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sonarspace · 7 months ago

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⋆⁺₊ HOLLY, JOLLY, SINFUL

꒰ synopsis. where the krampus you feared is far from the monster in the stories, and santa isn’t the saint you thought he was.

content. santa/krampus au. sukuna x fem!reader. nsfw. rough sēx, orāl (f! receiving), hair pulling, multiple orgāsms, size kink, and possessive sukuna.

wc. 6k

an. a little spin on a christmas tale, i hope you guys like it. happy early christmas to those who celebrate <3

the north pole buzzed with a frenzy unlike any december before. the workshop, usually a well-oiled machine of holiday cheer, was on the brink of chaos. elves darted across the floor, their faces pale, their hands trembling as they struggled to stay productive amidst the rising tension.

toys had disappeared. not just a few, but sleighs worth of carefully crafted gifts, all set to be delivered to children across the world.

“gone,” whispered a senior elf, his voice trembling as he held up an empty inventory list. “every last one.”

“how could this happen?” another elf demanded, their voice sharp with fear. “no one gets past santa’s wards. no one.”

you worked silently, sorting a batch of unfinished trains, though your hands trembled as much as theirs. the tension in the room was suffocating, each whispered fear clawing at the edges of your composure.

you weren’t the most experienced elf—far from it—but even you could sense the weight of what had happened. christmas wasn’t just a season; it was magic, a promise of joy to the world. and without the toys, that magic would crumble.

“it’s him,” someone whispered behind you, their voice low and ominous. “krampus.”

the name hung in the air like a curse.

you’d heard the stories growing up, tales of a monstrous being who lived in the frozen expanse of the south pole. krampus, they said, was the shadow of christmas, a creature who thrived on misery and chaos. his four arms were said to be lined with claws, his horns sharp enough to pierce steel.

but no one believed the stories. not really.

until now.

the grand hall was quieter than you’d ever heard it.

rows of elves stood shoulder to shoulder, their faces illuminated by the warm glow of the towering christmas tree. despite the festive decorations, the atmosphere was heavy, the usual cheer replaced by unease.

santa stood at the head of the room, his crimson coat gleaming in the firelight. his sharp crimson eyes swept over the crowd, and the tension in the room seemed to deepen.

“this was no accident,” santa said, his voice cutting through the silence. “the toys have been stolen. and the wards around the north pole have been breached.”

a ripple of shock ran through the crowd.

“krampus has made his move,” santa continued. “and if we don’t act quickly, christmas will be ruined.”

the whispers began again, this time louder, more frantic.

“he’s real?” someone asked, their voice tinged with disbelief.

“of course he’s real,” another snapped. “who else could have done this?”

you stayed silent, your heart pounding as santa’s words sank in.

“we must retrieve the gifts,” santa said. “but the south pole is treacherous, and krampus is no ordinary foe. this will require courage—and skill.”

his gaze swept over the crowd again, lingering on the senior elves who avoided his eyes.

“who will go?”

the room fell silent.

your hands clenched into fists.

you could feel the weight of your fellow elves’ fear, their unwillingness to step forward. the journey would be dangerous, and the thought of facing krampus—the supposed monster of legend—was enough to send even the bravest elves into hiding.

but as the silence stretched on, something inside you stirred.

if no one else would act, then who would?

before you could second-guess yourself, you stepped forward.

“i’ll do it.”

the words rang out in the hall, louder than you’d expected.

all eyes turned to you, a mix of admiration, surprise, and doubt flickering in their gazes.

santa’s sharp gaze settled on you, his expression unreadable.

“you’re brave,” he said after a moment, his tone even. “but this will not be easy.”

“i can handle it,” you said, forcing your voice to remain steady.

before santa could respond, the air changed.

a sudden chill swept through the hall, snuffing out the candles in an instant. the elves gasped, their breath visible in the freezing air.

the temperature plummeted, and an unnatural wind began to swirl, carrying with it a deep, mocking laugh.

“so this is the great north pole,” a voice boomed, the sound reverberating through the hall like thunder. it was smooth and resonant, laced with cruel amusement.

“weak, fragile, desperate,” the voice continued. “you send a mere elf to face me? is that the best you can do, kenjaku?”

the air seemed to pulse with the weight of the voice, a presence you could feel but not see.

you glanced at santa, your confusion growing. kenjaku? who was that?

“show yourself, krampus,” santa growled, his jaw tightening.

the voice laughed again, colder this time.

“you’d like that, wouldn’t you? but no, not yet,” krampus said, his tone dripping with mockery. “come to me, kenjaku. or are you too much of a coward to face what you stole?”

the words hung in the air, heavy with implication.

santa’s expression darkened, his crimson eyes narrowing.

“i’ll come,” he said finally, his voice tight with restrained anger.

the meeting ended in a flurry of nervous energy. elves whispered among themselves, their voices rising and falling like waves as they tried to make sense of what they’d just heard.

you stayed behind, packing supplies for the journey. the staff santa had given you—infused with ancient christmas magic—felt warm in your hands, a faint glow emanating from its carved surface.

“are you sure about this?” one of the senior elves asked, their voice hesitant as they approached you.

“i don’t have a choice,” you replied, your voice firm. “someone has to do it.”

they nodded, though their expression remained troubled. “be careful,” they said before turning to leave.

you glanced at santa, who stood by the fire, his gaze distant. his usual commanding presence felt… strained, as though the weight of krampus’s words had unsettled him.

you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to the story—something he wasn’t telling you.

but there was no time to dwell on it. the journey to the south pole awaited, and whatever lay ahead, you would face it head-on.

the journey to the south pole was grueling.

the snow felt sharper here, more like shards of glass than soft flakes. the bitter cold seemed to seep through every layer of clothing, chilling you to your bones. this wasn’t like the north pole—the light, the cheer, the magic. this place felt… wrong.

santa led the way, his crimson coat stark against the endless expanse of gray and white. the silence between you was heavy, broken only by the crunch of snow underfoot and the howling wind.

“are we close?” you asked, gripping your staff tightly as its faint glow pulsed in your hand.

“closer than i’d like,” santa replied, his tone clipped.

you frowned. his usual steady demeanor felt off. there was none of the quiet confidence you’d grown used to—just tension, coiled and sharp.

“what is this place?” you pressed, glancing at the jagged ice formations jutting out of the ground like broken glass.

“krampus’s domain,” santa said. “his influence twists the land. the closer we get, the more dangerous it becomes.”

a shiver ran down your spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

the attack came without warning.

the ground trembled beneath your feet, the snow cracking and shifting as shadowy figures emerged from the storm.

“what’s that?” you asked, panic rising in your chest.

“bandits,” santa said sharply, his hand tightening around his staff.

before you could respond, they were upon you. their movements were quick and unnatural, their jagged weapons carved from ice glinting in the dim light.

“stay close,” santa ordered.

you raised your staff, its glow flaring as the first bandit lunged toward you. the magic coursed through you, sending a pulse of energy that knocked them back.

but there were too many.

you swung the staff again, the force of the blow sending another bandit sprawling into the snow. but for every one you struck down, two more seemed to take their place.

a sharp blow to your side sent you stumbling, the staff slipping from your grasp. you fell to your knees, gasping for breath as pain radiated through your ribs.

“help me!” you shouted, turning to santa.

but he wasn’t there.

your heart sank as you scanned the storm, the wind tearing at your cloak. “santa!” you called again, desperation rising in your voice.

there was no answer.

the bandits closed in, their twisted faces leering down at you.

“still breathing, are you?”

the voice was deep, smooth, and laced with a hint of amusement.

you blinked, your vision blurry as the storm raged around you. a figure crouched beside you, his sharp features coming into focus as the wind whipped through his wild, pink hair.

“who…” you croaked, your voice barely audible.

“relax,” he said, his tone firm but not unkind.

he leaned closer, his crimson eyes scanning your face with an intensity that made your heart stutter.

“bandits,” he muttered, glancing at the torn fabric of your cloak. “you’re lucky they didn’t finish the job.”

before you could respond, he slipped a thick cloak around your trembling form, his four arms moving with surprising gentleness.

“can you stand?” he asked.

you shook your head weakly, your body refusing to cooperate.

“figured as much,” he said with a faint smirk.

before you could protest, he lifted you effortlessly, cradling you against his chest. the warmth of his skin seeped through the layers of fabric, and you found yourself leaning into him, unable to resist.

“who are you?” you asked weakly.

“someone who doesn’t leave people to die in the snow,” he replied dryly.

the warmth of his shelter was a shock after the brutal cold outside.

he set you down on a plush couch near the fire, his movements careful as he adjusted the blanket around your shoulders.

“drink this,” he said, handing you a steaming mug.

the spiced cider was rich and warm, flooding your senses with comfort. you sipped it cautiously, watching as he crouched beside you.

“what were you doing out there?” he asked, his crimson eyes sharp and searching.

you hesitated, glancing down at the mug in your hands. “you wouldn’t believe me if i told you.”

his lips curved into a faint smirk. “try me.”

you swallowed hard, trying to gather your thoughts. “i came here with santa claus,” you began hesitantly, watching his reaction.

his eyes widened slightly, but not with disbelief. there was something else in his gaze—an intensity you couldn’t quite place, as if he were seeing you for the first time.

you felt the need to explain, to justify yourself. “i know it sounds ridiculous,” you said quickly, the words tumbling out. “but… santa claus is real. he exists for those who choose to believe in him.”

to your surprise, his expression softened. the smirk faded, replaced by something quieter, almost contemplative.

“and you believe,” he said, his tone calm.

“i do,” you admitted. “it’s not just about the toys or the magic. it’s about hope. about believing that even in the darkest times, there’s something good in the world.”

he nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. “a rare thing, these days,” he said quietly.

his reaction surprised you. instead of mockery, there was understanding in his gaze, a warmth that made your chest tighten.

“so, you’re here with him,” he said after a moment.

“yes,” you replied. “santa sent me to find krampus and retrieve the stolen gifts.”

his eyes darkened slightly, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than felt natural. it wasn’t skepticism or anger—it was something deeper, more intense.

how could kenjaku have someone like you by his side? your quiet strength, your rare beauty, your unwavering belief in something so pure. the thought ignited something sharp and bitter in his chest.

you shifted under his gaze, mistaking his silence for doubt. “i know it sounds ridiculous,” you said quickly, your voice trembling slightly. “but i promise, it’s real. everything—santa, the north pole, the magic—it’s all real.”

“i don’t think it’s ridiculous,” he said, interrupting you gently.

you blinked, caught off guard. “you don’t?”

his lips curved into a faint, almost wistful smile. “not at all,” he said, his voice low. “some things are worth believing in, even if the rest of the world doesn’t understand.”

his words lingered in the air between you, and for a moment, the storm outside seemed to fade into the background.

“you’re not what i expected,” he said finally, his voice softer now.

neither was he.

the storm outside had grown fiercer, the wind howling against the walls of the shelter as if the very land were angry. inside, the fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows across the room.

you watched your rescuer as he paced near the hearth, his crimson eyes glowing faintly in the firelight. the tension in his movements was palpable, his four arms crossing and uncrossing as if he were fighting an internal battle.

“so,” he said, breaking the silence. “you came here with kenjaku.”

you frowned. “who?”

his gaze snapped to yours, sharp and incredulous. “kenjaku,” he repeated, his tone laced with disdain. “the man you call santa claus.”

your stomach twisted at his words, the weight of the name unfamiliar and wrong. “that’s not his name,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“it is,” he said firmly, stepping closer. “you’ve been lied to.”

you opened your mouth to argue, but the intensity in his gaze silenced you. there was no mockery, no smugness—only a simmering anger that made your breath catch.

“you don’t know, do you?” he asked, his voice dropping lower, softer. “what he’s done.”

“what are you talking about?” you said, your chest tightening as the weight of his words pressed down on you.

he sighed, running a hand through his pink hair, his tattoos glowing faintly as his anger simmered just beneath the surface.

“centuries ago,” he began, his voice steady but edged with bitterness, “i was chosen to bear the mantle of santa claus. the magic of christmas—the ancient power that keeps this world in balance—was mine by right. but kenjaku didn’t think i was fit for the role. he wanted it for himself.”

you stared at him, your mind reeling as his words sank in.

“he used forbidden magic,” sukuna continued, his voice darkening, “to seal me here, in the south pole. he took everything from me—my title, my power, my purpose—and left me to rot in this frozen wasteland.”

the crackle of the fire was the only sound as his words hung in the air, heavy and sharp.

“and now he sends you,” he said, his gaze narrowing. “to clean up his mess.”

“that’s not true,” you said, though your voice wavered. “he wouldn’t…”

“wouldn’t he?” sukuna interrupted, stepping closer. “then tell me, where is he now? why did he leave you to die?”

the question hit like a blow, the memory of the bandits and kenjaku’s disappearance flashing in your mind.

“maybe he had no choice,” you said weakly, though even you didn’t believe the words.

sukuna snorted, his expression twisting into a bitter smile. “you’re too kind for your own good.”

you looked away, the weight of his gaze too much to bear.

“you still don’t get it, do you?” he said, his voice softer now, almost gentle. “he’s been using you. just like he uses everyone else.”

the sound of approaching footsteps shattered the silence.

sukuna stiffened, his tattoos glowing brighter as he turned toward the door. his crimson eyes burned with anger, his four arms flexing as he prepared for what was coming.

“stay here,” he said, his voice low and commanding.

before you could respond, the door burst open, a gust of icy wind swirling into the room.

and there, standing in the doorway, was kenjaku—santa claus.

“so this is where you’ve been hiding,” kenjaku said, his voice smooth, almost amused.

sukuna’s growl rumbled through the room like distant thunder. “you’ve got some nerve showing your face here.”

kenjaku stepped inside, his crimson coat gleaming in the firelight. his gaze swept over the room, lingering on you for a moment before returning to sukuna.

“you always were dramatic,” kenjaku said, his tone sharp.

“and you always were a liar,” sukuna shot back, his voice venomous.

you stood frozen, your heart pounding as the tension between them crackled like static electricity.

“why did you leave me?” you demanded, your voice cutting through the standoff.

kenjaku’s gaze softened, though there was something calculating in his expression. “i had no choice,” he said smoothly. “the bandits were too many. if i’d stayed, we both would have died.”

“that’s bullshit,” sukuna spat, stepping forward. “you left her because she wasn’t worth the effort to you.”

“don’t listen to him,” kenjaku said, his voice soothing as he turned to you. “he’s krampus. he’s the reason we’re in this mess.”

“and you’re the reason she almost died,” sukuna growled, his voice low and dangerous.

kenjaku ignored him, his focus entirely on you. “he’s manipulating you,” he said, his tone firm but calm. “he wants you to trust him so he can use you against me.”

you hesitated, your gaze flickering between them.

“don’t listen to him,” sukuna said, his eyes burning as he looked at you. “you know the truth.”

you took a deep breath, the weight of the moment pressing down on you.

“you left me to die,” you said to kenjaku, your voice steady despite the tremor in your chest. “he didn’t.”

kenjaku’s expression faltered, the first crack in his calm facade.

“you don’t understand,” he began, but you didn’t let him finish.

raising your staff, you stepped closer to sukuna, the magic within it surging as you made your choice.

“she’s not yours to manipulate,” sukuna snarled, stepping in front of you as kenjaku’s face twisted in rage.

the fight was chaos.

magic crackled through the air, the room trembling as sukuna and kenjaku clashed. sukuna moved with raw power, his four arms striking with precision as his tattoos glowed with unrestrained energy. kenjaku countered with sharp, calculated attacks, his crimson coat billowing around him as he fought with a ruthless efficiency.

you held your ground, the staff in your hands glowing as you channeled your own magic. when kenjaku’s attacks threatened to overwhelm sukuna, you stepped in, the power of the north pole surging through you as you deflected the blows.

“stay out of this!” kenjaku snapped, his voice rising in frustration.

“no,” you said firmly, your gaze steady. “i’m done following your orders.”

sukuna smirked, his gaze flickering to you briefly before returning to kenjaku. “looks like you’ve lost your grip,” he taunted.

kenjaku roared, his attacks growing wilder, more desperate. but together, you and sukuna were unstoppable—a force that even the self-proclaimed santa couldn’t overcome.

the clash reached its peak with a deafening explosion of magic. sparks of crimson and gold danced through the air as sukuna’s raw power collided with kenjaku’s calculated strikes. the very walls of the shelter trembled under the weight of their battle, cracks snaking along the icy structure.

you gripped the staff tightly, its glow steady in your hands as you prepared to deflect another attack aimed at sukuna.

“is that all you’ve got?” sukuna snarled, his four arms moving with devastating precision as he sent a powerful strike toward kenjaku.

kenjaku staggered, his crimson coat scorched and torn, his sharp features twisted in frustration. his usual smug confidence had begun to falter, his attacks growing more desperate.

“this isn’t over,” kenjaku hissed, his voice laced with venom as he stepped back, his hands crackling with dark magic.

“oh, it is,” sukuna growled, his tattoos glowing brighter as he advanced. “you’re done hiding behind lies, kenjaku.”

you stepped forward, raising your staff. the magic within it surged, intertwining with sukuna’s energy as you sent a pulse of light toward kenjaku.

he barely had time to deflect it before sukuna was upon him, his fists slamming into kenjaku’s barrier with enough force to shatter it. the power of the strike sent kenjaku flying backward, crashing into the icy wall with a thunderous crack.

kenjaku struggled to rise, his movements slow and unsteady. his crimson eyes burned with rage as he glared at you and sukuna.

“you think this changes anything?” he spat, his voice trembling with anger. “you think you can take my place?”

“it was never your place to begin with,” sukuna said coldly, stepping forward.

you watched as sukuna loomed over kenjaku, his presence dominating the room. for a moment, you thought he might strike the final blow, but instead, he stepped back, his crimson eyes narrowing.

“you’re not worth it,” sukuna said, his voice low and sharp. “but you’re finished. you’ll never hold the mantle again.”

with a flick of his hand, sukuna unleashed a burst of energy that sent kenjaku hurtling out of the shelter and into the storm. the force of it was so immense that the very air seemed to ripple, the storm outside swallowing kenjaku whole.

silence followed, broken only by the crackle of the fire.

you lowered the staff, your hands trembling as the adrenaline began to fade.

“is it over?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

sukuna turned to you, his expression softer than you’d ever seen it. “it’s over,” he said, his voice steady.

the tension in your chest eased, and you sank onto the couch, exhaustion washing over you.

sukuna moved to the hearth, his four arms lowering as the glow of his tattoos dimmed. he leaned against the wall, his crimson eyes watching you closely.

“you fought well,” he said after a moment, his tone quiet.

“so did you,” you replied, offering him a small, tired smile.

his lips twitched into a faint smirk, though there was a warmth in his gaze that made your cheeks flush.

the journey back to the north pole was a blur of ice and wind, but this time, you weren’t alone.

sukuna walked beside you, his presence steady and protective. he carried the stolen gifts in a large sack slung over his shoulder, his four arms making the burden look effortless.

when you finally crossed the threshold of the north pole, the light and magic of the workshop washed over you like a wave. elves gathered in the grand hall, their faces alight with relief and joy as they saw the gifts restored.

but their excitement faltered when they saw sukuna. whispers rippled through the crowd, their eyes wide with fear and uncertainty.

“it’s okay,” you said, stepping forward. “he’s not our enemy.”

santa’s empty throne loomed at the head of the room, and sukuna’s gaze lingered on it, his expression unreadable.

“it’s yours now,” you said softly, your voice carrying only to him.

he glanced at you, his crimson eyes narrowing. “you think they’ll accept me?”

“they will,” you said, your voice firm. “because they’ll see what i see.”

his lips curved into a faint smile, and he stepped forward, his presence commanding as he approached the throne.

when he sat, the air seemed to shift, the ancient magic of christmas surging through the hall. the elves stared in awe as the throne’s glow brightened, its magic recognizing sukuna as the rightful santa.

the days that followed were a whirlwind of activity as christmas was saved and the gifts delivered. but when it was all over, and the workshop quieted for the long rest of the year, sukuna sought you out.

he found you in the quiet of your room, the glow of the north pole’s lights filtering through the window.

“come with me,” he said, his voice low and inviting.

you followed him without hesitation, his presence drawing you in like a magnet. he led you to his chambers—his now, as the new santa. the room was warm and inviting, the fire crackling softly in the hearth.

“you saved me,” he said, turning to face you. his crimson eyes softened, his tattoos glowing faintly in the dim light. “you trusted me when no one else would.”

“you deserved it,” you said quietly.

he stepped closer, his four arms wrapping around you as his lips curved into a smirk. “and now, i intend to thank you properly.”

the air between you seemed to hum with energy, his gaze locking onto yours as the distance between you disappeared.

his chambers were steeped in a heavy, intoxicating warmth, the flickering firelight reflecting off the deep crimson furnishings and casting shadows that seemed to breathe with the rhythm of the room. the air itself felt alive, humming with a raw energy that matched the man standing before you.

sukuna leaned casually against the ornate four-poster bed, his broad shoulders and muscular arms giving the impression of effortless power. his crimson eyes burned with an intensity that pinned you in place, their sharpness softened only slightly by the faint curl of his lips.

“you don’t need to stand there like a nervous little rabbit,” he said, his voice low and teasing, a delicious rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. “come here.”

the way he said it—smooth and commanding, with a promise of something that made your stomach flutter—left you no choice but to obey.

you stepped closer, your heart pounding with each step, until you were standing in front of him.

“you saved christmas,” he murmured, his gaze locking onto yours as his four arms moved to surround you. the first hand slid to your waist, his grip firm but not overbearing, while another rested gently on the small of your back, pulling you closer. “and more than that… you saved me.”

“i didn’t do it alone,” you replied, your voice a whisper under the weight of his attention.

he tilted his head, strands of soft pink hair falling into his face as his smirk widened. his thumb traced lazily over your cheek, the pad of it brushing just beneath your lips, lingering like he was daring you to take a bite. “always so modest,” he murmured, voice like velvet dragged over steel. “but tonight isn’t about me. it’s about you.”

his words settled low in your stomach, molten and heavy, and before you could think to reply, his lips were on yours.

the kiss wasn’t gentle. sukuna didn’t ask—he took. his mouth moved over yours with a slow, deliberate hunger that left no room for hesitation. his tongue brushed against your bottom lip before sliding inside, tasting you, claiming you with a heat that left you lightheaded.

his hands—strong, calloused, and just the right amount of rough—moved without direction, as if instinct alone drove them. one slid up the bare skin of your back, tugging you against him until there wasn’t an inch of space left between you. another drifted lower, fingers curving to squeeze your thigh, pulling it higher against his hip.

the third tangled into your hair, twisting at the roots with just enough pressure to make you whimper against his mouth. the way he touched you—too many hands, too much strength—left you dizzy and burning.

“fuck,” he muttered, pulling back just enough to catch your lower lip between his teeth, giving it a playful tug before releasing you. his voice was husky, breath ragged, but his smirk never faded. “already trembling?”

“maybe you should do something about it,” you shot back, though your voice barely rose above a whisper.

his gaze flicked over you, crimson eyes glinting with something darker.

“oh, i intend to.”

before you could react, sukuna swept you up—two hands beneath your thighs, one cradling your back, the last trailing teasingly down your spine. he carried you toward the bed like you weighed nothing, the heat of his body seeping through every layer between you.

when he dropped you onto the plush sheets, he hovered at the edge of the bed, gaze raking over you with the kind of attention that left your skin flushed.

“strip.”

the single word hung heavy in the air, rasping low and deep, more command than request.

your fingers trembled as you pulled at the fabric, peeling away each layer under his watchful eyes.

by the time the last piece fell to the floor, sukuna knelt between your legs, hands spreading your thighs apart with an ease that made your breath catch.

“look at you,” he murmured, his pink hair falling over his forehead as his gaze darkened. thick fingers traced a slow path along the soft skin of your inner thigh, rough fingertips catching on each sensitive dip. “all spread out for me.”

his breath was hot as he lowered his head, lips brushing feather-light kisses over the inside of your legs, leaving trails of heat in their wake.

when he finally reached your center, he paused—close enough for you to feel the soft puff of his exhale, but not enough to satisfy the ache blooming between your thighs.

“mine,” he growled, voice vibrating against your skin.

and then his mouth was on you.

his tongue traced a slow, deliberate line from your entrance to your clit, flicking over the sensitive nub with a precision that left your head spinning.

you gasped, fingers flying to his hair, tugging hard at the strands of pink that curled between your knuckles.

he groaned into you, the vibration of his voice sending another jolt straight through your core.

“so fucking sweet,” he muttered against you, the words muffled by the slick heat of his mouth.

his tongue lapped at you in slow, torturous circles, switching between soft flicks and hard strokes that left your thighs trembling.

when his finger pressed into you—thick and unrelenting—you couldn’t stop the moan that slipped out.

his crimson eyes flicked up, locking onto yours. “louder,” he commanded, curling his finger inside you until he found that spot that made your hips jerk.

“sukuna,” you gasped, nails digging into his scalp.

his smirk widened against you, but he didn’t relent. another finger joined the first, stretching you just enough to make your toes curl.

“that’s it,” he purred, dragging his tongue over your clit with every pulse of his fingers. “say my name again.”

your breath hitched as heat coiled low in your belly, winding tighter with each stroke.

“sukuna,” you whimpered, body arching into his touch as the pressure inside you built to the edge.

“good girl.”

his tongue moved faster, fingers thrusting deeper until the coil snapped, pleasure flooding your senses so sharply that you swore you saw white.

you writhed beneath him, body trembling with each wave of release, but sukuna didn’t stop. his mouth and hands dragged you through the aftershocks, prolonging the heat until your legs shook violently around his head.

when he finally pulled away, his lips and chin glistened, and the sight of him licking your slick from his fingers sent another rush of heat flooding your core.

“fuck, you’re perfect,” he rasped, his voice rough and low as he hovered over you, his cock pressing against your entrance.

you could feel him—hot, thick, and far too big.

“you’re gonna take every inch,” he growled, tilting your hips higher as he teased your entrance with the tip.

his cock dragged through your slick folds, each shallow thrust making you ache with want.

“look at me.”

your eyes snapped to his, and the sight of him left you breathless. his crimson gaze burned with possession, pink strands of hair falling into his face as he slowly sank inside, stretching you inch by inch.

your nails dug into his shoulders as your head fell back against the pillow.

“sukuna,” you gasped, breath breaking as he filled you completely.

his name spilled from your lips in a breathy moan as he bottomed out, the thick press of his cock stretching you to your limit. sukuna stilled, letting you adjust, his four hands roaming your body in slow, reverent strokes—calloused palms smoothing over your hips, thighs, and breasts as if to memorize every inch.

“fuck,” he rasped, one of his thumbs dragging lazily over your swollen clit. “you’re takin’ me so well. look how deep i am.”

your eyes fluttered open just in time to catch the glint in his gaze, his crimson irises smoldering as he pressed down on the slight bulge in your abdomen.

“you feel that?” he smirked, applying just enough pressure to make you keen. “so full of me already.”

your head fell back, a soft whimper tumbling from your throat as he rolled his hips, the slow drag of him pulling out leaving you trembling.

“stay with me, baby,” he growled, catching your chin between his fingers and tilting your head up, forcing you to meet his gaze. “i wanna see that pretty face while i fuck you.”

he snapped his hips forward again, the sudden force driving a gasp from your lips. sukuna’s smirk widened as he found his rhythm, each thrust harder, deeper—grinding against that sensitive spot inside that left your thighs trembling around his waist.

“goddamn,” he hissed, leaning down to bite at the curve of your shoulder, his teeth dragging against your flushed skin. “tight little thing. you were made for me.”

your nails raked down his back, desperate for something to hold onto as he drove you closer to the edge with every snap of his hips.

“sukuna—please,” you whimpered, not even sure what you were begging for.

“please what?” he teased, dipping his head to suck a bruise just above your collarbone, his tongue flicking over the mark. “you gotta use your words, sweetheart.”

“i—” your voice broke as he angled his thrusts, the head of his cock brushing against that spot so perfectly you thought you might unravel on the spot.

sukuna grinned, reading the desperation in your eyes as if it fueled him. “ah, there it is,” he murmured, lips brushing against your jaw. “that sweet little spot that makes you fall apart.”

his pace quickened, hips pistoning into you with a brutal precision that sent molten pleasure ripping through your veins.

“you close, baby?” he growled, his voice gravelly as his four hands anchored you to the bed—one pressing down against your lower stomach, two gripping your hips tight enough to bruise, and the last tangling in your hair, tugging gently as he sucked at the curve of your throat.

you could only nod, your breath catching as the tension in your core coiled tighter, dangerously close to snapping.

“then cum for me,” he ordered, dragging his thumb over your clit in tight, merciless circles. “let me feel you.”

his words were all it took—your body arched off the bed, a sharp cry tearing from your throat as your orgasm crashed over you, white-hot and all-consuming.

sukuna groaned low in his chest, his thrusts growing rougher, sloppier as your walls pulsed around him, milking him for all he was worth.

“fuck, baby,” he snarled, burying himself to the hilt one last time as he came, the heat of his release flooding you, leaving you trembling beneath him.

for a moment, neither of you moved, the only sound between you the ragged cadence of your breathing and the faint crackle of the fire.

sukuna leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips—a stark contrast to the bruising way he’d just taken you. his hands, once gripping you with unrelenting force, now traced gentle patterns along your waist, grounding you in the quiet intimacy that followed.

“an elf always belongs with santa,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough yet tender, as if the words carried a weight neither of you fully understood until now.

your heart skipped at the quiet conviction in his tone, warmth spreading through your chest that had nothing to do with the fire crackling in the hearth.

you brushed a hand through his pink hair, letting the strands curl around your fingers as you smiled softly. “guess that makes me yours then.”

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em1i2a3 · 2 months ago

Text

Entombed

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader

Summary: The aftermath of your night with The Void is weighing heavy on you and things start to change. (This is a continuation of ‘Test Drive’)

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts as there is Bob in this…And The Void There is Angst, Smut, and Fluff in this. There are dark elements/themes in this that are explored. Bob and the reader are going through it, and it’s quite rough. There is a lot of emotions and tons of tension happening in this story and honestly it was a whole lotta fun writing it because jeez, there was so much that could happen in the aftermath of this! The Void is obsessed/bonded to the reader, and there are elements of the supernatural in this we lean into it just a bit but it’s not a huge part of the story (y’all will see, I kind of took a little bit of lore from the comics but nothing too crazy). Guilt and Regret kinda plays a role in this too.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up my peeps please), Body Worship/Praise Kink, Reader is in Control (not in a dominant way), Cockwarming, Grinding, Heavy Makeout (which involves a lot of heavy petting), Very Light Choking, Marking/Biting/Reclaiming, Oral Sex (Fem! Receiving), Super Intimate Sex, Aftercare Galore, Discussions/References to sex

Authors Note: Well, I hope this part 2 satisfies, I made some choices here that leave things open for a part 3 if people truly want it but hopefully y’all enjoy this one first :)) I was on the fence on where I wanted this to go but hopefully my creative decisions paid off.

Word Count: 16,464

Peeps Who Wanted To Be Tagged For Part 2: @millercontracting @avengersinitiative2012 @dark-silhouette @kurayamifairy @houseofaegon @vanguardlady @sentryluvs @simp-sentral @impoeticbeauty

Bob loved watching you train.

It wasn’t the flash of your skill set or the brutality you were capable of unleashing when pushed. It was your agility. The grace that was threaded into every step, every twist, and every perfectly executed takedown. You moved like you were born for the fight–but never to dominate. You weren’t the kind of person that demanded attention. You were the kind that earned it, silently, relentlessly, and over time.

That’s what had first drawn Bob to you. Not the danger, but the discipline. Not the strength, but the control…And the way you smiled, soft and easy, when you would push your hair back and look over your shoulder with a quiet little smirk that said ‘watch me’.

He could watch you for hours.

But today…Today you weren’t moving. You weren’t even training. You were sitting on the edge of the mat, sweater drawn tight around your shoulders, sleeves swallowing past your wrists, with your legs tucked up in a way that didn’t look relaxed. You looked…Small. Uncharacteristically withdrawn, and it worried him, because from the viewing deck all he could think about was how you were acting at breakfast.

You hadn’t smiled once this morning. Not when Ava made a dumb joke about the broken coffee machine. Not when Alexei spilled hot sauce on his shirt and cursed in Russian. Not even when Bob had caught your eye–or tried to–and offered you that quiet half-smile you usually returned without hesitation. It was like you were actively avoiding him, you didn’t sit beside him, and you didn’t even look at him.

It was like watching someone wearing your skin–your gestures, your face–but none of you was there. And now, down on the mat, wrapped up in your pool of clothes, you looked like you were trying to disappear.

The clang of a metal clasp echoed as Walker dropped his sparring gear. Ava stretched, rolled her shoulders, and tossed a half-empty water bottle across the room, nailing Alexei in the chest. Training was winding down with the usual noise and chaos, but none of it touched you–it looked like you had been released from prison.

You stood slowly, stretching out your back, and Bob caught the faint grimace that flickered across your face as your body resisted the motion. You winced–barely–but it was enough to make his chest tighten. He thought maybe you were injured, or that you pulled something yesterday during your high intensity training. That would explain the sitting out. Maybe even the outfit. But it didn’t explain the way you’d barely spoken to anyone that morning nor the way you looked through him at breakfast like he was a piece of glass. Like he did something…

You turned toward the hallway, and immediately he moved towards the exit.

He came down from the observation deck, taking the stairs two at a time. His hoodie sleeves were bunched at his elbows and he wiped his palms on the sides of his sweatpants, the nerves were pulsing through his skin. He wasn’t good at this–at confrontation, even soft ones–but the ache in his chest told him he wouldn’t sleep if he didn’t at least try to figure out what was wrong.

“H-Hey,” He called gently, catching up to you just as you reached the doorway to the locker rooms. You paused, and he could see the way your shoulders tensed at his voice before you turned to him. You wrapped your arms over yourself, almost like you were bracing for something.

”I, um…” He scratched the back of his neck, eyes darting between your face, then away, “C-Can I talk to you for a s-second.” Instantly you could feel your heart begin to race, the idea that he might have actually remembered last night almost made you ill, you could feel the bile begin to rise in the back of your throat, as you forced yourself to answer.

”O-Okay.” You were bracing yourself.

”I just–“ He fumbled for words, “I wanted t-to check in…You’ve been acting k-kind of…Distant t-today. At breakfast, d-during training…Even right n-now. I thought maybe s-something was wrong…Or I-I did something.” You swallowed hard, a little too hard to have it be unnoticed. The sound caught in your throat like a stone, and you could feel the weight of his worry pressing into the narrow space between you. Bob wasn’t loud. Wasn’t pushy. But the way his voice trembled, the way his hands fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve–it was enough to make your chest cave in.

You shook your head before he could finish his next sentence.

“No,” You said quickly, “You didn’t do anything.”

His mouth opened slightly, like he wanted to ask if you were sure, but he didn’t. He just nodded, brows still knit in concern.

“I…I just didn’t sleep well,” You added, hoping it would sound casual, feeling this dread slowly building up inside of you, because all you could think about was his hands, and his lips, and his mouth, or the scratch marks on your back that were burning as you spoke to him, almost like they were calling for your attention.

“O-Oh…” He replied, softly, “O-Okay…I just t-though maybe you were upset with m-me or something…But I-I know you would d-definitely tell m-me if that was the case…” You offered the smallest smile, feeling your throat tightening at the way he was speaking to you, like he knew what happened last night but he was waiting for you to say something.

“We’re okay…” Bob nodded at your weak reassurance–we’re okay–but he didn’t look convinced. He chewed at the inside of his cheek, like there was something else he wanted to say, something gnawing at him. But instead, he cleared his throat and forced a smile.

“R-Right,” He murmured. “I was also g-gonna ask if, uh…If we’re still doing our little b-bodega thing? I figured we could g-get your usual, sit by the fountain like always…” It was your routine. Quiet and private and safe. After training, just the two of you would head down the street to that tiny corner bodega with the cracked tile floor and the sleepy cat in the window. You always got the same thing–egg salad, extra pickles, Bob always forgot to ask for napkins–and then you’d walk a block over and sit by the fountain near the old courthouse. Sometimes you talked about training. Sometimes you talked about everything else, or you just watched people and mumbled about what they must be doing or where they must be going.

During these times it felt like he was yours.

And now?

You couldn’t even look him in the eye.

“I don’t think I can today…” You said quietly, your voice barely carrying over the hum of the hallway light. “I think I may just go to my room after I change... To lay down.”

His expression flickered–something between worry and disappointment, but not the selfish kind. The kind that hurt because he cared. Because he knew there was something wrong, or that you were hiding something from him at the very least. Because he didn’t understand why it suddenly felt like you were slipping out of his hands and he couldn’t stop it.

“Oh. Y-Yeah. Of course,” He replied quickly, tucking his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie to stop them from fidgeting. “That makes sense. You should rest. That’s good. Rest is–good.” You offered him a faint, aching smile–like something carved out of stone.

“Yeah…Should help a bit.” Your voice was so soft, and gentle he could barely hear it.

“Can I…D-Do anything for you? I could bring you some tea? O-Or I could just stay close, in case you–”

You shook your head before he could finish.

“No,” You murmured. “I just need to be alone.”

He nodded again. Slower this time. The corner of his mouth lifted in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Okay. I’ll, uh… I’ll see you later, then.”

You gave him a small nod of acknowledgement, and quickly slipped into the locker room without another word.

Once the door clicked softly behind you, it felt like you could finally let go of the breath you’d been holding since breakfast. But the exhale didn’t bring relief–it only left you emptier. The weight in your chest didn’t ease; it tightened. Pressed in. Like your ribs were folding inward. Like your lungs were trying to collapse around a scream you couldn’t afford to let out.

Tears gathered before you could stop them.

Hot. Stinging. Blurring your vision before they ever reached your lashes. You tried to blink them away. You clenched your jaw until it ached. But the pressure building behind your sternum was too sharp, too real, too loud. The ache had dug in sometime between last night and now, and it wasn’t going anywhere.

You weren’t sure if it was regret. Not in the traditional sense. Because it hadn’t felt like a mistake in the moment–it had felt like inevitability. Like gravity. Like a need that had grown too large to hold back. And the way he had touched you–reverently, ruinously–had shattered something you didn’t even know was intact.

But now?

Now it felt like you’d made a deal with the devil in the dark and woken up in someone else’s skin.

You wrapped your arms around yourself tightly, nails digging into the sleeves of your sweater.

The guilt crawled in like rot. Not loud. Just constant. Creeping through your bones. Worming into the cracks between your thoughts. Because the worst part wasn’t what he’d done.

It was that you let him.

You’d let the Void in.

You invited him.

And maybe that would’ve been survivable–maybe–if it had been just about you and him. But it wasn’t. Not even close.

Because now Bob…Sweet, trembling, gentle Bob–your Bob…Had no idea what had happened. He had no memory of what his own body had done. Of what you had allowed. Of what he’d whispered in your ear in that almost-voice that sounded so much like him your heart broke under it. And that was the part that was ripping you apart.

The betrayal wasn’t his.

It was yours.

Because it felt like you’d taken advantage of a piece of him he couldn’t control–used a part of him he’d been trying to suppress. And now you were walking around with the memory of him in your skin, in your bones, in the place where he’d left something behind–and he was walking around clueless. Still smiling at you like he would do anything to protect you. Still offering to bring you tea. You pressed your hand to your abdomen as the guilt twisted deeper, sharper.

Because even now, a part of you was aching for what happened. Craving the touch. The voice. The power. And that was the cruelest truth of all.

You hadn’t just said yes. You’d wanted it.

You sniffed and wiped at your eyes with the sleeves of your sweater, but it didn’t help. The tears had already left hot streaks along your cheeks, and your mouth tasted like metal–like the guilt had started seeping in from the inside out.

And then, suddenly, it burned.

It wasn’t sharp. Not like a cut or a bruise. It was deep. Molten. Like someone had sunk hot iron into your spine and lit a match inside your skin. Your whole body jolted. You reached for the edge of the bench to steady yourself, breath catching as the burn surged again–up your back, down your hips, around the sides of your ribs.

You grabbed at the hem of your sweater and yanked it over your head with a shaky, desperate motion, casting it aside onto the bench like it was soaked in gasoline.

And then you turned to the mirror.

Your stomach dropped.

The marks were worse.

So much worse.

What had once been faint purpling around your hips, vague red lines across your shoulder blades, were now vivid. Raised. Angry. Like they’d grown. They were more defined–claws, unmistakably. Four long, precise gouges across your back, etched in perfect arcs like someone had gripped you and dragged you down to hell.

The bruise on your collarbone had deepened into a bruise-black imprint of teeth. Not sharp like fangs. Just possessive.

There were fingerprints on your thighs, your waist. His fingerprints.

But worse–

They were pulsing. The skin around each mark glowed faintly. Subtle. Like an ember tucked just beneath your flesh, blinking with your pulse.

“What the fuck…” Was all you could manage to say, as your fingers traced over the marks.

The mirror flickered, and you froze.

The overhead lights stayed on, but the mirror–just for a second–shivered like a ripple passed through it. The color leached from your reflection, and the air shifted. Heavier. Sharper.

Then, that voice.

“You must be pretty confused right now, hm?” Your mouth parted and your throat went dry.

You didn’t turn around. You didn’t need to, because he was there.

In the mirror.

The Void stood in the glass like a phantom with substance, wearing Bob’s shape again like it was tailored for him, but darker–more real than anything had a right to be. His jaw was sharp. His shoulders held the same broadness as Bob's, only he stood confidently. His eyes…The ones you had looked into last night when you had called him by Bob’s name…The twin void stars. He looked like a dark hole in the middle of the room. Your lips parted.

“I…” You blinked. “Bob’s awake.” The words came out flat, panicked. A statement of fact–as if saying it aloud would force the universe to correct itself. “He’s awake. He’s walking around. He–He talked to me just a few minutes ago. He–he was right outside. You’re not supposed to be here…How the fuck are you here?”

He smiled at you through the glass, and you saw teeth.

Not sharp. Not jagged. Worse.

Perfect. Like the kind of teeth a man shows when he knows the whole room belongs to him. It looked almost the exact same as last night, only it was clearer now, more visible to your eye.

“Oh, sweetheart,” He purred, stepping forward–closer to the edge of the mirror. The room didn’t darken, but your reflection dimmed behind his, as though you were no longer the main inhabitant of your own body. “I don’t disappear that quickly.”

A chill bloomed across your shoulders.

You hadn’t moved. But your breath hitched.

Because you felt it.

The air shifted behind you. The warmth of your skin turning ice-cold–just behind the base of your neck. Like someone was standing inches from you. Like someone was breathing against your spine.

Your voice trembled. “You lied to me…”

The Void’s smile widened.

From the mirror, he watched you–head tilted, eyes glowing.

“Now, now, I didn’t lie,” He murmured.

And then–

His breath touched your skin, and your whole body locked.

You felt it–real, present, inside the room now. The cold exhale that brushed the nape of your neck like silk. Your shoulders flinched inward, but you couldn’t move away. Not from him. Not from the thing that had touched you from within the dark and now moved around you like a ghost in daylight.

“I just omitted information,” He finished softly, like it was the punchline of a private joke. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. Your hands trembled at your sides.

“W-What did you do to me?” Your voice cracked.

The Void didn’t answer. Not directly.

Instead, he stepped closer in the mirror again, and your body moved–not of your own accord–tilting slightly toward the glass. Your reflection leaned forward. But you hadn’t moved. Your reflection wasn’t matching anymore. The air behind you felt too dense now, like you could reach behind yourself and grab a fistful of it–thick and chilled and humming faintly like static against your skin. Your knees nearly gave out when you felt it again.

A touch.

Not a full press of fingers. Just the brush of ice sliding along your spine–right over one of the claw marks, as though retracing his own work.

In the mirror, the Void tilted his head.

“Don’t assume I did something permanent,” He said softly. There was a mocking gentleness in his voice, like he was humoring your panic. “Please…I’m not that evil.” You watched your own mouth tremble in the glass. Your reflection was still not syncing to your movements–there was a subtle delay, like a puppet lagging behind its strings.

“Though,” He continued, dragging his fingers down your back again as if he was petting you, “I really could’ve done worse…” Your breath hitched when his nail grazed the base of your spine, and the marks pulsed, almost like he was slowly bringing something to the surface of your skin.

“But…Let’s just say,” He drawled, his smile deepening, “I’ll be around for a little while longer. Just until you…Recover from our little night together.”

You turned your head slightly–not fully, not enough to break eye contact with the mirror–but your voice came through hoarse. “It doesn’t make any sense…I still don’t understand h-how you’re even here?”

The Void gave an exasperated sigh, like you were being deliberately naive.

“I’m an entity, sweetheart. A force.” He stepped closer, and your reflection blurred again, feeling his chest gently pressing against your back. “Not a man. Not a ghost. Not a shadow. I tether to people. I’m tethered to Bob permanently…But…” His voice dipped, curling against your ear like a gust of wind, “You let me in. You let me finish inside you. Did you really think there wouldn’t be some sort of…Consequence?”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“Sperm,” He murmured, almost lazily, like the word itself was a spell. “Can live for…What is it… Three to five days inside a reproductive system, give or take?”

Your knees buckled, and you gripped the counter in front of you to stay upright. The burn across your back flared again, and your skin felt too tight, too hot, like it was struggling to contain something underneath.

“Give it time,” He whispered, dragging his fingernail over the topmost mark. “After that… I’ll be gone. Probably. Unless you invite me in again.”

He hummed, amused by your silence, and his fingers–impossibly cold and real–smoothed gently along the curve of your ribs, ghosting over bruised skin like it belonged to him.

“Only you can see me, by the way,” He added kindly. “So maybe keep your voice down a bit when you answer me…Hm?” You were just about to say something–anything–when the door behind you banged open.

The sound crashed through the room like a gunshot, and you flinched violently, heart seizing in your chest.

“–I’m telling you, it was the worst latte I’ve ever had,” Ava’s voice carried in before she even cleared the doorway, followed closely by Yelena’s sharp scoff of agreement. “It tasted like someone put chalk in a sock and let it steep for twenty minutes–”

They both froze.

The silence that followed was instant, sucked tight like vacuum-sealed air.

You turned toward them too slowly.

You could feel their eyes on you before you even lifted your head–feel them taking in the angry red claw marks that wrapped around your ribs, the bruises blooming like warpaint down your sides, the purple-black bite mark stark against your collarbone.

“Y/N?” Yelena’s voice was clipped. Low. Already shifting into something sharp and protective.

Ava blinked once. Then twice. “What the actual fuck?”

You tried to move–tried to step back or grab the sweater or explain something, anything, but the words wouldn’t come.

Because he was still there.

Still behind you.

Still breathing cold down your spine like a promise.

“Jesus Christ,” Yelena stepped in first, boots hitting the tile hard, like she was ready to start a fight with whoever did this. “Who did this to you? Are you okay? Are you bleeding?”

“I–I’m fine.” You said it too fast. Too flat. It didn’t sound like you.

“No, you’re not,” Ava said, her voice unusually steady as she followed behind, crouching slightly like she was trying to check your balance. “Y/N, that’s not a training injury. That’s…That’s not even human-looking. That’s…” Her eyes flicked to the claw marks, her brow creasing. “Were you attacked?” You could feel the nerves building up in your chest.

”N-No! I wasn’t attacked.”

“Gotta be a little better at lying to your friend's sweetheart.” The Void whispered mockingly, as you felt his fingers on your back again.

”Shut up!” You exclaimed out of nowhere, catching what you had just done the moment it happened. Yelena and Ava both froze in place at your sudden outburst.

The echo of your voice clapped back off the tile, too loud, too frantic–and too obviously directed at someone who wasn’t there.

You watched their eyes shift. Not just to the claw marks. Not just to the bruises. But to your face now–your wide, panicked eyes. Your trembling mouth. The sweat clinging to your hairline.

“Y/N…” Ava’s voice softened, like she was approaching a wild animal. “Tell us what’s going on.” Yelena didn’t say anything. Not yet. But she took another step forward, slow and steady, like she was preparing for you to bolt. Or break.

“Who did this to you?” Ava asked again, her eyes flicking back to the bite mark. “Was it someone on the team? Because if it was, I swear to God–”

“It wasn’t anyone on the team, I–I wasn’t attacked. Not like that.”

Yelena’s eyes narrowed. “Then what happened?” You stared at them both. Ava with her brows knit, hand twitching like she wanted to touch you but didn’t dare. Yelena looked like she might murder someone if you gave her a name.

”And start from the beginning.” Ava added.

–––––––––––––

The water ran hot.

Too hot.

It scalded down Bob’s back in long, blistering sheets, but he didn’t move. He just stood there, braced against the shower wall, head bowed under the stream, letting it burn. Letting it wash over the tension twisted through his spine like a knot of wire.

His hands twitched every now and then–restless, nervous, like they were searching for something they couldn’t find. Something they swore had been there before.

Something soft. Warm. Familiar.

He blinked slowly, eyes hazy beneath the steam.

After he spoke to you in front of the locker room images had begun to flicker in and out of his brain. Not memories exactly. But…Something. Echoes. Flashbulb imprints behind his eyes. A mouth. A sound. Nails biting across his shoulders. A voice–soft and breathless, gasping his name like it was a sin.

”Bob.” It was you–or your voice at least. He could feel his breath stop in his throat. It felt like a dream. But the kind that lingered. The kind that pressed fingerprints into your skin and refused to fade.

He exhaled and reached up to scrub at his face, hoping the pressure might clear his head. But then–

A sting.

Sharp and sudden. Low on his shoulders.

He winced.

His hand dropped to his shoulder, then curled around the top of his back. His fingers traced lightly–grazing over his skin until–

He froze.

Marks.

Four of them.

Long, raised lines carved into his shoulder blade. He twisted toward the mirror just outside the glass shower, blinking steam away as he leaned, trying to see over his own shoulder. It wasn’t easy, but when the fog cleared, he caught it.

Four scratches. They were faintly red, like someone had dragged their nails across the ridges of his shoulder blade. His stomach turned at the sight, and there was a cold weight that settled behind his ribs.

“What the hell…” He muttered, voice hoarse from the heat and whatever this was.

The scratches didn’t look accidental. They looked like grip marks. Like someone had clawed at him, held on tight, dug in as if riding out–

His stomach flipped violently.

He hadn’t had sex. He would remember that. Right?

Right?

The back of his neck prickled with cold, even as the water beat down on him, too hot.

And then–

That voice.

Slick. Amused. Familiar in a way that made his skin crawl.

“Wasn’t that a great dream you had last night?”

Bob’s entire body went rigid.

He didn’t respond at first–didn’t even breathe. Just stood there, eyes wide, steam curling around him like mist curling off a cliff, and that’s when things began to slowly fall into place.

The dream…The dream he had of you last night.

“…No,” He whispered eventually, shaking his head. “No, no, no…”

“Oh come on,” The Void drawled. “Don’t be shy. You liked it. That little fantasy with her chest against yours, riding you, moaning your name like a hymn. She looked so pretty when she came, didn’t she?”

Bob’s vision swam. He gripped the edge of the shower wall so hard his knuckles turned white.

“It wasn’t real,” He said through clenched teeth. “It was just a dream.”

A low, velvet chuckle unfurled in the base of his skull.

“Sure it was.”

The water suddenly felt too loud–like static screaming in his ears.

Memories weren’t supposed to feel like this. They weren’t supposed to echo in his skin, or pull on the muscle of his thighs like a ghost still touching him. He felt raw–stretched thin from the inside out. His breath came ragged now–short, sharp gasps that barely made it past his lips as flashes began to tear across his mind like lightning, split-second visions, and sensations.

Your thighs bracketing his hips, your voice breaking around his name, your tears streaming down your cheeks. The way your back arched towards him.

His eyes snapped shut and he stumbled backward, one palm flying to the wall like it could keep him upright. But the weight was inside him now. The wrongness. The knowing.

“No,” He gasped. “No, I didn’t–I wouldn’t–”

“You didn’t,” The Void answered smoothly, his voice curling inside Bob’s skull like smoke through a vent. “I did.”

The words hit like a physical blow. Bob staggered back against the shower wall, blinking against the sting of hot water and bile rising in his throat.

“She said yes, you know,” The Void continued. “Every time. She said your name while I was inside her. Cried for you. Pretended it was you.”

Bob’s stomach lurched. He pressed a hand over his mouth, like that could keep the nausea down. “Stop. Just shut up–”

“You think she didn’t know it wasn’t you?” The Void whispered. “She did. She just wanted you so badly, she was willing to close her eyes and let me wear your skin. And you know what, Bob?”

A pause.

A cruel silence.

“She loved it.”

Bob let out a broken, wounded sound. Something between a sob and a growl. His body was trembling violently now–his breath a stuttered panic trapped in his lungs.

“You’re lying,” He choked.

“You don’t feel it?” The Void murmured. “The tension in your shoulders? The ache in your hips? The ghost of her still gripping you? I don’t dream, Bob. But you do. And I left you the best parts.”

Bob staggered out of the shower, dripping and wild-eyed. He stumbled, half slipping across the wet tile, as he reached out and wrapped a towel around his hips while the other scrambled for the edge of the counter. His knees hit the floor hard, but the pain didn’t register–not over the white-hot coil twisting in his gut. He lurched forward.

The sound that came out of him was ugly–guttural and gasping–as he vomited into the basin. His body convulsed, throat straining, the acidic bile burning up his esophagus. His arms shook as he braced himself, knuckles whitening on the marble.

It felt endless.

Each heave dragged something deeper out of him–not just from his stomach but from somewhere more primal. Something soul-level. Shame. Horror. Guilt. The knowledge that something had been done to her. With his body. While he was unaware.

His chest heaved with dry sobs now, water still dripping off his hair and jaw, his face flushed red from the heat and the nausea. He clutched the edge of the basin and lifted his head slowly, eyelids fluttering.

And froze.

The steam on the mirror had cleared just enough to reflect two figures.

His own…

And him.

The Void stood to his left–closer than he should’ve been. Closer than Bob could feel, and yet, somehow his presence pressed into the room like a second atmosphere. His arms were folded loosely, one shoulder resting against the bathroom wall as if this were casual. As if he had every right to stand there, real and solid, in Bob’s space. In Bob’s skin.

“Don’t feel too bad,” The Void said lightly, tilting his head as if studying his twin in the mirror. “I was good to her. Tender, even. You should’ve heard the way she begged. So soft. So sweet.”

Bob’s fingers curled into fists on the edge of the sink.

“Stop talking,” He rasped. “Just fucking stop.”

“You really think I’m lying?” The Void arched a brow, a little smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Then go talk to her.”

Bob’s breath hitched.

The Void pushed off the wall now, taking a step forward–not menacing, not fast, but slow and deliberate. His reflection moved with him. His voice softened with mock sympathy.

“I’m sure if you ask her gently, she’ll tell you the truth. What she felt. What she saw. What she said.”

Bob shook his head. “She didn’t know. She couldn’t have–”

“She did.” The Void’s tone sharpened just enough to cut. “And if you’re still not convinced…”

He paused in front of Bob–so close now Bob could see the way the light gleamed off his collarbone, the faint shimmer of something bruised beneath the skin–and slowly lifted his hand.

One long finger tapped just beneath his throat, where his jugular notch was–or is– supposed to be.

“Check right here on her…I left a little something there.” Bob didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because the part that shattered him wasn’t the evidence. It wasn’t the dream, or the bite, or even the voice curling like poison through his mind.

It was the truth he already knew.

He had felt it.

In his skin. In his bones.

In the aching echo of a night he hadn’t lived–but now he had to carry with him anyway.

“She trusted me,” He whispered, barely audible. “She trusted me to protect her from you.”

The Void tilted his head, mockingly thoughtful. “Mmm. And you did such a good job, didn’t you? You didn’t warn her how convincing I would be, hmm?” The Void’s grin widened.

It wasn’t malicious in the way monsters grinned in stories–it was worse. It was familiar. Worn like skin. Like something Bob might’ve seen in the mirror if he were just a little colder, a little more broken, a little more hungry.

“You didn’t warn her,” He repeated softly. “Not about the way I move. The way I sound. The way I feel.”

Bob’s breath stuttered. His knuckles were white against the sink.

“You manipulated her…” The Void let out a soft laugh.

“How did I manipulate her?” The Void’s voice was velvet now. Soothed, indulgent. “She wanted you, Bob. So I gave her that. I gave her what you never had the courage to.”

“I would never–” Bob choked, eyes burning, voice cracking around the protest.

“You wouldn’t,” The Void agreed, stepping closer until he could look directly into Bob’s eyes through the mirror. “You’re too good. Too gentle. Too afraid. You keep saying she trusts you–but she was starving, Bob. And I knew exactly how to feed her.”

Bob swayed on his feet.

He didn’t know how he was still standing.

Didn’t know how the ground hadn’t already cracked open beneath him.

The Void tapped the mirror glass once–right where Bob’s reflection was trembling–and leaned in, his next words a breath against the shell of Bob’s mind:

“If you want answers, ask her what she saw when she looked at me. Ask her whose name she really used when I was fucking her to the point of tears, then ask if she liked it…Or better yet…Asked why she liked it…Then maybe you’ll realize…It really wasn’t me who she wanted…It was you the entire time.”

Bob’s stomach twisted so violently he thought he might be sick again.

But there was nothing left to throw up. Only the bile in his throat, and the grief coiling around his ribs like iron wire. He gripped the edge of the sink harder, shoulders hunched like he could fold in on himself, like he could collapse inward and disappear entirely.

The Void’s final words lingered in the air like smoke, choking, clinging, true in a way that made Bob feel like a thief in his own skin.

It really wasn’t me who she wanted…

It was you the entire time.

Bob let out a sound–broken, wet, somewhere between a gasp and a sob. His reflection looked ruined. Face pale, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes bloodshot and glassy. The marks on his shoulders stung like accusations. The steam around him had started to dissipate, but the chill that slid down his spine was internal now. Bone-deep. Then before he could say anything else…

The Void was gone.

Of course he was…Because he always left the mess behind for Bob to clean up. Bob stood there for a moment longer–motionless, towel clinging to his hips, breath hitching with the kind of silence that didn’t feel empty at all. It felt like the aftermath of something horrific.

Like an echo waiting to settle into bone.

Eventually, he moved.

Slow.

Mechanic.

He reached for the toothbrush on the counter, fumbling the cap of the toothpaste like his fingers didn’t belong to him anymore. He brushed his teeth with shaking hands, hard enough to make his gums sting–desperate to scrape away the taste of bile, the phantom flavor of everything that had just spilled out of him.

Bob spat into the sink. Rinsed. Again. And again.

He swiped at his mouth with the towel and turned away without looking at the mirror.

Back in his room, the air felt heavier. Dimmer. Like the walls were holding their breath.

He shed the damp towel, grabbed the first pair of sweatpants from his drawer–charcoal gray, worn thin at the cuffs–and pulled them on with sluggish hands. His skin still felt too hot in places and too cold in others, like his body couldn’t decide if it was sweating or shivering.

A navy sweater came next. One you’d once teased him about because the material was so soft and gentle. It smelled like detergent and memory. He yanked it over his head and stood there for a second, hands resting at his sides, eyes unfocused.

Then he moved out the door, making his way down the hall quickly.

The floor was cold under his bare feet, but he barely felt it. The lights overhead buzzed low, flickering once–barely noticeable–but it was enough to make his stomach clench.

He stopped in front of your room.

The door was closed, and he stared at it for a moment.

His knuckles hovered just shy of the surface. His breath trembled out of him. He didn’t know what he’d say. Didn’t know how to ask. Didn’t know what you would see in his face.

But he had to see you, and he had to know.

–––––––––––––-

Inside your room, the world was steeped in dusky gold.

Sunset spilled through the sheer curtains like liquid amber, casting soft lines across the ceiling and walls. The sky beyond was fading into a bruised gradient–lavender, orange, blue–and it painted your skin in light that didn’t feel like yours to hold. You were lying on your back, one arm draped limply across your stomach, the other resting palm-up beside you like you were waiting for something. Your eyes were locked on the ceiling, unblinking. Still.

The blankets were tangled around your ankles. Your shirt clung to your side, damp from sweat, collar askew. You hadn’t moved in hours. Couldn’t. Not since you, Ava and Yelena spoke about what happened last night, and you came back to your room with the weight of that discussion on your shoulders.

You’d told them everything, every detail about what happened, what he looked like, what he sounded like., what he felt like, what you let him do…And you told them why.

Because you wanted him so badly it hurt. Because The Void allowed you to picture Bob’s face and his voice and his gentleness for one night… Just so you could let yourself pretend.

You told them how he held your face when you came. How he kissed your chest like it meant something, how he promised that Bob would never find out…But now you were riddled with guilt and it was eating away at your mind. You also told them that The Void was there with all of them listening, but only you were able to see him.

Yelena hadn’t said much, not at first. She just listened, jaw tense, thumb tapping restlessly against her thigh, she thought the situation was unbelievable, she chalked it up to a vivid nightmare...But the more details you divulged, the harder it got to believe that assumption. Ava had crouched in front of you, brow furrowed, voice soft.

“You need to tell him,” She said. “You have to tell him.”

“I don’t want to hurt him.”

“You already did,” Yelena said bluntly. “Not telling him only makes it worse.”

Her words weren’t cruel. They were honest. Like a bone being set back in place. It stung. But it was necessary.

“You don’t have to confess to be punished,” Ava added gently. “You have to confess to be free. If you keep hiding this, The Void wins twice. Once for using you…And again for keeping you.”

You didn’t argue.

Because they were right.

You weren’t afraid of Bob hating you. That would’ve been easier.

You were afraid he’d understand. That he’d forgive you. That he’d still want you after everything–and that you wouldn’t be able to forgive yourself.

You rolled onto your side slowly now, breath shallow, as the golden haze across your bedroom began to fade deeper into blue.

Then there was a knock.

You didn’t need to ask who it was, because it was evident that it could only be one person.

“…Come in,” You said, and the door creaked open slowly.

Bob stood there–backlit by the hallway’s sterile overhead glow. Dressed in his usual getup of a sweater and sweatpants. His light brown hair was still damp and fluffed from a quick towel dry. His eyes were rimmed red. His posture was stiff, like he didn’t trust his legs to carry him if he stepped too fast, and he looked at you like he’d been walking through hell and finally found the fire’s source.

You sat up slowly, your mouth parting–but no words came.

Bob lingered in the doorway for a second longer, like stepping into your room might unmake him.

Then–quietly–he closed the door behind him.

The latch clicked with a finality that made your chest tighten.

His eyes swept across the room once, slow, heavy. And then–without meaning to–they landed on your legs. Bare. Tangled loosely in the sheets. Skin kissed by amber light and bruised shadow.

He blinked. Looked away.

“W-We need to talk,” He said softly. His voice cracked at the edges.

You swallowed. “Okay.”

His eyes found yours again–shining but unreadable–and then he asked, “Can I… S-Sit?”

You nodded.

And he crossed the room.

Every step felt measured. Like he was walking through something sacred or cursed, you weren’t sure which. His hand brushed the edge of the mattress as he sat, careful not to get too close, sinking onto the same spot where The Void had touched you last night.

The same place where you’d said yes, where your fingers had curled into that blanket, and his hair as your hips lifted off the bed in pure ecstasy. Where you had clung to The Void and screamed Bob’s name in pleasure as you pictured him instead of the vantablack shadow that was invading you and your senses.

Now, in a tragically poetic way, Bob sat there, in living colour. He rested his elbows on his knees, rubbing his palms slowly together like he was trying to warm himself from the inside out. He didn’t look at you yet.

“What happened last night?” He asked finally, turning his head towards your figure. When his eyes met yours everything in him stilled. There was something in your face that made the air in the room feel sharper. Like it had teeth. Like even breathing might cut too deep. Your eyes were glassy like you had been on the brink of tears for hours, and your lips were parted like you wanted to say something but couldn’t find the start of it. Your body was tense, and curled in on itself like you were bracing for impact…And right then and there…He knew.

Bob’s eyes searched your face for a long moment, but whatever he was hoping to find there–certainty, relief, understanding–wasn’t present. Just the quiet tremble of your shoulders. Just the way your fingers picked at the hem of your shirt like you were trying to feel something real beneath your nails.

He swallowed, voice barely above a whisper this time.

“Did he hurt you?”

You blinked, slow. Shallow.

Your throat moved like the word was caught halfway up.

“No,” You said finally, “He didn’t hurt me…” Bob’s gaze didn’t waver.

His whole body had stilled–like even the breath in his lungs was holding itself hostage, waiting for what you’d say next. And you could feel it–the trembling edge of his restraint, the desperate ache of a man trying not to crumble.

“Then…” He asked, quieter now, like the words hurt to push out. “Then w-why didn’t you tell me?”

You closed your eyes. Just for a second. Just long enough to stop the sting from spilling over your waterline. When you looked back at him, your voice came out raw. Truthful. Like it had been scraped up from the bottom of something buried deep.

“Because I wanted it,” You whispered.

Bob flinched.

Not because he misunderstood. But because he understood too well.

You kept going. Slow. Careful. Like the words were glass you were trying not to shatter between your teeth.

“He said…He said he could let me experience you. Just once. Without you knowing. Without consequences. Without ruining everything.”

Bob didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. His hands had gone still in his lap.

“And I…” Your throat closed up again, but you forced the words through it. “I took the deal. Because neither of us were brave enough to say anything. Because I didn’t want to cross the line and destroy what we had. Because I knew you were still healing. I knew you weren’t ready and I didn’t want to push you.”

Bob’s face twisted slightly, like something inside him was breaking not from anger–but from love.

You pressed your lips together hard before continuing, voice barely audible now.

“But I was selfish, and I wanted you so badly it made me stupid…And he…He made it so easy. He let me pretend, and when I closed my eyes all I could see and feel was you…” Bob swallowed thickly.

”Was that enough though…?” A tear slid down your cheek.

”No…Not even close.” You whispered. Another pause plagued the room. This one was longer. Bob didn’t reach for you yet, even though he was desperate to comfort you. He just watched you like you were saying the words he had been afraid to hear his entire life.

“I thought I could live with it,” you said. “But this morning…When I saw you walk out of your room… It was the real you. And I realized I didn’t have that last nightI had a shadow. A performance. And my imagination.” You shook your head, voice breaking, “And I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About what I did. About how it’ll never go away now, and the guilt is…It’s fucking crushing me Bob…And I’m so so fucking sorry…I’ve destroyed everything.”

The corners of his mouth trembled slightly like he was trying not to cry. Then slowly, he reached out and slid his hand across the bedspread. His fingers brushed against yours, then gently curled around them. It wasn’t a bold gesture. It was reverent. Anchoring. Like he wanted you to know he was still here.

“Hey,” He murmured, voice rough. “You didn’t destroy anything.”

You blinked at him, vision swimming again, and he gave your hand the faintest squeeze.

“I swear,” He said just above a whisper, “You haven’t ruined a single thing I feel for you.”

That was when the air in the room shifted.

A low, familiar voice rippled across the space like smoke.

“Well isn’t this tender…”

Your eyes snapped to the corner of the room. Bob flinched–he hadn’t said a word out loud, but you both reacted the same way.

“Shut up,” You and Bob snapped in unison, turning to each other immediately, startled–and then frozen–because the surprise in his eyes was a perfect mirror of your own.

”Did…D-Did you hear him?” He asked, his voice hoarse, you nodded.

”Since this morning in the locker room.” There was a long beat of silence between you, thick and charged, like the air had stretched tight between your bodies and dared either of you to move.

Bob’s eyes searched yours again, more carefully this time–like he was trying to read something between the lines. You didn’t flinch away from it. You didn’t have it in you anymore. Not after everything.

“He didn’t really give me a fine print to that deal he offered…” You said dryly despite the ache in your chest, “Apparently the aftereffects of sleeping with a dark entity include…Temporary tethers of the psychic kind…Or something like that. Whatever bullshit he told me I don’t know at this point.” You exhaled, rubbing your face with your free hand, “Point is…I can hear what you hear evidently.” Bob let out a slow, shaky breath–like he’d been holding it in all day. Maybe he had. Maybe this was the first time his lungs could even remember what air felt like.

”And you’re sure it’s temporary?” He asked, almost not believing it. Like he needed you to say it again just to be sure, as you gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.

”Yeah…Ava thinks it’ll fade in a few days…Maybe sooner. Once everything is passed, I won’t be able to hear him anymore, or feel anything else he left behind.” Bob’s jaw clenched, not in anger–just in quiet relief. Like something in his chest finally let go.

“I-I didn’t know he c-could do that,” He admitted softly. “Then again… I-I’ve never been around when he’s having s-sex…” He hesitated, then offered a sheepish, almost self-deprecating shrug. “M-More because I haven’t had sex in a long time…But I-I guess that doesn’t matter a-anymore somehow…” Your brows lifted, but only slightly. The tension between you had shifted–not gone, but thickened, warmer now, laced with something else. Something closer to awareness.

“Guess we both crossed new frontiers this week,” You murmured, a sad smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth.

Bob huffed out a dry breath that might’ve been the start of a laugh if it weren’t so exhausted.

“But seriously…Hearing him yap all day has definitely made me admire you more. I mean, you put up with that on a daily basis?” You gave your head a slight shake. “He’s quite the character to deal with constantly. And honestly? It’s really weird interacting with him when there’s actual light in the room. Just feels…Wrong.” That earned you a real smile. Small, but there. The kind that pulled one side of Bob’s mouth higher than the other. Bob leaned his weight more fully into the edge of the bed, his thumb brushed over your knuckles once–nervous, tender.

“Well,” He said, voice low, rough with the remains of grief and disbelief, “O-On the bright side… A-At least you got a preview of what it’s like if you w-wanted to date me. C-Comes with crippling guilt, a psychic parasite, a-and an eternal inner monologue that sounds like a B-Bond villain.”

You blinked, and then, somehow–despite everything–you laughed. Just a breath, just a flicker of sound, but it cracked through the tension like sunlight behind storm clouds. You shook your head, squeezing his hand a little tighter.

“That’s not what dating you would be like.”

“O-Oh no?” Bob asked softly, a ghost of amusement tugging at his lips. “What w-would it be like, then?” You held his gaze for a beat too long. Your voice dropped to a hush, vulnerable and real.

“It’d be kind,” You said. “It’d be quiet and steady. You’d make tea without asking, and hold my hand even when we weren’t talking. You’d fold your sweaters next to mine and leave post-it notes with dumb facts on my mirror just to see me smile.”

Bob’s breath hitched, and you could see the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed. The tips of his ears flushed, soft pink blooming beneath the collar of his sweater.

“You’d hold me like I wasn’t fragile but precious,” You added, voice thick now, “Like I was worth something. And when you kissed me, it wouldn’t feel like you wanted to own me–it would feel like you’d been waiting your whole life to give me that part of you.”

His eyes darted away, shy and overwhelmed, but they drifted back slowly–like gravity had pulled them to you. He let out a shaky breath, a soft huff through his nose that might’ve been a laugh if he weren’t so painfully stunned.

“S-Shit,” He murmured, almost under his breath, eyes dropping to your joined hands. “W-Why does that s-sound so much better than anything I-I ever thought I’d be worth?”

You leaned forward slightly, scooting yourself closer to him, almost getting into his space. You could feel his hand twitch in yours, like he wasn’t sure whether to hold tighter or let go for your sake. You made the decision for him, lacing your fingers together and tugging them gently into your lap.

“You’re worth every part of that and more.” You whispered, “And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that…It could’ve saved us both a lot of trouble…”

Bob blinked rapidly, a quiet tremor in his chin before he exhaled and gave a small shake of his head–half in disbelief, half in surrender

“It’s m-my fault…I-I should’ve seen it coming,” He replied back. You opened your mouth to speak, but he shook his head before you could.

“No, I–I should’ve seen it. Felt it. I could tell he was…L-Lurking more than usual. I-I knew he was pushing, I could feel it in my bones, I just didn’t know why. D-Didn’t know he was waiting for the right moment to…To use me a-against you like that.” He swallowed hard, and his voice cracked on the next line. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. You trusted me to keep you safe. To protect you from him. And I–” He blinked fast, like he could flush the images from behind his eyes. “I keep seeing pieces of it. Bits. Flashes. Your voice. Your tears. Your legs around me. I didn’t even get to choose to look–I just saw. And I can’t even imagine what else I did.” You inhaled slowly, lips parting to soothe, to reassure–but your voice caught on a different thought. A softer one. An honest one.

“He said…” You began, hesitating for only a second, “He said it was a lot of stuff you’d fantasized about.”

That made Bob go still. Really still.

The kind of stillness that wasn’t absence, but weight.

His breath came slow and uneven, his lashes lowering just slightly before he whispered–

“Yeah…Well, that could mean a lot of things.”

You searched his face, but he didn’t lift his eyes yet. His hand stayed in yours. His thumb rubbed along the dip between your knuckles, slow and deliberate, like he could map out penance across your skin.

“What kinds of things?” You asked, gentle but deliberate. Not teasing–just present. Open. Wanting to hear the truth from him.

Bob let out a slow, shaky breath through his nose.

“I’ve thought about you,” He said, voice barely more than a breath. “I’ve thought about you on top of me more times than I care to admit. But it was never just about what you were doing–it was always about how you looked doing it. Like you were letting go for once. Like you were safe. Like you trusted me with that.”

You blinked.

He kept going, because now it was pouring out of him.

“And I used to think–if I ever got that close to you, if I ever had you like that, I’d earn it. I’d work for it. I’d deserve it. Not…” His voice hitched, his jaw tightening. “Not like this.”

You reached for him with your free hand, your palm resting against his cheek. He leaned into it instantly, like he hadn’t realized he’d been starving for touch until that very moment.

“You still deserve it,” You said quietly. “We just…Got lost along the way.”

Bob’s brow furrowed, his breath catching, and you felt the tremble run through his whole body. Your thumb brushed the edge of his jaw.

“I didn’t want him,” you whispered. “I wanted you. And I still do. All of you. Every version. Even the parts you think aren’t safe.”

He exhaled, and it sounded like a prayer. His hand came up to cover yours on his cheek, pressing it closer, grounding himself in your warmth. His eyes fluttered shut beneath your touch. For a second, it was just silence between you. That stretched, heavy kind–the kind that holds the breath of something inevitable.

Then he whispered–

“We shouldn’t do this…Not right now.”

The words stung more than they should have. You felt your hand hesitate slightly on his cheek, just a tremble of doubt. Your breath caught in your throat as your brows drew inward.

“…Why?” You asked, voice barely audible.

Bob opened his eyes again. They were glassy. Gentle. Fractured in that soft, self-protective way he always got when he thought he was saving someone else by denying himself.

“B-Because you went through e-enough last night,” He murmured. “And I don’t–I don’t want to be one more thing you have to recover from.”

You searched his face–every line of tension around his mouth, the delicate tremble in his voice, the way he still hadn’t pulled away from your hand.

“I don’t care,” You said, firm but aching. “I want the real thing. The real Bob.”

His breath stuttered. He looked at you like he wanted to believe you. Like he was afraid to.

“What about The Void…” he asked. Quiet. Uncertain. “He’s… H-he’s still in here with us. In me. What if–” You leaned in a bit, and he could feel your breath gently fanning over his face.

”He can watch for all I care.” Bob’s breath hitched hard. His whole body trembled like you’d cracked something open with just those words. Like the part of him that had been trying so hard to hold back finally didn’t know how to stay locked anymore.

You leaned in just a little more, tilting your head, your voice a murmur against his mouth now.

“I don’t want shadows anymore. I don’t want to pretend. I want you. All of you. Here. With me.” Bob’s eyes dropped to your lips like he couldn’t help it. Like gravity had shifted just enough to make every thought he’d tried to suppress pull straight toward your mouth. He didn’t even blink. Just stared–hungry and unsure and so visibly overwhelmed it made your chest ache.

His breath was shallow now. His thumb trembled just slightly over your skin. And then, softly, like the words were being dragged out of him from the depths of his chest:

“J-Jesus, Y/N…”

It came out like a prayer. Or a plea. Or maybe both. And then you closed the distance. His mouth met yours in an instant–desperate, shaking, unbearably real.

There was nothing slow about it. No tentative brushing or hesitant rhythm.

This kiss devoured both of you in lust and heat.

His hand slipped from your cheek into your hair as he pulled you in like he was afraid you’d vanish if he didn’t touch every inch of you at once. Your mouths moved against each other in frantic tandem–open, heated, relentless. Tongues brushing, breath tangling, his gasp lost against your teeth.

He kissed like a man unhinged by longing.

Like every second he’d spent holding back had become fuel for this very moment. You let out a soft moan against his lips as your fingers slipped from his hand and rose instead to his face, cupping both cheeks with trembling reverence, the heat of his skin branding your palms like something sacred. His lips parted around a gasp, and you kissed him again–rougher this time, dragging his mouth back to yours like it had always belonged there. Like you’d gone lifetimes starving for this one taste.

Then you broke the kiss–just barely–your breaths crashing into each other between parted mouths, lips grazing but not quite touching. Your hands slid up into his hair, tugging gently as you leaned back against the mattress, guiding him with you, eyes never leaving his.

“Come here,” You whispered.

And Bob followed.

He moved like he was surrendering–like gravity wasn’t just pulling him down but into you. His forearms braced on either side of your head, the stretch of his sweater pulled tight across his back, the heat of his body pressing into yours as he hovered above you, trembling. His knees sank into the mattress and you felt him–all of him–settle over you like a stormcloud full of thunder barely held at bay.

Your hands gripped his jaw again, thumbs brushing his cheeks, and you surged up to kiss him once more. Hard. Wet. Desperate. Your mouth opened for him completely, and he didn’t hesitate this time–he gave you everything. His tongue swept into your mouth, slow at first, then with more certainty, tasting, taking. You moaned into him as your teeth scraped his lower lip, and he groaned like the sound was ripped from his spine.

He kissed like he was burning. Like he didn’t know what part of you to worship first.

You sucked gently on his tongue, dragging it deeper into your mouth with a low, aching moan, and that was when his hips moved.

Just once at first.

A tentative, trembling roll of his pelvis down against yours. He gasped into your mouth, eyes flying open only to flutter shut again as your thighs spread more beneath him, welcoming the pressure. You were both fully clothed still, but that did nothing to dull the heat–the drag of his hardened length against your core through thin layers of your cotton shorts and his sweatpants sent a shock through your body like lightning cracking straight through your ribs.

Bob’s breath stuttered against your mouth as your hand slid down, skimming over the slope of his side, fingertips pressing into the warm cotton at his waist. You felt him twitch above you, his whole body tensing as your palm curved over his hip and guided him–gently, deliberately–down into you again. The grind was slower this time, dragged out and deep, and it ripped a soft, guttural moan from somewhere inside his throat.

“God…” he whispered, voice wrecked, barely holding shape between panting breaths. “Y-You feel so–” His hips rocked again, caught in the rhythm you’d started, “–you feel so good…”

Your hand tightened slightly at his waist, grounding him, coaxing more friction with each press. The fabric between you was damp and thin and completely useless against the heat pooling low in your stomach. His forehead dropped against yours, nose brushing yours, breath catching as he whispered again:

“I–I’ve wanted this for so long. I used to dream about this… Us. Just like this.”

You whined softly at his words, dragging your mouth back to his in a bruising kiss, your lips parting wide for him as your tongue licked into his mouth again, shameless, hungry. He met it with equal desperation–messy and wet and gasping. When he broke the kiss next, it was only to drag his mouth across your cheek to your jaw, then lower, toward your neck. His nose brushed your pulse point before he whispered, almost reverently:

“Y-You’re everything. You’re everything.”

Your eyes fluttered shut at that, hips lifting into his in time with the motion he was starting to lose control over. His rhythm was breaking apart. Unraveling. He was grinding into you now with barely concealed desperation, hips jerking in small, needy circles, chasing the friction with soft, strangled moans caught in his throat.

You arched up into him, letting your other hand slide from his cheek to thread through his hair again. His lips grazed your throat as you breathed:

“Keep going, Bob… Don’t stop…”

He groaned at that, the sound guttural and hoarse, as he pushed against you harder. The pressure, the heat, the way his breath shook as he rocked against your soaked shorts–it all blended into a high, aching tension that pulsed between your bodies like a heartbeat.

Then kissed you again, sloppier now. His lips were swollen, spit-slick, and desperate. Your tongues slid together in a wet, dizzying tangle, and you sucked on his again, drawing out a sound so obscene from him you swore you felt it echo in your chest.

His hips jerked against yours again and again, more erratic now, and his hands were clinging to you–one tangled in your hair, the other fisted in the bedsheets beside your head like if he let go he’d fly apart completely.

“You have–you have no idea what you do to me,” He gasped. “You have so much control over me. I’d give you anything. I’d let you ruin me.”

“I’d never ruin you,” You breathed, threading your fingers through his hair as you guided another slow, hard grind into your core. “You’re mine.” Bob let out a broken noise at that–a sound torn straight from the center of him–and buried his face in your neck as he rocked into you again, harder this time. The friction was sharp, overwhelming, a storm with no space to breathe between strikes. He wasn’t just grinding anymore–he was rutting, trembling, gasping, desperate.

His breath shuddered against your neck as he ground into you again, and then–like he couldn’t bear not touching more of you–his hand slipped beneath your shirt.

It was slow. Almost reverent. The backs of his fingers brushed up the curve of your stomach, over the warmth of your ribs, and then he flattened his palm over your sternum, splaying his fingers like he needed to feel every inch of your heartbeat to believe this was real.

At the same time, your hand slid beneath his sweater, fingers finding the warm skin of his back, and he let out a gasp at the contact, hips stuttering as he pushed into you harder, needier. You dragged your hand higher, feeling the dips and contours of his spine, the slight tremble in his muscles. And then he pulled back just enough to look at you–eyes dark, lips parted, chest heaving.

“We–We should…” He murmured breathlessly, fingers already curling around the hem of your shirt, “I wanna see you.”

You nodded, pupils blown wide, and reached for the hem of his sweater at the same time.

Clothes came off in a breathless tangle.

Your shirt peeled away with a soft rustle, and Bob’s sweater followed, pulled over his head in one quick motion. Both were discarded somewhere beside the bed, forgotten. But then–

Bob stilled.

Because he saw them.

The marks.

Long, thin bruises like fingerprints along your hips. A faint bite above your breastbone. The shadow of darkened skin on your ribs. Not violent… but unmistakable. The Void hadn’t marked you in rage. He’d marked you in possession. Claimed you like a canvas. A monument.

“Holy crap…” Bob whispered, his voice punched out of him like he’d taken a hit to the stomach.

His eyes moved over your skin slowly–no, not just your skin. The memory of what happened. The evidence of what he hadn’t done but had felt. And suddenly the weight of it was choking him.

You froze beneath him, heart lurching.

“Bob,” You said gently. Then again, a little firmer, fingers curling around his wrist, grounding him. “Bob…It’s okay.”

He blinked down at you, breath still stuttering, eyes wide with pain. You could see it–all the things he wanted to say but didn’t know how to shape. The guilt, the disbelief, the raw ache of seeing you marked by something like The Void.

“Come back down here and kiss me,” You whispered, running your free hand along his chest. Bob’s breath hitched. His hand–still trembling–hovered just above your ribs, as if afraid that touching the bruises might make them worse. But when your fingers ghosted along his chest, steady and warm, he finally exhaled. A long, shaking breath, like the guilt, was something living in his lungs.

He touched one of the marks gently, his fingertip grazing it like it might dissolve beneath too much pressure. His eyes stayed on the shape of it, lips parted, voice low and cracking as he whispered–

“O-Okay.”

Then he leaned down, kissed you again–softer this time.

There was no desperation in it now. Only reverence.

It felt like an apology. Like a promise.

His hand cupped your cheek as his mouth moved against yours, slow and wet and open. He kissed you like he was trying to speak through it, like every flick of his tongue and every shared breath was meant to say I’m here. I’m real. I’ll never hurt you.

Then he broke the kiss just long enough to murmur, lips brushing your jaw, “I’m gonna be more gentle than he ever was…”

His kisses trailed down to your throat. Slow. Patient. You felt them like electricity threading down your spine–each press of his mouth was careful, intentional. He kissed the hollow beneath your ear, your collarbone, the curve where your shoulder met your neck. And then–

“I want to take my time,” He whispered, voice thick. “I want to worship every inch of this body. I want you to feel safe with me, loved by me…And not used.”

Your breath caught.

His lips brushed over a fading mark near your sternum, and he paused there–kissed it once, twice, so softly it nearly undid you before returning to your lips.

“You’re in control,” He added. His thumb stroked along your cheekbone. “Everything is up to you. We go as far as you want. Nothing more. I just…” His throat worked as he swallowed. “I just want to be close to you. I just want to deserve you.” Tears pricked your lashes. Not out of sadness. But out of how much he meant every word. You nodded, reaching up to brush his hair back from his forehead.

“I want this,” You whispered. “With you. However slow, however soft… Just don’t stop touching me.” Bob nodded, a quiet, trembling breath slipping past his lips like he was grounding himself in the gravity of your words. He leaned in again, slower this time, and kissed you with a new kind of hunger–less desperate, more deliberate. You could feel it in the way his lips lingered, in the way he savored every brush, every breath, like he needed to memorize the shape of your mouth all over again.

Then he began to trail lower.

His lips ghosted along your collarbone–soft, reverent kisses that made your skin ache. His hand, warm and steady now, slid up from your ribs to the swell of your breast. He hesitated there only for a second, like he was asking wordlessly for permission, and when you arched into him, breath hitching, he exhaled like he’d been granted a miracle.

His mouth followed his hand.

He pressed a kiss to the top of your breast–slow and open-mouthed–and you swore you could feel it pulse all the way to your spine. Another kiss, lower now. Then his tongue flicked out to taste you, wet and soft, and your fingers curled in the sheets.

When he finally wrapped his lips around your nipple, you gasped.

It was tender at first–gentle suction, his mouth warm and soft as his tongue stroked slow circles over the sensitive peak. His hand cradled the underside of your breast, thumb stroking rhythmically across your skin. He moaned softly against you, the sound vibrating through his mouth and into your chest, making your back arch, hips lifting off the mattress in a slow, unconscious grind.

“Bob,” You breathed, the sound broken and aching.

He didn’t answer. Not with words. He just groaned low in his throat and sucked a little harder, a little deeper, and your hands flew to his hair, threading through the soft strands as you held him close to you. His other hand came up to cup your free breast now, kneading it gently, carefully, like you were something too precious to rush. His fingers brushed across your other nipple, teasing it to hardness before his mouth left its twin and moved over–wet and hot and aching for more.

He gave the same attention to the other side, lips parting to take you in, tongue swirling around your nipple with languid strokes, then sucking deep, like he couldn’t get enough. You gasped again, legs shifting restlessly beneath him as your thighs pressed together for friction. You could feel the wet heat of your arousal soaking through your shorts now, the friction maddening, but you didn’t ask him to stop. Couldn’t. His mouth on you felt too good. Too right.

Bob moaned again as your hips lifted, and his hand slid lower, fingers tracing the soft dip of your waist before gliding up again to cup the side of your breast, massaging it slowly as he kept his mouth latched to your nipple.

When he finally pulled back, lips slick and parted, his eyes lifted to meet yours.

“You’re so beautiful,” He whispered, voice wrecked, “So so beautiful…“ Your chest rose and fell under his praise, breath catching hard, and your voice trembled when it finally broke free.

“I need you,” you gasped, your hand sliding into his hair, tightening gently. “Bob–I’m so wet it hurts.”

His breath hitched. His eyes–already dark–dilated further, and you felt the shiver ripple down his spine.

But then he shook his head, slow and dazed, like he was in a trance.

“No,” He said, voice hoarse, almost reverent. “Not yet. I need to taste you first.”

You blinked down at him, heat coiling in your core so hard you thought you might come undone just from that alone.

“Please…Anything…” You whispered, barely able to say it.

He surged up to kiss you again–hungry, open-mouthed, the kind of kiss that made your legs tremble around his waist. And then he pulled back just enough to press his lips to your jaw, your neck, your chest–leaving a wet trail downward, his hands sliding reverently over your hips. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your shorts and dragged them down slowly, kissing every inch of skin as it was revealed. When he reached the damp cotton of your panties, he paused–just long enough to press his mouth against the soaked fabric.

“O-Oh god,” He whispered, voice shaking. “You’re dripping for me.”

You moaned, hips twitching, fingers curled in the sheets.

Then–without hesitation–he dragged your panties down, kissing the inside of your thigh as they came off. He eased you open with steady hands, and the moment he saw you laid bare for him, his breath left him in a ragged exhale.

“G-God, you’re perfect,” He said, his voice thick with awe and hunger. “So p-perfect.” He kissed the soft skin there, just at the edge of where you ached, breathing in deep like the scent of you alone could ruin him.

Then he exhaled slowly, and leaned in.

The first touch of his tongue was gentle. A single, slow stripe from the base of your entrance to the swollen peak of your clit, wet and unhurried. You shivered violently beneath him, fingers already reaching for his hair. He groaned softly against you, the sound vibrating through his mouth and into your core. And then he did it again–slower this time. More deliberate. Tongue flat and warm, dragging through your folds with the kind of focus that made your toes curl.

He didn’t rush.

There was no frenzy in him.

Only patience. Devotion. Worship.

He circled your clit with the tip of his tongue, barely-there touches that made your thighs twitch around his head. Then he flicked softly–once, twice–and looked up at you.

His eyes were already half-lidded. Glassy. Like the taste of you had undone something deep inside him. And then he closed them again, like savoring the feel of you was a prayer.

You moaned when his nose nudged your clit, the angle forcing it against the sensitive bud as his tongue dipped lower, gently licking at your entrance. You were soaked. Bob groaned at the taste, tongue working you open with trembling reverence, and you gasped, your hips bucking up without meaning to.

He pressed his hands to your thighs, holding you down firmly but not forcefully, his fingers splayed wide like he needed the contact to keep himself grounded. His mouth moved slowly, methodically, lavishing every part of you. When he dragged the flat of his tongue up your slit again and wrapped his lips around your clit for the first time, you cried out, head thrown back against the pillow, fingers tightening in his hair.

Bob moaned again–deep and low–as he sucked, gentle at first, then firmer. His tongue circled, flicked, pressed. He moved with a rhythm that was impossibly focused, like he was studying you, learning every breath, every twitch, every gasp, and adjusting his pressure like a master of his craft.

You were panting now, whimpering, rolling your hips up into his mouth without shame. There was nothing detached or cruel in his touch. No domination. No edge of control. Just a man falling apart over the taste of you, letting himself be consumed by the act of giving.

He pulled back for a moment, lips glistening, breath ragged.

“C-Can I…?” he rasped, eyes blown wide. “Can I use my fingers too?”

You nodded frantically. “Yes, yes–God, please–”

Bob didn’t waste a second.

His mouth dropped back to your clit instantly, tongue circling it again as two fingers slipped into your entrance. The stretch was perfect. The angle just right. He moved them slowly, curling deep inside you with a tenderness that had you keening.

And when he moaned around your clit as your walls fluttered around his fingers, the vibration shot through your whole body like lightning.

You were unraveling. Quickly.

And all you could think was this is what The Void could never give me.

Warmth. Presence. Safety.

Bob groaned into you again, pressing soft kisses between strokes of his tongue. His nose nudged your clit with every stroke of his mouth against your folds. His fingers moved in perfect rhythm–slow, deep, patient–curling up and stroking the spot inside you that made stars flicker at the edges of your vision.

You looked down through the haze of your pleasure and saw him.

Face buried between your thighs.

Lashes fluttering.

Cheeks flushed.

His brow was furrowed in concentration, like this was sacred. Like pleasing you was the only thing in the world that mattered. He sucked your clit into his mouth again, softly but completely, and swirled his tongue as he fucked you deeper, harder with his fingers–and you cried out.

“Bob–Bob, I’m–” You couldn’t finish. Your voice cracked on a sob of pleasure as your body seized beneath him.

Your climax hit like a wave crashing into shore. Your thighs trembled around his head, your hands fisted in the sheets, and your back arched as you came with a broken, shuddering moan. He didn’t stop. He slowed, easing you through it, his tongue moving gently now, soothingly, like he was kissing the aftershocks from your body one by one.

You collapsed back onto the bed, panting, fingers slipping weakly from his hair. Your body was humming, oversensitive, but sated in a way it never had been before. When Bob finally pulled back, his lips were red and slick, chin glistening. His eyes were wide and awe-filled. And he looked…Wrecked.

But in the most beautiful way.

“Was that okay?” He asked, voice hoarse, shy again now, like he hadn’t just brought you to heaven and back.

You laughed, breathless, tears of overstimulation prickling at your eyes.

“It was perfect,” you whispered. “So much better than anything I ever imagined. So much better than him.”

His expression softened, and he leaned up to kiss you. You could taste yourself against his lips–hot, slick, faintly sweet and obscene. It hit you like a jolt. The knowledge that he’d been buried between your legs only moments ago, devouring you like a man starved, and now you were tasting the evidence of it on his tongue. He kissed you deeper, filthier, letting you feel the way his mouth was still soaked with you. His tongue pushed past your lips, slow and deliberate, and you moaned into him like the sensation alone was enough to make you spiral all over again.

Your fingers clawed at his shoulders, pulling him closer, and he groaned–long and low–as his hips bucked instinctively against you.

The thick press of his erection, still confined in those useless sweatpants, dragged against your bare, sensitive core. You gasped at the contact. He hissed between clenched teeth, rutting once, twice–shallow, desperate grinds that made you both tremble.

And then he broke the kiss.

Barely.

Foreheads pressed, his breath crashed against your lips as he whispered, voice hoarse, wrecked:

“I’m g-gonna take these off…”

He reached down with one hand, already tugging at the waistband of his sweats. The movement was slow, breathless. Then his voice dropped even lower–richer, rougher.

“…A-And you’re gonna get on top.”

Your breath caught.

His hand cupped the side of your face again, thumb brushing over your flushed cheek like he was grounding himself even now.

“I-I want you to do whatever you want to me,” He said, voice cracking with the weight of his need. “I just w-want you to be in control.”

You stilled.

Not because you doubted him–but because that sentence hit something primal. It was surrender in the truest sense of the word. The most powerful man you’d ever met–the man who could turn people into shadows and who held galaxies in his chest–was offering you everything. No fear. No condition. Just Bob. Letting you lead.

”I have to say…That’s so hot…” You whispered, your voice rough with awe and heat. A slow, shaky smile pulled at his lips, and his hands moved again—sliding his sweatpants down his hips and kicking them off. His cock was flushed, hard, thick where it curved up toward his stomach, tip already wet with precum. Your breath caught again.

Bob looked…Divine.

Raw. Unshielded. And still trembling under the weight of how badly he wanted this to be yours. Bob shifted back against the headboard, legs bent slightly, hands braced on the mattress at his sides. His chest was rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. He looked ruined already. Completely at your mercy. And he liked it.

He watched you with parted lips, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. The flushed curve of his cock stood proud between his thighs, wet at the tip, twitching with every heartbeat. But he didn’t touch himself. Didn’t even dare. He just waited.

For you.

You rose onto your knees and crawled toward him slowly, deliberately. Each movement was precise. Controlled. Letting him feel the weight of your intent with every inch you claimed. When you reached him, you straddled his hips and felt him go still–completely, reverently still–beneath your thighs.

Your knees bracketed his hips, bare and hot, and you sat up fully. Spine long, hair falling around your shoulders, your hands resting lightly on his chest as you steadied yourself. Bob looked up at you like you were holy. Like you were something he’d dreamed of for years but never believed he’d get to worship this way.

And then–eyes locked with his–you reached down between your bodies.

Bob gasped as your fingers curled around the base of his cock, firm but slow, and you gave him one long, aching stroke. His hips twitched, a strangled sound caught in his throat. But he still didn’t move. He was giving you everything.

You dragged the head of his cock through your folds–once, twice, again–coating him in your slick, letting him feel how wet you were. How ready.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasped, head tipping back slightly against the wood. “Y-You’re gonna kill me…”

You smiled, breathless. Then, without breaking eye contact, you angled him perfectly beneath you–and slowly, so slowly, you began to sink down.

The stretch was…Devastating.

Thick. Full. Hot.

You let out a broken sound from deep in your throat as you took him inch by inch. Bob’s hands gripped the sheets at his sides like he was trying to anchor himself to reality. His head dropped forward to watch, pupils blown wide, chest heaving, a string of half-whispered praises tumbling from his lips.

“God, you’re–” His voice fractured, shaking, “–you feel so good, s-so perfect…”

You settled fully into his lap, and the moment you did, Bob let out a shuddering moan–quiet but guttural, like the sound had been lodged somewhere in his ribs.

He was buried deep inside you. All of him. The stretch still pulsed through your core like a heartbeat, throbbing and full, but you didn’t move. Not yet.

Instead, you reached for his hands.

“Hold me,” You whispered.

Bob obeyed instantly.

His hands slid from the bedsheets to your hips, then around your waist, arms wrapping tightly around you as if he could mold his body to yours. His palms splayed wide across your back, holding you so carefully, so reverently, like you might drift away if he didn’t anchor you down.

Your chest pressed against his. Skin to skin. Heart to heart.

You could feel the way he trembled. The tension in his thighs. The shallow rise and fall of his breath as he clung to you like salvation. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, and his mouth opened against your neck, breath searing hot.

But still–you didn’t move.

You stayed seated fully on him, body wrapped around his, and just…Let yourself exist like that. Connected. Claimed. In control.

Bob whimpered.

Not from pain, not from frustration—but from the sheer intensity of it. Of being inside you, of being held still, of having to surrender to your pace. His cock throbbed inside you, twitching helplessly with every pulse of your walls, and he moaned when he felt it.

“This…O-Oh Y/N….Y-You’re so perfect.” He whispered, leaning forward so his lips could find your neck. He dragged his mouth over your pulse point, breath warm and uneven. He nuzzled the skin there, pressing one long kiss just beneath your jaw before scraping his teeth gently across your flesh.

You gasped.

He moaned.

“I love the way you taste,” He whispered, voice low and wrecked. “I’d mark you if you let me… Kiss every inch of your skin ‘til you couldn’t tell where I ended and you started…”

You pulsed around him again.

Bob choked on a gasp, forehead falling to your shoulder.

“I’d let you ruin me if it meant I got to stay like this. Inside you. Wrapped up in you. Y-You don’t even have to move, I’ll still come like this if you keep squeezing me like that.”

Your fingers found his neck, the column of it slick with sweat, the pulse there fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings beneath your palm. You held him gently—not tight, not possessive, just enough to anchor him. To guide him.

“Bob,” you whispered, breath brushing the shell of his ear. “Look at me.”

He obeyed, slow and trembling. His forehead lifted from your shoulder, lashes fluttering as he met your gaze. His eyes were blown wide, the deepest shade of blue, glassy and brimming. There was so much there—longing, awe, fear, surrender—and you held it all with your hand on his throat and your body wrapped around his.

You moved first.

It was a subtle grind of your hips, a slow press down and forward that sent his cock dragging deliciously against your walls and his pelvis flush against your clit. Your breath caught in your throat at the friction, the heat, the closeness. Bob gasped—his mouth falling open in a broken moan, hands tightening slightly on your back.

“F-Fuck,” he whispered. “Oh my God…”

You did it again. A slow, rolling grind that pressed you right there, and he felt every trembling inch of it. His head dropped forward with a choked sound, mouth brushing your collarbone.

“No,” you whispered, your thumb brushing his jaw, lifting his chin. “Keep looking at me.”

His eyes opened again, wrecked and obedient, and you gave him another slow, deep grind–your slick walls pulling around him as your clit rubbed in firm circles against the ridge of his pelvis. Bob trembled under you, his chest heaving, arms holding you tighter like you were the only thing keeping him from coming apart.

“I need you to stay right here,” You said softly. “I need to feel all of you.”

“I-I’m right here,” he choked. “I swear–I’m not going anywhere.”

You kissed him.

God, you kissed him like it was your last chance. Your mouth was soft and open, your tongue slow and sweet, like you were trying to breathe life back into both of you. And Bob melted into it—completely, utterly. His hands curved up your spine, not to control but to cradle. To keep you close.

Your hips found a rhythm. A deep, rolling grind that pressed you into him again and again—smooth and slow and so fucking full. You weren’t riding him for speed. You weren’t chasing anything. You were claiming him. Letting him exist inside you like he belonged there. Like this was always how it was supposed to be.

Bob’s breath hitched, and then–barely a whisper–

“I-I can’t believe you want me like this…”

“I do,” you said, voice thick. “So much.”

Your clit rubbed in perfect friction against him now with each roll of your hips. The wet sound of it was quiet but present, the heat building low in your belly again as you rocked in smooth, delicious circles. His eyes fluttered shut for a second–just one–but you gave a warning squeeze around his cock and he gasped, eyes flying open.

“Eyes on me,” You murmured, voice like velvet and lightning all at once. “I need you to see me when I come.”

Bob’s breath broke. He whimpered–a sound you’d never thought you’d hear from a man like him–and it made your walls flutter around him again. You moved your hand from his throat to cup his jaw now, brushing your thumb over the tear that had slipped free onto his cheekbone.

“Oh, Bob,” You whispered. “Don’t cry.”

“I can’t—I can’t help it,” He choked, another tear slipping free. “I-It’s just… you’re so close, you’re right here, and I don’t deserve it, and I–”

“You do,” You said firmly, kissing the tears from his cheeks, one after the other. “You do. I promise you do.”

His arms tightened around you and he pressed his forehead to yours as your hips kept moving. Your clit rubbed harder against his pelvis now, your body slick and hot and trembling with the mounting tension. You could feel your orgasm coming–slow and powerful, cresting like a tide inside you–and Bob felt it too.

“You’re shaking,” He whispered, voice thick with awe. “You’re gonna come like this? F-From just…Grinding on me?”

“With you inside me,” You breathed. “With your arms around me. With you crying for me.”

Bob moaned, helpless and high. His fingers dug into your waist, but he didn’t speed you up. He let you keep control. And that was what made it so fucking perfect.

Your breath broke first.

A gasp. A cry. Your head tipped back as your orgasm swept through you, deep and slow and overwhelming. Your walls clenched hard around him and your clit rubbed perfectly against his skin as you rode it out, sobbing against his mouth as he held you tighter, kissing your cheeks, your jaw, whispering praise in a broken voice.

“So perfect, so perfect, oh my God, you feel like heaven–”

Then you felt him twitch inside you. His whole body locked, breath caught on a desperate moan.

“C-Can I–Y/N–please, I need–can I come?”

“Come inside me,” You whispered. “Let go, you’re safe.”

That broke him.

Bob cried out, shuddering, hips jerking once, twice, then grinding deep as he spilled inside you–warm and thick, pulsing against your walls as he sobbed into your neck. His arms held you tight, breath shaking like every part of him was unraveling in your hands.

And it was beautiful.

You stayed like that–wrapped around each other, trembling, kissed in sweat and tears and come–until the shaking slowed, until the only sound in the room was your breathing, synced.

Then Bob pulled back, barely, and looked at you.

His cheeks were flushed. His lips swollen. His eyes still wet.

“I love you,” He said hoarsely, like it was the only thing he had left. “I’ve loved you for so long.”

Your heart cracked wide open.

And you kissed him again.

Soft. Tender. Final.

“I know,” You whispered. “I love you too.” His arms wrapped tighter around your back, his hand curling protectively over your spine as if to shield the last remaining fragments of you from the world outside your shared warmth. His other hand cradled the back of your head, fingers tangled softly in your hair, holding you close to him.

”A-Are you okay?” He asked gently, and you nodded.

”Let’s just stay like this for a little while…Please.” Bob nodded, and buried his face into your shoulder, breathing you in heavily. His body trembled under yours. Not from exertion now, but from something gentler. Something raw. You could feel his heart hammering against your chest in steady, staggering bursts. His cock was still inside you, softening slowly, but neither of you cared. The sweat between your skin clung like sealant. Like gravity. Like home.

You tilted your head and pressed a kiss to his cheek–just beneath the smudge of drying tear salt.

He didn’t speak again until a long, quiet minute later.

“…I didn’t hear him.”

Your breath caught.

“What?”

Bob pulled back just slightly, just enough to look you in the eye. His fingers brushed over your jaw. His voice was softer now. More certain.

“The Void,” He whispered. “I didn’t hear him… Not once. Not when I kissed you. Not when I touched you. Not even when I came.” His brow furrowed gently, like the realization had just fully settled in his chest. “He wasn’t there. Not at all.”

Your heart thudded so hard it hurt.

“…Me neither,” You replied, blinking. “I didn’t hear him either.”

You both paused.

Then Bob cupped your cheek and leaned in, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to your mouth. This one wasn’t hungry. It wasn’t claiming. It was the kind of kiss that thanked you for every piece of what came before. The kind that whispered: we made it.

When you finally parted, your foreheads rested together again.

“I think he’s gone,” You said, voice shaking with disbelief. “I think–just for now–it’s quiet.”

Bob nodded slowly, eyes still closed.

“It’s just you in my head right now,” He said quietly. “You’re the only thing I hear.” You felt the tears prick your eyes again, but this time, they weren’t sharp. They didn’t ache. They flowed soft and steady as you pulled back slightly, looked him in the eyes, and brushed a lock of damp hair from his forehead.

“Let’s clean up,” You murmured. “Let me take care of you.”

Bob blinked slowly, then offered a dazed smile–half-exhausted, half-stunned.

“You just did.”

“I’m not done,” You said, gently shifting off his lap. He gasped quietly at the loss of contact, but didn’t resist as you helped him stretch out against the pillows.

You moved slowly.

Your body ached–in the best way–and you padded quietly across the room to retrieve a soft towel and the glass of water by your bedside. When you returned, Bob was watching you like he didn’t know how to stop.

You sat beside him and wiped him down with gentle strokes–starting at his chest, dabbing along the flushed trail of sweat down his sternum, then moving lower, cleaning his softening length with quiet care. His breath hitched when you did, but he didn’t flinch. He let you take your time.

When you finished tending to him, you leaned forward to press one last kiss to the center of his chest. His skin was still warm and flushed, the thudding of his heart echoing just beneath your lips. But before you could shift away, Bob’s hand gently wrapped around your wrist.

“Wait,” he murmured softly, eyes steady and shining. “M-My turn…”

You blinked at him, surprised. “Bob, you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he whispered. “Please. Let me.”

There was a depth to his voice that left no room for refusal—soft, reverent, as if this was as important to him as any kiss or confession. You nodded slowly.

And Bob moved carefully.

He sat up with you, then gently coaxed you to lay back down, easing you onto the pillows with trembling hands. You watched him with quiet wonder as he reached for the towel you’d just used on him and dipped the clean edge into the water glass, wringing it out carefully. His movements were so tender, like touching you now required an entirely different kind of strength–one that didn’t come from the Sentry.

It came from love.

He knelt between your legs and brushed his fingers softly along the inside of your thigh, his eyes flicking up to yours. You gave a small nod, breath catching slightly, and let your legs fall open for him.

He swallowed hard.

The sight of you–still glistening from him, swollen and pink, your inner thighs kissed with the aftermath of pleasure–made him blink slowly like he was afraid he’d miss something if he looked away for even a second. You expected him to begin right away with the towel, but instead, Bob leaned in first.

And kissed the inside of your thigh.

Just once. Then again. And again.

Soft, open-mouthed kisses trailed up the curve of your leg, each one slower than the last, lips warm and gentle as he nuzzled and worshipped the skin just inches from your core. Your breath hitched as his mouth pressed a kiss just beside your entrance–like he was blessing the part of you that held him, loved him, trusted him.

“Thank y-you,” He whispered, voice hoarse. “F-For letting me have this. For… C-Choosing me…After what happened…”

You reached down, hand threading through his hair, and Bob looked up at you as he finally brought the towel to your center.

He was gentle. So incredibly gentle.

The cloth was warm, and the strokes were slow–he cleaned you with the care of someone handling sacred glass, careful not to press too hard, not to rush, not to do anything that might make you flinch. You didn’t. Not once. If anything, your body softened further under his touch.

When he was done, he set the towel aside and pressed another kiss–right above your mound this time, reverent and trembling. Then he looked up at you again. His eyes were still wet.

“You’re perfect,” You whispered. “I’ve never wanted anything the way I want you.”

Bob exhaled hard, like the words shook something loose inside his chest. Then he crawled back up beside you, pulling the comforter up and over your bodies with one hand as the other cupped the back of your head. He tucked you in against him slowly, protectively, until your cheek was resting over his heart.

You could hear it beating fast.

“I don’t know what comes next,” you murmured against his skin.

His fingers traced soft shapes along your spine. “Me neither.”

There was a silence that followed–but it wasn’t heavy.

It was full.

Full of something new. Something unspoken. Something earned.

Bob kissed the top of your head, lips lingering like a promise.

And you closed your eyes against his chest, listening to the rhythm of a heart that, for the first time in a long time, was quiet.

No voices.

No shadows.

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artisimpossible · 1 year ago

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Saw a fun little conversation on Threads but I don't have a Threads account, so I couldn't reply directly, but I sure can talk about it here!

I've been wanting to get into this for awhile, so here we go! First and foremost, I wanna say that "Emmaskies" here is really hitting the nail on the head despite having "no insider info". I don't want this post to be read as me shitting on trad pub editors or authors because that is fundamentally not what's happening.

Second, I want to say that this reply from Aaron Aceves is also spot on:

There are a lot of reviewers who think "I didn't enjoy this" means "no one edited this because if someone edited it, they would have made it something I like". As I talk about nonstop on this account, that is not a legitimate critique. However, as Aaron also mentions, rushed books are a thing that also happens.

As an author with 2 trad pub novels and 2 trad pub anthologies (all with HarperCollins, the 2nd largest trad publisher in the country), let me tell you that if you think books seem less edited lately, you are not making that up! It's true! Obviously, there are still a sizeable number of books that are being edited well, but something I was talking about before is that you can't really know that from picking it up. Unlike where you can generally tell an indie book will be poorly edited if the cover art is unprofessional or there are typoes all over the cover copy, trad is broken up into different departments, so even if editorial was too overworked to get a decent edit letter churned out, that doesn't mean marketing will be weak.

One person said that some publishers put more money into marketing than editorial and that's why this is happening, but I fundamentally disagree because many of these books that are getting rushed out are not getting a whole lot by way of marketing either! And I will say that I think most authors are afraid to admit if their book was rushed out or poorly edited because they don't want to sabotage their books, but guess what? I'm fucking shameless. Café Con Lychee was a rush job! That book was poorly edited! And it shows! Where Meet Cute Diary got 3 drafts from me and my beta readers, another 2 drafts with me and my agent, and then another 2 drafts with me and my editor, Café Con Lychee got a *single* concrete edit round with my editor after I turned in what was essentially a first draft. I had *three weeks* to rewrite the book before we went to copy edits. And the thing is, this wasn't my fault. I knew the book needed more work, but I wasn't allowed more time with it. My editor was so overworked, she was emailing me my edit letter at 1am. The publisher didn't care if the book was good, and then they were upset that its sales weren't as high at MCD's, but bffr. A book that doesn't live up to its potential is not going to sell at the same rate as one that does!

And this may sound like a fluke, but it's not. I'm not naming names because this is a deeply personal thing to share, but I have heard from *many* authors who were not happy with their second books. Not because they didn't love the story but because they felt so rushed either with their initial drafts or their edits that they didn't feel like it lived up to their potential. I also know of authors who demanded extra time because they knew their books weren't there yet only to face big backlash from their publisher or agent.

I literally cannot stress to you enough that publisher's *do not give a fuck* about how good their products are. If they can trick you into buying a poorly edited book with an AI cover that they undercut the author for, that is *better* than wasting time and money paying authors and editors to put together a quality product. And that's before we get into the blatant abuse that happens at these publishers and why there have been mass exoduses from Big 5 publishers lately.

There's also a problem where publishers do not value their experienced staff. They're laying off so many skilled, dedicated, long-term committed editors like their work never meant anything. And as someone who did freelance sensitivity reading for the Big 5, I can tell you that the way they treat freelancers is *also* abysmal. I was almost always given half the time I asked for and paid at less than *half* of my general going rate. Authors publishing out of their own pockets could afford my rate, but apparently multi-billion dollar corporations couldn't. Copy edits and proofreads are often handled by freelancers, meaning these are people who aren't familiar with the author's voice and often give feedback that doesn't account for that, plus they're not people who are gonna be as invested in the book, even before the bad payment and ridiculous timelines.

So, anyway, 1. go easy on authors and editors when you can. Most of us have 0 say in being in this position and authors who are in breech of their contract by refusing to turn in a book on time can face major legal and financial ramifications. 2. Know that this isn't in your head. If you disagree with the choices a book makes, that's probably just a disagreement, but if you feel like it had so much potential but just *didn't reach it*, that's likely because the author didn't have time to revise it or the editor didn't have time to give the sort of thorough edits it needed. 3. READ INDIE!!! Find the indie authors putting in the work the Big 5's won't do and support them! Stop counting on exploitative mega-corporations to do work they have no intention of doing.

Finally, to all my readers who read Café Con Lychee and loved it, thank you. I love y'all, and I appreciate y'all, and I really wish I'd been given the chance to give y'all the book you deserved. I hope I can make it up to you in 2025.

#publishing #writing #author #trad pub #traditional publishing #café con lychee #books

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syncaleb · 3 months ago

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-> love&deepspace men when you’re on your period

xavier → the silent but devoted caretaker

• doesn’t say much, but he’s already stocked your favorite snacks and painkillers before you even realize you need them. he knows a thing or two about period, he also read that ginormous article written for hunters on their period which was posted publically. “you don’t have to push yourself too hard, little one.” he says as if he’s not requesting. as your mission partner, and mister lumiere :3 he will do anything and everything necessary and possible — that you get your much needed rest and you feel good. <3

• holds a heating pad against your stomach while you curl up against him, letting you steal his warmth. he would also make little bunnies and cute little animals from his evol, which jump around you and help distract you from the pain. he loves to kiss your forehead though, that’s his love language idc. he speaks ever so softly anyway, but during your period you can sense his softness multiply a tenfold.

• if you’re moody, he won’t take anything personally—he just strokes your hair and murmurs, “i know, love. it’s okay.” sometimes you feel bad at how cranky you get but xavier is nothing if not patient. he holds you through it, he would hug you gently, ask you if you’re craving anything . . . ugh he’s just the best boyfriend in the world (trust: source -> sol)

• massages your lower back with slow, firm circles, his touch grounding and steady. “just breathe, sweetheart. i’ve got you.” and he got you. with the way his skilled fingers massage your lower body, purring softly how he wishes you were never in pain… it elevates any discomfort instantly.

sylus → the playful distraction

• teases you at first—“aww, is my little demon suffering?”—but immediately shuts up when you glare at him. he smiles tenderly when he notices the shift in your eyes from the ever-so-defiant menace to a little kitten that needs his attention. he would scoop you up in his arms, carry you to his bedroom and play your favorite shows & musicals. he would hum the musical tones, knowing full well you pretend to hate his voice (when, in actuality you love it). :33

• literally lets you use him as a heating pad. his body is warm, and he’ll let you sprawl all over him if it helps. he’s daddy — which means he’s big. and he’s large & looming enough to be cuddled upto, to be someone you can use as your very own medium-soft mattress. his hands would tenderly massage your booty. his charismatic smirk would tease you with things like, “you know, i’ve heard orgasms help sweetie . . .” what a jerk /aff

• brings you the weirdest food combinations because “cravings are cravings,” and he wants to impress you. “pickles and chocolate? babe, i won’t judge.” what? you wanted to eat something sour earlier and now you demand sweets. he’s got both just in case his kitten’s mood fluctuates. ;)

• kisses your forehead every five minutes and dramatically says, “you’re so strong. so brave. a true warrior.” you roll your eyes at his antics, pretending his overboard affection doesn’t touch your heart. (it definitely does).

caleb → the overprotective pamperer

• wraps you in his hoodie before you can even complain about feeling cold. “there. now you smell like me and feel like me. better?” of course you do. when you got your first period, caleb was there with you. helping you through the cramps, holding you close and talking to you, telling you how sad he is that he can’t share your pain. “oh i know baby, come here.” he croons, letting you know that you can always, depend on him. (no matter what hat he’s wearing) :3

• refuses to let you lift a finger. he gets your water, your snacks, your blanket—everything. would get offended, and have his puppy dog eyes literally steal the thunder when you decide to do something by yourself if caleb is in the house. “pips, told ya to let me help. you’re not supposed to labour.” when you pout and whine, telling him not to treat you like a baby. he would pout harder! accept defeat or else!

• pulls you into his lap and strokes your thighs with his big, warm hands. “shh, i know. just let me take care of you, baby.” it’s so comforting but somehow ends up turning you on too. the way caleb holds you plush against him, his arm wrapping around you as he massages your thighs and your pelvis. “there there — i gotchu pips.”

• lowkey glares at your uterus like it personally offended him. “if i could fight it for you, i would.” you snort, drama king fr. “too bad the colonel can’t really give orders to my uterus.” you snicker, hugging him tightly and basking in his warmth. “too bad indeed.”

zayne → the doctor but also the boyfriend

• clinically speaking, he knows exactly how to help—hydration, light movement, proper nutrition—but he won’t push you if you just want to lay there like a gremlin. though he can’t help but be a little pushy. “i told you to stock up on your iron supplements to make sure you don’t have weakness during this time of the month.” / “a light walk is best suited—“ and when you throw a pillow at his face with a grumble, he knows to shut up. 🤫 (for now), with a tinge of mirth on his face.

• prepares the perfect cup of tea, adding just the right amount of honey. “this should help with the cramps, love.” he has matching mugs with you (he is so husband core), and would share the tea with you, doing a little clink with your matching mugs. “try it, it might not taste that good but it would surely help.”

• strokes your forehead and brushes your hair away, checking in with a soft, “how are you feeling now, darling?” when he comes back from the hospital, finding you curled up in a fetal position breaks his poor heart, he would sit next to you, press soft kisses and give you belly rubs. “what do you want to eat? i’d rather you eat anything. . .” he is sooo in with the junk food consumption shenanigans on your period hehe.

• lets you sleep on his chest while he reads, his steady breathing keeping you calm. he usually likes to read bed time stories to you, its yours and his favorite little ritual. but during your period, his voice is extra expressive. (which isn’t the norm.)

rafayel → the doting prince

• immediately cancels any plans so he can stay by your side. “nothing is more important than you right now.” even if its an art exhibition. thomas can cry and bang his head against the nearest wall — but rafayel isn’t budging. besides, who can control your fishie except you? ;)

• insists you rest while he does everything—cooking, running a warm bath, bringing you silk pillows, whatever you need. rafayel can be a little overbearing at times considering he is very attentive and attuned with his emotions. “rest.” the pouty look in his eyes as he forces you back to bed is to die for. you wonder how beautiful can someone look like that…

• whispers sweet praises into your ear. “my love, you endure so much. let me be your sanctuary.” please rafayel in love is a different breed altogether. he loves you so much you can see it from the way he behaves. you are made of glass. and when you gulp in that nasty tasting tablet for your cramps and aches, he hugs you and praises you like you’ve won the olympics gold medal.

• kisses the inside of your wrist, his voice like velvet. “just relax, my little goddess. let me spoil you.” he does spoil you but with insane amounts of money. calling in chefs from michellin star restaurants just so they can make your favorite food in an authentic way & his baby can eat -> hot, fresh food. “raf, you could just do takeouts-“ you pout softly, to which he chuckles. “nah, takeouts aren’t the same cutie.”

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chxrrywines · 11 months ago

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₊˚⊹♡ mean | sam winchester x reader

requested - heyy could u make a sam x reader thing where he fucks rlly roughly but he’s really sweet during aftercare bc the idea that sam is rough during but sweet after makes me weak in the knees🫠🙏 (anon)

a/n - this is. probably the most filthy thing i’ve written. it’s just filthy smut. with a hint of sweetheart sam at the end. i need him so bad it’s not funny. still working on my longer plot fics but i wanted to get this out today to get back into writing!! hopefully you enjoy :) would very much appreciate feedback! <3

cws - fem!reader, 2.4k, nsfw 18+, meandom!sam turned soft!sam, oral f!recieving, praise, very mild choking, condescending words, p in v, mild overstimulation, tears, aftercare, fluff

other fics can be found on my masterlist

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

She was convinced that Sam’s mouth was a whole new kind of heaven.

He’d already made her cum once with his mouth alone, large hands pressed into the plush of her thighs to keep them spread, her hips stilled, which were twitching with every sweep of his tongue. He was skilled, drawing the pleasure out of her like it was nothing. Sam had easily spent fifteen minutes down there, eating her out like a starved man, like it was all he wanted.

And she didn’t know how she was still breathing. There was a relief that ran through her that Dean and Castiel weren’t in the bunker that night, because even though they were shut away in the privacy of their room, she was sure that she would’ve been heard. Sam had been pulling noises out of her all night, obscene lewd sounds that she would’ve been embarrassed about being heard if it wasn’t Sam with her.

He always made sure that as much as he made her feel, none of it was embarrassment.

His tongue flattened against her, licking a stripe up between her folds until he pressed against her clit and she shuddered, a horribly whiny sound pushed from her lungs when he closed his lips around the bead and sucked, like he was trying to pull the life out of her. Her hips jolted, unable to go anywhere as he had her pinned down, and she was practically seeing stars as Sam worked down there. She wondered if he was even breathing.

“Sam- oh my god—” She whimpered, hissed in a breath when he licked back down to her entrance and his nose nudged against her clit, stomach clenching as she reached her hands down to grasp onto his hair, fingers curled into the soft strands.

And then he pulled away.

His hands left her thighs as his mouth left her, but she didn’t have time to whine her complaints at the loss of sensation as his long fingers curled around her wrists, yanked her hands out of his hair. “What did I say, huh?” The tone of voice made her pussy clench around nothing. “Hands to yourself. You’re pretty bad at listening, baby.”

Sam shifted over her, his face over hers as he pushed her wrists down onto the pillows above her head, and she almost squirmed when she saw the look in his eyes, the way his lips were wet with her.

“Are you listening?” He squeezed her wrists as a reminder, and her eyes quickly flickered back up to his eyes. “Do I need to tie you up, or will you keep these here for me?” She knew he wouldn’t hesitate to do it. Sam could be such a soft lover — he’d kiss every inch of her skin, whisper praises and compliments, tell her he loved her a thousand times as he made love to her. But he could also be like this, mean and demanding as he fucked her silly over and over. She wasn’t sure which she liked more.

“I’ll keep them there.” She breathed out, her voice still a little too whiny. He’d gotten her so close to cumming again, the lack of stimulation was driving her crazy, her cunt throbbed as she stared up at him.

“Oh yeah?” Sam narrowed his eyes like he didn’t believe her, and let go of one of her wrists to take both into one of his large hands. Her eyes left his face to follow his second as it dipped down between them, fingering at the waistband of his boxers, until she heard a sharp, “eyes on me.”

Her gaze quickly flickered back up to his face. “See? You can be good sometimes, can’t you?” Sam cooed, boardering on condescending, as he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her mouth, allowing her to taste herself. “You just need some reminding, don’t you, sweetheart? Get so lost in that pretty little head of yours when I’m making you feel so good.”

She’d been so distracted by watching his face, head spinning with his words, that she didn’t realise that he’d freed himself from his boxers until she felt the head of his cock nudging between her folds, gliding easily against her with the slick and spit collected there, and she mewled at the feeling, eyes squeezed shut as he nudged at her clit.

“Eyes open,” his hands left her wrists — which she knew now to keep still — and his fingers splayed across her jaw, squeezing unkindly until she looked up again. “Don’t make me tell you again. You wanna be good for me, don’t you?”

She nodded dumbly, sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth as he rubbed her clit with his cock. Teasing her. “Mhm, I will.”

“You will?” Sam gave her jaw one more squeeze, just for good measure, before he wrapped his fingers around the bare skin of her throat. He didn’t squeeze, didn’t put any pressure, just held her, but the threat was there. The head of his cock rested up against her slickened entrance as his head dipped down, lips brushed her ear as he whispered, “what’s your colour?”

They had a pretty rigid safe word system set out — it was something he went over with her every time they had sex, especially like this, when he was mean and grabby and knew that she wouldn’t like it every time. If she so much whispered the word red he’d be up and off of her before she could blink.

But all that left her words was a whiny, “Green, please Sammy.”

She felt his lips curve up against her ear as he smirked. “Good girl.”

Without warning he pushed into her and she sucked in a sharp breath, her own fingers grabbed at each other in an attempt to keep her hands still, and she shoved a breath out of her throat. He’d worked her open with his fingers when he’d been settled down between her legs, but she still felt the stretch, the burn as he settled his cock deep inside of her, and for a moment she had to remember to breathe back in.

“Fuck honey,” he grunted in her ear, fingers gripped her throat just slightly tighter, still only enough for her to feel pressure. “So tight for me, baby. Can barely take it, huh?”

He pulled back before he rutted back inside and she whimpered, squeezing her own fingers together so tightly so she didn’t break his rule. Needing to hold onto him somehow, though, her thighs clamped harshly around his hips, already trembly from the first orgasm he’d pulled from her.

He thrust in again, and again, and again, and soon she saw stars, gasping and whimpering with every drag of his cock against her gummy walls, pleasure rippling through her in waves that made her stomach clench, her cunt clamped down so tightly around him it was a wonder he could move at all.

“So noisy baby,” he crooned on a particular harsh thrust that made her whine, fingers a little tighter around her throat. “Can’t help yourself, can you?” He huffed with another thrust. “Need me to do all the work, hm? Greedy—” he grunted, “greedy girl.”

It took an embarrassingly short time for her to get close again. Sam was fucking her with determination, grunted every time he pushed himself back in, the head of his cock nudged the soft spongey spot inside of her that made her shudder again and again and again until she was a mess beneath him, lewd wet sounds accompanying her whimpers with each shift of his hips, her pussy fluttering around the stretch of his girth.

He didn’t slow down, didn’t ease up, didn’t give her a breather. She was close to tears by the time she was almost there, already sensitive from her first orgasm.

She clenched around him and his fingers, in turn, tightened on the sides of her throat. She trusted him, she knew he wouldn’t push it too far. Just enough for her to feel a little dizzy, for the bliss to wash over her like a high.

“Sam- mm- Sammy—” She was practically blabbering as her eyes filled with tears, gasping with each thrust, each smack of his hips against hers.

“Oh honey,” he cooed, condescending, mean. “Too much, hm? Need something?”

His hand loosened on her throat and she inhaled a little shakily.

“Please—” she whined, blinking through tears up at him. She didn’t miss the flicker in his eyes as the tears dribbled down her cheeks, but she knew that he knew she’d tell him if it was too much. It had happened before, neither of them messed around when it came to their safe words.

“Please what, huh?” He thrust in harshly and she groaned, cunt fluttering, so close— “Ah-ah, not yet. Don’t you need to ask me something, dolly?” He squeezed her throat once. “You remember what happens if you cum without asking, don’t you?”

Of course she did. The week prior she’d cum too soon, and he spent the next what felt like hours edging her, too skilled with his fingers, words too filthy that they made her head spin. He’d made such a mess of her that she hadn’t been able to even get up off of the bed for a little while after he finally let her cum.

“Mhm, mm, yeah—” she inhaled shakily, whining, thighs clamped tighter around his hips. “Please- please can I- please let me—” she groaned.

“Let you what?” He was dragging it out, the fucker, grunting into her ear as he leaned down over her, pushed his cock so deep her vision almost whitened out. “Tell me, honey. Use those words for me, c’mon.”

The tears were bubbling over faster, rolling down her flushed cheeks. “Let me cum, baby, please.”

“Asking so nicely,” he grunted, pressed a kiss to the shell of her ear. “How can I say no to something so pretty, hm? ‘Course you can, baby, go ahead.”

It wasn’t his words that did it for her, but the hand that snuck between them and pressed down on her stomach, the press of his cock suddenly so much more delicious that she almost fucking fainted.

She came with a breathless whine, hips jerked as she finally gasped a breath and whined again, her cunt throbbed around his cock as he kept pumping, rode her through it entirely. Her head tipped back, his mouth on her neck as her eyes squeezed shut, colours danced on the inside of her eyelids, her own little fireworks display.

Sam came shortly after, groaned into her ear in a way that almost made her cum again, and he rutted into her a few more times before he stopped, warmth spreading through her as he panted against her shoulder.

“Fuck,” he huffed, his own chest heaved, brushing against her bare skin. “Oh sweetheart.” The shift in his demeanour was palpable, soft kisses immediately littered across her shoulder and collarbone, palms flattened to smooth over her sweat-dampened skin. He could be so mean in the moment, so dominating and controlling that he left her a fucking mess underneath him, but afterwards? He’d probably feed her grapes and fan her if she asked him to.

She was still gasping for breath, head spinning, and when she knew she wouldn’t be told off for it her hands lifted, immediately clung to his warm shoulders. She loved the way his shoulders felt underneath her touch, muscles rippling with every movement.

Sam kissed up her throat and jaw before he landed on her mouth, and he kissed her slowly, huffed breaths into each other's mouths as he licked between her lips, sweeped behind her top teeth, their lips both wet with spit.

By the time he had pulled away, he’d so thoroughly kissed her that she almost had her breath back.

“You okay?” His voice was so soft it was like there was an entirely different person on top of her compared to five minutes prior. His hand left her throat, smoothed upwards and cupped her jaw. She felt him thumb away tears that had fallen, some clung to her eyelashes, somewhat cool against her hot and flushed skin.

She nodded as she stroked her fingertips along his shoulders with her fingertips, like she’d committed him to memory. She had.

“Hey,” he lightly tapped her cheekbone with his thumb. “Need words, honey.”

She couldn’t help her smile. He was so caring she sometimes wanted to cry. “M’okay,” she whispered, voice soft like she’d shared a secret. “Really good. You’re so good, Sammy.” She praised, tilted her head to kiss his wrist, and he smiled and blushed like he hadn’t just been the one to fuck the life out of her.

“Says you,” Sam leaned down and kissed her forehead. “You’re perfect. Love you,” another kiss. “Love you so much.”

She smiled so much her cheeks hurt. “Love you too.”

Sam smiled too, that soft smile that made his dimples peek out, eyes crinkled at the corners, and he stroked her cheekbone again. “M’gonna pull out, okay?”

Only when she nodded did he shift, slowly pulled his hips back until she was empty, until all she could feel was the wetness coated between her thighs.

“Christ, made a mess of you,” he murmured, not in the condescending tone from before, instead something closer to admiration. “You’re so pretty when you cum, y’know that?”

She blushed, hard, and shrugged as her cheek dipped to meet her shoulder.

Sam laughed, rolled his eyes as he leaned in and kissed her again. “Don’t get all shy on me now.”

She was still blushing when he helped her sit up, fingers delicately curled around her elbows to pull her upright, her back also damp with sweat. They’d need to change the sheets.

“Two options,” Sam murmured as he gently stroked hair away that was stuck to her forehead, baby hairs that clung to her temples. “We take a shower and let me wash your hair and then go get food, or you let me run you a bath and you wait there looking all pretty for me while I get you something we can eat in there so I can dote on you.”

“You just wanna wash my hair huh?”

Sam smiled. “Guilty.”

Her fingers found his, intertwined with a squeeze. “Bath sounds nice,” she eventually settled on. “As long as you don’t take too long in the kitchen. I’ll miss you.”

He was laughing when he pressed another kiss to her mouth. “Of course. Promise to not take too long, okay?”

She giggled and nodded, smiled against his mouth when he kissed her again. “Okay.”

#sam winchester #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x y/n #sam winchester x you #sam winchester fluff #sam winchester smut #sam winchester imagine #sam winchester drabble #sam winchester oneshot #sam winchester fic #sam winchester fanfiction #spn #spn x reader #spn one shot #supernatural #supernatural x reader #supernatural one shot

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carriesthewind · 19 days ago

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WOW.

Okay, after a night's sleep, I have decided that yeah, there is value in responding to this absolutely steaming pile of ignorant, self-centered, self-important, anti-intellectual, b.s.

It looks like a number of people in the notes were swayed, at least to some degree, by this garbage, so I think it is worth trying to show why it is nonsense.

(Also it's possible I'm still spoiling for a fight after being denied an evidentiary hearing on Friday.)

I'm not reblogging the post because folks don't need a self-aggrandizing tantrum on their dash, but I do think it is worth taking a look for yourself, in order to practice your analytical skills. Some questions to consider as you read:

(1) What is OP saying in her original post? What claims is she making?

(2) How, if at all, does the poster respond to claims OP made? What claims is the poster saying that OP made? Do these match what OP actually said? If not, (a) what techniques does the poster use to transform what OP said into the claims the poster is claiming OP made? (b) What rhetorical purpose does it serve for the poster to warp OP's claims?

(3) What affirmative claims is the poster making? What evidence or arguments do they provide to support their claims? Do they explore any of the specifics or real world implications of their claims? If not, what real world implications of their claims can you think of?

(3) What other rhetorical techniques does the poster use to bolster their argument? Do these techniques actually enhance and support the substance of their argument?

(4) Relatedly, how does the poster play into the biases of their assumed audience (tumblr users with generally progressive policies). What claims do they make to play into those biases? What evidence or argument, if any, do they make to support those claims? Are these claims by the poster reasonably related to the claims made by OP?

Now, let's explore their response in detail!

(Also obviously don't harass the poster, and I would recommend not directly engaging with them at all. Harassment is vile and makes you far worse than them. And earnest engagement is unlikely to be productive - the OP tried to engage with them politely (and even offered to help) in the notes of poster's original post. In response, the poster (1) implied that OP is an obsessive rude busybody. (2) Told OP to "Shhhhh. Chill." (in response to (paraphrased), 'hey, the advice someone else gave you is probably a waste of time and effort'). (3) And finally, after condescendingly telling OP, "Breathe. Practice radical acceptance. Know that I am here on the other side of the internet, flagrantly wasting my effort and thinking of you every second of that time," proceeded to prove that they were, in fact, "thinking of [OP] every second of that time" by searching OP's blog to find this post by OP and dumping this Arrested-Development-level demand to be taken seriously in the reblogs.)

(All of which is to say: hi, poster who was "being vagueposted about." I assume you are reading this, because you demonstrably don't have the good sense to block and move on. I'm not going to block you in advance, because I think you have the right to make your own terrible decisions, and I suspect any response you make is going to be *very* funny. See you in the notes!)

So, let's go through the poster's response, paragraph by paragraph.

They begin by doubling down on the stance that, "any sufficiently deep enthusiasm is indistinguishable from academic rigor." This, they say, is their defense of that stance. Let's see how it goes - but first, I think it's worth remembering, OP's original post is literally a single sentence long.

OP's claim, paraphrased, that the claim that "any sufficiently deep enthusiasm is indistinguishable from academic rigor" is incorrect and anti-intellectual. If we read the OP's tags, she clarifies that enthusiasm is valuable, but different from expertise.

The poster starts their defense with a long...explanation that the structure of their claim was a reference to the Arthur C Clarke's third "law" (read: sci-fi fiction adage).

*deep breath*

Ok. I'm a big a fan of wordplay as the next person. And I know from personal experience that it can be really frustrating to do some fun wordplay to make a point, and then get misinterpreted here on tumblr.com.

But. The wordplay has to make a point for it to be relevant to your defense. OP's claim wasn't "this poster did a bad job with the linguistic structure of this sentence and is not familiar with classic sci-fi." How does the "rhetorical structure" of the poster's claim support the substance of their claim???

It doesn't, is the answer. The poster explicitly asks this question later down, but then they never actually answer it. Instead, the rhetorical effect of this whole digression is just to throw out surface level references to things (Arthur C Clarke! "AI"!) that might make the poster sound more thoughtful and knowledgeable. It also creates distance from OP's actual point - as the post continues, the poster has to remind us what they're talking about. This gives the poster more control over the narrative, over what claims are under discussion.

Which leads to the poster's next paragraph: the unanswered question of why the poster structured their claim to resemble a sci-fi author's famous quote, and a baseless attack on OP.

And I think it is worth really lingering on this attack on OP. The poster claims, OP perhaps is "misreading or misinterpreting" the poster's point. But what on earth is the poster talking about? OP literally just quoted the poster's exact words and then said that they think this is anti-intellectual. What "misreading or misinterpreting" is being done?

No. Instead, this attack rhetorically sets up the poster's next couple paragraphs: not actually defending their claim as OP originally quoted, but reinterpreting their own words, providing their own special unique meaning that they will then proceed to use for the rest of the post. They are redrawing the rhetorical bounds of the conversation. Rather than defending their stance, they are redefining their stance so that it matches the defense they now want to make.

(Which is still bad. It's a bad defense and it makes me very angry.)

The poster proceeds to define "academic rigor" in a way that just means, "enthusiasm." Notice how no part of their definition includes things like critical thinking skills, building up a knowledge base, testing ideas, receiving criticism (wow I wonder why), or any expertise or action to build up and test that expertise. It's just what a person "cares very much about," how much "curiosity" they have; some inherent quality someone who "NEEDS to know." (Also hit the bell for another surface level reference - this time to Herodotus - to make the poster sound more knowledgeable.) If you actually read the poster's definition, it is entirely "idk vibes i guess."

Now, having defined "academic rigor" as enthusiasm, they successfully declare that enthusiasm is a necessary precondition of enthusiasm.

And then, we get the best paragraph of this entire tantrum of a post: "Any sufficiently deep enthusiasm is indistinguishable from academic rigor. It's like a fractal -- the closer you look, the more complicated it gets." No only is this another attempted surface level reference, this time to fractals, but just. What is this supposed to mean. At a glance, it seems like it kind of follows from the last paragraph - maybe, the more an enthusiast looks at something, the more there is to know? But the closer you look at this sentence, the more nonsensical it gets. What does things getting more complicated the more you look at them have to do with academic rigor (either a real definition or the poster's enthusiasm-based definition)? More importantly, what does it have to do with proving the point - that enthusiasm is indistinguishable from academic rigor? (You might as well say, "the further you fall down the rabbit hole, the deeper you realize it goes," except then more people would realize you are expressing straight conspiracist reasoning oops.)

Now, several paragraphs in and having firmly taken control of the rhetorical boundaries of the argument, the poster finally decides to provide some context to the original statement (and needlessly insult OP for trying to be helpful again).

The poster correctly quotes relevant parts of the discussion (although mischaracterizes their own responses as "polite" instead of "incredibly condescending and rude"). However, the poster then immediately characterizes OP's response as "muddied." Because words have objective meanings, however, we do not need to accept this characterization. OP expressed her argument very clearly. Rather, it is the the poster who claimed that OP was making an argument that she was not, which we can paraphrase as, 'passion and capacity for learning are limited to formal education at academic institutions.' It would be convenient for the poster if OP was making this argument, because it could be easy to argue against. But since OP clearly stated that she does not believe this clearly incorrect thing that the poster made up in her head, the poster claims that her response was "muddied."

The poster emphasizes this false claim in the next few paragraphs. They say, "to me she seems to be arguing that one MUST (?) receive formal training at an academic institution ("academic training" "trained expertise") in order to achieve that level of rigor." But OP simply doesn't say that. You can look at the reply the poster quoted, it doesn't say what the poster says it does.

Now, this is speculation on my part, but I think the poster really believes that OP is saying 'passion and capacity for learning are limited to formal education at academic institutions.' I think they believe this because its how they feel when they hear the (correct) statement that enthusiasm does not equal expertise. The poster repeatedly says that they think that enthusiasm for learning is the same as expertise. They throw a tantrum after receiving the slightest, politest, disagreement. They think someone giving them advice that hey, maybe its a good idea to get a basic foundation of knowledge before cold-emailing experts is a busybody who is obsessed with lecturing them. The poster simply, demonstrably, doesn't believe expertise is real, and refuses to admit that someone else might know more or better than them. If they "care very much about getting it right," how dare you say they aren't as good as anyone with "academic training," fuck you very much you elitist jerk.

This sense is emphasized by their next paragraph. First, they shift the rhetoric framework of the conversation again. The actual claim the poster says they are defending is that "any sufficiently Deep Enthusiasm is indistinguishable from Academic Rigor" (emphasis added). Now, they are claiming that OP means that no one outside of an academic context "has the capacity to learn what rigor means in their field." These are very different claims, but the poster shits between them seamlessly.

Second, they just completely misunderstand what academic rigor is. I'm sorry, you can read every book and article and (*sigh* dear god) TED talk in the world, that doesn't make you an expert, and that's not academic rigor. A large part of academic rigor is in how you critically engage with what you read. Otherwise you just end up, at best, with a bunch of shallow facts that you can "whip out at dinner parties to impress [your] acquaintances" or sprinkle as references in arguments on tumblr to make you sound smarter.

But no, the poster confirms in the next paragraph, you don't need critical thinking or training or people who will tell you that you are wrong. All you need is the information. And if you disagree, you are arguing in favor of "the ivory tower." (Take a drink.)

In the next two paragraphs, the poster pays lip service to the idea that sure, it's easier to learn in academia. But even then, they imply that somehow that's the easy route, that good learning environments create weak men, that people who are self-taught are the ones who are actually building up the critical thinking skills because someone doesn't just "tell them the answer."

Then, before the readers have a chance to absorb, wait, did you really just say that academia is really just having someone either tell you the answer or where to look for the answer and therefore unsuitable for "sincerely love to learn," (because you are, in fact, anti-intellectual), the poster then throws in a bunch of shallow buzz phrases about how higher education isn't available to a lot of people.

And I say these are just shallow buzz phrases for two reasons. First, the poster never actually engages with this lack of access. It's just sprinkled in, like the references to Arthur C Clarke and Herodotus. (For example, no, actually, "any sufficiently MOTIVATED person" can't actually access all this information that is online. You need a stable internet connection, devices to allow you to make use of that connection, to speak or read the language those materials are published in, enough time and sleep and food and goddam shelter.)

Second, this doesn't actually have anything to do with the actual claim that the poster is supposedly defending. Remember that? Remember the position the poster is arguing for? "Any sufficiently deep enthusiasm is indistinguishable from academic rigor." How does, "some people can't go to college" support that claim, specifically?

It doesn't, which is why the poster's next paragraph instead claims that OP is arguing that "those people do not have the ability to hold themselves to a rigorous standard of learning."

Which just.

Fuck you?

Because yeah, that would be a shitty opinion to hold! And you are the only person raising it! You are explicitly making the claim - fuck, perpetrating the anti-intellectual worldview - that anyone who suggests "caring about something does not inherently equal subject matter expertise" is an elitist who thinks that everyone else, ordinary people, real Americans, are stupid.

I'm gong to be honest, this is the part of the poster's claims that made me mad enough to respond.The notes include people agreeing that academics and "experts" are actually pretty elitist, aren't they, and they deserve to be "taken down a few pegs," that suggesting that you need a baseline level of knowledge or vocabulary before you can engage deeply with a subject is "gatekeeping."

The U.S.'s institutions are crumbling as they are dismantled by people that are making these exact same arguments. There is no meaningful difference in the reasoning of the poster's argument here, and the argument that "alternative medicine" hacks who never completed their medical training have sufficient credentials to run goverment agencies, and that if you bring up their lack of credentials, well, that just proves what an elitist you are.

The "worldview" the poster does not accept - is telling you not to accept - is the idea that expertise exists at all.

And because that is an incorrect and harmful worldview, the poster has to use a bunch of rhetorical tricks to hide what they are doing. And then to sell it, they throw in a bunch of words to stir up the audience's preconceptions and biases. OP's claim (again, that enthusiasm and academic rigor are not equivalent) is "racist and imperialist." Why? Don't worry about it. Something something college is expensive and inaccessible to a lot of people. All you need to remember is that these ivory-tower academics are The Bad Thing.

*deep breath*

Anyway, knowing we need a laugh to bring the mood back up, the poster then says someone on reddit criticizing your argument is an "informal version[] of the peer-review process." Besides betraying a deep ignorance of the nature of peer-review (I guess even knowing how academic processes work is also elitist?), I think this means that the poster has to be cool with my post here, right? Because I'm just doing peer review? (Because also, just to be clear: "the academic structure of the peer review is a formalized process of the very human impulse to gleefully tell other humans when they’ve stuck their foot in their mouth." No. This is just. No.)

Next, more misstating OP's original claim. The poster says, "An institution of formal learning is not a prerequisite to pursue and absorb information," which OP already agreed with in the comments of the poster's original post.

In support of this claim that no one is arguing with, the poster than makes up a "guy at the model airplane shop who seems to know absolutely everything that has ever been known about WWII planes," and asks, "why don’t we acknowledge him as a legitimate expert?" The poster implies that this is because this guy is autistic and OP is a bigot.

But the real answer is simpler:

Unless you are referring to something you chose not to link for some reason, he's made up. He's a made up guy in your brain. And OP never said anything about him, so it's really weird for you to criticize OP for not sufficiently praising him as an expert. Fanfic isn't reality.

To the extent we are talking about real phenomenons - who do you mean by "we" and what do you mean by "acknowledge him as a legitimate expert"? There are lots of people with legitimate expertise, and in my experience, they often are recognized as such. And I don't know where you live, but outside of revenge-fantasies of conservative pundits and the people who are mislead by them, most academic experts aren't exactly exhausted and prestige and praise.

'Knowing a lot about a subject' is not the same as academic rigor. This isn't a criticism or insult to people who know a lot of things, despite your weird, self-centered hang-ups. Let me be clear here, actually: I am not an academic. I am a lawyer. I know a lot about the law in the areas I practice in. I do not practice the law "with academic rigor" because that's not really meaningful. I also like to constantly learn more about the law, including in many areas I don't practice in. I am not an expert in those areas. Just as an academic who studies the law and legal practice would not necessarily be good at actually practicing the law, my enthusiasm does not mean I have academic expertise (and my academic training is rather rusty, this many years out). This is normal? My ego is not threatened by acknowledging different kinds of expertise and knowledge exist?

And perhaps most to the point - "seems to know absolutely everything that has ever been known about WWII planes." "Seems to." An important part of academia - part of what makes it rigorous, if you will - is that you actually have to prove your expertise to other experts. They are then "recognized" as experts because there is a process the public can usually trust that they don't just "seem to" know what they are talking about. If you are talking to an amateur enthusiast - how do you know you they actually have the expertise they claim to have? Because I know of some guys who are really enthusiastic about the, claim to be experts, and have a lot of strong opinions about how they have reclaimed their Sovereign Identity by not capitalizing the letters in their name.

I agree with the poster's final paragraph. I love learning. But I can't see this as anything other than a manipulative postscript, a rhetorical trick of ending on a point of agreement and mutual enthusiasm. By a person - and I can't emphasize this enough - who refused assistance in learning and threw an enormous tantrum because someone suggested hey, maybe its a good idea to get a basic foundation of knowledge before cold-emailing experts.

#let's jump into a fight on the internet.#I've got energy to burn

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