#and inside is a note in black ink that says

[scoutofmymind]

Mama scout mi Reina! Would you be open to writing an AU of Luigi? A little supernatural ish perhaps 👀

Saw You in a Dream — { Luigi x Reader }

Content: NSFW— MINORS DNI dream-kissing lol, yearning, some pining I suppose, reader is an uninspired artist, Luigi is a figment of her imagination.

Wc: 4,153

Notes: ONEIRIX™ is a dream enhancement supplement designed to intensify and prolong REM sleep experiences.

AN: I DO plan on continuing this if requests for it are abundant. I have many, many ideas for how this story could go, but I will tell you, it’s a lil…. Twisted hehe. Also, my darling anon, I know this isn’t really “supernatural” but in hopes of not writing 10k again and learning when to stop, I must note that more supernatural elements will be tied in if this is requested enough for a continuation. Love you xox

"What's wrong with old-fashioned, regular dreams?" You stare across the table at Bailey, who leans forward with an almost evangelical intensity, her blue eyes gleaming with the same fervor as when she pitched her start-up ideas or insisted everyone try CrossFit. "Is nothing sacred anymore? Do we have to optimize and upgrade every last human experience?"

"No," Bailey says, drumming her fingers against the table, her half-eaten omelette growing cold. She keeps shaking her head as if your resistance personally offends her. "These are revolutionary — they're going to change the way we think, bitch." The words come out with practiced casualness, like everything else about her these days.

She flicks a small pink baggie across the table, four obsidian-black pills rattling inside like tiny meteorites hurtling straight toward your earth.

"No." You slide the baggie back with a single finger, as if even touching it too long might leave a stain. "I don't need another vice."

"It's non-addictive." Bailey leans in, her voice dropping to that silky-smooth pitch she used to use selling timeshares in Miami. Despite her earlier promise that she wasn't working for them, you catch that familiar gleam in her eye — the one that surfaced with every pyramid scheme and side hustle she'd dragged you into. "I just need you to experience it. Just once."

The baggie sits between you like a dare, its pink sheen catching the diner's fluorescent lights, making the black pills inside gleam like wet ink.

"It could really inspire your art." She slides a journal across the table — black, unmarked, expensive-looking. "I've filled this thing with ideas already. It’s only been a week.”

She's found your weak spot now.

Those late-night calls, the wine-soaked confessions about your creative drought, the mounting pressure from your agent — it's all ammunition. "This could be your saving grace," she adds, and the words sink their hooks in deep. Your fingers twitch toward the baggie, career desperation beginning to outweigh your better judgment. “I’m dead serious.”

"Fine." You snatch the baggie and shove it deep into your purse, somewhere between old receipts and forgotten lipliner, secretly hoping it'll vanish into that void where hair ties and spare change go to die. "Give me the pamphlet. You clearly don't need it." You thrust out your hand, and Bailey practically glows as she slides over the sleek Oneirix packet, its metallic lettering catching the light like a sign you're choosing to ignore.

The pills had disappeared into your purse's black hole until Bailey's FaceTime lit up your phone the next afternoon. There she was, sleep mask pushed up like a crown, her face dewy with her latest hundred-dollar moisturizer. "So, did you try it?" Her grin was expectant, eager — the same look she'd worn pushing juice cleanses and crystal healing.

You glance at your desk, where half-finished canvases gather dust and untouched notebooks mock your creative drought.

Last night had been your usual routine; an hour-long shower where you'd solved all of life's problems and remembered none of them, three episodes of that show you're still trying to convince yourself you enjoy, and quality time with your artistic inadequacy.

"Not yet." You mumble around a spoonful of ice cream, your attention split between Bailey's glowing face and whatever's playing on Netflix — neither getting your full focus.

"Girl," she clicks her tongue, and you can hear the judgment dripping through your phone speaker. "Go get them — are you scared?" The question hangs there, pointed and precise, like she's daring you.

You hate how well she knows you, how easily she can press that particular button.

Being called scared has always been your kryptonite, ever since she first met you at that high school gallery opening where you'd been too anxious to mingle.

"No." Your face twists into a scowl at her accusation. "I just forgot." You hit pause, abandoning both your show and melting ice cream to dig through your purse.

You find the baggie too easily, the pamphlet's glossy surface catching the light as you unfold it, its clinical text stark against the dark background.

ONEIRIX

DREAM ENHANCEMENT SUPPLEMENT

FOR INTENSIFIED & PROLONGED REM SLEEP EXPERIENCES

The instructions read like any over-the-counter medication.

One tablet, 30 minutes before bed, standard warnings about machinery and other medications.

"Okay." The pamphlet lands on your counter, its unread warnings fanning out like discarded playing cards. "Will it make me tired, or do I already have to be—"

"Oh, it knocks your ass out." Bailey's voice drifts from your abandoned phone, tinny and distant. You wrestle with the baggie's seal, the plastic refusing to cooperate until it suddenly gives, spilling one glossy black pill into your palm. "It works a hell of a lot faster than thirty minutes, too," she adds through a yawn.

You swallow the pill, and before you can even contemplate moving from the kitchen to your bed, a heaviness seeps into your limbs like honey dripping down glass.

Bailey's already drifted off on FaceTime, her gentle snores creating a strange duet with your own as consciousness slips away once you make it to the couch faster than falling.

The transition is jarring — not the usual soft fade into nonsensical dreams, but a sharp snap into awareness. You know you're dreaming, the way you know your own name, the way you know the sky is blue. It's like someone's turned up the saturation on reality, made everything clearer and brighter than it has any right to be.

This isn't the usual dream-fog where your brain accepts that your childhood home has suddenly sprouted wings or that your teeth are falling out at a gallery show.

This is different.

This is aware.

You wiggle your toes in the grass — actual, individual blades tickling your feet, not the vague suggestion of grass that usually populates dreams. Your manicure catches the sunlight, that specific shade of dusty rose you picked last Tuesday, tiny chips and all.

The rings on your fingers still catch when you twist them, that familiar nervous habit following you even here. Everything about you is preserved with photograph precision, dropped into this impossible elsewhere.

"Jesus," escapes your lips, the word carried away by a breeze that feels too perfectly warm to be real. The butterflies dance overhead like confetti caught in reverse, their wings painted in colors that might not exist in the waking world. You watch one land on a nearby flower, and you can see every detail of its wings, every tiny pattern — the kind of detail your sleeping mind has never bothered with before. "This is fucking-"

“Hey.”

The voice cuts through your wonder, and you spin, heart somehow racing in this dream-that's-not-quite-a-dream.

He's there, solid as the ground beneath your feet — no dream-logic shimmer or fade around the edges. Tall, with shoulders that could carry atlas's burden, and features that seem carved rather than grown. His smile plays at the corners of his mouth like he knows a secret you don't, but it's not threatening. If anything, it pulls at something in your chest, a curiosity that feels dangerous in its intensity.

"Hey," you echo, the word coming out softer than intended. Your eyes sweep the meadow, searching for other dreamers or figures or whatever they might be called here. But it's just him, just you, just this perfect pocket of perpetual summer afternoon stretching out in all directions.

"S'just me." His hand extends between you like a bridge, and you notice how the sunlight catches on his knuckles, creating shadows you could count. No name follows, just that smile deepening into dimples.

"Your name?” You tilt your chin down, adopting the pose of someone who's seen too many crime documentaries to trust a nameless stranger, even in a dream. Your eyebrows arch high enough to feel the stretch — another impossible sensation that feels too real.

"Seems you haven't decided yet."

"I haven't decided?"

He shrugs, the gesture rippling across those shoulders like a wave, and something flickers in his expression - like a TV losing signal for just a moment. "Yeah." He blinks, and you can see him searching his own mind, coming up empty. "Haven't decided yet."

Your eyes travel his form like you're memorizing a sculpture. The elegant taper from broad shoulders to narrow waist, the careful strength in his forearms, the way he holds himself — somehow both completely at ease and coiled with potential energy. His eyes meet yours with that puppy-dog hopefulness that seems at odds with his imposing frame, that half-smile still playing on his lips.

"Lu—ee-" The sound stretches between you, and you can taste the wrongness of it. Your head tilts, and suddenly it clicks. "Luigi."

Luigi nods, a slow, knowing motion, and reaches behind him. The wallet arcs through the air, and when you catch it, the leather feels warm, like it's been sitting in summer sunshine. It falls open in your hands, and there it is — Luigi Mangione, printed in stark bureaucratic certainty. "I thought you'd say that."

The urge to gasp, to stumble back in shock, rises and falls like a wave. Reality — or whatever version of it this is — reasserts itself with the gentle persistence of tide coming in. Of course you knew his name. Of course you did. Just like you knew the exact shade of his eyes, the precise angle of his jaw, the way his right dimple is slightly deeper than his left.

There’s a reason he feels familiar.

You made him.

"Well, Luigi," The name feels like syrup on your tongue as you pivot, bare feet finding their path through grass as the sun drapes over your shoulders like a tailored shawl, warming without burning, perfect in that way only dreams can manage. "I'm sure you know who I am."

Luigi falls into step beside you, a flag leaf dancing between his lips as he walks.

His presence feels as natural as your shadow, a complement to your movement rather than an intrusion. "Of course," he says, and his voice carries the same gentle warmth as the sunlight, the same easy invitation as the wind that plays with your hair.

The grass gives way to reveal a pond that looks like liquid mercury in the sunlight. "I've been waiting awhile for you — seemed to have run out of ways to pass the time."

You stand at the water's edge, watching swans carve elegant paths across the surface, their reflections perfect mirrors in the still water, and in the distance, ducks conduct their quiet conversations. "Are you saying you're bored of everything here?"

"No," Luigi's fingers brush your sleeve, gentle but insistent, like a breeze that knows where it's going. As he steps forward, wildflowers burst into existence beneath his feet — first violets, then daisies, then flowers you've never seen before, in colors that shouldn't exist. "I'm saying it gets lonely doing the same thing everyday on your own."

Luigi continues forward, leaving his galaxy of flowers behind, but you find yourself frozen, watching the way the light catches his silhouette.

"How many times?" The question escapes before you can catch it. "How many times have I been here and left?"

He pauses mid-step, and for a moment, the whole dreamscape seems to hold its breath — the swans pause their gliding, the breeze stills, even the wildflowers stop their eager blooming. When he turns to face you, his smile carries a gentleness that makes your chest ache.

"It’s been so long, but — " he pauses, and somehow the words don't sound like an accusation. "Sometimes for seconds, sometimes for hours. Sometimes you remember me, sometimes you don't. But you always come back eventually. And I'm always here."

You swallow, “How long has it been?"

His laugh drifts through the air, light and melodic. "Long enough that I've watched these trees grow from saplings." His bare feet shift in the grass, toes curling against the earth. "Long enough that I've named every swan on this pond, then named their children, and then their children's children."

The wildflowers continue once again their blooming beneath his steps — first soft pinks, then deep purples, then blues that seem to glow from within. Each petal unfolds with deliberate precision, creating a trail that marks his path across the meadow.

You notice how he holds himself, the way his shoulders stay perfectly squared, his posture too fluid, too precise for someone who's supposed to be just a figment of your dreams. "So I looked different last time?" you wonder, trailing behind him again, catching the slight nod.

"We were both younger then." Luigi turns back to you and grins, reaching out to squeeze your shoulder. “I’ve really missed you."

His voice carries the warmth of old sunlight, that rare sincerity that can't be fabricated — something in his presence that felt secure, anchoring, his nature as gentle as summer rain.

But the look in his eyes betrayed what his smile tried to hide — he knew you didn't remember him, and that knowledge lived somewhere deep and wounded inside him.

You could see it now, in the careful way he held himself back, how his initial greeting carried just enough warmth to be kind but not enough to overwhelm. Your memory of him had been burning away like lit matches with each passing year, while he'd been trapped here, holding onto every detail of who you used to be.

Luigi lead you further into the meadow, another pond materializing somewhere further into the deep but Luigi seemed far too familiar with this terrain, and you trusted each turn, “Have I given you different names?”

He shakes his head with a laugh, soft and bittersweet, almost as if he couldn't imagine wearing any other name than your Luigi. "No." He scrunches his nose, a gesture so achingly familiar it feels like déjà vu. "One time I almost thought you were going to, but — nope. Always some variation of Luigi."

The questions dance at the edges of your consciousness like autumn leaves in a wind, but somehow the answers are already there, settled in your bones like old truths. Why he lets you choose, how he knows when recognition lights your eyes and when they stay dark with forgetting — it's all written in a language your mind has forgotten but your heart still speaks fluently.

"I saw you for a minute somewhere near the streams last winter." His voice softens, eyes distant as if watching memories drift past like leaves on water. "It was only for a split moment — but I knew it was you, even though you'd changed."

Your heart twists with a horrible dread, sharp and cold as winter frost, weighed down by the certainty that he'll slip through your fingers like morning mist the moment you wake. "How do I make myself remember?" The words fall soft as prayer between you both, your knees brushing as you sit beside him.

He turns to you with that gentle patience that speaks of having heard this same desperate question from your lips a hundred times before, in a hundred different dreams.

He draws your hand into his lap with practiced ease, his fingertips ghosting over yours like butterfly wings — a gesture so deeply ingrained it speaks of countless similar moments, his soul remembering the map of your hands better than your own mind does. It doesn't feel strange to fall back into these rhythms with Luigi; everything has felt as natural as breathing since you landed here, like slipping into a dance your feet never truly forgot. "I know parts of me remember you," you whisper into the space between heartbeats, watching his fingers trace invisible patterns across your skin. "I know you feel familiar.”

Luigi nods slowly, pressing your palm to his cheek with a gentle sigh that carries the weight of a thousand forgotten moments. "We never learned how to make you remember," he murmurs, his voice wrapped in forced lightness that can't quite mask the undertow of grief beneath. "Always a toss up."

You swing your feet from the mossy ledge where Luigi sits, the ancient stone cool beneath you both.

He leans back on his palms, wearing a smile that's equal parts joy and resignation — a man who's learned to find peace in fleeting moments.

There's something heartbreaking in how he's already accepted that this too will slip through the sieve of your memory, but still treasures your presence like water in a desert, grateful just to have you here at all.

"I'll remember this time." The words spill out like a vow, fragile as spun glass but burning with conviction. Even as you speak them, you know they might shatter come morning, but something feels different here — each detail crystalline and alive, from the whisper of wind in the leaves to the warmth of his shoulder against yours.

This doesn't feel like the usual gossamer threads of dreams; it feels like stepping through a door into somewhere achingly real.

"Mm." Luigi's shoulder brushes yours, a gentle pendulum of contact, and though his hum carries years of gentle disbelief, he can't suppress the smile that softens his features. "All that matters is that you're here now, I think."

You nod slowly, watching your legs paint pendulum shadows against the water below. "Is there anyone else here?" The whisper slips out conspiratorial and soft, your eyes scanning the peaceful landscape as if its emptiness might be deceiving.

"No." Luigi shrugs, tossing a stone into the pond where it breaks the surface in perfect ripples. "You thought up a couple weird little-“ he scrunches his nose, lost in the memory of your previous creations — specifically those tiny Trojan warriors you'd accidentally willed into existence, who'd turned the peaceful fields into their own private battlefield. "It's just never worked out." He turns to you with a glimmer of fond exasperation, pressing a knuckle into your thigh. "You've got a rather dangerous imagination."

You swallow the question rising in your throat, deciding some doors are better left closed — for the sake of whatever fragments of sanity you still possess.

If there are any left to guard.

"Dangerous," you echo in a whisper, fighting back a bubble of laughter that threatens to spill over. "Well, scratch that, then.”

"It's always been you and me here." Luigi nods slowly, his voice taking on that particular texture of someone guarding something precious. "Outsiders make me nervous."

From that careful admission, you piece together a history of well-intentioned mistakes — multiple attempts at populating this sanctuary that ended in ways that left shadows in Luigi's voice. Each failure seems etched in the spaces between his words, a collection of experiments gone wrong. "That's fair," you murmur, reaching for his hand with gentle curiosity. He surrenders it without hesitation, letting you trace the lines of his palm like a map of all your shared disasters.

There's something profoundly real in the way his skin warms yours, in the faint calluses and subtle creases — too detailed, too imperfect to be mere imagination, yet too perfect in its imperfection to be anything else.

"How is the gallery stuff going?" His question floats between you, and for a heartbeat, confusion sparks — how could he know about the gallery?

But the answer settles over you like dawn breaking.

Of course he knows.

He knows the way your hands shake before each opening, the doubt that pools in your stomach when you face a blank canvas, the elation of a perfect brushstroke. He knows your fears dressed in their Sunday best and your dreams in their rawest form.

You made him.

Crafted him from stardust and loneliness, shaped him from the clay of your subconscious until he became more real than reality itself — your most perfect creation, yet the one you can never quite remember come morning.

"I haven't been inspired in — god," you trail off, turning to truly see him, and the dormant artist in you awakens with a sudden, fierce hunger. The sunlight plays architect with his features, gilding each detail you'd unconsciously perfected; those midnight curls catching light like cut obsidian, the almost-symmetrical beauty marks dotting his cheeks like carefully placed stars, the classical slope of his nose that Renaissance masters would have wept to capture.

Your fingers twitch with phantom muscle memory, aching to translate him from this dream-reality to paper, to make permanent what feels so ethereal. "So long." The words fall soft and wondering, as if you've suddenly remembered how to speak a forgotten language — the language of creation, of beauty, of art itself.

Luigi hums softly, nuzzling your shoulder with a familiarity that sends your thoughts spiraling backward through time. "Well, let's get you inspired," he murmurs, his breath warm against your neck, and suddenly you're wrestling with questions you've been too afraid to examine.

The intimacy of the gesture opens a door to memories of your teenage self — those raw, lonely years when you were all sharp edges and desperate yearning, underwhelmed by fumbling high school romances and overwhelmed by feelings.

You created him then, in those twilight hours between childhood and adulthood. A friend first, undoubtedly — a sanctuary in human form when the real world felt too abrasive to bear.

But now, feeling the casual tenderness of his touch, you wonder about the blurred lines in your shared history. If perhaps you'd written more than friendship into his DNA during those hormone-soaked nights, those moments when loneliness wore your resistance thin.

You melt into his warmth, drawn by a gravity as familiar as breathing, like a desperate moth to a flame you've danced with a thousand times before. "How do we do that?" The question hangs deliberately innocent, though electricity already hums beneath your skin with anticipated answers.

Luigi's response is immediate and devastating — the warm, wet slide of his tongue painting a deliberate path up your neck. Time stretches as he savors you, the gesture somehow both predatory and reverent.

"Maybe we could jog your memory, too." His voice drops to that particular octave that makes your bones liquid, left hand claiming your chin while his right arm becomes a band of heat around your waist, orchestrating your body until you're straddling his lap. "I remember exactly the things you like the most," teeth graze your pulse point as his hands span your back, fingertips pressing into your spine like he's playing music only he knows the notes to, "and the things you hate."

"How do you know those things haven't changed, Lu?" Your fingers find sanctuary in his curls, each strand impossibly soft, and the breeze carries the essence of August - sun-warmed grass, distant thunderstorms, ripening fruit. The scent of endless summer, bottled in this perfect moment.

"I guess there's only one way to find out, don't you think?" The question unfolds like a flower between you as Luigi tilts his head back, studying you through heavy-lidded eyes.

His lips part, pink and promising, an unspoken dare wrapped in velvet invitation. And you — you who have always been more poet than pragmatist — surrender to the gravitational pull of him. You lean in like a sunset chasing the horizon, drawn to the heat of his mouth, the shared breath between you becoming sacred thing.

His tongue moves against yours with practiced poetry, his lips a tender geography you're rediscovering. Every nip of teeth is precisely timed, a choreography written in muscle memory and want. Just as his hands find the warm skin beneath your shirt, reality fractures — a void tears through the dream like ink spilled across a watercolor.

The darkness swallows everything, sudden and absolute.

You jolt awake with violence, heart thundering against your ribs. The familiar couch cushions press against your cheek, mundane and mocking. The real world crashes back into focus with brutal clarity; the hum of the refrigerator, the tick of the wall clock, the morning light cutting through back scatter.

Each detail feels like a betrayal, a reminder that Luigi exists only in that liminal space between sleeping and waking, where longing takes shape and wears a face you crafted from starlight and need.

"No." The word escapes as a soft, desperate plea. Your hand reaches for the sketchbook and pen with the urgency of someone grasping at smoke, at fragments of a dream determined to dissolve.

And there he is — Luigi materializing before you like a miracle answering desperate prayers, your artist's eye already translating the divine geometry of his face onto paper before memory can steal him away.

You are the faithful at the altar, he the vision you're determined to make tangible.

The alarm screams again, reality's insistent hammer against your temple. "Fuck off!" you snarl, jabbing at the screen with unnecessary force, brows knitted with the particular fury reserved for things that dare interrupt worship.

The real world can wait.

Right now, there are curves of ink to capture, beauty marks to map, and the precise angle of summer sunlight in black curls to remember.

Hey, I think you were right about the pills

You text Bailey after lunch.

Holy shit

[grinchwrapsupreme]

nothing I love more in a secondhand book than a note written to someone in the cover

[dreaming-medium]

Language Barrier

Pairing: Lee Minho x Reader

Word Count: 7K

Tags: fluff, first meeting, first kiss, strangers to lovers

Summary: When the power goes out while you’re in an ATM vestibule, you come to realize you’re stuck inside until the police come to open the door. But there’s one problem, you don’t speak a lick of Korean, and the man inside doesn’t seem to speak an ounce of English.

———

A/N: Please note that sentences that are Italicized are meant to be in Korean and sentences that are regular text are in English.

‘How are you?’ - English

‘I’m fine thank you, and you?’ - Korean

—————————————————————————

Luck was not on your side today.

It’s not like you’re an unlucky person as a whole, no, that’s not it. Today was just one of those days that when you say ‘How could this get any worse?’, the universe takes it as a challenge.

Perhaps you should’ve just kept your mouth shut after you spilled coffee on your blouse this morning. But, you’ve always been such a ‘glass-half-full’ sort of person that you tried to take every inconvenience in stride. Everyone has their limit, though.

Before you came here on a business trip, you had heard about the Korean Monsoon season.

Everyone and their mother told you about how much it would pour, how it would feel like the skies suddenly opened up. But, you didn’t take anyone’s warning seriously. You would wave them off with a scoff.

“It’s just rain,” you thought. “How bad could it be?”

You’re eating those words now as you run through the streets in your nice, newly-soaked, professional heels. Your slacks are sticking to your legs, making the fabric ten times heavier. With your bag held over your head, you look around frantically for the bank.

It doesn’t help that it’s close to 10 PM and visibility is already horrible at this time. Yes, you should have gone earlier, but you were distracted!

Where is it? Where is it?

There!

You spot the glass doors and practically sprint up to them, grab the handle, and rip the door open.

A giant sigh of relief comes out of your lips as you step inside the tiny vestibule.

The only other man inside the place jumps a bit at your noise. He glances over his shoulder at you, but immediately turns back to what he’s doing at the ATM. You pay him no mind as you shake the rainwater off of your bag.

It’s after hours at the bank, meaning the only thing open and available is one ATM inside the room between the bank itself and the streets of Seoul.

Soft beeping comes from the ATM as the other man presses a few buttons. There’s an umbrella on the floor at his feet.

After brushing the water off your jacket, you bring your bag in front of you and start fishing out your card. Countless items inside your bag are now completely soaked.

Ugh, there goes all those business cards you collected at the meeting. Most of the ink is bleeding off the cardstock. Maybe, if you try really hard, you can make out the phone numbers on the cards.

Is that a 6 or an 8?

Or maybe the email addresses will be easier to understand. Surely, it just their names and their company’s–

There’s a bright flash of lightning followed immediately by a booming clap of thunder at the same time the lights in the ATM vestibule flicker and go out completely.

You fight the yelp that bubbles in your throat. The man in front of you seems to lose the fight against his reactions and lets out a tiny yip.

His shoulders come up and he seems to bristle like a cat.

“You’re kidding,” you mumble, looking up at the lights. It was almost pitch black inside now, save for the tiny emergency lights that kick on on either side of the glowing Exit sign.

The man lets out a grumble and a sigh.

You look over and see that the ATM has completely shut off. Figures.

The storm must’ve triggered some sort of power outage. Great. Now you’ll have to find some other ATM.

Why, oh why, did the restaurant that your boss wanted to take you to tomorrow morning have to be cash only?

Whatever, there should be a bank a few blocks from here.

Your heels click on the tile as you make your way to the door. When you grab the handle and pull, it doesn’t budge.

There’s a beat.

You try again, really putting your back into it this time.

“Am I stupid or what?” you whisper to yourself, trying the other door and pulling equally as hard.

“They’re not going to open,” the man behind you says. “The fail-safe locks probably kicked in once the power went out. It’s a security measure.”

You turn around and look at him with a blank look on your face. “Oh, ah, um… s-sorry, no… no Korean.”

The man blinks at you. “You don’t speak Korean?”

You blink right back at him. “Um…” All you can do is shake your head with wide eyes and a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry,” you repeat.

Another series of blinks are exchanged.

“No… Korean?” he asks slowly. His English sounds so unsure.

You nod. “No… no Korean.”

A tiny, exasperated sigh comes from his lips and he looks around, as if anything inside this tiny little room would be able to help him communicate with you. Meanwhile, you turn back to the door and give it another sharp tug to no avail.

“No,” he says firmly, drawing your attention back to him. He motions down to the door handles and then shakes his head.

“No?” you repeat, a bit confused.

“No.”

Honestly, the primitive conversation between the two of you would be somewhat laughable if you didn’t feel frustrated beyond belief.

“Why?” you ask, becoming annoyed. Obviously, he knows something that you don’t.

The man blinks at you and shifts around nervously on his feet. His hands motion around as he tries to conjure up a sentence in English. “N… No. Closed?... Closed.” He nods, saying the word rather confidently.

Yes, you know the door is closed. But, why?

After a second, he sees that whatever he said evidently isn’t good enough, so he points back to the ATM, to the light that is now off due to no power, and then to the locks. You follow his pointing and the cogs in your brain start turning slowly.

“Fail-safe locks,” you state and then finally release the door handles.

“Fail… Fail-safe locks,” he repeats slowly. “Fail-safe locks.”

“Fail-safe locks?” you parrot his Korean back to him and he nods.

A small hum comes from your chest and you take a step back from the door finally. “How long do you think–” you cut yourself off when you look over at him. The man is staring at you, not following a word you’re saying.

Your hand comes up and you brush some wet hair off your forehead and then scratch the back of your head as a nervous tick. There’s no point in even asking the question, he won’t be able to understand anything you’re saying.

If you were in his shoes, you’d probably be a bit annoyed too. But at the same time, he’s already been kinder than most would be in this situation.

He’s locked in an ATM vestibule with someone who doesn’t speak the same language as him– in his own country. He’s been more than kind. Most people would just wave you off and forget trying to communicate at all.

But here he was, talking slowly and making sure you can understand what he’s saying. He’s going so far as to point around the room to make sure you understand.

The man notices you give up and he lets out a tiny sigh, turning to then peer out the glass doors at the streets of Seoul. There’s basically no one out there, everyone has taken shelter from the squall.

“We’ll have to wait until the police come to open the door.” He pats at his pockets, searching for his phone.

Even with how terrible your Korean is, you still pick up on a few words. “Police?” A beat. “Police?”

“Yes,” he answers in English, taking his phone out and tapping the screen a few times before holding it up to his ear. The man continues to look through the glass doors, watching all the different cars drive by, none of them police cars.

You decide to turn around, walking around the tiny room.

All of the lights are off except for the emergency lights. They cast a dull glow through the entirety of the vestibule. There's barely enough light to see from one side of the room to the other.

Rain starts hammering against the glass as the man speaks into his phone. “Yes, hi, hello. I am currently trapped with another woman inside the ATM vestibule of Metrobank Seoul… Namdaemunno… Yes, that one.”

Your ears perk up when he mentions the name of the bank and the address. Ah, he must have called the police. His face pulls into a slightly annoyed look, but he doesn’t speak with a hint of it through the phone, at least, not that you’re really able to tell.

The man says a few more words into the phone before he hangs up with a sigh. He runs a hand through his hair and then down his face in an exasperated fashion before turning to look at you. His mouth opens to say something, but he thinks better of it and he grimaces even more.

Your own features pull into a sympathetic expression and you look away, slightly embarrassed. Should you have learned more of the language before coming here? Absolutely. But at the same time, you didn’t have much time to prepare once you were told you had to travel here for business.

He shuffles from foot to foot and looks around, shoving his hands in his pockets and desperately trying to remember every English class he took in school.

“Police…” he says slowly, thinking through every word he wants to try and say. “Police are… busy.”

“Busy?”

“Yes. Busy. Busy with… car…” He brings both of his hands together and claps and then makes an explosion noise with his hands.

“A car accident?”

He snaps his fingers and points to you, as if you’re a team during a game of charades.

“Car accident,” he says in Korean.

“Car accident,” you repeat and he nods.

Despite the reality of the situation, you smile. The humor in all of this does not escape you. You decide to try and meet him halfway, even with your butchered pronunciation.

“Police… time… long?” Your head cocks to the side and you point to your watch. He shakes his head and shrugs in exaggerated movements.

Scoffing, you roll your eyes. The accident was that bad, huh? No wonder the power went out then, the car must have smashed into electrical lines after that loud clap of thunder. This probably means all of the traffic lights and such are out too.

The police are most likely directing traffic and making sure no one gets injured; two idiots stranded in an ATM vestibule are the least of their concerns. Honestly, you can’t be in a safer place. Well, unless this guy is a murderer, but you haven’t gotten a harsh vibe yet.

You sigh and lean against the wall near the corner across from the ATM. Your body slides down to the floor and you stare straight ahead. It seems like you’re going to be in here for a while then.

The man takes one last look outside the doors before walking in your direction. He leans against the adjacent wall and takes a seat on the floor with you. His shoes almost touch the side of yours. It’s at this time that you let yourself take a moment to really look at him.

He has to be around your age; older than a college graduate but younger than someone settled into their career. Something that definitely doesn’t escape your attention is how… pretty he is. His skin is near perfect and so is his hair. Everything, down to the clothes he’s wearing, is absolutely flawless– and he’s only in sweatpants and a zip-up hoodie!

Next to him, especially in your current drowned rat state, you probably look like something worse than a hot mess. You quickly comb your hair off your forehead once more and pull at your soaking wet clothes sticking to your skin.

The man’s lips purse for a moment and he opens his mouth as if to say something, then promptly stops, opting for a grumble of frustration.

After a moment, an idea flickers through your mind and you hold up one finger to him to say ‘one moment’. You reach down into your pocket for your phone and take it out, tapping at a few screens and bringing up the Translate app.

‘What’s your name?’ you type into the phone and it immediately translates it into Korean below it. You turn your phone around and hold it up to him.

The man looks at you, then your phone, and his eyes light up. If you’re not mistaken, you even see a little bit of relief flash over his features. A tiny smirk pulls at one corner of his lips before he looks back at you.

“Minho,” he answers and motions to you.

“Y/N,” you reply. “Nice to meet you, Minho.” You hold your hand out for a handshake.

Minho looks at your hand and his smirk gets wider before he grabs your hand and shakes it gently. The skin on his palm is so soft. “Nice to meet you, Y/N.”

After shaking his hand, you bring your phone back up to your face and type another sentence into the translate app.

‘I’m very sorry for not knowing Korean, I’m here on business.’

Minho looks at your phone, reading the statement before shaking his head and pulling out his own phone. He types away and then holds it up for you to read.

‘No need to apologize. With my line of work, my English should be better. It’s a very hard language to learn.’

A little laugh huffs from your nose and you nod and type.

‘Try learning Korean.’

Minho laughs with you and his smirk grows into a playful smile. Jesus Christ, this man is gorgeous. He looks down and taps a bit on his phone and then he holds it up to you. With the way his smirk pulls at his lips, it almost reminds you of a devious little cat.

‘I could tell you were a foreigner when you first came into the bank.’

Your eyebrow raises. “Oh, really?”

He’s chuckling when he brings his phone back to type more and then hold it up for you to read.

‘You don’t have an umbrella.’

Laughter leaves your lips when you read that and your head tilts back to rest against the wall. The wetness from your clothes is beginning to seep into your bones. Plus, the feeling of the fabric sticking to your skin is starting to become overstimulating.

But, you try and keep it together. You don’t really have another option at the moment.

You type a message back to Minho.

‘People tried to warn me about the Monsoon Season. As you can see, I didn’t listen.’

He reads your message and sucks his teeth with a smirk. Minho shakes his head and motions to the glass doors, as if to say ‘Look!’.

“I know, I know!” you laugh and look outside at the sheets of rain pouring from the sky. Puddles have turned into small ravines flowing down the sides of the road. Any car that passes by creates a huge splash as they pass through them.

Every once in a while, the sky will light up and thunder will follow it quickly.

Minho laughs with you. “Next time… you listen.” He nudges your leg with his foot.

You look over at him. “I will, trust me.”

A long look is shared between the two of you. There’s this tiny nagging feeling at the back of your mind, it’s that same feeling you get when you see someone in public that you swear you’ve seen before. Maybe he just has one of those faces?

No, you definitely haven’t met him before. You would remember if he was someone you shook hands with in the last few days. A man that gorgeous would never slip under your radar, you’re certain.

Minho stares back at you, eyes flitting about at your soaking wet hair matting to your skin. It looks like his one hand twitches for a moment and then he shifts in his seat.

Back to the app.

The two of you type away on your phones and hold them up at the same time with the exact same question on them.

‘What do you do for work?’

‘What do you do for work?’

Again, the two of you let out little huffs of laughter and he motions to you as if to tell you to go first.

So you do, you type down on your phone a little answer for him.

‘Right now, I’m only the assistant to a CEO for a huge company. Wherever he goes, I go. I write all his contracts; everything he does goes through me first. I’m more of an administrator than an assistant, though.’

Minho reads your answer carefully and then types out a small response with a tiny crease in between his brows.

‘Why do you say ‘right now’?’

A sad smile spreads on your face as you look down at your phone to type out a response.

‘I studied hard and have a Mathematics degree. But no matter where I apply, they say I don’t have enough experience. Back in America, the job market is absolutely horrible. So, I’m stuck.’

Minho’s eyes scan through your message and a frown pulls at his lips. He looks back up at you, meeting your eyes and then back to your phone before he begins to type his own message.

Your silent communication warms your heart a little bit. The glow from his phone lights up his features and you study him carefully. His teeth poke out from his top lip– it’s absolutely adorable.

He seems to think for a long moment before his thumbs fly over his screen.

Rain is coming down in sheets outside the door, it’s the only other sound inside the room besides the light clicking of the haptics on his phone.

You reach back and once more run your fingers through your hair– it seems to be drying now, but not in a good way. The humidity of the rain is apparent in the way it's starting to frizz up.

Minho turns his phone around after a moment of typing.

‘I’ve heard about how hard it is to get a job in America, I’m very sorry it’s so unfair. For what it’s worth, I think there’s nothing wrong with the job you have now. Hard work is hard work no matter if it's an assistant or a scientist.’

His words strike a chord within your heart, they tug at your chest and at the corner of your lips which twitch into a wistful smile on your face.

“Thank you,” you say to him in Korean, looking directly into his eyes. Minho smiles back at you when he hears it.

“You are welcome,” he answers in English.

His smile seems so warm for a stranger. He looks at you as if you’re an old friend, not like a woman, still soaking wet from the rain, sitting on the floor with him inside an ATM vestibule. He’s so genuine.

After a few seconds of just looking at him, you bring your phone up to type once more.

‘Your turn. What do you do?’

Minho stares at your phone for a long time, seemingly reading the sentence over and over again. His bottom lip pulls between his teeth and he seems to weigh something in his mind.

His brown eyes flick to yours, then back to the phone, then back to you again before he looks down at his phone.

You never realized how much just body language alone can convey.

He types slower, his thumbs not moving as quickly as before. Why does he seem so apprehensive?

Eventually, he turns the phone around.

‘I’m an idol.’

“Oh,” you say softly. Your shoulders shrug a bit and you cock your head to the side. “Like a K-pop idol?”

Minho nods in response. “Stray Kids.”

The name rings a bell, it’s just one you’ve heard floating around for a few months now. You think one of your friends is into them, but you can’t remember. She’s into so many different groups, it’s hard to keep track anymore.

You type in your phone.

‘I’ve heard the name before. Weren’t you guys at the MET Gala?’

With a breathy chuckle, he nods. A smile spreads across your face.

‘Wow, I’m trapped in a room with a celebrity then. You know, people write stories like this.’

Your joke definitely lands because he snorts a huff of laughter as you type on your phone a little bit more after that.

‘Don’t worry, I won’t take pictures and post them all over Twitter or anything. This will just be a funny story for me to tell my friends when I get back home to America.’

“Thank you,” Minho says softly with genuine gratitude in his voice. God, you can’t even imagine what it’s like being an idol. There probably wasn’t a single place he felt safe going to anymore. There are always cameras just waiting to take his picture.

‘When do you go back to America?’

‘In a few days. My boss loves to extend his business trips at the last minute. So, I could be here three more days or seven more days. It’s very hard to pack to come on these trips.’

A bittersweet expression settles on his handsome face.

You think for a long moment before typing away at your phone and showing it to him.

‘Have you ever been to New Jersey? That’s the state I’m from.’

Minho’s lips purse as he thinks for a long few moments. Very slowly, he nods, almost unsure. He types in his phone, then thinks for a moment, then types again.

‘I think we’ve been there twice. Is Newark in New Jersey?’

Excitedly, you nod. “Yes, that’s up in North Jersey!” You’re so excited that you forget to type down on your phone. “Oh!” you say with a laugh, looking back down at your phone.

‘Yes, that’s in the northern part of the state, about an hour or so from my hometown. I grew up in the central region, right on the beach. It only takes ten minutes to get to the beach from my house.’

Minho’s smile widens and he looks at you with a slightly envious look in his eyes. You giggle in response.

‘Two other members love the beach, but they’re from Australia.’

‘Australian beaches are probably not that different from American beaches. But I’ve never been to Australia. Have you?’

Minho nods and you see him close his translation app and switch over to his camera roll. His fingers quickly begin scrolling up through the countless amount of photos he has on his phone.

Not wanting to invade his privacy, you look away from his phone and out the doors in the vestibule once more. Not a single soul is walking– or running– along the sidewalks anymore.

Due to the power outage, there’s not even street lights illuminating in the puddles, it’s almost eerie looking. But, surprisingly, you don’t feel uneasy at all. Especially not with Minho sitting at your side.

Said man hums to get your attention, shuffling closer to you, and you look down at his phone. The picture is absolutely gorgeous.

It’s a photo of the beach, you’re assuming in Australia. The red sun is peeking above the horizon and painting the sky a beautiful wash of reds, pinks, and purples, all of the colors melting into one another. The clouds are wispy and glow in the morning sun.

The ocean seems so beautifully blue, even the foam at the crash of the waves is beautiful.

In front of the ocean is a gaggle of boys, it looks like there’s about seven of them. Each of them have bright, beautiful smiles on their faces reaching their eyes.

You’ve never been able to feel joy radiating from a photo like this, it seems to be contagious since you find a smile pulling at your own lips.

“This photo is beautiful,” you whisper, not taking your eyes off of it.

Minho hums, maybe he understood what you said. His thumb moves and he scrolls to the next picture where two of the boys have taken one of the others by his legs and arms and seem to be pretending to toss him into the surf.

A soft giggle comes from your lips and you find yourself leaning towards him a bit to get a better look at the photo. Truly, you didn’t even notice your shoulders brushing against each other, and by his lack of reaction, it seems Minho didn’t either.

“Friends?” you ask him in your choppy Korean.

Minho looks over at you, his face closer to you than before. His eyes widen a bit at your proximity, but he doesn’t back up at all.

“Family,” he corrects you in his soft English.

An even warmer feeling spreads through your chest and you look back down at the photo. They must be his band members, but they just look so much closer than that. It reminds you of all of your friends back home.

Before you can even think twice, you’re opening your own camera roll, scrolling through an endless sea of memories before finding one specific morning you woke up to go watch the sunrise on the beach.

A tiny, awe-struck noise comes from Minho when he looks down at it.

“Sunrise,” you say and then think for a moment. You’re not sure of the Korean you want to say. “Favorite… time.”

He’s so patient when you speak, it absolutely melts your heart. There’s a different air about his softness with you too. He’s not treating you like a child just learning how to speak, no, he’s just being… nice. He’s being sweet and genuine and it speaks volumes about his character.

“Sunrise,” he says in Korean.

“Sunrise,” you repeat, looking up at him. His eyes were already trained on your face by the time you looked up. A tiny dusting of pink covers your cheeks. How long has he been looking at you?

A happy smile spreads over his lips, the edges curl up playfully. He nods. “Sunrise. Sunrise.”

“Sunrise.” Your voice says softly once more before looking back down at your phone.

Swiping through a few more pictures, you show him the boardwalk that runs down the beaches by your house. Everything from shops, to amusement park rides, to lemonade and ice cream stands litter the entirety of the shore.

He points down at the ferris wheel and shakes his head. “No,” he says simply.

“No?” you ask with a laugh. “Why not?”

“No… no high,” he shakes his head and motions his hands around to emphasize his point.

“Best picture,” you giggle holding your hand up in the air to emphasize the height aspect, then you’re swiping to the next picture taken from the top of the ferris wheel. This time, it was sunset. “Sunset.”

“Sunset.” A pause. “My… My… favorite time.”

A soft hum bubbles up in your throat. He loves sunset whereas you love sunrise. How cute.

“Sunset is beautiful,” you say slowly. Your eyes are still on your phone when you swipe to another photo.

“Beautiful,” Minho whispers softly.

Humming, you nod. “Yes, beautiful.”

A soft puff of air comes out of his nose and fans out over your cheek. When did he get this close? You look up at him and almost bump his nose with yours.

Minho’s head flinches back a bit at your sudden movement, but he makes no move to get further away from you.

He sighs softly, his eyes flitting all over your face, taking in every one of your features. “Beautiful,” he murmurs.

Your eyes widen, that pink blush making its way back to your face. You can’t even help the tiny, giddy giggle that bubbles in your throat. You look down shyly, biting your bottom lip.

Tender, gentle fingers lift your chin back up. Truly, you didn’t notice how cold your skin was until his warm touch spread on your skin.

Is this really happening?

A shiver races down your spine and a soft shudder comes out of your lips. Minho’s eyes look down at your lips and then down at your arm where goosebumps begin to raise.

He pulls away gently, making your brows furrow. Did you do something wrong? Maybe you misread his–

He’s shrugging off his hoodie.

Oh, he thinks you're cold.

Before you can even think to tell him you’re okay, he’s pulling your shoulder forward a bit so he can drape it over your back, bundling you up in such a pleasant, soft warmth. With small, fussy movements, he’s closing the hoodie around your body.

Perhaps you didn’t even notice how cold you were until you were suddenly surrounded in a warmth that can be compared to the fuzziest blanket you own. Not to mention the absolutely delightful scent that wafts upwards into your nose from the fabric.

It’s such a clean, cozy, calming scent. It’s like you buried your nose into the Mahogany Teakwood candle at Bath and Body Works.

Your eyes stay trained on his face while he bundles you up tightly. His hands gently grab your arms and rub up and down a few times to create even more warmth.

“Better,” he murmurs, finally looking up to meet your eyes.

How is it that a stranger has wormed himself into your heart like this? His tender gaze makes your soul feel calm, like those pictures of the morning surf under the sunrise.

“Thank you,” you whisper back to him. Your hands come up to grab at the hoodie, curling into the fabric.

Minho smiles back at you, you can see how his smile grows as he watches you relax into his clothing. There’s no space between your shoulders as you rest against adjacent walls, your two bodies have melted into the corner.

There’s a clap of thunder outside, but neither of you move. Your feet shuffle on the floor as you bring your knees closer to your chest. His legs adjust around yours, feeding them under your bent knees and tangling your limbs up further.

It’s so hard to break Minho’s eye contact, but you do it slowly, looking down at your phone and opening up the translate app once more. His soft breathing hits your cheek with every exhale.

‘You’re too nice to a stranger.’

Minho hums, almost in agreement. He picks up his phone and types back.

‘I’m usually not.’

You read the statement and then look at him, your head cocked to the side. Your brows furrow in confusion, but he types more before you can even ask another question.

‘I don’t know why I feel drawn to you.’

The text looks right back at you. Your heart flutters in your chest and you know that your cheeks get redder and redder by the second. Still, you can’t contain the giddy laugh that makes its way past your lips.

You bite the inside of your cheek to try and hide the smile, but it only makes Minho smile wider. His hand slowly comes up towards your cheek. Right before he’s able to make contact, he stops, hovering over your skin and gazing into your eyes.

A silent question is asked through his eyes. It’s a language that you don’t need any sort of app for. An answer is communicated right back.

Soft, tender warmth spreads over your cheek, radiating all throughout your body in the most gentle glow. His thumb caresses over your cheek bone, swiping gentle strokes back and forth.

You feel the same as him, that’s the strange part. There’s something so alluring about him that you just can’t put your finger on it. He’s pulling you in like a magnet and you don’t even want to fight against it.

There’s so many words sitting on the tip of your tongue, but you know that each and every one of them would fall on deaf ears. Nothing that you can say in the moment would make sense to him.

Exhales are shared and mingled together in the minimal space between your faces,

“Beautiful,” he whispers for your ears only. Not like there’s anyone else to hear it except the ATM sitting dormant in the corner of the vestibule. Not even the mice in the walls would have been able to hear his murmur.

Love at first sight was something you always gawked and scoffed at. You always thought that it was such a Hallmark invention, that there was no way you would be able to just look at someone once and immediately fall head over heels for them.

But here you were, sitting on a dirty floor, feeling your heart beating faster and faster in your chest. Letting your face be cradled by a man you didn’t know two hours ago. By the man who patiently worked with you to communicate.

How is this even possible?

You can count on one hand the amount of things you know about one another.

Minho, who is a famous idol in Korea, who loves sunset and hates heights, who has the most expressive brown eyes you’ve ever seen.

Minho, who did whatever he could just to talk to you when he could have just as easily sat in silence on the other side of the vestibule.

His hand slowly drags down your cheek, each finger gliding down your skin towards your jawline to lift under your chin.

Another silent question passes through both of you in the one language you seem to both be fluent in.

Your eyes flick down to his lips and he hears you loud and clear.

Minho leans in slowly, his lips brushing against yours in a featherlight touch. But, despite how soft the kiss is, heat spreads through your body in a grand wave, rushing through your fingertips and into your toes.

The first press is long and sweet, the two of you simply melting into the sensation of being locked together.

He pulls away only for a moment, his eyes gazing down at your lips before he swoops in again, this time his movements a bit quicker.

His hand returns to your cheek, guiding your head to tilt to the side to gain better access to your lips.

A soft sigh leaves your nose and your own hand travels up to grab at his shirt gently, just needing to hold onto him in any way possible.

Minho responds to your sigh, his lips moving a bit faster against yours. Both of your lips part and close, moving like mirror images of one another. Every few kisses, your noses brush against one another, but it doesn’t deter you from your actions at all.

Slowly, your hand travels from his shirt up to his neck, running up the side of his flushed skin. He feels feverish to the touch and it only spurs you on to keep moving. At the contact on his own body, Minho lets out a tiny grunt against your lips, his kisses stutter for a moment but he’s back to kissing you after just a moment.

Up, up, up, your hand travels over his moving jaw, to his cheek, then moving back to thread in his soft, brown trusses of hair. God, everything about him is just so perfect. It’s like you’re combing your fingers through the softest of cotton.

His kisses are getting deeper, little sighs come from both of your mouths as the passion continues on. Minho’s body turns towards yours a bit more, his knees canting up and almost forcing your legs onto his lap.

Tentatively, you feel his tongue poke out from between his lips, licking gently at your lower lip. You don’t even hesitate to give him access to your mouth. A gentle moan claws its way up your throat as his tongue licks into your mouth.

The hand on your cheek grips you a bit tighter, holding your face to his– as if you would want to try and move away from Minho and his addicting kisses.

“I just can’t help it,” he whispers in Korean against your spit, soaked lips before capturing them once more. “I don’t know what you’re doing to me, Y/N.”

All you catch is your name and it sends a shiver down your spine. You don’t even need to know what else he said, his tone says it all. The way it comes out in a breathy exhale is enough to send your mind reeling.

“Please,” you murmur into his mouth before he presses his lips to yours once more with the same amount of passion and need in his actions.

More and more rain hits the glass doors, becoming the only sound that can be heard in the room except for your shared exhales, pants, and breathy moans.

Slowly, the kisses begin to calm down. Minho pulls away for a moment to take a long breath. His thumb moves to brush against your lower lip like a butterfly landing on a flower.

His eyes open just a crack, gazing down at your mouth with a hazy look in his eye. As he slowly catches his breath, he presses his forehead against yours, his fingers brushing along the heated skin on your face.

“Forgive me, I didn’t do things in order,” he whispers. “I should’ve taken you out first.”

Your eyes open and you look at him in confusion. “Hm?”

His jaw clenches before he swallows and he takes another long moment to look over your face, his features soft and welcoming.

There’s some movement as his other hand blindly pats around his lap for his phone. He can’t physically tear himself away from you long enough to even look down.

Another tiny laugh comes from your lips.

Your fingers move out of his hair to come around and gently run over his features, brushing against his jawline, to then trace up to his lips and up the length of his nose, memorizing each and every detail.

Minho melts into your touch, his face moving closer to your touch, seeking you out.

His hand finally finds his phone and he grabs it blindly, flipping it around in his lap and tearing his gaze away from your face to glance down at it.

Thumbs are flying across the screen to type at his translate app. He’s typing so quickly on his phone that you can't help but laugh a bit.

Before he’s able to turn the phone around, there are a few sharp knocks against the glass of the vestibule. The two of you practically jump out of your skin and your heads whip over to the doors.

Red and blue lights are flashing outside and it looks like two police officers are standing outside, peering in at you both. They wave when they see they’ve caught your attention.

Minho looks at the police officers, then to you, then back to the officers, and then back to you once more. His mouth opens and closes a few times and he tries to form a few words but you’re untangling your limbs from one another.

In a moment, you’re both on your feet as the officers work on unlocking the doors from the outside.

Minho gently grabs at your arm and you look down where he’s touching and your heart sinks a little. His eyes look a little questioning and desperate.

“Oh,” you say sadly. You shrug off his jacket, and hand it back to him. Minho’s eyebrows pull together and his lips part. He looks down at the jacket and then up at you.

“No,” he says firmly.

“Are you two alright?” The police officer calls inside in Korean.

“We’re okay,” Minho responds without breaking eye contact with you. He puts a hand on his jacket still dangling over your arm and pushes it back towards you.

“Minho?” you ask, looking at him and then at the officer approaching you both.

“We apologize for the delay, but we knew you two were safe, so we had to prioritize,” the officer says.

You blink at him blankly for a moment before then looking back at Minho.

“She’s a foreigner,” he says to the officer, finally looking away from you. “She doesn’t know Korean.”

“Ah,” the officer responds. “My apologies. You can tell her that she’s free to go.” He nods at the two of you and motions towards the door. You take his hint and slowly begin follow him.

Once again, Minho tugs on your arm and you pause, turning around to look at him. He’s holding his phone up to your face with a pleading look in his eye.

‘Can I please buy you a drink?’

A wide smile spreads across your cheeks and you can’t deny the relief that you feel inside your chest. The moment your lips twitch upwards, Minho immediately mirrors it.

“Yes,” you respond. “I love to go.”

He chuckles at your choppy Korean once more before taking his jacket out of your hands and wrapping you inside it once more. This time, he grabs the hood and pulls it up over your head.

With a satisfied hum, he nods and laces your fingers together.

“Come,” he says confidently.

“Lead way.”

[pucksandpower]

Pollinated

Day 11 → Sex Pollen 💋 Max Verstappen

Warnings: 18+ content and dubious consent

Kinktober Masterlist

“You’ve got a stack waiting for you.” Alan leans on the edge of your desk, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He’s holding a bundle of envelopes, some thick with scribbled messages, some thin and printed with clean, crisp fonts.

Your PR officer’s eyebrows raise in mock exasperation as he shakes them at you. “How do you even have time to race with all these fans wanting a piece of you?”

You grin, setting down your coffee and wiping your hands on your pants. “That’s the problem of being so popular, Alan. It’s a curse, really.”

“Oh, yeah. It’s a real burden. Everyone loving you.”

“Someone’s gotta do it.”

He drops the stack in front of you with a soft thud. “Take your time. I’ll be back in a bit.” His tone is teasing, but you catch the flicker of something more serious underneath, like he’s reminding you there’s more work to be done after this.

You roll your eyes as he walks off. You love this part of your day — the letters, the drawings, the fan art from kids who see something in you that makes them believe they can be here too. They’re always so personal, full of energy, like they’re rooting for you from their living rooms or school desks.

You flick through the pile, reading the familiar opening lines. Dear Y/N, you’re such an inspiration or I love watching you race! Your heart lifts as you come across a brightly colored drawing from a girl named Chloe, of you standing on a podium, arms raised in victory. It makes you smile so wide your cheeks hurt a little. You can practically hear the little girl’s voice, excitedly telling her parents, “That’s gonna be me one day.”

“This is what it’s about,” you mutter under your breath, running your fingers over the crayon marks.

More letters. More words of encouragement. A scribbled note from a group of university students who drove twelve hours just to see you race last season. A letter from an older woman who says she’s been watching F1 since her husband introduced her to it in the ‘70s and how proud she is to see a woman making waves. You pause at that one, your chest swelling. You’ll have to write her back.

You reach for the next envelope, a bit plainer than the others. No stickers, no hand-drawn doodles in the margins. It’s simple, just your name written on the front in neat black ink. Your gut tugs slightly, but you brush it off. Not every fan is an artist.

You open it, pulling out a card with a printed picture of a car on the front. Your car. You smile, flipping it open to read the message inside.

But your smile fades as you start to read.

You don’t belong here.

The words are bold, black, and stark against the white paper. They stand out like a punch to the gut, each line colder and more hateful than the last. The handwriting is meticulous, like whoever wrote it wanted to be sure you’d understand every word.

Women like you are ruining the sport.

Your throat tightens. Your fingers grip the edges of the card a little harder than before, the edges bending under the pressure.

Go back to doing what you’re good at: nothing.

You try to swallow, but it feels like there’s a knot lodged in your throat. It’s not the first time you’ve seen something like this. Hell, it’s not even the worst thing anyone’s said. But right now, it’s too sharp, too specific, too venomous.

You reach up to close the card, your hand trembling slightly. But before you can fully shut it, something catches your eye — a tiny puff of fine yellow powder shoots from the fold, drifting into the air in front of you.

“What the-” You blink, confused for a split second.

Then, it hits.

A burning sensation spreads through your throat and nose. Your skin tingles, a wave of heat rushing over your face. You gasp, trying to catch your breath, but it feels like you’re inhaling fire. Panic spikes as your vision blurs.

“Alan!” The name barely makes it past your lips before you feel your legs give way beneath you.

“Alan!” You try again, but it comes out weaker this time. Your limbs feel heavy, your chest tight, and the room starts to spin in slow, nauseating circles.

Footsteps pound across the floor. Alan’s voice sounds far away, muffled, like he’s underwater. You catch a glimpse of him sprinting toward you, his face pale, eyes wide. “Y/N?”

Your body jerks uncontrollably, a violent shudder running through you. The room twists, everything turning hazy as you hit the floor hard, your fingers twitching against the cool tile.

“What the hell — Y/N!” Alan’s panic is sharp now, cutting through the fog. You can barely see him through the haze clouding your vision, but you feel him grab your shoulders, shaking you gently.

“Stay with me. Just stay with me, okay?” His voice cracks, fear bleeding through the edges.

Your entire body seizes again, every muscle clamping down painfully. A sharp cry escapes your throat as the convulsions take over, uncontrollable now.

“Help! Somebody, help!” Alan’s voice is frantic, desperate, echoing through the room as the world starts to fade. His hands are on your face now, trying to keep you conscious. You feel his fingers trembling against your skin, hear the panic rising in his voice as he keeps shouting for help.

But you’re slipping, sinking deeper into the darkness as the convulsions wrack your body. You can’t speak. You can’t move.

Alan’s voice is the last thing you hear before everything goes black.

***

The world returns slowly, like surfacing from a deep dive. There’s a ringing in your ears, muffled voices blending into the constant hum of machinery. Your body feels like it’s on fire — each nerve sizzling under your skin, radiating heat. You try to move, but it’s as if you’re bound by weights. The sheets beneath you cling to your body, too warm, too tight, too much.

Someone’s talking nearby, but it’s distant, warped. You can’t make out the words yet. Everything feels heavy — your eyelids, your chest, even your breathing. Your mouth is dry, your tongue like sandpaper against the roof of your mouth.

Slowly, the fog begins to clear, and you catch fragments of conversation.

“… highly illegal substance …” A voice, crisp and professional, filters through. The doctor. “… extreme toxicity … very few cases on record …”

You try to focus, but the burning sensation inside you only intensifies. It’s everywhere — your limbs, your core, your mind. Like you’re being torn apart from the inside out.

You manage a groan, the sound barely escaping your lips.

“She’s waking up,” someone says, closer now. Alan? It sounds like him, but there’s a hitch in his usually confident voice. Panic.

Your eyelids flutter open, and the room comes into blurry focus. Harsh fluorescent lights. Sterile white walls. The sterile smell of antiseptic clogs your senses, a sharp contrast to the heat still coursing through you. You blink slowly, your vision sharpening enough to see Alan standing by your bedside, pale and jittery, his hand running through his hair in nervous strokes.

Across from him is the doctor, his white coat stiff and immaculate. He’s holding a clipboard, and his face is a mask of concern. When he speaks, it feels like each word takes a lifetime to process.

“… the substance she was exposed to … it’s not just any powder,” the doctor is saying, his voice measured but grim. “It’s a synthetic pollen derivative, known as Lust Dust on the black market.”

Lust Dust. The words sink into you, but you don’t recognize them. Your throat feels too tight to ask for clarification. Alan, however, doesn’t hesitate.

“What does that mean? What the hell is that?” Alan’s voice is raw, frayed at the edges.

The doctor sighs, flipping through the notes on his clipboard before answering. “It’s an extremely illegal bio-weapon, developed underground. It was used in several isolated attacks a few years ago, mostly in war zones. The symptoms … well, they’re brutal.”

You don’t like the sound of this. Brutal. Illegal. Bio-weapon. The words swirl around in your head, each one setting off alarm bells, but you can barely move enough to react. You just lie there, heat pulsing through you, your body screaming in agony.

“The pollen attacks the body’s nervous system,” the doctor continues, his tone clinical. “It acts as a stimulant, targeting primal instincts, heightening … certain responses. The most dangerous part is that, if untreated, the body will burn out within hours.”

“Burn out?” Alan echoes, his voice barely more than a whisper. “What does that mean? You mean … she’ll die?”

“Yes,” the doctor replies, his tone darkening. “In most cases, without intervention, the victim’s body will shut down. It’s a highly sexualized toxin. The only way to counteract the effects is through physical release.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence. The words hover in the air, sinking into the room with a weight you can almost feel. Your heart races, your mind struggling to comprehend what’s being said. Physical release? The burning sensation in your body intensifies, like it’s reacting to the very idea of what the doctor’s suggesting.

Alan’s face pales further, his hand gripping the back of his neck in horror. “Wait, are you — are you saying she has to-”

“Sex,” the doctor says bluntly, not sugar-coating anything. “Yes. If she doesn’t have sex soon, she will die. The sooner, the better, to mitigate the damage the pollen’s already caused.”

A cold sweat breaks out across your skin, despite the unbearable heat raging inside you. The fire in your veins is consuming everything, twisting the doctor’s words into cruel irony. This can’t be happening. Not this.

“I … I …“ Alan stammers, clearly at a loss, his eyes flicking to you, desperate and terrified. “There’s got to be another way. Medicine? A procedure? Something?”

The doctor shakes his head. “There’s no antidote. The only option is the one I’ve given you.”

You want to scream. You want to cry. But you can’t do anything except lie there, burning from the inside out, unable to stop the panic surging through you as the realization sinks in.

Alan takes a shaky breath. “What … what do we do now?”

The doctor straightens, his voice calm but commanding. “The most important thing is finding someone who’s willing to … assist.”

Alan’s eyes widen in horror, but before he can say anything, the door bursts open and several members of your team file into the room — engineers, mechanics, staff. Their faces are tight with concern, and they crowd into the small space, murmuring amongst themselves.

“What happened?” Someone asks, their voice tense.

Alan quickly explains, his voice shaking as he goes over the details. The pollen. The bio-weapon. The need for “intervention.” Every word makes your heart pound harder, and you can feel the collective shock ripple through the room as the reality of the situation sets in.

“She needs someone,” Alan says, his voice thick with emotion. “She needs someone to …”

He can’t even finish the sentence.

The room falls into stunned silence. You can hear the soft hum of the machines around you, the ragged breathing of the people in the room. It feels like time has stopped, the weight of the situation pressing down on everyone.

Then, the whispers start.

“I’ll do it,” someone mutters.

“No, I will,” another voice pipes up. You recognize it as one of the engineers, his voice shaky but sincere.

“I mean, she’s our driver, right? We have to help.”

More voices chime in, each one offering, each one willing. The panic in the room turns to a frantic eagerness, as though everyone suddenly realizes what’s at stake. You can barely comprehend it — the idea that your team, your colleagues, are discussing this as though it’s just another task, something to be done to save your life.

Your mind is spinning, your body trembling with the heat still coursing through you. You want to shout at them, tell them to stop, that this isn’t how things should be. But you can’t move, can’t speak. All you can do is listen as the conversation grows more chaotic, more desperate.

Then, the door opens again, and a new voice cuts through the noise.

“Everyone out.”

It’s Max.

The room falls silent instantly, every head turning toward him. He stands in the doorway, his face hard and set, his blue eyes blazing with an intensity you’ve never seen before. He looks around the room, his gaze sharp, taking in the faces of your teammates, the panic, the confusion.

“I said out,” Max repeats, his voice calm but firm.

No one moves at first, too shocked to respond. But then one by one, they start to file out, murmuring to each other in hushed tones as they leave the room. You hear Alan hesitate for a moment, but even he doesn’t argue. The door shuts softly behind them, leaving you alone with Max.

You’re too weak to turn your head, but you can hear him walk closer, his footsteps slow and deliberate. He doesn’t speak right away, and the silence hangs heavy in the air, broken only by the soft beeping of the machines monitoring your condition.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Max’s voice fills the room. “It’s going to be me.”

Your heart skips a beat.

“No one else is touching you,” he says, his tone low, steady. “I’m your teammate. I’m the one who’s going to help you. Not them.”

You can’t see his face, but you can hear the resolve in his voice, the determination. He’s not offering. He’s deciding. There’s no question, no hesitation. It’s going to be him, and no one else.

And as the burning inside you flares again, you realize that part of you is grateful.

***

The air between you and Max is thick with tension, the kind that crackles in the silence, heavy with unspoken words. You lie there, your body still ablaze, the fire under your skin pulsing in waves, but something about his presence — steady, resolute — grounds you, if only just. You can’t move, can barely speak, but your mind races, half-paralyzed with the agony of the pollen and half with the strange anticipation of what’s to come.

Max stands beside the bed, his face framed by the fluorescent lights above, casting shadows that sharpen his features. He doesn’t look afraid, though you can tell there’s something behind his eyes — something that trembles just beneath the surface. His gaze locks onto yours, and it feels like he’s looking past the pain, past the situation, to something deeper.

“This isn’t how I imagined …“ His voice is soft, barely more than a whisper, as though the words aren’t meant to be heard by anyone but you. He reaches for your hand, his fingers brushing yours, tentative at first, like he’s asking permission for what’s about to happen.

You want to respond, to say something, but your throat is too tight, too raw, the burning heat still tearing through you. You manage the faintest of nods, your hand twitching against his, and that’s all he needs.

Max leans over, his face close to yours now, his breath warm against your cheek. His hand trails gently down your arm, his touch soft, careful. “I’m here, okay?” He murmurs, his voice low, soothing. “We’ll get through this.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, in that same quiet, tender voice, he adds, “Schatje … you’re so strong.”

The endearment rolls off his tongue like honey, and despite everything — despite the fire tearing you apart from the inside out — it brings a strange, aching warmth to your chest. Max has never called you that before. The intimacy of it catches you off guard, though you don’t have the strength to dwell on it for long.

His hands move lower now, brushing across your skin with reverence, as though you might break under his touch. You shiver, not from the cold, but from the intensity of his gaze, the way he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

“You don’t deserve this,” Max whispers, his forehead nearly touching yours. His voice cracks ever so slightly, betraying the calm façade he’s trying to maintain. “I’ve … I’ve wanted this for a long time,” he admits softly, his words a confession, raw and vulnerable. “But not like this. Never like this.”

You close your eyes, focusing on the feel of his hands on your body, the way he’s handling you with such care, as though he’s afraid of hurting you. And somehow, through the pain, you manage to relax just enough to let him in. Just enough to let him take some of the weight from you.

He presses his lips to your temple, a soft, lingering kiss, and you can feel the tremble in his breath. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin. “Just let me take care of you.”

The way he says it sends a shiver down your spine, and for a moment, the burning inside you dims, replaced by something else. Something warm, and tender, and utterly consuming. Max moves with purpose now, his touch becoming more sure, more confident, but never losing that careful tenderness. He’s cooing to you, whispering soft praises in Dutch, his voice like a balm against the fire raging inside you.

“I’ve always wanted you,” Max admits again, his words spilling out like he can’t hold them back any longer. “For so long. I just … I didn’t know how to tell you.”

His hands continue their journey, and despite the circumstances, despite the fire still licking at your insides, your body responds. Every touch feels magnified, every brush of his skin against yours sending a jolt of something deeper through you, something primal and desperate and… needed.

“You’re so strong,” he says again, his voice reverent, almost in awe. “So perfect. I don’t know how you do it.”

Your body trembles beneath him, not just from the fire that’s still coursing through you, but from the way he’s touching you, the way his words wrap around you like a soft embrace. It’s intimate in a way you hadn’t expected, the vulnerability of the moment stripping away any pretense, any barriers you might have once had.

“I’m here, liefje,” Max whispers, his lips brushing against your ear now. “I’ll take care of you. I promise.”

You don’t know how he manages it, how he makes something so painful feel like this, but he does. His hands are everywhere, soothing the burn, coaxing your body to relax, to give in to what you need. And with every touch, every whispered endearment, the fire inside you dims, just a little, just enough to let you breathe.

“I wish it was different,” Max murmurs, his voice thick with emotion now. “I wish this was … just us. Not because of this. Not because of …“ His words trail off, but you understand. You understand perfectly.

He presses his forehead against yours again, his breathing ragged, his body tense with the effort of keeping himself composed. “But I’ll do whatever it takes,” he says, his voice fierce with determination. “I’ll do anything for you.”

Your body reacts to him instinctively now, every nerve ending lighting up in response to his touch, the fire inside you blazing hotter but in a way that feels … different. Less painful. More like an ache, a deep, desperate need that only he can fill.

“Max …“ you manage to whisper, your voice hoarse, barely audible. It’s the first word you’ve spoken since waking up, and it feels like a release, like a crack in the wall you’ve built around yourself. He hears it, though, and his gaze softens, his thumb brushing gently across your cheek.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, his voice full of emotion. “I’ve always got you.”

His movements quicken, and you can feel yourself spiraling, the fire inside you building to a crescendo, but this time it’s not just pain. It’s something more, something overwhelming and all-consuming. You can feel him with you, guiding you, coaxing you toward the edge.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers again, his voice breathless now, his own control slipping. “I’ve wanted you for so long …“

His words send you tumbling over the edge, your body convulsing in a wave of pleasure so intense it nearly takes your breath away. The fire beneath your skin peaks, then suddenly, blessedly, begins to recede. It’s like the flames are being extinguished, one by one, leaving only warmth in their wake.

And Max is there, holding you through it, his arms wrapped around you tightly, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His breathing is ragged, his body trembling with the effort of holding himself together, but he doesn’t let go. He doesn’t move.

As the last of the fire dies down, as your body finally begins to relax, you hear him whisper, so softly you almost miss it.

“I love you.”

The words slip out before he can stop them, unguarded and raw, and for a moment, everything else fades away. The room, the pain, the circumstances that brought you here — it all disappears, leaving only the two of you, tangled together, vulnerable and exposed.

You’re too weak to respond, too exhausted from everything that’s just happened, but Max doesn’t seem to mind. He holds you close, his lips pressing gentle kisses to your hair, your forehead, anywhere he can reach.

“I love you,” he whispers again, like he’s afraid you didn’t hear him the first time. “I’ve always loved you.”

His confession hangs in the air, delicate and fragile, but it feels right. Like it’s been waiting to be said all along.

As the fire beneath your skin finally dies out completely, as your body settles into a state of calm for the first time in hours, you let yourself fall into the safety of his arms, his warmth the only thing keeping the remnants of the fire at bay.

Max doesn’t let go. Not for a long time. And you don’t want him to.

***

Max holds you close, his body pressed against yours, his breath still coming in shallow bursts as the two of you lie in a tangled heap on the bed. The burning fire that had been searing through your body has finally been extinguished, leaving only a lingering warmth that feels manageable now.

But even though the pain is gone, even though your body has found relief, there’s still something… unfinished. A strange, restless feeling that hums beneath your skin, an ache that begs for more.

Max is quiet beside you, his hand brushing gently through your hair as he watches your face, his expression soft but intent, like he’s still worried, still waiting for some sign that you’re okay. But you can see it in his eyes — he knows. He knows it’s not over yet.

You shift beneath him, the subtle movement sending a ripple of sensation through you, and your breath hitches involuntarily. The fire is gone, but that need, that craving — it’s still there, simmering just below the surface. It’s not the urgent, desperate heat of the pollen, but it’s undeniable.

Max’s gaze sharpens, reading the subtle cues in your body. His hand stills in your hair, and you feel him shift beside you, his body tensing slightly as he watches you, waiting for you to say something, to ask for what you need.

You don’t have to.

“Oh liefje,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky. “You still need more, don’t you?”

Your throat tightens, and you nod, unable to form the words. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes — understanding, maybe, or something deeper. He doesn’t ask if you’re sure. He already knows.

Max’s hand trails down your body, his touch feather-light, and it sends a shiver through you, your body responding to him instantly. He presses a kiss to your temple, then to your jaw, his lips warm and soft against your skin. “I’m here,” he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. “Whatever you need.”

His lips travel lower, grazing the sensitive skin of your neck, and you arch into him, your body aching for more. He moves slowly, deliberately, savoring each touch, each kiss, as if he’s committing every inch of you to memory.

You can’t help the small gasp that escapes your lips when he moves lower still, his mouth brushing against your collarbone. He’s taking his time, drawing this out, making sure every second is filled with pleasure, with tenderness. There’s no urgency now, no frantic need to cure the fire. This is something else — something deliberate, something intimate.

Max’s hands slide down your sides, his thumbs brushing lightly over your ribs as he lowers himself down the bed. His mouth follows the path his hands have carved, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. You feel his breath against your skin, warm and teasing, as he moves lower, kissing across your stomach with slow, deliberate care.

Every nerve in your body is on high alert, each touch sending sparks of pleasure coursing through you. Your fingers tangle in the sheets, gripping them tightly as you fight to keep your composure, but Max makes it impossible. His lips are everywhere, soft and warm and completely unrelenting.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice rough with desire. “I don’t think you even realize …”

His words send a thrill through you, and your breath catches as his hands slide lower, his fingers brushing the curve of your hips. He presses a kiss to your navel, and you feel the heat pooling deep inside you, the need building again, stronger this time, more insistent.

“Max …” you whisper, your voice barely audible, but he hears you. He always hears you.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers back, his voice soft, reassuring. “Just relax.”

You try, but it’s impossible with the way he’s touching you, the way he’s kissing you, like every part of you deserves his undivided attention. He’s worshiping you with every movement, and it’s almost too much to bear.

Max’s hands slide up your thighs, and your breath stutters as he spreads your legs wider, his eyes dark with want as he looks up at you. His hands grip your hips, holding you steady as he presses a kiss just below the dip of your waist, teasing you, making you wait.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your skin. “Do you know that?”

You can’t respond, can’t do anything but arch into him, desperate for more. He knows exactly what you need, and he’s giving it to you slowly, carefully, savoring every moment.

Max’s hands grasp your thighs, and he pulls them apart slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. There’s something in his gaze — something raw, something vulnerable. He’s giving himself to you completely, just as much as you’re giving yourself to him.

His lips trail lower, pressing kisses to the sensitive skin there, and your entire body shudders in response. Every nerve is on fire again, but this time it’s not the cruel burn of the pollen.

This is different. This is Max.

He pauses for a moment, his lips hovering just above where you need him most, and he looks up at you, his eyes searching yours. “Tell me what you want,” he whispers, his voice barely more than a breath.

You can’t form the words. All you can do is nod, your body trembling beneath him.

Max smiles, a small, almost shy smile, and then he lowers his head, his mouth finally, blessedly, on you. The sensation is immediate, intense, and you cry out, your fingers digging into the sheets as he works you with a precision that only he seems to know. His tongue moves slowly at first, teasing you, drawing out your pleasure, but it doesn’t take long for him to find the rhythm that makes your entire body sing.

He’s relentless, his mouth and hands working in perfect harmony, driving you higher and higher until you can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but feel. The pleasure builds and builds, coiling tighter and tighter inside you until you’re sure you’re going to break.

“Max!” You gasp, your body arching off the bed. “Please …”

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down. If anything, he goes faster, his tongue working you with an intensity that leaves you trembling. You’re so close, so impossibly close, and he knows it.

“That’s it,” he whispers against you, his voice thick with need. “Let go, schatje. I’ve got you.”

And then, with one last flick of his tongue, you’re gone, tumbling over the edge into a wave of pleasure so intense it almost hurts. Your entire body convulses, your vision going white as you fall apart beneath him, your fingers gripping the sheets so tightly they burn.

Max doesn’t let up, his mouth still on you, drawing out every last drop of pleasure until you’re nothing but a trembling, panting mess. When he finally pulls away, you’re left gasping for breath, your body slick with sweat, your heart racing in your chest.

He crawls back up the bed, pressing soft kisses to your skin as he goes, his hands soothing over your trembling limbs. When he finally reaches your face, he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, his fingers brushing your hair back from your face.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs, his voice soft, reassuring. “You’re okay.”

You can barely nod, your body still trembling from the aftershocks of your release. Max pulls you into his arms, holding you close, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on your back as you come down from the high. His breath is warm against your ear, and you can feel his heart beating in time with yours.

For a moment, everything is still. Quiet. Perfect.

And then, just as your breathing begins to slow, the door creaks open.

The doctor walks in, clipboard in hand, his expression unreadable as he takes in the sight of you and Max — sweaty, tangled together, your bodies still humming with the afterglow. He doesn’t say anything at first, just glances at his clipboard, then back at you.

“Well,” he says after a moment, his tone entirely too clinical for the situation. “It appears the cure has been administered.”

Max stiffens beside you, but the doctor doesn’t seem to notice — or care. He simply jots down a few notes on his clipboard, his pen scratching loudly in the silence.

“Residual effects of heightened libido may persist,” the doctor adds, almost as an afterthought. He glances up from his notes, his gaze flicking between you and Max, then nods, satisfied. “I’ll be back to check on you later.”

And with that, he turns and walks out of the room, leaving you and Max in stunned silence.

Max lets out a breath, a low, incredulous laugh bubbling up from his chest. “Did he seriously just …”

You nod, still too dazed to form a coherent response.

Max shakes his head, a small smile playing at his lips as he pulls you closer, his arms wrapping around you protectively. “Well, I guess we’re not done yet.”

And with the way your body still hums with need, you know he’s right.

[bloodhoundsandplagues]

◦⭐︎・love lost

Ekko x reader

Summary: once a Firelight and Ekko's partner, you are now a mercenary, dragging yourself through jobs to make enough money to pay for food. After one too many drinks, you take a job you can't handle, and get hurt. It's no shocker who comes to your rescue.

Set at undefined time, no use of Y/N, gender neutral reader

Warnings: gore (not too bad but be mindful), swearing, mentions of death/welcoming death. 3.2 K words (oops), not proofread as always

A/N: icl guys this is one of the longer fics I've written, and definitely the angstiest one. Again, for my best friend, @sahxrii (go check out her recs, they're SO good) who I do everything for, lets be honest.

You have always prided yourself for knowing your limits; stopping when you need to stop, being reasonable about your own abilities. This has kept you out of quite a lot of trouble- avoiding fights you could not have won, not provoking people who were clearly able to whoop your ass. 

This, however, is very different, and not a common occurrence. 

First of all, you might be a little drunk- you’ve just had to numb the sting of your day with a drink, just a small one, in a tiny grimy bar run by a tall man with bright orange skin. Second of all, you’re running on two hours of sleep and painkillers (the painkillers are slowly wearing off, to make matters worse). 

And lastly, you’re in a really bad fucking mood. 

So, when your handler slides you a note with a name and address written in ugly red letters, you think fuck it, and take the job. You should’ve known this was stupid- you should’ve done what the sober, not exhausted version of yourself would have done. But instead, you accept with a bleary nod, because, to be frank, all you want at that moment is to break something. 

So you take the note, drain your drink, and leave the bar, shrugging on your worn coat. Adrenaline is already starting to buzz beneath your skin, your knuckles tingling softly in anticipation. You had never been this excited about violence when you were younger- in fact, people might have described you as gentle, even. But now, with all the things you have witnessed, all the people you’ve lost, hitting people brought a kind of release you could find nowhere else. 

Besides, there’s no one who remembers you as that gentle person left, anyway, so who are you disappointing? Yourself? You chuckle drily into the cold air, thick with gas. 

You stop in front of the building, your hands tucked into your pockets. It is big, red, and ugly (like the ink the name had been written in, you thought), bright colourful light shining from the broken windows. A Zaunite haunt, typical for a wannabe drug lord- the kind of man you were often hired to beat up or kill. You kick into the dirt at your feet, take a deep breath. You have hardly sobered up on the walk here, so your vision is still somewhat blurry, everything swimming around you like you’re underwater. 

Broken memories of swimming in an underground lake with him flitter through your mind, and you dismiss them, muttering a curse between your teeth. You roll your shoulders and make your way inside, striding in like you own the goddamn place. 

“You can’t be here,” a goon dressed all in black calls from the top of badly painted stairs. You look at him, an ugly grin splitting your face. 

“Kick me out, then,” you say, your heart already beginning to beat a little faster. 

Before you know, goons are coming at you from the sides, cracking their knuckles. The twat at the top of the stairs sneers down at you, his teeth oily and black. 

“You don’t wanna do this,” a woman on your left growls. She’s twice as big as you, her arms covered in bright red, winding tattoos. 

“I think I do,” you answer, raising your hands, which are already curled into fists. 

She lunges first, and you catch her with a right hook in the jaw. She hardly falters, but you drive your knee into her stomach. Now, she stumbles, and you leap up, narrowly avoiding an attack from another goon. You grab goon number one- the woman- and smash your forehead into her face. Her nose explodes, red and white flying all over you as she falls backwards. You spin and grab the nearest object- a stool- and bring it smack into the second goon’s middle. He collapses, and you walk over to him, drop the stool on his head. He stops moving. 

You turn to the giant of a woman, who is standing and looking at you with pure, unadulterated hatred. Her face is broken into bits, blood and spit dribbling down her chin. “Come on, then,” you say, cracking your already sore knuckles. 

She throws herself at you, twice as angry as before. You dodge, but she catches you in the shoulder. Excruciating pain shoots through you, and you realise too late that she has wicked little claw-like contraptions on her fingers. She comes at you again, slashing wildly. You jump out of the way, once again catching a claw in the face. It slices open your left cheek; pain explodes all through the area, but you grin. A challenge- you’ve always liked that. 

Somewhere in the back of your mind, a child’s voice screams at you to stop, to leave, to give up. The goon from the top of the stairs is gone. You falter when you notice this- he must be warning his boss, who is your target. You double your efforts, lunging at the woman. You manage to punch her in the stomach, but your second hit, aimed at her throat, is knocked out of the way as she drives her claws into your wrist. You scream, not really in pain but in sheer shock at the sharp metal slivers protruding from your skin. 

“Should’ve left,” she sneers into your face. You spit into the bloody mess that was her nose and wrench your arm back, kicking her, hard, in the sternum. She stumbled backwards and you pull your weapon- a machete, sheathed against your back- out, spinning it around. She assesses you for a moment, with what you realise now are robotic eyes. 

Oh. 

Oh, fuck. 

You are not fighting a person, you’re fighting a robot. Or something that’s half half- the blood spilling from her face gives you the idea that she might be made of flesh and bones, but those eyes- you’ve seen them before. She’s assessing your fight patterns, and she’s going to win. 

You duck out of the way of another attack, but she manages to graze your neck with her claws. You slash wildly with your machete, to no avail- she avoids each blow easily, and the ones that do hit, she ignores happily. 

Finally, one of your attacks hits- you aim the blow upwards, and the machete carves straight through her face. Blood, huge quantities of the stuff, gushes all over you, bone shattering under the power of your blow. You yank the machete out, momentarily stunned as she stumbles to her knees, eyes fizzing out. 

“Fuck,” you pant, stumbling backwards, “fuck you.” 

Your victory is short lived. More goons are coming down the stairs, armed to the teeth. You raise your weapon, ready to fight them all if it kills you, when you feel something strange. Your shirt has been sliced open- cold hair breezes around your stomach. You look down, and are somewhat horrified to find blood; your own blood. 

All at once, you feel nausea hit. You stumble to your knees, gasping for air. She got you- you feel the pain shooting through now. She managed to sink her dirty claws into your stomach as if you were made of mist and gas. 

Everything flickers in front of you as the last few days finally hit. You’re in so much pain, it’s almost incredible- had you been an author, you would have liked to write about this one day. It’s like your insides have been ripped out (they kind of have, you suppose) and set on fire, stomped on, pissed on- you almost laugh at the thought as your head hits the ground. 

You can’t remember when you fell. 

Your vision goes dark, flickering in and out. You see the goons approach you, pick you up unceremoniously. You are outside your body, floating somewhere beyond, watching through your eyes as they drag you outside. It is raining- you wish you could feel the raindrops on your face, one last time. 

You laughed, holding out a hand. It had been a while since you had experienced rain- in the Firelights hideout, you are protected by the huge leaves of the tree; and the Firelights hideout has everything (and everyone) you could wish for, so why would you ever go outside? 

But, after hearing you sigh softly and murmur something about the only thing you miss about your old home being the rain, Ekko made it his mission to bring it back. As soon as it rained again, he took you by the arm, promising a wonderful surprise. He offered to blindfold you, but you kindly refused when you saw that he intended to take you up the tree. You had climbed together, him guiding you gently upwards; and as you’d ascended, you had heard a beautiful, soft patter; a sound that made your heart beat speed up and your throat close. Finally, you had reached the top, and he had lifted the leaves to reveal a little area above the canopy, partly shielded from the rain with a makeshift structure made of leaves and cloth. 

Now, you sat in this structure, your side flush against his, a hand held out to the pouring rain.  

“Do you like it?” He asked softly, looking at you. 

“Do I like it?” You cried, almost incredulous. “Yes, Ekko, I love it!” You turned to him, grinning so widely it almost hurt. “Thank you,” you added after a moment. “Thank you so much, Ekko.” He smiled too, and you took his face in your hands and kissed him, and Gods knew you’d never been happier. 

You’re lying in an alleyway. It’s like you can physically feel the blood leaking from you, your life draining from the gash in your stomach and the holes in your arm. The goons have left, convinced you are dead- why didn’t they check your pulse, stupid bastards? 

It has stopped raining, but you’re soaked to the bone, lying there in the dark. Someone has stolen your jacket and your machete. 

You groaned as you lifted the jacket up to the light. A bright fabric, the colour of the sunset, now stained with dark greenish grey goo. You should have known that wearing your favourite jacket down into the mines was a stupid idea, but you’d done it anyway. 

“Stupid,” you mumbled to yourself, dropping the jacket into a heap on the floor. You wondered briefly if it was salvageable, but deep down knew it wasn’t. You’d have to find a new one, which would be nowhere near as nice. 

Someone knocked on your door, and a soft voice spoke your name. 

“Come in,” you called, still staring sadly at your jacket. 

Ekko stepped inside, his presence like warm sunlight. Despite the grief caused by the ruined jacket, you smile, turning to him instantly relaxing as he wrapped his arms around your waist. 

“I hear your jacket got ruined,” he said softly. 

“Yeah,” you muttered in response. “Upsetting.” He laughed. “I have something for you.” You pulled away, moving your hands to his biceps and looking at him. “What, Ekko?” You already knew what he was going to show you, but it warmed your heart all the same. 

“It’s not exactly the same colour,” he said apologetically, “but-“ 

You put a hand over his mouth, beaming. “I don’t care,” you said. 

He smiled back at you, releasing you to pull something out of his bag. It was neatly folded, but he held it out to you. You shook it out, and found a jacket, almost identical to the one that you had just ruined; it was a slightly lighter shade of orange, and the pattern on the back was a tree instead of the flowers you’d had on your last one. 

“You’re insane,” you said, in awe. You put the jacket on- it was a little too big, but who gave a shit? It was your jacket, gifted to you by your boy. 

You blink back into consciousness, and almost screamed. The pain coursing through you is like nothing you’d ever imagined; like being electrocuted and burned and drowned all at the same time. Despite the gaping hole in you, you want to curl up, to shield yourself from the wet and cold and pain. 

“Please,” you whimper into the ground, “please, no.” 

It’s not that you don’t want to die. In fact, you welcome death- you see it as a release more than anything else, from the bullshit life you lead. But dying here, like this- 

You start to cry, and you gag and retch as tears spill mercilessly. 

You are about to give in- you have given in- when a bright light seems to fill your vision. It is green and orange and yellow and pink and warm and fills everything around you. For a moment you think you’ve died, and this is some kind deity welcoming you into the next life, whispering I forgive you don’t worry as it carries you away. But no, the truth is much harsher than that. 

A face hovers into your field of vision, and warm hands tug your shirt upwards. You want to protest, but your throat is dry from all the retching and sobbing you’ve been doing. A cloth presses down into the wound in your stomach and you howl, eyes rolling back in your head as the pain grabs you by the throat and fucking throttles you. 

“Stop,” you manage to whimper. “Why- why are you doing this?” Your voice is hoarse, you’re crying again as you try to shut out the pain. 

You hear shouting- words like help and home and quick- and black out again. 

When you come to, you are no longer lying wet and dying in an alleyway miles from home (where even is home anymore? It’s just you, and that orange jacket, which you don’t even have anymore). 

Your surroundings slowly swim into focus (swimming, your brain sings, swimming in an underwater cave, hands on your waist, kisses all over). You are lying down, mercifully dry and warm. Pain pumps through you in waves, mostly coming from your wrist and your stomach. You wonder, again, if this is some afterlife- if so, it is far less cruel than your parents described. 

But then, you turn your head, and pain sears through you. 

But that is not what makes you cry. 

He lifts his head instantly as he hears your quiet sobs, and he’s at your side, a hand carefully gripping yours (he’s avoiding the bloody bandage wrapped around your wrist, you realise), the other gently brushing soft fingers over your bruised face. “It’s okay,” he says, even though you think he doesn’t mean it. It’s not okay- you ran away, got yourself beat up, almost killed, and he’s had to rescue you. Of course it’s not okay.

“Ekko,” you whimper. 

“It’s okay,” he repeats, stroking your hair away from his face. Instinctively, you curl away, wanting to hide your injury from him. He shakes his head, his eyes brimming with tears (or maybe you’re delusional, because who would cry over you?) 

“I-“ Your words are lost in a pathetic sob, and you turn your face away from him. 

“Don’t,” he says. A pause. “How are you feeling?” 

You croak out what should’ve been fuck but instead comes out as a bad imitation . You would’ve laughed, in any other situation. 

“What happened?” His voice is so soft, so kind, it makes you want to rip your eyeballs out and stuff them into your ears. 

You shake your head. You don’t want him to know what you’ve been up to since you left the Firelights. 

He lets go of your hand, and for a moment you think he’s leaving you. It wouldn’t surprise you, to be honest. But no, he doesn’t leave you. Instead, he leans over, inspects the bandages wrapped around your midsection. Your mind instantly flashes to him prodding it, digging his fingers into your wound and calling you names. You wouldn’t blame him. 

“You’re an idiot,” he says finally, still glaring at your bandaged stomach. 

“Excuse me?” That is the first full statement you manage to force past your shredded throat. 

“You’re an idiot,” he repeats with just as much gusto. “I mean, how could you just go and do this?” He gestures at your injuries. 

“I didn’t-“ 

“What, think? Yeah, I can tell.” His face is partly obscured, so you can’t tell what face he’s making. 

“I-“ 

“You’re so stupid. I mean, did you really think you could survive taking on all of the goons in that building?” He snorts to himself. “At least tell me the pay was worth it.” 

You’re somewhat incredulous. All the time you’ve known Ekko, he’s never been this outright mean to you. 

“What-“ you sputter, unable to find the words. 

“Did you not think for a moment that you might get killed?” He puts extra emphasis on the word killed, and it’s like a punch in the gut. When he turns his gaze onto you, you think you’d prefer to have the goons rip you apart than see him look at you like this ever again. 

“I’m sorry,” you manage to say through a fresh tightening in your throat. Your eyes sting and you’re about to turn away when you see his expression. 

He’s smiling. 

“What?” You almost choke out. “What is it?” 

His smile is the softest thing you’ve ever seen. It’s the sunlight, shining through the leaves of the tree; it’s the rain gently pattering on the roof of your childhood home. It’s the smell of old books and wood. 

It’s so painfully home. 

Your eyes sting, and you turn your face away from him, swallowing the bile rising in your throat. He still smiles at you like that, after everything you’ve done. 

He takes your hand again, his other beginning to gently trace patterns on the bandage on your stomach. It’s such a soft, kind gesture. He used to do that, you remember with a pang, when you two would lie in bed together: draw little patterns on your back with his fingers, when he thought you were asleep. 

“It’s okay,” he says, and for the first time, you wholeheartedly believe him. 

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, because those are the only words your throat will allow out. “I am.” 

“I know,” he murmurs. He hesitates, then leans forwards, kissing your forehead gently. “Just…” he trails off, his gaze now focused back on your bruised face. “Don’t do that again.” 

You promise him. Not with words, but with the feeling in your chest, the loosening of your lungs and throat as you watch him watch you. You promise him with the way your knuckles have stopped aching for more skin to break, with the way your eyes water again. 

You promise him with all that you have, because that is the least you can do for him. 

“I love you,” you mumble, almost sheepishly. 

“I love you too,” he answers; there is no hesitation, no layered but only if… behind the words. He says it back with the same confidence he gives orders, the words more of a declaration than softly spoken pretty things. 

“I’m sorry,” you add, after a few moments of just watching him breathe. 

“I love you,” is his answer. 

You shut your eyes, and he squeezes your hand. 

[mariasont]

Okay , so a smutty Spencer x reader fic where is very alternative with tattoos and piercings. Maybe she works with the team as an entomologist or something idk BUT she always wears her contacts and one day she comes in thick black frame glasses. Spencer goes feral, he's never seen her in glasses before and he just kinda drags her into a hall closet and just "keep the glasses on" there's a lot of fanfics about the reader going feral seeing Spencer in glasses for the first time but what if it was reversed.

Framed Fascination

A/N: omggggg i loved writing this, you just know spencer would sooo be a sucker for a woman with tats and piercings, so canon

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR REQUESTING xoxo

‧₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧

pairings: spencer reid x alt!fem!reader

warnings: 18+ minors dni, glasses kink, praise, p in v, dirty talk, degrading sort of, office sex

wc: 2k

When you began dating Spencer, it raised a few eyebrows. Spencer Reid--reserved, a bit awkward, and endlessly knowledgeable--had ended up with someone who they thought was his complete opposite. And to that he would always say, "while the prevailing research suggests similarity is more common in relationships, there's an interesting phenomenon where sometimes, the very things that differ between two people can create a complementary dynamic, much like how two puzzle pieces with different notches fit."

At times, you would point out your differences solely to prompt this response. But, in truth, aside from your outward styles, you shared more similarities than not. Your tattoos and piercings were the first details Spencer noticed and quickly became his favorite as you strode into the morgue on a particularly demanding case. You were immersed in explaining how arsenic disrupted the body's functions, but Spencer was lost in the visual narrative of your ink, his gaze lingering on every etched symbol and shaded figure. From that moment, he was wholly engrossed, and vowed to eventually explore all the unseen tattoos that your clothes kept from view.

Spencer may have had the whole 'nerdy boy-next-door' aesthetic down to a science, but you? You took pride in being called 'intimidating', knowing it was just a first impression. You knew that beneath that surface lay as Spencer would say, 'a cinnamon roll'. Spencer seemed to see through it from the beginning, which is why he didn't hesitate to ask you out as soon as the case closed.

In the span of eight months, your life had been transformed into its healthiest chapter with Spencer as the culprit. He filled every day with thoughtful gesture--surprise art museum dates, breakfast in bed, flowers that would mysteriously find their way to your desk, notes you'd find tucked inside your coat pockets. In fact, if you had seen it in a cheesy rom-com, he probably had done it. You had been tackling each day with a little spring in your step.

Just like today--you bounded into your office humming—you were humming as you went over paperwork. Tasked with consulting for the consumer safety department, your focus was zeroed in on the pervasive issue of phthalates creeping into beauty products. You adjusted the unfamiliar weight of the thick black frames perched on your nose--an odd sensation since you habitually opted for contacts--as your eyes dragged over the papers.

The hum of the fax machine broke the silence, and you swiveled in your chair, a smile dawning as you recognized the documents from last week's BAU case--giving you a chance to steal a moment with your boyfriend.

Paperwork in hand, you made your way to the BAU office, the click of your heels on marble floors keeping time with your quickening pulse. The bullpen was a whirlwind of activity as you greeted Morgan and Prentiss with a nod and smile, your gaze sweeping through the room until it landed on him. 

"Hi there, handsome," you greeted with a playful lilt in your voice, your fingers rapping gently against the wood of his desk.

"Hi, sweetheart--," he began, but his words trailed off as his eyes met yours. There was a pause, a momentary lapse in his ever-flowing stream of thoughts, as he took in the sight of you.

Glasses? He couldn't recall you ever wearing glasses, yet there they were, and the effect was undeniable. The sight sent a wave of unexpected thrill through him--a visceral reaction that left him speechless, his lips parting in awe. 

Spencer's throat cleared, a subtle sound amid the bullpen's activity. His gaze flickered around the room, a silent plea that his colleagues were too engrossed in their work to notice the way he practically undressed you with his eyes. "Since when do you wear glasses?"

"Since I nearly scratched my eye out trying to get my contacts in this morning," you said with a laugh, though the action of straightening your glasses was more of a nervous tic.

His stare was unyielding--intense and almost piercing. It unsettled you slightly as you studied his expression, your head tilting inquisitively as he said nothing else. 

"Well, uh, anyway I have to drop this off to Hotch," you murmured, your voice trailing off as you felt the weight of Spencer's penetrating gaze. 

You lingered for a heartbeat too long, hoping for a word, a smile--anything. But nothing came. With a shaky breath, you turned away, hands trembling ever so slightly as you handed the paperwork to Hotch. You whisked yourself back to the comfort of your office. The was weird, right? I mean, sure, Spencer had never been one for being overly affectionate in public, but he at least had more to say than that.

You pushed the nagging doubts to the back of your mind, focusing on the monotony data and figures that sprawled across your reports. He was probably just having a bad day, too maybe theoretical thoughts brewing in the beautiful mind of his.

The hours crawled by, each minute punctuated by the drone of the office--uninteresting reports, pesky coworkers, and the persistent buzz of thoughts circling back to Spencer. When it was an appropriate time to take your lunch, you pushed your laptop aside with a little too much eagerness, hands diving into your bag for your food. 

But before you could do that, a soft interruption at the door caught your attention. Your head snapped up, meeting Spencer's gaze as he leaned causally against the frame of the door.

He stood there, watching as you glanced up at him, the rims of your glasses framing your eyes in a way that made an involuntary shiver down his spine, his gaze lingering on your face. You appeared tired, yes, but the image of you like this had been imprinted on his mind all day, rendering his work secondary to the thought of seeing you again. 

"Spence, hi," you greeted, a sweet smile blooming on your lips as you peered up at him. Your brows knit together slightly; his visits were rare unless case-related. "I was just about to take my lunch, wanna join?"

"No," he replied with a swift shake of his head, the corners of his mouth twitching into a knowing smirk. "Could I borrow you for a second?"

Your gaze returned to the lunch that lay before you, untouched and suddenly unappealing. Letting out a small sigh, you nodded. "Sure," you replied, still trying to piece together Spencer's odd behavior today.

He tilted his head back subtly, a silent cue for you to follow him. You obliged without hesitation, following after him, your steps echoing his through the hallway. Your confusion mounted, etched into the deepening furrow of your brows with each corner turned. 

"Spencer," you said, a giggle escaping your lips. "I trust you're not taking me down some ominous hallway to meet my untimely end?"

"Actually, it is an interesting fact that the majority people meet their 'untimely end' at the hands of someone they love." 

"Great, thank you for that, I think that's my cue," you joked, pivoting away in an attempt to make a dramatic exit. But Spencer's reflexes were quick, his grasp secure on your wrist as he steered you into the nearest supply closet. The small space muffled your surprised oomph as you nearly collided with a stack of supplies.

You stumbled into the warmth of his chest, your glasses skewing comically as you steadied them with a fingertip. "Spencer! What has gotten into you?"

"You," came his growl, rough and urgent, while his hands frantically sought your legs, pinning you against the wall.

A soft moan slipped through the surprise of parted lips as his lips found yours. Your fingers tangled in the soft locks of his hair, pulling him closer, your mouth meeting his with the same intensity. 

Your laughter mingles with the kiss as you pull back, lips brushing. "Not that I'm complaining, Agent Reid, but someone is definitely going to catch us."

His eyes meet yours, equally amused as he pins your hands over your head. He makes quick work of open-mouthed kisses on your neck, your body instantly melting into his as his teeth scrape along your sweet spot. "Don't care."

His lips trailed back to yours, his fingers fumbling to push your skirt up to your stomach. You let out a surprised gasp into his mouth, finding the sudden intensity of him incredibly hot. He pressed his thumb into your clit as you dug your fingers into the nape of his neck, your head lolling back as you all but thrusted into his hand. The room swirled with heat, your glasses misting up. You reached for the pesky frames, but his fingers intercepted, pining them against your chest.

"Those stay on, sweetheart." The words tickled your ear, intimate and close, as his fingers traced through your slick folds, coaxing a contented pant from you.

"That's what's got you all worked up, Spence?" You moaned out as his fingers glided over your skin, now slick, drawing a line of warmth up your body. 

He settled his thumb on your tongue, shutting you up as he grabbed a handful of your ass. You wrapped your lips around it, savoring the taste as your eyes locked with his over the foggy veil of your glasses. His gaze held a quiet pride as he smirked. 

"Drove me crazy seeing you like that this morning." He said as he ground his body into yours, his erection settling on your stomach. "Makes you look so fuckable. Couldn't focus on anything else."

Your mouth vibrated softly around his thumb, muffled as he drew it away with pop. He makes quick work of undoing his belt, shoving down his pants and boxers just enough to release his length.

Your mouth watered at the sight, your body instinctively lowering to your knees, but his hand was there stopping you with a firm, "No time."

He pinned your shoulders to the wall with his body, his mouth crashing with yours with desperate need. Your mouth fell open into his as you felt his length press into your opening, his fingers holding your panties aside.

"You feel so good, sweetheart."

You don't think you would ever get over the feeling of him inside you, the way he stretched you out just right. You let out an unrestrained moan as he proceeded to pump inside you, his movements ruthless.

His palm sealed over your lips, a sudden barrier that sent warmth spreading across your face, glasses clouding rapidly, obscuring your view. "Quiet, baby. You want everyone to know how much of a slut you are for me? Letting me fuck you in the office?"

You all but sobbed against his palm, your hands fisting the material of his sweater as he continued to abuse your pussy with deep strokes.

"Sp-Spence, please baby," you managed to breathe out as he released his hold on your mouth, grinding against him in an attempt at friction with your sensitive clit.

"What do you need, sweetheart?" He questioned, almost condescendingly as his fingers traced your cheek gently, a stark contrast to the way he pounded into you. "Need me to take care of you?"

"Please," you choked out.

"You're so good for me, baby." He said, his thrusts becoming sloppier and sloppier as he pressed his thumb to the part of you that ached most. You let out a sob of relief as you ground against his movements, the familiar coil in your stomach beginning to wind up as you clutched at Spencer's face.

"Spencer, shit, 'm so close," you babbled, tears welling in your eyes as each of his thrusts seemed to urge the ache.

"Go ahead, baby." He moaned as his you felt his thighs twitch against you. "Come on my cock, sweet girl."

His words were all you needed to push you off the edge, your back arching against the wall as your legs shook, threatening to collapse as a wave of pleasure washed over you. He came shortly after you, his form yielding to gravity as his head nestled into the crook of your shoulder, both of you panting softly as you tried to catch your breath.

After savoring a few heartbeats of content, he gently disentangled himself from you. His fingers deftly rearranging your skirt, with a touch so soft, so different from his demeanor two minutes ago. 

"Guess I need to wear the glasses more often, huh?"

A soft laughter bubbled up from him, his fingers lightly grazing under your eyes, brushing away the stray smudges of makeup. "Please do."

[lale-txt]

“But friends don’t look at each other like we do.”

Kuroo is right. But he shouldn’t say it. 

You keep your eyes pinned on the essay in front of you, one hand of yours hazily brushing over your eyes to keep the tears from falling. At midnight, in the silence of the room, you can hear your own heart break, shatter even, but you’re holding it together. It’s what you’re good at, isn’t it? When everything inside of you is crumbling, you pick yourself up again, a puppet on a string dancing to the sound of the cries you never dare to let out. 

Under the kotatsu Kuroo’s leg is touching yours and you’re afraid he’s gonna fade away too if you pull away. So you hold perfectly still, letting his warmth seep into you, dreaming of a life where the thought of being seen doesn’t make you want to run. 

His hand reaches over the table, gently peeling the pen from your hand and putting it down on your scattered notes. Fingertips dancing from your palm to your wrist, his thumb rubbing small circles over your pulse point. The same spot where you once sprayed a perfume tester, quipping something about how perfume is to be worn where you want your lover to kiss you; and Kuroo who brought your wrist to his lips with a tenderness that almost made you cry. Idle hands wrapped around each other, unspoken promises of never letting go. 

“Please.”

It’s the sound of Kuroo’s voice breaking, pleading, that draws your eyes back to him. 

Please, look at me. Please, let this be love. Please, be gentle with my heart.

No, friends don’t look at each other like you do. 

Not with this unfulfilled yearning in the vastness of his dark eyes, pupils blown out as his gaze lingers on you. Not with this hunger, the insatiable craving for something more than this, something bigger, something softer. Not with this paralyzing fear of letting go and inching closer, swaying around each other on tiptoes, never fully there but never fully gone either. 

Kuroo slumps over the table with a heavy sigh, his eyes never leaving you. They never do. It’s like he’s drawn to you, the sea in love with the moon, a story as old as times. His fingers linger in your palm, idly tracing your heart line, as if your hands alone were proof enough that this love exists, that the stars aligned so you two could meet, against all odds. 

“But I’m scared,” you confess, the words tumbling out of your mouth before you can swallow them down again. Your fingertips graze his hand, spelling out the word stuck in your throat, the one clawing its way out even though it feels too big to do so. It’s what you always do; tumbling and falling and bursting at the seams, all the love for him you can’t contain.

“Then let me love you scared. Love me till the fear unravels in your chest, making room for something new. Just… let me.” 

Kuroo’s voice is merely a whisper, a husky vibrato under your skin. You try and hold it back, but your love is spilling out like ink on the paper, staining your red string of fate in pitch black. Maybe you can learn to love him in the dark, somewhere his eyes can’t find you, only your fingers intertwined. Never letting go.

[sceletaflores]

it’s the easiest thing (just love me and eat me)

pair: logan howlett x mutant!fem!reader

wc: 6.1k

anon says: nat pls speak on sub!logan...people are hating on the sub!logan agenda and someone needs to show them that they're wrong and it can be done cuz if anyone can convince them it's you mommy!

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, crimson! again! she's back!, slight angst, swearing, violence, light gore, somewhat dark content, religious symbolism? (idk this one got weird babes), established relationship, lowkey a toxic relationship but you didn't hear that from me, sub!logan-ish, handjob, p in v, slow sex turned rough, unprotected sex, riding, creampie, pain kink, scent kink, blood play, blood...eating (drinking? idk), porn with a tiny bit of plot, no use of y/n.

author’s note: anon i'm so sorry this took me so long...i hope it was worth the wait! it started as a short smutty drabble that somehow turned into…this? idk it got out of hand so fast. i am a proud member of the sub!logan nation but that's mostly because i think that ALL men have the potential for sub vibes like doesn't matter who he is if i want to fuck him he's probably a little subby. special shout out to my baby boo and fellow sub!logan truther @avocado-writing <3 tysm for sharing anon! xoxo mwah.

dividers by icon @saradika-graphics!

psst! want more logan and crimson? here's the to the bone au masterlist!

it’s not often that logan needs this, but you’re always more than happy to give it to him when he does…

The team had a big scare earlier in the day.

It was supposed to be an easy mission, bust a mutant trafficking ring in Albany. You do assignments like these every week, and as sick as it sounds, it’s almost routine.

But this one was different. It was an ambush, and you were compromised.

Only humans, but they were smart. Waited until the team split up to attack. They had tech, things you'd never seen before.

Big guns loaded with tiny darts full of an ominous red liquid.

It was your fault really. You didn't clear your surroundings, so focused on getting to the kids that you let yourself get sloppy.

The tiny sting in your back barely registered, you don't think you would have even noticed if it didn't kick in so fast.

You'd never felt anything like it before in your life.

It didn't hurt. The rush of pain you braced yourself for never coming.

The sensation was strange—like your body was shutting down, piece by piece. You fell to your knees, shaky legs folding under you in less than a second.

You felt empty, wrong. An eerie silence trickling in to fill your insides.

Panic bubbled beneath your skin, but you were too numb to feel it. Trapped in the mounting weight of your limbs, the slow blink of your eyes, the shortness of breath despite hardly moving.

Your hand slipped across the gritty cement, reaching for support that wasn't there.

That was when you saw it, the shock of it was enough for your heart to drop. Your skin, blanched and sallow, the veins in your arms black and spreading like spilled ink.

You tried to fight it, tried to will your body to move, to react, to do something. You had to get up. You had to. The kids.

As hard as you willed yourself, there was nothing. It was like your body wasn't your own, like it had become something completely foreign.

You could barely make out the tiny voices calling for you. Pleading, frantic yelps of your name fading into a dull hum as everything went hazy. The edges of your vision blurring into a narrow tunnel.

He stepped in front of you, the same one who shot you. A cynical grin on his face and collar in his hand. You'd seen collars like it before, used on mutants to muzzle their abilities, to weaken them.

You tried, fingers barely twitching by your. Nothing. Just another shock of that cold, unfamiliar feeling shooting through your body.

“Got a big one, boss.” The man boasted into a comm strapped to his wrist, his voice sharp and grating. He took a single step towards you, smug grin still stretched across his face. “Yeah, real nice lookin' one too. She'll sell for—“

A muddy roar pulsed through the molasses filled haze of your ears, six claws flying through the air to embed themselves on either side of the man's skull with a wet, stomach-churning sound.

The collar dropped from his slackened grip with a dull bang, shattering into different pieces that slid across the floor haphazardly. A mess of wires and metal.

There were rushed footsteps before he dropped to his knees in front of you, his torso bathed in a dull glow from the overhead lights yellow shine.

There was blood splattered across the side of his face, slicking the front of his suit enough to reflect light off the leather.

Logan, perched in front of you like an angel.

Not one with a golden halo and a harp, but a indescribable mess of eyes and wings looming over you calling 'be not afraid'.

You'd never seen him so shaken before. All wide-eyed and pale as he checked you over for any major injuries. His breath coming in short bursts, hands frantic and shaky as they skated along your body for the viscosity of blood or uneven shift of a break.

He refused to let you even try and walk on your own, swept you off the floor and cradled your trembling body to his chest as he called for help. The beat of his heart was fast beneath your cheek, strong enough that you could feel it even through the thick leather of his suit.

You buried your face deeper in the crook of his neck, the pit in your stomach barely warmed by the feel of him. His scent is strongest there, so much so that in a room full of spilled blood, you could only smell him.

He was careless stepping over clawed up bodies littering the floor like a messy maze of twitching limbs and entrails. You didn't even know there was more than one guard in the room.

The evidence of his love for you, of his devotion, oozing red on the concrete.

Logan didn't even give the carnage a sideways glance as he raced you outside, back to the jet.

Trusting Scott and Jean to take over getting the kids out. The unsteady murmurs he pressed to the top of your head the last thing you heard before there was nothing.

You woke up six hours later.

The sterile hum of medical equipment was the first thing you heard. The sharp scent of antiseptic filled your nostrils, and the faint pressure of a needle in your arm confirmed that you were hooked up to an IV. 

Your muscles felt heavy, like someone had filled them with lead. But you were alive.

You could feel your body working overtime, fixing itself. The sickening shift of your insides falling back into place. 

It took a few more moments for you to realize you weren’t alone.

A low, familiar rumble caught your attention. You turned your head to see Logan slumped in a chair by the bedside, his face buried in his hands, elbows resting on his knees. His hair was mussed, his usually sharp features softened by exhaustion. 

He looked different, smaller, as though the weight of what happened was pressing down on him, making him fold in on himself.

You’d seen him bloody, beaten, on the verge of death, but you’d never seen him like this–completely and utterly human.

Your throat was too dry to speak, but a small sound escaped you, and Logan's head snapped up. His eyes met yours, and in a heartbeat, he was at your side, his large hands hovering over you, unsure where to touch, like he was afraid you’d shatter under his fingers.

“You’re okay,” he whispered, more to himself than to you. His voice was hoarse, cracked with a mixture of relief and something else, something deeper. His eyes darted over your face, your arms, as if memorizing every detail just to make sure you were real.

“I'm sorry,” you managed, your voice barely more than a rasp.

Logan's eyebrows furrowed, the lines in his forehead deepening. "What the hell are you apologizing for?" His voice was gruff, but there was a tenderness beneath it. A gentleness he only reserved for you.

Your lips cracked into a weak smile. "It was my fault. I messed up."

A growl rumbled low in his chest, and you could feel the anger simmering just beneath his skin, not at you but at the situation, at whoever had dared to hurt you.

“Don’t,” he said, voice like gravel. “Don't start, none of this is on you.” His voice softened slightly as he leaned closer, the warmth of his presence enveloping you. “What matters is you’re here.”

The reassurance wrapped around you like a warm blanket, grounding you.

Logan’s thumb traced the line of your jaw, his touch sending a spark of warmth through your veins. “When I saw you on the floor like that…I thought—” He shook his head, jaw clenched as he forced himself to meet your gaze again. “I thought I lost you.”

Your fingers twitched slightly, managing to catch his wrist, squeezing it with what little strength you had. “I’m right here,” you said softly, voice clearer than before. “I’m okay.”

Logan’s gaze softened again as he looked down at your hand, his rough exterior cracking just a little more. He gently pried your fingers from his wrist and pressed your hand to his chest, right over his heart. “You scared the hell outta me, you know that?”

You tried to laugh, but it came out as more of a breathless huff. “Didn’t mean to.”

He shook his head, but there was a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You never do.”

You were fine an hour later. 

The color of your skin had returned, glossy and like new. The hollow emptiness inside of you long gone. Your abilities passed every test Charles threw your way with flying colors.

Fully recovered and finally excused from the med-bay after Hank and Jean checked you over one last time, you were given your strict marching orders in the form of extra fluids and bed rest, no matter how much you argued that you were fine.

Your health was the last thing on your mind, just a distant phantom ache each time your eyes would find Logan.

He was still shaken up, even after all the reassurance from Charles and Hank. He kept close the rest of the day, hovering, his presence more protective than usual, but he didn’t talk much.

You could see it in the way he moved, slower, less sure, like he was carrying around something too heavy to shake off. It lingered in the tight set of his jaw, the way his hands flexed as though still looking for something to fight, to protect you from.

It wasn’t hard to guess what it was. 

You hated seeing him like this, burdened by a guilt he didn’t deserve. 

It gnawed at you, that heaviness. The way he started to shut down, to close himself off in the face of fear. It was the only way he knew how to cope.

After seeing him like that, bed rest was the last thing on your mind.

You knew Logan. Knew what he needed when his thoughts got tangled up like this, dragging him under. He wasn't the type to sit and talk through it, not easily anyway. 

And even though you know he’d never ask for it himself, you knew what he needed—to be reminded, physically, that you were still here, still his.

Later that night, when the mansion had quieted and the others were tucked away in their rooms, you found him exactly where you thought you’d find him—in the room you shared, sitting on the edge of the bed. The yellow light from the bedside lamp cast soft shadows across his face, the tension in his jaw still there.

A frown tugged the corners of your mouth as you moved towards him, catching his attention with the rustle of the sheets as you sat next to him.

“Logan,” you say softly, breaking the stillness. He doesn't respond, only the slightest twitch in his shoulders indicating he even heard you. “Hey,” you try again, your voice a little firmer this time.

He turns his head just enough for you to catch the edge of his profile, the crease between his brows, weariness etched into his features.

But he still doesn't speak.

You shift, moving closer until your fingers brush his arm, the heat of his skin radiating through the fabric of his shirt. “Look at me,” you whisper, and finally, his gaze lifts to meet yours, guarded and pained. “I’m fine. I’m right here.”

Logan shakes his head, bringing a hand up to run it through his already messy hair. “You could’ve died,” he bites out, tone rough and low. “We should've never fuckin' split up. I should’ve been there faster, sooner. I should’ve–”

“Logan.” Your voice cut through his, sharper than you meant it to. You catch his hand in yours, thumb brushing against the pulse point of his wrist. “You saved me, I’m not going anywhere. I need you to hear that.”

He meets your gaze then, eyes dark with something vulnerable, something raw. He nods weakly, like he only half-believes it. You can still see the hesitation swirling through his eyes, the reluctance in the stiffness of his muscles against yours.

He needs something more than words, something to bring him back to you.

With that, you move to straddle his lap, your knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his thighs. His body stiffens under yours, his breath hitching slightly as his hands fall to your waist almost instinctively.

“Hold on,” Logan starts, tone hesitant and hands light as they hover over your hips like he’s still scared to touch you. “You heard what Hank said–”

“I’m fine,” you repeat, finality lacing your tone and leaving no room for argument. You reach down, taking his hand in yours and bringing it up to press flat directly over your heart. The very same way he did your first night together. "Can you feel me?”

The question hangs between you, soft but weighted with purpose.

Logan’s breath catches in his throat, fingers splaying wider across your chest. The heat of his palm sinks through to your skin, lighting a fire in you. 

The steady beat of your heart under his touch is an undeniable reminder–alive, strong, with him. You can feel him relax, just a touch.

The tension in his muscles breaking down beneath you piece by piece as the rhythm grounds him, helps to pull him out of his spiral.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, barely audible. His eyes drop to where his hand rests, his thumb absently grazing the space just above your sternum. “I feel you.”

“Then trust it,” you murmur. “Trust me.”

A deep, slow breath escapes him, and something in his eyes softens just enough. You lean closer, your fingers trailing up his arms, over his shoulders, until they thread into the hair at the nape of his neck. 

You smile softly, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. He sighs deeply, leaning into your touch like a dog starved of attention from its master. His grip on your waist finally tightens, fingers pressing into your skin just enough to feel that edge of need—the need to let go.

“You’ve been taking care of me all day,” you murmur, scratching your nails along his scalp softly. “Now let me take care of you.”

You feel him shudder, a weak groan escaping from his slack lips. His hazy eyes search your face, pupils blown out and seeping into the warm hazel color like an oil spill over a lake.

You tilt your head, lips grazing the stubble on his jawline, moving slowly, deliberately, until you can capture his mouth in a kiss.

It’s soft at first, gentle, but you feel him melt into it, the sharp edge of his restraint crumbling as he kisses you back with a kind of hunger that fuels you.

Logan’s hands slide up your back, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt as you take control, deepening the kiss, coaxing him further into the moment.

His mouth is warm and wet and urgent against yours, the scrape of his teeth along your bottom lip sends a thrill down your spine. 

His lips move over yours with a reverence that makes your chest tighten, as if each slick glide of your lips together is an apology, a promise, and a plea all rolled into one.

But you don’t want his apologies. You want his surrender.

His breath stutters in his chest when your fingers twist in his hair, tugging just enough to remind him who’s in charge tonight.

When your hand finds his chest, pushing him down gently, he goes without protest. His eyes never leave yours as he settles against the pillows, following your every movement as you crawl closer.

Climbing over him to perch on top of his thighs, you waste no time in reaching for the hem of his shirt, gently tugging on it in a silent question. Logan’s breath comes in shallow puffs as he nods, fingers twitching on your hips. 

You can feel the way his chest rises and falls under the tips of your fingers, the sharp intake of air when your hands ghost across the skin of his lower stomach as you lift his shirt up and over his head.

You toss it over your shoulder carelessly, it lands with a muted thump somewhere behind you, leaving his chest bare. His muscles taut and rippling as he forces himself to stay still, the dim light plays across his skin, highlighting the contours along his torso.

You take a moment to just admire him, trailing your fingers along the familiar planes of his skin. Your touch is feather light, tracing over the spots that should be littered in scars. 

The place in his shoulder where he got shot two weeks back, or where the loose shrapnel that embedded itself in his side on the last mission should be, or the skin where his shoulder meets his neck after you dug your teeth into it hard enough to bleed a few nights ago.

The way his body responds to you makes your pulse quicken—the way he finally relaxes completely under your touch, melting into the mattress. 

You continue your path down, fingers slipping through the ridges of his abs, scratching your nails through the dark hair that disappears into the waistband of his bottoms teasingly. The muscles of his stomach jump under your touch, the power of his need thrumming beneath your touch.

You drag your hand over the hard length of him, his cock thick and hot as it twitches beneath your fingers. There’s a sharp hiss bleeding through grit teeth as his hips twitch up off the mattress ever so slightly.

You lean forward, hiding a small smirk in the crook of his neck. “Logan,” you whisper, voice dripping with intent, “I want you to beg for it.”

A deep, guttural growl rumbles through his chest. It shakes your body like thunder, finding a home between your thighs. Logan’s head falls back against the pillows, exposing the tan column of his throat to your hungry gaze.

It’s almost immediate, your reaction, your bodies reaction. The pulse of your blood starts to simmer with that telltale heat, slowly bubbling beneath your skin in anticipation.

Your gaze traces along where the vein of his jugular presses against his skin enticingly, barely suppressing a full body shiver at the sight.

You slip your index and middle finger beneath his waistband, brushing against his hard cock with barely any pressure. His hips buck up again, seeking more friction, but you pull back slightly, making him chase it.

“I said beg, Logan,” you murmur, your voice low, teasing, a sharp edge to it now. Your free hand comes up, gripping his jaw tightly, forcing him to look at you.

His eyes, dark and blown wide with lust, meet yours, and you can see the war raging inside him—the urge to dominate, to take control—but then he’s giving in to you, surrendering so beautifully.

“Goddamn,” he rasps quietly, his voice rough, broken. It’s barely a word, more of a growl torn from his throat. He bites it out, quiet and foreign sounding coming from his tongue. “Please, I need—”

“Good boy,” you purr, and finally, drag the soaked fabric of his bottoms down. His cock springs free, slapping against his stomach lewdly.

You moan softly, deftly wrapping your fist around him loosely. Logan groans, you swear you can hear his teeth grind together at the first feeling of your touch where he wants it most.

He’s scalding to the touch, velvety skin throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Rock-hard and flushed an angry red, darkening even more the closer you get to the tip.

You keep the pace of your strokes tortuously slow, letting him feel every movement, teasing him. It’s addictive, watching the way he starts to unravel beneath you at the slightest touch.

His legs kick out against the mattress minutely, hands falling from your hips to grip the sheets as hard as he can in a failing attempt to calm himself.

You lean down, slick lips brushing against his as you speak, your voice soft but commanding. “You’re going to let me do whatever I want to you tonight, aren't you?”

Logan nods, his breath coming in quick pants, his sweaty chest rising and falling rapidly. “Yes,” he chokes out, eyes brimming with need. “Fuck, do whatever you want, baby. I’m yours.”

The usual dominance he carries like a second skin has been peeled away, leaving him vulnerable, laid out beneath you, at your mercy.

Your hand speeds up, grip tightening as you twist your wrist over his leaking tip. Your knuckles shine with pre-come, slick from the gratuitous amount of wetness steadily drooling out.

“You’re being so good for me, Logan,” you whisper, your voice soft and laced with praise. “So good, letting me take care of you like this.”

His response is a loud moan, his hips arching up off the bed, but you’re quick to press them down with your free arm, your thighs tightening around him.

“Not yet,” you warn, strength on display as you stop his movements. “You’ll come when I say.”

A strangled sound escapes him, somewhere between a growl and a whimper, and it sends a thrill through you. He’s right there, teetering on the edge, but he’s holding on—for you.

“Poor thing,” you mumble, idly pressing your thumb into his slit, gathering the precome there to spread it along the flushed crown. “So hard, so needy for me.”

“Jesus, fuck,” Logan whines, his head tipping back against the pillows a second times, eyes squeezing shut tighten enough to wrinkle the skin around them.

You smile, your nails digging into his chest as you shift, positioning yourself above him. The heat between your legs is unbearable now, slick all along your inner thighs as it pools from your aching cunt, drenching the soft cotton of your panties.

So desperate to be stretched around Logan’s cock, to be filled the only way he can. You roll your hips forward, the hard jut of his cock sliding through the sticky mess of your panties.

“Shit, baby,” he groans, loud and hoarse. “Fuck, give it to me, I’m ready–”

You press your finger to his lips, silencing him as you hover over him. “Not yet,” you whisper, a wicked grin on your face as you slide your panties to the side and take him in your hand, letting the tip brush against your soaked entrance, still not giving him what he craves.

Your own patience is starting to run thin, but the sound of his begging is too good.

“Tell me how bad you want it,” you say, your voice sharp and commanding as you rub the tip of him along your cunt, teasing. “Tell me what you need.”

He’s trembling beneath you, a soft whimper leaving his lips as you sink down slightly, barely letting him inside. "Please, darlin'," he groans, voice rough with need. "I need to feel you—need you so fuckin’ bad."

You finally give in, sinking down onto him in one slow, deliberate motion.

His body jerks beneath you, a choked growl spilling from his lips as you take him in, inch by inch. You don’t stop until he’s buried deep inside you, your walls clenching around him as you settle into his lap.

The feeling is overwhelming, the stretch, the heat, the way he fills you completely.

You both groan at the same time, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you roll your hips, savoring the way he pulses inside you, how his entire body reacts to every little movement.

“God, you’re so big,” you whisper, your voice heavy with lust as you look down at where your bodies meet. “You gonna be a good boy and let me ride you?”

“Fuck,” he grits, voice like gravel crunching underfoot.

His hands slide up your back, desperate and needy as they cradle the back of your head softly. “I’d kill them all,” he pants, lips messily searching for your own, desperate for more frantic kisses. “Fuckin’ all of them, all for you.”

You moan loud and unabashed, eyes screwing shut as your nails rake down his chest hard enough to break the skin. The smell of his blood breaks through the air, heady and sharp. He throws his head back, a broken gasp dragged out of him as his hips speed up.

You think back to the room in the warehouse, the floor slick with stray remains and viscera. Think back to him lifting you to his chest, of the blood spattered across his suit and face slipping against your own clammy skin.

Flashes of Logan running to you like a loyal livestock dog, covered in the blood of any wolf that dares attack his precious sheep. Staining the white of your wool red with the righteous wrath of his sacrifice. 

You roll your hips faster, bouncing with enough force to have you crying out. The tight suction of your walls pulling him as deep as he can get at this angle.

The coarse hair along his stomach drags against your throbbing clit, making white hot sparks of pleasure zing up your spine to light up each vertebrae. 

Logan presses his forehead to your chest, hot breath puffing out over your sweaty neck. You tilt your head to the side almost subconsciously, bearing more of yourself to him.

“Can’t hold back much longer,” he admits weakly, blunt nails digging into your skin sharp enough to sting. “Feels so good, so fuckin' good."

He trails off, face pinched with ecstasy as he gazes up at you. You smile, rolling your hips slowly, tiny figure eights that let you feel every inch of him pressing against your walls.

“You're not supposed to hold back," you whisper, your voice thick with need as you lean down, kissing along his jawline. "I want you to let go, Logan."

His eyes snap open, the hazel gone wild and desperate, and it’s like you can see the exact moment he breaks. The tiniest shred of self control finally crumbling under the weight of his instincts. With a low, feral growl, he surges up.

You’re on your back quicker than you can blink, stomach surging with it. You hardly have any time to react, Logan punching all the air out of your lungs as he sets a brutal pace.

The sudden intensity has you gasping, your body jolting as he takes over, fucking you like his life depends on it. 

Each thrust is hard and deep, hitting the spot inside of you, over and over again until you’re a trembling mess above him, moaning his name, your nails digging into his chest.

Logan’s grip on you is ironclad, pulling you back onto him harder, faster, his breaths coming out in ragged pants as he loses himself completely in the heat of your body.

"That's it," you pant, feeling the way your body tightens around him, the tension building deep inside you. "Fuck, Logan, just like that—"

He growls again, the sound vibrating through his chest as he slams into you harder, his pace relentless. You can feel the sweat slick between your bodies, hear the wet, filthy sounds of your bodies coming together as his control snaps completely.

“Mine,” he growls between thrusts, voice low and rough as he pounds into you, his eyes locked on yours, full of possessive need. "All fuckin’ mine."

Your body responds to his words, tightening around him as your orgasm builds, every nerve in your body on fire. "Yes," you gasp, your voice barely more than a broken moan as he hits that perfect spot again and again. "Yours—only yours."

Slowly, deliberately, you bring your hand to your mouth, biting down on the pad of your thumb hard enough to draw a thin line of blood.

The scent of iron fills the space between you, mixing with the musk of sex and sweat. Logan’s nostrils flare as he takes in the scent, his pupils dilating further, and you feel his cock twitch inside of you.

You raise your thumb to his mouth, sliding it along his bottom lip to leave behind a thin trail of red. “Suck,” you whisper softly, pressing your thumb into his mouth ever so slightly. 

And he does, without hesitation. 

Logan’s lips part, and he pulls your thumb into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the taste of your blood. The look in his eyes as he does sends a wave of heat crashing through you.

The pure devotion of the act thickening the air around you to coil the spring of pleasure winding in your lower stomach tighter.

You groan, your own restraint folding like a house of cards as you drag your nose down the column of his throat, stopping right at the base. You press a quick kiss over the rapid fluttering of his pulse before you bite down, hard.

Logan keens around your thumb, teeth digging into your skin roughly as his blood floods your mouth. 

You get lost in it, the familiar taste of him seeping onto your tongue as his cock jerks and pulses in your clenching cunt. Getting lost in the way you can feel the rhythm of his heart against your lips, each strong beat sending more blood pumping out to leak along your taste buds.

You press your chest to his, not leaving an inch of space between you. It’s still not enough, it will never be enough.

You need more, so much more.

You want to encompass him completely, to be encompassed by him.

You want to dig your hands into his skin–to peel back each layer of flesh and fat and muscle, snap each of his ribs back so you can bury yourself in the cavity of his chest before you bend them back into place. Burrowing yourself deep enough inside him to watch him heal all around you, to watch his skin stitch itself back together.

It’s a sick feeling, the need to take and take until he has no more left to give. Sick and all consuming, lighting you up like the raging flames of a forest fire that destroys everything in its path. 

When you finally pull your hand away from his mouth, he lets out a breathless moan, and you lean down to press your lips against his in a bruising kiss.

The coppery tang of your blood lingers between you, mixing with Logan’s as your teeth clash together violently, as you devour him, pouring every ounce of your control into the kiss.

You press your palm to his chest, powers surging to life over his heart. You don't need to open your eyes to see what you leave behind, the red and blue pulse of his blood lighting up beneath his skin like the neon sign hanging outside his favorite bar.

Logan moans into your mouth, tongue dragging along the point of your canines. "Don't stop," he pleads, “Please, baby, don’t fuckin’ stop.”

You can feel the energy coursing between you, a tangible thing that's threading itself between your fingers. It’s intoxicating, a connection deeper than flesh, a binding of souls fueled by blood and lust. You lean into the heat radiating from him, urging your energy to flow freely, wrapping it around his heart like a warm embrace.

“Logan,” you whisper breathily, breaking the kiss just enough to look into his wild, pleading eyes. “You feel that? You and me, we’re connected.”

“I feel it, honey,” he groans, bucking his hips, forcing you to take him deeper. “You’re everywhere. It’s all I can think about all the goddamn time, drives me fuckin’ crazy.” His words tumble from his lips, raw and unfiltered, sending another thrill of desire through you.

You whine, head tipping back to the ceiling. Drunk of the feeling of him, of his cock, of his blood on your teeth.

You've come to think that being in bed with Logan is like being in church.

There's a holiness to the way he holds you—like you’re the only thing worth believing in.

The familiar weight of his body pressing you into the mattress is the alter. The heat of him like laying in the burning flame of a candle. The strong planes of his muscles each a different scripture that you take in by touch alone, skating your hands over his skin with something close to worship.

Each bead of sweat on his skin feels sacred, a testament to the intensity between you, as though every part of him has been crafted for this moment of devotion.

The hard length of his cock carves a place for itself inside you, each heavy smack of his hips punching another desperate sound out of your slack lips. 

His breath, deep and ragged, is a chant that pulls you into reverence. It puffs against the wild beat of your pulse, his lips brushing over the fever hot plane of your skin. 

The sound of your name falling from his mouth sounds like a prayer answered.

You can’t help but close your eyes, not in exhaustion, but in a kind of spiritual surrender, like by shutting out the world, you can truly grasp the divinity of it. His blood, mixing with yours on your tongue feels like a sacrament—an unholy communion.

The air between you crackles with heat, your bodies moving together in perfect sync, each thrust driving you closer to the edge. Logan’s head tilts back, his mouth open in a silent scream as he claws at your hips, pulling you down harder, deeper.

“I’m close,” he groans, his voice strained, desperate. “Please—fuck—I need to—”

You reach up quickly, grabbing his jaw and forcing him to look at you. “Look at me when you fuck me,” you demand, your voice sharp, dripping with authority. “I want you to watch me when you come.”

That’s all it takes.

 Logan’s entire body goes taut, a strangled roar tearing from his throat as he buries himself inside you one last time, the force of his release crashing through him. The hot spray of his come floods your insides, drenching your walls in thick spurts of white. 

His hands grip you so tightly you’re sure there’ll be bruises blooming later, but you don’t care. You wish they wouldn’t fade. You want them. You want to wear his mark, to feel the evidence of this moment lingering on your skin long after it’s over.

His hips don’t stop even as he comes, a sharp cry ripping its way from his throat as he keeps fucking you, pumping you full of him like he can’t stop. 

When you feel him start to lose control like that, feel the frantic twitch of his cock inside you, you finally let go, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave. The force of it rips a scream from your throat as you clench around him, your body spasming with the intensity of it.

Your abused cunt gushes around his cock to seep into the mattress, soaking both the sheets and his lower body all at once as you let out a weak mutter of his name.

For a moment, the only sound in the room is the ragged, uneven breathing between you as you both come down from the high. Logan collapses on the bed, arms circling your waist to drag you along with him. His cock stays inside of you, plugging you full of his come.

Your body trembles with the aftershocks of your orgasm, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. 

Logan is warm and grounding under you, soft and lax. You can feel his heartbeat, strong and steady beneath your cheek, and you press a soft kiss to the skin there, a silent reminder.

His hand comes up to thread through your hair, his touch gentle now, his body relaxed in a way that it wasn’t before.

“I love you,” he whispers against the crown of your head, his voice soft, vulnerable in a way that makes your heartache.

You smile, soft and secretive in the valley of his pecs, “I love you too.”

It’s a quiet admission, the first time you’ve ever said that to each other with words. The first time you both felt the need to, because it’s nothing you didn’t already know.

Your blood dripping from his teeth lays the same claim over you as his come dripping down your thighs.

It means you're his, and he’s yours.

tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!

[yandere-romanticaa]

𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬.

🎀 in the late night of june, you sit beneath a mystic moon. well, rather, you're in a bar, all by your lonesome, pondering on what to order. in your daze, you didn't even see the strange man watching you.

yandere oc! x fem! reader

Despite being late June, the weather could not seem to make up its mind on how it was going to go. For the past few days, the sky kept going back and forth between being a beautiful blue to then suddenly changing to a gloomy grey, the air growing heavy with the threat of a downpour on any unsuspecting pedestrian.

You suppose you were no better than the weather, you figured. Toying with the the menu between your fingers, you noticed how it was filled to the brim with various drinks ranging from alcoholic to non alcoholic, hot or cold drinks, all of which was printed out on a pristine piece of jet black paper.

What to drink , what to drink?

The stress of exams was too much to bear, perhaps you could blame that for being so damn indecisive.

You let out a shiver as you noticed the waitresses cranking up the air conditioning to an insane degree. What was she trying to do, freeze you to death?! How inconsiderate...!

With a huff, you focused your attention back on the menu and came to the rational realization that perhaps it was for the best to get a simple fruit juice. But which kind? The offer was diverse and each flavor would surely satisfy your aching throat.

Just as you were getting ready to call out the waitresses, she seemingly beat you to the punch as she scurried towards you, a mysterious drink in her hand. The crystal glass shimmered softly against the dimly lit bar as the woman placed the drink in front of you, along with a scrunched up piece of paper. It couldn't be a bill as you had not ordered anything yet...

Seeing the confusion swirling in your eyes, the waitresses gave you a wink, beating you once again in terms of speed.

"See that guy in the corner over there?" she asked you, her tone laced with a sort of excitement. You nod, albeit slightly dumbly.

"It's from him!" she chirps happily.

Odd. You could have sworn that seat was not occupied just a few moments ago.

Taking the piece of paper in your hands, you unfold it to reveal neat handwriting, each letter and syllable written gently with a basic blue ink pen. It was a string of numbers, most likely his own phone number. Raising your head towards his direction, you noticed him eyeing you up and down, a boyish grin on his face.

He seemed normal enough, you reckoned. He seemed to be around his mid 20's, average height. He wore basic blue jeans and a cozy looking black t-shirt, which had no print on it. There were little to no accessories on his person other than a string which was hanging around his neck, most likely a necklace but was hidden from your view. Another thing worth taking note of was his phone case, which had a print of the Ghostface mask from the Scream franchise.

Ah, so he was a horror fan. How neat.

Feeling a little bold, you grabbed both your drink and the note and made your way towards him, never once breaking eye contact with the mystery man. Without a word, you shimmied across from him as you placed everything on the wooden table. A strange silence hovered in the air as neither one of you spoke for those few moments, but the man was clearly amused. Something was going on inside his head and he made no attempt to hide it, his light brown eyes basically dancing with pure glee. As if to ease the tension, he lightly smacked his lips and spoke:

"So. How are you on this fine evening?"

His tone was casual, as if he had known you for years, like he was chatting with an old pal back from the good ol' days. His entire demeanor was calm, dare you say friendly even. He raised his glass to his lips, the amber liquid in it swishing away as he took a sip, his gaze still not leaving yours.

"What's wrong? Cat got your tongue?"

You couldn't help but to giggle a little.

"Ah, she speaks! Such delight!"

His tone was sweet like candy, lulling you in to feel safe. It was embarrassing how there was a part of you that actually seemed to be enjoying this encounter, but how could you not?

Life was so stale sometimes, so dull. The most exciting thing that would happen were the occasional outings with friends, all of which you loved dearly but... You craved more. It was unsure what you craved exactly, what you needed to get your heart beating and pulsing, but regardless you needed some excitement.

It was good to change the pace every once in a while.

The evening went on and you came to learn that the name of the mystery man was Will, an engineer student who transferred recently. He liked horror movies, mystery novels, cars and good beer. It was easy to chat and you shared many things with Will, even going as far to express the desire to see him again.

The sentiment was very much mutual.

As closing time was due, you exited the establishment with Will, his hand playfully linked with yours as he talked your ear off all of the fake guts in horror movies. He was so fascinated with the way films handled the production of those fake body parts, gooey blood and potential inducing nightmare fuel.

You made your way down the street together, the darkness of the night sky being slightly broken by the old street lights.

"Y'know..." he trailed off. He was still smiling.

"I always wondered what it would be like to actually kill a person."

It took a few seconds for you to realize just what he exactly said. Stopping dead in your tracks you turned towards Will, a flabbergasted look on your face. You felt the hair at the back of your hair stand up as the wind picked up, the leaves around you going in every direction, a warning of what was potentially to come.

Suddenly, the sound of loud and absurd laughter came bursting out of him, you soon following suit. It was borderline manic as he held your hand in his own, but being so lost in the sweet comfort of earlier you chose to not think about his worrying statement. Most horror enthusiasts were a little quirky anyway, Will was probably like that too.

And just like that, you parted ways for the evening, both parties promising to get in touch as soon as possible.

The walk home was swift as each step made you feel like a silly schoolgirl who just had her first kiss.

It was just so refreshing, like gentle rainy dew on a hot day.

Making your way back home, you fumbled with the keys inside your bag and opened the door with lightning speed. Kicking off your shoes and tossing the purse on the bed, you grabbed your phone and the piece of paper, pondering on the thought of whether you should just save his number or not. You were clearly going to be seeing him for a while, so -

Ding!

The text message was so sudden that you almost threw your phone on the ground. One mini heart attack later, you saw that the string of numbers were the same ones from before, so you quickly opened the message.

"What's your favorite scary movie ;))"

You snorted. He was so cheesy but damn it all if it wasn't cute.

"I like Scream a lot, if that makes you happy :D"

It took him a few minutes to respond.

"Good choice. But, personally, I'd really like to make my own scary movie with you... I could make you the main star."

Oh... Well. You're not sure how to respond to that. You stop and think, only for the sudden feeling of unease to come back. You remain still and try to brainstorm a response, but Will is faster.

"What wrong baby? Did I scare you? :)"

Ah. He's really committing to the part, isn't he? The best thing to do would be to just call him out.

"Haha, very funny Will! And no, you did not scare me, I'm just a slow texter!!!!"

Perhaps it was time to call it a night. It's been a rough week and you were not in the mood for these games. Halfway as you were turning away, your phone suddenly rang. You sharply turned your head back, wondering why Will was calling you so late. Perhaps he didn't get social cues? Your discomfort should have been obvious from the get go, but you still decide to pick up. Parting your lips, you started to talk but a male voice interrupted you instead.

"This isn't Will baby. But I'll be more than happy to make you my Sidney Prescott."

All the air was knocked out of your lungs as your eyes bulged so hard out of your head, threatening to pop like cheap balloons.

He was right. That was not Will's voice. The mystery caller cackled, his voice ringing loudly in your ear, the sound almost too painful for your mind.

"Didn't think you'd actually pick up." he continued. "I kept an eye on you all night, and you didn't even see me! Now that baby, is skill! "

He sounded so proud, like a child who just got a high mark on a test, as if he didn't even see just how wrong this whole situation really was. Mustering up the courage, you spoke up:

"Where's Will?"

Silence. The other line was dead silent but the caller didn't end the line.

You really did not like where this was heading.

"And why would you care where he is?" inquired the man, his voice changing from menacing to serious. Your silence spurred him on, making him more mad.

"You're my girl, even if you don't know it yet. I won't have you sweet talkin' with other men."

You let out a shocked scoff and quickly hung up. You smacked the phone against the table as an audible smack! echoed across the room. Crossing your arms close to your chest, you sprawled across the cozy bed with worry on your mind as the heart in your chest beat like crazy, pumping and pumping sheer adrenaline.

Despite all that, you somehow managed to fall asleep.

You didn't even get to see the last text the creepy caller had sent.

"I'll make you my girl, even if it's the last thing I ever do."

That was not a threat. But rather, a promise.

[prettyfilmz]

CHAIN REACTION • JEY USO

author's note: i'm baaaaaack!!! I am officially done with finals which means the creative juices are flowing through the roof currently. all I gotta say about this fic right here is...yes I was indeed the one who gave jey's fine ass that 'yeet' chain he wore on that one episode of RAW and yes he does smell good as hell😫

synopsis: in which nyx had no idea how much her life would change with one gift to her favorite wrestler.

tags: 18+ (MDNI), jey uso x black fem oc, fluff, overstimulation, hotel sex, foreplay, spanking, oral ( fem receiving. ), size difference, daddy kink, sub / dom, drinking, unprotected sex, squirting, anal play (thumb in butt), pet names ( baby girl, honey, mama ), rough sex, praise kink.

word count: 3k words..yeah this is a big one y'all

nyx sat on the edge of her bed, scrolling through instagram on her phone.  her thumb hovered over a post from wwe’s official account, featuring jey uso cutting a promo backstage at tonight’s show. but what caught her attention wasn’t just how fine he looks—it was the sparkling, silver "YEET" chain resting against his inked chest, gleaming under the fluorescent lights of the promo setup.

her chain.

the one she’d nervously gifted to him at Fanatics Fest weeks ago, after waiting in line with a pounding heart and a stomach full of butterflies. he had grinned from ear to ear when she handed it to him, thanking her with so much warmth that her knees nearly buckled. now, seeing it on him as he spoke into the camera, shouting her out by calling her his “homegirl” paired with a sleek black Nike tracksuit that clung to his broad chest, had her swooning.

her phone pinged in her hand, snapping her out of her thoughts. as if she wasn’t already on cloud nine, it was a message request from none other than jey. her breath hitched as she opened it.

@uceyjucey: yo, mama, I had to find you after you blessed me with this chain. lookin’ fresh, huh? *sends attachment*

attached was a photo of him in the chain, smirking at the camera, lips slightly parted in a way that made nyx’s thighs clench together.

she blinked, rereading the message several times, before typing back with trembling fingers.

@nyx.xoxo: you’re welcome 🥹 It looks amazing on you, just like I thought it would.

he replied almost immediately, the three typing dots appearing before she could even close the app.

@uceyjucey: that’s ‘cause you got good taste, ma. you from the big apple?

@nyx.xoxo: born and raised!

@uceyjucey: that’s wassup. we in your city tonight. lemme thank you properly.

her heart raced as she read his words, the casual yet suggestive tone making her head spin. was he flirting with her?  she couldn’t tell, but before she could overthink it, he sent another message.

@uceyjucey: pull up to the hilton on 34th. i’ll pour us somethin’ bubbly.

♡

the click of nyx’s heels echoed down the quiet hallway of the hilton as she approached jey’s door. her reflection caught in a mirror on the wall, and she quickly adjusted her dress, a form-fitting black number that hugged her curves in all the right places. her curls were styled to perfection, framing her beautiful face. she clutched her purse tightly, nerves bubbling under her skin.

when she knocked, the door opened a few moments later. jey stood there, leaning against the frame like a damn vision. the tracksuit was gone, replaced by a white tank that stretched across his chest  revealing the tribal ink that decorated his arms and chest, and a pair of gray sweatpants that sat low on his hips. his chain still hung proudly around his neck, and he wore a boyish grin that made her stomach flip.

“damn,” he said, his voice low and teasing as he let his eyes wander over her.  “you clean up nice, baby girl.” he mused.

nyx could feel her cheeks heating up as she stepped inside. his suite was spacious but cozy, which put her nerves at ease.

she moved towards him, every step feeling heavier as his presence filled the room.  when she was close enough, his hands found her waist, pulling her in gently but firmly. he smelled so damn good—a mix of sandalwood with a hint of amber.

“you nervous?” he asked, his lips curving into that devastating grin that made her stomach flip.

nyx bit her lip, nodding slightly.  “a little.”

jey chuckled, the sound rumbling deep in his chest.  “ain’t no need for that, mama.  I got you.”

his hands slid down to her hips, his thumbs brushing the curve of her ass as he pulled her closer.  “you want some champagne first? or we gon’ skip straight to what we both know we here for?”

the heat in his eyes made her thighs clench, but she managed to smirk.  “you offering me a drink to calm my nerves or to get me tipsy?”

jey tilted his head, his grin widening.  “maybe a lil’ of both.”

he guided her toward the small table by the window, where a bottle of champagne rested in a bucket of ice, two flutes sitting beside it.  nyx perched on the edge of the chair as jey popped the bottle with practiced ease, pouring the golden liquid with a smooth confidence that had her transfixed.

he handed her a glass, their fingers brushing as she took it.  “to you,” he said, raising his glass.  “for that fire ass chain—and for comin’ all this way to see me.”

nyx’s cheeks warmed as they clinked glasses, the bubbles tickling her nose as she sipped.  the champagne was crisp, and after a few sips, a soft warmth began spreading through her body, taking the edge off her nerves.

jey leaned back against the table, his eyes never leaving her.  “you know I been thinkin’ about you since that convention, right?”

she looked up at him, surprised.  “really?”

“hell yeah,” he said, setting his glass down and crossing his arms, the motion making his biceps strain against the fabric of his tee.  “ain’t every day somebody does somethin’ like that for me.  and then to see how fine you looked in person?  shit.  you had me hooked.”

nyx bit her lip, her heart racing.  “I didn’t think you’d even remember me honestly.”

jey laughed, stepping closer until he was towering over her.  “how could I forget you, mama?” He tilted her chin up with a finger, his gaze locking with hers.  “you been on my mind nonstop.”

the air between them thickened, the champagne coursing through her veins making everything feel a little lighter, a little hazier.  jey leaned down, his lips brushing hers in a kiss that was soft but deliberate, testing the waters.  when she kissed him back, he deepened it, his tongue sliding against hers in a slow, deliberate rhythm that made her toes curl.

“I knew you would taste sweet,” he murmured against her lips, his hands sliding down to grip her thighs, pulling her up out of the chair and against him.

nyx gasped as her body pressed flush to his, the hardness of his arousal pressing into her stomach.  jey grinned, nipping at her bottom lip.  “you feel it, don’t you?”

she nodded, her breath coming in shallow gasps as his hands roamed her curves, sliding up her back to unzip her dress.  The fabric pooled at her feet, leaving her in just her lace bra and panties.

“damn, baby girl,” he murmured, his voice husky as he pressed a kiss to her jaw, trailing it slowly down her neck.  “you’re somethin’ else.  you know that?”

nyx bit her lip, her heart fluttering at the way he looked at her—like she was the only thing in the world worth his attention.  “you’re just saying that,” she said softly, though the warmth in her chest betrayed her.

jey pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, his expression softening as his thumb brushed across her cheek.  “nah,” he said, his tone firm.  “ain’t nothin’ about this fake, honey.  you’re gorgeous.  all of you.”

her cheeks burned under his gaze, but before she could respond, jey dipped his head again, his lips brushing hers in a kiss so tender it made her ache.  he laid her down on the plush bed, his hands slipped beneath her lace bra, palming her full breasts with a reverence that sent heat pooling between her thighs. when his thumbs brushed her sensitive nipples, she gasped, arching into his touch.

“sensitive, huh?” he teased, his grin widening as he undid her bra, tossing it aside. his lips found her breasts next, kissing and nipping his way across her soft brown skin before taking a nipple into his mouth.  the wet warmth of his tongue combined with the gentle scrape of his teeth had her squirming beneath him, her fingers tangling in his hair.

“jey,” she breathed, her voice barely more than a whimper.

he hummed in response, his free hand trailing down her stomach, over the curve of her hips, before slipping beneath the waistband of her panties. when his fingers found her, he groaned low in his throat, his eyes darkening as he felt how wet she was for him.

“shit, ma,” he muttered, his voice thick with desire.  “you’re so fuckin’ wet.”

nyx’s face burned at his words, but the embarrassment quickly melted into pleasure as he began to stroke her, his fingers sliding through her slick folds with practiced ease. his thumb brushed her clit in slow, deliberate circles, and she moaned, her hips bucking against his hand.

“that’s it, baby girl,” he murmured, his lips brushing against her ear as he worked her. “lemme hear you. don’t hold back on me.”

she didn’t. the sounds spilling from her lips were shameless, each one spurring jey on as he explored her body with the kind of focus that left her trembling. when he slipped a finger inside her, curling it just right, she cried out, her nails digging into his shoulders.

“fuck, jey,” she gasped, her chest heaving as he added a second finger, stretching her in a way that made her toes curl.

“you’re so tight,” he murmured, his voice filled with awe.  “you’re gonna feel so good wrapped around me, baby.  can’t fuckin’ wait.”

the promise in his words sent her over the edge. her body tensed, her thighs trembling as her orgasm crashed over her, a broken moan tearing from her throat as she spewed a few broken curse words. jey didn’t stop, his fingers coaxing her through the aftershocks until she was panting, her body limp in his hold.

“good girl,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to her temple.  “you’re so fuckin’ perfect.”

before she could catch her breath, jey slid down her body, kissing his way across her stomach until he was settled between her thighs. he hooked his arms around her legs, holding her open as he stared down at her with a hunger that made her shiver.

“jey…” she started, her voice shaky.

he looked up at her, his grin both wicked and reassuring.  “relax, baby.  daddy just wants a taste.”

and then his mouth was on her.

nyx’s head fell back against the pillows, her hands fisting in the sheets as jey worked her pussy with his tongue.  he was slow and deliberate, his lips and tongue exploring every inch of her, teasing her clit with featherlight flicks before sucking it gently into his mouth.

“oh my god,” she moaned, her thighs shaking as he pushed her closer to the edge once again.

jey groaned against her, the vibration sending a fresh wave of pleasure through her.  “you taste so fuckin’ good, baby,” he muttered, his voice muffled.  “could eat this pussy all night.”

his fingers joined his mouth, sliding back inside her as he continued to devour her, and it wasn’t long before she was crying out his name again, her body trembling as another orgasm ripped through her.

“j-jey, I c-can’t—” she started tapping his shoulder, her voice breaking as he kept going, his mouth and fingers relentless.

“yes, you can,” he murmured, his voice firm but soothing.  “one more, baby girl.  give me one more.”

she didn’t think she had it in her, but jey didn’t give her a choice. his thumb brushed her clit as he pressed his tongue against her tight hole, the combination sent her over the edge once more, her body shaking as she gushed into his mouth.

when she finally opened her eyes, jey was hovering over her again, his lips glistening as he grinned down at her.

“you okay, pretty girl?” he asked, his voice soft.

nyx nodded, her chest still heaving as she reached up to pull him down for a kiss.  “I’m okay,” she murmured against his lips.

jey chuckled, his hands trailing down her sides.  “good. ‘cause I ain’t done yet.”

nyx’s shaking thighs clenched at his words, her breath catching as jey’s large, rough hands gripped her thighs, spreading her open again beneath him. 

jey leaned back just enough to peel off his shirt, tossing it carelessly onto the floor. her eyes roamed his torso, taking in every curve of muscle and tribal art that painted his skin. he looked down at her with a lazy, almost predatory grin, his confidence radiating from every inch of him.

“see somethin’ you like, baby girl?” he teased, his hands sliding down to hook his thumbs into the waistband of his sweats.

nyx nodded, her voice temporarily failing her.  the sight of him, combined with the lingering sensitivity of her body, left her feeling shy but burning with anticipation.

jey stepped out of his sweats, his dick hard and heavy slapping lightly against his stomach, the sheer size of him making her stomach flip. he stroked himself slowly, his eyes never leaving hers as he settled back onto the bed between her thighs.

“don’t look so scared, mama,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing.  “you handled me just fine earlier. you can do it again.”

nyx bit her lip, a nervous laugh escaping her.  “you’re so sure of yourself,” she muttered, though the warmth in her tone betrayed her.

“and you love it,” Jey shot back, leaning down to kiss her again. his hand trailed up her thigh. “now relax for me.  I’m gonna take my time with you.”

he lined himself up, the thick head of his length brushing against her entrance. nyx gasped, eyes rolling to the back of her head,  her hands gripping his forearms as he pushed into her slowly, stretching her inch by inch.

“shit, baby,” he groaned, his jaw clenching as he sank deeper.  “you feel so fuckin’ good. your pussy is so damn tight.”

nyx whimpered beneath him, her body trembling as he filled her completely.  the stretch was intense, but the way he kissed her, his lips soft and reassuring against hers, made it easier to take.

“you good?” he asked, his voice gentle as he stilled, giving her time to adjust.

she nodded, her nails digging into his shoulders.  “yeah,” she whispered.  “feels so good…”

his grin returned, his confidence flaring as he pulled back slightly before sinking into her again, his movements slow and deliberate.  “that’s my girl,” he murmured.  “take me in baby.”

he started to move, his thrusts deep and steady, each one sending sparks of pleasure shooting through her. nyx’s head fell back against the pillows, her moans filling the room as jey set a rhythm that had her toes curling.

“fuck, you’re perfect,” he muttered, his hands gripping her hips as he began to pick up the pace.  “this pussy was made for me, baby.  you hear me?”

“yes, daddy” nyx gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair as he buried his face in her neck, sucking and biting at her skin. the mix of pain and pleasure made her head spin, her body arching into him as he fucked into her deeper, pressing against all the spots that made her see stars. 

“you’re mine tonight, mama,” he growled, his voice thick with possession.  “ain’t nobody else gonna make you feel like this.”

he shifted her legs, hooking one over his shoulder to get even deeper, and the new angle had nyx crying out, her nails raking down his back.

“that’s it, baby girl,” jey groaned, his hand sliding up her body to wrap around her throat. he applied just enough pressure to make her head spin, his thumb brushing her jaw as his eyes locked onto hers.  “you look so fuckin’ pretty like this.”

nyx whimpered, her body trembling beneath him as she teetered on the edge of another orgasm.  “jey, daddy I’m gonna—”

“do it,” he urged, his voice low and commanding.  “cum for me, baby.  show daddy how good I make you feel.”

his words pushed her over the edge, her body clenching around him as she gushed around him once again, leaving her trembling and breathless.

but jey wasn’t done. he grabbed her hips, flipping her onto her stomach before pulling her onto all fours.  “we’re not done yet, baby girl,” he said, his voice dripping with hunger as he lined himself up again.

the first thrust had her crying out, her body still sensitive from her climax. jey groaned, his hands gripping her waist as he fucked her harder now, the sound of skin on skin filling the room.

“look at you,” he muttered, his hand coming down on her ass with a sharp smack that made her gasp.  “takin’ me so good, baby girl.”

nyx buried her face in the pillows, her moans muffled as jey drove her closer to the edge once again. his thumb slid down, teasing her puckered hole, and when he pressed it in just slightly, the sensation alone made her cum once again.

“shit, baby,” Jey groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic as he chased his own release.  “that’s it, that’s my good girl, give me that shit.”

when he finally came, it was with a low, guttural groan, his hips stuttering as he spilled his load into her.  he stayed there for a moment, both of them catching their breath before he pulled out carefully, rolling onto his back and pulling her into his arms.

nyx plopped her head on his chest, her body still trembling as she listened to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.  jey kissed the top of her head, his fingers tracing lazy circles on her back.

“you good, baby girl?” he asked softly.

she nodded, a small smile playing on her lips.  “yeah. that was fun.”

“good,” he said, his voice filled with warmth.  “’cause you’re stayin’ right here with me tonight.”

and with that, nyx let herself relax completely. boy does she have a story to tell her friends soon. 

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[msbigredmachine]

The Boy Next Door: Chapter Six

MASTERLIST ✨ harmshake’s masterlist ✨ msbigredmachine’s masterlist

Word Count: 9k

TRIGGER WARNINGS: 18+, NSFW, language, angst, violence, smut

Ivy hadn’t realized how much space Roman took up in her life until she pulled away. A week of zero contact felt like forever, especially after they’d been practically inseparable before. Where his texts and calls once lit up her phone all day and made her smile, the same texts and calls…well, voicemails…were now grating, each one pleading and importunate and doing nothing to quell her current stance. She wasn’t sure if the distance was for his sake or hers, but after what she’d witnessed that day, it was absolutely necessary.

Every time she thought about Roman yelling at Zaia, the venom laced in his voice, it sent a chill up her spine. Sure, he had apologized—and was damn near begging since then—but the memory lingered like a bad taste. She couldn’t get past the fear she’d seen in her daughter’s eyes.

Zaia, funny enough, seemed to have already moved on. It helped that Roman was pretty much bombarding her with presents, the latest being a Little Mermaid (Halle) coloring set and a handwritten note that Ivy found in Zaia’s new Hello Kitty backpack:

“For the best little DJ I know.” Zaia had beamed when she read it, proudly showing Ivy the small charm bracelet he’d tucked into the package as part of his peace offering.

But Ivy wasn’t a six-year-old. Roman’s charm, his gifts, his apologies—they didn’t erase the cracks forming in her trust. She couldn’t shake the memory of his sharp tone, his anger. And, as much as she hated to admit it, there was something else. Something deeper, a gnawing unease she couldn’t quite name.

Saturday Afternoon

She was folding laundry in the living room when the doorbell rang. Duchess barked sharply, scampering to the door as Ivy set down Zaia’s unicorn-printed pajamas and sighed. She knew exactly who it was. Roman had texted her earlier, saying he wanted to stop by.

When she opened the door, there he stood, impossibly handsome in a fitted black T-shirt that clung to his broad chest and sweats that hung just right on his hips. His tribal tattoos spread from beneath his right sleeve, a tantalizing display of inked skin. In one hand, he held a large gift bag, and in the other, a bouquet of deep red roses.

“Hey, baby,” he said, his voice a smooth rumble as he flashed a tentative, almost nervous grin. “I come bearing gifts.”

Ivy crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. “More, huh? You trying to bribe me?”

Roman chuckled. “Is it working?”

Rolling her eyes, she stepped aside for him. “Not yet.”

He grinned, closing the door behind him before following Ivy into the foyer. Duchess sniffed at his boots, her tail wagging, while Roman set the bag and flowers on the counter. “This is for Zaia,” he said, pulling a small stuffed dolphin from the bag. “She mentioned how much she loved that sea animals documentary the other day. Thought she’d like this.”

Ivy softened slightly, her arms uncrossing. “At this point, you’re spoiling her,” she said.

Roman shrugged sheepishly. “Well, I do owe her. And these,” he held up the roses, “are for you. Not cuz I messed up—though I know I did—but because…I miss you. I miss us.”

His words hit a nerve. Ivy wanted to stay mad, to keep him at arm’s length, but the longing in his dark eyes tugged at her heart. She took the roses from him, inhaling their sweet scent.

“You ain't making this easy, you know,” she said quietly, setting the flowers in a vase.

“I don’t want it to be easy. I want it to be right.” Roman insisted, reaching into the gift bag before turning to her. “I got you one more thing…” He held a small box out to her, wrapped in elegant gold paper. 

Ivy frowned but accepted it, unwrapping it carefully. Her eyes widened at the Tiffany & Co. packaging. She glanced up at him, gauging his hopeful expression, and then opened the box. Inside was a delicate gold necklace with a small heart pendant. It sparkled in the light, simple yet stunning.

“Roman…” she started, her voice trailing off.

“I hate this distance between us,” he implored, stepping closer. “I miss you, Ivy. I miss your smile, your laugh, the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.” His voice dropped to a near whisper. “I miss your touch. Your hugs…your kisses.”

She swallowed hard, her emotions warring inside her. “Roman, I…I don’t know…”

“I understand why you’ve been staying away,” he said quickly. “I fucked up, baby, and I’ll spend as long as I need to, making it up to you. But I can’t stand being away from you like this. It’s killing me.”

He cleared his throat, his Adam’s apple shifting and his hand running over his mouth and gray beard. He then, reached for her hand, his touch warm and familiar. “Baby, I’m not perfect, but I’ll do whatever it takes to make this work. I swear to you. You and me—we’re amazing together. I need you, Ivy.”

Her resolve faltered. Damn him and his way with words. The sincerity in his tone, the way his thumb stroked her knuckles—it all chipped away at her defenses.

“I don’t know, Ro…” she started, but he didn’t let her finish.

“Come here,” he murmured, settling down in one of the foyer chairs and pulling her gently onto his lap. “Sit with me.”

“Roman,” she protested weakly, though she didn’t resist.

“Just for a minute,” he said, his arms circling around her slender waist as he looked up at her. “I've missed holding my baby. Let me hold you. Please.”

Ivy sighed, her body betraying her as she melted into him, growing even more traitorous as she absorbed the feel of his lips brushing her neck, then her jaw, and finally her mouth. The kiss was slow and consuming, pulling her under like a riptide. Her hands found the sides of his neck, gripping tightly as she kissed him back. His lips were soft yet insistent, his hands firm as they slid up her back to keep her close. She hated how good he felt, how easily he unraveled her. There was something about his kisses. They made her forget the world, made her forget him—the man who scared her, the man she doubted. In these moments, he was just Roman, the man who made her feel alive. 

At last, they broke apart, but only just. Roman's big hands caressed her face, holding her as if he was afraid she’d disappear. “Tell me, Ivy,” he whispered, “Tell me you’ve missed me too.”

Her resolve wavered as she looked into his eyes. Damn it, she had. Despite everything, despite her doubts, he drew her in like a moth to a flame. Every damn time he touched her, kissed her, all her defenses crumbled. It was dangerous, but fuck did it feel good.

“I missed you too,” she admitted breathlessly, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze.

His smile was slow, almost predatory. “I knew you did.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t pull away, kissing him one more time before resting her head on his shoulder. For a moment, it felt like old times, like they hadn’t spent the last week avoiding each other. But then the doubts crept back in, nagging at the edges of her mind.

As if sensing her hesitation, Roman kissed her forehead and shifted the mood. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, his tone lighter. “We need to get away. You, me, and Zaia. Somewhere warm and sunny. How about Hawaii?”

Ivy sat up straight, blinking, caught off guard. “Hawaii?”

“Yeah,” he said, his enthusiasm growing. “You’ve been working so hard at the hospital lately, and I see how much you do for Zaia. You deserve a break. Both of you.” He trailed off as he rubbed her hip, his touch firm and persuasive. “Plus, we can really focus on us. No distractions. Just paradise.”

Ivy smiled faintly, but something about the way he was speaking—so eager, almost insistent—made her uneasy. “That does sound amazing,” she admitted, glancing over at Duchess, who was now laying in her kennel. “But it’s not that simple. Zaia’s school just started back up, and I have shifts scheduled. Plus, traveling with a six-year-old isn’t exactly relaxing.”

Roman waved her concerns away, his expression unwavering. “All of that can be worked out. I’ll take care of the arrangements. You deserve this, Ivy.” His voice lowered, more intimate now. “You’ve given so much to everyone else—Zaia, your patients—you need to give yourself a little grace.”

Ivy hesitated, torn between the allure of his words and the knot of unease tightening in her chest. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to get away—God knew she could use the break—but Roman’s urgency felt…off. Too perfect, too rehearsed.

She settled with a forced smile. “Let me think about it, okay?”

Roman’s expression flickered for a brief moment, a shadow in his eyes. But before he could respond, Zaia came bounding down the stairs, her eyes lighting up when she saw the big man in the foyer.

“Roman!” she squealed, running over to hug him.

He grinned, lifting her onto his lap alongside Ivy. “Hey, little lady. Look what I brought you.”

As Zaia tore into the gift bag, Ivy watched Roman out of the corner of her eye. He was attentive, affectionate, the perfect picture of a doting boyfriend and even a possible stepfather.

But deep down, Ivy couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. Something about Roman wasn’t adding up anymore. And until she figured out what it was, she couldn’t let her guard down—not completely.

Sunday Afternoon

Her bedroom was dim, save for the slivers of sunlight that slipped through the blinds, casting long streaks across the walls. A faint hint of lavender clung to the air from the candle Ivy had lit earlier, now reduced to a hardened pool of wax on the nightstand. The room was warm, and would have been quiet had it not been for the bed rocking beneath the moving bodies, heavy breaths mixing in the silence. The rhythmic creak of the bed, their moans and gasps, filled the space, escalating until she collapsed on top of him, their bodies trembling from the intensity of it all. 

It had started innocently enough—a nice Sunday lunch on her day off, opting to extend an invitation to Roman to ensure he wasn’t alone…or so she told herself. There had been the familiar, easy chatter between her and Roman, Zaia’s laughter echoing as they set the table together, their bodies just inches away from each other, close but not too close as they sat side by side. But as time ticked by, the tension began to shift. By the time she tucked Zaia in for her afternoon nap, it was sizzling. Roman’s gaze had deepened, his touch lingered a little longer, and before she knew it, he was in her bed again. 

A blur of sensations—long fingers, warm skin, the heat of his body overwhelming hers. Roman had been tender but forceful, his touch demanding in a way that sent electric currents surging through her veins. The feeling of him inside her had been comforting, intoxicating, and sorely missed, and when she had begged him—moaned for him—it was as if she had lost control completely, her body responding to him in ways she couldn’t explain.

An hour later, her bare body pressed against his solid, warm frame. His muscled arm draped lazily over her, his fingers tracing absent patterns on her butt cheek. The steady beat of his heart was a reminder that, for now, they were both here, tangled in the aftermath of what had just happened.

“I’ve been thinking,” Roman said suddenly, his baritone voice breaking the stillness.

Ivy turned her head, her curls brushing against his chest. She raised an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at her lips. “Thinking? That sounds dangerous. About what?”

He huffed a soft laugh, his fingers pausing their motion before resuming. “About us. About you…and Zaia.” His tone softened, dipping into something vulnerable. “You two are the best thing that’s happened to me since I moved here.”

Her chest tightened at his words, the sincerity in them catching her off guard. She wasn’t sure what to say, so she stayed silent, her fingers sliding idly along his tattooed forearm, encouraging him to continue.

His dark eyes gleamed in the low light, his expression open yet serious. “You know I don’t have any kids of my own. Elesha and I never got to…” he trailed off, his voice dropping to a tender murmur. “Being around you and Zaia…it’s made me realize how much I want that again. Marriage. A family, a real one. With you.”

Ivy’s breath hitched, her lips parting slightly as her eyes searched his. “Ro…”

“I mean it,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. His fingers lingered on her cheek, his thumb stroking her skin. “Watching you with Zaia always warms my heart. You’re an amazing mom, baby. And I can’t stop thinking about how incredible it would be to give her a little brother or sister. To give us that.”

His words landed with the weight of a tidal wave, equal parts intoxicating and overwhelming. For a moment, Ivy could almost see the life he described: the happy, chaotic mornings, the sound of children’s laughter filling the house, Roman’s strong arms wrapping around her as they watched their family grow.

But then reality crashed back in. The nagging memory came rushing in again; of Roman’s voice raised in anger at Zaia, the way he’d lost control, even if just for a moment. He’d been trying to be much better since then, but Ivy couldn’t help wondering—what if it happened again? What if this perfect vision cracked under the pressure of another child?

Her gaze dropped, her stomach twisting. “Roman, that’s…that’s a lot to think about,” she said carefully, her tone hesitant. “I mean, I love what we have, but I don’t know if I’m ready for another child. Zaia’s still young, and—”

He cut her off gently, his fingers tilting her chin back toward him. “Hey,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a soothing whisper. “I’m not saying it has to happen tomorrow. I just…I want you to know how serious I am about us. About you.”

Her heart thudded painfully in her chest, torn between the warmth of his words and the unease curling at the edges of her mind. She was in love with him—she knew she was—but something inside her held back, a quiet voice whispering caution.

“I get it, baby. But let’s…let’s take things a little slower,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “Okay? We still have time.”

Roman’s smile faltered for the briefest moment, but he recovered quickly, leaning down to press a kiss to her lips. “Fair enough,” he said, though his tone carried an undercurrent she couldn’t quite place.

Ivy tried to lighten the mood, needing to shake the weight of the conversation. “So,” she said, running her fingers along his forearm, “have you thought about having a housewarming party?”

Roman tensed slightly, the flicker of apprehension in his eyes so quick she almost missed it. “A housewarming party?”

“Yeah,” she said casually, though her curiosity was piqued by his reaction. “You’ve met more people since Gemini’s party. It might be nice to invite them to yours. I remember how fun it was when mine happened. You’ve made some friends, right?”

He shrugged, his hand resuming its idle strokes on her hip. “I don’t know, Ivy. I’m not really comfortable with people coming over just yet.”

“For real?” she pressed, her tone light but probing. “I haven’t even met your work colleagues yet. Or seen your office, come to think of it.”

Roman stiffened, his jaw tightening. “Nah, not happening,” he said, his voice sharper than intended, but quickly added, “I mean, the office is a mess—renovations, chaos everywhere. Besides,” he said, his tone softening as he ran a hand down her back, “I like keeping my personal space… personal.”

The words landed heavily, and Ivy blinked, her hand freezing mid-stroke along his chest. Confusion flickered across her face before it hardened into something sharper. “Wow,” she said slowly, her voice laced with quiet frustration. She rolled off him, sat up and crossed her arms. “So, what? You don’t want me in your space? After everything I’ve shared with you?”

Roman hesitated, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. “It’s not that,” he said, his tone smooth but guarded. “It’s just…I like things a certain way. My space is where I clear my head. You get that, right?”

“No, Roman,” she said, her voice firm but tinged with hurt. “I don’t get it. It feels like you’re shutting me out.”

Roman’s jaw clenched, his fingers curling into the sheet beneath them. “It’s not about you, Ivy,” he said softly, though the tightness in his voice betrayed his frustration. “It’s just…I need to keep some things separate. Trust me, okay?”

Ivy let out a bitter laugh, pulling away from him slightly. “Trust you,” she repeated, her voice cold. “Funny how that’s getting harder to do.”

Roman sat up slightly, the tension in his broad shoulders undeniable. “Baby, wait,” he said, his voice softening. When she didn’t respond, he reached out, his hand brushing hers. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

Ivy rolled her eyes. “Right.”

He sighed, running a hand through his long, loose hair. “I’m just…tired. Work’s been a lot lately. Stress piling up. You know how it is, Miss Assistant Head Nurse.”

Ivy studied his face, searching for answers he clearly wasn’t willing to give. She’d learned that despite his openness, Roman was a man of walls—carefully constructed barriers that he rarely let her peek behind. The storage room in his basement came to mind, a fitting example of his tendency to shut things away. When she’d asked about it, he’d claimed it was just filled with his late wife’s belongings. The curt manner in which he’d also dismissed the topic had made it clear there was no room for discussion. It saddened her that he wasn’t opening up to her as much as she was to him.

Still, she knew when to back off. She wasn’t the type to push too hard—at least not with such a fresh wound, pun intended. Despite the faint unease curling in her chest, she let the subject drop. There were battles to be fought another day.

“I get it,” she said softly, her lips curving into a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Work can be crazy sometimes. Just…don’t let it get to you too much, okay? Stress has a way of eating people alive if you let it. It got both my parents. I don’t want the same to happen to you.” Her hand found its way to his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her palm grounding her. She watched as his eyes fluttered shut at her touch, his shoulders easing just slightly, the weight of her presence momentarily lightening his burden, it seemed. 

“I…I want you to know you can talk to me, Roman,” she whispered now, as though she feared scaring him off. “About anything. Alright?”

Roman’s eyes opened, but they weren’t clear—they were shadowed, distant, as if he were looking somewhere she couldn’t see. Something lurked behind them, an emotion she couldn’t quite name. For a long, silent moment, he just stared at her, his full lips pressing into a thin line.

Finally, he exhaled, his voice low and heavy. “I’ll try.”

The words felt like a fragile bridge, half-built but still offering the promise of something more. Ivy patted his chest gently, nodding, even though her heart ached with the knowledge that there were still so many walls he wasn’t ready to let down.

As she started to pull away, his arms tightened around her, the hold both firm and tender. His gaze softened, filled with a yearning that sent her pulse racing. Then, his lips met hers, and the kiss wasn’t just passionate—it was a silent apology, a plea for her forgiveness. She allowed it, savoring the moment for what felt like an eternity. By the time he pulled back, just slightly, she was breathless, her anger reduced to embers.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a great kisser?” he teased, his voice low, his eyes burning with intent. 

Ivy’s lips twitched despite herself, the teasing jab disarming her slightly. “Don’t try to charm your way out of this,” she warned, though her tone was less icy now.

“Charm’s all I’ve got,” he said with a smirk, leaning in to kiss her cheek. 

Ivy exhaled shakily, her eyes searching his, the tension between them dissolving in the heat of the moment. She sighed, rolling her eyes but not pulling away. “You make it hard to stay mad at your ass, you know that?”

Roman smirked, brushing his nose against hers. “That’s the idea.”

Ivy giggled. “You’re exhausting.”

“In bed? Hell yeah,” he murmured against her skin, his voice a low growl that sent a shiver down her spine.

Ivy shook her head, smiling faintly despite herself. “You’re lucky you can fuck, Reigns.”

Roman grinned evilly, tugging her back on top of him as he crushed his lips to hers, sealing the moment with a deep, hungry kiss that spoke volumes more than his words ever could.

Ivy paced her living room, her bare feet sinking into the plush carpet as her thoughts spiraled out of control. It had been two weeks since she’d last heard from Gemini. Two long, agonizing weeks of silence. Even when they fought, they never went this long without talking. But now? There was nothing—no calls, no texts, not even a passive-aggressive email. The memory of their last argument kept replaying in Ivy’s mind like a broken record: Gemini’s sharp words, the tension overwhelmingly thick, and their meeting after that, with Ivy storming out of Gemini’s office without looking back. It was petty, childish even, but neither of them had made a move to fix it. And it didn’t sit right with her. 

The pit in Ivy’s stomach grew heavier by the hour, the silence suffocating. She tried to distract herself—organizing Zaia’s schoolwork, tidying up her kitchen, even re-watching an old favorite movie. But nothing worked. The nagging thoughts wouldn’t let up.

So, she grabbed her keys. She couldn’t ignore the gnawing worry any longer. Sliding into her Kia Carnival, she drove through the quiet streets of their neighborhood, the familiar route to Gemini’s house offering little comfort. 

Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel as she pulled up to the Beaufort mansion. The porch light was off, and the curtains were drawn, giving the place a hollow, almost abandoned feel.

Ivy stepped onto the porch, her breath hitching as she reached for the potted fern by the door. She found the spare key exactly where Gemini had always kept it, hidden under the dark green leaves. Her hand trembled as she unlocked the door and stepped inside.

The house was eerily still, the kind of quiet that made the hairs on the back of Ivy’s neck stand up. The faint scent of lavender hung in the air, but there was something else, too—a faint metallic tang she couldn’t quite place.

“Gem?” Ivy called out, her voice breaking the silence. It sounded small, fragile, like she was afraid of what might answer.

There was no response.

Ivy moved cautiously through the house, her eyes scanning every detail. The living room was untouched, the pillows perfectly arranged on the couch. The kitchen was eerily spotless, the countertops gleaming as if freshly wiped down. A wave of unease rolled over her. Gemini was a lawyer, but even she was never this meticulous, not unless she was trying to make an impression.

Heart pounding, Ivy made her way upstairs, her footsteps muffled on the carpeted stairs. When she pushed open the door to Gemini’s bedroom, her breath caught. The unmade bed was the first thing that stood out, the sheets tangled in a way that was so unlike Gemini, who prided herself on a pristine home. A faint breeze fluttered the curtains, but the windows were shut, amplifying the strange stillness.

And then she saw it: a piece of paper on the nightstand, folded neatly, waiting.

Ivy froze, dread tightening in her chest. Her feet felt like lead as she crossed the room and reached for the note. It was typed, the words precise and cold. Her eyes darted to the signature at the bottom—it was Gemini’s, unmistakable. But as she read the letter, the words felt alien.

I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry to everyone I’ve hurt. I just want the pain to stop.

To my dear Ivy,

I’m sorry I pushed you away. I will miss you the most.

“What the fuck!” Ivy whispered. Her knees buckled, and she sank onto the edge of the bed, tears spilling down her cheeks. “No, no, no…”

The sobs came hard and fast, her chest heaving as she clutched the letter like it might disappear. She couldn’t bring herself to read all of it because it didn’t feel real. Gemini had always been the strong one, the vibrant one. She was the one who dragged Ivy out of her darkest moments, who never let her give up no matter how hard life got. And now? Now she was gone.

But something didn’t add up. The thought clawed its way through Ivy’s grief. If Gemini had written this note, where was she? The house was empty, devoid of any sign of her presence. There were no personal items packed, no indication of where she might have gone. It was as if she had simply vanished.

“Where are you, Gem?” Ivy whispered, staring at the bed as if it might hold the answers. Her mind raced with possibilities, each more terrifying than the last. Was Gemini even alive?

The weight of that question bore down on her, suffocating her as she sat in the silence of her best friend’s room, the unanswered questions echoing louder than any scream.

She hadn’t even realized she’d driven to Roman’s house until she was there, her heart pounding so loudly it drowned out the quiet sounds of the neighborhood. Ivy stood trembling on his doorstep, clutching Gemini’s note in one hand and Duchess in the other. The puppy whined softly, nuzzling against Ivy’s neck as though trying to absorb her pain. Thank goodness Zaia was at her friend's house and unable to see her mother's distraught state.

When Roman opened the door, his concerned expression immediately softened into something more tender at the sight of her tear-streaked face. But before he could speak, Ivy blurted, “I need your help. I need to find her!”

Roman’s brows furrowed, and he stepped closer. “Baby, what’s going on? Who are we looking for?”

“Gemini,” she stammered, her voice breaking as her body trembled. “She’s gone, Roman. I went to her place…She left this note but she’s not there and I don’t know where she is. I have to find her!”

Roman’s jaw tightened, his features hardening for a split second before he schooled his face into a mask of calm. He reached out, cupping her face with both hands. “Baby, slow down. You’re shaking. Come here.”

Ivy allowed herself to be pulled into his arms, Duchess squirming slightly between them. Roman’s embrace was warm and steady, but Ivy could feel the weight of his silence pressing down on her. She clung to him for a moment, trying to gather her spiraling thoughts, before pulling back to look up at him.

“She’s out there somewhere,” she said, her voice shaking. “She sounded so lost in the note, but this don’t feel right. Roman, I need you to help me find her. Please.”

Roman sighed, his hands sliding to her shoulders. “Baby, let’s not jump to conclusions. Maybe she just needed some space. People do that sometimes.”

“No!” Ivy insisted, shaking her head. “Not Gem. She wouldn’t leave like this, not without saying goodbye properly. And the note—it doesn’t make sense.” Her grip on Duchess tightened as tears welled in her eyes again. “I feel like something’s wrong, Roman. Please, we have to go look for her.”

Roman stared at her for a long moment, his dark eyes unreadable. He led her into the house and shut the door. “Baby girl,” he said softly, his voice calm but firm, “you’ve been through a lot. You’re exhausted, and I think that’s making this feel worse than it is. Let’s take a minute, sit down, and go over everything together.”

Ivy shook her head, stepping back from him. “We don’t have time to sit around, Roman! She could be in trouble. She could be—” Her voice cracked, and she pressed a trembling hand to her mouth.

Roman reached for her again, his large hands cradling her shoulders. “Baby, listen to me. I get that you’re worried, but running out into the night without a plan isn’t going to help. Let me take care of you first, okay? You need to breathe.”

“I don’t need to breathe!” Ivy snapped, her desperation boiling over. “I need to find my friend! Are you gonna help me or not?”

Roman’s jaw clenched, his grip on her tightening briefly before he let out a measured breath. “Of course I’ll help you, baby,” he said, his tone soft but deliberate. “I’d do anything for you. But we need to think this through. Let me make you some tea, and we’ll figure out the best way to look for her.”

Ivy hesitated, her tears streaking her face as she searched his expression for reassurance. “You promise?” she whispered, her voice small.

Roman leaned down, pressing a kiss to her lips. “I promise, baby girl. I’m here for you. Always.” He stepped back, his hand on her shoulder. “Come on,” he said gently, guiding her toward the kitchen. “You need to sit down. Let’s figure this out together.”

Ivy followed him numbly, her legs moving on autopilot as her thoughts churned. She clutched Duchess tightly, the dog’s soft whimpers a faint reminder of her reality. When they reached the kitchen, Roman pulled out a chair for her, the scrape of wood against tile sounding too loud in the stillness.

“Sit,” he urged, his voice steady but insistent.

She sank into the chair, her hands trembling as she smoothed Duchess’s fur. The note burned in her mind, its shaky words etched into her memory. It was so unlike Gemini—strong, vibrant Gemini—to write something so hopeless.

Roman leaned against the counter, his dark eyes studying her intently. His arms crossed over his chest, and the stark black of his tattoos seemed even more pronounced under the harsh kitchen light.

“What did the note say?” he asked, his tone calm but probing.

Ivy swallowed hard, her voice barely a whisper as she replied, “She said she couldn’t take it anymore. That she felt lost and alone. And…she said she was sorry for pushing me away.” Her throat tightened, and fresh tears spilled over.

Roman held out his hand. “Let me see it.”

She handed him the crumpled note, watching his face closely as he read it. His expression darkened subtly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his features before he looked up. “And you found this where?”

“On her nightstand,” Ivy said, her voice shaky. “But she’s not there, Roman. Her car’s gone, and she’s just… vanished. It doesn’t make sense. She wouldn’t do this. She wouldn’t leave me like this.”

Roman frowned, his jaw tightening for a brief moment before his face softened again. “Maybe she…didn’t want to do it at home,” he suggested cautiously. “She might’ve gone somewhere private.”

“No!” Ivy’s voice rose, her frustration spilling over. “That’s not her! She wouldn’t just leave a note like that and disappear. Something’s wrong, Roman. I can feel it.”

Roman sighed heavily and stood in front of her, his large hands resting on her thighs. His dark eyes met hers with an intensity that made her stomach twist.

“Ivy,” he said softly, his voice low and soothing. “You’ve been through so much lately—Angelo, Zaia, work—and now this. You’re overwhelmed, baby. Your mind is running in circles, and it’s making you see things that aren’t there. Let me take care of you tonight. You need to rest.”

Ivy blinked, her resolve faltering under his steady gaze. Was she overreacting? Was her grief clouding her judgment?

“But—” she began, only to have him interrupt.

“No ‘buts,’” Roman said firmly. His hands squeezed her thighs gently before he stepped back. “We’ll figure it out, but you need to trust me. I’ll take care of you, okay?”

The reassurance in his tone eased some of the tension in her chest, though unease still lingered at the edges. “Okay,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Roman’s lips curved into a faint smile. He leaned down, brushing a soft kiss against her forehead. “Good girl. I’ll make us some tea,” he said, turning toward the stove.

Ivy watched him move, her mind still racing despite his calming words. Something about the way he had responded—too measured, too controlled—didn’t sit right. She wanted to shake the thought away, and blame her exhaustion and grief. But she couldn’t.

Something was not right. No matter what Roman said, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to Gemini’s disappearance than the note suggested. And deep down, a tiny voice whispered a warning that she wasn’t ready to hear it.

Her gaze drifted aimlessly around the kitchen, desperate for a distraction from her spiraling thoughts. That’s when she saw it, tucked into a shadowy corner near the pantry: a vibrant tan-colored Prada tote bag. 

Her breath caught in her throat. 

It was Gemini’s—her favorite bag, the one she saved for special occasions and treated like it was made of gold. Ivy’s pulse quickened, her fingers freezing mid-stroke on Duchess’s fur. Why was it here? Gemini never let that bag out of her sight. Panic surged through Ivy’s chest, an icy flood that made her stomach churn.

Setting her puppy gently on the floor, Ivy’s feet moved almost on their own, carrying her to the bag. Her fingers hovered over it for a moment before grasping the worn leather strap. She turned it over in her hands, her heart sinking as her eyes landed on the unmistakable ‘G’ charm dangling from the zipper—Gemini’s signature touch. There was no doubt now. This was her best friend’s bag, here in Roman’s kitchen.

“What are you doing?” 

His deep voice startled her, sharp and sudden, cutting through the tense air. Ivy jumped, clutching the bag tighter as she spun to face him. His towering frame loomed in the doorway, his expression dark and unreadable. 

“This is Gemini’s bag. Why do you have it? Why is it here?” she demanded, her voice shaking. Her wide, tear-streaked eyes locked onto his, searching for an explanation, but the dark, unreadable look that flickered across his face sent a chill down her spine.

The mask of charm finally slipped. “Ivy…listen to me...”

But Ivy wasn’t listening. Her hands shook as she unzipped the bag and rifled through it, pulling out the contents one by one. There were several printouts of news articles of missing persons, Rhea and Bianca among them. One particular photo made her stomach drop into the void as she laid eyes on it.

Roman’s mugshot. 

“What the hell is this?” Ivy’s voice cracked as she held it up, the other documents in her other hand.

Roman took a step toward her. “Ivy, calm down.”

She ignored him, her hands trembling as she stared at one of the headlines:

Mateo Hobbs Wanted in Connection with Multiple Murders in Florida.

The image was unmistakable—Roman, though his hair was shorter, and his beard less full. Ivy’s stomach turned, the bile threatening climbing up her throat.

“What is this?” she demanded, her voice shaking. “Who the hell are you?”

Roman’s face darkened, his jaw tightening as though he were physically restraining himself from reacting. “Baby,” he said, his voice low and deliberate, “I can explain—”

“Explain?!” Ivy’s voice rang out, sharp and filled with betrayal. 

“Ivy—”

She threw the papers at him. “Tell me that’s not you! Tell me that’s not your face! You can’t, can you?”

Roman took a deliberate step toward her, his large frame cutting an imposing figure in the dim kitchen light. His large hands were raised in what he probably thought was a placating gesture, but to Ivy, it was nothing more than a threat. She backed away, her movements jerky and panicked. Duchess, standing protectively at her feet, growled low and steady, the sound vibrating through the tense air.

“Baby,” Roman said, his voice soft yet firm, as if he were speaking to a child on the verge of a tantrum. “Calm down. Let’s talk about this.”

“I let you into my house! You held my child!” she yelled, her chest heaving as her mind raced to comprehend the horrifying truth. Her voice cracked under the weight of her disbelief. “Oh my god…you and me, we…” Hot tears welled in her eyes, sick to her stomach.

“Ivy,” Roman repeated, more hostile now. “You don’t understand. Come here and let’s talk—”

“No!” Her scream was shrill, laced with fear and fury. Her hands fumbled blindly behind her as she searched for something—anything—to defend herself. Her fingers brushed against cold steel, and she wrapped them around the handle of a kitchen knife, holding it out in front of her with shaking hands.

“Stay away from me!” she yelled, the blade trembling as she brandished it. Duchess barked furiously now, the sound filling the space as she bared her teeth at Roman.

Roman’s expression flickered with anger, frustration, perhaps—but he didn’t stop. Instead, he took another step forward, his gaze fixed on Ivy.

“Put the knife down,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, commanding tone. “You don’t wanna do this, Ivy. Just listen to me.”

“Don’t come any closer or I’ll stab you!” she shrieked, her grip tightening on the knife even as her hands shook violently. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps, her heart pounding so loudly she could barely hear her own thoughts. “I mean it, I’ll-”

Roman lunged.

The world blurred into chaos as she swung the knife wildly, her instincts overtaking her terror. Their bodies collided, and the knife clattered to the floor with a metallic clang. Roman’s strength was overwhelming, his grip on her arms like iron as he wrestled her to the ground.

With a loud bark, Duchess launched herself at Roman, her teeth snapping dangerously close to his leg, but he kicked her away with brutal precision. The yelp that came from the dog sent a fresh wave of panic through Ivy’s chest.

“Duchess!” she screamed, her voice breaking as she thrashed against Roman’s hold.

“Stop fighting me!” he growled, his voice no longer calm or coaxing but sharp and commanding.

Ivy’s nails clawed at his arms, her legs kicking wildly as she tried to free herself, but Roman was too strong. He grabbed her wrists, pinning them above her head as her screams echoed through the kitchen.

“Let me go!” she cried, tears streaming down her face as she bucked beneath him, her energy rapidly depleting.

Roman’s face was inches from hers now, his breath hot against her skin. His eyes were dark, swirling with a mix of frustration and something far more dangerous.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Ivy!” he said through gritted teeth, but the menace in his tone betrayed the words.

Ivy let out one last desperate scream, thrashing with so much force that her head struck the floor hard. Pain blossomed at the back of her skull, sharp and blinding, her vision tunneling before the world around her faded to black.

Roman sat back on his knees, breathing heavily as he stared down at her limp form. His jaw twitched, and he ran a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath.

“This isn’t how it was supposed to go,” he said, his words low and tinged with frustration. He stood, lifting Ivy’s unconscious body effortlessly into his arms. Duchess growled weakly from where she lay near the corner, her movements sluggish. Roman didn’t spare the dog another glance as he carried Ivy toward the basement door, disappearing into the shadows below.

When Ivy woke, her head throbbed viciously and her vision swam with disjointed shapes. The cold concrete floor beneath her sent a chill through her body, seeping into her bones. She blinked, trying to piece together where she was and how she’d gotten there. The dim, artificial light cast long, eerie shadows across the space, and the faint, sharp scent of bleach stung her nose. But there was something else—something foul, sour, and unmistakably metallic.

Blood.

Her stomach lurched as she inhaled sharply, the nauseating scent overwhelming her senses. Ivy’s pulse raced as fragments of her memory returned. 

Roman. 

His shift in tone. The confrontation. And then… darkness.

Her heart pounded harder as she pushed herself onto shaky feet, her legs wobbling beneath her. She instinctively reached for the back of her head, feeling the tender knot where she must’ve been struck.

“This can’t be happening,” she whispered to herself, her voice trembling and barely audible over the oppressive silence.

The room came into focus slowly—a basement, cold and sterile, with pristine white walls that somehow felt wrong in this suffocating space. A basement that didn’t belong to her.

Roman’s.

The realization hit her like a jolt of electricity, and her breath hitched. She spun toward the only door, but it was locked. Of course, it was locked. She pressed her ear to it and froze as she heard faint, deliberate footsteps above her. He was there.

Ivy backed away from the door, her movements frantic. Her chest heaved as panic clawed at her throat. She scanned the room for any means of escape. But nothing. The basement was immaculate, eerily so, with nothing out of place except for a large barrel in the corner. No ropes. No gags. No tools. Nothing that looked like it belonged to his wife, as he’d claimed. Just her, the empty space, and the deafening sound of her own breathing.

And then she saw it.

A trapdoor, set inconspicuously into the concrete floor.

Her stomach twisted, a war raging inside her between dread and desperate hope. Could it be a way out? Or was it something worse—something she didn’t want to face?

Ivy hesitated, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure Roman could hear it from upstairs. She had to move. Had to act. The door wasn’t an option, and she couldn’t stay here waiting for him to come back.

Swallowing her fear, she crept toward the trapdoor, her breath shallow and ragged. Her hands trembled as she gripped the edge of the wood, the rough surface digging into her palms. She hesitated, every instinct in her body screaming at her to stop, to leave it closed. But her desperation overpowered her fear.

The wood creaked as she lifted it.

The smell hit her first, a nauseating wave of decay so strong it made her gag. She stumbled back, one hand covering her mouth and nose as her eyes watered. The pit below was dark, but her gaze caught something—a shape, pale and unmoving.

And then the shape became clear. Familiar.

Gemini.

A scream tore through Ivy’s throat, raw and guttural, reverberating in the empty space around her. “No! No, no, no, no, no, no!” she cried, her voice breaking, each word more desperate than the last. Tears slipped from her eyes as they locked on her best friend’s lifeless face, barely recognizable beneath the bruises and caved-in features. A long, open gash sliced through her throat, like a knife had been taken to it. 

Her stomach lurched, bile rising in her throat as she tried to process the horrific sight. Her breathing was ragged, each inhale feeling sharper, heavier, as though the very act of drawing breath into her lungs was a betrayal of what she was seeing. That somehow her mind was playing tricks on her. But the light above the trapdoor cast cruel shadows on Gemini’s body, highlighting the sheer violence of what had been done to her.

What Roman had done.

“Gemini!” Ivy’s body convulsed as she collapsed beside the pit, clutching at the edge and reaching in as though this act could somehow pull her best friend back into the world of the living. Her shaking hands closed around the cold, stiff fingers that no longer curled into playful fists or reached out for hugs. Ivy’s entire frame shook with the force of her loud, hysterical cries as she clutched at Gemini’s hand, willing it to warm, to move, to hold hers back. 

“Oh my god…Gem…” Her voice cracked, her words barely audible over the torrent of anguish pouring from her. “Oh god, Gemini, no, no, please, please wake up—”

The words caught in her throat, strangled by guilt and despair. She couldn’t finish. There was no point. No plea could bring Gemini back. The realization hit her like a physical blow, making her chest ache as if her heart were shattering into shards inside her ribcage.

“I’m sorry, babe, I’m so sorry,” Ivy wailed, fat teardrops splashing onto Gemini’s lifeless hand. The stark, unyielding coldness of her skin was wrong—everything about this was wrong.

Her sobs increased, her chest heaving as she cried out, “You didn’t deserve this. You didn’t deserve this!” Her voice echoed in the space, bitter and broken.

Ivy rocked back and forth, her eyes squeezing shut as if it could stop the memories from flooding in—memories of Gemini’s laugh, her hugging Zaia and tickling Duchess, her fierce loyalty, her way of making Ivy feel like everything would be okay even when it wasn’t. All of it was gone now. Snuffed out by Roman’s brutality.

And she had let him in.

The realization was like a knife to her gut, twisting and unrelenting. Her fault. All her fault. She’d seen the signs. Felt the unease in her gut. Gemini had warned her, but she hadn’t listened. She’d ignored the warnings, chosen to believe in him when she should’ve been running far, far away.

“I’m s-sorry,” Ivy wept, the words spilling out over and over like a mantra as she gripped Gemini’s hand with both of hers. “F-Forgive me, Gem. Please forgive me…”

The weight of her grief was unbearable. Slumping in a heap next to the pit, her shoulders heaved from crying. Somewhere above her, the faint creak of footsteps reached her ears, a reminder that this horrible nightmare wasn’t over. But Ivy couldn’t move. She couldn’t leave Gemini here—not like this, not alone.

She pressed her forehead to the ground, her tears soaking the cold floor. “I’ll fix this,” she sniffled, her voice hoarse and trembling. “I swear to God, Gem. I’ll make this right. I’ll—” Her voice broke, the words dissolving into another gut-wrenching cry.

The silence in the room was deafening now, save for her choked sobs. The world felt darker, heavier, like it had shifted irreparably. Because it had. Gemini was gone. And Ivy wasn’t sure she could survive the hole that had just been carved into her soul.

The sound of heavy footsteps descending the stairs snapped Ivy out of her daze. Her heart raced as she released Gemini’s hand and scrambled to her feet, backing away from the trapdoor. Her body trembled, cold terror coursing through her veins.

Roman appeared, carrying a large, barrel-like tank similar to the one that sat in the corner of the basement. His broad frame filled the space, and the calm expression on his face made Ivy’s stomach twist in revulsion.

“I see you've found her,” he said casually, as if discussing something mundane, his tone unsettlingly smooth.

Ivy’s breath hitched, and her voice came out in a trembling shriek. “What did you do?!” she screamed, her hysteria bubbling over. “What did you do, you monster!”

Roman’s dark eyes flicked to her, and for a moment, something like disappointment crossed his face. But he didn’t answer. Instead, he turned his attention to the trapdoor, kneeling down and pulling it open fully.

“What are you doing?!” Ivy cried, her voice breaking. “Roman, stop! Please! Don’t—don’t touch her!” She stumbled forward instinctively, her hand outstretched, afraid to get close.

Roman didn’t stop. He bent down with deliberate precision and gripped Gemini’s body, hauling her up with a disturbing amount of strength and lack of hesitation. Ivy gagged, her knees threatening to give out as he moved the corpse with chilling efficiency.

“Stop it! Don’t do this!” Ivy cried, tears streaming down her face. “Please, Roman, I’m begging you! Leave her alone! Stop!” Her voice cracked, raw and desperate, but he didn’t even glance her way.

Instead, he began forcing Gemini’s limp form into the tank. The sound of bones snapping and joints dislocating filled the air, each crack a horrific reminder of his strength—and his cruelty. Ivy pressed her hands over her ears, crying uncontrollably as she backed against the wall. She couldn’t look away, no matter how much she wanted to. Every fiber of her being screamed to run, to fight, to do something, but her legs wouldn’t obey.

Roman worked methodically, his movements almost clinical, as though this was just another chore to complete. He didn’t speak, didn’t react to Ivy’s pleas. It was as if she wasn’t even there. Her sobs filled the silence, broken only by the grotesque sounds of his work. And all she could do was watch as the man she once thought she loved continued to unveil the monster he truly was.

“Why?” she begged, “Why are you doing this?”

Roman twisted the lid of the barrel closed and turned to face her. “They didn’t understand me like you do,” he explained, his voice almost tender as he glanced at her. “I didn’t want to kill them, hell, I ain’t even plan to…but Angelo was in the way, and Gemini…she just wouldn’t stop digging…”

For a moment, Ivy couldn’t breathe. Her chest tightened, her vision blurred, and the room spun. She blinked rapidly, hoping—praying—that she’d misheard him. But the look on his face, calm and unrepentant, told her otherwise.

“You…what do you mean you killed Angelo?” she whispered, her voice cracking.

Roman tilted his head slightly, as if her disbelief confused him. “He was holding you back, baby,” he said simply, his tone almost matter-of-fact. “Every time I saw him with you, I knew he’d never let us be happy. And Zaia deserves a father who loves her, who loves you.”

Ivy stumbled back, pressing herself against the cold concrete wall. “Oh god. Oh god, oh fuck…” The words tumbled out of her in a broken chant, her hands clutching at her chest as if trying to hold her heart together.

Roman took a step closer, his hands spread in a placating gesture. “Ivy, listen to me. I did it for us. For our future. Don’t you see?”

But she couldn’t hear him over the blood roaring in her ears. Memories of Angelo flooded her mind—the way he used to playfully lift Zaia onto his shoulders, how his laugh would echo through the house during family dinners. Yes, he had his faults. He was stubborn, controlling at times, and their relationship had ended messily. But he was Zaia’s father. He was her child’s father!

“I can’t believe this!” she cried, her voice rising in hysteria. She sank to her knees, clutching her head as tears poured down her face. “Angelo stressed me out, but I never wanted him dead! He was Zaia’s father! How could you—how could you take him away from her?!”

“Ivy,” he said, his tone low and coaxing, as though she were a frightened animal. “I know this is hard to hear, but Angelo was a piece of shit. He wasn’t good for you. He didn’t treat you the way you deserved. And Zaia? She’s better off without a man like him in her life.”

“Fuck you!” Ivy screamed, her voice cracking under the weight of her anguish. “You don’t get to decide that! You don’t get to play God with our lives!”

Roman’s jaw tightened, his expression darkening for a split second before softening again. “Baby girl,” he said, his voice almost soothing. “I’m protecting you. I’m protecting Zaia. You both deserve so much more than he could ever give. What’s a measly fucking house and some necklace when I can give you ten houses? A hundred necklaces? He was the bare minimum and you deserve more.”

“You’re sick,” Ivy hissed, her voice shaking with raw emotion. “You’re fucking insane!”

Her words seemed to pierce through Roman’s calm façade. For a moment, his face hardened, his jaw clenching as he stared at her. Then, just as quickly, his expression shifted back to one of calculated composure.

“I know you’re upset,” he said, his tone gentle but firm. “But one day, you’ll understand. You’ll see that everything I’ve done was for you—for us.” He swallowed hard, emotion clouding his features, “Because I love you, Ivy. I love you so much.”

Ivy let out another guttural sob, her body wracked with uncontrollable tremors. She pressed her hands to her face, trying to block out the sight of him, the sound of his voice. The man she had trusted, the man she had thought she was in love with, had taken Gemini and Angelo from her.

From Zaia.

The realization hit her like a physical blow, stealing the air from her lungs. Her baby would grow up without her father—not because of a tragic accident, but because Roman had stolen him away. And he had the fucking nerve to stand there, calm and unbothered, as though he’d done her a favor as opposed to destroying her and her daughter’s life.

Roman crouched down in front of her, his large frame blocking out the dim light. He reached out as if to comfort her, but Ivy recoiled, her entire body rattling with fury and grief. “Don’t touch me!” she choked out, her voice raw and trembling. “Get away from me!”

He hesitated, his hand hovering in the air before slowly retracting. He stood, his towering figure casting a long shadow over her trembling form.

“You may hate me right now,” he said softly, “But deep down, you know I’m right. I’ll give you time to see that.”

Ivy didn’t respond. She couldn’t. All she could do was curl into herself, her sobs echoing through the cold, sterile basement as the horrifying truths engulfed her like a vulture swooping in on its prey.

Thanks for all your support last year! Your replies and reblogs are so much appreciated! Please keep your Asks coming, we’re loving all the theories!

Roman gif by @dejameflorecer

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[ryywyd]

HYFR

Wnba!Paige bueckers x black!Oc

Nsfw smut w/ plot, they went to scissor city ;) Author notes. This is my first time posting on tumblr #retiredwattpadgirly but my drafts are full so I’m finally posting. This might have two more parts (idk haven’t decided yet.) oh! And this ain’t proofread sorry

The restaurant lights dimmed the room as the low chatter from the surrounding guess filed the rest of the space, in corner set Saida and Paige both low eyed looking at each other with nothing but lust.

The girl sitting in front of Paige had transformed entirely from the person she had known fours years prior. Her once bare skin was now adorned with black ink and piercings. The change did not bother Paige; in fact, it turned her on more than she expected.

The two had sent a year together at UConn becoming more than acquainted before Saida transferred to ucla, the two wasn't in a relationship but they had an understanding but Paige wanted more than that On the other hand, Saida, influenced by her strict religious upbringing, she couldn't bring herself to it, which led them ending things ,.

And Finally reconnecting with each other– bring them here now, after Paige spotted Saida sitting court side at one of her games. Pulling her back in making her realize why she wanted all of those years ago.

"I'm sorry, what was you saying ?" Paige spoke shaking her head, she had completely tuned out everything Saida had said, she was more focused on how the light hit Saida brown skin that made the black link pop out and how the swoop from her straighten hair fell in her face.

"I said it's nice we could do this." Saida repeated as her eyes fell onto Paige's lips. ' y'know with how i ended everything.. I'm sorry again.,

"You don't gotta' keep apologizing, I'm not holding it against you " She husked her voice low 'we good now.,

"So.. was that your girlfriend ?, Paige questioned changing the subject and breaking the uncomfortable silence between them  "at the game with you ?"

"Something like that?it's more of a situationship, I don't know It's complicated." Saida shrugged pushing her straw around, her eyes roaming over Paige.

"If you gotta' girlfriend..what you doing here with me" Paige tried to push down the jealousy that was starting to show.

Saida shook her head biting the corner of her lip motioning for Paige to lean in,lifting up from your seat meeting her halfway whispering into her ear ' because I want you so bad p;

"We can get this shit to go, you gotta prove it to me ma;

In the span of thirty minutes the two had already made it back to Saida apartment and they couldn't keep their hands off of each other particularly ripping each others clothes off. Stumbling into the room, four years away apart felt like a decade and they were feining  for each other.

Paige gripped her jaw making her mouth open slightly "Open." She demanded as she watched her open up her mouth some more sticking her tongue out

Her split dripped in Saida mouth before she pulled her in, sucking on her tongue "I'm bout' to fuck you so good." She mumbled against her as she moved lips back to hers. As she roughly pulled the skirt Saida wore down rubbing her through the thin lace.

" w-wait, I wanna eat you first." She whimpered out feeling her apply more pressure against her wet cunt, she hummed not hearing ignoring what she said.

"You wanna make me feel good?" Paige asked softly watching as her breaths got heavier as she rubbed between her wet slit "tell me how much you want me."

"Please." Saida plead, she was all over the place she didn't know if the pleads were for Paige to keep touching her or for Paige to let her taste her.

"Get on your knees."

Paige lift her bottom half of the bed, pulling her jeans down along with her boxers repositioning herself at the edge of the bed. Spreading her legs wider; crawling in between her legs kissing the inside of her thighs Paige buckled her hips moving her wet cunt closer.

"Don't tease." Paige breathe out gripping saida's cheeks moving her face into, latching her mouth onto Paige moan softly against the blonde.

"Fuck! You so nasty baby." Paige amused moving her hands into saida's hair pulling her closer than she already was grinding into her face.

Saida was restless more eager to get the blonde to come on her tongue than anything, the vibration from her moans sent Paige over the edge

"Come for me p; make a mess in my mouth." Pulling back enough for Paige to hear her. Her hand creep up sliding a finger into her leaking hole with ease. Attaching her mouth back onto her clit sucking as her fingers move

her fingers curled against the blonde g spot. Paige let out weak moan as her hand flew up gripping the back of her neck, nails digging into her skin as she arched her back.

"Don't stop" the girl panted as she tangled her free hand into the dark hair and tugged. Paige whimpered, feeling her slip back inside of her. She didn't even know that she had done that. It didn't matter though, because it felt amazing. She couldn't hold back, her high finally hitting her.

Saida grinned as she felt the girl's pussy clench around her fingers. Her cum flooded her mouth, her sweet taste making her moan.

"I'm boutta cum, fuck sai right there." Paige whimpered gripping the girl hair harder, moving her her closer holding her head down riding out her orgasm,

finally letting go letting the girl up for air pulling her up by her hair pulling her into a sloppy kiss. Paige tilt her head back Opening her mouth signaling for Saida to spit in her mouth "You gon' let me fuck you now ?"

Paige questioned pulling the girl onto her lap, roughly pulling the thin lace to side flipping them over' let me hear you baby,

"Fuck me please."

Paige shot up, straddling Saida right thigh then lifting her left leg up letting it rest on her broad shoulder. She rolled her hips forward, meeting the girl's sloppy cunt with her own. They both were so wet, arousal dripping onto both of their thighs.

You feel so fucking good, fuck." The younger girl groaned, her head falling back onto the mattress, mouth agape. Paige's hands ran over the girl's smooth legs, fingers dancing over the girl's pussy. Her thumb circled her clit, teasing it.

"Paige.." she breathed out, her hips thrusting up trying to meet the blonde touch.

"Look at that making a fuckin’ mess." Paige cooed her eyes focused on where her pussy gushes onto the girls moving her hips to get the perfect angle.

"D-don't stop baby please." Saida whimper as Paige spreader her legs wider with a strong grip on her thigh fucking herself into the bed making the headboard hit against the wall repeatedly.

Paige let out a groan grinding into the girl faster than she was before , this time the headboard bangs against the wall louder than it already was , covering the filthy sounds of your pussys wetness mixing together.

"oh fuck p- Paige Paige !" Saida frantically chant her name over and over her hands moving all over her before landing on her forearms and digging her nails into them.

"you like when I fuck you like this? Like it when my pussy makes a mess all over yours hm?" She breathlessly whispered, her hips stutter and her nails digging into the girl skin

Such a fuckin’ slut i'm gonna cum all over that pussy" she breathlessly whispers. her hips stutter and her hands grip your thighs harshly.

"Cum all over me baby " Saida whine, not breaking eye contact as her hips jerk forward as she desperately chased after her orgasm

"fuck, fuck, oh god-!" she gasps, eyes squeezing shut as she cums. A mixture of both of the girls hot strings of thick cum landed on Saida lower stomach, dripping down and onto both of their folds. it's all too much. Paige can feel her body tense against saida’s , her fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs.

Paige rolled off the girl, gently placing tender kisses along her shoulder and up to her jawline. She raised her hand to softly trace the love make she had left scattered around her neck.

“You can’t leave me ever again.”

Author note #2. I hope yall liked this fr, I gave up towards the end.

[marthawrites]

Bloodlust

Aemond Targaryen x wife reader

Word count: 2.6k+

About: Aemond, unable to leave you behind in King's Landing on his way to Rook's Rest, returns to you after a successful scouting mission.

Includes: Contains future Fire and Blood spoilers (prelude to battle at rook's rest and a couple of the events leading up to it - mentioned, but not heavily described), and SMUT. Featuring murder (no descriptions of it), blood, Aemond's slightly (?) unhinged, blood eating (this is a fantasy in a work of fiction - please do not do this irl), reader is hot for Aemond's gloves, blowjob, rough Aemond, minor praise, unprotected vaginal sex, brief degradation, creampie, and reader and Aemond say 'i love you' at the end. Whew! Apologies if I missed anything!

Note: Hello lovely reader! This is pure filth. Sorry for the grainy header photo. This specific gif is still driving me insane and was the whole inspiration for this fic! As always, reader is non-descript and I hope you enjoy it! ♥

With Lucerys’ death, the war of ravens came to an end, and the war of fire and blood began.

Prince Aemond Targaryen, your lord husband, barely allowed you from his side much less from his sight. 

Kinslayer everyone called him. In fear, in awe, as a curse. 

After the murder of the King’s princeling son, Jaehaerys Targaryen, King Aegon II would no longer fight this war with quills and ink. He meant to win it with swords and blood. An eye for an eye. A son for a son. King Aegon dehanded his grandsire, Otto Hightower, as Hand of the King and gave the pin to Crison Cole instead. Criston was ravenous for it and immediately began planning an attack against the Blacks.

Duskendale would likely stand little chance against the Greens who were three-thousand men strong. If by some miracle they were able to defend their city, Aemond upon Vhagar and Aegon upon Sunfyre would overwhelm them from above.

Despite the odds being in your husband’s favor, anxiety still gnawed at you from the inside. The hour was late and sleep evaded you at every chance inside your martial tent. War was hardly the place for a woman, but Aemond refused to let you stay behind at the Red Keep while he marched to battle. He trusted your safety to no one except for himself. He deemed there wasn’t a safer place in all of Westeros than with him. You believed him.

You weren’t the only woman traveling with their army. There were other lady wives in similar positions to your own, a few cooks as well, and medics. Judging by some things you’d heard along the way, you weren’t too sure if there wasn’t a gaggle of whores somewhere too. 

The company of other women made you feel significantly better–whether they were whores or healers alike.

No one was allowed in yours and Aemond’s tent, however, and everyone knew that. Regardless if you and Aemond were inside or not, a pair of guards stood watch outside at all times. Tonight, a third armored man joined.

Criston, Aemond, and a small group of soldiers scouted ahead to gather what information they could on Duskendale’s defense. Hours had passed since they left. Ideas, scenarios, and other horrible images filled your brain on what might be happening. The entire scouting party was extremely skilled; the rational part of your brain knew they’d be able to handle anything that crossed their path. Yet… what if Duskendale housed monsters like the Targaryens housed dragons?

There wasn’t any room for a fire inside the tent. Nor was it safe. An oil lamp sat atop a makeshift desk and a few scattered candles lit the darkest corners of the space. Laying on your side, you watched all of the little flames and prayed for your husband’s safe return. 

Perhaps you dozed off, or went into a sort of prayer-induced trance, or simply lost track of time, but a clattering commotion outside seized your attention. Fight, flight, freeze: the instincts of any animal. Leaning up you grabbed a dagger from the makeshift nightstand. You held it in front of you, ready to defend yourself if need be. Fight. You would go down fighting. 

Aemond’s soft voice whooshed inside on a rush of cold night air. “Ābrazȳrys.” wife

“My love!” You said with an exhalation. You laid the dagger back down and stood, stepping to him with hurried strides. “Blessed Seven you returned! I’ve been so worried.”

He walked towards you as you came to him, long steps slow and sure. If he had taken note of the dagger in your hand he made no mention of it. His silence was almost as unnerving as the glint of his dilated eye in the low light.

You meant to throw your arms around his neck and squeeze him against you so you knew him to be real and true, right here and now, rather than a ghost summoned by your worst nightmare. But, something stopped you. You stared up at him, doe-eyed.

The blood splattered across his alabaster face spoke more words than he could vocalize. The smell of him–metallic and heavy–sent your own blood rushing. Even his hair was matted by thick streaks of dark blood. “What happened?”

A serpentine grin slid across his chiseled face and his seeing eye lit with deranged lust. His gloved hands gripped around your forearms, squeezing. “They’re dead.”

“W-who?”

“Duskendale scouts. We found them, questioned them, and killed them,” he answered with  soft-spoken intensity, gripping your arms tighter. “Cole’s speaking with Aegon now. We attack tomorrow. Duskendale will fall, and Rook’s Rest after. We will cripple my half-sister and uncle’s strategy before they gain it.”

Your pulse hammered against your chest. Behind your ears. You weren’t sure if Aemond realized how harshly he held your arms. It hurt. “Th-that’s wonderful news,” you stammered, looking up at him with a mixture of awe and creeping fright. “Are you hurt?”

He shook his head and let go of your arms. Then, he held your face as he crashed his mouth down to yours, kissing you with victory that smelled, and tasted, of copper. “My brother will have his throne,” he rasped against your mouth. “My whore of a sister and her bastard horde will never claim what is Aegon’s by right.”

You whimpered against his mouth, against his words, melting into him as he wrapped his arms around your waist and hip. Lifting your hands to grip onto the front of his dark green doublet, your breath caught in your throat. Blood stained the white of your chemise where he had squeezed your forearms. It looked nearly black in the tent’s candlelight. Leaning back half a step, you looked down your body and saw the front of you stained as well. Not only was his face and hair speckled with blood, but his new military garb was covered in it. “Aemond…!”

“Shh, my sweet wife,” he said against your neck, nipping the sensitive flesh.

Confusion, elation, and lust roared through your body, all of them trying to outdo each other. None of the emotions won. They only succeeded in tightening the muscles of your belly and making your entire nervous system quiver. Why were you like this? Why did your prince husband covered in other people’s blood make you yearn with dark desire? Goosebumps rose on your skin as Aemond nipped, kissed, and sucked all along your neck and shoulder. On instinct, you began to work open the buttons on his overcoat; you’d only seen him in this garb a few times, and your fingers fumbled with inexperience over them.

“I’d do it all again,” he said by your ear. “I will do it again. All across the Seven Kingdoms.”

You understood his meaning. You heard what he left unsaid. Pulling back, you peered up into his seeing eye. A hundred emotions lay bare for you to see: rage, satisfaction, confidence, hunger. “Who are you doing it for?” You asked softly.

“For my brother. For my hatred of my half-sister. For you.”

Aemond’s leather glove was warm when you grabbed his hand–the blood on it slightly sticky to your bare touch–and you nuzzled your face into it. “My sweet, dark prince,” you cooed, kissing his palm. His fingers. Languid. Dizzy on the intoxicating aura radiating off him. You bit the tip of one finger, sly; blood that certainly wasn’t your husbands smeared your mouth.

Witnessing your reverence had Aemond groaning in low inaudible High Valyrian. His soft raspy voice praised you in words you didn’t know. With his free hand he pulled you against him, his hard cock pressing firmly against the soft span of your belly.

You moaned behind his hand. “You will win this war for your brother,” you said adoringly. “Not Crison, not Rosby, or Stokeworth, or anyone else. You and Vhagar.” The feeling of him against your belly had embers searing your senses. Without allowing yourself to think twice about it, you licked one of his gloved fingers. The leather was smooth beneath your tongue, and your tastebuds exploded with the coppery taste of some man’s blood.

Aemond fucking groaned. 

You did it again.

Tension sparked down your spine like lightning and that delicate space between your thighs clenched around nothing. Despite the barriers of clothing between you two you swore you felt him throb. “You are the only weapon Aegon needs.”

He watched in fascination as you shamelessly licked the bloodshed from his glove. He nearly spent in his pants as you took his thumb into your mouth, sucking. “My filthy wife,” he hissed, pulling you further into him. He kissed you again and this time he tasted blood. He licked into your mouth, seeking it deeper. 

Each little moan his passion coaxed from you, he swallowed whole. Once again you began fumbling with the front of his attire, working the buttons open until you were able to push it off his shoulders. Beneath he wore a simple linen shirt, and you helped tug that off, too. With one final nip to his bottom lip you began to sink down to your knees before him.

Aemond watched you hungerly. 

You could unbuckle his belt behind your back by now–it stood no chance as you deftly slid it open. The front of his pants didn’t fight you as his tunic did. You pulled them down enough to free his cock, and you wasted no time in pressing deliberate, hot, open-mouthed kisses along it. You didn’t care that he was unwashed. If anything, the scent of leather, sweat, and battle on him made your desire boil over. Saliva instinctively collected in your mouth, and your eager kisses soon had your tongue sliding along him. By the time you wrapped your soft, lovely mouth around him it was lewd, and wet, and slow. You looked up at him, watching him unravel as you made a sensuous show of swallowing as much of him as you could.

Aemond’s eye hooded as he watched you. He would never fucking tire of watching you take him whole–your mouth or your cunt. Blood still streaked your exquisite features. It made the whole thing obscene. Blood from men he killed to protect his brother. To keep the throne for him. To protect you. “Fucking hells–,” he hissed. “There… yeah, oh yeah, hold my cock in that little throat of yours.”

Tears brimmed your eyes as you held, drool already threatening to dribble down the swell of your lip onto your chin. You knew your husband liked it slow and messy like this. You knew he’d have the muscles of your throat flex around him until your head became dizzy from lack of air. You loved it–and he knew that. You held onto his thighs for support, cunt soaked and throbbing between your legs.

He pulled back slightly, before pushing forward, giving your slobbering mouth deep shallow thrusts. “I love how you sound gagging,” he praised, threading his gloved hand into your hair.

You nodded, tears still threatening to leave your eyes, moaning deep in your throat to his lecherous praise.

With a handful of your hair your prince husband bobbed your head along his cock for his pleasure, fucking into your mouth with perfect timing. He tipped his head back. He could never get enough of this.

His strokes were getting longer and quicker, now, a sure sign that he was getting close to finishing. You held on all the while, savoring the rough treatment as much, or perhaps more, than he was.

Finally, he stopped. Looking down at you again he said, out of breath, “I want to fill your cunny tonight, not your mouth.” Then, he clicked his tongue and said, “up.” He helped you stand, and before he could stop himself he was kissing you again, wild and voracious, licking away any trace of blood he had left on your face from earlier. He walked you backwards to the bed all the while and only stopped when the backs of your legs bumped into the cot. Smirking, he helped you out of your shift. He pushed you back onto it before finally stepping out of his pants and boots. 

Below him, you didn’t even care that his Targaryen hair was clumped with dried bits of blood. No, all you cared about was the weight of his cock as he settled it against you. Hot, heavy, smooth. He was perfect. All of him was perfect.

He squeezed your breasts in his hands–he was still wearing those fucking gloves! Of course he took everything off except for those!–rumbling his appreciation at the softness of them. His cock lined up with you effortlessly. With a push of his hips, he sunk into you. 

The stretch of him, the fullness of him, the sensation of being as close to him as you ever could be, had your eyes rolling closed and mouth parting open. In that same effortless manner, your legs wrapped around his trim waist. You were so wet that your body immediately yielded to him. You bit back a moan, not wanting to draw attention from anyone who might be in earshot of your tent.

Above you, Aemond smiled a dark smile. Shadows danced across his features and made the angular lines of his face sharper. “How does it feel to be right where you belong? Under me, full of me, wet as a maiden and hungry as a whore?”

Your legs flexed around him tighter. Heat bloomed beneath your face. “S-so fucking good..!”

He could see you holding back your sounds of pleasure. “Let them hear you,” he said, thrusting into you harder. Deeper. “Open that pretty mouth and let them hear.” Fingers pinched your nipples as he plunged into you again and again, filling you to your body’s end.

Even if he wanted you to stay quiet there was no way you could. Your sounds of pleasure spilled from your mouth as he nearly fucked you through the cot. It was as divine as it was harsh. Rough as it was loving. You weren't going to last long. Aemond wouldn’t either. “God–! Aemond..!” His name left your mouth in a wanton gasp, back arching.

With your mouth hanging open, he pushed two fingers inside to muffle some of those beautiful noises. “My pretty wife overwhelmed with bloodlust,” he crooned, tilting his head as he watched your fucked-out expressions.  “Come with me,” he rasped, cock swelling impossibly harder. “Come with me.”

You did. The tension in your belly snapped, and any restraint you were holding vanished. Your thighs quivered around him. The emotion and sensation that overcame you was intense and all consuming. Aemond, Aemond, Aemond. You’d give him a babe tonight. You knew you would.

He throbbed inside your flexing and relaxing walls, his seed filling you past the brim of your cunt. It dribbled out of you while his thrusts slowed. His breath came heavy and labored, face finally softening in the orange glow of the tent. “Vok. perfect You are so perfect,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours as you both came down from the heights of shared orgasm.

Your legs loosened around him until they lay open, allowing him to slip out from the cradle of your body. “Duskendale will fall tomorrow,” you said to him, kissing him gently. “You will be the victor.”

He laid beside you, then, and pulled you against him so you were laying on your sides face to face. “Anyone who dare face me will fall. The entire realm will fall before me,” he answered with the softest utmost confidence.

Nodding, you smiled and kissed him again. “The world is yours, my prince. With fire and blood.”

“With fire and blood,” he proclaimed, hooking your leg over his waist. Then, he whispered, “I love you.”

And you said it back, meaning it wholly.

-

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider a follow, and/or reblog, and/or letting me know as it all makes me vvvery happy! ♥

Masterlist

See comment section for my main taglist and Aemond taglist! To be added or removed from either, please hit me up!

[m0chisenpai]

maitress

˚｡⋆ the vampire armand x black!fem!reader

in which armand may be the maitre, but every king needs a queen.

The troupe bustled and moved in organized chaos. Electricity filled the air it tickled her veins, tonight was special. Claudia couldn't explain it, the blood sabbath felt intoxicating. The acting was on par with what was held at the royal opera. Was someone of importance watching?

She did not know and as she made her trek up the wooden steps from the Wet Room, the room went still.

“Beautiful work in the previous night my children, my heart might have leapt for a moment.” The velveteen voice wrapped around a Claudia’s mind. She closed her eyes, she could feel the owners voice as though she were next to her. And it seemed her voice was made known to all, because the room went still.

It was as though her presence were in the center of the room. Claudia could see her, but not, her face unknown to her. Her eyes cut to Louis, but they are glossed over, looking and searching for this source of comfort.

She could feel her arm hold her into her side, like a mother. Her hand settled on the back of her neck, finger playing with a curl and letting it bounce free. “And I have no doubt our young new puce is hard at work as well, we need more bright young minds here. Dear Claudia.”

"I look forward to seeing each of you all for tonight's hunt, I've a special treat for our American friends."

Then it was gone. Santiago let out a low groan placing his hand onto his chest, “her voice does wonders. I could listen to it for the rest of my days.”

Armand clapped his hands together snapping them out the trance. “You heard the maitress! Let us not disappoint and puce I hope her words lit an inspiration in you as well.” Claudia bowed her head, leaving through the wings and down the steps.

Claudia buffed and shined the casket of the acting troupe, her ears trained onto the post-show critiquing taking place above. She huffed sitting back on her knees. She was so close, just a little more enduring and she would join the theatre. And with a little persuasion her companion would join.

But Louis was 'fine' with sitting behind the scenes.

Claudia allowed her hands to wander the vanity, covered in treasures. The bottles of perfume glistened in the lights, and a bouquet of deep red roses sat nestled with note inside. scattered sheets of plays more covered in red than actual written words filled the space. A photo of Armand tucked in the mirror beside another note, the ink clearly fresh. She went to open it, to see just who was-

“Puce!” She jumped back dropping the letter back onto vanity. Sam now stood behind her, a scowl on his face like many nights.

“That is for maitress” the apprentice playwright breathed, lovingly looking up to the portrait as thought it were God himself up there. Though Sam was a brilliant playwright, the man was a horrible gossip. If you knew the right words, knew how to get him started then all you’d need is to sit back and let him spill his guts.

“How long has she been here?”

“She was one of the first to be chosen by maitre. No one knows how, but they say her first role was a testament to her story” Sam dropped his voice to a hush looking up. Santiago was wrapping up. So he lured the young puce in.

“Some say, she is the maitre’s one and only fledgling.” Claudia’s eyes widen. And before a slew of questions could come out, he swept the stack of papers in his arms smacking them on the cluttered wooden table.

“No more gossip for you puce! Make sure her area is well kept and don't touch her writing, she bit my finger off last time.” Claudia quickly went to work putting the make up and perfumes in the right places of the vanity.

She made her way to deposit the costumes to the be cleaned when her eyes catch a figure, lying across Armand's bed.

Her eyes concealed by a tinted round pair of fold rimmed glasses, and hands moving with her speech. She wore a pair of high waisted slacks with a dark red blouse tucked in. Her hair was thick and pulled to sit an simple updo with a patterned scarf tied.

Back and forth she paced the small room with a script in hand, taking the frames off to toss onto the cluttered desk along with the script.

"Santiago really needs to stop screwing Estelle, you can tell he is. He gets so boring on stage" she grumbled, holding her hand out to receive a cigarette from Armand and standing still for him to light it.

"The little American beauty is adorable" She called out, by now Armand has begun to smoke from his own cigarette, moving to stop her in her steps and pull her atop his lap on the bed. "I wish I could have seen their arrival."

"Yes she has that bite you had in your early years here." Her maroon lips turn upward as she cups his jaw.

"But your words cut deeper," his voice whispers now holding her hand to press into his cheek. Gentle kisses upon her wrist make her eyes flutter shut until he bites. As he feeds, her eyes look outward. Locking with Claudia's wide ones

Her blood is sweeter than anything he has tasted. Armand would drink from her alone for the rest of his existence if he could. He moves her off to lie among the pillows.

Her throat bared to him. His body covers her, his face face now buried in her neck where he bites her high enough where no shirt may cover.

"I suggest you finish your chores now, puce."

Claudia quickly steps away, her heart pounds against her chest as she quickly makes her way into the costume room. She would never forget those cold green eyes, staring into her own.

Back in the bedroom, she slips Armand onto his back. Straddling His waist. There is no protest in his eyes. Only a burning desire, had she demanded his heart in this moment he’d give to her at any moment. She gazes down at him, with a tilt to her head.

"You know I prefer to be on top, my beautiful Arun."

"Yes, maitress."

[pocket-watcher]

Everyone simply adored Daniel.

From his perfectly charming smile to his deep brown eyes to the way his hair seemed to always fall perfectly, even when he’d just spent the last hour out for a run.

Stupid Daniel with his gorgeous face.

How could they not see?!

The hatred started when you’d noticed he never actually said anything of use.

Once you’d listened (or tried to, through the door) for 40 minutes as he talked the downstairs neighbour around and around in circles about a noise complaint.

“I’m so deeply sorry.” He’d said. “It’s so difficult for me to think of how you must be feeling. You don’t want to be mad at me, do you? I just hate that sinking feeling I get when someone is mad at me. Just relax. I’m sure we can work something out…”

The conversation ultimately ending up with the neighbour apologising to Daniel.

Then there was the constant sex noises.

Stretched out moans, slowly ramping up and down and up and down, teasing his partner to the edge before bringing them right back again.

It was as if Daniel’s dick was a gift from God.

You found yourself wishing he was into BDSM so he’d gag whoever he had in there. No sex is that good, you thought.

It had been easy to avoid him and his infuriating-ness. Until now.

You stared down at your doormat at the tiny little note scrawled in thick black ink “LEFT WITH NEIGHBOUR��.

Of course it had.

It had been a long day at work. You were exhausted, and all you wanted was for you and your package to be left alone.

Away from the rhythmic thudding and moans from next door. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Away from Daniel.

You didn’t even wait for him and whoever he had in there to finish. In a huff you slammed your fist against his door.

The orgasmic moans echoed for a moment, and then shuffling was heard. The door opened.

Now, you’d expected the door to open just enough for a conversation. A tiny crack. After all, every tenant in the building knew what had just been happening, so you’d expected some shame.

But this was Daniel.

He swung the door full-force open, shirtless, bed head, and a very revealing half-askew boxers.

“…Yes?”

You cleared your throat and willed your face to turn back to its original, not flushed colour.

“You have a package for me.” You said, looking down at the floor.

He followed your gaze but looked between his legs instead.

“Do I?” He teased, before turning to retrieve the box.

“Y-You should keep it down, you know.” You found the courage to say.

“Sorry about that.” He laughed, handing you the package, your fingers touching his.

“Y-Yeah, well…”

“You’re welcome to join if you’re feeling left out.” He looked up at you through his eyelashes.

You angrily looked for signs of joking on his face. When you didn’t find any, you exploded.

“And what makes you think I’d want to do that?!”

“Oh… nothing.” Your eyes trail down his abs towards-

You shake the thought out of your head.

“I just have this thing about me, you know? I tend to draw people in.” He comments. “I don’t know if it’s my eyes that you could get lost in, or how you imagine my hands on your chest pushing you down onto the bed, or maybe it’s the way my words just push every rational thought out of that pretty head of yours…”

You realised your mouth was open slightly. You snapped your gaze away from his eyes, then his lips, and then his boxers.

Fuck.

It was like his body was magnetic. You felt your legs heavily moving towards him, the rational part of your brain sinking back for something else to take over.

What’s worse, you felt yourself drooling.

“There’s just something so alluring, isn’t there? The mystery of the unknown. That constant sound. Don’t you want to experience bliss like that?” He asked you.

Your anger had faded. Your mind, a puddle, melted by that look in his eyes.

He was growing taller. No. Your knees were buckling. Sinking. You were kneeling in front of him. Your mind a constant flow of his voice. Sink. Kneel. Obey. Drop.

Your eyes looked up at him. Glossy. Blank.

“Why don’t you come inside.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a command.

[crazymadpassionatelove]

Cool Fiancè

Notes: 18+ sex mentioned

Special shout-out to @ab4eva and her fabulous editing skills! This is the second installment in my cool girl saga. Read Part 1 here

---

Five Things to know about Austin Butler’s New Fiance ::

Although his reps couldn't be reached for comment, sources close to the Elvis actor confirm he has popped the question to his mysterious lady love!

Butler and the stunning brunette were recently spotted at the iconic Les Puces market in Paris last Friday, and she seemed to be sporting a new accessory. Austin was dressed in a black leather jacket, a white v neck tee, and black moto boots. She was clad in a classic trench coat and vintage Dior kitten heels as she kept her head down and let the winner lead the way. His face was mostly obscured by aviator sunglasses, but his smile was very apparent according to onlookers. “Austin was holding her hand and pointing out jewelry at different booths. They were very friendly with local vendors and Austin ended up buying her a gold charm bracelet. He told the dealer the bracelet was a momento to celebrate their recent engagement,” a fellow American tourist overheard. The twosome reportedly spent the prior week soaking in the city of lights and meeting with the YSL fashion house. Austin was recently tapped as the brand's newest ambassador.

Since returning stateside paparazzi pics have finally surfaced and revealed a closer look at that ring. Montana based indie jeweler Jada Kaye has been revealed as the designer of that serious sparkler. The 5 carat, flawless emerald-cut emerald is set in solid gold and flanked by two white diamonds on either side. Inside sources told Elle Magazine that Kaye and Butler worked closely together to craft the one of a kind creation. There's even rumored to be an inscription on the inside that's significant to the couple and the ring is estimated to cost a cool $100,000. Austin's fiancè was photographed heading into a ballet studio yesterday wearing pink tights, a pink leotard, Ugg boots, and of course that ring. Her curly dark brown hair was slicked back into a bun and she seemed to be sporting a pair of the actor's sunglasses.

Here's everything you need to know about the future Mrs. Austin Butler;

She's from New England —

A, as she's known, was born in Rhode Island. She grew up splitting her time between Rhode Island and Kennebunkport, Maine. Her teenage years were spent working the local Del’s lemonade truck, former neighbors say. She attended the Rhode Island School of Design after high school but never graduated.

She and Austin met via her former job –

Whilst working at the New York location of Vibrant Vintage, A, served as the fashion archives buyer. She also happened to be on hand when Butler visited the store. Supposedly she helped him find the perfect pair of leather boots, and the rest is history. Things clearly moved quickly between the two lovebirds, with A relocating to Los Angeles not long after. According to Vibrant Vintage, she is no longer employed there but “remains a close friend and consultant,” says their PR team.

She's a hit with his friends –

She organized a birthday party for her man’s co-star and close friend, Callum Turner. Turner posted an Instagram story showing off a fairly large garden party celebration and a “homemade blueberry glaze cake” according to the post. “Huge thanks to Austin's lovely lady xx” accompanied the video footage. She and Austin were also seen dining with his other Masters of the Air co-star, Nate Mann, while in Paris recently.

They've (supposedly ) got matching ink –

An unnamed employee at the iconic Bang Bang tattoo in NYC has said that Austin and A made a late night visit to the tattoo studio. Where exactly are the said-to-be matching minimalistic tattoos? Reportedly, Austin was inked on his left hip and A on her inner left thigh.

Old fashioned love letters are her thing -

Notably social media shy, Austin and A have taken up the lost art of handwritten love notes. Sources exclusively say that custom monogrammed stationery was crafted for the duo whilst Austin was filming in England. The hand pressed, vintage inspired paper bears a unique coat of arms style symbol with intertwining letter A’s and two sparrows (Fun fact! Sparrows mate for life and always find their way back, no matter how far they fly). While separated, the couple often writes letters to one another, even having the letters sent via jet instead of mail for privacy reasons!

_______

Suddenly one morning articles begin to pour in about your engagement. It catches you off guard, that ring akin to a skating rink has been sitting pretty on your hand for a bit now. The engagement had happened so naturally as everything with the two of you seems to. In the early morning hours while his swollen, rock hard member thrusts into you repeatedly you begin to awaken. On your side, his teeth clamp down on your shoulder as his finger twirls round the curls at the nape of your neck.

His gasps and needy groans tickle your ear. “Couldn't help myself..”, he shudders as you suddenly clamp down around him, barely able to register it all. You stretch and arch, allowing him the room and space to take what he needs. It is his after all. His teeth and pillowy soft lips mark your shoulder blades and when you reach down to where the two of you are joined, you feel his very full balls. Your newly manicured fingers tease and tug the best you can, scrunched up like some sort of acrobat. “Ugh, ugh…baby… you're gonna make me -”. Then he does. Hot, viscous, cream floods you and makes you sigh in a contented whimper. “Thanks darlin’,” he pets your head and you close your eyes dreamily. That is until you hear him rustling around in the bedside table next to him.

You cock open an eye, figuring he's looking for smokes or even the book he had been reading late last night. Your hands are stretched above your head, gripping a pillow. The perfect position for him to suddenly slip the most gorgeous piece of jewelry you've ever seen onto your finger. When your eyes shoot open and you jump up, he's lying there grinning that smile that makes you weak at the knees. “Will you be my wife?” As if your answer would be anything but yes, please Daddy. You smother him in kisses, straddling him and giggling. It's the perfect moment, the perfect proposal. You were never one to want a fireworks display or heaven forbid, those ridiculous and wasteful walls of flowers other celebrities seem to have for every occasion. This private, simple moment is everything you could ask for.

You feel the sudden urge to take him in your mouth despite him just finishing. With your head hanging off the side of the bed, you take him down your throat. Choking and gagging, you really give it your all. Fighting to keep your eyes open so you can see the way his lip curls and his eyes slam shut. Talking is always your thing. This time, though, he's sputtering and rasping words of utter devotion and love. Promises to worship your body until the day he dies. My perfect, perfect wife. Soon you can't be sure if the tears are from his cock down your throat, or his beautiful words. Maybe both. Those pretty boy fingers twist and tug on your nipples and then crawl lower and flick that special spot. The only fireworks you enjoy happen, twice for you actually. He's so dutiful and charming, when you're done pulling yourself back together and fixing your hair, he's handing you a surprise glass of champagne. What a way to mark the occasion.

You decline a proper press announcement. Phone and FaceTime calls follow to those who truly matter to you both - your families, both absolutely thrilled. Then Baz, Cal, The Presley's, everyone can't stop gushing about how perfect you are for each other. That ring, oh how sweet he designed it himself. You come up with a family-appropriate story to describe the proposal and the evening that followed, conveniently leaving out the mind-blowing sex the two of you have all over the house and in the hot tub. Why do things feel so different now that you're engaged? You can't get over the way the light hits the ring as you stroke him and something in that dirty girl heart of yours feels like it's really, truly, official when you have to clean his cum off the stone.

He's due back to set for some reshoots a few days later and of course you follow. Bringing throw pillows from your living room to spruce up his trailer and plotting out how to plan the most private, under the radar wedding possible while you lounge in his trailer in a cute little dress you sew yourself from vintage scarves bought in London. Your newest hobby, that and the ballet classes. He yammers on and on about wanting to sneak in and see you dance. You're sure it's just the tights and leotards spurring his interest though, let's be real. The paparazzi are as relentless as ever, but head down with big sunglasses helps keep the chaos at bay.

You visit Disney World, a whole crew, the two of you, your families, friends with their little ones. Thankfully Disney security is familiar with celebrity guests and you can actually let your guard down for once. Which is good, because seeing Austin chase after your friend's newly toddling little ones makes your stomach flip flop with joy. You make a mental note to expedite the wedding plans, he makes it known that he's chomping at the bit to be a father. When you visit Main Street, you decide a pair of new Mickey ears are in order. Gold stitching with Mrs. Butler is what you finally decide on after Austin's encouragement, his hand on your lower back as you walk miles and miles around the park with hands full of churros and cotton candy. Sure, some overzealous fans snap cell phone pics of you with your ears and immediately post them to those ridiculous Austin fan blogs who've now decided you are the evil villain in his story. You won't allow them to burst your Disney bubble though. Your fairytale is just beginning after all.

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