#and blow up at them and demand proof of it

[bunnyboy-juice]

):

[yandere-sins]

Bad Guy

First Prompt! And I just so happen to find a character that I thought would really match the vibe I wanted to go for. I'm so excited to write for him since I've been mostly keeping out of writing for LaDS, but I do love the characters ♥

Fandom: Love and Deepspace Pairings: Yandere!Sylus x AFAB!Reader Warnings: Yandere, Sexual Content (Dub-Con, BJ, Gagging, Non-Con Touches, Lingerie, Reader is a virgin and inexperienced, Pet names, Degradation, Nicknames), Mention of Body Issues, Forced Captivity, Swear Words, Long Post Prompt: @sintember Innocence - What would you do to preserve it, what will be done to tarnish it?

»»———————— ♡ ————————««

"Come now, you make me look like the bad guy."

Legs quivering, you could barely stomach looking down at yourself. It didn't help that you felt how skimpy the outfit was with every move you made. Felt the strings that kept the fabric together pressed into your skin, bit you as if the shame was not enough harm. But looking up and straight ahead was not an option you had either. Not when you knew the smirk on the face that awaited you. Knew about the hungry, predatory sheen in Sylus' eyes if you met them head-on.

Why you? Why did he choose you? You kept wondering as you stood in his bedroom, barely two steps from the man who had ruined your life. You couldn't think of a good reason as to why he needed to keep you to himself, lock you up like an exotic animal, and demand to be the only one to put their eyes on you. Maybe if you had been especially pretty or incredibly rich, his infatuation would have made sense. But it really didn't. None of his actions made sense.

And by now, you didn't even know if you wanted to cry or be angry with him anymore.

The sheer, triangle coverings did nothing to hide, only to expose your nipples, strained as you felt the nubs getting harder. The fabric rubbed them a little more every time you breathed, lungs expanding. Bitterness overcame you as pleasure turned to shame turned to helplessness. You could only stand there, both hands reaching down to hide your privates, all while you heard the man in front of you chuckle.

"Glad to amuse you," you muttered bitterly, biting your lip so hard it tore beneath your teeth. Wearing an outfit that split right around your pussy, giving even easier access than it gave a full view of it, was proof of how you couldn't win against him. If he wanted to, he could be sneaky and uncaring about what you wanted, and forcing you to wear this was yet another challenge he was winning to hold above your head. Sylus had long begun to chip away at any pride or dignity you had, finally ready to deliver the final blow. But although you wanted to break down and cry, hide from the embarrassment, your feeble fighting spirit refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing you break down and beg for your clothes back.

You'd be giving him exactly what he wanted—power.

Power over you. The upper hand in this month-long dispute. You had sought him out for a deal, an equal exchange. And he had broken that deal the moment you put your trust in him just so he could keep you for whatever twisted reason. People had warned you of deals with the devil, but you had been too stupid to listen, now finding yourself in a situation too horrifying to speak of. Captivity.

It wasn't like he made you work to earn your keep. There were three meals provided to you every day, and Sylus tried to join whenever he could. He bought you expensive clothes, accessories, and entertainment, always asking what you needed, but never reflecting on his actions, not even when you told him he couldn't buy your love. There was constant surveillance, and the outside was a threat to your life, so the windows and doors stayed locked tightly. You had no means to escape, only able to stay indoors and wait like a good pet.

"But you are the bad guy here, forcing me to wear this."

Your addition seemed to make him thoughtful, a small hum escaping Sylus before he extended his arm towards you. It was a bad idea, you knew that. But if you refused to take his hand, he'd simply come to get you, and you couldn't afford to struggle looking like this.

Embarrassed, you forced one hand away from hiding what should have never been exposed in front of the likes of the leader of Onychinus, someone you thought would be interested in what you had to offer in exchange for the help you needed. Now, it almost seemed like all he wanted was your body, although you doubted it. You never liked seeing yourself in the mirror, but you didn't know anyone who enjoyed seeing themselves. You just thought it was normal not to feel like you were special, and yet, Sylus made you wear something that hid nothing of your insecurities from him.

A shuddering breath escaped you as his fingers wrapped around your hand like a snake suffocating its victim. But he moved on quickly from the threatening touch, twisting and turning his palm until it slithered beneath yours, fingers entwining before he gave you a jerk, forcing you towards him.

You couldn't help but wonder what changed in that one month, although you were lying if you said you didn't see the change in your captor. You thought he was out for ransom at first, keeping you just for the sake of exploiting more out of you than what you were willing to give. Then you caught him watching you, eyes almost softening as he observed. He'd done more than enough touching and manhandling over the course of the month, but he never forced you to wear lingerie and expose yourself.

Admittedly, your fall wasn't graceful as you were pulled forth. Your legs staggered over the sudden jerk, your free hand coming down just behind Sylus's shoulder. One of your legs hit the edge of the couch, knee bending with nowhere else to go until your shin was settled next to his thigh. You sacked forward, the strength in your torso handicapped from the awkward position, but it was better this way. Anything was better than to look into his face.

"The bad guy, eh? So far, I've been pretty nice to you. I have no idea what you mean."

Sylus played with the skimpy fabric around your waist, rubbing the material between his fingers as if to gouge its value. He was tugging at the strings, threatening to undo the triple knots you had made to keep it all together. All while you were shivering from the cold and the hatred he invoked inside of you.  

Anger flooded your mind, and you threw your head back, ready to let him have it! Too late did you realize he baited you, forcing you to look at him despite your refusal, the grin on his lips disgustingly victorious, his expression almost besotted now that you met his eyes. There was strength to be drawn from your embarrassment, fury brewing in the pit of your stomach. Your free hand curled into a fist, and you fixated your gaze on his stupid face, ready to bash in that smirk he loved to give you so much!

"Not quick enough," Sylus lamented as he caught your fist in his hand, closing around it in a painful grip. You winced, and he brought your arm down, twisting it behind your back while squeezing the other hand he hadn't given up on holding. "Now, now, let's play nice. And here I thought you liked my gift."

Slinging his whole arm around your midriff, Sylus suddenly pulled you on top of his lap, your legs losing balance, and forced your hips down to settle on top of the bulge in his pants. The second your crotch met his, you felt nauseous, the helplessness making you desperate to get away. You hated every second of this interaction, hated this man for all the abuse he put you through. Was this what he had wanted all along? A sex toy? Why wait this long if he intended to defile you anyway?

Even though you tried to be still as a board, when Sylus bent you backward, closely following behind, you shivered as his hot breath grazed over your nipple. You stared down in horror as his tongue slid out, only the tip of it flicking over your nipple before he watched the nub bounce back into place and, using the flat side of his tongue, pressed down onto it. You shuddered, biting your lip again to hold back a moan.

The room wasn't cold, but his breath felt incredibly hot through the mesh fabric of the coverings, his tongue almost like a hot iron pressed to your skin. Sylus looked up, and you saw the agonizing sight of yourself in the reflection of the red irises, exposed and vulnerable. He smirked, opening his mouth just far enough to take your nub between his teeth, pulling it towards him as you sucked in your breath.

You couldn't help it. Couldn't help the pleasure zapping down your spine and between your legs, the mewl that escaped you as Sylus's teeth slipped off your nipple and bit into the mesh fabric. Your reflection looked so pathetic, but he seemed pleased as he kissed your abused nub, as if to appease it after his teasing.

"I heard something interesting," he muttered against your chest, trailing kisses from one side to the other, briefly burying his face in your body and letting out a content rumble. "Heard you've been wholly neglected, poor thing."

"What do you--"

Giving the hand behind your back a firm shake, warning it to stay in place, Sylus released it, only to drive his hand down to your ass. He slipped lower as you piped up, only to silence you again with his touch. It made you realize fairly quickly what he meant, his fingers curiously slipping through your slick.

"That's not true at all," you argued, closing your eyes and shying away from his keen gaze.

"Really now?"

Feeling his lips curl into a grin above your other nipple was an unfamiliar torture, the fabric of the cover transferring every movement dutifully, heightening your sensitivity. "So the reason you are so wet is because you are experienced. Is that what you're saying? You're not a virgin whose anticipation is making you eager, Kitten? Did you secretively hope I'd help you release some of the tension?"

You felt his fingers apply pressure to your cunt, threatening to slip inside and forcing you to shoot upwards, recoiling from the touch. The throb of his cock beneath your slit vanished, and you cursed your body for aching, almost longing to return to his lap. But how could you? At this rate, he was truly going to take your virginity from you, even though you tried to act as if he wasn't.

It was such a stupid sentiment to cling to the concept of virginity, especially in the situation you were in. There could be potential gain by losing it, yet you were holding on to it like a lifeline. Considering that, in one month, you had lost all kinds of things that made your life yours, it was understandable that crossing this line scared you. It was a small rebellion that would prove you weren't completely lost to this man's whims if only you could keep it.

"No! No, wait!" you huffed as his hold on you tightened, trying to keep you in place so he could continue evading every little piece of privacy you still had. If only for your sanity, you had to at least try to conserve it. You weren't keeping yourself for marriage necessarily, but having your first time with the man that kidnapped and imprisoned you would definitely do you no good.

"I'm... I'm unwell! I'll do something else for you, but not this. Let's not go there... Sir."

Halting all his movements, Sylus's brows furrowed, and he leaned back, looking up at you. Of course, you didn't miss how he tensed when you called him Sir, but even though it cost you a lot of your pride to call him that, it was the most you got for a reaction. You could only assume he could see the fake, nonchalant expression you forced, perhaps your embarrassment too. But you hoped it would deter him. When you looked back at him, he almost seemed... concerned. Hopefully, that would be in your favor.

"Are you sick?" he asked, both accusatory and worried at the same time. As if he was offended, you didn't tell him.

"No, I'm... Actually yeah! I feel sick! I got cramps, and I'm sure my period is just around the corner--"

"Darling," he interrupted you, and your heart rate quicked at the sly grin playing around his lips. "You're so adorable when you try to lie, but I'll have you know that a bit of blood has never stopped me.

Tell me the truth, or I'll assume you're just nervous."

Fuck, you thought to yourself, chewing your stinging lip again as you thought about what to do. Sylus returned back to your chest, pressing his lips to your unattended nipple again before sucking it in for a tease. You drew in your breath sharply as you thought about a lesser evil to deter him from taking your last strand of dignity, the one thing you could hold over his head. But it would cost you greatly to protect your virginity, and you almost wavered in your determination to keep it a secret.

"I'll... I'll suck you off."

Sylus stilled, and you saw his eyes widening. For a moment, no one said anything, and although it was hard to endure his inquiring gaze, you forced yourself to face it head-on, showing him you meant it. One of his eyes felt especially exposing, the red so much more vibrant. But just a moment later, his lips curled into a wide smirk, freeing your nipple as he drew back.

His expression was almost soft as he gazed over your body, all the way down to where your hips met. You saw the longing in his gaze and felt the throbbing of his cock against your pussy, but then he looked up at you again, and for a moment, you felt adoration wash over you. Approval, genuine desire.

And it was gone right the next second.

Before you knew it, Sylus lifted you off his lap. You yelped in surprise, only to sink to your knees, his legs spread widely to comfortably accommodate you between them. "Alright then," Sylus chuckled. "Show me what you got."

Another wave of shameful heat rushed into your head as you watched the cocky bastard wait for you to stick to your words. Excitement and impatience radiated from the way he looked down at you to the tapping of his food next to your thigh. He'd not wait forever for you to act, but he was enjoying your hesitation.

Swallowing hard, your mouth had never felt as dry as it was now. With jittery hands, you reached upwards, seeing the stains you had left on his trousers and feeling the heat underneath your palms. But before you could unzip Sylus's pants, he caught your wrists in his grip, clicking his tongue at you, chastizing.

"I'm sure you know a more creative way to start this."

You were disgusted by the thought, but even a virgin like you could imagine what he wanted. Lifting your butt off the floor, you placed your teeth around the zipper, slowly dragging it down. Sylus chuckled, but to your surprise, when you looked up at him angrily, he let go of your wrists and looked away, hiding his full face from you. Was he ashamed? Mocking you? Or did he enjoy seeing you opening his trousers with your teeth that much?

You used the moment of freedom for your hands to unbutton the pants on top, completely taken aback when without the restraints of underwear, his cock sprung free, surprise and horror overcoming you. "You're not the only one who was anticipating this," Sylus clarified, and although he still hid his face behind his hand, the gleam in his eye was as mischievous as ever.

Bastard, you thought, but a small part of you wondered if he had been walking around in just his pants all day or if he changed out of his underwear before meeting with you. It was a completely scientific question of course! You needed to know how long he anticipated and planned this. If his sudden carnal desire had been a surprise or a long time coming, although you never thought it existed.

"Are you giving up already, Sweetheart?" Sylus tore you out of your thoughts. "Less scowling, more sucking."

For the record, you didn't do as he instructed because he told you to. You did it because you wanted to get it over with. You kept telling yourself this, over and over, even as you brushed your fingertips over his length. But there was one problem. One you couldn't tell him about.

You had no idea what to do.

Of course, the general concept of a blowjob was familiar to even you, but how were you going to pull it off? Was it enough to take it into your mouth? Did you need to kiss it? Would it taste bad? Could you even put your lips around it?

There was no time to panic and let Sylus find out you were an inexperienced virgin with no idea what you were doing. His cock bopped impatiently in front of you, waiting for your caress, and you had to please it regardless of not knowing how.

Reaching up, you wrapped a hand around it, steadying it with your grip. The stiff feeling surrounded by soft skin was almost mesmerizing, leaving you in a moment of awe before you returned to reality. You expected something rougher, more like its owner, but the heat and eagerness spoke of vulnerability more than Sylus's usual domineering ways.

There was a click of his tongue from above, and you knew your time was running out. Giving him a coy glance from below, you leaned forward, steading yourself on Sylus's thighs to kiss the throbbing cock in your hand. You felt his leg tense beneath your palm, then relax, and when he neither mocked nor pushed you away, you concluded you were onto something.

Kissing a trail up the shaft, you smoothed over his cock, taking note of the ridges and veins that seemed to pop out the longer you were giving it attention. Soon, you reached the edge of the tip, the form of his shaft dipping into itself for a moment before forming the bulb on top. It was so fascinating that, for a moment, you forgot the situation you were in, your tongue dipping out to lick along the edge out of curiosity.

Sylus drew in a sharp breath, and you looked up with more inquisitiveness. For the first time, you saw an expression akin to pain on his face. You wondered if you were hurting him somehow before satisfaction hit you. Red was drawn along his cheeks, and you realized it was pleasure and not pain; the firmness of his expression was merely showcasing that he was holding back. How gracious.

Slipping the flat of your tongue over his tip, you soon brushed your lips over it. Cock jerking, the tender flesh jumped against your mouth, smearing a strange-tasting liquid all over it. Precum, you thought to yourself, recognizing that this meant you were doing something right.

It almost got you excited.

You remembered the way Sylus had played with your nipples, the teasing and sucking. The way he forced you to feel pleasure despite not wanting to, and it gave you an idea of how to return the favor. If it worked on you, it might just work on him the same way! Sure, he wanted this, but you'd not make it easy on him!

Wrapping your mouth around the tip, you began to suck gently, drawing your lips lightly back and forth and wetting the top to make it more smooth. Sylus groaned, his right hand coming down to cup yours on top of his thigh, pressing it into the muscles there.

"That's it, Kitten," he mumbled, and you felt his hand brush up your neck and into your hair. Immediately, you drew back, staring at him with your mouth forced shut. His cock bopped in complaint, and Sylus's expression hardened, but you challenged him with your glare.

"No forcing it," you established, getting great satisfaction from his annoyance. "You will let me do it."

"Fine," he spat out. "Hope you got a bit more than that, though. Otherwise, we'll be here forever, Sweetheart."

"Fuck you," you bit back, not waiting for him to respond before putting your lips back around his cock. This time, you went deeper, his tip brushing your teeth as you weren't used to his size yet. His hand sunk back to the nape of your neck, playing with a few strands of hair there. You could feel him testing out the boundaries of your rules, applying pressure softly ever so often. Still, after you drew back one more time, he gave up, the warmth of his palm remaining unmoving at the back of your head.

"No fun," he complained, but his words had no bite. They were followed by a soft groan, Sylus's head rolling to the side as he watched you work your way down his shaft. It was more strain than you expected, his cock seemingly never-ending, even when you forced it deeper than anything ever before. You'd not accept defeat, not let him win this round, especially after coming this far!

But it was nasty. Drool dripped down your chin, and your sucking became more and more sloppy. You barely had enough strength or training with your tongue to keep up an even pace, and your desperation to get this over with made everything quite boring, evident by Sylus not reacting like you thought he would while you worked your mouth over his cock.

"Is this your first time?" he finally asked, and you grimaced, mouth full of cock and exposed anger burning in your eyes.

Sylus smirked, and you knew that he knew.

"Did you really think you could hide the fact from me that you have no idea what you're doing? Come let me help."

Without waiting for your response, he pressed your head forward, tears shooting to your eyes as the newly reached deepness pried your jaw open. "Now, use your tongue and lick upwards all the way. Slowly."

You hated this! You hated him! You hated this man so much!

"That's it, Kitten."

Pulling you back by the roots of your hair, the strain disappeared, but all the drool and fluids pooled inside your mouth, making you cough. Sylus showed you no mercy, even after seeing you struggle to keep yourself together.

"Now the tip again, just like the beginning. You need to alternate sometimes."

Reluctantly, you opened your mouth again, willing the pain away as you began to suck and lick at his tip. The next time Sylus pushed you forward, you braced yourself, although he didn't go as deep, instead bopping your head back and forth. As much as you hated following his instructions, you did the same with your tongue as when he forced you to take it in completely, moving the muscle along the sides while Sylus directed your head.

This time, he let out a loud, content sigh, his head falling back. His pressure never stopped, though, sometimes slamming you forward to dangerous depths again, other times letting you rest at his tip. There was a steady increase in speed, and you felt the control slip from you pitifully as he worked you up and down his shaft as he pleased. Were you just a sex toy to him? That's what you wondered as the first tears fell, your reflection so pitiful in Sylus's eyes.

Although, he seemed ecstatic for some reason.

His nails dug into your hand still on his thigh as he pushed you steadily deeper with every thrust of his head. Soon, you felt the tickle of the fabric of his pants against your nose, his cock taking up all the space in your mouth as it throbbed. You, too, dug your nails into his thigh as you heard Sylus breathe heavily, knowing all too well what was going to happen now.

You couldn't believe he'd be so barbaric, knowing it was your first time, as to force you to take all of his dick inside as he came. But with a slight thrust of his hip and his hand pressing down at the same time, you were caught with his cock throat-deep as hot splurts of semen sprayed everywhere. Sylus grunted as he came, and you couldn't help but splutter, gagging on the length shoved down your throat, and almost fainted from the lack of air as he waited until the very last drop of his cum to be emptied inside of you.

If not for his cock stuffing your mouth, you might have thrown up from disgust.

He was breathing heavily while your lungs barely shuddered. As if he regained clarity, Sylus suddenly pulled you off him, and his cum spilled from your lips together with his cock. Tears, semen, and drool all dripped from your pitiful face, and you two stared at each other, both a little less lucid than before.

The hand at the back of your neck slipped forward, thumb grazing over the side of your mouth before he slipped it inside. A grin spread over his lips; this time, he looked nothing short of insane from the satisfaction as he pushed the fluids back into your mouth, seeing the remnants of the havoc he wrecked. But then his expression grew soft, and you hated to admit it, but this was probably the gentlest look he had ever given you.

"Good job, Darling."

You choked as you held back a sob. The situation was so maddening it was almost funny. Just seconds ago, it felt like he'd kill you with his dick, and now he was praising you, looking at you as if you were the greatest treasure in this world.

But you didn't have the time to lament. Not even a moment later, you were pulled from the ground, set down pussy to cock on his lap, feeling the sticky heat from his crotch matching your own. You hadn't even noticed your own arousal, the way your body found appropriate to act. It only shamed you more.

"You were so pretty down there, doing amazing, Darling."

Next thing you knew, he had toppled you over and laid you down on the couch beside him while your eyes widened. You snapped your legs shut immediately, although his hands roaming downwards snaked their way between them. Looking at you, unblinking, a victorious smile played along Sylus's lips before he effortlessly pried your legs apart, not even breaking a sweat.

"We said only sucking off!" you mewled, part scared, part frustrated. What else did you need to do to make him stop? Why was he doing all of this? Why did it have to be you?

Resting his lips on your thigh, Sylus kissed it briefly, eyes closed, appearing almost reverent as he peppered some more kisses.

"You said that," he finally muttered against your skin, and all the hope to make him see reason in the end was lost with just a few words. "I am going to return the favor now. Can't let anyone think I'd not take good care of my Darling."

"You are so mean," you whispered, tears now falling freely. You didn't care anymore if he saw them. If they could soften his heart—good! If not, it didn't matter anymore. He was going to do what he wanted anyway; there was nothing you could do but to let him.

"Sure, I can be mean," Sylus chuckled, but his expression darkened. It was unlike his usual cockiness, and it infuriated you. How dare he feel upset about your comment! How dare he wallow in your misery! Your pain wasn't his to share! He didn't get to feel bad from seeing you hurt by the actions he inflicted!

So why did he look like you were the one hurting him?

"After all..." he mumbled, leaning forward until his face hovered over yours. For a moment, he simply stared at you, and you wondered what he could find in your terrified gaze. How far he could really look into your soul and if that would deter him or if he'd still choose to ignore your feelings in all of this like he had ever since he locked you up.

"You made me the bad guy, Darling."

[omgeto]

☆ WHEN YOU HAVE SEX IN PUBLIC — TOJI, GOJO, NANAMI

summary: you have sex. in public. slay.

cw: afab!reader, public/semi public sex (obvi) toji finger fucks you in a restaurant, you give nanami a lovely blowjob under his desk, and gojo just fucks you in a changing room so MDNI!

an: not proof read.. so ignore the mistakes and just enjoy the smut. thanks for reading <3

☆ TOJI

toji fushiguro was a sly bastard, everything was a game to him. and getting you to cum just as the waiter brings your order was on his agenda tonight. “go on babe, tell the waiter what you want,” he smirks, as his fingers work their way inside of your folds.

“‘u-um i’ll have the…” you stutter, your words faltering as toji picks up his pace, “i’ll have whatever he’s having,” you finally force out. toji chuckles at you, finishing the order for you. 

you were sitting in a booth, quite secluded from the other people dining, but just hearing the busy chatter from the restaurant had you buckling into toji’s side – excited at the idea that they might be privy to what you and him were getting up to. 

“you’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he grins, his thumb rubbing against your clit, amused by the blissed out look on your face. “you like the idea of people watching you, don’t you?” you nod, grinding harder on his fingers.

“i bet that waiter could tell y’know,” he continues, his movements quickening as his fingers drive in you deepers, “he could see what a pretty little slut you are, getting off whilst he takes our order.”

“fuck, don’t stop p-please,” you beg, wantonly gyrating against his thick digits, “im s-so close.” you bury your head into his shoulder, biting down on him to suppress your moans.

“oh look,” he says amused, his head nodding in the direction of the waiter who was approaching the table with a tray of food, “i think our food is coming.”

“c’mon toji,” you whine, feeling yourself about to climax, “just let me cum.”

“just wait,” he demands, he was waiting for just the right moment to get you to cum. he was loving this, seeing how happy you looked all fucked out on his fingers thrilled at the idea of people seeing you just how he was. 

“excuse me,” you hear an awkward cough from the side. your waiter was standing at the edge of your table, your food in his hands, “i’ve got your order. w0ould you like anything else?”

“just one sec,” toji orders, his fingers pistoning into you harder, his mouth brushes against your ear as he whispers, “cum.” you immediately release onto his fingers, gushing out into the chair. you collapse into his side, his arm wrapping around your back to keep you up. you bite down on your lips to hide the loud moan that was threatening to spill out of you.

“don’t forget to thank the waiter babe,” he jests, his grin growing wider as he watches the look on both yours and the waiter's face after what you’ve just done.

“t-thank you,” you force out, your hand gripping on the table to keep you together. the waiter scurries off, flushed, and toji presses a kiss to your forehead as he removes his fingers from you, putting them in his mouth, sucking off the juices that came from you.

“now shall we eat?” he asks nonchalantly as if he didn’t just make you cum.

☆ GOJO

gojo loves playing dress up with you. he loves taking you out, blowing a bunch of money on you, just to get you to try on clothes – half of which you never wear.

“c’mon babe, let me see the next one” he calls out to you from outside the changing room, “i haven’t got all day.”

“‘toru the zippers stuck,” you say, “i need you to zip me out.”

he was quick to rush into the dressing room, coming to your aid. gojo loves helping you out, being your knight in shining armour even with the most trivial tasks – such as zipping up your dress.

“fuck,” gojo pauses, standing directly behind you, as he sees you through the mirror. his hands caress your back as they toy with your zipper.

“satoru, you’re meant to be zipping me out of it, not zipping me up,” you complain, as you feel him do the exact opposite of what you needed.

“but babe,” he whines in your ear, “you just look so fuckable in this,” he presses a kiss just under your ear, his eyes focused on you through the mirror, “let me fuck you in this.”

“have you forgotten where we are?” you question, side eyeing your boyfriend as if he’s lost his mind.

“that hasn’t stopped us before,” he smirks, as he hikes up your dress freeing his dick, moving your panties to the side, “so…?” he questions, eagerly awaiting your response.

“be quick then,” you murmur, quickly giving in to him. his dick inches into your pussy, you were already wet, it was practically on command whenever you saw gojo. your hands press against the mirror as he grips onto your shoulder, bending you forward as his dick slams into you. 

“s-shit,” he practically moans in your ear, as your pussy coats his dick, clenching tightly around it, “you’re so fucking tight.” 

you could hear some movement outside the changing room, making your eyes widen as you say, “toru, someone might here us.”

“and?” he retorts, shrugging, “i wanna hear you, let them hear you.”

“f-fuck” he drills into you harder and you couldn’t help but shriek out a moan as his dick hits just your spot. “it’s too much ‘toru.”

“you can take it baby,” he praises, his mouth latching onto your neck, licking and sucking on your exposed flesh. his hand works his way down to your pussy, flicking at your clit as his dick drives into you – a smug grin appearing on his face as you moan even louder. 

“you close?” he questions, noticing the way you throw your head back, your face looking more daze as he continues to charge in and out of you at a relentless pace. you nod, his dick leaving your head too empty for you to say any words.

his movements become sloppier, as he could feel himself getting closer, he balls up the bottom of the bottom of your dress in his fist as he sprays your walls with his cum. you cum just as quickly as he does, an earth shattering cry releasing from your lips as you spill out all over him. 

“we’re definitely gonna need to keep this dress,” gojo pulls out of you, smiling hard as seeing his cum leaking from your pussy all down your thighs. 

“yeah we’re gonna have to, its covered in your cum,” you retort with a soft laugh.

“our cum,” he corrects, adding a final kiss to your cheek, “we’ll keep this as a momento.”

☆ NANAMI

nanami’s favourite thing about his job was when you came to visit him. he liked the jealous stares he got from his co-workers as they saw the way you’d strut to his office with glee. he also liked knowing that they definitely could hear your screams and moans everytime he fucked you against his desk.

today you had to be quiet, nanami had an online meeting but you still wanted to give him his daily visit. his hand strokes your head under his desk, as your tongue swirls over the tip of his dick, you smile as you see him briefly tense at the contact. 

your hands pump his dick giving him slow strokes, and you could see his eyes meet yours with a hard glare as if to say, ‘hurry up.’ but you were in a mischievous mood, continue to tease him as you slightly take him into your warm, taut mout, nibbling on the head of his dick.

“nanami?” you hear from above him – coming from his computer, “are you there?” 

he coughs slightly, regaining his composure, “yes, im here, sorry about that.” 

but he’s swiftly back to tensing his fist, as you start to suck on his dick fast – practically choking on it. you use your hand to work on the parts that your mouth can’t take. his readjust himself in his seat, leaning slightly forward so you can take in him deeper. 

you could hear him talking above you, murmuring away about business things, but you couldn’t care less about that – you just wanted him to cum. you lips come off of his dick, and your mouth move to his balls, sucking on them with a smile as you hear nanami’s breathing become laboured.

eventually the meeting is over as you hear nanami slam his laptop shut, and he looks down to you as he says, “you’re a menace.”

“it’s just how you like me,” you grin as you take his balls out of your mouth, “i’m surprised you didn’t cum, you did well.”

“unlike you i have some self control,” he comments, pushing your head back onto his dick, “i am close though.” you go back to taking in his dick, practically inhaling it as he shoves it deeper down your throat. 

nanami’s grip on your head tightens and you grab onto his thigh to stead himself, as you could feel him about to cum. he spills into your month with a loud moan, and you swallow all of him, smiling as his cum slides down your throat.

he pulls you up from under his desk, and onto his lap into his strong hold. he pulls you into a kiss, tasting himself on your lips with a grin, “you are the best wife ever.”

AN: I was gonna do one for my baby geto but I just COULDNT BE BOTHERED. so um ooops. hope you enjoy. DIVIDERS @/CAFEKITSUNE

[toxicanonymity]

The Raid.

2.7k, dark!Javi P x f!reader | SERIES MASTER

There's now a HOT GIF by @iamasaddie and HOT ART by @bonezone44. PT. 2. | THE RAID masterlist

Your gaze falls down his tac vest to his tight jeans and a bulge you didn’t see before. Peña follows your eyes, looks down at himself, then sighs.  "Ay, pobrecita" (poor little girl), he whispers insincerely, putting on a frown. He uses his gun to nudge your chin up and bring your eyes back to his. 

WARNINGS: I8+, canon-typical violence, drug abuse, dubcon blow job (power dynamic / transactional / drugs), jacking off, fingering, cumplay, manhandling, handcuffs, gunplay, degradation, kidnapping

A/N: Yes, it's raider Javi. . . inspired by the original raider Joel fic (not the whole series and it will not progress the same way). Tysm 🖤

-------

You're lying on the sofa in your boyfriend Jack's slum house while he and a buddy count stacks of cash on the kitchen table and bitch about their street dealers. It’s a typical night. One friend is still playing grand theft auto on the floor. Every surface is littered with bottles, takeout boxes, crumpled up foil, and baggies.  You're laid out on the sagging sofa, scrolling your phone, about to drift off.  

There's a loud rap at the door. "DEA." Your heart jumps to your throat and you jolt upright. 

"FUCK," Jack yells and grabs his gun off the table.  "Go to the bedroom, you'll be fine," he tells you as he heads to the kitchen and out the back.  You sit there in disbelief that he's leaving you. The DEA doesn't knock again before busting down the door.  "DROP YOUR WEAPONS."  

Several agents swarm the house, wearing bullet-proof vests, crouching as they prowl around, pointing their guns. 

Two men approach you while a few more agents mill around the house. 

"Don't let anyone leave," says a mustached man on his way through the house. 

"Got it, Peña," confirms one of the men standing in front of you. Peña nods, glances at you, then sees Jack running away and rushes out after him.  

Both of the men in front of you are big. One taller, one more muscular. They look at you like you're a piece of meat. They guard you for a few minutes, keeping their guns trained on you.  They talk about you like you're not there. 

"Pretty girl,” the tall one says. 

The other man takes a step back, craning to see out the window before answering, "we got time, Ed." Ed, the taller one, puts his gun in his vest and unbuckles his belt. Meanwhile, you bolt off the sofa and try to dodge the other man on your way to the door. A third agent catches you and shoves you back to the original two, asking "Lose something'?" He sticks around.

Ed, with his pants still unbuckled, slaps you across the face with the back of his hand. It stings, but you laugh at him as if it doesn’t hurt. 

With that, the newest man steps forward and raises his gun to your head.  You flinch and your courage drains away. "Clothes off, he demands." You look to the door for help, but no one's coming. Yet another agent is making his way over. Your'e shaking as you strip down to your underwear with four men now facing you. 

Ed lewdly grabs his crotch. "Woulda been a whole lot happier with this." Then he brings his gun to your face and prods your cheek. "But let's see what this pretty mouth can do." 

. . .

A few minutes later, you’re relieved to hear voices and footsteps outside. Peña skids through the door, panting. He removes a pair of aviators as he takes in the scene. Under his green bullet proof vest, his tan shirt is darkened with sweat. His brow furrows at you in your underwear with the barrel of a gun in your mouth. 

"Dejenla, pendejos," (leave her alone, assholes) Your heart flutters with appreciation as they slowly back away. 

"She tried to run," one says. Peña points his gun at them, arms straining his sleeves.  The men back away obediently. "Outside. All of you," he tells them calmly but sternly. They disperse, slowly and sheepishly. "NOW," he booms. They leave the door cracked. “Cerrado” (Closed), Peña snaps, and they shut the door. 

When the door closes, it’s just you and Peña. You reach for your shirt on the sofa to put it back on, but he points his gun at you. "No. Don't fucking move." He’s still catching his breath.  He walks backwards, keeping his gun fixed on you as he makes his way to the front door. He reaches behind himself and locks the deadbolt, then holds the gun with both hands again. 

"You wanna go to jail?" He asks and you shake your head no. He approaches you in no hurry, still aiming the gun at you."Cause that's what's s'posed to happen."

You look into his big, brown eyes, trying to connect with something. 

"Here’s what happens," he starts, his breath still somewhat labored. "I take what’s mine and the DEA’s. . .” 

You nod. 

“and when I let them back in, they take what they want.”  He gestures to the drugs and money on the table, then wipes his brow. "So. . ." He takes a moment to breathe, then raises his eyebrows. "you want them to take what they want," he gestures his gun down your body. "Or want me to take you in?"  He wets his lips and his eyes fall to your bra for a moment. 

"Neither,” you plead. 

He sighs and finally lowers his gun. He uses his left sleeve to wipe his brow but the sleeve is almost too short. His hairline is matted with perspiration.  He bends forward and braces his hands on his thighs to look at you, right hand holding the gun against his jeans. 

"Here's what we're gonna do. . ."  His face is tense, but his voice is low and soothing. "We're gonna make a deal, aren't we?"  He nods. He wets his lips and looks you over. You nod back, just barely.  Your gaze falls down his tac vest to his tight jeans and a bulge you didn’t notice before.

Peña follows your eyes, looks down at his pants, then sighs. 

"Ay, pobrecita" (poor little girl), he whispers insincerely, putting on a frown. 

He uses his gun to nudge your chin up and bring your eyes back to his. 

"Be a good girl for me," he says. "And we'll see what I can do." 

You nod. 

“You can call me Javi,” he offers, and you tell him your name. Your wallet is right there anyway. 

"Can I put this away?" He asks, holding up his gun. You nod.  "Nowhere to run," he warns you as he slips the gun into his vest. He adjusts himself then braces both hands on his thighs again and hardens his face. "Try something, and I'll let them back in for an hour, then cuff you myself. ¿Comprende?" 

You nod again. 

"Dime que comprendes" (tell me you understand).

"Yes," you confirm. "Entiendo." (I understand).

"Que bueno, pobrecita" (Good). He lets his eyes fall down your body hungrily. "How should we make this deal official?" 

You reach for his pants. He puts his hands out of the way and rests them loosely on his hips. His pelvis pushes forward as you palm the warm, ample bulge in his tight jeans. The front of his shirt has come slightly untucked from his foot pursuit, exposing a sliver of tummy that expands with his breathing as his cock hardens under your palm.  You catch a waft of his sweat and it sends a pang between your legs. You give him a slow, sensual rub with pressure. 

“Mm, good girl.” 

His massive hand comes to your face.  He grips your jaw and makes you look at him. You pause your hand then continue rubbing him and you feel yourself getting wetter. Then he squeezes your mouth open and looks at your teeth. His face is inches from yours and he reeks of tobacco.  "Not bad. . . at least you stay away from the pipe,” he raises an eyebrow. He looks at the side table of the sofa, littered with empty prescription bottles. "How long have you been using?" 

You don't answer. You slowly rub him and let your mind escape to a world where this is just a nice dick hardening warmly under your palm. 

"When's the last time you were clean more than a week?" 

Unsure what he wants to hear, you say, "Maybe a year."

"And how long have you been with that jackass?"

"I'm not."  You're not.  Not anymore. Not after this. 

"Mm-hm," Peña nods judgmentally and you feel a wave of shame when you see things through his eyes - a trap house and a loser boyfriend. "How does he fuck you?" 

You don't answer.

"Does he make you cum?"   His hips push forward and the outline of his tip presses against your palm.

“What do you want,” you snap defensively and his dick twitches under your hand. 

“You need to figure that out,” he says flatly. You meet his eyes and see desire. In different circumstances–like if he wasn't such an asshole–you'd hop on this man's dick in a flash, so you try to pretend he’s just a guy.

You reach for his belt buckle. His lips pout and his eyebrows go up with a tilt of his head. “Not a bad idea.” You unbuckle his belt, then unbutton and unzip his jeans. He’s not wearing underwear. His dark hair is trimmed close, almost shaven. His cock is thick, tan, and gorgeous. You work to free him from his restrictive pants, and it’s quite a package you’re looking at. 

His dick bobs heavily right in front of you, almost grazing your nose.  You take it in your hand, thumb resting on its crown.  You gently squeeze and admire it and it’s not long until he’s fully hard. Then you glance up at him and he’s looking at your mouth. You hover your lips near the tip and glance up at him again. He gives a go-ahead nod.  You suck the tip into your mouth.  Your tongue flattens under his shaft, then curls around the smooth, veiny skin. Holding his dick in your mouth, you tug his pants down lower and take out his balls before returning a hand to his cock. His balls are on the bigger side of average, symmetrical and only a little fuzzy. 

“Ohh, pobrecita.”  His voice is soft and dark, like Duvalin (nutella). 

Desire stirs between your legs.  He sucks in air through his teeth as you suck more of him into your mouth, and his tip nudges the back of your throat.  You cup his balls in your free hand and he lets out a low, quiet moan.  

“Tan suave, tan mojado. . .Tu boquita inmunda” (So soft, so wet, your unclean little mouth). 

You give his balls a light squeeze and his hands go to the back of your head, one following the other. He pulls your head down on his cock.

"You're a good little slut," He pants and thrusts his hips, his length sliding down the back of your throat– you try not to gag. "Just need somethin' in this mouth to keep you outta trouble." Tears sting your eyes from the gag reflex.  "Look at me, pobrecita." 

It's not easy but you try to look up. You watch him study your face for a few seconds as he fucks it.  Then you can't suppress it anymore.  You gag and pull your head away, afraid you might actually retch. His grip relaxes, but one hand stays on the crown of your head. He takes his cock in his hand. He kneels down on the floor and with his free hand, begins to take your panties down. You're suddenly very aware of how wet and throbbing you are from having his dick in your mouth.  He's soon aware, too, but he doesn't make a move to get on the sofa with you. He strokes himself with your saliva. "Open your legs." 

You obediently spread them but not far enough. He grabs breast and shoves your upper body back into the couch cushion, then he turns his attention to your cunt. He looks at it studiously and knits his brows.

“Que lástima” (what a shame), he mutters as he admires your glistening hole. “I’m a generous lover, too.” 

“¿Que lástima?” you ask. 

He shakes his head apologetically at your pussy, then meets your eyes. "Won't stick my dick in junkie cunt, sweetheart." 

He returns his gaze between your thighs and wets his lips.  “Juicy as it looks.” You huff and begin to close your legs. He places his massive hands on your knees, spreads them again, then runs his hands up your thighs and spreads them more.  He tilts his head as his thumbs reach the creases of your thighs.  Then he plants his thumbs on your outer lips and spreads you open to the cool air.  His nose twitches as he examines you.  Your clit throbs and you gush wetness. He puffs his cheeks out with an exhale. His dick is still hard between his legs, and he’s not touching it – his composure and self control is a little psycho. 

He gathers your slick, sniffs it with a barely visible snarl, and adds it to your saliva on his cock.  Then he fists his cock while staring between your legs. His free hand reaches up to tear your bra down on both sides, and he lets out a quiet moan at the sight of your tits. He jerks himself with his right hand and his left hand goes  between your legs. 

You're laid back on the sofa with your hips at the edge and he's kneeling between them.  He runs the backs of two digits through your folds, then inserts his thick middle finger and rotates his hand palm up. He pumps it twice and adds a second finger. 

He pumps himself and fingers you and when he's about to cum, he points his cock right between your legs.  He cums all over your mound, dripping down through your folds. He wipes his tip off on your inner thigh.  Then, his massive left hand returns between your legs, sliding through his own mess.  He fucks it into you with two fingers. He watches your face with a subtle, devious flicker behind his stare as he keeps fingering his cum into you. 

The lewdness ofi t makes your walls tighten around his thick digits. He curls them so his hand is rubbing your clit and his brow furrows as you begin to come undone. Your body tenses and your hips lift into his hand. Your back digs into the threadbare cushion. You bite your lip but fail to suppress a moan. He sucks in a deep breath watching you cum. 

“Good girl.” He withdraws his fingers and brings them to your mouth.  You suck off the salty, tangy blend and swallow it. 

He gently pats your cunt. "This is mine, now," he nods, then clenches his jaw and looks back and forth between your eyes.  "We’re gonna get you clean, pobrecita.  Entonces puedo usarla" (Then I can use it). Then he stands up and puts his cock back in his pants. "Put your clothes on, let’s go," he says. He picks them up off the sofa and drops them in your lap. 

Javi is watching you get dressed when someone knocks at the front door. Peña moves toward the door, and on instinct you start to make a break for the back exit, but he sees you in the corner of his eye.  “Ay, putita,” (little slut) he mutters as he bolts toward you.  He catches up just as you'ved opened the door.   His massive hands grab your arms roughly from behind, and he shakes you. "You were doing so fucking good," he spits through gritted teeth as he wrangles you back into the kitchen. He slams you face first up against the fridge and pins you with his left forearm while he grabs his cuffs. 

"You asshole. You're really taking me in? On what??"

He regains his composure and brings his mouth to your ear in a near whisper.  "Not to jail.” 

"Then where are you–" 

His voice is deep and quiet. "Callate, pobrecita." (Be quiet). He closes the cuffs, then tightens them. "It's for your own good." 

—---

If you like this, consider raider Joel (read warnings).

------

Thank you so much for reading and engagement!! Your support and interaction really keeps me going when other things drain me and drag me down. I love you guys.

Note: In general, if someone else’s work inspires yours, please share their work and give a shoutout.   

—----

[wri0thesley]

SO glad someone else is in the "Just the tip" hole, so here I am like a little kid, cupping my hands for any spare thoughts (preferrably anyone besides Sampo), if you have any to share? 🤲🖤

loni i was going to write a post anyway but being able to reply to asks with my thoughts - proof that there is Demand (tm!) makes me feel SO much better about the brainrot!!! i have many thoughts abt sampo too so i am eagerly awaiting ur drabble, just the tip is really a concept of all time!

ft: gepard, welt, himeko, serval, jing yuan, luocha cw: reader is afab with no pronouns used. public sex (luocha), straps, sex toys (himeko and serval), a little size kink (jing yuan), a little soft dom (welt). not sfw, minors dni.

Gepard doesn't quite realise how big he is. He's not got all that much experience; he's never really thought about it, far too busy with all of the responsibilities that come hand in hand with being Captain of the Silvermane Guards. So when your eyes widen and your fingers can't quite meet when you wrap them around his length, he lets out a ragged breath and a moan and pushes his cock between your thighs. You have to breathlessly curl your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck and whisper out his name. He's already on the edge just by being close to you. The silky softness of your thighs, the inviting shine of your lips and the way that arousal makes your eyes blow dark and wide - when you whisper softly into his ear; "I don't know if I can take it, Gepard . . . J-just the tip, alright? Go slow--", he worries that he's about to embarrass himself right there and then and come before he's even gotten inside of you.

You whine and whimper as he slowly pushes you open, your wetness smearing all over the ruddy head of his cock. Your fingers tighten in his hair even as a soft strangled noise falls from Gepard's own mouth and he struggles to not ram himself inside of you - you have no idea how good you feel. How hot and tight and wet and perfect the embrace of your walls clinging to him is, even on just the head of his cock.

But he did not get where he is by not having self-control. His muscular arms, corded with scars from practise battles and real battles alike, cage you in on the bed beneath him. He looks at you like someone who cannot believe how lucky he is.

"I'll wait here," he promises you, his voice lust-soaked and cracking with the effort. "As long as you need me to."

Welt sees how your lip trembles, how you take in a slow, steadying breath, and he cannot help his desire to take care of you a little. To coddle you and fuss over you, to make the most of the age and experience that he has and you do not. So he smiles at you, crow's feet crinkling the edges of his eyes behind his glasses, and traces the pout of your bottom lip with his thumb. His voice is patient and soft when he speaks to you.

"I'll go slowly," he tells you, as he gently slaps his cock against your wet folds where you sit on his desk before him, animation sketches and research papers pushed to one side in favour of the tempting treat that is your body. He has spent so much of his time working - nobody could blame him for taking a break and finding himself again in the silky tightness of someone younger and prettier than he himself is. "Just the tip first."

"Alright, Mr Yang," you breathe to him, your hands locking about his neck, urging him forward. You sigh as the head nudges your clit, as his precome mingles with your own slick arousal. You're a sensitive mess already - Welt is certainly not the kind of man who'd leave a partner unsatisfied, and his fingers and his tongue have already learnt every petal-soft fold of you, every spot that makes you shiver and whimper until you'd had to bite into his shoulder to stop your cries waking up every other crew member of the Express.

Slowly, slowly, carefully, he eases into you. Watches with rapt attention every movement of your body; the stretch of your cunt as it accepts him, until your hips are wriggling and squirming and you're tugging on his shoulders.

"Mr Yang," you're saying to him, your lip trembling, your shoulders racked with gasps. A whine leaks into your tone as he rests the head of his cock inside of you, enjoying the feel of it. Your sex pulses around the modicum of his length inside of you, fluttering, waiting to be fully claimed. "It's -- it's not enough!"

Welt laughs softly and presses a kiss on the top of your head that is almost paternal in its comfort - a reminder that he's old enough to be your father, your grandfather--

His voice is soft with just a hint of admonishment in it.

"You're really going to have to learn some patience."

Himeko has you wrapped around her little finger, but that doesn't mean that you don't eye the toy that she shows you with a little trepidation. She laughs at you when you do, pulling you into her, kissing you with the taste of coffee on her tongue as she talks you into her bed.

"If you're frightened of it," she's saying, even as your mouth is going dry as you watch her disrobe, "We'll go as slow as you need, darling. We'll start with just the tip."

You lose the ability to speak at the sight of her, auburn curls tumbling down her back and over the milky pale spill of her breasts and shoulders. Bathed in the starlight from her cabin window, she's unearthly, and your entire body sings out with desire for her. She smiles when she sees you looking.

"Always such a flatterer," she teases affectionately, as she wraps the toy carefully around the curve of her hips. It looks just as striking on her as everything else does. "Now, you just lie back. I've done this before. Let Himeko handle it, hmm?"

You're helpless to a command from the beautiful navigator, and you let yourself fall back on the pillows as she walks towards you with all of the elegance of somebody who knows exactly how lovely she is. She gives you a soft smile, her golden eyes gentle in the light, even as she gathers herself onto her knees and her fingers lightly dance over your bare skin. Electric pinpricks of desire radiate from every touch.

"Aren't you beautiful?" She muses to herself, as she wraps her hand around the toy and pumps it a few times - when it comes away, you see there's something thick and clear and viscous dripping from it. She laughs softly again when she sees you looking.

"You're already wet," she whispers to you, in a low, musical voice. "But if you're still nervous . . . well, there's nothing wrong with a little help, is there?"

Her fingers dance over your skin. She knows every part of you intimately by now; the spot on your stomach, the way you whimper when she pinches your nipples, the place on your hips that makes you breathe in a deep sigh and your own lashes flutter. Through her touches, she keeps murmuring soft platitudes to you - how pretty you look like this, for her. What a precious treasure you are. How she can't wait for you to come apart--

And by the time she is sliding the tip of the toy inside of you and you are fair dizzy with want, you can do nothing but whisper out her name. She leaves the tip of the toy inside of you, smiling down, as patient and beautiful and dazzling as ever.

"I told you," she murmurs, as her long fingers return to pluck and play with your nipples, and you get used to the new stretch of having something thicker than Himeko's fingers inside of you. "We'll go as slow as you need. Any new territory worth exploring is worth doing . . ." She leans down, her mouth full and soft and wet as it meets yours and you whine into it. "Thoroughly."

Serval is a tease. You'd known she was up to something the moment you'd stepped into the workshop and she'd flipped the sign to 'closed' with a feline grin on her face as she'd beckoned you over to her and told you she could really use your help with some new gadget she was tinkering with.

So now, as she has you bent over her workbench with something vibrating pressed in the valley between the folds of your sex, the tip pressed just so - buzzing and tingling - against the swollen pearl of your clit, it's all you can do to keep your fingers tight around the edge of the workbench and your knees locked so you don't collapse.

"Kitten," Serval is purring, her hips slowly rocking back and forth, the phallic toy strapped to her hips rubbing through the wet mess of your cunt. "Don't you like it? I made it thinking of you!"

Your words come out garbled, a mess of moans and sighs. Your own hips thrust back when she pulls away, trying to get her to keep the toy pressed against your clit for long enough for you to get off. Instead, she just laughs, nipping at your bare shoulder.

"You're getting desperate," she teases you, her voice deep and throaty and satisfied. "Beg me, kitten, and we'll see what I can do for you."

"Serval--" Your voice comes out a whine. "Please . . ."

Her clever fingers, calloused palms, slide down your bare skin, leaving electric zaps wherever they touch you. You shudder under her practised touch - you are an instrument, and Serval has already proved she is a master musician.

"Seeing as you asked so nicely," she says to you, and you sense the wicked cat-like grin on her mouth. "How about I give you just the tip?"

"Not enough--"

"You're getting greedy!" The buzzing toy slides a scant inch inside of you without the smallest hint of resistance; you're wet enough from the teasing already. You can feel your own arousal dripping down your thighs, and Serval sighs happily as she dips one of her fingers between your thighs to toy with your clit as the tip of the toy rests inside of you.

"You're lucky you're so cute," she whispers to you. Her finger slides back and forth over your clit, drawing delicate circles - she always knows how to use them. "Come for me on the tip, and I'll fuck you with the rest of it too."

Jing Yuan's patience has long been mistaken for occasional laziness; but you know better than most that there is nothing of the kind, when it comes to him. And there is certainly nothing of the kind when it comes to trysts like this.

Oh, you and he have gotten used to rushing moments when you can, in between him being needed for meetings and work - but now? In the evening, loose ends tied up, with nothing but one another to spend the night on?

This is a tryst that will last.

Jing Yuan is not lazy - he merely likes to take his time. For a man whose being is tied up in his past warfare, he knows how to handle delicate things like you - but that doesn't mean he's going to rush it. Not when you look so pretty laid out like this for him, clothes rumpled and discarded beneath you, looking up at him with your eyes all soft and wanting and your mouth aching to be kissed.

He hums beneath his breath as he lets his mouth learn the shape of yours; pushes you gently back when you try and kiss deeply into him, to make him hurry up. His cock nudges against your inner thigh and he sighs a slow, indolent sigh of pleasure that makes your heart beat double time in your chest.

"We have all of the time in the world, little bird," he tells you, with an insouciant smile on his face. Your face scrunches, an adorable expression of impatience taking over your features, and he smiles down at you like someone looking at the finest treasure in the world.

"Impatient," he chides you, but there's nothing but warmth in his tone when it comes to you. His hands find your thighs, digging into the soft skin as he parts them. Warm eyes like pools of molten gold find your core, and he sighs as he looks at you. You squirm under his gaze, and as he softly leans down and lets some of his own saliva drip onto your cunt, you whimper at the feel. "This is impatient, too," He says to you, and laughs. "Drooling all over the place. Mm. Is that how much it wants me?"

"I want you," you respond to him, mouth petulant. Jing Yuan shakes his head fondly at you but readjusts himself, hand around his cock to guide it to your sex. He taps the thick head softly against your clit until you squirm, pouting. "Jing Yuan--"

"Ah, I know, I know," he looks down at where the two of you are not yet joined. "I'm always reminded how . . . small you are, when I look down at you like this."

"It will fit," you insist to him, and he raises one eyebrow.

"Oh, I know it will," he tells you, still smiling at you. "But it's a tight one, isn't it?"

"Jing Yuan, you're stalling--!"

He laughs again.

"Ha. My apologies, little bird." Slowly, he guides his cock to your opening - resting it against there, just for a moment. Exactly as he said, he seems so much bigger than you - his tip thick and blunt and rounded, your entrance small even as your hole pulses and oozes slick in preparation for him. "I simply like looking at you."

"There's something you'd like more than just looking," you encourage him, and he shakes his head so that his mane of hair falls over his shoulders.

"You're incorrigible," he tells you - and then he is pushing forth into you, and your mind goes white of anything but the feel of Jing Yuan inside of you, his cock, your cunt, where they meld together and you become one--

Wait.

Why has he stopped?

"Jing Yuan--!"

He swallows your cry of his name with a kiss that is anything but lazy, tongue exploring your mouth, teeth tugging at your bottom lip until you're dizzy with it all. He tastes, just a little, like sweets.

He pulls back just enough to look at you half-lidded, the tip of his cock just stretching you out.

"I'm merely taking my time," he tells you. "Whilst I have it."

Luocha is mean, you think, even as his words remain unfailingly genteel. Even as his face remains a polite mask, he leaves his cock not-quite inside of you as you tremble against the wall he has you bodily pressed up against.

"Please," you breathe out to him, teary-eyed, lip trembling. "Y-you can't just leave it there--"

He cocks one eyebrow, his face unfairly pretty - unfairly unruffled, even with the tip of his cock buried in you. He's unfailingly still - almost as if the hot tightness of your cunt pulsing around him has no effect on him whatsoever. One long, elegant hand curves around your cheek as a small smile pulls at the corner of his lips.

He's big. You can't help but squirm against the concrete, your cunt wrapped around only the head of his cock but feeling like you've taken far, far more.

"We're in public," he says to you, voice just a little condescending. "If I were to go about this more . . . vigorously, surely you wouldn't want the attention of every person in the vicinity on you?"

Your own need feels like a thrum inside of you. It's hard to think, as Luocha moves his hips the barest fraction and you find yourself whining aloud. Firmly, he moves the hand on your cheek so that it's pressed over your mouth, muffling your noises.

"You can't take more than this," he tells you, voice calm and patient. "Not here. Not now."

You whimper into his gloved palm, tears beading in your eyes like little diamonds. Even that doesn't seem to move him, though he tips his head to one side, vaguely considering. He moves his hand just enough for you to take a breath, and whisper beseechingly;

"I-if not here . . . will you do it somewhere else?"

He laughs only one soft, musical little noise. He leans in close, his breath cool against your neck.

"Mm . . . but when you ask like that--"

You cry out as he pushes another inch of himself into you, eyes widening as the noise breaks the calm, cool air. Luocha pauses.

"Oh dear," he says. "I suppose we'll have to both come quickly then, hmm?"

[tokyo-daaaamn-ji-gang]

The short adventure's of Bonten's no4: the door

Bonten x f reader

Warnings: slight manga spoilers, suggestive content, 18+

Summary: You're Bonten's first female member, their skilled and deadly no4. So surely you can have one peaceful day off right? Just to unpack your new apartment?

---------------------------------------------------

The door

A fresh start.

Today is the day, the day you're moving into your new apartment. You even took the day off work to make sure everything goes as smoothly as possible today. Today is going to be perfect. 

Walking around your new apartment, you can't help but admire it. This place really is perfect for you and decorated just how you like it. But the best feature is the door, you spared no expense when getting a new door installed, with this one being the best. It's practically impossible to pick the lock, it's too heavy to be kicked down and even came with a small camera so you can watch when there's movement outside. So basically it's bonten proof. This place really is perfect and you have the whole day to unpack and get yourself settled in.

Meanwhile

All of bonten aside from Mikey and you were forced to attend Koko's latesr financial meeting. It never seemed to end. Everytime they thought Koko was about to finish he'd then start going on and on about something else. They were all sick of it. But just as Koko was about to start ranting (something to do with people leaving the lights on) Sanzu spoke up.

"Hey isn't today the day y/n get's her new apartment?"

And with that it's already decided between them, time to check in on their dear y/n and her new place. After all, seeing you is much more interesting then this meeting.

-

You were just starting to unpack the kitchen boxes when you heard it. Someone trying to open the door...

Sneaking across the apartment as quietly as you can, you grab a bat before heading towards the door and checking the camera. Only to find Sanzu attempting to pick the lock as the other's watched. You drop the bat with a sigh and call out to them.

"Hey what are you guys doing here!?"

They all look startled for a moment, wondering where the voice is coming from and how you knew they were there. Seeing their shocked faces was pretty amusing at least.

"We came to surprise you!"

Of course Ran is the one to answer, grinning at where he thinks the camera is (he's off by a few cm).

"By breaking into my apartment!?"

"Attempted break in, Sanzu isn't done yet!"

Rindou cheerfully calls out. He's about to say something else when Sanzu suddenly curses, saying he can't get the door open and giving it a kick to let his frustrations out. 

They all pause in shock for a moment as you grin from your side of the door. And decide to have some fun with them, sweetly you call out

"You guys could've just knocked or rang the bell"

Sanzu immediately knocks after, impatient to get inside.

"Are you going to let us in now?"

"Nope ♡"

Having the power to mess with them like how they always mess with you really is fun.

Suddenly loud banging is heard against the door as Sanzu repeatedly kicks and hits at it, demanding you let them in. 

"No thanks, I'm busy!"

Ran calls out next, asking what you're busy with and if they can help you with it, trying to sweet talk his way inside. But he's just interrupted by Sanzu again.

"Open this door right now!" If you do it now then we'll go easy on you but the longer you leave us out here the worse it'll be for you! Open up little bunny or the big bad wolves will blow your house down!"

"I'm pretty sure the wolves blow the pigs house down not a bunny's and the answer is no!"

You hear a few of the guy's stifling their laughter at your response. But judging by the amount of banging against your door after that, Sanzu didn't like it so much.

Everything suddenly goes quiet. 

Peering at the camera you see Sanzu shuffling around for something in his pocket as the other's watch with various expressions. Until he pulls out his gun with a triumphant laugh and points it at your door.

He wouldn't! .....would he?

Luckily Kakucho snatches the gun from him before Sanzu makes the whole neighbourhood aware of their presence. Sanzu looks ready to fight him for daring to touch his gun, but then Ran murmurs something you can't hear and they all leave. Finally leaving you to continue on with your unpacking, that door really is great!

*frantic knocking on the door*

Or so you thought, just as you make your way back to the kitchen you're called back to the door again. Sighing, you check the camera's. Immediately spotting Rindou knocking on your door while Takeomi lays on the floor???

Rindou looks at the door frantically and knocks like a crazy person, he seems actually upset?

"Y/n quick! We need your help, it's a medical emergency! Open the door and help us, Takeomi is dying!"

Takeomi lies still on the floor with his eyes closed, you can't tell if he's breathing or not. But you don't see any obvious injuries...

"What's he dying from?"

Rindou looks startled by your question  probably expecting you to just rush out instead of questioning what's actually going on. You roll your eyes at this, of course you didn't get to the position of no4 without questioning things and being cautious first.

"Uhm uhhhh old age?"

You don't even get the chance to reply to that answer because as soon as the words leave Rindou's mouth, Takeomi is off the floor and angrily running at Rindou, cursing him for saying that. Rindou laughs and runs off, making Takeomi chase him and leaving you and your door alone again. 

-

You spend the next 20 minutes making good progress with unpacking the kitchen, until you hear it again. Knocking on your door. This time the knocking is calm and doesn't last for too long, it sounds almost formal.

Checking the camera, this time you see Koko standing outside. Calling his name, you ask him why he's here.

"I came to talk to you about urgent work business"

You quickly remind him it's your day off, but that doesn't seem to matter to Koko. Instead he starts telling you about how urgent the business is and how you have to know about it right away, so you need to open the door. But somethings off about him? He seems kind of sad or like he's not really trying?

"Hey Koko, is something wrong?"

You never expected your question to lead to this, but you end up hearing all about how Koko planned a meeting this morning only for everyone to ditch it and for him to get dragged here.

"Sure I wanted to see you too and the new place and maybe even spend some time alone together but I put a lot of work into preparing for that meeting!"

Koko ends up sitting on the other side of the door to you and venting through the door for awhile until he feels better. Then he calmly get's up, thanks you for your time and says he looks forward to seeing you tomorrow then walks off. Once again leaving you alone.

-

You cheer as you finally finish unpacking the kitchen, it took ages but at least you got to finish it in peace. Now on to the living room, but just as you was about to start, it happens again. The door bell rings, telling you you're no longer alone.

This time as you check the camera you see someone you don't immediately recognise. A really big guy in a jacket covering all of his clothes, as well as a hat hiding his face.

"Uhh who is it?"

"Pizza delivery"

"I didn't order a pizza?"

It's definitely another trick to make you open the door, and judging by that guy's height, it's definitely Mochi out there. He pauses before he answers, probably unsure of how to respond to that.

"It's been ordered for you?? An apology pizza! A bunch of cool looking guys ordered it for you!"

"Why aren't you holding a pizza then?"

He quickly walks off after that.

Your stomach growls in protest, damn them for making you think of pizza now. They could've at least brought a real pizza with them!

Not even 5 minutea pass before there's another knock at the door, maybe they actually did come back with pizza? But this time it isn't Mochi standing at your door but Kakucho. He gives the camera a little wave, waving at the exact right spot. You're about to call out and ask what his plan is to get inside but he speaks first.

"We miss you"

You're pretty surprised by this, so say nothing. 

"That's why we came here today, the hq just isn't the same without you there. We all really miss you and just wanted to see you again."

"But you just saw me yesterday?"

"So? You're one of us, we normally see you so often that even just missing a day makes us feel empty. I know the last time we saw your apartment things got pretty messed up but I think the guys all learnt their lesson from that and it won't happen again... I'd really like to see you too."

Maybe letting them in wouldn't be too bad? You realise you've actually missed them too today, sure they get on your nerves but you never feel lonely with them around and it's clear they really do care about you. It was pretty quiet before they came along...

You're about to open the door when you suddenly hear another voice.

"Heyyyy sweetheart, you gonna let us in now?"

Ran Haitani.

Kakucho looks like he's about to speak up again but instead Ran pats him on the back and whispers something to him, making Kakucho walk off with a sad look. 

Ran then grins again, continuing to look at the wrong part of the door as he speaks.

"Just the two of us now, the others all left. So why not open the door for just me? We can have fun together with just the two of us."

"Just the two of us? Please everyone else is probably around the corner, waiting to barge in as soon as I open the door"

Ran's grin fades for just a second before he smiles at the door again, winking.

"You have such an active imagination sweetheart but nope, it's just me. You really think I want the others around to witness this or the sounds I'm going to pull out of you?"

You gulp. Weakly replying that you have no idea what he means, admitting to it or how it makes you feel is much more embarrassing. 

"Oh? I think you know exactly what I mean sweetheart. How you're going to cry out under me as we try out your new bed together. Just open the door. Unless you want the other's to hear? Maybe we could even invit-"

His phone suddenly rings, cutting him off and saving you from your embarrassment as well as the hot feeling overwhelming you.

"......ah....yes.........I understand............ of course boss"

The person on the other end of the line doesn't talk much, making the call just a short one. As soon as it's over, Ran looks back at the door and sighs.

"Maybe next time huh?"

He then walks off.

You lean against the wall for a moment, trying to forget the words he just said and how they make you feel. Maybe you're done with unpacking the rest of the day? Just relaxing seems like a much better way to spend the rest of your day after all that. You walk back into the living room, looking forward to just watching your favourite show and maybe eating some sna- 

"Hey"

You let out a small shriek as you find Mikey sitting on your sofa and eating your snacks as he looks at you curiously. 

"How did you get in here!?"

---------------------------------------------------

Bonus:

Mikey just stares as you freak out and look around to try and figure out how he possibly got in here. Once you finally settle down opposite him on the sofa, he offers you a sweet from the bag he stole from your snack supply.

"Nice place here, quiet when the other's go away"

You find yourself nodding, still in shock upon finding your boss somehow in your apartment. 

"You should still invite them all here at some point though, they can help unpack"

You say nothing, not wanting to voice how bad of an idea it would be for all of them to go through your stuff.... again. Mikey just hums. 

"These are good, you should taste one"

You're not sure how Mikey moves that fast, one minute he's sitting across from you and the next he's pressing his lips against yours. 'Helping' you to taste the 'sweets'. 

So much for your alone time.

Thanks for reading!!!! ♡

Previous chapter Masterlist

[a-lexia11]

Out of love

Leah Williamson x reader

Warning:angst,break up, no happy ending

Word count: Around 3k

Summary: Leah has been acting distant lately, and you decide to confront her to understand why she's behaving that way.

I always believed that love was a fortress, something strong and invincible, capable of withstanding any storm.

And for the past five years, Leah and I were proof of that—at least, I thought we were. We’d built a life together, shared dreams, challenges, and victories on and off the pitch.

Arsenal was more than just our club; it was our home. Football brought us together, and love kept us close—or so I thought.

The first signs that something was wrong were so subtle I almost missed them. Leah began coming home later and later, her explanations brief and detached.

At first, I brushed it off, telling myself she was just tired or stressed. Our schedules were demanding, and we both had a lot on our plates.

But as days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, her late nights became the norm, and her excuses became more half-hearted. When I asked if everything was okay, she’d nod or shrug, barely making eye contact.

The first time she slept on the couch instead of beside me, it caught me off guard. I lay in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, wondering what I had done wrong.

She’d mumbled something about needing space, but it felt like more than that. The bed felt too big, too cold without her.

Every night that followed, she found new reasons not to be by my side. The distance between us, both physical and emotional, grew wider with each passing day.

The idea of Leah cheating crossed my mind, but it felt almost inconceivable. It’s Leah we’re talking about—someone I’ve always seen as honest and dependable. I found it hard to believe she could be unfaithful.

Why would she betray me in that way? The thought seemed so out of character, yet the signs of her growing distance and emotional withdrawal made me question everything.

I missed her laugh, the way she used to tease me about my messy hair or how I couldn’t cook to save my life.

I missed our quiet moments together, when we’d sit on the couch, legs tangled, talking about everything and nothing.

Now, those moments were replaced by silence—heavy, suffocating silence. It was like living with a ghost of the person she used to be.

I tried to be patient, thinking maybe she just needed time, but every day felt like another piece of her slipping away. Our date nights, once a cherished routine, disappeared entirely.

She was always too busy, too tired, too something. And when she did have time, it wasn’t for me.

The loneliness became unbearable. I cried every night, silently, not wanting to wake her—or maybe hoping she would wake up and comfort me like she used to.

But she never did. It was as if she couldn’t hear me anymore, couldn’t see how much I was hurting.

Training and matches became my only escape, but even that was tainted by her absence.

Leah was always there, physically, but it felt like she was a million miles away. I watched her on the field, admired her skill, her focus, but when the game ended, she was gone again, lost in her own world.

Then came the team nights, gatherings that used to be filled with laughter and camaraderie.

Now, they were a painful reminder of how far apart we had drifted. Leah would sit across the room, chatting and laughing with our teammates, completely ignoring me. It wasn’t just that she didn’t talk to me—she didn’t even look at me.

Our friends and teammates noticed the tension, the awkwardness that hung in the air, but no one said anything. Maybe they were waiting for us to work it out, just like I was. But deep down, I knew something was broken, and I didn’t know how to fix it.

The final blow came on a night that should have been a celebration. We had won a tough match, and the team had gathered at a local pub to unwind.

I leaned against the bar, absentmindedly swirling my drink as my gaze lingered on Leah from across the room. She was with another woman, someone she had just met at the pub.

The two of them were deep in conversation, their heads close together, her eyes sparkling with laughter. I watched as Leah's hand brushed against the woman’s arm, a playful touch, the kind of casual intimacy that used to be reserved for me.

My chest tightened at the sight—the way she leaned in, hanging on every word, her smile wide and genuine. It was everything I hadn't seen from her in months, and it felt like a knife twisting in my gut.

This sight twisted something inside me, a painful reminder that whatever was wrong, it wasn’t going away on its own.

I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t keep pretending that everything was okay when it was so far from it. The pain, the confusion, the constant ache in my chest—it was all too much. I needed answers.

I needed to know why Leah was pushing me away, why she was treating me like a stranger.

That night, when we got home, I knew I had to confront her. I couldn’t keep living in this limbo, waiting for her to come back to me when she clearly wasn’t going to.

As we entered our flat, Leah headed straight for the couch, grabbing her phone and settling in as if nothing was wrong. But everything was wrong, and I couldn’t keep pretending it wasn’t.

“Leah,” I said quietly, standing in the middle of the living room, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to stay calm. “We need to talk.”

She didn’t look up from her phone, just muttered, “Can it wait? I’m really tired.”

“No, it can’t wait,” I insisted, my voice firmer this time. “I can’t do this anymore.”

She finally looked up, her expression annoyed. “Do what?”

“This.” I gestured between us, feeling the tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. “Us. You’re distant, Leah. You don’t talk to me anymore, you don’t even look at me. You ignore me like I’m not here, and it hurts. It hurts so much. I need to know why. I need to know what I did wrong.”

For a long moment, Leah just stared at me, her face a mask of indifference. I could see something flickering behind her eyes—guilt, maybe? Regret? But she quickly looked away, sighing heavily as if this conversation was just another burden she didn’t want to carry.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Y/N,” she finally said, her voice flat.

“Then why?” My voice broke, and I hated how small I sounded, how desperate. “Why are you doing this? Why are you pushing me away?”

Leah stayed silent.

“Are you cheating on me?” I finally asked, my voice trembling as I locked eyes with her. Leah’s reaction was immediate and stark—her eyes widened in shock, as though I had just posed the most ridiculous question imaginable.

She looked at me with a mixture of disbelief and hurt, as if the very notion was absurd. “Of course not,” she said firmly, her gaze steady and earnest as she tried to reassure me.

“I would never cheat on you.” Her voice was calm, but the intensity in her eyes seemed to plead with me to believe her, to trust that she was speaking the truth.

“Well, back at the pub, it seemed like you had no problem flirting with that woman,” I said, my tone accusing and hurt.

Leah’s eyes widened with surprise, and she quickly defended herself. “I wasn’t flirting with her; I was just being friendly,” she insisted, her voice steady but with a hint of frustration.

“Friendly?” I shot back, my voice rising in disbelief. “It looked like you were just seconds away from making out with her. How can you expect me to believe you weren’t flirting?” I continued, unable to hide the pain and anger in my voice.

Leah’s face hardened as she met my gaze, her expression resolute. “Y/N, I told you before—I would never cheat on you. I may have my faults, but infidelity is not one of them.” Her voice was firm and unwavering, but the tension in the air was thick with unresolved emotion.

"Then why? If not cheating? Why are you doing this to me?" I asked, my voice quivering with a mix of confusion and hurt. "I don’t understand why you’re treating me like this. I’ve tried so hard to be patient and understanding. I don’t deserve to be treated this way." My words faltered as the pain in my chest tightened, the betrayal cutting deep.

Leah rubbed her temples, avoiding my gaze. “I don’t know how to say this.”

“Just say it,” I whispered, my heart pounding in my chest. “Please.”

She hesitated, her jaw tightening as if she was bracing herself for something painful.

When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper, but the words cut through me like a knife.

“I fell out of love with you, Y/N.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in. When they did, it felt like the ground had been ripped out from under me.

My breath caught in my throat, and I stumbled back, clutching the edge of the couch to steady myself. “What?”

“I didn’t want to admit it,” she continued, her eyes still fixed on the floor. “Not to myself, not to you. But it’s the truth. I don’t feel the same way anymore. I’ve been trying to avoid this, trying to make you break up with me so I wouldn’t have to say it. But I can’t keep lying to you. I can’t keep pretending.”

I stared at her, disbelief and hurt battling for dominance. “So, all of this? The ignoring me, the coldness, the distance… It was because you wanted me to end it?”

She nodded, tears welling up in her eyes for the first time. “I was a coward, Y/N. I didn’t want to be the one to break your heart, so I thought… I thought if I made things bad enough, you’d leave. But you didn’t, and I just kept making it worse. I’m so sorry.”

Her apology hung in the air between us, but it didn’t make the pain any less. If anything, it made it worse.

All this time, I had been blaming myself, wondering what I had done wrong, when the truth was that Leah had already given up on us. She had already stopped loving me.

I couldn’t stop the sob that escaped me. “How could you do this to me, Leah? How could you just… stop loving me?”

“I don’t know,” she cried, her own tears spilling over now. “I wish I had an answer. I wish I could change it, but I can’t. I’m so sorry, Y/N. I never wanted to hurt you like this. I never wanted it to end this way.”

“But it’s ending, isn’t it?” I whispered, my voice trembling with the weight of the truth. “This is the end.”

She didn’t say anything, just nodded, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

The sight of her crying, the woman I had loved for so long, the woman who had been my everything—it broke something inside of me.

I wanted to reach out, to hold her, to tell her that we could fix this, but I knew it was too late. There was nothing left to fix. The love we once had was gone, and there was no bringing it back.

I stood there for a moment, numb, before turning on my heel and heading to our bedroom—no, not our bedroom anymore. Just a room.

A room full of memories that I couldn’t bear to face right now. I grabbed a suitcase from the closet and began packing my things, my hands trembling as I folded clothes and placed them inside.

Each item I packed felt like another piece of my heart being ripped away, but I forced myself to keep going.

Leah stood in the doorway, watching me, tears streaming down her face. She didn’t try to stop me, didn’t say a word. Maybe she knew, just as I did, that there was nothing left to say.

When I finished packing, I zipped up the suitcase and took a deep breath, trying to steady myself.

My eyes burned with unshed tears, but I refused to let them fall. Not yet. I couldn’t break down. Not here. Not in front of her.

She doesn’t deserve to witness my tears or my vulnerability. She’s the one who inflicted this pain on me, who chose to string me along and hurt me for months on end.

She ignored me, distanced herself, and let me suffer because she was too selfish and cowardly to have the decency to break up with me outright. I refuse to let her see me fall apart in front of her.

I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and walked away toward the front door. Leah stood aside, not saying a word, just watching me with those tear-filled eyes that once held so much love.

Now, they were filled with something else—regret, guilt, maybe even relief. I didn’t know, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

As I reached the door, I paused, my hand hovering over the doorknob. There was so much I wanted to say—questions I wanted to ask, more accusations I wanted to throw at her—but I couldn’t find the words.

What good would it do, anyway? It wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t bring back the Leah I used to know, the Leah who loved me.

Instead, I just stood there, trying to summon the strength to leave. My heart was screaming at me to turn around, to fight for her, to fight for us. But my mind knew better. There was no fight left. The battle had been lost long before this moment.

Finally, Leah broke the silence. Her voice was soft, barely more than a whisper. “Y/N… I’m sorry. For everything. I never wanted it to end like this.”

I swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in my throat. “Then why did you let it? Why didn’t you just talk to me, Leah? Why did you let us fall apart?”

She wiped at her tears, her shoulders slumping in defeat. “Because I was scared. Scared of losing you, scared of hurting you… and scared of facing the truth. I thought if I ignored it, if I pushed you away, maybe it would be easier. But it wasn’t. It was just… cowardice. And now I’ve hurt you even more.”

I shook my head, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. “Yeah, well… mission accomplished, we’re over”

I saw her flinch at my words, and for a moment, I felt a pang of guilt. But the hurt in my chest was too overwhelming to care. I had given her everything—my love, my trust, my heart—and she had thrown it all away.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for, Leah,” I said, my voice strained. “I really do”

Her tears fell harder now, and she wrapped her arms around herself as if trying to hold herself together. “I…I’m so sorry”

I nodded, though it felt meaningless. Her apologies couldn’t fix what was broken. They couldn’t take away the pain that was tearing me apart.

Without another word, I turned the doorknob and stepped outside. The cool night air hit me, chilling me to the bone. I didn’t look back as I pulled the door shut behind me. I couldn’t. If I did, I knew I’d fall apart.

As I walked down the street, suitcase dragging behind me, the weight of everything that had just happened crashed down on me.

The tears I had been holding back finally broke free, and I stumbled to a stop, my chest heaving with sobs.

I pressed a hand to my mouth, trying to stifle the sounds, but it was no use. The pain was too much, too raw.

How did we end up here? How did five years of love, of shared dreams and laughter, dissolve into this? I couldn’t wrap my head around it. I didn’t know how to move forward, how to pick up the pieces of my shattered heart.

For what felt like hours, I stood there on the empty street, crying until there were no tears left. The world felt silent and cold, a reflection of the emptiness inside me.

The person I had loved more than anything in the world had just let me walk away, and I had no idea how to process that.

Eventually, I managed to compose myself enough to keep walking. I didn’t know where I was going—maybe to a hotel, maybe to a friend’s place. Anywhere but here. Anywhere that wasn’t filled with memories of Leah.

As I walked, my mind kept replaying the past few months, trying to find the moment where everything went wrong.

But there was no single moment. It was a slow, painful unraveling, one that I had tried so hard to ignore, to fix, but had failed.

I reached a park, deserted at this late hour, and collapsed onto a bench. My suitcase sat beside me, a stark reminder that I no longer had a home to go back to. Not really.

The night was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze. I tilted my head back, staring up at the sky. The stars were out, bright and clear, indifferent to the heartbreak unfolding beneath them. I wondered if Leah was crying, too, or if she had finally found the peace she had been searching for.

The thought stung—both the idea of her hurting and the possibility that she might feel relieved.

I reached into my pocket, pulled out my phone and I found myself opening the photo gallery, scrolling through the images of Leah and me. There we were, smiling and happy—on vacations, after matches, during quiet moments at home.

Each photo felt like a cruel reminder of what I had lost. How could everything that felt so real, so solid, just fade away like this?

I lingered on one photo in particular—a candid shot that my sister had taken of us at a team party last year.

We were both laughing, our arms wrapped around each other, eyes bright with happiness. I could almost hear her laugh, feel her warmth beside me.

It felt like a lifetime ago.

I stared at the photo until my vision blurred with tears again. I knew I needed to delete it, to delete all of them, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

The sound of footsteps on the path made me look up. It was an older couple, walking hand in hand, their heads bent close together as they whispered to each other.

I watched them pass by, a pang of longing twisting in my chest. Would I ever have that again? Would I ever find someone who loved me the way Leah once did?

For a moment, I considered going back. Maybe we could talk, really talk this time. Maybe there was a way to fix things, to rebuild what had been broken. But deep down, I knew it was hopeless. Leah had made her choice. She had let me go long before tonight.

I sat there in the park for a long time, lost in my thoughts, until the first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon.

The realization hit me then—this was the first day of my life without Leah in it. The first day of starting over.

It felt impossible, like a weight too heavy to bear. But I knew I had to. I had to find a way to move forward, even if I didn’t know how.

With a deep breath, I stood up, grabbing my suitcase and heading down the path. One step at a time, I told myself. One step at a time.

And maybe, just maybe, one day the pain would fade. One day, I would be able to look back at what we had and remember it fondly, without the ache in my chest.

But for now, all I could do was keep walking, keep moving, and hope that the road ahead would lead me to a place where I could heal.

Because even though Leah had fallen out of love with me, I had to find a way to love myself enough to move on.

FIN

[genshin-side-piece]

The Collector

A/N: An expansion on this post. I've been struggling to be inspired, but this one has been sitting for awhile.

Warnings: Minors DNI, 18+, Yandere themes, Yandere Behavior, Power Imbalance, Dark themes, mentions of physical abuse, implied kidnapping, sexual themes, no actual smut (sorry), My bad writing

It wasn’t a horrible existence. After feeling like you had been here for an aeon, that’s what you had convinced yourself of. Your needs, at least in a basic sense, were met. The world in which you lived provided you ample food, clothing, and shelter. The weather was tolerable, despite the fact that it never changed, & you weren’t entirely alone. The odd little servant you had been given offered you some interesting conversation. Never anything stimulating or god forbid current, but interesting. You had taken many a nap to the dulcet tones of the bird like creature as it told you stories of battles won and successes enjoyed. Not of its own of course. It, like its brethren, were servants. They held no victories or successes, unless you counted the stain they had shifted from your clothes last week. No, the battles, the victories, the successes, all belonged to one individual. The only individual whose name you were allowed to hear about. Your supposed lord and savior, the reason for your present existence, the cause of your eternal misery; Rex Lapis.

Though, as you laid staring up at the false sky, it was hard to know if he was still your lord. The idea of him being overthrown was one you frequently entertained in your boredom. The potential fall of the Lord of Geo had provided you with many hours of amusement, but you had no way of knowing if it had actually happened or if it would happen. Rex would never allow your companion to tell you if it had. One thing was certain though; he was still alive. Your continued presence in the realm of his own making was proof of that. His visits to your little realm however, had dropped off. It felt like it had been a hundred years since you had last seen him. Maybe it had been that long, it was hard to know. Your realm, like you, was an eternal thing. It existed in a perpetual state of twilight, never giving away how long you had actually been here. Time, like the stars or the true sky or even current events, was not allowed. 

“Basking in the gilded light are we?” The deep, rich tone of his voice cut across you, shattering what was your peace. You shot up off the grass, your eyes boring holes into his golden ones the second you found them. He only answered with a soft smile. The same smile you had stupidly fallen for all those years ago. “Hello dearest.”  He was in a good mood or so you thought. Rex practically purred the word at you. “How wonderful it is to see you. I understand you’ve been quite well.” By that you knew he meant calm. Your last encounter with him, the one where you had verbally banished him from your life, had been a different affair. The circumstances of which you had since come to accept were still somewhat fresh then. You had felt betrayed, furious at his actions. You had demanded your release to the point of screaming it at him, only to be denied. Your rage had been met head on by his will. An unwinnable battle to be sure. On one side was the impenetrable wall of cold stone that shattered all who would refuse to yield and on the other was you. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what the result of your confrontation would be. Like everything else that came to blows with Rex Lapis, you too would lose. He would pick up whatever fragments were left and mold you to his will, just as he had the rest of Liyue. All he needed was time, a thing that thanks to him, neither of you had any shortage of. “I thought we might take a stroll together. The air here is quite pleasant.” He actually dared to seem bashful in front of you. After forbidding you any kind of real happiness he had the audacity to act like you were his first brush with love. “I have missed our chats. It would be nice to talk as we did before.” You swallowed. As you had before.

“You mean-“ A bitter laugh slipped past your lips. How many evenings had you spent arm in arm with him, parading through the empty plains, admiring how the setting sun cast them in a gilded light? The same field, and the same light you were now expected to endure for all eternity. “Before you tricked me.” Before he had trapped you. 

It had been so easy for him or rather, you had made yourself easy prey. Rex had played his cards regarding you well. He had expertly guided you down a primrose path, bringing you to its intended end when he had presented you with your very own teapot. A bespoke one, much like the hundreds of others that lined the walls of his home. You had always admired them. Always asked after the different designs on them. Each one was unique, a work of true art, much like the person he kept secretly locked inside. At the time of its presentation, yours had been plain and unexceptional. The simplicity of it was stunning, a thing to behold on its own, but a bit dull. After he had triggered his trap by bidding you to look down inside of it, you had to wonder how it had changed. Was it still simple or like the others, did it reflect your own preferences and personality? You would never know. Despite your many attempts to learn the truth, Rex wouldn’t tell you. The closest you had ever gotten was that it, like you, was a lovely thing. A wonderful addition to his ever growing collection.

“Now now-“ The gentle smile gave way to a frown. His features became harder, reflecting the disappointment he obviously felt by the harsh reminder of your feelings regarding your situation. When he was with you, he preferred not to be reminded that only one of you was a willing participant in this arrangement. He preferred the fantasy that despite his actions, you and he were still lovers. “Of all the paths we can choose to walk on this fine evening, let’s not select that one.” Not when there were prettier ones available to him.“The glaze lily’s have come into bloom. I thought we might discuss that.”

“Why? I thought you only enjoyed discussing the past.” Or was it the present? Maybe that’s why he refused to discuss anything of value with you. Your permanent stasis left you suspended somewhere between the past that he adored, the present he chose to ignore, and the future that in his mind didn’t exist. 

“Please don’t force me to be unkind. I should prefer this to be a pleasant visit.” As opposed to the others, which generally ended with you screaming at him or your own tears bleeding into the soft fabric of the bed after he’d had his fill. Sometimes it was both. This visit would be no different 

You knew why he had come. His attempt at small talk and a stroll were little more than foreplay for him seeding his desires. When his visits had been more regular, Rex would often attempt to pull the wool over your eyes with whatever served his motives best. So long as the encounter ended with him ridding himself of the carnal desires that plagued him without too much of a fuss from you, any effort he exerted was worth it. According to him, only you could quench his unyielding thirst. A night or day or however long it actually was would generally buy you a little peace. Sometimes you got longer or you believed you did. He had an eye for the exquisite, so when a new prize would present themselves to him. He would seize it.  He only returned to you when he had tired of the new favorite or they had disappointed him. He was fickle like that. Apparently not every gem was worthy of pleasing their lord. If they failed, they would be placed on a shelf, forgotten and abandoned for all time. You only knew that because he had threatened to do it to you. According to him, Rex would be remiss in removing you from your honored place near his bed should you continue to displease him. He would hate not to have you near, but that hatred wouldn’t stop him from setting you aside. Your current confinement was proof of that. “Will you walk with me dearest?” He held out his hand to you, his tone becoming less agitated with each word. He was trying to redirect the conversation and the mood to something more pliable, more pleasant. He could work with those. Force, while reliable, was always his last resort when it came to you. He had long learned that the rougher he got with you, the rougher it would be should he decide to call again. 

“Will you tell me about my family if I do?” He wouldn’t, his instant hesitation at the question was proof he wouldn’t. “Then perhaps how long you’ve held me captive? How many years have I rested next to your bed Rex?” If you were even still there. Like time, the teapot being moved didn’t affect you. The only concern you would have is if it were to be broken. 

“Dearest-“ He lowered his hand slightly, his gilded fingers curling in on themselves. “Please do not worry over such things…” You turned away from him not wanting to hear anymore. The idea that he was going to dismiss your plea for what you felt was the millionth time, annoyed you. 

Don’t worry. Don’t trouble yourself. Don’t think. Don’t feel. Stay as you are, as you were. Never change. Never grow old. Never move on. Never die. Just be. It was infuriating. It was maddening. How could you not think about it? How could you not worry over it when your surroundings were perpetual. Nothing ever changed in this place. Nothing would change in this place, not unless Rex willed it to be so. Since he hadn’t, nor was he likely to, your mind could only ever seem to dwell on what you weren’t allowed to know versus the lies he expected you to believe. 

“If you do not wish to walk, then I will join you in your rest. I am happy to converse with you here.” His outstretched hand fell back to his side in defeat. “The glaze lilies-” Gods above, to the abyss with him and his precious glaze lilies. You found yourself hating them more than you hated him. So much so, that you abruptly rose from your spot on the grass in a swirl of gold and silk, easily ignoring his hopeful look. “Have you changed your mind? Will you walk with me after all?” You turned, giving him a glare that you hoped would sour his aspirations once and for all. “If your goal is a leisurely stroll to the house so that you might engage in a conjugal visit, then save your breath. I have neither the will nor the inclination to listen to anything you wish to speak about. Just take what you want and leave.”  He didn’t respond, at least not right away. It allowed you a moment to try to get a head start on him. Regrettably, the opportunity for escape evaporated faster than steam dissolving into the air. Rex reached out to you, firmly taking hold of your wrist before you had the chance to get away. His grip was far from punishing, but the sudden contact startled you all the same. You made a slight effort to free yourself from him. It was a foolish attempt to be sure, but you still tried. Rex, for his part, didn’t entertain it. He silently responded by pulling you towards him, only ceasing when you were next to him. 

A quick glance into his eyes told you that you were in for a world of trouble. The amiable nature of which Rex had approached you had vanished. What replaced it was the version of Rex that you had become all too familiar with since coming here; the conqueror, the emperor, the archon. A version that unlike the former commanded both your submission and your obedience with a single glance. This version did not rely on simple benevolence or honeyed words to get his way. This version would, should he need to, level the world if it meant achieving his desired goal.

“When the time is right I will, as always, be happy to join you in the comfort of our bed dearest.” You flinched at the sharpness of his tone. It cut through you, causing you to temporarily regret the callousness of your invitation. While you hated him, the only thing you loathed more was awakening the temper that laid just below Rex’s cool surface. Beneath his upright facade laid a molten core, one that could easily explode with the right trigger. Your behavior, specifically your refusal of his initial request being that trigger. One glance into his eyes told you exactly how imminent that eruption truly was. He wasn’t interested in your antics, nor would he be especially tolerant of them. While he had come to you with a smile and warm intentions, both were little more than an illusion. A clever mask to hide his true reason for coming here. His already short temper coupled with his quick escalation of the situation spoke to a deeper problem. One that extended past the confines of your little world and into the real one. One that he had come to you to forget. That knowledge pinned you in place, a cold chill running the length of your spine. The last time you had seen this side of him crept back into your mind. It was an experience you weren’t keen to relive. 

While he had never harmed you to a severe degree, Rex had learned how to make things uncomfortable for you. He could twist your world how he liked, providing as little or as much as he wanted. When you displeased him, the general plenty you enjoyed could morph into austerity before he had even left. He would only return what he had taken when you decided acquiesce to whatever demand he had made of you. Then and only then would he physically reinforce his dominance over you, making sure you understood your place in his world before he restored what he had taken. The iron grip on your wrist was one such reminder. It was a warning of the discomfort to come, should you continue to be difficult. 

“That time though, is not now. My purpose in visiting you was not simply to sow my carnal desires and leave.” You tried to look away from him, but he tightened his grip on you, forcing you to look back. “I wish to enjoy your company.” His tone left no room for argument, despite your expressed need to do so.

You had wishes too. Ones that you had voiced over and over, only to have them fall on deaf ears. The idea that you wanted to be free to live your life, that you wanted to go home, that you wanted even the smallest chance to die were all preposterous notions in Rex’s eyes. He dismissed them as quickly as they came. Blocking each request with a practiced ease that only came from a millennia of ruling. The need to voice them again rose. The desire to pull your wrist away from his iron grip so that might walk away began to fill you. Still, for your own well being, you held both your tongue and your actions in check. Like him, you had enough experience to know that now was not the time to argue with him. His insistence had not reached the point of him dragging you behind him or hoisting you over his shoulder so that he might get his way. He merely had hold of you and for now, it wouldn’t go any further than that. The encounter wouldn’t end with you covered in bruises and unable to walk due to the force of which he took you. It could still end in an entirely civil, yet degrading manner. All you had to do was subject yourself to his desires. The question was, could you?

[flipphone01st]

PLEASE write the mafia 141 idea you posted🥺I'm in love with the idea so much already!!!

Mafia 141/Bartender reader- Part one

Johnny🧼

Mostly Johnny/reader in this fic, because ive decided to split this up into different parts that will focus on different characters Like part 2 could focus of Gaz/reader.

Warning: not proof read, bad joke, swearing, alcohol and smoking, Johnny is a lil shit, and pushy, poorly written accents, (if I forgot anything that could have a warning let me know )

this is literally my first time actually writing a full fic so it's probably mediocre, FEEDBACK AND CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM IS GREATLY APPRECIATED. Other then that I hope you enjoy :)

Stupid uncle, stupid debt, stupid bar. You hated this, but you suppose its your own fault. If only you had just closed the door when your uncle showed up at your door begging for help because he had gained massive debt to one of the most infamous crime bosses in the city... Johnathan Price...if only you had just said no and didn't drive your ass down to Price's club and demand to speak with him, didn't try and bargain for your uncle...maybe then you wouldn't be forced to work for the bastard...

Two hours...thats how much longer you'd have to spend standing behind this bar. You swear to god, if other drunk yells at you you'll shove a jigger down their throat, and your 'coworkers', if you could even call them that, weren't making your life easier. If anything they were hellbent on making it worse. "Yer lookin' a bit peely wally." Johnny chuckles while cleaning a margarita glass, it was just him today, said Kyle was off doing something for Price, you didn't want to ask what.

You glance up at him, eyes narrowing in confusion and slight annoyance "..huh?"

"Means you look like shite." He clarifies.

You sigh and stand up, nudging an empty box away with your foot "thanks... asshole." You grumble. He chuckles and raises his hands in mock surrender, "Awe come on, I'm just funnin' with ya. You look fine, a wee bit red in the face, but that's it." He grins, you didn't hate him, he could actually be quite hilarious sometimes... sometimes...You roll your eyes. He laughs and takes out a cigarette, lighting it up. "Ya want one?" He offers.

"no...I thought price didn't like us smoking around the drinks.."

"Aye, he doesn't." He shrugs, taking a drag of his cigarette. "but what ol Pricey doesn't know won't kill em."

"mm.." your nose scrunches in disgust at the smell. you take a small step away, not wanting the smoke to settle on your clothes. He blows smoke out the side of his mouth, away from you "yer no fun ya know that?" You scoff, "pft..I can be fun.", while crossing your arms, and leaning back against the bar with your lips shaped into a slightly grumpy pout. "Oh?" He chuckles again, leaning back against the bar himself "can ya? Let's see, tell me a joke."

you think long and hard "uuuuuuuuuuuh..ok I got one. What do you call a fake noodle?" Johnny squints his eyes "...what?"

"....an impasta..."

"..."

"..." You're both silent, completely silent.... just staring at each other...

"..." Johnny sighs "that joke was dogshite."

Your shoulders slump forward in defeat "I know." He chuckles, "Well at least yer aware." before taking another drag of his cigarette. before looking at you with the most smug grin you've ever seen "but that also just proved my point...yer no fun, pipsqueak."

"Pipsqueak?" You raise an eyebrow as your eyes narrow

"Yeah, you heard me. Yer a wee'un." He teased, god you wanted to whip that stupid grin off his equally stupid face. "you're not even that much taller than me."

"I'm seven inches taller than you." He points out.

"...nuh uh.."

"Fuck ya mean, nuh uh?" His eyebrows furrowed as he tries not to laugh, on the other hand, your brows furrow in annoyance. "I mean, nuh uh."

Johnny chuckles, and places his hand on top of your head. He then leans down, the tip of his nose almost brushing yours "dena it alllll ya want..." His eyes were locked with yours, the faint smell of cigarette smoke almost making you recoil in disgust. he leans even closer, you try and lean back but you're stopped by the bar. "...yer still a pipsqueak!" then ruffles your hair aggressively.

You slap his hand away, glaring at him while fixing your hair. "Jerk! Don't do that again." you grumble, and to make matters even worse, you feel your cheeks heat up a bit. "Awe, someone's all hot and flustered now." He smirks, giving you a small jab with his elbow "c'mon now, I was just joking around, relax."

You groan softly and roll your eyes, pushing him away and walking to the other side of the bar, trying to find anything that you could use to ignore him. Johnny grins, quickly putting out his cigarette and following after you "see! that's exactly what I'm talking about. Such a grump...don't tell me yer so boring that ya don't even like a bit of harmless flirting?"

"go away, Johnny." You don't look up from the drink you were pouring for a costumer "Aww, c'mon. I'm just tryna lift yer spirits." He wraps his arm around your shoulder "you like me don't ya?" He grins, not expecting a positive answer.

Your eyes widen and you move out from under his arm "no." Was your immediate response, your voice stern. Johnny grins wider and moves to stand right in front of you, leaning right up and practically invading your personal space. "Don't lie to me now. I bet ya daydream about me, don't ya? About all of us? Me and the lads, hm?"

Your face goes red "what?" He grins, almost deviously "you think I haven't noticed the way ya seem to float off into lala land while staring at me or Kyle work? When Simon's gotta rough up some jackass? Or even when price is literally just in the room with ya? Don't try to dena it, pipsqueak...just can't keep us all out of yer fantasies eh?" His hands slide their way onto your hips, he didn't seem to care about the bar patrons laughing and ooing, some even getting annoyed that the two bartenders were flirting with each other instead of enabling their alcohol addiction.

Your brain felt like it was short circuiting, it had become uncomfortably warm. If you were a truther..you'd admit that despite hating these four men...they were kinda hot. But you're a god damn liar and you'll be one till the day you die! "i-i!..no..no way!.. you're crazy! There's no way in hell id ever like any of you like...that.."

"Mm...sure... I'm definitely crazy." He leans even closer, his voice a whisper as he presses his body into you, the two of you basically chest to chest "...crazy about you." He leans down to try and steal a kiss, you're eyes widen comically large but thankfully before you could even react the gruff voice of Simon makes Johnny freeze just before his lips could graze yours "That's enough, you two 'er supposed to be workin, not swapping spit." He glares at Johnny, you didn't notice it but there was a slight hint of jealousy in his dark eyes... you didn't notice, but Johnny sure as hell did.

Johnny quickly backs up from you, and then looks at Simon with a smug grin on his face "Jeez... Yer no fun either, Si. We were just messin' around." Simon stares him down, not breaking eye contact with Johnny for a good two minutes, until finally letting out a deep sigh "just keep it outside of work..." then glances at you, "Price said you're free to go for today.."

You nod "uh..thank you." You awkwardly stutter, still trying to process what just happened and understand how it made you feel... were you embarrassed? Very. Were you necessarily uncomfortable?... strangely enough...no, you weren't uncomfortable. Simon nods then walks off into his little office behind the bar, Johnny watches him go, then his gaze wanders back over to you "Sooo, ya gonna head off then?"

"yeah.." you answer, somewhat shyly. Johnny nods, a quick look of disappointment on his face before he masks it with a smile "alright, then...have a good night, pipsqueak." He shrugs playfully, and begins walking off to serve a poor bastard that had been trying to order a drink for the past five minutes. ".. you too, Johnny.." you mutter while walking out from behind the bar to towards the break room to get your stuff and finally leave....what a weird ass day...

END OF PART ONE. Please let me know what you thought

[captainsimagines]

the albatross || B.B || One-Shot

Summary: "Locked me up in towers, but I'd visit in your dreams. And they tried to warn you about me..."

Pairing(s): Winter Soldier x Vampire Fem! Reader

Trope(s): Unlikely friendship; Forbidden vibes; Awkward tension

Based on the Song: The Albatross by Taylor Swift

Total Word Count: 17,000+

Warnings: This one-shot contains explicit language, an identity crisis, graphic depictions of violence and blood loss, trust issues, cigarette smoking, and depressive thoughts/ideas. You are responsible for your own media consumption. This is purely fanfiction.

If you would rather read this fanfic on AO3, here is the link.

Author's Note: I really liked this idea and surprisingly, it just spilled out of me. The ending is pretty open-ended because I do imagine a part 2, but I won't write it unless there's demand for it. Either way, I love this one-shot. I hope you guys do, too. ---xxMoni

~

The Soldier enjoys watching the stars.

The Captain likes to tell him these stories about Bucky Barnes, about how he also liked watching the stars when they made camp in war-torn France. Bucky Barnes would pretend to know the math behind it all, and though the Captain said the math was a load of bullshit, he swore up and down that Barnes did know how to read palms, however.

The Soldier doesn’t know how to read palms, but he does know how to calculate the stars now.

Hearing about his past self always put him on edge. He has another man’s name, another man’s face, another man’s life story. The Soldier was expected to relearn this, to find that lost part of himself that is “deep down, Buck, I know it.” Sometimes he’d remember that he liked strawberry jam, but only if he tried it out of pure coincidence. Sometimes he’d remember the voice of a man called Gabe Jones, or of Dum-Dum—Dugan—and it reminded him that he was two people at once. Those memories were no longer his—they were—but not really. 

He was not—is not—Bucky Barnes anymore. In his head, at least. 

He knew two things with absolute certainty though, two things the old Bucky Barnes would be happy the Soldier is keeping alive: Steve Rogers is his friend and it is the Soldier’s job to protect him, and that a thousand conversations are said in comfortable silence if you simply listen. 

He passes the cigarette to the woman beside him, blowing the smoke out slowly into the frigid air. He hates the cold, but it’s better than a freezer. Freer up here on the roof of Avengers Tower. A chosen solitary. She takes the cigarette carefully, her grip extra tight since they’re hanging over the ledge. Legs swinging, hair rustling in the wind. Dropping the cigarette would cause no harm, only annoyance. They only bring four of them to their nightly meetings. 

She inhales deeply, her decaying lungs inflating just the bit, her mouth doing most of the work. She doesn’t need to breathe, he’s found. On the rare occasions he is in her presence during the day, she never does. Not even to comfort those around her who watch her warily. He likes that. Placating others was tiresome, and the Soldier had refused to do it for anyone besides the Captain until he asked. For some reason, the crease between his brow makes his stomach turn and he knows Bucky Barnes would hate him for not smoothing it over. 

The Soldier studies the woman at his right. He detects hints of dust—old cardboard, maybe—in the smoke she exhales. Her skin hadn’t paled in the way popular media suspected, nor did her hair turn white. Her skin looks ashy, her cheeks a little gaunt. The only proof she’s undead are the red eyes—he’s never seen her smile to verify the fangs. 

They never exchange words out here. No one knows they’re out here at all. He had come out for fresh air after a particularly nasty fight with Stark a year ago and found her leaning upside down on the ledge. If she had jumped, he doesn’t think he would have leapt after her. He didn’t know her and would not miss her. Let her fall and his world was unmoved. 

A year of nightly cigarettes and no more than a hundred words between them. They had built a sort of camaraderie—after a long day of pretending to be alive, they would sulk in peace together. 

He knows her name, and she his. They have never called each other those names, but he suspects she would call him James before anything else. She doesn’t seem to want to be called anything. She’s content to sit in mutual silence and bask in her invisibility. 

But the Soldier has seen her every night for a year, and everytime she is still solid. Everytime she is still dead. 

The team has forbidden anyone from being alone with her. The Captain has forbidden him from being alone with her. Stark and Banner have a fear of the unknown, and what is unknown is uncontrollable. The Soldier wonders why she was invited to the team in the first place if she was going to be locked away and hidden from the world. He wonders why the Captain even rescued him if he was going to be a red stain as well. She refuses to answer their questions, refuses to show them how she feeds, and refuses to put a single limb in the sun for experimental purposes. The team is not sadistic enough—Stark isn’t sadistic enough—to force her to burn so he can scribble the results in a notepad. So unless she’s willing to be a science experiment, she cannot be trusted. 

Unless the Soldier suddenly remembers the memories of a man lost to time, he cannot be trusted. 

So he watches as her painted lips delicately wrap around the cigarette, their last one, and allows the strange delight to roll over him at the sound of her soft sigh. 

“Goodnight,” she mumbles, her voice resembling the rustling of leaves in the dead of night. She has the same unsettling demeanor as he, perhaps more loose but still as real. The Soldier is meant to unnerve people. If they are terrified of him, they understand the depth of the mission. They will fall in line. As she rises, she grows in stature and dwarfs him. He finds he likes being the second most frightening creature in the room. He likes having a twin, finally, one that is not screaming inside his own head. 

“Goodnight,” he replies, his gaze on the twinkling city lights. Brooklyn winks at him, refusing to fade. 

The Soldier hears the roof door slam shut, and he is suddenly alone.

—————

The team is arguing. 

Stark and the Captain crowd the large room they use for briefings while everyone else sits patiently at the long table. The Soldier occupies the single seat at the far end, the closest person to him being the Widow. She is watching the scene unfold with a stoicism that could rival his own, but she is more susceptible to that twitch in her upper lip. When Stark takes a dig at the Captain’s two-timing morality, she speaks up. 

“You’re both idiots. I don’t see why we have to go empty-handed here, guys.”

Stark does his best to not roll his eyes, opting instead to squint at the Widow. “The mission is childsplay. I just think we’d have a lot more fun and a ton more juicy stories to tell if we bring all of us—”

“The answer is no, Tony. I will not bring—”

“Say it, Cap. I’m sure our cheeky little assassin here would love to hear your reasoning.”

The Captain sighs, his large hands resting atop his slender hips. The Soldier has a vague memory of a group of men around a campfire, all singing a tune in French and sour-tasting liquor spilling from their tongues, and the Captain watching with the same stance but with a grin instead. He realizes fast that this memory is attached to Bucky Barnes, and it is better off dead. 

“Buck, you know I don’t like sending you out when there is no need.”

The Soldier hates team missions. He has no issues with killing—he’s rather good at it. The issue at hand is the lack of privacy, the dependence on one another, and the trust oozing from the Captain. The Soldier isn’t the best friend he so desperately wants, and he doesn’t know how to tell him that. Staying at the Tower is the best course of action in any situation. He frightens more people than he helps, and he would only get in the way. 

He doesn’t respond to the Captain. He remains quiet, his brow furrowed as he looks between the two angry men. 

“It’s a routine inspection, Cap. This would be the perfect opportunity to bring him and the vampire.”

His stomach clenches on itself, though he gives nothing away outwardly. He’s as still as ever, hands softly gripping the handles of the chair. He reminds himself to blink more than five times a minute, and that he needs to move more muscles than just his eyes. He’s too accustomed to being frozen for long periods of time. He is no stranger to perching for hours, to hiding in the shadows. The Captain had told him his lack of movement was uncanny. 

But the mere mention of the vampire—

She had not gone on any missions yet. Her recruitment was more of a trial-run, on the basis that her input about vampires proved to be worthwhile. But it had been a year and Stark and Banner were no closer to studying the intricacies of such creatures. All they knew, or all they assumed, was what they saw from her. And since she was not allowed out of the Tower or on missions yet, they had seen little. 

“What if she goes insane and feeds on a civilian?” the Colonel chimes in, shaking his head as the Captain scoffs at the accusation, “What? You don’t think she’d run given the first opportunity? I’ve told all of you that what you’re doing here is inhumane. Just because she hasn’t seen the sun in who knows how long doesn’t mean she doesn’t want to see a damn bakery or a night-time play. And keeping her locked up will trigger her to hurt someone sooner rather than later.”

The Soldier had never wondered about that. She and him were so alike that he just assumed she was content with her situation. He’d much rather be here than under the tentacles of Hydra. He believed she would much rather be here than in the sewers. 

And it hit him—

How did she feed now?

“JARVIS doesn’t necessarily divulge details, but she’s clean with her victims. Ah, you see that on my scrumptious arms? Goosebumps. I’ve caught her eyeing these veins.”

The Soldier tilts his head, interested. The Widow marks it. 

“She’s well-fed, then,” the Captain says, though the Soldier hears that subtle shake in his voice, “How do we know she won’t escape—”

“You’re acting like she’s our hostage,” the Widow snaps. She immediately casts an apology across the table. “If she escapes, she escapes. The sun will slow her down, and she knows it. You’re all debating this as if she’s tried. She hasn’t. She has caused no trouble so far. You’re all just too scared to send her out into the wild because you haven’t gotten to know her.”

The room silences. The man at the other far end of the table, the one he usually sees with metal wings across his broad shoulders, nods in agreement. At every briefing the Soldier has sat through, Wilson was the only one to ever bring her up in conversation. Small mentions that asked where she was at that very moment, if she had shared her family history yet, if she had fed and if not, was there anything he could do. The Soldier suspects Wilson would offer his own neck if the others agreed to it. 

He doesn’t like talking about her at these meetings. Everyone acts like they have the perfect read on her. They don’t—even he doesn’t. But he does have first-hand knowledge on what the strain of her lungs sounds like, and the exact timbre of her voice. The Soldier knew more than them, and it spoiled him rotten. 

“This is a controlled mission, Cap,” Wilson adds, shrugging. “I think this can be good for her. For Barnes. For you.”

The Soldier loosens a shoulder—the tiresome act of placating—and studies Wilson in the few seconds he’s afforded since the Captain is debating inside his head. Wilson is around his age, give or take a year or two, and he has never spoken ill about him before. He’s heard the Widow and Barton murmuring their distrust about the Soldier in the beginning, but he believes the Captain shut it down. Stark’s jokes were endless, but he finds them humorous sometimes. He is the only person to ever pull a smirk from him. Wilson never spoke bad about anyone. He doesn’t know if he likes that or not. He’s grateful in an odd way, but confused mostly. There are countless things to hate him for. Tender hearts are so easily breakable, and the Soldier finds he does not want to bruise Wilson’s. 

“I’ll talk to her tomorrow,” the Captain concedes. “Buck, you up for it?”

A choice. He’s not used to having choices. 

“Okay.”

—————

Clouds block the majority of the stars tonight. 

On nights like these, he focuses on the multi-colored lives of the occupants in surrounding apartments. There are some setting up Autumn colors, others keeping their sleek, modern aesthetic. The Soldier thinks he enjoys a splash of color. He has a habit of draining it all, but he likes it while it lasts. 

The apartments are sporadically lit. Many have retired to bed. There’s a family of four returning and passing around boxes of takeout. A woman sits up in bed and reads a large fantasy novel, her cat resting lazily at the edge of her silk sheets. A teenager adjusts his computer monitor and readies a new level on the game he’s playing, an empty pizza box on his desk. So many lives happening at once—it overwhelms the Soldier. He does nothing all day besides lay in bed and eat and bathe when he has to. He has been wanting to take up knitting—something to do with his hands. Loading and taking apart guns isn’t as enjoyable as it used to be.

“They are going to take you on a mission,” he says, passing the cigarette. Her expression remains impassive. She inhales deeper than usual, his only indication that his statement affected her.

“Oh.”

She’s quick to brush him off. Good. She’s not so easily rattled. “I am going, too,” he adds.

A shrug. She passes the cigarette back. He inhales, an odd flutter in his chest as he wraps his lips around the lipstick-stained stick. 

There’s a bruise on her jawline. Tilting his head, he follows the length of it. It takes him a moment, but he finally recognizes the shape. Five purpling indents, one palm-sized. 

He didn’t even know she could bruise. 

A sudden wave of rage nearly has him marching back into the Tower, ready to interrogate every team member at gunpoint. Their distrust shouldn’t warrant violence. Then the Soldier inhales the toxic smoke again, realizing that his emotions are pointless. The Soldier does not feel, nor does he feel sympathy for others. 

The Soldier questions the validity of that statement.

Still, he ponders who could have possibly injured her. The only ones able to inflict such pressure and not kill are him, the Captain, Stark while suited-up, and the God. But they had no evidence of what strength she could or could not handle—it was entirely plausible that a regular man hurt her. And since she does not leave the Tower, the man could have been one of her meals. 

Her meal fought back.

“How do you eat?” he asks before he can swallow it. He used to be punished for asking questions. 

She turns her head slowly. It’s unsettling to the Soldier, so much so that he averts his eyes. “You know what I eat.”

“I asked how. Not who.”  She blinks at him. “You don’t leave the Tower.”

This is the most they’ve spoken in one sitting. He always assumed she’d be the one to speak first. It seems she assumed the same.

“They bring me my meals.” A quick jump of his brow indicates his surprise. “You didn’t know that.”

He shakes his head. Does the Captain know? The Soldier had heard about interrogations happening at the Tower… Were these the same victims? 

“The bad ones they keep alive. Captives. I get my pick of the litter,” she explains, though her solemn expression betrays the joy in her tone.

“Does it bother you?” he asks. The Soldier doesn’t care—shouldn’t care—and yet, he asks.

“I don’t care.” It seems she’ll not care for the both of them.

He wonders how often she needs to feed. If blood is the only thing she needs to survive. His knowledge of vampire lore comes from a few, mediocre clicks around the internet. Most articles or opinions claim that blood is their life source, but the exact time-stamp vampires can go without it is still a mystery. If she were to go without, willingly or not, would she wither away? Would she simply cease to exist?—How peaceful that sounds, actually. Would it be painless or would she feel every second? The Soldier did not feel time pass when frozen, nor did he comprehend it when allowed to breathe on his own.

“Are you skilled with weapons?” he asks. Invasions of privacy, like the Captain said, were not always welcome naturally. The truth was so much easier to obtain with a gun in hand, harder to earn with a fake smile. What really mattered was having the mission go smoothly. Maybe then the rest of the team will leave him alone and stop trying to make him assimilate. Maybe if the mission went smoothly for her, she’d steal their attention. He would be free. Free to just be.

“I don’t need them, but I have them.”

Irritation is an emotion that encases him fully nowadays. Irritation, agitation, resignation. Her bluntness rivals his, and it's itching at his skin. He liked it before—what is different today? “I am going on this mission, too. I need to know what you are skilled at to ensure the mission is a success.”

She flicks the dead cigarette bud over the ledge, watching as it gradually shrinks from sight. It was their last one. He will bring an extra one tomorrow. 

“There are no stars tonight,” she laments. Her lips twist into a small pout, nearly invisible. She has pretty lips. “Goodnight.”

He waits until she’s gone to frown. The Soldier is confused. 

—————

The team likes to get together Friday nights and watch movies in the common room. Usually the film is chosen to satisfy the Captain’s ignorance. His too, he has found. Though no one but Wilson includes him in that conversation. 

The Captain, Stark, Banner, Wilson, and the Widow are the only ones present tonight. The younger agents are suspiciously absent, but he somewhat remembers Stark mentioning a Friday night outing. Figures, considering the ones in this room are easily recognizable. 

If he were to walk around Times Square, would he cause a panic? The Soldier has been photographed a few times since returning from the shadows and each time the news outlets treat him like an enemy of state. He is, in a sense. There are plenty of things he knows that can crumble governments, but there’s no point in sharing them now. He’s not at war. He’s not under control. But he wonders what it would be like to walk around and enjoy life. To go out with friends, to dance, to go feed some pigeons. He could try—the Captain will definitely go with him—but he doesn’t know how. After so many years of feeling the sour depths of his soul, how is he expected to break through the surface in one day? The urge to be normal gnaws at him, twisting and peeling flesh and muscle, but it is so much easier to just lie in bed. If enough time passes, maybe it will just happen. 

Time was going on, speeding past his memories and lungs. Too fast, so fast he couldn’t grab time’s dangling string to slow it down. He wanted to yank it back, scream at it that he’s trying to remember, and that his new memories are preventing him from finding the ones from before. There’s so much new information that he wanted to, needed to, slow time down. How was he ever able to be Bucky Barnes again if time prevented him?

He likes when the younger ones are around. They’re less judgmental. They actually try to speak with him. Granted, it’s stupid things like: “What was the Great Depression like?” or “Straight up, who was the harder kill? Kennedy or Stalin?” The Captain usually shuts them down, but he can’t help but chuckle from the absurdity of it once he’s alone. 

“Feels weird watching this outside of a seventh grade classroom, but I promise you Steve, it’s a classic,” Wilson says, clapping the Captain on a shoulder. “The Outsiders is a rite of passage, and you my friend have not truly assimilated until you watch it.”

Sitting on a stool rather than the giant couch, the Soldier takes immediate interest in what Wilson claims. If he wants to be normal again, shouldn’t he try with the basics? Watching a movie didn’t seem all that bad. 

He’s distracted by the repetitive popping in the microwave to feel the presence at the doorway. Everyone quiets, and the Soldier straightens. He marks the distance between him and the Widow, and though he’s positive she can protect herself, he debates how he would shield her with his body. 

But there is no weapon pointed at them or enemy breaching the premises—it’s her. 

She burrows deeper into her oversized sweater, the hood covering most of her forehead. She ducks cautiously, eyes squinted as she peeks at the overhead beams. She looks ashier in the artificial light, but no less beautiful. He’s seen her during the day before, but always when she was protected by shadows. 

“Fangs!” Stark cheers, the half-drunk beer bottle in his hand sloshing violently, “We’ve already chosen the movie so don’t bitch about it like Banner always does. Popcorn’s almost finished, and we’ve got wine in the fridge. You like reds or are you like Cap here? Can’t tear a moscato from his cold, dead paws even if you were the strongest person in the world.”

The Soldier gives Stark an incredulous glare, as does the Captain. Offering her food, mentioning cold, dead hands. It gladdens him, however, that though he is the most unpredictable person in the room, he isn’t the stupidest. 

“I personally like reds,” Wilson interjects, casually strolling forward to hit the light switch. She visibly relaxes. “Want me to pour you a glass? We can talk shit about Stark together as he learns how to play the movie.”

Stark mumbles something about how the cheapest technology is often the hardest to understand. Wilson leads her into the kitchen, innocently rambling about wine tours and tasting. The Soldier meets her eyes as she passes. There is simple acknowledgement, but no words. It’s as if they don’t know each other at all. 

He has no claim to that anyway. He shares as much as she does. 

She takes a glass of moscato, curiously. He would have assumed—and that’s just it, isn’t it? He assumed.

The others settle into their spots. She looks around, a peculiar look on her delicate face. Vampires were supposedly ageless, but he sees the age in her eyes, in how she holds up her head. He’s been told that while he wears the mask, his eyes look tortured. Like they’ve seen too much.  

Her eyes held an ancient power, tainted with misery, and yet all he finds himself wondering is what color they were before she changed.

She sits on the lone recliner closest to Wilson, tucking her knees in and leaning her upper body on a pillow. She balances her wine as she adjusts, ignoring the interested stares from the others. 

“I watched this movie when it first came out,” she shares, her voice an elegant whisper. The Captain watches her warily, as does Banner. 

“So did I. You’re not special,” Stark responds, clicking the play button. The Soldier stands, but he doesn’t know what for. To defend her? To add to the harassment? To walk out of the room? 

Her small chuckle surprises him. Surprises all of them. He takes one step forward, then another, until he too is a part of the group. He chooses to sit on the cushion just beside her recliner. If he had a cigarette, it wouldn’t be so different from all the other nights. 

The Captain attempts to ignore him, but ultimately fails. The Soldier senses his relief, his hope.

They watch the movie in comfortable silence, interrupted only by Stark’s or Wilson’s personal additions. He doesn’t mind, though. He likes the movie enough to quell that poisonous irritation. It’s toward the end when he looks at her, when his curiosity gets the best of him. 

There is a sunset on the screen. 

Silver glistens across her waterline. 

Then it’s gone, because nothing gold can stay. 

The Soldier resonates most with a simpler quote. He longs for normalcy, no matter how much he prefers solitude. The voice screaming in his head won’t let him forget it. He repeats the quote several times before the end credits: "I lie to myself all the time. But I never believe me."

He used to tell himself that pain was temporary and that being put under would limit it—he always believed that one.

He’s angry that Johnny dies and that Dally kills himself. He’s angry because the Soldier cares about the Captain more than anything and would do the same. He’s angry that he, with his contaminated past and bloodied hands, can still watch the sunset. He’s angry because since she’s dead, she cannot.

—————

“I’m guessing there’s an angle here, Cap. Why else would she make nice now?”

Sometimes Stark made him question the team’s so-called heart. He assumes the Captain had to plead his case, and has continued to do so when the Soldier showed no signs of improvement. She hadn’t put up a fight when they informed her of the mission, nor did she ask any questions. The barest of nods and she was given her orders. He would have liked to be in the room when they discussed this, but he received the automatic manila folder outside his room door. 

Target: Male, 56, Hydra scientist maintaining one of eight remaining Hydra bases in North America. Assumed to be armed and dangerous. No history of super strength, night vision, or combat training. 

And in each folder the Soldier is given his team and his task. Sometimes he’d argue with the logistics considering he knew more than he let on, but this seemed simple enough. He sneers at the use of their code names. 

Soldier Objective: Joined by “Widow” and “Fangs”, retrieve the data on the main computer. Data pertaining to Hydra, Project Insight, Project Paperclip, and NASA is to be handled with care. The Soldier and Widow are cleared for hand-to-hand combat. 

He should have received everyone’s objective. To function as a team, as the Captain so desperately wants, he needs to know each detail. Knowing in advance saves lives, and omitting this now is going to get someone killed. 

As long as that someone isn’t the Captain or Wilson, the Soldier did not care as much as he should. 

Now, while walking through the dimly lit hallway with two women watching his six, he understands why the team made this her first mission. The base was mostly abandoned, there was a limited paper trail that was easy to follow, and it wasn’t too far from New York. A night-time mission usually meant difficult entryways or an ambush. He finds he enjoys the quiet walk and flickering lights, and the small conversation the Widow and the Vampire make. He’s still vigilant and hyper-focused on finding the computer lab, but he allows his mind to knock over one wall. 

The sound of women gossiping and giggling sounded a lot better than the complaints and curses of men. 

“Come on, there’s got to be someone on the team you think is hot.”

The Soldier rolls his eyes at the Widow’s comment. He doesn’t bother looking back. It’s the same thing every single time: the Widow asks the question, the Vampire answers. Neither of them include him, but he doesn’t mind. Though he sits with her every night, he doesn’t actually know much about her. And the short replies the Widow also offers make him feel… appreciative. He’s learning, he’s retaining, he’s—

He shakes his head when he compares this lesson to a filing system, as if the women guarding his back are mere test subjects, or targets. As if the information he’s learning could be used against them. 

It’s hard to rewire your brain, your thoughts. Once something has burrowed deep into each crevice, it’s hard to pull it out. Change is hard, rare, and celebrated once successful. The Soldier’s wiring needs to change if he is to ever learn anything new for the innocent purpose of being human. 

“I think the Captain is good looking,” she answers, huffing a laugh when the Widow hums in agreement. 

“He’s a tough one to crack.”

“But you’ve cracked him.”

The Widow waits for the Soldier to secure the corner before walking forward and punching in a code. He sees her narrow her eyes, a small smirk gracing her pale lips. 

“I am cracking him.”

The Soldier has seen the Captain blush around the Widow, has seen him shield her before others, and has always walked beside her in support. He didn’t think it meant anything—the Captain was kind to everyone. But there is a… tenderness shared between them. Perhaps cultivated over the long months they were searching for him. She and Wilson were the only ones who believed there was a chance they'd even find him.

“He likes you. His heart pumps quicker when you’re around.”

It should bother him that she’s exposing the Captain’s feelings. But the Captain deserves an intimate form of companionship, something to take his mind off the fact that the Soldier has no problem drowning in solitude.

“You can hear our blood?”

“Only when I concentrate.”

The Soldier lifts a hand to stop them. There’s a soft rustling behind the door they are meant to enter. Drawers being opened. If it is indeed their target, then Wilson and the Captain are running around for nothing. His unit wasn’t supposed to engage in any arrests—he has half a mind to just bring the Widow along. 

He splits them up. The Widow remains with him. He’ll confront the target as she works the computers. He turns to give the last order, but is softly interrupted. 

“There’s a back door just around the corner. I can pick it and blend into the shadows.”

The Soldier thinks about it, then nods. “Do not engage unless I order it.”

A misty rogue. Stark is insane—she could be useful on more daunting missions.

Armed with two shortswords, one gold and one ruby, she pulls on the hood of her cloak and gives them a small smile. A smile that said she’d follow his directions and remain hidden forever, if needed.

He and the Widow work in tandem, noiselessly picking the lock and creeping into the room. With her red hair pulled up, she shimmies along the wall quickly, heading for the largest of the six monitors. The only light comes from the handheld flashlight their target uses to read loose papers. His frantic eyes search for something along the black, redacted text. The Soldier simply struts forward, his mask doing most of the intimidation, his boots announcing his arrival. Their target clutches a file close to his chest as he retreats. Off to the side, the Soldier vaguely sees the back door open and close. 

“I’m unarmed,” their target squeals, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m not here to cause trouble.”

What ridiculous lies, he thinks. Hydra did not apologize, nor did they beg for ceasefires. They trained him to ignore such pleas, such excuses. And by the way the Soldier grips him by the neck to lift him, he was trained well. 

“When I let you go,” the Soldier says, his voice a deadly timbre, “give me the weapon you have at your back.”

The target struggles, his gurgling embarrassingly loud. A monitor brightens, and the Widow waves as she gets to work. The target, once recognizing her, loses most of his hope. He is dropped and the weapon clatters to the floor. The Soldier does not retrieve it—it is yanked into the shadows. 

“We thought you were dead,” he says, panicked eyes never leaving the mask. No one ever wanted to look him in the eyes. No one ever wanted to hear him speak. 

“I’m going to reach into your coat and grab that file. Make a move and I will break the first bone I come into contact with.”

“Mm,” the Widow hums, her downloads beeping one-by-one as they finish, “Steve frowns on that if they surrender willingly.”

“Complete the download,” he orders. He doesn’t like when the Widow rambles during these missions. The more he grows to enjoy her company, the more distracted he’s destined to get. The more he avoids interaction, the more efficient he’ll be. 

And lonely—

“It’s done,” she says, rolling her eyes. She stands at his side, arms crossed. “Just sedate him already so we can get out of this rusty hellhole—”

He turns to look at her. One quick glance at the red menace. That’s all it takes. 

The target draws a knife and whips it wildly, slashing the Widow across her neck. It’s unlike her to be so ill-prepared. The Soldier doesn’t know whether to press his palm across her neck or kill the target. This has never happened before. The team is going to question his capabilities, his true alliances, his reflexes, his empathy—

The target yelps in agony. The decision is made for the Soldier. 

He has no choice but to bend his neck to the hunter behind him, holding him close and ripping through his carotid. The Widow curses and holds her wound, her steady voice settling the awful worry in the pit of his stomach. 

Worry… For his team. He would smile if the situation wasn’t so chaotic.

The spray of blood is mostly contained. Her fangs dig so deep that blood seeping from the puncture is caught by her lips. Her lipstick stains his pale neck, paler now as she consumes him whole. Barely concealed by the shadows, she hungrily drinks without remorse. Payback. Her red eyes glow brighter than he’s ever seen them, black veins crawl and stretch from the corners, and he swears there’s smoke surrounding her strong body. Like a bad omen, a demon emerging from the depths of gloom itself.

He falls limp in her arms, his dead eyes blindly watching the Soldier as she drops him to the floor. His eyes were once blue. They’re white now.

“Are you okay?” she asks the Widow, standing somehow taller, solid. 

The Widow looks at her drenched hand and nods slowly. “I’m not opposed to one of you carrying me back.” The wound is superficial, but no less alarming. He picks her up and holds her close, signaling to his newly nourished partner. She gets the hint. Hauling the dead man over a shoulder, she waits for him to lead the way. 

Barton takes the Widow from his arms, his laughs overlapping her own. The Captain checks on her before marching over to him and the woman with dried blood on her neck, who then drops the target at the Captain’s feet.

“What the hell happened?” Anger. It’s an emotion so rare for the Captain. At least, it’s rare to the Soldier. 

“Concealed knife. I didn’t check him thoroughly,” he answers, his explanation true enough. He should have known even Hydra scientists kept an extra weapon on their person at all times, especially small ones. He just didn’t think the Widow would get nicked so easily—that she didn’t see that coming at all. 

“But why is he dead?”

She raises her reddened chin at him to boldly say, “He attacked. The downloads were complete. We weren’t even supposed to run into him. That was your job.”

It’s obvious the Captain wasn’t expecting her response. Immediately his face loosens and his shoulders do that guilty-drop the Soldier sees often. “You’re right. Your team wasn’t supposed to encounter him at all. It’s a mistake on my end.”

“Not that we didn’t have muscle to defend ourselves,” she lightly jokes, then kicks the pale body on the floor. 

“We’re going to have to report this.”

“Do what you must.”

“And—” the Captain strains, looking to the Soldier for assistance. But he knows what he’s about to say, and gears up to fight it. “And because this is an on-duty death, you need to go to psych.”

“Don’t send her there,” the Soldier cuts in, his stomach dropping. “Say I killed him. Just don’t send her there.”

“That’s not how this works, Buck.”

“Psych is a glorified therapy session that fails to help even the lowest of street cops. It’s judgment, not help.”

“I can’t override it.”

The Soldier sighs, argument after argument swirling in the mess of his mind. The times he went to psych were all the same. Constructed in a way that made him feel like killing was always the wrong choice. Neglecting that now, he has the choice. Sometimes he’ll claim a stray bullet, but the majority of his kills are necessary. They are strategic. They are his own. 

“It’s fine,” she says, tilting her head at her kill. “Not the first time I’ve been evaluated.”

“Psych can be bypassed if the kill was a team-effort. I’ll see if I can get Fury to sign off on it.”

She shakes her head at the Captain. “You wanted to know more about my life, yes? I’m assuming these things aren’t confidential to you or Stark… But when you do go talking about me to the others, make sure to mention that I drained him dry.”

—————

"Do you hate me for it?"

The Soldier offers an unimpressed look. He hands her the cigarette and blows out the smoke burning his throat. “Funny.”

There’s a quirk at her lip. She takes a longer drag than usual, trying to mask it.

“They all hated me for it back then.”

“Who?”

“Family. Friends. Enemies. Lovers.”

“And you cared what they thought?”

She shrugs, stealing a second drag. “At the time.”

Her lipstick is a brownish-maroon today, and he finds himself studying the tint before bringing the cigarette back to his mouth. He doesn’t share anything nowadays besides cigarettes and a living room. The Captain offers him food, money, advice—the Soldier takes but never gives. 

Her face contorts slightly, her jaw ticking. Such extravagant movements for the simple outcome of showing her four canines. The points extend maybe half a centimeter longer than the rest of her teeth. Because of her minimal overbite, the teeth slide perfectly against one another. She runs her tongue over the top two.

He wonders how his victims would have reacted if they got to see the lower half of his face. There would have been no smile accompanying the kills. He had growled from frustration, to incite fear. Teeth weren’t necessarily frightening. They’re a barrier to words, the shield for tongues, the blades against intruders. Her teeth were her life-force, the blades needed to let those intruders in. 

“How was your evaluation?”

A small snort. He looks at her—her ancient grace, the absence of grays at her roots, her glaring red eyes. 

“They kept asking if the smell of Natasha’s blood affected me.”

“Judging by your nonchalance, I’d say you went completely feral over it.”

Another quirk at her lip. He likes the movement. 

“You believe that I wouldn’t attack any one of you. Thanks.”

He does. She hasn’t attacked him up here, hasn’t attacked anyone on the team, and has never tried to escape to wreak havoc on the city. He doesn’t tell her he does, but she feels it somehow. Her shoulders loosen.

The tension slowly dissipates from his body as well—a revelation both amazing and concerning. The Soldier should never have his guard down. He should always be prepared for a fight.

“The ones they bring me are always so happy to be led to their deaths,” she says, a small frown quickly forming then disappearing. “Sometimes I wait until they’re asleep. Or when they’re facing the other way. Sometimes I drain them when they’re inside of me.”

He blinks. “You have sex with them?”

“I never leave the Tower. I can’t leave. I’ve been living alone for so long that I don’t even think I can go into the real world and bring someone home. Would you know how?”

He doesn’t need to think about such a ridiculous possibility. He can’t even find it within himself to give Wilson a matching pat-on-the-back. “No.”

She gives a small nod. Absent of pity, filled with strange empathy. “I tell them they’re going to die. I ask them how they would like to go. They choose that most of the time.” She chuckles, “I only offer it to the cute ones.”

“They’re bad people, though.”

“They’re dying anyway. Might as well die feeding me.”

He doesn’t remember it, but the Soldier considers sex—or pleasure, really—to be too much of a gift. The people they capture and keep to interrogate are scum of the Earth, his tormentors. She’s rewarding his villains. 

Anger floods his chest, violent and nasty. She snatches the cigarette from his rigid fingers. 

He could push her off the ledge. No one will miss her. He will. She’ll probably survive the tremendous fall. She’ll continue the cycle. She can’t leave the Tower. He can’t leave the Tower. 

“I don’t have to sleep with them,” she says, her voice so quiet he wouldn’t be able to hear without his advancements. “But when I do, they taste a little sweeter. I haven’t had sweets in so long… Not since my birthday. Did you know I died on my birthday? My mom bought me chocolate instead of donating those five cents to the war effort. I wasn’t a child anymore but she never forgot my birthday… So, I can make it through ten minutes of boring sex. And when it’s done, for a blessed moment, I remember the taste of sugar and my mom’s smile when I broke the bar in two so we could share.”

For the first time in a long time, the Soldier is speechless. Because he sympathizes… A once frozen emotion thawed by the mention of chocolate and a mother. He tries and fails to remember his own mother’s face. After so many years of only being able to see his eyes, he prays they matched hers. After so many years of being force-fed genetically-modified trash, he has forgotten the taste of chocolate.

His anger is replaced by a solemn peculiarity that itches along his insides. He is aware of his loss, her loss, the logic in her kills. She feeds blindly in the hopes of feeling whole again. Has he done anything to feel whole again besides bury the screams lower and lower? 

“I was feral today because we were never supposed to come into contact with the target and he almost hurt you. He managed to hurt Natasha. I did what I had to do.”

And she was being punished for it. 

“He tasted disgusting, by the way.”

The Soldier, honest to God, laughs. Not expecting it, her shoulders tense and she jumps a little. He shoots his flesh hand out to hold her still, gripping her thigh as she pulls her gaze back up. Instinct—he does not want her to fall after all. 

“Sorry,” he says, surprising himself. Then, as he allows a tendril of Bucky Barnes to escape through the walls he had forged from steel, he jokes, “I’m still stuck on the fact that when you fuck, you think of your mother’s face.”

His ill-timed vulgarity is rewarded with a sudden cackle of her own, a vicious and underutilized sound that pulls her lips back and showcases all four sharp canines in their primal glory. Crinkles by her eyes, she sits with the aftershocks of it.

He gives her the first drag of their last cigarette.

—————

He had been exiting the Tower with Wilson when it started.

Three large booms above had them ducking for cover. Debris slammed into the concrete and damaged parked cars while burnt furniture landed in odd angles after barely missing pedestrians. Smoke clouded their aerial view—there was no way Wilson was going to be able to fly through the black cloud blind. It was up to Stark and the Colonel to fly directly from the roof. 

“Cap, what the hell was that?” Wilson yelled into his phone. He directed the floor staff away from the building and into the cafe next door. The Soldier analyzed each person, their expressions, the things in their hands. The smoke blocked his view of the lower rooftops. No one tried storming the bottom floor. There were no planes or helicopters around, and the glass had shattered outwards. 

The threat was internal. 

“It seems one of our captives managed to plant explosives before—” The Captain stops, his voice heavy with exertion. “JARVIS doesn’t think we’ve been compromised or that there are any intruders. Just good ol’ fashion bombs.”

“We’ll get everyone down here to safety. You guys handle the top,” Wilson says, wiping a nervous hand over his head. 

“Ask him which type of captive it was,” the Soldier tells him, failing to keep his rising panic leveled. Wilson’s bewilderment is marked in his brow, but he asks anyway. 

“He doesn’t understand the question—”

“Was it one of the captives we sent back to the police or was it one we sent to be fed on?”

Wilson waits for the Captain to clarify, still not understanding the danger of the situation. “Fed on.”

The Soldier sprints back into the Tower and clicks the elevator button, cursing when the lights flicker out. Stark and the Colonel were busy flying people out, the Widow and the Captain were securing the floor, Banner was putting out the fire with the young ones, and the God was probably doing all three things. Though all honorable, they were also clueless. Because if the explosion had happened on her floor, there was no floor left. No walls. No tinted glass. And though there was black smoke clogging everyone’s nostrils and burning everyone’s vision, the sun was still shining. 

“Come outside again and bend your knees,” someone orders from behind him. The Witch tilts her red head at him, a regal seriousness twinkling in her eyes. He does as she says. She contorts her glowing hands, and he is lifted through the thick cloud and past several dozen floors before landing on the seventy-seventh.  

Flames nip at his exposed arms, but the burn is nothing compared to the strain on his lungs. He limits his deep gulps and barrels through turned furniture and glass. Screams come from further down the collapsed hall, but he hears Banner amongst them.

“Rogers!” he yells, swiping at exposed wires hanging in his way. Electricity shoots up his metal arm, momentarily paralyzing it. He holds his breath and waits for the upgraded vibranium to reboot. 

“Bucky! Over here!”

“Did you find her?” he asks when he reaches the Captain, dodging Tower employees on their way to the Colonel a few feet away. The Colonel flies three down at once, his return time averaging ten seconds. At this rate, ten more trips and the entire floor should be evacuated. 

“I can’t see anything past this damn smoke!” the Captain explains, coughing loudly as he brushes stray ash off the Soldier’s singed shoulder. He allows the touch, feeling gratitude rather than his usual discomfort. “She’d be knocked out by now. This smoke is killing me.”

He shakes his head. “She doesn’t have to breathe. The smoke isn’t the issue. If I was her, I would hop from shadow to shadow, but she can’t even see those. One wrong move and she could step directly into the sunlight.”

“She doesn’t have to breathe?” he asks. Fascination paints the Captain’s face before he switches again. “What do you suggest?”

“Don’t ask why I know, but I know you and I can hold our breaths for at least three minutes before we need air.”

Hydra loved their experiments. The Soldier is grateful he doesn’t have to do this underwater. 

“Then I’m right behind you, Barnes.”

They stalk through the heavy smoke carefully, using the collars of their t-shirts to wipe the burn at their eyes and to inhale deeply after the first three minutes. There is no sign of their resident vampire, only debris and some of Stark’s failed experiments. The floor above had also fallen, but the steel beams were still intact. No one lived above or below her, but that didn’t mean Stark hadn’t splurged on unnecessary furniture and decorations. Each step they took was a cautious one. Only the Soldier could push and pull burning wood and fabric out of their path without risk of burns, and the shield covered their heads as glass fell through the floor above. It would take Stark approximately a week to repair this, but for now the Soldier thanks whatever entity listening that the damage wasn’t catastrophic. 

He had just started to call this place a home. The only place where he was afforded solitude. Choice. 

Having it burned to the ground should have sent him on a spiral, a thought that irritated him more than scared him. He doesn’t like starting over from scratch. It was hard enough to do the first time without a base. But all the thoughts occupying his head right now are about her, how this is her home too, and that she needed his help.

“Buck! Over here!” 

The Captain tries lifting the large stone of concrete blocking the small sanctuary she’s hidden in, but it’s no use. The surrounding glass and heated metal are pinching and burning his palms. She does not scream for help, nor does she alert them of her location. She’s eerily quiet. 

He looks around, then down at his own body. He’s wearing black, and the Captain is wearing white. They have to be quick.

“Move!” he tells him. In sync, the Soldier slides his metal arm beneath the concrete and lifts—the Captain reads his mind verbatim, stripping himself of his shirt and preparing to wrap her upper half. She screams in agony, the sound scraping along the walls of his matted skull. The Captain barrels into the small crevice, shielding her with his body. 

“We’ve got you,” the Captain says gently, coughing off to the side. The Soldier can’t see her, but he trusts the Captain’s calm reaction. 

“Go!” he yells, the concrete slab pulling at his shoulder. Ten more seconds and he’s going down with it. 

The Captain picks her up and runs in the direction they came from, the Soldier following. He can’t see her face, but he can see her arms. What looks like silver rashes blister and boil as they hang in full view of the sunlight. 

He catches up to them, adds to their shield, and dares to hold her limp hand in his.

—————

She doesn’t go to the roof the next four nights. He does not smoke without her, but he brings a pack just in case.

The Soldier sits on the ledge, scarily desperate to be spoken to, alone with his own damning thoughts.

—————

He sneaks into the Captain’s snack cupboard in the middle of the night. There are chips of all sorts and flavors, packaged noodles, and packets of sauces from various restaurants. The chocolate is in a box of its own, three or four bars already missing. It’s one of those famous brands, popular during his time and still. With a final glance down the quiet hall, he steals a bar and closes the cupboard.

The silky wrapping is familiar to both his metal and flesh hand. He has eaten this candy before. A lifetime ago. Another person ago.

He peels the wrapping and breaks off a single rectangular piece. Crisp and clean. He slides his flesh fingertips together, smoothing the chocolate into his skin. The smell is overwhelmingly intriguing, so much so that his mouth waters. 

He bites the warmed chocolate, swishing it around his tongue. Vanilla, caramelized sugar—the creamy texture suits the sweetness, the aroma of cocoa soothing the tension at the base of his neck. He takes another small bite, and this time he has a vision of a woman’s face, older by maybe a year or two. The same eyes, hair color, and top lip as him.

Bucky Barnes had a sister. He had a sister. She liked chocolate. He bought her a bar with his first paycheck. He remembers something other than bloodshed and angry voices. He remembers his sister’s eyes and the fact he was a working man when it counted the most. He wipes at his wet eyes with the back of his metal hand, wincing from the scratch. 

“I had the same reaction when I tried chocolate again after I woke up.”

The Soldier doesn’t move a muscle. He watches the Captain approach the counter with a good-natured smirk. He holds his hand out, waiting. The Soldier hesitates—and it hits him then that he wouldn’t be able to share the chocolate with her anyways—but he breaks a piece for the Captain. Whether it’s because his whole opinion on the Captain has changed after he protected her with his own body, or because the Soldier wants to take one cautious step forward on the path to healing, so be it. He doesn’t make a fuss about the sharing, just brings the chocolate to his mouth and enjoys the piece just as the Soldier did. 

“Dernier used to rant about how French chocolate was elite,” the Captain chuckles. He lifts himself onto the counter. His sleep attire consists of gray sweatpants and those tight, white t-shirts the Widow buys him. As he rakes his eyes further, the Soldier nearly cackles from the sight of the Captain’s black and yellow socks depicting small, alien-like cartoons with goggles and overalls. 

Steve Rogers used to sleep in socks all the time. The Captain does the same. 

“Did we ever eat chocolate during our time on the front line?” he asks. The Soldier uses the roof of his mouth to somehow spread the flavors. 

“They sent us some packaged kits but it wasn’t the same. This chocolate is made from cooked milk, not powdered. We didn’t complain, though. It was nice to taste something from home, even if it didn’t exactly match Ma’s baking. But Falsworth found some real chocolate in a bombed bakery right outside of Poznań—”

“It was Morita.”

The Captain blinks. “What?”

“Falsworth pointed out the bakery, but Morita was the only one with big enough balls to actually go in there and bring us back the sweets. He grabbed some flour and sugar bags, too.”

The Captain chews his piece slowly, his gaze never leaving the Soldier’s. Fascination, sorrow, elation—all of it fighting to overtake one face. He doesn’t like that he can’t pinpoint the exact emotion attacking the Captain, or that they don’t match the four primary ones. 

“Yeah, Buck. You’re right. It was Morita.”

That screaming voice in his head quiets now, opting for a more subtle cheering. Pride, he realizes. 

The Soldier shares the rest of the chocolate bar with the Captain, and then another, all while they reminisce about the Howling Commandos. It’s equal parts warped memories and clear ones. But that doesn’t matter, because what he doesn’t remember the Captain clarifies, and vice versa.  

—————

A week after the attack, the Soldier is the first one to arrive on the roof, cigarette box in hand. He has gone every night, and every night he has sat alone. The absence of the undead shadow he’s come to expect is odd, almost as if his presence alone unsettled the unnatural balance of things. Death was natural, but she defied it.

This felt too normal. 

The roof door opens. He hasn’t opened the new pack yet. She takes small steps to the ledge, wincing slightly as she swings her right leg over. He watches her and says nothing—the team doesn’t speak about their injuries unless they’re serious, and she doesn’t speak to anyone at all. 

He’s never asked her about her relationship with the others. He only knows how she is with him. It feels unbalanced somehow. She knows more about his character now than anyone else, besides the Captain, because he doesn’t speak with anyone else. He doesn’t know what she does with the other twenty-one hours of her day. He feels he’s allowed to ask considering just how vulnerable he’s seen her. A small part of him feels like that’s taking advantage. 

“You could have started without me,” she says, the low timbre of her voice still strong enough to raise the hair on his arms. Not even the upcoming seasonal chill has succeeded in that. He doesn’t get cold often. Unless he’s dreaming. 

“They don’t taste the same if I do.”

It’s bold, what he says. She’ll think he means a cigarette is best shared with a friend and conversation. He won’t tell her the two reasons he smokes at all: It elicits a soothing, guttural response that sends him back to midnight campfires serenaded by distant stories of home, and because he’s come to enjoy the taste of red, of brown, of pink, inked at the white base. 

She hums lightly and finally swings her left leg over. Again the movement seems to hurt her. He notices her skin is ashier, cracking where her laugh lines would be, and her red eyes emit a soft glow. Her lips are nearly white and her hair refuses to hold in any natural moisture. She’s drying up, and yet she takes the cigarette he offers and inhales until decayed lungs inflate. 

“You look terrible.” The trapped voice within him curses at him relentlessly, probably begging to be sent to the front lines to take over this battle for him. Flirting was Bucky Barnes’ thing, not the Soldier's. Then again, the Soldier doesn’t think he’s trying to flirt. But he doesn’t want to dismiss her either. 

“Yeah, that happens when I go a few days without eating.”

“They’re not bringing you food?”

“They’re repairing my floor. Their minds are elsewhere.”

“But… You look terrible.”

He shuts himself up by taking a long puff, avoiding her amused gaze. He’s not trying to be funny, but it does make him feel a little better to know she isn’t taking his careless words seriously. 

“I haven’t left the guest room. The windows on your floor aren’t made for my condition.”

How could the team, how could he, be so clueless? He should have checked on her when she didn’t come the first night. Should have knocked on her door and checked if she had enough damn pillows. Banner should have visited and taken the opportunity to ask those subtle but obvious questions. 

“How long can you go without?”

“Forever. I won't die from it.”

“But how long before it hurts?”

The question surprises her. She takes the cigarette from his fingers cautiously, as if the question was tied to a physical one. He’s aware that she’s physically weak, vulnerable, open to prodding—completely exposed. 

She thinks for a moment before saying, her shoulders hunched and eyes glowing softly, “It hurts right now.”

He does not think before saying, as he snatches the smoke back and gets a little lost in the brown lip stain he can now taste wholly, “What would happen if you drank from me?”

Her eyes widen ever so slightly. Both curiosity and outright distaste floods her once calm expression. He should be offended by that, but instead he waits. Strangely… excited for her answer. 

“I’ve never had a true, willing victim before.”

“Don’t call me a victim.”

“I’ve never had a true, willing supper-plate before.”

“Better.”

 She huffs a short laugh. “As hungry as I am, drinking from you would be a poor decision.”

Because of the serum, because of the bite marks, because they barely know one another—the reasons are endless, really. But the Soldier wants to help, and wanting is rare. 

“Do you have to kill?”

“No.”

“Will it leave a mark?”

“A little one.”

“How much do you need?”

“As much as the typical person would donate.”

“Have you ever gotten sick from someone’s blood?”

She takes a long drag, contemplative. “Once.”

He realizes that for the first time in a long time he knows more about the science portion of things, rather than the brutal aspects, before Banner and Stark. Not even psych got these specifics. He is truly two steps ahead, and something like… greed, envelops him. A peculiar type of greed—a fanatical smugness at the fact that he of all people has taken the time to learn something the others have given up prying for. 

The Soldier, for once, is being considerate. Elation pools in his empty stomach because of her hesitation—because she is considering his well-being. 

He nods, his decision final. “Drink from me.”

“Quite possibly the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.”

“You’re killing yourself because you won’t ask for help.”

“Asking for help,” she drawls sarcastically, frowning. She flicks the dud into the aerial abyss and reaches for their second cigarette of the night. “Have you asked for it?”

He lights the end for her. “I don’t need help.”

“You’re just as isolated as I am. According to Natasha, we’re unhealthy.”

“My seams aren’t unraveling as we speak.” Even as he says it, he knows she’ll counter it.

“That’s the difference. You can see mine. Your seams are in here,” she explains, pointing at her own temple. “I’ve accepted my death a long time ago.”

His brow draws together. “If that were true, you would stay here until the sun came up.”

Shaking her head, she blows the smoke out in two short spurts. “Mostly everything about being human is dead to me. My heart no longer beats. If I don’t mask it with perfume, you’ll start smelling rotting meat. I sleep, maybe, ten days of the year. Wine is the only human thing I can consume without vomiting. I am a dying paradox, forced to pretend. But my mind is my own, and though my heart is frozen, it’s still there. I may be dead, but I don’t want to die.”

The Soldier wakes each morning, his mind finally his own, his heart somehow intact. He has a team who tries to support him, a friend who would destroy the world for the memory of him, and a vampire companion he has never thanked for simply being there. His heart beats the same as it did in 1945, he sleeps a full night through one-hundred days of the year, and he hasn’t drank wine since moving into the Tower. He is living, and yet he has no life. He is forced to pretend to be Bucky Barnes, forced to automate the husk of a living paradox. They tried to kill the human part of him, and when they partially succeeded, he wanted to die along with it. His memory is dead, slowly reviving, and he doesn’t want to die now. 

He makes an apathetic noise, unwilling to reveal just how much her vulnerability burrowed into his own. “The offer is still on the table.”

The cigarette is halved. 

“It’ll hurt a little bit.”

“As long as you don’t kill me.”

She considers once more, even studying his neck as she does. The Soldier has been at the will of others before, but this is different. He chose this.

“Then get comfortable. I don’t want you falling over.”

Their feet hit the roof at the same time. It’s the first time he notices how much taller he is. The second cigarette is flicked away, the third—for now—stays in the pack. She dusts the back of her sweatpants off, cleaning her arms next. She’s nervous, he realizes. That funny smugness comes back, stronger than before. 

“Take as much as you need,” he offers, his smirk widening when she rolls her eyes. She crosses her arms and inspects him head to toe, a smirk of her own to match his. It’s suddenly intimate. Her eyes glimmer and shine so bright he no longer wants to lift his head to see the natural wonders—the two brilliant rubies taking him apart piece by piece are the most unnatural wonders in the world. What does he look like to her? Is there a scarlet glow outlining his body? Can she see the way his index and thumb tap together, the only physical sign of nerves he’ll show anyone. Can she hear his steady heartbeat, trained to combat adrenaline, and through the ruse can she see how desperately Bucky Barnes is banging on the walls to escape? Not to oppose the incoming bite, but to be the one to feel a woman’s mouth on him again. The Soldier apologizes to him, promises that it isn’t anything sexual, and whispers that he’ll break him out soon. Little by little, he’ll help pull the dead man inside of him to the surface. 

“Tilt your head for me,” she gently instructs. She swallows hard. He does as he’s told. 

Slowly, she creeps forward. Close enough that he should feel her hot breath, but there’s nothing at all. Her cold palms rest on his cheeks, scratching against his stubble, the pads of her thumbs near the corners of his parted mouth. Boldly, she traces a hand down his angled neck—pauses—then hooks his hair behind his ear. The Soldier involuntarily shivers, but he does not reprimand himself. 

“Ready,” she murmurs, excitement glimmering in the swirl of crimson. Are his gray ones just as potent?

“As I’ll ever be.”

Just as they did back at the Hydra base, the skin around her eyes deepens in color, black veins extending far down her cheeks. Her fangs, once hidden by her tempting lips, nudge his neck. Four needle points, though the two on top are the first to puncture him. He hisses softly but quickly relaxes into her strong hold, their chests pressed together. Before he can encourage her, she bites down. 

It’s… 

Otherworldly. Bizarre. Erotic. 

She moans as she drinks, and he—matches it. 

One hand delicately holds the other side of his neck, the other trailing to his waist. He can’t trust that she knows exactly what she’s doing, lost in her bloodlust, so he tries to ignore it. Tries to ignore the serum rushing to heal his wound and the once dormant, primal reaction of his blood rushing south. But she drinks plenty, greedily, and he’ll offer her more still. 

She detaches herself, licking at the injury. He shuts his eyes and suppresses a groan. She takes this reaction as pain, however. 

“Did I hurt you?”

He shakes his head. “Was that enough?”

“Can you handle a little more?” He nods, and she punctures him again. 

He gets lightheaded the longer she drinks, but it’s worth it. Her skin is returning to its natural shade, her eyes are dimming, her lips are moistening. Even her grip feels stronger. Unlike the last time, there is no smoke circling them. She is simply feeding, visible to the elements. Visible to him. 

And apparently, visible to their first ever trespassers. 

“Three seconds, Fangs! One, two—”

The Soldier throws a knife backward just as she removes her bloodied teeth, landing a perfect stab in one of the crevices in Stark’s suit. The Colonel sneaks up behind her and hauls her up into the air. Stark flies behind him, holding his arms to his sides. 

“I always knew you were into some kinky shit, Sergeant. But unsupervised? BDSM one-oh-one, make sure your partner can be trusted.”

“Let me go,” he warns. Then, deeper and more brutal, “Let her go.”

Stark scoffs, but lets him go anyway. “She was just eating you. I think your sympathies are leaning toward the Axis—”

“She wasn’t hurting me! I let her feed because you bastards haven’t fed her in days!”

Stark and the Colonel pause, their eyes meeting. The latter seems more surprised. “Shit, Tony. Is that true?”

“Hold on, hold on, back up. Let me think about this.”

The Colonel interjects, his brow rising. “What’s there to think about? Did you feed her or not? Did you let her starve?”

“I’m not in charge of it!” Stark makes a small hand motion to tell the Colonel to let her down. The second her feet hit the roof, she’s wiping his blood from her jaw. He wants to tell her not to. It was her claim, her right. She need not be ashamed for simply surviving. “But I can see where our wires have gotten crossed,” Stark concedes.

The Soldier leaves his neck as is. Blood slowly trickles to his collarbones and into his t-shirt. Stark follows it, the slightest twinge of curiosity flashing across his bearded face. 

The Soldier steps closer to him, his gaze enough to unravel even the strongest of men. “How can you forget one of your own?”

Still, Stark persists, his self-assurance unrelenting. “If you haven’t noticed, Barnes—You two are the most reclusive, secretive, stone-faced people on this team. I avert my eyes whenever one of you even enters the room.”

“I didn’t hurt him.”

They all turn to her. He hates how small her voice sounds, how modest she makes herself. To defend herself. 

“Yeah, we see that,” Stark says, rubbing his temples. “Don’t know why we bothered. If he wanted you dead, I’d suspect you’d be… deader.” 

“Then leave,” the Soldier grinds out.

“Barnes—” the Colonel sighs. He extracts himself from his suit, the silver absorbing the moonlight. “We just caught her feeding from you.”

“With permission.”

Stark mumbles, “Glad to know the Winter Soldier is all about consent—”

“We need to report this. She’s never… She’s never done that before,” the Colonel decides, though his expression tells him he’s in battle with his own words. “And if it’s because we’ve made her recruitment mirror captivity, then we need to re-evaluate the ethics, Tony.”

“For now, no one is allowed on the roof.”

“Are you serious?”

“It’s fine,” she says, straightening her shoulders. “I put you in danger and they saw what they saw. If I want to be a part of the team, they need to know everything, right?”

The Colonel steps back into his suit, the closure of his mask unsettling something within the Soldier. Masks function as detachment, as a lie. He knows the man underneath, but he is forced to make peace with the myth. 

“Meet us bright and early in the lab,” Stark orders her, masking himself as well. He motions for her to follow.

Before the door shuts, she looks over her shoulder. No mask in sight. 

“Smells like cigarettes up here,” Stark mutters, coughing dramatically.

—————

She is restricted to the lab for the next two days and ordered to complete another round of psych. No matter how often he threatens to put a knife in Stark’s neck, he doesn’t budge. The Captain swears that no invasive procedures are taking place, that he is present for any and all questions Stark and Banner are throwing at her. He says she is cooperating, even telling them how and how often she needs to feed in order to be effective in battle. They find that the serum did not affect her at all.

But when he sees her at the end of her imprisonment, her red irises no longer hold an excited or even tame glow. They are void. 

They remind him of his own. 

And he is terrified.

—————

He awakens with a jolt, immediately pulling the gun from underneath his pillow and aiming at the intruder with sleepy eyes but steady hands. The shadows do little to conceal her, especially with the slight glow from her eyes and the fact that the moon shines upon her. She’s forgone her usual black clothing tonight, and instead dons pink—a cotton two-piece night set. Slight collar on the shirt, shorts for bottoms. Pockets. If he didn’t recognize her shadow like his very own, he’d wonder who exactly was standing at the edge of his bed, watching him sleep. 

“Shoot me. I want to see what happens.”

He lowers the weapon, glaring at her playfully. “Funny.”

“Never been shot before. Curiosity kills me daily.”

“Can you bleed out?”

“I can bleed. But no, I can’t bleed out.”

“Is it your blood?”

“No. It’s the blood I consume. I use it for energy.”

“What are you doing in my room?”

She smirks, shrugging her shoulders as if her unannounced presence is normal. “I knew they were going to bar you from the rooftop and were going to send me my dinner around this time, so I took the opportunity.”

He draws himself further up the bed, his naked chest on display. Wiping the sleep from his eyes, he pats the space beside him at the same time. He hears her snicker, the accidental innuendo making him blush. It’s a weird feeling—to be thought of in that way. To think in that way. 

She hops in beside him but stays above the blanket. He raises a brow. 

“I would only make your bed colder.”

It truly is like lying beside a cadaver. She produces little heat when she feeds, but this… This is her natural state. He feels it all, distinguishable from the natural chill of night and three feet of distance. 

“Do you like being cold?”

“It makes summers easier.”

“You’re inside all the time.”

“In general.”

He hums and brings a pillow up to clutch against his stomach. 

“What are you really doing here?”

She shrugs. “I’m public enemy number one right now. The Captain and Wanda may still like me, but I don’t talk to them. Not like how I talk to you.”

“I’m not the friend you want to talk to about your feelings, or have braid your hair.”

“Damn, and I was really looking forward to that.”

He rolls his eyes. The moonlight slices through the curtains of his bare bedroom, cutting right through them. They are separated by the light, and in a peculiar turn of events, he envies the moon for it. The one constant that brought them together, now splitting them in half. 

“When do you think they’ll calm down?”

“Depends on how willing they are to listen to me.”

“Well, you’re hardly ever wrong.”

“I’m never wrong.”

“Hardly. So, I guess what you say is good news.”

He chuckles, the barest of brushes with their shoulders igniting an ache in his stomach. He wonders if she is similarly affected. If she, too, feels the odd connection between them blossoming into something stranger. He is used to feeling nothing at all—conditioned—and yet, skin-to-skin is like learning a whole new language. Fluent in many, the Soldier believes this language of silence is exclusively their own.

“I’m sorry Stark and Banner kept you in the lab for so long.”

“They let me wander.”

His lip quirks. “Did you give them what they wanted?”

“Do you mean, did I break?”

“Were they trying to break you?”

She opens her mouth to say something, something witty he assumes, but she chooses not to. Instead, she shakes her head and bares honest eyes. “No. But I told them what they needed to know. Over time, they’ll start feeling like teammates. And I, a part of the team. They need to know about my condition, and when I’m ready, they’ll know me.” 

He realizes why her impassiveness used to irk him so—she is him, he is her. They are carbon-copies. He is speaking to himself, and he sees and feels what the Captain does. Sadness. Emitting from her, growing within him.

“Do you enjoy being excluded?”

“Do I enjoy being alone?”

“Same thing.”

She rearranges her legs, crossing the right one over the left. “It’s not the same thing. Being alone is for peace of mind. Exclusion is… forced.”

“Isolation, then. Like what Stark said. Basking in our reclusiveness.”

“I’ve been alone a long time. I find comfort in it, but I don’t like being lonely.”

“I’m not following.”

She smiles, turning to look at him. He meets her eyes—there’s a shimmer of gold in them. “I came here tonight because I don’t like being alone at this hour anymore. I like our silence. Our proximity. I’m not lonely when I’m with you, but we can be alone together.”

“Ah,” he sighs. Nervously, he holds her stare and says, “I like our time together, too.”

It’s refreshing, being open. Usually he delivers truths bluntly, honesty with a punch, and information without remorse. With her, it’s easier to be the Soldier. It’s easier to try and reach deep into the pit of what’s left of his soul, and pull out Bucky Barnes.

“Natasha’s nice. We can invite her to smoke with us.”

“No.”

She laughs. “Noted.”

“What about Wilson?”

“He wouldn’t smoke, but he’d be fun in conversation.”

“You speak to him often?”

She hums, considering. “He always speaks to me if I’m in the room. The Captain, too.”

He likes that—people he considers friends treating her kindly.

“What do you talk about?”

“The weather, mostly.”

He snorts, the sound completely unflattering. She doesn’t seem to mind. “Idiots. Do they describe the sun to you, too?”

She laughs again, the original melody caressing his skin. “I don’t blame them. I’m pretty closed off during the day.”

“You should come train with me sometime. The windows can be covered.”

“I forget you’re the expert with knives around here.”

“Knives, yes. Daggers, no.”

She moves to sit criss-crossed, facing him. “It’s not all that different. Plus, what I use are more like shortswords anyway.”

“How old are you again?”

She grins, fangs and all. Beckoning him, his blood. He sits up higher. 

“Never ask a lady her age.”

“I see times haven’t changed.”

“What else do you remember from those times?”

A little, he wants to say. Barely anything at all, he wants to scream.

“I remember ladies wore more than this to bed,” he teases, pinching a loose thread at her shorts. 

She raises a brow. “What nuns were you dating?”

“Don’t tell me I’ve been lied to my whole life.”

“Sometimes,” she breathes, the air she expels completely artificial, “they wore nothing at all.”

“Liar.”

She bounces as she gets off his bed. Her smile remains, and he finds that he’s been sporting one of his own the entire time. 

“Liar. One of my top five pet names.”

He watches her walk away, and before he can stop himself—

“What do you like being called? By your first name? A nickname?”

“I quite like being called Fangs.”

Damn Stark to all the Hells. He gives a playful scoff, “Your first name will do.”

“Call me Fangs.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“Get out of my room.”

She rolls her eyes, and checks the hallway before squeezing through the slight gap of the door. “Goodnight, Barnes.”

“Call me James.”

“Your last name will do.”

—————

The Soldier grips the handles of his chair and limits his air consumption to a whopping ten breaths a minute. Any more oxygen and his adrenaline will spike. He does not want to cause a scene, no, not when the Colonel and Banner are doing that for him. 

“I think we all need to calm down and look at this situation from all sides,” the Captain reasons, the strong timbre of his voice carrying over Stark’s. 

“Cap, your bleeding heart is showing.”

The Colonel sighs, “See reason, Tony. She was starving because of our carelessness. And because we never initiate conversation with her, we didn’t ask!”

“Nuh-uh, don’t group me in that shit. I talk to her whenever I see her. I was with my sister all week so I’m excluded from your witch-hunt,” Wilson declares, leaning back in his chair, his expression one of extreme disappointment.

“Buck, we believe her when she says she wasn’t hurting you. But what in the world made you think that it was safe for her to feed from you—not even considering the serum—at all?”

“There you go, treating him like a kid again,” Stark grumbles with a heavy roll of his eyes. The Soldier turns his head slowly, his glare half-hidden behind his hair but deadly enough to make Stark clear his throat. 

“Oh, shut it, Tony. Which is it then? He let her because he’s such a kid, or he shouldn’t have let her because he’s such a kid?” the Colonel argues.

The Widow leans her head back and brings her feet up to rest on the table. “And there you guys go again, acting like he’s not in the room.”

Banner interjects, massaging his hands together as he stutters, “Drinking his blood could have made her even more super than she is. We had no way of knowing for sure because she had rejected every test before this week.”

“And did you find anything different with her blood?” Wilson asks.

“Ah! That’s one thing we discovered. She doesn’t have any,” Stark shares, clapping his hands together.

“Considering the lack thereof, there was no blood to intermingle with his, so to say. She can’t absorb it permanently,” Banner explains further. 

“Something we should have known when she first joined the team!”

“Tony, are you afraid that she’s going to be addicted to his blood now? Or any of ours?” the Widow asks, raising a trimmed brow. She looks around the table, her gaze softening slightly as it lands on the Captain. Still, she moans, “God, you guys are stupid.”

Stark makes a rattling scene as he pulls a chair out and sits down. He intertwines his fingers, mimicking a student. “Elaborate, then.”

The Widow stares at him for longer than the Soldier ever has. Her silence is as deadly as his, but more cutthroat. Where Stark would pinch until the Soldier either swung or bolted, he submits for the Widow. Be it that he’s known her longer and has more respect, he doesn’t know. 

“Did any of you read my report about the mission a few weeks ago? Or did you just send your own to Fury and call it a day?” No one answers her. “Of course. If you did read mine, you would have read where I elaborated on the capability of her self-control. I bled first. It was my blood out in the air. The target hadn’t seen her. Barnes would have dealt with him first and given me the second look. She had the opportunity to go toward my open neck and have a feast. But instead, she tore into the man who hurt me.”

The Soldier can’t help the smirk that forms when it clicks. “You let him cut you on purpose.”

“Glad to know my work is being appreciated.”

Stark leans forward, actual shock painting his face. “You jump started the experiments? That was your idea?”

“Well, you and Banner were getting nowhere.”

He turns to the rest of the table, his smirk replaced by a frown. “She wasn’t going to hurt me because I trust her. And she trusts me. We’ve met every night for the past few months to share cigarettes and conversation up on that roof. Not once before did she even look at my neck.”

“Makes sense for those two to be close,” Banner mumbles, somewhat apologetic. “Remember when you wouldn’t let me or Tony operate on your arm after T’Challa gifted you it?”

“Look, if she’s angry at us then we will all apologize and try to understand where she’s coming from—” 

He abruptly stands, cutting Stark off. He marks the Colonel and the Widow reaching for the guns at their hip. Stark looks offended for a second—

He’s had weeks to learn how to show… empathy. Weeks to learn how to look at someone and have his eyes speak for him. Stark closes his mouth, his brow relaxing, his gaze intense. Decent. Human.

“It’s not some competition between her and I. She’s not trying to be angry, or angrier than me. She’s sad. She didn’t let you into her world because you never asked! Never got to know her. You’re terrified of her not because she looks like she can kill you, but because she looks three seconds away from killing herself. You see nothing in her face—the same nothing like in mine. It’s a hazy type of nothing, and soon you will realize you shouldn’t have been afraid of her, you should have been trying to help her.”

“Buck…” the Captain breathes, restless. 

“I’m not about to kill myself, Rogers. Don’t worry. But everything would be a lot easier if you all just… asked what you wanted to ask. The more you tip-toe around what you think is happening, the longer you build up this scenario that ends in flames. I like my silence, and sometimes I like when it’s interrupted. If you listen to my advice, you’ll know when to bother me and when to leave me the fuck alone.”

The Widow snickers, but there’s pride in her look. Praise he never asked for, and never will. Though, he’s glad his argument is supported. He’s glad the red-haired menace of a woman was creative enough to seek answers herself. The only one with a spine, it seems. 

“I trust her,” he repeats. He really needs them to know that. “You’ve asked questions about her condition and you got your answers. Now, ask about her next time.”

—————

They get the call late into the night. Rousing them from sleep, the Captain tells the team to suit up and board the quinjet in under fifteen minutes. The flight to Moscow will be a long one, and the chilly descent won’t make anyone happier. They are expected to land when the moon hangs high again.

The Widow cannot return to Russia. The Soldier can’t either, but he’s better at evading. He knows how to navigate the icy forests. Wilson, Stark, and the Colonel are grounded for risk of being shot down. The only ones cleared for this mission are himself, the Captain, Barton, Maximoff, and their vampire companion. 

They split into two teams. The Captain and Maximoff head east. Barton accompanies him, and though he does not explicitly say it, he is watching just how close the Soldier walks near the woman who drank his blood three nights ago. 

The mission is to infiltrate and leave no hostages. Killing on a team-effort. They succeed. On record, the Avengers weren’t in Russia at all.

The Captain calls an all-clear and the Soldier corroborates. Sunrise is nearing. They need to return to the quinjet immediately. 

He doesn’t hear the high-tech drones flying at ground-level. But he does hear the rustling behind the trees, the regular breathing from trained lungs. He orders Barton back but it’s too late. He steps on an explosive and is sent into the air. Stark’s expertise extends to their suits as well so it’s a miracle Barton doesn’t lose a limb, but their position is known. He calls for assistance over the comms. Smoke billows at his side, then disappears altogether. As he deals with the men sprouting from hiding, she deals with the ones still crouching. Blood sprays and his legs tire fast without Barton there to help. He doesn’t even know where he landed. 

He tries calling for the Captain again with no luck. It’s an ambush with their best combat agents, and they are sorely outnumbered. If it was just guns and knives, even arrows, he could beat them all. The weapons they have are electricity-based, some fire. He’s battling his own men while also checking at the corner of his eye that sparks and heat aren’t one of her weaknesses. Because if she’s downed, he can’t go for Barton. She is a priority. 

If no one helps her, she’ll burn. 

“Go find Rogers!” he screams to her as he smashes his metal fist into the stomach of a man much larger than him. 

“I’ll go for Clint! He couldn’t have landed far—”

He’s struck by a bullet before she finishes her sentence. Her terrified gasp is perhaps the saddest part about this whole ordeal. She doesn't need to breathe, she doesn't need to gasp. He lands on his back, his stomach branded by lead, directly in this morning’s first ray of light.   

“James!”

The Captain confirms Barton’s safety, then his panicked questioning bombards the comms as he is informed of the Soldier’s condition. Her voice sounds different over the earpiece. Somehow lighter. Frightened, but lighter. Shadows attempt to cover him from afar, but they can’t reach. She’s not close enough. She digs into necks and plunges her gold shortsword into the other available meat she can find. The Soldier has been shot at many times, but shot? Once when he was Bucky Barnes, twice during his seventy year prison sentence, and once more since arriving at the Tower. Only the wound during the war had been in the stomach, and he had miraculously healed in three days then. He hadn’t thought twice about why that was. 

These are the worst injuries—get shot in the middle and suddenly every part of your body hurts. He can’t think, can barely breathe. If he isn’t helped soon, the serum will battle his natural adrenaline to the point he could die from shock. 

There are hands on his shoulders, then under them, lifting poorly. She screams and screams and screams. He smells burning flesh. He is dropped momentarily and sees the flash of a gold dagger, then the crimson of the enemy. Again, he is lifted, dragged. Again, she is screaming.

They take cover in every shadow she can fit in. She waits, whimpering under her breath, then does it all over again. He can’t fully open his eyes. 

She does this twelve more times until they are far enough from the enemy. She shoves them into an empty cave and immediately begins removing his leathers. 

He doesn’t remember much after that.

—————

The unmistakable scent of cooking rabbit hits him before the stabbing pain in his abdomen.

“You owe me,” he hears a cranky voice mutter, the voice he’s come to expect whenever the sun disappears and the moon kisses the stars. He’s on his back, his metal fist practically fused to his stomach. When he opens his eyes fully there are branches blocking his view of the night sky. There’s a campfire to his left, flames growing higher as it cooks the animal hovering over it. He moans in discomfort when he turns his neck a little more, but it’s worth it. 

There she is—skinning a second rabbit and skewering it a second later, frown on her beautiful face, cloak torn from the bullets that grazed her. Without the hood, the injuries from the sun are on full display. Scattered, silver patches mark her natural tint, slowly healing but obviously causing discomfort. She pauses her cooking to scratch at herself relentlessly, cheeks and neck bearing her lashes. 

“What do I owe you?” he croaks, coughing automatically. She abandons the dead animal to grab their emergency water containers. She holds the back of his head as she gently pours water on his lips first. Once moistened, he takes the container from her with his flesh hand. 

“I don’t like killing animals,” she says, helping him sit up. He winces and lets her move him to the base of a wide tree. 

“Sorry,” he replies absentmindedly. “You should eat, too.”

“I already did. You’re getting my leftovers.”

He eyes the fire, then the surrounding forest. “Is it safe to have one burning so high?”

She steadies the second rabbit over the wooden grill and turns the other one. She gives an unimpressed hum and remains facing away. “I dragged you for miles. I doubt they will catch up soon.”

“Miles?”

“The Captain was ambushed, too. Going to him would have put your life at risk.” A pause, then a twinge of distress. “And I wasn’t strong enough to protect you and fight anymore.”

“This had nothing to do with your strength or competence. The sun—”

“The fucking sun,” she grinds out, her usual low tone rising, “Because of the fucking sun, it made me incompetent. I am a hazard in the field when I have to cower in the shadows while my teammates are getting their asses handed to them.”

The Soldier pinches an eye closed, fixing his position slightly. “I can handle my own ass, thank you—”

“I was a nurse in the war.”

He pauses, his heart clenching. “Our war?”

Our war, he says. Like he and the Captain owned all the pain, the consequences, the deaths, the aftermath. 

“I didn’t even know I had… died. I woke up in the middle of the night surrounded by the corpses of my men. I walked for miles until I found the gods-awful British army.”

He chuckles at that, even if his stomach begs him not to. 

“I guess the enemy had a predator on the field. Makes sense… There were a lot of bodies to feed from. I stayed in the tents and worked well into the morning. And when my refuge was attacked, I left the tent so I could help.”

She doesn’t see the pitiful look he gives her. 

“I burned so badly. And while I burned, I couldn’t reach the downed soldiers. When it was all done, instinct won… I fed for the first time that night. They all tasted like bile. When I finally found my own base again, I had a birthday card and chocolate waiting for me. I ate the entire bar even though it made me sick, even though it tasted like dirt. I was questioned about how I survived when so many died, why I kept giving my rations away, why I refused to work during the day. So because of the fucking sun, I let good men die. I could not have that happen today.”

Silence hums between them, the gentle crackle of the fire speaking for them. It occurs to him that she does not need the warmth it provides, but that she built it for him. For the sole purpose of feeding and comforting him. Something liquid figuratively drips into his stomach, swirling chaotically.  

She removes the darkened rabbit from the fire and hands it to him. He thanks her with a nod of his head, and bites into its thigh. The meat is dry, but he has half a mind to thank her for removing its head so he doesn’t have to stare into dead eyes. 

“Clint’s alive, by the way. Idiot landed in a gods-honest haystack a mile from the rest of the team.” 

He laughs as he chews. She nods her head at his stomach. 

“I’m fine,” he assures her, lifting his metal hand to showcase the dried blood. The bullet went right through him. “I’m just sore.”

A few minutes pass before he speaks again, his meal half-eaten. She’s handed him the second rabbit already. 

“Thank you,” he says honestly. “I’m not used to being saved. I find it odd that so many people want to save me. It was a calculated sacrifice, and I owe you my life.”

“Calculated,” she drawls. “I didn’t think much about it. You give me too much credit.”

“Well, if you didn’t think about it, then you’re just as much of an idiot as Rogers.”

The first smile of the night graces her face, now mostly healed from the silver patches. 

“It wasn’t your fault. Someone took advantage of—” he pauses, the words too familiar. “Someone took advantage of you when you were helpless. When you were left for dead. And when you tried to help, you got the short end of the stick.”

“Some dull stick.”

He steadies his breathing, then takes another bite. The ache in his stomach feels less burdensome as he eats. 

“You’re a veteran.”

“Do nurses count as veterans?”

“Fuck yeah they do.” They share a laugh, a moment. It’s as intimate as can be, the most intimate they’ve ever been. Even more so than when she had her teeth in his neck. 

“Thank you,” he repeats, though the sentiment means more now. “For being a friend.”

“Thank you for not dying on me. And for trusting me,” she says, her red eyes glowing faintly. “Do I surpass the Captain?”

He chuckles. “He’s my closest friend. I think you’re my best friend.”

“Whatever that means,” she mutters, her quip a balm over the entire night. 

They speak for the next few hours. It’s the most he’s spoken since coming home. Where his tongue would dry out and his head would turn hazy, he finds peace and urgency instead. Peace in her voice, in his mind. Urgency to tell her everything and nothing, all at once. 

The Captain finds them before sunrise, and the Soldier—for the first time since reclaiming pieces of Bucky Barnes—hugs his closest friend because he simply wants to.

—————

Three weeks later, they are allowed back onto the roof. She brings the cigarettes this time. A different brand, one he vaguely remembers Dum-Dum complaining about. Said they were lady-smokes. He considers their taste, a memory for Bucky Barnes and a new experience for the Soldier. Those truths can coexist. 

He quite likes their flavor. 

“If you could take a bite out of anyone on the team, who would it be?”

He chokes on the smoke, fanning it away as he tries to control his laughter. “It’s actually insane of you to ask that question—”

Her mouth splits into a wide smile, her fangs showing. “Aw, c’mon! Indulge me! Who would it be?”

“Who would you want to taste?”

“Well, I’ve already tasted you.”

His chest tightens, suggestive of a lot more than he is ready to admit. She’s transitioned to blood bags instead of the vein, and some archaic part of himself is glad for it. He doesn’t necessarily want her mouth on anyone’s neck, besides his own, ever again. 

“Yeah, you have,” he says quietly, cheeks reddening. “I don’t want to say who I’m thinking.”

She takes a short drag, smiling around the cigarette. “You’ve thought about it?”

“You want to hear it or not?”

She passes him the stick, her eyes glowing momentarily. “Yes, yes. Sorry, sorry.”

He waits a moment, savoring the taste of her on their smoke. He wonders if one day they’ll upgrade to joints—if it would affect either of them at all. He clears his throat before admitting, “Thor.”

Silence. He takes another drag. 

“I’ve thought about him, too.”

He doesn’t choke on his laugh this time. It’s loud, flowing down into the crowded streets and mixing with reality. For so long his silence has placated his mind and unnerved others—he’s becoming human again, resurrecting.   

She matches his volume, taking the cigarette from his steady fingers. “Seriously! If I were to bring up the question of whether I need human blood or humanoid blood to sustain me to Tony and Bruce, oh! They would call him down to earth to find out immediately.”

Is it possible to bring someone who’s undead back to life, too? Were they living all along? Were they just suspended in an unmoving abyss and once something sparked, they chose to climb again? Is it ever that simple? It took him years, then months, weeks, and suddenly, days. He hasn’t broken through the skyline just yet, and neither has she, but that sliver of solace, that sliver of knowledge that it’s possible… That’s what makes him want to continue on. To hold hands with time itself.  

“I have no doubt they would,” he adds, running a hand through his hair. He breathes in the crisp night air, and feels absolutely no remorse as he asks, “What did mine taste like?”

She considers, eyes crinkling. “Sweet. Like toffee, or more what I remember toffee tastes like. When people are happy, they taste like sugar to me, remember?”

“I was happy?” he says doubtingly, but his mind doesn’t believe his own uncertainty. It’s been a long time since he’s been happy, since he was his old self. Maybe the moment her teeth met his skin, he was Bucky Barnes. Maybe he was a new rendition of his old form—with one new emotion. Learning, retaining, earning this new life. “I’m happy,” he repeats because it’s true.

“I think I’m happy, too.”

God, she’s magnificent. 

“You know what makes me even happier, though?”

“What’s that?”

“Thai food,” he says honestly, ignoring her playful scoff. “I’m serious. Let me take you out tomorrow night. And… when we return… you can taste it for yourself.”

She tries not to smile, but it splits gracefully. “That sounds so weird—”

“Hey, I’m trying here!”

She passes him the cigarette, only their second of the night, and scoots closer on the ledge. “Fine. You can take me out. But there better be wine or else I’ll complain the whole time—”

He grabs her hand, flesh on flesh, warm and cold. Intertwining their fingers, they both study the connection. Again, silence breezes through them. There is no longer a gap, no longer just smoke being shared. 

She does not pull away, but instead leans her head down and rests it on his shoulder. He savors the weight, high on the prospect of time itself, and rests his own head over hers.

xx

A/N: Let me know if you guys want a part 2, if not then this is a perfect one-shot for me! --Moni

[four-unwell-lesbians]

new favourite character dynamic btw. Groups of four where each character is a stress response fighting for control.... if u even care

My examples are dungeon meshi, mean girls, heathers, rwby, pitch perfect, doki doki literature club. I'm gonna focus on fight/flight characters. I'll do freeze/fawn in another post because those two get DEEP into character psyche

So here's my summary of this character dynamic

They parallel each other as a subplot.

Fight is the most proactive, flight is the most avoidant.

Fight wants to lead but struggles to keep control, while flight is the 'morally pure'/superior one

Fight has anger issues, flight is the group's secret keeper.

Freeze balances them out and disconnects from the plot. Fawn romanticises the narrative's dangers to involve the preoccupied characters in the plot.

So much proof this is like a formula (flight on left, fight on right):

Also notice all of these duos are imo the ones to talk shit in the background. They're all gossip buddies I swear.

Bulleted explanations below the cut:

DUNGEON MESH (Marcille and Chilchuk):

Protecting themselves from dungeon food/change/indivuality (dungeon meshi is about embracing this). eg Marcille wants them to live as long as elves (ambrosia) and Chilchuck is TRYING to die young

Protests and refuses vs implied to secretly skip meals

Tries to call the shots (usually wrong) vs activist. union man.

Explosive emotions (literal) vs living a double life. also he ran from his wife, actual flight response moment

awful quality gif for you i dotn think it works

MEAN GIRLS:

Constant arguments/simultaneous somewhat codependent mental breakdowns are subplots for Cady's advantage

Immediate disproportionate revenge vs 'please don't tell Regina'

Loses her power in like a week vs repeated 'I'm such a good friend!'

Screaming for like two straight minutes vs hair full of secrets

aouughhh save me winona ryder..............

HEATHERS (Heather Duke and Veronica):

Power struggle friendship matches the plot's fight for control of the school. Only two left, only two who didn't attempt suicide

Only one who wants leadership vs refuses to acknowledge abuse

Tries to be a leader but didn't have Chandler's finesse vs EXTREMELY pretentious with 0 accountability

More sadistic than angry (point is she copes with petty revenge) vs themed around a diary and covering up murders

HALF WAY THROUGH! Let me remind you of the summary:

They parallel each other as a subplot.

Fight is the most proactive, flight is the most avoidant.

Fight wants to lead but struggles to keep control, while flight is the 'morally pure' one

Fight has anger issues, flight is the group's secret keeper.

RWBY:

Daughters of good institutions made corrupt by their abusers on opposite sides of the war. Their conflict IS the human vs faunus conflict

Wants to reform her company vs ran away to forget her company

Bosses the group around at first vs literally flees constantly

Canonically described as 'nice but a little bit bitchy' vs mysterious backstory

DDLC (Natsuki and Yuri)

Both have regressive/closed minded views on literature and learn to see past surface level assumptions like the player has to

Pushes for change in the group vs embarassed by everything

Demands control over others vs once again EXTREMELY pretentious

Panicked defensive attacks vs by far the most unhinged but covers it up to an insane degree

Pitch Perfect (Aubrey and Beca)

Pitch Perfect is about empowerment and individuality, they've found different ways to deal with too much pressure

Forces the group to be extremely uniform vs 'rebel with a voice'

Can't cope with leader responsibilities vs reluctant to be a Bella

'Blows under pressure' vs mysterious Beca with hidden talents

So. Yeah i have even more examples of this but I limited myself to 6. this was too muhc

[yandere-kokeshi]

Yandere Kiribaku with a pregnant darling

Warnings: Yandere behavior and pregnancy.

Authors note: All my characters are aged up to 21+. Please enjoy!

They’ve always wanted kids with you, wanting to have replicas running around and jumping on the bed early in the morning. So when the three of you find out, Katsuki is smiling like a proud man while Kirishima is jumping up and down; spinning you around, kissing your face. 

From then on, they both treat you like pure glass, carved out of the most expensive reflector they’ve ever laid their eyes on. This means carrying you 90% of the time. 

Already, the house is severely baby-proofed, but now… since you’re carrying a living being inside you, they’re taking extra precaution from now on. That means all the corners of the tables, hallway edges or anything that can ‘hurt you’ is covered up. Yes, even the sink and toilet is sanded down.  

When your tummy starts to grow more, so does their protection and adoration. Kirishima becomes way more gentle with you, always near you and waiting for the call if you need something. He insists on carrying you everywhere, not wanting you to become stressed or pull a muscle. Katsuki, on the other hand, becomes the devil: he’s more protective and possessive than ever. 

Katsuki is snapping at anyone, including Kirishima and is always preventing you from doing things that will make you groan or uncomfortable. He, the famous cook, mostly cooks for the meals, following recipes online that’ll help your pregnancy growth and improve your immune system. 

They both are fairly paranoid, always wanting to see a doctor twice or three times a month. They always demand the best doctors and nurses, they both will come along and ask ‘important’ questions: “Is it normal for them to have extreme cravings? Are you sure? They craves spicy things, which I learned is bad for the baby online. Listen–” 

Fights rarely happen between the three of you but due to your hormones and their possessiveness… they bicker way more. They both fight over stupid things: who gets to deliver the food to the bedroom, who starts the shower, who gets to rub your feet and who gets to touch your tummy; the list goes on about the things. 

Speaking of touching stomachs, they both love to touch and talk to your tummy! Even when it’s small and the bump isn’t noticeable. Kirishima normally drags shapes along the sides of your hips and tummy, while kissing it. Katsuki will get on his knees and kiss it, maybe rub into it affectionately, almost like a cat. Though, when your tummy starts to get bigger, they will speak to the ‘brat(s)’ and tell it to knock it off for being rousey and not letting you get your beauty sleep. 

This also gives them a reason for you to wear their clothes. They love to see their outfits on you, including their boxers and hoodies. 

They both love to take care of you! Kirishima normally does the massages, lays down your ‘nest’ (grab your pillows and favorite blanket), and buys any cravings you have at that moment. While, Katsuki helps you make your favorite meals, clean the entire house, offer to do some yoga with him, and lets you sleep in as much as you want.  

They don't care what gender the baby is, sure, they’d like to have little girls with pretty eyes and hair but they also wouldn’t mind boys as rowdy as they are. 

You never get punished for doing things because of your pregnancy. If you decide to ‘act up’ or try to run away, you get away with it as Kirishima’s delusional state convinces him that you’re only doing so because of your hormones. Katsuki sees it but also goes alongside Kirishima, saying that ‘if you wanted to go outside, why didn’t you ask us?’ 

The cuddling is… to say the least: a mess. They both want to make sure you’re warm and comfortable, meaning that they both are practically laying on you. Kirishima is always cupping your stomach, kissing your neck whilst Katsuki is either laying on your thighs and grasping at your bottom or blowing raspberries on your belly.

When it comes to your last quarter of the pregnancy, they will be frantic and ready for you to pop like a balloon any minute. The minute you start to groan, they think the worst and grab the hospital bag, carrying you bridesmaid way before realizing you just sat up. 

—

Masterlist | Stay well and stay hydrated!!

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED ©yandere-kokeshi

Do not plagiarize, repost, modify, translate or copy my work.

[aristia-pjoheadcanons]

How do you think Percy and Jason would be with a gf who has really small boobs and also doesn’t like bjs?

Idk I get insecure

PERCY AND JASON X READER SMALL BOOBS + DISLIKES BJS

pairings: jason grace x percy jackson x female!reader

warnings: nsfw

Percy and Jason are the types of guys that doesnt really notice the physical much when they have a gf.

e.x. Percy and Rachel/Calypso. He loves both because of how natural they were. They didnt try hard to impress, unlike Venus/Aphrodite. Its the fact that you just blend into your own skin and take the spotlight that is given to you - without demanding any attention in an annoying way.

Jason would like you, being you. He doesnt like people that try to act like someone theyre not, because he has done that his whole entire life and it can get shitty.

So being upfront about your dislikes and likes is a huge plus.

We see in HOO that both guys are a bit dense to romantic things at times, unless you vocally tell them. So, if the reader expressed dislike if they hug her too close (because then they might feel her chest being small), they are quick to notice and take it seriously.

But just because Jason and Percy are dense, its because theyre busy with quests and other demigod matters. But they are known to read situations well. Percy has shows great observation skills and understand people without them bringing things up. Jason has learned how to read people from a young age - its how he survived.

Because of this, they would notice immedietly. Jason would give you a knowing look in the corner of his eye. Percy would blink at you and understand but wouldnt bring it up if you dont approach him first.

Blowjobs, sex, making-out - they can leave things like that out of the relationship completely. They dont mind at all. They are well mature and smart enough to understand that, "hey, not everybody like this!". They would never force you to do anything.

Lupa and Sally taught gave them different teachings. Lupa only taught Jason how to analyze, he needed to learn everything else. Sally might not have time to actually sit and talk about romantic and sexual affairs, but Percy has been the type of character to show fool-proof understanding even with the awkward education he got.

Most likely, they would never ever even imply they want a blow jobs ever. They wouldnt even put you near their genitals, it fear it might trigger you.

Percy and Jason realizes this, and share that they dont like licking peoples genitals either, and that its just a preference.

Maybe they would even ask, most likely initiated by Jason/but could go either way, if you like having your chest touched. This might sound weird, but some people dont like it if someone if close to their chest, and might protect it especially if theyre insecure - so they might ask what the optimal distance is. And if they should be careful about hugs.

[dflogerzi]

I must have lost my mind... my comprehension... or priorities.

I am truly reeling. Fully, and by all sides of the arguments over a photo. There has not been so much of a bruhaha since the hordes of humanity were storming stores in search of toilet paper. It truly is blowing my mind.

Okay trying this again after once before as a Reblog to another today. But I have a few things to say and then I am going to leave this lay. I have NO idea if this will be long or short. But I am dang well hoping I feel better afterwards.

So there I was this afternoon, early, the phone rings. And it is my daughter-in-law whom has not called me since the second week of November. I see her name on the caller id, take a deep breath, and... she wants to talk about Catherine. What???? How about home, hearth, family, and the state of relationships? But okay. I went with it.

I am going to start this, what I hope is a mini-vent off with what I think of the photo submitted first. There is NO doubt it was a huge blunder. The week proceeding was already a fire storm demanding proof of life, relationship, and just about everything else you could throw into the mess. This was no time to release anything touched up whatsoever, and even for myself who loves and supports this wonderful person... the lack of wearing at the least her wedding band was just not a good look to send out worldwide. I do not care WHEN she wears or does not her dang rings privately. But now was not the time. I do believe she had good intentions and was just being naive. But she has been around the block for over two decades and firmly involved and in the trenches to what amounts to a modern-day War of the Roses.

Someone did not have her back.

Now to my main points, real concerns, and what are the TRUE problems, according to just little me, sitting in my cheap director's chair and calling out the scenes currently playing on the world stage.

People. This is going to pass. This is just the latest in the drama and the saga since Meghan Markle hit the royal family. The real danger from my view is not the photo or Catherine's intentions. The escalation and apparent hysteria of what could be real danger is truthfully what is my focus. When news agencies are checking the place of origin, metadata, timestamps, editing, and making judgements on integrity and the future of the monarchy based on a simple photo for Mother's Day... we have a HUGE issue. It is now far past time for the Wales family to be better secured, the British government to step in and take care of the obvious dangers that are growing exponentially, and priorities addressed as to the future.

I am FAR more concerned about William and his family at this point being safe, secure in where they are living, and the future of each of them an absolute priority. It is time for all involved with their protection and well-being to deal with what is so obviously happening. And I feel for William who most likely has the world, literally, on his shoulders. But it is for him to take the first stand.

This is not about a photo. This is a shot over the bow on the global stage.

Catherine dearest. Just heal please. Take care of you first. I will continue to keep you close in thought. You have given everything in honor, love, and duty for over 20 years. You take the time you need.

Going to publish this bad attempt at writing I suppose. Hope the madness ends soon. And I do not mean about a simple picture meant as a greeting to Mother's around the world...

[eoieopda]

*tata mic face* dad!yoongi pls 🙂

everybody’s gangster until the tata mic face comes out 🫣 please accept this nonsense, which shall henceforth be known as dadchwita.

1/2/23: a second dadchwita drabble can be found here!

Darksided AU Masterlist

Cheek smushed into the pillow, a weight on the small of your back kept you from rolling over. Bleary-eyed, you squinted ahead to find your husband in a similar position. His eyes were, of course, still shut.

Yoongi’s alarm clock hadn’t gone off yet, indicating it was even earlier than six in the morning. This wasn’t much of a surprise, however. Neither of you had been able to utilize that alarm much over the past five years.

Unable to make full use of your mouth, what you came up with was a mumble at best: “Your children would like your attention, love.”

When he didn’t stir, you slid your arm across the sheets without breaching the border of your comforter. You tapped the tip of his nose gently with your index finger, searching for proof of life. Impassive, as was to be expected at this hour.

If not for that gravelly morning voice blowing his cover, he could’ve kept his grift going. Stayed in bed, soaking in whatever extra minutes he could gather while you attempted to persuade your children back into their beds. It would’ve been difficult, given the current circumstances, but you’d seen him sleep through worse.

“I thought we settled on this. Before seven o’clock, they’re your kids,” he groaned.

You snorted; the force of the exhale through your nose prompted him to crack his eyes open. This was your favorite way to start every day: watching his pupils dilate as he woke up and saw you before anything or anyone else. Even if that occurred before sunrise.

“I think they’ve got us surrounded, general,” He yawned, “What’s your status?”

There was wiggling above you. Two arms slipped around your back in a hug that couldn’t quite complete its circle around you. Judging by the quiet affection, the child clinging to you like a backpack was your oldest; you were sure. Sweet as honey, that five year-old, and as soft-spoken as her father.

You reported out, furthering the bit, “I’ve literally got opposition breathing down my neck, sergeant. Their leader, Iseul, is holding her position. What’s your status?”

Your youngest - at only eighteen months - had fashioned himself into a hat for his father. Two tiny legs draped over Yoongi’s head at his chin and forehead, framing the face shooting a sleepy, closed-mouth smile your way.

Of course his father hadn’t woken up when he climbed up there. Perhaps Iseul gave him a boost once she was done springing him from his room.

Yoongi’s arms reached up to keep the little one’s balance. He babbled excitedly at the attention, and kicked his legs in a way that made Yoongi’s eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline, “They’ve got a tank, general! Woo-jin is bringing out the artillery!”

“Hold that line, sergeant, no matter what it takes! On my signal, we launch a counter strike!”

His twinkling eyes set their sights on your face, waiting for your instruction. A moment later, you narrowed your eyes, pursed your lips, and nodded firmly.

Your respective, living accessories each exploded into giggles as their parents lurched upright and snatched them both up. Iseul squealed as your fingertips tickled her sides without mercy. Even flailing wildly, she made no real effort to escape your lap or your teasing.

“Tell me where your sniper is!” You demanded through your own giddy laughter, “I’ll abide by the Geneva Convention, but I won’t let you off the hook!”

Next to you, Yoongi tugged up Woo-jin’s dinosaur-print pajama top and blew a loud raspberry on the toddler’s bare belly. He wasn’t quick enough in his retreat, though. Woo-jin’s chubby, socked foot knocked him right in the ear.

“General, I’ve been hit!” He sucked in a massive breath, then released it in a gasp, “I’m not gonna make it. Promise me that you’ll tell my wife I loved her -“

You were laughing so hard, your eyes were swimming. But Yoongi didn’t end his theatrics there. He never shied away from melodrama if given the stage for it.

“- and that there is a more efficient way to load the dishwasher, but I didn’t push it because she does this scary thing with her eyebrows when given constructive criticism!”

With that, his second gasp came even more loudly than his first. He closed his eyes, let his tongue slip out of the corner of his mouth, and then he slumped over until his body covered Woo-jin’s. With his arms already wrapped firmly around your youngest, Yoongi’s weight was maintained exclusively on his own elbows.

“No, no, daddy!” Woo-jin’s tiny voice erupted from under the black curtain of Yoongi’s hair, but it was difficult to hear over the rapid-fire kisses Yoongi was peppering over his cheeks - and his squeaky, belly laugh.

Iseul, who was breathless and blushing cherry red in your arms, shrieked, “Now!”

“Oh, no!” You squealed, eyes wide with genuine apprehension.

The four-year-old wild card hadn’t made a peep yet. Given his penchant for chaos, this was deeply unsettling. Next to you, Yoongi ceased his barrage of affection and tilted his head to look your way. The uneasy expression on his face was identical to yours.

There was a roar from behind you that seemed to pause the Earth’s rotation. As if in slow motion, Yoongi’s jaw dropped open as his gaze tracked movement you were unable to see. You, none the wiser, braced yourself for whatever was coming next.

From the bed frame above you - formerly hidden in plain sight, uncharacteristically still - came Duri, like a bat out of hell.

His kamikaze dive down onto your back ended with two arms linking around your neck - much more carefully than he’d ever done before. His clumsy hand pushed your hair off your cheek to make way for a sloppy kiss. Your heart, still pounding, swelled in your chest.

Iseul’s flushed face was taken over by a mischievous grin. She pushed her messy bangs out of her eyes before meeting her dongsaeng’s waiting hand in a high-five. Victorious, she snickered, “We win, mommy.”

Apparently, you really hadn’t learned your lesson with her father.

You really can’t trust the quiet ones, can you?

[thatawkwardmoth]

In honor of it being my birthday (I'm 20 now bitches, made it), I give you people celebrating Scott's birthday. Because he is a fellow Virgo, I know it in my soul.

Jean: bakes him a cake and makes him dinner. The one meal he likes and eats all the time. Her soup. It's a simple recipe and she stopped making it as much so Scott could expand his palate a little more. It doesn't but she makes it for him on his birthday. She gets him a gag gift and an actual gift. The gag gift is usually something like a card that says a really bad dad joke just so his face drops as he reads it. She's thoughtful with her gift and doesn't pry into his mind for it. She knows her husband.

Emma: Buys him a small cupcake and has him blow it out early in the morning. It's a private moment between them. Scott doesn't like that much attention on him, especially on his birthday so she keeps it between the two of them. She spends a ridiculous amount of money on model plane sets, knowing he enjoys making them in the rare instances of free time he gets and adds a little more spending money on the budget for the Blackbird so her nerdy boyfriend can have his fun upgrading it.

Rachel: as a child in her home timeline, she'd wake him up early, screeching about it being his birthday and getting him a present with mommy. She'd count herself lucky a few times that Scott's optic beams don't harm people with his genetics with how roughly she shook him. Nowadays, she leaves a card and a gift on his desk. The first few years, it was basic stuff with no thought behind it, thinking Scott wouldn't want personal gifts from her, just ties and supplies. Then it turned to science fiction memorabilia that the two shared a love for. She doesn't outright tell him happy birthday, just leaves the stuff on his desk.

Nathan: as a baby and a child, same as Rachel. Jean would dump him on the bed to distract Scott and head off. The two just spent the day together. His gifts were usually drawings and small crafts made with some students' help. More presently, it's usually alcohol or favors traded. Showing up for family dinner with Hope so Scott can have his whole family there.

Madelyne: Wakes up early to put on the right music, spends time just dancing with him. He enjoys the quiet moments before the rush of birthday well wishes. She makes a lopsided treat for him and new books he's been wanting to read but won't buy himself. She has to, he deserves this day to mean something.

Alex: Usually annoys him first, making fun of his age. Buys him a card and a round of drinks. Scott likes to feel useful but Alex takes the lead on their hangout days. They sightsee, go to aircraft shows and museums. He gets Scott a few more puzzles, teases him, enjoys seeing his uptight brother smiling and relaxing for once. He's happy to celebrate with his brother after years of not being able to. He's glad to have another year with his older brother.

Corsair: completely forgot, came back three months later with a lame cheap space book that isn't correct at all and is from an Earth thrift store.

Charles: Ignored it. Just didn't say anything.

Ororo: Forcibly made him give up leadership for the day. Of everything. She's in charge and she demands he spends the day relaxing. She gets him a tea, something he prefers over coffee, and locks him out of the danger room.

Logan: Gets him drunk at their usual bar, let's him rant drunkenly about whatever. Is careful to not start fights with him that day. Challenges him to a race on their motorcycles just to have Scott take a ride with him.

Warren: Expensive gifts but from the heart. His assistant didn't buy the gift for him. Warren spent two months finding out all the details and information he needed to gift Scott with all the proof that he'd donated a large sum of money to mutant charities and an even larger amount to an orphanage for mutant children. He gets Scott other gifts but this one means a lot to Scott in a way another book or trinket doesn't.

The team/mansion/island: Doesn't throw a party for him. He's antisocial and hates them. But all day he gets quiet well wishes and cards. He gets small favors and free drinks. They're all careful to not make a big deal out of it but to show him that they care.