#frost burn if you squint

[7yd1a]

Warlic calls it guilt

[bruhstories]

sweet like honey ˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚

summary: logan ended up spending his evenings in the bar across the street from your bakery, watching you do your job. he never approached you, never talked to you, but he always kept an eye on you, until he has a bad feeling. pairing: logan x fem!reader warning & content: swearing, violence, reader almost gets assaulted (but logan saves the day), she/her pronouns for reader, wade being wade, unprotected p in v, fluff, angst, lots of baking and mentions of food, slightly ooc logan (if you squint), slow burn, sex in a bakery wc: 6k

a/n: i don't always write, but when i do, it's a fucking thesis. unedited.

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵

Logan was never a fan of sweets. He hated chocolate, cheesecake, gummy bears — literally anything sweet. The only thing he could barely stomach was tiramisu, and only because it had coffee in it. Other than that, he steered away from sweets like they were the fucking plague.

Yet despite all that, he found himself enjoying the smell of freshly baked croissants, custard donuts, brownies, and whatever goods you baked in your little bakery, conveniently situated across the street from his go-to bar.

Cleverly named Flour Power, it was all pastel both inside and out, with little pots of hyacinths hanging from its window and a big sign above the entrance. Not that Logan ever went there, but he always walked past it when he went for a drink. Flour Power stood out from all the shops with its baby blue windowsills and bubblegum pink door. As much as he disliked vibrant colours, his eyes were always drawn to the bakery. But not because of how it looked or the way it smelled.

No, Logan strategically sat down by the window in the bar to see you. Every evening, he watched you sell everything you had on display, from wedding cakes to éclairs, greetings customers with a warm smile on your face. He watched you turn the sign from open to closed, lock the door, clean the display shelves, the counters, the only two tables and four chairs inside, and sweep and mop the floors. Then you disappeared in the back for a while, perhaps doing the dishes or preparing dough and frosting, before you walked out, locked the door again, pulled down the blinds over the big window on the right side of the door, and left.

It became a ritual for Logan to watch you. In a way, it brought him some peace, despite him never speaking to you. To him, you were innocence personified, the type of girl who made others feel better simply by being there, and he didn't want to disturb that peace.

Tonight was an ordinary night for the 200 year old mutant. He swirled the whiskey in his glass, drank it all, then went to the bar to ask for another round, killing time until you closed the bakery, then he could finally go back to the apartment. You closed at 7 for clients and left at 8:30 every evening except for Sundays, when you didn't work. Logan knew your schedule a little to well, even knew you opened for clients at 8 in the morning, but you were there much earlier, because he could smell the pastries at around half 6. This time, however, you seemed to have a bit more work. It was past 9, it was dark, and you still hadn't left, and Logan was slightly concerned.

He watched you like a hawk, how you tucked rebellious strands of hair behind your ear when you mopped the floor, how you wiped your hands on your cute little apron after you finished scrubbing the countertops. Logan thought you had extra orders from customers, perhaps a wedding cake. He scrunched his nose at the thought of having to try so many flavours only to pick a damn cake that he probably wouldn't enjoy anyway.

But finally, you were done.

It was almost 10 when you locked the door to the bakery, double checking to make sure it wouldn't budge. Then the blinds and off you went. Logan was satisfied to see you go, but the hairs on his back suddenly stood up, his nostrils filled with the scent of danger. Bitter, sour, it went straight to his brain, and so he finished his drink and left the bar, following you down the street but keeping a safe distance.

You walked past a group of drunk men, gripping your tote bag with your left hand and your keys with your right one. You've learned to place the keys between your fingers, like claws, in case someone attacked you. Going home at that time wasn't something you enjoyed, and you always tried to avoid working late, but sometimes that was inevitable. When you heard footsteps approaching you, you picked up the pace, but paranoia kicked in, and you didn't want whoever was following you to find out where you lived, and so you took a detour.

Logan was like your shadow, going everywhere you went, until he heard something drop in a dimly lit alleyway and he sped up, finding you round a corner, pinned to a wall by a man while another guy had his hand up your dress. It was too dark to see, but Logan didn't need eyes to know that was you. He could smell the vanilla extract and icing sugar and fear.

"Take my wallet!" You told the men, but they weren't there for the money. They wanted something else from you.

"Nah, doll, I'll take something else from you. Somethin' more precious than money." One of the men said, his breath reeking of alcohol, the cheap kind.

"Hurry up and fuck her, bro, I need my turn-"

Something flashed, then a shadow lunged at the second guy who couldn't even finish his sentence before he was struck down.

"Mike?" The man who pinned you against the wall asked, his hands trembling on your body. "Stop fucking around."

But Mike was seeing stars somewhere on the alleyway. It happened so quickly you couldn't understand what was going on. When your eyes finally adjusted to the darkness, you saw him, rough, handsome and very, very angry.

"Who the fuck are you?" The man asked, but all he got in response was a guttural growl. "Hey, man, I don't want any trouble. My girlfriend and I were just talking. Stay out of it." He grabbed you by the neck, dragging you away from Logan.

You seized the opportunity and wrestled out of his grasp by biting your assaulter's hand, dashing behind a bin.

"Ow! Fucking bitch!" He lunged at you, but Logan was quicker, piercing his claws through his shoulder and holding him in place.

"That's no way to talk to a lady." The mutant snarled, and you watched how his claws retracted before he punched the man in the face, effectively knocking him down.

He was the Wolverine. You had seen it all over the news, how he saved your universe, how he came from a different world. You couldn't believe he was the one helping you when you thought no one would save you in that moment.

"You alright, kid?" His raspy voice startled you and you barely nodded, still too shocked to move or speak. "You sure?"

You shook your head and tears rolled down your cheeks as you finally started to process what just happened. Logan scrunched his nose — comforting someone wasn't his strongest skill — and instead he picked up your bag and keys from the pavement.

"Shit, um, don't cry." He handed you your belongings, and you looked up at him with a frown.

How could you not cry when you saw your entire life flashing before your eyes? Logan swallowed a lump in his throat and offered his hand to help you stand up. You looked at his hand, reluctant to grab it. The only thing he could compare you with was a cat — cautious, yet curious.

"No claws." He said when he understood the meaning behind your eyes. "Come, I'll- um, I'll walk you home."

The invitation had you perk up and gain courage, and you quietly took the bag from his hand. He walked with you in complete silence, until you stopped in front of a building. You lingered, unwilling to go in. Logan asked if that was your place, and after you nodded, he offered to take you all the way to your apartment, which made you feel relieved. He could see it on your face when you sighed. You guided him up the stairs, constantly looking behind you to make sure he was there.

You stopped in front of a tall wooden door, keys in hand.

"Go on. I'll wait until you lock the door." Logan encouraged you.

"Can you stay?" You finally spoke, and your voice was sweet like honey, fitting for a baker.

"I don't know, kid-"

"Please." You looked at him with glossy eyes, pupils blown from the fear that hadn't left your body yet. The fear he could still smell.

"Yeah. Okay, I'll stay."

"Thank you."

Logan followed you in, and you flipped the light switch on before locking the door behind him. He looked around and, just as he expected, the apartment was a direct reflection of your bakery — clean, colourful and calm. There were recipes stuck to the walls with pink pins, and between them little paintings of sunsets, skies, flowers, cats. All things cute. They weren't framed, and so Logan figured they were hand-made, his assumptions confirmed by the easel in the corner of your living room.

Of course your sofa had to be colourful, too — mustard yellow with sage green cushions and blankets. Even your curtains were sage green. Despite the explosion of colours, Logan found himself enjoying being there. Not everything had to be brown, black and grey, he thought. Probably the only vibrant thing in his life was his suit, since the only people that brought colour were his friends, and they were gone.

"Drink?" You cracked the walls he put up around his heart with that sweet voice.

You shook a bottle of gin to get his attention and he nodded. Logan wasn't a fan of gin, but he didn't expect you to have any hard liquors. He watched you pull out two blue glasses from the kitchen cabinet, and of course they had to be funky, with white flowers on them.

"Where'd you get these?" He asked, swirling the drink in his hand.

"I made them. Kind of." You said. "Bought them from a charity store and painted the flowers. Do you want some tonic water?"

"Fuck no." Logan choked on his gin when you asked him that question. Simply being in a place so... colourful was enough. He didn't need a girly drink.

"I'm Y/N, by the way."

"I'm-"

"The Wolverine!" You cut him off a little too eager.

"-Logan. Call me Logan." He cringed when the beverage tickled his taste buds. It wasn't bitter enough for him.

"Logan. Thanks for tonight. Is there any way I can repay you?"

The question was riddled with innocence, but he couldn't stop the degenerate thoughts that popped in his mind when you asked him that. You were just so pure that he wanted to both protect you and ruin you.

"Don't mention it. I couldn't just walk past without doing anything." Logan lied, because, really, he wasn't just walking by, was he? No, it was downright stalking.

"I could bake something for you." You offered and he shook his head.

"I don't like sweets, kid."

"What?" You were baffled. "Everybody likes something sweet."

"Not me." He shrugged. "All I like is tiramisu and only if those biscuits are doused in coffee."

"Ladyfingers." You corrected him with a chuckle. "They're called ladyfingers."

"Bullshit."

"I'm serious! Here!" You rushed to your pantry and pulled out a whole box of them, showing Logan the name.

"That's just stupid." He shook his head. "Who calls them ladyfingers?"

"Uh, everyone?" You laughed at his surprise, and the thoughts of your bad evening slowly dissipated, like a bad dream.

Logan truly was clueless about baking, but spent hours listening to you talk about types of sugar, extracts and their uses, and the difference between baking soda and baking powder in cooking. You rambled on and on and not once did he get bored. He could listen to you talk for hours with your voice soothing. Logan thought about it, and he genuinely never met someone like you before. The women in his life were all so different, but you took the cake. You were special in ways he couldn't understand. And he was just so drawn to you.

"I'm sorry, I haven't stopped talking once!" You apologised, realising how safe you felt with him there. You would never let a stranger inside your house, let alone talk about baking while having gin. But Logan wasn't a stranger. Not after he saved you.

"'s alright. It's not every day I learn about baking." He chuckled, finishing his drink. "Listen, I should get going."

"Right." You sighed, eyes darting at the floor. "No, of course. I've kept you too long."

Logan got up and you walked with him to the hallway. He was slow to put his leather jacket on, as if he was waiting for you to say something, anything, but when you didn't, he unlocked the door and opened it.

"Hey, Logan?" You tugged at his sleeve, whispering so you wouldn't wake your neighbours. "Are you sure I can't bake you something? Not now, I mean. I really want you to try something besides tiramisu. And that way I can repay you."

"Hell, why not?" He shrugged.

"Great!" You beamed at him like a child on Christmas day. "Stop by my bakery tomorrow at twelve. It's on Granville Street."

"I thought you didn't work on Sundays."

"Oh, how'd you know?" You quirked a brow at him.

Caught red-handed.

"Educated guess."

"Fair enough." His answer satisfied you. "Be there or be square!"

Sleep was for the weak. All night, Logan tossed and turned and abused his poor pillow with with punches. The mere thought of seeing you, no, interacting with you, had him wriggle like a worm on the mattress. It didn't help that Wade instantly noticed something was up.

"Oh, my, did you shower, peanut?"

"Not today, Satan." Logan poured himself a cup of coffee.

"Mmm, and what do I smell?" Wade sniffed the air. "Wait, is that my perfume?"

"Forgot to pack mine when I swapped universes." The Wolverine barked back.

"Hah!" Blind Al chimed in from the living room. "I think tall, dark and handsome here has a date!"

Logan rolled his eyes while Wade pouted, plopping on the sofa next to Al.

"You never called me that."

"That's cause you’re a degenerate." The woman snorted.

"Takes one to know one, doesn't it- ow! Stop hitting me with your cane, I know where you hide your nose candy!" Wade fought back.

"Touch it and I'll bust a cap in your ass!" Al scoffed.

"And I'll regenerate."

Logan used the opportunity to slip into the hallway, but his roommate was quicker, and blocked the door.

"You're not going anywhere until we have the talk."

"The talk?" The Wolverine snorted.

"Ah, they grow up so fast." Wade told Al. "Now, son, when a man and a woman love each other-"

"I'll give you three seconds to fuck off."

"Oh, but I need to know everything! Who is he?"

"She." Logan rolled his eyes.

"Oh my god, is this you coming out to us? Al, he's straight! I promise we love you anyway." Wade went for a hug and all Logan could do was accept it. He learned to live with Wade, even though he dislocated his jaw a few times after he moved in.

"Alright, that's enough."

"Nooo, we're just getting started. Name? Age? Occupation? We could do a double date with Vanessa-"

"Absolutely fucking not." Logan pushed Wade off of him.

"Okay, okay. Just make sure you wrap your willy, and if you need any advice, daddy's here." Wade opened the door for his roommate.

"Actually." Logan lingered in the hallway. "What kind of flowers do girls like?"

The blinds to the bakery were closed but you were inside, pastries in the oven and dessert in the fridge. You couldn't help yourself and prepared something savoury as well, in case he didn't like the lemon cake. A knock on the door startled you, and you rushed to check who it was.

Logan stood there, a bouquet of peonies in his hand. You welcomed him in with a smile, but he could tell it was different than the one you flashed your customers. It seemed more genuine. And it felt like a date.

"These are for you." Logan handed you the flowers, taking in the scent of pork pies. "I thought you were gonna bake something sweet." He flared his nostrils.

"I did, I just thought I should have a plan B in case you didn't like my cake." You placed the bouquet in a vase on one of your tables. "How did you know I liked peonies?"

Logan couldn't believe Wade was right about those damn flowers. And there he was, thinking roses would be better. Maybe the Merc with a Mouth wasn't so bad after all.

"I had a hunch." He shrugged. 

"Well, Logan, I love them! Now sit, sit!" You ushered him to his seat. "I hope you're hungry, because there's a lot for you to try."

"A lot? I thought you'll make me a cupcake or somethin', bub."

"A cupcake?? Don't be silly." Just as you said that, the oven made a loud ding sound, and you turned on your heels, heading in the back.

Logan waited patiently, observing every little detail from the front of your bakery, from the spotless display shelves to the neatly organised paper bags, to the fairy lights around the window. It was obvious to him that you had put your mind, body and soul into this bakery, and his expectations were quite high after all the fuss you made. But he decided to be nice not matter how the food tasted. He couldn't bear seeing you upset if he didn't like what you made.

You reappeared with a tray in your hand, and on it two plates, one with a small pork pie, one with a croissant, and a cup of coffee. Hell, even the cutlery was cute, with swirls engraved on the handles of the fork, knife and teaspoon.

"I decided to leave the cake for last." You said, placing the tray in front of him. "This is a simple pork pie, start with that." You urged him. "Careful, it's hot."

The Wolverine struggled with the cutlery, too small for his large hands, and the brief thought of slashing the pie with his claws crossed his mind, but he decided to be civil. You watched him butcher the food, eager to see his reaction, but he was taking his time.

"I'll let it cool off a bit."

"Ooh, that's probably a good idea." You nodded.

"Aren't you having some?" Logan asked.

"Noo, no. I like to bake for others, not for myself."

"So what do you eat, then?" He sipped on the coffee.

"Instant noodles usually. I'm too tired to cook when I get home. I do occasionally have leftovers, but whatever isn't sold I take it to the local shelter." You explained.

Christ, you couldn't be any kinder. Logan was stunned by your beauty and your soul, which was why he decided that after today, he will stop any interaction with you. He couldn't ruin you, not with his lifestyle, not with the danger that followed him everywhere.

The only problem was that the conversation flowed naturally, and he felt safe with you, just as you did with him. Like you were the missing piece to his puzzle. Logan pushed away those thoughts and decided to try the food. He took a large mouthful of the pie, chewed and swallowed, and you waited expectantly.

"Shit."

"What? Is it bad?" You jumped from your seat.

"Fuck, this is the best pork pie I've ever had." Logan wiped his mouth with a tissue you provided. "I'm serious, kid. Did you put drugs in it?"

You laughed, shaking your head as he finished the rest of the pie. He truly seemed to enjoy it, and you felt so satisfied. But the real test came after.

"Pistachio croissant." You said. "I thought about making almond ones, but I figured pistachio wasn't that sweet."

"Right, let's see." Logan took a healthy bite out of the pastry, and lo and behold, he closed his eyes, leaning back in his chair. If heaven had a taste, it would be that damned croissant.

"Is it good?"

"Good? Jesus, this is the best one yet." He finished the rest of it, the pistachio cream tickling his taste buds in all the right ways. "Who taught you to bake like this?"

"My grandma. She was the best cook I knew." You smiled.

Logan noticed your use of past tense, and he didn't want to bring up any bad memories. He wasn't the nosy type, but something possessed him to ask you about your life, your family, your favourite colours. He needed to know more about you, and you answered all his questions, opening up to him like a flower in bloom. But when it came to him talking about himself, Logan was reluctant.

Talking to Wade was easier, because Wade didn't take anything seriously, nor did he ask personal questions. Well, he did, but in his own stupid way that provided Logan some distraction, as well as a reason to punch him. But with you it was different. He felt like he owed you serious answers that he wasn't yet ready to tell a stranger who made a mean pistachio croissant.

"The cake!" You spun on the chair, changing the subject when you saw Logan dodging your questions like bullets.

Although he didn't say it, he was grateful that you didn't put any pressure on him to talk. He wasn't a talker. That was definitely Wade. You came back with the whole cake, and it looked so good that Logan didn't want you to cut it. Perfectly round, a layer of cream in the middle and white frosting on top. You even went so far as to decorate it with all kinds of yellow flower petals and what seemed to be mint leaves.

"Alright, hit me. What's this one called?"

"I call it the Mojito Cake. The sponge cake has lemon zest, the cream is made of lime, mint and rum syrup, and the frosting is buttercream with a dash of actual rum." You explained.

"Shit, I can't tell if that sounds disgusting or incredible."

"Only one way to find out." You cut him a thick slice, and Logan wasted no time trying it.

"I think you found yourself a new customer."

"You're too nice."

"I'm anything but nice, kid." He took three more spoonfuls. "But I ain't a liar. This is delicious." Logan spoke with his mouth full and it made you chuckle.

"Oh, there's a bit of frosting on your face."

"Hm?" He used the tissue to wipe his chin. "Did I get it?"

"No, it's still- here, I'll get it." You leaned forward and delicately ghosted your thumb over the corner of his mouth, eyes locked with his.

Without thinking about it, you dragged your tongue over the frosting, and Logan couldn't look away from you even if he wanted to. A gesture so innocent, but it destroyed any form of restraint. He pressed his lips onto yours, tasting the rum and the cream, but before you could kiss him back, he pulled away.

"Sorry. Sorry, I shouldn't have-"

You gave him no time to finish his sentence when you placed your hands on his shoulders and kissed him with fire on your tongue. God, he hated being touched, but when you did it, he melted in your hands. Lust battled reason and prevailed, and you found yourself straddling Logan's lap, arms around his neck and chest pressed against his.

His large hands found their way under your dress, fingers digging in the plush of your thighs until a moan escaped past your lips. Logan could've sworn you were pure in all ways — a virgin — so, naturally, he was surprised to see you eager to jump his adamantium bones.

With the last shred of reason left in you, you glanced at the door and window to make sure they were covered, and pushed Logan's jacket off his shoulders, peppering his neck with soft kisses. He wasn't the gentle type, no matter how hard he tried, and he didn't need to be when he felt your hips grind in his lap. It was more than obvious that you wanted him then and there.

Logan lifted you up as if you weighed nothing and slammed you down the empty table. His roughness sent a chill down your spine, because you really wanted him to manhandle you from the moment he stepped foot in your bakery. He kissed you again, pressing his whole against yours until your back hit the table. You felt like a cornered animal with nowhere to go, and the thrill of it turned you on.

"Are you sure you want this?" Logan asked despite you unbuckling his belt.

"I don't want this, I want you. I need you to fuck me so hard I can't walk." You unzipped his jeans, and although he was taken aback by your sudden use of filthy words, he couldn't deny he enjoyed seeing that side of you.

"Greedy little girl." Logan's hand slithered between your legs, fingers rubbing circles over your clothed clit. "Shit, you're soakin' wet. Can feel it through your fuckin' panties already." He flared his nostrils, taking in the scent of your arousal.

With his jeans loose around his waist, you palmed his cock through his boxers, and it didn't shock you for a second that he was rock hard. What did shock you, however, was the size of it. It was probably the biggest you've ever taken, and you didn't want any other man anymore.

You tugged at the waistband of his boxers, making it clear that you didn't want to waste any more time. Not that you didn't want to suck his dick or explore every inch of his body and worship it the way a man like him deserved it, but you were impatient.

Logan got the hint when you whined and scoffed, and he tore the pink panties off of you, tossing them on the floor. At least he had the decency not to put them on the table, which you were going to disinfect anyway. He pushed his boxers down, and you propped yourself on your elbows to look at him, and it was a sight for sore eyes indeed. He had perfectly sculpted abs, you could see them under the half-lifted t-shirt, but it was his cock that made your mouth water.

"Like what you see?" Logan was smug, confident in his good looks.

"I need to permanently imprint this image on my retina." You told him, and he couldn't help the chuckle.

"Likewise. Now spread 'em."

"Yessir!" You very quickly obeyed, parting your legs for him, and Logan couldn't deny that he enjoyed being in control.

He wasn't one to take orders, nor give them, but watching you comply scratched an itch he couldn't get rid of. Logan pressed the tip of his cock against your slick folds, earning another whine from you. You bucked your hips, craving more, and he scoffed.

"That desperate, hm?"

"You have no idea." You dug your manicured fingernails into his shoulders, bracing for temporary pain, because you knew damn well it would hurt.

"I don't know, I didn't hear you say please." Logan frowned, and you understood what game he was playing. A game you yearned to be part of.

"Oh, please, please, please fuck me, Logan! I'll be so good for you! I'll do anything you want." You clung to his shoulders, bringing yourself closer to him. "I'll even take it in any hole you want." You whispered, dragging your tongue over his lips.

"Shit." Logan was weak in the knees from your words, and the worst part was that he believed everything you said. But there was a time and place for everything.

You were the perfect mix of sweet and spicy, and you begged so nicely that the Wolverine just couldn't say no. You felt the leaking tip of his cock push past your folds and you audibly gasped at the size of it, drawing blood from his skin with your fingernails.

"It won't fit-" You whined with lust in your voice.

"I'll make it fit." Logan promised, painstakingly slowly thrusting into you.

He gave you time to adjust to his girth, constantly checking if you were alright, if you wanted him to carry on or stop, and while you loved that he was so caring, you needed him hurry up and fuck you.

To assure him that you would survive his monstrous cock, you planted a soft kiss on his nose, and there it was again, the change in your personality, from sultry to innocent. It was as though you embodied everything he ever wanted, and his desire to never contact you again went down the drain. How could Logan ever leave someone like you?

"I'm ready." You nodded, and he pressed his forehead onto yours, slowly rolling his hips.

You weren't ready, because it hurt like a bitch when he stretched out your velvety walls. But the pain was soon replaced by pleasure, and Logan picked up the pace when your whimpers turned to moans, and the slight frown on your face disappeared.

"So tight." He hummed, forehead resting against yours.

Were you tight, or was he just so incredibly big? Either way, you were a panting mess already, clinging to him for dear life, and Logan forgot his worries, even if it was just for that one moment. You were too good to be true, with your parted lips and glossy eyes — a beautiful sight for his sore eyes.

"Fuck, I- fuck!" You wrapped your legs around his waist, the table screeching under you. Not a single coherent sentence could come out of your mouth. "Logan, shit, I-"

"What's the matter? Need something?" He cooed, fingers bruising into your hips. "Use your big girl words."

"Need it ha-harder!" You cried out but he slowed down, confusion written all over your face.

"Where are your manners?"

"Please, daddy, please give it to me harder!"

The term of endearment had Logan quirk a brow at you, but he wasn't surprised in the slightest that you had a daddy kink. And he basked in being called that.

"Are you sure you can take it?"

"Yes!" There was no hesitation in your response. "Fuck, yes!"

Logan growled when he felt your pussy clench around his cock, and he delivered, thrusting deeper, harder and faster into you, until the sound of skin on skin echoed in the bakery, and your breathing became heavier.

"Fuuuuck, I can feel it in my gut!" You threw your head back when the tip of his cock brushed against your cervix.

"Filthy. Little. Slut." Each word came with a thrust and a groan, and he filled you up so good, you became addicted to him.

Your toes curled up, and your legs began to twitch when you felt your orgasm build up. Each push and pull made your vision blurry, and Logan's grip on you tightened as his hips stuttered. He was feral, and he was close, you could feel it in your bones.

"Fuck, Logan, do- oh- don't stop!" Words spilled from your mouth incoherently, and after a few more thrusts, pure bliss rushed through your body.

"That's it, let go." Logan buried his face in the crook of your neck, slamming hard into you until all you could do was chant his name like a prayer.

You felt him fill you up, pussy hot and sticky and sore, and he slowly pulled out, eyes darting at the tissues on the table. He grabbed them, gently cleaning you up, and you couldn’t stop the grin on your face. There was just something about a man like him be so gentle. And you were absolutely delighted to have him take care of you.

"You know," Logan said licking his lips, "I'm beginning to think you didn't want me to just taste your pastries."

"True." You told him smugly. "But you liked them."

"I like you more." He blurted out without thinking.

You felt your cheeks burn at his sudden honesty, and after sliding up your underwear and fixing your dress, you planted a soft kiss on his cheek.

"I like you too, honey badger."

"Don't ever call me that again." Logan chuckled.

"Not happening. Now, could you pleaaaase help me clean up this place? The last thing I need is a surprise hygiene inspection tomorrow."

He couldn't even imagine what the inspectors would do if they found out you had sex in a bakery, and with a nod, Logan zipped up his jeans and began disinfecting the tables and chairs while you swept the floor.

In less than half an hour you were done, and the shop was squeaky clean. You were satisfied with the end result, and told Logan that you wanted him to have the rest of the cake, pies and croissants. He thought Wade and Al could eat something, and decided to accept your offer.

"Can I come with you? There's quite a few boxes of food." You told him, a sheepish grin on your lips.

"Is that your way of finding out where I live?"

"Maybe. I'll go home if you don't want me with you."

"No, you're good." Logan assured you. "Besides, I'm sure my roommate's gonna devour everything. He'll probably lock you up in our apartment and force you to bake for him."

"I don't know if that's a threat or a promise." You laughed.

"Both. It's both."

You walked with Logan down the street, boxes in your arms, and you were surprised to see him open up to you more. He answered almost every question you had, and you felt him more relaxed. And he was. Logan forgot how much he needed that kind of connection with someone. You were so easy to talk to, you didn't judge him, and most importantly, you listened.

He guided you up the stairs to his apartment and knocked on the door, because he couldn't reach his keys with so many boxes in his arms. You baked for a damn army.

Wade opened the door, and you were taken aback by his appearance, but it didn't scare you. Instead, you introduced yourself as Logan's personal baker, earning a chuckle from him.

"Come on in, Martha Stewart." Wade opened the door enough for you to walk through it with the boxes and not drop them.

"Wade." Logan came back from the kitchen with a croissant. "Eat. Seriously, eat."

You watched Wade wolf down the pastry without hesitation and his eyes lit up. He chewed and swallowed, then moaned, eyes rolling back. The look of disgust on Logan's face was priceless.

"Holy fucking shit, Y/N, what the fuck did you put in this?" Wade grabbed your shoulders, giving them a good shake. "It's so flaky and creamy and buttery, like a bunch of unicorns came in my mouth."

"I'm glad you like it." You giggled. "Try the cake."

"There's cake?!" He ran to the kitchen, leaving you and Logan in the hallway before coming back, a slice of half-eaten cake in his hand. "I am officially impressed. Can you make Rocky Road?"

"Yes."

"Dulce de leche?"

"Yep."

"Baklava?"

"Uh-huh."

"Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte?"

"Yes, Wade!" You rolled your eyes, then turned to Logan. "Sugar rush?"

"Oh, you have no idea. And this is him on a good day."

"Listen, sweet cheeks, if old man fuckface here won’t marry you, I will. Just don’t tell Vanessa." Wade whispered.

"Don’t even think about it, you degenerate limp dick."

"Ugh, fine. And here I was hoping all four of us could be a happy dysfunctional family. Five if you count Al. Six with Colossus. Wait, actually, eight with-"

"Wade, have you tried the pork pies?" You asked, effectively shutting him up.

Yeah, Logan could definitely get used to being around you from now on to sweeten up his life.

[lovebugism]

Im a very indecisive person but I guess I'll go with “Surprise, I have feelings and you just hurt them.” with Eddie, if you have any inspiration for this prompt 💕

ty for requesting!! — you get mean when you like someone, so eddie thinks you hate him (grump!reader, enemies to lovers, hurt/comfort, shameless succession reference, 1.9k)

“Please, tell me you’re joking,” you mumble through the melting vanilla shake on your tongue.

Robin grins at you across the table and shakes her head. “Nope,” she says, popping the p. “You are officially looking at Vicki Carmichael’s latest odyssey.”

You and Eddie look over your shoulder at Steve. He stands at the front counter and fumbles with the straw dispenser — hitting the lever repeatedly, with an increasingly rougher touch when nothing comes out. He flounders when they all spill out at once. 

He’s lucky he’s so pretty.

“Wait, I’m confused,” Eddie announces from beside you after stealing a sip of your milkshake. He squints and fights off a brain freeze. “Why didn’t he just tell us? He’s screwing the hottest girl in town— it feels like something he’d brag about.”

“I’m sitting right here,” you scoff, mostly kidding.

“‘Cause he knew you guys would totally ream him for it,” Robin answers and pinches fry crumbs into her mouth. Through a mouthful of them, she says, “It’s not like you’re usually supportive about this kinda stuff.”

“I’m all for Steve being a slut, okay?” you defend with your hands up in surrender. “But I do draw the line at my best friend fucking the girl who bullied me in high school.”

“What’d she do?” Eddie asks. You can’t tell if he really cares or if he just wants something new to laugh at you for, but you decide to humor him anyway.

“She cut out the boobs of my gym shirt before class because she knew if I dressed out again, I was getting detention,” you explain, smiling when it makes the table laugh. “I had to run the mile with my bright pink sports bra showing, but at least my record was clean.”

“What are you guys talking about?” Steve wonders aloud when he returns to the table, carrying the only straw that hadn’t fallen to the floor. He slides into the booth next to Robin and looks at the three of you expectantly.

“Nothing.” the brunette girl chirps.

“You,” Eddie deadpans.

You squint. “Real smooth, Munson.”

“Wait, what?”

Eddie laughs. “I mean, Vicki Carmichael? Seriously?”

Steve gapes at Robin, features yawned in betrayal. “You told them?” 

The girl shrugs, taking a big bite of her burger and playing coy.

“She’s hot and everything, but she’s really not your type, man.”

Steve’s eyes narrow across the table. “What’s that supposed to mean, freak?”

“She likes bad boys,” you answer for him, shrugging like it’s obvious. “You know, the Billy Hargrove types. With tattoos and leather jackets and long hair. And, no offense, but you’re the furthest thing from that.”

“I think you just described me, doll,” Eddie laughs.

“Weren’t you screwing around with Billy Hargrove a couple months ago?” Steve wonders with a knowing, honeyed squint.

“Shut up, Harrington,” you bite.

Eddie grins with all his teeth, pink and boyish and proud. “Oh, so you’re screwing guys that are just like me now, huh? I’m flattered.”

“If anything, you’re the dollar store version of Billy Hargrove, Munson,” you retort with a roll of your eyes, turning your attention to the milkshake in front of you. You stab holes in the thick ice cream and try to ignore the sudden attention.

All the eyes on you make you nervous. You were never good at being the butt of the joke. ‘Cause when you get embarrassed, you get mean. Like some kinda hurt dog.

“You have everything but the looks.”

“Fuck off,” Eddie snorts and snatches the frosted glass away from you. He slides it over to his side of the table and sips from the straw that has your lipstick stained on the tip of it. “You can’t insult me—”

“Can’t I?”

“—Not when you’re fucking a carbon copy of me,” he scoffs and tries to ignore the jealousy burning wildfires behind his ribcage.

“He’s nothing like you,” you insist.

“He’s exactly like me. Just blonde. And watered down,” Eddie argues, face twisted with disgust. He smiles when it makes everyone else laugh but you. “I mean, it’s kinda sad, actually. I turned you down, so you had to try it out with Hargrove?”

“I didn’t try it, first of all, I fucking conquered it,” you retort, not exactly joking but grinning when it makes Steve and Robin chuckle to themselves. “And second of all, I never wanted you, Munson. So there was never anything to turn down.”

Your words sting somewhere deep in his chest. Like there’s a knife lodged deep in his heart that aches every time he breathes. He doesn’t know what to do with this hurt other than hurt you back. 

“So that night you told me you liked me after my show— that was all a lie?” he asks, smirking to hide his ache.

Robin’s eyes go wide as she bites into her burger. “What is this? A sleepover?” she scoffs with her mouth full. “Why is everyone telling each other’s secrets?”

“You started it, Buckley,” Steve quips before stealing one of her fries.

Your answer is immediate. A total lie, but instant nonetheless. No one’s gonna out-insult you. Rarely ever do you come out of petty arguments without having drawn the most blood.

“Yeah! You bombed, and I felt bad, and I wanted to make you feel better,” you confess with a sinister giggle. “What I really wanted to say is that I wish your mom had given birth to a can opener because at least then it might be good at something.”

Eddie meets your smirk with a glower, something genuinely pained that makes your chest sting. You refuse to show it, though. Not even when he slides out of the booth. “Yeah, okay. Fuck you,” he mumbles to himself as he goes.

“What?” you scoff a cynical laugh.

“C’mon,” Steve murmurs quietly to you. “That was a little too far.”

“Oh, so he can make fun of me, but I can make fun of him?”

“It’s different. You know that.”

You roll your eyes even though you know he’s right. Eddie’s a clown, but he means well. He’s a dumbass because he doesn’t know how to be serious about anything, but he’s hardly ever outright mean. 

You’re made of something more hardened than that. You set fires all around you, and only when a person walks through it do you know they really care. You don’t mean to be so mean half the time. It’s a defense mechanism more than anything. A time-bomb you never really learned to defuse.

“It was a joke, Eds!” you shout as he storms the short distance to the entrance of the diner.

“Well, surprise. I have feelings—” he grins, though there’s little emotion behind it. The door dings over his head when he shoves it open. He reaches for the crushed packet of cigarettes in his pocket. “—And you just hurt them.”

The diner feels strangely silent with him gone. The air feels noticeably heavy, too. 

You reach for the milkshake he left on his side of the table and slide it audibly back over to you. You don’t sip from it, though. Your stomach’s too much in knots now. You just busy your fidgeting hands with it, holding the frosted glass in your delicate palms until they ache.

“Stop staring at me,” you mumble, not meeting the silent looks Robin and Steve give you across the booth.

“Go talk to him before you give him a complex.”

“Yeah,” the boy hums with a knowing smile. “Go kiss and make up.”

“Shut up,” you bite with a scrunched-together face. You deflate with a sigh. “Fine. I’ll go— but not because you told me to.”

You hear them laugh quietly to themselves as you walk out behind Eddie. 

He leans against the corner of the old building and blows smoke from his lungs. He looks relatively unfazed despite the circumstances. You swallow down the worry that you’re embarrassing yourself by being out here at all.

Your shoes scuff against the sidewalk as you near him. “Eds—”

“I’m fine,” he interjects before you can say anything real. “You don’t need to apologize.”

“Well, it’s too late. Steve and Robin already kicked me out here, so…” You trail off in a monotone, despite having already declared that you were out here not because you were told to be. He doesn’t need to know that, though. “…I’m sorry.”

He takes a puff of the cigarette between his fingers, then shrugs on the exhale. “Okay.”

“The can opener thing was stupid— I mean, it wasn’t nice either, but it was a really dumb joke,” you ramble without taking a single breath. You cross your arms over yourself in a makeshift shield. “You didn’t even bomb that night. At your show or whatever. I lied. You were… You were actually really good.”

Eddie turns his head slowly. He blinks at you with chocolate eyes sparkling with amusement.

You cower under his stare. “What?”

“I know what you’re doing,” he insists with a crooked smile.

“What?” you repeat, forcing a laugh.

“You’re fucking with me,” he chuckles and brings the cig back to his mouth. He mumbles through the stick. “But it’s cool, you know? I can cope.”

“I’m being serious, Eddie,” you argue. And then, when your chest starts to sting, it becomes impossible not to make a joke. “I think you’re a… super-talented superstar—”

“You’re such a fucking bitch,” he interjects with a sincere laugh, like honey and gunpowder.

You giggle, and the foreign tension ebbs.

“I’m just kidding,” you assure and prop your back against the wall beside him. “Well, I mean, I’m not, but I…” You stammer when you can’t find the words. You gesture wildly with your hands. “I do think you’re talented, it’s just— It’s hard for me to be serious, okay? But I am sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he assures, tossing the cigarette to the ground and snuffing the ash with his sneaker. “Trust me. I know what you mean.”

You swallow hard. “And I wasn’t… What I said to you that night, in your van after the show… I wasn’t lying.”

Eddie’s head snaps up. He blinks at you with a gaping gaze, even though you’re not looking at him to see it. You’re much more focused on the dumpster across the street, lest you meet his eyes and get embarrassed all over again. 

This is the realest you’ve ever been with him, you think — since you told him you liked him and he all but turned you down.

Being vulnerable has been impossible since then.

“Then why’d you never talk to me about it again?” he asks, then stammers over himself. “You acted like it never even happened— I thought I fucking— like, dreamt it or some shit.”

“Because you didn’t say anything back! I thought you didn’t feel the same way!”

“I was just— I was just shocked. You always act like you hate me!”

“Because I like you, you idiot!” you blurt before you mean to, then huff with impatience at yourself. “Fuck. Sorry. I don’t know… I don’t know how to be nice to people I like.”

“It’s okay,” Eddie laughs, shifting on the brick wall until his shoulder rubs against it. He looks down at you like he’s seeing you for the very first time — glittering with the hope of finally getting close to you, of finally having something real.

“Don’t laugh!” you argue. “I’m trying really hard here!”

“I know,” he murmurs lowly, leaning in until you can taste the nicotine on his breath. In a honeyed tone, he confesses, “It’s a good thing I like you mean, then, huh?”

Your heart lurches into your throat. He smirks when you freeze, and knocks his shoulder against yours when he heads back into the diner.

The game of cat and mouse continues.

[mockerycrow]

Frozen Fingertips [1/2] (Ghost x GN!Reader)

ghost masterlist - crow’s mega masterlist - part two

Summary: You and Simon are in an extremely cold and snow covered area of Russia and manage to get separated from everyone else when a blizzard comes out of nowhere. Ghost helps keep you alive.

[WARNINGS: Light descriptions of developing hypothermia and frostbite, angst, hurt/comfort, ghost is actually worried.]

THE EXTREMELY COLD air bit at the little skin that’s exposed on your face and invades your lungs, nearly feeling like it’s sending frost to bite at the most inner corners of your esophagus. Dressed in snow boots, a snow suit as well as a snow jacket with a bullet proof vest, a thick scarf, two layers of gloves—a pair of thin gloves and then your snow gloves—as well as a beanie with your hood up. You tried to tie your scarf in such a way where it covers the lower portion of your face, but movement has made the fabric crumble down. The conditions of the snowy forest you’re trudging through are harsh; the snow is several feet deep, nearly up to your mid-thigh, causing you to have to quite literally pull your leg through dense snow, and of course you forgot your sunglasses for this trip. The bright sun is shining onto the snow surrounding you, successfully blinding you, causing you to squint until you give yourself a headache.

You have no idea what temperature it is, but all you know is that the fact that you’re moving through the snow is the only thing getting you through this. Your nose burns from the cold and so do your cheekbones, and any other skin that is exposed. You hold your rifle tighter to your chest in an attempt to maintain warmth, and despite all of your protective clothing, you don’t feel warm at all. You’re traveling with Ghost, while Soap, Price, and Gaz are infiltrating a nearby safehouse, owned by Makarov. You and Ghost are making your way to the exfil point after providing overwatch—the weather was beginning to pick up, blocking your line of sight. You shudder as some snow lands on the tip of your nose and melt, but nearly immediately freeze due to the temperature.

You keep dragging your feet through the snow, one foot after the other, trying to think warm thoughts to keep you going. Your radio crackles to life and Ghost’s muffled voice comes through; he’s only in front of you, but the snow can act as a sound muffler. “Doin’ alright?” His voice is like a wave of warmth washing over you, and you close your eyes for a moment as you walk. You open them and mumble, “Freezing my ass off, sir.” Ghost lets out a huff that almost sounds like a chuckle. “Keep moving, sergeant. You’ll keep your strength and warmth up.” You don’t bother to respond as you continue to trudge on. The wind begins to pick up as well as the falling snow slowly turns into a mini blizzard. “This is Price to Ghost and [Name], how copy?”

You don’t bother to respond as you’re focused on keeping yourself upright—when did you begin to feel so tired? “Loud and clear, Price. The weather’s pickin’ up.”

When did you begin to feel so.. warm? ..What?

You blink and suddenly you find yourself collapsed into the snow. You don’t question it, because you’re quite comfortable. The coldness of the snow feels good against your suddenly warm skin. You’re violently shivering, but you don’t mind. You’re warm. A pair of hands grab your coat, flipping you over so you’re no longer face down into the snow. You whine and weakly try to push whoever is touching you because their gloved hands are on your face, brushing snow off of your skin. “Stop,” You slur, your voice wobbling. Your hearing tappers out for a moment, and apparently so does your vision because the next thing you know—you find yourself in a cabin.

The first thing you feel is warmth—and then extreme coldness, and then numbness, and it’s a repeating cycle, causing you constantly shiver where you’re laying. Your limbs feel so heavy and you just want to stay laying down, but you’re hit with the thought of Ghost. Did he bring you here? Or did something happen, causing someone to take you? Your thoughts are in disarray, that much is clear. You can’t even form a coherent thought. You blink slowly as to focus your gaze, and you see a tall and bulky figure bent down by a fireplace, which you’re laying near. Huh. You’re somehow stuffed inside your sleeping bag. The figure’s back is turned to you, so whatever they’re doing, you’re unable to see. “C’mon,” The rough voice hisses. Oh, it’s Ghost.. Duh. You let out a choked noise as a weird pain of blistering pain radiates through your skull, and you’re vaguely aware of the feeling of your blood quickly rushing back into your fingertips, the humming sensation in your fingers nearing painful. They were lightly tingling before.

You blink again; time has passed. There’s a fire going now, a steady one, but it’s clearly not enough. Not with the way Ghost’s intense eyes are staring into yours, him saying something about you staying awake, something about how he knows you want to sleep—which he’s right about—but you can’t, and that you shouldn’t. You nearly wanna reach over and smack him about that, and you would have if you could move without the sluggish and heavy weighted feelings in your limbs. Who is he, to tell you, what you can and cannot do?? “I’m tired, Ghost.. Lemme sleep.” You croak out—your voice is trembling and you don’t understand why, but your body doesn’t give you enough energy to properly question it and you lay your head back down, trying to turn it away.

“Need you to keep those eyes open, [Name],” Ghost’s voice is suddenly.. very, very, very close to your ears. Your eyes flutter back open—you don’t even remember closing them—and you’re face to face to his mask. His brown eyes burrow into yours, nearing unreadable, but one thought pops up when your head allows it; he’s worried. Ghost is worried. “M’here,” You mutter, feeling yourself shake in your sleeping bag. “I’m here.” You watch as Ghost gets up from his position, which was looming over you, to add more fuel to the fireplace. The fire cracks and sparks alive once again, and you never noticed it died down. Must’ve been a while, of you being in and out. Your head is finally allowing you think more clearly. “How..” You lick your dry and cold lips before continuing. “How long has it been?”

Ghost looks over at you, pausing for a moment before poking at the burning wood with a fireplace poker. “You don’t know?” He questions, his voice tense. Bad sign. You not remembering how much time has passed is a very bad sign. You shake your head, tugging your sleeping bag closer to your body in a sluggish manner. Ghost’s quiet as he moves back over to you, grabbing his own sleeping bag which is tightly rolled up and attached to his backpack. Ghost begins to unravel the fabric and unzip it, in an attempt to make a blanket. “Well, a big blizzard started up as we were headin’ to the RV. Found you face down in the snow a bit behind me, and knew you..” He trails off as pulls the zippers down, hesitating in his movements. “..knew you needed to rest, needed help.”

You press your lips together because it’s so clear Ghost is avoiding what he wanted to say; what you both know what he meant. A harsh shiver rolls out through your body, harsh enough to make your vision spin, causing Ghost to huff. He drapes his unzipped sleeping bag over your body, tucking the extra fabric under your body. You groan quietly and you shut your eyes for a moment. Ghost is shifting stuff around and you his gloves fingers push your hat up ever so slightly and then you feel.. skin pressing against your forehead?? Your eyes open sleepily to the sight of Ghost’s mask pushed to above his nose, exposing his scarred lips and cheeks. You open your mouth to say something but a quiet whimper leaves you as your vision swims again—not giving you a moment to think about his kiss against your forehead. “Cold.” He mutters as he grabs the edge of his mask and pulls it back over the rest of his face, down to his neck. You watch as Ghost takes off his scarf and wraps it around your neck instead, and then he lays down next to you and wraps an arm around you, pulling you closer. You try to question why he’s doing this, but Ghost is already three steps ahead of you. “You’re not of any help if you’re dead, love.” His voice is steady, but it’s on edge—like he’s scared.

You shut your eyes and you lean into his everlasting warmth, and you decide to not point out how his gloved fingers are stroking the exposed skin of your face in a soothing manner.

[kenyummy]

DREAM ꒰⚘݄꒱ ISAGI ,, CHIGIRI

SYNOPSIS : what do the blue lock boys dream about when they're away from you, training to be the greatest striker?

note: hi! its been a minute since i posted anything and erm. hi. hi.... i might post obey me stuff soon lollllseerrsss. anyways. this is just isagi and chigiri dreaming about you awwww cuteee. nagi and shidou ver coming soon and uhhh yep. shidou will be having a slightly moist dream. what can i say.

isagi yoichi

Snow flutters all around Isagi, landing on his clothes and leaving fluffy white on his hair. He's standing under a streetlight, dim in the night sky that is lit by the crescent moon, and stars dot the sky like sparkling tears.

Isagi looks around, caught in the chilly winter air. The frost nips at his cheeks and turns his nose a cherry red, but it doesn't bother him. What does bother him, is his confusion. Where is he? Where's Blue Lock? And most of all...

Why is he holding a bouquet of flowers? He usually bought some for his mom on his way home from school on special occasions, but as far as his memory recalls, today is just a regular old day, and this place looks nothing like his path home.

He pulls his scarf up further his face so that his whole chin and lower facial area are covered. He turns his head around, and without a sense of direction to go—he stays still, standing on the concrete pathway. The grey of the path is covered in a large sheet of snow, that Isagi's leather shoes thankfully don't let sink in. These are his nice shoes... what sort of day is this?

He's never been more confused.

But he doesn't have time to dwell on this mystery, because a bright figure is suddenly bounding over-calling out his name with grunts and stumbles and such in such a loving voice—it could only be one person.

"[name]?" Isagi calls out, looking to where you're running—or trying to, anyway—over, heels clashing into the snow with satisfying crunches. Isagi suddenly finds himself and rushes over to you before you fall over your feet.

He grabs ahold of your upper arms instinctively to stabilise you, and there, you look up at him from your hunched, slightly bent down position, and he doesn't think you've ever looked so pretty. You're wearing bold, obvious makeup compared to your usual natural style, but it compliments your facial features well and makes you glow even more than usual.

Even under the dark night sky, Isagi thought you shined brighter than anything else here.

You smile, a toothy grin that makes his heart bump in his chest, "Hi."

He swallows, cheeks stretching out and eyes squinted into crescent moon shapes, in a breathy voice, he says "Hi."

Your eyes suddenly dart downwards, to the item he's holding under his elbow. Your eyes widen, and for a second, he thinks he's done something wrong—until you smile even wider.

He doesn't think about the bouquet he's holding under your arm before you point it out, a bright grin etched over your previous one of discomfort, "Did you get these for me? You remembered that these were my favourites!"

Isagi pauses, following your eyes towards the thing you're staring at—the bouquet he holds next to him. He blinks at you before the realisation suddenly hits him, and his ears feel burning hot. "Oh. Right, yeah..." He has no idea why he even has these, but if you want them, then you could certainly have them. "These are for you."

His voice falls smoother than he expected, and dimples dot his cheeks. He holds them out, and you don't waste any time in taking them from his grasp and holding them close to your chest. You look like you can barely contain your grin—and the way you look down at them makes the bouquet feel like the most special thing in the world.

You suddenly lurch forward, flowers still clutched tightly in your palm when you wrap your arms around his torso, digging your face into his (chest/shoulder, depending on your height), and he can feel how fast your heart is beating in your chest.

"Thank you, Yoichi... this date only started, and I was even late... but it's already the most amazing one I've ever been on."

Your lashes flutter against your cheek when you close your eyes, and all Isagi can focus on right now is the feeling of you clutched tightly in his arms, wearing cute winter clothing, and feeling your heart drum next to his.

This feeling... is perfect.

He doesn't even have time to dwell on the fact that he is here, on a date with you, before your lips come into contact with the smooth, fair skin of his cheek, in a short, sweet kiss. His cheeks bloom into a fiery colour, and Isagi wonders if he can still blame it on the cold at this point.

He can feel the residue of the lipstick you left behind, but he almost doesn't want to wipe it away. A symbol of you left on him... doesn't seem too bad. You giggle, fingers trailing his face and the way you look into his eyes so deeply, so dizzyingly hot, makes his stomach twist.

You're smiling. He's breathing heavily. Isagi can feel each light puff of air escape your lips onto his, and at this moment, he's never felt more alive—not with his heart threatening to beat out of his chest, and his mind flourishing with bright sparks. You lean closer, lips pouted out slightly...

"ISAGI!"

Isagi lurches forward, off his pillow and he breathes heavily, chest rising and falling in a panicked motion. There, instead of you with cute winter clothes, stands Bachira, clad in... nothing.

Isagi groans, lowering his vision so that he doesn't have the chance to see Bachira while he's naked as the day he was born, "Agh... Dude, put some clothes on..."

"Okie dokie! But don't fall asleep again, okay? Ego nearly shocked you awake!" Bachira giggles before he bounds out of the room on his heels, skipping towards another room. Isagi doesn't care to watch, rubbing his forehead with his palm.

That dream... I can't help but feel a little disappointed...

His cheeks feel hot when he thinks about it, and he looks up at the ceiling with a thoughtful expression. I wonder... if she likes those flowers?

chigiri hyoma

Chigiri Hyoma is currently laid down in a comfy bed, with soft white sheets fallen over his body and a book in his hand. Reading glasses slide down his nose, but he doesn't pay it any mind, not with the dim light that enchants your face in a warm glow.

You're lying right next to him, peacefully sleeping with light, inaudible breaths. Chigiri has a book in his hand and is sitting in the pale candlelight, but he's not reading at all—if so, at a ridiculously slow pace. He can't stop staring at you. You somehow look more ethereal than before, with such a calm expression.

He wonders what you're dreaming about.

Maybe it's... about him.

He shakes his head, and it almost feels weird when his bangs don't fall over his eyes—then, he feels for them and finds they're clipped back with a My Melody hairclip. No. He shouldn't feel...

A strangled groan catches his attention, and he looks down at you once again, you're stretching your arms out, groaning as you awake from your slumber. Chigiri smiles, snapping his book shut after he inserts his mark, and places it on the bedside table. He adjusts himself so that he's sitting comfortably, and when his shuffling catches your attention, he says, "Morning, sleeping beauty."

You whine when his lithe finger is against your nose, pressing down, and you look up at him with a pout, "I think you're the beauty here."

That makes Chigiri laugh, a lovely sound echoing from his lips. He reaches backwards and fiddles with the claw clip holding his hair backwards for a second, "Well, I can't say you're wrong." He successfully manages to un-do his clipped hairstyle, and his bright red locks fall over his shoulders in a graceful manner-something that makes you stare.

"Yeah, I'm not." You snort, shuffling closer to him. "Cuddle me," you demand.

He playfully rolls his eyes—after spending so long with Chigiri, he was sure you could read him like an open book—but still follows through with your order, slipping down from where he lying against the bedrest. "So demanding."

He snuggles into the warm sheets, and the light that shines through the crack of the blinds into your eye is covered by his head. You smile in contentment as he wraps his arms around you and brings you even closer—you didn't think it was possible.

"Yeah, but you always listen to me." You coo, shoving your face into the crook of his neck and sighing against his fair skin. Chigiri doesn't let you catch him smiling, a hand resting atop your hair and stroking lightly.

"Guess so." He leans his face down and presses his cheek against your head—you can feel the light kiss of his lips against your scalp. "Maybe I should stop."

You remove your face away from his collarbones to give him a shocked, mildly offended look, which makes him snicker, "What?! No way! If you stop listening, then we'll never cuddle again."

Chigiri sighs, hand moving downwards to wrap lightly around your upper thigh, "That's a tough threat, babe."

The pet name feels so natural, spilling out of his lips like he's said a hundred times before. You push back on his shoulder lightly. "And that means nothing like this anymore. You gotta listen to me, Hyoma, otherwise... our whole dynamic gets thrown off."

This time—he can't help the smile that spreads across his lips so sweetly, his other hand touching your jaw lightly, cupping it in his grasp, "Yeah. I'll always listen to you. Can't not listen. You're too pretty when you demand what you want." He leans down and presses a featherlight kiss on the bridge of your nose.

The giggle that escapes your lips is nothing short of heavenly.

You smile, "Whatever, you sap." You move your head back so it is buried in its original spot, and the warmth that spreads across your cheeks feels like burning hot lava on his skin—but strangely, Chigiri doesn't really mind.

This feeling, this love has never come so easy to Chigiri—but he assumes you've always come easy to him.

Even as his eyes flutter open, and no longer is he in a warm, candlelit room, but rather the cold dorms of Blue Lock—his heart still flutters in his chest, his cheeks still burn bright, and his smile does not drop.

© KENYUMMY 2024

[ellethespaceunicorn]

Do It For Daddy

Title: Do It For Daddy

Rating: Explicit, 18+, Minors - DNI

Pairing: Jake Jensen x Female!Reader

Word Count: 1.3K

Prompts: Jake Jensen + Female Reader + Daddy kink + “I told you, you would eventually start begging.” + Smut, requested by @bridgetina

Summary: Jake tries something new, showing you a different side of himself.

Warnings: CMNF (clothed male, naked female), Daddy kink, oral sex (f receiving), vaginal fingering, pet names for Reader (pretty girl, sweet girl), squirting, forced orgasms, goatee burn, p-in-v unprotected sex, creampie, mention of bodily fluids, aftercare, Jake being Jake

A/N: Unbeta’d, we die like people who tried their best. 

Dividers by me

Support/Reblog banner by me

Cover Art by me

Sweet Treats Event 2024 Masterlist

My Masterlist

Your clothing, long stripped off by Jake, lays in a crumpled mess at the foot of the bed. With your hands clutching the sheets below you, you start to whine. He’s nowhere near finished with you, though. You arch your back, inhale deeply, and mewl loudly as Jake’s nimble digits and quick tongue work you through your third orgasm of the night.

While your body trembles as you come down, Jake pulls off your puffy clit and licks his lips. Removing his fingers, he makes a show of tasting the slick coating of his fingers. Using the remaining wetness, he strokes his girthy cut cock as it hangs out of his jeans, which have been pushed down below his ass. His goatee is noticeably shiny with your arousal, and you can smell it in the air.

Jake’s voice breaks through the fog of your afterglow. “Don’t get too comfortable; Daddy’s not done with you yet,” he breathes, diving to suction his lips around your sensitive nub. His fingers collect moisture from your leaking slit and dip inside your tight heat.

Your hands migrate from the sheets to Jake’s blonde-frosted tips. Opening his smokey blue eyes, you watch as he squints to focus on your face. Why he insists on taking off his glasses during sex is still a mystery to you. Doesn’t he want to see you? When you tug at his hair, he gets the hint and moves up your body while his fingers continue their assault on your core. 

He hovers over your face, his swollen lips just a millimeter away, the unmistakable smell of yourself on his breath. Licking across your lips, he teases, then devours your whimpers in a passionate kiss. His tongue tangles with yours like two bodies dancing the tango; his fingers curl upward inside of you to massage your inner bundle of nerves.

He knows your body like no other, so he isn’t surprised when your breathing quickens. He anticipates you moaning into the kiss, pulling away so he can hear your sweet noises fully. His leaky red tip drips on your hip as your legs wrap around him. Your heels digging into Jake’s ass only spurs him on more to bring you over the edge.

“Yes! You’re right there, baby. Just let go and cum for me. That’s it, pretty girl. Do it for Daddy,” he coaxes, his whispered words the last thing you hear before the dam breaks.

Your walls clamp down around his digits; he groans and works you through your fourth release. The squelch of his fingers inside you as he continues to massage your g-spot fills the room for a moment. Jake thinks you’ve had enough for now and sits back on his haunches watching you in blissful euphoria.

With one hand on his hard length, the other is free to draw lazy designs across your hip and stomach. Within a few minutes, his hand dips lower and lower until he gently cups your mound. Dragging two fingers between your lower lips elicits a strangled moan from you. You sputter a couple of words that he can barely hear.

“What was that, my sweet girl?” He leans in closer, his hardness bumping into your swollen pussy lips.

You can’t help but hiss when his balls rub against the sensitive skin left behind by goatee burn. “Please, Daddy. Can’t take anymore,” you plead.

A shit-eating grin spreads across his face; clearly, he is happy with himself. “I told you, you would eventually start begging,” he purrs, tilting his head. “But I think you can take more.” He reaches for the lube on the bed, pouring a generous amount into his hand. Coating his cock in the sticky substance, he lines up with your entrance and pushes in slowly to allow you to get used to his intrusion.

Canting his hips, he slides out until just the tip remains, then thrusts in fully. He groans deeply and doesn’t waste any time fucking into you. Holding your hips in an iron grip, he pistons into you. Taking you apart from the inside out, he revels in the vision of your eyes rolling back in your head as your climax nears.

Jake’s hand moves from your hip to your clit as his thumb rubs the engorged button. The mixture of clitoral and vaginal stimulation has you speaking in tongues before long. When you hit your peak, you feel like you’ve never been higher. Stars explode behind your eyelids, and you can’t stop the sounds from escaping your mouth. When you try to cover your mouth, Jake tsks at you, and you know he wants to hear you, so you oblige him.

He fucks you, long and deep, hitting the right spot over and over until you gush down his cock and balls. As your wetness soaks the front of his jeans and the hem of his shirt, Jake grunts as he continues to pound into you. 

Soon enough, his hips stutter and he pushes in fully as his pulsing cock paints your walls in thick, milky ropes. He lets out a few expletives and tips his head back, tilting his head from side to side. Dipping his chin down, he catches his breath until he softens and slips free from your sore snatch. He watches as his jizz leaks from your thoroughly-used hole, then leans forward to rest the side of his face on your stomach. 

Your hands find their way into his sweat-soaked hair while you both come down from your highs. Once he can move his legs again, Jake stands and waddles to the bathroom, pants around his ankles. You hear him turn on the faucet for the bathtub. When he returns, pants worn correctly this time, he grabs his glasses from the nightstand. Turning to you, he picks you up and brings you to the tub, even though you halfheartedly protest.

You’re surrounded by lavender-scented bubbles, and Jake is eerily quiet while washing your neck and back. It’s only when you reach for his hand that he speaks. 

“So, hypothetically speaking, if you were to give this particular sexual experience a grade from one to ten—one, being the worst ever, and ten, being ‘dear God, please can we do that again’, what would you give it?”

You turn to look at him, sloshing the bath water a bit. You put a wet hand against his cheek and smiled lovingly before slapping him on the forehead. “Are you serious, dweeb? You made me squirt, and you must ask if I liked it?” Your eyebrows couldn’t possibly raise any higher on your forehead.

The gears turn in his head as he nods quickly. “Well, I ask because that was the hottest thing I have ever done in my entire life, and if there is even a hint of something that you didn’t like, I will change it immediately. I want to make sure that I’m doing it right.”

You grab him by the chin and bring him in for a kiss, then you pull back to look into his eyes. You think about starting this huge monologue on why he shouldn’t focus on ‘getting it right’, but instead paying attention to the experience itself. But your brain has been well and truly fucked out, and words are hard. So, instead, you settle on keeping it short, sweet, and to the point. “11 out of 10; would recommend,” you giggle, splashing water on him.

His face lights up, and a pink hue dusts his cheeks. You sense his confidence level rising with that little ego boost. Thinking of when he first brought up this scenario and how he stuttered and fought to get the words out is a pleasant memory. Your sweet nerdy boy is finally giving into his kinky side, and all you can do is daydream about the next dirty thought that comes to his mind.

A/N: This is the first time I have written Jake Jensen and boy, did I enjoy this manboy. I was nervous about the Daddy kink. I just didn’t think Jake would be a “calls himself Daddy” type. But, uh, I was wrong haha.

[theladyofmanyfandomsfanfiction]

Imagine arguing with Sanji in the kitchen and holding up service…

The kitchen at Baratie was heating up and it wasn’t from the flaming stovetops or pre-heated ovens.

There was a wicked, hot tension between yourself and Sanji and it was making the rest of the kitchen staff sweat. No one knew what had caused the new dynamic but they quickly learnt to stay a safe distance from the pair after Patty accidentally fanned the flame. Now they only interacted with the duo when required.

Sanji was chopping vegetables for his soup that was almost ready to simmer while you silently iced some cakes on the station beside him. Both regretting the request to cook next to one another.

The blonde-haired chef finished dicing the last of the carrots and picked up the board to hold over the pot. He gently swept the vegetables into the broth with the knife. Setting the utensils back down, Sanji inhaled the beautiful aroma that was starting to perfume the air. His hand reached out for his spoon but his fingers met empty air.

He sighed and closed his eyes. “I’d like my spoon back.”

Your eyes were fixed on the patterns being made on the soft pieces of sponge but your ears picked up that his tone was directed toward you.

“I don’t have it.” You offered simply without breaking focus.

Sanji turned to you, eyes squinting. “Really? Because I recall that you used it last to mix the cake batter.”

It was your turn to exhale. “I did and I washed it thoroughly before setting it back on the table.”

“Well, it’s not here.”

“Then pull out another one.” You snapped.

Sanji lowered the heat of his soup so it wouldn’t burn before returning to glare at you. “Why should I have to when you’re the one who-”

Splat! The cook’s eyes went wide as the cold vanilla cream dripped from his chin, lips tasting its sweetness.

You now stood upright holding the bag of frosting, brows knitted to match the frown on your face.

“I didn’t take your damn spoon.”

The doors to the kitchen opened with their familiar heaviness and a wooden footstep hit the tiles.

“Why is there no soup or cakes out on the floor?” Zeff asked as he entered.

The kitchen that had gone quiet during the public argument suddenly sprang to life and scrambled to resume duties. Zeff’s eyes floated to the two in charge of the slowed menu line and his eyes narrowed.

“Why on earth are you tasting the desserts, Little Eggplant?” He inquired, approaching the bench.

Sanji’s hands flew to gesture your entire being. “Y/n is literally holding the bag. I’m a victim here!”

Zeff held a hand up to silence the boy and set his gaze on you. “You know that we don’t waste food here. Explain yourself.”

You shrugged. “He accused me of losing his spoon so I did what had to be done. I’m not apologising.”

Zeff blinked, jaw dropping slightly.

“A spoon.” He repeated slowly before his voice, and temper, was unleashed. “You two held up service because of a damn spoon!”

You held up your hands in defence. “I told him to just use another one but he was stubborn about it.”

Sanji didn’t take kindly to being thrown under the bus, rounding on you while completely ignoring the steam blowing out of Zeff’s ears.

“Excuse me but that is my special soup spoon. You’re lucky that I even let you borrow it.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s a spoon, Sanji. It’s not the All Blue.”

“You know what-?”

“I’ve heard enough!” Zeff bellowed, his voice sending vibrations through the glassware. “Mix the soup with a rolling pin for all I care. Just get it out to the customers along with those cakes or you’re both on dish duty for two months. Am I clear?”

Receiving a grumbled reply, the owner of the Baratie marched off.

A few stations away, Patty stealthily pulled a towel to cover the wooden handle of the missing utensil. It was too late to reveal the small prank without being boiled alive or baked into a pie.

With the tension still rising, Patty decided to lock them in a cupboard after the shift.

~ More imagines here ~

A/n: Heading back to the office tomorrow with a 5am wake up but here I lay at 12am dishing out some Baratie mania (with more to come). No regrets.

[kailoraurelius]

Starlight

"Starlight" is defined as the light that stars produce. As a name, "Starlight" can represent dreams, aspirations, and a connection to the universe's infinite possibilities.

"You know, you can just say you hate me, dude."

Beca's sudden voice should break the still of the night, but it doesn't. It fits right in with the frost on the edges of the rooftop and the mist Chloe breathes out. She's lying in one of their sunbathing chairs, her favorite one with the yellow polka dots. Twisting her head a bit, she can see Beca is shutting the roof door, cutting off the faint sound of music and laughter from downstairs. The girls are really living up their final week in the Bella House. They've even invited the Trebles over and are, currently, having a rousing card tournament. Chloe's been judging who's winning by whether or not she can hear Amy doing a war cry.

"I don't hate you," Chloe says. "Why do you think that?"

"Because you know I hate heights and you're hiding up here." Beca pulls up the flaps of her oversized, black jacket so she can squint at the zipper as she slots it together. It's pretty dark up here, with only the light stringers from the backyard sending up a gentle glow. She misses once, curses quietly under her breath, then adds, "Don't make a short joke."

Chloe snorts. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Beca manages to make the zipper catch and yanks it all the way up to her chin in one quick move, then shoves her hands deep into the pockets. "Mhmm. And the hiding up here part?"

Shrugging, Chloe watches as Beca saunters over to her side. "I'm not hiding. Just wanted to get away for a few minutes." She motions above them. "The night sky is so pretty in winter."

Beca tilts her head back, taking in the view too. Then she sighs, a large puff of fog floating slowly away from them. "The stuff I do for pretty things. Shove over."

Chloe scooches to the side as Beca turns and lowers herself to lay down without removing her hands from her pockets. Chloe giggles, bracing her hands against Beca's back to keep her from falling. "Why were you looking for me?"

"'Ain't no party without a ginger', someone told me once."

"Oh my god, I was drunk! Let it go."

"Mm. I don't think I will, no. Thank you."

Chloe curls into Beca's side, wrapping her arms around Beca's elbow. "Really though." The warmth from Beca's body makes her realize just how cold it actually is out on the roof. She nuzzles even closer. "Why?"

Beca doesn't answer right away. She just stares up at the billions of lights above them. And Chloe stares at her. At the sharp line of her jaw, the curve of her cheekbone. The quirk at the corner of her lips when she finally speaks. "Jesse's had a few too many drinks. He made a joke about getting back together."

Chloe's stomach twists. An ugly, burning feeling. It isn't as strong as it used to be, when Beca and Jesse first became a thing. As they grew apart over the years, the feeling faded. "What did you do?"

"I thought of you." She says it quietly, in one breath, like a confession, and Chloe silently hopes.

"Oh." She's not sure what else to say. She knows what she wants to say. I love you and I have for forever. I love you and I don't want you to be with him again. I love you and I think you love me. Please love me. But she bites her lip and just continues to watch Beca watch the stars.

"Yeah. Oh." Beca huffs a laugh and Chloe feels the sound in the small jerk of her chest. "What's that Van Gogh quote about the stars? The one Jessica wrote on the fridge white board last week?"

Chloe blinks, thinking. "'I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream'. She got it from Emily's Quote of the Day calendar."

Beca nods thoughtfully. "He might have been onto something."

"You're dreaming right now?"

"Yeah."

"Care to share with the class?"

Beca shifts a bit and Chloe tries not to notice that they're now tilted a bit toward each other. Beca's eyes are still on the sky. But her shoulder is lightly brushing Chloe's chin now.

"I'm...dreaming of a vacation. Somewhere warm and chill."

"What else?" Chloe says, urging her to continue.

"I'm dreaming that we will never again go to Aubrey's resort."

Chloe snorts and knocks her knee against Beca's. "It was a great time."

"I'm still finding leaves in my clothes."

"What else are you dreaming of, nerd?"

"Mean. Uh, I'm dreaming of a damn good waffle in the morning. If my totally cool bestie feels up to making one?"

Chloe hums as if she's mulling it over. "Maybe some dreams can come true."

Beca looks at her then and Chloe stops breathing. They're so close. Closer than she thought they were. Beca's eyes are bright even in the dark.

"I hope so." There's something in the words. Something deeper than her joking before, something more real. Something that tastes like possibility.

Carefully, gently, Chloe says, "You say that like you have more dreams to tell me." The words fill the space between them. Hanging in the tension.

"And if I said I did?"

Chloe tightens her grip on Beca's elbow. "I'd say tell me."

Beca doesn't blink and there are stars in her eyes. "And if I said I dreamed of kissing you right now?"

And, in an instant, Chloe doesn't have to hope. She knows. "I'd say kiss me."

So Beca does. Right there on the roof of the Bella House. With frost in the air and laughter on the breeze. Chloe kisses her back with all the longing she's held onto for years. All the moments she's wanted to do exactly this colliding at once, hitting her so hard that she sees stars.

Even with her eyes closed, the night sky is so pretty.

[syoddeye]

the warren, part eleven - outsider

price x f!reader | series page | ao3 tags: dual pov, brief mention of missing persons, supernatural elements, firearms/gunshot, pursuit, possessive john price a/n: kyle takes you on a walk in the woods. 🔪

John stalks the woods for hours, his steps silent, his presence loud. No cougars, no wolves, no bears cross his path. Even the coyotes keep their distance. All of them scatter when they scent him upwind. Only the slivers of orange far off remain—hunters fumbling in the undergrowth, cursing as he chases their quarries off from a distance.

The predators on the mountain cut him a wide berth, instinctual or otherwise. They smell it in the air, the thing he carries, the thing he is. They must feel it radiating from the pit in his chest like a second heartbeat. All the animals know, just as the townspeople know. They sense the natural order, and they know where he sits.

At the top, enthroned, watching with an unmatched hunger.

And man and beast are the same at their core. Driven to eat, to mate, to breed. But the thing inside him, what carved itself a home there so long ago, is neither. It wants all of those things and more. It wants to bind his pretty liar to him in ways man's words and vows never could. He can taste the thought of her, of their children, and the hunger gnaws at him so fiercely his teeth ache.

He rakes his nails over the meat of his thighs as she squirms in her sleep. She's feeling it—the pull, the call that brought her here, just like MacTavish, just like all the others. It lures them in, makes them stupid, but she's different. It's different this time.

In the morning, he'll comfort her. Give it to her again. Trap her in the snare of his arms, ask about her dreams with his mouth to her neck and a few loads of his spend hot against the plug of her womb.

It's bound to take one of these days. 

They've been going at it like, well.

John wraps his fist around himself under the sheets, and watches her toss and turn. She doesn't yet understand the weight of what's unfolding. But he knows. She's his. There is no leaving this place.

She will know the seasons here. The leaves will burn red and gold before falling. The frost will creep in until the bay hardens to glass. And through it all, she will be with him, bound to the land and to him. Full of him.

His pulse beats hard in his palm. 

And if she needs convincing, he has experience.

~~~~

There's a note tucked under the corner of the mat when Kyle returns after lunch. It wasn't there this morning nor at lunch. He has half a mind to request a camera from Shepherd, contemplating a discreet mount above his door.

It's from the motel front desk, scrawled on a piece of branded note paper. An unnamed woman called and left a message for him—Grouse Bay Grocery, open til 7.

Not ominous at all.

Kyle knows the proprietor is John Price. Everyone he's spoken to knows of him, but no one has offered much more. No one seems willing to share more than the basics. In this town, the badge doesn't carry weight. It only makes people clam up, smile stiffly.

And here, it's an even harder sell. You're not from here. You're here to get people in trouble. That's what they see first. 

He isn't oblivious. He understands to a degree. He's an outsider. Towns like Ponderosa and Grouse Bay don't care for being poked at, and the fact he's asking tough questions doesn't help. His real mistake, however, was assuming that someone, anyone, would want answers.

He stares at the note in his hand. Maybe it means he's found someone who does.

~~

Kyle squints, glancing from the note to the woman behind the counter. The poorly disguised look of surprise on her face confirms she wasn't expecting him.

When he saw her through the glass before coming in, he'd felt an unexpected wave of relief. After seeing her in the passenger seat of that truck, next to the scowling man with a bad haircut, he worried his case folder would grow by one. Yet here she is, alive, but the question swims in his thoughts: who left the note, if not her?

She's with a customer, so he drifts to a revolving stand of postcards. Half of them are coated in dust. Not a popular destination to write from, apparently. Still, one catches his eye, its pun curling his lip into a dry smile: Having a bay-utiful time in Grouse Bay!

Yeah. If only.

When the bell above the door chimes, he takes the aisle that leads straight to her, making sure she sees him coming. He slips off his sunglasses and hands over the postcard.

"Two fifty."

"Two fifty?" He echoes, pushing a soft laugh and smile, thumbing through his wallet. "For a postcard?"

Her eyebrows shoot up. "Sorry, I don't set—"

"I'm just teasing," He cuts in, warm enough to smooth over her nerves. "I know you're not responsible for the price."

She smiles tight and takes the money, turning to make change at the register, and his eyes narrow.

"What happened there? Looks painful."

She stiffens, brushing over the cut on her forehead, the sheen of drying ointment catching the light. There's a delay, a loaded one he immediately recognizes and loathes.

"I fell. I live at the top of—I fell. Loose gravel." 

He leaves the opportunity for her to continue or alter course. He knows she's lying. And she knows he knows.

"Right." He counters with the note when she mechanically offers his change. "Did you leave a message at a motel today?"

Her lips press into a flat line. "No?"

"Any ideas on who might have? Would've been a woman."

Her eyes flick back to his. "I don't know anything about it."

"Interesting," Kyle slides the note across the counter, tapping a finger against a corner. "'Cause despite its brevity, it seems like an invitation. And it brought me here. To you."

Her shoulders stiffen, and she glances at the door. "I don't know why anyone would…" She trails off, frowning, and when she continues, it's clear she's choosing her words carefully. "Are you—I recognize you."

"Do you?"

"I saw you. Yesterday. First, at the coffee shop, then after when I was with a friend." She pauses. "Are you here for the season or…?"

Kyle lets the silence stretch long enough for her visible discomfort to deepen. He smiles, and there's no humor in it. "No. I'm not. 'Least, I'm on a different hunt." Her gaze darts toward the door again, but before she feeds him some excuse, he takes his chance. Withdrawing his badge from the inner pocket of his jacket, he lays it out for her reference. "You met my colleague, Phillip Graves, outside The Echo Diner, isn't that right?"

Her throat bobs as she swallows, hands curling over the edge of the counter, thumbs worrying at the edge of a missing strip of plastic. When she finally looks at him, her eyes seem larger than they were a moment ago. "Am I in trouble?"

The question sets something off in the back of Kyle's mind. The meekness in her voice is different from what he's heard before from hedging witnesses. No, it's sincere, and with the cut on her forehead, it's probably in her nature to placate.

She's scared.

Not only of him, or the badge. Probably deeper than that. Of authority. Maybe men, too.

"No. You're not in trouble. I just want to have a conversation, Miss…?"

And on the third check of the door, she gives her name. Makes him wonder if Mr. Price is supposed to be in soon.

"You expecting someone?"

"No, but if a customer...This isn't a good time to talk."

Kyle nods. "I can respect that. How about after close? Seven, right?" He gestures over his shoulder. "We could meet at The Foxhole." 

Her hesitation is immediate. "No. That won't work."

"Okay…What if I come back here?"

"Not here either."

He frowns and runs his tongue along his bottom teeth. He doesn't want to scare her off, but—"What's your address, then? I'll pop by. It shouldn't take long."

A piece of the laminate snaps off under her finger and catapults across the counter. She stares at the shard of fake wood.

"You're not in trouble," Kyle reassures, slipping his badge back into his jacket. "The sooner I get what I need, the sooner I can be out of yours and everyone's hair."

That tips her head up. With reluctance, she gives the address. It's up the hill. Dark red cabin, lots of cats. Can't miss it. Eight o'clock, to give her time to eat.

"Eight it is."

"Eight."

"See you soon."

Kyle feels her eyes on the back of his head all the way to the car.

~~

She wasn't kidding about the cats. There must be at least a dozen.

He parks down the drive. The sun's dipping lower, shadows starting to stretch over the property. The woods are dense, walling in the cabin. The further in, they seem to pull the light right out of the air. He notes the woodshed and the sagging carport, but the cabin itself appears sturdy enough. Beaten up, sure. In need of care, definitely. But standing.

The lights are on. So, hopefully, she's still willing to meet.

When she opens the door, it smells like garlic, onions, and warmth, but her posture is cold, standing in the doorway like a one-woman blockade. She doesn't invite him in. Doesn't want him here at all, most likely.

So, he offers an alternative. Tosses the line and waits to see if she bites.

"Why don't we go for a walk instead?" 

"A walk."

"Yeah. Explore a bit. Walk and talk."

"Aren't you worried about the wild life?"

He pats his hip. Smiles just enough to gentle her. She's close, almost in reach. Whoever made that call had a reason for him to meet her, and whatever she knows, he needs.

"We won't go far. I'm armed. I promise I won't let anything get you."

After a moment, she steps inside. A minute later, she returns, bundled in an oversized men's coat, the shoulders too broad, the sleeves shoved up past her wrists. There's a torch stuffed in one pocket, its weight dragging the fabric crooked.

She locks the door with a resigned sigh. 

"Well, let's walk and talk."

~~

Kyle doesn't bring up Graves right away. Better to let the mood settle, not risk her bolting.

The sun sinks lower, the light thinning, the temperature dropping. She crouches every few steps, picking up and inspecting rocks, brushing off dirt and moss to collect them. He's not much for the outdoors himself. Knows his way around a forest if he has to, but he's never felt the need to romanticize it. 

"Tell me how you met Graves. Did you approach him, or did he approach you?"

"He came up to me outside the diner. We barely spoke then." She shrugs, one shoulder hitching under the oversized jacket. "It wasn't much of a conversation."

"'Then'. Did you meet a second time?" That's news.

"Mhm. He came by my cabin." She gestures in the direction from where they came.

"So it's your cabin?"

"No," She shakes her head. "I'm renting. Visiting."

"Yeah? Whereabouts are you from? Long trip?"

"Yeah, far." She searches the ground. It's a dodge, but he lets it sit. "I read about this place. It kind of called to me."

Kyle hums. He doesn't press. She hasn't shut the literal or figurative door on him yet.

"Not the first time I've heard that." It's the truth. Several townsfolk echoed the same refrain. Nature has that effect, he supposes. "Mind tellin' me about his visit?"

Her exhale is halfway to a groan. She picks up a pebble and tosses it into the undergrowth. "You promise I'm not in trouble?"

He smiles. "Unless you're about to confess to a crime? No."

She sighs, then leans against a tree. Another deep breath, and she starts talking.

~~

While Graves neglected to mention his house call, her story aligns with what he shared before going AWOL. For the life of him, Kyle can't imagine what the man was thinking.

Graves was supposed to be investigating cold cases—a string of disappearances spanning decades. Perfect place for it with the forests, rocky terrain, lake, and hundreds of abandoned mining tunnels. Of course, the area was a magnet for murderers. Serial killers. Culty, domestic terrorists. Hundreds of miles of unpoliced remoteness? Fucking catnip for criminals.

Made for terrible work. A punishing non-punishment for open complaints with internal affairs and human resources. When Graves got the assignment, he and Shepherd dragged their heels for weeks until he was all but forced onto a plane.

Kyle doesn't know what he did to inherit it all. Clearly, something awful in a past life.

Phil's last official communication was cryptic at best. Notes about an accident that left three men dead. Something Kyle would brush off, but Phil didn't volunteer out of the goodness of his heart, even if a local agency asked. So why this? Why a crash that has nothing to do with the cold cases? Why knock on this woman's door, only to erase her from the report entirely?

Until, near the end, she shares quite the revealing detail—

"And then he asked me out. Kind of. I said no."

She is Phil's type.

"Sorry to hear that. He can be a bit…uncouth." Paging, Internal Affairs.

She stifles a laugh. The flashlight appears in her hand, clicking on to cast a wide beam of light at their feet. "Should we head back? It's a little too dark for my comfort."

"We should."

They walk in silence, the woods quieting down at this hour, until she asks, "Any idea what happened to Phil? I should tell you, I tried texting him once or twice to follow up. He never replied."

Another flag. This whole time, ever since Shepherd mentioned Graves's missed check-ins, he figured the guy finally lost it. Got tired of the write-ups for his sketchy, borderline-aggressive behavior, creeping out interns and agents. Maybe he used his connections to go off-grid. Bold and brainless, but his style exactly.

"Can't tell you that, I'm afraid," Kyle offers a hand as they approach a wide fallen tree. "Active investigation, y'know."

She pauses mid-step over the log, her hand in his, face partly lit by the torch. "Phil…You don't think something—"

A twig snaps somewhere off to their left, sharp enough to cut her words in half. Both their heads jerk in the same direction. The beam follows, slicing through the underbrush and landing on a wall of green. Leaves and branches part, forming a gap for a pair of glowing yellow eyes. The air turns, smelling like wet dog.

"Oh God," Her fingers crush his as she scrambles over the tree. "G-Garrick, your gun, get your gun—"

The light shakes violently in her hand. Her voice climbs into a thin, shrill note that breaks just shy of a scream. She lets go, stumbling backward.

"Stay calm," He says, though his pulse jumps. His hand drops to his hip. "Don't run. Whatever you do, don't run."

The thing in the bushes chuffs, the sound wet, almost choked, like a clogged pipe. Then, the eyes begin to shift—upward.

Shit. Wolf? No, too big. His stomach sinks. Bear?

He doesn't get a chance to confirm. The moment the thing starts to rise, the light jerks away—and she ignores his instruction completely. She bolts.

"Fuckin' hell." Kyle pulls his pistol, pivoting as he takes off after her.

Behind him, the low growl deepens, turning angrier and guttural. Then the bush explodes. The thing tears through it, branches cracking like toothpicks.

The thing gets louder, closer. Gaining ground and fast. Kyle grips the Glock tighter, trying to steady his breathing, when something barrels into his side—a blunt, dense weight, like a battering ram. His hip explodes with pain, and he staggers, slamming into the rough bark of a tree.

"Shit." He hisses through his teeth, twisting to stay upright. Leaves crunch under its feet to the left and behind him. He feels the heat of the thing's breath, the stink of its damp fur.

Ahead, the light swings back, catching him full in the face. He flinches, blinded. Over the thunder of his pulse in his ears, he hears his name. He doesn't answer.

Instead, he fires.

The shot cracks through the air, and the creature lets out a high, grating and horrid scream.

He doesn't wait to see it fall, can't with the spots in his eyes, anyway. He shoves off the tree and runs toward the light, ignoring the searing pain in his side.

"Run!"

Kyle grabs her wrist, pulling her with him. She stumbles, but he keeps pulling until she matches his pace. Everything narrows to the thud of their feet.

He keeps his head slightly turned, straining to listen, but he doesn't hear their pursuer. All he hears is a thin, high whimper, and it fades as they put distance between themselves and it. He steals a look at her as the cabin comes into view. All he sees are the whites of her eyes, wide with terror.

They cross into the cabin's clearing, rounding the corner. Kyle releases her wrist as they head for the front door. Cats cluster beneath her car, their eyes flashing orange and green.

He slumps against the wall under the cabin's light, and runs a hand over his side, wincing as his fingers skim the tender, bruised skin beneath his shirt. No warmth, no wetness—no blood, then—but the ache is deep, radiating with each inhale. Cracked rib, probably. He shifts his grip on the torch, crossing it over the Glock.

The beam reveals nothing but the branches in the wind.

Beside him, she frantically digs through her coat. "The keys…I must've dropped the keys—" She turns out her pockets, scattering the stones she collected.

Kyle spares her a glance, his jaw tight.

Fucking wonderful.

He keeps the torch fixed on the tree line. "Right. Reach into my jacket. Take my keys. We're gonna run for my car. You take passenger, alright?"

Her answer is her trembling hand slipping into his pocket, closing around the fob and key. The second she withdraws, they break into a sprint again. His side throbs with every step.

The tail lights flash, and they split around the SUV, wrenching the doors open and slamming them shut. Kyle drops a fist on the lock, immediately checking the rearview before twisting his neck to scan behind them. Nothing.

He takes the keys, holstering his gun with a grunt. The engine hums to life, a miniscule comfort, but his mind is elsewhere, thinking of the creature. Absurdity overtakes fear and leaks through the adrenaline. A trained federal agent, running from what? An animal? It's ridiculous. Still, he's not going to let some mangy, overgrown dog be the thing that ends him.

Kyle drags in a sharp breath, wiping sweat from his brow. "What the fuck was that?"

"No idea, no clue," She shakes her head, hand twitching toward him. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm alright. Got a good lick in, but I'm solid."

Her face softens with worry, adrenaline wearing off. "Thank you, by the way. I'm sorry. For running."

He licks his lip, measuring his words. "It's okay. It's instinct. Hard to overrule."

"Regardless, thanks."

Her face, and all its earnestness, makes his ribs and hip hurt more. He turns his attention away. After a few minutes, it's clear the thing either limped off to lick its wounds or its corpse is cooling. Either way, the night isn't over.

"Well, your cabin's out of the question," Kyle huffs, wincing. "Got somewhere to stay tonight?"

"My boyfriend's place."

He cuts her a look in the mirror, but she's shifting in her seat, fishing a phone from her jeans. It's old, one of those indestructible brick models. It spawns a batch of questions, but he bites his tongue. Not his business.

"And where's that?"

"Down the hill," She murmurs, barely audible over the engine, thumb hovering over the buttons. "Attached to the store, around back."

It clicks into place after a beat. Kyle freezes, unsure if he heard right. Her boyfriend is her boss? John Price? Of course. This whole day just keeps getting better.

"Got it."

It takes only a few minutes to return to Grouse Bay proper. The Fox Hole is lit up, the only place alive on the otherwise dead main drag. Kyle fishes a card from his jacket as he turns onto the drive arcing around the store.

He hands the card over without looking. "Call me if you think of anything else about Graves. Anything." He pauses. "Or if anything else is troubling you. I'm staying across the lake, but I can come to you."

She takes the card, their fingers brushing. "Okay." She stuffs it into her jacket just as the back door bangs open.

John Price steps out into the light, and he's every bit as folks described. Strong, broad shoulders fill the doorway. Tall enough to skim the frame. The lines of his face, overlit by the exterior bulb, projecting authority. His fists rest on his hips, flannel sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing forearms thick with the muscle of a working man.

Kyle watches him, assessing. He'd bet the man's never set foot in a gym. No need.

"Oh," She mutters, scrambling out. There's a tremor in her voice he doesn't miss. "Hey John."

He follows. Doesn't need to, could just drive off, but Price is on his list anyway. He's come up too often to introduce himself, potential witness or otherwise. And her reaction makes him want to hang around. Ensure she's set.

"Wasn't expectin' you tonight, darl." John's head dips in Kyle's direction, sizing him up. "Who's your friend?"

"He's–"

Kyle rounds the SUV, hand outstretched. "Agent Kyle Garrick."

Price doesn't move from his perch, and that alone stops him in his tracks. It's a short-lived standoff. John doesn't look inclined to step down, and Kyle, in turn, rests his hand above the holster. 

"We had a scare in the woods." Kyle says, watchful. She moves past him, hopping up onto the porch and into Price's side. His arm snakes around her, pulling her close to drop a long kiss to the top of her head, all while keeping his eyes locked on Kyle. "Not sure what it was. Wolf. Bear, maybe."

"That time of year…Whereabouts?"

"Behind the cabin."

"Go on a night hike?" A wry smirk bends his mouth.

"I insisted."

"Ah, your mistake, then." Price's grin spreads wide enough to show teeth. "Easy one to make as a visitor. Especially one so far from home, out of their element."

What a prick. Kyle files it away—possessive, defensive. The type to need to be the biggest man in any room. He doesn't rise to it, instead parrying with a calm smile at the woman tucked under Price's arm. "Sure you're alright?"

The hand atop her shoulder flexes. 

"I'm good."

"Good." Kyle shifts his weight, taking in both of them. "If you don't mind, I'll take a look tomorrow, see if I can't find the body."

"If it died." Price says casually.

Their eyes meet, and Kyle scents it then—a whiff of something ferrous and sulfuric. Strong enough to wrinkle his nose. "Yeah. If it died. I'll look for your keys, too."

"Your keys?" Price asks, gaze flicking down to her briefly.

She shrugs sheepishly. "I think I dropped them when we were running."

Price chuckles, squeezing her tight. "We can grab new ones from Kate." He brushes another kiss over her temple. "Thanks for bringing this one back to me, Garrick." 

It grates just enough to stir something in his chest. He ignores it. 

"My pleasure. Glad to put a face to the name, too. I'll be by for a chat, Price." With a final nod, he starts toward his car.

"Lookin' forward to it, agent."

Kyle doesn't respond. He climbs into the driver's seat, gravel crunching beneath the tires as he swings the car around. In the rearview, their figures linger, framed by the porch light. Price holds her close, fixed on the car as it passes. Kyle doesn't look away either, until he must.

His attention snaps back to the road in time to brake hard, tires skidding as a young cat streaks across the headlights. "Fucker," he mutters, swerving slightly before continuing onto the street. His chest tightens, the adrenaline resurfacing in smaller, sharper waves.

Once he's on the road, he pulls his phone and dials. The line clicks after a ring.

"Sorry for the late call," He sighs. "I need you to run two names, in addition to those plates."

[theurgists]

⋆｡‧₊°♱༺ THE MOTHER ROAD ༻♱༉‧₊˚.

aemond targaryen x fem!reader

summary: the night of your bedding ceremony leaves you destroyed in more ways than one.

warnings: 18+ ( minors please do not interact ), a bit of angst, slight dub!con, a little smut if you squint, loss of virginity, p in v, bedding ceremony ( witnesses ), not proof-read

a/n: first installment of 'birth of violence' as well as first ever work for hotd. i’ve been lingering in the background and slowly dipping my toes in the fandom again so bear with me if anything seems incorrect here. house baratheon is mentioned a couple of times. not sure if this was really going in the dub!con direction but the warning is there nonetheless :)

You were used to the cold; the iciness that frosted the ground in thick layers during the colder seasons, seeping through furs and weaving itself between the joints. It numbs, comforts, and soothes — leaving frostbitten fingers, and an empty stomach coiled tightly in knots. 

The sensation was no stranger; on the contrary, it was someone you knew all too well in all the forms it had come to you. 

Goddess flesh in the shape of cracking bones, and skin peeling from slain muscle, an aura of deceitfulness to follow. She haunted when lashes fluttered shut, skin between brows creasing in concentration in an attempt to rid of the horrors constantly plaguing states of unconsciousness – creeping in the dark corners, hidden by glistening torchlight. 

But, when she revealed herself, instead of waning, she grew; bubbling beneath the surface, tingling your spine so that it raised gooseflesh. At times, a dim glimmer of hope shone in the cavity of your chest, protected from the harsh realities this plane of existence had to offer.

The world burns at your feet, yet you remain unignited.

Even now, as you lay unclothed atop white linens, tears pricking your eyes, jaw tight, and body shaking with utmost humiliation, she loomed. You had wished she shielded you instead; from the unity of this marriage for allegiance, from the high lords and ladies that had crowded behind the curtains of your bedding chamber. 

But hadn’t she helped you? Hadn’t she made you senseless to this . . . robbery to come out victorious once your duty had been fulfilled? Once the stain of your snatched virtue decorated the sheets?

It was a thought that flitted across the crevices of your mind, eyes clouded with fear, hazed from  Dornish crimson wine consumed during the wedding ceremony — your wedding ceremony. Oh, how you wished so desperately then that you were back near the southeastern shores — embroidering with your septa — the woman who had taught you how to be a lady ever since your bones ached from growing. 

Once a child, now a woman. Once a child, now a woman. Your lips parted to utter those words to yourself silently, hands grasping at the crinkled sheets beneath you. 

“Will them away.” 

Snapping your head between your clenched legs, you swallow, taking in the figure before you. “I’m sorry?” 

Blinking rapidly, you sunk lower into the mattress, wishing it would swallow you whole before you could get on with this act with the man whom you were forced to call husband. Such a strange title for someone you had come to know only through whispers across Storm’s End alone; hushed whispers seeping through hands that hadn’t been cupped around ears tight enough.

He moves slowly, long limbs splayed out on either side of you, violet eye locked to your face as his head dips. “No one else is here.” He whispers, lips a breath away from yours. “Just me and you, ābrazȳrys.” 

You can’t help the small, shaky sigh that escapes your once-closed mouth as slivers of bright tendrils tickle your face, raising the hairs on your arms. Not trusting the constant thump that sounded throughout your ears, you nodded stiffly, the bile of earlier devoured supper threatening to surface in your esophagus.

With a rigid spine, you inched backward, head cushioned by the mass of pillows piling the expanse of the bed. A sudden pressure made itself known behind your eyes, a rush of tears awaiting to embarrass you further than what you had already endured tonight. 

His reassuring words caressed your skin, albeit doing little to quell the sickness, sloshing the digesting wine inside you. Aemond Targaryen was a man who was capable of many things, but you did not believe that genuine kindness was one of them. Nor would you ever. 

As a young girl, you had read stories that would’ve gotten you clapped upside the head if they were ever discovered in the confines of your chambers—inked writings of erotic experiences littering parchment front to back. 

You had always been a greedy reader, opting to take in as much as you could learn between pages rather than by the hands of those around you. When you turned into a woman-grown — gone was your stubbornness — your fight dissipated the more you learned to clamp down on your loose tongue, drawing a copper taste onto your tastebuds despite yourself.

It was one of the reasons why you had found yourself in King's Landing, why the hands of a kinslayer were skimming the curvature of your waist, fingertips dancing on the bare flesh below your ribcage soon after.

He was dousing you with his shared sin. This was not the way you wished to be loved. 

The muscles in your stomach involuntarily clench at his touch, hands stiff and straight at your sides now, fingers wriggling together as a means to distract yourself; shaking when he flicks his thumb over your nipple. 

You’re forced to snap your eyes in his direction, lashes clustered, wet with tears that left trails in their wake.

It didn’t matter one bit if you looked as pathetic as you felt. You had come to that conclusion long ago; the minute he had showed up to the Stormlands asking your father for your hand in marriage. 

Borros Baratheon had always thought of you as a spare — with your older sister — Cassandra being the most favored out of the six of his kin. So it was astonishing when a dragon took a sudden interest in the likes of a stag. 

How delicate. How . . . fiendish.

His voice was a whisper among many in the fluid of your skull, lips pressed against the shell of your heated ear. “Are you well?” 

The question had the one-eyed prince pursing his lips, he reprimanded himself for his slick tongue. It was obvious you were naught but petrified. 

He was going to defile you, and it would be something he would find no pleasure in; of that he was certain.

The sniffle you gave along with a curt nod of your head was enough, as his slender fingers had suddenly appeared at your cheek, wiping away at stray saltwater littering the apples of your warm cheeks. 

Your chest expanded, wide enough that you were now chest-to-chest with him. Aemond wasn’t as stocky as the men you were usually surrounded by; naught more than tall, arms not packed with muscles of hard labor, but moreover bone with subtle definition you could easily learn to appreciate if the circumstances were different. 

The sensation of his heart pounding against your sternum only intensified when said hand disappeared between your bodies to palm at his throbbing cock, guiding it against your slick folds. 

If you weren’t choking on your self-pity, you’d find a way to resist with your words rather than slap your clammy palm against his bicep, the uneven ridges of your nails digging into the flesh. Aemond winced slightly at your tell, eyebrows furrowing at your wide eyes.

“‘M scared.” Words lower than the quietest of whispers reached his ears, something he’d will himself to etch between the tissue of his brain with thick twine.

Aemond Targaryen found immense joy when he’d spot trepidation contorting the features of those he deemed beneath him — which was most — if truths were being brought under the scorching sun. But, this time his stomach could only roll over in knots at your helplessness; something all too familiar to him. 

He had experienced it on the Street of Silk back when he was ten-and-three with Aegon hot on heels. His first time had been with a whore, a woman far much older than he. Desperately struggling to place his mind elsewhere, Aemond ultimately failed the task and found himself hunched over in a nearby alley soon after.

He could still feel the crack of the outer foundation of the brothel as he dug his fingers into its dirt-ridden cracks — heaving, inhaling — a cycle of panic forcing itself down his throat. When Aegon had found him, he had clapped a hand on his back and laughed madly, lips smacking together as they clipped away at the rest of innocence within the younger.

Perhaps that was why the small fragment in his heart that cradled a place for his dear older brother was black with rot.

In his hesitation, it seemed you had already succumbed to your fate as your nose crinkled, a rapid nod of the head to follow. “Please.” 

Your approval was broken and utterly defeated as you looked. It made his blood run cold; the dragon fire that had given him his birthright cooling. 

“I-“ With the sentence long forgotten in his throat, Aemond’s lips had curled in a deep frown, as you stared at him. 

Your eyes were blurry with another onslaught of tears, hands raising to frantically wipe at them with your palms, digging the heels of them as far as they could go to remove any trace of your weeping. 

He was sure that if you had dug them any deeper, they would have disappeared into the depths of your sockets

Although you were certain that those standing behind the thin linen sheet had held no sense of sorrow for your fate, a part of you wished at least one person had. That before you had grabbed his length and eased it inside of you, someone had yanked back the only means of privacy you had and gotten you out of there. 

Alas, you had no savior. Not your four other sisters, nor your cunt lord of a father whose last words to you were to be a good wife. Not even Alicent, who had seemed to have the lowest of tolerances for a frail girl like you bringing forth heirs. New grandsons, and granddaughters for her to dote over. 

“They will be as delicate as their mother.” She complimented, a small bite to her spoken words. You were smart enough to know it was backhanded, as she thought you weak, feeble the minute her warm, motherly hands had grasped your shaking ones. 

A gasp had left you at the sudden intrusion, the slight pinch of your body being practically split in half causing your lids to screw shut. 

Aemond gently pushed at your hand still circling his cock, leaving you with no option other than to ball it tightly at your side. With a slow buck of his hips, he inches forward, hoping to make a home in your cunt, and you clench around him involuntarily: breathe warm and hot as he lets his eye flutter shut. 

The sensation is unlike anything you’ve ever felt in all your years on this plane of existence, and it causes a shudder to wrack your entire being so violently, that you can’t help the sob that escapes you. It mixes in the thick air, heating the flesh of your cheeks even further, bringing the blood in your veins to boil over.

Something is stirring deep within the pits of your belly, twisting – shaping itself as tightly as it can before it can be unwound, foreign but not as uninviting as you had expected it to be.

It was much more pleasant. So much so, that as Aemond continued his steady, agonizingly slow thrusts, you found that your toes would curl slightly, ridges of teeth indenting the plump flesh of your bottom lip, and content sighs leaving your lungs in quiet intervals. 

The pad of a thumb brushes against your tear-stricken face, slowly easing its way down to your jaw before coming to a stop at the fullness of your mouth. 

A skip of silence simmering in slight hesitancy does nothing to stop the rapidness of your heart; the way it palpated when a ‘May I kiss you?’ came out of his parted lips. 

Was he asking your consent to ease his conscience due to snatching you away from your home? Or was he asking because it was the last thing you’d be able to give your opinion upon? 

It was a fickle thought. One that you quickly realized you were overanalyzing when his knuckle curved to lift your head. 

“Yes.” 

And so his lips pressed against yours with fervor, as if he’d been deprived of touch his entire life. There was warmth swirling around your tongue when he had delved into the warmth wetness that made up your mouth, all the while jutting his hips forward. 

Aemond’s breath is caught by your mouth as he sighs, peppering kisses down your chin, and over your throat soon after. 

There’s no trace of confidence within you the second your hands weave through his long tresses, tugging slightly as his tongue follows the trail his mouth had made. 

He stills near your collarbone and hums, sending a shiver pinching down the expanse of your back, legs rubbing against his hips. 

“Is this what you want?” 

The frost is back, starting at the tips of your fingers this time as they stop near the base of his neck, shaking from the suddenness of his question. 

Is this what you wanted? To submit yourself to a role within Kings Landing in the Red Keep as a princess? A woman to hang over her husband's arm, the stronghold of this alliance between House Baratheon and House Targaryen.

You were supposed to be the epitome of strength. 

So strong is what you would be. 

Even if it shaped you into something you could no longer recognize.

“I’m sure.” 

And for a second your words rang true.

Just for now.

[killfortune]

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑺𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒎 🌸

Keisuke Baji x Reader

Stranded in a cabin during a fierce winter storm, you and Baji are forced to face the tension between you both. With nothing but time and the crackling fire, old feelings resurface, and the line between friendship and something more blurs in a way neither of you expected.

! Idk what genre this is . Lil bit of angst, turns into fluff, suggestive at the end . Almost 2k words .

౨ৎ The cabin had been Mikey’s idea. A winter getaway, he’d said—a chance for everyone to relax, let loose, and have fun before the chaos of real life crept back in. The group had rented a cozy, snow-covered cabin in the woods, with just enough space for everyone to cram inside. You’d arrived early in the afternoon with Baji, Chifuyu, Draken, and the rest of the gang, hauling in bags of snacks, drinks, and supplies.

The night had started like any other get-together: laughter, teasing, and way too much alcohol. The air was filled with the sound of Mikey and Draken arguing over whose turn it was to pick the music while Chifuyu tried (and failed) to get everyone to settle down for a game of cards. Baji, naturally, had made it his mission to drink everyone else under the table, and for some reason, you’d decided to keep up with him.

"Y/N, you’re going to regret this," Chifuyu had warned as you took another shot, but you’d waved him off with a grin, matching Baji drink for drink.

The night blurred together after that—hazy memories of loud laughter, clinking glasses, and Mikey doing an impromptu dance that left everyone in stitches. The snow outside had been falling steadily, but no one had paid it much attention. By the time the group decided to call it a night and head back to their homes or lodgings nearby, you and Baji were already passed out on the couch, a heap of blankets thrown haphazardly over the two of you.

"Should we wake them?" Chifuyu had asked, glancing at your sleeping forms with a mix of amusement and concern.

"Nah," Mikey said, smirking as he zipped up his coat. "Let them sleep it off. They’ll wake up in the morning and catch up with us."

And with that, everyone filed out into the snowy night, leaving the cabin quiet except for the faint crackling of the dying fire and the soft sound of your and Baji’s breathing.

🌸🌸🌸

You didn’t wake up until the sun was already high in the sky, streaming weakly through the frosted windows. The first thing you noticed was the pounding in your head, a dull, persistent throb that made you groan and pull the blanket tighter around yourself. The second thing you noticed was how cold it was. Despite the fire having burned low, the cabin had grown chilly overnight, and you could feel the icy air biting at your skin.

The third thing you noticed was Baji.

He was still sprawled on the couch beside you, his long hair a tangled mess and his mouth slightly open as he snored softly. His arm was thrown over his face, shielding his eyes from the light. You sat up slowly, your movements sluggish, and glanced around the room, trying to piece together what had happened the night before.

"Where is everyone?" you muttered, your voice hoarse.

At that moment, Baji stirred, groaning as he shifted onto his side. "Ugh, what time is it?" he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

"I have no idea," you said, rubbing your temples. "But I think everyone’s gone."

Baji opened one eye, squinting at you. "Gone?" He pushed himself up, wincing as he rubbed the back of his neck. "What do you mean, gone?"

You gestured to the empty room, the absence of jackets and boots by the door making it clear. "They left. We must’ve slept through it."

Baji frowned, looking around as if expecting Mikey or Chifuyu to pop out of nowhere and yell "Surprise!" But the cabin was silent, save for the faint sound of the wind outside.

Then, as if on cue, a loud gust of wind rattled the windows, drawing both of your gazes. The snow outside was no longer falling gently—it was a full-blown blizzard, the world beyond the glass an endless sea of white.

"Shit," Baji muttered, standing up and walking over to the window. He pressed a hand to the frosted glass, his brows furrowing as he took in the storm. "They really left us in this?"

You stood up, wrapping the blanket around yourself as you joined him. "Maybe they didn’t know it was going to get this bad," you said, though even you didn’t sound convinced.

Baji huffed, his breath fogging up the glass. "Great. We’re stuck here."

You glanced at him, taking in his disheveled appearance, and couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. "Could be worse," you said lightly.

He turned to you, raising an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? How?"

"You could’ve been stuck here alone," you teased, earning a snort from him.

"Right," he said dryly, though there was a hint of amusement in his tone. "Because being stuck with you is so much better."

You rolled your eyes but didn’t respond, turning back to the window. The snowstorm showed no signs of letting up, and a small knot of unease began to form in your chest. This was supposed to be a simple camping trip, a fun getaway with friends. But now, it was just you and Baji, trapped in a cabin with no idea how long the storm would last.

"Guess we’ll have to wait it out," Baji said, running a hand through his hair.

You nodded, your breath fogging up the glass as you stared out into the swirling snow. "Yeah," you said softly. "Just the two of us.

🌸🌸🌸

The storm showed no signs of stopping. Hours passed, and the cabin grew colder despite the fire roaring in the hearth. You and Baji had managed to scrounge up some instant ramen from the supplies left behind, but the silence between you made it hard to enjoy even the simplest meal.

Baji sat cross-legged by the fire, his sharp features bathed in the flickering glow. His long hair was pulled into a messy half-ponytail, and his jacket hung loosely off his shoulders. He had barely said a word since the two of you realized you were stuck, which was strange—Baji always had something to say.

You sighed, leaning back against the couch. "You’re awfully quiet," you said, breaking the silence. "I thought you’d be complaining by now."

He glanced at you, his dark eyes unreadable. "What’s the point? Complaining’s not gonna fix the storm."

"True," you said softly, though his tone made your chest tighten.

The silence stretched again, heavy and awkward. You stared at the fire, watching as the flames danced and crackled. The warmth should’ve been comforting, but all it did was remind you how small the cabin was, how close you and Baji were, and how much tension seemed to hang in the air.

Finally, Baji sighed and stood up, brushing off his hands. "I’m gonna check outside. See how bad it is."

You frowned. "Baji, it’s a blizzard. You can’t—"

"I’ll just look," he cut you off, grabbing his coat and heading for the door.

Before you could argue further, he was gone, stepping into the swirling white. You stared after him, your heart pounding in frustration and something else you couldn’t quite name. Why was he being so cold? Why did it feel like there was something unspoken hanging between you?

When he returned, his hair dusted with snow and his cheeks flushed from the cold, he looked even more frustrated than before. He slammed the door shut behind him, brushing off the snow before tossing his coat aside.

"Yeah, it’s bad," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "We’re not going anywhere anytime soon."

You bit your lip, watching him pace the room like a caged animal. "Baji, what’s your deal?"

He stopped mid-step, his head snapping toward you. "What?"

"You’ve been acting weird all day," you said, standing up. "Ever since we woke up, it’s like you don’t even want to be here."

He scoffed, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Yeah, well, maybe I don’t."

The words hit you like a slap, and for a moment, you just stared at him, your chest tightening. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

Baji avoided your gaze, his jaw tightening. "Forget it," he muttered, turning away.

"No," you said firmly, stepping closer. "You don’t get to say something like that and just walk away. What’s going on with you?"

He stopped in his tracks, his shoulders tense. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything, and you thought he might just leave the room. But then he turned back to you, his eyes burning with an intensity that made your breath catch.

"What’s going on with me?" he said, his voice low and rough. "How about what’s going on with you? Acting like nothing’s wrong, like you don’t feel it too."

"Feel what?" you asked, though your voice wavered.

Baji laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "Don’t play dumb, Y/N. You know exactly what I’m talking about."

You stared at him, your heart pounding. The room felt too small, too hot, and you suddenly wanted to be anywhere but here. But you couldn’t look away from him, couldn’t ignore the way his words made your chest ache.

"Baji, I don’t—"

"That night," he interrupted, stepping closer. His voice was sharper now, his frustration bubbling over. "You remember it. Don’t pretend like you don’t."

Your breath caught in your throat. Of course, you remembered. The night you’d both had one drink too many, and Baji had leaned in close, his face inches from yours. The night you’d almost kissed.

The night you’d pulled away.

"I remember," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

Baji’s expression softened for a moment, but the hurt in his eyes remained. "Then why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you—"

"Because I didn’t know what to say!" you cut him off, your voice trembling. "I didn’t know what it meant, or if it even meant anything to you. And I didn’t want to ruin what we have."

"What we have," Baji repeated, his tone laced with disbelief. "What do we even have, Y/N? You can’t keep acting like nothing’s changed. Like I don’t—"

He stopped himself, clenching his jaw as if the words were too much to say.

You took a shaky breath, your heart pounding in your chest. "Baji, I’m scared," you confessed, your voice breaking.

His eyes softened, and for a moment, the tension between you seemed to waver. "You think I’m not?" he said quietly. "You think I don’t wake up every day wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do about this? About you?"

The words hung in the air, raw and vulnerable, and for the first time, you saw the cracks in Baji’s usual tough exterior. He wasn’t angry—he was scared, just like you.

The storm outside raged on, the wind howling as if it could tear the cabin apart. But inside, the two of you stood frozen, caught in the eye of a different kind of storm.

And neither of you knew how to find your way out.

Baji let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his tangled hair as he took a step back. His lips pressed into a thin line, like he was holding himself back from saying more.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, not for warmth but as if it might hold you together. "I don’t know what you want me to say," you admitted, your voice shaky. "I don’t know how to fix this."

"I don’t need you to fix it," he snapped, then softened, his shoulders slumping. "I just need you to stop pretending like nothing’s wrong."

His words made your chest tighten, and you could feel the sting of tears threatening to spill. "I wasn’t pretending," you said quietly. "I was trying to protect what we have. I didn’t want to lose you, Baji."

He scoffed, though there was no malice in it—just a raw kind of pain. "You think not talking about it makes it better? You think ignoring it makes it go away?"

You shook your head, frustrated and overwhelmed. "What was I supposed to do? Risk everything? What if I’m wrong? What if you don’t—"

"Don’t what?" Baji cut you off, his voice sharp. "Feel the same way?"

The room felt impossibly quiet after his words, the fire crackling softly in the background. You stared at him, your heart pounding as if it was trying to escape your chest.

"Do you?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Baji didn’t answer right away. Instead, he let out a slow breath, his gaze dropping to the floor. For a moment, you thought he might dodge the question entirely, but then he looked up at you, and the raw vulnerability in his eyes was enough to steal your breath.

"Yeah," he said softly. "I do."

The words hung in the air, heavy and undeniable. Your knees felt weak, and you stumbled back a step, gripping the back of the couch for support.

"Baji..." you started, but he shook his head, cutting you off.

"I’m not saying it to make things harder," he said, his voice steady now. "I’m saying it because it’s the truth. And because I’m tired of pretending like it doesn’t matter."

Your throat felt tight, and you struggled to find the right words. The fear that had kept you silent for so long was still there, gnawing at the edges of your mind. But now, standing here with Baji, the storm raging outside, you realized that fear didn’t matter anymore.

"What if we ruin everything?" you asked, your voice trembling.

Baji’s expression softened, and he took a cautious step closer. "What if we don’t?" he countered. "What if this is worth it?"

The vulnerability in his voice broke something inside you, and before you could second-guess yourself, you closed the distance between you, throwing your arms around him.

Baji froze for a moment, caught off guard, but then his arms wrapped around you, pulling you close. He smelled like smoke and winter, and you buried your face in his chest, letting out a shaky breath.

"I’m scared," you admitted again, your voice muffled against him.

"I know," he said quietly, resting his chin on top of your head. "Me too."

The storm outside howled, but inside the cabin, it felt like the two of you were in your own little world. Baji’s arms tightened around you, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the weight on your chest began to lift.

"I don’t know what’s going to happen," you said softly, pulling back just enough to look up at him.

"Neither do I," he admitted, a small, wry smile tugging at his lips. "But we’ll figure it out."

His words made something inside you ache, but it wasn’t fear—it was hope.

"You promise?" you asked, your voice barely audible.

Baji nodded, his eyes meeting yours. "Yeah," he said firmly. "I promise."

For the first time since you’d woken up, you felt like you could breathe.

Baji’s promise hung in the air between you, his dark eyes locked onto yours. The tension that had simmered all night finally snapped, leaving a stillness that felt heavier than the storm outside.

You opened your mouth to speak, but no words came. Instead, you reached up, your hand brushing against his cheek, your touch hesitant but lingering. His breath hitched, and you felt him lean into your touch just slightly, as if he were afraid to want it too much.

"Baji..." you whispered, your voice trembling.

He didn’t respond, not with words. Instead, his hand came up to cover yours, his calloused fingers warm against your skin. His eyes flickered between yours and your lips, and you felt your heart hammering in your chest.

Time seemed to slow as he leaned in, the space between you narrowing until his forehead rested lightly against yours. "Tell me to stop," he murmured, his voice low and rough. "If you don’t want this...tell me to stop."

You couldn’t. You didn’t want to. Instead, you tilted your head just slightly, your breath mingling with his as you closed the distance.

When his lips met yours, it was slow—tentative, almost unsure. But the hesitation didn’t last long. The kiss deepened, growing fiercer, more desperate, as if the storm inside you both had finally found its outlet.

Baji’s hands slid to your waist, pulling you closer, and you melted into him, your fingers tangling in his hair. The warmth of his touch, the intensity of his kiss—it was overwhelming, consuming. The world outside the cabin seemed to disappear, leaving only the two of you, lost in each other.

His lips moved against yours with a fiery urgency, as though he’d been waiting for this moment far longer than either of you had admitted. When he pulled back, just slightly, it was only to catch his breath, his forehead still pressed against yours.

"You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that," he murmured, his voice a hoarse whisper.

You let out a shaky laugh, your hands still resting on his shoulders. "I might have some idea."

He grinned, that lopsided, mischievous smile that always managed to make your heart skip a beat. But there was something softer in his eyes now, something vulnerable that made your chest ache.

"Guess being stuck here wasn’t so bad after all," he said, his thumb brushing gently against your waist.

You smiled, leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. "No," you said quietly, your voice steady now. "It wasn’t bad at all."

The fire crackled in the hearth, the storm howling outside, but all you could feel was Baji’s warmth, his touch, his presence. And for the first time in a long time, the fear and uncertainty faded away, replaced by something far stronger.

Hope.

That hope was accompanied by a new kind of tension when you heard him murmur, "Guess we’ve got some time to kill... and it’s just the two of us."

The way his hands slid down to rest firmly on your hips, his thumbs brushing your sides, sent a shiver through you. His tone was casual, but the look in his eyes told a different story—dark and intent, like he was daring you to close the distance again.

Your cheeks flushed, and you let out a nervous laugh, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer. "Baji, seriously?"

"What?" he said, his voice low, a playful grin tugging at his lips. "I’m just saying. We’re stuck here. Might as well... make the most of it."

The suggestive edge to his words made your heart race, and you could feel the heat creeping up your neck. But there was no mistaking the tenderness in his touch or the way his gaze softened when he looked at you.

"You’re impossible," you muttered, though you didn’t pull away.

"And you’re not denying it," he shot back, leaning in just enough for his nose to brush yours.

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t hide the smile tugging at your lips. "Guess we’ll see how long this storm lasts."

His grin widened, but he didn’t push further. Instead, he tightened his grip just slightly, grounding you in the moment. And as the firelight flickered around you, the storm raging beyond the walls, you couldn’t deny that being trapped here didn’t seem so bad after all.

Thank you 🌸... I'm experimenting with my formatting, lol .

[kurithedweeb]

Dear Sir Garroth,

Allow me to be plain with you, Sir. I'm angry at you. Pissed at you, really. Extraordinarily pissed, if you couldn't tell from the scorched edge of this letter you will likely never see. I'm not even sure why I'm still writing this seeing as I tried to burn it before I finished the first sentence. Perhaps only because it's something to do.

I was stabbed the day before the battle ended, do you remember? By a frost dagger. I would have appreciated the warning that the cold will run through your veins, perhaps from a man who used to wield one himself? You know how the cold afflicts me, you bastard. No matter, my blood is plenty warm with hurt now. Since you first bound it on the field, my stitches have been torn thrice. I collapsed the moment I stepped through the portal and had to be helped into town to see Donna.

Though she may be a wondrously talented medic, Donna is no healer or witch. There's only so much she could do and so she's ordered I remain on bedrest until I've healed to her liking. I'm loathe to bring that woman's wrath down on myself, hence why I am now writing pointless letters to men stranded in different realms. She has four children now, Donna; Yip, twin boys Lello and Rollo, and a girl named Luca. She's only a babe, Luca, still in her swaddling, but the twins must be nearly ten. I tell you this because it's been fifteen years. We've been gone fifteen years. You may still be gone years and years.

Levin is grown now. Lord, even. He resembles you very much, all keen blue eyes and wisps of blond curls falling in his face, but his mannerisms are alike his mothers'. He has a faint trace of your accent in his words, too. He did not recognize me. I'm told he was too young when we left to remember us properly, though Malachi supposedly does. He's a trader these days, out at sea with Logan when we arrived home. Levin didn't speak with me long, as busy all day as our lady is—was. He did tell me he'd been excited to meet us both, that his brother and Uncle Dante had told him stories of us as he'd grown, and he'd known that if we were anything at all like how they'd described then we were good men he'd rather get to know.

Dante's grown old. I last saw him hours ago, and now he is head guard rather than the slight boy fresh from the academy we knew him as. The dark circles under his eyes make me worry he hasn't had a proper rest in years, and he's thin in a way I wish I didn't recognize. Do you remember the night he snuck away to handle the O'khasian archers? You might not. I've found even so soon after to my eyes the days and nights blend together at times. I remember the great tears rolling down his face when you and I removed the arrow and picked the remains from his face. That night left a scar on either cheek, rough ones shaped like starbursts or comets. The shape far-off lights make in the night when you squint just right. He felt so small in the cradle of my arms then. He's of a height with me now, standing eye to eye.

We missed their entire lives in the Matron's realm. Gone in a blink. Our boys, our brother, our friends, they have all moved past us. Irony of irony, they've sent us off into the Matron's embrace already, Sir Garroth Ro'Meave. Buried us and moved on.

Because of your actions, we have missed the whole of their lives, the lives we could have shared with them. Should have. All for what? For a man you hadn't seen in at least a decade, one you no longer knew at all?

Everything has changed because of what you did, you ass. I should tell you I will never forgive this deed of yours. And yet I miss you already.

Sincerely yours,

Your second-in-command, Sir Laurance Zvahl of Phoenix Drop.

[owlcomics101]

”Piece of cake…right?” Task force 141 x Birthday!Reader

Warning: Language (Cussing), Fluff, SFW (I am a minor), reader is gender neutral

Big shoutout to @n4m3l3ss-c10wn for the request!

You were the sweet baker of the team. You always baked sweets whenever you could or had an excuse to and you always baked a big cake on everyone’s birthday, but what about yours? It was an off day and the task force was determined to bake you the best god Damm birthday cake you have ever seen. Should be a piece of cake….right?

No. No it wasn’t.

“WHAT THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU DOING JOHNNY!?” Ghost shouts at Soap, trying to stop Soap from pouring all the sugar into the mixing bowl.

“I thought it said to pour sugar!” Soap raises a brow confused.

“It’s two cups! Not the whole Damm bag you muppet!” Ghost snatches the bag from Soap, now having to dump some of the batter out down the sink with a buttload of sugar.

“I really think we should just go buy a cake at the store instead of going through all this trouble.” Gaz lets out a tired sigh. Trying to dust and shake off all the flour over his body.

“Oi, Y/N always took the time to bake for us! Where’s the love in a store brand bake good?” Soap glares at Gaz while fighting with Ghost over the eggs.

“You’re gonna break them!” Ghost says, keeping the egg carton out of Soap’s.

“But you’re suppose to break them! Give em here!” *Soap stands on his tippy toes trying to for them.

“Ya but not all of them Johnny!” Ghost rolls his eyes. As Gaz tries to get the flour off of himself he looks over to Price. Price was squinting his eyes as he was trying to read your recipe book.

“Preheat oven to…” Price trailed off, reading out loud but it was obvious he was having a difficult time reading.

“You need glasses Cap.” Gaz says with a shake of his head as he crosses his arms.

“I do not need no bloody glasses! I can see clear as day!” Price furrows his brows setting your book down and glaring at Gaz.

“Y/N’s handwriting is just small!” Price grumbles to himself. Gaz couldn’t help but roll his eyes with a chuckle. There was a sudden thuds followed with a splatter. Both Gaz and Price turn to see the whole thing of the egg carton splattered all over the floor. Ghost clenched his fists as he tried to stop himself from punching Soap square in the face.

“I’m going to fucking kill you Johnny…” Ghost mumbles with a heavy sigh.

“No, no, no! It’s fine we can just substitute! Baking is basically science right?” Soap chuckles nervously.

“As if you know anything about science!” Ghost scoffs.

“Yes I do!” Soap snaps and defensively. Price closes your recipe book as he sets it to the side and starts getting things out.

“Price, what are y-“

“I know what I’m doing!” Price cuts Gaz off. Gaz shrugs going back to cutting the strawberries needed for the cake.

Cut to you just arriving back at base. You spent your off day with your family celebrating your birthday. You were tired as it is so you were already planning to head to bed early. You were walking down the hall to your quarters until you heard a thuds followed by yelling and a lot of Cussing…

“I’m pretty sure the food in hell looks more appealing than this shitte…” Soap mumbles looking down at the deformed cake.

“I’ll say…” Ghost agrees. Both of them not wanting to even put their mouths anywhere near the cake. “So much for Y/N’s birthday surprise…” Gaz grumbles, he had multiple band aids all over his fingers and hands from attempting to cut the strawberries. Price was completely covered cake batter and burn marks while Both Ghost and Soap were covered head to toe in frosting. Price then sighs before clearing his throat.

“We should just go to the st-“ Price was cut off by seeing you take a bite out of the deformed cake. All their jaws drooped watching you eat the lame excuse for a cake and were you….crying?

“You guys took the time out of only off day to bake a cake for me…” You felt tears rolling down your cheeks in pure bliss. The cake was honest to god terrible but they tried so hard to make it for you so you just kept eating. Soap went wide eyed trying to stop you as well as Ghost.

“Y/N don’t eat that love….” Price trails off when he starts to hear you sob.

“T-Thank you so much for this…” Your voice was shaky from all the tears as you kept eating. Eventually Ghost manages to pry the cake out of your hands.

“Why would you want to eat this? This is bloody terrible.” Ghost raises a brow looking down at the cake. What’s so special about it?

“Because you all thought about me when you made it. You all took the time out of your day to do something for me.” You sob in between your words before taking out a napkin and using it to get the frosting off of Ghost’s mask. Ghost’s voice hitched as he watched the tears fall down your cheeks. You even continued to eat out of it. The whole team was dumbfounded.

“It was….It was nothing…” Ghost said, looking away from you to get his emotions in check, despite his face already completely flushed behind the mask. You threw up the next morning from the disgusting cake. Everyone immediately came to comfort you because it was kinda their fault for the cake…Price was rubbing your back as you hurled into the toilet.

”There you go.” Price said as both Gaz and Soap were both rushing to make birthday cards to make it up to you. Ghost leaned on the doorframe, frosting still stained a bit of his mask even though you tried to scrub it off, but he didn’t clean it anyways. You finally finished throwing up as Price helps you back into bed. Ghost watches as Price tucks you in. Still unable to get those words out of his head.

“You thought of me.”

[lovebugism]

omggg im craving a halloween themed , rockstar!eddie x shy!reader at a halloween party , matching costumes and everything & he sees a ton of guys hitting on her & is like ???? my baby?

here you go lovie! hope you like it! — eddie takes his girl to a bar on halloween and gets jealous when guys hit on you like you're not already his (shy!reader, rockstar!eddie, established relationship, 1k)

fictober (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)

The world didn’t know you before today.

You’ve been just Eddie Spaghetti’s girlfriend for so long — but now you’re Eddie Munson, up-and-coming rockstar and lead of Corroded Coffin’s girlfriend. The title carries a certain weight with it. You wear it with pride, but it weighs you down just the same. 

What’s weird about tonight, though, is you’re not sharing Eddie with the rest of the world like you thought you would. He’s having to share you, because everyone and their goddamn brother’s been all over you all night. 

Apparently, your coquettish rendition of The Bride of Frankenstein is making everyone else as crazy as it’s making him.

“God, go save your girlfriend, Munson,” Gareth jokes across the booth, laughing into his drink as he watches yet another guy stop you at the bar. “At least one of these assholes is gonna steal her from you.”

“She’s not property, dude. She can’t get stolen,” Jeff scolds from beside him, then flashes Eddie a sheepish glance. “But, yeah, the odds aren’t in your favor, Eds.”

Eddie pays no mind to his friends’ teasing — or the anger swirling like fire in the pit of his stomach. 

“Nah. She’s alright…” he mumbles into the rim of his glass. The whiskey burns his throat going down. It doesn’t match the flame rising in his chest at the sight of his precious girl talking to some douchebag dressed like Elvis Presley.

He wouldn’t say it if he didn’t think you weren’t a hundred percent fine. These bozos aren’t trying anything with you — hell, they can barely make conversation with you. You’re just entertaining it because you’re the sweetest thing on the earth.

It’s laughable more than anything.

He’s humored by it all. Not jealous. Definitely not jealous.

“Yeah, who’s the famous one here, again?” Jeff’s girlfriend jokes. She’d left to go to the bathroom with you but came back alone when you got stuck with dollar-store Elvis. She points to the rest of them with a long, manicured finger. “It’s you guys, right? Because I can’t really tell.”

“Fuck off…” Eddie grouses, forcing a grin while the rest of them laugh.

You return then, with a drink in hand and a frown on your face at the sight of your suddenly grumpy boyfriend. “You okay?” you wonder quietly, smoothing down your skirt when you slide into the booth.

The boy moves over to make room for you. “‘M fine,” he answers with a mumble that makes you assume otherwise. 

You reach a hand to his face, smoothing fluffy curls behind his ear. His cheek is warm against your palm. His faded seafoam Frankenstein paint job smears on your wrist.

“‘M sorry for taking so long. Some guy stopped me on the way over. I didn’t wanna be rude.”

Eddie shakes his head. Not a single part of him blamed you.

“It’s okay, babe. Not your fault.” 

He’s full-on beaming now. Just because you called that asshole “some guy.” It feels good to hear you say that, to know that that’s all he is to you — just some fuckin’ guy. You won’t remember him later, if you still do even now.

Honestly, you’ll be lucky to remember your own name at the end of tonight.

“He get that drink for you?” Eddie asks, nodding to the frosted glass in your fist.

You shrug. “Yeah. He bought it, but I watched the bartender make it, so it’s fine.”

He nods, proud and sparkling with it. “Good.”

“What is it?” Gareth wonders, squinting across the table.

“An Old-Fashioned.”

“You hate whiskey,” Eddie laughs, licking the alcohol from the plush of his bottom lip.

“Well, yeah, but he asked what I liked, and I didn’t know what to say, so I just told him your favorite drink,” you ramble, all mousy, as you drag the falling sleeve of your corset back up your shoulder. 

Your cheeks heat with embarrassment, still a bit overwhelmed by the attention.

Eddie’s grinning something fierce beside you. His chest swells with so much pride he thinks he might burst.

“Aren’t you just the sweetest fuckin’ thing?” he singsongs with a rosy grin, wrapping the ripped sleeve of his arm around your shoulders to pull you closer. 

Then he kisses you. Like, really kisses you. 

It’s deep and intimate and sloppy. He opens your mouth with his and slithers his tongue inside. He tastes like bitter-sweet alcohol. You get drunk on him accordingly. 

The rest of the table gags.

Your lips click audibly when Eddie pulls away. His smile glistens with a mixture of your saliva, lips a deeper shade of pink and slightly swollen. You wipe your chin with the back of your mouth — some of Eddie’s face paint comes with it.

“Where’s he now?” the boy asks with a mischievous squint in his deep chocolate eyes.

You shrug, totally uncaring and just wanting to be kissed. “I dunno.”

“Still at the bar,” Gareth answers for you, snickering to himself. “Giving your girl the sex eyes.”

Your face screws up in disgust. “Sex eyes?” you repeat, nose scrunched.

The group laughs.

“Think you can get him to buy you a round? You know, for the table?” Eddie asks you. His fingers trace shapes on your bare shoulder. You have to fight back a shiver.

“You want me to go talk to him?” you gape, like you must’ve heard him wrong.

“I want you to go get us drinks, sweet thing. Work your magic, you know?”

He’s not in the most right headspace right now. You know this. He’s still high on the post-show adrenaline and mellow on the alcohol.  He’s jealous and in love with you and aflame with hatred for bootleg Elvis Presley. He gets rash when he’s raging, risky and unpredictable — a deadly concoction.

“Eds…” you hum quietly, brows scrunched like the idea pains you. “I don’t wanna make you mad…”

“You won’t make me mad, sweet thing,” Eddie assures, squeezing your shoulder. He presses a sanguine peck to your waiting mouth, then his voice gets all low. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll reward you after.”

He smacks one last kiss to your buzzing lips.

You blink at him until your senses return to you. You slide out from the booth and saunter back to Some Guy, who’s seemingly been waiting on your return this whole time. 

There’s a sudden sway to your hips now, but it’s not for him. 

It’s for Eddie.

The boy with the wild hair back at the booth, missing splotches of his face paint and wearing your lipstick knows this too.

[killedpink]

이 민호 | reflecting light.

🎧 masterlist !?

💭 synopsis: after years of a push and pull relationship with your assigned bodyguard, you leap at the opportunity to get inside his head when you're stuck in a cabin miles from society. what you don't expect is that he wants the same thing that you yearn for.

🐈‍⬛ word count: 8.3k

📂 contains: female reader, bodyguard minho, mutual pining, unestablished relationship, food mention, pet names, virgin reader, first time, oral sex, cum consumption, hair pulling, marking, noise kink, slight fingering, corruption kink, unprotected sex, creampie.

there's no heat in the sun. it's the light that wakes you, tangled in bedsheets and your sleep tender body shielding your eyes from the unwelcome light. the space in the bed next to you is beginning to freeze. minho's gone. he's usually the first to wake in the morning. in other words: you're not worried he's wandered off. that's not his job. that's not who he is.

it takes you longer than you'd like to admit for you to roll out of the warm, lonely bed.

you spot him at the kitchen counter, the oak island flooded with wood-chips, food containers and weapons. you sit at one of the stools, face in your hands as you watch minho cook. pancakes. you smile at the realisation, fondness welling up in your half groggy mind.

"good morning." he mutters absentmindedly, baritone voice husky. it hasn't been long since he woke himself, you conclude. he's uncharacteristically chatty this morning. usually, the only chatter you hear before seven is the sizzle of breakfast onto the hot metal frypan. yet again, this whole outing has been different. the circumstances weren't: someone was close to hurting you and your dutiful minho took you out of the equation. but laying next to you? holding your sleeping body? striking a conversation for the fun of it? minho rarely, if ever did things like these. it distracted him, as he put it. better an awkward silence than your life on the line, he'd insist, plump lips in a tiny frown.

you turn to the window, watching the still world outside in fascination. the wintery breath in the air sinks down in a sheer fog, frosting the pane and obscuring the earth's memory of summer. "yes, it is," you smile, eyes squinting to find the outline of the half thawed lake.

minho pushes the plate of pancakes in front of you without another word. his back is facing you again. you sigh, "are we going to talk about last night?" he turns to you curiously, without saying anything. you feel something build inside of you. a feeling you haven't felt for a long, long while. it irks you — his professionalism is by far one of the most frustrating qualities of minho. it is simultaneously attractive and infuriating.

both of his hands hold the edge of the table, leaning closer to you, "you can talk. i'll listen." minho raises a brow expectantly. his hair is getting longer again; a dark, rich brown that shines an almost red when the light manages to catch it just right. it hangs in mid air, semi obscuring his deep chestnut eyes — everything about him was so feline.

you sigh in faux resignation, a lick of fury lingering in a corner of your heart. "you haven't been that close to me since.." you pause, trying not to swallow your words. minho gave you an opportunity to talk. you'd be a fool not to prove your capabilities to him. "since the beach." he finishes coolly, a knowing glint lingering in his dark eyes as he stares at you through his long black lashes. you nod, at a loss for words.

one of his hands ruffles his hair, huffing in restraint. "i didn't mean to argue with you last night. i was.." he paused, tips of his ears beginning to burn. "i held you because i was trying to apologise. i was harsh, and i regret that." there are mere inches in-between the both of you.

as much as it hurts to say, because it means you have to realise it, you are dissatisfied with minho's apology. "you apologise to me, but you'll do it again." minho visibly bristled at your response, despite his admirable efforts to contain himself. he shook his head, "that's unfair." his voice was sentimental, open and vulnerable.

you waited, soundlessly.

"it's my job to keep you safe. i've done that — i still do that. if i tell you everything, i will be killing you. don't you understand that? you can't know the things i do and expect to be safe. i devote my life to keeping you protected, so can't you do the one thing i ask?"

you bit down on your tongue, and your gaze loitered on minho's face with a profound sense of regret and admiration. even in unimaginable amounts of hurt and frustration, he had never raised his voice at you. your eyes glittered with tears. shameful tears. they're heavier and saltier than ones of happiness, or of sadness. if it was possible, your tears seemed to hurt minho more than it did you. his lips parted, showing off his bunny teeth, and the swell of his top lip looked even plumper. his eyes softened, into big, round stars.

you dig the heels of your hands into your wet eyes, "i'm so sorry, minho." and you truly are. he moves to hold you, his hands stroke your hair and he doesn't flinch when you bury your tear soaked face into his torso. softly, with hands as gentle as rain, he tucks you away into his arms.

"you have nothing to apologise for, sweetheart. eat your breakfast, okay?" minho's strong hand rubbed up and down the length of your back delicately, as if he were unsure if you would break. you nod weakly, guilt still devouring you from the inside out.

he called you sweetheart, you realised.

sweetheart. it sounded fascinating in his beautiful mouth.

_

the crackling fire felt worthless. cold still managed to seep into your bones — your aching, heavy bones. the only warmth you felt was from minho, who sprawled himself out on you from the left. he smelled heavenly. his skin was soft, and you could feel the outline of his muscles through his shirt. there was little room to move under the shared blanket. it all felt so domestic. so.. right. this is how you wanted to be with minho. but, you know he's only this close with you to preserve heat in the winter night. it turns the butterflies in your stomach and the unfiltered swoon in your head sour. you sink into the bed, eyes fixated on the brightly flickering fire.

"i hate that we're like this.." you mutter out loud, voice raw and likely catching on the emotion in your tone. you prepare to elaborate if minho bites. you expect him to whip his head to face you and beg you to expand on your statement. he doesn't.

"i know. i'm sorry." minho's voice is husky. he buries his head into the nape of your neck, a cool nose pressing against your warm skin. it forces goosebumps from you — eager and persistent. your hands ball into fists, your bottom lip wobbling. it hurts to be this close to him; because you are always craving more.

"why can't we be like this every day?" you ask, futilely. the more you try to understand about minho, the more you realise you don't know anything about him. he was an enigma, in body and soul. you felt him nuzzle into your skin in thought. his hand, rosy at the knuckles, delicately caresses your arm, and his actions speak for him. 'i want to be like this, too.' it weeps.

"i.. i don't know." minho answers truthfully. is it possible he truly doesn't know? it seems unlike him. you want to unwrap his secrets like flower petals, to open them fully and allow him to bloom in the rays of your sun. "i want us to be like this every day. i am sorry."

minho. gentle, determined, golden minho. his tone is sweet and his voice heavy. you hear the pain in his mind when he speaks. how can he apologise? the words feel wrong coming out of his mouth. they turn into knives and twist inside of your gut. your hand falls from your lap to hold minho's hand; and you give it an affectionate squeeze. a medley of 'i love you', and 'you have nothing to be sorry for' translates from your wordless affection.

with the wood devouring fire singing in the background, you decide your next words.

"how about.." you begin, trying to ignore the sounds of your thumping, childish heart in your ears. "we hang up the titles and the statuses — just for tonight — and be who we want to be?"

"i would like that very much." minho chuckles, and you feel his smile on your bare skin. you revel in it, and you're suddenly glad you're miles off of the grid, because you're sure minho's beaming would make every lightbulb burst with his brightness. "who do you want to be tonight, minho?" you inquire. minho's brain doesn't even register what he utters, his mouth working mindlessly and without restraint; just as you promised.

"yours."

you twist in his lap like a cloud, light and gleaming. gingerly, the pads of your fingers glide over minho's face to brush the light-kissed hair from his eyes. the apples of his cheeks peek through and his eyes crinkle into crescent moons as he smiles at your touch. the contours of his angelic face are made impossibly prettier by the firelight. his plump, rounded lips glow from the warm light of the fire — he looks so homely. minho notices your staring.

"kiss me. i've wanted it long enough," he pleads, breathless.

and so, you kiss him. in a flurry, your lips glide over minho's; his top lip captured between your teeth. his lips are warm and wet and soft and so addictive. you sigh into the kiss as you realise this is all you've wanted. ever since he kissed you in that forgotten beach where the cave will never hold the same water, you've been haunted by his soft, soft skin and his devoted touch. when you're in his arms everything clicks into place.

your lips migrate from his mouth, and stop on minho's cheeks. his skin is soft, there, too. then the jaw. nose. chin. forehead. cheekbone. you cannot stop yourself. you feel his teeth peek out from his pink lips in a smile. you love him and it's getting worse. you kiss him, intending to search and understand him. you move on your own, and adoringly kiss every inch of him that he presents to you. and minho is ready for you love. he cannot go another day of choking it back — not when it feels this enriching. you want to sob, and wail at the emotions welling up inside of you. you touch each other with the most excruciating tenderness. you use a lifetime of love to pour into minho. you keep hold of each time he made you laugh, and smile and feel safe, and thrust it all back to him, each swoon-worthy memory replaying in your head and devoting a kiss to it.

your kisses are thank yous, and i love yous, and i miss yous, and i forgive yous all at once.

the moon has never seen either of you like this before. the only time you've ever kissed was under the watchful eye of the morning sun, its rays exploding on the ocean's horizon and glittering over your shadowy cave. your lips regrettably part from minho's. he rests his forehead on yours, his unearthly lips parted and his watery brown eyes gleaming like a spell under the soft orange glow of the fire.

"from the moment i kissed you, i have not been alive since. my heart beats only for you." minho's voice is smoky, and it doesn't dare travel far. his eyes gaze into yours, and many words appear in your mind to help comprehend them: whiskey, ebony. almond, feline. sparkling. does he ever tire of being so beautiful? at times like these, where intimacy is first nature and no-one else in the world could dare to exist but each other, you conclude that it suits you fine if everyone else finds minho horrible. he is your secret. he is your minho. you love him like grief loves rain — endlessly and without restraint, end, or beginning.

you place a kiss to his temple, your eyes fluttered closed comfortably, "i am yours, minho. please, show me i am yours." you feel his chest vibrate with a low chuckle. the sound vines through your mind and its roots sink and grow into your heart. his touch sears into your skin. whether minho comes to you as a lover or an executioner, you are wholly ready to receive him.

minho's fingers cradle your cheeks, his hands gentle as he kisses up your neck. "tell me." he mutters. "do you want me because it's me," he nips at your throat. you shudder, eyes scrunched closed as you try to lose everything into his touch. "or do you want me because i'm the only one around?" he asks, and judging by his tone, he is impervious to either. your open palm presses against his chest. it pains you to clarify it, but you know it is because he has never been loved by anyone before.

"minho." you start. "no world exists in where i want you only for convenience." you see the way his shoulders twitch as he contains a sob. "in every lifetime, i love you." you watch him melt and unfold before you, his deep brown eyes filling with tears. minho blinks them away, slowly, "then, i want to be the last man to do this to you."

you can't help the smile on your lips from his assumption. you brought minho's brow level with your mouth, sore from longing, and sweetly kissed his forehead. his nose bridge is next — and it scrunches as he smiles. minho's face grew so quickly warm that you giggled. in the most unsubtle way possible, minho withdrew his hips so you wouldn't feel the heat there; he closed his pure, warm chestnut eyes, wordlessly begging you to continue. your mouth fell to his neck, peppering kisses in areas no-one would think to reach. "you are the first man to do this to me." you whisper against his jaw, and you swear you can feel his golden, tanned skin burst into a sizzling burn that rolls off of his body and onto yours.

his fingers find the hem of your thick sweater. he rolls the fabric between the pads of his fingers, "can i take this off?" minho asks. you nod, "of course." your voice is soft, slow and you realise you have waited your whole life for this moment. minho's skin is blazingly warm as he slides under your sweater and coaxed it off of your flushed body. you mirror his actions, tugging at his hoodie wordlessly. minho's movements blur together as they fly around his hoodie, leaving him shirtless and shivering from the onslaught of cold.

minho's golden skin was a plane of hard earned muscle. with a little help from the soft light, you could see occasional marks of fairer skin on his body. scars. his abs, ribs, arms and pecs were littered with shrapnel marks and in lesser places: bullet holes. his collarbones, like pillars, started at he base of his throat and spread to the ends of his shoulders. he was mythic, and held down by miles of smooth skin. at your staring, minho frowned. "it's not.. attractive, i know. i'm sorry." he bowed his head. had he gone mad?

"no." you protested, devoted fingers tracing the contours of his torso and running over the healed wounds. you watch a shiver roll down his spine at your touch, ghosting over his skin. he is so brave, and quiet, that you often forget of his suffering. "you do what you need to, i know. but, still — it suits you. minho, it's beyond attractive. it's impressive and.. beautiful." perhaps you had intended your words to be more profound, more complex, but at the sight of minho, you tend to lose your train of thought. your simple language was open; and it didn't hide how much you admired him. you love his scars because none of them come without a story. bravery, stupidity — as rare as it might be for him — minho has earned them all, and overcame them.

you delicately tuck a piece of wavy brunet hair behind minho's ear, stopping it from sweeping his ear. minho's eyes slipped closed for a moment, his thick lashes kissing the swells of his cheeks as he lets out a small, giddy laugh. it whirls around your head and makes your heart beat faster against your ribcage. it made your stomach flutter and twist like a gust of wind whipping through a spring-fresh tree. when minho opens his eyes again, his pupils look significantly more dilated than before, his pink tongue peeking out from his mouth to wet his lips. "can i touch you?"

your heart softens. a burning need to sob at his kindness overwhelms you and chokes your throat. "i get it's the gentleman thing to do," the pads of your fingers stroke his burning cheeks. "to keep asking me, but minho, you can do whatever you want to me."

you excite minho. he grins, scooping you onto his lap and burying his head into the crook of your neck, flushed skin against flushed skin. his fingers circle your hipbone, "i am only as gentlemanly as you want me to be." he muttered into your body, which trembles for his touch. you do not push minho away, instead hooking your fingers into the muscle of his shoulders and tug, pull, palm him closer to you. there will always be molecules between the both of you and it is infuriating.

like stars, the red of yours and minho's mouths collide. he breathes into your lungs; he is a wonderful creation and it's your first time seeing heaven. the deliciously veiny set of hands slide up from your hips, and he's brave enough to draw circles around your breasts with the pads of his thumbs. you expected to stay cold for a lot while longer; but your body grew scorching hot very soon. he has that effect on you. the feeling of his strong, muscular thighs between your legs forces your appetite for him to boil over in your gut.

minho had spent his whole life accommodating others. everything removable, and soft in him murdered and replaced with hardness and stoicism. vulnerably, he sits under you, open and waiting — begging for you to take him apart. his body pleads for you to sit on the bed of the long, toned muscle of his thigh. he prays you will rest your swirling head on the cushion of his stuttering heart. he is your home, do you not understand? make it yours.

your body tries to shudder as his index finger dips into the waistband of your sweatpants and traces your slit, minho's lips morphing into a smirk as he feels the damp fabric of your underwear. the texture of his veiny, strong hands feel so overwhelmingly good on your skin that you can't help yourself when your hips roll to follow his touch. your fingers sneak into his hair and tug at his roots, bringing his head up as you press your lips onto his. your insatiable mouth kissed minho with all the power you could possibly muster — making up for all the years, months, weeks, days, minutes, even seconds that your lips had not been touching.

the way minho carefully thumbs your clit replaces the fluttery, airy feeling of arousal in your gut to the exact opposite: he replaces it with a heavy, empty ache that desperately needs to be filled for your sake. your mouths melt together, lips parting and tongues spreading the taste of the other in your mouths. minho's free hand hooks into the flesh of your hip to trap you, to stop them from rolling and grinding onto his lap, your cunt desperate to feel every inch of him. these touches feel like the start of forever. you want to touch him until his name is written on every atom used to craft you. in your eyes, the meaning of forever cannot hold you down from him.

desperation sits heavy on your tongue, and you want to plead and beg for minho to love you the same way tomorrow, and the next month, and the year after that. your fingers claw into his skin, and you shudder when he kisses your tongue with the same amount of devilishness he uses to charm your need for him into something carnal. minho pulls away from you, and you see his eyes light up as his mouth fills with something to say. words. you've had enough words for a lifetime, and yet you always find yourself stopping to hear his. you expect minho to maintain his gentlemanly behaviour, as he always did.

"do you trust me?" he asks, cryptically, his eyes gleaming and you're sure you can hear him purr if you concentrate on it over your thumping heart. with every breath in my body, you want to say. you do not; instead you kiss his temple and mutter, "of course." as sweetly and as genuine as one can muster when their body is aching for an orgasmic release. minho urges you off of his lap, and you follow his lead, slowly and curiously. you watch him with your head tilted to the side in fascination. even when you do not speak, a beautiful, sweet glow grows between the both of you.

his fingertips smoothed up the fabric of your sweatpants, pulling them and your underwear off in one motion. you instinctively closed your legs at the biting cold, a gasp leaving your throat and a shiver striking through you. minho's hands cupped both of your knees, "i need you to open up, sweetheart." can you do that for me? his eyes said, watching you intently. you have so much of him in your heart that it urges you to give in, to surrender yourself to minho and trust him, like you always do. so, you do exactly that.

you let minho place one of your legs above his shoulders, the inside of your knee fitting together against the curve of his shoulder like a puzzle. he buried himself between your legs, throwing himself to your body like you were an altar, and he a sacrifice. your cheeks burned — you felt so vulnerable and exposed. minho's thumbs spreads open your sex, unraveling you like a scholar would unravel the pages of a book: ravishing each morsel and dedicating a part of their life to it. minho kisses the inside of your thighs, the tip of his nose brushing against your skin and you sob. he is the only person to come this close to you.

at the feeling of his warm breath on your sex, you shudder, thighs tensing as you suck in a breath. you see minho's eyes stare into yours, peering up at you tenderly through his lashes. "let me take care of you. i promise you'll be okay." his voice is angelic as he purrs into your cunt. it makes you feel sinful, and you strangely surrender yourself into the feeling. you nod, "i trust you, minho." you breathe into a whisper. it takes a great effort not to allow your legs to squirm in minho's arms as he collects your arousal on his thumb, sampling your taste and spreading it through his mouth. is everything he does always this sexy?

he nestles into the softness of your thighs, the soft pink swells of his lips experimentally mouthing at your wet, velvet soft sex. you slope into his touch, soft and light moans sneaking into the cycle of your shaky breaths. pleased with your reaction, minho kisses your cunt just as intensely as he kissed your mouth, his tongue sinking into your slit and setting ablaze something that resided in the cage of your hips. your heel scattered around his toned back, hips bucking into his touch — you feel minho's warm spit drizzle down the inside of your legs from your sudden movement, and his mouth dips down to collect it like the world's most devoted servant.

the winter night has leeched enough heat from the earth to give you goosebumps; and you feel it is almost intentional. you feel minho smirk into your cunt and it's enough to drive you delirious. your desire for him begins to sound like hymns, and it gnaws through your restless skin and seeps into every corner of your mind. "need you," flutters from your mouth, drooling and lips parted. minho hums smugly at your confession, releasing himself from your cunt with an obscene smack. his head tilts up, swallowing his drool and your slick, his throat rolling in the sexiest way as he swallows, and immediately your half-working mind fed you with visions of suckling, kissing, and tonguing his neck.

minho covers your entire sex with his sweetly intense, red hot mouth. he chuckles fondly into your cunt when your fingernails press and dig into his forearms; when your back arches into his tongue and when you mewl out his name like you had just discovered it. you cry out minho's name over and over, until you're sure it's etched somewhere inside of your throat. the flat of minho's pink tongue rakes and slides against your slit, top to bottom and back up again. you sink into his touch and pray for his mercy as the tip of his nose bumps and prods at your sore, puffy clit. it has your lungs pouring out a squeal, until there's no breath left in you.

"fuck, don't shut up. no-one's around to hear." minho moans into you, eyeing the way your lips parted to sob and mewl his name. he gives your clit a satisfied kiss at the way you quickly obeyed him, his soft lips wrapping around your swollen clit and devotedly sucking. it puts goosebumps on his skin, at the way your fingers brush the wispy dark stray hairs out of minho’s face, clinging onto his hair and holding on for dear life; similarly, it feels like the same way he held onto your thighs. possessive.

you feel tears brim at your eyes, and you’re unsure of the meaning behind them. are you close to crying because of unfathomable pleasures that you’re unsure you can ever come down from – or because you don’t know if this is the first and last time that minho openly touches and loves you like he is now. he loves you continuously, and intensely, and you cannot bear to let this warm moment fade into a memory that will leave you utterly cold.

minho’s middle finger slips into your sobbing cunt, and the coldness of his skin inside of your searing heat tears a noise from your throat that makes him smirk. your heel digs into the hard, toned plane of his back. you want to tell him just how excellent of a job he’s doing, but when you try, all that comes out is “god minho!”. it makes the man in question chuckle at the double meaning. most commonly, it would be heard as ‘god, minho!’ — but his ego hears it as ‘god: minho!’ and it makes him want to worship you impossibly better than he already is.

how his jaw isn't tired, you don't know. with his skilled mouth, minho paints you a heaven of love with everything he's wanted to say. he's not pressed so tightly to you to preserve heat in the bitter, desolate mountains. your relationship with your bodyguard is complicated in every way. you want nothing more than to love each other the way your hearts beg to — but your lives obstruct that only wish. people talk, and in both of your worlds, these people are dangerous and will exploit your unity until the love for each other has been gutted and ripped from your tired, weary bodies. it is unsafe to brush your thumb over minho's lips, and it is unsafe to whisper 'i love you's', even when you're both deep into the night.

but here? where nothing else exists but each other, you are free to let the years worth of accumulated love flow freely from your bodies. but you know you will not stay like this forever. now that you've gotten this close; now that you've held his face, and hands, and body, you do not want to let go. but, eventually, you must. and you must let things go back to how they once were, as you did once before after minho cradled your sobbing body and tucked you into his bleeding middle, and kissed you so lovingly — so intensely, that you still feel the raw divinity of it all bleeding from the memory of his soft, soft pink lips.

he leaves your sobbing, sensitive body with a chaste, satisfied kiss. "beautiful." you hear him mutter, his voice soft and light. you, in your half-mad daze, stir after a few moments. minho's body heat is replaced by absolutely nothing. you give him a look he knows too well. what are you doing, he reads on your face. he smiles fondly, wiping your slick off of his lips and chin, "i want you to be closer to me. for your first time, you deserve intimacy." minho kisses up your torso, hands gliding up your thighs, over your hips. you lay there, bewildered by his honesty, his touch, his voice. there's no way he's real. you must have made him up in your mind, you're half sure of it. half sure because my god no one person could ever cook up someone this profound on their own. whichever god let minho out of their army is a fool.

your relationship with minho is always tested. when you first met him, he was cold and blunt and everything frustrating. his body was leaner then, and less experienced. he was mouthy and would always get into trouble, which rubbed off on you just as he was growing out of that phase. which, of course, birthed a new dynamic of minho having to pull you out of confrontations kicking and screaming and, many times, sobbing about how much you hated him. obviously you could never hate minho — but you were hurting, and so you wanted to hurt him the same way. in many instances, you confused 'i hate you' with 'i love you', when it came to minho. you had never surrendered yourself entirely to anyone before, and you are only now realising that minho had surrendered himself to you since the first day he met you. back then, the both of you were too scared to let your hearts speak, but when you and he are pressed together like this; his lips on your skin and your hands smoothing down his hair, you don't think you can ever go about life silently ever again.

you nod in surrender, sinking into his melodic voice like a rock in water, your hips aching with arousal and your skin flushed. you trust minho completely, and you show this by winding your hands around his neck, thumbs on his cheeks and fingers splayed in his hair and on his neck, and bring him into your kiss, pressing your lips to minho's like you were a love potion, sweet and hypnotic and so close to making his heart stop with each quick, needy peck on his plump, pink lips. you can feel his smile and you can see it written all over his face when you open your half-lidded eyes to see him: his long, thick lashes kissing the swells of his cheeks as his teeth peek out and his ears flush red. in your haze, you don't realise you've both sat up until you feel your hips absentmindedly rocking on your lap, desperate for friction and dripping on your sticky skin.

minho's large, veiny hand puts your fingertips on his belt. you don't remember when he took off his weapons from his holsters, but they're forgotten about and discarded somewhere on the icy cabin floor. your kiss is broken, but your love spell is not, and as you look into minho's deep brown eyes you see his love for you in them, shining like pearls on the ocean floor. you palm the rough leathery feel of his belt, and you realise what he's asking of you. he wants you to do this part — he wants it to be you who opens him up. minho's hot- scalding hot mouth kisses your neck and his teeth nips at your skin and you don't remember how you got his belt off, just that you did.

you want to tell him not to hold back, to pour everything out and let himself be vulnerable. for years he has swarmed your mind and forced you to guess everything about him — he has been your torturer in more ways than one ever since you met him. your time before knowing minho felt like a lifetime ago. maybe you weren't truly living until you heard his sweet voice purring in your ear and his commanding, skilled hands brushing against your skin with a challenging glint in his brown eyes. you plant a kiss on minho's jaw, a silent plea, the sounds of your wet lips smacking against his skin made him smirk, the skin of his deep cupid's bow curving into a smile.

the closest you and minho could get to each other wasn't nearly close enough. your eyes closed, hands winding around his body and your lips parted in concentration. your mind was slowly shutting down, allowing all sensations to your body to become the only thing that proves you're existing. that memory of the morning beach and the fresh feeling of minho's lips on your own is the last thing you think of: the salty ocean in the air and minho's body heat leaping out of his chest as he held you, just as you hold him now. even then, in his own way, he was trying to protect you.

minho's veiny hand holds the base of his warm, girthy cock as he introduces the head of his cock onto your dripping cunt. he gives you a once over, his paradoxically bambi-esque, feline eyes landing on yours. do you want this? his deep brown eyes ask. it melts your heart in more ways than one, and you give him a slow, deliberate nod.

“i won’t hurt you.” minho mutters, voice warm, as his dark eyes carefully linger on your eyes. he waits, until you give him a response, always looking for your consent. if someone were to cut you up and take a look at your heart, you feel as though it would be tender and bleeding and undoubtedly minho’s. your hand caresses his jaw for a moment.

“i know you won’t.” you don't realise you're smiling until minho's thumb brushes against your soft lips, trying to feel the words on your mouth. you take his hand in yours, fingers knotting together as he eases into you, piercing your entrance with his length and filling you up completely. you squeeze both his cock and his hand at the same time, tightening significantly when minho's sweat sticky chest hovered over yours, in all of his muscular, warm glory.

with faces in each other's necks, pulses in the other's ears, you realise breath by breath that you had been craving and needing this for years. minho kneels before you, his hand wrapped around your thigh to secure your position. you feel minho's throbbing cock in your sex with every breath, and the closer he inches inside of you, the worse the ache hits you all at once. his touch is like lightning, thunder clapping in your mind and electricity spreading mercilessly throughout your body. your fingernails press into minho's skin, a whimper bursting through your lips as he presses his hips into yours, his hilt just barely visible to him and your slick covering the both of you.

"you look perfect," minho mutters, thumb stroking your thigh. "just tell me when, beautiful." he cooed, somehow more than happy to kneel in a suspended state of pleasure just for your sake. he's perfectly content to just be in your soul as he always is; tormenting you. minho fills you to the brim and at your command, gives you two deep, fulfilling grinds into your sex, his brows furrowing and his eyes closing as he loses himself in your hot, deep cunt. the sounds are obscene and you're infinitely grateful minho happened to fuck you where no-one else could hear.

a part of you wants to be stained and branded as his, in fear he would ever leave you. but, for minho, the pain of living without you would be unimaginable. it's decided then and there, that in his next life, he would search for you and make you his; just as he is doing now. it's took him long enough. yours and minho's sweat tacky skin sticks together with a mind of their own, and following in your bodies' footsteps, you plant a kiss to minho's plump lips, then his nose bridge, his temple, begging and urging him on.

minho's hips and by extension, his cock, ruts into your sex; your sticky, wet arousal mixing and giving the illusion that you and he are melting into one another. you couldn't say where you end and he began. you swallow a sob, cunt clenching like molten silk on minho's length. he frowns at this, withdrawing his hips from you and leaving you in agonising emptiness, his lips on the shell of your ear and his hand forgetting your thigh and smoothing back your hair, "let me hear you." he muttered in that caramel voice of his. his tone was teasing and loving and commanding all at once.

who are you to deny him?

you squirm and squeal in his grip as minho’s wet, pink mouth kisses and licks down your torso, leaving a blazing trail of spit on your skin. at the same time, his slick, warm cock caresses your slit before sinking back into your waiting, inviting cunt. you live solely on the honey of his touch, intoxicated by the way minho truly savours every curve and inch of you. ironically enough, minho knows you too well, and he would like nothing more than to forget you for this moment; so he could discover and love you for the first time all over again.

the way minho’s length rutted into the scalding, blazing hollow of your sex between the cage of your hips could rewrite your history entirely. mewl after moan escaped from your lips, only contributing to the obscene sounds in the cabin: yours and minho’s moans mixed with the vulgar sounds of minho fucking your shared arousal into your sex, paired with the sound of the only bed creaking and smacking against the cabin wall created the perfect cocktail of ambience noise. the sensations of his touch is unimaginable and it leaves you melting into the mattress, mindless and drunk off of the entirely new experience. with every passing second, minho is immensely grateful that there’s no-one around the cabin you’re staying in for miles. not that it matters much, anyway: you’re the only person that exists when you’re caged between his arms like this. everyone else ceases to exist the moment you wind your hands around his neck and your dripping sex flutters beautifully around him.

the taste of the trying pains of loving the unavailable minho for years dissolve in your mouth. your eyes roll back in bliss while your eyelids start to close simultaneously, fingers hooked into minho’s burning hot skin. your hips meet his thrusts into you, the sound oddly reminiscent of waves colliding. minho likes it when your hips meet his, and he especially likes the noises you make when you meet like two magnets.

“does that feel good?” he asks when the tip of his cock hits a particularly sensitive spot inside of you. he’s teasing you — of course he knows it feels good. he just wants to hear you say it, to stroke his ego. nails digging further into his toned muscle, you swallow a cry and nod, complicit with his plans. you’re unsure what you end up mewling out, stuck between recalling it as ‘so good’, or ‘you’re good’. either way, minho almost purrs at the praise and adjusts your hips around his sides, skilled hands holding you in place as he gives you a good view of his veiny, tanned arms. with a slight change of positions you are introduced to a new world of sensations.

minho’s cock sears into you, setting your inexperienced sex ablaze. you squeal, tears flowing down your flushed cheeks and your throat growing hoarse as you let out a stringed moan that’s interrupted and punctuated with each thrust minho bestows upon you. in other words, you’re completely lost in the feeling of minho’s wonderfully skilled cock burying itself into your aching, puffy cunt.

deep within the night, minho lets you in on what he’s thinking. “can’t believe you’re this innocent..” he swoons, smirking as his hand strokes your leg, still in the perfect position he manoeuvred you into. your eyes open to glare at him, regardless if his searing hot, hard cock is giving you all the relief your body could’ve wanted. the sight above you makes you fall in love with him all over again. minho has his eyes closed, long thick lashes resting on the swells of his cheeks, pink swollen lips parted and cheeks beginning to flush as his brows furrow in concentration. his body seemed carved out of marble as it laid bare above you; like some lost piece of art. each inch of tanned muscle and raised scar and mole made you want to throw yourself onto his altar and worship him at his temple. you knew he would protect you as a god, too.

he wants to take it slow- he truly does, he tries so hard, especially considering it’s your first time — but minho concludes you feel too good and the pleased moans that flows from your lips like honey are too beautiful to ignore. your touch only entices him, drawing him in to guzzle down your love potion like his life depends on it. the temperature between your sweaty, clammy bodies climbs drastically; a contrast between the rigidly biting cold that lay inside and outside the cabin. minho’s hips ruts into you and his throat pours out a groan, guttaral and deep and drawn out as your slick cunt pulses with the weight of minho’s cock inside of you, pressing onto your guts and leaving your mind entirely fuzzy, silent almost.

the only thing keeping your mind from being fully silent is minho’s sounds repeating like a broken record. he presses his skin against yours, “wanted to do this to you f’ so long,” he slurs, clearly drunk on electrifying pleasure as his hips piston wildly and desperately into your sex, his biceps flexing as he anchors himself to the mattress. if you had half a mind to form a coherent thought, you would’ve scolded him for not fucking you sooner — but instead you answer him by letting your teeth sink into his neck, barely enough to bruise but enough for minho, even in his sex maddened daze, to differentiate it from a playful nip.

he cries out a moan, so loud you’re sure you physically felt it. your cunt clenches in response, almost purring at his sounds as your calves flail across his back in a pathetically amateurish attempt to bring minho closer to you. no matter what, you’re never satisfied with the lack of distance. perhaps it’s because you have years of experience seeing him so far away from you, but you feel as though minho could disappear through your hands like smoke at any given moment: you need him close at all times. even when he’s the closest to you he’s ever been, it cannot compete with the way your chest bleeds from the distance between you.

love isn’t gentle like people say. in songs, paintings, poems - any forms of art, really, love is always expressed as a wonderfully soft feeling that makes one feel as though their life has only just begun. but, for you and minho, love has claws and teeth which wounds never fully heal from each blow to the soul. love, for you, is a bleeding, agonising feeling that drives you mad, yet you find yourself always crawling back for another bite.

minho’s thrusts grow erratic, less rhythmic and more grinding into your newly deflowered cunt, desperate and meaner, as if he’s trying to split you open. it certainly feels that way, each slam of his hips into yours is reminiscent of a whip, slashing your skin and leaving it searing red, burning hot and without a doubt bruising in the morning. it turns less like a journey and more like a crusade — like an animalistic, primal pilgrimage that needs to leave marks in case either of you forget this night ever happened.

you struggle to find air; your mouth exhaling moans and whimpers and your nose buried into minho’s neck, close to his pulse just to feel that he’s alive, breathing and you’re not, in fact, dreaming. minho’s tone graduates from whispers to mutters to borderline yelling. you have the excitement and passion to thank for that. minho’s close, you can tell. his forearms brackets your head as he mouths kisses on your pulse, nose pressed into your jawline and scarred chest flush against your pristine skin. he jackhammers his pulsing cock into your sopping, achingly puffy cunt with so much force and vehemence you’re unsure if he loves you or hates you. he beings to forget his strength, and you’re already dreading the soreness your body will greet you with when you wake tomorrow.

your blood swirls in your head, your ears hearing it more clearer over minho’s muttering, but the few words you can make out makes your back arch and your eyes roll, mindless and so pleased to finally let minho take you like this. you hear things like ‘all mine’, ‘ruined f’ anyone else’, and ‘gorgeous like this, taking me so well’. it puts a heat in the cage of your hips so burning, intense like molten lava and even then you’d rather a thousand burning suns than this violent heat. tears trickle down your face, rolling and collecting in the hollow of your collarbones, thighs twitching and despite not even standing you want nothing more than to collapse in on yourself.

minho, on the other hand, digs his fingernails into every inch of your skin, pushing himself inside of you so eagerly you genuinely let out a cry, chest heaving as he bottoms out, the feverish desire for you reaching its high as he ruts his hips into you, balls sore and heavy as his orgasm finds him more intensely and quicker than a gunshot. it’s almost instant: like a flash of white, he’s pumping your cunt with pearly hot cum with his throat exposed, fully vulnerable.

the stringy fluid between the both of you is never ending, your own orgasm hitting you so harshly that your voice falls silent, eyes screwed shut and clutching minho’s hand so tightly that blood cannot get to his fingers. you’re sobbing; writhing under him, cunt spasming and lungs thrashing inside of your body, desperate to get air inside themselves. devoted, loving minho is there to coax you through it, kissing at your sweat slicked temple and brushing hair out of your face, “attagirl, you’re alright, breathe, sweetheart. i’ve got you, there we go, deep breaths, such a good girl you are,” he coos, fawning over you and stroking your arm.

you swear that as you hit your orgasm, you felt realms blur together and as you unavoidably came down from your high, you’re disoriented and unsure which plane of reality you’ve landed on. you’re exhausted and you’re seeing everything from a different perspective, and you realise even from above, fucked out and more exhausted than you, minho looks angelic. his golden skin is glistening and glowing in the dim light like a statue, and you want nothing more than to take him in your arms and kiss him until there’s no love left in your body.

you pay no mind to the wetness of cum flowing out of your sex in sporadic waves, instead busying yourself with showering minho in a heaven of love, courtesy of your kisses and sweet talk. he blushes and smiles at your kisses, his arm wrapping you into his chest and holding the back of your head loosely and protectively.

on the brink of falling asleep, you realise you couldn’t care less if you’re not the same devoted lovers tomorrow, or even after your retreat to a desolate mountain cabin is finished. all that matters is now — and you’ve both expressed that if it was up to you, this night would be an everyday occurrence, as is falling asleep next to each other and the obligatory ‘i love yous’. now that you’re worn out, on your side and half asleep already, you nestle into minho’s body and surrender yourself to any outcome. the memory of this night is enough to keep you from a lifetime of longing and want. once again, your minho has proven his devotion to you, and once again you find yourself feeling invincible in his touch.

on the fragile knife’s edge of sleep, minho strokes your clammy skin and you’re certain you hear him mutter into your hair: “i don’t think i want to go back to being minho. i want to stay yours forever. won’t you let me?” and even half asleep, your heart simultaneously flutters and crumbles. the first thing you’ll do tomorrow is kiss him until your lips are bruised and tell minho over and over again how he cannot be anything but yours — no matter who objects, no matter the danger, you and minho will remain as you did tonight.

[blackenedsnow]

Hey how are you doing could I request a yandere DBZ frieza x female reader x yandere frost, the reader is frieza s/o who came to the tournament of power to cheer him on but she has short vision and sees frost and confuses him with frieza and give him a passionate kiss, now she has to deal with an angry jealous frieza and a persistent wooing from a lovestruck frost?

cold-blooded rivalry

WARNING: Yandere themes (obsession, jealousy, possessiveness), mild violence and threats

PAIRING: Frieza x Reader x Frost

NOTE: Hi! Thank you so much for this super fun request! Sending love your way, take care! <3

SUMMARY: Attending the Tournament of Power to support Frieza, your short-sighted mistake of confusing Frost for your partner sparks a jealous rage in one and a lovesick obsession in the other.

The crowd’s roars echoed across the arena, deafening and chaotic. You squinted from your spot on the sidelines, shielding your eyes from the glaring light overhead. You weren’t about to miss Frieza’s glorious moments in the Tournament of Power, even if your eyesight left a lot to be desired.

And then you saw him. That sleek white body, the glint of armor-like purple, the graceful way he carried himself as he descended to the edge of the arena. Your heart swelled. Of course, that was Frieza. No one else moved with such effortless superiority.

You dashed toward him without hesitation, the din of the tournament fading into white noise. “Frieza!”

Before he could turn fully, you threw your arms around him and pressed a deep, passionate kiss to his lips. The smooth texture of his skin felt familiar, and his scent had the same cold, metallic sharpness you knew so well. You smiled against his lips as his body froze beneath you.

“Oh?,” came a voice. A voice that, while similar, was not quite… Frieza’s.

You pulled back in horror, your blurry vision focusing just enough to see a very confused Frost staring back at you, his crimson eyes wide but delighted.

“Oh, my stars,” he said, voice low and sultry. “I didn’t realize Frieza had someone so enchanting in his life. Perhaps fate is being kind to me today.”

Your blood ran cold. “You’re not Frieza.”

Frost tilted his head, a smirk curving his lips.

Before you could stammer an apology—or run—an unmistakable voice sliced through the moment like a blade.

“What. In. Hell. Do you think you’re doing?”

You turned to see Frieza, his golden transformation already gleaming dangerously. His scarlet eyes burned with fury, his lips curled into a snarl. The air around him crackled with power.

Frost, unfazed by the shift in atmosphere. “Ah, your companion here was just—”

“My companion,” Frieza hissed, advancing slowly. “Is mine. And you,” he snapped his tail, pointing at Frost, “had better remove your filthy lips from her memory before I erase you from existence.”

Frost chuckled, his demeanor still maddeningly calm. “Oh, but she kissed me, Frieza. A gesture of true passion, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Frost!” you cut in, voice panicked. “It was a mistake! I—I thought you were Frieza!”

Frost’s smirk only deepened. “Mistake or not, the sentiment was… exquisite. Perhaps you’re beginning to see there are others worth your affection.”

Frieza’s aura flared violently, the air around him heating with his barely restrained rage. “You overestimate your worth, Frost. She belongs to me, body and soul. I don’t share.”

“Oh, I’m not asking you to share,” Frost replied smoothly. “I’m simply stating that if she ever finds herself displeased with you, I’ll be here, waiting.”

Frieza snarled, his tail whipping dangerously close to Frost’s face.

“Wait! Stop!” you cried, stepping between them before Frieza could lunge. You looked at your partner, pleading. “Frieza, please. I’d never betray you. You know that, don’t you?”

Frieza’s eyes softened—barely—but his tone remained sharp. “Then do not give me reason to doubt you again, darling. If you so much as glance at that worm in a way I don’t like…” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “You won’t like the consequences.”

Frost, meanwhile, gave a sly wave as Frieza dragged you away by the arm, his smile all too knowing.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Frost called after you. “We’ll see each other again soon. I’ll make sure of it.”

You sighed. The Tournament of Power was supposed to be exciting, but you hadn’t expected this level of chaos. Now you had to navigate Frieza’s jealous wrath and Frost’s relentless attention.

Something told you this was far from over.