[lupusaur]

I want to write more on the universe where hybrids are less than humans ,,, not in an "x character" way but in a "here's my thoughts on how hybrids coexist with humans and why owning a bear hybrid is more expensive than owning a cow hybrid and why expert perverts say the bear hybrid is more satisfying than the cow hybrid" way bc I lowkey like world building and the thots have been eating away at me

[lupusaur]

i neeeeddd more wolf!bucky and bunny!reader 👅👅

can be seen as a part 2 to this

Bucky is mean, especially during your cycles.

Yes the two of you are dating, yes he still treats you very well, and yes he's taken you out on a date. But he teases you a lot under the excuse of “finding you very cute” which ends up with your cheeks sore from how often they're squeezed. Which is fine! It's funny to see him dote on how cute you can be. And he's very considerate and won't make it seem belittling in any way.

The problem is when your cycle starts. Considerate and caring Bucky who's respectful and would rather die than make you feel small and beneath him? Gone. Reduced to atoms.

Makes you beg for him. His fingers, his cock, anything to help soothe the burning heat between your legs and satisfy the hunger in your stomach. Has the audacity to say something along the lines of “not wanting to hurt you” and makes you do all the work yourself. Oh, but you can't use your hands! Why? Because Bucky is too busy peppering them with kisses of course! Sure he doesn't need to but seeing you attempt to get his clothes off using your mouth and teeth is cute. Especially since you can't even get them down an inch.

And when he finally helps, he insists that the waterfall dripping from your cute cunt isn't enough. That you have to give his cock a little kiss and some lube so he won't hurt you. The wolf knows damn well you can't even fit half of it in your mouth without choking, he just loves seeing your cheeks puffed up. It makes him cum a bit harder too when your fingers start playing with the knot at the base. Makes you do a little show of swallowing too. If you waste any he coos and pats your head, saying that he knows you couldn't help it because you're just a “tiny little Cotton Tail”

When he finally thinks you're ready to take him? He lets (makes) you bounce on it yourself. At this point, you're too horny and desperate for relief to be mad. You couldn't even use your fingers to help soothe the ache, forcing you to grind against him for any sort of pleasure. But he thinks its worth putting you through all that trouble to see his cute little bunny ride him like there's no tomorrow.

“Bucky...! I need—please help! Your knot, I need it!” Unfortunately his poor bunny doesn't know the trick into fitting his knot inside just yet, but Bucky is sure you'll figure it out someday. Pushing you onto the bed, he holds your head in a position where you can see him entering you.

“‘m only gonna show you this once Cotton Tail. Next time you have to do it yourself.” You both know that's never going to happen, because that's exactly what he said last time.

[lupusaur]

sorry for the unannounced disappearance i got braces (for the first time after delaying it) and i felt like ass but im slightly better now and i saw Fantastic 4 so expect slow updates bc im still feeling like ass

[lupusaur]

i hope youre doing good! no need to answer this if you don't feel like it... i was just wondering if you wrote for ava? bc i was thinking about wolf!ava x lamb!reader...

ty im doing good just grinding for Miyabi's w-engine, procrastinating on all my assignments and doing them the day they're due, nothin much, hope ur doing good too

ive never written for ava before so hope this is ok 🙏🏼

Ava doesn't let you have privacy. If you're doing something in your room? She's there. Getting something to eat? She's holding something out of your reach. Taking a shower? She's helping you wash your back. Eating? She's feeding you. The only privacy you get is if you're using the toilet, but sometimes you can feel it. Her presence at the sink for a few seconds. It's a shame you're too trusting to consider the possibility of her using her powers to spy on you.

It's surprising the two of you are even together in the first place. Ava thinks it's because you have no sense of danger (you don't freak out unless somebody else is) and that she's so beautiful that you're probably thinking about how lucky you are that someone like her wants to be with little ol’ you (it was the other way around at first). But all attempts warning you that she's probably with you to eat you were ignored.

“She's really nice to me! If she wanted to eat me she'd have done it already!”

Yes, she's very nice to you. And she's so proud of you for dealing with those annoyances for her. So proud that she thinks her cute little lamb deserves a special reward.

“Come on love, you've taken more.” While yes, you've had more than 3 fingers and her strap that seems to get bigger each time, the way Ava has been tenderly fingering your cunt for at least half an hour is maddening. Normally she would edge you until you're teary eyed and begging, but she has to reward her cute little lamb. That means making you cum over and over on her fingers until she decides you've had enough. But now her fingers are starting to hurt…luckily for you, a new toy came in the mail today!

As she reveals the silicone dildo (that is definitely larger in size compared to the others) with a smile on her face, you start to wonder if you did anything to upset her. But no, she just wants to reward her delicious lamb. It's definitely not an excuse to bring out the toy sooner than planned.

Yes, just a pleasant surprise for her very obedient lamb.

[lupusaur]

do you know what maes main blog is?! i saw the other got nuked and ive been searching for it 💔

@/deflower-me is her main blog but she has another sideblog called @/softvalentines

if you want to message her you'll have to do so on the sideblog bc tumblr is being weird and we (yes me you and everyone and their grandma) are performing rituals to fix it

[lupusaur]

lwk I NEED like a bigcat!bucky and a housecat!reader....

you didn't specify what big cat he is so I made it so it can be read as any big cat and reader can be any breed of house cat.

this ended up being kind of sweet and less horny bc im in a hopeful mood after seeing Superman oops

I think Bucky would be the type to groom you.

He thinks his cute little mate deserves to look at their very best (they already do) with his scent on them so others will know that you're off the market. And if that isn't enough to dissuade them, the very large figure looming in the distance glaring them down makes them back off.

However, he thinks that if he doesn't lick every part of your body thoroughly, then it'd be a disgrace and he'd have failed his ancestors in the art of grooming. Even when you insist that a quick clean of the ears is fine enough, Bucky gives you the most offended look. “Kitten, I'm not sure who you were with before, but that isn't how it's done.” Then proceeds to pin you down and extensively clean away the scents of anyone that dared to stand a bit too close and suffocate you with their disgusting pheromones.

He's clingy in other ways too, but it doesn't show until either of your cycles come around. When they do, his need to groom you is at an all-time high, he has to leave plenty of marks, and of course, Bucky doesn't even let you lift a finger. As a big cat, he has pride in making sure his mate is well cared for, especially since you're less durable and weaker as a housecat. He tries his absolute best to be gentle, stretching you out while you're begging him to just fuck you already, holding back from leaving bruises and marks that will definitely require bandages in the morning, hell, he refuses to even hilt his entire length inside of you.

But how could he when you bat your eyes up at him and say that he's “so sweet, acting like a gentle tomcat” knowing it'd rile him up? There isn't anything wrong with being gentle, but being compared to some common stray on the street? As a big cat that's a big no-no. Bucky didn't treat you softly and gently to be equated to them, he did it for your sake, and now you're spitting on his kindness.

“Maybe I should show you how rough I can get, you'd like that, hm Dollface?” You think it's so easy to get Bucky to lose his cool. It's sweet how he worries about using his full strength on you as you're not built to handle it, but sometimes you want to be fucked silly and feel him so deep its like he's practically fucking your womb. Maybe you'll be friendly with another cat, to make him leave a few extra bruises and make your neck sore from how aggressively he was licking it.

However, in the future, all newcomers would be warned to keep you at arms length if they wanted to live to see the sun rise.

[lupusaur]

woke up to my favorite writer's blog gone ,,, I hope whoever is to blame is taken out back and dealt with accordingly and their body displayed for the masses to see the consequences of their actions ,,,,

[undyingdecay]

BE MY SCREAM QUEEN; MASK ON, PANTS OFF !!

pairing: robert reynolds x reader x the void

au: ghost face/scream

words: 9k+

summary: in the aftermath of a body found inside the thunderbolts tower, tensions rise and trust fractures among the team

cws: smut, dubcon, knife play, blood play, blood used as lube, overstimulation, breathplay (choking), degradation/name-calling, implied past sexual assault (from bob technically), objectification, somno-adjacent consent issues (reader too out of it to meaningfully consent), manipulation, implied past trauma, intense power imbalance, terror/horror elements, graphic violence, physical assault, threats with a weapon, implied gore/blood, psychological horror, forced gagging, fear/terror response, body horror elements (cold phantom touch, unnatural figure), claustrophobic setting (basement, darkness, confinement), mentions of past traumatic events (bob/the void incident), stalking/being hunted undertone, she/her pronouns used for the reader, afab reader

a/n: thank you for all the love on the last parts !! message me, comment, or send in an ask asking to join tag list, all likes, comments, and reblogs are so heavily cherished and appreciated. all due credit's to @/voidpies for the idea.

PREVIOUS PART | NEXT PART (in the works)

🏷 ; @writeoffside @moondustfairies @chimchoom @vivianfiles @nodoog @waylandmorgernsternherondal-blog @opheliabbarnes @pecter-specter @sadslasher13 @itzmeme @staley83 @johnstacoshield @homiesexual-or-homosexual @weponxwrites @zottts @satanswillysworld @similarlyso @rainymitskicain (so sorry if i missed anyone, let me know if I did!!!)

it’s blinding.

the light above you hums too bright, white-hot against your heavy lids. you try to squint, try to close your eyes, but it reminds. you aren’t dead. not yet. and for a breath, it feels melodramatic, the aching peace rushing through your body so all-encompassing it makes you wonder if this is it, if this is what they mean when they say it washes over you in the end. an undeniable, almost soothing quiet. weightless.

you wait.

for what, you aren’t sure. a reel of your life flashing back at you, grainy scenes of sun-soaked afternoons, the sticky gloss of blood on your knuckles, laughter over cheap beer, old photographs burned at the corners. or maybe a dark nothingness. the hollow echo of soulless faces, sunken eyes, a world gone to rot. maybe fire. maybe the sound of your own scream caught in your throat. or if you were lucky—and you’d never been lucky—a pair of pearly white gates, a man with kind eyes, too soft, too clean, the sort of face that made you ache with shame for even standing in his company.

but no. it’s none of those. it’s the sterile buzz of the medbay’s overhead lighting. it’s the faint scent of antiseptic and dried blood. it’s the distant hum of security shutters groaning back open.

a face blurs into view, close enough you smell the sweat clinging to her skin.

“she’s awake.”

yelena’s voice is hoarse but steady. her hand on your chest pushes you down when you try to rise, and the sudden bloom of pain in your side jolts the world into focus. your mouth opens, a ragged wheeze escaping before you even register it.

this isn’t heaven. isn’t hell either.

another voice, rougher, pulls your eyes sideways. the words shape around you like a chain tightening.

"you’ve been stabbed."

bucky.

he’s slumped in the chair by the far wall, arms crossed so tight his knuckles have gone white, jaw locked in a way you’ve only seen when bodies hit the ground in front of him. he watches you with a hollow kind of intensity, like he’s already run the worst-case scenario through his head a dozen times.

you breathe shallowly, every inhale snagging on the fire blooming in your side. it’s hot, thick, a pulse all its own. the memory floods in slow and cold—the hall, bob’s trembling hands, his voice breaking against your ear. the kiss, the apologies, the knife. the sick, wet slide of it pulling free, the wetter feeling of whatever had been left of him between your legs. your stomach lurches.

yelena catches the shift in your expression.

“hey. stay with me. don’t fucking pass out again.” her hand tightens against the makeshift bandage, a strip of someone’s jacket by the looks of it, already dark with blood.

"can’t believe she’d fucking do that," bucky says, pacing now. he drags his hands down his face, the exhaustion in him making his movements sluggish. like if he stopped moving, he might shatter. yelena looks up from you, an unreadable expression flickering over her face. it’s not one you’ve seen often. softer, but awkward, unsure. one she reserves for the rare moments she thinks she’s gone too far—a sharp word to bob, a ruthless jab at john. a moment she regrets.

“i’m sorry,” she murmurs, low enough it’s only meant for you. her fingers work deftly to peel away the blood-soaked jacket, stained through with your blood. it’s not a whisper, but not loud enough for bucky to catch. “i didn’t think she would—doesn’t make any sense. there’s no gain for her.”

her voice dips into something quieter, something more like a question meant for herself.

“who?” you rasp. your throat feels wrecked, like you’ve been screaming for hours, raw and thick with copper.

yelena exhales, her jaw tightening. “ava.” she watches your face, the confusion written plain there.

“she stabbed you. me and john found her over your body, drenched in blood, knife in hand.”

the world seems to tilt then.

no.

the word stays in your throat, heavy as a stone. you don’t say it. you don’t have to. your face says enough, the disbelief, the cold trickle of dread unspooling in your chest. ava hadn’t done anything. she was missing. she was—bob. it was bob. you remember his eyes, glassy with tears, his trembling hands, the heat of his breath against your cheek. the kiss, the apology, the blade.

but your voice won’t work. you can’t make it.

you let out a cry as yelena pulls the makeshift bandage away from your side, digging through the drawers for supplies—cotton swabs, clean gauze, a proper wrap. the cool air hits the wound and you make a sound you don’t recognize.

against your better judgment, you look down.

two stab wounds.

bob had only stabbed you once.

you were sure of it.

nausea claws up the back of your throat. your vision blurs at the edges, and you reach blindly for something to steady yourself. yelena catches your hand, her grip firm. “easy,” she mutters, voice threading somewhere between clinical and kind. “you lost a lot of blood. stay with me.”

bucky’s voice cuts through the thick quiet. “it doesn’t add up. ava wouldn’t have done it. even if she wanted to, she wouldn’t be sloppy enough to get caught standing over the body. not her style.”

yelena doesn’t answer right away, focused on cleaning the edges of the wound. you wince at the sting, a hiss escaping your teeth. “i know,” she finally says, and it’s so soft you almost miss it. “but it was her. bloody. knife in hand.”

bucky shakes his head, weary. “then why the bullshit excuse about pym? ‘killing hank pym,’ it’s a stretch. doesn’t track.”

you swallow hard, breath ragged. “where is she?” the words scrape out, barely audible.

yelena finishes securing the last piece of gauze and lets out a slow breath. “don’t worry. val took her.” she doesn’t look at you when she says it, but her voice is the gentlest you’ve heard it all night.

you glance toward the wall where a window should be, expecting a view of the storm-drunk sky or the city’s dead glow. instead, just dull, metal-plated walls. no way to tell how long you’ve been here. how long since it happened.

“why are we still locked up?”

“precaution.” bucky sighs, slumping back into the chair, raking a hand through his hair. “ava hasn’t admitted to it. val’s not letting us out until she gets what she wants.”

your stomach knots, memory folding over itself. bob had stabbed you. you remembered it too clearly—the tremor in his hand, his lips against your ear, the metallic drag of the blade. ava… she wasn’t there. not in that moment. yet someone else had struck. two wounds. two different angles.

ava was beating a dead horse. had she just stumbled onto you too late? or had someone framed her? those quiet moments—the midnight runs for a bag of chips, swapping stolen stories in the dark—ava wouldn’t. not to you.

a sudden crackle splits the air, sharp as a whip.

the comms.

heavy breathing. then a sound you can’t place. laughter. a low, whole-hearted laugh, ragged and mean, shivering through the static.

yelena freezes, the bandage she’d been holding slipping to the floor with a soft, traitorous thump.

bucky’s already moving. reaching the medbay door, flicking the lights on and off in a desperate, silent code. nothing.

“power’s still dead,” he growls.

then how were the comms working?

“but the light—” you croak, motioning to the bright medbay lamp overhead.

yelena shakes her head sharply, snatching a sidearm from the tray near the medkit. “battery powered. stay here.” she levels a look at you both, the kind you’ve only seen before a fight. bucky’s jaw tightens, glancing back at you. “don’t move.”

you shift anyway, biting back a grunt of pain, and slide one leg off the cot, then the other. every movement feels like tearing stitches, each stretch of skin pulling too tight over bruised, battered muscle. cold sweat beads at the nape of your neck and trickles down your spine, the fabric of your shirt clinging damp and uncomfortable. you duck behind the bed’s bulk, one arm clutching your side, the other pressed to the floor to steady your balance. the room swims in a haze of stale air, antiseptic, and the metallic tang of your own blood.

somewhere beyond the medbay’s door, footsteps scrape to a stop.

you hold your breath.

a pause.

the kind of silence that isn’t empty but thick, waiting, alive in the walls.

then—a knock.

soft.

not like a stranger. not like a soldier. something… measured. patient. familiar in a way that curdles your stomach.

yelena, already half-tensed by the comms interference, flicks a glance at bucky. it’s a fast, tight look, one they’ve shared a thousand times in a thousand ugly situations. one that says be ready. her sidearm lifts fractionally. bucky eases up from his crouch, his flesh hand flexing once at his side while the metal one curls slow around a combat knife left abandoned on the counter.

the knock comes again.

three beats, evenly spaced.

you try not to breathe.

"open up, getting weird fucking feelings out here," comes a voice through the door.

yelena’s grip loosens, her eyes narrowing into slits, her mouth twisting in recognition and distaste. she knows that voice, the way it always sounds like a bad joke with a worse punchline waiting just out of earshot.

"walker," bucky mutters under his breath. not a question. a name, flung like a stone into dark water. it lands with a weight neither of them bothers to disguise.

yelena’s fingers curl around the door’s manual lock, the rough metal warm beneath her touch. she flips it open with a sharp click, the tension in the room knotting tighter as she pulls the door inward.

there stands john walker, broad-shouldered and sweat-slick, the harsh lines of his face deepened by the emergency lighting. there’s a smear of something dark on his collar and an unsettled glint in his eye that makes the air feel colder than it already was.

"didn’t we tell you to stay with bob and alexei?" yelena snaps, voice like snapped wire.

walker scoffs, shoving his way into the room, his bulk and arrogance trailing behind him like smoke. he drops into the chair bucky had been occupying minutes earlier, the metal frame groaning under the sudden weight. his expression is dark, shadowed by something neither of them can name.

he lifts a hand, jabbing a finger toward the ceiling. "you guys hear that shit?"

bucky’s grip on his knife doesn’t slacken. if anything, the dim light catches on its edge as it shifts fractionally. yelena lets the door swing shut behind walker with a muted click, not taking her eyes off him as she steps around, positioning herself between you and the intruder.

"hear what?" bucky’s voice is a low rasp, the kind of tone he reserves for conversations that start bloody and end worse.

walker leans forward, planting his elbows on his knees, his head tilted as if straining to catch some distant, unheard sound. there’s a raggedness to him that sets your teeth on edge, a frayed wire threatening to spark.

"voices," he says, his voice rough, one hand gesturing vaguely. "like fuckin' whispering. in the vents. in the walls. you’re telling me you didn’t pick up on that?"

yelena and bucky exchange a glance, a silent, brittle understanding flickering between them. you press harder against the wall, pain flaring sharp and hot beneath your ribs.

"we’ve had comms interference," yelena answers, her tone tight and clipped. "nothing else."

walker lets out a humorless laugh, rubbing a hand down his face, leaving a smear of grime in its wake. "it’s out there," he insists. "a fuckin’ chorus. i can’t make out the words, but it’s moving. following. maybe this place isn’t as dead as val swore it was."

a heavy, awful quiet settles over the room.

you realize, distantly, that your hands are shaking.

bucky takes a step forward, metal blade glinting, the pale gleam of his stare pinning walker where he sits.

"you leave your post for ghost stories, john?"

walker bristles, jaw clenching, his body tensing like a dog about to snap. "don’t start with me, if something’s prowling this place, you’ll thank me when it’s my knife in its throat instead of yours."

"and if it’s just you losing your shit?" yelena throws back, the words like a whip crack.

walker’s gaze drifts to you then, lingering in a way that makes your skin crawl. there’s a calculation behind his eyes, some sick equation working itself out.

"or maybe," he says, slow and deliberate, "it’s already got one of us."

the air shifts. sharpens. bucky’s grip tightens, yelena’s shoulders drawing taut as a bowstring.

you feel your stomach knot, bile rising hot in your throat.

bucky moves closer, a single step, the knife lifting just slightly, enough to catch the flicker of overhead light.

"watch your mouth, john."

"i’m not implying anything," walker snarls, standing abruptly. the chair screeches across the floor. "i’m saying something’s wrong. you feel it. she’s been off since the meeting. maybe it’s her. maybe it’s not. but we need to lock this shit down before we end up picking each other off."

pain stabs deep in your chest, your pulse a frantic drumbeat in your ears. yelena’s voice drops to a deadly softness. "that still wouldn't explain ava with a knife in her hand over her."

his lip curls in a snarl, but the tension clings to him like oil.

bucky lifts his chin. "sit down quietly. or get the hell out."

walker holds his ground a moment longer, something ugly flickering behind his eyes, before he scoffs, sharp and bitter, and turns for the door.

"fine," he spits. "but when those walls start talking to you too, don’t come crying to me." he yanks the door open and vanishes into the corridor’s gloom, the scrape of his boots fading into the restless hush beyond.

the silence he leaves behind is thick and sour. yelena turns to bucky once more, her brow furrowed, the harsh lines of her face shadowed in the low light. "is it worth going to communications?"

bucky doesn’t answer right away. his eyes flick to the ceiling, to the walls, to the silent hum of the medbay, as if weighing the odds, as if listening for something no one else can hear. his metal fingers tap a restless, irregular beat against his thigh. when he finally exhales, it’s a sound like gravel shifting under heavy boots.

"it’s worth checking it out," he says, the words carrying the weight of inevitability.

yelena nods once, sharp and decisive, like she’s already moving through the plan in her head. her hand absently tightens the strap of her sidearm, a small, unconscious gesture she’s made a thousand times before a fight. "i’ll go."

"not by yourself," bucky counters immediately, his voice like a snap of ice. the air between them crackles, old habits and old battles flaring back to life. "who’s going to watch her?"

he jerks his chin toward you, huddled against the cold wall, your skin clammy and pale, sweat slicking your hair to your forehead. pain gnaws at your side with every breath, the dull throb of your injuries a constant, insistent pulse.

"i’m fine," you manage, your voice rough, raw, the words scraping your throat on their way out. "just have alexei or bob come up here."

your skin prickles as you say his name aloud. bob. the first time since he’d left you bleeding and half-conscious, his face a blur of violence and betrayal. the memory flashes hot and sharp, bile rising in your throat.

"no," bucky says, his tone final, brooking no argument. his gaze stays locked on yelena, the tension between them thick and unyielding. "in the case that it wasn’t ava—"

"it was ava," yelena snaps, her voice like flint striking steel, offense plain in every sharp line of her face. "i saw her. her face, her hands, the fucking knife. it was her."

bucky’s jaw tightens. "in the case that it wasn’t," he grits out, emphasizing every word like it’s a stone dropped into a bottomless well, "they are the suspects."

there’s a beat of silence, long enough for the blood to pound in your ears, before yelena throws a sharp, humorless smirk his way. "that includes you too, correct?"

it lands like a slap. bucky’s face barely shifts, but something in his gaze darkens, a flicker of old ghosts rising behind his eyes. for a moment, neither of them speaks. the only sound is the steady drip of something in the corner, a metallic patter into an unseen pool.

"yeah," bucky says finally, quiet and cold. "that includes me."

yelena stares at him a moment longer, her jaw clenched tight, then lets out a breath through her nose and turns back to you. "then we move together. both of us. to comms."

"and leave her here alone?" bucky’s voice is rough, but there’s a note of something else underneath. not quite concern. not quite regret. something heavier.

"she’ll be safer if we get a line out. you want to post walker on her?" yelena asks dryly, one brow raised.

bucky grimaces. "i’d rather put a bullet in my foot."

"then we lock the door." yelena’s hand brushes your shoulder briefly, a gesture equal parts apology and promise. "you keep quiet. you hear anyone but us? you don’t answer. you stay behind the cot. got it?"

you nod, your throat too tight to speak.

bucky moves to the terminal, his fingers flying across the keys. the monitor flickers to life, the feed grainy and patchy, but enough to show the dimly lit hallway outside. empty, for now.

"we'll go fast," he mutters.

yelena gives you one last look. "don’t die."

and with that, they’re gone, slipping through the door like shadows, weapons drawn, the lock hissing shut behind them. you’re alone again. and the medbay feels colder than it did a moment ago.

time is a nuance.

it’s been a little over an hour since yelena and bucky slipped out of the medbay, leaving you alone with the sterile hum of machines and the cold press of metal walls. an eerie quiet settled in their absence, thick and unyielding, a suffocating kind of stillness that clung to the air and wrapped around your chest like a noose. it was a quiet you might’ve savored, once — a week ago, maybe. a quiet where you could’ve closed your eyes, let your bones ache, let the storm inside your head settle just enough to remember how to breathe.

but there’s no peace in this quiet now. no escape. no sanctuary. it’s not silence — it’s the absence of everything that should be here. the gentle whirr of power running through the walls, the buzz of the overhead lights, the soft, distant shuffle of someone’s boots against the tile floor. all of it replaced by this. a yawning, endless hush, filled only with the erratic beat of your heart and the shallow rasp of your own breath.

you keep expecting someone to come to the door. john, maybe. sharp-eyed and strung too tight, voice edged with suspicion as he questioned you again, his gaze half-distracted because his mind would already be made up before you opened your mouth. or alexei, with his too-loud voice and broad, rough hands — maybe he’d come in, offer a punch to the shoulder too firm for someone bleeding out, only to remember himself halfway through the motion. maybe even bob.

would bob come? the thought needles at you, jagged and mean. would he come to finish what he started, or would he stumble in with bloodshot eyes and trembling hands, apologizing, a devastated wreck of a man like you’d seen him before? would he look at you with the guilt already swimming in his face, the kind of sorrow that couldn’t undo anything? because whatever his reasons — and god, you wanted to believe he had them — you couldn’t forget the way his knife had felt. the way your own blood had pooled hot and fast around your fingers. he'd kissed it better though, sweet words that sounded submerged underwater but they were still there, he said there was reason. you wanted a reason. you wanted to believe in the curve of his crooked smile, in the way he laughed boyish and unguarded, nose scrunching up, like the world wasn’t always on fire.

it hadn’t been his voice over the comms.

you replayed the laughter in your head over and over, trying to stretch it into something familiar. it hadn’t been bob’s. too rough, too hollowed out and sharp at the edges. bob’s laugh was light, boyish — this had been something else. something guttural and cracking. and if the power had really been out this long, maybe a full day now, maybe longer depending how long you’d been out cold, then whoever spoke over those comms shouldn’t have been able to.

time slipped through your hands like sand. every second dragged while whole hours vanished. you yearned for a sense of it, for a clock, a watch, a window where you could tell if it was morning or night or somewhere in between. but the medbay was sealed up tight, the entire tower was. government grade metal sheets bolted over the windows, and the emergency lights running on battery gave nothing away. an endless dusk.

and if the power was going to come back online, it wouldn’t be from the comms room.

that was the thing no one had mentioned, but you knew. you should've told them, yelena and bucky. tony had built the generators himself — enough juice to power a small city, tucked away in the basement of this place, the thick, humming heart of it. val had the power to turn it off, sure, but maybe — maybe someone had gotten smart. a wire spliced, a jumpstart rigged up with whatever scraps they could find. like a car, right? something desperate, something ugly, the kind of move you made when you were cornered.

it could be bullshit. you didn’t know. your head pounded, and your side burned, and maybe you were chasing ghosts. but you had to move. the medbay was closing in, a shrinking box, every inch of it pressing too close, and you could still hear yelena’s voice in your head, warning you to stay put. but fuck, you needed to breathe somewhere else. needed to see if any of this made sense.

you groaned as you slid fully off the cot, one hand clutching your side, the other bracing against the cool frame of the bed. every movement felt like a pulled stitch, a burst of fire under your skin. you staggered toward the corner where the small medical lamp still flickered weakly, its battery nearly spent. grabbing the handle, you turned toward the door — then stopped.

better to have something. anything.

you limped back, scanning the surgical tray. a pair of scissors — long, sharp, gleaming in the low light. not much, but better than nothing. you grabbed them, curling your fingers tight around the cold metal, the edges biting into your palm.

swallowing, you faced the door.

it still bore the marks of bucky and yelena’s departure, scuffed and hastily closed. you hesitated, listening hard for any sound beyond it. nothing. but that meant less than it should’ve. the comms had clicked on in the dark, voices breaking through dead systems. power could run where no one expected. it took everything you had to move the last few feet, to press your ear against the cool metal, straining for any sign of movement. silence. but it was a loaded kind of quiet, stretched taut like a tripwire.

one breath. two.

and then you slipped the scissors into your sleeve, gripped the lamp tighter, and pushed the door open.

the tower was truly like a maze with the lights off.

it was all too easy to get lost in, consumed by. the absence of sound felt like a trick — your own footsteps dull against the floor, every breath louder than it should’ve been. you stalked through the narrow halls moving purely on memory now, counting turns and doors, disjointed pieces of the layout you clung to like a lifeline. every step sent a pulse of pain lancing up your side, hot and wet beneath the gauze, but you pressed on.

right now, your only instinct was to move away from the mid-wing entrance, away from where you remembered being before bob had grabbed you, rough hands and rougher words, dragging you somewhere you hadn’t had the chance to map in your head. you winced as the memory surfaced unbidden, the scent of his skin too close, the heat of his breath curling in your ear. you squeezed your eyes shut, grounding yourself on the rasp of your breathing. it was all you had to trust.

you passed the weaponry — the door slightly ajar, a pair of assault rifles propped haphazardly against the frame like someone left in a hurry. a bathroom, its cracked mirror reflecting a slice of your silhouette. alexei’s room. the old man would’ve had a laugh about this, you thought bitterly. maybe tossed a joke over his shoulder about your sorry face and worse odds. you weren’t sure if you hoped he was dead or alive out there. it hurt either way.

the scent of metal was thick in the air, rust and ozone and old blood. you didn’t let yourself linger on it. you knew what it meant.

the emergency lights cast everything in a low, yellow haze. your shadow bent sharp against the walls, too long, too distorted. you kept moving.

it wasn’t courage. it was exhaustion.

you turned another corner, this one leading deeper into the old residential block. a stretch of rooms once meant for agents who didn’t leave the compound. most of them empty now. you counted them as you passed — 14, 15, 16 — half the numbers missing from their plaques. you ducked into the old security control hub, hoping maybe a terminal had juice. nothing. the faint smell of burnt wiring clung to the walls. someone had been here, tried something. failed.

you kept the lamp raised, its beam weak but steady. the basement access was past the rec room, down another hall you barely remembered from one late night years ago. you followed the path by instinct.

by the time you reach the cold metal door of the basement, your lamp’s glow is little more than a sickly pulse in the darkness, each flicker threatening to leave you in the pitch black. the metal knob feels slick under your palm, not from condensation but from the sweat of your own nerves. it turns with a soft, traitorous groan, and the door opens to a black mouth, the stairwell yawning out before you like the throat of some old beast. a steady descent into nothing.

you hesitate, watching the light bleed out as you step inside, swallowing you whole. instinct screams at you — wait for yelena, wait for bucky, even john. but you know better. time doesn’t work the same here anymore. minutes stretch and snap back like rubber bands. you can’t afford to wait. whatever’s happening, it’s happening now.

you pull the door shut behind you with a dull thud. it’s so dark, the act feels final. one step. then another. the stairs creak under your weight, old wood buried under metal plating, and with each footfall you hold your breath, counting the steps, imagining what lies at the bottom.

a web glints in the faint glow of your lamp, and you recoil, instinctively swiping it away with the edge of the light. it clings to your fingers, sticky and fine. the basement smells wrong. damp and metallic. like rust and the thick scent of old, dry blood. you tell yourself it’s your wound — maybe you're bleeding more than you realized, the ache in your side a dull, omnipresent throb.

halfway down, your grip on the scissors slips, a wet palm betraying you. they fall, clattering against metal, then concrete. the sound ricochets off the walls, far too loud in this place. but it isn’t the clatter of steel that makes your blood run cold.

it’s the delicate tinkle of glass shattering somewhere ahead.

your stomach lurches. a chill prickles your scalp.

run.

run back upstairs, go now.

your brain fires off the command, but your body stays rooted. like a deer staring down headlights, you glance up, trying to measure how far you’ve come. too far. and no light above. the dark swallows everything.

by the time you force yourself to keep moving, your legs feel hollow, wooden. each step weighted with the press of a thousand unseen eyes. when your foot finally meets cold concrete, you nearly collapse from the relief of reaching solid ground.

the basement stretches out before you — a vast, low-ceilinged space cluttered with relics of other lives. you spot a light switch, worn down to the plastic nub. you flip it, breath snagging in your throat as a wash of dim, amber light floods the room.

it’s worse than the dark.

you quickly move to snag your scissors back before letting your eyes fall to rows of shelves sag beneath the weight of dust-covered equipment. old training gear — padded helmets, gauntlets, a tattered punching bag bearing some long-faded initials. cobwebs drape over stacked crates labeled in faded sharpie: "HALLOWEEN '18," "TONY'S JUNK," "ARCHIVES."

you pass a pile of forgotten costumes — cheap plastic masks warped with heat, an old werewolf head with matted fur. a bloodstained cheerleader outfit. you don’t let yourself linger. toward the far wall, old science equipment sits abandoned. glass beakers dulled with grime. cracked monitors. a blackboard with faded chalk equations you don’t pretend to understand. a thick metal table bears what looks like the remains of a long-forgotten experiment: wires, a disassembled mechanical hand, and what might be a scorched lab coat crumpled in the corner.

and then you see it.

the generator.

an industrial beast. huge, half as tall as the ceiling and twice as wide as the medical cot you’d been lying on earlier. built by tony, no doubt. everything about it is sharp-edged and unforgiving. it hums — faintly, inconsistently, like an old heart refusing to give up. patched wires dangle off one side. scorch marks kiss the wall behind it.

cautiously, you step closer. each move feels monumental. you’re aware of every drop of blood still seeping from your side, the tacky wetness on your shirt sticking to your skin.

you reach out, brushing grime from one of the panels. someone’s been here recently. the dust is disturbed, smeared by fingers. there’s a faint bootprint in the grime on the floor.

the hairs at the back of your neck rise.

there’s a single control panel at the front — analog switches, a battered gauge, and a flickering green indicator light. the power is on. at least partially. enough for the coms, maybe. you glance down at a crumpled notebook on the nearby table. pages water-damaged and torn, but one word leaps out, scrawled in angry, blocky handwriting: "OVERRIDE."

you thumb through it, finding diagrams of the tower’s electrical systems. someone had been planning something down here. rerouting power. you don’t know enough to make sense of the specifics, but it’s clear this wasn’t official.

there are glass tubes on the table beside the notebook — old vials filled with long-coagulated liquid, some shattered, pooling dark stains over the papers. one bottle, unbroken, bears a handwritten label "SERUM — TEST 3."

you hear it again.

that sound. not glass, this time. the scrape of something metal against concrete.

your heart lodges in your throat. you turn, eyes scanning the dim room. shadows shift between the shelves. one of the halloween masks leers back at you from the top of a box. it’s a cheap vampire grin, plastic teeth yellowed with age.

you’d closed the door behind you. heavy, metal, stubborn on its hinges. you would’ve heard if someone came in. the old hinges always gave a sharp, aching creak like bone grinding against bone. nothing had come down. no one had followed. and the spiderweb stretched tight across the upper steps had been untouched, trembling only when you tore through it with the dim bulb of your portable lamp. no signs of disturbance, no boot scuffs, no tell-tale shift in the air. you were the only one here.

and as messed up as it was, the thought brought you a flicker of comfort. twisted, desperate comfort, but comfort all the same.

you rolled your shoulders, squaring them in the oppressive dark. the basement stretched ahead like a blackened throat, devouring the weak light that haloed around you. the walls were cold, concrete blocks stained with years of neglect. pipes lined the ceiling like skeletal fingers. old cobwebs clung to corners. the scent was sour and metallic, thick with age and something else you didn’t want to name. your stomach cramped as you kept walking.

to your left, the science equipment loomed in haphazard towers. old centrifuges gathering dust, microscopes cloaked in grime. glass vials resting in cracked wooden racks. you stepped cautiously around them, the floor sticky in places from who knew what.

that’s when you heard it. a soft scraping sound, like something being dragged.

your stomach flipped. you froze, the tiny beam of your lamp trembling as you swung it around.

nothing.

just piles of old training gear stacked against the wall. weathered punching bags leaking their innards like burst organs. shelves filled with dismembered mannequin heads, their glassy eyes catching the light in a way that made your skin crawl. faded halloween costumes stuffed into plastic bins—matted werewolf masks, tattered cloaks, a rubber devil horn peeking from under a dislodged lid.

but no one there.

heart pounding, you turned back toward the science equipment. a glint of something caught your eye, liquid moving like a sluggish vein across the floor.

a thick, viscous fluid crawled from a shattered vial. not oil. not water. red. dark and clotted. blood.

then you saw it, the broken glass scattered like jagged, crystalline teeth on the concrete floor. the pale gleam of liquid snaking a path away from the mess. red. too dark for anything else. your gut twisted as the sour, metallic tang of blood reached your nose, sharper now that you were closer. it clung to the heavy, damp air, mingling with dust and old earth and the unmistakable musk of something left to rot.

you forced yourself forward. one step. another.

you were about to dismiss it as some old leftover from the tower’s past—there’d been worse things lurking in its bowels over the years. spilled samples. forgotten experiments. hell, maybe a dead rat or two. you almost managed to turn away, until your gaze snagged on something just wrong enough to anchor your feet to the floor.

words.

written in blood. coagulated clots breaking up the crude, hurried scrawl.

cold slammed through your veins.

you nearly dropped the lamp.

your stomach lurched. for a second you couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. your pulse thundered in your ears, a nauseating, off-beat drumline pounding in your skull. the letters gleamed wetly under the lamp’s failing glow.

“fuck,” you breathed. it came out too loud in the small space, bouncing off walls lined with rusted shelves and old, covered machinery.

you stumbled back instinctively, the need to put space between you and the message stronger than the pain in your gut. your heel caught on something, a low box left haphazardly in the middle of the walkway. you threw a glance behind you.

nothing.

no one.

but your nerves remained razor taut, your muscles wired and ready to snap.

in your frantic retreat, your elbow clipped a shelf, sending a cluster of glass vials tumbling to the floor. they hit the concrete with a sickening chorus of sharp cracks and splashes, some shattering on impact, others bouncing before rolling off into the dark. whatever liquids they held mixed into a murky, viscous puddle at your feet.

you back up once more, heartbeat ragged and skipping, every inch of you crawling with that ancient, primal knowledge that you weren’t alone. your back collides with something, not a wall, not metal or pipework, but something hard and cool and unmistakably human-shaped. it steals the breath from your throat before you even manage to turn.

when you do, it’s already moving. the figure steps out from the dimness like a shadow bleeding out of the wall, tattered black fabric trailing in its wake, a sick parody of some old party costume or slasher-flick killer. the ghost mask stares back at you, its long, hollow eye sockets empty, the mouth an eternal scream. it isn’t the cheap plastic you remembered from party stores and halloween nights; this is older, cracked and yellowed at the edges, slick with something you don’t dare identify. and those empty holes — no light touches them. it’s as though they drink it in.

for a moment, you can’t scream. something inside you buckles under the sheer wrongness of it.

then its hand — if you could even call it that — sinks into your hair. cold fingers coil against your scalp like wire cables, so cold it burns, and yank your head back so abruptly your vision whites out around the edges. you suck in a sharp breath, the air tasting of old rust and earth and something coppery sweet that you pray is your own blood.

instinct kicks in. you grapple for its wrist, but there’s nothing solid. your hand meets something impossibly cold and slick, and it bites back, a searing jolt lancing through your palm as though your nerves were being set alight.

“stop—!” you manage, barely a rasp.

the thing moves fast. impossibly so. it drives you to the grimy concrete floor. the sour, decayed scent of old chemicals and older blood makes your stomach flip.

before you can pull in enough air to scream, something presses against your lips. no — it’s forced in, rough and unyielding. your teeth scrape against the cold hilt of as it shoves the handle into your mouth. you gag on the intrusion, the sharp tang of iron and old leather gagging you. your eyes water, the sharp ache in your scalp relentless as the figure leans in closer, its face inches from yours.

it tilts its head. slow. deliberate. mocking.

some part of you, desperate and animal, thrashes beneath it. you try to jerk your knee up, to push it off, but it’s like wrestling a corpse, a phantom with hands made of ice and the weight of stone. your palm lands on something wet, slick. blood. too much of it for comfort.

you whimper around the blade handle, chest rising and falling in ragged, panicked hitches.

the figure lets out a sound then. not a word. not quite a laugh. a low, vibrating hum that seems to crawl beneath your skin. it’s pleased. it knows it has you.

its free hand brushes your cheek, a mockery of tenderness that leaves a frozen welt in its wake. fingers drag down your throat, and you feel the scrape of something sharp, like claws or broken glass. not deep enough to bleed, but enough to promise worse.

"be quiet." it murmurs. you don’t know if you hear it with your ears or in your bones.

you squeeze your eyes shut, you faintly gag on the handle, refusing to let it see the tears spilling over. your hand scrabbles for anything — a shard of glass, a loose wire, a fallen piece of old lab equipment. your fingertips brush metal and you grip it like a lifeline.

the figure seems to sense it. it leans in closer, the ghostface mask brushing your temple. your skin crawls. “let’s see if you bleed,” it breathes.

it takes the handle from your mouth, slow and savoring, a smear of your spit clinging to the hilt. your throat works around a hoarse sob as it angles the blade down toward your neck. you shake your head, wild and broken, tears tracking hot down your cold-flushed face.

"no," you croak, the word barely a breath.

it laughs.

the sound is sickeningly familiar. the way its shoulders shake, the harsh bark of it. it’s the same one you’d heard over the comms — the voice that haunted the static, that made grown soldiers freeze.

something primal in you snaps. instinct, memory, fear. your hand flies up, grabbing the edge of the mask, and you rip it away before you can think better of it.

what you see makes your stomach drop.

you hadn’t been there when bob lost control, hadn’t witnessed the aftermath firsthand, but you knew the stories. you’d sat at ava’s side, changing dressings, hearing her stammer through the horror of it. you’d seen the footage val insisted on showing.

what they called the void.

and now, it stared back at you.

those same white-hot, pitiless eyes. the twisted parody of bob’s features, stretched and wrong. hair damp and clinging to his temples. his mouth twitched into something too wide to be human. it made your chest ache in some sick way — the cruel shadow of something familiar, something you trusted once. he grips your throat tight, slamming you down onto your stomach, forcing the cold floor against your cheek. his other hand digs into your back, shoving you into an arch that wrenches a strangled sound from you.

his grip on your throat tightened, a punishing squeeze that made your head go fuzzy, “look at you,” his voice came low and cracked, fraying at the edges. not bob’s voice. no warmth, no lazy charm. just something shredded and ruined in his throat. “fuckin’ pathetic.”

the knife clattered to the floor beside you, but he didn’t leave it for long. you felt the ghost of its handle trace down your spine, you shiver despite your shirt being a lazy means of protection. a sick mockery of tenderness, before it pressed against your clothed cunt — cool and unyielding, making your stomach twist. you breath out now, all you hand on were pants.

bob had taken your panties.

the phantom feeling of your pants being tugged down still lingers, some dazed, aching imprint left behind, and you let out a soft, breathy whine against the cold concrete beneath you. you feel it then — the slow, thick drip of cum leaking out of you, a steady, warm trail down your thighs, sticking to your skin. you know it’s bob’s. the figure above you mutters something — a sharp, cutting slut spat — but you’re too far gone, brain hazy, too caught in the static buzz crawling under your skin to catch the full bite of it.

your body’s moving before your mind can catch up. you're forced onto your back again, shoulders scraping against the rough floor, and instinct has your legs parting — a broken, unconscious submission that makes your stomach churn even as the ghost of want curls hot and shameful in your gut. the being — the void in bob’s skin — lets out a sound, a fractured, guttural thing you can only guess is a moan, the ragged hitch in his breathing sharp as the edge of a knife. it’s obscene. not a trace of tenderness, not even the cruel mockery of it. just something primal, ugly, and sickeningly pleased as it drinks in your wrecked, shaking form.

you feel it — the tension in him. a palpable thing, thick and suffocating in the air, like the coil of a storm about to snap loose. the chaos barely chained under his skin, bleeding through every rough touch. and then the handle’s pressing to your cunt again, the blunt, unyielding shape an impossible contrast to the heat thrumming in your core. the coolness making you twitch and clench without meaning to, some traitorous instinct.

he pushes it in, slow, unrelenting, no care for your stuttered gasp as your body gives way. you’re trembling, thighs twitching as the intrusion stretches you, fills you in a way it shouldn’t. “good,” the voice rasps out — barely a voice at all, frayed and tattered, like something dead that’d clawed its way back up just to ruin you. it shouldn’t feel like praise, you know that. but it coils dark and tight in your belly, makes a desperate, broken whine slip from your lips, your cunt clenching down on the handle like you wanted this.

another ragged sound from him, low and feral, before the handle starts to move — dragged out and shoved back in, slick with your arousal and the mess still leaking from you. your body betrays you further, hips stuttering up to meet each thrust, chasing some awful, electric edge that buzzes just out of reach. your head tips back, mouth slack as the obscene wet sound of it fills the room, your slick pooling in a ring around the hilt.

and then — it stops. the sudden absence enough to make you cry out, a raw little sob clawing up your throat. his hand — or whatever it is now — lifts your shirt, cold fingers dragging up your stomach. you barely register the motion before it finds the bandage over your ribs. you flinch, a sharp spike of fear lancing through the haze, but it’s too late. the fabric tears with a single quick snap, the sting making you choke on a gasp, fresh, bright pain flaring where old hurt still lingered. you sob, broken and soft, and he hums at the sound — a jagged, ruined thing, something resembling love in a voice that was never meant to carry it. ruined by teeth, by grief, by madness.

his grip never falters, one hand splayed against your chest, pinning you down like a butterfly to a board. you feel the burn of air against the fresh split in your skin where the bandage had been torn away, heat blooming in hot pulses as the blood wells up, sticky and warm. you whimper at the sensation, the sharp sting of it eclipsed only by the way his weight settles over you, suffocating in its finality. the knife handle still rests against your cunt, glistening with your slick and the last of bob’s cum, catching the low light in a way that makes your stomach turn.

his hand drags through the blood, fingers slick and careful, as though savoring it, and you feel the smear of it as he brings it down between your legs. the first touch is jarring — wet, obscene, the metallic warmth of your own blood smeared against your folds, mixing with what’s already there. you gasp, a hoarse, broken sound, as he works it over you, coating the knife handle where it rests at your entrance.

you don’t want to, but your head turns anyway, your gaze snaring on the mask — on the void behind it, something that might’ve once been bob. but it isn’t now. it’s too far gone, too hollow, too desperate.

he presses the handle back in, slow, unhurried, and you sob at the way it slides easier now, the added slick making the stretch feel deeper, filthier, the wrongness of it burrowing under your skin. it should ache, should make you sick, but your body betrays you again, thighs falling further open to accommodate it.

"good girl," he rasps, voice catching on a jagged edge of lust, the words sticky and awful as they settle over you. his blood-slicked hand comes to your throat again, fingers curling in a bruising grip as he starts to fuck you with the handle in earnest — sharp, wet sounds filling the air with each thrust, your cunt squelching around the makeshift toy, slick and blood mixing at the base.

you can feel it — the ring of red around the hilt, your blood marking each thrust, and he uses it like it’s nothing, like it’s what you’re made for. another harsh squeeze at your throat makes your head spin, vision tunneling at the edges.

"messy fuckin’ thing," he murmurs, a sick kind of fondness threading through the brutality, and you keen at it, at the heat curling low in your belly despite everything, the degradation sharp enough to bleed into need. you don’t know how long it goes on, lost to the rough drag of the handle, the constant, sticky slide of blood and cum making a mess between your thighs, the bruising hold at your throat, the endless, suffocating weight of him on top of you.

it’s only when you feel him lean in close, the air cool and ragged as it fans over your skin, that he speaks again. "gonna ruin you," he hisses, and you believe him.

his bloodied hand leaves your throat, the sharp indent of his fingers still searing your skin as he drags those same slick, wet fingertips down your chest. the thick smear of crimson glistens in the dim, dirty light as he paints it over the curve of your breast, sticky warmth contrasting with the cool air as he circles your nipple with it — slow, almost lazy.

your breath catches, a sob breaking loose when he pinches it between his stained fingers, the sting of it immediate, made worse by the rawness of your skin. you twitch under him, hips bucking, and his other hand presses down harder on your pelvis, pinning you still as the knife handle stays buried inside you.

“hurts—” you choke out, voice small and shredded, nothing more than a ruined whimper in the thick, suffocating air.

"good," comes the rasp, low and threadbare, more animal than human now. the sound of him — of the void that wore bob’s face — breaks against your ear, something almost like a chuckle catching in his throat as he rolls your nipple between his blood-slick fingers again, harder this time. you cry out now, this must've been what sent him over the edge. pain was pleasure. the deeper it went, the brighter he burned. the void didn’t climax—he detonated. his shadow-form pulsed with violent hunger, splitting into a thousand shrieking fragments that tore through the air like smoke and knives. reality bent. suffering echoed back at him, and in that agony, he found bliss. not peace, never peace—but something rawer. purer. perfect

the sharp pain lances through you, but it blooms too — an obscene pulse of heat pooling lower, meeting the steady, merciless drag of the knife handle working your cunt open with each wet, filthy thrust. you sob again, thighs trembling, unable to stop yourself from rocking up into it, from chasing it.

he hums, a ragged, pleased little noise like he’s proud of you for breaking so easily, for making a mess beneath him, for falling apart at the seams. his hand doesn’t stop, spreading the blood across your chest, smearing it until it’s tacky and warm and you can’t tell where the sting ends and the heat begins.

you shudder, the degradation of it a sick twist in your gut.

“please—” it’s barely a word, more of a wet gasp as your body tightens, the unbearable, filthy tension cresting inside you, your cunt clenching hard around the blood-slick handle still grinding into that soft, aching spot inside.

and he feels it — of course he does — the way you pulse around it, the broken cry you let out, the way your hips jerk up, helpless against it. he snarls, hand moving faster now, dragging over your nipple again as you writhe, your orgasm hitting hard and ugly, a burst of heat and wetness flooding out of you, slicking his phantom fist, slicking the hilt of the weapon. he fucks you through it, relentless, forcing you to ride it out while you sob and whine, every nerve frayed raw, and he doesn’t stop — not until you’ve gone limp, too wrung out to fight, the mess of blood and cum a ruined halo around you only then does he pull it out with a cruel squelch sound, eyes closed and somehow finding yourself bleeding out on the floor again.

a sound.

soft. distant.

the basement door — a heavy, creaking groan of old wood swinging open upstairs.

you immediately sit up, but he's gone. your pulse stutters, cold clarity slicing through the thick, oppressive air of the room. your head turns toward the noise, wide, tear-glossed eyes fixing on the shadows at the edge of the basement ceiling where the bare bulb flickers.

[lupusaur]

how it feels reading at 11pm with all the lights off

[lupusaur]

Hear me out🙏😼 wolf!johm walker with a cazy breeding kink and lamb!reader whos just as crazy

-🌙

dont wanna sound mean or entitled but ill have to ask if u can please use another emoji anon since i tag my posts with something eerily similar 🥲

also im highkey sick as hell and experiencing withdrawals from being off antidepressants so m sorry for it being short :((

But yea he'd have the most massive breeding kink and pretend it's as normal as eating. And luckily, dumb lambs like you don't know better. Honestly, he's surprised you even lasted this long, but now that you have a big strong wolf to take care of you (definitely not eat you), you don't have to worry your pretty little head about anything except taking his load like the good lamb you are.

And he's so mean about it. The type to praise you for taking his knot then bites down hard enough to draw blood. Even after you're practically drooling, unable to think, and only babbling about how he won't fit he just laughs at you.

“Lamb Chops, I already got my knot in ‘er. This cunt is mine.” John says it so sweetly too that it's hard to believe he's saying such filth. John always makes sure to pump at least 5 loads before he thinks of slowing down and by that time you're either unconscious or cock drunk. Fortunately he always makes sure to reward you well for taking it all nicely. However in the cases where you let out a bit too much of his precious seed he gets a little disappointed.

Not mad, just disappointed. Mocks you while shoving his fingers into your abused pussy and grumbles when more leaks out. “Gotta keep it in. It'll only take if you don't let it spill Lamb Chops. C'mere, let me give you some more.” You can only nod as he turns you over to put you in a good little mating press. When all is said and done, he doesn't pull out until the next morning. Gotta make sure it takes! Even if you can't get pregnant for whatever reason, he'll make sure your belly is nice and round. God forbid if it looks a little less full from the last time he fucked you.

John would get a plug for you to wear, but then you'll learn that there's a way to prevent him from pulling you into an empty storage closet or a place away from prying eyes and give you a few more loads to carry until later tonight.

No, he prefers to keep you nice, stupid, and bred.

[lupusaur]

ngl i got major writers block rn sorry to those that sent stuff in bc i literally cant think of anything but ill try my best to respond, college is just draining me of making new original thoughts and i got off antidepressants and am experiencing withdrawals ! so fun !!

[undyingdecay]

Have you done anything like rabbit!Bob like hes so desperate, hes gonna explode, hes so sensitive and fucks fast and sloppy in incessant and rough, irregular ruts?

literally fucks like rabbits, doesn't take no for an answer, pregnancy is BOUND to happen.

he’s already sweating. already red in the face, hair a mess, nose twitching in these helpless little jolts he can’t control — because he’s so wound up, so fucking sensitive, he can barely function. you could breathe wrong and he’d start rutting against your thigh like he’s possessed. you teasing him even a little, dragging your nails down his chest or tugging his hair? forget it. he’s already leaking, already whining, already begging for something he can’t even name properly.

and when he finally gets his cock inside you? oh, it’s over. there’s no rhythm. no finesse. no patience. he fucks like it’s a biological imperative, like his survival depends on it — fast, sloppy little thrusts that don’t even stay consistent for more than a few seconds at a time because he’s so overwhelmed he keeps stuttering, hips jerking in these desperate, irregular little snaps.

he makes so much noise, too. high, breathlss whimpers, moans that crack halfway through, muttering 'fuck, fuck, fuck, so good, too good, 'm gonna — fuck, i can’t —' like his brain’s short-circuiting under the weight of how good you feel. one hand probably gripping your waist too tight, leaving crescent marks, the other fisting the sheets like it’s the only thing tethering him to the planet.

 he’s the kind of mess who comes too fast the first time — like embarrassingly fast — but can’t stop. won’t stop. he’ll fuck himself through it, cock still hard, still twitching, still so sensitive it makes his whole body shudder, but he needs it. tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, chest heaving, lip bitten raw from trying and failing to stay quiet.

and the whole time his nose keeps twitching. those frantic, desperate little jolts every time you clench around him or drag your fingers through his hair or gasp his name in that sweet, ruined voice he loves so much.

bunny!bob supremacy. he’s so wet and pathetic and needy and i want about seven of him.

this is kinda ass @lupusaur is the goat at hybrids

[lupusaur]

"lupusaur is the goat at hybrids"

[lupusaur]

i need more dog!bob pee CARNALLY i’m going feral it’s bad

what the hell sure (i say like i didnt have more filth sitting in the drafts and i updated my bio to say dark content for the road ahead)

don't have to read but can be seen as a continuation of this

Bob, the lovable sunshine of a golden retriever he is, has been a bit clingy as of late. Disregarding the fact that he refuses to pull out and sleeps with your heat wrapped around him (which you had gotten used to!), he started following you everywhere, including the bathroom. And while it wasn't weird at first, he'd want to be with you for everything.

“Don't mind me, pretend I'm not here.” He'd say while crouching in the corner watching you sit on the toilet. After you lost track of time scrolling on your phone and he burst in thinking something had happened, he insisted on being with you even during toilet time. Just in case! It was bearable at first. He was far enough to where you didn't see him if you focused on your phone, but then he got closer each time and now he was sitting cross-legged in front of you, staring.

And when you had to use the bathroom while he was still buried in your warmth, Bob decided to do the right thing.

“If I fuck you, you won't have to go anymore, right? It'll work, please stop struggling, you're hurting me…!” Bob had pinned you down with his weight on the floor to prevent you from reaching the bathroom. He shook his head, crying into your shoulder when you told him it wouldn't work and attempting to push him off. Maybe he could've thought of a better excuse but he finally had you where he wanted you. His question of how it'd feel if you soiled his cock would finally be answered.

It may not feel any different from when you cum, but it was just so dirty. He was so disgusting wasn't he, wanting you to pee on him. At least then the two of you would be even! Plus, he wouldn't have to go around peeing in and on you in secret anymore. He would be free to do it when you're awake, conscious, and aware that he's not giving you his cum but his pee. He almost got caught once, but he waved it off as an effect from the serum. “Bob please! I really have to go!”

Seeing your tears, he felt bad, he really did, but his tail betrayed him. Wagging as he frantically sped up his thrusts and cried with you, apologizing and licking your tears. “Sorry, ‘m sorry! I need it— need to feel you. Can't let you go. We can do it together okay? That'll make you feel better, right? Right? You won't be alone, I'll be here with you so please don't leave me— hurts when you're not with me!” Sliding his tongue into your mouth, the pathetic retriever smothered your tongue, licking it and the inside of your mouth.

When Bob felt it, he was practically glowing. He only took a small break from choking you with his tongue to murmur that he'll do it too, just to show that it isn't a big deal. That peeing yourself while being fucked isn't bad. Holding you in a tight grip to keep you from squirming, he moaned as he filled you with his own liquids, promising he'll be sure to add his cum into the mix to thank you.

Yes, he felt bad that you were still sniffling but you did so good! “So proud of you. My precious mate, taking all I have for her. I'll be sure to give you more okay?” Now he wondered how much further he could push the line with you. Would you mark his skin as he did with you? Bob would probably have to convince you and say it was a dog thing. A few tears and pleas would be fine as you were weak to those. He just wanted you to do what he did so the two of you would be even! No ulterior motive whatsoever. But you looked so cute when you cried from embarrassment.

He thinks he could shower in it. Having your scent on him would make him the happiest dog alive, but he'll save it for when he successfully breaks you. Bob has all the time in the world to mold you into the perfect mate for him.

[lupusaur]

i love your writing!!!! but i'm kind of confused? (in a good way, just confused on how i'm supposed to imagine things) if you're writing them as example: bunny!reader , wolf!bucky ... do i imagine them as thre actual animals or like mutal-like people? i'm sorry if this sounds weird, but it's my first time reading fanfictions like these! <3

no worries ur fine !! they're hybrids/kemonomimi so they have the animal ears and tail, and usually have instincts related to the animal (like heat, rut, eating a strict meat or veggie diet, etc.) i try to be vague with the descriptions in case anyone wants to imagine them having more animal features but in my mind they always have the ears and tail. hope that clears up any confusion :))

[lupusaur]

no post today because i was doing honkai star rail 3.4 story and saw jurrasic world so now im tired

[undyingdecay]

BE MY SCREAM QUEEN; DEATH IS JUST FOREPLAY !!

pairing: robert reynolds x reader x the void

au: ghost face/scream

words: 4.8k

summary: in the aftermath of a body found inside the thunderbolts tower, tensions rise and trust fractures among the team. 

cws: smut, oral (f. receiving), fingering, orgasm depiction, overstimulation, dominance/submission dynamics, soft manipulation / emotional coercion, possessiveness / obsession themes, murder mention / implied murder, references to a character’s death (body rolled in a rug, blast freezer mention) power imbalance, dubious consent, injury mention, disturbing themes, mild blood mention

READ THE NEXT PART HERE !! (in the works)

a/n: all due credit's to @voidpies for the idea, the next parts will all be 10k+ words! message me, comment, or send in an ask asking to join tag list, all likes, comments, and reblogs are so heavily cherished and appreciated.

“he was found dead. rolled up in what seems like a rug in the blast freezer. no crime scene photos at the moment”

val dropped it so casually, like it was another trivial piece of intel she’d gotten over morning coffee. her voice didn’t waver, didn’t dip into anything resembling grief or even frustration. it was clinical. detached.

val calls meetings for bullshit. you wonder sometimes if she does it just to get under your skin — like some personal hobby she picked up between ruining lives and climbing through the government ranks. and despite yourself, it works. every time. your jaw tenses before you can stop it, the muscle feathering at the corner as you feel your brows begin to furrow. she lectures you all like you’re unruly schoolchildren instead of a room full of government-approved killers, trained spies, and one maniac with a star-spangled ego.

normally, it’s about things like disciplinary reports or “team cohesion” or “unauthorized use of tower resources” because apparently bucky helping you fix a busted med drone last week had been a cause for national concern.

but this? this felt different.

it wasn’t so much in the words — no one around here ever really said what they meant anyway — but in the way the room carried it. the usual atmosphere of forced nonchalance never settled. tension hung uneven, heavy in the air like an impending storm. someone should’ve cracked a joke by now. a shitty one from walker or one of alexei’s weird, half-lost-in-translation anecdotes. but no one did.

your gaze drifted over them, picking up little tells. bucky’s hand flexed once on the table, the metal fingers tapping out an uneven beat. yelena stared straight ahead, her face carefully blank but her nails digging into the edge of the conference table. even ava looked… brittle. brittle in a way that suggested she was replaying every possible point of entry, every second she might’ve missed something.

it’s only when walker’s chair scraped loudly against the floor that it cut through the oppressive quiet. you blinked, half-startled out of your own spiraling thoughts, as he stood up and shoved his hands through his hair. “and where the hell are you going?” val’s voice was sharp, clipped. a challenge dressed as a question.

walker scoffed, shaking his head like the sheer audacity of the situation was too much to swallow. “what, are we supposed to just sit around? a man — fuck, someone that was under our care — was found dead. in our goddamn basement. wrapped up like some sick joke.”

the name flickered in your mind before you could stop it. vic.

vic had been good. early thirties. easy smile. a little flirty, sure, but it never felt invasive. it was warm, in a way not much around here was. genuine in a way most of the people in this tower didn’t bother to be. three kids. you remember when he told you. only, it turned out later one of them had died a few years ago in a car accident. he didn’t mention it often — only once, when you’d shared a bottle of stolen liquor after a grueling week. his voice had cracked on the words. you remember you’d pretended not to notice.

vic delivered your medical supplies every few weeks. always double-checked the orders, carried the heavy boxes even when bob insisted on helping him.

and now he was dead.

rolled up in a rug.

in the blast freezer.

yelena was the one to break the quiet this time. “people die every day,” she said, like it was a fact, not a dismissal. but the way her voice dipped, the way her eyes darted somewhere just over walker’s shoulder told you it wasn’t apathy. it was survival. you wonder if she’s always been like that — stuffing grief down into some unreachable pit inside herself and filling the empty space with duty.

walker whipped around to glare at her. “people don’t die every day in the basement of the tower we fucking reside in.”

that shut them up. even the silence felt heavier after that, thick and suffocating.

you felt yourself pressing your tongue to the roof of your mouth, something cold creeping up your spine. the tower was supposed to be secure. you lived here. you showered here. you slept here. whatever danger you ran into was supposed to be out there, in the field, not two floors below you.

val straightened from where she’d been leaning against the far wall. “the blast freezer is a government asset,” she started, her tone the kind of even that made your skin crawl. “when they installed it, they issued a specific access code. only people with clearance can get in.”

ava spoke then, voice small but cutting through the silence like a scalpel. “they only gave the code to us.” not a question. not a guess. a statement. and the way the room responded — by not responding — meant everyone knew it was true.

“well,” val drawled, smoothing her hands down the front of her jacket like this was some dry policy meeting and not a murder investigation. “doesn’t that lower the pool of potential suspects.” yelena snapped her head toward her. “and what exactly are you suggesting, huh? that one of us did it?” her accent thickened when she was angry. the words sharp, brittle. her hand hovered dangerously close to the knife she kept tucked into her boot.

val didn’t flinch. “i’m suggesting,” she said slowly, like she was speaking to a particularly dense child, “that statistically, when someone winds up dead in a sealed environment with limited access, you start looking at the people with access.” bucky pushed back from the table, his jaw ticking. “we don’t need a statistics lecture.”

the tension was fracturing now, jagged edges splintering outward. you felt your pulse behind your eyes. the flickering overhead lights made the room look more like an interrogation chamber than a conference room. you didn’t notice bob until then. quiet in the corner of the room, half-shadowed by the way the overhead fluorescents cut unevenly across the walls. his head was ducked, hands folded too neatly in his lap. there was a fresh cut on his knuckles. you’d seen him yesterday — he hadn’t had it then.

no one else seemed to notice. val’s voice cut through again. “until i get word from upstairs, no one leaves this tower. no missions. no supply runs. no ‘personal errands.’ full lockdown protocol.”

“you can’t be serious,” walker barked. she didn’t even blink. “watch me.”

it was bucky who spoke next, voice low. “we got a killer in the building, val. you better figure out real fucking quick whether you’re hunting him… or covering for him.”

the room held its breath. you realized you were still staring at bob. and for a moment, you could’ve sworn he was staring back.

“talk to me.”

your voice was soft — not commanding, not pleading, just… there. it hung in the room, low and gentle, curling around the space like smoke. maybe it was the way you said it, or maybe it was the way you lingered in the doorway like you didn’t belong there, but didn’t plan on leaving either. bob looked up from his book. some old, battered thing you were sure he wasn’t actually reading. the pages hadn’t turned once in the five minutes you’d been standing in the hall, watching him through the half-open door.

he gave you that boyish, shy smile. the one you knew wasn’t entirely real — or maybe it was, but it was covering something else. something splintered. something sharp. it tugged at the corner of his mouth like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to be happy to see you. like it was a risk.

he always looked a little nervous around you. not in a fragile way, not really. it was like his body couldn’t decide where to put itself. his hands fidgeted, his shoulders hunched or rolled back, his eyes darted away only to flicker back again. it was a constant, silent negotiation with himself — between wanting to get closer and wanting to disappear.

you stepped inside, glancing once over your shoulder before shutting the door. it clicked softly into place, the sound somehow loud in the otherwise quiet room. his fingers tightened around the edges of his book. you crossed to him without saying anything, the muted light catching in your hair. you noticed how his breath hitched just a little when you got close.

his room looked exactly the same as it had the night before. you weren’t supposed to be here then, either. not that it had stopped you. not when his hands were on you. not when your head had hit that pillow and his touch made every rule, every protocol feel like someone else’s problem. you perched on the bed beside him, your fingers brushing the worn fabric of his blanket. everything smelled faintly like him — clean laundry, antiseptic soap, something warmer underneath.

bob cleared his throat. “don’t really… don’t really know what to talk about,” he mumbled, eyes dropping to the floor like it might offer him a script. you hummed, tilting your head, pretending to consider it. then you moved closer. and closer.

until your knees were bracketing his hips and you were straddling his lap, you accidentally roll your hips and his breath stuttered. he stared at you like you were made of glass and hellfire all at once. his hands hovered at your waist, unsure if he was allowed to touch you despite how greedy he’d been just last night.

you let the silence stretch, watching the way his throat worked when he swallowed.

“about earlier,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper. your fingers ghosted along the side of his neck, tracing the line of his pulse. it jumped under your touch. “you seemed…” you paused, searching for the right word, “upset?”

bob’s jaw clenched. “someone died,” he said, voice low, like it should’ve been obvious. and you realized, in a flicker of clarity, how ignorant you must’ve sounded. of course someone died. someone you both knew. someone bob helped carry medical crates with. someone he saw in the hall.

your mouth opened, words catching on your tongue, but you didn’t say them. instead you took his hands — rough palms, calloused fingertips — and brought them to your lips. you kissed the tips of his fingers one by one, soft and lingering, like it might mean something. you felt the tremor in his hands.

your thumb brushed the back of his knuckles, moving to check the cut you’d noticed earlier. a shallow split across his skin that hadn’t been there the day before. only now it wasn’t there at all.

your stomach dropped, a cold weight settling in your chest. gone. clean skin, not even a scar. like it had never existed. bob went very still.

“i wanted to—” you started, but the words choked off when he spoke.

“ask me if i did it?” his voice cracked slightly. just a hairline fracture in the sound, but it was enough to punch a hole through your ribs. his gaze finally met yours — glassy, rimmed with something raw and vulnerable you hadn’t seen before.

“you think i killed him.”

you hesitated. not because you didn’t know the answer, but because you did.

and in that silence, bob’s expression crumpled. not into tears, not into grief — into something tight and ugly and desperate. he wrenched his hand out of yours, the force of it enough to jolt your balance. then, in a single rough motion, he grabbed your shoulders and moved you off him. not a push, but firm, decisive. a strength you sometimes forgot he had. a strength you remembered last night when those same hands pinned you down.

your back hit the mattress with a quiet thud, and you scrambled upright, your hand catching his shoulder as he stood. his chest was heaving, the book discarded on the floor.

“bob—”

“no,” he snapped. sharp, unsteady. his eyes looked wrong. too wide. too dark.like something else was staring out through them.

“you didn’t ask anyone else.” his voice cracked, but it wasn’t weak. it was sharp, cutting in a way you didn’t expect from him. bob’s hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles gone white, his jaw tight enough you thought it might splinter.

“you came here.”his voice was louder now. accusing. wounded. “to me.”

you opened your mouth to answer, to deny it, to say something soft or sharp or disarming — but nothing came out. you just stood there, caught between the door and his stare, like you’d been caught in a snare you didn’t remember stepping into.

“you didn’t even bother thinking about it.” he barked out a humorless, breathless laugh. one that sounded too thin, too brittle. his eyes darted to the door like he was about to bolt. or maybe bar it.

and then he moved.

fast. faster than you could track in that half-beat of hesitation. bob’s hands landed on your shoulders, not rough, but firm enough to make you stumble back a step, your shoulder blades hitting the wall behind you. “rolled up in a rug.” he spat the words like they tasted foul, like he couldn’t believe you didn’t get it.

“a rug. val showed me the crime scene photos”

you shook your head, confused, your brow furrowing as your heart hammered against your ribs.

“bob, i don’t—”

“there’s only one rug in this whole fucking tower.” his voice cracked, his face folding like a man on the verge of breaking, but his grip on you never loosened. his thumbs brushed the skin just under your collarbones, grounding you there while his eyes bored into yours. “ava’s room.” his breath hitched. “helps her with her shifting, remember?”

your stomach twisted. you did remember. it was thick, woven, dark. she’d complained about the static it caused, how it didn’t feel quite right against her skin in a shift but it helped her feet grip when the floor felt wrong beneath her.

you felt yourself backing up without thinking. his hands stayed on you as you moved, guiding you, until the backs of your knees hit the edge of his bed.

then bob was on you. his full weight pressing into you as you sank onto the mattress, his face burying itself in the crook of your neck like it was the only place in the world he felt safe. his breath was hot, uneven against your skin. his arms snaked around you, pinning you there, clutching you so tightly it almost hurt. “i didn’t—i would never—”his voice trembled. not just with grief now, but something deeper. fear. rage. something thick and crawling just beneath the surface.

you didn’t know what else to do. your hands came up to his face, cupping his cheeks. his skin was burning hot under your palms, his stubble rough against your thumbs. you whispered apologies, half-formed words that barely made sense even as they left your mouth.

“i’m sorry, i didn’t mean—bob, i—i was wrong, i didn’t know, i should’ve—” you felt his body shake against yours. not with tears exactly, but with something like it. like his entire frame was threatening to come apart under the weight of it all.

“go look for yourself,” he rasped, his lips brushing the skin of your neck as he spoke. his voice so quiet now, barely a whisper, like it was a secret meant just for you.“it’s gone.”

and you feel something stir, as if it really wasnt only you in bob in the room. your breath hitches as you feel a touch against your cheek, something as soft as a kiss, but it sting it made you want to itch. bob’s face was in your neck and his hands were around you. your throat tightened. your mind screamed at you to pull away, to get up, to run down the hall and check, to prove him wrong — because the alternative was so much worse.

but you didn’t move.

because his arms tightened around you and his breath was warm against your skin and his voice was soft, trembling, breaking in a way that made your heart ache in spite of everything else. “why would i do something like that, huh?” he murmured, nuzzling closer. “you know me. you know me.” his fingers dug into your back, almost tender. “i just… i just need you to believe me.” and somehow, without meaning to, you felt yourself nod. just a tiny movement. his lips brushed your jaw, the corner of your mouth. a ghost of a touch as he quickly pulls away and looks at you.

“i thought you loved me, fucking trusted me.” he whispered it like it hurt. “don’t do that to me,” you tell him, your voice low, the kind of stern you hope will land. but it’s wet at the edges, frayed in a way he’s too skilled at noticing. you see the way his brows twitch, his lips part just slightly. he drinks your words down like they hurt him.

“i do—” your palms cup his face, his scruffy jaw rough against your touch. you feel how warm his skin is, the tremor in his breath under your fingers. “i love you.”

and it breaks him. you can feel it in the way his lashes flutter, the way his throat works around a choked, desperate swallow. like he’d been holding himself together with brittle wire and those words cut it clean through. “do you trust me?” he murmurs, voice hoarse, cracked open and bare. but he doesn’t give you a chance to answer — he never really does. not because he doesn’t care what you think, but because he already knows. or tells himself he does. tells himself that even if you said no, you’d mean yes by the time he was done with you.

before you can blink, he’s on his knees, sinking down like gravity’s too much for him to fight, hands gripping the edge of the mattress so tight his knuckles go white. he tugs you forward, greedy and clumsy with it, and the startled little gasp you let out only seems to spur him on.

your pants are gone in a blur, discarded somewhere on the floor without care, and he barely spares a second before his fingers hook into your panties and drags them aside — doesn’t even bother taking them off properly, just pulls them far enough to expose you to the cool air and his ravenous gaze.

his eyes go wide, the blue of them blown out and glassy, lashes damp like he might cry over it. maybe he is. his lips part, pink and already a little swollen from where he’d been biting at them, and he lets out this broken, reverent little sound that goes straight to your core.

“god,” he mutters, voice thick. his thumb comes up to spread you open, watching the slick catch in the low light, glistening against the pads of his fingers. “‘s wet. it's so sticky”

and then his mouth is on you — pressing in, kissing you there like it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted, like he’s starving and you’re the only thing left on earth to keep him alive.

he pauses, just barely, lips slick and shiny now, your arousal clinging to the soft swell of them. his face is already a mess, cheeks pink, chin wet, nose brushed against your clit as he breathes you in like he can’t get enough.

“can i?” he rasps, voice so gentle it borders on pleading, though there’s nothing soft about the way his hands grip your thighs, about the way his fingers dig into flesh like he’ll leave bruises he’ll apologize for in the morning. and maybe you hesitate for a half-second, some flicker of rational thought trying to claw its way through the fog he’s built around you, but it doesn’t stand a chance.

you nod.

and bob lets out this desperate little whine, a high, needy thing that betrays just how far gone he already is for you. before you can blink he’s burying his face in you again, tongue hot and insistent, licking long, slow stripes before closing his lips around your clit and sucking hard.

your head falls back, hips twitching, the heat of it all making your skin feel too tight. every drag of his tongue sends sparks down your spine, and it’s messy — wet and loud, obscene, his mouth sticky and shining with you already.

he pulls back just a fraction, lips pink and swollen, face shining with slick. his breathing’s ragged, pupils so wide you can barely find the blue in them anymore. his voice is wrecked when he speaks.

“i want you to watch me,” he says, thumb brushing your clit in lazy circles, eyes flickering up to yours. “please. wanna see how good i do it, how good i make you feel.”

and then — like he can’t help it, like he’s physically unable to keep his hands off himself — one hand drops down between his own legs. you watch the way he palms himself through his jeans, the dark patch there betraying how worked up he’s gotten just from this, from the taste of you, the sound of your voice catching in your throat.

he ruts against his palm, hips canting forward in small, desperate rolls, like it’s not enough but he can’t stop. and the whole time, his eyes stay locked on you, watching every twitch of your face, every arch of your back.

his mouth finds you again, faster this time, hungrier. tongue flicking, lips pulling, sucking, working you over like a man possessed. and it’s not sweet — it’s desperate. like he’s trying to crawl inside of you, like he’s trying to ruin you so bad you’ll never be able to leave him, so no one else will ever get you like this.

and maybe he is.

he hums against you, the sound vibrating through your skin, and you can feel him moaning against your cunt, swallowing every drop you give him like it’s a reward. his face is fucking soaked, cheeks flushed, lips slick, his chin shiny with your slick and his own spit.

and he looks ruined. so completely gone it makes something in your chest tighten.

he dives back in with a desperation that borders on savage. his tongue working you open, curling and flattening against your clit, his jaw moving as he sucks, the wet, obscene sounds of it filling the room.

you feel his hand trembling against your hips as he holds you there, keeping you pinned against his mouth. he drags his tongue lower, pressing it inside, fucking you with it before pulling back to replace it with two thick fingers, easing them inside you with a groan that sounds like it tears from the depths of his chest.

“‘s good,” he murmurs, half-delirious, his eyes rolling back as your cunt clenches around him. “you’re making me feel ‘s good”

your hips jerk, your breath breaking in sharp little gasps as he fucks you on his fingers, mouth sealing over your clit once more. and god — the noise he makes when your thighs start to shake, when you moan his name like it’s a prayer — it’s not just needy. it’s possessive. it’s greedy. your body burns, your skin fever-hot, your stomach tightening as he drags you toward the edge, relentless, like a man dying of thirst. you feel your release coming sharp and fast, your hands clenching in his hair, tugging.

he groans again, a raw, desperate sound, the vibration rolling through your core like the deep, distant rumble of thunder just before a storm cracks open the sky. it shatters you. the tight, hot coil in your stomach snaps so hard it feels like something inside you gives way, and you cry out — a sharp, high thing that echoes in the dim, overheated room. your back arches, your hips jerking against his mouth, but bob holds you steady, fingers digging into your thighs to keep you where he wants you.

your climax rips through you in heavy, breath-stealing waves, every nerve ending sparking white-hot, your skin feverish to the touch. and bob doesn’t stop. not for a second. his tongue still working your clit, lips wet and swollen, fingers relentless as they fuck you through the shudders, through the aftershocks, through the trembling way your legs threaten to give out beneath his palms.

he devours you like he’s starving, like it’s not enough. like it’ll never be enough. like if he lets up even for a moment, you might slip away.

your body gives out first — your hips falling limp, a breathless, broken noise clawing up your throat as your back drops heavily against the mattress, arms spread boneless at your sides. your lungs drag for air. your heart pounds in your ears, loud and thick and unsteady.

bob finally pulls away, slow, reluctant, dragging his mouth from you with one final, messy kiss against your oversensitive clit that makes your thighs twitch. his lips are glistening, his chin slick with your release, flushed all the way up to his cheekbones, his mouth pink and swollen, darker than it should be. his breathing’s ragged, and when you manage to lift your head — eyelids heavy, vision slightly blurred at the edges — you catch the look in his eyes.

utter fucking wreckage. glassy, wide, possessive.

he presses one last kiss to the inside of your thigh, a slow, lingering thing, almost tender if it weren’t for the bruises blooming under his fingertips where he held you down. his hands rub over your thighs now, slow, grounding, a sharp contrast to what they’d done a moment before.

your eyes flutter, lashes heavy against your cheeks. sleep threatens to pull you under. your whole body feels weightless, like you’ve been hollowed out and filled with heat. like you couldn’t move even if you wanted to.

bob doesn’t leave. doesn’t move from between your legs. he rests his cheek against your thigh, arms curling possessively around your hips, holding you like something he nearly lost. his face is still flushed, his skin damp, his lips marked by you.

[lupusaur]

[lupusaur]

i love your writing sm, hear me out: Wolf! Bucky x Bunny! Reader and she keeps teasing him by accident

Bucky HATES you.

You're good at what you do and while you're tinier than the others, it means you're perfect for squeezing into small places they can't. The only small place he'd want to squeeze himself in is that cute cunt of yours that he can smell from a mile away. He's positive you're only giving off such a sweet scent for him, knowing he could just bend you over and fuck you until the sun rises. Is that what you want? To be bred like the little whore you are? It's what bunnies do best, or so he's heard.

You, on the other hand, are oblivious to his frustrations. At first working with him was uncomfortable but he's shown that he's a nice guy who won't eat you. Yelena on the other hand, the mischievous tiger she is, loved teasing you for your cute reactions. Sometimes Ava will join her and it evolved into a typical “girls thing” the three of you do. It's all fun and games but Bucky can't help but feel jealous at how easy it is for the girls to make you squirm. Do you know how cute you are? How much he wants to bite into your cheeks when they're filled with a snack (or maybe his cum)? And don't get him started on how fluffy those ears are. They're begging him to be touched, to be pulled when your face is buried in his pillow so he can properly hear you moaning from how good he's dicking you down.

God. He thinks he won't last another night with just his hand. His knot needs to be in you, but he's a gentleman. He's not going to walk up and put it in without taking you out to dinner first. But then he gets an opportunity to put his hands on your skin and he knows you know what you're doing.

It was just basic simple stretches. You asked him for help when you saw him enter the gym, wanting to try to push yourself further to be more flexible. “To make it easier to squeeze through those small vents you guys make me go in” you laughed, but he was focused on the sounds you made and the tremble of your cute cotton tail. At this point, with the positions and strained grunts, he knows you're fucking with him.

Your words fall on death ears as he drags you to his room and throws you on the bed. “You've been fucking with me haven't you cotton tail? Is it because you want to be fucked? Huh? Been releasing such a sweet scent around me and shakin’ this ass…” Bucky tore up your bottoms, thumbing at the outline of that damn cunt that's been driving him crazy for weeks. “Wait…wait.. Bucky! What scent? And I wasn't messin— oh… messing with you! We can't do this it won't fit! You aren't thinking straight!”

He laughed, peeling away that cute underwear of yours to see you already wet and dripping for his knot. “Oh cotton tail… You're stopping me because it won't fit? Not because you don't want this? Dirty girl. You've thought of taking this, probably took a sneak peak and gave up before tryin’. We got all night to fit this knot in this sweet little cunny.” He smacked it, causing you to yelp. When you only used your ears to cover your face, he knew that the embarrassment only proved he was right. What a dirty little bunny. You were probably stretching earlier to loosen up those muscles to fit him properly. It's fine, Bucky can help speed up that process.

Realizing what he was doing when he pulled you up by the waist, you pushed at his head to stop him from devouring his meal. “Wait I'm sweaty! Let me shower at least!”

“Sweetheart, I can clean you up right here and now. Don't deny this wolf his meal, okay?”

[lumons]

ROBERT 'BOB' REYNOLDS THUNDERBOLTS (2025)