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fawniswriting · 14 days ago

Text

Mr. Congressman

The above image does not indicate the reader's physical appearance.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Synopsis: After Congressman James Buchanan Barnes buys you a drink at the bar, your night takes a turn for a more passionate one.

Word Count: 7.3k

Warning(s): no use of Y/N. use of the nickname angel and sweetheart. alcohol consumption. lots of flirting. smut (18+ mdni)—dirty talk, so much praising, handjob, vaginal fingering, oral sex (f!receiving), multiple orgasms (reader), unprotected sex (p in v), creampie. lmk if I missed anything!!

Author's Note: I decided to drop this while I'm rewriting the next chapter of Faithfully Yours. I've wanted to write Congressman Bucky for awhile but didn't know what kind of story to make until this idea came upon me. For the record, smut is my kryptonite, and it took a lot of miracle for me to even finish this up. I genuinely have developed a new kind of appreciation for all of you smut writers out there. Anyways, the concept of this story sounded a lot better in my head, but hopefully this isn't that bad for a first attempt and I hope you'll still like it xx don't forget to comment/like/reblog to support :)

“Your drink, Ma'am.”

The bartender slides a tall flute across the counter, settling it beside the empty glass of spritzer you downed earlier. It doesn't take long for you to recognize the fruity aroma wafting through the air, the rusty red liquid rising in tiny bubbles as you scrutinize the drink with furrowed brows.

The Minimalist Bar and Lounge is nestled on the ground floor of Rosewood Hotel in Georgetown, Washington, D.C. The bar's interior exudes subtle sophistication, its dim lighting casting amber reflections across the polished mahogany counter. Soft piano jazz hums through the speakers overhead, cruising into the low murmurs of the sparse Thursday night crowd.

You look up towards the bartender, a middle-aged man with laugh lines creasing his tan skin, and push the glass slightly towards him. “I didn't order this.”

“A gentleman sent it over,” he apprises, tapping his fingers against the counter with a knowing smile. “Says to tell you that you've got an admirer.”

Before you can say more, the bartender gives you a cheeky wink, striding away to whip up an order from another customer.

You drag the slender glass closer, spinning the drink around until the golden liquid at the top simmers into the red. As soon as you take an intrepid sip, the sweet tang of blackcurrant explodes in your mouth, compelling you to hum favorably at the familiar flavor coating your tongue.

You have barely set your glass back down when a deep voice suddenly erupts by your side.

“May I join you?”

The low, rough timbre of the voice sends a shiver down your back, chased away immediately by the warm presence that has settled next to you. Shifting in your seat, you tilt your head and lock eyes with another pair in cerulean, breath hitching in your throat when you take in the scent of fine spices mixing sedulously with bergamot.

Congressman James Buchanan Barnes is a sight to behold within the quiet establishment. With his tall stature and lean muscles stretching taut under the fancy suit, he is bound to attract every thread of attention in the room. The faint gray dusting his stubbled cheeks only adds to the man's overall charm, and as he peers down at you from his full, subjugating height, you can't help but ponder about how none of his pictures ever did his attractiveness justice.

Gathering your composure, you manage a small smile before nodding towards the empty seat beside you. ”Of course.”

The congressman doesn't waste time sliding into the stool, reciting his order towards the bartender with a practiced speech and a methodical gesture of his hand. His whole focus is back on you in a matter of seconds, bright ocean blue eyes taking in your features like curators would a priceless piece of Monet. You burn under his blatant appreciation, trying to mask the crack in your poise by taking another sip of your cocktail.

“How's the drink?” he asks, the curve of his lips discreet but genuine under the warm lighting.

“It's good.” You set the glass down, tilting your body to the side until your knees nearly touch his. “I gather you're the one who sent it?”

Congressman Barnes doesn't say anything in return. He only continues staring at you—as if nothing else exists in the world at that moment except for the woman sitting in front of him—but the glint of mirth in his pupils tells you everything you need to know.

Your knees bump into his. “Very smooth, Congressman.”

The corner of his lips tilt higher. “Call me Bucky.”

Your eyebrows rise.

Before you can give a response, the bartender returns carrying the congressman's order of a classic Old Fashioned. Congressman Barnes accepts the drink with an easy nod, his fingers curling around the short tumbler as he turns towards you again.

“It's what my friends call me,” he adds, smirking behind the rim of his glass.

“Is that what we are now?” you muse, eyes flicking twice between his hypnotizing eyes and kissable lips. “Friends?”

The man chuckles. He puts down his glass with a deliberate slowness, each stretch of movements calculated and needlessly arousing. Then, he leans in, just enough to steal the air between the two of you, just enough to make the world beyond to begin blurring around the edges.

“Angel—” his voice dips, the raspy edge floating along your skin, “—we can be whatever you want us to be.”

A shudder runs through your spine. You try convincing yourself that it is due to the chill in the air and the sheer material of your dress, but the simultaneous quickening of your heartbeat, along with the rush of goosebumps across your skin completely banishes that attempt. It was all your body's reaction to Congressman Barnes, and he knows this. He can read you like a goddamn open book—pinpoint the slightest change in your posture, detect the tiniest rise in your pulse, and spot the way your pupils dilate with each second your gaze stays locked on him.

He leans even closer, the ghost of his metal fingertips venturing the skin of your knee until he catches the silent gasp in your throat.

It excites him.

Biting your lip, you shuffle slightly to your side to escape his electrifying touch, putting on a pristine smile while pretending as though your composure weren't currently lying in tiny broken shards on the floor.

“Well, Bucky—” your voice is soft, baiting as you reach for your flute on the counter, “—thank you for the drink. How'd you know Kir Royale's my favorite?”

The smirk on Congressman Barnes’—Bucky's—face widens.

“Simple, sweetheart.” His velvet voice drips with amusement. “I just picked something that suits you the best.”

Bucky's fingers drift along the edge of the bar, brushing against your own hand and pulse point, lingering there as if committing the rhythm of your heart into memory. By the dark flicker in his gaze, you know that he must have caught the stutter in your heartbeat, the indisputable evidence of his infuriating effect on your being.

Without breaking eye contact, Bucky plucks the glass from your grasp, his fingers warm where yours have been.

“Something sweet,” Bucky murmurs, swirling the red liquid before lifting the drink to his lips. He takes a long, unhurried sip, letting the moment stretch, cerulean blue smoldering into your eyes over the rim. “Seductive.”

He sets the glass back down with a soft clink. Never once taking his attention off you. Tracing his heated gaze over your entire body in a way that sends fire searing through your skin.

“And dangerous,” he finishes with a husky whisper, heavy with tension and unspoken revelations.

“Dangerous?” Your eyes twinkle. “How am I dangerous?”

Bucky huffs a quiet laugh, flashing you his striking pearly whites. “You kidding me? A woman like you, looking like that.”

His eyes roam the length of your legs, landing on the skin of your thigh peeking through the slit of your dress, delicate and tempting. Bucky's tongue darts out, wetting his lips as he takes a moment to admire you.

“And that dress—” his eyes dip lower to your chest, drinking in the sight of your exposed collarbones and the shape of your curves, lingering too long as if it were the first time he ever laid eyes upon a woman, “—is the very definition of sin, sweetheart.”

A surge of delight curls your lips as you sway slightly in your seat, letting the dress grip tighter around your frame like a second skin, feeling the material shift just enough to taint Bucky's eyes with something prurient. Your fingers slither down the side of your body, half-conscious of Bucky's heated gaze that seems to map the path of your provocative touch.

“Do you like it? It's new,” you goad coyly, caressing your body through the silk. “I bought it today for a special occasion.”

Bucky's eyes crinkle at the corner, his pupils glistering with intrigue. “Yeah? Like a first date, Angel?” He takes a casual sip of the amber liquid in his glass, his nose scrunching up in thought as he plays along. “Bought it for a boyfriend? A husband, perhaps?”

You fight off the thrill traveling through your veins and answer, shrugging nonchalantly, “Something like that.”

The tip of Bucky's mouth lifts. “What a lucky bastard,” he says earnestly, eyes drilling into yours as if he wants to bury himself there.

You evade his intense stare, feigning interest at your cocktail instead. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Well,” you pause purposefully, studying all of the sharp edges that forge the man sitting in front of you, picturing all of the tenderness that he has concealed beneath the crisp white shirt and that impeccable tux of his. “Are you here on business? Or something else?”

Bucky's eyes wander towards the rows of bottles and liquors lining the wall of the bar, tweaking his bow tie as though just now remembering that it was there in the first place.

“Business,” he replies, straightforward, the pad of his index finger circling the lip of his glass on the counter. But then his eyes fly upward, sealing you in place. “Maybe a bit of pleasure as well.”

You hum, leaning closer until you feel the neckline of your dress flitter recklessly from your skin, divulging parts of you that manage to reclaim Bucky's sole interest. “Is that so?”

His throats bob.

There is no mistaking the whirr of his vibranium arm as the fingers clench, metal plates shifting in tandem with the torrent of desire rushing through Bucky’s mind. He imagines dropping his head to your chest, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses on the expanse of skin, coaxing gasps and sounds of pleasure from those perfect, alluring lips. He imagines sinking to his knees, running his mouth up the length of your leg until he reaches the one place that would make you quiver and crumble in his mercy. Worshipping at your altar like a madman finally finding the true meaning of religion.

Public decency be damned.

But before he can open his mouth, before he gets the chance to act on the budding ache tightening his slacks, the ringing coming out of his suit pocket stops him dead in tracks.

Bucky curses.

You study him curiously, taking in the augmenting scowl on his face as he glimpses at the screen of his phone. Nursing your drink, you let your voice soften while asking, “Something urgent?”

“No.” Bucky is quick to answer, shoving the phone back into his pocket like he is eager to be rid of the gadget. “Not at all. Nothing more important than you, Angel.”

The next round of ringing downright betrays his words.

It takes Bucky a copious amount of willpower to not launch the despicable device across the room. He grits his teeth, blue eyes hurling invisible daggers towards the number on the screen, a number belonging to one of the jerk-ass faces with whom he has no intention of doing business at this moment in time. Bucky wishes he could just block the sleazy bastard's number and be done with it.

But he can't.

Because as hard as Bucky tries to shed the new title when he steps out of the confined spaces of his office, at the end of the day, he is not merely Bucky Barnes anymore.

He is Congressman James Buchanan Barnes.

And playing nice with people he would rather punch in the face is, unfortunately, part of the unofficial job description.

Bucky heaves a sigh, running an exasperated palm across his face before his repentant gaze finds yours.

“I have to—” he pauses, voice thick with guilt and frustration.

Bucky expects you to scowl, to see the same kind of disappointment that is gnawing at him etching on your beautiful face. Instead, all he finds is your effortless smile, the kind that has the power to wage a war or two. It makes something inside him lurch.

“You should take the call, Mr. Congressman.”

You glide out of the comfort of your seat with ease, finishing your drink and collecting your stone-studded clutch in hand. Bucky moves to protest, nearly leaping out of his own seat to prevent you from leaving, but the soothing press of your palm against his chest renders him back in place.

“Finish the call,” you tell him, adamant. Above the counter, your hand skims forward, furtively sliding something under Bucky's own palm before your fingers squeeze his in fervent. “And when you're done, come find me.”

Upon your departure, Bucky turns his hand over, smiling to himself when he sees the key card with a room number scribbled on the paper holder. He examines your retreating figure once his head lifts, consuming the languid sway of your hips, the way your silk dress is clinging to every hard and soft edges that sculpt your captivating figure.

His body tenses with the urge to follow, to sneak his palm onto the small of your back and guide you towards where he knows this night is leading. But the shrill ringtone of his phone is relentless against his eardrums, ousting the compulsion away, forcing him to tear his gaze off as he answers the call with a clenched jaw.

As he brings the phone to his ear, Bucky's flesh hand flexes around the key card, letting the corner dig into the center of his palm, a silent reminder that the night is far from being over yet.

The clean smell of cotton bedsheets and the tang of lavender air freshener greet you the moment you step into your hotel room. Inside, though, your lungs constrict, yearning instead for the scent of cloves and bergamot that you left behind at the bar alongside the handsome gentleman who possesses it.

Your heels are discarded somewhere in the foyer before you tread indolently towards the bathroom, going to the sink to splash some water on your face, mindful not to mess the makeup you have expertly painted on earlier in the evening. The cold water does little to eliminate the heat on your cheeks, the same one that now travels through your entire body as your skin tingles with the phantom touch of a certain super soldier turned congressman.

It should be illegal—the facile power he holds over you.

The carpet is plush underneath your steps as you exit the bathroom, sauntering towards the balcony and delighting in the breath of late May’s fresh air that hails you when you walk through the sliding doors. Washington, D.C. sprawls out beneath you in a tapestry of scintillating lights and colossal silhouettes. From your vantage point, The Potomac snakes through the city like a ribbon of obsidian, its surface catching the occasional reflection of passing headlights, glinting in contrast against the ink-dark sky. The Capitol's dome gleams in the distance, a beacon of order and principle, while the Washington Monument stands unyielding like a silent sentinel.

The city buzzes with life even at this hour, cars speeding through the streets and far off laughter resonating from the avenues below. And yet, even with all of its grandeur, the city's view still pales in comparison with the images of him in your mind—the way his blue eyes darkened when he took you in, the way he ignited your body just from a single touch. No matter how much you try to focus on the cityscape, your thoughts inevitably circle back to him: Bucky Barnes. Every time you blink, he is there—braided into the crevasses between your heartbeats, dithering in the warmth still coiled beneath your skin.

As though summoned by the constant notions of him in your head, you catch the unmistakable sound of the front door unlocking, followed closely by the echo of heavy footsteps entering the room.

When you emerge from the balcony, Bucky is already standing in the middle of the lush executive suite, shedding off his tuxedo jacket and bow tie where they end up in a pile above the sofa. He looks up at the sound of the sliding doors being locked, the stress in his shoulders dissipating when his eyes finally find yours.

Examining him from head to toe, you lean your shoulder against the balcony door and ask, “How was the phone call?”

“Fine,” Bucky answers simply. “I took care of it.”

“Hm. Good.”

The atmosphere desiccates with tension. There is a flame starting in the pit of your stomach, one that you’re trying miserably to quell before it grows into something destructive and menacing. But the way Bucky is looking at you from the distance, so stubborn and piercing, suggests that he already knows what kind of turmoil your body is currently battling with itself.

Clearing your throat, you walk over to the assortment of liquors available in the mini bar, avoiding Bucky’s stare as you ask, “Would you like something to drink?”

Reaching for the undoubtedly expensive wine, you turn it over in your hand, nearly dropping the bottle when Bucky replies, “I don’t know, sweetheart. Kinda craving something else right now.”

Your chest hammers as you listen to the scratch of shoes against the floor, the surrounding temperature rising with each breadth of space Bucky erases with his footsteps. He is a fortress when he finally stands behind you—a man of battle and steel, whose hands have seen bloodshed beyond your wildest nightmares, whose same hands are now ghosting over your arms with a tenderness that tugs at your heartstrings.

Bucky drops his head on the nape of your neck, his breaths spluttering as he grounds himself with a grip around each of your forearms. Your stomach folds at the brush of his plump lips against your skin, the nudge of his nose as he breathes in your scent like it was an appropriate substitute for oxygen.

“What are you doing to me?” he bleats, almost to himself, sucking in a bruise to your pulse point that wrenches a gasp out of your throat.

“Bucky.” You sigh, the bottle of wine long forgotten as it stands lonesome on the counter. Turning in his arms, you are faced instantly with the intense blue of Bucky’s eyes, brimming with a hunger so conspicuous it threatens to consume you whole. You card your fingers through his hair, rejoicing in the gravelly rumble Bucky makes over the simple touch. “I could ask you the same thing.”

In Bucky’s company, the extravagant suite around you feels smaller, as if the walls were closing in to bear witness to the charged moment simmering in the meager space separating you both. Metal fingers sweep your jaw, featherlight yet sizzling, treading carefully before finding purchase on the side of your face. You barely register what is happening before Bucky’s lips are suddenly on yours—kissing you, claiming you, molding against yours in a dance of affection that soon bleeds into desperation.

Bucky swallows every whimper and plea, his tongue exploring your mouth as if the kiss itself has become his soul's main source of sustenance. His vibranium palm on your cheek is alleviating, but his flesh hand on your waist is rough, gripping tenaciously, pushing you back until your spine is pinned between his imposing frame and the mini bar's counter. His lips teeter away from the kiss to find your jaw, trailing a path down your neck until there is no inch of skin free from the adornment of his marks.

He slots his thigh between your legs, nudging against the place where you yearn for him the most, making you mewl.

“Bucky, please,” you cry out, grinding yourself down on the toned muscles of his thigh.

“Fuck, sweetheart. Can't believe you're wrecked and bothered already,” Bucky muses, eyes drifting downward to drink in the erotic roll of your hips. “And I haven't even started yet.”

You should be embarrassed, should be alarmed by the mess you have become from just a single kiss. But any semblance of self-consciousness in your body evaporates in the blink of an eye, especially when Bucky yanks at the flimsy straps of your gauzy dress without so much as a warning, tearing it clear from your frame and letting it pool in a pathetic heap around your feet.

“Bucky!” you shriek, half from shock and half from the cold air that has suddenly enveloped your skin.

The man only licks his lips. “I'll buy you another one.”

You do not protest after that—not when his eyes rove over you as if you were the long-awaited feast to his ravenous beast. A thrill runs down your spine, satisfaction blooming in your chest at the way his stare lingers on the lacy matching set you so carefully chose to don for the night. It was meant to be a simple indulgence—a cute little thing you bought on a whim after catching a glimpse of it while you were out window shopping with friends—but now, under Bucky’s shameless admiration, the lacy number feels like the most brilliant spending decision you have ever made in life.

“Goddamn, Angel,” Bucky rasps, his teeth sinking down onto his bottom lip. “You sure as hell know how to send a man to their knees.”

“And yet, here you are.” You raise your eyebrows. “Still standing.”

The grin he rewards you is a thousand times brighter than the sun. “Not for long.”

Bucky drops his head lower, trailing open-mouthed kisses across your décolletage, nibbling on the silky skin that borders the line of your lacy bra. He makes quick work unclasping the garment and tossing it to the side, the cool air briskly nipping at your skin before his mouth is back on you once more, lavishing attention on each sensitive peak until you are trembling in his arms.

“Oh, Bucky,” you murmur amorously.

“I know, sweetheart.” He pinches your nipple, forcing you to bite his shoulder to stifle your squeal. “God, you’re one beautiful thing.”

His journey continues southward, across your torso, all the way down to your most private area. Bucky is kneeling before you now—the madman finally paying reverence to his most beloved goddess—and he looks absolutely fucking ecstatic. The sight of him between your legs, mouth-watering and aching to taste, is enough to have your head spinning in anticipation.

“I can smell you.” Bucky groans, sinking his head to press a kiss on your clothed core. The contact sends you spiraling over the precipice. “So fucking pretty. My pretty angel.”

Bucky's hands caress the back of your thighs, the contrast between flesh and metal sending a jolt of electricity through your veins. He dips his head again, this time wrapping his mouth around your mound, and starts eating you out despite the barrier of your panties.

You moan wantonly at his sinful attention, nearly collapsing to the floor if it weren't for Bucky's firm support keeping you upright. He fidgets with the fringe of your underwear, holding the fabric to the side to coat two of his flesh digits with your wetness.

“So wet for me already,” he murmurs, lapping at his soaked fingers with a blissful look across his face. “Tastes like nectar, sweetheart.”

“Bucky,” you whine, pulling at his shoulder-length hair until his blue eyes are locked onto yours. “No teasing.”

The shit-eating grin on his face would have aggravated you if it weren't for how unbelievably gorgeous he looks, kneeling at your mercy.

“Yes, Ma'am.”

Without wasting another second, Bucky lets go of your underwear with a final kiss on your covered clit, standing to his feet and hauling you up in his arms all in one breath. You yelp in surprise, securing your legs around Bucky's waist as he carries you efficiently towards the bed, the delicious friction of his pants compelling your inner walls to tense in ardor, making you crave him even more.

Bucky ensures that your back meets the mattress gently before he withdraws, though your whine of protest stops him before he can go far, your arms reaching for him as he takes your hands with a laugh.

“Eager, are we?” he asks impishly, peppering tiny kisses across your knuckles.

“Only for you, Buck.”

Bucky's smile softens, his lips securing a final kiss on the back of your hand before his deft fingers start undoing the buttons of his shirt. You observe with bated breath as he reveals the muscular panes of his torso, biting your lower lip when his hands begin working on his belt buckle and dress slacks.

Once he is back on you again, this time in nothing but the thin fabric of his boxer, it feels like everything in your life has slid right into place.

“Hi,” Bucky says, breathless, a boyish grin stretching his lips into a charming curve.

“Hi, handsome.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, lugging him down into a heated kiss and relishing in the feeling of metal fingers pinching your hip. Every sensation is amplified as his breath stumbles in your mouth, the softness of his lips contrasting with his metallic touch. Your hand wanders the expanse of skin, exploring the river of veins and the constellation of freckles, drawing random patterns down Bucky's abdomen until you reach the waistband of his drawers.

When your palm slips inside, circling around his hardening length, Bucky stammers into the kiss.

“Angel.” His voice comes out as a guttural moan. “What are you doing?”

“Wanna make you feel good, Buck.” You bury your nose in his temple, kissing the corner of his eye. “Please.”

Bucky barely has time to nod before your fingers scramble to rid him of the last barrier casing his body. His underwear is gone in a swift motion, ditched somewhere in the room through the haze of urgency.

At last, Bucky is there—above you, all around you, entirely overwhelming in his presence—and the sight of him alone steals the breath from your very lungs. The austere glow of the room carves shadows along the solid lines of his body, every muscle and sinew sculpted into something unreal. His skin is littered by old scars and the passage of time, telling a story that you long to trace and memorize with every subtle scrape of your heart.

He is devastating—an Adonis chiseled not by gentle divinity, but by violence and calamity. And yet he is here, flesh and blood, naked and glorious, a whole man despite history and remorse masticating him bit by bit. And right now, Bucky Barnes is looking at you like you are the only thing in this world tethering him to reality.

Your heart constricts, synchronously with your pussy, catching you somewhere between awe and want as you reach for him once more.

At the first grip of your fingers around his shaft, Bucky lets out a hiss.

“Is this okay?” you ask cautiously.

“God, yes,” Bucky respires, forehead creasing when you give an experimental squeeze around his girth. “Yes, sweetheart, it’s more than okay.”

His rough response motivates you to start pumping.

It doesn't take long for you to settle on a rhythm, moving your hand up and down, twisting and clutching until you are requited with his morose sighs and moans. Bucky is utterly beautiful like this—eyes shut, long hair shielding his face as his hips snap up to meet your depraved ministrations. Each moan that escapes him only drives you to move faster, your own pulse quickening as you feel him unraveling beneath your touch.

When your thumb resolutely swipes over his slit, Bucky's entire body staggers, a shuddering gasp tearing through his throat as he jerks in your grasp.

Your chest inflates with titillation. “You like that?”

“Y-Yes. Oh God,” Bucky stammers, burying his face in your neck when you repeat the movement again, collecting his precum. “Shit, Angel. M’ not gonna last if you keep that up.”

His admission only spurs you on, tightening your grip, encouraging your strokes to grow bolder. Bucky is a mess above you—all ragged breaths and sweat-slicked skin, every muscle in his body coiled like a rubber band on the verge of snapping. It is an addictive view, so intoxicating that you could live off it, spending the rest of your days ravaging him like this.

But before your dream can materialize, a calloused hand clamps around your wrist out of the blue, putting an end to your movements and forcing the thrill in your veins to a halt.

Your forehead knits in confusion as you stare into Bucky’s eyes.

“Gotta stop, sweetheart,” he pants, an easy but wrecked smile embellishing his gorgeous face. “Or else I'd blow before we even get to the good part.”

Heaving a deep sigh, you jut out your bottom lip and sulk. “Is that such a bad thing?”

“Christ, no.” Bucky chuckles. “Another time, I might take you up on that. But tonight?” He ducks his head, stealing a quick kiss that has you seeing stars. “I wanna be inside you when I cum.”

The promise catches you off guard, sending a dash of anticipation through your ribs and into every corner of your being. Bucky's fingers gently unwrap yours from his length, his cock still red and leaking from your recent attention. He regains control in no time, his lips descending upon your skin like a voyager mapping out a sacred route, pressing open-mouthed kisses as he charts a path down the curves of your body.

His breath is warm against your stomach, each kiss dragging lower, teasing ruthlessly, until his fingers hook into your underwear and strip it away in one hasty, practiced motion. He groans at the sight of you, his voice thick with admiration and something more primal as his mouth lets out a muttered curse.

“Jesus, sweetheart.” Bucky’s dark lashes flutter, drinking you in. “You’re a damn masterpiece.”

The raw compliment nudges your heart, brewing the fog in your mind until you are nothing but a heap of fire and lust.

Words fly out of your head as Bucky eats you out like a man starved—licking, sucking, and biting with a desperation that borders on worship. His tongue moves in volitional strokes, alternating between featherlight flicks and deep siphoning of your bundle of nerves. Your fingers twist into Bucky's hair, tugging hard enough to earn a growl, the sound vibrating in pleasurable waves all throughout your body.

As if his current ministrations weren't enough, Bucky suddenly brings his metal fingers to your opening, prodding and unfolding gently, pushing two of his digits in until they are sheathed inside the heat of your weeping hole.

“Holy shit, Angel. Look at ya,” Bucky mutters, watching your walls throb around him as he pushes and retracts his vibrainum hand. The sight alone makes his own hardness twitch. “Soakin’ me like a dam, sweetheart. This all for me?”

“Yes, Bucky. No—ah! N-No one else,” you let out between helpless gasps, grinding despairingly onto Bucky's hand.

Bucky's pupils dilate, his eyes scanning you from head to toe as if immortalizing you into memory. The pace of his fingers is increasing by the minute—scissoring, curling, grasping for that one magical spot that never fails to ruin your whole being. Bucky's mouth returns on you in no time, nibbling and tracing with his tongue, humming heartily with every wrecked sound escaping from your chest.

“S-Shit. Bucky, that feels—mpphh. I'm s-so close—ah!”

The climax crashes into you in a matter of minutes, arriving like a tsunami, abrupt and earth-shattering. Bucky is patient as he guides you through it all, continuing the lazy licks on your clit and the slow pumps of his fingers inside you. He only relents when you begin squirming away from him, whining at the over-sensitivity aching through your bones.

“Are you okay?”

You blink through the mist in your vision, your eyes slowly refocusing on Bucky's concerned face.

He is a perfect picture of debauchery—kneeling on the bed in all of his majestic nudity, remnants of your release coating the nether part of his face. His question should be startling—the way it juxtaposes everything he has done to you thus far. However, Bucky Barnes is no man if he is not a decent one, and you let yourself find solace in that little fact as your lips widen into a smile.

“Bucky.” Your voice is sheer, grated away by the daze of satisfaction that still muddles your mind. “I am fantastic.”

A cheeky grin overtakes Bucky's lips as he crawls up your frame.

“Fantastic, huh?”

“Hm.” You nod, cloaking his neck with your arms. “You're fantastic.”

Bucky seizes your lips in a kiss, allowing you to taste your own desire on his tongue. Moans spill out of your mouth at the delectable shove of his shaft on your wetness, cherishing the way Bucky returns each roll of your pelvis with his own, his haze-lidded mind reducing the once mighty soldier into a mess of broken whines and crushing rapture.

With a sudden tide of momentum, you push against the formidable wall of his chest, catching Bucky off guard as you send an abrupt shove that sends his back straight to the mattress.

Bucky blinks up at you, stunned, taking in the sight of your body above his, straddling his hips like they were a throne created specifically for you to sit on. His hands instinctively come up to grasp your thighs, fingers flexing against fiery skin as his gaze darkens with an avid yearning.

“Damn,” he breathes, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Didn’t see that one comin’, sweetheart.”

You brush your mouth against his jaw. “I can’t wait any longer, Bucky. I need you inside me.”

A responding groan rumbles from Bucky's chest the moment you start to sink down, his cock stretching you open, filling you inch by inch until the two of you are joined as one. The world outside ceases to exist as you take him in, your bodies fusing together until there is no distance separating you two, no way of knowing where Bucky ends and you begin.

You take a speculative roll of your hips, testing the waters, finding your footing before descending on a lascivious, steady tempo. Bucky's hands are explorative on your skin, caressing down your thighs and up your hips, all while mumbling breathy curses and gentle encouragement that crackles down to your hankering core.

"That’s it, Angel," Bucky rasps, his hands squeezing the plush flesh of your backside. "So damn beautiful. Feels like you were made for me.”

“Buckyyy,” you wail, your hands bracing on top the sturdy surface of his chest. “You feel—oh! S-So—uhh—so good.”

Euphoria stumbles past your lips in a concoction of jumbled words, babbling against Bucky's chest while occasionally littering his hard panes with kisses. Every nerve ending in your body is alight, every drag of him inside you a luscious reprieve. Your entire senses are heightened with everything Bucky.

The gallant man beneath you sits up slightly, drawing you down by your neck until your foreheads are wedged against one another.

“You tired, sweetheart?” His voice is the epitome of lust, woven discreetly by a tenderness that threatens to liquefy your bones.

A breathless nod is all you can manage. Before you can fully grasp what is happening, Bucky is already taking control, wrapping you in his embrace and thrusting up into you like there is no tomorrow. Each snap of his hips sends you spiraling closer to the edge, his name spilling from your lips over and over again like a prayer to the moon, the stars, and the universe.

“B-Bucky!” Your voice hitches. “P-Please, I want to—ahh.”

“I know, sweetheart. Come on,” he urges, rough and terse, a drastic contrast to the kiss he presses to your forehead. “Give it to me.”

The pinnacle crashes over your whole being in an explosion of colors and light. A sharp cry tears from your throat as your walls tighten around him, your entire body convulsing while Bucky holds you through it, murmuring praises into your cheek and peppering soft kisses all over your face. You lose track of how long the two of you stay in that position—your face nestled safely in the crook of Bucky's neck, his hands skimming abstract patterns on the dimple of your spine.

The room is still buzzing in the aftermath of your orgasm when Bucky gently maneuvers you onto your back, switching places with you so that he is now hovering on top of your spent body. A quiet whimper escapes your throat the moment you feel him nudge against your over-sensitive core, the aftershocks still humming through your nerves like the echo of a symphony’s final crescendo.

Bucky notices immediately, his lips curving into a smirk as he brushes a hand down your cheek. “Too much, sweetheart?”

You swallow an empty air, the heat returning to your belly at the way Bucky is looking at you, like he is not nearly done devouring your body, mind, and soul. Still, he waits, his breath warm against your lips as his vibranium fingers stroke slow circles along your outer thigh.

“I know you’ve got one more in you,” he coaxes, sprinkling teasing kisses to your jaw, your throat, and the curve of your shoulder. “But I need to hear you say it, Angel. You want this?”

Despite the delicious ache between your legs—the overstimulation still singing beneath numerous layers of your skin—you don’t hesitate. You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to make him grunt.

“Yes,” you whisper, breath staggering when he moves his hips against yours. “Please, Bucky. I need you.”

Your confirmation is all he needs.

With a low, unruly sound, Bucky slams back into you, his restraint disintegrating as he buries himself to the hilt. This time, there is no leisure buildup—just raw, unadulterated need that ignites the blood coursing through your arteries. His rhythm is frantic and desperate, his hands bruising your waist like he needs to hold onto something real before he completely loses himself deeper in the bliss.

“Fuck. You're so tight, sweetheart. So warm and wet,” he groans, his forehead dropping against yours. “You feel perfect around me.”

You gasp at the thickness of him, the drag of each ridge of his length against your tender walls. Bucky is pounding relentlessly into you as he chases after his own release; the air between you thick with heat, with the sound of your bodies moving in an erotic, exquisite harmony.

“Oh, Bucky. Feels s-so good. So big.” You meet each of his thrusts eagerly, your body welcoming him as if the two of you were always meant to be one. “That's it. Ah, ah, t-take what you need, baby.”

A ragged moan rips from his throat, his movements turning erratic as he barrels toward the edge. Your walls shudder around him, making him stutter in his rhythm.

“Grippin’ me like a vice, sweetheart.” Bucky's eyebrows furrow, jaw clenched as his gaze finds yours. “Can't last long. Gonna—fuck. Shit, shit, m’ gonna cum.”

You pull him down into a frenzied kiss, pouring every ounce of your need into him, letting him listen to the way your blood, your organs, and every other thing inside you chant his name like a prayer recited in reckless devotion.

Bucky trembles as he reaches his peak, spilling everything he has to give into the deepest crevice of your heat, his body tensing before melting into a pliable mass above you. A broken moan catches in your throat as the pleasure pummels into you once more, your limbs clinging to him with whatever bit of strength remains in the fragmented pieces of your body.

For a while, there are no words spoken between the two of you. Just the shared intakes of your breaths, the soft press of Bucky’s lips against your temple, and the grounding strokes of his fingers tracing along your skin.

You shift slightly beneath him, tilting your head up to meet his gaze, and what you find there steals what little breath you have left—something reverent, something vulnerable. His thumb brushes over your cheek before he leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss so gentle and profound, a stark polarity to the frantic passion that has consumed you moments prior.

Bucky exhales a quiet chuckle once he withdraws, resting his forehead on top of yours.

"Christ, Angel," he mutters hoarsely, his voice strained with exhaustion and something unguarded. "You're gonna be the death of me.”

You hum, an appeased smile decorating your lips as you thread your fingers through his damp hair.

When Bucky finally pulls out, the absence of him leaves you aching and remarkably empty. Your body, already boneless from exhaustion, instinctively reaches for him, fingers grazing over his flesh hand in an attempt to search more of the warmth he naturally emits. Bucky chuckles, low and affectionate, his lips pressing a lingering kiss to the clammy skin of your forehead.

"Stay put, sweetheart. Gotta take care of you," he says before putting on his boxer and disappearing into the bathroom.

Bucky returns a moment later with a damp towel in hand. He goes to kneel beside you, his touch reposeful as he cleans you up with a forbearing care. The first press of the cloth against your sensitive core has you sucking in a breath, a whimper slipping free before you have the mind to stop it from resonating in the air. Bucky’s gaze flicks up at the sound, concern knitting his eyebrows as his hand stills above your pelvis.

“Easy, Angel,” he soothes, trailing a hand up your thigh in a comforting caress. “I know what you're gonna say. But you took me so damn well. Gotta make sure you don’t wake up hating me in the morning.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes despite the fond smile wresting your lips. “Pretty sure I already hate you a little.”

Bucky's responding beam is radiant, his chest deflating in the assurance that you are okay—or at least, okay enough to still have the fire to put him in place—before tossing the used towel onto the floor where it lands with the other discarded fabrics of your clothes.

“Nah,” Bucky shakes his head, flumping beside you on the bed and gathering you in his arms. “You love me.”

You sigh in contentment the second Bucky's arms surround you, keeping you pressed to his side and pulling the covers over both of your satiated bodies. You fit against him like two conjoined puzzle pieces, like you were always destined to lie in each other's arms and slot perfectly into the apertures of each other's lives. Bucky’s flesh hand finds your right palm on his chest, bringing it to his lips to fleck tiny kisses across each knuckle, the matching golden bands wrapped around your ring fingers glinting against one another.

Something in the cerulean blue of his eyes shifts. By the next time you blink, Bucky is already claiming your lips in a kiss so compassionate you fear your heart might burst from the sheer ferocity of it.

When he pulls back, Bucky is grinning, utterly smitten as he nuzzles his nose to the apple of your cheek.

“Happy anniversary, Angel,” Bucky murmurs, his voice heavy with selfless devotion and helpless exaltation. “I love you.”

A slow smile spreads across your lips, your nose wrinkling in happiness as you return, “Happy anniversary, my love.”

Your wedding bands catch the dim lighting of the bedside table lamp as Bucky laces his fingers through yours—sure and steady, a silent vow renewed without the necessity of spoken words. He exhales deeply, thoroughly at peace, and you let yourself sink into the warmth of his love, knowing with absolute certainty that there is nowhere else in the world you would rather be.

Nowhere but here, in the safety of your husband's arms, where your heart has always meant to stay.

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gf2bellamy · 2 months ago

Note

hello!!! just wanted to tell you that i absolutely love your fics and they really make my day <3

i was wondering if i could request a fic where bau!reader is kind of a geek about maybe doctor who but they really dont talk about it until they hear penelope and spencer talking about and she goes full on reid rant and spencer kind of just lights up bc hes never seen her so excited about something before

hopefully this isnt too niche 😣😣😣😣

but i would love to see what you would do!!!

-🦔

doctor — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: nothing a/n: hi hi !! thank you so much <3 i barely know anything about doctor who so i apologize if something is wrong ( google is such a life saver ) 😭 pls lmk so i can fix it but tysm for your request !! <33 hope you enjoy this

You clutched the report tightly to your chest as you made your way down the hall toward Garcia’s office. The case file you’d been working on was missing a crucial piece of information, and Garcia was the only one who could fill in the gaps.

As you approached her brightly decorated door, you noticed it was slightly open, and the sound of a conversation spilled into the hallway.

You recognized the voices immediately. You paused for a moment, not wanting to interrupt, but then you caught a snippet of their conversation that made your heart skip a beat.

“But you have to admit,” Spencer was saying, his voice tinged with excitement, “the way the Doctor handles paradoxes is scientifically fascinating. I mean, the concept of a fixed point in time versus a mutable one—it’s not entirely implausible, given theoretical physics.”

“Oh, please,” Garcia shot back, laughing. “It’s a TV show, Boy Wonder. Don’t go all ‘Reid’ on me and ruin the magic with your big brain.”

Your lips curled into a smile as you leaned against the doorframe, listening.

Doctor Who.

They were talking about Doctor Who. It was your favorite show, something you’d loved for years but rarely brought up at work.

You couldn’t help yourself. “Fixed points in time are one thing,” you chimed in, stepping into the room, “but what about the ethics of the Doctor’s non-interference policy? I mean, how many times has he broken his own rules to save someone? And don’t even get me started on the Time War.”

Both Garcia and Spencer turned to look at you, their eyes wide with surprise. Garcia’s mouth dropped open in delight, while Spencer’s face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning.

You felt a flush of warmth spread across your cheeks, but you couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out.

“I mean, the Doctor’s whole thing is about compassion and saving people, right? But then you’ve got moments like in ‘The Waters of Mars,’. It’s such a fascinating contradiction.”

Spencer stared at you, his expression a mix of awe and admiration. “You… you watch Doctor Who?” he asked, his voice soft.

You nodded, feeling a little self-conscious.“Yeah. I’ve been a fan for years. It’s kind of my thing.”

Garcia clapped her hands together, grinning from ear to ear. “Oh, this is perfect! Reid finally has someone who can keep up with his sci-fi rants. I mean, I love the show, but I’m more about the drama and the cute companions. You two can geek out over the sciencey stuff.”

Spencer’s eyes never left yours, and you could see the spark of excitement in them. “Do you… do you want to talk about it sometime?” he asked hesitantly, as if he were afraid you’d say no. “I mean, if you’re not busy. I’d love to hear your thoughts on the newer seasons. I know some fans have mixed feelings about them.”

You felt your heart flutter at the earnestness in his voice. Spencer Reid, the man you’d secretly admired for so long, was asking you to talk about Doctor Who. It was almost too good to be true.

“I’d love that,” you said, smiling. “But fair warning, I might get a little carried away. Once I start talking about the Doctor, it’s hard to stop.”

Spencer’s lips curved into a shy smile, and you noticed the faintest hint of pink on his cheeks. “I don’t mind,” he said softly. “I like hearing you talk about something you’re passionate about. It’s… nice.”

The room seemed to grow quieter.

Garcia cleared her throat dramatically. “Well, as much as I’d love to stick around and watch this adorable nerd-fest unfold, I’ve got some data to hack. You two kids have fun.”

She winked at you before turning back to her computer, leaving you and Spencer standing there, looking at each other.

You glanced down at the report in your hands, suddenly remembering why you’d come to Garcia’s office in the first place.

“Oh, right,” you said, holding up the file. “I actually came here for your help, Garcia. I’m missing some information for this case.”

Garcia waved a hand dismissively. “Consider it done, sweetcheeks. But seriously, you two should go grab a coffee or something. Talk about timey-wimey stuff. I’m sure Reid has a lot of opinions he’s dying to share.”

Spencer chuckled nervously, running a hand through his hair. “I, uh, wouldn’t want to impose,” he said, glancing at you. “But if you’re free…”

You nodded, feeling a rush of excitement. “I’d like that. Maybe after work?”

“It’s a date,” Spencer said, then immediately looked like he wanted to take the words back. “I mean, not a date-date. Unless you—I mean, it could be, if you wanted—”

You laughed, cutting off his rambling. “A date sounds perfect,” you said, smiling warmly at him.

#criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds x you #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds fic

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mcrdvcks · 5 months ago

Text

i love you, in every time ࿐‧₊ 1880 - labyrinth of my heart

chapter summary: When walking the streets of Chicago he spots you across the street, so real, so alive. Logan takes this as a second chance; but fear slowly slithers up, making him wonder if he'll lose you all over again.

word count: 9.3k+

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader

notes: first, i want to say thank you so much for the support and love for this series! this is way shorter than the first chapter, only because i wanted the ending to feel abrupt to hopefully make it feel more realistic. anyways, i'm super excited for next chapter since it's a concept i haven't ever really done before. but for now, enjoy this while it lasts :)

warnings/tags: fluff, angst, outdated mindsets on women, character death

series masterlist - chapter 1 → chapter 3

Logan left New York City after you died, going back to Victor who told him exactly what he expected to hear, ‘you shouldn’t have fallen in love,’ and ‘the only people we can trust is each other’.

The Civil War had begun seven years after your death as he and Victor fought for the North for four whole years. There was one thing he always kept with him, the ring he bought for you, that he never got to use. It stayed in his pocket at all times, never leaving, always there.

He had been doing the same thing he was doing before he met you, moving around the country, never staying in a spot for too long, doing odd jobs to stay afloat.

Logan found himself in Chicago, walking along the sidewalk, the faint sound of a train in the distance. The air was heavy with the scent of coal smoke, the city bustling with life in the late afternoon. Men in long coats and women in modest dresses hurried past him, some tipping their hats in his direction as he walked by. It was just another city to him, another place he would pass through on his way to nowhere in particular.

It had been 26 years since you died. Twenty-six long years, but to Logan, it still felt like yesterday. The weight of your loss hadn’t lessened. If anything, it had only grown heavier. Every town, every face he saw, reminded him of you in some way. That soft smile you always wore, the way you’d brush your hair behind your ear when you were deep in thought. He kept your memory alive in the smallest of ways. The ring he’d never had the chance to give you stayed in his pocket, its presence a constant, painful reminder.

He walked without a destination, his mind lost in the past as his feet carried him down the streets of Chicago. The city had a pulse of its own, far different from the quiet life in New York where you’d once lived, where you had died in his arms. He hadn't felt truly alive since then—just going through the motions of life, the decades slipping by as if time itself didn’t matter.

As Logan neared a small schoolhouse, something caught his eye. A group of children were gathered outside, their laughter echoing through the street as they played. But it wasn’t the children that caused Logan to stop. It was the woman standing among them, her smile bright as she helped one of the younger boys tie his shoe. The world around him seemed to blur, fading away as his gaze locked onto her.

It was you.

Logan’s heart stilled in his chest. He blinked, sure that his eyes were playing tricks on him, but there you were, the same face, the same gentle presence. You looked exactly as you had all those years ago—maybe a little younger, maybe a little different, but unmistakably you.

For a moment, he couldn’t move. He just stood there, watching you laugh with the children, completely unaware of his presence. His mind struggled to make sense of what he was seeing. You were dead. He had been there. He had held you as you took your last breath, felt the life leave your body. And yet, here you were, as if the last 26 years had never happened.

Logan’s feet moved on their own, pulling him closer to the schoolyard. His heart pounded in his chest, his throat dry. His mind raced with a thousand questions. How could this be? Was it some kind of dream? A cruel trick?

But the closer he got, the more real you became. You were wearing a simple dress, your hair tied up in a way he hadn’t seen before, and yet everything about you felt so familiar. The way you carried yourself, the warmth in your eyes as you spoke to the children—it was all you.

“Excuse me, miss,” he called out, his voice rougher than he intended.

You turned at the sound of his voice, your eyes meeting his for the first time, and Logan felt his heart lurch. It was like being thrown back in time—like the years between this moment and the day you died had vanished. You looked at him with a polite curiosity, but there was no recognition in your eyes. No flicker of memory. To you, he was just a stranger.

“Yes, can I help you?” you asked, your voice soft, kind.

Logan’s breath caught in his throat. He didn’t know what to say. How could he possibly explain what was running through his mind? How could he tell you that he had loved you, that he had lost you, and that now—somehow—you were standing in front of him again?

“I... I thought I knew you,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper. He didn’t trust himself to say more. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, the ring in his pocket suddenly feeling heavier than ever.

You smiled, but it was the smile of someone trying to be polite, not of someone who knew him. “I don’t think we’ve met before,” you said. “I’m Y/N. I’m the schoolteacher here.”

Logan swallowed hard. Of course, you wouldn’t remember. You had no idea who he was, no memory of the life you’d lived before. To you, this was just another day, another moment. But to Logan, it was everything. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. You were here, alive again, but you weren’t his Y/N. Not yet, anyway.

“I’m Logan,” he finally managed, his voice thick with emotion he couldn’t hide. He couldn’t take his eyes off you, his heart aching in a way that felt both familiar and new.

You nodded, offering another warm smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Logan. Was there something you needed?”

Logan shook his head slowly, still reeling from the shock of seeing you again. “No,” he said quietly. “No, I... I just thought you looked like someone I used to know.”

You tilted your head slightly, a curious look in your eyes. “I get that sometimes. Chicago’s a big city, but it can feel small.”

Logan nodded, though his mind was far from this moment. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from you, couldn’t shake the feeling that this was some kind of miracle—a second chance. But what could he do with it? Could he approach you, tell you everything? Or would that only drive you away?

Before he could say anything more, the school bell rang, and the children started to gather their things. You glanced back at the sound, then looked at him with an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, I have to get back to my class. But maybe I’ll see you around?”

Logan nodded, his throat too tight to respond with words. He watched as you turned and walked back toward the schoolhouse, his heart aching with the weight of all the things he couldn’t say.

For the first time in 26 years, Logan felt hope stir in his chest. You were here. You were alive. And even if you didn’t remember him, even if you didn’t know who he was... he couldn’t walk away. Not this time.

---

Logan stayed near the schoolyard most afternoons, hidden just enough not to draw attention, watching you from a distance. It felt strange, almost painful, standing there, knowing you had no idea who he was. Every time you emerged from the schoolhouse with Ida, another schoolteacher, chatting and laughing, the urge to approach you tugged at him. But fear held him back—fear that you’d think he was insane, or worse, that you’d reject him outright.

He clenched his fists inside his coat pockets, feeling the cool metal of the ring press against his palm. It had been with him through wars, across states, through lifetimes. And now, here you were, alive again, and he still didn’t know what to do with it.

It was absurd, the way his heart raced just from seeing you walk down the street. How after all these years—after so much pain—hope could sneak its way back in. This wasn’t just a coincidence. It couldn’t be. Logan wasn’t the type to believe in magic or miracles, but what else could explain this?

As he lingered, the school bell rang, signaling the end of another day. Children poured out of the building, laughing and running. A few hung on your arms as you walked them down the steps, their chatter filling the air.

Logan shifted from foot to foot, nerves prickling along his spine. Just talk to her, idiot. You’ve been through worse.

But when you stepped into the street, Ida at your side as usual, the words died in his throat.

“Y/N, you coming for dinner at my place tonight?” Ida asked, tucking a stray curl beneath her bonnet.

You smiled, brushing your hands on your skirts. “Can’t tonight, but I’ll stop by tomorrow. The kids wore me out today.”

Ida chuckled. “You’ll turn into an old maid before you’re thirty at this rate.”

You rolled your eyes, but your laugh was warm. Logan felt the sound of it settle deep in his chest—like an old memory coming back to life. It was a laugh he hadn’t heard in 26 years, and it took everything in him not to run to you right then and there.

As you and Ida turned the corner toward the tenement, Logan followed at a distance. His heart hammered against his ribs. He just needed a moment, a chance to say something—anything.

Finally, the two of you paused outside the building. Ida gave you a quick hug before heading upstairs, leaving you alone on the stoop. You stood there for a moment, adjusting your shawl against the evening chill.

This is it. Now or never.

Logan forced his feet to move, crossing the street toward you.

You looked up as he approached, a little surprised but not alarmed. “Logan, wasn’t it?”

His throat felt tight, but he gave a short nod. “Yeah. Logan.”

You smiled softly, the same kind smile that had haunted his dreams. “What brings you by?”

He cleared his throat, trying to find the right words. “I... I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

Your brow furrowed slightly, but there was no fear, only curiosity. “About what?”

Logan shifted his weight, his hands tightening around the edges of his coat. The ring in his pocket seemed to burn against his skin, a reminder of everything unsaid.

“I... You remind me of someone,” he admitted, voice low. “Someone I lost a long time ago.”

You studied him for a moment, your gaze steady but gentle. “I’m sorry,” you said quietly. “That must’ve been hard.”

Logan’s jaw clenched. “Yeah,” he muttered. “It was.”

There was a beat of silence between you—heavy, charged with the weight of all the things Logan couldn’t say. You didn’t know him, didn’t know what you’d meant to him in another life, but standing here, so close to you again, it felt like the world had tilted back into place.

“You... wanna walk for a bit?” Logan asked suddenly, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

You hesitated, but only for a moment. Something in his expression must’ve stirred your kindness, because you nodded. “Alright.”

The two of you started down the sidewalk together, the city humming around you. Logan kept his hands stuffed in his pockets, fingers brushing the ring again and again like a talisman.

“So, how long have you been in Chicago?” you asked, glancing over at him.

Logan shrugged. “Not long. Just passing through.”

You gave a small smile. “It’s a good place to get lost in for a while.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Guess so.”

The conversation fell into a comfortable rhythm after that—small talk, nothing too deep. Logan told you bits and pieces about his travels, careful not to reveal too much. He learned that you’d moved to Chicago a couple of years ago, taking the teaching job because it felt right.

“I’ve always liked working with kids,” you said with a soft smile. “There’s something... hopeful about it, you know?”

Logan nodded, though hope had been a foreign concept to him for a long time. But walking beside you now, listening to your voice, he felt something stir in him—a flicker of warmth he thought he’d lost forever.

As the evening deepened and the sky turned a dusky purple, you reached your building again. You stopped on the stoop, turning to face him.

“Thank you for the walk,” you said, your smile gentle. “It was nice.”

Logan nodded, his heart heavy with everything he wanted to say but couldn’t. “Yeah. It was.”

For a moment, it felt like time stood still—like the universe had bent just enough to give him this moment with you. And even though you didn’t remember him, didn’t know the history you shared, Logan knew he couldn’t let you slip away again.

“Y/N...” he began, his voice low, almost hesitant.

You tilted your head, waiting.

He swallowed hard, the words catching in his throat. “Can I see you again?”

Your smile widened, something warm flickering in your eyes. “I’d like that.”

Logan gave a short nod, his heart pounding against his ribs.

“Good,” he murmured.

And for the first time in 26 years, Logan allowed himself to believe—just for a moment—that maybe, just maybe, he’d found his way back to you.

---

You had taken up Ida’s offer after all, you lived in the same building so it wasn’t like it was out of the way for you.

“Oh, hey! Thought you weren’t gonna come by.”

You shrugged, taking off your shawl, “changed my mind.” You sat down on the couch and told Ida about your walk with Logan, and she listened intently.

“I’m surprised you hadn’t noticed him. He’s been watching the schoolyard for the past few weeks.”

"Wait, what do you mean, ‘he’s been watching the schoolyard for weeks?’” you asked, your brows knitting together as you leaned forward.

Ida waved her hand dismissively but gave you a sly smile. “Oh, don’t get the wrong idea. He hasn’t been creepy about it or anything. Just... noticed him hanging around, that’s all. Kind of hard to miss a guy like that, don’t you think?”

You blinked, a sudden flush creeping up your neck. “A guy like what?”

“Oh, come on, Y/N,” she teased, sitting down across from you. “Tall, rugged... that serious, brooding look. You’re telling me you didn’t notice? He’s practically been glued to the corner across from the schoolhouse for days.”

You chewed on your bottom lip, thinking back to the walk you’d just had with Logan. You hadn’t seen him watching the school, but now that Ida mentioned it... there had been something in his eyes. A familiarity you couldn’t quite place, like he was looking at you but seeing something—or someone—else.

“I didn’t know he was hanging around,” you admitted, glancing down at your hands. “But... he seems kind. Sad, but kind.”

Ida leaned back, crossing her arms over her chest with a thoughtful hum. “Sad, huh? You picked up on that, too?”

You nodded, feeling a strange tightness in your chest. There had been a weight to Logan’s presence, something unspoken in his voice, like he was carrying the world on his shoulders. And then there was the way he looked at you—like he wanted to say something but couldn’t bring himself to.

“You think he’s okay?” you asked quietly.

Ida shrugged, her teasing expression softening. “Who knows? The world’s a tough place. We all got our own burdens to carry. But... maybe he’s looking for something.”

“Looking for what?”

“Maybe someone to share the load,” she replied with a small smile, her eyes twinkling. “Maybe that someone’s you.”

You shook your head, the idea seeming too far-fetched. “I don’t even know him, Ida. I mean, we just talked for the first time today.”

“Hey, stranger things have happened,” Ida said, getting up to grab a pot of tea from the stove. “You felt something, right? That’s not nothing.”

You sighed, leaning back against the couch. “I guess. He did say I reminded him of someone he lost.”

Ida paused, setting the teapot down carefully. “Lost, huh? That would explain the sad part. But... why hang around you then? What’s he hoping to find?”

“I don’t know,” you murmured, more to yourself than to her. The idea that Logan had been watching you, even unknowingly, made something stir in your chest—a mix of curiosity and something you couldn’t quite name.

Ida handed you a cup of tea, sitting back down beside you. “Well, maybe next time you see him, you can ask.”

You looked up at her, one eyebrow raised. “Ask him why he’s hanging around the schoolyard?”

Ida laughed softly. “Maybe not that bluntly, but yeah. There’s something about him, Y/N. Might be worth finding out what.”

You sipped the tea, the warmth spreading through you. Maybe Ida was right. Maybe Logan was carrying something heavy, and maybe—just maybe—you could help.

---

The next day, you found yourself more aware of your surroundings as you walked to the schoolhouse. Every sound, every movement seemed sharper. You scanned the street, looking for a familiar figure, but Logan wasn’t there—at least, not that you could see.

The day went on as usual, though you felt a bit distracted, your mind drifting to the walk you’d shared with him. There was something about Logan that pulled at you, a quiet intensity that you couldn’t shake. He was a mystery, and part of you wanted to solve it.

When the school day ended, you lingered outside a little longer than usual, hoping—half-expecting—that he might show up again. The children ran off, their laughter echoing down the street as they disappeared into their homes. You smiled at the sight, but your thoughts were elsewhere.

“Looking for someone?”

You jumped slightly, turning to find Logan standing just a few feet away. He had approached so quietly you hadn’t even heard him.

“Logan,” you said, surprised but not unwelcome. “I didn’t see you.”

He gave a small shrug, his hands shoved into his coat pockets. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

You smiled softly, your heartbeat slowing as the initial surprise wore off. “It’s alright. Just didn’t expect to see you today.”

Logan shifted his weight, his gaze flicking to the ground for a moment before meeting yours again. “I wanted to see if you’d like to take another walk. If you’re not too tired, that is.”

You hesitated, but only for a second. There was something in his voice—something vulnerable, almost hesitant. And despite not knowing him well, you found yourself wanting to say yes.

“I’d like that,” you said, stepping down from the schoolhouse stoop.

The two of you started walking again, this time in a different direction, the afternoon sun casting long shadows over the street. For a while, neither of you spoke. It was a comfortable silence, though, the kind that didn’t need to be filled with words. Logan walked beside you, his steps steady but deliberate, like he was trying to figure something out.

“Why’ve you been hanging around the school?” you finally asked, your curiosity getting the better of you. “Ida said she noticed you there for a while.”

Logan’s jaw tightened slightly, and he didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was quiet. “I wasn’t trying to... I don’t know. I guess I was just... drawn there.”

“Drawn there?” you echoed, glancing up at him.

He nodded, his gaze fixed ahead. “Yeah. Like I said before, you remind me of someone.”

You didn’t press, sensing that whatever it was, it was personal. Instead, you walked in silence for a few more steps before Logan stopped abruptly.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he said, turning to face you fully. His eyes were intense, but there was something almost apologetic in them. “If I am, just tell me, and I’ll leave you alone.”

You shook your head quickly. “No, you’re not making me uncomfortable.”

Logan studied your face, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then he gave a small nod, almost as if he was relieved.

“Alright,” he said quietly.

The conversation shifted after that, lightening as you talked about small things—the city, your students, even the weather. Logan listened more than he spoke, but you could feel him relax bit by bit, the tension in his posture easing as the afternoon wore on.

When you reached your building again, Logan stopped with you on the stoop. There was a moment of hesitation, like he wasn’t sure if he should stay or go.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” you asked, offering him a small smile.

Logan looked at you for a long beat before nodding. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

As you turned to head inside, you couldn’t help but glance back over your shoulder. Logan was still standing there, watching you with that same look in his eyes—the one that made you feel like you were more than just a stranger to him.

And in that moment, you realized... you didn’t want to be just a stranger to him either.

---

After about a week of Logan walking you home, it became a familiar routine. Each time, you’d stand on the stoop, exchanging a few words before you’d head inside, always with that lingering feeling of something left unsaid. But tonight was different—the air was colder, and the wind was biting, so when you reached your building, you didn’t hesitate.

“You’re not going out in that cold again,” you said firmly, reaching for his arm. He tensed slightly under your touch, but you ignored it, tugging him toward the door. “Ten minutes outside in the cold, you need to warm up before you go.”

Logan didn’t protest, but you could sense his hesitation. He glanced around the dimly lit hallway as you led him up the stairs to your small apartment.

“Don’t worry,” you teased, trying to lighten the mood. “I won’t keep you long. Just until you can feel your fingers again.”

He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, following you inside. Once you were both in, you motioned for him to sit down on the worn couch, tossing your shawl onto a chair as you made your way to the stove to boil some water for tea.

Logan stood there for a moment, his eyes scanning the modest space, before finally sitting down. His presence seemed to fill the room, making it feel smaller, more intimate.

“You don’t gotta fuss,” he muttered, his gruff voice breaking the silence. “I’m alright.”

“Humor me,” you replied with a soft smile, setting a kettle on the stove. “Besides, I’ve been dragging you along on these walks. Least I can do is make sure you’re not freezing to death.”

Logan huffed a quiet laugh, leaning back into the couch. His eyes followed your movements, though his expression stayed guarded. He looked... cautious, like he wasn’t sure how to be here with you, in this space. It was strange, this carefulness, coming from a man who seemed so unbreakable.

“Why don’t you tell me more about yourself?” you asked, turning to face him while the water heated up. “We’ve been walking for a week, and I feel like I barely know you.”

Logan’s gaze shifted, and you could tell he was weighing his words. “Not much to tell,” he said after a beat. “Just a guy who’s been around a while.”

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “That’s it? No family, no friends? You just... wander?”

He looked down at his hands, his fingers idly tracing the worn fabric of the couch. “Had family once. Friends, too. Lost most of ‘em.”

There was a heaviness in his voice, and you could feel the weight of his words. You didn’t push him, though. Instead, you poured the hot water into two cups, walking over and handing him one.

“Sorry,” you said softly. “That must’ve been hard.”

Logan took the cup but didn’t drink right away. He stared down into the tea, his expression unreadable. “Life’s hard for everyone,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

You sat down beside him, the warmth from the cup seeping into your hands. For a while, the two of you sat in silence, sipping tea and letting the quiet fill the space. There was something about being near him that made you feel calm, like the world slowed down for a little while when he was around.

“Why’d you let me walk with you?” Logan asked suddenly, his voice rougher than before.

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t know me,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “Most people wouldn’t... They’d be scared, or they’d push me away. But you... you let me stay.”

You frowned, trying to find the right words. “I don’t know... I guess I just felt like... I should.” You shrugged, feeling a little self-conscious under his intense gaze. “Besides, you’re not exactly a scary guy. Brooding, sure, but not scary.”

A small, barely-there smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You’re not afraid of much, are you?”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Not really. I mean, what’s the point of being afraid? Life’s hard enough without worrying about things that might not even happen.”

Logan’s smile faded, replaced by that familiar look of sadness. He stared into his cup for a moment, then set it down on the table in front of him. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Guess you’re right.”

The silence stretched between you again, but this time it felt heavier, like there was something unsaid hanging in the air. You could feel it, pressing down on both of you, but neither of you seemed ready to break it.

Finally, Logan stood up, his movements slow and deliberate. “I should go,” he said, though he didn’t make a move toward the door.

You stood up too, your heart pounding a little harder than usual. “Logan...”

He turned to face you, his eyes dark and full of something you couldn’t quite place. “Yeah?”

You took a step closer, your hand reaching out to touch his arm again. “You don’t have to carry it all alone,” you said softly.

For a moment, he just looked at you, his expression unreadable. Then, without saying a word, he nodded once, a silent acknowledgment that you didn’t need to explain.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said quietly before turning to leave.

You watched him go, your heart heavy but hopeful. There was something between you—something unspoken, something old—and you weren’t ready to let it go.

Not yet.

---

It had taken a few more days to convince Logan to come back into your apartment. You weren’t sure how you convinced him this time, but you were happy that you did.

Your apartment smelled nice and homey. Before you had left for work, you had put bread in the oven to bake, and now, as you came back home with Logan in tow, it was finished. The warm, inviting scent of freshly baked bread filled the room as you stepped inside. Logan hesitated in the doorway, lingering for a moment before following you in, his expression unreadable but curious.

You busied yourself with the bread, slicing into the crust and offering Logan a piece. He took it, though his attention seemed more focused on you than the food.

"Thanks," he muttered, taking a bite.

You smiled, trying to ignore the way your heart sped up just from him being here. "I was thinking..." you started, turning to grab a couple of plates from the cupboard. "Maybe we could go into the city tomorrow? It’s market day. There's a lot to see, and it’d be nice to get out of the schoolhouse routine for a bit."

Logan raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the counter. "Market, huh?"

"Yeah, you know, just... walk around. Maybe pick up a few things." You looked over at him, half expecting him to decline, but to your surprise, he didn’t.

"Alright," he said, his voice low but without hesitation. "I’ll come with you."

You smiled, feeling a small flutter of excitement in your chest. "Great. It’ll be fun. I promise."

---

The next day, you found yourself walking through the bustling streets of Chicago with Logan by your side. The market was crowded, full of people haggling and chatting, the air thick with the smell of fresh produce, spices, and the occasional whiff of roasting meat. It was a world away from the quiet walks you'd shared, and you could feel Logan's unease in the busy atmosphere. But he stayed close, his hand brushing yours more than once as you wove through the crowd.

"Do you come here often?" Logan asked, his eyes scanning the vendors with mild interest.

"Once or twice a month," you replied. "I like the energy here. Makes the city feel alive, you know?"

Logan grunted in response, though he didn’t seem entirely convinced. You could tell he wasn’t used to this—being around so many people—but he stuck close to you, his presence protective without being overbearing.

After a while, you stopped at a stall selling flowers. The colors were vibrant, a burst of life in the middle of the dusty street. You picked up a small bouquet of wildflowers, smiling as you held them up.

"These are my favorite," you said, glancing up at Logan. "They're simple but... I don't know, they make me happy."

Logan’s gaze softened as he looked at the flowers in your hand, then back at you. There was something in his eyes, a flicker of something unspoken, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out a few coins, handing them to the vendor before you could protest.

"Logan, you don’t have to—"

"Consider it a thank you," he said quietly, cutting you off. "For the bread."

You blinked, surprised but touched by the gesture. "Well, thank you."

He nodded, and the two of you continued walking, the flowers resting in the crook of your arm as the city bustled around you. For a while, you walked in comfortable silence, the sounds of the market fading into the background as the two of you wandered further from the busy streets. Eventually, you found a quiet park at the edge of the city, a small, peaceful space away from the noise.

You sat down on a bench, feeling the cool breeze brush against your skin. Logan sat beside you, his posture relaxed but his eyes always scanning the area, as if he couldn’t fully let his guard down.

"Do you ever stop looking over your shoulder?" you asked, half teasing but curious.

Logan’s mouth twitched into a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Old habit."

You studied him for a moment, sensing there was more behind those words. He had a way of holding himself, like he was always ready for something, always waiting. It made you wonder just how much he’d seen, how much he’d lived through.

"I’m glad you came with me today," you said softly, looking out at the park. "I feel like I’ve been stuck in a routine for a while now. It’s nice to just... do something different."

Logan glanced at you, his gaze lingering a little longer than usual. "I’m glad I came too," he admitted, his voice low.

There was something in the way he said it, something that made your heart skip a beat. The air between you felt different, charged with a quiet tension that neither of you seemed willing to break. You wondered if he felt it too—the strange pull between you, like something just beneath the surface was waiting to be uncovered.

After a long pause, Logan spoke again. "I ain’t good at... this." He gestured vaguely, his brow furrowing as he searched for the right words. "Being close to people."

You turned to him, surprised by the admission. "You’re doing fine," you said gently.

Logan’s jaw clenched slightly, and he shook his head. "It’s not that simple."

You felt a pang of something—sympathy, maybe, or understanding. Whatever it was, it made you reach out, your hand lightly brushing his. "You don’t have to explain," you said softly. "I get it."

Logan’s eyes flickered down to where your hand rested near his. For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, he turned his hand over, his rough fingers brushing against yours in the faintest of touches. It wasn’t much, but it felt like a step—like maybe, just maybe, he was letting you in.

---

As you walked to the tenement building after work one day, you glanced over at Logan. “You ever been to the exhibition hall in the city?”

Logan looked over to you, slightly puzzled by the question. “The exhibition?”

You nodded, turning toward him. “There’s a display of inventions and art from all over. I heard they’ve got this new thing—electric lights. I was thinking about going this weekend, and… maybe you’d like to come with me?”

For a moment, Logan just stared at you, as if unsure what to say. The idea of stepping out into the city, surrounded by people, probably wasn’t something he did often. But he shifted slightly, his eyes softening in that way they did when you caught him off guard.

“You want me to go with you?” he asked, a hint of surprise in his voice.

“Well, yeah,” you said, smiling. “We’ve been walking the same few streets for days. Thought it might be nice to do something different. Besides, I’m curious about those lights. They say it’s going to change the way people live.”

Logan gave a low, thoughtful hum, and for a moment, you worried he might decline. But then he nodded slowly, his expression softening further. “Alright. I’ll go.”

Your smile widened. “Great! We can meet at my place on Saturday afternoon, then head out.”

The conversation drifted back into easier topics—your students, a new bakery that had opened nearby, and the way the city seemed to grow busier every day. But beneath it all, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this small invitation marked a shift, a way to see more of who Logan was beyond the quiet man who walked beside you in silence. Maybe out in the world, you’d understand him better.

---

Saturday came quickly, and the two of you walked side by side through the busy streets, the sounds of horses and carriages filling the air. You led Logan through the bustling avenues toward the exhibition hall, your excitement barely contained.

“Ever seen anything like this?” you asked, glancing up at him as the towering hall came into view.

Logan’s eyes flicked over the building, a hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Not in a while.”

Inside, the hall was a wonder of modern marvels. Booths lined with mechanical inventions, sculptures, and paintings from around the world. The hum of excitement filled the air, and the bright new electric lights cast a strange, almost magical glow over everything.

You wandered the displays together, your curiosity leading the way. Logan stayed close, his attention less on the inventions and more on you. Every now and then, he'd glance at a piece of machinery or a strange-looking contraption, but his eyes kept drifting back to your face, watching the way your expression changed with each new discovery.

"This is incredible," you murmured, leaning in to get a closer look at a large machine labeled as an ‘automatic loom.’ You smiled at Logan, your excitement clear. "Can you imagine how much time this would save?"

Logan nodded, though you could tell his thoughts were elsewhere. "Yeah, I can see how it'd be useful."

You moved to the next display, but Logan lingered for a moment. When he finally caught up, you were already studying a painting—a soft, pastoral scene that contrasted with the industrial energy around you.

"It's beautiful, isn’t it?" you said, glancing at him.

Logan’s gaze flicked to the painting, but quickly returned to you. "Yeah," he said, though it was clear he wasn’t talking about the art.

You felt his eyes on you again and looked up, meeting his gaze. There was something there—something that made your heart skip. Logan had always been protective, always hovering just close enough to shield you if need be. But this felt different, like there was more to it now.

"You sure this ain’t boring for you?" you asked, trying to lighten the moment. "I know you’re not one for crowds."

Logan gave a quiet grunt, his version of a chuckle. "It’s fine. Long as you’re enjoying yourself."

You smiled, touched by the sentiment. "I am. Thanks for coming with me."

For a while, you wandered together in silence, taking in the sights and sounds of the exhibition hall. The crowds around you buzzed with excitement, but the space between you and Logan felt almost separate—like the world had shrunk to just the two of you.

At one point, you stopped in front of a display showcasing early electric light bulbs. "Look at that," you said, pointing to the glass bulbs flickering with soft light. "They’re saying these will replace gas lamps soon."

Logan raised an eyebrow. "Doesn’t seem right, replacing something that’s worked for so long."

"Change is good sometimes," you said, glancing at him. "It keeps things moving forward."

Logan met your eyes, his expression soft but thoughtful. "Guess I’ve never been good with change."

You tilted your head slightly, sensing the weight behind his words. "Maybe you just haven’t found the right reason to embrace it yet."

For a moment, Logan didn’t respond. His gaze lingered on you, like he was trying to make sense of something. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Maybe."

As the afternoon wore on, the two of you eventually stepped outside the exhibition hall, the sun low in the sky and the city’s evening glow starting to take over. The air felt cooler now, a welcome relief after the warmth of the crowded hall.

You walked beside Logan in comfortable silence, but the charged undercurrent between you hadn’t faded. It felt like something had shifted—like you’d both acknowledged a deeper connection, even if neither of you had fully put it into words yet.

"You want to get something to eat?" Logan asked, breaking the silence.

"Sure," you said, smiling up at him. "There’s a place not far from here. They make the best stew."

Logan nodded, falling into step beside you again as you made your way toward the small restaurant you had in mind. The quiet between you was easy, but there was an unspoken understanding that something had changed between the two of you today. Neither of you said it out loud, but you didn’t need to.

As you entered the restaurant, the warm scent of food filled the air, and you found a table near the back, away from the main crowd. Logan took the seat across from you, his eyes scanning the room out of habit, but eventually settling back on you.

"This place isn’t so bad," he said, giving a small nod of approval.

You laughed softly. "Glad it meets your standards."

Logan smirked, but there was a softness behind it. As the two of you talked over dinner, you realized just how much you enjoyed moments like this—quiet, simple, yet meaningful. It wasn’t about grand gestures or fancy places; it was about being together, about the way Logan made you feel safe and seen.

---

One day, after inviting Logan into your apartment once again, you set out to make tea like you always do.

You felt a cough building up in your throat, so you grabbed a small handkerchief from the counter and coughed into it. You had seen the school doctor while you were at work, and he said you just had a mild cold.

Logan, who was sitting on the couch, immediately turned his head to you, his heart almost beating out of his chest. He’d heard that cough before—26 years ago.

"Y/N?" he asked, his voice low, almost hesitant.

You turned around, still holding the handkerchief to your mouth. "Yeah?" you answered casually, noticing the tension in his voice but thinking nothing of it. “Just a little cough, nothing serious. I saw the doctor earlier, and he said it’s just a cold.”

Logan stood up slowly, his eyes fixed on you, his expression unreadable. He took a step closer, his mind racing back to 1854, to your last days—bedridden and coughing, just like this. He had lost you then, watching helplessly as the illness took you. He couldn't shake the feeling, the memory, and the fear that history might repeat itself.

"Cold, huh?" he said, trying to keep his voice steady, but there was an edge to it.

"Yeah, no big deal." You smiled, folding the handkerchief and putting it back in your pocket. "Really, Logan, I’m fine."

Logan’s jaw tightened. He had seen too much, lived too long to believe in coincidence. This was too familiar, too painful. And yet, here you were—alive, vibrant. This time, he couldn’t lose you again. He wouldn't.

"You should take it easy," he said, stepping closer, his tone gentler now. "You been workin' too hard at that school."

You raised an eyebrow, sensing his concern but not quite understanding the depth of it. "I’m fine, really. It’s just a little cold. Nothing that rest and tea won’t fix."

Logan didn’t argue, but the worry in his eyes didn’t fade. He reached out, his hand hovering for a moment before he gently brushed his fingers against your arm, grounding himself in the fact that you were here, with him. This wasn’t 1854. But the memory haunted him.

You noticed the way he was looking at you, his eyes searching yours like he was afraid to lose you. "Hey," you said softly, resting a hand on his. "What’s really going on?"

Logan’s breath hitched for a moment, and he fought the urge to pull you closer, to tell you everything. But how could he? How could he explain that you’d been here before—that he’d watched you die, that he’d loved you once in another life, in another time? Instead, he just shook his head, the weight of those memories too heavy to share.

"Just... don’t push yourself too hard," he said, his voice quieter now. "I’ve seen people get worse when they don’t take care of themselves."

You nodded, though his intensity still lingered in your mind. "I promise, I’ll rest." You gave him a reassuring smile, trying to lighten the mood. "Besides, you’ll make sure I do, right?"

Logan’s lips quirked into the smallest smile, but there was still something distant in his eyes. "Yeah," he said softly. "I will."

The moment hung in the air, the unspoken weight of Logan’s past pressing down on him, though you couldn’t see it. You were the same, and yet not. The woman he had once loved and lost was standing right in front of him, alive, but without any memory of that life you’d shared.

---

You didn’t see Logan for a few days, which was unusual, ever since he started walking with you he had never missed a day.

You couldn’t help but worry a tad bit, it wasn’t like him to just not be there. Even Ida had made a few comments, including now as you sat in her apartment, just a few doors down from your own, sipping tea.

“He hasn’t been by at all?” Ida asked, her brow furrowed with concern. “That man never misses a day. He’s usually lurking outside, waitin’ to walk you home.”

You nodded, biting your lip. “Yeah, I noticed. It’s been three days now.”

Ida leaned forward, her hands folded on the table. “You don’t think somethin’s happened to him, do ya? That man is tough, sure, but even the toughest get into trouble sometimes.”

You shook your head quickly, not wanting to entertain the thought. “No, I’m sure he’s fine. Maybe he just needed some time alone. He’s... not the type to explain himself much.”

Ida hummed, though she didn’t look convinced. “Maybe. But if he doesn’t show up soon, you ought to go find him. He’s a good man, Y/N, and you’ve only known him a month, but it’s clear he cares about you.”

The truth of her words settled over you, heavy and unspoken. You cared about Logan too. Even if you didn’t quite understand the pull between you, it was there—undeniable. And the fact that he hadn’t shown up, without so much as a word, made your chest tighten with worry.

Later that evening, after you’d left Ida’s apartment and returned to your own, you couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling. Logan had become part of your routine, part of your day-to-day life. And now that he was gone, it felt like something was missing.

Just as you were about to turn in for the night, a knock sounded at the door.

Your heart jumped, and you rushed to open it, half expecting—half hoping—it would be Logan.

And there he was.

He stood in the doorway, his coat damp from the light rain outside, his hair slightly tousled. His eyes, though, were what caught you—the familiar intensity, but with something else lurking beneath. Something darker.

“Logan,” you breathed, stepping aside to let him in. “Where have you been? I was starting to get worried.”

Logan stepped into your small apartment, his broad frame somehow filling the space, making it feel even smaller. He didn’t say anything right away, just ran a hand through his hair and exhaled sharply, as if he were trying to gather his thoughts.

“I needed time,” he finally said, his voice low and gravelly.

“Time for what?” you asked gently, sensing that whatever he was about to say wasn’t easy for him.

Logan glanced at you, then looked away, as if he couldn’t meet your eyes. His jaw tightened, and you could see the struggle on his face—like he was wrestling with something deep inside. After a long pause, he spoke again, quieter this time.

“I’m scared,” he admitted, the words sounding foreign in his mouth, like he wasn’t used to saying them.

You blinked, taken aback. Logan was the last person you ever expected to hear those words from. “Scared of what?”

His eyes flickered up to meet yours, and you saw the vulnerability there, raw and unguarded. “Of losing you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

You stared at him, your heart pounding in your chest. “Logan… we’ve only known each other for a month,” you said softly, though the words felt strange even as they left your mouth. Because deep down, it felt like you’d known him much longer—like this connection between you was more than just a month in the making.

“I know,” Logan said, his voice rough. “But it doesn’t change how I feel.”

There was something in the way he was looking at you, something desperate and pained, like he was holding onto you with everything he had. You wanted to ask him why, to understand what had happened in his past to make him feel this way. But instead, you just reached out, your hand finding his.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said quietly, squeezing his hand gently. “I’m right here.”

Logan’s breath hitched, and before you could say anything more, he stepped closer, his hand cupping the side of your face. His thumb brushed your cheek, his touch rough but gentle, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to fall away. It was just the two of you, standing in the quiet of your apartment, the air between you thick with unspoken words.

And then, without warning, he leaned in and kissed you.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was urgent, almost desperate, like he was trying to tell you everything he couldn’t put into words. His lips moved against yours with a fierceness that took your breath away, and for a moment, all you could do was hold onto him, your fingers curling into the fabric of his coat as you kissed him back.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your skin. His hand still cupped your cheek, his thumb gently brushing along your jawline.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

Your heart ached at the raw honesty in his words, and you wanted to promise him that he wouldn’t—that you were here, that you weren’t going anywhere. But something about the way he said it made you hesitate, made you wonder what he wasn’t telling you.

“Logan…” you started, your voice soft. “What aren’t you telling me?”

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. His hand dropped from your face, and he took a step back, his expression guarded once again. The walls he’d let down just moments ago seemed to be rising back up.

“I’ve lived a long time,” he said finally, his voice low. “I’ve lost people before. People I cared about. I can’t… I can’t go through that again.”

You felt a pang in your chest at his words, but there was something else there too—something unspoken. “Logan… who did you lose?”

His eyes flickered with pain, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he just shook his head, as if he couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud.

You wanted to press him, to understand, but you also knew that Logan wasn’t someone who opened up easily. So instead, you just stepped closer, wrapping your arms around him in a gentle hug. He stiffened at first, but then his arms slowly came around you, pulling you close as if he was afraid to let go.

“I’m here,” you whispered against his chest. “I’m not going anywhere.”

For now, that was all you could offer him. And for now, it seemed to be enough.

---

You and Ida sat in the back of the rattling carriage, bundled against the cold, the wheels creaking beneath the weight of your bags from the market. The late afternoon sky was heavy with clouds, promising rain before nightfall and a storm by morning.

“Supposed to come down hard tomorrow,” Ida said, clutching her shawl tighter. “Glad we got everything done now. Don’t wanna be caught in that mess.”

You smiled, shifting a bag of potatoes off your lap. “It’ll be nice to have an excuse to stay in and rest. Logan’s been after me about taking it easy anyway.”

Ida gave you a knowing look, her brow lifting. “That man likes you, Y/N. More than you think.”

You shrugged, though your cheeks warmed slightly. “I know he cares. He’s just… different. Keeps to himself.”

“He’s different, alright,” Ida muttered, peering out the carriage window. “But he’s not the type to care about someone without good reason. Don’t let that one get away.”

You didn’t respond, but your thoughts drifted to Logan—how he had kissed you that night, holding you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. There was something ancient in his touch, like he had carried the weight of loss for far too long. You didn’t fully understand it, but you felt it—something deeper than words or time.

The carriage jolted suddenly, jerking you forward in your seat. The horse up front whinnied, wild and panicked.

“Whoa!” the driver shouted, yanking hard on the reins.

You clutched Ida’s arm, your heart racing. “What’s going on?”

The driver cursed, standing in his seat to get a better look. “The damn harness snapped! The horse—”

Before he could finish, the horse bolted, the broken leather straps slapping wildly behind it. The carriage lurched, and you and Ida were thrown sideways. The wheels screamed as they spun out of control, the driver shouting as he fought to keep it steady.

“Hold on!” he yelled.

The world tilted violently as the carriage careened off the road, slamming into a ditch. Bags spilled across the floor, and you hit your shoulder hard against the side wall. Ida’s scream filled your ears, but the noise was drowned out by the thunder of the collapsing carriage, wood splintering and wheels buckling beneath the weight.

And then—nothing.

The carriage stopped, shuddering to a halt in a twisted heap at the bottom of the ditch. The rain started, light at first, pattering against the wreckage.

---

Logan was walking back toward your tenement building, the collar of his coat turned up against the cold drizzle, when he saw it—just beyond the next block, down by the road.

The sight hit him like a punch to the chest.

A carriage, overturned, one of the wheels still spinning lazily. The horse was gone, its reins dangling uselessly from the harness. People were gathering, but no one dared approach the wreckage yet.

Logan’s heart stopped. He knew—he just knew.

His feet moved before he could think. He sprinted toward the wreck, rain falling harder now, soaking through his clothes. His boots hit the muddy road with heavy thuds, splashing water as he ran faster than any ordinary man should.

By the time he reached the scene, a bystander had climbed down, trying to pry the splintered door open. Logan shoved him aside without a word, claws itching under his skin, ready to tear the door off if need be.

“Someone’s inside!” the man stammered. “Two women—”

Logan didn’t wait. His hands found the edge of the door, and with a growl of effort, he yanked it off the hinges. Inside the crumpled interior, he saw you, half-buried beneath scattered bags.

“Y/N!” His voice cracked, raw and frantic. He dropped to his knees and pulled you free, cradling you in his arms.

You stirred, barely conscious, your head lolling against his chest. Blood streaked your temple, and your breath came in shallow gasps.

“Logan…?” you whispered, confused, your hand weakly grasping his coat.

“I got you,” Logan said, his voice breaking. “I’m here. You’re gonna be fine.” But even as he said it, dread gnawed at him—this wasn’t fine. It was happening again.

Ida groaned nearby, struggling to sit up, but Logan’s focus was locked on you. He pressed a hand against your side, where your ribs felt wrong under his touch. He could feel the heat of your blood seeping into his fingers.

“No, no, no…” Logan whispered, shaking his head. The storm raged around him, but all he could hear was the shallow rasp of your breathing.

You looked up at him, your gaze unfocused, but your lips curled into the faintest smile. “I told you… I’d rest…”

“Don’t,” Logan begged, his forehead pressing against yours. “Don’t do this. Stay with me. You hear me? Stay.”

You blinked slowly, your hand slipping from his coat. “I… tried…”

Logan clenched his jaw, biting down hard against the scream building in his chest. His healing mutation would keep him alive through anything—but it couldn’t save you. Not now. Not again.

He kissed your forehead, his breath shuddering. “I can’t lose you again, darlin’. Not like this…”

Your breath hitched once, then stopped.

“No,” Logan whispered, rocking you in his arms. “No, no, no…”

His hands trembled as he pulled you closer, your lifeless body limp against him. The rain poured down harder, drumming on the wreckage, but Logan didn’t care. He sat there, holding you, feeling the familiar, soul-crushing emptiness settle in his chest like an old wound tearing open again.

And still, he held you. Because this time, just like 26 years ago, he couldn’t let go.

in this chapter logan is 48 years old and reader is around 22-24 years old. just a reminder that going forward there is going to be an age gap between the two since logan obviously keeps getting older.

#logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #james howlett x reader #james howlett x you #logan howlett #logan howlett fanfiction #logan howlett x fem!reader #logan howlett fic #i love you in every time

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sserpente · 6 months ago

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A Haunted Read (Kinktober #1)

You are certain the library you work in his haunted. However, you are not certain ghosts can cast green magic and tease you like that...

A/N: Request by @blackwidownat2814. This request is so old, I’ll go stand in a corner and be ashamed of myself. *clears throat* On another note… Happy Kinktober! It’s my favourite time of the year and I’ve got a bunch of spooky and/or kinky Imagines ready to go this year! Starting off strong with Loki, have fun reading! ;)

Words: 2019 Warnings: ghost!Loki (sort of), smut

You were certain the library was haunted. You were not imagining things. You could hear it. Every single night. A mischievous chuckle, a dark giggle, right after whatever spirit had made itself comfortable in your workplace wreaked some havoc when you were trying to get through your shift.

The concept of a library that was open twenty-four hours a day wasn’t so unusual but it could have done with some more marketing. You were alone most of the time, sorting through books, listening to music, and handling returns left over by the day shift.

Working at night was refreshing. Regardless of the ghost haunting you, you already had the story of a lifetime to tell to your future children (or well, pets). Your boss didn’t want to believe you when you claimed that Thor, the Thor, and his brother Loki had visited the library two weeks ago, searching for a rare tome for a super-secret Asgardian mission.

A selfie with Thor (and Loki rolling his eyes in the background) was now your new profile picture on all of the social media platforms you were on.

Thor was just as righteous and warm as the media portrayed him. Loki was…something else. Cautious, quiet, snarky and to be frank, condescending. Not to mention he’d been the one to show up first, catching you reading a very steamy romance novel. Damn those gods and their quiet footsteps.

You bit your lower lip and rolled a trolley filled with books to your desk. At the end of the day, strangely enough, Loki had fascinated you even more than Thor had. After everything that happened in New York all those years ago, vigilance around his person was a given. But there was more to him than that, you were certain of that. After all, Thor kept him around for a reason, right?

In all honesty, he reminded you a little of those brooding and morally grey men in the books you liked to read. Cold on the outside but a good heart hidden beneath…right? His blue gaze had lingered on you just a little too long. It was captivating, mesmerising, stunning, breath-taking…it was hard to believe it was Thor who captured all the women’s hearts. Loki was not only handsome but also mysterious. He was your perfect book boyfriend and you had not just once caught yourself imagining him as the male protagonist in your latest erotic adventure.

A chuckle. You rolled your eyes. “Who is there? Show yourself!”

Silence. Of course. You hadn’t expected anything else. Except—

You flinched when the neatly stacked books on your desk scattered to the carpeted floor. You groaned. “Seriously? I just sorted through these!”

Perhaps you should have been worried about a poltergeist keeping you company at this time of day, alone and surrounded only by rows and rows of books, especially this close to Halloween. But then again, you had nothing to fear from the dead. The living were much scarier than anything a poltergeist could come up with.

Another chuckle.

“Really funny… You know if you’ve got something to say, say it. Maybe I can help you move on to the afterlife or something like that…” You bent over to pick up the books when you spotted a green hue flickering across the edges of some of the books, almost as if whatever had moved them still lingered on the covers.

Great. Ghost goo. Time to call the Ghostbusters.

Hopefully, the rest of your shift was going to be peaceful. You sighed, stacking the books yet again. They had to be re-labelled and some of them needed a new protective cover. If you got this done now…and the library remained this empty…you’d have enough time to finish that sexy Halloween novel you’d been reading.

After all, that was the best part of your job. It was heaven to get paid for reading. So you got to work, listening to some music to drown out the repeated chuckles. At least nothing else went flying for now. Although you couldn’t quite shake the constant shivers running up and down your spine. It was as if your body sensed another presence.

You didn’t hate it—but you didn’t like it, either.

Three long hours later, as you rolled your neck to ease some of the tension, you were done. The trolley was empty, the returns list was updated, all the books were re-labelled…and you finally had time for the steamy romance novel waiting for you on the desk.

After making some tea in the staff room, you made yourself comfortable in the surprisingly cosy desk chair and got lost in your story.

Your protagonist was about to be seduced by a handsome demon looking to devour her soul—of course, they’d eventually fall in love in the process. She was dreaming, half-awake, and then…experiencing sleep paralysis. The girl had gone to bed naked, making it even easier for the demon to tease her into oblivion.

Damn, this was hot. You could feel yourself growing wet, arousal rippling through you.

You flinched when something tugged at your hair. You flipped around. There was no one there.

The demon in the book pulled back the covers, revealing the girl’s glistening pussy to its greedy gaze.

Something tugged at your clothes. “What the…” Flailing, your eyes scanned your surroundings. Nothing. This was the first time this ghost was touching you. This…shit. “Stop it! Let go of me!”

Perhaps if you ignored it…you bit your lower lip, lowered your gaze, and kept on reading in an attempt to block the spirit out. No one liked to be ignored, right? Maybe it just wanted attention like a toddler. Or a pet.

The demon stuck out his long tongue and licked over the girl’s cunt, lapping at her juices.

It was just then you noticed that green hue of energy again, disappearing…underneath your skirt. Your eyes widened.

“W-Wait, no, what…what is…” Trying to press your legs together did nothing. The energy remained, forcing itself…you gasped.

“What are you doing? What’s happening, what are you…oh.” It did not wait for you to finish. The energy pressed up directly against your clit. A moan escaped your lips. No…no, this wasn’t supposed to feel good, what was it doing?

I-ignore it…just ignore it…just…ignore it…

The girl in the book whimpered, her legs falling open wider against her will. And then…so did yours. Fuck… You should be scared. Terrified. Instead…instead all you could sense was excitement.

You stopped reading, desperate to catch a glimpse of that green hue again…only for it to disappear. Damn it. Disappointment should be the last thing you’re feeling. And then, as soon as you brought your gaze back to the pages of your book, the pressure returned.

Oh. Oh my. Did…did the spirit want you to keep reading? And only then would it…

No. Oh no. You should not be playing this game. This was bad. Wrong. Maybe it wasn’t even a spirit after all. What if it was an incubus? What if it’d feast on your pleasure and steal your energy, your soul even in the worst-case scenario?

You bit your lower lip when the pressure intensified, sneaking its way past your drenched lips and…inside you as if to distract you from your worrying thoughts. Fuck…you’d never felt so…so full. How was this even possible?

Finally, the girl in the book opened her eyes only to find the handsome demon hovering directly above her the very moment he thrust up into her, claiming every single inch of her. And with every line you read…the invisible force working your own arousal kept stroking and teasing your pussy as if it’d done so a million times before. You couldn’t help it. You pictured Loki to be the demon seducing this girl.

Fuck it. Whatever this experience was, now was not the time for fear. You could be scared later and be horny now.

Growing hotter with every minute, it got harder and harder to focus on the text. You climbed the ladder fast, the mysterious energy pleasuring you better than any of your toys could. If it kept going, you would…you would…oh…

“I’m coming!” you yelled out, grateful that you were alone—save for the naughty ghost having its fun with you. You clenched around the energy force as you hit your climax, bliss unlike any other rippling through you. You dropped your book, your nails digging into the armrests, your head thrown back.

Your little poltergeist took its time. It did not let up until you’d come down from your high, your senses and dreadful realisation at what you had just let a ghostly appearance do to you washing away the last waves of pleasure.

And yet…you had never come this hard. If anything…this had been the most mind-bending orgasm of your life. You wanted to experience that again. You wanted to experience it again.

But, as the force slowly retreated and the green hue evaporated into nothingness, you figured it would be stupid to beg it to come back and give you more.

One thing was for certain, however. You could not, under any circumstances, let anyone ever know what had just happened to you.

The next evening remained uneventful. At first. No ghosts, no flying objects, no invisible hands forcing you to come for them. You were about to continue reading that faithful book from last night when all of a sudden, the main doors of the library opened and two now all too familiar figures walked inside.

Thor and Loki.

“Hey, you two! Any progress on your ancient Asgardian tome?”

You were quite flattered when Thor remembered your name and they both greeted you. Thor with a friendly “Hello”, and Loki with a curt nod. “No luck so far. But we have a new lead. Would you mind if we took another little browse?”

“Not at all, take your time. I’ll be right here if you need me.”

Thor smiled and nodded before he walked off, straight toward the history and mythology section. Loki, on the other hand…lingered a little longer in place than he probably should have. God, even how he was standing there, lurking, observing you with those scrutinising blue eyes…he was grace personified.

“C-Can…can I help you?” you asked.

Loki smirked. “I was hoping you might be able to help me find some…lighter literature. To pass the time so to speak.”

“Uh…sure. W-what…” Oh, get it together! “What kind of literature were you thinking about?”

“I have an affinity for romance. Perhaps something along the lines of…what you read last night.”

Your face fell when he flicked his wrist and steamy erotica resting on your desk chair practically flew into his hands—enveloped in green mist.

Oh. My. God.

You didn’t get to respond. Not that you knew what to say anyway. Thor came rushing back to the front desk with an odd-looking compass in one hand and another really old book on settlements in Norway in the other.

“Loki! Loki, I think I found what we’re looking for. That thing Strange gave us is spinning like crazy, look!”

Loki didn’t look. His eyes were locked with yours still, his smirk never letting up. Fuck. Me.

“Are you quite alright, dear? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he mused.

You gnashed your teeth, resisting the urge to growl.

Thor gave you a puzzled look. Shit.

“N-no. I’m okay. I’m fine.”

“Right…” Thor began, “…we’d like to borrow this one.”

“S-sure…” Snapping yourself out of it, you took the book from Thor’s hands and scanned it before handing it back to him.

“Thank you! That will be all. Come on, Loki, stop terrifying the poor girl.” Thor gave you one last friendly smile before he made his way towards the exit.

“It was lovely to see you again, pet. I can’t wait to see what book you are going to read next,” Loki said before he turned on his heel and followed his brother, leaving you behind dumbfounded.

So he had intentions to return. Fuck…you’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t want him to.

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cookies-after-dark · 1 month ago

Note

hopefully i’m not yapping too much because this is my second ask in the same day but the matters are urgent (i got inspired by your teacher!sage of truth x student!reader post)… now i must step off of my black sapphire soapbox to yap about the blue man himself

imagine what you think being an unrequited teacher crush towards sage of truth not being as nonmutual as you thought. how could you help yourself when you spent so much time out of your day being taught by someone so handsome? plus, it’s not like he would notice; all you did was just steal some small glances when was lecturing the class or explaining a concept to someone else. you would get slightly flustered whenever his attention was on you, and your breath would hitch if he leaned in closer to the point you could feel his breath caressing your neck, but that was the most it got. and you were content with that. you wouldn’t risk damaging your terms with him by overtly flirting, no matter how much your body ached for him during a few sleepless nights.

one day in class, you were so captivated by him that you completely forgot about the test that day. you silently begged for some stroke of luck, but it never came, and your heart sunk at the disappointment on his face as he passed back your grade. on the top of the paper of course featured your subpar grade, but also a note from him: ‘come by my office after class today.’ ah, of course; he probably thought you just couldn’t understand the material, even though the true reason was far from that.

so you did as he requested, but cue your surprise as instead of seeing his disappointed face again, his expression held amusement and some other type of emotion you couldn’t put your finger on. the second chair was usually right across from him on the other side of his desk, but now it was right beside him, almost too close. it must’ve just been like that from some other meeting and he forgot to put it back. still, he gestured at it expectantly, and you took your seat, muttering an apology as your leg accidentally brushed against his.

throughout the entire tutoring session, he seemed to be less coherent than usual. not that you were doubting his knowledge or anything, but he was just going through the problems without elaborating or going off on analogy-filled tangents like his normal style. not only that, but his hand always seemed to find yours, grazing your unusually warm skin for a few seconds too long to be considered an accident. you knew you could just mention it and he would stop, but you never did. …you didn’t want to.

the end of the session arrived unsurprisingly quickly with the way he was speeding through the material. did he have somewhere he needed to be? hopefully you weren’t intruding on his time. however, when you began to stand up, you found that his arm was preventing you. he turned to you, gaze meeting yours for the first time since the beginning of all of this. his expression read, ‘what’s got you in a hurry?’

a few seconds of awkward silence passed by before he finally spoke. “is there anything else you’d like to let me know about?” he asked, sounding less like a question and more like a prompt with only one right answer. you shook your head and tried to stand up again, only to be pushed down back into the chair with more force this time.

“there’s no use lying to me. why do you try so hard to hide yourself?” he softly chided. the weight of it hit you like a thousand textbooks. he knew. he always did. he knew about your…

“gave up already?” he teased, as if you weren’t about to die from embarrassment right where you sat. “i’m not going to… punish you for your little secret. actually, i wanted to help make your fantasies a reality.”

…what?

before you could even respond, your thoughts might as well have been about trying to fit a square peg into a round hole, as you were immediately rendered speechless when you felt his hand quite intentionally circle the waistband of your uniform pants. “it’s alright,” he reassured. “there’s no need to be embarrassed. this all part of the learning process. now, should we stop here or keep going?”

a pause. he was waiting for you to answer. he knew that you wanted this, and yet he still wanted to hear it leave your lips. “yes, sir… keep going.”

then, he smiled. “that’s what i like to hear.” his hand then dipped inside and continued its venture south at an excruciatingly slow pace.

“and i must admit,” he murmured, his voice lower than you’ve ever heard it and heavy with desire, “i’ve had my own fantasies about you, too.”

another pause. his hand was so close to the place you needed it most, and the impatient part of you was growing restless.

“about bending you over my desk and fucking you until you scream... until you forget your own name and only remember mine.”

his touch was teasing your inner thigh now. your heart felt like it was about to burst out of your chest. you didn’t know when you started to become wet, but you were sure you had drenched both of your layers. all you could think of, all you could care about was him.

“now, answer this: are you ready for your lesson to begin?”

—🎭

I'm saving this ask in like 8 different places and I'm like, red in the face or whatever. Whatever. Whateverp (defaces public property)

#there really is nothing more i can add to this to make this ask any more grand than it is.#🎭 anon you are a fantastic writer #cookie run kingdom smut #crk smut #crk x reader smut #cookie run kingdom #crk #crk x reader #cookie run kingdom x reader #shadow milk cookie x reader #sage of truth x reader #asks #anon #🎭 anon #breathes in deeply.

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soupuurr · 9 months ago

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𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑟-𝑚𝑎𝑛!𝑐ℎ𝑟𝑖𝑠 head-cannons

pairing. spider-man!chris x sub!reader

genre. smut

⟶ cw. explicit content, masterbation, dirty talk, praise, web play, dry humping, overstimulation, oral. MDNI

note. back (hopefully) from my hiatus everyone… sorry for leaving y’all high and dry LMAO but here’s a cool concept i thought about after playing spider-man on my pc

spider-man chris who comes home after a tiring day to see you snuggled up on your bed, wearing nothing but his t-shirt and a pair of red panties. his favorite. he can't help but walk over to you and sneakily trace his fingertips over your hip. the heat of his fingers seep through the cotton material, prompting a startled gasp to fall from your lips. "shh, jus' me." he slips his hand under the fabric and pulls his mask off of his head before his eyes greedily rake over your moon bathed body. "wearin' my favorite panties huh? 'turns me on."

spider-man chris who pins your hips against the mattress and fucks you stupid whenever his mission doesn't go as planned. all of his pent up anger and frustration erupts and is directed at you, but you love it. "nothin' ever goes my way—fuck—at least i got you, yeah?"

spider-man chris who desperately pumps a hand over his cock in a nearby restroom because you sent him lewd pictures of yourself, texting him about how much you missed him, and that you wanted to feel him inside of you. you knew that he was in the middle of something important, but you couldn't care less—and chris was infuriated by how you had him wrapped around your finger, because he always found himself touching his cock at your words. he’d be hidden from sight, bottom lip slotted between his teeth with the majority of his suit bunched at his thighs. his mask would be carelessly draped over a random surface while his fist would furiously tug at his length.

spider-man chris who webs your hands behind your back, rivaling in the way you sat helplessly while the sticky substance held your wrists together. his tongue would slowly glide across his teeth as he felt undeniably aroused at the sight of your curious eyes gazing up at him, obediently waiting for his next move. he'd rummage through your bedside drawer before pulling out a tiny bullet vibrator, pink lips curling into a wicked smile as he eyes you like you were his fucking prey.

spider-man chris who grinds your hips over his cock while his suit was still fully on. his length would prod at your cunt while his fabric covered fingertips guided your trembling form. “doin’ so good f’me… gonna make me cum in my suit—shit.” he’d roll his head back, masked eyes shutting as his skull thumps against the wall. it wouldn’t take long for lengthy spurts of cum to darken the red material by his crotch. you’d pull his mask off—nearly cumming yourself as you observe the way his hair messily pooled at his forehead, tears of pleasure welling up at the corners of his closed eyes. his jaw fell slack as his hands gripped the flesh of your moving hips, hissing at the overstimulation. “t-too much.”

spider-man chris who eats you out with his mask on. he’d smirk against your pussy with his mask bunched above his nose, strands of his brunet hair pooling out of the bottom and curling at the ends. you’d claw at his head, pulling him into your body as he hums and purses his lips around your pulsing clit. his blue eyes would hungrily lock onto your own—not that you could see them—and his hands would rest at your inner thighs, occasionally pushing them apart when they’d close around his head. he thought it was just the hottest thing ever to have you falling apart against him while he tongue fucked you with his mask on. “you’re so beautiful like this, you know that?”

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hazbinhotei · 24 days ago

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the devil's note.

warnings/tags: jazz singer!reader, alastor only has like one line of dialogue in this lol

word count: 2793

summary: As a talented and enchanting jazz singer, your performance turns personal when your bold teasing leaves the Radio Demon speechless.

alastor x f!reader. thank you to the anon who requested this story! guess who's back!~ so... i haven't uploaded in 10 days. i think you are all due for an apology, but i hope swear i'm not giving up on this account so quickly, so hopefully more uploads come along soon! i have many part two concepts in my head (including this story)—but the question is if i can write it all out before life gets to me. enjoy!

The day had started with one of Angel Dust’s usual antics—a grand proclamation over breakfast, fork twirling in hand, eyes glinting with flamboyant mischief.

"Alright, listen up, bitches! I got somethin’ special planned for tonight, and no, Vaggie, it ain't one of my 'educational' excursions, so don’t get your panties in a twist!" He waved a pink-gloved hand as if to ward off her immediate disapproval, grinning as he leaned back in his chair. "I’m talkin’ class, I'm talkin’ style, I'm talkin’ one of the best damn voices to ever grace the depths of Hell."

Vaggie narrowed her right eye, sitting up as she glanced at Charlie beside her. "This isn’t another one of your weird ‘bonding activities,’ is it? Like—like that time you tried to get us to go to a ‘How-to-Moan’ class?"

Angel scoffed. "Okay, that was one time, and I still think it woulda been fun!” He huffed, shaking his head to dismiss his previous rejected suggestion. “But no, babe, this is different! I got this girlfriend performing tonight, the kinda doll that could sing the socks off of any demon. Total smoke show, like an absolute bombshell—think old Hollywood but with a fuckin' bite!"

Vaggie sighed, leaning forward on the table, her forehead dropping into her hand. "This is gonna be a disaster, isn't it?"

Charlie bit down on her lower lip, hesitating before curiosity won out. She rubbed a hand over Vaggie's back, consoling her girlfriend as she asked, "What kind of venue?"

"A jazz club!" Angel declared, tossing his upper arms up with a twirl. "Live music, good booze, and a vibe that ain't total chaos—betcha didn’t expect that from me, huh?"

That immediately caught Alastor’s (previously devoid) attention, ears flickering up as his half-lidded eyes opened up. His usual grin stretched just a fraction wider with newfound interest. "A jazz club, you say?" His voice was light, laced with curiosity, a lilting note of intrigue threading through each syllable. "Now that sounds like a lovely way to spend an evening."

Charlie’s attention snapped to Alastor, ecstatic to see him actually interested in a group bonding activity for once. She immediately whipped her head back to Vaggie, who merely groaned in response to her partner’s current puppy-dog expression. Vaggie only sighed once more, pursing her lips. “Fine, we can go.”

And just like that, the deal was sealed.

The moment the doors swung open to The Devil’s Note, a sultry jazz bar nestled in the heart of Pentagram City, the group was automatically enveloped in a haze of warm, dim light and the slow, hypnotic strum of a double bass. The scent of whiskey and aged cigars wove through the air, mingling with the perfume of debauchery and whispered secrets.

Velvet drapes cascaded from the ceiling like blood-red waterfalls, framing mahogany walls adorned with vintage jazz posters and golden sconces that flickered with an otherworldly glow. A grand chandelier loomed above, its many crystal facets casting fractured light across the glossy black floors.

Husk barely had a moment to process the room before a passing server—impeccably dressed in a maroon vest and black bow tie—wordlessly handed him a fresh glass of whiskey. He took it without hesitation, grunting in approval before muttering, "Yeah. This place ain't half bad."

Vaggie, arms crossed and brow furrowed, took a slow, assessing look around before finally conceding, "This is… surprisingly nice."

Angel Dust twirled, four arms outstretched as he breathed it all in. "I know, right? Y’all thought I was gonna drag ya to some sleazy strip joint, huh? Give me some credit!" He leaned against Husk, smirking as Husk coughed mid-sip from the sudden movement. "Even whiskers over here is enjoying himself."

Charlie, expression starry with admiration, nodded vigorously. "I wasn’t expecting something this elegant! It’s like stepping into another era."

And yet, amidst all the chatter and appreciation, Alastor stood eerily still. His smile remained, but his gaze told a different story—nostalgia. He surveyed the space with an unsettling kind of familiarity, his fingers ghosting over the back of a chair as though touching a memory brought to life. The phonograph in the corner crackled softly beneath the low hum of conversation. The brass instruments glinted under dim golden light, polished and pristine. Authentic.

He inhaled steadily, deep and deliberate. "Now, this," he murmured, voice almost reverent, "is a proper establishment."

And with that, the group was ushered to a candle-lit table near the stage, where they settled into a plush, curved leather booth, sipping on devilishly strong drinks while Angel Dust gleefully droned on about how they were in for a real treat. Niffty bounced excitedly beside him, her tiny hands gripping the table as she took in every detail, while Husk, already halfway through his second drink, merely grunted in pacified patience. Vaggie remained reserved but intrigued next to an energetic Charlie who was practically vibrating with elation at the sight of the entire group together in an area that wasn’t the hotel.

Even Alastor quieted his usual accompanying static, a sign of respect for the Hellborn jazz band on stage. His glowing eyes flickered about the place, his smile satisfied as he tapped along to the beat with a clawed thumb. He had been prepared for tacky, garish decor, for a club that spat on the essence of true jazz. But this—this felt like a whisper from the past, an echo of something he once knew. The deep thrum in his chest from the bass, the filtered wah-wah notes of the trumpet, the sharp keys from the piano—it was real.

His head began bobbing in time with the beat, and before long, he was humming—low, rich, an effortless accompaniment to the imps filling the room with old-world soul. His foot, ever so slightly, tapped along with the rhythm in addition to his thumb. It was a rare sight—Alastor, not just half-assed listening, but feeling the music, letting it settle into him like it was a life source.

Charlie, observing him from behind, leaned toward Vaggie with a hushed whisper. "He looks… natural like this. Like he belongs here."

Angel grinned as he overheard the princess’ words, twirling the stem of his glass between his fingers. "Ain’t seen nothin’ yet, toots." His mismatched eyes twinkled, delight bubbling just beneath his tone. "Just wait ‘til the real show starts."

As if on cue, the lights began to dim. A few guests around the club perked up, their murmurs laced with anticipation. The energy in the room shifted as a golden spotlight shined on the center of the stage, buzzing quietly with unspoken thrill.

A hush fell over the crowd as the jazz band eased into a rich, sultry melody, the notes weaving through the air like smoke curling from the end of a cigarette. The suspense in the room was palpable, some guests shifting forward in their seats, their low whispers betraying excitement. Then, as if answering their call, a graceful silhouette stepped into the soft light, emerging from the shadows.

You.

Draped in liquid satin, the deep emerald fabric of your gown clung to your curves like it had been painted on, the thigh-high slit revealing glimpses of silk stockings as you moved. Diamond earrings kissed your neck, sparkling under the spotlight, while a matching necklace sat snug at your throat, a glittering noose of old money elegance. Every inch of you screamed dangerously expensive, an untouchable femme fatale gracing Hell with her presence.

The moment your ruby lips curled into a relaxed, sly smile, the room seemed to exhale all at once—entranced, bewitched. Every step you took was intentional, high heels clicking softly against the stage as you moved with the languid finesse of a panther on the prowl. The mic stand welcomed the brush of your fingers, cool metal against your skin, and for a brief moment, you let the silence stretch—letting them wait, letting them want as you surveyed the crowd with bated breath.

Then—

You sang.

A voice like silk and sin, rich with the kind of confidence that came from knowing the effect you had. The song had started off with a bang, your voice powerful as you rang out the first electrifying note—long, steady, and clear proof of your skill. Your opening riff dripped with seduction, wrapping around the room like a velvet ribbon. Conversations hushed. All eyes were on you.

Even Alastor’s.

He sat unnaturally still, red eyes burning like embers, fingers tightening around the glass of whiskey in his hand. His ever-present smile had not faltered, and yet, there was something in the way his shoulders tensed, in the way his ears twitched as if trying to resist the very essence of your voice. His chest felt tight with a new emotion he could not quite place, his mind suddenly empty of all other thoughts as he watched you sway on stage.

The musicians followed in suit once you sang the opening, the floor vibrating as the swell of jazz rolled through the room like thunder dipped in honey. Every instrument answered your voice like a well-trained lover—sharp when you snapped, soft when you slinked. You didn’t just sing; you prowled, you played, you performed. Your hips moved with the rhythm, and every gesture was a magnetic force of perfected deliberation. Notes curved out of you like smoke rings, leaving the room hanging on every breath.

As the final note lingered in the air, a wave of applause rippled through the audience. To Angel's excitement, his group all seemed to be giving signs of approval. Charlie and Niffty were clapping fervently, and even the usual impassive faces of Vaggie and Husk were now adorned with impressed expressions. And Alastor… He clapped too—but it was precise, calculated. Each movement measured, restrained, as his eyes smoldered with sudden intensity.

Angel leaned back, throwing an arm over the back of the booth, grinning smugly at the group. “Ain’t she great?” he drawled, clearly reveling in their reactions.

As the applause settled, you bowed elegantly, sending a charming smile to the crowd. “Enjoy your night at The Devil’s Note, darlings. There’s more where that came from—so stay tuned.”

The small crowd applauded a second time, your band picking up the beat once more as the lights cleared just slightly for an intermission. In the downtime, you spotted Angel in the crowd, a flicker of recognition lighting up your expression as you stepped down from the stage. You snaked towards their booth with effortless grace, the attention of a few Sinners lingering on you as you passed their tables to get to your good friend.

“Angel!” you called out, sliding up beside him as he beamed at you. “You always know how to gather an…”—You glanced at the motley crew, blinking in surprise as you took in his choice of accompanies tonight—”interesting crowd.”

He wrapped his upper arms around you, hugging you tightly as he gestured to the group with a free hand. “Doll, meet my weird-ass roommates. We got Charlie, she’s the princess—yeah, that princess. Vaggie, her overprotective watchdog. Husk—he’s grumpy but I promise he’s warming up to me.”

Husk snorted. “Not in a million years.”

Angel waved him off, continuing down the line. “That’s Niffty, she’s a firecracker, and last but definitely the freakiest—Alastor, ya know, the Radio Demon.”

After greeting each member individually, your gaze finally landed on the Sinner across from you, who sat ever so still in the curved booth, his grin wide as you both studied each other. You hummed softly when you met his red eyes, glowing with something akin to curiosity. You had heard of the Radio Demon in passing conversations throughout your time in Hell, but you had never expected him to be such a… dapper fellow.

He was dressed in a crimson pinstripe suit, essentially blending in seamlessly with the aesthetic of the club. The sharp cut of his jacket accentuated his tall frame, and the dark shadows surrounding him only seemed to grow in the candlelight, casting an eerie silhouette behind him. You almost had to hold back a laugh at the odd addition of two tiny prongs of antlers jutting between his large red ears—an unexpectedly cute detail that clashed comically with the otherwise pristine 1930s vibe he was going for. Something in his expression, the way his grip tensed around the glass at the way you watched him, made your brow lift in amusement. He studied you in return not with disdain, nor indifference, but with something far more interesting—contemplation. It made the hair on the back of your neck stick up; how thrillingly dangerous.

You leaned in slowly, purposeful, your elbow hitting the table as you rested your chin against your palm. You let the tension stretch, your head tilting as your charming smile morphed into a wide smirk. His watching eyes only seemed to track your every move, his body tensing slightly as if he were waiting for an attack. Then, with a teasing, sensual tone, you tilted your head and purred—

“You seem uncomfortable. Do I make you nervous?”

A flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes, stunned into silence by your words. His ears shot straight up, blinking several times at you as if he couldn’t believe what you just said. The rest of the group seemed equally shocked by your bold move—both Charlie’s and Vaggie’s jaws dropped at your provocative comment as Husk merely took a long, slow sip of his drink to hide his amused smirk at Alastor's dumbfounded expression.

A second of quiet tension passed before Angel burst into laughter, cackling loudly. “Toots, you’ve seriously got a death wish! Fuckin’ flirting with the Radio Demon—I swear I’ve never met a gal as crazy as you!”

You turned back to the spider beside you, grinning deviously as his arm around your shoulder shook with every guffaw. “Please, I’m only teasing.” You couldn’t help but chuckle alongside Angel, shaking your head as you turned back to look at the rest of the table. “But seriously, I’m glad to have you folks here. Any friend of Angel’s is a friend of mine, so enjoy your time here.”

You backed out of the booth smoothly, gesturing for a passing waiter to bring a fresh round of colorful refreshments to the table. Angel lit up like he’d just witnessed the second coming, beaming at you with pure reverence for the free alcohol. You rolled your eyes with a smirk, giving his shoulder a playful push that made him giggle like a schoolgirl.

As the rest of the group oohed and aahed over the new drinks being set before them, you turned to take your leave—gown swaying around you—but not without one final glance over your shoulder.

While the others were distracted by the sudden liquor, Alastor’s staring remained fixed on you, unmoving and unblinking. You met his gaze, letting your lashes lower just so. Then, with all the poise of a woman who knew exactly what she was doing, you winked slowly… and blew him a kiss.

His smile snarled, revealing black gums—just for a moment—before your eyes caught the sharp bob of his Adam’s apple in an involuntary gulp. You glanced down at his free hand on the table, his red claws leaving a few scuff marks on the polished mahogany wood. You only huffed a laugh, shaking your head as you turned forward once more.

“For the Radio Demon, you don’t seem to be quite the talker!”

You were met with a sudden burst of radio static, the lamps above you flickering in tandem. You heard a few gasps from the group before Angel’s recognizable laughter rang out once more, wheezing even harder than before. Smirking, you continued on without looking back, sending a fluttering wave to the group behind you.

You ascended the stage once more, your heels clicking against the familiar wooden stage. The imp at the piano glanced back at the commotion, eyes darting between you and the table with a questioning brow, but you snapped your fingers lightly, calling him back to focus. He simply nodded and turned back to the keys.

As you reached for the mic again, you glanced once more toward the table—and found Alastor watching you. His menacing smile remained, tight and strained like a mask held too long. When you both made eye contact, his right eye twitched. You bit your lip, a coy smile tugging at the corners of your mouth, whether that be from your clear effect on the Sinner or the dangerous thrill starting to blossom in your stomach.

Only one thought rang through your mind as you stepped into the spotlight, the music swelling behind you, the room holding its breath once more to hear your voice:

This will be fun.

tag list: @railgunuzi @frompiscium @rose-in-blue @catticora @milkissesx [want to join/be removed from the tag list? check my pinned post!]

#not jazz but i imagined tough lover from burlesque for the opening song lol #alastor #hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor x you #alastor x reader #oneshot #thanks anon!#request #shittily-proofread

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reallyromealone · 3 months ago

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Can i request Kaname Kuran x Pureblood Male Reader and reader is kaname's betrothed from birth. If you can you can put in more details but can it be an omegaverse please.

Title: mate oh my mate

Fandom: vampire knight

Characters: vampire knight cast

Fic type: fluff

Pairings: Kaname x reader

Warnings: male reader, reader insert, Omegaverse, Omega male reader, vampire reader, feeding, yuuki has rage

Notes:

Summary: reader is requested to attend cross academy by his mate and Yuuki is less than impressed

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

"Fiance?" Yuuki was confused, looking around the room while Kaname nodded, holding a photo of the Omega in question, a pure blood dressed in soft cremes "he will be joining the night class!" Cross cheered, trying to see the bright side of the newest student. "He knows the rules, I assume?" Zero grunted at the pure blood who gave him a barely veiled look of annoyance.

"He is fully aware"

Yuuki tried to hide the envy she felt towards the Omega... This was kanames mate...

A pure blood male Omega, probably trained to be the perfect mate for him.

"But there's no Omega dorms in the night class...?" Yuukis question was a thinly veiled argument and Kaname looked at her fondly, as if she were a little sister "we have already made the proper arrangements, his room will be across from mine" Kaname seemed quite pleased with his words, always a slightly smug with each sentence.

Yuuki just sat there before letting out a sigh and standing, storming out of the room.

Confusion swept the vampires face, cross and zero knowing exactly why she left "she had to learn eventually..." Zero mumbled and cross agreed.

Kaname decided he didn't want to pursue this drama, human drama wasn't really something he cared for before excusing himself, after all...

His mate should be here any moment.

(Name) Sat in the limo calmly, dressed in his new uniform while staring at the scenery curiously while the sun was setting. He had never been to a school, having been homeschooled prior but his alpha wanted him close, not liking the distance and limited time together. A ring sat on his finger, a beautiful ruby, surrounded by garnets... It reminded (name) of kanames eyes...

His alpha had such lovely eyes...

"We can see each other each day my kana..." (Name) Whispered, pleased with the concept of seeing his beloved once again after almost a month a part, the only commutation being letters; thank god Kaname left him scented objects. The school was truly something, the grand school peaking from the horizon and the trees barely hiding it "so this is where kana stays..." (Name) Was curious about the school, his staff told him roughly how it works...

Kaname could sense his mate before he even got on the grounds, the exhaustion of his beloved seeping into his skin, the distance had been taking a toll on him after all. (Name) Was asleep when the limo pulled up and Kaname wasted no time scooping him into his arms and wandering to the night class dorms, looking at the light of his life and hopefully he will be less exhausted after this nap...

(Name) Was usually quite more lively, the sun to his moon but it seems that the seperation had made him so tired... Poor thing. He barely acknowledged the night class while bringing (name) to his room, the Omega immediately snuggling into the blankets and taking in Kanames scent. Looking at his mate, Kaname felt relief and crouched before him "soon we will be out of here... I just have loose ends to tie up and you will be marked and we will go home..." He promised before getting up and walking towards the door, glancing back at the sleeping vampire.

It was hours before (name) woke, eyes snapping open and looking around the unfamiliar room and sniffing... "Starving..." He whispered, wanting nothing more than his alpha to be here so he could pin him down and enjoy what he's been deprived of. Stepping out of the room he looked around with a slouch, Senri the first to notice him and alert the rest of the night class and subsequently Kaname.

"Where is he?" (Name) Said slowly, hungry and frankly not in the mood for any games of any sort "he's in the gardens... He will return soon" Senri spoke softly and (name) just stared before wandering off.

"I just don't understand! Why can't it be me?!" A voice called out and Kanames voice could be heard almost exasperated "Yuuki, I love you but not in the way you want... You're my sister and that will never change but (name) is my mate" Kaname explained to his sister who sobbed angrily "but I love you!"

"But I don't love you"

And at that moment, Yuuki Kuran broke.

Sobbing uncontrollably, she ran off and Kaname kept composure before turning towards his mate "hello my love..." Exhaustion evident in his voice and (name) wandered towards him "she had to learn eventually..." (Name) Reached towards him and gently traced his face and Kaname rested his head in his mates hand.

The two walked back into the dorms and up to kanames room, the Alpha offering his neck to his beloved who Kissed his pulse lovingly before biting in, starved of his mates blood. Kaname gently rubbed his hips and ass, letting his beloved take what he needed before pulling back and snuggling into him "are you hungry alpha?" (Name)s voice content and dream-like and Kaname simply kissed the blood from his lips "I'll feed later, for now we have much to discuss, no?"

(Name) Was graceful and elegant, arm linked with Kanames while students looked on in awe at the Omega with an ornate engagement collar, (name) nodding kindly to the fellow omegas in the school in an act of omega-omega kindness, no matter the hierarchy it was seen as an equal understanding to one another and safety in numbers.

Even if he was a vampire, it was nice to have fellow omegas.

"So why are you attending this school... You received your education" (name) asked while they walked to the headmasters office and Kaname hummed "to keep an eye on my sister, I worry for her and she's attached to a specific human... After the Rido situation... I don't want to risk it"

"Reasonable"

(Name) Was curious while sitting beside Kaname, the headmaster and an obvious hunter "thank you for coming here (name)" cross smiled and (name) nodded politely, looking towards Kaname who nodded "vampiric tradition requires the Omega to have approval before talking to an unknown alpha, as I am required to gain approval before talking to unknown omegas"

"I see, well (name) if there's anything you need here to make your transition smoother please don't hesitate to ask" cross said kindly and yagari glared at the Omega "and one slip up and it's curtains, do you understand me?" His voice stern and (name) nodded calmly "if I find out you fed on any student you will be executed"

"I can only feed from my alpha or those pills you gave me... " (Name) Spoke softly and cross looked confused "vampiric mates can only feed off each other, they don't have claim marks but the rules would still apply for them" yagari explained, already tired of this conversation and (name) was pleased the hunter understood.

"Well regardless, we hope you feel safe and welcome"

"Thank you, sir Cross..." (Name) Spoke kindly before leaving with his mate.

"Now let's hope yuuki doesn't cause problems" cross mumbled, leaning back into his chair.

#vampire knight x male reader #vampire x male reader #vampire knight x reader #male reader #omegaverse #omega male reader #x male reader #anime x reader #anime x male reader #kaname x reader #Kaname x male reader

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nymphaea-blue · 2 months ago

Text

Rafayel x lemurian!Reader

Info : 400+ word count, fluff, lemurian!reader, reader is female, mentions possessive Rafayel, possible lore inaccuracies, slight spoilers to his lore.

Notes : I didn't see many fanfics with Lemurian!reader but I love the concept of it very much so here it is! :D I don't have his myths cards so it's possible that some aspects are not accurate but hopefully it's not too bad.

﹒　⁺ Rafayel would find out that you are a Lemurian quickly, if not immediately. He was the sea god after all, he knows his people. Besides, your beauty was one truly fitting a Lemurian, he was enchanted when he saw you so of course, he started talking to you, more and more often. Maybe at first it would seem like an incident that you met him so many times, but when he mentioned to you something about Lemuria, you knew it wasn't casual anymore.

﹒　⁺ Rafayel would be extremely romantic! He is normally romantic as well but since you come from the same home it just feels more special, he can't help but go all out. He would try to romance you in a traditional way for Lemurians, in such a loving, caring and respectful manner it would be the cutest thing ever <3

﹒　⁺ Rafayel would take you on swimming dates! His house is literally on a beach so especially during summer - your outings would be frequent. When he first saw you in your Lemurian form he got extremely flustered and he fell in love with you even more. The two of you would spend hours in the water while talking and exploring the surroundings.

﹒　⁺ Rafayel would talk with you in Lemurian, he adores giving you compliments and flirting with you in your native language, nothing is sweeter than that in his mind. It's especially useful whenever gossiping or when he needs to complain about someone in secret, or whenever he wants to give you notes that only you would be able to read and no one else.

﹒　⁺ Rafayel would give you matching items, clothes, anything - just to get a point across that you are his and he is yours because you bet he won't have some mere human trying to lay their hands on you. He would be more possessive than normally even if he knew he didn't need to be, Lemurians are extremely loyal after all, they live for love so he’s confident that you wouldn’t leave him.

﹒　⁺ Rafayel would love to paint you. You are his muse, his reason for living, his perfect partner, his lovely bride, of course he wants to capture your essence in a painting and immortalise your beauty and personality on a canvas. There would be a ton of sculptures, paintings, sketches either of you or inspired by you and he would do his best to preserve them, just to make historians question in years to come of who was the wonderful woman that looked like a goddess, adorned in traditional Lemurian clothes pictured in so many forms of art.

#lads rafayel #love and deepspace #rafayel x reader #lads #rafayel #fluff #lads fluff #lemurian!reader #rafayel x you #rafayel x mc

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irisintheafterglow · 1 year ago

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hi!!! could i request pro hero!bakugo & pro hero!reader where bkgs doing an interview and they ask about relationships and his answer is “I thought you people already knew that im married”

i have no idea how to word things but i hope that was readable🙏🙏

keeping it in the family

wc: 1.6k

cw/tags: swearing, mentions of drinking and alcohol, established relationship, dialogue-driven

note: RAHHH I LOVE HUSBAND BAKUGO. anyways !!! i hope you like this, i did get a little carried away when writing it so hopefully it makes sense. thank you for your ask!!!

likes, reblogs, and replies are always appreciated <3

“And we’re on in five, four, three, two…give ‘em hell.” The roar of excited applause jumbles together with the late-night show’s opening theme and the screams of excited fans can still be heard even as Kirishima flashes a blinding smile to the camera.

“Good evening, everyone, and welcome to Heroes on Heroes! We’re so glad you’re joining us tonight, seeing as this is the finale of season one!” The audience cheers with fiery passion and it makes the three heroes onstage chuckle nervously. This was going to be a long night, especially if the superfans were crying after every word they spoke. “I’m Red Riot,” he pauses while the cheering erupts once again, “and I’m joined by my fellow pros, Chargebolt and Dynamight.” You wince from your place at sidestage from the sheer wave of noise that slams into your eardrums when the latter is introduced.

“Thanks for having us tonight, man,” Denki grins. He eagerly drums the armrests of his chair, to the left of Kirishima. “I’ve been looking forward to doing one of these since I saw Deku’s a few weeks back.”

“It’s a great concept, really. I love being able to just chat with you guys and shoot the shit about hero stuff. It’s so manly.” Kirishima turns expectantly to the other hero sitting to his right, whose hot-headed nature was blatantly obvious by how he was slumped in his chair, squinting slightly at the burning spotlights and clicking cameras. You admire Kirishima’s confidence in forcing Katsuki to say something. “What about you, Bakugo? How’re you feeling tonight?”

“I’m alright,” he shrugs indifferently. Your breath catches in your throat and you can hear the Dynamight agency’s publicist put his head in his hands. “It’s been a while, so it’s good to see you guys,” he adds with unexpected fondness and you exhale in relief. His eyes meet yours for half a second and he shoots you a wink that makes your knees wobbly. “I saw that save at the bridge collapse last week, Shitty Hair. Pretty decent work.” Kirishima blinks once, twice, and then glances at Denki. Katuski’s blank look narrows into a scowl. “The hell are you looking like that for? I got shit in my teeth or something?”

“No, no. Sorry, man,” Kirishima laughs. “I just wasn’t expecting a compliment from you so early in the show.”

“Yeah, we thought we’d have to booze you up a little more to get you to be nicer,” Denki jokes and he recoils a bit when he’s struck with a molten hot glare from the hero across from him.

“Whatever you’re about to say, bro, don’t say it,” Kirishima warns and the crackles in Katsuki’s palms gradually dissipate. “But, I’m wondering too. What’s with the good mood?”

“I guess I feel like playing nice tonight,” he answers cryptically, his gaze flicking over to you again with amusement. You can almost sense the fainting girls falling over each other in the front row. Kirishima’s attention subtly darts over to you and a knowing smirk grows over his face. It was the first time you and Katsuki were at the same press event, since you both thought it was too dangerous to sneak around until now. “But, talk about that bridge save. I don’t think a lot of people know that the guy was wanted by several agencies.”

“Ooh, yeah,” Denki agrees with a quick sip of his drink. He swallows and sets the glass down with a light thud. “He’d been giving us hell for weeks. It's not really the best matchup for a sand villain to be going up against an electric hero.”

“It was the sand villain and his wife, wasn’t it? That chick with the melting Quirk?”

“Yep, they were a nasty couple to deal with,” Kirishima confirms. “I had to keep track of this guy’s damn sand spikes and his wife turning the floor to goop at the same time.”

“Goop is a weird-ass way to put it,” Katsuki points out with obvious distaste.

“Yeah, but he was a pretty goopy guy.” Chuckles ripple through the audience and you can’t help breaking a smile too at Kirishima’s joke.

“I think for me, at least,” Denki adds, “the biggest pain was the fact that they were married, and they had, like, marriage telepathy or something.”

“Bro, I thought that was just me! Here I was, thinking that I’d incapacitated one and split them from the other, when bam! Both of them appear in front of me like a damn genie.”

“You ever have to deal with villain couples, Bakubro?”

“Nah, not recently. We’ve been doing a lot of big raids on all the crime families downtown.” He flexes his right bicep and pulls back the sleeve of his shirt to show a gnarly purple spot growing on his skin. “Got this little beauty three days ago from a neo-Hassaikai asshole.” You're not fazed by the ugly shade of the wound because you were the one who stitched up the...less visible results of the raid.

“Jeez, man,” Denki says in disbelieving awe at his friend’s injury. “If you ever need backup, we’d love to do a team up with you.”

“I think I’d rather die–”

“My agency would also love to team-up with you,” Kirishima interjects before Katsuki can finish his thought. The heart rate monitor of his publicist begins to rapidly beep behind you. “We can have a threeway team-up! That’d be pretty cool, don’t you guys think?”

“What if we all just merged into one big super agency? Like a big family?”

“That sounds like the stupidest shit–” Again, Kirishima cuts off Katsuki’s brash protests and saves them from being taken off the air.

"That would be so awesome."

“Would that mean we’d have to get pro-hero partners, too? Keep hero work in the family?”

“I think Salonpas would have heart palpitations if we said we were trying to keep hero work within the family,” Katsuki points out and his friends nod in agreement. “On another fuckin’ note, that Half-and-Half idiot keeps hogging the number two spot and it pisses me off.” Though you didn’t often encounter Todoroki while you were on patrol, you knew that he was adamant about keeping work life and family life separate. It made him even more of a dedicated hero and a recent bust of a notorious crime ring bumped him into the number two spot over Dynamight for that month. You didn’t hear the end of it from Katsuki.

“He and Deku just work really efficiently, Bakubro.”

“I can efficiently slam both their skulls into a–”

“You know what would solve that problem?” Denki butts in unceremoniously, covering up his harsh words for a third time. Katsuki grunts in response and the lightning-decorated hero gives him enthusiastic finger-guns. “Combining and making a family agency.”

“What are the chances that Sero would want to join too?”

“Probably pretty high,” Kirishima guesses. “He’s at my place every other week, anyway, so he’s basically my brother.”

“Alright, maybe this could actually work, then. I just need to find a smoking hot hero wife.”

“That’ll probably be the hardest part, buddy–”

“What about Bakugo?” You stiffen and the three guys turn their attention to a voice calling out from the audience. Speaking during the interviews was strictly prohibited until the question and answer section, but getting Katsuki’s attention was a surefire way to derail the entire episode.

“The fuck do you mean, what about Bakugo? Who the fuck said that?”

"Dude, just ignore them."

“Can’t be a family agency if Bakugo never gets into relationships,” the same nasally, irritating voice argues and your face feels like it’s been set on fire. Kirishima’s attention jumps to you for a moment and then back to his friend, whose palms are starting to spark like fireworks. “Do you just get no bitches, or something?” The audience gasps and security finally arrives to escort the disturbance out of the building. The director is ready to stop the cameras and jump to a commercial break, but Katsuki speaks before he can order the sound crew to cut the mics. To everyone’s surprise, his voice is nothing but amusement, like the insinuation didn’t bother him in the slightest.

“You think I don’t get into relationships?”

“Bakugo…”

“It’s alright, Pikachu. I really don’t give a shit about whatever that guy said,” Katsuki reassures his friend with a sly glint in his eye. His friends watch him warily, like a grenade on the verge of exploding. Once again, burning red eyes meet yours with a single question that you answer with a resolute nod. “I’m not gonna blow up, so stop looking like that. Really, I don’t care.”

“Why not?” A tense beat of silence passes, then–

“I thought you people knew that I’m married.” A shit-eating grin spreads across your husband’s face as gasps of shock burst from the audience. Kirishima and Denki both shake their heads in exasperation. They knew already, of course, but they didn’t expect him to reveal his relationship status as a result of a heckler. “Yep, going on a year and a half, now. Around five years together total coming this winter.” More collective cries of jealousy, surprise, and betrayal shake the building’s foundation. "If you don't believe me, ask these guys."

"Yeah, we were at the wedding, too. It's hard to keep it a secret when all of your friends are also high-profile heroes."

“Can you guys believe that he fell in love during the winter?” Denki’s thumb juts out toward his friend, who frowns at the mere mention of cold weather.

“I fucking hate the winter,” he grumbles.

“We know, man,” Kirishima says sympathetically, unsuccessfully hiding a chuckle. “You’ve been saying that since high school.”

“Yeah, and shit hasn’t changed,” Katsuki bites back with lighthearted indignance. “Look, they saved my ass when it was cold; how was I not supposed to fall in love with them?” To your delight, his complexion has turned a slightly darker shade of pink. “Yeah, I love them. What about it, asshats?”

“Is this a bad time to bring up the family agency again?”

“Let’s go to commercial before I blow this fucking chair to pieces.”

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)

#bakugo x you #bakugo x reader #bakugo x y/n #katsuki bakugo x you #katsuki bakugo x reader #katsuki bakugo x y/n #mha x you #mha x reader #mha x y/n #bnha x you #bnha x reader #bnha x y/n #ask iris!

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yandere-sins · 9 months ago

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AAAHHH THE HANDMAIDEN READER KISSING THE LOWER SOLDIER IDEA IS SO CUTE IM CRYING- Imagine if the reader saved the soldier; he was injured badly in the middle of a frozen lake and due to him falling down the lake cracked. So reader jumped into the lake, saved him, and gave him a mouth to mouth cpr. She also took care of him, but one day she's too focused on taking care of him and she didn't realize that Childe's too close to the room already. It caused her to rush and drop her handkerchief.

Jealousy, jealousy is all I can say to that ;)

Sorry for the long wait, but I also have one more draft with a naughty story about the handmaiden concept as apology! Hopefully I'll get to finishing it soon!

»»———————— ♡ ————————««

Childe waited in dead silence in the shadows as he watched you take care of the soldier.

Puddles of water surrounded the two of you, more than just from the snow being dragged in, and not even the fire you lit could dry them fast enough. Your clothes clung to you, the curves of your body inevitably burned into his mind as you wrapped a bandage tightly across the soldier's chest, securing his arm skillfully.

This was the closest he had ever gotten to you. Even though he lost the pursuit somewhere between the steep Snezhnaya mountains and the frozen lakes that lay dormant in the snow, he was able to pick up your tracks just hours later. You were never that careless, never that boring when it came to running from him, so seeing you with the soldier came as a surprise. Childe wanted to capture you; you wanted to stay as far away from him as possible. And like magnets, you two kept attracting and repelling each other constantly.

But not now. Childe was finally able to see you in your full glory, your back turned, but the beauty of your muscles visible through the dark fabric that clung to you. Every piece of clothing was so expensive, yet it did nothing to elevate the natural beauty you already possessed. The few glimpses of your hair were enough to make him sweat, and although he was so close, he couldn't bring himself to barge in and destroy this blissful moment.

He had gone completely mad, but he knew that the second you noticed him, you would slip from his grasp, and the game would start anew.

Although he loved the chase, Childe appreciated the moment of respite. He was the shadow hunting you down, and right then and there, that shadow remained behind the gap in the door, hoping for one more glimpse. One more memory revealed, to add to his little, depraved library of fantasies, your face as elusive as you were.

Of course, he hated how much your focus was on the soldier. That he got to see your beautiful face without the hood, receive your kind treatment, feel your soft touch, and be in your outstanding presence. But Childe was also thankful to him for being a fool. Otherwise, he'd never gotten you to settle down for a while, long enough to catch up and witness you in all your glory.

His downfall was simple—you, always you.

Childe should have waited, should have gotten his fix like any good addict, and then acted. But his patience was wearing so thin as he watched you check the soldier for other wounds, inspect bruises, and gently comforted him with verbal reassurance. Childe, too, got hurt. Bled and trembled, but you never showed him the same grace. Perhaps he should have injured himself on one of your chases, badly enough for the Tsaritsa to order you to retrieve this pitiful, desperate boy.

He should have waited, but his body slipped through the gap on its own, taking one step after the other. You were close enough for him to grab your hair, twist you around, and reveal your face to him before he'd maul you like the madman he was. But in the trance Childe found himself in, he forgot one very significant risk to his plan.

The puddles.

The sweetest, purest gasp escaped you as you jolted to your feet, grabbing your hood as you rose. Before Childe could latch onto you or the soldier realized what was happening, you were out of the window, gone with the cold wind of the snowstorm that blew in. Childe stood motionless as he tried to register the loss of the chance he had just blown before retracting his hand, covering his face as he began to laugh. Quietly first, then louder until the desperation took hold.

"Sir?" the soldier asked, confused, afraid, in pain, and immediately, all laughter ceased as Childe breathed out, feeling like he was truly going crazy. What an amateurish mistake he made. You could not be bested when he made such dumb mishaps.

"What they look like?" he groaned, raking his hand down his face, needing the pain of his nails to settle the rage he felt at his own failure.

"Huh?" the soldier answered, stupidly so. Did the broken arm muddle his brain?

"What," Childe growled, "did they look like?"

The soldier gulped visibly at the rapid changes of demeanor, stuttering as he tried to explain your angelic features. It sounded nothing like you. He didn't even get close to describing how wonderful and amazing you were, even though his face slowly turned red. It pissed Childe off. That lowlife had no right to get flustered imagining your face. He was in no position to look happy and smitten with you when you already belonged to Childe.

"You're fucking useless," Childe mumbled in the middle of the soldier's miserable attempts to describe your beauty to Childe, who knew you best. Who knew you perfect and proper at the Tsaritsa's side as well as violent and bloody in the middle of your enemies' dead bodies.

Immediately, the soldier's stammering came to a halt as he looked down, regret in his eyes that matched how pathetic he was. It was then that Childe let his attention drift, his eyes falling on the soldier's healthy hand, which was clutched weirdly around a piece of fabric.

"Give me that," he growled, and the soldier reluctantly tried to hide his hand at his side. "Now."

Childe's eyes widened as he realized what the soldier had held onto, the delicate embroidery of the Tsarita's crest on the handkerchief nothing a mere footman would receive. "They gave it to me to help with the pain," he muttered, and Childe cared very little how hurt the soldier sounded now that he had to give up his trophy.

Letting the handkerchief dangle in front of his face for a while, Childe turned towards the window you left from, regretting not going after you. Eventually, he brought it to his face, rubbing the soft, damp fabric against his cheek, the feeling resembling your caress. A spark of delight went through him as he noticed your scent still clinging to it faintly, and he realized you must have left him this gift out of affection. It had been right not to follow you directly, or else he might have missed your gracious present! So even if he lost the chance to finally have you all to himself, not everything had been lost after all.

"I could paint them for you," the soldier suddenly said. "Arms busted, but if you want to see them so much, I could draw their likeness for you once I'm better, Sir."

Childe slowly twisted back, a newfound hope in his eyes as he looked at the soldier. A maniacal grin found its place on his lips as he stared the man down, unblinking.

"My, why didn't you say so earlier?" he asked, his mood improving by the second. First the gift, now a chance to see your face after all! Your picture deserved the space beside him in bed until the day he'd get to rest your body there. Childe's expression was so sinister that it made the soldier shiver—not from the cold this time, but from the deadly aura the Harbinger emitted.

Grabbing the man by his healthy arm, Childe pulled him to his feet, steading the soldier before they could make their way out of the west wing. "I know just the place, Comrade! I'll get you to a good doctor and make sure your arm is fit in no time."

"And then," Childe added, his smile turning into an excited, boyish grin, "You can tell me all about my beloved."

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things-arent-what-they-seem66 · 3 months ago

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(Kind of want Lilith/Lucifer/Adam)

Au Idea that when Adam was made, he was just to be the prototype. To see if they could actually make something like him to begin with. Lucifer didn't even know about him. Adam wasn't made to be anything special. Almost like a default skin. Plain to look at. Accept for his eyes, a brilliant gold, nothing else stood out.

They cheered at their creation but decided Adam had played his part and stuffed him in a remote part of the Garden where they could forget all about him. Adam didn't know how to do anything. He didn't even know how to talk and then the strange beings grabbed him and left him alone in some small part of the Garden he couldn't leave. Maybe the beings would come back. Maybe they wouldn't. Adam was made to be Subservient to anyone, the Angels wanted something that could worship them, but being alone made him stagnate.

Then Steve and Lilith were made. Steve, a more dominant and controlling person made Lilith's life miserable and she wanted out. Why couldn't she be in charge? Why did she always have to spread her legs for this man who always seemed to push her down, ignore her ideas, and slap her around if she said no?

Lucifer tried to get Steve to see reason but he hated the fact that Lucifer so easily charmed Lilith when he couldn't. Why was that dumb angel so special? Steve was perfect. Lilith should listen to him and only him. If she won't do it willingly, then he'll make her.

One day, while Lucifer was busy with his jobs, Lilith ran away to hide from Steve who once again trying to procreate with her. Disgusted, she kicked him in the groin and ran as fast as possible away from him. While running, she came across and enclosed part of the Garden she had never been in before. Tall trees stood close together, almost like a wall with how they were tangled with each other, and, curious, climbed them to see what was on the other side.

Adam was watching a snail in fascination when he heard rustling from above him. He didn't pay any attention to it because he had no idea what the concept of danger was. Lilith grunted but finally climbed to the top to peer down. She nearly fell out of the tree in shock. Another human. Another human.

She and Steve were not the only ones here in the Garden.

OOOOU!!!

Lilith thought that it was only her and that...... Brute they call her husband. But this, guy? He looks like a man, he doesn't have the body type that she does so another man?

Hopefully better than Steve.

She got down and walked over, gently placing her hand on his shoulder once she was close enough.

Lilith: Excuse me?

Adam jumped at the contact and voice, he looked at this lady, she was beautiful with long blonde hair and violet eyes that shimmered like amuthst. Who was she? He wasn't alone?

Lilith gasped when she saw his eyes, they were so bright they put the sun to shame.

Lilith: My name is Lilith, who are you?

Adam titled his head to the side, he knew his name but he didn't know how to tell her. How was she making those sounds?

She saw the confused look on his face and sighed, he probably didn't know how to talk. This could be a problem.

Lilith: You can't talk..... That's okay, maybe Luci can help with that when he comes down.

Adam was confused, who was this Luci?

Hours passed and Lilith stayed with Adam, she talked to him just to fill the silence and they watched the snails together.

The familiar flap of wings got her attention and she went to get him.

Lilith: Luci! Over here! I have something incredible to show you!

Lucifer smiled, he wondered what it could be. New plant maybe? Though, he wasn't accustomed to this part of the garden.

Lucifer: What is it Lily?

He went over and that's when he saw Adam.

Lilith: I found him here all alone, why would he be here? Why wouldn't they have him in the rest of the garden? Why can't he talk?

#adamsapple #hazbin hotel adam #hazbin hotel lucifer #lucifer x adam #adam x lucifer x lilith #ask

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pokemenlovingmen · 4 months ago

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Hiiii, can I request some headcanons with Arven and a touchstarved reader?

I’m on an Arven kick rn so all the Arven requests being my most recent ones are doing good for me!!

Arven X Touch Starved!Male Reader

TW: mentions of child neglect and all the things that come with Arven’s past

🥪 - Joke’s on you, he’s touch starved too actually.

🥪 - Needless to say, whenever you need touch, Arven is always eagerly matching your energy. He got such minimal affection—let alone via touch—growing up, having a boyfriend who is always seeking touch is like a match made in heaven situation for him.

🥪 - You can just call for him to cuddle and even if he’s in the middle of something or across the house, he’ll come a-running.

🥪 - Arven actually has a lot of little physically affectionate things I think he does to all of his loved ones, but he can be reserved in actually letting himself do them. The instinct is constantly there and he’s always fighting it though, good thing he has you and he doesn’t have to!

🥪 - In terms of his little physically affectionate gestures, he likes to clap people he likes on the back or shoulder. If the other person is distinctly shorter than him, he’ll ruffle their hair or give them a noogie. He also does friendly punching or elbowing, and while doing any of the above he always has a big grin on his face.

🥪 - You have to actually explain touch starvation to him, but when you do, it clicks right away and he immediately latches onto the concept because you just put a term to something he’s felt all his life and a lot of things make sense now.

🥪 - So it’s fair to say that there isn’t a single man out there who could be more attentive to your needs than him, because he has the same feelings. And by Arceus, Arven is dedicated to making sure your needs are always met.

🥪 - Arven’s favorite thing in the world is cuddling. He loves to cuddle; he can be big spoon, little spoon, doesn’t matter as long as he’s doing it with you. Bed cuddles are nice, but he really likes couch cuddles even more. After he cooks a nice meal for the two of you and you’re both full, warm and calm, nothing beats moving to the couch and curling up in each other’s arms. It’s a pretty sacred tradition that makes him feel safe—hopefully it would make you feel the same way, too.

🥪 - While cuddling, if he’s holding you, he is STRONG. Arven’s strength is actually pretty average, but he can white-knuckle hold you tight all night long, so if you like a strong pair of arms, this is a place you’ll want to be. He’ll usually rest his head on your shoulder, sometimes kissing your neck and shoulder blades if he’s really feeling the love.

🥪 - If you’re holding him, Arven kind of rolls and squirms a bit. He’s not a fan of being a little spoon in the traditional way—if you’re holding him, he likes to be facing you. Sometimes he buries his head in your chest, other times he rests your foreheads together. Once he’s gotten comfortable, though, he’ll just melt in your arms. It feels so special and safe. It’s nothing like he’s ever felt before.

🥪 - When you cuddle, Arven is quiet… for a total of maybe ten minutes. He becomes a bit of a chatterer when you two snuggle, but he usually talks in a whisper during those times. While cuddling is often when you two will have your “big” conversations, usually regarding feelings and the swapping of your issues. Arven will listen the entire time you talk about whatever’s on your mind, including the reasons behind your touch starvation, all the while rubbing your arms with his thumbs and nodding. In turn, he’ll talk about being worried about losing you or scaring you off, and how happy he’s become since he’s found you. The conversations only get truly heavy when either of you are in a particularly distressed headspace, though.

🥪 - However you manage your touch starvation, Arven is happy to be on the receiving end. Tiny pecks as you pass him by in the kitchen, tight hugs before you separate for the day, a grab for his hand when you really need it… he’ll always be delighted to accept it all.

#pokemon x reader #pokemon male reader #arven x reader #arven x male reader #arven #arven pokemon #pokemon #(i have nothing to say for myself regarding my absence btw…)#(i can’t justify it but know I am sorry)#(life’s a bitch)

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delopsia · 24 days ago

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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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