#Pipe Polishing Machine

[teaboot]

How many things that they got at the hardware store can you name

soda machine, gum, yard nicknacks, snacks at the counter, lighters, keychains, key blanks, air conditioners, aluminum sheeting, awls, dremmel heads, dremmel, sander, sandpaper, metal polish, shammies , hammer, screwdriver, leather wipes, car wax, wood polish, wood wax, wood, copper, pipes, linoleum, paint, primer, sealant, caulk, caulking gun, drywall, spackle, brushes, nuts, bolts, screws, washers, nails, staples, staple guns, carpet tacks, eye hooks, locks, knobs, doorknobs, hinges, baseboard, seeds, sheeting, shovel, spade, rake, gloves, goggles, coveralls, coats, reflective vests, headlights, butane, propane, nozzles, hoses, rubber tubing, shower heads, faucets, light switches, outlets, wire, lightbulbs, wire stripper, pliers, electrical tape, soldier, soldiering iron, weed whacker, paracord, rope, stakes, bags, bug spray, chip board, saw, knives, wall screws

[rohvee]

The steampunk adventure au intro 🤎

The Piltover Academy auditorium was not the temple of quiet lectures and theory it usually was. Gone were the tiered seats where professors once pontificated beneath stained-glass oculi; the space had been gutted and reimagined in brass and linen.

What now sprawled was a great and haphazard bazaar of invention. Long rows of demonstration tables jostled for attention on the marbled floor, each bearing strange apparatuses like altars to rival gods. Arc-lamps, strung from wrought-iron gantries above, hissed and flickered, casting long shadows over polished gears and oiled levers. The scent in the air was thick: scorched copper, varnished mahogany, the faint sweetness of ozone.

This was the Distinguished Innovator’s Competition—an annual tempest of ambition and vision, where the Piltover Academy’s finest, or at least its most desperate, unveiled the inner machinations of their minds to the city’s elite. The auditorium was a throbbing cacophony: a din of overlapping demonstrations, raised voices, hydraulics, and the occasional alarming hiss from a pressurized pipe.

A mechanical arm attempted to knit a sock and promptly strangled itself with yarn. A self-boiling kettle shrieked like a banshee and spat steam in the face of its inventor, who bowed anyway. A student demonstrated an atmospheric condenser that quietly turned fog into ice within the glass lungs of a humming cube.

The judges floated through this chaos in clusters of three and four—academy staff in pressed uniform, trade lords with silver-topped canes, and venture financiers with toothy smiles. They murmured, took notes, and occasionally raised a brow to devastating effect. Some candidates blanched as they approached; others straightened spines and grinned too wide.

For those gathered here, it was not merely a contest. It was stage upon which a single brilliant moment might secure a lifetime of funding, patronage, and renown—or else consign an idea to obscurity and student debt.

This was Piltover’s true theater, and the curtain was already rising.

Jayce stood at his table, posture straight as a rifle barrel, but his fingers betrayed him—twitching at his sides, drumming anxious patterns along the seam of his coat. He’d polished his boots twice that morning. Now they scuffed restlessly against the gleaming tile, unable to keep still. The judges were one table away.

He glanced sidelong toward the neighboring exhibit and immediately regretted it.

Dmitri. Of course.

Dmitri and his stupid ponytail already grinning in his direction. The man beamed, raised both thumbs in an encouraging gesture that practically radiated good will.

Jayce scowled.

Top of the class. Preternaturally polite. Unfailingly kind. And always, always looked at Jayce like he'd hung the moon in the sky. Jayce loathed him with every fiber of his being.

He rolled his eyes and turned sharply back to his own table.

Jayce’s exhibition lay at the center like a reliquary in a chapel. It rested atop black velvet, arranged with ecclesiastical care: a gilded cradle of finework brass and filigree. It resembled some celestial device—an orrery or diviner’s scope more than any earthly thing. And yet at its heart nestled the true marvel: a gemstone, glistening blue, teardrop-shaped, clenched in golden teeth no wider than a compass needle.

Wires spilled from the contraption’s flank like viscera, snaking toward a tall mechanical limb to its right—elbow-jointed and claw-tipped, folded like a mantis in patient wait.

Jayce stirred at the movement in his peripheral. The judges had begun to bleed away from the neighboring display, and his heart climbed into his throat like a stowaway. He adjusted his stance, smoothed a wrinkle from his lapel, gave his curled moustache a twist, and composed himself.

They approached his table in a cluster.

A vastaya in pince-nez and brocade, fur combed sleek as gunmetal. A chirean of considerable height, nails lacquered and spats spotless. A man with a breathing apparatus of polished brass and wet, hissing filters—the scent of brine and antiseptic trailed him like perfume.

And last, the Dean of the Academy himself: Professor Cecil B. Heimerdinger, who had not missed a single competition in sixty-three years. The yordle's snowy mustache was a sculptural wonder that Jayce often envied.

Jayce inclined his head. “Welcome, honored gentlefolk,” he said, enunciating each word with theatrical clarity, though his pulse thundered in his ears. “I am Jayce Talis, son of the late Caetano Talis—explorer, inventor, and the first man to chart the skies beyond the Shadow Isles in search of the legendary Camavor.”

There were a few mutterings of recognition and approval. Everyone knew of Caetano Talis. His name held a weight that Jayce had every intention to exploit.

Jayce reached to the core of his device and delicately unseated the gem from its cradle. It caught the lamplight and held it like breath in a bottle—blue and infinite.

“On one such expedition, my father unearthed a most curious mineral—what he called a hexstone. Though it may appear unassuming, this is no ordinary gem. Within it pulses a force that defies steam, coal, or even combustion. Colleagues, this stone may offer what the engines of progress have long cried out for: clean, inexhaustible energy.”

There was a rustle among the onlookers. Heimerdinger’s eyebrows gave a subtle twitch. Nearby students—fellow inventors and visitors both, began to collect in a small crowd.

Jayce returned the stone to its golden housing and flipped a switch.

There was a moment’s silence—then the machine stirred.

Light welled up inside the hexstone like a sunrise in deep ocean. It crackled—delicate arcs of lightning leapt along its cage. The arm beside it unfurled like a serpent stretching after sleep. Servos whined. The claw rotated, then lowered with ritual gravity toward the metal block on the table.

A beat.

Then: a searing beam of blue lanced forth from the core of the claw. The table glowed with it. The metal block sizzled. Half the observers flinched.

Jayce kept his hand outstretched like a showman before a curtain drop.

“Laser cutters, as you know,” he said, “require immense power to operate—usually fed by great quantities of coal. And yet, this cutter is powered by a single hexstone.”

The beam sliced cleanly across the block, leaving a line of molten silver.

The judges stirred like deepwater fish sensing heat. There were sharp murmurs and the fevered scratchings of fountain pens.

Jayce cast his gaze over the crowd.

His eyes locked with another’s: a young man in the Piltover Academy uniform, leaning on a cane, a year his senior from the color of his cravat. His face was sharp, arresting, his expression one of quiet intrigue. Amber eyes held Jayce’s gaze with disarming steadiness.

Jayce faltered, momentarily thrown off course.

Then he gave a quick shake of his head, cleared his throat, and turned back to the judges, recovering his rhythm quickly.

“Alas,” he went on, “this is the only hexstone presently known to exist.”

A pause. Just long enough for the drama to curdle.

“My father left no coordinates, no records of the site where he found it. That is why I ask for your support. Your patronage, sponsoring an expedition of discovery. With it, I will retrace my father’s steps across Runeterra to find the source of the hexstones. To bring back more, and change the—”

A sudden noise interrupted him.

Wet and sparking, like a metal lung collapsing.

The generator hiccupped. Then rattled. The golden cradle hissed as veins of lightning began to crawl across its arms like restless centipedes. The gemstone's light shifted—brilliant, then flickering, then too-bright.

Jayce’s smile died.

“No—no no no, not now—”

The machine shrieked. The cutter arm twitched, spasmed, then swung violently to the left.

A student’s project—an elegant clockwork aviary—was reduced to burning feathers and melted brass in a blink.

The cutter jerked again. A nobleman’s hat halved neatly by the beam. Its owner screamed, clutching his scalp and dignity alike.

Jayce lunged for the controls, but the machine was not yet finished in its path of destruction.

The arm rose—higher, higher—then slashed upward in an arc of glorious light.

Right through the gantry.

There was a sizzle as the beam kissed iron. The structure groaned. Weld-points glowed red-hot. A shout echoed across the hall.

“Clear the floor!”

Panic moved like gas through a breached hull.

Innovators scattered, skirts catching, boots slipping on tiles gone slick with spilled oil and tea. The judges fled, coats flaring behind them. The gantry gave a final metallic shriek—then fell.

Arc-lamps burst like supernovae. Wires lashed. Sparks rained.

Flame found silk. A row of tables blossomed fire. Black smoke rose thick and cloying. Screams followed.

And at the center of it all, framed in the infernal glow of a dying dream, Jayce stood in shock.

He stood like a statue carved in the moment of tragedy. Mouth ajar. Blue in the strobe-flashes of the dying machine.

Professor Heimerdinger stepped through the ruin with the quiet dignity of someone who had weathered worse. It wasn’t the first Distinguished Innovators catastrophe—not by far. His waistcoat ends were scorched. His whiskers stood on end with residual static.

He stopped before Jayce, who glumly lowered his gaze.

“I am sorry, my boy,” Heimerdinger said, not unkindly. “It is a grand dream. But I fear the technology of our time is not yet ready to house such wonders.”

He touched Jayce’s hand—a ghost of reassurance—and turned to follow the tide of scholars, sponsors, and engineers streaming toward the exits beneath the alarm-bells.

Jayce remained a moment longer.

He moved then, stepping back to the smoldering remnants of his table. Amid scorched velvet and crushed metal, the hexstone lay still—dull and dormant. He lifted it from the debris, cradling it in his palms.

He turned to go, casting his miserable gaze to the smoke rising toward the fractured oculi far above, carrying his dreams away with it.

Jayce sat on the Academy steps with the slack posture of the thoroughly defeated. His coat was singed at the hem, and soot had settled in the folds of his collar like old guilt. In his hands, the hexstone glimmered faintly.

Behind him, the world carried on: fire-brigades doused the auditorium with hissing foam. Students clustered on the lawn, their voices low, scandal-bent. A few spared glares for the man on the steps. Some pointed accusatorily. One threw a crumpled flyer.

Jayce ignored them. He turned the stone over in his palm, as if a new angle might reveal something salvageable. It did not.

“Sorry, Papa,” he murmured to the stone. “I suppose I’ve fucked everything up again.”

There was a clap on his shoulder, startling him out of his melancholy.

“You’ll get it next year, mate,” chirped a voice like sunshine in a bottle.

Jayce didn’t have to look to know it was Dmitri: stupid ponytail bouncing, optimism radiating from every pore. “You were brilliant right up until the bit where everything exploded. And I’m sure you’ll get that part sorted. Just needs a bit of tinkering!”

Jayce said nothing. He didn’t even scowl.

Dmitri gave his shoulder a squeeze, then bounded off to go join their fellow students.

Jayce sighed. He reached for his coat pocket—and froze.

He patted it. Then the other side. Then rummaged through his satchel. Panic prickled.

“Shit,” he breathed.

His notebook was missing.

Years of equations, test notes, frantic breakdowns, errant sketches scrawled in midnight ink. Obsessions, revisions, half-formed revelations. His life’s work—every fevered inch of it. The thought that it all might’ve gone up in smoke filled his gut with a cold, rising horror.

“Looking for this?” said a voice, each syllable rolling with a thick accent—

Jayce turned—and startled.

It was the man from the crowd. The one with the cane and the amber eyes.

He stood a step above Jayce, idly flipping through a familiar leather-bound book. “I must say, Mr. Talis; I’ve never met anyone who signs every single page of their notes. A little egotistical, don’t you think?”

“Give me that!” Jayce scrambled upright, indignantly lunging for the book. He was a full head taller, but the man was quick and unconcerned. He pivoted with a deft flick of his cane, holding the notebook just out of reach like a matador taunting a bull.

“They were impressive pyrotechnics,” the man said, still leafing through. “But this ‘HexTech’ theory of yours—I’m far more interested in that.”

Jayce faltered mid-grab. “I—pardon?”

The man raised an eyebrow. “It worked, did it not?”

“I… suppose so,” Jayce muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I can’t stabilize the output. It always hits a runaway threshold and overfeeds the system.”

“Have you tried increasing the frequency?”

Jayce blinked. “I’ve always focused on dampening the oscillations.”

The man stopped at a page. “Ah, and therein lies your issue.” He drew a pencil from his vest pocket and scribbled a few marks. “Here—see this? You are thinking in terms of suppression, but the stone will only stabilize at high frequency.”

Jayce leaned in. His eyes widened.

He took the notebook, staring down at the page, wonder flooding his veins.

“So… I have to crank it,” he breathed.

The man blinked. Then gave a soft laugh. “Yes. You have to, eh, crank it.”

“It certainly works on paper, but...” Jayce breathed. “I must test this immediately.”

“A tad troublesome with a melted generator,” the man noted.

“I’ve another at my workshop,” Jayce replied. “A prototype. Not as refined, but it’ll do what we need it to do.”

“We?”

Jayce smiled—wide and sincere—then reached out to clap a hand on the man’s narrow shoulder, who raised a curious eyebrow at the contact.

“You solved the issue,” Jayce said. “You ought to see it through with me.”

The man regarded him. Then, with a shrug, “Lead on, then.”

Jayce turned, eagerly bounding down the steps with renewed purpose—then paused, glancing back.

“I realize I don’t even know your name.”

The man gazed at him for a moment, a slow smile crossing his face.

“It’s Reveck. Viktor Reveck.”

[woradat]

Dear, memories #4

<- back — PT4 (here) — next ->

.

·

“So, how long have you known him? When did you two meet, exactly?”

You were never exactly what one would call “cooperative” Everyone knows that — and if they don’t, well, they find out sooner or later, usually the hard way. Several hours had already ticked by in what Tarn insisted on calling an interrogation. You preferred “nosy biography session” personally. Not that you were especially helpful throughout the process. Your answers were, let’s say, lacking in enthusiasm — a fact that forced Tarn to repeat himself more times than even he cared to count

The only reason you weren’t currently being disassembled bolt by bolt for answers was because of his beautifully twisted sense of justice. That, and to be perfectly honest — because it's was you

Your frozen expression was hardly unique. Tarn had seen it all before. Most bots reacted that way. Sometimes with a scream, a sob, or a total system crash — the usual when one suddenly realizes they’re playing hopscotch with Death

But you? Oh, you made the fear taste so much sweeter

His clawed digit lazily traced your shoulder plate, just enough pressure to jolt you back to reality and remind you of the extremely murder-capable mech standing inches from your frame – a gesture both oddly intimate and viscerally threatening, the kind that said: You’re still breathing because I allow it. Don’t forget

“Well? You don’t object, do you?”

Your processor buzzed like a dying fan. You were still stunned, still shaken by the scene you had just witnessed. Not that you were some wide-eyed innocent — no, you’d seen bots die before, seen the light leave their optics. But this? This had been especially horrific. Creative, even

Enough to scramble the nerves of any bot not built for emotional resilience

But you weren’t that kind of bot. Even if every circuit in your body was screaming for a reboot and your energon pump was doing its best impression of a dubstep beat, you’d never let him see you break. The very idea was offensive

So you swallowed it all down — fear, disgust, bile and with a voice so cracked and tired it could have come from a rusted exhaust pipe, you replied: “No object..”

“I did already answer your question. Why do you keep—”

“That answer wasn’t detailed enough, Y/N” Tarn cut in smoothly, like a knife through polished chrome. “If you want to prove your innocence to me — and to be clear, you do – then you need to cooperate. These curt, vague replies of yours? They’re not doing you any favors. You’re lucky it’s me asking. My team doesn’t have my… patience” He tilted his helm, that smile audible in his voice “So. You’re welcome”

“This is all for your sake, remember?”

You didn’t reply. Mostly because you were too tired to bite back, but also because you’d run out of fuel — figuratively and literally. Your systems were humming in protest, trying to keep up as the stress burned through your reserves like an overclocked CPU

You had no idea how long this had been going on. Tarn, for his part, didn’t seem bothered at all — like this was just another Tuesday for him. You were starting to hate how professional he was, efficient, methodical, unshakeable. Ugh

“So” he said voice low and silky “what were you doing before you met him?”

You opened your mouth, already pre-loading another snarky comeback — until you realized… that was a new question

It gave you pause

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, my apologies” Tarn replied, and you hated how damn pleasant he sounded “Let me clarify. During the Great War — what exactly were you doing back then?”

“I don’t think that’s relevant” you snapped, optic narrowing “I have the right not to answer, don’t I?”

You said it with as much venom as your voice could manage. Tarn, ever composed, simply hummed, like someone being mildly entertained by a glitchy vending machine. You hated that too

“Yes” he said “You have the right not to answer. But I have the right to keep asking. Over and over. Forever, if necessary. Just to remind you, Y/N, I’m helping you here. All I ask is cooperation”

—

The room fell into silence after that. A tense, heavy kind. You were thinking – whether it was worth dying here, now — though realistically, death wouldn’t come swiftly. Not with Tarn. No, he was the type who’d make a performance out of it. A deeply moral, disturbingly artistic performance. Your thoughts flickered – Hardwire. Primus, you hoped she was okay. Maybe she’d escaped when the ship went down. Maybe she never made it out. In some twisted way, that might actually be better. Because if she were here - if they had her. well, you couldn’t even imagine what she’d go through. She wasn’t like you. Tough, yes. But not enough

Tarn, meanwhile, leaned back in his chair with the ease of someone who could and would kill you, but didn’t need to rush. He studied you, calculating, amused, saw how tightly your servos were clenched, how hard your optics stared. He heard the low whine of your internal systems that beautiful background music of resistance. You wanted to fight. To lash out. But you weren’t an idiot

His frame, battered but pristine, every mark a trophy told you everything you needed to know. You, by contrast.. weren’t exactly showroom condition. The crash hadn’t done you any favors. Singed plating. Soot. Scratches. You looked… a little pathetic, honestly. Not completely unsalvageable. Maybe even cute, if you’d stop glaring daggers at him long enough for him to enjoy the view

You looked weak, defeated, and accidentally dramatic

— he was eating it up like it was fine dining

.

.

“I think you ought to rest a bit. You must be terribly exhausted”

Oh yes, so concerned, weren’t we? The way he said it, with that smooth-as-polished-chrome voice, it was almost like a lullaby. If lullabies were sung by judgmental opera singers who secretly wanted to slap you. Tarn rose from his seat with all the drama of a villain in a high-budget musical, circling around the room like he was on a runway. For a guy who looked like a walking tank, the grace was unsettling

“This way, Y/N. Allow me to escort you to your quarters.. We don’t receive guests very often”

He glanced back briefly, just to ensure you hadn’t tried to bolt

The corridor was eerily silent, unsettling in a way that had nothing to do with the dim lights and everything to do with Tarn’s looming presence. Even from behind, he radiated menace. Everything about him screamed authority, brute strength, and military precision — a war machine made with care and a disturbing amount of love. No wonder Megatron had such a fondness for him. Tarn was a fine weapon, the kind of loyal hound most tyrants dream of

Sure, he outclassed you in almost every measurable way but that didn’t mean you couldn’t quietly insult him in your mind, right?

He stopped abruptly, too abruptly. Thankfully, you weren’t daydreaming and managed not to slam right into him

Jackass

“This will serve as your temporary room, for the duration of the... debriefing”

He keyed in a code, and the door whooshed open. Lovely. It looked just cozy enough to be mistaken for a cell. For all you knew, it could only open from the outside. A delightful little design feature, really. Your fate had officially arrived

“Pardon my bluntness, but I must say... You really haven’t changed one bit, always refusing to play second, even when the situation gives you no choice”

What the hell did he mean by that?

Have you met him before? That couldn’t possibly be true. You’re certain of it—if you’d ever crossed paths with a bot like him, it would mean this must be the afterlife or some twisted version of reality. There’s no way you could’ve survived the encounter

You frown, mind spiraling with confusion. Tarn doesn’t strike you as someone who throws words around carelessly

“Please, enjoy your stay, Y/N”

He gestured politely, like a maître d’ at a very exclusive prison. You stepped inside, too tired to fight—not that you were feeling particularly obedient

Naturally, you didn’t just waltz into the room without first shooting him a look that said: ‘I hope your favorite arm malfunctions'

“Good night”

The door slid shut behind you. Predictably, locked tight

“What do you mean he got picked up by the Council? That’s rough”

“hm.. I heard they gave him the deluxe punishment package. Poor guy”

“Pathetic, more like. He brought it on himself—sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. Honestly, he had it coming”

Your words were surprisingly cruel, even by your standards. Damus—once mildly tolerable, now freshly redesigned by the Council’s one-size-fits-all makeover program for “social threats”—was a walking cautionary tale. The Council didn’t just punish. They humiliated. Because why settle for justice when you can also throw in a complete aesthetic downgrade?

“Honestly, if he had two more brain cells to rub together, he might’ve stayed out of trouble. Am I wrong?” a bots you called friend, ever loyal, shook their helm

“So, what’s the new look? Haven’t seen him all day. Still as punchable?”

“Well, they gave him one optic and pincer hands. So.. yea. Imagine a sad crab with daddy issues”

“Yikes. But kind of adorable, no?”

You raised an eyebrow so hard it practically hit orbit. Adorable? Please. This was Damus we were talking about. The sentient doormat. A bot who could be insulted six ways to Sunday and still offer you a thank-you card afterward. He wasn’t just unoffended – he welcomed it and naturally, you adapted. You treated him like the doormat he was. Because that’s what he became. Rubber welcome mat and all

Sure, a part of you feels kinda bad for him—this whole mess is gonna haunt him for the rest of his life in society. But let’s be real, there’s no way you’re telling your savage side to sit this one out. That little voice in your head? Yeah, it always wins

That day, you started calling him: Glitch

A nickname dressed up as a joke—just insulting enough to be remembered, just cruel enough to sting. You claimed it suited his new look. Sounded stupid. Looked stupid. A perfect fit

As usual, Damus said nothing – not because he agreed

But because he couldn’t

He didn’t have the guts

[levanswrites]

who you gonna call when it gets dark?

pairing: steve rogers x agent!reader

summary: His conviction in permanence has been scrubbed raw like wood against sandpaper—loss turned into anger turned into despair, eventually whittled down into disappointment. You’re one of the last threads holding it together. 

One more brush, one more stroke—and he’d be gone.

warnings: heavy angst, hurt/comfort, pain, mild description of injury/blood, slow build, inside the tortured mind™ of steven grant rogers

word count: 3.4k

a/n: pt. 3 of my mini series: what's it gonna take?, but this can be read as a stand-alone piece. title by FINNEAS

06:48

It’s safe to say that Steve doesn’t get a lick of sleep, playing back the images of you in the gym like a sick refrain: struggling beneath his grip, straddling his chest, stepping over him—hell, nearly stepping on him—to get across.  

So when he trudges into the communal kitchen the next morning, looking like he hasn’t slept in a century, the others take immediate notice.

“Woah, Steve, you alright man? You look like death.” Sam blurts out, never one to mince his words.

He barely registers Sam’s face, eyes glazing past where he’s sat next to Bucky on the kitchen island. 

But there’s no missing you. 

Perched on the other end of the counter, legs crossed under an oversized band tee, sipping from a glass of bright orange juice. You smirk knowingly over the rim, as if you know exactly why he’s got bags under his eyes the size of dinner plates.

“Captain Muscle’s been burning the midnight oil, gettin' his reps in.” Natasha teases by the coffee machine, arms crossed, mug in hand.

“Damn, Steve,” Sam pipes up, “you getting laid, man?”

And just like that, he’s feeling a little more alert, pivoting to shoot Sam a look. 

“Hey, I’m just sayin’,” Sam grins, arms raised defensively. “You gotta work off that energy somehow. When’s the last time you brought a girl back here?”

Amused by the very idea, he chuckles, shaking his head as he continues his weary march toward the fridge. 

“Here? Never.”      

The clink of bottles echoes as he opens the steel door, itching for something cold.

From behind, Sam persists: “Ah, but you did somewhere, huh?”

He chooses to ignore him, grabbing a bottle of water instead. Takes a long, slow swig, feeling it cool him down from the inside. He doesn’t want to think about the fact that you’re still sitting there, out of the corner of his eye, pretending to be absorbed in your phone. As if he doesn’t know you’re locked in on every word.

“I’m telling you, man.” Sam leans back in his chair, hands folded behind his head. “Online dating’s where it’s at. One word that you’re an Avenger, and these girls are sending you all kinds of—”

“—careful, Wilson.” Natasha interrupts, a crimson-polished fingertip pointing in your direction. “There’s children present.”

Your head lifts from your phone at that, and as all the attention shifts over to you, you let out a small huff, flashing a sarcastic grin in Nat’s direction before slipping off the counter. Steve takes it as opportunity to look too, and silently wonders if you’re still a little bothered by the offhand comments about your age.

From beside him, Sam groans, turning to you with renewed interest.

“Oh c’mon, she’s plenty grown. Hey, Ace, lemme ask you something.”

You glance over on your way to the sink, setting your empty glass down before swiveling around, hand on your hip.

“Sam.” Steve mutters a sideways warning, trying not to appear invested. Yet, the soft crinkle of his water bottle betrays him, his grip tightening around the flimsy plastic.

When his eyes flicker back to you, you’re still watching.

“Say you’re scrolling on tinder and you come across Captain America. Would you swipe right?”

Steve’s stomach drops, breath hitching in his throat.

“Don’t answer that.” He mutters, raising an eyebrow at you. And he immediately regrets saying anything, because his voice completely misses the casual air he intended, coming out like a strained command instead. If he had any chance of playing the nonchalant card to begin with, it certainly wasn’t an option now. 

And Steve isn’t the type to hate anyone. 

But in this moment, he thinks he might just hate you—standing there with your knowing smile, as if you’d waited your whole life to answer that question.

“Hmm. I don’t know…” 

He can practically taste the satisfaction on his tongue when your eyes land back on him, observing the way he stares. Slowly sucks in your bottom lip, letting it go with a soft ‘pop’ before you flash a devilish grin.

With your gaze still locked on him, you shrug:

“…personally? I’m more of a Winter Soldier girl.”

The silence that follows is sharp. Sam bursts out laughing. Bucky gives you a sidelong glance, clearly amused but playing along.

"When did I get roped into this?”

Yet, your gaze lingers on him, stretching the moment just a fraction longer, savoring the details of his expression. He notes the soft flicker of your eyes, darting between his with a quiet intensity, as though you're searching for something he can’t quite place. 

And the stunned look on his face must have been all the answer you needed, because the next moment, you’re promptly turning on your heels and exiting the kitchen, leaving him staring after you.

“So you and Ace, huh, Bucky? How long has that been a thing?”  

“Shut up, Wilson.”  

As the noisy banter fades into static, all he can comprehend is the pounding in his ears, and the look in your eyes when you had answered Sam’s question.  

Did you find it? What you were looking for?

And when his mind eventually comes to, he realizes the water bottle in his hand’s been reduced to a shriveled-up heap of plastic. He stares down at the bottom half of his shirt—soaked through and clinging sticky-cold against his skin—and sighs. 

21:27

“Negative, Fury. We’re boxed in, asset’s KIA. We have to pull back. Now.”

In his line of work, they’ve got all kinds of slang for situations like this—Charlie Foxtrot, FUBAR, SNAFU. 

Or, to put it bluntly, a real goddamn mess.

Minimal gear, no real prep, just a routine asset extraction in a neutral zone.  

Less than ten minutes after touchdown, they’re ambushed in the middle of a crowded market, surrounded by enemy forces with no escape route. A nearby apartment building reduced to ruins by a stray grenade, hundreds of civilians on the ground caught in the crossfire.  

They’ve barely scraped by with their own lives intact, but it doesn’t matter.

It’s the kind of loss where the ride back home is deafeningly silent, the air hanging thick and heavy over the cabin.

You take it the hardest, running point on the job. 

Steve knows from experience that there’s nothing more to be done. No point in mourning any alternatives. 

But when you yank your earpiece out and haul it at the ground, a sharp crack piercing the silence before the plastic skitters across the floor, he knows a million different scenarios are running through your mind right now.

The kind of spiraling that never ends.

Even Sam, with all his years of counseling, can’t seem to reach you, his words hushed and careful as he approaches you in the back corner of the cabin. You remain motionless, slumped in your seat like a wounded animal too tired to flee.

When the Quinjet touches down, you’re the first one out, sprinting across the tarmac before the ramp can fully lower. It’s a blur—your boots pounding against the metal, the cold air rushing past him. He watches a trail of dust flare in your wake. Maybe blood. He can’t tell.

It’s not too late to catch up to you, but he remains motionless, eyes lingering on the small limp in your step as you disappear inside the building. Then, with a heavy roll of his shoulders, he turns his attention to the grim task behind him, helping the medical staff carry the most severe injuries off the jet. 

22:51

38 civilian casualties. 2 agents in critical condition. Estimated $14 million in damages. 

Steve’s pacing by the exit to the recovery room, hands gripping the edge of a tablet, eyes fixed on the damage assessment flickering across the screen. But his mind’s somewhere far off. 

“You alright?”

Bucky’s voice cuts through the noise—he’s observing from one of the treatment beds nearby, holding pressure against a shallow bullet wound. 

Steve doesn’t have to answer.

He sighs, feeling the weight of his friend’s gaze as he goes to set the tablet down, feet already pointed toward the door. 

“I’ll be back.”

23:19

The halls of the compound feel long. Empty. 

His combat boots drag like chains, scuffing the pristine linoleum with dark streaks. They halt in front of your door, and his bloodied knuckles tremble as they hover, inches from the metal. Over the ridges of his bone-white fists, the smaller cuts are already knitting themselves back together. 

He stays suspended there, breath hitching in his chest, before exhaling and landing two sharp knocks.

Radio silence.

But then again, not really. Not when his enhanced hearing picks up the faint rustling from inside. 

He calls your name, softly. Then again, a little louder.

The third time provokes a response. 

“Go away.” Your voice is muffled but sharp, the kind of tone that brooks no argument.

He’s not in the mood to argue either, but he reaches for the door and steps inside anyway.

His eyes find you immediately, the dark outline of your silhouette curled up on the edge of the couch—knees drawn tight, shoulders hunched like you’re trying to fold in on yourself. A lamp in the far corner casts a muted glow, stretching your shadow long and sinuous across the wall.

The rest of the room is barely lit, though there’s not much else to see. Identical to his own—bed, dresser, sofa, tv. If he were playing ‘spot the difference,’ he’d point to the quilted beige throw hanging off the back of your couch, though most of it’s obscured behind your frame.

You’ve got your own place outside the compound—somewhere in the city, he recalls—yet you choose to spend most of your nights here, ready to deploy at a moment’s notice.

Plus, Tony’s got free HBO and Disney. 

Your head snaps up at the intrusion, and the despair that flickers across your face is immediately chased away by the sharp edge of irritation.

Your lip quivers when you snap, rolling your eyes:

“What part of go away is so hard to understand?” 

He takes another step forward, feet dragging against the coarse carpet. His best attempt at a smile is a stiff twitch of his lips, mouth drawn in a tight line.

"Guess I’m getting hard of hearing.”

The words hang uselessly in the air, doing nothing to soften the harsh lines of your brow. You retreat further into yourself, chin tucked behind your knees, glaring at him warily like a cornered stray. 

And there’s anger there, sure, but it’s something else too—beneath all the layers of pain, frustration—a bone-deep exhaustion he knows all too well.

“I don’t need—”

“—I know.” Nylon fibers cling to his sole as he kicks, boot scuffing against the carpet. “Just wanted to see how you’re holding up.”

It’s a lousy line, he knows. But it works, if only to crack through your cold façade. 

“Holding up?” You laugh, a dry sound that sucks all the air from the room. “I’m fine. Perfectly okay. Just like those thirty-eight civilians. Like Jones and Meyers in the IC-U.”

Your voice breaks on the last syllable, arms unraveling like a broken slinky as they fall limp over your lap, your feet sliding to the floor. He sees it, then—a flash of white beneath the hem of your shorts, deep crimson staining the gauze from the inside out. 

And something in his stomach twists. Breaths quickening, fingers twitching at his sides—he’d noticed the limp earlier, but this seems worse.

Urgency flares in his chest as he steps closer. The edges of your makeshift dressing are frayed, the dimensions of the wound too large to hide. Only then does he register the emergency med kit splayed open on the coffee table, its contents scattered about haphazardly.

His eyes lock in on the heap of gauze pads nearby—soaked through with your blood, darkening the fabric in patches—and his breathing stops. 

“What happened?”

You freeze, realization flashing across your face.

“Nothing.”

Brows furrowed, he steps in closer, trying to tamp down the strange irritation bubbling in his chest. “It’s clearly not—“

A sharp, heaving breath cuts him off, halfway between a sigh and a scream, and you lurch upright.

“—Jesus christ, it’s nothing, just,” Your hands rake through your hair, fingers clawing at your scalp, “god, can you just—” 

You collapse back down, palms digging into your eyes as you let the couch swallow you whole. He holds his breath, biting his tongue at how quickly it had all happened. 

The first sob hits after a long, suffocating pause. Your body crumples like parchment, folding inward, the lines of you trembling like branches caught in the wind.

His eyes trail back to the pile of blood-soaked bandages, your muffled sobs pounding against his eardrums. And the knot in his stomach tightens another notch.

Because all he can think is—this is it.

What he’s been running from since the day he met you. 

The most terrifying, fundamental truth.

For all your indomitable spirit, you aren’t him. Not shielded by the same untouchable strength. That miraculous concoction that lets him sidestep his reckoning at every turn.

It’s a fickle thing, mortality. He’s teetered over its shadowed edges, more times than he can count. Yet, even when he chose the drop, 80 years ago in the middle of the Arctic, it had failed to claim him—some twisted stroke of man-made fate suspending his corpus and careening him into a new century. 

Your mortality doesn’t play by the same rules—a newly lit match, flickering brightly at one turn, snuffed out the next.  

And he realizes the knot in his stomach is fear.

He’s terrified. Of you. Of the way you make him yearn for a predestined loss. 

His conviction in permanence has been scrubbed raw like wood against sandpaper—loss turned into anger turned into despair, eventually whittled down into disappointment. You’re one of the last threads holding it together. 

One more brush, one more stroke—and he’d be gone.

“…I should’ve clocked it,” your muffled voice breaks the spiral. “Fuck, I should’ve known.”  

“Hey, hey.” 

He steps forward, bending one knee to the floor, his hand rising to brush the side of your arm, hovering as if to offer solace. He swallows hard, dislodging the words caught in his throat.

"It was an ambush. None of us could’ve seen that coming.”

You shake your head, rubbing the corner of your cheek so roughly it makes him wince. 

Then the words that slip from your chapped lips nearly break him.

“It should’ve been me.”

He shakes his head, swallowing back a wave of nausea, the taste of bile rising sharp and bitter on his tongue.

“It shouldn’t have been anyone.”

The rest of his words claw at the back of his throat, burning.

No, not you. 

Never you.

You snort, wiping away the wetness from your eyes as you straighten.

“Look, if you’re here for a pep talk, can this wait till tomorrow? I’m kinda tired right now.”  

But his gaze is already wandering downward, tracing the path of your injured leg.

And he murmurs:

“Let me fix it.”

A soft tap against your bare knee, and it makes your eyes grow wide. The tears clinging to your lashes turn sharper than cut glass, refracting crystalline and jagged under the dim light. 

You cock your head and blink, incredulous. 

“The dressing’s too loose. You can’t leave it like that.”

You sigh out a laugh, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“Oh, so now you’re a medic too?”

He lets his gaze drop, the weight of it settling on the floor as he shuffles forward, dropping his other leg to the ground. 

“C’mon,” he murmurs, even quieter now, giving your knee another tap. 

You release a heavy breath before you oblige, brows furrowed, lifting your leg so he can peel off the bandaging looped around your thigh, wincing when the cotton clings stubbornly to the raw edges of your wound.  

As exhaustion drags your leg downward, his hand finds the hollow behind your knee, steadying you, warm and achingly soft against the calloused edges of his palm.

At the sight of your wound uncovered, he swallows—a ragged gash stretching across your thigh, too long, too deep.

His lungs feels tight, each breath snagging like the time he fractured half his ribcage.

“Did you even clean this out?”

Your silence answers for you, loud and clear. 

And even in the weight of the moment, he can’t help but glance up and give you a look. The kind of chiding, quiet disapproval that would normally have you rolling your eyes all the way back.

Now, the only energy you can muster is a subtle tilt of your head, your gaze soft and unfocused, blinking slowly as he averts his eyes back down. 

He reaches for the first aid kit, still strung out on the coffee table, and his hands quiver when he tips the bottle of iodine against a cotton pad, the copper liquid staining it with a sickly gleam. The acrid scent punctures the air, thick and harsh as he holds it up against your raw wound.

You exhale sharply, a pained breath caught between your teeth.

"Fuck." You groan, tensing immediately. ”God, son of a—"

And this must really hurt, because you’re one of the few people he knows who can match his chronically abnormal pain tolerance. 

“I know,” his voice is thick with restraint, shoulders tipped forward and crowding the space between your legs. His left hand moves to splay across your knee, tension rippling beneath his palm, your breaths growing heavy when he has to start pressing deeper. 

Once so deep that you let out an involuntary gasp, your hand shooting out to grab at his wrist, fingers curling tight. He freezes, eyes fluttering shut to avoid looking up, because he’s pretty sure that’d be the thing to undo him completely. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice rough. Waits for your grip to loosen, that trembling, frantic hold slipping just enough for him to continue.

“…almost done, promise.” Desperation seizes his chest as he tries to work quicker, and the only taste in his mouth is metal now—’cause if you’d had just let him bring you to med bay, they could’ve given you something, topical cream, lidocaine shots, whatever, to make this go away. 

He bites down harder to try and block out the sight of your hands in his periphery, the way your fingertips turn ghostly white, digging into the scratchy upholstery to resist reaching for him again. But no matter how hard he tries, there’s no reprieve from that grating sound of your nails against the fabric, the way it scrapes and claws every time he lowers his hand, your body jerking to try and brace against the agony.

23:54

Slow and mechanical, the bandage wraps around leg in measured turns, like tape over his knuckles before he steps up to a punching bag.   

He gently tugs on the bandaging, his eyes lifting for the first time since he’s been down here. He takes your tired nod as confirmation, immediately occupying himself with rustling, scrunching up empty packages and crinkly plastic into a tight fist as he closes up the kit.

“You still need to get that checked out, looks like it might need stitches.”

“Uh huh.” 

And the knot in his stomach grows, cause he’d be willing to bet everything that you won’t. 

But then, you say:

“Steve.” 

And he stares back, incredulous, at the slow curve of your smile, the swell of your cheeks catching the light. Your eyes glint up at him, and his stomach does another lurch—this time for a different reason altogether. 

“…thank you.”

He nods, clearing his throat as he rises to his feet, knees creaking like old floorboards and hell, maybe he is getting old. 

“Make sure you’re not putting weight on that leg, means no running or lifting for a while.”

“Yessir.”

A lazy smile accompanied by a salute, and he has to fight the wave of nostalgia of that day in Lagos. 

And—because old habits die hard and the habits of this job die harder—a parting remark starts to formulate in the back of his throat. Something profound about their line of work, about doing the best you can. 

Don't beat yourself up, you did everything you could.  

But instead, he settles on a silent nod, heavy ache simmering in his chest.

He casts one last look at your tired frame, draped loosely over the couch, and leaves the same way he came in. 

00:00

a/n: soo i had finished this chapter a while back, but ended up rewriting it and decided to go in a completely different direction. hope you enjoyed and thanks for reading :) feedback is always welcome!

[scoutofmymind]

Hiii, I’m not entirely sure if you do au one shots, but if you do please write a princess x knight trope with Luigi. Him looking out for you during his night shift, watching you with the fiancé your father chose for you despite you two being madly in love.

Your writing is gorgeous, btw! In awe <3

I’m Your Man — {Luigi x Reader}

Content: NSFW— MINORS DNI, kissing, p in v, virgin Luigi, fucked up kingdom politics, reader is a princess with an evil king father lol, this is NOT alpha/Omega or whatever, Luigi was raised as a wild animal killing machine, once again inspired by Mitski

Wc: 6,143

Notes: Like a wolf with its leg in a trap, he'd said, that familiar cruel smile twisting his lips. They'll tear through their own flesh to survive. Imagine what they'd do to yours.

Pain shapes them. The cold hardens them.

A common solider dies for his kingdom, a Grimguard kills for it.

AN: Thank you so so much for this request 💕 I once again took this and ran with it. It actually wasn’t my first Luigi x princess reader request sitting around in my inbox, so come one, come all! I have an inkling I might have questions about this one, so lemme know! I enjoyed writing this very much x

Ps: in order to keep this Drabble length and not fic length, I definitely cut out some backstory . But I hope despite that, it’s easy to follow along xo

You're an angel, I'm a dog

Or you're a dog and I'm your man

You believe me like a god..

I'll destroy you like I am

— I’m your Man, Mitski

Ironmere lies suffocated beneath its winter shroud, the castle's hundred hearths cold and dark save for one — your father's study. You've no choice but to seek its warmth, sprawled across a leather chair that's seen generations of royal lectures.

The fire pops and hisses, each crack of burning wood another tick in your mental count, anything to dull the familiar sermon.

"I must remind you," your father says, pipe smoke coiling around him. His shadow stretches across the study walls, cast by flames that paint the room in shades of amber and gold. "That the Grims are bred for loyalty, my dear." He turns to study your face, but you keep your eyes fixed on the dancing flames, refusing to meet his gaze. "Can be no more your equal than a well-trained dog."

The fire swallows his words, and you wonder if it, too, finds them bitter.

Since catching you at your balcony, tracing the Grimguards' movements with hungry eyes, your father has waged his own quiet war; each day brings a new warning, each meal seasoned with thinly veiled threats meant to plant fear where fascination grows.

But seeds of warning find no purchase in frozen earth.

"Speaking of which," he says, abandoning his chair to stand before the frost-kissed window. Beyond the glass, the Ironmere mountains pierce the steel-gray sky, their jagged peaks collecting snow. The ancient evergreens bow beneath their white burden, branches dripping crystal daggers of ice. "We've taken a new pup out of training. Young one, but promising. He'll be stationed near the South Tower."

They're bringing in a new generation again, stealing youth and binding it in black armor and cold metal muzzles.

Your father's cruelty wears a gentleman's mask, polished and pristine as the rings that adorn his fingers. Time has taught you to see beneath it, to recognize the calculated malice hiding behind words like duty and tradition.

The South Tower stands like a frozen sentinel, eternally facing winter's fury. It's where your father plants his fresh seeds of war, watching come morning with clinical interest as frost either hardens them into soldiers or claims them for the grave.

No coincidence leads new Grimguards there.

They either wake to see another dawn, their breath clouding behind their muzzles, or they join the nameless others whose bones might still rest beneath the tower's foundations.

This is how he plays at being divine — selecting who lives and dies with the casual interest of a man trimming roses; Nature's selection, he calls it, as if nature ever intended for young men to be bound in iron and left to freeze.

"Another child?" The words slip past your guard and your head turns toward him, though the fire still claims most of your attention, its warmth a mockery of comfort.

"No younger than yourself, my love." The endearment falls from his lips like frozen honey — sweet, yet somehow wrong. He speaks of sending a boy your age to stand in winter's cruelest depths, guarding a tower that has stood empty since before your grandmother drew breath. "We've discussed this before," he says, finally abandoning his view of his frost-touched kingdom to fix you with that measured stare. "You ceased being a child the moment you became heir to Ironmere."

You answer with silence and the loud protest of leather against leather as you shift in your chair.

Let him interpret the sound as he wishes — rebellion or resignation, it matters little. In this moment, you think of another young man who whose breath will freeze behind a muzzle while you sit before this fire, counting the ways your father fashions cruelty into crown.

"The muzzle ceremony is their rebirth." His voice takes on that familiar, aristocratic lilt—the same tone he uses when discussing wine vintages or the value of old tapestries. As if he speaks of art rather than chains. "This one's training scores are exceptional. He'll serve the crown well."

You've watched these ceremonies before, hidden in gallery shadows. Seen how they strip away names and replace them with numbers, how they forge living flesh into living weapons. The muzzles aren't just metal — they're shackles of status, marking each Grimguard as something less than human but more than beast. A perfect servant for your father's perfect kingdom.

In your mind, you see another humans eyes, bright with unshed tears as cold iron meets warm skin — another soul bound to Ironmere's frozen heart, while your father speaks of service as casually as one might discuss the weather.

Through frosted windows, you've studied their brutal dance since childhood.

The Grimguards train in Wolfdens outer courtyard where the stones are perpetually slick with ice, where one misstep means more than just a fall. They move like shadows given form, their black armor drinking what little sunlight winters here permit.

The training starts before dawn, when breath freezes mid-air and fingers can barely grip steel. They fight with those peculiar curved blades — somewhere between sword and sickle — that have become as much their signature as the muzzles that cage their faces.

The weapons are deliberately unwieldy at first, designed to strain muscle and test resolve.

Many break their own wrists learning to wield them.

You've counted the phases of their training through seasons.

First, the endless drills until their movements become reflex, then the sparring that leaves red droplets crystallizing on white snow. The masks come early — crude training ones at first, heavy iron things that make it hard to breathe, harder still to see. They learn to fight half-blind, to rely on instinct over sight.

To become creatures of pure reaction.

But it's the endurance training that haunts your dreams.

They stand for days in the bitter cold, perfectly still, until ice forms on their armor. They run barefoot through snow until their feet bleed, then run further still, and some disappear during these tests, their names never spoken again, as if Ironmere itself had swallowed them whole.

Your father calls it necessary refinement.

You call it what it is.

The systematic breaking of human beings until all that remains is loyal steel wrapped in obedient flesh.

It was the whimpering that drew you from your chambers — a sound so foreign in these stone halls where weakness dares not echo. Your footsteps fell like fresh snow as you traced that desperate keening, following it until it transformed into a metallic chattering, silver bars rattling as violent tremors wracked a body fighting to remember warmth.

He doesn’t turn when you found him in the South Tower's breezeway, though surely he heard you.

His silhouette matches the template they all conform to eventually — broad shoulders carved by endless drills, frame solid as the mountain itself, training blacks clung like a second skin, running from throat to wrist in an unbroken line of shadow. Only his gloved hands betrayed movement, fingers flexing and unflexing in a rhythm that matched his shivering.

The new muzzle catches what little moonlight filtered through the frost-laced windows, shaped like a snarling dogs snout, throwing silver patterns across the walls. Too new to have darkened with use, too rigid yet to have molded to his face.

Another wolf being broken to the bit, another hound learning to embrace his cage.

The closer you drift toward him, the more your father's warnings drum against your skull.

Never approach a new Grimguard alone. They're most dangerous before the muzzle takes hold.

The metallic chattering quickens like a death rattle, and the cold seems to deepen, carving into your marrow with ancient teeth, and memory washes over you as you recall exactly what they become — watched them train in the courtyards below your window, witnessed how they move like poetry written in violence, how they strike with the precision of winter's first killing frost.

But this one.

This one still trembles.

His control fractures with each shudder, and you remember how father once told you that a Grimguard is most lethal in the moments they're breaking.

Like a wolf with its leg in a trap, he'd said, that familiar cruel smile twisting his lips. They'll tear through their own flesh to survive. Imagine what they'd do to yours.

Pain shapes them. The cold hardens them.

A common solider dies for his kingdom, a Grimguard kills for it.

"Are you cold?" The whisper escapes before wisdom can catch it, and the transformation is immediate — his trembling ceases as if frozen in time, muscles locking into place with military precision.

Whether it's training or pure shock that stills him, you can't tell.

These new ones are always unpredictable, balanced on a knife's edge between their old instincts and their new purpose.

"I heard you whimpering," you continue, the words hanging dangerous and delicate in the space between you. Through the silver teeth of his muzzle, his breath comes in short, controlled bursts, each exhale creating ghost-white clouds that dissipate against the metalwork.

The pattern is deliberate now — mechanical — as if he's forcing each breath through a carefully memorized cadence, the same measured rhythm you've watched the veteran Grimguard use during their drills, when they're trying to master pain.

You wonder if he's already learning to lie with his body, or if he's simply too terrified to show weakness.

You hover in the uncertainty, unsure what response you're seeking.

The Grimguard are like shadows given form and function — you've spent years watching them from windows and walkways, learning their peculiar language of violence and restraint.

They move in packs through the fortress halls, all lethal grace and barely contained aggression, but you've also witnessed the moments they think no one sees.

A Grimguard pressing their muzzle against a packmate's shoulder after a brutal training session, the silent comfort shared between two hounds who lost their third to a snow bear's claws at the North Gate, and there’s something almost gentle in how they lean into each other then, these weapons your father has forged, finding warmth in the spaces between their brutal purpose.

But those moments are never meant for outsiders' eyes.

They're certainly not meant for the kings daughter, whose very presence reminds them of the hand that holds their leash.

You've seen how quickly they can shift from deadly grace to deadly intent, how the muzzles hide everything except the truth in their eyes.

He turns — slowly, deliberately — and you catch your first glimpse of eyes behind the silver latticework.

They're brown, almost gold in the dim light, and far too lucid for comfort. Not yet hollowed out by more training, not yet carrying that vacant winter-wolf stare that marks the veteran Grimguard.

These eyes study you with an unsettling clarity, as if cataloging every detail of your presence.

His head tilts, just slightly, reminding you of the hunting hounds when they catch an unfamiliar scent, and the motion is too natural, too human. Somehow that makes it worse, as most Grimguard move like they're reading from a manual of precise angles and measured steps.

The muzzle shifts as his jaw works beneath it, and you realize he's trying to decide if he's allowed to speak to you. New recruits often struggle with this — the complex hierarchy of who can command their voice and who must be met with silence.

The princess falls into a grey area their training hasn't covered yet.

Finally, his gloved hand rises, not toward you but to his own throat, fingers pressing against the high collar of his blacks where you know the control runes are etched.

The control runes are your father's masterwork — ancient symbols seared into the skin at throat and spine, binding each Grimguard to the fortress's will.

You've seen them during the marking ceremonies, watched how they burn with a cold blue light as they're carved, how they fade to silvery scars that pulse with each heartbeat.

They serve as both leash and collar, limiting how far a Grimguard can roam from the fortress walls, how much force they can use, who they can harm.

"My Lady." The words emerge like broken glass wrapped in velvet — smooth on the surface but jagged underneath. His voice carries that telltale distortion all new recruits have, as if speaking through layers of frost, but there's something else there. A tremor of defiance, perhaps, or desperation. "The cold is necessary. Part of our conditioning."

He swallows hard, the muzzle's intricate metalwork shifting with the motion. The runes must be burning now — you can see how his fingers dig deeper into his collar, tendons standing out against the black leather of his gloves, but he holds your gaze, those amber eyes still too present, too aware.

Most pups learn to lower their eyes by now.

You notice a tension in how he stands, like a bowstring drawn too tight, and you recognize the stance from watching new recruits, called the Unblooded, in the training yards.

"Necessary," you echo, tasting the word's bitter edge. You've heard your father use that same justification countless times in his workshops, watching dispassionately as fresh recruits screamed through their first exposure to the killing cold. The cold that reshapes them, hardens them, strips away everything warm and human until only the Grimguard remains.

His breathing hitches — just slightly — at your tone.

The runes pulse again, brighter now, a steady rhythm like heartbeats beneath his collar. You notice how his other hand has curled into a fist at his side, leather creaking with the strain, Fighting the compulsion to kneel, perhaps, or fighting the instinct to run.

Both would be equally futile.

"And who told you that?" The question slips out softer than intended, almost gentle — It's dangerous, this curiosity about their lives before the muzzles, before the markings. Your father has warned you repeatedly about seeing them as anything more than what they are now: tools, weapons.

But there's something about this one's eyes, about the way he still holds himself like he remembers another life, that makes you reckless.

You can hear the slight scrape of metal teeth as his jaw clenches beneath the muzzle. When he finally speaks, his voice has splintered, "The Keeper himself, my Lady. Your father."

You hear the sound of boots approaching, the groundslurkers making their rounds to assure everything is just-so.

"Inside," you murmur, touching the frozen door behind you. Not a command, but an invitation. A dangerous one. No Grimguard is allowed in the royal quarters unless specifically ordered by your father.

The punishment would be severe.

He knows this.

You see the conflict ripple across what's visible of his face, the way his fingers twitch toward his turtleneck collar, but the patrol's footsteps are getting closer, and you've already seen too much.

You push the door open wider, letting candlelight spill onto the frost-rimed stones. "Choose quickly."

For a moment, he's perfectly still, like the ice sculptures in the winter garden, then he moves — one fluid step through the doorway, silent as snow despite his armor, and you close the door just as the patrol rounds the corner, their heavy boots echoing past without pause.

In your chambers, he looks desperately out of place.

The black armor and cruel angles of his muzzle stark against the rich tapestries and furs. He stands rigid, carefully not touching anything, as if afraid his mere presence might taint the warmth of the room.

In all your life in the palace, you've never dared to get this close. The Grimguard are your father's shadows, his weapons — to be glimpsed from afar, never examined.

But now.

You circle him slowly, studying the way frost creeps along the joints of his armor, how it crystallizes in delicate patterns where leather meets metal. Up close, you can hear the soft crackle of ice forming and reforming with each breath, see how the cold radiates from him in barely visible waves that make the air shimmer.

The muzzle is even more intricate than you'd imagined.

Delicate silverwork overlays darker metal, creating a lattice of thorns and frozen vines that cage the lower half of his face. You can see now why they call it a muzzle rather than a mask — it's fitted precisely to his features, allowing just enough movement to speak when commanded, but designed to remind both wearer and observer of its purpose.

Control.

Your hand lifts before you can stop yourself, drawn to the impossible intricacy of it. His whole body goes rigid, but he doesn't step back. This close, you can see the minute tremors running through him — fighting against something you don't fully understand, or reacting to your proximity, or both.

"Does it hurt?" you whisper, fingers hovering just above the metalwork. "All the time, or only when-“

"Yes." The word comes out rough, barely above a whisper. He hasn't spoken this long without a command in who can say exactly how long. "Always. But more when..." He trails off, eyes flickering to your still-raised hand, then away.

More when fighting whatever's been done to him, you realize.

More when showing any trace of humanity.

Your hand trembles slightly, caught between pulling back and closing that final distance. The cold radiates against your skin, a warning or an invitation— you're not sure which.

You've never heard one of them admit to pain before.

They're not supposed to feel anything at all.

But he does feel.

He hurts.

His eyes widen, a flash of something — fear, hope? — breaking through their frozen surface.

"Let me help you," you say softly, reaching for the intricate clasps of the muzzle nestled in his wavy, black hair. "Just while we're here. No one will know."

"You can't," he says, the words strained. Even this small act of refusal seems to cost him. "The cold will hurt you. And if the Keeper—"

"My father isn't here," you interrupt, your voice steady despite the way your heart pounds. "And I'm not afraid of the cold."

You're close enough now to see how the metalwork digs into his skin, how even the simple act of speaking makes the thorns beneath the sides of his muzzle bite deeper.

All these years, you never knew the muzzles were lined.

Never wanted to know.

His breath catches as your fingers brush the first clasp, but he remains perfectly still, caught between what he's been made to be and what you're offering him — a moment of freedom, no matter how brief.

The clasp comes free with a sharp click, and his whole body jerks as if struck. A soft sound escapes him — pain or relief, you can't tell, as frost spreads rapidly across the metal where your fingers made contact, but you refuse to pull away.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, working on the next clasp. "I'll be quick." The cold bites into your fingertips now, sharp and hungry, but you can see how the muzzle's grip has already loosened slightly, allowing him to take a deeper breath. “Are they all like this?”

His hands clench at his sides, trembling with the effort to remain still, and each release of a thorn seems to send shockwaves through him, as if the very act of being freed is its own kind of agony. But he doesn't stop you, doesn't pull away — and that tells you more than words ever could.

The facade of silver and shadow begins to come apart under your careful touch, revealing glimpses of what lies beneath; you try not to think about how long it's been since anyone has seen his true face, or why your father thought it necessary to cage him so thoroughly.

"No," he manages, voice tight as you work on another clasp. "Not all. This one is special." There's a bitter edge to the word that makes you pause.

The implications sink in slowly. Your father must have designed this one specifically for him — more thorns, more pain, more control. Because he was different somehow. Because he fought back.

You examine the cruel metalwork with new understanding, noting how the thorns are positioned to punish speech, expression, any hint of defiance, your fingers tracing a particularly deep puncture mark, and he goes completely still, hardly breathing.

"Almost done," you promise, though your hands are nearly numb from the cold now. Each clasp reveals more evidence of long-term torture disguised as restraint. The more you see, the more questions burn in your throat, “Why’d they give you one like this?”

He's quiet for so long you think he won't answer, the final clasp coming free under your trembling fingers, but he makes no move to remove the muzzle completely.

"I remembered," he finally says, "Something I wasn't supposed to. My name." His eyes meet yours, and there's something terrible in their depths — not just pain, but knowledge. "They take everything when they make us, but I kept one thing."

He stops abruptly, as if even this small confession costs him dearly, and you can see the thorns pressing deeper as he speaks, drawing pinpoints of darkness that might be blood, might be something else entirely, yet he hardly reacts.

The pain hardly registers.

A weapon isn't supposed to remember who it used to be.

But this one does.

“What’s your name?”

His breath catches at your question, and you can see him fighting against years of conditioning, against the very magic that binds him, and the room grows colder, frost crystallizing on the windowpanes.

"L-" he starts, then gasps as if the very attempt causes him physical pain. His hands clench. "Luigi," he finally manages, the name coming out in a rush of frozen air.

You repeat the name softly, testing its weight, and he shudders at the sound of it from another person's lips. How long has it been since anyone has called him by his real name? How many years of being nothing but a number, a weapon, a Grimguard?

This is where it began.

And soon, you find yourself inventing excuses to avoid Duke Aldrich of Brindsborough's tedious evening calls. Instead, your nights belong to these stolen moments; you and Luigi seated on the floor of your chambers, knees touching, sharing whispered confessions in the candlelight.

He teaches you how the Grimguards sleep — bodies intertwined for warmth in the cold stone kennels, finding comfort in the press of limbs and shared breath. The first time he shows you, hesitantly arranging your bodies so your back fits against his chest, you understand.

It's not just for warmth — it's about trust.

You learn to read the minute changes in his expression, the things he can't say even without the muzzle. He learns your tells, too — the way you twist your rings when you're anxious, how your laugh changes when you're truly happy versus when you're playing the perfect princess.

These evenings become your refuge whilst the rest of the castle prepares for your upcoming marriage to a man you barely tolerate, you and Luigi build something fragile and precious in secret candlelight.

You tell him about the time you were seven, and you snuck your injured falcon into your bedroom instead of letting the gamekeeper "take care of it." You'd splinted its wing with strips torn from your favorite dress and fed it scraps from your dinners for weeks. Your father had been furious when he found out — not because you'd ruined the dress, but because you'd shown weakness.

Mercy was unbecoming of a princess.

The next memory stands out sharp and clear — that particular night when everything shifted.

You'd barely managed to secure the door's heavy lock before Luigi abandoned his usual restraint, muzzle yanked off. One moment you were turning, the next your back hit the floor with a soft thump, driving a surprised laugh from your chest.

His movements were pure instinct, almost feral — nothing like the rigid control the Grimguards usually displayed. Cool lips and nose traced your neck once you’d pulled his muzzle away, your collarbone, your hair, erasing every lingering trace of Duke Aldrich's cloying cologne. Each brush of contact sent shivers down your spine, not from cold but from the intensity of his need to claim, to possess.

"Marking your territory, are you?" you whispered through breathless giggles, fingers threading through his hair. The words made him pause, and you felt him tense — caught between embarrassment at his display and a deeper, darker urge to continue.

You could feel his breath against your throat, quick and uneven. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough. "He touched you. I could smell him on you all evening. I couldn't. I can't-“

Instead of pulling away, you tugged him closer, understanding flooding through you. This wasn't just possession — it was protection, desperation, love transformed by whatever magic had remade him into something wild and fierce. "I'm here," you whispered. "I'm yours."

A sound rumbled deep in his chest — not quite human, not quite animal—and his grip on you tightened almost painfully. The temperature plummeted, frost blooming across the flagstones in intricate spirals, but you weren't cold.

Not where he touched you.

"Mine," he breathed against your skin, the word holding years of denied wanting. His control, already fragile, splintered further. You felt the magic that bound him surge and twist, fighting against this claiming that went against everything they'd bred him to be.

Grimguards weren't meant to want.

Weren't meant to possess anything but their duty.

Yet here he was, trembling above you, eyes dark with need as they met yours. One hand cradled your face with impossible gentleness, even as the other gripped your waist with bruising intensity. The contradiction of him — deadly weapon and tender protector, ice and burning want — made your heart race.

"Say it again," he pleaded, voice rough with desperation.

You reached up, traced the scars where the muzzle had been, and watched his eyes flutter closed at your touch. "I'm yours, Luigi," you whispered. "Only yours."

The moment your fingers trace those scars, Luigi shudders violently, a full-body tremor that sends cascades of ice crystals shimmering through the air. His breath hitches, catches — no one has ever touched him there, not with such tenderness, not since they first bound him.

But then he does something that steals your breath — he leans into your touch. Like a half-wild thing learning trust, he presses his face against your hand, nuzzling into your palm.

His skin is cold as ever, but his breath comes hot against your wrist. When his lips brush your skin — tentative, questioning — you feel the ghost of frost patterns blooming up your arm.

"Warm," he murmurs, sounding almost drunk on the sensation. "You're so warm." His eyes are half-lidded now, tension melting from his shoulders even as his grip on your waist remains possessive, and the contradiction fascinates you — how he can seem so dangerous and so vulnerable in the same moment.

You trace another scar, and this time he makes a sound that's almost a purr, deep in his chest. The ice spreading across your chambers takes on a soft, pearlescent glow, as if reflecting his pleasure. It's intoxicating, this power to gentle him with just your touch, to make the fearsome Grimguard melt like snow in spring.

When his eyes open to meet yours again, they're heavy with an emotion that makes your heart stutter. The gold in them has darkened to midnight, pupils blown wide. "More.” he whispers, and it's both a plea and a demand.

With trembling fingers, you map the constellations of his scars, each touch drawing new sounds from him — soft gasps and broken whimpers that make your chest tight. The marks are smooth beneath your fingertips, silver-white against his olive skin. You trace them all; the deep grooves where the muzzle's straps cut in, the lighter marks across his jaw where they tested different bindings.

His control slips further with each caress, and frost flowers bloom and fade on your skin where his hands roam, leaving trails of delicious cold that make you shiver. When your thumb brushes the corner of his mouth — where the metal once forced his silence — he catches it gently between his teeth, eyes locked on yours as he presses a kiss to your fingertip.

"They told us we couldn't feel," he murmurs against your hand. "That the binding stripped everything but duty.” He presses his forehead to yours, breathing ragged. "With you, I feel everything."

You curl your fingers into his hair and pull him down, eliminating the last space between you. His lips are cool against yours, but they warm quickly as you show him this new way to be close, to trust, to want.

He learns fast, desperate and eager, like a man who's been dying of thirst finally given water.

You feel it in every desperate roll of his hips, that untamed creature beneath his skin — the one the Grimguard could never fully bind. It surfaces in the frost that spreads beneath his palms where they bracket your head, in the way his breath comes in ragged pants against your neck, hot despite his perpetual cold.

He's beautiful like this — composure shattered, cheeks flushed an impossible pink against his beautiful skin, and his eyes are blown wide, that ethereal chestnut brown nearly swallowed by black, and they catch the light like stars when he gazes down at you.

There's something almost painful in his expression — wonder and desperation and disbelief all tangled together.

The friction between you draws broken sounds from his throat, primal and unrestrained. His movements are instinctive, graceless — so different from his usual precise control, each roll of his hips against your thigh becoming more frantic than the last, his whole body trembling with need.

"Please," he gasps, though you're not sure what he's begging for. You’re almost certain he doesn't know either. His fingers curl against the floor, "Please, I can't- I need-"

You reach up to thread your fingers through his hair again, drawing him down until his forehead rests against yours, and he whimpers at the contact, hips stuttering in their rhythm.

This close, you can see every emotion flash across his face — vulnerability and hunger and love so intense it steals your breath.

The wild thing in him recognizes its match in you, and neither of you want to tame it anymore.

His voice trembles as he tries to find the words, years of enforced silence warring with raw need. You cradle his face in your hands, thumbs brushing his cheekbones.

"Tell me," you whisper. "I want to hear you say it."

"I-" he starts, then breaks off with a shaky exhale.

"I need to be closer.” He whispers, his movements between your legs desperate and juvenile, but there’s something so, so sweet about it.

He’s reduced himself to raw and visceral need, and cares little for how it makes him look, this feared Grimguard, a hound who sleeps in piles with his pack, a weapon of mass destruction, a human being. He’s flayed himself open for you, guts spilling forth, red hot and oxblood — this primeval need, this unfiltered want.

It simply is not something you’d ever find in anyone else.

Specifically the Fiancé your father has hand-selected.

Luigi groans as you guide him where you need him, the sound low and broken against your throat. Your nightgown rides higher, silk cool against fevered skin. His grip on your hip tightens instinctively, and you gasp at the perfect pressure of frost-touched fingers.

Each roll of his hips is hungry, instinctive — like his body remembers what his mind was forced to forget. You wonder if he dreams of this, if behind those crystalline eyes he imagines all the ways he could unravel you. If during those long, cold nights in his chamber, thoughts of you haunted him like this.

The friction builds a delicious heat that makes your head spin. You arch against him, chasing more, and his breath hitches at the way you move. His eyes are wild when they meet yours — desperate and wanting and almost afraid of how much he needs this.

The etiquette mistress would faint if she knew the thoughts that filled your head during lessons now — memories of frost-touched skin and desperate sounds and the way Luigi says your name like a prayer.

You guide Luigi beneath you, and he goes willingly, eyes wide with wonder as you settle above him, his hands tracing paths of up your thighs, mapping you like something precious, something sacred, each touch leaving ghostly patterns on your skin that fade like morning mist.

The silk of your dress whispers between you as his fingers trail higher, catching on your collarbone where your necklace rests, transfixed by the way the pendant rises and falls with your quickening breath, by how the gold warms against your skin while his touch remains winter-cold.

"Closer," you echo, fingers curling in the hem of his black shirt. You draw it up slowly, exposing him inch by inch, the moonlight streaming through the window catching on old scars that map his abdomen like constellations — some precise and surgical, others jagged and cruel.

Your heart aches at their implications, but now isn't the time to count his wounds.

Not when he's looking at you like this, like you're everything he was told he could never have.

His breath hitches as your hands explore the newly exposed skin, and the temperature drops further with each touch, frost spiraling out beneath him in intricate patterns that match his racing pulse.

"Please," he gasps, and you're not sure if he's begging you to stop or never stop. Maybe both. The wild thing in him is closer to the surface than ever, making his eyes glow like arctic stars in the darkness. "I need- I don't know how to-"

You lean down until your foreheads touch, breaths mingling in the frost-edged space between you. His skin radiates winter's chill everywhere except where his heart beats strong beneath your palm. You can feel him trembling, power barely contained.

"Let me show you," you whisper against his lips, cradling his face. His eyes are luminous in the darkness, filled with vulnerability and desperate trust. The temperature drops as his control frays further, delicate patterns of frost blooming across every surface.

"I've never-" he starts, voice breaking.

You silence him with a gentle kiss. "I know," you breathe. "I've got you. You're safe, Lu."

His fingers flex against your arms as emotions war across his face — years of isolation and fear battling with his need to be known, to be accepted exactly as he is. The wild thing in him strains closer to the surface with each passing moment. "Let go," you tell him softly. "I got you."

You pour all your love into another kiss, wet and hot, showing him that he's worthy of gentleness, of care.

That he doesn't have to hold himself back anymore.

And he doesn’t.

You watch in wonder as his composure fractures, that usually fixed expression melting into something vulnerable and raw, his hands grasping you like an anchor as his careful control slips further.

The temperature drops with each shared breath, but you've never felt warmer.

His face — usually so guarded, bearing scars that speak of battles fought alone - is transformed. Open. Trusting. His lips part on silent pleas as his eyes lock with yours, glowing like arctic stars, and the wild thing in him is closer to the surface than ever.

You've never seen anything more beautiful than this proud, powerful man allowing himself to be soft for you. To be vulnerable. His fingers flex against your skin as another tremor runs through him.

"You're safe," you whisper, rocking your hips against his in a slow rhythm that allows the both of you to adjust. "You're mine."

The sound he makes is something between a sob and a prayer, raw with years of loneliness and need. You kiss him deeply, showing him with every touch that he's worthy of this — of pleasure, of care, of love freely given, and he takes just as his heart desires.

It hardly takes him any time before he’s got the hang of it, raw and needy, soft but strong.

He shoves his face in your neck once you’ve been laid on your back again, his teeth biting gently into the soft flesh of the curve in your shoulder, his instincts still lingering, but you welcome them and each mark he leaves against your skin, the rhythm of his hips sloppy and wild but achingly free, your own body cherished as if he’d come undone at your altar.

He worships you, just as the Grimguards are meant to worship their Keeper — his devotion raw and unfiltered, his gaze defiant and steady, “I love you.” He says, the words feeling like a foreign language, but one you had taught him to speak. “So much it hurts.”

[obedientteens]

Marineisation

“Here is your new uniform.”

The words rang out with the cold efficiency of a checklist being ticked. No ceremony, no welcome—just another gear turning in the great machine you’d been drafted into.

Laid out before you were the dress blues. Immaculate. Intimidating. The deep navy jacket, lined with red piping, glinted with polished brass buttons. A white belt coiled stiffly across it like a restraint, gloves pressed into a square of order. The cap sat atop the folded trousers like a crown for a king you weren’t meant to be. It was beautiful, yes—but it wasn’t yours. It belonged to the system that now owned you.

You hadn’t chosen this. You hadn’t applied. You were informed.

They’d taken you from your civilian life with a letter that used the word mandatory three times before you finished the first paragraph. Protests were irrelevant. Conscientious objections vanished into administrative voids. You were processed, catalogued, and reassigned.

Now, standing in front of the mirror in a stark, government-assigned room, you saw yourself swallowed by the image. A Staff Sergeant's insignia adorned your sleeves—ironic, considering you hadn’t even been trained yet. “Projection of discipline begins with appearance,” they told you. “Identity follows structure.”

Each morning you were expected to stand before your locker and dress to perfection. Fold, align, tighten, salute. By evening, your body ached from hours of drilling, of marching, of answering to a name that wasn’t yours. But that was the point. This wasn’t about fighting a war. It was about reshaping you into someone who would fight any war without hesitation.

No one called you by your name anymore. You were “Marine.” You were “Unit.” You were “Asset.”

Each layer of fabric clung to you like a claim on your soul. Every crease was checked. Every thread accounted for. The uniform was not there to protect you. It was there to transform you.

And slowly, inevitably, it would.

The uniform didn’t care about your past. It only demanded presence. Discipline. Submission.

And you? You were learning to disappear inside it.

[bbutterflies]

alyanette kiss for drabble prompts 👀

hi kayla!!! sorry this took me a million years but I hope it’s worth the wait!! 🩷🤍🧡

Marinette’s life is complicated. Balancing being a teenage girl and a superhero and a student and the guardian and a daughter is hard. But even then, she knows what she likes.

Marinette likes designing, the sound of pencil on the page and the thrill of her ideas coming to life. Marinette likes baking, following recipes she’s had memorized for years and the easy way she can hold piping bags in her hands. Marinette likes sewing, the familiar whir of her machine soothing on even her worst days. Marinette likes Alya’s lip gloss.

But that one is new, so she’s not sure why she likes it so much.

Marinette likes boys – she knows that, has always known that. But she’s not with a boy today. She’s with Alya, alone. Having a picnic.

And Alya is wearing a really pretty lip gloss.

Marinette’s not quite sure why she’s so drawn to it. It’s subtle, a little pink, just a bit of shimmer, but she notices. She knows Alya doesn’t usually wear it. Alya doesn’t usually wear the floral spring dress she’s wearing, either, but Marinette quite likes it too. Well, of course she does – she designed it, a birthday present for Alya. But she really likes it when Alya wears it.

Marinette knows she doesn’t have it all figured out, of course, but… she’s more confused than usual right now.

Alya is sitting next to her, legs tucked against her side. Her hair is down, caught in the gentle breeze, and she keeps tucking it behind her ear. Marinette could watch her do that all day, she thinks. She’d be quite content.

Alya is peeling an orange, and she offers Marinette a slice. Marinette takes it, of course.

“I’m glad you could make it,” Alya says with a smile, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear.

“Me, too,” Marinette says. “This is really nice.” She looks around at the blanket Alya has brought for them, baby pink and soft, and the wicker picnic basket sitting on top filled with snacks and drinks. She takes a bite of the orange in her hands.

Alya returns to peeling, carefully digging her nails into the skin of the orange and exposing the fruit. “I, um, I really like spending time with you,” she says.

Marinette watches her, mouth agape. She’s not quite sure how to respond.

“You’re incredible, Mari,” Alya continues as she pulls off the last piece of orange skin. “I’ve always thought that. I knew it from the day we met.”

“Oh,” Marinette breathes. Alya has complimented her before, but this… it’s different in a way she can’t put her finger on.

The wind picks up and pulls Alya’s hair loose. Marinette’s hand is there to fix it before Alya’s.

Marinette isn’t sure why she does it, but it’s happening before she even realizes it. She gently tucks the hair back in place, her fingers lingering near Alya’s cheek. She likes being close to Alya.

Alya smiles.

They don’t talk. The moment stretches into eternity. Marinette keeps her hand where it is, an offer, though she’s not sure what she’s asking for. She just knows she likes it, and it seems like Alya likes it, too.

But Alya doesn’t move, so Marinette lowers her hand. Her aim is to bring it back to her lap, but Alya catches it first. Gently, carefully, Alya holds her hand.

Marinette notices Alya’s nail polish. Warm pink, soft orange, the sunset encapsulated. Alya’s hand is soft and warm. Marinette already knows this, has felt Alya’s hands before when they paint each other’s nails or Alya holds her back from a wayward plan going awry.

But this is different. Alya holds gently, carefully. She’s making her own offer, Marinette realizes.

Marinette seizes it. She moves slowly, in case Alya wants to change her mind and pull away. But Alya doesn’t. They intertwine their fingers and hold each other tight.

Maybe… maybe Marinette likes Alya. Likes her as more than her best friend. Because she loves the way their hands fit together, and she’s still drawn to Alya’s lip gloss and maybe it’s less about the gloss and more about who’s wearing it.

“I really like you,” Alya whispers. She meets Marinette eyes and smiles, confident. Her voice is louder. “I really like you,” she repeats. “And if you just want to stay friends, that’s okay, too. But I wanted to tell you anyway.”

Oh.

The pieces fall into place like dominos to spell out a beautiful pattern, and Marinette realizes it all at once.

She likes girls. She likes Alya, actually. Of course she does.

Marinette scoots a little closer on the blanket. Alya responds with a breath let loose and a glowing smile. She’s never been good with words, always trips over her feet on her way to the point, but Marinette doesn’t think she needs to say anything right now to express herself quite clearly to Alya.

She leans closer. Alya meets her halfway.

Alya’s lips are soft. She tastes like cherry and oranges and pure bliss. She feels like home, familiar and safe and always pulling Marinette right back in. Marinette knows instantly she’s stuck in Alya’s orbit, and she’ll never need to be anywhere else.

Alya pulls back with a giddy smile, her heart bared between her teeth, and Marinette knows she’s a mirror image.

Marinette likes this. Loves it, even. And she’s quite sure about it.

[thelittlepoetprincess]

Modern!Vander Drabble-ish?

I'm sorry, I only appear when I hyper-fixate on media. I know you all are sick of playing the "WHERE'S PJ" game. I wanted to imagine Vander as a bar owner in modern times. Featuring my ocs because I needed extras. Short and sweet while I get comfortable trying to catch his persona.

"Come on, I know a spot." You followed behind Psyche, one of the girls in your college course. Psyche was a Psychology major with a minor in counseling. She led you to a bar on the rougher side of town, a hole-in-the-wall place illuminated by dim lanterns; the smell of smoke was heavy, glasses clinking as she wove you through a crowd. The place was busy despite the size, with the waitress moving past the packed tables to booths and avoiding the all-too-familiar pool game in the middle of the bar. The men were arguing, beginning to get in each other's faces. Psyche shot you a look, pulling you close in case a fight broke out. "Don't panic, Hound-dog's got it." Hound-dog? Who the hell was- "Enough outta both of ya. Do I need to put you in time-out?" A voice rang over the bar, and the barkeep polished a glass to set it aside. He asked playfully, but the edge in his voice was enough to make them both simmer down and continue the game peacefully. He huffed, turning back to the woman at the bar, Psyche's twin, Piper. The back bar was decorated with all kinds of keepsakes: boxing gloves from his golden days in the ring, a framed picture of him surrounded by four kids rowdy, and a photo of him, a man, and a woman together in what looked to be mining gear. "Pipes, you keep bringing me your strays, aye?" He chuckled, deep and gravelly, eyes settling on Psyche and you as she brought you to the bar. Piper seemed to be two cups of coffee halfway through her third before Psyche downed it, to her sister's dismay. While they begin to half-heartedly argue, Vander turns his attention to you. "So, what'll it be? Drink, I've got a small menu, too; promise Gert's a good cook." He chuckled, sliding the paper across to you. He worked on two new coffee cups for the twins, setting it down for each of them to silence them. The Last Drop had been here since Zaun split and founded itself independent of Piltover, still holding that rough charm from when people protested for Zaun's independence. His leather jacket had repeatedly been protested at the bridge, and the leather was worn from use, but he couldn't bring himself to swap it for a new one. It fit nicely on him. "Give me a second, yeah?" He asked, holding an espresso from the worn-out coffee machine with Hextech's logo. The company had sunk years ago, but apparently, the relic still stood and worked. He placed the cup by a student at the end of the bar, working, burning the midnight oil. It was a common sight anywhere near campus, and it was midterms. “Coffee’s on the house this time. But eat something properly; I don't need you crashing on me. Your mom'll kill me if anything happens to you on my watch.” The young man nodded, sipping the drink slowly as he kept going. It was a sanctuary for the forgotten, the restless, and those who needed to find their footing in a world that often didn’t give second chances. The rock music blared through the bar, cranked low not to disturb but enough to muddle any conversations whispered at tables. The world had moved on from the chaos and politics of Zaun and Piltover, but Vander’s essence hadn’t changed. He was still a protector, a guardian. A Hound. The bar wasn’t just a business; it was a haven. Stray kids from the streets knew they could come here for a hot meal, no questions asked. The regulars—construction workers, taxi drivers, the odd professor from college—knew that Vander would listen without judgment if they needed to talk. And if someone brought trouble, they’d quickly realize the quiet bartender wasn’t as soft as his demeanor suggested. "So, what'll it be?"

[the-chessboard-is-personal]

ii s3 liveblog

I'm a bit sad rn so sorry if my reactions are bad this time

1 - I'm not supposed to relate to Balloon am I. y'know. the guy that did something bad in the recent past and now everyone hates them even though they're trying to change.. sigh. wHAT? h. how is he here?? HOW IS SHE HERE??? ...does MePhone look different from how he was in the first half of s2? it's been a bit since I watched that but I swear there's something different about him. oh, new intrthe island is alive. warp pipe.

2 - yup sure :) 👍 right okay BOW is glitching now. something to do with chairs and maybe she lost her memories? she was obsessed with chairs before she died, so..oh fuck I'm taking as many notes as Cabby huh

3 - oh I thought I had something to say about this one. sorry

4 - if the floor gets eliminated, how will that work? .yo WHAT is going on with candleMUMBO JUMBO CATCHPHRASE ... I. I don't think that's what polishing a screen does.?

5 - what if Box wins lol ..oh. wait there was no formal elimination, I guess that got replaced with Box being pulled this episode

6 - them ,,,,,they,both of them,, the cool(s) -> ☯

7 - well call me a camera because [screenshots the auras file]. . . . . . . . . . a. ..nobody knows about this joke yet but if I had a- uh. nickel. for every time a series I know about had a character named Bow with trigger words, I would have two nickels. which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it happened twice what is going on with Bow and chairs. HEY MARSHMALLOW TOO?? yes I will keep doing this strikethrough bit

8 - oh fuck I just realized. "iii" as in Inanimate Insanity Invitational but also as in 3 (roman numeral) because it's season 3. also just based on the title I have a bad feeling about this episode (<-half-right??) wait WHAT. MePhone what the fuck does that rnean. whhaaAAAA- oh. agdjhk s ghdclod damn it the commercial is pLOT RELEVANT. hhhhey quick question. how uh. how do we know that everyone's back in the right body..? like. there were some characters who weren't onscreen after they all died again. uhh

9 - th. this episode is probably not like. actually worse than the other ones or anything. but, with the bias I had already formed because I distrust people with the name of the one this episode is a collab with, some stress I was already feeling today before even starting this liveblog, something Balloon said at around 9:14, said pre-liveblog stress making me associate the whole "animation machine" thing (which is seen as bad) with something I like but everyone else hates, I personally have nothing good to say about it.

10 - why is Cabby gold. oh it's whoever has the Immunity Cookie. wait did Cabby forget about TBD because her file was burned??

11 - bat? pokemon. the game you're thinking of is pokemon. wait did he say backstab HOW DOES HE KNOW CANDLE SAW BETRAYAL?? ..yeah I was wondering how that would work

12 - I knew it. I knew Cabby would forget stuff that isn't in a file! urghhh can they Please vote out silver spoon already. he's not gonna WIN, right?? sorry. but I don't like him.

13 - oh the intro reflected Bot's change in appearance. neat! nononoononoNONOONNO GAUhokay. listen I know it's probably not going to happen but I really want YinYang to win. and holy shit that "for the rest of your life" was foreshadowing.

14 - okay off to a start that makes me want to punch something. okay. okay. it's not a real ad. good. HUH HE GLITCHED holy shit, damn uzumaki lookin rooms what is this /positive(?) ☯ 👈 GRIAN INSTINCT (which. to be fair, mood). p u r p l e . PURPLE ACKNOWLEDGED. WHAT WAS THAT! ohhh what the hell. you fuck off this INSTANT you silver shitface. ohh I hate him. I hate him more than I hate Cobs. ..does Cabby not have parents? SPLRINGY IS FAKE. SPRINGY IS A ROBOT OR SOMETHING MADE BY COBS I'M CALLING IT NOW. please please please kill the spoon kill the spoon plEASE- ARRGHHH

15 - seeing as the next episode has Blueberry in the thumbnail and is called The Great Bluish Bake Off, I have a slight prediction on who will win the rejoin. wait what. yeah I'm gonna be honest I don't think it was murder. NO NONONOONO DON'T NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO WAUGHHH,,,,,

16 - why....why am I finding Nickel so relatable. w h a t . now I've never had oatmeal raisin cookies, but I don't think they're the Number One Cause of global warming. I know it's a cartoon and awHAT THE HELL HE JUST DIED

(between 16 and 17) m. MePhone knows. MePhone knows what's going to happen when the season ends, doesn't he? that's why he doesn't want it to. that's why he's desperate. but the question remains, what does he know that the viewers don't?

17 - wait this episode is from 10 months ago. is- is the series not over? damn it! I prefer to binge watch stuff so I don't forget while waiting for new episodes. oh don't even fucking go there. 14:01 FUCK OFF.

(between 17 and 18) y'know I was trying to watch this to ESCAPE all the drama and discourse everyone hates me for. this just feels personal at this point. but hey, who cares about me, right? onto the next damn episode!

18 - there's another 4 under that 4. are they all 4s. ohhh noooo, what an inteeense moooooment. wow it's really fucking difficult to care right now.

19 - again final episode so I'll break this into sections. kinda

..,.Cabby..I think I understand a bit more about my own..situation because of Cabby. wait wait. "built" to? BUILT to?? HMMMMMM 4S is still here?? what ??? ? well at least the one that YinYang wanted to win won..!

and that's season 3 huh.

well. that was kinda filler? tbh?

and the message in episode 17 sucked- ..eh. hold on. I'm getting too angry over some discourse. I need a break from typing this.

okay after like half an hour I realized something. they were trying to win an award. I like AI art, but I don't think it should ever win any awards in competition with human art. the two are fundamentally different. I don't think there should be any competitions that have both, especially high prestige ones. that line at 14:0whatever was too far though.

my opinion is that human art and AI art are both art. but they're VERY different forms of art, and should probably be kept that way.

overall I liked the season. sure, YinYang didn't win and episodes 9 and 17 are...like that. but it's not that bad tbh.

probably gonna watch the rest of s2 tomorrow, but for now I just want to play minecraft.

[avocado-writing]

Crowley with a reader that likes to make immature jokes and sexual innuendo, but isn't used to affection or being flustered? I absolutely love your writing and just had to share this idea!

Crowley x gn!reader

a little bit suggestive 🌝

Don’t take offence at my innuendo. 

Your music plays gently over the speakers and Crowley considers the line as he watches you taking stock for the night. The coffee shop is closed and Nina has left you in charge of sorting admin, and Crowley likes to sit and watch you to help and heckle in equal measure. Usually your conversations devolve into childishness immediately, a double entendre or lewd mime. He enjoys it, of course, the teasing nature of it all; but underneath the surface he just can’t figure you out. 

He watches as you clean the milk frother, polishing the pipe up and down and giggling to yourself at the bawdy nature of the gesture. When you spot him staring you give him a wink and do it even harder. 

It’s true, he’s stumped. He can’t solve you. If everything you do is a tease or just a joke. It’s getting under his skin, making him hot in a way he’s not used to. He’s not sure he likes not knowing. 

“I’ll be with you when I’m all finished down here,” you call over as you go to sweep the floor with a dustpan and brush, then catch what you’ve said and snort. In the moments where you busy yourself with work, Crowley decides: stuff it. Quietly he closes the gap between the two of you. When you stand up you find yourself trapped against the shop counter, his hips pressing against your arse. 

“Crowley-!”

“You know,” he whispers, bringing his mouth forward so when he speaks you can feel his lips against your ear, “for all your little jokes, I wonder what you’d do if I just had you right here against the espresso machine.”

Ignoring the fact that actually sounds quite uncomfortable, heat floods your cheeks and between your legs in equal measure. His breath is warm on your cheek as he laughs at just how astounded he’s made you, as if he’s won some little game. 

You don’t want him to move. You actually would quite like him to follow through with the idea. 

And then, just as if nothing has happened at all, he releases you and walks over to the drinks fridge, grabbing himself a kombucha. 

“You’ll comp this off for me, yeah? Ta,” he calls, and swans out the shop door that you could have sworn that you locked. 

You’re left feeling like you’ve been hit by a train. 

Taglist; @cool-ontherun-world @angiestopit@idontmeanto@smile-eywa@staygoldsquatchling02@underratedboogeyman@specter-soltare @dazed-soul

[brighteststar707]

To Disappear Under the Sun

✦ Character: 707

✦ Words: 3062

This is me expanding on this call from day 6 of 707's route! Warning: agent angst ahead.

“Status check, Agent 707?”

“All clear, Agent. Withdrawing now.”

“Time estimate?”

“Ten minutes at most. You have permission to withdraw.”

“Copy.” The little voice crackles then cuts out completely in Seven’s earpiece and he is left in silence. It’s hasty for Seven to send him out, but this mission has been going so smoothly, he sees no reason to have him out there any longer. 

He is deep in the basement of a corporate building, a cockroach scurrying under the polished shoes of the oblivious corporate workers upstairs. So far, the mission has been going suspiciously well. He managed to slip into the office of his target unnoticed, steal all the information he needed, and get out again without alerting a single person. Though, none of this has done anything to ease the tension he has felt since entering the basement. With its fluorescent lighting and nearly-unnatural silence, the whole place has a liminal feeling that Seven is keen to be rid of.

And he’s close now. He can feel his heart thrumming in his chest and a strange buzz in his fingers that tells him that his adrenaline rush is wearing off. He is more than ready to get out of here.

One turn. Through another doorway, careful to stay out of view of the cameras he knows are positioned there. Another turn.

As he moves down one of countless dark hallways, he hears the little voice in his earpiece confirm that they have gotten out safely. He’s the last one left. Only a few more minutes and he’ll join them. He has the route memorized. He just needs to go up a staircase, through the door to the basement, and out of the back entrance. Vanderwood should be waiting there with the car to get them out of there.

He is about to start climbing the stairs when the door at the top of the staircase opens and he comes face-to-face with someone who definitely shouldn't have been there. It was supposed to be guarded – was guarded up until a few minutes ago – by another agent. Seven curses under his breath. There is a moment of silence, each of them weighing the options. Then, Seven makes his second mistake: he runs back into the basement, the way he came.

He hears shouts from behind him, the person calling for backup, and the thundering of steps on his heels.

But he is faster. He always is.

He works his way back down the hall, mind working through possible escapes at breakneck speed. There is no way past them. Anyone who could have helped him is gone. He tries anyway to call out the emergency code over his earpiece, but he gets no reply.

Three turns and through two more doors, and he comes across a door with a heavy-looking handle and a big warning sign on the outside.

KEEP OUT

AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY

Based on Seven’s experience, doors like this usually come with heavy-duty locks. And, if anything, the sign might convince his pursuers to look elsewhere. Either way, he’s running out of time. He tugs it open and quickly disappears inside.

The room is noticeably a few degrees hotter than the hallway outside. As his eyes adjust to the light, he can see why: he has found his way into the building’s boiler room. All around him there are pipes leading up into the rest of the building and against the back wall, there are three big boilers.

A piece of good news: the machines are making enough noise to cover up anything he says or does.

He takes this opportunity to test out his radio. He tries reaching Vanderwood, but he doesn’t receive a reply. Whether it’s because he doesn’t have any signal this far down or because they’re all gone, he can’t know.

Well then, he will just have to wait.

His eyes adjust to the darkness and he takes in his surroundings. The room itself is small, with nothing more than the boilers and pipes to take up the space. The pipes run across every wall in the room, hot to the touch, and he does his best to stay away from them. 

The adrenaline is starting to wear off, and he is starting to feel the injuries he must have sustained during the chase. His lungs ache from running and somewhere on his leg a cut smarts. But he’s alive.

Already, the heat in the room is starting to weigh on him. He is panting from the chase, but breathing does not bring him relief. There is a stubborn tightness in his chest that doesn’t ease and his heart is still racing, even though enough time should have passed for him to calm down. Despite the room being big enough for him to walk around in, he is feeling claustrophobic. He has to fight the urge to throw the door back open and run out into the hallway. Luckily, he is still rational enough to know that it would be suicide.

Instead, he raises his arms over his head and stretches, trying to force more air into his lungs, holding each breath for a few seconds before releasing. It’s a struggle at first, his mind fighting furiously against his body’s urges, but he eventually manages to slow his breathing down.

He can still hear the footsteps of his pursuers roving up and down the hall. Despite still being too antsy to relax, he forces himself to sit down. It won’t do him any good to exert more energy than he has to in this state. He leans back against the wall, tilts his head back, and shuts his eyes. Sweat beads on his upper lip. The back of his neck is damp. He is already thirsty. But he does not think about it.

He waits.

⋆  *  ✩   *    ⋆

He idly stares at the wall opposite him and allows his mind to wander. He has paced the room back and forth (and found himself worryingly tired after a few laps). He has counted each of the pipes, even attempted to touch them a few times just out of curiosity (they’re terribly hot). This is far from his first time staking out like this. Every hour or so, he tries to reach the agents outside, but he never receives a reply.

He listens to the voices outside as they come and go. It sounds like the building’s regular security patrol was called in. However, if his target is as paranoid as he seemed to be during Seven’s research, they won’t be the only people on guard.

Time drags by, painfully slowly, and Seven focuses on his breathing. He still feels the urge to run out of the room; he has the odd sense that he’s being cooked from the inside out. Once or twice, he gets up and goes to the door, he finds himself with his hand on the handle before forcing himself to step away. There is no way out of this basement with so many people on guard. Even he isn’t that good.

He has to wait.

⋆  *  ✩   *    ⋆

Isolation is a strange thing to endure. Seven is no stranger to spending time alone, but this is a different beast all together. He is cut off from the outside world, slowly losing track of the stakes and all things that might have existed outside the door and its bright safety label. While he is very used to his own company (and often prefers it), his is a presence he’d do anything to escape right now.

He is painfully aware of just how dry his mouth is. It takes immense mental strength to not think about his fridge back home, fully stocked with crisp cold Dr. Pepper cans and water bottles. His whole body, by contrast, is uncomfortably damp. His clothes cling to his body in the most frustrating way, his hair is plastered to his forehead, and he has given up on pushing it out of the way. He can feel as sweat rolls down his skin and can do nothing to make it stop.

It is still hard to breathe. Each breath has the opposite effect and reminds him just how humid the room is. He imagines water filling his lungs with every breath, imagines drowning while dying of thirst. It’d be terribly ironic.

He makes a conscious effort to take deep breaths, but he can’t keep it up for more than a few minutes before he forgets. There is a dull throb starting in his head that he knows is just another sign of dehydration.

It has been around 24 hours since he first got into the boiler room, and it is starting to mess with his mind. Whether it’s the darkness, the heat, or both, he is starting to lose his grip on reality. With nothing else to distract him, his mind turns worryingly dark.

Seven’s identity and existence in daily life are tenuous at best. He is wrapped in so many lies and elaborate facades that he’s not there there’s anything left underneath it all. In this basement, cocooned in concrete, he is completely severed from the outside world. It is easy to imagine that he doesn’t exist at all.

Easier still when he can still hear the frustrated voices of the second round of security guards called in to search for him. They’re starting to doubt whether there was anyone ever there to begin with. It’s starting to sound more and more convincing even to him.

He’s too scared to let himself sleep, but as the hours pass, exhaustion starts to creep up on him.

⋆  *  ✩   *    ⋆

He startles awake. A quick glance at his watch tells him he has only been unconscious for two minutes, but his heart is racing like he’s been dreaming for far longer. His eyes shoot to the door out of pure habit. This has been happening every few minutes. It’s extremely exhausting: he exists in this terrifying delirium where he is constantly on the brink of death with no way of escaping.

Nothing feels real. Not the outside, not the threat of being caught, not the work he finished. All that exists are these four walls and the oppressive heat that is pushing hard on his chest. Each breath is strained. In between dreaming of being caught, he dreams of deserts. Sand that’s hot to the touch, beautiful mirages that slip away before he can touch them. He dreams of slipping out of his skin just to feel the cold air again… his head lolls downwards as he drifts off again.

His eyes snap open. Nobody has burst through the doors yet. He is leaning to the side, neck at a painful angle, face dangerously close to one of the exposed heating pipes. He’s one wrong move away from a nasty burn. He pulls himself back upright and shakes his head, as if to throw off the exhaustion. His mind runs in increasingly frustrating circles.

He must not fall asleep. They will eventually find him if he is not vigilant, and God knows what they’ll do to him if they get their hands on him now. Nobody would ever hear from him again. Worse; he’d be a failure. He’ll never see Saeran again. He must not fall asleep.

Then again, if Saeyoung vanishes off the map today, who would mourn him? Sure, his friends might worry for the caricature he created, but what do they know of the person he is underneath it all? There is no name attached to the work he has done for the agency; nobody will ever know what he did. Nobody will know who he died for.

His head pounds.

He must not fall asleep.

He mutters an incoherent prayer, words slurring together until they’re just a stream of consciousness like water, Saeran, please… eyelids already halfway closed again. His head lolls down again…

His cheek hits the pipe.

He lets out a startled cry and leaps to his feet, still half asleep, narrowly missing bashing his head on another pipe. He immediately presses his palm to his mouth, as if to undo the noise he just made, but it’s too late. His outburst has caused some commotion outside. He can hear feet pounding up and down the hallway, the voices of men shouting to each other to search every corner of the basement.

Luckily, the noise of the boiler room has covered up the exact source of Seven’s voice, but it has put them all back onto high alert.

He wobbles, dizzy and uncertain of what to do. His hand probes his cheek to check if the pipe left any lasting damage. His skin is sore, but he’s hoping it’s nothing more serious than that. The last thing he needs right now is a burn to worry about.

He clumsily lowers himself back to the floor – the sudden exertion of him jumping to his feet has made his headache significantly worse – and plants his head firmly between his knees. Sweat drips off his forehead onto the concrete floor. The shock has sent a wave of nausea through him and his limbs are too shaky to be of any use. He has never felt cool in his life. If the guards ever give up searching for him, he doubts he’d have the energy to get up and leave. Maybe he will just sit here until the dehydration or heatstroke take him. Nobody would ever know what happened to him.

It’s almost a relief. He has tried to be invisible for most of his life. It feels like a final gift that he might just disappear from the earth without anybody having to know.

⋆  *  ✩   *    ⋆

Sand, as far as the eye can see. Saeyoung, wobbly on his feet, head pounding. A crackly voice in his earpiece, calling his name.

“Status check, Agent Seven?”

His throat is too dry to speak.

“Remember your task. You have ten minutes.”

“Copy.” His voice comes out as a rasp. 

The sun overhead, unforgiving and blindingly hot. His hands shaky, a feeling of dread in his gut. He knows he isn’t going to make it out on time.

He isn’t sure where he’s supposed to go, where to find the office that he knows has the information he needs. There isn’t a single building in sight. He stumbles a few steps forward, but moving makes the world spin dangerously under his feet. He is too dizzy to do more than shuffle a few steps forward at a time, the sand only hindering him.

His body aches, and he's sure he can hear footsteps around him somewhere, though there's nobody around to make them. He mutters a prayer under his breath. Whether to escape or to just be put out of this misery, even he isn't sure.

He only manages a few steps before he stumbles and falls. His skin stings where it hit the sand, but he doesn’t have time to recover. He needs shelter, and he needs it fast. He starts to crawl forwards again, desperate for something, anything. 

He can't find purchase in the sand. It starts to pull him down deeper, like quicksand. The heat in his body is unbearable. He sinks into the sand, palms then wrists then forearms being swallowed up by the heat.

There is no escape.

He looks up to the sky desperately, when suddenly a shadow is cast over his face. Someone is looking down on him, and he can’t muster up the strength to tell them to get out while they still can. He waits for his eyes to adjust, sun in his eyes, and then gasps.

It’s Saeran staring back at him. A face remarkably similar to his, hair lying just a bit flatter on his head (Seven’s hair has always been more unruly), though just as vibrant as his own. The only thing that surprises Seven is the look of disappointment in Saeran’s face. It's a look he has never seen, and would do anything to never see again. He looks down at Seven like he has already failed him.

“Wake up,” he says. His voice is strangely deep, familiar somehow.

“What?”

“Wake up. Is this what you left me to do? To die all alone? It's pathetic.”

“No- I…”

Saeran leans down so his face is close to Seven’s. He enunciates every word slowly so that Seven’s addled brain can keep up.

“Then. Wake. Up.”

Seven puts all his energy into opening his eyes. It’s the hardest thing he has ever had to do.

“Ah, thank God you’re not dead. C’mon, wake up.”

“Huh?”

Vanderwood stands crouched over him in the boiler room and is shaking his shoulder. Already, there is sweat beading on their forehead.

“I’m getting you out. You want to die here?”

“You found me.” His voice is as hoarse as it was in his dream.

“Obviously. You think I want to deal with the boss yelling at me for losing his best agent?”

Seven can barely keep up. He’s sure he’s hallucinating.

“Huh.” Is all he can say.

“Ugh. Come on.”

Vanderwood heaves Seven off the floor while Seven can do little more than groan at the pounding in his head.

The only thing that somewhat revives him is the first taste of air outside the boiler room. He takes his first full breath in three days. Slowly, Vanderwood half-carries him up the stairs and out of the building and loads him into the car.

Seven is barely conscious (Vanderwood won't let him sleep again) but it hits him: he survived. He exists outside the confines of the concrete and desperate, suffocating heat.

Saeran's dream words come to him again in his delirious state. Is this what you left me to do? To die all alone?

It had never occurred to him before. The agency work had always been vaguely for Saeran's sake. But this was not how it was supposed to end; dying alone and nameless without ever being able to get word back to his brother. He knows this now, suspects that he has always hoped so.

Despite how badly he may wish to disappear back into the earth, it seems that something bigger is awaiting him still.

[verycleverboy]

Donald fucked around, we get to find out

Via Narcity: "Starting Tuesday, Canada is slapping new counter-tariffs on U.S. products, targeting $30 billion worth of American goods. And that's just the beginning — Trudeau says an additional $125 billion in tariffs will roll out in the next three weeks if things don't de-escalate."

What follows is the full list of affected American products:

Food & drink

Poultry & eggs — chicken, turkey, goose, duck and their byproducts (fresh, frozen, preserved)

Dairy products — milk, cream, butter, ice cream, yogurt, cheese

Fruits & vegetables — tomatoes, beans, snap peas, citrus fruits, melons, peaches, nectarines, berries

Coffee & tea

Spices & flavourings — pepper, vanilla, dried spices (cinnamon, turmeric, curry, etc.)

Sauces & condiments — soy sauce, ketchup, mustard, mayonnaise, salad dressing, peanut and nut butters

Grains & baking essentials — wheat, rye, rice, barley, oats, flour, mixes and doughs

Oils & fats — canola, sunflower, safflower, palm, peanut and nut oils; margarine and butter substitutes

Sugars & sweeteners — honey, cane sugar, beet sugar, maple sugar and syrup, sugar syrups, molasses

Packaged foods — pasta, pizza, bread, cakes, biscuits, cereal-based foods, soup and broth, pickles, gum, candies, chocolate

Supplements — whey powder, casein, fish oil

Beverages & alcohol — orange juice, soda beer, wine, cider, spirits, liqueurs, coolers, bitters

Tobacco products

Raw & processed tobacco — unmanufactured tobacco, tobacco extracts, chewing tobacco, pipe tobacco

Cigarettes & cigars — cigars, cheroots, cigarillos and cigarettes

Nicotine products — vapes, e-cigarettes, nicotine patches and other smokeless tobacco products

Personal care products

Cosmetics & skincare — makeup, nail polish and manicure tools, hair care, deodorants, soaps and cleansers, razors, shaving products, bath products

Electronic tools — electric razors and clippers, hair dryers, curling irons, flatirons

Fragrances — perfumes, room deodorizers

Oral care — toothpaste, dental floss

Paper products — toilet paper, tissues, napkins

Home & office items

Kitchenware — paper and plastic tableware, storage containers, glassware, cutlery and utensils, kitchen knives, scissors

Furniture & home goods — metal, wooden and plastic furniture; chairs; mattresses and bedding; lighting; storage racks

Home textiles — carpets, rugs, blankets, bed linens, table and kitchen linens, curtains, cleaning cloths

Paper & books — stationery, notebooks, memo pads, binders, file folders, carbon sets, albums, printed materials

Office supplies — letter openers, pencil sharpeners

Artwork — paintings, drawings, pastels

Clothing & accessories

Clothing — shirts, pants, dresses, suits, underwear, hosiery, pyjamas, sweaters, activewear, swimwear, outerwear, baby clothes

Activity-specific attire — diving suits, ski suits, protective gear, life jackets, climbing harnesses, work belts, safety headgear, animal saddlery

Accessories — footwear, hats, gloves, scarves, belts, neckties, jewelry

Bags & luggage — handbags, wallets, suitcases, briefcases, backpacks

Electronics & appliances

Household appliances — refrigerators, freezers, dishwashers, washing machines and dryers, stoves, barbecues, fans, humidifiers, vacuum cleaners, fabric steamers

Countertop appliances & kitchen gadgets — blenders, food mixers, juicers, microwaves, grills, rice cookers, coffee makers, toasters

Gaming & entertainment — video game consoles, board games, card games

Vehicles & machinery

Motorcycles & recreational vehicles — motorbikes, sidecars, recreational boats, drones

Yard equipment — snowblowers, lawnmowers

Tools — saws, pliers, wrenches, spanners, hammers, drills, cutting tools, screwdrivers, staple guns, vices, lighters, pneumatic tools, padlocks

Rubber tires

Building materials

Silica & quartz sands

Plastic wall, floor & ceiling coverings

Window and door fixtures — window and door components and frames, shutters, blinds

Bathroom fixtures — plastic and ceramic baths, showers, sinks and wash basins, toilets, bidets, urinals

Plastic packaging

Wood products — planks, chips, veneer sheets, particle board, MDF, fibreboard, laminated wood, posts, beams, floor panels, wood pulp

Cardboard & paper — cartons, boxes, cases, paper bags

Textiles — tarps, tents, canopies, sails, woven fabric

Precious metals & gemstones — diamonds, silver, palladium

Weapons & ammunition

Firearms — pistols, revolvers, rifles, shotguns, air guns

Ammunition — bullets, cartridges, pellets

"Have fun!"

[yuri-is-online]

My brain is whirring in the blender right now so here are the things I think twst characters would find interesting/horrifying

Atom bombs. Why would they need atom bombs? Wars were either fought with magic or swords if lilias backstory is standard war procedure. And in endless halloween, leona tells a (fake) story about a terrorist group on a yaht party or something that attacked with a magic cube. Also that whole moment with Oppenheimer where he didn't know if igniting that bomb would set off a chain reaction that would ignite all the other bombs and basically destroy the world. AND HE STILL FUCKING DID IT.

Gun. Same reasons as the atom bombs.

French revolution and the reign of terror. What do you mean 40,000 were executed and over 300,000 locked up in the time span if a few years? Why did the "french" switch between so many governments so fast? Who the hell is napoleon?

Russian revolution and Anastasia. that revolution was MESSY. But imagine telling leona or someone about how everyone thought that princess Anastasia and her brother escaped execution cause they couldn't find their bodies with the rest of the royal family. So all these middle aged women just started coming out being like "I am Anastasia", and one of these women was eventually accepted as Anastasia. Until they found out that thr royal family were submerge in vats of acid after they were killed, and because children's bones aren't quite solid, the just. Melted in the acid.

The whole mystery of those villages getting up one day and dancing themselves to death and we still don't know why.

Medieval torture devices. Like the crowd cage or when you get covered in honey and sent away on a boat to be eaten alive by bugs (jamil throws up)

The black plauge. Just. The black plauge.

Early Industrial revolution working conditions. I think even azul would get uncomfortable with those.

Mansu Musa going on tour and giving away so much gold that he collapsed entire economies.

The cold War. "Yeah so the US and the USSR were in a war-not-war because of paranoia of nuclear atom bombs but they couldn't actually go to war because if they actually went to war that would just be the end of the world so they just had a massive dick messering contest. Oh yeah! That's actually why we got the space race!"

The space race. ("The fucking moon in the sky!" "Yes azul, the moon in the sky. And Mars. And there are satellites that literally went to the cold cold edge of our solar system" "...why are you guys insane?")

American prohibition laws and the outlawing of alcohol that everyone hated so much that the government legalized alcohol again and now we have this thing called moonshine.

Mexican revolution and the solid century where their presidents just kept getting assassinated.

The greatest night in pop "we are the world". Just as a treat for the pop music club.

The entire age of exploration honestly. "What do you mean half your world didn't know the other half of the world was there until a few centuries ago?" "Oh you're gonna shit yourself when you find out what Europeans did next"

What the Europeans did next.

The world wars. Lilia has a fucking stroke while listening to it. But some of it was funny! Not really but yk! A polish bear loading an artillery Canon, an unsinkable cat, that British guy that carried a bow and arrow and played bag pipes when the nazis found him only to be the most unkillable yet unserious guy ever, a US naval captain that literally FLOODED HALF HIS SHIP on D-Day just to tilt that bitch back so they could hit the Germans better, and the US just converting a spare ship into a massive ice cream machine is pretty fucking hilarious.

The coups of the ancient past. I don't really remember who but I think this Indian (?) Prince literally threw his brother out a window, dragged him back upstairs, only to throw him out again for good measure is fucking hilarious.

The mono Lisa wasn't famous until this Guy™ stole it from a museum. The museum employs didn't even realize it was gone until someone asked where it went 💀

The way we name our countries tbh. Most of them translate to some ancient language (Spain translates to "rabbits" and Columbia is "dove"), but twst really has countries like. "Scolding Sands ✨️ and Queendom of Roses ✨️. So our country names are probably really weird to them. Especially the full country names. Do you know Hong Kongs official name? It's long as shit.

The first chainsaw was invented by two socttish doctors in the early 1800s to help with childbirth

I have many more historically rambling I could go on but this shit is getting long.

If anyone at any point wants to ramble about history they are very welcome to do so in my literal dms and not just my ask box. I love history and I love talking about it!!!

I think out of all of the things you listed the atom bomb, the space race, and the Cold War would probably be the what I think the various twst boys would find most interesting. Even in the history of our own world those things were extremely unusual, the sheer scale of something like a world war is really hard to grasp and I doubt Twisted Wonderland has had a similar event. I think the concept of such a thing would really scare the cast, though I imagine Idia, Leona, and Lilia would be grimly impressed at just how creative people can be when it comes to destroying each other. Magic isn't required to make a mess of things, sure they already knew that but oh wow. Now they're really thinking about it.

Now you know who would want to talk about all of these things? Professor Trein! He'd be really interested in learning anything and everything Yuu can remember about the history of their world. As an educator it allows him better insight into his student, and as a lover of history he gets to learn a lot of new things no one else knows.

[legacyshenanigans]

Was just talking to a friend, reminiscing about all the wild, gross, and just plain weird things from my old job. And I thought I'd just do a fun little post of me bullet poiting these things. Bear in mind that some of these things happened multiple times, not just once.🤣

(I may have done this before, I cant remember, but fuck it I'm gonna do it again lmao)

Someone took a shit on the toilet seat and closed the lid.

Tieing used tampons around the toilet cubicle handles.

Sticking used sanitary towels on the toilet wall that I had to peel off and dispose of

Someone opened the sanitary bin and shit inside it.

Some guy poured the cleaning solution out of the toilet brush holder, pissed in it, then put the toilet brush back.

Foil with burnt herion remnants on it

Crack pipes and needles.

A plum in a condom.

The biggest, most monstrous turd I have ever seen in my whole entire life, that I and a co-worker literally had to break apart with a stick to make it flush. In the ladies toilets no less.. (R.I.P to that poor women's asshole)

The cheese lover: a woman who used to come in every single day, and bring in/eat 14 pots of cottage cheese and leave all the empty pots at her table.

A guy who I worked with who was an ABSOLUTE idiot used to clean the METAL slot machines with WOOD Polish, and because he was pally with the boss, the boss never did anything about it, so I just had to go around after him and clean them all again properly with the appropriate cleaning products. This was EVERY DAY that I worked there.

A woman asked if she could keep her urine sample (that wasnt in a proper urine sample pot, it was in some old skanky half open tupperware) for her doctors appointment later that day, in our works kitchen fridge with all the food and everyone's lunch in it, and a girl I worked with said yes and put it in there.

A tramp took a shit in the door way and I had to clean it up.

A tramp spat on me after I said I couldn't give him a cigarette in that moment because I'd left my packet inside the building (I would have given him one otherwise)

A tramp was asleep in the fire exit doorway, and our boss told me and a co-worker to deal with them and ask them to move somewhere else, and the tramp was extremely aggressive with us even though we tried to be gentle and nice.

A horrible woman called Kath on a mobility scooter used to run over my foot at least 3 times a week, and never said sorry when I'd call her out on it.

We had a "phantom wanker" who used to go into the toilets and cum on the wall. We never found out who it was. But I definitely did my fair share of having to clean up this dudes nut while I worked there.

We had a woman who would come in and play on the slot machines, she wore short skirts with no underwear and when she'd leave, all her pussy juice and discharge would be on the seat and we'd have to clean it.

There are probably so many other things, but there's just a snippet, lmao. Worst job I ever had🤣

[electronicwitchcollection]

~*Shuhei Hisagi smut*~

Not my best, longest or most descriptive work. I needed to just get something out there to get my mind off Grimmjow for a while 😂

hope you’ll enjoy, regardless

"what in the seven hells is that?" You mutter in disbelief at the strange machine Shuhei was circling, huge grin plastered over his handsome face. The unusual contraption was comprised of shiny metal and black leather, sat atop two very large black wheels. You've never seen anything like it in soul society before

"A motorbike"  he caught your eye, his own shining with child like glee you hadn't seen there in so long. The "motorbike" was huge, black leather seat and polished chrome pipes up the sides. The handle bars were up high, spread wide as the metal gleamed in the sun light.

You joined him in admiring the unusual machinery, the polished curves, the large round wheels looking midnight black against the white stone floor. "How did you even get it here?"  You asked bemused, watching guilt flash over his handsome face. His cheeks flushed a brilliant red, fingers raking through his jet black hair as he opened and closed his mouth, searching for a suitable explanation

"on second thoughts, I don't wanna know" you chuckle. Clearly he had obtained the large motorbike under less than ideal circumstances, being kept in the dark seemed like the safer option for you.

"it's for the best, the less you know.." he trailed off with a half hearted shoulder shrug. His eyes were glued to the bike, strong hand smoothing over the leather appreciatively. You watched as he threw his leg over the machine, straddling the bike between his strong thighs. His hands trailed up the smooth metal of the handle bars before gripping the black rubber handles

"you want to come for a ride?" He turned to give you that half quirked smile that had your heart racing. He patted the small space on the seat behind him invitingly, leaving one arm hanging loosely on the handle

"do you even know how to use this thing?" You asked dubiously, hesitating to mount the unknown contraption. They didn't have these here in soul society, how much did Shuhei really know about these machines?

"of course I do, I've ridden it a whole bunch of times". He smiled brightly, slight boastful tone in his deep voice. He looked confident, prideful even. You thought it suited him immensely, he looked hot, straddling the metal beast with a look of total control. He held out his hand to you, encouraging you closer "Trust me, I'll keep you safe" 

Throwing caution to the wind, you accepted his hand. It was warm, calloused by hours of intense training, years of perfecting his fighting style. He squeezed your fingers gently as you stood next to the bike, the biggest grin plastered on his face. He guided your hand up to his shoulder, easy leverage for you to swing your leg over behind him. You squeezed into the small space, front pressed up against his hard back.

Your breath caught in your throat as his hands smoothed up your thighs. He grabbed hold of your hands, pulling them to wrap around his middle, eliminating any space between you. "Hold on to me, we're gunna go fast" You intertwined your fingers, keeping them secure around his middle, heart thumping in your chest in anticipation.

Shuhei shuffled on the seat to get comfortable before turning the key. The machine roared to life, a deep, loud rumble so unlike anything you had ever heard. It sounded like thunder rolling in. The whole motorbike shook with aggressive vibrations, igniting a spark in your most intimate area. Your gasp was drowned out by the metallic beasts roar, legs kept splayed open by the width of the seat, at mercy to the tingling sensations spreading though your whole body

"Hold tight!" Shuhei shouted over the thunderous noise, pulling on the throttle and lurching you both forward. You yelped startled, clinging onto Shuhei as tightly as you could as the scenery whizzed passed you in a blur of colour. Wind whipped your hair around your face, the speed taking your breath away. You buried your head between his shoulder blades. Willing your rapidly beating heart to calm down . You smile at hearing him give a whoop of excitement, pushing the bike faster through the streets of soul society.

Adrenaline pumped through your veins, a rush of euphoric endorphins surged though you as you pushed yourself closer to the body you were clinging to. You tilted your head to the side, taking in the fast ride, embracing the thrill. It was amazing, almost felt like you were flying. You heard Shuhei whoop again, prompting you to join in with your own proclamation of joy.

You didn't know how Shuhei controlled the bike so precisely, weaving between Shinigami walking through the streets, taking corners at impossible speeds. When travelling down a long stretch of road, Shuhei pulled back tightly, lifting the back onto one wheel. You screamed startled, fingers digging into his clothes for fear of falling off. You could hear his chuckle as he landed the bike back down, a screeching noise cutting through the roar as the airborne wheel hit the ground.

You started to relax behind him, peering over his shoulder to take in the fast acceleration, commit it all to memory. You were coming to a cross roads when someone suddenly cut through your path, pulling a large wooden wagon behind them. The man pulling the cart stopped, wide eyed at the machine barrelling towards him at a rapid rate. Shuhei reacted quick, taking a sharp turn down an alley to avoid collision. The man's angry shouts followed you down the alley way. 

The momentum had the bike shaking violently, loosing control on the dirt path. Shuhei used all his strength to try and straighten the bike, roughly bouncing over the rough terrain. Fear quickly dominated you, a silent scream caught in your voice as you saw what lay ahead. A solid brick wall littered with empty carts. To your absolute horror, Shuhei sped up the bike, head straight for the inevitable collision "Shuhei!" You scream out, screwing your eyes shut as you braved for impact

"hold on!" He Hollered back, jerking the handle bars up over the lip of one of the carts, shooting straight over it and over the wall. You were airborne for what seemed like forever, stomach shifting inside of you at the sudden drop. The bike hit the floor hard, kicking up grass as it's wheels spun impossibly fast over the smooth surface . It shook and rattled over the bumpy field, screaming loudly in protest. You felt the bike jerk to the side, gliding over the grass before coming to a sudden halt.

The engine ticked over as you both sat there in stunned silence. Your whole body trembled with adrenaline at the near crash, limps shaking in there frozen grip around Shuheis stomach. He killed the bike, rumble quieting in an instant, allowing you to hear the muffled sound of your own heat hammering in your ears. The vibration stopped, your whole bottom half felt numb at the loss.

You were both breathing hard, unbelieving that you had survived that whole ordeal unscathed. Shuhei gently peeled your arms from around him, awkwardly manoeuvring his legs over the bike to turn and face you. His thighs trapped yours between them, hand tilted up your face to look into your wide eyes "are you hurt? Are you okay?"

He asked you slightly panicked, face paled with concern. You shake your head no, unable yet to form any coherent words. You felt like electricity was surging through your body, you were too hot and impossibly cold all at the same time. Shivers raked through your body, overwhelmed with contradictory emotions. Fear was slowly leaving your body, a strange sense of empowerment creeping in.

You couldn't think, only feel, only act. You lean in quickly, pressing your lips over his in a hurried kiss. The adrenaline mixed with the phantom feeling of the vibrations between your legs had you unexplainably turned on. You needed the thrill to continue, needed some out left for your jittery nerves. Shuhei's eyes widened as you kissed him,stunned, before surging into the kiss. His hand went to the back of your head, pushing you closer in your desperate kiss. It was messy and rough, desperate in the way you slammed together.

Shuhei forced his tongue into your mouth, hungrily tasting as much of you as he could. With frenzied desperation you match his energy, twirling your tongues together, teeth nipping at his lips. When you parted it was simultaneous, each breathing hard as you stared at eachother in unspoken conversation. Your eyes were wild with need, his dark with hungry lust.

You met him again in a bruising kiss, hands between you working his clothes off of his upper body. His hands went around your ass, pulling you forward to sit on his growing erection. You pushed away the offending garments, hands smoothing over his broad chest and wide shoulders. Shuhei groaned into your mouth, leaving your chasing lips to lavishly kiss your neck, hands kneading the plump flesh of your ass.

Head thrown back you moaned into the open sky, rolling your hips over his hidden cock, feeling the ridged length under your covered core. Shuhei licked and nipped at your neck, finding the most sensitive area he started to suck. You let your hands slide over his chest, dropping to your own obi and untying the knot. Tilting your head to allow more access you unwrapped your top, letting it fall off your arms behind you and revealed your naked breasts.

Your nipples instantly hardened, exposed in the open air. Shuhei released your neck with a wet pop, cheeks darkening at the vision of your exposed breasts, dusky pink nipples erect and begging for attention. He dipped his head, securing one pert nipple in his mouth as the other was cupped by his hand. The combination of his hot, swirling tongue and his large hand firmly cupping your breast had you delirious with arousal.

You leaned back, one hand supporting your weight and the other getting lost in his hair, keeping him at your breasts. Spikes of pleasure rushed straight to your clenching pussy, arousal dampening your panties. You needed more, needed the full stretch of his cock being buried inside you, the explosion of release. With a tug of his hair you pull his head back, his neck was strained, Adam's apple protruding deliciously.

You take advantage of the angle, kissing your way up his neck to reclaim his lips. He didn't allow you to remain in control, removing your hand from his hair, he placed it on his throbbing cock, making your fingers trail up the length of it, feel the girth. You palmed him over his trousers, hips circling on the leather seat, trying to find friction on your swollen clit.

Shuhei breathed heavily through his nose, dominating your mouth with his skilful tongue. He pulled away with fire in his eyes"take off your pants, now" he commanded you darkly, starting to rid himself of his own clothing. It was awkward, but you managed to kick off the rest of your clothes, leaving them crumpled on the grass below. Shuhei planted his feet either side of the bike, long, heavy cock standing proud between his open thighs, bead of cum leaking from the tip and sliding down the length of his veiny cock.

Another day, another time, you would've liked to lick it off, swallow his cock and bring him to the brink with your mouth alone. Now, you were too far gone, too flustered to do anything other than sink onto that cock and ride yourself to completion. Shuhei seemed to be as desperate as you, as he grabbed you by the hips and pulled you forward.

You wrapped your legs around his waist as he lifted you by your hips, guiding you down his hot length in one fluid motion. You gasp at the full stretch, head falling to Shuhei's shoulder as you accommodate the large intrusion. Shuhei dug his fingers into your hips, struggling to keep still long enough for you to adjust. Your tight, wet heat felt incredible, squeezing around his shaft.

Your arms wrap around his neck, rolling your hips the best you could, having no purchase for your legs. Shuhei groaned at the friction, hands sliding down your ass, using his strong arms to lift you up his length and pulling you back down the the hilt. He set a punishing rhythm, slamming you repeatedly onto his cock, chasing that incredible high that could only be achieved by an earth shattering orgasm.

You felt like you were on fire, burning for every inch you were forcefully sat upon. The angle had you feeling every rigid inch, stretching you intoxicatingly. You were dripping your arousal down the length, every thrust of Shuhei's hips gliding through your throbbing cunt.

"Shuhei" you moaned wantonly into his neck, fingernails leaving Cresent shape indents into his strong shoulders as you struggled to match his pace, hips bucking erratically with every slam of his cock. Shuhei grunted with exertion, strong thighs shaking with the awkwardness of the position, yet couldn't pull himself away from your impossibly tight, wet heat to change positions.

"you feel amazing" he purred next to your ear, thrusting deep, pulling a sweet moan from your lips  "just keep riding me babe" he encouraged you to continue to roll your hips as his hands stopped dragging you up and down his cock. You ground yourself down onto him, searching for the right spot that'll have you seeing stars. You felt so erotic, riding Shuhei out in the open, mounted on this metallic beast where anyone could stumble upon you.

Your head was thrown back as a keening moan ripped through your throat, the head of Shuhei's cock bumping over your gspot. Keeping the angle to desperately ground against it, pleasure surging through your body. Shuhei dipped his head to the swell of your breasts, leaving sloppy kisses over your flushed skin as his hands kneaded over your ass, squeezing appreciatively at the fleshy globes.

You were getting tired, body trembling with the strength you used to keep yourself up. "Shuhei, I can't.." you whine, hip movements becoming weaker, the adrenaline was slowly leaving you, making you feel weak. Shuhei captured your mouth in a searing kiss, running his tongue over your lips, asking entry. You open them willingly, meeting his tongue in a sensual dance.

Shuhei stood from the bike, bringing you up with him effortlessly. Carefully he laid you down, keeping himself buried within you. He refused to break the kiss, determined to map out every inch of your mouth. You wrapped your legs around his waist, hands roaming over his smooth back as he plundered your mouth. His hands caressed up your sides, sneaking between you to cup the generous weight of your breasts. Thumbs flicking over your sensitive nipples.

When oxygen became necessary, he reluctantly withdrew, standing to his full height, feet planted either side of the bike you were laid down on. He started  rutting into you slowly, savouring the feel of your velvety walls squeezing around his cock. His hands found purchase on your hips, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. His thrusting became faster, increasing in intensity

He looked down, eyes darkening at the sight of your greedy pussy swallowing him hole, your arousal wetting his dick glistened in the bright sunlight. Your moans were beautiful, unrestrained, letting him know how good he was making you feel. It was feeding his ego beyond words, spurring him on in his mission to get you cuming all over his cock. "You like that?" He asked you, voice dropping in pitch as he watched your face contort in pleasure, mouth parted prettily with constant moans.

You nodded desperately, hands coming up behind your head to grip onto the leather seat, needing something to stabilise you as you spiralled into bliss. He was relentlessly hitting your pleasure spot with every precise thrust. "Tell me," he panted, watching your breasts jiggle enticingly with every snap of his hips. He sought out your clit, rubbing tight circles with his thumb over the sensitive bud. You cried out at the extra stimulation, eyes slamming shut. "Tell me how good it feels" 

"so good, Shuhei." You whined, struggling not to become delirious as your orgasm quickly approached "please Shuhei, gunna cum" Shuhei started to sweat, doubling his efforts to fuck into you. He could feel his balls tightening, clear indication he was reaching his peak. He needed you to cum first, wanted to feel you tighten on his cock as you soaked him with your arousal

"you gunna cum for me, good girl?"  The dirty talk was making you impossibly hot, never having expecting it from Shuhei, who was genuinely very sweet and respectful "your pretty little pussy gonna squirt all over my cock?" 

You were beyond forming any words, simply nodding frantically as pleasure overwhelmed you. You were teetering on the edge, moments away from plunging into euphoria. "Come then, come all over my cock" that was the extra push you needed to tumble into your orgasm. Impossibly powerful spikes of pleasure ripped through your body as you came, screaming noncommittal at the blinding feelings coursing though your body. You came hard, arousal gushing wetly from your cunt as it clenched around the veiny cock erratically pumping into you.

Shuhei swore as you clenched around him, unable to hold out with the vice like grip you had on his dick. He choked on his own exclamation of euphoric bliss as he came hard, hot spurts of ejaculate costing your rippling walls, milking him of every drop. He fell forward, laying on you heavily. His head nestled into the crook of your neck, panting wetly into your skin as his mind buzzed from his climax. 

You stared up to the pale blue sky in wonderment. You couldn't believe that had just happened. The speed of the bike, nearly crashing into a wall followed by the most desperate sex you've ever had. Shuhei pulled himself from your neck to look down at your face. He gave you a crooked smile which you returned before giggling at the absurdity of the situation. Shuhei's deep chuckle joined yours, his body shaking over yours. 

He slowly sat up, pulling his cock free from your wet centre, to sit back on the bike. He pulled you up by your hand, hands dropping to your waist to keep you steady. Shuhei leaned in, kissing you sweetly, lips ghosting over your own when a rough voice made you both jump. 

"what the hell do you think you are doing Hisagi?!" 

Shuhei's captain was standing a few feat away from you, arms crossed over his exposed chest with a pissed look on his face. Captain Muguruma watched as you squealed with embarrassment, pushing yourself into Shuhei to hide as much of your nakedness as you could, burying your flaming red face into his chest 

"Captain." Hisagi choked out, face darkening as red as your own, mind spluttering for an explanation. He reached down to the ground, grabbing his top to drape over you and hide your frame for his captains murderous gaze "I can explain"

"My office, now."  Kensei turned to march back to his office, leaving the pair to dress and follow him. Not only had his lieutenant smuggled something in from the world of the living, he had nearly run over about four shinigami who had already put in complains, caused havoc and left black marks all over the street floors. He then decided to have sex on said smuggled artefact in the middle of a very public field. He could already feel the headache coming on from all the paperwork  "Fucking idiots "

[kisavatore]

My 2025 Sims 4 Wishlist* for base game updates and packs

*I don't expect to see all this next year obv and I want bug fixes like everyone eles,I'm doing this list purely for fun! (I may add more later)

Fairies (NEW PACK!!!)

Hotels

Being able to completely customize the apartments and hallways in san myshuno-changing the front door,moving/deleting the rat hole,moving/deleting the pipes and electrical box,and getting ride off lot challenges if we want to (I'm glad we can delete/move windows but I hope for a little bit more customization in the future)

Spiral stairs (base game)

Eye color & hair color slider (the same as the make-up one,base game)

New hair in pastel colors (base game)

Pastel color eyes (base game)

Pastel skin colors

More Black hairstyles (base game)

Gamer/geek decor (more headphones,controller,figurines,plushies,art prints,pillows,pen holders etc.)

Decor and functional manga & comic books

New consoles

Anime inspired (or colab) cas or/and b&b kit or stuff pack

Ado song/s added to s-pop station (base game)

Aimer song/s added to s-pop station (base game)

Graves for chickens,cows and llamas from cottage living EP

Bassinet for mermaids

Reptile Pets

Birds Pets

Disability aids (base game)

More/New Clutter-slippers,robes,small candles,cutting boards,mugs,small standing picture frames,make-up,cereal box,makeup,ingredients-flour bag,sugar pack,egg packaging,milk carton etc.,tray (empty with slots),tray with different types of decor e.g.w/ candle,books & mug,laptop & mug,breakfast etc.

Tattoo artist career (new pack)

Ballet Career

New instruments-drums,accordion,flute,harmonica,cello,harp,trumpet (base game)

Pool table

New playground equipment-slides,carousel,rocking horse (base game)

Burglars (base game) IT HAPPEN!!

Separate bank accounts for sims,saving account (base game,I would personally like a bank system similar to SNB mod)

New hobbies-skateboarding,glassblowing,pottery,scrapbooking,soap making,golfing,sewing clothes,ballet

Making a bed like in the sims 3 (base game)

Carnival Pack

New toys for kids (toy kitchen,toy laundry set,cashier toy set,band toy set,tea set,small plushies)

New toys for toddlers (toy kitchen,toy telephone,basketball hoop,Rock-a-Stack,Xylophone)

Public Swimming Pool Decor

Arcade machines

New make-up (cas,base game)

New piercing

Pillowfort for kids

Princess themed furniture/bedroom

Safari themed bedroom

Boho b&b kit

Visual kei CAS Kit

Cyber Goth CAS Kit

Active elementary school

New beds for cats/dogs

Updated textures for older base game hair

Screenshots we are taking appearing in our sims inventory as photos (so we could frame them)

Firefighter Career

Daycare Career

Police Career

Mangaka Career

Police in the game

South Korea inspired world

Africa Inspired world

Poland Inspired world

Another Japan Inspired world (I was thinking Tokyo Inspired City)

Traditional Slavic Clothes (base game or/and kit)

Slavic Home Decor (base game or/and kit)

Traditional Polish Food (base game)

Garage Cutler Kit

Tennis Court

60s/70s fashion kit

80s/90s fashion kit

60s/70s build kit

80s/90s build kit

Infant Stuff Pack

Multi-purpose lot (new pack)

Tosters

Smoothie/Shake Blender

Air Fryer

Fryer

Built in oven

Built in microwave

Burn Scars (base game)

Mini Pigs

New Piercing