frosted stardust. Be it the loyal handmaiden with her glimmering delusion of your making, or the outlander from beyond with the light glowing at the tip of her blade. Even Thrain himself learns to accept the gnawing buzz of enigmatic power stored inside his modified heart.

In hindsight, he should have known that your interest in him was never all that simple. However, Thrain is yet to decide whether he is worthy of the knowledge you bestowed him with or not. It is not an easy task to use the power which was unfairly ripped away from someone far more deserving of it, after all. You, despite his doubts, make it all seem so easy; turning his soul-tearing dilemma into a simple question of do or don’t, will or won’t.

You say not using it is nothing but potential wasted, an opportunity missed. Letting the power forced upon him by Irmin’s finest khemists rot in the depth of his chest is nothing more than a memory slowly fading into obscurity. And someone like you and him have no right to forget.

The dull grey of the glaciers of his making is far kinder to the touch than Thrain anticipated, it is also quite a useful tool in mundane tasks like cooling his freshly brewed tea. It lost most of its sweetness a long time ago, and you learned to adapt by dropping copious amounts of honey into your own teacup. A big step for you, considering he found out the hard way just how unwilling you are to accept change. Two years in, and you are yet to change your seat or let Thrain occupy any other space except the one you offered him on the day he entered your study for the first time.

It is in this very spot that Thrain also learns that each and every of your presumably illogical actions guided by your whims alone, is carefully planned years ahead of time. For better or for worse.

You drop the king back on the board, breaking the rules and forfeiting the game. Thrain, startled by your sudden action throws a curious glance your way but you bring your silk-covered finger to your lips to shush whatever question is boiling in his mind. Then you put your headpiece back on and you wait. The king is floating above the board, shimmering with a transparent sheen of rime.

The door opens without a knock. Vedrfolnir, Thrain learns extremely quickly, has a peculiar habit of thinking he owns your personal space. Maybe you’re given the prophet a tad bit much hope, maybe the years of confinement have sent him spiraling into insanity. Whichever it is doesn’t really matter, it will never change the fact that Vedrfolnir allows himself things far out of his league.

“Have you been playing by yourself all this time, my dear?” Hand on your bare shoulder, Vedrfolnir stops to your right, easily avoiding the spot you reserved for Lumine as if he can see it. You do not spare the prophet even a glance, the white king takes its place on the board. A black rook catches flight. “I know my darling baby brother is not quite on par with Khaenri’ahn grandmasters, but I thought you were at least willing to count on me to keep you company.”

“Good evening, Vedrfolnir.” You murmur, palm on your chin, seemingly deep in thought. “What is it that you need this time?”

The mad fortune teller doesn’t waste any time dropping to his knees beside you. He leans closer to your side, hand sliding along your shoulders until it finds its resting place on your other forearm, and you are locked in some convoluted version of an embrace with your back pressed tightly to his chest, “Reconsider.”

Thrain isn’t sure whether Vedrfolnir is simply that shameless to act upon his whims in the presence of another person or simply does not consider the Commander of Khaenri’ahn army a man worth acknowledging. Not that Thrain would be surprised if it were to be both of those.

“No.”  You wave Vedrfolnir off like a pesky fly.

Face hidden in the crook of your neck, Vedrfolnir’s voice is muffled by the volume of your hair, “You are making a grave mistake.”

“You have exhausted your three wishes, Vedrfolnir. Should have been more careful with words.” You chastise the prophet as if he was a child. Thrain doesn’t blame you for doing so: Vedrfolnir, despite his reputation, has always been rather quick in throwing temper tantrum if something wasn’t going his way. Which wasn’t often, yet when it rains, it pours. And by the looks of it, a reminder of whatever defeat Vedrfolnir tasted the time you gifted him your first kiss hit too close to home.

“If Lady Syn wishes to have connection to the crown so bad, then why did you deny Saga the right of inheritance?” A shameless whine, strained fingers digging into the exposed skin of your forearm. You take it all in stride, the glacier star that you are. The game continues, Vedrfolnir’s patience is steadily evaporating, “Why sell yourself to a man you do not love? We both know you would live a miserable life. You need someone–”

Your laugh interrupts Vedrfolnir’s manic blabbering. He lifts his head from your shoulder, watching you with his missing eyes. You glance back at the prophet: from the blindfold to the nose to the pout on his lips. Then you sigh, the pawn finds its place on the chessboard.

“He is a man of a formidable character. Easy on the eyes too. I can learn to love him.” You press your finger to the flushed skin of Vedrfolnir’s cheek, gliding your thumb along his jaw until you reach his mouth. “We both know I do not care for the trivial matters of the firsts.”

Everyone knows you do not. That is why Vedrfolnir stills, breathless and motionless. He is so still, in fact, Thrain would have mistaken him for a statue if it wasn’t for the fact that the prophet was so easily flustered by shameless behavior as long as it is you who is being obscene. You don’t let anything escalate beyond the grasp of your control, however, so you push Vedrfolnir away with the same hand that has been holding his face so tenderly not even a second ago.

Your action wakes the prophet up, it looks like. Reevaluating his behavior and approach, Vedrfolnir gets up on his feet and steps away from your personal space, dusting some invisible particles from his clothes. “You will regret it, [Name].”

“I know.” You don’t argue, simply show him to the door with an absentminded wave of your hand. The diamonds clink when you do so, the stars keep falling along with the fabric of your long sleeve. “You should leave now. I have a game to finish.”

Vedrfolnir clears his throat awkwardly, defeated yet not a little bit ashamed, “Don’t stay up too late, darling.”

You huff, almost amused, “Be careful, Vedrfolnir. You call me that so often one might think you’re in love with me.”

The prophet turns on his heels and makes his way to the door, not even once turning to cast his empty gaze at you for the last time, “I wouldn’t dare to fight for your divine hand, my dear. It would break my poor brother’s heart in two.”

The door clicks shut. You sit in silence for a little while even after Vedrfolnir’s footsteps have long faded into nothing. Your expression, veiled by stardust and tulle, is frozen over and doesn’t truly melt away for the rest of Thrain’s stay in your study that evening. Not knowing what to do with himself, Thrain watches the tea in your cup freeze and then melt back into lukewarm concoction of herbal water and honey.

You groan, a tad bit too dramatic and out of character, but Thrain can’t ever claim to know you fully. Not when Alice is fond of saying you are prone to hysterical temper tantrums when your inventions don’t succeed in fulfilling their purpose on your first try. He isn’t sure if you know that the Red Witch is spreading what seems to be confidential information around, or whether those rumors are even true in the first place, but the annoyed huff that escapes your crimson lips says a lot about validity of Alice’s claims.

Despite your stoicism and ability to handle whatever Vedrfolnir throws his way, you are not immune to all poisons.

“He did not sense my presence.” Thrain mentions casually; a nice, easy way to switch the topic from your impending engagement to Lady Syn’s younger brother but not good enough to distract you from whatever it was that Vedrfolnir was implying by bringing up Dainsleif as his secret weapon. Not yet a master of picking and choosing words, Thrain must own up to his mistakes, “He must be quite troubled with your love life.”

“It appears so.” You shrug, the frost not fully melted but the semblance of a smile curves your lips into an oddly mysterious expression. Then you give him a good once over, from head to toe, lingering on his lap for a while. “How convenient.”

You gently pat the pillow you are sitting on, beckoning Thrain to check under his seat. There is nothing under the pillow, and Thrain finds himself almost disappointed by the revelation. You shake your head when he looks back at you, sliding the glove of your hand silently. He follows your instructions, repeating his search until the tips of his fingers graze a thin indent of missing marble, lines precise and delicate. Vedrfolnir may be blinded, yet he sees beyond the realm of what a human eye can perceive. Elemental energy, memories, the power of human will. Whatever those runes do, you found a way to do what even Irmin couldn’t accomplish and blinded the prophet once and for all. Terrifying, yet hauntingly admirable, nonetheless.

Her Majesty truly trusts no one, but the way you share this secret with him means way more to Thrain than he is willing to admit. Maybe it’s fine to cross some lines once in a while. He never truly liked staring at you just to catch the woman under the wall of glowing ice, anyway.

“The madman seemed to get under your skin at last.” Thrain cannot deduce whether his observation offended you or not, but you were never the type to get insulted by the truth.

“I love him, for I can’t see him.”  You admit casually, never specifying who you are talking about or what exactly you mean by that. That is as much as you are willing to give and Thrain isn’t even sure he should know any of that. He did ask, so he must own up to it once more.

“I am not sure you see anything behind those stones.” A clumsy joke lands surprisingly well, considering sometimes his tongue is Thrain’s greatest enemy.

Eyes closed, and shoulders less stiff, you cover your mouth with the palm of your hand. Your laugher has a tinge of sorrow to it, and it only dies when you drop your hand on your lap and gaze at him through the veil. “I am glad, Thrain.” You admit all of a sudden, a hushed whisper uttered like a secret.

“About what, Your Majesty?” Your eyebrows furrow at the mention of your title, as if you have forgotten who you are.

Thrain, for better or for worse, memorizes this knowledge to carry it with him far into the future. You were never fond of titles, or maybe everyone around you just never got used to using them. Despite it being years, Thrain cannot confidently call himself your friend just yet, neither has he dared to assume you wish for him to do so. Now, however, it seems like things are changing. They always do whenever you are involved.

“That it is you they chose.” Your eyes are focused on Thrain’s heart, or whatever is left of it after Rhinedottir finished butchering his flesh.

Somber and wistful, your gaze is full of longing. You have lost your childhood, your forgotten past, your unlived present and your possible future, all of your dreams yet to be dreamt. Thrain lost but a heart, yet gained something that, in a way, is far greater than a soul of one simple mortal man. You once mentioned how all in this life is a matter of equal exchange. To gain something you must give something up first. So what have you gained from losing the will that could rival even this world?

The glowing device on your hip doesn’t appear to come even close in terms of fair trade. And yet… “I see nobody better suited to carry out my will after I can no longer sustain the Plane of Fólkvangr.”

You always have a way of making things go as planned, choose your words carefully, treat your creations with utmost care. Yet Thrain can never forget the first time he saw you play a game of chess against yourself. Your defeat is inevitable. Whichever way you go, no hope remains for you at the end.

“This implies you plan to part with this life before I do.” Thrain voices his concern with a level of steadiness that astounds even himself.

“We can never foresee the fate that those fake stars have given us, Thrain.” You don’t dismiss him or dispel his unease. You are nothing but honest and somehow it is far worse than any lie you could have given him. “But we should know better than anyone that the winds of time are the most unpredictable.”

Your gaze shifts. Thrain follows your line of sight with the caution of a soldier thrown into the raging battlefield completely unarmed. He is right to do so.

For the first time in 2000 years, the skies of Khaenri’ah burn deep crimson once more.

[caitified]

experience

paige bueckers x reader

warnings: slow burn then smut. this is probably my most requested fic, period so i hope this is ok. still not the best smut writer.

"hey, rookie," the voice called out from across the crowded locker room. paige leaned against the metal frame, a smirk playing on her lips as she assessed the newest addition to uconn's women's basketball team. you couldn't help but feel a mix of excitement and nerves at the sight of the star player. her reputation preceded her - a force on the court, and even more so off of it.

you, the rookie, blushed under the scrutiny, fumbling with your gear trying to vacate the scene as fast as possible post practice. "hi," you murmured, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. your heart raced as the whispers grew louder around you. you knew the stories about paige, the rumors of her endless conquests and fearless charm.

paige pushed off the lockers and strolled over, her confidence radiating with every step. "why so nervous rookie? you did good" she said, grabbing your hand. "everyone’s saying good things." her grip was firm, her eyes piercing, making you feel both seen and insignificant at the same time.

you took a deep breath, trying to ignore the flutter in your stomach. "y-yeah," you stuttered, shaking her hand. "i'm just trying to fit in."

a knowing smile curled her lips. "well, i can help you with that." her tone was playful, yet there was an underlying seriousness that sent a shiver down your spine. "i'll show you the ropes, take you under my wing."

the first weeks of training were intense. paige was a relentless coach, pushing you to your limits and beyond. her methods were unorthodox, often leaving the other players bewildered, but she had an uncanny ability to draw out potential that others didn't see. you found yourself improving at an unprecedented rate, your skills sharpening like a knife under her watchful eye.

but it wasn't just on the court where she had an effect on you. her charisma was magnetic, and you couldn't help but be drawn to her. her stories of late-night escapades and wild adventures made you feel like you were living in a shadow of her vibrant life. you'd listen intently, blushing at the more risqué details, while she'd throw her head back and laugh, the sound echoing in the quiet gym.

one evening, after a particularly grueling practice, paige suggested you grab dinner together. just the two of you. you agreed, eager for the chance to get to know her better, away from the prying eyes of the team. as you sat across from her at a dimly lit diner, the air grew thick with a tension you didn't quite understand.

her hand reached out, brushing against yours on the table. "you know, you're different from the others," she said, her gaze intense. "there's something about you that's... pure."

your cheeks grew hot as you avoided her eyes. "what do you mean?"

leaning in, she whispered, "you're a good girl, aren't you?" her voice was a soft caress that sent a thrill through you.

the question hung in the air like a challenge. you nodded, unable to find your voice.

her smile widened, a glint of mischief in her eyes. "i have a feeling this season is going to be more interesting than i thought."

the conversation shifted gears, but you couldn't shake off the feeling that something had changed between you. the way she looked at you now was different, a new kind of curiosity in her gaze. it was thrilling and terrifying in equal measure.

as the days went by, you found yourself spending more and more time with paige. she'd invite you to her off-campus apartment, where you'd watch movies and share stories late into the night. sometimes, her hand would rest on your thigh, sending waves of electricity through your body. each time, you'd tense up, unsure of what to do, but she'd just laugh and squeeze gently, as if reassuring you that you were safe.

the tension grew palpable, and you began to wonder if the rumors about her were true. if she had any intention of adding you to her list of conquests. yet, she never made a move, never pushed you further than you were comfortable with. instead, she'd pull away, leaving you feeling both disappointed and relieved.

then came the night of the first big home game. you'd been playing better than anyone could have predicted, and the crowd was electric. after the final buzzer, as you walked off the court drenched in sweat and adrenaline, paige was waiting for you. she pulled you into a hug, her strong arms lifting you off the ground.

"you're a natural," she murmured into your ear. "and i want to be the one to show you everything."

for a moment, you were suspended in time. her words resonated deep within you, igniting a fire you didn't know existed. and as she set you down, her hand lingering on your waist, you realized that maybe, just maybe, you wanted her to.

you tried to ignore the feeling, to focus on the season ahead, but it was like trying to ignore the sun in the middle of a bright summer day. it was there, burning and inescapable. you began to crave her touch, the way she'd look at you when she thought you weren't watching. her confidence was contagious, and you found yourself wanting to be more like her, to experience what she had, even if just a little.

one night, as you lay in bed, unable to sleep, you made a decision. you texted her, your heart racing with each tap of your thumbs. "do you... want to come over?" the message hovered, unsent, for what felt like an eternity before you hit send.

her response was almost immediate. "on my way."

your stomach flipped as you waited for her to arrive. you straightened your dorm room, trying to make it look more welcoming. when the door finally creaked open, she stepped in, casual in sweatpants and a hoodie, a knowing smile playing on her lips.

"couldn't sleep?" she asked, shutting the door behind her.

you swallowed hard. "no, i... i had some things on my mind."

she sat down on the edge of your bed, her eyes searching yours. "what's up?"

you took a deep breath and leaned in. "i want you to be the one," you whispered. "i want you to show me everything."

the room seemed to still, the only sound the thundering of your heart in your ears. her gaze softened, and she leaned closer, her hand coming up to cup your cheek. "are you sure?"

you nodded, your eyes never leaving hers.

her smile grew gentle, and she leaned in, brushing her lips against yours in a kiss so soft, it was like a promise.

as her lips left yours, paige’s fingers find the waistband of your shorts pulling them down below your thighs.

your breath hitches with anticipation, your body aching for paige’s touch.

her face breaks into a smirk, teasing you further. “you sure you want this baby?” paige whispers, the nickname sending an immediate blush to your cheeks.

“yes i’m ready. i trust you”

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤyou stared at paige with bright eyes and she nodded, her eyes never leaving yours. she maintained eye contact with you as she leaned down and flicked her tongue against your clit.

you let out a loud moan at the feeling of her warm tongue against you.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

paige lifted her head to warn you, “tell me to stop if it hurts, yeah?”

before you could respond, paige thrust her finger into you relentlessly, beginning to pump her finger into you”

“fuck, paige.” you moaned out when her finger grazed your sweet spot.

she continued her pursuit as she began curling her fingers, testing out what got her the greatest reaction. she wanted to memorize every inch of you for future purposes.

when you had almost reached your climax, paige hastily removed her fingers from you.

your eyes flew open. “paige please, don’t tease.”

smiling, she went back to licking at your clit, and the combination of that and her fingers sent you off the edge and you struggled to catch your breath.

as you settled down, she removed her fingers from you, pulling you into a kiss.

both of you knew you had a lot to discuss, but that could wait until morning..

i didn’t proofread this as i thought it was terrible but i can continue it if people would like.

[gretavanlace]

Animosity

Jake Kiszka x reader

18+ only! Minors do not interact!

Warnings: graphic sexual content, language, unprotected sex, aggression, arguing, name calling, digital penetration, dirty talk, pet names, etc.

Porn without plot. Arguably an extended blurb, but we have much to celebrate! so my gift, on the eve of Starcatcher, is smut. I love you all! Shout out to this crazy hot request!! Thank you, anon…we adore you and your beautiful mind ❤️

“So, you’re just going to walk away from me? Like what I have to say means fuck all? Like I mean fuck all?” He sinks further back into the couch, crossing his arms like a sullen, bad-tempered child.

“No, Jake,” you snipe right back. A cruel, dismissive edge sharpening your tone until it slices through the anger-choked air in the living room like a rusty steak knife yanked from the back of the drawer. “I’m just sick of listening to you run your mouth about shit that doesn’t matter. I pissed you off. Fucking enthralling story, can you tell it again?”

“You’re tired of listening to me, or you want me to tell it again?” His boots slam down on the coffee table just to pluck at your nerves further. “Make up your fucking mind, sweetheart.”

Christ, you don’t know that you’ve ever been this furious with him, though you really can’t even remember why. It’s been all day. Back and forth. Bitter bickering. Button pushing. Poking and poking, until it feels like the energy between the two of you could break apart with fevered electricity.

“Fuck you.” Is all you can summon. It hisses out of you as you spin on your heel to find solace in the kitchen…the closest room where he isn’t.

With more force than would ever be necessary, you’re throwing open the refrigerator door, fingers wrapped around a bottle of water, when you feel his arms wrap around you, tugging you away from the task at hand with a quiet grunt low in his throat.

The bottle clatters to the floor with a bouncing thud, as you’re pressed against the counter. You’ve hardly had a blink to register, but his hand is fisted in your hair and squeezing against your scalp until it stings like delicious fire. “Fuck me?” He hums, soft and saccharine. “But you seem so angry with me, kitty cat. Seems like maybe you might even hate me. S’that what baby wants? A little hate fucking?”

“Jake, stop!” you snap, with an elbow digging into his stomach, unwilling to let go of your upset even though your thighs are clenched and aching to spread wide for him.

“Have you forgotten your safe word?” The heated query growls into your ear, though he already knows what the answer will be.

Your teeth are clenched - but with wrath or lust, you can’t be sure, “No.”

“Fucking use it, then.” His thigh is between yours now, shoving your legs open further apart exactly the way you’d longed for just moments ago.

“No.” You repeat, once more, even nastier than before. It physically pains you to give him the upper hand, but you love it, too. Fuck, how you love it.

“Oh,” you can hear the smug, cocky, fucking smirk in his tone. “So, my angry little kitty cat wants to be stroked. Is that why you’ve been so goddamn irritating all day? Pretty girl wants to fuck?”

You arch your back, pressing against him in the hopes that he’ll just go ahead and shut up. That he’ll go ahead and destroy you right there at the counter like a whore. Like his whore.

Your silence won’t do for him, and a swift tug at your tangles tells you so, before his voice rasps into the night. “Is that it? Does pretty girl with her pretty wet pussy want to fuck?”

The feverish nod against his clutch comes before you can stop it.

“Say it.”

Oh, fuck you, Jacob. Smug little bastard who can’t let the opportunity to make you taste his victory, pass.

“Hmm-mm,” you moan out, shaking your head, lips squeezed into an impossibly flat line to bite back the flurry of obscene pleas that threaten to tear out of you.

“Okay,” he’s taunting now, and you know you’re in trouble before you’ve even felt his fingers creeping beneath the hem of your panties. “But look at this. You’re dripping. Don’t you want to drip, all filthy and gorgeous, all over me? All over my cock?”

“Yeah,” it shivers out of you with a wanton desperation that should make your cheeks flush with shame. Instead, your entire body flushes with need.

He stands firm and sickeningly sexy “Then say it. Do as you’re fucking told, kitten, and I’ll make you feel good, promise.”

Every ounce of fight drains from your body as you relax down against the butcher's block countertop, and you know without a doubt you’ll need to be careful not to rake tracks into the wood once he’s buried inside you. Careful not to claw marks where you shouldn’t. Careful not to live up to the pet name he only trots out when he’s feeling particularly nasty.

“Say it, baby.” He presses, petting your hair so gently you sigh.

“Pretty girl wants to fuck,” you’re nearly panting between words, but you can’t help it, nor do you care to. Let him hear what he does to you. Let him bear witness to the depravity he sets free to boil through your veins. Let him see.

“Good girl.” He slips the pad of his finger over your slick clit, groaning at how swollen you already are. How ready. How fucking needy. All for him. “Say it. Who’s my good girl?”

“I am.” Your hips are circling and rocking into his touch…you need more, more, more. “I’m your good girl.”

“Yeah, you are.” He nods, forehead resting at your shoulder. “Such a good girl. So, why do you insist on being so fucking bad? Naughty, mouthy little witch. Fucking heartless.”

His touch teases at your entrance, waiting, gentle and nearly still, until you fuck yourself back onto them, slipping him inside with a roll of your hips. “Oh, fuck yes, kitten…just like that. Baby thinks she’s just gonna take what she wants, but she’s wrong…” his voice is quiet, yet melodic. He’s almost singing to you, teasing you, baiting you along with a blissful, bullying, air.

“Whose pretty pussy is this?” He rasps, toying with you.

“It’s yours, Jake.” You purr, arching and trembling. “That’s your pretty pussy.”

“It’s yours, Jake.” He mocks, all high pitched and airy. You half expect him to pull your hair and call you names. To shove you down and skin your knees…and you’re not ashamed to admit, you wouldn’t hate it.

“Tell me you want to feel my fingers inside your greedy, soaked cunt.” True to his role, he snatches your head back by the strands of your hair still locked in his grip. “Tell me you want me to finger fuck you until you cum all over the kitchen tile.”

Your will power has vanished, as though it never existed to begin with. Where is all that fight that once burned in your belly? “I want it…” you’re breathless, whining like a slut, spread out on the counter, tongue sweeping out to curl against the wood because you just need to fucking taste something, anything.

You carry on, happy to complete your pornographic request, if only to make him as weak for you as you are for him. But, he is weaker for you, always…you just can’t ever seem to see it. Instead, his palm covers your mouth, strong and sure.

“It’s cute that you think I really want to hear it. Adorable, even, kitty cat.” He sounds hateful, but you hear the devotion behind the facade, he’s happy to be here with you, wrapped up close, no more angry, blistering space between your bodies.

“I’ve listened to you enough today, don’t you think?” His teeth sink into your earlobe until your knees buckle with a whimpered hum.

“Oh, now you’ve got nothing to say?” His accusation is gritted out between the clamp of his teeth at your ear, sending blazing chills down your spine to curl your toes against the frigid ceramic. “You wanna stay quiet now? Alright then, whatever you want, baby girl. Quiet it is. I’ll help you with that…”

His grip is suddenly iron clad around your throat, squeezing until your gasps rasp and your eyes roll back. His opposite hand is at your mouth, fingers sliding against your tongue, nudging into your throat until you’re silencing a gag.

It doesn’t matter, he feels it. “Be glad it isn’t my cock, shutting this pretty mouth up. Be grateful you aren’t fucking swallowing me and praying I’ll let you breathe.”

You aren’t grateful at all. In fact, you’d give just about anything to be on your knees for him…

And he knows it.

Like a cat in heat, you slink further down, presenting and preening. You want more. You need more…

And he knows that, too.

“C’mere,” it growls out of him, low and rumbling like a feral animal descending upon stalked prey - and before the shudder has even finished shaking through your taxed system, he’s gathering you up in his arms.

Small in stature he might be, but the strength in his grasp has never failed to amaze you. Now, as he jerks you around until you’re caged in his embrace like a writhing doll, is certainly no different.

“Are you sorry, kitten?” He hisses, manhandling you as he throws a dining chair away from the table and spins it just so. “Are you sorry for making me throw you around like the insubordinate little fuck slut you are? Are you sorry for making my cock so hard? It aches for you…it wants its pretty, pretty baby, with her pretty, pretty cunt.”

Down he lumbers, positioning himself on the chair with you, held up away from his lap, watching with rapt attention and a watering mouth as he violently tugs his pants open without care.

And then, there it is, his beautiful cock. Flushed and pulsing. Flexing fiercely and bobbing in the air so pink, so thick, so slick at the blushing crown, so fucking captivating. You can’t take your eyes off of it, and why would you ever want to?

His hands are ripping at you, tearing your panties off ruthlessly until the silk burns across your skin leaving strawberry pink welts in its wake…pulling at the neck of your tshirt until it, too, gives way to his madness and rips apart enough for him to unleash his mouth against your breasts.

It’s a flurry of perfect teeth burying their way into your nipple, the delicious pressure of his lips and tongue, wet, warm, and sucking, as your fingers twist in his hair, crushing him closer to you. His moans are muffled and unidentifiable against the goosebumps he has raised upon your skin.

“Jake, please.” You’re rocking at the air, as still, he holds you away from his lap. “Please please please…”

“That’s it, kitten.” He sounds self-satisfied and disgustingly content with your despair. He’s such a prick when he gets this way, and fuck if you don’t absolutely live for it. “Beg for my cock like a whore. Beg for me to fill your sweet, slutty, cunt. God, look at you. Fucking gorgeous.”

But, rather than beg, out comes the pout he can never seem to resist. “Give it to me.” Your puckered bottom lip tucks between your teeth as you stare down longingly at the prize your body longs to swallow up. “Fuck me, Jake…fuck your kitten. Please, baby?”

“You fuckin’ brat.” He snaps, but his arms loosen, allowing just a hint more freedom to your movement. “Spoiled little thing isn’t playing fair.” He tugs your mouth open and licks against your tongue.

“Go on, then,” his palm, warm and insistent, cracks your ass cheek, hard and firm. Milk chocolate eyes dancing wildly when you suck in a sharp gasp. “You want it so badly? Fuck me. Kitty wants some dick? Kitty can fucking work for it.”

Your hips lower without hesitation and rock this way and that until the tip of his cock is resting at your entrance. “C’mon, kitty cat,” he coaxes like the arrogant prince he likes to pretend to be. “Fuck me.”

Without preamble, without thought for angle, or the consequence of pain, you sink down around him all at once. Sucking him in, hot and snug, tightening around him with a wail of relief as your head tips back until you're crying out to the ceiling.

His face is hidden between your breasts, mouth searching, tongue lapping at your skin as he groans and murmurs your name. “You feel so good, baby girl. So fucking good. Too fucking good. Fuck…fuck…”

Back and forth his pretty face nuzzles, his mouth searching out places to mark you, sucking bruises into your tits as you shove them further in his face, silently begging him to brand you.

But as he grows louder, he begins fighting back to the surface, shaking off your riptide in favor of that delectable dominance he favors “Faster.” He orders, both hands taking hold of your throat just hard enough to make you writhe. “Do it, baby. Come on…” there’s that teasing, coaxing tone that sets your entire body alive in white hot, licking, flames. “Come on. You know how to do it. You know how to fuck me, c’mon.”

Harder and faster you ride him, clutching at the back of his chair for leverage until your knuckles are ghost-white and your nails are screaming, threatening to snap off in the wood.

“Good girl…” his grip is twisting so gently around your neck as your keening moans vibrate into his palms. “Good fucking girl. Say it.”

You know what he wants, and so he shall have it. “I’m a good fucking girl.” They are hardly words at all, more like breathless whines, but they do just fine for him.

“Yes, you are, kitten, yes you are.” Now one of his hands is at your cheek, cupping it as agonized tears streak into his palm…you’re just so fucking close. “And you’re gonna be a good girl and fuck me until I cum, aren’t you?”

“Yeah…” it’s ineloquent and cut off by a shaking moan, but you’ve never cared about anything less.

“Yeah, you are. Make me cum, kitty cat. Come on, make me fucking cum…”

This time, it's his words that drift off into incoherent, desperate whines that flip your stomach and trip you over the edge. You finish, hard and fast, lulled by the obscenities tumbling off of his filthy tongue.

“Please, baby…” he’s clutching at you now, thrusting up to meet you so forcefully you absently worry he might tip the chair over, toppling you both to the floor. “I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna, oh fuck…”

His teeth catch your shoulder through the tattered remnants of your shirt, gnawing at your flesh as grunts and wails and growls of release seep into your skin.

Finally, though you wish it would never end, his arms fall slack, swinging at the sides of the chair, as his mouth soothes over the bites he’s left you with.

“God damn, baby girl…” he laughs softly, kneading softly into the screaming muscles of your thighs. “Thought you were gonna fuck it right off.”

“Shut up,” you giggle, quiet with exhaustion. “Take me upstairs and take care of me? I’m sleepy.”

Without a word, you’re gathered up in his arms. You know you’ll be tenderly deposited at the foot of the stairs, to navigate them on your own, with your hand held in his…but that’s perfect, you’re always happy to let him lead the way.

Taglist: @gretasintrees @greta-van-chaos @celestialfauna @s0livagant @groggyvanfleet @kiszkathecook @brokenbellz @llightmyllovee @doodle417 @seventieswhore @jake-kiszkas-smirk @weightofdreams-gvf @imdepressedaf1996 @alisonwonderland29 @gretavanfleas @gretavangroove @jakesgrapejuice @sparrowofthedawn @xserenax-13 @tbagggvf @obetrolncocktails @tripthelightjaketastic @jakeslovehandles @poofyloofy @70sgroupielovr @heatmyfleet @age-of-nyahh @sammiboo162 @gretasmokerising @spicedandicedtea @jakekiszkasleftnutsack @saoirsemaeve @mywickeddivinity @thelvnternskeeper @paintmyhouse @tripthelightfandomtastic @mckenna4 @tripthelight-fanfic @sarakay-gvf @theweightofjake @thewritingbeforesunrise @joshsmama @sammysvanfeet @rhythm-of-space @highladyofasgard @jordie-gvf-admin @calumspretty @sad1lynn @starcatcher-jake @gretavangroupie

[takami-takami]

Cut To The Chase.

kinktober day 2: knife play

includes— hawks x reader. minors dni. smut.

warnings— afab!reader. heavy knife play. discussions of piercing, but no actual cuts. still, this is a knife play fic. be warned. gags. bullying/kinkshaming. praise kink. aftercare.

"You're shaking, dove," Keigo whispers above you. "Relax a little for me, yeah?" 

The rhythmic beat of your heart pounds in your ears. The heady bass of it hammers behind your ribs. A single drop of perspiration crawls its way down your neck like a snake might slither down a tree, hissing sharp against the searing heat of your skin. It bobs with the swallow in your throat. It glistens with your tremors as you writhe so subtly against the silken sheets.

And there’s something about the way your life rests in your partner’s steady hand that surges the adrenaline screaming within your veins. It sings a chorus through your chilling blood.

The quirk of his lips is practically audible when he speaks— infuriating, even; but his appraisal of the situation is undeniably on point.

Of course you’re staring. Twisting and gliding along the edge of your skin, just the lightest squirm away from piercing through your flesh, is the tip of something sharp, icy, and unfathomably lethal— had Keigo been in a more dangerous mood and blindfolded you, the object would feel indiscernible from the steel of a curved dagger, the crescent point pressing the slightest divot into the skin of your navel. 

Even the light reflects with a glint off his feather as if it were metal when it’s sharpened like this.

“You actually like this sort of thing?” Keigo interrogates you, raising his brows. A scoff of disbelief follows quickly behind the inquiry, the heat of his breath fogging against your neck when he noses your jaw. Achingly slow, the scarlet weapon drags up your core, crawling its way toward your utterly exposed chest. 

He could pierce you at any moment. One flick and the skin could burst, one breath and your body would become a canvas to his liking. It's a dance of trust, of control, when he plucks that velvet red feather between his thumb and forefinger as if it were merely a pen to be dipped into ink.

“Your heart rate's pickin' up. It's gonna give you away, dove,” he observes, skimming the skin at the exact spot where he can sense the beat. He drags the feather in circles, a melody in his voice when he sings, low, taunting, and dangerous: "You like this."

“Don’t even care that I could just slip it a little deeper, do you," he realizes, increasing the pressure of the feather against your hammering chest. He can barely hold the click of disappointment from his tongue when you whimper in response. 

"Nah. That’d just get you wet, wouldn’t it?”

You see the flash of reflected light under your chin before you can feel the feather against your neck— the metallic sound of the blade cutting through the air rings in your ears, louder than the hitch of your breath from the whirlwind speed of his actions.

“Oh, you like that?” 

Keigo doesn't bother to suppress the laughter that builds and erupts. Why would he? He'd place a hefty bet that someone like you would hear a condescending sound like that and feel it like electricity instead, jolting down to crackle between your poor, trembling legs.

You're so fucking predictable. You like a bit of danger, and Keigo is more than willing to indulge your little fantasies in the only way he knows how: famished, unreserved, and entirely committed to every intricacy of his role.

Besides, he'd be lying if he said this little image of you wasn't absolutely gorgeous; you, the picture of prey spread beneath him under the shadow cast by his wings, blubbering and unsure if you want to beg to be pierced by his feather or his cock.

When he slips two slicked fingers inside to scissor them, it's entirely unsurprising that your body opens easily to accept them; so unsurprising, in fact, that his eyes roll almost as immediately as yours do, though he wears a smirk rather than a slack jaw. 

The heel of his palm graciously grinds against you each time he bottoms out, the motion made with each rocking thrust expertly positioning his curled fingers upwards. Ever intentional, the heel presses firm against your throbbing core.

When he speaks, you get the impression he's moreso musing to himself than addressing you. 

"And what if I fucked you like this, huh? A cock in your pussy and a knife at your throat… Sounds like your own personal heaven, doesn't it, angel?" Keigo punctuates the last word with a mocking lilt, pouting in bastardized sympathy to match your wobbling bottom lip.

"Aww, not gonna bother answering that?" He smiles and pulls at the fabric stuffing your drooling mouth. "C'mon, speak. Wanna hear you when you break for me, 'kay?"

You swallow dry before you attempt to catch your voice, gasping in a bit of air as you arch your chest and whine some garbled words Keigo can only assume are supposed to resemble a beg. 

"Oh you're close to close," he posits through a smile, just loud enough to be heard over the noise of his drenched fingers that pump knuckle deep and curl up. "It's okay, baby. Let it out. I've got you. Cum on my fingers, c'mon baby, cum f'me, you're such a good—"

Your back bows when your world shatters. His sweet words never cease, pouring praises over your body like the heat that envelops you, over and over in trembling waves.

The first thing you feel when you float down from your high, catching you like a feather landing slowly in his palm, is a methodical barrage of kisses against your cheeks. Feather discarded, Keigo holds your face in place with cradling palms, crooning at the far-gone smile that remains etched in your expression.

"Hi, baby," he whispers, lopsided smile wide as he pulls back and thumbs the apples of your cheeks, smooshing them in little clockwise circles. "Still with me?"

"Hi, Kei'," you simply mumble, words as sluggish and limp as you are; and just like that, your partner is solid and stable once more above you. 

When words elude you, your body begins to speak instead. Your fingers crawl down his biceps and up his neck, nestling in the thickets of his hair and clutching at the scalp as if to settle your own roots there for stability; and on the inside, Keigo's heart trips over itself. Your very center is open to him, pawing at his body and swallowing everything he gives you— and he'll give it all.

Clear eyes attempt to catch your bleary ones, searching for signs of discomfort as you continue to cling to the haziness that envelops your mind. Once he's thoroughly checked for any nicks or scratches, your body is laid back against the sheets.

"C'mon, pretty bird," Keigo whispers, rubbing the highest points of your cheekbones. "Gimme a smile, yeah?" 

When you do, it's with a glaze in your eyes, gazing up at him like he's a newfound city of gold.

"That good, huh," he teases, and you yawn. There's a rich, golden butter in his voice when he speaks. It's warm like the sheets he rolls you both up in, hot like his bare chest against your back when he lays you down to cuddle. 

"I wasn't too mean, was I?" 

"You were perfect for me," you sigh.

The plush of his feathers shudders once in the corner of your vision. He rests his chin along your bare shoulder, clutching your body as close to his chest as it can go.

"You're perfect for me, too."

[solvisun]

012325. POST APOCALYPSE AU / MATSUKAWA ISSEI.

3614 wc. i ask you to not actually read this cos i started this with a bang and we ended with a booing i have never written anything like this at all & i wish i could flesh it out until the end buuuut im crashing out for realsies. do NOT read this i repeat do not. ( for day iii. @phantasmaebg )

chaos is a traitorous thing.

a slow creeping demise that rings itself at your doorstep without so much as a noise. it doesn’t grant you the courtesy of preparation—or even the awareness that it’s on its way. it’s ice splintering under the sudden weight of the inevitable, cracking slowly before you plunge into the freezing depths.

you think about death the same way sometimes, but chaos and death are not the same. no, death is final, a single moment of everyone's truth. chaos lingers. it gnaws into your bones like a dog lost to its hunger, tearing at sinew and marrow until there’s nothing left but hollowed-out echoes of yesterday.

chaos doesn’t kill you outright. it leaves you alive to witness the wreckage, to feel every piece of your life shifting and breaking itself apart.

death is kind. chaos is not.

the cities became soundless. dead air hung heavy with the absence of what it once carried—the hum of electricity, the murmur of voices, the beat of life. the din of crowded streets faded into a distant memory. then came the collapses—economy, government, infrastructure. by the time the power grids went out for good, humanity was already fractured.

you? you were just one more person trying to carve out a corner of survival. your past no longer bearing any meaning in a world devoid of it.

it was on one of your desperate scavenging runs, weaving through the ruins of sendai, when you met matsukawa issei. the skeletal remains of civilization loomed around you: cracked roads, overgrown storefronts, cars left to rust where they had stalled.

if you allowed yourself to be creative and—if hope wasn’t such a fragile thing—you might’ve called him a miracle then and there.

you were searching an old diner, hoping to find something—anything—to stave off the hunger that's been gnawing at you for days. the place was picked over, its shelves emptied by looters long gone. but desperation makes you cling to slim chances, makes you reach into dark corners in search of scraps.

and that’s when you heard it. the soft creak of a floorboard just behind you.

every muscle in your body locked tight. the creak wasn’t loud, but in the dead air of the diner, it might as well have been a gunshot. your hand instinctively went to your hip, where a well-worn knife hung in its sheath. years of being a mercenary had sharpened your reflexes, and the grip felt like second nature.

“easy,” a voice drawled from behind you, calm and measured, a little too smooth and too calculated for your liking. not making any move, eyes flickering to your peripherals. “if i wanted to kill you, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

keeping your posture loose but ready. matsukawa issei stood a few feet away, tall and solid, with sharp eyes that flicked over you like he was taking inventory of your weapons, your stance, your threat level. his clothes were practical and worn, his boots coated in dust, and the machete strapped to his thigh wasn’t just for show.

“what do you want?” you asked evenly, attempting to conceal the cynic way your tongue usually cuts.

he raised a brow, his expression almost amused. “same as you, i’d guess.” he nodded toward the empty shelves. “looks like neither of us is getting it.”

his casual tone put you on edge. you were used to people either threatening or begging in moments like this. it's weird. he's weird. and kind of dangerous with how carefree he sounds.

“move along, then,” you said, your hand still hovering near your knife.

“relax,” he replied, holding his hands up slightly, palms out. “not looking for trouble. just thought i’d check this place out before i move on.”

his gaze lingered on you a second longer than you liked, and you felt the familiar heat of someone trying to read you—measure you against themselves, their own survival.

“you don’t look like you need luck,” he said after a moment, his smirk faint but unmistakable. “or maybe you’ve just used it all up.”

“and you don’t look like you want to find out how i’ve survived this long,” you shot back, your voice turning sharp. half-deliberately.

that earned a low chuckle from him, “fair point.”

for a moment, the two of you just stared each other down. the air between you felt like a stretched wire, taut and waiting to snap. then, without breaking eye contact, he tilted his head toward the door.

“there’s a convenience store a block over. might have better luck there.”

“you telling me that out of the goodness of your heart?”

“nah. just figured it’s the neighborly thing to do.”

he turned to leave in almost a blink. what made you call out to him so sternly all of a sudden, you are not sure.

“name?”

he stopped, looking back at you over his shoulder. “matsukawa. you?”

you answer with your name falling of your tongue, nearly disgusted by the strangeness that soon follows after saying it, as if it's not even yours to begin with.

the short pause causes you to stiffen excessively, your hand finally leaving the knife at your hip.

“nice meeting you,” and then he tries to mimick the way you uttered your name, wearing it around his tongue, but more...smoother, forgiving in a way without a reason.

for a split second, his gaze softened. “try not to get yourself killed before we run into each other again.”

who the hell is he to tell you that?

──── ୨୧ ────

it wasn’t the last time you saw him.

you didn’t intend to cross paths with matsukawa again, but considering the same ground you both walk in, that you keep coming to the same district to search, things seemed to have it's way of pulling the threads.

it happened two weeks later, on a fog-drenched morning, as you nosed around the outskirts of what used to be a residential district. the streets were eerily quiet, save for the distant clatter of something tipping over.

you didn’t think much of it at first. feral animals or loose debris—nothing unusual. but when the sound came again, closer this time, muscle memory kind of kicks in. pulling out your knife as your eyes scan the shadows.

when you see him emerging from the mist, slightly crouching. you find the familiarity alarming, because it makes you lower your knife, your grip less taut.

he wasn’t alone. two other figures flanked him, and from their stances and the crude weapons in their hands, you knew they weren’t with him willingly.

raiders.

he caught sight of you before you had a chance to decide whether to intervene.

his eyes widen, recognition flickering across his face before he school it into something unreadable. one of the raiders shove him forward, barking something you couldn’t make out. he doesn't resist, but his gaze remain fixed on you.

and then you see it. an expression about to meet the kindness of death but scared and unwilling and unyielding. flashing you a of million different faces mushed together into an incomprehensible, nauseating look.

a silent plea that sounds so guttural it claws the flesh of one's throat.

it wasn’t your fight. you didn’t owe him anything. but the weight of your knife suddenly felt heavier, like it was dragging you toward a decision you couldn’t quite rationalize.

you are not a good person, and no one gives a shit about it too. kindness is far too expensive for anyone to have it now. and you have nothing in your pocket to give. nothing but callous hands and barbed tongue and searing hatred for what was taken away from you.

you know you shouldn't. you know better than anyone else that whatever you do, you don't do it for grandiose things. you don't do it for the good. you don't even do it for yourself, too.

fuck.

you moved before you could stop yourself, slipping through the ruins like the shadow itself. the first raider didn’t even see you coming; he was too focused on matsukawa. a swift strike to the back of his knee sent him collapsing with a shout, and before the second could react, you were already on him, your knife pressed to his throat.

“drop it,” you say, your voice low and sharp.

the second man froze, his grip on the metal pipe wavering. matsukawa took the opportunity to elbow the first raider hard in the stomach, wresting the weapon from his hands.

chaos. quick and brutal.

when it was over, the two raiders lay groaning on the ground, and you and matsukawa stood over them. you glance at him, your knife still in your hand, and he met your gaze, he looks disheveled, dazed as if the buzzing in his ears still ring with disbelief.

“guess i owe you one,” he seems to be attempting himself to be steady, brushing dust off his jacket.

“you do,” you reply, though your tone was more begrudging than bitter.

“you’re good,” he added, his eyes scanning you in that way again, taking in your stance, your grip, the way you didn’t flinch when blood was involved. “not just lucky. skilled.”

you scoff at him, recalling your first encounter with him, "right."

“i meant it,” he say, hand reaching you for a handshake, “i owe you one. matsukawa issei, at your service.”

you hesitate, but only for a moment, before taking his hand. his grip firm—the touch lingers a reminder that even in a world splintered by chaos, some things could still feel solid.

like a person with weight that rebuilds their own meaning when things feel so hollow.

“nice to meet you—again,” he releases your hand but keeping his eyes on yours. “what do you say we call it even and watch each other’s backs for a while?”

this is bad. real fucking bad.

"watch each other's backs, huh?" the way your words burn on the roof of your tongue makes you feel much fragile and almost hysterical, mocking everything in your way. "you think just because you saved me once, i’m gonna suddenly start playing nice with you?"

matsukawa doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull his hand back, and the calm in his eyes doesn’t waver.

"you’ve got your own agenda, and i’ve got mine," you continue. "but if you think i’m gonna trust you after one stupid rescue, you're wrong."

your gaze falls to the ground briefly, avoiding the way his eyes keep searching yours—like he’s trying to figure you out.

you take a step back, "but i’ll play along for now. don’t expect me to suddenly start calling you a friend."

you turn, giving him one last look over your shoulder. "and don’t think for a second you can depend on me when things go south. because i sure as hell won’t depend on you."

it doesn't take long, he gives you a short nod, as if accepting your terms without protest.

“fair enough,” he finally says, voice low but steady. “but don’t mistake me for someone who doesn’t know how to survive alone either.”

when you leave, the fog hangs heavier around you, the distant clatter of something unknown breaking the stillness, but somehow, the air feels different now—charged, like something might snap at any moment. like someone's neck. probably your neck.

for the next few days, the world goes back to its routine of half-dead days and survival tactics. you keep to the outskirts of the cities, avoiding major conflicts where you can, scavenging when necessary. your thoughts keep drifting back to matsukawa. not because you want them to, but because there’s something about him that sticks with you. something about the way he moves through the ruins of he’s just as lost as you, (well, everyone is) but also somehow in control.

and you don’t want to think about it. a body will always stick to another for comfort. for warmth. but you're long dead to feel the frigidness of your own skin, pale looking and sunken eyes and chapped lips. with dried blood on the corner of your mouth.

loneliness is the anemic comfort you and yourself can only provide.

the day you run into him again, you’re already annoyed by the thought of it. you don’t need anyone in your corner. you certainly don’t need anyone looking at you like you’re more than just another survivor in this wreckage. on the same level. on the same ground. on the same road leading to absolutely nowhere.

but there he is, once again, walking out of the fog like he was waiting for you to show up.

“you just can’t stay out of my way, can you?” you groan, barely holding back your irritation.

matsukawa looks over at you with that same smirk from the diner. he doesn’t answer right away, letting you stew in the silence.

“you could at least pretend to be surprised,” you add, gritting your teeth.

“why bother?” he shrugs. “this city’s small. we keep running into each other.” his eyes meet yours again, the same quiet amusement lingering behind them. “guess that means something.”

you exhale sharply, turning away and heading in the direction you were planning to go. "if you think i’m buying into whatever you’re trying to sell, think again."

he falls into step beside you, unbothered by your coldness. “i’m not selling anything,” he says easily, “just keeping you from getting yourself killed out here.”

you can’t tell if he’s serious or messing with you, but the way he’s walking beside you—looking so sure of himself, like he’s done this a hundred times—only gets under your skin more.

the walk drags on, the distance between you two narrowing as you both pick through the wreckage of what used to be a busy street. a few times, you catch him glancing over at you, like he’s still measuring you up, still trying to learn how you work.

quite frankly, it’s frustrating.

you finally break the silence with an exasperated tone. “you know, just because you’re following me around doesn’t mean i’m gonna start thinking we’re partners in this.”

“i never said we were,” matsukawa replies without missing a beat. “but maybe that’s better. no strings attached.”

“good,” you mutter under your breath, picking up the pace a little. "we both know that’s the way it works."

you don’t look at him when you speak, but you can feel the weight of his presence beside you. something about this is… different. you don’t know what to make of it yet, but you know that you’re already too far in to turn back now.

the city’s emptiness presses down on you, the lingering traces of a life long gone hanging in the air like a forgotten memory. you know that nothing you do will ever bring it back. nothing you do will ever fix any of this.

and then, without warning, matsukawa breaks the silence, his voice low and easy. “ it’s not as bad as you make it out to be.”

you glance at him, half-annoyed, half-caught off guard. “what?”

“this,” he says, eyes scanning the horizon ahead. “you keep acting like it’s all gone to hell, but there’s still beauty here. you just have to look for it.”

you shake your head, sneering. “in this wasteland?”

his smirk returns, that infuriating, easy-going smirk. “yeah. in the cracks. in the places no one bothers to look. in the moments you can’t plan for. just finding what’s left worth holding onto."

you keep walking, trying to ignore the pull of his words. the way he makes it sound so simple. the way he sounds so sure. that it leaves you to question about what other wasteland you're referring other than yourself.

as you turn a corner, you stop abruptly. ahead, the street is blocked by a massive pile of rubble, a fallen building’s remains spilling across the road. but there’s something else too—a flash of movement. a figure, hunched and moving quickly.

“get down,” matsukawa mutters, his hand on your arm, pulling you behind a half-collapsed wall.

you barely have time to react before the figure darts past, narrowly avoiding detection.

matsukawa doesn’t release you. he keeps his hand firm on your arm, his breath unwavered as he peers over the crumbling wall, scanning the area. his eyes blink to you, his grip not loosening for a second.

“you okay?” he asks, voice quieter now, almost too soft.

you nod, suddenly aware of how close you are to him, the warmth of his hand still on your arm. the simple contact that's so foreign but pulling you all the same. a gesture without expectations. a touch for the sake of a touch.

he watches you for a moment too long to consider it coincidental, then releases his grip, stepping back. there's something different in the way he looks at you now. almost like he’s letting his guard down, just a little. "it's not always about fighting. sometimes it's about knowing when to hide."

you don’t say anything for a while, just take in the quiet, the soft rustle of wind between the broken buildings. there’s an unease inside you, festering but finding itself to take residence, to take the space of comfort. plunging into the situation you know you're too far gone.

“...let’s move,” you finally say, "we’ll find a way through."

matsukawa gives a small nod, as he falls into step beside you again. “lead the way,” he says, his tone back to its usual lazy confidence.

──── ୨୧ ────

the alliance began in the attempt to sit through the dead calmness. he's not the talkative type, neither are you. you’d learned to keep your cards close to your chest—trust got people killed.

the first few scavenging trips were, naturally, practical— split the resources, watch each other’s backs, and move on. you motion with quick efficiency, and matsukawa’s sharp instincts made him an invaluable…partner, or something. no questions, no thanks. just survival.

but survival had a way of forcing familiarity.

the first crack appeared on a cold, brittle night, when the fire you managed to light sputter before you, flicking its tongue to you in greeting. matsukawa broke the silence first, voice low and almost offhand.

“had a younger brother once. couldn’t save him.”

your fingers stilled over the knife you’d been sharpening. ah. the first step to anything that craves for connection. he leaves himself bare. you know why he told you that, but he doesn’t, or at least judging by the way his jaw tightened. you don’t reply, unwilling to share similar sentiments.

“everyone’s lost someone.” you say, plainly.

he hums in agreement, “guess you would know.”

it wasn’t an accusation, but it felt like one.

and yet he follows this the day after, and then the day after that, until you learn almost everything about him there is to know. with him receiving nothing from you in return. still, he gives. and for some reason, each venture feel lighter than the last. that the dead calmness can feel warm for it is alive.

──── ୨୧ ────

the ambush changed things. the raiders came out of nowhere, weapons glinting in the dim light. you were too slow to react, distracted by the crumbling ruins around you—a rookie mistake so rare it doubles the shock for you. but matsukawa wasn’t. he moved without hesitation, shoving you behind him and taking the brunt of the attack.

blood stained his sleeve, but he fought with a raw ferocity that reminded you of yourself, once. when it was over, you forced him to sit while you patched him up, your hands trembling more than you wanted to admit.

“you didn’t have to do that,” you muttered, seething as you tighten the bandage around his arm.

“didn’t seem like a choice,” he reply, his tone as casual as if he’d just handed you a cup of coffee.

that night, you lay awake by the fire, knife in hand. old instincts whispered that he was a liability, but another part of you—the part you’d buried with your old life—disagreed. this life of yours and the name you that you go by is yours to actually claim. that the weight isn't something to be ashamed of. that the body can share the warmth from a touch that extends beyond itself, carving a meaning until it serves practice.

when you cleared out a group of raiders preying on survivors. for the first time, you and matsukawa moved in sync, anticipating each other’s actions without needing to speak. afterwards, as you lean against a crumbling wall, catching your breath, he handed you the last of his water. “you earned it,” he simply says.

you didn’t argue. it wasn’t a transaction anymore; it was an offering.

[fiftysevenacademics]

Another thing I did today that I've been putting off: Sharpened my kitchen knives. This one is extra embarrassing because almost a year and a half ago, I bought an expensive electric sharpener then felt too intimidated to use it.

Meanwhile, my knives are so dull they can hardly cut at all, and I scream when I'm cooking about how much it sucks and cut myself and resolve to tackle the sharpener challenge but never do.

Until today. It was so easy! And my knives sliced through a ripe tomato like butter. I felt like I was in one of those knife commercials.

[houseofknivesaustralia]

Chef's Choice Electric Knife Sharpener 1520 - Efficient and Easy Sharpening

Discover the Chef's Choice Electric Knife Sharpener 1520, the ultimate tool for effortless and precise knife sharpening. With its advanced technology, this electric sharpener ensures your knives are always razor-sharp. Say goodbye to dull blades and hello to effortless cutting. Get the Chef's Choice Electric Knife Sharpener 1520 today and experience professional-level sharpening at home.

[septic-dreams]

Closed rp with @yourlastgoodbye

Sometimes Jackie couldn’t help but recall how he came to be where he was today. Things were so different back then. Anti was running wild, the other egos living in fear of what the glitch was gonna do next. And him? Jackie was just a regular guy, he and Chase were the only ones without any sort of special abilities. That is, until Henrik came to him with a proposition.

The doctor had been working on something in secret, something he thought could help give them an edge against Anti. Turned out he had managed to get a sample of Anti’s blood and had been experimenting with it, creating what he told Jackie was supposed to be some sort of super soldier serum. Now he just needed someone to test it on, to see if it worked. Chase wasn’t an option, he had kids and Henrik didn’t want to risk them getting hurt or losing their father if something went wrong. So he asked Jackie, and Jackie said yes.

Henrik had taken him back to his lab and strapped him down to a chair, to keep Jackie from potentially hurting himself or Henrik. The doctor pulled out a syringe full of a glowing green liquid and stuck it in his arm. Christ, that shit had burned. The hero didn’t think he could ever forget how much pain he had been in, how his veins had glowed from beneath his skin as the serum worked its way through his system. By the time it was over he had damn near broke through his restraints. But it had worked. Over the next several days he had developed powers, strength, speed, and the ability to channel electricity into his fists. He used those powers to become a superhero, to protect his friends and to fight crime wherever he was needed.

Eventually they didn’t need protection from Anti anymore, not really. While he still had the tendency to lash out he had stopped being a major threat. He left them alone, mostly sticking to himself. Because of that Jackie no longer needed to put so much effort into dealing with him, he could concentrate on working as a vigilante. Which brings us to the current conundrum.

Recently while out on patrol the hero had come upon a grisly sight. A man hopped up on bath-salts had brutally stabbed another man to death. Even with Jackie’s enhanced strength the man was difficult subdue, having to grapple against him to try and get the knife from him. At some point during the struggle he accidentally impaled the man on his own knife and he had to watch as the light left his eyes.

Jackie hasn’t felt right since that night, it was like something broke inside of him. The others were quick to notice too, pointing out that the change wasn’t just internal. His eyes had changed color, baby blues replaced by an unnatural green. His teeth and nails appeared to be gradually sharpening into fangs and claws. He kept having mood swings, lashing out at the others unexpectedly. It wasn’t until Henrik stepped in to examine him that they figured out what was going on.

It was supposed to just be a few simple tests, hook him up to a heart monitor and run a stress test, maybe some bloodwork. They didn’t get any farther than the stress test. As his heart rate got higher a high-pitched ringing started building in his ears. It just kept getting louder and louder till he couldn’t take it anymore. He screamed, and all hell broke loose.

Glitches ran over his body and it felt like he was being torn apart. The pain drove him mad, eyes going black as he struck out at Henrik with his claws. He was desperate to make the pain stop, not aware of anything he was doing till minutes later after Marvin had burst in and got him restrained. Oh god, what he done? Jackie fled from the room and out of the house the second he had the chance. He didn’t realize he had almost instinctively headed towards Anti’s place till he was nearly there.

[invadertem]

(CLASSIFIED DOCUMENT) ROGUE ZIM

Status: Unknown; presumably alive

Personal Information:

- Pak Model: Defective Superior Model-1

- Gender/Sex: Male (Type B)

- Pronouns: He/Him

- Age: 25 Earth/Irken years

- Sexuality: Omni (Preference: Male)

- Rank: Rogue Super Weapon

- Rogue Code Name: Poltergeist

Physical Description:

- Appearance: Magenta Eyes/Pak

- Height: 5'5"

- Notable Features: Extremely scarred but bandaged arms, small face scar, Pink hoodie

Skills and Enhancements:

- Natural Ability: His pak can release high-voltage shocks capable of killing living beings and destroying technology. Connection to tech results in corruption.

- Pak Weapons: Equipped with powerful weapons designed by Zim himself.

- Emotion-Induced Abilities: Strong emotions can tear holes in time and space, creating small Florpus-like portals.

- Emotional Range: His defect allows him to experience a wide range of emotions.

- Independent Pak: His pak sometimes acts independently from Zim.

- Enhanced Senses: Superior hearing, scent, and sight.

- Training: Proficient in war strategies, combat, anatomy, mechanics, and other fields, driven by Miyuki to be the best.

- Speed and Strength: Quick reflexes allowing for rapid movement. Above-average strength and high pain tolerance.

- Natural Weapons: Claws and teeth sharpened to knife-like sharpness.

Fun Facts:

- Bio-Weapon Origin: The first successful Irken Empire Bio-weapon.

- Unique Scent: Emits a sweet scent with underlying hints of blood and metal.

- Powerhouse: Considered the strongest Irken to ever exist.

- Purring Smeet: Teased for his sleepy nature and purring as a smeet.

- Culinary Preferences: Enjoys sweet foods, while regular food makes him feel sick.

- Musical Inclination: Surprisingly, likes singing songs to himself.

- Personality: Aggressive and cold in nature.

- Troop Membership: Part of Troop 9 during training.

- Infamous Record: Personally responsible for the documented deaths of 10,000 individuals using only his pak.

Notable Events (in chronological order):

1. Caused five years of darkness on Irk upon creation due to a high-voltage electricity shock.

2. Experimented on by Miyuki as a child.

3. Excelled academically, ranking at the top of his classes.

4. Had a height stunter installed by Miyuki for easier control but later removed.

5. Spark from his pak caused four more years of darkness on Irk during a sparring incident.

6. Invented numerous bio-weapons and mass destruction devices.

7. "Accidentally" killed Miyuki and Spork with a bio-weapon.

8. Played a key role in winning the battle of Meekrob during Mission of Impending Doom One.

9. Banished from the Irken Empire, reappearing during Mission of Impending Doom Two.

10. Banished once more, this time to Earth.

11. Involved in the Florpus Incident.

12. Went Rogue, leaving Earth for four years with no trace of his whereabouts.

13. Destroyed multiple Empire Watch Bases (C1, C2, C3, D5, D6, G9, G11, G18, Z1), with more to be documented.

This document provides official information regarding Defective Superior Model-1, also known as Poltergeist, and his extensive history, abilities, and notable events within the Irken Empire. He is extremely dangerous and is to be reported upon sighting.

!!!WARNING: FILE IS HIGHLY SUBJECT TO CHANGE!!!

[mrsfrederickchilton]

FREDERICK. Chapter 12

Dear Readers, just in case, to avoid misunderstandings, I will mention once again that the Reader's lover is absolutely NOT Hannibal, he is younger and he is definitely not a cannibal, so in some sense he is a new character.

Everything that you hadn't noticed until now began to slowly take shape into a bleeding mosaic. A random comment. A slight delay. An evasive answer. A reaction to the news. Avoiding details about his life. No phone or social media. On its own, none of this seemed strange to you, and you were blinded by his dark glow, visible only to you. But now...

They say one of those horrible murders was committed in this area.

You closed the freezer, forgetting how to breathe.

I'll make sure nothing happens to you.

You felt his presence in the kitchen.

It's not about you. It's just me.

You forced yourself to turn around.

His bangs were flying over one eye, his facial features were sharpened, his lips were pressed into a thin line. This was not the man you thought you knew at all. You wanted to be alone with him at his house, but the only thing you wanted right now was to get out of here alive.

He had warned you.

He wanted you to leave. He wanted to hurt you, so you wouldn't get closer. So you wouldn't find out who he really was.

You didn't see the desire to kill you in his eyes. But you knew he would.

He pulled the largest knife out of the holder. You grabbed the empty tonic bottle. There was nothing else at hand. You imagined him plunging the knife into your heart as you were just about to swing. It was okay, because you were already dead. Your heart has become hollow, so his knife will easily pass through your emptiness. Easier than many times before, with others.

There was no justice being done here, but the scales were balanced. A body shaking with the awareness of danger, choking with horror at what might happen next, and a soul shattered into glass chips, frozen from the cold, left in that freezer.

Why. Exactly. Him.

You haven't said a word to each other. Words were unnecessary. They couldn't express what you both felt anyway. He took a step towards you, you instinctively took a step back. He took another, you remained standing. You clutched the bottle tighter. You wondered if you would have time to knock the bottom off it to make a more dangerous weapon out of it. You thought that your sudden movement would provoke him anyway. You thought that you didn't want to know what would happen next. He took another step. If you had run or tried to defend yourself, it would have been easier for him. But you froze, clutching the bottle in your hand, looking at him and feeling the darkness approaching you. You were ready to give in to it. To let it surround you. You looked at him and felt your heart beating faster and faster in this dry kitchen silence, the silence of the freezer, death and despair. Faster and faster. This was not the man you thought you knew and the one you fell madly in love with.

And yet, it was him.

Afterwards, you kept replaying the scene in your head, trying to find some other explanation for it. Something that would make you take responsibility for everything that happened after that. From that evening until this very day. But there were no other explanations. It really was beyond your control. Beyond your will. And his, too. A tangible magnetic pull that was impossible to resist. The situation you found yourself in heightened all your senses. You had nowhere to run.

Only forward.

Electric current. A bottle rolling under the table. A hormonal surge. A knife falling to the floor. Fear. Bitterness on your lips. Passion. Cold skin burning your fingertips.

It was chemistry, and there was nothing you could do about it. If he really wanted to kill you, or if you wanted to die for some reason, it wouldn’t have worked like that. But you didn’t want to. You wanted to rewind time, but it was impossible.

And then you stopped it.

He carried you to the bedroom, and you weren't sure if you'd survive the night.

You weren't sure if you wanted to survive it.

Desire on the verge of death, convulsive despair, mindless terror. He was wiping you off the face of the earth and sending you back into the darkness. He was filling your bitter emptiness with black honey sweetness and ripping out your heart. He was burning you alive, and you didn't want it to ever stop. Because then — then there would be only darkness.

The final chords — and the unbearable, incomprehensible symphony modulates into a pre-dawn requiem. You lie there, losing track of time, not daring to move, not breathing, feeling the blood slow down, the heart quiet down, and you wish it would calm down forever. Wish that "after" would never come.

But it does.

He touched you and it was like lightning struck you. Feeling like you were losing the last of your sanity, you threw off the covers and ran to the bathroom closest to the bedroom. You sat down on the cold tiles, forgetting to latch the door. And finally allowed yourself to breathe. You had been gone for quite some time. And even though he knew you weren't going anywhere, he got out of bed, quietly opened the door and saw you on the floor, soundlessly sobbing, your fingers clutching the hanging shower curtain. You were pulling so hard that one ring came off.

He closed the door and went back to bed, and you were left tossing and turning in pain in the confined space of your soul's well. The water in it had turned dark, and a sharp stone thrown across the surface sent painful circles, forcing you to rip the curtain ring by ring until it fell to the floor. You wanted to wrap yourself in it and suffocate. You wanted to wrap him in it and strangle him. Maybe you should wrap that arm and whatever else might still be in this house in it and pretend it never happened.

When you had no strength left to cry or think, you stood up, washed your face with ice-cold water, wiped your face with a rough, scratchy towel, and left the bathroom. You would leave or die — now, immediately. Either option would be fine for you. You would not stay in this house anymore. With him.

Not after what had happened.

You gathered your clothes from the bedroom floor and got dressed, not looking at him. Ready to get a knife in the back at any moment. Another one. You headed for the exit. He sat up on the bed, and you froze. You turned to face him. His gaze was icy, inhuman, nailing you to the spot. You still found the strength to take a small step back, towards the door. He tensed up, like a predator ready to pounce, and you broke out in a cold sweat. You clearly saw yourself running to the door, and he grabbed you in two counts. You took another step, not taking your eyes off him. He was silent and did not move, only watching you, waiting for the moment to attack. To your left, on the nightstand, lay the keys to the door. Seeing them, you remembered that the door was indeed locked, and these extra seconds of delay could easily kill you. You felt dizzy and leaned against the wall. He still hadn't moved, which was more frightening than if he'd tried to stop you. You reached for the keys. He looked at the keys, at you, at the door. His fingers dug into the mattress. You clutched the keys in your hand. At least you knew which one to use. But you didn't know how to make yourself turn around, run to the door, and open it. Your hand shook with terror, and the keys slipped onto the floor. You doubled over as if you'd been punched in the stomach. This is the end. Your eyes met his. You finally caught something human in him, but it didn't matter. What mattered was dying with dignity. Trying to escape after all. You grabbed the keys, and when you looked up, you couldn't believe your eyes.

It's impossible.

He lay down, turned to the wall and covered himself with the blanket, as if he was going to get a good night's sleep. As if he didn't care at all what you were going to do next.

You backed up to the door, not taking your eyes off the bed. Nothing. You pressed your back against the door. Nothing.

He knew you would run to the police in terror.

You started frantically inserting the key into the keyhole. A turn. You looked back — nothing.

He knew he had to kill you.

Another turn. You forced yourself not to turn around again. You forced yourself to gather all the remaining strength to run the most important marathon of your life.

You forced yourself to open the door.

He let you go.

Next chapter (Chapter 13)

Masterlist