#something a little simpler this time ^_^

[imbermagnvs]

aya maruyama layouts with rendering & coloring & composition by @imbermagnvs. reblog & credit to use!

[omnificent-orion]

Waiting for...

[nixotinix]

with the confidence of a squirrel on crack cocaine i offer the request of; A Gentleman’s ghost!

with the hubris of a monkey on adderall i give you; art!

thank you for the request anon!! as well as the mental image of a squirrel on crack. DC character requests still open for any interested parties!

[aiscapades]

thinking abt wanting to practice art again and i was feeling discouraged and thinking abt what i consider my greatest talent, writing, and how that comes naturally to me and generally takes no effort to write something Good. then the memory of my first beyblade fics when i was 11 hit me like a runaway train and i was like oh shit no. i did suck at it. and i did practice and grind and work hard and study and consume media i loved and hyperfixated and locked in. and i'm like oh my god. why can't i do that with drawing

[bhramarii]

I absolutely adore the two headed fawn necklace you made would you ever make another or do you only make a piece once?

I usually only make a piece once and even if I do make it again it won't be an exact replica of the last depending on the beads I have available and such. But depending on demand I am open to repeating designs! Just let me know and I'll see what I can do :)

[nepthrene]

my ponysona snapdragon - first created them when i was like 14 so the redesign felt overdue

[liquidstar]

a friend who'd wait :)

[autism-corner]

=3=

[trees-to-meet-you]

Anyway. In good news I managed to actually doodle today (something I haven’t done in a while bc I’ve been busy n depressed) so take a small Orange Blossom

[katyspersonal]

Okay aside from ibuprofen, I have a serious question for when you feel better—

How do you think Rom felt after she ascended? Do you think she gained any sort of higher perspective that allowed her to see what the others she had left behind were doing and to look back on her own life? Could she see Micolash? Caryll? Willem? Yurie? What did she think of all their goals and ends…most of all…why was she hiding the rituals? To save the world from Mico’s horror or to help him hide his sins out of some lingering sense of care? Was she even think much at all? I wanna hear your thoughts!!

Well hmmm 🤔 First things first, I always felt like Willem urging the hunter to go in the lake was a signal from him to hunt Rom, which I think would be counter-productive if Byrgenwerth's goal was TO conceal that specific ritual! My interpretation is that Rom was a volunteer to conceal the horrors of the cosmos prior to what Micolash did; as far as Byrgenwerth and Willem were concerned, she was their special asset to gatekeep the Eldrich Truth from those who are not ready to handle it, as well as the one concealing Byrgenwerth ITSELF! Argh, this is a slightly long theory to recite, so I will just link it here: ( x ). Byrgenwerth we see in "reality" is only a very small building, and the rest of it (Lecture Hall) is between Nightmare and the waking world! The true univercity used to be accessed through the lake like a portal! .....really, please, just check the linked theory ;-;

So yeah, that's the gist of it! Rom knows that if 'unprepared' people witness a cosmic horror - nothing good will come out of it, and also chooses to protect Byrgenwerth. She cared for humanity in general and the evolution, just like other best Byrgenwerth scholars! So, protect humanity, but also ensure the research to improve it continues.

It was my recent idea that what happened with Byrgenwerth was a very similar effect to creation of Hunter's Dream - Rom having sort of a "pact" with Ebrietas instead! Now, yeah, whether she REALIZES what she's doing is a question that torments me to this day! @_@"

The best explanation for Willem's gesture I can give is that he is aware of Mensis Ritual and wants it stopped, realizing how damning it is for humanity! Damian, the one from School of Mensis himself works with us to break Rom's concealment, too... Like I said before, insanity for "strong ones" and beasthood for "weak ones" could never be stopped by any means as long as ritual is ongoing! The note in the Hunter's Dream for us is my best clue for this headcanon:

The night of our Hunter ends when Mergo is silenced (aka ritual is stopped), so this would be the 'source'. Rom's barrier mitigates the severity of the ritual's effects, but doesn't stop it. Her barrier is penetrable for those who are "ready" (you start to see things like Amygdalae even through her concealment if you have enough Insight), but Mensis Ritual is special in how it still bears effect on people in Yharnam whether they are aware of it or not. One could completely avoid blood and eyes both, but as long as ritual is ongoing, sooner or later they WILL give into either beasthood or madness.. That is not very acceptable, right?

My version of Yurie becomes aware of what is happening, together with Fauxsefka, but agrees to let it happen. She thinks that keeping the ritual but also concealing it could cause a positive effect on humans by making their conscious evolve sooner or later.. So, what if some people become beasts instead of elevated as the cost? Can't help everyone! Fauxsefka thinks she is a callous bitch for that and bails. Laurence, I think, would be really proud of the way she thinks, on the other hand.. Willem, like I said, doesn't seem to agree with something so drastic! (Sadly, the only way to stop the ritual would be to first unveil it, which.. not everyone could survive. Like ripping the bandage.) But Rom is... still up for questioning.

Prior the spider form, Rom did believe in making people smarter through "deception". She witnessed the 'cursed', 'forbidden' knowledge beyond 'Stars and Moon' early and knew that Choir people would not listen. And she did hide Micolash's true antics at Mensis, trusting him to figure things out in his own way. And to do things that no one else would have the courage to do, herself included. I think it would be very bittersweet if even after her ascension, Rom still blindly trusted Micolash to figure everything out while she covers his back, even if now at more instinctive level. So, when Micolash decided to lock the Lecture Hall passageway to protect himself further (after Edgar betrayed the Choir for him), Rom just... let it happen. Helped, even! Placing herself in opposition against Willem. During her human life, she allowed Micolash to do a lot of awful things - with herself too, using her as a test subject, believing that she was "too stupid to decide such things" and Micolash always "knew better", so could that persist even now? That... deep trust, even in the most insane plan, not knowing that Micolash completely lost the objective.

But on the other hand, the idea of her being so completely lost within her own power that she doesn't even understand what happens (and when) is really appealing! That she just experiences and observes so many things, in so many timelines, on so many levels at once... well, until Hunter trying to kill her would make her focus on their specific universe and timeline. :') But yeah, complete transcendence + theme of a powerful "idiot god" that doesn't realize their power is really good. So, yeah, Rom doesn't leave the lake past the Mensis Ritual because of either blind faith in Micolash's plans or because she just... well, everywhere. She might not even notice with how many other things she's seeing. The motivation of milking the "use" of the ritual's effects I already gave to Yurie. 🤔

I just think the whole vibe of her being a genius that never credited herself properly fits her the best! She kept hearing that she was too dumb to decide for humanity or herself from the only family she had and just... agreed with it? Although she is aware that progress is impossible without sacrifice and very daring experiments, as soon as Mensis Ritual happens, Rom believes that "smarter people know what they're doing"... if she IS still aware of anything. Whatever Micolash is doing, he has good intentions and knows what is the price and the result, right...? RIIIIIIIGHT?? Yurie, Damian, Willem and Fauxsefka know Micolash is batshit, though.

If she still has some lucidity - she can "see" people that she used to know, yes. She just would not think of them or miss them in the same way us normal humans do... Memories would be torn, like in a dream, she'd know of Yurie, Micolash or Caryll but not have lucid comprehension of becoming a bit too "enlightened" to interact with them normally. Most of her attempts to interact with someone would transcend the space and time, but also she'd be too incomprehencible in this way... Not even for the most Insightful people. It could come like a dream, or like sixth sense, and Rom would "envision" herself as still a human. Close person like Yurie or very smart person like Caryll would still guess that the strange 'feeling' must be Rom, just not able to grasp her. That'd be beyond their perception! Micolash, that lil shit, would think whatever he could perceive to be a sign from Kos, though. -_-" I think even Ebrietas would not be able to truly grasp Rom now, should she try to contact her via the 'astral projection'! Think of it as almost no one having enough Insight / Eyes Inside to see her like this... This is very lonely, like being a ghost. Rom has to be there physically to communicate! But she should NOT leave the darn Lake!!

Patches, who is also a 'spider', got split across the multiverse in a much more solid way, of course 🤔 Rom is simply Too Many Things to have a similar fate... becoming a person-per-universe is too little to contain her, at least yet. Great Ones are more complex than just bald lil shit who messed with something forbidden!

[acaesic]

guys im gonna be honest ive only been an idkhow fan for 2 years and back then i had no idea the brobecks was also dallon. it took me like 6 months to connect that they were the same guy

[appleandaria]

If you can get all the way to the end of this literal wall of hashtags, then know that Apple is very proud of you. 🥺😅

prince version again —kinda built off of the last drawing but cleaned it up a bit more 👻

[Please do not steal, trace, repost, or do anything with my work.]

[boobearymuch]

Their Favorite Underwear (On You) —♡ LADS Headcanons

—♡Summary: They certainly have interesting preferences, that's for sure. —♡Tags: NSFW, suggestive, sex implied, afab!reader, no pronouns used, fingering, panty sniffing/licking —♡A/N: done staring at this I'm throwing it out into the wild —♡ masterlist

—♡ Caleb

Caleb’s favorite pair of underwear on you is somewhat an innocent pick. A worn out pair of cotton panties you’ve had since high school. 

They have some kind of pattern—either horizontal stripes, flowers, a repeating print of the cookie monster—doesn’t matter, he loves it all. 

They remind him of simpler times—laundry day when you were younger—and how they’d get caught up in his own load by accident. You’d flush bright red when he stopped by your door to drop them off, but he’d just throw his head back with a laugh and tell you it's fine.

He’s never told you how close he came to pocketing them instead.

In the present, he’s found himself on laundry duty again. The colonel is dumping your basket of dirty clothes into the washer when a familiar pair of cotton panties fall in. 

He doesn’t even bother looking around; Caleb reaches for them, breath hitching when he realizes they’re the same pair from before. He can’t believe you still have them. You really ought to buy some new clothes…

Something dark—hot—coils in his belly when he turns the gusset inside out and lifts the fabric to his trembling lips. 

It smells divine—a little on the tangy side, but he’ll make sure you drink more water from here on out. 

Then his tongue finally laps at the inner lining, and Caleb’s eyes practically roll into the back of his head. 

His hips jerk against the washing machine just thinking about sinking his tongue into your actual—

Your voice abruptly floats down the hall, some question he can barely hear, and Caleb tells you he’ll be right there.

Perhaps he will pocket these for later, after all…

—♡ Xavier

Xavier’s favorite pair of underwear on you…is actually his own.

His boxer briefs are basically yours at this point. 

When you sleep over and need a change of clothes, he just lets you borrow his; which is how you end up in an oversized shirt and boxer briefs in the first place.

Seeing you in his clothes is a thrill of its own, but seeing you in his underwear?

It’s an entirely new level of intimacy that has his ears burning red and his slow heart skipping a beat.

You wouldn’t wear just anyone’s underwear to bed, you’re wearing his.

He gets oddly clingy when you do, sliding in behind you in bed and nuzzling your shoulder as you scroll through your phone. 

You make some comment about a post you saw, but he’s hardly listening. Instead, his hand is sliding down your hip, stroking the fabric of his underwear and the heat of your skin. It brings a soft smile to his lips.

Xavier can’t help but think the slit of his boxer briefs is silly on you, sliding his fingers inside to gently stroke your pubes. It’s usually innocent, he just likes the texture.

But the hitch of your breath darkens his gaze, and Xavier gently coaxes you to continue scrolling as his hand sinks lower…

He hums in response to your little moan, fingers curling up into your slick heat. His other hand reaches around to take the phone out of your faltering grip and slams it against the nightstand. 

Xavier’s selfish, he admits—he doesn’t want you distracted by anything else while you’re wearing his clothes, his underwear…

You need to borrow another pair of boxer briefs by the time he’s done with you.

—♡ Zayne

Zayne’s favorite pair of underwear on you is not one you expected—thongs. He’s secretly crazy for them. Well, that might be an overstatement—but he enjoys the sight of you in them very much.

You’re surprised to learn about Zayne’s preference, though he doesn’t readily disclose it at first. You have to feign trouble picking between two sets of underwear first, and shove your phone into his face for an opinion. 

“...The one on the right.” The cool response is only betrayed by a fervent blush on his cheeks.

He likes slipping his fingers under the thin string, teasing and tugging. It leaves very little to the imagination; straight to the point.

Your order comes in, and Zayne secretly watches you slide them up your legs as you both get ready for a banquet. It’s all his mind keeps wandering back to throughout the night. 

Not only are you wearing underwear he picked out, but you’re wearing them to mingle with his colleagues. A rather distracting thought, isn’t it?

At one point during the night, you bend over to grab something, and the lack of a panty line reminds Zayne all over again what you’re sporting underneath.

He approaches calmly, interrupting a conversation with his colleagues by wrapping an arm around your waist. 

His excuse to leave early is well thought out—you suspect he’s had it in mind since arriving—but you’re barely listening when his hand wanders low.

It slides down your backside, and he absently thumbs the string of your thong through the fabric of your dress. 

…The car ride home is a short one, to say the least.

—♡ Sylus

If you asked Sylus, he’d say he prefers you in no underwear at all. 

But, if he had to choose, he’s rather fond of a simple red lace. Comfortable, practical, sexy. 

Not to mention, red is absolutely your color. The fact that it’s his too is merely a…happy coincidence. 

When he’s stocking up your closet in the N109 zone, Sylus makes sure to order only the best luxury brands exclusively in various shades of red.

The idea of you sauntering around base in his color is enough to make him purr at the sight of you, even when your underwear isn’t visible.

He makes a game out of guessing what pair you have on; is it the scarlet one with bows? Or perhaps the strappy maroon? 

Sylus finds out at dinner; you’re laughing at some ridiculous story when you uncross your legs, and there’s a flash of vermilion underneath your skirt. 

The one with heart cutouts? My my, you only wear that one when you want something…

His eyes roam you up and down as you continue your story, but you stumble over your words when a swirling red mist drags your chair closer to his.

You were quite bold for wearing such a bright color in public, and if anyone other than him was to catch sight of it…

Well, we can’t have that, can we?

Your breath hitches when his hand roams your thigh, smug eyes never leaving yours. His calloused fingers ghost the hem of your skirt, and your words trail off in anticipation of what’s to come next.

Sylus grips the fabric and tugs your skirt…down. 

Your face burns as he leans back with a chuckle, “You were saying?

—♡ Rafayel

Rafayel’s favorite pair of underwear? Brazilian panties, next question.

They sit high above your hip bones while accentuating the curve of your tummy; absolutely divine.

Of course, you look divine in everything; hell, you’d look perfect in only a seashell to cover your modesty. But something about the aesthetic of these panties, specifically, gets him insanely hot and bothered.

He brings you back gifts from his trip overseas, but he flushes and fervently denies having anything to do with the three pairs of panties tucked behind the body lotions and skincare.

Rafayel quickly changes his tune when you suggest modelling them for him, though.

That’s how you end up changing into them right then and there, a minty lace pair with a little satin rose sewn to the front. You rejoin Rafayel, who’s been waiting patiently on his bed.

Rafayel can’t speak, only tugs the back of your thigh closer as he swallows thickly. 

Your pubes peek out the sides due to the nature of the design, and you make an offhand comment about shaving the next time you wear them. Rafayel immediately shakes his head—as if offended—and grips the sides of your hips, thumbs hiking the side wings further up. 

He flushes, and his nostrils flare right before he lowers his head to lick a stripe up your lace front.

His tongue burns through the fabric, and the Lemurian lets out a shuddering breath against your stomach. You barely register the chill down your spine when he licks you again, this time his teeth catching on the waistband.

You never get to try the other two pairs on for him…

[swordgrace]

❝ 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐧 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐮𝐩. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: spending a gentle morning with your boyfriend, bucky barnes.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: bucky barnes x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.2K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), established relationship, post-thunderbolts bucky, lots of fluff, soft!bucky, making out, thigh-grabbing, bucky is a little flirt, morning sex, oral sex (fem!rec), cunnilingus, female orgasm.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: so this is my first time writing for bucky despite being obsessed with him for 10+ years (please be gentle & feedback would be really appreciated!) I typically write him as more soft & a service top instead of rough, so hopefully this doesn’t turn people off. anyway, I hope you all enjoy! 🫶

Before the sun splits through a violet twilight, cresting over darkness and into dawn, Bucky is wide awake, smoothing one palm over his grizzled countenance.

It’s too early; though, it’s become something of a normality for him, waking up before the first light of daybreak. Muscles ache with the heaviness of sleep, coiled into knots, still echoing with soreness from a mission days ago.

A five o’clock shadow clings to his jaw, brunette tresses longer, bedraggled by slumber. A shallow exhale simpers from his lungs, slow and steady, something that grounds him to his surroundings.

Save for the pale glow of the light glittering above the headboard, his room is shrouded by an inky black, bathroom door left ajar.

Peering through the dim illumination, his gaze searches for you, back turned to him, swaddled in the comforter; leaving only a sliver for him. A soft huff splits past his lips, knowing that you can’t sleep unless you’ve got a blanket.

Even when the temperature gets sweltering and summertime swings through with a vicious humidity, you’re typically bundled in the sheets, covered, unwilling to go without it. He’s conceded to sleeping with a fourth of the blanket.

A low noise reverberates through your body, swallowed whole by the pillow as you turn, comforter tucked to your collar, now facing him.

Scrunched with slumber, you’re still sound asleep, curled comfortably beside the pillow. You’re huddled tightly beneath the blanket, a tangle of limbs, warm to the touch.

Ritualistic, Bucky’s often ogling you each morning, mapping out every detail that rests within your countenance, finding beauty in everything. Every time the sun comes up, he’s searching for you, drinking you in again and again.

You’re the first thing he sees when dawn splits dusk — the best thing he sees.

You only get prettier with each passing morning, with every sunrise, prompting his heart to gallop beneath his sternum, unable to smother his smile.

If someone told him years ago that he would’ve ended up with you, he would’ve scoffed at the notion; unlovable, unworthy — he’d changed his outlook drastically.

There’s something inherently soft about your relationship — pure, clean, built on a foundation of mutual trust and protection. Bucky never experienced soft, save for the forties; now, he was able to rest.

Unconsciously, you stir, crawling closer until your body wedges into his arm, flesh and blood, bicep firm as he adjusts, bringing you against his side. Still muddled by the haze of sleep, you exhale, cheek pressed into his shoulder.

He smooths a feather-light kiss to your crown, gaze drifting toward the ceiling; nondescript, too modern. The massive undertaking of renovating the former Avengers Tower was met with mild resistance from the team — plenty of needless additions, too.

The training room is entirely too large for how many people live in the tower — a meager seven, unless Valentina intended on recruiting. There’s buttons on the sofa in the common lounge, and he’s still uncertain of what they do.

Sometimes, it all feels too new, too sprawling — he’s always enjoyed the simpler things in life, the rustic and the unappealing.

Hushed, Bucky steals another glance, gaze fluttering over your visage, over the strands of loose tresses that stick to your temples. He sweeps them aside, vibranium arm a kiss of ice to your warm skin.

Slowly, he begins to shuffle, gently easing you aside and into the pillow, muscles stiff as he rolls to perch along the edge of your bed.

Dawn unfurls somewhere beyond the horizon, tendrils of muted orange whispering through the eventide. A soft groan slips from his lips, body still recuperating from a mission days ago, bruises bone-deep.

Early to rise before anyone else, he stretches, reaching for a black undershirt, dog tags sparkling through slivers of light. Tugging the fabric over his head, he trails toward your bathroom, making for the sink.

Palms splay flat over smooth granite, mirror revealing a rugged countenance, tresses disheveled. A tangle of scars lay where vibranium kissed flesh — old wounds, old memories interlaced into his skin.

Formed by him attempting to claw at the metal, they were a remnant of a ghost, a spectre he’d left behind. It was the piece of him that had healed entirely, leaving behind mere wisps — Bucky wasn’t him anymore.

The Winter Soldier was no more, only present in a name, a stranger left within the recesses of his mind; lingering still, no longer important.

Nightmares still nipped at his heels, less intense than they used to be, but still prevalent. There’s brighter days ahead when you’re around, presence comforting, able to soothe him without effort.

Screwing the knob of the sink, a rush of cold water tumbles from the spout, filling the basin with icy liquid. Dipping his vibranium hand beneath, he splashes a barrage of water against his face, a brief shock to the system, cooling over warm skin.

Droplets of water rolled over his chin as he scooped another handful into his mouth, allowing it to soothe his dry throat. A comfortable hush echoes through his room; it’s tranquil.

In the mirror’s reflection, he spots your writhing body, adjusting again, but this time, you’re awake. Through furrowed brows and mild confusion, you’re humming, limbs uncoiling, searching for Bucky.

“Bucky?” Through a barely-audible murmur, you notice the empty space beside you, indent still warm where a body once lay. With a low groan, you sit up, groggy as you blink to try and rid yourself of the sleep-induced haze.

Lingering in the doorway, Bucky makes himself known, bathed in blanched light from the bathroom, as if he’s caught in some glow. “Morning.” He drawls, his smile lilting into something lopsided, warm.

With a smile, you rub at your eyes, peering toward your phone, the time flashing up at you. It’s only ten-past-six, typically too early for you, but not for him. “Hi,” Wiping the blur from your sight, you shuffle beneath the comforter. “You okay?”

Bucky nods, reassuring as he dries off his metallic hand with a towel, watching you as if you’re the center of everything; you are. “Early riser,” He muses, head tilting to one side. “You can go back to bed.” He assures.

“I’m awake now,” You protest, squinting as you allow yourself a moment to adjust. Sleep’s thick fog still clouds your mind like a haze of steam, prompting you to stretch out your arms. “I might as well stay up.”

Through a half-sleepy smile, you comb your fingers over your crown, hand dropping to your side as you lay back down. Knowing that Bucky is up and will continue to stay awake prompts you to do the same, hands folding over your abdomen.

With a soft chuckle, he turns, tossing the towel back onto the rungs before crossing the threshold to your bed, sinking back down beside you. The black undershirt and silvery gleam of his dog tags is a good look for him — he’s handsome.

Swiveling around, you turn to face him, tucking one arm beneath your head, a smile still curling at the corners of your mouth. Instead of saying anything, you’re gawking, ogling him as if he’s the center of your universe.

Bucky can feel your gaze on him, and he turns, brows slightly furrowed, a half-smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “What’s wrong?” He rumbles, softening at the sight of you.

You’re breathtaking, exhilarating; he still can’t believe that you’re with him after all this time, steadfastly by his side. He feels your hand trace over his bicep, leaving fire in your wake, prompting him to inhale.

“Nothing, just … You’re pretty,” The tender cadence of your remark evokes a chuckle from him, nose briefly wrinkling, brows furrowing. “I’m being serious.” You assert, cheek nudging over his shoulder.

“I know,” Bucky counters, rolling over on his side to mimic your position, cool vibranium brushing over the exposed flesh of your hip. A metal thumb caresses circles over your hipbone, enough to make your breath catch. “Supposed to be telling you that.”

Ardor oozes from his gaze, cerulean hues traveling over the delicate slope of your jaw, across your body, which happens to be clad in one of his shirts. After being The Winter Soldier for a lifetime, Bucky has become exceedingly gentle.

Being callous, cruel, rough; it isn’t ingrained into his codex anymore, he doesn’t want it to be. Your presence evokes the gentler feelings, ones that he prefers to let guide him over anything else.

“We can tell each other,” You level with him, fingertips snaring over his dog-tags, nail tracing over the indents on the metal. “Did you sleep well, at least?” A tender hush wraps around your cadence, a soothing lull.

Bucky huffs, a light smile toying at the corners of his mouth, metallic digits still circling your skin. Gooseflesh spawns in the wake of his touch, spreading like wildfire across your spine.

“Yeah,” He muses, unable to peel his eyes away from you, gaze softening whenever you smile. Rest is better with you around — he feels safe, more aware of his surroundings. “Did you? Sorry for waking you up.”

With a playful roll of your eyes, you’re dismissive of his apology, digits gliding toward the collar of his undershirt. The constant touching is assuring to Bucky, something grounding. “Don’t be sorry. This is nice, being up together.”

Optimism has always been your strongest attribute, and he concedes, finding contentment in the smaller moments like these. “It is,” He hums in agreement, metal fingers smoothing over your waist. “You’re so beautiful.”

A scoff erupts from your mouth, as if he’s said something outlandish. “I think you’re still asleep or something,” You tease, feeling rather disheveled, undeserving of his compliment. “Like this, all messy from sleeping?”

Bucky’s brows momentarily furrow, mouth agape to make room for a quizzical chuckle. “Exactly like this,” Insistent, he takes a swipe at your brief moment of self-deprecation, dismantling it with ease. “You’re always beautiful.”

A droning groan slips past your mouth as you descend against the mattress, sprawling out, limbs somewhat untangled from the comforter. “Thank you.” Through a soft mumble, you feel your skin crawl with a constant warmth.

Biting back a grin, he shifts closer, propped up on his side, vibranium palm kissing your thigh, a burst of lce to your flesh. “Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen,” He murmurs, tone droning at a husky octave. “Getting shy on me?” He’s teasing you, now.

“Bucky,” In a feeble attempt to counteract him, your knee nudges against his abdomen, but he isn’t going anywhere. “No, just … You’re really sweet.” You mumble, staving off the bite of embarrassment.

“Hm,” Bucky clicks his tongue, a hint of amusement swirling within his eyes. “Sweet, huh?” The pitch of his voice is disarmingly gentle, stirring embers within the pit of your stomach.

Adjusting your leg, your knee sits over his waist, brushing against the fabric of his undershirt. “Very,” You muse, and the flustered feeling begins to dissipate, replaced by elation. “You can’t keep up the tough act with me.”

A ribbing scoff escapes him, faux disbelief creeping over his countenance. He’s so handsome that it hurts, stinging your chest, rousing butterflies within your belly. “Who says that I am?” He remarks, inching closer to you, the distance growing slim.

With a wrinkled nose, your mouth grows into a beam, melting beneath his gaze. He oozes with an effortless charm, one that’s drastically improved since the beginning of your relationship.

Warm fingertips card over your temples, stretching into your hairline as he partially hovers above you, head cocked to one side. You’re mesmerizing, he’s mesmerizing; you’re both awestruck.

He’s gazing at you, hues shamelessly flickering between your doe-eyed stare and the soft curve of your lips. Bucky finds a purpose, a semblance of tranquility within your heart.

The sensation of your palm pressing against his chest barely registers, lost within a labyrinth of you, fingertips roaming over your crown. Your hand sits soundly above his collar, over an old, steady heartbeat — he’s at peace.

Digits climb toward his collar, tracing the metallic chain of his dog-tags, higher still, until you reach the shadowed scruff that covers his jaw.

Bucky exhales, a contented noise that drags through his chest, steady and sure, throat bobbing as he swallows. The quiet is kind — it’s one that he allows himself to settle into, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Words aren’t exchanged, bleeding into the kiss he plants against your lips, nose brushing against yours. A hitch forms within the bottom of your throat, hand splaying over his jaw, involuntarily keening into his touch.

Vibranium tenses over your thigh, cradling, thumb drawing slow circles over the pliant muscle. The sensation is enough to make you quiver with exhilaration, lost within the labyrinth of his lips.

Something incendiary lingers within his kiss, a subdued restraint that he clings to, and you can feel it, too. He savors the feeling, fingertips ghosting along your cheek until he’s cupping your jaw.

With a soft sigh, you’re turning into him, chest brushing against his, other hand drifting to grasp at his bicep. Through a momentary gap, you exhale, warm breath pluming over his lips before you resume the kiss.

Mouths tangle into one another, deepening when he presses closer, slotting a muscled thigh between your legs. Another shiver rolls down your spine, digits tensing over his arm, heart hammering beneath your breast.

He’s deliberate, attentive; Bucky kisses you as if you’re the center of everything, tender as it stretches on for several moments. Kisses edge with something desirous, and you withdraw to catch your breath, visibly smitten.

Your head descends against the pillow, fingers flexing near the nape of his neck, toying with the brunette tresses there. “Could you wake me up like this every morning?” You mumble, lips curling into a smile.

Bucky huffs, mirroring your countenance as his hand still caresses over your leg, beginning to slip towards your hip. “All you gotta do is ask, sweetheart.” He affirms, still close to you.

The affectionate nickname fills you with a thinly-veiled delight, eyelashes kissing the skin beneath your eyes. “Noted.” With a gentle hum, you’re wanting to kiss him again.

“I have something else in-mind, if you’re willing.” Bucky chimes, cadence husky, curling around you like some pleasant haze. He kisses your jaw as if to hint at what he wants; you’re more than willing.

“Enlighten me.” Breathless, you’re attempting to pass as collected, calm, but when icy metal begins to tease the waistband of your shorts, your resolve wavers. His lips travel over the slope of your jaw, sluggish, as if he’s exploring.

Slivers of orange crest the horizon, fracturing dusk with pooling light. It’s still early, early enough for the both of you to hide within the shadows for a little while longer, before everyone else stirs.

Bucky shifts, now positioned between your legs, musculature taking up a decent amount of space. A sigh bubbles within your throat, hands clamoring to perch atop his shoulders.

His mouth works at you still, drifting from your jaw to the silky expanse of your throat, scruffy beard scratching pleasantly against your skin. A delighted half-whine splits your diaphragm, flesh burning with a newfound heat.

“Bucky …” A throaty moan floats from your lips, feeling his fingers curl into the hem of your shirt, gently easing it up towards your chest. Brisk air drifts over your exposed skin, gooseflesh erupting in its wake.

Each kiss makes you feel weightless, as if your bones have turned to molten liquid, stomach churning with anticipation.

After another string of kisses brand your throat, he descends, mouth ghosting below your breasts. His visage prickled over your ribs, sending a brief shiver of anticipation through you.

Cerulean hues flicker toward your face, vibranium hand pressed firm to the mattress, hovering beside your waist. Lips peppered themselves across your stomach, traveling to your hipbones before ascending again, a lackadaisical pattern.

Every kiss possessed meaning, a fervent love for you, etched into your skin as his mouth feathered across your lower stomach. He only came to a crawl when he found your waistband, stealing a glance at you.

“This okay?” Bucky inquired, tone a mere purr, husky as warm breath fanned over your abdomen. “It’s been awhile.” He wanted to taste you again, have you writhing against his tongue; he couldn’t help himself.

With an eager nod, you kept your legs parted, shivering when cool metal toyed with the elastic of your undergarments. “Yes,” You huffed, feeling his lips twitch into a smile. “Bucky, please.”

Unwilling to deny you, he nodded, hands curling into the soft cotton of your shorts and panties, easing them down your legs. Knuckles brush over your thighs, calves, until he’s discarding them near the foot of your bed.

“God, you’re beautiful.” Bucky sighs, reverent as he plants a kiss against the inside of your knee. Your breath hitches, words dissolving to ash in your mouth as he kisses a trail toward your thigh.

A familiar heat pools within your belly, arousal coalescing between your legs, thighs shifting together to relieve a sliver of tension. He continues, hunger stirring within him, ravenous.

Careworn palms caressed circles into your thighs, dragging from your haunches toward your knees, and then back again. Sweet kisses buried themselves along soft skin, inching closer toward the slick warmth of your cunt.

He’s methodical, intimate; there isn’t a need to rush into anything, which you’re thankful for. Instead, you savor his lips as they plume over the inside of your thigh, visage marked by a rugged scruff.

Bucky lowers, prone atop the mattress, threading your legs over his broad shoulders. Metal graces the swell of your hip, holding steadfastly as his other hand caresses your thigh.

With a broad stroke of his tongue, he raked hot embers over your core, hands steadying you, eager to please without an ounce of hesitation.

The unexpected surge of pleasure washed over you in an instant, stomach coiled into a knot of tension, mouth slack to make room for a moan. One hand flew to his crown, carding through brunette waves, urging him closer.

“Bucky,” A blissful whine flutters from your lips, goosebumps traveling over your body. He’s too good at pleasing you, and if you let him, he would’ve stayed buried between your thighs for an eternity. “Feels so good.”

A ripple of satisfaction blisters through him, coupled with his own want, but he’s able to put it aside, content to focus on you. He presses a string of kisses to your cunt before alternating with flat strokes of his tongue.

Lurching forward, your hips jolted, urging yourself onto his mouth with a twinge of desperation. His tongue continued to greedily lap at your slit, briefly teasing your entrance.

The tip of his nose brushes along your petals, tongue splitting deeper still, until he vigorously laps at your core. Your taste permeates his mouth, a bittersweet ambrosia that draws him into some wanton haze.

Thighs twitch, tense on either side of his head, not that he minds. Bucky is exceedingly tender with you, savoring your body, vibranium hand soothingly rubbing along your hip.

He can’t get enough, akin to a man drinking greedily from a desert oasis, chin steeped in your arousal. The shadow of his beard scratched against your supple flesh, leaving behind a prickling burn in its wake.

That taut heat within your stomach had been wound so tight, like a coil threatening to snap in two. His mouth was voracious, lapping and kissing wherever he pleased, pinning your hips down whenever you squirmed.

Fingertips perused through his tresses, gripping snugly near the base of his skull, back arched from the mattress. “B—Bucky, please!” A delighted moan rippled through your diaphragm, sending pleasant shivers through his spine.

A tremor gripped your legs, little spasms of delight making their way throughout your body. A sharp groan blossoms throughout his sternum as you incessantly tug upon his dark locks, urging him closer.

Bucky turns, mouth sealing a hot kiss to the inside of your thigh, metal palm kneading into your hip, drawing circles near your pelvis. Through a shadowed stare, he watches your face as it contorts with bliss.

His mouth hotly returns to your cunt, tongue stroking over your core, splitting past your folds. Oozing heat, he trails his lips toward your clit, pressing a lingering kiss over the sensitive clutch of nerves.

As soon as he pursed his lips around your clit, you nearly exploded, thoughts completely derailed, scattered into a blissful abyss. Your body reacted with shivers and tremors, hand gripping at the nape of his neck with a reckless abandon.

Hips surge forward, jolting into the greedy heat of his mouth, and he happily treats you to incessant barrages of his tongue. Shockwaves of pleasure strike at your belly with each stroke.

Absentmindedly, your hand darts to clasp over his vibranium one, chest tight with a flurry of excitement. The gesture is enough to make him shudder, and he continues, ministrations wrought with vigor.

Slurred cries of ecstasy slip past your lips, back arched, keening into any sliver of friction he offers. Your body was wound into knots, and you felt yourself being pushed towards the precipice of your release.

As his lips rolled over your clit again, your knees buckled, ecstasy mounting, electrifying your very veins. He did not cease, tongue stoking the fire, content to lap at your core, the sweetest agony of all.

“Close,” You huff, doing little to mask your cacophony of pleasure, moaning his name as if it’s all you know. Bucky indulges you without any hesitation, mouth pursing around your clit. “T—There, right there.”

A low groan stirred within his chest, reverberating within his throat as he went about teasing your clit, suckling on the bundle of nerves. A spasm passed through you, mouth slack, desperate moans leaving you in droves.

He doesn’t stop nor change pace, metal thumb stroking beside your wrist, the other hand clutching at your haunch. Bucky drags you close, flush, mouth buried against your cunt with such rapture.

Bucky gingerly suckled on your clit, feeling your fingers tighten within his brunette locks, gripping him tight. He wanted you to have your release, built upon this pent-up feeling.

“Come on, sweetheart,” His voice emerges as a husky lull from between your legs, pulling a whimper from your diaphragm. “I’ve got you.” He soothes, tone wrought with a warming tenderness.

He could feel your encroaching release, feel the tension in your grasp, the way you let your hips continue to lurch forward. Another cry of his name falls from your mouth, affectionate.

Without relenting, Bucky continued to suck at your clit, letting it intermingle with hot laps of his tongue, dutiful and fervent between your legs.

That heated coil within your stomach began to unfurl, bringing an onslaught of arousal with it as you bucked into his mouth. Pleasure washed over you in feverish ripples.

At last, your peak consumed you in a white-hot oblivion, and you very nearly saw the stars themselves. Another drawn-out moan crescendoed from your lips, visage contorted into sheer bliss, hand loosing from his hair.

Bucky slowed, lavishing kisses to your cunt as you shivered, body awash with a burning ecstasy. Spots still floated behind your eyes, heart hammering within your chest, blissed-out.

Withdrawing, he pressed a string of kisses over your inner thighs, which still twitched from the aftershocks of your orgasm. Planting another kiss to the crook of your knee, he sat back, chin glistening with your slick.

Left to recuperate, you were hot, as if you were bitten by a fever. Smitten, you searched for your panties, rubbing at the back of your neck. “That was amazing.” You sighed, as if it were the first time all over again.

Dragging his tongue over his bottom lip, Bucky ran a hand over his chin, a charming smile molding to his features. “I’d be worried if it was anything but.” He remarks, a hint of confident charm creeping in.

Before the ice, before the fall, Bucky was renowned for having a suave, gallant demeanor. He had it still, relearning what it all meant, and he enjoyed making you flustered.

“You’re getting ahead of yourself, Barnes.” You mumble, lashes fluttering as he wordlessly slips your panties back on, letting you tug them the rest of the way.

Daybreak slips through the windows, an ember-orange that slivers over your shared bed, painting him in some euphoric glow.

Bucky slinks forward again, wedged between your legs, vibranium hand firm atop the pillow. “Am I?” His smile warms your insides, and he exhales when your fingers find his face, cradling his jaw within your hands.

Hushed, he bends to kiss you, a gentle action threaded with heat. The kiss is clean, passionate — he handles you with care, and you make sure to do the same; it’s what he deserves.

“A little bit,” Mesmerized, you reciprocate his kiss, clinging to him like an anchor, foreheads dipping to brush against one another. When dawn strikes you both, your nose wrinkles. “Good morning, Bucky.”

“Morning.” He murmurs, lips stilling as he plants a kiss over your jaw. He gazes at you with ardor, and he knows that with every sunrise, he loves you just a little more.

[syluses]

love is a bitch

sylus x female reader

sylus will tolerate your tantrums if you insist on having them- but he’ll have to address them somehow, too.

▻ cw. smut, noncon elements, implied kidnapping, breeding if you squint, sylus is soft but the consent is still very dubious, 18+ characters, dark/yandere content, possessive behavior, stockholm syndrome

▻ notes. no explanation tbh. its around like 6k words i think.. with SEEMINGLY minimum plot but sylus is so whipped for mc. like truly whipped. this dynamic has a very special place in my heart its like canon to me. i wanna make a dragon sylus fic next… maybe another caleb one OR do a siren! raf thing. hope the girlies enjoy this <3

ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑟𝑒𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑 (๑´ `๑)♡

You’re stubborn, tonight.

Between two days spent enduring your mean cold shoulder and the precious vase you threw to the ground, sending it sprawling in a million bits across the floor that Sylus fears will end up lodged in your feet, he’s a little emotionally-charged as well.

Sylus has never been one to bend over, no- his two most reliable henchmen are there for that, and they do it gladly. But there is something about you that makes him stick his neck out time and time again… So, without a word, just a resigning glance thrown your way, he lowers himself to a crouch and sweeps the glass shards into a dustpan.

Love will do that to you, he supposes with the ghost of an obliging grin.

It’s not in his nature to roll belly-up, but he’ll meet you halfway somewhere on his side.

It’s not the first time he bent a knee for you, anyway, and certainly won’t be the last. Still, Sylus holds abundant self-awareness and knows this is more than a bad look for him; fortunately, his weak spots only ever reveal themselves in the privacy of his manor’s walls where you hold it down in his absence.

The twins- Luke and Kieran- they won’t enter your bedroom, not tonight, regardless if there’s a mess or not. Onychinus’s leader has plans for you and no intentions of allowing any interuptions. With a watchful eye trampolining between the fragments underfoot and your rounded shoulders as you curl up to the headboard and tremble, Sylus decides he can handle this little issue fine enough himself.

With a set jaw, he trawls through the glittering pieces until his gaze darts to something particularly shiny.

He lets out a breath.

…So you did throw it out; Sylus wondered what you were fidgeting with behind your back moments before your sudden outburst, but it’s with a pang of startle- and hurt- that he unearths the nitid wedding ring buried beneath layers of geometric shards. Discarded no different than trash would be.

It’s not like he needs physical proof to boast your marriage— even strangers can spare one look at the two of you- the arm forever wrapped around your shoulder or middle, the possessive flair in his eyes paired with a doting, bottomless affection- and make the conclusion that some sort of intimacy runs deep there...

So no, some filed-down gemstone, dazzling as it may be, doesn’t determine your relationship. It certainly makes him feel good, though, to see it wrapped around your finger as a perfect match to his- a tangible token of your bond. It’s a beautiful reminder of you that he absently toys with throughout the evenings to the backdrop of a silent stopwatch, mentally counting down the seconds until he can return home to you.

It’s all the more reason to adorn you in pretty things, anyway. Jewelry and twinkling beads that clang loudly together no matter how quietly your feet fall.

And he likes that, to be fair- not to be superficial, but it’s one of his simpler joys, to pamper you like a princess in every sense of the word.

You don’t need to like it, to want for it; Sylus has always stared at you like you were the epitome of royalty. And royalty only deserves the best, doesn’t it?

He dresses you in fine silks that you slip out of as soon as he’ll allow, trading designer brands you can’t even name out in favor of one of his sweaters or shirts. Stood behind you, he’ll insist on threading dainty, flax chains around your neck, smiling softly in the reflection of the full-body mirror.

You never meet him in the eye, then, too put off by the delight that practically oozes off him as he spoils you rotten to look at him right.

Sometime later that night, his hand- large but always careful- will resume that chain’s place around your neck, and thumb over your pulse affectionately.

You never did find much use, or joy, in any of his glitzy expenditures.

If- If you’re being perfectly honest you’d much rather he buy you a ticket home. Maybe that’s the one wish of yours he’ll never bring life to, much less humor in the first place.

But you’re nothing if not persistent. Oh, sweetie, Sylus has been made abundantly aware of that fact. He takes it like water off his back, though: just another little quirk of yours to catalogue to memory and dote over.

His stubborn, precious girl.

Tonight, frustration reaches its zenith in you and you snap. Grow teeth and snarl in his face.

You don’t want to be angry— ugly— God knows you loathe what’s becoming of you, but your captor doesn’t leave many other options on the table.

You shriek when he tries to coax you towards the plush fur draped over the bed and he watches with a resigned sort of sorrow as you throw things off the coffee table and shout.

You scream your throat hoarse. You taste copper on your tongue as if you’ve been running. Maybe, the truth isn’t all that far off. A man like Sylus is something to run from; all sentient beings with a sense of self preservation, no matter how small, would take off on foot immediately.

There’s not many places you can run to, though. Not when there’s constant surveillance on you- iron-wrought gates and a damned bird that soars watchfully overhead if you so much as step into the courtyard.

Your tantrum lasts all of three minutes before you retreat to the nearest corner- Sylus’s lavish bed- and quietly lick your proverbial wounds.

He’s never hit you before, no, not physically, but he’s the kind of man to leave everything within his radius reeling sooner or later. Doesn’t matter where his loyalties lie. It will happen.

And, you know, he’ll treat you like you’re some exception to that rule- to his streak of cruelty and the chaos that he lets unravel around him- but you’re not. You’re really not and you just desperately wish he could see that—

“Talk to me, sweetie,” a low tone draws you from your reverie.

You don’t let your eyelids flutter open right away; you’re re-experiencing a vivid memory in your head- a sunny afternoon in Linkon with a warm hand woven in yours by the shore- and don’t want it to slip away just yet. It’s a comforting piece of your past you want to hold onto.

As pathetic as that may be, despite Sylus having all but birched your hope for rescue to a bloody pulp, you still look back on better days with bittersweet longing and pray someone will come and save you. If not them- your old buddies in the Hunters Association and your closer friends that Sylus has voiced a particular enmity to- then yourself. You want more than anything to save yourself, but it’s not like he gives much opportunity for that.

This is your home, now. It always was. He’s dogged in his attempts to prove it to you, purring in your ear while he fucks you slow and deep that he’ll take as long as it needs to convince you of that simple fact. It’s indisputable: you’re his.

You’ll… come around to it eventually, Sweetie.

Biting your tongue, you hold off on responding to him.

There was nothing to say, really- you’d already just screamed your throat raw and still it wasn’t enough to make him budge or even at least reconsider this awful arrangement he’d launched you into a number of months ago.

If you open your mouth, you tell yourself in a mix of childish bravery and cooling ire, sloped against the headboard defiantly, it’ll be to bite him. Certainly not talk to him. Especially not in any civil manner. You think he’s lost that right ages ago- the priviledge of your softness.

You hear him heave a faint sigh, but for the moment, he leaves it at that. “Okay, then,” he murmurs with a tinge of understanding that you hate, “You cool off, sweetie. Take slow, deep breaths. Lie down if it makes you feel more comfortable.”

You remain sat upright. One half of it is because you don’t quite feel safe going prone right now with adrenaline still buzzing in your veins, and the other half is for the sole purpose of spiting him.

Sometimes it feels like you can’t. Spite him, you mean. His wounded eyes, which resemble a kicked puppy’s to a shocking degree, are as rare as they are effective. You really shouldn’t harbor any capacity of guilt for the man, but you’re human. Glaringly human. And his forlorn little frowns after you’ve winced under his harmless pets or refuse to face him after he’s fucked you within an inch of your life and wants to curl up to you like some overgrown cat- they tug on a vulnerable part of you.

It’s- It’s not Stockholm Syndrome at all, or even the latent stirrings of it. It’s just— It’s just a basic human trait to feel, and…

You suppose that might be the one veritable thing he hasn’t quite ripped from you. Maybe more so for his benefit than yours.

After Sylus is done sweeping up your mess, he approaches the bed and caresses the blade of your shoulder. The movement is just barely hesitant, like he doesn’t want to send you flying five feet in the air with some violent flinch response. It’s happened before on more than one occasion.

You don’t know whether to count his caution as endearing, oddly sweet, or fucking maddening. Perhaps it’s a fair combination of all of that as well as sickening.

Your consolation that came in the form of a now distant memory peters out into heavy, intermittent throbs of your chest. Sadness thumping a gentle song. The smell of sea salt spraying up from the ocean fully wafts away as he brings a hand up to your forehead, gentle as ever, and guides you to turn to face him.

His own scent- a base amber with notes of vanilla underneath, in two words: warm and rich- replaces that. You draw it in in small, shallow breaths and feel it tingle behind the bridge of your nose.

Sometimes it comes like a precursor to his hands- something that’ll have you bracing for impact in fetal position. Other times, when he’e got your thighs pinned either side of your head and his cock delving in and out of your pussy, hitting so deep in your belly you think nothing will sate your appetite for days, it’s a dizzying smell.

Consuming and concentrated, rubbing off on you like a bad influence as he grabs and gropes and nips.

You hate to admit it (and don’t know how it got to this point) but on occasion, Sylus’s scent is even comforting.

You would never tell him that. In fear of it getting to his head, if nothing else.

His warmth tickles the shell of your ear, his lips peppering a chaste kiss to your shoulder as he settles in beside you. Your frenzied heart, just as it began to slow, begins to thump faster, but you remain otherwise composed. When he moves a hand to lift the blanket over you, fuzzy and stupid-expensive, you make a grunting sound and shove his wrist away.

Stubborn, Sylus thinks, and bold.

But his. His and perfect.

Behind you, his chest rumbles. He lets out a laugh, gentle and light, but you wonder if it’s the remnants of exasperation that’s interwoven in it. He nestles up at your back and curls a possessive hand around your middle, his other brushing some hair off your shoulder.

You’re not quite dumb enough to interfere with it this time. Or, for that matter, the glittering ring he puts on your finger- back to its rightful spot- and reverently slips down to the slim base of your knuckle.

“You’re not cold, kitten?” He mumbles at your ear, taking you in through slow, decadent breaths,”I guess you did work yourself up by a few degrees, huh?” The proximity used to raise the little hairs on the back of your neck, but he has dulled your fight-or-flight response considerably over the past handful of months.

Kudos to him, for that.

He’s not entirely wrong, though. Your cheeks still feel toasty with anger, your fingers twitching and unfurling by your lap as if to test your own mood.

“Are you…” he starts, contemplative, “still frustrated?”

…Are you still frustrated? You don’t know. Maybe just sad.

Everything you want you can’t have. Everything you want- your veritable livelihood- he’s plucked you out of no different than a mother would her errant puppy, by the scruff. With possessive teeth that latch on painlessly and say mine.

“I don’t know,” you murmur, before quickly remedying the part of you that grows anxious at admitting your own vulnerabilities to him- “yes. I’m upset.”

Sylus gives a little sigh.

Long fingers skim the column of your arm. He leaves behind small goosebumps and a warmth that somehow feels cold over your human flesh; a brush that tingles like a static shock.

“Don’t be,” he murmurs, voice becoming oddly heavy. Breathy, rugged. And you wryly suppose the solution he offered is just so helpful, isn’t it?

The palm laced around your middle gradually slips downward, his hooked nose pressing into your jugular like he can smell the hot blood beneath and it’s appetizing, before a feeling of dread overtakes you.

Dread, and another feeling you don’t want to name— a thrill of excitement ghosting down your spine.

When he cups the seat of your panties, you shiver and revolt as if you’ve been burned.

“N-No—“

He’s ready for that, your… hesitance. His other arm, the one that doesn’t end nestled between your bare thighs, keeps you lassoed to him, his breath heavy at your collar. Growing more labored by the second.

He hushes you, using his cheek to stroke against your hair since his hands are otherwise occupied. You don’t give any more fight other than that- the violent flinch- but you remain stiff as a board as he notes your trembling with a genuine, deep frown. Furrowed, sad brows and all as if he actually has the fucking capacity to feel sorry for something—

“It’s okay, kitten,” he breathes out, “Hush.” Four fingers deliver a series of slow, tantalizing rubs to your pussy, marking the beginning of his painless assault as his thumb toys with the waistband of your panties, and you shudder against your will.

You scramble to hold onto his thick forearm, straightening against him as he leisurely works you into a writhing, fiery mess. Your veins warm, but not out of anger- not anymore, at least. Traitorous flames sprout in the pit of your belly, fanning heat across your face— hot-blooded and filled with want over just a few of his touches.

Oh, you hate him.

“Just relax, loosen up. I’ll make you come,” he murmurs against your neck, laving the fleshy space there with amorous kisses.

Man with a mission. Man with a promise. If you know him, then you’ll know he keeps them.

He suckles gently at the sensitive skin before breaking off with a soft pop, a hot tongue lolling out to chase away the redness, rendering you speechless. Speechless and on the brink of forgetting just why exactly you loathe him so much— but a vestige of that repulsion remains, melancholic and weak, and you try one last time to push him away, throwing an ineffective elbow.

He glues his front to your back completely, locking your joints in place, and slips his fingers down your panties. His knuckles peek out from the lacy hem.

Sylus lets out a little groan when you call his name, shivering behind you.

He doesn’t care if you say it like it’s a perjorative or an invocation of some reprehensible, filthy spirit— if he had it his way, it’d sound coated in honey, but he’s learned to take what he can get with you. It still makes his cock throb beneath the white folds of his robe. In any case, it’ll sound real sweet soon enough, ringing out from your lips in pretty, gasping moans as you gouge your nails into his back.

Grudge him all you want, honey. He’ll make you shake and scream, tonight. Squash all the enmity you doggedly hold for him within the span of an hour with worshipful hands and concentrated, ardent thrusts that leave you with little choice but to take it and moan.

When your struggling stops altogether, Sylus takes ahold of your little hand and appreciatively thumbs over your ring finger. “What sort of husband would I be if I left you all hot and bothered, hm? A poor one,” he answers for you.

Gently, he maneuvers you onto your back and insinuates himself between your legs. His eyes are aflame. The look in them steals the last of your shivering breath, your heart doing a perfect backflip in your chest.

Ruby eyes flutter with passion, his pupils so big you can hardly spot the red glint as they dilate unevenly, his lashes dewy. He sucks in oxygen with short, winded intakes, his silvery hair- still slightly damp from his shower- falling over his brow. And to be fair that’s bunched together, too; all the little muscles in his face tight and strained as he lets out a clipped sigh.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers on his perusal. His gaze flits all over the place when he hoists shiny silk up your breast (tonight, a royal-blue negligee) and unwraps a stringy pair of panties from your legs.

“You’ll be good for me tonight, won’t you? Or is there any more… frustration you need to let out?”

The invisible apple of your throat bobs. You retain your silence.

He dryly comments, “I guess I owe you that.”

Sylus unties his robe, eyes glossy and intense.

He does so with an affected patience, knuckles moving ridiculously slow as he feigns autonomy over his own rampant emotions. You eye him with a misty desire as he does so, your hips giving an involuntary shimmy as you prepare for what’s to come.

Sylus grasps for the very last of his self-control like a beggar would the lavish tailcoats of passersby, but it’s all for naught. His fingers are shaking when he finally flips open his robe and shucks it from his broad shoulders. Oozing less confidence and more need than anything, the tips of his ears flushed a bright red that you don’t get to see often and nobody else gets to see at all.

He stoops over, then, laying his naked chest flat to your breasts.

“This,” he says, pinning your hand- the one with a flashy wedding band- onto the silky duvet and intwining your fingers with his. “This belongs, with you. So make a mess. Throw your fits and say those cruel things to try to get back at me, sweetie… But don’t ever take this off your ring finger, do you understand?”

He breaks off from your hickey-dotted neck to get a close look at you, pressing his forehead to yours. And right then you’re almost scared to look at him, an instinct existing deep in your gut saying you’ve just been taken into the maw of a big bad wolf— but his nose brushes with yours and he feels… human. Fleshy, warm. Shockingly vulnerable in the moment.

His hands that hold yours greedily are callous and big, sure- and you’ve seen firsthand the destruction they can raise- but they’re not clawed and malicious as they touch you. No, actually, they tremble with unbridled excitement at the opportunity to make you feel good.

And— And you hate him, y-you do.

Sylus cradles you close and nurses a few indulgent kisses from your lips, eating up every precious gasp you can’t stop from slipping in time.

Reluctantly, you return them all with budding desire.

“Do you understand?” He manages to heave out after a breathless moment. There’s no threat masquerading behind his candied words (no, he’s never been one to hold things over your head, surprisingly) but his timber is firm and meaningful. You have the implicit understanding that you must say yes- or, that’s your best option for the moment.

You look up at him and his eyes are wide, unblinking, not exactly the heavy-lidded picture you were expecting and had just witnessed mere moments prior.

And it’s a million things all in one— reverent and intense, enigmatic in its roots, you think, because you never could wrap your head around just what he saw in you and why, but he’s completely besotted. It brightly reflects in his eyes like chopped moonlight over calm waters- and you never once denied that. If you’re being honest, he made denying that- his very real, and unabashed feelings for you- an impossible task.

“Yes,” you mumble. “I understand.”

He seems contented, at that. Sighing and tempered.

He pants and nudges his brow to yours, one hand unloosening from its knot with yours to make a slow descent. Torturous and controlled like he wants you to shrivel up and die from the grudging need for his touch- for him to pivot deep up inside you and erase all conscious thought from your brain.

Sylus captures your lips in another kiss, more heated this time, raunchy and a bit toothy, as he takes his cock and, without any anticapitory strokes or anything, lines it up with your hole.

“M’ sorry, sweetie. I just don’t think I can stay away tonight. You…” His skull throbs with blunt, scalding want. “You’re worth all your trouble, you know that?”

A ripcurrent of fondness, unbidden but strong, gusts through your chest.

There’s just nothing in this world you can do to ward him off you, is there? No way to spook him?

The epiphany, dulled by a lust broiling between your thighs, is as comforting as it is horrifying. You don’t- You don’t know anything more. You just can’t be sure of what Sylus is to you, how he makes you feel— all his disservices done to you a cruel piece of your reality or not.

Tonight, you’ll blame it all on him.

He nudges apart your folds (growingly wet: an unfortunate discovery of yours that makes his chest puff with pride) with the fat head and begins his entrance. It’s grand but gentle; painstaking, almost, as his pelvis draws closer to yours but only at a snail’s rate.

A lewd squelch sounds out. You suppose you’re not entirely beyond the luxury of shame quite yet, because you toss your head to the side and refuse to meet his piercing gaze, embarrassed.

You… suppose you’re also a bit wetter than you’d thought, or wanted, for that matter.

You wince as he feeds inch after inch into you. Sylus is twitching; maybe you’re just hypersensitive or your fresh bout of anger has you experiencing everything in overabundance, but you can feel his long member writhe inside your gooey walls— every ridge and curve as you struggle to make room. On instinct, you clamp down on him and he hisses like he’s been slapped.

“R-Relax, kitten... Let me in. I’ll be gentle with you, I promise. Are… you scared?” He pants.

You swallow hard. Sylus tracks the movement with alarming precision, cardinal eyes watching your throat bob. Sweat beads there. He licks it up without thought, with half the brain to follow up his question with, “Don’t be. I would never hurt you,” he whispers. And to be perfectly honest, you believe him. In his own weird, roundabout way, he wouldn’t hurt you. Not in any physical regard, at least.

(Although, perhaps bullying his thick cock between your plushy, tooth-marked thighs is the exception to that statement.)

“Y-You’re mad at me,” you caterwaul, but it’s really a question in its own, uncertainty blipping past your wet eyes. “You’ll punish me.”

Something like hurt reshapes the hard lines of arousal in his face, tanned skin unfurling with brief sorrow. He looks sweet and puppyish- all momentary, of course, all his slips of vulnerability compiled into these isolated, intimate moments with you.

He frowns, “I won’t punish you, sweetie.”

“I broke the vase. Threw it, and- and my ring.” You reason in a thin voice, your fingers curling thoughtlessly. He takes them in his own. Kisses all the tips of them.

“So?” He dismisses with a breath, “I can buy a million more, honey. You forget who I am. As for your ring,” he pauses, gaze rapidly flipping across the bridge of your nose, as if trying to discern whether or not you’ll do it again somewhere down the line. Of course, it’s an impossible task to tell the future. Sylus wishes that wasn’t the case, though.

“…You wouldn’t do that again, would you? Throw it away, take it off. You’d cherish it, just as I do my own…” he alludes to the own band on his finger, resplendant and with a price tag you’d prefer not to count the zeroes on.

It glitters in the mellow lamp light when you briefly glance to it.

“I want you to look at it,” he decides after a beat, “and think of me. I want it to… make you happy.”

With that, you blink and he’s withdrawing, straightening his back to loom over you again- resuming that position of dominance without issue. He paints the most traditional idea of authority. Tall and muscled, with stoic eyes that glow with the silent dare to challenge him and hands that can make putty of the most rebellious spirit. He molds you like clay on a potter’s wheel. You reel underneath the unexpectedly soft ministrations of his worn palms.

Funnily enough, there was a time where you were convinced he wanted nothing more than to erase your person and rewrite your identity, but now you’re not so sure… It seems if anything, the only thing he wants to strip you of is your fear. Most notably, of him. He’s so violent but… painless. Sylus has always confused you, in that way.

With men like him, you’ve quietly wondered, maybe it’s just better to close your eyes and let your breathing slow.

“You’re doing so good,” he rewards with his words, “Relax your hips… yes, just like that. Maybe I’ve been away too much, mm? I’m sure the twins have been… more than talkative with you. Bothersome. Fuck,” he shudders.

“…You’re all pent up,” he determines out loud. “But don’t worry. I’ll make it better. I’m only asking that you’ll,” you think he gasps faintly, bringing a hand to touch over your belly, “make some room for me here. Could you do that for me, kitten?”

Without fully understanding the possible implications of his words, caught between the sweltering heat of his body and a confusing, inner blend of desire and fading resistance, you give a nod.

Sylus digs a fang in his bottom lip and forces himself to look away. His too-intense eyes settle on the syrupy juncture of your bodies, where he disappears into you and you, for once, eagerly invite him in.

“Sweet kitten.” His praise is cloying. Genuine, sappy. It sticks like frosting to the roof of your mouth— a feeling you can’t quite squirm away from because it’s lodged inside you. He’s smitten, and you think you hate him. You must. You were only screaming your head off about it moments prior and throwing precious, ornate vases to the floor, confessing your repulsion to the whole entire world (more accurately, Luke and Kieran, overhearing it from somewhere down the hall and the damned bird currently perched in his cage).

His words of encouragement, bitten and breathy, keep you from bucking your hips up and away, but only barely.

Your husband keeps you anchored beneath him with a fervid, loving stare and fingers that constantly remind themselves not to dig too deep into the fat of your hip lest they leave bruises. Save for the petal-like hickeys spiraling the pillar of your neck and your thighs- the ones that made you yelp with pleasure as he left them- Sylus doesn’t want to leave anything behind that exists for the sole purpose of hurting.

Right now, everything does. Your pussy lips mouthing around him and desperately trying to receive him, the prominent vein at the base of his cock throbbing under the tight fit.

It doesn’t matter how many times he’s nailed you against the headboard or taken you folded over the marble kitchen counters as the twins hurriedly scuttled out— you’ll never quite get used to the sheer length of him. All thick and pulsating, the upper half of it flushed and curved under its own weight.

Terrifying, the first time you saw it and he pried apart your legs all attentively and soft, tracking each and every expression that passed your face despite the drugs in you making every tiny muscle go almost entirely lax.

And it was terrifying the second and third time, too.

…It’s terrifying even now, but that sense of startle is buried deep down under gritty layers of hopelessness and bitterness and a disloyal arousal- your core throbbing with want as it nudges aside all rational thinking. It says to let him in. Let him inside your panties and heart but you still dream of homeward during every sleepless night, familiar, Linkon paths surrounded in hazy serenity. You dream of the sun, too, the buttery light that waits just outside of the N109 Zone and its boundless darkness—

Outside of him. Your stalker, your captor. With the recent addition of a big sparkling gem on your finger- your apparent husband.

Sylus is neat, down there; fine white hairs tickle above your clit as he bottoms out with a final groan- seconds before he stoops back over you and recoils his hips.

He fucks you good and slow. Expert thrusts that he pairs with tentative, darting looks from your pussy to your eyes to note every zipping emotion.

He coaxes honeyed moans out from you with relative ease. Admittedly, it feels heavenly where his body meets and parts with yours— your head made so dull, devoid of thought, your limbs weighed like bags of sand as he ruts into you like a man possessed.

He makes a pleasured sound, pulled deep from the barrel of his chest. “I love you.” You believe him. He definitely looks the part; in love. He can hardly speak. “Kitten. Tell me how it feels, tell me how you want it,”

“Good,” you cry breathlessly. “Feels good.” He watches you clamp your eyes shut and groans with dissatisfaction, taking your jaw in his whole hand and pressing his nose to yours. If he has one wish right now, it’s that you’ll understand in indisputable clarity that you make up the very atoms of his world, that in a wasteland of slate grey and white— you hold color. Hold it like a fully saturated sponge. With every piston of his hips, he drinks his fill from you.

Bitterly, you think with withering rationale, he drains.

“Then open your eyes. Look at me,” he demands. So close he’s near suffocating- every fibre of your being consumed by five letters and an adoration so heady it feels treacly. It emits from him like radiation, poisonous and insidious.

Sylus puffs out humid, minty breaths, and you take them in, recycling it between each other. Your lungs feel like a hearth. He’s gasping like he’s just concluded a several mile long run, perspiring at his temple.

Belatedly, you flutter open your eyes.

He’s handsome. He’s wolfishly handsome and the way he looks at you is both precious and earth-shattering all at once, crushing you under the sheer weight of it like a flimsy object placed under a hydraulic press: you stood no chance. Not against someone like him.

Obedient, you stare at him and whimper, half-tempted to cup his V-shaped jaw and indulge in the feeling.

Sylus moans and rewards you with a hot tongue pressed flatly to your neck. You slam your head as deep as it can go in the duvet. Your eyes fall back into your skull and you hold him tight- tighter than tight- squeezing his thick forearms like they’re fruit to juice. He doesn’t seem to mind.

Your back makes a crescent-moon. He relishes in the way you cling onto him for dear life, branding him with the tips of your fingers as he imparts mind-numbing pleasure. Euphoria thrums in your veins. It’s hard to breathe, your cheeks bloating before you dazedly remind yourself to breathe.

Your inner voice resembles Sylus’s to an unexpected degree.

“Breathe,” he really says, rasping. “Breathe, kitten.”

Your slick cunt winks around him with satisfaction, a gusty breath pouring down your throat.

Pointed teeth tickle your jugular. For a split second, you experience the very real, but perhaps needless fear that he’ll sink down and tear tendon from bone. That he’ll pull away with red spittle and a predatory smile and say, I’ve won. You’ve given in, sweetie.

It’s all for naught, however; instead, he washes you with sloppy, suckling kisses and you mewl unabashed for each and every one.

Molten pleasure sends a violent jolt through you, his saliva marking you and right then you feel no different than a bone to a dog.

Sylus wonders vaguely if you’ll ever come to the realization that while yes, he is a dog, you are his master— you give him name and purpose and occasional tugs on his leash that tell him where to go and what to do. He’ll trail you endlessly. Follow you to hell even if he smells the char clear ahead.

And you just don’t get that, do you? It’s as humorous as it is exasperating.

“Look me in the eyes, sweetie. Tell me how you feel. I want to know how- far you think I reach.” He shudders.

You whimper, “Far. S-So far, Sylus.”

A visible shiver racks his broad shoulders at the sound. His palm, callous and large, cups your chin tenderly and his damp lips shift against yours with every dull clap of his pelvis to yours. His free hand leaves its perch at your waist in favor of your breast, hovering over the valley of them with splayed fingers.

“And what about here?” He croaks, “Am I reaching this spot here?”

Your neck is straining as you plow it deeper into his fancy, expensive mattress. There’s a small uncertainty in you that raises the silent question of whether or not you’re trying to escape the man looming over you or you’re just overstimulated from his handling. Either way, it goes unanswered, put on the back burner to make room for a rattling pleasure.

Comprehension slips away. It’s taking you several seconds to grasp onto what Sylus is asking of you.

You take ahold of a pillow beside you and grab it so hard you think feathers might erupt from your fingertips. You’re getting close, you can feel it; a foamy wave in the distance growing taller and taller as it nears the shore. He’s not fairing any better, the threads of his composure splitting like dead ends.

Your heart, you finally realize in a blink. Is he reaching your heart? And it’s almost delicate, the response your chest has to it, your lungs drawing in a short breath and keeping it there for a long moment as if you need the extra time to process that morsel of information. That unexpected smidgen of fondness that bowls through you and scrunches your brow as you flit between his eyes. Cherry red and agog, wholly invested in your answer.

Before you can provide a real one— the wave crashes.

Bigger than you’d imagined, more powerful. Tsunami-like in nature: it casts its shadow over you in its entirety and steals the breath from your lungs as it curls and flattens. It rolls over you and sprawls to the crown of your head to the tips of your toes, your whole body convulsing as you’re swept up in its waters.

“Y-Yes,” you gasp without consciousness, fucked into perfect dumbness. “I love you, Sylus- I love you I love you I love you—“

Sylus’s hips stutter and fail.

“Fuck, sweetie!” He growls, “Do you mean it, do you—?” He delivers one last onerous ram into your twitching hole before letting out a roar and stilling completely. Rope after rope of hot cum glutting into you, your spasming walls feeling volcanic as he unloads his fat balls inside them.

You tremble and lose your tether to reality, for one moment. Cut off completely and barred from it.

Eventually, he lets out a deep, sated sigh and collapses over you. Drawing your boneless body to his front, tucking you safely under his muscled wing.

You numbly slant yourself against him and press your cheek to the damp, hard planes of his chest. His heart is hammering wildly beneath your ear and you don’t know whether to feel flattered, startled, or a fair mix of both. Perhaps you’re beyond the point of caring- although, sometimes it’s hard to get over the knowledge that Sylus indeed has a functioning heart capable of sorrow and anger and joy.

It’s… confusing, to say the least.

A long while passes afterward.

In the dewy afterglow, he plants a lingering kiss to the crown of your head and uses his center fingers to move away the hair pasted to your forehead. You can tell he’s holding back on something, just don’t know quite what.

Then, he murmurs, with a vulnerability that will never not look stupefying on him— cocksure, devilishly-handsome face warping into the gentle portrait of doubt—

“Did you?” He blinks, slow as he drifts along your sleepy face and watches your eyes hazily lift to meet his. “Mean what you said? Just now, when you came... Did you mean it, kitten?” He whispers softly.

Your mouth opens and wavers.

A plethora of contradictory feelings make quick work of the last of your common sense: loathing, trading itself out for hesitant affection; deepseated fear ducking out the way for the inexplicable want to unfurl your tight limbs against him and allow yourself just to be held... By him, of all people.

Your captor, who utterly uprooted you from your home and cut off every string connecting you to the people you considered most dear. Your tormentor and kidnapper and husband, whether you liked it or not, the relation only recently scrawled in paper in sloping, flowery letters. You signed yourself to him. (Albeit, you had very little say in the whole ordeal.)

You shut your eyes, hard. Your jaw follows.

You don’t give him an answer. Maybe you don’t truly know it anymore, not for certain. What this man has done to you is all too confusing and he’s made you all too tired, tonight. Nothing can keep its foothold for long in your fogged brain.

With a rapid thump of his heart, devastation falling headlong into the pit of his belly, Sylus thinks your silence, that in itself, is your answer.

…Nonetheless. He’s nothing if not persistent. And you’re warming up to him, he can tell— those fuzzy, latent feelings part of your willing acknowledgement or not.

So he arms you impossibly closer and nuzzles his hooked nose into your hair.

You think it’s a wry little smile that prods your temple. “You’re still playing the long game, hm, kitten? …It’s alright,” he breathes. You note the microscopic hitch in his otherwise even words with an unwanted pang of guilt.

“I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

[tired-biscuit]

Logan would probably moan like he’s having the best sex of his life from just a shoulder massage. Do you think he’d deny he needs one? Or would you catch him off guard while he’s asleep?

18+ MDNI, fem!reader // cw: friends to lovers, unexpected mutual pining, logan realises he’s touch-starved after you offer to give him a backrub, and you both get turned on by it.

divider credit: div1nepetal

what if you’re, like… his friend, who’s grown to care deeply about him over the years and wants nothing else but to help him out a little from time to time in simpler, more ‘humanly’ ways because of said caring?

i mean, he’s got super fast healing and all that jazz, sure, however that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t get sore and thus — unbearably — cranky about it… and since you’ve known each other for so long, you’ve also gotten quite comfortable in each other’s company! so it wouldn’t be that odd if you were to offer to relieve the pain in your friend’s back when he swings by your place one random evening… right?

it’s really just to make him feel better, nothing else! because as soon as he flings himself onto his favoured spot on your worn out couch (a dent that he fucking made with the help of his heavy adamantium ass), you catch him repetitively stretching his neck from side to side and rolling his shoulders every so often with a furrowed brow and a tight-lipped expression that somehow manages to appear even grumpier than his usual neutral.

you steal glances because of it. listen intently to the laboured sighs he keeps letting out. and after leering at him and his struggles from the corner of your eye for a little while, not at all paying attention to the movie that you’re supposed to be watching with him, you finally succumb. you turn to the side and propose your offer whilst wiggling your magic fingers, as you like to call them, right in front of his face, and logan, as is expected, denies it by gently swatting your hand away.

taking over pretty much the entire space on the couch from how he’s manspreading, he doesn’t even peel his eyes from the television that — unlike you — he’s actually watching when he tells you that, “you don’t gotta worry about it” and that it’s not that bad, then. for some reason, he even feels the need to add that he can handle himself just fine.

it all makes your eyes roll.

and instead of listening, you rather choose to persist. he’s a wall whenever he makes up his mind on something, you know this, but you also know that if you nag him and scold him for long enough, prodding and picking at the cracks between phantom bricks, he’ll have no choice but to give in and give you what you want just to make you stop… though not without adding a snide comment or two himself during it because he can’t help but act like a dick sometimes around the people he’s fond of, it’s just the way he is!

as you tell him to scooch over and lay on his stomach, you feel just a little bit bad that you had to resort to annoying him in order to being allowed to help him. however, the guilt isn’t nearly as strong as is the sense of victory that you’ve just achieved, so you allow it to curl the corners of your lips into a satisfied, cat-like smile while you busy yourself by straddling the small of his back. he can’t see your face anyway, so what’s the issue?

meanwhile, logan lets out a tired exhale, smushing one cheek against the decorative pillow that he’s folded his arms under so that he can still watch the tv while you work your supposed magic. he listens to your sheepish apology and request to tell you if you’re too heavy, to which he responds by calling it nonsense and that you’re insulting him by thinking you’re heavy whilst sitting on top of a guy who’s literally filled with metal.

and filled with metal he is, indeed! it’s not long before you realize just how much freaking pressure you have to apply to his shoulders and back in order to make him feel something. how much physical strength you have to put into it, to the point that you’re nearly sweating because of it. popping a bone in order to ease some of the tension is literally impossible, so you aim your focus onto the taut cords of muscle instead.

you can see them even through the thin white shirt that he’s wearing — they’re that profound. flexed and attractive, attained with hard work. but they become even more visible when he reluctantly lets you roll the hem of his shirt up towards the collar, unfolding his arms just so that he can lift the upper half of his body, and you right along with him, with no visible effort whatsoever.

the air in the room shifts a little after that; it gets kind of tense. because all of a sudden, you’re skin to skin. his should be covered in scars, but he’s lucky enough to have them all healed and smoothed away by his power. and while he may not be able to feel relief in his adamantium-covered bones, he sure as hell can feel the warmth of your palms running down the slopes of his broad shoulders, the grazing of your nails that nearly makes him shiver when they reach a particularly ticklish part on the nape of his neck, the heat between your legs as you continue to sit on him, dressed in nothing else but a pair of comfortable and tiny shorts…

forcing himself to be a loner, logan isn’t used to being touched like this all that much, and it makes him sensitive. and as a result, he can’t help but squeeze his eyes shut and groan in absolute pleasure when you readjust by wiggling your hips on top of him and lean in super close to really dig your fingers into his strong back.

you pause at the sound; he can hear your breathing hitch a little before it continues to fan his shoulder blade. he’s already halfway on opening his mouth to say something in order to avoid things from getting too awkward even if he’s not the kind of man who minds if they do, when all of a sudden it hits him.

it’s barely there, just the faintest whiff of something sticky and sweet. it would be impossible to catch by a normal human, but he isn’t a normal human, now is he? no, he’s a mutant — a primal one, at that — and because of it, his nose is more than capable of catching a scent like this.

you’re… aroused. have gotten turned on by the sound he just made. are getting wetter between the legs by the second. and he can smell it.

fuck.

logan chooses not to say anything even if the pheromones that he’s steadily inhaling now are making his blood grow feverish to dangerous levels. meanwhile, you choose to remain quiet as well, simply continuing your ministrations as if nothing has happened.

something that does change, however, is the way you touch him. from that hiccup onward, you get more, should you say, intimate with it; even daring to comb your fingers through his rich, dark hair at some point and experimentally tugging at the roots, making him actually shiver this time.

he doesn’t just shiver, though. the action is so freaking good that it also causes his eyes to roll into the back of his head — he silently prays that he’s managed to squeeze them shut for a second time before you could catch it.

and that’s not all there is to it either. by now, his cock has become painfully hard in his pants. thick, hot and leaking pre-cum from how excited he’s getting. it makes laying down on his stomach extremely uncomfortable, but he thinks it’s better to suffer through it than enabling you to see what you’re doing to him both physically and mentally.

mind fogged by a mixture of your and now his own lust, he’s getting so horny that all he wants to do is rut into the couch while you continue to touch him. he doesn’t, of course, he’s been around for over two centuries so he’s pretty good at restraining himself, however that doesn’t mean that he likes doing it.

so he remains decent… well, somewhat. he pants a little bit, and he grunts and curses under his breath in a way that makes him sound like he’s balls deep in your cunt, folding you in a mating press and pounding away until you’re nothing but a whiny mess and his cum is trickling down your thighs, but he still tries his very best.

by the time you pat him on the shoulders and tell him you’ve finished, he fears he did, too.