Pretty In Lace

He Feels Everything

Summary: You thought sneaking off to fuck yourself with his metal hand would be enough. You didn’t know he could feel it. Now he’s in your bed—and he’s not leaving.

Avengers!Bucky x Avengers,afab!reader

Warning: 18+ (mdni!), smut, masturbation, voyeurism (kinda), ovulation kink, overstimulation, squirting, breeding kink, use of metal arm, consent is clear even not worded, fluff if you squint, mutual pining

a/n: Hi! this is my second story, once again inspired by one of my steamy dreams. I'm still figuring out how to write, and English isn’t my first language, so please go easy on me. Hope you still enjoy reading it! Thank you so much for being here!! ♡♡♡

➜ Part 2 💜

—

“‘Kay, see you—”

Bucky’s words hung in the air as he turned, only to be met with silence. Again. You were already gone, slipping away from the sparring room like smoke—just like always. He let out a quiet chuckle, but deep down, it tugged at something tender. He wished you’d stay. Just once. He wanted to talk to you when it wasn’t about missions or training or saving the damn world.

—

You were already halfway down the hallway, heat pooling low in your belly, heartbeat pounding like a war drum. Every single time Bucky touched you—even the most casual brush of skin during training—it sent you spiraling. The dark, sticky kind of desire. It didn’t matter how bubbly or bright you seemed around the compound, laughter spilling from your lips like sunlight. No one knew you were constantly battling a wild, insatiable craving inside you. And Bucky Barnes? He was your worst temptation.

Being assigned as his partner was torture on the daily. But tonight? Ovulating. And Bucky had the fucking audacity to wear a tight black shirt and grey sweatpants. Every inch of him was sinful—muscles rippling beneath cotton, his hair messy, lips slightly parted, glistening with sweat.

You didn’t even make it to the shower. Shirt and sports bra peeled off in a frenzy, you collapsed onto your bed, hand sliding between your legs like you were racing against time. Your panties were already soaked, clinging to your skin like a plea.

“Oh, Bucky…” you whimpered, fingers flicking at your nipples, hips rolling like they had a mind of their own.

His face flashed behind your eyelids—those intense eyes, the way his chest heaved when he pinned you down during training. Every non-sexual move felt indecent in your head. You plunged two fingers inside yourself, imagining them as cold, unforgiving vibranium.

“Fuck me, Bucky,” you groaned, your voice soaked in filth and need, pumping your fingers until the orgasm hit like a truck. But it wasn’t enough.

It was never enough.

Your cunt was still pulsing, still dripping. Your body still screamed his name. You’d never dared go to him before, but tonight something snapped.

You needed him. Or at least… part of him.

You snuck into his room under the guise of "emergency"—and, well, it was an emergency. Your entire existence was on fire. He’d once given you his passcode in case of danger. This qualified.

He was asleep. Or so you thought. His metal arm was off, lying on the bedside table.

And god help you, you took it.

Back in your room, you positioned the cool metal fingers against your slick folds, one at a time, until you were stretched wide. Three fingers deep and your cunt was clamping tight around the steel.

“Look at me,” you moaned, “taking your fingers so good.”

You thrust it harder, your body shuddering, until—suddenly—it vibrated.

Your breath caught.

What the actual—

Your heart stopped. You felt him. Before you even turned around, your body knew.

And there he was.

James Bucky Barnes. Standing at your door with lust blown wide in his eyes, a tent straining in those same sweatpants you’d mentally undressed a hundred times.

You yanked the metal fingers from your cunt like you were caught stealing heaven, pulling the comforter up in a panic.

But his voice—low and gravel and fucked-out—froze you.

“Don’t stop, doll.” His hand palmed the thick bulge between his thighs. “I can feel everything.”

Your mouth fell open.

He stepped closer. “Even when it’s not attached. Every squeeze. Every wet clench around me.” His voice was a goddamn weapon, slow and deliberate, and your body betrayed you—slicking up again like a prayer.

He sat on the bed beside you, cupping your flushed cheek with his flesh hand. “Come for me, baby,” he whispered, lips brushing yours.

You moaned, repositioning the fingers inside your soaked cunt. Bucky started stroking himself, murmuring your name like a mantra.

You came so hard your vision went white. And then again. And again. Squirting across the sheets, across him.

“Jesus fuck, you’re killing me,” he groaned, spilling hot and heavy across your stomach. He collapsed beside you, kissing you with a softness that nearly undid you.

He lifted his metal hand, licking your cum from the fingers like it was dessert, then pulled you close after attaching it back to its place.

“So you do want me,” he said, grinning against your skin.

“I’ve always wanted you,” you breathed. “For years. But… if you knew what I wanted to do to you…”

He tilted his head. “What do you want?”

You bit your lip. “To fuck you senseless. Ride you until you’re begging. Hear you moan my name while I squeeze every drop from your cock. For you to fill me up.”

He groaned and pinned you down, grinding his thick cock against your wet heat.

“If I’d known, we would’ve started this months ago,” he muttered, sinking into you with one deep, devastating thrust.

You cried out, gripping his shoulders like a lifeline. He fucked you like he meant it. Like he’d waited forever for this too.

By your seventh orgasm, you were sobbing—body trembling, completely wrung out. You passed out with his cock still buried inside you.

He smiled, kissed your forehead, and carefully pulled out.

The serum kept his stamina up, but what filled him most wasn’t lust—it was you.

You were his now.

And god help anyone who tried to take you away.

This got me all warm and in my feels for Autumn🥰

The Great Outdoors

Summary: Logan takes you on a camping trip, but his survival skills are hilariously outdated. Between using a rock instead of a proper camping tool and attempting to start a fire with his claws (which ends up in a mini bonfire), you can’t stop laughing. Eventually, you both end up cuddled in the tent, sharing ghost stories that lead to goofy scares and unexpected confessions of affection.

Pairing             : Wolverine!Logan Howlett x Female!Human-reader

Genre              : Fluff

The sun was already dipping low behind the trees when Logan parked the truck. He got out like he was about to conquer the wild, while you stood there, looking at the woods and trying not to laugh at the seriousness on his face. Logan wasn’t the camping type—or at least, not the “modern” kind. He was more like the “rough it with nothing but your fists and claws” type.

This was going to be interesting.

“So, what’s the plan, Bear Grylls?” you teased, slinging your backpack over your shoulder.

Logan grunted, pulling out a rolled-up tent from the back of the truck. “Survive. That’s the plan.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Wow, so detailed. I feel so prepared.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ve done this a hundred times. Just follow my lead, and we’ll be fine.”

Oh, boy.

You made your way into the clearing Logan had apparently scoped out beforehand. It wasn’t bad, actually—nice little spot near a river, surrounded by trees that rustled softly in the evening breeze. As soon as you set your stuff down, Logan got to work... sort of.

He started with the tent. You watched him as he unfolded it, frowning like the damn thing had personally offended him. “These damn things get more complicated every year,” he muttered, trying to shove a pole into one of the sleeves.

“Need some help?” you asked, biting your lip to keep from laughing as he wrestled with it.

“Nah, I got it,” he grumbled, jamming the pole so hard it almost snapped.

Five minutes later, the tent was half-collapsed, one corner flapping in the wind, and Logan was cursing under his breath.

“I think it’s supposed to stand up, Logan.”

He shot you a look, then glanced back at the tent. “It’s fine. I’m just, uh... testing its durability.”

You let out a snort, shaking your head. “Right. Maybe you should just let me handle that.”

“I’m a grown-ass man,” he muttered, glaring at the tent like it had insulted his mother.

“Yeah, and you’re losing a fight to a piece of nylon.”

After another moment of watching him struggle, you stepped in and started putting the thing together while Logan, not exactly one for sitting still, decided to gather firewood. He disappeared into the woods with nothing but his claws, because why bring a hatchet when you’re Logan?

By the time he came back, arms full of sticks and logs, the tent was up and looking perfect. You leaned against it, smirking as he dropped the wood into a pile.

“See?” you said, gesturing to the tent. “That’s how it’s done.”

Logan grunted, clearly not impressed. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s see you start a fire.”

You crossed your arms. “Watch and learn, old man.”

He grinned, that dangerous little glint in his eye. “Oh, you’re gonna regret that.”

Logan, being Logan, didn’t just gather some twigs and light them with a match like a normal person. No, that would’ve been too easy. Instead, he pulled out his claws and crouched next to the fire pit, sparks flying as he struck them against a rock.

“Logan, that’s not how—”

Whoosh!

The pile of wood lit up like someone had dumped gasoline on it. Flames shot up higher than you thought possible, and you stumbled back, laughing your ass off while Logan jumped up, cursing.

“Goddammit!” He swiped his claws through the air, trying to beat the flames down. “I meant to do that.”

“Oh, sure,” you choked out between laughs, wiping at your eyes. “That’s the perfect height for roasting marshmallows, right?”

Logan glared at the mini-bonfire for a second, then at you. “Next time, you can light the damn thing.”

You couldn’t stop laughing, the sound of it bouncing around the trees. Logan finally cracked a smile, though he tried to hide it behind a gruff mutter.

After some careful maneuvering (read: Logan finally letting you fix the fire), you both settled down for the evening. The fire was low, crackling softly, the night air cool around you. Stars were starting to peek through the darkening sky, and the only sounds were the soft hum of the forest and Logan chewing on beef jerky.

You leaned back against a log, holding your hands out to the fire. “So, what now? Gonna show me your impressive ghost story collection?”

Logan raised an eyebrow, gnawing on his jerky like a wild animal. “Ghost stories? What are we, twelve?”

“Come on,” you teased. “Everyone knows camping isn’t complete without ghost stories. It’s like... the law.”

He scoffed but leaned back, his eyes glinting in the firelight. “Alright. You want a ghost story? I’ll give you one.”

“Oh, this oughta be good.”

Logan cleared his throat dramatically. “So... once upon a time... there was this girl. Thought she was real tough. Real smart.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Is this about me?”

“Shhh, I’m tellin’ a story here,” Logan said, smirking. “Anyway, she thought she could survive out in the wild with just a little ol’ tent and her wit. But one night, she heard a rustling in the trees... something... watching her.”

You leaned in, playing along, even though you knew exactly where this was going. “Oh, yeah? What was it?”

Logan’s eyes widened theatrically. “A bear! Big, ugly thing. Twice her size. It came into her camp, sniffin’ around, and you know what she did?”

You shook your head, grinning. “What?”

“Nothing. She just froze. The bear ate all her snacks, tore up her tent, and left her sittin’ there in her own piss.”

You burst out laughing. “Wow, Logan. Truly terrifying. 10/10. I’m gonna have nightmares for weeks.”

Logan grinned, leaning closer. “I got more. You’ll be beggin’ for mercy by the end of the night.”

You pushed his shoulder lightly. “You’re such an ass.”

As the night deepened and the fire began to die down, you both retreated into the tent. It was surprisingly cozy inside, the faint warmth of the fire lingering outside while you snuggled into your sleeping bag. Logan stretched out beside you, his body taking up way too much space, but you didn’t mind.

“Comfy?” you asked, glancing at him as he wiggled around.

“Like a fuckin’ sardine,” he muttered, trying to adjust in the small space. “Who the hell makes these tents so damn small?”

“They’re meant for normal-sized people, not... whatever the hell you are,” you said with a smirk.

Logan snorted. “Mutant privilege. I need bigger accommodations.”

You both lay there for a few minutes, the quiet settling in around you. Logan’s breathing was steady, his body warm next to yours, and despite his earlier grumblings, you could tell he was content. This whole camping thing wasn’t so bad, after all.

“Alright,” you said suddenly, turning to face him. “I’ve got a ghost story.”

Logan raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything, so you went on.

“There’s this guy, right? Big, tough, hairy—like, really hairy. The kinda guy you wouldn’t wanna meet in a dark alley.”

Logan rolled his eyes, but you kept going.

“And one night, he decides to go camping with this totally amazing girl—smart, funny, great taste in camping snacks—”

“Wow, I wonder who this is about,” Logan deadpanned.

“Shhh,” you said, stifling a laugh. “But the thing is... the guy? He’s got a secret. See, he acts all tough, like nothing scares him, but deep down? He’s terrified of one thing.”

Logan looked over at you, eyes narrowing. “What?”

You grinned, leaning in close. “Commitment.”

Logan blinked, then let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re full of shit, you know that?”

“Maybe,” you said, smiling. “But you know I’m right.”

He didn’t deny it, just stretched out a hand to pull you closer, his arm wrapping around you with an ease that made your heart flutter a little too fast.

“I’m scared of plenty of things,” he muttered, his voice low and rough. “Just not the same kinda things as you.”

“Like what?” you asked, curious now.

Logan looked at you, his eyes serious for once. “Losing people. People I care about. That’s what scares me.”

The confession was quiet, unexpected, and it hit harder than you’d thought. You swallowed, unsure of what to say, but Logan just shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal, pulling you in tighter.

“Guess that makes you a real badass,” you whispered after a moment, your voice barely breaking the stillness of the tent.

“Damn right,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Now shut up and go to sleep before I start tellin’ real scary stories.”

You smiled against his chest, warmth spreading through you as the sound of the river and the soft crackling of the dying fire lulled you to sleep. And maybe, just maybe, you’d both survived the great outdoors after all.

Bob reynolds x f!reader

FATAL ACCIDENT

Summary: When Bob accidentally caught you in a deeply inappropriate moment, he decided to make it up to you. He brought muffins and suggested a movie night. Neither of you expected what would happen next… or how everything would change between you.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, strong language, unprotected sex (piv), dry humping, multiple orgasms, stimulating through clothes, cum in pants, soft sex, creampie, sleeping inside of each other, sweet ending, sub!Bob, use of Y/N

A/n: Hi there! I hope you'll like this story/smut! I really tried my best so…anyways, if you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

It was late, well past midnight, when Bob found himself standing outside your door. The rest of the tower had gone quiet hours ago, wrapped in the peaceful hush that only came once the chaos of the day had settled. Lights were dimmed, hallways empty, and the low hum of distant generators was the only thing keeping him company. But he knew you. You were a night owl, always the last one to go to sleep. That’s what brought him here in the first place.

He told himself it was just a small question about the mission briefing tomorrow. Something minor. Something he could’ve asked anyone else, sure—but not at this hour. And not with the way his brain kept coming back to you, no matter how many reasons he tried to invent.

So, he knocked. A quick, rhythmic tap. Nothing.

He paused, waiting for your voice, footsteps, any movement. Silence. He knocked again—same rhythm, a little firmer this time. Still, nothing.

He called out your name gently, voice soft but just loud enough to carry through the door. Not a yell, but enough that you would’ve heard it if you were in there.

Still no answer.

That ache in his chest started to grow—tight, warm, and completely irrational. He knew you were probably just asleep, headphones in maybe, passed out after a long day. Nothing bad had happened. He told himself that twice, then again, like repetition would make it true.

But it didn’t ease the tension building behind his ribs. It didn’t stop the way his fingers curled against his palm or the faint pull in his stomach as the silence stretched on. And still—no sound from the other side of the door.

Bob’s worry was growing by the second. He knew that you were probably fine. But still, that uncomfortable knot in his chest didn’t go away. He lingered by the door, biting the inside of his cheek before clearing his throat softly.

“Can I come in?” he asked, still hopeful for a response.

Nothing.

He hesitated only a second longer before his hand reached for the doorknob. He turned it slowly, carefully, as though the metal itself might protest. The door creaked slightly as he pushed it open, just a crack at first.

He peeked inside, half-expecting to catch you mid-change or in a situation where he absolutely should not be present. But the room was empty.

No one in sight.

He stepped inside, carefully closing the door behind him with a soft click. The room smelled faintly like your perfume and something warm, like vanilla and fabric softener. Familiar and comforting.

But then he heard it. The sound of running water. A soft, steady stream. His eyes darted toward the bathroom door. It was slightly ajar, just enough for steam to be drifting out and curling into the air.

You were in the shower.

Relief rushed through him like a wave. You were safe. He let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, and smiled to himself, already turning to quietly slip back out of the room. He could talk to you tomorrow. No big deal.

“Y/N?” Yelena’s voice rang out from down the hall.

Bob froze. Panic hit him like a truck. The sound of footsteps rushed toward the door. She was heading this way. Fast.

“Oh no no no,” Bob whispered under his breath, looking around in a frantic circle. His brain went blank. If Yelena saw him in your room, especially this late, especially without you even in the room, well, that would definitely send a message. One he wasn’t ready to explain.

His eyes darted to your closet. No good. Not enough room. Under the bed? He’d never fit. His thoughts were racing. The doorknob outside jiggled slightly as Yelena neared—

And in a moment of sheer panic, Bob made the only decision he could. He turned and slipped into your bathroom. The steam hit him like a wall and before his brain could yell STOP, he realized where he was. Inyour bathroom while you were still in the shower.

Bob’s hands were up like he was surrendering to an armed SWAT team, his fingers trembling as sheer panic rushed through his entire body. His chest was tight, breathing shallow, and every cell in his brain was screaming, Why are you here? Why the hell did you think this would be a good idea?

He stood frozen, wide-eyed and pale, as the sound of the shower continued, taunting him. There was nowhere to hide. Nowhere to run. He was in the bathroom. With you. While you were still in the damn shower.

And before he could even string together a plan, or even a thought, he heard her again.

“Y/N!” Yelena’s voice echoed louder now, clearly already inside your bedroom.

Bob’s soul practically left his body. From inside the shower, your annoyed voice finally rang out over the sound of the water.

“I’m coming!” you shouted, clearly frustrated.

Then the stream shut off. Bob’s heart jumped into his throat. His tongue felt dry as sand. His skin was burning and cold at the same time. Oh no. Oh no. Oh God.

He stared helplessly at the fogged-up glass of the shower door, and when you slid it open— he saw you.

Completely naked.

Water still clung to your skin in droplets, sliding down the curve of your neck, your collarbones, gliding along your thighs like liquid silk. You hadn’t seen him yet, but he was already about to combust from embarrassment and sheer secondhand shame.

And then your eyes landed on him.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!” you screamed, your voice pure panic and fury as you instinctively reached for a towel and yanked it around your dripping frame.

“I—I’m sorry—I didn’t—” Bob choked out, immediately spinning around to face the wall, his entire face a violent shade of red. His hands went back up, this time like he was trying to blot himself out of existence.

But fate wasn’t done dragging him through hell just yet. Because just then, Yelena pushed the bathroom door open. And paused.

“Woah. What the fuck is happening here?” she asked in her signature deadpan tone, heavy Russian accent slicing through the awkwardness like a hot knife through shame.

You, still clutching your towel and dripping on the floor, looked absolutely stunned. “I have no idea what he’s doing in here!” you snapped, eyes wide with a cocktail of betrayal and pure what-the-actual-hell.

Bob didn’t speak. Couldn’t. He was practically vibrating with anxiety, lips pressed into a thin, miserable line. His whole body was trembling like a leaf caught in a storm.

He was so unbelievably screwed.

It was the next afternoon when you heard a soft knock on your door. You didn’t even need to ask who it was. You knew instantly.

“Come in,” you called calmly, already anticipating the awkwardness that was about to step through the door.

Bob peeked his head in first, like he was making sure it was safe before fully entering. Then, with a hesitant “Hey…” he stepped inside and quietly shut the door behind him.

He looked… guilty. Shy.

His cheeks were flushed pink, his posture small and careful, and his legs? Slightly shaking. He was holding a plate of something in his hands—and the second he came closer, the sweet scent of freshly baked muffins filled the room like a warm, edible apology.

You were sitting on your bed, a book in your lap, one brow raised as you watched him silently. You weren’t mad anymore—but you were curious. And you were definitely going to make him squirm a little first.

For a moment, the room was wrapped in silence. Bob shifted awkwardly, his weight bouncing between his feet, clearly searching for the right words.

“I, uh…” he started, eyes flicking to yours then immediately down again. “I wanted to apologize… for yesterday. I—I didn’t mean for any of that to happen and… as an apology, I… got you these.”

He stepped forward, extending the plate like a peace offering, holding it out to you with a hopeful look in his eyes.

The muffins smelled amazing—still warm, soft in the center with little chunks of what looked like chocolate and banana. You looked up at him and took a deep breath.

He looked so genuinely remorseful. That kicked-puppy look on his face nearly made your heart melt. You knew he didn’t mean to barge in on you, and you definitely knew he wasn’t some creep.

Still. You had one burning question.

“Why were you even in there?” you asked gently, but there was still a bit of edge in your tone. You needed to hear it straight from him.

Bob’s arms retreated slightly as he clutched the plate back toward his chest, like the question caught him off-guard.

“I—I just wanted to ask if you were coming with us to the England mission,” he said honestly, blinking fast. “That’s all. I swear.”

Ah. That explained it. That put the final puzzle piece into place.

You nodded slowly, letting out a small breath and placing your book aside. You scooted forward, settling on the edge of your bed, resting your hands down on the mattress beside you.

Your expression shifted, now more playful than stern.

“So…” you said, tilting your head just slightly. “How much did you see?”

Bob blinked, clearly caught off guard by your question.

His eyes widened just a bit, and his shoulders tensed.

“Uh—I didn’t see anything,” he said too quickly. Way too quickly. “Like… nothing at all. Swear.”

You raised a brow. Just stared at him. That stare that you knew always made people squirm. Bob shifted awkwardly, the plate of muffins now looking like the only thing anchoring him to the ground.

You didn’t say anything. You just waited and it worked. Eventually, he cracked. His shoulders slumped as he sighed, gaze flickering down to the floor like it was the only thing willing to forgive him.

“Okay… I—I saw a little. But I barely remember, I swear. It was just a second.”

His voice was soft, guilty. And you couldn’t help but laugh. You shook your head with a smile and stood up from the bed.

“It’s fine, Bob,” you said with a gentle wave of your hand. “I’m over it.”

You walked up to him, close enough to smell the sugar and chocolate clinging to the muffins.

“You made these?” you asked, nodding toward the plate.

He nodded sheepishly. You narrowed your eyes, suspicious.

“You don’t bake.”

“I don’t,” he admitted with a shy chuckle. “But… I looked up your favorite recipe. I figured if I’m gonna apologize, I should at least do it right.”

His voice was so genuine, and there was something so… stupidly sweet about the way he stood there, just hoping they were edible.

You smiled again, softer this time, and reached out to pick up one of the muffins. You took a bite. It was warm, fluffy, and the flavor hit perfectly. Just the right balance of chocolate and banana.

Honestly? Kind of impressive.

“They’re actually really good,” you said, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Thanks.”

There was a moment. A quiet beat between you where something sparked. You looked at him. Really looked at him.

“Try one,” you offered, nudging the plate toward him.

“Oh, no, I—” Bob took a tiny step back. “They’re for you.”

Before he could make another excuse, you rolled your eyes, grabbed the plate from his hands and picked up another muffin.

“You’re eating it,” you said, no room for negotiation.

He opened his mouth to protest, but you were already pushing the muffin into it.

Literally.

He choked out a laugh as you shoved it into his face. He bit down instinctively, chewing with his cheeks puffed out like a squirrel, crumbs already on his lips. You giggled, watching him use his fingers to wipe his mouth, and that’s when something shifted.

Suddenly, time slowed. The laughter died down, but that flutter in your stomach didn’t. A pulse between your legs sparked to life, and you became acutely aware of the heat building inside you.

You watched the way Bob chewed, the way his jaw moved, the way his tongue darted out to catch a crumb near the corner of his mouth.

And just like that… you were wet. Soaking.

And all you could think about was how pretty he looked. How soft and gentle.

Of course, Bob had always been cute to you. From the very first time you saw him, with that messy hair and his little giggle that felt too soft for someone who flew jets and handled missions like a pro.

He was sweet. But never hot. Not in a “I want to drag you into bed and ruin you” kind of way. But now? Something had shifted.

You didn’t know if it was the ovulation hormones messing with your brain chemistry, or the fact that he saw you naked in the shower, or maybe it was his maddeningly addictive cologne, but something clicked.

And suddenly… he was sexy. Like, you-couldn’t-stop-thinking-about-his-mouth sexy.

You bit your lip and watched as Bob finished chewing the piece of muffin you’d shoved into his mouth. His lips moved slowly, tongue catching a few crumbs.

He swallowed, glanced at you and said, “It’s not that bad, actually.”

His voice pulled you out of your internal spiral. You nodded a little too quickly, letting out a soft hum in agreement, a smile playing at your lips. He smiled back, a little shy, a little unsure.

“Well…” he started, rubbing the back of his neck. “I should probably let you get back to your book.”

You tilted your head. “You’re not bothering me.”

But he still insisted. “Yeah, but… I mean—you probably wanna, y’know, process everything. I just—yeah.”

He moved toward the door, slowly, awkwardly, and you returned to your bed, settling into the pillows with your book in one hand and another muffin in the other, though your eyes weren’t exactly on the page.

Bob was halfway out the door when he paused and turned back.

“Oh! Uh—one more thing,” he said, his voice just a bit higher than usual. “Bucky finally helped me set up that TV in my room, so… I was thinking maybe, tonight, if you’re not busy, we could watch a movie?”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “You want me to be your test subject?”

He shrugged, smiling nervously. “I just don’t wanna sit there and watch it alone like a loser.”

You laughed softly. “Sure, Bob. I’m in.”

His smile widened, that same boyish grin that somehow made your stomach twist now in a very different way.

“Cool. Uh—great. I’ll… come get you later then?”

You nodded, trying not to look too eager. “Sounds good.”

He gave you one last smile before he disappeared behind the door, and the second he was gone your book was forgotten. Your thighs pressed together, the ghost of that look he gave you still lingering.

The lights were dimmed in Bob’s room, the only real glow coming from the soft flicker of the TV screen. You were both sitting on his bed, technically his bed, but it didn’t really feel like that now. Not with the way you were both perched on the edge of it, backs resting lightly against the wall, a shared blanket covering your legs.

You sat just far enough apart for it to be considered “friendly.” A safe distance. But god, you wanted to move closer.

The movie playing was some classic, older film, one of those feel-good, slightly cheesy ones with warm lighting and 90s nostalgia oozing out of every frame. It was so Bob. Of course he’d like something like this. Comforting, predictable and sweet. Just like him.

From time to time, your eyes would drift toward him. He was so focused on the screen, eyebrows twitching ever so slightly during tense scenes, mouth curled just faintly at the corners when something funny happened.

And maybe that was the problem. Because his pure, oblivious cuteness was driving you insane.

Your eyes trailed down to his hands, resting in his lap. To the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest. To the way his Adam’s apple bobbed whenever he swallowed. You could practically hear the blood rushing in your ears.

You licked your lips, trying to focus on the movie, but the images blurred. You weren’t even listening anymore.

Why the hell was this happening to you? Why are you suddenly feeling like this? Was it the way his thigh was just barely brushing against yours under the blanket? Or maybe it was that familiar soft scent of his cologne, sweet and woodsy and him?

Whatever it was, it wasn’t fair. Not when he looked that innocent, completely unaware of the storm building inside you.

You’d been pretending to watch the movie for the last ten minutes, but let’s be honest—you hadn’t registered a single scene. Your mind was elsewhere. On him. The steady warmth beside you, the way his scent filled your lungs, the shape of his jaw in the soft glow of the screen.

And then… you cracked. You turned your head slightly, looking at him from under your lashes, your voice soft—almost too soft.

“Hey… um, I’m kinda cold. Mind if I scoot closer?”

It wasn’t even cold.

Bob’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second, like you’d just asked him to recite Shakespeare in Russian. He blinked, then gave the tiniest nod.

“Y-Yeah. Sure. Of course.”

You moved closer, slow and deliberate. Your shoulder brushed his. He didn’t flinch—didn’t pull away. Good. But his whole body tensed like a drawn bow.

And then came the real move, you gently laid your head on his shoulder.

Bob didn’t breathe. Like literally, he just froze. His fists clenched in his lap, not from discomfort—but from sheer sensory overload.

He could feel you. All of you. Your warmth sinking into his hoodie, your hair brushing his jaw, your scent melting into the air around him. His brain short-circuited.

This wasn’t a dream, right? You weren’t just… doing this?

He swallowed hard, throat dry, trying not to move or ruin the moment. Your thighs were just barely touching under the blanket. That soft friction, the tension—goddamn.

You noticed everything. The way his jaw clenched. The shudder that ran down his spine. The way his breath stuttered ever so slightly.

Your lips curled into a small smile. He was nervous—but not in a bad way. Not because he was uncomfortable. He was nervous because it mattered to him. And maybe that made it all the more intoxicating.

The sexual tension was practically radiating off his skin—buzzing in the tiny space between your bodies, where your arms nearly touched.

You shifted just a little closer. So close now that you could hear his heartbeat pounding like a drum.

The movie was still playing, but your focus had drifted miles away. Not on the screen. Not on the plot. But on Bob.

The air felt thicker somehow, heavier with something unspoken. Every small glance at him only made it worse. That gentle look on his face, the way his eyelashes brushed his cheeks when he blinked, his throat bobbing every time he swallowed—everything was unbearable in the best kind of way. You had this ache, low and steady, impossible to ignore.

So you moved.

Under the blanket, slow and casual, your hand found his thigh. Just a gentle rest, as if you needed a place to land. Bob tensed immediately, his whole body reacting like a live wire being sparked. His breath hitched, but he didn’t stop you. Not even a flinch. He stayed still, as though frozen in place, except for the way his chest was rising just a bit too fast to be calm.

Your thumb began to brush soft circles along the fabric of his sweatpants. Just small, teasing motions, and yet you could feel how it made him react—his thigh twitching slightly beneath your touch, his jaw clenched tight, lips slightly parted as though he didn’t trust himself to breathe through his nose anymore.

You turned your head and whispered, slow and velvety, “By the way… those muffins? They were amazing.”

Bob blinked, once, twice, and barely managed a grunt of a response, like speaking full words would crack him wide open. He gave a slight nod, clearly trying to keep his composure, but failing beautifully.

You smiled, wickedly pleased, and lifted your head from his shoulder so you could really look at him. His eyes locked on yours immediately, wide and uncertain—but undeniably filled with heat. And hope.

“Did you…” you started, voice dipped low like velvet on skin, “like what you saw yesterday?”

He froze.

His lips parted, but no sound came out. His hands, still clenched in his lap, curled even tighter. It was obvious he was trying to say something, trying to figure out if this was real or a fever dream he was about to wake from. The red on his cheeks deepened, and his eyes darted from your face to your lips and back again.

“I—uh—I didn’t mean to—I mean—I didn’t really see—”

You leaned in closer, your hand still warm and steady on his thigh.

“It’s okay,” you whispered. “I don’t mind.”

And then you moved your hand. Just a little higher, right where his twitching dick was.

Bob let out a shaky breath—one of those breaths that almost sounded like a prayer, or a curse, or both. He looked like a man on the edge, hanging by a thread spun from every suppressed feeling he’d ever had for you. The tension in his body, the nervous flicker in his eyes, the way his lips parted and didn’t quite close again—all of it screamed one thing:

He wanted you. Badly. And you knew. You leaned in, lips inches from his ear, and asked one last question, barely more than a breath:

“Do you want me to stop?”

Your fingers moved slowly, so slowly it almost felt like an accident. A barely-there stroke through the soft fabric of his sweats. He twitched. You felt it. And still, he didn’t move. He just stayed still, frozen, his breath hitching in his throat and he couldn't even answer you.

Bob’s eyes fluttered shut, lashes trembling. His lips parted slightly, a quiet sound slipping from his mouth—a mix between a gasp and a helpless whimper.

You turned your head just enough to see his face. His brows were drawn together, his jaw tight, and he looked so unbelievably vulnerable. Lost. Struggling. But not stopping you.

“You like it?” you whispered, voice low and warm.

He nodded, quickly, too quickly, but didn’t speak. You kept going, slowly, tenderly, through the fabric, feeling the way his whole body reacted to your touch. He was holding onto the edge of the blanket with white knuckles, his other hand hovering, as if unsure where to go or what to do.

“And did you like yesterday?” you asked softly, meaning the shower incident. You leaned a little closer, lips brushing his ear.

Bob choked on a breath, and his head tilted back slightly. “I-I didn’t… I wasn’t trying to— I mean—” He couldn’t even finish the sentence. His voice cracked.

You smiled.

“I think you did,” you murmured.

And then, just as his breath caught and his hips gave the tiniest, helpless twitch beneath the blanket, you felt it. His whole body tensing, stuttering, a soft, broken noise escaping his throat as he came apart completely under your hand.

Bob froze, then practically curled into himself. Face flushed deep red, breathing erratic, shame washing over him like a wave.

“I—I’m so sorry,” he whispered. His voice was small, strained, like he wanted to disappear.

“No I'm sorry I didn't mean to,” you felt guilty, more than Bob did. You just wanted to tease him a bit, just a few touches. Who knew Bob was that sensitive, but in the end you didn't mind.

“I uh…it's been a while since I've been with someone…” Bob tried to explain himself, even tho he didn't need to. You understand. You smiled at him, sighing.

“It's okay…we can go slow,” your sweet tone calmed Bob down, his chest wasn't raising that fast, and his eyes softened.

The eye contact was so loud, but at the same time so quiet. Soft and gentle, barely brushing your lips against his, just testing the waters, but when you kissed him again, he melted. Your lips were making wet sounds, as you explored your mouths, touching your tongues and mixing your salivas.

After a long make out session, you slowly swung one leg over his lap, your knees bracketing his thighs, the quiet rustle of your clothes and the soft shift of the bed were the only sounds for a moment.

Settling on top of him carefully, you totally made him forget everything else but the feeling of you, the heat between you, the way your mouths moved together like they were made for this.

His hands finally moved to your hips, trembling just slightly, like he needed the confirmation that this was real.

The pressure of you settling onto him was electric. Your bodies fit together like matching puzzle pieces, your chest pressed gently to his, and you could feel the way his breath stuttered beneath you. Your forehead met his for a moment, just a shared breath, your fingers tangling in his tousled hair.

Then, really gently, you began to move. Not urgently, not to finish something, but to explore. The softest grind of your hips into his, dragging fabric against fabric, building friction that made his lips part in a quiet, broken gasp. His eyes fluttered closed, lashes kissing his cheeks, and his hands clutched your sides like he needed grounding.

You could feel it all. The growing heat pooling low in your belly, the ache between your legs intensifying with each shift, and the clear tension in Bob’s body as he whimpered helplessly. His head tipped back against the wall, exposing the long line of his neck, and his thighs tensed beneath yours.

“Is this okay?” you asked softly, your voice breathless but sure.

He nodded quickly, voice cracking. “Y-Yeah. Yeah, please.”

The desperation in his whisper made your stomach flip. You leaned forward, kissed along his jaw, his ear, and then back to his lips—this time slower, deeper, letting him feel how much you meant it. How much you wanted him.

And still, your hips moved. Measured rolls that made his breath catch and his hands dig just a little harder into your waist. The tension between you thickened like honey, sticky and warm, and everything slowed down.

He whispered your name like a prayer, and when you whispered his in return, voice thick with want and wonder, he shivered, completely undone beneath you.

Your fingers moved cautiously, tracing the hem of his shirt. You paused, eyes flicking up to meet his, giving him a silent chance to pull back. But he didn’t, he just nodded slightly, and that was all you needed.

You slid your hand under his shirt, your palm meeting the heat of his skin. He shivered immediately, muscles twitching beneath your touch, and you felt him grip your hips just a little tighter — not to stop you, but to anchor himself.

“Still okay?” you murmured against his lips.

He swallowed thickly, nodding. “More than okay.”

Piece by piece, you began to remove each other’s clothing, slowly, like unwrapping a secret. Every inch of exposed skin felt like a discovery. His shirt first, then yours. His eyes widened when he saw your chest, and for a moment, he just stared, completely speechless.

You smiled softly, brushing his cheek with your fingers. “You’ve seen me before, remember?”

“Not like this,” he whispered, voice rough and reverent.

His hands ghosted over your sides, hesitant at first, as if afraid you might vanish. But you didn’t, you leaned into his touch, and his hesitation melted into something bolder.

The more skin you revealed, the more the tension between you tightened, until it was a living, breathing thing. And when the last layer of clothing fell away, when you were both completely bare, there was nothing left to hold back.

Bob looked up at you, his hands trembling slightly where they rested on your hips. His eyes, full of something deep, searched yours, like he needed your permission again, even though you were already here, already his.

You leaned down to kiss him, slow and deep, your lips moving against his in a way that made both of you sigh quietly into the space between. You could feel the way his chest rose and fell faster, how his body tensed beneath yours as you slowly rolled your hips, letting the sensation build gently, teasingly.

He moaned — not loud, but broken, like the sound had been pulled out of him without warning. His hands flexed against your skin, not guiding you, just holding, grounding himself in the reality that this was happening. That you were here. That you wanted him.

“God… you feel so good,” he breathed, voice low and shaky.

You smiled softly against his neck, then whispered, “So do you.”

When he finally slid into you, it was careful — almost reverent. There was no rush. No hunger to claim. Just the slow, aching press of bodies coming together, like a deep breath being exhaled after being held too long.

Both of you stilled for a moment, your foreheads pressed together, hearts pounding in sync. You were full of him — not just physically, but emotionally. And in that moment, you swore you felt something inside you settle. Like a missing piece had finally found where it belonged.

You began to move together, slow and deliberate, each thrust more about connection than release. His hands roamed up your back, fingers splaying across your shoulder blades, like he couldn’t bear to let go of even an inch of you. Every time your hips met, a soft gasp or whimper left your lips, answered by the way Bob groaned low in his throat, utterly overwhelmed by how good you felt around him.

The air between you was thick with warmth, your bodies slick with sweat but never frantic. The way you kissed him between moans, the way his hands stroked your sides with a trembling tenderness, it all spoke louder than anything you could’ve said out loud.

“I’ve never—” he choked out, voice cracking, “—never felt anything like this.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “Me neither.”

Your pace quickened slightly, not from desperation but because your bodies knew each other now, moved together naturally. You could feel yourself getting closer, and from the way Bob’s grip on you tightened and his hips stuttered slightly, you knew he was too.

But neither of you chased it. You let it build, let it take its time, let it matter.

And when you finally came — together, as if perfectly timed — it wasn’t explosive. It was soft. Like sinking into something that had always been waiting for you. You held each other through it, every muscle trembling, your mouths finding each other again and again as if to say, I’m here. I’m still here.

Even as your breathing slowed and your bodies softened, you didn’t pull away. You just stayed there, tangled together in warmth and silence, hearts thudding gently in the same rhythm.

The world had gone quiet. Neither of you spoke for a while. There was no need to. You were both still coming down from the high, your minds slow, your bodies heavy and satisfied.

Bob’s chest rose and fell beneath you, his heartbeat echoing faintly in your ear where your head rested against him. You could feel that he was still inside you, the connection unbroken, and neither of you seemed in a hurry to move.

You shifted just slightly, a tiny sigh escaping your lips as your thighs twitched from the lingering tension. Bob pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder, the gentlest thing, like he was afraid he’d wake you even though you were still very much awake but fading.

Your voice was quiet, half-murmured against his chest. “You okay?”

He let out a breath, almost a laugh, and nodded slowly. “Yeah… I just… I don’t think I’ve ever felt this calm before.”

You smiled, your eyes closing at the sound of his voice, that low, warm rasp that made your chest flutter even now. “Me neither.”

There was a pause. Not awkward, not heavy, just peaceful. The kind of pause where two people are so content, silence feels like part of the conversation.

You felt yourself drifting, your body melting further into his. Your legs tangled with his, your arms limp, every inch of you relaxed in a way you hadn’t known you needed. You were safe. You were full — in every sense of the word. And his presence beneath you was like an anchor, a soft place to land after everything.

Your breath started to slow. Your eyelids fluttered, heavy. Sleep pulled at you like the tide.

And then, just as you began to slip under, Bob’s voice, barely there, a whisper made of breath and feeling, broke the stillness.

“I love you.”

He didn’t say it like he expected an answer. He didn’t even say it like he meant for you to hear. It was quiet. Almost scared. Like a secret that had waited far too long to be set free.

But you didn’t stir. You were already gone, lost to sleep in the safety of his arms, your face soft and peaceful against his chest.

Bob looked down at you, his expression unreadable for a moment, then full of something tender, something real. He brushed a loose strand of hair from your face, let his fingers rest against your naked back, and closed his eyes.

He will never forget this moment.

And so do you.

Omg the longing and lifetimes of finding your lover only to lose them over and over again😭 You captured it all so beautifully and really had me in my feels the whole time!!! I loved this!

Til The Sun Turns Black

SYNOPSIS: Your soul is bound to his and you're destined to follow him across the multiverse. When the TVA finds you and sends you to the Void, you feel your chance of finding him has slipped through your fingers. But what you find there is more than you bargained for.

PAIRING: Worst!Wolverine x fem!reader

WC: 13.1 k I apologize for nothing

WARNINGS: smut 18+, mdni, mentions of drinking, angst, peril, some fluff, implied age gap (I guess?), mental trauma, miscommunication, Wade being Wade, dirty talk, oral (m and f receiving), fingering, cowgirl, missionary, cock warming, sex with feelings, unprotected p in v

A/N: Thank you so much for all the love on Soft Edges! I was not expecting that kind of response when I posted that story, so thank you <3. I had the idea for this story in my head since after I first saw the movie. I had no idea my one random runaway thought would turn into this. Also, this story would not have been finished if it weren't for @joelsgoldrush. She let me tease her for WEEKS with this and act as the ultimate sounding board. And she's overall just a delightful human being and I'm so glad I've found her.

The TVA agent sits staring at you, an odd and uncomfortable smile on his face. Like he isn’t quite sure he knows how to smile but had seen it once on TV.  You also don’t think he’s blinked in the past several minutes. It makes your eyes water just thinking about it. 

“I don’t understand why I’m here.”

“Ah, yes, well—“ the agent clears his throat and smoothes a hand down his chest. “You’re a threat to the multiverse.”

You squint your eyes at him and wonder if you’re lucid dreaming. Or trapped in some bizarre fever dream, but you can’t remember being sick. “The…multiverse? As in, more than one universe?”

He nods once. “Precisely.”

It’s your turn to stare as absolutely none of this is making sense. The morning had started off normal—wake up, shower, coffee at your favorite local corner store. You had barely finished your latte when you were apprehended and taken to this bland room by a man who must own insane stock in eyedrops. 

“You see, we’ve been watching you for quite some time,” he continues, oblivious of your growing confusion. “A handful of reincarnations, actually. And we believe we’ve finally pinned it down.”

His words sound insane. 

You were a low level mutant at best. You’ve been able to deeply sense and influence emotions in others since you were six—a standard empath if there ever was one. But reincarnation?

“Reincarnations? I’m sorry but—”

You feel it coming then, that all too familiar prickle of deja vu creeping up your spine and setting deep in your brain. The room begins to soften, the corners blurring and you feel disjointed, separate from the you sitting in the chair.

“Ah, see. We’ve pinned it down.”

The world tilts on its axis and your mind explodes into brilliance, the memories of hundreds of alternate versions of yourself firing down your synapses, leaving you as raw and exposed as a fresh wound. The pain is all consuming as you gasp for air and desperately try to quell the throbbing in your skull. 

Your hands grip the edge of the table, desperate to clutch at something solid to root you in reality as the kaleidoscope of memories swirl before your eyes, colliding and merging with one another. All the timelines converging down to a single point of existence within your mind. It doesn’t matter how many times you’ve experienced this process, the return of your memories—the return of your consciousness—was always accompanied by a torturous sensory overload. 

“You see? You have extensive knowledge of the multiverse. And that kind of knowledge is coveted and dangerous.”

Your vision blurs as the memories keep slamming into you and you can’t help the primal scream that rips from your lungs, the pain in your throat a welcome distraction from the torture in your head. And then, amid the chaos, a single figure emerges in crisp focus, a face you’ve seen thousands of times.

“Logan.” His name comes out in a whisper, your voice trembling.

You know he’s not actually in front of you and instead a mirage, a figment of your overloaded neurons, but his presence calms you. 

“Yes, Logan. You two are quite fond of each other.” The agent stands and you squint up at him, wanting to be anywhere else as you regain your memories. “But never mind him. We can’t have you traipsing around with all that knowledge in your head.”

“No, no, no, please. Please just let me find him,” you beg, hating the desperation laced in your voice. 

The last thing you see before being sent out of existence is his creepy, uncanny smile. 

+++

The Void was bullshit. 

It had been a month since you were unceremoniously dumped here. 

Maybe. 

You weren’t really sure.  

Time had no meaning, each day seeming to stretch on for eons and simultaneously in the blink of an eye. And for every single one of those moments you’d been focused on one of two things: finding a way out and not dying. 

You quickly learned you had a better chance at survival if you stuck to the outskirts and avoided others. So you squirreled yourself away, sheltering in an abandoned cabin and hoping beyond hope you could figure out a way out of the desolate cesspool you found yourself in. 

Figure out a way back to him. 

Back home. 

+++

You don’t venture out unless you have to. 

The Void is full of phantom emotions left behind by its previous inhabitants and the cacophony overwhelms you. Rage, terror and despair so thickly envelope every surface you feel like you’re choking. It’s beginning to wear so harshly on your nerves you wonder if you might actually go insane here.

There was a tension growing in the Void. You’d heard whispers of unrest within the factions, Cassandra hungry for something to sink her teeth into. The undercurrent of rage has increased in the last couple of days and it’s enough to set your teeth on edge.

Stuffing a backpack with a few essentials in case you get stranded, you ready yourself for a supply run. The thought of leaving the perceived safety of your cabin has little appeal, but you’ve been putting it off for far too long. There was a small cache only a few miles from your cabin that other survivors kept stocked with extra provincials. You were hoping for something good, anything other can canned food or cereal. Or Spam. 

Tightening the straps on your backpack, you take one last glance around before stepping out into the forest. It’s eerily quiet, no birds or animals chattering to fill the silence, just the crunch of your shoes against fallen leaves. The Void has always felt oppressive to you, the air just a little too heavy, but there’s something lingering today that makes you feel on edge. Your skin prickles with anticipation and you pat your belt for the knife you’ve stashed there. 

Just in case. 

You’re half a mile away from the cache when you feel it—the inky slick of anger. It catches on the air and wafts towards you in waves. You slow your steps as you approach the road and come to a halt when the battered van comes into view. 

Your breath hitches in your throat. 

You’d recognize those claw marks anywhere. 

Your heart races as your eyes trace the deep, jagged cuts gouged into the metal and the large swathes of blood coating the ground and what you can see of the interior of the van. Instinctively your hand tightens around the hilt of your knife and you crouch down low behind a fallen log. You scan the area for any signs of movement and find none, but you know Logan is stealthier than you and wouldn’t give up his location willingly. 

The van door creaks open on its battered hinges and you inhale sharply as Logan stumbles out of the vehicle covered in dried blood and sweat and more knife wounds and bullet holes than you can count. 

The sight of him ignites a spark of longing that blooms in your chest and makes you physically ache. You can feel him. Your lips remember the hungered warmth of his mouth against yours, the way he’d nip at your bottom lip so you’d open up for him. Your skin remembers the calloused rasp of his hands and not just the greedy grabs when he needed to claim you, but the light brushes of his fingertips against your palm as he held your hand, just to remind himself that you were real. Your nose remembers his scent, woodsy and clean, like the earth after rain. 

Shaking your head, you push down the memories and peer back over the log. A slight breeze wafts through the air and you watch as he sniffs, his head turning in your direction. 

“Fuck,” you curse lowly, trying to crouch further out of eyesight. 

You hear the metallic snikt of his claws and your pulse quickens. There’s no point in hiding—he knows you’re there. You take a slow, steady breath before attempting to focus waves of calm in his direction, hoping to ease some of the anger wound around him. 

His eyes lock onto yours, sharp and predatory and he shakes his head, trying to keep you out. “Who the fuck’re you?” 

You draw back your power and raise your hands in surrender as you slowly rise to your feet. You toss out your name and silently hope for a spark of recognition. But he doesn’t know you. Not yet. 

“It’s not safe out here alone,” you start, moving out of your hiding place. You walk towards him, his eyes following your every move. “There’s a cache just up ahead—” 

The atmosphere shifts without warning, the anger you’d felt previously now melting into thick, cloying fear and desperation. You can taste the ozone and the hairs at the back of your neck stand on end as electricity sizzles across the sky. Glancing up, you see the dark, swirling mass of Alioth just beginning to form. 

You look at Logan, panic racing along your nerves. “I promise I’ll explain everything to you later, but I know you, Logan, and right now I need you to trust me.” 

Alioth’s presence is getting stronger and drawing closer, and every drop of tension and rage swirling within is beginning to weigh down on you, threatening to suffocate you. 

Logan’s eyes narrow, but there’s a slight twitch in his jaw and you know he’s considering your words. His claws retract, but his muscles remain tense, coiled and ready to attack. You grab for his arm, feeling the warmth of his skin and the hard muscle beneath your fingers. “We have to go. Now.”

For a moment, you think he might resist. But then with a low curse, he follows you, his stride matching yours as you lead him towards the cache. The trees blur by, the wind picking up and beginning to toss leaves and loose branches into the air. 

You’re operating on pure adrenaline and your heart pounds in your chest as you run, Alioth gaining speed and distance faster than either of you can move. Each gasp of air burns your lungs and your muscles ache with the effort of your sprint. 

Still a quarter of a mile away from the cache, you know you won’t be able to outrun Alioth. The storm has consumed the sky, the sun diminished to twilight, as the thunder and groans loom ever closer. You turn towards Logan and yell, “It’s too close, we’re not gonna make it!”

Logan’s eyes flash with anger as you stop and turn towards the oncoming destruction. He grabs for your wrist, pulling you almost nose to nose. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he growls, chest heaving with the effort to breathe. “We can’t stop!”

His proximity briefly disarms you, his fierce gaze igniting something deep within you, but you don’t have time to dwell on those emotions. You take a deep breath in an attempt to steady your nerves. “I’m gonna try and calm it down.”

“What are you going to do, think happy thoughts at it?” he asks, his tone biting and sarcastic. 

You know every cell in his body is begging to fight, aching to release his claws and tear Alioth apart with his bare hands. But this isn’t something brute strength can subdue. 

“Just trust me,” you plead, your eyes searching his for some indication that he believes you. “Please.”

His stare is hard, but eventually his eyes soften and he loosens his grip on your wrist. “Fine.”

Tearing your gaze from him, you turn back towards the storm, now a full blown maelstrom of anger and destruction hellbent on consuming you both whole. You exhale slowly, pushing your own emotions of fear and panic as far down as you can. Instead, you turn inward and concentrate on every feeling of peace, calm and stillness you’ve ever experienced and project it outwards. Waves of soothing energy pour from you, an almost ghostly aura emanating from you as your power continues to grow. Alioth continues to surge towards you, the wind now flattening trees to the ground and lifting debris high into the air. 

The fight is excruciating, every cell in your body shaking with effort as you continue to project outwards, the sphere of your influence growing. When the two opposing masses collide, you’re almost knocked off your feet by the force. You’re vaguely aware of Logan beside you, claws unsheathing as he steps closer into your protective shield. 

For a brief moment, you feel the power of the storm ebb before it seems to press into you harder. Your knees begin to buckle and your stance slips. “I…I don’t know if I can hold it!” you gasp. 

Logan doesn’t run but instead moves closer, giving you one solitary nod. You can feel Logan’s eyes on you, feel the doubt swirling behind them and yet he stays besides you, ready to fight. 

His silent encouragement is enough. 

You are not dying in the fucking Void. 

Gritting your teeth, you continue to push. A guttural scream rips from your throat as black spots dot your vision and blood drips from your nose. You dig down, channeling every last drop of your energy into a final wave, extending yourself deep within the core of the storm. 

The black of the storm begins to retreat and the wind begins to calm. As the first few beams of sunlight filter in through the treetops, your vision fades completely and the world goes black. 

The last thing you feel is a pair of strong arms wrapping around you before your mind goes blissfully blank and unconsciousness claims you. 

+++

You wake up in the cache. 

Dust motes dance in the sunlight streaming in through the broken windows. The light is soft, definitely not the early morning glow from before you left the comfort of your cabin and you wonder how long you were out. With a groan, you try to sit up. Your body is stiff, every muscle in your body aching with the effort you took to banish Alioth. Wincing, you swing your legs out of the makeshift bed, the effort taking your breath away and you can feel the sickly creep of nausea climb up your throat. 

A low voice cuts through the haze. “Take it easy.”

Logan. 

You blink, trying to adjust your eyes to the light and find him sitting on the floor, one leg pulled up to his chest as a bottle of whiskey hangs between his fingers. He takes a long pull and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“How long was I out?” you ask, your voice hoarse. 

Logan doesn’t answer immediately. He reaches over at a box beside him and then rolls a water bottle towards your feet before he finally mutters, “A day.” 

You accept the bottle with a nod of thanks. Taking a slow sip, you close your eyes as the liquid soothes your throat even as your body protests the movement. You’ve never used your powers to that degree before. Fuck, you didn’t even know you could. A perverse sense of pride licks at the edge of your exhaustion. 

Lowering the bottle, you breathe deeply in an attempt to settle the nausea rolling in the pit of your stomach. You glance at Logan and find him watching you, his eyes sharp, calculating. 

“You owe me some answers. You said you knew me.”

You meet his gaze, the weight of his words pressing down on you. After hundreds of encounters with different Logans, it was never easy explaining to him what you were. For a long time, you didn’t even have a name for it. All you knew was that your consciousness, all your memories, everything that you are moves across different universes and inevitably crosses paths with Logan. It always felt like an invisible string, guiding your soul to his. 

“I’m a temporal nomad.”

Logan’s eyes narrow as he glares at you. “A temporal what?” His tone is laced with skepticism. 

You take another sip of water, giving yourself time to gather your thoughts and push away the throbbing at your temples. “A temporal nomad. I don’t die, not in the way you think, anyway.”

Logan doesn’t move, but you see his grip tighten on the bottle in his hand, his knuckles going white. “You tellin’ me you’re immortal?”

“No, not immortal,” you reply, exhaling slowly. “When I die, my consciousness moves. I reincarnate in a different universe. Eventually I regain everything—my experiences, my memories, my feelings. It’s why—” you pause and take a deep, steadying breath. “It’s why I always find you.”

Your words hit their mark and Logan’s eyes flash with something you can’t quite decipher—shock, disbelief, maybe some anger. He sits up straighter, tipping the whiskey bottle to his lips without breaking eye contact. “You always find me?” he asks, his voice a low rumble. “We’ve met before?”

“I’ve lost count of how many time, actually,” you admit softly. “But in every reality, every universe, I find you. And we’re not just friends, Logan.”

Your words linger in the air between you and your heart pounds loudly in your chest. Logan stands suddenly, the now empty whiskey bottle clattering to the ground. He runs a hand through his hair before scrubbing it down his face, his jaw clenched as he paces within the small space. A mirthless chuckle escapes his lips. “This smells like bullshit, sweetheart.”

Your heart aches at his use of the word sweetheart. It’s one he’s always preferred for you, usually spoken with reverence, like a prayer falling from his lips. Except now it’s casual and cold, something with a sharp edge instead of softness. 

“I know how crazy it sounds. Believe me, Logan, it took me several lifetimes to wrap my mind around it.” You stand, your legs wobbly with the effort and you wince against the pull in your spent muscles. “But I know you.”

His expression hardens. “Yeah? Well, I don’t know you. And if you really knew me, you’d know to stay the fuck away from people like me.” Logan’s pacing grows more hurried, his hands clenching into fists. 

“I can’t,” you say softly, taking a tentative step closer towards him. “And I don’t want to. While I might not know the Logan in front of me or the nuances that make you different from the others, I know you.”

His nostrils flare and he lets out a low growl. “Stop.”

“I know the way you fight,” you continue, ignoring his warning. “I know the way you carry your pain as if no one else can possibly shoulder that weight. I know—”

“Stop!”

“—how you push people away to protect them, but that deep down you hope someone will push back. You may carry a lot of self loathing, Logan, but even you know you’re not heartless.” 

Logan’s fist slams into the wall behind him, the sound reverberating in the small room. He stands there, chest heaving, his knuckles bleeding from where they made contact with the rough wooden planks. You watch as the raw skin knits itself back together, his head hanging low. 

His jaw clenches as he wipes the blood from his hands, his breathing still ragged and posture rigid, itching for a fight. He glances over at you, his expression softer but still rough. 

“We’re done here,” he growls, but his voice soft, more broken than angry. 

Logan turns without another word and all you can do is watch him leave.

+++

You spend the rest of the morning dozing in bursts of fitful sleep, your confrontation with Logan taking its emotional toll. Your eyes burn with unshed tears and for the first time in your life, you feel as if you’re destined to wander this universe alone. 

But you can’t think about it. 

Not now. 

Ignoring the ache in your limbs, you pack up what supplies you can and ready yourself for the walk back to your cabin. The sun is a couple of hours from setting, the world bathed in golden light, when you set out. Walking down the steps, you pause at the distant crunch of boots on the gravel. You feel your pulse thrum in your chest as the sound gets closer and then he steps into view, his eyes locking onto yours. 

Logan. 

The sight of him standing there fills you with a rush of conflicting emotions. Relief, angry, anxiety and you’re not sure if you trust yourself to speak first. He looks the same—tired, disheveled, but steady and strong all the same. Neither of you moves, unspoken words hanging between you.

“I shouldn’t’ve left,” he says finally. 

For a moment you say nothing. Because it’s exactly what you want to hear from him. Except, because you’re beyond exhausted, mentally, physically and emotionally, you say, “No, you fucking shouldn’t have.” 

There’s definitely more bite in your tone than you intended, but the release of some of your pent up anger feels so good you can’t bring yourself to care. 

Logan’s eyes narrow as you move past him and keep walking. “Wait, so I come back here to apologize,” he begins, following close behind you, “and now you’re gonna just walk away?”

“You know, you never even thanked me for saving your ass,” you say, side stepping a downed log. “Just started demanding answers and then tucked tail and ran when you didn’t like what I had to say.”

He grabs your wrist and you stumble into his grasp, your breath hitching in your throat as you stand almost chest to chest. “I didn’t fucking ask for any of this!”

His anger bleeds into you, curling around your skin where his fingers press into your pulse point. You feel your nostrils flare and you’re itching for something to hit as you stare up at him, his jaw clenched. Your heart pounds wildly in your chest and you know you need to reign in your emotions or you’ll ignite the fuse between you. 

“You think I did?” you ask, pulling your arm from his grasp. Your voice is calmer, but just as sharp. “You think I want to relive the grief of mourning you over and over while also finding something new to love about you? You think I wanted to be banished to the Void all because my soul just can’t die when I do?”

Logan’s expression softens and he scrubs a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look. I’ve had a shitty coupla days here. And you’re saying a lot of shit I don’t understand.”

He seems weary, then, and any remaining anger you harbor towards him dies in your veins. You take a deep breath in and blow it out slowly. “You don’t have to understand right now. Just—just trust me. Please?”

You hate how your voice breaks just a little.

Logan nods then, the barest tilt of his head, but it’s enough.

He continues to follow you through the woods back towards the cabin and for a while neither of you speak. It should feel awkward, especially now, but it doesn’t. You’re so used to his brand of stubbornness and reluctance to see what’s right in his face that this is the most at home you’ve felt since you got here. 

“So,” you start after a few minutes of silence, “how did you end up here?”

Logan huffs. “Some asshole in red spandex dragged me here and I said I need to help save his universe.”

“And can you?”

His step falters and you pause to look a him, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the trees. “I couldn’t save mine.” The weight of his words linger, heavy with a burden only he alone has been shouldering. He doesn’t meet your eyes as he brushes past you and keeps walking. 

“Wanna talk about it?” you ask, catching up with him.

Logan growls. “No.”

“Alright, maybe later then,” you reply and he simply ignores you and keeps on walking. “Where’s this asshole friend of yours?”

“I left him tied up in the van.”

You had long passed the spot where you found Logan by the beat up van and the road was deserted. Based on the subtle smirk on his face, you figure Logan already knows that. Whatever his relationship is with the stranger, he seems somewhat happy to be rid of him and you don’t push him further. Although, you can’t help but wonder what happened to the van and whose hands it fell into. 

Logan’s gait slows as the cabin comes into view through the trees. He follows behind you as you clear the space, checking for any stragglers that may have come along while you were gone. Pushing open the door, you watch as he looks around, taking in the small space. 

“You’ve been living here?”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it living, but sure,” you comment, throwing your backpack on the table as you sit down. You can’t help the groan that escapes your lips as your muscles relax. “You can stay here if you want. I didn’t just let you follow me for your sparkling personality, you know.”

Logan actually laughs at that as he sits down on the small couch. His face lightens up, eyes crinkling just a bit at the corners, and for the first time since you found him, he seems unburdened. A blossom of hope grows in your chest and you grasp onto it, holding tight to the one bit of light you’ve had in this month of darkness. 

“Thank you,” he says softly. 

You know he means for more than the offer to stay and you return his smile with one of your own. “You’re welcome.”

As the sun starts to dip below the horizon, you bring out some extra blankets and a couple of pillows and help Logan turn the couch into a makeshift bed. You turn to leave when you hear him ask, “You really find me in every universe?”

“Yes.”

“That sounds terrible.”

You give him a small smile as you lean against the doorframe to the bedroom. “Oh, it’s not all that bad. I get to fall in love with you all over again.”

+++

You wake in the middle of the night to the sound of low, panicked growls coming from across the room.

You quietly slip from the bed and tiptoe towards the couch. Logan writhes beneath the sheets, pain etched across his face as he wrestles the demons in his sleeping mind. Taking a deep breath, you center yourself and focus every fiber of your power in his direction, hoping the waves of calm can break through whatever battle he’s fighting deep in the recesses of his mind.

Logan growls deep in his throat, the sound guttural and raw, his claws unsheathing and tearing at the sheets beneath him in agitation. A fine sheen of sweat beads along his brow and pieces of hair are plastered against his damp forehead.

“Logan,” you say softly, trying to break through the fog of his nightmare. “You’re safe, Logan.”

Your powers are waning, the stress of fighting off Alioth having left you depleted. You push down the ache, the tug in your brain demanding that you draw back, and instead kneel down in front of him, trailing your fingers across his palm and over the pulse point in his wrist. He jerks at your touch, his claws coming close to your skin, but the contact is enough and you feel his pulse slow beneath your fingertips.

You continue to speak in hushed tones, your voice barely above a whisper. “There you go, Logan. I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

Logan’s breathing is ragged, his eyes squeezed shut. You can feel the tension in his body, his muscles rigid with the need for release. You keep your fingers against his wrist, your touch steady and calming, as you bring up your other hand to smooth the lines along his brow.

“There you go,” you continue to murmur, “Focus on my voice. Focus on my calm.”

Gradually, his growls subside and his breathing begins to even out as the nightmare loses its grip over him. His muscles lose their tension and relax and the frantic movements of his limbs subsides. With one final deep breath, he stills, his claws retracting and he settles back into a peaceful sleep.

You sit and watch him for a minute, taking in all of his features and simply admiring him for the first time since your last life with him. This Logan is different—they all are in their own way—but this one a little more than the others. He seems wearier, more worn down, his usual scowl lines etched deep. There’s an exhaustion in his eyes, too, you haven’t seen before and you wonder if this Logan actually ever rests. 

As you stand, you feel his fingers circle loosely around your wrist and give a small tug. You look down to where he’s touching you, his skin hot against yours, and you glance up to find him staring at you through half lidded eyes. 

“Stay.” It comes out in a low whisper and as you open your mouth to protest, he adds, “Please.”

You could never deny him in any universe.

The couch is barely wider than he is, yet he shifts to make a sliver of space for you to slot yourself into. It should be awkward, the way you press yourself between the couch and the solid warmth of his frame, but it’s not. You hitch your leg over his hip, forcing your legs to tangle, as you rest your head against his chest. His heartbeat is strong and comforting beneath your ear and you find yourself quickly relaxing into his touch.

As you fall asleep, you feel his arm curl around you, tucking protectively against your ribs.

+++

When morning breaks, you’re alone. The warmth of his body is gone and you find yourself shivering. Pushing to sit, you wrap a blanket around yourself before standing up. 

The cabin is empty.

You try and ignore the sliver of panic that threatens to slip its way down your spine. 

Opening the front door, you pause when you find him sitting on the dilapidated porch, staring absently out at the trees. He glances up at you and watches as you sit down beside him. You hug the blanket closer around your shoulders and sit with him in silence.

You don’t mention last night.

“So,” you start, “what’s the plan?”

Logan raises his eyebrow. “You planning on stickin’ with me?”

“If you let me,” you reply with a smile.

You listen as Logan explains the events of the past couple of days, including Wade’s abduction of him from his own universe and how they both became to be bloodied and battered in the van. Your ears perk up when he mentions Paradox and returning to Wade’s universe. 

“You think he can actually get back?” you ask, willing yourself to not hold onto too much hope. 

Logan huffs. “Probably not.” 

“And yet you’re out here trying to think of a way to find him,” you say. “Why?”

A frown tugs at Logan’s mouth and he looks down at his hands. Eventually, he reaches into the pocket of his suit and pulls out a crumpled Polaroid. He tilts it towards you and you look down at the group or smiling people. “He’s got something to go home to,” he says, thumbing the edge of the photo. “I got nothin’.”

There’s something soft in his gaze as he looks down at the photo, some lingering hope he’s too afraid to put words to. 

“I’m sure you have something, Logan,” you say quietly. 

His expression hardens then, jaw tightening, as he slips the photo back in his pocket. “Had. Past tense.” Logan stands then and looks down at you. “Get ready. We’re leaving in five.” 

+++

You get ready quickly, changing your clothes and splashing water on your face before making sure your pack was sufficiently stocked. You were hoping you wouldn’t be needing it for much longer, but you didn’t want to express that thought out loud. Despite Logan wishing to go back to find Wade, you knew he wasn’t convinced this would end well.

Logan’s already started down the path as you jog down the cabin steps, swinging your pack up onto your shoulders. Catching up with him, you hand him the Pop-Tart you pulled out earlier. “Breakfast? They’re unfrosted, because this is the Void, but it’s something.”

He looks down at you, a strange expression on his face, but he accepts your offer. “Thanks,” he says, taking a bite.

“So, where exactly were you headed when you both decided to maul each other silly?” you ask, keeping pace with him as you walk through the woods.

“Johnny had mentioned a resistance out in the Borderlands,” Logan answers, swallowing the bite of Pop-Tart. “Figured we might find some people who could help us get control over Cassandra.” 

You nod. “You’re not far from the Borderlands. Maybe four or so miles from he cache. I haven’t ventured out that far, but I’ve heard there’s a few outposts where others have hunkered down.”

“Then that’s where we go.”

You walk in comfortable silence, leaving Logan to his thoughts as you travel further away from safety and into the unknown. You stop at the cache briefly, pausing only snag a few water bottles before moving on. 

A couple of miles past the cache, Logan suddenly stops, sniffing the air. His posture goes rigid, on alert as he slowly moves forward, beckoning you to follow him. A few yards away, the beat up van comes into view, parked alongside a lodging that looks as if it was built into the very earth itself. 

Logan’s arm darts out, stopping you. “Stay close,” he commands quietly, stepping cautiously closer towards the structure.

You follow behind him, every sense on alert as you step inside. The place is quiet, but then you hear it—the soft rustle of snoring. And then Logan’s soft, “Ah, fuck me.”

Peering over his shoulder, you find a sleeping Wade spread eagle on the bed. Logan side steps the bed, ignoring the sleeping man, and begins rummaging through the place. Finding a bottle of whiskey, he groans in delight, twisting the cap off and taking a long pull. 

“Really Logan?”

He quirks an eyebrow at you, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. “What else would you like me to be doing?” he asks, biting. 

“You came all this way to find him and now you’re gonna just drink?” you ask in disbelief. It gnaws at you, his indifference. You can feel little frissons of indignation licking at your skin and you have to tamp down your emotions before they bleed into him. 

Logan shrugs. “He’s asleep. I ain’t draggin’ him anywhere.”

You cross your arms, glaring at Logan in frustration. “I didn’t follow you here to watch you stand around and get drunk. Wake him up.”

He gives you a sidelong glance, his brow furrowing. You don’t relent, your stare pointed as he takes another long pull from the bottle. Muttering to himself, Logan makes his way over to the bed and gives it one swift, forceful kick. 

Wade jolts awake with a loud, exaggerated snort. He looks between you and Logan, his eyes finally settling on you. “Who’re you?” he asks, looking around as if expecting an answer. “When did the script get rewritten?”

You look at him quizzically, your eyebrow raised. “Who are you talking to?”

Wade huffs. “The audience,“ he says, gesturing towards the wall.

“Does he do this often?” you ask Logan in a whisper.

“Hasn’t stopped since he fucking dragged me here,” Logan replies. 

Your attention is diverted as Wade suddenly rolls from he bed, crossing the room and two large strides. He unsheathes one of his katanas, pressing himself against the wall and then he’s pinned on the ground as a woman pulls a blade of her own. After a moment, she lets Wade up and two more people follow into the room behind her. 

Logan eyes each one with suspicion as introductions are made and you can feel the tension growing within him as he continues to drink.

You jump as Gambit uses one of his playing cards to burst the bottle of whiskey in Logan’s hands. Logan ignores your pleading look and Wade’s admonishment as he grabs another bottle with a soft, “Boo boo boo.”

When Laura enters, you feel Logan’s interest pique, something heavy weighing on him. They both look towards one another, taking each other in and you don’t miss the recognition in Laura’s eyes.

“Do you know her?” you ask Logan, sliding closer to him.

Logan shakes his head. “No. But Wade’s Logan does.” He takes another long drink from the bottle, eyes still trained on her.

Wade continues to talk with the group, recapping their time in the Void and how they managed to escape Cassandra’s lair. Logan punctuates the conversation with vitriolic quips of his own, drinking more as Wade tries to get the group to form a team.

You try to send your power Logan’s way, trying to bleed into him some calm, but he shakes his shoulders and brushes you off. “Don’t fucking bother, sweetheart.”

“I can help you, Logan.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t ask for it.”

As Wade rallies the group into a cohesive unit, gaining their support in taking down Cassandra, Logan huffs a bitter laugh. “You’re all fucking dead.”

“Oh, my god, read the room,” Wade chides. 

+++

Logan storms off, one bottle of whiskey fisted in each hand. You want to follow after him, but Wade stops you. “Let him go, cupcake. Peanut’s in a fragile state and you’re too pretty to become mincemeat.”

You shoot a glare at him and brush his hand away from your shoulder. “No, he only seems to sink his claws into you,” you bite back, but the anger leeches from your voice. 

“Spicy,” Wade comments, “I like you. The script editor worked overtime on you, I can tell.”

“Yeah, well the jury’s still out over here,” you say, but you can’t help the twitch of a smile tugging at your lips. 

You glance over at the door and feel Wade sidle up beside you. “Seriously, cupcake. Chasing after him is like trying to catch a raccoon with rabies. Might be fun, but it’s not worth the bite.”

“Oh yeah?” you ask, peering over at him, “And how long have you known him?”

Wade pretends to look down at his wrist and taps a non-existent watch. “Four days, six hours and thirty-two minutes,” he says with a smirk, “but I don’t really like to put a timestamp on friendship."

With a groan, you plop down on the bed and rub at your temples. “Is everything a joke with you?”

“Mostly,” he chirps with a grin. He leans back against the wall and crosses his arms as he watches you. “But I have been known to press pause occasionally.” Wade regards you for a moment, a slight tilt to his head. “Honey badger does it for you, huh?”

Sighing, you lay back on the bed and stare up at the ceiling. “I have followed Logan through millennia, Wade. I can’t remember a time anymore where I haven’t loved him.”

“His mutant dick that good, huh?”

You half laugh, half snort and shoot him a pointed look. “Not everything is about sex, Wade.”

“Agree to disagree,” he says with a shrug. “We’ve all got emotional baggage, mine is definitely over the free to fly limit, but that guy? Literal mountains. Centuries worth, even.”

“Exactly,” you say, sitting up. “I’ve helped him carry more than you can imagine. Logan may push people away, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t need someone to stay.”

Wade cocks his head, considering your words and his expression softens. “You know running after him isn’t going to fix him.”

“I’m not trying to fix him,” you reply. “He just needs to know someone is there for him.” 

“Well, it’s your funeral, cupcake,” he says with a sigh. “I promise I’ll give a really moving eulogy. But, I do think if anyone is gonna convince tall, dark and brooding out there to join us, it’s you.”

You give him a soft smile as you stand. “Thanks, Wade.”

“And just so you know,” he calls after you, “I’m open and willing to being your mutant dick rebound.”

You roll your eyes and walk out the door.

+++

You step outside and see Logan sitting by himself in front of a fire not too far from the lodging. Walking quietly, you stop when you see Laura approach him and sit along side him. You’re close enough that you can hear their words—hear Logan tell her about the suit, about how he found the X-Men, his friends, dead. 

The anger, the loathing, this Logan carries comes into focus and you can’t help but wonder how long he’s lived with this weight upon his shoulders. Suffering alone with only the bottom of a bottle to quiet the thoughts that scream in his mind.

As Laura eventually leaves, she catches your eye and gives you a small nod.

You feel a strange kinship with her. She too has memories of a Logan who no longer exists and who is radically different from the one she has now. You wonder what she’s thinking and have half a mind to follow after her when you hear Logan call out, “I know you’re there.”

You turn back towards where he remains sitting in front of the fire, the whiskey bottle now more than half gone. Closing the gap between you, you sit down alongside him and watch as he continues to stare down into the fading fire.

“How much did you hear?” he asks, taking a large swig from the bottle. 

“Enough,” you answer simply.

Logan grunts and takes a long pull from the bottle, his lips glistening as his swallows get sloppy. “Well, now you know. I’m the worst Logan,” he almost spits, his tone dark and bitter. “You drew the short straw with me, sweetheart.”

“You know I don’t think that,” you say softly. 

Logan doesn’t respond and instead finishes the rest of the whiskey, tossing the bottle somewhere behind him. Scrubbing a hand down his face, he looks over at you. “You actually gonna join them tomorrow?”

“Are you?”

“It’s a fucking suicide mission,” he answers. “You want to walk up to your death, be my guest.”

“If you’re so convinced this is a suicide mission, why don’t you want to go?” you counter, his ire beginning to bleed into the space between you and creep uncomfortably along your skin. “You afraid you might come face to face with actual death and realize that’s not really what you want?” 

Logan’s gaze flicks up to your face, his eyes dark, dangerous. “You’re fucking pushin’ it.”

“Good! Someone fucking should be!” you exclaim, standing from the fallen log. Maybe Wade was right—maybe this was futile. In every universe Logan could be a stubborn ass, but this one was particularly obstinate. “Do you really believe you’re so unredeemable, Logan? That you’re just a vile mutant who doesn’t deserve sympathy after his friends were brutally murdered?”

You can feel his rage boiling just under the surface of the thin veneer of calm. His eyes pierce into you, pinning you in place as he stands to his full height, his fists clenched tightly. 

“You don’t know shit about me, sweetheart,” he growls. 

Anger simmers in your veins, threatening to burn you from the inside out. “Oh fuck you, Logan.”

He takes a step closer, his eyes narrowing as his lips curl into a cruel smile. “Yeah, you’d like that wouldn’t you? Me sinking into your cunt while you picture whatever version of me you think I am.” His voice is a low rumble, adding to the tension threatening to suffocate you. 

Your breath catches in your throat at his words, and it isn’t desire that courses through you, but rage. Your skin prickles and his vitriol ignites something deep within you, something hotter and brighter than you’ve ever felt before. 

“After all this time and everything I’ve told you, you honestly believe that’s all I want from you? You’re a fucking pathetic asshole,” you snap, your voice sharp and laced with venom. 

Logan’s expression darkens, the smirk slipping from his face as his jaw clenches. “You got some balls sayin’ that shit to me,” he spits. 

A small part of you is terrified of him, afraid that he might actually snap. Might actually unsheathe his claws and send you onto your next life without ever having truly lived this one. But you know him, you know him. His pain and rage isn’t towards you, but himself. 

You risk a step closer to him, narrowing the space between you and you can feel the heat radiating off of him, mingling with your own fury. “Yeah, well at least one of us has a pair.”

Logan doesn’t have time to react before you channel your powers towards him, unleashing an explosive burst of energy that sends him staggering back. And then you smother him, smother him in thousands of years of memories, thousands of years of every single feeling you had ever felt for him in every universe you’ve known him. 

The weight of your emotional onslaught brings him to his knees, but you keep pushing, switching from your feelings for him to his feelings for you. All the affection, all the love, all the comfort the two of you shared in every version of your coupling across space and time floods his mind. 

You watch as his expression melts from anger into one of overwhelming vulnerability and pain. His hands, still clenched into fists, tremble beneath the weight of your power surging through him. He looks up at you then, his eyes pleading and your resolve breaks. Tears burn in your eyes and trail down your cheeks, wetting your lips as a scream rips from your lungs.  

Your hold on Logan dissipates as you reign your emotions back under control. You stagger on your feet as your power diminishes, your chest heaving with ragged breaths and broken sobs. You can’t look at him, not yet. If you do, you might actually break. So you do something that you never thought you would do—you leave.

+++

Night in the Void is cool, almost bordering on uncomfortable like everything else in this godforsaken place, but for once it doesn’t bother you. You gaze up at the sky, the haze of distant stars and planets blurring together the more you try and focus on just one. 

You’ve always loved looking at the stars. There was a comfort in knowing you could look up at the sky and see the same constellations in every universe, that there was always one constant among all the variables. 

You don’t know how long you’ve been sitting before you hear the crunch of his boots on the earth, dried leaves and twigs snapping under his heel. Logan joins you on the ground, sitting with a heavy sigh. The maelstrom of emotions swirling within him bleeds into the space between you and you can feel it, thick and heavy and suffocating. 

You risk a glance at him and he looks…defeated. His eyes are red-rimmed and raw and you see something in those hazel eyes you rarely see—fear. Not fear at you, although your guilt would rather have you believe that, but fear of himself, fear of feeling what you’ve shown him. Logan’s breath is slow, controlled, but you can hear the slight tremor in it. 

“I promised myself I would never use my powers on you” you start, your voice barely above a whisper. “I know what it feels like to experience that onslaught. It feels like drowning.” Your voice cracks and you fight to keep the guilt burning in your chest from consuming you whole. “And that was just a fraction of what we’ve felt across lifetimes, Logan.” 

Logan stays silent but gazes at your face, eyes flicking across your features, drinking you in. The scrutiny makes you shiver. Before you isn’t The Wolverine, the X-Man people in his universe loathe, but a man left raw and vulnerable. 

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he says slowly, his voice rough as the words are pulled from him. “You shouldn’t have shown me that.”

You flinch, the weight of his words are a punch to your gut. “I know,” you whisper, wiping tears from your eyes. “I know and I’m sorry, I—”

Logan cuts you off with a shake of his head, his eyes now locked onto yours. “I already knew, sweetheart,”he murmurs, his voice low. “You feel like—you feel like home.” 

Your heart stutters in your chest and for a moment you can’t breathe. The words hang between you, heavy and raw, the sound of them something you’ve been craving to hear. 

“I am your home,” you reply softly. 

Logan shifts beside you, closing the space between you as he slips his hand behind your neck and pulls you in. His mouth crashes to yours, his kiss urgent, rough and desperate. 

You reach for him, gripping his shoulders as you kiss him back, the Void slipping away. There’s only the heat of his mouth, the rough scrape of his beard against your skin, the way his other hand tugs at your waist in an attempt to pull you closer. 

It’s messy and intense and you don’t want it to end. Logan kisses you like a man starved, like you’re his last breath of air. 

A whimper falls from your lips as he finally breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against yours. You’re both breathless, his nose softly nudging yours. 

“Please come with us tomorrow,” you whisper against his skin. “Let me take you home.”

He nods once and that’s all you need. 

+++

The morning comes quicker than anyone would like. 

Nervous energy bleeds through the group, everyone knowing they’re on the precipice of life or death, that this may be the last day they ever inhale air into their lungs or feel the warmth of the sun on their skin.

Logan’s quiet, already tucking into Gambit’s liquor, as you sit down beside him. He looks down at you briefly, taking a long long pull before offering you the bottle. You take it from him and take a swig of your own, the amber liquid burning a path down your throat. 

“What are you thinking?” you ask, handing him back the bottle.

He stares down at his feet, swirling the liquid around in the glass. “I honestly don’t even fuckin’ know.”

You reach for his hand and give him a comforting squeeze. He stares down at you for a moment and then drags his gaze up to your face. “Whatever happens Logan, I’ll be right there with you.”

Final preparations complete, everyone piles into the van, you tucking alongside Logan in the hatchback. The ride is mostly quiet, punctuated only with the few occasional quips by Wade just to ease the tension. You brace yourself, gripping Logan’s calf as Blade sends a rocket launcher through Cassandra’s front gate and Elektra floors it through the explosion. 

The others leave the van first, forming a line of defense. You look up at Logan and lean forward to press the faintest of kisses against his lips. His fingers curl around your neck and pull you closer, deepening it just enough to taste your mouth. 

“Let’s go,” he murmurs, pulling back. “Stay by me.”

You swallow hard, loathe to let him go, wanting to stay in the perceived safety of the van, but you simply nod and follow him to join the others.

Fighting erupts all around you and you stick as close to Logan’s back as you can. It’s a symphony of chaos—rage, fear and determination all swirling heavily in the air. You feel your power thrum underneath your fingertips as you channel those emotions back towards whoever Logan is fighting, hoping to disarm them—even if temporarily—with their own vitriol in an attempt to give him an advantage. 

The air burns in your lungs as you move through the fight, your mind spinning as you gain distance towards Cassandra’s lair. You can see the others move around you—Elektra and Blade slicing down enemies with their blades; Gambit disarming others with his explosively charged playing cards; Laura fighting in a style all her own, yet so much like Logan’s; and Wade cutting down others like he’s having fun.

A clear path opens up to the ramp leading up to Cassandra and the others swarm behind you, allowing yourself, Wade and Logan to break free from the melee. Logan looks back at you just long enough for you to see the fear in his eyes. You try and remain stoic, even though your mind is racing with all he the ways this could go wrong, and give him a small nod of encouragement. 

You stop short in front of Cassandra as she sits sipping tea, seemingly disinterested in the battle happening just outside her stronghold. “You two escaping I could live with, but coming back willingly…” she trails off, “Boys are so silly.” Her eyes dart towards you. “And you brought a friend!”

“I just need to get home,” Wade says, his tone serious. 

“I’m afraid that’s not an option.”

Cassandra flicks Wade aside effortlessly and Logan’s instantly on alert, claws extended at his side. You attempt to direct your powers at her, trying to defuse the anger simmering below her surface. She rolls her neck and glances at you, intrigue in her eyes. 

“Oh, aren’t you interesting,” she says, effortlessly flicking your powers aside. “I wonder what treats you have hiding in that mind of yours.”

Cassandra steps closer to you, her calculating stare flicking over your face. She lifts one hand up to you and from behind her, Logan growls and moves to attack. You watch, powerless, as she pins Logan to the ground with his own claws. 

She tsks and looks down at him, “That’s enough out of you.”

And then, she’s in your mind, every nerve ending in your body on fire, ready to consume you whole. 

You’re standing in a library, Cassandra at your side. Shelves extend as far as the eye can see, fading into an infinite distance. You walk aimlessly along the shelves, pausing at the entrance of a room simply titled “Logan”. 

“Oh, now this is something,” you hear Cassandra say from beside you. “This is quite the collection you have.”

Your fingers reach out and touch the spines, the briefest flickers of memories emanating from their covers. “I’ve known him for so long,” you murmur. “Been with him through so much.”

You pause in front of one book, the urge to open it nearly overwhelming. Pulling it from the shelf, the pages flutter open and you gasp, the memories of that life flooding your brain. 

You and Logan were married in this life. He worked a simple job, construction. There were no X-men, no missions, no danger. He kept his mutation a secret, showing only you when the memories got too rough, too unmanageable. You were his anchor. You had two kids—girls. And oh, how he loved them. Both of them wrapped effortlessly around his heart from before they were even born.

Tears spring to your eyes as the warmth of those memories flood through you. “I loved that life,” you whisper, putting the book back on the shelf.

“And who wouldn’t?” Cassandra agrees, placing her hand on your shoulder. “So effortless his love for you. So different from now.”

You glance over at her, confusion drawn on your face. False empathy tugs at Cassandra’s sympathetic smile. “Are you even sure he cares for you now? This Logan is so broken, more broken and unloveable than all these other Logans, hm?”

Shaking your head, you try to resist her efforts to batter you, to convince you your soul’s purpose is not worth it. Not worth him. “That’s not true. They’re all worthy. All capable and deserving of love,” you say, your fingers trailing along another spine. “Even this one. Especially this one.”

Cassandra’s face contorts then and…

She’s wrenched from your mind and you fall to your knees, blinking up as you see Wade holding Cassandra from behind, one hand holding Jaggernaut’s helmet to her head. 

Your mind still spins as Logan and Wade confront her, their conversation a jumble in your mind. But you don’t miss her saying either they kill her, or she kills them. Finding the strength to stand, you rise and place your hand on Wade’s arm.

“If I stay,” you start, focusing only on Cassandra and ignoring the press of Logan’s gaze into your skin, “Will you let them go?”

Logan reaches for you and you pull your gaze from Cassandra long enough to press your palm against this chest. You meet his eyes, silently pleading with him to let you continue. 

“Will you?” you repeat, unable to keep the pleading out of your tone.

Cassandra laughs bitterly. “You love him that much? To sacrifice yourself to save him? That Logan, out of all of them?”

You nod, feeling the tears burn in your eyes. “I love him that much,” you reply softly.

Logan grabs your hand then, forcing you to look at him. “Don’t,” he chokes out, voice thick with unspoken emotion, “Don’t do this.”

You smile softly as you reach up and cup his cheek, his beard rough against your palm. You don’t miss the way he briefly nuzzles into your touch, eyes fluttering shut as he sighs. “I love you, Logan. In all my lives, in this one and in the next one, too.” The first tear slips down your cheek as you look up at him. “I promise I’ll find you again, Logan. I always do.”

You press a kiss to his mouth, soft and gentle. It lingers for a moment, a desperate, bittersweet exchange as Logan tries to memorize the feel of you. His hands grip your waist, clutching almost hard enough to bruise, but you relish the pain. 

Wade stands beside you both, uncharacteristically silent, his hands still holding Cassandra in place. His usual banter is gone, the weight of the moment not lost on him. “This is the worst fucking idea anyone has ever had,” he mutters, but his tone is soft. “And I’ve had some pretty terrible ideas.”

Cassandra regards you with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. “If I let them go, you’ll stay here with me in the Void. Be my ally.”

You nod, “Yes.”

Cassandra’s eyes narrow, calculating, weighing her options. Finally she sighs, “Fine. But you know…no one will remember this little sacrifice of yours. The next Logan won’t even know you.”

Logan growls and you squeeze his hand in gentle reassurance. “It’s okay,” you whisper, your voice finally breaking. “I’ll remember enough for the both of us.”

You step away from Logan, your heart shattering with every step. Wade lets go of Cassandra and you feel the weight of your decision settle heavily against your shoulders. 

Cassandra pulls something from her pocket, slipping it onto her fingers. Before you, a portal opens up, just outside the boundaries of the room. Outside, the raging storm that is Alioth grows near and in that moment, you realize Cassandra was playing a game of her own.

“I figure,” she says, straightening the lapels of her jacket, “that they have approximately four seconds before they’re through.”

Your eyes flick to Logan and you memorize every detail, every emotion written across his face. With one final nod, he tears his gaze from you and he runs towards the portal, Wade alongside him.

And then, darkness consumes all.

+++

You’re unsure how long you’ve been out. The last thing you remember was Alioth screaming towards you, giving you barely enough time to cocoon yourself from his rage.

Cassandra is gone.

Wade is gone.

And Logan—Logan is gone.

You open your eyes and find Remy standing above you. He offers you his hand and helps you to stand. “C’mon, chère,” he says, nodding towards the open portal behind him, “Let’s go home.”

You’re not sure where home is any more, not without Logan, but you don’t have the strength to argue. From the moment you wound up here in the Void, you’ve been looking for a way out. Now that you have one, you know you need to take it. 

Accepting Remy’s hand, you join him through the portal.

You stumble into a familiar room and are greeted warmly by a smiling TVA agent. She’s unlike the first TVA agent you met, her presence comforting as she says your name. “We heard you’ve had quite the adventure.” She looks over towards Remy. “Mr. LeBeau, if you’ll follow this agent here.”

Remy leaves with he other agent, turning towards you with a wink. “Enjoy your man for me, yeah?”

Your heart flutters in your chest and you look towards the agent, trying to suppress the hope you feel in your chest. She smiles and rests a comforting hand on your shoulder. From her pocket she pulls out a small device, pressing a few buttons on the pad. Before you a different portal opens and she gestures towards it.

“Welcome home.”

+++

You stand in front of the apartment door and hesitate before knocking. Your nerves flutter uncomfortably in your belly even though it’s been less than two days since you last saw Logan in the Void. But you’re out now—you both are—and the fear nags at you that maybe this isn’t what he wants. That you aren’t what he wants. 

You stuff that thought down with a shake of your head. Raising your hand, you rap against the door three times and let out a shaky breath. When he opens the door, you feel as if the air has left your lungs and you forget to breathe. Your heart aches at the sight of him. 

Logan stops short, his face falling into one of pure disbelief and all he can do is stare at you.

“Is that my stripper?” you hear Wade call from farther into the apartment. Logan continues to stare at you as Wade pops up behind him, his face lighting up in surprise. “Oh, hey cupcake! Didn’t expect to—“

“Get out,” Logan growls, turning his head slightly in Wade’s direction, his eyes never leaving yours. 

From over Logan’s shoulder, Wade wiggles his eyebrows. “Ah, looking for some afternoon delight?” he coos, slinging his arm over Logan’s shoulder and patting his chest. “This guy has been jerkin’ it constan—“

You hear the sknit of Logan’s claws as they unsheathe into Wade’s thighs. “Ah, fuck! Fuck!” Wade curses. “You’re supposed to be penetrating her, not me!”

“Get. Out,” Logan repeats, retracting his claws. 

“Fine.” Wade pushes past Logan’s frame, limping slightly as his wounds heal themselves. “You’re lucky Blind Al’s already out playing Bingo. Or selling herself for blow. I don’t actually know her schedule,” he comments as he walks down the hallway. “Glad you’re home, cupcake.”

Logan barely waits until Wade is out of sight before tugging at the hem of your shirt and pulling you towards him. Your gasp dies on your lips as he drags you inside, shutting the door with his foot and pushing you up against the rough wood. Then his mouth is on yours and it’s warm and wet and wonderful. 

His hands cup your face, fingers moving to tangle in your hair and you feel him everywhere. You whine as he nips lightly at your chin before trailing his lips back up your jaw, licking into your mouth as he kisses you deep. 

Your fingers scramble for purchase, fisting themselves into the fabric of his button-down flannel. 

There’s a desperation and urgency bleeding from him, as if he can’t drink you in fast enough, or hard enough, or long enough to satiate the longing that’s within him. And you’re feeling it too, an ache growing deeper in your belly, a need to be consumed by him fully and you whine into his mouth because he’s not nearly close enough to you.

A thigh slips between your legs as he kisses along your jaw and down the column of your throat, a moan falling from your lips as you greedily seek friction. 

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Logan husks against your shoulder, pulling your hips harder against his clothed thigh. 

Your hands cup the sides of his face, your fingers scratching lightly against his beard. You force him to look at you, his pupils blown wide. “I always come to you,” you say softly. “I always come home.”

He kisses you softly then, his mouth slow over yours and he drops his thigh from between your leg. You whine at the loss and he pulls back. “C’mere,” he says, grabbing your hand and leading you further into he apartment. “I’m not fucking you for the first time against a door.”

You follow him to the bedroom, your chest heaving with ragged breaths and you can feel the prickle of anticipation along your spine as he turns back to look at you. His eyes never leave yours as he shrugs off the flannel and pulls his t-shirt over his head. Your eyes trace the lines of his chest, the strong definition of his muscles, following the line of hair that leads to the top of his jeans. As you bite your lip, you hear his chuckle, “My eyes are up here.”

“Mmm, yeah they are,” you start, tugging your shirt off and shimmying your pants over your hips, “but the view down there is nice, too.”

Logan reaches for you, his large hands skimming over your hips, over the flesh of your ass and under your thighs, lifting you up and forcing your to wrap your legs around his waist. With an easy flick of his fingers, he’s unclasped your bra and you toss it aside with the rest of your clothes. 

Kneeling on the bed, he lays you down, kissing his way down your stomach, his nose nuzzling along the top of your panties. “Do you have any fucking idea how sweet you smell?” His mouth is hot against your skin and he laughs as you tilt your hips up towards him. “You want me to fuck you with my tongue? Lap at you until you’re seeing stars?”

Molten desire shoots down your spine and you can feel the slick between your thighs. God, the mouth on him was going to be the death of you. 

You prop yourself up onto your elbows and look down at him. “Just fucking touch me already,” you whine, and you hate how desperate you sound. “Haven’t we waited long enough?”

He presses a wet, open mouthed kiss to your inner thigh before dragging his nose along the center of your clothed cunt. You inhale sharply as he kisses over your clit before trailing his fingers along your hip bones and pulling the fabric down. His warm hands palm along your thighs and he opens you up, staring down at you with hunger in his eyes. And then his mouth is on you, his tongue licking a hot stripe through your folds before sucking your clit into his mouth. 

“Oh, fuck,” you moan as his mouth continues to lap at you, pleasure tingling low in your belly and spreading through your limbs.

Logan hums. “Sweetest pussy I’ve ever tasted, sweetheart.” His tongue dips down, collecting the arousal at your entrance. “I could die happy between these thighs.”

You trail your hands down over your chest, briefly palming each breast before you continue down and sink your fingers into Logan’s hair. His groan rumbles through you and you don’t miss the way his hips start to rut against the mattress, seeking friction. 

His mouth and tongue continue to move over you, long, slow licks punctuated by gentle sucks and flicks over your clit and you can’t stop the grind of your hips against his face. You feel his smirk against you as one thick finger finally sinks inside your walls, nudging that spot deep inside that makes you squirm.

Another finger slips inside you and a low whine spills from your lips. 

“You’re beautiful like this, you know that,” he says, voice rough, thumb replacing his tongue against your clit as his fingers continue pumping. “All blissed out and needy and desperate to come on my fingers.”

His words zip through you as he fuck you with his hand and you bite your lip. “C’mon,” he purrs, “let me hear all those pretty sounds you make.”

Soft whimpers spill from your throat as he continues to work you, that pull in your lower belly growing stronger and stronger. His hand never stilling, he kisses his way up your body, pulling a nipple into his mouth and then you’re coming, cunt clenching around his fingers. 

Logan licks into your mouth to steal your cries as he continues to work you through your orgasm. Your thighs clamp around his forearm, the pleasure overwhelming. 

He finally stills, pulling his fingers from you and you whimper at the loss. You watch through half lidded eyes as he licks his fingers clean of your slick and you feel that flame reignite in your belly. 

“Take your pants off,” you demand, breathless, pushing at his chest. 

Logan laughs, but allows you to push him onto his back. “You always so bossy after you come?”

You fumble at his belt, undoing his buckle and unzipping his jeans before shoving them down his hips. “Make me do it again and find out,” you taunt as his cock springs free.

He kicks his pants the rest of the way off and you sit back on your heels and admire him for a moment. Your eyes trail from his broad shoulders, down the contours of his chest and follow that line of hair down his stomach to between his thighs, where his cock stands, thick and ready. 

“I will never get tired of looking at you,” you sigh, raking your nails down his thighs, deliberately not touching him where you know he wants it the most. “You’re so beautiful, Logan.”

Whatever response he has, dies in his throat as you finally wrap your hand around his cock, giving him one long, firm stroke. He’s hot and heavy and you’re aching to feel him inside you. But not yet. Leaning down, your eyes meet his and you trace your tongue along the underside of his cock, tasting the salt on his skin.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Logan curses, unable to stop the thrust of his hips, chasing your mouth. 

You wrap your lips around the head, swirling your tongue over the slit and collecting the precum there before taking as much of him in your mouth as you can. Logan hisses through his teeth, fingers winding their way into your hair to help guide your movements. 

“You’re so warm and wet, sweetheart,” he groans. “But I don’t want to come in your mouth.”

You give him one last stroke as you release him from your mouth and climb up to sit on his thighs. Logan pulls you forward by your hips and you gasp as your cunt slides across his cock. 

“Line me up,” he instructs and you obey without hesitation. 

Gripping him in your hand, you guide him to your entrance, notching him inside before slowly sinking down atop him. A sob chokes in your throat at the thick feel of him inside you, stretching you, making you feel complete. Your entire existence boils down to where he’s joined with you and you relish the burn.

His hands are everywhere as you start to move, caressing your thighs, your hips, up to your breasts and back down, tracing a map on your skin only his fingers can read. Praise falls from his lips in an almost nonstop litany, telling you how wet you are, how tight, how warm, how good you’re making him feel.

“Do you want to know how you make me feel?” you ask, breathless. You look down at him through half lidded eyes and find him just as flushed and wanton as you. “How you’ve always made me feel?”

You continue to rock back and forth on his cock, slow, deliberate movements that leave you wanting, needing more. Logan shifts his hips and finds the leverage to fuck up into you, the deep drag of his cock against your walls making you throw your head back and moan. 

“Fuck,” he growls, his fingers sinking deeper into the flesh of your hips, pulling you somehow impossibly closer. “Show me, sweetheart.” 

You brace your hands against his chest, raking your fingers through the damp hair there, feeling his heart beat beneath your palms. Leaning down, you capture his mouth with yours, the kiss sloppy as he continues to thrust up into you. You move your hands up his neck, your fingers collecting the sweat along his jaw and then, “Feel, Logan.”

It starts slow, an almost faint heat spreading from your fingertips as they ghost over his skin, your power beginning to pulse in time with your heartbeat. Logan gasps and his rhythm falters as the first wave of emotion hits him. You slow, too, your hips barely moving as you run your fingers down from his jaw, over the column of his throat and back to his chest. 

Your palms rest against his ribs as you continue to pour into him all the love and passion he’s ever shown you over centuries. Logan stares up at you in reverence, his face soft as he runs his hands up your sides, over your breasts. He tugs you down towards him, his mouth hovering over yours.

“Do you feel, Logan,” you ask, your breath hot against his lips. “Do you feel how much you love you have in you?”

He draws your bottom lip into his mouth, biting softly once, before capturing your mouth fully, kissing you deep. You hum as his tongue swipes against yours and his fingers tangle in your hair. 

A gasp pulls from your throat as Logan wraps his arms around you and flips your position, forcing your legs around his waist as he begins to thrust into you again in earnest. You feel him deep in this position, each thrust of his cock against your walls hitting that perfect spot inside of you. 

“It’s too much,” he groans into your skin. “Never…never felt like this.”

You rake your nails along his back, relishing in the growl that falls from this throat. “It always feels like this,” you gasp, drawing your power back. 

His arms slide under your shoulders, anchoring you in place as his hips continue to thrust into you. It’s lewd almost, the slapping of skin against skin and the wet noises from where you’re joined. His breath is hot and damp against your skin where his mouth hovers over the pulse point in your neck. 

Your fingers snake into the short strands of hair at the back of his neck and your other hand slips in between your bodies, reaching for your clit. 

“That’s it,” he moans, “use those fingers to get yourself off on my cock.”

You can feel where he’s sliding thickly into your cunt, the wiry hairs at the base of his cock damp with your arousal, and you begin to rub in time with his thrusts. Pleasure zips along your spine, every cell in your body afire at his touch. You feel that telltale tug low in your belly and you know you’re not going to last much longer. 

He slides his hands down from your shoulders, following the curve of your spine, forcing you to arch your back. Taking the opportunity before him, he swirls his tongue over one nipple, then the other as he palms the flesh of your hips in his hands, angling your hips further up into his. A keening whine falls from your lips as he somehow thrusts deeper into you, making your legs shake. 

Logan nudges your hand away from your clit, replacing your fingers with his own as he pushes you closer and closer to the edge. His eyes are focused on the sight of his cock thrusting into you and the slick smeared across your thighs. 

“Logan,” you gasp, “I’m so close.”

“I know, sweetheart,” he rasps, dragging his gaze up to your face, “I got you. Takin’ me so well, so tight. Gonna spend the rest of my life tellin’ you how fucking good you are.”

His words tip you over the edge, your orgasm rolling through you as you spasm down on his cock, his name falling from your lips. He fucks you through your orgasm, each thrust of his hips sending aftershocks of pleasure along your limbs as he chases his own release. Logan’s thrusts grow erratic and you reach for him, grasping at his forearms, pulling him down to you. 

“Come for me, Logan,” you murmur in his ear. “I wanna feel you come.”

With one final thrust, he comes with a groan, forehead pressed against yours as he spills himself deep within you. You can feel cock spasm as he lazily thrusts through his orgasm, using your body to wring out the last of his pleasure. You hold him close, pressing open mouthed kisses to his jaw as he finally stills within you. 

Careful not to crush you, Logan pulls you to him as he rolls onto his side. He doesn’t pull out, tugging your leg over his hip to keep you close and full. 

You smile up at him, brushing the damp hair away from his forehead. He sighs at your touch, a content sound that tugs at your heart. 

“You really love me in every universe?” he asks softly, brushing his nose against yours. 

“Yes.”

“Even this one?”

“Especially this one.” 

You don’t know what the rest of this life holds, but you do know one thing—wherever he goes, you’ll be right there with him. 

thinking about BUCKY BARNES playing with you from behind.. 18+ fem!reader, mdni. 345 words

he’d sit behind you casually, slumped against the headboard with you between his open thighs, your back lounging into his chest. your knees are bent, fluffy-socked-feet planted either side of his straightened knees. it’s lazy, it’s comfortable, it’s low effort.

his left, metal hand rests somewhere around the top of your abdomen, vibranium palm holding onto you under your oversized tee. one of your bare tits sits on his lower arm, the other held by his hand that grabs and cups and paws. an action so antsy.

his free hand hovers over the waistband of your underwear, fleshed fingers grazing across the thin thread of elastic. bucky slips a finger underneath, pad faintly skimming along your skin — the sensitivity of his touch making your thighs jitter and tremble.

he itches the rest of his hand underneath, his slightly balled fist protruding through the thin albeit dampened fabric. the tiny bow of your underwear sits atop his wrist, the contrasting sight of something so delicate against something so rugged and manly sends your mind into a tizzy. every micromovement being watched keenly by your fervid eyes.

you move a hand from its placement on his arm around your middle to his other one that’s slotted in the crease where thigh meets cunt. your grip is desperate, fingers struggling to envelope the meat of his upper wrist. you nudge his hand lower, the hold you have on him like that of a guide — directing him to what you want and where you want it.

his neck peers around you, lips finding themself placed perfectly in the dip of your right temple. a repeated, almost forceful iteration of kisses pushes your head to the side in a gentle sway, your neck exposing and growing slack, strength dissipating until it rests against the scarring on his left shoulder. 

bucky’s head ducks down, lowering into the crook of your neck where he continues the kisses — trailing them ever so faintly in lines up and down the side of your throat.

“not yet,” he whispers to you from behind. “not yet.”

⎯ ☆ ⎯

I’m such a hopeless romantic omggggg🥹🥹 I loved thisssssss!!!

saw u write for harry potter i dont know if u do but could you write something about draco malfoy i find very little on tumblr of draco x reader thank youu

when you know, you know

draco malfoy x reader

fluff

a/n: send more request for harry potter characters pls loves

summary: a rare potion reveals Draco the name of the love of his life, and, after seeing his reaction, you are eager to know more about how he's made it (and who it is).

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄☆

It was sad being alone this very day, but you told yourself he would be back home as early as he could. 

You decided to wander through your house as you waited upon his arrival. The thought of seeing his greeting smile already made you overjoyed as you browsed through your messy room.

Your eyes stumbled upon something. It was utter boredom that gave you the urge to open your memories' trunk. It was yours and his secret trunk, filled of things that you didn’t use nor see ever, but you hold them so dear you weren’t able to let go of. 

You opened it and a small wrapped box greeted you. You remembered not seeing that before. But again, it had been a very long time. Curiosity got the best of you, and you proceeded to unwrap it gently. 

And there it was. A simple little flask. A piece of glass so ordinary to everyone. Everyone but you, him, and the walls of Hogwarts potion classroom… 

“What?!” you blurt. 

“I’m telling you, Y/N. Lena from fourth grade has made it!”

“How would a 14-year-old accomplish to make The Curious Hoax? It is known to be nearly impossible.”

Saoirse leans in, a cunning smile blooming in her face. “Exactly,” she whispers in your ear. “Nearly impossible.”

The Curious Hoax. But how?

“Students!” Professor Slughorn cuts your wondering instantly. You and the rest of the students follow his instructions, stepping into the Potions Classroom. “That’s it. Take your books. Careful, Ron!”

Lost in your thoughts, you look around. The room never seems to lose its charm. Cold and old stone walls isolate you from the warm Hogwarts you remember. It is nice, though. You’ve always appreciated the magical spell these shelves filled with all types of jars and potions have on you. 

“But how? I mean - you spoke to her, what are the steps?” you ask eagerly. The Curious Hoax had always been your priority goal since you’ve heard of it. It wasn’t only the rareness of the potion that called you to it. The reason of your interest was far more humiliating.

Your friend knows that. “Ah - you are now so interested, huh? Will you tell me why?” Saoirse asks mockingly. “Come on, let’s make a deal.”

“A deal about what?” You turn to the brusque voice next to you. 

Him, of course.

“Draco,” you say plainly, disgust running your tongue as you speak. 

But he takes no offense. The blonde boy turns to you, pride and sharpness in his piercing stare. “Y/N” You’ve never known if it’s simply the thrill of hearing your name out of his lips that sends your heartbeat to a high, or if it’s the sweetness in the tone he uses that confuses your heart. 

That is not the matter to worry about. Now, the only thing that matters is winning him.

“Oh, here they go again with the staring contest. What are you - eleven?” Saoirse asks, rolling her eyes and making Blaise chuckle. Draco turns to the joyful sound in an instant, giving a stern look to his friend. 

“You’ve lost,” you taunt with a grin once Draco turns to you. 

His eyes kill you with their intensified anger. “Shut up, Potter.”

You bite your lips, trying not to slap him. Or strangle him. 

Or poison him.

Your jaw is rigid with anger as you lock your eyes with him. It is a call to challenge. To defiance.To temptation.

“Oh, here they go again,” your friend complains. “Stop that already, Slughorn is talking.” You both ignore Saoirse. “Guys. Draco and Y/N will you please stop that.”

“Let them,” Blaise tells her teasingly. You take a mental note to gossip with Saoirse about the smoldering glace his given her. She’s been head over heels for the boy ever since you two were sorted to slithering six years ago and took a seat next to him. Him and Draco.

“You looked away,” Draco states, sneering. “You. Lose.”

You breathe deep, holding back the slap your body aches to give him. “Shut up, will you.”

“You shut up.”

“No. You shut up, Malfoy.”

“Shut up, the both of you!” Soirse yells. “You act like kids, I swear.” You watch in shock as the whole class turns to her rants. But she doesn’t seem to care as she angrily turns to Draco. “She was just asking about The Curious Hoax, because she’s spent her whole live daydreaming about the love of her life! Now shut up already!” And she stops right there, her eyes wide open, moving to find yours in instant regret as she realizes what she's confessed. “So that is that,” she mumbles, almost inaudibly.

You know you look visibly flushed as your eyes dart around, trying to hide your embarrassment. But acknowledging every set of eyes on you doesn’t help one bit. 

But what certainly doesn’t help is the obscurity in Draco’s face. “Ah, well - what an even more pathetic thing you turn to be.”

“Watch your mouth,” your friend barks in your defense.

“What? She can be this stupid, but I can’t comment on it?” he says. There’s still in his face a darkness you can’t quite understand. He is not being mean for mere rudeness. He is truly angry. But why for? 

You feel chocked up, your eyes on the verge of tears. No words in your personal defense seem to escape the chains of your throat. 

But someone unexpected is there for you. “Mr. Malfoy,” Slughorn says in a scolding voice. “What is exactly so pathetic in the will to make such an extraordinary potion? A potion that could reveal the one true love of the maker. Could you explain to the whole class, please?”

Draco is silent, anger with a hint of humiliation in his stupid face. 

“No?” the professor asks, monetarily turning to give you a friendly wink. You smile slightly, the pressure of before, now less crushing. “Then I take you appreciate its value all the same as your classmate, Y/N?”

“I-” the boy starts, but is quickly interrupted.

“Very well. Then, I have great news for you.” He turns to the class and adds, “Today, Mr. Malfoy will be the first to try it.”

Said boy swallows audibly. “Try what?” he hurries to ask. 

“Why - Making The Curious Hoax, of course,” he says evidently. 

“But-”

“Great! First, go take the cherry leafs…” 

… 

It’s been about ten minutes of Draco following obediently every Slughorn instruction in front of the class. A bit of ‘take this, put this, mix that’ and now, “The final step…” the professor said, happiness irradiating from him as a result of his love for this subject. 

You don’t know what surprised you more. How okay, even happy, Draco is with doing this, or that the potion is simple as this. You were told only a few people had succeeded in making it, but there he was Draco, one last step from making it.

You wonder, is he nervous? Excited to know who is the love of his life? 

You are. Of course, not for who is his love. Of course. You are nervous to find out yours.

“I must tell you,” Slughorn says to all. “The last step may seem frustrating to the ones who reach with their hand for the top of the mountain, yet happen to be farther than what they had expected.”

You watch Draco sight at the professor’s enigmatic words. The truth is, you had been watching him very carefully. It is not often that he was concentrated enough to not pay attention to your curious eyes set on him. And it is quite an opportunity and relief to be free to watch him from afar with no mean words coming your way. 

It is simply a relief to look at him, so lost in his inner world. 

“What is the last step, professor Slughorn?” the Weasley boy asks.

“Well,” he replies absentmindedly. “Once the ingredients are mixed, you must write on an ordinary piece of paper the name of the love of your life. Who you think it is. Only the correct answer will lead to the making of the potion.”

Surprised and disappointment fill the classroom and your heart.

“I don’t understand,” you say. “Then the potion makes no sense: You must know the very same thing you want to learn from the potion. If you knew already who the love of your life is, you wouldn’t need the potion in the first place.”

“Exactly.” Slughorn gives you a knowing smile. “The curious Hoax, Ms. Y/N. It is a hoax.”

You look around confused, but stop when you find his eyes on you. Draco immediately looks away, flushed, almost hiding from you.

Could today’s class turn out more odd?

“Then what’s the stupid point in making it?” Blaise asks. 

You realize Draco hasn’t said a word in complaint yet, which is shocking. Is he really interested in knowing his true love?

“Well, even being conscious about this last step, many wizards have spent years trying to make it, trying name after name, and the one’s that have made it claim that the potion is worth everything.”

“Professor,” your friend says. “I’ve heard that if you drink the Potion once it changes color, you will see your happiest memory with your love.”

“That I've heard before - yes. But I fear you shall check it for yourselves. Now, everyone around a table! You know the steps.”

“We are all going to try to make The Curious Hoax?” Ron asks in disbelief.

“Yes, of course, Ron, or do you expect to find out by me telling you who she is?” Slughorn asks playfully as he glances visibly to the girl next to Ron. Nor him or the now blushed girl, Hermione, miss that look. 

Everyone takes place and starts with the making. You try to keep some distance, but your curiosity makes you pick a spot on the table close to Draco. He seems determined to not look your way.

You don’t give much thought to that. The priority now is succeeding in this. You’ve always wanted to know who the love of your life is. Now you have the answer right in front of you. 

The little cauldron is almost entirely filled, every ingredient you’ve meticulously thrown into and mixed have now given their results. But not the ultimate result. The potion must turn blue to indicate it is well. And it will only turn blue if you throw into it the correct name.

Of all the people who could be, how on earth would you be able to guess. You realize soon, it will be impossible to make the potion go blu-

“Look! Draco’s made it! His potion’s turned blue!”

What.

You quickly look up to him. But he’s already staring your way. Eyes wide open in surprise, just like yours. Of course, guessing who his love is must have left him crazy. Making one of the most difficult potions must have left him crazy. 

This time, not like the others, his eyes don’t move. Like your staring games, he’s just there., looking at you as if the world around him was no more. 

“Very well done, Mr. Malfoy!” Slughorn congratulates. “Great! Great.” He grabs a simple little flask and starts puting the potion inside carefully. “And… here you go. Consider yourself a very lucky boy, Draco. Not many in this world will have the opportunity to visit their happiest memory as you do.” And he hands the flask to the boy.

But his eyes are still on you. And yours are still on him.

Eventually, the whispers of surprise and disbelief of your classmates subside, and you chose to seize the calmness to walk to him.

“How?” you ask Draco. Most of the class had given up on the Potion. You were nearly about to. “How have you done it?”

He’s oddly silent, not even looking at you. He stares at the flask in between his hands. He hadn't drunk it yet. Maybe he didn’t want to. 

“Draco,” you call, and it’s almost like pleading. At that, he moves his timid eyes to you. He is acting so weird. Was the truth of the Curious Hoax so heavy on a person?

“I just - I just did it. I wrote a name, and it worked.”

“What? Just one name?” you ask, even more shocked that what you were seconds ago. “How did you - what?”

He sighs, looking down at the flask again, gone into his inner world. 

“Draco, please. It is the thing I most want. To know it myself. To make this potion.”

He looks up, finding your eyes with such gentleness it makes your breath caught. “Y/N.” Again, that sweetness in his tone. But now, more genuine, more vulnerable. 

“What?” you persisted eagerly. “What is it, then?”

He is silent for some seconds, then he puts his flask in a pocket of his uniform and moves to leave. You swiftly grab his arm before he’s able to. 

He says no word as he turns to look at your hand touching his skin. He says nothing as he absentmindedly lifts his hand up to yours, and almost like in a tender caress, traces its knuckles. It’s different from any touch you’ve felt.

Then he closes his fingers over the back of your hand and pulls it gently away. He doesn’t let it go as he takes a step closer to you. He is so close. So close. You watch his dark pupils, realizing you have no need to give a step back. Only an urge to take one closer. But you would be too close. 

You feel his warm breath before he closes his mouth, as if he was trying to suppress words trying to get out of his lips.

So you try to push him. “Tell me,” you whisper, and it’s so tender and soft it seems to convenience him.

“Y/N…”

He doesn’t continue, so you plead,” Please. Tell me, Draco.”

“I just knew exactly what to write on that paper.”

“But how?” you question.

His lips curved into a timid smile. Never had you seen him so… you don’t even have words to describe it. 

“You just know, Y/N.”

“Draco…” you start, still not satisfied with the ambiguous answer.

“When you know, you know.”

And then he manages to smoothly slip away from you, walking away. But then he stops and turns.

“Y/N?”

“What?” you say, trying to understand his odd behavior. Trying to understand the smile on his face. 

“Please, tell me when you know. Don’t keep me waiting for too long.”

Tears run through your cheeks once the memories flow back to that little flask. That day. This flask. Draco.

Draco.

“You’ve found it,” your husband says, and you quickly turn to him. 

Draco is at the door of your bedroom, staring at you as if waiting for your reaction. The flask, it was his birthday present to you. 

“And here I was, thinking you would never find it there,” he tries to joke, but you clearly see he is nervous.

“Draco…” you whisper, but you are not able to form words. So you run to hug him. He catches you, firm arms wrapping around your waist. “My love, I’m so sorry. I’ve ruined your surprise," you mumble.

“So do you like it, love? And no, you did not ruin anything.” 

“Like it?” You move to look at him, making him see in your face how grateful you are. How much you love him. “Draco it’s perfect. You - you’ve kept it all these years.”

He smiles sweetly. “Y/N, that potion. When I drank it - I saw this. You and me, today. I saw myself holding you just like this, watching your beautiful face like you were the only thing in this world. I saw that when I was at a terrible point in my life, and it gave me strength to keep going. Seeing your eyes watching me as if you loved me, it told me life was worth living, it told me great things were to come. You were to come.”

Tears well in your eyes again at his words. “I was already there, remember?” you joke, grinning despite your wet cheeks. 

Draco smiles lovingly as he wipes your tears. “I remember, my love. You were always there, and I always knew - somewhere in my heart, I always knew it was you.”

-Chacters by J K Rowling

This is not proofread yet, but i wanted to post itttt. now lets talk: IVE JUST WRITTEN MY FIRT DRACO FIC WHAAAAT. im so happy, and expecting to write more harry potter characters yeees. plsss send more requests for harry potter, speacialy for short fics :) hope you like this one, and the rest to come. loveyaa.

Omg where do I even begin😭 I just finished binge reading this story and all I gotta say is that this is the best thing I've read in a realllllyyyyyy long time! To a point where I was literally fighting back tears towards the end😩 The level of YEARNING that you so beautifully captured between Draco and Y/N is something that I've been longing to read for so long! Thank you so much for writing such a masterpiece and for feeding the hopeless romantic in me😍 I feel like the lovergirl in me went into hiding for a long time because of how shitty real-life romance can be. But stories like this one really feed my soul and make me feel all giddy inside. You deserve all the hugs in the world for reigniting this spark in me! THANK YOUUUUUU!!!!!!!!!!

THE STRANGEST OF PLACES MASTERLIST

draco x fem!ravenclaw reader / postwar au series

“We start to find comfort in the strangest of places.”

The war has ended, and life is getting back to normal, or least supposed to be. For returning half-blood Ravenclaw Y/N Y/L/N, her only focus is to finally have a year without fear and uncertainty, until professor Slughorn asks her the question the rest of the room is dreading: “I trust you will be Mr Malfoy’s partner?”

Draco Malfoy returns to Hogwarts the same as any other past seventh year student. He wants to complete his education and ensure himself a good future, one better than his previous years, but there is one slight problem: he’s Draco Malfoy. For his family’s involvement in the war, Draco attends school feeling alienated and resented, spending most of his time alone and suffering his guilt in silence. When Y/N starts coming over to the manor, they begin a rocky work relationship, and often argue

After a small but grand gesture, they decided to become friends. Neither of them realise, however, it was about to get a whole lot more complicated than that.

Keep reading

oneshots | ᴀꜱꜱᴀꜱꜱɪɴ!ᴛᴏᴍ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

⚔︎ You Promised.

Short Summary: he is ruthless when he kills, doesn’t show an ounce of mercy. Cold and quick with it—if you are lucky. Because for most captured Order members, he likes to drag it out. Not because they are the only remaining resistance against his father. He’s stopped caring about that a long time ago. No. They took something from him. The only person he has ever truly cared about. You.

Warnings: 18+ only! angst, mentions of death, violence, murder. Tom is Voldemort’s son. dub con if you squint? brief rough sex, praise, unprotected piv, creampie

A/N: I think I bent the meaning of assassin a tiny bit. Anyway, this is my participation for week three of @acourtofchaos’ Festival of AUs!

wordcount: 3,1k

You were aware going out to hunt that one rare potion ingredient that night was a mistake. Yes, it was only available during full moon and then only for two to three hours—but you knew for a fact that you wouldn’t be the only one looking for it. And running into Snatchers really wasn’t something you wanted to risk.

But when Harry himself came asking whether you could look for them that night, you knew how urgent it was. The Order was so close to running out of healing potions, and if you denied—

You sighed and agreed.

Later that night, you and three others made your way to the Forbidden Forest, the only place nearby where you could find the rare flowers you were looking for. Not too deep into the forest, you find what you were looking for—blooming in bright purple, surrounded by fireflies.

The forest was eerily quiet at that time, except for the crunch of branches each time you took a step and the occasional screeches of birds nearby. Though, when you heard the distinctive sound of apparition somewhere not too far away, you stilled, froze. You tried to convince the others to leave, as you’d surely have enough for the month to come—yet nobody wanted to listen, there were more—just a few more—just a little further into the forest—

Until you were surrounded by the very people you warned them about before you left.

Outnumbered by at least five.

There was nothing you could do—your wand was taken faster than you could react. And without a wand—you were helpless.

—

Hours later, and you all find yourselves lined up in a basement—knees scraping against the cold, rough ground beneath you. Hands tied behind your back, scratchy cotton material secured over your head, blocking your vision.

This is it. You are going to die today.

Back when rumours spread that most killings are done by one single person, you didn’t believe them. Surely no human could muster up the strength to kill day in, day out.

Right?

Except—

No.

Tom wouldn’t.

Couldn’t have—

However, the longer you are left waiting, the more time you have to think about it all—you haven’t seen him since you left Hogwarts, since the war started. It’s been more than a year, and a lot has happened since. A lot has changed. He might have changed.

Then, your thoughts slip to just Tom.

How people, including yourself, would be afraid to even look at him—Voldemort’s son.

How he’d always be top of the class—except for that one time you were.

And the next time too.

How it would turn into a rivalry, a bitter fight over who would score higher on the next exam.

How most of your nights were spent in the library from that point on.

Tom would be there too. Never leave before you did.

How he would steal glances at you from the other side of the library.

How glances would turn into stares, stares that you noticed, that made your cheeks grow hot, that made you question whether you actually hated him as much as you told yourself you did.

And how that hatred turned into something completely different when you outscored him on a Defence Against the Dark Arts paper. His subject. The one nobody had ever even come close to him. When you smirked at him as soon as you realised, and he had this unreadable expression etched on his face.

How, as soon as that class ended and everyone had left, he pushed you against the cold stone wall of the corridor. Accused you of cheating. Accused you of Merlin knows what.

“I hate you,” he whispered, and then, just a second later—his lips crashed on yours. And it was even better than what you had imagined all these nights in the library—how your lips moved in sync with his, how eager he was to feel more of you, hands slipping under your blouse, leaving goosebumps in their wake. How you leaned into his touch as though this wasn’t the son of the most feared wizard of Great Britain, probably the entire world.

Fuck, you wanted this more than anything else.

And when you broke apart—both of you gasping for air—he would breathe a soft “Merlin, I hate you so much.”

“I hate you too.” You replied, a grin tugging at the corner of your lips.

And you’d kiss again.

How from that point on, you’d study together. You were just trying to help each other—that’s what you told anyone asking. Tom would always tell you how nobody could know.

Students started giving you strange looks. Because how could you possibly spend time with someone who seemed to care about no one and nothing except himself and his studies?

They didn’t know. It was better that way, you told yourself.

How, in free periods, he’d always come to find you. Push you into the nearest classroom, lock the door behind you. Lips on yours before you could even complain. Ripping your blouse open because he was too damn impatient to unbutton it—and you’d scold him for it every single time—and he would just do it again next time.

“There is a simple spell to repair it. There is no spell to spend more time making you feel good, sweetheart.”

And with his lips trailing kisses down your neck, sucking marks into your skin, right at the spot he knew would have your knees grow weak—any rational thought left your brain in an instant.

He’d kiss down the valley between your breasts, fingers slowly making their way underneath the lace of your panties, preparing you for him.

He treated you like you were made of glass—which even surprised you sometimes. The quiet, nerdy boy who’d have witty answers to all questions. Who’d only have to look in the direction of students nearby to silence them, make them leave.

Tom was always careful with you.

Except if you outscored him on an exam. Then, he wasn’t as careful.

You didn’t mind that, though.

It all had to stay a secret, he liked to remind you of it. That nobody could know, not even your best friend, who would pester you with questions if you came back past curfew from one of your “study sessions”. You couldn’t tell her. Nobody. Not even your parents, who didn’t know anything about the wizarding world. You wondered if it was because of that. Judging by the way the corner of his mouth twitched whenever you mentioned your muggle parents, you had your answer.

Your love was forbidden—but so, so delicious.

—

You hear the door to the basement creak open, and what you guess to be five Death Eaters approach you with heavy footsteps.

You don’t know if you are lucky or unlucky when they pass you, instead start on the other side of the line.

Make you witness the death of some of your closest friends.

Their blood-curdling screams and unheard pleas as they are left bleeding to death on the cold, wet stone floor.

Because—whoever does the killings—and you are pretty certain it is only one of them—doesn’t use their wand, but a knife.

Too many killing curses are known to have long-term effects, after all.

But with each victim more—you feel as though they do it with pleasure.

And Merlin, you weren’t ready to die that way.

You don’t have much time left to think about it before a firm hand tugs at the material over your head, tilting your head backwards.

“Last one.” An unfamiliar voice remarks somewhere to the left of you, and not even a second later, you feel the cold, unyielding metal of a knife press against your throat.

You don’t want to give whoever it is the satisfaction of any reaction—but when the sharp blade scrapes against your skin, drawing the first drops of blood—you can’t help the soft, pained whimper escaping your lips.

As if stunned, the hand holding the knife stills, and they let go of your head.

Instead, the material covering your face is cut, and you blink a few times as your eyes adjust to the different lighting—and when they focus, your heart skips a beat.

You are met with a pair of dark brown eyes you would recognize under thousands of others—his.

Tom’s.

“Fucking hell.” He mutters under his breath and doesn’t waste another second thinking. He draws his wand and turns around. Spells fly in all directions, and you duck—the room lighting up in green, red, buzzing with electricity.

Then—silence.

For just a moment.

He takes your hand in his, and the next second you apparate away, finding yourself in a small, cozy place hidden somewhere in the woods. The wound on your skin burns, but he doesn’t let you touch it.

“Let me do this.” He insists, and with just two or three spells muttered, it stops bleeding and the pain fades.

You study him for a moment. It’s really him.

“Tom.” You whisper. Silent, careful.

He finally looks at you. Not like he did back at Hogwarts. He looks different now. Sharper features, older, more mature, with a scar right above his left eyebrow. You want to ask what happened, want to trace it with your finger, want to kiss it.

Kiss him.

His eyes are cloudy now, and he’s lost the spark he used to have whenever it was just you two. And—he has become what he promised you he wouldn’t.

Just like his father.

Maybe they were right, after all.

His grip on your shoulder tightens, and you wince softly as the rough wood bites into your back.

“You told me you wouldn’t take any unnecessary risks. That you would be careful.” He raises his voice, and it almost breaks. “Merlin, you fucking promised me.”

He sounds more disappointed than angry when he says it.

He’s right. You did promise him. Right before the war, you promised each other two things. One, you’d be careful, wouldn’t take any risky tasks, would do anything to stay alive. Two, he would come back for you. Would find you after the war. Although he was aware that the chance of both of you surviving was rather slim.

You shake your head softly.

“It was always supposed to be like this, Tom. Us. Enemies. We fight for two very different things.”

He scoffs softly at that.

“You think I still care about any of this? He’s ill. He’s dying. Barely gets up nowadays.” Tom takes a step back, and you swallow. “He has been using me for— this for months. And if you think—“ his hands clench into fists as the muscles in his fingers twitch at the mere thought, and he pauses briefly. “If you think I get any better treatment than others when they don’t act according to his instructions, you are mistaken.”

You sob.

“You killed them. All of them.”

He takes your face into his hands.

“They took you from me. They let you get these ingredients when they knew how dangerous it was. You almost died at my hands. Because of them. You left me for them. I offered you a safe house, far away from here. Yet, they convinced you to stay. If you believe even for a second that I would shy away from killing them— think again.”

Tears are streaming down your face by the time he is done.

“I chose this, Tom. Nobody forced me.” You hiccup. “This was my choice, and my choice alone.”

One of his hands slips to your neck. They are cold. Not warm like they used to be when they roamed over your bare skin. You miss the warmth.

He pulls you closer again, eyes narrowing at your words.

“And fuck— a part of me wants to hurt you for this. Punish you. But I— I can’t.”

His gaze drops for a second, and his voice softens.

“I missed you. I thought of you every day, wondered whether you were doing alright. Wondered whether you were thinking of me too.”

You exhale a shaky breath, trying to find the right words. Of course you did too.

“Tom, I—“

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“You have moved on, haven’t you? Found someone else.”

Your heart aches at his words.

“No!” You gasp, shaking your head. “I didn’t. I wouldn’t—“

Then, without letting you finish your sentence, he pulls you closer to kiss you. Soft at first—giving you space to draw back—but when you don’t, he holds you close, kisses you like it’s the first time all over again.

When you separate, there is this all-too-familiar fire behind his eyes—the one he used to have. And as much as you wanted to—

“We have a lot to talk about.” You try, but he merely shakes his head.

“That can wait. Let us have this.”

Before you get to object, his lips are on yours once more, and he guides you towards the bed in the centre of the room without once breaking the kiss.

Shirt torn open, button of your pants clinking as it drops to the floor.

Old habits.

“I hate you,” you murmur against his lips, and his mouth lifts into a smirk. “I hate you so much.”

It all happens quickly after that. Moments later, you are on the bed and he’s on top of you, trailing kisses down your neck—just like he used to do.

Then, you feel him pressing against you—already hard, tip swollen and leaking. You gasp when he swipes through your folds and instinctively squirm at the contact—but Tom is quick to reposition you, pinning your hands above your head with ease.

“No. You don’t get to run from me anymore. You’ll stay right here and take it. Take it like the good girl I know you are.”

He doesn’t wait much longer. He’s been waiting too long for this, and now that he’s finally got you back—he is going to utilize every single second he would get to spend with you before he’d have to leave again.

He pushes inside with one singular thrust. Doesn’t give you time to adjust.

And God—it’s been a while. You forgot how big he is—the burn of the stretch so overwhelming that your nails dig into his back and your breath catches in your throat.

He doesn’t feel you tensing beneath him. Doesn’t spot the strained look on your face. Instead, he has already set a rhythm. Hips slamming against yours so harshly, the headboard hits the wall with each thrust.

You don’t want him to stop. You really don’t. But when he shifts his angle to reach even deeper—a strained whimper slips from your lips, and you squeeze your eyes shut.

The moment Tom hears the soft sound spilling over your lips, he lifts his head and stills inside of you.

“Am I hurting you?” he asks, concern visible in his eyes as they search yours. “I am sorry. I shouldn’t have— I will stop.”

You hold onto his arm when he begins to pull away, shaking your head no.

“No. Please don’t. Please don’t stop.” You plead as his eyes scan your face. “Just don’t— I haven’t— you know.”

Tom gives you a tight nod, taking it slower with you after that. Carefully giving you inch after inch, kissing along your jaw. Praising you for how well you are doing for him.

“Forgot how amazing you feel wrapped around me like this,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to your shoulder as his hips stay flush against yours for a second—before he continues his slow and steady thrusts.

His hand slips between the both of you when he feels your walls flutter around him, rubbing your clit in tight circles—just how he knows you like it.

“Tom— Tom, please—“ you moan against his lips, and he rests your legs on his shoulders, allowing him deeper, brushing against that one sweet spot that has you see stars with every single thrust of his hips.

“Come for me, pretty girl. Let it all out.” He tells you, and that’s all it takes to push you over the edge. You whimper-moan as the knot in your lower abdomen snaps, eyes rolling to the back of your head as your walls pulse, clamping down tight, drawing a low groan from him.

He helps you through it, prolongs your pleasure for as long as possible—then, gently, shifts your legs to either side of him, allowing him to lean in close once more. And when he’s close, cock twitching inside of you—

“Where— where can I—“ he rasps, hot breath against your neck, and your legs lock around his waist, keeping him pressed against you.

“Inside. Inside, please.”

“Fuck— so long— been waiting so long for this— “ he drawls, and with one more rough thrust, he spills inside of you—deep, painting your walls white with his release.

His body rests on top of yours after, catching his breath. None of you talk, not until he rolls off to lie beside you, and he takes your hand in his.

You look at him when you feel the muscles in his fingers spasm.

“Cruciatus Curse? Have treated many people with the same symptoms.” You say softly, thumb easing along his index finger.

“I told you. It doesn’t matter to him.” He retorts, voice calm as though it were the most normal thing in the world.

“Oh, Tom. I am so sorry.” You whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. You rest your head on his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath you—eyelids slowly fluttering closed as his fingers brush through your hair.

It’s not long until he wakes you, though.

“I am being called,” he tells you, sitting up after placing your head on the pillow next to you, and your gaze drops to the mark on his arm. “Means they found the bodies.”

You too sit up, taking his wrist in your hand as you look up at him. “Please don’t go. I don’t want them to hurt you because of me.”

“If I don’t, they’ll be here within the next five minutes. Neither you nor I would want that. You will stay here.”

Your hand grips his tighter.

“You’ll be back?”

He gives you a nod. “Yes.”

“Promise?”

He smiles softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“I promise.”

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Unspoken

bucky barnes x reader

summary: You and Steve share a steady, unshakeable friendship — nothing more, nothing less. But Bucky’s feelings for you have been quietly growing since Germany, and a mission where you and Steve get a little too close sparks something he can’t ignore.

word count: 4872

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. curse words, dirty talk, PiV, unprotected sex, shower sex, breeding.

A/N: requested by this anon, hope I met your expectations!

The explosion rattled your bones.

Chunks of concrete crashed behind you, and the stale air filled with smoke and ash. You coughed into your arm, stumbling forward through the haze as gunfire cracked in the distance.

A firm hand caught your arm before you could fall.

“Whoa—got you,” Steve said, steadying you as the floor trembled beneath your boots.

You wheezed out a breath and clung to his arm just long enough to get your footing. “Jesus, Rogers. Tell me again why I volunteered for this mission?”

“Because you like saving my ass,” he said, smiling through the dust. “And you owe me one after that blown recon op in Munich.”

You let out a dry laugh. “That was your fault and you know it.”

“Still counts.”

His hand slid off your arm as you both started moving again, weaving through the half-collapsed corridor. You kept pace easily — you’d run dozens of ops with Steve before. He was your comfort zone in the field. The guy you’d banter with between gunshots and lean on when everything went to hell ever since you joined S.H.I.E.L.D. He was like an older brother. Loud, loyal, and irritatingly heroic.

“You alright?” he asked, glancing at you sideways as you reached the breach point.

“Fine. Just crispy around the edges.”

Steve chuckled. “Same.”

Across the compound, hidden in the smoke and ruin, Bucky saw it all.

You, brushing soot off Steve’s shoulder with a huff of breathless laughter. Steve flashing you that boy-scout grin. The way you elbowed him — friendly, easy, close.

Bucky’s shoulders stiffened beneath his tac gear. His eyes tracked every step the two of you took, the curve of your lips when you smiled, the way Steve’s hand hovered protectively near your back like he’d done it a thousand times before.

There was nothing flirtatious about it. Bucky knew that but it didn’t matter.

Because it wasn’t him.

Bucky didn’t say a word the whole ride back. Steve tried once — something about intel cleanup, maybe a joke — but Bucky just grunted and leaned back in his seat, arms folded across his chest like a shield. He didn’t look at him. He didn’t look at you, either.

Not because he didn’t want to. He wanted to more than anything. But looking at you felt dangerous right now. Like he’d let something slip. Like he’d do something stupid.

You were sitting beside Steve. Not close, not touching, not whispering. Just talking. Casual. Comfortable.

And the entire situation wasn’t your fault. You hadn’t done anything wrong. Bucky knew that.

But knowing didn’t change the way his stomach clenched when you laughed — not loud, not flirty, just a soft sound that still somehow made his teeth grind.

You didn’t even know. You didn’t know how long he’d wanted you.

How it started back in Germany — when you showed up at that god-awful warehouse where Steve had hidden him away before the airport fight. You were new to the team then, still rough around the edges, still learning the weight of the world on your shoulders.

You walked into that room like it didn’t scare you. Like he didn’t scare you. Everyone else flinched when they saw the metal arm. You didn’t.

You sat on the dusty floor next to him while Steve paced in the background, asking if he was okay, if he needed food or air or time. You asked him if he wanted to talk. You handed him a protein bar. You didn’t stare at the scars.

You didn’t treat him like glass.

And that—God, that was it.

He’d been gone for decades, a ghost in his own skin, and you looked at him like he was human. That was all it took. One stupid granola bar and a smile and he was yours.

He’d been nursing that crush ever since. Quietly. Pathetically.

You made it too easy. You treated him like a person, and he followed you like a dog.

But he never said anything. Never acted on it. He figured it would pass eventually — the ache, the want, the way his eyes tracked your every move like a fucking live wire. He thought if he stayed silent long enough, it’d burn out on its own.

It didn’t.

It just got worse.

Every time you touched someone else, it flared. Every time Steve made you laugh, or Sam tossed you a wink, or even Natasha slung her arm around your shoulders during post-mission drinks — it twisted something inside him.

Something ugly.

He hated it. Hated himself for it. For wanting something soft and normal when he knew he wasn’t either of those things. For feeling jealous like he had any right to be.

You weren’t his.

But today, watching you with Steve — seeing how natural you were together, the way you looked at him without thinking — it had broken something.

He’d barely been able to stay in his seat.

Even now, he could still see your hand on Steve’s chest. Could still hear the way you’d laughed — easy, familiar, like Steve was yours.

The thought made him sick.

Because for all the noise in his head, Bucky Barnes knew one thing: He wanted to be the only one who made you laugh like that.

———

The mission was over. Your body ached, your head was pounding, and all you wanted was a hot shower and ten hours of sleep.

The compound was quiet by the time you made it in. Just the soft hum of lights and the distant drone of Sam bitching to FRIDAY about his “unfair” share of the cleanup detail. You smirked to yourself as you slipped out of your tac vest, wiping dried blood off your neck with a towel from the med station.

“Rough one, huh?”

You glanced up — Steve again, leaning against the corridor wall with two water bottles in hand. He tossed you one. You caught it easily.

“Thanks,” you muttered, cracking the seal. “Next time remind me not to follow you into any building marked ‘abandoned missile silo.’”

Steve grinned. “You love the chaos.”

You rolled your eyes, bumping his shoulder as you passed. “I love not being blown to hell.”

He laughed and followed behind you, chatting casually. Debrief notes. Intel scraps. Something about a weapons crate Tony was going to lose his mind over. You half-listened, too exhausted to give him your full attention.

You said goodbye to Steve and turned the corner toward the east wing and nearly ran into a wall of solid muscle.

Not exactly a wall.

Bucky.

He was just standing there — tactical gear half undone, sweat still clinging to his temple, soot smudged across the sharp line of his jaw. He hadn’t even showered yet, and somehow he still managed to look like something out of a noir film — all shadow and coiled silence.

You blinked. “Jesus—how do you move that quietly in boots?”

His lips twitched. “Super soldier perk.”

“Creepy perk,” you muttered, but your smile softened it. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer right away — just stared at you. Not in a rude way. Not exactly. But like he was seeing something that didn’t quite belong in this world. Like you’d glitched the matrix.

Your hair was still dusty from the mission. There was a small scrape on your temple. Your mouth was chapped. And you still somehow looked soft — kind. Warm in the way war-hardened people rarely stayed.

“I’m fine,” he said finally, voice low. “You?”

You gave him a tired shrug. “Still standing.”

He gave a small grunt, and your eyes fell on the metal arm hanging at his side.

Without thinking, you reached out and nudged his elbow — a gentle, friendly bump. “You came in fast at the end there. That last guy had me pinned, you know.”

His mouth twitched again — not quite a smile, but close.

“Didn’t like the look he gave you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really? He was trying to kill me.”

“Still,” Bucky muttered, voice quieter now. “Didn’t like it.”

There was a pause — one that should’ve felt awkward, but didn’t. Just thick. Heavy with something unspoken.

You bumped him again, softer this time. “Well… I liked the way you got between me and the bullet. So. Thanks.”

That did it.

His heart kicked once, hard, right in his chest. You were already turning to leave, brushing past him with a casual wave, like you hadn’t just set his whole damn nervous system on fire.

“Go shower,” you said over your shoulder. “You smell like smoke and brooding.”

You turned to leave and Bucky stood there for a long, long moment — head tilted slightly, lips parted, like he couldn’t quite catch his breath.

He ran a hand over his face.

God, he was so gone for you.

He watched you disappear down the hallway, your silhouette framed in the warm light — hair flowing, shoulders slack with exhaustion, still so effortlessly radiant even after a mission, your hips swaying with that careless kind of grace that drove him mad. You didn’t even know you were doing it — didn’t know the way his eyes followed every step you took.

You didn’t even look back.

You never did. Not like that.

He exhaled slowly, jaw working, chest tight. He’d told himself not to feel like this. Not about you.

But God — it was impossible.

You’d teased him gently, like always. Thrown him a smile and a careless jab about the way he smelled. — He should’ve laughed. Instead, he stood frozen — throat tight, jaw clenched, something unholy clawing its way up from his chest — You never meant anything by it, and still… it stuck in his there like a thorn. Not in a painful way. Just in that quiet, aching way that reminded him he wasn’t built for things like this. Like you.

He’d tried so hard to be patient. To keep things light. Friendly. Safe. You were sweet to him — always had been — but you never looked at him the way you looked at Steve. And maybe that shouldn’t matter. Maybe he had no right to want more.

But he did.

He remembered Germany — how you’d offered your hand to him like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like you wanted to know him. He remembered the fight on the airport — the dirt on your cheeks, the fire behind your eyes and every moment you hadn’t hesitated to stand between him and danger.

You’d smiled at him.

You’d made him feel normal.

And now, months later, that feeling hadn’t dulled. If anything, it had carved out a permanent space inside him. He liked the way you talked to him like he wasn’t broken. The way you made the world feel quieter just by being nearby. The way your laugh made something behind his ribs loosen.

He didn’t know what this was. But he knew it was more than just admiration. It had grown roots.

And tonight — after seeing you so close to Steve, the way your hand had lingered on Steve’s chest, the way he had touched your waist — something in Bucky cracked a little.

Not with jealousy. But with fear.

What if he was too late?

You’d thanked him tonight. Nudged his arm. Smiled at him like he was more than just a weapon. Like he mattered. And it overwhelmed him, because you didn’t even realize what you were doing to him.

And maybe it wasn’t enough anymore — watching you from a distance. Smiling back like it didn’t hurt. Pretending he didn’t want more.

Maybe it was time to say something. Before someone else did.

Before he missed his chance.

He didn’t even think. Just turned and walked — quiet and certain — toward your door.

———

You just stepped into the shower , steam curling in the bathroom when you heard it — a quiet knock.

Your hair was damp, clinging to your neck. Warm droplets ran down your back from where the towel didn’t quite reach. You tightened the knot at your chest with one hand and padded barefoot across the floor, thinking maybe Nat had come to scold you for leaving your boots in the common room again.

You opened the door and froze.

So did he.

“…Bucky?”

He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just stood there, eyes dark and wide, like you’d knocked the breath out of him. His knuckles were still half-curled from the knock, like he hadn’t expected you to actually open it.

Or at least, not like this.

“Sorry,” you said quickly, one hand flying to your towel instinctively, even though it wasn’t going anywhere. “I was just about to shower. What’s—um—everything okay?”

His throat bobbed with a hard swallow. His eyes darted up to meet yours — polite, panicked — but they didn’t stay there.

They couldn’t.

Not with the way your bare shoulders glistened with steam. Not with the way that towel clung to the curve of your hips. Not when you were standing there, soft and flushed and so damn close, looking at him like he hadn’t just nearly lost his mind over you ten minutes ago.

“I—” His voice cracked, and he cleared it quickly. “Sorry. I should’ve… waited. Or come back.”

You tilted your head. “Come back for what?”

He hesitated.

And then… he exhaled. “I needed to talk to you.”

Something in your chest fluttered — nerves, maybe. Or just curiosity. Because Bucky didn’t usually come to people’s rooms. Didn’t usually ask to talk.

You took a small step back.

“Well,” you said, voice lighter now. “You can talk while I find some clothes. Just, uh—don’t have a heart attack or anything.”

That almost pulled a laugh out of him.

Almost.

Instead, he gave a tight, shaky nod, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him.

The click of it echoed louder than it should have.

He didn’t sit. Didn’t move toward you. Just stood near the door with his hands curled into fists at his sides, jaw tense, like he was trying very hard not to look at you again.

But he was failing.

And you could feel it — the weight of his stare trailing your bare skin like a phantom touch.

You turned slightly, pretending to dig through a dresser drawer for something to wear. “So… what’s up?”

“I couldn’t keep it in anymore,” Bucky said quietly.

You froze — one hand still hovering over the open drawer, a cotton shirt limp between your fingers. The steam in the room had started to fade, but now it felt thick again. Dense with something unspoken.

You turned slowly. The towel was still wrapped around you, clinging to your skin. But for the first time tonight, you forgot about it. Because Bucky wasn’t looking at you like you were half-naked.

He was looking at you like he was breaking.

Like something inside him had finally snapped loose and he didn’t know how to gather it back together.

“I tried,” he said, voice raw. “Tried to keep my distance. Be your friend. Be… normal. But I can’t—not when I care about you the way I do. Not when I see you and Steve laughing and feel like I’m the only one on the outside of something I don’t know how to reach.”

Your heart squeezed. Hard.

“Bucky…”

“I don’t think you even realize,” he said, stepping forward just once — not close enough to touch, but close enough that you could see every flicker of fear in his eyes. “Back in Germany, when you first looked at me like I wasn’t dangerous… like I was just a guy you were glad to meet. No one’s looked at me like that in a long time.”

You swallowed thickly, towel knot digging into your chest with the pressure of your breath.

“I remember,” you whispered.

He nodded, eyes locked on yours.

“You changed something in me that day. And ever since, I’ve been trying to figure out how to unfeel it. How to be near you and not want more. But I can’t. I don’t want to anymore.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Not awkward. Just full. The kind of silence that held years of hurt, months of closeness, and one aching truth suspended in the air.

Then—softly—you asked:

“What is it you want, Bucky?”

He exhaled like it hurt. Ran a hand over his mouth, his brow. Like saying it out loud might wreck him.

“I want to know if you ever look at me the way I look at you.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Not because you didn’t want to — but because the words caught in your throat. His confession settled over you like a warm ache, pulling memories to the surface. His quiet kindness. The way he always walked on the side of traffic. How he let you tease him and never pushed when you pulled away. How his eyes always found you in a room, even when you didn’t notice.

You looked at him now — really looked — and saw the worry bleeding through every line of his face. His shoulders were tense like he expected you to walk away. And it hit you like a wave.

You’d liked him all along.

You’d just… never let yourself admit it.

“I didn’t know,” you said softly, stepping forward. Your fingers clutched the towel tighter, not out of modesty, but nerves. “I didn’t let myself think about it. About being with someone.”

His brow furrowed. “Why not? I mean... I'm sure guys are all around you.”

You gave a small, breathless laugh. “Because wanting someone feels dangerous. It always has. Letting someone in, letting them matter… it means they can hurt you. And I didn’t think I could handle that.”

He didn’t speak. Just listened. Let you breathe through it.

“But then you came along,” you whispered. “And you never asked anything of me. Never rushed me. Never made me feel like I had to give you more than I had.”

You looked up at him then — at those soft, uncertain eyes, the way his arms hung at his sides like he was holding himself back. Always holding back.

And you felt it break open inside you.

“I think I’ve liked you for a long time, Bucky,” you said. “I just didn’t know I was allowed to want this.”

For a second, he didn’t move. Then, slowly — carefully — he reached out, fingertips brushing your forearm like he was afraid you’d vanish if he touched too much.

“You’re allowed,” he murmured.

You stepped into his space, towel and all, heart thundering like it hadn’t in years.

He looked at you like he couldn’t believe this was happening.

Your fingers reached for his wrist first, light and trembling, grounding yourself in something solid. Then he cupped your face, slowly, reverently — metal fingers on one side, warm flesh on the other. You leaned into the touch without thinking, eyes fluttering shut.

Then he kissed you.

It was gentle at first. Careful. Almost scared. Like if he went too fast, it would all disappear.

You made a soft sound against his mouth — not quite a gasp, but something between surprise and relief. Your hands slid up his chest instinctively, feeling the taut muscle beneath his t-shirt, the way his heart pounded hard and steady under your touch.

He pulled back for just a breath, forehead resting against yours. His voice was raw.

“Tell me if I’m going too fast.”

You shook your head. “No. Don’t stop.”

That was all he needed. The second kiss came deeper — hungrier. His hands cradled your waist, pulling you flush against him, towel and all. You opened your mouth to him without hesitation, letting his tongue slide over yours as the air between you grew hotter, heavier.

You felt his breath catch when your fingers slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, palms dragging over the hard plane of his stomach. His body shuddered, like he’d been holding back too long.

And then his grip tightened — not rough, but needing — and he pressed you back, gently walking you toward the bed, mouths never parting.

Your towel loosened with the movement, and you felt it slip.

He broke the kiss just long enough to look down as it hit the floor — and when he looked back up at you, eyes blown wide with heat, it wasn’t just desire you saw there.

It was awe.

Like he’d waited his whole life for this moment.

“Jesus,” he whispered. “You’re—”

You kissed him again, hard.

And he caught you, hands spanning your back, fingers dragging over bare skin like he wanted to memorize every inch. His lips moved down to your jaw, then your throat, teeth grazing lightly, making you gasp.

“Bucky—”

His voice was a low growl against your skin. “You're so beautiful. All of you... God, I’ve thought about this,” he breathed, kissing a path down your collarbone, “for so long.”

You arched into him, pulling at his shirt, breathless. “Then take it off.”

He did — in one quick motion, tossing it aside. His body pressed to yours, skin to skin, heat rolling off him in waves. You dragged your hands down the lines of his back, felt the way his muscles tensed under your touch.

He bent to kiss you again, slower this time — like he wanted to feel every flicker of emotion behind it, to brand the taste of you into memory.

But when your hips rolled into his just slightly, instinctively, something inside him snapped.

Not rough. Not careless. Just urgent. His mouth tore from yours and moved to your ear, voice hoarse, breath ragged.

“Wait,” he murmured, arms tightening around you.

You blinked up at him, dazed. “What is it?”

He exhaled hard, like he was trying to ground himself — and then, suddenly, he was lifting you off the floor. You gasped, arms flying around his shoulders.

“Bucky—!”

“I’ve got a better idea,” he muttered, lips ghosting over your cheek.

“What?” you asked, half breathless, half laughing.

His grin was crooked and dark, eyes glinting with wicked intent.

“You were about to shower, weren’t you?"

Your stomach fluttered. Heat coiled low.

And then he was carrying you to the bathroom like you weighed nothing, your bare body pressed against his chest, the door shutting behind you with a soft click.

Steam still lingered from your earlier attempt, fogging the mirror. He set you down gently, and you barely had time to speak before he was tugging off the rest of his clothes with shaking hands — his eyes never leaving yours.

Then came his boxers.

He hooked his thumbs beneath the waistband and paused — just long enough for your eyes to drop, anticipation coiling tight between your thighs.

And when he pushed them down…

God.

You knew he’d be big. You knew. But it still made your lips part in a silent gasp, heat rushing to your face, to your core, as his cock sprang free — thick, flushed, already dripping with precum, heavy against his thigh.

Bucky’s mouth quirked, barely a smirk, but his eyes stayed locked on yours like he was watching your every breath, every flicker of reaction.

You stood still for a beat, watching him, your eyes drifted back up — the way his chest rose and fell, the scar beneath his collarbone, the tension in his jaw — like he was trying not to devour you.

You stepped back into the shower first, letting the water wash over your skin again, warm and welcome. Your breath hitched as you turned, watching him follow.

Bucky stepped in behind you, quiet for a moment. The water slid over his chest, down the ridges of muscle and old wounds and memory. His metal hand flexed at his side. Then he looked up at you.

“Come here,” you said softly.

He moved toward you slowly, almost hesitantly, like he still couldn’t believe this was real. His hands found your hips under the stream, thumbs brushing your skin.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said again, like it hurt to admit.

Your fingers reached up to tangle in his damp hair. “You make me feel like I am.”

His forehead pressed to yours.

And then he kissed you again — deeper this time, wetter, the rhythm of it syncing with the falling water. His hands roamed more freely now, down your spine, up your sides. He held you like he didn’t know where to start, like every part of you deserved to be touched.

The heat between you built slow and steady. His mouth trailed to your jaw, then your throat, tasting droplets as he went.

“I’ve got you,” he breathed, pressing you gently back against the tile, your skin arching into the chill as heat rolled off him in waves.

The water hit your shoulders, cascading down your chest, but all you could focus on was him. The slick drag of his palms across your ribs. The weight of his body slotting perfectly between your thighs.

His hands gripped the underside of your thighs, lifting you effortlessly. You wrapped your legs around his waist on instinct, the feel of his cock heavy and hard, brushing right where you needed him.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice wrecked. “You’re so soft. So fuckin’ warm—”

You pulled him down into a kiss, all tongue and teeth, water pouring over both of you as your hips shifted against his. His cock slid against your slit, teasing and hot, the slickness of the shower only making it worse — better.

“Bucky—please,” you gasped, biting his lower lip.

His head dropped to your shoulder, panting.

“You want it, baby?” His voice was low, filthy. “Want me to fuck you right here? Let the whole damn compound hear who you belong to?”

A needy whimper left your lips before you could stop it.

“Yes. Please. Do it.”

He didn’t wait another second. With one thrust, he buried himself inside you — deep, thick, stretching you so perfectly your breath left your lungs. Your head hit the tile with a soft thud, eyes flying open with the sudden, glorious pressure.

“Oh my—fuck,” you choked, clutching at his shoulders.

“Jesus, you feel so good,” he growled, thrusting again. His hips snapped forward, water dripping from his hair as his mouth crashed against yours. Each roll of his hips dragged a desperate sound from your throat.

The way he filled you — every inch, every grind — was possessive, intimate. He wasn’t just fucking you. He was claiming you.

“You hear that?” he rasped, slamming into you harder now, the sound of wet skin and moans echoing off the walls. “Let ‘em hear it. Let ‘em know this pussy’s mine.”

You cried out, nails digging into his back.

“Yes, yes—it’s yours, Bucky—”

“That’s right, sweetheart,” he groaned. “You take me so well. Look at you. Fuck.”

He reached down between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with practiced ease. You jerked, the sensation sharp, delicious, your orgasm already building tight in your belly.

“Come on,” he whispered against your ear, filthy and sweet. “Come on my cock. I know you want to.”

His thrusts grew faster, rougher — perfect. Your head dropped back as the pleasure overwhelmed you, and when it hit, it hit.

Your orgasm ripped through you, sharp and blinding, your whole body clenching around him as you screamed his name. Bucky groaned, stuttering inside you, barely holding himself back.

“Fuck, fuck—gonna come—”

“Inside,” you gasped, barely coherent. “Want it. All of it—”

He cursed, hips slamming deep one last time before he came with a raw moan, spilling inside you as he pressed his forehead to yours, panting.

The water poured down over you both, the heat misting your skin, but neither of you moved.

Bucky stayed pressed to you, forehead resting against yours, his hands cradling your hips like you were something fragile — something his. His breathing was still heavy, chest rising and falling against yours, heart pounding like it didn’t know how to calm down.

You leaned in first, brushing your lips over his. Soft. Barely there.

But he kissed you back like he needed it — like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. Slow, warm, reverent. His metal hand came up to cradle your cheek again, thumb stroking water away from your temple.

You sighed into it, into him, fingers drifting over the wet lines of his back, the ridges of muscle that had just held you so tightly.

“I still can’t believe this is real,” he murmured, voice barely audible over the rush of water.

You smiled faintly. “It is.”

He kissed you again — slower this time, like he was memorizing it.

Then he pulled back, just enough to smirk, eyes gleaming through the steam.

“Wanna go again?”

You blinked, caught between a laugh and a moan, your thighs already pressing together in anticipation.

“Here?” you breathed.

He leaned in, mouth brushing your ear.

“Unless you want me to carry you to bed this time…”

You flushed hot all over, biting your lip as heat pooled between your legs all over again.

“…or the counter.”

Got me in the halloween spirit and shiiiii🤭😈

when in hell, do as the demons do

pairing: demon posing as a tattoo artist!steve rogers x tattooed!female reader (number and type of tattoos aren't specified but it's more than two)

summary: new york city tattoo parlors have a tradition of offering special deals on friday the 13th, but when you decide to try out a new shop in brooklyn, you get much more than you paid for—and end up selling your soul to a charming demon.

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), smut, piv sex, unprotected sex, creampie, monsterfucking, dubcon because magic, sex pollen elements, nonconsensual bonding, soul bonds, demon tricks, bdsm (no safe word but with check-ins), choking, sadism/masochism, pain play, very brief blood play, nipple torture, pussy spanking, face slapping, rough body play, finger sucking, dacryphilia, fingering (f receiving), degradation kink, master kink, praise kink, pet names (baby, sweetheart, plaything), begging, teasing, dirty talk, dry humping, biting, marking, cockwarming, aftercare, happy ending

word count: 14.5k

a/n: here's my first halloween fic for 2024! i came up with the idea on friday the 13th last month and liked it for a halloween idea so here we are! this is the fic i was talking about in my poll here, which helped me decide to make steve a demon, but i'm not great at world-building/magic-building so if the magic doesn't make sense, i'm sorry! i just wanted to write some sex pollen-y tattoo artist smut and it turned into a whole thing. this fic really got away from me 😬 whoops. anyway, i hope y'all enjoy!! ♡♡

halloween fics masterlist

The first time you heard the story—the urban legend whispered around New York City tattoo parlors—you were getting your second tattoo. You were young, but not so naive, and yet, when the woman named Wanda Maximoff told you the tale in her vaguely Eastern European accent, a chill raced down your spine. 

It went like this: There was a young person who wanted to get a tattoo, and they were lured into an unfamiliar shop on Friday the 13th by the special deals they were offering. (Where the shop was located in the city varied based on who was telling the story, but Wanda had said it was a small parlor tucked into an alley in the Bowery.)

The person in the story didn’t know the shop or the artist, but they were so enthralled by the artist’s beauty and work that they made the hasty decision to get a tattoo of a symbol they didn’t understand. It was the last decision they’d ever make, because by the time the tattoo was done, they’d been unknowingly enslaved to a dark force—having sold their soul to a demon.

When Wanda had finished the story, her piercing green eyes stared at you long and hard, her mouth twisted to the side as if she was stopping herself from saying more than she should. There was a warning in her expression you didn’t understand, and you hadn’t been able to stop the fear that burrowed into your heart. For a second—just a second—you’d believed the strange, witchy woman. 

Then you’d scoffed, laughing away your fear, and insisted the story must’ve been started by a grumpy old tattoo artist who was tired of the influx of customers on Friday the 13th. It was well known that most New York City tattoo shops had special deals every Friday the 13th, and you asserted the story was just supposed to frighten away naive tattoo novices who’d get something impulsively and regret it later. 

Wanda had pressed her lips together, an inscrutable look on her face, but only nodded once before returning her focus to your tattoo. In the silence that had followed, you’d been left alone with your thoughts, and you mulled over the story, repeating your rationalizations to yourself until you believed them. 

But a sliver of fear and intrigue remained for the rest of your session and when you were done, you were relieved to leave Wanda and her creepy story behind. Something like that—accidentally selling your soul to a demon when getting a tattoo—didn’t happen in real life, and it certainly wouldn’t happen to you. 

That’s what you told yourself, and you believed it. Until, of course, it did happen to you.

Over the years, you heard the story repeated time and time again in countless tattoo shops across the city, and the fear you’d felt listening to Wanda recount her version of the tall tale transformed into curiosity, then a dark kind of delight. It wasn’t something you wanted to push away, but to hold close to your heart, to cherish.

As you got older, you found yourself telling the story to younger folks when you crossed paths with someone who hadn’t heard it. And every time you told the story, you found yourself unconsciously replicating Wanda’s Eastern European accent, making the story as scary as you could. 

Each time you saw apprehension in the eyes of those you told the tale to, something inside you unfurled and grew stronger. You’d smirk when the tattoo novices scurried away, some leaving whatever shop you were in entirely, and a shiver would race down your spine, so much like the fear you’d felt when you first heard the story, but it was no longer that. It was a quiver of devilish mirth. 

You told yourself it was normal, how much fun you had scaring off the younger folks in the tattoo shops you frequented, laughing along with the artists you knew so well. You told yourself you were just taking part in tradition by repeating the story. You told yourself there wasn’t a darkness in your heart that was wakened by the story, and craved something you didn’t quite understand.

That’s what you told yourself, and you believed it. Until you walked into Hell and your entire life changed.

Hell was the new tattoo shop that had opened in Brooklyn at the start of October, though you’d been hearing talk of it for months before then. You’d been curious about it, and the fact that none of your friends or any of the artists you frequented knew much about it made it all the more intriguing. They didn’t know who owned the shop or who was working there, and you were desperate to find out.

It wasn’t a conscious decision you remembered making, but late in the afternoon on Friday the 13th, you took the subway to Brooklyn, getting off at the stop closest to Hell. 

The day was brisk, the chill of autumn clinging to the air even as the sun shone brightly above the city. You wore a thick sweater, a skirt and some tights with your most comfortable boots to make the trek deep into Brooklyn, and you were glad for it. It was a longer walk than you’d been expecting, but pleasant enough while the sun was high.

By the time you made it to the shop, though, the sun was dipping low behind the brownstones of the nearby neighborhood and your cheeks were chilled from the crisp autumn breeze. It was a relief to see the red neon sign for Hell, and you skipped quickly down the last block to push through the door of the nondescript exterior.

You were met by a rush of artificial heat that made you smile, pleased by the respite from the frigid autumn air, which swirled around your ankles as the door closed behind you. The warmth of the parlor kissed your cheeks and thawed through your icy fingertips while you looked around. 

You were surprised to find that Hell was unexpectedly inviting. 

Inside, the tattoo shop was decorated in dark colors that fit the theme: inky blacks, vivid reds, luminous yellows and burnt oranges. But, though it could’ve been dreary, Hell looked alive and lived-in, with cozy black leather sofas in the waiting area, and artwork decorating much of the wall space. When you looked closer, you saw that many of the pieces depicted creatures of the dark. 

As you studied the artwork, you noticed a theme: Demons cavorting with human women, specifically fucking human women. You felt a tingle of something bloom between your thighs. The art was salacious and wicked, and yet, you didn’t feel disturbed by any of the imagery, only intrigued. Even a little bit aroused. 

A clearing throat pulled your attention away from the art and to the redheaded woman standing behind the counter. She asked if you needed help. 

As you approached, you noticed she was beautiful, and had a cold smile on her face, her green eyes watching you in a way that unsettled you. It took you a long moment to realize her gaze reminded you of Wanda, even though the women looked nothing alike. But you felt uneasy as you walked up to the counter.

Your smile was tentative as you inquired if the shop had any Friday the 13th deals, adding that it was tradition, just in case the woman was new to the city.

Her green eyes raked over your face in an obviously assessing look, and you felt like your heart and soul were being judged. You nearly huffed a laugh at the thought, because it was so ludicrous, but managed to keep still and remain expressionless while the woman stared at you.

After a moment, she smiled again and the expression was friendlier, like she was greeting an old friend. She introduced herself as Natasha Romanoff and apologized because all but one of the artists had gone home for the day since their appointments were done and they didn’t get too many walk-ins, being a new shop and all.

Just then, a man stepped behind the counter as if appearing out of nowhere—though, at the time, you rationalized that you’d simply been staring so intently at Natasha, you hadn’t noticed his approach. Without missing a beat, Natasha introduced the man as Steve Rogers, the owner of Hell and the only artist still around on that Friday the 13th.

“What willing sacrifice do we have here, Nat?” Steve asked, sidling up to the counter and pressing his hands on top to lean toward you. 

The first thing you noticed where his eyes—such a pure, beautiful blue that they looked like the perfect, endless sky. But as your gaze wandered over his face, you realized his eyes weren’t his only gorgeous feature. He had a strong brow that gave way to silky blond hair; a straight, sloping nose that led down to a pair of plump, pink lips with just enough of a cupid’s bow, that you wanted to lick it. 

A rush of warmth filled your cheeks at the thought and you dropped your eyes to Steve’s broad shoulders, pausing to admire the way they filled out his simple black t-shirt. His thick biceps were covered in stunningly intricate tattoos, all done in dark ink that contrasted with his pale skin. They extended down to his hands, still planted flat on the counter. 

As far as you could see, there was only a small space of bare, unadorned skin at the base of Steve’s throat—all the rest of him seemed to be covered in tattoos that snaked beneath his t-shirt. You wondered idly if his tattoos covered his whole body, eyes trailing down to the black jeans he wore, and quickly shoved the thought aside. 

Raising your gaze back to Steve’s face, you hoped your expression wasn’t giving away your thoughts, but the charming grin that spread across the hot tattoo artist’s face made you think he had an idea you were checking him out. And he liked it. 

“Or should I say,” Steve went on in a slightly lower, more rumbly voice, leaning further across the counter with a conspiratorial glint in his eye. He was close enough that you got a hint of his cologne—leather and firewood—and you couldn’t help the way your body reacted, warming and tingling and yearning for him. “What sweet thing do we have coming to barter their soul for some new ink?” He winked at you, all charm, and you nearly swooned.

“I-I was just asking if you had any Friday the 13th deals,” you stammered, unsure how to act under the blinding light of Steve’s charm. You’d known and talked to your fair share of attractive tattoo artists in your life, but Steve was on another level. He was hot and alluring in a way you couldn’t put into words, which was how you found yourself blurting, “It’s tradition.”

Steve’s grin hitched higher, and he stared at you a second longer before ducking down behind the counter to rifle through the shelves. 

“Well, I’m not one to turn my back on the old ways,” he said, lifting his head to catch your eye. He gave you a look that made your knees weak, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief like he knew exactly what kind of effect he was having on you, before returning to his task.

Finally, he seemed to find what he’d been looking for and stood up, brandishing a piece of paper on which some simple tattoo designs were sketched. It looked like any other sheet of designs you’d see in any other tattoo shop, and you didn’t think anything of it, turning your attention back to Steve’s handsome face.

“We didn’t have anything planned,” he explained, crossing his arms and leaning down on the counter. 

The position made him slightly shorter than you, while emphasizing the expanse of his shoulders and the thick mucles of his biceps and the veins of his forearms. It was only because his hand pointed to the paper, pulling your attention away from his big body, that you remembered he was telling you something. 

“But if you pick from these, I’ll charge you $113—how’s that sound?” He raised his eyes to yours, and you noticed how long his eyelashes were. 

For a long moment, you just stared at Steve, your mouth slightly parted while you admired his beautiful face. You had the urge again to lick his cupid’s bow, and your body warmed pleasantly as you imagined doing exactly that. Sitting in Steve’s lap and licking him all over…

With effort, you managed to pull yourself from the tattoo artist’s spell, shaking your head to clear it while you processed what he’d said. The price he’d named was a typical deal for New York City, even with the Friday the 13th discount, so you nodded absently. 

“That sounds good,” you muttered, bending over the counter to look at the sheet of paper he was still pointing to. Even his hands were attractive, with skulls tattooed on the backs and other symbols you didn’t recognize decorating his knuckles. You couldn’t help but think his hands would make a pretty necklace if they were wrapped around your throat…

Shaking your head again, you furrowed your brow and forced yourself to focus on the paper with all the designs. There was some cute Halloween-themed stuff, like black cats, witch hats, ghosts and the like. There were also some stylized numbers, like 666, and a couple pentagram designs along with other symbols you recognized.

But the one that caught your attention was something you’d never seen before. It was made up of exquisitely delicate curving lines that formed what loosely looked like an infinity symbol. There were some twists to the design that made it look harsher, more archaic.

“What’s this?” you asked, pointing to the design that called to you and looking up at Steve. Your breath caught in your throat when you met his gaze, and your voice sounded awed as you went on. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

A secretive, conspiratorial smirk tugged at the corners of Steve’s lips and he leaned in a little closer, his scent invading your senses and his breath ghosting over your cheek. 

“It’s a design of my own making,” he said, his voice pitched low and intimate as he looked at you in a way that made warmth curl around your heart and trickle down to settle low in your belly. “It’s special—why, do you like it?”

It took a tremendous amount of effort to pull your gaze away from Steve’s, but you forced yourself to look back down at the paper, your finger tracing the sweeping curves and the sharp points of the design. 

“I do,” you said slowly, thinking about where on your body it might look nice. There was a spot on your ankle where you felt it would look good, like an anklet. But before you could get too attached to the design, you lifted your gaze, giving Steve a serious look. “It’s not a tribal symbol, or any kind of cultural appropriation, right?”

Steve placed a hand over his heart, like he was making a vow, and said, “I promise it’s not from any culture of man.” 

His strange answer piqued your curiosity, but you brushed your questions aside. Later, you’d understand his odd turn of phrase, but in the moment, you chalked it up to Steve playing into the theme of his shop. You figured anyone who named their tattoo parlor Hell would be a little peculiar, and you didn’t think it was a bad thing. Especially when he was so hot.

Looking back down at the paper, you let your eyes trail over the looping design a few times, feeling yourself sinking into…something. A thrilling shiver raced down your spine, a mix of delight and terror that you found intoxicating and you had to shake yourself to remember where you were and what you were doing.

Raising your eyes to Steve, you told him you wanted the design, and once the words were past your lips, you felt a sense of rightness. You weren’t the type of person to get tattoos impulsively, but this one was calling to you, and you didn’t want to pass up the opportunity to get a tattoo from the hot shop owner. 

Besides, when in Hell…

Steve slid the paper off the counter and stood up straight, his eyes going sharp as he looked between you and the design. You got the same sense you had with Natasha, that Steve was judging your heart and soul and determining whether you were deserving of the design you’d chosen. You found yourself hoping desperately that he decided you were.

After a moment, an impish smirk pulled at Steve’s mouth before his expression shifted fluidly into one of theatrical uncertainty.

“I don’t know,” he said slowly, drawing out the tension of the moment and stroking his jaw like he was thinking. “I was hoping to save this design for someone special.” His blue eyes pinned you with a searching look, a charming smirk on his lips. “Are you special, sweetheart?”

Steve’s charm was turned all the way up, and you felt flustered under the weight of it. Not to mention that the way the pet name rolled off his tongue made you want to do anything he asked. Twisting your fingers self-consciously, you ducked your head a little. 

“Well, I—I don’t know,” you admitted, but for some reason, your thoughts strayed to the dark pleasure you sometimes felt when you frightened others with scary stories. Did that make you special, or just a little bit depraved? You didn’t know, but you hoped it was both, and that both were equally appealing to Steve.

The tattoo artist leaned back down on the counter, the veins of his forearms bulging from his skin as he crossed his arms. Since he’d ducked down, he could easily catch your lowered gaze.

“Tell me, pretty girl,” he purred softly, his tone inviting you to lean in. So you did. 

A soft smile curled your lips when you smelled his cologne, and you relaxed a little while he kept talking in that alluringly deep voice of his. 

“Where would you like my design on your body?” 

A shiver of desire thrummed beneath your skin at the implication of Steve’s words. There was something so enticing about the way he’d phrased his question—his design on your body. It called to the darkness buried deep in your heart, and you began to suspect he somehow knew you were a little depraved. Like him. 

Steve held your gaze for a long moment, and you thought you saw something shift in the depths of his blue eyes, like a shadow passing in front of the sun. But it was gone just as quickly, and you questioned whether your eyes were playing tricks on you. 

Shaking yourself free of your strange thoughts, you finally managed an answer. “My ankle.” But it seemed your mouth had a mind of its own, because you found yourself flirting with the hot tattoo shop owner, a smirk curving your lips as you went on. “Do you think my ankle would be worthy of your design, sir?” you asked with feigned innocence.

As you watched for Steve’s reaction, you were rewarded with the sight of his eyes darkening, his pupils blowing wide like he greatly enjoyed the fact that you were flirting with him. His mouth spread into a hungry grin and he rubbed his jaw thoughtfully while he considered you, finally coming to a decision.

“Mm, I think your ankle is the perfect place for my design, sweet girl,” he rumbled, smiling to himself like he’d made a joke only he understood. Then his fingers were trailing lightly along the line of your jaw, distracting you with the tingling warmth they left in their wake as he stood up. “I’m going to enjoy this very much,” he murmured enigmatically before pulling away.

Your mind was too frazzled by his touch and how bereft you felt without it to wonder over his words. Besides, he was already calling for Natasha, who emerged from the back of the shop to help you through the rest of the intake process. It was only then that you realized she’d left you and Steve alone at the counter a while ago. 

She slid smoothly in front of you with that friendly smile of hers while Steve retreated into the back to begin setting up. Natasha walked you through all the paperwork, none of which was new to you. That was why you felt comfortable not fully reading the fine print. 

You should’ve read the fine print. 

Once everything was signed, Natasha led you into the back and showed you where to stow your purse. She pointed to the privacy screen where you could take off your tights and boots, then helped you into the tattoo chair at Steve’s station. 

When you were settled, Natasha bid you and Steve a good night and grabbed her own things before leaving out the back door. It was a little abrupt and you were left feeling confused.

You asked Steve if the shop was closing for the night—it seemed a little early, especially for a Friday. And he explained that he’d decided to close the shop early since they had no more appointments and were unlikely to get any other walk-ins. 

For a moment, you fretted over keeping him late, but he waved away your concerns. 

“There’s no where I’d rather be than tattooing my design on you, pretty thing,” Steve murmured charmingly while he pulled on some black latex gloves. 

The earnestness in his voice soothed your anxiety and you relaxed back into the black leather chair, your legs propped on the footrest while Steve created a stencil of his design. Soon, the two of you were so engaged in a discussion about where exactly on your ankle to place the tattoo that you forgot you were alone with the handsome owner of Hell. 

After trying a few things, you decided to have the beautiful design lay across the front of your ankle, the sides wrapping around to the back so it’d look like a permanent adornment. You smiled when Steve complimented the placement you’d chosen and felt heat suffuse your cheeks at his praise. 

It all felt mostly familiar to you, someone who’d gotten a fair amount of tattoos in your life. But what you hadn’t been prepared for was the way Steve’s hands would feel on your body, the smoothness of the latex belying the warmth of his skin as he curled his fingers around the back of your leg to pull your foot onto his lap. 

Warmth cascaded from the top of your head down through the rest of your body in a gentle, tingling shower, settling heavily between your legs. You pressed your thighs tight together, both to stave off the ache that was building there and to make sure you didn’t accidentally flash the hot tattoo artist.

You weren’t looking at Steve’s face, your gaze tracing the dark black ink decorating his skin and curling beneath the cotton of his shirt, but you thought you saw something flicker over his expression as he took in your reaction to his touch. You almost thought you saw dark shadows creeping into his gaze, blotting out his blue irises and making him look…demonic. 

But when you flicked your gaze up to his, his eyes were a normal, glittering blue. You gave him a small smile and internally shook yourself, chalking up the moment to a trick of the light.

It was dim in the back room, with only a few warm lights positioned in Steve’s corner of the space. Natasha had closed up the rest of the shop, leaving you and Steve alone in the space, which was separated from the front by a wall and a doorway covered in a thick, maroon curtain. 

The walls of the shop were painted black and covered in more of the same artwork you’d seen in the waiting area. The main difference was all the tattoo equipment and the floor that was a bare dark wood, instead of the burnt orange carpet that covered much of the front room. 

Hell was dark, eerie and intimate, and you suspected the atmosphere must be getting to you, that was the only thing that explained what you’d seen in Steve’s eyes. Yes, that must be it, you told yourself, settling into the chair and letting Steve get to work.

The buzzing of his tattoo needle filled the silence and you prepared yourself for the pain that you knew was coming. Little did you know just how much pleasure you’d feel that night as well.

Nothing about the tattoo process seemed amiss until more than halfway through, when you began to feel a strange kind of tingling in your ankle where Steve worked, the sensation slowly creeping up your leg. It settled heavily between your thighs, making your core ache with a yearning emptiness as your slit leaked wetness into your panties.

It wasn’t painful, the tingling feeling, but it was unnerving, like it didn’t belong to you, and you couldn’t understand where it was coming from. 

“Uh-uhm, Steve?” you started, a hint of a whine in your voice, though it was mostly drowned out by the concern you felt. You sat up straight, forcing yourself to ignore the urge to rock your hips and grind yourself against the leather seat of the chair. “Can we take a break? I feel…weird.”

“Of course, sweetheart,” Steve purred, instantly pulling the needle away from your skin and wiping away blood and excess ink with a small towel. After he’d deposited the tattoo gun and cloth on his station, he turned back to you, blue eyes filled with concern as he removed his gloves. “You ok?” he asked, his warm hands massaging the back of your leg that was still draped in his lap.

The urge to moan at the feel of his bare hands on your skin was almost undeniable. It felt so good to have his strong fingers kneading your muscle and you flopped back into the chair, pressing your lips together to stifle the sound of pleasure that wanted to slip free. But you couldn’t stop the way your hips squirmed, your body aching for something… 

“I think so,” you said, finally answering Steve’s question with a tremulous smile. You still felt the odd sensation pulsing up your leg and slipping between your thighs, prompting a delicious throbbing in your core, but forced yourself to ask, “There’s nothing strange in the ink, right? Something I could be allergic to?” 

An allergy was the only explanation you could come up with, even though it didn’t really make sense. You’d gotten plenty of tattoos, surely you would’ve had an allergic reaction years ago if that had been a possibility. And the way you felt wasn’t like any allergic reaction you’d ever heard of. 

You looked at Steve with wide, imploring eyes, hoping he could make sense of what you were feeling.

He shook his head, his fingers working higher to knead the muscle of your calf, nearly pulling a moan from your lips that would’ve drowned out his answer.

“I promise the ingredients are all-natural,” he said, his tone earnest and reassuring. “There’s nothing that would cause an allergic reaction.”

Your head fell back against the leather chair, missing the way Steve’s mouth curved into a devious smirk, and tried to gather your thoughts. The strange tingling sensation had calmed, you thought, having been replaced by the feeling of warmth that Steve’s touch inspired. 

Shaking yourself lightly, you told yourself it must’ve just been the tattoo needle hitting a nerve or something. You’d never had that feeling before with any of your other tattoos, but it must’ve been something to do with Steve’s method. It hadn’t been painful, so it didn’t mean something was wrong. It was fine. You told yourself you would be fine.

“Ok,” you said softly on a sigh, letting yourself sink into the comforting massage of Steve’s fingers. Your body felt a little heavy, a throbbing desire pulsing in your core, but suspected it had more to do with the hot tattoo artist’s fingers than anything else.

Blinking your eyes open, you met Steve’s steady, patient gaze. 

“We can keep going,” you said, giving him a smile that you hoped looked brave.

You must’ve succeeded, because Steve’s mouth curved into a pleased grin and his hand slid higher up your leg and settled on your thigh just above your knee, giving it an affectionate squeeze. His big palm on your bare skin sent a riot of sensation through your body, and when he squeezed you, you felt a mirroring clench of your inner muscles, your body aching to be filled.

“That’s my girl,” Steve murmured affectionately, his blue eyes glimmering with so much proud satisfaction that you felt your face heat and you ducked your head to hide a giddy grin. 

Steve gave your thigh one last squeeze before pulling away to put on a new pair of gloves and refill his tattoo needle.  While he worked, you couldn’t help but close your eyes and sigh silently, your skin feeling much too cold without him touching you.

For the rest of the tattoo, you tried to sit still while the tingling warmth rolled through your body, settling deliciously between your thighs and teasing your throbbing core until you were dripping into your panties. You had the absurd urge to spread your legs, to beg Steve to fill you—with his fingers, his cock, anything, so long as it put an end to the ache pulsing insistently in your body. 

You tried to be good, to be still and quiet so Steve could finish your tattoo. But apparently you weren’t doing as good of a job as you hoped. 

“If you keep squirming, ‘m gonna have to tie you down, pretty girl,” Steve rumbled, his head bent low over your ankle while he worked diligently. 

His voice was so low and deep, you swore you could feel it in your belly, the delicious rumbling tenor teasing your clit, and your hips shifted again, your thighs clenching tight against your needy slit. 

“Sweetheart,” he growled in warning, his hand gripping your foot firmly and tugging on it hard enough that you slid a few inches down in the chair. 

It took every ounce of your self-control not to whimper with desire at the evidence of Steve’s strength. Your imagination flooded with visions of him tossing you around in his tattoo chair, bending you over while he pressed his bulge into your ass or flipping you onto your back and folding you in half so he could pound into your pussy. 

A whine clawed up your throat, desperation flooding your body and making you want to writhe and beg and plead, but you bit it all back. Forcing yourself to be still, you asked, “Are you almost done?” in a tight, tense voice. 

“Almost done,” he confirmed, his voice soothing. He looked up briefly, giving you a rakish grin. “You can be good for me, can’t you, sweet girl?” 

Your heart lurched in your chest. It was all you wanted, to be good for Steve. So you nodded eagerly and tried to relax back into the chair. Your fingers were digging into the padded leather of the armrests and you pushed yourself deeper into the reclined seat, doing your best to ignore the heat and desperate, aching, insistent need pounding through your body.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you said on a small huff, your eyes shut tight so you couldn’t see Steve’s reaction. Your voice was little more than a whine as you went on, “I’ve never felt like this.”

You heard Steve chuckle, the sound rolling over you like a deep, delicious wave. Then, just barely over the buzzing of the tattoo needled pressed to your skin, you thought you heard him say, “Just wait, sweet thing,” in a dark, ominous voice you hardly recognized.

But you didn’t have a chance to try to parse out what he meant, because suddenly, you felt the sensation of a cold, hard shackle closing around your ankle.

It felt so real, and so at odds with the sensation of Steve pulling the needle away from your skin, that your whole body jerked. Quickly, you sat up and stared down at your leg, but there was no metal cuff. Only the tattoo. Finished.

Fresh black ink shimmered from your skin, and you had a brief moment to appreciate the artistry of Steve’s work, the beautiful, intricate design of the symbol. The phantom feeling of a manacle wrapped around your ankle remained, and you looked up at Steve, finding him wearing a smug, devious smirk. 

You couldn’t make sense of his expression, and in the next breath, it didn’t matter, because the fire that had been simmering in your blood suddenly blazed into an inferno. You couldn’t help the pained cry that fled your lips as you fell back into the chair, desire burning a demanding path through your body and tearing through your mind. 

Your legs fell open on the leather seat, a pornographic moan slipping from your lips when the cool air of the tattoo shop brushed against your inner thighs. Your fingers tugged fussily at your sweater, trying to claw off the once-cozy garment that suddenly felt too heavy and constricting against your scorching skin. 

Your eyes swiveled in your head, seeking and finding Steve, who was standing beside the chair and staring down at you. His gaze was lit with a depraved fire and his mouth was curled into a delighted grin.

“Aw, poor little plaything, are you feeling hot and bothered?” he cooed at you in a mean, patronizing tone that was so at odds with the charming affability you’d come to expect from the tattoo artist that you felt like you’d been slapped. 

A pathetic whimper slipped from your lips, and Steve’s eyes seemed to glow brighter, his smile hitching wider, growing more hungry and more eager at the same time. Leaning over your squirming body, Steve stroked the tips of his fingers down your cheek.

Your body’s reaction to his touch was instantaneous. The burning, blistering pain of need calmed enough that it no longer hurt, and you chased Steve’s fingertips instinctively, associating his contact with relief. He let you nuzzle into the palm of his hand, chuckling darkly when you sighed happily, your mind moving too slow to process what was happening.

“Should we get this cumbersome sweater off you, sweet thing?” Steve murmured, his hands curving around your shoulders before stroking down your sides. His thumbs brushed over the tips of your breasts and your spine arched off the chair, pushing into his touch, needing more. 

You were so hot, so achy, so needy, and you somehow knew Steve was the only one who could help you feel better. Distantly, you knew it was highly inappropriate to let your tattoo artist undress you, even one as hot as Steve, but in that moment, you didn’t care. His touch through your sweater wasn’t enough—you needed him to touch your bare skin. 

So you nodded frantically, whimpering, “Yes, please, Steve, help.”

The man laughed, a dark, evil chuckle rumbling from his chest. 

You didn’t understand what was funny, but you didn’t protest because his big hands slipped under the hem of your sweater and he touched you properly. His palms were warm, his fingers calloused and rough against your belly. 

You sucked in a surprised breath when his touch sent sizzling tingles of pleasure through your body, gathering in your throbbing slit and making more wetness gush into your panties. 

If you’d been in your right mind, you might’ve felt embarrassed over how wet you were from Steve sliding his hands up your stomach, but all you could do was revel in the pleasure his touch brought you. Your mouth curved into a delirious smile as you stared dazedly up at the supernaturally handsome man like he was the center of your universe.

Slowly, almost torturously, Steve slid your sweater up until it bunched above your breasts and he paused. His hands wrapped around your ribs, thumbs stroking over your skin beneath the band of your bra. He stared down at you, his blue eyes nearly glowing with hungry desire as his gaze raked over the lace containing your breasts.

Your chest heaved with your gasping breaths, and you took the moment to try to settle. The fire in your blood didn’t burn painfully with Steve touching you, but you still wanted—no, needed—more. Your hips squirmed in the leather seat and a whine clawed up your throat until it spilled free.

“Steeeve, please,” you begged, staring up at the tattoo artist with wide, imploring eyes. At the same time, you lifted your arms above your head and sat up a little in an effort to get him to pull your sweater the rest of the way off. Instead of spurring him to move, though, it had the opposite effect. 

Steve went still, closing his eyes like he was savoring the sound of your whining voice and begging words. When he opened them a moment later, they appeared darker—the soft, sky blue of his irises darkened to an almost midnight black, with inky swirls of darkness creeping in from the edges.

Then he blinked, and his eyes went back to normal. 

You were too distracted by your body’s need to think much about the fact that his eyes had gone nearly pitch black—that he’d looked, for a moment, like one of the monstrous demons from the art adorning the walls of Hell. 

Your delirious, desirous mind let the moment slip by unquestioned, instead focusing on your lust—and on Steve. 

“Lift up for me, pretty thing,” he cooed, his tone almost gentle despite the grit and gravel in his voice. 

You did as he said, lifting your back away from the chair so he could pull your sweater off, leaving you in just your bra, skirt and panties on his tattoo chair.

In the short moment when Steve’s hands deserted your body, the blazing inferno of need returned. You groaned in pain, reaching for Steve and latching on to his wrist. The burning sensation abated the second you touched him, but you didn’t stop there, dragging his hand back to your body and sighing in further relief when you pressed his palm to your breast. 

You didn’t know if Steve pushed you back into the chair or if you fell back and he followed, but he leaned over you, his big hands kneading your tits through your bra. A moan tumbled from you as you sank into the feeling, melting beneath his touch. It just felt so good—and the rougher he got, the harder he groped your tits, pulling and pinching on your nipples through the lace of your bra, the better it felt.

“That’s it, plaything, moan for me—let me hear how much you love it when I abuse your tits,” Steve growled, leaning so far over you that his head blocked out the light above the chair. His face was contorted into a greedy expression, his eyes sharp and hungry as he watched pleasure dance across your features. “You’re such a dumb little doll, you have no idea what’s heppening to you, do you?”

His tone was mean and mocking, but your body responded to the deep tenor of it all the same, wetness gushing between your thighs while your hips writhed on the leather seat, seeking something to grind against. 

Your mind was hazy with lust and pleasure and confusion. It took you a long few moments to understand what he’d asked and when you did, it sparked a bit of fear. But even that dissolved into pleasure and you moaned, your hands clinging to Steve’s wrists—not trying to pull him away, just anchoring yourself to him. 

“Wha-what’s happening to me?” you whined breathlessly, blinking your eyes up at Steve with an equal amount of uncertainty and trust. You still didn’t realize he was the reason for what was happening, but you’d come to learn that soon enough. Not that it would matter.

“Oh, baby, you don’t need to worry your pretty little head about that,” Steve cooed, his tone changing so quickly back to gentle and reassuring, it nearly gave you whiplash. 

Still, pleasure swirled in your chest at the sweet praise in his words, even if they were more than a little condescending. A smile curled the corners of your lips, but you forced yourself to focus. There was something you wanted to know—something Steve knew, and you were determined to get the answer from him. You knew it was important, even if you couldn’t remember why.

“Steve, pleeease,” you whimpered, your words dissolving into a moan when he shoved the lace cups of your bra down and pinched your nipples harder, pulling and twisting them until your spine was arching up off the leather seat. It took you a long moment to remember your train of thought and continue on. “Tell me, Steve, please, I can handle it—what’s happening to me?” 

A wide smirk spread across Steve’s face and his eyes flickered with shadows that seemed to want to consume his gaze the same way he looked like he wanted to consume you. Bending over your squirming, twitching body, Steve’s face hovered just above yours, an evil kind of mischief in his expression. 

“If I tell you, do you promise you’ll take it like a good girl?”

Images assailed your imagination—Steve shoving his cock deep in your cunt, growling at you to take it like a good girl while he fucked you like a bat out of hell. Steve pounding into your mouth, grunting his pleasure as he spilled down your throat and ordered you to take it like a good girl. Steve stretching your ass around his cock, smoothing a hand down your spine as he cooed at you in that meanly patronizing tone to take it like a good girl. 

A loud, debauched moan slipped from your lips as bliss pulsed through your body. It took you a long moment to push the images from your mind and gather your scattered thoughts enough to blink your eyes open and nod up at Steve.

“I’ll be good, I promise,” you said fiercely, knowing somewhere deep down that if you were a good girl for him, the visions you’d had would become a reality. And you wanted so badly for them to become a reality—at any cost. 

A devious, delighted grin spread across Steve’s face at your answer, satisfaction shimmering in his eyes. Then one of his hands let go of your breast and skimmed down your body, over your hip and down your leg until his fingers circled your ankle, just above the tattoo he’d given you. 

“This design you chose, it’s not just something I designed—it’s my mark,” he purred, putting emphasis on the last two words as if you’d know what that meant. But you still didn’t understand what your tattoo had to do with what was happening to you. His explanation just made you more confused.

“What does that mean?” you whimpered, your voice desperate and pleading. You wanted to understand, you wanted to be good for Steve and grasp whatever it was he was trying to tell you, but the meaning of his words was still out of reach.

“Think hard, sweetheart,” Steve cooed, his voice turning sweet in a way that had your belly swooping deliciously. 

When you still didn’t seem to understand, Steve’s hand slid down, his palm covering your fresh tattoo and you gasped. His touch against the mark felt like he was yanking on a thread that had been tied behind your belly button. It felt like you were tethered to something…to him, you realized. 

You were tethered to Steve by some sort of magic. The mark he’d tattooed on your skin had bound you to him…

All the air fled your lungs as comprehension sank into your mind. Your face twisted in shock and understanding, though the expression didn’t last long. 

“There it is, that’s my girl,” Steve praised, squeezing your ankle and pressing his palm more firmly down on the mark. 

The touch dragged a reluctant moan from you as pleasure swirled through your body, and you weren’t certain if it was your own or the result of the bond between the two of you. When you got control of yourself, you glared up at the devious tattoo artist, letting him see the betrayal written plainly across your face.

“Oh don’t look at me like that, baby,” Steve rumbled, his other hand wrapping around the front of your throat and tipping your chin up while he bent down until there were mere inches between you. “You heard the story, and you ignored its warning.” He tsked at you, shaking his head when you only narrowed your eyes in anger. “You weren’t careful about getting tattooed on Friday the 13th and now you’re enslaved to a dark force—you’re enslaved to me.”

He didn’t give you a chance to react to that declaration, only closed the distance between your lips, covering your mouth with his own to steal a kiss. And, god help you, what a kiss it was. 

Steve’s mouth slanted perfectly to yours, his lips soft and seeking as they brushed against yours. His tongue flicked out, licking along the seam of your lips as if asking for entry, and you were helpless to the pleasure he offered. 

Your lips parted with a soft gasp, an invitation if ever there was one, and he wasted no time slipping in. Steve took possession of your mouth, plundering your body while his hands held you firmly pinned beneath him. 

It wasn’t long before you were moaning into his mouth and kissing him back, your fingers plunging into his soft, blond hair and nails digging into the skin at the nape of his neck until he was growling into your mouth. 

His hand around your neck squeezed harder, choking you lightly in retaliation for the bite of your nails and you pulsed with so much heat, you cried out sharply, the sound transforming into a whine of need. 

Steve nipped your bottom lip, hard enough to draw blood, and the coppery taste mixed with the heat of his tongue as he licked it from your mouth. When he pulled away a moment later, you could see the traces of red staining his lips—though that wasn’t nearly as disturbing as the sight of his eyes. 

Writhing shadows had blotted out the blue irises of his gaze, leaving only two fathomless pools of darkness shimmering in the warm lights of Hell. A shiver raced down your spine, unease and curiosity filling your chest as you stared at the suddenly inhuman visage of the handsome tattoo artist. 

Steve Rogers was still attractive, even with the unnatural eyes of a demon, but the shadows in his gaze changed the terrain of his face. His teeth looked sharper in his mouth, and the curve of his smirk looked more cruel. His jaw looked more angular and his body seemed bigger, broader, more intimidating as he loomed above you. 

And yet…

You liked how Steve looked when he’d shed the pretense of humanity. He was somehow, impossibly, hotter. More dangerous, sure, but also freer in a way that you found enticing. 

It took you a moment, your mind swimming with pleasure and the tingling remnants of his kiss, to pinpoint exactly what you liked about seeing Steve without the guise he must’ve been wearing. He was more himself. And this version of him, this demonic visage, called to the darkness inside of you in a way that made you feel like he belonged to you just as much as you belonged to him.

Pressing a palm to your forehead like you could push that thought straight out of your head, you forced yourself to focus on the present. “Nooo,” you moaned in a small voice, mostly to yourself because you were already thinking it wouldn’t be so bad to belong to Steve, especially if he belonged to you, too. 

But, for all you could feel the bond between you and the demon strengthening and solidifying as your tattoo healed supernaturally fast, his desire and lust mixing with your own, he still couldn’t read your mind. And he must’ve thought you were protesting the newfound connection between the two of you.

“Ohh yes, sweetheart,” Steve growled, his fingers digging into the sides of your throat and tipping your face up so he could see your eyes. 

The two shimmering pools of darkness were writhing with agitation, and you stared at them in wonder, your mouth falling open with awe. They were just as beautiful as his human eyes, looking like the surface of the deep ocean at night. 

“You’re mine, pretty little plaything,” Steve rasped, his voice low and dark and vehement, like he was determined to make you understand your new reality. “Your heart, your body, your soul—it’s all mine,” he went on, pausing only to capture your lips in a brief, but searing kiss, like he was marking you all over again. “You’re bound to me for eternity, baby, enslaved to all my whims, and I bet you know what I want rigt now.”

You did know. You could feel Steve’s lust slinking through the bond, flooding your body and creating the burning need that was so painful when he wasn’t touching you. But beneath it, you could feel your own desire, too. The yearning you’d felt for the tattoo artist that had only grown since you’d discovered his true nature as the demon from the Friday the 13th legend. 

Watching your face keenly, Steve let go of your ankle, grabbing one of your wrists and bringing your hand to the bulge in his pants. It was so big and hot and hard, even through the stiff denim of his jeans, that you whimpered. But you didn’t pull away, letting Steve use his grip to make you stroke his cock. And when he groaned his pleasure, your fingers tightened, giving his thick length a curious squeeze. 

“This is what you do to me, pretty girl, this is why you’re the one I chose,” he growled, his voice so deep, it sounded animalistic. “I knew from the moment you walked into my shop with your sweet little skirt and your dark little heart that you were going to be mine—and now I’ve got you.” 

It occurred to you to ask what he meant about your heart, but you suspected you knew. He’d looked deep into your heart and soul saw the darkness there—and it was exactly what he wanted. 

The knowledge that you were what he wanted filled you with a sense of pride, and you took over from Steve. You stroked his cock through his jeans without his guidance, squeezing him while you stared up at him, devotion written across your face while you pressed your throat into his hand, knowing the tattoos on his fingers were making a pretty necklace.

“You’re my precious little plaything, aren’t you, baby?” Steve cooed at you, sweeping his thumb over your jaw and swiping it across your lower lip. “Don’t worry, you’ll enjoy being mine.”

You ducked your head, taking his thumb into your mouth and sucking on him, your eyes going heavy lidded as you nodded your agreement. Steve grunted a pleased sound.

“That’s it, that’s my good girl,” he purred, pressing his thumb onto your tongue and pushing deeper into your mouth. “You’re gonna be such a good fucktoy for your demon master, aren’t you?”

You could feel Steve’s cock twitch beneath your fingertips and you squeezed him harder, moaning when you felt an answering pulse deep in your cunt. The burning desire that had been held at bay by the realization of what exactly he was and what he’d done to you returned with a fury that would not be ignored.

“Yes, master,” you murmured obligingly after tipping your head back to slide him from your mouth. You pressed a kiss to the pad of his thumb and smiled up at Steve, your eyes hungry and eager.

The demon’s gaze darkened further somehow, filling with greed and lust and just about every sin you could imagine—all promising to do dirty, filthy things to your body in the name of slaking the desire that burned brightly in both of you. 

“I knew you were perfect,” he growled, grabbing your throat and pulling you in for another kiss. His mouth was hot and demanding, his kiss inciting the fire in your body to burn hotter, making the throbbing between your legs impossible to ignore. 

While he kissed you breathless, your fingers kept stroking his cock through his jeans, your other hand sliding beneath the hem of his t-shirt to rake your nails through the thin trail of hair dusting his abs. Both of you groaned at the contact, Steve’s tongue plunging into your mouth as his hips thrust against your palm. 

Just as quickly as he’d dragged you into the kiss, Steve pulled away, shoving you roughly back into the chair. Your back hit the padded leather, a light, “oomph,” of surprise tumbling from your lips. One of his hands gripped your thigh possessively, fingers digging into your soft flesh while he leaned down and pulled a lever somewhere on the chair.

The footrest dropped away, allowing Steve to step between your legs, his hands groping roughly at your thighs, your hips, your tits. A low rumbling growl sounded in his chest every time his hand touched a piece of your clothing, as if they offended him personally. You squirmed in your seat, trying to find the words to beg him to take off the rest of your clothes, but all you could manage was a desperate whine.

“Are you still feeling hot, baby?” Steve asked, his tone playfully condescending as he skimmed his hands up your bare legs and tugged on the hem of your skirt—which, at that point, was barely covering anything with the way your legs were splayed open around his hips. “Should we get rid of the rest of these tiresome clothes?” 

You were nodding your head before he even finished his question, his hands making quick work of unzipping your skirt and tugging on it until you lifted your hips so he could drag it down along with your panties. He stepped back so he could pull them off your legs, raking his gaze up your body and pointedly looking at your bra.

“Take it off, fucktoy,” he growled, his tone going mean again. 

The quick change of his mood had you gasping with surprise, even as his rough voice made you gush more wetness between your thighs. You didn’t know if you’d ever get used to the demon’s mercurial moods, but you liked the unpredictability—it meant you’d never grow bored.

Scrambling to do as Steve said, you pushed forward from the chair to unclip your bra and ripped it off, dumping it unceremoniously on the floor. When that was done, the demon shoved your legs open and stepped back between them, pushing your legs up to drape over the armrests of the chair.

“Good girl,” Steve rumbled, stroking his hands down your thighs, digging his fingers in suddenly, hard enough to make you squeal and squirm. He chuckled, looking like he enjoyed your reaction, and pushed your legs wider, spreading you so fully, you felt a twinge of discomfort in your hip. But the pain was soothed away a moment later by the pleasure throbbing through your body.

A sharp exhale gusted from Steve the moment he laid his eyes on your bare pussy. He was staring down at you like you were everything to him, like you were the center of his universe. He looked like he was a mere second away from getting down on his knees and worshipping at the altar of your body.

More surprising than the way he was looking at you was what you could feel through the bond tethering you to the demon. You could feel his devotion in your soul, the sensation curling round your heart and filling you with a sense of adoration that was both yours and Steve’s. 

As much as you were his, you knew, with absolutely certainty, that he was yours, too. For better or for worse.

But the longer Steve stared down at your body, his hands unable to stop touching you—exploring every inch of your skin, his palms cupping your breasts, thumbs stroking over you nipples before he curved his fingers around your ribs and skimmed down to your hips, feeling you, learning you—the more you began to believe it wasn’t so bad being bonded to a demon.

You hadn’t noticed your gaze had drifted away from the demon, staring unseeingly over his shoulder while you reveled in the feel of him touching you, until his hand came down sharply on your slit, slapping your pussy so sharply, you cried out in surprise, tears springing to your eyes. Pleasure and pain burned through you, writhing and fighting for dominance, and you were helpless to the sensation.

“Eyes on me, fucktoy,” Steve growled, grabbing your chin and forcing you to look up at him. His fingers dug into your cheeks, his face looming over yours while his hand came down again, spanking your cunt and making your whole body jerk in the leather chair from the sharp, stinging pleasure. “You’re my dumb little cock slave, and you’ll look at me like a good girl when I’m playing with you like you’re my own personal fuck doll—got it?”

The demon punctuated his seething question with another spank to your pussy, and it was the hardest of all, but though you expected pain, you felt only pleasure. A loud, pornographic moan, spilled from your lips while your mind swirled, your whole body throbbing like you were one big nerve ending. 

Forcing your eyes open, you found Steve watching you expectantly. You gasped for air and scrambled for words “Yes, master,” you cried, surprising even yourself when you shouted, “I’m your good little fucktoy!” 

Steve seemed appeased, a satisfied smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth while his fingers rubbed through your drenched folds. “You are, baby,” he assured you. “You’re such a good little plaything for your master.” 

His words were an alluring purr, soothing you. Then, he surprised you by shoving three of his fingers into your cunt, making your whole body shudder from the unrelenting and sudden fullness.

“Oh god,” you moaned, pleasure ricocheting violently through your body. You squirmed in the chair, feeling your pussy spasm with delight, your wetness gushing out of you and dripping down between your ass cheeks, making a mess on the chair. 

“God’s not going to help you now, sweet thing,” Steve rumbled with a smirk, pulling his fingers out of you before pushing them deep into your sopping wet hole again. “You sold your soul to me, He has no dominion over you anymore—you’re mine for eternity.”

His thumb rubbed your clit and you cried out helplessly, barely hearing his words as your body focused on the pleasure he was giving you. He pushed deeper, his fingers stroking a spot inside you that had your spine arching and your hips bearing down on his delicious intrusion. You were so wet, he fucked you easily with his three fingers, spreading them wide to stretch you open. 

“Oh fuck,” you whined, your whole body shaking with need while the demon fucked you slowly with his fingers. You watched them slide into you, your folds swollen and puffy from his rough spanking. He was moving with a torturous laziness and you squirmed, mewling for more, “Faster, Steve, please.” 

Suddenly, Steve’s fingers pulled free from your obscenely wet pussy, and a second later they were being shoved into your mouth. Your sweet, musky taste exploded on your tongue as the demon pushed them deep, making you gag on his slick fingers while he loomed above you. 

“What did you call me?” he seethed through gritted teeth, the dark shadows of his eyes roiling like a churning sea.

“M’m sowwy,” you mumbled around his fingers, drool dripping down your chin and tears spilling onto your cheeks. 

Steve’s mood immediately calmed at the sight of your tears and he made a soft shushing sound as he pulled his fingers from your mouth. “There, there, my sweet little plaything,” he cooed, leaning down to kiss and lick the salty tears from your skin. “I like it better when you call me master—can you be a good girl and call me master?”

The way Steve was bent over you, the bulge in his jeans pressed into your leaking cunt and you rubbed against him like a cat in heat, your hole aching to be filled, but you knew you had to answer his question first. 

“Yes, master,” you whimpered, “I’mma be a good girl, I swear.” 

“That’s my girl,” Steve purred, swiping the drool from your chin and pressing a kiss to your mouth. It was sweet and slow, his mouth praising you without words and making your head spin with the feeling of affection slipping through the bond. 

When he pulled away, Steve gave you a stern look, his brow lowered over his black eyes and his mouth pressed into a firm line. 

“Now, I can feel you rubbing your cute little cunt on my cock, baby,” he rumbled, his hands groping your thighs, but not pinning you down to make you stop. So you kept humping against him, your body shameless in its need for him. “But I want you to use your words—what do you want from your master?”

“Fuck me, master—please, oh g-fuck, I need your cock, master, please, please, please give it to me,” you babbled, blinking away the last of your tears to stare up into the handsome face of your demon. 

You could still feel his lust and desire and fondness thrumming through the bond he’d created, but beneath that, deep in your own heart, you felt your own affection swell. You’d had a crush on Steve before he’d sealed the bond, and—god help you—those feelings didn’t waver in light of his trickery. If anything, every touch, no matter how rough or soft, only strengthened them. 

Steve’s fingers dug into the plush flesh of your thighs, his grip possessive as he stared down at you with a satisfied smirk. 

“Y’know, I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of hearing you beg for me, baby—not for a millennia, at least,” he murmured, ducking down to capture your swollen lips in a kiss. 

At the same time, he rubbed his bulge against your sensitive pussy, making you cry out so that he could swallow the sound down. 

Kissing him back, you whimpered into his lips, need burning through your body and making you impatient. Your fingernails raked down the front of Steve’s chest, reveling in the way his firm muscles contracted, and the sharp little breaths he took. 

You hooked your fingers under the lower hem and tugged the shirt up with a desperate whine until Steve yanked it off over his head, breaking your kiss for only a second. 

Your fingers explored the smooth planes of Steve’s chest, brushing over his beautiful tattoos as you traced his hard muscles. All the while, he kissed you, devoured you, his own hands kneading your thighs and your tits and plucking at your nipples until you were writhing mindlessly beneath him. 

“Please, master,” you keened, arching your spine and pushing your tits into his palms. “Fuck me, pleeease!” You tugged demandingly on the waist of his jeans, your fingers fumbling to undo the buckle of his belt.

Steve only chuckled maddeningly, rubbing his clothed cock into your sopping wet pussy while he pressed kisses to your jaw. 

“C’mon, baby, you can beg better than that, can’t you?” he rumbled, his tone playful and warm, but it quickly turned dark and demanding. “Beg me to split you open on my dick, to fucking ruin your pretty little pussy with my fat demon cock—use your filthy mouth, sweetheart, tell me all the dirty things you want your evil master to do to you.”

“Oh fuck, yes,” you groaned, squirming beneath him and humping shamelessly against his bulge. “Please, master—please ruin me, hurt me, abuse me,” you cried, not knowing where the words were coming from, but you suspected they were being ripped right from that dark place deep in your heart, your soul. “Fill my holes with your demon cock and pump me full of cum, wanna be bulging with your seed, master—wanna be your dumb little fucktoy for all eternity. Make me yours, please!”

You cut off on a broken, desperate sob, and Steve’s mouth covered yours with an animalistic roar, kissing you hard—like he was branding you all over again. It made you moan louder, kissing him back just as fervently.

Your head spun from Steve’s kiss, but you could feel his hands fumbling between your legs. Then, the hot, hard length of him smacked against your swollen, smarting pussy, making you cry out into his mouth. 

Steve drank down your sounds greedily, like they were the nectar of the gods. His tongue pushed into your mouth, licking into you as if trying to lap up your pleasured noises straight from their source.

“You’re fucking perfect, baby,” Steve praised when he pulled away, his voice silky and earnest in a way that made your heart warm in your chest. 

His mood had switched again, and you didn’t think you’d ever get tired of the way it could shift like the wind. It was exciting and thrilling—like riding your own personal roller coaster. But no matter how his mood seemed to shift, you always felt his affection through the bond. Your demon was just fickle about how he liked to show that affection.

“Such a good fucking girl for me, ‘m gonna give you exactly what you want, sweet thing,” Steve went on, rubbing his hot, hard length through your drenched folds, coating himself in your wetness. “Gonna bury my cock in your holes for an aeon, keep you dumb and drunk on my cock, gonna make you my precious little plaything.” 

“Yes, master, please,” you whimpered, your hands finding Steve’s waist and pulling your bodies closer, your ass sliding to the edge of the chair. “Fuck my tight little hole, please—please!” 

Something in Steve seemed to snap, and with a snarl, he folded you in half in his leather tattoo chair, pushing your knees to your chest and lining up the head of his cock with your weeping entrance. In the next breath, he shoved his cock deep into your cunt, splitting you open with such a delicious mixture of pain and pleasure that your screams filled the whole of Hell. 

Steve gave you only a moment to adjust to the sheer girth of his thick, massive cock before he pulled back and snapped his hips forward, the sound of his thighs hitting your ass making a loud clapping sound. 

Your mouth fell open, the most obscene, pornographic moans coming from your lips. Against your will, your eyes slid closed.

Grabbing the back of your head to hold it still, Steve slapped your cheek—hard—making your eyes fly back open. The stinging pain blurred into a deep, aching pleasure, and your cry of surprise devolved into a lewd moan. 

“What did I tell you, fucktoy?” Steve growled, slapping you again, harder. The pools of his eyes churned dangerously, his mouth twisted with determination as he reminded you of his earlier command. “Keep your fucking eyes on me.”

Though you knew his strikes were meant to be punishing, he was keeping a tight leash on his strength. His hand smarted but he never truly hurt you. 

It was more degrading, feeling Steve slap your face, and you enjoyed it much more than you would’ve expected. The sounds of your desperate, depraved pleasure spilling freely from your lips. 

When you managed to focus your gaze on your demon, you found Steve watching you with a smug smirk on his face. 

“Do you like it when I slap you, sweet thing?” he cooed, his hips driving into yours, fucking you deep and hard with his thick cock while he held the back of your head. He didn’t wait for an answer, slapping you again, letting your face twist to the side before forcing you back to look at him. “Do you want me to hurt you more, pretty girl?”

“Yes, master!” you cried, surprising even yourself. But you were greedy for the mixture of pain and pleasure Steve offered, finding you were quickly growing addicted to the wicked way he made you feel. “Play rough with your fucktoy—please, master, I want it!”

“Good girl,” Steve purred, grinning wider and using his free hand to slap your tits, your thighs, anywhere he could reach. The sharp smacking sounds joined with the clapping of his hips against your ass and the obscene wet noises of your pussy being fucked. “You’re such a perfect little plaything, baby, taking it like such a good girl for your master.”

Steve leaned more heavily on top of you, his hips pressing his cock so deep, you sobbed with pleasure, feeling like he was pushing into your cervix. Pain and pleasure made your mind spin, and your hands clung to Steve’s thick biceps, your nails digging sharply into his skin.

Your demon hissed out a breath at the bite of your nails, his hips stuttering and fucking more powerfully into you. He slammed against a spot deep inside your cunt that had you thrashing beneath him in the leather chair, clawing at him even more.

“Fuck yeah, sweetheart, hurt me back,” he growled, his tone taunting you meanly as he went on. “Show me what ya got, I can take it.” 

Darkness rose inside of you, and though it was tempting to believe it was solely the effect of the demon’s mark on your body, you knew it wasn’t. This was the darkness that had grown within you over the years, the one that had called out to the demon and had been so pleased when he answered your call by binding you to him for an eternity of sinful servitude. 

Skimming your hands up to Steve’s shoulders, you didn’t miss the way he looked a little disappointed at your light touch. You curled your lips in an impish grin—the only warning you gave him before you dug your nails deep into his skin, dragging them down over his inked shoulders and biceps as hard as you could.

Though you didn’t break skin, dark red lines appeared on his pale skin where it shone through and Steve groaned loudly, his hips twitching before he picked up his pace. He fucked you faster, with punishingly violent strokes that had you babbling an endless stream of pleasured noises.

“That’s it, plaything, let it out—take it out on me,” he growled encouragingly. 

You didn’t know what exactly he was prompting you to let out, but you suspected it had something to do with the darkness churning in your chest. And his reaction, his pleasure in response to the pain you’d given him, lit something inside you. The darkness unfurled further as you finally let it free, and you felt Steve’s encouragement through the bond you shared.

Tilting your hips up so that Steve could pound harder and deeper into your pussy, you reached around to his lower back, raking your nails up the long length of his muscles. You pressed so deep, you would’ve gouged into a human’s skin. But your demon was made of sturdier stuff, and he simply grunted in pleasure, fucking you harder—so hard, it nearly hurt.

Steve was glorious above you, his demented coal-black eyes staring down at you with a fathomless greed you could feel thrumming in your own heart. It made you want to hurt him. It made you want to love him. 

Frightened by both impulses, you grabbed Steve by the back of his neck, digging your nails into his skin as you pulled him down. Instead of kissing him, though, your face buried into the crook of his neck and you sank your teeth into the spot at the base of his throat, the one free of ink, biting him hard enough you thought you might actually pierce the demon’s skin.

He tasted like fire and smoke and salt. 

Steve’s growling groan rumbled in his throat and you felt it against your cheek, moaning in answer while you licked his warm, golden skin. You sucked on him hard, wanting to leave your own mark on your demon, sinking your teeth in further while his cock pressed deep inside you.

Your demon allowed it for a moment, then his hand wrapped around the front of your throat and he pushed you away, pinning you hard against the back of the tattoo chair while he climbed on top of you. The back gave way until you were laying flat and Steve’s big body was covering yours. 

The chair rocked dangerously, but stayed upright and Steve caged you in beneath him, fucking you in slow, lazy strokes.

“You bite me like that again, sweetheart, and ‘m gonna blow my load way too soon,” he grumbled, glaring at you, though there wasn’t any heat to it. Especially since you could feel his pleasure through the bond. 

“Oops,” you said, unable to hold back your giggle. Steve didn’t look nearly as amused as you felt, so you forced yourself to look a little contrite as you pouted and simpered, “Sorry, master.”

Shaking his head and huffing a laugh, you felt his humor slip through the bond and saw his mouth flicker in a smile. 

“Baby, baby, baby, what am I gonna do with you, huh?” he purred. Tilting his head to the side, he considered you with smirk. “You’ve only been bound to me for an hour and I’ve already corrupted you, sweetheart.” 

He ducked down, dragging his nose from the base of your throat up to your jaw, nipping at the spot just below your ear that had you moaning softly. Your legs clung to his sides, holding him close in the cradle of your body while he kissed your neck.  

“Mmm,” you hummed in agreement, even though you both knew it was the darkness in your heart that had drawn him to you in the first place, not that he’d corrupted you. “I guess you’ll just have to keep me, master,” you said sweetly, lifting your hips to meet Steve’s languid strokes, gasping when the tip of his cock hit that spot deep inside you that had you seeing stars. 

At your words, Steve huffed a laugh, burying his face in your neck and mumbling against your skin, “As if I’d ever be able to let you go.” He rocked into your body, wringing another moan from you as he grunted his own pleasure. “Fuck, your cunt feels so good, ‘m not gonna last much longer.”

“Master, please, ‘m so close,” you whimpered into his ear. You wrapped one of your arms around his broad shoulders while your other hand dove into his soft, blond hair. You clung to your demon while he dug his arms beneath your back, holding you pinned beneath his body so he could rut ferociously into you.

“Bite me, baby,” Steve growled, pounding into you with short, hard thrusts, grinding the base of his cock against your clit with each one. “Mark me—show me I’m yours.” His voice was a desperate, greedy rasp, his need thrumming through your body through the bond, and you couldn’t think of doing anything but indulging him.

Your teeth sank deep into Steve’s neck, in the one spot that wasn’t covered in ink, and sucked hard on his skin, licking his throbbing pulse point at the same time. He growled wildly, his thrusts turning harder and meaner, his fingers slipping between your bodies to find your clit and rub ruthlessly.

You didn’t know which of you came first because it seemed like you both pushed each other over the edge in the same instant. 

The coil of pleasure deep in your belly snapped suddenly, and pleasure exploded through your body, leaving devastation in its wake as you screamed your release. At the same time, Steve groaned, long and loud, his cock throbbing deep inside your cunt while he spilled his seed into your fluttering channel. 

Your demon kept fucking you as you both rode out the waves of pleasure, your body clinging to his and milking his cock while he held you crushed to his chest. 

Your gasps for air turned to deeper breaths as you slowly came down from your peak, and you were distantly aware of Steve hauling you up from the chair and spinning around to sit while you sprawled in his lap.

As you recovered together, Steve’s fingertips danced up and down your spine while your head lay on his inked shoulder and you watched the red indents of your teeth slowly fade from his neck. A frown pulled at the edges of your mouth, and you wondered how on earth he’d managed to get tattooed if it was so difficult to leave a mark on his skin.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asked in a deep, gruff voice, like he’d been on the brink of sleep. 

It took you a moment of being confused about how he could’ve possibly seen your frown before you remembered the bond. You still felt the tether to him, like a string tied behind your belly button, but you didn’t feel a tug on it until his palm skimmed down to your ankle and his hand closed over the tattoo he’d given you, which was healed somehow. 

“How did that heal so fast?” you asked, sitting up twisting around to look at your ankle. The sweeping, delicate curves peaked out from behind Steve’s hand, and you brushed your fingertips over the inked lines with wonder. 

“There was a drop of my blood in the ink,” Steve answered, and when you looked at him, he wore a mischievous smirk. “I told you the ingredients were all-natural, didn’t I?” he asked charmingly and shot you a wink, making you laugh and shake your head. 

But then your eyes fell on the spot on his neck where you’d bitten him. He’d healed so fast, you couldn’t see any trace of your teeth anymore, and you brushed your fingers over it sadly. Steve caught your hand and brought it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to each of your fingertips.

“There’s a special method to tattooing a demon,” Steve answered your unasked question, skimming his free hand down his chest and over all the other ink on his skin. “I can teach you how,” he offered.

Your eyes had drifted down to his chest, tracing the lines of the tattoos that had been hidden by his shirt, but at his words, you glanced up—and were surprised to see the darkness had receded from his eyes, leaving them a bright, sky blue. The look he was giving you was earnest, and you felt it reflected in the bond that hummed in your body.

“I’d like that,” you said softly, ducking your head into the crook of his neck and licking the spot you wanted to mark. 

He still tasted like fire and salt and smoke and you wanted to savor him for an eon. With a sigh, you gave into the urge, licking and kissing him idly while you cuddled into his chest. Steve held you securely, your body still impaled on his half-hard cock while his cum dripped out of you, and you thought you could stay like that forever. 

Instead, after a few moments, you asked, “So what happens now? Do you take me back to hell or the underworld or whatever?”

A chuckle rumbled in Steve’s chest. The sound reverberated through your sternum where you were pressed together and you smiled into his neck.

“I figured we’d stick around Brooklyn for a couple decades, then we can head down below,” he murmured, tracing patterns on your lower back with one hand while the other gripped your ass possessively. “I think you’ll like it there—I’ve got all kinds of fun toys to play with.”

You could hear the depraved excitement in his tone and snorted a laugh. But then something occurred to you and you pushed up from his chest to sit back so you could see Steve’s face. He looked confused by your suddenly serious expression.

“When you say toys, you don’t mean other people you’ve bound to you, do you?” you asked him with your eyes narrowed. Your focus was almost entirely on the bond, waiting for his reaction. You knew you’d be able to tell if he was lying, or hiding something.

But you felt only amusement from him, and watched as a grin spread across his face. “Nah,” he said, his hand wrapping loosely around the front of your throat to pull you in for a kiss. “I’m not actually the demon from the urban legend,” he confessed. “It’s just one of the ways we trick pretty little humans like you to sell your souls to us—you really should’ve read the fine print of that contract you signed.”

You huffed an exasperated laugh, because what else could you do, and kissed your demon again. He chuckled into your kiss before deepening it, his mouth sliding possessively against yours. When he pulled away, he nipped your lower lip, soothing the sting away with his tongue as he growled into your mouth. 

“You’re the only soul for me, sweet girl.”

Your heart beat harder in your chest, and you felt his deep affection swirling with your own in your belly, twining together around your heart to create something real and deep. It was something that would grow and strengthen over the millennia you spent together.

You knew in that moment that there would be no running from the demon you’d unknowingly bound yourself to, and that you wouldn’t want to escape him anyway. Steve may have tricked you—and you’d make him grovel for your forgiveness for at least a century for that—but he was yours now, just as surely as you were his. 

“You’re the only demon for me, Steve Rogers.” 

You moaned for your demon when his hands grabbed your hips and began bouncing you on his hardened cock. His cum was still leaking out of your cunt, making a mess of both of you, but neither of you cared. Your kisses turned messy with your grunts and groans of pleasure, your bodies pushing each other toward the edge of another release as you gave in to the insatiable need you both felt for the other.

It would be a long time before that need was finally sated—so long that it was no longer Friday the 13th by the time you stumbled out of Hell, Steve’s heavy arm draped around your waist. His strong body kept you upright on unsteady knees while he walked you to his brownstone around the corner.

For years after that fateful Friday the 13th, you helped Steve keep up appearances as a tattoo artist, playing his devoted girlfriend during the day. Then at night, he took you home and made you his personal plaything, bending you over and fucking your ass with his fat demon cock or unloading his cum down your throat. 

In the rare moments when you weren’t fucking, Steve taught you how to tattoo, and the method of how to tattoo a demon specifically, all so you could leave your mark on his skin. You tattooed an outline of your teeth marks on his neck, in the spot he’d left open for you since the night you’d met.

You’d even included a drop of your blood in the ink, even though Steve said it wouldn’t strengthen the bond. But afterward, you did feel like you were close to him, and he admitted he felt it, too. 

Years later, Steve surprised you by asking you to marry him, and though you thought it was a little unnecessary, you said yes. It just seemed a bit like overkill to have a whole wedding ceremony when your souls were already bonded for eternity, but you had to admit it was a good time. Plus, all your friends and family cried happy tears—even the demons. 

Finally, when it began to get suspicious that you and Steve weren’t aging while the humans around you were, Steve passed on ownership of Hell to one of the other artists and he took you down below to the real thing. He carried you across the threshold of his house and welcomed you home, where you’d live happily together until you decided to go topside again.

There in hell, Steve spent centuries shattering you apart with his cock before rebuilding you, only to break you down into his dumb little fucktoy all over again. Together, you used every toy Steve owned. You were your master’s good little plaything while he delivered pain and pleasure that sent you to new planes of existence. 

Then, of course, Steve taught you how to use them all on him, too, because your demon master liked a little bit of pain, too.

You’d loved your time in Brooklyn with Steve Rogers, the tattoo artist and owner of Hell, but you loved your time in hell with your demon master even more. Together, you allowed yourselves to be truly free and give in to your darkness together. You allowed yourself to love him, and let him love you in return. 

It was everything you could have dreamed of, living a happy life for the rest of eternity with your demon in hell.

And all you had to do was follow one rule: When in hell, do as the demons do.