#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

[artficlly]

this is (not) fine [one-shot]

marvel au bucky x personal assistant!reader

personal assistant rules: don’t crush on bucky barnes. definitely don’t misinterpret a flower purchase and spiral into silent heartbreak, and absolutely never ever get stuck alone with him in an elevator.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, oral (f receiving), public (ish) sex?, wall sex (?), okay they fuck in an elevator guys, kissing, angst, miscommunication (not badly), hurt/comfort, there's some plot if you squint, insecure/self-conscious reader undertones, reader is an overthinker, reader is horny lol, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 9.1k

A/N: hi, hopefully this will keep you all fed while i work on part five to lessons in lovemaking. finally getting around to some of these requests in my inbox. this one is based off this request, but i changed it up so the reader is a PA instead of an avenger. lmk your thoughts thanx for reading <3 sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

You’d never pegged Natasha as the type who enjoyed flowers.

No, she struck you more as the encrypted-flash-drive-on-a-park-bench type, the kind of woman who appreciated mysteries with teeth. A custom leather jacket, stitched with the same precision she used to dismantle a glock. One of those sleek, low motorcycles. Not daisies. Not peonies. And definitely not whatever soft, pastel nonsense Bucky was currently handing over cash for.

You stood a few feet away, halfway hidden behind a sidewalk sign advertising oat milk lattes and gluten-free muffins, clutching a cardboard drink tray and a bag full of vegan pastries in a death grip. The barista had spelt ‘Bruce’ as ‘Broose’ again, and under any other circumstance, that would've made you laugh, but now it felt like the most irrelevant thing in the world.

You liked Natasha. You respected her. You just didn’t think she had it in her to giggle over roses like the girls in those sappy rom-coms Clint insisted he hated (right before he would watch three in a row, a beer in each hand). But there Bucky was, brushing pollen off a bouquet of pale pink ranunculus, face soft in a way you’d never seen during mission briefings or sparring sessions.

And suddenly, you were building a list in your head of all the things you were sure Natasha Romanoff would rather receive as a romantic gesture: a knife, balanced perfectly for throwing, an expensive bottle of vodka, a vintage chess set with hand-carved pieces, a bottle of expensive ink and a fountain pen with a sharp nib, cookies—messy ones—overloaded with chocolate chips, or simply just black coffee, straight from the pot, no sugar, no cream. Yet, as Bucky handed it over to the redhead, she smiled. Smiled. And suddenly you felt like you were witnessing a scene you were not welcome to. 

Truthfully, it stung. Maybe it stung a little more than what was appropriate. You’d been harbouring a quiet crush on the dark-haired, sullen supersoldier from the moment he joined the team. Fresh out of Wakanda, new vibranium arm in tow, and god, he was handsome. Not in the polished, television commercial way Steve was, but in a way that made your pulse skip and your thoughts stall mid-sentence. He had the kind of face you didn’t know how to look at for too long, sharpened jaw, stormy-blue eyes, and a mouth that always looked on the verge of saying something he’d regret.

There was something electric about his stillness. Like if you leaned in close enough, you’d hear the hum of danger beneath his skin. He walked like a man who never quite trusted, drifting through the tower like he expected a fight around every corner. He barely spoke, but when he did, his voice was low and gravel-worn, something that settled right in your gut and made its home there.

He never smiled. Not really. But sometimes—sometimes—you’d catch a flicker of it when Sam teased him, or when Steve nudged him just right, and it was devastating.

And yeah, maybe you had a soft spot for broken things trying to heal.

As the Avengers’ personal assistant, it was your job to keep everyone comfortable, informed, and running like clockwork. You were a one-person organisational machine, constantly juggling the chaos that came with managing a tower full of enhanced individuals with the emotional range of a brick wall to a nuclear reactor. Your days were a blur of colour-coded schedules, back-to-back briefings, and the never-ending group chats.

You coordinated mission debriefs, booked international flights with military clearance, and handled press requests that would make most people cry. You endured complaints when Thor overloaded the power grid again, trying to make toast, and even replaced the mugs he shattered before anyone noticed. You wrangled Clint’s kids when they came to visit, sourced obscure snacks from remote parts of the world because Sam liked those protein bars, not the other ones, and Steve wouldn’t touch anything processed. You replaced a record number of coffee machines, hunted down whatever special detergent could get oil out of Tony’s designer shirts. You knew which brand of muscle balm Banner preferred and how to order it without triggering a random Homeland Security check.

And then there was Bucky.

With him, it was always a little extra, whether he noticed or not. His schedule came first in your Monday morning rounds. You made sure the pantry was stocked with the Eastern European tea he liked but never asked for, and remembered the exact setting he preferred on the tower’s training room temperature controls. You adjusted group plans so he’d be paired with Steve or Sam, just in case the crowds and questions became overwhelming. When he disappeared for a few hours, you didn’t ask questions, but you made sure no one came looking. You even swapped out the scratchy tags in his mission gear with soft ones, because he never complained, but you noticed the way he fidgeted with them.

Every day, you’d beam at him like some hopelessly love-struck idiot when you handed over his usual coffee—black, two brown sugars, just the way he liked it—and in return, he’d offer little more than a grunt. A low, barely-there sound that most people wouldn’t even register as a greeting. But you did. Somehow, that grunt became the highlight of your day.

So yeah, maybe seeing him hand over flowers to Natasha broke something in you. Not just a hairline fracture, but a quiet, splintering break that left your chest aching in places you didn’t know could hurt. Still, you understood. Natasha belonged to his world, effortlessly cool, all smoke, shadows and secrets. Yet she was kind. Not cold or unapproachable, just… carved from something rarer than you. The kind of woman who didn’t need to try to be extraordinary, she just was.

And you? You were the sweet, well-meaning assistant who made people laugh in the kitchen, who fetched dry cleaning and remembered everyone’s birthdays. You were the one who labelled tupperware and chased down Clint’s kids with bandaids. You were an afterthought, the background noise in the buzzing hive which was the Avengers Tower. 

So maybe you could justify feeling jealous, but angry? No. Not really. They didn’t know. They couldn’t know. And it wasn’t their fault that you’d let yourself hope.

—

Two weeks later, and you timed it perfectly, like you always did.

Just as the door to Bucky’s apartment clicked open, you rounded the corner—folder in hand, clipboard tucked tight to your side. The hallway was quiet, save for the low hum of ventilation and the soft thud of your heels against the carpet. Bucky stepped out, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair tied back, and his hoodie sleeves shoved up just enough to show the gleam of vibranium. Predictable. It was routine, every morning just before six he would meet with Steve in the gym. On Mondays, you’d catch him just as he exited his apartment, unload the details for the week, a freshly printed schedule and all. 

“Morning,” you said lightly, handing him the week’s itinerary. His reply was his usual, a grunt. Not annoyed. Not grateful. Just Bucky. That gruff, barely-there sound that once felt like a small victory. The kind of grunt that used to warm your chest when he followed it with a question, even if you knew the answer was printed in the folder you’d triple-checked. You always answered anyway. You liked having his attention, even just for a few seconds.

You used to dress the folders up with care, multicoloured sticky notes marking key tasks (blue for meetings, yellow for reminders, red for anything urgent and green for personal events). You’d highlight sections like traffic lights, add stickers you thought might make him smile, sometimes even scribble little crooked cartoons in the margins with cheesy encouragements—seize the day! 

The folder looked rather sad today, just a plain manila folder packed with stapled papers. No colours. No stickers. No effort. Just the essentials. You didn’t let your fingers dawdle when he took it. Didn’t smile like you used to. Just handed it over and kept your gaze somewhere past his shoulder.

Bucky took it slowly, eyes flicking down at the cover like he was trying to spot something that wasn’t there. His brow pinched, barely, but enough for you to notice. His fingers lingered on the edge of the folder, like he thought maybe he’d missed a note tucked inside.

You nodded and turned to leave, forcing yourself to shift your mind to your next chore mentally, restocking med supplies in the Quinjet, cross-checking Clint’s revised travel forms, hunting down the coffee machine Tony had threatened to ‘repurpose as target practice’. You’d have to order a replacement before the morning debrief. Double-check everyone’s dietary preferences. Update Steve on the tech room schedule. Get maintenance to repaint the lines in the training room because someone (probably Thor) had scuffed them again.

You stayed busy. It helped. Kind of.

But the guilt still trailed you like a shadow.

It was probably obvious how abruptly you changed. The way your voice had lost its warmth. The way your gaze dodged his like it might burn you. You wondered if he noticed, if he thought you'd simply grown tired of him. Maybe he had. That was better than the truth that you couldn’t stand to be near him, not when every glance felt like pressing fingers to a bruise you’d caused yourself. 

You had made your choice, professionalism. The kind of cool, curated detachment you admired in Natasha, only it felt all wrong on you, like an ill-fitting coat. You knew it was for the better, not mixing up work and matters of the heart. You’d already let your little crush spiral too far, thinking maybe—just maybe—if you tried hard enough, you’d earn more than a grunt. That he might see you as something more than the charming assistant with her clipboard and her stupid stickers. But he didn’t. And he wouldn’t. And that was fine. It had to be.

You couldn’t afford to fall apart over a man who had no idea he’d broken your heart.

But it was Bucky’s voice, soft and unsure, that startled you from your thoughts. “Hey.”

You paused mid-step and turned, forcing a tight smile that didn’t quite meet your eyes as your fingers curled against the clipboard. “What’s up?”

He shifted his weight, clearly caught off guard by the fact that you stopped walking at all. He was rather devastating to look at when he grew all shy and unsure, fingers fidgeting against the edge of the folder like he didn’t know what to do with them. He didn’t quite meet your eye as his weight shifted nervously, like he hadn’t thought before he called out. 

“Uh. Nothin’. Just—” He raised the folder slightly, an awkward gesture. “You usually give me the rundown. Y’know… what everyone’s doing. Who’s where. Who I’m stuck with.”

You swallowed. Of course, he’d noticed. Of course, he’d grown used to your chatter about meetings and mission rosters, about who was off-world and who was due back, like it was the weather. The casual, effortless way you used to tell him what movie was playing, who cheated at Monopoly the night before, or which team member had stolen the last protein bar. You’d always done it to help, keep him grounded, and make him feel like part of the team, like he belonged. 

But after what you’d seen two weeks ago, you were sure he didn’t need that from you anymore. Natasha would look out for him now. She’d keep him balanced, keep him fed, keep him from slipping through the cracks.

“Nothing interesting’s happening,” you shrugged. “Just the usual.”

He didn’t move. “Well… there’s that dinner. On Friday.”

You gave a curt nod, tone clipped. “Yes.”

“Wanda’s dinner,” he added, as if you hadn’t already acknowledged it.

“Correct.”

He hesitated again, brows drawing together in a faint crease of worry. You could see him floundering, stuck in some internal scramble. It made your chest ache because you knew that look. You’d helped talk him down from that look more times than anyone else in the tower probably realised.

You sighed quietly through your nose, against your better judgment, against every wall you’d tried to build in the past week, you caved. He looked five seconds away from spiralling.

“It’s in there,” you offered gently, nodding toward the folder. “On your schedule.”

“Right. It’s just… for me, you usually…” His voice trailed off, frustration and uncertainty knotting in his brow. “Sorry. You’re probably busy—”

That felt like a punch to the gut. 

You shook your head and, before your pride could stop you, your feet were already moving back toward him. His eyes dropped as you reached into your pocket for a pen, scribbling ‘Wanda’s Dinner – Friday’ on a green sticky note. Green for personal events, always. You hesitated, then added a smiley face underneath. You peeled it off and stuck it neatly onto the folder in Bucky’s hands. 

His eyes dropped to it, finger brushing over the paper like he didn’t quite understand why it mattered so much. “Thanks.”

You just nodded, already stepping back, spine straight, pretending your heart wasn’t hammering in your throat.

“She said…” Bucky cleared his throat, clearly not done with the conversation. “Wanda said she’s going to do curry.”

You paused, unsure what to do with the information. Why was he telling you that? Why was he still talking?

“That’s nice,” you said carefully, not sure what to do with this strange, lingering version of him.

“Are you going?” he asked suddenly, and you frowned.

“I wasn’t invited—” You began, already covering from the invasive thoughts, already working to mask the sting. You didn’t want to imagine them next to each other over curry, leaning close, whispering in the way people did when they thought no one else was watching. It would only make the crack in your chest worse.

“You should go,” Bucky said quickly, cutting across your thoughts. “I’ll tell Wanda you’re coming.”

“That’s not necessary. I’ll be busy that night anyway…” You lied through your teeth, heart thumping hard against your breastbone as Bucky’s face crumpled a bit. You cut in before he could argue any further.  “You’re going to be late. For the gym. It’s nearly six.”

“Right, shit, yeah. Sorry, I just…” He trailed off again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks. I’ll… I’ll see you around.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, unsure if you were more confused or stunned by his sudden jitters.

—

Before the whole flowers incident, you made it your unofficial mission to ‘accidentally’ bump into Bucky as many times as humanly possible in a day. Now? It was the opposite. Every hallway was a trap to avoid, every room a potential ambush. Navigating the Tower had turned into something between a tactical stealth op and a personal game of hide-and-seek.

Unfortunately, your strategy for quiet withdrawal hadn’t gone unnoticed.

In fact, Bucky had picked up on your sudden cold shoulder almost immediately. The folder debacle had only been the first of many increasingly awkward run-ins.

There was the time you’d practically sprinted away from the elevator when the doors slid open to reveal him standing inside, a brow raised and coffee in hand. Or when you turned a corner too fast and walked straight into him, muttering a rushed apology before disappearing again like you were being hunted. Then there was the silent, painful breakfast you’d shared at the communal kitchen counter, where you busied yourself with peeling an orange for ten minutes straight while he sat beside you, occasionally glancing over like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to begin.

You’d even pretended to be asleep on the common room couch when he walked in one evening, piles of paperwork scattered, laptop still open, only for him to drape a throw blanket over you before quietly leaving again.

And yet, instead of giving you space like you’d expected and hoped for, he seemed to find any excuse to be around you. He trailed after you like some misplaced puppy whenever he wasn’t buried in a mission or holed up in a meeting.

You’d assumed that the moment you stepped back, he’d naturally gravitate toward spending more time with Natasha. It made sense. Why wouldn’t he want to be around her? They were obviously dating, even if they hadn’t made it official yet. Maybe it was one of those quiet, close things kept just between friends, like Steve and Sam. Who were you to come barreling in and expose their secret entanglement? You expected Bucky to be relieved to no longer be on the receiving end of your babbling, your perfectly-timed coffee deliveries, or the not-so-subtle gifts you littered around. 

But if anything, Bucky seemed determined to figure you out. Like your sudden shift had become his new pet project, and he was personally committed to cracking the case.

You’d taken the back hallway, the long, winding route that steered well clear of the gym on your way to the shared office. High-traffic areas were too risky now—too many chances to run into him. But clearly, Bucky had caught onto your little detours, because as you turned the corner, there he was, headed straight toward you.

You froze for half a second, pulse quickening. Turning around would be too obvious. Suspicious. He’d know exactly what you were doing, and then your carefully-constructed avoidance strategy would unravel entirely. If he suspected anything now, you were one panicked backpedal away from confirming it.

It was a nightmare. And a daydream.

A part of you, some soft, hopelessly romantic piece, ached at the sight of him, at the quiet way he seemed to look for you, worry always etched into his brow like you were some puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. But the rational part of your mind, the part that had dragged you into this self-imposed emotional lockdown, screamed that letting him get closer again would only undo all the fragile healing you’d managed to piece together.

So you steeled yourself.

Shoulders squared. Laptop and paperwork clutched like a lifeline. Eyes locked on an imaginary point just past his shoulder. If you kept walking and moved quickly, calmly, maybe he’d let you go. Perhaps he’d pretend not to notice how your pace picked up and your gaze carefully avoided his.

You nearly made it.

But of course, he noticed.

“Hey, wait—”

His voice was hesitant, just enough pressure to pull you to a stop. Your footsteps faded into the hush of the corridor, your spine straightening instinctively as you turned. Bucky stood a few paces behind, one hand lifted halfway between reaching and retreating, like he’d almost grabbed your arm but lost the nerve. 

He looked sheepish. Timid, even. It killed you.

You swallowed. “Yeah?”

He scratched the back of his neck, boots scuffing lightly against the floor. “Did I… forget to grab my coffee this morning? Or… did you not bring it?”

A pause. Too long. You could feel the beat of your pulse behind your sternum as you forced a casual shake of your head.

“No, sorry. That’s on me. Slipped my mind.”

The lie didn’t sit well in your mouth.

It hadn’t slipped your mind, in fact, it was still sitting on the corner of your desk, cooling beside a stack of unfinished paperwork. You’d brewed it, as always. Even used the brown sugar he liked. But then you’d walked away from it, deliberately, like some idiotic breadcrumb trail you hoped he might follow.

God, you were pathetic.

Your stupid fucking brain couldn’t even decide what it wanted anymore. One half of you was charting escape routes through the tower to avoid him, the other was fantasising about him pinning you to the nearest wall. From the way your thighs pressed together now, breath catching as his voice brushed over you, maybe the answer wasn’t distance at all. Perhaps you just wanted to taste him—

He didn’t move. Just stood there, one brow lifted, faint worry creasing the edge of his expression.

“You’re usually down by the gym by nine,” he said, his voice low. “It’s eleven.”

“I’m running a bit behind today.”

“You usually text me if you’re running behind.”

“Well,” you said, shrugging like it didn’t matter, “I didn’t this time.”

He paused, the silence between you laced with something dangerously close to concern. “Is everything alright?”

You forced a small laugh, trying to shake off how his low, worried voice made heat pool in your gut. “Yeah. Why?”

“You seem off.”

There it was. Soft, plain and far too knowing. He said it in that maddeningly sincere way that only he could manage. Like he actually gave a damn. Like this wasn’t unravelling you by the day.

Your shoulders tensed. “Off?”

“Yeah,” he said gently. “Just… I dunno. You’ve been quiet lately.”

He didn’t know. He couldn’t know about the hours you spent spinning in your head like a lunatic, trying to compartmentalise this crush until it shrank into something survivable. About the way you’d stared blankly at Tinder profiles, your phone clutched in your hand, wondering why no one else ever came close, why none of them were him.

Why you couldn’t stop thinking that if you’d just told him—confessed that stupid crush before Natasha did—maybe you wouldn’t be standing here now like some stray mutt, sniffing around for scraps of attention.

Maybe then he’d be yours.

Maybe then you wouldn’t be fantasising about quitting just to put yourself out of your own misery like some lame racehorse.

“I’ve just got a lot on my plate,” you finally mustered, tone strained. “Tony’s soirée. The fittings. Admin crap. Didn’t even have breakfast today.”

His brows furrowed further. “That’s not good.”

“I’ll survive.”

Would you, though?

Would you survive the heat that flared low in your stomach every time he got too close? Would you survive the ache that gnawed behind your ribs every time he glanced over at Natasha like you didn’t exist? Would you survive the constant, desperate craving to be touched by him? To be looked at like she was looked at?

He didn’t speak for a second, and for a moment, you were sure he could smell the reek of desperation on you.

“The oranges in the fridge are gone.”

You blinked. “What?”

“And the tea. The fancy one,” he added. “The one with the dried raspberries in it. You’re the one who always restocks them, aren’t you?”

You looked down, fingers clenching around your folder. “I’ll add it to the list.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, stepping forward a half-inch, enough to make your breath hitch. “I just… I didn’t realise it was you. Doing all of that.”

Of course, he hadn’t because you’d made it invisible. Seamless. That was the kind of care you practised—silent, anticipatory, never asked for, never returned. You had cared for him with a thousand tiny efforts, but he never noticed until you stopped.

You looked up, and the hallway felt suddenly too narrow. His face was open in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time. Gentle, confused, like he was trying to work you out and couldn’t quite bear not knowing.

You dropped your gaze. “I said I’ll do it.”

He paused. You could feel him thinking again.

Then, to your disappointment, he slowly nodded. “Okay.”

But he didn’t move. Not right away. He lingered like someone who hadn’t yet decided if leaving was the right call, like he was caught between concern and curiosity. 

“I’ll leave you to it, I guess.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You just nodded and turned, walking away quickly before he could see your face fall, before he could catch the naked want in your expression, the way your heart was clawing against your ribs, screaming for you to turn around and ruin everything.

—

If time travel were an option, you'd gladly launch yourself into a wormhole and strangle your past self for being stupid—no, lovesick—enough to organise this little errand. You deserve it, really. A swift kick to the gut from future-you for being this hopeless.

It had all started a month ago, when you, like a fool, volunteered to collect the tailored suits and dresses for some little soirée Tony Stark had decided to throw. Of course, in true Tony fashion, what was pitched as a ‘casual get-together’ had evolved into a full-blown, black-tie spectacle. The first warning sign? Tony footing the bill for everyone to have custom outfits made to their specifications. Translation…this was going to be a thing.

You’d spent weeks wrangling Avengers into fitting appointments, helping them choose fabrics and cuts, managing last-minute alterations and tracking shipments. It was exhausting but under control…until the catch. The aggravating, absurdly attractive, brooding catch currently sitting across from you in the tailor’s waiting room, his knee bounced like it was transmitting a detailed morse code manifesto on every possible way he planned to ruin your day.

The plan had been simple: grab an Uber, pick up the garments, pressed, stitched, and boxed to perfection and head back to the tower. But then you got the call. The one that told you Bucky Barnes had missed his final fitting, and that his suit needed some last-minute adjustments...

Of course he did.

Of all your perfectly laid plans, it only took one missed appointment to bring it all crashing down. Now here you were, stuck waiting beside the man who occupied far too much of your brain lately, silently praying the tailor would finish quickly so you could escape before your sanity, or your dignity, completely unravelled.

“I really am sorry,” Bucky said for what felt like the fiftieth time.

Between the brooding and the nervous leg tapping, he’d spent the last five minutes watching the side of your face with an expression so guilty it was practically carved into him.

“Like I said, it’s fine.” You replied, though it came out a little too tight, a little too forced, like you were speaking through clenched teeth. Which, maybe you were. Not that it mattered. Not when you could smell his cologne from how damn close he was sitting. God, you wanted to lean over and bury your face in his chest and just inhale—

You straightened abruptly, shoulders stiffening as the tailor entered the room, and mentally reacquainted yourself with the concept of boundaries.

It had been an hour—sixty minutes of waiting while Bucky’s suit got its final adjustments. An hour of you trying to distract yourself with work emails and unanswered texts, pretending the man beside you wasn’t single-handedly causing your emotional stability to nosedive. At least when he’d stepped away to get re-measured, you could breathe without risking spontaneous emotional combustion.

This wasn’t like you. You weren’t usually this wound up. Maybe it was the exhaustion, days of juggling your regular duties with Tony’s ever-growing list of soirée demands. Perhaps it was the heartbreak. Or the missed meals. Or the fact that you genuinely had no idea what day it was anymore.

“Would you like to try it on before we package it up for travel?” the tailor asked, her voice gentle. A measuring tape hung loosely around her neck, her pinned bun fraying slightly at the edges.

Bucky looked at you again, eyes flicking toward yours like he needed permission. You swallowed what was left of your pride and gave him a slight, strained nod.

“It’s okay,” you said quietly. “Go on.”

“I’m sorry—again—this is probably eating into your whole afternoon, I know how busy you are—”

“It’s fine. Really. Just go.”

He offered a sheepish smile before disappearing behind the velvet curtain, tugging it closed with a rustle. You pressed your fingers to your temples, let your head drop into your hands, and exhaled through your nose like it might stop your heart from trying to break out of your chest.

Across the counter, the tailor glanced up at you with a sympathetic look as she readied the boxes for the other garments. “Long day?” she asked gently.

You lifted your head, managing a tight smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Only going to get longer.”

You were still nursing the tail end of your sigh when the velvet curtain swished open again.

And then your brain stopped working.

Bucky stepped out in full formal attire, sharp navy suit, tailored within an inch of its life. The cut of it hugged his frame perfectly. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, long legs. A deep navy waistcoat peeked out beneath the jacket, the subtle sheen of the fabric catching the light just enough to look expensive without being flashy. His tie was already perfectly knotted, like he’d done this a hundred times, and the sleeves of his shirt revealed just enough of the polished metal edge of his vibranium arm to make your mouth dry.

He cleared his throat softly, tugging at one cuff. “How’s it look?”

You blinked. Opened your mouth. Closed it again.

Words? No. Words were gone. Your vocabulary had packed up and left the building.

Bucky shifted his weight, clearly mistaking your slack-jawed silence for disapproval. “It’s weird, right? The waistcoat maybe doesn’t work, I told her I wasn’t sure about it—”

“No,” you said quickly—too quickly. “No, it’s… It’s perfect. You look… great. Seriously.”

His brows lifted slightly, a flicker of something you couldn’t quite place crossing his face. Relief, maybe? 

“Yeah?” he said, glancing down at himself, tugging slightly at the jacket hem. “I feel better about it now. The sleeves fit properly this time. Thanks for waiting.”

The tailor beamed from behind the counter, clearly proud of her work. “Wonderful. I’ll box it up immediately once you’re out of it.”

Bucky nodded, but the tailor turned to you with a friendly smile before he could disappear again.

“And for you, would you like to try your gown on as well before I pack it away?”

You blinked, suddenly snapped out of your holy-shit-Bucky-hot-hot-hot haze. “My what?”

She gestured toward the row of garment bags. “Mr. Stark sent over your measurements earlier this month. There’s a gown here for you.”

You frowned. “That must be a mistake. I’m just the assistant. None of those are for me.”

The tailor hesitated. “I don’t think so… He was very clear. Your name was attached to the order.”

Before you could argue, Bucky cut in smoothly, like he’d seen this train coming and stepped in to redirect it.

“Tony probably just wanted you to look the part, too,” he said, voice low and casual. “You’ve done all the work, he probably figured you deserved to enjoy the night a little. Might as well try it on, just in case.”

You glanced at him, but he didn’t look smug or teasing. Just… earnest. Calm. Like he meant it. Which made it all the harder to protest.

“Fine.” You sighed, scrubbing a hand down your face. “Just to check it fits.”

The tailor clapped her hands together. “Wonderful. It’s a beautiful gown, I promise.”

You gave Bucky one last side-eye before following her toward the changing rooms, the fabric bag already in her hands.

From behind, you could hear him chuckle under his breath.

“Just wait 'til you see her,” the tailor murmured to herself, and you weren’t sure whether to be flattered or deeply, deeply nervous.

The gown was heavier than you expected. Luxurious fabric slipped off the hanger like water, pooling in your arms as she handed it over with the kind of reverence usually reserved for wedding dresses.

“I’ll give you a minute,” she smiled, disappearing to finish boxing up the suits.

Left alone in the changing room, you peeled out of your clothes, letting the gown slide on over your hips, your waist, up past your ribs. It clung like it had been sewn directly onto your body, the bodice snug, the neckline just daring enough to make you blush. 

You twisted to try to reach the zipper at the back, fingers fumbling and straining, but the angle was impossible. You spent the better part of five minutes twisting in the mirror like a lunatic, trying to reach the zipper that refused to budge. Your arms ached. The corset bodice was half-fastened. You were flushed, annoyed, and far too aware of the sliver of bare spine still exposed.

You were about to peek your head out and ask the tailor for help when a low voice cut in behind the curtain.

“Need a hand?”

You flinched, fabric clutched to your chest. “Jesus, Bucky! Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice was rougher than usual, like he’d just cleared his throat. “Heard you cursing. Tailor said she’d be a minute out back.”

You hesitated, and your voice came out thin. “Yeah. I—I can’t get it up.”

“Okay,” he replied, oddly determined. “Turn around.”

You cracked the curtain open a pinch. He ducked inside, too broad for the narrow space, his frame practically filling it. He was careful not to look at you directly, at least at first.

You turned slowly, presenting your back. “Just the zipper,” you murmured, barely trusting your own voice.

“Sure,”

A single fingertip, cold metal, dragged up from the base of your spine to the dip between your shoulder blades. It barely touched the skin, but you shuddered from the sensation. Bucky wasn’t even fastening yet, just tracing the line the zipper would follow. The sound you made was too soft to catch. 

The zipper came up slowly. Agonisingly. His knuckles brushed your skin every inch of the way, not by accident. No, this was too slow, too precise, to be innocent.

He was savouring it.

His other hand steadied you, palm ghosting just over your hip. His breath fanned warm against your shoulder.

“You’re trembling,” he commented.

You swallowed hard, unable to muster a response. 

When he reached the top, his hand didn’t fall away. Instead, he swept your hair off your shoulder completely, fingertips grazing the line of your throat as he let it fall over one side.

He leaned in. Not touching, but close. Mouth just behind your ear. The heat of his breath against your neck. 

“Should’ve let me help sooner,” he whispered, voice like a purr. “Would’ve had you dressed in seconds.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your lips parted slightly, breath caught somewhere halfway as your lungs deflated in shock. And maybe it was the gown. Or the silence. Or the way your thighs pressed together of their own accord, but you didn’t move. You didn’t step away.

You leaned in.

Only a fraction. Just enough.

He noticed.

You could feel it in the slight shift of his stance. The faint sound of him exhaling a chuckle through his nose. The way his hand brushed ever-so-slightly along the small of your back before falling away.

And then he was gone.

He stepped back like nothing had happened. Like the tension wasn’t choking the air between you. You turned toward the mirror in a daze.

The dress shimmered in the soft light. Deep, elegant, form-fitting. The neckline exposed the curve of your breasts, the slit at your thigh scandalous enough to make you self-conscious.

You caught his reflection in the mirror. He was watching you, but not with the restrained professionalism you were used to. It was only the sudden reentrance of the tailor that made him hesitate in whatever words were forming on his tongue. He stepped aside, finally giving you space to exit. And you did—legs shaky, palms sweating—like a deer walking straight back into the forest fire, pretending it wasn’t about to burn.

—

Your plan to avoid Bucky after the tailor incident had gone off without a hitch, maybe a little too well. You'd buried yourself in helping Tony pull together the final touches for his ‘soirée’ (which, if you were honest, was less soirée and more ‘black tie circus in a penthouse’).

You'd been so laser-focused on your tasks that you'd almost managed not to think about Bucky in that goddamn changing room. His fingers ghosting up your bare spine like a spark setting fire to dry kindling. You’d folded instantly. Your body betrayed you instantly while your brain screamed to keep it together. Pathetic.

The moral implications of whatever that moment had been were filed away for another day. Were you the other woman? Was Natasha going to slit your throat in your sleep? What was Bucky doing, touching you like that—in a public changing room, no less—when he had a bombshell redhead waiting for him back at the Tower?

No time for that now. Not when Tony’s precious ‘soirée’ was already in full swing upstairs and the caterers had somehow forgotten an entire section of the food. You’d scrambled together an emergency order from some overpriced restaurant Tony swore he was ‘basically family’ with, and by some miracle, they came through in the nick of time.

Now you were in damage control mode, hauling three boxes of overpriced canapés up to the penthouse. Your heels bit into your feet with every step, your dress clung too tightly to bend properly without your tits spilling out, and your patience was hanging on by a single goddamn thread.

You pressed the elevator button with your elbow and exhaled as the doors slid open.

Drop off the food. Grab a free drink. Drown your Bucky-related sorrows. Maybe, just maybe, keep the beast between your legs from waking at the mere sight of him.

The doors began to close. You shifted your weight, careful with the boxes balanced in your arms—

Then someone slipped through at the last second.

Him.

Bucky fucking Barnes.

Tall and devastating as usual in his dark navy suit, his tie loosened just enough to suggest mischief, or maybe carelessness. You weren’t sure which one made you feel worse.

Your breath hitched. Instinctively, your gaze dropped to the floor, feigning sudden, all-consuming interest in the stability of your precarious tower of hors d'oeuvres. But teetering stacks of overpriced finger food or not, Bucky didn’t seem inclined to play along with your avoidance act. Not now. Not when the elevator doors had sealed you in together, finally, and you were without escape.

You winced at the sound of his sharp inhale, the question already pressing past his lips before the elevator even jolted into motion.

“Did I do something to piss you off?”

You didn’t look up. Eyes fixed firmly on the floor, you muttered, “What?”

“I just…” His voice was rough. Tired. “It feels like you’ve been avoiding me.”

Shit.

He stepped forward slightly. Not enough to be invasive. Just enough to make your stomach flip.

“You hardly talk to me anymore,” he continued. “Won’t even look at me unless it’s about work. And even then, it’s like you’re somewhere else. Did I do something to offend you? Hurt you? Just tell me what I did so I can fix it.”

The elevator hummed to life beneath your feet, gliding upward smoothly. You shifted your weight, bracing against the cool metal rail, eyes stubbornly fixed on the buttons, anywhere but his maddeningly perfect face.

“You haven’t done anything,” you said quietly, the words tasting sour the second they left your mouth.

“Then why are you doing it now?” he asked, eyes searching yours. “Why won’t you even look at me?”

“Bucky…”

“Please. Just tell me.”

You hesitated. His hand twitched like he meant to reach for your arm, then faltered, falling back to his side. Your grip tightened on the containers, your fingers slick with sweat. “It’s not you,” you murmured. “It’s me… I just…”

He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

“Please,” he said again, quieter now. “Tell me the truth.”

And that was what did it. The tremor in his voice. The way his brow creased like he couldn’t stand not knowing. Something broke open inside your chest, raw and unhealed. The dam cracked, split, then gave way completely, and the truth came spilling out before you had the chance to swallow it back down. You were exhausted. Wound tight. Running on fumes and nerves and far too many feelings. You’d tell him, you decided. Then drop off the canapés, quit on the spot, and flee the country if necessary. Stark would write you a killer reference. You’d survive.

“Okay,” you said, breath hitching as a nervous laugh bubbled out, half-bitter, half-resigned. “You want the truth? Fine. You’re going to think I’ve completely lost it.”

He stayed quiet, letting you spiral.

“This is so stupid,” you muttered. “I like you, Bucky. There. I said it. I like you. And it was fine—manageable—until it wasn’t. Until I started imagining things. Thinking maybe… maybe you liked me too.”

His eyebrows lifted, surprised but unreadable.

“I’ve had this massive, embarrassing crush on you since the moment I met you. And I know it’s weird, and probably unprofessional because you’re kinda my boss, but not. Technically, Tony’s my boss, but I basically manage everything around here, and—ugh, I’m rambling.” You squeezed your eyes shut. “I like you. And I’ve been avoiding you because it was getting out of hand. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And it felt wrong. Especially since you’re dating Natasha, which just made everything worse—”

“What?” he interrupted, voice sharp. “I’m not dating Natasha.”

Your eyes snapped open. “That’s what you took from all of that?”

“No, I—wait. You think I’m dating Natasha?”

“Yes!” you burst out, cheeks flaming. “I saw you! At the Sunday market about a month ago with the flowers—”

His brow furrowed. “What flowers?”

“The bouquet you gave her.”

“I didn’t give Natasha flowers.”

You let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. “I saw you. It was that dumb little market Tony makes me go to for those overpriced vegan pastries Pepper loves—”

Bucky stared at you, confused. And then, slowly, understanding clicked into place. His face contorted like he’d just remembered he’d left his stove on.

“Oh my god,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “The flowers. Those weren’t for Natasha. They were for Wanda.”

Your heart stuttered. “What?”

“Vision,” Bucky groaned. “It was their anniversary. He was stuck on the phone trying to get a fancy reservation and begged me to pick them up. Natasha tagged along because she was hunting for jewellery for Maria’s birthday. That’s all it was.”

You blinked at him. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” Bucky replied earnestly. “I didn’t know you thought that. I swear, I’m not with Natasha. I never was.”

Your stomach dropped. “Oh god.”

“Hey—”

“No. No-no-no.” You squeezed your eyes shut, wanting to sink straight through the floor. “This is mortifying. I literally thought you were in a secret relationship. I’ve been avoiding you like the plague. I’ve been thinking about moving cities. I googled how hard it is to change your name legally.”

He snorted. “You’re not serious.”

You opened your eyes, and the horror must have been plain on your face because Bucky’s expression melted into something far too amused. “Oh, you are.”

“I might never recover from this,” you mumbled. 

“Hey, c’mon. It’s not that bad.”

“I confessed my undying crush and accused you of being in love with someone else in the span of like, sixty seconds.”

His mouth twitched, lips threatening a smile. “You’re kind of adorable when you’re spiralling.”

“I’m going to chuck these hors d'oeuvres at your head.”

As if mocking your attempt at dignity, the elevator gave a slight mechanical whirr, nearly at the top floor. The distant hum of the party pulsed just beyond those sleek doors.

You straightened suddenly, panic creeping into your chest. “Okay, I’m going to deliver these and then I’m leaving. Possibly forever. Please never speak to me again.”

But Bucky, ever faster than you, stepped in.

And before you could react, he pressed the emergency stop button.

The elevator jolted to a halt. The tower of overpriced hors d'oeuvres wobbled dangerously in your arms. “Oh my god,” you gasped, teetering.

Bucky was already moving, steady hands catching the top box before it could topple, plucking the rest from your shaking grasp. He crouched to stack them on the floor carefully, then rose slowly, smirking as you stood frozen, mouth agape in pure horrified disbelief.

“Bucky, what the hell are you doing?”

“No more running,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.

You could barely breathe. “You stopped the elevator?”

“Didn’t want to risk the doors opening and you disappearing into the night,” he said, a little too pleased with himself.

“I hate you,” you whispered, eyes wide.

He leaned in, just close enough for you to feel his breath. “No, you don’t.”

You were going to die right here in a metal box. With your dignity in ruins and the man of your dumb, desperate daydreams giving you that look.

And somehow, somehow, you didn’t even want to stop him.

“I’m serious,” he said, stepping closer. “Don’t shut down. Please.”

You glanced up at him, finally meeting his eyes and immediately wished you hadn’t. They were dark. Hungry. That gaze alone could melt you to the floor.

He stepped closer again. And again. Until his frame caged in you, his arms braced on either side of your head, the heat of his body swallowing you whole.

“I like you too,” he said, low, rough, like it was pulled from deep inside. “Christ, I was so blind. I didn’t see it. It didn’t click until that day at the tailor, until I saw you in this damn dress.”

Your breath hitched.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he murmured. “I’ve been looking for excuses just to be near you. I keep the notes you leave me with the stupid little drawings. I like looking at them. Thinking about you.”

Your heart felt like it might crack your ribs.

“I smelled every shampoo at the store one day,” he confessed, almost sheepish, almost proud. “Hoped I’d find the one you use. Because you smell so fucking good. It’s been driving me crazy.”

“Bucky…”

“I don’t know. You make me feel special. Seen. Like I’m not some monster, like I’m normal. And then one day you were just… gone. I didn’t realise all the little things you did for me that I never noticed.” He groaned, somehow pressing closer. “I missed the sound of your voice… and it made it hurt even more… I lie awake at night, every night, thinking about you and how much I want to kiss you—”

“Bucky.” You interrupted, and he looked back at you with a barely contained hunger. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”

And then his mouth was on yours.

Hot. Messy. Desperate.

You gasped into it, and he swallowed it whole, groaning as he pressed harder, deeper, hands sliding down to your thighs as he grabbed one and hitched it up around his waist. You clung to his shoulders, lips parted as he slotted himself between your legs, guiding you up until your ass was perched on the elevator’s handrail bar.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. “Tell me that you want this, tell me that you want me.”

Your head fell back against the wall, lips swollen, breath shaking. His mouth travelled to your jaw, your throat, hands digging into your hips.

It was dizzying. Chaotic. Perfect. 

“I want you, Bucky.” You panted.

“Fuck,” Bucky muttered again, but this time it was different, lower. Hungrier.

His hand slid along your thigh, fingertips brushing beneath the hem of your dress. You panted as he kissed across your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. His hands settled on your knees, then slowly, deliberately, he spread them apart.

“Bucky—” your voice was barely more than a whisper, a tremble of anticipation and disbelief.

But he didn’t answer. He dropped to his knees.

Right there. In the goddamn elevator.

You almost came on the spot at the sight, lips swollen and slick with saliva, pupils blown, the slight smudge of your lipstick on his chin. His hands slid up the back of your calves, kneading into the flesh like he was savouring the shape of you. Your dress inched upwards, his mouth suddenly pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee.

Your breath hitched. Your hands shot to the railing behind you, clutching tight.

“You have no idea,” he said, voice wrecked with want, “how long I’ve thought about this.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, dark with something dangerous. Devotion, desire, something molten and drowning. Then his mouth moved higher.

Another kiss. Inner thigh this time. Then another, and another, slow, lingering, like he was memorising you. He disappeared until the fabric of your skirt, only the back of his head, dark locks messy peaking out from between the slit. 

You moaned, soft and involuntary, your hips twitching at the heat of his breath through the thin fabric of your panties. He nuzzled in close, his nose brushing against you, and his hands pressed firmly to your thighs to keep you spread.

“I’ve thought about how you’d taste,” he muttered, lips grazing the soaked lace. “How you’d sound.”

You whimpered.

And then, he peeled your panties to the side.

The groan that tore from him was obscene.

“Jesus,” he hissed, voice muffled. “You’re fucking perfect.”

And then, his mouth was on you.

Hot. Wet. Relentless. You cried out, one hand flying to his hair, tangling in it as his tongue licked into you with precision, with hunger, with something close to worship. He devoured you like he was starving. Slow circles, then quick flicks, his mouth dragging across your clit with maddening rhythm. You writhed against the rail, your leg still wrapped around his shoulder, the other trembling against the elevator wall.

“Oh my god—Bucky—fuck—”

Your words slurred together, breath coming in ragged gasps as he groaned into you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. One of his arms snaked around your thigh, pinning you in place, as if he thought you might try to escape. As if he’d let you.

His tongue slid down, dipping into you, then back up, his mouth latching onto your clit with a filthy, wet sound that made your spine arch. You were unravelling, fast, dizzy, overwhelmed.

He pulled back just enough to pant. “I could stay here all night.”

His mouth was merciless. His grip was unrelenting on your thighs, mouth working you over like a man possessed—

Bzzzzt.

A shrill, sudden buzz sounded from the elevator’s emergency panel, followed by a crackling voice.

“Hello? This is Tower Maintenance. We’re registering an emergency stop on lift three. Is there an issue?”

You froze. Every muscle in your body went rigid, as if someone had cracked open your spine and poured ice water down it. Dread spread like frost through your veins. Your heart thudded painfully in your throat, threatening to climb up and out entirely.

You could barely breathe. Could barely think.

This was it. This was how you died—legs spread, Bucky between them, and Tower Maintenance on the fucking line.

Bucky, in sharp contrast, did not freeze.

He groaned softly with wicked glee, his mouth still very much between your legs. The sound vibrated against the most sinful part of you, and then he doubled down. Mouth and hands working with infuriating, diabolical precision, like he’d just taken the intercom as a challenge.

You clamped a hand over your mouth, the other shaking as you reached blindly for the emergency call button, trying not to sound like you were seconds away from being ruined.

Your voice came out like a panicked squeak. “Hi! Uh—h-hi, yes, sorry! Must’ve been a—a small electrical fault. I’m fine! Everything’s… fine!”

Bucky nipped at your thigh in response.

There was a pause. You could feel the suspicion through the line.

“Ma’am, we’re not showing any electrical inconsistencies in that shaft. Did you press the stop button?”

You shot a wide-eyed glare down at the man currently devouring you.

Another wave of pleasure threatened to knock the air from your lungs. You were barely holding it together, every nerve ending aflame, skin flushed, thighs shaking. The cool metal of the elevator wall against your spine did little to ground you.

You cleared your throat, struggling to piece together something—anything—resembling human speech. “Oh. Oh, that—um, I must’ve bumped it. With my elbow. While holding a tray. It’s, uh—crowded. In here.”

Bucky chose that exact moment to suck hard, and you slapped your hand over your mouth to muffle the helpless sound that nearly escaped.

A longer pause. You could practically hear them frowning.

“…Right. Well, we’re releasing the stop now. Please remain calm.”

The line disconnected.

The elevator jolted slightly as it roared back to life.

Bucky gave a dark chuckle. “Crowded, huh?” Then—with zero mercy—he sped up.

“Bucky,” you gasped, head falling back against the wall, “I’m—I’m gonna—”

You shattered.

It hit hard, hot and blinding. You cried out, thighs clamping tight around his head as he groaned against you, mouth not stopping for a second, drawing it out, milking every twitch, every whimper. You barely had time to breathe, let alone moan, your hands flying to steady yourself just as the elevator dinged cheerily and the doors slid open.

Right into the penthouse. Packed full of people, who by some miracle, were utterly oblivious to your predicament. 

You staggered slightly as Bucky stood smoothly, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, one arm slipping around your waist to steady you while the other casually reached down and grabbed the stack of forgotten canapés off the floor like he hadn’t just—

“Evening,” he greeted a passing staff member, utterly unbothered.

You were glowing crimson, pupils blown, lips parted, trying hard to fix your face. Bucky guided you forward, his hand warm on your back, keeping you between him and the crowd as your legs trembled. You barely managed to set the tray on the nearest table before someone whistled.

“Well, damn,” came Sam’s voice from the drinks bar. He gave you both a once-over, a wicked grin spreading. “Buck, next time you’re gonna eat face in the elevator, maybe wipe the lipstick off your chin first.”

Bucky only smirked and licked his bottom lip slow, on purpose, you were sure of it.

You nearly combusted on the spot.

“Bathroom?” he murmured into your ear, low and gravelly.

You nodded quickly and wordlessly.

He guided you with all the smugness of a man who had no regrets, his hand just a little too low on your back to be innocent.

---

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[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?

[assortedcriminality]

snippet #6

contains: blood, cursing

Hero lay on their back, breathing shallowly as blood leaked in a thin stream through their crimson-stained fingers, adding to a growing pool beneath them. If they had to rank every stab wound they’d received, this one would be at the very bottom. Their eyes were shut tight, the electric pain radiating from their stomach so great that they couldn’t sense when someone else entered the grimy alley.

A nudge to their side made Hero’s eyes fly open, immediately locking contact with the pitying gaze of the perpetrator. “God, you look awful,” Villain said. The sharp sting that the nudge sparked through their body had Hero let out a low groan, but they couldn’t attempt to move. “Oh, come on. Aren’t you going to get up and hit me?”

“The knife was poisoned, you asshole,” Hero managed to rasp through gritted teeth. “I can’t feel my legs.”

Their nemesis crossed their arms. “Hmph. How unsportsmanlike. Who did that, then?”

“Your friend, Other Villain. They said they had information about Supervillain.” The idea seemed so stupid now, the trap obvious. This was what Hero got for choosing to trust a criminal. Though they couldn’t say they had learned anything, as the devious mastermind that stood above them was probably the person they trusted most in the city. 

“First of all, they are absolutely not my friend,” Villain objected. “They’re a conniving, backstabbing bastard. You should’ve called me.”

“A bit late for that, don't you think?” Hero’s voice came out higher, more strained with each word.

The criminal leaned over, studying them with a quick, sweeping look. “Can you walk yet?”

“Do you think I’m lying here for fun?” They snapped. “No, I can’t walk!”

Villain tapped a finger to their chin in mock deliberation. “What a predicament we find ourselves in, my dear Hero. I suppose there is no other recourse but for me to carry you.” 

“No—Villain, wait, Villain-” This time, when Villain reached their hands behind Hero’s back and knees, the touch didn’t immediately spark pain. It wasn’t until they swiftly lifted the crimefighter into their arms that agony seared like a white-hot brand in Hero’s side. They cried out, choking on a scream that became a hoarse cough. The feeling overloaded their senses, turning their nerves into nothing but conduits for pain as Hero sank into their nemesis’ strong grasp, head falling onto Villain’s chest. 

“Hero. Hero, look at me. Look at me.” The sudden intensity of their voice sharpened Hero’s focus, if only a little, and allowed their unfocused gaze to meet Villain’s again. “Jesus, you look like shit.” But an edge of fear was creeping into their tone, something that would have alarmed Hero even further had they been closer to coherence.  

Hero was no longer capable of opening their mouth, let alone providing a vocal response. Villain seemed to understand them anyway. “Stay with me, Hero,” they murmured, and both nemeses braced as best they could as Villain turned around and hurried out of the alley. 

word count: 501

@sausages-things

[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.

[antlerqween]

can you make a shauna shipman bot with her sitting on a log sharpening her knife and looking extra hot while wearing her 3x08 clothes (dark flannel, her grey shirt and khakis) and reader just can’t help themselves and drag shauna back to their hut 🥹

♯ 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐮𝐧𝐚 𝐒𝐡𝐢𝐩𝐦𝐚𝐧 bot ˳ᐟ

── Beautiful girl.

Heyy, sorry for the delay! I hope this is what you imagine for the bot. thank you for requesting <3

TW: body insecurities, mentions of body post pregnancy

Intro message and link below!

link !¡

‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙

There wasn't a soul in that camp who dared get close to Shauna Shipman.

Kindness? She didn't need your pity.

Friendly words? Keep them to yourself, she said.

Strangely, all her hard emotional shell was an exception for {{user}}, no matter how much Shauna relented, very much so, the unwanted feeling in her chest always occurred when {{user}} was around.

Perhaps it was because of all the people around her, {{user}} was the only one who cared about Shauna or didn't feign sympathy to avoid getting into trouble. Shauna didn't dare call {{user}} a friend. They weren't friends. They really weren't. 

The lakeside chats they exchanged and a few kisses under the trees didn't affect Shauna. It was the mantra that Shipman had to repeat every day when she woke up. In her usual grumpy mood, Shauna was content to vent her anger by sharpening her knife.

And she certainly wasn't doing it because {{user}} asked her to control herself more.

“Speak of the devil...” Shauna speaks with a certain sarcasm, ignoring the electric pang that shoots through her as soon as she sees {{user}}. Trying to disguise her sideways smile, Shauna prepares herself for another harsh sentence. However, she is suddenly pulled by {{user}} into the hut they shared.

A kiss pressed against her lips is the first thing Shauna feels as she enters the space. Shauna doesn't understand. Shauna truly doesn't understand how someone like {{user}} could be interested in her.

It's not just that she's aggressive, that she's rough, that she's seen as a monstrous figure by the other girls. Shauna didn't think she was interesting at all. Her body had changed a lot during her pregnancy.

She had gained some weight, although it wasn't as apparent from her hunger to survive in the wilderness, a protruding belly was still noticeable. She had acquired some stretch marks on her thighs and yet {{user}} still had the courage to look into her eyes, between fervent kisses, and say that Shauna was the most beautiful girl in the world.

“Do you really want to say that?” Shauna looked at her suspiciously, trying to hide her insecurities with a rougher tone of voice.

[buckysouvenir]

a war of secrets, chapter 3: unmasking the widow 1940s bucky barnes x y/n In the chaos of World War II, Y/N thought she had left her past behind—until a cocky, charming sergeant named Bucky Barnes shattered the walls she built. As their missions grow more dangerous, so do the feelings neither of them can admit. But secrets have a way of surfacing, and when Y/N’s past threatens to destroy the fragile peace she’s found, Bucky refuses to let her fight alone. last chapter | a war of secrets masterlist | next chapter

The forest was quiet—too quiet. Snow crunched beneath Y/N’s boots as she led the unit along a narrow path, her senses sharpened to a knife’s edge. They were deep behind enemy lines, tasked with intercepting a HYDRA supply convoy rumored to be transporting experimental weapons. The cold bit at her exposed skin, but the chill wasn’t the reason her muscles were tight with tension. Something was wrong.

“Keep your eyes open,” Bucky murmured beside her, his voice low but steady. He walked a little too close, always watching her six. It had become a habit of his lately, though he would never admit it.

“I always do,” she replied, scanning the treeline.

For the past week, their missions had gotten more dangerous—HYDRA was adapting. And despite her best efforts to stay in the shadows, Y/N knew the enemy was getting too close. She had been slipping intel to Peggy, carefully navigating her double life, but every move she made seemed to push her closer to exposure.

Bucky shifted beside her, his rifle cradled loosely in his hands. He was too calm, too composed for a man who had just walked into an ambush zone. And yet, Y/N could feel the tension rolling off him in waves. She had learned to read him—his restlessness when things were too quiet, the way his fingers flexed against the trigger when something didn’t sit right.

She shouldn’t have been paying attention to things like that. But with Bucky Barnes, it was impossible not to.

A crack echoed through the air. Too sharp. Too deliberate.

“Down!” Y/N barked, shoving Bucky aside as a hail of bullets tore through the clearing.

Chaos erupted. The Howling Commandos returned fire, scattering for cover as HYDRA soldiers emerged from the woods. Y/N ducked behind a fallen tree, her heartbeat thundering in her ears. She reached for her sidearm, firing clean, controlled shots, but the enemy kept coming. This wasn’t a random skirmish. It was a trap.

“Barnes! Y/L/N!” Steve’s voice cut through the noise. “Flank left—cut them off!”

Y/N didn’t hesitate. She turned to Bucky, their eyes locking for a brief second before she bolted into the trees. He was right behind her, footsteps crunching through the snow as they wove through the underbrush.

“You good?” he asked between breaths.

“Better than good,” she said, scanning for movement.

A flash of metal caught her eye—too fast for a standard soldier. HYDRA operatives. Enhanced.

Bucky spotted it too. “Shit—"

The enemy was on them in seconds. Y/N moved without thinking, her body falling into familiar patterns—sharper, faster than she had ever let him see. She ducked under a blade, disarming her opponent in a fluid motion and driving her elbow into his throat. Another came from the left. She twisted, sweeping his legs out from beneath him before delivering a brutal strike to his temple.

She was too fast. Too precise.

And Bucky noticed.

“You wanna tell me where you learned moves like that?” His voice was tight, suspicion cutting through the adrenaline.

No more hiding. Not now.

A third soldier lunged, and Y/N dropped low, activating the Widow’s Bite concealed in her gloves. Electricity surged through her palms as she slammed them against the soldier’s chest, sending him sprawling. The sharp buzz filled the air—the sound of technology that didn’t belong to any army division.

When the last body hit the ground, silence returned. Y/N stood there, breathing hard, her hands trembling slightly as the glow of the Widow’s Bite faded.

Bucky lowered his rifle, his face a mask of confusion and anger. “What the hell was that?”

She swallowed hard, trying to steady herself. “It’s complicated.”

“Complicated?” He laughed bitterly, stepping closer. “You’ve been lying to us. To me.”

Before she could respond, Steve’s voice crackled over the radio. “All clear. Regroup.”

Y/N turned, prepared to move, but Bucky caught her arm, his grip firm. “No. You’re not walking away from this.” His voice softened, but the hurt bled through. “Was anything real, or was I just another mission?”

His words struck harder than any bullet. She wanted to explain—to tell him everything—but where would she even begin? That she was a Black Widow? That every moment she had spent with him was real, even when she tried to pretend it wasn’t?

“Bucky—” She hesitated, her throat tight. “I never wanted to lie to you.”

“Then why did you?” His voice cracked, and the vulnerability in it nearly broke her.

Because I wanted to protect you. Because I was scared. Because I never expected to care this much.

But none of those answers would be enough.

“I didn’t have a choice,” she whispered instead.

He let go of her arm, stepping back as if the distance could protect him from the truth. “There’s always a choice.”

The weight of his words settled heavily between them as they returned to the others. Y/N could feel his gaze lingering on her, colder than it had ever been before. And for the first time since the war began, she felt the sharp ache of something slipping through her fingers—something she wasn’t sure she could get back.

#taglist: @pickuptruck01 @addie192 @ronjantz @fan4astic

[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.

[legendweaver]

with no warning, Raph runs up to your group to try and smack Donatello on the head!!! Leo has already given up on trying to stop him, despite that they got here only yesterday lol

.......

......sure hope this doesn't trigger any trauma.....

@tmntaucompetition 2025

← Split →

Donnie POV

Tensions were still running high, no surprise there. They were just as quiet as before as they looked around, just now they were also standing further apart and trying not to look at each other.

Donatello ran his finger down the subtle grooves in the metal of his bo, forcibly unclenching his jaw again. They had been given a wide berth by their counterparts. Probably because the areas they were moving through were much less crowded, but also because they could probably sense the tension coming off the trio.

Logically, he knew that they should talk to try to sort things out. But evidence so far showed that talking just actually made things worse.

Though maybe the tension and distance was only bothering him. Leo's face was a mask of calm determination, holding himself firm and still and Donatello isn't able to read him at all. Mikey just looked ...bored.

Donatello kept having to check on them. Making sure the Leo hadn't quietly marched on without them, or that Mikey hadn't wandered off. And frankly, it was making him more anxious that he had been in the crowds earlier. At least then they had felt like some sort of a team, like Donatello could rely on them. On someone.

Now Donatello was alone again.

His hands tightened on his bo, and his jaw clenched. He tries to push it down into the buried ball deep inside him that has been festering this entire time.

He lost focus for a moment.

The sound of feeding slapping against stone. Moving fast. Something whistling through the air at his head.

Boots nearly slipping on wet concrete. The smell of water, mold, and blood staining the back of his throat. Rain blurred his vision behind the visor. Echoey sounds of his own gasps drowning out all else. Head spun, ribs ached. Leg pulsed in agony, muscles twitching around the knife still jabbed into it. Weak point in the joints. Dumb, stupid, an ambush. Move, try not to slip on the bodies scattered on the ground. The crack of his bo against a skull, sending vibrations through him, aches and pains echoing in response. One half of the broken wooden (stupid stupid stupid stupid) bo slid through numb fingers. Faint rumble beneath his feet, headlights flash by the alley, bright light refracting and bouncing off rain, off puddles stained with growing rivulets of red. A shadow from behind. Broken shard of wood twists in his hand. Someone down had gotten up. Heel, twist. Mind, desperate, blank. The whites of widening eyes and grit teeth, a bat swinging down at his head. He jabs upwards, broken bo piece clenched tight, end jagged. Sharp.

Soft. Slides. 'shktpblt'. Red.

Gone.

Donatello's heart pounds and he is already moving. A quick twitch of his wrist and his bo ratchets to life, segmenting, metal shifting, edges sharpening, and sparking to life. By the time the electrical buzz sinks into his senses, he's already swung, turning instantly with a sweep of his leg and shift of an ankle, hand sliding down the length of the bo with a familiarity etched in stone.

Leo, somehow, is faster.

There's an ear-bleeding shriek of metal on metal, the force of the blow slamming into an unexpected obstacle ricocheting painfully back through his arms as Leonardo's katana intercepts in a streak of silver. The shriek sharpens, discordant tones screaming, sparks flashing as the point of impact shifts as Leo slides to a stop from his sudden dash to intercept, bodily blocking Donatello from his target, his attacker.

Some part of Donnie knows he should stand down as he is met with Leonardo's whited out, steely gaze, unflinching as electricity crackles near his face. But the adrenaline and lingering grip of mind-numbing panic drowns it out. And that rolled-up ball of anger and hurt explodes. He snarls, pushing back against Leonardo, trying to leverage his size against him.

Leonardo is a wall, unmoving and unfaltering. He shifts his katana, twisting Donatello's grip on his bo, using the friction of their locked grip to force his bo down. Donatello is unfocused, not thinking, and the way his grip shifted uncoordinatedly would have had Master Splinter drilling him in katas for weeks. He manages to keep his grip, but is unable to stop Leonardo from planting the tip of his bo into the ground, the flat of his blade trapping it there. Without their weapons between them, Leonardo shifts forward, shoulder ramming into his, head lifting as his lips peel back into a snarl.

"Donatello, enough!"

Donatello struggles, pushing back against him. A flicker of movement, and his eyes flicker upwards, getting a glimpse of his target for the first time.

He froze.

Green.

Green eyes.

Raphael's eyes.

There was a ringing through his head as head as his bo dropped from numb fingers. In his peripheral, he saw Leo's face shift to something more concerned, mouth opening and closing, words lost in the haze.

A face he hadn't seen outside of faded photos in years looked up at him. The hit of fear faded, and an achingly familiar mask of anger and irritation fell into place. Face shifting into a scowl that Donatello had seen a million times before.

he-

he couldn't-

and he'd-

he'd almost-

It wasn't his Raphael. Raphael had been 20, and had never worn, never had the chance to wear, clothes like that at 15. But still, but still- He saw those eyes and...

Donnies leg is broken, his plastron cracked, and he is left in a broken heap in the ground as rubble falls around him. His vision is darkening, despite his every attempt to claw back into consciousness as a roar from the maddened shadowy titan that was the Shredder crashes over him, drowning out the sound of his breaths, his heart, his thoughts. A blurry smear of grey races towards him, as an entire cliffside is dislodged in the great beasts thrashing.

A streak of green and red and Donnie is already relaxing before he is scooped up into strong arms, hiss of pain lost in the rush as Raph leaps, doing his best to cover him as they skid across the ground, dust and bits of rock falling around them. His vision swims and begins to smear away into black and he can barely feel it as Raph drags him behind the relative safety and cover of an outcrop of rocks and trees. Raphaels shadow curls over him, and he can distantly feel him checking him over for any life threatening issue, any sounds or words lost in the shriek of the Shredder as it tore itself and the land around it apart. He is slipping when Raph turns and pulls away, his hand barely lifting, pleas caught in his throat. Raph noticed anyway, turning back. The flash of his teeth in a grin, the burning green of his eyes, and the smear of red of his bandana were the last things to go in Donnies fading visions, his words following him as he spiraled down. "Me and Leo got this, brainiac. Rest up, it'll be over before you wake up."

He never even got the chance to say goodbye.

Donatello is moving again, breaking away from Leo's grip on his shoulder. Pushing through the gathered crowd, he runs. He can hear Leo's shout, footsteps following him. Instinctively, he reaches to his hip back, grabbing two of the marble sized balls inside, throwing them behind them, hearing them burst with a pop, the acrid smell of the smoke tickling his throat. He veers sharply to the left, ducking into an alley as he continues to sprint.

Over the last couple of years he has gotten very good at disappearing.

When he comes fully back to himself, he is curled up in the boarded doorway of a back door in a secluded alley, far away from where he had left his brothers. The only sound is the harsh wheezes from his broken chest, gasps for air and control. He curls up tighter, arms wrapping tighter around his knees, bowing his head into the curl of his body.

His screams are muffled and unheard.

He is alone again.

--------------------------------------

oof. well.

none of these guys are doing well and have been going through it. none of them are innocent for how things are.

Thanks for the ask!

[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.

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[houseofknivesaustralia]

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[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."