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45622211111 · 3 months ago

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the description fits this sukuna drawn by @cuviz . i'll commission (they're open!) a fitting piece to this story, so stay tuned.

"…field worker of food enterprise »yūjiocha« has collapsed on the 24th of this august. health officials have shared that the 52-year-old suffered from breathing difficulties up to a heat stroke. following this shocking incident, the company has been under fire due to its low payment of field and indoor workers in rural sendai. the company's domicile in tokyo has been blocked by strikers as we speak, demanding fair working conditions. what makes citizens worry is the CEO-"

"anotha day with the same ol' stories," the taxi-driver mumbles, his head cowering under the windshield to examine the billboards.

you follow his direction and are greeted with the shiny exterior of ads over ads, raging from fashion brands to promotional thumbnails for upcoming movies. they contrast wonderfully with the grey and damp weather, the vividness too intense for this early traffic jam.

orange plus green letters of the said brand appear with a 3d animation of a rotating matcha tea packet. the name alone makes you swallow, your shoulders knotted as rain drops glide down the window. "hm, unfortunately."

"headin' there, aren't ya? ya're with dose devils?" you are quick to pick out his sarcasm but don't hold back from covering your chest with sweaty hands. "no, no! i'm here for the press conference! have to step in for my colleague, that's why."

"ya nervous?" from the backseat you hear the lightness in his tone. if he can sense it, than what's the point of trying to make excuses? really, it was a mixture of both excitement and nauseau. if it weren't for your co-worker telling you last minute, you would've had to wait for the next blue moon. it couldn't be compared to the never-ending online researches at home - this was a once in a life time opportunity for your career.

your thoughts come to an abrupt stop when the car pulls over. "kick their asses, yeah?"

"… queries are only allowed within your designated time. please refrain from shouting out," after half an hour of a protracted introduction with the help of a slide-show, the lady in glasses puts the microphone down - especially painful when your view is blocked by loads of technical equipment and tall backs of men in suits.

"good morning, shibuya network speaking here. we're interested in hearing the opinion of the CEO himself." the reporter sits down and the action builds anticipation in you with how swift this already works. nothing like what's shown on edited broadcasts or 30 pages of transcript for homework.

you raise your chin from the back of the spacious room. the two men at the podium exchange expressions. at first you don't understand their worrisome looks, until a screeching vibration echoes in the hall, as if an object is being dragged along something sharp. you squeeze your eyes open to the third person in the middle.

"you wanna hear my opinion?" your gaze dances across the room, trying to search for a reaction in the several women and men around you. have they just heard the exact same thing as you or are you caught in the sketch of some sadistic comedian?

"yes sir, your opinion."

the silence doesn't drag on for long, "of what?"

"sir, one of your worker-"

"i'm aware of that."

"after he collapsed-"

"yeah?"

"what exactly are you-"

"what are you aiming at?" a quasy feeling settles in your stomach.

"sir, what measures are you going to take?" the man finally snaps with rushed words, as anyone else would naturally do so.

"doin' as always." his face is cold, his movements solid.

"next question please," the spokesperson on the left side states.

you mouth goes dry. you recall why you've been hesitant when you got the call from your fever-plagued office partner, nobara kugisaki.

a few journalists and news outlets survey general questions relating to the company itself which makes your legs bounce with thin patience. can't they postpone these for another public gathering? at this state you weren't even sure if everyone would get a turn.

"in the last five years ryomen sukuna has held back from providing the public with clarifications on the many rumors he has been involved in… mr ryomen, would you be so kind and enlighten us?" a tall, white-haired woman sits down. some part of your brain tells you that she is grinning, although her voice has been stagnant despite some alarmed countenances on the stage.

the addressed man leans back - not without a chuckle though.

the next participant takes the mic. you are confused.

you reread your notes. is it worth asking when this conference has either denied or made fun of the press inquiries this far? you aren't one to defend gossip magazines who survive off his or anyone's questionable past, but this was too out-of-place for your own liking. simply put: it is disrespectful.

"good stories osaka, mr ryomen, please tell us about your alco-"

"we don't entertain this type of output from here on. please focus on recent activities or refrain from speaking."

you follow the white bow. "good morning, kyoto today here. sir, have you already been in contact with the victim's family? and how will you compensate your workers in the future? thank you for your cooperation." your ears perk up and you immediately cross out one scribbled line.

"that man is out of the hospital. i don't see a need to compensate anyone."

gasps and whispers spread throughout the tense air. right now, you can observe the only positive: the reporter's stance - how she confidently protrudes among the hushed outbreak, her grip on the microphone unwavering.

"so i'll take you don't intend on raising the standard of your worker's conditions anytime soon?"

"never planned to."

honestly, you aren't sure what to do when the room errupts with audible complaints and writers violently pressing down on their keyboards. "is this legal?" a reporter with a green notepad wants to know. others demand their camera men to "get everything on camera! no, zoom in!" and give them a slap on the back to get closer.

"please keep it quiet for the last contendors - if not, we are obligated to cancel this session."

your heart picks up at an uncomfortable frequency. you take deep breaths.

"from the daily press - mr ryomen, how will you deal with the recent protest in front of this very building?"

the men around him have long ago loosened their ties, sitting back in their chairs, handkerchiefs pressed against their red temples. by reading them you understand their missing courage to talk some sense into the CEO. even if, is this man capable of seeing his own faults?

"i'd like to see how long they'll drag this out - prolly not long."

the lady's arm points upward, "but sir! you are aware the people outside are your employees, right?!" it wasn't the first time during this knot garden that an interviewer has sounded like they are on the edge of insanity.

"so? there are enough volunteers who will take their places."

the woman near you sinks down without another word. your wrinkly page has ended up as a muddy ball of paper. you could theoratically get up and leave at any given time but with the cramped up space around you, you'd have to sit through this until the end.

thanks to your inner monologue you almost miss the black object pocking into your panorama.

now or never.

when you take the mic into your hand, you wince at the short self-noise. "kanagawa news… sir, i'll be brief: what's your purpose at yūjiocha?"

you can't unsee the way his knuckles push against the side of his cheek with the most uninterested glare - pierced brow not moving an ounce while you are mentally fluctuating for his answer.

"you tell me what my purpose is. you journalists love to pretend to know everything. isn't that so…"

you raise your brows. his derisive layer of throwing you and other hard-working writers into the same pot with gossipers leaves a bitter taste on your tongue.

"sir, i didn't assume anything. my question is: what's your personal ambition - you don't give the impression of having a goal as the chairman of your own company." you're at loss for words by none other than your own self. from the edges of your vista you find heads sticking together. the camera directed at you doesn't go unnoticed either.

that was the harmless part - not when his eyelids drop at your comment. in a flash, you question your own professionality. are you wrong?

"oh, so now you're telling me what to do?"

you huff. "that is not my intention, sir. i'm wondering why this - when you're acting reckless with the company of your-"

"a nobody from the gutter press is seriously teaching me about my business? tch."

"next one," the spokesperson moves on.

you remember the prominent throb in your throat, blurring out the last back-and-forths until everyone, one by one, started to exit the hall. his team is the first one to do so and you fear that this belittling memory will never fully dissolve.

the next day doesn't reward you for your rookie service either. the brown-haired woman walks up and down, prior to sitting down and repeating the same pattern anew.

"…means i can't use it?"

nobara, your senior of two years with more experience in the world of critical writing supports her head with her right palm. "hold on," the corner of her mouth twists in annoyance as she analyzes the screen of her pink tablet.

"these sons of bitches have not only imposed a copyright restriction because of a goddamn power point presentation but also threaten us with cutting our money!?" it was only a question of time when she would go berserk. you weren't going to risk calming her down when she had all the right in the world - unfortunately copyrights excluded - to complain about the supergiant's legal terms.

as you found out - just hours ago after terrible five hours of sleep - the press is not allowed to share the conference recording on any platform. on top of that, the financial pressure of withdrawing advertising money is pushed down your throats in case companies release a - as quoted - smear campaign against their precious CEO.

"i don't get it… why attempt hiding it? the media already knows," you chew on your lip at the thought of having to let your very first citation go to waste. you weren't going to allow your own sweat and (almost) tears go down the drain. not when they are the ones in the wrong on so many levels.

"i'll tell you why… these pigs can't risk more damage! knuckles-deep in the mud and they still have the audacity to stop journalism! over my dead body!" the aroma of berries floats your nostrils when she raises her steamy mug.

"what's the plan?"

"(name). see this as your first main quest from your kugisaki girl herself, 'kay? WE'RE GOING TO FINISH THIS NO MATTER WHAT! EVEN IF THEY WERE TO FLOAT THIS OFFICE! those recordings aren't going anywhere!" her arm cramps up when the coughing fit returns.

you immediately begin your text, fueled with fire from her motivational speech. as your job requires, you are here in the first place because you've promised to reveal the shady side of the business world. you wouldn't want to let your partner in crime down - not when you were entrusted with this important task.

"thank you, nobara-san."

"that's the spirit, rookie. let's end those wretched capitalists! they better be grateful that i had a fever… i would've jumped them all!"

the yellowish light of your overly bright display blinds you in the shades. the blue logo of the daily press dissapears. your thumb enters the key words and urgently scrolls down the black on white.

user8653346

another nepo baby who gets away with THEIR usual egotistic IDIOCITY. we live in a rich man's world everyone!

anonymous

I'm dissapointed with the amount televison and CO publicize. Why do they downplay the traumatizing event of a victim and make traces of the protest dissapear.... inhumane. Thank you and anyone else who has covered this evil crime for us.

z.9999

Why act surprised? He has a bunch of illegal acts held against him yet he gets away!!? I'm more concerned for the people who've lost their jobs!

anonymous

threathening journalists shocks me the least... what has daddy’s company become? ヾ(´∀｀)

a notification from nobara pops up, showing screenshots of hilarious responses under other tokyo-based publications over the last days. it's quite a relief they haven't held back either.

but the happiness wouldn't last long of course.

"utahime-senpai just emailed me. (name), you can't imagine how enraged i am. meet me at the office." the green and red symbols dissapear along her name.

your heart pounds as you run down the busy streets. no time to take a bite or look in the mirror. at the crosswalk, you weigh if you should get a quick meal and later hop into a taxi or train.

the neon green window display of the convenience store finds you at the right time. after paying for food and a bottle of water you're about to run to the next station, however, the magazine stand catches your attention instead. you should sprint to your office as soon as possible yet you're curious about one thing.

you turn the pages and eventually find your own article. you quiver at the touch of the physical copy. it hasn't vanished. you let out a relieved groan and with the satisfied exploration, you flee through the automatic doors.

"i would like to have a word with the manager regarding the supply of non-updated newspaper in here."

"nobara…"

the said woman is leaning her arms against the top of her cluttered desk. without any remark you place your bag down.

her lids are shut.

minutes pass.

"these fuckers have taken down utahime-senpai's entry," striking back this early? "legal protection for copyright violation! copyright violation?! - they can't be serious!" her skin slams against the wood, twice. she lets out another yell, "gahhh!"

"she hasn't inserted the entire video material on her website," you can't find a reason why on god's green earth there should be any dilemma with her senior's article. it's not like writers aren't familiar with the rules in connection to giving credits, likewise with how and when to use correct quotations and other sources.

"ah you see, three minutes out of 2 hours crisis communication is too long! hah! how dare we forget about proprietary visuals! that half-assed presentation and ugly logo are allegedly commercialization!" she clears her throat in a dramatic manner, "now they limit distributions unless certain parts are changed. exploitation of underlying speech my ass!"

you curse under your breath. "what about us? have we exploited proprietary materials?" you cringe at the terms.

she shares the same sentiment, although now more wearisome. "that's why i've invited you over. just got a message from the pitiful sons themselves," she rolls the computer mouse with her index. "i'm not surprised anymore," she lets out. "we consider filing for legal action regarding the article written and published by your media press journalist (fn) (name) in case it is not taken offline within the next 12 hours,"

you bump into her side and continue to read out loud, "the content of the article titled »fair payment for hard labour: executive ryomen sukuna's biggest income or greatest weakness?« on the 28th of this month includes reputation-damaging conspiracy on behalf of CEO ryomen sukuna's private and professional credibility. our chief executive officer has suffered great harm to his public image in recent days through burgeoning cyber harassment and thus financial destabilization.

the usage of »[…] he's shamelessly open about his lacking empathy for his own work force.«, »[...] getting his position handed (and maintained) on a silver platter […]« and the last paragraph in your text, »what does mr ryomen intend to achieve? one can only look at the priviliged offspring with the empathy he seems to miss whenever he makes an appearance on national TV […]« are missleading accusations without official proof. throughout his career as an executive chief, ryomen sukuna has worked hard for his responsibilities no matter what grand force he is facing.

we must also remind you that mr ryomen has fairly earned his position as the heir of the late wasuke itadori. his accomplishments as a widely-accepted humanitarian representative can be reached via the links provided below. we request you take your article offline or we are duty-bound to take legal proceedings against your company »kanagawa news« and journalist (fn). we are looking forward to a quick response."

you are torn between laughing and touching grass outside. "isn't that funny?" the brunette turns to you but you shake your head in disbelief. "this must be a sick joke."

"not gonna lie, i was a click away from sharing this on my socials. should've send it to every single media channel in this damn prefecture. hah… what a circus… humanitarian? pff…"

your fingers poke at your forehead. you never had to deal with this before, not when you had already covered big names once or twice without any backlash on how angelic their respective nepo babies are. a brat disguised as a grown man… making his minions do the dirty job while he is getting payed millions for exploiting farmers and factory workers.

you can't believe it.

the difficultty of trying to swallow is suffocating. besides just giving up and doing as they preach, this is surrendering - falling down on your knees to get spared by his hierarchic superiority. is this how the rest gets treated behind the scenes? - getting their own principals deranged by some power-hungry maniacs? oh, you have truly underestimated them.

another pause befalls the small office. you see colleagues from the other department pass by the huge pane. the broken light bulb above is twitching. you huff in exhaustion. nobara should tell you what to do since any decisison today will be regretted in one way or another.

"we can't give those bastards the satisfaction," she finally breaks the silence, "let's make them shake longer and solve this pile of shit in the evening, i'm too tired for this freak show. also… we can't delete your oscar-worthy exposure just yet, can we?"

purples and oranges bleed between the mild blue patches. when you step out, the town is dipped in a desaturated shade. at least the sun isn't fully up so you can escape the heat in the confinement of your four walls.

with every step you fall deeper into a spiral: a dark abyss of humiliation and utter disgust in the face of your new reality. what wong-doing outside of wanting to serve justice have you commited? you want to scream to your heart's content but even that is prohibited to you.

damned be that disgusting man.

what makes his horrible soul deserving of power when he's shamelessly spitting at workers? just because he doesn't consider them worth his while?

your skin burns with anger whenever you revisit his responses. a nobody. you shouldn't let it get to you but experiencing it first hand leaves you with wishing him the absolute worst. your article could only express one-sixth of your honest opinion on a self-centered bitch like him. you can't wrap your head around the fact that he still stands proud as the official CEO. no consequences for him.

"ahh!"

the numbness is abruptly replaced by a mild ache in your nose.

"oh i'm sorry!" you are still busy holding your face when you catch a glimpse of your opposite. the novelty of the stranger's face feels weirdly soothing the exact moment you meet his blue orbs.

"my bad! hey, are you hurt?" his limbs spread out with a respectful distance, his concern tangible.

"it's okay!" you wave your hand, "should've looked where i go and not space out, hih," you try to lighten the situation with a chuckle. it does its wonder as he drops his long arms to his sides.

"you're from here?" you are taken back by the asudden quizzing. "uh, yes," you manage to respond back after just starting to slip by him. you are not in the mood to start a conversation with a male stranger so you stride with the same heaviness again.

"(fn) (name). i quite enjoyed reading your article. what was it again? - big executive who doesn't pay his employees?"

you throw a glance over your shoulder. should you be on high alert in his presence? who is this white-haired man and how does he know it's you? you don't have any official pictures- oh. the press conference. don't tell me he's one of his men? as expected, a pinch of fear gets in your way, yet you can't let that stop you.

"yeah, that's me. want to enlighten me to whom i owe the pleasure of speaking?" your arms stick to your body like magnets. as much as you want to appear strong, on the inside you try your best to not freak out.

white teeth manifest as he lets out a playful laugh at your irony. "huh, if you insist this early - gojo satoru," he does a slight bow which you accept with rolling eyes. what a player. "hope your majesty is in a joyful mood," he goes on. shouldn't you feel threatened like you've preached seconds ago?

"oh, don't escape me!" he launches forward and you pick up your pace. "what?!"

"but you didn't let me finish!" he puffs his cheeks out and you don't know how to reply to that. is he being serious? are you trapped in a money laundering scheme from nearby, perhaps?

"nuh uh, i don't need your money! on the contrary, give me a minute to introduce myself!" you try your best to stand your ground despite his childish antics. "you have to trust me for that though…" his index beckons you, "would you do a favour for me? - with recompensation, of course," he grins.

commissions, support: ko-fi 🍥

#proshippers dni #WARNING !!#sukuna ryomen x female reader #ceo!sukuna x journalist!reader #tw corrupt ceo . cursing . mysoginy . power imbalance .#ryomen sukuna #sukuna ryomen #jjk ff #and slow burn #b word lol #ryomen x reader #sukuna ryoumen x reader #sukuna x reader #gojo satoru #mention of alcohol consumption

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gaykarstaagforever · 11 months ago

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The 1999 Mystery Men movie is now free on YouTube, I guess because Universal finally realized that if no one paid to see it when it came out and so no one remembers it, no one is going to pay $3 to rent it.

Which is a shame (for the people who made the movie, who gives a shit about Universal), because it's good. Based loosely on the Flaming Carrot / Mysterymen indie comics of the 1980s (I'm only familiar Cerberus the Aardvark, which the same company published around the same time), it is meta superhero parody in the style of Gunn's Suicide Squad / Peacemaker, just 20 years before any mainstream American audience would give a crap.

This is a universe where there is one real superhero, who is so effective that crime is basically non-existent, so that the sole superhero himself is getting bored. When he comes up with a scheme to give himself something to do, it goes badly, unleashing a notorious supervillain on Champion City. When the Mystery Men, obnoxious wannabe heroes with virtually no powers, try to help, they typically fail, but so badly this time that now they are the city's only hope. Will they put petty grievances aside and learn to work together before Cassanova Frankenstein destroys the entire city?

Well, of course they will. It's a superhero movie. The point is watching fun wacky characters bounce off each-other for 2 hours, and this certainly delivers on that. The cast is a who's-who of 1999 charisma, with notable turns by Geoffrey Rush as the scene-chewing, disco-themed Frankenstein, Wes Studi doing Batman if Batman was doing Yoda, and Tom Waits as a benevolent mad scientist with a grandma fetish. Paul Reubens doing a lisp and Kel Mitchell in blonde Sisqo hair are especially fun as a team within a team, farting and getting naked on their path to victory.

Ben Stiller is the lead, playing a typical Ben Stiller-is-the-lead character, the kind of well-intentioned but self-absorbed incompetent that is charming when Ben Stiller plays him in movies, but everyone would despise in real life. And if you are a person who also isn't a fan of him doing this in movies, you'll also not like it, here. I like Ben Stiller doing this, but Roy here really is a useless pain in the ass until the very end.

There are lots of Gunn-type sitcom jokes about superhero tropes and general goofiness, and similar tonal shifts between slapstick comedy and people being slowly melted. Fans of The Boys will enjoy Greg Kinnear as a G-rated Homelander, complete with product placement on his costume.

It is about 20 minutes too long at 2 hours, and has way too many annoying closeup 90s fight scenes with mediocre choreography. More scenes of just the cast improving should have replaced a lot of this, because this is what the movie is really about. And there is some amazing 1998 CG that is used well, but man. It looks like what it is, certainly.

Props on someone greenlighting a superhero parody movie in a world where the only things to make fun of were the Schumacher Batman movies (Blade, the first "real" Marvel movie, came out the same year as Mystery Men). But it is obvious that only hardcore comic book nerds were going to connect with this, and there were not enough of them, outside of the big mainline "event" comic speculator market of the 90s, to make up for a $68 million budget.

This was made specifically for a movie-going public that has fallen in love with good superhero movies, then gotten sick of them, and appreciates someone making fun of them in a smart way. That is a thing we barely have now, in 2024. Mystery Men the big budget movie really is a thing that was just 20+ years ahead of its time. Watching it feels like watching an episode of Peacemaker that is intentionally aping the style and production design of Batman Forever. I suppose it is worth seeing, just for that.

Also the 90s Hollywood cameos. Dane Cook shows up, unfortunately. No, he isn't funny. He is a "superhero" who burns people with a waffle iron. I realize that may sound funny, but believe me, it isn't when Dane Cook does it.

See for yourself. That scene is in the original Smashmouth video for "All Star". Because that song being from the Mystery Men soundtrack before Shrek is literally all most people know about this movie.

youtube

And that's not fair to it. Go watch it.

#mystery men #1999 #smash mouth #all star #superhero movies #movie review #youtube #ben stiller #free on youtube

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cookies-and-music · 9 months ago

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Ghost. - part 11: Air.

I suggest listening to Why'd only call me when you're high? and I wanna be yours both by Arctic Monkeys while reading this.

Part 1 here - part 12 here.

PAIRING: TVA!LokixOC

RATING: ALL

TAG LIST: @kats72 ; @mischief2sarawr

SUMMARY: Loki meets sombody at the TVA he once knew. Unfortunately she doesn't seem to remember him.

Mobius and Loki's mission in Chicago had been successful. Theoretically.

Renslayer and Miss Minutes had not yet been taken into custody, but they had returned with the less cocky and more useful Variant of He Who Remains to help prevent the collapse of the universe. And Sylvie. Again.

Lydia wanted to slap her. She couldn't stand her. She didn't like the way she looked at him, the way she stood near him, or even just the way she breathed his same air. Besides the fact that wherever she was, chaos ensued.

Like at that moment, in O.B.'s lab, as he tried to explain the (hypothetical and highly risky) plan to save the TVA, while Loki and Mobius competed over who shouldn't risk their lives for everyone.

"The problem is that there are much more radiation out there than there were before," O.B. explained.

"Well, then Loki will have to run a lot, right?" Mobius shrugged.

"What? Why me?"

"Well, because it's your turn."

"Says Who? Why?"

"Exactly, why him?" Lydia interjected.

"There, thanks. At least someone here doesn't want to see me roasted," Loki shot Mobius a dirty look.

"I believe it should be Sylvie," Lydia tilted her head, shifting her eyes to the other girl, "she created the problem, it seems fair to give her the chance to fix it."

"Only if you hold my hand along the way," Sylvie taunted.

Bitch.

"Also, the plan is only theoretical," O.B. continued, adjusting his glasses, "and we still need to finish the range multiplier, integrating the booster that Mr. Timely" – the latter smiled embarrassedly – "created."

"Very well, we'll leave you to work," Mobius clasped his hands in front of him before turning to the others, "let's go, kids, leave the adults to their spaces."

Lydia crossed her arms and followed the others out of O.B.'s office.

“I think we could use some cake, don't you think?" Mobius started walking towards the cafeteria.

"Cake?" Sylvie spat, turning towards Lydia and Mobius who closed the line.

"Yes..." Mobius furrowed a brow.

"Do you have any better ideas?" Lydia gave her a glance.

"What's wrong with you guys?" Sylvie raised her voice. "The world, no, the universe is collapsing and you want to eat cake while everything goes to hell?"

"And whose fault is that?" Lydia took a step towards her.

"Ah, so I'm the bad guy?" Sylvie mocked her. "It's not my fault if the fragile system you liked so much collapsed."

"Oh really? Because it wasn't me who assassinated the only being capable of making it work, this fragile system." Lydia made air quotes with her fingers.

"I gave freedom of choice, the same one that led you here," Sylvie indicated the ground.

"You created chaos, Sylvie." Lydia got closer to her. "Chaos so great that the universe can't handle it, and now everything is collapsing. And what for?" At that point but a few inches apart and Lydia didn't wait for an answer.

"For your personal vendetta." She spat in her face.

She got punched in the face by Sylvie so hard it made her head spin.

"You know nothing about me!" Sylvie screamed as Loki grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her back.

"I know how to recognize a selfish whore when I see one" Lydia managed to say through the pain as Mobius dragged her in the opposite direction.

---

Lydia should've learned, by that point, that provoking a Loki wouldn't lead to anything good.

As she dabbed her cheek with a towel, she also started to think that there was some sort of fate's design. In the sacred timeline she had seen how Loki had reacted when she had provoked him, and now nothing particularly different had happened. In both cases, she was the one who came out worse.

"Free will my ass" she scoffed as she sat on a cabinet in the bathroom where Mobius had sent her to cool off.

The bathroom door creaked open, and Lydia looked up to see Loki. Probably the last person she wanted to see at that moment.

"Are you okay?"

Lydia lowered her gaze but didn't respond.

Loki closed the door behind him and approached her. Seeing that she didn't look up, he bent down trying to enter her line of sight, but she turned her gaze away.

Loki sighed and straightened up, taking the towel from her hand gently.

"I'm not your enemy, Lydia" he said as he delicately took the towel from her hand.

"You have nothing to do here, Loki. Go back to your variant" she snapped.

“So that’s your trigger, jelousy” Loki chuckled.

“Why should I be jelous?” Lydia faked nonchalance, he ignored her.

"When I met you here at the TVA, I would have never said you were such a jealous type," Loki approached one of the sinks to wet the cloth with cold water "but thinking back that you and the girl I knew on Midgard are the same person, I should've remembered that you have a hot head."

"If you've come here to give me a lecture, I don't need it, Mobius already did" she swung her legs on the cabinet.

"I'm not here for that, I'm here because, despite your terrible personality" he shook his head approaching her "seeing you in pain hurts me, a lot."

"Is that why you were with her, until now?" She had to bite her tongue, provoking him wouldn't have had a different outcome, but Lydia just couldn't help it. Fortunately, Loki had developed enough self-control for both of them.

"Lydia" he grabbed her face from the non-sore side so she was forced to look into his eyes, "every wound, every mark on your body, and every tear of yours is a punch in the gut for me."

Lydia's gaze softened, and she had nothing to retort. Perhaps because the absolute sweetness and sincerity with which he looked at her while saying those words had brought down the concrete wall she had quickly erected against him.

Seeing the cat retracting its claws, Loki brought the cloth to her face, and Lydia flinched slightly, but Loki's hand held her steady.

"Does it hurt a lot?"

"Not much."

"I could fix it, if you want."

"With a magic touch?" she smirked.

"If you want."

"No," she replied after a second of thought "I'd like to keep it, like a war trophy."

"Sylvie is not your enemy either, Lydia" Loki whispered, dabbing her face again.

"Why do you defend her?" Her voice was calm, though perhaps slightly hurt.

"I don’t," Loki lowered the cloth "I agree with you. Probably if she hadn't killed He Who Remains, we wouldn't be in this mess."

"It's not just a mess, Loki. It's a crisis, a desperate situation," Lydia let her concern show.

"And you're right," Loki took her hands, bringing them between his, "but that's exactly why we need all the help we can get, including hers."

Lydia lowered her eyes to their joined hands and let out a sigh.

"And what if we don't find a solution?"

"We will find it, I promise you."

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Loki," she looked back at him.

"I promise" he repeated "trust me."

Trust. Did she trust him? Did she believe he could prevent the end of times? She wasn't sure, but she knew he was damn stubborn and that the TVA was his home, as much as hers. Maybe she didn't believe he would succeed, but she believed he would try everything, and that was enough.

"Okay" she nodded.

"Okay."

---

And Loki? Did Loki trust her? He wasn't sure he had an answer yet, as much as he was attracted to her and cared about her; she made him feel calm, even more when she was the chaotic one, and understood.

But when Timely failed in his mission, dissolving into space spaghetti, Lydia's hand was the first thing Loki grabbed, and her eyes were the last thing Loki wanted to see before the frame collapsed and the radiation destroyed everything.

Terribly sorry for the late update, my new situationship/"short-term, short-distance, low-commitment casual friend" (comment if you get the reference) kept me up too late on saturday and I needed recover, rest and some paracetamol. ALSO I was thinking of writing an extra streamy, maybe smutty chapeter to be added to this one (like a 11.5 chapter), like a missed scene or stuff. Let me know if you're interested pleaseee Thanks again for all the support shown me up till now, again, if you wanna join the tag list, let me know! My pc is dying, byeeee

#fanfic #loki series #loki #loki laufeyson #loki x reader #loki x oc #loki season 2 #loki x reader images #loki x you #loki x y/n #tva!loki #tva!lokixreader #tva!lokixoc #tom hiddleston

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sketchfanda · 8 months ago

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A Little Moxxie Love:Better Addictions

Now for those not in the know of course, the infernal pit we know as Hell is like an onion, and before anyone comes up with the wise ass remarks? That means that it had layers to it, especially when it comes to what the living world knows of it and what those who live in Hell so here for your education are some basic facts. There is the outer layer most mortals know of approximately as the realm of fire and brimstone, where the most vile and damned face eternal torment and suffering for their sins, from the child molesters to the bigots and the sociopaths who committed heinous atrocities and crimes against humanity. And then there is the inner layers, the 9 circles of which 7 are overseen by the High Demon Lords of sin; Pride, Envy, Greed, Gluttony, Wrath, Lust and Sloth.

Next of course we have the denizens of Hell themselves, the sinners and the hellborn, the former being damned souls who in life had done enough harm to others and or themselves to warrant eternity, at least according to the unknown laws of the afterlife. The latter are the devils themselves, demons such as Imps and Hellhounds who were born and raised within this land of chaos and mayhem throughout its 9 circles. Now one notable detail of course is that Sinners are confined within the circle of Pride, hence why you often find them around locations like Pentagram Town and Imp City but not anywhere in the other circles. The Hellborn meanwhile were free to move about and travel between any of the Circles so yes even Hell had a hierarchy in place, as much as a clusterfuck I could be where murder was as casual as a handshake.

For one of Hell’s Overlords however, this particular rule was an absolute pain in the ass, but ask anyone who at least knew of him well enough? They’d say what else was new with Valentino, one third of the Youngblood Overlords known as the Vees, yes even Velvet and Vox and they were all too familiar and acquainted with the moth pimp and his violent temper. What never seemed to set him off on was a list as short as his temper and those unfortunate enough to get caught in the vicinity had the bruises to prove it. But for Valentino, the pimp and porn magnate felt like he was missing out on business opportunities being confined to just the Pride Circle.

After all, why stick to making and distributing his movies with the scum and whores he could work with in Pentagram when Lust city was a goldmine he could tap more than ass on a daily basis. But the gold toothed moth felt maybe the best way to get his greasy fingers in that pie was to establish a partnership with the a boss of Lust itself, Asmodeus and the scumbag moth figured he just the way to get in touch with ol’ Ozzie himself. All he had to do was send his Hoes Dia and Summer out to take care of the task at hand and the pimp woild soon find himself going up in the underworld, literally and figuratively. Well that’s what he figured was going to happen but you know, best laid plans of mice and men…..

Now the idea you see was for the sweet little feline sinner and her succubus friend(and possibly more) was go find and work their charms on their designated target, one it took Valentino quite a while to settle on. Going for Fizzaroli was a no go, given Ozzie wouldn’t want anyone making moves on his Imp clown and going for that weird Imp who seemed to know Fizzie personally wasn’t worth it either. Apparently the guy was a real pain in the ass to be around within just five minutes of his company so instead their pimp had a different imp in mind, some little dude by the name of Moxxie. Their orders were simple, use their natural charms to get in nis pants and persuade him to b Valentino’s inside guy to get some sway and pull with Ozzie.

So there Dia and Summer found themselves at the local Imp City branch of the Consent club, keeping an eye out for their designated target. Their pimp, boss, it was all the same either way, had gotten word the little dude would be coming around here and lo and behold, there he was in a cozy corner booth with quite an entourage for company. For a plain looking runt even by imp standards, he had women all over him like he was a sweet piece of Candy or a puppy to shower with affection. They had to say, he was more than easy in the eyes especially compared to the clients Valentino has had them entertain or the Johns they’ve had to work with on sets.

It was just a matter of time before the little dude made himself available for their attention, which came when he made his way to the bar to no doubt replenish his party with some drinks. Catching his eye as they seemingly casually sat on either side of him, making him the monkey/piggy in the middle and started to pour on the charm. It was just adorable how flustered he was getting, given the company he had with him which included a few succubi yet somehow the attention of a pair like Dia and Summer made him as awkward as a school boy dealing with puberty and hormones. It was clear the sense of being overwhelmed made him easy to convince him to come with them to on of Consent’s private sex rooms, where of course they aimed to really bring out their A game, which definitely became the case soon as he looked back to his group at the booth, blushing as many of them shot him winks, smiles and thumbs up on getting so lucky, were they used to this kind of thing happening to him?

But far be it for the cat girl and succubus to look a gift horse in the mouth as they lead the blushing, stammering little imp to one of the nearest available private rooms. It was rather adorable really, any other chump or John that Valentino would set them on would be busy trying to act like they were big time players who were studs in bed. Like this one shark chump, Spaz or Chad or what the fuck ever, who wasn’t all as good as he thought, christ on a stick the guy didn’t even have a penny to his name. But that was then and this is now as they lead Moxxie towards the couch, sitting on either side of them as they started play up and pour on their charm.

it all seemed to be going about as well as expected as they planted kisses here and there, making out with the little possum as they slowly undressed him. Starting off with his shirt and coat as they tossed aside his cute little bow tie and made him feel, like he was the lucky little dude about to be in the middle of a lesbian make-out sandwich. Yet at some point in the midst of their sensual assault, it seemed like the tables had been turned on them as they went from being the predators on the prowl playing with their food to finding themselves the prey. Moxxie showing he gave as good as they were giving, perhaps even better as it was clear he was no stranger to threesomes.

But there just seemed to be something about his actions, the way he was treating them that they found different to the Johns they serviced or worked scenes with. He was no shy, inexperienced virgin cherry boy but not some pretentious conceited blowhard Casanova who could lay and get bitches easily with a wink and a smile, oh no, this was something else entirely. It was if for him, his own pleasure was secondary in terms of priority compared to their own as his attention was focused on making them feel…dare they say it, like women, not simple hoes or sluts to be used and treated as done with once the deed was done. It was so a foreign sensation, so very new to them to feel loved and be showered with affection on a sensual level.

When he’d kiss them, oh sure there was plenty of tongue but it wasn’t like he was trying to force and assert dominance on them, it was more as if he was kissing them like they were each the most important woman in the room. When he stripped them naked, it wasn’t by ripping off their clothes as if they were getting in the way but like he was unwrapping a present or opening a treasure box and admiring their nude forks like they were besitiful works of art. It was surreal for Dia and Summmer to be the centre of attention like this and yet it turned them on so much, to say nothing of his level of skill and experience. Every caress and sweet kiss making them all tingly in the right places, so much unlike every other prior John who’d just whip out their Dick and get right to plowing them.

But oooh how they sang and moaned melodically as he started to eating them, deep pants and gasps escaping their sensual lips as Moxxie’s tongue licked and plunged away into their snatches. It made them feel like they were drowning in ecstasy and only made them want to try harder at accomplishing the task in hand as they soon managed to sandwich the sweet little imp between them and get his pants off. Soon as they got removed the article of clothing, boxers included, their jaws dropped and their eyes widened as they beheld his length and girth in all its stiff, erect glory. If they weren’t feeling so wet and turned on before, the sight of such a cock setting off switches in their brain as they had one thought…..

“TO HELL WITH VALENTINO!!!” Rang thriugh their near telepathic link as they were soon showering that alpha male level dick with lusty devotion. Performing a tandem fellatio as they licked and sucked on thst imp cock, drowning in their saliva while kissing his nalls for good measure. The imp’s pants and groans music to their ears as they too turns deepthroating him, glowing hearts as their compact Casanova too, some initiative in grasping their heads as he pumped his hips. But the only experience even greater for them than this facefucking was the moment they each finally found that cock inside them.

The cat girl and succubus were no stranger to taking their share of dicks, especially tentacles, dildoes or strap-ones but Moxxie was putting plenty of their prior Johns to shame once again. Inches of long, thick and veiny womb hammering, snatch filled slab of fuckmeat heaven not just merely hitting their G spots but the whole entire alphabet. Yet all the while the imp seemed less focused in getting himself off and more about giving attention to their pleasure, how ironic that they had the task of having to seduce his sweet possum but he’d turned the tables on them without even trying. And to be honest, they were loving every god-fuck-damn second of it!!

If Dia and Summer had ever thought they could feel and find themselves falling in love with each other all over again, they’d have never imagined it’d be seeing one another in the throes of passion and ecstasy with another man fucking them. Yet that was indeed the case whether it was Dia watching her feline lover yeowling sensually as a Moxxie plowed her in a mating press while she played with herself or Summer groping her furry form as she looked on at her succubus girlfriend pinned uo against the wall as their newfound sex god hammered away. But oh to say nothing of when they’d enjoy him together, be it taking doggy style or missionary as they ate the other out or making out as he hammered their pussies in turn, hell they even found themselves glsdly taking it anally and they usually didn’t enjoy taking it uo the ass! That’s just how good the guy was!!

If anything Diamand Summer not only found themselves forgetting about their mission or whatever loyalty they had to Valentino, they found themselves wanting this sweetheart of an imp to claim them like the alpha male he was. “Get pregnant!!” Running through their heads like a primal mantra as they wanted to outright mate and breed with the romantic thespian. Losing track of time as minutes passed into hours before the intense passion finally caught up to them after one last round of climactic orgasms together. Sweet peaceful smiles of content on their faces as the afterglow warmth overcame them, snuggling up to their newfound alpha male like their own personal plush toy.

After that little encounter, it wasn’t long before Millie had the pair up and move into hers and Moxxie’s apartment as their new live-in maids. A role they gladly accepted as much as they had with considering Moxxie the only man in their life they’d ever need to love, having sent their resignations to Valentino in the meantime. In the form of a picture of them hugging a lipstick kiss marked Moxxie being hugged by the duo as they flipped the bird, attached with a note simply stating “WE QUIT!!”. To say he’d been livid was an understatement but the fuck was he going to do about it.

To say Moxxie was going to have get used to having maids as well as another set of kinky girls to satisfy was another understatement of course but by this point he knew to roll with the punches. All the while unaware that Millie had Loona send a copy of the picture along with a video of their alpha male in action with cat girl/succubus pair to the e-mail inbox o the head of Skull-Fuck Productions, the premiere porn studio and publisher outside of those owned under Ozzie. A singular office lit only by the glow of a computer screen and flames coming off of a smartly dressed skull-headed man who saw the latest notification of his inbox. An invisible grin forming as he saw who it was from and have it a read-over, ideas forming in his brain…

#sketchfan #sketchfanda #sketchfan85 #helluva boss #hazbin hotel #moxxie #helluva boss moxxie #moxxie knolastname #helluva boss millie #helluva moxxie #helluva millie #dia and summer #Dia Hazbin hotel #Summer Hazbin hotel

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impulsetheories · 9 months ago

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hey y'all! this is peyton [sh/th, 21+, cst—also the mun of selena, dylan, mouse & dabin] and i'm stoked to be here with an older idol-verse character of mine, lee hyeon. he's just some dude who decided he wanted to be a rapper one day and never looked back. you can view his stats here, his pinterest here & read all about him under the cut.

born november 18, 2002, lee hyeon is the only son to a catholic priest & a schoolteacher :~) talk about a set-up for failure…

the earliest chunk of his life is fine—obviously his parents are more than willing to take care of a baby, but the older he gets (and the busier THEY get), hyeon’s pretty much left to his own devices. as a toddler, his parents take turns pushing juice boxes into his hands and making sure he’s occupied by the tv; by the time he’s ~12ish, it’s a “here’s ₩10,000 to get some food after school, we’ll be home late so don’t wait up” type of deal probably 4/5 nights a week.

he doesn’t care, really; or at least he doesn’t feel like he does @ the time. he has some friends that he’s really close to, so he fills up his time with those friends rather than worrying about his parents—until he can’t anymore. by the time he’s turning into an angsty teenager, he thinks a lot about his family situation & how his dad is out there “serving the community” but failing to serve his family and how his mom wouldn’t know his favorite movie if asked, like… these things chip away at a person!!!

it doesn’t help that his parents kind of have a “business” r/s; not really in love like they were once upon a time, just staying together because it’s easy (and it would be shameful for a priest to divorce—plus, in the catholic church, he wouldn’t be allowed to remarry so long as he stayed a priest) but anyways… hyeon didn’t have a good example of filial OR romantic love in his early life, which resulted in him being emotionally unavailable and having zero respect for his parents 🤙 oh yeah!

his life is like this: church services on sunday / pretty much no interaction with his parents any other day of the week unless it’s thru sticky-note messages around the house / go to school half the time, skip the other half / waste time with his four best friends / play league of legends all night / daydream of being a rapper like… obviously a very fulfilling life

anyway i’m really not trying to make y’all learn every minute detail of hyeon’s life story here so i’ll say tl;dr he got really into rap/making beats around 13/14ish, started a yt channel w his friends at 15, had a joke song go viral on yt that same year which kind of made him realize how starved for attention he was/how much he really WANTED to rap??!? / applied and got onto season 3 of high school rapper at 16, placed 3rd, signed with canvas labs the next year and consequently dropped out of high school to focus on music/training and ultimately severed his ties with his parents like… he obviously didn’t have time for church anymore/the desire to go and him turning his back on the catholic church AND dropping out of school??!? spitting on everything his parents stand for fr fr

worked part-time as a mechanic’s assistant while he was training, up until newave started prepping for debut—in this time, he got really into cars, got his driver��s license & then got into racing; super into racing go-karts!!! he still does some side work for his former boss from time to time for pocket cash: uses this money to support his love for designer clothes mostly or buy shit for his own car, which is a 2008 mitsubishi eclipse spyder that his former boss gifted to him (was a piece of shit at the time, required extensive work and is still a pain in the ass unfortunately)

as of march 2024, is a (somewhat) newly debuted idol—does not take it particularly seriously, and it’s not his career end-goal. ultimately he wants to produce a bunch of music for the group (and potentially for other groups), get rich off royalties, drop the group and return to the “real” rap/music scene… u know how it goes… selfish selfish man!

all in all hyeon is literally just some guy with a chip on his shoulder. he views other people as disposable, so he doesn’t care to get particularly close to anyone—but even if he does, he’s a pro when it comes to burning bridges & never looking back. if you have nothing to offer, hyeon has no interest; and if he has no interest, he won’t fake it. a lot of this is just a result of him having to be independent from a young age & (ideally) something he will grow out of in time :~) very hot and cold type of dude: might be nice to you, might not, and it’s always up in the air as to what side of him you’ll get 🤷‍♂️ but even at his nicest, he’s pretty rough around the edges—tough love is his speciality!!! will do anything for a laugh (or just for attention lbr), bitches & complains constantly but will still do what’s asked/expected of him, shows that he cares in quiet ways like carrying your bags/luggage or ordering a large fry for u instead of the regular like… he will not be caught dead doing any sappy/sentimental shit but if you mean anything to him he’ll never forget a thing u say…. he’s a villain fr but maybe he can still be redeemed.

other trivia: was a smoker for about 6 years, recently switched to vaping but is trying to quit completely because It’s Unbecoming Of An Idol (re: management caught him a few too many times) / was active in the underground rap scene for a little bit before he joined canvas labs, was never well-known ‘cause u know… he was like 17… but he went by the name sweendakk and still has a soundcloud profile under that name / as a celebrity, has a very loud, goofy, rambunctious & mischievous persona—all of his shit-talking and impulsivity is sanded down into something endearing (or at least halfway palatable) for the sake of selling an image; kind of whiplash when you meet him irl and he’s really just a jackass / king of pacing. catch him furiously walking back and forth at your local grocery store / used to be really into weight-training, currently is on more of a cardio kick—regardless, he’s a healthy guy & much stronger than he looks / catholic guilt but i’m sure you saw that coming / dishonest, will tell you a blatant lie straight to your face KNOWING that you know it’s not true. a shameless man with not much to lose. aiming to change that. there we go…

plot ideas

head’s up that i love extensive plotting—this is not at all a requirement & i’m also down to just jump into a base idea and see where it goes!!! but!!! if you’re like me and you love to yap about every little detail!!! i will never tell you no!!! anyways…

naturally, one of his close friends from before he was an idol. ideally this would be someone born around '00 to '03 who was generally up to no good as a kid/teenager: hyeon was shit at showing it, but he lovvvveddd this person and still thinks fondly of them despite having cut them (and the rest of the friend group) off when he signed with canvas labs. thinking he might be reaching out to them again soon, so let's hope they haven't changed their number...

that one member of hi-fi he’s trying to rizz up ‘cause no way you’re gonna have hyeon living right beside a girl group and not expect him to cause problems… i’m open to discuss any/all details of their dynamic, but my idea for this is that he’s initially interested in her for very shallow reasons but ultimately she ends up becoming a muse for him (causing him to write songs such as this and this that he shares with her, but doesn’t actually release until much much later in his career when he ought to be leaving her name out of his mouth) and is someone he has every element of a relationship with without actually dating her—but in these early days of newave & hi-fi, there’s still an understanding within the groups that she’s “hyeon’s girl” but it never actually becomes something and in the end she cuts it off ‘cause hyeon can’t/won’t commit to her… wasting this poor girl’s time fr fr... all i'm saying is we're at the perfect time of the year for them to have a summer fling

various meet uglies because hyeon's a menace to society. your muse has the same workout schedule as hyeon & he's sick and tired of them hogging the one (1) working treadmill, your muse is also a celebrity (preferably someone with a higher profile than newave) and hyeon mistakes them for an employee at this appliance store where he was sent to buy a new microwave for the dorm, you bring your car in on the one day a month hyeon happens to be helping out at this mechanic shop and no way you've got an idol telling you your car is a piece of shit (as if you don't know that already) (is this a fever dream?), your muse is buying laxatives or lice shampoo or some other embarrassing item and hyeon's trying to rizz them up when they really just don't want to be noticed at all, alternatively hyeon's trying to rizz your muse up while HE'S buying something embarrassing and they can't take him seriously because of it, etc etc etc... if you have any ridiculous ideas PLEASSSE send them my way! i love these types of things!

i already know hyeon's putting those nda's to work... your muse is/was a fan so hyeon had a relatively easy time pulling them, talked a bunch of shit about how they couldn't reach out to him anymore/needed to delete his number but he's the obsessed one now (never meet your idols)

hyeon thought he could outdrink your muse but he's never been more wrong in his life. he wakes up with the worst hangover he's ever had and a text from an unsaved number saying some shit like "don't forget - you owe me a yacht"

anything... i'm a lover of strange & unusual plots, silly plots, intense plots, etc etc... pleassseee give me whatever u got!

#jongno:hello #ohhhh yeahhhh

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fish-bowl-2 · 10 months ago

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Ok. I had this ask in my inbox for the longest time. I am so sorry anon. I tried to answer it earlier, but I was on vacation with only access to Tumblr mobile, which is a major pain in the ass when it comes to editing drafts. TWICE all my answers got deleted. Here I am for round three but on a desktop computer, so I can finally set these thoughts down worry-free.

Admittedly, it is kind of hard to rank the kids from favorite to least favorite. Obviously my favorites are the Eds, but I see value in all the characters, and can name any number of episodes where I find one or the other entertaining. One of the benefits of having a small tight-knit cast. I hope you don't mind if I just rank my thoughts on them alphabetically.

Jimmy: His inclusion within the show is super interesting to think about. Not that I am an expert on the social climate at the time, but there are way more diverse male characters in children's media now than there seemed to be back then. Not that Jimmy's depiction is perfect, but I find him very likable and entertaining in a way that I laugh with him more then AT him. If there is anything about his person that is made fun of is his tendency to be accident prone, rather than his effeminacy directly. I think people undervalue the amount of good lines he has too. He often says stuff that totally catches me off-guard lmao.

Johnny: Of all the kids, he is the one I think the least about. I admit to finding him kind of grating, but I think that is VERY intentional seeing how the other characters react to him on the show. He still has fantastic moments though. Episodes that come to mind are "Dear Ed", "Rent-a-Ed", and "Shoo-Ed".

Kevin: I think he is SERIOUSLY funny. There are so many moments where his deadpan humor just gets to me. I think I've laughed out loud the most with his comebacks. I like the approach of depicting him too. He plays the 'bully' role for the Eds, but that doesn't make him an entirely unlikeable muscle-head. If anything he appears more unimpressed and suspicious of events that transpire. I like that 60 Minutes detail in the pitch bible a lot not only because it is funny, but it establishes something interesting about his paranoia. Especially emphasized in the episode "See No Ed". I also really like his friendship with Rolf. In a lot of other kid shows it would have been an easy choice to have Kevin bully the "foreign" kid, but instead they are buddies. Really emphasizes how targeted the Eds ostracization is.

Lee: I really like her! I think she might be my personal favorite Kanker. I like how unashamed her aura is, and her design is my favorite (granted I think all the Kankers have good designs). I am going to repeat this a lot with her sisters, so I might just say it here: I really do wish there was more exploration into their personalities. I think this is my biggest gripe with the show as a whole. It feels at some point the team couldn't really figure out what to do with them, which is disappointing. (I think they have been quoted to say as much but I cannot vouch for that. If anyone desires, feel free to pull up a source or link).

Marie: I feel she is the Kanker with the LEAST defined personality, which makes her difficult to analyze. With Lee, even though there isn't anything extensive to go by, I can inference that she seems to be the "oldest" of her sisters, and takes on a leadership role in a reflection of her Ed-of-interest. May is definitely the "baby" of the girls. Somewhat ditzy and sensitive, which gets her pushed around. As for Marie, I guess she is jealous??? (maybe this is an unfortunate reality to being the middle sibling </3) She doesn't really share much with Double Dee like Eddy and Ed do with Lee and May which makes this even more difficult to pin down. To me she seems to mostly share a connection to him in design. I kind of subscribe to the interpretation that she is avid in "street smarts" in comparison to Edd's "book smarts", but that more of a headcanon than something confirmed by the show. I don't know, I am confused by her a bit. Because of this lack of...anything, I find it interesting that so many 30+ year old 90s kids are so enamored by her. This is definitely the unfortunate side-effect of being a fictional goth/emo aligned girl.

May: Of all the Kankers, she is the one I feel has received the most defined personality throughout the show's evolution. By no means is it a lot, but it feels like she is way more than just a "dumb ditz" stereotype to match Ed. I think this is why so many fans connect to her, and it feels like she has grown pretty popular with the fandom on here as a result.

Nazz: She's chill. I like her. She doesn't have much of a dynamic personality to go off of though. Honestly, even less than the Kankers who have that whole nasty, gross girl thing going on that makes them really entertaining and relatable. I do like how that in the earlier seasons she is depicted as a bit of a tomboy/skater girl. It is a lot more unique than making her simply a "popular girl" stereotype, and actually makes it understandable why all these preteen boys would be all over her. She genuinely seems cool to hang out with. A lot of the time she appears to be amicably hanging out with Kevin, which I think is sweet too.

Rolf: Who doesn't love Rolf lol? I've gotten into arguments with my sister on whether his depiction on the show is politically incorrect or not. I don't think he is by any means a squeaky-clean impression, but I don't find find it to the level of any kind of cancellable offense, or by any means racist! I think the fact that his upbringing is inspired by Danny's experience coming from an Italian family emphasizes a bit of acknowledged sympathy to the character. Not all the neighborhood kids understand him, but that doesn't ostracize him. If anything, he seems to be seen as a bit of an elder or "sage" if you will, in the eyes of the other kids. I think that element is super interesting and deserves to get talked about more.

Sarah: I think she gets way too much hate. Of course she is super annoying and mean, but that is kind of the package of the role she plays. If she was super nice all the time there wouldn't be a lot of stakes for the Eds. I think her bitter vendetta against Eddy is so funny. Her friendship with Jimmy is great as well. I really love strong girl characters being protectors of a boy character. It is such a good take on an otherwise overly used trope.

#once again thank you so much for the patience #hope these answers are to your liking : ) I am totally open to expanding on some of them if I am not entirely clear #I didn't want to make this TOO long but lol #asks

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bunnakit · 11 months ago

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The Lyrebird King - Chapter 2

To his credit, Caius excelled at being difficult to track down, it was something he took great pride in. It was unfortunate he never foresaw the persistence of a brawler with eyes like spring moss.

It had been nearly a handful of weeks since the death of Sir Reinald, long enough for suspicion and gossip to swell to a crescendo and die down almost overnight as the populace returned to their daily routines. He didn’t return to the fighting ring, didn’t want to draw the attention so soon, but it couldn’t be helped if he turned his head each time he saw warm olive skin or a head of auburn hair. A lingering regret he didn’t often feel lodged itself in his chest and he half wished he’d been thoughtless enough to leave Aries with his name if nothing else.

It was these thoughts that caused his attention to waver as he navigated the side streets of Larkfield. Caius turned a pendant in his hand, a golden motif of two keys crossed atop a shattered crown. It was a popular symbol of the Fallen Hierophant; god of rebellion, freedom, free thought, and the dismantling of tradition. It did not take a scholar to understand why the Fallen was so controversial and spoken of only in whispers in most city-states.

Stuck in his rumination, Caius was careless in a way he hadn’t been in quite a long time. He didn’t see the split-knuckled hand that grasped his cloak and did not immediately gut the force that pulled him into the darkness of a nearby alley.

“Bastard!” He spat as he whirled around, dagger in hand, to face his assailant.

“Hush, little bird,” A familiar voice spoke in a rumbling tone that instantly brought Caius back to a night of softly spoken words within a dimly lit tavern and tousled sheets, “You’re a pain in the ass to track down, you know that?”

The dagger wavered only slightly, moving from a strong, stubbled jawline to the dip in the center of his clavicle.

“Aries. I didn’t expect to see you again.” His amber eyes lifted to meet green and where he suspected he should have felt fear or even anger, he only felt relief and remorse.

“By design, I’m sure.” He didn’t miss the way Aries held him so gently; a hand cradled against the very elbow that led to his dagger, the other against his hip with thumb rubbing soothing circles where his shirt tucked into his trousers. It was far more care than he deserved. “You never told me your name, you know.”

“I didn’t think it would matter, what with the whole never wanting to cross paths again.” Caius’ words were not barbed intentionally, but perhaps it was the indifference in them that made Aries’ brow furrow - or perhaps it was something else entirely.

“Wait a minute,” He watched as Aries’ hand lifted to touch the apple of his cheek, calloused thumb stroking over a scabbed cut that lingered there, “Who did this to you?” His gaze darkened and Caius would need to be a far stronger person to quell the rapid beating of his heart.

“My name is Caius. Now what is it you want?” He turned his head away, effectively dislodging the touch that caressed his skin as if he was something precious to be treasured, not the tarnished scrap he knew himself to be. He hoped it was enough to deter the subject entirely.

“Did he do this to you?” Aries wondered, fingers having fallen to trace down his jaw, further down the delicate column of his neck, and rest just against the spot where his pulse hammered frantically.

Caius should have known Aries’ observational skills would pose an issue. It was what had drawn him to him like a moth to a flame; the way he’d carefully observed the other fighters around him and planned accordingly, the way he’d known about the watered-down drink at The Wounded Wyrm, and again here in the way he worried over something that was now little more than a scratch. He’d allowed a strong physique and gentle eyes to lull him into complacency.

“This is the last mark Sir Reinald will ever leave upon this world.” He bared his teeth against the words as if daring Aries to challenge him, to threaten him, anything. It would be so easy for those strong, scarred fingers to wrap around his throat, and it would be so easy in turn to sink the point of his blade into Aries’ rib.

As Aries leaned forward, knife pressed against the soft flesh of his unprotected torso, Caius succumbed to a startling realization. He didn’t want to hurt Aries. His eyes fell to watch as a small crimson bloom spread across the thin cotton of Aries’ shirt, the nocuous mark enough to shock him into dropping the dagger with just a twitch of his fingers and a halted gasp.

“Good. The man deserved his fate and I only hope those collaborating with him fall to ruin as well.” Aries spoke with such stern vindication, with such passion that it immediately had Caius lifting his gaze again. “Any person that abuses their position of power to hurt those less fortunate than them deserves to fall from grace - and may it be a violent and spectacular fall for all to witness.”

He narrowed his gaze at the words, searching them for deceit or half-truths. “It would be so easy for you to take me to the guard and turn me in for a reward.” His eyes fell again to the hand on his elbow, just cradling gently and leaving him all the opportunity to flee should he choose to do so. “I’m not going to do that, Caius,” Aries spoke with a soft smile, his incessantly kind eyes crinkling in the corners, “and I think you know that. I do think you should lay low for a while, maybe get out of Larkfield for a bit. Do you have a place to stay?” He wondered and he sounded so damnably concerned it set Caius’ teeth on edge.

“I don’t need your concern. Larkfield isn’t my home and I don’t intend to stay.” He only just held himself back from snarling the words. He wasn’t used to being cornered or surprised and would have to ensure it didn’t happen again.

“Good, good. In that case, I’d like to join your little effort here.” It took a moment for the words to register as Caius was almost certain he’d heard them incorrectly.

“Pardon?”

“I’d like to assist in whatever crusade has you holding the rich, affluent, and corrupt accountable for their misdoings.” He gave a lopsided smile, one Caius remembered seeing weeks ago, in the fleeting hours of the night before falling into a brief slumber. “Why?” Aries wasn’t well off, that much was certain, but he could come up with no reason for him to take such a risk, to put such a target on his back. Caius knew he was good company but he was by no means that good.

“Because things need to change and, I don’t know, I think maybe you’re just fuckin’ crazy enough to pull it off.” Aries shrugged, hands finally dropping from where they’d held him with feather-light touches. “You took out the Knight Captain of all people, I don’t expect he went down easily.” He lifted a scarred brow and Caius couldn’t help but scoff at his certainty.

“It’s quite easy to take someone out once they’ve invited you into their home, into their bed,” He knew he shouldn’t gloat, knew he could keep his mouth shut and his methods to himself but there was just something about Aries that wound him up like a roll of silk at the market, “Some may call it honorless, but I don’t remember claiming to have any to begin with.” He glanced out the mouth of the alley, grateful the streets were still busy at this time of day.

“Had you intended to do the same for me?” Somehow, the question from Aries wasn’t accusatory, wasn’t judgemental, there was only a lingering curiosity in his tone.

“No. You were information.” Caius kept his words clipped and succinct, knowing he’d already said far, far too much.

“Ah, I’m flattered,” Aries laughed, pure and mirthful despite just learning he’d been manipulated, now complicit in the death of a high-ranking member of the Guard, “But you should have dug even deeper.” He leaned down, their breath mingling with the proximity.

Caius’ breath stilled in his lungs and for a moment he was certain Aries was going to draw him close and kiss him the way he had the moment the tavern room door had closed behind them.

“Let me follow you, Caius. You say jump, I’m already halfway down the cliff. We’d work well together and I think somewhere in that frigid heart of yours you know it.”

“Why are you jumping off a cliff? No, don’t answer that - Are you an idiot?” Caius spat, all his bewilderment, frustration, curiosity, and any other latent emotion bubbling forth into one exhalation of disbelief.

“Do you want me to answer that one?” Aries was laughing at him and even the way he teased and mocked him was gentle. What an insufferable fool of a man.

“Gods, no, just… Follow me. I have a feeling you’re going to be relentless about this anyway.” He sighed, grasping Aries’ elbow and leading him out into the main populace.

“Hmm, you really do read people well, don’t you?”

Caius refused to acknowledge Aries any further as they trekked through the cobbled streets and thankfully, it seemed Aries received the unspoken command as he offered no further quips or remarks. It wasn’t a terribly long journey, no more than an hour at most until Caius began to slow his steps and scan their surroundings.

“Is this the part where you kill me in the middle of the woods where no one will find my body?” Aries wondered from where he leaned again a stone pillar, ruins of an age long passed, with arms crossed and posture slouched as if the thought did not trouble him one bit.

“Hardly,” Caius nearly growled as he stepped forward, and then back, “Ah, there you are.” He knelt down and brushed away the forest detritus to reveal a warped, discolored wooden hatch. He tugged on the rusted handle, ignoring the flakes of iron that fell away as he revealed a winding staircase into the depths below.

“Coming?” He wondered, brushing off his hands and taking the first step towards the gaping darkness.

Aries hesitated a moment, gaze flitting between the scraps of ruins that dotted the forest before turning back to the haunting entrance.

“I really must be an idiot.” He whispered before following close behind. He resisted the urge to shiver once they were fully submerged in darkness, the drop in temperature jarring compared to the warm humidity outside.

“Close the hatch please.” Caius instructed as a little flame came to life in his hands, dancing along his fingertips and leaping to a nearby sconce to illuminate the pathway down.

“You’re a magic user.” Aries’ voice was tinged with awe as he first followed the instructions given, and then followed his escort further into the chamber.

“Only the most rudimentary of magic and illusions, I prefer to do most things by my own hands.” Caius offered as he continued down the winding steps, the walls around them littered with various foliage and moss.

Before too long the walkway opened into a massive, sprawling cavern where a steady flow of run-off water was traversing through the center and branching off down several avenues. They found themselves in an ancient cistern, likely used for storage if the rooms and alcoves were any indication. The moving water kept the area from smelling too terribly of must and mildew, and it seemed there had been a recent effort to clear the stones of any slippery algae.

“Shit, this is…” Caius turned his head to watch the awe on Aries’ face, a smile tugging to his own lips at the memory of his own first discovery of the ruins.

“Amazing, isn’t it? Why they were ever abandoned, I’ll never know. But one man’s trash and all that.” He shrugged off his cloak and continued his trek into one specific cell. While there was no door it was obvious this was Caius’ own space, a weathered desk pushed to one side of the space, a makeshift cot on the other. A broken armor rack stood at an angle in the corner and he didn’t hesitate to toss his cloak onto it, watching as it rattled and shook in place.

“You’ve been under everyone’s noses this entire time,” Aries laughed from the doorway, leaning in the empty space with his arms crossed. His eyes never left Caius, tracking his every movement and taking in every detail of the sparsely furnished ‘room,’ down to the worn but intricately patterned rug. “Amazing.”

Caius rolled his eyes at his easy, pleased smile. He knew Aries wasn’t a man easily impressed, their first interaction had confirmed as much when he’d scowled in the face of his peace offering. Somewhere deep in his chest he found he hated the way that single smile made him want to pull more and more from the inquisitive brawler. His smile was infectious, like the sun peeking through the clouds after days of rain. It put him on edge in a way that was different than his normal paranoia and suspicion.

“It should go without saying but this location is meant to remain a secret, as is everything else relating to me.” He warned as he rolled his sleeves to his elbows and shed the leather corset around his middle. He could feel Aries’ eyes burning against every inch he uncovered, and yet the attention didn’t boil his blood in the same way it so often did with others. Perhaps it was because he already knew what kind of lover Aries was, or perhaps he had grown weary after days of evading the guard and laying low within the confines of town.

“I told you, I’m with you,” Aries replied, taking a step forward until he crowded into Caius’ space, their breath almost mingling from their closeness. “The two of us could turn the aristocracy on it’s head.”

Caius stared up at him from beneath his fringe, jaw set and eyes roaming every plane of scarred, stubbled face. Aries’ stern eyes belied his gentle kindness, his silent plea for trust, and his low-burning fire of arousal. When Caius peered past the confident facade there was no deception to be found in the gentle man beside him, and that baffled him.

“What do you set to gain from this?” His words were serrated, as much a question as a warning.

Aries held his tongue for a few passing moments, eyes flitting back and forth and no doubt taking in Caius’ own expression - One he hoped conveyed his suspicion, reluctance, and begrudging acceptance of Aries’ presence in his space.

“You, I hope.” Caius couldn’t hold back the incredulous laugh at the answer but he didn’t expect his stomach to swoop in the face of Aries’ laughing, teasing smile. “And I’ve never much cared for the upper echelon, their constant abuse of power, and their mistreatment and manipulation of those around them.” Now that was something Caius could agree with, though the words were almost a little too perfect. He looked up to say as much but as he met Aries’ eyes he saw a flicker of something there; a buried history and a vendetta that he assumed may not be entirely different from his own. There was a certain comfort that washed over him, the comfort of camaraderie and of knowing that perhaps someone else saw the world painted in the same color he’d seen for so many years.

He hesitated, weighing his options, turning his observations around in his head like an astrolabe, and picking apart every detail for some kind of flaw.

As the silence stretched he stalked to his desk and grasped his quill between his fingers before dunking it in the dirtied inkwell with perhaps too much force. His hand formed elegant script across the parchment, painting an agreement and a deadly promise across the page. As he scratched the final detail - his own signature - he plucked a dagger from the desk and in one swift movement pressed the tip to the pad of his thumb. A large bead of blood seeped from the wound and Caius promptly pressed it against the yellowed page, nestled just beside his name.

“Should you ever betray my trust or intentionally place me or these ruins in danger, I will hunt you down and you will wish you’d received the same end as Sir Reinald.”

Caius held his breath as Aries marched forward, eyes carefully reading over the page (and it struck him as odd that someone that took to illegal brawling in the streets could read, and so quickly at that) before he grasped the quill and signed his own name - Aries Candensford. He pressed his thumb to the tip of the dagger that was still clenched in Caius’s hand, and sealed the promise with his blood.

“You have my word, Caius Rexmenura, should I ever betray your trust I will kneel before your blade and pay your toll.” His words were spoken with so much conviction and delivered with such an assured smile that it had Caius’ throat bobbing with the force of his swallow.

“Then a pact has been made. Welcome to the Underworld, Aries.” He sighed, tucking the papers in a drawer that was quickly locked with a small key which he wasted no time hiding within his palm.

“Perhaps we should get reacquainted - We’ll be working closely together from now on, after all.” The flirtatious words didn’t feel like caustic oil over his skin. No, in fact, Caius felt a smile tug at the edge of his lips as he stood and stalked his way through the room, chasing Aries’ retreating steps until the brawler sat gracelessly on the edge of his cot.

“Now there’s an idea.”

#oat writes #my writing #original writing #original characters #original novel #tlk caius #tlk aries #ariescaius #the lyrebird king #chapter 2 #the lyrebird king: chapter 2 #🌸the lyrebird king #art by cameron mccafferty

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phoenix · 9 months ago

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So, who wants to hear the story of me trying to do my review of Guilty Pleasures?

...Well, too bad, I'm gonna tell it anyways.

But I'm not a monster.

I needed to do this yesterday, because of my best friend's birthday...

So, my best friend's birthday is, well, yesterday. The 27th. Trisk has always posted reviews on the 26th of each month, so when February rolls around, I've always tried to make my review on that day be something that makes me think of him. From something as much as a movie he likes (Rare for our interests to align enough for that to happen, but I got a few out of that), to something as basic as "made in Canada". The connection doesn't have to be much, and it was always just a bit of something that made me smile, nothing more.

About ten years ago, Scott did a movie review show of his own called, Guilty Pleasures Cinema. I gave him the tagline for the show, and designed his logo, and even made a few appearances as Cthulhu. He eventually gave it up because of trying to include clips always led to copyright strikes, and the audience never showed up enough for him to be happy.

So of COURSE, the reason why I wanted to review Guilty Pleasures this week, once I heard about the movie, is obvious.

Unfortunately, the movie is ONLY available on Blu Ray, and Trisk requires DVDs because of my workflow, and creating images. And also, the one rule of Trisk is "I will own the movie". There's only been two exceptions I've made.

But this is a minor issue, because surely someone has it streaming...well, no. Even though a lot of obscure stuff is, not this. Well, surely I can find it through...other means. Again, no, and that's a bit more shocking. I can usually find stuff SOMEwhere somehow. Maybe ripped to YouTube or similar, other elsewhere, but this was just NOT out there. Or it might be, but GOOD FUCKIN' LUCK trying to find something named "Guilty Pleasures". So much porn...

Side note; I mentioned this to Scott, and he offered to look, and I was like, oh no you are literally the one person I can't tell the name to. ;)

The movie might be out there somewhere, but it's not being easy to find.

STILL, I have a Blu Ray player and a DVD burner! I've done THAT before too, but it's a pain in the ass, and there's loss of quality! EXCEPT...this time the recorder picked up copy protection signals and refused to work, no matter what I did.

Time was running out, and I had three choices; play it on my Blu Ray player in the living room, pause every five seconds, walk to the computer in the other room, right up my notes go back, repeat for 110 minutes...because of course I picked a long movie lol.

Choice #2: Scrap it for now, keep working at it, do it next year, and pick another movie REALLY QUICK.

Choice #3: Buy a Blu Ray drive for my computer, and do it that way.

I went with #3, and found a drive that was reasonably priced that I could justify, and then had to play the waiting game.

Scheduled delivery...the 26th. Because of course...oop, no wait, the 28th.

Under ANY OTHER CIRCUMSTANCE, I would have been happy to push it that late, as much as it hurts, but this is literally the one time, in 14 years of Trisk, when it HAD land no later than the 27th.

In the meantime, I had done my first basic watch of the movie in the living room, handwritten down my basic notes I do on that past, transcribed it to a text file, and gotten the post all set up, just needed the bulk of it to be filled in.

And of COURSE there was problems with the delivery. I used my STREET ADDRESS, since it was coming UPS, but they decided randomly to go 'Nah, we're sending it SurePost so it goes to the post office". But I have a *PO BOX* and not a box at my house, for reasons, and when a package with my street address goes to the post office, it adds another whole day, as it gets sent around on trucks trying to find an address they don't feel 'exists'. And they yell a me for sending it to the street address when it comes to the post office...but this is tangenting and I digress.

I scream and upgrade the package to Ground, and yep, it knocks a day off the delivery time, so the drive is at least arriving on the 27th. There should be zero problems of swapping the drive, watching the movie, and doing the thing!

But hahahaha, do you have any idea how fucking difficult it is to get a Blu Ray movie to play on Windows? IT SHOULD NOT BE THIS HARD. DVDs were just ready to go. I know all the reasons why Blus are a pain, and it's so incredibly ridiculous.

The drive arrived around noon, the actual swap was RIDICULOUSLY easy. I didn't even have to unscrew anything.

It then took me three hours of bashing my head trying to get the discs to be recognised and play. And I won't go in depth with THOSE details.

But FINALLY it got working, I chugged my way through the movie, I did the work, and got it posted around 7pm.

At this point, I had been up 30 hours, I'd recorded, edited, posted a podcast, swapped a drive, did tech support, did up an entire Trisk review, and lemme tell ya, I was exhausted.

What a bloody journey for one absolutely ridiculous movie.

The good news is, this does open up a new door for Triskings, since as can be seen here, while I've done a few Blu movies before, they were always a challenge. Now, they're on the same level of ease as DVDs.

#Foenix rambles #Triskaidekafiles

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isleofdarkness · 1 year ago

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Dude- you can't do this to me. Oh my god, that was AWESOME. I'm literally shaking. What the hell.

I can feel the desperation and anguish in that room so fucking well. Your writing is just so cosmically good. Can't wait for this chapter to be complete.

I don't know what to say other than how the fuck I didn't realize Sunshine was already born, I'm so stupid.

These fuckers break my heart, they love their babies so much. Bonus points for Diego's Spanish line, my mexican ass loved that.

So many people are getting involved, this is going to be wild.

Your character designs are so cool, everyone is so different and it's a breath of fresh air from the "every character has white features and normative bodies" shit media has been doing forever. Justice is strong and she LOOKS strong and I love that.

I also love the fact that Ben refers to Justice as "the tank" and I'm dying to know what she would think of that.

Hatti is great, I just knew I was going to adore her since I saw she was Loki and Circe's daughter. Loved her chaotic energy, too. She's not like that because of who her parents are, that's just the average 13-years-old girl/j

LYDIA IS HEREEEEE JWODNQIDNQKSKQMSKQ KAKDKADNKAJDAKKSAKKS AAAAAAAAAAAAAA

I love that she's so tiny that Ben confused her with a ten-year-old.

“ "I got two hours or else Constantine..." she grimaced. "Yeah, you know." ” Are you trying to kill me or what. Because if you are, is working.

I don't know what it is but I love the way Lydia talks, it's quite similar to Maverick's speech but at the same time different(? Her speech is just so outstanding to me and it's weird because it's not really different from the rest. I don't know if you did that on purpose or if it's just my obsession for her doing its thing, lol.

Now I really want to know what your process is when giving your characters a voice and differentiating that voice from the rest (considering the number of characters you handle, too).

This does not reflect the emotional damage this has had on me so I will proceed to AAHHHHHH HELP IM IN PAIN AHHHHHHHHHH HELP ME AHHHHHHH MY BABIES AHHHHHHHHHHHHH

-Dante.

Gods please give me the strength to finish this chapter just so I can see how Dante anon will react.

I mean, she's a newborn and my old posts did have her not even born yet, so that's on me.

Oh boy, you're going to murder me.

All these people and no one has had more than two hours of sleep in the past three days.

Thank you. I love describing Justice because she's taller than literally everyone and usually bigger. The girl looks like she could bench-press a tank and she can and I love that.

Oh, she would go on a whole rant. She doesn't mind it when Isle people do it but King Ben? She would spend fifteen minutes yelling at him about how she wants to dress all feminine and grow out her hair but no, she's locked on the Isle of constant war and all of that stuff would put her in danger so she can't do any of that. She likes being a tank to the Isle people, but it's poking a bruise when it's Ben

I am so glad you love Hati

If Lydia had time she would have gone on The Whole Rant but, unfortunately, they have to get Riah off of the Isle as fast as possible.

Oh, I'm not trying to kill you. I'm trying to kill Ben/lh

The Isle has a lot of different dialects and ways of speaking and Lydia's trying to adopt the same one as Maverick and Mara, but her speech is different because she grew up with a different dialect. Honestly, the language on the Isle could be its own post.

I just keep their personalities in mind. It's hard to explain but maybe I'll do a post about it sometime

Oh man, I can't wait to finish this chapter

#the darkness speaks #dante anon

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redmanjc-blog · 2 months ago

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4:01 A.M.

Crazy was an understatement to describe tonight. Eight friends, seven drinking spots, and zero for two on ‘hunting attempts’ summed it up. Five years had passed since this friend group, formed in the bowels of the middle school cafeteria, last assembled. With everyone leading such different lives and some even going abroad, tonight was a miracle.

It was now 3:58 a.m., the dying embers of the night. Friends left one by one, citing work, school, or their partners as excuses. Each excuse was met with a collective groan, only for someone else to dissent sometime later. Now only two remained: Youngjun and his best friend, Haesol. They’d become close after PE class, when Haesol, in the middle of a heated soccer match, crashed into Youngjun and was ordered to take him to the nurse. Haesol loved to bring that story up to Youngjun, a reminder of who’s really on top, he joked. But at this moment, as heads cooled and the alcohol was subdued, neither felt like they were on top of anything. Worse, the bar was closing too. Initially, this bar’s owner had vehemently refused to serve them. “Fifteen minutes 'till closing!” he said, taking the cigarette out of his mouth to spit phlegm onto the floor. It was only Haesol’s hands-together, knees-on-floor begging, fuelled by a variety of liquor, that the owner acquiesced, either out of pity or, more likely, embarrassment. But they were only admitted on the condition that they would have one beer, and leave immediately afterwards. Unfortunately, the bottom of the glass was peering its ugly mug. Having a modicum of clarity, Youngjun stood up from his seat and grabbed his coat. He’d had his fill of embarrassment tonight. Haesol told him to sit back down, sprawled all over his seat, and said that if they were stubborn enough, they could stay longer—a glare from the fifty-something-year-old smoker dispelled that myth. Youngjun practically had to drag Haesol’s corpse out of the bar and into the wintry alleyway. “Onward!” Haelsol yelled as a gust of wind blasted across their face. This was the worst part of any night out. The falling action. The alcohol faded and the body became weak. You were no longer a conqueror, impervious to social shame and charged with bravery. Now you were just a random somebody. Somebody shivering in the wind, just like everyone else.

As they marched down the hill, lamp posts radiating a snuggly orange, flickered in weakness, as unseeable appliances and widgets, hidden behind the walls of these antiquated houses, rattled in the wind. The two middle school friends had found themselves here, in Yongsan, old Seoul, in a desperate search for an adequate drinking spot, unwilling to go home. Situated on steep hills next to Namsan Tower, the old village here had resisted renovation attempts by the city and the state and had managed to survive by designating itself as a historic site. And truly, climbing the steps and strolling the streets, seeing the dainty houses topped with the traditional scaly Korean roofs, holding a badly printed sign advertising something like steamed pig feet, it was hard not to be overwhelmed by the nostalgia of a time-long past. Haesol was stumbling ahead amidst all this history, singing badly offkey. He’s gonna slip and make an ass of himself, thought Youngjun.

BAM! In a flash, Youngjun felt his world flip upside down. He found himself with a stinging pain in his hip and his back kissing the icy pavement. Haesol noticed and turned back to see Youngjun’s sorry state. “HA! Idiot!” he proclaimed, laughing to himself. It was only when Youngjun stayed lying down that Haesol came running back (as best he could) to attend to his friend. “You okay?” he slurred. Youngjun simply bobbed his head. He refused to stand back up, waiting for the pain to dissipate. Haesol, seeing his friend’s intent, sat down next to him. It was 4:01 now. The alleyway was completely empty. Warm lights from the lamp posts lit and revealed the bumpy imperfections of the pavement. Two hundred feet away, a wine-red church cross, accompanied by other highrises, beaconed itself to Youngjun. Yeah right, he thought, and shifted his gaze into the starless night sky. He exhaled. His breath wafted from his mouth and dissolved. He did it again. And again. And again. Each time he did this, he exhaled a little bit stronger, trying to get a bigger puff.

A hand then placed itself on Youngjun's shoulder. “Hey,” it was Haesol, “You still hung up on that? Forget it, man.”

Youngjun closed his eyes. You don’t even know the half of it, is what he wanted to say… but his lips refused to move. Any movement, even that, required too much effort. He wondered if it was the alcohol weighing him down. Part of him wished it was, it’d be evidence that his troubles started and ended at the tip of the bottle. But another part of him almost wanted to feel the pain, experience the helplessness in all its totality, undiluted by substances, as if it was a validation of his humanity. Well, whatever it was, it wasn’t going away any time soon.

Staying still, Youngjun’s mind wandered to the pavement his body lay on, which, surprisingly, was very comfortable. The uneven ice and concrete seemed to support his body and head perfectly. Emulating him, the night rested as well. The quiet of this neighborhood, the howl of the wind, and the rare swoop of a car passing by offered him a lullaby. It seemed to be the perfect bedroom. He’d prefer it here than his actual room anyway—too many demons lived in that place. He wished he could melt into the pavement, become one with the hill, and fade away into history.

He inhaled. Then exhaled. Steam parted from his lips and lifted into the air. It lethargically drifted away, gently… until it met another shape of steam, this one more pointed and quicker. It was Haesol. Youngjun finally acknowledged Haesol’s existence, glancing at him, from which he could see Haesol’s sly smile. Youngjun couldn’t help his mouth curving upwards. He chuckled, and the two simply laughed into the bleak night.

#short story #story #fiction

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mysteria157 · 10 months ago

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Chapter 16

Pairing: Nanami Kento x Black Fem Reader

Word Count: ~14.1k

CW: explicit sexual content, smut, profanity, ass slapping (lol?)

Summary: The last person you ever wanted to see pries into your life. Nanami makes a life changing decision. Your hard work finally pays off.

Notes: Thank you to all who have been supportive so far. Reblogs, likes, or comments are always appreciated but not necessary <3 Almost there! Happy reading!

Divider: @cafekitsune

Previous Chapter | Ao3 | Next Chapter

It Had To Be You Masterlist

The sound of Ulani’s shrieks had a smile curling against your lips, your stomach fluttering with joy as you looked up at her from your hands. Your daughter wrung her hands in the air, stretching her arms toward the various works of clay drying on long shelves on the wall of Rory’s studio, bouncing excitedly in the baby carrier strapped to said owner’s front as he walked about and described each piece to her.

There was a lull between classes, a three hour break that gave you time to leave the house for air and dig your hands in something.

You brought the wooden rib to the spinning clay, the hard material pressing gently to the greyish shiny mound as you made a steady tunneling design along the side. You were initially worried about the sketches of the small collection of works you prepared to make for Choso. You thought they would be too bold for him, too typical from what he probably had already made himself. But one quick glance over them and he was approving immediately, his bored expression softening and a smile pulling along his features as he listened to you talk him through your designs.

You only had a month; one week before Christmas to deliver the completed pieces to him. Your mind was moving a mile a minute, honing in on the clay in your hands as you started a rough throw.

The loud chime from Rory’s phone pulled your gaze to him briefly before you were looking back down the spinning (soon to be vase) in your hands. You hoped Ulani would have a creative streak. To have a child that would want to sit across from you, to dig their hands into clay or in paints, it filled you with a sensation that you couldn’t quite place and—.

“Y/n.”

His normally eclectic and cheerful tone was tainted somehow, bitterness and apprehension curving against the syllables of your name as they slid from his mouth. It made you pause, pulling your hands from the clay as you looked up at him and took in his serious expression. His twists were pulled up into a bun, allowing you to see every nuance on his face; brown eyes steely and frustrated, lips flickering with the beginnings of a frown.

“What’s wrong?”

“Your mother is here. She’s outside. She would…like to talk to you.”

You frowned immediately, the thought of her souring your mood—and the rest of your day—quickly. Your first reaction was to wash your hands, pluck Ulani from the carrier strapped to Rory’s chest, and leave through the back door. But the second reaction you had—unfortunately—, was to wait. To listen and think that maybe this time would be different.

It wasn’t different when she showed up at your door with painful accusations when she heard you were leaving Sendai. It wasn’t different when she sneered hurtful words across the table on Christmas. It wasn’t different on every birthday, or a report card with a B instead of an A, or even a present you had worked hard to get for Mother’s Day when you were ten.

It was never different.

But some part of you, deep down in a chasm that had been cobwebbed over and buried beneath the dirt in your chest had held hope that maybe this time would be different. Just once more.

“I’ll take Ulani to the back. If anything goes wrong, you come get me. Immediately. Okay?”

You stood up wordlessly, nodding curtly as you strolled to the row of basins along the studio wall to wash your hands. Rory threw the diaper and toy bag over his shoulder, cooing to your daughter to distract her as he made his way out of the large, empty room and leaving you alone.

You definitely weren’t presentable; black overalls and a t-shirt that you usually wore when you threw clay, your curls frizzy and piled atop of your head without a care, no earrings, no—.

No.

She would take what you gave, or leave.

No more acquiescing her.

Your heart was racing frantically in your chest, painful beats pushing the blood through your veins in thick pulses. You wiped away the sweat that had prickled on the back of your neck, bit the inside of your lip until you could taste the tinge of copper on your tongue, squared your shoulders and took a long, heaving breath.

You could do this.

Or at least that’s what you kept telling yourself as her elegant form walked into the now stiff air of the studio. Her eyes were apprehensive, genetic brown hues looking anywhere but at you as she walked closer to your standing form near the basin row. Her similar curly hair was twisted and pulled back into a low bun, simple diamond earrings in her ears, and dressed in jeans and a thick sweater—a stark contrast to her usual silks and pastels.

While you were used to her exuding rudeness and arrogance, your nose flared at the heavy smell of hesitance and unease that radiated from her instead.

It felt like minutes before she spoke, her mouth opening and closing as she tried to think of something to say. You wouldn’t be the first to talk, you wouldn’t give her that satisfaction. Ome’s words rang in your ears like a siren.

“If your mother is ever going to come around, she is going to do all the work.”

“Throwing clay?” Her voice was practically silent when she finally spoke, her words wobbly on the ends, shaky. You didn’t respond, your hands digging into the sides of your cotton overalls as your gaze stayed locked with hers. “You look…healthy.”

“What do you want?”

You couldn’t deny the satisfaction of watching her flinch from your words. Growing up, you had been on the receiving end of it time and time again.

Her mouth opened again, silence falling from the space between parted lips, brows furrowing and face coloring in shame.

“I want to apologize.” You scoffed, the reaction immediate as you shook out a humorless laugh and folded your arms across your chest, shifting your gaze to look anywhere else as you tried to ignore the anger festering in the base of your stomach. “Please just—when I showed up at your door in Sendai and said all those things…and then when I showed up here and spoke so harshly that you ended up in the hospital—well your uncle tore me to shreds. You wouldn’t even begin to comprehend what he said and—”

“Let’s hear it.” The words fell from your lips before you could stop them, courage locking the vertebrae of your spine in place and holding you up and steady as you kept your patronizing gaze on her. “What did he say?”

Eyes that you were used to seeing filled with disdain and indifference were now colored with embarrassment and guilt.

You didn’t care.

Not today.

“He said that I am a heartless bitch who never deserved nor should have been a mother. And the fact that I would put you at risk without batting an eyelash shows that I deserve to rot in hell.”

You reminded yourself to give Rory a warm hug later.

“So what changed? You felt bad?”

“I had a small heart attack.”

You bit the side of your tongue, willing yourself to keep your appearance neutral and not convey the worry that flooded your body of its own volition. You may not care for her, but you wouldn’t wish her harm.

You weren’t that heartless…but sometimes you wished you were.

“It was minor, but it scared me. When I woke up in the hospital, I realized how alone I was. You weren’t there, Rory wasn’t calling. Not even my father called. He never cared unless it was to benefit himself. And it took me fifty five fucking years and me almost dying to realize I was just like him. He raised me to work hard and that my value only came from my accomplishments and my education, the man I married, and the health and success of my kids. I believed him and followed him just to feel something from him…and I did the same to you.”

Suddenly you hated her. You hated that all of a sudden, she was ‘seeing clearly’. All of a sudden, her trauma made so much sense to her. Now it all clicked after you had already been scarred enough.

You hated her.

You didn’t but—fuck.

“I’m trying to do better. I’ll always be working on myself. And I know you will probably never forgive me or want to speak to me again. And that’s fine. I came prepared knowing that possible outcome. But I had to do it anyway. It probably won’t make up for years of how I treated you but…I was a terrible mother…and I’m so…so sorry.”

You ignored the prickle in the back of your eyes, kept your gaze steady even though your chest was shaking with unease and something else. Something else thick and heavy and pressing against your skin, digging into your lungs and narrowing your breath.

“Everything that you have done, has always made me so proud. Proud as your mother, not because of expectations. You’re a wonderful daughter, who I am proud to call my own. I hope that one day, you’ll let me be in your life again. In your daughter’s life. On your own terms, however you want. And if you don’t, that’s okay too.”

The silence was deafening, only the faint sounds of cars fluttering outside as they drove past to cast some sort of noise between the tension of you both. This was the first time in your life that she had ever apologized to you. The first time she had ever shown a flicker of remorse and guilt. The first time you had ever watched her realize the consequences of her own actions in how she chose to raise you.

You wanted to push her away, to tell her to leave and never come back or contact you again.

But you knew—deep down you knew—that you owed it to yourself and maybe even your daughter to try.

“I should get going.”

Her soft voice pulled you from your thoughts, watching in faint fascination as she smoothed her hands down her cashmere sweater and cleared her throat to dispel the awkwardness in the air.

“I’m staying with your uncle. We’ve been trying to reconnect and well—I’ll be here for a few days.”

You ignored the small flicker of hope in your chest, because it didn’t make sense to feel this way. Your mother didn’t deserve a modicum of well wishes or happiness from you and yet the thought of her reaching out again had you fighting the small voice in your head whispering finally to the attention you always craved.

Though only a few words had left your lips, you were suddenly tired. So mentally tired.

“I’ll get out of your hair.”

She offered you a soft smile, the sight pulling at your chest and preventing you from speaking further. She hesitated for a moment longer—a hand lifting as if to reach for you—but instead she tucked it against her chest and left the room without another word.

When the door chime of the studio rung in your ears, you sagged against the basin row behind you, hands reaching back to grip the edge, fingers digging into layers of dried glaze as you squeezed tighter with each beat of your heart.

Thirty years of trauma and only looking your way unless it was for her benefit and now all of a sudden, she was remorseful. If she meant it, you really wouldn’t know unless you gave her a shot.

But right now, you couldn’t think about it.

Right now, the only thoughts on your mind were getting home to take care of Ulani and vent to Kento with free hands and an angry mouth. Kento who you, surprisingly, hadn’t heard from all day.

You faltered at sight of your phone screen, blinking against the chilly November wind as you made your way to the car. You were used to a few messages from Kento throughout the day. While he offered the minimum amount of words in meetings and conversation in his workplace to get the job done, he turned to his phone to vent on any annoyances and to ask your opinion on a certain direction projects on his roster should take. You had left that life, and though marketing no longer flowed through your veins next to caffeine and exhaustion like it used to, it felt freeing to exercise your brain again with things you once embraced so readily.

But right now, you were a little mystified as you noticed only one message from him.

Kento: Hello. I know you’re at Rory’s studio right now but I’m not home and did not want you to be alarmed. I decided to go to the bakery.

Are you still there?

Kento: I am.

Be there soon.

Your heart jumped into the narrow tunnel of your throat, pumping frantically, a loud sloshing in your ears from each beat as you raced to your car and strapped Ulani in her seat.

Since Yu’s death, he had not set foot in the bakery let alone walked along the block that the establishment was built on. Through his journey of grief, he still hadn’t talked about owning the bakery or touched the deed that Yu had given him.

Kaya had done a great job keeping up with the bakery since her husband’s death. And Yu, like the beautiful soul he was, ensured his employees would still have a career in the midst of something going wrong. A fellow bakery owner from his years in culinary school happily took the extra help and Yu’s former employees were still earning a modest living.

Even in death, his kindness would never cease.

The thick curtains only showed slivers of dim light through glass windows as you peered from inside your car. Your stomach was in knots, twisting by the second as you strapped Ulani to you again and walked inside.

The bakery wasn’t big, modest and modern with hints of eclectic and outgoing tones that exuded Yu’s personality. Walls were painted a warm brown, employee of the month pictures and certificates of achievement littered a small section—polaroid pictures of families and neighbors and friends next to them.

The front register was covered with a thin white sheet, the wood counters clean and free of dust, the long glass display case empty and dark. Large chalkboard slabs behind the register on the wall had been scrubbed clean, no longer holding any remnants of Yu’s handwriting to display what goods would be available.

Before, when the bakery was open and bustling, the spaces between cabinets and the center of the small tables inside were adorned with different houseplants that grew throughout the seasons. Long Philodendrons would hang down from the ceiling and trail on the walls like vines; waxy Hoya Carnosas would adorn the tables that Yu would rotate with Peperomias of different shades and size. You remembered the large Fiddle Leaf that would sit in the corner behind the counter, curving over a table meshed against the glass windows that would always offer a warm and cozy cover for whatever lucky person happened to snag the seat. It was his pride and joy, the only plant that responded to his touch. Haibara always loved plants.

But those plants were all gone now—the corners, walls, and tables now bare.

A small part of you hoped that Kaya took them home instead of throwing them away.

Your eyes caught Kento, his tall body leaning stiffly against a wooden counter, his glasses covered gaze directed to the blank chalkboard slabs on the wall. A crisp black long sleeved button up covered muscular arms that were crossed over his chest, dark grey slacks fitting perfectly on legs that ran miles every morning before the sun rose, black expensive Chukka boots that he embellished in occasionally, and his typical silver Cartier watch graced your eyes as you took him in. Broad shoulders rose softly as he pulled the cold air in through his nose, sharp cheekbones curving his face into a somber expression.

Something must have happened.

A thick fog of unease permeated from his presence across the tiled floor of the bakery and to both you and Ulani. The feel of it made you swallow, eyes blinking back a sudden sting as you opened your mouth to say something to him.

Your daughter beat you to it, babbling happily at the sight of her father, the noise cutting through the tension in the room like a knife and wrapping around Kento like a warm blanket. He reacted immediately, his head turning to you both and a small smile curling the ends of his mouth only fractionally as he took you in.

You watched his mouth open, lips parting and twitching before closing altogether. Apprehension colored his features, the strength he had practiced using in his head before your arrival vanishing entirely upon the sight of you.

“Rough day?”

Your voice echoed through the room, bouncing off the walls and making it feel more empty than what it already was, washing over him and filling his lungs to fan flames of newfound confidence. You crossed the empty space between you both, admiring his gracefulness even in the midst of whatever inner turmoil he was going through.

Kento didn’t speak at first, his eyes flickering from yours to down at his daughter as she looked around the room.

“Before you came along, I went to Haibara for almost everything that I was frustrated about. To him, I was a grumpy old man inside of a twenty something year old body who frequently fretted about everything and everyone. But he listened to me anyway. Every day when Gojo was more insufferable than usual or when work was so grating that I felt suffocated, I rambled to him.”

“It’s hard for me to imagine you gushing like a teenager to someone,” you teased, smiling up at him as he fingered a soft lock of Ulani’s hair that poked from her beanie.

“Haibara used bribery to get me to open my mouth,” he muttered in reply, voice colored with sadness and a slight twinge of nostalgia. “This morning I already felt heavier than usual. And it just got worse as the day went along. Meetings ran annoyingly long. Our branch in Niigata is performing below benchmarks and they are pushing back on everything we suggest. To make matters worse, the lovely bento you made for me was upside down when it was time for lunch.”

“How shameful. I worked hard on that,” you goaded, clicking your tongue in fake admonishment as you began to bounce your daughter in place. The small remark seemed to do the trick, a gentle huff leaving his chest in response.

“Normally, I turn to you when I want to voice my worries. But I knew you were busy and before I could even think about it, I was pulling out my phone, texting Yu instead and hitting send. It hit me almost immediately that he’s not here.”

He cleared his throat, cheeks ruddy with embarrassment as he spoke to you. You didn’t offer any words, reading his own cues and placing a hand on his chest, your thumb stroking the fabric slowly to encourage him.

“I brushed it off the first time. But then it happened when one of the higherups asked a question that ran a meeting 15 minutes over. And again, after I put your bento back together. Three messages still delivered but no response, and my chest felt so heavy even though I knew the reason why.”

Dark blonde eyebrows furrowed in frustration, the muscle arching angrily over the curve of his odd glasses. Kento had never believed in any sort of afterlife or spiritual presence. He was ashamed, foolish to think that a friend so precious to him who was long gone could possibly send him something back.

“And that’s why you came here? To think that you could hear him in a place where he always was?” you asked him softly, keeping his attention on you and hoping to smooth the angry crease in his brow.

“It sounds asinine, doesn’t it?”

You shook your head in response, that same hand on his chest reaching up to stroke the soft skin of his face, thumb brushing over a sharp cheekbone. He relaxed into your touch, leaning more into your hand and siphoning the warmth that it brought.

Yu’s presence still bled through the walls of his bakery. Your eyes could see the plants and writing on the chalkboard through a thin veil of reminiscence. The equipment remained shiny from his years of care, the countertops held stains of hard work and wear and tear that seemed to season the dough he used to knead every night before leaving. The air, thick and cold, held echoes of his loud and boisterous yelling as you laughed at a joke with a hand on your once pregnant belly. Vivid memories flashed through your mind like an old reel; him blowing raspberries into the plump cheeks of his daughter’s face and whispering warm words of affection to his wife when he thought no one was listening.

Haibara was everywhere and yet nowhere.

“Did he answer you?” you asked, your own voice tight from the memories.

He chuckled softly from your question; the sound strained even though his shoulders relaxed from their once tense hold. He plucked Ulani from her carrier, kissing her cheek repeatedly until her gummy lips curled into a drool covered smile and her body hiccupped out a harsh giggle.

“He did.”

You didn’t pry further. Whatever words he had for his friend where for him and him alone. You knew he would tell you if you asked, but it felt wrong to do so. So, you simply smiled up at him instead, hoping your body language would convey just how satisfied you were with his progress.

The dim lights of the bakery glinted over his glasses, the tinted lenses offering you a flash of deep set eyes that hadn’t stopped tracing over you since you walked in.

He outlined your features; typical black cotton overalls and white shirt with flicks of dried clay that you wore when throwing, curls pulled up into a messy bun, smooth skin without blemish as you radiated love in his direction.

He had felt hollow all day, his chest carved out with the sharpest knife imaginable and exposed to the open air as frustration and sadness festered along the raw walls of the woundt. Just thinking about Haibara seemed to pull him so low that on days like these it was hard to even see the top of the hole in order to climb out of it.

But you offered that familiar smile, spoke to him with words that held thick layers of affection and comfort that seemed to make the hole in his chest a little less painful. You were a beacon to him, shining bright and unmoving even though the rocky waters of his grief had pressed against you time and time again. You would always be there to offer the answers he needed to hear, even if they stung a little more than usual.

You both freely gave and took from one another, balancing chaos and peace with a harmonious practice that should have taken years to build.

And right now, you were giving him everything he needed in that moment.

So, Kento took; leaning down to slant his lips against yours and leeching away the comfort he had been searching for all day and swallowing it for himself. When he pulled away and sighed against your cheek, placing another kiss on the skin there, his body felt a little less heavy than before.

Later that night, after you had vented your own frustrations about your mother and hours after Ulani had been tucked in bed, you carded your fingers through thick blonde locks while he lay on your sweaty chest. With your steady heartbeat against his ear, Kento pulled in a calming breath for the first time that day.

Just minutes before, his mouth had been hot on your skin, wringing every ounce of adoration from your body that you gave him when his tongue dipped between the crevices of your body and his hips rolled against yours. And now with your strength, he exhaled away his worries and sadness into the warm air of your bedroom, squeezing you closer to him so he could soak up your warmth.

“I wasn’t completely honest with you today.”

It was the first word he had spoken in a while; he was normally somewhat vocal when you both made love, but tonight he was quiet, content to relish in the moans you exhaled against his skin. You didn’t let your mind run away with irrationality and remained quiet, your fingers scratching a spot on his nape that relaxed him further against you.

“Meetings did run long, the Niigata branch is performing below benchmarks, and your bento did fall apart before I could enjoy it. But—well lately I’ve been thinking that…” he trailed off, the rumble of his voice into your skin falling into nothing as he lost the remaining words in his throat. You felt him swallow against you, felt his hands dig a little more into the flesh of your waist, felt his nose press more into the skin of your breast before he pulled in your scent with a deep and shaky breath. “These past few days, I’ve been thinking about fulfilling Yu’s portion of his will—opening the bakery.”

Soft patters of happiness fluttered against your ribcage. You twirled a thick lock between two fingers, ruminating words in your head before speaking.

“Is that what you asked him then? In the bakery? You asked if he thought you were ready?”

He was silent for only a moment before speaking against you. “Yes.”

Nimble fingers traced against you, swirling in no specific way as he fought the urge to swallow his words and turn away from you so he could disregard the conversation and never bring it up again.

He’d gotten this far; he could keep going. He owed it to himself to keep going.

“He told me to stop complaining about the meetings. The Niigata branch will fall in line eventually. Your lovely bento can easily be remade, and…and that yes, yes I’m ready.” His unease was front and center now that the words were out of his mouth, that painful feeling in his chest returning with an intense ebb that made him hold you tighter. “There are still some things that I need to figure out; my job, how I want things to be run, when it will open. But I have time. Plus, I want Ulani to be a few months older, so things are not as intense for us.”

You were elated, your lips pulling into a bright smile as you felt the soft tresses of his hair graze against your fingertips. It had taken him months to get to this moment, and to be honest, you thought it would have been much longer. He climbed over you, his blond tresses falling over his forehead to brush against your own.

“How does that sound?”

You admired him from above, reaching up to stroke his cheek, your thumb sliding along his bottom lip.

“I think that sounds great, Ken.”

That beacon of light shined up at him again, calling for him to come home in the warmth of your embrace where he could stay as long as he wanted.

For the final time that night, he took every morsel of your love, swallowed it down with another press of his lips against yours before he rolled inside of you for more.

***

Your commission for Choso in the weeks following became a real test for how you could balance motherhood. Before Ulani, you could spend hours in your studio, hunched over a pottery wheel or easel and throwing out piece after piece until your fingers ached from dryness and overuse.

But now, you had to throw clay in intervals, short ten minute increments with Ulani doing tummy time or playing with sensory toys on a thick pallet of blankets next to you. Kento offered a small reprieve during his lunch breaks by coming home to help out and soak in as much time with his daughter as he could.

You had to balance perfecting a small collection of works for Choso as well as take care of Ulani, and take care of yourself.

It was exhausting and a small reminder of what you could and couldn’t handle at least while your daughter was at this age.

But the results were worth it.

You relished in the pride of watching Choso smile deeply as he unwrapped a vase of your own design. It was almost as tall as you, but created with a soda firing technique that left the glaze a surprising but beautiful texture that would stand out in his home. Ten pieces to grace his home in whatever way he wanted were unwrapped bit by bit, his black painted fingernails tracing along the sides of each one in childlike fascination as he riffled through.

“These are beautiful. Truly.”

And while you were elated from his response, the check that he wrote held far too many zeros that had you blanching in shock and pushing the piece of paper back towards him. He resisted, black eyebrows pinching in confusion before pressing it more firmly into your hands, curling your fingers around it.

“Get used to this. People would pay so much to have something of yours. Cherish it.”

The smooth texture of the check in your hand felt almost imaginable between your fingers. “Choso, I don’t think I can—”

“I will not give you any less than that. Please don’t think I’m trying to be too generous. All of it is earned. You have such a gift.”

Those same words again echoed in your ears. Kento had uttered those same words as he looked at your work in your old studio in Sendai. Chiyo had spoken them to you as she admired the mural in Ulani’s nursery. Over and over, until it had become too loud and overwhelming that you didn’t have the justification to remain in denial any longer.

***

“You look so fucking good,” Ome squealed the minute she laid eyes on you. The entire day was spent throwing on every outfit you could find and feel comfortable in, trailing over your figure and fighting subconscious thoughts with every article of clothing you put on. Ulani, while an admirer of yourself, offered nothing but incoherent babbling that seemed to bring a small smile to your face in the midst of your inner turmoil.

It had taken you hours, but you could truly admit that you looked hot.

The one sleeve long black maxi dress hugged your body enough to show off your curves gained from motherhood without being too tight. The high slit up the side exposed the expanse of a smooth brown leg, your skin glowing in the light of your room as you turned to admire yourself. Your curls were tucked away and slicked back into a neat bun, the baby hairs of your edges smoothed down and curled against the skin of your hairline. Classic gold hoops adorned your ears and a double layer herringbone gold chain sat against the skin of your collarbone. You were fastening the ankle strap of your three inch chunky heels when Ome walked into your room.

Ome filled out her halter neck midi dress so well. Growing up, she was always a bit curvier than you were. She was never insecure with her body and she flaunted it when she could. The dress stopped right before her knees, dark chocolate skin strapped with stiletto heels and a gold ankle bracelet. Her 4c hair was styled into a neat high bun with two thick strands of her hair tightly braided to frame each side of her face in its own creation of bangs.

“You look fucking good,” you retorted playfully, smoothing invisible wrinkles from your dress before sitting down at your vanity.

“I know.”

You snorted against the firm glide of eyeliner, completing a classic cat eye on both sides before throwing her a glare through the mirror.

“You and Gojo are just alike, its uncanny. Is he your date tonight?” The teasing inflection in your tone earned you a heatless glare, beautiful silver eyes rolling dramatically at your jest.

“Fuck you.”

“So that’s a yes.”

Your eyes stayed locked with hers through the mirror as you ran a thin layer of gloss over your lips.

“I’ll have you know that this is our third date, so—”

“Three dates and still no pipe? Damn that’s crazy.”

You expected a biting remark in response, expected her to cuss over an insult that you would both laugh at. But Ome narrowed her eyes instead, pursing beautiful lips before she sauntered to where you sat.

“It’s funny…I’ve noticed a few things. You’ve got on a sexy ass dress, high heels, you have on your favorite perfume and you look unbelievably happy and comfortable.” Ome threw you a look. “Kento must be dicking. You. Down.”

You swatted at her as if she were an annoying pest even though the loud laughter shaking from your chest told her everything she needed to know.

“I heard my name.”

The man himself was suddenly leaning against the doorframe of your room, a beautiful brow lifted in question. You swallowed the groan as you soaked in his dark brown ribbed knit top that was loosely tucked into white slacks, short sleeves hugging his biceps perfectly. Your eyes traced along thick and veiny forearms as he crossed his arms over his chest, a well-cared for black Rolex winking at you from his wrist. His hair was parted and gelled in its usual style, but he had forgone the glasses, and his serious gaze was as intense as ever as he narrowed them playfully at you.

God if you didn’t have anywhere to go, you would be on your knees in a second.

“What have I done?”

You were quick, shooting Ome wide eyes, mouth loaded with an admonishing retort. “Ome don’t—”

“I was telling her how good she looked. She seems more happy than usual and she’s finally getting more comfortable with that new mommy body..so I assumed you’ve been putting her to sleep.”

Why did you even bother with her?

Kento hummed softly, pursing his lips as if in thought before chuckling softly to himself.

“Well I’m glad my efforts are paying off.”

You gawked, blushing furiously and barking an insult at Ome as she threw her head back and guffawed into the air.

***

Rory’s exhibits were usually lavish—at least lavish for a small town like Yoyogi. But this was another level entirely. Choso exuded his status in the ceramic world. Artists that you had grown up studying in your spare time and only dreamt of meeting were within walking distance. Waiters dressed in sleek black uniforms floated along marble floors with plates of champagne flutes and hors d’oeuvres. Faint notes of classical impressionist music wafted through the air, created an atmosphere of sophistication and wealth as you took in each piece. The unease of being out of place was thick in your stomach upon your arrival, but all too quickly Kento’s presence was enough to make you forget about it all.

Because Kento, like the clingy man he was, couldn’t go five minutes without his hands on you. Familiar fingers skimmed along the slope of your exposed shoulder as you leaned over to inspect one of Choso’s monolith sculptures. A firm hand caressed the curve of your waist and the small of your back to lead you through the crowd of people when you were ready to proceed to the next pillar. Ever the soft man he was, ever the gentleman, but still always within reach.

And it was true, Kento prided himself on being a gentleman and upheld that standard every single day.

But tonight, he was slipping and since he set eyes on you in your room earlier, he was itching to get you alone.

You’d been turning heads all night and had been too happy and absorbed in your own world to notice. You smiled up at him as you explained Choso’s firing and glazing techniques. You pulled Ome and Chiyo about the room to show them your favorite pieces. The low lights against your creamy brown skin seemed to make you glow. Your perfume had his mind hazy and resisting the urge to bury his nose into your neck. With every gentle click of your heels against the floor, the black dress he had been undressing all night in his mind showed long expanses of your leg and thigh. You were the most exotic and ethereal creature in the room.

And all his.

Before you, Kento had been satisfied with his lack of jealousy. He knew his worth and what he wanted in a companion; and when the moment came, he knew that she had chosen him for a reason.

But that was before you had come storming into his life. Talented and teasing and beautiful.

So, when he caught the slimy purple eyes of a scrawny man with long blonde hair looking at your ass for a third time that night, he couldn’t deny the slight twinge of discontent that flared inside of him.

“Squeezing me a little tight there,” you spoke softly, chuckling with an uneasy gaze as Kento locked eyes with someone behind you. His hold on your hip loosened, narrow eyes blinking down in your direction before he offered a soft apology. His face was colored with a thin veil of annoyance and irritation, and while never directed at you, it was still rare to see in your presence.

“Is someone bothering you?” You made to turn around, hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever seemed to put a frown on your boyfriend’s face. But instead, his hand slid against your cheek, palming the skin to stroke with his thumb and directing your gaze back to him. Expression softening but still holding a glint of anger, a small smile fell on his features.

“It’s nothing and I don’t want you thinking about anything else other than this. Choso gave you VIP tickets for his own exhibit and now you’re finally here. Enjoy it.” He ran his thumb over your eyebrows, smoothing away the sharp dip in them both to erase as much confusion from your face as possible. “As I recall, you still have five more pillars to show me.”

That did the trick. With a faux glower up at him, you laced your fingers through his and pulled him along.

Half an hour later, you were fully engrossed in a conversation with Kento when you heard Choso speaking from the front of the room. You didn’t pay too much attention, your mind elsewhere as he thanked everyone for coming, spoke about the inspiration behind this year’s collection, and listed those who had offered their unwavering support.

“This year, I wanted to add something new to my collection. An artist that I collaborated with that I hope you all will enjoy.”

The pillar next to him was covered in a black sheet. Throughout the night, your eyes had lingered on what it could have been, but you didn’t give it much thought. Choso lifted the sheet, unsheathing the contents beneath.

Kento’s hum of surprise should have been your first indication that what you were looking at wasn’t in your imagination. You blinked once, squinting and trying to recall faint memories of yourself to test your cognition and ensure you were in your right mind. The pieces looked familiar. Vaguely you remembered sketching, throwing and glazing them yourself.

But that couldn’t be. You had packed them up and given them to Choso just a week prior.

Your ears felt like cotton had been rammed inside, the faint words from Choso’s mouth and mutters from the crowd around you muffled and stuffy.

“It’s hard to find artists who understand your passion. Even harder to find those who have said passion and can convey beautiful things with nothing at all. These pieces belong to a friend that I’ve only recently made. They are not for sale, so don’t ask or berate her. But I owe these all to F/n, l/n.”

The bottom of your heels felt rooted to the spot, sinking into the marble floor as Choso’s gaze locked with yours, and the people around you turned to follow suit. He hadn’t called you. That wasn’t your work on the shiny black stone pillar. Surely you were dreaming. You were dreaming that the eyes directed at you and the soft applause garnered your way was a small snippet of something you would remember when you woke up.

Kento’s hands gently cradled your upper arms, rubbing and ushering you forward with a slight chuckle behind you. You were on autopilot as you took timid steps to stand next to Choso, beads of sweat cold on the back of your neck once with the sudden and dreadful realization that you were now the center of attention. You didn’t know what to say, your mind was still trying to keep up, heart beating hard against your ribcage, mouth dry and sticky.

You bowed softly, muttering an embarrassed and soft thank you before the room broke into applause again. Your eyes traced over your pieces as they lay in front of you, shiny and brand new and reflecting just how hard you had worked.

“I’m sorry to have put you on the spot,” Choso admitted, his voice tunneling through the dying sounds of ringing in your ears as you blinked back into the present. “I honestly didn’t plan to make a collaboration. But the minute Yuji showed me your page, I had to. I also knew that if I told you my plan, you might have created something with the goal of impressing, not being genuine.” Deep purple eyes flickered up to Kento who stood silently beside you. “I’m afraid I’ve broken her.”

You couldn’t help the chuckle that rattled from the tight confines of your chest, shaking you firmly and making you aware of the crowd that had dispersed and the lingering people who eyed your work from afar.

The path to get to this exact moment had suddenly been carved up, rooted from its spot in firm soil that you had patted down yourself and paved over with material you weren’t familiar with.

Build a small following, take on commissions until you gained your confidence, and then just hope that you would have a lucky break one day.

Clean cut and simple, even if a little modest compared to your intense disposition for hard work.

But Choso had given the order to carve up that path, pulled you to the side with a vague distraction of a commission that you thought would sit privately in his house, and then placed you back on shiny floors and only a few steps from your goal.

“Excuse me?”

The voice, deep and feminine, pulled you once again from your anxious thoughts. And when you saw her, your heart gave what felt like the millionth lurch of the night. You had studied her work alongside Choso’s and so many prolific artists in your intense years of college, had tried to make your own sketches from the sight of her pictures that she posted online, had admired her from afar all night and been too shy to introduce yourself. Yuki Tsukumo, a decade older than you with twice as much experience and classical training, stood in front of you with flowing blonde hair and a red dress that clung to a strong and lean figure.

“I hate to interrupt, but I wanted to snag you before others did. I’d love to know your process.”

Your mouth opened, then closed again, neurons in your brain misfiring and the command to speak lost in the midst.

Thumbs from Kento’s hands still on your shoulders stroked against your skin, spreading warmth with each pass.

“My love, your mouth is open, but no words are coming out.”

“R-right!” you squeaked, blushing furiously and pushing through the thick bushels of embarrassment in your chest, grabbing the small nestle of courage inside before you opened your mouth to speak.

“I don’t know what to say,” you whispered to Choso an hour later, your voice thick and heavy with overwhelming emotion.

The exhibit was still in full swing, but you’d finally been given a small morsel of time by yourself. Sweaty hands clutched a stack of business cards; Yuki Tsukumo at the top, four more famous artists beneath, and a plethora of attendees at the bottom. All with their contact information, all pressed delicately into your hands with the wish for you to contact them and set up time for a commission. All curious to know more about you, marveling at your process and inspiration, fascinated by you.

The confusion of it all had passed by the time Yuki gave you a warm hug with a promise to get lunch with you the next time she was in town. Such a trivial thing to say from someone so revered in the world that you were barely dipping your toes in.

Pale hands covered yours, the fresh black polish of Choso’s fingernails shining up at you against the dim lights in the room. He squeezed, pulsing warmth into sweaty and tingly fingers.

“Surely, you wanted to get this far?” You swallowed, your throat contracting around a painful ball of emotion in your throat that was threatening to crawl up and out of your mouth. “Everyone in this room; Yuki, the other ceramic artists who I invited, even your uncle, are all people who have worked hard to get here. I don’t entertain myself with those who boost the confidence of others of the same status, just for glorification. You are unique and I want to keep you in my little circle of unique people for as long as I can, so you come out into our world still holding pieces of yourself. There’s no need to be shy. I’m sure you have work in your own studio that you probably never thought would see the light of day. And yet here you are.”

Echoes of none too distant memories were suddenly flashing in your mind; Kento guiding you along Rory’s exhibit just months prior, listening to you gush about your uncle’s work and brushing away all attempts of Kento boosting confidence in yourself.

“Where do you think you get the trait from? You have work in your studio that could be sitting right on these pillars tonight.”

“I will say it until you begin to realize and then continue to do so; you have a gift.”

Emotion that was once bubbling in your belly, surged up into your chest, pressing against the bone of your sternum until it began to splinter, seeping through the cracks and trailing hot overwhelming waves of pride through your veins. The force of it made you pull in a deep inhale, eyes blinking rapidly to oust the faint traces of tears along your lashes.

“Thank you,” your voice was a little stronger, but you couldn’t trust yourself to say much more without bursting into tears.

So, you didn’t.

And Choso, who could see the rising flood of emotion in your eyes, brought still clasped hands to his mouth and pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles. His tired eyes caught Yuki far behind you, shyly admiring her form while she talked to Rory, mustering courage he had cultivated for years in her presence but never opening his mouth enough to use it. He excused himself and meandered timidly in her direction.

The hum of everyone around you settled your nerves and you used the lull in privacy to take deep-seated breaths into your lungs to shackle yourself into the present. And when you finally turned around to face out into the crowd, you fell short when a man blocked your way.

There wasn’t much to him; average height but still a little taller than you, long blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail on the left side of his head, deep purple eyes that looked a little more unnerving than sincere.

He was kind with a gentle disposition despite the three faint markings beneath each eye. And as he fumbled over compliments of your work and explained how much he wished he had enough time in his busy schedule to frequent galleries, your eyes flickered past him in search of Kento so you could make your way over when this conversation was done.

Said man was already on his way, pushing down waves of indignation as the man rested a hand on your shoulder. He told himself to be calm, to focus his attention on his mother as she asked about Ulani and work, to reason that you knew exactly what you were doing.

He didn’t doubt you—would never doubt you. You didn’t need anyone to speak for you.

But the man in front of you had leered at you one too many times when you weren’t looking, had slithered his eyes over Kento’s own hand that caressed your waist. He felt unhinged responding to the frustration in his chest and hated how freely he rode with the primal urge in his veins to make sure everyone in this room knew you were his.

“There you are, love.” Kento was suddenly by your side, interrupting the man—who he found out was named Haruta Shigemo—and wrapping a muscular arm around your waist. Shigemo’s purple pupils flickered down at your waist, taking in the way Kento’s hand lay against your curves in loud but also silent exclamation that this was a battle Kento would always win unless you cast him out.

In only a few short seconds, you had taken in all you needed from their silent but heated battle with each other. You fought the urge to roll your eyes and made your way past Shigemo, muttering how nice it was to meet him before wading into the crowd toward your family and friends.

Rory had to practically shove you inside of the car when it was time to leave.

“You both are either working or taking care of your daughter, have a night to yourselves. I’ve taken care of you plenty of times when you were a baby, I can do the same for Ulani. Have a nice night, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

He kissed your cheek goodnight before you could protest any further and Ome was already leaning down to speak to you through the open window, blocking you from trying to escape.

“I’m so proud of you,” Ome whispered, raspy voice low and airy, admiring you with years of affection that only you would ever receive. “And I love you.”

“Love you too, Ome.”

“You deserve to be celebrated.” The gentle moment didn’t last for long, with a heavy clearing of her throat, she threw an elegantly arched brow in your direction. You could taste the beginnings of an inappropriate remark, loaded in her mouth with a stench that you could smell a mile away. “So, remember, whatever you can’t fit into your mouth, use your hand. Twist the wrist as you come up and—”

“You’re so fucking annoying,” you hissed playfully, swatting at her through the open window.

***

The cityscape was breathtaking, with the moon shining through high clouds and a sprinkle of snow beginning to fall, all of Nakameguro had been cast into silence as it settled in for the night. Distant notes of one of Kento’s records floated about his living room, sliding against the books on his overcrowded bookshelf, dancing over the vacant and plush long sofa you used to sink into, and then over to you, wrapping around your body like the warmest blanket you could ever imagine.

You pulled in a long breath, the warm air drifting down your throat and into your lungs, expanding your chest with fluttering sensations of happiness. You were happy. So truly happy and proud of how far you’d come from your own hard work and the people who had walked into your life.

“Ulani is perfectly fine,” Kento called from the hallway, his low and always commanding voice growing closer as he made his way across the room. “Megumi says that she was amazing with him and Rory is already reading her a book before he gets her ready for bed.”

“Megumi would be the type to prefer babysitting over socializing.”

“Gojo practically raised him. Came into his life our senior year of high school. He’s the complete antithesis of Gojo. Thank god.”

You snorted, elbowing his arm when he slunk up next to you. “You should have let me speak to her.”

Kento rolled his eyes dramatically. “Darling, she has no idea what a phone is or how it works. Hearing your voice but not seeing you would only have made her cry.”

“Will you humor me for once!” You giggled up at him, smacking him on the bicep again and ignoring the way your fingers carded around muscle. “Besides, I’m a little upset with you anyway.”

You weren’t, but it was funny to see dark blonde eyebrows furrow mildly even though brown eyes flashed back at you with equal mirth.

“And what have I done to upset you?” Long fingers pressed against your necklace to smooth out the kinks, calloused fingertips dragging goosebumps along your skin.

“I saw the way you looked at Shigemo.”

“So he has a name,” he muttered, eyes focused on the movement of his fingers, ignoring the tumultuous waves of insecurity in his chest as you chuckled weakly up at him.

“My, my. Nanami Kento, Director of Strategic Partnerships, are you jealous—”

“No,” he interrupted, deep and low timbre of a voice firm and resolute. Stoic mahogany eyes commanded your attention, holding you tight with invisible hands on your hips. “I’m not a jealous man. But I am protective, especially of you.”

You couldn’t help the severity of your eyes rolling from his response.

“I don’t need you to protect me, Ken. I can take care of myself. Which, yes, I know that you understand that. But he was only being nice—”

“Nice or not,” cutting you off, voice suddenly icy and face flaring with a hint of anger before it washed away. “He did nothing but leer at you all night. Every time I saw him, his eyes couldn’t help but stare right at your ass or the way I held you. I was being protective because he made me uneasy. I should have told you when I first saw but I didn’t want to distract you from your night. I’m sorry. I truly didn’t mean to upset you.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, pulling your gaze from him as you let his words sink into your skin. The furrow between his brows deepened, skin wrinkling with frustration in himself as the silence stretched further. He couldn’t look at you; being caught was embarrassing enough. So he kept his gaze on the faint shine of your necklace instead, dragging a fingertip along the unique surface.

“How can I make it up to you?” he asked, tone somber and shy.

For once when it came to sex, you could make him fluster. You could make him blush like a schoolboy and fumble over his words. You both were always in control when fucking; giving and taking every time. But he always held a sway over you that could make you relax into his words and embrace.

So you were going to enjoy this.

“I’m not so sure, Kento,” you began, jutting your chin up at him, radiating defiance as much as you could. Umber irises snapped up from your necklace, smoldering in their heated gaze as he began to taste the shift in the air. “First Pia and now this? Your offenses are stacking up. You’ll need to really show me how sorry you are.”

You should have planned this better, should have thought of your comebacks a little more thoroughly in your head before the words left your mouth. Because with just one step in your direction even though you both were already so close, your chest was constricting like a vice as you held your breath and staggered slowly back.

Cold glass against the exposed parts of your back made you gasp, the icy touch bringing a tingly rise of goosebumps up your spine. He towered over you, casting a tight cocoon of his rich cologne that was thickening from the growing heat between you both. Kento reached for you, sliding a large palm up the side of your body, dipping and rising with the map of your curves, the side of your breast, over the exposed skin of your clavicle and then to rest on the side of your neck. A rough thumb ran along the plushness of your bottom lip and then he was looking at you again, gentle affection now slowly brewing into something else.

“May I?” he asked, darting his eyes down at your lips to ask for permission.

“I…I suppose you can,” you whispered, voice small and shy. His hold on the side of your neck slid around to your nape, tightening slightly before pulling your head back to look up at him.

He didn’t speak, his presence all over you, suffocating you slowly, pulling you under a rush of waves that you knew you wouldn’t rise from for a very long time. Mingled breath of champagne from him and peppermint from your lip gloss danced between your lips, cold and electrifying as he exhaled softly into you and molded himself to you, brushing a thick tongue along your bottom lip before you granted him access. He used his hold on your neck to angle you up more toward him, opening yourself up more so that he could take and show just how much he was willing to give back. Another hand against the dip in your waist gripped firmly with a scalding touch that began to burn through the fabric of your dress.

That defiance you had culminated in only a short time as means of a joke evaporated the moment his lips pressed against yours. Because now you were falling, sighing softly into the air from the wet brush of his lips against the side of your neck and then down. Down and along the skin of your collarbone, over the tops of your breasts before he returned back to your lips, stealing what little remained in your lungs. Heavy breathing against your own, his clothed chest brushed against you as he pecked your lips once, and then again before slowly descending down to rest on his knees in front of you.

The sight of him below you, ready to worship had your heart racing, going a mile a minute in your chest and then stuttering when you felt a hot hand on the skin of your leg. He trailed it upwards, mapping out the saphenous veins just underneath your skin and brushing the high slit of your dress out of his way. A subtle squeeze on your knee and an even firmer grip into the fat of your thigh before he was throwing the exposed leg over his shoulder, opening you up to him. Your cunt fluttered beneath black panties from Kento’s transfixed gaze, blown out pupils burning through the thin layer of insecurity over you.

He pressed a soft kiss to your panty covered clit, dragged his thick tongue along the cloth, the touch electrifying enough to pull a yelp of surprise from your lips and smack hands against the cold glass pressing into your back. You felt the air of the room hit your core again, sharper this time from Kento’s act of pulling your panties to the side.

“Look at you baby, you’re dripping. You’re so wet, darling. So, so wet for me.”

Without his eyes on you, it gave you time to compose yourself through the storm of lust that had taken root inside of you. But it didn’t last long; with a firm squeeze to your thigh again, he silently commanded you. And like so many times before when you were incoherent from the touch of him, you obeyed and looked down, eyes locked with his as he licked along the slit of your pussy from entrance to clit.

The moan that left your lips was louder than you intended, eyes shutting tight instantly as pleasure shot up from the base of your spine and grasped at the back of your neck. Kento ate you out like a man starved, long and thick tongue swirling around your clit in a gentle touch before plunging between your folds to dip inside of you. You let the whine in the back of your throat free, combing a hand through thick blonde strands and tightening hard in a silent demand for more.

One finger slid into you, wet from your slick and pumping languidly with the ebb and flow of your moans; then two, then three. You loved the stretch, hated waiting so long for that final finger so they could curl against the spot inside of you that had both hands now knuckle tight in his hair. His thick tongue flicked against your clit, pulling it into his mouth before sucking hard, fingers scissoring and curling inside of you with a practiced touch that made you arch against the glass and drag your head along the surface.

He brushed against that spot in you once, and then again, and again with eyes never leaving the reactions of your body; your stomach clenching as you felt your walls squeeze his fingers, your arms beginning to shake as the familiar heat of an orgasm rose from the base of your spine. You shook out another moan, willpower to control your volume slipping entirely. You whined, higher and higher, the pleasure crawling up your skin, leaving hot searing promises of euphoria in its wake.

And with a sharp curl of his fingers and another firm suck of his mouth on your clit, your orgasm pulled from behind your belly button; your muscles pulling tight and voice shaking from your throat as you moaned his name harsh and loud into the air.

With languid licks and fingers slowing in their intensity, he worked you down from your high with the gentle caress you knew and loved. When you mustered up enough breath to swallow without struggle and finally look down at him, it was no surprise of the hunger that shot back your way. You moaned from the feel of his fingers sliding out of you and flinched when he pressed another soft kiss to your puffy pussy before he stood to tower over you again.

Your eyes stayed locked on his as you grabbed his hand, bringing slick covered fingers to your own mouth and remaining deadlocked with your gaze as you swirled your tongue around the digits and sucked his fingers clean. His exhale from the action was burning against you, long and deep with a hiss in the back of his throat as he watched the pink of your tongue dip between his fingers.

You smiled softly—teasingly as always—against his hand.

“Take me to bed.”

And that’s how you found yourself only seconds later, standing in front of his large and wide bed and shuddering from his touch as he pulled the zipper of your dress down and moved you to sit on the bed. You made to reach for your heels, completely forgotten since walking into his apartment when—

“Keep them on,” he rumbled at you, eyes caressing every inch of exposed skin as you shrugged off your bra and slid back until your head was resting on plush pillows. With hands unbuttoning his shirt, he whispered softly across the room. “You know what to do. Spread those legs for me, baby.”

Digging your teeth into you bottom lip, you followed his command, spreading your legs and digging your heels into his sheets, opening yourself up for him and pushing your panties to the side before he could ask. That familiar flare of impatience you often felt during sex licked up your chest, taking over your body so that you could reach down and begin to rub circles on your clit.

“Don’t keep me waiting,” you whined, holding in a chuckle as he fumbled with the belt and zipper of his hands and yanked them down with his boxers. In all his nakedness with corded muscle and a thin downy trail that led to a familiar thick cock hanging between his legs, you felt your pussy flutter from the sight of him, still circling your clit languidly as he crawled on the bed towards you.

“Fuck me, Ken.”

He hissed out a sharp curse, trailing wet lips up the skin of your thighs, up the twitching muscles of your stomach, a hot swipe of his tongue along the underside of your breasts before circling a nipple into his waiting mouth. The muscle, thick and wet pressed and flicked against you, a hand coming to knead and pinch your other breast to make sure nothing is without his touch. You arched against him, sighed softly into his caress, bucked your hips with every flick of his tongue against your nipple. When he alternated with an even more gentle touch, you whined for him, beckoning him to give you the throbbing cock that hung between his legs, desperate in your pleasure.

He responded to your call like always, angling muscular hips toward you. The first touch of him against you was always jarring, and you jumped for a second before he smoothed away your nerves with a velvety kiss and a hand on your hip before pushing into you slowly. The hand not on your hip reached up to cradle the side of your neck, a thumb stroking your cheek again to keep himself in check and blink through the nasty thoughts in his head as you clenched and squeezed around him. No matter how many times you had both done this, the feel of you around him had his mind scrambling for purchase in sanity.

You dug manicured fingernails into his back, whimpering in impatience and titling your hips so that he could slide further into you. The rock of his hips was sinful, and your eyes were rolling into the back of your head as he began to pick up his pace minutes later. He was so hot against you, so overwhelming and all-encompassing and here, here right now inside of you, giving you everything without having to say a word.

He knew every inch of you, every crevice, every scar, every mole and dusting of hair. But every single time you were beneath him, the beauty of you had his chest drawing tight, painful and squeezing, mind overwhelmed with the thought that this was real. From the sound of you panting and moaning into the air between you both, the feel of your fingernails digging into his back, the sight of the frizz of your hair that was still in a bun and the sheen of sweat that was beginning to form along the skin of your neck and between your breasts that bounced with each pump of him inside of you…you were—

“Beautiful,” he whispered, tilting your hips and angling his thrusts in a way that had you moaning sharply and arching into him. Your back curved up into him, panting harshly in disbelief and shuddering as he found the one spot you needed to take you to a blissful finish.

“Ken—,” you hiccupped, trying to seek purchase on his sweaty back, fingers slipping as he pulled away to sit up on his knees. Large hands on your hips pulled you softly towards him before hooking behind your knees and pushing them towards your chest. You were open, sweaty and gushing your slick around his cock, cheeks hot with embarrassment at being so exposed but mind hazy and numb with pleasure. The stroke of him in you felt more full, more splitting and he was able to curve and dip against that spongy spot with ease.

Your hands reached over your head, fingers digging into the soft fabric of his pillows to tether yourself as much as you could.

You hated how quickly you could fall apart, how quickly you could glare and challenge him but be a moaning mess only seconds later. You hated that he knew just what to do.

Fuck, you’re a terrible liar.

“You always take me so well, baby. I love looking at you like this. So fucking beautiful. The prettiest little thing I’ll ever have. That I’ll ever want.”

Burning at the base of your spine was quick to bubble to the surface, breaking past the veil from your previous orgasm and sliding over the edges of your muscles to pull them tight. Your cunt fluttered around him, spasmed with each smack of his hips against yours, the sound of skin on skin echoing in his large bedroom and each brush of his lower abdominals against your clit had you moaning tightly and arching your back to press your head into the pillows.

The sounds of his low groans between you, the sight of your knees pushed into your chest, folding you into a mating press as he fucked you hard and deep, your heels rocking limply with each thrust, it was hitting a spot in your mind and within your cunt that had you choking on a moan as vestiges of an orgasm fluttered to life in your lower belly.

“Fuck Kento—” you choked, words falling short from the tension in your stomach and lower back. He never needed you to say it out loud. He knew you, inside and out, with every thrust and bead of sweat and pitch in your sounds. A hand slid down the spread of a sweaty leg, trailing burning and heavy on your skin before a thumb began to rub circles on your clit. You moaned loud in response, unashamed of the volume. “Please.”

“I’ve got you, love,” he panted against you, slanting his lips against your panting ones, swallowing your moans before he pulled away and licked your bottom lip. “Cum for me. Let go and make a mess all over me.”

He applied a little more pressure to your clit, kept up the same tempo and between that and the feel of his cock hitting you in just the way you liked, you were curling your toes in your heels, arching your back and shouting into the air. Your orgasm snapped like a rubber band, sharp and slapping on the ends before falling into the hot lava in your belly. The tempo of his thrusts slowed, lips parted as he whispered soft praises of—That’s it. Such a good girl. Take everything you need— into the space between your lips.

You were floating, smiling loosely up at him and curving your neck to give him access to press hushed affection into your skin. Even though you were blissed out beyond belief, you could see the lust still in his eyes, blown out pupils straining from holding back his own orgasm.

Wordlessly, you pushed him away, sighing pleasantly as he slid out of you. Your limbs were heavy and begging you to slip beneath the covers and sleep; but instead you rolled onto your hands and knees, arching until your chest pressed into the sheets and smiling confidently from the sound of him behind you.

“Shit,” he hissed, praying to whomever would listen for the woman in his bed, sinful black heels, a delicious arch in her back, creamy brown legs spread, panties soaked and pushed to the side, and a wet pussy winking at him. Kento watched in disbelief as you reached between your legs to spread yourself, pulling puffy folds of your pussy apart and chuckling softly from the vacant look in his eyes.

“You’re supposed to be showing me how sorry you are,” you muttered, eyes hooded as you watched him grab the base of his cock to stave off coming before making his way to you; pressing a hand against the cleft of your ass while the other gathered your slick on his cock and he slid home.

Within minutes, the faint traces of overstimulation from your last orgasm had bled into reawakening embers of the one you were about to experience. Kento slid a hand along your skin, snapping the edge of your panties against your hip before carding through the thin layer of sweat in the dip of your spine. His thrusts were unchanging, never ceasing even as he dug fingers into your neat bun and pulled your curls loose. They cascaded over your shoulders and his fingers carded through the tresses and around your neck, sliding against your cheek and jaw and pulling you up onto your hands so he could turn your head to the side and look at him.

Blonde hair was messy and matted to his forehead, free from its gel and sophisticated part and falling over to graze the tops of his serious eyes.

He was so beautiful. Even panting and red faced and a crazed look in his eyes, he was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.

“The sight of that man did make me angry,” he panted calmly against your lips. “He leered and ogled at you like he wanted to do the nastiest things. And while I was protective of you, I was never jealous. I have no reason to be. Do you know why?”

You shook your head, breaths shaking out from your lungs from the force of his thrusts. Cooling lava began to heat again from the look that he gave you.

“I have no reason to be because even if you ever gave him the chance, he would have no idea what to do.” Your pussy clenched hard around him from the implication of his words and he smiled around a groan before he slid a hot tongue along the skin of your shoulder before biting into the crease of your neck. You yelped. “He doesn’t know that you like to be talked through it, probably wouldn’t even know what to say. He doesn’t know that you need three fingers to stretch you open or that you like a tongue sliding on your skin and your ass slapped when you’re getting it just the way you want.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Your hooded eyes were wide with disbelief as you panted and whimpered against his lips. Umber irises were thin rings as he spoke, his words filled with growing filth, but his expression just as calm and loving and serene.

“Shigemo can’t handle your nails down his back or the way you squeeze just right when I’m whispering in your ear. He couldn’t handle giving you the three, four, five orgasms you deserve before he’s had his fill.” He kissed you gently, a blatant contrast to the way his hips were smacking against the back of yours. “He doesn’t know any of it. He couldn’t handle any of it. But I do…and I can. Isn’t that right, baby?” You nodded furiously, blushing in every way imaginable, bashful from his words even though he was fucking you like you were being paid for it.

Unsatisfied with your lack of verbal response, he smacked your ass, the sound loud and feel stinging and surging with heat and pleasure that had you whimpering sharply against him.

“Yes! Y-yes, Ken—fuck!”

He hummed against you, kissing the skin of your shoulder in satisfaction. “Talk to me. Tell me what I can do better, baby.”

You shook your head quickly, curly tresses brushing against your cheeks and jolting from the thrusts of the man between your legs. The lava was hot again, oozing in the pit of your belly, bubbling and boiling over and fraying your nervous system to the point that your muscles were beginning to stiffen in response.

“Nothing better. It feels so good…you feel so good. Please, Kento.”

“Who’s fucking you right now?”

“You are..!” you whimpered, your thighs beginning to shake and your pussy tightening around him from his words and thrusts.

The room was filled with the sound of skin on skin, the panting from your mouths, the whimpers and moans from your throat against his groans, and the sound of the headboard slapping against his wall. Vaguely, you thought of neighbors, but then you realized he had none and you could moan wantonly for as long as you wanted in his penthouse suite in the clouds of Nakameguro.

“Who always makes you feel this good?”

“You do—fuck, Ken!”

“Why?”

“Because you want me,” you whined, eyes filling with emotional tears and pleasure and need.

A hard thrust.

“Why, y/n.”

“Because you love me.” Another hard thrust and a squeak from your lips. “And I love you.”

“That’s my girl,” he exhaled into you, satisfaction and affection bleeding from his skin and onto your back. He guided you to arch your back again, letting you relax your cheek into the pillows before he picked up the pace inside of you with a hard grip on your hips and faint praises and kisses on your skin.

You were on fire, burning from the inside out as you crept closer and closer to coming harder than you ever had before. He had never spoken to you like this, had never teetered the line between aggression and lavish affection.

It was a foreign feeling, but you loved it.

You loved the way his teeth bit into your skin, loved the way he showered you with worship in the most outlandish way, loved the way muscular hips smacked against yours and the sound of faint moans leaving his own breath as he got closer to his end. A hand in your curls and a gentle tug made him pull your head back by your hair, arching into the sheets and bringing your growing moans into the air of his room.

You prayed to the gods that this orgasm would break the record for the most powerful that you would ever feel. There was no way you wouldn’t get there. Not when he was grabbing you just right, saying the right words, fucking you so well that you were convinced the cloudiness in your vision wasn’t tears anymore.

A harsh grunt from his lips and his fingers against your clit had your body clenching further and your fingers digging into the sheets below you.

“Cum for me, baby. Give me one more. One more for me, please and I’ll give you everything.”

You didn’t need much more encouragement. From the wet movements on your clit and the thick cock making a home inside of you, that cord of pleasure broke with little force and the waves that rushed through had you choking on a wail and shuddering to a degree that had yourself concerned. Your blood was pumping in your ears, sloshing and fast and muffling the sound of him groaning against the skin of your neck as he pumped with renewed fervor inside of you.

He was close, so close and sweaty and sloppy in his movements, balls drawing tight against him and a tingling along his skin. The feel of you tight and hot and even more wet around him made his blood boil and his lower back ache.

“Give it to me, Ken,” you turned your head and whispered against his lips, sweaty and satisfied. “Tear this pussy up and fill me to the brim.”

The nastiness of your words caught him by surprise and only catapulted him to his end, his orgasm ripping from the base of his spine as he twitched and tensed and spilled inside of you with a harsh moan and deep bite to the side of your neck. The sound of him moaning harshly faded into sighs against you, his teeth in your neck pulling away with a feel of his tongue sliding over the marks. He was shaking against your back as you relaxed into the sheets, basking in the warmth from him and the growing ache in your body.

When he could feel the air in his lungs again, and when the suddenly cold air against his sweaty skin made him shiver for a different reason, he slid out of you slowly, locking away the sound of your pleasant sigh as he did so. He sagged into the sheets, planting face first before turning his head to look at you. Your own cheek was pressed into his pillows, faint hints of eucalyptus and woodsy cologne tickling your nose as you blinked blearily at him and smiled gently.

You wanted to throw a little comment his way, a joke to make the moment weird like you usually did after sex. But just like Ome had annoyingly teased earlier today, Kento had dicked you down whole heartedly and thoroughly that you rolled your eyes from the smug look on his face.

“You’ve been awfully quiet,” he mumbled against you, chest rumbling along the skin of your back. You reach down into the hot water to grab the large hand once on your thigh. Pulling it out of the water with yours, watching as droplets fell off his smooth skin and back into the tub with you both, you carded your fingers through his.

“You fucked me pretty good.”

He snorted against the skin of your shoulder, watching as you wiggled your fingers between the crevices of his own.

“Don’t be crude.”

“Compared to what you were whispering in my ear as you fucked me within an inch of my life? Don’t even.” Kento chuckled, harsh and loud, rare and treasured that made you smile from the sound. “To be honest…I’m just happy. These past few weeks. Today. I’ve never felt this much pride besides when Ulani was born.”

He was quiet, not offering a response as you turned your clasped hands back and forth, watching the cords of muscle in his forearms bunch and ripple. The mouth on your shoulder puckered into a kiss.

“I’m glad you’re happy. Every last piece of happiness is what you deserve. You’ve worked hard your entire life, and now others can finally see what your family and friends see. What I see.” Your relaxed into his chest, angling your head up to look at him. Soft brown eyes looked back down at you, endless waves of love billowing from his skin to wash over you. “Do you finally see it? When I say that you have a gift?”

That wash of emotion you felt standing in front of Choso suddenly made itself known again. But it had coiled more, grew with more memories and smiles and words from everyone around you.

“All thanks to you,” you whispered up at him and was shocked from the scoff that he gave you in reply.

“The only thing I did was give you the words you needed to hear. I made that page for you, but you could have easily deactivated it. I organized a tour at Choso’s gallery, but I did nothing to inspire him to ask you for a commission or include you in his collection….I did the same for you as you did me. Turned you in the right direction and let yourself do the rest. This has all been you.”

Your eyes fluttered from the surge of tears that began to cloud your vision, pressing into him more to siphon every ounce of affection he had to spare.

“Even still,” you whispered, voice tight and strained. “I love you.”

He pressed his lips to yours in response, pulled away to kiss your cheek, the side of your neck where he had bit into you, the wet skin of your shoulder. Damp blonde strands brushed against you as he laid his cheek on your shoulder, turning his head into you to brush his nose along the column of your neck. A deep inhale from his chest, satisfied and blissfully happy, before exhaling against you and squeezing the hand that was still intwined with yours.

“I love you too.”

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heli0s-writes · 3 years ago

Text

where the shivers won’t find you*

Summary: In which Bucky’s Winter Soldier programming turned him from an Omega into an Alpha, and because he hasn’t suffered enough, the universe decides it’s time he gets turned back. Fan-fucking-tastic.

Warnings: trauma, references to hydra sexual abuse, flashbacks, explicit smut, male masturbation, overstimulation, an unholy amount of come, etc. ~8.7k words of hurt/comfort porn in A/B/O-verse.

a/n: Hey anyone ask for an Alpha!Reader and Omega!Bucky? No? Here it is anyway! P.S. I love writing unhinged women. Title from St. Vincent :) xx

Bucky wishes like all hell that he didn’t know what was happening to him. Better yet, he wishes it wasn’t happening at all or that the world wasn’t this.

He’s met plenty of other species who have sneered at human dynamics, clicked their appendages, and blinked their seventeen eyelids at the way humans were structured to exist on Earth. Species with three spines or two heads or were nothing more than a faint effervescent light that commented disdainfully on the base framework of Earth’s hierarchy.

He thinks that Earth couldn’t be the most fucked up planet out there—that their solar system and all its unknown variables could be topped by some other star cluster and its machinations—but unfortunately, he exists in this one.

And this one has the audacity to breathe James Buchanan Barnes to life as a goddamn Omega.

Like, that’s got to be the biggest your life sucks designation anyone could receive. Omegas are hardwired to be subservient for chrissake and he’s got the double-rare gift of being a male Omega at that. Like whatever divinities schemed together during their monthly meetup of assigning genders and preferences to the next batch of birthed kids decided that in 1917, after sprinkling a smattering of identities on a group of souls, pointed directly to Bucky’s and said, “Yeah, fuck this guy in particular.”

So he grows up being the source of his parents’ fear and shame and he’s told no matter what, he can’t let anyone figure him out. Meaning, naturally, he’s been plied with scent blockers and beta boosters since puberty.

As a fuck you right back, you sick little angels when I get up there I’m gonna lay your fluffy cloud hell to waste, Bucky goes and dies.

And, of course, as a bitch, you thought! the gods wake his ass up on an operating table with a bone saw to the scapula and he spends the next 70 years getting throttled in and out of his own body being The Winter Soldier.

He’s got to thank Hydra, though, because despite their forsaken safety procedures, the overall unsanitary practice, and oh yeah, captivity, the serum unpeeled his brain so thoroughly, reworked his DNA exhaustively that by the time Bucky came to for the last time—his metal arm in an industrial clamp with Steve and Sam gazing down at him in a warehouse—he had the vague notion that he’d been living as an Alpha for a while.

Until now, because of course.

His gut is on fire. It sparks deep inside his belly and aches on and off like he’s being repeatedly kissed by a sledgehammer every fifteen minutes. If he shuts his eyes at the exact moment the pain begins, he feels like he’s back on the operating table and instead of a bone saw, scientists are there with a baseball bat and playing whack-a-mole with his organs.

He’d been in militant denial for the past few months, too caught up in trying to keep the final vestiges of that easy-go-lucky Alpha life to truly sit down and come to terms with glaring signs. He was having adverse reactions to the usual suppressants he’d slap on his forearm when he couldn’t be bothered to ride out a rut because he was too busy on a mission or simply didn’t want to deal with it. Other Alphas could bunker down with their lovers or their toys and go at it for the week, but Bucky never found pleasure in having to do that out of sheer animalistic drive.

But then six months ago he smacked on a suppressant patch and noticed that the skin around his forearm swelled up something ugly, dried into an upsetting shade of pale, and when Bucky finally soaked it off, it only took forty-five minutes for his cock to spring up into the angriest, most furious hard-on he ever experienced. And he, blessedly, had just enough sense to deadbolt himself inside his house, text everyone to make themselves scarce for the next three days, and plow through his rut with minimal nerve damage to his poor dick.

It was off.

He hurt afterwards, more than the usual dullness and lethargy of being drained post-rut. His blood felt sludgy in his veins, his breath so sticky and leaden—and even his brain, something was sparkling between the folds, trying to alert him of what, he didn’t know.

He didn’t want to know.

A few months later and one more deeply worrying, exacerbated denial of a rut where he shoved his dick into lubed up, squelching silicone sleeves, coming until he blacked out to no avail later—he knows now.

He’s not in rut, he’s in heat.

And there’s a hair thin line of difference between the two, but the implications of Bucky reverting back to being the bottom of the food chain in his current state is going to either get him killed—or worse—because the world is a whole ass shitshow on fire, and he’s freshly touched down in the city after a tiring mission with little energy to fight his instincts or anyone lucky enough to stumble on him emanating pheromones, and he cannot—he fucking cannot lose control over his body again.

Not again. Not again.

Not ever again.

If he had it in him to scream, he would. But he’s riding at breakneck speed back to his house, his bike roaring through the sleeping streets of the city, every unavoidable bump or pothole impacting his entire quivering body head-on because he hardly has the organizational skills to dodge and steer and breathe at the same time.

He’s two hours away, shoving through a red light, barely missing a sedan that blares a vehement horn at him when his ribs start squeezing inward and air is being strangled out of his throat. He can’t see straight much less have enough sense to successfully cut around another patch of traffic, and when he pauses at the next stop, his heart is well on its way to overclocking.

The intersection is quiet, nothing but the beeping of a crosswalk alerting no one to pass and Bucky is trying to gulp down his breath, smacking up the visor of his helmet to get the night into his lungs, unzipping his jacket to allow his chest to cool. He’s panting with blood in his ears rushing up into his scalp, and it’s dead—it’s so fucking still that he thinks maybe he can do this, he can make it up the service road and streak past the next seventeen exits—until a car pulls up to his left.

The worst part is, they’re kids.

A handful of them with the top of their convertible down, whooping along in conversation about the party they’d just left. Three are in the back, woozy with underage drinking, kicking at the seat of the driver, who swats them in good humor. The one in the passenger side is a bit more alert than his other friends and leaning his head on the crook of his elbow as he laughs, saying, “Shut the fuck up, man.”

The light is stretching longer than any light should, and Bucky’s trying to shake himself lucid, trying to balance the fear of the unknown with the horror of his immediate reality, and when he chances a look over his shoulder, he catches the kid’s eye.

One second, the kid, hair wild and scraggly but ash brown and framing his face in a way that’s placating, is still smiling but then he takes in a lungful of the night—a lungful of Bucky only five feet away—and both his hands are on the metal frame of the door, tension bulging out of his shoulders.

“Hey!” he yells, his pupils blown out wide. His friends startle at his volume, gradually more curious about the waft of scent beginning to float over their heads.

“What the fuck is—”

“Woah—shit is that an Omeg—”

And Bucky can’t listen to it. Can’t chance it. Can’t allow it. He doesn’t even let the whole word into his ear, fuck his faculties, fuck his ability to dodge and steer and breathe at the same time. Fuck the gods and the world. He kicks himself off past the red light, making a sharp bank away from his current path at a speed even more reckless than before, the yelling behind him getting eaten by the wind.

Nobody’s here.

He knows this because he delegated the rest of his mission to the owner of this house. It’s a single safehouse in a tiny neighborhood up a hill lit by a yellow porch light because said owner heard that yellow light keeps the bugs away.

It’s a modest place mostly kept as a supply drop and makeshift rest area; the money spent on the purchase mostly for the large perimeter rather than the structure itself. The elderly neighbors are far enough away so that if anyone trudged to the door coughing up blood or towing an unconscious teammate with them, there’d be no questions because any possible witnesses are both too far to notice and retired to bed at sunset.

He swats at a moth as he trudges up, wincing with each step, and tries to find some joy at how the yellow light advert was probably wrong.

You’d hate that. You’d get real pissy about that and it brings a satisfying smirk to Bucky’s grimacing face. You’d yell or something. Pitch a whole fit and either try to search up research articles to prove him wrong or make him take responsibility for ruining your life. It’d be a real dramatic production of Bucky Barnes Needs to Mind His Own Business.

God, he’s looking forward to that bullshit. Something categorically normal to soothe his extremely and suddenly, once more, abnormal existence.

His boots clatter on the tile when he clambers in, shuffling himself against the wall, fumbling to make it to a soft surface. He tears into the bathroom on the way, rummaging around the cabinets for anything to help his pain before the next inevitable round of organ-bashing resurfaces. He squints at labels and rattles a glass of tweezers and exacto blades, knocking over some rubbing alcohol before finding a container of muscle relaxers and rattles at least three into his gullet.

The recent intervals have picked up their pace during the time he started his heat to now, and the waves have begun come every ten or so minutes, trickling down the more time he spends with his hands not on himself.

He swallows, willing the damn pills down his throat, knowing they’ll be out of his stupid Super Soldier metabolism sooner than he’d like, but at least staving off a few rounds of what feels like atomic warfare trying to bust out of his nuts.

It’ll be enough for him to ransack the place and collect his survival tools as if he’s in a zombie apocalypse movie.

He’s hauling in two gallons of purified water along with an armful of dried goods when his phone buzzes nonstop in his pocket.

“Hey,” the voice on the other line huffs loudly, “I didn’t ask for this Mickey Mouse bullshit.”

Bucky winces and clicks his volume down.

“The locals are reaming me out about this cleanup job. Do you know the amount of paperwork I’m going to have to file for this? You started a fire.”

“Hello to you too,” he responds, kicking the gallons toward the bedside, dropping the food into the small sofa chair near the window and taking off his shoes.

“A woman’s cat didn’t make it—she says she’s gonna sue the entire United States— my Pashto isn’t good enough to threaten her back."

There’s chatter in the background and echoes of footsteps as if you’re in a lobby, and someone comes by to get your attention. Bucky squeezes his eyes shut because he’s got other things to worry about right now, and he’ll promise he’ll let you ream him out later. Hell, he’ll let you knock his ass back into the paleolithic age if you want; you’d be doing him a favor.

“You owe me so bad,” you grumble, “You owe me a limb for this, sweetheart. The good one. The metal one.”

Bucky sighs deeply, “I’ll give you a free punch, how about that? Listen, I gotta go,” he barely manages to say as a jolt rushes up his side.

“Hell no, you’ve got to suffer at least five more minutes of complaints or else I’ll be calling back until one of our phone dies.”

“Two free punches, and I’m hanging up.”

And then he turns the entire thing off and drops to his knees at the edge of the bed, bowing his head. He’s blearily unbuttoning his pants, letting go of the low, pained wail he’s been keeping in in his chest, and shakes his way through it until he’s got no more air left, until his mouth is filled with saliva and his throat is hoarse and crackling.

He pants dryly, clutching his middle. Fuck, it’s going to be this again: the crying and screaming and thrashing because he was never correctly taught on how to be easy through heat. Because suppressants in the early 1900’s were shoddy at best and his parents did what they could with an Omega son, but their best consisted of turning their clammy basement of pickled goods into a provisional dungeon for when the heat was stronger than the medicine. Or when they couldn’t afford it. Or when the local doctor started asking why the Barnes family needed this many blockers.

So he’s gonna hurt physically, emotionally, and he’s going to re-experience his fucked-up Omega life in both memory and reality.

On the bright side of it—a tiny fragment of silver lining—the serum consumes everything like a flashfire. As an Alpha, his (and Steve’s) ruts were a few days shy of a week, which is like the blessing of a lifetime when you loathe the experience, so he tries to find solace in the fact that his heat will go on shorter than he’s previously experienced it.

Bucky stares at the water a few inches away from his face. It’s been about an hour and the muscle relaxant is ebbing out of his system. He pats around the scattered bits of goods on the chair for the rest, grabs a protein bar on the way, and crams it into his mouth along with six more pills. Fuck yeah, he’s gonna be out like a light.

His eyes are fluttering when he flops down on the covers, ignoring the dust that bounces off the bed with his weight. He can’t exactly be mad at you for that— this is a last resort kind of dwelling. You come this way maybe three times a year to re-stock, because your loft in Manhattan is your happy place and this one is just—

He looks around through the haze swimming over his vision, shivering lightly as goosebumps rise up his arms.

It’s sterile here. Scant furniture in the living area and dining room. The kitchen houses maybe two pots and a single knife, from what Bucky remembers as he dug around. Mostly canned creamy soups, a lot of protein powder, and an outrageous amount of pudding cups. The bathroom contains an overabundance of medical supplies, which is the norm for these places, but other than that—the only room that seems like it was given some care to is the bedroom.

It’s carpeted with lush fibers, firstly. The bed he’s on, despite the thin covering of dust, is phenomenal, and almost an immediate reprieve on his tortured skin. The sheets are silky and cool and slip right off. Loads of blankets are bundled inside an oversized wicker basket by the dresser, the inviting sofa chair currently holding up Bucky’s trove of necessities, and a single lamp on the end table. The shade is a simple beige covering but there’s a colorful bulb inside, and when Bucky turns it on with trembling fingers, it flushes the room in warm, calming tangerine. There’s even a white noise machine, a small humidifier, a fan, and a portable speaker that he could probably put some music on.

That’s nice, for now, when he’s kind of swaying off into la-la-land because you’ve got horse tranquilizers in capsule form and he’s not gonna look at that proverbial gift horse in the mouth. Bucky supposes that it pays to have a friend who’s fifty shades of questionable.

He picks himself up to reach into the side table, making the lamp wobble. He pats around for what he needs, and when he pulls out a container of what looks like high-quality lube, he mutters fucking thank you and hopes you feel his gratitude across the world.

It wakes him with a jolt.

Full-on, unstoppable, un-dampened because the bottle of benzodiazepine is now blissfully empty and mocking him as he shudders to life and begins to rock against the headboard, fist over cock, stroking hard and fast and lewd. Coral pink spreads to his chest and groin and thighs in an embarrassing shade of aroused, but thank god, thank god, he made it here.

Thank god he didn’t crash into someone, didn’t get hauled off somewhere, into an alley or a hospital—to be discovered that the goddamn Winter Soldier was a helpless Omega begging to be fucked.

Bucky moans loudly as he feels the first orgasm approaching, then pouncing, then tearing him in half as he comes, spraying long lines on his abdomen and chest, the smell rising up into his own nose as a heady, desperate aroma.

He whines and arcs back into his hand again and fucking ashamed of it.

He hates this. Hates the way he’s trapped in a fever he can’t dig out of. Trapped in the basement, in the operating room, the chair, the ice, immobilized and taken under by a force that renders him absolutely powerless. That hacks at his humanity until he’s gone—reduced to the lowest form of animal, until he has no agency left, at the mercy of who-fucking-ever who never chooses to have any mercy on him.

He comes again, feeling better temporarily, the quick rush of endorphins hitting him like a summer breeze until the flame returns, licking slowly, as if goading him on, pretending like he has any chance against it. He knows he doesn’t. Done this enough to remember, viscerally, that he doesn’t. Even if he was still in denial, there’s no defiance stubborn enough to ignore how his ass is fucking slick, his balls tight and pulsing, and his cock a graphic hue of erect.

He comes again and it doesn’t help. Course not.

He comes again and slugs down half a gallon of water afterwards, gagging slightly from the effort.

He comes again and wipes himself off with one of your many towels he grabbed from the bathroom. He’s a gross fucking asshole because this towel is periwinkle and fuzzy with an embroidered flower on the corner now nasty with spunk. Oh god, he’s going to deep clean the place after this.

He comes again and passes the fuck out.

Time blurs into one long mockery. Minutes pass. Hours pass. Maybe the sun rose and hung and set. The curtains are a thick material, made to block out light, engulfing the window on the other side, and he hasn’t got the mental fortitude to face the outside world like this, not even behind a glass pane. He doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to know anything.

Bucky’s up again, much later, finished chewing a miserable protein bar that did not have enough cashews in it, despite advertising as a primarily cashew-y snack. He’s dirtied with sweat and the filmy, lingering layer of come, but he can’t shower yet because there’s no point. His skin is still thrumming with the early onslaught of another wave and if he showers now, he’ll have to shower again in a couple of hours. He doesn’t even know if you have enough soap for more than one or two—so he’s got to ration his washing appropriately.

His legs are stiff from his toes to his upper thighs. He hurts so fucking much and it’s revolting that the only time he doesn’t hurt is right as he’s having an orgasm so hard that he feels half-blind, and it’s the screech of falling over the edge that whites out the rest of the pain. But as soon as that light flickers back to the rich amber of your room, and his cock twitches; he has to restart or else he’ll feel like sobbing.

Is it worse this time around? Was it this god-fucking-awful before? He thought so, but he was also pre-serum, and doesn’t have the kind of pain tolerance he does now.

But, considering his pain tolerance… and the absurd clawing in his belly, he wonders if somehow his body decided that re-writing its DNA back into being an Omega would call forth some horrific primordial heat? Like it’s been vengefully amassing all those years he skipped out on and now lording the compounded weight of nature’s veiny, throbbing fuckstick over him and oh god, if the first ten times were any indication to the rest of this cycle, Bucky can’t say it’s humanly possible to survive.

Next thing he knows, he’s shooting off with a high, keening noise. He wheezes out curses under his breath as it splatters up like the rest, before moving to grab at another poor towel, thinking thank you and I’m so sorry as he pathetically wipes himself off, shuddering through the aftershocks.

He’s weak and dehydrated, so he chugs another ten gulps of water and pops open a pudding cup for quick calories, gagging down the cloying chocolate aftertaste.

Why do you have so much fucking pudding? Why is this unquestionably cozy bed starting to piss him off? Why is this room so small and huge at the same time?

Why can’t he breathe.

Why can’t he fucking live.

He’s got to—got to fix this. Got to immediately pass go and collect his 200 dollars and get the hell up out of here. Gotta find something that’ll knock him into next week. Put him in a coma, for all he cares, if that means he’ll wake up feeling at least 45% back to normal, sans heat, pending drug withdrawal. He’s gonna make the worst cocktail out of your stash anyone’s ever seen.

This is your fuck around and find out safehouse. This is your I’m on my last leg and maybe I got stabbed but give me seven minutes and I’ll be ready to stab back safehouse.

This is the place he swung by to check in on you once after a FUBAR mission and found you on the floor, sucking and spitting poison out of one arm’s wound while simultaneously stitching up a gash on the other arm. And yes, exactly seven minutes later you were out the door, blood casually smeared up to your forehead like warpaint, and yes, you did, indeed, stab back.

There’s a hell lot more than a single tube of muscle relaxants in this place; he’s just got to sniff it out.

Bucky rolls himself off the edge of the bed, landing with a muffled grunt when he hits the floor and scrambles to feel around beneath the mattress. Nothing. He groans as his clammy body shivers and has enough decency to wrap himself up in a knitted blanket from the wicker basket.

He’s pilfering the drawers of the repurposed dresser, scattering knick knacks on top. The dimmer to the lamp goes flying, a box of tissues gets tossed elsewhere. The drawers squeak in protest as he shoves his fingers inside, feeling for things that he knows in his right mind he should not be finding.

But he’s not in his right mind. And he’ll clean up, he swears. He’ll apologize for taking advantage of the spare key you gave him, replace the pantry of food and water and lube, he won’t mention that he ejaculated all over the place, or that he’s discovering that beneath your extra tac gear and change of clothes, there’s a trove of toys.

Bucky gawks at the assortment. The shapes and sizes and—he thinks he’s blushing even though he’s been the one desecrating this property for the last 32 unholy hours. Some of them are nearly luxurious—in subtle shapes and colors—while others are garishly vulgar. He’s starting to spiral as he palms them, vaguely debating on their efficacy before he catches a scent.

It’s beneath the middle drawer.

He yanks it open.

What the hell…

What the hell.

He pillages through the stack of clothes. Why didn’t he notice it before? He yanks them out and tosses them onto the bed, frantic, staring at his open hands like they’re not his own, then pressing his fingers to his nose where the smell wouldn’t have register to anyone else if they weren’t Bucky. If they weren’t a serum recipient. If they weren’t an Omega.

Oh, it’s strong. It’s musky and delicious and there’s been an attempt by an overload of detergent to scrub it out, but it’s still there. Sweet, bitter, making him deliriously angry that he can’t seem to sniff out any more of it—that it’s not actively coating his fingers and his face.

He mindlessly returns to the bed and burrows into the sheets, seeking more. He’s been drowned out by his own need and panic but now that he’s on the trail, he can taste it everywhere. The pillowcases were clean, and now soaked with his perspiration, but the scent is inside between the fibers stuffing. The sheets, the comforter, the mattress itself, washed and lined—spotless bordering on clinical—but he’s got it in his lungs, on his tastebuds.

He knows he’s being crazy as he twists into the covers, letting the cool fabric loop around his thigh and calf, bunching it up in his fists and shoving it over his face. The shirts and sweatpants he tossed over are twined up in the mass of cotton, falling on him, covering him up.

And it smells—so. fucking. good.

Like sweat. Like spit. Like come.

Like the shadow of an Alpha’s rut.

Bizarrely, like you.

You.

You. You? Alpha?

That can’t be right; he must be hallucinating. He’s so far in the deep end of his heat that he’s making it up because for as long as he’s known you, as long as he’s been your friend, you’ve been a no-nonsense Beta. Sure, you were more troublesome than most he’s met, but personalities are valid despite hierarchy. And your personality happened to be more… hostile toward most of the Alphas on the team.

Steve, Thor, T’Challa, Sam, and Bucky. The lineup was stacked with them.

No one could help how they presented, but also no one complained that it was extremely beneficial to have the advantage of being one in their line of work.

Alphas were dominant. Strong and powerful and their presence alone asserted control. Get caught in a hysterical mob as a Beta and no one will give a flying fuck about whether or not you’re trying to corral them to safety; you simply don’t have the authority to herd anyone. Alphas are mostly men, and it’s not as bad for a woman to be an Alpha as a man to be an Omega, but that doesn’t mean you’re not both holding onto adjacent split ends of a short stick.

Listen, he’s got some choice words for the universe that he’ll shout himself hoarse about later, but right now he’s angrily trying to suffocate himself with your clothes. His erection is back, unchecked, raring to go and harder than before because now he’s caught a whiff of you, and now he’s spellbound and keening for more of this specific drug.

Bucky’s head is so dizzy, so enamored, so enraptured with wanting to come, with fantasizing about coming for you that he folds himself in half, face buried into your clothes, buried some more into the covers, both hands between his legs and pumping forcefully. He’s abandoned his senses now, crying out as he rolls his hips forward for any more friction from himself or the bed, so lost that when he orgasms again, he lets go of a string of expletives and pleads and dry sobs that he hardly registers as his own voice.

It hurts so fucking much, everywhere.

The pleasure of your scent isn’t strong enough to overpower the confusion or the shame or the exhaustion that’s eating at his soul. He’s not only defiled your space, but your bed, and your clothes, and your… trust? If you never find out, he would still know. He would know that he wasn’t strong enough to stop anything. That he was going to forever be subject to existing as the cruelest display of humiliation from the powers that be.

He can’t breathe again, feeling crushed in every way. He muffles another howl, curses and bites at his hands and fingers and lips and feels the fibers of his muscles scream as he clenches his entire body up in self-punishment.

“Fuck,” he grunts, the syllable bouncing back at him. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

And on the last curse, he hears an echo of the noise not reverberating from his hand, or the blanket, but from behind him.

Bucky whips up, startled.

You’re mirroring his surprise, standing in the doorway with your tac suit still on, a tender welt striped across your nose and cheek, expression wide open and petrified.

In his mind, he’s roaring for it to stop. Screaming for the moment to somehow rewind, take him all the way back to last year and put him out of his misery there. Take him back to last month, even. Or last week, or hell, he’ll take 48 hours ago, when he was on the phone with you, and he could kick his past self for not realizing that as slim of a possibility as this would be the one out of three times you’d check in here—that he could at least tell you to stay away.

Hey, I didn’t sign up for this Mickey Mouse bullshit.

I know you didn’t. I’m sorry, I don’t tell you enough, but you’re the best friend a fella can have—now do me a real solid, champ, do me the favor of a lifetime, and don’t go to your drug-den-safehouse. I’m starting my heat and I’ll explain everything later but you’re the best. Don’t forget it.

He’s still stark naked in the middle of the mattress, bent over the comforter and sheets, the array of bedclothes knotted chaotically around his thighs and waist and clutched between his hands as he lowers them numbly. The muscles in his back flex as he breathes, and the words fall out of his desolate head as soft, useless gasps.

You swallow thickly, taking a step back, nostrils slightly flared, leaning out of the room for as clean of air as you can get.

Neither of you know what to do. The shock of the situation is beginning to dissipate, but it leaves behind an oppressive awkwardness where both of you try to not be so obvious as you dissect the possible options and take stock of each other.

Scent, temperature, shallowness of breath. Injuries. Expression. Body language. How long are your eyes going to stay on his face? When will they move—oh, they’re moving now—down his spine, his waist, his elbows. His shoulders, red and clawed; his cheeks, puffy and swollen with crying; his lips, bitten at and parted.

Your brows tilt in pained ways and he’s never seen you so torn about anything. After a couple of tries at engaging the moment, you finally make an attempt, and it comes out jilted as if you’re reading a prompter.

“What do you need? I—have— things.”

His sweat-slick, burning, numbed face crumples inward. He chokes back a distressed noise, ransacks his muzzy brain for a remedy.

All that comes up is, stupidly, “I can’t eat any more pudding. There’s so much goddamn pudding.”

You snort a laugh, blindsided, and your shoulders relax.

“It’s an easy, high-calorie food.” You shrug, “Long shelf life and you don’t have to worry about chewing if you’re too tired. Goes down simple. Won’t make your belly too full like protein shakes or soup.”

He frowns, “Personal experience?”

“Yeah.”

“Is this… your rut safehouse?”

You shrug distantly by way of reply.

“I didn’t know.”

“Yeah,” you nod faintly his way, “looks like we don’t know a few things about each other.”

Bucky doesn’t realize his nails are digging into his thigh until the indents are prickling blood. He doesn’t realize that he’s been holding his breath until he exhales shakily—and upon an inhale, the quick rush of air oxygenates his lungs and sends waves of shock to his senses. He’s burning. He can smell you. He can smell you, aroused by him, trying to hold your own instincts back.

He winces and doesn’t speak because if he does, he’ll betray himself.

He needs control. He needs to remain intact. If he lets go now, he’ll never stop.

He changes course.

“Why do you hide it?”

“It’s not useful to me,” you say, only a tiny bitten back exhale sounding out, “There are too many preconceived notions about gender and label.” You tick them off on your fingers with a wry grin, “Whether or not I can keep my head every season, where I am in the pecking order… if I’m subconsciously trying to usurp power from the men.”

Then you shove your hands in your pockets and work your jaw like you’re chewing the dynamics to cinders. “I dislike many aspects of being Alpha—”

And there it is.

Bucky tries to corral it, but he breaks out into a groan, and then clamps his jaw shut, gasping hard and fast.

Your eyes widen at him before they flick away. After a moment, you continue, “—I dislike how I act as one, and I don’t want to become a self-fulfilling prophecy as one. So I take blockers and boosters and I have more of a grip on it.” Then, you look up with a forced smile, “Besides, can you imagine me, full force, going head-to-head with Rogers on a bad day?”

Bucky attempts, “You have different personalities,” which is a lie and a half because the problem between you and Steve is that you are eerily similar, except one of you is more eager to inflict grievous bodily harm than the other.

“Sure,” you deadpan, “Now take the Beta boosters out of the equation and I know myself enough to acknowledge that I’m on the wrong end of the Big Bad A variety. You don’t want this au naturel, Barnes, trust me. Rogers thinks I’m half to unhinged now— but I miss my dose and there won’t be a hinge left for me to hang on.”

The sincere grin you give him is disarming, but it’s the sobering way you’ve said it that splinters something in his chest. Wrecks and pulverizes it to a fine dust like gunpowder, and the confetti of its aftermath is clinging to his capillaries. Feels on the cusp of ignition.

Bucky’s seen you lunge the length of three cars after a running start and dive knife-first into someone’s rib cage. He’s seen you slip into the fine opening between the third and fourth rib like the spot was made to catch your blade. You’ve always inhabited your body effortlessly and he’d always said you were the craziest fucking thing he’d ever met, glad you were on their side than the others’, glad you were his friend and not his enemy.

Jesus, you’ve been operating under boosters this whole time—the magnitude of raw ability intentionally tamped down.

He knows it’s his heat raring. He knows its that reptilian brain of his, overzealous with its primitive desire to witness the animal. The crux of being an Omega—the core of his marker—that is beginning to salivate at the idea that you could, very much, and especially right now, tear him to pieces—and easily.

And, please.

He can’t help that he wants to hear it again. He wants you to admit it, on a base level, to assert the truth, tell him what you are, tell him what he is, and make him surrender to you. Take the agony from him and… take him.

Then, belatedly, he realizes, “This is your rut safehouse.” As in, you are here, because you are in rut. Right now. Didn’t he already say that earlier? Is his brain only now catching up?

“Ding ding ding.” Your tone is flat and joyless, “Only here twice a year. Even my obstinate ass can’t stand the pressure of suppressed heat— you know that it builds up? I go meds-free half a week before bunkering down but you are in more of an emergency situation at the moment, so give me a couple of minutes and I’ll get out of your hair.”

His stomach lurches because he suddenly doesn’t want you to go. Doesn’t want you to move anywhere but closer because the air is flexing around you in currents, rippling out and out and out and over him like a heatwave and it smells so good, tastes so good, feels so good. Like mercy or compassion. The taste of rainwater during a summer heatwave. The breaking of a fever, the parting of an impenetrable fog. The first breath of a new life.

He’s starting to become agitated again, and hell, what would those disdainful extraterrestrials that clicked their pincers at how Earth was little more than a blue rock populated by insatiable little animals think of him now? Fuck them for having the privilege of fucking off a trillion light years back to their own whatever-color rock and perhaps reproduce via unproblematic sporing. Lucky bastards, but Bucky doesn’t know any other life; he’s just got the one that’s trying to repeatedly kill him for simply existing.

And he’s really, really tired of that.

So he demands, much too loud, “Bite me,” before you can turn around. And in case you needed further clarification, he goes ahead and tacks on, “Mark me up. Control me,” he pleads, the words hemorrhaging out now, “Give me my control back, I’m fucking begging you.”

“What—"

“I think,” he says, terrified. “I think before the serum changed me all the way… when I was captured…"

He trails off, unfocused as linoleum flooring sparks at the edges of his memory. Big, calloused, cruel hands grabbing him everywhere despite the way he screams in his mind, can’t make his mouth move any way except how they tell him to.

His fingers fist the sheets as he figures out the aversion his entire body’s having to this is more than flesh memories from a damp basement and an unlucky childhood. It’s Hydra, too. When they broke him down into little pieces before they put him back together wrong.

A blink later and he realizes his cheeks are wet.

You’re the closest to being in shock he’s ever seen you, looking like you could throw up or level the building. The muscles of your neck move jerky, your limbs stiff and angry and unsure. Bucky’s not, though; he’s very sure. This is the surest he’s been about anything in a long time.

“You mark me, and we stop worrying about our cycles for the rest of our sorry natural lives. We hole up here and—whatever with each other. I stop being a free-for-all fuck signal for every Alpha within a five-mile radius, and you—”

Your eyes skitter over him, his flesh wet with perspiration, his lips trembling, jaw bulging from grinding his molars together. There’s only the sound of his ragged wheezing, and your own shallow ones following in a ferocious tempo.

“I don’t know,” he mutters, shoving the heels of his palms into his eyes in defeat. “I actually don’t know what you get. How fucked is this?”

“It’s… pretty fucked.”

His heart plummets down to his belly, which is beginning to squeeze again, twisting and hurting until he re-folds into the sheets, clutching them between the webbing of his fingers. The agony feels different this time. Feels vindictive, feels personal.

“But to answer your question,” you suggest, a little choked, a little kind, “maybe I get you. How do you feel about that?”

“What?” Signals are backfiring now. He’s overloading, he thinks, impacted with the buildup of about 70 years of heat, bone tired and off the rails—he must have not heard you right.

“Yes,” you say.

“Y-yes? Just like that?”

“Yes,” you confirm, “just like that.” You step forward, shoulders in a hard line, focused on him. “Maybe we’re both— maybe heat’s not a good time to make these decisions, but I could fuck you senseless and then go kill every Hydra agent still alive if you asked me.” You bare your teeth in a show of dominance, of fury, and Bucky’s heart slams up to his throat at the sight of your canines—so sharp and pretty. “How do you feel about that?”

“Holy shit,” he says, refusing to question himself anymore. He feels everything. He feels… relieved, excited, grateful. Fuck, he feels ready. “Holy shit, come here, please. You gotta—you gotta get your hands on me.”

You rub the back of your neck, grin, and move to sit at the edge of the mattress.

“Bucky,” you say, reaching for the hollows of his cheek. His face is puffy and raw, and he must look like shit run over twice and suddenly wants to hide because up close, you’re gorgeous. You’ve always been—he’s got two fucking eyes, regardless of how swollen they are right now—but here, tender and waiting for him, letting him know that you see him, that you’ll care for him, it takes everything for Bucky not to promptly curl up like a lost child in your lap.

“It must have hurt, huh? I’m sorry about that.”

Bucky whimpers, feels himself quivery from pain or anticipation or embarrassment. But in the good way, like receiving attention on your birthday, like knowing the whole world might congratulate you for simply being born. And he’s never once felt like that before. And it’s making him light all the way up.

Your rub up and down his arms, his waist, his chest, then rest loosely at his hips and he shuffles to prop himself against the headboard, waiting for direction. He’d do anything you wanted him to.

“Can I kiss you, Bucky?”

He parts his lips by way of reply and you’re on him before he has the chance to do anything else. The bed dips with your weight, Bucky leaned back against the headboard, recoiling as you take charge and lead.

Your mouth is sweet and coppery with blood from an earlier split lip, he estimates. It doesn’t bother him whatsoever. He only wants more of it, more of that flavor that’s pulling him in, holding him down and safe. You kiss him slow, but firmly, his face in your hands, reconfiguring until your thighs are spread over his and caging him.

You’re bowed like a cat, forehead against his for a second, tips of your noses touching. Your pupils are so big and dark, teeth coming together in a faint click.

“Tell me you’ve changed your mind and I’ll go. Nothing’s gonna be different between us.”

The oddity of being asked—the very option to say no—makes him shake his head, “I want you. Do you want me?”

The way you move next astonishes him. It’s a barely noticeable tremor that starts at the base of your spine, rustling itself up until you crane yourself toward the ceiling, lids closing in pleasure, a puff of hot, heady air slipping from between your teeth.

“Jesus, do I want you?”

And then you’re maneuvering him like he’s not over 200 pounds of assassin. You grab him by his waist and hoist him up higher on the bed, make him arch his chest into yours, settle atop his thighs and lick into his mouth like both of you might die without it.

“Do I want you,” you huff, hunger breaking the surface, “on a regular day I want you. Right now, I could— what I don’t want is to scare you.”

It softens something inside him, making his breath hitch. You keep advancing, kissing his top and then bottom lip, sliding your tongue in, tasting every corner of him, murmuring all the ways you’ve wanted him since you met him, all the ways you want him happy and safe and fucked out.

“I didn’t know,” he gets out between breaths.

“Yeah, we have jobs; I have to behave.”

Another astonishment. Bucky snorts loudly in disbelief. “Putting Steve in a chokehold your idea of behaving?”

You laugh, nipping at his ear and neck, “It was a friendly chokehold, to help him with his afternoon naptime. I can put you in one too if you’re jealous about it.”

The softness in him is spreading everywhere. The stupid banter, the kindness of the entire gesture, the ease of finally being able to let go and not have to worry about being lost to a traumatic heat either alone or with someone who doesn’t care about him—someone he doesn’t trust—someone who’ll hurt him.

He’d forgotten about his oversensitive body until now, but the rubbing of your suit against his groin pulls out a sharp gasp. You begin moving again, taking the sheet off him until he’s exposed, naked and stretched out beneath you, flecked by his own nails.

You mouth at him, tracing each scratch and bruise like rubbing in a salve. Further and further down until he’s squirming, hips rolling in erratic circles, his cock heavy and slapping against his lower abs. Bucky curses incoherently when you wrap your fingers around him, begging his body to manage itself, but it feels so fucking good.

Each stroke ends with your thumb grazing the sensitive spot beneath his cockhead, flicking upward to make him spasm. Your hot kisses are at his inner thigh, lapping up the excessive precum he keeps leaking out. You breathe in his scent, growling faintly on impulse.

When you swallow him down and he hits the back of your throat, Bucky’s gone for it.

“Oh, fuck,” he rasps out, thrusting automatically, “Oh fuck, I’m s-sorry,” but you only lace your fingers through his and let him keep on. He’s dizzy again, breaking down and coming right then and there, shooting into your throat, almost howling.

He can’t believe there’s so much of it, is the craziest thing about heat. The human body utterly goes haywire and temporarily reprograms itself to fuck for about a week without any care for the rest of its natural processes.

He lets out a hysterical noise, unsure if he’s completely on Earth or what. The timeline of his life abruptly feels condensed to two phases: before you and after you. There were orgasms alone and orgasms with other people, and then there was this—this otherworldly tow of desire and pleasure that feels like the hand of God wrenching him out of his body. Wringing him bone-dry and it’d only been a matter of minutes.

You’re grinning at him, drawing circles at the sensitive dip of skin between his thigh and groin, lips lazy and doting. “I’ll take care of you, Bucky Barnes. You’re mine now. I’m gonna mark you—mark you all over.”

It’s a miracle he doesn’t catch fire at that, the idea of your teeth on the nape of his neck, biting down and branding him another catalyst in his imminent combustion. He says, “Yeah?” stupidly, like it’s the only word he’s been taught to remember.

You take off your suit with ease, peeling it away and sit naked on top of him, the dirtied gear flung off into a corner of the room. You’re wet, slicked up and gushing in preparation to take him, and this is what thoroughly losing your fucking mind feels like. When the urgency of heat builds up and up and up and jerking off is only a hint at the beginning of true pleasure.

The mere sight of you— the scent of hot, exposed skin, pheromones filling up his nose and lungs and blood. His sore cock fattens up immediately, erect and at the ready—the greedy fucking thing—and you’re stroking up the underside, licking your lips and panting like he’s doing something to you.

It’s embarrassing how he doesn’t last whatsoever. No chance in fucking hell it was going to happen, but he’s horrifically depressed that it’s this bad. You’re still sitting on top of him, gorgeous and naked, with his cock between your legs , one thumb brushing at his nipple, then tugging, then twisting until it’s just this side of painful— pink and sore and you slide your cunt right along his shaft and that’s it.

He’s covered in his own come again, hardly able to cobble his mind back into one piece before you’re rolling him over, arm reaching around his waist to grip him. You’re on his neck, fangs scraping with intent, and Bucky’s trying to plead that he needs to be inside you but he can’t get anything out.

“You’ll do what I say,” you growl, still on his neck, “You’re my mate now, and I’m your Alpha, you got that?” He thrusts weakly into your fist. “Say it, Bucky.”

“You’re my Alpha. I’m yours.” It’s a miracle he’s making any sense.

“I own you, got it? Nobody’s ever gonna touch you again but me. I’m gonna make this so good for you, Buck. Make it so you’ll forget the rest.”

He comes in long, heavy lines, crying out in amazement, wrecked with pleasure and overstimulation as you proceed to jerk him off again. His mind is freewheeling, unfastened by pleasure, aching beautifully like he never thought possible. He hardly registers it when you bite down, let his blood flow in your mouth, seal it off, and his heartbeat trips up, feels like it’s re-writing itself, falling into a new pulse that howls like your name.

It’s all instinct now. He’s yours now and yours tomorrow and yours forever. And yes, yes, yes. Fuck yes. Nobody will ever touch him again except you.

Bucky’s had over a century long lifespan of shame and suffering and the type of contact that’s left scars all over. He’s been hidden and captured and buried—taken to pieces until he was little more than scattered fragments of a mangled body. Called a weapon and a slave and then absolutely nothing.

And now he’s being called someone’s lover—someone’s mate.

“You’re mine,” you repeat, gently like sensing the emotion welling up in his chest, “don’t you forget.”

He only nods when joy drips out of his eyes. You roll him back over, smiling and kissing them away, lick at his cheeks and lips and makes him taste copper and salt and then what strangely feels like freedom.

“I’m here, baby,” you assure, lining yourself up with him, taking him deep like he was made exclusively to fit your body. “I’ll take care of you, alright? It’s only for a few more days but I’m here now. Are you ready?”

For once, he’s given a choice.

For once, he knows he is.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #marvel #mcu #alpha beta omega #reader insert #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes angst

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