#i just. i feel like fucking tearing everything down and just going away

[yieldtotemptation]

PAROXYSM ft. Mina

mina x male reader smut

part two of strange currencies

16k words

Go ahead, try and pretend like you’re not obsessed.

Like you’re not bothered that it’s been weeks since you had Mina—felt the heat of her body, the silk of her skin, the sweetness of her breath on your neck.

Since you've seen that ass. Had it in your hands, spread her cheeks with your fingers, stretched her wide with your cock and left Mina in tears, crying out—

"God, I can never go back from this."

And it’s not like you haven’t been searching for opportunities; a party you’d both be invited to, another gala, some event with enough plausible deniability for when you inevitably, ‘accidentally’ bump into her again.

But for some reason, nothing seems to align.

You’ll get word that she’s in Korea, basking in a rare stretch of free time, while you’re in Hong Kong, signing deals and making promises of dubious sincerity.

You’ll be rushing to return, already planning out how you’ll steal another taste of her, another touch; only to find out she’s been whisked away again—to Japan, or Brazil, or any one of the countless countries desperate to host her.

Glimpses is all you ever truly get—paparazzi shots, magazine covers, the odd video that passes through the digital ether.

So, yeah.

You let it rest, go through the motions, try to recreate it in the aggregate. There are plenty of pretty faces, eager bodies in your orbit.

But they're all just that: bodies.

Empty shells of what you had. They don’t laugh like her, they don’t keep you on your toes like she can, they don’t look at you with the same hunger.

(They don’t say your name like Mina did.)

—

“So,” is the first word you hear from Mina. Too much time has passed, and you’ve officially given up on any pretences of nonchalance. Decided to get straight to the point with the right people and just get her number. “I guess I’m not the only one who can’t stop thinking about that night.”

“Uncharted territory and all,” you’re repeating, and there’s a beat of silence on the other line.

A deep breath, and you swear you can hear her smile. “Definitely unique.”

It’s well past midnight and you’re tired and you’re feeling unusually vulnerable, so you're admitting things you'd usually keep under lock and key. “It’s been—you’ve been stuck in my head, Mina.”

“I know the feeling,” she sighs. Just the timbre of her voice and there’s shivers down your spine. “The memory alone is still—”

You finish for her, “Vivid.”

“I was going to say really fucking hot, but yes,” she laughs. “It’s helped me through some lonely nights. Remembering how you felt inside me, everything we did together it’s—God, you have no idea.”

“I’d argue I have the entire idea. For one—the stairs,” you’re supplying, grinning to yourself, leaning back in your chair, remembering the way she clung to you. How tight she was around you, how fucking new she felt as you filled her. “You were so fucking gorgeous. Never felt anything like it.”

“And the shower,” she counters, “you had me pinned against the tiles. Couldn’t move without you fucking me deeper. Just stuck with nowhere to go but further down your cock. No one’s ever done that to me.”

“Don’t forget the kitchen,” you add, “We got pretty creative with the utensils.”

Mina giggles. You didn't know she was capable of sounding so girlish. “I’ll never look at a spatula the same.”

It’s getting dangerous, each memory rekindling the flame of a night that you’d tried to convince yourself couldn’t have been as epic as you remembered. Couldn’t have mattered so much.

And yet here you are now, letting Mina stir up thoughts of her cunt gushing down her thighs, her nipples stiffening between your teeth, her ass choking your cock, the look on her face when she came all over you—and you know she’s wading through the very same set of flashbacks.

“Every time I close my eyes, I’m back in that garden. Your hands are all over me, your mouth everywhere—”

“Your cunt on my tongue—”

“Your fingers in my ass—”

“Your fucking moans, Mina—”

“Wait, I need to—”

Mina stops you, and you find yourself releasing a breath you didn't even know you were holding. You think you can hear her; hear the shutting of a door, a lock turning, frantic pacing, the squeak of a bed.

Your eyes close and you're picturing it now—Mina, laid back on pure white sheets, sprawled out like a Goddess. It's all there, crystal clear. Fingers dancing over her collarbones, tracing the delicate line of her neck down to the swell of her breasts.

Teasing herself, running her thumbs over her areola, the skin there a shade darker, a touch more sensitive. Pinching and pulling, peaks hardening into tight buds, missing the roughness of your tongue.

And then going lower, down over her ridged abs and between her toned thighs. Spreading her legs out in an invitation, toes curling into the mattress. Finding herself slick with need, so, so soaked. Dipping down to trace over her folds before sliding right into the wet heat.

Mina gasps. It's not your imagination. She moans into the phone.

You can almost taste her again.

She finds her voice. "Please, keep talking."

—

The first photo comes through the very next day.

You can intuit from the architecture in the background—the steep roofs, the brick exteriors, the gothic towers—she’s somewhere in Paris.

And there’s Mina, flat on her stomach, sheets tangled around her like the aftermath of a hurricane that’s swept through. Smiling at you straight down the barrel of the camera, cutting through the digital space between you. It’s sly and knowing and a little bit wicked, because she knows that it’s not the view of the city behind her that you’re looking at, nor is it even her face, usually so stunningly unavoidable and instantly captivating.

It's her ass.

Plump and round, poking over her shoulder, filling a whole corner of the frame. And you're spotting the indentations where your fingers have sunk in, the stretch of alabaster that your grip turned a shade of pink. A map of memories etched across the curve of her cheeks.

It’s a thousand words in a single photo, a message loud and clear, carefully composed to make you ache. So, you do. You ache.

You save the picture—not because you think you’re going to forget, but because you need to have a piece of her with you at all times.

Something to pull out when the days are too long, too dull. Something to look at when your memories of her aren’t enough anymore.

The photo, you notice, comes with a caption: ‘The only thing missing here is you.’

—

“Stability,” Mina’s telling you nights later, after you’ve spent close to an hour describing to her all the ways you’d like to have her again, like to break her down until she’s just a trembling mess of limbs and cum.

It’s a habit the two of you have picked up; these clandestine calls that come in the dead of night, during those rare occasions you’re in a reasonable enough time zone to talk. You’re actually in the same country this time. The States, but on different coasts, so, close enough.

She’s sending these breathy whispers down the phone; still coming down from her high, from the way her thighs clenched around her own hand, from the way she painted your name onto her skin with her own juices.

Still coming down from you, from the meticulously detailed step-by-step explanations of exactly what you’d do to her if you weren’t thousands of kilometres apart.

“Stability,” you repeat the answer she’s given to the question that’s been burning in your mind for weeks now. It’s certainly a faux pas to ask right after she’s made you cum across your own chest; but it’s late, and tonight’s suite is far too big and much too quiet—the kind of quiet that lets you think too much.

And so you had to ask her. Why was she still with him?

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Mina confirms. “I like stability, I like routine, I like knowing what to expect. Means I can never be disappointed.”

“Never be surprised, either,” you point out. She laughs, the sound warm and rich through the speaker.

“That’s never really been a problem.” She pauses. “Until you.”

There’s an alarm bell sounding somewhere, triggered by the way that last syllable curls around the corners of her lips, bounces across fifty different states to land in your ear.

You.

It rattles around your brain, punches you right in the gut. You try to play it off with a chuckle. But you both know what this really is. The desperation, the need. What you do to each other. How much of a fucking mess you’d make together if you had half the chance.

You make an attempt at being casual: “Apologies, then.”

“You kinda fuck everything up for me, you know?” She admits. “I was fine with it all. Leaving all of this as just a fantasy. Living with the boredom.”

“Everything’s boring.”

“Except this.”

You should really be above all this. The pining, the yearning. Having a crush.

It’s unbecoming.

Leave her alone. Leave her to the dream life she’s built up for herself. The career, the boyfriend, the whole shiny package that everyone’s decided she should want. It’d be the rational thing to do.

And yet— “So, what are we going to do about it?”

“I suppose,” Mina says, and once again, you're swearing you can hear her smile through the phone, because this is far from the end of things, “We’ll just have to find some way to scratch this itch.”

—

(It’s an outrageous abuse of power.

But so what? You’re an asshole billionaire, that’s what everyone expects of you anyway.

Besides, compared to your peers, it falls far short of bankrupting entire economies or causing irreparable damage to the Earth’s oceans and atmosphere.

So why not go full tilt and really indulge?

That’s basically the gist of your justification for forcing fate’s hand and manifesting your own ‘accidental’ meeting with Mina.

Still. It’s only a meeting.)

—

“Quite a situation you’ve engineered here,” is Mina’s first quip, as she steps right out of your daydreams and into your office.

Oh, you’ve been thinking of her.

Spent time replaying that night in your mind, revisiting the sight of her bouncing on that staircase, the feel of her soft skin slapping against yours, the sound of her sighs in your ears.

Obsessed over the messages, the photos, the videos she’s sent—how she moves, that coy smile on her face when she knows she’s got your full attention in her grip. All these mesmerising moments captured in high-definition.

And it’s coming back to you now—the waterfall of hair cascading down her shoulders, the red of her lips, the beauty spot on her nose, above her cupid’s bow—a constellation across her face.

(She makes your office feel small.)

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, aiming for flippant, but missing the mark by a wide margin.

“Mhm,” is all you’re going to get, because you both know better.

She makes herself at home here, taking the long way to your desk. Hips swaying as she runs her fingers over the décor, the lights and the statues, the books and the furniture. Again, fitting right in with the expensive, the luxurious, the exclusive.

You’re not hiding that you’re staring, and she’s not hiding that she knows either.

Mina walks right past you, turns away so you can see the full sweep of her back, the high-waisted skirt that hugs her curves before flaring out at the waist. Eventually, she stops at the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks the city, the urban sprawl below a far cry from the palatial gardens that backdropped your first encounter.

The sun’s setting overhead. It casts a warm glow over her. Outlines her figure in gold.

You break the silence, "Heard the photoshoot went well."

“Well, you get what you pay for,” is Mina’s second quip of the afternoon. She turns back to face you, leaning against the window frame, a perfect silhouette.

You can almost hear the glass tremble.

Mina asks, offhandedly, “You’ll have to enlighten me—is it standard practice for visitor passes to have access to every floor in the tower?”

“Security must be lacking.”

“Right,” Mina says. “And is it normal in your line of work, for the CEO to handpick the brand ambassadors?”

You shrug. “I like to get my hands dirty.”

“If that’s what they’re calling it,” she responds, smiling now. Pushing herself off the glass and taking a dangerous step forward.

“We were looking to appeal to our Japanese market,” you say, repeating the same lines you fed to your team, to her management, to anyone who bothered to raise an eyebrow. It’s a good lie. “Needed someone refined, someone that depicted class. Aspirational.”

Mina takes another step forward. Heels that make her legs look endless hitting the polished flooring with a click. "So that's how you see me, then."

"Amongst other, less appropriate things," you admit, already completely, hopelessly captivated.

"Let me guess: Stunning?"

"That's one."

“Fuckable.”

“Absolutely.”

“Submissive?”

“Are you asking, or telling me?”

Mina’s eyes dazzle as she closes the distance, rounding your desk and stopping just short of your chair. She waits for you to swivel and face her.

And then she leans forward, so close. Nose brushing yours, breath warm and sweet and familiar. Her hands land on your thighs, pushing your legs apart.

She drops to her knees.

“Telling.”

You can’t help yourself, you press your thumb to her lips, stamping it crimson.

It’s a wicked thing, how Mina’s bottom lip dips, how her tongue snakes out to lick the pad of your thumb clean. You push in deeper, watching as she takes you into her mouth, seals her lips around you and sucks.

How she’s looking at you now—building up this image of Mina; kneeling, the skirt riding up, her panties soaked with anticipation. Dressed like this is just another business meeting—masked in a high neckline and a smile so perfect against your skin.

That's today's game. Dress up.

Professionalism went out the window the moment she walked in—it barely crosses your mind to wonder whether or not she locked the door. You don’t even care.

Mina stops her little show, thumb pops out of her mouth with a wet sound, leaving a smear of red behind. There’s something about Mina, something that can’t be intuited unless she’s right in front of you, inhaling your exhales, smiling up at you like you're the only person in the entire world that matters.

It's like magic—makes everything and everyone else feel like a figment of your imagination.

“You forgot to mention a few other things,” Mina breathes on you, low and warm, priming you for a punchline that you know will send you reeling.

“Like what?”

“Oh, you know,” and she starts unbuttoning her blouse, reaching for the top button then— “How utterly,”

Then the next button.

“Desperately,”

More still.

“Needy,”

All of them.

“I am for your wonderful, perfect cock.”

The blouse opens up, falls away, drifts off her shoulders until it’s blood-red lace and vanilla-white skin.

Fuck.

(Mina’s not from this world, no fucking way. Definitely not human; jury’s out on if she’s some kind of Goddess. Probably something in between, come down from some place where the air is thinner and the lights are brighter.)

Your mouth is dry. “I could never forget.”

Mina’s eyes crinkle at the corners. Lips spread wide. She’s kissing your cock through your pants.

It’s electric. A long, teasing press of her lips that winds you so tight that just the slightest touch, just a single word could set you off.

Her teeth graze the fabric. You throb through the cotton.

“Mina,” you manage, hand dropping to the side of her face. There’s a tremor in your voice that you’re not used to, that you can’t even pretend to hide. Mina’s got you in the palm of her hand—or rather, on the edge of her lips—even though she’s the one on her knees.

“Relax,” she coos, holding her lips against you, deft fingers unlatching your belt, finding your zipper. “Let me take care of you. Let me take care of this cock,” honeyed words slipping out with the same ease that tugs you free, “Get my tongue all over it, take it deep down my throat, be such a good little whore for you—until you can’t think of anything but how much you want me to swallow every drop you’ve got for me, baby.”

You swallow, caress her cheek, “Darling—”

“Shh," Mina hushes, taking your cock into her hand, holding it against her cheek. So damn happy to have it so close to her mouth once again. “Everything you said over the phone. All that stuff about fucking my face, leaving a mess, filling up my throat—I want it all. You’re going to give it to me now, please.”

She doesn’t even look up at you, just so focused on your cock. Kissing around the shaft, and then drawing her tongue in one, slow, dragging lick all the way from your base, right to the tip. It’s gentle, careful, exploratory.

Introducing her lips to every inch of skin along your cock, over your balls, taking her time to stain all of you with the sheen of her kisses. Careful, so careful. Meticulous too, deep in concentration that you can almost feel her thoughts, intuit from the pressure of her lips how much this means to her. How much she needs it.

And it’s as her breath warms the head of your cock that you realise you’ve got a stranglehold on the armrest of your chair, holding it so tightly you could snap it in two. Not like there’s any helping it, nothing to do but brace yourself as she opens her mouth, pink tongue peeking out, and licks you again—longer, slower.

Holding still now, cock balanced on her tongue, fixing you with this stare.

A dare.

(Don’t move. Don’t interrupt. Let her do her work.)

That’s when her boyfriend calls.

Sorry, her partner.

A jarring noise, a slap in the face that breaks the spell. Vibrating atop your oak desk, a violent buzzing through the room—once, twice, thrice.

Mina’s eyes flick to yours. A split second, a single thought shared. There’s laughter on her lips because of course, because why the fuck not, because this is definitely your kind of chaos. You nod. You’re both in on the joke.

The phone’s still ringing, ringing, ringing.

And Mina’s mouth is still on you, tongue tickling underneath, lips wrapping around, before taking you in deep. Right as she accepts the call.

“Hmf?”

—

(A good idea to mention this theory you’ve been brewing for a while, the other reason why Mina still hasn’t broken up with boyfriend.

Because of you.

Because of how much fucking hotter it makes her. The thrill, the rush, putting a blemish on an otherwise spotless record.

And maybe you’re just as guilty—because you want to hear her lie to him too.)

—

“Still working,” is Mina’s deadpan over the phone, somehow keeping a straight face despite how full her hands are with you. She even rolls her eyes. “You know how it is—unreasonable CEOs jumping down my throat for no good reason at all.”

This woman.

Churning lies with such ease that you almost feel sorry for the poor, oblivious soul on the other end of the phone. Almost.

But Mina's too good at all of this. Too good at hiding it all. Too good at everything, really—whether it's singing, dancing, kneeling before you, making your cock disappear down her throat.

Just a slight adjustment in posture, and she’s taking you in deeper. A gentle suck, a swirl of her tongue around the ridge—and oh, the way she’s looking at you, eyes up and so damn full of mischief.

She’s fucking loving this. Loving the way you’re watching her, the way your hand finds her hair as she takes you in, the way you’re fighting to keep your composure. Fighting to keep your breath even and calm and to stop yourself from groaning so loud that it won’t just be her boyfriend, but the whole fucking tower that’s going to hear how much of a slut she is for you.

You can still hear his voice coming through—muted, indistinct—like a ghost, haunting the edges of this pornographic scene you’ve painted together. 

Fuck this guy likes to talk.

“Mhm,” is all Mina has to say to keep him convinced, to let him believe that she’s actually invested in whatever the fuck he’s on about. Keeping him none the wiser that her full attention is on you, her mouth moving up and down, her eyes glued to yours, watching every twitch, every drop of pleasure that flits across your face.

She reaches up with her free hand, wrapping it around the base of your cock. Gliding along your shaft in this twisting movement that sets your nerves alight.

Everything’s just so tight—her grip, her throat, your own breath in your chest.

“Mhm,” again, longer, sounding closer and closer to a moan than a casual agreement, but still, she’s playing the part. Barely listening to what he’s saying, because she’s doing this thing with her tongue—right at the tip, flicking it around your slit—that’s making you test the strength of your chair.

There’s temptation here—her mouth so warm, so wet—it would be so easy to grab a fistful of her hair and fuck her mouth like you know she wants. But you keep your cool, keep your hand gentle and steady atop her head, let her dictate the rhythm.

And when you hear the voice over the phone rise, maybe a bit of frustration or concern, maybe the start of something suspicious, Mina shamelessly pops your cock out of your mouth and answers, “Just having a snack. Late lunch break.”

She hits the mute button.

Bows her head deep, savouring each inch as she takes you deeper, making this fucking sound when your cock hits the back of the throat. Wet, gagging, sloppy noises that build this tension right at the base of your spine that leaves you aching, absolutely desperate to just give her more.

She holds herself there, choking so nicely, so sweetly, on your cock. Her eyes start water, it’s an effort to keep them open, but she’s still smiling through it all, just so delighted to finally taste what she’s been dying to have for weeks.

You’re struggling, “Fucking hell, Mina.”

Mina giggles into your cock, vibrating along your shaft. Pulls her head back; just a rope of spit that connects the two of you, glinting under the fluorescent lights. A poke of her tongue has her scooping it all up and slurping it all down, smacking her lips with a satisfied ‘ah’.

She unmutes.

“Sorry, it just tastes really good. Like nothing I’ve had before.”

There’s a confused murmur coming out of the speaker, a perturbed, “Really?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” and Mina has the gall to wink at you, the audacity to keep her hand on your cock, stroking it like it’s the most normal thing in the world. All the while she just chats to her boyfriend—partner, again—like you’re not about to cover her face with your entire load.

“Mina,” you let slip when she squeezes too hard, cranes her head to feel the weight of your balls on her tongue. Lapping away, licking and tonguing and teasing, until you’re gritting your teeth, holding back the moan that wants to break free.

The voice at the end of the line crackles, “Who’s that?”

Mina doesn’t miss a beat, “Boss for the day,” presses a wet kiss onto the head of your cock in a futile attempt to still you, “Really pushing me hard, making me work for it, you know?”

The voice relaxes, but not enough. “What’s going on over there? Something doesn’t sound right.”

“Everything’s perfect.” Mina’s just so pleased with herself, tongue dancing up and down, over and around, making the chair creak from the reflexive jerk she forces out of you. “I’m exactly where I need to be.”

“I told you that you shouldn’t do these types of jobs, you should listen to me and—”

“Get on my hands and knees and beg them to let me break the contract?” Mina smirks up at you, lips all smeared and messy with your arousal. “I can handle it” she continues on, dragging her lips to your base so she can slur into your waist, “I’m a professional. This is what I’m built for.”

God, he really doesn't deserve her.

He drops the subject so easily, moving on to talk more about him, about his schedules, his work, his boring fucking existence outside of her. And now you’re both rolling your eyes, sharing this secret, this ridiculousness that’s got you both on the edge of laughter and utter bliss.

Mina ups the ante, mutes her side of the call, and places the phone back on top of the desk.

You cock an eyebrow. “Seriously, him?”

She shakes her head. “No, just you.”

And she shows you, proves her point, because Mina’s not one for half-measures. Holds your cock tightly, strokes it again and again, one after another like it’s counting down to something explosive. Bomb’s ticking: the pressure’s building, the heat is coiling in your balls, but she keeps it steady, keeps it slow, keeps it right on that edge where it’s just enough to keep you there, but not enough to push you over.

“I’m just yours,” Mina hums, licking her swollen lips. “I’m yours to do with as you please, but,” she pauses, so she can jerk you just right, stroking with such finesse that you can't believe she's ever been with someone who didn't appreciate it, "I'm really hoping you let me swallow your cock now."

“You’re too fucking greedy.” 

Mina nods so earnestly.

So you give her what she wants, because what’s the point of playing this game if she isn’t going to win? 

You stroke the back of her head, guide her as she takes you all the way—nose to stomach, swallowing you up like you’re her favourite snack, her favourite secret. Her favourite lie to tell herself.

Fucking ridiculous. Too fucking much.

You lift your hips, leaving her to yank down your pants over your knees and to the ground. The clank of your belt buckle against marble echoes through the room, a starting gun to your undoing.

The phone’s still there, he’s still talking, a vaguely muffled annoyance. Mina doesn't even spare it a glance, just looks up at you, mouth full, eyes declaring:

‘Ignore everything else, just enjoy me.’

Fuck.

Mina’s cheeks hollow, her throat pulses, and gone is the usual effortless grace that she carries through everything she does.

No, she’s all raw, all passion. Sloppy now, greedy, showing you just how much she’s willing to do for you. It’s in the way she’s using her hand to squeeze the base of your shaft, the way she’s bobbing her head faster and faster.

Filling the room with the sounds of her slurps and smacking of her lips; her eyes watering with every deepthroat. Making her mouth this perfect, wet, hot little cave that’s swallowing you whole.

And you’re watching, watching every single move she makes. Unable to do anything else, really. Unable to think, to speak, to do anything but stare at her mouth, her eyes, her hand moving up and down, up and down—stare at Mina giving herself over to you.

“Jesus—fuck—” and there’s your voice back again, so much louder than you intended.

But Mina’s smiling around your cock, eyes still on you, urging you on, putting you under her spell. She’s playing with your balls now, her thumb brushing over the sensitive skin, her nails lightly scraping, and it’s like she’s got every button mapped out, knows exactly how to make you go off the deep end.

"Mina, you're just so," you try, rummaging through your addled mind for the right words to pin on this storm before you, "so fucking good at this," you finally settle on.

Mina's eyes light up, triumphant. Deep pools of brown swirling with all sorts of things—few that can be said out loud and even fewer that should ever be thought—and none of which she gives a flying fuck about.

Your cock slides off her lips long enough for her to slur, "Flattery gets you everywhere, sir."

“Mina.”

She's just so happy with it all—it's a little unsettling. Mina, all elegance and poise, so fucking giddy at the opportunity to debase herself at your feet.

She takes a breath, a real one, not the shallow, desperate ones she’s been taking for the past few minutes, and then she’s diving back down. You can see the determination in the set of her jaw, the way she’s holding herself in place with one hand on your thigh so she can devour you whole. And she’s doing a phenomenal job, really, because your cock’s so hard it’s almost painful, and your thighs are trembling with the effort of keeping still.

But she’s not done yet, Mina’s never done. She reaches behind her, unclips her bra with a flick of her thumb, slipping it off her shoulders—a silent, unnoticed escape.

Perfect little tits, perfect little dusky nipples, peaked and ready for your attention. 

She takes one in her hand, rolls the nub between her fingers, playing with it, plucking it like a guitar string, making it sing. Making sure you’re still looking, while she's still sucking you off with her mouth, still fucking grinning around your cock.

A true masterclass in multitasking.

Her other hand stays on you, working in tandem with her mouth. A stroke for every bob, a squeeze for every moan, and she’s whining into your skin, a muffled—mmph, mmph, mmph—so loving that you know it’s not just for show.

Her hand drops down, slipping between her legs, disappearing into the fabric of her skirt. You can’t quite see it, but you know by her sigh as she leans into your thigh, by the way her other hand pinches her nipple harder, that she’s pressing up and into herself.

The fabric’s too thick to see much, but you can imagine her—fuck, you don’t have to imagine—you can almost feel her, her fingers sliding into her wetness, her palm cupping her mound, her middle finger circling her clit like it’s the head of a tiny drum, matching the same rhythm that’s been driving this whole spectacle.

“Your fucking mouth, Mina.”

The words leave you on a groan, a tightening of your grip on her head as she just plays and plays. Every suck pure heaven, warm, wet, utterly divine; pulling your hips closer and closer off the edge of your seat, until you’re nearly falling down her throat.

But even Mina, for all her skill and polish, can’t hold out forever. The fingers at her cunt, the kneading of her own tits, the gagging around your cock, the oblivious boyfriend still blissfully unaware of the depraved scene unfolding on the other end of the line.

It’s a heady cocktail, and she’s had too much too quickly. Her throat’s tightening around you, rogue tears are sliding down her cheeks, and it’s about time that you both give up on pretence and hurtle straight to the crux of this entire escapade.

You stand, rising to your feet before Mina has you tumbling off your chair, sliding your cock out of her chasing lips.

“Mina,” you breathe, voice full of gravel, heavy.

Mina’s frozen, just staring at your cock dangling above her nose, her mouth open and wet, her big, brown eyes begging for its return to her lips.

“Mina,” you repeat.

“Mmm?”

“I want to fuck your face now.”  

Mina licks her lips. “Want to?”

“I will.”

“Please,” she says, a single word like a hot knife slicing through whatever restraint you have let. And you’re just about to lose it, really fucking lose it because she’s so fucking eager, so fucking hot for it, so absolutely fucking yours.

In your office, at your desk, kneeling at your feet, skirt rucked up around her waist, panties drenched.

She ties up her hair into a messy bun.

“Please, use me.”

A twist of your hips has your cock slapping against her cheek, the sound bouncing off the walls, leaving a trail of gloss across her flushed skin.

Mina laughs.

You lean down, grab her hair, thread your fingers through the strands, and guide her lips to where they were made to be.

“Christ,” is ripped from your throat as your cock is back down hers, plunging into her mouth like its home.

You push, push until her nose is squished against your pelvis, holding her there; her throat tight against your cock, her hand working her clit in double time. Whimpers escape past her lips, muffled whines that threaten to break you if you’ll let it.

But you don’t, not yet. You pull out, just long enough to let her gasp for air, only, she doesn't need the respite. She just blinks, and begs—

“Again.”

And again. And again.

Until she’s a writhing mess, until she’s shaking with the effort of holding herself together, until you’re plunging into her mouth so fast that you’re truly fucking her throat.

Deep, harsh strokes that make her cheek bulge, that fuck tears from her eyes. And Mina fucking loves it. Loves every second of it, loves having her head thrown back, her throat working for you like it’s your divine right, like her sole purpose in life has been to take your cock.

You’re fucking her face like you said you would, like she’s been begging you to do for weeks, whispering sweet nothings and filthy somethings into your ear during those late-night phone calls. Giving exactly what she’s been craving, exactly what she’s been dreaming about when she fucked herself so nicely for you to hear.

And she’s just taking it, letting you use her mouth like it’s nothing, because to her, it’s everything.

She’s lost in it, her hand a blur between her legs, her eyes glazed over. She’s so close, so fucking close, and she’s taking you with her; dragging you down into this pit of depravity that she’s been keeping warm for you.

“Mina?”

And there’s the phone again. Louder now, insistent, demanding. Finally noticing somethings not quite right.

"Mina?"

There’s panic in Mina’s eyes—but you’re quick to realise it’s not worry for him. It’s desperation for you. For you to keep going, for you to not notice, for you to keep the fantasy alive.

But you do notice. And it just makes you harder.

You're too far gone now—you're thrusting into her mouth with a fervour that’s almost violent. Mina’s eyes widen, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she takes it all, letting you fuck her face with a reckless abandon that’s only heightened by the voice on the phone getting louder, more concerned.

You’re the only voice she’ll listen to now. “Hold still for me, Mina.”

Her eyes go wide, and she nods, her mouth stretched wide around you. Cradling her cheeks, just firm enough to feel the heat of her blush.

“Mina, why are you muted?”

She’s barely even on this planet anymore—just bringing herself closer to the edge, loosening these ragged, wet moans around your pistoning cock.

“Mina, are you ignoring me again, seriously?”

“Mmph—fuh—mmph—” is her attempt at an answer, but she’s too busy letting you use your mouth, too busy fucking herself on her fingers, too busy being the perfect little slut she’s told you she wanted to be.

It fills the room—the sounds of wet, sloppy sucking, careless fucking, your own grunts of pleasure. And somewhere in the background, that voice getting more and more insistent.

“Mina, say something, answer me!”

And she does. Just not to him. She says it to you, mouth full, eyes on yours.

Garbled, stuttered, fucked-up little pleas— “there—there—please—please—oh my god—"

Her hand moves faster, her throat seizes, her eyes roll back in her head. Her body jerks, her hand still working her clit, her mouth still full of you.

Mina cums at your feet, a terrible, beautiful orchestra of noises—moaning, gurgling, gagging around your cock. Swallowing, desperate for a breath of air, trying not to choke, eyes watering so badly it’s a surprise she can see you at all.

You pull out, so abruptly that she gasps and stumbles a little. And yet, despite it all, despite how brutally hard and fast her orgasm hits her, she’s still smiling up at you, as graceful and gorgeous as ever.

So fucking proud of herself.

And she’s not done yet. She’s never done, not really.

Her hand comes up to catch you, holding your cock like an anchor, keeping you ready as she takes a moment to recover. The other reaches for the phone, a shaky hand bringing it to her lips, level with your own tip.

She takes a breath. She’s going to answer.

She unmutes again.

“Sorry. Can’t talk. Gotta finish something big.”

“Mina—what the fuck are you—”

Mina gives you that look—that nod.

Sucks you in one last time, gives you a final choke. A desperate gag, a deep impossible swallow down her throat. And then she releases you from her lips.

The phone clatters to the floor, forgotten.

“Cum for me, please, baby.”

At her instruction, you're erupting.

Mina captures the head of your cock with her lips, keeps it balanced on the edge. Uses both hands to twist and wind around your shaft. Overwhelming you, seizing you into her mouth because this is exactly what she’s been starved for.

Breaking a fucking dam inside you, flooding her mouth with your cum, completing her with your taste. It hits the back of her throat, thick and hot and she swallows and swallows and swallows.

So fucking grateful for every drop, for every pulse that shoots into her mouth, coating her tongue, sliding down her throat. She’s drinking you down like water, like air, like she can’t get enough of you, leaving you breathless until all you can do is just repeat her name over and over again—an endless chant of “Mina.”

And when you’re finally done, when every nerve-ending in your legs isn’t burning down and threatening to take you with it, you pull out of her mouth, gasping for air.

Mina just sits there.

Looking up at you, naked chest heaving, nipples stinging red. Cum slipping out the corners of her mouth, staining her chin. Skirt ruined, panties a sodden mess around her ankles. Hand still on your cock, coaxing you to peace.

And fuck, it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.

With a smile that could melt the coldest of hearts, Mina reaches down to the floor and picks up the phone. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, not even bothering to be delicate about it.

"Hey," she says, voice miraculously calm and collected. "Sorry—got distracted."

You watch, utterly stunned, as she plays the part of the girlfriend so flawlessly, puts on an Oscar-worthy performance. You can hear the boyfriend's voice, frantic and worried—and completely fooled.

But then she looks at you, clears her throat, and her smile goes wide, and you can see the woman beneath the façade. The woman who's had enough of being bored. Who's decided that she's owed the impossible fantasy.

Kneeling on the floor, yet more powerful than ever.

So, so fucking perfect.

Spreading her thighs, fingers back at her cunt, carefully toying with her clit. Building herself back up to that peak she’s just thrown herself from, because apparently, that’s what you’ve taught her to do.

To never settle, never stop, never be satisfied with just one taste.

You’re cock throbs.

“Mina, you need to tell me what the fuck is going on.”

Her hand moves faster, her thumb circling and pressing, her middle finger slipping inside herself. You can see the gleam under the artificial lights, how her cunt’s making everything sticky and messy.

Making herself nice and ready.

“There's a big mess here,” she says into the phone, all sugary sweet, a perfect story that drips from her tongue like molasses. “Lot of clean up. It’s ruined me—ruined the whole job. It’s gonna keep me here all fucking night.”

—

(It’s just an arrangement.

That’s what you’re calling it when the moon’s rising over your office, and Mina’s kissing these promises over your heart, drawing up the terms of this unwritten contract that neither of you can really commit to—even though you're both well aware of how much you want to.

Sex, as an agreement. Sex, as a release. Sex, because you’re both fucking incredible at it.

It just might be everything you both need.

You're both just too afraid to be the first to say it out loud.) 

—

Weeks later, and you get really fucking good at making time for her.

Whether it’s fifteen minutes at a party, a couple hours at an airport, or a few nights spent in a hotel room with the curtains drawn and a do not disturb sign nailed to the door—everything starts to fall into place.

There's always an empty room to be pulled in to, a shadow to be claimed, a corner of the world that belongs to you.

It’s Mina, straddling you in the backseat of a limo, her cunt tight around you as the city lights slide by. Your hand on her throat, not choking but guiding, a conversation based on pressure and pleasure alone. Her tits bounce in your face, begging for your teeth, and you give it to them, biting down until she’s gasping your name into the leather upholstery. The chauffeur pretends not to notice. You don’t pretend anything.

It's you, bending her over the bathroom counter of some stranger’s house, her rather business-like slacks down at her feet to expose the bare, wonderful convex of her ass. You spank her until she’s crying, until she’s bright red and demanding that you make good on your promise to fill her up so she can’t leave this party without globs of you leaking down her legs.

It’s hotel beds that have seen too much, office desks forced to bear your weight, dressing rooms with the door locked tight.

It’s the way she looks at you when she thinks no one’s watching, the way she says your name. How she laughs, how she teases you, how she lets you in—just a little, just enough to keep you hooked. And you do the same.

It’s sex, but it’s not just sex, no matter what you tell yourself.

And it’s Mina again, fixing her hair while you zip her into something far more appropriate, already mentioning, “I'm going to be in New York next week, if you're in the area—"

And it's you, answering in the same way that you always do, "I’ll find a way."

—

Serendipity finds the two of you in Shanghai, amidst all its concrete jungle and neon lights, kept at bay by the soundproof windows and the drawn curtains of this hotel room turned temporary sanctuary.

Mina's stretched out on the bed, wearing one of your shirts that swallows her up to her knees, her hair a mess of curls and knots that she hasn't bothered to tame. Nose buried in a book—something thick and weighty Nayeon recommended her.

Paying no mind to you, as you’re busy brewing tea in the kitchenette (piping hot, oolong, how she likes it).

You sneak a glance as you wait for the kettle to boil, at the perfect picture she's composing—her bare legs peeking out from the shirt, the soft curve of her waist, the way the light from the bedside lamp casts shadows across her skin.

It's seeing her like this, far more exposed and naked than minutes ago when she was pinned beneath you wearing nothing at all, draining your cum into her cunt and thanking you for the privilege.

The drawbridge is coming down, guards leaving their posts—just the two of you in your stolen moments.

It's nice.

She catches you staring.

Tilts her chin down, peering at you over her glasses.

You ask, "Am I distracting you?"

"Always," she says, and it's loaded with the sum of whispered secrets and inside jokes, the weight of a dozen different glances stolen across crowded rooms. She closes the book, setting it aside, and pats the you-shaped imprint on the spread next to her. "Come here."

You bring a steaming cup over, handing it to her, adding a little more warmth to her side of the bed. An unneeded murmur of thanks, a smile that's brighter than any of the skyscrapers gleaming outside, and a careful sip.

You wait for her review.

A cool, clear, "Ah."

And as for your reward, she sets the mug down on her lap, closing her eyes and pursing her lips. Waiting, patiently.

It's built in you like a habit now—lean in, get the light peck you're owed. Gentle press against her lips, nose bumping up against her glasses, sweetness that makes her cheeks flush a lovely shade of pink.

Just so fucking cute and domestic that it almost feels wrong.

The normalcy, you're realising—doing something that millions of other people do every single day—kisses that aren’t about fucking, power plays and games. Kisses that are just...kisses.

Mina's on the same wavelength, that's her thing now. Looking at you with a slanted smile. A little disbelieving, a little amused.

You're sure you're mirroring it back.

“This is... weird, right?” You finally say, breaking the silence. Feeling the weight of the question, the implication of what you’re really asking. Is this okay? Is it allowed? Can we put a name on this without the whole world imploding?

Mina's smile doesn't falter. "Kinda," she says, and her hand's slipping into yours, her thumb tracing little circles against your palm. “Very. But also, good.”

You nod, not quite believing it. You've had relationships (is that what you're calling this now?)—but none of them felt like this. Like, sure, she makes you hard, but fuck if she doesn't make you weak.

Pulling you into this loop of familiarity, learning things about her that you would've dismissed if it was anyone else. Not just the carnal things—the ones that make her thighs run with need, that make her chant your name like it’s the only word she knows.

Normal people things. Snack addictions, sleeping habits, temperature controls.

The mug goes to the bedside table, and Mina twists her body into yours, landing her head on your lap and curling her legs up so they stay on the bed.

"You know," she says, still holding your hand, fingers tracing up your forearm now, nails drawing in a light tattoo. "I thought that this wouldn't work out."

You mention the obvious. "Because you still, technically, have a boyfriend?"

Mina stretches herself out against your waist, incidental movements that just so happen to make you stir. "No, darling," she's saying, turning to look at you, making your heart stutter. "It's because you're you. Relationships just don’t seem to be in your nature."

You feign injury.  

Even though, truth be told, she has a point there. You’ve never been one for the quiet moments, for the mundane comforts, mornings next to someone you spent the night with.

Maybe it's your own guardrails you've put up, maybe it's some sappy Trojan Horse she's pushed through the gates of your stoic heart—but here you are, stroking her hair while she holds your hand, your fingers playing with the soft strands like you're trying to learn Braille.

"You know," she says, reaching it out to run her thumb down the line of your jaw, "guys like you are all the same."

You arch a brow. "I think I’ve heard this one before.”

"Let me finish," she says, "Obsessed with the thrill of the chase, with the idea of something you can't have. And when you finally get it, you just...disappear."

She grants you the headspace to ruminate over that one. 

"Are you saying I already have you?"

"Haven’t figured it out yet?" she whispers, shifting her weight on the bed. Another Mina special, the incidental movements, shirt pulling taut against her, and with benevolent grace, it slides down an inch. The swell of her breast revealed, an already pebbled nipple peeking out. A shy secret. As if.

And she knows. Mina knows what it takes to turn you on because, deep down, she’s the same. Different animals, same beasts, the roles could easily be flipped: her the billionaire, you the idol, and it would still end up the same.

You’re both chasers of thrills, craving the high of the untouchable, the unattainable.

Doing whatever it takes to feel alive—that's what it boils down to, isn't it?

"I meant it, you know," you're saying, exposing yourself, all gooey and raw. "Never once dreamt of owning you."

It's obvious where Mina's headed with this. So used to people just laying claim of her without even asking—like it's their fucking right. Believing that just because she’s in their vicinity, smiling all pretty and dressed up, she's fair game. Thinking the fame has done to her what it's done to so many others, turned them into commodities.

And maybe she's let them believe the fantasy, it's her job after all, to fuel the delusion and make it feel real. But never once did she truly belong to anyone but herself.

And yet, and yet, and yet.

Mina lifts herself off your lap, body bowing, leaving the shirt to ghost down her arms and leave her chest bare.

Closer still, until she's straddling your hips, thighs pressing down on either side of your legs, and oh, mystery solved, there was nothing under the shirt but her.

And again, Mina, on the subject of your title over her: "Not even if I wanted you to?"

—

(It takes the length of a phone call for Mina to be officially yours.

Brutal in her efficiency, cutting the guy down and pushing him off the cliff of the inevitable.

You're just as cruel, laughing between her thighs as she slurs vague platitudes, barely encroaching on an apology, uncaring bullets flying across borders.

And then the 'I can't' when prompted for a chance to negotiate, an 'I'm busy' when the pleas come, and a final 'just fucking give up already' when the desperation gets too much and he's becoming less and less important the further your tongue gets into her cunt.

Poor bastard doesn't even know he's not the only one getting fucked.)

—

You feel like you’ve earned the right to be a tad more reckless.

So, dates.

Conventional, yes, but fuck you could do with some of that now. You had the money, the power, and now you had the girl. So, secret dates, grand gestures, the whole nine yards.

And yet, each one was its own little disaster.

An example: the restaurant.

Michelin stars, gourmet courses, over-the-top bullshit that you unashamedly love. Booking out the entire joint for the night, only for it to all go haywire when Mina showed up in that dress; tight, tiny, black.

"Eyes up here, darling," is what she said, before, "Or, you know, don't. I like the attention."

Just fucking you all the way up, having you pushing her into a backroom before the wine was even poured. Ruining said dress, rucking it up to her waist, making it some poor drycleaner’s problem.

“I was never big on grand gestures,” she assures you, as you pepper her neck with kisses, hands curving around to her breasts on sheer instinct.

"Wish you'd told me that in advance."

"And miss out on this?" Mina groans something fierce when your fingers find purchase. “Never.”

It's just Mina and you, doing what you've done a dozen times over by now, having long blown past any insecurities that this might just be too good, too perfect, that one of you might be the first to bolt for the door and run.

“I swear to god,” Mina’s managing, as you’re shoving her panties to the side, because you’re both well aware that this has to happen right here, right now. “This cock is going to be the death of me.”

You chuckle against her throat. “Wouldn’t be a bad way to go though, right?”

“You’re insatiable.”

“Says you.”

“Please, just—”

Your hips snap into her. She flinches. Screams your name so fucking loud.

Each and every one of the kitchen staff receives a very, very sizeable tip.

—

It becomes a problem.

Oddly enough, neither of you are at fault.

Leaked photos light up every website, tabloid, and social media platform in mere minutes—Mina and her ex, wrapped up in each other’s arms, the unmistakable blur of a bedroom in the background. Nothing too lurid, nothing too explicit—but just enough to get the world to gasp in collective shock.

The fucking coward did it. You never knew he had it in him.

Sure there's dating on the pictures. Years, probably, back to when their happiness couldn't be called into question, but it does its job.

The statements pointing this out do little to shift the public's attention though, they've already latched on to the chance to rip apart her spotless record. You’ve seen it before, a hundred times with a hundred different celebrities. The cycle of love turned to dust in the blink of a camera flash.

And yet despite all of this, despite the shitstorm that’s swirling around her, despite the radio silence you're expecting, not an hour passes before Mina's calling you again.

“I need you.”

“Then come over.”

—

Mina belongs here, it’s so obvious.

Walking through the rooms of your home like she’s always been there, like she’s what’s been missing.

None of the art on the walls, the books on the shelves, none of the sculptures worth more money than any person should ever see in their life—none of it make as much sense as she does here, in your space.

Ours, you’re already thinking.

While you’re staring at her, she’s taking it all in—every detail of your domain, eyes brushing over the aged furniture and modern finishes, each aspect of your home that you’ve curated as meticulously as you’ve cultivated your own reputation.

She doesn’t say a word about whatever conclusion she’s drawing—because she’s not the type to judge—she’s just curious. She’s always been curious.

And then she’s in your arms.

Hands looping around your neck as you hold her tight, like it’s been years instead of the mere days since you’ve seen her. Since you’ve felt her heat, heard her whimpers, felt her nails dig into your skin like she’s trying to slip in underneath.

“It was inevitable, right?” She whispers against your collarbone. “Something was bound to fuck this all up eventually. My life, yours. It was all too perfect.”

You hold her tight. Letting her sink into your embrace, disappear into your chest. She’s so small in your arms—not that she’s ever not been, but right now, it’s stark. Like she’s shrunk, folded herself into something more manageable, something easier to hide. Something that won’t be torn apart by the teeth of the media and the rabid fans.

Kiss the top of her head to make her relax a fraction, opening a pressure valve that releases a shaky exhale.

You point out, “It still is.”

Mina blinks up at you, and you pretend you don’t see the dampening in the corners of her eyes. “I need to do the whole apology tour now. Keep my head down, hide my face. That’s what they’re saying anyway. What they expect.”

You shrug. “Could hide out here.”

That makes Mina smile, laugh even, colouring her features with something far more impactful than any of the decor. “And, I'm guessing, fucking each other’s brains out from sunrise to sunset?"

"There'll be a couple of meals in between. You may be surprised to learn I make a mean bowl of ramen."

Mina laughs again, and it’s the sweetest sound in the world—like the chiming of a bell that’s only meant for you. She looks at you, really looks, and you can see the wheels turning in her mind, the genuine consideration she's giving your proposal.

“What do you say?”

“I—”

Before she can finish, you add, “I can handle our little problem. Just leave it to me.”

Mina blinks. There’s the curiosity again. “Handle?”

“Yeah,” you reply, vaguely amused. Something darker in the back of your throat. “I know some people. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

Mina stares at you aghast, the smile slipping from her lips. Wondering if she might have missed something in the reality of the billionaire with a silver tongue and a penchant for ruining dresses.

It’s your turn to laugh. “I’m kidding, Mina. Jesus, the look on your face. I’m not going to have the guy killed.”

Mina rolls her eyes. Slaps your chest with a little more force than intended.

You add, with a Disney Villain-worthy ominous tone, “For now.”

“You ass,” she says, but she’s smiling again, the tension all but dissipated.

“Not even I’m capable of having that sort of thing arranged. Well, maybe I am, just never tried, so—” you begin, only to stop immediately at the curving of Mina’s lips. “I was just planning on doing a bit of spin. Tap some of our PR Wizards, maybe offer the wolves something juicier. Whitewash the whole thing—shut him down.”

And a cherry on top of your whole plan—

"Make him wish I'd kill him instead."

Mina’s expression shifts, taking pause to study your face, your words. It’s the pragmatism that gets her, you think—but it’s baked into who you are. You don’t get to a billion dollars by making friends.

As a point of clarification, she asks, "What are you going to offer the press? I mean, you’re not going to leak dirt on someone else, are you?"

You shrug, an easy smile playing on your lips, "I was thinking we could just go public with us. Offer our whole thing."

"You're serious, aren't you?"

"My jokes usually make you laugh."

Mina takes her time to ponder this, to consider what you’re actually saying. To process the idea of turning all this—the sneaking around, the private moments, the stolen kisses—into something so exposed. Something translated and made palatable for public consumption, to be picked apart by the vultures skirting the edges of the media.

And there’s fear there too. That the thrill could wear off for her again, the exhilaration could evaporate, and the boredom would settle in.

Or it could be a whole brand-new opportunity. Replacing one thrill with another, the rush that comes with being seen together, the excitement of the chase being replaced with the passion of the capture.

She asks, slowly, carefully choosing each word, doing her best to avoid setting off a bomb that could send this whole thing into a downward spiral. "Is this what you want to do?"

You pull her closer, fit her body flush against yours, and bring your lips down onto hers. You let them linger, let her sigh, let her melt and keen and smile against your mouth.

"Darling," you murmur against her lips, "I've been ready to tell the whole world since the moment I sat down next to you."

—

Sometimes, the conventional ways are the best.

Stumbling through your house—kissing her hard in the hallway, losing her skirt in the kitchen, tearing off her shirt at the top of the staircase. Carrying her past the threshold of your bedroom and leaving her panties at the door; truly letting her into your world in every way, shape, and form.

Holding her close, one hand at her waist, the other looping around her chest. Kissing into her neck as you lay her down onto your mattress, getting up close and personal until it’s all Mina, all the sweetness and heat of her, the richness of her perfume that’s become her signature.

The red of her blush, her lips, the marks you’re leaving on her skin. The white of her throat, her collarbone, the bra that’s half on, half of.

Pinning her wrists over her head, keeping her still, watching her pupils dilate.

Fucking flawless. Every inch, every glorious detail. Underneath you, at your mercy, already staining your sheets with her need.

And then, a beg:

“Please.”

“Greedy.”

“It’s how you made me.”

Your other hand ventures lower, drifting down her stomach, holding against her abs, leaving your fingertips to ghost over her mound.

She shudders at your touch.

You let her know, “I wasn’t complaining.”

And your tongue is on hers, soft to start, relaxing into familiar patterns, swipes of reintroductions, until Mina’s arching her back, urging you on. But you’re greedy in your own way; wanting to take your time, wanting to extract all these sighs and moans straight from the source.

Only, Mina’s having none of it.

“You’re really going to torture me after the day I’ve had?”

You quirk an eyebrow, push your thumb down against her clit. Applying enough pressure to make her hips buck.

"Torture is a strong word, darling."

Mina's huffs as you hold her there, keeping her locked in place and at your mercy. Wriggling under your grasp, but not making any real effort to escape. After all, where would the fun be in that?

"Fine," she's relenting, eyes slipping shut, unable to hide the smile that’s making its way onto her face. "Call it what you want. Just—more."

"Then let's just call it a pleasant distraction."

Your lips are together once more, your kiss quickly turning from something sweet to something a lot more demanding. Throwing Mina a bone, pressing into her a declaration of intent that has her wild for you.

You take your fingers, slide it down, swiping through her folds. Dancing around her entrance, seeing how nice and slick she already is for you, feeding that gnat in the back of your head that urges you to just fill her whole. Right before pressing up into her cunt.

“Yes,” Mina whispers into your mouth, hips rising to meet your hand, helpless little shivers around your first, then second digit—pushing until you’re knuckle deep inside her heat, making her squirm and cry, “Just stretch this fucking pussy, please.”

“Oh, you’re so wet for me,” you say, like it's a surprise, like she's ever not, like she doesn't part her legs and beg for you to take the invitation to her cunt every single time.

And Mina’s reaffirming, “Of course I am, I’m always—” but she never gets to finish her sentence, because you’re sliding a third finger in, and she’s trying so hard to keep it all together despite how determined you are to pull it all apart.

You’re too attentive—watching her face, every micro expression. Watching for every twitch, every whine, every cry that gets stuck in her throat when she tries to swallow it down.

There’s beauty in all of it, every single time, you could never get enough of it. Been burned into you now—what it takes to make Mina come undone. The right ways to touch her, the spots that make her preen. Where to be gentle, when to be rough, how to keep her guessing.

It’s all here, now, distilled to its basest elements, and it doesn’t even take much. You’re too good at this, know her far too well to need anything other than the sound of her breath to dictate your pace.

Your thumb plays at her swollen clit, doing nothing but pressing down as your fingers saw in and out of her slippery cunt, making her clench around you like she always does. Faster and faster, until she’s crying for it, shivering and trembling underneath you, struggling against your hold on her wrists because she's dying for something to hold onto.

“You—you’re too much,” Mina pants, because that’s all she can do now as you push into her with purpose. So, so fucking wet, creaming around your fingers, pooling in the palm of your hand. “Too—too—too fucking—”

Losing control over her own limbs, cumming with a sharp cry, levitating off the bed as your hand works magic between her legs, needing a hard kiss to ease her back down to Earth.

The aftershocks still roll through her body, leaving her with these tiny, frantic whimpers. You keep her pinned, soothe her with your thumb at her clit, padding around in gentle circles, feeling her spasm and pulse around your fingers.

Your kiss ends on that high note, parting lips to give Mina a chance at a complete inhale. Her chest is heaving, nipples poking out of the top of her bra, skin already sticky with sweat. Eyes opening, hazed over with need and the beginnings of tears.

“I—I need more.”

Hands let go of her wrists, fingers slide out of her cunt, and you lean back to watch her try to compose herself. It’s a battle she’s not winning.

Mina’s blinking up at you, trying to catch her breath, trying to remember how to do anything other than be fucked into oblivion by you. You help her—leaning over, thumbs hooking under her bra straps. Pulling it down with a gentle tug that makes her arch into the motion, makes her chest spill out and your mouth water.

You take the chance to admire her. To drink her in, appreciate her the way she deserves to be appreciated—a masterpiece spread out on your bed, naked and needy.

There’s the intoxication, knowing you’re the one that did that to her, knowing that you’re the one that’s going to do it again. Over and over again.

“If I have to wait another second, I’m going to scream,” Mina says, the demand losing its edge in a whine.

You chuckle, press an open-mouthed kiss onto her breast, sucking a nipple between your teeth.

Sometimes, you just can’t resist.

“Let’s not pretend that isn’t exactly what I want.”

“Make it happen, then.”

Mina holds position as you pull back, keeping her hands over her head, keeping as still as a statue as you come to your knees over her. Eyes on you as your shirt, your belt, your pants go. Eyes on your cock as your briefs fall away, leaving it standing tall and thick and ready for her.

There’s power dynamics at play here—how Mina’s so vulnerable to you, how she’s laid herself out, unwilling to move until you tell her to. She understands it, implicitly. Knows she’s playing right into your hands, forced to wait while you let the anticipation build.

You hold your cock above her, stroke it carefully. Watch her eyes track it. See her gulp.

And she begs, again, “Please,” softer now, the unmistakable tremble in her voice. "I just—I need it so fucking bad."

Whether on purpose or by instinct, her legs splay, presenting her pussy, glistening with want. There’s the pulse in her clit, the need dripping over her folds—you feed the agony just a little more, hovering over the entrance, letting the tip of your cock graze over it. Teasing, taunting.

"Beg for it."

Mina opens her mouth, but she fails to summon the words. Just leaves her lips hanging open, leaving you an opening for your fingers to push in and try to help her find the right plea.

Her tongue flicks out, licks at your digits, the taste of her arousal still thick on them. The wetness of her tongue as she sucks, the suction of her lips as she envelopes each finger, one by one. Savouring her own flavour with deep, longing slurps, with grateful hums resonating around your fingers.

Leaking down the tip of your cock, cunt getting wetter and wetter the longer she’s denied. Making you throb against her, making your hips jerk and bump dangerously close to where she needs you to be.

But you still don’t enter her. You just wait until she’s done, until your fingers are clean and wet, and she’s left a trail of kisses up to your wrist.

It’s then that you drag your fingers out from her lips and demand of her once more:

“Beg.”

And this time, Mina’s able to say it clearly, confidently, right from her chest—

“I need you inside me. Need to feel you so deep inside me that I can’t tell where I end and you begin. I want to make you cum so hard you’ll never want to leave, want to leave your mark so deep inside me that even if you do, I’ll still feel you.”

Each word, a fucking gift.

And her reward—

A hard, quick plunge straight into her cunt. Inside her, instantly buried, immediately unbearable. Just too good.

Mina can’t do anything, just dig her nails into the sheets and try not to scream at the suddenness of it, at the way you complete her without any warning at all.

It all just ripples through her, a second orgasm already possessing her and forcing her into seizure. Can’t even hold it together—can’t keep the moans contained, can’t keep herself steady—can only just lock eyes with you and hope that you’re seeing it all, hope that you’re feeling it too.

Mina’s got no control around you anymore, none at all.

“Your cock,” she’s saying, repeating it over and over. Like it’s brand new to her, like it hasn’t ever left her wrecked a hundred times over.  “Your fucking cock.”

Words punctuated by the slaps of your hips, the wet sounds of your bodies colliding, of Mina welcoming every stroke of your cock inside her. So fucking tight, gloved around you like it was forged specifically for your cock; not for anything else but you, only you.

“So hard, my God.” Mina’s hands clasp behind your neck, needing a firm hold on something solid and real. “So fucking hard for me, so—so—fuck—”

Her lips are everywhere, a flurry of butterfly kisses across your cheekbones, the bridge of your nose, the edges of your jawline. Crazed, unbridled assault of affection. Disarming, incredibly hot. Mina doing her best to mark you up before she’s torn away again.

It’s far too early in the processions—habit would usually have her playing it cool, trying to keep up the façade of control, hold onto shreds of dignity, until she’s unravelling completely and begging you to fuck her harder, deeper.

But now, she’s just letting you have her.

No games, no pretences.

Just you, and her, and this wild, hopeless need to feel good, to be consumed by this.

“Yours,” Mina’s whispering, voice cracking around the edges, “All yours.”

And you know it. Have known it. Had it signed and sealed in ink since the very first time she told you. When you made her knees buckle and eyes water as you took her in every way possible. Since she called out for you, said your name into the quiet of the night like it was a secret she never wanted to keep.

Yet it’s hearing it now, the sum of all these moments stacked on top of each other; the haunts that you’d frequent, the private corners that you’d made yours, the endless phone calls and messages and photos that could fill entire warehouses with their filth.

Finally here—both of you, panting, sweating, sex thick in the air. The world outside forgotten.

Fucking Mina so hard, so deep, euphoria shooting straight through you each time your cock bottoms out inside her. The softness of her cunt, its heat, its creaminess, its fucking divinity. Leaking out all around you and squeezing you so good that it’s a miracle that you’re still coherent enough to speak.

But you do, with a gruff, “Already knew that, darling.”

Mina’s laughing, because that’s the type of high you’re giving her. Even with the way you’re stretching her open, even with her eyes barely open and her toes curling into the bed—she’s laughing because it’s the only thing she can do. Because it’s all so absurdly perfect that she can’t find the energy to do anything else.

“All this, all of you,” you’re leaning in, at the base of her throat, licking a stripe up to her earlobe. Drumming the words into her skin, until she shivers. “Every part of you. All mine.”

Simple words that hold so much sway over her, that could pull her apart or build her right back up. Words that make Mina clench around you, make her cunt grasp you so tightly as if she’s trying to make them real.

“Always,” she’s heaving, “Always yours.”

And there’s this look on her face, like she’s lost in a dream—eyes glassy and all fogged up, breath hot against your shoulder. Glowing under the dimmed lights, making the sweat pooling at the base of her throat shimmer.

Keeping your hand there, at her neck, like it’s the only thing keeping her from floating away. Ruining her. Because really, it’s all for her. All of this is all for her pleasure, her satisfaction.

You’re just along for the ride, so fucking lucky to have her like this. So impossibly beautiful, just knowing she exists would drive you insane if you didn’t get to be with her. Didn’t get a chance at this pussy, so perfect, dripping so much, made so hot for you and only you. Your own personal slutty cunt.

It’s the way her legs wrap around your hips—the smoothness of her skin, the power in those thighs, holding you like she’s afraid you’ll pull away. Like she’s terrified you’ll leave her like this, frantic and wretched and so, so fucking wet.

The newest picture you’re painting, your magnum opus in her name—her tits bouncing with each thrust, nipples stiff and flicking in the air. The yielding of her back, bending just so she can accommodate that extra length of you inside her. And her stomach—fuck, those abs. Tightening and loosening, shaking with every hit of your hips, with every sharp gasp of air.

Demanding of you. Cum for me. Please. Now.

“I need this. Exactly this from now on,” Mina’s declaring, stuttering it like you’re fucking every syllable out of her tightness. “Just you fucking me. Whenever we’re together, every second we get alone—fuck—"

And you’re nodding because you’re always right there with her, always on the same wavelength, thinking the exact same fucking thing.

“Keep filing me up until I can’t take it anymore. Until I’m screaming so loud, I can’t even hear myself think—”

Breathless words that flood your ears, that Mina needs to get out, needs to make sure you hear. Absorbed straight into your bloodstream, pumping into your cock, fed right back into her cunt. So fucking tight. So downright incredible that you’re speeding up, driving in deep, as deep as you could possibly go.

“Until I’m so full of you that I forget my own name—forget any other name but yours—until I—until I—”

A nasty hit makes her body curve and rise, makes her pussy clamp around you, in warning of the orgasm to come, the one you’re both hurtling towards with a kind of reckless abandon that’s become second nature.

“Until I—please—just always make me feel this way—”

“You will,” you promise, meaning it, fucking it into her like your life depends on it. Like you need it to survive, because maybe you do. Maybe you’ve never truly lived until you’ve felt Mina’s cunt quiver around your cock like this, until you’ve heard her beg for you like you’re the only thing she needs to breathe. And again, for good measure, “you will."

And oh, that’s all it takes. That’s enough to have Mina spilling.

“Cumming,” is her proclamation. Repeated, ad infinitum, just, “Cumming, cumming, cumming.”

All over your cock, all around your cock. Cunt strangling you with the force of it.

And this is where you decide Mina’s most beautiful.

When she’s consumed by climax, when she’s held prisoner by it, when she’s just nothing but a canvas for you to leave your marks all over.

“Feel so good—so fucking good—”

It’s the best kind of challenge, pushing her through it.

Worshipping her in all the ways that count, treating Mina in ways woman like her should never be treated. Tearing an angel down from the heavens just to hammer her cunt into submission, and being thanked for it afterwards.

“God,” Mina’s trying, voice rasping and broken, “I—fuck—I can’t—”

You take her, hand wrapping around her tits, pinching, rolling, teasing nipples until they’re as tight as her cunt around you. Leaning in and capturing her lips, drinking down her whimpers with a kiss so deep you can taste your name on her tongue.

Fucking her, ruining that tight, little pussy, through every wave that crashes down over her, that burns her up from the inside and makes her so Goddamn hot.

Leaving her in disbelief that it could ever feel this good again, that there's a light at the end of this tunnel, that there's a life after being fucked so thoroughly by your cock.

Holding her through it, preventing her from crumbling into a million overstimulated pieces. Slowing down the pace of your hips with steady, deliberate thrusts until you’re just inside her. Cock throbbing, bathing in her heat, waiting.

Mina stirs, eyes flutter open, meeting yours. “Cum inside me. Wherever you’d like.”

There’s only one real choice. Mina knows this as well as you do.

Your cock leaves her cunt, slick with her juices, her cum. Proof of your dominion over her body, gleaming along your shaft.

Nothing but bliss on Mina’s face, so well-fucked and satisfied and just plain happy that it’s almost a surprise she hasn’t melted away into a puddle. She’s smiling, looking up at you through her lashes, sweet and soft and perfect.

Turning herself over, bowing down on her knees, pointing her ass up at you like it’s the universe itself handing you a present and saying, ‘Here, this is yours.’

You can’t resist that kind of temptation.

“I’ve been waiting for this,” Mina tells you, rolling her hips higher still, flaring out her hips, treating you to the perfectly round globes of her ass. “Waiting for you to take me. However you want. Make it hurt so good. Make me remember how you feel.”

Her hands reach back, delicate fingers spreading plump cheeks apart. The tight, pink ring of her ass winking at you. A sight that never gets old, a vision that’s forever carved into the back of your eyeballs.

One last request. “Please.”

Your cock pushes in.

“Thank you.”

Right away, it’s too fucking much. Your cock breaching through her asshole, pushing in inch by inch. Slow and torturous, the kind of thing that makes you want to yell.

Then the first thrust—that first hit, like a narcotic, straight through your veins, every single time. Feeling it, sensations so intense, so sharp, that you forget to even breathe.

And Mina’s crying. Crying out, muffled by the pillow she’s biting into. Yet still, pushing back against you, urging you deeper, even though she’s coming apart, even though she’s shaking from the sheer effort of having you fill her.

“Darling,” you call to her, “you’re doing so good,” because she is. Good, good, so fucking good for letting you split her in two like this. For letting you ruin her in all the best ways.

The second thrust is easier, smoother. Body giving in to your demands, stretching around your cock like it always does, like it’s made to do. To bend and flex to your whims and desires.

With every push, every retreat, every agonisingly, achingly slow grind into her ass, you’re nearing that rapturous end.

“So fucking good for me, Mina. Your ass is so tight around me. Such a good girl.” You’re grunting now, trying to ease her into it, to build up to the point where you can pound her, push her like you really want to.

Mina’s nodding, eyes screwed shut, sunken in the way you’re stretching her out. It’s a familiar feeling, having her ass opening up for you. A dance you’ve performed so often it’s almost muscle memory—each step painstakingly learned; each move carefully choreographed.

You’re easing into her, slow, so fucking slow that it’s a wonder that either of you doesn’t implode with want. But Mina’s good, so good, letting out these tiny, shuddering breaths that you feel down to the marrow of your bones.

And then, as your is fully seated in her ass—

“Don’t hold back,” Mina says, quietly, barely audible, but the need is crystal clear. “All of it, please.”

Hand in her hair, hand at her waist. Gripping into her, guiding her and then fucking her, really, truly flooding her ass with your cock, disappearing into her tightness until your hips are slapping into hers.

So pretty, even like this, even when her moans are getting louder, borderline screams that are cut off by the cotton of the pillow, her knuckles turning white in the effort. Her back tenses, muscles rippling underneath your palms.

She dips a hand underneath her, between her legs. Fingers at her cunt, whirling around her clit, doing all she can to keep up with you.

“Feels fucking amazing. Your ass, Mina,” you’re trying to say, but it’s coming out all gravelly and thick. “So fucking tight for me.”

It’s the one through-line that’s kept steady over these months. Mina’s transcendental beauty, Mina’s razor-sharp intelligence, Mina’s pussy that’s always, perpetually yours. All these things; but it’s Mina’s ass—that perfect, juicy, heart-shaped, fucking flawless ass that keeps you up at night.

Every time you’re buried inside, it’s like coming home to something sacred. Tightness gripping you, ass swallowing your cock in waves, the kind of feeling that makes you believe in a higher power—because nothing so divine could possibly be man-made.

“Fuck, I just—” Mina’s breathing out, quick huffs because that’s all she can manage, “just love this so fucking much. Love how you feel in my fucking ass.”

Her hand’s working overtime now, circling her clit with a fervour that’s almost religious. Pussy starting to leak again, juices running down her thighs, mixing with the sweat, pooling at her knees. Fuck, the way she’s touching herself while taking you in, so willingly, so wantonly, so utterly destroyed for you—she’s going to cum again, you can feel it. And you’re not far behind.

“I think I’m going to—fuck, I only just—but I’m going to—again—you’re going to make me—again—” She’s squealing, half-mumbling, full-crying, and your heart nearly bursts out of your chest because it’s all for you.  

You’re not even managing anything other than desperate thrusts, just fucking her with everything you have—like you’re trying to claim her inside and out, trying to leave your fingerprints on every part of her so everyone will know she’s been yours all along.

“Please, please, please,” again and again, stuttering out, “Just—just—just—”

Just keep going, keep pushing into her until she’s shaking, until she’s pleading for you to stop, to let her breathe, because she’s about to fucking break.

Or, really:

Keep going and never, ever stop.

The hand in her hair tightens, pulling her back, making her arch. That perfect spine, the curve that’s painted by God himself. Kisses into her shoulder, into the crook of her neck, making her whimper.

“Keep fucking me. Like this—like this—God—I’m going to—again—”

Pulling her closer to you, so you can feel the tremors starting from her core, spreading out like wildfire. Pushing her hand away, taking over between her legs—rubbing, teasing, circling her cunt and pushing her closer and closer to the brink. Fucking her so deeply that you can feel the first quivers of her orgasm from the inside out, daring to take over her body again.

“Keep fucking—touching me, fill me up—just don’t—please, I need it—”

A final plea, her last rites, before she’s lost.

“Cumming—cumming again—please, oh, please—oh—”

Mina’s body goes lax, a ragdoll in your arms. But you keep fucking her through it. Through the quakes and shivers, through the cries—through the crying out. Pleading. Pleading for you to follow her into oblivion.

And fuck. If you’re not right there with her.

You’re close, chasing her, feeling her orgasm, feeling it coil around your cock and pump through her veins and into yours. Feel her—her body, her muscles, her cunt—tightening, tightening, tightening around you until it’s unbearable.

“Cum for me—with me—” she’s repeating, her newest mantra, “cum inside me. Give it to me—please, I need it—please—so badly—”

Begging, dying for it. Willing, wanting to do anything for it.

But she doesn’t need to—you can’t fucking hold on any longer.

“Mina—fuck—"

You slam into her, and finally burst.

Filling her ass with your cum, feeling it spurt into her, thick and hot. Pumping into her, over and over, getting wrung dry by her ass, cumming so hard it feels like your bones might shatter.

Cumming until your vision swims, until the architecture in your knees threaten to give out, until all you can do is hold onto her hips and keep her in place, keep her right there, impaled on your cock, until every single drop of cum has found a home inside her ass.

Until you’re so sensitive it’s almost painful. Until the orgasm has passed over the two of you and left you feeling like you might dissolve into nothing but pure sensation.

“Christ,” you manage to get out, the word tearing out of you like it’s being ripped from your chest. Holding Mina close—embracing her, seeing just how much she’s loving it. How thankful she is. Taking it all, soaking it all in, moans turning into whimpers that you’d swear are prayers of gratitude.

Body limp and strung out, fucked so hard she can’t even hold herself up anymore—Mina collapses into the bed, pulling you with her, your cock still buried deep inside her.

Like the first time, like every time, it’s a complete fucking disaster.

Tangled up in sheets, in each other. Sticky with sweat, stickier with cum. And Mina turns her head to look at you, just so pleased, and so gleefully satisfied.

You lean in and kiss her, slow and deep, resisting the urge to stir, to roll her onto her back and start this whole thing over again. Claim her once, twice, a dozen times more.

But you don’t. You just lay there, breathing into her neck, letting all of this, your orgasms, your bliss, your absolute contentment roll through you.

There’ll be time to keep going, to keep fucking her. Give her the same tour of your house that she gave you that first night.

Eat her out in the kitchen. Fuck her into the sofa. And yeah, introduce her to the balconies on the higher floors.

For now though, there’s Mina, lips parting with yours, looking at you with a smile that’s this original blend of lust and love and admiration. “You really know how to ruin a girl, you know that?”

You chuckle, picking a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. “Just trying to scratch an itch.”

—

Everybody loves a love story.

And yours is packaged up so nicely, polished and made shiny and perfect for the public to see.

It's the type of story the media dies for—a tale of modern romance, woven through the glitz and glamour of celebrity life. The cold-blooded billionaire who had his heart stolen by one of the nation’s daughters, and then chased her across continents in order to get it back.

You and Mina, becoming the ultimate power couple—the kind that makes the paparazzi's cameras click in unison and tabloids sell by the millions.

Together at every high-profile event, her hand nestled in the crook of your arm, your thumb tracing lazy circles on her wrist—a secret promise of the bruises she’ll wear under her designer dresses. A whispered reminder of the things you’ll do to her when the lights go out and the world isn’t watching.

But nobody sees that. The public sees the smiles, the kisses, the sweet little glances that pass between you—and they eat it all up.

They'll never see the way she begs for your cock, the way you fuck her until she can't walk straight, the way she rides you until all you know is her name. They don’t know that it wasn’t love at first sight—it was lust, paroxysms of it, pure and raw and unbridled.

But here you are.

Mina, in your bathroom, smiling at you through the mirror. Dressed to the nines, looking like a fucking dream. Making it so obvious now that you wonder how you missed it at the start. The way she looked at you that first night, the way she looked. It was all there, laid out in big bold letters, all caps, telling you that this is what you’ve been searching for—what you needed all along.

That dress she’s wearing—some dazzling shade of green. Olive? Celadon?

“Emerald,” she smiles, catching you staring. “It’s emerald, darling.”

You grin back. “Then it should match.”

Mina’s eyes flick to the box in your hand, curiosity piqued.

“Got you something.”

You hand her the box—a simple, muted green velvet, lacking any markers or logos to give away the contents. Ergo, it’s really fucking expensive.

She takes it out of your hands. Opens it, and her breath catches.

“It’s—” Mina whispers, lifting a necklace from the box. A simple, stunning piece. A thin diamond band with a solitary jade teardrop hanging from the center.

"Yours."

Mina holds it up against the light, seeing how it dances through the stone like it’s alive. When her eyes come back to yours, she’s beaming—a smile so wide it makes you wish you had your phone ready to snap a photo.

“Help a girl out, would you?” she says, turning her back to you, sweeping her hair over her bare shoulder.

You step forward, kissing the skin there, feeling the softness of her neck, the pulse of her vein. Your hands come up to fasten the necklace around her, the coldness of the diamonds brushing against your knuckles.

“You know, there’s one thing I was wondering about,” you murmur, letting the jade rest atop her throat.

Mina giggles, tilts her head slightly to the side. The jewels sparkle. “Oh?”

“That first night. The gala. You came alone.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Mina repeats, amused. Happy to have her own little secret, the one thing you've yet to pry out of her between the sheets. She regards you through the reflection, a twinkle in her eye that says she’s been wondering what took you so long to ask.

“Yeah, I’ve never quite figured it out. I mean I know why you were alone. But why did you come at all? What were you doing there, just sitting all pretty and by yourself. It felt so wrong to me at the time.”

That makes Mina laugh, making you feel somewhat silly to even ask. She spins on her heels, facing you; the necklace sitting perfectly against her skin. She runs her fingers over the chain, ending at the pendant. Tapping it. Once. Twice.

And she doesn’t even need to ask you if it looks good on her or if it suits her because she knows. She can tell by the look on your face.

She wears it like a fucking collar.

“Why?” Mina says again, stretching the syllable out long and wide, until you’re staring at her lips, knowing you’re about to kiss her again, knowing that you may very well not make it out of the house tonight, likely not even make it out of the bathroom.

You’ll be ruining that dress, fucking her against the sink, pushing her up into the mirror, kissing into the top of her spine and repeating over and over again—mine, mine, mine.

“Because you invited me.”

[eilomilo]

cry baby

gf!billie x fem!reader

sexual themes, smut, oral (r receiving), pet names, praise, swearing, hair pulling, spitting, softdom!billie, mommy kink, slight overstim., crying. .

thinking about billie being nestled in between your thighs, needy moans leaving her lips every second because she simply can't get enough of you.

she has your legs dangling over her shoulders, whilst her palms knead into your flesh as her mouth continues to hungrily lap at your leaking pussy.

your fingers would tangle up in her hair, tugging and pulling at it every time her tongue circled around your clit,

"fuck, i love it when you do that," she whispers, her hot breath fanning against your exposed cunt. she runs her tongue through your folds, then up to your clit, sucking on it. sucking hard.

you can't hold back the whimper that escapes your lips, causing billie to smile to herself, "you like that baby?"

she lifts her head, her eyes flicking up to get a proper view of you laid out in front of her, legs spread just for her, so that she can devour your pretty little pussy, "my baby's so fuckin' pretty. ."

she would drop her head back down, returning her mouth to your hyper-sensitive, swollen nub.

"fuck bils-" you'd choke out, your legs closing tighter around her head. she lets out a loud groan, feeling your thighs clamp together around her throat. her hands reach your ass, slowly squeezing you there as she planted wet, sloppy kisses back down to your dripping cunt.

her tongue swirls around it, before sliding back to your entrance and slipping back inside of you.

you rolled your hips against her face, letting out a pathetic moan, feeling the burn in the pit of your stomach. "fuckin' love that sound," billie murmured, pushing her face forward so that her tongue can go deeper.

tears starting to brim in your eyes as you lost control of absolutely everything.

"bils. ." you'd gasp out, your fingers desperately tugging at her hair, eyes rolling to the back of your head, "billie. ."

she heard you, "gettin' close, huh?" increasing the pace of her tongue, licking big stripes across your leaking hole, causing her nose bumped against your swollen bud in the process. "billie m'gonna-"

"cum?" she mumbled, spitting down onto your glistening cunt as you sobbed, "please. ." and tears streamed down your red cheeks.

"cum for mommy. ." she smiled and your vision blurred as your orgasm consumed you, walls fluttering around her and your grip on her hair losening. your hips stopped moving momentarily before you let go.

"good girl," billie moaned as soon as she felt your juices coat her. hot cum gushed into her mouth as she greedily slurped it up from between your legs, not wasting a single drop.

when she's done swallowing the last of your cum, she bites down on the inside of your thigh, causing a soft moan to leave your mouth.

"you were so good baby," she grins, getting up from in between your legs to sit next to you.

she gazes at your pretty, tired face and runs her hand through your hair before noticing the tears on your cheeks.

she'd chuckle to herself, running a thumb across your cheeck, wiping the tears away and kissing you gently on your forehead, "sorry mama. . can't help it. you just taste too good."

© eilomilo, all rights reserved.

[schlattslambo]

i need a jschlatt smut when he's drunk after some big party like a wedding or smth like that, and he's all cute and cuddly but also horny for you and wants to marry you but also fuck you thank you that's all

a/n: coming back with a bang! hope you all enjoy!! im basing this off of drunk bob from bobs burgers “show me your boobs”

———————

jay was humming along to the song that the uber was playing as the two of you stumbled to the house. the two of you chose to ring in the new year with friends, and the drinks were flowing. his dress shirt was unbuttoned halfway despite the cold, and his jacket was draped over your shoulders. his lips feather over your neck, making goosebumps rise on your skin.

“baby, let me open the door,” you smile, fumbling for your keys.

“but i love you,” jay whines against your skin.

“love you too, baby.” you turn and give him a kiss on the cheek before pushing the door open.

the door isn’t even fully closed before jay is on you, nipping at your skin and feeling you up.

“you’re so beautiful,” jay mumbles. “i love you so much.”

“i love you too jay,” you reply, returning his kisses.

jay scoops you up without a word and throws you over his shoulder. you squeal and grip his shirt, laughing loudly.

“jay!” you squeal. “put me down!”

in response, jay slaps your ass and you can almost picture the grin on his face. he plops you down on the bed that you two share and crawls on top of you. brown hair falls in his face as he smiles, cheeks flushed from the alcohol.

just as you’re sure that he’s going to grind onto you, jay flops down and snuggles into you. his hands grip your soft body gently as his face finds its way into the crook of your neck.

“you’re just so amazin’ baby,” jay says against you. “i got so lucky. you make my life so much brighter.”

he babbles away, complimenting you and rubbing your thighs and hips as he does. he looks up at you and your eyes lock again. you don’t think he’s ever looked at you with such love before. maybe he has and you just weren’t looking?

you run a hand through jay’s hair and smile.

“y’know,” jay says. “i wanna marry you one day.”

your breath catches in your throat. jay is never one to be outwardly affectionate, so this entire moment is charged. you’re sure that you’ll break down into tears if jay keeps saying all these sweet things.

“we’d have everything you wanted. the best damn cake money can buy, and we’d get married on a beach just like you’ve always dreamed of.” jay says, staring at you with literal hearts in his eyes. “and you’d look so beautiful. like the goddess that you are. you’re everything i’ve ever wanted, and i want to wake up next to you for the rest of my life.”

your tears finally sting your eyes before falling and you sniffle, grabbing jay close and hugging him tightly.

“i love you,” you whimper softly. “and i can’t wait to marry you one day.”

jay adjusts, straddling you as he brings your lips to his. what starts out as a loving, passionate kiss turns into a sloppy makeout session. when the two of you break away for air, jay’s fully tenting his pants. you glance down before giggling.

“‘s what you do to me, sweet thing,” jay smiles bashfully. “can’t help it.”

you smile and bring jay back down, nibbling his bottom lip.

“you should show me how much you love me,” you breathe against his lips. “please make me scream.”

jay pulls back slightly and smiles. “baby, you say that shit again and we’re breaking this bed.”

[miange1]

I NEED MORE BRIAN MOSER AHHHH

Brian Moser, with a lover that's "too sweet"

male leaning reader, brian is a freak, being nervous more than shy, arguments, accidental guilt tripping, manipulation(at first), reader gives off innocence but they're not they're just a virgin, fake names, being overly touchy, blow jobs

note: had an idea so i just used this ask as an excuse to finally post it. also if you notice typos no you don't im not fixing them

— You were his first actual relationship in which didn't involve murder or trying to get closer to Dexter. Or so he remembers, he probably had that intention at first yet completely forgot about it due to his own feelings.

— Meeting you felt like a bunch of perfumes and flowers were thrown at his face— you were smiling and speaking with him like he was your long lost friend or your boyfriend, like you knew him since forever.

"Oh! Rudy!" He instantly felt his heart speed up, feeling more nervous than he's ever been in his entire life and you weren't even calling out his real name. He needs to calm down, seriously he's sweating way too much.

"I missed you so much, how have you been?" He felt your arms wrap around him tightly, yet ater the hug your hands took his and held them as if they were the most delicate things in the world, besides you.

The man could barely get his words out, stuttering every now and then and looking away from you often. Your thumb was swiping softly over the top of his knuckles, why were you looking at him like that.

— Getting with you was the most romantic thing he has ever thought of. Taking you out to a place where it was peaceful yet beautiful, and he could confess to you and actually mean it.

— It was the best place he could find, it was hot but lovely. When he confessed, you stayed quiet for far too long and he thought you didn't want him. You were just in so much shock, it's been a bit since someone was this genuine to you.

— Floating on air is what he felt like each time he was with you. When you were able to visit his work, you showed him with kisses each and every single time even after arguments which was something he would have a heavy weight on his shoulders about.

"Debra doesn't at all have a thing for me, what the hell are you talking about!" You were blinking back heavy tears trying to see his side as best as you could, yet everything just went a bit too far. From understanding to a plain bicker.

"It's obvious she does, and she's in your office more than I am!" He rolled his eyes, his fingers on his nose and pinching the bridge. He knew Debra had a thing for him, but what he didn't know was why he lied seeing you fight for him like this. He liked seeing you get jealous.

"Because it's her job." Yet you protested, "I understand that but.." you couldn't get the rest out, starting to cry and you instantly felt embarrassed. "Sorry— shit, I'm sorry.." His upset look rested, sighing as he went closer to you for an embrace.

"No, it's my fault." He admitted, his arms squeezing your frame in a comforting manner as you cried into his chest.

He was so turned on right now.

— Brian had a bunch in which you were a virgin, he just would have never guess he was actually right about it.

— All he wanted was a small make out for a bit, yet it had escalated and you were on your knees. God, you looked so pretty.

"Ah, ah, your teeth.. Good..that's it." He leaned his head back, the warmth of your mouth and tongue working at his girth. For your first time even giving head you were real good at following his directions. You did it just how he liked it. Tongue swirling, spit mixing with what leaked from him, it was heaven.

He jutted his hips forward a bit, catching you by surprise and giving you the urge to wanna pull back, which didn't happen due to Brian's fingers tangling in your hair— and pushing your head back forward. "Doing so well, fuck.." you practically weren't evenoving anymore, and if you were you had just been going ragdoll and moving along with Brian's pulls.

His dick twitched in your mouth as he heard a gargled moan, fuck he was gonna cum just from hearing that alone. Then he'd hear you whine, almost impatiently. "Hush you're fine, just keep on— God, yes.." eyes rolling back, feeling your nose poke at his pelvis the deeper he pushed you down when he came. Letting go of your hair, he let your head fall back a bit before he forced your mouth closed.

"Swallow."

— Sooner or later he would then wonder why you were a virgin in the first place, yet you did date people for long periods of time.

"I don't know, when I asked after break up they said they just couldn't."

— He got the hint for himself.

[rosenclaws]

arghjsw what abt prompt 45 and 76 from fluff list, drunk! au with the worst!wolverine?

“Will you stay the night?” “Kiss me like you mean it.”

warnings: drinking, reader throws up twice lol, he calls u princess once

wc: 1.3k

600 follower drabble masterlist

"Holy fuck, what did Wade put in this?" You shout to Logan who was only standing a foot away from you. You don't even realize you're shouting. In your defense you were...pretty drunk. You had to be if you wanted to talk to Logan like this.

Sober you could barely get a few sentences out without feeling like an idiot. He's just so intimating and he's got this wall built around him that feels impossible to break.

"I don't know princess." Logan says with an amused look on his face. You were completely hammered and Logan found it very funny.

"I should go ask him." You lean on him, patting his chest and leaving your hand there for a little too long.

Sober you would be mortified. As you take a step you stumble and Logan is quick to catch you. The look on your face worries him as you grab onto his shirt.

"Hey, everything okay?" Logan asks.

You try to answer him but feel a rumbling in your stomach. Fuck. You push against Logan's chest and bolt to the bathroom. Whatever Wade put in that punch didn't sit well with your stomach. As you empty your guts into the toilet you feel a hand on your back.

"Logannnn." You whine as you sit back on the floor. Thank god you were wasted because this would be utterly mortifying.

"It's okay, I got you sweetheart." Logan chuckles as he takes a towel and wipes your mouth.

"Wanna go home." You say with a pout. "

How much did you drink?" Logan asks while shaking his head, a small smile on his face as he bends down and helps you up.

You wrap your arms around his strong neck and groan as he lifts you off the ground. He's half carrying half dragging you back to your apartment. Listening to all your drunk rambling with a smile.

"You're so handsome, like it's not fair. Fucking 200 year old hot guy." You boop his nose and he just raises an eyebrow at you.

"What?" You ask innocently.

"Nothing." He replies. He thinks you're absolutely adorable.

As you reach your door you try and get the key in the lock but struggle. Logan tries to take them from you but you end up dropping them instead. Both of you reach down for it, hands knocking against each other. The alcohol running through your veins blocks any sense of embarrassment and impulse control you have. You just look into his pretty hazel eyes and you can't help yourself.

You kiss him.

It's quick. Just a peck but you do it. He's stunned as you pull away. Silence between the two as he grabs your keys and unlocks your door. Your stomach starts to churn, not from nausea but from the lack reaction from Logan.

He's gentle as he brings you to your bedroom. Helping you brush your teeth and stepping out of the room while you change. He comes back to you snuggled up in your bed.

"Everything alright?" He asks and you nod.

"Wait!" You call as he starts to leave, your hand reaching for his wrist.

"Will you stay the night?" Logan hesitates.

"I don't think that's a good idea sweetheart," Logan sits on the edge of the bed, brushing your cheek with his hand. "

M sorry for kissing you, I just don't want to be alone." Your emotions were haywire as tears slip down your face. Logan sighs and relents.

As you bury yourself under the covers he gets on the other side, laying on top of them fully clothed. He crosses his arms as you roll over to face him.

"G'night." You mumble as sleep takes you without much fight.

Logan doesn't fall sleep as easy. His mind is too focused on the kiss. You kissed him and if he was being honest he hopes you kiss him again. A part of him worries this was just drunk you talking. That it was a mistake that you'll pretend it never happened come sunrise. He can only hope you feel the same when the alcohol is gone.

-

Waking up to a pounding head is not how you wanted to start your morning. You roll on your back and feel something strong and sturdy blocking your path. Looking over your shoulder you see Logan. Asleep. In your bed. What the fuck. You immediately roll back over. The memories of last night coming to you.

Oh fuck, you kissed Logan. You kissed. The man you've been harboring a crush on for the last few months. Your stomach rumbles and it doesn't take long for you to realize what it was.

Throwing the covers off you scramble to the bathroom. You barely notice waking Logan up in the process as you're a little preoccupied. After you're done...you know. You brush your teeth and leave your bathroom.

To your surprise Logan is gone. Maybe he left to avoid the embarrassment of what happened. Or maybe he just hates you know. As you trudge to your kitchen you find him rummaging through your drawers. Water and Advil sitting on the counter.

"Where the fuck is your bread?" Logan grumbles as he slams a cupboard door shut.

"I don't have any." You groan as you grab the medicine.

"Was gonna make you toast but..." He trails off, not sure what to say. You shrug and sip the water.

There's an awkward silence that settles over the room. Do you talk about it? Or do you pretend it never happened. It was killing you, he wouldn't say anything and you just needed to be done with it.

"Look Logan, I'm really sorry for last night. I shouldn't have kissed you like that and I, I just hope I didn't make things weird." You say, noticing how Logan almost...deflates? Like he's sad by what you had said.

"Don't worry sweetheart. I get it, it was the alcohol. If you want to forget it, consider it done." He gives you a half smile and he seems to close himself up again. Was he disappointed? The way he phrased things, if you wanted to forget.

"Do you want to forget it?" You ask shyly.

If you're reading this wrong it could implode the friendship you had built with Logan. But if you were right, oh god you really hoped you were right. He sighs and walks around the counter. You feel yourself grow nervous as he stands between your legs.

"No. I don't want to." He confesses. Your breath catches in your throat as you take in his words.

"I don't either." You whisper. Logan smiles and takes your chin in his fingers, his eyes growing softer as he admires your face.

"Good. Now that you're sober, you can kiss me like you mean it." He growls, his voice sending shivers down your spine.

You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him into you, smashing your lips onto his in hot kiss. He groans as you tangle your fingers into his hair. He lets go of your chin to grab your legs and warp them around his waist.

"Fuck, this is better than I imagined." Logan says as you pull apart.

"Logan..." You pray this isn't just some dream, that you're really here in his arms.

"Yeah sweetheart?" He hums as he buries his face in your neck.

"I really like you..."

"Yeah? Couldn't tell when you drunk kissed me last night." He teases. You huff as you let go of Logan who doesn't like that one bit.

"Not funny," He grins as he picks you up with ease, damn that super strength is hot.

"I like you too, a lot." He growls.

He heads to your bedroom, hell bent on showing you just how much he really likes you.

[treatbuckywkisses]

HI I STAYED UP WAY TOO LATE TO READ THIS PART !!!! :))

(also this might be my longest rb so far)

SIX UPON A TIME

"You weren’t sure what you wanted him to do, but it was fun to watch the time bomb tick." - let's kiss him on the mouth 🫶🏻

"A reason to get up in the morning." - SHUT. YOUR. MOUTH.

"But then you blink back into reality again when Bucky sits you down on the closed lid of your toilet and slowly makes you let go of his shirt, kneeling down in front of you. The blue of his eyes is devastating, even though you have to keep blinking to keep him in focus." - No I can't do this 

"Maybe that’s the most terrifying thought of them all. You would die for him. Once, twice, however many times are necessary if that meant that he’s safe. " - Nika I'm fucking crying. I wish I was exaggerating but I'm actually fucking crying before 10pm.

"But it seems like you haven’t known it at all, because right now, you feel the knowledge of it, of him, surge through you with all its facets. You can’t even begin to put it into words, because where would you start? How do you explain what he makes you feel when he hasn’t been there himself, not in any way that matters or sticks? And if it’s never happened at all, if time keeps unraveling like this, how can it even be real? " - the woman that you are. Oh. My. God. You are completely unreal this is phenomenal.

"His breath hitches when they dip lower, almost reaching the place you’ve watched dimple when he laughs, but he doesn’t move away. He doesn’t laugh, either." - I have actual tears in my eyes you are so evil 

"That day, he dies with your stupid nickname on his lips, twisted into something that looks strangely close to that earlier smile. This one doesn’t have time to reach his eyes, though." - Nika I'm fucking sick to my stomach what the fuck is wrong with you 

Brief intermission bc I got too into it and read the rest twice before coming back to make notes (I was too immersed)

A crack in the sky you are insane I would FREAK

Where TF does bucky go during the day. As a naturally nosy gal the unknowns in this story make me ITCH I can't wait for everything to be revealed

"Why won’t you look at me? " - this is so hurtful why are you being so mean to me

HOW IS THE DELIVERY MAN EARLY IM LITERALLY IN SHOCK AND WE MOVED ON FROM THIS TOO FAST????????

"You take a sip of your tea and some feeling returns to your translucent fingers. Strange’s cloak draws itself around your shoulders." - hehe we have the cloak 🫶🏻 

""I came to you," you realize. "Or, I will, once I get out of this." The relief that washes over you makes you want to sob. "So there is a way out?"" - why did this make ME relieved like I'm stuck in the loop too 😭 I literally have felt anxious for our dear reader like I'm sick and this has soothed my heart the smallest bit (I'm still scared of you)

"You can’t help but wonder when he’s last tried the bed." - Frick you for putting him in the floor what has my baby done to you let him be comfortable 😭😭 

"No," Strange answers. "This is just when he wakes up." - this made me LAUGH I needed that 

CAPS BDAY IM CRACKING UP THATS SUCH A FUN SILLY MOMENT

"He might has well have doused you in a bucket of ice water. You’re suddenly very aware of every single cell in your body, and you don’t like the challenge sparkling in his eyes." - THEY ARE SO IN LOVE MY GOD IM SICK 

Why are we waking up to silence I'm gonna throw up Nika 

What did the powers do 

Alpine can see us that is both cute and scary 😅 

"You lose a few hours here and there, time seemingly speeding up at random sometimes now. One morning, Bucky isn’t in the gym like he usually is, and you work yourself up over it so much you nearly have a panic attack. In the end, you almost crash into him outside of his room, and a rush of reassurance floods through you with such force you can’t even look at him." - what is wrong with you 

"That time, Sam is there when Bucky gets shot, and it’s his cry that follows you into the next day. Your hands are clean this time, and somehow that feels worse." - how dare you write these 2 paragraphs and also put them so close together????????

"And then it’s you who’s speechless, because the shock on Peter Parker’s face is more than you bargained for." - FULL. BODY. CHILLS. WHAT A MIND YOU HAVE NIKA. I WILL NEVER GET OVER THIS.

"Sweat pearled on your forehead as you and the universe held your breath again. You could feel your hold slipping with every second that wasn’t allowed to pass. Time was impatient with you." - THE LAST LINE ?????? I'm speechless 

"And with time stumbling and flailing around in confusion, you made it out of the building and into the waiting cab." - ok chapter 7 pls 🫶🏻 

I'm kidding you are PERFECT I can't believe I missed out on this for as long as I did?!!!!!!! Thank you so much for sharing your incredible brain with me I want to kiss you on the mouth I love you!!!!!!!

time after time [6]

series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 12.8k

chapter warnings: maybe reacquaint yourselves with the story premise, it's been a hot minute; characters refusing to be honest with themselves and each other; violence against side characters, minor injury descriptions; strange is still annoying

a/n: this is quite possibly the scariest fic update i've ever made. a lot has happened since the last chapter was posted, and i won't bore you with all of it. suffice it to say, i missed sharing this story. thank you for being patient with me.

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

six: butterfly effect

Working with Sam and Bucky was different than working with Natasha and Steve had been.

At the Compound, it had felt terrifyingly easy to find your place, to slip into the new role they granted you as if you were always meant to fill it. You’d felt that way before, and it hadn’t turned out quite so well. Maybe that was why you used to dread the end.

Now, however, for the first time in a while, you constantly had to prove yourself in order to not be left back in that dark place they’d found you in, alone and trying to make sense of any of it. And you liked that. The challenge was something you could live with, something you could enjoy more than the ever chilling anxiousness that things were simply too good to be true.

So when Sam called you on for a follow-up mission shortly after the first one, you jumped at the chance.

It didn’t matter that you barely talked about anything but work, even when you were hanging out in your spare time; in fact, you much preferred that to digging up the past. You even learned to find a wicked sort of enjoyment in provoking Bucky’s initial dislike of you to the point of where he would barely speak to you at all unless it was to snap at you.

You weren’t sure what you wanted him to do, but it was fun to watch the time bomb tick.

It wasn’t as easy to get under the new cap’s skin.

"You’re making us sound like we’re partners in a law firm," Sam said, a smile clearly audible in his voice even though his eyes didn’t betray it. Bucky didn’t even dignify you with a clench of his jaw.

"What?" you said, crossing your legs. "Every newspaper in the city calls you 'Wilson and Barnes'. Don’t you ever read the articles about yourselves?"

"Unlike some people, I don’t have all the time in the world," Sam said, leaning back on the couch with his eyes closed.

"Pity. The Bulletin called you the 'nation’s new dynamic duo' last week." You looked at Bucky, your eyebrows raised in amusement. "You’ve officially been downgraded to a sidekick, Barnes."

He answered with an empty glare of his own. "And what does that make you?" he said, but not like a question.

"Nothing at all," you still grinned. "Everything is right in the universe."

The reporters had yet to pick up on your addition to the team, which was proof enough that your powers still sufficed to fly under the radar. Combined with the fact that you were actually regularly talking to people again—and people who weren’t your therapist or your customers no less—, things almost felt like they were settling into a new kind of normal. Still somewhat weird, and still a struggle each day, but somewhat hopeful, nevertheless.

You’d almost forgotten what that could feel like.

“Right. You’d prefer people not knowing about your creepy powers.”

"Aww." You tilted your head to the side happily. "You think I’m creepy."

Bucky scoffed into his mug, refusing to look at you like he always did, and then he strolled off again.

In truth, you couldn’t blame him all that much. You’d lived with your powers all your life and still found them unsettling sometimes, particularly when they got away from you and left you trapped in a universe that refused to move.

That was none of his business, though.

Besides, Bucky had taken to moving around so quietly you could never tell he was there until he’d cough and you’d flinch, usually dropping whatever you were holding in your hands. You’d already cracked your phone screen twice.

Not that he’d know, or care if he did. It gave you great satisfaction to erase his amused smirk from existence.

"Give it time," Sam said without moving. "He doesn’t like new people."

"Neither do I," you murmured, and he snorted. "What?"

"Pretend with me all you want, but maybe do a bit of introspection there."

You crossed your arms with a pout. "You sound like my therapist."

"Mhm," Sam hummed, opening one eye to look at you. "You owe me fifty bucks for that."

"Fuck you."

"Oh, would you look at that, the price just went up."

He chuckled as you flipped him off and went to look for the coffee pot.

Of course, your way got blocked. The downsides of not hating having people around.

Bucky was leaning against the counter, considering you. "You go to therapy?"

"You should try it some time," you said distractedly, reaching around him to get your favorite mug. Bucky recoiled like he was afraid you’d burn him. You shook your head in annoyance. "Helps with the stink eye."

"Is that what they told you?"

"They told me I needed to process my grief, but I decided to focus on some more achievable goals." You took a sip of your coffee, sighing in comfort. "We came up with a compromise."

Bucky scoffed, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He still hadn’t taken his gloves off around you.

"Sounds like a way to drag it out," he said.

You frowned into your cup. "It’s not a race, Barnes. There’s no finish line for this shit."

Something odd went over his face, but he went back to avoiding your gaze when you tried to make it out. You knew him well enough by then to get the hint, and so you left him alone.

What was it to you if he didn’t want to warm up to you. That had no bearing on the fact that overall, your situation wasn’t all too bad anymore.

It was something, you supposed as you curled up in your spot on the couch with your book later that day, slipping in and out of time to keep your company a little longer because deep down, you knew you were sick of being alone.

It was weird and different, yes, but it was still something anyway. Something to do with your afternoons again.

A reason to get up in the morning.

*****

"What are you talking about?" Bucky asks quietly, carefully, but he makes no attempt to pull back from your embrace. It allows you to take another shuddering breath, inhaling his scent until it makes you dizzy.

The fact that you probably won’t be this close to him again any time soon makes you press into his chest even harder, hard enough to feel his heart flutter against your forehead, the shock of the situation making it pick up speed.

For a split second, you slip into a sort of vacuum, your thoughts quieting as he keeps mumbling to you, and in that blissful moment, your situation doesn’t seem quite so dire anymore, more like a bad dream. You’re safe now, aren’t you? How could you not be?

But then you blink back into reality again when Bucky sits you down on the closed lid of your toilet and slowly makes you let go of his shirt, kneeling down in front of you. The blue of his eyes is devastating, even though you have to keep blinking to keep him in focus.

You don’t want to have to do this, you realize once your gasps for air start calming again. You’re not sure if you can bear it.

But nothing in this loop has been about what you wanted.

And so your resolve is made, with your heart sinking until it’s hidden away deep, deep inside of your chest. You ball your hands into fists to keep your fingers from twitching.

Two or three times he watches you inhale, start to say something, halt before you can, almost choking on it. Like your body is refusing to go through with it.

"How do you know when I’m lying?" you finally ask, and your voice sounds oddly clear in your small bathroom.

Bucky’s face goes from concern to confusion, his frown deepening. You want to smoothe it away with your thumb.

You close your eyes so maybe the temptation goes away.

"What?" he asks, and he still sounds so damn gentle.

"I’ve never been able to lie to you," you say. "What’s my tell?"

You can feel him move away from you and the ache of it makes you look again. His shirt and his hands are covered in his own blood, and you’re sure there’s some fucking metaphor in the way it stains the golden inlets of his vibranium arm crimson but for the most part, you can’t unsee the damn irony of it all.

Because you’ve pissed him off now.

"You scared the shit out of me, Y/N. And Sam, too." There’s the sharpness in his voice you know all too well. You haven’t heard it in a while. "What the hell is going on?"

"I’m trapped in a time loop," you say, squeezing your fists more tightly. "I’ve been reliving this day for weeks, my powers aren’t working, I’m the only one who can stop time from completely collapsing, I can’t do that without my powers, and you’re gonna die later today. Am I lying?"

It’s maybe the worst way you’ve ever told him, because watching Bucky’s face change is almost too much. This is exactly why you’re doing it, though; as long as you’re going through this loop with a giant guilty knot in your stomach, you’re not going to make any progress. And you need to put an end to all of it.

So you meet his gaze, almost unwavering, and you don’t blink.

His shock bursts free as an incredulous laugh. "What?"

"I’m stuck," you say again, slower, nodding at his hands, his blood, continuing to push, "and you keep dying."

Bucky looks down, then, before his gaze falls back onto you and he sits back on his heels. The pause lasts for way too long, heavy and smelling of iron, and you’re pretty sure you’re suffocating. He only says one word, and it sounds so defeated. "How?"

You swallow heavily. "You got shot on a mission," you say, but he shakes his head, the fire returning to his eyes.

"No. How did you get stuck?"

"I …" You blink, because you’re not prepared for this question, because you can never predict what he’s going to say, because he keeps doing that to you, because somehow, and not like you’ve expected, you feel like you’ve been here before.

How did it happen? That’s not … Okay.

"It was an accident," you finally say, helplessly, defensively.

There’s a flicker of something in Bucky’s eyes. "What happened?"

"You died. You died that first time and I didn’t—I couldn’t …" You swallow the sob that threatens to shake your voice again. Damnit, you’re supposed to push him away.

He moves his arm, then hesitates, as if he wants to reach out to you but changes his mind at the very last moment.

Right. He doesn’t normally do that.

Except he has.

He has held your hand and pulled you closer and written on your arm and let you lean on him with the full weight of your body, as if to him, you weighed nothing at all. He’s been offering to carry your load so many times, and he doesn’t remember a single one of them.

"Please don’t look at me like that," you say tonelessly, watching Bucky retreat.

"Like what?"

"Like I’m gonna fall apart at any moment. And yes," you add when his mouth opens, "I—I know I just did, I’m aware of the irony, but this is exactly why I can’t keep telling you, I don’t—I can’t stand it." You press your wrists against your temples, ignoring the buzz of the whirling time symbols against your skin, the stinging in your eyes. "You shouldn’t even—I mean, are you even the slightest bit worried about yourself? Because I feel like I’m the only one here, and I should’ve just—"

You stop yourself, shaking your head. Your hands are very clammy all of a sudden, and when you tug at your rings just to do something, one of them slips off your finger and clangs against the tiles as if to punctuate the silence.

When you reach down, you move your wrist in a way that makes you hiss in pain and flinch back. Bucky’s eyes flit between your own and your hand, his frown deepening in a strangely soft way. "Did you break it?" he asks quietly.

"I’m fine," you mumble, and he looks at you disapprovingly. "You’d grabbed my hand just before …"

His jaw twitches as the blame settles in again, and you would do fucking anything to finally make him understand that none of this is his fault. That you should be in pain for what you’re putting him through.

"It should’ve been me," you tell him, because it’s true.

Even earlier in the week, you would’ve taken great delight in seeing Bucky Barnes’ face fall at something you’d said. Hell, you’d have probably enjoyed it on Thursday, because there used to be this easy sort of gratification that came from riling him up, from catching him off guard.

Seeing it now, though?

It makes your fingers twitch.

"Don’t say that. Not even as a joke."

"I’m not joking." You can feel your pulse in your ears. "They aimed a shot at me, and you pushed me out of the way, and you died. So by all accounts, if your instincts weren’t so damn noble all the time, it should’ve been me, and if I weren’t such a fucking coward, I’d have gone back and switched places with you weeks ago."

The thought terrifies you, even though it’s true. No part of you wants to go through the things Bucky is, but if someone gave you the choice between either one of you right now, you wouldn’t even have to think about it.

Maybe that’s the most terrifying thought of them all. You would die for him. Once, twice, however many times are necessary if that meant that he’s safe.

"I’d like to see you try," Bucky says, and something slams into your chest as an old familiar shiver runs down your spine.

There’s a pained edge to his gaze, contemplative and heartbreaking and …

"You’re doing it again," you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

"What am I doing?" His hand brushes your knee, and your skin is left searing.

You swallow heavily. "Being noble."

Bucky chuckles softly, and his eyes leave yours for just a moment. "Don’t exactly feel like that."

He’s beautiful.

It’s a new thought, despite everything. Even when you’ve noticed it before, you’d roll your eyes at the fact and move on, because this was Bucky. So what if his face was delectably handsome?

But it seems like you haven’t known it at all, because right now, you feel the knowledge of it, of him, surge through you with all its facets. You can’t even begin to put it into words, because where would you start? How do you explain what he makes you feel when he hasn’t been there himself, not in any way that matters or sticks? And if it’s never happened at all, if time keeps unraveling like this, how can it even be real?

So it’s pure instinct that makes you move, like someone would pinch themselves to ensure they’re not asleep, even though you’re very aware that this isn’t just a dream. You need to confirm that Bucky is real, though.

The air stands still when your fingertips trace along his cheekbone, leaving a delicate flush behind in their trail, barely touching and yet …

And yet.

His breath hitches when they dip lower, almost reaching the place you’ve watched dimple when he laughs, but he doesn’t move away. He doesn’t laugh, either.

There’s a scraping sound at the closed bathroom door, followed by a short knock. You flinch backwards.

"I’m leaving the first aid kit on the bed," Sam calls from the other side. "Just … holler if you need me."

"Thanks, Sam," Bucky says coarsely, and you can hear steps receding. The scratching continues, though. That damn cat.

Finally, he breaks eye contact, clearing his throat.

"Do you want me to help you clean up?"

You shake your head. You’re not sure you could stomach more of this. "I’m good, don’t … Don’t worry about it."

Bucky drags a hand through his hair, muttering something to himself you can’t quite make out. Slowly, he gets to his feet again.

"We need to come up with a plan," he says, and you want to cry except … you’re tired. Tired and sick of this.

"I need to come up with a plan," you correct him. "We have been trying to do this as a team for weeks, and it doesn’t change anything except waste time and …" And hurt. "I can’t do it anymore, Buck."

There must be something in your voice that thaws his defiant glare a little. "So what’s the plan?"

And with a sigh, you fill him in on everything that’s been going on with Strange and your powers. Again. One last time.

You have to do this alone.

Bucky ignores your insistence that you can manage just fine and sets your wrist while you talk. Alpine, now free to roam wherever she pleases again, has decided the bathroom isn’t quite that interesting after a short look inside, and is now taking a nap in the spot of sunshine next to your bed.

"New deal," he says once you’re done, once he’s thought about it all, and you raise your eyebrows. "Don’t do anything stupid."

"You know me," you smile, checking the makeshift dressing around your hand. The green symbols are hidden by the layers of gauze.

Bucky doesn’t bite. "I’m serious, just—don’t."

"How would you know?"

"I wouldn’t," he says, snapping the first aid kit shut so vehemently Alpine’s tail twitches. "But I trust you."

Your head whips up at his words, even though his back is still turned to you. He doesn’t see your face as your heart is jostled into a new rhythm, so violently and unexpectedly that you lift your hand without thinking, pinkie outstretched.

"Promise."

He smiles when he notices, and you wish you could take a picture to carry with you through the rest of this nightmare.

That day, he dies with your stupid nickname on his lips, twisted into something that looks strangely close to that earlier smile. This one doesn’t have time to reach his eyes, though.

***

There’s been a change in the weather.

Not literally, no; of course not literally. Fuck, you long for a single cloud, a raindrop, a damn hailstorm to break the streak of endless perfectly sunny days that don’t fit your mood in the slightest.

But there’s a tinge to the sky that makes your stomach turn. It’s not very obvious to anyone who hasn’t looked at the exact same sunset for weeks on end, just a single strip of color across a storybook horizon. It looks like a crack.

"Do you see that?" you ask warily when you notice it for the first time, ominous and yet almost completely hidden by the trees and the buildings. Just dancing around the edge of your vision like another mockery.

"What?" Sam asks, eyes not leaving the path ahead.

"That … thing in the sky. What is that?"

Bucky stops and squints at where you’re pointing. "It’s called a cloud," he says dryly.

"With that color?" you murmur, but continue walking when he stops to turn to you, your wrist tingling. His stare is searing your neck, but you ignore that, too.

The best course of action, you’ve learned, is to shut your brain off as soon as you get out of the quinjet and just go through the motions, trying to ride out the mission like you’ve done dozens of times before. There’s a sort of autopilot you’ve fallen into after a couple of days, and it’s the only thing keeping you somewhat sane. Most days, it means it’s all over quickly, and you can’t help but feel glad about that.

You’ve given up trying to change your own actions to get him through the day.

But this …

It’s something new, and in all this monotony, that thought is both frightening and exciting. It distracts you enough to get you off script.

"Lovely interior design," Sam mumbles like he always does.

"Remember how this was supposed to be a day off?" You kick one of the pebbles in your path with a sigh. "What happened to 'don’t worry, Y/N, after training the day is all yours'?"

"Occupational hazard," Sam says, checking his map for the thousandth time.

"You know what I mean."

"Don’t you have tomorrow off?" Bucky says over the intercom.

Tomorrow. "Right." It comes out somewhat strained, your fingernails digging into the palm of your hand. "And why do you know that?"

Sam shakes his head and there’s a brief crackle of static in your ear. For a fraction of a second, you nearly dare to hope Bucky will give you an answer, even though you have no clue what it would be.

"They’re heading your way now," he says instead, "so get a move on."

And just like that, you’re back on track.

Quickly clearing your throat of the lump that has formed there, you say tonelessly, "I probably only have one reset left. Two, if we’re lucky and you two aren’t being stupid again."

It’s taken you a while to get used to it. To the constant lying.

You’ve worn fingerless gloves on missions before, so that’s not raised any questions from the others yet, and your rings stay hidden away. You’ve been more reluctant to take them off since the one you lost on your bathroom floor vanished into thin air.

The other thing you’ve picked up on while endlessly repeating this day is that Bucky is less likely to catch you in a lie if he can’t see your face.

So you’ve made an effort of spending as little time as possible with him.

It’s surprisingly easy to stay in your room for the majority of the day, because he doesn’t remember it ever being any other way. Even today’s little exchange will be lost to the loop soon enough, just like that little pause he made, just like the bullet through his heart.

Still, when you wake up with a start on Friday, July 4th, you look at the sky first. Its perfect blue doesn’t soothe the sinking feeling in your stomach at all.

You’ve been waiting for something to change for weeks, and now that it’s here, you don’t like it at all.

"What did you expect?" Strange says with an infuriating composure once you’ve nervously recounted your experience. "I told you, time isn’t supposed to get stuck in this way. Of course your reality was going to act up sooner or later."

"I really feel like you should be more concerned about this," you mutter, letting a ball of green energy pass from your left hand to the right. It’s about the size of a quarter now.

"Honestly," Strange answers, "I thought something like this would have happened a while ago." He taps his fingers together. "Again. Slower."

"So what am I supposed to do then, just ignore it?" The green ball pulses with your indignation, turns around itself once and then sinks into your palm again.

"In all likelihood, it’s a one time glitch. If everything is back to normal today, I wouldn’t worry about it."

Your thumb rubs across the empty space on your finger. "Easy for you to say if you’re not the one who’s stuck in an endless hellscape."

"Aren’t I?"

You both roll your eyes at each other, but then you bite the inside of your cheek again, unable to shake the feeling of a whole new shade of dread. "What if it’s not just a one time glitch?"

The corners of Strange’s cloak roll up on themselves, and he doesn’t meet your eye when he says, "We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it."

It’s still early when you return to the present, too early for Bucky to be back from wherever he’s always going, so you decide to venture out of your room again, stretching your tired limbs. You’re pretty sure at this point that waking up on the floor is never going to feel fun.

Sam is in the kitchen as always, reading something on his laptop. He’s still sitting down, which means that it’s even earlier than you expected. You miss these early parts of the day, the calm before the storm.

If today were only made up of these few hours, you suppose, it might not be half so bad.

You pull up a chair next to him and lean a cheek against your hand. "What’re you doing?"

"Research." Sam sighs, rubbing his temples. "Remember that ULTIMATUM group?"

"Never heard of them," you say with a small yawn. "Is that an acronym? What does it stand for?"

Sam gives you a glare and your mouth twitches slightly.

"Anyway," he continues, turning his laptop so you can see the article he’s reading. "They’ve been more active again lately. Acquired a couple thousand dollars’ worth of lab equipment through one of their contacts and then went underground again."

Of course, you know all this. You’ve been over it again and again, back when you were all still trading information like it could save Bucky’s life. Like there was a deeper meaning behind any of this damn loop other than the fact that you, and you alone, fucked up.

Useless.

You close the mental door on those thoughts and take a deep breath. You hate to admit it, but all of this sitting around with your thoughts bullshit you’ve been doing has actually helped you to clear your head somewhat—if only to make it through the parts of the day you can’t avoid.

"And now what?" you ask, pretending to just have reacquainted yourself with the topic.

"Now," Sam says, taking his laptop with him as he stands up and strolls over to the kitchen island, "I’m waiting for Torres to get back to me so we can decide our next steps once we’re all recovered." He gives you a meaningful look and you scowl.

Then, slowly, his words register in your brain, and you stare at his back as he stretches and then moves to make some coffee, wordlessly taking one of your mugs out of the cupboard as well as his own.

"You don’t seem too worried," you say hesitantly.

Sam shrugs. "Until we have a proper lead, there’s not much we can do. And I doubt they’ll be doing any actual damage any time soon. They’re a lot more covert than the Flag Smashers ever were."

"Right," you say, more to yourself than in response.

"Try that again, less convincing?"

"I don’t know," you mutter, slowly following him to lean against the fridge. "Just … what if Torres did find something? Should I be getting ready?"

Sam frowns. "Are you not telling me something again?"

You try to shake the thought, pulling your arms around you. "Forget it."

You don’t, though.

It keeps bugging you, because that day like any other day, he knocks on your door at 4:32 on the dot, and you go on that mission anyway. And even though this has been happening for weeks, you’re just starting to suspect that you are, in fact, still not getting the whole picture.

***

Catching a glimpse of Sam’s phone turns out to be more difficult than you first thought.

You’re still trying to get the timing exactly right a couple of days later, and you miscalculate enough to catch Bucky on his way upstairs.

"Hey," he says, his shoulders tense when he looks at you. There’s a restlessness to him that he’s not quick enough to hide; or maybe you’ve just grown more perceptive when it comes to him.

"Hi," you say, crossing your hands behind your back. "Where’ve you been?"

He shrugs. "For a walk."

You already know he won’t elaborate if you try poking, so you don’t. "Was it good?"

"Lotta people." He hesitates when you continue to not meet his eye, and then he says, "Do you want to talk about it?"

You swallow, ignoring the tingling sensation on your wrist. "Not particularly. Do you?"

Bucky’s jaw twitches. "Nah."

Somehow, you feel like that’s also a lie. Once again, you’re left wondering.

The silence between you stretches as you continue to not quite look at each other, until you finally clear your throat, nodding at the front door. "I’m getting coffee, do you want something?"

Honestly, it’s just an excuse as to why you need to leave before he notices something off again somehow, but Bucky tilts his head in amusement.

"Didn’t you just get some this morning?"

"So? I like coffee."

"Really. I never knew."

"Screw you."

You can hear him huff behind you, but thankfully the door falls shut before you can do anything stupid. Like turning around to face him, for example.

You miss his eyes.

Why won’t you look at me?

When the elevator doors open, you almost yelp into your delivery guy’s face. He stumbles a half-step backwards, somehow managing to keep a hold of the boxes precariously balanced on his arm while he’s reading something on his phone.

"Oh my god," he lets out, "I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I was just …"

"Early." You blink.

"Sorry?"

"Nothing," you say, frowning only a little. "Wait, let me get that."

You quickly sign for the delivery and open the door with your keycard, holding it open for him. You’re not exactly afraid of burglars these days, and besides; you know this guy by now.

"If you could just go straight ahead and to the right, that’s where the kitchen is."

"Sure thing," he shrugs. "Thanks—"

His mouth snaps shut and he blushes a little as if he wanted to say something else but thought better of it.

You’ve introduced him to Sam enough times you know he’s going to be fine, so you just smile and wave him in.

When you step out on the street, you instinctually look up at the sky. It’s outrageously blue, blatantly perfect for an endless Friday, and even when you squint, you can’t make out any irregularities.

It’s a tiny relief, but a relief nontheless.

Lucy is leaning against the wall just out of sight of the storefront, an unlit cigarette dangling between her lips as she rummages through her pockets. Her colorful makeup has begun to melt off in the sweltering heat, making the red-white-and-blue stars on her cheeks bleed into each other to look somewhat purplish.

"Are you off or on break?" you call over.

She lifts her head, the glare vanishing when she recognizes you. "Counting the seconds," she says. "Don’t you have anything better to do?"

You sidestep a couple of pedestrians hurrying to cross the street and join her. "Not really."

"I hate you." She finally fishes a lighter out of her back pocket, sighing contentedly as she takes her first drag. "I swear, this day just won’t pass."

Fine. Maybe your chuckle is a little shrill. "I’m sorry."

Lucy waves you off with a gesture crude enough to make a young dad with a stroller send the two of you a dirty look. "You without your shadow today?" she asks, inspecting her nails.

You blink. "My shadow."

"You know. Your friend who’s been in here eight thousand times and still gets confused when he orders." A cloud of smoke vanishes into thin air. "Kind of the lingering type, isn’t he?"

"He’s old," you say, because for some reason nothing else comes to mind.

"Not that old."

"No," you agree, "not that old."

For a moment, you’re afraid she’s going to ask you to pass her number along to him, and you’re already scrambling to find an answer somewhere in the depths of your brain, coming up empty. That’s the problem with being able to unhave entire conversations; you don’t usually really have to deal with reactions if you don’t want to.

Without your powers, though, you’re stuck, and it’s making you wish you hadn’t come here at all.

Instead of any of that, she pulls a flyer out of her other pocket. "Sorin and Cass are doing a gig in Brooklyn next week, do you wanna come with? They’re still terrible, but they got a new bassist who seems alright."

You take the flyer, staring at it. "I didn’t know they’re in a band," you admit.

The truth is, you’ve never paid that much close attention to the people you work with. Maybe that’s been a mistake.

Lucy shrugs. "You’re always doing your own thing." It stings, even though you’re pretty sure she doesn’t mean for it to. "It’d be fun if you came, though."

"I’ll think about it," you say, and your smile is a little unsure, but genuine.

So is hers.

"If you don’t want to hang with us all night, you can bring some friends, too." Her emphasis hangs in the air between you like a dare.

You snort. "I feel like this isn’t quite their scene."

"You feel like or you know?"

"Isn’t that the same thing?"

"No." She puts her cigarette out on the wall behind her. "Knowledge is based on experience. On memories. Your feelings don’t sit in your head. And so they don’t make sense and they’re not necessarily true." She winks.

"You’re weirdly smart," you say, shaking your head.

"I know. It’s a curse." Lucy sighs. "Anyway, think about it. I gotta get back to hell."

"You know," you say with a grin, "I could really do with a frappuccino right about now."

"You know what you could do?" she answers in her sweetest customer service voice, pointing you down the street. "Get in a trash can."

Damnit. You might actually grow to like Lucy.

She taps her fingers against her temple and then shuffles back inside, a hot rush of air blowing out of the AC as the door opens. You fold the flyer up to fit into your back pocket, hoping you’ll make it to that concert one day, and then you walk on, aimless again for the moment.

***

Time passes while it’s standing still.

The problem is, at least for the moment, that by all appearances you’ve reverted back to square one. Going through your day as though any of this is even remotely normal, counting the hours and minutes to reenter the astral plane and feel some semblance of control again.

It’s been nice, really, if you’re ignoring the constant underlying feeling of dread.

Which you’re getting better at.

You wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume.

Rinse and repeat.

You wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume.

Even on days when you’re sure you’re making progress with your powers, every reset makes it just a little harder to keep dragging yourself onwards.

You wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume.

"You look like shit."

Your head rolls to the side slowly, allowing yourself a glance while Bucky is still distracted with his arm. Concentration makes his brows knit, and something warm spreads in your chest.

"I’m so tired," you say, voice barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t look at you, but you’re grateful for it for once. Your eyes are stinging a little.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Yes. Yes. Yes.

"Not particularly."

"Do you want to talk about something else?"

You almost smile. "Like what?"

Bucky shrugs with one shoulder. "Like the fact that you just planted Sam into the mat head-first and yet made a face like you killed a puppy?"

Sometimes you wonder how he still manages to slip in without you noticing, no matter how many times he does it.

"Did I?"

"Did you kill a puppy? I’d hope not."

Your body’s been getting stronger, anticipating Sam’s every move. At this point, it’s not so much training as it is an exercise in muscle memory; but how would he know that?

It still isn’t enough. It’s never enough.

You pitiful, selfish, useless bastard.

"You’re doing it again," Bucky says and you blink.

"Doing what?"

"I don’t know, but I don’t like it."

Something inside you twinges uncomfortably and you wrap your arms around your knees, pulling them into your chest. "That might just be me, period."

Bucky huffs. "Take the towel on the right," he says. "I already used the other one."

So you do.

And then you wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume, and then you wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume, and then you wake up with blah, blah, blah.

"I can’t do this anymore."

Strange watches you, but you don’t get up from where you’re lying, blankly staring at the ceiling, feeling like your chest is about to explode.

You don’t want to feel like something is tearing you apart every single time, even though you know it’s not permanent. There’s always the tiniest glimmer of hope that this will all be over soon.

Or maybe it’s dread.

"Maybe you can’t," Strange answers.

You blink, sitting upright. "What?"

"Maybe you are actually incapable of cleaning up your own mess. You’ve never had any training before, after all. Maybe you’re too weak."

Useless. Not good enough. Waste of time.

"If this is reverse psychology, it’s not working," you say through gritted teeth, pressing your eyes shut so tightly they don’t burn anymore.

Strange ignores you. "Maybe you’re going to be stuck in this loop forever. If that’s the case, there’s no point to keep trying either. Maybe we should just call it a day."

You can feel your breaths coming in shorter.

"Maybe you’re just going to keep failing to save anyone for the rest of your life."

"Stop it!"

An explosion of power goes through your body, bouncing off the walls and bathing the room in a ghostly green light. You cough and curl into yourself as you watch it billow, still echoing the words back at you, "too weak", "stuck in this loop forever". Your bones are heavy with exhaustion.

Strange crouches down next to you and a cup of fragrant tea draws itself up to the side of your face.

"You’re drawing the bulk of your power from pain. From a desire to fix things that you think you alone are responsible for when the truth is that each and every one of us is constantly creating reality."

"Fuck you," you mumble. When you sit up, your head is still swimming.

"You cannot keep this up."

"If I’m such a lost case, then why do you bother?"

"I’m trying to tell you that you’re not." He points at the walls, still covered by that greenish fog. "This is the strongest display of your powers I’ve seen from you yet, and it only happened because you were lashing out. Pain is not a sustainable source of energy. Imagine what you could do if you could be in control."

Do as I tell you.

"There’s no way to control my powers on a larger scale. It’s impossible."

"You keep telling me that, and yet you keep coming back. Why?"

You push yourself up to your elbows, wiping at your face. "Because I have to hope, right?"

"And there it is."

You take a sip of your tea and some feeling returns to your translucent fingers. Strange’s cloak draws itself around your shoulders.

The wizard himself stays quiet for another minute or two, before he asks, "Why do you think I’m talking to you right now? Helping you, even, nevermind your constant whining and your insistence that this won’t work, after you’ve spent your whole life running away from anything resembling actual responsibilities."

"I didn’t—"

"Answer the question."

"Because I created a time loop?" you guess.

"But you already know that this loop is just one point on the timeline. A single day, repeated endlessly, but going exactly like it was always supposed to, once resolved. So, without the time stone and my privileges as the Sorcerer Supreme, and with your protections still in place, how would I have found you?"

He knew exactly where and when to look for you. But he’s right, that shouldn’t even have been possible unless …

"I came to you," you realize. "Or, I will, once I get out of this." The relief that washes over you makes you want to sob. "So there is a way out?"

"Of course there is," he says, surprisingly gently. "Time isn’t supposed to get stuck."

You sit with that for a minute, hiding your face in your hands as Strange stays silent. Finally, you take a deep breath and look at him again with newly sharp focus.

"So why don’t you just tell me how to do it?"

He raises an eyebrow. "You know that’s not how it works."

"Yes. It is. It’s literally what I do all the time."

"What you do is leaving realities you don’t like by turning backwards."

"That’s not true."

"Just because your motivations aren’t entirely selfish doesn’t mean you’re right."

You’re so damn exhausted. The frustration of this whole thing is really starting to scratch at your sanity, and there’s an ache in your chest as you stare at your own sleeping face, biting the inside of your cheek, thinking.

Strange snaps his fingers to get your attention back.

"I’m not a mind reader," he says. "Out with it."

"I want to see him," you say, getting up. The cloak flaps around you in a very satisfying way. "Bucky. It’s early this morning, right? Just before the loop starts again. That means he’s upstairs."

"And what’s seeing him going to do?"

You ignore him and walk towards the door, reaching for the handle. Your hand goes right through it. You try it several more times, to no avail.

"Heaven help me," Strange mutters behind you.

Shutting your eyes, you take a deep breath. The circle of green tingles around your wrist.

Then, you walk through the closed door.

You fully expect to crash into the wood head first, but instead you feel the door moving through your noncorporeal form, and then you’re standing on the other side.

With a startled hum, you turn left, not waiting to see if you’re being followed.

You only hesitate in front of Bucky’s bedroom door. You’ve never actually been inside his room since he’s moved in; well, apart from that time he patched up your feet and you woke up in the astral plane for the first time. It feels odd to consider entering without him actually being aware of it.

Then again, there’s quite a few things at this point that he’s unaware of.

Before you can make up your mind, the door swings open just a little, and you automatically take a step back. Alpine sleepily slinks through the gap and trots off in the direction you came from, probably to sit in the kitchen and mope until FRIDAY activates the food dispenser again. On the stairs, she passes Strange who raises an eyebrow at you.

"Changed your mind?"

You glance into the room.

At first, you can’t find him. The bedding looks untouched, and there’s a brief flurry of panic that makes you step inside before you can keep questioning yourself.

Bucky is lying on the floor next to the bed, his hands balled tightly into an old throw blanket. It’s haphazardly draped across his torso, like he’s been trying to wriggle free during the night. He grimaces in his sleep.

Try the floor.

You can’t help but wonder when he’s last tried the bed.

"Can he hear us?" you ask quietly, not needing to look over your shoulder as you sink to the floor next to Bucky.

"No," Strange says. "Not until you put in a lot more work."

"Would he remember if I did?"

"I don’t know."

You do look back at him, then. "You know, considering your position you don’t know a whole lot of things."

You concentrate on your own hand until you’re starting to feel cool metal underneath your fingertips, ignoring the throbbing of your head. Carefully, you touch the crease between his brows, smoothing it out tenderly.

Bucky sighs a little in his sleep, but doesn’t stir. Doesn’t stop quietly murmuring in his dreams.

"You feel better?" Strange asks.

"Not really." You’ve already reached out to him without it having any repercussions too many times. "But that wasn’t the point."

"What was?"

"Just …"

Comfort. He brings you comfort, even when he doesn’t know it. It’s the same reason you keep waiting for him to arrive in the gym in the mornings, even though you could probably hurry up and miss him.

Even if the loop never ends, it’s still good to see that it’s bringing him back like it’s supposed to.

How incredibly selfish, you think as you continue looking at Bucky and letting a quiet, hesitant wash of calm come over you.

And then, all of a sudden, his eyes open.

You flinch backwards, but even though you’re almost face to face, he seems to stare right through you, his breaths heavy.

"Did I do something?" you say quietly.

"No," Strange answers. "This is just when he wakes up."

You watch as Bucky drags a hand over his face and then gets up with a determined tick in his jaw, grabbing a notebook from the nightstand. He scribbles something down, hastily, like it’s threatening to get away from him if he doesn’t hurry. You don’t have to read it to know it has something to do with what he’s seen in his sleep.

When the words stop flowing, he sits on the edge of the bed for a minute longer, but the tension doesn’t leave his shoulders. Finally, he rolls his left arm a few times before pulling on a shirt and his running shoes.

He always goes for a run in the morning. You’ve made fun of him for it before, but you hadn’t put together that while Strange was trying to get you to clear your own head through sitting still, Bucky might be doing the exact opposite to get the same result.

The door clicks shut.

"Are we done with the spying, then?" Strange says.

"No need to get weird about it," you mumble and take his outstretched hand.

***

Something changes once you know that your situation actually has an end date, even though Strange either cannot or will not tell you how many more loops you’re going to have to go through until then. Even so, there’s a new assurance to your every step again, a determination grown from the knowledge that all this isn’t for nothing. That there is an out.

You can cling to that.

"What would you do if you were stuck in a time loop?" you ask, letting your legs dangle over the ledge of the roof.

"Ew, no," Lucy replies, shaking the few remaining ice cubes in her cup emphatically. "My shift was long enough as is, and I’ve been looking forward to my Sunday off all week."

"Fair point," you concede.

It’s early afternoon then, and you’ve found a quiet spot on the top of the Tower. If Lucy was at all confused why you’d shown up at the store right when she clocked out and asked her to hang out, she’s not showing it. Over the past couple of loops, you’ve learned that she really likes to go with the flow, and you appreciate that.

"If it’s not today, though," she continues, like she’s thinking aloud. "Imagine the books you could read. You could try out all that stuff that you say you want to do, and then you never have the time to actually do them."

It’s a good thought, but a lack of time has never really been an issue for you. "Nothing you do would really stick, though."

She squints against the sun. "You realize that’s a pro, right? No consequences whatsoever. I could cut my bangs again and they’d be gone the next day."

"You used to have bangs?"

"Never, and I’m willing to state that in a court of law."

You smile and lean back on your elbows. "If something good happened, that’d be gone, too, though. You don’t get to keep that, either."

"Yeah," Lucy says thoughtfully. "I’d still remember it though, right? It still happened. I could make it happen again."

"Maybe." Your thumb scratches the empty space on your pinkie. Even though you’ve turned your entire bathroom upside down, your ring is still gone, like it just up and disappeared from this reality. You can’t help but wonder if that rift in the sky from a few todays ago has anything to do with that.

"What about you?"

"Hm?"

Lucy takes another slurping sip from her almost empty cup. "What would you do in a time loop?"

You can’t help but laugh. "I’d try to keep making the good things happen, I guess."

"Sounds like a lot of work."

It is.

"Are you out of your damn mind?" someone shouts behind you. "It’s in the fricking nineties today and you’re baking?"

"Technically, we are baking," you say, nodding at Lucy and leaning back further so you can look at Sam upside down. "And we’re baking for you."

"Hi, cap," Lucy says, pulling her sunglasses off.

"Hey." Sam crosses his arms and fixes you with a very cap-like glare. "Why are you baking for me."

"Y/N said it’s for your birthday."

"My—" He cuts himself off, rubbing his temples. "My birthday’s in September."

"Whoops," you say, your grin just believable enough. "My bad, cap."

"You’re not funny," Sam says, "I hope you know that."

You know.

Of course, today isn’t actually his birthday, not even if time were allowed to pass normally. It is day forty-fucking-nine of the loop, though, which makes it your fiftieth time living through this crap and frankly, you all deserve some damn pie.

It’s not going to make a difference in the long run, of course, and yet you can’t help but feel like keeping count of those little markers of time helps to hold your head above water. Making the good things happen, even if they don’t change a thing and no one but you is going to remember.

So you simply say, "It’s turtle pie," because you know that it’s Sam’s favorite. "Hey, what’s the time?"

"Oh, it better be," he says, holding his phone up for you to read and then marching out of your field of vision.

Sadly, you’re just about a minute early.

"He could’ve stayed," Lucy says when you let out a frustrated huff.

"He has that thing at the Garden," you tell her distractedly, taking a mental note to stall Sam a little longer next time.

"There you are."

You flinch at the sound of Bucky’s voice, barely daring to move your head when he sits next to you, his back to the brink.

He never comes up here. That’s the whole point.

"Hi?" you say carefully, and a grin tugs at his mouth.

"Not you," he says, nodding to the ground in front of him.

You turn around fully to find Alpine taking a nap just a few feet behind you, her snowy tail wrapped around a flower pot.

You let out a relieved breath and ignore the small sting in your chest. Of course he’s not up here because of you. Why would he be?

"Gee, thanks," you murmur, quietly shifting around so your hands are hidden underneath your legs. "You sure know how to charm the ladies."

You glance back at Lucy, but she’s looking at her phone, her eyes once again indecipherable behind the large sunglasses.

Bucky raises an eyebrow. "Think you could handle my charm, Y/L/N?"

He might has well have doused you in a bucket of ice water. You’re suddenly very aware of every single cell in your body, and you don’t like the challenge sparkling in his eyes.

So you do what you always do and you block it out. Dismiss and distract.

"Does Alpine seem weird to you?"

He tilts his head, his jaw tight. "Weird how?"

"I don’t know," you say, staring at her. "She’s just been acting … odd, lately. Today, I mean."

And following you around in a way you’re pretty sure she’s never done before. Not before the loop, at least.

Bucky sighs. "Did you make her scratch you again? Because I’ve told you before that I’m not getting rid of her for enforcing her boundaries."

"First of all, I never make her scratch me, she does that well enough on her own."

"That’s victim blaming," Lucy says without looking up. Bucky snorts and you almost roll your eyes.

"Second of all, she’s up to something. I know it."

"Oh, yes," Bucky says dryly just as Alpine makes a small noise in her dreams, her nose twitching. "That’s the embodiment of evil right there."

"I don’t trust her," you mutter.

"And yet the cat’s the weird one."

"I hate you," you mumble, standing up. "I’m gonna go check on the pie."

"There’s pie?" Bucky says.

"Not for you!"

You turn at the door to see Lucy leaning in to show Bucky something on her phone; the frown has disappeared from his face, his shoulders relaxed. If he’d pull off his glove right now, it’d almost be like sitting in a park.

That’s good, you tell yourself as the door slams shut behind you with a bit too much gusto. Reminds you that there’s nothing special about you in particular, which is much needed, really.

Can’t wait to punch that one out of your system later.

Again and again and again and a—

"Whoa, whoa, you alright?"

You blink. Riff slumps to the ground in front of you, body limp.

Bucky stares at you in concern, his hand still on your shoulder. His lip has split open and there’s the usual bruise already forming on his cheekbone. You can’t help it. Your gaze is drawn down, your breathing shallow.

You screw your eyes shut to snap yourself out of it, but when you open them again, Bucky hasn’t moved an inch.

"Never better," you whisper, and for a split second, you almost believe it yourself.

Liar, liar, liar.

***

At least, you suppose, reality seems considerably less broken these days. No more cracks in the sky.

You get your wake-up call when you wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY …

"… FRIDAY?" you say into the silence of your room, your heart pounding wildly. This cannot be happening. Not now.

Not yet.

He got shot again yesterday.

A pleasant jingling sound rings out. "Good morning, Ms. Y/L/N."

You look at the clock on the wall. Ten to eight, just like every morning. "What day is it?"

"Today is Friday, July 4th."

You can taste bile in your mouth despite your relief. There’s an impatient thrum to the symbols around your wrist, like a noose that’s tightening.

What did you expect?

"Rise and shine, McFly! Time to get your ass kicked!"

"Didn’t you set FRIDAY to wake me?" you ask Sam as you’re climbing the stairs, nerves on edge.

He looks at you weirdly. "I did. You’re up, aren’t you?"

You bite the inside of your cheek. "Didn’t sleep well."

That much, at least, is still true. Full nights of sleep are a long distant memory from before constant back-to-back repetitions. The only time your body shuts off is when you manage to sleep for a little bit in between your astral visits and the mission call.

"I hope you don’t think that’s an excuse," Sam says, bumping your shoulder, and you manage a tired grin.

"You wish."

Today, you let him win, even though your ankle makes an odd crack when you land on the mat. You’ll take care of it later.

"You look like shit."

Grief and relief, you’ve learned, both taste like salt and iron, but the latter is so much easier to swallow.

"That makes two of us," you say, sitting up slowly. "How was your run?"

"Good," Bucky says, putting the cloth away and stretching his fingers out. They catch a ray of sunlight. "What’s wrong with you?"

Not this again.

"Later, okay?" you answer, because that’s not a lie. "Let’s just … not, right now?"

"Alright," he says.

And, oh, you want to tell him again. Because he doesn’t press it. Because you miss having someone to share things with. Because you miss telling him the whole truth. Because you’re scared, and tired, and sick of losing him.

But those are egotistic thoughts, and so you keep them all to yourself and take the towel on the right.

There’s one good thing about this today. You make it to the living room just in time to finally catch a glimpse of Sam’s phone right when it pings with Torres’ message.

I can check it out on Monday if you’d like.

That’s it. No urgency, weirdly proper spelling, not even an exclamation mark.

In other words, you’re not sure what you expected but you’re no closer to answers than before.

"What does it matter?" Strange sighs when you tell him all of this with a frown.

"It matters," you reply, "because if we hadn’t gone on the mission, Bucky wouldn’t have died that first time and none of this would’ve happened."

"So what?" he says. "It’s already done."

"But if I could prevent it—"

"It already happened."

"I can make it not happen."

"You and what powers?" Strange says sharply. "Even if you did that, it wouldn’t stop the loop."

"How do you know that?"

"Because you’ve already seen first-hand that it’s bound to you and your powers, not to whatever you do or don’t do during the day. Karma is a fairy tale for those who don’t want to take responsibility for their actions."

"Do you really still think this is me not taking responsibility?" There’s a green flare that goes through you, hot and seething and making goosebumps crawl down your arms.

Strange smiles at the sight. "Let’s find out."

He extends his arms and slowly opens his fists until orange symbols dance across his shaky fingers. The band around your wrist prickles at the weight of his magic flooding the air.

Strange’s cloak nudges you towards the center of the room and your heart gives a heavy thud. "What, right now?"

"Would you prefer being stuck for a couple weeks more?"

"Of course not it’s just—I don’t feel ready."

"No one ever feels ready until they try."

And maybe it’s because it reminds you of something Steve once said, but it makes you step up, falling into the stance you’ve practiced over and over again. You breathe in deeply and close your eyes.

The pull comes easier now. Your powers have just been resting, nestled somewhere deep inside your bones like glowing embers, waiting for you to call upon them.

When you look at your open palm, the green wisps of your powers have curled up to the size of a ping-pong ball. You take another steadying breath and let it glide to the tips of your fingers, carefully letting it balance itself out for a second before moving your other hand.

"Good," you can hear Strange say quietly.

Slowly, carefully, you let the threads untangle until they’re just about to touch the green band circling around your wrist. You can feel the electric tingle of it, the soft beat of each passing second contained within, and you push past it.

You’ve done this before, so you’re not surprised when you feel the energy drain from your body almost immediately. Up until now, though, it’s just been trial and error, not expecting anything to happen. This time, you have Strange’s magic feeding some of his strength into you as well, and so instead of hesitating, you press on, your heartbeat speeding up.

The band around your wrist does the same.

"Don’t lose your focus." Strange’s voice sounds very far away, almost warped.

Very funny, you might have said, but you’re too busy watching it all unfold.

The whirring inside of your head grows louder as the circlet of time keeps rotating with accelerating speed, faster and faster until your eyes start tearing up and there’s something that looks almost like a crack.

You gasp quietly. At first, you think you might have just imagined it, but then the split starts growing, the symbols growing farther and farther apart as the band itself keeps spinning. Your pulse is beating in your ears. Your wrist feels like it’s being set on fire.

There are voices, then, quiet and fast, like you’re watching a sped up movie, music and noises and chatter and birdsong and a whooshing sound like something flipping right past you. Then, something like distant shots.

I’m getting Bucky out of this, you think as the green band continues rotating until suddenly, there is a shockwave of green light that takes up your entire field of vision.

You close your stinging eyes, keeping your feet firmly planted on the floor as your powers rush through you once more and then, with a shudder, settle down again, exhausted. The glare subsides. Something like a trickle of sweat runs down your noncorporeal neck.

"Did it work?" you ask, your voice rough, not daring to look for yourself. There’s no answer, though. "Doc?"

Slowly, your eyes readjust to the gloomy darkness of your room in the astral realm. The only source of light is the glowing green band continuing to circle around your wrist, the rifts stabilizing again like it’s clicking back into place.

You swear under your breath and turn around to ask what went wrong, but Strange is no longer standing beside you.

You’re all alone.

***

Three, two, one—

"Iced grande extra whip caramel macchia—shit!"

You catch the plastic cup before it drops onto the suit of the business man standing in line in front of you. "Here you go, sir."

He grabs his drink with a grunt and hurries back outside. One of these days, you might ask him why he’s in such a hurry, but it’s not today.

You’ve grown to adore the noise of the pre-noon rush. The cacophany of the whirring machines, the AC and the people is just loud enough to make your head calm down a little. Besides, being alone in a crowd has never been easier than when you know for a fact they are not going to remember you.

The drinks are starting to pile up at the hand-out, and because you feel bad for your colleagues, you start handing them out to people. You’ve been here a lot, after all.

"Tall hazelnut latte for Misty!"

Plus, it helps to keep your mind from wandering back to everything that’s going wrong.

Strange still hasn’t returned.

The astral dimension feels different when you return the day after your experiment, like someone’s been pulling invisible strings to make everything just slightly more disordered and dark.

It’s cold, too. You watch your body shiver in her sleep as you wrap your arms around yourself. The books are still there, shimmering slightly with the magic they contain.

"Doc?" you call out, and the vibrations of this place hum it back at you. There’s no answer.

The book at the top of the pile is still opened to a page, as if it’d just been left a moment ago, and you pick it up. The words glide around like they are looking to jump back into an inkpot, and you have to squint to make out any of them.

Incursion, the section header reads. Result of a contraction in a universe’s timeline. Can cause premature disintegration or collapse of any one reality within the multiverse.

"Just great," you say, slapping the book shut again. "I get it, alright? You can come out now."

But there’s no sound apart from your own heartbeat.

Your noncorporeal head is swimming with pressure as you pass through the closed door and into the hallway. The walls seem larger than usual, the stairs warping ever so slightly underneath your feet so that you can’t look at them for too long without feeling seasick.

Upstairs, the air doesn’t feel quite as heavy. The silence follows you, though, lingering in the grayish morning shadows like the remnants of a nightmare.

Bucky still mumbles in his.

You can’t make out what he is saying, and you wouldn’t have understood the words, anyway, but there’s sweat on his brow again. His fingers are tightly clutching the thin throw blanket like it’s shielding him from whatever he’s seeing in his dreams.

You take a step closer to him, desperate to do something, anything, when you notice movement out of the corner of your eye.

Alpine is perched on top of the bed, complacently tucked into herself on one of the fluffed up white pillows like it’s really her room, not Bucky’s.

And she’s staring right at you.

You take a step to the side, then another. Alpine tilts her head, her large eyes fixed on you. They follow your gestures as you wave your hand.

A quick glance tells you that Bucky is still sleeping. You take a deep breath and conjure up a small dot of bright green light, letting it dance across your fingertips. Alpine uncurls herself in interest, her tail twitching.

"You can see me," you whisper, and the little spec of your power disappears.

The cat meows in disappointment.

Carefully, you move closer to the bed, reaching out your translucent hand until you place it on Alpine’s head.

She rubs against your palm.

You chuckle incredulously, scratching behind her ears. "You little devil."

Alpine seems particularly pleased with herself. She starts purring.

This is simply bizarre, you think as you continue petting her soft fur. You’re expecting a sarcastic comment from behind your shoulder any minute now, but it doesn’t come.

So, you lower yourself down on the floor next to Bucky, the tips of your fingers not quite grazing his arm as you swallow heavily.

And then you wait until he gets up.

It’s possible, you think as you watch him leave and then make yourself wake up too, that Strange is simply messing with you for the hell of it. You don’t like the timing of this, though. Your day still continues on and on and on, like it always does, but it seems just a little too pointed that this would happen right after you had your first hopes of getting out of here in a long time.

It doesn’t help that the reality glitches have decided to return with a vengeance.

Every day is still July 4th. You wake up with a start, you train, you get coffee, you fight over lunch, you take your astral visit, you go on that damn mission. It’s the details that start to get … fuzzy.

In the beginning, every single thing around you was the exact same every single day. Now, though, there are sometimes details that are just wrong. A different mug left on the drying rack. A mess all over the tables in the lab. Weird noises all over the Tower.

You don’t know what to make of any of it, and so in general, you follow Strange’s rule of thumb and simply ignore the things that are wrong one day and then right the next—which, thankfully, is all of them. You just go with it, telling yourself that this is simply reality malfunctioning a little, like a machine that needs oiling.

Weirdly enough, that doesn’t reassure you in the slightest.

But what else can you do?

You lose a few hours here and there, time seemingly speeding up at random sometimes now. One morning, Bucky isn’t in the gym like he usually is, and you work yourself up over it so much you nearly have a panic attack. In the end, you almost crash into him outside of his room, and a rush of reassurance floods through you with such force you can’t even look at him.

That time, Sam is there when Bucky gets shot, and it’s his cry that follows you into the next day. Your hands are clean this time, and somehow that feels worse.

Everyone’s back to their usual stuff again, and that’s that.

Another time, you’ve barely rolled out of bed and into your bathroom—"Rise and shine, McFly!"—when you’re suddenly jolted forwards and you wake up with a start to the sun in your face and FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume. Your stomach feels like it’s still turning, nauseous, as if you’d sat up too fast.

That feeling still leaves a bad taste in your mouth, sticking to the back of your mind like the blood you haven’t even had time to wash off.

The thing that demands most of your attention, though, is the pile of books waiting for you in the astral realm. Since you don’t have any control over the loop itself, you pour all of your energy into trying to understand the theory behind your powers. It’s giving you a constant headache, and it takes a lot longer than you would like to admit, but at least you feel like you’re doing something that’ll last.

Nothing else will.

There’s one last lonely cup sat on the counter next to your own, which signals that the rush is over for now. You can see Lucy wiping her forehead as you wave your goodbye, picking up both drinks on your way out and handing one of them to the guy just hurrying back downstairs.

"Here you go," you say without stopping, glancing at your phone. You haven’t stayed this late before.

"What the—" you hear behind you, just before the doors glide open and you’re greeted by the sound of traffic and a hot breeze of air.

If you’re lucky, you can make it back to your room without anyone seeing you. You’ve moved on to a particularly hefty tome about relativity, and you’d like to—

"Hey! Miss? Hold on a second!"

You look over your shoulder to see the delivery guy has run after you, cup still in his hand. His bike is leaned against a lamp post nearby, his cap dangling off one of the handles.

You found out a couple of weeks ago that he takes his break just after dropping off your order, but you don’t usually make eye contact anymore.

Now, he holds out his cup accusingly. "That’s my drink."

You smile. "Good for you."

"No. No, that’s not—I mean—how did you know it was my drink?"

And because nothing really matters and you really want to go home, you say, "It has your name on it, doesn’t it?"

You expect him to look at you with wide eyes, just like people normally do when you know things you’re not supposed to. His mouth will drop open, speechless, his frown will deepen, and you can wink at him and continue on your way so he can spend the next couple of hours wondering what just happened.

The cup falls out of his hand, but somehow he manages to catch it before it hits the sidewalk. When he looks up at you again, and his expression is unlike anything you’ve seen coming.

"But that’s not …" he says quietly. "Do you remember me?"

And then it’s you who’s speechless, because the shock on Peter Parker’s face is more than you bargained for.

*****

"Honestly, I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this," you said quietly, looking over the rim of your glass at the crowd.

"You complaining?" you heard Sam’s voice say over the little earpiece you were wearing.

"Not at all."

Apparently, people connected to terrorist organizations threw incredibly fancy parties.

You hadn’t felt this glamorous in a while, if ever, dressed up to the nines in a dark green jumpsuit with an incredibly flattering cut that you’d never had a reason to wear before. Despite your initial doubts about this whole thing, you felt great, for the first time in way too long.

"Are you gonna move any time soon?"

Well. Mostly.

At least Barnes cleaned up nice, you supposed; it almost made up for his grouchy demeanor.

With a sigh, you downed the rest of your drink and got back to work. You let the crowd swallow you up, seemingly on your way to the restrooms, and then you stopped it all to slip upstairs unnoticed by prying eyes and cameras.

You didn’t hold it for very long; you had to rattle some doors, after all, and despite your espresso martini, it was still hard to tell if you could manage several redos back to back. After all, you’d only been back in the game for a couple of weeks.

It took you a few tries to find the right office, and locating the files was comparatively easy with what you already had access to. There it was, proof that ULTIMATUM had managed to secure most of the Flag Smashers’ previous supporters as well as some high brow weapon dealers.

While you copied everything onto a flashdrive, your eyes caught one of the designs. You frowned.

Even though you couldn’t pinpoint what it was, exactly, something about it seemed just slightly too highbrow for an organization of the international bad egg committee that was supposedly still mostly underground. Your gaze started drifting through the rest of the office, noting the usual boring books and glass awards in the bookshelves on the far wall. You pulled open one of the desk drawers.

"You almost done in here?"

"Fuck!" You slammed the drawer shut again, getting your pinkie stuck in the process. "Damnit, where did you come from?"

Bucky pointed over his shoulder.

"Fuck me," you murmured, your eyes stinging at the pain.

Bucky looked nonplussed. "Can’t you just undo it?"

"Great input, thank you." The flashdrive beeped softly and you shut everything down again. At least you were definitely sober now. "What are you, anyway, my babysitter?"

"Wouldn’t have to be if you could check in on time," he answered, checking the corridors, then nodding for you to follow.

"Time’s a social construct," you murmured, but followed him, the flashdrive hidden in your fist.

You didn’t even make it to the staircase.

"Didn’t I tell you?" a voice said right before several triggers clicked and you both froze. "I knew I’d recognized that arm. And who do you have with you here, Winter Soldier?"

No one, you thought, and then you yanked time backwards so forcefully you stumbled into the desk, your heart still racing. The copy sat at 57%.

You felt almost seasick with the rewind, but there wasn’t any time. "Keep going upstairs," you said into your earpiece.

"What?" Bucky said.

"I’m fine. Don’t come get me. Just keep going," you gritted through your teeth, trying to calm your breaths. 70%.

"Exit plan C, then," Sam said.

Bucky didn’t answer. You looked at your hands. There was a slight tremor to them, but nothing too bad. If you could get the nausea under control, you could probably make it past the cameras one more time.

You should’ve eaten more.

As soon as the flashdrive was done, you ripped it out and forced everything to a halt again. Your palms were sweaty as you hurried out of the office and in the direction of the staircase, your lungs burning. This didn’t feel like a good sign.

You stumbled over your damn heels and the noise returned for that moment you lost your concentration.

Not good enough.

Sweat pearled on your forehead as you and the universe held your breath again. You could feel your hold slipping with every second that wasn’t allowed to pass. Time was impatient with you.

A small crowd had assembled at the bottom of the stairs. As you closed in on them, you felt a jolt go through you and suddenly found yourself surrounded by people as time attempted to right itself again. Your nails dug into the skin of your palm so hard you could feel yourself draw blood.

It went quiet again and you moved through them, almost blindly. Everything seemed to be spinning.

Behind your shoulder, you could hear several people talking, interrupted only by the world stopping around them every now and then.

"—d’you—see that—"

"—could’ve—sworn there—”

And with time stumbling and flailing around in confusion, you made it out of the building and into the waiting cab.

chapter seven

thank you for reading!! you can follow my library blog @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications 💚

[thefemmefatalexo]

Toji SMAU - When love was always there

Chapter 13 - What comes after

Summary: You see him again on your first day of college. Fuck. Toji Zenin has been the bane of your existence since your first day of kindergarten. Over the 15 years you’ve had the “pleasure” of knowing him, he’s made it his personal mission to make your life a living hell. From chopping off your hair in kindergarten to pushing you into a pond on your first day of high school, Toji has done it all. You’d always thought he would choose a college far away from you, but as it has always been, fate came to kick your ass. Hard.

warnings: cursing, sexual language, mentions of bullying

an: sigh… i love him idc. SMOOCHES 💋💋💋

{chapter 12} ; {next}

taglist: @jinxiewritings @actuallyvalerie @clp-84

࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

The drive to the location Toji sent you feels longer than it should. Maybe it’s because your mind is racing, or maybe it’s the late hour amplifying the stillness of the world outside. You pull into the dimly lit park, heart pounding, and spot him immediately—slouched on a bench, an empty whiskey bottle dangling precariously from his fingers. He looks utterly defeated, the sharp edges of his usual confidence dulled by whatever demons have led him here.

You step out of the car and approach cautiously. His head tilts slightly at the sound of your footsteps, but he doesn’t fully acknowledge you. Instead, he mumbles something incoherent, his words slurred.

“Toji.” Your voice is firm, sharper than you intended. “Get up. You’re coming with me. Your parents can‘t see you like this.“

He looks up at you with bleary eyes, his face flushed from alcohol. “Y-you came,” he slurs, his words tumbling over each other. “Missed you… swear I missed you. I’m sorry, okay? For everything. Just… I’m sorry.”

You don’t reply, don’t give him the satisfaction of even a hint of forgiveness right now. Instead, you focus on getting him upright, looping one of his heavy arms over your shoulders and guiding him to the car. His steps are unsteady, his weight pressing into you as he leans more than he should.

The entire drive back, he’s rambling. “You… you don’t get it,” he slurs, his head lolling back against the seat. “You think I’m just some… some asshole, huh? You hate me. I can’t… I hate me too, okay?” His words are fragmented but raw, the emotions behind them impossible to ignore.

You grip the steering wheel tighter, keeping your focus on the road. He keeps going, his voice breaking every now and then. “I never wanted to hurt you… never wanted to… God, you probably think I’m a piece of shit.”

You don’t respond. You just drive, his drunken words filling the silence.

When you finally reach your apartment, you manage to drag him inside. He’s heavier than he looks, and he isn’t exactly helping. As soon as you guide him into your room, he collapses onto your bed, sprawling across it like he owns the place.

“Toji, get up,” you say, exasperated.

“Nah,” he mutters, burying his face into your pillow. “This is… I’m good here.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real malice behind it. Instead, you sigh and kneel down, tugging his shoes off one by one. When you straighten up, his eyes are on you, glassy but sincere.

“You’re… too good,” he murmurs. “Too good for me. Always have been. Don’t deserve you… don’t deserve this.”

“Toji, just sleep,” you say, voice softer than before, despite your frustration.

He doesn’t listen. “I’m sorry,” he continues, his voice breaking. “For everything I said. For… all of it. You… you didn’t deserve that. Not you.”

Your chest tightens at his words, but you don’t respond. Instead, you awkwardly climb into bed beside him, keeping as much distance as possible.

“I mean it,” he mumbles, his voice barely above a whisper now. “You’re… you’re the only good thing. Always have been. I just… I ruin everything.”

Tears sting at your eyes, but you blink them away. “We’ll talk in the morning, Toji,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

He nods faintly, and before long, his breathing evens out. You lie awake for a while, your mind racing with everything he’s said.

When you wake, the sunlight streaming through the window, you’re wrapped in his arms. His grip is loose but firm enough to hold you in place. You tilt your head slightly, studying his face in the soft morning light. There’s a scar on his lip, jagged and slightly faded. It hits you, a memory he once let slip years ago—that his older brother, Jinichi, gave him that scar during a fight. What had struck you most then was how casually he’d mentioned it, as if it were normal.

The thought churns uneasily in your stomach. His parents never punished Jinichi for it, just like they never seemed to care about all the other ways they neglected him. No wonder he resented his family, always carrying that bitterness like a second skin.

You carefully extract yourself from his hold, slipping out of bed without waking him. After a quick trip to the kitchen, you return with a glass of water, some painkillers, and a simple breakfast.

To your surprise, he’s already awake when you walk in. He sits up slowly, rubbing his eyes, and you wordlessly hand him the plate.

“Thanks,” he mutters, his voice hoarse.

The two of you eat in silence, the tension in the room palpable.

When you finally break the quiet, your voice is steady but firm. “Do you want to talk about last night?”

He glances at you, then looks away, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. “Yeah,” he says, barely audible.

You wait, giving him the space to speak.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says, his voice low. “For… everything. I ain’t good with this… this kinda shit, but… I know I fucked up. A lot.”

“You did,” you say, your voice soft but unyielding. “And I can’t just… pretend like everything’s okay now. You’ve hurt me, Toji. A lot more than you probably realize.”

He nods, still not meeting your eyes. “I know. And I ain’t expectin’ you to just… forgive me like that. But… I’m gonna make it right. However long it takes.”

You study him for a moment before nodding. “We can try… being friends. Maybe.”

His lips twitch into something that almost resembles a smile. “Yeah. Friends.”

Neither of you mentions the way you woke up tangled in each other’s arms.

As you clear the dishes, Toji sits back, lost in thought. In his mind, he recalls waking up in the middle of the night, your face illuminated by the moonlight. He remembers thinking how beautiful you looked, how peaceful.

Your full lips had been slightly parted as you slept, and his hand had rested lightly on your hip, almost as if it belonged there. He’d never noticed the softness of your skin before, but last night it had been impossible to ignore.

It hit him then, like a punch to the gut. You were… everything. Too good, too kind, too beautiful.

[icarusredwings]

Thinking about Wade waiting for a package so when there's a knock at the door, he jumps up all excited.

Before he can even open the door, Logan's nose is scrunching, petting their naked rat dog in his lap. Snfsnf..

Scott?

Coming out of the bedroom, he leaves the puppy on the bed.

It's not Scott. It's worse than that.

There, standing in his door frame is Nathan. He's holding a bag and gave Wade a type of flowers He's never seen before. They smell like warm melted sugar and perfume. Big, and almost resembled a tiger lilly except the coloring is off. Red and black instead of orange and a brown shade.

Wade is standing here, looking up at him with a frown, playing with his sleeves, grabbing his own hand, biting his tongue enough to bleed. Logan could smell it.

Wade was staring at him, silent, his eyes glistening like glitter in oil.

He can hear Mary barking in their bedroom. She didn't like men very much. Esspecially when they smelled like Scott.

"...."

"You don't have to say anything right now, Wade.." Nathan starts, lifting up the bag. "Just...came to give your clothes back... they don't smell like you anymore.."

Tears start to form in his eyes, not blinking. Still staring. As if in disbelief of what he just said before Logan came out.

Logan appears by his side, looking up at Cable with a soft, possesive glare, like a dog whos unfriendly to men and might bite.

"What the fuck did you say to him?"

When Wade didn't take the bag of clothes, Nathan's arm dropped, looking away from him.

"Hello, Logan.."

By now, Wade still hasn't said anything, but the tears rushing down his face were enough to trigger Logan's protection mode.

"What. Did. You. Say!?"

"I don't believe I was talking to you.." Cable mutters, this time their eyes connecting in that stare offish sort of way.

"Does it look like I care!?"

Word's ring through Wade's head. Words that might sound innocent but held a whole new meaning behind them. The flowers, the clothes, These meant nothing compared to them.

'My daughter is all grown up.'

Why would anyone walk through a door with even a hello and say these words as if to quickly establish the intention of his visit.

Yeah, Nathan visited like twice a year, ussually once at Christmas with his father and to visit his new little sister Rachel, but once not. Once, alone, and in his new apartment.

Wade had purposly moved to get away from the memories (and mildew) of him. The little life that they built together for a few months.

Got a new mattress even. One softer. Less springy. Used, yes, but so much comfier. You know what they say about those new matresses. Too hard. No one to wear them in. So, at least now, when he slept, he could feel the warm, soft embrace instead of a hold hard metal one.

... This isn't about matresses..

And yet, after everything, he kept coming back like a stray mutt wanting fed. Haunting him of everything he wanted in his youth but couldn't have.

'I'm sorry, Wade.. But I can't abandon my daughter'

'My daughter is all grown up.'

Now, He knew he was delusional. He knew he was dilerious even, but this? Oh, No, honey. There was no way around this. Because THIS 'between the lines' notation was actually a huge bright shining flashing sign.

The olive branch of 'Let's get back together'. Painted in gold and put on a pedestal... just to tease him.

Shaking his head, Wade had blocked out the argument before but came back to "He's his own person. He can talk to who he wants."

"No the fuck he can't! Not if they're just going to hurt him!"

"Im not going to hurt him, Logan."

"What do you call this!?"

Wade's tears hadn't stopped, his eyes red from crying, and all he could do was whimper and stare, his visson blurry.

Even when Cable WAS his, he was barley home, returning at nights and leaving again before dawn. Time cop things I guess. Sometimes he wouldn't return for days.. bringing in perks, setting things right within the balance of time, killing bad dudes, visiting his daughter, etc.

And while Wade didn't blame him for this, he didn't want that anymore. He could barely handle it back then, and now? That Logan had conditioned him with morning lovings, smothering him in the sunnight that came into their room, peppering kisses all over him, whining when Wade left the house and always scooping him up to go to the bedroom when he returned.

How he made him breakfast after holding him for hours and held his head so nicely when he gave him shower head. THE shower head. My bad. To save water, you know? It's expensive in New York, sue me.

The way he cared for puppins and fell asleep during some dumb documentary. How Logan held his hand to go grocery shopping and went as far as telling the X men that they were married, and they could kick rocks if they didn't like it.

It was... nice.. to be wanted. To be loved and to settle down. Not a lot - just about as much as Deadpool COULD settle down. He's been shown the light of routine affection, and he was not about to go back to cold nights alone, wondering when he'd come back.

It's not that he didn't love Nathan. No, the oppisite, actually. But they didn't work. As much as they clicked and how much fun he had with him, He couldn't take another heartbreak.

"T-this isn't fair.." he chokes out.

Mid argument, Logan turns. "What's not fair?"

"Breathe, Wade." Cable says, having put the clothes down, pushing it up against the side of the couch.

Taking a deep breath, it's pushed out of his lungs the moment it comes in. "It's not fair!"

Backing away from the both of them, he's holding the flowers so tight that the stems are breaking. The tears become thicker, heavier, his heart beat pounding in his ears.

"I did what I was supposed to do!! I grew up! I moved on!! I-i settled down, Nathan!! I'm married!!"

Both went quiet, an obvious frown and a concerned look plastered onto their faces.

"Why'd you leave me if you just wanted to come back? I didn't do anything wrong!! I thought you liked me! You said you loved me!!" He was shouting, sobbing, and clearly stressed out.

(And all because he thought the amazon guy was here.)

"Wade, calm down. Breathe."

"Don't you tell him to calm down! He's allowed to be pissed. You up and left him."

"For my daughter! Yes, I did-"

"So shut the fuck up!"

Breathing heavily, Wade began to pace, hugging himself and the flowers, crushing them to death, a metaphor to his desire for the future man.

"I-it's not fair!! You chose what you chose, and now you have the nerve to come back and ask me to throw everything I made for myself away! For you!? But you wouldn't do that for me!"

Now that he thought about it, this was his first time fully processing and letting out his emotions since the breakup. He was angry and grieving.

Nathan nods softly "I know and I wouldn-"

"Am I fucking finished talking!? Huh? No! So shut the fuck up!" He had spent years shoving deep down, trying to burry the anger alive.

Logan has been there. He knew this feeling all too well. But seeing Wade explode like this was kind of terrifying. He always knew Wade had that fire in him, What he didn't expect was for Wade to throw the bouquet at him. Him out of the two.

Swallowing, he scrambles to pick them up, not sure if Wade simply missed or if he wanted to keep them or not. The crushed petals on the floor were the pieces of Wade that Logan couldn't glue together, but that was fine. He loved him none the less.

"And you!"

"Me?"

"I should gut you right now for ever thinking I would leave you! I'm a grown man, I can handle myself! I-i'm allowed to cry! I don't need you to fight my battles for me. Just pick me up when I fall. Got it!?"

Logan nods quickly.

"Good!! Cause I will! And you! You should have thought about this when you abandoned me. I've tried to be your friend, I will still be your friend, but I won't let you come here with your stupidly gorgeous future flowers and think I'll bend over like a fucking bitch for you. You lost that chance!" He says, throwing his hands up and pointing at him angerly.

Nathan was going to mutter how he didn't see him like this, but was too afraid Wade might stab him, so he just nodded subtly.

"Now. Get the fuck out of my house." The growl is through grit teeth.

"But I really think-"

"I don't give a rats ass what you think! This is MY life and I'm tired of people thinking I care what they think. Now, I'll talk to you about this later when I don't feel like gauging out your only good fucking eye. Got it? Good. Nice seeing you. Bye!"

Turning on his heel, Wade goes towards the bedroom, leaving Logan to glare and start to snarl.

"Logan! Come! Nathan, leave my fucking clothes and close the door on your way out! If my dog gets out im gonna be one pissed off cunt!" He screams, now holding puppins who was desperate to lick the tears and snot from his face.

Giving each other a look, Cable picks up the bag and Logan is quick to come when called, giving him a final 'Fuck you' with a claw before he left.

Mr. Space cops eye's roll, shaking his head as he headed out.

Hearing the door clicking, Logan watches as Wade snuggles up in the blankets, hugging himself tight. He was seething.

"....you wanna talk about it...?"

"...." clacking his nails together, Logan put the flowers in a tall cup, filling it half way with water and put it on the dresser before coming to sit on the edge of the bed.

He was right.. the flowers were beautiful. They still were, even now that they were all broken and crumbled... this isn't about flowers.

Wade huffs, making a whining growly sound.

Logan nods, understanding but he's rarely been on this side of the argument. Ussually its him being all growly.

"..Im proud of you, Wade.."

The words are like an instant pull of a trigger, sniffling before breaking down again, starting to sob. This time, less angry and more mournful.

Logan sighs, crawling close to him before pulling him into his arms, rubbing his back.

Puppin's whines, wagging her tail.

"..I-it's not fair...t-the one time I do the mature thing.."

"I know... you love him. It's hard."

"I-i did.." Wade whispers, his chest tight with various emotions.

Logan knew because this was the exact feeling he felt with Scott. He thought they fit, but I guess not cause he went off and married Jean instead, and still sometimes told him things that made his chest tighten with painful grief of what they could have had, and only toyed with him when he felt convenient.

Like father like son.

Even if it felt so right to be wrong, how good it felt to be given the attention, it hurt so bad when it ended.

And that kind of hurt took decades to go away...

Luckily, Wade liked this mattress more and wasn't planning on getting rid of it so long as he may live.

[tourturestarradio]

𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐌

"𝐌𝐚𝐦𝐚 𝐢'𝐦 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭, 𝐢 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬."

"𝐃𝐨 𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐦?"

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Pairing: Worst Wolverine x Vampire reader (platonically)

Prompt: You lost him...he was gone, so why was he here how was he here?

Warnings: Angst with no comfort, Deadpool 3 spoilers, Wade being Wade. (this is connected to Enjoy the silence)

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆☆ ★ ✮

Was this a joke? Blinking you stared at him fingers twitching. He was gone, you watched him die, right in front of your eyes. You'll never forget that moment, you lost him, you lost the single most important person in your life and you lost him.

So how?

How was he standing here right in front of you, the rest of the group looking at you wondering what you're gonna do.

Wade gasped as he looked between the two "is this the start of a found family trope-oh nevermind."

You tackled him down in an instant catching him off guard, growling in anger. Growing your nails out you stabbed into his sides "ah fuck!" prompting him to release his claws standing them into your side, just like old times.

"Well this is NOT how I thought this would go...oh gosh"

Wade gulped the others trying to pull you off of Logan as you two continued to claw at each other "it's like watching a cat fight." Blade looked over at him "will you quit your yapping and help us!" Wade nodded dragging Logan away from you.

"The fuck is your problem! You asshole!" Logan shouted yanking his arm away from Wade.

You hissed at him again, prompting Laura to speak up "they can't talk. Well at least not that well" Logan glared at you and you did the same.

"Well nothing can be worse trying to hear this guy try to do a public speech?" Wade said lightly patting Gambit's shoulder, Blade and Elektra letting go of you.

"L...iar ..."

Logan looked at you "the fuck?" he muttered his wounds slowly healing, your scratchy rugged voice calling out again.

"...L..iar"

"The fuck are you talking about?"

Wade nodded "I agree with peanuts here I can't really understand, you need some whiskey to clear out your throat since we don't have a drop of water anywhere." he joked.

You could feel tears bubble up in your eyes as you hissed again turning and leaving too angry to get a grip on yourself.

"Well that went about as well as a priest going to a school playground."

Elektra rolled her eyes "shut the fuck up" she groaned, Laura followed you out, Wade trying to make small talk "So...anybody up for uno..." he asked

The silence lingered for an uncomfortable amount of time as no one was in the mood for talking.

"Dear God the author needs to change scenes. I can't making jokes to fill this awkward silence" Wade said shaking his head.

.

The night drew close as you stayed up on a tree branch sitting staring at the moon your nails tapping against the tree bark, dried tear streaks on your face. The brain remembering everything about him and the comfort he gave you, that void he filled.

He was the father you never had, he cared about you even when no one else did, even when everyone turned their back on you after the accident. He was there, you stuck like glue to his side never thinking the man you held so dear to your heart could ever die.

He was a hero? He wasn't supposed to die.

He was your hero.

And he left you.

He promised he would leave you.

He promised.

And he lied, he lied right to your face. You'll never forget the anger you felt after he took that final breath, the hate you felt. But it wasn't towards him, it was towards yourself. You let the one person who meant the most to you die, you let him slip through your fingers just like that.

But now. He's here again. Your eyes glued to him as he drank and talked with Laura for a little bit before she walked away. You didn't understand it, you wanted to lash out you wanted to scream and shout at him for leaving you but you couldn't. You had so many questions, so much you had to tell him about what happened in your life, there was so much to say but you could never say it.

"I know you're there."

Blinking you stared at him, how did he know...?

"I can smell you. Come out."

You jumped down from the tree slowly walking up to him you sat down keeping your eyes on the flames, "what do you want, here to stab me again?" he asked glancing over at you.

You shook your head, signing 'sorry' to him. He looked at you confused and you signed it again, "I don't understand that." you cocked your head to the side, maybe he just forgot.

So with the best you could you strained out a small "s...orry" Logan looked at you, as you continued "..f..or. hur...ting" he only waved you off.

There was silence before you spoke again "..h..ow?" it hurt to speak but you did so anyway, Logan knew what you meant regardless "look kid. I'm not who you think I am." he started, you gripped onto your pants "I'm not him." he finished.

You shook your head getting up walking away for a second before coming back, you had a picture in your hand showing it to him, it was a bad picture you took of your first mission, it was you and Logan you had a grin while Logan was trying to swat away the camera.

Logan looked at it "that's not me." he stated firmly, you pushed the picture towards him again "kid listen to me. That ain't me," you didn't believe him.

Were you gone too long? Why didn't he remember?

Showing him another picture he swatted your hand away making you drop the picture into the fire, your eyes growing wide as you scrambled to grab the picture.

Logan quickly grabbed you seeing as you were burning yourself to grab it "hey! hey! damn it stop it!" you faught against him to grab the picture burning your hand in the processes.

Putting the fire out you looked at it half Logans face was burned off. Looking at the male you shoved him with a shout "stop that." he commanded annoyed.

You shoved him again "w..hy!" Logans claws shot out pointing at your throat "look kid I already fucking told you i'm not him! Get that through your thick fucking head!" snatching the two photos away from you he held them up shouting at you "I'm. not. him! I'm not that fucking man you used to know! That man is dead!" he yelled.

You could feel more tears fill your eyes, not wanting to believe what he was saying. "He's gone! You've seen it for yourself! And there is nothing you can do about it! He's Dead!" He shouted throwing the pictures down before shoving past you angrily.

You hurried to pick up the pictures holding them close to your chest as hot tears ran down your cheeks, sitting on the ground you pulled your legs up to your chest.

He was right about one thing he was nothing like the Logan you knew. He may have looked like him but he was nothing like him, he was an imposter, a fake, a lie. The Logan you knew and loved was dead.

And no one could bring him back.

.

.

A/n: This was a tough one, should I do a part two?

[a-chronic-overthinker]

Abstragedy Week Day 3 - Hurt/comfort

Knock-knock-knock.

Zooble knocked on Gangle’s door for probably the tenth day in a row, awaiting a response. They had been visiting her every day since they got back from the Spudsy’s adventure. Gangle had seemed sadder and more quiet since then -if that was even possible- and Zooble wanted to be sure they were okay. Besides, they always enjoyed Gangle’s company. And she had opened the door and welcomed them in every day (except today, apparently.) Just as Zooble turned away and was about to walk back to their room - they must have all gone on one of Caine’s adventures again, they thought - the door creaked open and Gangle’s mournful face offered Zooble a smile once again. They sat together in the vermillion room, decorated with red silk bows and littered with sketchbook paper and pencils. “Zooble?” she squeaked, anxiety in her voice. “Can I talk to you about something?” Zooble nodded, their eyes suddenly filled with concern. “Yeah? Was it Jax again?” "No, he’s not the problem. I am." she said, big tears surfacing from her voidlike eyes. "I really appreciate it. But you don't need to do this for me. I don't want you to feel bad for me, if you think I'm annoying you can say so and I'll leave you alone."

"What?" Zooble could have laughed at the idea of finding Gangle, practically the only good thing they had in the Circus, annoying. But they could barely put words together, her statement not fully registering. "Why... why would you think... who told you that?"

"Remember the fast food adventure? That's what Jax told me. And Ragatha too... I don't think she would have said it out loud, but she had some of that sauce? I don't know, I guess it made her more honest...." Gangle trailed off. "I just... I don't really know anymore."

"Gangle..." Zooble had so much they wanted to tell her, they wanted to stay with her as she cried, and fall asleep, safe in each others' arms... but everything was coming too fast again and all they could say was, "Why would I think that?"

Gangle blinked, wiping away a tear only for a new one to appear in its place. “W-what?”

“I mean,” Zooble said slowly, searching for the right words, “you’re the only person in this whole damn circus that I care about. I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here. I-” They were interrupted by the firm grasp of Gangle’s arms around their shoulders. “Thank you.” Gangle whispered. And Zooble wordlessly returned the hug. After they pulled away from each other, they just sat there, leaning against Gangle’s four poster bed. It wasn’t awkward really, they could just stay for as long as they wanted, being in each other’s presence. “I mean,” Zooble mused, “what reason would I have not to be honest with you? If I didn’t want to come over, I wouldn’t have. I do that all the time with Caine anyway…” and they suddenly became aware of what they were saying - oh shit why did I say that she probably doesn’t want to talk about it anymore we were doing fine and of course I had to go ruin it what the fuck is wrong with me -

But then Gangle cracked a smile. And she started to giggle. Which made Zooble smile too, and before they knew it they were both laughing together, gasping for breath, not even knowing why. It had been so long since Zooble had heard that sound out of their own mouth, and when they had both calmed down, they looked lovingly at each other.

Like they were the only people in the world.

[loki-licious-945ad]

Oh so sweet

Summary: The audacity of some of the people in Asgard. Degrading his pregnant wife. They'll have it coming for them. He'll be coming for them. And you'll be coming too.

Pairing: Soft!Dark!Loki x Pregnant!Wife!Reader

word count: 1.4k+

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, snob degrading reader, rude comments, nipple play, breast milk, public fingering (its better reading it), pregnant reader, choking(f receiving), Loki being mischievous as always, angst, fluff?, SMUT, praise. If i missed anything lmk

A/N: A Wanda reference 😏 Fic did not go the way i wanted. So now i am mad/disappointed at myself. I edited this like 15 times. Tumblr didn't wanna save it. I'm tired too.

@sofilaufeysonn (not exactly like the last fic but yeah)

The Asgardian people are ruthless. They always seem to say what's on their mind. Especially those high class snobs. Loki could say a few things to them too, but he chooses that it is not worth it. He doesn't care about his reputation. He just knows it's not worth the time. They are snobs after all. At least that's what he thought.

Loki would take you everywhere with him. He does not trust anyone to protect you, but him. Yes, some royal guards may follow you both, but they are for Loki. Prince of Asgard. Everyone knows who you are. Loki's wife. The mother of his unborn child. Loki's property. No one is allowed to touch you. No one is allowed to disrespect you. Only him. Loki made sure of it.

Loki, you, and those idiotic guards that follow walk through the Asgardian Markets. More like waddling for you. The gold rings on both yours and Loki's finger shine in the light as you both walk through the market. A matching gold necklace hangs just above the swell of your breast. The gold jewelry shows ownership of you from Loki. The necklace enchanted with Loki's seiðr. A simple gold chain with the letter 'L'. A snake wrapped around the letter 'L'. Everything about the necklace is gold except for the eyes of the snake. Emerald eyes. The eyes alert Loki if anyone has disrespected you if you somehow wandered off. You always wondered off. Always so carefree with him. You just didn't know he enchanted it.

Once again, like many other times, you have wandered off somehow. He knows that he could easily find you, but you haven't been out in a bit considering the growing child you bear. He wants you to enjoy this time.

You wonder absentmindedly. Finding a book stall, you stop. Looking over all the titles. You pick up a few baby books to flip through them quietly. As you do so a snobby voice pipes up, "You can only touch them if you're going to buy them. Insolent brat."

You look up at where the voice is coming from. An old rich lady with a face of disgust. She doesn't let you speak, "By the norns are you even pregnant? You look like you could be hoarding fifteen pillows under that dress of yours. No pregnant woman looks like that! And those breasts of yours, they have to be fake!"

Tears prick at your eyes as the woman continues her degrading. Then you feel Loki standing behind you. He speaks lowly to the woman, "Is there a problem?"

Eyes glare at you as the woman speaks to Loki, "This insolent brat-"

Loki interrupts her with a laugh, "Insolent brat you say?" Loki looks down at you with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "My dear wife is being an insolent brat? How so?"

She can't even answer. The woman's mouth hangs agape. Staring at you and Loki. Loki glances at the woman, "My dear wife is never a brat. Maybe insolent, but never a brat. In fact. She's very obedient. So obedient, she let me fuck her raw to get her pregnant."

It's like everyone in the market knew to get away from the scene. No one in sight. Only the three of you and the guards off to the sides, watching with stale expressions. Loki doesn't even have to look around to know that no one is around. He just glares at the woman who decided to degrade his wife, "You should close your mouth. At the moment you are the one acting insolent. Disrespecting the prince and his wife. Pregnant wife." The woman closes her mouth as fast as possible then bowing her head to Loki and you. Oh what a dumb woman.

The feeling of Loki's arms wrapping around your waist and placing his large hands on your very pregnant stomach comforts you. The tears that threatened to spill down your cheeks were gone in an instant. Loki coos at you, kissing your head softly, as he rubs your stomach. Stutters and stumbles come out of the woman's mouth, within a flash her mouth disappears instantly. Loki. A chuckle sounds deep from Loki's chest. It vibrates your whole body, making you whimper.

Since getting pregnant your damned body has gotten way more sensitive. It doesn't help that Loki is now cupping your breast in his large hands. Rolling your nipples between his fingers through your dress. He insisted that you didn't wear a bra. He loved the way your nipples were always so hard. Always leaking with that delicious sweet milk you'd produce. He loved when your sweet milk seeped through all of your dresses. Like right now. Such a pretty sight. Standing in the Asgardian sun looking like a damn painting.

The woman watches in disbelief as she watches Loki toy with your hard leaking nipples, "Do you believe my wife is pregnant now? Hm!?"

The woman just stares at the tall god.

Loki hums disapprovingly, once again making you whimper with the sensation on your back, "Oh darling~ I don't think this woman believes us. Cats got her tongue."

Loki moves his hands off your breast, making you whimper. He coos at your noises of desperation. In a blink of an eye your dress is pulled up. It sets nicely on top of your round stomach. You swear the snob was going to faint as she saw that you weren't wearing panties under your dress. You instinctively widen your legs for Loki, like many times before.

"So obedient. Such an amazing wife for your God," Loki wraps his ringed hand around your neck. Not enough to hurt you, but enough were you feel drunk off of the pleasure. His other hand drifting over your stomach, between your parted legs. His pointer finger drags over your spread cunt. Slit to clit. Wet as always. He brings the finger to his mouth. Sucking it dry of your juices. He lets out a loud moan. The taste of your milk mixed with your cunt on his finger is amazing, "Oh so sweet."

You lean further into him as you both stand. Loki moves his finger back to your clit. Rubbing in tight circles. You let out soft moans. Music to his ears. He'd listen to you all day. Fuck, when did he get hard?

The woman face pales as she watches the two of you. The way Loki's ring glints in the sun as he chokes you. The way he touches your clit so perfectly. The way your head falls back onto his shoulder. His grip on your neck never loosening even as you move. The way you roll your hips into Loki's hand and the way it makes your round stomach look. Your dress soaked from your breast milk. The necklace that hangs near the swell of your breast. Moving as you moan and whimper.

Loki can tell you're close to cumming. He shoves his two middle fingers into your cunt. The fingers hit that sweet spot as the palm of his hand rubs against your clit. That familiar coil starts to get tighter and tighter.

Then it snaps.

Your moans vibrate the hand on your neck. You moan so loudly. Even if this part of the market is clear there is no doubt people could hear you across the market. Your cunt clenches so tight on his fingers. He continues to finger you through your orgasm. Nipples leaking even more. Stomach tensing a bit.

Definitely pregnant. The woman faints. Hitting the stone and dirt of the market. Loki chuckles. He pulls his fingers out of your wet cunt. Making you whimper. You're so sensitive. Loki motions for the guards near by to pick the woman off the ground, "Put the damn snob in the dungeons."

The woman gets drug off by the guards. Leaving you and Loki alone. Loki spins you around so you're facing him. Your dress still laying on top of your stomach. He places his hands on your stomach bending to kiss it. Little kicks hit his hands. Damn these mischievous twins. He stands upright. He places a kiss on your forehead, nose, then lips. Soft and slow.

Oh so sweet.

[ripgray-moved]

it's the way i just want people to love and be invested in peter after all the hard work i've put in him tbh.

[candyredterezii]

[sleepyhomosexual]

.

[stunie]

ok so i hit 30 tags pretty early so i wanted to add extra thoughts under here i am SOOO SORRY OMFG ITS SO MUCH 😭😭 GOD

attempt 1 at reading - thoughts:

i love how you wrote the nervousness and hesitation of both reader and atsumu ): this relationship feels so genuine and realistic, like every thought is so real and complex and it all just plays out soooo vividly in my head. i can literally feel every single thing in MY SOUL. it got me holding my breath, my heart racing, my stomach churning

the kiss . the first kiss where mr suna interrupted . when i tell you i read it like this >//////< EXCEPT MY HAND WAS CLASPED SO TIGHTLY OVER MY MIUTH. oh my god the reaction i had. it really felt like a first kiss all over again, i was genuinely WARM and all blushy

attempt 2 at reading - thoughts:

i loved how u wrote out the tension again .. and your characterization for all of them ?? kita being all observant? osamu being all curious ?

the emotional rollercoaster i am on in this chapter is crazy. i took my first break after suna interrupted (the kiss killed me), and im taking my second break right after atsumu confesssd (i was killed a second time). i was irritated during the cafe bc WHY r u avoiding me, and then the next second i’m like squealing 😭 the way that u write yue !! the way that u write . i am such a mess right now give me another moment

attempt 3 at reading - thoughts:

holy shit this scene . the kissing ? THE AAY YOU DESCDIBED IT from the first kiss ?? this one made my stomach FLIP omfg .

oh god the neck kisses . the .. the everything . my left leg has goosebumps idk why it’s only my left leg am i okay yue ? am i okay what’s wrong with me

i have a little ways to go i’m almost done but i need yet another break holy shit i have been reduced to a dizzy lil mess what have i become

attempt 4 at reading - thoughts:

oh my god ): oh my god ): what am i even supposed to say here. i love how u wrote the smut part ?? it feels like actual love ? he is so sweet pls

osamu interrupting had me jolting upright BECAUSE SUNA FIRST NOW OSAMU ? is kita the next victim ?? poor baby

AGHHH THE ENDING IS SO CUTE i fr feel like im in an anime ): i feel so pretty and so lovely THIS WAS SO LOVELYYY TYSMMM YUE FOR WRITING THIS

v. MISUNDERSTANDINGS

miya atsumu x f!reader

── next: vi. Epilogue: Sakura sweetness | series masterlist

synopsis: A drunken conversation with Atsumu leads to a cascade of events that has your mind practically exploding with endless questions, and with the way Atsumu has been acting, you want clear answers, and you’ll get them one way or another—even if it meant arguing in the twins’ shared apartment on a late Thursday afternoon.

chapter content warning: college au, mentions of alcohol use, intoxicated characters, cockblocker suna (rip), angst, hurt/comfort, awkward tension, atsumu & reader are dumbasses, arguing, light smut (mdni; nothing too explicit), nsfw, implied unprotected s*x, fluff towards the end yay, kita graduates from uni!, mutual pining, slow burn, requited unrequited love, friends to lovers, not beta read.

word count: 6.1k

notes: AAACKKKK last chapter!! also happy 1 month to this series !! i’m surprised i got to finish this in less than 2 months lmao considering how slow i am w writing :< divider: cafekitsune.

Light. Everything felt light—your head, body, voice, heart.

It felt like all the weight of your shoulders had been lifted, and you could be as carefree as a bird soaring through cerulean skies to be one with the wind. Because right this very moment, nothing mattered at all, not even the fact that you stood before the person you’ve been trying to avoid since the new year rolled around.

Tucked neatly at the back of your mind like a silent reminder, you knew you shouldn’t trust your intoxicated self right now—whether it be your thoughts or feelings but the urge to stop wasn’t there, and you felt extremely optimistic about this—all thanks to the burning alcohol that clouded every bit of your judgement.

Everything felt right.

As you met his caramel gaze, your vision tunnelled, everyone, and everything that surrounded both of you slowly turned into nothing but a mix of hazy hues, upbeat music that spilled from the speakers fading into the distance as you, and Atsumu entered your own world—even the orange-haired male with the bright, doe eyes melted away from your view.

Just you, and Atsumu, exactly how it was supposed to be.

With a bated breath, Atsumu wordlessly nodded, and awaited your next move, as if shackled in a hazy trance. He was fully aware of the thundering heartbeat that rang in his ears, the way his slender fingers ever so slightly dug into the scarlet plastic cup in his hand, cheeks burning with unexplainable emotions.

“Let’s talk somewhere else.”

It took all the effort for Atsumu to ignore the feeling of your bare skin against his, the searing touch of your fingers around his wrist as you hurriedly whisked him away into the intimate space of their kitchen, as if to shield you both from everyone else’s prying eyes. Despite a stained judgement, the blonde was sure no one gave a single damn if you were to talk it out in the living room, everyone was in their own buzz anyway.

Nonetheless, Atsumu let you take the lead, whatever you wanted, he obliged. As though he was floating on cloud nine, his body became lighter with each step taken, head lightly spinning, warmth that radiated from your palm seeped into his flushed skin, prickly, miniature kisses engulfing his body.

“I’m okay now.” Resting your lower back against the ivory granite countertops, you stare up at Atsumu through your lashes, not noticing your lingering fingers curled around his wrist. For a brief moment, your breath hitched, stomach churning at the sight before you. The lighting behind Atsumu made him look like absolute heaven, flaxen strands glowing like the first rays beneath the warm illuminant, casting an ethereal halo at the back of his head. It didn’t help how he stared down as if your eyes held the cosmos in them, completely awestruck.

Whatever, you chalked it up to his intoxicated state. What else could it have been?

For a brief moment, Atsumu wracked his brain for context behind your words, and as the invisible lightbulb atop his head switched on, he was reminded of the situation at hand. It definitely pulled his consciousness into sobriety. Just a tad bit.

“A-are y’sure?” A breathless, almost dainty whisper slipped past his rosy lips. He took note of the way your gaze shifted ever so slightly downwards, eyes crudely lingering on the plush of his bottom lip as his tongue briefly swiped against it.

Atsumu’s Adam’s apple bobbed at your not-so-subtle stare, stomach churning with want. He knew this feeling all too well—it visited him whenever he was alone in his room, mind wandering over to thoughts of you which filled every corner of his mind; sometimes the feeling was too strong, other times he could bear it. Tonight, though, Atsumu wasn’t sure if he was immune to this feeling, let alone erase any impulsive thoughts from his intoxicated mind.

What pulled you into this decision was something you’d never figure out; maybe it was the fact that your yearning heart grew tired of the icy distance between the two of you or maybe you’ve truly come to terms with his unreciprocated feelings—you didn’t know. All you knew was that nothing good ever came out of inebriated conversations, especially when it involved feelings. But this could be an exception, right?

“So . . Does that mean we can be friends again?”

It was weird. Atsumu’s voice brimmed with a sense of hope—as if he’s been waiting for this very moment for the past two weeks—but the strange glint in his caramel eyes betrayed the blonde entirely.

Despite your better judgement, you chalked it up to the warm light that casted a soft shadow upon his features; maybe you were too dizzy to see things clearly, or maybe you were looking too deep into Atsumu’s expression—hoping to find some sort of sadness upon hearing your decision to move on, and accept his rejection.

Atsumu watched as your eyes traced his features, closely observing them as if to find some kind of answer; as selfish as it seemed, the intensity in your eyes gave him a tinge of hope that perhaps you could let yourself pine over him just a little longer because he wasn’t sure what he’d do with the knowledge that your heart would no longer yearn for him.

The situation was a double-edged sword, really.

You let out a puff of breath, “Yeah, of course. We’re friends again.” Friends. That word should have given you more relief than sorrow but could you really blame yourself? It felt like a bitter reminder of cold rejection which resembled salt pressed against an unhealed wound, a searing itch that left your skin feverish.

Even if it meant selling yourself short.

Avoiding his eye contact, you swiftly unwound your fingers from his wrist, mentally cursing yourself for not noticing any sooner. A cold embrace engulfed Atsumu’s wrist, where your fingers were mere seconds ago, he tried his best to ignore how his body yearned for your warmth. He gave a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

For a moment, you stood in each other’s silence like two predators sizing up one another, eagerly waiting for one’s move before pouncing, the silent hum of the fridge making up for the lack of conversation between one another.

How strange, this agreement should have cleared the unsettled air between you, and Atsumu but why did it feel like the complete opposite? As if the air turned into something more uncertain. You both knew you could feel the uncanny tension rising up, up, up but not one dared to address it.

Swiftly burying it under the rug, Atsumu spoke, thinly slicing through your trance, “You’ll find someone better.”

God, he must’ve really matured this new year because he didn’t know how he was able to say that straight to your face. Being one to wear his heart on his sleeve, this was completely foreign for Atsumu—or maybe he just got better at masking his true emotions.

You closed your eyes upon hearing his response, as if doing so would help you brave the weight of his words. It didn’t. That was the last thing you wanted Atsumu to say to you, ‘someone better’, it was brazen of him to think so poorly of himself, as though he wasn’t that certain someone. It was entirely unfair on your end because who was Atsumu to determine which person was for you?

Even just thinking about it had you fuming, rejection was one thing but completely disregarding the reason behind your feelings for him was another because in your eyes, Miya Atsumu was that ‘someone better’; he was the one who understood you the most, the one who always looked out for you, the one you fucking wanted.

And despite your mind telling you to nod along, and suck it up, the alcohol in your body was stronger; so, you opened your eyes, and furrowed your brows at him,

Nothing good ever came out of inebriated conversations.

“But I don’t want anyone better, Tsumu. I want you.”

Atsumu’s eyes widened, the desperation in your voice was something he hadn't heard before, it definitely pulled at his heart, guilt gnawing at his skin for being the sole reason for your drunken actions. He may be drunk but he wasn’t stupid, Atsumu knew you should’ve kept that one to yourself, he could practically see you brimming with temerity but he’d be lying to himself if he said his heart didn’t skip a beat or two.

I want you, too. God, he wanted to say it back badly. The words were lodged in his throat, unable to slip past his lips despite the best efforts to do so.

It dawned on him—right then, and there—the severity of your feelings for him, the immense weight of it. Now, guilt really ate him away; he could only imagine how the past two weeks were for you. Did you cry while thinking about him?

That was the last thing Atsumu wanted.

Though, amidst the guilt, something else blossomed in his chest, it made him feel like he stood upon the highest pedestal. Atsumu didn’t know whether it was pride or greed; as fucked up as it was, he couldn’t bring himself to push the impulsiveness away as though you’ve infected him with your own. His heart hammered at a thought that formed in his mind, even just thinking about it stirred his chest.

Despite Atsumu’s better judgement, he held onto the feeling with a tight grip, and opened his mouth, tongue nervously swiping at the bottom lip,

Nothing good ever came out of inebriated conversations.

“Is . . Is it bad that I really want to kiss you right now?”

You sucked in a breath, heart pounding at Atsumu’s sudden confession. If you were sober, you’d have a million thoughts racing through your mind right now, questioning the feelings he really had for you but unfortunately, only one thing was on your mind—how badly you wanted to kiss Atsumu too.

Dragging yourself further down, down, down the void of uncertainty, you shook your head in a daze,

Nothing good ever came out of inebriated conversations.

“What if I say I want to kiss you, too?” 

Barely audible but Atsumu heard it just fine over the pounding of his heart, over the incoherent conversations beyond this kitchen, over the muted bass music because as long as it's you, he’d always listen, even if it meant drowning out the entire world.

Then, there was a heartbeat, a passing second, a dip of a finger to test undisturbed waters; the funny thing was that even a minute disturbance could cause a ripple effect for miles, and miles, awakening the dormant creatures that lay beyond the azure surface.

It was swift, as though Atsumu had been waiting for this very moment to happen—one second you were locked in a trance, the next his lips were pressed against your own, a shared warmth of intimacy searing both bodies in an eternal blaze like a blue flame that dangerously destroyed everything in its path.

Shy. Warm. Soft. Rosy. Like it was meant to be. The list could go on, and on but it was as though your thoughts came quickly before your mind could register them, leaving you in a white, empty haze. With the plastic cups long forgotten on the counter behind, you closed your eyes as Atsumu’s body eagerly pressed against yours, strong arms coming up to rest on the granite countertop behind you, fingers digging into the material to ground himself.

For a moment, everything was still, lips unmoving against each other, a time to bask in this newfound intimacy—the foreignness of one another’s body. The earth felt like it spun on its axis way faster than usual, as if day, and night merged to become one; hues of late dusk, and early dawn intertwined like your bodies.

Bitterness from Atsumu’s rosy lips lingered on your own; you never liked the taste of beer but oddly enough, you didn’t mind it at all.

Your hands cupped Atsumu’s jaw, fingers gently digging onto his soft skin, eager for more as your lips moulded together. Slowly moving his mouth against your own, you followed suit to match the sensual pace he had set, falling deeper, and deeper between the hazy boundaries of friendship, and something a little more. Low whimpers slipped past between each feverish kiss as a drunken greed gradually controlled your bodies.

The initial softness of the kiss dissipated as each second passed, slowly turning into something more carnal, and passionate—breaths becoming heavier, and faces eagerly pressed against one another, angled in a way to grant more access.

Was this what cloud nine felt like? Exhilarating? Euphoric? As though there was no one else—

“Oh!—Holy shit. Did I interrupt?”

A familiar voice violently pulled you, and Atsumu back into reality, swiftly jumping away from each other’s hold, and looking over to the owner of the voice. Suna. The brunette stared at both of you—looking like a deer caught in headlights, chests heaving—his expression was unreadable, almost like a mix of shock, and amusement. You, and Atsumu kissing in the kitchen was absolutely not in his new year bingo card.

Well, this encounter certainly was enough to strip you into sobriety.

Your head spun a little, lungs severely deprived of oxygen. Shame, and realisation settled deep in your bones—shame because Suna just caught you, and Atsumu almost sucking the soul out of each other, and realisation because everything about this whole situation was so wrong; a million questions formulated in your mind as each awkward second passed.

On the other hand, Atsumu was equally as horrified, albeit annoyed that he didn’t have the chance to kiss you longer. The thrumming of his heart pounded in his ears, his mind trying to come up with anything to say just to stop the thoughts formulating in Suna’s mind—oh, he knows that look on his friend’s face very well.

Your view became obstructed by the expanse of Atsumu’s back, a subtle attempt to block you from the brunette’s gaze.

“W-what the hell, Suna?! Don’t jus’ barge into the kitchen, ya scrub!” Atsumu tried his best to act tough but miserably failed with the shakiness in his voice betraying him.

As if to make matters worse, Suna didn’t back down, a smug look painted on his flushed face as the blonde shamelessly blamed him,

“Well, how was I supposed to know that you two were sucking each other’s faces in the kitchen?!”

Did he have to word it like that?

Atsumu opened, and closed his mouth, trying to think of ways to deny Suna’s accusations but his mind went blank, even with just the brunette mentioning your kiss had him blushing like a mad man. Silence yet again occupied the kitchen, low bass music spilled from the speakers, and incoherent chatters from beyond the space making up for the lack of conversation.

Before the situation could get even more awkward, you spoke up, “I . . think I’m just going to go . . ” This gained both their attention, carefully watching as you navigated past Atsumu, and out the kitchen.

The blonde watched as you staggered past him, and Suna; he wanted to go after you, and talk about what just happened but the soles of his feet stayed rooted on the ground, too heavy to lift, even the words he wanted to say were lodged in his throat.

So, Atsumu decided it was best to let you go.

Monday. 

Everyone’s enemy but also a day to gather around the campus coffee shop with friends, and be productive for a while. The calming aroma of coffee engulfed your senses; low chatter from other customers, faint jazz music, and the occasional hum of the coffee machine filled the table from the lack of conversation. Despite the café’s light ambience, it didn’t do much to hide the growing tension that surrounded the group, specifically you, Atsumu, and Suna.

Kita was the first to notice the subtle shift of aura that emanated from you three, especially after catching a glimpse of Suna’s narrow eyes trailing from you to Atsumu over his laptop screen; though, he had much more things to worry about than to indulge himself in whatever tomfoolery this was. He’d ask questions later.

On the other hand, Osamu was more than curious, especially after his older twin started acting out of character—Atsumu wasn’t one to engulf himself in thoughts to the point where he’d be staring at an inanimate object, in a complete daze but lately, Osamu has seen him behave as such.

The latter could practically feel the weight of awkwardness pressing against his skin as he subtly watched the three of you. Of course, he did his best to pry off information from the blonde only to no avail; Osamu didn’t know why Suna was even caught up in this but he suspected it was from the party a few days ago.

He remembered seeing you stumble out of the kitchen when he was on his way to grab more drinks from their fridge, the younger twin thought nothing of it until he was met with Suna, and Atsumu awkwardly standing in the kitchen. Normally, Osamu would’ve asked questions that night but the alcohol in him couldn’t care less about the situation.

Staring at the untouched document pulled up on your laptop, you ducked behind your screen to avoid Suna’s wandering gaze, and Osamu’s not-so-subtle curiosity. This was hell. You didn’t even know why you decided to turn up today after that shit show at the party—maybe because you thought you could shove down that memory especially after telling Atsumu that you were fine or maybe you craved the closeness you two once had, and now you were here to rebuild that.

As easy as it sounded, you feared it might not be so with the way Atsumu has been avoiding you like the plague. First, it started when you walked into the café at the same time as the twins, Osamu greeted you at the door before heading inside leaving you, and Atsumu outside. Now, that would’ve been fine if the latter didn’t make a show of taking a couple of steps back to let you go first as though you carried some kind of incurable disease.

The second time was when Atsumu realised the only vacant seat was next to your own, thus, asking to swap with Osamu just so he could sit farthest away from you. And the third was when you had asked him if he was alright while waiting in line to order only to be met with a mindless nod before returning to his phone in his hand.

You tried your very best to ignore the blooming pain in your chest; sure, being sad about Atsumu possibly avoiding you was reasonable but then again, you were the one who told him you were okay now—how Atsumu decided to act after the party was beyond your control.

God but it pissed you off. Swallowing one’s pride, and making effort to rekindle a cold friendship was not an easy feat when the other doesn’t do the same. It shouldn’t work you up this much but it did, and now you were second guessing yourself that maybe it was an irrational decision to abruptly tell Atsumu that you’ve come to terms with moving on.

That night at the party, were you lying to yourself just so you could be around him again?

Whatever. It was too late to take it back anyway.

The days ahead were monotonous, and boring; you, and Atsumu remained orbiting around one another, careful not to get into each other’s path of trajectory but it was tiring. Not only did it feel like navigating through eggshells while he was around but the constant questions from your friends tested your limits. Though, it wasn’t their fault for simply being curious, and getting left in the dark about the whole situation but the prying felt like endless jabs of sharp needles along your skin.

From their point of view, you, and Atsumu were stubborn about the whole situation. None dared to speak up about it, acting as though everything was fine, so your friends were left with very little to work with.

It felt like a game of cat, and mouse where you were the feline chasing Atsumu around. The longer the days dragged on, the more thoughts formulated in your mind, and they all involved the blonde in some way or another. And just like everyone else, you had your limits too; you were tired of Atsumu acting like a stubborn idiot.

When you confessed to Atsumu, sure, you expected an awkward phase but this was even worse. There wasn’t just distance between the two of you, it felt like you were strangers.

He was known for brashly saying the sharp truth, so why couldn’t he be straightforward with you? Was he disgusted by the kiss, and deeply regretted it? Did he think you were weird? You didn’t know, but you were bound to find out even if it meant knocking at the twin’s apartment door at 5:45 PM on a cold, rainy Thursday.

With the sun hidden behind the looming grey clouds, the late winter afternoon was even darker; the roads were packed with vehicles while the sidewalks occupied students, and company workers alike trying their best to shield themselves from the heavy downpour. Despite the streets being illuminated with a tinge of warm yellow from cars, and streetlights, it did nothing to brighten up the gloomy day.

Funny, it was as though the universe knew how you felt today.

“If yer lookin’ for ‘Samu, he won’t be back until 8 PM.” Greeted with Atsumu’s shocked face as the ivory door to their apartment opened, you couldn’t help but visibly roll your eyes at his stubbornness. Yeah, like you’d be here at their apartment looking for Osamu—you knew each of their timetables like the back of your hand.

Flaxen strands that sat atop his head were unruly, a sign that he must’ve been taking a nap sometime ago. Atsumu donned a light blue hoodie paired with black sweats; you tried your best not to ogle the man, after all, you were here for a sensible talk.

“I’m here for you, Miya.”

Atsumu gripped the metal handle a little tighter, the coolness of it seeping into the warmth of his skin. He tried not to flinch at the sudden formality of the conversation. Nonetheless, the blonde pulled the door wider, a wordless invite to their humble space. Giving him a small smile before walking inside, you tried not to think about the last time you were here, and how you found yourself drunkenly kissing Atsumu in their kitchen.

The sound of the door closing shut behind Atsumu reverberated throughout the walls of their apartment, followed by a deafening silence. Met with his honeyed stare, you awkwardly coughed, and played with the hem of your jacket, “I’m not going to take up too much of your time . . but I do just have one question.”

There was a momentary silence as Atsumu waited for you to proceed; he had so many questions running through his mind right now, and it took all his willpower to hold them back, and let you speak instead. It was getting harder, and harder to focus as each second passed with the pounding of his heart—Atsumu didn’t know what to expect.

“Did you—Did you regret that kiss . . ?”

Your skin burned as the question lingered in the air, a beat or two before Atsumu finally spoke up, “. . N-no, why’d ya ask?”

Sighing, impatience prickled your feverish skin. ‘Why’d you ask?’  What the hell does he mean by why would I ask? We made out for fuck sake, that’s something friends don’t do! Why is he acting so casual about it? 

“God, this just made it a lot worse. I have so many fucking questions that my mind wants to explode right now,” Pinching the bridge of your nose, you slowly paced back, and forth, the floors beneath silently creaking with each step. So, Atsumu didn’t regret the kiss but he’s acting like you’re strangers—fucking hell, why did he even kiss you in the first place?!

Your mind was a complete mess.

Trying to calm yourself down with slow, deep breaths, you decided to address the elephant in the room first, “Then why have you been avoiding me, Atsumu?—I’m sorry but I’m the one who got rejected, I cannot think of any reason why you should be avoiding me like this.” Atsumu hated that look on your face—the desperation, the sadness, the frustration. He never thought that he’d be the one making you feel all these negative emotions, and it pained him as much as it pained you.

Atsumu let out a sigh, carefully formulating the right words into a coherent sentence, “I’m just . . trying to be careful, okay?” His stomach dropped as your face contorted with more confusion.

Did he say something wrong?

“Careful about what, Atsumu?! You—ugh! It’s so hard to talk to you when you’re giving me all these stupidly vague answers! I’ve already told you I was fine. I don’t care anymore that you don’t like me back. I just want us to be back to normal again.”

Now, it was Atsumu’s turn to be upset. He couldn’t bear the thought of you moving on so quickly, and that’s why he’s been acting distant lately; it annoyed him how easy it was for you to talk to him like nothing happened but Atsumu knew he couldn’t tell you the reason—why couldn’t you just try, and understand his situation? Rejecting wasn’t an easy task to do, especially if it was the person he had been hopelessly pining for.

“Well—maybe things aren’t meant ta back ta normal!”

What?

You stared at him for a second, brows furrowed as you tried to comprehend his words that lingered in the cold air of their apartment. Silence engulfed the two of you, the distant sounds of Hyōgo’s late afternoon rain seeping through the slightly opened window.

“Do you feel uncomfortable around me after knowing the fact that I have feelings for you? Is that it?” “God, no—I could never feel that way.”

It took all of Atsumu’s patience not to wrap his arms around you—he wanted to hold you against him badly; that defeated look on your face broke his heart but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. Maybe Atsumu was the coward after all.

“Then tell me what’s wrong, ‘Tsumu!”

“It’s hard f’me as well, y’know?!” “What is?”

Atsumu closed his eyes, the words he’s been wanting to scream at the top of his lungs lodged in his throat, threatening to slip out. A wave of adrenaline rush coursed through his veins, heart pounding like crazy with this newfound high, it made him feel as though he was invincible—as if he could say anything, and everything without a care for its consequences.

Fuck it.

“Fuck—It’s because I like ya back, okay?! I always have! And rejectin’ ya was so goddamn hard f’me because I’m still not over ya. God, I think about ya every single second, and it pains me so much because yer already movin’ on, and ‘m still stuck here.”

What?

Flabbergasted, you stared at Atsumu all wide-eyed, the thrumming of your heart becoming increasingly loud against your ears as each slow second passed. Did he just say he liked you back? As though mother nature was watching, the rain outside poured harder; sounds of droplets of heavy water against the roof filled the silent apartment, pulling you back into reality.

“Then why—If you feel the same way then why did you reject me?”

When you knocked on the door to the twins’ apartment, you expected a sincere conversation with Atsumu, not him confessing his feelings out of the blue. You were absolutely speechless—you didn’t know whether to jump for joy because he actually does like you back or whether to massage your temples from pure confusion.

“Back then during the trip, ya told me ya weren’t ready for a relationship yet, and that ya only wanted ta confess ta get rejected n’ move on. I wanted ta respect yer decision, so . .”

Flashbacks of said conversation from the trip quickly came into mind, and how you told Atsumu about not being ready for a relationship yet.

Oh.

Oh.

The weight of frustration from your shoulders slowly dissipated, the pent up annoyance you held in your heart was gone too. Suddenly, you weren’t so frustrated anymore after learning about the whole truth behind the situation. You were able to breathe better with the bad air finally cleared between you, and Atsumu.

Looking at it now, you felt absolutely silly. The whole situation turned out to be one big misunderstanding, it was almost laughable—now, you truly understood the essence of communication is key.

You let out a humourless laugh, “You’re so stupid, you know that?” Taking a few steps toward the blonde, you leaned your forehead against his chest, a hand coming up to curl into a fist to lightly hit it; a faint scent of his musky cologne lingered on the fabric of his hoodie, effectively invading your senses. Atsumu didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around your torso, pulling your body flush against his before resting his chin on the crown of your head.

For a beat or two, you, and Atsumu remained in each other’s hold, basking in the cosy atmosphere. 

“Would I be more stupid if I tell ya I want ta pick up where we left off at the party?”

Before you knew it your lips were sealed in a searing kiss—this time, it felt raw, all things passionate, and eager. Hands impatiently roaming each other’s unexplored bodies, sounds of wet kisses slowly filling up the apartment. The atmosphere shifted from cosy to something more sensual, light groans, and moans slipping in between each kiss.

Your hands rested on Atsumu’s golden strands, fingers gently tugging at it as he worked his lips down the column of your neck, teeth lightly nipping at the feverish skin. Atsumu focused on a certain spot just below your ear, nipping, and sucking at it which pulled a dainty whine from your lips.

“‘T-Tsumu—Ah!” You gasped, his tongue leaving trails of goosebumps beneath its sinful licks against your skin. He cursed under his breath, the dizzying tone of your voice awakening the slumbering carnal beast that resided in his core. With each dulcet moan that slipped past your swollen lips, Atsumu became greedier, he wasn’t going to settle for mere kisses on your skin—he needed to hear more.

Pulling away from your intoxicating scent, Atsumu looked down at you with parted lips, and hooded eyes, caramel gaze clouded with nothing but pure desire. “I think we should take this ta my room.” He panted.

Nodding at his proposal, hurried footsteps padded over to his room as though each second wasted was crucial. As soon as the door behind Atsumu slammed shut, his lips were on yours once again, strong hands deftly working on the layers of clothing you wore, slowly slipping them off of you one by one; Atsumu could practically feel himself shaking with nervousness, and excitement.

Discarding your top on the wooden floor beneath, Atsumu stared wide-eyed at your torso, both hands coming up to cup your breasts through the fabric of your bra, earning a low moan from you. The air of the room felt cold against your skin but Atsumu’s touch was enough to ignite you.

“So beautiful . .” He absent-mindedly gasped, a lovestruck look in his honeyed eyes.

Hands eagerly tugging at the hem of his hoodie, Atsumu swiftly pulled the fabric off his torso in one movement, golden strands tousled from the action. Goosebumps formed upon his sun kissed skin, bare torso met with the cold winter air; your eyes raked Atsumu’s physique up, and down, shamelessly ogling his muscled chest in all its naked glory. God, you used to just fantasise about this, and now it was served right in front of you on a silver platter.

You decorated each other’s skin with endless love bites, sinful hues of dark red, and purple peppered along your chest, and neck. Atsumu took his sweet time to savour every bit of you—your taste, your scent, your sounds, everything. He made sure to bask in your serene beauty, the gentle glow of your bare figure before utterly devouring you like a starved animal, ravaging your purity with carnal desire.

Atsumu let himself go at the raw intimacy of your bodies, the feeling of your sweet warmth brought tears of pleasure in his eyes as he pushed, and pushed towards the newfound ecstasy you both shared. The chant of his name slipped past your lips like a sinful melody, mere fuel to the relentless drive of his hips. But Atsumu held you dearly against his naked body through it all, fingers intertwined with your own as he keenly chased both your pleasures, choked out moans of your name whispered hotly against your sensitive skin.

And as you both tipped over the edge, Atsumu didn’t fail to tell you how much he loved you in between each pathetic moan as he painted your insides white, the dizzying pleasure contorting his handsome face in pure ecstasy. You held him in your arms, nails digging crescent-shaped marks on his skin, whispering saccharine praises to him as you let go, and emptied the words of your heart.

As the gentle aftermath of the passionate exchange rolled around, Atsumu held you in his arms, hearts beating as one, and lulling you both to sleep. The last thing you heard was a faint ‘I love you’ before passing out from exhaustion.

“‘Tsumu, what did ya want for—Oh my god! What the fuck?!” 

A familiar voice abruptly pulled you, and Atsumu out of your sleep, followed by the loud bang of his door slamming shut. Muffled expletives from outside the room could be heard as you both stirred beneath the ivory sheets. “‘Tsumu, what the hell?! Ya should’ve warned me before I went into yer room!” Osamu yelled from the other side of the door.

Atsumu groaned, rubbing his face before turning to the door, “Shut yer trap! Ya should’ve knocked!” At his twin’s silence, he let out a sigh, and slung a heavy arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his naked body before closing his eyes once again.

You let out a soft chuckle, “We really need to stop getting caught. First, Suna, and now Osamu.” Atsumu hummed in response, too sleepy to even think or form a coherent sentence. Snuggling closer to him, you closed your eyes, and went back to sleep as well.

Oh, you could get used to this.

Winter slowly turned into spring as March rolled around—the end of the academic year.

Trees that were once bare slowly blossomed with flowers, hues of yellows, and browns were replaced with endless greenery, and frigid air became more welcoming like a warm embrace. Most importantly, the cold distance between you, and Atsumu no longer existed, instead, it was replaced by fluttering heartbeats, and fluffy moments that hinted at a sweet forevermore.

“There he is! How does it feel to be a fresh graduate!” Suna whistled as Kita walked over to the group, clad in a black academic gown with a matching trencher propped neatly on his head, the golden tassel on the cap swayed with every step taken; he donned a warm smile, one hand holding his well-deserved degree.

The buzz of excitement outside the venue was high, the graduation ceremony having finished just a few minutes ago. You were all surrounded by graduands, all with heartfelt smiles on their faces as they conversed with family, and friends alike. 

As your friends fell into a merry conversation, a warm hand interlaced with your own, giving your hand a comfortable squeeze. Atsumu. Looking up at your boyfriend, he cheekily leaned into your ear, whispering an ‘I love you’ before slowly blinking at you, mirroring a cat’s action. You let out a small laugh, shaking your head at his antics.

“Are you two lovebirds done, now?” Suna coughed, pulling you back into reality.

Met with amused expressions plastered on your friends’ faces, you, and Atsumu returned a sheepish smile before joining in their conversation. “Anyway, we were talkin’ about how we should celebrate Kita’s graduation. It can also serve as a treat for us for makin’ it through another academic year.” Osamu explained, earning a hum of approval from you, and Atsumu.

“How about a spring trip to Kyoto?” —

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[kurooh]

when choso first learns about what facesitting really is, he brings it up after a make out session that’s left you both hot and heavy. he’s tugging on your hand, practically begging you to take a seat.

“i-i’m not sure,” you stutter, unsure. “what if you suffocate or something? i don’t wanna hurt you..”

the look he gives you is one of pure need and longing. “i don’t care, just sit baby. please.”

for good measure, choso gives you a little pout, breaking into giggles and a smile once you slip your panties and shorts off. your thighs tremble as you hover above his face, eyes squeezing shut at the heat of his breath against your sticky cunt.

“mmm, that’s no good,” he remarks, large hands rising to your hips and settling lightly. “i told you, sit down.” choso’s strong, yanking you down hard onto his face; you feel and hear his muffled moan when your pussy’s all over his whole face.

“choso!”

“so, so fucking good,” choso gasps against you, holding your squirming body in place as his tongue laps and laps at your sticky cunt.

beneath you, his body’s sweltering with heat, racing through every nerve like electricity while tight pressure builds in his cock. with a glance over your shoulder, you notice his hips rutting into the air as he searches for friction.

“cho,” you sob, so overwhelmed you actually feel tears building in your eyes, “i-i wanna suck you off, ‘s not fair—”

he easily lifts you and peers up at you from between your thighs, face flushed and shining with your slick. with a shaky finger, you nudge some of his hair away from his forehead.

“don’t want you to,” it’s painful to say, because he really does, but that’s simply a distraction for the both of you. “baby,” he murmurs gently, “i want you to focus on cumming for me, ‘s all, okay?”

you nod quietly, and the gesture is met with a mild slap to your ass. “okay, cho,” the moment the words leave your bitten lips, he’s pulling you back down and greedily drinking all of you in, taking whatever he can get.

choso’s ministrations encourage you to roll your hips against his face; a light bump of his nose to your clit has you crying out and grinding all over him. that’s right, he thinks, stars in his closed eyes. he wishes he could tell you to use him to get off, but he’d have to lift you up and he doesn’t want to even breathe.

unconsciously, he matches your pace, his hips rising into the air in synchrony with your own. one of your hands slips into his silky hair and tugs; he’s your anchor, keeping you somewhat steady although he’s the reason you can’t stop shaking.

“choso,” you wail loudly, angling your hips to let him take your clit between his lips and suck, “oh, i’m so close, ‘m gonna cum soon—”

from between your thighs, choso sees everything: the parting of your lips, the way your face crumbles in absolute pleasure, the brief moment of stillness as you fully fall over the edge.

it’s too much and not enough, but he cums too.

“c-cumming, choso,” is all you can muster, riding out your orgasm on his face and tongue while his hips buck wildly into the air.

the muffled moan you feel deep in your cunt makes you gasp, pulling away at the feeling of overstimulation, but he’s holding you tight. a look over your shoulder at the right moment, and you watch as his clothed cock explodes, gushing cum and soaking his boxers.

after all your squirming and pulling away, choso finally lets you go with crescent moon indents in your plush skin and a loud huff.

“i wasn’t done,” he heaves, skin smeared with your cum. it’s glossy and messy, but he won’t think about washing it off until you’ve cum at least three more times.

“but you came and everything, i—”

choso silences you by sealing his lips against yours, and you can briefly taste yourself— sweet, just like he’s always said.

“a few more times, please?”