“The Shonen Protagonist joins The Organization” is such a cheap and easy hack for framing a narrative because the author never has to come up with a reason why the protagonist gets involved in each arc. It’s just that The Organization has a new Mission for the protagonist every time and the protagonist gets to say, “Righteo, thanks plot for telling me what to go do.”
Which makes Fullmetal Alchemist so much funnier because Edward Elric very very much does join The Organization. He’s in fact quite famous for joining The Organization. Where The Organization is a hostile fascist dictatorship with immense military power which is good at both giving orders and punishing defectors.
And yet over the course of the series Edward is so allergic to ever being told what to do that he in fact never ever goes on an Organization-Ordered Mission. And the exactly one time The Organization DID try to tell him what to do Edward hated it so much he fucked off and impaled himself at the bottom of a mineshaft about it.
summary: under the weight of what you are, you’re slowly falling apart. you firmly believe no one can help you, and you’re destined to be alone like this forever. but your perfect match is right in front of you, you just can’t see it. and he is too afraid of himself to tell you that you’re meant to be with him.
a/n: you can try but you will really have to rip omegaverse out of my cold, dead hands. this is a commissioned work though! I was given the trope of alpha jh and I ran with it. you can check out my commissions sheet here if you like. anyway, enjoy!
The sound of the washer humming fills the room. All else is quiet, except the strange and numb buzzing in your ears. You stare blankly at the small red light on the machine, waiting for it to turn green. You’re waiting with the next load of washing, and you need to put that in before you can think about doing something else. You need it at least partially through by the time Joshua comes home.
You contemplate going out to the living room and sitting down. Your hips ache, your legs throb. The buzzing in your ears feels all encompassing. Fatigue is weighing you down like sandbags attached to your limbs. Even your eyelids are heavy. You would love nothing more than to sleep for…… well, forever. Days. Months. Maybe never wake up again.
You’re so tired.
You stiffen when you hear the front door open, blinking to banish the sleep from your eyes. You turn around just in time to see Joshua stick his head through the laundry room door. He realises what you are doing immediately, because you always do this, and he steps in with a disapproving tut.
“What did I say last time?” He huffs, walking in and eyeing the bundle of sheets and clothes in the basket, waiting to enter the next cycle in the machine, after the first load is done. You don’t reply to him, mostly because you’ve had this conversation with him so many times and it’s the one thing you can’t budge on. There’s no way you’re letting your roommate wash all your sheets and towels after a heat. Those things are filthy, remnants of slick and sweat on them. You know for a fact that it smells too strong, too dense, for anyone but you to stand. That’s why you wear scent suppressors everywhere you go.
Just another reason to hate being a prime omega.
You remember when you presented. You had barely turned fourteen years old. Your parents, siblings, extended family, everyone was shocked. People hardly presented before sixteen. Yours was way too early. Your parents were so concerned that they took you to a specialist immediately. And that’s when you got the news.
“She’s special.” The doctor looked almost elated. “A prime omega. Very rare. I know of only a few thousand around the world. Congratulations.”
And maybe it was because he congratulated your parents that they received it as good news. It took only some research to find out that prime omegas were above all else in terms of secondary gender hierarchy since the dawn of time, second only to apex alphas. The perfect specimens, the true representation of what the essence of an omega should be. Endlessly nurturing, empathetic, kind, and of course, the biological advantage of being very desirable. Prime omegas had repopulated great stretches of land throughout history, kept packs intact and running even during the worst of times. But around three or four centuries ago, they started dying off. There was no explanation why, but no one was presenting as a prime omega anymore, and before you knew it, they became rare, prized individuals instead of the driving force in their communities.
It all sounded incredible on paper, having a prime omega in the family. Your parents boasted about it, treated you like glass for those first couple of weeks. You were too young to really understand how to feel about it, to grapple with the implications of your rare secondary gender. You went with your parents’ joy, deciding that maybe it was a good thing.
But it all became clear to you very quickly, when you received a few pointed gifts from neighbors and acquaintances who you knew had alpha sons. It was a tragedy, truly, to realise at such a young age that your value was being reduced to what your secondary gender was, to what you could give to alphas. You watched it happen in real time. People became sweeter, in that artificial way that cherry cough syrup feels on your tongue. Your alpha teachers at school looked at you weird, like you were a lab specimen to ogle at. Very creepily, you had noticed a few of them even trying to subtly sniff you. It was a horrific experience.
You developed an aversion to alphas because of that. The thought of them wanting you only for your biology was revolting to you. You longed to be just another omega for them, but it seemed that as soon as someone knew you smelled different, all gloves were off. You became a commodity instead of a person.
In your everyday life, it became extremely difficult to deal with the problems of your secondary gender. While everyone around you went into heat or rut on a quarterly basis, once every three months, yours was unpredictable and far more frequent. Your first heat, at only age sixteen, left you near debilitated. It was agonising, no matter how many painkillers your mother forced down your throat, no matter how many times she wiped your teary, sweaty face. The fantasy built in your head, in your parents’ heads, of your presentation being a good thing for the family, were quickly dashed.
You were a burden, in every sense of the word.
In the months leading up to your high school graduation, you knew your parents and siblings grew to be resentful of you. They never said it, but it was evident. Your mother would constantly huff and puff about doing your laundry, to the point that you just started handling it yourself while she did your siblings’. Your scent, by its very nature, was very strongly omega. Of course, you had no way of telling, because you couldn’t smell yourself, but your mother made no secret of it, using any opportunity to tell you that you stank. Your father had gone far and wide to make connections and get you industrial grade scent blocking patches, the ones you use to this day, that make your scent go from incredibly potent to acceptable levels for an omega.
You hide behind those scent patches to this day.
Joshua’s hands on your arms break you from your thoughts. He nudges you gently, guiding you out of the door of the laundry room and to your bedroom. He is silent as he lays you down on the bed, the one you had put fresh sheets on just a little while ago. You don’t protest. Your mind is still muted, and you feel lost in an endless tide of emotions and memories. Post-heat is tough for you, your body still wound up, your omega screaming at you that nothing is enough, that you need more.
You don’t know how much more you can give to your omega. You don’t have anything left in you.
You lay there a long time, listening to the humming and beeping of the washer as Joshua quickly goes through your laundry. You want to beg him to let it go, that you will do your own laundry when you feel a little less like death. Your mother’s taunts of your unbearable scent are fresh in your head even today. Somehow, immediately after a heat, you remember every single thing in painful detail. But Joshua won’t hear it, you know this. He is hell bent on taking care of you.
“I told you, it’s not that bad to me.” He would always say. “Maybe I’m a beta. That’s why.”
You know for a fact that’s not true. You’ve had beta friends before. They all complained that your scent is too strong. Too omega. But not Joshua. Never Joshua. He never once complained. He has lived with you for a good year now. He has never once made you feel any different from a regular old omega.
Joshua was your first friend in university. You had moved cities after high school, armed with your scent blockers and desperate for a fresh start. He was in your first ever orientation class, and he never really left your side after that. Joshua was endlessly warm, so friendly and bright that you couldn’t help gravitating to him. Despite your nightmarish experience in high school, you were determined to make it different now, to get away from the things that haunt you. So you never told him your actual status. He could, of course, smell the omega on you, but your scent patches, carefully hidden under turtlenecks, scarves and your own hair, made you a regular omega, not a freaky prime specimen. You were normal, and you were determined to blend in.
Joshua already knew people on campus, a mix of juniors, sophomores, seniors. He was very popular, and had a large circle of friends. He introduced you to all of them immediately. You were wary of them, especially the alphas, but they didn’t seem to notice your predicament either. God bless your scent blockers. Before you knew it, you were part of their little friend group, swept up by college life and feeling, for the first time, that things might turn out okay.
So what if you had to lie about your unexpected absences? You had an excuse. Your mother was chronically ill and you had to visit her often, taking days off at a time, enough to let you deal with your painful heats and come back. Your father had put his name down on a lease for an apartment, paying half the rent while you worked to pay the rest. You had space, you had privacy to deal with your issues. You even explained away the scent blocking patches that Seungkwan noticed on your neck. They all seemed to buy it, and for a few glorious months, everything was wonderful.
They were all very close knit, some even in relationships with each other, which put you somewhat at ease about the alphas, like Seungkwan, who was mated to Hansol, his alpha. Then there was Jun, who was actively courting Minghao when you met them. They operated almost like a pack, though they weren’t explicitly in one. Seungcheol, an alpha, was good at wrangling with the more rowdy alphas in your group, like Soonyoung and Seokmin. Similar to a pack leader. It was a wonderful dynamic, and they all accepted you with open arms as a regular omega. You had friends, a makeshift pack, people who cared, people who didn’t immediately write you off as an outcast. Things were looking up.
Then, Soonyoung found out.
It was a regular afternoon. Mundane. You were working your evening shift at the store where you had a job as a cashier. You were even feeling a little sleepy. Then, you spotted the alpha in line, holding a few helpings of instant ramen. You smiled when he stepped up to the counter.
“Hi, Soonie.” You checked his items. “How’d your rut go? Feeling okay?”
He looked well, albeit a bit tired. Heats and ruts tend to do that. Of course, yours is entirely different, leaving you near paralysed by the end, taking days before you can even stand up. But it’s not as bad for normal people.
He just nodded in return with a quick uptick of his lips, but his eyes were intense as they trained on you. He watched you silently as you rang him up, very uncharacteristic for someone like him. You quirked an eyebrow up at him.
“Everything okay?” You hesitated, feeling like something was off with him. He just leaned in, watching you closely. You stared back, confused, and then he spoke the words that made your blood run ice cold.
“You’re different, aren’t you? You’re not a regular omega.”
You had stiffened immediately, watching him. There was no one in line behind him, it was a slow day. So he just stood there, sharp eyes darting between your own as if he was trying to piece you together. You didn’t like it. His eyes were too knowing, too scrutinising.
You didn’t say anything. You felt trapped.
He sighed and stepped away, grabbing the bag where you put his groceries in. He gave you a small smile, saying a few last words before leaving you where you stood.
“Call me when you’re free, okay?”
And that’s how you told him.
Turns out, he found your scarf mixed up in his things a little while before he went into rut. His alpha told him something was off about your scent, and his heightened scenes during rut only confirmed it. He didn’t know you were a prime omega, that word wasn’t really part of his vocabulary, but he knew it was something. So you just came clean.
There was relief in being truthful, but there was also anxiety. You told Soonyoung it was okay to tell everyone, because you would rather they all know or no one knows at all. So you waited, and you accepted that soon enough, they would all distance themselves from you.
Joshua showed up at your door with Seungcheol that very evening.
It took a lot of talking, a lot of tears, confessions and apologies. Joshua was hurt that you would hide something like that from them, but Seungcheol was quick to say he understood.
“Too many alphas in the pack.” He joked. “It was a good idea to not tell them immediately. They know you now, as a person and not as a prime omega. So things won’t be different.”
You nodded, feeling a little more relieved that he wasn’t being harsh with you. That he didn’t hate you for who you are.
“But I am concerned.” He continued. “I can’t imagine it’s easy for you, managing all this alone.”
You just smiled. “It’s fine. I’ve been doing it for years. I have a little bit of a routine.”
He hummed, deep in thought, unconvinced that it was all actually fine. It’s not, truthfully. You hate your heats. They leave you aching for so long, a shell of who you are, your omega, a demanding beast that keeps roaring, never satisfied. Always greedy.
You don’t know how long you can go before you completely collapse.
Over the next few weeks after that, you did notice the group acting differently, but not in the way you imagined. Instead of ostracising you, they became more considerate. Seungkwan would rub his wrist over yours when you felt anxious, and omega pheromones did help you relax. Wonwoo and Mingyu kept an eye out for any alpha who looked at you too long. Jihoon, ever the health freak, would plan meals for you that he and Joshua would then cook and freeze. Simple, ready to eat stuff that would help keep you nourished during your heats. There were always a few packets in your freezer, for any unexpected heat you might get. Seungcheol was particular about you not being alone during a time that was so dangerous for your body, and that’s when Joshua volunteered to move in.
You weren’t used to kindness or consideration, and you were given so much of it in such a short time.
Hence came to be your current routine. When your heat hits, Joshua leaves for a few days after making sure you have a good nest and plenty of meals on hand. As always, you take lots of painkillers and a tried-and-true dosage of sleeping pills that did nothing to make you sleep, but left you drowsy enough to not be able to move. In your condition, you can’t trust yourself to have the ability to leave the house. Your mother isn’t around to hold you back from seeking an alpha anymore, so medicines help instead. You struggle through a few days, usually a week, shaking and crying in numbed pain, before you’re left worn out as it wanes. For many, many cycles, Joshua has insisted he will take care of the mess afterwards, but you just can’t bring yourself to let him handle your problems. Including laundry.
Rejoining everyone after a heat is the best time, in your opinion. They all get incredibly doting, like they do with every omega in the group after a heat, taking care to feed you and nurse you back to health. In your post-heat haze, filled with self loathing, you tell yourself you don’t deserve their kindness, but then Chan runs a soothing hand over your back, his neutral beta scent like a comforting blanket, and you tell yourself it’s okay to be a little selfish sometimes.
And then there’s Jeonghan.
Jeonghan is Seungcheol’s best friend. An alpha, a quiet one, but a strong presence nonetheless. You first met him when you were introduced to the rest of the group, a flurry of introductions, but he immediately stuck out. To you, he feels like a focal point for the group. Everyone naturally gravitates towards him, seeking out his word and his opinion on everything. And you do the same as well. Jeonghan has this pull to him that is almost irresistible. He is endlessly attentive too. You feel his eyes on you many times, watching, learning, so when he speaks, it feels like he speaks to your soul.
He always buys you strawberry milk because he knows it’s your favorite. He lines up Hell’s Kitchen or Extreme Cheapskates on the television because he knows watching trash TV calms you down after a bad day. He noticed that you liked his grey wool scarf so much that he just wore it everywhere, eventually giving it to you halfway through a hangout because you always complain about being cold. Somehow, a few of your scent patches end up in his wallet, ready in case of emergency.
It’s only natural, even if you curse yourself for it, that your heart skips whenever Jeonghan looks at you a bit too long. Your omega keens when you feel his hand on the small of your back, or when he leans close enough that his soft, silky hair brushes over your cheek. His scent is strong, leather and vanilla, even when he wears those cute patches with little bunnies drawn on them. He doesn’t wear them on his neck, strangely. Only his wrists. He says it’s more for showing purposes, because he likes how they look. Your own are just a boring brown color. He puts stickers on the ones he keeps in his wallet, an action so endearing you have to hide your grin when you first see them.
“If you’re going to wear them all the time, you might as well make them pretty.” He quips.
You try to scold yourself. In no way would it be okay to fall for Jeonghan. You’re a mess. You can barely manage to get by most days. Dragging an alpha into your problems would be cruel, especially not Jeonghan, who has endless potential and hordes of omegas who would give their left arm and leg to even get half his attention. Being with you would ruin him. Your routine is unpredictable on good days, and absolute hell on the worst. You cannot even imagine what your uninhibited, unblocked scent would feel like to him. Dense and sickly, you know. Too much. Because you’ve always been too much.
So you stay silent. And you bask in whatever scraps you have of him, happy to float in his orbit. Content to just know someone like him. To get even a whiff of his scent, just enough to relax your nerves when everything becomes a little too difficult.
It takes you over two days to get back on your feet after your most recent brush with biology. You sleep through most of it, so exhausted that you can’t even open your eyes. Somewhere in between, you have a vague memory of Joshua trying to wake you up and coax food into you, but you just burst into tears, telling him to leave you alone. When you finally come to, you don’t remember any of it. All you are left with is your very concerned beta friend who is unusually quiet, boiling some tea for you as you sit on the kitchen island, watching him.
“This isn’t normal.” He mumbles. You huff out a laugh.
“Nothing about me is normal, Shua.” You try to keep your tone light and humorous. But you just sound resigned. He shakes his head, eyes trained on the kettle, his back to you.
“No. I mean for you. This isn’t even normal for you.”
Your eyebrows furrow. “What do you mean?”
He turns around, and you realise this is more than a little bit of concern. Joshua looks almost at the edge of panic. It catches you off guard.
“Your heats are more frequent now than they were a few months ago.” He mumbles, something in his tone a little urgent. “They were around once a month, but this last one came just two weeks after the one before.”
You blink. “I didn’t notice.”
He sighs. “That’s the other thing. You’ve been…. really out of it. More than usual. And you sleep for way longer afterwards. You’re completely exhausted, Y/N. This isn’t okay.”
You fidget, fiddling with your hands. Joshua is confirming what the little accusatory voice in your head has been saying for a while now. That things are getting progressively worse. That you are starving your omega. There has been a feeling of impending doom looming over you, a threat that keeps becoming more and more real.
“Have you-” Joshua pauses, hesitates. “Have you thought of taking an Alpha? Someone who can help with your heat?”
You go rigid, immediately shaking your head. “No.”
Joshua tries to barrel on. “I’m just saying-”
“No, Shua. I can’t. My heats are….. bad. I can’t trust an alpha with them.”
“But I could talk to Seungcheol. I’m sure there’s someone who-”
You stand up abruptly, gripping the marble counter when it immediately sends a wave of dizziness through your head. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
You leave the kitchen. He doesn’t mention it again.
That evening, both of you head to Seungkwan and Hansol’s place off campus for your weekly hangout and dinner. Their house has a pretty big terrace that Mingyu uses to make barbecue for everyone, so it’s the designated place for all of you to gather. Joshua is still a bit on edge, and he’s not really speaking to you, so you stay quiet as well. You don’t have the energy to entertain whatever radical idea he is suggesting. The thought of being with an alpha during your heat makes you nauseous. Especially because of how you’ve been treated by alphas all throughout high school. Like you’re some piece of meat. You can’t imagine being in your heat, so vulnerable and open, only to be used for someone else’s desires.
You can’t do that to yourself.
Most of the friend group is already there, lounging around, watching a game on the TV or helping set up the dining table. Mingyu is on the terrace with Seungcheol, sorting through the humongous portions of meat for the occasion. They’re all big eaters, so you go through a lot of food every time you have dinner together. Joshua beelines to the sliding glass door leading outside, and you trudge to the living room instead, the walk here already tiring you out. Everyone looks up and greets you loudly as you enter, making you smile.
Jeonghan is lounging lazily on the couch, eyes trained on the screen. He’s dressed in his typical oversized shirt and pants, long hair loose and curling around his neck. When he sees you, his lips stretch in a warm smile and he pats the cushion next to him. You flop down with a long sigh, happy to be off your feet. Soonyoung and Seungkwan are already bickering about something from the other couch. You watch them with amusement for a bit until you feel something brush over your shoulder.
“Okay?” Jeonghan’s voice is soft. He knows your heat just ended. Your heart twists at his consideration. You nod.
It’s a lie. You’re not okay.
He keeps rubbing your shoulder, soft and slow patterns that make you drift off in your mind. You think about what Joshua said, and for the briefest moment of lowered inhibition, you think of what it would be like if that alpha was Jeonghan. He’s the first alpha you’ve ever felt drawn to. While most alphas made you feel jumpy and uneasy, Jeonghan felt….. safe. Like if worse came to worst, he could protect you. You know he’s a strong alpha, he has a presence to him that’s equally ominous and overpowering. And yet, he’s endlessly considerate and kind. Maybe, of all the alphas in the world, Jeonghan would get it.
Maybe. You can let yourself dream.
Unbeknownst to you, Joshua steps onto the terrace in an absolutely foul mood. Seungcheol’s nose twitches and he looks up from where he’s prepping the grill. Something is definitely not okay. He exchanges a furtive look with Mingyu before turning back to the beta.
“What’s up with you?” He asks.
Joshua huffs and fiddles with one of the packets they have laid out, looking like he’s lost deep in thought. Seungcheol gives it a minute, letting his friend come to him instead of forcing it out. Mingyu stays silent.
“She didn’t agree to your suggestion.”
Comprehension dawns on Seungcheol. He huffs out a little laugh.
“Well, I didn’t have high hopes anyway.”
Joshua shakes his head. Mingyu gestures for the packet he is fiddling with, and Joshua hands it over. “It could’ve been so good for her. I don't understand why she won’t even consider it.”
Seungcheol hums, carefully laying down the first steak. It sizzles as it hits the grill. “You can’t expect her to make a decision like that when she doesn’t even have all the facts.”
Joshua gives him a dry look. “I said from the start that we should tell her.”
The alpha nods. “I know. But Jeonghan refused. He says if she wants to come to him, it has to be because he’s him, not because he’s an apex.”
Joshua rolls his eyes and starts prepping the vegetables, anything to distract himself from his frustration. “So they’re both just going to dance around each other forever.”
Seungcheol shrugs, feeling sweat build up in his hairline. “We can’t understand them, Shua. A prime omega and an apex alpha. They’re different, so they go about things differently. She’s scared he won’t want her because of what she is. He’s scared she will want him only because of what he is.”
Joshua is silent for a brief moment. When he speaks again, he sounds defeated. “And they’ll both suffer until they figure it out. If they figure it out.”
Seungcheol looks at the beta sadly, nodding. “It’s not our place. All we can do is give them a little nudge.”
Joshua turns to look inside the apartment, eyeing the pair sitting on the couch. You’re giggling at something Jeonghan has said, the first genuine happiness he has seen out of you in over a week. His heart hurts for you, because he knows you’re slowly dying on the inside. He just hopes that the alpha you’re looking at so reverently will see that you need him, and that he needs you too.
…………………………………..
Jeonghan knew even before he presented that he was different.
He doesn’t know what clued him into the fact. No one else noticed anything. But there was something in him, that he later learned was intuition, that told him he stood apart from the rest of them. He didn’t like that fact a lot, standing out means drawing attention to yourself. And Jeonghan liked remaining in the shadows a lot more, doing his own thing however he pleased without too many people in his ear.
It didn’t exactly come as a shock when he presented as an apex alpha. Yes, they were rare, but it was that damn voice in him that told him this reality a long time ago. He was different, and he hated it from the get go.
Jeonghan didn’t feel like some ideal specimen, even if he was meant to be one. Everyone ogled him wherever he went, especially the omegas. He still remembers when a girl in his Advanced Physics class went into heat the day he sat next to her. A horrifying experience, and the thing that made him start wearing scent blocking patches. All the boys in his class thought it was so cool, as if he was some badass for his mere presence being enough to trigger a heat. But he just felt uncomfortable, and he vowed to push as far away from this stereotype of alpha as he possibly could.
So he grew his hair long, he wore baggy clothes that hid his lean, cut figure. He wore patches on his wrists near constantly, the place he realised he smelled the strongest. He became docile and quiet, preferring to stay in the background rather than make himself known. Of course, anyone who knew him for long enough could tell there was something about him, a pull, a presence, but he changed himself enough that people wouldn’t jump to ‘apex alpha’.
Seungcheol knew. Immediately.
Seungcheol is not an apex alpha himself, but he is a strong and intuitive one nevertheless. He figured it out without Jeonghan saying a single word, but he never treated Jeonghan any differently. Neither did the rest of the friend group. To them, he was just Jeonghan, who was a great listener and gave great advice, all of which was because of his brain and not because of biology. Jeonghan felt like he belonged, and the distrust in him settled the longer he spent in company with his friends.
When he met you for the first time, it’s like alarm bells started going off in his head.
He smelled you immediately. He’s sure the others did as well, but to them, it was just the scent of omega. Not him, though. He knew instantly that something was different about you. It wasn’t strong, probably because of the ugly brown patches you had slapped all over your neck that you thought you were hiding with that turtleneck you put on (You weren’t. He knew they were there the second he laid eyes on you). But your scent was sweet, in a way omegas rarely are to him. He remembers being shocked by how quickly he began salivating, that he had to swallow against the tight knot in his throat when you stepped closer to him. When you shook his hand with a smile, Jeonghan had to hold himself back from running his patched up wrist over yours.
It’s funny. Jeonghan has never fought instinct before. But every time he saw you, he had to hold himself back in some capacity.
It took him just ten minutes of dedicated internet sleuthing to figure out what you were. A prime omega. His antithesis, the person on the other side of the mirror he has been holding up his whole life. But it was more than that, and one look at the smile that didn’t really reach your eyes told him all he needed to know.
You’re broken, way beyond anything you can hope to fix. He sees the pattern, the endless, agonising heats, the days of fog descending over your head afterwards. Jeonghan got lucky, his ruts were the same as everyone else, quarterly, though they were very intense, much more than any alpha he has known. But your struggle is on a whole other plane. Jeonghan’s alpha, this strong apex inside him, howls. He fights the urge to go over to you, to rip those annoying, miserable patches off your neck and lick over you. Give you his scent. Your omega yearns for him, and Jeonghan suspects even you don’t know this.
So he pushes. He talks to Seungcheol, to Joshua, who then brings up the idea of an alpha to you.
The second you step into Seungkwan and Hansol’s place for barbecue night, he sees the sour look on Joshua’s face. It didn’t go well, he assumes. Joshua walks to the terrace without even saying hi, but you dawdle your way to where he sits. Jeonghan’s heart squeezes as his eyes catch the dark circles under yours. Your patches are in place, as always, but not aligned properly and some wrinkled. When you sit next to him, he sniffs. Yes, you smell stronger today. His alpha growls again, and he bites his tongue to hold himself back. You’re already spacing out, so he reaches his arm around your shoulder as gently as he can to not startle you.
“Okay?” He asks. He sees you blink a few times to regain focus, nodding at him. He wants to scoff.
You’re a good liar. But you don’t know that he is an even better one.
He runs his hand over your shoulder because he can’t help himself. It’s just a little bit of indulgence, he can allow himself this much. He watches your eyelids flutter, your face nearly melting. You’re spacing out again, cute. He leans closer.
“You can sleep a bit until dinner is ready, angel.” He hums. You shake your head at his suggestion.
“I want to spend time with you guys. It’s been a while.” You confess. Jeonghan wants to coo at you, but he holds himself back, settling on just giving your shoulder a little squeeze and resting his arm fully over them. You sink into him, and Jeonghan has to will himself to be calm. It’s scraps, he knows this. His alpha wants more, he can take more. But he won’t do that to you. It has to come from you. You have to come to him.
So he waits. He talks to you, makes little jokes that clear your head as time goes by, and when dinner comes, he keeps an eye on your plate, makes sure you eat well, and offers to drive you and Joshua back at the end of the night. You thank him with that dazzling smile of yours, and it takes everything in Jeonghan to not kiss you senseless. Instead he watches you walk up to your building, waving at him one last time before you and Joshua are gone.
He will wait. You're meant to be with him. You just don’t trust your biology yet.
……………………………
Winter melts into spring in March, warming the air a little and bringing a pleasant feeling with it. Classes are in full swing, and you lose yourself in an unending cycle of studying, heats, recovering from heats, catching up on studying, rinse and repeat. It seems that ever since Joshua verbalised their changing nature, the heats have worsened. It has progressed from the pain, the cramps and the crying, to this deep seated rift inside you. You feel so empty through all of it, so alone, that it leaves you more emotionally shaken than physically. Somehow, you hate this shift even more than the actual pain. Because bodily pain is tangible. You can use warm compresses, or hot teas, or medicines to fix that.
You don’t know what to do about this yearning inside you.
You don’t notice you’re slipping, but your friends do. Soonyoung makes it a point to text you things like ‘see you in class in an hour!’ because he knows how spacey and forgetful you've been. When you go through your bag, you often find little treats in there; a chocolate bar, a roll of biscuits, chewable sweets, a packet of those watermelon jellies you really like. You don’t know who puts them there, but you suspect Jun or Wonwoo. The fridge is constantly stocked with electrolytes even when you forget to pick them up, and someone is always at home even if Joshua isn’t. Seungkwan watches movies with you, or Jihoon coaxes you into studying sessions. Chan makes sure his notes are extra clean and legible so you can catch up on work you miss out on. Once or twice, Mingyu wanted to go on a run with you, which you immediately shot down. You can barely move on most days. You’re sure you are in no condition to run.
But it’s Jeonghan’s behavior that surprises you the most.
For most mornings of the week, he shows up at your apartment, saying he just felt like walking together to campus since he’s heading that way for his own classes anyway. What you don’t notice is the stare he levels every single alpha with when their noses twitch in your vicinity, his inherent status as an apex making them flinch and back down. He doesn’t like flaunting what he is like this, but this is about you and your safety, so he will. He’s there when you get out of classes too, accompanying you to the library or back to your place. Sometimes, if it’s not him, someone else is, like Seungcheol or Seokmin, but most of the time, it’s him.
Classes rage on. You get more tired as the days blur.
You miss your alarm one day, scrambling to get ready when Joshua shakes you awake. Jeonghan waits in the living room as you pull yourself together, and you finally join him, pushing your books into your bag.
“I’m ready, I’m ready!” You gasp, smoothing your hair down as much as you can. It’s all you can do in less than five minutes since you woke up. Jeonghan stills, eyeing you closely, and you see the corner on his lip tick up in an amused smirk.
“Hold on.” He steps closer. You blink up at him, confused. He reaches his hand towards your neck slowly, giving you room to move away, finally tugging at the corner of your scent patch and peeling it off.
Your heart skips. Your blood chills.
Mere milliseconds later, he smooths it on again, face focused as he gently presses it down on the junction of your neck and shoulder to make it stick, in a slightly different position than it was before.
“Your scent glands weren’t covered properly, angel.” He mumbles, stepping away and giving you that sweet smile of his. A strand of hair falls over his face, catching in his eyelashes when he blinks. You stare at him, dumbfounded. He took your scent blocker off. He smelled you. No one has smelled your true, unfiltered scent in years. And Jeonghan didn’t even flinch. His nose didn’t scrunch up like your mother’s would. He didn’t plug it exaggeratedly like your brothers did all the time. He didn’t react at all, just fixed it and carried on.
Did you not repulse him? How is he so calm?
You are broken from your racing thoughts when he quickly grips your wrist and tugs you to the door, claiming you have to hurry because he wants to stop for coffee on the way. You’re uncharacteristically quiet as you make your way to campus. But Jeonghan’s smile is there, quiet and knowing. He doesn’t push, doesn’t talk about it. But he’s there with all his silent reassurance. The yearning, dying omega inside you whines. When was the last time you felt the touch of an alpha like that? The answer is never.
You can barely focus on the lecture for that day, your heart beating faster than usual throughout, staring blankly at the board and not absorbing a single word. As soon as the professor dismisses you, you’re hurrying out of the hall, your strange anxiety easing when you see Jeonghan outside already, waiting for you like he always does. His tall figure stands out among everyone else. He gives you a little smile.
The knot in your chest loosens at the sight of him.
You decide to go to the library until your next class, which is about two hours later. You could go back home, but Jeonghan suggests you use this time to catch up on missing lectures, which is a good idea. You settle into a desk tucked in the very corner of the room, Jeonghan next to you, poring over his own laptop. You watch his hands move over the keys, eyes dropping to his wrists. Today, he’s chosen to wear light blue patches with little white clouds on them, two on each wrist. They match the blue of his shirt, which you think is very cute. They’re not the industrial grade stuff you use, they’re just store brand, generic ones.
“Hannie?”
“Hm?”
“Why do you use patches?”
His smiles, but his eyes remain glued to the screen. “I told you. I like the way they look.”
You snort, not believing him. He chuckles at the sound.
“My scent is pretty strong.” He says. “It’s easier to put these on than deal with people’s stares every day.”
You’re surprised. You always knew Jeonghan had a strong presence, but you didn’t know he struggled with something like that. You watch the side of his face.
“Mine is strong too.” You confess. Jeonghan hums, fingers clacking on the keyboard.
“I know, doll.” His voice is like velvet. You shift a little. Contemplate. Then, you take a deep breath, making up your mind.
“You took my patch off earlier.” You can hear your own voice shake. “You didn’t….. why didn’t you react?”
This makes him finally pause, turning to look at you. “What do you mean?”
You hesitate again, but Jeonghan’s attention is now fully yours. You soldier on.
“Everyone always told me my scent is pretty unbearable.” You stare over his shoulder, unable to meet his eye. “Everyone would…. kind of flinch away.”
There’s a small pause. Jeonghan speaks again. “I’m not everyone.”
You finally focus on his eyes, endlessly gentle, earthy brown. “You’re not?”
He shakes his head. “I’m different. Like you.”
You stare at him. All is silent in the library. Nothing shifts. It’s like the air around you is holding its breath.
“I don’t understand.” You whisper.
Jeonghan leans in just so. He enters your space, closer to your ear. His cheek brushes yours. Something hot zips down your spine. Your heart kicks painfully at your ribs. You don’t dare move a muscle.
“All those people lied to you.” He breathes. You feel it on the shell of your ear. “You smell wonderful to me, angel. Sweet. A little like honey.”
He moves away before you can process. You watch him turn back to the laptop. The clicking of the keyboard breaks the silence in your space. Your brain is whirring a mile a minute. You turn to the notes Chan lent you. Not reading a single word. Just staring.
Jeonghan doesn’t act any differently for the rest of the day. You finish up studying, taking your last class of the day before he offers to treat you to lunch. Like any other mundane routine. As if he hasn’t shattered your entire world. You eat together with idle gossip. Nothing changes outwardly, but your mind rages with storms. You don’t know what to do with Jeonghan’s confession. Your first instinct is to deny it, but Jeonghan has never lied to you. You trust him with every part of you. He wouldn’t lie about this, even as a joke. Everything from his tone to the look in his eyes was sincere.
For the first time since that night Joshua suggested finding an alpha for you, you dream about that alpha being Jeonghan. It seems real now, tangible. You don’t find the idea of letting Jeonghan in frightening, because truthfully, Jeonghan has been taking care of you for a while now. You wonder what it would feel like to just melt into him, to finally stop struggling with the omega in you, to trust him with every part of yourself without worrying that he will back away like everyone else did.
Your next heat hits in two weeks, and it’s your worst one yet.
Unfortunately, your omega knows what it wants now. It wants Jeonghan, and it whines for him. You sob through the first day, none of your normal medicines doing anything to numb you. You’re sweaty, every muscle in your body rigid and screaming, your mind muddled. You don’t even remember what time of day it is when you reach for your phone, clicking on his contact with shaking fingers and listening to the dialtone ring.
“Y/N?”
His voice makes a sharp tendril of pain shoot through your stomach.
“Alpha!” You wail. “Need- need you. Please.”
You’re sobbing too badly to hear shuffling in the background. Jeonghan sits up and turns on his bedside lamp. He stares at the clock on his phone screen before putting it back to his ear. 02.13am.
“Angel, are you alone?” He knows you are, but he needs to make sure. You only sob on the other end, and Jeonghan grits his teeth. This is bad. He knows for a fact that you’re usually docile through your heat because of the drugs you take. He pulls up Joshua’s contact, putting you on hold so he can call the beta. You’re so out of it that you don’t even notice. Joshua picks up after a few rings, sounding groggy with sleep.
“Shua, get your ass back home.” Jeonghan grits out. Something in his tone must register, he’s almost growling, something he hates doing, but hearing you sound so distressed has left him shaken. Joshua immediately hangs up, and Jeonghan gets back on call with you.
“You’re still with me?” He asks, trying to keep his tone as soothing as possible despite the fact that he’s worried sick. He hears you sniffle.
“A-are you coming?” His heart breaks at the hope in your voice. His hand fists his sheets.
“I can’t, baby. Not like this.”
When you weep, it almost feels like Jeonghan’s soul is shattering. His alpha howls, claws at him, and for the first time in his life, Jeonghan wants to give in to the apex inside him.
“Omega, listen to me.” He knows the tone he is using. He hates to play on your instincts like this, but he needs you to survive this without him somehow. You quiet down instantly at the deep timbre in his voice, so he keeps going.
“Joshua is on his way. He will take care of you, get you more meds and food. You’ll get through this, and then we can talk about it, okay?”
You sniffle. When you talk, your voice is thready and frail. “But alpha….”
“Baby,” Jeonghan coos again. When you whine, he feels the base of his stomach stir. “You’ll be a good girl for me?”
That does something. “Yes. Yes, alpha.”
Jeonghan sighs with some form of relief finally. He stays on the phone with you, gives you endless reassurances until he hears Joshua in the background. When you’re distracted by the beta, he hangs up. He stares at the wall for a long time, running everything that just happened in his head.
Jeonghan is rarely shaken by everything, but this shakes him. He knows for a fact that he can’t stay away from you after this. You’re his, and he’s tired of slowplaying it.
It takes a week for your heat to wane. It’s agonising, but Joshua helps as much as he can, getting you through it without calling Jeonghan again. He feeds you, even runs you a bath. Towards the end of it, you break down, feeling guilty for subjecting him to this. He immediately reprimands you, telling you he doesn’t mind and he wants to help you in any way that he can. But you’re embarrassed. You had worked so hard to make sure he didn’t see you like this, yet he did. Pair that with the fact that you called Jeonghan and poured your heart out to him, you feel like this heat has changed everything permanently.
You don’t even know if you can look Jeonghan in the eye again.
He texts you on Sunday night, saying he will be at your place first thing in the morning so you can head to campus together as usual. You don’t reply. Frankly, you don’t want to speak to him. You’re mortified at the fact that you called him while in heat, essentially begging him to fuck you. It’s deeply shameful, and you hate yourself for it. You stare at Jeonghan’s text, contemplating. When Joshua plops down on the couch next to you with dinner, you turn to him.
“Can you text Jeonghan that I’m not feeling well, so I can’t go to class tomorrow?”
Joshua gives you a tired look. “You can’t avoid him forever, you know?”
Of course you know. But you’re not ready yet. Just the thought of it brings you to the brink of humiliating tears. You plead with Joshua. He sighs and nods, doing as you say.
Jeonghan, of course, doesn’t listen.
You wake up the next day with a start. You didn’t set an alarm, since you had no intention of going to class. The sun is shining through the windows, indicating that you’re well into the morning. The smell of eggs is wafting into your room, and confusion riddles your body. Joshua had classes this morning, so he shouldn’t be home right now.
You’re shocked when you walk out of the room and are met with the sight of Jeonghan’s back, clad in a huge black hoodie that he’s swimming in, and grey sweats. Half his hair is pulled up in a ponytail, the other half down, brushing his neck. He doesn’t turn around, back shifting as he scrambles the eggs in a pan. Sizzling sounds fill the kitchen.
“Morning.” His voice sounds cheerful and light. He pulls the pan off the heat, dumping the eggs on a plate. He turns around to place it on the kitchen island. “Sit.”
You hesitate. “What are you-”
“Sit, omega.”
Your voice dies in your throat. You pull a stool out. He sets a fork down and you promptly start eating while he makes another batch for himself. Everything is silent.
Finally, Jeonghan joins you on the counter and sits across from you, focused on shoveling his breakfast into his mouth. You don’t say a word either, feeling exhaustion tug at your limbs. You’re tired of this, whatever this is.
“I presented when I was sixteen, just like everyone else.” Jeonghan speaks up, still focused on his plate. Your movements slow as you listen to him.
“But I still knew something about me was different. I knew it not just because everyone told me, but because something inside me was convinced I wasn’t like everyone else. And I hated it.”
“Everything I did in life, I deliberately went against my nature. I talked differently, carried myself differently, I wanted to be just like every other alpha.”
His eyes tick up suddenly, and you’re taken aback by the genuine firmness in his features. “Then I met you, and I saw how every other alpha behaved around you, how they looked at your patches weird, and I realised I never wanted to be like any of them. Me being an apex alpha meant I could take care of you in a way none of these other fuckers can.”
Apex alpha.
So that’s what he meant, when he said he was different like you. That’s why your scent didn’t bother him even when he took your patch off, and why he said he actually liked your unfiltered essence. You have heard of apex alphas all your life, but only in passing, everyone claiming an apex would be a prime omega’s perfect match. You understand now, why you’ve always felt a pull around Jeonghan even though all other alphas scared you. You were convinced it was because of him being this incredible, kind and understanding person. And it was. But the revelation of his biology eases your guilt at wanting him so much. Suddenly, it makes sense that your omega yearns for him so badly.
“Where’d you go, beautiful?” His voice breaks you from your thoughts. He’s watching you with that soft smile on his face, and it hits you acutely that he always looks at you like this. Like you’re precious. Instead of that sour, disdainful look you’ve been leveled with your whole life. You don’t know what to say to him. But you feel like crying. And maybe he can tell.
“I want to love you the way you deserve to be loved, angel.” He says, stare steadfastly on you. “If you’ll let me. If you’ll have me.”
You can feel your face crumple. For the first time in years, you feel like an invisible burden is being lifted from your shoulders. Slowly, and with the weight of all the pain you’ve endured, you nod.
Jeonghan’s smile brings a sense of finality with it. His hand is soft but sure when it curls around yours.
…………………………………..
“You two are the actual definition of a power couple.”
“It’s like the perfect match. It’s so perfect that no one would believe it.”
“I don’t even think there are enough apex alphas or prime omegas in the world to actually pair them up.”
“Dude, you’re going to give birth to super babies or some shit.”
“Soonyoung!” You scold your friend for that last comment while Jeonghan just lets out a throaty laugh. You can feel the vibration on your back where his front is pressed against you. He squeezes you a little, placating you. But you still feel flustered, your face flaming at your friends’ quips about your very new relationship with Jeonghan. It wasn’t even a proper relationship. He’s courting you, the bracelet on your wrist he gave you this morning an indication of the fact that you are now his. You were surprised when he pulled it out after you finished breakfast.
“You were that sure I would say yes?” You had asked, incredulous. He had only smiled, and his confidence made your heartbeat speed up.
There is no point hiding it from your friend group, but you kind of regret telling them about it immediately. Soonyoung and Seungkwan have been particularly insufferable, and everyone else is egging them on. It’s embarrassing, but Jeonghan is thoroughly enjoying himself, even agreeing with some of their outlandish remarks. He keeps you pressed tightly against him, his cheek brushing the side of your head, and you bask in his warmth. Across from where you stand, Joshua has a relieved smile on his face.
You return it, feeling giddy.
Mingyu is quick to announce that dinner is ready, and everyone splits up around the house with their plates after filling them up to their liking. You stand over the kitchen counter and eye the many dishes he and Seokmin have prepared, wondering what you want to eat. Everyone is already seated in the living room. Your stomach is a little queasy, so you don’t have an appetite.
You feel a hand brush your side, making you jump a little. Jeonghan chuckles.
“Just me.” His voice hits your ear. You feel the back of your neck heat up.
“Sorry. I’m not used to it yet.”
He hums and gives you a reassuring squeeze. You feel his cheek on your shoulder.
“Why aren’t you eating?”
You shrug. “All the excitement of today, I guess. I feel a little restless.”
He rubs over your side, quiet for a brief moment. You eye the dishes and contemplate not eating at all.
“I could help with the restlessness.”
You turn your head to look at the alpha curiously. “How do you mean?”
Jeonghan’s eyes dart between yours for a few seconds. “Do you trust me?”
You nod immediately. “Of course.”
His hand reaches up and he runs his thumb over the brown patch on your neck. You still, not moving a muscle, but also not stopping him. Carefully, he tugs on the corner of it before slowly peeling it off. You grit your teeth, feeling exposed. Behind you, you can hear talking and laughter in the next room. No one seems to have noticed that you and Jeonghan aren’t there.
You feel his breath right over your scent gland as he brushes your hair off your neck. It makes you gasp, something sizzling under your skin. Jeonghan’s hand runs comfortingly over your waist. Then, he leans down and gives you a chaste kiss. Your knees feel weak. Your vision swims just a little.
His tongue is tentative as he licks over you, but just that slightest touch immediately alters the scent, both of yours mixing together in this delicious amalgam that tickles your nose pleasantly. Your head lolls back onto his shoulder, and it encourages him to flatten his tongue more firmly over your neck. You feel your muscles go pliant, and he uses his other hand to steady you as you lean your weight on him.
It feels like forever, though you’re sure it’s only a few minutes before Jeonghan pulls away. He doesn’t replace the scent patch, instead crumpling it and shoving it into his pocket. You blink through your haze. You would question him if your tongue wasn’t already rubber. He lays a soft kiss on your temple.
“You don’t need it. You smell like me now.”
It’s true. You do. Even you can tell. You let Jeonghan pile your plate with food and lead you back to the living room, pulling you into his lap so both of you can eat off the same plate. It’s intimate, and normally you would be more conscious around your friends, but his scent has left you strangely buzzing and docile, and you let him gently feed you, zoning in and out of conversation as you bask in your alpha’s presence. For the first time in seemingly forever, your omega is silent, revealing in this strange but welcome feeling.
Your friends hide their smiles under bites of food. Jeonghan squeezes you tightly. You let yourself drift off.
…………………………..
There’s not really room to take things slow in a relationship when you’re a prime omega. Especially not when your omega latches on to the fact that you have an alpha now, who is more than willing to take care of you come your next heat. For a while, your cycle has been fucked up and getting worse. So it seems like as soon as you’re used to Jeonghan’s intimate presence, your omega decides it needs more and pushes your body into a heat.
Jeonghan realises it is happening before you do, nose twitching as he registers the slight damp quality in your scent. Something in him shifts with unease, a strange feeling of anticipation. You’re none the wiser, eyes glued to the movie playing on the screen. It’s date night, and Jeonghan had brought the food while you set up the movie. Said food was now devoured, empty plates on the coffee table before you. There’s still a good chunk of the movie left, and you’re fully engrossed in it. Jeonghan was too, until he noticed how warm you are where your side is pressed against him. You’re usually on the warmer side, but this time it’s enough to make him notice. He eyes the side of your face discreetly, immediately seeing the very faint line of sweat building on your temples and the back of your neck. He watches you huff and pull your hair up, shaking it a bit because of the sweat. You're irritated.
He reaches an arm around you and brushes his thumb gently over your scent gland. You’re very used to this by now, and he feels you relax into him immediately. His scent calms you down, a fact that he’s very proud of, and loves teasingly exploiting from time to time.
It doesn’t last though. You fidget after a few minutes, eyebrows pulling together in a furrow. The muscles in your thighs are stiffening, and there’s a certain discomfort in your stomach. You wonder if it was the food, but quickly dismiss the thought when you feel that familiar twinge in your lower stomach, one that you can recognise instantly because of how often you are plagued by it.
Oh my god.
You sit up, feeling apprehension claw at you as you realise what is happening. The movie is all but forgotten, and you’re hyperaware of the fact that Jeonghan is right there. In fact, that’s making you feel even worse. Where it would normally take hours for your discomfort to swell and morph into a full heat, Jeonghan’s scent in the air seems to egg it on. You do some mental calculations quickly, dread filling you when you realise it has been a mere three weeks since your last one. And you remember how rough that was. Just the thought of going through another one like that makes you want to weep.
You feel a hand on your lower back, the exact area that’s starting to ache a little. Jeonghan applies pressure, and it brings temporary ease with it.
“I can help. But only if you want me to.”
You turn your head to look at your alpha. His face is open and blank. He isn’t being judgmental at all, but you feel mortification anyway. You hate that you’re like this. You hate that you can’t form a solid, comfortable relationship with Jeonghan without this being such a big factor. You still remember the horrifying ordeal of the last heat where you cried to him over the phone.
“Hey.” Maybe he senses your trepidation, because he leans forward, winding his arm around your waist and laying a chaste kiss on your forehead. His very proximity feels like balm on your irritated skin. He looks you dead in the eyes as he speaks.
“I want to help you, angel. But only if you’re ready. I don’t want you to go into heat to make this decision. Your head is clear right now, so you can tell me what you want. It’s all up to you.”
You bite the inside of your cheek, contemplating. You don’t know what to say, how to voice your fears. Your heats are intense, and absolutely unbearable for you or anyone in the vicinity. Why would Jeonghan want to be anywhere near you at a time like that?
When you voice your concern, he only laughs, but not unkindly.
“I’m pretty sure I can handle it.” He gives you a wink. “I’m different, you know?”
His confidence is a little reassuring, but you still hesitate. Jeonghan sighs and leans forward, bumping his forehead lightly to yours.
“My sweet girl, you have no idea how badly I want you.”
Your breath catches. His scent invades you, the reassuring mix of leather and vanilla in your nose. So you make up your mind and nod. You are choosing to trust him with every part of you, even the part you can’t bear to look at yourself.
Jeonghan carries you to your room even though you insist that you are fine right now. He helps make a nest, lamenting a little that there aren't more of his clothes at your place that he can fit into your nest.
“It’s okay, you can get your fill straight from the source.” He jokes, tilting his head back and tapping his neck. You giggle.
His attempts to lighten the mood work. He sheds his hoodie until he is left with just a thin shirt and pants, climbing into the nest with you. You’ve never had anyone inside, but it feels so right to have Jeonghan here. He wraps you up tightly in his arms by spooning you, laying little kisses on your face and neck, whatever patch of skin he can find, until you feel like he has squeezed the discomfort out of you. He calls Joshua and tells him to fuck off for a few days, to which your roommates only jokingly sighs and agrees. You tell him you feel bad about keeping Joshua away from his own home for a week at a time, and he gives you this sleazy smirk that sends a tingle of something pleasant down your spine.
“Oh darling, it won’t last a week this time. I’ll make sure of it.”
You swallow tightly, pressing your thighs together. He notices, because Jeonghan notices everything, and you feel his large hand splay over your bare thigh, fingertips toying with the hem of your shorts.
“Think it’ll be good for you if I make you cum right now.” His lips brush the shell of your ear from behind. You arch your back into him. You’re getting wet at an alarming rate, like your omega is just raring to give in to the alpha curled around you. His hand travels up, presses into the cotton of your shorts right at the crotch. You twitch at the feeling, eyes closing. You’re breathing heavily, and you know your heat is right around the corner. It seems Jeonghan’s plan is to nip it in the bud before it even hits full force.
His hand slides under the waistband of your shorts, sliding through your slit. You feel him groan into your ear.
“So wet already. Has my little omega been waiting for this?”
You can feel, in real time, your brain turn to mush as Jeonghan’s fingers rub over your cunt and find your clit. He toys with it between two fingers, and you whine, hips jerking. He squeezes, enough to jolt you, making you gasp.
“You’ll answer me when I ask you a question, got it?”
Your omega preens. Your eyes roll up. “Yes, alpha.”
“Good girl.”
You wonder if it’s the apex in him that’s making him rough and territorial like this, influenced by your heat. You could cum just like this. But he gives you more. He swivels his fingers over your throbbing nub, rubbing side to side just the way you like it. You don’t know how he knows, but you’re grateful for it, because it takes only a few minutes for your high to catch up to you. You want to let go, but you’re neck deep in Jeonghan’s pheromones, and the primal part of you tells you to not dare do it without your alpha’s permission. So, like the good girl he claims you are, you ask.
“Alpha,” you gasp against his precise fingers, hips undulating, listening to his wet and filthy it sounds. Jeonghan hums in question, licking over the shell of your ear. His strong arm holds you in place, and you only have so much wiggle room under his grip. You feel you can’t breathe as you plead with him, asking if you can cum. His lips stretch where they are pressed against the skin below your ear. His arm that was holding you comes up, grips your jaw tightly and tilts your head back so he can run his tongue over your lips. Your eyes fill with unshed tears.
“Such a quick learner.” He praises. “You know exactly what your alpha wants. Such a good omega, my perfect omega. Cum for me, darling. Come on.”
So you do. You gush over his hand, giving into the unrelenting pressure as he keeps rubbing harshly over your clit. He reaches his hand down and plunges two fingers inside your spamming cunt, grinding his palm on you to prolong your orgasm. You whine and twitch, digging your nails into his wrist, but he seems undeterred. He fingers you like that, not slowing for a single second even when you sob. Your high never really weans, being pulled longer and longer until you can’t differentiate where your first orgasm ends and your second one starts. All you know is that you’re wailing and twitching again, body convulsing so hard that Jeonghan has to almost roll on top of you to keep you in place, and he is finger fucking you through it as he whispers sweet praises in your ear. You gasp and nearly choke, vision swimming as you slowly come down. Finally, he buries his fingers deep inside you and stills.
For a long moment, you lay like that, half on your front, with Jeonghan draped over you. He pulls out gently and you gasp at how empty it feels. He plants a sweet kiss in your hair and finally separates from you, leaving your nest.
You can vaguely hear him moving around, going to the bathroom, the kitchen, more shuffling before he joins you in the nest again. You’re half dozing at this point, but he manages to coax some water into you before you fully fall asleep. He holds you through it, cuddling into you and taking advantage of your break to nap as well. When you wake up again, you’re feverish and sweaty, and Jeonghan is ready to give you what your omega has wanted all its life. A knot.
He kisses you slowly and tenderly as he undresses you, making sure to not let your omega get restless. His own clothes follow, and you’re surprised by how toned he is. He always hides under bulky clothes, so you didn’t anticipate this. Jeonghan is strong, and very athletic, you know this, but you expected him to be skinny, not deliciously lean like this.
He smirks when he catches you looking, finally tugging off his pants. Your mouth waters at the sight of his cock. He’s huge, throbbing and ready for you, flushed an angry deep pink color that has you clenching around nothing. Your body is more than ready for him, breaths already leaving you in ragged gasps as you try to retain your sanity.
“Ready, baby?” He’s only called you that once before, when you were in the throes of a heat, whispered prettily over the phone. Of his wide roster of petnames for you, you definitely love this one the most, especially the way he says it so sweetly. It takes all your effort to not keen, but it’s not possible to hold back, especially when he hooks one of your legs over his shoulder and slowly presses inside you, his cock carving through your desperate, spongy walls. You moan at the same time he does, revelling in the feeling. He brushes over every delicious spot inside you, making your toes curl. Your omega whines, just the relief of being filled up is so acute and so massive that your back arches and, without a warning, you cum.
Jeonghan curses over you, immediately moving. He wants to prolong your high, because he noticed that your heat broke for a good while after being properly stimulated. He fucks the orgasm right through you, and your body scrambles to process it all. It feels so unbelievably good, deliriously good, that you can’t believe you held out without this for so long. And it’s not just his cock, not just the fact that an alpha is fucking you through your heat, but it’s because this is Jeonghan. Your omega trusts him, yearns for him, and he takes that responsibility seriously, holding your body down and pounding into you just the way his alpha knows you want. You believe with complete certainty that no alpha on the planet can do you the way he does, anticipating your needs before you can even vocalise them, before you can even feel it yourself. It’s only him, and as he leans down to press his forehead against yours, his breaths heavy as his hips snap into yours over and over, you know this is it for you. Jeonghan is your endgame. He always has been, you just didn’t know it.
“Alpha,” you weep. Jeonghan groans.
“My pretty girl.” He rasps. You can see how dilated his pupils are, the flush rising up from his chest, to his neck and ears. He’s sweating, groaning, cursing as his cock indulges your pulsing, greedy pussy.
“I love you.” He breathes. You whine at his words. “Loved you for so long. Always knew you would be mine. My omega. Mine.”
Your leg, pressed between your bodies where it’s thrown over your shoulder, is joined by your other one as he maneuvers you into a mating press. His angle shifts in the position, and you can’t hold it any longer. You cum again, soaking his cock, making the base swell up so that finally, finally, Jeonghan bullies his fat knot into you, cumming so hard his whole body curls forward.
The whole room smells like sweat, sex, and dense alpha pheromones. Jeonghan’s presence is undeniable, so all encompassing that it overtakes even yours. He finally relaxes over you, catching his breath while he runs his tongue over your scent glands. You let him, enjoying the feeling, this indirect way of him laying his claim on you. Lying here, uninhibited and with your omega finally quiet after years and years of silent torture, you imagine what it would be like if Jeonghan were to claim you, in the concrete and sure way that alphas do by biting their omegas. The thought of being linked to another person for life should freak you out, but it doesn’t. Not when the person in question is Jeonghan. He already has your heart. He has taken your body too. There’s nothing you wouldn’t give to him, including the rest of your life.
When Jeonghan teasingly nips at the skin right over your scent glands, it feels like a silent promise that he wants the exact same thing. For the first time in your life, the future doesn’t seem bleak.
KoTher'ai welcomes you to our opening (late) night!
fake playbill of KoTher'ai with additional fake names and characters. Liam you want to give us the names of your whole troupe so badly (updated to add a sword)
Known information about the Shapers and their afterlives with light speculation on what items would be needed to complete the next 5 rituals, assuming one is not needed for Faerie, as it is not an afterlife in the conventional sense and the doors shutting didn't have to do with the death of the Shapers.
Also working on the assumption that, like Sylandri and Azgra, all of the other afterlives are taken from the Primordial Spouses.
That's around 15 MacGuffins for the Cloak and the players to find, and each artifact found so far has had some kind of personal connection to a PC or NPC, so that could continue as a trend, given that if (like the paint and the coffin) things connected to psychopomps are needed in each ritual, Occtis or something connected to House Tachonis could serve as a vessel for Tansul. Bolaire or one of his siblings may also be able to become a plowshare for Piper's Down.
I just want to make a quick note about this before people get too silly about the situation. It's very important to remember that Robbie is Native American, and is putting a lot of work into making sure that Kattigan has indigenous cultural touchstones as part of his characterization. And that is the appropriate lens through which we should view his missing and murdered wife and daughter, I think.
I would be reluctant to use fridging in this exact context, because this isn't some imaginary scenario to generate manpain for a white hero, this is a much more common experience of Native American and First Nation people, having their wives and daughters and sisters (in particular, but not exclusively) go missing. And never getting answers, never learning what happened, and not being believed that there's a problem in the first place.
This is like how being rescued from a tower by a prince is not particularly empowering or affirming to cis physically able straight thin perisex white women and girls, but can be for basically anybody else. Particularly black girls and women, who do not get a lot of cultural messages that treat them as people who are so valuable and precious, who may not have the strength to save themselves, or may wish that they didn't fucking have to save themselves (and everyone else) all the time.
White men have this story so often happen that we have a trope name specific to one specific and particularly egregious version of this, but you don't often see men who look like Robbie dealing with this type of story in fictional settings, even though it happens for men like Robbie in real life with horrifying frequency.
Sometimes stories that are old can be new again in different hands, from different point of views, so just... mind how you step here.
Your pack is very unique and diverse: hybrids from all walks of life: predator, prey, alpha, beta, omega, full blood, mutt — there's a little bit of everything in your little family of animals. Which means heats and ruts can get... interesting.
➯a/n: updated masterlist !! going to be posting for this series again starting in a few days <3
(>ᴗ•)genre: smut, a/b/o au
ಠ_ಠwarning/content: poly pack dynamics, animal/human hybrids, hybrids take on physical and personality traits from their animals, ruts and heats, mxm, more specific content descriptions on each member. puppy mutt omega reader (has ears but no tail)
associate producer: @klllerwaifu, who sent in the request that started it all <3
summary: a collection of threesomes with genshin women <3 basically just pure smut without plot, you can find the specific content warnings before each section
pairings: clorinde x reader x navia, dehya x reader x candace, arlecchino x reader x columbina
a/n: first time writing threesomes & ngl these kinda beat my ass but it was still a fun experience! happy pride month 2 my sapphics i hope u enjoy <3 dividers by enchanthings
round one! ꨄ︎ roses and muskets
pairing: navia/reader/clorinde
content: dom!reader, switch!navia, sub!clorinde, use of strap-ons, teasing & humiliation, clorinde is kind of a sopping wet cat, clit play, begging, petnames, whiny navia, reader tops clorinde who is topping navia (basically a reader/clorinde/navia sandwich 😋🍽️)
Clorinde knew better than anyone to never fall victim to her pride—one of the easier lessons Master Petronilla had hammered into her mind as a child. It was regarded as a deadly sin for good reason; a dangerous emotion that, more often than not, served as far greater a threat to her opponents than her sword did when dueling in the name of justice.
If made to choose, however, she supposed it would be her discipline that she prided herself on most.
It defined the most important aspects of her life; the strict routines she maintained for her physical and mental wellbeing, her ability to guide a rowdy group of friends through the newest Tabletop Troupe script, and, most importantly, her career as a Champion Duelist. If she couldn’t trust the head on her shoulders to remain calm and unflinching even when under levels of pressure that would crush most others, then she could never be trusted to enact justice with the blade in her hand. Discipline before desire, duty before leisure, that was how she operated to keep herself running like a well-oiled meka.
Clorinde’s hands, never once faltering when they delivered swift and precise judgement, so clean in her movements that not a single splatter of blood came to stain her white gloves, now grasped at the bedsheets, clumsy and useless.
“Look at that, she’s shaking,” Navia crooned. “Is it really too much for you, Clori?”
Peering over Clorinde’s tensed shoulders, you could see Navia grinning up at you where she was sprawled out beneath the younger woman on the mattress, glossy lips curled up into a jeer that harbored just a bit more wicked intent than you were used to seeing in her sunbeam of a smile.
Clorinde’s back muscles flexed, all the strength that rippled under her skin doing absolutely nothing to aid her as she struggled to make her hips move properly, to morph that smirk of Navia’s into an open-mouthed cry of pleasure. Her already labored breathing hitched again when she felt you lean forward from behind, your soft chest pressing against her sculpted frame in a contrast that made it infinitely more challenging for her to remain collected.
“She asked you a question, baby,” you said, taking satisfaction in the goosebumps that arose on Clorinde’s pink-dusted skin when the notes of your voice tickled her neck. Obediently, she opened her mouth to speak, only for the feeling of your strap-on sinking even deeper inside her to make anything she’d planned to say fizzle out like a pistol firing without a bullet. Navia’s giggles mixed with yours as Clorinde clamped her lips shut again, trying her hardest to muffle the whimper that rose in her throat—one that would surely earn her more ridicule.
Navia was right; she was shaking. You could see her arms quivering under her own weight each time you thrusted into her with long, deep strokes. They were so languid, casual almost, it made it all the more embarrassing that she was so heavily affected by them. The force of your hips pushing against Clorinde every time you bottomed out was the only thing that provided Navia any relief underneath the both of you, each smack of skin nudging Clorinde’s strap against her hungry walls just enough to give her a brief taste of the friction she was missing out on.
“C’mon, Clorinde,” you urged. “Our poor baby’s dying to feel good, down there. You can do better than that, can’t you?”
You brushed the long locks of Clorinde’s hair to the side, spilling them over her shoulder in an indigo waterfall so you could press encouraging kisses to the slope of her neck. She swallowed hard, scolding herself, commanding herself to say something instead of just pushing her hips back against yours and gazing down helplessly at Navia’s pouting face. The thought of how pathetic she must’ve looked to the both of you briefly crossed her mind amidst everything else that had it spinning, making liquid shame pool in her cheeks.
“I-I—” she hissed as you grazed your teeth over her flesh without warning, dragging them along her nape in unison with the toy dragging against her walls. “Yes, I can,” she insisted breathlessly, doing her best to not let her disappointment show when you didn’t immediately fill her back up again, instead keeping only the tip of your strap inside for a torturous few seconds while she fluttered around it. An act of mercy so she could at least finish her sentence. “I’m more than capable of…I just, just need a moment to—”
A half-choked gasp interrupted her as you sank back into her pussy all at once, creating a smack so sharp that the sound alone made Navia’s toes curl with envious desire. Everything she wanted, everything she needed was unfolding right before her eyes, and she wasn’t allowed to indulge in a single drop of it. She spread her thighs wider in the sheets with the hopes of making things easier for Clorinde, blue manicured nails gripping urgently at the duelist’s hips to try and subtly guide her movements.
You took notice of Navia’s wandering hands right away, clicking your tongue and shooting her a disapproving look from over Clorinde’s shoulder. “No helping her, Navia. She’s gotta figure this out all on her own.”
Your chiding was meant with a long, high-pitched whine that was irresistibly cute, almost enough to sway you. Regardless of the enjoyment it brought her to mess with Clorinde, Navia’s patience was slipping fast, eyebrows furrowing with frustration and hips wriggling from side to side in a desperate attempt to gain some kind of gratification from the strap that had been nestled motionless inside of her from the moment Clorinde had first bottomed out. In retrospect, it was a miracle that she’d even managed to slip the toy past Navia’s entrance in the first place when her brain was as scrambled as it currently was.
“Not fair,” Navia protested, but despite herself, she still let her hands fall from the curve of Clorinde’s hips in defeat. A body so agile and reliable in combat, now rendered powerless under the dizzying press of warm skin enveloping her from all directions. “It’s not fair, my love. Why does Clori get all the attention? Please, I wanna feel good, too.”
“I know, baby. It’s so unfair.” Your tone was dripping with sympathy, but your thrusts continued without a care in the world, gradually picking up in speed so that whatever remained of Clorinde’s composure crumbled with each cruel glide of your hips. The ridges of your strap rolled against every velvety crevice inside her just right, barely giving her the chance to miss the sensation of being filled up before you were pushing deep inside of her again. “But it’s Clorinde’s job to make you feel good, not yours. Keep your hands to yourself.”
This time, the whines came from both of them; Clorinde’s faint and abashed, Navia’s loud and defiant.
“But—”
“She says she can do it, right? She’s more than capable,” you echoed Clorinde’s earlier words. A taunt disguised as unshaking faith in her abilities, just scornful enough to make her stomach tighten. “So be a good girl and wait your turn.”
“Clori,” Navia redirected her begging to the woman above her, so sickeningly sweet that Clorinde could practically taste it dissolving on her tongue like one of her sugar-packed macarons. Navia rocked her hips against the mattress in a fit of need, reaching around blindly in the bedsheets until she found Clorinde’s forearms and snaked her fingers around them.
Clorinde shuddered as Navia gave her a squeeze of encouragement, motivating her to put all that bitter training to good use so that she could finally let Navia experience the same addicting push and pull that currently had Clorinde wrapped around your finger. “C’mon, baby. Won’t you move these pretty hips for me? Please? I need it so bad, I might lose my mind.”
“Look how cute she is like this,” you whispered in Clorinde’s ear. “Are you really gonna disappoint her? Make her cry ‘cause you can’t fuck her right?”
A weak sound erupted in Clorinde’s throat. Her ears burned red-hot; with humiliation, and with a fresh wave of arousal that she could never openly admit erupted within her whenever you spoke to her that way. To make matters worse, Navia was giving her a dispirited look from below, like she’d already long-accepted her fate, like she knew deep down that Clorinde wouldn’t be able to do it because she was too caught up in her own pleasure to carry out a task so simple. Something so selfishly unlike her.
Clorinde bunched her fists in the crumpled sheets to anchor herself, forearms flexing under Navia’s needy hands as she pulled her hips back with a shaky inhale and jerked forward—clumsy, messy, a disgrace to the sharp precision she carried moved with throughout her daily life. The mental chastisement she gave herself for such a sloppy display was quickly shut down by Navia’s immediate sigh of relief, head falling back, honey-blonde curls spilling on the pillows and pale blue nails sinking into Clorinde’s reddening flesh.
“There we go.” Your proud voice eased some of the tension in Clorinde’s body, loosening the tight seal of her lips enough to let a feather-light moan slip out when your silicone rolled against her sweet spot as a reward. The sound was gone as soon as it came, a faint rustle in the woods so different from Navia’s impassioned gasps and dramatic whines over every little touch. “Just like that, baby. I want you to make her cum for me.”
She clenched her jaw, only managing a strained nod when no response seemed to form on her tongue. Verbal expression had never exactly been her forte, anyway, especially when stuffed full of you and buried deep inside Navia like some kind of wonderfully cruel trap designed to make a fool of her.
“Yes,” Navia breathed as Clorinde repeated the action. It was another weak, erratic stroke, but she was so grateful for even the slightest hint of stimulation that she couldn’t bring herself to care. “Yes, my love. Don’t—ah—stop. M-more, more.”
Just as Clorinde at last began to build up a semi-stable pace, you quickened yours, and she wasn’t sure whether it was gratitude or dismay that burst to life in her core.
“You hear that? She wants more,” you drawled. “Keep it up, okay, baby? Don’t let her down.”
Your mischief was practically tangible, tickling her eardrums like chimes of laughter. Sure enough, you pushed your strap flush against that bundle of nerves deep inside of her just as you grabbed a handful of her bouncing chest. She was soft and heavy in the palm of your hand, and as her flesh spilled out between your fingers, you could feel her heartbeat pulsing beneath it, giving away just how much of a wreck she really was. More like captured prey than the hunter she truly was.
Clorinde stumbled over a moan that you were certain would’ve been pure heaven if only she’d stop stifling herself, head falling forward when you rolled one of her nipples between your fingers for good measure.
Hips stuttering with less and less control, Clorinde jerked into Navia far more forcefully than she’d intended, earning a sweet gasp from the woman below that was cut short just as soon when she realized that Clorinde had gone still in that position, once again too taken by the delightful twist and stretch in her core to focus on completing her thrusts. Navia had to stop herself from clawing at the younger woman’s arms to draw her attention back to her hungry insides, already mourning the quickly dissipating ball of pressure that Clorinde’s tentative strokes had built up.
“No, no, no. Clorinde, baby, please,” she protested, head tossing from side to side. “Don’t stop, I’m begging you.”
Though Clorinde would redden and turn away at the mere suggestion of it, the fact was that she looked so cute like this. That ever-stoic expression of hers now painted with a desperation that softened all her stern edges, eyebrows knitted together and lipstick smudged at the corner of her mouth from all her efforts to force back the noises that were getting harder to contain.
But in Navia’s lust-clouded mind, she couldn’t fully appreciate what a delectable mess the woman above her had become like you could, not when she was such a mess herself. All she could think about were the precious, fleeting vibrations that passed from your body to Clorinde’s, and at last, to her own when you snapped your hips forward. Every ripple of pleasure that wracked Clorinde’s senses, Navia could only get the remaining scraps of.
“You were doing so well, Clori. What happened to our champion?” You squeezed gently at her chest with each hand, rhythmic movements meant to encourage her, but all they served to do was mold her like dough in your palms. Unable to hold herself up anymore, she slumped forward to all but collapse against Navia, sandwiching your hand between the plushness of both her chest and Navia’s as they pressed together.
“I-I’m sorry.” Even when muffled by Navia’s skin, the tremble was evident as she spoke, an unmistakable strike of lightning across the perpetually calm night sky of her voice. “I…”
I can’t. She bit back the admission, mustering just enough self-control to not utter words that would no doubt taste more bitter on her tongue than any defeat in the Court of Law. “I may be nearing my…my limit. I’m sorry.”
Despite Navia being denied her own bliss to the point of near tears, she still found it in her to rest her hand on the younger woman’s head with a soothing hum. The tips of Clorinde’s ears were burning red, now, hot humiliation coursing through her veins in place of blood.
As Navia combed through that pale blue streak of hair that had draped over her chest like a ribbon, she lifted her gaze longingly back up to you, all blue starlight and golden lashes. And if her perfectly pitiful expression hadn’t been irresistible enough to sway you, she made sure to top it off with the sweet cream of her voice.
“You’re not gonna leave me like this, are you, my love?” she pouted, thick thighs spreading beneath Clorinde’s body to give you better access to the dripping wet parts of her, ripe for the taking after being tormented by empty promises of pleasure for so long. “I’ve been so good, haven’t I? Been on my best behavior even though Clorinde here obviously wants me to die of neglect.”
Clorinde tried to mumble something into Navia’s shoulder in her defense, only for it to taper off into a strained hiccup that did more to harm her cause than help it.
You pretended to mull it over, though you had absolutely no plans to have the night ending without both of them writhing beneath you. Navia batted her eyelashes at you, delicate wisps of sunlight filtering through Clorinde’s violet shadow, warm enough to melt away any resistance you might’ve had.
“Greedy. You’re both so greedy,” you clicked your tongue, but your hand was already sliding down from where it was wedged under Clorinde’s chest, tracing the curve of Navia’s stomach until you found those soft, slick folds. “What am I gonna do with you?”
Navia’s lip quirked. “Make me feel good?”
Your touch wandered down to where Clorinde’s strap-on was stretching her out, scooping up some of her essence that had coated the plastic and smearing it over the pads of your fingers. Before your thumb had even fully pressed against her clit, Navia let out a cry of pure relief, hips shooting up as best as they could under Clorinde’s weight.
“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, that’s perfect, cherie. Right there.”
“She’s soaking wet for you, and this is how you treat her?” you chided Clorinde softly, slowing down the glide of your hips to put extra focus on the poor bud throbbing beneath your fingers. “Clorinde’s so mean, isn’t she, Navia?”
“So, so mean.” Navia’s eyes squeezed shut, nodding frantically like every touch to her aching clit sent an electric shock through her system and letting out a mewl so grateful that Clorinde couldn’t even feel any indignation over her agreeing with you so readily. Instead, Clorinde pursed her lips against Navia’s chest, pressing apologetic kisses to her flushed skin; the only consolation she could offer anymore.
“I’ll take care of you, baby. I’ll take care of everything.”
You admired how Clorinde’s spine arched as she met the rock of your hips in earnest, a beautiful dip that you stroked with your free hand, relishing in the shudder that rippled down her frame. Now that Navia was letting out a chorus of noises loud enough for the both of them, Clorinde allowed herself a bit more leniency as well, soft, breathy moans rising in her throat with less and less restraint each time your body pressed flush against hers.
“This is how you’re supposed to do it, Clori,” you murmured. “See? Look how good I’m making her feel.”
Clorinde made the mistake of peering up from where her face had been buried in Navia’s chest, rings of violet locking on a sight that stole the air from her lungs. Navia’s head was tossed to the side, cheeks dusted pink against her milky skin; strawberries and cream, she found herself thinking. When your thumb circled around the pretty pink pearl of Navia’s clit, her mouth fell open with a gasp so intense, you would think she’d never been touched before.
Clorinde’s insides churned, with arousal, and with the burning guilt that told her she should’ve been the one who was capable of twisting Navia’s features into all kinds of pretty expressions like that rather than forcing you to do all the work. Forcing you to focus on someone as hopeless as her while Navia was left behind, having to beg for attention that should’ve been given to her as naturally as breathing.
Eyes squeezing shut, Navia’s hands let go of the sheets to reach out blindly, desperate for as much physical contact as she could get after being denied so long. One of her arms slung around Clorinde’s neck, pulling the woman into a messy, uncoordinated kiss, while her other hand found yours, lacing your fingers together in an iron grip as you rubbed agonizingly steady circles into her clit.
“Mmm, yes,” she slurred against Clorinde’s lips, thick with all the bottled lust that finally came pouring out of her. “Yes, yes, yes. Love it. Thank you, thank you. Don’t stop, baby, please.”
You stroked the back of Navia’s hand so gently in contrast to how your hips pistoned into Clorinde. She was whimpering low in her throat now, not a shred of pride remaining as you worked her from behind with Navia comforting her from below.
“No more stopping, my love,” you promised, a teasing edge to your voice that prickled the back of Clorinde’s neck like thorns grazing her skin in the undergrowth of a hunt. “Look at that, Clori, you ignored our baby so bad that she can’t even believe she gets to cum. Aren't you gonna apologize?”
Navia looked far too deep in her own bliss to register anything but the slick press of your thumb and the frantic heat of Clorinde’s mouth against hers, but even so, Clorinde felt compelled to obey you—to soothe her own conscience, if nothing else.
“N-Navia,” she stammered, raspy and broken, like she may very well crumble altogether if you and Navia chose not to forgive her dishonorable performance. “I’m sorry. I’ll, mmph, I’ll make it up to you. Make it up to both of you.”
You let her off easy, well aware that the matter extended far beyond just sensual teasing in Clorinde’s hyper-disciplined mind. Knowing her, she’d be far harder on herself than any “lesson” you could pretend to teach her.
“All you have to do is let go for us,” you soothed her. “Let Navia watch you fall apart, pretty girl. Make it worth it for her.”
Goosebumps rose on Clorinde’s nape where your words danced over her skin, one final command to send her over the edge. She went stiff, muscles taut and shoulders jolting as she came apart on your strap, juices dribbling out of her to coat the plastic and moans spilling from her mouth into Navia’s—for once, so unrestrained—to the point where you could hear those low, primal vocalizations even with Navia’s lips greedily swallowing them up.
She was quick to follow, just as easily wound up by Clorinde’s pleasure as she was by her own. Plush skin melded into Clorinde’s as Navia raised her hips up off the mattress, practically grinding into your hand with quick, high-pitched little gasps and whimpers. As with everything else, she put on a show for you, big and bright and so expressive compared to the shy, subdued manner in which Clorinde came undone.
“So pretty, you’re sooo cute Clori,” she gushed, her kisses growing sloppier and sloppier until she was more or less pecking mindlessly around the other woman’s mouth. If her tear-dotted eyes hadn’t been gazing up at you so intently, you may not have even realized that she’d redirected her babbling to you. “M feeling good, too. You’re gonna make me crazy, my love. Please, I want it. Touch me more. Want it.”
You hummed softly in reply, not daring to speak when your ears were feasting on the symphony of sounds Navia was making for you. She all but sobbed when you slid your thumb under the hood of her clit to fulfill her request, making it throb so wildly you’d think that it was crying out for release, too.
Blue eyes snapped open, glistening with tears that bejeweled her her golden lashes. The pressure of Clorinde’s body grinding back against you and the sight of Navia’s pretty face lighting up with ecstasy were enough to make that tight coil in your stomach snap wonderfully, sending trickles of slick down your thighs. Navia’s sounds eclipsed yours and Clorinde’s as she trembled in the sheets, blue nails gripping any skin he could get her hands on and thighs squeezing around you like a vice.
You panted against Clorinde’s shoulder, skin dewy and muscles sore, but the adrenaline rush had yet to ebb for you even as both women came down from the highs you’d brought them to. A low, pleasant hum rose in Clorinde’s throat as you kissed up her neck, and, to your surprise, she turned her pink cheek aside to meet your lips with hers. Fleeting, shy, but enough for you to relish in both the taste of her lipstick and Navia’s.
Unlike the afterglow that you could practically feel radiating off of Navia’s sun-kissed skin, Clorinde’s inhibitions hardened around her again almost instantly, an armored crab retreating into its shell. Now that the flow of endorphins wasn’t clouding her judgement, you could tell that the shame was gnawing away at her even more fiercely than before, painting her face red as though she’d been sunburnt by Navia’s light.
“Thank you…my love,” she muttered against your lips, unable to hold your stare without feeling her walls squeeze all over again. “We were a handful this time, weren’t we? How can I make it up to you?”
“You could make us some coffee,” Navia chimed in from below, eyes twinkling. “Since you’re such a pro at it these days.”
Clorinde huffed in a manner that only you and Navia ever had the privilege of bearing witness to, half-vexed, half-shy. “You’re so quick to make demands when you didn’t even do any of the work.”
Navia shot you a pleading look at that, a silent roll of persuasion to get you to back her up. “Do you have any idea how hard it was to watch the two of you having all the fun while I lay here tossed out like an overcooked macaroon? I’m exhausted.”
“Hmm. Macarons sound nice,” you commented, flopping down next to Navia on the mattress with equal dramatic flair. She bit her lip in a panic, and you didn’t miss the uncharacteristically petty smirk that tugged at Clorinde’s mouth while watching Navia accidentally talk herself into hours of baking. “But I don’t need sugar or coffee to recharge right now.”
While Navia wasted no time nestling into you with a content (and relieved) giggle, Clorinde hesitated, eyeing you with a level of guilt that you made a mental note to readdress later. You patted the space next to you on the bed, and, reluctantly, she compromised by settling down on her side, propped up by one arm as if prepared to push herself back up to service you if you so much as hinted at it.
In truth, the last thing you needed was a pick-me-up. Every nerve in your body was still buzzing with lightning right down your fingertips, high off the exhilaration of watching not only Clorinde, but Navia melt into a puddle at your hands. You could’ve done it again and again with no regard for your personal relief. Unfortunately, Navia and Clorinde were nowhere near as greedy as you liked to pretend they were.
It was only when the two of them curled up next to you, wrapping you in a blanket of plush skin and body heat and murmuring drowsy affections in your ears that you at last allowed yourself to melt alongside them.
round two! ꨄ sun and moon
pairing: dehya/reader/candace
content: dom!reader, switch!candace, sub!dehya, oral (dehya & candace rec), reader sits on dehya's back while she does pushups, alcohol! (dehya is a little tipsy but still very much lucid), petnames, facesitting, praise, candace and reader spoiling dehya <3
“Sixteen.”
Dehya grunted despite her best efforts to restrain it, wobbly elbows barely managing to straighten to completion, this time. A laughable performance in comparison to the records she’d set in the past with the enthused cheers of her brigade always inflating her ego just enough to push herself past her limits. When sandwiched between you and Candace, however, all of that prestige she’d earned among her fellow Eremites was about as stable as a tumbleweed being tossed around by the winds of the Hypostyle.
“Seventeen,” you called out.
Her brain was fuzzy at its edges, shoulders heavy with the added weight of you perched atop her back like a Rishboland Tiger lounging in a tree, surveying the lush terrain for prey. She could swear up and down that the alcohol she’d downed earlier was affecting her performance, but that wasn’t the real reason why every push-up posed such an unusual challenge for her, tonight. The entirety of The Blazing Beasts could’ve been gathered around to witness her display of strength, gleefully counting each push-up, placing bets on how far she could go and hollering at her in drunken mirth, and it still wouldn’t have had quite the same impact on her as you and Candace’s presence. Quiet, gentle attention that was somehow so unbearably distracting.
Mustering all of her willpower, she pushed herself off the ground once again in a movement that—under normal circumstances—came so effortlessly to her she didn’t even have to think about it. But under the watchful pairs of eyes that were sizing her up, her biceps had gone soft and pliant, reduced to rose custard that you and Candace looked about ready to eat up.
Still, she persisted, for the very simple reason that she would sooner bury her head in the sand than embarrass herself in front of you two; especially after the mild bragging fest that had ensued after she’d emerged victorious in every arm-wrestling match she’d been challenged to back at the tavern, by ordinary folk and her fellow Eremites alike. Though, in her defense, it was mostly The Blazing Beasts who’d made such a show of flaunting her strength while Dehya feigned nonchalance on the sidelines, secretly allowing herself to bask in it a bit more than usual courtesy of the alcohol filling her with liquid confidence.
Core muscles clenching, she lifted your body weight along with hers, this time, with flawless form.
You whistled proudly, and something stirred in her chest—adrenaline igniting like flint against steel that suddenly had her invigorated enough to run laps around the village with both you and Candace piled on her back.
“Eighteen.” Candace’s voice was a gentle lap of water at her senses, while yours was an energizing surge of warmth, each one taking turns to call out the next number.
Dehya’s face, already dusted with a faint flush thanks to the buzz of intoxication in her system, began to deepen in shade. Not just from the strain of her workout, but because of the deal you and Candace had made with her prior to it. The echoes of your promise lingered in the back of her mind with every pushup, no matter how badly she tried to pretend she was above something so desperate; a taunt and an incentive, all at once.
“She’s doing so well, isn’t she?” Candace commented, tilting Dehya’s chin up to lock those icy blue eyes with her pools of warm amber and calm cerulean. In the low light of Candace’s bedroom, Dehya’s catlike pupils had gone wide, glassy from the alcohol’s influence like the crystal clear surface of the oasis’ Amrita Pool.
Your hum of agreement sounded from above, and with a deep breath, Dehya took that as her cue to bend her elbows again, struggling to lower herself bit by bit so that she didn’t crash into the ground all at once.
“Guess she really wants that reward.” As you spoke, you stretched luxuriously atop her back without a care in the world for how it might ruin her progress.
“C-C’mon,” she huffed, praying that neither of you would notice the droplets of sweat beginning to bead at her hairline, catching the hazy glow of candlelight that burned in the dim room. “You know this is light work for me. I could do it easily, reward or not.”
“Then making it to twenty should be no problem for our mighty Flame-Mane, yeah?” you reasoned, resting your hands on her shoulders to admire the flex of her built muscles beneath your palms.
Candace, with all the gentleness of her caress, still held Dehya’s chin firmly between her fingers, giving her no choice but to maintain eye contact as she sank down into another push-up. Dark locks of her hair kissed the ground for a fleeting moment before she lifted herself back up in one fell swoop, a speed that her body would surely punish her for later. But the murmur of awe you and Candace shared when she snapped back up so effortlessly made any future soreness more than worth it.
Candace ran her thumb along Dehya’s lips, hesitating to continue counting for just long enough to have Dehya fighting back a faint, impatient whine.
The corner of her mouth curled up with amusement. “Nineteen.”
Dehya let out a shaky exhale, warm breath fanning out over Candace’s palm. Calloused yet soft, holding her with all the steadiness she carried her spear and all the tenderness she treated the children of Aaru Village. With an approving smile, her hand slid higher to cup the reddened apple of Dehya’s cheek, delighted by the heat emitting from it.
“That’s my girl. Just one more to go,” you urged her from above, voice dripping down her skin like rosewater, and twice as sweet. “I know you can do it, baby.”
Gritting her teeth, she tightened up her abdomen and pushed off the carpet one final time, spurred on by your encouragement that had seized her mind even more effectively than the alcohol. Her elbows straightened to perfection, lungs puffed full of air as the relief of her final pushup crashed over her. Despite that, she couldn’t help the strange disappointment she felt when you rolled off of her back, lightening her load, but taking the warm press of your body with you and leaving her aching for more.
You settled back on the carpet, admiring the dips and curves of her form just a bit longer before sliding your hand under the golden tassel that draped over her spine and giving her a pat to signal that she could relax.
“Twenty,” you said at last.
Her head all but collapsed into Candace’s waiting lap, plush thighs greeting her with all the comfort of her resting camp after a long day of trekking through endless dunes. Dehya’s hair splayed out in all directions across Candace’s legs and down to the carpet, threads of gold streaking those thick, silky dark waves. The mane of a lioness, indeed.
“So strong,” you marveled. “And you barely even broke a sweat. You make it look so easy, baby.”
“I bet we could have her do ten more without any trouble, too. Should we test how long she can really hold out?” Candace mused, a mischief so rare creeping into her voice that it made Dehya perk up in alarm.
Before you could get any ideas, she rolled over onto her back with the speed of someone sober and settled her head back into the pillow of Candace’s lap, smooth, dark skin carrying the scents of fragrant fruit powder and crisp, evening desert air. “H-hah. Hey now, Candace. That kinda talk doesn’t suit you.”
She’d hoped to mask her panic over the suggestion, but judging by the amused looks on you and Candace’s faces, it must’ve been read loud and clear. She was already straightforward on a normal basis, but now, with her inhibitions soaked in wine, she’d become adorably transparent.
You ran your hands up the expanse of Dehya’s stomach with a giggle, soft tan flesh rising and falling under your touch even faster than when she’d been exerting herself. The alcohol coursing through her veins coupled with that growing pit of arousal in her core had her running so hot, all planes of addictively warm, tan skin that tightened into the outline of defined abs every time she sucked in another sharp breath.
“Don’t worry, baby, we’re gonna treat you so good for this,” you promised. “You’ve earned it.”
Dehya’s half-lidded eyes watched you in a daze as your fingers danced up the straps coiled tight around her thighs and unbuttoned her shorts. When your fingers began to slink below her waistband, the sight alone was enough to fluster her. Suddenly her eyes were flickering up to Candace instead, only for it to make matters worse when she found the woman gazing down at her with such visible fondness, thick eyelashes fanning out to look more striking than ever from this angle. Now that Dehya wasn’t pouring all of her energy into performing push-ups, she let the dizziness take over a little more, head spinning delightfully under you and Candace’s combined touches.
“You’re both s’ beautiful,” she murmured. It slipped out before she had the chance to stop herself, but any embarrassment she might’ve felt was nothing compared to the giddy glow that flooded her chest when you and Candace broke out into shared laughter, as if she were a pet who had done something unintentionally adorable.
“Sweet girl,” you cooed. “I wonder if you can put that silver tongue to good use.”
Candace voiced her agreement, reaching down to brush strands of brown and gold from Dehya’s wonderstruck eyes. “A pretty talker with an even prettier face, hm?”
Dehya squirmed around, clearly basking in the shower of your praises while simultaneously hoping to hide the fact that she was. “Take care not to mess up my makeup this time, then,” she huffed, just short of shy. “Since you like seein’ me all dolled up.”
“Not our fault if you start crying,” you grinned.
It sounded like nothing more than a playful jab, but the glint in your eyes was evident enough for even her blurry vision to catch. You knew as well as she did that tears weren’t entirely out of the question, especially when her grip on her emotions was far weaker than usual, tonight. She always made sure to watch her alcohol intake—especially when Candace was around to scrutinize her like a disapproving guardian angel—but as she watched you dip your head between her bare thighs at last, she felt less grounded than ever, like she may as well have downed an entire barrel of wine at once.
Dehya pressed her lips together, wetness pooling between her legs before you’d even touched her properly. You slid one of your arms beneath her leg to prop it up on your shoulder, pressing your lips to the warm flesh of her inner thigh. It was thick and brimming with power under your mouth from years of training and carving her paths through the desert sands, but the further you inched up towards that tantalizing spot between her legs, the more that lean muscle softened out into something delicate enough to devour, plush skin that practically melted in your mouth like candied ajilenakh nuts with every wet kiss.
Unintentionally, her hips canted up just hard enough to have you digging your nails into her thighs to steady her. A raspy apology rose in her throat, barely coherent when you forced her hips down hard enough to make her breath stutter.
Thankfully, you seemed to get the message. “You worked so hard for us, huh? Ready for your reward, baby?”
Dehya swallowed, hazy eyes darting up to Candace, then back to where your face was nestled between her legs, a view that, embarrassingly enough, had throat drying up again for a good few seconds before she could respond.
“Y’know ‘m not one to shy away from compensation,” she joked weakly.
Maybe not compensation, but she was certainly growing meek with your breath fanning out over her most intimate spots, a promising mist of what your mouth had to offer. Heart leaping in anticipation, you nosed your way into the meeting of her thighs at last, radiating heat and already dripping so eagerly for you; the nectar of a freshly opened henna berry just waiting to be lapped up. And you indulged in her as if she were the sweetest you’d ever picked.
Dehya’s thighs tensed the moment she felt your lips brushing over her folds, and a sharp gasp ripped from her throat as your tongue darted out to give her a greeting lick, a hot wet cushion that was as relieving as it was exhilarating. You savored her essence for a moment, letting it rest and spread on your tastebuds for just long enough to earn another cute, urgent sound from her.
Candace ran her fingers through Dehya’s hair as if soothing a fussy cat, indigo-painted nails threading through her locks and scratching tenderly at her scalp. She’d never quite gotten used to feeling of nails other than the sharp claws of her own armor braiding her hair in the morning, and each affectionate brush was like being pulled under the influence of a spell, nipping away at her sharp senses until she felt as though all the edges she’d spent years refining had gone soft.
You allowed yourself another taste before Dehya could get too restless, tongue darting out to lick a wet stripe from her entrance to the curve beneath her clit, lasting longer than before, but still gone far too soon for her liking. Dehya jolted when you pulled away again, hips jerking forward to try and follow the heat of your mouth on instinct.
When you chuckled at her, she let out a low whine, unconcerned with keeping up appearances any longer. It had been a losing game from the start anyway, when you and Candace were intimately familiar with this side of her—most of the time, without a drop of alcohol required to get her spread out for you to toy with like this.
“Needy little thing, aren’t you?” you mumbled between slow, deliberate licks, delighting in how obviously she throbbed when you pressed a chaste little kiss to her bud.
“More like a kitten than a lioness,” Candace cooed.
Dehya’s ears burned hot. Praise, scorn, they all sounded the same to her when spoken in those dulcet tones. She couldn’t even find it in her to pretend to be anything less than giddy as the two of you fawned over her, petting and squeezing and marveling at her body like she was the most brilliant cut of crimson Trishiraite you’d ever come across. Not just sharp angles and fierce, unbreakable rock, but smooth, beautiful, precious. Everything she longed for when the ache from carrying her greatsword became too much.
Grabbing hungry handfuls of her thighs, you pulled her closer and flattened your tongue against her cunt in full, letting your saliva mix with her wetness to form a sinful cocktail that she could feel dripping down her skin. It tickled her nerve endings and coated her inner thighs with a pretty sheen that made her look utterly delectable, and you made sure not waste a single drop, making quick work of lapping up the rivulets that escaped your lips like you’d been deprived of anything to drink for days.
“Fuck,” she breathed. “O-oh, please.”
With your mouth occupied, Candace stepped in, swooping Dehya’s bangs gently to the side to help cool her burning face. “Is she making you feel good, Dehya?”
Ice-blue eyes squeezed shut, a choked sound spilling from her mouth as you gave up entirely on teasing her and began licking with more vigor, tensing the muscle of your tongue to swirl dizzying patterns into her wet heat. Dehya could barely manage a frantic nod in reply to Candace as her hands flew to grasp at your head, unsure whether she was trying to pull you even deeper into her, or anchor herself before the pleasure swept her away altogether.
“Yeah, mmm, s’good,” she slurred. “I need—ah—needed this real bad. More, baby, please.”
“Oh? Did you hear that, my love?” Candace beckoned your attention, and the smile you caught on her face when you glanced up at her was so tender, it made your heart beat a little faster. To know that you were being watched by such an angelic face while drowning yours in filth. “She wants more already.”
You purred into Dehya’s folds, and the vibration jolted through her senses like heat lightning crackling across the arid desert sky. Her back arched as your voice rumbled through her senses, stomach muscles contracting to form a gorgeous ridge, like stepping stones leading up to where her chest threatened to spill out from the confines of her loosened top.
Unable to help yourself, you slid your palms up from her thighs to drag your nails over her hipbones, leaving trails that quickly reddened over her tan skin as you raked up the inviting curve of her stomach. A surprised mewl formed in Dehya’s throat, one that you almost missed when the meat of her thighs squeezed down on your ears the instant your hands weren’t there to hold them apart anymore.
You and Candace shared a giggle again, and though you didn’t mind being trapped between her warm muscles with your mouth latched on to the pulsing blossom of her cunt, you forced yourself to pry them apart again so you could angle your head to get a taste of every last inch of her.
“Is this really the same girl who was beating all those Eremites in arm wrestling matches an hour ago?” Candace crooned.
You weren’t sure which thrilled you more, that delicious, condescending edge that her syrupy-sweet voice had crystallized into, or the adorable grumble that left Dehya’s lips in protest, a half-hearted attempt at defending herself that was made all the less convincing with how she began to squirm under all the hands roaming over her body.
“Wonder what they’d all think seeing her like this,” you grinned, peering up at Dehya’s panting face, cheeks dusted like she’d applied a fresh layer of blush and kohl beginning to smudge around her eyes. “Poor baby’s had one too many to drink. Might as well take care of her ‘til she can think again.”
Dehya tried again to stammer out an objection, to insist that a couple of pints was laughable for someone of her tolerance, but the plush ring of your lips wrapped directly around her clit mid-sentence, morphing what she’d planned to say into a shuddering moan. Her head collapsed to the side, right into the cradle of Candace’s gentle palm like hot iron falling into a soothing pool of water. erupting into a cloud of steam that only fogged her brain up even further.
You dove your tongue into her core, feeling her walls clench around you in a frenzy before pulling back out with a fresh glaze of wetness spilling down your chin. “Messy, messy girl,” you mumbled, savoring every bit of her essence with loud laps that had even Candace’s spine tingling. “Does it make you this wet to show off for us?”
“Hah. No fair. Y-you,” she sank her teeth into her lower lip, determined not to trip over her words this time. “Y’told me to. Don’t play dirty.”
“Seems that playing dirty is exactly what you want us to do,” Candace murmured, still wrapped in that distinct coating of sweetness that effectively quelled Dehya’s will to argue back. “Look at that. You’ve completely soaked her face with your mess.”
Dehya made a little grunt of frustration, but her hips did her no favors as they chased after the slick of your mouth each time you pulled away. Your scalp began to sting from the claws of her gauntlet grazing it, practically kneading at your head and sending delightful little pulses all throughout your nerve-endings. Dehya knew her own strength, and she was always acutely conscious of it when handling you and Candace; that was precisely why getting her like this—drunk on both wine and pleasure to the point where her instincts started to take over—gratified you like nothing else.
The more you indulged in the juices bathing your tongue, the more she spilled out for you like a fresh spring. Greedily, you pressed your thumbs against her lips to spread them just wide enough for her to choke out your name, giving you a full view of how her walls pulsed for you before you dragged your tongue along every soft crevice and fold that you hadn’t been able to reach before.
“Fuck, f-fuck, baby. You’re gonna make me…mmph! Wait, Candace.” Amidst her drunken babbling, Dehya rasped out for the woman above her suddenly, tinged with a whine that was impossible to resist, even for someone of Candace’s resolve. “C…Candace…feel good”
“I know, my love. I know,” she whispered back, brushing through the mane of gold and brown spread out in her lap as if admiring hand-woven fabrics on display at the market. “She’s treating you so well, just like you deserve. Are you gonna cum for us?”
“Mmm, y-yeah. No, I mean…‘s not…I-I mean. Want you to feel good too.”
You rumbled out a song of approval, mouth still suctioned around her clit and making her gasp out with more force than she ever gave her enemies the satisfaction of hearing in the heat of battle. “Good girl,” you praised, pulling off of her with a pleased pop of your lips, as if her swollen bud were your favorite flavor of yalda candy. “How cute is she, Candace? She’s barely in her right mind and still thinking of you. Why don’t you let her make you feel good?”
Candace took her lower lip into her mouth, completely taken aback by the spotlight being turned on her in the blink of an eye. “I…yes, but who will look after Dehya?”
“She seems perfectly content to me,” you pointed out, resting your cheek on the flesh of her thigh and trying not to smirk when it earned another impatient huff from the woman in question. Then—with a trace of mischief—you added, “Unless you don’t trust me to take care of her?”
A flicker of embarrassment crossed over Candace’s face, no doubt catching on to your implication of how overprotective she could be when it came to—well, anything she was sworn to protect—but Dehya especially. Even when armed with the blessing of Shesepankh and a claymore that could shatter bones, Candace was always a few steps away from Dehya like the moon reflecting the sun’s light, shield and spear in hand should the lioness ever need an extra pair of fangs.
“Please,” Dehya chimed in. “C’mere Candace, please? Wanna taste you, get all the leftover wine out my mouth.”
“Oh?” Candace replied flatly, but it wasn’t lost on you how the translucent fabric adorning her thighs rubbed together with a very obvious desire. “With how eagerly you were swallowing down each cup, I’m certain you were quite fond of its flavor.”
“Like yours more.”
Slurred, cheeky, but irresistibly charming. Candace’s eyes darted away at that, no response coming to her other than a quiet, flustered cough.
“Let’s give our pretty girl what she wants,” you urged her gently. “We promised to spoil her, yeah?”
There was an adorable sort of disconnect written all over her face, made all the more pleasing by how rare it was for the woman so many saw as the village’s reliable guardian. It made you soften—how utterly perplexed Candace was, how out of her element she became by the idea of her own needs being met, for once.
“Plus,” you drawled. “You’d make for a real pretty view for me.”
This time, her demeanor crumbled fully, a deep tinge painting her skin reminiscent of the brilliant red that streaked across the desert sky when the sun and moon crossed paths at dusk. Despite the plethora of excuses Candace always seemed to have prepared for moments like these, your very intentional phrasing had worked like a charm. If you could convince her it was all for Dehya’s sake, all to fulfill your wishes, then you could trick her into allowing herself some leniency, even if for just one night.
“You two…” She shook her head, intending for her sigh to sound exasperated, but it came out notably winded instead, like the very prospect of receiving pleasure already had her short of breath. “You’re trouble.”
Dehya’s eyes gleamed, the sopping wet mess of her own cunt forgotten for a moment as Candace took the forefront of her muddled mind. The two of you watched, mesmerized, as she hesitantly slipped her shorts and underwear off to expose her bare form, nothing but her brilliant gold ornaments and silver moonlight adorning her dark skin. Her headpiece could have passed for a halo with the way the dancing candle flames illuminated it, a fitting visual for her, you mused.
“Can’t believe you were trying to hide all this from us,” you marveled. “You’d better treat her right, okay, Dehya?”
She didn’t need to be told twice—or, even once, for that matter. Lips reddened with gloss and wine parted before the woman above her had even spread her legs, and you could’ve sworn you heard Candace’s inhale catch in her throat. Unlike Dehya, you didn’t have the excuse of alcohol emboldening you, but you admired Candace’s body shamelessly all the same, eyes raking over the full curve of her chest as her top came loose and the dip in her waist that widened into smooth hips as she at last came to hover above Dehya’s waiting mouth.
“Gonna make her feel good,” Dehya barely mumbled out the promise before lifting her head to close the distance between her and Candace’s heat. Just one drag of her tongue had Candace gritting her teeth, and when one of Dehya’s strong arms slipped from your head to pull her further down, you knew that she was in good hands.
You buried your face back between Dehya’s thighs as encouragement, rubbing dizzying circles into her flesh with your thumbs as you made quick work of gathering up the thick pool of arousal that had seeped out of her in the short time you’d pulled away. Her clit throbbed like a heartbeat under your tongue when you teased the skin around it, begging you not to leave her neglected again, and when you enveloped it completely with your mouth, you could hear Dehya’s sharp moan clear as day, even with her nestled so deep into Candace that she may very well not be able to breathe.
In contrast to how far gone Dehya was, Candace had a harder time allowing herself to slip. Every graceful slope of her body oddly stiff with abashment—arms crossed modestly over her body, hips wiggling with the reflexive urge to pull away from something so hedonistic, and cascading locks of indigo purposely draped in a manner so that they covered up her chest.
As endearing as it was, how indecent she seemed to find her own pursuit of pleasure, you made it your personal mission to have her every bit as blissed out as Dehya. You paused your rhythmic suckling around her clit to catch her attention, draping your hand over the one that was still tangled in your hair and guiding her to move it higher.
“S’ no good. She’s still holding out on us,” you frowned, a slippery curve of your lips that Dehya could feel molding against her sensitive skin. “C’mon Dehya, work a little harder, baby. Make her let go.”
Obediently, Dehya’s other hand was on Candace in an instant, fingers curling around her hips to physically pull her out of her own head and down against Dehya’s with not a single inch of space left between them. Candace’s high-pitched moan had you cursing every second you’d spent letting her stand by without a drop of enjoyment for herself, regardless of how much it fulfilled her simply to watch. You could tell that even she was shocked by her own reaction, one palm flying up to clasp over her mouth, while the other fell to grasp at Dehya, feeling around for something to steady herself with before settling for a handful of her chest.
The bedroom was full of wet smacking sounds and moans that increased by the second, Dehya’s needy, drunken ones mixing with Candace’s sickeningly sweet ones to form a symphony that, coupled with the view of Candace writhing on Dehya’s mouth, could’ve been enough to get you off without a single touch. Your underwear was distractingly damp against your skin, every bit as sticky and hot as the pools and pools of nectar Dehya filled your mouth with.
“Good girl, Dehya, ah. You’re too…t-too good at this,” Candace panted, blue nails digging into her own cheek as she tried desperately to suppress the indecent noises rising in her throat.
“M-mmm. Taste amazin’, feel amazin’,” she drooled out between licks, borderline incoherent, but still enough to have Candace’s thighs squeezing around her head. “S’good. More, wanna taste all of you.”
The leg that you had propped up on your shoulder was practically thrashing by now, and when Dehya’s calf curled weakly around your shoulders in an uncoordinated attempt to pull you closer to her, you knew that she was nearing her limit. It was exactly how you liked her; pampered to a degree where her muscles were just an accessory, no need for strength or force, allowing you to mold her body in whichever way you saw fit.
Candace lurched forward, arms beginning to tremble and eyes snapping open to search for you in a panic. It gave you a bit of a power rush, knowing what she was seeking from you.
“It’s too much, my love. I’m not…ah! Not used to—” Her teeth sank into her swollen bottom limp mid-warning, unable to fight back another gasp that Dehya’s tongue was so hellbent on coaxing out of her. “I’m afraid I might…”
This time, she trailed off on her own accord, gold and blue irises darting away from you in shame. Dehya nearly keened when you pulled off of her just seconds before she came undone, hips bucking wildly when you tried to soothe her wriggling with a long, languid lick.
“It’s okay, baby.” As gently as you could, you reached out to rest your hand over Candace’s where it clung to Dehya’s chest for purchase. “See how hard Dehya’s trying to make you feel good? Let it all out for us. I wanna see her pretty face covered in your cum.”
Candace’s face heated up furiously at that, head darting away to press her flushed cheek into her shoulder. If you hadn’t been so eager to latch your mouth back on to Dehya, you would’ve teased her for it just to get her squirming around even more on the makeshift throne of Dehya’s face.
Your words seemed to be the final push needed to send both of them over the edge, because all it took was a few sloppy strokes of your tongue around Dehya’s clit to have her creaming on it. A drawn-out moan that you hadn’t even intended to make reverberated through your throat, but it paled in comparison to the sounds bursting to life between the two women above you. You rested a palm on Dehya’s stomach as her climax had her back surging up off the carpet, feeling her lungs expand under your touch as she let out cute, shallow little pants into Candace’s heat that amplified the intensity of her high.
Candace finally gave up on covering any part of herself, now pawing helplessly at the softness of Dehya’s breasts as she tossed her head to the side, body forming an arch to match the crescents that decorated her attire as she came apart on Dehya’s mouth. Her thighs were shaking from the sheer force of the release she’d denied herself for so long, even Dehya’s firm grip on her couldn’t control the pleasure-drunk grind of her hips—a depravity she’d surely scold herself for later.
By the time Dehya’s high had ebbed, you couldn’t keep up with the wetness dripping down your chin anymore, nor could you free yourself from the way her thighs kept you trapped between them, practically tempting you to keep lapping away until she was sent into a fit of overstimulation. She and Candace had barely caught their breath before you noticed Candace’s half-lidded eyes go wide, and, with a clumsiness so unbecoming of her, she slid off of Dehya’s face to fret over her with a series of breathless questions, clearly appalled by her own lack of composure.
“Relaaax, Candace. ‘S fine, I’m fine,” Dehya puffed out a light giggle. “Just…both of you, c’mere. Please?”
You gave her thighs a squeeze, and despite her exhaustion, she jumped a bit. “Gotta free me from your clutches first, wildcat.”
With an embarrassed cough, the warm weight of Dehya’s thighs un-snaked from around your head so that you could crawl over to get a proper look at her and Candace. Between the burning skin, tousled hair, and cloudy, unfocused eyes, all three of you looked far more intoxicated than Lambard’s Tavern could ever leave you feeling.
Candace gave you a soft smile when you met her gaze, already taking it upon herself to wipe Dehya’s face clean from all her juices with a cloth from her coffee table, but not before you caught a glimpse of those pretty features of hers ruined to perfection, just like you’d hoped to see. Dehya nuzzled into your hand as you pet her head, still not through basking in you and Candace’s shared attention.
“How was your reward, pretty girl?”
“This is my reward.” She let out an airy sigh, and you might’ve brushed it off as simple flattery if you hadn’t known her any better.
The three of you could’ve remained at the tavern until sunrise, watching Dehya run through glass after glass until she collapsed unconscious into your arms, but no amount of alcohol could compare to how drunk she got on you.
round three! ꨄ︎ frost and crimson
pairing: arlecchino/reader/columbina
content: dom!reader, switch!columbina, sub!arlecchino, fingering (columbina rec.), oral (reader rec.), petplay, arle is collared & leashed, some degradation/humiliation, bondage, slight objectification, basically reader & bina bully arlecchino a bit lol
The night was shrouded in a pale haze of moonlight and illuminated amber by the hearth’s flickering glow; a clash of frost and crimson reminiscent of the pair of women sitting before you.
Fingers that were only delicate enough to belong to one pranced up the grays and whites of Arlecchino’s suit, occasionally stopping to prod at her with the hopes of eliciting some sort of reaction, only for that same calm, faintly amused expression to persist on The Knave’s face.
From where you observed them in your chair, the image of a wolf and a rabbit came to mind; only in this case, the rabbit had taken up the role of predator, toying gleefully with her meal before at last being given permission by you to tear into it.
Columbina’s nails lingered over the broach pinned to Arlecchino’s collar, tracing over its sharp edges with a quiet desire that wasn’t lost on Arlecchino. So, those scarred, lightless pupils of hers flickered up to you, relaying the question that was on Columbina's mind with a simple arch of her eyebrow.
“Go ahead, Bina,” you told her softly. “It won’t make much of a difference, though. We’re not touching her, tonight.”
“I simply wish to see,” Columbina replied.
Arlecchino remained perfectly still, breaths unwavering as Columbiina’s lithe fingers removed her death-eyed ornament and began popping open the buttons of her jacket, just low enough until her cleavage was exposed, peeking out through the black sheer of her undershirt.
“What an honor, for the Moon Goddess to find me a sight worthy of opening her eyes for.”
Behind the lace of her mask, Columbina’s lashes remained sealed shut, but the smile that played at her lips told you that she was keenly aware of every detail in the room, right down to the flames crackling to life under Arlecchino’s skin. She took the liberty of undoing a few more buttons so that Arlecchino’s suit jacket came completely loose, white cloth slipping down her toned shoulders and draping over the curve of her waist.
Still, the woman was unperturbed, jaw tilted upwards, spine straightened with a level of discipline that was almost unnerving—largely because of how it defined her capacity for cruelty just as much as her obedience.
“You seem awfully uninterested, Arlecchino,” you noted. “Somewhere else you’d rather be?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she replied evenly. “But I wasn’t aware that self-expression was necessary for a mere tool such as myself.”
“Tool is a bit too harsh, don’t you think?” you feigned offense, leaning forward in your chair and resting your cheek in the cradle of your palm. “We have much more fun with you than that. You’re more like a toy. Or a pet.”
Arlecchino’s eyes glinted, flint igniting against the obsidian of her irises to create a momentary spark. Not the red of danger, but the red of lust—though, in her case, they could be one and the same. Just as the words had left your mouth, Columbina’s index finger, which had been gliding absentmindedly along the dog collar she’d attached to Arlecchino's throat, slid beneath the leather and snapped it back against her skin, just forceful enough to create a dull smack.
Arlecchino hardly made a sound, but her teeth clenched just enough to make her jaw flex, as though restraining an instinctive snap of her canines. Those crimson crosses at last broke eye contact with you to fixate on the deceptively innocent face of her assailant. Even so, there was no ill-intent in Arlecchino’s gaze, no indignation, just a quiet curiosity. To see what the pair of you might do to her when she presented herself as an offering.
“Play nice, Bina,” you warned her, though it hardly read as sincere when the notes of amusement were evident in your voice. If Columbina could read between the lines as effortlessly as Arlecchino could, she may even take it as you actively encouraging her behavior.
Instead, she hummed in acknowledgement, docile as ever despite her being somewhat unsatisfied with Arlecchino’s reaction; or lack thereof. Then, as if in apology, she ran her soothing touch down Arlecchino’s arm muscles until she reached the soot-black of her hands. They were warm, buzzing with perpetual heat that reminded her of firewood that had long been burnt to charcoal on a winter night.
Columbina lifted one of Arlecchino’s ashen hands and brought it to her pale pink lips, pressing a kiss to the back of it with the very same chivalry The Knave always extended towards her.
“You’ll be a good dog, won’t you?” she whispered into her skin.
“A dog is only as obedient as their owner trains them to be.”
A vapid threat, but enough to maintain some semblance of poise, at least. You leaned forward in your seat, looking oddly pleased with Arlecchino’s response. “Let’s put those claws away, then. Just in case.”
The ribbon coiled around Columbina’s calf slipped down her skin like freshly fallen snow as she undid the bow holding it together and pulled Arlecchino’s arms behind her back. She put up no resistance as she was bound, even when Columbina purposely pressed her knee into the space between her thighs as she leaned over Arlecchino’s shoulder to tie her wrists together.
“Are you enjoying yourself, Miss Columbina?”
“I can sense your heart racing,” she commented. A non-answer typical of her, but enough for the both of you to gather that yes, she was very much enjoying herself.
Arlecchino’s mouth twitched at its corner. You knew just as well as she did that the white silk binding her arms behind her back could’ve been reduced to dust in the blink of an eye had she not been fully, unwaveringly invested in the role you’d assigned her.
“This defeats the purpose, does it not?” She lifted her gaze back to you, and the view of her from above—arms restrained, neck collared and leashed, and head tilted inquisitively in search of an answer—almost made her appear harmless. Almost like the loyal, obedient dog she was meant to embody for you, tonight. “How am I meant to please you if I’m completely bound?”
“The purpose is to see how well you can behave,” you reminded her. Cheek resting lazily in your palm as though you were watching a Korolevskiy Troupe performance of little interest, you beckoned Columbina over, legs spreading to make room for her in your lap.
She complied immediately, rising from her spot on the floor with all the grace of smoke wisps dancing in the sky, tugging on Arlecchino’s leash to drag her along towards you. Compared to the melodic chimes of her footsteps, Arlecchino followed behind in a far less elegant manner, forced to shuffle against the wooden floor on her knees with as much dignity as she could retain, head ducked and eyes obscured by a curtain of black and white hair.
They settled before you, Arlecchino kneeling between your spread legs, and Columbina floating down like petals of a Moon-Prayer Blossom to land in your lap. You rested your chin on the slender slope of her shoulder as she molded her spine against the softness of your chest, peering down at the woman at your feet together. Without needing to be told, or, perhaps acting on her own desire, Columbina wrapped the leash once around her palm and gave it a harsh tug, forcing Arlecchino to lift her head entirely.
Just as those dead eyes came into view, Columbina opened hers, a milky starlit sky meeting the fallen shadow of the crimson moon. Her lashes fluttered as she adjusted to the low, sultry lighting in the bedroom, and together, you took a moment to appreciate Arlecchino in her full glory, without any thick coats or imposing, folded arms to cover up her chest spilling from her bra beneath the torn sheer. It was a sight that few would ever dare to imagine, let alone hope to see in their lifetime, and yet all it took was a simple order from you to achieve.
Maintaining eye contact with her, you pressed your lips to Columbina’s shoulder, letting a sweet sound of approval vibrate against her skin when she tilted her head for you, locks sweeping like a dark tide to invite you to mark the expanse of her neck.
“Do you like what you see, Bina?” you asked between pecks.
She hummed absentmindedly, but her bare foot reached out to dip beneath Arlecchino’s chin, delighted when her head moved obediently along with the feather-light push of Columbina’s toes. As if examining a precious relic in the light, she tilted Arlecchino’s sharp jaw from one side to the other without a shred of resistance.
“Hmm. It’s a shame she can only watch us.”
Arlecchino’s fingers flexed in their bindings, claws itching to feel flesh beneath them.
“Would you rather take her place? You’d make a pretty pet, too, little dove.”
Columbina pondered this for a moment, her resolve ultimately waning as the warm sensation of your kisses blossomed up her throat, sealing her in place with ease. “No,” she decided, the beginnings of a smile creeping into her voice. “It’s quite refreshing, looking down at her like this.”
It was difficult for either of you to gauge whether she was taunting Arlecchino, or making an innocuous statement about how she typically loomed over most others—though, you wouldn’t be surprised if that ambiguity had been Columbina’s exact intent. Your lips imprinted a smirk into her porcelain skin. “Hear that, Arle? You’d better not disappoint her.”
Arlecchino’s throat felt oddly dry as she watched your fingers dip beneath the billowing fabric of Columbina’s dress to cup her underwear, a soft mound emitting so much warmth in comparison to the rest of her body, cooled by the waves of moonlight perpetually radiating off of her.
She opened her mouth to respond, barely clearing her throat in time to avoid a crack that would have been nothing less than damning.
“That’d be a more viable command had I been tasked with anything to begin with.”
“Watch,” you said simply.
Columbina’s breath came out shaky as you dove beneath the waistband of her undergarments at last, fingers dragging over her folds in a manner that was almost noncommittal until you reached the tiny pool of her essence that had begun to gather at her slit. Far more excited than that ethereal face of hers would ever let you know.
“You’re wet? I’ve barely even touched you, Bina.” You nibbled at her earlobe, rolling the tender flesh between your teeth and relishing in the quiet shudder of her fragile frame. “You really like having her on a leash, don’t you?”
Her half-giggle was confirmation enough, wispy and musical and morphing into a sudden gasp when you spread the slick on your fingers up to her clit, coating her with the evidence of her own arousal.
On the surface, it appeared that you were the ones putting on a show for Arlecchino, but the way your clinical gaze remained locked on her even as you toyed with Columbina’s body, the way Columbina’s eyes refused to squeeze fully shut even as that familiar, far-off look began to glaze them over, told her that she was very much the real source of entertainment here. She wasn’t sure which had her insides stirring more—the sweet sounds your hands coaxed out of Columbina, or the knowledge that she could provide this much gratification simply by kneeling before you.
“Have you thought about this often?” you teased the woman in your arms, circling under the hood of her clit just slowly enough to keep her relief limited to tiny, fleeting jolts that left her craving more. She nearly found herself pouting in frustration, but oddly enough, being denied the needs that had always been so easily fulfilled for her all her life thrilled her more than anything else could. “Seeing Arlecchino look so pathetic? Watching us like a dog begging at the dinner table while I play with you in front of her?”
Columbina’s spine jolted delightfully, a pulse of kuuvahki rippling through her veins and causing her to yank at Arlecchino’s leash especially hard. Said woman blamed the low growl she let out on how sudden the force had snaked around her throat, but you knew as well as she did that your words had fulfilled their purpose of feeding into the spark in her chest with the hopes of igniting a wildfire.
In truth, Arlecchino looked far from pathetic to a point that was admittedly impressive, but Columbina’s reaction to your taunts had been enough to make her unreadable expression falter at last. The knit of her eyebrows, however slight, made your core positively coil with satisfaction.
“You’re so cute, Bina,” you murmured, drawing out the glide of your hands just slow enough to earn a sweet, needy whimper from her. “And all mine tonight, yeah?”
Pushing the dainty fabric of her underwear to the side, you gave Arlecchino a perfect view of Columbina squeezing tight around you the instant you pushed your finger past her entrance, like her body was claiming you as hers just as you claimed her as yours. The silk of her walls wrapped around you like a pretty pink ring adorning your finger, eagerly swallowing you up all the way in one fell swoop.
Columbina sighed as you nestled as deep inside of her as you could go, engulfed to the last knuckle and palm flattening against her clit. You remained motionless as you watched her rock shamelessly into your touch, accepting an offering that, for once, she knew held no unspoken condition of reciprocity. And yet, she still wished to give back.
“Yours,” she breathed out at last, a dreamy smile playing at the crescent of her lips.
Arlecchino felt as though a spider were crawling its way up her spine, each wet plunge of your finger and angelic moan that it earned from Columbina pricking at her nerve endings like tiny claws. Despite her self-control keeping her perfectly bound in place, another tug at her leash from Columbina forced her to lurch forward unexpectedly, face to face with a sight that had her mouth watering like a wolf catching the scent of freshly spilled blood.
“Another,” Columbina pleaded, arching forward to press the swell of her clit harder against your palm. “Ah. Please?”
You hummed playfully. “Already?”
“Mmm. I can handle it. I always take you well, don’t I?” Her head tipped back against your shoulder, but under the fan of her dark lashes, her eyes continued to observe The Knave with unsettling calm, the same way the full moon gazed down passively on the world regardless of what state it was in. “B-besides, hah, look. Our puppy’s watching with great interest. Won’t you show her how it’s done?”
Your heart leapt in your chest, partially out of shock, and partially due to Arlecchino’s reaction. She shifted, a movement that she probably hoped to pass off as simply adjusting her position, but you didn’t miss the subtle press of her thighs together. Oh.
Columbina may very well be the only person in Teyvat who could get away with referring to Arlecchino in such a manner— a fact that she was just as acutely aware of as you, if the smug lilt in her tone was any indication. Spine tingling, you began to get the feeling that all three of you had taken far more of a liking to this dynamic than ever expected.
So, you complied with her wish. Her walls were so soft around your fingers, squeezing and wrapping around them so delicately like gentle kisses, fragile as the beat of dove wings. Your fingertips brushed against those velvety ridges inside of her, and a sweet gasp spilled from her berry-tinted lips, noticeably more reactive than usual.
There was no doubt in your mind that she was exaggerating her reactions just as a way to rile Arlecchino up—a mischief that would have seemed unheard of for the Moon Goddess had you not known her any better. Arlecchino surely saw through her intentions as well, but they still had the desired effect regardless. Her lips had pressed together into a tight red line akin to the webs she wove with her crimson bloodfire, only this time, she was the one caught.
Columbina’s back arched off your chest when your palm pushed down on her clit in an especially deep thrust, ribs protruding against her skin like the strings of a harp. “That’s my girl. You always grip me so tight, no matter how many times I stretch you out,” you crooned, pressing your free hand against her stomach with the hopes of steadying her in your lap. “You were made for my fingers, yeah?”
Columbina shuddered. She still hadn’t grown accustomed to it—praise borne from intimacy rather than worship, praise that filled her insides with a warm glow of familiarity rather than isolating her onto a far away pedestal carved of frigid ore. The novelty would never wear off for her; not after centuries of enduring hollow reverence.
“Mhm. I told you, I always do a good job taking everything you give me,” she sighed. “Feels…right. My body isn’t suited for anyone else.”
You agreed with a knowing murmur, tracing your hand up and down the smooth, milky expanse of her stomach while your fingers sank in and out of her like tides guided by the moon, lapping lazily at the shore.
“Do you wish it was you inside of her, Arlecchino? Feeling how wet and soft she is around those brutish claws of yours?”
Columbina tilted her head down with a quirk of her lips, sharing your view of Arlecchino’s ravenous gaze as she squeezed sinfully around you, just to add a bit more fuel to The Knave’s undying fire. However cold and unfeeling Arlecchino made herself, you knew that Columbina could sense the undercurrents of her true emotions behind that veil of smoke that rose from her charred skin.
She swallowed. “Am I allowed to wish for such a thing?”
“Of course you are, baby,” you said, and when she was this deprived, the term of endearment stirred her arousal the same way a physical touch would. “But you’ll never get it. A little dove like her needs to be treated with gentle hands.”
Columbina could sense the hot ripple of desire passing through Arlecchino’s skin—her composure was slipping, even if only the slightest bit.
It could be interpreted as an act of mercy, but truly, all Columbina wanted was to have a bit more fun. She angled her head towards you with a sigh, that mischievous, crescent moon smile appearing on her lips again as she whispered something in your ear. Arlecchino feigned disinterest in a manner that was second nature to her, but her eyes didn’t dare blink while the two of you engaged in a hushed conversation, as if she were physically trying to visualize the words spilling between your lips.
“Do I have your permission?” Columbina tilted her head.
“A goddess like you doesn’t need to ask for authority, does she?”
The goddess in question frowned at that, clearly unsatisfied that you hadn’t played along, especially when a deity was the last thing she wanted to be to you when draped over your lap with your fingers buried inside of her. So, with an apologetic giggle, you placed your hand over hers where Arlecchino’s leash was wrapped firmly around it and encouraged her to tug again.
“Alright, angel, have your fun.”
Columbina did exactly that. The moonlight illuminated her form to make her look every bit as angelic as you’d suggested while her actions were anything but. She reached out to card through Arlecchino’s two-toned hair, tender for just a split second before grabbing a small fistful and yanking her forward so that her head was pulled into the waiting space between your thighs. All that escaped Arlecchino was a low grunt of surprise, but it was enough to have your core pulsing with desire, both over Columbina’s unusual harshness and Arlecchino letting her have her way.
“That’s it. Control her for me, okay, Bina? Do that, and I’ll make you feel so good.”
To solidify the promise, your fingers curled inside the plush embrace of her walls, creating a wet squelch that had even the typically unashamed goddess squeezing her legs together out of embarrassment. She nodded with a faint whimper, curling forward to bend Arlecchino to her will.
“I’m—hah—adept at communicating with animals,” she stuttered out, adorably earnest in a way that nearly had you sinking your teeth into the soft slope of her neck out of pure affection. “Go on, Arlecchino. Open your mouth like a good puppy.”
The wave of lust that crashed over Arlecchino upon hearing the command was so unexpected, she curled her sharp nails into the skin of her palms to contain it. Eyelids heavy, she gave a slow dip of her head, still managing to maintain unwavering eye contact as that stoney jaw of hers opened up to feast on you.
There was no careful first lick, no methodical testing of the waters like her usual mode of operation. Instead, her tongue slid against your folds like flames licking at firewood, so uncharacteristically desperate—fully committed to the role of a pet. Your breath caught in your throat the instant her hot muscle flattened against you, as though she’d concentrated all the burning blood in her body to that single point of contact. Columbina was just as taken by the sight as you were, walls fluttering wildly around your fingers even when you’d become too distracted to move them inside of her.
Arlecchino hummed into your heat like a wildcat purring in satisfaction over a freshly caught meal, and you knew right away that this would be more of a problem than you’d anticipated. The flicks of her tongue were far from the slow and steady buildup you were accustomed to from her, they were ravenous and uncontrolled, threatening to erupt into the very wildfire you’d—admittedly—been coaxing her into.
“Poor thing, she’s starving,” you noted breathlessly, giving Columbina’s waist a gentle squeeze to signal for her to reign Arlecchino in.
A gravelly groan rumbled in Arlecchino’s throat as Columbina tugged at her hair again to pull her back for a moment, but its vibration went directly to your clit nonetheless. Though she said nothing, you could tell by the raw intensity in her eyes that she was abundantly pleased with how much of your essence had already coated her mouth, like a fresh application of lipstick. Or, perhaps, her favorite meal; she was most fond of natural tastes, after all.
Despite how your body instantly longed for that addictive glide of warmth again, your fingers got back to work inside of Columbina, spreading in a scissor-like motion and cooing when her walls stretched so readily for you, eager for a third finger even if it pushed her to her limit.
“L-like—ah, a-ah. Do you like it, puppy?” Columbina asked, made all the sweeter by the airy moans accentuating her voice. “Are you hungry for more?”
Arlecchino drew her tongue slowly over her bottom lip, sucking your essence onto her tastebuds in a wordless answer. Other than that, she remained quiet, as though Columbina were asking her a trick question.
Waiting for your permission, you realized.
“Good dog,” you praised. “You can speak, Arlecchino.”
“It’s more important that you like it, no?” she uttered at last, thick with arousal and even huskier than her usual tenor, heavy with the weight of all the impulses she was keeping at bay. Then, with just a drop of desire that tasted like the finest cream mixed into dark, bitter coffee, she added. “I’d…be grateful for another taste.”
Ever the diplomat. You might’ve found it bothersome, how she kept up the act even now, if it weren’t for the very obvious craving woven into every restless twitch of her toned muscles. It was as close to writhing with need as you may ever get her.
At your signal, Columbina let her pity for Arlecchino take over, giving the leash in her hand another twirl to wrap it tighter around her palm. This time, Arlecchino went straight for your inner thighs, lapping up all the juices from both you and Columbina that had smeared over your skin; a blend more intoxicating than any Snezhnayan spirit.
“Look at that,” you drawled into Columbina’s ear, pulling your fingers out of her with a filthy squelch to press them down on Arlecchino’s spread tongue. “Greedy mutt’s licking us both up. One isn’t enough for her.”
Columbina puffed out a laugh, another dribble of wetness trickling from her slit as it squeezed around nothing, crying out for your fingers again. “I think she’s a good girl,” she replied with a gentleness that told you she truly was treating Arlecchino as she would any animal companion. “She’s keeping us clean while she makes—mmph—makes a mess of herself.”
While Columbina found the sincerity of your praise novel, Arlecchino found your condescension novel—more specifically, how the two of you spoke about her as though she weren’t even there, as though she truly was a pet that couldn’t understand. It sent a strange thrill shooting up her spine, one that she kept under tight wraps, just as she did with all the other oddities that got her heart pumping.
You paused to catch your breath, teeth digging into your lip when Arlecchino parted her mouth wide to swirl her tongue around your folds from top to bottom, messy and slippery and rising in temperature dangerously fast. “How wet do you think she is down there? You think Father is leaking for us in her underwear?”
The sound Arlecchino made rumbled dangerously against your heat, setting off a chain reaction that made your fingers curl extra hard inside Columbina, which in turn had her pulling at the white threads of Arlecchino’s hair even tighter. A burst of ghostly blue surged out around you, and then, a puff of laughter as Columbina found the answer to your question with the aid of her kuuvahki.
“Yes,” she confirmed happily, without a care in the world for preserving Arlecchino’s pride. “She really, really likes the taste of you.”
Your walls tightened at that, and you knew Arlecchino took notice of it by the way the serpent of her tongue trailed ravenously down your folds before dipping into your entrance, itching to experience you clenching around it for herself. The look in her eyes as she peered up at you was far more charged than you were accustomed to, black holes where no light could typically be found now ignited with longing—an emotion she so rarely allowed herself to succumb to, let alone express.
Columbina began to realize that your fingers had slowed their pumping inside of her, and greedily, she draped herself over your chest, black and magenta silk splaying out all over your skin as tried to lure your focus back to her.
“Don’t forget about me,” she complained, so soft in contrast to the vindictive edge her next words held. “She’s just a toy tonight, isn’t she? You said you’d make me feel good.”
“If you want my attention so bad, I can add another finger,” you teased, trailing your index finger around her stretched out entrance, pushing against the soft pink flesh without fully slipping inside. She hiccuped in surprise, legs jolting in your lap and closing around Arlecchino’s head.
You had no chance to brace yourself before Arlecchino buried her tongue even deeper inside you in her first true act of defiance of the night, nose brushing against your clit to make your stomach bubble with rising pressure. It wasn’t just the squeeze of Columbina’s pillowy thighs against her cheeks or the tightening leather around her throat that had her moaning into you, it was the taste of you flooding her tongue as she nestled it as far inside your walls as she could go. She dug into you not only like a dog, but a starved one, tilting her head to the side without Columbina’s permission to get as much of her mouth on your slick skin as she could, completely enveloping your clit in the process.
You clenched your teeth, already beginning to see stars, but even as you used your free hand to tap Columbina’s clenched thighs, she paid you no mind, too preoccupied with the delicious rhythm of your fingers dragging in and out of her walls.
“Bina,” you gasped out. “Don’t forget to keep her in check.”
Columbina’s eyes had gone hazy, threatening to shut again as all the stimulation of the waking world was beginning to become too much for her. Still, she tried to obey, using her hold on Arlecchino’s leash to force her head back and practically pry her off of you. Even with the loss of her tongue, your insides were crackling with lightning from the knowledge that she had lost herself in you for those precious few seconds.
“Bad dog still thinks she’s the one in control,” you clicked your tongue. “Did I tell you that you could do that?”
Arlecchino didn’t look guilty in the slightest, but she was left panting helplessly with her tongue still extended, as if she may very well go mad if she didn’t dive back into you that instant.
“Should I punish her?” Columbina mused, reaching out to swipe some of your essence from the corner of The Knave’s mouth. Before you could respond, she brought it to her lips, trying it for herself and letting out a sweet hum of satisfaction. “Mmm. No wonder she’s so desperate for you.”
“She’s acting like a mutt in heat,” you sneered.
Columbina tilted her head. “Perhaps she doesn’t know any better?”
A different kind of heat had consumed Arlecchino now, one that she was wholly unfamiliar with—abashment. Prickles of shame not only for how you degraded her, but for how much enjoyment she was getting out of it. She swallowed thickly, rasping out an apology that, all things considered, seemed sincere enough. A lack of self-restraint was unbecoming of her, no matter the circumstances.
“Remember to keep her like this, baby,” you directed Columbina, rubbing lazy circles into her clit with your thumb that had her melting back against you. “I’ll teach her how to behave.”
She could only manage a nod, too preoccupied by the onslaught of sensations that overwhelmed her system. Colors, scents, sounds, they all echoed like songs in a cavern around her dizzy head. Arlecchino’s huffs and grunts were borderline pitiful now, hands twisting in her restraints, aching to grasp at your thighs. But all she got was Columbina securing her head in place with an electromagnetic surge of kuuvahki, pressing Arlecchino’s lolling tongue against your folds for you to use to your liking.
You sighed, warm slick draping over your cunt like a blanket. “Stay,” you warned her, giving your hips an experimental grind and taking satisfaction in how obediently still she remained. “Just take what I give you like a good puppy.”
Columbina’s hips had begun to wriggle impatiently again in your lap, but she still played her part with adorable diligence, nails digging into Arlecchino’s scalp as she began to drag her face against your cunt.
The tension in your abdomen picked up right where it left off, as did the dragging of your fingers against Columbina’s walls, so wet now that an utterly sinful noise accompanied each pump of your fingers. Despite all the power contained in her fragile form, you could feel her trembling from the effort it took her to drag Arlecchino’s head up and down your heat when her own insides were being churned so wonderfully.
“Good girl,” you whispered, tucking a lock of raven hair behind her ear to press kisses to her cheek. “Use her to make me cum.”
“Good girl,” Columbina repeated after you, light and melodic, a string of praises passing from you, to her, to the bound and muzzled canine at your feet. “Good girl, good girl, good girl.”
Her cheeks were tinged pink, almost as much of a rarity as the view of Arlecchino’s brows knitting together as the sweet praises bathed her tastebuds along with your essence. Despite the ache in her jaw, she opened her mouth wider, ensuring that every inch of her tongue was being used to get you off. If she could control nothing else, she would at least make herself the most effective tool she could be.
“I’m sorry—ah,” Columbina whimpered, fingers losing their grip around Arlecchino’s head as yours brought her to her breaking point. “I’m trying b-but…I’m going to—”
“Shh. It’s okay, little dove. You did so well for me.”
Columbina arched forward with a broken cry, clit throbbing against your palm and hips rocking into your curled fingers to at last reach her high. You snaked an arm around her body to secure her, feeling her heartbeat flutter like a bird trapped in her ribcage as you rested your palm over the boney valley between her breasts.
The tremors of her body against yours were so delicate compared to the sheer power radiating from the kuuvahki fluctuations she lost control of. It created a hypnotizing thrum in Arlecchino’s head, one that quieted all the echoes in her mind and left it pleasantly empty. The sensation soothed her, lowering her guard enough to have her groaning into you and making each grind against her outstretched tongue all the more mind-numbing for you.
Columbina let go of Arlecchino completely as she fell against you with a sigh, walls still twitching around your fingers from the aftershocks of her climax. Even without being held down, Arlecchino still kept her head in place for you, dutifully fulfilling her purpose as a warm, dripping mouth for you to get off on.
That was the detail that sent you over the edge shortly after Columbina, how willingly she offered herself up as an object for your pleasure. Heat erupted in your core, body tensing up beneath Columbina as you hit your peak, then relaxing as bliss washed over you, waves and waves of relief spreading from where Arlecchino was devouring you to every last nerve-ending in your body.
Everything around you was delightfully wet—your release mixing with Columbina’s to pool on Arlecchino’s waiting tongue, the droplets of sweat beading on Columbina’s pale skin like Moonfall Silver, and the steam rising from Arlecchino’s burning skin. It left you lightheaded, barely able to wrap your arms around Columbina’s waist as you both collapsed back into the seat cushions.
Arlecchino’s lust was palpable, manifesting in slow draws of her tongue that attempted to gather every bit of slick from her soaked chin, all while panting like a dog on a hot summer day. The sound alone was enough to make your hypersensitive clit twitch all over again.
Then, she swallowed it all down, straightening out her spine and aching shoulders to tilt her head at you, hair tousled and fluffed up to make her look nothing short of adorable—however much she may scoff at the notion.
“So—” she began, low and raspy, still fighting to regain control of her voice. “Was I a good dog for you?”
Columbina seemed just about ready to doze off, eyes already shut tight once more as her frantic little breaths slowed to a gentle rise and fall. All she could manage was a weak hum, so you reached down to the best of your ability and cradled Arlecchino’s face. A deep crimson had stained it—for once, blood pooling in her cheeks rather than splattering across them.
okay so law of assumption works. i've seen it, i've lived it, and TODAY the universe decided to send the confirmation in the form of a golden potato and honestly? most divine thing that's ever happened to me.
because think about it. what is this potato doing? it's just BEING golden. it's not stressing. it's not checking the 3D. it's not asking "but what if the good news doesn't come." it just EXISTS in its golden era fully and completely and the good news is already on the way. this potato is literally a neville goddard student and it doesn't even know it.
and now it's on your screen. that's not a coincidence. u attracted this potato. the potato is a sign. the potato is the universe winking at u going "yes dear it's working."
so we reblog. we assume. we receive. we thank the potato later.
i don't make the rules i just trust the process and apparently also the produce. 🥔✨
summary: jealousy, a shirt, and another guy's name end in something you've been waiting on for years.
tags: requited but assumed unrequited love, claire/jill/chris cameos bc to me they're all friends, confessions, porn with plot, jealousy/misunderstandings, reader has a vagina & boobs, fingering, oral (reader receiving), a singular spanking, reader referred to as “good girl,” dirty talk, creampie, doggy/from behind, tiny bit of aftercare
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut/nsfw, jealous sex, very lightly sub/dom reader/leon, reader drinking and going home with a stranger, mention of drunk one night stand
wc: 5.5K
a/n: well, once again this is a request sent in for this prompt list, with prompts 1, 14, and 106. and once again i got carried away. but i looooved writing this. 5k words of angst and smut. hell yeah brother
♪ — picture you by chappell roan [spotify] [youtube]
It’s supposed to be a celebration tonight. For your friend.
No matter how many times you remind yourself of it, you can’t help but get more and more depressed. You stare at the empty glass on the bar in front of you, wondering if just one more drink one more time would really hurt that bad. It’d be your third? Fourth? You’re honestly not sure.
You sigh and order another. Fuck it. Not like a hangover could make your life much worse, really.
As you wait for the bartender to replenish your glass, you let your gaze wander across the room. The banner, reading “HAPPY BIRTHDAY,” has fallen a bit, now reading something closer to “APPY BIRTHD.” Jill and Chris are arguing over one of them supposedly cheating at their billiards game. Some other friends are mingling around them, watching and laughing. A few random bar patrons have also joined the ring. Then your eyes land on Leon. And it’s like you lose a little more of your soul.
He’s leaning against the wall next to Claire, the birthday girl, smiling like nothing’s wrong. Like a mere hours earlier, he wasn’t ripping your heart out of your chest. She says something, gesturing to Chris, clearly telling an embarrassing story based on Chris’s indignant “hey!” Leon laughs. You want to throw up. And the fact that you’re this miserable over that man, sulking by yourself during a birthday celebration, makes you feel even more ill.
“Bad day?” You nearly jump out of your skin when a man sidles up to you. He’s not one of Claire’s friends, and no one you recognize from your field.
“You could say that,” you mutter. Fuck it. Might as well tell your woes to this random guy you’d never see again. Even if he’s just interested in a pity fuck, it’s at least a little more care than you feel from the guy you were pining over. He orders a drink and gives you a smile, something pitying, but nice all the same. His light brown hair is tousled, one of those guys who manages to run a hand through it and have it sit perfectly every time. He’s cute, you weren’t blind.
“I just got off work, I have time. Care to share?” He leans toward you. You catch a whiff of his cologne, something that must be called Midnight Musk. A bottle that was cheap, mostly rubbing alcohol, but is good enough for most men. He really is not your type at all.
But it doesn’t really matter. You’re lonely. A little heartbroken over a guy who didn’t even know he had your heart. You lay it all out for the guy.
It’s all your fault, you tell yourself. You remind yourself that Leon doesn’t know. Because you’ve never had the guts to tell him. But it hurts all the same. And maybe you’re being stupid. A little juvenile. But you’re so tired of yearning after him, dropping hints in all his blindspots. The man had saved the president’s daughter, narrowly escaped a virus twice now, and was a top federal agent. Yet he couldn’t see how you were laid out, red and bleeding in front of him.
You inhaled. Exhaled.
Get it together.
“You can’t wear that, Leon,” you do your best to bury the ache in your stomach. Leon turns to you, in an athleisure compression shirt, and what he’d exclaimed were his nicest pants.
“Why not?”
“If you’re trying to impress Claire, I don’t think she’s into half-gym, half-streetwear,” you pilfer through his wardrobe with a grumble. Picking out clothes for him to ask another woman on a date? You really may be at your most pathetic yet.
You finally stumble upon something noteworthy. A black knit sweater. You remember the last time he wore this. A reconnaissance mission together. Your cover? Two young lovers. He’d been sickeningly good at pretending. You remember every single millisecond of his hand in yours, on your back, pretending to fawn over you like a doting boyfriend. You’d be lying if it didn’t cross your mind often. Leon was much greener back then, sure, but there’s still something left of that softness in him, you think you see it sometimes when he’s with you. But the more time goes on, the more you just think you’re telling yourself what you want to hear.
“Here,” you practically shove it in his arms. Try not to look when he pulls off his current shirt to put it on.
“I forgot I had this,” he mumbles. “Don’t remember the last time I wore it.”
Ouch.
You stay silent, busying yourself with beginning to fold the rejected outfits, putting them back where they were previously. Leon makes a pleased noise.
“Yeah. You’re right,” he sighs. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” your voice cracks, and you swear under your breath.
“Everything alright?” Leon grabs your wrist to get you to look back at him. You only manage a side glance, wiping a stray tear from your eye. You feel so pathetic. Like a rejected teen. “Hey, whoa, what’s going on with you?”
“Allergies,” you croak. You’re not sure you can take Leon comforting you right now. Not with his stupid blonde hair, his stupid soft eyes, wearing an outfit you picked out so he could ask another girl out. On her birthday. At the party you were attending as well.
“You’re terrible at lying,” he sits you down on his bed. You feel sick to your stomach. “Let me help.” You can’t help but laugh, another tear rolling down your cheek.
“You can’t, it’s fine,” you lie. He could help. He could help by looking you in the eyes and telling you once and for all if he’s ever had feelings for you. If the little bit of hope you’d once had has been squashed once and for all, now that he’s recruited you as a behind-the-scenes wingman. But you suppose if that’s the case, that wouldn’t be very helpful at all. “I’ll be fine.”
“That’s not true,” he sees through you so easily. It makes all of it so much worse. You’re sad; angry. At yourself. Misguidedly, at Leon. For not knowing what you can’t seem to be able to tell him. Because you’re not sure you can live without him, even if that means being arms length from each other forever.
“Just drop it,” you finally snap. Red hot embarrassment floods through you at your reaction, but you’ve begun, and now you can’t stop the frustration. “I can’t believe I said I’d help you with this.”
“What?” He says your name, his hand on your shoulder. It feels like a burn. "What's that supposed to mean?" He thinks you're being a dick, insinuating something unflattering. You cover your face. You're just making all of this a bigger mess.
"Nothing, I'm," you look away from him and swallow hard. "You really don't remember the last time you wore that sweater?"
"No," he looks even more confused. "Is that what's wrong?"
"It's not the sweater, it's me, I'm sorry, I'm just gonna go." You stand. Your fists clench, nails digging into your palms so hard you’re almost sure there’ll be imprints for days. “Leon, I-” Your eyes are squeezed shut, you’re not sure you can bear to look at him. “Good luck with Claire. Really. I can’t- I can’t sit here and watch you fall in love with someone else.”
"I'm not in love with anyone," he finally says exasperatedly. His words fall over one another, messy. It shouldn't hurt, but it does. More than if he was in love with someone else, somehow. He's following you to the door as you gather your things. "Tell me what the fuck is going on, please. You are so-" He loses his words, throwing his hands up. "You're so aggravating! I hate this- I hate-" You can't bear to hear him finish the sentence. The door slams behind you.
Of course, you don’t tell this guy every detail. You’re not that intoxicated. But you give him the gist. He grimaces once you finish.
“Yeah, that’s pretty bad,” he’s scooted a bit closer since you’ve started talking. You pretend not to notice. The closeness is nice, even if it’s from a stranger. He glances over your shoulder, and you know exactly who he’s looking at. “He’s that guy over there? Mr. Brooding?”
“Yeah,” you stifle a laugh at his nickname. “I have real good taste, huh?”
“Hey, he’s not my type, but no judgment here.”
“What is your type, then?” You’re honestly shocked that you have the mind to flirt, even if it’s a weak attempt. This guy must be horny, because he eats it right up. He cocks an eyebrow, lays a hand on your leg as he takes the bait, describing his type as exactly you. You try your best not to twitch away. It’s the first time in a very long time that you’ve not denied someone’s advances. Always waiting. Always leaving room for Leon.
Now, that room is locked up.
You convince yourself to be charmed by this guy. Let yourself touch him, let him be a little handsy with you. You’re just a person. You like being touched, and you’re the slightest bit horny, so why not drown your sorrows in some pity sex. He didn’t seem like he’d harm you.
The last thing you remember fully is stumbling out of the bar alongside Mr. Kinda Cute, both of you pretty hammered, and hailing a cab together. You vaguely remember a voice calling after you, but you’re too drunk to care. You need something to cover up any real feeling right now.
The next morning, you wake up in a messy apartment that isn’t yours and sigh deeply.
Well, fuck.
Whatshisname is next to you, still passed out, rolled away from you after you’d had probably the sloppiest sex of your life. It wasn’t bad, but it sure wasn’t something to write home about. You swing your legs over the side of the bed, your feet hitting the floor fast. His mattress is on the floor.
You manage to find all of your clothes without issue, gathering up your belongings to get out of this guy’s life before he can wake and offer you something awkward like making breakfast.
Squinting at your phone, you see it’s already almost noon. Thank fuck it’s a Sunday. You’re not sure you could’ve mentally handled being late for work on top of all the other shit that had transpired in the past 24 hours. Unread messages from Leon, Claire, and a stray one or two from even Chris litter your inbox. You open the last two first.
CHRIS
Just wanted to see if you’re alright. Leon’s out of his mind worried about you.
I told him you can handle yourself if your date gets too frisky. Use protection ;)
CLAIRE
Hey, where’d you go? We haven’t had cake yet :( It’s your favorite
Leon’s freaking out. Please text him.
Hope you’re okay. Something’s weird with you two. Call me?
You frown. You shouldn’t have been such an asshole last night. Moping away at the bar while your friend was trying to celebrate her birthday. She spent half of it worrying about you. You’ll have to take her out to that brunch place she likes soon to make up for it. Maybe you’ll let her teach you to ride a motorcycle like she’s been hounding you to do, to have someone to go on joyrides with.
You stare at Leon’s name on your screen long enough for it to go black. You swear under your breath when it gives you a dead battery notification.
You start making your way towards a main road to hail a cab home.
Turns out whatshisface from the bar didn’t live more than ten minutes from you, so the cab ride was cheap and quick. You sigh as you head up the creaky stairs. You think you might spend the rest of the day moping in bed.
When you unlock the door, you nearly drop your jacket and keys. A familiar blonde head is passed out on the couch, hugging one of your throw pillows like its his childhood teddy bear. It’s a little cute.
You shut the door quietly, kicking off your shoes and dumping your stuff on the breakfast bar to deal with later. You watch Leon rest for a moment, trying to decide if you should let him sleep or wake him up. He must’ve picked your damn lock last night looking for you. Freak. The thought is affectionate.
You don’t have to choose, because in two seconds he’s stirring, sitting up and scrubbing his palms over his face with a groan. You don’t even pretend like you’re not staring at him.
“You’re lucky I don’t have my gun. I should’ve shot you, squatter.” Leon’s shoulders tense, rising as he takes in a deep breath. He looks at you for a second, and the slight glare in his eyes sends a chill down your spine. He’s never looked at you like that before.
“Where were you?”
“Out,” you reply, like a kid talking back to their parent.
“You disappeared, you can’t do that.”
“Why not? I’m an adult.”
“You- Who’s shirt is that?” You frown, and look down at yourself to find out as well. Fuck. You’d grabbed the guys t-shirt instead of yours. Oops. You recover quickly, as if it’s something you did on purpose.
“None of your business.”
“Is it from the guy who you fucked last night?
“How would you know?”
“You’re an adult,” he throws back at you. “I’m not stupid.”
“I know you’re not,” you cross your arms. You’re not sure how you’ve walked into your apartment and immediately pulled into an argument. “I just don’t see how it’s got anything to do with you.”
“It’s got everything to do with me.” You can tell he didn’t mean to say that. But it was out in the open now. Your traitorous heart skips a beat.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“You’re driving me insane, you know that?”
“I literally do not know what you mean.” Your voice is quieter than you intend. You’re catching on to what he does mean. And desire pools in your lower stomach before you can push it away.
“Take it off.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” he rises from the couch. His hands are on his hips now as he stares you down. His eyes drag over you, taking in the untucked shirt hanging over your skirt. In this way, it looked like you weren’t wearing pants. Leon feels something possessive wake in him. It should be his shirt on you. You, with no pants, hanging all over him on this rainy Sunday morning, cozied up on the couch like some domestic sitcom. Not you, in some other guy’s shirt, hair a mess from the night before, and a pout on your lips as you try your best to stay mad at him.
“Take what off?” You have to ask, because you’re sure that you’re making up what he’s insinuating.
“That shirt,” his jaw tenses. “Take it off. Now.” Your body betrays you. You can feel how damp your panties are growing. It’s fast, and far wetter than you’d been last night.
“Come over here and make me.” Your hands are trembling at your side, and you’re not sure if it’s from want or nerves. Leon swallows so hard you can see his Adam’s apple bob.
“Fuck,” is all he says before he’s rushing straight towards you. He backs you toward the front door until he’s towering over you, chest heaving. Your heart is racing, not in panic or fear, but from his closeness to you. The way there’s something dark in his eyes with want. He lifts your arms with gentle force, and yanks the shirt over your head in one smooth motion. The two of you stand there for a moment, your heavy breaths exhaling in tandem with one another. You’re almost sure that you must be dreaming, in a drunk stupor passed out somewhere.
You’re standing underneath Leon in your bra, skirt, and socks, but you’ve never felt more vulnerable. And never been more turned on. He’s got a possessive streak in his eye, and his hands are firm as they grip your hips. Before you know it, he’s on you, drawing a high pitched noise from you with a messy, hard kiss. It’s laced with desperation as he pulls your body into him, and you shiver as the fabric of his sleep-rumpled top, the one you’d picked out just the day before, tickles your bare skin.
You’re not sure how long the two of you stand there, making out heavily and trying your best to get under each other’s skin. It feels like forever, and you kind of hope it is. Leon’s lips stay melded to yours, tongue exploring your mouth, as he picks you up. A noise of surprise falls into your kiss, and you grab onto his shoulders tight. He kicks your bedroom door open and shut, throwing you on your bed. You’re a little stunned, dizzy from his kiss, and don’t move. He’s pulling off his shirt, his pants coming off with it, and you’re staring at every inch of his skin that is revealed.
“Like what you see?” He’s back on top of you before your short-circuited brain can respond. Leon notices your stillness, your uncharacteristic silence. He kisses your cheek, whispers now, a note of gentleness in his voice that was full of frustration a second ago. “Is this okay?” You barely manage to breathe out a yes, please, and he chuckles, low and full of something dirty. “Good. ‘Cause I’m gonna fuck you until you forget that asshole’s name.”
You’re absolutely sure your panties are soaked through, and you’re almost embarrassed when he slips his hand down, down, down and sighs when he feels it.
“Fuck,” he captures you in another deep kiss, rubbing over your wet heat deliciously slow. You moan into his mouth. He’s hard and straining against his briefs, you can feel it brush against your thigh as he presses you into the mattress. “You this wet last night? Hm?”
“No,” you breathe. Leon makes a noise of approval. He pulls your panties to the side to look at you, and you shiver at his fingers against your exposed pussy. “‘s just for you.”
“That’s what I thought,” he murmurs. “So good for me.” He places a kiss on your chest, just over your heart. The movement seems purposeful, and it sends a white-hot streak through your body. Leon slips his free hand under your back. “Lift up, wanna see you,” you obey immediately, his nimble fingers undoing the clasp of your bra without much fanfare. He throws it across the room and devours you again, hands roaming over the now exposed skin. He’s mumbling words like beautiful and want you so bad and you try your best to compartmentalize your racing thoughts to fully enjoy this moment. His hair tickles your skin the further he moves down, taking your skirt and ruined underwear with you.
You let out a long, animalistic whine when he licks a single, long stripe up your pussy. Leon’s fueled by it and repeats the movement again, stopping at your clit to suck it into his mouth. You bite your lip to hold back another loud noise, twitching against his steady hands as the move upwards to caress your breasts. He clocks your silence within seconds and is pulling away. You give him a confused look at his sudden change.
“Get on your knees,” he yanks your ankles with one hand towards the end of the bed. You feel like ants are crawling beneath your skin with how badly you crave his touch again. Leon’s got a face of concentration you’ve only seen on missions; a serious set in his brow, a commanding tone lacing his words. It’s unbelievably sexy. You’re not one who takes orders easily, but with his handsome face and rough hands manhandling you, you’re melting in his grip. Obedient. You want nothing more than his praise, to please him.
Your eyes nearly bug out of your head when his palm lands on your ass with a loud smack.
Oh. That’s new.
You’d be lying if you didn’t like it.
“What happened to all those noises?” He leans over your back, rubbing where he’s just surely left a red handprint. “I liked them,” he presses kisses down your spine. You shiver against his touch, gentle movements are a soft undertone to his otherwise firm words. “I want you to be loud for me, baby.” Baby.
If this is all horniness, and nothing else, you think you may die after this. Because you’re not sure you can ever get this out of your head. It’ll be etched like an epitaph in your brain.
“Okay?”
“Yes, okay,” you agree, breathless. “Please just fuck me, Leon. I can’t take it.”
“Yes, you can, sweetheart. I’ve got you,” you can feel the head of his cock brush your thigh. “Since you asked nicely.” He rubs his shaft against you, coating it in copious slick that was nearly dripping down your legs at this point. “This how you were last night? Underneath that guy?” You don’t answer, just huff and grind your hips back into his. He kneads your ass roughly in his big hands. He pulls you upward, back into his chest so he can breathe into your ear. “Or was it more like this?”
“More like I was doing all the work,” you mumble. You can still feel the soreness in your thighs from trying desperately to get yourself off the night before. It never came. Or, rather, you never did. Maybe that’s part of why you’re so desperate right now. Leon’s behavior certainly isn’t helping.
He scoffs, squeezing you tight to him.
“Yeah? Fucking yourself on him? You make yourself cum all on your own?” You almost blanch at what you’d have to confess next.
“No,” you inhale sharply when he begins rubbing at your clit. “Never- never got there.” Leon makes a noise of disapproval and you feel like you’re floating when he flips the two of you on your backs. He curls around you with a protective hold. His knee knocks your legs open, and he returns his throbbing length against your wetness. Without any niceties, he pushes inside you, and the groan that leaves your lungs is high. A whine of relief, of what’s to come.
"He never fucked you like this?" He slams his hips into you, and you shake your head.
"No," you mumble. "Wanted me to suck him off, then ride him. Barely even moved."
"My poor baby," he croons, a layer of sex heavy in the tone of his voice. "So neglected. I'll make you forget he ever even touched you." Another sharp thrust against you, followed by the grind of his hips.
"Please," you beg. Not only for him to fuck you so good you forget about your one night stand, but to move his goddamn cock within you. You feel like you're walking a tightrope, dangled so close to pleasure that the lack of it was hurtful.
"Love hearing you beg for me."
You can feel his chest heaving behind you as he stills. His arm wraps around your stomach tightly and he uses the other hand beneath you to turn your head toward him. His sharp blue eyes bore into yours, and you’re struck by the sudden intimacy of the position, of the way he’s looking at you like he’s finally got the one thing he’s always wanted in his arms. The small glimmer of hope that hadn’t died within you yet burst, and your heart pumps in your ears. A careful hand reaches up to brush the hair falling in his eyes away, so you could keep admiring him.
You’re still staring at each other when he thrusts, slowly, but all the way in you. Hard. You bite your lip. His gaze narrows again. He thrusts even harder as punishment.
Well, something that feels this good is hardly punishing.
You don’t hold back your moan this time.
“Good girl,” the phrase sends shockwaves over your body. Another new discovery. Leon notices the goosebumps on your arms, the way your breath hitches. He presses his nose into your cheek, keeping his slow, hard pace. It has your body wracked with tingles of pleasure. “You like that, huh?”
“Maybe,” you manage to mumble, messily finding your way to his mouth. He chuckles into the kiss, the hand previously on your jaw moving to cup your breast. His pace increases to a steady tempo. You angle your hips so he hits your g-spot just right, letting out a gasp the first time he thrusts into the spongy spot. Once he hears the change in your pitch, the way your pussy tightens around him, he’s off like a racehorse.
Over and over again, he’s pounding you, panting in your ear from the effort. Your hands are touching him everywhere you can reach, and he’s letting out something close to whines at the feel of your fingertips being so gentle with him. Like he’s something precious, not a hardened creature meant for war and violence.
You grind your hips back desperately into his, wanting to help, wanting to show him you want him as desperately as he’s fucking you. This sends him into a spiral, and he’s teething at your neck, tightening his grip around your waist so hard it feels like he’s the one moving you back and forth on his cock.
“‘M not gonna last long if you keep doing that,” he grunts, and you smirk.
“That’s kinda the point,” you look up at him, and he stares at you, mouth open in pleasure. Your eyes are dark, lids heavy with ecstasy, and you’re giving him a smile that he’s not yet seen before. It’s something a little filthy, your lips twisted upwards just so. Faded lipstick from the night before is smudged at the corner of your mouth, and he feels a rush of satisfaction that he’s the one who’s ruined it, because it wasn’t like that when you first walked in.
That guy didn’t even have the nerve to kiss you.
“Fuck, gorgeous.”
“Wanna make you cum-" he cuts you off with a sloppy, wet kiss, all gnashing teeth and whimpers. He finds himself going even faster somehow, chasing the high in your warm, wet pussy like it’s his salvation. “Fuck, you feel so good inside me. Wanted this for so long.”
“Yeah?” The confession encourages him further. He feels so fucking stupid all of a sudden. You’d wanted him this whole time, and he’d been off trying to get himself to fall in love with someone new just to ease the pain. “You wanted me?”
“So bad,” you kiss him again. You can feel yourself approaching your end, your moans becoming more staggered, breath more shallow. Leon picks up on it fast, and is already running his hand down your body to circle your clit. It’s the perfect pressure, a precise circle that’s hitting you somehow exactly where your own fingers fall when you’re thinking of him. “I’ve thought about this for so long.”
“Fuck, I’m-I’m cumming, ffu-” he can’t even finish the last word before he’s releasing into you with something close to a deep whine, a grunt of spent effort, a pleasure so profound in his bones that every muscle in his body tenses still. You can feel the mix of your release slowly leaking out from you, and you’re practically shaking with need. You’re so close.
Leon knows this.
His frozen hand returns to rubbing at your clit, gritting his teeth through the sensitivity as he fucks you half-hard, desperate for you to cum. To show you what you deserve.
His teeth pull at your earlobe as he pushes you over a little so you’re laying half on his chest, and he’s thrusting up into you. He gropes you roughly, the callouses on his fingers sliding over your soft skin so pleasantly. The friction of that, combined with the deep thrusts of his spent cock, his fingers rubbing you… there’s not much more you can take.
He feels you tighten around his cock, and makes a noise of a approval.
“C’mon, angel, I can feel you,” he pants. “Cum all over me, please. Wanna make you feel good.”
“You make me feel so fucking good,” your voice is rising, higher than usual, out of your control. “Leon. Fuck- shit, I’m-”
“Yeah? Tell me, baby. Talk to me, let go for me.”
“I’m- fuck, I’m cumming,” you say, a little louder than you mean, but by the way Leon increases his speed to fuck you through it, it’s exactly what he wants. You’re swearing into his mouth as he kisses you again. “Leon.”
“Good girl, I love it when you say my name,” he praises as you near-scream, the thread inside you snapping deliciously. Your arousal leaks further around him as he slams deep in you one final time, rubbing your clit fast to ensure you feel every last bit of your orgasm. He watches your face as it stills in pleasure, a silent scream followed by gasping breaths. He squeezes your waist and slows his fingers. “That’s it.” He only ceases his rubbing when he feels your legs twitch a little violently at the overstimulation. His hand finds its place on your cheek, and he pulls you into a hazy, dizzying kiss. He’s fully softened inside you now, but it doesn’t stop the shiver that runs through you when he pulls out. You know you’ve ruined the sheets, but it’s hard to care when he’s running his hands over your curves.
You take a minute to enjoy your bodies stuck together like this. Breath synchronized as you catch up to the moment, coming back down to each others arms. You really just want him to hold you, but the mess leaking from between your legs is growing into a small puddle too fast to be comfortable. You shift and begin to move towards the bathroom. Leon's grip on you tightens for a moment.
“Where’re you going?” There’s something in his expression similar to a dejected puppy when you’re pulling away from him.
“Just cleaning up real fast, I’ll be back,” you promise. His hands stay on you until the very last second, flopping lifelessly once you’re fully out of his grasp. It’s very cute.
You clean yourself up with a damp washcloth and do your best not to stare too long at your flushed cheeks in the mirror. You’re coming to terms with the fact that Leon Kennedy had just given you the best sex of your life, and he was currently waiting, wrapped in the sheets of your bed like he’s always belonged there. And maybe he has.
You bring a washcloth with you back to the bed, cleaning him up as well, since you were kind of responsible for the mess that had spread to his own thighs. He catches you by the waist before you can return to the bathroom with the washcloth, practically ripping it out of your hands and throwing it aside. He hauls you into his lap, hungrily kissing you, this time something lazier, more chaste. You eagerly press yourself into him. His face is still cradled in your hands when he pulls away. His eyes aren’t blown with a sexual desire, they’re something warmer, a misty fog dragging you into him. You leave a kiss on the corner of his mouth for good measure.
“How’d it go with Claire?” Only now could you pull that joke from you, sitting on Leon’s lap, his eyes on you like you’re the sun shining down on him. You feel more like a moon; reflecting back his own happiness in your eyes, because that’s what’s responsible for why you’re so sure about all of this. He scoffs at your comment.
“Fuck you.”
“Maybe later,” you push him back towards the headboard and straddle his thighs so he could lean back. You trace a small heart on his chest, and he notices immediately, not hiding the smile on his face. “Sorry for blowing up on you. It wasn’t fair.”
“I think I can forgive you,” he muses. “We were both pretty stupid.”
“Yeah,” you murmur. “Love does that, huh?” Leon’s cheeks flush pink, not from exhaustion or his spent energy, but from your words.
“Love.”
“Oh-” You realize the implication and begin to backtrack. “Well, I-”
“Shut up. I love you.” It’s your turn to blush. You’re not sure how to respond so you just hug him. He squeezes you tight to his chest, and it feels like your heart is expanding faster than you can take. You feel so, so warm.
“You wanna know something funny?” You suddenly say into his shoulder. He hums, and begins to scratch pleasantly across your back. You sigh. “I didn’t even know that guy’s name in the first place.”
Summary: Ten years have passed since you've seen or spoken to Leon Kennedy. He was once a mentor, a partner, a friend... now a ghost from your past. Life was once good. Nearly perfect. But running from him was easier than facing your truth. How will things change now that your infected and standing before the man you're in love with?
Word Count: 4k
Warnings: Fem!Reader, reader is infected with a virus, age gap (but not specified so can be whatever you want!), torture, violence, angst (at least I hope lmao), reader kinda just gives up on being cured and pushes herself past her limit.
A/N: With all the love on my last story I thought I would give it another shot. Hopefully this can compare!
Song Listened To: Hurt by Dead Poet Society
___
Breathe. Just breath.
You remember those words clearly. They resided in a permanent part of your mind, ready to play during every mission. They were the same words you spoke to yourself right before your life changed.
At that time you were shaking and crying. Trying to capture an ounce of sanity as your home darkened and wrought death.
The town you once lived in was calm and precious, untouched by the world. That day changed it. Now forever a stain on your memory and a crater in the earth.
"Just breathe," You said, to yourself again.
The hospital was far from your home town. And you were no longer that terrified girl.
The one who found a cop's pistol and used it on the officer when hunger outlasted his life.
The one who survived until the very end, barricaded in a store with cries and broken screams trying to claw themselves in.
The one who muffled her own cry at the sound of their bodies dropping.
When you forced yourself to open that door, you opened your life into an entirely new direction. Standing there, in the heat of a fight that started long before you, were two men.
Chris Redfield and Leon Kennedy.
Names you would remember until the day you die.
Your breath began to silence with each beat of your heart. Your eyes darting between each creak and shift of the abandoned building you now found yourself in fifteen years later.
There was no reason to think of how it all started. Not now. Not when you were deployed hundreds of miles away from them. In your own mission, saving your own survivors, carrying out your own objective.
But they say life flashes before your eyes in your last moments. And very quickly, you realized that was the true start of your life.
The DSO had swarmed you in an instant. The two men running to your aid and grabbing you to steady the fear within you. It wasn't just fear. There was rage. One that the DSO graciously took advantage of.
The organization picked you up and dusted you off. Forced an ultimatum between servitude or a life sentence. It was an easy choice.
And then they assigned you to him.
Leon.
Even now, just the thought of him or his name, it both soothed and ignited a spark within you. And then pain flared somewhere in your chest. A gut wrenching reminder that you would never see him again.
You would never make amends.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
The act became increasingly difficult. But the tears flowed all the same. You bit into your teeth to ground yourself.
"Kid, you alright?"
"No," You said, aloud to the memory.
Leon had placed his hand on yours. The two of you sitting side by side on the bench in the DSO gym. He ran drills and pushed you past your limit. Always encouraging you to do better.
Collapsing on the bench right after was the only thing your body could handle. The drills and sparring exhausted your body, but it didn't stop your mind and the constant turmoil it enjoyed.
You had nodded, eyes still on the ground, but revelling in the feel of his hand on yours.
"Yeah... yeah, I'm good."
He didn't buy it. He never did.
Leon knew you better than anyone. He took the time to learn you and understand how you worked—something no one else ever did.
"Nightmares?"
You had chuckled softly under your breath. He had a habit of just knowing. It was both infuriating and entirely impressive.
You nodded again, this time picking your eyes up to meet him.
He stared back with fierce intensity. He never shyed away from you and never gave you the benefit of hiding from him. He stared with full understanding and in turn, urged you to do the same.
So, you met his eyes, always. Never one to back down from his challenges and never missing an opportunity to catalogue every shade of his iris. Every twitch in his brow. Every inhale of his breath.
You fell for him fast.
You knew it but ignored it.
Leon became your rock and you the same for him. He sympathized with your situation. Being forced into this life and having to endure trauma after trauma was a quick ice breaker.
He was your closest friend and then he became your family. He let you put down your roots with no intention of digging them up.
Him and Chris made room for you in their lives and settled you in this found family with the others. Sherry you met as soon as you joined the DSO. Jill and Claire when Leon finally managed to schedule a time between everyone's schedules.
They welcomed you.
What life took away, it gave back a tenfold. Or rather Leon did.
Another tear slipped down your cheek and soaked your leg. Your head bowed over the bonds holding you to the chair.
A weak light lit your body from above. From your intel, the hospital was meant to be abandoned. The mission was to extract Umbrella information and save the remaining patients that you could.
Now you became one of them.
The time with Leon and the others grew from days to years. You lived through everything with him. Even his relationships.
When your feelings for him became harder to ignore, it was the same time Leon found himself a girlfriend.
The first one was hard, but you managed through it. You ignored his smiles at his phone during work. His soft voice behind the break room door for a quick check in with his love. Even seeing the two of them in public, holding hands, you made yourself scarce.
Even if it couldn't be you, you wanted him to be happy. And unfortunately, you were not much of an actor when it came to hiding anything from him. You couldn't let your heartbreak stop him from his happiness.
When they broke up it was a weight off your shoulders. It was a guilty feeling, but now you could have him to yourself, even if it was temporary.
That didn't last long because then he met her.
A woman far more grounded than you. Someone that in your eyes was perfect and very much deserving of the man you loved.
That hit you far harder.
Of course he would eventually find someone. It wouldn't be you. He was older. He didn't see you that way.
"What, you don't like her?"
You remember his question and the hurt behind his eyes. Again, you weren't much of an actress in front of him. Especially right after being told they were moving in together.
"No, no, I do. I guess... I wasn't expecting things to be moving so fast."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
And what did you mean by that? You weren't expecting him to settle down? To marry? To be with someone that he loved?
You gave a weak excuse to his question back then. One you honestly can't remember. And then you slowly faded.
When a position came up in a new location you jumped on it. You told Leon about your promotion and of course he was happy for you, but he could feel the shift start between you two.
He made you promise to stay in touch and of course you did not.
After the first year you cemented that wedge between you and cut yourself off from him.
You blamed it on the time difference. The demand of your job. The exhaustion of the day.
He got the message.
That was a eight years ago.
You heard from Claire two years later that Leon and his then fiancee broke up. She urged you to come back. She knew you and the feelings you tried to hide.
But you had already burned that bridge.
You felt your body begin to tremble under the restraints. The serum they pushed into your veins coursed a new path throughout your body. Nausea swept up you throat and coated you mouth. You bit your tongue to keep from yelling out.
The tile across from you screeched at the opening door.
You lightly raised your head just enough to see your captor. His name evaded your thoughts. This virus within you kept your mind clouded.
From what you could grasp at, you remembered him being a doctor that specialized in bio-chemistry. He also had a taste for the suffering of others.
Another big bad scientist trying to make their mark on the world.
The shtick was getting old. And of course only now did you find yourself on the other end of it.
"The DSO, right?" The doctor busied himself across the room. He tried to stay patient with himself despite the excitement of nerves ticking at his hands. "I haven't had the pleasure of making an Agent's acquaintance."
Acquaintance? I'd say we're on our third date judging by the restraints.
You pushed the small chuckle back. Even eight years later and you could still hear Leon's voice in your head.
"Something funny?"
The amusement left you and instead you decided to cut to the chase. "What's the plan? Kill me? Experiment on me? All the above?"
Your words grew a smile of wonder on his face. "Why so impatient? Scared are you?"
In truth, yes. But you weren't going to give him the satisfaction.
You attempted a shrug. "Bored more than anything."
He tutted. "Well... we can't have that."
And then he crossed the room. A syringe propped upright in his hand. His other reaching to close around your neck.
This is the part where you wished you could say you escaped. That you did something heroic. Something that Leon definitely would have done. But you were outnumbered with the weakness in your veins and the ambition of this doctor.
You didn't escape.
And it would be a long while before you do.
___
2 Years Later
Leon leaned against the steel doorway to catch his breath. He rechecked his clip to assess the number of bullets he had left.
Two infected laid behind him. Their blood oozed from the bullet holes and their fingers twitched in the aftershock of death.
"Leon, you good?"
Chris jogged up beside him with Claire in tow.
"Yeah," He gritted, feeling the pull of his ribs. "Just not twenty-one anymore."
Chris snorted. "Tell me about it."
Claire scanned the room before joining their side. The facility that housed them travelled miles underground. It resided in a quaint village with a citadel that offered itself as the entrance to this lab.
The DSO sent Leon out with two objectives in mind: eliminate the target and apprehend the sample. However, they didn't give him details into who he was meant to find. The provided a blurred photograph, one that he memorized. A woman, from what he could gather, with the lower half of her face covered.
Chris and Claire happened to meet him in this remote village by chance. They were following their own lead on the new Umbrella activity.
"Maybe a rogue agent?" Claire pondered aloud as they made their way deeper into the lab. "Something isn't right about this one."
She was right and the two men couldn't ignore it. There was a strange feeling surrounding this mission. It didn't add up.
"Do we know if the target is attached to Umbrella?" Chris aimed his question to Leon.
The latter shook his head. "I was only given a photo and nothing else."
"Interesting."
No one liked the sound of that.
They made their way to a sealed door. It was vast in its radius with concealed wires travelling to the panel at its side.
Chris placed his hand on the cool metal.
"Don't think you can punch this one open," Leon quipped.
Chris ignored him except for a curt snort. He met Claire at the security panel and assessed the numbers in wait of being pushed. Claire produced a sheet of paper she snagged back in the Citadel. A note from one of the scientists with a code written in a rush.
She entered the numbers and air pushed from the door as it unsealed. It swung open with Leon at the center of its entrance.
Leon immediately aimed to fire.
In the center of the room stood the target with her gun aimed at a man now laying on the ground. A bullet square between the eyes.
Chris fired first, but the woman dodged.
She shot the door panel on her side and a shielded pane of metal began to descend from above.
Leon moved quickly and rolled into the room before it could close—leaving behind Claire and Chris.
The woman slammed Leon into the metal behind him. It loosened his grip on his gun and had it scatter across the floor.
Leon hit the woman in her gut, sending her back. He still couldn't get a good look at her. The bottom half of her face was still covered.
She moved quicker and swung her fist at his chin. He took the hit and grabbed at the mask covering her face.
She pushed him away when it began to slip.
With a new distance created, the two rushed to the floor in search of their discarded weapons.
Leon grabbed his gun and snapped to attention on his target.
His eyes found his target's face and the air escaped his lungs.
"Y/N?"
Standing before him, breathless and in pain, was... you.
Your name stopped you. How long has it been since you have heard your own name? And from his voice no less.
For the first time in this fight you finally looked at your assailant.
He looked different. Older from when you had last seen him. His hair now an ashen colour with streaks of silver. Stubble sculpted around the his jaw and peppered across his chin. The same lines across his forehead had deepened over time. Similar to the creases under his eyes that gave way to the years of exhaustion.
The only thing thats stayed the same were his eyes.
Those deep blue eyes. The same ones that you had stared into endlessly a lifetime before. The same ones that offered support and comfort after every fight with yourself or the world. The same ones that levelled you and kept you in place as they did now.
"Leon."
He mirrored your fervent stare. His eyes demanding answers to a thousand uncertain questions. He lowered his gun. Now thawing from the initial freeze of shock.
You did the same.
A bang from behind the metal wall nearly broke your focus on the other.
It bent under the force and finally gave way to reveal two other figures. The man entered with an air of smug following him.
"Broke that one down, didn't I?"
Chris.
It had been five years since you've seen him. The two of you crossed paths in another country, going about your own missions. He settled you under his wing the second he met you. He took you in like an older brother would.
When he followed Leon's gaze to you, his brow furrowed then settled.
"Y/N," He said it with certainty.
The sound of your name coming from your family after all these years hit you hard in your gut.
You opened your mouth to say something, anything, but Chris didn't need to hear it. He met your silence and wrapped you in his arms in an instant.
"I thought—we thought..." He didn't have to finish because you already knew. They thought you were dead.
And well... they weren't too far off.
Claire entered behind Chris, confused from the display of her big brother cradling someone. She looked to Leon for answers but his hard stare remained past her on the scene in front of him.
Chris finally pulled back to allow Claire to see who he was embracing.
Much like her brother, she rushed head first into your arms without a second thought. She pulled you in tight.
Chris called to Leon to join the reunion, but he didn't move. He couldn't. You were alive. You were there in front of him. You were breathing. You have been dead for two years and yet you stood right there.
Chris eyed Leon and his hesitance, but said nothing on it.
Claire pulled back but she kept her hands on you to keep you there. To keep you real.
You could see the shift in her eyes, from sadness to relief to hope and now to confusion.
Before she could begin her interrogation, a screech reverberated down the metal corridor.
It stilled the warm moment and froze it into focus.
A hoard of infected found their way to you.
"Safety hatch," You finally said.
You broke from Claire's embrace and led them to the other side of the room. It was larger than initially thought. A lifted platform stood in the middle with computers and notes circling around it. A single examination chair in the middle.
Your eyes lingered on it a moment too long.
You turned to catch Leon's eyes on you, but you brushed him off and pushed on.
Chris opened the hatch that led out onto a catwalk. It stood over a large vat with a fan of steel blades whirring at the bottom.
The others shivered at the cold air blasting from below, but you didn't. Not so much as a flinch. Leon noticed.
When you crossed to the other doorway it opened onto a metal platform hanging over a vast room. The depth below was unseen from where you stood and the wall across stretched far enough to squint. Conveyor belts and trollies hanging via pulleys were the only things that connected each side.
You were more or less on the outside of the facility with this expanse in between sections to ship valuables between them.
You had memorized this place in depth.
That familiar nausea bubbled up from your gut. You made for the railing and expelled whatever was left of your stomach. Which wasn't anything.
Your appetite was the first thing to go when it started. Now as you huffed over the railing you watched the black substance drip from your lips and to the bottom of the chasm.
Claire rushed to you but you waved her off.
You felt for the anomaly in your chest. Your body no longer gave signals of pain. Instead it acted out when something was wrong.
Their eyes stared in the back of your head as you finally stood. You turned just as you fished the bullet out of your chest.
It seemed Chris had a better aim than you remembered.
What a sight you must have been in that moment.
Alive after two years of being pronounced dead. On two feet after pulling a bullet out of your chest. And face pale with black substance smudged across your lips.
You were scared to look up and take in their horror, but you pushed yourself to do so.
The bullet dropped from your fingers. The only sound being it clanging against the metal platform.
There wasn't as much horror as there was devestation in their eyes. Now if anything you wished they would run away screaming.
Their eyes stayed on your chest where you pulled out the bullet. Thick veins of black had spread out from the wound and up towards your neck.
A heavy silence encompassed you.
Words stayed lodged in your throat. This wasn't a conversation you ever thought you would have. You weren't sure how to explain.
Claire stepped forward. "It's you isn't it," She said with a saddened certainty. You could make out the sheen growing in her eyes. "You are the target."
There was no point in denying it. You nodded and slowly the words began to untangle and allow you to try and explain.
"They weren't lying when they told you I died back at Redwood Hospital." It was hard to look at them so you dropped your gaze. "Our intel was corrupt and I was captured. They created this virus meant to make people invincible. But it didn't work. Instead it keeps someone alive until the virus takes you over completely."
When you finally did look up, you locked eyes with Leon.
"I was injected two years ago."
For the first time you couldn't see behind his eyes. You couldn't see the thoughts circling his head or the emotions he felt in that moment. He kept them guarded from you.
"You could have told us. We could have helped you." Chris stepped forward, diverting your attention.
You tried for a small smile to lighten the heavy news, but it did nothing. You placed your cold hand on his arm, wishing you could feel the warmth under his skin.
"I was dead as soon as I entered that hospital."
Chris shook his head and began to argue. "The DSO should have helped you—"
"No," You cut him off. Your voice held no anger, no exhaustion.
Just acceptance.
It made Leon sick.
"They had no reason to."
It was the hard truth but it was one you learned to accept. You heard about Leon and Sherry's infection. It all came to a head a few months ago from when you found out. In the exact time they discovered Elpis.
The difference, however, is that you are not Leon Kennedy.
You are, and always have been, an expendable agent. The DSO made sure to let you know that once you escaped and went to them for aid. You were, and still are, their puppet.
"Come on. We're close."
They didn't question you as you led them down the platform and entered a control room that stood in the center of the room.
It was meant to oversee the deliveries between each section, but in its abandonment it became a safe house for you.
They took in their surroundings.
Leon once again noting not a single can of food or bottle of water. It set his jaw.
Claire met you at your table filled with the buildings blueprints. "How long have you been down here?"
She tried to keep her question just between you two but you could tell the men were listening in.
"A few months."
You didn't mean to be short with her but the questions were starting to pile on to the point you weren't sure how to answer them.
She noticed your agitation so softly asked her next. "Why is the DSO after you?"
You couldn't help the scoff. "Let's just say... I'm well past my expiration date. They wanted me cleared before I detonate in public."
She looked as if she was going to say something else so you cut her off. You couldn't focus on the heartbreak consuming you. And her soft eyes and voice trying to coax you out of your acceptance of death was only making matters worse.
"You will find your sample if you follow this path west and then begin to travel down," You said as your finger traced the blueprints. "It's held in a vault but as long as two people have the key and turn it at the same time it should open no problem."
You pulled out the keys you managed to find a month ago and held it out to them.
Chris grabbed one and Claire the other. "Wow," He tried for a joke. "You really have been busy."
You looked out the corner of your eye to see Leon. He still continued to watch you. His expression still a mystery to you. He stayed uncharacteristically silent.
If everything was normal he would be talking your ear off. Bad jokes. Even stupider quips. His voice forever an anchor in these horrific situations you found yourselves in.
Then it dawned on you that maybe this was who he is now. All those years a part could have shaped him into this cold man without any feeling behind his eyes.
You looked back to your plans just to allow yourself a moment to breathe.
Just breathe.
"There is a generator on the other end that houses the power to the entire facility. If rigged and detonated it should take out the whole building."
Chris nodded in approval. "Good. Claire and I will find the sample. You and Leon head to the generator."
"No," You said, far too quickly. "I can manage on my own—"
"End of discussion," Chris finalized. He then placed his hand on your shoulder and lowered his voice. "I haven't given up on you. Survive this or else."
It would take an eon to argue with Chris when he set his mind on something. So, you didn't argue. You accepted his love and every bit of loyalty behind it.
"Okay," Was all you could say.
He and Claire left, not before she squeezed your hand.
The door shut behind them, leaving you and Leon alone.
you were born a mutant, gifted with the power to manipulate bodily sensations. until now, you've only ever used it to cause pain. but now, stuck in a remote safehouse with bucky for the next few months, tension crackles between you. when you finally confess that your ability can also bring pleasure, he looks at you differently, more than a little curious to experience it first-hand.
Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, magical smut??, fingering, edging!!, praise kink, so much sexual tension, vague enemies to lovers, forced proximity, lowkey brat reader at times??, soft dom! bucky (at times), kissing, angst, miscommunication (not badly), protective!bucky, grumpy!bucky, bodyguard!bucky, mention of torture, wound description, injuries, mention of human trafficking, hurt/comfort, there's some plot if you squint, reader has survivors guilt, reader is horny lol, use of the pet name sweetheart, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything
Word Count: 17k (jesus fucking christ)
A/N: hi this is a fucking monster of a fic. i've been working on this for weeks now. if it flops i might cry and go die in a hole. pls like/reblog/comment etc <3 sorry for any typos - not proof read.
main masterlist
In the short time you had been acquainted with Bucky Barnes, you had quickly learnt three things.
One, he didn’t talk much, if at all. Most of your conversations consisted of little more than grunts, terse glances, or unimpressed scowls. He didn’t ask questions, nor did he answer them. At one point, you suspected he might have had his tongue cut out. That changed when you began to hear him muttering under his breath as he stomped past, his heavy boots reverberating through the safehouse. ‘Securing the perimeter’. Always the same phrase, always delivered in the same grim tone.
Two, he was paranoid. He never turned his back on you. Always kept you in his line of sight. There was always a weapon within arm’s reach. He checked every door and window twice. His movements were systematic, almost compulsive. He prowled the safehouse like an animal on the hunt, slipping into view when you least expected him. More than once, he’d startled you so badly you’d dropped something. A shattered coffee mug still lay in the trash as proof. And each time you flinched, his eyes would narrow slightly, suspicious, as if trying to decide what exactly you were hiding, why someone like you could be so easily spooked. You didn’t know what his employers had told him, but obviously it was not the whole story.
And three, he didn’t want to be here.
He made no effort to hide that fact.
You bit your tongue more often than not, swallowing every snide remark that burned its way up your throat. Surprise, I don’t want to be here either, assshole. But you knew better than to lash out at the only person you'd be stuck with for the next few months. The only person standing between you and whatever might come crawling out of the woods. Protection wasn’t something you could afford to alienate.
The officials who dumped you here had been full of promises. They said you’d be safe, hidden, far from the reach of the Menagerie. They told you to wait. This storm would pass, and when it did, you could return to your everyday life.
But after two years under the Menagerie’s thumb, normal didn’t exist anymore.
What even was normal?
This safehouse felt like the eye of a hurricane, but you could sense the storm circling just beyond, the pressure building in the air, the wind pressing at the windows. It was only a matter of time before it rolled over and consumed you whole. And maybe that was the truth of it, that you were already in the belly of the beast, already chewed up and digested. There was no normality to return to.
There never would be again.
The safehouse sat on a stretch of farmland, tucked far enough from the world that it felt like the end of it. No internet, no cell service, not even a TV. Just enough power to keep the lights on and the water running. It was midsummer, and the air was thick and syrupy, heavy with the scent of clover and sun-warmed hay. At night, the frogs and cicadas sang in overlapping rhythms, insects tapping softly against the mesh of the window screens. Rolling meadows stretched in nearly every direction, grass tall and wispy, swaying lazily in the breeze, cattle grazing along the fence line. Beyond the weather-worn red barn, the woods waited. You could sometimes hear deer calling in the dusk, birds chattering high in the canopy.
You’d tiptoed downstairs about a week after your arrival, barefoot on the old wood planks, a floral sundress brushing your shins as you crept through the lounge. The sky outside was streaked with soft orange and watercolour pink, the quiet hush of dawn holding everything still. Bucky was asleep on the couch again, arms folded across his chest, his boots still on. He rarely slept, and when he did, it was always here, not in the bedroom just across the landing from yours.
You hadn’t asked why.
Maybe he was afraid he wouldn’t hear someone break in. Maybe he didn’t trust doors. You were half convinced he’d sleep on the porch if you hadn’t caught him doing it once and given him a look harsh enough to make him reconsider. Not that it mattered, he seemed to wake at the slightest shift in the air. Twice already, you'd startled him by just breathing too loudly on your way to make morning tea, trying to be as quiet as possible as you filled the kettle and set it to boil.
This time, he didn’t stir. Or maybe pretended not to, just so that he could avoid your regular awkward morning exchange. You slipped past him, easing open the front door, wincing as the screen squeaked. The sun hit you square in the face, gold and blinding, warm even this early. You stepped out into the grass with a long breath and crouched, brushing your fingers through the delicate strands as the world slowly began to stir.
The farmhouse had a few animals, just enough to feel lived-in. A small coop of chickens, a handful of cattle, and a scraggly white barn cat who seemed to claim the place as her own. You called her Alpine, after the word etched into one of the barn beams above the old hayloft she slept in. Whoever carved it there had long since disappeared, but the name remained, half-claimed and half-given.
“It’s not safe out here alone.” The gruff voice shattered your moment of peace, and you jumped, heart lurching in your chest.
Bucky stood behind you, all shadows and hard edges.
He filled the doorway without trying to, broad shoulders bracketed by the frame, thick arms folded across a chest that strained the seams of his faded henley. He was massive in a way that made rooms feel smaller, as though the very architecture had to shift to accommodate him.
Even when still, he gave the impression of movement barely restrained, like some great machine idling under the surface. His frame was built like something forged rather than born, towering over you with muscle carved deep into every inch of him, from his sculpted chest to the veined forearms visible beneath pushed-up sleeves.
His stance was always solid, unmoving, as if the earth itself would sooner shift than he would. The glint of his vibranium arm caught in the low morning light, brushed in gold from the rising sun, each plate moving in smooth precision as he adjusted his stance.
His face sported an unimpressed scowl, his jaw shadowed by stubble, brows drawn low over stormy blue eyes that swept the fields behind you with disinterest. And though he said nothing, you could sense his irritation as clearly as the heat rising off the sun-touched grass.
He had a particular hatred for you being outside alone. Most days, he’d trail after you reluctantly, watching with narrowed eyes as you wandered the fields for an hour or two. When his patience wore thin, he’d herd you back inside like a sheepdog. He preferred enclosed spaces. Contained. Controlled.
Places where he could see you—track you—where your every movement could be accounted for.
You were beginning to feel like you escaped one prison just to enter the next.
“You gonna roll around in it next, sweetheart?” he called, voice stern with impatience.
Sweetheart. That damn condescending nickname. It wouldn’t have got under your skin so much if it didn’t make your stomach twist and flutter every time it rolled off his tongue.
You didn’t answer, but you could feel his gaze like a weight between your shoulder blades. Any second now, you wouldn’t put it past him to stomp into the grass and haul you inside himself, fingers fisted in the back of your dress like he was pulling a wayward stray by the scruff of its neck.
“Come on. Inside,” he barked again. “I haven’t checked the perimeter yet.”
Ah. Of course. The perimeter. God forbid a tree shifted in the wind without his knowing.
Suppressing an eye roll, you finally pushed to your feet, brushing bits of grass from your palms. The porch creaked under your steps as you ascended, pausing as he stepped aside with his usual stern silence.
You gave him a sugar-sweet smile as you gripped the handle of the screen door.
“Well, don’t let me stop you,” you said, voice light but laced with venom. “Go check your precious perimeter.”
The muscle in his jaw twitched. He didn’t answer, but the scowl that crept across his face said enough. He caught the bite in your tone, felt the edge beneath your pleasantry.
You didn’t wait for a response. The door snapped shut behind you, a little harder than necessary, rattling the frame.
—
The next time you saw Bucky was early afternoon. You’d been irritated enough to barricade yourself in your tiny room, thumbing through the stacks of old paperbacks until you finally landed on something vaguely interesting. It was some tacky romance novel that was amusing enough not to let your mind wander, but not quite good enough to engulf you completely.
Though, eventually, it was hunger that won your imagined standoff, your stomach growling so loudly you were half-convinced it had gained sentience and was protesting its conditions.
Bucky was still on the couch, right where you’d left him hours ago. You couldn’t make out what he was doing from the doorway, his broad shoulders alone blocked most of your view, but he appeared to be fiddling with something in his hands. You didn’t ask. You weren’t in the mood for another grunt in place of conversation. Instead, you turned sharply into the kitchen without a word.
The safehouse was well-stocked, rows of canned goods crammed into the cupboards, their faded, illegible labels boasting things like beef stew, baked beans, and mystery meat in gloopy gravy. There were jars of peanut butter with oil slicking the top, stale crackers sealed in military-grade packaging, and boxes of instant mashed potatoes that looked more like powdered chalk than food.
On better days, you had the garden out back, knobbly carrots, bitter greens, the occasional undergrown zucchini, and the chickens, who begrudgingly gifted you eggs when they felt generous. You found yourself wishing for a dairy cow, not that you had any idea how to milk one, just to be free of the powdered imposter you stirred into your coffee every morning. Whatever it was, it tasted like plaster.
You could feel Bucky’s gaze flick toward you through the doorway. You didn’t look up, instead pretending to study the cans as if they held the answers to life’s greater mysteries, silently tossing up between which mystery soup you would try today.
Before the Menagerie, you’d loved to cook, baking especially. Anything stuffed with chocolate chips or drowned in frosting had your full attention. But you dabbled in savoury dishes too, the kind your mother used to call ‘real people food’. The two of you would stand shoulder to shoulder in the kitchen, elbows knocking as you bickered over seasoning or whether the onions were truly caramelised. Your father and brother would crowd around the TV, shouting and drinking cold beers while watching the big game.
You swallowed hard at the thought of it. You wondered where their headstones lay, if they had even been buried at all. Who would’ve organised their funeral? That thought soured quickly, festering as your eyes dropped to the stove. The idea of putting time and care into a meal now felt wrong. Hollow. Maybe two years ago, you would’ve tried, scavenged herbs from the garden, scrubbed the vegetables clean, dared to open one of the suspiciously labelled cans of meat. But today, it felt like a step too far.
Bucky didn’t cook for you. It was clear from the start that you were on your own in that regard. A true fend-for-yourself arrangement. Come to think of it, you hadn’t seen him eat a single bite since your arrival. You weren’t even sure the man had taste buds.
Mystery soup it was.
Your curiosity got the better of you. You stole a glance over your shoulder, narrowing your eyes. He was still planted on the couch, and for the briefest second, his gaze met yours before flicking away again. He turned toward the empty fireplace, posture drawn tight like he was trying to fold himself out of sight, which, of course, failed rather comically since he was a beast of a man.
You sighed and pulled two cans from the shelf, the metal clinking dully as you set them on the counter. You’d heat the soup for both of you, maybe as a peace offering, maybe just an effort at civility. Either way, it felt a little ridiculous. But at least you could say you tried.
—
You dropped one of the bowls onto the coffee table with a soft clack, Bucky blinked, slightly startled, his eyes flicking from the bowl to you as you sank down cross-legged on the floor across from him, the wood grain sticky against your thighs.
“Food. For you,” you said simply.
He didn’t answer at first, still hunched over the thing in his hands, something metal and half-disassembled, probably a weapon. His shoulders shifted, just barely. Like the faintest show of surprise, or maybe gratitude he didn’t know how to express.
“Bit hot for soup,” he muttered, glancing toward the window. He wasn’t wrong. The sun had been relentless all day, and the old farmhouse was holding the heat like a kiln. The single desk fan that you’d claimed did little more than hum uselessly upstairs. You were sure it was a fire hazard from the sheer amount of dust it had collected on its plastic blades.
You shot him a look.
“Fine. Suit yourself. Make your own damn food—” You’d barely started uncrossing your legs when his hand lifted, palm open in a wordless command.
“Sit down.”
You did, settling back into place with a muted huff. He set the metal part aside, definitely part of a gun, now that you were looking. He picked up the spoon beside the bowl, eyeing it like it might bite him, and you watched as he took a mouthful, wincing slightly at the heat.
“Bland.” He commented.
You rolled your eyes. So, he did have taste buds after all.
“It’s from a can, god knows we’ve got enough of those to last the next ten years, let alone a few months.” You replied dryly, and you could’ve sworn the ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
You both ate in silence for a while. The soup was as terrible as you had anticipated, watery broth, sad carrot chunks, and what might have once been chicken. It was bland, just as Bucky had stated, but you wouldn’t give him the pleasure of admitting it.
It was only as you were halfway through your bowl, the sound of spoons scraping against the ceramic, the occasional creak of the old farmhouse settling while the cicadas droned outside, that you finally found the words to speak up.
“Your employers,” you began, eyes still on your soup, “did they tell you much?”
Through your lashes, you saw Bucky’s head lift slightly.
“No.” He stated. Simple. Gruff. Then he hesitated, leaning back on the couch, eyeing you in that analytical, quiet way of his. You could practically hear the thoughts ticking behind his silence. You, small—in comparison to him, at least—unassuming, wrapped in a floral sundress, hardly looking like a threat. How dangerous could you be? How much danger could you truly be in to warrant exile in the middle of nowhere, locked away like a state secret? “Just said you were mixed up in that mess with the Menagerie raid. That someone might be looking to hurt you.”
“Right…” You stuffed another spoonful of soup into your mouth to keep from saying something foolish, letting the heat sting your tongue.
Silence stretched. He’d already emptied his bowl, positively licked it clean—so much for being too hot and bland. Meanwhile, while you pushed a discoloured chunk of carrot in slow, grinding circles, the handle of your spoon tracing the rim of your bowl. His eyes hadn’t left you.
You inhaled deeply, then blurted it out before you could stop yourself. “Do you know how long I have to stay here?”
He hesitated, just long enough to tell you he didn’t know either. “As long as it takes to eliminate the threat.”
You finally looked up, catching the shift in his gaze. Less neutral now, more calculated… Suspicious. You recognised that look, it said I’m piecing something together. Like the soup had been some sort of tactic. A quiet kindness with strings attached. That you were slowly manipulating him with every gentle smile and soft word.
Like he was finally seeing you clearly, and not liking the picture.
“If you’re being this well hidden,” he said slowly, “you must’ve been real deep in it. What were you, a mole? Scared they’re gonna hunt you down for revenge, sweetheart? You don’t look like the usual type they send out for infiltration.”
You froze, soup curdling in your stomach, your appetite gone before he even got the last syllable out. You placed your half-eaten bowl on the coffee table before you, refusing to meet his eye.
“I wasn’t a mole.” You clarified, though your tone did not sound anywhere near convincing.
It was like he could smell the guilt and shame you reeked of. His mouth curled slightly. Not a smile. Not quite.
“An informant, then?” He pressed. There it was, the snide bite you were waiting for. He thought this was some glorified babysitting gig for a rat. “Too scared to put you in prison in case you are killed before a court date?”
“No, I—” The words jammed in your throat like splinters, and all you could do was stare down at the coffee table. Coffee rings. Cigarette burns. Ghosts of the past.
Bucky leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, voice lower now.
“So what was it that made you finally turn on the Menagerie, huh? A guilty conscience, fear?” He asked, a disgusted sneer joining his words. “Or did your morals only click after they started trafficking mutants, caging them and tagging them like inventory?”
Your throat closed up.
He thought you were part of it.
He thought you were one of them.
“Or was it just about self-preservation?” He continued.
You hadn’t said it aloud. Not properly. Not in a way that made it real. The interviews after the raid had scraped the words out of you, hour after hour, voice raw, eyes dry. Endless questions. Demands. ‘Be specific’, ‘Start from the beginning’, ‘What did they do next?’. They made you relive it again and again until your memories felt like ash in your mouth, so many retellings that they stopped sounding like your own.
Some mornings, you still woke to the phantom scent of damp stone and bleach. Still braced for cold concrete beneath your palms, for the echo of distant footsteps clattering through narrow halls. You could see it all too clearly in the dark, that stone labyrinth, windowless and humming with distant electricity
You’d think of the auctions. The buyers. Their laughter. The way the air thickened with rot and perfume. The casual smiles of men who knew they wouldn’t be stopped. The shouting.
The cages.
The screaming—
Still, sometimes, you thought you could hear it, just beneath silence. Not memory, not quite. Like something still screamed through you.
“You don’t know shit about what I went through.” You spat out finally.
“No,” he admitted, coldly. “I don’t. But from where I’m sitting, you’re not exactly making yourself look innocent, sweetheart.”
You stared at him, stunned for a heartbeat.
Part of you wanted to cling to that flicker of delusion, that at least he cared. That the horrors of the Menagerie upset him, that he hadn’t brushed it off the way so many others might. There was something almost noble in his anger, in how deeply the injustice of it all seemed to affect him.
But the moment cracked and fury surged up like bile, but it caught in your throat before it could be spoken. You opened your mouth, then closed it again, useless. The words wouldn’t come. They never did. Not the right ones.
Because how could you explain it? How could you possibly untangle the last two years into something coherent, something clean, when nothing about it was? You wanted to scream that it hadn’t been your fault. That they’d taken everything from you. That you’d been a victim.
But the voice in your head always whispered something else.
You’d done what you had to do. Survived the only way you could. But survival had never come without cost. Not in that place. And even if you knew that you hadn’t chosen any of it… there were still stains on your hands. Still moments when you looked in the mirror and didn’t see someone worth saving.
You couldn’t find the words to defend yourself.
Because maybe, just maybe, you didn’t deserve to defend yourself.
“Fuck you.” You seethed.
You shot to your feet so fast your knee clipped the coffee table, rattling your half-eaten bowl. The room tilted slightly, breath caught between rage and something dangerously close to grief. Your legs carried you before you could think, before you could cry. You crossed the room in quick strides, soup abandoned, the sting of unshed tears heating your face.
—
A week of silence had followed your argument with Bucky.
You moved around each other like ghosts, haunting the same space but never touching, orbiting in sullen, silent patterns. You ate meals in silence on opposite ends of the house. Dishes piled beside your bed. Books stacked on the floor. You let yourself be swallowed by the mattress, the weight of silence slowly pulling you under.
When you did venture downstairs, it was only for chores. The division of labour had happened wordlessly. He’d take the barn, the treeline, his perimeter. You’d feed the chickens and cattle and refill the water troughs. Alpine was the only creature who seemed to move freely between you, accepting a can of tuna from Bucky one day, curling up against your legs the next when she wasn’t out prowling for field mice.
You’d stopped asking him anything. Stopped trying to close the gap with awkward, tense conversation. And he seemed relieved, like silence was some kind of reward. At least now he didn’t have to pretend to care. His silent judgment was not something you were blind to. It followed him like a cloud of smoke, obscuring his vision as he regarded you as something malicious rather than wounded. So you started wearing your own bitterness like armour. Met every cold glance with a glare of your own.
If he wanted to hate you, you could make it easy.
You already hated yourself enough.
The heat had been unbearable all afternoon, the worst it had been since you arrived. It was the type of heat that made the air feel thick and heavy, clinging to your skin no matter what you did to cool down. You opened every window in the house, splashed cool water on your face, tied back your hair, and even stood with the fridge door wide open, ignoring the quiet huff of disapproval from behind you. Still, it wasn’t enough to distract you from the fact that you were boiling alive in your own body with every passing hour.
Bucky, of course, was perfectly composed. During your second attempt to fold yourself into the fridge, he sat at the kitchen table like a statue, sharpening a knife with slow, meditative strokes. Not a bead of sweat on his brow. Like the fact that you were both slowly roasting to death didn’t bother him at all.
You wanted to scream.
It wasn’t just the heat. It was him. His silence. His stillness. His looming, suffocating presence, like he was pressing the full weight of himself onto your chest without ever touching you.
You needed air. Space. Anything that didn’t feel like breathing your own recycled breath. You were going to lose your mind in this goddamn house. And if it came down to who’d walk out of here alive, it wasn’t going to be you. Not at this rate.
You had laced up your boots and stormed down the stairs before the thought had even fully formed, impulse overriding reason. Bucky didn’t look up at first. From his silence, you could guess he thought you were just being dramatic again, stomping around like a sulking child.
It wasn’t until your fingers curled around the doorknob that you heard the scrape of his chair against the kitchen tiles. “Where are you going?”
You didn’t look at him. You shoved the screen door open and muttered flatly, “The woods.”
He paused. You could feel it, the change in pressure, like the atmosphere thickened just from him standing up. The summer heat already clung to your skin like syrup, yet somehow it had become one step closer to suffocating.
“No.”
You turned, one foot already on the porch. Bucky was rounding the corner from the kitchen fast, eyes sharp, shoulders tense, like he was bracing to grab you by the arm if you took another step.
“I need air,” you snapped, backing away slightly. “It’s like five thousand degrees in here. It’ll be cooler under the trees.”
He didn’t flinch, just stared at you with that wolfish intensity, jaw tight, eyes narrowed. You could see the twitch of frustration behind them. Not anger exactly, but something more primal. Protective, maybe. Possessive. Something you didn’t have a name for.
His nostrils flared as he narrowed his eyes.
“It’s not safe,” he said, stepping closer like a warning. A hunt was unfolding between the two of you. You took a step back. He mirrored it forward.
Your eyes flicked down. He wasn’t wearing shoes.
Interesting.
You glanced at the couch, his boots tossed haphazardly at the base, probably kicked off after his last perimeter sweep. A grin tugged at your lips, sharp and cunning. You released the screen door with deliberate calm.
“Don’t you dare—” he growled, voice already rising, warning.
The door slammed shut behind you as you took off, boots hammering down the steps, sundress flying around your legs as you sprinted into the field.
You could already hear him swearing behind you, scrambling for his boots, but you didn’t look back. The grass was tall and wild, slapping against your calves as you tore through it, laughing breathlessly as you darted toward the barn like a madwoman. The sun beat down mercilessly, warming your skin, but you didn’t stop. Not when you heard your name shouted, not even when the chickens exploded into squawking chaos as you shot past the coop.
The fence loomed just ahead, waist-height, made of metal wire and wood posts. You’d never gotten close enough to inspect it properly before now. The top was wrapped in barbed wire, coiled like a snake. Of course it was.
“Shit,” you hissed, skidding to a halt and eyeing the fence with frantic calculation.
Behind you, Bucky’s footsteps thundered across the clearing. You glanced back once, just once. Your breath caught.
He was a storm.
Boots only half on, shirt clinging to his chest with sweat, barreling toward you with terrifying speed. Determined. His eyes on you like a target.
This was your only shot.
“Fuck it,” you spat, grabbing the fence and hoisting yourself up. The metal rattled under your weight, one foot jammed between as you swung a leg over. You hissed as your dress caught, barbs slicing the fabric and catching the tender skin of your thigh. Pain spiked up your leg, but you didn’t stop.
You heard him yell your name just as you dropped down the other side, hitting the dirt hard, knees skidding through dry grass. You shoved yourself upright, wiping your hands on your dress as Bucky skidded to a halt on the other side of the fence, face wild with disbelief.
“What the fuck are you—”
But you were already gone, vanishing into the trees.
The woods swallowed you whole. The world shifted the moment you passed beneath the canopy, sunlight shattered across the leaves, scattering gold and green over your skin as branches closed above you like cathedral arches. You ran until the burn in your thighs twisted into fire, until the pounding of your heart drowned out everything else. Behind you, his voice grew distant, swallowed by underbrush, bark and birdsong.
You didn’t know where you were going.
You just knew you needed to be gone before he caught up.
And for a fleeting moment, you thought you’d done it, lost him in the thick underbrush, outpaced him through the tangles of low-hanging branches and bramble. The heat had begun to slip from the air, replaced by the cool breath of the woods and the low, rhythmic drone of cicadas. A sea of green unfurled before you, layered in moss and leaf-shadow, still and quiet now that your footsteps had slowed—
The world tilted.
You hit the ground hard, air knocked from your lungs, before your mind even registered that he had caught up to you. A blur of limbs and gritted teeth, the two of you rolled through the dirt and fallen leaves, snapping twigs and kicking up soil as you struggled against each other in a mess of instinct and fury.
You twisted, tried to scramble away, but his body was too heavy. His arm caught your leg as you kicked, his weight pressing you down, pinning you like prey.
When the momentum stopped, he was already on top of you, straddling your hips, shoving you deep into the damp forest floor. His hands pinned your wrists above your head with effortless control. His face loomed close, his eyes dark and glittering, and his breath harsh from the chase.
“Are you done?” he growled, voice low and raw, every syllable biting.
You glared up at him, chest heaving. “Get off me—”
Your voice caught as he laughed, a low, humourless sound, breathless but amused. There was dirt smeared across his cheek, a leaf tangled in his hair, and his shirt clung to him with sweat and blood. He looked wild. Feral. Alive in a way that made your stomach twist.
“I’ll take that as a no,” he muttered.
And then he was moving, the sudden loss of his weight a brief mercy, but it didn’t last. Before you could twist away and draw in a proper breath, his arm was around your waist, and you were tugged up, slung over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Your stomach hit the edge of his metal shoulder blade with a thud that knocked the wind from you again.
“Hey, put me down, you asshole—!” you protested, breathless, your voice muffled slightly by the sway of his shirt against your cheek.
But he was already moving, circling back toward the house with slow, deliberate strides like he hadn’t just chased you through half a mile of forest. His arm was iron around your thighs, locking you in place against the solid plane of his shoulder. You bounced with every step, your ribs pressing painfully against the hard ridge of his collarbone and the metal edge of his arm.
“No,” he barked, tone clipped. “You’ll just bolt again.”
Your stomach was twisted sideways over his shoulder, blood rushing to your head until your vision pulsed at the edges. It was dizzying, the world tipping and tilting with his gait, trees, sky and earth passing upside down in a blur. His shirt clung damply to his back beneath your arms, soaked through with sweat and forest humidity. Every inhale brought the scent of dirt, pine, and something distinctly him into your lungs.
“I won’t! I swear, just—” you tried, squirming, but he adjusted his grip and hoisted you higher with a grunt, one hand sliding firmly up the back of your thigh to keep you from slipping.
“You lost any of my trust when you decided to hop that fence, sweetheart,” he said coldly.
His hand stayed there, splayed wide and strong, fingers flexing against the curve of your leg in a way that made something flutter low in your stomach. You writhed, trying to ignore the way your skin heated under his palm, how aware you suddenly were of every place his body touched yours, his forearm hooked tightly around your knees, his breath steady and close.
“Put me the fuck down!”
“Shut the fuck up, or I’ll find something to gag you with.” His voice turned harsh, and the end of his patience showed. “I’m sick of your whining. This is your own fault.”
“My fault?” you choked out, exasperated, pushing at the small of his back, which did absolutely nothing. “You’re the one keeping me locked up!”
“It’s for your safety, or did that little detail slip your mind?” he bit back, unbothered by your wriggling.
“We’re in the middle of nowhere!” you snapped. “Who the hell is going to find me out here if I go for a goddamn walk to cool down?”
“I’m not worried about people.” His grip on your thighs tightened again, just enough to send another shock of awareness through your core. “I’m worried about animals. Do you know how many bears, cougars, and other shit that can rip you in half live out here?”
You froze, the fire in your chest faltering. “…There are bears out here?!”
“Yes,” he snapped, voice rough. “Now would you shut the hell up? Every living creature within a hundred miles already knows where we are thanks to your squealing.”
You clamped your mouth shut, heat prickling at your ears, though whether it was from embarrassment, exertion, or the lingering burn of his hand against your thigh, you weren’t sure. Upside-down, half-breathless, and bruised with indignity, you told yourself it was just the blood rushing to your head that made your heart beat like that.
He reached the fence a few seconds later, barely slowing his pace before tossing you over it with an unceremonious grunt. You yelped as you hit the ground with a solid thump, your knees scraping against the packed dirt and scattered stones. Pain bloomed across your palms as you caught yourself, your breath stuttering.
You looked up at him just in time to see him plant his boot on the middle rung and vault the fence with practised ease. He landed beside you, his chest rising and falling with the exertion, his expression furious.
Your eyes caught on his shirt, the fabric torn open across the side of his ribs. Blood welled from a sharp gash beneath it, slow and dark, soaking into the material. He must’ve hit the barbed wire trying to chase you down.
The fence: two. You and Bucky: zero.
You shifted uncomfortably, your own thigh still stinging, a warm line of blood trickling down your leg. The barbs had bitten deep. It felt like the forest had left its mark on both of you.
Bucky stared down at you with a scowl.
“Now…” he said slowly, “do I need to carry you all the way to the house, or are you going to be a good girl and walk by yourself?”
You blinked up at him, heart hammering, pulse still roaring in your ears and gulped. “I’ll walk.”
—
Bucky didn’t seem to care that he was smeared in a mixture of dried blood and dirt as he slumped heavily onto the couch with a grunt, his broad shoulders sinking into the cushions. He kicked off his boots with a purposeful carelessness, one of the pair nearly smacking you in the shin as you shied out of its path.
He’d practically herded you back into the house, his gaze never leaving you as you limped your way up the porch steps. His scowl never wavered, only deepened with irritation as he finally realised the state you were in, hair tangled and sticking to your damp forehead, your dress torn and stained with streaks of mud and blood.
You stopped in front of the empty fireplace across from him, arms crossing tightly over your chest, jaw clenched. You leaned slightly on your right leg, the pain flaring hot in your thigh. The cut burned like it had been licked by flame, no doubt packed with dirt and whatever else you'd rolled through during your messy scuffle. But your eyes drifted from your leg, caught instead by the quiet rustle of fabric. Bucky peeled off his shredded shirt with little fanfare, exposing the sheer, ridiculous expanse of muscle beneath. His torso looked sculpted from stone, every line and shadow painfully defined. And yet, infuriatingly, even in all his dishevelment, he looked good. Unfairly so. It was almost nauseating how perfect he looked.
You bit the inside of your cheek and tapped your fingers against your arm, gaze snagged for a beat too long as he examined the fresh gash slashed across his abdomen. He winced slightly, dragging a finger through the blood and grime that caked the wound. It was a deep cut, raw and filthy, and the dirt clinging to it made you pause. You knew that kind of wound, the kind that festered fast if left unchecked.
“Where’s the first aid kit?” you asked, stepping forward despite yourself. “I’ll get it for you—”
“No.” His voice cut through the air, low as a growl, stopping you cold. “You’ve done enough. I’ll get it.”
You blinked, the words catching in your throat. “Hold on—”
But then he looked at you. Really looked at you. And whatever flicker of protest had been building inside you died right there.
“Sit. Down.”
You sank onto the couch without another word, the tension knotting in your shoulders as he disappeared up the stairs. You ran a hand through your tangled hair, wincing as your fingers snagged on leaves and twigs embedded in the strands. Somewhere above, you could hear him rummaging through the bathroom cabinet, drawers slamming and clattering as he searched.
Your attention dropped to your leg. You hesitated, then slowly hiked up your skirt, trying not to wince as you exposed the wound. The barbed wire had torn a lash up your inner thigh, the skin swollen and angry. Blood had dried in thick, flaking streaks down your leg. You hissed as you prodded the edges, trying to gauge the depth through the grit and grime. It stung like hell, sharp, hot, and pulsing, and the thought of cleaning it out made your stomach churn.
Bucky thundered down the stairs behind you, dumping the first aid kit on the coffee table. A few medical supplies spilt out from the jolt. He barely looked at you before muttering, “Stop fussing. You’ll make it worse.”
Your hands stilled instantly, retreating to your lap. You didn’t dare test his patience again, not when he was like this, all bruises and blood and stormclouds behind the eyes.
He sank to his knees in front of the couch, wedged between your legs and the coffee table, and reached for you without hesitation. His grip was firm as he caught your leg, fingers wrapping around your calf and sliding upward, tilting your thigh to get a better look at the damage.
Your breath hitched, chest tightening. The cut stung, but it wasn’t the pain that made you tense, it was him. The heat of his skin against yours, the way his rough palms guided your leg, thumb grazing perilously close to the seam of your underwear. Your dress had ridden high, bunched around your hips, leaving you far too exposed. And his face, god, it was right there, inches away from the softest, most private part of you—
You let out a small yelp, the sharp sting of antiseptic dragging you back to reality as he pressed a wipe over the wound with no warning, scrubbing away dried blood and filth like it was nothing. You squirmed on instinct, gasping.
He tutted with annoyance, locking your leg in place with his forearm like you were nothing more than a twitchy animal.
“Stop squirming.”
“It’s kind of hard when you’re manhandling me—”
“I’m not in the mood for babying you, sweetheart,” he shot back, glaring up at you briefly, his voice low and cool.
That shut you up.
You swallowed hard and stared past him, fixing your gaze on the constellation of scars across his chest and shoulders. Old wounds. Some shallow, others deep. Your heart thudded against your ribs, the silence between you prickling with static.
He dipped his fingers into a small tin of ointment and began slowly and deliberately, working it into the wound. His touch was firm, steady, maddening, his hand creeping higher with each pass, inching up your inner thigh until his knuckles grazed dangerously close to the pulsing heat between your legs. Your entire body shuddered lightly, a tingling up your spine, and for one wild moment, you were sure he was savouring this. You could feel his every breath against your thigh, every callused inch of his palm.
Your breath hitched audibly. Embarrassingly.
“There you go,” he murmured, almost to himself, patting your knee. “Good girl.”
A whimper escaped your lips before you could stop it.
Then, he was gone. Peeling off some large sticky bandages and slapping them on hard enough to make you jolt in surprise.
You jerked your leg back, retreating into yourself. Your fingertips hovered at the edge of the bandages, trailing the sticky outline. He didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he did and didn’t care—as he climbed up off the floor and took a seat beside you on the couch, the cushion dipping under his weight.
You sat there with your mouth slightly agape, still recovering, still too aware of how much of you had just been laid bare.
He stared at you.
“Are you even listening?” he barked.
You jumped. “Sorry—what?”
“I said,” he gestured toward the gash slicing across his torso, “I need you to help me clean this cut, repeat the steps I just did for your leg.”
You floundered uselessly like a fish for a second.
“Did you hit your head?” he asked, voice laced with irritation. “Do I need to check you for a concussion—?”
“No!” you blurted, too fast. “No. I’m fine. I can do it.”
Without waiting for permission, you slid to the floor, knees brushing against his shins as you settled between his legs. Your fingers fumbled through the mess of gauze, scissors, and ointments strewn across the coffee table, deliberately avoiding his gaze. When you found the antiseptic wipes, you cleared your throat, peeled one open, and hesitantly pressed it to the wound carved deep into his side.
The muscles under your hand were corded tight, heat and tension rising from him like steam. You dabbed lightly at first, uncertain.
“You’re gonna need to press harder than that, sweetheart,” Bucky muttered, voice rough. “You’re not picking up all the—”
You shot him a look flared with annoyance and dug the wipe in harder than necessary.
He hissed, breath catching between gritted teeth, and his abdomen flinched beneath your hand. The skin twitched as you worked, dragging out a stubborn patch of grit and dried blood. You grimaced, wiping again, watching the red bloom spread.
The gash was far worse than yours. Red, angry, and deep. The kind of wound that would’ve sent someone else into shock. When you pulled the wipe back, it was streaked with fresh blood, revealing a glimpse of raw muscle beneath.
“This is going to need stitches, it’s too deep—”
“It’s fine.” He shook his head, his breath uneven as you reached for a fresh wipe. “It’ll heal faster than a normal person.”
You paused, cloth hovering just above the end of the slash curving around his ribs. “You’re a mutant?”
That stopped him cold.
His body stiffened, almost imperceptibly, but you felt it. His jaw ticked, and the muscle beneath your touch turned to granite.
“No, uh—” He began, and the words faltered. For the first time since you’d met him, his voice wavered. This voice was uncertain. Defensive. It didn’t match the sharp-edged man who barked orders and silenced you with just a glower. You looked up in time to catch the flicker of frustration in his expression, the way his brow furrowed, not in pain, but regret. Like he’d just given away something he wasn’t supposed to.
“Super soldier,” he muttered finally, quieter like the words tasted bitter.
You frowned, forcing yourself to keep your fingers moving as you continued to clean the lash.
“Super solider… like serums?” You dared to mumble in question.
“...Yeah.”
You nodded. You were familiar with the rise of serums and super soldiers, they had been a hot commodity, just as coveted as mutants. Weapons given flesh. The perfect stock for the Menagerie to peddle. Easier to control, more predictable than the mutants among their inventory.
“There were a few of those at the Menage—” The words slipped out before you could catch them. As soon as they crossed your lips, your stomach dropped. “I—Nevermind.”
You didn’t need to look up to feel it, the shift in his posture, the way his presence recoiled. Not from pain. From you.
He was flinching from you.
Shame roared up your throat like bile. You didn’t have to ask what he was thinking. You could feel it. The disgust. The assumptions. You could almost hear his thoughts shaping you into a creature of cruelty. A collaborator. A willing participant.
Did he think revealing this information would illicit a perverse curiosity within you? That you’d start viewing him in the same way the Menagerie had viewed you?
And for once, there was a sadness that lingered. A sadness that you couldn’t tell him, couldn’t explain. You let him believe you were complicit, that you were broken in a way that was your own fault. Would it have been better to tell him? To offer up the whole, rotting truth and see what he did with it? Not one clouded by the lies and falseities you used to punish yourself?
When you had stumbled free of that place, you had sworn never to use your powers again. Never be a weapon again. Never let anyone twist your gift into something cruel and unrecognisable.
What if this was different?
What if you could use it for good this time? Not to tear someone apart from the inside out, not to entertain monsters, but to soothe. To help.
Would that balance the scales, even a little? Would that scrub the blood from your conscience, the memory from your skin? Would it make you more than what they turned you into?
Would it make you… better?
Your hands had stilled. The wound was only half-cleaned, blood still trickling sluggishly along his side. You looked up.
His expression was unreadable, like a wall had been placed between you.
Your voice came quiet and uncertain. “Can I… can I show you something?” you asked. “I think it’ll help.”
He tensed. His jaw was tight, the suspicion in his gaze sharp and waiting, as if he expected you to pull a knife, like your soft-spoken words were nothing but bait in a trap he hadn’t seen yet. But you didn’t wait for a reply. For once, you wait for a command. You balled up the bloodied wipe in your fist and tossed it aside, the fabric landing with a wet slap on the cluttered table behind you. Then, without ceremony, you raised your hand above the wound stretching across his ribs.
His mouth parted, breath catching, ready to protest, but you were already committed, brows drawn in concentration as your palm began to glow. The light bloomed, like dawn bleeding through morning mist. A ball of pale, gold light that cast long beams between your fingers, casting his skin in a haze.
You didn’t dare look up at him.
Instead, you pressed your focus into the magic pooling in your hand, letting it spill like silk across the jagged tear in his flesh. As you touched your fingers to him, you hovered a moment longer than necessary, and a soft, invisible pulse of heat radiated from your palm to his abdomen.
He didn’t flinch.
That was the point.
The knot in his abdomen uncoiled. His muscles slackened, his body loosening inch by cautious inch beneath your touch. Your fingertips hovered over the torn skin, skimming the edges. When you finally dared to glance up, his face had slackened in sudden, jarring relief.
He stared at you like you weren’t real. Disgust turned to horror and then to shock.
You didn’t stop. Your palm pressed lightly to the curve of his ribs, the glow now flickering as your focus thinned and the pain siphoned away. The magic never hurt, not directly, but it drained you all the same. You could feel it in the weight of your limbs, in the tremble behind your knees. Your breath had turned shallow. Sweat prickled along your hairline.
“You’re a—”
“A mutant,” you interrupted quietly, light fading as you squeezed your hand into a fist. “I know.”
The silence was thick as you reached behind you, grabbing a clean antiseptic wipe from the dwindling supplies. He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink as you swept it gently through the remaining dirt and grit, revealing clean, ragged flesh beneath. Crimson welled at the edges like dew.
“I took the pain away,” you clarified as you blindly searched the table for the small tin he’d used earlier. You couldn’t meet his eye, couldn’t deal with any guilt he was likely feeling. “My powers… I can change how the body perceives sensations. I can nullify nerves or amplify them. Make you feel things that aren’t there, or take away feeling entirely.”
You found the tin at last, fingers fumbling slightly as you pried it open with a soft metallic click. A faint herbal scent rose as you scooped a generous, pearlescent smear of ointment onto your fingertip. It clung thickly, catching the light like a melted pearl.
“You were a victim,” Bucky said, voice breathless and stunned, like he’d received a punch right to the gut. “Sweetheart, why didn’t you tell me you were a victim?”
You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you pressed your fingers to his skin, spreading the salve along the length of the wound in slow, deliberate strokes. The half-translucent mixture turned pink as it blended with the fresh blood that beaded the surface.
“It’s complicated,” you muttered, eyes fixed on your hands instead of his.
But he didn’t let it go.
Of course, he didn’t.
Bucky Barnes, ever the soldier, ever the protector of the broken and bruised. That part of him, the part that saw pain and didn’t look away, that part that burned with justice, that was maybe the only thing you’d truly admired from the start.
Not the cold commands, not the steel-blue stares, not the way he could make your breath hitch with just a word.
It was that he cared.
Beneath the hard edges and combat scars, he gave a damn. About the ones who couldn’t fight for themselves yet. About the ones others would write off. When he looked at something shattered, his instinct wasn’t to discard it—it was to fix it.
“You’re a victim. When they pulled you out of there, why didn’t they send you back home? Back to your family?”
You swallowed hard. “Like I said... It’s complicated.”
When you dared to look up, he was looking down at you like he was expecting an answer. You sighed.
“My powers, it’s a gift and a curse. They can be used for good, like this.” You nodded toward his side, where the blood had begun to clot under the thin sheen of ointment. Withdrawing your hands from him, you tucked them into your lap, fingers curled inwards, guilt weighing heavily in your chest. “Or it can be used… used to create pain.”
His brow creased. “Pain?”
“You think the Menagerie were above torture?” you asked, sharper than you meant to. Then your face twisted apologetically, and you looked away quickly. “Sorry. I just—”
You drew in a breath, steadying yourself.
“When they captured enemies, or anyone who defied them, they interrogated them. Asked their questions. And if they didn’t get what they wanted…” You paused, voice tight. “They brought me in.”
His face changed, eyes sharpening, expression folding inward.
“They made me hurt people,” you explained. “Amplify their pain, make them feel things that weren’t even real. The body doesn’t know the difference. It responds anyway.”
You rubbed your wrist with your other hand, as if scrubbing the memory away. “Sometimes… sometimes they made me do it for fun. For their entertainment. Just because they knew how much it broke me—” Your voice broke on the last word, the sound caught between a sob and a gasp.
Turning away, you reached for the coffee table with trembling hands, shoving through the disordered supplies until you found the large, sticky bandages. Only as you felt confident that your voice wouldn’t tremble, you spoke up again.
“I was their prisoner, their weapon for two years. Decided I was to be kept, too valuable to be sold like the rest of the product,” You mumbled, the plastic crinkling as you tore one free, fingers fumbling with the edges.
“That’s why you’re here,” Bucky said at last.
His voice was quiet, like he was speaking more to himself than to you. You watched the gears turn behind his eyes, watched the truth slot into place piece by piece.
“You know too much,” he murmured, breath catching in his throat. “The Menagerie... they’re not hunting you because you ran.”
You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
“They want you dead because you know. You know too much.”
His gaze snapped up to meet yours, the initial shock gone. Something had shifted. The realisation landed like a crack of thunder as anger reared its head, hot and bitter.
“And the officials…” He shook his head, his jaw tightening. “They don’t care what it costs you. They just want you on that stand. They want a witness.”
His hands curled into fists at his sides, a tremor running through his arm.
“God,” he muttered. “They used you. All of them. They’re still using you. They’re all just passing you around like you're fucking evidence.”
You nodded, blinking hard as you peeled back the adhesive strip. “Not a rat, you see?” you said with a brittle sort of humour, trying to cover the tremor in your voice.
He looked down at you sharply, eyes dark, nostrils flared, coiled tightly enough you were half-convinced he was going to march out there and tear them apart himself. “I’m sorry.”
That startled you more than it should have.
“Shit, sweetheart. I was wrong about you, very wrong,” he added. “From the start. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” you murmured. “I should’ve… I should’ve just told you. I just—”
Your fingers splayed out as you smoothed the bandage carefully across his ribs, palms gentle as you coaxed it into place. “It’s hard. To defend my actions. To relive it over and over again, to think of what I could have done differently, what I could’ve done to stop it. And I’m sick of people telling me it wasn’t my fault, sick of the nightmares and the memories I—”
The warmth of his skin still lingered under your touch. You were about to pull away when he caught your wrist. You jolted, breath stuttering. His grip wasn’t tight, just enough to hold you there. His thumb circled slowly over the inside of your wrist, right over the soft thrum of your pulse.
“No, I… I get it.”
Your lungs stalled, breath coming out in a sharp wheeze as you looked up at him, wide-eyed.
“It’s hard sometimes,” he said, gaze haunted, “to justify defending yourself when you feel like a monster. Even when you weren’t the one who chose the violence.”
He glanced away, then back, not with judgment, but understanding. Maybe even shame.
“But you’re not that,” he affirmed. “You never really were.”
You got the sense he wasn’t just saying it for your sake. Not entirely. That maybe he was saying it for himself, too.
—
Bucky had been truthful. Within a few short days, his wound had knit itself into a pink, raised scar, the kind that would fade in time.
Yours, however, wasn’t healing nearly as well.
It wasn’t an infection, you knew that much. Bucky’s borderline militant efforts to clean and dress your wound had paid off. No, the problem was its intimate placement. Too high on your inner thigh, too close to where the skin was soft and constantly moving. Every step rubbed it raw. Every shift of your legs, every twitch or stretch, irritated it further. The adhesive bandages clung stubbornly, chafing the tender flesh surrounding.
And the weather wasn’t helping.
The dry heat had broken sometime during the night, replaced by a soupy humidity that clung to everything. It made your clothes stick to your back, your sheets damp, your skin slick with a sheen of sweat you couldn’t seem to shake. That morning, as you fed the cows, Bucky had tilted his face to the sky, eyes narrowed.
“Storm’s coming,” he muttered, gaze fixed on the horizon where dark clouds had begun to crawl over the hills like an advancing army.
You’d followed his eyes and silently agreed.
It was the third day since your reckless dash through the woods, and you could feel every inch of it. Your body ached with dull protest, knees bruised, but it was the wound that made you grit your teeth every time you moved. Bucky had noticed, of course, he noticed everything. He’d watched you hobble halfway down the stairs that morning, frowning in that deeply displeased way of his, jaw set like he was at war with the world.
Ever since your reluctant confession, something in him had shifted. The hostility had bled out of him, replaced by an overwhelming guilt. You felt sorry for your dejected bodyguard. You both knew it wasn’t his fault, that he had acted true to his nature with the information given, yet he still reeked of regret.
His protectiveness had turned soft at the edges. Where once he’d shadowed you out of suspicion, now he hovered like a sheepdog with a wounded charge, not willing to leave your side for a moment.
He gave up his place on the couch without a word, fetched things before you asked, and adjusted pillows behind your back with silent focus. When you’d had enough of being babied and escaped upstairs to your room, he’d only watched you go with those impossibly blue eyes, gaze desperate and stricken.
But today… Today, he took it further, determined to take his coddling the extra mile.
You only made it to the corner of the stairs before you saw him coming up with purpose written in every line of his body.
“Wait—Bucky, I can walk—!”
Your protest was cut short by a startled gasp as he swept you effortlessly into his arms, cradling you against his chest like you weighed nothing at all.
Your breath caught, not just from the motion, but from the sudden, intimate closeness. His body radiated heat, even through his shirt. You could feel the curve of his shoulder beneath your cheek, the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm.
“I can walk myself down the stairs,” you tried again, more weakly.
“You keep aggravating it,” he said simply, descending with slow, sure steps.
With uncharacteristic gentleness, he placed you down on the couch. He crouched in front of you, one knee pressed into the floor, his eyes scanning your face with quiet intensity before dropping to your thighs.
You opened your mouth to argue—too late.
The hem of your dress was already lifted.
“Hey—!” You flinched, hands moving to cover yourself, but he was faster. His fingers curled gently around your knee, not forceful, but firm enough to stop you from snapping your legs shut.
“It’s irritated. Look.” His voice was low, focused, the pad of his thumb brushing dangerously close to tender skin as he inspected the wound.
You inhaled sharply, trying to ignore the heat that jolted through you at the contact, the way your body betrayed you with the pulse that bloomed low in your belly. His breath ghosted across your inner thigh as he leaned closer, and it was all you could do to hold still.
He pointed, fingertips skimming just above the angry, raw skin. “See that? It's from friction. The humidity is not helping. The bandage is rubbing it raw.”
You tried to speak, but he was already speaking over you.
“I’ll change it over,” he said, already rising to grab the supplies. “Stay here.”
“It’s fine, really—” you began, trying to wave off the concern in your voice, but Bucky hit you with a look so sharp it cut your words clean in half.
His brow dipped, jaw tight. “Don’t be like that.”
“Like what?” you shot back with a whine, already shifting upright from where you’d been slumped between the couch cushions. The movement made your thigh throb.
Before you could get far, his hand shot out—broad, calloused, and unbothered—pressing gently but firmly against your middle. The ease with which he pinned you back made you blink.
“I said stay,” he said, with exasperated authority. “What is it with you and always making things difficult?”
Your mouth hung open in disbelief. “I don’t want to be babied.”
“I’m not babying you.”
“I feel like dead weight.”
His brows shot up, incredulous. “If I were to describe you as anything, it would not be dead weight, sweetheart.”
“Oh?” you challenged, folding your arms, eyes narrowing. “Then what would you describe me as?”
That made him pause.
His hand fell away slowly, drifting up to rub along his jaw. He turned his gaze downward and away, suddenly studying the floorboards like they held some grand revelation. You could see the calculation flickering behind his eyes, like he was deciding if his true answer was worth whatever calamity he was anticipating or not.
Your heart kicked in your chest.
You held your breath, shamefully hopeful. Like some stupid, soft part of you, some battered, longing part, was enamoured with him. Even when he’d been cruel, cold, dismissive... you'd wanted him to see you. Wanted him to like you. And now, beneath all the banter, you were hanging on the edge of a confession you weren’t even sure you wanted to hear.
He finally looked up. His eyes, storm-dark and unreadable, met yours.
“If this is some ploy to distract me,” he said, voice rough, “it’s not working.”
You deflated, oddly disappointed and sank back into the cushions with a huff. “Fine. I’ll play along. Just get one of the books from my room, would you? If I’m stuck on this damn couch, I’d rather not die of boredom.”
His expression broke into a crooked, lazy grin. “Sure thing.”
And before you could blink, he was halfway up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
You let out a breath through your nose, dragging a hand down your face. The house was suffocating you. The stillness, the isolation, the tension that bloomed every time he entered the room. Maybe it was the ridiculous number of romance novels you’d burned through. Maybe it was the heat. Or maybe it was just him—Bucky, with his quiet protectiveness, so noble with his brooding silences, and the way his hands had felt against your bare skin in the forest.
You bit your lip, cursing yourself.
His rough palms. The way his body had pinned you down, heavy and solid, the way his breath had ghosted across your cheek, your thigh. It was a memory you couldn’t scrub out, no matter how hard you tried.
And now, you were wondering… wondering how it would feel if he pinned you to this couch—
You jolted upright as Bucky returned, slapping the first aid kit and one of your smuttiest romance novels onto the coffee table like a dealer laying down a hand of cards.
He didn’t say a word, but his lips twitched at the corners. His poker face was cracking.
Your face burned.
You reached for the book, praying he wouldn’t comment on the shirtless man with windswept hair on the cover, but of course, he didn’t have to. That stupid, knowing smirk was already doing the talking.
So much for subtle.
You swallowed thickly as he settled between your legs again, his weight pressing into the couch, his broad shoulders framed by the curve of your thighs. There was something maddeningly composed about him, like none of this fazed him in the slightest. If anything, he almost seemed amused by your discomfort, eyes flicking upward just enough to catch the squirm in your hips, the shallow hitch in your breath.
He looked far too comfortable for someone in such a compromising position, like he knew the effect he had on you, and maybe even enjoyed drawing it out.
He gave your knee a light pat, a silent signal to open up. You obeyed hesitantly, and he brushed back the hem of your skirt. Your underwear, thin and barely holding modesty, was now fully on display. You bit down a wince as he took hold of a loose corner of the bandage. He tugged gently, slowly peeling the adhesive away from the inflamed skin. Pain flared sharp and immediate, white-hot beneath the stretch of gauze.
A soft, involuntary whimper escaped your throat before you could muffle it. Your hand shot out, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you gripped his shoulder for stability, or maybe just to anchor yourself against the sudden wave of discomfort.
Still, he didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up. His voice came low and steady, a rumbling murmur as his free hand drew calming circles into the uninjured thigh. “Nearly there, sweetheart. You’re doing great.”
Your nails dug into him as your head lolled back, breath ragged. Every muscle was taut, braced against the conflicting signals. Pain prickled your nerves, comfort stirring from his voice and touch. You weren’t sure whether to pull away or lean in.
“You’re doing so well,” he continued. “Just hang in there for me, won’t you?”
The bandage continued its slow ascent, dragging higher and higher up your thigh, until his knuckles were brushing the very edge of your underwear. The skin there was more sensitive, flushed, overheated, and the gentle pull of the adhesive felt too much, too raw, too close. You hissed through your teeth, muttering a broken string of half-coherent words.
“Shit—ah—”
A particularly harsh sting made your hips buck. Your legs tried to snap closed on instinct, but Bucky was faster. He caught your knee with his forearm and pressed it down, holding you open, firm and immovable.
“Easy,” he murmured, steady as a rock. “Don’t tense up. You’ll just make it worse.”
You squirmed beneath his touch, back arching slightly, breath caught between agony and embarrassment. Finally, he peeled the last sticky corner away, and your skin gave a soft snap as it sprang free from the bandage’s grip. The rush of fresh air was immediate, and with it came a strange kind of relief, tinged with something dangerously close to arousal.
“See?” His voice dipped into something almost indulgent. “Good girl. It’s all done now.”
You nearly passed out on the spot. Your head swam, vision dancing at the edges. A ragged exhale wheezed out of you. “God... Sorry. You probably think I’m being dramatic—”
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he said, smoothing a hand briefly down your thigh. “That’s a nasty spot. Fence got you good.”
You finally dared to look down at him, cheeks flushed, heart a mess in your chest. You were almost certain there was a wet patch on your underwear now. You prayed to whatever higher being was listening that he hadn’t noticed, but when you chanced a look at him, down between your legs, a wave of heat coursed through you. You could see it now. The slight flare in his nostrils. The way his jaw tightened. He knew. And he wasn’t saying a damn thing.
His attention drifted only briefly from your wound as he balled up the used bandage and tossed it somewhere behind him with little care.
“Why don’t you ever use your powers?” he asked, casually. “To stop your own pain?”
You exhaled, long and slow.
“Doesn’t work that way,” you muttered. “I can use it on others, sure. But not myself. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s a mental block or something... I just... can’t read my own body the same way I can read others. Or maybe the universe just hates me.”
He didn’t reply immediately, just nodded slightly in understanding as he cleaned the area with another antiseptic wipe. You winced, hissing through clenched teeth as the sting bit into your already flayed nerves.
“Sorry,” he murmured. “One more second.”
You braced yourself again as he smoothed a fresh bandage over the wound. You could feel the ghost of his fingers lingering there, just for a moment longer than necessary, just enough to make you question it.
—
Outside, the sky had deepened from moody grey to near-black, the clouds rolling like smoke across the heavens. The wind picked up, rattling the windows. Somewhere far off, the first crack of thunder rumbled.
You had expected Bucky to drift off somewhere once he had finished tending your wound, the kitchen maybe, or the porch to watch the storm roll in, or even just to sit on the floor nearby. Anywhere that wasn’t with you. You’d stretched yourself out across the length of the couch, limbs heavy and warm, your upper body propped up by a mess of pillows and the armrest as you lost yourself in the pages of your book. It was a position meant for solitude.
So when Bucky returned from putting the first aid kit away, he didn’t hesitate. With casual ease, he lifted your outstretched legs and sat down, settling your feet squarely in his lap, like it was the most natural thing in the world. But the moment his hands touched you, your entire system short-circuited.
He did it so easily, like it was a habit. Like it was his right.
Your breath caught mid-page.
You didn’t dare move. Didn’t speak. Your fingers hovered over the paper, your eyes glazed across the lines, but your brain refused to register a single word. Your heart pounded in your chest like it was trying to break free. It took twenty agonising minutes, maybe more, before you could even pretend to read again.
And what didn’t help, what made the entire ordeal a million times worse, was that your book had finally reached the scene, the one everyone waited for. The part where the tension cracked wide open, and the protagonist was getting thoroughly ravished against a wall in some expensive villa by the kind of dark, brooding man that only existed in fiction... or maybe sat next to you.
You swallowed dryly, heart lurching again as the male lead slid his hand up the heroine’s thigh, just like Bucky’s had earlier when he’d peeled off your bandage. Only… you’d imagined it going further. Higher.
Maybe you were delusional, but every time he’d touched you, even under the guise of first aid, you’d felt it—the maddening restraint.
You bit your tongue hard, forcing yourself not to let your thoughts spiral, even as arousal simmered low in your belly and pooled with heat between your thighs. You were already flushed and aching and halfway to combusting, and now he had the audacity to sit there, thigh under yours, body close enough to feel his warmth, like he wasn’t slowly unravelling you.
You were seconds away from imploding, from throwing your shitty romance novel across the room and throwing yourself at the goddamn furniture—
“Did you know,” Bucky drawled suddenly, voice low and casual and way too close, “that super soldiers have enhanced senses?”
You practically jumped out of your skin. “What?”
“I can hear your heartbeat,” he continued, that smug glint in his voice unmistakable. “It’s pretty fast. Erratic.”
Your mouth opened, then closed. Your cheeks went up in flames.
He added, far too pleased with himself, “That’s actually how I found you in the forest. I followed your footsteps and your pulse.”
“You’re unbelievable,” you hissed, snapping your book shut with a hard thwack, trying—and failing—to sit up with any grace.
Outside, rain hit the house in a violent curtain, a sudden hisssssh as the skies split open and water poured down in thick, slanted sheets. It rattled on the roof like pebbles hurled from the sky. Wind clawed at the windows, moaning through the seams.
He chuckled, one hand sliding over your shin, fingers curling around your ankle as he held you in place. “Couch rest,” he reminded you, voice dipped in that annoyingly firm tone.
You struggled half-heartedly, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he tugged gently until you sank back into the cushions, his hand still wrapped securely around your leg.
“No,” he scolded, like he was denying more than just your movement.
Your blush deepened, spreading to your chest. You let out a breath, half-frustrated, half-flustered, and melted into the cushions like you wished they’d just absorb you whole.
His thumb brushed a soft, slow arc along your calf—
Then, with a sharp pop, the power snapped off.
The lamps blinked out. The steady hum of the fridge died mid-breath. Silence swallowed the room for a single heartbeat before a thunderclap shattered it, a crackling whip of lightning illuminating the windows in a brief, unnatural white.
You jolted in fright.
Bucky didn’t move right away. He remained seated, your legs still draped across his lap. You squinted into the darkness, instincts already urging you to move, to rush and shut the open windows before the rain crept in.
Bucky’s grip on your shin tightened, silently reminding you to stay put.
“I’ll get them,” he said quietly, voice calm as thunder rumbled loudly overhead once more. “The windows. And some candles.”
You nodded, throat dry, unsure if he could even see the gesture. He moved slowly, easing your legs off his lap and lowering them onto a pillow with tenderness. Then he vanished into the gloom.
You tracked him by sound, the soft thud of his feet on the floorboards, the swift click of windows shutting, one after the other. Each flash of lightning lit the farmhouse like a shuttered camera flash, brief glimpses of movement, shadow, and form. You caught sight of him once, silhouetted in the doorway, jaw set.
When he returned, he carried a bundle of stubby candles and a matchbox. He set them on the table in front of you, crouching low as he arranged them.
He struck a match, the flare hissing into life, and held it up to one of the candles.
You watched, horrified, as he held it aloft for too long. Far too long. The flame crept toward his fingers, the wood blackening, curling with heat. It licked the vibranium tips, skimming the grooves like the metal had been soaked in fuel.
“Bucky—!” you gasped, lurching forward. “Doesn’t that hurt?”
He blinked up at you, brow furrowed in quiet confusion.
“The vibranium?” he asked, glancing at his hand like it was some borrowed object. “It doesn’t feel pain. The tech…there are no nerves.”
You stared at the charred ends of the matchsticks and the still-glowing candlelight flickering against his dark silhouette. The flames cast golden halos along his jaw, his cheekbone, glinting off the grooves of his metal fingers.
“You looked terrified, sweetheart,” he murmured, amusement warming the edge of his voice. “You okay?”
“I just—you let it burn you.”
He smiled, slow and crooked. “It’s not me. It’s metal.”
But you didn’t agree. Not really. Because it was him. That arm, the weight of it, the precision and restraint in it. It was as much a part of him as the careful way he spoke, or the way he touched your leg like it might bruise.
You swallowed again, watching as he struck the final match. It flared to life with a dry rasp, briefly lighting his face in warm gold before he tipped it to the last candle. The wick caught with a soft sputter, the flame settling into a steady flicker. He sat back on his heels, eyes lifting to meet yours. Smoke curled faintly in the air, mingling with the subtle sweetness of melting wax.
Your voice was small. “It is you. All of it.”
He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched you, something in his gaze softened. Then, slowly, deliberately, he reached out again, resting one calloused palm on your shin. His thumb moved in an easy rhythm
“Explain it to me,” you breathed. “How it works.”
Bucky seemed to turn that over in his mind. A low rumble of thunder murmured outside as he eased himself up, returning to the couch beside you. His hand lingered on your leg, tracing up the curve of your shin in thought, pausing lightly over your knee.
“The technology…it simulates nerves, mimics what touch feels like,” he said quietly. “I can touch an object and understand I’m holding it. Feel its weight. Its texture. But I can’t feel temperature… not heat, not cold. I can’t feel pain. I could sink my hand into a fire or take a bullet straight through the palm and feel nothing.”
You didn’t answer. Not right away. Instead, you reached out, your touch featherlight as your fingertips skimmed the metal of his wrist. There was precision in the construction, elegant, engineered, but it was still him. You traced along the inside of his forearm, up to the sharp line of his palm, feeling the grooves, the seams, the impossibly subtle notches between each plate. Then you curled your fingers gently around his, lifting his hand.
You turned it upward. Candlelight caught along the joints of his fingers, gleaming in liquid amber.
And then, deliberately, intimately, you ran your hand down the back of his vibranium hand. Knuckles to wrist.
“Can you feel that?” you breathed.
He inhaled quietly, eyes locked on yours. “Yes.”
You traced your thumb across a seam in his palm, a soft circular motion like brushing the edge of a scar. “Not temperature. But touch?”
“Yeah,” he said. His voice was rougher now. “I can feel the pressure. The motion. Just not... the heat of your skin.”
You didn’t speak. Just guided his hand upward, toward your face, your breath catching as the cool pads of his vibranium fingers grazed your cheekbone and rested there. You could’ve sworn he shuddered. A thrill passed through you at the sensation, not for you, but for him, a quiet hope that maybe this gesture still meant something, even if he couldn’t feel the warmth.
“And now?” you asked, voice barely audible over the rain.
His gaze dipped to your lips, then back up. The flickering darkness had devoured the familiar stormy blue of his eyes, leaving only a hungry void in its place.
“I feel your skin,” he said, low. “It’s soft. Smooth.”
His fingers flexed gently, tracing the line of your jaw in a slow descent. “But I can’t feel the warmth. Just… the shape.”
A small, involuntary smile tugged at your lips, bittersweet. A silent war was waged behind his expression, trapped between desire and duty. Between what he wanted and what he was allowed to reach for.
“I used to have another arm,” he said suddenly, his voice quieter now, like the admission cost him something. “A silver one. I couldn’t feel anything with it. Not even this.”
Your brows furrowed.
“I don’t know what’s worse,” he murmured. “Feeling everything… or feeling nothing at all.”
You leaned into his touch, your cheek pressing fully against the metal. Even if it didn’t give him warmth, maybe it gave him presence.
“I think,” you mumbled, “that feeling is the most natural thing of all. It’s the experience of living. Of life.”
His hand stilled against your face.
“People who try to push aside feeling,” you said, softer now, “to cut it off and pretend it doesn’t exist… they’re the ones who are suffering the most. Not the ones who feel everything.”
His breath left him in a slow exhale. A subtle release, like he hadn’t even realised he was holding onto something tight in his chest until now. The candlelight caught the faintest tremble in his throat as he swallowed, as though your words had struck a nerve.
“I feel everything now,” he said at last, voice barely above a breath, like a truth he hadn’t meant to say aloud, like it had just dawned on him. His fingers twitched, then slowly withdrew, curling into a loose fist in his lap.
Silence settled between you, and you watched as the plates in his metal arm shifted with a subtle hiss, the faint whir of unseen mechanics clicking into place as he flexed his fist open, then closed again. The movement was restless, almost unconscious, like his body was speaking the turmoil he wouldn’t voice. You could feel the heat where his hand had just been, the ghost of his touch clinging to your skin.
For a second, you worried he was retreating inward again, lost to whatever troubles consumed him, but then his voice, low and quiet, cut through the static.
“Come here.”
You blinked, unsure you’d heard him right. “What?”
“Just... closer.”
You moved without thinking. Slowly, cautiously, you slid forward on the couch, knees grazing his, breath shallow in your throat. The space between you disappeared. You could feel his warmth, his stillness, the quiet restraint in the way he held himself.
When he reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, you didn’t flinch. His fingers lingered against your cheek, almost like he was afraid you might vanish if he wasn’t gentle.
“I’m not gonna lie,” he murmured, his voice barely audible beneath the rain. “You’re killin’ me here.”
You let out a shaky breath. “I thought you didn’t notice.”
“Sweetheart,” he said, voice rough and honest. “I notice everything about you.”
Your breath caught, lips parting on instinct, but no sound came.
God, was this really happening? You could feel it, his gaze, the pull of something simmering just beneath the surface, waiting for a spark. But was this wise? You were holed up here, alone together for who knew how long. If you were wrong and misread this current thread between you, it would ruin everything. There’d be no slipping away, no easy out, just long days and longer nights of awkward silence and sidestepped glances.
You didn’t know if you were ready to be seen like that. To be touched like that. To fall headfirst into something that might not let you come back the same. You swallowed hard, unsure if you wanted to lean in or away.
And then you took the plunge.
“Let me… let me show you something.”
His breath hitched almost imperceptibly, but he didn’t pull away. “Yeah?”
You focused, just a small pulse of energy through your fingertips, a delicate twist of sensation sent skimming through his nerves like a shiver. It bloomed slowly at first, a gentle, spiralling warmth that coiled from where you touched and then unfolded, spreading like ripples in water.
He inhaled sharply. Eyes fluttering closed. A tremor ran through him, his spine arching ever so slightly as the feeling expanded, not sharp or overwhelming, but deep. A full-body shudder, unforced and unguarded.
You squeezed your fist shut just as his eyes opened in shock. “What was that?”
“Pleasure.” You muttered, almost sheepishly, as heat crawled up your neck. “It’s just another way I can manipulate the senses. Pain, pleasure, hot, cold—”
“Show me again.”
You blinked, unsure if you’d heard right. Momentarily stunned as your nervous ramble melted to nothing on your tongue. “What?”
His eyes met yours. There was no teasing in them, no bravado. Just raw honesty. Curiosity. Need.
“The feeling,” he said. “The pleasure.”
You hesitantly pressed your fingertips gently to the curve of his throat this time, just under his jaw. A warmer spot, closer to where his pulse thrummed, let the sensation unfurl more slowly this time. Syrupy and coaxing, a velvet ribbon of warmth that traced along his neck, over his chest, down his sides.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, body caught somewhere between a shudder and a squirm.
“Jesus,” he breathed.
You bit your lip, focusing, and let it continue, sliding up through his arms, his back, the curve of his stomach. A steady rise and fall of sweetness and shimmer, like goosebumps made of sunlight.
“Tell me,” you said. “What’s it like? How does it feel?”
His voice was strained, breath catching. “It’s—fuck—it’s like… some is pouring honey down my spine. Like every nerve’s waking up. I don’t know how else to explain it. It’s… good. So good.”
You swallowed hard, your own fingers trembling slightly now. The intimacy of it, watching him react, watching the pleasure ripple through him, watching him feel, it was dizzying. You hadn’t expected this. You hadn’t expected how much it would undo you.
You hadn’t meant for it to turn you on. But there was something so dangerously intoxicating about the control, not over him, but over what he felt. To give something gentle. Something sweet. To offer pleasure instead of pain.
And God, he took it like he’d been starving for it.
“Do you want me to stop?” you asked, barely recognising your own voice—breathy, tight, trembling with restraint.
“No,” he said immediately. “Please. Don’t.”
Your fingers drifted lower, brushing the soft fabric just above his chest. His eyes locked with yours, dark and dilated, his pupils swallowing the colour. Every inch of him was taut, vibrating beneath your touch. His thighs twitched from the phantom of sensation, his breath ragged. You held still, the thrum of your own pulse deafening. Your underwear clung uncomfortably to your skin, soaked through with want. You shifted instinctively, a slow grind against nothing, desperate for friction.
A wicked thought slid through you. Before you could talk yourself out of it, the magic spilt from your fingers, liquid light snaking down his torso, following the line of muscle, dipping lower, lower….straight into the heat of his groin.
His hips jerked up in response, a shocked, broken moan ripping from his throat.
Both of you froze, eyes locked, stunned. The golden glow in your palm flickered, fading, the magic receding like a tide.
And then something snapped.
Your lips crashed into his, sudden and sure. He kissed you back instantly, almost desperately, his hands coming up to cradle your face. You barely registered the storm outside anymore, the flicker of lightning on the windows, the hush of rain. He shifted, and suddenly he was between your thighs, pressing you back into the couch cushions. His weight blanketed you, but it only made your need ache sharper.
One hand cradled your jaw, thumb swiping across your cheek as his lips moved against yours, needy and desperate. You fumbled at the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward and over, your palms dragging over heated skin and hard muscle. His stomach flexed beneath your touch, and you traced along his ribs, up the carved lines of his back, just to feel how he moved.
He groaned into your mouth, a low, guttural sound that went straight to your core. His hips ground down against you, bandage and gash completely forgotten, lost beneath the press of flesh and want.
Your wrap dress loosened under his hands, fingers slipping beneath the knot and unravelling the fabric with an urgency that made your breath stutter. The fabric parted, cool air brushing your skin as he exposed your chest.
Your head tipped back as his mouth left yours, trailing lower in a feverish line, across your jaw, down your throat, over the arch of your collarbone. His head dipped beneath your chin, kissing his way down your sternum like he was worshipping every inch of you.
Then you sent another slow pulse of magic through your fingers and into him, this time directly into his skull.
His kisses faltered, breath catching. Teeth scraped gently across your skin as he let out a sound that was half growl, half groan.
“You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart,” he rasped against your chest, breath hot and trembling. Goosebumps rippled over your skin in waves, the warmth of his voice sinking straight into your bones.
You only laughed, breathless. “Good.”
You sent another wave of pleasure, molten and slow, slithering down his spine.
He stiffened, body arching slightly as he rode the feeling. You used the moment to shift, rolling him carefully onto his back. He let you, too lost in sensation to resist. You knelt beside him, half draped off the couch, hair hanging wild around your face as you gazed down at him.
He looked wrecked. Beautiful. Lost. His eyes unfocused, lips parted, chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. You watched the way his muscles jumped and twitched under his skin, the way his mouth struggled to form words.
When he blinked back into awareness, the first thing he did was reach down, hands fumbling at his belt with shaking fingers. You helped him, breath caught in your throat, both of you working together to strip him down.
And when his pants came off—
You stopped, just for a second.
Your breath hitched.
He was huge, hard and flushed, resting against his belly. Your mouth went dry.
“You have to tell me how it feels,” you murmured.
Your hand flattened against his stomach, fingers splayed wide. A deep, pulsing bloom of heat channelled through your palm, arcing downward into the thick, aching weight of him.
His reaction was immediate.
A sharp cry tore from his chest as his hips bucked up off the couch, hands flying to your thighs, fingers digging in as if he needed something to anchor him.
The pleasure took him like a tide.
And you could only watch, trembling, as he unravelled beneath your hands.
“I—I… fuck, sweetheart.” He stuttered, breathless, mouth slack as your magic surged through him, pushed to its limits. The strain already throbbed in your arms and back, a dull, familiar ache blooming beneath your skin, but you didn’t let up. Not yet.
He was beautiful like this, utterly undone. His cock flushed at the tip, slick with precum that beaded from the slit, catching the golden shimmer of your magic. His chest heaved, muscles tensing and quivering as pleasure rolled over him. His eyes were clenched shut, brows knit tight as he rode every pulse of sensation.
Then, just as he trembled on the edge, you withdrew, your magic vanishing abruptly.
He choked out a curse, hips jerking uselessly toward the absence, left hard and aching.
“Holy fuck—” he muttered hoarsely, blinking up at you with dazed eyes. “You’ve been holding that back, sweetheart?”
You giggled, warm and wicked, delight blooming in your chest as his vibranium hand slid up your belly and cupped your breast through your bra. His grip was firm, thumb brushing slow circles that had your spine arching.
“I didn’t think you wanted me,” you whispered, almost shy despite the heat between you.
He stared at you like you’d just told him the sky wasn’t real.
“Didn’t want you?” He looked stricken. “Shit, I thought you didn’t want me. If I had known… if I’d known you didn’t hate me, after everything, I would’ve had you pinned to this damn couch days ago.”
Your head spun. The words lodged in your throat. You couldn’t speak, not when your body was buzzing, not when your heart was hammering like the thunder overhead.
So you showed him.
Your palm lit once more, gold heat pulsing from your fingers like molten thread, weaving into the core of him. His face crumpled beautifully, a groan tearing loose as he squeezed your breast harder, his body lurching with the force of it. Precum spilt onto his stomach in a slippery trail, his hips trembling with the need to move, to finish.
You watched as his right hand dropped, trailing down his stomach in desperation, fingers clumsy, desperate for friction.
You caught his wrist before he could touch himself, eyes narrowing as your breath came in sharp pants. His gaze shot up to meet yours, pupils blown wide.
“I… you fucking minx—”
His voice caught, and then his eyes rolled back. His chest rose and fell rapidly, wrist twitching in your grip as he fought for release. His hips rocked into the air, helpless, caught between your magic and your mercy.
He was close. You could feel it in the way his muscles trembled, in the sounds he made. You wanted to see him fall apart. To come undone under your power, not in pain, not in fear, but in ecstasy.
For once, you wanted someone to reap the rewards of your magic—
But just as your focus began to flicker, just as your grip faltered, Bucky struck.
With a growl, he surged upward. His weight hit you like a wave, knocking the air from your lungs as he flipped you beneath him. Your magic sputtered out, lost in the sudden jolt. You gasped, blinking in surprise as he pinned you with his body, his hips snug between your thighs.
He grinned down at you, smug and breathless, as he locked your legs around his waist.
“You wanna say it?” he murmured, voice rough with lust and teasing threat as he rolled his hips with one testing thrust. “Or do you want me to make you?”
You arched up into him instinctively, a cry caught in your throat, the space between your thighs pulsing with need. Every nerve ending felt electrified, begging for contact, for friction, for him.
“Touch me, please,” you whispered, voice raw and aching.
That was all it took to break him.
“Good girl.” He purred, and then he surged forward, crashing into you with a kiss that was all teeth, tongue, and hunger. Your gasp was swallowed by him, your hands fisting in his hair as he kissed you like he was trying to devour you, like he'd starve without you. His hand slid beneath your skirt in one bold motion, cupping the heat of your soaked underwear.
“Fuck,” he growled, voice cracking with disbelief and lust. He broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to watch his fingers press into you through the fabric. “You’re dripping for me.”
You whimpered, head falling back against the cushions as his thumb found your clit, rubbing maddeningly slow circles through the damp cotton. Every movement sent a jolt up your spine. You couldn’t help the way your hips bucked, chasing after every scrap of friction he offered.
“God, Bucky—”
He latched onto the underside of your jaw, kissing and nipping, teeth grazing just enough to make you squirm.
“Should’ve known,” he muttered against your throat. “Sitting here all sweet and pretty, thighs clenching, practically vibrating with it. You wanted this, didn’t you?”
Your only answer was a breathless moan as he hooked his fingers under your underwear and tugged them down your legs. The fabric clung to your slick folds before peeling away, leaving you bare and glistening, trembling beneath him.
Cool air hit your wetness, and you jerked, but he held you in place, palm braced firmly against your thigh.
“You’ve been so fucking patient,” he murmured like a promise, and then, finally, his vibranium fingers found you again, brushing through your folds, gathering your wetness before teasing at your entrance. “Such a good girl. Let me take care of you.”
Then he pushed inside, one thick finger curling into you with devastating control. You cried out, hips lifting from the couch as your walls fluttered around him, greedy and clenching. Then another finger followed, stretching you, filling you, and the stretch burned just right.
“Christ,” he groaned, voice ragged, his lips dragging over your collarbone. “You’re so tight… gonna squeeze the life outta me, sweetheart.”
Your hands clawed at his shoulders, his back, anywhere you could find purchase as he fucked you slow and deep with his fingers. His thumb circled your clit in time, the rhythm perfectly matched.
But it wasn’t enough. You needed more.
Without thinking, your magic stirred, wild and hot and instinctual. It bloomed at your fingertips, golden light flickering like flame across your skin. You pressed your palm to his back, right between his shoulder blades, and poured it into him.
Bucky gasped, his body convulsing above you as the magic hit him, raw pleasure cascading down his spine. His fingers faltered inside you, but you grabbed his wrist and pushed him deeper.
“Don’t stop,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Let me…let me feel you feel it.”
His mouth dropped open, a strangled moan escaping him as the heat of your power flowed down his nerves, threading through his blood like lightning. His arm flexed beside your head, trying to hold himself up as your magic made him quake.
“You’re gonna ruin me,” he rasped, voice nearly unrecognisable, jaw slack as he rocked his fingers harder into you, magic fueling his every movement. “You—fuck, sweetheart—”
“I know,” you cooed, hips stuttering.
You pressed another surge into him, palm glowing like molten gold. His body shuddered against yours, and this time, he groaned your name. And God, with his fingers driving into you, his mouth on your skin, and your magic wrapped around his soul like silk, you were close. So close.
“Fuck—what are you doing to me?” he groaned, voice cracking as your magic threaded through his chest like silk. “Feels like—feels like I’m burning—”
“You are,” you gasped, your back arching, thighs shaking. “Burning for me.”
Your walls clenched around his fingers, drawing him in as if your body was desperate to keep him there, to never let him go. Every drag of his fingers, every stroke of his thumb over your clit, sent a new wave crashing through you, building like a storm on the horizon.
“Bucky, I—” Your voice broke on a moan as pleasure threatened to spill over. “I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he growled, pressing his forehead to yours, sweat beading at his temple. “You’re gonna be a good girl and fall apart for me. Right here.”
Your magic surged in answer to his voice, responding to the ragged way he spoke, to the desperation in his touch. You reached for him again, palm pressed flat to his chest this time, and pushed, magic pouring from your body into his, sparks dancing where your skin met his. It hit him like a shockwave.
His breath caught, a strangled gasp punching out of his lungs. “Oh fuck—”
His entire body shuddered. His hips jerked forward reflexively, grinding against your thigh as his body buckled under the pleasure, his orgasm taking him by force, torn from him by the sheer intensity of your power. A guttural, broken sound ripped from his throat, and you felt the warmth of him spill across your stomach, hot and thick as his cock twitched against you.
That was all it took.
Your climax slammed into you with brutal force, your body seizing around his fingers as the pleasure snapped through you. Your legs trembled, your hips rolled uncontrollably, and you cried out. Your back arched off the couch as your magic exploded outward in golden waves. You clung to him, trembling, your body pulsing around his hand as the orgasm rippled through you, again and again.
Bucky felt it all, every tremor, every pulse, every wave. He grunted, his eyes fluttering closed, mouth open in pure awe as you came around his fingers, your walls fluttering and spasming, slick dripping down his wrist.
Bucky groaned against your throat, his lips open and gasping against your skin, voice gone to gravel. “Jesus Christ.”
He collapsed half on top of you, arm catching his weight as his vibranium hand slowly slipped free, fingers drenched in your juices. You were both breathless, wrecked, his cum smeared across your stomach. You crumpled beneath him, limbs shaking, still tingling from the aftershocks.
“You okay?” he whispered, brushing your damp hair from your face with trembling fingers.
You managed a breathless laugh. “Are you?”
He chuckled, dropping a kiss to your collarbone. “You just hijacked every nerve in my body and made me see God. So yeah. I’m fucking great.”
You winced sheepishly, heart fluttering. “Sorry. Lost control a little there.”
“Don’t apologise,” he insisted, voice low and reverent. “If that’s you losing control... I want it. Again. And again…”
He kissed your temple, then pulled back slightly to look at you, eyes half-lidded and hungry even in the aftermath. “But next time, sweetheart… I get to make you lose it first.”
You grinned, your pulse still fluttering. “Deal.”
---
hi, if you made it to the end, holy shit congrats. if you enjoyed please let me know! drop a comment below, reblog or send me something through my inbox! thank you for reading my work :) if you want to stay up to date with any series updates or new one-shots being posted, follow my sideblog @artficlly-updates and turn on notifications.
man don't you hate it when you run into your cousins at the family function in the decrepid bowels of a dead sun god's deserted temple and they've mutated into some semi-sceletal angelic abomination with a giant scorpion's tail and screech at you for killing their pet?
I like that the Tachonis have been a menacing presence that looms this whole campaign and we find out that they come from this massively powerful civilization in an elaborate priesthood with many terrifying rituals only to find out that their whole plan was as sophisticated as do what they want and have the biggest stick to keep away the consequences. Meanwhile the Halovars are scared of them but they have always had a Celestial and are well on their way to overthrowing a kingdom with missionaries creating loyalty through faith, spreading decent, and using disgruntled soldiers desperate for work after they fired them en masse from their former position. Now the Tachonis have no weapon and have made enemies of the Royce and have been caught in a lie to the Einfasen. It really shows how much posturing goes into accumulating power.
