#everything else possible. anyways. I hope his legacy rots and is all but forgotten

[oldmanontumbler]

Mannnn, I thought I'd seen all the evil things he'd done, but nope there's always more! Yay!

I hope he Aleister Ckills-himself.

[trashmenofmarvel]

Devil’s Backbone - Chapter 5

Pairing: The Winter Soldier x S.H.I.E.L.D. agent!Reader

Summary: With your team dead and your mission failed, you’ve been taken by the assassin to an unknown location and are at the mercy of your cruel tormentors. (This fic is explicit, 18+ only, mild dubcon)

Chapter Warnings: Dubcon, anxiety attacks

Word Count: 3.8k

Tag List: @pandalandalopalis @insidethemindoftrent

AO3

The next time you opened your eyes, you had the sense you hadn’t slept for a full night. Regardless, you felt… better. Your fever had broken, your arm no longer throbbed, and you were alert and clear-headed.

The assassin hadn’t injected you with anything harmful. He had given you a shot of antibiotics.

You pressed your lips tight together as your eyes burned again, shame creeping through you at the pathetic reaction. He had been instructed to keep you alive, that was all. It didn’t mean anything, and it certainly didn’t make up for all of your dead teammates. It didn’t erase Mr. Kartal’s grisly death, or the fact the assassin had brought you here in the first place.

But… his actions didn’t make sense, either. The lab coats had been more than happy to let your wound rot. Or had that been a hallucination? A combination of fever and pain and narcotics? Sometimes you wondered if the torture in and of itself wasn’t a delusion. Nothing in that room felt real.

But he did. The assassin felt very real.

The seconds and minutes and hours ticked by, unmarked and discomforting. You remembered learning about the psychological effects of captivity from Rumlow’s grueling training. He had taught you how to escape bindings—everything from cable ties to handcuffs to rope cords. You knew how to disable a stronger, armed opponent using only your hands and legs. You could hotwire pretty much anything with an engine. Or navigate through rough, remote terrain to find your way back to civilization.

But with all of that training, Rumlow had made it clear there was no way to truly prepare for this. When you were taken by the enemy, it wasn’t the pain or degradation or fear that was the true opponent. It was time. The passage of it was like a constant pressure on your thumbnails and eyeballs. It kept you suspended above a pit of vipers. It held you down on a bed of nails. There was no respite to be found from the constant, innumerable seconds that drew out your misery like the grim note of a funeral dirge.

Aside from time, isolation was the most effective tool in a torturer’s kit. It was cheap, easy, and worked surprisingly fast. The human mind was not built to withstand long periods of separation from the world, and it was tantamount to psychological destruction to keep someone in an isolation cell for more than a few hours.

By your guess, you were beginning day three. The need for human interaction was pushing up against your terror of the guards who would drag you out of your cell, and the doctors who treated you as nothing more than a scientific curiosity. At this point, it might have been a relief to be taken back to the white room just so you could see that life went on outside your tiny prison.

You curled into a tighter fetal position, despair penning you in, threatening to consume you. Where are you? The silent prayer was meant for the remaining members of the team that hadn’t been part of the convoy. But mostly, it was for Rumlow. Your mentor, your guide. The one who was supposed to protect and keep you safe. Why haven’t he found you yet? Why was he letting this happen to you?

You squeezed your eyes shut, forcing the tears at bay. You knew Rumlow would be doing everything possible to find you, but if he had been able to rescue you… he would have done so by now. There would be no extraction, no last minute stay of execution. You were going to die here. Alone. Forgotten except for a small plaque at the Triskelion Memorial. It would be the only legacy you leave behind.

You had no family outside of S.H.I.E.L.D. No one left to mourn you but your team. And most of them were gone, too.

Oh, God. How did this happen? How had it gone so wrong? A small wail escaped your throat as you curled your fingers in your hair, digging your nails into your scalp. I don’t want to die like this. I don’t want to die. Please. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.

As if in response to your desperate prayers, the door to your cell opened with a loud clang. Peering out from your protective cocoon, you watched as a broad silhouette filled the doorway, the assassin stepping forward into the bland light. You flinched despite your best efforts not to, watching as he stopped just inside the cell and closed the door behind him.

He was holding a plastic food tray. No one had bothered to feed you since your arrival, probably because you could barely keep down water let alone anything else. But now your stomach rumbled as you took in the scent of peas, corn, and mashed potatoes.

You quickly rubbed your stinging eyes and pulled yourself into an upright position, your cramped muscles protesting at the movement. You studied him warily; suspicious of his intentions despite the fact he was only armed with the tray of food. His expression was unreadable behind the dark mask covering most of his face. His eyes were as cold and intense as before, making you feel small and insignificant.

Your gaze flickered down to the plastic tray in his hands. A part of you retained hope that he hadn’t come for a nefarious purpose and was simply trying to keep you alive. Another part of you prepared for this to be a wicked trap.

But the assassin came no closer. He set the tray on the floor and toed it with his boot, sending it across the cell and directly in front of you. After he straightened to his full height and didn’t move from his spot or retreat from the room, the message he sent was clear.

I’m going to stand here until you eat.

The presumption of his presence and your complete lack of control in this situation turned your previously wary gratitude into humiliation and anger.

You grabbed the edge of the tray and threw it as hard as you could, hurling it across the cell to smash into the wall right next to him, splattering food all over the concrete bricks. Childish satisfaction curled in your chest. You might not have had control of much, but you could choose whether or not to eat.

“Fuck you,” you snapped. The assassin hadn’t moved a hair, even when the tray had hit the wall just a few inches to his right. Not so much as a flutter of his eyelashes.

“They’re going to kill me anyway,” you spat as you rose to your feet, leaning against the wall to help your weakened muscles. “Or worse. So fuck your food and fuck your medicine and fuck your fake-fucking-compassion.”

You were panting now, unable to get enough air as your heart was racing in your chest. The anger felt empowering and it burned away your fear.

“If you had any actual mercy, you’d end it. Right now.”

He didn’t respond, or move, or even blink. He was a masked statue, observing you through his curtain of hair. But his eyes were focused and they stared intently at your face. He gave every indication that he could hear you, but he didn’t say a word. His nonverbal, looming presence was starting to become really fucking aggravating.

“Say something!”

You winced at the sound of your scream, ragged and too loud in the cramped space. It also hurt to hear yourself sounding so shaken and unhinged, but you were well past the end of your rope.

The assassin remained silent.

With a cry, you sprang from the wall and pulled your fist back to jab it at his throat. He easily dodged your blow and looped his arms around your waist, and in the blink of an eye you traded places as you crashed into the door.

He pinned you against it, both flesh and metal arms equally unyielding in their grip around your torso. You snarled and fought like a rabid animal, banging your knee painfully against the steel door. He pulled you away before you could hurt yourself again, and dragged you further into the cell.

You cried out between your teeth as your injured arm throbbed, but you refused to surrender, digging your fingers into his arms and trying to hook your feet around his calves.

His response was swift and decisive; the assassin pinned down both of your arms with his right arm, and curled his cold, metal fingers around your throat. He applied pressure and you stilled immediately, your muscles going completely rigid. It wasn’t a full-body lock, but your limbs behaved as if it was, the dangerous pressure on your throat very effective at ending your struggles.

You panted harshly, unable to control the tremors as adrenaline, exhaustion, and pain racked your muscles. And there was fear. Your rage had been short-lived, dying before it had fully matured, and now you were as helpless as that moment he had first hooked his metal arm around your neck after the convoy attack, choking you unconscious.

His metal fingers cradled your throat—cool to the touch except in the places where the fingerless glove covered its surface. It felt almost pleasant against your flushed skin; a fucked up dichotomy to feel towards something that could crush your neck in an instant.

But he didn’t squeeze any harder. He wasn’t cutting off your air. It was almost as if he were taking deliberate care not to hurt you. Perhaps that should have told you something, but at the moment, all you could focus on was trying to breathe while trapped in the jaws of the beast.

He kept your arms pinned with the arm wrapped across your chest, but the metal appendage at your throat moved very slightly. So slowly at first you thought he was simply readjusting his grip. But then the breath caught in your throat when you realized his thumb was gently stroking the side of your neck.

You flinched, tried to wrench yourself away, but his right arm bore down on you to hold you in place. He needn’t have bothered, really. You weren’t going anywhere. All you could do was stand there, trapped in a steel grip of metal and muscle.

The feel of his unwanted caress on your skin was having an effect. Your cramped muscles began to loosen and your breathing became easier. It was like… an odd calm washing over you. You were unable to move, held securely in place, but instead of feeling trapped or claustrophobic, you felt… almost relaxed.

You had no control; the illusion of that was gone. It was all his, and he could hurt you however he wanted.

Except… he wasn’t hurting you. Whatever he was doing was weird and strange and probably would have scared any normal person, but you were more confused than afraid. Your heart rate was starting to even out, though it did pick up again when his flesh arm loosened its hold across your chest. His metal hand remained around your throat so you didn’t move, at least voluntarily; you gave a start when you felt his fingers trail across your stomach, sending gooseflesh across your arms and legs.

The fuck?

When he slipped his fingers under the hem of your shirt, you balked. The tender touch was so sharply different than the pain and misery you’d experienced that your brain couldn’t grasp it and your body resisted. But he held you firmly in place, rendering your struggles inert, and soon they stopped altogether. His fingertips ghosted across your skin, a feather-light caress that sent a thrill through your gut.

You closed your eyes, almost overwhelmed by the simple gesture that left you feeling warm and liquid in his arms. In response to your relaxing muscles, his touch became heavier, his fingers now tracing over your ribcage and down your abdomen.

At the same moment your body relaxed further, warning sirens sounded in your head. The klaxon urged you to run, to fight, to do something other than stand there like a deer in the headlights. But your body didn’t listen, as if he were holding you under a spell.

He lifted his hand higher and paused. His breath, muffled behind the mask, seemed to catch and then start again at an uneven pace. You weren’t the only one affected by what was happening, and that thought made your body react just as surely as his fingers did. The relaxation of your muscles turned into an aching heat, traveling over your skin and leaving you awash in goosebumps.

When his fingers finally ghosted over your nipple, it was erect and aching. A small shock went through your body at the warm contact, straight between your legs, and you had to trap the moan at the back of your throat before it could escape.

Your plan to remain silent was ruined as soon as he rubbed his thumb across the sensitive skin. You let out a tiny moan, your cheeks heating with shame at the needful sound.

He froze. You did as well, afraid he would continue. Afraid he wouldn’t. You were torn in two different directions, your mind a confused mess while your body yearned for the touch of his fingers. This place had brought only misery and pain, and what was happening now was very, very pleasant. Your body didn’t want it to stop, and in fact, seemed to crave it more intensely with each passing second.

In the end, your overwhelming need for comfort and human touch won at the cost of what remained of your dignity. The tiny voice screaming in your head was swiftly silenced as you closed your eyes and surrendered. You were already held flat against the hard planes of his body, but you managed to draw closer by leaning your head back against his shoulder, arching your neck and fully exposing it to the grip of his metal hand.

It was enough.

When his thumb crested your hard nipple again, you didn’t stifle the moan but released it, a quiet, breathless sound. This seemed to encourage him and his movements became firmer, making your heart race as warmth pooled low in your belly. You wondered if he could make you orgasm just from this, but he was being careful. Almost delicate. And you needed more if you were going to chase the relief you sought.

Your ass pressed against his crotch before you could stop yourself, surprised to feel the erection there, hard and wanting.

Immediately, he pulled his hand from under your shirt and grabbed your hip, holding you still. You whined low in your throat, frustrated as you rubbed your thighs together. You should have been ashamed, goddamn horrified by your actions, but all you could think about was how your clit throbbed and you yearned for pressure on it.

When his fingers pressing into your hip bones didn’t still your movements, the metal hand on the base of your throat did. He slightly squeezed and held you firm against his chest, causing you to give a stifled moan. You flushed when you realized the same action that had scared you a moment ago now made you even more aroused.

This is so fucked up. So fucked up. But even as you thought the words you remained pliant in his grip. He was warm against your back, even through the thick leather harness, and you felt like you might burst into flame. It should have been terrifying, how quickly you were being consumed by this, and he had done barely more than touch you.

Too long, he was taking too long. You were beginning to come back to your senses, realizing the dangerous, compromising position you were in. But then he lowered his hand and all reason flew from your mind.

His fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your tac pants but above your underwear. You didn’t so much as breathe as his fingertips traced along the cloth until they reached your pelvis.

You thought you might cry from the anticipation—you ached so much for relief it was almost painful, your body responding to his fingers as if you were the strings on a guitar, plucked and quivering. You didn’t question why that was. You didn’t question anything. There was only his touch and your overwhelming need to be touched.

When he slid his hand downward and his middle finger rubbed your clit through the fabric of your underwear, you had to bite your lip to keep from crying out. He began to rub you in a slow, languid clockwise motion, and you bucked your hips in response. He pressed down hard with his forearm, holding your hips against his pelvis as he continued to rub you at a pace that was going to drive you out of your goddamn mind.

He continued to draw circles around your nub, drawing out the tortuously gradual tightening of your walls. He must have been able to feel how wet you were through your underwear, a fact that should have crushed you with shame. But all you felt in that moment was the needful desire for him to move faster.

He didn’t. He kept up his tortuous pace, so you reached back and grabbed his thigh, needing something to hold onto. Even through the thick fabric of his pants you could feel the taut, hard muscles underneath, and you gave a breathless moan that could have been a prayer or a curse.

Without warning, he removed his fingers from your mound and slid his hand down your underwear in a movement that was almost urgent. His middle finger dipped between your slick folds and rubbed against your clit, hard.

What left your mouth was definitely a curse as you bucked your hips and arched your neck. Fire licked up between your thighs, which were shaking as he rubbed fast, hard circles against your bud.

The way he held you now felt less like restraint and more like a devouring embrace. His tensed forearm kept your ass tight against his hardness and his metal hand tilted your head to the side, the hard ridges of his mask pressed against your neck. His breathing was ragged, strained, and you could feel the hot puffs of air escape through the vents onto your skin.

In a moment of illogical fantasy you wished you could tear it off, wanting to feel his lips on you. You didn’t even know what he looked like. It didn’t matter. You were coming undone, falling to pieces in his arms, and for the first time you felt something other than fear, humiliation, and anger.

He kept up the fast pace, two fingers on your bud now, slipping over your slick flesh as your walls started to tighten. It was alarming how fast he was drawing you to the edge, your skin tingling as an electric jolt sparked between your thighs.

You closed your eyes and tilted your head back, surrendering to the sensations and forgetting where you were. Nothing mattered aside from his fingers that were stroking life back into you after you had consigned yourself to a painful, lonely death.

Another electric jolt went through you, and your thighs trembled as you tried to remain steady on your feet. You were so close, but a small part of you resisted, refusing to surrender this last part of yourself.

A noise of frustration escaped your lips, one that sounded close to a sob. His fingers froze against your throbbing clit.

“Please,” you begged, your raw voice sounding absolutely wrecked. “So close…”

You felt his cock twitch against your ass, and without hesitation he moved his fingers downward between your slick folds and pushed them into your entrance. You were tight, your walls clinging to his fore and middle fingers, but with how wet you were the sensation was delicious rather than painful. He curled his fingers, rubbing against the sensitive spot inside, and you gave a soft, “oh.” His thumb rubbed against your clit as he worked his fingers in and out of you, and coaxing you to the edge with just a few rocking motions of his hand.

You didn’t last long. The electric heat traveled from your core to your clit, and your orgasm hit you like a shot. You bucked your hips, squeezed your thighs around his fingers, and released a cry louder than anything you had ever made before during sex.

His metal hand clamped over your mouth, muffling the noise. The sudden pressure on your mouth, coupled with the realization that you were being so loud, made you crest even higher. Everything went quiet and all you could see was white, and then you crashed back down, shuddering and writhing as your pussy thrummed against his stilled fingers.

All at once, he pulled his hand from inside your pants and removed his hand from your mouth. Your legs were trembling, your knees weak, and if he hadn’t kept his arms around you then you would have collapsed. Euphoria filled your limbs, but this was nothing like drugged state the doctors had forced on you. This was something else. A bubble of warmth and safety, his encircling arms adding to the feeling.

For a few seconds, frozen in time, you felt that everything would be all right.

And then it faded and reality came crashing down.

You moved away from him, jerky and unsteady, and found it was easy to break free of him now. He didn’t reach for you or try to restrain you again. He wasn’t even looking at you. The assassin held a distant look in his pale blue eyes, and strands of his brown hair stuck to his damp forehead.

Then without a word or a look your way, he strode across the cell and went through the door, his steps hasty and his head down. As if he couldn’t escape fast enough.

The door slammed shut behind him and you were alone.

You stared at the solid, bare door for a long moment, still catching your breath as your hands began to tremble. The nausea had returned, but for an entirely different reason now. You retreated to your mat with difficulty, as if you were walking through a quagmire. The post-orgasm haze was curdling into numb disbelief. And then it slowly transformed into something worse.

You managed to half-collapse, half-sit before the hot shame overwhelmed you. It stole the air from your lungs and you began to hyperventilate as you curled your knees to your chest and buried your head in your hands.

You stayed like that, trembling and curled in a protective shell, until the door opened hours later.

Next Chapter

[worldsentwined]

The Key To Your Heart

For this week’s @synchronisedscreaming flash fiction challenge.  Prompt:  Aksel/Sigrun L - why did you lock the door?  (Note: This is a 5 + 1 times story of a sort, and the fifth time involves a minor character death)

I.

The latch clicked behind him, and Aksel nearly jumped out of his skin. 

“S-sigrun? What are you doing?”

He generally tried to avoid being alone with her. Not because she liked to make fun of him--she did that anyway, no matter who was around to hear--but because he’d been harboring a massive crush on her for months. It had been hard enough before this Rash business forced them all into close quarters. With winter closing in and no one able to set foot outside the walls, it felt as though the two of them were constantly flung together.

Part of Aksel was all right with that. But the rest of him worried that one of these days he’d blurt out something stupid, and Sigrun would know. She’d never stop teasing him then.

So finding himself locked in the storage room where he’d been sorting supplies, and locked in with Sigrun, was a source of both joy and terror. 

Did she find out somehow? Is she going to call me out on it? Is she...is she going to kiss me? Aksel had to shake his head at that last thought--Sigrun’s scowl didn’t invite kissing.

“I’m locking the door, stupid,” she said, answering the question he’d nearly forgotten. “If I have to listen to Ingrid and Gøran have one more argument about newspapers, I’m going to stab someone. At least in here I can get a little peace.”

“Oh.” Relief washed over Aksel, though he had to admit to a certain amount of disappointment.

“Why, what did you think?” Sigrun asked. She settled on the floor and leaned back against a box. “Worried I was locking you in here for a makeout session?”

“Shut up,” Aksel grumbled. Lucky for him the room was dimly lit. She couldn’t see his blush.

II.

“Did you just lock that?”

She propped herself against the door in question and met his gaze with a satisfied smirk. “Yeah, I did. So?”

“But...” Never mind that it left the two of them alone again--Aksel had faced plenty of fears in recent days, but he still couldn’t overcome this one. So instead he said, “Aren’t Gøran and Ingrid still out there? They were on guard duty tonight.” Which was poor planning, really. The two of them couldn’t stop bickering long enough to even notice a charging troll, let alone shoot one. Hopefully the foul weather would keep trouble at bay.

“Sure. And when they get back, they won’t be coming in. I swiped Ingrid’s key.”

“Umm...” He knew it was probably a stupid question, but he couldn’t help asking. “Why?”

Sigrun tossed the key into the air and caught it. “Because when they can’t get in here, they’ll have to find somewhere else to argue. Like Gøran ‘s room. Where Ingrid will have to stay all night.” She tossed the key up one more time, then hung it on a hook by the door. “Hopefully they’ll finally jump each other’s bones and sort out all that tension.”

“Oh my god.” Aksel hid his face in his hands. Then something occurred to him. “Wait. Sigrun, I live with Gøran. I don’t want to be there if they’re--if you think they’ll really--” he couldn’t even finish the sentence.

“Don’t worry, I planned for that,” Sigrun said. She waved him toward the bedroom. “Ingrid’s bed is free. We’ll say you stayed here late talking, and didn’t want to go home in the awful weather. The storm was so loud we didn’t hear Ingrid knocking.”

Aksel swallowed hard. “Oh. Okay, yeah. Sure.” He allowed her to push him toward Ingrid’s bed, and managed to return her “good night” after she extinguished the candle. But it was a long time before he managed to sleep.

III.

“Sigrun! Why are you locking--”

“Shut up Aksel!” She hissed the words out through clenched teeth and gestured for silence. Aksel shut up and listened hard, heart hammering.

On the other side of the wall, something moved. The door shuddered; Sigrun backed away slowly, careful not to make a sound. Aksel tightened his grip on his gun. 

They couldn’t go back the way they’d come in; a leaky roof had rotted a section of the floorboards, and Aksel would have landed in the basement if Sigrun hadn’t caught him just in time. And now their way forward was blocked, too.

“What do we do?” he breathed. 

Sigrun didn’t bother to answer, still focused on the locked door. It shook again; the hinges creaked. Thump. Thump. Thump-CRACK-- 

“RUN!” Sigrun shouted. She darted sideways just as the door flew off its hinges. Aksel’s bullet missed her--it missed the troll too, but he hadn’t really expected to hit it--and then she grabbed his arm and shoved him through the window.

They hit the ground in a shower of broken glass, dazed but unharmed. Sigrun didn’t let go of him until they’d gotten far, far away.

IV.

Sigrun sank onto the bed across from Aksel’s.

“Everything locked up?” He asked. It was hardly a question. The people in charge of quarantine would make sure they couldn’t get out until it was safe.

“Yeah.” For once, Sigrun didn’t have a snarky comment. She looked tired, and she was still a little pale from blood loss. The medic said her wound would heal fine, as long as there weren’t any...complications.

Aksel’s own scratch was hardly noticeable by comparison, but they both knew it could kill him just as easily. Or it might not. There was only one way to find out.

“I think the waiting is gonna be worse than the pain,” Sigrun said. She ran her fingers along her bandaged arm, then winced. “Or maybe they’ll both suck.”

“Well don’t touch it,” Aksel said, rolling his eyes at her. His grandmother had always told him that messing around with injuries just made it harder for them to heal.

Evidently Sigrun had heard the same lecture. “God, you sound just like Berit. If you’re going to go all grandma on me, at least come make yourself useful.”

At her direction, Aksel sat down beside her and settled against the headboard. The bed was short: his feet stuck off the end. It would be a long two weeks.

Sigrun leaned against him and rested her head on his shoulder, propping her arm on a spare pillow. “There. At least now I can get comfortable. Don’t move, I’m going to take a nap.”

Aksel had no intention of moving, possibly ever again. Maybe the two weeks would go faster than he’d thought.

V.

“That’s the last of them. I’m locking the door now.”

Aksel only nodded. There were words he should say, some phrase to express his appreciation for all Sigrun’s help over the last few miserable days. He tried to say them, once, twice, but even on the third try he couldn’t get them past the lump in his throat. 

In truth, no words could encompass what he was feeling, just like there were no words to soothe him. The constant stream of visitors had said them all:

“She went out the way she would have wanted. She was a fighter to the end.”

“We never would have lasted this long without her. Your grandma left a legacy to be proud of.”

“She was so proud of you, you know.”

“Saved my life. Saved all our lives. Here’s to Berit!”

“Here’s to Berit Eide!”

None of it helped. The words were a wave crashing against the wall of his grief, and there was no escaping. Just when he’d thought the pressure would undo him, Sigrun had sent the last of the visitors away. Now it was just the two of them.

Aksel didn’t look up, but he marked her progress across the room by the sound of her steps. She settled beside him. Any moment, she might break the silence, and then Aksel would break.

But Sigrun didn’t offer any words of comfort. “I suck at this,” she said. “Even if I wasn’t sad too, I would still suck at it. So get over here.” She pulled him down--it wasn’t as far to go as usual, not with the way he hunched over--and tucked him against her chest. And she didn’t say another word, just let Aksel cry all over her.

+1

“Sigrun?” He hardly dared to ask the question. “Why are you locking the door?”

She settled the bolt into place and turned to face him. “Because I don’t want to be interrupted.” Two steps brought her close enough to kiss--two steps, and tiptoes, and a hand on his jaw to bring his mouth to meet hers. “That okay with you?” she murmured, sinking back on her heels.

“More than okay,” Aksel agreed. It seemed like his turn to kiss her, so he caught her around the waist and lifted her up to reach. She laughed against his mouth, and brought her arms up behind his head. 

“You planning to put me down?” Sigrun asked, when he paused for breath but made no sign of letting go. “Not saying you have to. This is nice.” She pressed another kiss to the tip of his nose.

“It didn’t seem fair to make you stretch,” he said. “I’m too tall.” Plus he didn’t really want to put her down. Holding her close was much nicer. Just like kissing her was better than not kissing her, and also better than he’d ever imagined kissing Sigrun Larsen would be in the early days of his silly crush on her. Then, thoughts of kissing had been all fluttery nerves and wistful hoping. Now, years later and with countless adventures shared together, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

Sigrun smirked. “Well, there is a reason I locked us in your bedroom.” She leaned forward to whisper in his ear. “Height won’t matter much if we’re lying down.”

Aksel laughed, and kissed her again before carrying her to the bed.