#ao3 oneshot
Text
Better | Bob Floyd x Reader
Word Count: 6,200
Cross Posted on AO3
Warnings & Notes: 18+, Reader has the callsign 'Weave.' AFAB! Reader, post-jet crash scenario, unprotected sex, cunnilingus, face-sitting, hurt/comfort if you squint, friends to lovers trope, blood, and bodily injury, and a likely inaccurate description of naval aviator gear.
There is nothing quite like waking up and seeing a multi-million dollar aircraft burning right before your very eyes.
It doesn't look real. Vivid hues of red and orange dance along the busted shell of what used to be a Naval aircraft, a stark contrast against the pristine, white snow. The hellish heat that licks at your exposed, frozen cheeks is the only indication that it's not a figment of your imagination. Distantly, you think you must've crashed, but it's hard to believe when there's not a single ache in your—
"Fuck!"
You shouldn't have moved, you shouldn't have moved, you shouldn't have moved.
Eyes screwing shut. Mouth ajar. Yet not another sound escaping. Every bone, joint, and muscle on your left side is screaming. White-hot, piercing through every nerve. Your rib cage feels as if it's just burst open, burning hotter than the remains of your plane.
God, what happened?
You don't recognize this place. These trees don't look like the ones from back home, and you don't recall the weatherman saying California was expecting six inches of snow. What you do recognize is the stray boot that pokes out from behind the jet. U.S. Navy issued. But you're not missing any shoes...
"Bob?" The joints of your shoulders beg you not to move, but you've already pushed yourself up, vision blurring as your head swivels. Your feet scramble for purchase on the powdery snow, but something tugs at you from behind, throws you off balance.
It's your parachute, tangled within the branches of the tree above you, leashing you. Closing your frigid hands around the material is near impossible, fingers so frozen that they can hardly bend. You've barely enough strength to disconnect yourself.
"Bob?" You try again.
No answer.
There's a numbness in your legs as you stumble closer to the roaring flames. On its own, the world seesaws, leaving you to stumble as you struggle to keep upright. You only mean to take one step left, but that singular step becomes two, four, five.
The ground comes back up and smacks you in the hip.
From down here, you can see the boot better, but you can't the leg attached to the foot that occupies it. Or maybe...that's three boots. They're right in front of you, but when you reach out to touch them, your hand can't seem to reach. Scooting forward, you swipe out and try again. All you get is snow.
But they're right there.
Forward a little more. Nothing. Something within the jet pops, wicked flames bursting out in a mushroom-shaped plume. Ravenous heat claws at your skin, threatens to eat right through you. Just a little closer. Just a little...
your hand grabs hold of the boot, vision centering a little. Around you, the wind spins like a top, but even through the haze, you realize something.
There isn't a body attached at all.
Your head feels like someone's just filled it with lead. The colorful hues of red, mere feet away from your face, threatens to reach out and melt the skin from your cheeks. You need to move. You know you do, but even as you tell yourself to move, your body refuses.
The collar of your flight suit tightens as you're yanked backward.
In the blink of an eye, you've got control again, wriggling, fighting to turn around as you're drug away by the thin material of your collar. Words tumble out of your mouth, but your ringing ears hardly comprehend them. Your foot catches on a rock, body flipping around and—
that face is familiar.
Cheeks patched with soot, blood pouring from a gash that stretches from his temple down to his cheek, just barely avoiding his eye. Glasses long gone, but there's a red indent between his eyes from the frames.
"Bob?" You know it's him, and yet it tumbles off your tongue anyway.
"'m here," his voice breaks, shaky.
The arm you're using to brace your weight crumples out from under you; the snow that catches you is pillowy soft, but the numbing cold stings at your skin, nevertheless. Bob's next tug on your collar is half-hearted, urging but lacking the strength to put behind it.
Next to you rests a bootless foot, bathed in a deep crimson that makes your heart sink.
On its own, your hand wanders out to hold onto his thigh, "you're hurt."
Your observation doesn't receive a response, doesn't exactly warrant one, either. Silence is better than hushed insistence that he's alright when you both know that's a downright lie. Instead, he shifts to rest his weight on his forearm, curling his body around yours as a viciously strong wind ripples past. The fire behind you spikes with a roar, heat blasting.
His free hand strokes the side of your head, thumb swiping at what you only assume to be blood, "what's the last thing you remember?"
And where the hell is your helmet?
There's a fogginess to your memory. You remember waking up to Natasha snoring and Bradley clapping his hand over your shoulder a bit too hard on your way out of the cafeteria. But you don't remember taking off, and your memory lacks a single shred of where you flew.
But your ears vividly recall a flurry of voices coming through your radio. Your bones still rattle with the vibrations of a too-close-for-comfort explosion, a missile narrowly avoided. A tiny voice screams out from the commotion, barely audible over it all.
"I remember you telling me to brake left," you shouldn't be leaning up into Bob's touch the way that you are.
His response takes some time, but eventually, he hums, "I didn't account for the one comin' up from beneath us."
After all this, you'd better get a raise and a vacation.
It's hard to miss the faint hum that cuts through the air. Too far away for you to see, but even through the ringing in your ears, the sound is unmistakable. Bob's head lifts, tilted toward the direction that it's coming from.
Muscles aching, you push yourself up to your knees, ignoring the angered twinges of muscles that beg you to stay still. Shelter. You need shelter. Bob doesn't require any urging, already has one hand braced on the trunk of a tree as he heaves himself up.
A yelp ripples through the chilly air, echoing through the forest around you.
It's not until Bob falls back into the snow that you realize who it came from. Crimson drips from his trembling foot like a waterfall; beneath, dull white shines through.
"'m okay," his voice wavers, "I'm okay." With his good leg, he shields the wound from your view, but you know what you saw.
The whirring of that helicopter is growing louder. Closer.
"No, you're not," but there's no time for you to grill him on it. He's already trying to get up again, breathing through gritted teeth as he's forced to put weight on his injury. You know your backseater too well for your own good. Already know he's not going to ask for help.
And that's exactly why you lift his arm and shove yourself beneath it.
"You don't need to do that," he fusses, but all it takes is one step forward for him to gasp and lean against you. That foot can't bear weight, and you both know it.
Liar.
It's hard to tell where you're going, but with the whirring of those helicopter blades growing louder, you don't have much of a choice. The only thing you know is that you flew in from the South-West; your best bet is to head in that direction. Search and rescue has a better chance of finding you there.
But only if your enemy doesn't follow the patches of red that mark your trail.
Your swollen shoulder strains under Bob's weight, so sore that even the slightest of pressure has you gritting your teeth to bear it. Fuck, never mind your shoulder; everything hurts. As your weary feet tread through the snow, it's difficult to tell what's just sore and what's been injured. Though, you've got a sneaking feeling that your shoulders and ribs are decorated with some hellish bruising.
And yet, even as he limps along by your side, suffering through the same ejection pains you are, Bob still has it in him to smile at you. It's watery, faltering when that mangled foot is forced to touch the ground, and it doesn't quite meet his eyes, but it's there.
"Bobby—"
"'m alright," he turns his head off to the side, shielding his eyes from your sight. You hate that you know what he's trying to do. Those baby blues tell a story too heavy for his tongue to bear; if they meet with yours, they'll start talking.
It's the one reason why he can't play poker.
"What's that brown mass on our right?" It's hard to tell if he's trying to change the subject or if he's actually trying to figure out what he's looking at.
The muscles in your neck are tight, making it difficult for you to turn your head. "We need to get you Lasik after this," joking through the pain, you squint in the direction Bob's transfixed on. Trees, trees, more trees, a clearing, followed by, you guessed it, more trees. You don't see what he's—
oh
wait.
Tucked up against a steep hill sits a tiny shack. The paint has long since withered away, leaving behind nothing but brown, rotting planks. The front of it bows forward, the neglected roof sinking inward, but it's shelter.
A shelter that might collapse on you. But that whirring is growing louder and louder. The ground hums with the motions of the unknown helicopter's blades. You're in no place to argue.
"It's some sort of shack," you observe aloud, fighting the urge not to hasten your step.
It's a longer walk than it looks. It would be easy to sprint through the clearing, but Bob can't run in this state. There's no guarantee someone won't spot you from overhead. By your side, Bob meekly hobbles along; blood no longer stains the snow, but his noises grow with every step. Little grunts of pain that burn you to the core.
That helicopter just keeps getting closer and closer and closer. And finally, you see it emerge over the horizon; looks nothing like the ones back on the aircraft carrier. That's not search and rescue.
"They don't see us yet," Bob's words are rushed, jumbled together as he tries to move a little quicker. Grunting with every step, eyes bolting shut.
You're almost there. Just a few more steps. Just a few more.
"Almost there," you grunt, stumbling in tune with his hobbled steps, "almost there."
You don't even get to touch the door handle.
It's hard to tell whose foot gets caught in who's. All you know is that you're falling forward. Shoulder slamming into a flimsy wooden door that gives at the slightest amount of pressure. The decrepit floor knocks the breath from your lungs. Leaves you struggling to garner another breath.
Rusty hinges wail as the door swings shut behind you. Oddly...human.
Light barely filters through the tiny, broken windows, illuminating a cracked fireplace and what looks to be a shelf that's fallen off the wall. The very definition of bare bones.
Movement on your left has you turning your head.
Bob's shoulders shake like leaves in the Autumn wind. Laying on his belly, pretty face buried in the crook of his arm, concealing the tears that you already know are there. The blades of the helicopter are loud, but his wobbly breaths are louder.
Careful, as if moving too quickly will hurt him, you reach out to smooth your hand along his shoulder blades. Only serves to make him shake a little harder, sniffles escaping even as he visibly tries to swallow them down.
"'m fine." Not daring to lift his head.
"No, you're not." Running your hand upward, you dare to run your fingers through his messy hair, the damp locks remarkably soft, even now.
You can't be doing this. Touching his hair only makes you want to gather him up in your arms and kiss those tears off his cheeks. Your tongue already bears the words you'd whisper into his ears, sweet nothings and reminders that his feelings matter to you.
"Bobby," you try again, this time allowing the pads of your fingers to skitter across his temple. His jaw moves, ready to speak. You beat him to it. "Don't you dare tell me you're fine."
That's enough to get his head raising, red eyes peeking out from the corner of his elbow. Those baby blues meet with yours, immediately flickering away as if your gaze has just burned him.
"Me whining about being hurt is going to do nothing but get on your nerves," he murmurs, his voice barely audible, and yet his words burn themselves right into your skin, "it doesn't fix any—"
"Moron," even being shot out of the sky cannot knock the attitude from you, "you never got upset when I dislocated my ankle and whined about it for a week straight. Why would I ever get upset with you?"
Bob's eyelashes flutter, voice raising by an octave as if it'll strengthen his argument, "I didn't want to upset you."
"I love you too much to get upset with you for being in pain."
Silence.
Your mouth feels like it's full of lead. Face growing even colder than it was out in the snow. Did that really just fly off your tongue? Now of all times?
On second thought, being gunned down by that helicopter doesn't sound so bad. "I'm sorry, I—"
"D'you really mean that?" Well, he doesn't sound upset, at least. Shallowly, you nod.
You don't expect him to lift his head from behind the barricade of his folded arms, opting to rest his head on top of them instead. The hand that was just in his hair slides down to the dusty floor, limp. Bob watches it as if it's the most interesting thing in the world. Even reaches out to run his fingers along a tear in your glove. They curl around it, loosely holding your hand as he looks back up at you.
And he just...stares. A quiet transfixion on your face, like it's the first time he's ever seen you. Taking in every detail, every wrinkle and crease that your skin has to offer. His head moves forward by just a fraction, but then an awkward smile overtakes him, and he has to look away.
Your synchronous inhale is so loud that it echoes through this tiny, one-room shack. Bob tilts his head back to you, seemingly unable to take his eyes off of you. Next to his head, his fingers twist together, like they always do when he's deep in thought. You wonder if he can hear the way your heart pounds against your chest like a drum. Any stronger, and it just might break free of its confines.
Bob's moving. Pushing his weight up onto a forearm, tilting his body towards you. Hesitates, just shy of bumping his nose into yours. Again, your eyes meet. Getting shot down was scarier than this.
Hesitant lips press against your own, slotting together like puzzle pieces. There's nothing else to it, each holding it in fear of the other having second thoughts. Only lasts a few seconds, but it feels as if you spent forever there.
"We shouldn't...be doing this," you find yourself saying as if you're not actively curling your hands around his bruised cheeks, "if Cyclone finds out..."
"Fuck Cyclone." And then Bob's lips are on yours again, no thought required.
It's cruel how easily you fit together. You have a sea of options out there, and yet only Bob Floyd's lips fit against yours so flawlessly. Only your backseater smells of suede and jasmine because he can't stay out of that Polo Blue cologne to save his life. The hand that curls around your cheek feels as if it belongs there. This is how things always should have been.
The angle is awkward; you want to wrap your arms around his neck, but one of your arms is stuck, bracing your body weight, while the other awkwardly flings around to rest between his shoulder blades.
A shy hand presses against your belly, urging you to sink back against the floor. You don't know what possesses you to comply, but the feeling of Bob settling on top of you is something else entirely. Gasping as he disturbs his injury, but unable to draw himself away. Your knees rise, caging either side of his lithe hips; Bob's not wide by any means, but with him between them, your legs feel like they're spread for miles.
"Bobby," panting against his lips.
"'ve got ya," one of his hands glides up your sides, working its way beneath your heavy gear, greedily taking in what lies beneath him. Your back arches, leaning into the touch; haven't felt someone touch you like this in so long that it's foreign.
The desperate need for air is the only thing that can drive a wedge between you, lungs stinging as you gasp for much-needed oxygen. Even that can't stop you from leaning back up, still panting as you press a wayward kiss to his exposed neck. Faintly, Bob's breath catches.
"'m probably sweaty," he warns, but his words fall on deaf ears. You're already dragging your tongue along a protruding vein, sealing it with a wet kiss. "Oh, that's..." the words die with nothing but a sigh.
You've waited your entire life to hear him make that noise. "You're lucky your gear is keeping me from your collarbone," it's more of a cautionary remark than it is anything else. You're itching to nibble on those pretty, exposed bones, can only imagine what sounds he would make.
It only takes him five motions. One to unclasp his life jacket. Two to undo the strap across the chest. One to pull the underlying zipper down and another to shrug the harness off his shoulders, letting it fall down to rest against his hips.
Hallelujah.
Bruises scatter his collarbones and shoulders, glaringly sore but so sensitive as you gingerly work your way down to plant kisses on them. Feather-light, teeth only grazing so as to not hurt him. The motion leaves your neck exposed, giving him the perfect opportunity to press his wet lips to the skin beneath your ear.
"Shit," you hiss, fingertips curling against his shoulder blades. He doesn't say anything, but you can feel his mouth curling against your skin.
His hips dip down, moving on their own accord, something hard brushing against your core. With a strained noise, Bob freezes, nose wrinkling with the grimace that laces his features.
"Were you trying to grind on me, pretty boy?" Teasing. A futile distraction from the pain.
Cheeks heating red, he nods, "'n I got my karma for it, too."
It was just a simple brush, not even full contact, but you've already gotten hooked on that feeling. This isn't the time, nor is it the place. You can already hear the downright fit Cyclone is going to have when he catches wind of this.
Bob's eyebrows raise just a fraction, "yeah?"
Motivated by spite alone, your fingers are already halfway through fumbling with the confines of your harness. Wouldn't have even realized you were doing it had Bob not said anything. It takes some squirming; getting that harness off your legs is harder than it looks, and Bob can only get it down to his knees before he needs assistance.
The millisecond you get that harness safely off his ankle, you plant two firm hands on his chest and push.
"Jesus," he chuckles, arms opening up to welcome you as you climb on top of him.
It's easier this way. You've got to do most of the work, but it keeps Bob from disturbing his ankle. And now, there is nothing that can stop you from tentatively straddling his hips, ass brushing against a hardness that you hope to become overly familiar with someday.
"Better?" You chirp, back aching as you lean down to meet his waiting lips.
As the gap closes, he hums, "better."
Beneath your hands, you can feel his heart pitter-pattering away, soft little thumps that mirror the one that rattles through your weary bones. In the back of your head, a familiar little voice asks you if rolling your hips down into Bob's hard-on is a good idea. There may be no going back from this. The last thing you need is for Cyclone to split you two up and never let you fly together again.
But Bob's sharp inhale tells you that this is a very, very good idea. "Sweetheart," it's hard to tell if it's the pet name or the deep, guttural groan that sends your head spinning, "'m not sure you wanna do that to me."
Eyeroll. "But, Bob~" singsonging.
"But Weave," he whines back, twitching up to rub against the curve of your ass. His eyes scrunch shut, ankle disturbed, but it doesn't hinder him in the slightest. "If we do this," grunting, "I don't think I'm ever gonna be able to get my hands off of ya."
Should you be making major decisions fresh out of a crash? Probably not.
Will you make that decision anyway? Yes.
Leaning down, you allow your mouth to open, teeth grazing the shell of his pale ear, "maybe that's what I want." And that ear goes ruby red in the blink of an eye.
Hands running up your sides, Bob bats his pretty eyes up at you, "then lead the way, pilot."
In all of your whimsy daydreams, you've never come up with a scenario quite like this one. Your quiet, sweet-eyed backseater, laying beneath you in a decrepit shack in the middle of God-knows-where, fresh after an ejection. But somehow, as your hips begin to work themselves against Bob's clothed bulge, and as his hands timidly draw up to cup your breasts, you can't help but realize how fitting it is.
His hips unintentionally shift, and in that simple motion, everything changes. Even through the material of your flight suits, you can feel the outline of him pressing deliciously against your cunt. Not much friction, but it's just enough to have both of your heads rolling, surprised gasps falling from your lips.
You don't know when he's found the opportunity to unzip your g suit, the material that was once wrapped snuggle around your waist, now hanging low on your thighs. But now those deft fingers toy with the zipper of your flight suit, waiting on your command. Rolling your hips once more, you nod.
Bob can't get it down quick enough, barely gets the zipper halfway before he's reaching beyond, hands remarkably warm as they slide beneath your shirt. Those dull nails drag just right, tickling your skin.
"So damn soft," he muses, and with the way he's stroking up your spine, you almost think he's petting you.
They're on the move again, concealed by the distraction of his hips rising up to meet you halfway. Your bra shifts as those wandering hands dive beneath it, doing nothing but feel the shape of you in his palms. Thumbs flick across your nipples, sends your body jerking.
"Jesus, Bobby," squirming as he toys with them, you idly fumble with the side-zipper of his g suit.
"You're lucky there's snow on the ground," he's not even looking at your face, absolutely consumed by what's going on beneath your shirt, "else I'd be beggin' to get this blasted shirt off your pretty lil' frame."
"We can—" fuck, it's hard to talk with him handling your chest like that, "we can save that for when we're sneaking around on the carrier."
"We ain't never gonna hear the end of it," he rolls his hips with yours as he speaks, "Bob and Weave, validatin' everythin' them Admiral's keep sayin' 'bout us."
Just as quickly as he'd reached under your shirt, he retreats, instead taking hold of your devilishly spiraling hips. The pressure tells you to move forward, but when you do, he keeps asking you to move further.
"Bob...?" You're fully sitting on his chest now, and he's still wordlessly asking you to move up.
He reaches up, dragging that zipper down as far as it will go. Right down between your quivering thighs, exposing the flimsy shorts you're wearing beneath. Whether or not he recognizes that these are his own shorts is a different topic entirely.
"Up a little more, sweet thing," he urges once more, "want you sittin' on my face."
Oh.
You don't even know what to think. It's hard to believe that your innocent backseater even know this was a thing, to begin with, but here he is, hooking an index finger into the crook of your shorts and panties. His breath is hot against your sensitive skin, enough to have you trying to rise up and away from the feeling.
"What if you can't breathe?" Bracing your hands on the ground beneath his head.
Brilliant blue eyes flick up to take in your expression. "Good."
And with both of his hands gripping your hips, he leans up and drags his dripping tongue right between your folds. Broad, flat as he spreads you open with it, fuck, that's a hell of a feeling. With you distracted, he pulls you downward, forcing you to sit on his pretty face.
"Bobby," fuck, fuck, fuck, his tongue flicking against your swelling clit is something else.
The bastard hums, somehow already understanding what you mean when you whimper his name. Already knows that the fingers tangling in his hair are a good thing. If you'd thought his breath was hot, this is something else entirely. The wet muscle that laps at your cunt burns hotter than the flames that consumed your aircraft, threatens to burn right through you.
Only plays with your clit for long enough to have you whimpering his name under hushed breaths before lapping his way down, down, down to your neglected entrance. Tonguing it, tracing your sensitive rim before pushing inside. The soft tip of his nose presses into your clit, paying it attention while his tongue works in and out of you.
"Fuck, fuck, Bobby," you hope there aren't any foot soldiers looking for you; they'd be able to hear you a mile away, "how the hell did you—ah, even know about this?"
You shouldn't have asked that. No, no, you shouldn't have because now he's peering up at you as he works your sensitive cunt, "y'talked 'bout it one night at the Hard Deck." He doesn't even try to pull away as he speaks, words vibrating right up your spine. "Been dreamin' 'bout it ever since."
Then he's drawing back up, swirling around the swollen bud that he can't seem to leave alone, "Can y'imagine the heart attack this'd give Mav?" How long has he been hiding lewd words under a sheepish smile? "Find'n out I've got my pilots sweet lil' pussy on my tongue right after I promised I wouldn't?"
Mav. Poor bastard spent the past month convincing Cyclone you and Bob weren't seconds away from jumping each other's bones, only for it to actually happen the moment he turned his back. Not a soul on that carrier has a clue. They don't even know you're alive, never mind squirming on your backseater's face as he laps at your pussy like it's his nine-to-five.
That thought alone sends something tightening in your gut. Familiar.
"'m close," you gasp, tugging at his short locks, "don't wanna cum like this."
Bob pauses midstroke, seems to think a little before speaking, "how d'ya wan' it?"
"I'd rather cum around your cock," not even missing a beat.
And even with his face right between your legs, tongue fresh off your pussy, Robert Floyd has the audacity to turn beet fucking red.
"Well," suddenly unable to meet your eye, "then...be my guest?"
You hate him, you think, as you squirm back down, dragging his flight suit zipper along with you. You hate, hate, hate this motherfucker and his ability to sway so seamlessly between demanding and sheepish.
Beneath his flight suit, his shirt has risen up, revealing a milky-white tummy that absolutely demands a kiss or two. Even if the angle is awkward and puts a strain on your already sore neck.
"'r you really kissin' my belly right now?" Combing his fingers against your scalp, but that doesn't sound like a complaint to you.
"I've gotta do what I've gotta do," the cold tip of your nose nuzzles the smooth skin that resides just next to the waistband of his shorts. Your fingers itch to pull them down, but his flight suit creates a hell of a conundrum. You can't even catch glimpse of his pale thighs, and those are probably an eighth-world wonder on their own.
Next time.
For now, you'll have to be content with pushing the loose material of his shorts upward enough so that you can see his briefs lurking beneath. Even from here, you can see the strain he's putting on the material, makes it easy to find him when you reach past.
"Shit," he hisses, hips rising as you take hold of him at the base. Slowly, slowly, you guide him out, finding yourself amused as he chases your touch until he no longer can.
He's bigger than you thought he would be. A considerable weight in your palm, pale-pink tip silky soft as you toy with it. You hope there will come a day when you can sit down and see how long it takes him to get off from you playing with that mushroom tip. Because right now, as he bites his lip to stifle his noises, you don't think it would take too long.
Speaking of...
"Hah-!" That's a new sound. Peering up at him from beneath your lashes, you poke your tongue out and run it against his length once more. Clamping his hand over his mouth, he reaches down to bat you away from his poor cock, "'gonna get us caught if ya keep doin' that."
Maybe that's the point. Dying with his cock in your mouth. What a way to go.
Cautiously, you settle yourself up on his lap, one hand braced on his sturdy chest while the other guides him to where you want him the most. Blunt head spreading your folds with such ease that it's as if he was made to do it. Once you apply the slightest bit of pressure but allow him to slip forward, just a slight taste that has him grumbling beneath you.
Drawing him back, he catches on your entrance, and slowly, as if moving too quickly will break him, you allow yourself to sink down. It's been a long while since the last time you felt the growing pressure that comes with such an intrusion, gradually stretching to accommodate his girth.
You want to make a remark over the way he downright whimpers into the back of his hand, but you can't so much as make a noise. A little too distracted by how your walls mold to fit the shape of your backseater, filling spaces you forgot you even had. Then your hips are flush together, and it's as if your voice has been punched back into you.
"Fuck, Robby," panting like a dog, you're forced to brace yourself against his chest with both hands or else you'll collapse into a messy heap on top of him, "you could've at least warned me that you were packing."
He rolls his eyes. You hope they get stuck back there. "'m not that big," but he is, and it's so dizzyingly delicious to feel inside of you. Not necessarily long, but thick enough to warrant a wide-load sign.
Experimentally, you lift your hips, testing the waters as you rise up, then slowly sink back down onto him. He hasn't even hit anything special, and yet it's enough to have your lips parting with a silent sound. You haven't the slightest clue where he's finding the strength to swivel his hips beneath you, blindly searching on each timid upward stroke.
And then your breath is hitching, stars sparkling beneath your eyelids as his plush head finds the neglected bundle of nerves hidden within those gooey walls. There it is.
"Better?" He chirps, smiling. Evidently, he's not just good with buttons and switches in fighter jets.
Nodding. "Better"
Drawing yourself up quicker now, barely clinging to his chest as you find your pace. Something shallow enough to avoid the aching in your thighs but quick enough to give you what you want. His head downright nails that poor little spot, has your cunt fluttering around him like a damn butterfly.
"Look so beautiful on top of me," he whines, absolutely awe-struck by the way your body moves, working up and down like you've trained for this moment all your life. His hips twitch upward, weakly meeting you halfway, and rips a surprised cry right out of your throat. "Fuck, 's that what you need, darlin'?"
"Just like that, Bobby," you don't even know what you're saying, only capable of moving a little quicker, desperate to feel him strike that sensitive bundle again and again and again. "Bobby, just like that."
You want more. Need to hear his soft grunts that follow every lewd smack of skin on skin, need more of everything he has to offer you, but your thighs are growing sore. Muscles burning, begging you to stop.
"Can't," you're trying, but your legs just aren't having it, unable to chase the familiar tightening of your core as you ride him. "I can't keep—"
"I got ya," there's an unfamiliar strength to his hands as they tighten around your hips. His upward thrusts are weak, but he pulls you down into them so hard that you can hardly notice a difference.
Two motions of his hips, and you're crumbling like a house of cards, collapsing into his chest. All of a sudden, his name is the only thing you're capable of uttering, face hiding in the crook of his sweaty neck. You don't know where this is coming from, but you pray it never goes away.
"So good for me," he mindlessly babbles against your temple, "cum on my cock for me, sweetie."
His words have you clamping down around him like a vice, writhing as he fucks you. Rhythm faltering but downright merciless as he works that sensitive spot over and over, sends a fire rippling up your belly. Skin prickling as it builds, your mouth starts to move on its own. "Bobby, Bobby."
"Cum, darlin'," and he's saying more, some whispered encouragement to give it to him, but you don't need it.
One, two, three more pumps of his cock, and you're biting down into his collarbone, unable to stop the strangled squeal that he just about jackhammers out of you. Distantly, you can feel his hips stalling, an unfamiliar heat filling you, but your head is back up in the clouds. Foggy, the air so thin that you can't catch your breath as you weakly pulse around his dick.
But this time, when you open your eyes after a long while, you don't find yourself surrounded by snow and an unfamiliar forest. No, you're wrapped in the strong arms of your Weapons Systems Officer, cock still wedged in you as he presses kisses to your sweaty forehead.
"Y'still with me?" He coos into your temple.
Nodding, "barely."
It's twelve hours before search and rescue are finally deployed to come and find you. It takes another twelve for them to release you and Bob from debriefing hell. It's an hour after that when the honorary "they're not dead!" celebration takes off. The cafeteria that houses the impromptu event reeks of alcohol, which may be the reason why nobody catches you and your backseater sneaking out of your own party.
"I still can't believe you didn't break it," you muse, too focused on rewrapping Bob's ankle to pay attention to the fingers that stroke your cheek. The countless stitches look worse than the original gash itself did, sends a chill down your spine every time you see it.
"See? I told you I was fine," his eye-roll is audible in his tone, never has been good at hiding it.
Not missing a beat, you nip at his thumb, chasing his hand away from your face. You need to focus. The last thing you want to do is wrap his ankle too loosely or too tightly. But as you place the metal clasp back into his gauze, your work doesn't look too far off from the medics.
"Better?"
"Not yet," tapping his lips, "'m still missing a little something."
Huffing, you lean up, meeting his lips halfway. You fear that you're slowly creating a kiss fiend. "Now, is it better?"
All of it is worth it when you get to see his face light up, features laced with a grin so big that his eyes wrinkle with it. "Better."
#bob fucks#bob floyd x y/n#bob floyd#bob floyd x reader#robert bob floyd#top gun smut#top gun bob#bob top gun#top gun movie#oneshot#ao3fic#ao3#ao3 oneshot#x reader#reader insert#fem reader#bob floyd x you#robert floyd#robert floyd x y/n#robert floyd x you#robert floyd x reader#self insert#reader self insert
472 notes
·
View notes
Link
Chapter 1- Party (Peter x Barty) as Violette and Tate from AHS S1
#party#peter pettigrew#barty crouch jr#barty crouch junior#peter x barty#tate and violet#american horror story au#au#ao3 oneshot#oneshot#ao3#fanfic#party fanfic#party fanfiction#party onshot#angst#whiskersmoc#50 shades of peter pettigrew
14 notes
·
View notes
Text
*stands up on stage* ummm hello? Would you please check out my new and extremely short tsn oneshot?
5 notes
·
View notes
Text
𝑪𝑨𝑻 𝑬𝑨𝑹𝑺 𝑨𝑵𝑫 𝑪𝑼𝑹𝑺𝑬𝑺
I saw @yangyangchuu had posted about an AU interaction between Tyler and Wednesday as a cat and I couldn't help but write a one shot and put a little edit together for it.
You can have a little peek at it and the rest will be on my AO3 which will be linked at the bottom of this post.
As soon as Wednesday had entered the coffee shop, Tyler's eyes had shot towards the door instantly as he noticed those familiar black fluffy ears, suddenly making the decision to hastily finish dealing with the only customer he served, make a quad in a small cup, and immediately declare to his colleague who stood beside him that he was going on his break, going to her with a spring in his step.
As Wednesday sat by the window, she barely looked at him as he sat himself down opposite her. She was far too busy analysing the book she'd brought with her, her tail swishing calmly as she focused. The lack of acknowledgement caused him to awkwardly smooth the dark red apron that he wore as a part of his uniform. So, with a clearing of his throat, Tyler slowly pushed the paper cup across the table towards her to get her attention, and that's when those soulless dark brown eyes of hers finally looked up from her book to meet his gaze. "You know, if you keep giving me free quads, you'll eventually end up in trouble with your boss." She stated with a slight furrow of her left brow, those soft cat ears of hers lowering just a little.
Read the rest here.
#wyler#weyler#wyler brainrot#wyler fanfiction#wednesday addams x tyler galpin#tysday#wednesday netflix#ao3 oneshot#lady murderess#LM: one shots#LM: edit#LM: wyler fics#LM: fic
44 notes
·
View notes
Text
plaid plaid in a purple morning ; larry
valentine’s day au | fluff | 9.4k
summary: "it's february 14 and louis couldn't feel more alone. without a partner, or a large number of friends, he resigns himself to the idea of spending the day of love watching movies with his flatmate, niall. or at least, that was the plan until things only went from bad to worse. or where the microwave goes up in flames and a curly-haired, hugely impertinent fireman knocks the wind out of louis, who can't believe anything that's happening."
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
“What does a firefighter care what he intended to do with his best friend?
"Were your girlfriends on their way?" he inquires, causing the brown-haired man to grimace again in bewilderment.
The expression on the curly-haired man's face, pretty as it is, doesn't let you know what he's thinking, let alone figure out what he's up to with all this.
"No?" he answers in a doubtful tone, hastening to rectify himself. "Only Niall has a girlfriend and well, huh, it was just going to be the two of us. Just us."
"You don't have a girlfriend?" he interjects, as if that had been the only thing she'd withheld from that entire sentence.”
#cwrotes#cwrote#cwrote masterlist#larry fanfiction#larry one shot#larry stylinson#larry stylinson fanfic#larry ao3#ao3 larry#ao3 oneshot#ao3 fic#harry styles x louis tomlinson#louis tomlinson x harry styles#louis x harry#valentine’s day au#harry is a firefighter#love at first sight#ao3 writer#ao3#wattpad#wattpad writer#ao3fic#1d fanfiction#1d larry#1d ao3#larry au
46 notes
·
View notes
Text
Drowning in his Eye's (SanemixGiyuu oneshot)
I posted this on Ao3 around 2 months ago? anyway I'll be crossposting my oneshots/fics. The only thing that made me write this was the fact that I was bored in math last year and would write to pass the time. so enjoy I have no idea how posting fanfiction on tumbler works so please excuse the terrible format.
Warnings: semi-graphic depictions of a corpse, Sanemi has a dirty mouth and curses, make-outs????
"You're such a fucking asshole!" Sanemi all ways did this when they where on a mission together. "I don't know why its only us that are constantly sent on missions together, we clearly hate each other, if anything its counter productive!" Sanemi fumed.
Giyuu almost never complained about anything, but he didn't feel like putting up with him today. " Shinazugawa I am painfully aware of how much you dislike me, but I would appreciate it if you quiet down a tiny bit. You're giving me a headache."
"like I care how you feel, you think you can tell me to shut up and that I would listen to-." Sanemi stopped talking. In the middle of the path a women's body had been left to rot. She was half eaten, missing her legs and an arm. Giyuu walked up to her and put a hand on her wrist, not to check if she was alive(that was already obvious), but to check if she was stiff yet.
"Seems like she was left here last night, she's almost cold down to her bones, it takes at least 12 hours for that."
"And how exactly do you know that." Sanemi walked a bit closer to Giyuu to get a better look at the body.
"Rigor mortis is still set in fairly recently, at most I would say 11 hours ago, look." Giyuu picks up her hand, the hand had a difficulty being picked up.
"That didn't answer my question you ass..." Sanemi Sighs." the sun sets in about 30 minutes so the demon will likely come out again, it will only set us back by a few hours if we do."
"I think that would be the best course of action, we should still be able to get to Kyoto tomorrow." Giyuu stated dryly, and started to drag her off to the side of the path and began to bury her. Sanemi wasn't known to wait around for anyone, but when he was partnered with Giyuu he felt the need to slow down. It was like he wanted to save the image in he's head and spend as much time with Giyuu as he could. The could be dead the next day, hour, minute, or even second in their profession. Sanemi knew what he was thinking but refused to act upon his own minds wishes, it was common sense was it not? It's not even the fact that they where two men, Sanemi had no issues with that, it's the fact that it was Giyuu Tomioka.
And Sanemi had made a point that he hated Giyuu's guts.
And for Giyuu, he was just so dead set on killing demons that he just misses the tension the two of them have. Sanemi wishes it was that easy though, the amount of times Sanemi had went to Tengen asking what he should do ultimately came to nothing as Tengen just said to not hide what he was feeling. Sanemi had left out one key detail in his explanation, he was asking for advise on how to deal with Giyuu. The though of acknowledging that he had grown to care for Giyuu made him want to rip his heart out and hand it to the nearest demon-
"Shinazugawa." Sanemi snapped out of the fuzzy haze his mind had set him in and found himself staring at the water Hashira. "are you feeling alright."
"Why wouldn't I be." Sanemi growled.
" you're unfocused and your face Is red, so I'm assuming something is wrong." Sanemi had finally pulled himself together enough that he noticed that Giyuu had already buried the woman and was now standing in front of him. Sanemi found himself locked onto Giyuu's dull blue eyes, taking in every detail, it was like looking into an ocean with no end. It took all Sanemi had to not just give in and lose himself in them.
"I'm fine." Sanemi turned away in an attempt to not give away what he was thinking about, but he didn't really need to as Giyuu turned away. Sanemi pulled out his sword. "Get ready for a fight it's only going to get darker."
Giyuu looked up at the lavender sky. "let's go find an inn, that took longer than expected." he put his nichirin katana back in it's sheath and looked towards Sanemi. "And we should patch up your wounds, you fight so recklessly."
"Fine just don't pick anywhere that's shitty." Sanemi would never in a million years would think that Giyuu would would ever show any crumb of concern to anyone, let alone him.
"there is a decent one in the next town over, it's not that far of a walk either." wordlessly Sanemi started to walk down the path, Giyuu following after. "do you know where it is?"
I slow down so Giyuu could catch up to me to show me where the inn is.
"room for two." Giyuu placed the amount of money listed on the the board on to the counter.
The old inn keeper turned and grabbed a key from a drawer and handed it to Giyuu. "here you go sweetie, have a good day." She picked her book back up and took out her bookmark.
Giyuu walked out of the main building back to where Sanemi was sitting to a rock. Sanemi laugh sight of Giyuu and stood up signing that he would follow him to the room. Giyuu opens the door and holds it for Sanemi. When Sanemi got through the door he immediately striped from his cropped haori and throwing it on the back of a chair at the table, leaving his in only his open uniform. Giyuu took a first aid kit from the bag he got from a store in town. Giyuu makes his way over to Sanemi who was now sitting on the table and sets the first aid kit down.
"do you actually know how to properly wrap bandages." Sanemi nervously( although he would never admit it) looked down at Giyuu who took out a medium sized gauze pad.
"I do know how, I need your shirt off for the one on your stomach." Sanemi unbuttons his uniform and throws it on the table. Giyuu's hands where a grounding cold, they reminded Sanemi that he was still alive and breathing. the feeling was disturbing to him. But despite his better judgment Sanemi lets his body relax and his face falls into a look that can only be described as contemplative but content. Sanemi made up his mind and decided that today was the day, moments like these don't stay for long as Sanemi always backs out of being venerable.
As Giyuu finished up Sanemi's bandages and started to put them away, Sanemi turned to him. "do you mind if I do something real quick."
Giyuu turned back to Sanemi still needing to look up at him as he was still sitting on the table. "as long as you don't further help yourself you can do what you want."
Sanemi leaned slightly off his chair now looking directly into Giyuu's eyes, once again comparing them to an endless abyss in his own mind. What had those eyes seen, there was a reason Giyuu joined the demon slayer corps. what had he lost?
Sanemi lifted his hand up and places it on Giyuu's cheek. " Can I kiss you."
Giyuu's face turned a bright shade of red comparable to Tanjiro's eyes, but instead of yelling he was stuttering out of control. So he just nodded his head and tilted his head down out of embarrassment.
Sanemi leaned down further, and cupped Giyuu's cheek lifting his face to stare in his eyes. He closes the distance pressing them together. in contrast to Giyuu's hands his lips where warm and had the opposite effect on Sanemi, they made him feel like he was floating. No, not floating, falling; falling into the ocean that is Giyuu Tomioka, falling in love. They part after a moment, foreheads falling against each other. Sanemi looked down at Giyuu's face, his cheeks flushed and eyelids fluttering open to meeting the pale purple of Sanemi's eyes.
Giyuu opens his mouth to speak "Shin-"
" Call me Sanemi."
#sanegiyuu#giyuu tomioka#sanemi shinazugawa#oneshot#fanfiction#ao3 writer#ao3 oneshot#sanemi x giyuu
67 notes
·
View notes
Text
Pride Brings Demigods (and Monsters) Together
Oneshot of our favorite demigods at Pride!
@sapphic-summer-riordanverse-2023
Sunday: free day (posted later because to post this on the actual day of CSD was just too much of a good oportunity to pass up!)
#pjo#pjo oneshot#pjo headcanon#pjo fandom#annabeth chase#percy jackson#rachel elizabeth dare#polyamory#pride parade#ao3#ao3 oneshot#ao3 writer#ao3fic#find my stuff again#fanfic#fanfiction#sapphic summer riordanverse#sapphic summer riordanverse 2023#I wrote this on the bus
13 notes
·
View notes
Text
How much did I screw myself over by deciding to make a Yuletide/Naming Day fic of Old Man Yoai (Mata Nui/Ackar) before new years?
Apparently quite a lot because I'm only at 2,411 words and not even halfway done
#bionicle#g1 bionicle#lego bionicle#bionicle the legend reborn#the legend reborn#2009 bionicle#bara magna arc#bionicle fanfiction#bionicle fic#toa mata nui#mata nui#ackar#ackar bionicle#mata nui (being)#mata nui bionicle#ackar/mata nui#mata nui/ackar#ficblogging#ao3 oneshot
6 notes
·
View notes
Text
Here its a funny crack up jeremike oneshot,please enjoy it!!!:DDDD
4 notes
·
View notes
Text
*coUGH*
Here have some gay shit.
14 notes
·
View notes
Text
About Last Night | Rhett Abbott x Reader
Word Count: 6,700
Cross Posted on AO3
Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB!Reader, Virgin!Rhett, shameless childhood best friends to lovers trope, unprotected sex in a hotel room, loss of virginity, first kisses, reader teaching Rhett how to eat them out, and a lazy morning after snippet. A self-indulgent take on Rhett's best friend coming back to Wabang and surprising him after his final rodeo.
Someone's gone and replaced your flowers with cement replicas. Hundreds of pounds each, weighing heavier and heavier with every moment that passes. Brittle stems threaten to slip out of your sweaty grasp and shatter into a million tiny pieces.
"What did you say?" His wavering words are so weak that you almost don't hear him speak at all.
But you do.
And repeating yourself is just as hard as it was the first time you opened your mouth.
"Congratulations."
Even from so far away, you can feel his gaze drop down to the colorful mess in your hands. Vivid hues of red and yellow, the dainty little petals still glistening from the sudden onset of rain. In hindsight, an umbrella would have been a good idea.
"You..." his head tilts back up, still not moving, "for...me?" Why is it that you already knew he would look behind himself, like someone better, more deserving, would be behind him?
You're glad you chose this spot to surprise him. Where it's dark, and the blinding stadium lights can't cast a spotlight on your contorting face as you scramble for words. Specific sounds that each carry their own unique meaning; all you need to do is open your mouth and make a noise.
But you can't.
Maybe you don't need to, though. Because Rhett's feet are moving, boots audibly scuffing against the dirt because he's not picking them up high enough. Albeit, moving very slowly, as if you're not real, just a ghost of the past that'll turn into mist if he isn't careful.
His heels dig into the ground a mere foot away from you. Like he's met the end of an invisible leash. Eyes back on the flowers, then you once more. "Sunflowers?"
"And tulips," the words spill out of your mouth so quickly that you hardly know what you said, "you...told me a long time ago that sunflowers were your favorite."
The red tulips only made their way into the bouquet because the florist had a shortage of sunflowers. It was either hand him an absurdly tiny bouquet of flowers or spruce it up with the same color tulips he gave you after graduation, way back when. Before you left.
Thunder rolls in the distance. Lightning flickers. Lights up the sky for the briefest instance. One fleeting shot of Rhett's face. Eyes so wet they shimmer. Dirt on his unshaven jaw. He reaches out. Doesn't take the flowers when you hold them out for him. No, he just...touches them. Like he's unsure if they're real.
"You told me that you were never coming back to Wabang," it's almost strange to hear his voice this clearly. No longer muffled by a cell phone speaker.
"I did," licking your lips, "but I never said I wouldn't come back for you."
That... maybe you shouldn't have said that. All it's taken is those few words for this cowboy to go still again. Doesn't even blink. All he's capable of is staring back at you. Blank. No easy-going smile. No childish teasing. Hell. He doesn't even breathe.
Again, lightning flashes across the sky. Veins of light scattering and disappearing in the blink of an eye. Even so, you catch the upturn of the corner of Rhett's lip. Lopsided. Fighting its way across his face.
His hand is traveling. Across the petals. Down the stems. Right across your boiling hand and up your arm. Feather-light, never vanishing. Doesn't stop until those wandering fingertips brush across your cheek.
All of a sudden, he's taking that last step forward. Closing the gap between your bodies. Thunder booms. Shaking the ground beneath your feat. Feels like a goddamn earthquake. But you can't think. Can't acknowledge the storm. Because Rhett's leaning in and. And. And—
"Just for me, huh?" His hot breath fans out against your lips. Noses bumping together. You've known this man your entire life. And yet. You don't recall ever being this close. But this. This.
You've waited a lifetime for this. "Yeah."
That smile breaks across his face. The last push you need to lean in.
You could never have imagined that Rhett Abbott's lips taste like strawberry chapstick.
It's only for a second, parting just as quickly as you'd met, eyes fluttering back open, even though you don't recall shutting them. But one kiss isn't enough. Not when Rhett's taking his hat off, pressing the brim of it flat against your shoulder blades, drawing you impossibly closer. Your arms find themselves winding around his neck as you meet him again, flowers draped haphazardly against his shoulder, long forgotten.
The storm is beginning to rage again, but all you're capable of comprehending is Rhett's mouth. Rhett's bitten lips and the barely there divot in the bottom left corner of them; remnants of a scar with a story that pains you to recall. Warm fingers grasp at your jaw, careful and delicate, keeps you grounded between every fleeting kiss. Each beginning before you've realized it; fleeting, too quick for your liking.
Maybe it's the kiss-drunk frustration that has your free hand moving, or maybe it's moving on its own; seizes that scruffy chin all the same. Two-day-old stubble scrapes against your palm as you hold him still to kiss him proper. The way you've been yearning for years.
Tiny, hard bullets strike at your exposed skin, bringing with them a rain so cold it stings. Your once quiet world dissolves into mind-numbing noise as hail bounces off of tin roofs and cracking pavement.
"Hang onto me," Rhett murmurs against your lips, so close but so hard to hear. He's stepping forward, carting you backward, leaving you with the choice to cling to his shoulders or fall. Doesn't stop until your back is hitting a cold building wall, your body shielded by the overhang of the roof.
"But the hail is still hitting you." Your lips are moving, but you can't hear what you're saying, not under this metal roof. There isn't enough room under it to cover him, too, not in this position; sleet striking against those broad shoulders, hail bouncing off his backside and landing by your feet.
He's tilting his hat back up, settling it right atop that soaked, tangled mop of hair. "Don't care."
Oh, how his mouth fits against yours so perfectly. A surging tide of warmth in this mind-numbingly cold rain, the only thing keeping you from being whisked away by the howling wind. Teeth nip at your lower lip with gentle tugs that have you gasping into his wickedly talented mouth. Even the stubble that scratches at your skin can't stop you from leaning into it; discomfort be damned.
Rhett's hands are everywhere, running up your hips, pressing into the space between your shoulder blades, curling around your jaw, tightening around your waist. So frenzied that you're distracted by their roaming until that hot, wet tongue laps against yours, and all of a sudden, you can't breathe.
"Fuck," he gasps; it's hard to feel so guilty about needing air when he's open-mouthed, panting like a dog in the summer sun.
Even the trembling that's settled into your hands can't stop you from trying to pull him closer, not a centimeter of space between your panting bodies. And God is Rhett trying his best to give you that; presses you flat against the wall, heaving chest bumping against yours whilst a wayward leg steps between yours—
"Ah."
Fuck, was that you?
Rhett's thigh shifts, has another one of those sounds boiling up in your throat as it unintentionally grinds against your core. A soft pressure that you're fighting the urge to grind against; barely there but enough to have your heart rate spiking.
"Shit," Rhett's eyes have gone wide, the whites of them flashing in the poor lighting. "Did I hurt you?"
Oblivious.
Completely, utterly oblivious.
"'m sorry," his muttering barely audible, already beginning to reel backward, "I didn't...did I overstep?"
Words would work just as well, but instead of opening your mouth, you find yourself stepping forward. Clinging to his wet shoulders for balance as you slot your thigh between his and raise it. Just high enough to press against that hardness that's formed in his jeans, straining against its confines.
Those eyelashes of his flutter, eyes rolling back for the briefest second. "Oh."
As the thunder rolls once more, his thighs flex, muscles contracting beautifully as he draws your leg harder against him. You're not even getting any attention, and yet the sensation of him grinding down against you is enough to have a shiver rattling down your spine. He's leaning back in, still panting as your lips brush together once more.
A siren pierces the air. A steady wail that has your skin prickling. Rhett's arms tighten. Drawing you into his chest. As if he can protect you from a potential tornado.
"'ve gotta hotel down the road," he starts; between the storm and the siren, you're lucky you hear him at all, "do you maybe..."
He doesn't need to finish his sentence before you're nodding your head.
Your back hits the door so hard that the frame rattles. A sound that should be so quiet and yet sounds like it's being blasted through a megaphone, echoing down the hallway. You should be opening your eyes, looking around to see if anyone's heard it, but it's so hard to focus when Rhett's teeth graze your lips like that.
He hardly expects you to chase him when he retreats, eagerly nipping at that thin bottom lip, gently tugging. You're not sure if it's meant to be a warning or a tease, but he's gasping into your mouth all the same.
Next to you, his hand fumbles with the lock on the door, plastic card bumping into everything in its path on its way to swipe through the reader. Slides through once. Twice. Three times.
No dice.
"Are you sure it's the right key?"
"Well," drawing away, he looks over to the card reader. Tries again. Same result. "...It worked earlier."
A shrill beep cuts through the air. And all of a sudden, you're moving backward. Treading blindly through unfamiliar territory. Unnatural gait making it hard to keep your lips on Rhett's for more than a second at a time. Broken with every step. Teeth clattering together. Feet tangling. Shoes coming off. Landing God knows where.
The backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed, but Rhett's still moving; all it takes is the slightest collision of bodies, and you're falling back onto the mattress. Not as gracefully as you'd like, but thankfully, Rhett can't see it. Eyes closed as he reaches behind his head, hooking his thumb under the collar of his shirt and tugging it over his head.
You need a drink.
Or five.
Because since when did Rhett Abbott look like he was hand sculpted by the Gods? From the moment you catch sight of the hard lines of his stomach, you know you're in trouble. And that shirt just has to rise higher, slowly revealing the swell of his chest. The biggest part of him; wide, with muscles that look big and pillowy until they flex.
And the dull, golden lighting from the bedside lamp does nothing but cast deep shadows against where he's most defined; the fruit of a lifetime of manual labor. Built for purpose rather than appearance. Moving back out to Wabang suddenly doesn't sound so bad, not if you get to see this every day.
"I know I'm..." Rhett's reaching up, pawing a hand through his unruly hair, poorly conceals the redness that's blossomed in the tips of his ears. "Not much to look at, but..."
"I'd beg to differ." It's out of your mouth before you can realize it. Now it's your turn to sheepishly look at the wall, unwilling to let Rhett catch the horror flaming in your eyes, gaze trained on the wall.
The bed dips as he sinks down onto it, knees settling between your parted legs, slowly but surely crawling up until your faces are mere inches apart once more. Even the flexing of muscles in your peripheral cannot bring you away from your sudden interest in the tacky floral pattern the hotel has chosen for its wallpaper.
But the kisses being peppered across your cheek definitely threatens to break your resolve.
"Hey." Kiss. "D'you wanna look at me?" Kiss. "Hm?"
You're turning to meet that next kiss, neck straining as you twist to catch those swollen lips of his. In the back of your head, you have a sneaking suspicion that yours must be in a similar state. On their own, your legs are rising, thighs hitching over his hip bones like they're meant to be shelved there.
Thunder strikes the ground with a heavy fist, but even the earsplitting noise can't distract you from the way Rhett's hips grind down into yours. Jeans doing little to stop you from feeling the length of him, hard against your clothed cunt. Has you whining into his mouth, rising to meet him on the next roll downward. A wayward hand toys with the hem of your shirt, fingers delving just far enough to brush against skin before retreating as if you've burned him.
"It's alright," Without a second thought, you're reaching down, taking hold of his wrist, guiding it back, "You can touch me."
"'S this my ol' shirt?" He says it as if he doesn't already know the answer, words vibrating against your lips, whilst his hand cautiously smooths up your side. Blunt nails dragging against your skin, stopping just short of the swell of your breasts. Shy.
"No," you giggle, "I just happen to have a shirt identical to the one I hijacked from your closet." Funny; it feels like it was just yesterday. Two dumb teenagers ditching prom to go joyriding around town because their dates sucked, their clothes were too stiff, and the music was one step away from Kids Bop.
"Looks good on you," He's humming, thumb swiping back and forth at the sensitive skin beneath your breast; not stepping that line yet, but debating. "'M sure the fella who gave it to ya was a lot more fun than the noname who got his knickers 'n a twist 'cause your dress didn't match his tie."
You're sure you'd remember that guy's name if your attention wasn't already preoccupied with the feeling of endless muscle beneath your palms. Smoothing up Rhett's chest, stopping short of a tattoo and a scar.
"You can touch me, cowboy," you say, and it's almost a little ironic that you're giving him permission to touch your breasts, considering the heavy cock languidly rolling against you, "I don't mind."
Lightning flickers outside the window, just bright enough to cast a little more light on the way his eyebrows raise. "Are you sure?"
All it takes is your shallow nod, and finally, his big, rough palm is gliding over your chest; he's not even done anything, and you're gasping. So distracted that you're caught off guard by the lips that catch yours, swallowing down your noises as a thumb swirls over a rapidly hardening nipple.
On its own, one of your hands delves into those messy curls resting at his nape, tangling in them, pulling him down into you. His insistent mouth draws yours open, drowns you in remnants of strawberry chapstick and the vanilla candy he sucked on when he drove you here. Doesn't stop, even when your head is spinning.
His tongue meets with yours; such a sudden appearance that you both startle as if you've been struck by a bolt of lightning for crossing such a boundary.
You shouldn't be here; you shouldn't be beneath Rhett Abbott, shouldn't have your legs hitched over his hips, but kissing him is so natural. Easy. Like you were always meant to be wind up here, your hands in childhood best friend's hair and his disappearing beneath the shirt you so shamelessly took from his closet all those years ago. Maybe there was a truth to those undying rumors that once followed you like a plague.
There's a tug on the edge of your shirt, and it's a damn miracle you're able to tear your mouth off of his long enough to get it over your head.
"Fuck," Rhett's eyes downright sparkle at the sight of you, "ain't you just beautiful."
One kiss. Two. Three. Before he's nibbling at the junction of your jaw, working his way down to the soft spot beneath your ear, and all you're capable of is twisting your fingers in the waves of his hair. Silky soft, still damp from the rain. It's all you can do to keep yourself from floating out the window, feeling those wandering lips kiss their way down to your collarbones. Teeth nip at them, threaten to leave a mark, but never quite do.
"This okay?" He murmurs, somewhere in between kissing, licking, his way to the valley between your breasts.
There's more to that statement because he's still talking, but you're already answering him, "More than okay."
Fuck, his mouth is boiling. Tongue like lava as it tentatively laps over your nipple, saliva threatening to burn right through you. It's all you can focus on, sinful noise rolling out of your throat long forgotten. Back and forth, he rolls that delicate skin between his teeth until he's retreating to shower his attention on the other.
"Rhett," gasping, tugging at his hair, "fuck, Rhett."
"You make my name sound like sin, sweetheart," his chuckle vibrates through your bones like the thunder that rattles this old building, "y' gettin' impatient on me?"
Impatient? Fuck, you think you could die happy just with this.
But he's taking your needy huff as a yes, and you can't complain, not when his hands are sliding down either side of your waist, kissing a trail down your belly. Only interrupted by the waistband of your pants, but those thick fingers are quick to curl beneath.
When you don't tell him no, he tugs. You've hardly got the strength to raise your hips off the mattress, too preoccupied with the wet spot that's long since formed at the forefront of his jeans. Don't get to see it for long because the moment your pants hit the floor, he's thumbing open his belt buckle, the old metal rattling as he tugs those tight jeans past his thighs and down his legs.
You don't recall him having so many scars littered across those long legs of his, pale white with age. One of those things you've missed out on, you suppose.
As he settles back between your legs, running a palm up your thigh, there's a different air about him. Hesitation in his breath, bottom lip caught between pearly white teeth. Those eyes flicker up to you, almost...bashful. "'S this a bad time to admit I've never done this before?"
Huh.
"You mean to tell me that you look like that," you're reaching up to flick your thumb over his dusky pink nipple just to see him jump, "and nobody has tried to jump your bones yet?"
"I...yeah, but...I only," he stammers, cheeks ablaze, can't meet your eye, "wanted...you."
The power flickers while you curl your hand around his cheek, feeling the roughness of his jaw under your palm as he leans into it. In the back of your head, you know that you'll have to talk about these feelings eventually; the ones he's so shamelessly brandished in your absence, the same ones you've avoided, fearing the heartache of unrequited love.
But right now, all you're capable of is smiling dumbly as you lean up to kiss him. "I'll teach you," murmuring against his lips, "but you'll have to promise not to share those new skills with anyone else."
Rhett's sudden grin has your teeth clacking together. "I can work with that." He's got a pretty good start, already toying with the hem of your underwear by the time you lay back once more, obediently pulling them down your legs when you lift your hips for him.
"C'n I...?" Deep blues trained on the sight between your legs, teeth worrying that poor, abused bottom lip.
You think he's about to start drooling.
At your encouraging nod, one of his hands falls onto your bare knee, parts your legs the slightest bit. Slow, as if you'll stop him if he moves too quickly; he leans down to press his lips to the inside of your knee. Kissing, down the delicate flesh of your thigh, unafraid to leave a shower of faint marks in his wake. Marks who have the potential to blossom into dark bruises come morning.
Long hair cascades into his face the lower he goes; it's so easy to reach down and run your fingers through it, tangling as your hand comes to rest on the back of his head. Seems to be the only thing encouraging him to move on from your inner thigh.
Hot breath fans out against your cunt, his mouthing hanging open, but doesn't quite have the nerve to move yet. "And you'll tell me if I do something wrong?"
For a moment, you think you catch a glimpse of that old, shy kid he used to be. The one who preoccupied himself with drawing circles into the dirt with his boot because he couldn't handle making eye contact with you. "Yeah."
This old hotel room is so quiet that you can hear the wet, barely-there sound of his mouth opening, pink tongue poking out. Then he's leaning down, licking a tentative, fat stripe up your cunt. Pauses right above your clit, and when you don't voice any complaints, licks back down. It's not much, but you're sucking in a deep breath anyway.
He's trying. Eyebrows furrowed as he maps you out, lapping gingerly at your entrance, the only thing he seems to be generally familiar with. He's a little more confident as he nuzzles closer and slips that careful tongue inside of you. The tip of his nose brushes against your clit, such a soft contact that has you whining.
Fuck, you can't tell if the quickening of your heart is from his mouth or if it's brought on by how he blinks up at you with those curious ocean blues. Knows he's doing something right because he's rising back up to where his nose was just bumping into you.
"This shit's hard when you can't see what you're doing," he chuckles directly into you, doesn't seem to realize his lips are brushing against your clit as he speaks.
The hand in his hair reaches down, taking hold of that scruffy jaw of his, "Right..." lifting him just a smidge higher; fuck, now he's found it, "here."
Humming, Rhett's eyes flutter closed, pressing lazy, wet kisses to your newly-located clit. Takes it between his lips just to delicately roll it back and forth, sends a delicious shiver right up your spine.
"Rhett," whining his name. Fighting the urge to squirm against the mattress.
Maybe you made a mistake by helping him. Because now that he's found your clit, he's not giving it a moment's rest. Drawing intelligible shapes into it with his tongue, ventures away just long enough to make you think he's done, then returns with a surprising, sloppy vengeance. Downright drooling into you, drenching you so thoroughly that the fingers nudging at your entrance slide in with ease.
Albeit muffled, the sound of your name meets your ringing ears, "fuck, you taste good." Soft noises rumbling out of him, eyelashes fanned out against his cheeks so prettily.
It's as if that initial shyness has completely melted off of him, downright collapses against the bed. Free arm hooking around your thigh and grounding you doesn't let you squirm away from the two thick fingers sliding into you. Deliberate in the way they hook, massaging against your walls in search of something he knows is there.
Your hips twitch.
"That it?" Lord, he really has no issue speaking into your pussy, doesn't he? Doesn't care that his deep voice sends a wave of tingles burning up into your chest. All he's focused on is laving his dumb, hot tongue over that swollen bud and teasing that sweet spot he's found.
Abrupt hail beats against the window, wind screams as it whips around the building, so loud that your gasp is rendered inaudible. There could be a tornado outside your door, and all you can care about is prying your eyes open to look at Rhett fucking Abbott. Tongue hanging out, curls framing the sight of him buried between your legs.
Heat grows in your lower belly. An invisible coil winding tighter and tighter. Fuck, you're, you're—
"Please," struggling for air, your voice strained, "stop."
Everything goes black.
But your eyes are...open.
"Fuckin' hate this town," Rhett mutters under his breath, the faintest whisper of his voice; your giggle is louder than his words. "Hold on, think I got a light."
The bed rises as he clambers off of it, taking with him his ever-so-warm presence. Leaves you to shift against the bed, blinking dumbly as your eyes adjust to the darkness. Oh, how you have not missed the joy of Wabang power outages.
Something small hits the bed, rolls until it bumps against your naked hip. Feels like some sort of tube, not the flashlight you were expecting.
"Did you get lost?" You croak, twisting your head to look in the corner next to the bed. Where the hell did he go?
"'m down here." It's hard to catch, but there's sudden movement down by your feet. That old belt buckle chimes as Rhett riffles through his jeans. The sound stops. And then. Light.
"Forgot this dumb phone had a flashlight in it," he's yet to outgrow that sheepish grumble, light bouncing as he meanders to the bedside table. The phone doesn't create much light at all, hardly illuminates the room when he places it down, but it's enough. Even if it casts heavy shadows across Rhett's body, right down to...
"Good lord."
Rhett's attention snaps back to you. "What?"
But you...will be keeping your thoughts to yourself. Maybe the light is playing tricks on you. Because there is no way he's that well endowed. Thicker more than anything, cock leaning to the left, flushed red tip shiny and leaking against his hip.
The lube resting against your hip is about to become your best friend here in a minute.
"What?" He repeats, the corner of his lip rising as he settles back down on the bed, back in his place between your legs. God, his chin is dripping from you. Shimmering in the light. "'s there a monster lurkin' in here with us?"
"Yes," and you will not be elaborating.
That halfway smile explodes into a dopey grin. Seems to know what you're referring to as he reaches for that neglected bottle of lube.
It's not a trick of the light. The size of him never miraculously changes, even as that big hand of his strokes a generous amount of lube over himself. Explains why he drizzles more over his fingers, pushes them back into you once more with a sickly wet sound.
"D'you need more, first?" He asks. The both of you fully aware that even though he's got three fingers in you now, pumping into you in slow, careful strokes, it may not be enough.
It takes you a moment to decide, "I think I'm alright."
One of his hands falls down by your side, muscles rippling as he braces his weight on it, while the other...
The first kiss of his cockhead against your pussy has you gasping. Doesn't quite jump into pushing into you, instead pushing upward, spreading your lips around him as he rubs against you.
Your mouth opens, ready to hurry him up, but he's already heard what you're going to say.
"I know," he chirps, eyes rolling, "I know."
There's a newfound pressure between your legs, the thick head of his cock nudging against your delicate, dripping entrance. Pushing past that twitching ring of muscle, a pair of gasps dancing through the air, can't quite tell who made which sound.
Rhett's swearing under his breath, little incantations of filthy words that somehow don't measure up to how obscene it feels to stretch open around him. Lube audibly squishes as you struggle to relax and take that cock of his.
"Fuck," he's barely got the tip of himself inside of you, and he's already crumbling. Unable to sit upright anymore, forearms bracing his weight on either side of your head, muscles downright shivering. "'re you okay, doll?" His hips stalling.
"Keep moving, cowboy." You don't know when you started reaching up, but your arms are looping around Rhett's neck, drawing him down to meet your lips. Short. Messy. Can't close your mouth for more than a second at a time.
It's hard to recall what gave you so much confidence to begin with because it's long since washed away by the drag of his blunt head against your walls. So thick that he rubs right past that sensitive bundle of nerves, you don't recognize the sound it draws out of your bitten lips. Thighs fluttering, clamping down on those strong hips of his, unable to so much as squirm. All you can do is whimper and take it.
"C'n feel you flutterin' 'round me," he grunts against your lips, voice breathy. It's hard to even voluntarily clamp down around him, all to watch his head jolt backward, eyes falling closed. So, so sensitive, and he's only halfway in you. "Fuck, sweetie."
His head drops into your neck, breath warming the skin there, unintentionally gives you a picture-perfect view of his back. A myriad of smooth muscles flexing under the effort of keeping himself up as he pushes into you. So captivating that you hardly realize he's long since quit moving, hips flush with yours.
It's hard to breathe. As if you can't get enough air into your lungs. Nerves wound so tight you fear they'll snap if Rhett so much as twitches inside of you.
"You okay?" His voice sounds so different, an octave lower, gravelly, unruly hair hanging low in his face as he lifts his head.
Involuntarily, you clench down around him. A little flex of muscle that has the both of you closing your eyes. "I think so."
By the time he works up the courage to draw back, the arms bracketing your head are shaking. Maybe you'd have the nerve to tease him if that first shallow thrust into you didn't effectively erase every thought from your head. You can't tell if it's beginner's luck or an advantage of being so thick, but he massages against your sweet spot so nicely.
Your hands are sliding down his pale back, nails biting into the muscle there, "just like that."
"Yeah?" You've forgotten how wonderful that cocky tone sounds on him. He's drawing back a little further this time, albeit slow on that second, careful push back into you. Like he'll break you if he moves too quickly.
Countless times you've pictured this exact scenario in your head; two of you tangled up in a hotel room bed, crossing the one line you were told not to. Steamy dreams depicting a man who fucks you up against the wall, unafraid to take what's his, and whistful daydreams of a cowboy who treats you like royalty as he makes a mess of you.
Never once did this manifest in your thoughts.
His lips ghosting over your features, unable to stay in one place too long. Shamelessly fucks you slow on this thick cock of his, works his way up to deep strokes that make your nails bite into his skin, drowning in the wet drag that makes you feel every inch of him. Outside, the storm rages on, a chaos of noises that these old walls fail to muffle.
But it's still too quiet.
Lightning flickers outside. Lights up the room as you reach out to pry his lip out from between his teeth.
"I wanna hear you," you murmur, squeezing your legs around his hips.
Rhett's eyes avert; can't look you in the eye, despite being so deep inside of you that you can feel his heavy balls pressing into your skin. "Shits embarrassin'."
"It's just me, dummy," as if to emphasize your words, you're leaning up to catch his lips in your own. Unwilling to let him stifle his noises any longer, swallowing down the reluctant whines you draw right out of him.
Such a simple sound that has you clamping down around his cock, downright shivering around him. Only serves to illicit a breathy whimper of your name, starts a downward spiral that you don't think you'll ever come back from.
Your dominant hand is reaching down, fingertips finding your swollen, nearly forgotten clit. A particularly hard thrust has you breaking away from his lips, head hitting the mattress with a soft cry. That initial slowness is starting to fray at the seams, and you don't think you're going to survive it.
"Rhett," your voice is strained, barely there.
Deliberate, he repeats it. A wet noise tearing through the room. Once. Twice. Until he's finding a rhythm, strokes punctuated by his breathy gasps for air and pitchy noises. You don't know if it's the sound of him or the delicious way his fat cockhead kisses that little bundle of nerves, but a familiar heat is blooming in your belly regardless.
"'M sorry, I can't help myself," Rhett sputters, words nearly lost to the obscene squelch between your legs. Lube and your own wetness creating a downright mess. "Feel so fuckin' good 'round me."
Every thrust has your body rocking against the bed, almost can't keep your fingers on your tingling clit. It's a fight just to find your voice."Fuck you like you mean it, Rhett."
When you said that, you hadn't expected him to lean back onto his haunches, big palms splaying around your hips, as he fucks into you with purpose. This cheap mattress is starting to squeak, loud enough to be heard in the room next to yours, but you're so preoccupied with the sight between your legs that you can't be brought to care.
His cell phone light casts just enough light for you to catch sight of his thick cock disappearing between your legs. So wet that it's shiny, catching in the light and drawing your eyes back to it every time you go to look away. Powerless to stop him from fucking you how he wants, bullying those sensitive nerves until you're lightheaded, head rolling backward.
"Close," Rhett warns. If you knew where your voice went, you'd be muttering much of the same.
You find yourself fluttering around him again, heat tightening in your belly as he all but collapses on top of you. Face buried in your neck once more, deep, guttural sounds spilling into your skin as the rhythm of his hips begins to falter. Twitchy. Thrusts shortening. Rhett's name is tumbling off your lips. The fingers on your clit growing shaky. Legs clenching around him.
"Rhett," supposed to be a warning. Something. Anything.
But it's too late. Pointless. Without further warning, your body goes taut. Back arching, shaking, as that heat spreads and washes over you, cumming around Rhett's spasming cock with a strangled cry. Can feel his hips stall against yours, his whimpered cry muffled by your shoulder.
Distantly, you're aware of how full you still are. Know that he hasn't pulled out in the slightest, cock twitching as his sticky, hot cum fills you. That's probably another line you weren't supposed to cross, but to hell with it.
The darkness behind your eyelids suddenly isn't so dark anymore. And as you pry them open, you find yourself nearly blinded.
Seems the power came back.
Rhett's already beginning to peel his sweaty body away from yours, albeit at a snail's pace. Fixated on the obscene sight of where your bodies connect, so wet that one of you will likely need to change the sheets after this. The light of his phone was decent, but the bedside lamp properly illuminates him. Cheeks pink, lips so bitten you're surprised he hasn't drawn blood.
"Didn't mean to..." he pants, voice barely there, "didn't mean to cum inside you." Those and of his are moving your legs on their own, parting them, gives himself a better view as he slowly pulls out of you. "I think can see the appeal, though."
And as his eyes flick up to drink up your expression, corner of his lip rising, the thought of cleanup doesn't sound so bad.
You don't recall your bed ever being this warm.
Or...lumpy, for that matter.
This isn't your bed.
But even so, opening your eyes is a tremendous task that you take on as slowly as you can. Taking a deep breath, feeling the stiff sheets move with your body, nose catching a hint of coffee and something fresh, crisp. Identical to the Autumn breeze that filters through Wabang every year, used to nip at your skin as you waited on that slow school bus to pick you and Rhett up.
Your eyes snap open. A switch flipped.
This isn't your bed.
And this isn't your childhood bedroom, either.
This hotel room is familiar, though. Tacky, from the wallpaper to the choice of decor. Bed frame built to appear as if it's been constructed by scrap pieces of chopped wood, an iron sign of a momma bear and her cubs hanging on the wall behind your head. So painfully trademark of Wabang that it hurts.
There are flowers on the bedside table. Familiar red tulips and vivid yellow sunflowers precariously placed in a thin, plastic cup. A second cup sits on top of the first, upside down, the bottom crudely cut out for the stems to fit through it. A makeshift support. You recognize that craftmanship. As if your thoughts have manifested his appearance, the bathroom door squeals open.
There he is.
Severely lacking a shirt, in nothing but his old, sun-bleached jeans, the longer ends of his hair tied back into a small ponytail. His left-hand nurses a cup of coffee, and the right, carefully supported by an off-white brace. That wrist never really did heal the same, another one of those free rodeo trophies.
"Mornin, sleepy head," he chirps, and the roughness in his voice suggests he hasn't been up for long, "thought you'd never wake up."
"My dignity can't take dying in a tacky hotel room," you don't recognize your voice. Strangely raw.
Sitting up requires some effort. Body still half-asleep, limbs downright useless as you drag yourself up from the mattress to take a better look around the room. Are those...your clothes on the floor?
Images flash through your head. Blurry, there and gone in the blink of an eye. Memories flood back into the forefront of your mind like a bad dream. What did you do? Why did you do it? There's absolutely no going back from this—
The bed dips as Rhett settles onto the edge of the mattress. And though you're searching for a hint, a suggestion, of regret, you fail to find it. He's all meek smiles and red ears as he leans over to place his cup on the table. Flashing a series of marks on his back, pale pink in color.
His good hand comes down to squeeze your knee through the comforter, just like it always does. "About last night..."
You don't regret it. And by the looks of it, neither does he. Has no problem locking eyes with you; something unknown burning behind those deep blue eyes as teeth sink into his thin bottom lip. Lips you would give both your kidneys just to kiss one more time. As you drag your attention away from his mouth, your eyes meet once more.
The corner of his lip draws upward.
You don't know who moves first. All you know is that you're surging forward, he's catching your needy mouth in his, and you're falling back into the sheets as one. Hands exploring, pawing at what little clothing dares get between you, hearts aching for more, more, more.
Words can wait a little longer.
#rhett abbott smut#rhett abbott x y/n#rhett abbott x reader#rhett abbott#ao3 oneshot#oneshot#rhett abbott outer range#outer range fic#outer range#outer range amazon#rhett abbott imagine#rhett abbott x you#reader self insert#self insert#x reader#reader insert
281 notes
·
View notes
Text
South Park Style Oneshot
a n o t h e r o n e
ok, so, I got very much excited by this one, and spent wayyy too long fiddling with it, but here you goooo eNJOYY!
If you want me to, uh, like, write a part 2... for what happens after... in Kyles bedroom... just, uh, lemme know... 👀
This is based on a Prompt sent to me here by @missworld77 ! On Tumblr! If you'd like me to write one of yours, send it thruuu! ✨💕
HAVE FUN READING DRINK WATER ILY
#south park oneshot#south park style#sp stan marsh#sp kyle broflovski#sp stan x kyle#angst and fluff#south park fanfiction#tumblr prompt#writing prompt#ao3 fanfic#ao3 oneshot#THANKS FOR READING ILYSM
16 notes
·
View notes
Text
Hice un One Shot de Kacchako inspirado en la ilustración de Alunny me hizo por el concurso 🥺❤️❤️
Wattpad:
AO3:
#boku no hero academia#bnha#mha#my hero academia#ao3fic#ao3 link#ao3 oneshot#kacchako#uraraka ochako#bakugou katsuki
8 notes
·
View notes
Text
So I'm extremely excited to announce that I'm going to start a series on my ao3! It's going to be a series of oneshots featuring Crowley and Aziraphale pov's, every oneshot is going to be based off of a song I associate with either one or both of them!
Some will be poems, others will actually have dialogues and plots! I'm so excited for this! So far one fic is up! <3
#ao3 writer#ao3 oneshot#good omens#good omens 2#good omens season 2#crowley and aziraphale#crowley#aziraphale#ineffable husbands
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
blood-stained bed sheets (vampire mary goore x original character)
rating: explicit
number of words: 6836
in which Mary Goore is a vampire and he likes to have bloody sex
ps: please read the tags beforehand
#there’s like#a lot of blood#and knife play#mary goore is a vampire#vampire#mary goore#repugnant#blood#blood kink#repugnant band#the band ghost#ghost fanfic#ao3fic#ao3#ao3 oneshot#ghost fanfiction#ghost fandom#ghost bc#vampire mary goore#mary goore x reader
19 notes
·
View notes
Text
I couldn’t get an idea out of my head. Here, have a 1500 word Rosekiller angst!
https://archiveofourown.org/works/41055063
Are We Too Young For This?
Barty Crouch Jr/Evan Rosier
Following Evan Rosier’s death, Barty writes him a series of letters. Evan is his only saving grace as he is pulled deeper in with the Death Eaters.
Short epistolary story tracking the time between Evan’s death until Barty’s incarceration.
#rosekiller#ao3 oneshot#barty crouch junior#evan rosier#regulus black mentioned#fic: are we too young for this?
13 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
peonies-and-dreams
you sunshine, you temptress
matcgroupinc
Technical Manual Writing Services
kazukiquartz
Commission Open
🇻🇳🇻🇳🇻🇳
nickybabyboys
Untitled
bertman01
S'up Dudes!