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ccazimi · 24 days ago

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Currit in Sanguine Nostra

pt. 1 - pt. 2

cw: vampirehunter!sukuna x vampire!reader, dubcon, enemies to...enemies with benefits (??), blood obviously (blood drinking, bleeding, blood as lube), violence/fighting/gore/graphic descriptions of injuries, sadism/masochism, forced starvation, captivity, bondage (usage of muzzles/chains), knifeplay, wounding/cutting, degradation, feet stuff (reader humps his foot), humiliation, mild voyeurism wc: 12k a/n: this was so long i decided to just split it into parts :3 also i imagine sukuna to look like this in this fic

songs i listened to while writing this part

snarler - craig wedren, anna waronker

teeth - lady gaga

your addiction - night club

the wretched (remix) - nine inch nails

The first ever encounter with each other — that fight was brutal, messy.

Sloppy.

It was nearly midnight, in a long abandoned warehouse district at the outskirts of the city that Sukuna had tracked you into. Once bustling with activity, now a ghost town of rusting metal and crumbling brick.

The warehouse buildings have collapsed partially, some with entire walls missing, leaving jagged edges and exposed beams of twisted metal. Old rotten crates and broken machinery litter the ground, shards of shattered glass glinting in the faint, cold pools of light — flickering streetlights and and the occasional neon sign of an abandoned convenience store.

The place feels like a fun house in a fair, long warped shadows stretching over the debris.

And under the rain that falls in thick sheets, pouring relentlessly and drowning out the sound, you and Sukuna fight like wild animals.

None of the precision, the careful strategy or finesse one would perhaps expect from the final heirs of two ancient bloodlines—one born to hunt, the other born to feed.

Supposedly this feud started as far back as the Heian Era, possibly even longer. But none of that matters right now.

Right now you are just two inexperienced predators trying to kill each other.

You underestimated him—just another silly human, you thought. Hiding behind metal weapons, barking empty threats.

But you're the vampire. He’s the human - he should be prey.

And yet, Ryomen Sukuna is anything but.

Even in his own inexperience he’s a natural at what he’s supposed to be, making up for the lack of night vision with other senses that have been trained to compensate instead, keen enough that they could rival a vampire’s. He doesn’t need to see too well when he can rely on his hearing, on his quick reflexes, even his nose.

The rain proves to be a disadvantage as well, making the ground too slippery for you to effectively bolt at high speeds.

And soon the ground is splattered red, slick not just with rain.

Your fight was so primal, almost delirious in its intensity, that no words were even shared — just snarling and screaming and grunting and the thrashing of bodies and squelching of torn flesh.

Finally the deciding moment has come, where Sukuna pins you to the ground, thinking he has you. Broken glass cuts into your back, embedding itself into the skin, through the gaps of your already shredded top.

You’re no stranger to pain, though it does enrage you all the more.

So you fight dirty, spitting and digging your clawed nails across his face, that visceral yet satisfying feeling when you feel the nails, still filthy with the blood of your last kill, piercing into the soft, delicate flesh of his right eye.

The feeling could only be described as…gelatinous.

Sukuna’s agonized roar is instant, the pain blinding and white-hot. Blood runs down his face, and the smell of it that’s been teasing you all night, invites you to finally bare your fangs, ready to go for the killing bite.

But even with his right eye useless, Sukuna refuses to let go of his weapon, and when he catches the glint of your teeth, without thinking his blade is shoved into your mouth, pushing down on the hilt to plunge it upwards.

At the same time you reflexively bite down with all the strength left in your jaw — only to feel the sickening crack of bone breaking against steel.

It feels like you’ve bitten into broken glass.

With a strangled cry you shove him off, stumbling to your feet immediately as he gets to his knees, blood still gushing from his ruined eye, grabbing his weapon.

Your tongue flicks over the jagged remnants of your fang, that empty space where the tooth used to be, the iron of your own cold blood coating your mouth.

You limp back into the shadows as he staggers to his feet.

It’s only later when you’re sitting at the bar of a high-end nightclub, still absentmindedly running your tongue over the now healed stump of your left canine, you process that fight.

Born to an old, dwindling vampire bloodline, you were raised in secrecy, always moving place to place to avoid hunters. The traditional legends of aristocratic vampires always made you scoff — you and your family who had lived like ghosts, hiding in abandoned buildings, remote villages, or underground.

Despite it you were taught pride in your lineage — reminded that vampires are superior to humans, that they should never beg, never bow.

If a vampire “asks” something of a human, it’s not really a question.

Perhaps this was the reason you’d grown to have a taste for the luxuries of the modern age, hanging around neon lights and penthouses, carrying yourself with quiet arrogance. Though it’s an confidence born from survival, not entitlement.

You must believe you’re above humans, for your survival.

You’d heard of Sukuna before, known for years that he was supposedly your enemy by blood alone, but you hadn’t really given much more thought to it, especially not after your parents were murdered.

You were raised that in a world that wanted you dead, sentimentality was not an option — not even to mourn losses.

You were taught only to keep moving forward.

So that’s what you did when you found them with stakes driven through their hearts, limbs already turning to ash. Perhaps their deaths didn’t shatter you because they never let you believe they’d always be there in the first place.

Their battles didn’t particularly concern you, and you had better things to do than go on some drawn out hunt for revenge, and to avenge your family.

Well, that was before.

Because after that encounter, you decided nothing else mattered except Ryomen Sukuna.

A few months later, you feel more confident this time around that you’ll be able to kill him. And you don’t know for sure, but you have a strong feeling that he’s been tracking you as you roam city to city.

Sukuna’s learned a few things about you — that you enjoy cities, particularly those with good nightlife. Clearly a preference since your kind won’t necessarily burn in the sun, or anything as dramatic as the human stories always make it out to be.

Rather you all tend to be allergic to sunlight, some more than others. Your photosensitivity is noticeable, but not the worst — nothing more than some itchy hives and sneezing. Sometimes you get watery eyes and a runny nose too. It really just passes off as a normal pollen allergy.

On the other hand, you’ve picked up a few things about Sukuna as well — most notably so far that there are two things that matter to him above all: his ego and pride.

You suppose that conspicuous injury you gifted him might almost be as humiliating as your own chipped fang.

Almost.

Nothing can compare to the offense of breaking a vampire’s fangs. You’ve grown a habit of hiding them now even when around others like you, just so they won’t notice it.

And eye isn’t quite enough payment for that, you think.

So you arrange a trap, meticulously leaving a deliberate trail of blood and bodies to mark your presence, obvious enough for him to follow but still vague to the point that’ll keep him guessing. The trail leads to somewhere that’s sort of unusual for you — the countryside, far from the city, to a large sprawling mansion.

It’s a bit rundown, sort of the middle of nowhere, and likely abandoned some years ago.

Perfect.

You don’t have to wait long, only till the second night when he arrives.

The second round begins rather…slow.

Sukuna enters the mansion and though nothing has shifted out of place, he can feel it — your presence, permeating the atmosphere. You stand on the upper floor that overlooks the main entrance, watching him from the shadows.

It’s dark, even the moon is just a sliver of a crescent in the night sky, hardly enough to offer him any light.

You can see perfectly fine, though.

Sukuna can sense your gaze on him from somewhere in the pools of darkness, but he doesn’t react, preferring to let you guess whether he knows you’re here or not.

And you pick up what he’s trying but frankly you just can’t help yourself.

“Looking for someone?”

He doesn’t turn but you can see him smile in the dark, showing off those perfect set of teeth.

Annoying.

“Are you hiding from someone?”

You scoff.

Hiding. He’s trying to agitate you on purpose.

And it won’t work.

“Maybe I just like to play with my food.”

He hums. And then—

So quickly that you barely have time to dodge, something slices through the air.

The silver bullet buries into the drywall right where your head was a second ago.

Sukuna just laughs. “Oops. I guess I like to…play with my food, too.”

You’re honestly impressed by how good his aim is, even with his right eye socket scarred over.

But you’d never admit that, so you just chuckle lightly. “Well if you want me, you’re gonna have to work for it.”

And so it begins.

He hunts you through every hallway, every corridor, every shadow-drenched corner of the mansion. You circle one another—silent, stalking, both knowing one wrong step could mean the end.

You try to bait out another shot. A few, even.

Nothing.

Either he’s toying with you, or he’s saving them. Maybe both.

Frustrating.

And when long enough passes with no sound of his revolver, desperation creeps in.

So you take the risk. A deep inhale and a sharp turn—stepping fully into view, right across the hall from him.

Silence.

His hand rests on the trigger, steady, but he doesn’t pull it. Doesn’t even flinch.

You grit your teeth, muscles tensed, wondering if you can close the distance before he fires when suddenly, he smirks.

And lowers the fucking gun before rolling his eye.

The gall of this man.

“That’s the best you’ve got? Trying to jump scare me?”

You stare at him venomously, and though he can’t see it too well in the dark he can feel your disdain practically radiating from you.

“I could kill you right now before you could even do anything. But that feels kinda cheap, doesn’t it?”

“You’re welcome to try,” he says amicably. Then his eye glints, widening with a sudden thought, and he grins like he’s just remembered something delightful. “Oh- wait! I've got something to show you, almost forgot…”

He pulls out the silver chain tucked into his shirt, and at the end of it, something catches your eye.

White, and pointed…

Your fang.

You look up at him, momentarily speechless as his grin widens and he holds your tooth between his fingers like it’s some trinket. “Took it as a little souvenir to, you know…remember you.”

Needless to say, you are fucking livid.

“You disgusting bastard,” you hiss, synapses firing as rage floods them.

And just like that you’re across the hall in half a second, lunging towards him in your blind fury.

“You PIECE OF SHIT, I’LL RIP YOUR OTHER EYE OUT AND FUCKING EAT IT—”

You’re fast, and you’re strong. And Sukuna knows how to use this against you.

Instead of meeting you head on he pivots just in time, grabbing your wrist so that your own momentum sends you crashing into the dusty wooden floor. You’re back on your feet instantly, but then a flash of silver, and hot, searing pain in your side.

It spreads across your skin, numbing and tingling, and you start to feel sick.

Because of course a silver blade wasn’t enough, the bastard had to lace the tip with wolfsbane.

It’s not deep enough to kill, but definitely enough to slow you.

You snarl, still trying to throw him off, but Sukuna once again twists your momentum, forcing you into a corner.

This is bad. Now there’s nowhere to dodge, nowhere to effectively use your speed.

You lunge again, aiming for his throat this time, but either he’s faster than you expected, or the poison’s slowed you down.

There’s a crack and powerful kick sweeps your legs right out from under you, and just like that you’re on your back, his weight pinning you down, one hand wrapped around your throat.

Sukuna’s eye is burning with excitement, as he looks down at you triumphantly, panting slightly.

“That was fun. Wanna go again, or are you gonna pout now?”

You try to break free, but his other hand comes up — only now you realize it’s gloved. You don’t have time to think before he presses it to your jaw, holding you in place, and the pain flares from his touch.

Silver-lined gloves.

You hiss, though the poison is taking its toll on your body and your cold skin is now clammy, chest rising and falling with rapid breaths.

He laughs, leaning down slightly at your lips curled back in ferocity, eyes slitted as you try to jerk your face away from him in vain. His grip only tightens making your flesh burn, a pathetic cry clawing out of your throat.

“Careful, sweetheart.” The bare hand comes up to your lips as he holds your face in place, thumb brushing over it to pull your top lip back, inspecting your broken canine with interest. “You keep baring those pretty little fangs at me, and I might just have to take the other for my collection.”

You tremble with rage only contained in your flesh because of this incapacitating toxin invading your body. If not for that wolfbane—

“I’ll kill you, I’ll fucking murder you and you know what? I won’t even eat you, I’ll just leave your body to fucking rot in the dirt—” you sneer your promise, fingers twitching at your sides.

He looks down at you condescendingly, like you’re a petulant child throwing a tantrum that only entertains him. “That’s the look. Keep that anger — it looks real good on you.”

That’s the last thing you hear before another sting to your side of a syringe plunging into your skin, before you pass out.

When you come to a few hours later, cold, shivering, and throwing up — he’s nowhere to be seen.

The game stretches on over the next two years— you, with your chipped fang and him, with the scarred-over hollow where his right eye used to be.

Despite the damage, neither of you falters. If anything, the wounds only sharpen your instincts. Refine your roles.

The hunt evolves—more complex, more elusive… more intimate.

Along the way, more of your kind fall to him and Sukuna earns a name. Whispers trail in his wake, rumours thick and grotesque of one of the most brutal vampire hunters of the century.

A man who doesn’t just kill—but lingers.

Draws it out, torments.

Vampires captured and kept alive, tortured until boredom finally drives him to end it.

Every one one of them have been found with their left fangs broken off and missing.

And your resentment festers.

How ironic—his reputation, his rise, all built on traits borrowed from the very monsters he claims to despise.

Cunning. Patience. Sadism. A thirst for blood too, just not human blood. That, perhaps, is the only line he hasn't yet crossed.

You? You’re no innocent - far from it. But at least you never pretend to be anything other than what you are.

Your trail is just as red, just as damning.

But your victims? Almost always men.

From nameless beggars to powerful CEOs that send media and authorities into a frenzy— Their throats, torn open, their arteries drained.

And always—always—their right eyes, gouged out.

The floor is cold against your cheek—slick with dirt and blood. You're sprawled out, face-down, cheek mashed to the concrete beneath the unyielding press of his boot. Your wrists burn where the silver chain bites into them, pinned behind your back.

You should’ve known better - you did know better.

After years of sensing him at the edges of your life—always watching, always circling, he vanished.

No signs, no whispers, nothing.

The absence felt like a blade hollowing you out from within.

You told yourself someone else must’ve gotten to him. But of course, that wouldn’t do.

He was yours, yours to chase, yours to kill.

So you hunted him down this time, tracking him like prey.

This one’s on you.

You should have been suspicious when you found him waiting in a warehouse that looked eerily similar to the first one you ever fought in.

Except this one is brighter.

Bright fluorescent lights hum overhead, too white and clinical. Even with your eyes shut, the glare bleeds through your lids, stabbing at your pupils.

Every nerve in your body is lit up with pain, every inch of you aches and throbs.

“I’m starting to think you like being under me. Is that it?”

His taunting voice comes from somewhere above you.

“Just fucking kill me already, will you?” you grumble, words muffled against the ground.

“Hmm… I don’t know.”

The pressure of his boot lifts from your skull—only to be replaced by his knee, driven mercilessly into the small of your back.

You're pinned, caged.

“I kinda like seeing you like this,” he murmurs, voice dipping with lazy amusement. “Helpless. Right where I want you. So many things I could do with you…”

You can’t see him, but the smugness in his tone tells you everything. That fucking smirk is absolutely there.

Your laugh comes sharp and bitter. “God, you’re disgusting.”

“Oh, I must be,” he replies easily, “if even a bloodsucker’s saying it.”

You just scoff.

He leans in close, voice dropping to something low and velvety. “Can’t wait to spend some quality time with you…”

And then something hard cracks into your temple, with a sickening crunch followed by a split second of agony, before your vision tilts again and once more everything goes black.

You figure it’s been a few days at least, by the time you wake up. No human would survive the type of brain damage he no doubt inflicted on you when he literally split your skull open.

But you’re not a human, you’re a vampire — albeit something like that is still a serious enough injury that instead of seconds or minutes, it takes days for your body to repair the delicate tissues of your brain.

You’re still a bit dizzy and disoriented as you blink, clearing the fog from your mind while assessing your environment.

It’s a cellar or basement of some sort. A dim bulb flickers at the other end, on the verge of giving out.

The second thing you notice is something on your face — tight leather straps digging into your skin, a cage or barrier of some kind bound over your mouth.

The bastard fucking muzzled you.

Immediately you scream his name in rage — or at least you try to, though the metal cage distorts your sounds and all you produce is, “Hh-kuh-na!”

You try to move but your arms are still bound tightly behind you, aching from the position they’ve been kept in for so long, The cuffs are not silver, you note.

But the shackle around your ankle? That one is — and you quickly learn that when you try to unfold your legs, the metal digging into your skin and burning.

Soon enough you hear a door open and the sound of heavy footsteps.

“Finally awake? Thought I hit you too hard for a second.”

Your snarl of his name is once again muffled, but the scathing hatred in your eyes speaks volumes.

Sukuna steps in, closing the door behind him before crouching down with his hands on his knees, to be at your face level.

“Hmm, what was that?” he coos. “Try again. Really put your heart into it.”

You’re already feeling on edge, restless and tired at the same time, but then you smell it—

The sharp metallic scent of blood.

Just a little, but enough for your eyes to dilate and your body to scream at you, reminding you that you’re hungry.

Three days of intense healing, and no blood.

But you force yourself to sit still, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you struggle.

“When I get out here….” Your voice is hoarse, but venomous all the same. “I will kill you.”

“Hah,” he snorts. “Bold statement for someone who can’t even stand up.”

He crouches fully now, getting dangerously close. You jerk back instinctively but the sharp bite of the silver shackle digging into your ankle makes you grit your teeth in pain, reminding you why that’s a mistake.

Sukuna watches, single eye gleaming before he leans in further, fingers grazing along the leather strap securing the muscle.

“You look adorable like this.” He pauses, grinning when your eyes narrow further, smoldering with anger. “Almost tame.”

You catch another whiff of it — warm, rich, fresh — and your tongue coats itself in saliva. But you dig your nails into your palms, taking a breath, forcing yourself to stay grounded and shoot him a smirk, speaking slow and sharp.

“Take off this muzzle and you’ll see just how tame I am.”

He just chuckles and with that slight movement you catch the scent of his blood again.

Torture.

You can’t help your eyes from darting around, trying to see where the source is coming from. Sukuna catches your gaze drifting downwards, toward the wrist covered by his sleeve.

“Oh? You’re already looking? Thought you’d last a bit longer.”

And just to rub it in your fucking face he rolls his sleeve up, dangling his cut wrist right in front of your muzzled mouth. The blood drips slowly, deliberately trickling down.

Instinctively your head snaps up, fangs baring as you once again try in a futile effort the lunge forward, and rewarded with the same burning in your skin.

“Fuck. You.”

He leans in, voice dropping to a murmur as you intently track the blood droplets sliding down his skin. “You sure you don’t want any? You look a bit…hungry.”

Your lips widen into a cold sneer behind the metal cage. “I’d rather die of hunger than drink a drop of your filthy, vile blood.”

He stares at you for a moment, before calmly sighing and standing up to leave again. “Better get comfortable, then. This might take a while.”

And once again you’re left in the dark, with nothing but hunger gnawing at your insides.

The cruel irony of it all is that yes, you’d much rather die of hunger— but you can’t.

Instead you’ll starve, slowly desiccating till you’re barely conscious, but alive all the same. Forever in a perpetual state of never ending hunger.

There will be no death to release you.

Over the course of the next four days you feel yourself withering — hunger chewing and growling from within you, so cold that it feels like even your bones are chilly.

And tired. So, so tired.

You hear his footsteps from time to time outside the door, vaguely wondering if he’ll open the door. He never does.

By the time he comes back, your limbs are leaden, mind hazy. The hunger is no longer an ache, as it is a roaring void, tearing at you from inside.

You barely flinch when the door creaks open again, head lifting slightly towards the sound, though your body makes no effort to move.

“Still alive? Tough little thing, aren’t you?”

As if you could die even if you wanted to.

You don’t offer any response, not even able to muster enough energy to glare at him. He steps closer, slowly, like he’s approaching a carcass.

“Not much fight left in you now, huh?”

He crouches again, watching you with interest. You’re alive, but barely.

And finally you move — just a small twitch of your fingers, and a sharp inhale like you want to say something, but don’t have the energy to get the words out.

Sukuna doesn’t let up. “Go on. Curse me. Say you’ll kill me again. Give me something.”

Nothing. Even in your weakened state, you have enough pride to not give him that.

If a reaction is what he wants, it’s what he won’t get.

He clicks his tongue in annoyance before tilting his head. “No? Then how about I give you something instead?”

There’s a soft ripping noise, like a band-aid being torn off, when the scent hits you.

Blood.

Your body shudders involuntarily, once again you’re digging your nails into your palms until they’re sure to leave crescent-shaped indents.

And of course, he notices immediately, face lighting up with amusement. “…Oh?”

He holds his wrist up to you again like an offering.

“C’mon. You don’t need to act tough anymore — I know you’re starving.”

Your jaw clenches as you follow the slow trickle of blood, wishing desperately you had it in you to tear your eyes away from the sight. But you follow its unhurried path, entranced, mouth dry.

“Just a sip. All you have to do is say the word.” Sukuna’s voice is low, mocking, trying to worm its way into your skull.

Your breathing quickens. Would one sip really be that bad?…

“I’ll even take the muzzle off.”

That makes you move.

Your eyes flicker to his, sharpening with a spark of resistance despite everything. The spark only lights up further when you see how smug he looks.

“…Go fuck yourself.”

His grin widens, teeth flashing.

“There she is.”

And then, he fucking sits fully, leisurely stretching his legs like this is some pleasant, casual conversation. Like it’s a picnic date at the park or something.

Like he isn’t slowly destroying you from the inside out.

“You should be grateful, you know, that I’m even trying here.” Then he snickers meanly. “A lot of owners don’t bother to go to such lengths for their pets.”

If there was any blood left in your hollow veins, it would be sizzling right now.

You want to lunge at him, tear his throat out, watching him choke on his own blood before bleeding out in the most pathetic manner.

But you barely have the strength to lift your head.

Still, you strain out the words, barely a whisper.

“Don’t want your…filth…on my tongue.”

You feel it for a second, genuine anger sparking in him, before it quickly passes through and he stands up again.

“Fine. Be a stubborn bitch — we’ll see how long you last.”

He turns and walks away, casually calling out over his shoulder right before he shuts the door. “See you in another few days. If you’re still awake, that is.”

The door closes, darkness once again swallowing you whole.

It’s been nearly a full week now, when he comes back one more time.

You deteriorated even more within the span of those few days — body weak and brittle, like a dried leaf waiting to be stepped on. You think you’ve started to go mad because you swear you can smell blood, even when there’s nothing, no one else, in that cold, empty cellar.

Your pride has been warring with need for too long, and one side is losing, slowly but surely.

When the door opens again, you’re too far gone to react even the slightest. Not even a single twitch of your fingers.

Sukuna gives you a mocking sigh. “Damn. You’re really letting yourself go.”

He crouches down in front of you again, slowly, like you might to some injured animal bleeding out in the forest. “What happened to all that fire? All that lovely talk about killing me?”

You want to lift your head, shoot him a glare, spit some nasty words, but your body won’t obey.

The hunger is too much now, inside your bones where your marrow should be, clawing at the caving in walls of the hollow cavity that is supposed to be your stomach.

Sukuna watches closely for any sign of resistance, but there is none.

And then he speaks softly, like he’s indulging a kid. “How about I make this a bit easier for you, hm?”

There’s a cruel amusement under the gentle facade of his voice, lingering underneath like poison.

You barely register the movement — the soft tug of leather straps, and the metal cage loosening, falling away.

Your lips automatically part, but no sound comes out. There’s nothing left for you to say.

Then a quick flash of metal, and the scent invades your nostrils.

Hot, flowing, rich.

Sukuna holds his wrist out, the fresh cut welling with blood in slow, thick, droplets. The most alluring shade of red against his tan skin.

A violent shiver skitters down your spine, and you can feel your fangs involuntarily slipping out.

“Poor thing. You’re barely holding yourself together.” His voice drips in faux sympathy, as he watches you twitch.

His other hand moves, swiping into the cut before he swiftly lifts it to your face, pressing bloodied fingers to your lips and smearing it red.

Everything stops.

One drop, one single drop, makes its way through, onto your parched tongue, and its like fire in your veins.

Your body comes alive that moment, every nerve, every deadened muscle, every ounce of hunger roars awake, all at once, dilating your pupils till your eyes are just black voids.

Another shuddering breath, a twitching in your muscles.

“That’s it,” he whispers, watching, entirely too pleased at your reaction as his wrist hovers, just barely out of reach from your mouth.

Your body moves on it own, pure instinct, and no thought as you lunge forward with a low snarl, right fang sinking in, the broken one following soon enough as you close your mouth, latching on completely to his wrist.

And you drink.

Greedily, messily, obscenely sucking and slurping like a wild animal. The taste of his blood is intoxicating, flooding and reviving your starving flesh, pulling you out of that hollow abyss.

You hate yourself for it, but you can’t stop.

Sukuna watches, letting you feed, with a slow smirk.

“There we go. See? That wasn’t so hard.”

You want to rip yourself away, but his blood is too much, too necessary, too good.

No, not good.

You’ve drank hundreds of men’s blood before, but nothing compares to his.

What an evil, cruel twist of fate that his blood is divine — salty, sharp, with a savory mouthwatering fullness, and the slightest hint of sweetness to compliment it all.

Its like ambrosia.

Your grip tightens, as you practically moan in ecstasy, fangs sinking deeper into his warm flesh — you need more, you need—

Suddenly, he yanks his arm back.

You choke, barely stifling a whimper that almost slips out as the warmth is ripped away. Sukuna looks down at his wrist, amiably inspecting the puncture wounds, before glancing back at you.

Your lips are stained crimson, breathing ragged, eyes still looking at him with that almost desperate need.

And he laughs, victoriously. “That’s my girl.”

The taste him still lingers on your tastebuds, in the air — it’s not nearly enough to quell your appetite.

“Just a little more. Isn’t this what you wanted?” you try to convince him, attempting to hide the need in your voice.

You may be missing a fang but there’s still enough venom in one of your fangs to have at least somewhat of an effect — though you suppose that if he willingly let you drink, he must’ve already taken an antivenom.

Still, you try your luck.

He clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “You should have more shame, being so greedy. You’re lucky I even gave you this much.”

Sukuna stands to his full height again.

Panic rushes through you.

“Fuck, please Sukuna? I’ll give you whatever you want—”

He scoffs coldly. “And what could you possibly have to give me?”

You stare with wide eyes, unable to think of an answer immediately, and soon he’s leaving again, the sticky blood drying on your face.

The door slams closed.

This time, the hunger doesn’t dull away, neither does it weaken you. In fact you think it only grows stronger as the hours pass, keeping you awake and restless and craving.

For hours you sit in that dank cellar, your mind replaying the taste of his blood in your mouth until it becomes all you can think about, a tunnel vision of the only way out.

Giving you that taste was his mistake because now there’s a newfound strength forged from the motivation of sinking your teeth into him again.

Draining him for all he’s worth.

You tug against the metal keeping you captive — the cuffs around your wrists, the silver shackle around your ankle.

But you’ve got blood in you now, and that’s enough. Enough for you to heal.

With the phantom taste of him lingering in your mouth you finally push yourself — there’s sickening cracks of your joints dislocating, but even the blazing pain isn’t enough to deter you. It’s nothing compared to the satisfaction of your limp hands pulling out of the cuffs, one step closer to getting what’s yours.

Now, the hard part.

You squeeze your eyes shut, taking another deep breath as you position yourself. The silver cuff is still blistering hot against your skin, but you don’t hesitate.

Not now, not when you can practically taste him sweet and raw in your throat.

You twist. Hard.

The first crack isn’t enough — you grit your teeth, let out a strangled cry that echoes in the cellar, and then do it again.

The world goes white for a second, as you gasp, vision blurring from the sheer, excruciating pain — and still, you don’t stop.

Because now you’re not some starving creature crawling in the dark.

You’re a predator, one that he gave just enough of his blood to remember what that feels like.

Pop. The joint gives way.

You scream through gritted teeth, bile burning up the back of your throat, but you don’t stop. You slam your foot against the ground again, and again, twisting until the bones slide just enough — just enough for the slick burn of metal to scrape over torn skin.

And then you’re free.

You collapse against the floor, gasping, sweat-soaked and trembling, your limbs mangled but already knitting together, muscle by muscle, tendon by tendon, driven by that stolen taste of him inside you.

You stagger to your feet, every movement agonizing, shaky, but determined.

You can still feel him. His pulse. His scent. That infuriating grin of his when he left you here like some half-starved mongrel.

It’s insulting almost, that when you reach the cellar door, it’s unlocked.

But it makes your job easier, so you don’t complain.

You creak it open, and instantly the scent of his skin hits your nose though he’s nowhere in sight.

So you follow it, tunnel visioned on the prospect of finding him and just sinking your teeth into him.

Driven by vengeance, craving, maybe even some fucked up part of you that think his blood belongs to you now.

You can barely think straight by the time you’re pushing open his door, your mind tunneled in on one thing alone- the promise of his blood, hot and pulsing, spilling down your throat.

The embalmer’s job will be easier when they find his body — pale, empty, and drained dry.

You peek inside.

Warm light spills from the open bathroom door, casting a golden sheen across the contours of his bare back. He’s facing away from you, wearing nothing but low-slung black sweats that cling to his hips like a sin.

Droplets still bead along his skin, glinting on muscle, his pink hair darkened and slick from a recent shower.

If you weren’t so ravenous — if you saw anything other than a cure to the ache gnawing through your chest — you might’ve paused. Might’ve taken in the sight of him and thought, briefly, cruelly…

Beautiful.

But right now, nothing exists beyond the hypnotic thrum of his heartbeat, a slow and steady beacon that tugs you forward, that dares you closer.

You linger behind the door, silent, calculating. Waiting for him to move — to shift, to turn, to slip into just the right position.

One clean strike. That’s all you need.

No games. No snarling, clawing mess like the last time.

Just blood.

But then, there’s a subtle shift in the air, and the slightest stiffening of his spine.

Your stomach drops.

He shouldn’t know you’re here. It’s not possible — not for a human, not against your kind. You were made to hunt in silence, to kill before the prey ever knows what touched them.

Still, you don’t falter and he doesn’t turn.

And then—he moves. Slowly, casually.

He sits at the edge of the bed, back still to you, elbows resting on his thighs.

Exposed and vulnerable.

Perfect.

Just as you’re getting ready to pounce, Sukuna completely throws you off base—by pure, stupid luck.

He leans back onto one hand, legs spreading ever so slightly, just enough for the faint shape forming beneath his sweats to catch your eye. His other hand moves lower, casually palming himself through the fabric.

You should move. You know you should.

But something invisible roots you in place. Your hunger simmers beneath your skin, thrumming like static, but your bloodthirsty gaze is locked—utterly transfixed—on him. On the slow, almost lazy drag of his hand over the swelling bulge, coaxing it with idle strokes.

Your body betrays you.

There’s a strange heat building inside you, crawling up your spine, prickling across your skin. It shouldn’t be there. Not when you’re here to feed. Not when your only goal is to strike clean and fast and end this.

But it’s him.

Your breathing falters when his eyelids lower, chin tilting back just slightly as a quiet exhale leaves his parted lips. The light catches on the water still clinging to his shoulders, muscles shifting beneath his skin with every languid movement.

Through the fabric, the outline of his cock becomes more prominent. You can see the shape of it now, the thickness, even from where you stand.

Sukuna tightens his grip, and that’s when you catch it—the faint, almost acrid scent in the air. Slightly metallic. Slightly alkaline.

You suck in a silent breath, stomach flipping when you realize what you’re smelling.

Then he starts to rut slowly into his hand, sighing as the friction builds, and his voice cuts through the stillness, casual but low with strain.

“If you’re gonna do it, do it. Or are you too…” A cruel little grin curves his mouth. “Distracted, now?”

You don’t give him the satisfaction of a response.

You’re on him in an instant—before the last syllable even finishes, slamming your full weight into him. The bed creaks under the force as you straddle him, one hand fisting into his damp hair, the other clawing his shoulder, nails digging in deep enough to make him hiss through his teeth.

“Don’t fuck with me, Sukuna,” you growl, pupils dilated, lips curled in a snarl. His heartbeat is a war drum beneath your hands, loud and intoxicating, and every one of your senses is alive with it—drunk on it.

His grin only sharpens.

“Then stop staring like you wanna fuck me and kill me, sweetheart. Pick one.”

To your irritation, you don’t even have to yank his head back—he tilts it on his own, baring his throat with an infuriatingly smug laugh. A mocking little motion, like he’s offering himself up on purpose.

“That’s more like it,” he murmurs.

And then your fangs sink in.

A soft, distinct crunch as teeth break through muscle and vein.

The instant his skin gives, blood rushes into your mouth—and it’s intoxicating. Thicker, hotter than anything else you’ve ever tasted. Rich and pulsing with life. Almost scalding.

The puncture wounds tighten slightly around your fangs, muscles resisting before stretching open, your jaw clenching as you bury deep—even your cracked fang pushing in with a sharp throb.

His blood is... pure. Potent.

Undiluted, unlike the thin, lifeless taste of most human blood. It tastes like something alive.

Like power, like violence.

The absence of that sharp medicinal tang—no trace of the antivenom you expected—flickers across your thoughts.

But the moment passes. Irrelevant.

Your body’s already screaming for more.

You drink greedily, copper heat washing down your throat, his pulse drumming against your lips. Your grip tightens.

Sukuna doesn’t flinch.

You suck harder, lips sealing tighter over the wound with a wet, obscene sound. Blood flows freely now. Your body trembles, senses blown wide open, muscles twitching as strength floods into you—but even as it does, something gnaws at you.

It still isn’t enough.

There’s a maddening itch, deep under your skin, pulsing low in your gut. A hunger that persists no matter how much you drink.

A raw, aching need that grows stronger, fiercer.

You notice everything.

His heartbeat skipping slightly under your mouth, the way your thighs grip his hips tighter, almost involuntarily. The rake of your nails down his back, searching for purchase, something to ground you.

You drink, and drink, and drink—and yet, the ache won’t go away.

Sukuna notices, of course. His eyes heavy-lidded, dark with knowing amusement, watching as you fall apart in real time, the tremble in your thighs, the desperation in the way you hold him.

He shifts beneath you—just slightly—but it’s enough. Enough for you to feel the hard outline of his arousal pressing right against your core.

And still—not enough.

“You feel it, don’t you?” Sukuna’s voice is low, almost gentle. But there’s that ever-present curl of amusement beneath it. “You’re still hungry.”

You growl against his neck, fangs still sunk deep, refusing to acknowledge whatever smug bullshit he’s whispering now.

His skin burns under your lips. His body is flush against yours, scent heavy in your nose with every inhale—clean, musky, tinged with something spicy and masculine.

It makes him taste even better somehow—complementing the copper tang in your mouth like wine pairing with a rich meal. You have to smell him to taste him fully.

The most disturbing part isn’t the blood. It’s that he’s letting you take it. Letting you drink him dry, take as much as you want.

And if your mind were clearer—sharper—you’d be suspicious. Hell, you’d be insulted.

You tremble.

Because despite the feast, despite the rush of strength, the power flooding your veins like molten heat—you’re still not satisfied.

The hunger claws deeper.

And the awful, rising truth starts to sink in, that maybe it’s not just his blood you crave.

Maybe you’re starving for something else entirely.

Sukuna’s hand moves—slowly, deliberately—dragging rough fingertips across your scalp. He threads them through your hair, the pressure grounding, possessive. His fingers massage along your roots, a slow, sensual gesture that sends an involuntary shiver down your spine.

The other hand slides up your hip, ghosting along your side before settling at the small of your back, easing you down closer, pressing you into him—

That’s when it hits you.

You snap back, instinct lashing out. You tear your mouth away, blood slick on your lips, and shove at his chest hard enough to make him grunt as you push yourself back.

Your breath comes quick. Your head swims. Your mouth tastes like heat and iron and him.

The hand tangled in your hair slips away, settling instead at your waist—not stopping you, but not letting you go either. Possessive and anchoring.

His neck is still bleeding, slow trickles slipping down the curve of his throat, the skin around the puncture turning a deep shade of red-purple, bruised and tender.

You’re not sure what you feel.

Dazed. Disoriented. Blood-drunk.

Angry. Irritated. Frustrated.

Warm.

Too warm.

Sukuna grins up at you, lazy and smug, his eye catching the light just enough to glint with something unreadable.

“Ahh, there it is,” he hums, like he’s been waiting. “Now you get it.”

You fight the urge to recoil—to put space between your bodies—even as the haze lingers, even as your mind reels, trying to make sense of what the hell is happening to you.

“What the fuck did you do to me?” you breathe, your voice hoarse and thin, raw from drinking. Your lips are still slick with his blood. “I should kill you.”

And you mean it. You’ve done it before—taken blood from men, used sex like bait, like a weapon, left them cold and emptied by the time you were done. It never mattered, never lingered.

But this—this is something else entirely.

You try again to pull away, to snap the illusion, but this time his grip tightens. Not roughly, not harsh—but firm. Deliberate. He’s not fazed in the slightest by the open wound on his neck or the fresh blood on your mouth.

“Go ahead,” he murmurs, voice low, almost affectionate. “Then you’ll keep starving. Just like you are right now…”

His fingers drift lower, dragging over your waist, brushing the tops of your thighs. Teasing. Knowing.

Your head spins.

“Just shut up,” you snap, though the words come out thin, like you’re already losing ground.

You fed long enough that the venom should be kicking in by now. But it isn’t.

Maybe he’s built up a resistance—modified something in his blood. It wouldn’t be out of character for a hunter like him, someone who turns his own body into a weapon.

“Mm.” His fingers inch higher along your thigh, nails grazing over the fabric in a light, scraping touch that sends a sharp jolt through your nerves. “You don’t even know what you’re hungry for, do you?”

You grit your teeth, refusing to rise to the bait.

“It’s... not whatever the fuck you think it is,” you mutter, jaw tight. “You must’ve laced your blood or something—”

You’re trying to rationalize it. Trying to explain away the curl of heat low in your belly, the way your skin burns where he touches you.

His chuckle is low and cruel.

“Didn’t have to.” His voice dips to a taunt. “You gorged yourself on my blood after I left you starved for days—like a filthy, mindless little animal.”

His hand slides higher, creeping toward the center of you, and you shoot him a glare sharp enough to cut.

But you still don’t move.

“Tell me something I don’t kn—”

“Shut up.”

His voice slices through yours, dark and final. His grip tightens on your thigh—fingers digging into flesh—not playful anymore.

“If I wanted to hear you run your mouth, I’d fucking ask.”

Your lip twitches. Your eyes narrow into a venomous slit. But you don’t interrupt.

Not yet.

“That blood you drowned in?” he murmurs, tilting his head like he’s about to deliver a punchline. “It flooded your veins. Your muscles. Your heart…”

His smirk deepens, a slow cruel carving across his face.

“But when all your precious organs had their fill—guess where the rest ended up?”

“Right—” His hand fully cups your clothed sex now, before pressing into your clit with the tips of his fingers. “Here.”

You gasp at the sudden pressure against that sensitive bundle of nerves—electricity crackling up your spine.

All at once, you’re excruciatingly aware of every ache in your body, most of all the one blooming between your thighs—tight, pulsing, centered on that single point he’s still pressing down on with cruel precision.

“Pathetic,” he mutters, almost bored. “How long’s it been since you felt this? Since you actually needed?” His scoff is pure venom. “What, years? Bet your body just gave up going into heat altogether—until now.”

That’s what finally snaps the last thread of your restraint.

Your eyes darken, and a vicious smile cuts across your face like a blade. Bitterness burns like acid on your tongue, venom sharpening every syllable.

“Look at you,” you sneer, voice laced with poison. “You talk like I’m some starving beast—but what does that make you?”

Your tone drops, cruel now, twisted to mirror his own.

“A man so desperate for control he gets hard watching a half-dead monster squirm on his lap?”

You laugh—cold, guttural, mean.

“That’s pathetic.”

His expression shifts. Something twists behind his eyes. The lazy smirk vanishes, replaced by a deep crease between his brows—his crimson iris shrinking to a pinprick of rage.

You only lean in closer, fueled by the spark of danger.

“Tell me,” you whisper, voice thick with mockery, lips brushing his. “Did it make you feel powerful, starving me like that? Watching me suffer, weaken, beg?”

You grind your hips deliberately into his hand—now limp and fallen to your side—mocking him with your body, even as it betrays you with heat.

You tilt your head, lashes fluttering.

“Or did it just turn you the fuck on?”

His fingers twitch under your thigh.

“I think I hit a nerve.”

And then—just to twist the knife—you drop your voice to a whisper, every syllable soaked in contempt.

“…Maybe you wanted to see me like this. Needy. Weak. Because deep down, you know it’s the only time I’d ever want you—”

It happens fast.

Sukuna lunges.

But you’re already moving, twisting away—only for him to anticipate it, catching your wrist mid-swipe as you aim for his throat.

You snarl, feral, baring your fangs as you twist and struggle—but he’s stronger.

Of course he is. Vampire or not, you’re still a woman. And he’s a man carved from violence and dominance.

He wrenches your arm behind your back and yanks you in, spine arching painfully as he traps you against him. You snap toward his shoulder—teeth meeting only air as he shifts—and then—

His hand clamps the back of your neck, shoving you down hard into the mattress.

You buck, claw, writhe—but his weight pins you mercilessly.

“Fuck—get the hell off me!” you spit, claws tearing at the sheets.

But Sukuna only laughs. A low, rich sound that rumbles against your spine.

“Why?” he whispers, his breath ghosting hot along your ear. “Scared?”

You growl and slam your elbow back, desperate—

And then you feel it.

A sharp kiss at your throat—cold. Burning. Paralyzing.

Silver.

It must’ve been hidden beneath the bedding—because of course the bastard would sleep with a knife under his pillow.

Your breath catches as the blade’s tip glides across your skin in a slow, almost tender caress. Even that featherlight touch bites sharply against your hypersensitive nerves, lighting them up like fire.

Sukuna hums, clearly entertained. “Thought so.”

His grip in your hair tightens painfully, yanking your head back until your throat is exposed, vulnerable.

“You know what’s funny?” His voice is low, almost musing, edged with cruel amusement. “For all your mouth. All your fucking posturing—”

He presses the flat of the silver blade just beneath your jaw, and the threat of it steals the breath from your lungs.

“—you still end up right here.”

Your breath trembles, a furious mix of rage and something deeper, darker, coiling low in your stomach. Something instinctual and shamefully real.

The knife tilts ever so slightly—just enough for the point to kiss your skin, teasing the possibility of a cut.

You don’t dare move.

“That’s right,” he murmurs, satisfied. “Hold still.”

Your fingers twitch. You could fight—should fight. But the weight of him above you, the glint of silver at your throat... you’re pinned. And you both know it.

The edge of the blade shifts—and this time, it bites. A shallow line, but enough for crimson to bloom and trail slowly down your throat.

You grit your teeth, jaw locked tight, forcing yourself not to flinch.

But he feels it. The way your body tenses beneath him. And it thrills him.

“Not so tough now, are you?”

The blade drags lower, agonizingly slow, skimming the line of your throat, across your collarbone, down your sternum. It sings along your skin, a thread of fire in its wake.

“Nothing but a weak, pathetic, blood-drunk little leech.”

You snarl—but it sounds broken. Frayed and fragile.

Sukuna clicks his tongue, mockingly. “Still got fight in you?”

And then—without warning—he flips the blade, and drags the edge down your chest, slicing through both fabric and skin in one fluid stroke.

Down, down, down—until your shirt splits beneath the pressure. The cold rush of air hitting your exposed skin only amplifies the heat.

You suck in a breath, jaw clenched as the knife cuts a shallow path across your sternum, not deep, but just enough to sting.

“Fucking pervert,” you mutter hoarsely, your voice barely holding together.

He doesn’t reply.

He just keeps going—dragging the knife horizontally now, the blade peeling the torn fabric away from your chest, slow and deliberate. It climbs, tracing up the valley between your breasts like he’s unwrapping a present—leisurely, merciless, fascinated.

A searing line is traced up the swell of one of your tits, and you put all your focus into keeping your breath steady, because the slightest inhale only pushes the delicate mound of fat further against the burning blade.

You stiffen completely when the tattered top is pulled away completely, air brushing against your nipple.

Sukuna watches it harden further with fascination, a cruel smirk curling his lips. “Oh?”

Because he notices everything, to your humiliation. You shiver, despising how your body reacts despite everything.

Hate how much he enjoys it.

“You like this, don’t you?” His tone is taunting, disgusted, but there’s a cruel entertainment beneath it.

You can’t say anything, much more focused on the sharp silver that’s much too close to your areola for comfort. Then with the slightest shift of his wrist the blade moves, the tip of it scraping against the sensitive bud.

You inhale sharply, body reflexively jerking against him as the prickling lances through your chest.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” he chides, circling the blade delicately around your breast before continuing downwards.

“Go to hell,” you spit, voice thick with both vitriol and bitter lust.

The knife descends, running over the curve of your ribs, the delicate dip of your stomach, leaving a trail of burning goosebumps in its wake.

“I’d drag you down with me.”

Another shudder as the blade presses lower, a lump forming in your throat. Another jolt of pain and there’s a shallow cut right below your navel.

Blood wells, reminding you of his control.

His free hand slides up your thigh, just enough to make you hyper-aware of how helpless you are.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you whisper, trying not to audibly pant.

Sukuna just chuckles, running the flat of the blade over the cut, smearing your own blood across your skin.

He watches as you try to shrink away, eyes glinting, before his grip tightens, forcing your hips to still.

“Say it.” His voice is quieter now, something that frays your nerves further.

Your heart pounds. “Say what?”

The blade presses lower, and you feel cold fear beginning to surge through your veins.

“Say you need me.” His nose is in hollow beneath your jaw now, brushing against the skin, as the words crawl down your spine like icy.

“Say you want me.” The tip of the blade drags lower, slipping just beneath the hem of your waistband—dangerously close to something far more intimate.

“Or I’ll carve the truth out of you myself.”

And though you throb between your thighs, your mind is wracked with a new wave of anxiety.

Yet still your pride, your stubborn ego refuses to force the words out of your mouth, so you keep silent, choking on them.

Sukuna just sighs and pushes the metal into your panties.

All thoughts of defiance are exorcised from you as the silver brushes against the vulnerable, soft flesh of your folds, down till it nearly touches your clit.

You yelp at the pain. “S-Stop!”

Partially because it fucking stings, but partially because for a second that jolt of burning heat almost felt…good.

Curse your pathetic, needy cunt that can’t tell the difference between pain and pleasure.

And it only reminds you of the hollow, aching hunger that grows in you. Sukuna, watching you so closely, knows it too.

You break.

“…I need you,” you breathe.

The bastard presses the blade against your sex again and you wince, desperately trying to jerk your hips away. “Louder.”

So finally, you spit through clenched teeth, “I need you.”

The moment the words leave your lips — strained, humiliated, dragged from the deepest part of your throat — Sukuna stills.

Then he laughs, finally pulling the blade back out from your thighs, giving your body a second to relax. Still the sting of silver, the heat of your blood — it lingers.

And the worst part, is that you feel colder without it. You can’t ignore the arousal that’s pooled in your panties, so much so that it feels uncomfortable.

“That’s what I thought.” His voice drips with smug victory. “All that fight, all that snarling, all those ugly words — and look at you now.” The blade presses under your chin, forcing your head to tilt up and look directly into his face. “Whimpering out the truth like a good little leech.”

You want to say something , anything, but the opportunity is stolen from you when you feel his other hand, fingers dragging through the blood seeping from the wound below your navel. The pressure is deliberate, just enough to make it hurt, to remind you of what he’s done to you.

“You’re making such a mess,” he muses, voiced soaked in condescension. “Bleeding all over yourself. Over me.” His fingers travel lower, slow and purposeful as they slide into your panties, where the heat is unbearable. “Dumb little thing.”

He smears it on your clit, using the tacky liquid as lube to rub tight aggressive circles on the swollen nub.

You gasp, lips falling open as the relief lights you up from inside. His other hand keeps the blade pressed under your chin, forcing you to meet his eye so he can watch as you try to keep your own gaze focused.

“You’re lucky I’m merciful,” he purrs, before taking two fingers and abruptly pinching your abused clit to elicit a wince from you. “Go on, leech. Say thank you.”

“…Thank you,” you say quietly, nothing on your mind except his touch where you’ve been needing it most.

He smiles, and then without warning, the sensations stop as he pulls his fingers away.

His weight disappears, leaving an unbearable cold where his warmth once was, in more places than one.

“Now get the fuck off my bed.”

You watch him, blinking in confusion, brows furrowing as desperation clouds your judgement. “Wh-Why? You can’t—”

“Dirty leeches get to stay on the ground where they belong,” he says coldly, clearly trying to suppress a grin.

You stare at him, body thrumming with unfulfilled need, like a wound he only ripped open even wider. Your fingers dig into the sheet, pride once against warring against pulsing ache between your thighs, cool skin burning with need and making your head spin.

You feel like you have a fever.

God, what the hell did his blood do to you?

“…You’re fucking joking.” Your voice wavers, but it’s not weakness — it’s rage. Humiliation.

Sukuna only tilts his head, regarding you like a roach he’s already crushed beneath his heel but is still alive for some reason.

“You think I’d let you defile my bed? After you whined like a bitch in heat just for me to touch you?” he scoffs. “Have some dignity, leech.”

Your breath turns sharp. Hot. Your body betrays you, trembling ever so slightly. The shame burns worse than silver, spreading all over you.

“You’re fucking sick.”

“And you love it.”

You hate that he’s right.

You grit your teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response as you force yourself to move, dragging your shaky limbs off the bed, only to collapse onto the cold, hard floor.

You hear his quiet chuckle before he walks to the edge of the bed, sitting back down beside where you’re on the ground.

Then—

“But I’m not evil. It’s clear you can’t even think straight with the condition you’re in.” He leans down, cupping your chin to look into your glaring eyes, swimming with desire. “Though I can’t help you if you keep your pants on, can I?”

You frown a bit, not the slightest clue where this is going, but the gentleness in his touch and the promise of his words coaxes your heat-addled brain to tug at the waist of your pants, pulling them off to leave you in just your panties.

You look back up at him expectantly.

“Good girl,” he says almost affectionately, and you feel yourself wetten further in anticipation. “But, a leech like you doesn’t deserve my fingers, let alone my cock or tongue.”

Just like that your heart sinks in your chest, into the pit in your stomach as something wicked creeps across his features.

“You’re worth nothing more than my—” His bare foot shifts between your legs, tattooed ankle lifting up between your thighs, applying pressure there. “Feet.”

Your eyes widen, cheeks heating up till it almost hurts as you open your mouth to protest, save yourself the last bit of your dignity.

“N-No.” Your voice shakes just a little despite your efforts, mouth pulling into a pout as tears sting your lash line.

Sukuna hums, a condescending little sound that makes your skin crawl with equal parts shame and heat. His foot presses in just a little more, sending a pulse of sensation through your body that makes you shudder violently.

“No?” he mocks, tilting his head. “Oh, but look at you, leech. Dripping—” he shifts slightly, grinding against the soaked fabric of your underwear, and you choke on a breath, “—like the desperate little parasite you are.”

You look down, suddenly noting that he strangely…actually has nice feet. Long, prominent bones, veins running their length. They’re a lot like his hands.

And somehow the fact that you can actually see the appeal only sickens you more.

You shake your head, trying to summon what’s left of your pride, but the second you do, his foot pushes, forcing a gasp from your lips.

His grin sharpens. “You can’t even pretend to hate it.”

You squeeze your thighs together instinctively, but the movement only traps him there, pressing deeper against you. Your breath stutters, shame and pleasure warring violently inside you.

Then he laughs, shaking his head like he’s watching something pathetic try and fail to crawl away.

“Go on then,” he taunts. “Show me just how low you’ll go. If you want it so bad, you can grind against my foot like the filthy little leech you are.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. “I—I won’t—”

He lifts it away just slightly, just enough to take away the friction, the heat, the pleasure that had you teetering on the edge. The loss is unbearable, your body screaming in protest.

And he sees it. He knows.

His smirk is pure, unfiltered cruelty.

“Oh?” he coos, feigning innocence. “Then I guess you don’t need my help after all.”

He moves to pull away entirely—

And before you can stop yourself, your hips jerk forward, chasing the friction, the pleasure, the relief—

He catches it instantly.

He freezes, pressing back in an instant, and your stomach drops as you realize what you’ve done.

His smirk turns razor-sharp, eyes gleaming with victory.

“That’s what I thought.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, resting your forehead on his knee, chewing on your lip.

You want this. You know it, and he knows it.

So with a shaky breath you lift yourself to quickly slide off your panties, kicking them to the side. “You’re disgusting,” you mutter, a half-hearted attempt to somehow deflect the degrading nature of what you’re willingly choosing to do right now.

He hums, looking down at you over the bridge of his nose with that unbearable smirk as you straddle his foot again. “Hm. Do tell me more.”

You can’t stand looking at his face right now, so you turn your head, leaning your cheek against his sturdy leg instead as you push your hips down, pressing your soaking cunt onto his foot.

It feels horribly good, and slowly you begin to undulate your hips back and forth, seeking the friction of the ridged metatarsals and tendons on his foot catching against your clit.

Back and forth, back and forth.

Sukuna snickers, watching you with interest, at the soft gasps falling from your lips. “If only your ancestors could see you now. How far your bloodline has fallen.”

You scowl a bit, speeding up your movements so that the pleasure can drown out his words and the soft clicking noises of your pussy. “Just….s-stop talking. Please.”

“Why? It was a compliment.” Sukuna lifts his leg again, angling his foot a little to move it in time with your grinding, pulling a soft moan from you. “I, for one, think you look good like this. Like you’re finally where you belong, y’know?”

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to ignore him as you lean back on your hands, this new angle making it easier for you to rub your clit against him.

For a few seconds he doesn’t say anything either, even as your movements start growing more frantic. You open your eyes to look at him, just to find his eyes trained squarely on where your sticky cunt is sliding obscenely along his foot, his skin glistening with your arousal.

And it’s the fact that he looks painfully aroused himself, that he’s not quite as unaffected as he’s been pretending to be…

The sight makes you cum abruptly with a choked cry, hips thrusting faster and faster as your orgasm shoots up through your spine, the wet sounds growing noisier, as your pussy twitches and leaks an embarrassing amount of slick.

Your movements slow, as your orgasm finishes, leaving you to close your eyes again and catch your breath. Sukuna removes his foot, looking looking down at you and the juices that coat it.

“Eugh. God look what a mess you made.” Then he smirks deviously, gaze shifting to your mortified form, still reeling from your orgasm as you sit back. “I should make you clean your filth with your tongue.”

Your eyes widen to shoot him a look, already shaking your head when he laughs.

“Don’t worry. You should be grateful I’m not that sick.”

You don’t reply, just looking at him quietly, growing more and more aware by the second that your clitoral orgasm provided temporary reprieve just to heighten that horrible ache inside of you. Yet before you can even open your mouth to voice your concerns, he’s standing up.

“Where…are you going? That’s it??”

Sukuna stops in the doorway, shoulders loose, head tilted, and for a second—just a second—you think he might change his mind. Might turn around and give you something.

But then he snorts, sharp and derisive, slicing straight through your chest.

“Jesus,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Listen to yourself.”

He glances over his shoulder, and the look in his eyes is nasty—not the usual smug amusement, not even condescension. Just pure, unfiltered disgust.

“You’re still fucking dripping, aren’t you?” His lips curl in a sneer. “I already fed you, you don’t expect me to fuck you too, do you?” He laughs, slow and cruel. “God, you really have no fucking shame.”

Your face burns, humiliation crashing into you, but you refuse to let it show. You square your shoulders, jaw tightening. “You’re the one who—”

“You what? Made you?” His grin widens, something wicked in it. “Oh, come on, leech. Don’t be fucking pathetic. You were already soaking before I even touched you. You should be grateful I even let you rub yourself off on me like a stupid little parasite.”

He laughs again, shaking his head. His tone turns mocking, singsong. “Poor thing, all hot and needy, and still so fucking empty.”

Your nails dig into your palms. You hate him. You hate how much you want to hurt him. How much you want him to hurt you.

But most of all, you hate how easily he thinks he can win.

So you lift your head, tongue curling around something venomous. “Guess that makes two of us, huh?” you sneer.

Sukuna’s expression flickers—just a flicker—but you catch it. And it feeds you.

You hum, tilting your head, letting your gaze drop deliberately down his body before dragging it back up, slow, like you’re assessing him. “Or what, was that little act supposed to convince me you don’t want it just as bad?” You scoff, eyes glinting with something sharp and mean. “Please. You’re the one who gets hard over starving me out.”

His jaw tightens. Just a twitch. A flex of muscle. But you know him well enough to see it for what it is—annoyance.

Good.

“You act like you’re above it,” you murmur, voice like silk laced with barbed wire. “Like you don’t need it.” You shift, slowly stretching out your legs, like you aren’t still burning between them. “But I felt you, Sukuna.” Your voice dips, taunting. “I smelled you.”

His fingers twitch at his sides. You watch it, the way they flex—like he’s already imagining wrapping them around your throat.

But you’re not done.

“You like this just as much as I do.” Your smile sharpens. “No—probably more.”

A slow blink, a long inhale and then Sukuna’s lips curl again, his expression smoothing into something infuriatingly condescending.

“That’s cute,” he drawls. “Really. But let’s get one thing fucking straight—”

He moves before you can react, crouching down in front of you, one strong hand gripping your jaw. Hard. Forcing you to look at him.

“I could ruin you.” His voice is low, deadly. “Make you beg until your fucking throat is raw. And I still wouldn’t let you have it.”

His thumb brushes your bottom lip, a mockery of something tender.

“Because you don’t deserve it.”

Then, just as quickly, he shoves your face to the side.

“Oh, and—” He swipes his fingers through the mess between your thighs, then flicks it at you with a lazy smirk. “Clean yourself up,” he mutters, before sticking his fingers into his mouth and licking them clean of your arousal.

You don’t flinch, don’t let him see the way your breath shudders.

You just lift your chin, eyes locked onto his, and smile sweetly.

“Don’t forget to clean yourself up too,” you purr. “Can’t have you walking around smelling like me.”

He snarls—a real, actual snarl—but you only grin wider.

And then, with a final glare, he turns, disappearing into the bathroom.

Leaving you alone and aching.

^divider by kazicide

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de4dlyniightshade · 1 year ago

Note

munch! spencer, reader with migraine, spencer reads something about how orgasms can help with pain

꩜ warning!: this post is +18!!! mdni!

꩜ word count: 1.6k (got a little carried away;-;)

꩜ A/N: honestly i don't rlly like this but hopefully it's good enough :,)

You let out a quiet groan in pain as you squinted your eyes at the tv, trying to watch your favourite show but the light from the screen only made your throbbing headache worse, to the point it was almost unbearable.

"Another migraine?" Spencer asked quietly from the other end of the sofa as he looked up from his book, keeping his voice low so as to not make it any worse. You just nodded, holding your head in your hand and letting your eyes close, feeling slight relief from the light no longer beaming into your eyes.

You didn't get migraines all that often but when you did they could be pretty bad and Spencer hated seeing you in pain and hated the fact that there was nothing he could do to fix it even more, or so he thought. He'd spent hours researching ways to alleviate your pain after your last migraine, which got so bad that it practically debilitated you and you couldn't do anything but sit in a darkened room for hours until it passed.

After reading countless articles and blogs a unanimous opinion was that an orgasm relieves a large amount of the pain, one woman going as far to say that hers was completely gone afterwards. Honestly the remedy was a complete win-win, he'd be able to help you and make you feel better and he'd also get to do his absolute favourite thing at the same time, which just so happened to be eating you out.

"Do you want me to help?" Spencer suggested, laying his book down on your coffee table and turning to face you, a slightly excited feeling bubbling in his chest.

"Remember nothing worked last time, Spence" you murmured, sighing at the realisation that you'd probably end up back in your bedroom, cocooned under blankets for your unforeseeable future. You felt Spencer shift closer to you and you could practically feel the excitement radiating from him, knowing that meant he'd found some scientific way to help you and wanted to try it.

"I researched a lot about migraines and how to help you since the last one and the method that came up almost every time was that a sexual release would alleviate a large amount of the pain and i was thinking maybe..." he didn't even have to finish his sentence for you to know what he was thinking, as soon as he uttered the word "sexual" you knew what he had in mind.

"You seriously think it'll work?" Your tone was hopeful and you were prepared to try anything at this point, feeling your pain slowly worsen the more time went on. you'd tried almost every other remedy you'd been suggested by friends and nothing had worked even a little and painkillers did nothing for you no matter how many you took.

"It's worth a try," Spencer smiled, resting his hand on your lower back. you knew he wasn't just doing this for himself, it was just convenient that he loved nothing more than to be buried between your legs.

"Alright, but if this doesn't work I'm not gonna be happy" you were only half serious, you were happy to let Spencer run his little experiment, considering that if it did work, you'd both not have a migraine anymore and would have had an incredible orgasm, so either way, you got something out of the experience.

You watched as Spencer moved to turn off the TV, leaving just a lamp on so that it was light enough that he could still see but dark enough that it wouldn't hurt your head so much.

You quickly hooked your fingers into the waistband of your underwear and pants, lifting your hips to tug them down over your ass and slide them down your legs, kicking them to the side to deal with later as Spencer moved to eagerly kneel in front of you, placing his hands behind your knees and leaning down to press a chaste kiss just above your left knee.

You smiled as you slowly spread your legs apart, watching Spencer's eyes glint with anticipation. You already knew the drill—moving to place your legs over his shoulders the way he liked it and shifting forward on the sofa to give him better access.

Spencer didn't waste any time with teasing, reminding himself that this wasn't for him, no matter how much he enjoyed it; this was an attempt to alleviate your pain.

You let out a sigh as you felt his warm tongue lick a bold stripe up your folds before he circled your clit, moaning quietly at your taste that he'd grown to love so much.

You tangled your fingers in his hair as he buried his face deeper into you, urging your thighs apart to lap at your pussy, your quiet whines and moans egging him on as he took your clit into his mouth, sucking and licking at your sensitive nub, the stimulation making you twitch and grip his hair tighter, rolling your hips into his face as you let your head fall back against the couch.

Spencer wrapped his hands around your thighs as he nuzzled his face into you, making sure to get as close as possible to you so that he could dip his tongue into your entrance. The feeling of his warm, wet tongue pushing into you causing you to arch your back, a loud gasp falling from your lips, your migraine long forgotten.

"F-fuck spence," you whined as you tugged on his hair desperately, letting yourself grind into his mouth. Spencer continued his ministrations on your sensitive cunt, drinking in everything you had to give him with pleasure as he whined into your wantonly.

You felt Spencer push one of your legs to the side, and instantly you got the message, lifting your leg to sling it over the arm of the couch to give him access. You couldn't help but gasp when you felt his middle and index fingers prod at your entrance, teasing your hole briefly before he began slowly sliding them in. The copious amount of saliva and your arousal making it easy.

"Oh, f-fuck!" you moaned out as you felt his fingertips curl right into your g-spot, the mixture of his mouth on your clit and his fingers pressing right into that spot that made your toes curl, making your mind go completely blank as you whimpered and moaned, his name falling from your lips in breathy gasps.

Spencer began massaging his fingers into your g-spot, drawing needy moans from your lips as he brought you closer to your release, revelling in the way you moaned his name and the way that your walls clenched around his fingers.

You got completely lost in the pleasure as you rutted your hips into his face, gripping his hair harshly and pushing his face into you. You felt the familiar knot in your stomach tighten as you squirmed and shuddered, the feeling of Spencer's fingers nonstop stimulating your sensitive spot making you a needy mess.

"C-close! 'm close, Spence." Your voice was high-pitched and whiny as you warned him, Spencer only pushing his fingers harder into you, the action pulling a loud moan from your throat as your body began to shake and tremble.

You couldn't help but sling your leg back over Spencer's shoulder, letting your thighs clench around his head as you felt your orgasm approaching. Spencer's tongue never letting up his brutal sucking and licking on your clit, sending shockwaves through your body.

Spencer began moaning and whining into you, the sounds sending vibrations through your sensitive cunt and making you cry out in pleasure as your breath came out in gasps and huffs, your whole body tending as you felt your release dangerously close.

"G-god spence, I'm gonna c-cum!" You practically wailed with no regard for how loud you were being, letting out a constant slew of desperate noises when Spencer massaged your soft spot more precisely, coaxing you to your release as he sucked harshly on your clit.

Spencer let out an especially loud moan as you tugged on his hair, the intense vibrations sending you over the edge as your mouth dropped open in a silent scream, your whole body shaking and writhing as your release gushed around Spencer's fingers that continued to curl into you, coaxing you through your orgasm while he gently licked at your clit.

You were breathing heavily and still shaking slightly when Spencer slowly pulled his fingers from your sopping cunt, wincing slightly as his skin dragged against your sensitive walls. You watched as he buried his fingers in his mouth, cleaning off your release like he always did, sighing at the taste before he pulled them out and leaned back in, dipping his tongue into your slit to lap up everything he could, not daring to waste any of it.

Spencer leaned his cheek on your knee when he was satisfied, looking up at you through his lashes as you lay completely fucked out with your eyes closed, a beautifully content expression on your face.

"How do you feel?" he asked quietly, watching as you cracked your eyes open and furrowed your brows, scanning around the room and sitting up slightly, a smile spreading across your lips as you looked back down at him.

"I feel...great?!" You laughed slightly, completely fascinated by the effectiveness but also relieved that you'd found something that worked, both for you and for him. Spencer couldn't hide the wide smile that adorned his lips. He was overjoyed that his method worked as he pressed gentle kisses up your leg before he situated himself beside you, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck and sighing.

"i'm glad"

(dookie ass ending again ik</3 i need to work on that :,)

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lynbels · 11 days ago

Note

hiyaaa can i order a prompt 4 with jaehyun of bnd sort of more like how he has cuteness aggression with the other members and maybe also mixed with a number 10 please?? ik this is kind of a mdni blog but can i js take my cute stuff and then i swear ill leave😢🙏

a little bit of love, a little bit of chaos - mjy (m)

#10 Laughing until you’re both crying and out of breath + kissing your forehead + #04 mumbling “You’re my favorite person.” · prompt request list

🎀 genre fluff, humor, friends-to-lovers, slice of life - ‼️ tw chaotic friends, lots of teasing, extreme fluff, forehead kisses, confession, light cursing - ✉️ 1829wc

💌NOO idk why I’m starting to write so much smut but I swear I love writing my cutesy fluff and I totally see myungjae doing this like the way he adores his members is just so UGHH

It all started because of Woonhak.

You’d been friends with him for a while now — the loudest, most chaotic part of your life, the boy who texted you seventeen times a day and dragged you into his endless schemes without even asking. So when he told you he wanted to introduce you to his friends, you didn’t think much of it.

“They’re not normal,” Woonhak warned, grinning like he was proud of it. “You’ll see.”

You didn’t really get it — not until you were standing awkwardly in Leehan’s living room, clutching a soda and feeling about as out of place as a cactus at a water park.

That’s when you met Jaehyun.

He was… sunshine. That was the only way you could describe it. Black hair flopping into his eyes, bright grin that crinkled the corners of his face, voice a little raspy from laughing too much. He bounded over like he’d known you for years, practically tackling Woonhak into a hug mid-sentence before turning to you with a wide, sparkly smile.

“Hi!! You must be Woonhak’s normal friend,” he teased, throwing a pointed look at Woonhak, who immediately tried to punch him in the arm.

Somehow, you found yourself laughing — real, belly-deep laughing — within minutes. Jaehyun had that effect on people. He didn’t just smile; he beamed. He didn’t just laugh; he giggled and clapped and doubled over like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. He had no chill, no filter, and apparently no concept of personal space because five minutes later he was slinging his arm around your shoulders like you’d always been part of their group.

“Isn’t she cute?” Jaehyun declared, squeezing you closer while Woonhak made gagging noises in the background.

“Stop,” you laughed, shoving at him — but he just grinned wider.

Over the next few weeks, it became a regular thing: movie nights at Leehan’s place, late-night convenience store runs with Woonhak and Riwoo, getting dragged into Taesan’s weird pranks (and somehow always losing). Jaehyun was always there, a golden retriever in human form — ruffling your hair, teasing you for everything, poking your cheeks and calling you “squishy” until you smacked his hands away.

He had insane cuteness aggression, especially with the boys. He was constantly hugging Leehan out of nowhere, squishing Riwoo’s cheeks until he whined, flopping across Woonhak’s lap dramatically just because he could. He even tried to kiss Taesan’s cheek once, but Taesan saw it coming and dodged so hard Jaehyun nearly fell over the couch.

“One day,” Jaehyun vowed, shaking his fist. “I will kiss you, Taesan, you can’t run forever!”

“You’re insane,” Taesan deadpanned, but even he was hiding a smile.

It didn’t take long for your friendship with Jaehyun to shift into something… different.

It was little things at first: the way he started lingering a little longer when he hugged you, the way he found reasons to text you late at night (“i saw a duck and thought of u,” “do u think ghosts get scared too”), the way he looked at you when you laughed like he couldn’t believe you were real.

You tried not to overthink it. He was Jaehyun — sweet, touchy, impossible Jaehyun. He was like this with everyone… right?

But then there was the night you stayed over after movie night, curled up in a blanket on the floor because Woonhak had stolen the couch and the others were already snoring around the room.

You were trying not to shiver when a blanket landed on top of you — and Jaehyun sat down right next to you, tucking the edges in carefully like you were something precious.

“I really like you, y/n,” he mumbled suddenly, almost too soft for you to hear.

You turned to look at him — and he kissed your forehead, quick and clumsy, like he couldn’t stop himself.

Your heart absolutely exploded.

The next morning, Woonhak caught you two sneaking glances at each other across the kitchen and immediately groaned, burying his face in his hands.

“This is so gross,” he whined. “I regret everything. I should’ve left you guys strangers.”

“You love us,” Jaehyun teased, tossing a piece of cereal at him.

“I want a refund on life,” Woonhak declared dramatically, dodging it.

Jaehyun just laughed — bright and beautiful — and reached over to squish your cheeks.

“You’re stuck with me now,” he said, and his smile was so warm you almost forgot to breathe.

It got worse after that.

Jaehyun didn’t even try to hide it anymore. If you so much as yawned, he was draping his jacket over your shoulders like a doting grandparent. If you said you were cold, he tugged you into his side without hesitation. He kept sneaking kisses too — on your forehead, your temple, sometimes even your hand like you were royalty — and every single time, you went stiff as a board because everyone was watching.

Especially Woonhak, who looked one second away from throwing himself into the nearest trashcan out of secondhand embarrassment.

“You guys make me sick,” he grumbled one day, watching Jaehyun fix the hood of your jacket for the third time in five minutes. “Like actual stomach pain.”

“You’re just jealous,” Jaehyun chirped, poking Woonhak’s side.

Meanwhile, Riwoo was busy dramatically pretending to puke into a bag, Leehan was shaking his head fondly like an exhausted single parent, Sungho looked vaguely amused (but very much like he was taking mental notes for future teasing), and Taesan just gave Jaehyun a long, unimpressed stare.

“You’re whipped,” Taesan declared, sipping his drink. “Pathetic.”

Jaehyun only grinned, completely unaffected. “Thanks, I know.”

And then — because apparently he didn’t know the meaning of shame — Jaehyun stood up, clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention like a camp counselor about to announce a trust fall, and blurted:

“I’m asking her out.”

Silence.

You blinked up at him, wide-eyed. “Wait, right now?”

“Yeah,” Jaehyun said brightly, like this was the most obvious thing in the world. “Will you be my girlfriend?”

Cue absolute chaos.

Riwoo immediately dropped his phone and screamed.

Woonhak threw himself backward onto the couch like he’d been mortally wounded.

Sungho started laughing so hard he almost fell over.

Leehan looked like he wanted to say something but was too busy trying to keep Riwoo from actually collapsing.

Taesan just stood there shaking his head like he couldn’t believe he was associated with any of you.

“THIS IS HAPPENING??” Woonhak shouted from where he was lying dramatically across the couch cushions. “IN FRONT OF ME?? IN MY OWN HOUSE??”

Jaehyun ignored all of them, smiling only at you — bright and sure and a little bit nervous around the edges.

You could barely hear yourself over the chaos, but you said yes anyway — and Jaehyun beamed, grabbing your hands and spinning you around like an overexcited golden retriever.

“Disgusting,” Woonhak muttered loudly, covering his face.

“I’m getting married first,” Jaehyun sing-songed back, hugging you close.

“You’re barely adults!” Taesan called after him, but he didn’t sound all that convincing.

At that moment — messy and loud and full of too much love — you realized you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Woonhak absolutely lost his mind the first time he caught you and Jaehyun kissing.

It wasn’t even that dramatic — just a quick, sweet kiss when you thought no one was looking. You were standing by the kitchen counter, Jaehyun tugging gently at your sleeves like he couldn’t not touch you, and you leaned up to peck him on the lips.

But of course.

Of course Woonhak walked in at that exact moment, holding a bowl of popcorn, and immediately let out a sound so shrill and horrified it made everyone else jump.

“OH MY GOD!” he shrieked, dropping the bowl.

Popcorn exploded everywhere — bouncing off the floor, the counters, even hitting Riwoo in the head as he came running to see what was wrong.

“WHAT WHAT WHAT,” Riwoo shouted, skidding to a stop.

“They’re—” Woonhak pointed accusingly, like he’d just witnessed a crime. “They’re making out in the kitchen!”

“We kissed once!” you protested, laughing helplessly as Jaehyun tried (and failed) to look innocent.

“This is betrayal,” Woonhak moaned dramatically, sinking to his knees in the popcorn. “I introduce you to my friend and now you’re— you’re kissing in my kitchen! Under my roof!”

Jaehyun just pulled you closer, grinning ear-to-ear. “You’ll survive.”

“No, I won’t,” Woonhak said, voice cracking. “I’m gonna wither away.”

Meanwhile, Sungho was laughing so hard he had to hold onto Leehan for support, Taesan was filming the whole thing on his phone with zero shame, and Riwoo just started eating the popcorn off the floor like it was no big deal.

In the middle of it all, Jaehyun bent down, brushed a kiss to your cheek, and murmured — so only you could hear:

“I’m never letting you go.”

And even though Woonhak was still whining dramatically in the background, and Riwoo was throwing popcorn at Taesan, and Sungho and Leehan were trying (and failing) to restore order — you swore you’d never felt happier.

Messy, noisy, chaotic.

But full of love.

Exactly where you were meant to be.

Eventually, after what felt like forever — after Woonhak finished dramatically mourning his “lost innocence,” after Taesan finally stopped filming, after Sungho managed to bribe Riwoo away with promises of bubble tea — the others filtered out, leaving you and Jaehyun blessedly alone in the kitchen.

For a second, it was silent.

You looked at him, he looked at you — and then you both broke into laughter again, breathless and giddy, leaning into each other like you couldn’t help it.

“God, they’re so dramatic,” you wheezed, wiping at your eyes.

Jaehyun grinned, nose scrunching in that way that made your heart do stupid little flips. “You’d think we committed a felony.”

You leaned your head against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. “Maybe we did. Betrayed Woonhak’s trust or something.”

“He’ll live,” Jaehyun said, wrapping his arms around you, squeezing just a little tighter than necessary. His chin bumped the top of your head as he murmured, softer now, “You’re mine now, right?”

Your breath caught a little — because even though he was teasing, there was something real and serious underneath his voice.

You tilted your head up to meet his eyes. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m yours.”

The way Jaehyun beamed — like you just told him he won the lottery — made your chest ache in the best way.

He leaned down, kissed your forehead, then your nose, then finally your lips — slow and sweet and so full of feeling it made your toes curl.

“You’re my favorite person,” he mumbled between kisses, voice getting a little rougher, a little more shy.

You smiled against his mouth. “You’re mine too.”

For a long moment, the world faded out. No loud friends. No flying popcorn. No chaotic screaming. Just Jaehyun, holding you like he never wanted to let go.

And for the first time in a long time, everything felt exactly right.

prompt request list also eeee first bnd req and Drabble!

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missmadella · 16 days ago

Text

To loud for Love (Bokuto x Reader)

Summary: You loved Bokuto quietly, from high school to pro league— through heartbreak, through his toxic relationship, through everything. He never noticed. Until one stormy night cracked everything open.

You were always the one who supported him the most.

Words: 8493

You hadn’t meant to stay late that day.

The rain had come out of nowhere — a sudden spring storm that turned the sky dark and made the hallways buzz with static and thunder. Your club meeting had been cancelled last minute, and by the time you realized the buses were already gone, you were soaked from running across the courtyard.

You ducked into the gym for shelter, the one place that still had lights on.

And there he was.

Bokuto Koutarou. The third-year ace. Golden boy of the volleyball team. Loud, reckless, brilliant.

He didn’t notice you at first — no one did. You sat on the bleachers, dripping and trying not to shiver, while the team ran drills. His laugh echoed across the court like sunlight — bright, warm, impossible to ignore.

“ONE MORE! I’m feelin�� it today, Akaashi!”

You saw the setter — calm, cool Akaashi — nod once, his movements sharp and practiced. Another spike. Another perfect hit. Bokuto beamed.

You didn’t realize you were smiling until he caught your eye.

He turned mid-stride, eyes lighting up like someone had just handed him a puppy and a cupcake all at once.

“Hey! You! Are you okay?”

You blinked. “Me?”

“Yeah, you!” He jogged over, towel around his neck, hair a mess, sweat clinging to his jaw. “You look like a drowned cat!”

You let out an embarrassed laugh, brushing your wet hair behind your ear. “Yeah, uh. Got caught in the rain. Just waiting for it to pass.”

“You should’ve come in sooner! We don’t bite.” He grinned. “Well, I don’t. I can’t speak for Konoha.”

“Hey!” someone yelled from the court.

“See?” Bokuto winked. “You hungry? We’ve got snacks.”

You tried to protest, but he was already grabbing his bag and pulling out a crushed convenience store pastry — a chocolate-filled bun, half-smashed but still in its wrapper.

“Here. Emergency sugar. You need it.”

You stared at it, then at him. “You’re just… giving me your snack?”

“Course I am!” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Can’t have anyone passing out in my gym.”

Your gym.

He sat beside you, not caring that you were soaked or that his hair was still damp with sweat. He just was — fully, comfortably, unapologetically there.

You nibbled on the pastry while he talked. About volleyball. About class. About how the school vending machines never stocked his favorite juice. You barely said a word, just nodded and listened.

You thought: How can anyone be this full of life and not burn out?

And then:

How could anyone ever tell him to be less?

___________________________________________________________________________

You walked home together that day. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and he insisted on walking you to your street, even though it was out of his way.

He asked if you liked owls. You said yes — mostly because you knew he did.

“I think I like you,” he said suddenly, then laughed when your eyes went wide. “I mean — not like that! I mean, you’re cool. You listen really well. And you laughed at my ‘cat’ joke.”

You laughed too, trying to hide the twist in your chest.

“Yeah. You’re… pretty easy to like, Bokuto.”

“Really?” he asked, hopeful, eyes wide.

You nodded.

“Cool! You should come watch a real match sometime. When I’m really on fire.”

He threw his arms up dramatically, mimicking a jump serve in the middle of the sidewalk. You smiled through the quiet ache in your chest.

That was the moment.

The exact second your heart decided.

And you knew — whether he ever looked at you like that or not — some part of you would always belong to Bokuto Koutarou.

___________________________________________________________________________

“Catch!”

You barely had time to register the voice before something soft smacked into your chest.

You looked down — a melonpan bun, still in its wrapper.

“Breakfast!” Bokuto called from across the courtyard, grinning like he just solved world hunger. “You skipped it again, didn’t you?”

You laughed. “How do you know that?”

“You always get this pouty look in class when you’re hungry. Super tragic.” He puffed out his cheeks dramatically. “Like this.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was already doing that thing — that fluttery, warm squeeze that had become way too familiar lately.

You watched as he bounded over, hair catching the morning sun, eyes crinkling from how hard he smiled.

And just like that, it hit you.

Oh.

I’m in love with him.

The thought stopped you cold.

Not a crush. Not some passing thing.

You were in real, awful, aching love with Bokuto Koutarou.

And he had no idea.

___________________________________________________________________________

You didn’t realize Akaashi was nearby until you felt his presence beside you, quiet and unbothered as always. He stood under the shade of the sakura trees, hands in his pockets, watching Bokuto enthusiastically try to convince a squirrel to come closer.

“You’ve got that look again,” Akaashi said softly.

You blinked. “What look?”

“The kind people get when they’re trying not to fall apart.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

Akaashi didn’t press. He just stood there, calm as ever, letting the silence settle between you like snow.

You stared at your shoes.

“Is it that obvious?” you asked finally.

“To most people? Probably not. To me? Yeah.”

You let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

“It usually doesn’t work that way.”

Bokuto called your name again — waving now, a leaf stuck in his hair from chasing the squirrel. You waved back without thinking, smile automatic, heart aching.

“He’s not trying to hurt you,” Akaashi said gently. “You know that, right?”

You nodded. “He’s just… being him.”

“And you love him for it.”

The words sank into your bones, even though they were already carved there.

“I do,” you whispered.

Akaashi didn’t say anything for a while. Then, softly:

“You’re not alone, you know. Even if he never sees it… I do.”

You turned your head to look at him, surprised.

“You’re stronger than you think,” he said, giving you the smallest, most sincere smile. “And for what it’s worth… you’re not too much, either.”

You didn’t know you needed to hear that until he said it.

Bokuto came jogging back toward you, grinning wide, holding up his phone.

“I got a picture of the squirrel!!” he said triumphantly.

You smiled through the ache.

“Of course you did.”

And that was how it was — back then. You, falling in love quietly. Bokuto, shining like the sun. Akaashi, watching the whole thing like a steady moon, always there to catch the shadows you tried to hide.

___________________________________________________________________________

What you did not expect was how much hurt you would get.

It was a barbecue.

The kind of casual, end-of-summer thing where old teammates and mutual friends sprawled across picnic benches and plastic chairs, everyone drinking too much soda and pretending they weren’t all dreading the next chapter.

You hadn’t seen Bokuto in a few weeks — training camp, he said — and you tried not to count the days. But when you spotted his head above the crowd, hair a little longer, eyes as bright as ever, your heart gave the same stupid lurch it always did.

He saw you and lit up.

“Y/N!!”

His hug was full-body, chaotic, perfect. You clung to it for half a second too long, not ready to let go.

And then he pulled back, grinning.

“I want you to meet someone!”

You knew before he said it. You just knew.

“This is Emi! My girlfriend.”

Your stomach twisted, but your face held the smile you’d been practicing your whole life.

She stepped forward — tall, elegant, the kind of girl who looked like she belonged in every room she entered. Her smile was dazzling.

“Y/N, right? Koutarou talks about you all the time. It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

Her voice was warm. Genuinely so. She didn’t hesitate to hug you — not the fake, half-hearted kind either. She smelled like vanilla and something expensive.

“He told me you used to bring him snacks during practice,” she said, laughing. “That’s so cute. He never shuts up about how much he misses that.”

Your throat closed.

“Yeah,” you said. “He likes the melonpan with the chocolate chips.”

“Ugh, I tried one — way too sweet for me,” she said, scrunching her nose, but still smiling. “But I guess that’s Koutarou, right? Always going over the top.”

Bokuto laughed. “Hey! Over the top is my thing!”

You laughed too, even though something inside you curled up like paper under a flame.

She was sweet. Funny. Perfectly polite.

But something in her eyes — something sharp, a flicker of calculation behind the warmth — made your skin crawl. Like she was seeing through you and cataloguing your place.

Still, she held your hand for a beat too long and said,

“I hope we get to hang out more. You’re important to him.”

And that was it, wasn’t it?

Not “I can’t wait to know you.”

Not “I’m happy to be friends.”

Just a quiet warning wrapped in sugar.

You smiled.

You didn’t say anything.

Because Bokuto was happy. Or at least, he looked it. And what right did you have to ruin that?

You spent the rest of the evening sitting between conversations, laughing at jokes that didn’t reach your eyes, watching the way she looped her arm around his and whispered things in his ear.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That as long as you got to stay in his life, that was enough.

But that night, lying in bed, you replayed her voice again and again.

“You’re important to him.”

And for the first time, you wondered how much longer that would be true.

You thought you could handle it.

You told yourself — over and over again — that it was enough just to be in his life. To hear your name in his laugh, to have him fling an arm around your shoulders like nothing had changed. To have him still text you when something reminded him of you. To have him still care.

But the truth was quieter. Meaner.

Because he wasn’t texting you as much.

Because when he did talk, he talked about her.

Because when he laughed, it wasn’t always with you anymore.

You weren’t losing him, not really.

You were just… being replaced.

And smiling through it.

It wasn’t that Emi was unkind.

She wasn’t.

She remembered your name, asked about your classes, even complimented your shoes once. Every word was soft and golden, like honey dripping from a spoon. Sweet enough to stick.

But it always felt like you were standing just outside the circle. Not exiled — not fully — but not quite in it either.

She was good at that.

And Bokuto? He didn’t notice. Or maybe he didn’t want to.

He still hugged you tight and ruffled your hair and called you “my favorite melonpan buddy.” But then she’d call his name, and he’d look back — and that look in his eyes, the one that used to land on you like sunlight, would drift away.

And you’d pretend not to notice.

One night, after a group dinner, you stayed back to help clean up. Akaashi was there too — stacking plates in his calm, quiet way, watching you from the corner of his eye.

You didn’t say anything at first.

But he did.

“You’re allowed to be hurt, you know.”

Your fingers froze around a glass. “What?”

“You don’t have to act like it doesn’t bother you.”

You swallowed. Your throat burned.

“He’s happy,” you said, voice thin. “That should be enough.”

“Is he?”

That stopped you.

You turned to look at him. Akaashi’s gaze wasn’t judging. Just… knowing.

“She’s nice,” you said weakly.

“She’s polite,” he corrected. “That’s not the same thing.”

The silence sat heavy between you.

“She makes him feel like he has to be less,” you whispered. “And I… I can’t tell him that. What if he thinks I’m jealous? What if I lose him completely?”

Akaashi dried his hands on a towel. Stepped closer.

“You’re already losing pieces of him,” he said gently. “By pretending none of this hurts.”

You stared down at your feet.

“I don’t know how to stop.”

“Then let it hurt,” he said. “At least it’s real.”

That night, you lay in bed staring at your phone.

No new messages.

Just a saved one from weeks ago.

Bokuto: You’re one of my favorite people in the world, you know that?

You closed your eyes.

And let it hurt.

__________________________________________________________________________

Things only got worse from there. The way he started looking at her and not at you, how your heart ached more with each passing day — that hurt the most. But the worst part was the slowly growing, passive-aggressive comments she directed at you. They dripped from her voice, masked in sweetness, but you could hear the underlying bite. It didn’t just make you sad; it made you angry. And, little by little, you began to resent her in a way you never wanted to feel.

But the hardest part of all was how she made Bokuto feel like he was too much. That was the real knife in your chest. The fact that she was changing him in ways you couldn’t undo — that upset you the most.

And then it began

It started small.

A sigh from her when he interrupted her story — not playful, not teasing. Sharp.

A twitch of her jaw when he laughed too loud in a quiet room.

A glance across a crowded gathering that made him shrink a little, shoulders curling inward, voice dipping softer.

He never said anything.

But you noticed.

You always noticed.

You watched it happen in pieces.

At first, you told yourself maybe they were just different. Maybe opposites attract. Maybe she didn’t mean it like that.

But over time, Bokuto changed.

Little things.

He stopped blurting out jokes mid-conversation. Stopped sending long, excited texts about random things like a new owl video or a cool new energy drink flavor. Started asking “Was that annoying?” after telling stories.

That one hurt most.

He never used to ask that.

And you’d smile — reassure him — tell him, “Never. You're the best part of every story.”

But the worry would still linger in his eyes, like he was trying to hold himself back from being too much.

Like someone had made him believe that he was.

You didn’t see the worst of it until one night after a match — he didn’t play well, off his game, shoulders slumped.

She barely looked up from her phone when he walked over.

“Hey,” he said, voice small. “Did you see the—?”

“Yeah. You were kind of all over the place today.”

“Right.” He tried to laugh it off. “I guess I was kinda... too fired up?”

“You always are,” she said flatly. “It gets old, Koutarou.”

He laughed again — but quieter. That kind of laugh people do when they’re pretending it didn’t sting.

You felt it in your bones.

You met his eyes across the room. And even though he smiled at you, it didn’t reach all the way.

And then one day, he stopped smiling at all.

At least, not the same way.

And you couldn’t help but wonder — how much of himself had he given up, just to be loved by someone who only wanted a quieter version of him?

___________________________________________________________________________

The café was warm, cozy — quiet jazz playing, low lighting, soft clatter of cups.

But the silence between them was sharp.

You sat two tables away. Not eavesdropping — not really. But close enough to hear the edges of their conversation.

Bokuto’s back was to you. Her face wasn’t.

She looked bored.

His hands moved as he spoke, excited about something — maybe a new campaign, a match, or a show he’d started watching.

You watched him gesture, eyes lit up, trying to pull her into it.

And then she said it.

Flat. Careless.

“God, Koutarou. Do you ever stop talking?”

He froze.

It was just a second. A beat.

But it was loud.

You saw his hand falter mid-air. Saw the way his eyes dropped to the table. Saw him shrink.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I just thought it was cool.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s exhausting sometimes. You’re always on. Like… not everything needs to be a performance.”

And that was it.

That was the moment.

You watched the light drain from his face — like someone had turned down the dimmer on the sun.

You stood up before you knew what you were doing.

You couldn’t stay in your seat.

You couldn’t pretend everything was fine. Not when his whole world had just cracked, and you were sitting idly by, watching it happen.

You stood, your chair scraping against the floor, heart pounding against your ribs. You walked over to their table, not really knowing what you were going to say, just knowing you had to say something.

Bokuto hadn’t noticed you yet — his eyes were still lowered, his shoulders hunched as though trying to make himself smaller, quieter. You knew he didn’t deserve to feel like that.

Emi, on the other hand, noticed immediately. Her gaze flickered over to you, and for a second, there was something cold in her eyes. But she quickly masked it with a tight smile.

“Hey, Y/N,” she said sweetly, as if nothing had happened. “Did you need something?”

You looked down at Bokuto, who hadn’t looked up at you yet, his hands fidgeting with his drink, tapping nervously on the rim.

Your throat burned.

You could see it now. You could see how uncomfortable he was around her. How she was making him smaller, quieter, less him. And you were done pretending you didn’t see it.

You cleared your throat. “I think... I think Koutarou deserves better than that.”

Her smile dropped for a second, a brief flash of annoyance before she masked it again. “Excuse me?”

You ignored her, speaking directly to Bokuto. “You don’t have to be quiet for anyone. You’re not too much, Koutarou.”

His head snapped up, eyes wide with surprise, like he hadn’t expected to hear those words. His mouth parted, but no sound came out.

“I just…” You faltered for a second. “You shouldn’t have to shrink yourself for anyone. Not for her.”

You didn’t care how this came out. Not anymore. Not when you saw how much he was hurting.

Emi’s eyes narrowed. “I think you’re out of line.”

You didn’t look at her. Your focus was on Bokuto, whose face was frozen, torn between confusion and something else — something deeper.

“It’s not you, Emi,” you said softly, but firmly. “I’m not saying anything about you. I’m just saying…” You swallowed hard. “Koutarou’s loud. He’s messy. He’s too much. But that’s him. And he deserves someone who can love him just like that.”

The table was silent for a beat. You could hear the background hum of the café, the clink of cups, the soft murmur of conversation. But it all felt like it was happening too far away.

Bokuto was looking at you now, eyes wide, unblinking. He looked like he wanted to say something, but the words weren’t coming.

“I don’t…” he started, then trailed off. His voice cracked, and you hated hearing it. “I didn’t think it was that bad. I just… I thought maybe I was doing something wrong.”

Your heart twisted. He thought he was doing something wrong.

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” you said gently, but your words came out thick with the emotion you’d held in for so long. “You’re you. And you don’t have to change for anyone. Not for her. Not for anyone.”

You wanted to reach out, to hold him, but you didn’t. You didn’t know if it would make it worse.

Emi stood abruptly, a sharp gesture that made the glass in front of her rattle. She threw a glance at you, then at Bokuto.

“I think I’m done here,” she said coolly. “Koutarou, I’ll see you at home. Don’t forget to be on time for practice tomorrow.”

Her words stung, but you didn’t let your face show it. You stood your ground, keeping your gaze locked on Bokuto, hoping he would understand.

She walked away, not sparing another glance at either of you. The door to the café chimed as she left, and the air between you and Bokuto felt heavy, thick with all the things that hadn’t been said.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Finally, Bokuto exhaled, a shaky breath escaping his lips. His voice was small, unsure.

“Did she… really say that?”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

He stared at his drink, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“I don’t… I didn’t even realize it was happening,” he admitted, his voice so quiet you almost didn’t hear it. “I just thought I was being too much for her...”

You sat down beside him, not saying anything at first, just letting the silence hang there. His words echoed in your mind — too much for her. And you wanted to shout that he wasn’t, but you didn’t. Because maybe he needed to hear it from someone else. From someone who wasn’t so tangled up in everything.

“You’re not too much, Koutarou,” you said softly. “And you don’t ever have to be quiet. Not for her. Not for anyone.”

He sniffed, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “I don’t know what to do. I just… want things to be okay. I want to make it work.”

Your heart ached. “Maybe she’s not the one who can let you be who you are.”

There was a long pause, and when he finally spoke again, his voice was thick with something else — vulnerability, regret.

“I don’t know if I can keep pretending this is working. I don’t know what to do.”

You gave him a small, understanding smile. “Whatever happens… I’ll be here, Koutarou. You don’t have to do it alone.”

For the first time in a long while, he looked at you — really looked at you — his eyes filled with something raw and real. Maybe it wasn’t love, not yet. But it was something. Something that felt like a promise.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

___________________________________________________________________________

The rain beat down against your window, the heavy drops tapping rhythmically against the glass, almost like a heartbeat you couldn’t escape. The wind howled through the city streets, making the whole apartment feel like it was shaking in time with the storm. The weather mirrored the chaos in your chest — the tension you hadn’t quite shaken, the ache of everything you hadn’t said yet.

You lay back on the couch, staring at the ceiling. It was one of those nights where the silence of your apartment was louder than the rain outside, and the stillness made it impossible to avoid your thoughts.

Bokuto was on your mind, as he often was.

You thought about his smile, the way it reached all the way to his eyes, how he used to brighten up a room with just his presence. You thought about how much he had changed, how his laugh wasn’t as loud anymore. How she — Emi — had quieted him, made him second-guess himself. You thought about the way he had looked at you earlier, in that café, when you told him he didn’t need to shrink himself for anyone.

You wondered if that would be enough to make him realize that he wasn’t the problem. That it was her.

You sighed, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself, trying to push the thoughts away.

But then, the doorbell rang.

Your heart skipped. You weren’t expecting anyone. For a moment, you lay there, unsure, until the ring came again, more insistent this time.

You swung your legs off the couch, the wet chill of the floor seeping through your socks as you made your way to the door. Your heart picked up its pace for reasons you couldn’t name.

You opened it, and there, standing in the doorway, soaked to the bone, was Bokuto.

His hair was wet, sticking to his forehead, and his clothes clung to him, dripping with rain. His eyes were wide, red-rimmed, and for a split second, you didn’t even know what to say.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the words seemed to get caught in his throat, his chest heaving like he had run all the way here.

“I... I broke up with her,” he said, voice cracking slightly. “Emi... We had a huge fight.”

Your breath caught in your throat. The news hit you like a wave, a flood of emotions crashing over you.

Without thinking, you reached out, pulling him inside. His wet clothes left a damp trail across your floor, but you didn’t care. He needed comfort, and you’d never turn him away, especially not now.

You led him to the couch, your hands shaking slightly as you gestured for him to sit. He collapsed into the cushions, running a hand through his drenched hair, still breathing hard.

“She... she said so much,” he began, voice wavering as if he was trying to hold it together, but the dam was breaking. “She told me I was... I was too loud, too much. That I was exhausting. And I—I couldn’t take it anymore. I didn’t want to be that person for her anymore.”

You sat down next to him, your heart aching at his words. The sound of the storm outside seemed to fade into the background as you focused entirely on him.

“You weren’t too much, Koutarou,” you said softly, trying to steady your voice, but you couldn’t stop the rush of emotion that followed. “You’re not. You’re you, and you never have to apologize for being yourself.”

His eyes flickered to yours, and for a moment, you could see the vulnerability in them — the cracks, the fragility he had been hiding so well.

“But she made me feel like I was... I don’t know, like I was too big for her. Like my energy was too much.” His voice faltered as he ran a hand over his face, clearly exhausted, mentally and physically. “I didn’t know how to fix it. I kept telling myself I could, that maybe it was just a phase. But then we fought, and it all came out... and I just—"

He stopped, breathing heavily, his hands trembling now.

You reached out without thinking, pulling him into a tight hug. He froze for a moment, as if surprised, but then his arms wrapped around you desperately. You could feel the dampness of his shirt against your skin, but it didn’t matter.

The storm outside seemed to roar louder, but inside, it was just the two of you.

“You’re not too loud, Koutarou,” you whispered again, your voice thick with emotion. “And you never have to shrink yourself for anyone. Not for her. Not for anyone.”

He tightened his hold on you, burying his face in your shoulder.

“I thought I was the problem,” he said in a broken whisper. “I thought maybe... maybe it was just me. But now I see. Maybe I was just trying to be someone else for her... and I lost myself in it.”

You held him tighter, not knowing what to say. You could feel his tears soaking through your shirt, and you didn’t pull away. He needed you, just as much as you needed to be there for him.

The storm outside began to ease, the wind dying down, but the tension between you two remained. You could feel him slowly unraveling, but there was something else — something in the air. The kind of moment that hangs between two people who are learning to share the weight of each other’s pain.

“I just... I don’t know what to do now,” Bokuto murmured, his voice hoarse. “Everything feels so... empty.”

You gently pulled back, enough to look him in the eye, wiping a tear from his cheek, though you didn’t have any words left. What could you say? Everything will be okay? It wouldn’t be just yet.

But in that moment, you knew one thing for sure: whatever happened, he wouldn’t be alone. Not anymore.

“You don’t have to do it alone,” you said quietly, your voice steady, even as your heart pounded in your chest. “I’m here. You’ll figure it out. And I’ll be here.”

He stared at you, his eyes still red but softer now. Slowly, he nodded, his lips trembling like he was trying to find the right words. But for now, words weren’t needed. Not yet.

He leaned back into the couch, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he just let himself be. Just be with you.

The storm outside had calmed. But inside, you both knew the journey was just beginning.

___________________________________________________________________________

The sunlight crept in slowly, slipping through the slats of your blinds, painting the floor with soft gold. The storm had passed sometime during the early hours, leaving behind a hush that clung to the air — like everything was trying to be gentle, not to break the moment.

You were already awake, sitting at the kitchen counter, nursing a cup of coffee you didn’t really taste.

From the other room, you heard the creak of the couch, followed by the familiar sound of Bokuto’s voice — groggy, quiet.

“Hey…”

You turned to see him standing in the doorway, his hair still damp from a shower, his eyes softer now, though rimmed with exhaustion.

“Morning,” you said, your smile gentle. “How are you feeling?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, giving a sheepish grin. “Like I went twelve rounds with a hurricane… but thanks for letting me crash here. I didn’t know where else to go.”

You wanted to say, You always have a place here. But the words got stuck behind your teeth.

“Anytime,” you said instead.

He wandered over to sit across from you, hands wrapped around the mug you slid in his direction.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was just there, quiet and waiting. You glanced at him while he stared into his coffee, and you wondered if he realized — how close he was to breaking your heart without even meaning to.

He looked better than last night. A little more like himself. But he still didn’t see it. He didn’t see you.

Later that day, you left him at your place to rest while you went to run errands — and that's when he showed up.

Akaashi met you halfway home. He had that unreadable expression he wore when he was holding back exactly how much he knew.

“He’s at your place?” he asked after you filled him in.

You nodded. “Didn’t want to go home. I get it.”

He studied you for a long moment, brows drawing together slightly.

“And you’re okay with that?”

The question hit you in a weird way. Of course you were okay with it. Or maybe you weren’t, but you couldn’t say that out loud.

“I just want him to be okay,” you said softly.

Akaashi tilted his head, and something passed behind his eyes. It was the same look he always gave when he knew more than he let on.

“You know,” he said slowly, “you’ve been in love with him since our third year. Don’t look at me like that. I was paying attention.”

You opened your mouth to deny it, but the words didn’t come. Not when Akaashi was looking at you like that — not when he was being so frustratingly right.

“Why are you telling me this now?” you asked.

Akaashi shrugged, calm as ever. “Because he’s not going to figure it out on his own. He’s never been good at seeing what’s right in front of him.”

You felt your stomach twist.

“And what am I supposed to do? Just confess while he’s still in pieces?”

“No,” Akaashi said. “But maybe… maybe someone should help him see what’s always been there.”

He didn’t say you. He didn’t need to.

Meanwhile, back at your apartment, Bokuto sat on your couch, staring out the window.

Your blanket was still bunched where you’d been sitting that morning. The place still smelled like your shampoo, like the warmth of something safe. He couldn’t explain it, but being here — being with you — made him feel like he was finally breathing again after holding it in for too long.

His phone buzzed.

Akaashi.

“You’re an idiot.”

Bokuto blinked. Rude.

Before he could respond, another text came through.

“She’s been in love with you for years, Koutarou. Start paying attention.”

The words stared up at him from the screen, his heart skipping a beat.

He sat there frozen, the warmth of the room suddenly feeling very different.

And then he started remembering — the way you’d looked at him in the café, the way you didn’t say anything when Emi had been fake-nice to you, the way you hugged him last night, like it hurt.

He replayed a hundred little moments he hadn’t given weight to before.

Oh.

His chest tightened, not in pain, but in realization. In recognition.

How hadn’t he seen it?

How long had you been right there, loving him quietly while he tried to fix something that was never meant to be fixed?

The door opened, and you stepped back in, pausing when you saw him still sitting there, staring at his phone like it had personally ruined his life.

“Everything okay?” you asked cautiously.

He looked up at you, blinking once, then again.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, he really saw you.

___________________________________________________________________________

You didn’t expect the look on his face when you walked in. Bokuto was still, phone loose in his hand, eyes fixed on you like you’d just said something life-altering — except you hadn’t even spoken yet.

“Koutarou?” you asked again, stepping forward, frowning. “Is everything okay?”

He blinked, like he was dragging himself out of a trance.

“Y-Yeah,” he said, voice slightly hoarse. “Yeah, it’s just... Akaashi texted me.”

You raised a brow and gave a small, curious smile. “That explains the look. What did he say? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Not a ghost,” Bokuto muttered, more to himself than to you. “Just… something I should’ve seen a long time ago.”

You paused, watching him carefully. There was something different about him. The open hurt from last night had quieted, and in its place was this strange, slow-burning tension — like he was standing on the edge of something and wasn’t sure if he should take the leap.

“He told me something,” Bokuto said, still not quite looking at you. “And I don’t know if it’s true. But if it is… I’ve been really, really stupid.”

Your heart skipped.

You forced your voice to stay even. “What did he tell you?”

He looked up at you, finally meeting your eyes — and this time, there was something raw and real in his gaze. Something unguarded. Curious. A little afraid.

“He said you’ve been in love with me. For a long time.”

The words hit the air like thunder, and all you could do was stare. It wasn’t a question, but it wasn’t a statement, either — it was a door. One you could walk through. Or not.

You took a shaky breath, eyes dropping to the floor.

“He had no right to say that,” you whispered.

“Is it true?”

Silence pressed in around you. The kind that could either hold a confession or crush it.

Your throat felt tight. “Why does it matter now?”

Bokuto stood up slowly, crossing the room. Not in a rush. Not storming. Just… careful.

“Because if it is,” he said gently, “then I owe you an apology. For not seeing it. For not seeing you.”

You swallowed hard. “I didn’t expect you to. You were in love with someone else.”

He flinched at that, the guilt hitting him sharper than he expected. “Yeah. I was. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t care about you. Or that I don’t now.”

“You cared,” you said, voice low, “but you didn’t choose me.”

That stopped him in his tracks. The truth of it settled heavy in the room.

“You’re right,” he said quietly. “I didn’t. And maybe I wasn’t supposed to — not then. But I don’t want to keep being blind, or selfish. I want to understand what I missed. I want to try.”

You looked up at him slowly, trying to read the uncertainty in his face, the softness there. His vulnerability mirrored yours.

“And what if you realize it’s not what you want?”

“Then at least I’ll know. And I won’t be wondering anymore. And neither will you.”

You didn’t realize how long you’d been holding your breath until your lungs started to ache.

This wasn’t a confession. Not yet.

It was a spark. A match struck in the dark, waiting to catch.

“I can’t go through another Emi,” you said quietly. “I can’t watch you chase someone who doesn’t see you. Or someone who doesn’t see me while I stand right here.”

Bokuto nodded, stepping just a little closer — closing the distance to hug you.

“I don’t want another Emi either. I want something real. Something honest. And if you’ve been carrying this all alone for that long…”

He took a breath.

“Maybe it’s time I start carrying it with you.”

You didn’t answer. Not with words. You just nodded, barely, your eyes glossy but warm.

And Bokuto, finally, finally started to see what he’d been missing all along.

___________________________________________________________________________

It had been a few weeks since that night.

Since the storm.

Since the hug that lasted just a little too long, and the conversation that cracked something open in both of you.

Things hadn’t gone back to how they were — not really. There was a new tension now, quiet but undeniable. A closeness laced with awareness. A pause between touches, a flicker of eyes held just a second too long. A silence that felt like it was waiting for something to be said.

And Bokuto had been trying to understand it. To understand you.

At first, he thought he was just sorting through the wreckage of his last relationship — picking through the emotional shrapnel Emi left behind. But the more time he spent with you, the more he started to realize something:

With you, he didn’t feel broken. With you, he felt whole.

It was late — well past midnight — when he found himself outside your apartment again.

No storm this time. Just a quiet city and a heart that wouldn’t let him sleep.

He didn’t text. Didn’t call. Just… knocked.

You opened the door in one of those big, soft t-shirts you always wore to bed, hair messy, eyes still carrying the weight of sleep and surprise.

“Kou?” you blinked, voice scratchy. “It’s late…”

He ran a hand through his hair, awkward. Nervous. But steady.

“I couldn’t sleep. I needed to see you.”

You stared at him for a moment, heart in your throat. And then, silently, you stepped aside to let him in.

Bokuto stepped inside, the soft click of the door behind him sealing the world out. Your apartment smelled like sleep and rain-damp air, quiet enough to hear the hum of the fridge and the faint buzz of city traffic outside.

You stood there for a moment, both of you unsure of what to say — or maybe just trying to hold the moment steady so it wouldn’t collapse under the weight of everything hanging between you.

“Want tea or something?” you offered, voice soft.

He shook his head. “No, I… I didn’t come for tea.”

You nodded, lips pressing together like you were bracing for something. He saw the flicker in your eyes — like you already knew what was coming.

He took a breath. “These past few weeks, I’ve been trying to figure out how I missed it. How I missed you. And I keep thinking about that night — when you held me like that… when you didn’t say anything, but I felt it anyway.”

You turned to face him fully now, the air thick with unspoken things. “Kou…”

“I get it now,” he whispered. “I really do.”

And that was all it took.

He stepped in, slow and careful, like he was afraid of breaking the moment. His hand found yours — warm, grounding — and when you didn’t pull away, when your fingers curled around his like it was instinct, he took another step.

“You’ve been here this whole time,” he said, voice cracking slightly. “Loving me, even when I didn’t deserve it. Even when I didn’t see it.”

Your breath hitched, eyes shining. “You always deserved it.”

Something in him broke at that. In the best way.

He cupped your cheek, gentle — reverent — his thumb brushing your skin like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

And then, without another word, he kissed you.

Not a question. Not a maybe.

It was soft, but full — like a confession in motion. Like an apology. Like a promise.

You melted into it before you could stop yourself, hands curling into the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him closer as the months — years — of aching silence finally cracked open between you.

He kissed you like he meant it. Like he’d been holding his breath his whole life and had only just now remembered how to exhale.

And when you finally pulled back, both of you breathing hard, foreheads resting together, he smiled — wide and real and a little teary.

“I’m sorry it took me so long.”

You touched his face, eyes soft. “You’re here now.”

He nodded.

“Yeah. I’m here.”

And he wasn’t going anywhere.

___________________________________________________________________________

The crowd at the Jackals' home arena was wild tonight.

Fans were decked out in black and white, the team’s logo emblazoned on jerseys and banners, camera flashes going off every time a player moved. It was the kind of energy Bokuto fed off — chaotic, loud, electric.

And you were right there in the front row, wearing his jersey — number 4 — oversized and cozy over your long sleeves, with your face painted in team colors and a handmade sign in your lap that read: “TOO LOUD? NEVER. GO KOU!”

He spotted it during warmups and nearly tripped over his own feet.

Atsumu whistled low as they stretched at the net. “That sign yours?”

Bokuto’s grin stretched wide. “Damn right it is.”

“Man’s in love,” Hinata muttered with a teasing nudge.

“So what?” Bokuto beamed. “Let me be loud about it!”

And when the match started, it was like something clicked into place.

He was on fire. Every spike came with that signature Bokuto flair — yelling, fist-pumping, absolutely hyping the crowd (and himself) up like it was game 7 of a championship, even though it was a regular season match.

But the best part wasn’t the crowd screaming his name, or the scoreboard lighting up after every kill.

It was the way you cheered — standing up every time he hit the court, clapping until your hands stung, eyes following him like he was the only one playing.

And he noticed. Every time.

When he landed a particularly brutal cross shot in the third set and the crowd lost it, he didn’t look to the bench.

He looked straight at you.

You stood up, holding your sign above your head, mouthing the words: “You’re doing amazing.”

He pointed at you, grinning like a man in love and absolutely not trying to hide it.

After the game — a win, obviously — Bokuto bounded off the court with energy to spare, waving to the crowd, but beelining straight for where you stood by the sideline.

He didn’t care about cameras or interviews or Atsumu yelling “bro, media obligations!!” behind him.

He ducked under the barrier, wrapped you in his arms, and kissed you hard — like he needed to say thank you in the only way that mattered.

“You were louder than the whole arena,” he mumbled into your hair.

“I was trying to match your energy,” you teased, breathless from both the kiss and his lingering excitement.

“Impossible,” he grinned, pulling back just enough to look at you, eyes soft and bright. “But I love you for trying.”

“You know I love your loud, right?”

He paused, just for a second — then pulled you into a second kiss, slower this time. Sweeter. And whispered:

“That’s why you’re everything.”

__________________________________________________________________________

You hadn’t expected to see her.

It was supposed to be a casual alumni mixer — a volleyball charity gala organized by the V.League. You were there with Bokuto, of course, dressed up, hand in hand, laughing at his bad jokes and proudly wearing the diamond ring he’d put on your finger two years ago.

Everything felt golden. Safe.

Until you turned toward the back of the venue, and there she was.

Emi.

Standing by the bar in a fitted black dress, glass of wine in hand, looking like time had made her sharper — not just in looks, but in attitude. Her eyes locked on you with a glance that could cut glass.

You felt the cold before she even took a step toward you.

“Wow,” she said, voice smooth and brittle, like lacquer cracking under pressure. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Still trailing behind him, huh?”

You blinked. The comment was so casual and so sharp you almost laughed.

“Actually,” you said, holding up your hand just slightly, “I’m his wife.”

She smiled — tight, practiced.

“Oh, right. I heard you two got married. Congrats.”

There was something venomous in her voice that didn’t match the words. You kept your expression calm, your voice steady, the way you always did when people like Emi tried to rattle you.

“Thanks. We’re really happy.”

And then — she leaned in, too close, voice dropping so only you could hear it.

“You think he’s going to stay that happy? You think it’ll last? You were always hanging around, waiting for scraps. Maybe he settled. Ever think of that?”

You felt your stomach twist — not because she got to you. But because once, years ago, she had.

You didn’t flinch now.

You looked her dead in the eyes and said:

“He didn’t settle. He chose me. Every day. And he’s never been happier.”

She scoffed, trying to mask her discomfort behind a bitter smirk.

“You really think he needs someone like you? You’re not even—”

“Hey.”

Bokuto’s voice cut through the tension like a wave of sunlight breaking a storm.

He was suddenly there, stepping between you and Emi, all sharp shoulders in a tailored suit and fierce, protective warmth.

“Is there a problem?” he asked, voice calm but edged with something firm — something that said don’t you dare.

Emi’s confidence cracked just a little.

“I was just saying hello to an old friend.”

“She’s not your friend,” Bokuto said, eyes hard now. “And she doesn’t need to hear anything from you.”

He took your hand — not just held it, but threaded his fingers through yours like a promise. Like a line drawn in the sand.

“We’re good, Emi. Really good. I hope you find that someday.”

He didn’t wait for a response. He just turned back to you, voice softening instantly.

“You okay?”

You nodded. “Better now.”

And the two of you walked away — heads high, hands locked, hearts steady — while Emi stood there, quiet for once, watching the love she tried to break still burning brighter than ever.

___________________________________________________________________________

The door clicked shut behind you with a soft thud, muffling the world outside.

Bokuto toed off his shoes with a dramatic sigh, arms already reaching for you the second you stepped past the threshold.

“Come heeere,” he whined playfully, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your shoulder. “I hated seeing you upset.”

You melted into him with a little laugh. “I wasn’t upset.”

“You were tense. I felt it. I’m emotionally attuned to my wife, thank you very much.”

You snorted as he guided you toward the couch, refusing to let you go. The second you both landed on the cushions, he pulled you into his lap like it was instinct, one hand sliding under your sweatshirt to press warm against your waist.

Outside, the city was quiet. Inside, there was just soft light, the hum of the heater, and the steady rhythm of his heart under your palm.

“You okay?” he asked again, this time softer.

You looked up at him — his bedhead messy from running his hands through it all night, tie long since abandoned, shirt unbuttoned just enough to make your heart flutter.

“I’m perfect,” you whispered. “You always make it better.”

He kissed your forehead, your nose, your cheek — and then, without warning, dug his fingers into your sides.

You squeaked.

“Kou! Don’t you dare—”

But he was already grinning wickedly, arms locking you in as he started a full-on tickle attack.

“Oh no,” he said, mock-dramatic, “I do dare. You’ve been brave and beautiful all night and now I have to balance the emotional scale with a little chaos.”

You squirmed and giggled, batting at his chest, trying to wriggle away as he laughed — bright, open, and entirely unbothered by your mock protests.

“Say ‘Bokuto-san is the best husband in the world!’”

“Never!”

“THEN SUFFER.”

You shrieked through your laughter, eyes tearing up from how hard you were laughing, until finally you collapsed against him, breathless and smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

“You’re the worst,” you muttered into his chest.

“You love me,” he said, smug and a little breathless himself.

You tilted your head back, met his eyes — warm, soft, molten.

“I really do.”

His smile faltered just a little, shifting into something deeper. The playful shine in his gaze quieted, replaced by something darker, more intent.

He leaned in slowly this time, his voice low.

“Then let me show you.”

And when he kissed you, it was nothing like before.

This kiss was slow, unhurried — all heat and hands and years of love folded into the space between breaths. His palm cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone like you were something sacred. He kissed you like he needed you. Like you were the only thing in the world that could hold him together.

You shifted in his lap, arms wrapping around his shoulders, deepening it — and he made a sound in his throat, something low and almost reverent.

“I’ll show you,” he whispered again, lips brushing your skin between kisses, “how much I love you. Every day. Every night. Always.”

You nodded, already breathless, already his.

And in that moment, tangled in his arms, the world outside didn’t matter.

Not Emi. Not the past.

Just this: His warmth. Your heart. And the loud, undeniable kind of love that was never too much.

#haikyuu fanfiction #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu!!#hq fanfic #hq fluff #hq x reader #hq x you #haikyuu #bokuto koutarou #haikyuu bokuto #bokuto x reader #hq bokuto #bokuto koutaro x reader #fukurodani #akaashi #bokuto x you #bokuto x y/n #haikyuu time skip

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delopsia · 2 months ago

Text

Shiver | Bob x Reader x Rhett

Word Count 13,000 Read on AO3 Warnings/Notes: 18+ Minors DNI. AFAB!Reader. Post-biological apocalypse. Vaguely scientist!Bob, Infected!Rhett, Reader possesses inhuman qualities. Blood, arguing, vague body horror, guns, a fantasy virus with fantasy rules, switching dominance, traumatizing men for the narrative, anal sex (Rhett receiving), vaginal sex, multiple orgasms, creampies, threesome, sex-induced breakdowns, aftercare, loving on Rhett because he's the cutest little guy :( Synopsis subject to change. Writing it killed me. Synopsis: Regardless of whether it kills you with the fever or if you survive the worst of it with nothing but pure luck, the virus changes people. You will never be what you were before the infection. Until now, you thought you were the only person on earth suffering from these… alterations. But with the bite mark on Rhett's shoulder and Robert's determination to find a cure, suddenly, there might be two of your kind. How that is going to work out is another question entirely.

Frigid air bites at your lungs like the blaze of a fire. Wind basting against your cheeks as you round the corner. There's something sharp caught in your shoe, stabbing into the soft skin of your foot with every other step. Even sharper teeth snap at the air behind you. The body of something twice your size thundering up the staircase behind you.

Your forearm slams against the half-open door. Rusted hinges shriek. The rooftop emerges in a cloud of gray mist, wrapping around you in a haze. You can't see where you're going, but you'll take the fall over the bloody maw that ghosts over the back of your leg. Memory guides you across the concrete, puddles splashing beneath your feet.

Knees bend. A bone in your ankle pops, giving way to the insistence of your muscles coiling like springs. Your lead foot slams against the ledge, surging forward.

The silver abyss swallows you whole. You don't know if you've even jumped to another rooftop at all. Can't see anything more than your own nose and outstretched arms, but at least gravity is familiar with the concept of a merciful death.

Familiar ground appears before you.

It's too far.

Your hands catch the raised edge. Bones in your right elbow separate. Nerves scream. But the muscles there already know what to do, unnaturally flexing, popping joints back into place before they can finish shrieking. The sensation makes your stomach churn, but you've got no choice but to let your body warp, giving way to strength that wasn't there before, begrudgingly pulling yourself up.

From the opposite roof, the Gnasher snaps her teeth, her gangly, warped limbs perched on the very edge. The crystal rain wets the crimson sludge that clings to her skin, the old blood beginning to wash down the side of the building like some kind of fucked up watercolor painting.

"Vile," muttering under your breath.

The bottles in your backpack clink together as you climb to your feet; whether or not any of them are broken, you have no idea, but you don't feel anything wet leaking against your back yet. Hopefully, it stays that way; you don't know how many more times you can do this before that Gnasher realizes she can jump across rooftops, too.

All too convenient, a beam of light pierces through the clouds, and with it, the crystal blue sky emerges through the cracks. It's so picturesque that you can almost convince yourself that the city itself is still alive. Blue skies and fresh air, the glass on the skyscrapers still glistens in the sun, perfectly intact and so clean that the cars reflect in them as they drive past.

But the glass is broken, and the cars have sat in place so long that they've begun to sink into the road itself. Even as you drift past, you're not entirely sure what color they used to be, their frames drenched in deep red and black residue, blood so old and dry that the very stench could knock you off your feet if you dared get too close. Nothing quite like the nauseating handiwork of a Gnasher, always rubbing their weeping, bloody wounds against whatever surface they can find.

One of the esteemed painters is tucked up against the side of a bus, the same one you saw when you traveled this route a few weeks ago. It's hardly moved, the fragile remains of its body in such a state of decay that it can no longer maintain a discernible form. Even as you squint, you can't fathom how this creature was once as human as you, with its own experiences, opinions, and goals.

If you dared walk into the street for a closer look, maybe you could catch a remnant of what once was. A necklace or the faint outline of a tattoo, maybe even a wallet clinging to shredded pants, but your luck is already stretched thin.

Rooftop to rooftop it is, traveling across haphazardly placed planks of wood and hopping over the gaps, following the same old path you've used ever since you arrived in this ruin of a city. Even as you navigate your well-worn route, your eyes remain fixated on the burnt apartment complex towering up ahead.

There's a small brick building nestled against the east side of it, the remnants of what you think used to be home to a law firm. Easy to miss. The kind of place that no survivor is going to break into looking for supplies or a cozy place to set up camp. Precisely what your little group had been looking for.

The click of jaws snapping together echoes through the concrete husks that surround you, a strangled, gurgling moan chasing after it. Teeth. Clacking against each other in a messy rhythm, desperate to sink into something.

Your ear twitches. It's coming from the alleyway up ahead. But if a Gnasher is biting at something, then...

Sight of the ground below answers your question before you can finish it. Bob, armed with the oversized saucer of a metal trashcan lid, pressed up against the fragile chest of the Gnasher as he blindly strikes the butt of his gun against the wall. Jammed. Another strike for Rhett's handmade bullets.

Lightning flickers as you swing your legs over the concrete barrier that surrounds the edge of the roof, aiming your feet like you would the crosshairs of a gun. It's like going down a slide. One moment, you're sitting. The next, you're midair, hurtling on a one-way path with your legs perfectly outstretched.

Your feet connect with the center of the Gnasher's hunched back. Bone snaps. Pops. Dark blood splatters across the ground like a paintball striking its target.

Fire arcs up your joints. Too hard of a fall. But you're on your feet, much like a bipedal cat, with the nine lives to boot.

It's horrifying.

"You—!" Bobby's eyes squeeze shut with the slightest shake of his head, nose scrunching.

"That's why we carry a backup," chirping, you slide the backpack from your shoulders, pushing it into his ill-prepared arms.

Bob blinks, momentarily unable to tear his gaze away from what you've done. Then, glancing up to where you jumped from. "You should have broken something by doing that."

Should have.

Would have if it weren't for...

"How is he?" The edge of your voice wavers, emotion stealing the reigns of control right out from under you. A chill ebbs at your lower belly again, twisting uncomfortably.

"About the same." It comes out a little more calculated than you were expecting from Bobby. Detached. Resigned to an outcome that hasn't happened yet.

He's lying.

Bob's hand curls around your wrist, somehow already knew that you would make a break for the stairs. "Shower." It's more of a plea than a command. "Please. You might be immune to the virus, but you're still susceptible to common infections."

A shower can wait. The lukewarm water will still be there tomorrow; Rhett might not be. But Bob's thick fingers have curled around your wrist, refusing to budge even as you try to pull your arm free of his grip, insistently tilting his head toward the bathroom as if to insist upon it once more.

Your eyes dart to the scab on his index finger. If it were to open right now, your bloody forearm might infect him.

It's the quickest shower you've taken since Bob engineered a new method to heat the water. Hurriedly scrubbing away the dirt you've picked up during your supply run and the speckles of Gnasher blood that has stained your skin. It's already begun to thicken, almost seeming to glue itself to your flesh, stubbornly clinging until it feels as if you've rubbed yourself raw.

The usual shiver has set in before you make it to the basement laboratory. An uncomfortable chill despite the warm temperature, just enough to make your skin prickle and your hands waver as you try to open the door.

"You owe me a blanket and a jacket," mindlessly complaining if only to keep your mind off of what you're walking into. "I'm cold again."

"You're always cold," Rhett's muffled voice is the first thing to greet you, his deep, warm tone distorted by the panel of glass he rests behind, effectively sealed off from the rest of the world. A transparent prison strong enough to withstand a Gnasher's unnatural rage but visibly wavering when Rhett thunks his forehead against it.

"And you look like you're on fire," you don't remember him being this flushed when you left. Bob told you it wouldn't set in for at least another day, but you've hardly been gone for anything more than an hour or two.

"Reckon I could warm ya up?" Rhett's wobbly smile disappears almost as quickly as he offers it. "Kiddin'. Don't come in here."

Your nails bite into the heel of your own palm, the thin skin burning as if it'll give way and split if you press any harder. "Is it a protective thing or have you both gone and forgotten that I can't get infected?"

"Y' can still die if I turn ya into my next lunch," Rhett hums, wrinkling his nose to flash his teeth at you. The sight of them has something in the back of your head twitching, impulsively flaunting yours at him in return.

"As if," it feels as if you were briefly possessed. Only coming back into control of your own body the moment that you start talking. "I just jumped off a roof, and I was perfectly fine."

"I wasn't," Bob mutters, hardly looking up from the vials that he's hunkered over. "'bout gave me a heart attack."

It's still a little bit strange to think about. You don't recall feeling anything more than the uncomfortable impact of hitting the ground and a brief stint of pain. Such a drop should have warranted a broken bone or, at the very least, some strained joints, but as you tentatively stretch and flex your legs, you don't find a whisper of pain. As if it never happened.

"God, I wish I could put ya in the PBR," Rhett wouldn't be Rhett if he weren't constantly finding a way to bring bull riding into the conversation. "Y'd be a legend with that grip strength of yours."

"But if the PBR were still around, I wouldn't be a..." The words die in your throat, your half-formed sentence lost in an instant, dissolving into mist. You still don't know what to call yourself. Half human? Mutant? Part-time Gnasher? Some long-winded scientific term that only Bob can pronounce?

Idle, your hand dips past the elastic of your waistband, fingertips drifting over the faint indent of a scar. It feels worse than it looks, the jagged slice from a piece of glass, your reward for not paying attention when you climbed through a broken window.

Maybe it would have remained just that, an irritating cut, if you had the forethought to look at the window frame and realize that a Gnasher had been rubbing its blood all over it. You might as well have stuck your hand right into its mouth and politely asked for a bite.

"You're still human," Bob hums, right on cue.

Here we go again. "But I'm not as human as I used to be."

"No, you're—"

"Robert," throwing your hands up, exasperated. This argument will never die. "I just jumped twenty-something feet and didn't suffer a scratch! It's okay to admit that I'm not exactly human." It's been evident from the day you were infected. If that weren't enough, then the discovery that your eyes reflect light in the dark should be.

Rhett sucks in a sharp gasp. His head falls back and cracks against the wall behind him. The veins in the side of his neck have raised, visibly twitching with the spread of an infection so dark that you can see it beneath his thin skin. "How's that cure comin'?"

Bob doesn't answer, fluttering over scribbled notes in a water-warped notebook. He doesn't find what he's looking for, spinning around to flip through a loose stack of papers. Drawings and shorthand that you can't even begin to decipher. Months upon months of research, all skimmed through and tossed back onto the table in a matter of moments. Useless.

"Bob?" You try. Maybe he didn't hear Rhett's question.

No reply. Stepping over to an accumulation of vials, some empty, others filled with fluids that he's explained to you a million and one times. Vaccine prototypes, blood mixtures, chemical experiments that weren't exactly legal back when the concept of law and order existed.

He reaches for a nondescript glass jar filled with a clear liquid that could be absolutely anything under the sun. His empty hand disappears into a basket beneath the table. Then, returns empty. "I need to draw more blood."

You don't need to ask which of you he's referring to; you're already beginning to present your arm to him. It's only been a few hours since the last batch he drew from you. Truthfully, you should probably be reminding him of what he told you mere moments after Rhett got bit; don't let him get so wrapped up in his work that he takes too much from you.

Your head is starting to spin before the syringe is even filled halfway. Doing this standing was a mistake, your feet no longer feel steady beneath you, the corners of your vision growing a little blurrier than it was before. But the vial fills, somehow, and the moment Bob turns his back, you're stumbling over to Rhett and his glass enclosure.

Bloodshot blue eyes follow the way your right foot seems to drag against the floor, but Rhett doesn't say anything. Maybe it looks like a poorly concealed injury to him. Not your sudden lack of strength to lift it properly.

Whether you fall or the ground suddenly decides to rise a few feet, you don't know, but your ass hits the cold tile all the same.

Rhett tilts his head, his face so close to the glass that it fogs with his labored breath. This close, you can almost deceive yourself into believing there isn't a barrier at all. That there's no bite mark mottling his shoulder; he's only sweating from another successful supply run, and you're leeching heat off of him while Bobby flutters over his experiments until his mind has run dry.

The faint rattle in his lungs shatters that daydream as quickly as it appeared.

"Don't," Rhett stops you before you realize that you're beginning to get up. "Just...just stay right there."

The room spins, splotches of black painting your vision. You couldn't pick your way through the lock if you wanted to.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The clock haphazardly hung on the wall is a lot louder than you recall it being. Why and how the batteries in it are still working, you don't know, but it would be nice if they would finally give it up and die. Stubborn as ever, the singular working hand continues its perpetual journey, punctuated with every passing second.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Rhett reaches over his shoulders, pinching the back of his shirt and pulling the sweat-drenched material past his head. Even your unfocused gaze catches the way it drips before he tosses it to the floor, looks more like he's just gone for a swim in the damn river again. An amoeba should have been his undoing, not...

You still don't understand how it happened.

There weren't any Gnashers around. You knew there weren't. The room was entirely empty, not a sound aside from that of you and him rustling through old storage boxes. You should have smelled it, heard it, enter the room.

Maybe replaying the memory one more time will undo the chunk of flesh missing from his shoulder. Or more it to an area that can actually be amputated, like an arm.

No arm is better than no Rhett at all.

But that bite is still there, no matter how perfectly you play out what you should have done in your mind.

Tick. Tick.

Tick.

Sudden, Rhett snaps forward. Burying his face between his bent knees. The muscles thinly stretched over his ribs begin to spasm. Convulsing. Spreading up into his shoulders and down into his thighs. One of his hands wraps around his own ankle. Squeezes so tight that his knuckles turn white.

This, you realize, must be why freshly turned Gnashers are always covered in gaping, bloody wounds. Their own muscles rip themselves apart.

Bob leaps from his chair and disappears into the storage room.

Something hits the floor and shatters.

Tick.

Your eye twitches.

Rhett falls backward.

You think he's dead.

But he cracks his skull against the wall just hard enough for him to visibly wince from it. Eyelashes fluttering. Can't remember how to keep his eyes open. Hair clinging to his drenched forehead and scruffy face.

His heaving chest refuses to slow down. It only seems to speed up.

He can't catch his breath.

The closet door slams. You jump.

Bob runs back to his cluttered table, empty-handed but reaching for a handful of discarded vials. The last of your blood disappears into another uncolored liquid.

Tick.

tiCK.

Time warps around you. How long has it been? You can't tell without any windows. The overhead lights never waver. Outside, it could be morning. It could be night. The sky could have turned red.

In here, it's perpetual day.

Tick.

TiCk.

There's a distance in Rhett's eyes that wasn't there before.

His chest never stills. Rising and falling so quickly that you can hear the sound of his breath whistling through his throat. Darkened veins bubble beneath his skin. Rising. Strained.

Bob has stopped looking under the microscope.

He doesn't move.

Tick.

TICK.

ICK.

CK.

Rhett's breath isn't whistling anymore. It's ragged. Harsh. Sucking in air before he's even gotten the last bit out. Choking on his own saliva that he's losing the ability to swallow. Leaking out the corners of his mouth like a rabid dog.

And Bob...

"You're starin' at a wall." Rhett. His nose wrinkling with a snarl.

Bob doesn't reply. Doesn't even show the slightest sign that he hears what's being said to him. Keeps his head down. Hung so low that you're surprised it's even physically possible.

"I'm dyin' 'n you're starin' at a fuckin' wall?"

No answer.

Tilting to the left reveals that he's spinning an empty vial in his fingers. Twisting it around and around, a rhythmic trance that he can't stop now that it's started.

Rhett's fist strikes the glass. "Robert!"

NOTHING.

Your voice rises in your throat. "Bobby—"

"I don't know!"

It's quiet again.

Glassy eyes peer back at you, the bent frames of his glasses dotted with the fallen tears they've caught. Red cheeks and a shivering bottom lip. The vial slips from his grasp, shattering the moment it touches the tile floor.

"I don't know," tears spill over his cheeks. One manages to stain his shirt when he stands, seeping into the white material and darkening it.

His hand is unusually cold when it takes hold of yours, gently squeezing as he kneels down next to you. The other flattens against the glass. Rhett presses his hand against the other side. The closest they can get.

"What's the difference?" Bob's mind never seems to stop, delicately swiping his thumb over your skin, looking for an answer that you can't give. When he finds nothing, he turns your arm, watching the way it twists and flexes. "Every condition is identical except for...what?"

Almost as quickly as he came to you, he retreats back to his notes. Old vaccine tests. Failed trials, documents of how the virus behaves, the many comparisons of your now warped DNA against his and Rhett's. The answer is there. Somewhere. Buried in the mystery of science and biology itself.

What's so different about you?

A shiver races up your spine.

"My jacket's over there on the couch," Rhett's weak voice barely gets through the barrier, "can't guarantee it don't smell, though."

Your vision still swims when you stand, but you've walked this route so many times that you don't really need to see where you're going. One foot falls after the other, your eyes already trained on the old jean jacket that lies discarded on the floor, right next to a half-full glass of water.

You remember this one. A prize from Amelia County Rodeo for a special event they held in the dead of a Wyoming winter; even the bulls didn't want to buck through that one. The left arm of it is still slightly ripped from that bar fight with Trevor Tillerson, the asshole who thought it was cute to fight with rings on and managed to send both of your boyfriends back to you with split lips.

But it's so warm. Easy to sling over your shoulders, making no real attempt to put your arms through it as you return to your spot on the floor.

"If there really is a god, I'll try 'n ask 'em why he made you so damn cold for," Rhett's half-assed laugh dissolves into a wheeze, his unfocused eyes staring aimlessly in your general direction.

"Be sure to haunt me after and tell me how to fix it," tucking your feet up underneath yourself, your toes so cold that they almost burn your slightly warmer thighs. "Scratch that, cuss him out for cursing me with a lifetime of always being on the verge of freezing."

In the corner of your eye, Bob lifts his head.

"I never minded it," Rhett hums.

You've got half the mind to walk in there and bite him yourself. "Of course, you didn't," eye roll. "You've always thought it was cute. I think it's a pain in the ass."

"'Cause y' always used me as a blanket," the corner of his lip turns upward with a grin that he shouldn't have the strength to produce. "'n then you'd go reachin' for Bobby because your back was still cold."

"Temperature."

You blink. "Huh?"

Rhett echoes the same sentiment.

An answer doesn't come to you right away; Bob shuffles through papers until he finds something with a remarkably well-drawn picture of you on it. His eyes sparkle at whatever he finds scribbled on it. The very answers to the universe might be on there.

"Your body temperature." He repeats, slightly more specific. "It's always been significantly lower than the average, even before the outbreak. That's the variable."

Words jumble in your throat, so thick that you may choke. That doesn't make any sense at all. The only notable difference between your infections is...body temperature? Not genetics, or a gene previously thought to be useless up until the outbreak began. It's not up to a perfect concoction of chemicals, but...the lack of heat produced by your body?

"So your solution is what, freeze my ass?" It's hard to tell if Rhett's amused or genuinely out of it. You can't decide which option you would rather it be.

The humor of Rhett's comment doesn't quite reach Bob like he likely intended it to because Bob just nods, his expression remaining serious. "Precisely."

Maybe you've all gone mad from the virus and are sharing a hallucination right now.

But what other option do you have?

The excessive amount of ice stashed away in the old walk-in freezer sufficed for the three rounds of makeshift ice baths it took to get Rhett's temperature down to a point where he was bordering on hypothermia. Whether or not it worked, you're...not sure.

He's breathing. His temperature is stable. His veins have returned to their normal state, and the last time Bob took his blood, he said it was all looking normal. The closest he's gotten to violence was when his nails bit into your wrist after falling into the bath for the first time, but you've got a feeling you would have done the same thing if you were plunged into your own personal, frozen hell.

There isn't the slightest sign of an infection lingering, but...

He hasn't moved.

Frankly, you haven't either.

Poised in the corner of the room, led here by the jumbled mess of brain signals that you're supposed to call instincts. Sitting in the empty wall cut out that once held a television shouldn't count as high ground, but it was enough to silence the nagging voice in your head.

Bobby tried to stay up with you; he really did, but it was only a matter of hours before he succumbed to the comfort of his spot on the couch. It wasn't as if he would be able to see anything once the candle burned out; your eyes handle the darkness significantly better than his human ones do, strange as that is to say.

The air shifts. Rhett's eyes open.

If you could growl, you would.

You don't know what's gotten into you. Nerves standing on end, leaning into an unusual aggression that you're not sure what to make of quite yet. Something is setting you off, but you haven't the slightest clue of what.

Slow, Rhett lifts his hand, holding it a few inches above his face as he moves his fingers back and forth as if to test if he's really alive or not. There's nothing off about his movement, even when he begins to sit up. Entirely normal. Identical to every other time you've seen him do this.

See! Your reaction here is entirely unwarranted! There's no reason for you to be so damn—

"What are y' doin' up there?" Rhett's voice breaks the silence, the familiar gravel of his tone grinding away your thoughts until there's nothing left.

Your face falls. "You can see me?"

"Clear as day?" His head tilts to the side, and for a second, his messy hair almost looks like puppy ears. "Why'm I not supposed to?"

A soft puff of air to your left temporarily draws your attention. Bob, rolling over onto his side, glasses askew on his pale face, doomed to fall and hit the floor like they do every other time he stubbornly tries to stay awake all night. They're already beginning to slide, but he's put himself into the spot you used to climb up here, trapping you up on your perch.

"You...never saw me any other time I've hidden here in the dark," like the time a sudden thunderstorm set your senses off, and this was the space that irritated you the least. Rhett walked past you twice before you spoke up and gave yourself away.

...but now, he's looking directly at you. Your eyes so deeply locked that there isn't even the slightest chance that this is a coincidence.

Rhett is almost too nonchalant about getting up and onto his feet, his body swaying as he re-adjusts. It's inhuman, but there's something familiar about the way one of his knees hyperextends, muscles visibly twitching as they try to correct the error. Almost as if they've forgotten the detailed rulebook that once kept them in order.

Whether or not he notices the irregularity, you're not sure, but he's already walking over to the couch, his bare feet thumping lazily against the tile. In the back of your head, you can hear Cecelia chiding him for stomping his feet and creating a ruckus, but there's no one around to tell him off for it. Bob might, if he were awake, but he's so gone that he doesn't so much as twitch when Rhett plucks the glasses off of his face.

As Rhett turns to place them on the table, you flash your teeth.��

His back twitches. Pearly whites baring themselves at you like an untrained dog who hasn't learned to control its instincts. Not at all intimidating. Albeit a bit surprising to witness.

Before you can begin to react, his hand clamps over his mouth. "What the hell?" His voice is muffled beyond distortion, but it's hard to misunderstand that familiar rumble.

The drop to the floor is far enough for the impact of your landing to rattle the meaningless picture frames that hang on the wall. Louder than you anticipated, but Bob doesn't so much as stir, entirely unaware of you slinking past him, circling Rhett like a weary animal.

Your name falls off Rhett's tongue in the form of a question, as if he's the one afraid here. As if he's not the one who miraculously stood and walked away from death's door before it could open. As if...

You blow a puff of air at his back.

He shivers. Could be a coincidence. Maybe he's just sensitive.

Your hand darts up to the back of his neck, pinching the loose skin there. Rhett's head whips around. Teeth grazing against the side of your retreating forearm.

"The hell was that for?" His growl matches what you were anticipating, starting to spin with you. Doesn't seem to enjoy the sensation of you standing behind him, blindly giving to the instincts that scream at him to protect where he's most vulnerable. Again, the sound of your name crosses through the air.

But he's not accustomed to the changes his body has gone through. You quicken your pace. He struggles to keep up. Spinning around faster and faster. One of his feet clumsily collides with the other, opening up the perfect opportunity for you to surge up behind him once more. Your teeth nip his shoulder. Not hard enough to leave a scratch, merely a giving pressure, some kind of animalistic correction that makes him gasp.

A freight train barrels into your chest. The hardwood rises up to hit you with all of the force it can muster.

"Your parents should have put you in football," groaning, with what little air is left in your lungs. Spots dance in your vision, the heavy weight of Rhett's body pinning you to the floor like a goddamn anchor.

Long brunette curls brush your cheeks as Rhett peels himself up enough to hover over you, his lips twisted up in a dumb grin that sparkles as much as his eyes. "The hell 're y' doin'?" Giggling. As if he didn't just whip around and pin you without much of an effort.

"Testing a theory," and you're going to be testing more than one if the nagging sensation to flip your positions doesn't die down. Voiceless words chant in the back of your head, a broken record stuck on an eternal loop until you either die or give in to its demands.

"I think the mad scientist is rubbin' off on—"

Rhett's teeth flash milliseconds after yours do. Automatic. No control over what he's doing until it's too late. A beat passes, and the uncertainty in his eye solidifies into understanding.

"Oh." Blinking, dumbly.

"Yeah." Good talk.

It's a little bit too quiet in this room now. Just you and your cowboy, staring blankly at one another, the silence broken apart by the faint purr of Bob's snores. You don't know how he hasn't woken up from all of the noise you've been making. The fall to the floor should have been more than enough to disturb him.

And yet, he snores on.

The voices in your head seem to be winning. You don't recall lifting your head, but you're acutely aware of the fact that you're getting closer to Rhett all of a sudden, tentatively grazing your lips against the side of his neck.

A noise jumps out of him as if he didn't realize you were moving, either. There's no attempt to stop you, though, remaining still as your canines brush against his skin. You're moving on auto-pilot, guided by an instinct that seems to be making things up as it goes. You need to do this, but even your own fried DNA doesn't know why.

Rhett dips his head, his scruffy cheek brushing against yours as he dips down and mirrors your actions, his warm mouth greeting your sensitive neck. Air hitches in your throat.

Why is it that you're taking this as a challenge?

And why are you already rising to it? Nipping at the hinge of Rhett's jaw, the dark hair there long enough to have grown soft, probably hasn't been shaved since he got bit five days ago. Or maybe it's been six, you're not sure. It's not as if you've got a calendar to go by or a phone to check.

Noses bump. Unfocused eyes meet. He sees straight through you. The differences that have grown since the day you recovered from your bite are no longer there. You're no longer a mystery to him but instead a familiar companion in uncharted territory.

"Rhett," you breathe, the closest thing you can get to a warning. You know where this might be headed.

"Uhuh," he's on the same page as you.

Lips crash so shoddily that you nearly miss. Colliding with the corner of his mouth. Nose smashing against his cheekbone. His forehead thunks against yours, teeth scrape together with a jarring sensation that almost makes you nauseous; the grounding weight of his body on top of yours is the only thing that keeps you from shuddering out of your own skin.

The warmth of his mouth might be the first thing you've felt since all of this began. It must be the first thing he's felt, too, because it feels as if he's going to eat you alive. A frenzy that only a near-death experience can warrant, indulging in everything you can because there might not be a next time.

Your hopeless entanglement is interrupted by the swipe of his tongue against your bottom lip. Pressing forward when you grant him access. Retreating when you reveal your ulterior motives and nip at him. The warmth of his hand on the side of your face had ought to melt you, lulled into a puddle that Bobby and all of his magic gadgets will never be able to reconstruct.

It's one of those dreams where you're thrust into the backseat of your own body, helpless but to hang on for the ride as your body moves on its own. Your impatient hands are in his hair. No, one is in his hair, and the other is clinging to his shoulder, using it for leverage to draw yourself up. Chasing him before he can retreat too far.

"You're not winning this," your declaration rides in on the coattails of a gasp.

"And you are?" Cocky.

Shoving him used to do something, but Rhett hardly moves this time, it's as if you didn't even do anything. Reeling back, your hands slam against his shoulders again. Harder. And this time, it pushes him far enough back for you to nearly sit up straight.

The room spins. Your palms flatten against the cold floor.

The tile kisses the tip of your nose, blood rushing to your face so quickly that you can hear it in your ears. The body hovering above yours is nothing but a well-built cage, thick arms barricading you in, a thigh slotting between yours. Teeth press into the juncture of your shoulder and arm.

A growl rumbles out of your lower chest.

...that's new.

Worse. Rhett grumbles right back at you. A huskier, choppier version of the noise you just made, so new to this changed body that some of the gears still need oiling and fine-tuning. Even so, the sound hooks around a trigger you never realized you had; you're growling at him again. Louder this time. Lips curl, no care for whether he can see it or not.

"I don't know what 'm doin'," Rhett's breath fans out against the back of your neck, sounds as if he's just come up for air for the first time in hours. The tip of his nose brushes against the shell of your ear, tracing along the outline of it until he finds where it joins with the rest of your face.

It tickles.

And before you can realize what you're doing, your weight shifts onto your knees, rocking your hips against his as you try to squirm away from the sensation. Right into...

"Rhett—"

"You started it," scruffy facial hair greets your sensitive cheek, a subtle distraction from the thick arm that coils around your chest, securing you to him like an anchor. There's a force behind it that you don't recall being there in the past, muscles surpassing the limits his subconscious brain once set upon them.

But Rhett hasn't had time to adjust to this new strength of his.

You have.

Digging your palms into the floor, you rock yourself backward, delighted to catch the gasp that leaves him when your ass presses into him. Two can play at this game. Your hips will forever be his undoing, swiveling in loose circles, vaguely able to feel the way his cock twitches to life in his pants. Sensitive. Hasn't been touched in over a week.

Now that you think about it, you don't think he's gone this long without sex since the world fell apart. Even then, you're pretty sure he and Bobby were up to something the day the power grids collapsed...

"Shit," Rhett'shissing, already beginning to press back into you, meeting your devilish hips halfway.

Chapped lips travel across the side of your neck, working their way to your nape. They pause somewhere just below your ear, sucking harshly on a patch of skin, punctuated by a loud wet pop when he departs, relocating mere centimeters away. Familiar heat blooms low in your belly, thighs hopelessly squeezing together.

Did you mean for your ass to spontaneously jerk back into Rhett's groin? No.

Would you do it again simply to hear him moan out loud like that? Absolutely.

Your eyes dart to the couch, already expecting to find Bob staring back at you with those sparkling, wide eyes of his. There's no way he's slept through all of this commotion, but...he's sound asleep. At some point and time, he's even rolled over onto his side, unwittingly facing the show that's going down just a few feet away from him. If you focus hard enough, you can faintly hear his light snores, purring like a kitten.

"Do y' think he's gonna wake up?" Rhett's voice vibrates down your spine, drawing a shiver out of you.

"If we make enough noise," tilting your head to peer over your shoulder at him. You can hardly see him, neck strained to its limit, but even so, you can vaguely see his flushed face, the fluffy mess of his hair making him look something akin to a puppy.

Your intent isn't to display your teeth at him; you're more or less just opening your mouth simply for the sake of doing so, but the message he receives is all the same. Entirely out of control, his nose wrinkling with the effort of pulling his upper lip up, white teeth like neon in the darkness.

"Not so fun when you can't resist reacting to it, huh?" Grinning like a devil, there are so many things he doesn't know about yet.

He huffs, and that seems to be the end of the conversation because he's leaning in and closing the gap between your mouths before the silence can encourage you to speak again.

To call it a kiss would be an insult to every eloquent sentence to ever use the word, far from the delicate, dreamy melding of bodies that you've grown to associate with the term. It's nothing but a sloppy, sideways collision of mouths, galaxies merging into a cosmic explosion, teeth clacking, neck burning under the effort of keeping yourself twisted around like this.

Rhett's trying his best to scoot closer, thigh slipping between yours as he molds his body around yours, his broad chest like a shield from the outside world. It's a valiant attempt, but the kiss breaks regardless; you physically can't keep your neck like that anymore, little spots decorating your vision as you drop your head down to the floor. With it, your body shifts, unwittingly pushing yourself against his thigh.

"You're killin' me," bursting out of him like a guilty confession, and you're vaguely aware of how his face rests against your neck.

Air catches in your throat, stealing away the strength in your tone, but your strangled sentence still escapes. "Do something about it."

That's enough for him.

A hand flattens against your upper-belly, pushing until you get the message, leaning into his chest as you draw yourself up onto your knees. Another impatient hand lifts the bottom corner of your shirt, sloppily drawing it up and over your head before you can give it too much thought.

"Huh," he breathes, suddenly still behind you.

"What?"

"Didn't expect y' to have nothin' on under there," as quickly as it's said, he's on you again. Big, warm hands wasting no time as they curl around your breasts, his calloused fingertip rough as it twirls around your nipple, deliciously so.

You swear that you're not usually this sensitive. Light touches like these shouldn't have you squeezing your eyes shut, but Rhett's soft mouth is pressing sloppy kisses down your spine, his tongue intermittently darting out to trace a trail in his wake, and you're already squeezing your thighs together again.

His hands only leave you for a moment, but it's a moment too long, leaving your chest remarkably chilly while he tugs at the hem of your shorts. The soft material glides down your thighs, momentarily catching on your knees as you clumsily lift them one at a time, and then they're gone.

He took your underwear with them, too, the sly bastard.

It only takes him a handful of seconds to worm his way out of his clothes, half-assedly dropping his shirt on top of you as if he doesn't have room to place it anywhere else. A pair of sweatpants drape over Bobby's sleeping frame, and for such a light sleeper, the man still isn't waking up.

"Menace," you mutter, as if you're not gathering up his shirt and wedging it under your arms, a welcome barrier between sensitive joints and hard, unforgiving floor.

"I can be worse," the tip of his nose traces up your naked back. Another ticklish thing that has you kicking your feet, trying to squirm away from it.

There's only so far that you can wriggle before the familiar warmth of his body curls around you once more. Even so, the sensation of his cock sliding between your thighs is enough to melt every thought fluttering through your busy mind, subduing into something quiet. Nothing but the creak of floor tile, Rhett's breath, and Bob's distant snores to remind you that time continues to pass by.

You've danced this tune so many times that Rhett doesn't need any help, slipping between your folds with the slightest tilt of his pelvis. That talented part of his body that was once known for bull riding, all the awards he brought back to his beloved hometown, now adapted to something a bit more lewd.

He could win a trophy for this, but it wouldn't be one he'd be able to show off to his family.

"Eager." His teasing observation is the only reason why you realize what you're doing. Rhythmically working yourself back and forth, so focused on the sensation of his cock gliding past your clit that you've effectively forgotten Rhett was even there in the first place, watching, feeling exactly what you're up to.

"Shut up," fire rises in your cheeks. It doesn't matter if he's a mile away or nose to nose with you, he's already caught the hint of embarrassment lurking within the crevices of your tone, jumping onto it like a bandwagon. Distant, a cap pops open, and he disappears from between your legs.

You can hear his smile before he even opens his smug mouth. "Make me."

This isn't going to work anymore. Your head whips around. Borderline vicious. Swinging over to bite his arm. Slamming your back against his chest. Already prepared to flip your positions around and taunt him for a damn change.

Teeth pinch the scruff of your neck. Your body goes limp.

What the hell?

Even your jaw has gone slack. Not an ounce of tension or strength left in your body, awkwardly collapsing face-first into the floor like a ragdoll. Talking? You don't know if you remember how to move your mouth, never mind lift your tongue. Powerless to do nothing but hope that gravity doesn't make you fall any further forward as familiar pressure blooms between your legs.

...

Is this demeaning, or are you into this?

You're certainly making no effort to try and get out of this situation, a little distracted by the dull ache of his cock head slipping into you. Even when it's already spread over his length, the lube is still a bit chilly, such a sharp contrast to the warmth of your body, but nothing is quite as overwhelming as what's going on with the teeth in the back of your neck.

Rhett's bite eases, still there but not as harsh as it was when his teeth first sank in. Whether or not he's done this out of instinct or purely to bug you, you're not sure but it's doing...it's doing something to you. A wave of heat rushes down your belly as he inches inside, pussy helplessly clenching around him.

Like clockwork, breathing melds into something of a chore. Consciously monitoring your shaky intakes of air, anything to steady yourself as he sinks deeper into you. It's a wonder how that stupid fat cock of his hasn't ruined you a long time ago.

How is it that you're still having to bear down and force yourself to relax around him? Head spinning as the space in your lungs seems to decrease by the millisecond. Taking him inch by inch, sweat beading at your forehead, quietly wondering if you'll be waddling come morning.

"Good lord."

...that didn't come from you.

And it certainly wasn't Rhett.

Unfocused blue eyes stare back at you from the couch, half-lidded yet already drinking up the sight that's laid out before him. The commotion of you trying to flip Rhett over must have been what finally woke him.

You don't know Rhett has let go of your neck until your mouth finally opens, but nothing comes out. Shocked back into silence as he bottoms out, pushing against you hard enough to rock your bodies, like he's trying to make sure you've taken every inch of him. No regard for how thick and overwhelming his cock already is.

"How did I die?" There's a depth to Bob's tone that isn't usually there, gravely with sleep, almost entirely washes out the genuine surprise in his tone. Then, his gaze focuses on you. "How did you die?"

Your giggle is so much louder than you anticipated it would be. Whether or not Bob is being serious or simply joking, you actually don't know, but that only adds to the humor you're finding in this awkward situation.

"Your idea worked," is all that you can come up with, idly beginning to move on your own accord. Minuscule little back-and-forth motions to distract from the overwhelming stretch that is Rhett Abbott.

Bob blinks. "Is the sex a symptom of the cure, or is this some grand scheme to wake me up faster?"

"Is it workin'?" Rhett, with that stupid grin again.

Your body jerks forward.

Or, rather, Rhett slams his hips into yours and practically shoves you forward as if to get back at you for moving on your own accord. Aggravating black dots twinkle in the edges of your vision, a gasp masking whatever it is Bob replies with. Whatever. You've got a pretty good idea of what he said.

Strength returns to you in an instant, arms suddenly fully functioning appendages that push you back up in an instant, the floor cool against your clammy palms. Rhett's firm hands hook around your hips, forcing you to remain still—

"Shit," your elbows threaten to give, lights sparkling behind your eyelids.

"There it is," Rhett's muttering, and just like that, he's doing it again. The fat head of his coc,k kissing oversensitive nerves, sends you fluttering around him, clenching and unclenching so tightly that you catch the way his eager pace stutters.

Tiles creak as Bob eases himself onto the floor. He's already close enough to curl a careful hand around your cheek, the other smoothing down your shivering spine, fingertips tracing until he finds the swell of your ass. His touch disappears, chased by a soft clack of teeth, and you can only assume Rhett's trying to nip at him like a teething puppy.

Rhett freezes in place.

...and Bob's chuckling.

You've got to pull him out of you and roll onto your back to even get the slightest idea of what's going on. Even with a crystal clear view, it takes a moment to put the pieces together. Bob's hand is somewhere behind Rhett's neck. Rhett's suddenly drooping jaw. The blankness in his eyes; the lights are on, but nobody is home.

As simply as he pinched it, Bob releases the scruff of Rhett's neck. It's all you can do to stretch your arms out and stop all hundred seventy pounds of him from falling on top of you. His big, lax body sprawled out over yours, just barely managing to keep his head up. Those sweet blue eyes are open, but you're unfamiliar with their expression.

"How did you know that was gonna work on him?" You chirp, genuinely curious. Rhett seems to have the same question, his brow wrinkling as he pushes himself up onto his hands and knees. You've got to look at the ceiling to avoid staring at his cock, hanging heavy and wet between plush thighs.

"Wrinkling his nose and trying to bite me was a pretty good giveaway," but there's no resentment in his tone over it, instead fighting to contain his amusement as he places his hand in front of Rhett's mouth. Within an instant, Rhett's nipping at Bob's fingers, unable to resist temptation. "I don't remember you being this mouthy when you first recovered."

"I think you're confusing Rhett's personality trait for a symptom," in fact, you could have predicted this even before the infection.

Rhett doesn't have much to say on the matter, pacified by the world wonder that is Robert Floyd's right hand. In fact, he's so distracted that he doesn't realize what you're doing until your fist wraps around his cock. Still, he receives your message loud and clear, letting your legs curl around his waist and urge him closer until he brushes against your entrance once more.

You don't realize how empty you feel until you're being filled again, the heel of your foot pressing into the fat of his ass, giving him no option but to keep going until he bottoms out. And this time, he's docile, isn't overcome with the urge to bite you, even lets Bob withdraw his hand without too much of a fuss.

"I can't say this is what I'd expected us to be doing if you recovered," Bobby muses, leaning back onto his haunches as if to take it all in, regardless of his poor vision. "And here I thought you'd wait for me."

"Shoulda woke up then," Rhett's hardly pulled away before he snaps back into you. If it weren't for the sparkles dotting your vision, you'd kick him.

"That's fine, that's fine," Something glints in Bob's eye. Then, muttering under his breath, "I can entertain myself."

You can't see what he's up to. Frankly, you're not paying that much attention, distracted by the drag of Rhett's cock, falling into a lazy cadence that does nothing but target all of those little nerves. He doesn't seem to have the energy for anything more, and it's the only reason why your legs are still able to remain locked around his waist.

A cap snaps. Something brushes into your foot, but it's there and gone so quickly that it doesn't cross your mind. Can't. Rhett's mouth is finding your neck and your hands are in his hair, and your body is rocking with every heavy thrust, a little bolt of heat racing up your belly.

"Ah—!"

You can feel the shiver race up Rhett's spine. Stuttering to a halt, his face smooshed into your collar.

The view is half obscured by unruly brown curls that are now in your face and the literal hill that is Rhett Abbott's ass, but you've got a pretty good idea of what Bob's hand is doing between Rhett's legs. Muscles visibly tense and flex in his freckled forearm, working a finger or two back and forth in seamless tandem with the gasps that now pepper your skin.

"You don't waste any time," your own giggle is what shuts you up, unintentionally spasming around Rhett's cock. Lord, all of this stopping and starting is going to unwind you in the worst ways possible.

Bob shakes his head as if he'd already known you were going to say that. "Neither do you."

On their own, your fingers impatiently wiggle and tap against the floor. How one of your hands managed to get there, you're not sure, but it's not there for long, already being scooped up by Bob's bigger one, carefully peppering each digit with a chaste kiss. Compared to the faint, lewd squelch of his lubed fingers pumping into Rhett, it's almost too innocent of an act.

"You're gonna...fuckin'..." Rhett's trying to talk, but his efforts are fruitless. Nothing strings into a comprehensible sentence, reduced to senseless babblings that gradually reduces into a resounding grumble.

"Hm?" Bobby. Taunting.

The not-so-subtle wriggle of Rhett's hips is giving you a pretty good idea of how quickly Bob's opening him up. Jerking forward, only to try and push himself back a half-second later. Shallow motions that are just enough to shut you up. Can't quite focus on talking anymore, too preoccupied with focusing on the barely there sensation of his cock rubbing against those sweet little spots.

A deep, grumbly whine greets your ear.

Rhett's still again.

"That was awful fast," you muse, swallowing a giggle that would undoubtedly result in you getting bit by a moody cowboy.

The lack of lighting does nothing to conceal the furrow of Bob's brow, a similar thought visibly crossing his mind. "...yeah, I think it—"

Rhett's foot kicks out. Hits Bobby somewhere in the upper thigh. Protest in its purest form, outside opinion be damned. And it's enough of an argument to shut you and Bob up, reduced to quiet smiles that Rhett can't see, whilst Bob fumbles around for the bottle of lube that has rolled away from the crime scene.

As if he didn't just violently object to any further prep, Rhett's trying to jump away from Bob pushing into him, jostling you up the floor. The only thing that stops you from sliding more than an inch is Rhett himself, face tucked into the side of your neck, grumbling something incoherent, a jumble of sounds that might not be words at all.

"Easy, easy," Bobby's palm flattens against the base of Rhett's spine; it's times like these when you truly realize how big his hands are and how dainty Rhett's waist can be. It hardly looks real.

Sandwiched between you and Bob, there's nowhere Rhett can squirm off to, and you've been blessed with what might be the greatest view known to man. The lewd sight of Bob's thick cock sinking into him inch by inch, such an entrancing thing that you're holding your breath. Compared to this, oxygen is second rate.

But then Bob is bottoming out, and not one but three winded gasps shatter the silence.

"Christ above," Bob's voice is so deep that you hardly recognize him. The only reason you know it's him is because of how far away he is compared to Rhett.

For once in his life, Rhett Abbott doesn't fire off any cute remarks.

...however, silence doesn't mean submission. He's up to something. Bracing his hands on either side of your head and pushing himself upward, hair falling into his face, brows knit together with a determination that only comes about when he's planning something.

Those pretty hips of his rock back and forth. Testing. Hell, it hardly even counts as movement, but now you're suddenly aware of how he's still deep inside of you, and you're just sensitive enough to get some kind of minuscule pleasure out of it.

"Shit..." Rhett's head tilts back, eyes closed, adam's apple bobbing. Religions have been founded over views like these. There's no slowing down now, gradually moving more and more, sinking onto Bobby's cock, only to thrust up into you in jerky little motions.

You don't know what you did to wind up on the receiving end of this, but you'd love to find out and do it again.

"Just can't wait a damn second, can you?" Bob snaps forward. Simultaneously pushes Rhett back into you. Both of you are gasping.

Rhett's head drops, mouth falling open in a pretty little 'o' shape, eyes flickering open only to snap shut once more, and you can feel his cock twitching in you. What little strength he had dissolves with that second thrust, collapsing back into your arms before he's even had time to fight the feeling.

Bob's hands appear on your hips, fingertips digging into the flesh there as he uses you for leverage, pushing Rhett into you once more. Your vision blurs, a wet little squelching noise punctures every sharp thrust, your poor pussy fluttering around Rhett's length like you're being fucking paid to do it.

You can't help yourself, sliding a hand down your belly and between your legs, well-practiced digits finding your clit that hasn't had any attention since this all started. And Rhett's cock head is rubbing against those special spots hidden along your walls, he's whining to high heaven, and your toes curl just from the fucking sound of him.

"Rob—fuck!" Rhett's tone is rising in pitch, loud enough to cover up the senseless babble that falls out of your mouth.

Bob laughs. The fucking devil. "Yeah? Tell me how that feels." He makes eye contact with you from over Rhett's shoulder and, and...

Your back arches up off the floor. The angle shifts. Stars decorate your vision. There. There, there, there, there. Your free hand clamps around Rhett's bicep, clinging to him, need something to hold onto before you evaporate into thin air, and he's not doing much better, burying his face in the side of your neck, panting hard into your ear.

"C'mon, one of ya's gotta talk eventually." Robert Floyd, menace of the fucking century.

"You're insufferable," that's all he's getting out of you. It's all you can give him.

Familiar heat settles into your lower belly, rushing down your inner thighs and up into your face with the ferocity of a wildfire. Smoke swirls around your head until your mind is so clouded that you can hardly focus on what is from Rhett and what's from Bob. All that you know for sure is that you're clamping down around Rhett's cock, he's groaning in your ear, and maybe some of those obscene noises are coming from you rather than him.

"Fuck, that's—" A shiver visibly ripples up Rhett's back. "Oh my god."

There's just enough strength left in his body for him to push himself up, tongue lolling out of that pretty mouth like a dog burning up in the summer sunshine. His nose crashes into yours, mouths colliding in a sloppy kiss that hardly lasts a few milliseconds before its being broken apart, panting into each other's mouths instead.

His body jerks between your legs, no coherent rhythm or pace to be found in the way he fucks into you. Jerky, uncontrolled motions that do nothing but push you further up the floor. Outright shoving a strangled noise out of your throat, eyes snapping shut as if to try and escape the echo it creates.

Rhett's glassy eyes meet yours.

And it's all you need.

Your back can't possibly arch any further, but the muscle there stubbornly tries to force it regardless. Chest pressing into Rhett's, nails biting into his bicep as you cum without so much as a warning, spasming around his still moving cock, working you through it in such a way that you almost worry it will never end.

Almost.

Rhett's whimper is what pulls your head out of the clouds, your eyes hardly able to open, and glance between your shivering thighs just in time to watch his hips stall. Oh. Oh, you're so sensitive that you can feel the way he twitches inside of you, hot cum spilling into your poor cunt. It's such a barely there sensation, and yet it's got you jumping like a hot wire, some of it already beginning to spill out.

Robert's warm hand greets your cheek. How long he's been still and how long he's been quietly drinking in the sight of you, you're not sure, but he smiles the moment you meet his eye. This time, there's not a lick of tension present to warp it.

The moment is there and gone in an instant. As quick as it started, Bob reaches for the curves of Rhett's hips, pulling hard enough to force the cowboy onto his knees, his spent cock slipping out of you with a sickening wet noise.

"'m not done with you yet, sweetheart," Bob utters it like a warning. The calm before a storm that you're glad you're not a part of.

Rhett tilts his head up to look at you, cheek smooshed against your belly as if he thinks you have the answer to what's going on here. Even if you did know, there's not enough time for you to share it.

A sharp 'crack' of skin on skin splinters through the room. Rhett's poor body lurches forward, and he must clench pretty hard around Bob's cock because it's been a while since you've seen that man's eyes roll like that. And he does it again, pushing into Rhett so hard that he's got no choice but to fall forward with it.

You might be the dead one here. This might be heaven.

This view is entrancing. Rhett's pale spine, the muscles that flex and shiver as Bob sets his pace. The only thing keeping Rhett somewhat upright are the hands that have cemented themselves to his hip bones, Bob's knuckles white from the effort of keeping him in place, dragging him to meet every thrust.

"There," his body jerks as if struck by lightning. A spark of electricity lights up in his eyes as they roll back into his head. "Oh my god, right there."

Bob glances at you, a brief flicker of pride crossing his face, before his attention returns to Rhett's ass. The sight that finds him is enough to make his jaw twitch, eagerly fixating on the lewd sight of his thick cock disappearing into Rhett's ass, splitting him wide. Always so damn obsessed with watching how easily he ruins whoever he's fucking.

Somewhere around here is a little pink photo album stocked full of blurry Polaroids of this exact thing. Cleverly sorted by date and the order they were taken, photo evidence of the way he's absolutely ruined his two favorite victims. Your favorite one used to be the night he accidentally consumed an aphrodisiac and fucked you and Rhett silly, but this right now is a good contender for first place.

"Please don't stop. Don't stop, don't stop, Robby—" Rhett babbles, and from this angle, you can almost see the oversensitivity in his eyes. Gradually losing their focus until he gives up on trying to look at you and buries his face into your stomach entirely.

He's squirming, those plush thighs wriggling as if to try and pull himself off of Bob's dick, but it's hopeless. Bob's hand finds the back of his neck, pinning him further, and nothing short of his safe word is going to get him out of it.

"No, no, no, you're not gettin' away from me that easy," the devilish grin on Bobby's face warps his speech, fully enjoying this power he's found himself holding. "Needy lil fuckin' thing."

Hearing him swear might add a few years to your lifespan.

The bitemark on Rhett's shoulder is nothing but a pink scar now. A remnant of the thing that almost took him away from you. He shouldn't be here. There's no reason why some ice and a dream should have been enough to drag him off of death's door, but here he is. Alive. Whining high in his throat like a bitch in heat, clinging to you, wiggling like a little worm, his cute little ass struggling to take Bob's cock.

You don't need to ask to know that Bobby's found his prostate because Rhett's feet are starting to kick against the floor, a cute little reaction that he can't prevent from happening, even when he isn't overstimulated.

"Does that feel good?" Pushing your hand through his hair, dragging your nails against his scalp. His back shivers. The closest thing you're getting to a response. "Talk to us, baby."

The curls on the back of his neck bounce with his nod. There might be a small 'uhuh' veiled in there, you're not entirely sure, but he finds it in himself to try looking at you again. Glassy blue eyes, flushed cheeks, and a bitten bottom lip. He's warm under your touch, sweaty even, and fuck you can't believe he's still alive.

Robby's breath is growing shaky, the red flush in his cheeks is dark enough to rival Rhett's. His head rolls, falling back to look at the ceiling, only to snap back and squint against the darkness to see Rhett again.

"You're gonna have to talk better than that," he rasps, all authority lost in his tone. "Where do you want me to cum, cowboy?"

"In me!" Rhett blurts. "Inside, cum in me, please cum in—!" His mouth snaps shut as quickly as it opens, trying his best to stop from drooling, but it's a little bit late for that. He's already making a mess of your stomach.

You don't know who's coming undone faster, him or Bob, but it doesn't seem to matter all that much. Bob's collapsing forward, wrapping an arm around Rhett's waist, kissing at the back of his neck, and Rhett's hardly even bothered by the teeth that pull at his skin. Warped instincts be damned, he doesn't have it in him to react.

"Oh my—mmh." Bob stills with a resounding groan, pushing harder into Rhett despite having nothing else to give him.

A muscle in his lower stomach visibly twitches in tandem with his orgasm, and Rhett's so content with the sensation of Bobby cumming in him that he falls entirely silent, mouth hanging open, not a sound leaving him.

A moment passes. Bob drops his forehead against Rhett's heaving shoulders, almost struggling to keep it up as he peels himself back, gingerly pulling out of him.

Silence shatters with a sob.

"No," blubbering, Rhett kicks his foot, trying to push himself up with his hands but getting nowhere, "no, no, no."

Tears have secretly spilled over, rolling down his face and staining his cheeks. When they first escaped, you haven't the slightest clue, but you can't wipe them away quickly enough. As soon as your thumb swipes one off of his skin, another takes its place. It's a never-ending downpour, but you don't remember seeing a cloud in the sky.

"What's the matter?" Your voice blends with Bob's, asking the same burning question at the same time.

"I want, I'm—" A hiccup breaks the frenzy before it's even started. "You stopped."

Robby already appears to have a vague idea of what's upset him because he's already reaching around. "We can still get you off, sweet thing," he whispers, freeing Rhett's weeping cock from where it's been trapped between his thighs. Already hard again, flushed such a deep red that even the darkness can't conceal.

"No, no, I want...I want to..." Rhett's pushing back into nothing but air, his whine warbling into another sob. And he's trying to keep talking, you can see his mouth moving, but nothing else is coming out. There's something he's looking for, but he's not finding it. You're not sure what it could be. He seems fine until...

"I think he wants you back inside of him," as soon as you say it, your cowboy jerks his head. Frantic. Failing to fight off a hitching breath.

It's enough. Bob's pulling himself up despite the visible waver of his exhausted frame, and you're replacing his hand on Rhett's cock with your own. Swiping your thumb across his drooling slit, his length still wet enough to calm your momentary worry about chafing him.

"'s that better?" Bob's leaning down to whisper to him, his hips already flush with Rhett's ass again. There's not much he can do when he's soft like this, but he's trying, tenderly grinding into Rhett in slow, loose circles.

Again, all you're getting is a wordless nod, but it's still enough. If it's what he wants, then that's what he'll get. Bob's mouth finds those pale shoulders, kissing over old rodeo scars. His big hands glide up and down those heaving sides, dragging across the indents of a rib cage that forever remains visible, regardless of how his weight may fluctuate.

It doesn't take much before those swollen eyes squeeze shut once more, his soft puffs of breath tickling your belly. One, two, three more strokes, and he cums with nothing but a faint whimper, two weak ropes of cum making a slight mess of your hand. You can see how his orgasm washes through him, the way he shudders from head to toe, a lone muscle twitching in his lower back.

"Rhett?" Smoothing your clean hand through his hair, peeling away the strands that have glued themselves to his skin.

He opens his mouth, hesitating.

A hitching sob is all that you get.

Those tears aren't stopping, but this time, he isn't telling you why. Trying to move only causes him to slide off of you entirely, collapsing to your right in a messy pile of limbs. Bobby is already there, curling his body around him, wiping at the tears on one side of his face while you fuss over the other.

"I'm sor—I'm sorry," Rhett wails, squeezing his eyes shut, tears spilling out the corners of them. "I'm sorry."

'Baby..." whispering, you reach to cradle his face, feeling the weight of it in your hands, "you didn't do anything wrong."

"Yes I, I did," his voice jumps in pitch, only stopped by his own mouth clamping shut before an even louder cry can bubble out of him. "I couldn't—I couldn't control my-myself. I...you. I bit you!"

Bob glances at you as if to check for something, then back down to Rhett. "You didn't even leave a mark."

"But it...what if it..." Rhett cranes his neck, trying his best to look up at you. Those red, swollen eyes are looking for something. "I change too much, and...?"

And you don't like me anymore?

He doesn't say it out loud, doesn't dare to get that bold, but he doesn't need to speak for you to hear him. Your vision blurs with the embers of a memory. An old bathroom mirror, cracked and spattered with blood, lit up by an old flashlight. Unmoving eyes glistening back at you, still stiff with the aftertaste of death. The what-ifs in your head so real that they nearly crawl out of the shards and sink their teeth into you.

"It's okay," Bob shushes, voice soft as can be. He pauses, but only long enough to plant a ginger kiss on Rhett's temple. "It's okay."

He's the only one in the room who remembers how to talk, cooing soft nothings into Rhett's ear. Action makes up for your silence. Rhett nuzzles into your arms the moment that they open for him, wedging into the space beneath your chin, and it's only a few seconds before Bobby slides closer, effectively cocooning Rhett between your bodies.

You've no idea how much time passes.

There's an ache in the joints that rest directly against the floor tiles, and your arm, trapped under Rhett's weight, has long since fallen asleep, but you're having a hard time focusing on anything other than what resides in your arms. He doesn't seem to mind the kisses you've begun peppering his forehead with, blissfully in tune with the ones Robert presses into the back of his neck and what little bits of collarbone he can reach.

If it weren't for the eyelashes that occasionally open to tickle your skin, you'd almost believe that Rhett has fallen asleep entirely.

Quiet as a mouse, Bob begins to slide away, mouthing something to you that you can only interpret as 'I'm going to clean up.'

Rhett's arm darts out. Turning his head, grumbling incoherently.

"I'm just getting a wet cloth," Bob justifies with a half-hearted laugh. "There's cum drying to your thigh, baby."

The growl he gets in return is anything but impressed. And to Rhett's credit, he's never been one to see a problem with being dirty. That's entirely the preference of your beloved squeaky-clean nerd.

Bob rolls his eyes, but he slides back into his place without much else of a fuss. The battle was lost before it even started. Now he's lost the chance to sneak off when Rhett actually falls asleep because the cowboy has gotten ahold of his arm, hugging it to his chest like a newly won prize. Fighting back includes tapping Rhett on the nose and getting nipped at for it.

"What if this changes somethin'?" Rhett doesn't seem to realize that he's gone a little cross-eyed, trying to look at Bob's finger as it wiggles through the air, seeking out a nose to maliciously tap on.

"Hm?" Your own hum cracks, like your voice wasn't ready to be used yet.

"Gnashers don't get along as it is," he continues, lifting his head to look at you. "If I...what if we can't...?"

Careful, your lips find his forehead once more. This you're confident to answer. "If we were anything like them, we would have ripped each other to shreds a long time ago." You tap him on the nose, stealing Bob's plan right out from under him. "But we're still in one piece, aren't we?"

"You two have blended into one giant person, from my viewpoint," Bob deadpans.

For the first time since the infection set in, the silence erupts into three sets of giggles.

The so-called gentle breeze bites at your exposed skin with a ferocity that ought to make you bleed, burning away at already chapped skin and slipping beneath your shirt. Your jaw clenches, trying your best to prevent your teeth from chattering, but that only does so much before something else begins to shake and tremble.

"Find any lemon yet?" Bobby calls out, idly rubbing his thumb and index fingers together, spreading a scented oil between them.

"Quit distractin' me!" Rhett yells. Even with the blindfold concealing his eyes, you can feel the glare he momentarily directs your way.

Six colorful strips of fabric hang in front of him, each with its own unique scents that, previously, only you were able to pick up on. Faint little notes like cardboard, wildflowers, rubbing alcohol, and the orange-scented essential oil that Bob swore he'd finally managed to wash out. Some remain effectively scentless; little decoys set up just to throw him off the trail.

"I'm cold," you can't help but grumble.

Bob's arm winds around you, tugging you into his side. "I know."

So far, Rhett has been pretty good at this; he found the lone clover that you hid in the storage room and the peppermint candy in the makeshift freezer. He's even figured out how to use that cute nose of his to find you and Bob when you both walked away without him. But this time, the scent Bob has picked out this time has effectively stumped him.

He's focusing so hard that he hardly notices you and Bobby approaching, too busy nuzzling his nose into the different fabrics, the gears turning in his pretty little head. It's not until you're standing right next to him that he even glances in your direction.

"What do you smell?" Careful, you place your hand in front of him, watching him lean in.

Without a word, Bob does the same, the oil on his fingertips glistening.

Rhett's freshly shaved face breaks into a grin, yanking the blindfold off of his face. "You liar!" All but giggling, only a hint of malice behind his shout. "Y' didn't put any lemon on these. It's all over your damn hand!"

Laughter rises out of you before you can stop it, and you're bending down to where he kneels on the ground, pinching the fat of his cheek between your fingers. Rhett wiggles, trying to shake you free, but doing so only replaces your hand with your mouth, peppering him with kisses that Bobby rushes to mirror on the other side.

"You're so damn cute," you can't help it. It's the only thing you can think of.

Rhett whines, "stop sayin' that." But his own body betrays him, lips twisting up into such a large grin that his eyes wrinkle and curve with it.

"Cute so you're damn," Bob's inability to contain his laughter nearly ruins the delivery of his joke entirely.

"That's even worse!"

But the kisses just don't stop, even as Rhett tries to scoot away from it, hopelessly trapped between you and Bob, his cheeks growing redder and redder with every smooch. So warm and giddy and alive.

In the corner of your eye, you watch a shiver rush down his spine.

#bob floyd x reader x rhett abbott #delgato writes #robert bob floyd #rhett abbott

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symbiomancy · 1 year ago

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PRIZE —ryōmen sukuna

—summary: You and Sukuna make a bet. He doesn't clarify what he wants if he wins. It's okay; you'll find out soon enough.

—cw: f!reader, stepcest, otherwise pretty tame today

—wc: 1,4k // also on ao3

“So, do you even do anything on the court or do you just stand there and look pretty?”

Sukuna turns to you, brows raised. The corner of his lips curls up in amusement. “Just because you don’t understand how the game works doesn’t mean I don’t do anything,” he counters, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement makes his biceps bulge and you allow your eyes to linger on them momentarily before you meet his gaze again.

“Prove your worth, then,” you shrug your shoulders once and tilt your body to the side to get a glimpse of the people doing their last warm-up exercises on the basketball court. “Earn a lot of points, be the MVP. Win, or do whatever it is you do.”

He eyes the way you’re leaned to the side and the way you pull yourself straight again and shift your attention away from his teammates, head tilted, now staring at him through your pretty lashes. He likes this angle. You’re not that much shorter than him, but this, this angle he likes, and finds himself wanting to place his hand on your jaw and tilt it up.

“Let’s make it a bet, then.”

You purse your lips, narrow your eyes.

“Alright,” you cede, tilting your head the other way. “If you suck out there, you make me a second bento for a week so I don’t have to grab something from the convenience store on the way to my language classes. And if you win—”

“When I win.”

You roll your eyes. “If you win… I don’t know, what do you want?”

“I can choose anything?”

“Yes, unless it brings me physical, psychological, emotional or reputational harm.”

Sukuna is quiet for a few moments, staring at you with a new intensity. It sends a shiver down your spine and you take a quick breath in to dispel the jitter in your veins. Then, he holds out his hand.

“Deal.” He grins, broad and charming when you accept and shake on the deal. He motions to the overhead level where a crowd has gathered — mostly girls, probably from all years if you had to venture a guess — his other hand between your shoulder blades, pushing you towards the stairs. “Enjoy the show.”

To his credit, he’s good. It takes a while for the game to get going, but when it does, he’s fast, almost graceful in the way he dodges around the other team’s players to make his way to the net. He stops, sneakers squeaking against the vinyl, and throws the ball. It’s a clean shot. His teammates pat him on the back and the girls around you cheer.

Your eyes meet and Sukuna stops, turns his body towards you, and does a small, almost mocking bow. The crowd around you explodes in a cacophony of screaming and you place your hands over your ears.

He sure is popular.

The games pass in a blur. Sukuna keeps up easily, netting point after point after point. Each time, the cheers of your peers threaten to deafen you. Then, the last game is called, the teams shake hands and everything winds down. People still linger when the teams are stretching and cleaning up. You even spot a few volunteering themselves for help.

Sukuna doesn’t say anything about the bet when you meet up after he’s showered and dressed and parted with his teammates. You congratulate him and he beams like you’ve never seen before, eyes bright and hair slicked back, curling at the ends. He doesn’t bring your bet up even at the dinner table or when you’re all winding down in the living room, everyone piled onto the couch and the armchairs. Your parents congratulate him on a successful match and his smile returns full force, launching into a play-by-play for everyone that wasn’t present. You almost think he’s forgotten about your bet by the time the lights are all out in the house.

Until there’s a knock on your bedroom door as you’re getting ready for bed. The clock on your laptop screen stares at you. Just minutes from midnight. You unlock your door and crack it open just enough to see Sukuna on the other side, leaning against the doorway with his hands in his sweats’ pockets. The outline of his cock is obvious against the fabric and you let your eyes linger on it for the fraction of a second before you raise them to meet his. You almost, almost get distracted by his lack of shirt. He notices.

“I figured out what I wanted,” he announces with an easy grin.

“Right now?” You glance at the clock again, then back to him. Sukuna nods. You pull your door open just enough for him to slip in. “Need I remind you the clause about physical, psychological—”

“Emotional and reputational harm. I got it; I took ‘em all into account.” He wanders a few steps deeper into your room as the lock on your bedroom door triggers and picks up the cat-shaped nightlight on your dresser. He smacks it once. It turns purple. He smacks it again and the light changes to warm white.

“So?” You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly rethinking your nearly non-existent sleeping attire. Summer is warm and stuffy; there’s no point in sweating through the night when you can keep your clothing to a minimum and the window cracked open. Cheeky shorts and a thin, cropped shirt help ward off the usual heat. Now there’s a different type of heat simmering under your skin.

“I want a kiss,” he says, placing the nightlight back onto the dresser. “A nice, proper kiss.”

“Why?” You shrug your shoulders when he gives you an incredulous look. “No, I mean like— you had so many girls practically throwing themselves at you during and after the game-meet-thingy; you could get a kiss from anyone.”

“Yeah, I could.” He closes what little distance separates you and hooks his knuckles under your chin. His other hand rests on your hip, draws lazy circles into the flesh. It sends a jolt down your spine, like livewire in your veins. “But I want it from you.” His breath fans your lips. Heat rushes to your face.

You shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t ruin your parents’ relationship with something so messy, something like this, something that’ll only blow up in your faces down the line. But he’s all-encompassing, taking up your whole vision, everywhere is him and only him, his eyes glued to your lips.

Sukuna closes the gap. His mouth is slow on yours, his lips warm, slightly chapped. You really shouldn’t—

His hands skirt under your sleeping shirt, and travel up your torso, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Thumbs graze your nipples and you arch into his chest, gasp into his mouth. He swallows the sound, eager and hungry. His tongue slips into your mouth. The heat bubbling under your skin spreads through your body, has your pulse living in your throat. Your hands rest on his shoulders, nails digging into the flesh. He grunts against your mouth, digs his teeth into your bottom lip and suddenly you’re lightheaded, his hands anchoring you to place, keeping you from floating off into space. His chest is pressed to yours, large warm hands on your ribs and then down, down, until one rests on the small of your back and he pulls you into him, hip to hip. His cock is stiff against your thigh.

You’re the first one to pull away, hands firmly on his shoulders when you nudge him backwards. Sukuna’s cheeks are flushed in the faint light of your cat-shaped nightlight, lips glossy, eyes half-lidded, breath loud in the confines of your bedroom, hands still on your body.

You inhale slowly but it does little to knock some breath back into your lungs. Your chest is heaving — so is his — and yet you step aside, unlock your bedroom door and pull it ajar. He slips out just as easily as he’d slipped in, his touch lingering as he takes his escape.

When you hear his bedroom door open, you lean into the hallway, calling out his name in a whisper. He looks over, hand on the doorknob, eyes wide like a deer in headlights. “If… if you want to keep… this,” you motion between him and yourself, “going, get some chapstick, dude.”

You close the door and lock it.

banners by @/cafekitsune.

#jjk x reader #sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #sukuna x you #jujutsu kaisen x you #ryomen sukuna x you #jjk x you #stepcest

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adoriels-tears-if · 5 months ago

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Adoriel's Tears Q&A (1th meeting)

The soft afternoon light spills into Elianna’s study, lending a calm warmth to the room that contrasts sharply with the tense atmosphere. Ashlyen sits by the window, gazing out as though trying to avoid the others. Tobias leans against the doorframe, his arms crossed tightly, his expression unreadable but far from welcoming. Elianna adjusts her seat, her hands fidgeting in her lap, and her eyes dart to Ashlyen before quickly looking away.

Cecily bursts in, parchment in hand and a determined smile lighting up her face. “Alright, everyone’s here! That’s great!” She stops near the table and sets her notes down with a flourish. “Today, I have the honor of asking all the questions our readers sent in. So, sit back, relax, and get ready for anything!”

Tobias snorts. “Ready for anything. Sure.”

Ashlyen glances at Cecily, one eyebrow raised. “Let’s hope these readers asked questions worth answering.”

“I’m sure Cecily will make it worth our while,” Elianna says, her voice soft but steady as she offers the young woman an encouraging smile.

Cecily beams at her. “Thanks, Elianna! I’ll do my best.” She straightens her parchment and clears her throat. “The first question is for Ashlyen.” Her eyes skim the page, and she hesitates. “Oh… it’s, um, a tough one.”

Ashlyen frowns and tilts his head. “Why? What does it say?”

Instead of answering, Cecily holds out the parchment. Ashlyen hesitates, then takes it from her hands. His expression darkens as he reads silently, though he quickly masks it. “How does it feel to know your child will grow up without their father? Do you think of them every day? Are you afraid they’ll grow up resenting your absence?” His voice remains steady, but there’s a strain in it that betrays his calm.

He places the parchment back on the table, folding his hands together. “It’s not an easy question to answer,” he says, after a moment of silence. “Every day, I think about them. Their face, their voice, their laugh—things I’ve missed and things I’ll never get to see, to remember. It’s not just a fleeting thought! It stays with me, no matter where I go!” His gaze shifts to the window, his jaw tightening. “I chose to leave because I knew it was the only way to protect them. I still believe that. But…” He exhales slowly eyes closed. “Yes. I’m afraid. I’m afraid that when they grow up, all they’ll see is the absence and none of the reasons behind it. If they resent me for it, I’ll bear that, as long as it means they’re safe.”

The room falls silent. Cecily fidgets with the corner of her parchment, unsure how to fill the heavy pause. Tobias pushes off the doorframe, his voice cutting through the quiet.

“Safe? That’s a convenient excuse.”

Ashlyen’s gaze snaps to him. “You think I wanted this?”

“Maybe not,” Tobias says, shrugging, “but it doesn’t change what it is.”

Elianna raises her hand, her tone sharp. “That’s enough. Both of you.” Her words slice through the tension like a blade. “This is an interview, not a battlefield.”

She looks at Cecily. “Next question, please.”

Cecily clears her throat and flips to the next page. “Right! Let’s keep things moving!”

She flips through her parchment and looks up, eyes sparkling with mischief. “All right, here's an interesting one,” she says, a teasing smile on her face. “So, who started calling MC 'Little Star' first?”

Elianna smiled softly, glancing at Ashlyen. “I think you did, didn't you?”

Ashlyen shifts in his seat, a slight blush rising to his cheeks. “Maybe,” he admits, avoiding the young woman's gaze.

Elianna leans forward slightly, her voice teasing but warm. “Oh, come on, you can say it. You gave them that nickname, didn't you? ”

Ashlyen exhales, his gaze drifting to the window as if searching for the right words. “It wasn't just a nickname,” he finally says, in a calmer voice, ”It was a way of honoring their Elven heritage. In our language, stars carry meaning: they guide us, give us hope, and remind us of where we come from. I wanted them to have a connection to that, even if they would never understand it... completely.”

Elianna's expression softens, and for a moment she looks at Ashlyen with infinite tenderness. “It's beautiful,” she says softly. “And it suits them perfectly.

Tobias rolls his eyes, clearly enjoying the moment. “Honestly, I’m more curious about whether MC will find out that Ash keeps forgetting everything about them,” he says with a sharp edge to his voice.

Elianna turns toward Tobias, then back to Ashlyen. “Do you think they’ll ever find out?” she asks.

Ashlyen swallows, his expression briefly showing signs of discomfort. “I hope they never find out,” he says, voice low. “The fact that I forget them every half hour... it’s not something I want them to ever know. It’s less a choice, and more a necessity, but... I’d rather they stay in the dark. It’s safer for them, for everyone.”

Elianna shares a long, silent look with Ashlyen, but doesn’t speak. Tobias shrugs and glances toward the door.

“It might be better this way. Anyway, MC stayed the night at Telio and Mickhail’s to avoid seeing you. It’s... less painful this way.”

The room goes quiet, the words hanging in the air. Ashlyen stares down at the table, avoiding the others’ gazes. “It was… necessary,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

“I think we can move on to the next question,” grumbles Tobias.

Cecily glances at her list, her eyebrows shooting up as she reads the next question. “Ooh, this one’s about you, Uncle Tobias!” she says with a smirk. "How would you react if you found out Arthur had a crush on MC?"

Tobias blinks, before cracking into an awkward laugh. “Arthur? A crush? On MC?” He rubs the back of his neck, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I mean, it’s… surprising, but not the worst thing in the world, I guess. I mean ! He’s ten. A bit young for that, don’t you think?"

Elianna chuckles softly, leaning her chin on her hand. “Come on, Tobias. Kids his age have crushes all the time. You can’t deny it’s possible. Plus Mc is really easy to like."

Tobias shrugs. "Of course they are! I was so excited for Arthur to meet them! He’s been asking a lot of questions about MC ever since I mentioned them. If he does have a crush, it just means he sees how great they are too.” His tone softens slightly, the affection for both Arthur and MC clear.

Cecily beams. “Aw, that’s sweet! But what if Arthur didn’t like MC? Maybe because… of...you know.”

Tobias’s expression hardens slightly, though not out of anger. “Arthur’s not like that,” he says firmly. “He’s a good kid, and I trust him. If something like that came up, I’d talk to him. Make him understand how wrong it is to judge someone by the blood running through their veins. But honestly…” He pauses, his voice softening again. “I can’t see him disliking MC. He’s been curious about them ever since I told him about Northview. I think he’s more excited to spend time with them than anything else.”

Ashlyen, who had been quietly observing, tilts his head. “Interesting. You’re remarkably sure of this boy’s character. A bold thing, considering his age, that you pointed out earlier.”

Tobias gives him a sharp look but doesn’t rise to the bait. “Arthur’s got a good heart. I wouldn’t have brought him to Northview otherwise.”

Elianna smiles gently, her gaze flickering between Tobias and Ashlyen. “It’s good that Arthur has you looking out for him. And that MC has someone like you too.”

Tobias grumbles something under his breath, though the warmth in his expression lingers as he shifts his focus back to Cecily. “Next question?”

Cecily lets out a chuckle. She adjusts her seat, her quill lightly tapping the parchment as she pushes a lock of hair back behind her ear. “Okay, this one's a bit of a time-dive. The reader wants to know: How long was Ash in the picture with ‘preggo’ Elianna? Did he watch the birth of his child? If not, did he want to? And lastly, what were Elianna’s cravings, and how did everyone handle her mood swings?”

Tobias snorts at the word “preggo,” earning a quick glare from Cecily.

Ashlyen sits up straighter, his expression unreadable. “I wasn’t there,” he says curtly.

Elianna hesitates, her hands tightening around the fabric of her red dress. “Ash… wasn’t part of my pregnancy,” she says, her voice measured. “He couldn’t be. Not with...the risks.”

Ashlyen’s jaw tightens, but he nods. “It wasn’t a choice I made lightly. But staying would have put you—and them—in danger. You know that."

Elianna looks at him, pain and sorrow in her face, then nods. “I do. And I don’t blame you for it. But…” Her voice softens. “It was hard.”

Cecily nods and gives her a supportive smile before turning to Ashlyen. “Did you want to be there for the birth?”

“Of course I did!” Ashlyen says, his voice low but firm. “Every day I wasn’t there, I wanted to be. It's a feeling that persists to this day. . And when I heard it was difficult…” His voice trails off, and he looks down, visibly struggling with the memory.

Tobias clears his throat. "It was difficult," he says bluntly. "Cecily and I handled it." He adds, smug. "She’s the one who brought MC into the world, not without a lot of effort. And Elia..." He stops, glancing at her with raw softness. "You were stronger than anyone had a right to be."

Elianna smiles faintly "Thanks, Toby."

Cecily jumps in, eager to lighten the mood. “Well, as for cravings, Elianna had a thing for sweet things. Honeyed bread, candied nuts, even raw sugar sometimes. We had to ration it so she wouldn’t run us out of supplies!”

Elianna laughs softly, some of the tension easing from her frame. “I blame the baby. They had quite the sweet tooth even then. Elianna chuckles softly, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “Oh, Tobias once came back with an entire jar of honey because I couldn’t stop talking about it.”

Tobias groans, shaking his head. “You mean the three jars. And you finished them in a week!”

Cecily laughs. “And what about the mood swings? How did everyone deal with those?”

Tobias raises an eyebrow. “Carefully.”

Elianna narrows her eyes at both of them. “I wasn’t that bad!”

"You were!"

“Elianna was an angel 90% of the time. But that other 10%? You did not want to be the one to give her bad news.”

Elianna raises an eyebrow at him. “You survived, didn’t you?”

“Barely,” Tobias teases, and the room erupts in soft laughter.

Cecily claps her hands. “Alright, that was a great answer from everyone! Next question!” She leans forward, clearly intrigued by the next question. “Alright, Tobias, this one’s for you. Have you ever indulged in the fantasy of MC being your pupil? Of them being a Tear, and the both of you traveling the world together—even if that could never happen?”

Tobias tilts his head back against the doorframe, letting out a low chuckle. “Fantasy, huh? That’s putting it lightly.”

Cecily’s pen pauses. “So… you have?”

He shrugs, crossing his arms. “Of course I have. It’s hard not to, sometimes. MC has… potential. A spark, They have something! And I’ve wondered what it would’ve been like to guide that spark, to show them the world beyond Northview.” His voice softens slightly. “To see them grow, to face challenges together as a team.”

Elianna shifts in her seat, her expression unreadable. “You’ve never mentioned this before.”

Tobias glances at her, a faint sad smirk tugging at his lips. “Because it’s just that—a fantasy. I know their path isn’t mine to guide. They have their own journey to follow, and I’d never try to take that away from them.”

Ashlyen, who has been quietly listening, finally speaks. “You wouldn’t want to be their teacher. Not really.”

Tobias raises an eyebrow. “And why’s that?”

Ashlyen meets his gaze evenly. “Because deep down, you know they already look up to you—not as a teacher, but as family, as...as a father. And that’s a far greater bond.” he swallows.

For a moment, Tobias doesn’t reply, his usual sharp demeanor toward Ashlyen softening.

“Maybe you’re right,” he admits quietly.

The exchange makes Elianna's head drop. Cecily hastens to seize her hand as she sees the young woman's eyes begin to glisten.

“Let's move on to the next question,” says Ashlyen, clearing his throat.

Cecily glances at the next question and hesitates, her gaze flickering toward Ashlyen. “This one’s… sensitive. But I think it’s worth asking.” She takes a steadying breath. “Ashlyen, out of all the biggest milestones that come with raising a child, which do you wish you had been there for the most?”

Ashlyen’s usual stoicism falters, and he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His gaze drifts to the floor, his voice quieter than usual. “All of them. Every single one.”

Elianna’s expression softens, and she looks away, her hands clasping tightly in her lap.

Ashlyen continues, his tone heavy. “If I had to choose…” He pauses, searching for the right words. “Their first steps, definitely. Seeing them walk for the first time—watching them move forward, maybe run even just a little, and knowing it’s the beginning of so much more. I’ve imagined it a thousand times, but it’s never the same as being there.”

Tobias, leaning against the doorframe, shifts uncomfortably but doesn’t interrupt.

Cecily’s pen stills for a moment as she studies Ashlyen. “Do you think you’ll ever get to be there for other milestones?”

Ashlyen meets her gaze, his eyes shadowed but resolute. “I hope so. More than anything. But hope doesn’t change the past.”

Elianna finally speaks, her voice soft. “It doesn’t. But it can shape the future, Ash.”

The elf glances at her, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them.

Cecily clears her throat, sensing the tension. “Well… thank you for answering so honestly.” She offers him a small, encouraging smile. “I think the readers will appreciate that.”

Ashlyen nods slightly, retreating into silence once more.

Cecily watches the silence settle over the room like a thick fog. Ashlyen's gaze is fixed on the table, his hand resting on the edge, tense and motionless. Even Tobias, who is usually eager to have the last word, remains silent, leaning back against the doorframe, looking somber.

Elianna studies Ashlyen intently, her features softening as she perceives the slight tremor in his hand. She sighs, a mixture of sadness and determination crossing her face.

“I think we all need a moment,” she says softly, breaking the silence.

Tobias raises an eyebrow but doesn't argue. He exhales sharply, mumbles something under his breath, and shifts position. Elianna rises slowly, her chair gently scraping the floor. Cecily's pen pauses mid-word as she watches the young woman circle the table.

Ashlyen doesn't look up, his shoulders rigid, his head down. Elianna stops beside him, close enough for her scent to reach him.

“Ash,” she whispers, in a tender yet firm voice.

He looks up, hesitant to meet her gaze. The reserved expression he wears so well fades and, for a moment, Cecily thinks he looks completely lost. It's a difficult vision, one that presses on her heart.

Elianna kneels beside him and grabs his hand from the table. She interlaces her fingers in his, the contact both grounding and comforting. “I know how much this weighs on you,” she says, her thumb grazing his knuckles in a soothing rhythm.

His jaw tightens, but his fingers wrap around hers instinctively. “It's not enough,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “I should have been there, for you, for them.”

Elianna leans closer to him, her other hand rising to touch his cheek. He flinches slightly at first, but she holds on, her palm warm against his skin. His breath catches and he closes his eyes and leans deeper against her. “I wanted to be there,” he admits, his words heavy with unspoken pain.

“I know,” she replies, her voice poised but charged with emotion. “And so will they, one day. They'll understand, Ash. Because I'll make sure they know the truth - that their father loved them enough to protect them, even from afar.”

Ashlyen's hand tightens around his, his head dipping forward until their foreheads almost touch. “Elianna,” he breathes, his name a mixture of reverence and regret.

“You always did what you thought was best,” she continued, her fingers threading through his dark hair. “And I don't blame you for that. I've never blamed you. Not then, not now. We agreed.”

Ashlyen's shoulders shake slightly, and for the first time, Cecily sees tears shining in his eyes. The elf who had always seemed untouchable, inflexible, seems fragile and human in Elianna's hands.

Near the door, Tobias shifts uncomfortably, the tenderness of the moment seeming too intimate for him to witness. “If we take a break, I'll come out,” he murmurs, rising quickly to his feet.

Elianna glances at him but says nothing, her attention returning to Ashlyen.

Cecily clears her throat gently and offers a small smile. “I'll give you some privacy. Let me know when you're ready to continue.” She gathers her notes and follows Tobias, leaving the room to the two of them.

As the door closes, Elianna runs her thumb over Ashlyen's cheek, catching a tear. “You don't have to be strong all the time,” she murmurs. “Especially not when you're with me.”

Ashlyen lets out a shaky breath, his hand holding her like a lifeline. “I'm sorry,” he murmurs.

“For what?” she asks softly.

“For everything,” he replies.

Elianna leans forward and places a tender kiss on his lips. “I'm not Ash. Just let me be there for you."

#Adorel's Tears #Q&A #interactive game #interactive fiction

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