Icewind1

shadow | 20s | mdni | I write f/f reader insert smut very infrequently :)

[icewind1]

Ao3

Drabbles

Oneshot Masterlist

Hi, you can call me Shadow. I've been writing on ao3 for a bit, and opened this blog to post smaller blurbs that aren't long enough for ao3.

I write very infrequently and only when inspiration strikes. I've written for and can write for hoyogames and marvel, and honestly, whatever catches my eye. Most of them are reader insert, sometimes ships that I like.

Requests: Open

I prefer to write sub!female!reader but I’ll consider any requests. I’m open to most ideas but I shy away from more extreme content like guro, scat, etc.

[icewind1]

How about instead of us being the one yearning for her. Is kafka yearning for her wifey.

Mid fight? Oh she wonder what we are doing.

Mid shopping with blade? Oh suddenly she bought extra to match with her

AN: Back from the dead with some Kafka fluff

Yearner Kafka

The mission runs clean; it always does with Kafka.

She should be back at the rendezvous. She has about forty minutes before Silver Wolf starts sending obnoxious messages, and Blade hasn’t said anything yet, but Kafka is painfully aware of his presence over her shoulder.

Kafka stops in front of a vendor stall anyway.

The vendor has her wares spread across deep blue velvet: rings, pendants, bracelets, and small paired sets in matching cases. They’re simple, handmade, exactly the sort of thing that you would love. She picks between the pieces with a careful efficiency, searching for something perfect.

The first bracelet she picks out is a bracelet, simple, dark cord with a single polished piece of morganite. The second bracelet she takes her time with, picking between the different stones, lifting them to catch the sun’s rays until she finds the perfect color, the color of your eyes.

“Matching?” The vendor smiles, reading something in Kafka’s posture. “They’re popular with-“

“I’ll take them.”

The vendor packs both bracelets together neatly and Kafka carefully stores them away. 

Blade is two stalls away, looking at a stall with smoked meats and pretending he has not been paying attention.

“Matching pair,” he notes as Kafka joins him.

“Don’t say anything,” Kafka replies. He pauses. 

“That’s all I was going to say.”

SW: are you DEAD or just being weird

Kafka types back one word.

K: Coming

---------

The fight is not difficult.

That’s what makes it embarrassing.

Three Fragmentum-touched soldiers, low-tier, poorly coordinated. Kafka’s done harder things hungover; she’s done harder things asleep.

She was thinking about you. Specifically, that it was day 4 of her being away from you, and that tonight would be night 4. That she was tired of sleeping alone, that she missed the warmth of your body, and she wondered, briefly, if you felt the same way. The egotistic part of her thought, yes, of course, you missed her too. There was a smaller, quieter part of her that still fretted.

The soldier on her left swings.

Kafka moves, mostly. The very tip of the blade snags against her sleeve, rips the fabric, and grazes the skin beneath. Well, perhaps more than grazes. She puts him down in the next breath, two quick strikes, the other two scatter.

In the moments after, she stands and stares at her arm. It’s a shallow cut, and it only seeps a little blood. It’s an insignificant wound; it won’t even scar. She knows you won’t see it that way. 

She can already see it. The way your face will do that thing when you notice. That specific expression where concern and irritation arrive at the same moment, fighting for control of your mouth. You'll ask what happened, and she'll say nothing, a graze in a voice designed to close the conversation, and you'll ignore the voice entirely because you always ignore that voice, which is one of the more profoundly destabilizing things about you. 

You’ll say her name in that clipped way you do when you’re frustrated at her, Kaf-ka (it’s her second favorite way that you say her name, the first being shuddered and pressed against her skin).  And then you’ll want to see it.

Kafka imagines your hands, careful and warm, wrapping the wound. You’d treat her in this specific, fragile, domestic way; that she doesn't know what to do with yet. You'd admonish her for not retreating. You'd say something quietly cutting about priorities, and she'd let you, which is the part that unsettles her most. That she'd just let you. Sit still and take it and feel something embarrassingly close to cared for.

She'd look at your face the whole time without saying a word.

“Distracted,” you'd probably say, in that tone. “You were distracted.”

She'd say, "I wasn't."

She absolutely was.

[icewind1]

What do you think of Arlecchino x Zani like as a ship?

I can see it! They’re pretty similar in design and personality. I feel like if they met they’d at least respect each other. They definitely give vibes of dom x dom though, they’d probably fight to top 😭

[icewind1]

HOLYY SHIT YOUR YAE SMUT.. i lowk forgot to blow off steam for like 2 months and have been grumpy af but your yae fic fixedd me 🫶

Aww thanks, glad I could help :)

[icewind1]

Can we get a yandere dom!Zani drabble?

Dom!Yandere!Zani x Fem!Reader

Contains; possessive behavior, mild bondage (reader's hands are tied), oral sex (reader receiving), fingering (reader receiving), biting (reader receiving)

You should have known better than to try the window.

Zani doesn't slam it shut. She doesn't even raise her voice. She simply closes her hand around your wrist and pulls you back into the room with the unhurried certainty of someone who has never once lost a fight.

She was only a few minutes. I almost had it open. The thought dies pathetically in your head.

"Third floor," Zani says, conversationally, like she's telling you the weather. She leads you back to bed. Her red tie hangs loose around the collar of her sleep shirt, half-undone. She'd been awake. She's always awake. How inconvenient that she never sleeps. “Were you going to climb down the drainpipe, tesoro? In the dark?"

"I was-“

"Don't." She says it quietly, and somehow that's worse than shouting. She tilts her head, watching you with that flat, analytical gaze that strips you down to nothing. "I know exactly where you were going. And I know why." A pause. Her jaw tightens, just barely. "You're not leaving."

She pulls the tie free from her collar in one smooth motion.

Your breath catches.

"Hands."

“No.” You say stubbornly, and she tilts her head. Your hands move traitorously because some cowardly part of you remembers what happens when you make her ask twice. She loops the silk around your wrists with practiced efficiency, the knot firm but not cruel, and ties the other end to the iron headboard. The slack is enough to be comfortable. Not enough to escape. Deliberate. Everything Zani does is deliberate.

She pauses and looks at you. Something in her expression shifts, the careful professional mask cracking at the seams.

"I keep you safe," she says, almost to herself. "I protect you." Her fingers trace your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, and you shiver despite yourself. Her hand rests around your throat, and you can’t stop the whimper that catches in your throat. “And you run.”

She presses her forehead briefly to yours, eyes closed.

“It’s okay,” she tells you, as if she’s comforting you. “You don’t know any better. That’s why you need me.”

You bristle at that, open your mouth to retort, but then her hands slide beneath the hem of your shirt, and you stop thinking altogether.

She strips your shirt up over your head without untying your wrists, bunches it around your arms. She works your underwear down your thighs with a calm efficiency, and then simply looks at you, spread out and flushed and already embarrassingly wet, for a long enough moment that heat crawls up your face.

"There you are," she murmurs, and there's something raw in it, something almost relieved. Mine. Finally, staying still.

Her thumb drags slowly across your lower lip, and when you open your mouth, she presses it down against your tongue. 

“Good girl,” she murmurs, and the timbre of her voice makes you shiver. Her free hand splays flat across your sternum, feels your heartbeat hammering. “Your heart is racing.” 

“I’m scared of you,” you bite out.

Zani tilts her head, and her other hand glides up your thigh. She slides two fingers through the slick heat between your thighs, and the noise you make is mortifying. She doesn't smile, but her eyes darken. “Are you?”

"Zani-“

"Shh." She parts you open, fingers exploring without urgency, and your hips chase the contact before you can stop them. "I'm not a patient woman by nature. I've had to learn it. Years of it." She circles your entrance, dips in just barely, retreats. You whine. "The work teaches you. You learn to wait for the right moment, the right opening." Another slow, barely-there push that has you straining against the tie. "I can be very patient when the prize is worth it."

She folds down over you, mouth finding your neck, your collarbone, the curve of your breast. When she closes her lips over your nipple and sucks, your back arches clean off the mattress. She pins your hips down with one forearm, effortless, without even looking up.

"Stop squirming."

"Then do something-“

"I am doing something." She bites you and sucks hard enough to mark, and you gasp. "I'm reminding you who you belong to." She works her way down your stomach with open-mouthed kisses, pausing every so often to suck a mark into your skin. Her fingers still tease at your entrance without pushing in. "Every time you try to leave, I have to remind you. It's inefficient." She exhales warm against your inner thigh. "I'd rather you just stayed." When her tongue finally finds your clit you choke on a sound that isn't language.

She's devastating. She works you up fast, two fingers curling inside you while her tongue moves in tight, relentless circles, and when you feel the orgasm building, she…

Stops.

You sob. Your hips buck, and she holds you down with a devastating ease.

"Zani, please-“

"Tell me you're not leaving." Her voice is muffled against your thigh, lips brushing skin as she speaks.

"That's not—that's not fair—"

"I don't care about fair." She presses a soft, almost tender kiss to your hip. "I care about you. Here. Safe." She looks up, and in the low lamplight her expression is something you can't quite name, something between ferocity and grief. "Tell me."

Your wrists strain against the tie. Your whole body is shaking.

"I'm not leaving," you breathe. The words feel like surrender. Maybe they are.

Something in her face goes quiet and still. Then she lowers her head again, and this time she doesn't stop.

She fucks you with her fingers deep and curling, mouth sealed over your clit, and the orgasm hits you like a wall. You cry out with your thighs locked around her head and your bound hands fisting helplessly in the tie. She works you through it, every aftershock, until you're twitching and oversensitive and whimpering for her to stop.

Later, she unties your wrists without comment, checks the skin carefully for marks, and presses her lips once against each pulse point. The tie is folded and set aside. She lies down beside you and pulls you against her chest, one arm locked around your waist. "Go to sleep."

You shouldn't feel safe.

Somehow, that's the worst part.

You do.

[icewind1]

Hello! I really loved your yandere Ruan Mei drabbles! I was wondering if you can write a similar prompt for Herta if you can?

Thank you !!

Of course! I love Herta too.

Yandere!Herta x Fem!Reader

Contains; Possessiveness, dubious consent, mentions of breeding, strap-on (reader receiving), artificial cum, dominant Herta, submissive reader

You gave up trying to leave three weeks ago.

Not because the door is locked, though it is, but because Herta has a way of making the idea feel small. Foolish. Like questioning gravity.

“Hold still,” she says, not looking up from the device in her hands. Long, pale fingers, metal catching the cold blue light of the sanctum. She’s designed the strap-on herself, naturally. Custom-fitted obsidian-black material that hums faintly at the base; some resonance frequency she’s calibrated specifically to her own nerve clusters. A genius pleasuring herself through you.

“I made it to fit you,” she murmurs, then pauses. “Perhaps a little bigger.”

The thought makes your stomach flip in a way you hate.

“You’re trembling again,” she notes. Her eyes are clinical and devastating all at once. 

“I’m not,” you protest.

“You are.” She steps closer, between your legs, puts herself in your space. “You have this fascinating way of pretending. That you hate me, that you don’t want me, and yet your pupils dilate every time I walk in the room.”A small, sharp smile. “You’re confused, little thing. Let me simplify it for you.”

“Stop being so condescending,” you mutter in response. She responds only by pressing in closer. Herta hasn’t even bothered to fully undress; she’s just lifted her skirt to reveal the strap-on. Meanwhile, you’re bare, draped only in her lab coat. The tip of her attachment brushes against your inner thigh, and she pauses. There’s a sharp intake of breath.

“Thermal energy,” she explains. She touches herself, strokes along the length of it, and a breathy moan escapes her. “I’ll feel everything.” 

Her hand fits around your throat as she guides you to lie back. She joins you, makes space for herself between your thighs, and when she touches you, she finds you wet. Herta pauses, and your cheeks burn. 

“Hm,” she says, regarding you. 

“Don’t you dare say fascinating,” you manage.

She pauses to consider. “Riveting. You run from me, and yet when it comes down to it, you want me.”

“Stop talking,” you say, face still heated. She obliges with an amused smile and then presses forward.

When she pushes inside you, it’s slow; deliberately slow, the kind of patience that feels like a punishment. She watches your face with an intensity that takes your breath away, cataloguing every flicker, every sharp inhale. Herta stretches you just right.

“You’ve been avoiding eye contact,” she says conversationally, moving in a long, grinding rhythm that has your breath catching. “Since Tuesday. I noted it.”

“Herta—”

“I note everything about you.” Her free hand finds your jaw, tilts it up. Forces eye contact. “That’s the difference between you and everyone else who passes through here. They’re interesting for a season.” A thrust that steals your breath. “You are a variable I cannot resolve.”

It’s the closest she’s come to saying anything like love.

Her pace shifts, something hungry seeping through her control. The feedback from the device was hitting her now. She makes a sound low in her throat. Her fingers press harder into the bed beneath you as if she needs to ground herself.

Your fingers curl into her top, and she makes a sound like you’ve surprised her, which nothing ever does.

“You’re not leaving,” she says, and it’s not a question. It’s not even a threat, really. It is the same tone she uses for natural laws. “You are not leaving.”

You bite down on your tongue hard before you do something stupid like agree. Instead, you whimper out a “please.” Herta reaches down and touches you where you need her.

“Come,” she commands, and you do, clinging to her like a lifeline. You feel her shudder above you, and then the strap-on twitches, and an unexpected warmth fills you. You make a soft and disoriented noise.

“It’s not real,” Herta explains. “For now.” She presses a hand into your tummy. “One day I’ll impregnate you for real.”

You close your eyes and pull her down onto you, burying your face in her to avoid having to confront your thoughts on that idea.

[icewind1]

Dom Kafka x brat reader? Prutty please?

There will absolutely be more Kafka, I love her 😌

Kafka x Brat!reader

Content; brat!fem!reader, semi-public sex, fingering (reader receiving)

“Did you enjoy yourself in there? Making me watch you with her?” Kafka asks, her voice silk and steel. Her fingers trail against your cheek. She has you pinned beneath her in the backseat of her car. Streetlights paint her face in amber shadows. The windows are tinted, but you’re still painfully aware that the two of you are sitting in a public parking lot.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you mumble, trying to muster the bratty attitude you’re usually so good at, but failing miserably when she fixes you with a heated stare.

“Don’t play coy, darling,” Kafka murmurs. Her thumb presses down on your lower lip, tilting your head with a quiet authority. “You wanted my attention. Touching her, dancing with her.”

You flush at the truth of it and press your lips together. The act is an admission.

Her smile deepens. “That’s what I thought.” She dips down as if to kiss you but stops short, letting you feel the warmth of her breath. “You could have just asked for my attention, darling. Instead of putting on a little show.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” You manage, breathless.

A low sound escapes her, not quite a laugh. Her knee shifts between your thighs, the leather creaks beneath the two of you. Outside, you hear the purr of an engine as a car rolls through the lot. You stiffen, hyperaware, but Kafka is unfazed.

“Fun,” she repeats softly. Her fingers curl at the nape of your neck, threading into your hair. The tug is light, but the implication is there. “You want to play?”

You make an undignified sound, and her answer is a slow smile. Her head dips to kiss along your neck. Her fingers work apart the button of your pants, and she slips under, fingers teasing over the fabric of your underwear. She pauses, makes eye contact with you.

“Please,” you breathe.

“Please, what?” She asks.

You know what she wants from you; she always wants you to say it. She wants you to take the bratty performance apart yourself until you’re begging for her. Because it’s not actually about punishment but proof, proof that you need her.

“Please, Kafka. Please touch me.”

Her expression gives just a little, revealing that softness she reserves for you. Her fingers push the fabric aside, and the whimper you let out is embarrassingly immediate, embarrassingly honest. She watches your face the entire time.

Kafka works your body with the same focused intensity she brings to everything. She doesn’t have a lot of room to work, and you pant, twitch, and lift your hips to help her. You press your face into her shoulder, and she lets you, one hand still moving, the other coming up to stroke your hair with a tenderness that makes you melt.

“I’m gonna-“

“I know,” she replies. “I should make you wait, though, shouldn’t I? You’ve been so bratty.” Her voice is a devastating croon.

“No- please,” you sob, gripping onto her wrist as if you can force her to keep moving.

She tilts her head at you like she’s really thinking about it, but her fingers don’t stop their movement against you. “I suppose I couldn’t be so cruel.” She could be that cruel, she could, but you’ll take it. “Come for me.”

You come apart all at once, the tension suddenly unwinding. “Kafka-“ you gasp her name, and her hand tightens in your hair. She doesn’t stop moving until you twitch and pull at her wrist, oversensitive, and even then, she draws it out another moment longer just because she can.

“Satisfied?” She asks. You nod against her. “Good.” She wipes her fingers against the inside of your thigh. She pulls everything back into place and kisses your forehead. There’s nothing innocent about what she says next. “Let’s get home. I’m not done with you yet.”

[icewind1]

Please, i beg you, do an Aglea punishing reader part 2

How about post-punishment softer yandere!Aglaea 🤔

(part 1)

Content; oral sex (aglaea receiving), yandere!aglaea, light bondage, possessiveness

She’s gentle now as she washes away the evidence of your punishment. The bathwater ripples as Aglaea tends to you, her fingers carding through your hair. It’s been hours since, but you can still feel the phantom hum of her threads against your skin.

She presses a kiss against your temple. “Better?”

You nod mutely, your throat still raw from begging.

“Good,” she murmurs. “Let’s get ready for bed.”

You watch her stand from the bath, your eyes follow the beads of water as they caress the curves of her body. She’s perfect, ethereal. You wonder why you ever tried to leave her, and in this moment, you’re suddenly stricken with this need to show her that you’ve learned. You reach for her, stop her in her tracks with a brush of your hand against her waist.

“Please, let me…” You don’t finish your sentence.

She pauses, and a pleased smile curves her lips as she understands you. “Come here then, darling. Let me dry you off first.”

You climb out of the tub as she prepares a plush towel.

“Arms up,” she instructs softly, and you obey without thought.

She dries every inch of you with meticulous care: the crook of your elbows, between your fingers, the sensitive skin behind your knees. When she kneels to dry your legs, you notice the way her wet hair clings to her shoulders, water still glistening on her collarbones.

You tremble with a need to touch her, to please her.

“Aglaea,” you whisper, and she looks up at you with those luminous eyes. “I want to show you…”

“Show me what, sweet thing?”

“That I understand now.” The words tumble out, and you’re not even sure if they’re true or if she’s rewired something fundamental in you. “That I’m yours.”

Her smile is devastating. She stands, cups your face with both hands. “I know you are.” She kisses your forehead, your nose, the corner of your mouth. “But I’ll never tire of hearing you say it.”

She brings you to the bedroom you share, perched at the edge of it. You sink to your knees on instinct, crawling to rest between her thighs.

“Go on then,” she murmurs, reaching out to stroke your cheek. “Show me.”

You lean forward, pressing kisses to the inside of her knee, her thigh. Her skin is still damp, tasting faintly of the lavender bath oil. You can feel her watching you, feel the weight of her gaze like a physical thing.

Your hands slide up her legs, parting them gently. She allows it, leaning back on her palms, head tilted as she observes your devotion. When you glance up at her face, her expression steals your breath; tender and predatory all at once.

“That’s it,” she encourages softly. “Take your time. We have all night.”

You press your mouth to her inner thigh, feeling her muscles tense slightly under your lips. Working your way higher, you alternate between kisses and small bites that make her breath hitch. When you finally reach her center, you pause, looking up at her for permission you don’t technically need but find yourself seeking anyway.

She threads her fingers through your still-damp hair, grip firm but not painful. “Don’t tease, darling.”

“You just told me to take my time,” you mumble cheekily.

Her answering laugh is soft, almost affectionate. You feel the press of her threads curling around your thighs, slipping higher. “Careful, sweet thing,” she murmurs. The fingers in your hair tighten incrementally, and you shiver in arousal. She guides you forward, and when you finally make contact with her, you let out a strangled whine. She’s already wet. The first slow lick makes her breath hitch, her thighs tensing against your head. The threads between your own thighs respond immediately, pressing against where you're already aching.

"Focus on me, darling," Aglaea instructs, though her voice wavers slightly when you circle her clit with your tongue. You obey, working her with deliberate attention. You know exactly what makes her hips roll, and her fingers tighten in your hair.

The threads mirror your efforts, vibrating and sliding against you until you're gasping against her, hips twitching uselessly. Every time you bring her closer, the sensation intensifies for you too, pushing you toward the edge.

"That's it," she breathes, thighs trembling. "Just like—oh—"

She comes with a sharp cry, and the threads pulse hard enough to make you sob into her skin and join her. But just as you're about to tip over, they stop completely, leaving you throbbing and empty.

"Good girl," Aglaea murmurs. A thread curves around your throat like a collar as she pulls you up to kiss your wet mouth. “Mine forever,” she promises.

[icewind1]

Vampire Hunter!Kafka x Vampire!Reader thoughts

Content; drinking blood, blood play, knife play, dubcon, bottom!fem!reader, reader is pathetic, female pronouns used for reader, fingering (reader receiving)

Hunter!Kafka, who finds you starving, chained, and abandoned by the very coven she was hunting. 

Hunter!Kafka, who decides you’re better off to her alive than dead. Who feeds you drops of her own blood with a silver knife at your throat. 

Hunter!Kafka, who keeps you alive so long as you give her information about your old coven. Vampire!reader who is so desperate for warmth that she does so eagerly. 

Hunter!Kafka, who puts you in a silver alloy collar, strong enough to weaken you but not burn. 

Hunter!Kafka, who watches you with such fascination that first night as you lap at her bleeding wrist. How could such a powerful creature be so pitiful?

Hunter!Kafka, who makes you kneel between her legs while she cleans her weapons, the chain of your collar wrapped around her gloved fist. Who lets you rest your head on her thigh like a pet, starved for any scrap of affection.

Hunter!Kafka, who discovers that fear and desire smell exactly the same on you. Who presses her knife against your skin when she fucks her fingers into you for the first time. Who doesn’t let you hide your face when you come whining her name. 

Hunter!Kafka, who knows exactly what she’s doing when she feeds you from her inner thigh, making you work your tongue against pale skin while she cards her fingers through your hair.

Hunter!Kafka, who discovers that drinking blood makes you sensitive, that the high leaves you pliant and needy. Who pins you with one hand on your collar, her blood still on your lips. Her hand slides beneath your clothes as she whispers to you how pathetic you are. 

Hunter!Kafka, who brings you the head of the coven leader who abandoned you. Vampire!reader who understands this is the closest you will ever get to a declaration of love. 

[icewind1]

Feral!Alpha!Acheron fucking Omega!Reader, while Black Swan makes sure she doesn’t go too far.

Content; omegaverse dynamics, alpha!acheron, omega!reader, mentions of biting, knotting, female pronouns used for reader

Acheron’s fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise, her grip possessive. She has you on your back, legs held apart by her thighs as she pounds into you.

Black Swan’s hands slide down Acheron’s sides as she thrusts, her fingers trail across Acheron’s skin with a practiced intimacy. She’s pressed against her back, her breath warm against Acheron’s neck.

“You look divine like this,” Black Swan murmurs. Her hands cup Acheron’s breasts, thumbs circling her nipples. "Both of you."

Acheron’s hips stutter; she makes a sound somewhere between a groan and a snarl. She’s sitting upright, between your spread legs. In this position, you can see her every expression, see the way her abs flex with every thrust forward. She looks at you with darkened eyes, like you’re prey, and you’re sure that in this moment, you are her prey. Pleasure, concentration, hunger, all flicker across her face in succession.

Black Swan’s hand ghosts down Acheron’s stomach, until she’s almost touching where Acheron slides into you. “Look how perfectly she takes you. All wet and ready for you.”

You whimper at her words, clenching around Acheron’s length. Acheron’s eyes flutter shut, her jaw clenches, her grip shifts on you, one hand splaying across your stomach to hold you in place while her pace increases.

“Please-“ you gasp, though you’re not quite sure what you’re begging for. She’s rough, every nerve is on fire, the pleasure borders on pain.

Black Swan’s hand continues its descent, the first brush of her fingers against your clit has you keening, arching your back to take Acheron impossibly deeper. 

Acheron’s control is fracturing. You can see it in the tension of her shoulders. Black Swan notices too; she nips at the junction of Acheron’s neck and shoulder and soothes it with her tongue.

Acheron leans in and nuzzles against your scent gland. “Mine.” You feel the barest pressure of her teeth before Black Swan fists her fingers into her hair and tugs her back.

“No, not like that,” Black Swan says sharply. “It’ll scar. You’ll hurt her.”

Acheron makes a wounded sound and Black Swan tsks at her. Black Swan’s fingers return to your clit, her fingers still tangled in Acheron’s hair.

“Later, Acheron. Knot her now, bite her when your mind is clear,” Black Swan commands, gentler.

Acheron refocuses on you. You feel her twitch inside you, feel the base of her swell. She pushes her knot into you as she comes, whimpering as she does. The pulse of her inside you, combined with Black Swan’s touch against your clit sends you over the edge. You cry out, clenching around Acheron’s knot as you come.

Black Swan guides Acheron to lean down and kiss you. She nips hard against your lower lip, drawing beads of blood. When Acheron pulls back, Black Swan takes her place.

“Good girl,” she murmurs against your lips. “You were so good for us.”

[icewind1]

Yandere!Honkai Star Rail Women x F!Reader (Ruan Mei, Aglaea, Kafka)

General Content: Smut, Possessive behavior, dubcon, sub!reader, female pronouns for reader

Other drabbles

Ruan Mei

strap-on (reader receiving), drugging (reader receiving)

Something bitter and cold fills your mouth as Ruan Mei kisses you; her tongue pushes past your lips, forcing you to drink in more of the elixir. You make a protesting noise, try to pull away, she cups the back of your neck and holds you in place.

You don’t know what it is; she never tells you before she does these things. She injects you without comment, slips elixirs in your food, or, when she’s feeling frisky, drugs you mouth-to-mouth.

She stands to examine you. Ruan Mei always has to touch you, whether she’s holding your hand, around your waist, or playing with your hair. This time, she cups under your chin, tilting your gaze up so she can watch you.

“How are you feeling?” She asks, deceptively tender.

You’re about to tell her you feel fine, normal, but then her thumb brushes against your lower lip, and the heat that flushes across your cheeks is decidedly not normal. Her hand slips lower, thumb pressing into the fluttering pulse on the side of your neck.

“Elevated heart rate,” she murmurs, her eyes darken. Her grip on the sides of your neck tightens just enough for your head to spin, you make a choked noise, and she practically purrs with delight. “It’s working.”

“W-what- what was it?” You ask, panting already. You feel uncomfortably hot, you can feel the press of your clothing against your oversensitive skin, and between your legs, you’re wet. “An aphrodisiac?”

She hums a yes, with a hand splayed across your chest, she pushes you down onto the examination table. “And a sedative,” she admits. “I like you pliant, helpless.” She makes quick work of your clothing, her fingers deftly parting fabric to reveal bare skin. Her fingers splay out over your chest, pressing you against the exam table. “Stay.”

You couldn’t move even if you wanted to; your limbs feel heavy, distant, but hypersensitive at the same time. She trails a finger down your sternum, and the touch sends pleasurable sparks down your spine. You’re already panting for her, and when she smears a thumb across your lip, you realize, flushing deeper, that you’re drooling.

“Please...”

“Please, what, little one?” She asks. Ruan Mei circles one of your nipples with her fingers delicately, and you arch off the table with a cry. “Fascinating response, stronger than I expected. But I suppose there’s a confounding factor, hmm?” Her expression softens fractionally. “You’re already pathetic for me at a baseline.”

Ruan Mei steps away for a moment, and through your drugged haze, you hear her retrieving something. When she comes back, she’s fastening a harness around her waist. The exam table creaks under her weight, and even the brush of her hand against the inside of your thigh is too much. Her fingers play through the wetness she finds between your thighs, and you whine, shift your hips to try and help her.

“Ruan Mei, please...”

“Shh... Don’t try to speak, sweet thing, just feel.” She presses the toy against you, sliding in, deeper and deeper until she bottoms out. Ruan Mei watches your face intently, pausing only for a moment to let you catch your breath before she begins to move. You already feel like you’re going to come. “You’re perfect like this, needy, desperate, mine. My finest work, my little lab rat who will let me do anything to her.”

You can’t reply; you can only take what she gives you and make pretty little noises for her. She fucks you deliberately, searching for that angle that makes your vision blur, and once she finds it, she bullies it relentlessly. Ruan Mei’s thumb circles your clit, and you shatter, sobbing her name as you clench around her.

She adjusts her pace, mechanical yet somehow reverent, and you realize she’s not going to stop anytime soon.

“Let’s see how many times I can make you come.”

Aglaea

bondage (reader receiving), edging, slight choking

The threads around your wrist tighten painfully as you try to move. Your arms are fastened above your head; golden threads bind your thighs, plying them apart. Aglaea settles between them with devastating purpose.

She’s not outwardly angry, but you can tell with the terrifying stillness she wears that she’s not happy.

“You tried to leave,” she says, her voice soft, almost conversational. Her fingers trail down your stomach, feather light. You tense, and she pauses, tapping her nails against your skin. “After I explicitly told you to stay.”

“I- I just wanted some fresh air,” you whimper, a bare-faced lie.

Agalea smiles at you, sharp. She strokes your cheek, delights in the shiver that her touch elicits. She doesn’t call you out on it verbally, but the thread around your neck tightens a little. “You only need to ask, sweet thing,” she leans in, her breath warm against your neck. “Now I have to punish you.”

The threat goes straight between your legs, and you throb with need.

“Aglaea,” you whimper her name. You remember the last time she punished you, how you were sore for days. “I’m sorry.”

Aglaea makes a sound of acknowledgement, her hand cups your cheek tenderly. “Sorry isn’t enough,” she says gently, her hands sliding down your body with agonizing tenderness. “Not when you’re trying to leave me.”

“I wasn’t going to-”

“Don’t.” Aglaea warns, the thread around your throat tightens, and you choke on your spit. “Lying only makes things worse, little one.”

She reaches where you’re most sensitive, and her fingers find you mortifyingly wet. She makes a soft sound of satisfaction.

“Your body remembers even if your mind doesn’t,” Aglaea murmurs. She circles your entrance but doesn’t push in just yet. “That you’re mine. That pleasure comes from obedience.”

You whimper, try to arch into her touch, and she pulls back until only her fingertips keep contact. Her threads hold you still, biting into your skin.

“Taste,” she commands, pressing her fingers into your mouth. Aglaea watches your lips close around her fingers with a half-lidded gaze. “Three hours,” she says conversationally. “That’s how long I edged you last time. You were so beautiful, begging and crying.” She smears your drool against your lips before dipping down below again. “Should we try for four this time?”

“No, please...”

The threads around you vibrate, like a violin string being plucked. The threads shift, gliding across your skin until they press against every erogenous point on your body. She watches your face as the vibrations intensify.

You’re already so aroused, the pleasure builds rapidly. Just as you’re about to peak, everything stops.

You sob.

“There it is.” Her smile is tender and merciless. “That desperation, that need.” She waits a moment longer for you to catch your breath. Then she presses three fingers into her, you’re so wet she slides in easily. The vibrations start again. Again, the pleasure increases rapidly. She fucks you properly, thumb pressed over the vibrating thread on your clit. Just as you’re about to come, she stops again.

“Aglaea, please.”

“I know, sweet thing.” Aglaea catches a tear on a fingertip and brings it to her mouth. “But you have to learn. Your place is here. With me. Forever.”

The thread pulses, her fingers curl perfectly, and you’re climbing so fast you can’t think-

Gone.

“We have all night,” she promises softly, her breath warm against your trembling lips. “By the morning, you won’t even remember why you wanted to leave.”

kidnapping, drugging, oral sex (reader receiving), Kafka uses her spirit whisper on you

You wake to find Kafka straddling you, her wine-colored eyes gleaming in the dim light. Your mouth feels like cotton, and your head pounds. You try to piece together what happened right before this, but you can’t.

“What- where?” You croak out, it hurts to speak.

“Good morning, darling,” she purrs, her fingers playing through your hair. “You were out for twelve hours. I think I went too heavy on the sedatives.”

You try to protest, you try to say anything really, but all that comes out is a confused whine.

 “That makes three times you’ve tried to run, darling,” she comments. She’s already undressing you, tsking when you try to squirm away. Your top is pushed up until she can see your breasts, your bottoms are ripped off, she’ll just buy you new ones anyway. “It’s adorable, really. Foolish but adorable. You can never escape me.”

Kafka leans in to kiss you, and you resist, try to turn your head and her fingers, so gentle at first, fist in your hair. “Stop resisting me, baby.”

“Let me go!” You try to muster up some strength when she lets you breathe, but even your denial sounds feeble.

Kafka smiles gently. “We both know that’s not happening, darling.” She spreads your thighs, just the hint of pressure needed to overpower you, then settles between them. “Do you know what I think?” Kafka presses a kiss against your inner thigh, and you shiver. “I think you don’t understand what’s good for you. What you really need.” Another kiss, higher up now. “Lucky for you, I do.”

“Kafka-“

“You’ve done enough talking, sweet girl,” she murmurs, her words are laced with her Spirit Whisper, and your head fogs. You nod, unsure why you were ever fighting her.

The first touch of her tongue against you is electric. You gasp, arch your back.

“You’re so wet,” Kafka murmurs against you, her fingers join her tongue, two sinking into you. She works you up with a devastating skill; she knows your body, inside and out. When she sucks hard on your clit, your hips jerk against her.

You’re climbing fast. Her mouth works magic on you as her fingers pick you apart with precision. Just when you’re on the edge, Kafka pulls back.

“Tell me you’ll stop running.”

You can barely think, barely string together the words. “I’ll stop-”

She holds you still, her tongue relentless against your clit as you come apart for her, practically sobbing as you grind against her face.

Kafka sits up, pleased, her mouth covered in a sheen of you.

“Tell me you love me,” she whispers, and you feel the pull of her Spirit Whisper, clouding your thoughts again.

“I love you,” your mouth says, and now you’re not sure what parts are her power and what parts are yours.

Her smile is radiant, and when she kisses you, you can taste yourself.

“I know, baby, I know you do.”

[icewind1]

cantarella + aphrodisiacs

Your body is burning up, you’re covered in a thin sheen of sweat, whimpering and crying for Cantarella, and yet she still won’t touch you.

“Please,” you whine, you try to reach for her, only to tug uselessly at the rope tying your wrists above your head.

“Shh, precious girl,” Cantarella coos at you, her touch is cold against your cheek as she brushes away a tear. “Didn’t you beg for this? Beg to be my test subject?”

You had. You’d been so confident, too. You’d thought the aphrodisiac would be a fun thing, like foreplay; you didn’t expect this burning, unrelenting need.

Cantarella settles more firmly between your thighs. The frills of her dress brush against your oversensitive inner thighs. She reaches between your thighs, and you gasp and squirm. She’s still fully dressed, and you’re naked, tied, and practically drooling slick across her fingers. The dichotomy makes you shiver. She lifts her fingers to show you the wetness on them, and you clench around nothing.

“Please please, Cantarella,” you’re babbling now. She smiles sweetly, then leans in to kiss you, muffling your pleas. You feel the thrum of her tacet mark against your tongue.

“Alright, I suppose I’ve tormented you enough,” Cantarella muses. She presses between your thighs, stroking before sinking two fingers into you. You pant, arch your back, and roll your hips into her touch. “I’ll give you what you need so desperately.”

[icewind1]

killer!kafka x stalker!reader thoughts

content; dubcon, murder, blood, penetration (reader receiving), collars (reader receiving), strap-ons (reader receiving)

Killer!Kafka, who is a beloved movie actress by day and a vicious killer by night

Killer!Kafka, who has a deal with Detective Himeko, takes out her murderous urges on difficult-to-convict criminals, and in return, Himeko covers her crimes up. 

Stalker!Reader who becomes obsessed with Kafka and her movies. Who sinks so deep in this obsession that she breaks into Kafka’s penthouse and sees her slash a man’s neck. 

Killer!Kafka, who truly intends to kill you, but when her hand is on your throat, and you cry so pretty for her, she realizes she recognizes you. You were in the front row of all those premieres, the most eager fan at her meet and greets.

Killer!Kafka, who fucks you that night, hand on your throat, the other between your thighs, blood still smeared across her cheek. 

Killer!Kafka, who presents you eagerly to Detective!Himeko, as her new pet, convinces her that you’re not a liability. 

Killer!Kafka, who collars you, keeps you in her penthouse, her obsessive stalker pet. She loves how you look at her with such devotion, no matter how much she hurts you.

Killer!Kafka, who fucks you with every strap in her collection before she finds her favorite: the big one that she has to work in, the one that has you crying and whiny for her in seconds. 

Killer!Kafka, who finds you after the heat of every kill, still smelling like blood. Who pushes you up against the nearest surface and takes you right there. 

Killer!Kafka, who admires the marks she’s left on you in the morning, and gets so aroused she takes you again. 

Killer!Kafka, who softens only for you, who indulges you and spoils you, and curls up in bed with you every night.

[icewind1]

put her canine teeth in the side of my neck

yandere!alpha!yae miko x female!reader (ao3) (old ao3 reupload to tumblr)

Yae Miko takes an unhealthy interest in the new omega shrine maiden.

content; piv sex (reader receiving), knotting, dubious consent, tampering with medication, choking (reader receiving), possessiveness, mentions of breeding

words; 3099

masterlist

You’re praying to the Electro archon, your head lowered, and eyes closed. It’s your first day at the Grand Narukami Shrine, and you pray for good luck and fortune in your new life.

“A new face,” a woman’s voice startles you from your prayers. You glance behind you, and your breath stutters when you realize who it is. Soft pink hair and mischievous violet eyes.

“Guuji Yae,” you say, bowing your head to her. You keep your head lowered and eyes averted as you speak to her. You introduce yourself and then continue.  “I- I’m a new shrine maiden in your service, it’s my first day.”

“In my service?” The Guuji repeats. Her voice is a little lower, like a purr. The Guuji’s scent is thick and sweet, cloying. She’s an alpha, which is only to be expected of a woman in such a high position. You’re sure that if you weren’t on suppressants, you may have been on your knees already. Her fingers find your chin as she gently guides your face up. “Look at me when I speak to you.”

“Yes, ma’am.” You meet her eyes; you’re trembling a little. Her gaze is half-lidded as she examines you, her eyes travel down your body before raising to meet yours again.

“Not ma’am, sweet thing,” The Guuji says. She seems amused by you. You suppress the shiver that wracks your body at her pet name; you can feel your cheeks heating. “Call me Miko.”

“Yes, Miko,” you mumble. It feels awkward referring to her by name. She’s an authority figure; surely you must treat her with some respect?

“I hope you find the shrine hospitable,” Miko says. She drops your chin and seems ready to leave you be, but then she pauses.

Miko sniffs the air, and her ears twitch. She seems to look at you with a renewed interest, her head tilted just so. Could she smell your pheromones? Your heart lurches for a moment, but there’s no way; you took your suppressants, you take them every day. Maybe you just smell bad? You want to sniff yourself, but figure it would be strange to do so in front of Guuji Yae.

Miko smiles at you, her canines flash. “Carry on then,” Miko says. She touches your shoulder as she walks past, her fingertips lingering longer than necessary.

You spend the next week or two getting used to life at the Narukami Shrine. The other shrine maidens teach you your new duties, and you settle in quite nicely. You’re able to set a nice schedule for yourself and begin to enjoy your duties.

You see Guuji Yae rarely; she seems quite a busy woman, with her publishing house in the city and her dealings with the archon herself. The few times you do see her, she takes great interest in you; you often feel her gaze lingering on you, following your every move. You chalk it up to her paying special attention to the new shrine maiden. Surely, she was just making sure that you were acclimating properly?

Every night, you take your suppressants; you time it so it's when the other maidens are washing up. It is not illegal or taboo for omegas to work, per se; actually, a lot of progressive work has been done to give omegas more freedom. That doesn’t mean you want your coworkers to know, especially not when you all sleep in the same area. Not everybody has pure intentions, and you’re aware, as an unmated omega, how dangerous your heats can be.

You take your dose, two pills, and wash them down with water. You seem to be running low, and gently you shake out the remaining pills, counting them out. You have enough for the next week, which is good. If you’ve been keeping track, your heat week is coming up, but you will need to restock soon, and the nearest pharmacy is quite a while away.

“You’re not with the others?” a familiar voice inquires from behind you.

You flinch violently, the bottle clattering from your hand and the pills rolling across the floor. Cursing, you scramble across the ground to gather the pills, wiping the dirt from them onto your uniform. You cannot afford to lose those precious pills now. When you glance up, Miko has grabbed the bottle, and she’s reading the label.

“Suppressants?” she questions, her ears twitch.

“Y-yes,” you mumble. Gods, you wish the ground would open up and swallow you whole right now. What terrible timing. You keep your eyes on the ground as you stammer out an explanation. “I’m an omega, yes, but! I won’t let it get in the way of my work, I promise. I’m very diligent with my pills.”

“What did I say about looking at me when I talk to you?” Miko asks, you can hear the grin in her voice, but there’s also a coldness. She is a woman who expects obedience.

You lift your head. “S-sorry.”

“Don’t be so nervous, little one. I don’t discriminate here,” Miko says, there’s not a hint of surprise on her face. She examines the label of your pill bottle more closely. “You’re hardly the first omega to work here.”

Really? You hadn’t noticed any other omegas. Though you supposed you’d been hiding your status, so it only stood to reason that others would too.

“In any case, you look like you’re getting low. If you need me to, I can pick up some more from Inazuma City,” Miko offers.

You blink in surprise; you hadn’t expected that much kindness. “Ah! It’s okay! I can do it myself.”

 “I insist,” Miko says. She presses the pill bottle back into your hand. “It would be no extra trouble for me, I already have business in Inazuma city after all.”

You cup your hand to pour the fallen pills back into the bottle. They’re smudged with grime, dirtying the white of them, but you can’t afford to be picky. You shove the pill bottle in your hiding place under your stacks of neatly folded uniforms.

“That’s very kind of you,” you finally respond to Miko. Her gaze lingers on where you’ve stashed the bottle, and then she looks over at you again.

Miko smiles at you. “It’s the least I can do.”

The next couple of days pass smoothly, for the most part. There are signs that your heat week approaches. You find your body running a little hotter than normal, and you become painfully aware of the feel of your clothing on you. The suppressants help with the bulk of the symptoms, but they are never perfect. The warmth will get worse, but soon the suppressants will kick in.  It’s uncomfortable but not unmanageable; you’ll still be able to do your work.

It’s a somewhat slower day today, and so you spend some of your free time cleaning up the shrine, using a broom to clean up fallen petals and dust. Meanwhile, you seem to be burning even hotter. Your forehead is slick with sweat, and you’re shaking a little, grasping at the broom too hard. What’s going on? Your suppressants have never failed you before.

You set the broom against a wall, sneaking off to your room to your bottle of suppressants. You’re not supposed to take more than two a day, but you’re trembling, and a lewd heat is building inside you. You need to quell that heat before it gets out of control. You tilt two more pills onto your hand; they’re pristine white, and you swallow them.

You get back to work, trying to ignore the pricking of your skin. It’s getting far more intense, but you convince yourself that the pills will kick in soon, any minute now…

“Are you alright? You look pale.”

You jump at the voice. It’s just another shrine maiden; she looks at you, concerned. The shrine maiden touches your forehead without warning, and the contact makes you shiver; you bite back a shaky moan.

“You’re burning up!” she exclaims. “You should take the day off.”

“Yeah,” you mumble. That would probably be a good idea; you just needed to lie low for a bit until your suppressants did their magic. You were only putting yourself in danger out here.

You stumble back to the shrine maiden’s quarters. Fuck. Why weren’t your suppressants working? They had to start working soon, or things could get really bad for you. You fumble with the lid on the pill bottle, your palms slick with sweat. Just as you pop the lid, a sweet, cloying scent floods into the room. Your heart drops, and you throw yourself to the other corner of the room in a panic.

“Stay away from me!” You screw your eyes shut, curling yourself into a ball. No, this was the worst possible person who could see you like this. Not an alpha, not the Guuji Yae.

Yae Miko enters the room, and she pauses to grab the bottle you’ve dropped.

“Sweetling,” she says, just that word alone oozing with worry. “How many of these have you taken?”

“J-just four,” you say, trying to shrink in on yourself.

“That’s double the dose.” Her voice sounds closer, and the smell of her gets stronger, filling your nose. You can’t think straight, you feel dizzy. “You could really hurt yourself,” she pauses, you hear footsteps, and then her breath caresses your cheek. “Look at me.”

You open your eyes and almost flinch back at how close she is.

“This is no good, you’re in heat, aren’t you?” Miko says. You flush in embarrassment. “What would happen if someone were to find you like this? You know some of those shrine maidens are alphas, right? A defenseless omega like you would get eaten right up, wouldn’t you?”

“Ha-?” The next sound out of your mouth is a confused huff of a whine. Miko almost sounds delighted at that idea.

“Come along, I’ll take you somewhere safe,” she coos into your ear. Her hold on you is surprisingly strong; you would hardly be able to deny her in this state. You stagger along with her, your legs too weak to hold you up properly at this point.

“Y-you shouldn’t- it’s dangerous-“ you try to protest; you try to convey to her that maybe a beta or another omega should help you out.

“Nonsense, I’ve been around five hundred years. I know how to take care of an omega.” Miko continues down her path.

You don’t recognize the route she’s taking.

“W-where are we going?” you ask.

“My quarters,” Miko answers. “Aren’t you so lucky? Not many people get to visit.”

The two reach a door, and Miko is quick to shove it open, dragging you in behind her.

The door closes behind the two of you, and suddenly, you’re pushed up against it. Miko’s thigh finds its way between yours, and she grasps you, dragging you down to grind against her. The stimulation catches you off guard but is not unwelcome. All that needy heat that you’ve barely been able to constrain floods freely. You whimper, your fingers scrabbling for purchase on the folds of her clothing.

“Miko-” you whine her name, and you sound so needy you almost can’t recognize your own voice. Some rational part of your brain is screaming at you to stop her, that this isn’t appropriate, that she’s essentially your boss. But the omega part of your brain is screaming alpha, alpha, alpha. Your core throbs with arousal, and your body burns with need.

“Please,” you cry out. You grind yourself down on her, your breath hitching when you feel her bulge press against you. It’s not enough; the friction only adds to the heat tearing through your body. “Please, it hurts, Miko, please.”

“Shh, shh,” Miko shushes you, her hand curls in your hair, and her lips slot over yours. She kisses you hungrily, her tongue shoving into your mouth, claiming you fully. Her teeth brush against your lip, and you shudder. “I’ll fill you up, sweetling. I’ll make you feel so good.”

Miko pulls away from you, and you keen at the loss of her.

“Needy thing,” she murmurs. She hauls you over to the futon, her grip tight on you like she’s afraid you’ll run.

Miko shoves you onto the futon, and she is quick to follow, undressing herself as she approaches you. She climbs up on the bed to join you, skillfully divesting you of your shrine maiden uniform.

Her sharp claws hook under your undergarments and shear them off your body, leaving you bare for her. Miko grips your thighs, her claws pricking into your soft skin. She spreads you open for her, and you watch as her eyes dilate, her gaze heated as she admires you.

“Needy, desperate, pet,” she says. Miko leans over you, her fingers running through the wetness gathered between your legs. “Poor little omega, vulnerable and leaking for me.”

Miko nudges forward, the length of her rubs against your clit, missing your entrance and resting against your tummy. She’s big, and the size of her makes you shudder, from excitement or fear, you’re not sure.

“I’m going to fit all of this inside you,” she purrs, amusement glitters in her eyes. You whimper, your core clenching around nothing, and you squirm against her, so worked up. She grips you tighter, drawing pinpricks of blood. “Patience. You’ll have me.”

“Please,” you try again, the word cracking at the end. How does she still look so composed? How are you the only one, panting and desperate for her? It’s really not fair.

“Greedy,” she admonishes you, but she pulls back just enough to fit the tip of her cock against your entrance. She forces herself into you with one sharp thrust, and white pleasure sparks behind your eyelids as she bottoms out.

You gasp as she fills you, your legs twitching. Your back arches off the bed, your hips lifting to take her in more fully.

“So responsive. Is this too much for you?” she coos at you, but her soft demeanor belies her true intentions. Miko sets a brutal pace, fucking you with devastating precision. Each drag of her length inside you has you seeing stars. “So wet and tight, just for me. You were made for me, weren’t you?”

You nod dumbly, unsure if you’re even capable of proper speech right now. All you can focus on is the feel of her, the way she stretches you so perfectly; each thrust seems somehow to further inflame that burning desire inside you.

“Use your words, pet.” She punctuates that demand with a particularly cruel thrust.

“Y-yes, I was made for you. Fuck- Miko,” you pant and shudder against her.

“Hmm,” Miko hums contentedly, satisfied by your answer. She leans over you; her lips touch your neck as she lays kisses down it. The pressure of her canines against your throat is all the warning you get.

Miko’s teeth close on the crook of your neck, she breaks into that sensitive skin of your throat, and it hurts. You jerk against her instinctively, pain ripping through your body. Miko snarls in response, her teeth digging deeper and her hands clawing into you, holding you down. It hurts, it hurts so badly you’re seeing stars and then… a wave of heat throbs through you and you whine for her, lifting your chin to offer more of yourself up to her.

“Good girl,” she pants against your skin. She nuzzles into your neck, her tongue hot against you as she laps up the blood still oozing from your neck. “Don’t fight me. You’re mine. I’ll do what I want with you.”

Her body is flush against yours, her hips still rolling into you. Impossibly, her pace picks up. She’s no longer pulling out fully between thrusts, instead fucking into you shallowly. You can feel the thickest part of her start to swell; she’s getting close.

Miko slips a hand between your sweat-slicked bodies and presses against your clit, circling it just so. Your breath hitches, and you dig your fingers into her back, clinging to her as the pleasure begins to crest.

“Miko-” you cry out her name, and she rewards you with firmer pressure against your clit.

“Come for me,” Miko says, and then she kisses you, swallowing your moans as you come for her. You writhe against her, fingers clawing down her back as pleasure rolls over you in waves.

You’ve already come, but you need more from her; you need her to fill you up. You feel her twitch inside you, and she fills you with a warmth as she comes. The bottom of her cock swells until she’s firmly lodged inside you.

You can taste your blood on her teeth, and she kisses you insistently, forcing her tongue into your mouth. You feel impossibly full with her knot inside you, but it’s still not enough for Miko. She shifts forward, forcing her knot deeper into you until you gasp at the overstimulation.

“Do you feel better now?” she asks, her breath ghosting against your lips.

“Mmhm.” You nod. That unbearable heat has cooled, leaving only a pleasurable warmth from the friction of Miko’s knot.

Miko sits back a little, her gaze predatory as she takes you in. You’re sure you look a mess, blood still seeping from your neck, your lips swollen from her kiss.

“We’ll do this again when the knot goes down,” Miko promises. She palms the bulge she’s made in your tummy with a loving expression. “I’ll take you from the back this time, more likely to conceive that way. We’ll make such beautiful pups together.”

“Pups?” you squeak in alarm, and it’s like a bucket of cold water has been dumped on you. “I can’t- I don’t want to get pregnant- I’m not ready for that.“

Miko’s eyes narrow at you, and her hand curls viciously around your throat. She squeezes until your eyes tear up, and you can hear your own pulse pounding in your head. “Don’t lie to me. You want this. You want to be in my service, isn’t that what you said? You want to be filled by me, you want to belong to me, you want to have my pups.”

Her hand loosens on you just as your vision is beginning to dim, and as you gasp and choke for air, her eyes soften a little.

“Don’t cry.” She leans in, kissing away those tears that threaten to fall. “You’ll be happy, I’ll show you, you just don’t know it yet.”

[icewind1]

all fics are smutty unless otherwise indicated

some drabbles may contain darker material. I try to warn of any potential triggers. Feel free to let me know if something should be tagged.

Genshin Impact (Personal favorites: Signora, Yae Miko, Yelan, Ninguang)

Alpha!Women helping you through your heat (Signora, Yelan, Ninguang)

Honkai Star Rail (Personal favorites: Kafka, Aglaea)

Serial killer!Kafka thoughts

Vampire Hunter!Kafka thoughts

Dom!Kafka x brat!reader

Yandere!HSR Women (Ruan Mei, Aglaea, Kafka)

Yan!Aglaea pt 2

Acheswan abo threesome

Yan!Herta x Reader

MCU (Personal favorites: Yelena, Wanda)

WIP

Wuthering Waves (Personal favorites: Augusta, Cantarella, Zani)

Cantarella + aphrodisiacs

Dom!Yandere!Zani

[icewind1]

Alpha!Genshin Women helping you through your heat (Signora, Ningguang, Yelan)

General Content: vaginal penetration (reader receiving), knotting (reader receiving), omegaverse dynamics, female titles used for reader

Other drabbles

Signora

breathplay (reader receiving)

She has you on your back, sinking into her fur covers as she fucks you into her mattress. Her hand rests against your throat, not squeezing, not yet, though you desperately want her to.

“Rosalyne,” you whimper her name, vision blurred with overwhelmed tears.

You see a flash of affection, a flicker of a fond smile she saves only for you, before the hand on your throat tightens just right. Your head goes fuzzy, thoughts scattering, leaving only instinct and need. You can’t focus on anything but the feeling of her inside you. Through it all, she fucks you, hitting that spot inside you that makes you pant and whimper for her.

“Such a pretty sound,” she murmurs. Her hand loosens just enough so she can hear the strangled noise you make when you gasp for air.

“Rosalyne- please-”

Then her grip tightens again, pressing just right against the sides of your throat so your world narrows to the feeling of her inside you.

“You beg so sweetly like this,” Rosalyne purrs. “Desperate. Pathetic. Needy.” She emphasizes each word with a thrust. “Look at the mess you’re making.” She lets go of you to cradle your jaw, guiding your gaze down to where she sinks into you. The view that greets you is obscene. Her length disappearing into you, again and again, glistening with your arousal, stretching you to the border of too much.

“Don’t look away,” she commands. Her hand returning to splay over your throat, she feels for the flutter of your pulse point, and the world goes soft at the edges. “I want you to see what a mess you’re making for me.”

The lack of oxygen heightens everything, the feel of her inside you, hitting that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. Each brush of her skin against yours feels electric. When her grip loosens again, you practically sob.

“Please,” you babble, unable to string more words than that. “Please.”

“Please, what?” Rosalyne asks, and there’s an edge of cruelty to her voice that has you clenching around her. “Use your words, darling.”

“Mhn-” You make a desperate noise. “Touch me, please.”

“Good enough,” she remarks. Her hand reaches between your bodies, touching you firmly where you’re most sensitive. You come for her, mewling, whining, and she fucks you through it, pinning you with her other hand when you squirm from overstimulation. You feel the base of her swell before her knot pops into you. The relief is immediate.

You feel impossibly full, impossibly stretched, and most importantly, claimed. You have her trapped inside you, and that sends a possessive thrill through your body. Rosalyne leans over you, thumb still stroking against your pulse point.  

She sits up a little, and you make a desperate sound at the loss of her body warmth, fingers scrabbling against her shoulders to try and hold her in place.

“Don’t go,” you mumble.

“I physically can’t,” she points out, amused. You still cling to her, and she indulges you, letting you press your face against the crook of her neck. “Drink something, my love.” You shake your head stubbornly. “Drink something before your heat flares again, and you’re too busy begging for my cock to care for yourself.”

You flush but obey her. You drink from a cup she’s brought for you and eat berries from her fingertips, spoiled and sated until the need inevitably burns through you again.

Ningguang

Breeding kink

Your body is burning up, a heat coming from inside that builds until it hurts. You need Ningguang, you need her, and yet you know she’s in some important meeting and can’t attend to you.

You smother your face into her pillow; it smells like her, jasmine and silk and something else distinctly Ningguang. You wedge a hand between your thighs, trying desperately to ease that overwhelming ache that pulses through you. It’s not enough. You bite down on your lip hard enough to taste copper, muffling a whine. You can’t be that needy omega who interrupts Ningguang’s important business; you can handle it alone.

You barely register the sound of the door opening, but you smell her immediately. Her scent washes over you, soothing that frantic beat of your heart.

“Ningguang,” you cry out for her, too lost in your heat to even be embarrassed at the desperation in your voice.

“Baiwen called for me,” she murmurs. The mere mention of another woman when you’re in this state has you reeling back. She coos at you, the bed dips under her weight, and she presses a cool hand against your cheek. You nuzzle into it like a cat and watch as the edges of her sharp eyes soften. “I’m here now.”

She reaches for the robes you’re wearing; they’re hers that you’ve borrowed. Her hands on you are like a salve against a burn, and you nearly sob with relief. “Why didn’t you call for me?”

“You were... busy- Important meeting...” You can barely string the words together. Another wave of need has you arching against her touch.

“I am never too busy for you,” she chides. She sits back only to undress, fabric peeling away to reveal pale skin and, finally, that she’s already half hard, a sight that has you panting for her.

“Ningguang,” you whimper her name again.

“I know, sweet thing.” She guides your thighs to part, and you’re already so wet for her she hardly needs to prep you. You feel the blunt head of her, and then she shifts forward, filling you inch by inch until she bottoms out. She pauses to let you adjust, hips flush against you, but you don’t have the patience for it. You wrap your legs around her, trying to pull her impossibly deeper, and roll your hips up.

“Please, move, please fuck me,” you plead.

“Needy girl,” Ningguang murmurs, but there’s a sweet affection to her words. Her eyes darken as she takes you in, squirming and desperate. “Since you asked so nicely.” Then she’s moving.

Her thrusts are deep and purposeful, each one hitting that spot inside of you that makes you gasp and cling to her. You can feel every ridge of her; you can feel the way your body desperately tries to pull her in. Ningguang presses down on your tummy, and the feeling intensifies, pleasure sparking each time she fills you.

“Look at you,” her eyes meet yours, hungry. “Taking me so well, so perfectly. Mine.”

That possessive growl in her voice, the way she drinks you in with her eyes, the relentless rhythm of her. Everything had you spiraling to the edge. You need to come, need her to fuck you through it, and keep going because one orgasm won’t be enough to satisfy your heat.

“Close,” you manage to gasp, clutching at her. “Ningguang-”

“Come for me then,” she reaches for you, brushes against your clit just right to help you unravel. You clench around her, crying out her name as you arch your back. You come so hard your vision whites out. Ningguang fucks you through it, drawing out your pleasure until you’re squirming with overstimulation.

“More, please,” you whimper when you can find words again. The need still burns through you hot despite your orgasm. “Need your knot.”

“Greedy little thing.” Her hand splays out over your stomach, holding you in place. “Don’t worry, I’ll knot you, I’ll fill you so full you’ll feel me for days.”

The promise makes you clench, and she lets out a ragged gasp.

“I’m going to knot you,” she grits out, her usual composure fraying at the edges. “Fill you, breed you properly. Would you like that?”

“Yes, please please-”

The swell of her catches at your entrance, one more deep thrust, and it expands. You feel her twitch inside you, feel the warmth as she fills you, her cum trapped inside by her knot. Her composure changes immediately, her body covers yours, warm. Her breath tickles your neck, and she presses in closer where your scent is the strongest.

When the two of you have caught your breath, she pulls back and kisses you on the forehead.

“Better?” she asks.

“For now,” you say. The heat has receded, you feel better, but you know it won’t last.

“Good.” Ningguang’s fingers trace patterns on your heated skin. “We’ll stay like this until the knot goes down, and then I’ll draw you a bath. You’re going to eat something; you need to keep your strength up. And then...” Her eyes glitter with a possessive promise. “When your heat flares again, I’ll take you again. And again. As many times as it takes.”

Yelan

Bondage (reader receiving), Reader is collared, Yelan is kind of a masochist

You’re in her lap; your hands bound together with your arms looped over her shoulders. The position forces you close against her. She’s already buried deep inside you, stuffing you full and yet unmoving. You whine, try to shift your hips against her, and she tightens her grip on your waist, holding you there.

“Yelan, please,” you gasp. You need her to move, need her to ease this burning need inside you.

“I know what you need, pet.” She tugs at the collar sitting around your neck, and the reminder that it’s there, that you’re marked as hers, makes you clench around her. “You’ll take what I give you, understand?”

You nod desperately.

“Good girl,” she murmurs approvingly. Then she lifts you, sliding out of you just a little before dropping you on her again. The sudden fullness makes you cry out, your bound hands splaying out against the back of her neck, nails digging into her shoulders. She fucks you like this, gripping your waist to control your movements and thrusting up into you.

She takes it slow at first, watching your face intently as she makes you feel every inch of her. “That’s it. Take it. So good for me.”

Your nails dig deeper into her skin, and she hisses with pleasure, her grip on your waist tightening.

“Yes,” Yelan hisses. Her hand disappears into your hair before she tugs, guiding you back to kiss along your neck. She doesn’t bite, can’t with the collar in the way, but she licks along it, finding your pulse point. Then, her hands are back on your waist, her hips bucking up into you as you both chase pleasure. You can feel the base of her swell already.

“I’m close,” you gasp, your nails raking down her back.

“Come for me,” she commands, her pace steady. Yelan reaches between you, thumb circling your clit. “Come on my cock.”

You bite into her shoulder as you shatter, muffling your whimpers against her skin. Yelan’s answering shudder tells you she enjoyed that too.

She thrusts up into you one more time before her knot expands and she fills you. Gravity forces her even deeper until she’s stuck inside. “Fuck, so perfect, taking my knot so well.”

You make a satisfied sound. You feel good, warm, sleepy, and you nuzzle deeper into the crook of her neck.

“Look what you did to me,” she purrs, her fingers tangle in your hair to make you look. She tilts her head to show you the side of her neck and shoulders, covered in red indents from your fingernails and now a bite mark. “Marked me up so pretty.”

Despite your exhaustion, you feel a surge of possessive pride. You lean in to kiss her. “Good,” you whisper against her lips, and she laughs in return.

She settles back against the cushions, bringing you with her. The position eases some of the pressure, and you sag against her chest gratefully.

“We’ll be here a while. Your heat will flare again,” she says, her fingers idly tracing the edge of the collar around your throat. “I think I’ll keep you tied up, full of me, until you can’t think of anything else. How does that sound?”

You shiver against her. “Perfect.”

[icewind1]

sleep with the devil, go dance with her (3/3)

Dark!Alpha!Yelena x Omega!Reader (ao3) (part 1) (part 2)

Summary: Yelena keeps visiting you, and eventually the two of you have to confront what this is becoming.

tags; vaginal penetration (reader receiving), implied oral sex (reader giving), gun violence (reader gets hurt), blood, suturing (done on Yelena),

word count: 5591

masterlist

---------

The first time she comes back, it’s only three days later.

You’re making dinner, nothing fancy, just noodles and jarred pasta sauce. You don’t even hear her coming. One moment you’re stirring the pot, the next, strong arms circle your waist from behind. You gasp, the wooden spoon slips from your hand, clattering on the ground, but then the scent hits you, gunpowder and leather.

“Jumpy,” Yelena murmurs against your ear, low and amused.

“Yelena,” you say, breathy. “How’d you get in?”

“Your back door lock is broken,” she says. She buries her face in the crook of your neck, and you can feel the puff of her breath. “I’ll fix it.”

Her hands find your hips; her fingers go exploring. You shudder at her cold fingertips. “Yelena, I’m cooking,” you object. Cooking is a stretch. You’re boiling noodles and heating sauce.

 She makes a hum of acknowledgement and then turns you to kiss you anyway. Her mouth is hot and demanding; she crowds into your space, pressing you against the counter. You have just enough foresight to twist the stovetop off before she’s lifting you. Your apartment is small; it’s only a few steps to the couch.

She drops you on the cushions with more care than her impatience suggests, her fingers already hooking underneath the fabric of your shirt to tug it up. You barely have time to catch your breath before she’s climbing over you, caging you in.

Later, you make her join you to eat the now mushy pasta with congealed tomato sauce.

---------

She comes sporadically, twice a week, sometimes once, and very rarely, takes weeks between visits. In those times, the anxiety creeps in on you: Is she okay? How would you know if she wasn’t? Why do you care anyway? It’s not like you’re dating; it’s not like anything about this relationship you have with her is normal.

She never stays the night when she does visit, the bed is always empty when you wake.

You make it a silent competition with yourself to try and stay awake as long as possible, long enough to hear her leave. You aren’t successful most nights, but sometimes you can catch her, softly untangling herself from you and slipping away.

One night, you catch her like that. She gently extricates herself from you, pausing to brush her fingers against your cheek. She stands, pauses, then kneels by your side again. You feel the coolness of her breath as she whispers to you.

“Soon, I’m going to quit,” she says. Nothing more, no elaboration. When she leaves, you wonder if it was all in your head, a desperate figment of your imagination, a concoction created by that pathetic part of you that longs for the day you might really have her to yourself.

It’s one of those nights tonight. You’re in the shower when you hear the soft scrape of your window opening. Your heart lurches in your throat. You know it’s probably Yelena, but that doesn’t stop you from stepping out of the shower, still dripping wet, and grabbing the ceramic toilet top lid as a weapon.

You hear the thud of boots on your bedroom floor, the measured footsteps approaching the door. The doorknob turns, the door creaks open. She sees you and raises an eyebrow.

“Put that down,” Yelena says. “Do you know how expensive it is to replace those?”

“Can you use the door like a normal person?” you ask, slowly setting the ceramic lid back into place.

“When you learn to lock your windows,” she replies. She approaches you, herding you back into the shower. You watch her undress, lean muscle, and scarred skin. Yelena steps into the shower behind you. Her hands are cold on you. “Did you miss me?” she asks as she turns you and presses you against the tile.

You answer her with a breathy moan as her teeth find that divot where your neck meets your shoulder. You press your palms flat against the wall as she takes you from behind. The water runs cold before she’s done with you. Afterward, she wraps you in a towel, surprisingly gentle, and dries you with careful attention. You notice then that there’s a fresh bruise blooming across her ribs, mottled and purple.

“What happened?” you ask, your hand hovering over the bruise.

“Occupational hazard,” she murmurs, catching your hand and bringing your fingers to her lips. “Don’t worry about me.”

But you do. You worry about her all the time.

---------

She’s already in your apartment when you get home, and she’s sitting at your kitchen table with containers of Thai food spread out before her. She’s made herself completely at home, her jacket draped over your chair, boots kicked off by the door, feet propped up.

“I didn’t know what you liked,” she says with a shrug. “I brought a bit of everything.”

It’s so unexpectedly domestic that you almost laugh.

“You broke into my apartment to bring me dinner?” you ask, setting your bag down.

“It’s hardly breaking in at this point,” she says, smiling. “I made a copy of your key last time.”

You should be outraged. You should demand she hand it over. Instead, you sit across from her and reach for the utensils.

“Of course you did,” you mutter.

She grins, unrepentant.

That night, she takes you apart like she’s studying you. She maps every inch of your body with her hands and mouth, learning what makes you gasp, what makes you whimper, what makes you beg. When you finally come apart beneath her, she holds you through it, forehead against yours.

For the first time, she stays until morning. You wake tangled together, her arm across your waist, breath warm against the back of your neck. When you try to slip free, her hold tightens.

“Five more minutes,” she mumbles, still half-asleep.

You give her twenty.

---------

The sound that jolts you from your sleep is entirely unfamiliar. A thud against your front door, a muffled curse in Russian. Yelena, but without the Yelena stealth. Her breathing is ragged and heavy, and she fumbles with your doorknob with all the finesse of a drunkard stumbling home. Something is wrong.

You lurch for the door; your feet still tangled in your blankets. When the door swings open, Yelena falls into your arms.  She’s dead weight, and there’s a sickening metallic smell you recognize as blood. Her face is pale, her forehead slick with sweat. At her side, there’s a dark stain in her tactical gear, slowly expanding.

“Yelena,”  you gasp, staggering back as you support her.

“Just a scratch,” she mumbles, but her voice is thin, and her knees tremble. You guide her to your couch.

“We have to take you to the hospital,” you say, absentmindedly reaching for your phone—her hand clamps around your wrist with a surprising strength.

“No hospital. No doctors. No questions,” she says, her hand falls, drifting back to her side again. She winces.

“Then what do I do? Yelena, you’re bleeding so much.”

“There’s a kit in my boot,” she hisses through gritted teeth. You’re fumbling to tug her boot off before she’s done speaking. “You can stitch me up, I’ve seen you do it in the lab.”

You’ve never brought her into your lab. Has she been watching you there? Probably, you don’t have the time to think much more about it. “I suture mice,” you answer, and even then, only a stitch or two for your research.

“Pretend I’m a big mouse,” she replies with a lopsided smile that falters as she takes too deep a breath. You help her take her top off, and the wet cloth clings to her side, peeling away to reveal a gash, steadily oozing blood. It’s not as bad as you imagined, not deep enough to hit an artery or organs.

You dig through the kit, and it’s small; there’s a roll of gauze, an alcohol wipe, scissors, needle holders, and a single curved needle already attached to suture thread. As soon as the forceps hit your palm, a strange clinical calm comes over you.

“Sit up a little,” you murmur. Your voice trembles, but your hands are steady. You dab at the edges of the wound with alcohol, the parts you’ll pierce through, apologizing under your breath each time Yelena hisses. When the needle bites through her skin, she flinches but makes no sound. The movements are familiar; she is a big mouse, but it’s much different having someone follow your every movement.

Your sutures are neat, evenly spaced, and excellent work. You go through the motions. Finally, when she’s whole and not at risk of bleeding out on your couch, you let yourself breathe. Your hand trembles so hard you grip the fabric of her shirt to steady yourself.

You realize, silently, that you're crying, your hot tears slipping down your face and wetting the front of your shirt.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, her voice is a gentle rasp. She reaches for you, hands cupping your cheeks, thumbs smearing away the tears as they fall.

“I don’t like not knowing, Yelena,” you say, stringing together your scattered emotions into words that make sense. “I don’t like wondering every time you take too long to come back if you’re dead somewhere.”

“I’ll always come back,” she says softly.

“You can’t promise that,” you say, the words catching painfully in the back of your throat. Your fingers ghost over her side, just barely skirting the edges of her wound. “What if this was deeper, Yelena? What if you didn’t make it back? How would I ever know? Would you have me searching for every blonde Jane Doe, wondering if she was you?”

She softens for you, something flickers in her eyes, guilt maybe? Her thumb strokes against your jaw. “You’re right, I can’t promise. But I try маленькая птичка, every time I try.”

Her hand curls at the nape of your neck, and she tugs you down onto her despite how it must hurt her. You go willingly, settling against her uninjured side, your tears dampening her shirt. Her heartbeat is steady against your ear.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers into your hair, and you’re not sure if she’s apologizing for scaring you or for the life she leads, the one that steals her from you every morning and sometimes brings her back broken.

Her fingers card through your hair, soft and gentle. You let her lull her to sleep, and eventually, your breathing evens out, and you close your eyes.

She’s gone in the morning, but you knew she would be.

It’s three days later that you come home to a package left on your nightstand. It’s wrapped in a foreign newspaper dated two days ago. Inside is a burner phone with a single number on it. There’s a note too, in her handwriting.

So you don’t worry yourself to death. – Y

You stare at it for a long moment, turning the phone over in your hands. Then you send her a text. ‘Hi’

She responds with an emoji of a mouse.

---------

Tonight.

It’s the only indication you ever get that she’ll be coming, a short sentence, sometimes just one word. Still, it makes you giddy as you leave your lab and head to the bus stop. You huddle against the side of the bus shelter; it’s windy, getting cold. You wonder if Yelena’s keeping warm wherever she goes. She seems like the type to brave the cold without a jacket stubbornly.

You’re scrolling through your old chats. She’s a sporadic texter, sometimes quadruple texts, sometimes forgets to answer you, and sends photos of stray cats or cute dogs she finds instead. You’re engrossed, grinning stupidly, and you don’t notice the man approaching. He joins you and stands just a little too close. It’s not until he says your full name in a foreign accent that you freeze, your heart skipping a beat.

“Can I help you?” you ask, and that’s when you notice he’s angled himself to block your exit.

He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Your research stops tonight.”

It happens in slow motion, you see the glint of his pistol, and then the heavy thud against your side. You feel warmth, a ringing in your ear, and everything is muffled like you’re underwater. The man is already gone by the time you hit the ground, a true professional. Somebody in the background shouts, and then there are hands by your side, a person you don’t know pressing their jacket against your wound. You reach for your phone, the screen cracked and slick with red. It’s still open on your chat with Yelena. You need to tell her, you need to let her know what happened to you.

Shot. At bus stop.

Is what you try to type. Your fingers smear with your own blood, your vision blurs and begins to fade.

Sjott. St bjs s rop.

Is what gets sent. Your consciousness slips, faintly you can tell someone is calling for help, but all you can think, the thought flickering like a broken neon light in your head is that at least you were shot for your research and not because of Yelena. Somehow, it’s almost comforting.

It all comes in pieces as you float in and out, weightless and untethered. Sirens that start from far away and come close, hands on your body, someone cutting your shirt open, the sting of something cold flooding your veins. Voices overlap above you.

“GSW to the abdomen—”

“BP dropping—”

You try to stay awake, but the ceiling blurs, sliding in and out of focus. The world lurches around you, and you’re moving. For a second, you think you see green eyes leaning over you, think you feel the touch of her fingers against your cheek. Then an oxygen mask is pressed to your face, and the world fades to the burning sting of propofol in your veins.

---------

You wake to the slow, steady beep of a machine.

Your mouth is dry, tongue thick like cotton. Your body feels heavy, like you’re pinned to the bed by invisible weights. When you try to move, a deep ache flares in your side, and you whimper before you can catch it.

“Hey. Easy.”

The voice is unmistakable, and this time you’re sure you’re not imagining her.

You blink against the harsh light. The room swims into view in fragments; you see the white ceiling tiles, a curtain half-drawn, the IV stand, and you turn your head more and see her.

She’s sitting in the chair by your bed, leaning forward like she’s been ready for you to wake for hours. Her hair is messily gathered into a hasty tie, and dark shadows carve deep under her eyes. There’s dried blood on the cuff of her sleeve; you wonder if it’s yours.

“Yelena,” you say, your voice is scratchy, and it hurts to talk. “You found me.”

“I put a tracker in your phone,” she says quietly.

“Of course,” you huff a laugh, then wince.

Yelena doesn’t seem to find it as funny as you do; she’s deathly quiet. She reaches for you, fingers wrapping around your wrist with a careful, trembling gentleness. “You scared me, little mouse.” It’s the rawest you’ve heard her; her voice cracks at the end, and when you turn your head more, you see the glimmer of tears in her eyes.

You’ve never seen her like this. She’s always been so unreachable, mysterious, even when she was bleeding out on your couch. A part of you was never quite sure where you stood with her.

“It’s okay,” you say dumbly. “It wasn’t because of you.” It’s meant to comfort her, but it certainly doesn’t. “He was after my research-”

“I know,” she says quietly, and that makes you pause, tilt your head, and blink at her. How could she have known that? “I hunted him down. He’s dead.” She answers your unspoken question. “I got to the bus stop just after the ambulance got to you. I came to the nearest level one trauma center, found you, but they wouldn’t let me in. I couldn’t just sit in that waiting room for hours; I had to do something.”

She killed someone for you. For a moment, you wonder if you should be horrified at this information, but just as quickly as the thought comes, you shake it away. You see her for who she is, and you’ve accepted her.

Instead, you just squeeze her fingers and tug her closer.

“Sleep, детка. I’ll be here,” she says, and you believe her.

---------

Hospital time passes by in a strange, morphine blurred space of time. You’re tired and in pain, and it takes so much energy just to do basic things. She mumbles things to you when you’re sleeping. “Я тебя люблю.”

They’re soft, whispered against your temple after a kiss, your knuckles, the crown of your head. Russian words that you don’t understand and can’t remember clearly enough to look up when you wake.

In the first days, you mostly sleep, aided by morphine. You don’t stay in the hospital very long, though. The nurses have you walking as soon as you are physically able to, and though it hurts, Yelena helps you through it, always one step behind.

“Trust me, little mouse. I’ve been shot before, walking helps, even if it hurts at first.”

Once you’re walking, you’re eating, and once you’re eating and feeling better, you’re immediately restless.

She tries to stay as long as she can, and to her credit, this is the longest stretch of time that you’ve seen her. But you see her frowning at her phone when she thinks you’re not looking; you see her pacing with furrowed eyebrows.

“Just a few days,” she promises.

“Text me?” you ask.

“Of course.”

She’s gone for three days, and on the second day, she sends you a text.

Alive.

A second later, she sends a photo. It’s a blurry photo of a cheap hotel; there’s a plate of something unidentifiable on the table, probably some boxed noodles.

Good. Eat something green with that. You reply.

Her reply is immediate.

Bossy.

A day later, she returns through your window, of course. You hear the soft thump of her landing in your bedroom from where you’re half-dozing on your couch. She smells like the rain outside; she’s wet from it too. Yelena’s by your side in three strides, lifting your shirt to peek at your healing surgical scar.

“Hello to you too,” you mumble sarcastically.

She chooses to ignore your sass, giving you a once-over. “Pink, no drainage, healing,  that’s good.”

“Do I pass?”

“For now,” she says, she bunches your shirt into her fist, lifting it enough so she can kiss the unmarked skin above the scar. “It is healing. Do not make me stitch you. Mine will not be as pretty as the doctors.”

You grin. Your hand finds the back of her neck, and you tug her closer. She’s holding tension there, and you rub your thumb into the muscle. “Rough trip?”

Her shoulders sag slightly. “Annoying,” she huffs. “Messy. But done.” She tips her head into your hand like a cat, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “I like it better here.”

---------

You return to work after two months. Everybody is a bit shaken; the news of what happened has spread like wildfire. Security has increased tenfold, with guards stationed near the bus stops, additional ID stations, and metal detectors. The pictures of all the researchers on the project have been taken off the laboratory websites. Much has changed, and yet much has stayed the same, too. Your coworkers have picked up your project, ensured your experiments haven’t been neglected, and all you have to do is pick up where you left off. Yet, inside you are a mess.

One last job. That had been the last thing Yelena had told you, and she’d refused to tell you anymore, insisting you’d only worry yourself to death. That only made you worry more. She texts you updates, short ones, just her location. Washington D.C., then Nevada, then a long pause that had you spiraling, finally NYC, and a brief apology.

I am sorry, things are crazy.

You’d replied right away. What do you mean?

No response.

Now you’re at work, staring at mice and studying rejuvenation like you’re not internally dying every second Yelena takes to reply to you. You break at noon for lunch even though you don’t have much of an appetite. You grab your lunchbox from the fridge; it’s nothing special, just a sandwich, but you should eat something anyway.

“Wow, what the hell is happening in New York?” your coworker murmurs. She’s looking over your shoulder at the TV in the break room. You turn, curious, a little alarmed. Isn’t that where Yelena is? The two of you watch, slack-jawed as a growing blot of darkness begins to engulf New York from the center out.

You lunge for the remote, unmuting the TV.

“...unprecedented event unfolding in Manhattan,” the anchor’s voice is trembling, barely audible over the roar of the helicopter blades behind him. “We’re urging everyone to evacuate as this... phenomenon continues to spread.”

The station switches to shaky handheld footage. It’s chaos, rubble, people screaming and running before disappearing into blots of shadow. The person holding the camera tries to capture everything as they run, and you strain your eyes for any sign of Yelena, any blonde woman who might look like her in the background. Then the camera drops to the ground, and the footage fizzes out.

The station switches back to the reporters in the air. "We're seeing some kind of... wait, something's happening at the epicenter," the co-anchor cuts in, voice rising with disbelief. "The darkness... It's stopping. Golden light. My god, it's breaking through!"

Aerial shots flood the screen: that impossible black mass dissipating under shafts of searing golden energy, like sunlight breaking through leaves. The shadows writhe, retreat, and dissolve into nothingness as the light surges outward. Crowds stumble into view, disoriented, alive, gasping in the suddenly clear daylight. The darkness is gone in minutes.

​The anchors are shouting over each other now, a mix of panic and elation. "We don't know what this was, but it's over. Some kind of intervention— Wait, we’re getting news of a news press?" The feed cuts abruptly to a press conference outside a fortified compound near the old Avengers site, cameras flashing wildly.

A woman is standing at the podium, you recognize her from all the recent government scandal headlines, isn’t she getting impeached? Valentina Allegra de Fontaine. Then, from behind the rubble, several figures emerge, people dressed in tactical gear you don’t recognize (is that Senator Barnes?) and... Your breath catches so hard your chest hurts. Yelena.

“Are we live?” Valentina asks, then addresses the cameras.

“For years, I have been working secretly to develop a new age of protection. Today, the citizens of the United States needed that protection, and thanks to my hard work, they got that protection,” Valentina says. “Ladies and gentlemen, meet the new Avengers.”

What?

The press erupts in questions. You watch Yelena lean forward, whisper something into Valentina’s ear, too low for the mics to pick up. Whatever she said, it wasn’t grateful.

You whip your phone out to text Yelena, despite knowing that she wouldn’t be able to respond right now. You see her pause on screen, make eye contact with the camera as if she knows you’re watching. Then she turns and disappears with the others.

---------

Tonight.

You read the text again and again despite it being one word. You almost can’t believe it.  Is she an Avenger now? Would an Avenger have time for you? Could she even still visit you?

You’ve made boxed mac and cheese, it’s all you have left in your kitchen, and you linger by the front door, waiting. She comes in through your window, of course. You hear the creak of the floorboards from your bedroom, and you turn to catch her walking in.

She looks unsure, lips half parted, and for a moment, the two of you just stare at each other.

“I didn’t know you were that big of a deal,” you say stupidly. “Thought you were just a... regular assassin. Not an Avengers-level assassin.”

That pulls a laugh from her at least. “That’s very rude to say to someone who just saved your country.” She takes another step into the room. She stops a few feet away, close enough for you to feel the presence of her, far enough that she could still turn and leave.

“So,” you say, trying to break this awkward tension between the two of you. “Now that you’re an Avenger, does that mean you can use the front door now?”

That pulls a smile from her. “I told you, I’ll use the door when you learn to lock the window.”

You grin stupidly, and you don’t tell her that at this point, you leave it unlocked for her.

The silence that follows is heavy. She shifts her weight, fingers flexing at her sides like she’s not sure what to do with them. This unsure look doesn’t suit her; she has never had trouble taking what she wanted, and yet now she looks at you like you might run and bolt.

“What’s with that face?” you ask.

Her brows knit. “What face?”

“You look like you expect me to tell you to leave,” you say.

She doesn’t deny it and even looks a little guilty. “It feels different now. More dangerous. I will be in the public eye. There will be questions. People will dig...”

Your stomach twists uncomfortably. “Is that what you’re worried about, that someone will find out about me?”

“No.” Her answer is immediate, almost harsh. “I just mean that the threats the Avengers face are on a different level. I will not be able to protect you; I already could not protect you.” Her eyes flicker down to where you both know your scar is.

“It’s okay, I’m tough. I can handle myself.” You aim for levity and miss.

She stays quiet for a moment, then adds. “You did not sign up for this.”

It clicks for you then, she’s trying to give you an out, to let you walk away.

“Yelena,” you say carefully. “What are you trying to say?”

“I am saying that before you did not have a real choice. In the forest, every time I have come back after that. I am giving you one now.”

“You would leave?” You ask, almost in disbelief. “If I really asked you to?”

“Yes,” she says without hesitation, though she grimaces like the word hurts her.

“Well, I’m not going to,” you say. “I have even less of a choice now, Yelena. You can’t possibly expect me to walk away now.”

“You could have someone normal,” she says. “Someone who does not bring violence to your door, someone who uses the front door, someone you will not have to constantly worry about.”

“I don’t want normal,” you say.  “I want you.”

Yelena stares at you for a beat longer, then she crosses the distance between you. Her mouth crushes against yours, hot, needy. When she pulls back for air, you mutter cheekily. “Finally.”

“Such a mouth on you,” she murmurs, her fingers twitch against your skin. “You know where that gets you.”

“On my knees?” you offer, innocently.

She lets in a sharp intake of breath. “Eventually,” she says, backing you up against the couch until you’re sprawled across it. She settles between your thighs like the space there was carved for her. “But not now, I want to be inside you.”

She kisses you again, softly. Her hands slip under your shirt, fingers tracing against your sides, her touch lingering over that scar; it’s healing well, fading. Yelena hooks her fingers into the loops of your pants, and you help her, lifting your hips as she peels your pants and underwear away.

You try to help, try to fumble with her clothing too. She catches your hands, raises an eyebrow. “Eager are we? Can’t get enough? I know I am good, but still...”

“You’re so full of yourself,” you mutter with a roll of your eyes, though you can’t help but grin.

“And soon you will be full of me.”

“Yelena!”

She laughs, low and amused and far too proud of her own joke. “What? Am I wrong?” She spreads you wider, lifting your legs to fit herself more properly between them. Yelena reaches out for you, fingers dipping between the slickness she finds there. “Is this all for me?” She teases you, light touches that frustrate you.

“Fuck, Yelena,” you whine.

“Beg for it, мышка,” she murmurs, her eyes hooded already. “Use that smart mouth of yours. Tell me what you want.”

“Please, Yelena. I want-” you whimper as she touches you more firmly then, fingers sliding through where you’re already wet.

“Yes? I’m listening,” she murmurs innocently, as if she’s not already touching you, working you up with a maddening gentleness.

“You, I just want you,” you say breathlessly.

Her eyes go dark. “Good answer.”

She leans over you, one hand braced against your head as she slips two fingers into you, scissoring gently, working you open for her. “Already so wet,” she says. “And I have barely touched you. You’re always ready for me, are you not?”

“Don’t-” you choke on the words as she presses against your clit. “Don’t be so smug about it.”

“I will be as smug as I want,” she says. Her fingers slide deeper, and you whine for her. “Especially when you make such pretty noises.”

Just when you’re on the edge, vision blurring just slightly at the edges, she withdraws, ignoring your whimper of protest. She sits back enough to work her own pants down, freeing herself. She’s already hard, and if you were in the right state of mind, you’d tease her for that, too. Tell her she’s just as needy for you as you are for her. But you’re not in the right state of mind, and all you can manage is a needy noise and a roll of your hips.

“Needy,” she remarks, and you respond with another insistent roll of your hips. She positions herself carefully, and as she pushes in, she watches your face intently. Yelena’s lips part, a thready groan escaping her as she bottoms out.

The stretch is perfect, overwhelming in the best way. You cling to her shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle there.

“That’s it,” she murmurs, setting a slow, deep pace that has you trembling. “Take it, take all of me, так идеально.”

She drives you into the couch cushions. One hand grips your hip, the other rests against your throat, not squeezing, just resting there—her thumb strokes against your jaw. “The whole country thinks I’m a hero now. But you know the truth, though, don’t you детка? You know who I am.”

“Dangerous. Beautiful,” you murmur back, half delirious, your attention stolen by her touch against your skin, the feel of her body against yours, inside you. “Mine.”

Her breath hitches. “Yes, yours,” she hisses, her movements stutter for just a moment before she regains her rhythm. “Yours, just like you are mine.”

She shifts her angle, and your vision blurs at the edges, and you make a keening, desperate noise. The hand on your throat slips down to reach between your bodies.

“Come for me,” she commands. “Show me who you belong to.”

The combination of her inside you, her fingers on your clit, and the raw possession in her voice sends you over the edge. You break around her with a strangled noise that might be her name. She fucks you through it, growing erratic as she chases her own release, and when she comes, it’s with a muffled groan against your skin.

For a moment, neither of you moves, content and sated. Then she pulls out of you, pushes herself up to settle more firmly against you, and you gladly claim that territory at the crook of her neck, nuzzling into it.

“Still want me to leave?” you ask, just to be cheeky.

“No, never really did,” she confesses. The confession is warm and gooey and makes some part of your chest ache. Her eyes darken then, looking at you with that hungry gaze you know all too well.

“Now, I think you mentioned something about being on your knees?” she purrs, her hand curling against the back of your head. She tugs gently, sitting up and bringing you with her. You go where she directs you eagerly.

Later, when you’re both exhausted and sated, you turn in her embrace to look at her. Her eyes are closed, but they flutter open at your movement.

“Yelena,” you say, the words half croak. She looks soft, unguarded like this. Her hair splayed across your pillow, her hand still resting possessively across your hip. “I-” You start, then when she makes a questioning sound, you stutter and cut off. The words you want to say stick in your throat like honey.

“Mmm?” she hums, her thumb rubbing a circle into your skin. Her eyes meet yours, she searches your face, and whatever she finds satisfies her. She leans in and kisses you. “I know,” she says, her breath warm against your lips. “I love you too.”