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httpsserene · 20 days ago

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it's us against the world — 𝐥𝐧. 𝟒 & 𝐨𝐩. 𝟖𝟏 lando norris x oscar piastri x twitchstreamer!fem!black!reader (poly!f1) 1.5k words. requested! by the lovely @ashiekins. not beta read. fluff. poly!f1. takes place during the 2025 preseason. power outage activities. marvel rivals. gamer terms and lingo. a love letter to landoscar.

༊࿐ ⊹ ˚. the first post back after my shadow ban was destined to be a landoscar drabble because i can't take the lando hate rn (thank you for reading even though i disappeared for a month...call me serenexkenshin atp)🤍

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“Okay,” says Oscar. You imagine he’s blinking furiously to clear the bright spots in his vision caused by Lando blinding him with the flashlight for the third time in less than five minutes. “You are not allowed to hold the torch anymore—give it here.”

You snort, snugly tucking the final pillows into place before turning around to look at the brief scuffle in the dark hallway. The beam of light flashes around sporadically as they wrestle, giving you small glimpses of their silhouettes in the darkness, but not enough to see who has the upper hand. Oscar’s quiet grunts of effort are overshadowed by Lando’s impish squeals, and then, there’s a loud, heavy thump.

Lando abruptly falls silent, and the flashlight gets turned off.

“Oh?” Lando’s coquettish grin is audible around his panting breaths, “Slam me into the wall again, I think I kinda liked that.”

“Ew,” Oscar declares. You muffle a laugh behind your hand.

Lando rejoins you in the living room first, his pouty expression brightening as he takes in the completed pillow fort. The kindling fire in the small fireplace across the room casts a warm, romantic glow over his frame. You notice how the seaglass color of his eyes has deepened into a darker green in the shadows, the flecks of brown ringing his flared pupils even richer. Distracted by their beauty, you’re oblivious to how quickly he crossed the room to be by your side until he pulled you into a smooth kiss.

“Nicely done, love,” he hums against your lips, his trimmed facial hair tickling your skin.

“I can’t take all the credit,” you giggle, for no reason in particular. The quiet atmosphere of a house without power feels giddy and dizzying when you’re experiencing it with your partners. “It was your idea to build the fort, and you did most of the building. I just made it look pretty.”

He’s moved to peppering kisses along your cheekbones, murmuring against the rich brown skin, “Likely thing for you to do—my pretty girl making things look almost as pretty as she does.”

It’s not his best work, but he did call you his pretty girl, so the words make your stomach flutter and heartbeat skip regardless.

Oscar, born to keep Lando humble, cringes as he overhears the line while walking toward the fireplace to prod at the slowly growing flames, “4/10. Your delivery wasn’t too bad, I reckon.”

Lando rolls his eyes, throwing a playful glare in the Aussie’s direction, “Alright, Oscar the Grouch. You’re just jealous ‘cause you had to do all the boring stuff while we got to do the fun stuff like building the fort and picking out the board games we’re gonna play.”

The fire comes alive as Oscar adds another log, the sound of crackling wood filling the space where humming electricity used to be.

“The ‘boring stuff?’” Oscar sets the poker down and brushes any wood debris off his palms. “Do you mean the responsible stuff?”

You and Lando audibly protest against the implication of being irresponsible, Oscar laughing at how your expressions twist in feigned offense. He joins the two of you by the pillow fort and kneels to sit by the coffee table, continuing to laugh to himself as he starts lighting the handful of candles the two of you were able to find around the rental house.

“I fell asleep while you were streaming that new Marvel game, and Lando was doing laps around Silverstone on the sim. The two of you woke me up whispering about horror movie plots with the torch burning directly into my eyes, a scented candle in the other hand, and no clue about where the main breaker is,” Oscar deadpans.

Even though you know Oscar well, his ability to fall asleep in any circumstance, regardless of what’s occurring around him, astounds you. You were live on Twitch, more than halfway close to being diagnosed as clinically insane, as you were loudly ranting about the egos of Duelist mains and the neanderthalic behavior of Vanguards. The sound of you crashing out over getting brutally slaughtered in the backline as your teammates—who, for some reason, refused to turn around and respond to your frantic comms for help—continued to blame losing the game on the lack of healing and support you were offering, should have been loud enough to travel downstairs to be heard by him resting on the couch.

It wasn’t loud enough. Because, surprisingly, Oscar was out like the power, when you and Lando found him snoozing on the sofa. He was resting on his side, covered in a mound of blankets (that have now been consolidated into the fort), his cheek squished against the pillow he tucked under his head. His hand was loosely keeping hold of his phone, his face washed in the blue light emanating from the screen. Lando approached, whisper-screaming Oscar’s name while he attempted to gently rouse the younger man by petting his cheek with his large hand. Oscar squirmed, his brows screwed in discontent, eyes squeezed tightly shut as he tried to run away from being awoken. Lando huffed before poking a bony finger into the Aussie’s chubby cheeks, the enamored look on his face snitched on how fond he is of the younger man. You and Lando quietly chuckled when Oscar dropped his phone to unconsciously bat Lando’s finger away, the phone landed face up next to him. The screen displayed the lost connection image of your livestream—he was watching you play a game he doesn’t know or care for, while being bundled up downstairs on the sofa. He could’ve taken the less than fifteen-second trip upstairs to be in the same room as you, and spectated from outside of the camera’s view.

(You’ve been in love with both Lando and Oscar for what simultaneously feels like forever and not long enough. And, they still manage to do things that make you feel like you’re falling in love with them all over again.)

Lando called out Osc once, flashlight shining on his face, and his eyelids peeled open slightly to squint with a sleepy and ineffective glare at the two of you. You’ve witnessed the man sleep through crying babies on flights, the noise of the garage on qualifying days, and thunderstorms that sound like hurricanes. Yet, he wakes as soon as the sound of his boyfriend cooing his name is paired with the unignorable force of harsh light being oriented directly into his eyes.

“To be fair,” you respond innocently, “From the few times where the power shorted in my stream room, you told me to stay put while you went to flip the switches. Therefore, I don’t think it’s my fault that I don’t know where the breaker is—it’s yours. You’ve spoiled me,” you declare loftily, grinning when Oscar rolls his eyes, the upturned corners of his lips giving away his true feelings about how he’s pampered you.

Lando cackles, knowing damn well that Oscar spoils him too. He crawls into the fort and buries himself in the calculated mess of couch cushions, pillows, and thick quilts you've padded on the floor. He doesn’t have an excuse for himself, nor does he attempt to lie, “Why would I know where the main breaker is? That wasn’t listed in the rental description.”

Oscar stares at the pile of blankets that have become his boyfriend, “I have a strong feeling that you didn’t read the listing, did you?”

“Stop bullying me,” Lando’s voice is muffled behind a quilt he’s pulled over his face. “I’m dyslexic—and frickin’ cold, mate. It’s freezing in here.”

Now that Lando’s brought it to your attention, the temperature has dropped inside. The frigid British winter has been slowly seeping inside since the power went out and took the heating with it. Oscar casts a glance at the fireplace before looking back at the candles to make sure they're a safe distance from anything flammable on the coffee table. He knocks his knee to yours to get your attention and nods his head in Lando’s direction, a wordless direction for you to curl up with him in the cozy hideaway.

“It’s going to be a little bit before the fire grows big enough to warm up the room,” Oscar crawls in after you, the two of you peeling back layers of quilts to reach Lando underneath them.

Lando whines when the chilled air finds him again, his nose scrunch complemented by a fierce glare for unsettling him after he had made himself comfortable within the fort. His sharpness relaxes as he’s cradled between your bodies, tucking his cold feet between Oscar’s legs and slipping his hands underneath your hoodie to warm his fingers. You’re sure the three of you look like a pile of cats, cuddled tightly together to fend off the cold.

Lando sighs happily, “This is mega…but do you know what would make it perfect?”

You shift closer, throwing a leg over Lando’s torso, grinning as Oscar’s hand lowers to massage the bones of your ankle over your fuzzy socks.

Oscar, gifted with foresight, calmly states, “We are not getting naked in the pillow fort.”

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scoutofmymind · 5 months ago

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i just saw you reblogged an Anora post😍 would u ever be interested in writing a reader x Luigi prompt inspired by that movie? love your writing girl you are just so fantastic

Losing Dogs — { Luigi x Reader }

Content: NSFW - MNDI, sex work, rich as fuck Luigi, Dancer!Reader, p in v, come eating (whoooops), reader is addicted to uncertainty.

Wc: 7,158 (This is an unfinished work, I’m willing to continue if requests for it are substantial, but for the sake of keeping it on Tumblr and not posting it on Ao3, I had to stop where I did 💕)

Notes; Luigi Mangione, heir to a Sicilian real estate empire and alleged regular at underground poker clubs where he watches rather than plays, never expected to find himself falling for a dancer at Sapphire.

Click here for part 2

"It's actually funny," Luigi mumbles, more to himself than his companions, wedged between his two cousins fresh off the plane from Sicily.

Tony, the giant of the family, shares Luigi's sharp features but stretched larger, like someone had taken Luigi's face and expanded it to fit a bruiser's frame. Then there's Lorenzo — shorter but somehow taking up just as much space, his body a testament to long hours at his father's dockyard; the scar splitting his right eyebrow catches sunlight every time he smirks. “First time on American soil in what, five years? And this is where you had to come firs-“

The door is swung open, the facade is deceptively plain — just black marble and smoked glass, a discreet Sapphire etched in gold above the door marks this as their destination.

The bouncer, a mountain in a tailored suit, doesn't bark or posture like the ones on cheaper doors. He just stands there, radiating quiet competence, his earpiece gleaming. "IDs," he requests, somehow making the single word sound both polite and non-negotiable.

His eyes linger on the Italian passports, but his face betrays nothing.

Inside the antechamber, it's all dark wood and soft amber lighting and a woman in a pencil skirt recites the house rules with practiced efficiency: no phones on the floor, no photographs, minimum table service in VIP is $500, and — she pauses here, sliding elegant paperwork across the marble counter — there's the matter of the $200 per person convenience fee that will be withdrawn immediately.

Tony balks slightly at this. "Two hundred just to walk in?"

"It's to ensure our clientele maintains a certain standard," she explains, her smile professional but cooling several degrees. "The amount is credited toward your evening's entertainment, of course."

Lorenzo elbows Tony, muttering something in rapid Italian about American prices, but Luigi slides his card across, knowing this is how places like this filter out the tourists and trouble-makers.

Through the second set of doors, bass pulses like a heartbeat, but it's still muffled, promising rather than announcing, and the air smells of expensive perfume and aged whiskey, not beer and desperation.

The main floor unfolds before them like a fever dream in black marble. Sapphires reputation for being high end suddenly makes visceral sense — everything gleams with the kind of wealth that doesn't need to announce itself.

The lighting is precise, strategic; LEDs trace abstract patterns across coffered ceilings while hidden spots paint the stages in liquid gold. "Dio," breathes Tony, his complaints about the entrance fee forgotten.

Three circular stages dominate the space, each with its own constellation of private tables, but it's the architecture that catches Luigi's eye — the way the room seems to spiral inward like a nautilus shell, the tables far enough apart that conversations stay private, close enough to feel intimate with the performance space.

A hostess materializes — there's no other word for how smoothly she appears — in a black dress that costs more than most people's monthly rent. "Gentlemen, will you be joining us at the bar, or would you prefer a table?" Her eyes flick to Lorenzo's Rolex, Tony's Brunello Cucinelli jacket, making rapid calculations.

"Table," Lorenzo says before anyone else can speak. "Something close." His English is heavily accented but the universal language of status needs no translation.

She leads them through the crowd — if you can call it that. The usual press of bodies you'd expect in a club is absent here.

Instead, there's space, carefully crafted distance.

Men in suits that cost more than Beamers speak in low voices, and a tech billionaire Luigi recognizes from CNBC sits alone, staring into middle distance while a dancer performs with the kind of grace that suggests formal training.

They're led to a half-moon booth with a perfect view of the main stage. The leather is butter-soft, the table's surface black glass that seems to swallow light, with a subtle panel of buttons for service inlaid near the edge.

"Your server will be with you shortly," the hostess says, then hesitates. "And gentlemen? I'd recommend staying for the next set."

That's when Luigi notices the music tumbles into something that isn’t the typical club thunder — instead, it's something classical, deconstructed and woven through with electronic elements; Chopin's Nocturne in E-flat major, he realizes, but reimagined as something darker, more modern.

The server approaches with the same calculated grace as the hostess, but there's something different in her manner — a hint of genuine warmth. "Welcome to Sapphire. I'm Aria." She sets down crystal water glasses with practiced precision. "Our special tonight is the 1982 Macallan, though—“ her eyes drift meaningfully to Luigi, "We also make an exceptional Manhattan.”

Before anyone can order, the lights shift — subtle at first, then with purpose.

The deconstructed Chopin fades into silence, the main stage, empty moments ago, now holds a single figure in darkness, and the murmur of conversation around them dies without prompting.

A single cello note cuts through the quiet, followed by another, building a melody that feels both ancient and startlingly modern.

As the music swells, light bleeds onto the stage, revealing her.

Her whose movement matches the music's duality — classical technique fractured and reassembled into something hypnotic.

She doesn't dance around the pole so much as she seems to bend gravity to her will, each transition so fluid it looks like liquid mercury.

Luigi notices something else.

The crowd's reaction.

These men, who deal in billions and shape markets with a phone call, are completely still. It's not the typical attention of a gentleman's club — it’s the silence of an audience witnessing something they don't quite understand but can't look away from.

Both Tony and Lorenzo order bottles with the casual arrogance of men used to throwing money around, and Luigi can't tear his eyes away long enough to ask about their other cocktails.

He's never been much for bourbon, but right now he doesn't care — the performance has him in a trance that no spirit could match.

It's not long before he hears his cousins acting up, murmuring something to each other in their native tongue, that lyrical Italian that Luigi understands but rarely speaks, his own command of it lost somewhere between private schools and college lectures.

“Where's her tits?” Lorenzo mutters, Tony leaning in to complain right behind him, “I thought this was a strip club?”

Luigi furrows his brows, the spell broken.

He turns his broad chest toward them both, pausing only to acknowledge the two women who parade over their bottles of champagne with divine precision and grace, their movements a stark contrast to his cousins' crude commentary. "You buy a fuckin' room if you want tits," he growls, flicking his finger first in Tony's direction, then Lorenzo's, each gesture sharp as a warning shot. "Don't put a bad name on us, cugini — Papa has investments here."

The cousins exchange glances but settle back, chastened more by the mention of their uncle than Luigi's reprimand.

On stage, the music shifts again — something even darker now, all cello and static — and her routine evolves with it, the control is absolute, each movement deliberate yet somehow wild, like watching lightning decide where to strike.

The pole becomes less prop and more partner, an extension of her artistry rather than its center, and Luigi finds himself leaning forward, elbows on his knees, aware that he's staring but far past caring.

He notices details his cousins miss — the way her muscles tell stories of dedication, how her face reveals nothing and everything at once.

There's mathematics in her movement, philosophy in her form.

A sharp sound of crystal meeting crystal breaks his concentration — Lorenzo, already refilling his glass, the champagne sloshing slightly over the rim.

The cousin catches Luigi's glare and shrugs, muttering something that sounds like an apology but isn't while Tony's attention has already wandered to one of the cocktail waitresses, his earlier complaints forgotten in favor of more immediate distractions.

Reluctantly, the music fades and she descends from the stage with the same fluid grace that marked her performance, moving through the club like water finding its path, stopping at tables where regulars sit with their crystal glasses and dollar bills.

Luigi, needing air — or space— or both, makes his way to the bar, leaving his cousins to their champagne and their increasingly loud discussions about Italian soccer to a couple of women who couldn’t care less, but would open a ear to anything if it meant getting them in a private room.

"Sanpellegrino," he murmurs to a bartender, suddenly wanting clarity rather than clouds. The sparkling water arrives in a glass with lime, and that's when he sees her — the girl who was just on stage —materialized a few seats down, leaning across the bar to speak with the bartender.

Her right hand rests on the polished wood, and there, in delicate script across her inner wrist: "God is dead."

Before he can stop himself, the words leave his mouth, soft but clear: "And we have killed him.”

Your head turns, eyes finding his with an intensity that makes him forget the rest of Nietzsche's proclamation, and for a moment, the club, his cousins, everything else fades away.

You tilt your head slightly, a subtle smile playing at the corner of your mouth. "Most people just ask if it's about Satan," you grin, your voice carrying a hint of amusement. "Or they try to save my soul."

Luigi takes a slow sip of his sparkling water that tickles his nose, appreciating the irony. "Nietzsche would've had thoughts about both responses." He gestures to the empty seat between them. "Though I doubt he ever imagined his words would end up here.”

"Oh, I don't know," your voice becomes airy and light, sliding onto the stool next to him, closer than the one he'd indicated. "The death of God, the birth of tragedy, eternal recurrence — seems fitting for a club where people come to forget." You eye him, take inventory of his posture, what he’s wearing, and the sparkling water he’s drinking. "Besides, what better place to question values?"

Luigi finds himself leaning in slightly, aware that this conversation is rapidly becoming more intriguing than anything happening on stage, or back at the table with his cousins. "So, you studied philosophy?" he asks, though it's more statement than question.

"Columbia," you answer, then add with a knowing look, "Before you ask — yes, this is how I pay for it. And no, I'm not looking for rescue from this life of sin."

The directness catches him off guard, but he appreciates it. "NYU. Comp Sci.” he offers in return. "And I wouldn't presume to rescue anyone who quotes Nietzsche.”

"Let me guess," your eyes scan him with amused precision, "You were more Camus than Nietzsche?"

Luigi can't help but smile, caught between surprise and appreciation. "The Myth of Sisyphus was my thesis," he admits. "Though these days I'm pushing more rocks up hills than contemplating them."

A glance over his shoulder reminds him of his cousins' presence — they're still at the table, but their attention has shifted to their phones, probably already bored without the promised spectacle they came for, or having scared the girls enough to deny them private rooms.

He feels a shift in the air as one of the floor managers approaches — the kind of interruption that seems inevitable in a place like this, and you notice too, but instead of immediately pulling away, you reach for a cocktail napkin and a pen from behind the bar.

"Speaking of eternal recurrence," you scribble over the napkin, "I'm here Thursdays and Fridays. If you want to continue our discussion about the death of God, or-“ you slide it toward him, "the birth of tragedy."

•

Thursday.

Oh, Thursday, Thursday, Thursday.

"Happy thirsty Thursday, bitches!" Julia's voice rings through the dressing room as she weaves between vanity stations, balancing a bottle of Prosecco.

You're perched on the counter, nose nearly touching the mirror, wielding your liquid eyeliner with the precision of a surgeon — or at least attempting to.

"Honey," Julia pauses behind you, pressing a cool glass into your hand while gently easing you back from the mirror, which has begun to fog from your focused breathing. "Don't you make enough for some contacts? I swear you're going to give yourself a repetitive stress injury.”

You accept the prosecco without turning from your reflection, then the shot she presses into your other hand. The old rule echoes in your mind — drinking before shifts is bad business — but tonight feels different.

It wasn't any one thing that set this mood — but maybe it was the way your boots crunched through dirty ice on your trek from the subway, or how the wind cut right through that orange and brown balaclava your mother had knitted, sent from Santa Monic with a note saying "stay warm".

You sit by the bar, chin propped on your fist as you survey the crowd through half-lidded eyes.

The regulars hunch over their drinks like old friends, while first-timers betray themselves with darting glances and tentative sips. Music thrums through the floorboards —some nameless pop song stripped down and remixed until only the bassline remains, vibrating in your chest like a second heartbeat.

His "Hey" materializes beside you, soft enough that it nearly dissolves into the din. You don't need to look to know it's him — that particular shadow in charcoal grey wool.

He's shed the usual entourage of boisterous cousins, and there's something different in his approach — a hesitation in steps that usually claim every room they enter.

You turn, "Sanpellegrino?" A ghost of a smile plays at your lips as the glass catches the low light. His face is different tonight — something raw beneath the polished exterior, like fresh paint that hasn't quite dried.

"About last week," he begins, easing onto the barstool as if it might disappear beneath him. "The, uh — your number - it -"

"Let me guess." You slide his drink across the mahogany with practiced grace. "Either your suit met an untimely end at the cleaners with it still in the pocket, or one of those cousins of yours lifted it."

Breaking your cardinal rule — never give your number to a customer — only to have it vanish feels like the universe's personal punchline.

Seven digits sacrificed to whatever deity presides over dry cleaning.

Luigi's grimace tells you everything. "Dry cleaning," he confesses, shoulders dropping slightly. "My housekeeper has a scorched-earth policy with receipts. By the time I realized-“ He lifts the glass, ice clicking against crystal. "I spent the week with Camus instead. Came strapped with counterarguments about the fundamental absurdity of existence."

You find yourself fighting back a smile.

In five years of working here, you've had countless men try to continue conversations, usually with tired lines about destiny or missed connections, but none of them ever showed up having done philosophical homework.

"Well," you say, leaning against the bar, "you did make it on a Thursday. That's something Sisyphus would appreciate — the eternal return and all that." You glance at the clock, then back at him. "Let's hear your defense of absurdism.” You find yourself reaching for his hand, your usual pitch tumbling out like second nature. "We could continue this conversation somewhere more private?"

The words hang there for a moment, and you watch his expression shift from philosophical intensity to something more certain.

In the private room, you move sinuously to music that's now more vibration than sound, while he dissects existentialism with the intensity of a doctoral candidate defending his thesis.

Even as you straddle him, skin gleaming in the low light, he's animated — one hand conducting an invisible orchestra while the other remains fixed to the armrest like it's been superglued there. His voice never wavers as he explains how Sisyphus's comprehension of his eternal task is actually his triumph over the gods.

"— and if we examine the boulder as a metaphor for societal expectations—" He's still lecturing while you execute a move that's earned you countless thousands, your body folded into an artful display of flexibility, each movement a masterpiece of calculated seduction.

"Babe," you cut in, flowing back into his lap with liquid grace. You press your palm against his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath expensive wool. "Are you even into this?" Your voice carries equal parts amusement and genuine curiosity. For the first time tonight, he falls silent.

Luigi freezes mid-sentence, mouth still shaped around 'existentialism,' blinking like someone emerging from a trance. "What? Of course I'm- Why would you think-"

"Because I've been doing inverted crosses and Russian splits for fifteen minutes, and you're more invested in French philosophy than the fact that I'm practically naked in your lap."

Color floods his neck, creeping up like watercolor on wet paper. "I just- I thought- You seemed so engaged in our discussion last week, and I spent days researching, and-" He drags fingers through dark curls, leaving them charmingly disheveled. "I'm completely fucking this up, aren't I?"

You laugh, soft and genuine, settling deeper into his lap as your arms drape over his rigid shoulders. "Most guys in here pretend to be intellectuals to get closer to the dancers. You might be the first one pretending not to notice my body to prove you actually are one."

"I notice," he blurts, then looks like he wants to dissolve into the leather seat. "God- I mean, I'm extremely aware. I just thought if I-"

"Luigi," you interrupt, oddly moved by his fumbling sincerity, "you can appreciate both Camus and tits. The universe is absurd enough for both."

His laugh is nervous but genuine, shoulders finally releasing their tension beneath your touch. "I suppose that would be a false dichotomy." Then, after a pause where his eyes actually — finally —trace your silhouette, "Though I have to admit, I'm finding it considerably harder to focus on French existentialism now that I'm not actively trying to ignore-“

"My existence preceding my essence?" You smirk, rolling your hips in a way that makes his breath catch, his head resting on the crushed velvet back of the chair beneath him, his eyes stuck on yours in a narrow gaze.

"That's — uh - that's Sartre, not Camus," he manages, hands still firmly gripped on the armrests like they're keeping him anchored to reality.

"Look at you, still managing to be pedantic." You run a finger down the cable knit of his sweater — Hermès, you notice, because of course it is. "You can touch me, you know. Club rules allow it in private rooms, and I'm giving you permission. Unless you'd rather discuss Kierkegaard's views on anxiety?"

His hands finally leave the armrests, hovering uncertainly near your waist. "I actually did read some Kierkegaard this week too," he admits, and you can't help but laugh at his commitment to the bit. "But maybe,” his hands finally settle on your hips, warm through the thin fabric of your tiny, ruffed lace bottoms, "we could table the philosophical discussion for now?"

"There he is," you murmur, noting how his pupils have dilated, his cheeks having gone pink, his aura radiating like a halo around him in the soft neon light of the shared private room, another dancer nearby with a regular client. "Though I have to say, this is the first time I've had to actively encourage a client to be less respectful."

•

Three months in, and you're lounging by his infinity pool overlooking Central Park. The Upper East Side condo had been a surprise — you'd known he was wealthy from his clothes and manners, but this was old money, generations of it seeping from every handcrafted molding and imported marble tile.

You adjust the Van Cleef he gave you last week — "Just because," he'd said, as if dropping $50K on jewelry was as casual as picking up coffee, and you run your fingers over the spine of Thus Spoke Zarathustra, thinking about power dynamics and the eternal dance between giving and taking — every gift, every dinner, every weekend in the Hamptons — you catalog them mentally, like entries in a ledger.

Not because you're calculating, but because you've learned that everything has a price, even if it's not immediately apparent.

Luigi looks at you like you're an answer to a question he never knew to ask, and when he kisses you, it's reverent, like you're something precious. When he talks about the future, it's with a certainty that would be frightening if you let yourself think about it too deeply.

But you've spent years understanding the transactional nature of desire.

Even as you feel yourself falling into the gravity of his affection, there's a part of you that remains detached, analytical. You recognize his love — it's evident in every gesture, every thoughtful gift, every time he shows up at the club just to drive you home after your shift, never asking you to quit, never making demands.

Your own feelings are more complicated.

You care for him, deeply even, but there's always that voice in the back of your mind tallying the cost of everything, wondering when the bill will come due, because it always does.

It's not that you don't feel love — it's that you've learned to view love itself as another form of currency, something to be exchanged, measured, quantified.

You’re snapped out of your daze when Luigi emerges from the townhouses study nook, still clutching his Advanced Algorithms textbook at his side. He's in his final semester, juggling classes with the machine learning research project he's hoping will revolutionize his family's investment firm.

The place isn't his — it's his parents', who spend most of their time at their place in Puglia.

"My brain is absolutely fried," he groans, collapsing onto the lounge chair beside you, a loud sigh following. "If I have to debug one more recursive function or optimize another binary search tree, I might actually lose it."

You close your Beauvoir and look at him with amusement. "The heir apparent to the Mangione empire, defeated by code?"

"Don't," he mumbles into the cushion. "Papa’s already called twice today to remind me about graduation expectations. Apparently, anything less than building the next revolutionary trading algorithm would be an embarrassment to five generations of Mangione bankers."

You run your fingers through his hair, and he leans into your touch like a cat — for a moment, you see him as he really is, not the polished future tech innovator, not the philosophy-quoting client, but just a 24-year-old kid trying to live up to impossible expectations.

Moving from your own lounge chair to his, you settle into his lap with a practiced grace that blurs the line between habit and performance, your hands splayed across his chest, and you can feel his heartbeat quickening beneath your fingers.

"What would you think if -“ you lean down, pressing kisses along his collarbone, tasting the salty skin of spring and expensive cologne, "I were to treat you tonight?" Your voice carries the same silky tone you use at the club, but there's something else there too — something that makes you uncomfortable if you think about it too hard.

"Mm?" His voice is gentle, soft but frayed around the edges. You can hear the weight of those endless phone calls with his father in it — arguments about the family's ventures, about graduation expectations, about codes both computational and criminal that you don't yet know about. "How so?"

You kiss your way up his neck, buying time, wondering when exactly you started using intimacy as currency, even outside of work.

His hands settle on your hips, and they're trembling slightly — from exhaustion or desire or both.

"Let me take care of you," you murmur against his jaw. "No thinking about algorithms or binary trees or whatever your father wants-“ You feel him tense slightly at the mention of his father, but you continue, "Just us."

He draws back just enough to study your face, and there's something in his gaze that makes your breath catch — like he's reading between the lines of your carefully constructed script, past the glitter and practiced smiles to something you thought you'd buried deep enough that no one would find it.

His thumb ghosts across your lower lip, and you brace yourself — waiting for him to name the thing you both see; how you turn every genuine connection into a filed entry, every moment of vulnerability into a debt to be repaid.

Instead, his voice comes soft as a confession, “You don't have to earn your place here, you know."

The words land like a punch to the chest, stealing your breath mid-motion.

Because isn't that exactly what you've been doing all these years — keeping a running tally, maintaining equilibrium, treating your heart like a balance sheet?

Even here, you're performing mental arithmetic — calculating the precise exchange rate between vulnerability and safety, between affection given and security received.

You recover with the grace of long practice, muscle memory sliding you back into familiar patterns. "Maybe I just want to," you say, but there's a tremor in your voice that betrays you, a hairline crack in carefully maintained armor.

His hands come up to cradle your face like you're something precious, something breakable, and he's looking at you with that devastating combination of tenderness and insight that makes your flight instincts scream. "Tell me what you're thinking," he whispers into the space between you. "Really thinking."

And that's the problem, isn't it?

You're thinking about debt and worth and the price of everything. You're thinking about how many private club dances it would take to equal the necklace around your throat. You're thinking about the way his family's wealth feels like a weight even as it lifts you up.

You think about the way he watches you – not just your body moving through practiced routines, but the quick flash of your wit, the sharp edges of your mind. How he's never once suggested you quit, never tried to "save" you from choices that were always yours to make. How he handles your thoughts with the same reverence others reserve for your curves.

And somewhere beneath the ledgers and calculations, beneath the careful arithmetic of survival, something dangerous is blooming — something that tastes like truth and terrifies you more than any amount of nakedness ever could.

So instead of words, you answer with your mouth against his, and for once there's no performance in it, no mental tallying of what this kiss might be worth.

His fingers thread through your hair like he's memorizing you, and for one crystalline moment, you let the numbers fall away, let yourself exist in the simple miracle of being wanted exactly as you are.

"May I ask something?" Luigi whispers softly against your lips, his palms pressing into your back as if he could somehow draw you closer, make you more real.

"With those manners, you can do just about anything, Lu." you murmur, rolling your hips against his with an urgency that would never appear in your calculated club performances.

"Well," he clears his throat, and you can feel him stalling beneath you. His request had tumbled out rushed and nervous, like ripping off a bandaid, words escaping before he could think better of them. "My parents are coming back from Sicily soon — they do usually in spring." He looks at you sheepishly, sweat beading on his brow. "And we do this dinner-“

You lean up slowly from his neck where you'd been losing yourself in the essence of him, in this space where things are simple. Where there are no student loans crushing your shoulders, no club schedules dictating your nights, no complicated family dynamics lurking beneath perfectly polished surfaces.

"Mm, is that so?" you murmur, studying the way his throat moves when he swallows, the tension gathering in his jaw.

"It is," Luigi says, blinking up at you like he's emerging from deep water. His fingers find the strings of your bikini, twisting them absently — an unconscious tell, like he needs something physical to hold onto while his usually precise mind fumbles for words.

This is the same man who can explain market derivatives or quantum entanglement without breaking stride, but now his throat works visibly, precision failing him when it matters most.

"And- well," he swallows, those clever fingers still tangled in thin strings against your skin, "it wouldn't necessarily be about meeting them - you know- as much as it would be about - uh..."

You can't help the smile that spreads across your face, oddly touched by this glimpse of the infamous Luigi Mangione – who can debate quantum mechanics in three languages – tripping over a simple invitation. "Are you asking me to be your dinner date?"

Your mind immediately unfolds a scene worthy of Gatsby — crystal chandeliers refracting old money whispers, wines older than your grandmother, silverware that could pay off your student loans. You know whatever you're picturing probably falls short of the actual Mangione world, but you let yourself imagine anyway.

His hands are still at your hips, thumbs brushing against bare skin in that absent way of his, like touching you is as natural as breathing. "Not exactly," he admits, and there's something in his voice that makes your heart skip. "I'm asking you to be my date. Period."

The implication settles between you like morning dew — delicate but impossible to ignore.

"Luigi," you breathe, and for once, you're the one struggling for words. “I-“

He shifts beneath you, spine straightening as one arm anchors you against him. His other hand finds your cheek, and those eyes — amber-bright, search your face with an intensity that sends a shiver through you, despite the winter bleeding into a blazing spring.

"I'm asking you to let me introduce you to my family. Properly. As the woman I—" He stops, and you can see the gears turning, watch him weigh each syllable with the same meticulous protection he applies to his billion-dollar code. "I care so much for you."

The words hang between you, heavy with everything he's not quite saying, and you realize this might be the first time in his life Luigi Mangione has chosen imprecise language.

That "care" is a placeholder, a variable waiting to be defined by something larger, something neither of you are quite ready to name.

The words hover between you like smoke, dense with unspoken weight — family legacies, billion-dollar empires, carefully segregated worlds. You think about everything you've heard whispered at the club about the Mangione name, about old money and new power, about the precise way Luigi has always kept his family's orbit separate from your shared nights.

And yet here he is, offering to bridge the gap.

"What do they think of me?"

Something flickers across his face — subtle, but you've learned to read the micro-expressions that betray his thoughts. "My sister already likes you," he says, each word measured and deliberate, his fingers still tracing absent patterns on your skin. "She says you're different — real."

But you notice the careful omission. "And your parents?"

Luigi's jaw tightens just enough to catch the light differently. "My mother," he begins, then seems to reset. "She's traditional. Concerned about appearances. But she'll come around."

The weight of what he's not saying about his father fills the space between his words. "And your father?"

His eyes catch yours, something dark and protective flashing in them. "My father is calculating. He's had his goons look into you." Luigi's fingers press slightly harder into your hips, like he's trying to hold you in place against some unseen current. "He knows about the club. Your student loans. Everything."

"Of course he does," you murmur. You're not shocked about him knowing your connection to the club — given his investment portfolio, that was inevitable — but the thought of strangers dissecting your life still leaves you feeling raw. "And?"

"And he thinks you're either a liability, or an asset. He hasn't decided which yet." Luigi's honesty cuts clean and quick, but his thumbs trace gentle circles against your ribs like an apology. "That's part of why this dinner is important. He'll be watching how you handle yourself."

"A test?" The word tastes bitter.

"Everything's a test with him."

There's something in his voice — not quite resentment, not quite resignation, but somewhere in the territory between the two.

You wonder how many tests Luigi has passed, failed, or refused to take over the years.

You stare down at him, your hands settling over his where they anchor you at your hips. The world seems to quiet around you — just the whisper of leaves in the breeze and distant city sounds filtering through the moment like white noise.

He doesn't shy away from your scrutiny.

Instead, those eyes hold yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch — pleading, vulnerable in a way that seems almost impossible for someone born into his world of calculated moves and careful masks.

But you can't help but appreciate the absurdity of it all.

Your first real conversation had been about existentialism, of all things — you'd challenged his clinical view of human behavior as merely predictable patterns, and he'd been intrigued by your passionate defense of life's beautiful chaos.

Now here you are, living proof of his father's worst nightmare

An unpredictable variable in their carefully ordered world.

Luigi, heir of Marco Mangione, a rich, sophisticated in his own right, business mogul of some sort — important and wealthy enough, you know, for one of his three children to buy the club dancer he’s been seeing for three months a fifty thousand dollar piece of jewelry between an eggs Benedict breakfast and an Eleven Madison Park dinner.

But also Luigi — who showed up at 2 AM after your shift with mint chocolate chip ice cream melting in his Maserati's cup holder, because you'd texted about craving it.

Luigi, who got brain freeze from eating too fast while you both sat in his parked car, you still in your platform heels and him in his $5,000 suit, sharing a single spoon and laughing about nothing.

The duality strikes you; the man who moves billions through digital empires with a keystroke is the one who remembers how you take your coffee. The Mangione heir, and the boy who gets adorably flustered when you wear his dress shirts around.

Then, your mind drifts back to last week's conversation with Julia.

You'd been perched in your usual spot on the dressing room counter, legs swinging, while she sat at her vanity.

"Saw your boy at Paradiso," she'd said, casual in that deliberate way that meant it wasn't casual at all.

Your hands had stilled on your stockings.

Paradiso.

Not just a casino — the casino. Where million-dollar hands were dealt in back rooms and real business happened over whiskey and poker chips.

"He was with his father." Julia had turned then, arm draped over her chair back, dark eyes serious despite her light tone. "Spitting image, those two. But Luigi wasn't playing." She'd paused, checking to see if you were really listening. "He was doing that thing he does — you know, when his brain goes all Beautiful Mind? But he wasn't counting cards. He was watching. Patterns. Players. Money movement."

"His daddy kept introducing him around," Julia had added softly. "To men who looked like they buy countries.”

You realize that this uncertainty is something that fuels your curiosity further — and if you're honest with yourself, it's part of what draws you to him.

You'd seen that same distant look Julia described, but in softer moments; Luigi calculating the exact trajectory needed for a paper airplane to sail from your bedroom window to the fountain below, his hands moving through the air as he mapped invisible vectors.

Or the night he'd gotten excited explaining market microstructures, his brilliant mind spinning beautiful patterns from chaos.

But there's another side to those patterns now.

Its power flows, influence matrices, the invisible algorithms that govern his father's world — and Luigi reads them all like sheet music, even if he never talks about the song they're playing.

His hands tighten slightly on your hips, bringing you back to the present moment; to those brown eyes still watching you, waiting for an answer about a dinner that suddenly feels like more than just meeting the family.

You wonder if he's already mapped out all the variables of this moment.

The invitation isn't just about meeting his mother, enduring his father's scrutiny, or bearing his siblings judgment. It's about acknowledging what you've been carefully not discussing — that falling for Luigi Mangione means entering a world where dinner parties are strategic moves and casual observations can carry the weight of corporate empires.

You think about the way he looks at you sometimes, like you're a glorious aberration in his ordered universe.

"You're thinking too hard," he murmurs, and there's that smile — the real one, not the calculated curve he shows to his professors and business partners. "It's just dinner."

But you both know it's not.

You trace your fingers along his jaw, feeling the slight tension there. "Your father's going to hate me.” you say, but what you mean is: I see the patterns too, even if we don't talk about them.

His eyes darken with something between worry and pride. Because you do see — maybe not the complex mathematics of power and influence that he tracks, but you see him.

The brilliant mind that draws patterns out of mayhem, and the heart that chose disorder anyway.

•

You could spend forever like this with him, lost in the heat of morning light. Luigi's head falls back, eyes half-lidded and languid, looking at you like you're some Renaissance masterpiece come to life.

The months together have stripped away any need for performance, leaving only this raw, honest thing between you.

"You need—" Your words dissolve into a gasp as his hands map the contours of your skin with quiet worship, your hips working over him in gentle circles. "T-to help me pick out a dress."

He lets out a low sound from deep in his throat, his palms steady against your back as he guides you down. The world tilts, and suddenly, he’s above you — lean muscle and sun-warmed skin, haloed by the morning light streaming through the windows. “Mhmm,” Luigi groans, the gold chain around his neck swinging with each rhythmic thrust.

You grasp that same chain, pulling him closer, and he quickly obliges. “Tell me how good it feels,” you whisper against his lips. For a moment, his hips falter, an uncoordinated tempo, but he quickly regains his rhythm. “You’re too quiet today.”

Usually, Luigi would be breathless and chatty, his praise flowing like a devoted worshipper at the feet of a saint. But today, you can sense his anxiety, and it stirs your own.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he breathes, his spit-slicked kisses trailing over your chest, warm tongue tracing your nipples before moving to your neck. “You know you’re my-“ he’s cut off by another low moan, “my sweet girl.”

You’re not convinced, studying his features to find some sort of hidden answer there, but all you can assume is that he’s nervous about the party — about his parents, his grandparents, his siblings, distant relatives — and it does nothing to ease your own nerves.

He whimpers, truly whimpers, your body filled with warmth from the inside out, Luigi riding out the last of his orgasm for every bit it was worth and yet you’d gone rather ridged, shoving his chest down slowly between your legs. “Clean up your mess.” You murmur, more as a demand, which you’d learned rather quickly Luigi liked very much being told what to do.

He’s eager, always.

He first trails his tongue along your thighs, descending to the mess he left inside you, threatening to stain the sheets. “Good boy,” you whisper, running your fingers through his hair—this wouldn’t be the first time he’s tasted himself from you, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last if you had any say in it. “What’s with the radio silence?”

Despite the sight before you — the devotion, the raw intimacy — you can't help but ask.

“I-I’m just tired, I guess.” Luigi is lying, of course; a tired man doesn’t have sex for three hours. He stares at you, his eyes glossy and his mouth slick with his own pleasure, making it hard to take him seriously, yet he looks at you as if he has something to prove.

“Is it about the party?” you ask, gently wiping his mouth with your thumb. “Be honest, Lu.”

He blinks at you several times before allowing himself a slow nod, still lying there between your legs. In this moment, you're both stripped of your usual armor — him without his tailored suits and careful control, you without your practiced distance.

"Should I just-" You close your legs and sit up, leaving him there on sheets. Even now, part of you still wants to solve this for him, make it easier. "Not go? Would it just be easier if I didn't?"

"No." Luigi rises quickly to his knees, crawling across the vast expanse of his bed toward you. The California king makes your studio apartment mattress feel like a child's cot in comparison. "Baby— fuck," he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, a gesture so uncharacteristically unpolished it makes your chest ache. He shakes his head, sighing. "I'm just — yeah, of course I'm nervous." His hands lift in frustration, fingers splayed like he's trying to grasp the right words from the air. "This is the first time I've ever done this."

You turn to look at him finally, having kept your gaze fixed on the Manhattan skyline outside his window. It's easier than seeing him like this — mouth still glistening, cheeks flushed, all his careful composure undone by pleasure and something deeper. "First time you've done what, Lu?"

There's a weighted silence between you, his eyes meeting yours before darting away like he can't quite hold your gaze. It reminds you of those first nights at the club, when he'd try to maintain that perfect Mangione composure while coming undone beneath your hands.

"I've never introduced anyone to my parents." The admission hangs heavy. Luigi's had his share of lovers — you both know this, have discussed the parade of socialites and models that graced his bed through high school and beyond.

But none of them made it past the velvet rope of family approval.

None of them earned a seat at the Mangione table.

You see it now in the slight tremor of his hands, the tension in his shoulders — he's not just afraid of his father's judgment or his mother's disapproval.

He's afraid of the worlds colliding; your straightforward honesty meeting his family's carefully orchestrated performance, the raw truth of what you share together being dissected under crystal chandelier light.

“Fuck.”

#req #luigi mangione x reader #luigi mangione fanfic #I need to learn when to stop yapping

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mariistic · 3 months ago

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Omg other anon inspired me to request cowboy!shauna smut 👀

RECKLESS HANDS ( AND THE WILDEST OF NIGHTS)

cowgirl!shauna shipman × cowgirl!fem reader

synopsis: You've always hated Shauna Shipman. Always. So why the hell does it feel so good when she’s pressing you up against the stable wall?

warnings: third in a series of fics I didn't expect to blow up, cowgirl!shauna, smut, cunnilingus, ambigous smut

The saloon was thick with smoke, the air humming with laughter and drunken voices. You leaned back in your chair, the weight of your latest poker winnings heavy in your pocket. The night was going well—until the doors swung open hard enough to shake dust from the beams.

Shauna Shipman.

She walked in like she owned the place, shoulders squared, golden-brown hair a little wild from the ride in. Her shirt was open at the collar, just enough to hint at sweat-slick skin beneath. She scanned the room, and when her gaze landed on you, her lips curled into that smirk.

You exhaled sharply through your nose. Here we go.

She stalked over, bootsteps slow and deliberate, before stopping at your table. “You’re in my seat.”

You scoffed. “Didn’t see your name on it, Shipman.”

A muscle in her jaw ticked. “You always gotta be difficult?”

“You always gotta be a pain in my ass?”

That smirk deepened. She leaned down, hands braced on the table, her face just inches from yours. You could smell the lingering whiskey on her breath, see the way her pupils dilated when she looked at you.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmured, voice low enough for only you to hear, “you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Heat flared in your chest, twisting into something dangerous. You hated how easily she got under your skin, how she always made you feel like you were one wrong move away from snapping.

Maybe that’s why you followed her when she stormed out of the saloon.

Maybe that’s why, the second she stepped into the shadows of the stables, you grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her back, pressing her against the wooden beam.

“What the hell is your problem?” you hissed, breath coming faster than it should.

Shauna’s hands were on you in an instant, gripping your belt, pulling you even closer. “You,” she shot back. “Always you.”

You had half a second to process that before she kissed you, rough and demanding, all teeth and heat. It was messy, frantic—like the two of you had been waiting for this without even realizing it.

Your back hit the stable wall as Shauna shoved you against it, her hands slipping under your shirt, fingers trailing over the bare skin of your stomach. She was warm, solid, her body flush against yours as her mouth moved against your neck, biting down just enough to make you gasp.

“Hate you,” she muttered against your skin, but her hands were saying something else entirely as she unbuckled your belt, fingers deft and sure.

“Right back at you,” you managed, though the words came out more like a breathless moan when she pressed her thigh between your legs.

The barn smelled of hay and sweat, the only sounds the distant chirping of crickets and the ragged breaths between you. You didn’t care. Not when Shauna was pushing you harder against the wood, her hands gripping your hips, her mouth moving lower—

You let your head fall back, fingers tangling in her hair, pulling her closer, deeper.

You had spent so long fighting her, but right now, in the dark, with her mouth and hands making you forget your own damn name, you realized—maybe this was the only way this could’ve ended.

#shauna yellowjackets #shauna shipman x reader #shauna shipman #smut #I need her in ways that are concerning to the community #what community idk #yellowjackets #yellow jackets x reader #cowboy au #cowboy #mariistic. 🖇

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basicinstinctmacher · 22 days ago

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Dark!Protective Ethan x Sunshine!Reader (my favorite trope)

i kind of want to start writing more dark!protective ethan x sunshine!reader, so look out for that! send in requests if you have any pleasee and i hope you enjoy!

You were not a fearless person. But you were Ethan's.

Ethan, who would quite literally burn down the world for you, he was a fearless person. Fearless in every sense of the word.

Before you met Ethan, one could compare you to a little kid with how easily scared you got in situations that didn't even seem inherently dangerous. Whether it be a creaky floorboard, the tap of a tree branch, there was even a time you got so spooked, you had even convinced Chad that there was actually an evil spirt haunting Sam and Taras apartment. It was just the AC going out.

So one would imagine you to be shaking in your fucking boots when the rest of your friends are scared shitless. But you weren't.

The night had started with what seemed like never ending laughter and chaos. Popcorn, pizza, and a variety of other drinks and snacks littered the coffee table. You all decided to get away for the weekend, rent a cabin in the woods and watch a bunch of horror movies. You know the usual relaxation methods of mentally unwell adults.

"Classic sleepover trope." Mindy started, before Sam cut in. "I swear to god- Please don't jinx us Mindy."

Mindy rolled her eyes as she threw a blanket over herself and Tara. "I'm just saying. We're a group of hot twenty-something year old people, no cell service, middle of nowhere. We're basically begging to d-" Whatever she was going to say next, was long gone.

Because the power cut out.

"Okay, jokes over. Which one of you idiots is trying to be funny right now?" Tara asks with a hint of terror in her voice, as she clings to her phones flashlight like it's a suit of armor. "I don't think that was any of us T." Chad says, trying to keep his voice as steady and even as possible. "I was mid-cheeto crunch when everything went black."

"Maybe the breaker just flipped? Someone go check." Mindy tries coming up with a reasonable explanation. "No way are we splitting up! That's how you die." Sam shuts the idea down quickly. "Aren't you supposed to be the horror movie expert?"

You were standing quietly by the window, your back pressed to Ethan's chest. One arm wrapped firmly around your waist, while the knuckles of his other hand rubbed soothingly up and down your arm. You felt completely grounded. Ethan hadn't said a word since the lights went out.

Then there was a thumping noise. From outside.

Then again, this time the noise was closer.

No one moved. "No. Nope, this is real. This is actively happening. We're going to die in matching pjs." Tara's voice is pitched high in panic as she shuffles closer to Mindy. "Dude, if the way I go out is in matching pajamas with you morons, then I deserve whatever is about to bust through that door and kill us." Ever the sarcastic one Mindy is, even in the face of death.

You watch Chad grab a poker from the fireplace. "I'll defend us with my life."

Ethan still hasn't moved from his spot or said a word. His grip on your waist only got tighter.

And you? You felt completely fine. Your heart didn't even pick up speed. Not once.

Because Ethan wasn't afraid. And if Ethan wasn't afraid, neither were you.

Finally, about twenty minutes and one very tense search later, you all discovered the cause.

It was just a local kid pranking you and your friends. The breaker tampered with and a plastic mask left on the porch as a "joke."

Your friends were shook. Mindy was pacing, Chad was sweating, and Tara looked like she was two seconds away from calling Sidney Prescott to avenge your deaths.

But you? You and Ethan had made yourselves comfortable on the couch. Your legs draped over his lap and cheek squished on to his shoulder, while sipping the hot chocolate he had made for you a few minutes ago.

Sam squints at you questionably, "You're being weirdly calm. Are you not freaked out right now?" You purse your lips and shrug, "Not really. No." She looks at you again this time with furrowed brows. "We all thought we were going to die. Literally die. Like, even I was panicking. And you're just...totally fine?"

"Yeah, I wasn't really that scared." You reply and continue playing with the strings of Ethan's pajama bottoms. "HOW?!?" The core fours voices chorus together in shock.

You smile and nuzzle your cheek against your boyfriend's shoulders, "Because I knew Ethan would never let anything happen to me." They were all quiet for a moment. But Ethan looked down at you with an undeniable look of love in his eyes, before grabbing your hand and giving it a gentle squeeze.

Mindy was the first one to speak, "Damn, okay then. That was somehow romantic and terrifying at the same time."

"She's not wrong." Ethans voice was soft, but lower than it usually was. He tilted his head, eyes dark and unreadable. "If anyone tried to hurt her-" He paused, like he was thinking of the most appropriate way he could say what he wanted. "Well that would be the last thing they'd ever try."

Everyone fell into a stunned silence at that. Not just in what he said, but the way he said it.

You just smiled up at him, placed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and continued sipping on your hot chocolate.

Because you were not fearless by any means. But you belonged to him. And when you belonged in the arms of him...fear didn't stand a fucking chance.

#ethan landry x reader #ethan landry #scream vi #jack champion #jack champion x reader

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memoiresofaneternaldreamer · 4 months ago

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Royal Flush

Pairing: The Magician! Lee Know x Gambler! Reader

Themes: Smut | Strangers to Friends | Friends to Lovers | Crime Syndicate AU

Wordcount: 6.9K

Playlist: 'Don't Fall For Monsters' - DeathbyRomy

Smut Warnings: Explicit sexual acts - Use of money (not for its intended purposes - this is filthy y'all.) - Brat taming - Spanking - Use of a mouth gag - Slight hair pulling - Pet names - Unprotected intercourse (Reader is implied to be on the pill).

This story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors do not interact.

Previous chapter: Gilded Cage - The High Priestess

You hardly remember the first time you played poker.

Your brother had taught you with a deck so old the edges curled, the cards faded soft with time and use. He’d told you the game wasn’t about luck—it was about patience, control, and knowing the people across the table better than they knew themselves. It didn’t matter what you held; it only mattered what they thought you held. You took his lessons to heart and learned how to read a room the way others read a book. And now, years later, poker wasn’t just a skill—it was survival.

But survival was harder these days.

The casinos had shut their doors to you long ago. Once, you’d walked into every brightly lit room with the confidence of a queen, leaving with more money than you had entered with. Too much money. It had taken time for them to notice. They tolerated winners, but not ones who never lost. One by one, the doors closed, their polite refusals hiding the steel of an unspoken blacklist.

So, you’d adapted.

That’s how you found 'The Ante'.

You first heard the name in a hushed conversation between two players who had just taken a beating at an underground tournament. You weren’t supposed to listen, but you always listened. 'The Ante' wasn’t a place you could just find—it found you. An invitation through whispers, a door hidden where no one thought to look. No advertisements, no signs. A secret among secrets.

You weren’t sure what you expected when you arrived the first time. It wasn’t the neon glow of a casino or the seedy, smoky rooms of other illegal parlours you’d played in before. Instead, 'The Ante' was elegant in its secrecy—dark wood, low lighting, an atmosphere thrumming with unspoken rules. There were no bouncers, just men in well-tailored suits who seemed to know everyone’s business without ever asking a question.

And there was money here. More than you’d ever seen in one place. The chips exchanged hands like breathing, fortunes made and lost in a single hand. This was no place for the reckless. The ones who sat at these tables were professionals, players who knew the weight of a gamble when the stakes weren’t just money.

You played. And, as always, you won.

They let you come back.

The more you returned, the more you became a fixture. At first, just another face at the lower tables, but the regulars had started to notice you. Your name wasn’t spoken much, but eyes followed when you played. And then, one night, you were moved to a higher table.

Texas Hold ‘Em. The real game.

It was at that table that you noticed him.

At first, it was subtle—a shadow in your periphery, a presence just beyond your immediate focus. He never sat at your table, not at first, but he was always there. Watching.

The first time you really saw him, it was in a lull between hands, when you let your gaze wander. He was seated at a nearby table, his profile cut sharp against the dim glow of the hanging lamps. Dark hair, sharp nose, a kind of effortless confidence that most men had to cultivate but seemed intrinsic to him. He didn’t fidget, didn’t lounge like the others. He simply existed in the space, quiet but undeniable.

You turned back to your game.

But after that night, you noticed him more. And, more importantly, you saw that he noticed you.

Sometimes, you felt his gaze across the room, a weight just enough to make you aware. Other times, he was seated at your table, playing well enough to blend in but never enough to stand out. He was careful, calculated. And despite yourself, you started to wonder.

Who was he?

The others seemed to know him, at least in the way that they didn’t question his presence. He was greeted with nods, a word here and there, but no one used a name.

It took a while before he spoke to you.

The night was like any other—cards, chips, the steady undercurrent of risk running through the air like a live wire. You had just taken a sizeable pot when you felt the shift. That particular awareness you’d developed when being watched too closely.

And then, he spoke. “You play like you don’t believe in luck.”

His voice was smooth, a casual observation that carried more weight than it should. You turned your head slowly, meeting his gaze for the first time up close. He was just as devastating as this, his eyes dark and knowing, as if he already understood the answer to his own statement.

“That’s because I don’t.” You slid your chips into a neat stack. “Luck is a myth losers tell themselves." A slow, amused tilt of his lips. “That so?” You didn’t answer, but his attention didn’t waver.

“Minho.” He offered the name like a card being dealt, effortless and precise.

You knew better than to give yours. Instead, you hummed, tapping your fingers against the table. “You watch people.” He inclined his head slightly. “So do you.”

It wasn’t a question, just a fact. You studied him a moment longer, searching for something, anything that would explain why he had taken an interest in you.

But Minho gave away nothing.

The dealer called for bets, breaking whatever moment had settled between you. Without another word, Minho returned to his game, attention slipping away like smoke.

But he’d spoken to you now.

And something told you this wouldn’t be the last time.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. Just another face across the table. Another opponent to read, to anticipate, to beat.

But Minho is not just another face.

Despite your best efforts to keep your distance, he manages to slip through the cracks, breaking down your walls brick by brick. He doesn’t push—he doesn’t need to. He simply exists in your space, unshakable, his presence as natural as the cards in your hands. Over months of playing together, of conversations woven between deals and bets, he has become something unexpected.

An almost-friend.

But friendship doesn’t explain the heat that lingers beneath your skin when he’s near. It doesn’t explain how your pulse stutters when he leans in too close, how your mind drifts, unbidden, to the sharp line of his jaw, and how his fingers skim over his chips with lazy precision. The attraction is undeniable, electric.

And yet, you keep it buried. Hidden. Because Minho is too perceptive, too knowing, and the last thing you want is for him to wield that knowledge like a weapon.

So you pretend. You tell yourself it’s nothing.

But Minho is not just another face.

“You always count the chips before you touch them.”

It’s an observation, spoken casually one night after you’ve swept another table clean. Minho is leaning back in his chair, elbow resting on the edge of the felt. He’s not playing, just watching.

You glance at him, his expression unreadable. “Everyone counts their chips.”

“Not like you.” He tilts his head, considering. “You count them before you even move. Before the dealer pushes them toward you.”

You don’t reply; just flick a chip between your fingers before adding it to your stack.

“You don’t trust what you can’t see for yourself.”

The statement is so on the nose that it makes your spine go rigid. You force yourself to remain impassive, offering a slow, practised smirk instead. “Trust is expensive.”

Minho just hums, gaze still sharp. “Good thing you can afford it.”

The conversations never last long, but they always leave something behind. A thought, a lingering thread you can’t quite shake. He never asks about your past, your family, or your life outside of The Ante. But his questions always circle close enough to make you feel like he already knows.

“Why do you do it?” Minho asks one night, watching as you shuffle your deck between hands.

You don’t look up. “Why do I do what?”

“Play like you have something to prove.”

Your fingers still on the deck. Just for a second. It’s brief, but Minho catches it. He always catches it.

You shift, sliding a card between your fingers, the smooth surface grounding. “Everyone has something to prove.”

“Not me.” There’s a small, knowing smile playing on his lips.

You roll your eyes. “Right. You just gamble for the fun of it.”

“Something like that.” His gaze flickers over you, measured and intent. “Or maybe I just like watching you win.”

Your stomach flips at his statement, but you don’t let it show. You force a scoff, tossing the deck onto the table. “I don’t need an audience.”

Minho leans forward just slightly. “You do when they’re playing against you.”

Damn him. He always does this. Turning things around, finding the cracks you don’t think you’ve left exposed.

Despite yourself, despite every instinct screaming at you to stay focused, you start to crave his presence. Even when he sits at your table. Even when he leans in just a little too close to whisper an observation only meant for you. Even when you start to enjoy the back-and-forth, the sharp-edged banter, he challenges you without ever making you feel like a fool.

Over time, the caution dulls. You don’t let your guard down—not completely—but you let him in. Just a fraction. Just enough.

Minho, for his part, is never pushy. Never overt. But he’s there. And he sees you.

It’s late one night when he finally says something that unsettles you.

The room is quieter than usual, the main crowd already gone, leaving only the most dedicated gamblers still at their tables. You and Minho are alone in one of the back rooms, an unspoken ritual you’ve fallen into—small, casual games just between the two of you. No money exchanged, just cards and conversation.

You deal a hand, watching as he picks up his cards. He doesn’t even glance at them before setting them back down.

“You should walk away.”

Your brow furrows. “From this hand?” You look down at your own cards. “Seems a little premature.”

“Not the hand.” He watches you carefully, his fingers drumming lazily against the felt. “The game.”

Something sharp twists in your chest, but you ignore it. “I don’t run.”

Minho tilts his head. “Not even when it’s the smartest move?”

You exhale through your nose, shaking your head. “You think you know everything, don’t you?”

“Not everything.” He leans forward just slightly, voice softer now, almost... careful. “Just you.”

Your pulse jumps. Your throat goes dry.

You can’t let him see it.

So you push back. “That’s a dangerous thing to assume.”

Minho just smiles, slow and knowing. “I don’t assume.”

You don’t sleep well that night. You tell yourself it’s because of the game, the risk, and the stakes that grow higher each time you walk through The Ante’s doors. But deep down, you know it’s not just that.

Minho is an enigma, wrapped in charm, strategy, and an unsettling amount of knowledge—knowledge about you.

And that should terrify you. But somehow, it doesn’t.

Not enough to walk away.

The air inside The Ante is thick tonight, buzzing with the usual undercurrent of wealth and risk, but for once, you barely feel it. Your pulse is a heavy beat in your ears, your fingers tingling with an energy that isn’t anticipation—it’s desperation.

The letter had arrived last night.

A final notice from the debt collectors. Bills you and your brother had long forgotten about, payments that had slipped through the cracks while you were busy just trying to stay afloat. And now, the consequences loomed over you. If you didn’t come up with the money soon, you’d lose your home.

So here you are.

The moment you step inside, you search for a table. You don’t want to talk. You don’t want to think. You need to win. You don’t see him at first. But Minho sees you.

You don’t notice the way his gaze sharpens from across the room, or how his usual air of casual observance turns more acute. He leans against the bar, a glass of whiskey in his hand, watching as you storm toward the high-stakes tables. Something is wrong. He sees it immediately.

The way your hands twitch at your sides, your shoulders wound too tight. The barely contained agitation in every step, the way you scan the tables with restless energy. Reckless energy.

You aren’t acting like yourself tonight.

Minho moves before he even realises he’s made the decision. He shouldn’t. He should let you play, let you lose, let the game do what it always does to those who lack restraint. But he’s already there, stepping into your path before you can sit down.

“You need to leave.”

You jerk to a stop, looking up at him with wide eyes, caught off guard by his sudden appearance. “Excuse me?”

Minho’s expression is unreadable, but there’s a weight in his gaze that makes something tighten in your stomach. “You’re not thinking straight.”

You scoff, stepping around him, but he moves just as fast, blocking your path again. “Minho, move.”

“No.” His voice is calm, but firm. “Not when you’re like this.”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides. “Like what?”

His gaze flicks over you, taking in the tension in your shoulders, the way you shift your weight like you’re barely keeping still. “Like you’re about to make a mistake.”

Something inside you snaps. You lean in, voice sharp. “I don’t need you to save me.”

Minho exhales slowly, his jaw flexing. “I know.” His voice lowers, almost too soft to hear. “But you’re not playing to win tonight. You’re playing to survive. And that’s how you lose.”

You don’t have time for this. You push past him before he can say another word, leaving him standing there as you approach the high-stakes table.

Minho watches you go, his lips pressed into a thin line.

At the bar, Jeongin watches him.

He doesn’t speak immediately; he just sips his drink, amusement dancing in his eyes. Then, finally— “That was interesting.”

Minho doesn’t have to turn to know who the voice belongs to. He sighs, bringing his glass to his lips before responding. “Jeongin.”

Jeongin grins, eyes flicking between his friend and where you now sit, already placing your first bet. “You’ve been acting weird lately, you know that?” He hums. “And now I know why.”

Minho finally looks at him, his expression blank. “You don’t know anything.”

Jeongin hums, unconvinced. “You sure about that?” He takes another slow sip, gaze still on you. “Because I know that look. And I know you.”

Minho exhales through his nose, setting his glass down. “She’s reckless tonight.”

Jeongin raises an eyebrow. “And you’re going to help her, aren’t you?”

Minho doesn’t respond.

Instead, he pushes off the bar and walks toward your table.

Jeongin watches, head tilted, studying his friend. He sees the way Minho sits down without hesitation, how his focus never wavers from you. Then, as the game unfolds, he watches something even more intriguing—Minho folding good hands, keeping bad ones, deliberately shifting the game’s momentum in your favour.

Jeongin grins to himself.

Oh, this is interesting indeed.

Finally, after a few hands, he downs the last of his drink and strolls toward the table, sliding into an open seat across from Minho.

Minho’s eyes flick up, sharp, but Jeongin only offers a lazy smile as he places his first bet.

“Let’s up the ante, shall we?”

The game begins.

You settle into your seat, your fingers curling around your chips as you scan the table. Blackjack. A game of precision, of risk, of the perfect balance between patience and impulse.

And you need to win.

Jeongin grins at you from across the table, his posture relaxed, his confidence unchecked. He doesn’t hide it when he’s dealt a good hand. He lets the satisfaction show, each smirk a sharp edge against your concentration.

“Don’t look so tense,” he drawls, stacking his chips neatly. “It’s just a game.”

You ignore him, your focus locked onto the cards. You think through every possible move, every scenario. But you’re too reckless tonight. The desperation humming beneath your skin clouds your logic, making your decisions a second too slow, a little too aggressive. You take unnecessary risks. And Jeongin—sharp, watchful, merciless—takes full advantage.

He capitalises on each mistake you make. With every misstep and every slight overreach, he turns against you.

Minho, silent as ever, watches.

Unlike Jeongin, he plays passively, almost too passively. Folding on hands he could win. Raising bets when he shouldn’t. You notice, your frustration simmering beneath the surface. What the hell is he doing?

But Minho doesn’t react to your irritation. He stays calm, his expression unreadable as he watches Jeongin play you like a violin.

And then Jeongin starts really playing.

“You’re cute when you concentrate.” His voice is light, teasing, but the glint in his eyes is razor-sharp.

You barely flick him a glance. “Shut up and play.”

“Oh, I am playing.” He leans in slightly, his smirk widening. “Just not the way you think.”

Your grip on your cards tightens. Minho shifts slightly in his seat, his jaw ticking.

Jeongin notices and his smirk deepens.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he muses, flipping a card with lazy ease. “You look like you’re about to snap. What’s wrong? Not used to someone getting under your skin?”

You glare at him, but he only chuckles, thoroughly enjoying himself.

Minho clears his throat, his voice quiet but firm. “Jeongin.”

Jeongin lifts a brow, feigning innocence. “What?”

Minho doesn’t respond, but the look he gives Jeongin is dark, edged with something unreadable. Jeongin simply tilts his head, considering him before turning back to you.

“What do you think, princess?” His voice is deliberately slow, drawn out. “Should I go easy on you? Maybe I should let you win a little, build your confidence.”

That’s it. You snap.

Your hands slam down on the table as you lean forward, fury burning in your chest. “What the hell is your problem?”

Jeongin only leans back, completely unbothered. “My problem?” He hums, pretending to think. Then, with an infuriatingly slow smile, he tilts his head. “Do you even know who you’re talking to right now?”

Your breath is coming too fast, your heart hammering against your ribs. You don’t know what’s more frustrating—the fact that you’re losing or how he looks at you like this is all some elaborate game with no real stakes.

He watches you for a moment, then delivers the final blow.

“Maybe you should watch your tone. Might find yourself in real trouble one day, sweetheart.”

You lurch forward, ready to snap back—ready to do something—but before you can, Minho stands.

The chair barely makes a sound as he moves, but the weight of his presence is a full stop to everything. The air changes. Jeongin doesn’t flinch, but he notices.

Minho is calm on the surface, but Jeongin can see it. The barely contained fury just beneath. The tightness in his jaw, the slight curl of his fingers.

Hook. Line. And sinker.

Minho’s voice is low. Dangerous. “Leave. Now.”

Jeongin looks up at him, utterly pleased with himself. "Fine." He shrugs, slow and casual, before reaching for his chips and shoving them across the table toward you.

“I fold.”

You blink.

Your frustration is still sizzling, your breath still unsteady, but the weight of Jeongin’s departure registers before anything else. You’ve won. You should feel relief.

But there’s no time.

Before you can even begin to process, Minho is moving.

He grabs your wrist, his grip firm but not painful, and pulls you up from your seat. “Come with me.”

You yank your arm slightly, trying to pull away. “Minho, what—”

He doesn’t answer. He moves quickly, cutting through the parlour, pulling you behind him with a silent determination that makes your stomach twist.

“Minho, stop—”

He doesn’t. Not until he reaches a private room, shoving the door open and pulling you inside with him.

You whirl around, heart pounding. “What the hell—”

The door clicks shut. The lock turns.

The room is thick with tension, the air sharp as a blade.

Minho turns to look at you, eyes dark, frustration bleeding through every inch of him. His shoulders are tense, his breath unsteady, and you can see it—the barely restrained anger simmering just beneath his skin. And yet, despite all of that, you have the audacity to look angry at him.

“What the hell were you thinking?” His voice cuts through the silence like a lash.

You scoff, your own frustration igniting. “Excuse me?”

Minho steps closer, jaw clenched. “You were reckless out there. Jeongin was eating you alive, and you just—” He shakes his head, exhaling sharply. “You would have lost everything.”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides. “And what? You think you helped me?” You let out a bitter scoff. “You were throwing hands away, Minho. You were playing like a goddamn idiot.”

“I was trying to keep you from destroying yourself.”

You take a step forward, anger snapping between you. “I don’t need your help. I don’t need anybody’s help.”

Minho lets out a dry, humourless laugh, shaking his head. “And that—” He points at you, his voice rising. “That right there is the fucking problem.”

You freeze, your pulse hammering in your ears.

His voice is rough, edged with something deeper than just frustration. “You are too goddamn proud to ask for help, even when you need it. Even when you know I can help you.” He exhales sharply, his hands flexing at his sides. “Even when I want to help you.”

The words hit you like a strike to the chest, knocking the air from your lungs. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. You just stare at him, searching his face, trying to make sense of it. Trying to understand his words and actions for what they truly are.

The air shifts.

Minho just steps closer, crowding your space, his voice quieter now, more controlled.

“What’s going on?”

You swallow, glancing away, but his rough, unyielding fingers suddenly touch your chin. He forces your gaze back to his, and the intensity in his eyes makes your breath hitch.

You want to fight it. You want to keep pretending. But the weight of everything crashes over you all at once—the debt, the fear, the exhaustion of trying so damn hard to keep yourself together.

Your voice comes out small, barely a whisper. “I don’t know what to do.”

Minho’s grip loosens slightly, his expression shifting. The fire in his eyes dims just enough to reveal something softer underneath, something that looks an awful lot like understanding. And care.

And then, his lips twitch into a smirk.

“Well then, angel,” he murmurs, his fingers still resting against your skin. “You’re in luck.”

Your brows furrow, confused. “What?”

Minho leans in, his breath brushing against your ear, his voice dropping into something impossibly low, impossibly smooth.

“I can make your problems disappear if I give you the money you need.”

Your breath catches. You pull back slightly, searching his face for any sign that he’s joking. But his expression is unreadable, his gaze locked onto yours with a quiet certainty.

You shake your head, incredulous, the movement obstructed by his hand. “That’s insane. You can’t do that.”

Minho tilts his head, amusement flickering across his face. “Can’t I?”

You open your mouth to argue, but before you can say anything, his lips crash into yours.

The world stops.

His mouth is firm, insistent, claiming you with a confidence that leaves you breathless. You don’t have time to think, to process, to even decide whether you want this—because in your heart, you realise you already do.

Maybe in this particular game, folding isn't all that bad.

The moment you finally give in, the world tilts.

Minho’s lips are hot and demanding against yours, stealing the breath from your lungs as you melt into him. There is no hesitation now, no lingering doubt. Just the press of his body against yours, the rough scrape of his hands on your hips, and the undeniable hunger building between you.

The kiss deepens, turning desperate. Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and he groans low in his throat as his tongue slides against yours. His hands on your body guide you backwards, and though you don’t know where he’s taking you, you follow. You would follow him anywhere in this moment.

Then, the edge of a desk meets the curve of your ass, halting your movements. Minho presses into you, pinning you against the wood, and the sensation sends heat curling through your belly. Without thinking, you hike one leg up to his hip, pulling him even closer. He responds instantly, grinding against you, letting you feel exactly how much he wants this. Wants you.

A whimper escapes you as his lips leave yours, trailing down your jaw to the curve of your neck. He presses open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin there, his teeth grazing ever so slightly, sending a shiver down your spine. You arch against him, your fingers threading through the hair at the nape of his neck, urging him to stay right there, to never stop.

His grip tightens on your waist, his fingers digging into you even through the fabric of your clothes. Then suddenly—he spins you around.

Your palms slap against the desk, your body caged between the hardwood and the solid heat of Minho’s chest at your back. His hands find your hips again, but this time, his movements are slower, more deliberate. He grinds against you, letting you feel the pressure of his growing cock.

A soft moan slips past your lips before you can stop it. “Minho—”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, his lips return to your neck, pressing slow, teasing kisses along your skin as his hands wander—over your hips, your waist, your stomach, your breasts, everywhere but where you need him most.

“You’re always so independent,” he murmurs, his voice low and dangerous. “But look at you now. Falling apart in my hands.”

His words send a shiver down your spine.

“Minho, please—”

He hums, his hands still exploring, still teasing. “You know what’s funny?” He nips at your earlobe, his breath hot. “I want to take care of you. I could take care of you. I have more money than I know what to do with.” His fingers tighten on your waist. “But you don’t let me, do you?”

You gasp as he grinds his hips into you harder, the pressure sending your mind reeling. “I—I don’t need—”

“You don’t need anyone.” He finishes for you, his tone edged with frustration. “Trust me, I know. You keep me at arm’s length, always pulling away before I can get too close.”

His lips move along the curve of your shoulder. “But you don’t see it, do you?” His voice is raw, strained. “How long I’ve been craving you? Desperate for you? Pining for you?”

The confession steals your breath.

Minho has never been this open. Never let his mask slip so completely. And the realization crashes into you with force—you’ve been so wrapped up in your own struggles that you never saw just how deeply Minho has been affected by you.

You open your mouth, but the words don’t come. Instead, your body reacts, arching into him, silently pleading.

“I do,” you finally whisper. “I see you.”

The moment the words leave your lips, Minho stills.

For a second, there’s only silence, only the sound of your ragged breaths mixing together in the charged space between you.

Then—

A deep, satisfied hum. Minho’s lips brush against your ear, his voice rougher, smug, teasing.

“I don’t think you do.”

One of his hands moves to the centre of your back, pressing firmly between your shoulder blades. The pressure is just enough to guide you down, forcing you to bend over the desk.

“But no worries, angel.” His tone drips with promise. “I’ll prove it to you.”

The weight of Minho’s palm between your shoulder blades keeps you steady, your breath shallow as you brace yourself against the desk. The air is thick with heat, tension coiling between you both like a live wire.

His voice is soft but firm as he leans in. “Do you want this?”

You nod, the motion frantic, desperate.

Minho hums lowly, not satisfied. “Say it.”

Your fingers grip the edge of the desk. “I want it.”

A slow, approving sound rumbles from his chest. “Good girl.” He straightens up behind you, the loss of his warmth making you whimper. “Keep holding onto the desk. Don’t let go.”

You obey instantly, tightening your hold. Then, his hands return to your body, skimming down your back, over the curve of your hips and down the back of your thighs before tugging up your skirt. Cool air kisses the exposed skin of your ass, making you shiver.

Minho groans at the sight of you; pliant, waiting, your thong doing absolutely nothing to hide your already glistening flesh from him. His palm trails over your ass, kneading, exploring before his hand travels lower, thumb catching beneath your underwear, gently brushing against your hole. You shift your hips at his actions, goading him to enter. But, he doesn’t. Not yet. His hand moves instead, pulling your underwear down until it pools at your feet.

You hear rustling behind you, but you’re bent too far forward to see what he’s doing. The anticipation is unbearable, your body already wound too tight as you wait for what’s next.

Then—

A sharp slap lands against your ass, the sudden sting making you gasp.

The sound of your own moan surprises you, but before you can process it, Minho’s hand is back, soothing over the place where he struck you. His touch is warm, almost reverent.

Then another slap—harder this time.

You moan again, louder, the pain mixing so deliciously with pleasure that it makes your thighs clench.

Minho is breathing heavily behind you, his voice rough with something darker, something unrestrained. “Will you take my money, angel?” Another slap, sharper, making your whole body jolt. “Will you take what I give you?”

Before you can even form a reply, something lands on the desk beside your head with a soft thud. You blink, dazed, looking at the object—

A neatly wrapped stack of hundred-dollar bills.

Your breath catches in your throat.

Surely he didn’t?

Another rustle of fabric, another stack of cash withdrawn from inside his suit jacket. You don’t even get a moment to prepare before the crisp bills meet your already sore skin with another sharp smack.

You barely have time to process the mortifying, yet utterly filthy realization before another slap lands—Oh yes, he did.

A desperate moan rips from your throat. “Fuck, Minho.”

He chuckles darkly behind you, clearly enjoying this. “That got your attention, didn’t it?”

Your body arches involuntarily, a wanton moan spilling from your lips as the sting sinks into your bones, the ache blooming into something wickedly addicting. You absentmindedly note the moisture leaking from your pussy, your core clenching around nothing, desperate to be filled.

Minho notices.

He brings his thumb back to your slit, gathering your juices before pressing inside. The first feeling of having him inside your walls is enough to make you cry out. Minho’s voice is a low, sinful whisper in response. “You want it all, angel?” Another slap, another jolt of pleasure, his thumb plunging deeper in tandem. “You want all my money?”

You nod frantically, your grip tightening on the desk as your legs threaten to give out beneath you.

Minho grunts, clearly just as affected. His movements are rough as he removes his thumb from your core, before you hear him unbuckle his belt and zip open his pants. “I’ll give it to you. I'll give you everything."

He enters you with one swift thrust of his cock, pushing you forward and filling you to the brim.

“Ohhhhhh… Fuck. Yes.” You scream at the sudden, overwhelming sensation as your walls struggle to accommodate the sheer girth of him. The sudden stretch, the overwhelming fullness—it’s too much and not enough all at once. Your fingers claw at the desk, trying to anchor yourself as he groans, his grip on your hips tightening like a vice.

“Fuck, angel.” His voice is rough, ragged, vibrating with barely restrained hunger. “You feel even better than I imagined.”

He gives you no time to adjust, no pause to ease you in. His patience snaps like a frayed wire, and then he’s moving, setting a brutal pace, slamming your hips against the desk with every thrust. The impact sends shudders through your body, pleasure mixing with the delicious sting of the wood biting into your skin.

You can’t stay quiet. The sounds spilling from your lips are loud, uncontrollable, echoing off the walls. You’re vaguely aware of how loud you are, but it’s impossible to care when Minho is fucking you like this—like he owns you, like he’s been starving for you.

Minho, however, is very aware of the noise. He grits his teeth, knowing anyone outside this room could hear you, and he doesn’t want to share. Not when it comes to you. His mind flickers through solutions before the perfect idea strikes him.

With one hand still gripping your waist, he reaches forward, snatching one of the stacks of money he’d used on you earlier. His hand abandons your hip to tighten in your hair instead, pulling you up until your back is flush against his chest. A sharp gasp leaves your lips at the unexpected movement, your scalp tingling from the tension of his grip. His cock moves inside of you at the new angle, brushing against your most sensitive spot.

Minho’s mouth is at your ear in an instant, his voice a mix of dominance and amusement. “You’re too fucking loud, angel. I should’ve expected that.” He nips at your earlobe, releasing your hair so his hand can snake down to rest against your throat. “Open your mouth.”

Your breath stutters, a desperate moan catching in your throat. But you obey, parting your lips without hesitation.

A low chuckle rumbles against your back. “Good girl.”

Then, he slips the folded stack of hundred-dollar bills into your waiting mouth. The paper presses against your tongue, muffling the noises you hadn’t been able to stop. The sheer filthiness of this action sends a fresh wave of arousal crashing through you.

Minho releases your throat, letting you drop forward onto the desk again. The money stays between your lips, soft gasps and muffled cries escaping around it.

“That’s better.” His hands return to your hips, gripping you even harder before he resumes his ruthless pace. “Now I can fuck you properly.”

And he does. Harder, deeper, his pace relentless as he claims you completely. Every thrust of his cock forces the desk to creak beneath you, forces the stack of money to shift between your teeth, forces more desperate moans past your muffled lips. Your hips are starting to bruise, the edge of the desk slamming into you again and again.

Minho is right behind you, chest heaving, hands roaming possessively over your body. He watches the way you tremble beneath him, the way you take every inch of him like you were made for it.

“You like this, don’t you?” His voice is thick with satisfaction. “You love letting me use you. Love my money in your mouth while I fuck you senseless.”

You can only whimper, the sound pitiful and needy, as you nod your head meekly. But it’s enough. Minho groans, his fingers digging into your hips as he picks up the pace again, determined to ruin you completely.

It’s not long until the pleasure reaches an insurmountable high. Minho’s hand snakes between your bodies, his fingers landing on your clit, drawing quick circles over the pulsing nub. You can feel yourself teetering on the edge, so close to orgasm, yet needing something more to completely let go.

Minho notices it, too. His grip tightens, his pace turning almost brutal as he drives you both closer. “Come for me, angel.” His voice is low, commanding, rough with need. “Now.”

The moment his words hit, the coil inside of you snaps.

A shattering cry is ripped from your throat—muffled by the money still between your lips—as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you, your orgasm overtaking you. Your body tightens, locks up, then shudders violently as you’re pulled under completely, lost in the overwhelming pleasure of it all.

Minho curses under his breath, his rhythm stuttering as your core clenches around him, dragging him down with you. It doesn’t take him long to follow. His fingers dig bruises into your skin, his breath coming in harsh, uneven pants as he follows, his cock pulsing as he comes inside, his seed painting your walls.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your combined breathing, ragged and uneven, filling the space between you.

Minho slowly withdraws, his hands smoothing over your trembling body as he straightens up, buttoning his trousers with ease. You sag against the desk, boneless, your body still humming from the aftershocks of pleasure, his cum slowly trickling out of you.

Then, gentle hands guide you upward. Minho tugs your underwear back into place, his fingers lingering at your entrance, scooping up some of his release before pushing it gently back inside of you. You gasp at the feeling; he just smirks in response. Then, with slow care, he smooths your skirt back into place before turning you around to face him.

His arms encircle you, drawing you close. The heat of his body, the steady rise and fall of his chest, feels grounding. You sigh against him, pressing your forehead to his collarbone as his hand drifts up and down your back in soothing strokes. There’s something incredibly intimate about it—more so than your tryst a few minutes ago.

Minho tilts your chin with two fingers, his gaze heavy-lidded but soft. He leans in, kissing you deeply, languidly, as if savouring you. When he finally pulls away, his lips hover just over yours as he murmurs, “You’re mine now, angel.”

It’s not a question; it’s a statement. The possessiveness in his voice should make you tense, should have you pushing back. But you don’t. Instead, a warmth spreads through your chest, curling around your ribs like something safe, something right. You simply nod, eyes hazy, breathless. “Yes.”

Minho smirks, satisfied, before pulling you in closer. Another kiss follows—It’s indulgent, unhurried, as if neither of you wants to let go just yet.

Eventually, he steps back, his fingers tangling with yours as he pulls you toward the door. He doesn’t say a word, and you don’t ask where you’re going. You follow, because something in you trusts that wherever Minho leads, you’ll be okay.

The hallway is quieter than before, the energy of the night simmering down. You pass the high-stakes table where you played Jeongin, but the seats are empty, the chips and money gone. Your brows furrow as you glance at the felt surface. Where did everything go?

Minho doesn’t explain. Instead, he guides you outside, where a sleek black car waits at the curb. A driver stands by, eyes forward, silent.

Minho opens the door for you, motioning for you to get in. You slide onto the cool leather seats, the interior dimly lit by soft ambient lighting. Minho follows, settling beside you before reaching into the door’s side pocket. He pulls out a thick envelope and places it in your lap.

You blink, fingers hesitating before picking it up. The weight of it is substantial. Slowly, you open the flap and peer inside.

A cheque.

Your winnings from the game—and then some. More than enough to cover what you owe, more than enough to keep you afloat.

Your breath catches, but before you can even process the relief of it, something else inside the envelope catches your attention. A card, smooth and matte black with elegant gold lettering.

You pull it out, turning it over.

The Magician.

The air shifts.

You whip your head toward him, your heart pounding, your breath shallow. He watches you, amusement flickering in his eyes as if he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

“You…” The words barely come out. “You’re—”

His smirk is slow, deliberate.

Your stomach twists, your mind reeling. Everything suddenly makes sense—the way he moved through the club like he owned it, the way everyone seemed to know him, the way he always had an edge, always knew things he shouldn’t.

And now, you realise, he’s just claimed you. And you let him.

You’re his white rabbit.

And the game is just beginning.

A/N: Welp, this officially might just be the longest and filthiest thing I have ever written. For those of you who stayed until the end, did you like it? Quick reminder: If you want to be added to the taglist and stay updated, send me a message! 💟

Send me your thoughts - feedback/fangirling is always welcome.

Taglist: @hanjisungs-bitch66 - @smartie-pants - @inniesfanblog

(Collage created by me. Credits to owners of the pictures taken from Pinterest)

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thespnreferencedesk · 5 months ago

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A Fic Writer's Guide to Bobby's House

Part 1 | Part 2: Library/Den

Click for the full-size, annotated versions of images!

Bobby's library is the unofficial home base of many of the show's earlier seasons. If you keep an eye out, you can spy a handful of objects and pieces of furniture consistently popping up over this room's many appearances, but no two episodes have them arranged the same way. It's also very often that a piece of furniture will pop up in one episode only to be gone the next. Since 4.02 reveals that Bobby has a spare storage room upstairs, it's possible that's where he keeps most of this extra furniture.

There are two main iterations of Bobby's den. The first appears during seasons 1 - 3 and features less furniture, far more books, dark brown trim instead of black, and a different wallpaper (or no wallpaper in 1.22). The new wallpaper and black trim first appear in 3.10, and they can be seen alongside the new layout in seasons 4 - 7. This iteration of the library includes a large Persian rug, ornate wooden desk, twin book shelves to the left of the fireplace, a floor lamp and bookshelf to the right of the fireplace, the red couch in front of a set of bay windows, a half bookshelf in the far left corner, and a rolltop desk in the far right.

A large Persian area rug typically sits in the center of the room except for when some type of trap is being painted on the floor. A devil's trap can be seen on the ceiling in 1.22 and 6.20. Bobby's ceiling is beige and has wooden beams that match the rest of the trim.

The heart of Bobby's library is a wood-burning fireplace with green tiled surround and a black carved mantle where Bobby keeps books and random knick-knacks. In the later seasons, these include a small bulldog statue/bookend, a pewter pitcher with tankards, two silver trophies, and a wooden antique radio. Above the fireplace is a landscape painting framed by two electric wall sconces.

Decorations aside, Bobby's fireplace is also a practical hunter's tool. It's often used as a flame source for spells, and the iron pokers and other tools make for an easy handheld weapon against ghosts and specters. In 5.04, it's revealed that the center section of the mantle hides a secret compartment where he keeps a hunting journal similar to John's.

Bobby's carved wooden desk is first seen in 4.02 and, with a few exceptions, appears consistently up until it burns with the rest of Bobby's house. Earlier episodes (3.03, 3.04) either have a simpler table in its place or no desk at all (seasons 1 - 2).

Bobby's desk is a free-standing open pedestal desk with turned legs, lower shelves, and diamond-shaped carvings. Based on the style, it's likely from the late 19th or early 20th century. Similar desks can be seen here and here. The desk also has three shallow upper drawers, two deeper drawers on each pedestal, and a green stone top that Bobby uses as a chalkboard for spells. In 5.18, it's shown that Bobby keeps his Single-Action Army revolver in one of the drawers. In 6.15, Balthazar is rummaging through Bobby's drawers and finds a saint's bone underneath a false drawer bottom.

In seasons 4 - 5, Bobby tends to use a black flexible goose-neck desk lamp. Starting in season 6, he switches this lamp for a thin, rectangular, golden brown mid-century lamp. It could be assumed that this lamp was also destroyed in the fire that burned Bobby's house, but it actually shows up in Dean's bedroom in the Bunker in later seasons. So either the Men of Letters had the same lamp, Dean found a similar one at a thrift store at some point, or he was able to recover the lamp from the ruins of Bobby's house.

In seasons 1 - 3, the corner to the left of Bobby's fireplace contained the rolltop desk, a console table, and piles of books. This layout can still be seen in 4.01, but it is replaced in 4.02 with two matching bookshelves. The more left of the two bookshelves has a black gooseneck lamp clamped onto the top shelf, and sometimes a dining chair stacked with extra books is also pushed into this corner. Inside of Bobby's mind in 7.10, these shelves also hold framed photos of Bobby with loved ones as well as a book cut out to hide an elaborate crucifix.

Along with the matching bookshelves, 4.02 places a floor lamp, chair, and upright bookcase in the corner to the right of the fire place. This chair is typically some kind of living chair but is sometimes one of the wooden dining chairs that frequently get moved around the library. Next to the bookcase, underneath the bay window, is a red couch with a faint swirl pattern, carved wooden feet, and decorative panels on the arms. Bobby also owns a matching armchair (5.18, see above), but it is not usually seen in the library.

This couch is where Sam or Dean sleep while at Bobby's. If the both of them are there, Sam takes the couch while Dean sleeps on the floor (4.02, above). A gray blanket with faint stripes pops up in a few episodes as well as a striped pillow that appears to match the pillows on the cot in the panic room and in the linen closet upstairs (4.02). Various end tables and dining chairs get moved around the couch and used as nightstands or bookshelves.

To the right of the couch is a half bookshelf and console table stacked with books. In season 5, the console table is replaced with a vintage stereo cabinet. The stereo is used as a table and sometimes holds records (5.18 - 5.21), sometimes holds drawers and books, and sometimes holds a TV (6.04). A similar stereo can be seen here, though note that Bobby's has tapered legs. Also note that the wall sconce in this corner is the only one in this room that has two lights instead of one.

A pair of black pocket doors sits at the back wall of the library and leads to the kitchen. These doors slide into the wall rather than opening in- or outward, and are typically left closed. To the right of the doors is a black double light switch.

To the right of the pocket doors are typically a dining chair stacked with books, a black trunk, an upright blueprint holder filled with maps and plans, and at various times books and a radio. When this radio isn't on the trunk, it tens to sit on top of Bobby's rolltop desk alongside one of his many desk lamps and a decanter and glassware set. This desk is also where Bobby keeps a CB radio (used in 5.10).

Like Bobby's main desk, the rolltop desk is also either likely from the early 18th or early 19th century or is a replica of a desk from that period. It's always seen open and has an assortment of small drawers, cubbies, and cabinets on the desktop. It has a center drawer, and four drawers on the pedestals, and sits on casters so it can be easily moved.

As previously mentioned, there are several variations of Bobby's library within the show. In it's first appearance in 1.22, the library didn't have it's signature red wallpaper. The first wallpaper appears in 2.14 and has a toile pattern while the second wallpaper has a look closer to a jacquard or brocade. When we see Bobby's heaven in 10.17, the wallpaper (and rug and radio and couch...) is different once again.

Sometime between seasons 3 and 4, the dark brown wood trim in Bobby's library is painted black. In season 5, while Bobby uses a wheelchair, the couch is replaced with a twin bed with wooden headboard.

Bobby's library gets neater and cozier with every episode. What is little more than a dark place to stack hundreds of books in its first appearance is, by season 7, a proper living space with multiple light sources, tchotchkes, records, a couch, and pillows. No wonder it's the place where time and time again someone is brought when they need to stay somewhere safe and familiar. After years of being alone after his wife's death, it's almost as if reconnecting with his boys motivated Bobby to finally turn his house back into a home.

#my guides #art refs #locations #bobby's house #singer auto salvage #sioux falls #bobby singer

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monster-disaster · 21 days ago

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[monsters] The Fog & Horn 1/2

monsters x human!Reader Good to know: minotaur, vampire, wolf-shifter, human male (not Reader). blood sucking, not full smut yet, but close.

Summary: Boss's pub started with a storm and a poker game...

Main Masterlist // More stories about the pub // And we spend this month in Boss's pub on my Patreon

"Nobody is coming out in this weather." Your voice is barely louder than the relentless drumming of rain on the freshly cleaned windows.

It isn't just falling. No. It's hammering down in thick, punishing sheets that swallow the world outside. The heavy drops make it impossible to see the other side of the road, and even the pale light of the streetlamps bleeds into the foggy, blurred smear across the slick cobblestones.

This kind of weather is nothing new in Grimbrook. The town practically wears it like a second skin, but tonight, it feels worse. It's heavy and threatening, ready to pull the ground from under your feet. Like the sky wants to pin everything down with its weight.

The scent of polished wood and dried paint is now fading, overpowered by the thick, wet smell of rain and-

"And it smells like a wet dog in here," Eva mutters, wrinkling her nose and tossing a disdainful sideways glance toward the wolf-shifter sitting at the bar. His fur is soaked, water dripping steadily from his dark, damp coat into the little puddles gathering around him.

The shifter bares his teeth in return, bristling at the vampire's comment. "I can't help it, you know?"

"You could have come in your human form," Eva fires back, one hand still resting on her hip even when her husband pulls her closer, helping her onto his lap with a soft tug.

Bessi growls low in his throat, lips curling. "Don't tell me what form I should be in." His canines gleam in the low light, and if you didn’t know them, you’d start to worry that the night might go from bad to worse.

You shift your stance, eyes flicking from the large window to the massive figure of Boss, who stands silently among the tables, facing the storm. "Guys, you are not helping."

Eva scoffs, eyes still on the shifter as if daring him to speak. "How should I help?" she asks. "I can’t do anything with this damn weather."

"You should seduce it," Bessi dares to say despite the glare the vampire sends his way. "You are good at it anyway."

"Well, you would know," the woman fires back immediately and only goes quiet when her husband covers her mouth while staring at the shifter with a look that’s part warning and part disbelief as if to say, Do you have to make everything worse?

And as if on cue, to prove a point or to stop the bickering, a sharp crack of lightning splits the sky, followed by the deep, troubled rumble of thunder that seems to shake the very foundation of the pub.

When Boss finally turns to face your small group, his hooves thud on the floorboards. "We should go home," he says, resigned. "Nobody is coming in this storm."

And your heart breaks a little for your friend.

You know how much Boss poured into this place. He had reclaimed it from dust, cobwebs, and decades of silence, and still kept it just the way it was in its previous life. He scrubbed and polished every surface, repaired the cracked windows, and replaced the old, withered furniture with new, sturdy wood, all while saving the crooked old sign that now groans in the storm’s fury, freshly painted in bright, bold strokes: The Fog & Horn. And Grimbrook was excited about it. For a place this small, with so few options for entertainment, the reopening had been the talk of the town, yet nobody expected it to get washed away by a storm.

Not even Boss.

With a soft sigh, you push yourself away from the bar and make your way over to the minotaur. Behind him, the sky grumbles outside like it’s mocking you all, but you ignore it as you gently loop your arm through Boss’s. "I’m sorry," you murmur.

Your friend grimaces but nods anyway. "I know," he says. "We will find another date."

“Or,” Eva cuts in, dragging out the word while slipping from her husband's hold with an effortless grace to pluck two bottles from the shelves behind the bar. "We could still celebrate?" she suggests, grabbing a tray and some glasses as if she owns the place. "You worked your ass off for this, Boss, and you deserve more than a wet dog and disappointment."

Bessi growls, but says nothing when the minotaur speaks up first; "You know you’re getting paid whether we close now or not, right?"

Eva flashes a grin, all fangs and crimson lips. "I know, but you don't have to."

"You’ve got such a big heart," Bessi says from his seat, voice thick with amusement. He leans an elbow on the counter and throws a look toward the man sitting a few stools down. "She’s got such a big heart, I see why you put a ring on her finger."

His teasing only earns an unabashed, smitten look from your friend, and Eva, catching her husband's glance, gives him a saucy smile in return. Then, turns to the shifter with more sharpness in her smirk. "Keep being a smartass while I take all your money. Poker, anyone?"

Bessi hesitates for a second, then sighs dramatically and pushes off the stool. "Fine."

You look up at Boss, still holding onto his arm. "So? What do you say? Seems like the perfect night to lose some cash."

He exhales through his nose, half a groan, half a laugh. "I’m already losing money."

You squeeze his arm. "Then what’s a little more between friends?"

Thunder flares behind the rain-slicked windows, and a deep rumble rolls through the floor beneath your feet. The storm outside shows no signs of mercy, meanwhile, you are sitting at one of the tables, cards in hand, and regretting your decision with each passing second.

"This isn't fair," you mutter. "You two have fur."

Bessi leans back in his chair with lazy confidence and far too much amusement. His dark fur is almost dry now, maybe a bit shaggy on his lean muscles and totally messy between his large, triangular ears. "Too late to whine," he says. "Rules are rules."

You glare at the male, but it's a losing battle, and you are very aware of just how much you have already lost. Mostly dignity. And your shirt. You had lost it almost immediately after the damn shifter suggested spicing things up, his words, and your only consolation is that Eva’s husband is just as bad at cards as you are. Not that he seems to mind; the vampire is draped across his lap, hiding most of the man and the lack of his clothes.

"Don’t be so full of yourself," Eva cuts in, sending an all-too-knowing grin to Bessi. "Don’t forget our deal."

"I can’t," he grumbles. "You don’t let me." His ears flick at the promise he made, to let Eva feed from him if she won.

You turn to glance at Boss beside you. He is quiet, as he has been most of the night. "Hey," you nudge him gently with your elbow. "At least you won our money." Then, you lean in a little closer. "And you look really good without a shirt."

"I think that’s enough fun for one night." You lean back in your seat with a sigh, arms crossing instinctively over your chest, but the motion pulls the soft lace of your bra across your arm, reminding you just how little you are wearing.

Bessi watches the motion with a giddy grin on his furred face. "Oh, come on," he drawls with too much enthusiasm, in your opinion. "You lost. Don’t be such a sore loser."

Eva’s crimson lips curl into a smirk as she slants a look at the shifter beside her. "Just wait for your turn," she purrs.

Bessi shoots her a deadpan look. "We will see..."

The vampire's grin only widens, but says nothing, instead, she just hums and turns her gaze back to you, waiting. She sits on her husband's lap like a cat that already knows she owns the room.

"I hate you both," you mutter, though your voice lacks real heat as you reach behind your back, fingers fumbling for a second before you pop the clasp of your bra.

The thin straps slide off your shoulders, leaving your chest fully exposed in front of your friends. You can feel your nipples hardening under their unabashed attention.

"Fuck," Bessi breathes, his head tilting back for a second before his gaze drops back to you, drinking in every inch. His eyes rake down from your collarbones, lingering at the swell of your breasts.

"Shut up," you grumble, cheeks hot. "And shuffle the damn cards."

"Don’t let me down, Y/N," Bessi mutters, but there is way too much tension in his voice for someone watching you sit at a table in nothing but your panties.

You blink at him, truly bewildered. "Why the hell do you have so much faith in me?"

The cards in your hands are useless. An absolute joke. Across from you, Eva sits regally on her husband’s lap like she’s already claimed victory and is just waiting for the rest of you to catch up. The man beneath her is in nothing but his briefs, pressing kisses against the slope of her shoulder while casually keeping an eye on her cards.

Bessi's shoulders sink when you sigh through your teeth. "No," he groans, defeated.

"Sorry," you grimace while slapping the cards down onto the table with a flick of your wrist.

"I won," Eva announces, flashing her cards with a grin so smug you can't help but chuckle. "And you know what comes next." Her crimson eyes stay locked on Bessi.

"Now?" he balks. "No dinner first? You just go straight for the jugular?"

Eva rolls her eyes, reaching for the small bowl of peanuts and pushing it toward the wolf. "Fine. Eat."

"Why did you even marry her?" Bessi groans, directing the question to Eva’s husband, who looks entirely too pleased with his wife.

The man just grins. Not drunk, not sober, but content and relaxed enough to touch and trace the vampire's body while you share a glance with Boss.

"Come on," you nudge the shifter. "It doesn’t even hurt."

Bessi turns to you sharply, ears flicking, eyes narrowed. "Wait. She drank from you?"

Boss shrugs beside you casually. "It’s not a big deal."

"You too?"

Eva bats her lashes at him. "How are we best friends if I don’t even know the taste of your blood?"

Bessi glares at her. “We are not best friends.”

"But we could be," she purrs, her smile stretching just wide enough to show her fangs under the dim light of the pub.

You lean closer to Bessi, offering a hand. "You can hold my hand if it helps. For moral support." You are half-amused, half-serious.

Bessi glares harder, but his hand finds yours anyway. "Fine."

Eva’s eyes gleam with delight. "That’s the spirit." And with that, she is out of her husband's lap only to plop down on the wolf-shifter. Her delicate hands find Bessi's neck instantly, fingers parting the thick fur out of the way. "You know, you could shift back to your human form."

Bessi scoffs but still lets the vampire push his head up. "Not a chance."

"Fine," Eva replies without missing a beat, and as she leans in close, you can feel the wolf-shifter's hand tightening around yours.

You lean sideways toward Boss and mutter under your breath, "We should’ve just gone home."

The minotaur shrugs, entirely unbothered. "I’m having fun," he says, then he gives you a slow, sidelong look. "And you’ve still got one piece of clothing left."

You scowl at him. "The game is over."

His grin widens, head tilting slightly so one of his horns catches the low light. "Doesn’t matter."

When Eva's fangs sink into Bessi's neck, two things happen at once; another lightning splits the sky in two with a blinding crack, casting the pub in a brief glow, and the wolf-shifter lets out a long, guttural growl that rolls through the air and blends with the thunder rumbling in the distance. His body goes taut, every muscle pulled tight as a bowstring. His spine arches, his jaw goes slack, and his breath gets caught in his throat like he is hanging between pain and something far more primal. For a second, your breath hitches. Is he hurting?

But-

No.

Gods, no.

The low growl bubbling up from his chest turns into something else, and his hand tightens on Eva’s hips. His claws dig into the fabric of her skirt like he is holding on for dear life. Your gaze drops, catching the sight of her discarded panties crumpled on the floor, and then snaps right back up just in time to see Bessi buck up beneath her.

He growls again, and it’s unmistakable.

"Did… did he just…?" Your words are thinner than a whisper.

Boss leans in close to hear you better. "Yeah," he hums, low with shock and amusement. "He just came… holding your hand."

Your fingers twitch in Bessi’s still-tight grip, and suddenly the heat rushing up your neck has nothing to do with your barely-there clothing. Your eyes widen with the realization. You don’t know what you feel, but it tangles inside you, sending a shiver across your spine.

And Eva doesn’t stop. Her lips stay pressed to his neck, feeding slowly and lazily while her husband watches the whole thing with half-lidded eyes.

"What’s happening?"

"Should we… stop them?" Boss turns to you, expression unreadable.

And even though the obvious answer is teetering on the tip of your tongue, you can’t say it. "I- I-"

[monsters] The Fog & Horn 2/2

#monster romance #monster x human #monster x reader #monster boyfriend #teratophillia #monster fucker #terat0philliac #monster smut #terato #monster lover #monsterfucker #minotaur x reader #wolf shifter x reader #vampire x reader #grimbrook

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bullet-prooflove · 8 months ago

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The Cowboy At Your Door: Dwight Manfredi x Reader (feat: Bill Bevilaqua)

Tagging: @kmc1989 @skellyagogo @sca3a @kenbechillin @mandy426

Companion piece to:

Poker Face - Dwight's night takes a turn when he meets you for the first time at a poker game.

Dior - Dwight wakes up to the scent of Dior and lipstick on his chest.

Gunpowder & Roses - Dwight's enemies make a mistake when they come after you.

Hell of A Message - You send a message to your ex Bill.

There’s a cowboy at your door. One with a black hat, heated eyes and a smile that’s made for sin.

“I got your message.” Bill Bevilaqua says as he stands on your porch, his hands tucked into the back pockets of his Wranglers.

You tuck your hair back behind your ear so he can see the bruising blossoming across your features.

“I got yours too.”

His gaze darkens, his jaw tightening as he surveys the butterfly stitches, the busted lip. He reaches out, his fingertips tracing over the place where Joey’s ring split your skin.

“I’d kill him myself if you hadn’t done it already.” He tells you and you can see the sincerity of it in his eyes before you open your door and invite him into the house.

“We should talk.” You say and he doesn’t respond as he steps into your living room, drinking in the essence of you.

It’s the first time he’s been to your home. It’s light, airy and somehow cosy at the same time. Soft greys give way to berry and blush undertones creating a warmth that was never present in the house that you lived in together. His personality and heritage had dominated the ranch that you’d shared. It was always harsh, always masculine, the same way that everything was in his family.

“This is what our home should have been like.” He says as he turns to face you, his thumbs looped through the rungs of his jeans.

“There was never any room for me underneath all that toxic masculinity.” You remind him as you settle down into the stone grey love seat.

No there hadn’t been, not in the world you were both born into. You were the only child of Vinnie Cincinetti, head of one of the most powerful crime families in Oklahoma. You would have been a force to be reckoned with if you’d taken up the mantle, instead you’d been married off to the Bevilaqua syndicate because you weren’t the right gender to lead.

It may have been an arranged marriage but Bill had fallen in love with you almost immediately. Instead of being the pretty, little wife that sat at home and spent his money, you earned your own by running poker games and pulling in whales that thought nothing about throwing down six figures at one of the most exclusive card tables in the country.

It isn’t until he catches a snide remark from his cousin Frank that he realises that your success is making him look weak, like he can’t control his wife, that he’s not providing for her. The thing is, he’s never seen you as exhilarated as when you’re running those games. You’ve never been so happy, so engaged and he knows in that moment he has to let you go because you were destined to be much more than just a gangster’s wife.

So he divorces you, sets you free and he hopes that maybe one day, when you’ll return to him. It’s been five years since you left Kansas and you’ve still not come home. He’s starting to doubt you ever will despite the nights you’ve shared since.

He takes a seat on the sofa close to you, taking off his hat and setting it upon the dark wood coffee table.

“You need to meet with Manfredi.” You tell him, running a hand through your hair and shaking it out so it falls across your features. “Sort out this territory dispute before it turns into something.”

He sinks into the plush comfort of your couch, his gaze drinking you in. It’s only now as he looks at you that he realises you’re wearing a man’s dress shirt and it riles something inside of him.

“Darlin.” He drawls. “It’s already something. I can’t have New York coming here and stepping on my shit….”

“It isn’t really your shit though is it?” You respond, leaning forward and his gaze strays to the dip in the shirt you’re wearing. Your bra is visible, he can see the contrasting black lace against your skin. “You gave Tulsa to me.”

“You’re still an extension of the Bevilaqua Family even if we aren’t married anymore.” He reminds you, shrugging his shoulders.

“Tulsa is my playground.” You say fiercely before giving him a knowing look. “The real problem is you don’t like the fact there’s another kid playing in it.”

“No.” He says pointedly. “I don’t.”

You sigh as you recross your legs and he catches a flash of that tattoo on your inner thigh, the one that covers his mark. His family, they brand their property. Horses, drugs, their wives too. You hadn’t screamed when they’d forced it on you, you’d bitten down on his belt instead, stifling your agony. He still wears the damn thing around his waist, your teeth indentations still etched into the leather.

“I heard you got it covered.” He says gesturing to the space between your legs. “I want to see it.”

You sigh as you part your thighs, the dress shirt creeping up so that your black panties are on display. His gaze comes to rest on the greyscale dahlias inked onto your skin, they cover the entirety of the brand, obscuring it from view. He sinks to his knees in front of you, his calloused palm coming to rest on your thigh as his thumb traces over scarring underneath, the ‘B’ etched into your skin for eternity.

“I’ll always be a part of you.” He whispers, his lips ghosting over the edge of your tattoo. “And you’ll always have a part of me.”

Your hand rakes through his dark hair, grip tightening on the roots, making him moan against your skin. He’s been hard since he laid eyes on you, it’s the way he’s always been with you. He gets off on the coolness, the indifference, it only makes him try harder to earn your attention. You tug his head back to meet your eyes and his whole body feels like it’s on fire.

“So…” You say, your voice dropping an octave. “Do I get my meeting or not?”

He’d give you anything you in this moment because all he wants is to spend the night between your legs, his tongue thrust in your pussy until you see God. He wants to feel you coming on his cock as you use him like a fucktoy, like he’s nothing but a vessel for your pleasure.

“Bill.” You say, your voice like silk caressing his skin. “Do I get my meeting?”

“Yes.” He bites out.

“Good boy.” You murmur, your palm lightly slapping his cheek and his dick fucking leaks, smearing the inside of his underwear. “You can go now.”

“Dahlia…” He implores but he knows he’s lost because you’re wearing sitting here in another man’s shirt, your gaze already flickering to the clock on the mantlepiece.

“No Bill.” You say, indicating to the bruising on your face. “You don’t deserve my pussy tonight.”

Love Dwight? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Interested in supporting me? Join my Patreon for Bonus Content!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

#dwight manfredi #dwight manfredi x reader #tulsa king #Bill Bevilaqua #Bill Bevilaqua x reader

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maidflowery · 4 months ago

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Fortified Wager ♠♠♠ 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 12

♦︎♦︎ Aventurine x Reader ♦︎♦︎ 𝕀𝕝𝕝𝕦𝕤𝕥𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕕

🄱🄰🄲🄺 🅃🄾 【Ｃｈａｐｔｅｒ１１】

𝕋𝕒𝕓𝕝𝕖 𝕠𝕗 ℂ𝕠𝕟𝕥𝕖𝕟𝕥

Goodbye, My Favorite Gambler

╔══ ≪ ♣♥♣ ≫ ══╗

“Aventurine—! Watch out—!”

You pulled him, not knowing where the strength came from. In the next moment, the position was reversed, with Aventurine beneath you. Even he was surprised, his eyes widening. You shielded him, desperate to protect every inch of him.

“BOTH YOU AND THAT WORTHLESS SLAVE CAN DIE TOGETHER—!!”

Please, just not Aventurine...!

Such was your heartfelt prayer as you clenched your teeth, bracing for the impact.

Instead of bone-wrecking pain, you felt an arm wrap around your back, pulling you into a tight, protective embrace.

Then, you heard him speak, right beside your ear.

“Fortified Wager.”

“WHAT?!”

You heard Big Baddie screaming for some reason, but before you could figure out why, there was a piercing bang, followed by the loud crash of something splintering apart.

And yet, there was no pain, only a relentless, blinding light that pierced even through closed eyelids. There were gasps and murmurs, mostly out of admiration.

“L-let go of me—!!”

Amid the commotion, you heard Big Baddie screaming in protest.

What is going on...?

You tried to get up, but the arm around your back refused to budge, pressing you firmly against his chest.

...Right.

Now that everything had settled down(?), you became increasingly aware of your predicament—namely, that you were trapped between his rock-solid embrace and a hard place.

Okay, maybe not so hard. The refreshing and familiar scent of pine and ripe fruits filled your nostrils. Your face was enveloped in firm, supple tenderness all around. Amid the gentle rise and fall of his chest, you could hear the rhythmic beat of his heart. Despite the growing noise around you, his heartbeat was the only sound you could register.

...Along with your increasing suffocation.

“Haa! ...Uh! Haa...! I—!”

It was only when you were gasping for breath, lightly but rapidly tapping his chest, that he finally let you go.

“Pwah! What on earth just?!”

You instantly sat up, turning around.

“...Wow—!”

Nothing could have prepared you for what you were about to witness.

The darkness of the night stretched endlessly beyond the window, yet all around you was bright, as if it was in the middle of the day. Even more brilliant than the moon shining in the sky was the second sun in front of you—a radiant golden shield. Light pulsed from its translucent surface, which shimmered like the facets of a gem.

At that moment, you realized what it was—magic. Or at least, that was the term used here on your humble planet, Aerth, where the majority of the population were non-magic users.

Beyond the shield lay the scattered remnants of the poker table, with bottles and glass shards strewn everywhere. Big Baddie sat not too far away, with his arm twisted behind his back by a tall man with stone-gray hair—the Dealer.

“Let go—!! I said, let fucking go—!!”

Big Baddie struggled with all his might, but to no avail. In contrast, the Dealer simply maintained his friendly smile while restraining Big Baddie’s arm with one hand. Seeing a huge guy being held back by a man half his size was such a comical sight.

He’s POWERFUL, alright!

Amid all the thrashing, you couldn’t help but notice that Big Baddie’s nose was as red as a reindeer's. A few shallow cuts criss crossed his face. According to the law of physics, when an immovable object meets an unstoppable force, the strongest one prevails! (Source: Trust me, bro.)

A simpler explanation was that he probably got hit by a chunk of the table and flying glass shards. The whole place was a mess, anyway. Wood chunks and glass shards, ranging from tiny to large, littered the nearby floor. And yet, none of it even scratched you, all thanks to someone.

You gleefully turned around, your heart brimming with gratitude.

“Aventurine, thank yo—hya!”

But the moment you laid your gaze on him, your eyes went wide as saucers, and your jaw almost fell to the floor.

Violet-cyan eyes narrowed tenderly, shimmering with festive, colorful flash of lights

“Shouldn’t that be my line?” he spoke in a mellifluous voice. “Were you trying to protect me?”

A delightful grin tugging at his slightly parted lips. It was neither the smug smile of a lucky gambler on a winning streak, nor the playful grin of a flirt who teased you endlessly, nor the cold, calculating smile you never knew he had.

Be it his gaze, smile, or voice—they were all dripping with sweetness, like honey.

Under normal circumstances, you’d have exploded instantly.

B-but, this is just...!

Wildly tousled blond hair, gleaming gold in the light. A long, golden scarf lies carelessly across the carpet, abandoned in the heat of the moment.

After falling to the floor, calling his attire disheveled was an understatement—his shirt was wide open!! Rather than “protecting” him, it just looked like you had pushed down your idol and pounced on him!!

Moreover, not only did you get a full view of his broad, firm chest, but also the lipstick mark planted right in the middle!

Goddamn it! Whose brilliant idea was it to put so much lip tint?!

That was right: yours. Wanting to go above and beyond as Aschenputtel, the bad girl waitress, you applied more lip tint than usual to achieve a flaming shade of red.

Not wanting to be known as ‘that one rabid fan who defiled Aventurine’, you instinctively reached toward the mark—i.e., his chest, but your common senses prevailed at the last second.

Hold on, Sister! What are you trying to do there?!

The only thing that made this an accident was the lack of intent behind it. Had you succumbed to your impulse, it’d have become a full-blown assault case.

What am I supposed to do?!

You were panicking and screaming internally. If only someone—anyone—would tell you what to do next! Heck, you’d even consult an online forum at this point!

Help! A Fangirl Seeking Advice

Hey everyone,

So, a totally embarrassing situation happened, and I need some advice! 😳

Circumstances (totally not my fault, I swear) led me to push down my idol—I know, right?! 😱 Anyway, when I finally sat up, I realized I’d accidentally smeared my lipstick all over his chest! What am I supposed to do now??

Should I:

A. Casually reach out and wipe it off? (Maybe pretend it’s no big deal?) B. Feign obliviousness and just play it cool?

Help a girl out—what’s my next move? 😅

“Leave it be.”

Your idol’s husky voice, rich with smooth allure, pulled you from your reverie.

“H-huh?”

What does he mean by that? Leave WHAT be? It couldn’t be, right...?

When you sneaked a peek at Aventurine, he was grinning ear to ear, glancing at the same spot as you.

Busted. Your idol caught you staring respectfully at his chest.

You turned red from head to toe, like a lobster simmering in a pot.

“N-n-no!! I didn’t mean to!!”

“You can leave it be. I’m honored, actually,” he spoke like a true gentleman, utterly sincere.

“I'm honored,” he said, despite the shame you had brought him. And of all moments to flash that angelic smile, he chose now! He looked just like a sheltered rich heir, bewitched by a rowdy woman on his first-ever night out at a club!

As you were tormented by guilt, you realized something.

Actually, yeah—besides shame, what else did you bring him?

That’s right!! Nothing!!

You had brought him nothing but shame!!!

You crashed his poker game, sat semi-willingly on his lap, made a grand public confession, and, above all, punched his opponent while he was still there, dragging him into the mess. Then he saved you—twice—once after the fight and again during your attempt to save him, reducing him to this hot mess—sorry, mess. Just mess.

Everyone must be ogling him right now! I can’t let this happen! It’s the only right thing to do!

Your urge to wipe off the lipstick was quickly replaced by the urge to cover him up—namely his chest, his chest, and his chest.

—No, that’s not it! I should be thanking him first!

“Above all, I must say, I’m glad the shy and demure Aschen is back. Had she been here the whole time, I might have actually made it through the night without a dozen near heart attacks.” Aventurine smirked, this time openly teasing you.

‘Aschen’...

Your heart fluttered ever so slightly. Gosh, it wasn’t even your real name! What was wrong with you?

Aventurine went on.

“I have plenty to say to you. Now, don’t look so anxious. Naturally, I’d want to fully express my gratitude to my benefactor.” He offered a reassuring smile before tilting his head slightly in invitation. “Shall we find a seat first? Or do you prefer this arrangement? Either works for me,” he said with perfect courtesy, like a gentleman reserving a dinner for his date.

...Wait. ‘This’ arrangement?

—OH, FUCK!!

You'd heard of selective perception before, where someone blocked out shocking details, leading to an incomplete or altered perception of the scene

In your case, it was the fact that you were straddling him—both legs on either side of his waist.

How the fuck did I not—oh, fuck!

A new dark chapter of your life had been released!!

“S-sorry!”

“Haha!”

As you scurried off him, you could hear him chuckle.

...You had to admire the way he casually lay on the floor as if everything were just as it should be. Then it occurred to you—you should have helped him up. Heck, you should have done so from the very start!

You instinctively reached your right hand forward.

...Ah, right.

Only then did you realize your hand was still wrapped around the gems he had given you. Clutching them tightly had become second nature by now.

You opened your palm, presenting it toward him. “Aventurine, I’d like to return these—"

Then, for the second time that night, you saw his ever-present smile vanished without a trace, his violet-cyan eyes widening slightly.

Wondering why, you glanced at your hand.

“Eek!”

Even you couldn’t help but shriek.

Perhaps because you had been gripping them as if your life depended on it, the facets of the gems—especially the emerald—cut into your palm. They were shallow but still bled, staining the gems with blood.

Gross!

How could you return your idol’s belongings in such a sorry state?! No wonder he was so shocked!

You hurriedly wiped them on your skirt, even polishing them to make them shine again. Then, you examined them under the light.

Okay, as good as new!

“Here!” you smiled as you presented them to Aventurine.

“Keep them, I insist.”

Perhaps thinking you were rejecting out of politeness, Aventurine gave you a coaxing smile, persuading you into accepting his gifts.

Honestly? Every fiber of your being urged you to keep the gems. Who wouldn’t want to be rich? You’d be set for life! You could wash your hands of this traumatic incident, college, tiring part-time jobs—and just go on a trip somewhere! You even pictured yourself buying a mansion with a swimming pool. Let’s not forget a car or two, so you could finally kiss your old work scooter goodbye!

Like, seriously, who could say no to that? Anyone would understand! And he insisted so strongly, rejecting him would’ve felt like an insult!

“I can’t accept these.”

Hearing you said this firmly, Aventurine furrowed his brows in confusion.

“Why? As far as I could tell, you didn’t seem to dislike them.”

“...But they mean the most to you, don’t they?”

You still remembered his words: "This is the most precious item on my person right now."

Hence why you held onto them so tightly.

“...!”

Aventurine seemed to recall that as well. This time, his eyes widened completely in shock, leaving him speechless.

While Aventurine was still stunned, you took his hand, placing the emerald and the sapphire collar pin on top of it.

“That’s why—I can’t accept these.”

Since they were his most valued possessions, they deserved to go to someone he cherished just as much—not someone who relied on liquid courage to offer a few words of support or hid behind a mask to confess.

Naturally, this was just your personal sentiment.

A pair of violet-cyan eyes studied your expression, silently asking, "Why?" before shifting to your scratched-up right palm, as if asking the same question again.

He looked just as lost as when he first asked why you refused them. His hand, where you had placed the gems, remained open.

“—Why? Because a slave gave them to you?”

“Ms. Aschenputtel, I may be worth only a few measly coins, but I can assure you that my gifts are not.”

Back then, despite knowing he had given you these gifts with the utmost sincerity, despite knowing his background, you couldn’t say anything due to sheer panic.

But now, after confessing to him through hell and back, you finally felt you could say it. No, you had to say it while you could.

“Aventurine...”

You locked eyes with him, and he gazed back just as intently. At that moment, it felt as if you two were the only ones in the world.

You gently took his hand in both of yours. “Everything about you is precious to me.”

For a brief moment—ever so slightly—you saw your dear idol’s multicolored eyes falter as myriads of emotions flashed across them.

You were closer than ever, yet impossibly distant.

You, Aschenputtel, a girl who didn’t even exist.

How would he react when he realized that wasn’t even your real name? That you were merely posing as a waiter? That you had been lying right under his nose this whole time?

Surely, once he found out, even the words you were about to say would be dismissed as just another lie.

Aah, truly...

Yours was a meeting not meant to be.

You and he came from two different worlds.

Try as you might, there was a boundary you couldn’t breach—a line you couldn’t cross.

Smile. You had to smile—because tonight would be the last.

“I’ve always been your fan, and I often watched you from afar.”

Amidst the dazzling, shimmering sea of gold he racked overnight, you were akin to a speck of gold dust; drifting, vanishing before you even made your presence known.

Yet, you thought, a glimpse of that pair of cyan layering on violet eyes would suffice.

A fleeting glance on a passing night—for an everlasting dream.

He was an unattainable hope, and you dared not wish for more.

You could no longer see his expression through your blurred vision.

“—Just being able to see you and cheer for you already made me so happy!”

Goodbye, my favorite gambler.

A faint, warm sensation traced a slow path down your cheek. It landed on the emerald in his palm, making the gemstone glisten.

In the next moment, the jewels disappeared from view as he reached toward your face. Your vision cleared at that moment, allowing you to catch a glimpse of his expression.

Was it unwillingness?

“—IT’S THAT BITCH OVER THERE! MAKE SURE YOU CAPTURE HER FIRST!”

Surprised by Big Baddie’s roar, you let go of Aventurine’s hand and turned around.

“Eek!”

“Hey! Watch out!”

In the distance, the crowd murmured in protest as a group of rowdy-looking men in leather jackets forced their way past them. You could tell at a glance that they were Big Baddie’s lackeys.

╚══════╝

🄾🄽🅆🄰🅁🄳 🅃🄾 【Ｃｈａｐｔｅｒ１3】

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