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enticingmelanin · 12 days ago

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Royal Blood Ch. 1: Savior

Royal Blood Series {Ch. 1- Savior} || Aaron Pierre OC x Black Female OC

Starring Aaron Pierre as Stone Delverne and Jayme Lawson as Akira Monroe.

Series Masterlist & Cast

Rating: E for Erotic.

Word Count: 12k+

Warnings: TRIGGER WARNING! Mentions of sexual assault, domestic violence, blood, death, stalking, smut, and explicit language. NSFW. 18+ Only.

Summary: Men… they were nothing more than fleeting distractions—occasional moments of pleasure, if they even knew how to deliver. But beneath their touch, there was always a shadow of pain, fear, and loss in Akira’s life. One man, in particular, nearly brought her to the brink of death, but a twist of fate intervened. With a second chance at life, Akira took matters into her own hands, determined to bury her past and her demons. She was skilled at it, or so she thought. But when the past resurfaces with a vengeance, will she succumb to the pressure, or will fate step in to tip the scale once more?

The rhythmic clack of Akira Monroe’s red bottoms echoed through the lobby of her Manhattan high-rise, each step a sharp contrast to the late-night silence. The night had started off beautifully—champagne, laughter, a rooftop full of music and city lights—but it ended as abruptly as the storm that rolled in. Thunder cracked through the sky, sending guests scattering in sleek heels and expensive shoes as cold rain poured without warning.

She was still damp, her hair frizzing slightly despite the coat she’d thrown over her head. She promised her friends she would partake in a night of fun again another time. Her mind, always overthinking, had already returned to work. Monday’s market open was only a few days away and her mind ticked with numbers. Life as a day trader was risky but rewarding. Numbers had always come easily to her.

At her door, she slipped the key in and paused. A twinge—small, subtle—curled in her stomach. Something was off. Not loud or obvious. Just… off.

The lock clicked as she turned the key. She pushed the door open and stepped into the darkness of her entryway.

Before she could reach for the light switch, her chest tightened with alarm. A silhouette sat calmly in the corner of her living room, almost absorbed into the darkness. Her breath hitched—not from need, but instinct—as her keys and clutch slipped from her hand and hit the floor with a soft thud.

Then came a voice. Deep. Calm. Unmistakably Caribbean. Each syllable poured like warm molasses and lava.

“Shhh… Relax. Relax. I’m not here to hurt you. Lock the door, now.”

Akira hesitated, every muscle on edge. But something about the voice, so steady and calm, cut through the panic.

Her hand reached back, locking the door behind her. With the flick of a switch light flooded the space a moment later.

There he was.

He sat with the patience of a man who had nothing to fear. His bronze-caramel skin gleamed subtly beneath the apartment’s warm lighting. Sharp cheekbones framed a face sculpted with timeless precision, and a neatly trimmed beard added to the air of danger that clung to him. His hair is dark and cropped close, but curly. His full lips curled ever so slightly at the corners, as though he knew secrets the world had forgotten. But it was his eyes— light, stormy, and unnervingly clear —that pinned her where she stood.

He wore a sharp, tailored black suit beneath a long overcoat that draped from his broad shoulders like a river of ink. Every line of him was precise. Composed. He looked like he belonged in another century... or another world entirely. He appeared youthful, but his presence was heavy with time and power.

Akira didn’t speak. She didn’t move a fraction.

“Sit,” he said gently, gesturing to her plush gray couch across from him. “Please.”

She moved slowly, tension in every step, stopping just before the edge of the cushion.

She sat, but her eyes never left him.

What the fuck...

Her voice was quiet, controlled. “You’re not human,” she said as she searched the air for the sound of a heartbeat.

The frighteningly handsome man tilted his head, a faint, knowing smile tugging at his lips.

“Not anymore.” He paused. “Neither are you,” he said, matter-of-fact.

Akira’s body stiffened, spine locking in place like a steel pole. Her breath caught in her chest as a sudden surge of heat rushed through her, not from fear—but from something far more primal, protective, and lethal. Her light brown eyes, usually warm with flickers of gold and kindness, ignited in a blaze of bloody crimson, glowing with fury. Her lips parted, exposing her elongated, sharp canines—and for a breathless moment, the only sound in the room was the electric silence of instincts awakening.

But the man didn’t move. He didn’t flinch, didn’t falter, didn’t so much as blink. He simply watched her—his own irises glowing with that same blood-red fire, his features shifting subtly into something no longer bound by human softness. His cheekbones sharpened like sculpted clay. His presence grew until the walls of her apartment felt smaller, swallowed by the gravity of him. Ancient power radiated from him, slow and steady like a beating drum.

Akira’s jaw clenched. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, sharp stiletto nails pressing at her palms. She didn’t understand what he was, if he was like her or something else entirely. But she knew what he wasn’t—he wasn’t human. Not anymore.

And then it hit her like a second wave.

Not anymore... Neither are you...

The words fell in her mind like a whisper from someplace familiar but long forgotten.

How would he know that...

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

Stone tilted his head slightly, his tone velvet-smooth and weighted with something inevitable.

“Saving you.”

Akira stared at him, unmoving. “From what?”

“The FBI,” he said plainly, as if he knew what was to come. “They’re preparing to raid your apartment as we speak. They’ve had their eyes on you for years… but now they’re acting.”

Her brow furrowed, confusion and disbelief warring on her face. “That can't be...”

Stone uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, the light from the hallway catching the outline of his frame.

“Your ex-fiancé… and your former boss. Both found within the same stretch of land. You were careful. Smart. You buried them deep in a stretch of Pine Barrens out in Jersey—far from surveillance, far from curiosity. But five years later, that land’s being gutted for development. Subdivisions. A shiny new neighborhood for people with golden retrievers and baby strollers. The machines dug deep… and found bones.”

Akira’s heart dropped.

“No…” she whispered, her voice thinner than breath.

“Teeth. Rib fragments. Bits of fabric. Dental records told the rest of the story. You’re back on their radar.”

Her legs went stiff, her mind trying to sprint in a dozen directions, but her body refused to follow.

She forced the words out, her voice breaking slightly. “Why would you care? Who are you?”

He looked at her then—into the depths of her—with eyes that saw more than who she presented to be now.

“Think,” he murmured. “You remember me.”

She blinked. Her lips parted, but no words came. Yet something inside her shifted—like a long-closed door slowly creaking open. His eyes. That voice. That impossible calm.

And suddenly...

She was back in her abusive relationship five years ago.

She was twenty-seven, living with Donte, a man whose charm had long since dissolved into cruelty. It had started with slaps masked as jokes, possessiveness parading as love, manipulation draped in diamond promises. But that night… that night he stopped pretending.

He came home drunk... again. The smell of liquor thick on his breath, his eyes already glassy and mean. They argued. Again. But this time it escalated into something darker, something that slipped past the edges of even her worst fears. She was preparing t leave, but it seems it was too late.

“How dare you ignore my calls,” he slurred, grabbing her arm, pulling her close enough for her to smell the sourness on his breath. “You forget who takes care of you?”

“I don’t need you,” she snapped, yanking her arm free.

His hand struck her cheek hard enough to split her lip.

She staggered back, dazed, the pain spreading hot across her face. But she didn’t cry. Not yet.

Then he reached for her again—rough, desperate, drunk with power and rage—and this time it wasn’t to hit her. He tried to shove her toward the couch, muttering about “making her remember who she belonged to.” She fought, screamed, kicked, scratched, but he overpowered her, dragging her back by her hair.

His hands fumbled at the waist of her jeans.

“Don’t! Stop, D! Please!” she screamed.

He didn’t.

Terror exploded in her chest. She twisted, landed a punch to his throat, enough to make him choke and stumble. She bolted toward the front door and he followed. Her foot caught on the rumpled rug. She fell backward, slamming her head into the sharp corner of the glass coffee table.

Pain. Cracking. Then...nothing.

She lay there, bleeding out, her skull fractured, the room spinning sideways. Her breaths grew shallower, each one harder to find. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream anymore. Her light brown eyes stared up at the ceiling, blinking through the tears and blood clouding her vision.

Donte stood above her, horror etched into his face.

“Baby? Baby, I didn’t mean—” he muttered. He backed away, pacing, cursing. “I didn’t mean—shit!”

He fled. Left her bleeding out on the floor.

The air grew cold. The edges of the room faded.

And then—

A figure immerged. Eyes glowing red in the dim light.

He knelt beside her, his face both terrible and beautiful, foreign and yet familiar. His hand brushed against her cheek, his voice low and mythic, speaking words in a language her soul understood even if her ears did not.

His mouth hovered over her neck.

And then—pain—quick, electric, and piercing.

It felt like every fiber of her being was lit on fire.

Her last breath was not a gasp, but a surrender.

She had died and been born again.

Changed...

Akira’s back pressed against her couch, hands over her mouth, trembling. Tears welled in her eyes—thick, hot, red with old blood and newly awakened memory. They slipped silently down her cheeks, one after another, staining the edges of her face with grief.

And then he was there.

He moved so quickly the air barely shifted, but he was suddenly kneeling before her, his large, cool hands cradling her face. His thumbs brushed away her tears with tenderness, as though afraid she might break.

She couldn’t stop crying. The sobs came from someplace deeper than pain. A place only he could reach.

“You…” she whimpered, voice small and shaking. “It was you…”

He nodded, his forehead resting gently against hers.

“Yes. And I’m here to save you again.”

Her voice cracked open, hollow and trembling.

“But you left me. I was confused. Broken… alone.”

His hands shifted, brushing her hair away from her damp face, and his gaze softened.

“I thought it was best,” he said. “I didn’t want to take anything more from you. I didn’t want to be another man who left you scarred. I wanted you to choose justice on your own terms. And you did. You survived. You thrived.”

He looked at her, something dark and proud burning behind his eyes.

“But outside forces… they’ve caught up.”

Her voice dropped, barely above a whisper.

“So… you’ve been watching me?”

A faint smile touched his lips.

“Always. Even when your boss tried to cross the line… I was there. Had you not beaten me to it, I would’ve torn him apart, piece by piece.” His smile turned wicked, tinged with something feral. “You’ve always had a gift for vengeance, Akira Monroe.”

And though her tears hadn’t stopped, something fierce lit behind them. He had saved her once. And now, when the world threatened to take everything again... he was back.

Had her heart still pumped, Akira was certain it would’ve swelled against her ribs with a strange, overpowering warmth—a warmth she didn’t expect to feel for someone so terrifying, so mysterious, so... surreal. Yet somehow, in his presence, the fear dulled.

She could still feel the imprint of his hands on her face. The truth in his voice lingered, coiling through her like a spell.

Her gaze searched his with a quiet intensity. “But you still haven’t told me who you are.”

The corners of his mouth lifted—not quite a smile, not quite a smirk.

“My name is Stone Delverne,” he said, voice dipped in gravel and silk. “Some know me as king. Others once knew me as vengeance.”

Akira’s brows rose slowly. “So… you’re some ancient vampire king?”

“Yes,” he said simply, as though it was no more strange than calling himself a man.

A beat of silence passed, heavy with what that meant.

She shifted her weight, eyes still locked to his. “But how’d you find me to begin with?”

That smile grew a fraction deeper.

“We have eternity to get to know one another,” he said gently. “I’ll answer every question your mind can conjure, but I can hear them coming. They’re seconds away from reaching this floor.”

His voice sharpened with urgency. “We have to go.”

Akira’s body tensed. The gravity of his words crashing down as everything around her—the lights, the window, the chilled air on her skin—suddenly felt like a world she no longer belonged to.

“What about my things?” she asked, startled by how quickly her life was unraveling. “Where are we even going?”

Stone turned toward the window, his form outlined by the city’s golden haze.

“I’ll send my people to retrieve anything you desire,” he promised, casting her a reassuring glance. “Where we’re going, you will want for nothing. But I’ll explain once we’re safe.”

He stepped toward her and took her hand in his. His fingers—long, strong, elegant—seemed both a promise and a challenge.

“Do you know how to surge?”

Akira blinked in confusion. “What?”

A low, rich chuckle spilled from his lips, warm enough to make her chest tighten.

“I have much to teach you,” he murmured as he scooped her into his arms with startling ease. “Hold on to me. I’m going to get us out of here.”

She barely had time to react before instinct took over. Her arms looped tightly around his neck. Her black mini dress slid up her thighs as her legs clutched his waist for balance, her chest clenching at the firm strength of his body pressed against hers. He went to the entryway, gathering her clutch in his hand while keeping her balanced in his arms. He turns off her phone, making sure it can’t possibly ping any towers.

Then—

BANG! BANG! BANG!

“AKIRA MONROE! FBI! OPEN THE DOOR!”

The voice outside was sharp, commanding. Boots shuffled on the other side of the wall.

And in a single, fluid motion, Stone turned, went to her balcony, and leapt.

They fell.

Akira stifled a cry as the world dipped and tilted, but before she could process it, he landed with the elegance of a dove—knees bent, shoes silent against the asphalt below. Then they soared faster than thought.

The city around them blurred. Lights melted into streaks. Time fractured into flashes. Akira clung to him, stunned, exhilarated, terrified and thrilled as they weaved between buildings, surged through alleyways, past stunned pigeons and flickering neon signs. No one saw them. Not truly. To human eyes, they were nothing more than a breeze and a shadow.

All the while, she stared at his face. Unmoving. Focused. Handsome. Otherworldly.

They raced north. The chaos of Manhattan faded into the whisper of suburbs, into the hush of rural backroads, and finally... into trees.

The Adirondack Mountains rose like sleeping giants, cloaked in the darkness of night. The forest closed around them—tall, proud evergreens with thick trunks, branches whispering secrets only the wild knew. The air changed. Sharpened. Damp ground and moss filled her nose. Moonlight filtered through the trees, making patterns across Stone’s skin as he finally slowed to a stop.

Then silence.

A silence so complete it rang in her ears.

He set her down gently in a thick bed of pine needles, her body running against his sculpted torso. The forest dim and haunting around them, illuminated only by strands of moonlight. Leaves rustled overhead.

Stone stepped forward, lips parting as he spoke words she didn’t recognize—low, ancient, and powerful. The sound curled in the air like smoke. It wasn’t French, not exactly… something like Creole, only older. Something deeper.

The last word left his tongue like a kiss to the wind.

And then—

With a sudden shimmer, space cracked open before her eyes, revealing something that should not have existed. Akira took a step back, voice caught in her throat.

Stone turned to her, his silhouette sharp against the moonlight.

“Welcome to your new life,” he said, extending his hand once more.

Akira blinked hard, her hand clutching Stone’s once again as a mysterious aircraft—no, vessel—came into full view. Sleek, black, with a sheen that shimmered like obsidian under the forest moonlight, it didn't play by human design. It had no seams, no visible engines, only a gleaming door that seemed to anticipate their arrival, opening slowly before them.

She stepped forward slowly, looking from the smooth landing legs to the warm amber light glowing from within. “What the fuck is this thing?” she muttered, disbelief dripping from every word.

Stone snickered, the sound low and gravelly, as he guided her up the short ramp. “This,” he said smoothly, “is our way home.”

Her brows scrunched and her eyes widened, scanning every inch of the luxurious interior as her heels clicked against the black marble floor. “And where is home exactly?” she asked, her voice still laced with doubt and wonder.

“You’ll see, love. Trust me, it will be worth the wait.”

Inside, the aircraft was bathed in a soft amber glow that accented the warm caramel leather seats, sleek black marble table, and bronze accents lining the walls and ceiling. The forest shown through the panoramic windows at the front, stars sparkling across the night sky. Akira slid onto one of the cozy seats, which hugged her frame like it had been made for her.

Stone stepped forward and spoke to the pilot seated in the cockpit, a lean young man with umber skin, short platinum locs tied back neatly, and a cool, relaxed energy about him.

“Lyle,” Stone called, “we’re set.”

The pilot turned his head slightly, revealing crimson-tinted eyes behind gold-framed glasses. “Aye, we’ll be off in five. Winds are perfect tonight.” He paused, eyes flicking to Akira with a smirk. “So this is the infamous Akira? Pleasure to meet you. The king here can’t stop talking about you.”

Akira raised a brow and slowly turned her head to Stone, suspicion playing on her face.

Stone let out a dry chuckle. “You’re two seconds from being out of a job.”

Lyle put his hands up in surrender, laughing. “My bad, boss.”

Stone took the seat beside her, long legs stretched out, his coat folding around him like a cloak. The aircraft hummed softly, and within seconds, they began to ascend smoothly into the starry sky. The forest and mountains blurred beneath them as they slipped past the atmosphere with the grace of a bird.

Akira’s eyes wandered—along the smooth leather, the ambient strip lighting glowing beneath her heels.

She didn’t breathe—not because she was holding it in shock or awe, but because she simply didn’t need to. None of them did. Vampires had evolved beyond the need for oxygen, and any hint of inhalation or exhalation was for the comfort of mortals and expression. A performance. A lingering habit of humanity meant to soothe the humans around them. Even now, as she sat beside Stone in utter silence, not a single rise or fall of her chest gave her away.

Stone tilted his head, watching her quietly. He could feel the racing storm of thoughts unfolding inside her like dark ribbon, stretching across her mind.

“I know you have many questions,” he said gently, voice velvet over steel. “Understandably so. I just want you to absorb the moment. I know all of this is overwhelming.”

Akira didn’t speak. She simply nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the impossible vessel soaring soundlessly through the clouds, as her world unraveled and reshaped itself all at once.

As they flew farther from the life she used to know, the skyline of Manhattan becoming a glittering memory beneath them, something in Akira's chest ached—tight and unfamiliar, like an echo of a past heartbeat. Her gaze drifted to the sleek glass windows curving around them, watching the city lights stretch into nothingness.

Her throat tightened. That was the thing about being what she was now—vampire or not, pain didn’t vanish with the mortality. It lived in the bones, the memory, the blood. If anything, immortality made it harder to outrun.

She blinked slowly, lashes trembling as crimson tears welled and traced silent lines down her flawless skin. Her eyes didn’t burn, but her soul did.

“I fought,” she whispered, her voice barely above the soft hum of the aircraft. “So damn hard. I fought to survive, to be free, to never be a victim again. And still... I’m running.”

Stone, who had been quietly watching her from his seat beside her, turned his body slightly to face her more fully. His expression was unreadable at first—serious, calm—but as her words sank in, his gaze softened, lips parting to speak before thinking better of it. Instead, he let her keep going.

“I buried them,” she continued, her voice trembling but steady. “Buried my past—literally. I covered my tracks. I endured, I healed—or I thought I did. I built a life. I made myself powerful in my own way. And now all of it’s gone in one night.”

She ran her fingers over her thighs, smoothing down the fabric of her dress that had crept up during their flight. “It’s like no matter what I do… I’m still that scared girl trying to claw her way out.”

Stone exhaled softly out of habit. A gesture for her sake, a mirror of human empathy. He reached for her hand gently, his fingers cool and steady.

“You didn’t fail,” he said, voice like velvet with an edge of iron. “Akira… you endured the kind of pain that should have broken you in half. And not only did you survive, you transformed. You took back your story.”

She looked at him, her eyes filled with centuries’ worth of questions, though she had only lived this second life for a fraction of the time. “Then why do I still feel like I’m falling apart?”

He let the silence stretch before answering.

“Because even steel bends under pressure. Even the strongest need to fall before they rise. And rise, you will.”

She didn’t pull her hand away, even when the blood tears dripped onto her lap. He didn’t flinch. Instead, he reached up and brushed one away with his thumb.

“This weight,” he said, “this guilt, this pain—it was never meant to be yours forever. You held it long enough. Let me carry some of it.”

Her lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. Instead, she nodded slowly, pressing her lips together to stop the sob from escaping her throat. Stone leaned in, his forehead resting gently against hers, and for the first time since that night five years ago, the storm inside her began to calm.

Their flight continued in silence, but this time, it wasn’t the silence of fear.

It was the silence of something new beginning.

The craft moved swiftly and effortlessly through the sky, humming with a low, almost musical frequency that seemed to hum through Akira’s bones. Whatever this vessel was made of, it wasn't of this world—or at least not of the modern human one. It danced between clouds, past the hush of commercial airways and satellites, cloaked in something archaic and unseen.

They soared over the Atlantic Ocean now, the stars shimmering faintly above them, the dark expanse of water rippling. Time felt suspended, warped even, until Lyle’s voice came through the cabin with an easy, almost lazy drawl.

“We’re here,” he said, a grin in his voice. “Welcome home.”

Akira’s brows furrowed. She leaned toward the window, peering down and around, searching. All she could see was water—endless, undisturbed ocean as far as the eye could see. “What do you mean, ‘here’?” she asked, voice skeptical, almost sharp. “There’s nothing here but sea.”

Stone didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turned his head and watched her, eyes shining faintly crimson in the golden glow of the aircraft’s ambient lighting. That slow, knowing smirk of his curved across his mouth, as if he were savoring this moment. Like he had waited a very long time to show her something secret and exclusive.

“Patience, love,” he murmured.

Akira turned her gaze back to the sea, chest tightening, instinct rising even in her immortal stillness. Her throat tightened as the sea below began to shift.

She sat upright, eyes wide now, glued to the scene before her.

A massive square—so perfect, so exact it didn’t seem natural—opened silently in the ocean’s surface like a door parting through liquid velvet. The water itself rolled away as if obeying command, revealing not a void, not a trench, but light. Glowing lines traced ancient runes across the revealed entryway, golden and pulsing, like veins carrying energy through the earth itself.

Beneath the opening, a sprawling city glittered in impossible beauty. Towers carved from black stone and glinting crystal pierced upward. Bridges arched high over flowing rivers, and open courtyards sparkled with violet trees under a false, twilight sky. The architecture was unlike anything she'd seen before—otherworldly, regal, eternal.

Akira’s lips parted in stunned silence, her chest rising.

“Welcome to Kutha’Mara,” Stone said, his voice laced with pride, reverence, and love. “The City of Second Breath. My kingdom.”

She turned to him slowly, her voice barely a whisper. “It’s beautiful.”

Stone's expression softened, the smirk fading into something gentler. “It is sanctuary. A place where those like us can exist beyond the laws of men and monsters. A haven for those reborn… and those who still carry their scars.”

Akira sat back in awe as the aircraft began its descent, the entryway sealing silently behind them like the sea had never parted.

Kutha’Mara awaited.

The aircraft dipped beneath the ocean’s surface, yet the transition was seamless—no rush of water, no pressure shift. It was like they had passed through a veil, a secret layer of reality tucked beneath the chaos of the human world.

Inside, the craft glided smoothly between the sprawling towers and glowing pathways of Kutha’Mara. Akira pressed her palm to the window, eyes wide as they flew past an immense temple of obsidian wrapped in silver lining. Below, people moved along illuminated paths, some pausing to look up as though sensing the ship’s arrival.

She turned toward Stone, her voice hushed, awed. “How is this even possible?”

Stone’s gaze lingered out the window, as if he were seeing the city through her wonder-struck eyes. “The city’s bones are older than time itself,” he said softly. “But the sanctuary? That part I built for us. For those the world tried to erase. Those who were hunted. Forgotten.”

Akira studied him—his sharp profile lit by soft amber light, the tension in his jaw when he spoke of the broken. He hadn’t simply endured immortality; he had shaped it into something defiant and sacred.

“You built all this?” she asked.

He nodded once. “With others. But yes. It was born from the promise I made to my mother, Nyanda.”

Akira leaned back, absorbing the cabin’s warmth. “I don’t know how to feel,” she murmured. “Part of me wants to cry. Part of me doesn’t even believe any of this is real. And part of me…”

Stone looked at her now, quietly waiting.

“…part of me feels like I’ve already been here before. Like I knew you before tonight.”

He inclined his head. “You did. In a way. When I saved you, I gave you more than immortality. I gave you a part of me. The kind that marks and binds.”

The aircraft banked slightly, revealing a waterfall of violet light cascading down from the side of a crystalline spire. Akira watched it glimmer, but her thoughts stayed wrapped around his words.

“Why me?” she asked, voice low. “Why did you choose me?”

Stone didn’t answer right away. He reached over, brushing a stray curl from her face, his fingers lingering at her temple. His touch carried no chill—only certainty and depth.

“Because when I found you—broken, bloodied, still fighting even as your life slipped—I saw a reflection,” he said. “And because your pain called to mine.”

Akira’s body stilled from something deeper than fear or awe. She wasn’t sure what name to give it, but it was a positive feeling.

They sat in silence, the space between them thick with what hadn’t yet been said. Two souls who had died, who had risen, and finally shared space.

As the vessel slowed over a wide obsidian platform, the glow of Kutha’Mara surrounded them like twilight. From this height, she could see the entire city.

Gleaming towers of onyx and midnight blue rose like sculptures into the sky, their balconies edged with gold and draped in flowering vines. The soft hum of magic pulsed through the cobblestone streets below, lit by warm, golden lamps that flickered like fireflies. Domed halls of crystal and carved iron shimmered beneath the full moon.

Manicured gardens burst with color—lavender, crimson, pink, deep jade. The pathways wound seamlessly through glowing parks, quiet alcoves, and grand plazas where statues told history to those who listened. Everything moved with purpose, but nothing rushed. This city was not built for survival.

It was built for living.

Akira whispered, “I think I want to know everything.”

Stone’s gaze locked with hers. “You will, love. In time. Tonight is only the beginning.”

The craft descended in a gentle arc, gliding over the spired skyline of Kutha’Mara before veering toward the northern cliffs. There, perched on a rise that overlooked the entire city, stood Stone’s home.

Akira leaned forward, eyes catching the dark silhouette of the estate against the moonlit clouds. It was vast and regal, carved in black stone that gleamed under the ambient light of the city below. Every window glowed warm gold, as if the house itself pulsed with life. Twin waterfalls flanked the lower gardens, feeding into pools that mirrored the stars. Steps climbed toward grand double doors framed by arches, ivy clinging to the columns.

The aircraft settled on a circular platform nearby, soundless in its descent. When the hatch hissed open, a cool breeze met them, tinged with the faint scent of wet stone and jasmine.

Akira stepped out first, her red-bottom black stilettos clicking against the polished stone path. She paused, taking it all in—the way the house towered over the hillside like a cathedral of shadows and light. Behind her, Stone emerged without a word, his black overcoat tailored and commanding, catching the breeze. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. He stood beside her as the wind played with her curls and the silence folded gently around them.

From here, the city below shimmered like a dream—its lantern-lit streets winding like golden veins through the dark.

“This is your home?” Akira asked, her voice hushed in awe as she took in the estate’s beauty.

“Yes,” Stone replied, his gaze not on the house but on her. “And now it’s your home, too. That is, if you accept. Or I can always arrange for you your own place in the city.”

Akira turned to him, touched by the offer and the softness in his tone. A smile curved her lips. “This is more than enough, Stone… I don’t want distance between us again.”

His expression shifted, touched by her words. He reached out, took her hand in his, and brought it to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to the back of it.

“Neither do I,” he murmured. “Come on, there’s some people I want you to meet… and then I’ll give you a tour.”

They walked up the wide marble steps side by side. As they reached the top landing, the grand double doors swung open in perfect synchrony, held by two attendants dressed in deep charcoal uniforms with subtle silver embroidery.

Warm golden light spilled from the entryway, casting a soft glow across the polished floors and up the vast staircase. The foyer was breathtaking—expansive yet elegant, with pristine white columns, gleaming marble floors, and a chandelier like starlight hanging above. Black carpet ran the length of the stairs, flanked by wrought-iron railings and stone urns at their base.

Stone gave a small nod to the staff, his voice calm but full of quiet regard. “Thank you.”

They bowed with a kind of reverence that spoke to more than just duty—it was loyalty. Akira could hear the thrum of heartbeats and the smell of blood... Some of them were human.

Interesting...

“This,” he said, turning to Akira as their footsteps echoed softly in the foyer, “is Akira Monroe.”

A few of the staff smiled, their eyes kind as they acknowledged her.

“She is under my protection, and now, yours. Treat her as you would treat me.”

The room seemed to shift subtly at his words, as though the space itself recognized her arrival. A gentle warmth settled in Akira’s chest at his words—at the way he anchored her, claimed her without confinement.

One of the attendants stepped forward, a woman of Asian descent with silver-streaked hair and knowing eyes. “Welcome, Akira,” she said softly. “I’m Aiko, the estate manager. If there’s anything you need, just let me know. It’s an honor to have you here.”

Akira offered a quiet smile, still in awe of it all. “Thank you. It’s nice t meet you, too. It’s… more than I imagined.”

Stone glanced at her, that ever-present restraint in his expression softening once more. He led her deeper into the heart of the house, their footsteps quiet against the gleaming marble as the double doors closed behind them. The golden chandelier above faded into the distance as they turned down a softly lit corridor, the air rich with the scent of white sandalwood and something darker—older.

A pair of grand doors opened ahead, and Akira felt a shift in energy, like something alert had stirred.

In the spacious lounge that opened before them, four figures turned from quiet conversation. Each exuded their own commanding presence, and yet there was a comfortable ease between them—like family forged in fire.

“Akira,” Stone said, his voice smooth but proud, “these are my people.”

The first to step forward was Nathaniel—Nate—broad-shouldered and alert, with warm brown skin and a trimmed beard that framed a smile both charming and protective. His eyes flicked over Akira, not in suspicion, but in silent assessment. Like a soldier sizing up someone worth protecting.

“Welcome,” Nate said, his voice low and grounded, offering her his hand. “Any friend of Stone’s is already in my circle. I’m head of security around here… which means if you need anything, I’m the guy.”

As she took his hand, he tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing with faint amusement. “Ah, Akira...” he repeated thoughtfully. “That’s real close to Akasha… the Queen Mother.”

Akira raised a curious brow. “Queen Mother?”

Nate grinned, his sharp teeth glistening. “Old vampire lore. Powerful, revered, dangerous when she had to be. Just sayin’, might be a name to live up to.”

She chuckled lightly, and Nate winked before stepping aside, letting the others have their turn.

Next was Claire—lithe and poised, with expressive dark brows and a quiet fire behind her eyes. She tucked a piece of wavy brunette hair behind one ear, stepping forward in tailored black.

“Hi, I’m Claire,” she said with a warm smile. “I keep this place from flipping upside down. Also, I’m your new go-to if you want someone to shop with, or rant to when the boys get too unbearable.”

Akira laughed, the tension in her shoulders easing. “I might take you up on both.”

Then came Manuel—lean and angular, with a magnetic energy that drew you in. He grinned as he walked up, a bit of mischief dancing in his eyes.

“Manuel,” he said, giving a half-bow that somehow still felt suave. “Resident tech and mischief-maker. If anything breaks, it’s probably my fault—but I’ll fix it better than before.”

“And last but never least,” Stone said, turning as the final figure stepped closer.

"Tajé. "

Statuesque, with dark, smooth skin that glowed under the soft lighting, and eyes like molten gold. Her locs were pulled back in an elegant knot, and her entire presence was commanding.

“It’s good to finally meet you,” she said, voice like velvet and steel. “Stone speaks highly of you.”

Akira found herself stunned by the woman’s grace but managed a genuine smile. “You all live here?”

Tajé nodded. “We have places in the city, but Stone lets us come and go as we please... until we annoy him.”

They exchanged a few more warm words before Stone placed a hand lightly at the small of Akira’s back. “Come,” he said, “let me show you the rest.”

The tour carried them through rooms bathed in whites, creams, and soft golds—always accented with elegant blacks. It was a balance of power and peace, much like Stone himself.

First was the kitchen. It was a masterpiece of dark elegance—floor-to-ceiling black cabinetry accented with gold, decorated with ornate carvings and a grand chandelier that glittered beneath a vaulted ceiling. Marble countertops gleamed under the moonlight pouring through towering arched windows and glass doors that opened to a courtyard.

Then he led her past an indoor pool with still, clear water that shimmered with underlit glass tiles, and then beyond to the outdoor infinity pool carved into the side of the cliff, overlooking the twinkle of the city.

The gym was unlike anything Akira had seen—equipment forged from reinforced steel, heavy columns for climbing, and gravity-defying platforms that tested vampiric speed and strength.

A private movie theater followed, with velvet seating and walls that absorbed every sound. Then a game room—sleek, polished, with an old billiards table, arcade games, and high-tech simulators that buzzed quietly in the corners.

He showed her the study next—lined with towering shelves of ancient tomes and newer novels, golden sconces casting a warm glow on polished blackwood desks.

“Reading is the one vice I’ll never grow out of,” Stone said quietly as she ran her fingers over a leather-bound spine.

Finally, they passed guest rooms—each uniquely styled, yet united by the mansion’s color scheme. When they reached a particular door, he paused.

“This one’s yours, if you want it,” he said.

Akira turned to him. “And yours?”

“End of the hall,” he said. “Close enough, if you ever need me.”

Stone opened the door with a gentle push, stepping aside so Akira could take it all in.

Her bedroom was elegance and drama mixed—soft grays, black, and white, white orchids blooming from crystal vases, and a bed fit for royalty. The chandelier above glimmered with a thousand tiny lights, reflecting on the molding that lined the ceiling like lace. Thick, plush carpet cushioned her steps and large windows drew the light in. Soft silver shadows casted across the room as evening settled.

Akira let out a soft breath. “Wow... this is—beautiful.”

Stone’s lips curled, pleased by her reaction. “Come,” he said gently, guiding her to the open doors of the ensuite bathroom.

If her bedroom was an invitation, the bathroom was a seduction. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city, moonlight bathing the black and white marble in a dreamy glow. The large tub sat beneath the arched windows, filled with warm milk and scattered with rose petals, their delicate scent mixing with honey and vanilla. Candles flickered from every ledge and corner, casting a golden shimmer across the polished floor and glass shower.

She turned to him, eyes wide, chest stirring with something she didn’t want to name just yet. “You did this?”

He nodded once, his expression soft. “I thought you could use something comforting.”

Without hesitation, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. It was a quick, instinctual motion—but sincere. Her cheek pressed to his chest. Caught off guard, Stone froze for just a beat before his arms came around her, protective and solid. He pressed a kiss to her head.

After a quiet moment, he eased back, brushing his thumb along her shoulder. “I’m going to check in with everyone downstairs—make a few calls. Take your time. Enjoy this. And if you feel like exploring more… the house is yours.”

She watched him go, closing the door gently behind him. Alone now, Akira let the silence wash over her. She undressed slowly, leaving her clothes folded on a nearby bench, and sank into the waiting bath. The warmth enveloped her instantly. She exhaled deeply, letting the tension in her shoulders dissolve. The scent in the air—soft, sweet, sensual—wrapped around her like a second skin.

Her mind wandered as she soaked. So much had changed in so little time.

Would she ever see her friends again? Would she have to build a new life from scratch? She didn’t feel unsafe. But the unknown stretched out before her like the dark Atlantic they'd flown over.

She thought of Stone. His presence, his calm, the way he looked at her like he already knew her. She felt drawn to him, magnetized, but she didn’t know why. Not yet. She needed to know more bout him and this place.

Rising from the tub, she dried off slowly. The room had grown even softer in tone, the moonlight more prominent, dancing against the milk on her skin. When she stepped into the bedroom again, she paused. A black silk nightgown and matching panties were laid neatly across the bed.

She smiled. It was unexpected but thoughtful.

She slipped them on—the silk gliding across her skin—then padded barefoot into the hallway. Most of the lights were off now, the mansion quiet and still, except for the subtle glow of foyer sconces downstairs. Shadows stretched long across the wood floors as she made her way to the study.

When she stepped inside, it was like entering another world.

Cathedral ceilings arched above her, painted like the night sky. Shelves of books reached two stories high, kissed by warm, golden lamplight. The room breathed history, magic, and mystery. She let her fingers drift along the spines of old and new books and the curves of the ornate furniture.

Then—something caught her eye. A single document encased in glass, mounted elegantly on the wall like a relic.

She stepped closer.

It was handwritten. Dark ink on parchment, elegant but unpretentious. It didn’t announce itself with a title—only a date that had long since faded into the page.

She leaned in, eyes scanning the delicate strokes, and began to read.

They say I was the first of my kind, but that's untrue. There were vampires before me. Cruel ones. Ravenous. Blood-crazed kings who saw mortals as cattle, slaves, sport. I was not the first. But I was the first to ask, why must it be this way? I was born Stone Delverne, son of Nyanda—a healer whose spirit was stronger than any god I’ve met since. In Sierra Leone, in a village carved between rivers and stars, she raised me to respect life. To protect the broken. To feed the hungry. To speak only when silence failed. But even the strongest mothers fall ill. Nyanda withered before my eyes. Her breath grew shallow. Her skin, once warm as morning soil, turned cold. The sickness laughed at my prayers. I watched her life slip through my fingers—and I was helpless. Until I wasn’t. The spirits called to me on the night the moon bled. I followed their voice to the cliffs above Bureh Beach, where no man returned the same. There, cloaked in the scent of rain and blood, she came to me. Asayo—the silent loa, mistress of dusk, watcher of the veil. She said nothing, but I understood. Your mother will live, she promised, not in words, but in thunder. But you will not. I gave her my name. My life. My soul. She marked me with her darkness... and gave me one gift in return. The Sun. While the others of my kind hide in shadow, I walk beneath the sky. But there was a price. As long as you carry this light, Asayo warned, you will walk alone. No love will last, unless they too can face the sun. And so I have lived… centuries without a lasting love. My mother, Nyanda, awoke the next morning. Whole. Alive. But when she looked at me, her eyes filled with fear. “You are not my son,” she whispered. And perhaps she was right. I did not age. I did not hunger for food or water. Only blood. But not just any blood. I hunted the wicked. The slavers. The killers. The defilers. I took from those who took too much. And when I found the broken—the hunted, the harmed—I gave them a choice. Death… or eternity. In time, I built a city for them. Kutha’Mara. The City of Second Breath. Hidden deep in a wound of the earth no map dares name. There, the lost find shelter. The hunted become hunters. And I sit upon a throne made of silence and bone. They call me merciful. But mercy is not weakness. Mercy is a blade sharper than vengeance. I am Stone Delverne. Vampire King. Chosen of Asayo. Walker in the Sun. I did not choose this throne. But I was forged for it in blood and love. And somewhere out there beneath the same sun that kisses my skin… She waits for me. The one whose soul does not burn in daylight. The one who will make me whole again.

Akira’s fingers lingered on the edge of the frame, frozen. She didn’t blink.

Her eyes traced the last lines again. She waits for me… The one whose soul does not burn in daylight. She swallowed, her throat tight. Not from sadness—but from admiration. He had given everything for his mother. His name. His life. His soul. There was no glory in it—only grief and devotion. A kind of love that transcended human understanding.

She imagined his hands, once calloused from tending to crops or carrying water for Nyanda. She imagined his silence—not stoic, but sacred. And she wondered what it had cost him… to lose her like that. To be seen and not recognized. To walk centuries alone, just figuring things out. And still, he chose to protect. To build. To offer mercy when the world only gave him pain.

The sound was so soft, she barely heard it. Just the whisper of a door. She turned—startled but composed.

Stone stood in the doorway, framed by the soft amber glow spilling from the hall behind him. He hadn’t said a word, but she could feel the change in the air. That dense, quiet gravity he carried wherever he went. His eyes met hers, then flicked to the glass-encased document. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

“You found it,” he said simply.

Akira stepped back, giving space, though her gaze never left his. “I didn’t mean to snoop.”

“You weren’t snooping,” he said gently, entering the room. “It’s meant to be read.”

His voice was lower than usual, softer, but there was something raw beneath it. A shadow of memory, of loss that hadn’t dulled with time. She hesitated, then asked, “Is it true? All of it?”

Stone’s eyes moved to the parchment. “Every word.”

Akira looked back at the document, then to him again. “You gave up everything for her.”

“She was my world.” It wasn’t boastful. It wasn’t tragic. It was simply the truth.

Akira’s chest ached from empathy and understanding. Because somewhere deep inside, she knew what it was to love someone so fiercely, you’d tear yourself apart to keep them breathing.

“I’ve never read anything like it,” she whispered.

Stone studied her for a moment, something unreadable flickering across his expression. Then he stepped closer, slow, measured, until they stood only a few feet apart.

“I didn’t expect you to find that tonight,” he said softly.

“I’m glad I did,” she said, voice quiet but steady.

His eyes lingered on her face, tracing the contours as if memorizing a map he’d searched lifetimes for. “So am I.”

The chandelier light caught in her thick hair. Her eyes gleamed—not with pity, but something sharper. He recognized it. Reflection. Recognition. A soul not unfamiliar with sacrifice.

They stood in the study like that for a long moment—two immortals surrounded by history and stories.

“When were you turned?” Akira’s voice rose softly in the stillness, cutting through the silence like a careful blade.

Stone tilted his head, arms crossed loosely. The corners of his mouth tugged in a slow, knowing smirk.

“1692.”

Akira’s head snapped toward him, eyes wide in disbelief. “Come again?”

He chuckled under his breath, the sound rich and quiet, like velvet dragging over stone. “You heard me.”

“Sixteen ninety-two?” she repeated, incredulous, as if saying it again might make it more plausible. “That’s… centuries ago.”

Stone walked forward, his steps soundless across the polished floor. “Three hundred and thirty-three years, to be exact.”

Akira blinked, trying to picture it—him, alive in a world of muskets and monarchies, of powder and conquest. He wore the centuries well, like a custom-made suit.

“You don’t look a day over… thirty,” she muttered, her tone laced with awe.

“Charmer,” he murmured with a wink, then added, “I was twenty-eight when I died. Give or take. Time was softer back then.”

She took a step toward him, her gaze still locked on his. “And your mother?”

He nodded once. “Lived well into her nineties. Happy. Married again. Had stepchildren.” He paused. “I never let her see me again, but I watched over her and let that be enough.”

Akira’s heart—or whatever filled the space where it used to beat—tightened. She didn’t press. She didn’t need to. His eyes had already answered everything.

Stone glanced at the encased letter behind her. “You really read it all?”

She nodded, her voice hushed. “Every word.”

He looked away for a moment, as if the act of being known, truly known, was still something he hadn’t quite learned how to sit with.

“What you did for her…” Akira’s voice dropped into something reverent. “That kind of love... it’s rare. Even in life.”

Stone met her gaze again. This time, there was no smirk. Only stillness. “She was everything. Still is.”

Akira nodded, the gravity of his story settling deep within her. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “For sharing that with me and for saving me when you didn’t have to.”

Stone offered a soft, half-smile. “You didn’t need saving, you needed a soft place to land.”

She wanted to ask more—to delve into the centuries of stories he carried behind his eyes—but the weight of the day was catching up to her. Everything she’d seen, everything she’d felt, sat heavy in her bones.

“I think I should get some sleep,” she admitted.

“Of course,” Stone said. He walked with her in comfortable silence, escorting her back to her bedroom.

When they reached the doorway, he turned to her with a soft smile. “Goodnight, Akira.”

“Goodnight, Stone.”

She stepped inside, the quiet click of the door behind her marking a soft end to the evening. Crawling into bed, she tucked herself beneath the covers, but as time progressed sleep refused to come. She tossed and turned, not from discomfort—the bed was like a cloud—but from the restlessness clawing at her mind.

She couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Stone, with his centuries of solitude. Stone, who had given up his life for love. Stone, whose very soul seemed carved out of devotion and silence.

He was doomed, she realized, to walk alone until someone could share the sun with him.

And deep down, she wanted to be that someone. But that was wishful thinking.

She wouldn’t call it love. Not yet. There was still so much to learn, but the ache she felt—to be near him, to feel his presence again—was undeniable. It ignited inside her like a secret flame, and when she shifted beneath the sheets, the damp heat between her thighs betrayed just how deeply her body ached too.

She let out a soft, frustrated huff, sitting up in bed. The room was still, painted in shadows and moonlight.

Quietly, she crept from the bed, careful not to make a sound. Her bare feet padded softly along the cool floor, leading her down the hallway toward the double doors she knew hid his room.

She paused before them, her fingers hovering just above the handle.

Then, slowly, she pushed one open…

Akira slipped through the door, careful to close it without a sound. The room greeted her like a secret—lavish and dark, wrapped in black and gold opulence. The elaborate chandelier above hung from the glossy tiled ceiling. Every glint shimmered like a star pulled from the night sky, burning and bright.

Stone lay on the bed, still and regal, his face half-turned into a pillow, chest still. Asleep, or simply pretending. Either way, he didn’t move.

She hovered near the door for a moment, uncertain, then padded deeper into the room. Her eyes drank in the space.

The black-on-black damask wallpaper caught the light in intricate patterns, like hidden language. The massive headboard, with its dark tufted velvet, indicated a bed fit for a king. Two gold-trimmed nightstands flanked the king bed, each topped with matching lamps.

A fur throw lay draped over the bed, decadent and soft. She reached out and ran her fingers along the edge. Luxurious like everything here.

The mirrored floor beneath her feet reflected not only the room, but her—small, unsure, drawn like a moth to the flame of him.

She turned toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. Beyond them, a private balcony stretched wide, overseeing the lavish backyard.

This wasn’t just a bedroom. It was a story. Every choice was intentional. Power, control, mystery, seduction… and solitude. For all its opulence, the room felt lived in only by one. No signs of shared space. No softness meant for another. Until now.

She let her gaze return to him, still unmoving, and whispered, “This is beautiful… like you.”

And though he didn’t stir, she swore the corner of his mouth lifted—just barely.

Akira moved past the edge of the bed, still quiet in her steps, drawn by the curiosity clawing at her chest. To know someone like Stone—legendary, unreadable, endlessly composed—meant reading between the lines of what he didn’t say. So, she wandered deeper into the suite, letting her curiosity lead.

The door to his bathroom was slightly ajar. She eased it open and stepped into a space that made her pause at it's beauty. Deep black marble covered the floor and walls, traced with silver and gold veins that shimmered beneath soft lighting. A grand, oval soaking tub sat atop a raised platform rimmed in gold, its surface gleaming. A modern chandelier hung from the intricately designed ceiling, and a row of arched, glass-doored showers stood at the far end. Everything was rich, decadent, and flawlessly arranged—another extension of the vampire himself.

Everything was immaculate. Towels folded with precision. A razor resting atop a glass tray. Even his cologne bottles—dark, heavy, expensive—sat in an organized row, like soldiers. She brushed her fingers across one and let herself breathe him in, eyes fluttering shut. Dark. Spicy. Addictive.

She turned from the bathroom and crossed into his walk-in closet—and immediately stopped short.

It was like entering the wardrobe of a man who’d lived many lives. Suits in rich shades—midnight, charcoal, wine—hung neatly in rows. Each piece tailored, handcrafted, a symphony of textures and timeless cuts. Polished shoes lined the bottom shelves in a gradient of shadows. Along one wall, his collection of watches gleamed like quiet trophies, time suspended in every ticking one.

But it wasn’t cold, not here. It felt curated, yes, but not untouchable. She ran her hand along the edge of a jacket sleeve, fingers trailing the fabric. It was like touching part of him—strong, refined, unyielding.

She let out a soft, wistful sigh.

“You’re quite the little trespasser.”

Akira jumped.

Stone’s voice, low and velvet-smooth, slid down her spine before she even turned. He was right behind her, so close she could feel the air shift. Her chest rose as she slowly turned to meet his gaze.

"We'll have to work on your environmental awareness," he teased.

He had on loose brown silk pajama pants that clung low on his hips. His chest was bare, muscular, with light chest hair catching the chandelier’s glow. A faint trail of hair led down from his navel, disappearing into the waistband of his pants. His arms were crossed, and there was that smirk again—lazy, knowing, and far too pleased.

“I—I couldn’t sleep.”

He tilted his head slightly, amusement dancing in those stormy eyes. “So you decided to investigate?”

She swallowed, suddenly aware of how intimate the moment had become. “I wanted to understand you better.”

His smirk deepened. “And?” he asked, voice barely a whisper now. “Do you?”

Akira held his gaze, her voice softer now. “A little,” she admitted. “Enough to know you're… you're a bit guarded, detail-oriented, stylish, sexy, and mysterious. Most of all, you're caring.”

Stone’s smirk faltered, just slightly. The word caring always struck something in him. He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, until there was barely a breath between them. “You see all that from a few suits and cologne bottles?” he murmured, eyes flicking down to her lips before returning to her eyes.

She tilted her head, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “No,” she whispered. “I see it in the way you looked at me when you saved me. In the bath you had drawn. The room you gave me. The way you tell your story... like it's a burden and an oath at the same time.”

His chest rose, slowly. That quiet intensity in her voice—like she saw right through him—unsettled him in a way nothing had in centuries. He reached up, brushing a stray curl from her cheek, letting his knuckles linger against her skin.

“You're dangerous,” he said softly.

She blinked. “Me?”

He nodded once. “You make me forget I was ever cursed,” he said softly.

Their silence pulsed with electricity—restrained yearning.

Then, almost imperceptibly, she leaned forward.

“Wait, Akira,” Stone said suddenly.

She stopped, lips inches from his, her movement stilling.

“I... want you. I do,” he said, voice low and laced with conflict. “But... you read my testament. I haven’t had anything more than short ‘situationships,’ as you youngins say.”

A soft snicker bubbled up between them, breaking the tension like a flicker of light.

But Stone’s expression soon sobered again.

“Anytime I’ve felt for someone, the feelings were short-lived. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it. And if I’m being honest...” He exhaled deeply. “Another reason I left you alone was because I could feel the stir of those feelings inside me. I didn’t want to be another man who disappointed you. So... I can’t give you more than this... more than who Asayo made me to be,” he said, eyes locking with hers.

“What I can promise you is that I will never abandon you again. I can promise you’ll always have a place in Kutha’Mara… and a friend in me—no matter if this love lasts or not.”

Love...

Akira’s eyes widened, soft and startled.

“You... you love me?” she whispered.

Stone nodded slowly, his chest visibly tightening with the weight of confession. “I’ve loved you since you made the move to New York and blossomed into the woman I knew you could be. Since the first time I heard you singing freely in your apartment. Since the first time a smile graced your lips after all the hell he put you thro—”

He didn’t get to finish. Akira surged forward, catching his lips in a deep, hungry kiss, rising onto her toes as if needing to close every last inch between them. Stone met her with the same hunger, one hand cradling her neck, the other wrapping around her waist like a promise.

They paused, lips only centimeters apart.

“I know there’s only so much you can give me, but you gave me something even better than love. You gave me safety. However long your love lasts... I’ll cherish it and our connection forever. Already I feel deeply for you... and I don’t want to fight it.”

Stone’s thumb gently traced her jawline. “I just don’t want to hurt you.”

She smiled, eyes soft but sure. “I’m a big girl, Stone. I understand the risk. But the reward outweighs it. I’d rather be loved properly, even if it’s for a short time, than never experience it at all.”

A slow, pleased smile curved across Stone’s lips. Then, without warning, he turned her around, pressing close until his lips brushed her ear.

“Well in that case,” he murmured, “you wanna show me just how much of a big girl you can be?”

Akira’s body responded instantly, her core pulsing with need as she pushed back against the thick erection pressing into her.

“I do,” she breathed. “But the real question is… can you keep up, old man?”

Stone let out a low, seductive chuckle, a mischievous gleam lighting his stormy eyes.

“Once I’m done with you, you’re going to forget your name,” he growled, before licking slowly up her neck and sucking gently on her ear.

The feel of Stone’s hand trailing up to her left breast sent tingles across her skin. He rubbed and pinched her nipple through the silk of her nightgown, teasing her until it stiffened beneath his touch. A cool draft kissed her thighs as his other hand lifted the hem of her nightgown, baring her ass to the air.

His lips kissed down her neck, past her shoulders, and over the curve of her back until he knelt behind her, face level with her ass.

“These were a great choice, if I do say so myself,” he purred, admiring the way the silk panties hugged her skin. “But they’re in my way.”

He hooked his fingers beneath the delicate fabric and slowly slid them down her toned legs. Akira bit her lip and swayed her hips with deliberate seduction as she stepped out of the garment. She moaned, startled by the light scrape of his teeth across her ass, the gentle nibbles sending sparks through her. His smooth, cool hands kneaded her thighs, lips pressing soft kisses to the fullness of her cheeks.

“Bend over the island,” he murmured.

She obeyed, letting the cold marble press against her front, her nipples tightening at the contact. His hands eased her legs farther apart, granting him a perfect view. She felt bare, wide open, exposed—but she didn’t care. She wanted this. Needed it. And there was no time for hesitation.

Stone’s thumbs spread her slick folds, revealing all of her. His dick twitched behind his pajama pants at the sight. She was stunning—glossy, soft, glistening. Like the most decadent treat he'd ever laid eyes on. Like a juicy chocolate-covered strawberry.

Akira gasped, jolting forward at the sudden swipe of his tongue. A deep, wicked chuckle rumbled behind her just before he dove in again, tongue slow and deliberate as he licked into her sweet center.

He pressed in closer, taking long, slow swipes over her clit with his tongue. Akira whimpered against the back of her hand, resting her head on her crossed forearms. His full lips gave delicate sucks to each fold before latching onto her clit, drawing it into his mouth.

"Uunh!" she moaned loudly.

Her moans were a symphony to Stone’s ears. Every sensual pull of his mouth sent throbbing waves of pleasure through her core. His tongue swirled against her clit before dipping into her clenching entrance, bobbing in and out of her like he was savoring the sweetest fruit. Her back arched as he reached her flooding depth, each stroke dragging her closer to the edge.

"Ooh, that feels s-so good," she stammered, her voice trembling under the weight of her nearing climax. Stone quickened his pace, bringing his fingers to her clit and rubbing in tight, deliberate circles. Akira’s knees buckled as she neared the finish, her pulsing core gripping his tongue with every surge.

Stone groaned into her, savoring the feel of her about to cum. He slipped his tongue from her soaked entrance and licked a firm trail over her puckered rim and up the curve of her ass. Akira whimpered in desperate need, but he soothed her with a low whisper.

“Patience, baby girl.”

He rose and pressed his body flush to hers, lifting her upright against him. One hand slipped down, and he slid his long middle and ring fingers deep inside her, curling them as his palm stroked her clit in rhythmic pulses.

“Now... cum all over these fingers,” he commanded—right as his canines elongated and sank into the very spot of her neck he had sunk into 5 years prior.

A scream tore from Akira’s throat, pleasure-filled and wild, almost melodic. The bite sent her spiraling into the most intense orgasm she’d ever had. Her head fell back against him, eyes wide and fixed on the starry sky visible through the ceiling window. Her light brown irises shifted to glowing red—sex, as she knew it, forever changed. They were connected in ways beyond the physical.

Stone held her trembling form, his fingers still coaxing her through the last waves of her climax. He licked at the blood seeping from her neck, sealing it with soft kisses along her jaw.

Her head turned, their crimson eyes locking—hers alight with something new and powerful.

Then, their lips met in a hungry, breathless kiss.

Tongues danced, lips sucked, and her essence was savored. Once her body stilled from the waves of pleasure, Stone withdrew his fingers and slipped the rest of her nightgown off. His wet fingers trailed slow circles around her right chocolate nipple before he bent down and drew it into his mouth. Every nerve ending he touched was hypersensitive, and Akira couldn’t help but moan.

Her hand reached behind her, rubbing at the monster restrained in his pants. He groaned, his tongue swirling over her nipple before giving it one final suck and stepping back to remove his silk pajamas. His thick length dropped heavily against her backside. She wiggled teasingly against him, earning a sharp smack to her left ass cheek. She bit her bottom lip, a soft whimper escaping her.

“So needy... You want this dick, baby?” he murmured, sliding the tip along her dripping slit.

“Mmm, please give it to me,” she purred.

Stone smirked as he slid into her slowly, feeding her inch by deliberate inch. Her gasp echoed through the closet as she rose onto her toes in a futile attempt to escape the stretch. His large hand wrapped firmly around her neck while the other gripped her waist, angling her body just right.

“Uh uh, I thought you were a big girl, Kira baby,” he teased, thrusting into her with slow, deep strokes.

Akira whimpered, her body shivering at both his rhythm and the way he said her name. “I—mmm... I am,” she moaned.

“Then,” he growled, turning her face toward his, eyes smoldering, “take it like a big girl.”

And with that, he sank deeper inside her, sucking on her bottom lip as she moaned in pleasure. Her hand gripped the one at her waist, her sharp stiletto nails scratching at the glossy island surface for something to hold onto.

Their moans mingled as they shared a rough, hungry kiss. The head of his dick felt like it was buried in her stomach as his strokes grew deeper, harder.

“Oh shiiit, you're so deep,” she moaned against his lips.

Stone groaned low. “And you take me so well… mmm, perfectly.”

Akira’s hand slid from his to his thigh, gripping tightly as he fucked her faster. He was pounding at the gates of ecstasy, and she was ready to enter with him. Her walls clenched around him, wetness coating the base of his thick length. A guttural moan escaped him as he savored the feel—and the look—of her arousal.

“Fuck, there you go. That’s it, love,” he panted into her ear.

Akira tried to keep her squeals buried in her chest, but she failed the moment he angled his hips just right and his dick curved perfectly against her spot. Her nails raked his thigh, her stomach tightening as her climax approached. Moonlight disappeared behind her fluttering eyelids.

Stone’s grip on her neck tightened slightly as he studied every reaction. “Hmm... that it, baby? That’s the spot?”

“Y-yesssss, ple-ease don’t sto-op,” she stammered.

His groans in her ear, the rhythm of his strokes, his towering presence, and the lingering pulse of his bite—it was the perfect storm. And just when she thought she couldn’t take anymore, his fingers tapped at her clit and began rubbing up and down, summoning her release.

“Stone! Fuuuck!” she cried out as the pearly gates flew open. Her body trembled, pussy pulsing around him, milking his own release. He grunted deeply into her shoulder as he spilled thick, hot cum inside her. His thrusts slowed, guiding them both gently through the high.

When he stilled and her senses returned to Earth, a breathless giggle slipped from her lips. Stone smiled against her shoulder at the sound.

“I think... I just saw God,” she murmured, and he chuckled softly.

His plush lips trailed slow kisses along her neck as he let her go from his gentle hold. “Glad to hear it,” he murmured.

“I haven’t had any partners since turning,” she confessed quietly. “I’ve pleasured myself, of course... but it never felt quite like this.”

Stone smirked at her honesty. He eased out of her, their mixed release dripping from her onto the dark wood floor. He turned her gently by the waist to face him.

“Sex as a vampire is... more heightened,” he said, studying her features as if seeing her for the first time. “But with you... it’s almost overstimulating. I think when I turned you and gave you my blood, it threaded something deeper between us.”

His thumb rubbed along her cheek while his arm remained hooked around her waist, holding her close.

She looked up at him, brows knitting in curiosity, still dazed from the intensity of it all. “You’ve never done that before?” she asked.

He shook his head slowly, brushing her hair from her face. “No. I’ve never felt the urge to. But that night... it felt necessary. Maybe it was the blood loss, maybe it was something more. Whatever it was... I don’t regret it,” he said, his gaze warm. “This? This is a beautiful bonus.”

Akira's eyes twinkled as she stared up at him, biting her lower lip. Knowing she was the only one to ever receive his blood in all his vampire existence did something to her. It was as if he had claimed her once with the turning, then again with the bite. She knew whatever this was might be temporary, but for now, she would savor every moment.

Stone's thumb brushed over her bottom lip as he stared into her eyes. “Keep looking at me like that... and watch what happens,” he teased, voice low and threatening in the most delicious way.

Akira’s lips curved into a sly smile as she parted them and sucked on his thumb.

Don’t threaten me with a good time...

His dick twitched against her stomach, and in the next breath—faster than she could react—he lifted her into the air, her thighs hooking instinctively into the crook of his arms. She squealed in surprise, laughing breathlessly as she looped her arms around his neck while he carried her toward the bedroom.

The silver light pouring in from his balcony washed over the sharp lines of his handsome face, casting him in a celestial glow. She couldn't help but drink him in—the striking beauty of him, the hungry, possessive look he gave her.

Her trance shattered the moment he lowered her onto his dick and plunged deep inside her soaked pussy.

“Shit...” she gasped, eyes rolling back as her back arched and her head lolled.

Stone groaned low in his throat, pressing his mouth to her sensitive nipple. He demonstrated his inhuman strength easily, bouncing her on his thick length with powerful arms. The sound of their bodies meeting filled the room, raw and intense.

"Fuck, you look so pretty taking this dick," Stone growled, his eyes drinking in her every reaction. Her breasts bounced with every thrust, nipples stiff and needy, her lips parted in moans aimed toward the ceiling. He had fantasized about this moment countless times—but nothing compared to the real thing.

Akira felt like she might break from the relentless pleasure he was driving into her. Her hands slid down to grip his biceps tightly, nails digging into his skin as her whines and cries filled the room. Wet, squelching sounds echoed between them, her pussy drenching and gripping his thick shaft with every thrust. Tears welled in her eyes from the overwhelming sensation.

"Stone... pl-please," she whimpered.

He groaned, easing her up until only the swollen tip of him teased her entrance, making her whine in frustration. "Please what, baby?"

She whimpered again, trying to grind herself onto him for more. "Please let me cum... please," she moaned desperately.

"Look at me," he commanded, keeping his shallow thrusts maddeningly slow.

Akira struggled, but managed to open her eyes, meeting the intensity of his gaze. A shiver bolted down her body straight to her clit and deep into her core. This man was ruining her in the most glorious way.

"I want to see you cum. Keep those pretty eyes open. Understand?" he groaned.

She nodded urgently.

"Words, baby," he demanded, plunging deep enough to make her squeal.

"Yes, Daddy! Fuck!" she cried out.

Their grunts and needy moans mixed in the air as he filled her again and again, each deep thrust brushing her swollen g-spot, pushing her closer to the edge. Her eyes fluttered, struggling to stay open.

"S-Stone," she stuttered breathlessly.

"Cum for me, Akira," he ordered as her walls clamped down around him. "Give it to me."

He drew her tighter against him, delivering short, powerful thrusts. The friction against her clit with every movement was the final push she needed.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, shit!" she sobbed as her brow furrowed and a gush of warm release squirted against his pelvis and abs. Tears slid down her cheeks as her orgasm ripped through her like a force of nature.

"That's a good girl," Stone murmured between grunts.

As he released his heavy load inside her, sealing their connection with a deep, hungry kiss, neither noticed the pair of envious eyes watching them from the shadows of the balcony.

To be continued...

Welp! Who do y'all think was being a peeping Tom, hm? I am so excited to go down this journey. I'm not sure how many parts there will be by the end of this... I wanted to do four, but the way my mind is coming up with ideas, I don't think four will do. I'll make a post with the face claims and all the things—just stay tuned.

Just got back from Sinners and it's put a battery in my back. I really hope you enjoyed the first part of my vampire romance. Let me know what you think, and if you'd like to be in my taglist for all my work.

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Taglist:

@slvt4her @wanderingreigns @avoidthings @xjjawsomex @that-one-anxious-mango @wabi-sabi1090 @nubiawrites @prettyisasprettydoes1306 @kianaleani @slutsareteacherstoo @slyy-foxx @dxddykenn @moujg @naughtynolly @wildcardmelaninfreak @pocketsizedpanther @wabi-sabi1090 @styleismyaddiction @novahreign @transparentphantomface @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @babymelaninn @jasmynn05 @notapradagurl7 @starcrossedxwriter

#aaron pierre #aaron pierre smut #terry richmond #terry richmond smut #jayme lawson #fanfic #aaron pierre fic #black writers #fanfiction #vampire smut #vampire oc #vampire fanfiction #aaron pierre x black reader #aaron pierre fanfic #aaron pierre x black!oc #aaron pierre x oc

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ancientrome · 7 months ago

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Marble sarcophagus with the Triumph of Dionysos and the Seasons. Roman ca. 260–270 CE. x

This highly ornate and extremely well-preserved Roman marble sarcophagus came to the Metropolitan Museum from the collection of the Dukes of Beaufort and was formerly displayed in their country seat, Badminton House in Gloucestershire, England. An inscription on the unfinished back of the sarcophagus records that it was installed there in 1733. In contrast to the rough and unsightly back, the sides and front of the sarcophagus are decorated with forty human and animal figures carved in high relief. The central figure is that of the god Dionysos seated on a panther, but he is somewhat overshadowed by four larger standing figures who represent the four Seasons (from left to right, Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall). The figures are unusual in that the Seasons are usually portrayed as women, but here they are shown as sturdy youths. Around these five central figures are placed other Bacchic figures and cultic objects, all carved at a smaller scale. On the rounded ends of the sarcophagus are two other groups of large figures, similarly intermingled with lesser ones. On the left end, Mother Earth is portrayed reclining on the ground; she is accompanied by a satyr and a youth carrying fruit. On the right end, a bearded male figure, probably to be identified with the personification of a river-god, reclines in front of two winged youths, perhaps representing two additional Seasons.

The sarcophagus is an exquisite example of Roman funerary art, displaying all the virtuosity of the workshop where it was carved. The marble comes from a quarry in the eastern Mediterranean and was probably shipped to Rome, where it was worked. Only a very wealthy and powerful person would have been able to commission and purchase such a sarcophagus, and it was probably made for a member of one of the old aristocratic families in Rome itself. The subjects - the triumph of Dionysos and the Seasons - are unlikely, however, to have had any special significance for the deceased, particularly as it is clear that the design was copied from a sculptor's pattern book. Another sarcophagus, now in the Hessisches Landesmuseum in Kassel, Germany, has the same composition of Dionysos flanked by the four Seasons, although the treatment and carving of the figures is quite different. On the Badminton sarcophagus the figures are carved in high relief and so endow the crowded scene with multiple areas of light and shade, allowing the eye to wander effortlessly from one figure to another. One must also imagine that certain details were highlighted with color and even gilding, making the whole composition a visual tour de force.

Very few Roman sarcophagi of this quality have survived. Although the Badminton sarcophagus lacks its lid, the fact that it was found in the early eighteenth century and soon thereafter installed in Badminton Hall means that it has been preserved almost intact and only a few of the minor extremities are now missing.

#ancient rome #rome #roman #sarcophagus #Dionysos

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lostinlovingrevery · 2 months ago

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Love and Bounties- Chapter 1

Cowboy! Logan Howlett X F! Reader

The Sun Rises in The East

An ominous presence has arrived to your quiet town

A/N: Oml this came out SO long...Hope you all enjoy! <3

Warnings: Alcohol, smoking, violence- barfights lol, blood and injury descriptions, Logan being a flirty menace, reader is described to have curly hair, probs some history inaccuracies lol bear with me

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1911, Harrodsburg, Kentucky

The sun rises in the east, and sets in the west.

A growing town known as Harrodsburg, resting in between the valleys and hills of the mountains in the East side of the States. A town of agricultural farming and horse trade. Developing, but not quite having met the qualities of bustling metropolis that its neighbor cities have become.

It was quiet, and just small enough that everyone almost knew everyone else. The town was a middle ground- a city slipping into the country, a place smack between the old and new century.

In the distance, an ominous, lone figure perched on a horse observed the small town with keen eyes. A cigar set between his teeth, he puffed on it- a strong taste of earthy smoke filling his tongue. He tipped his cattleman forward over his eyes, the glare of the afternoon sun was bugging him, and he brought his hand down to his chin, scratching his beard thoughtfully as he considered the quaint little town.

His horse, a beautiful mustang he tamed not too long ago, bobs her head with a swish of her tail. Impatient with her rider as he continued to observe the town below in silence. She was the color of cinnamon- hence, her name. Cinnamon. With a long mane the color of dark chocolate. He took delicate care of her- as a man should, for a creature that carries him for miles and miles of land deserved respect.

He glanced down at her, reaching a gloved hand down to soothe the heifer, a small pat of her head, before petting her mane. He looked back at the town, removing the half finished cigar from his lips and discarding it to the ground.

He tugged at the reins, clicking his tongue as an order and leading her to walk down the path of dirt that led to a muddy road, hoof prints and tracks of wheels belonging to carriages left behind. Soon the trees that surrounded the road began to thin out, and the town came into view- bustling with folks enjoying the sunny day.

As he reached the outskirts of town, he took notice of the folks around. An old man with graying hair and scars on his face singing an old, sad tune as he shoveled soil into a wheelbarrow. To his right, a tired mother with a young boy and girl, arguing and shoving each other- only to immediately stop as the shadow of the lone cowboy towers over them as he walks by. A group of men smoking on a wooden porch stare him down past the brim of their hats- challenge set in their eyes.

The townsfolk regarded him with caution.

He was used to it. The judgemental stares as people realize that trouble has come to their little town. They were right.

Trouble was one of many things that this man could be called. He was many things, a cowboy, a gunman, an outlaw, a bounty hunter. He was anything a job called of him to be, if the moneys right.

He found the saloon- smack in the center of the town. On one side of the bar, hitching posts for folks and their horses and donkeys, opposite to the few automobiles parked along the building.

How modern.

He hopped off of his horse's back, grabbing her reins and tying them to a hitch, encouraging her to drink some water set before her in an old water trough while he began to search the packs hanging off the saddle, noting supplies he needed to pick up.

Just from the looks of it- he could tell it was one where people look out for one another. One that will put up a fight to protect its own. He knew to tread carefully, not to draw suspicion. Don’t make it obvious what he’s here for.

He happened to look up when he noticed a lone woman walk by. Pretty thing she was. He has an eye for em’; He couldn’t help it.

Bouncy curls that fell past her shoulder, pretty eyes, and pretty lips - soft and delicate. A pretty, flowy dress- a tad scandalous for a woman her age to be wearing, with bare shoulders and an exposed collar that left little to imagination- surely a barmaid, or a woman of the cloth. She carried a crate that he couldn’t see the contents of with both hands, and she was watching him all the same.

Maybe, he could enjoy some recreational time before he does what he came to do. It had been a long journey after all.

“See something you like darling?” He calls out in a heavy tone, a small smirk plastered on his face.

She raised a brow, “Relax cowboy, I was checking out your horse.” She teased, before winking. His smirk faded, turning into something curious. She continued on her path, but Logan didn’t stop watching her until she disappeared from the road. He was fascinated by the bounce of her curls, the swish of her dress as she walked with confidence.

He shook himself out of her spell, deciding that he’ll track her down later. A smile like that doesn’t just go unforgettable in his mind. First- he needed a drink, and information.

Once sure that Cinnamon was secured, he made his way up the steps of the saloon, where he could hear raucous laughter and joyful music playing inside.

It was crowded. Filled with men and women busying themselves with entertainment on a sunny Saturday afternoon. The air was thick with booze and tobacco. Men playing poker, or chatting merrily around tables and bar tops with pretty showgirls sitting on their laps fake laughing at their jokes with their arms hanging around their necks.

A few of the patrons took notice. Watching as Logan slithered through the tables and the crowds. Sizing up the stranger, a few whispers spread through the bar as more people took notice. The chatter didn’t stop, but became quieter in his presence.

He settles down at a lone table in the far corner. He didn’t need more stares, the judgemental looks that he already was met with outside. People were likely already gossiping about this handsome stranger, wondering what had brought him into their quiet town. It wouldn’t be long till the news spread, until someone recognizes him.

He’ll get some dumbass trying to challenge him on the streets, causing all sorts of chaos. Being the man he was, he’ll accept it gladly.

Click. Aim. Bang.

He settled back in his seat, the old chair groaning against his weight. He let out a tired sigh, reaching into his vest- made of worn leather, with an imprint across it from the bandolier that always sits slung over his chest.

He pulled out a paper, folded and tucked inside a pocket of the vest and unfolded it carefully. He tuts quietly as he reads it- the bounty he received. Mailed directly to him. Whoever sent it knew where he was that day because he didn’t have a place to stay- a wanderer through cities and towns.

It was sketchy as hell. It’s not the first time he’s been hired for a job, but normally he gets approached by an actual person looking to talk details about the job- not a courier with a telegram. Some 10 year kid looking terrified to set foot in the bar he was settled in for the day.

A message, addressed to him directly;

It shared details about a woman living in this town, who makes herself a doctor. Her name, and a few discreet details of her looks - not helpful whatsoever, but it isn’t his first rodeo.

JAMES L HOWLETT -(STOP)-

A BOUNTY IS BEING OFFERED TO YOU -(STOP)-

SHOULD YOU ACCEPT AND COMPLETE A PAYMENT WILL BE MADE TO YOU IN AMOUNT OF THREE THOUSAND DOLLARS-(STOP)-

It was sketchy- but the money, lord the money would be enough to settle him for life if he so desired. It would be a long tiring trip, considering he had been in a little town called Jefferson in Texas at the time- over two week trip to the town of Harrodsburg, and will be a similar trip back to the West- which will be a pain in the ass since bounties aren’t typically eager to go with him anywhere.

Once again, the money- assuming it’s true, and worth it. Too good to pass up.

He didn’t ask questions about his work, easier that way- couldn’t help but be curious though. What has this woman possibly done to warrant a bounty of three thousand dollars? Furthermore, why pick him to do this job, he was singled out. He may be greedy, but he wasn’t dumb.

Something has arisen, however it doesn’t matter as long as he gets that cash in hand.

“Would you like something to drink, stranger?”

He looked up from the paper, a waitress stood there with a big smile, blonde curls, and piercing blue eyes, which trailed over his handsome face. Pretty hazel eyes, strong jaw, and sculpted nose. He was used to the looks, he knew he was a handsome man. Never really paid mind to it though, unless he found something pretty and willing.

He took a deep inhale. “Bourbon.” He says leaning forward on the table. She nods a playful tilt of her head as she gives him another pleasant grin- which unnerved him a bit, walking away back to the counter. He turned his attention elsewhere, not noticing her leaning over and whispering something to another man seated at the bar who was nursing a glass of whiskey.

He folded the telegram back up, sticking it back in his vest before dropping an arm on top of his lonely table, tapping his fingers rhythmically along the wood as he turned to observe the windows- shutters pulled shut but streams of light still came through the cracks of the wood- where he could see the hazy dust and smoke floating around the air.

Lost in thought, he didn’t notice the man at the bar counter had stood up, making his way towards him.

“You!”

Logan turned his head, an impassive expression on his face as he queried a brow.

“I know who you are.” The man slurs. “Get out of here!”

Logan tilted his head, a smirk growing on his face as he sensed a fight would happen- just not so soon. Suppose he’s becoming more and more infamous every day.

He’s gained a reputation in his years. Countless jobs, missions, and confrontations. He’s got posters of his face going from the west to the east of the states- even stretching into Canada and Mexico. He’s overheard people telling his stories- A heist of a train traveling through multiple states, a quickdraw duel with a mayor, and the time he pitted two gangs against each other- to be the only one standing after the dust settled.

He’s a busy man.

“No, I don’t think you know who I am bub.” Logan leaned forward. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be talking to me right now.”

“You’re a bad man.” He sneers. “A killer, a thief-!”

“Go sleep it off pal.” Logan warns, his smirking fading into a scowl. “Before you do something you regret.”

“I’lll make you regret ever coming here-” He lunges after Logan, who stood up from his chair - a loud crash as both the chair and table fall to the ground.

“That's the best you got you drunk asshole?” Logan taunts as he dodges a punch- only to be tackled immediately after.

The patrons of the bar begin yelling, a few whooping and cheering.

The struggle ensued, as the drunken accuser pushes Logan into the shutters, breaking them open as Logan’s is nearly pushed out the window- startling an old woman as she was walking by. He's pulled back in, and a punch is landed across his face.

He fights back, punching his attacker back- and knocking him out clean to the floor. By then, chaos has erupted throughout the bar- as most men, drunk on booze have taken this as their sign to fight their buddy next to them. Multiple men gang up on Logan- defending their KO'd brother on the floor.

Logan- no stranger to fight held himself steady. Using various tools at his disposal, he broke a chair over one man's back, and tossed the other over the bar counter. The angelic waitress from earlier screams and jumps onto Logan's back, hitting on his chest and shoulders in a febrile attempt to injure him.

“Get off me lady!” Logan shouts, attempting to shake her off, until another woman comes over and begins a cat fight with the waitress as she tears her off Logan's back.

Bottles are thrown across the bar, crashing against the wall. Logan attempts to make a quick exit alongside one wall, avoiding the two men fistfighting each other. A knife was thrown, slamming into the wall inches away from Logan's face, as he watched with wide eyes, the handle vibrate from the recoil.

He ducked under the knife, pushing past two more drunken men, who fell to the ground wrestling each other. He caught the words of one of them accusing his enemy of sleeping with his mother. Yikes.

Logan nearly made his escape- except the drunk from earlier, who started the whole thing had woken up not long after being knocked out and trailed Logan through the bar, grabbing the knife that was stuck in the wall.

“Asshole!” Logan heard him yell, and turned just as the knife came down, slicing down his arm, where red began to bleed through the cut, quickly soaking through the white sleeve of his shirt. Logan hissed from the pain, jumping back- just when several men barged in- one grabbing Logan and pulling him back out into the bright sun and fresh air.

“Can’t go one goddamn day without a fight breaking out around here.” The stranger mutters under his breath as he helps the slightly disoriented cowboy down the porch of the saloon. “Christ, your arm okay pal?”

“S’It look okay?” Logan sneered, his hand moving up to apply pressure to it, hissing at the stinging sensation through gritted teeth. He’s had worse, but damn it hurts.

“Just trying to help. You should see the doc.”

He was begrudgingly dragged to the so-called doctors house. Forced to walk through streets until reaching an empty road where a lone house stood tall, surrounded by trees and wildflowers. A small garden growing various vegetables sat in front- and he spotted a small pen nearby, where he heard the bleating of goats.

Nice place.

Logan- distracted from the pain in his arm- and grumpy he never got his drink and got a fight and a slash to the arm instead- ruining a perfectly good shirt by the way, didn’t put two and two together right away when he arrived.

“Doc!” The stranger calls out to the house as they approach it- a man who introduced himself as Oliver; not as tall as Logan, with short brown hair and clean shaven face and adorning suspenders. Oliver was rambling as they made their way to the doctors house- which Logan tuned out for the most part. Only picking up that the doctor was sweet, and a bit quirky as some people say. Not traditional in a sense.

He opens the screen door to the house without knocking, holding it open for Logan. “Doc? Got some work for you.” He calls out into the house as he steps inside after Logan.

“I don’t need a doctor pal, I’m fine.” Logan mutters, leaning against a small table by the door and removing his hand to observe the bloody wound. Oliver grits his teeth, sucking air through them as he put his hands on his hips, pointing to the arm and shaking his head

“Ya gonna lose that arm to uh…What they call it…”

“Sepsis.”

A woman's voice made them raise both their heads.

You leaned against the frame of the archway that led into your living room, a wet rag in hand as you just finished cleaning your kitchen- in which you had been thinking about how happy you were to finally have a quiet Saturday;

Of course good things never last long.

You tilted your head and you smiled, observing the two men standing in your foyer.

“Whatchu bring me now Oli?” You straightened yourself, walking over to Oliver and the injured man- the tall, handsome one you saw earlier who had clearly been mentally undressing you when he saw you walk by. He had a dangerous look about him, and looks like you were right.

Logan stared at you in surprise, wide eyed and lips slightly parted. You would have thought he just fell in love by the way he stared at you. Logan's eyes trailed down your body, still in the pretty dress you still had on from earlier. Now that he’s got a closer look at you, you are definitely a beaut, heavenly in the way the light from the windows of your home glows with sunlight around you. He didn’t think when he saw you earlier that you’d be a doctor of all things.

“Another casualty of Morgan's Saloon.” Oliver smiles, a certain shine in his eyes that Logan noticed Oliver has when he looks at you. “I guarantee you, there’s going to be more heading here soon.”

“Figures.” You scoffed, shaking your head, you stepped past Oliver, placing your hand on Logan's shoulder as you observed the cut. “Ouch! How did this happen mister…”

“Call me Logan.” He gives you a charming smile, leaning closer to you, hand coming up to tip his hat respectfully.

“Logan.” You raised an eyebrow, now putting your hands on your hips, tipping your chin back as you look up at him with a playful expression. “What happened at the saloon?”

“What always happens.” He smirked. “The arm’s fine darling, no need to fuss over me- much as I ‘preciate the attention of pretty woman like you.”

“How about you let me decide if your arm is okay.” You say sweetly, waving for him to stand up.

“Need me for anything?” Oliver asks you, you shook your head- the curls of your hair bouncing with your movements, politely waving him off.

“No, just make sure no one killed each other back there.” You muttered, shaking your head, as you began to lead Logan through your home and into your kitchen.

Pulling out a chair from your kitchen table, you pat it and motioned for Logan to sit who obliges, taking off his cattleman hat and setting it on the table.

“You mind taking off your vest and shirt so I could get a better look?” You ask as you walk across the kitchen, opening cabinets and pulling out small containers filled with medicine, bandages, and more and setting them onto the table behind Logan.

“Any excuse to see me shirtless, huh?” He asks in a coy tone, turning his head to the side, a playful grin on his face as his eyes watched you busy yourself around the kitchen.

You froze, rolling your eyes at his flirtation and not responding to it. It’s a common interaction with most men brought to your home. You however, were more concerned to make sure he doesn’t bleed out or die of sepsis inside your kitchen that you just cleaned. You went to another cabinet and pulled out a glass and some liquor, setting it aside, before stopping to put your hair back, going to wash your hands in the sink- while also filling a bowl with water and clean rags.

Logan looked forward again, and began working on shedding his bandolier, vest, and shirt- now ruined with blood. He groaned a bit, the feeling of the discarded cloth wasn’t pleasant against his wound. He discarded them to the floor and sighs as he settled into the chair. You walked to his side, holding out a glass of whiskey. He looked at it, then you.

“Well, thank you sweetheart.” He purrs, happily taking the glass from your hand. He does a small toast to you, before sipping it- savoring the burn of the liquor on his tongue- finally getting that drink he hadn’t stopped thinking about since he’s arrived in this town.

“You’ll need it.” You hummed, as you walked around him, grabbing another chair to sit on as you grabbed the wet rag from the bowl, squeezing out the excess water and you began to gently wash the blood away. He flinched from the cold temperature of the water. “Sorry,” You smiled apologetically to him. “It’ll take too long to warm it up.”

“I can take it.” He mutters, looking down at his drink, before taking another swig. It was silent as you worked to clean him up, observing the long cut down his bicep to his elbow. Meanwhile, he observed your house. Nice, pretty- definitely a sign of a lived-in woman. “So, doc, how a girl like you get into a business like this?”

“Mm. Long story.” You say. “I like helping people, is the short of it.”

“You don’t look like a doctor.”

You tipped your head up at him. “Yeah? and what should I look like?”

He glanced at you, realizing he was digging himself a grave by the challenge in your eye. “Mm, I don’t know.”

“No no, clearly you have some notions of what a doctor should look like…Share it with me.” You encourage, with a playful tone in your voice as you resume cleaning his arm.

“Nah, I don’t think I will.” He grinned, shaking his head. “I suppose I just uh…” He looked at you, his voice turning low. “Never seen a lady so beautiful, be a doctor, of all things before.”

“Mmhm.” You barely respond, not wanting to fuel his attempt to flirt.

“Some lucky guy make an honest woman out of you?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “No...” You tittered.

“Shame. Dame like you should have someone taking care of you.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I can take care of myself.” You retort, tipping your chin up at him. He smirked.

“Yeah…” His eyes trailed down, not being very discreet as he checked you out. “Ain’t nothing wrong with being taken care of though, sweetheart. Look at what a nice thing you’re doing for me.”

“This nice thing is my job.” You raised your brows at him. “I took an oath when I became a doctor. Do no harm, help anyone to the best of my ability.”

“Yeah…” His smirk slowly faded. “So you like helping people huh?”

You were silent, as you thought about what he said, playing back old memories. Patting his arm dry with a new clean rag, giving you a clear view of the cut on his arm. You nodded. “Yes. I do.” You were sincere in your tone.

You looked up at him, meeting his eyes. He had a more serious look, something thoughtful. Like he was considering your words.

“Well, you don’t need stitches.. That's the good news!” You set back, looking away to break the building tension. “I’ll just clean it out, wrap your arm up and you’ll be good as new.”

“Thanks doc.” He turned his head away from you, his finger tapping along the glass. You took the chance to observe his face.

No, you couldn’t deny he was quite handsome. He had pretty eyes, and a nice deep voice that sounded like honey and whiskey to your ears. Clearly a brute creature, but at least he was respectful enough to you.

“You get into a lot of fights Logan?” You asked. He looked at you again, and you motioned with your hand the various scars along his body. He looked down at what you were pointing at. You didn’t need him to tell you though, you were able to tell the moment you laid eyes on him outside the saloon. He was a wanderer- a cowboy. Every scar told a story.

It should sway you, it’s clear he’s dangerous. He had a revolver on his holster- inches away from your knee. You couldn’t help but be drawn to him though.

“It happens.” He says with a shrug, finishing off his whiskey. “Misunderstandings.”

“Yeah? What do you do to cause so many misunderstandings?”

He looked at you, expecting to find judgement, something critical, in your eyes. Yet you looked at him with no judgement- no, he saw something more unfamiliar in your expression. Kindness.

“Nothing you should worry about.” He says gently.

You nodded, and returned to his arm- grabbing a bottle of antiseptic and cotton rag and began applying it to the large cut. He let out a hissing noise, wincing from the sting and turning his head away.

“Damn that smarts.” He grunts, gritting his teeth and shaking his head.

“Sorry. That’s why I gave you a drink.” You continued to thoroughly apply the antiseptic to the injury. “You’ll want to keep this clean- don’t be swimming in any rivers or lakes. Have a doctor check up on it in a few days- make sure there’s no infection and I’m serious- you don’t want to lose that arm.”

He hummed. “Got it.”

You gently lifted his arm up, informing him to hold it up while you began to wrap it gently with a bandage roll.

“So do you uh, work out of your house?” He asks. You nodded.

“People are more comfortable that way I feel.” You say. “Lot of the time when you’re sick you don’t want to sit in a room filled with needles and scary looking chairs and all. The only issue is the occasional need for surgery, injuries worse than yours, I need a sterile field, infections run rampant enough already. I have a room down the hall for that if needed, which fortunately isn’t often, but with all the farms around here- stuff happens with the machinery.”

Logan listened intently, his eyes observing the kitchen before he glanced down at the vest he left on the floor- which occurred to him. A woman, and a doctor, sitting right next to him.

Logan wasn’t a good man. This felt completely shitty though.

“So, what’s your name darling? Don’t think I caught it” He asks casually.

You told him your name, not noticing the way his eyes darted over to you, staring you down with intensity- if you had looked at him right then, you would have seen a flash of guilt. His eyes darted away before you could see it.

“Pretty name.”

You shook your head with a smile, “Thank you, Logan.”

Money’s money.

He turned his head fully to look at you. You felt tension return between you. Logan's eyes seemed to pierce through you, and you were hypnotized by them. You cleared your throat, standing up and pulling off your gloves- sticking them into the bowl of dirty water- which you’ll clean and sanitize later.

“You’re all set.” You inform him, smoothing out your dress as you speak. “Do you need anything for the pain?”

“Another glass of whiskey will do just fine.” He grumbles looking away.

You let out a small laugh and nodded, walking around him, the heel of your boots clipping on the hardwood as you grabbed the bottle of whiskey- and topped off his glass as he held it up to you.

“You look tired Logan.” You say as you set the bottle down. “Why don’t you get some rest? You can lie down on the couch, I have a bedroom as well if you’d like some privacy and something more comfortable?”

“I’m alright.” He stands up, and you see his muscular figure. Trailing from his Adams apple, down to his chest and stomach, brawny, hairy, he clearly was strong and you could appreciate that as a woman and a doctor.

You hadn’t paid much attention to it earlier, seeing he was a patient and you were focused on taking care of the wound first. Now that he was okay, you could certainly appreciate the specimen before you. It bloomed a heat in your cheeks and you looked away, suppressing a bashful smile.

“Mind if I use the bathroom?” He asks.

“Oh, yeah, sure.” You nodded, you walked across the kitchen with him following- and you pointed down a small hall. “The door on the far right.”

“Thanks darling.” He says, a charming smile shot your way as he walked past you. Your eyes glanced down to his pants, heavy with a holster resting over on his hip. The revolver you weren’t looking at though.

Nice ass!

You blinked at the thought, shaking your head as you walked back to the kitchen, beginning to clean up, grabbing the items that Logan carelessly discarded to the floor when he came into your kitchen.

A slip of paper fell out between the clothing items, and you reached down to grab it. It had unfolded when it slipped out of the vest, a paper that looked like a telegram.

You aren’t nosy, really, but a quick glance and you noticed something familiar between the printed words. You read it as you stood up- and your stomach sank with your blood running cold. You read the telegram message- addressed directly to him, with details of you, your job, your home.

Three thousand dollars?!

This man was here for you- and acted like a flirt, a friend, to your face. You left the door open for anyone no matter the danger, always able to handle yourself, a handsy drunk, a hysterical child- you’ve seen it all.

A bounty hunter?

He’s in your home, alone, with you. You weren’t sure how you could get out of this one.

You didn't hear him behind you as you stared at the paper dictating your inevitable kidnapping.

“Well, look at what you found, sweetheart.”

You turn around, jumping at the sound of his voice. You clenched the paper in your hand as you stepped back from him, feeling like there was a frog in your throat.

His expression was serious. You didn’t see remorse, guilt, nothing and that pissed you off more than scared you. He sighed, reaching to grab his shirt, observing the cut and blood-stained cloth, and clicking his tongue, before pulling it back on. Then grabbing his vest.

You watched him as he dressed himself, nervously looking back where your backdoor was- calculating how far you could get from him, find a weapon perhaps. Your eyes glanced down at the revolver on his hip.

Realistically, you’re fucked.

You watched him pull the bandolier over his shoulder, and then grabbed his hat, before he looked at you with an unimpressed expression. “Well darling. How is this going to play out?”

You press your lips together, straightening your shoulder and holding your head high. “Surely you don’t think you could just kidnap me, with as many people around here as there are. What, you’re just going to sling me over your shoulder, shoot your way back into town on your horse and carry me off to god knows where?”

#logan howlett #wolverine #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #logan howlett fanfiction #wolverine x reader #vans daydreams #logan howlett fic #cowboy! logan #cowboy! logan x reader #im not sure how i feel about this #as many words as ive written #but i realllllly wanted to get this out sooo

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dinsbeskar · 6 months ago

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Two's Company, Three is Torture (Sauron/F!Reader)

Sauron finds new ways to please his wife as Annatar and Halbrand have their way with you; or:

Sauron Smut 2: Electric Boogaloo

Sequel to Evil Will Find Her // AO3 Link

Warnings: Annatar/you/Halbrand - there's 2 of them now, I am sorry!! Threesome, P in V sex, double P in V sex, overstimulation, mentions of oral sex (female receiving), fingering, teasing, praise and degradation (sporadic use of sl*t/wh*re)

A/N: This fic is @sansaorgana's fault, I blame her for everything 😂 One Sauron is a lot, two of them is torture, but you take it like a champ.

Word Count: 3.1k

"I think," Annatar murmurs in your ear, "that you like this, love."

You can feel Halbrand smirk against your neck and continue his attentions licking and kissing up to your ears, biting your earlobe and making you moan.

"Is that right, angel? Is this making you wet for us?" Your already ragged breath hitches at Halbrand's rough voice in your ear; his fingers trail to your chest, kneading your heated flesh and you gasp aloud, making them chuckle.

"I don't think she's capable of intelligible speech at the moment, right sweetheart?" Annatar continues his ministrations, teasing your mound, tracing idle circles every which way, except for where you ache for them.

When your husband returned to you, it was not a form you'd have instantly connected to him. Obviously you knew it was him, your souls singing in their close proximity, his inability to hide his thrill at your presence. But he was clearly a Man, not Elvish in appearance as he had been, and roguishly handsome, with dark curls and the beginnings of a beard. In other words, opposite in every way to what you were used to.

Once you'd got over your shock at his return, and said all you needed to say after your centuries apart, you got to admiring him. Rugged where he had been ethereal, dark in countenance where he had been unearthly and radiant, rough and untempered, calloused hands and stubbled skin that set you ablaze with every gentle touch.

It was unfortunate then, that you did not get the chance to enjoy him as much as you'd have liked, thanks to Galadriel discovering his identity, forcing him to flee. You'd lain awake thinking of him often before he returned to you, and you continue that particular ritual after he flees, but now he appeared more and more often as Halbrand; would he be upset to learn you desired him however he might appear, that the fair forms he chose to please you were wasted on you, if you'd be happy with some man from the Southlands?

You'd stayed in Eregion after Sauron had fled, to await his inevitable return after he'd set his plan in motion in Mordor. You were sure he would have to disguise himself once again, and to your great dismay you mourned the King of the Southlands. Surely you should be happy with him, however he appears, however he acts? Your lord husband had returned to you, that was the only thing that mattered.

So when Lord Celebrimbor lets slip that Halbrand is back and waiting on his front porch, your heart soars. And you feel an unmistakable wave of arousal. He had been nigh insatiable for the weeks he'd spent with you while they forged the three rings; frankly, even the mention of his name was enough to warm your blood and wet your thighs.

"Don't you think we should let him in?" You ask softly, "We can't let him freeze, and we can treat with him tomorrow?"

"Lady Galadriel was very clear, I won't break my word to her." Celebrimbor will not be swayed so easily, and it is only when his favourite apprentice, Mirdania, tells him that Lord Halbrand is injured, it is cold, we should let him in for the night if only to tend his wounds, that he concedes and goes to speak with him himself.

You know your husband will have his way, and so you settle into your soft warm bed to wait for him; he'll be along, he always knows where to find you.

By the time he slips through your door in the dead of night, you have drifted off, hugging a large leather bound tome, candle burning low.

He greets you with a gentle kiss to your forehead, before curling around you and pulling you close. You open your eyes to find the room near dark, with only the moon illuminating the pair of you. His strong arms around you and his familiar smoky scent immediately put you at ease, and you nestle closer, beyond content that he is by your side once more.

"You feel different, my love."

He tenses a little, nuzzling his face into your neck.

"I'm here now, that's what matters." He seems to say it more for himself than you, but you take it anyway, always so greedy for any sweet sentiment he bestows upon you.

You notice long hair tickling your neck, and the distinct lack of friction on your skin from Halbrand's facial hair, and you realise he has disguised himself once more. It would have been nice to give Lord Halbrand a parting gift, you think to yourself, but after all how can you complain when you know he is the most beautiful creature in Middle Earth, whatever form he takes.

Lord Annatar is a taskmaster, and his long hours in the forge make you restless and wanting for him. Thankfully for you, he does not require rest and is always the obliging husband.

It is during the afterglow one night when he had ravished you senseless, that the two of you speak of Halbrand again.

"Beloved, I have a question for you."

"It had better be a good one, I was falling asleep," you grumble, but you turn to face him anyway, head resting on your hand while you trace his chest.

"I think it is." He is uncharacteristically slow to speak, making you wonder what could possibly have him so tongue tied.

You take his hand and lace your fingers together, reassuring, steadfast in your affection.

"I know your heart like it is my own," he avoids your gaze, seemingly far-off in his own thoughts, but continues, "and of late I wonder if perhaps you're missing something."

Your brow furrows deeply; what could you possibly long for, now that your soul has returned to you?

"I know you were unsure when I came home to you, that I was... unlike myself," he searches for the words, something you have never seen him need to do. "I could not appear as I once did, and I worried that Halbrand would repulse you-"

"You could never, my love," and you grip his fingers tightly, kissing his palm, "you could appear to me deformed, with three heads, no body at all, and I would still want you." You cannot help but interrupt him, to soothe the nagging doubts he appears to have.

"-but I was wrong." He looks at you finally, his expression making your stomach drop.

"You weren't repulsed at all, in fact you enjoyed the low man from the Southlands far more than I ever thought possible." He graces you with an affectionate smile, and your heart begins beating again.

"He was... different. But he was you, and that is all I ever need." You lean in to kiss him deeply, entwining your fingers in his long silky hair.

"I thought perhaps," he pauses, an uncharacteristic blush painting his features, "that you might want to see him again?"

Your heart melts, aching in your chest as you reflect on his question. Of course you'd like Halbrand in your bed once more. But you were very happy with the man in front of you too. The choice made your head spin.

"I want you, only you, however you appear. He had a certain... quality, that I enjoyed, I cannot lie. But I love you, and I couldn't be without my Lord of Gifts now that I have tasted him." You kiss the tip of his nose, and feel his soul swell against yours, caressing you tenderly.

You roll over and nestle into his chest once more, pressing your back against him insistently, his arms wrapping around you instinctively. After a long pause he speaks again.

"What if you could have both?" He asks, tone steady but heart racing.

"Wouldn't that be nice..." You murmur, already halfway between waking and dreaming. You pull his arms tighter around you and sigh, letting his heartbeat lull you to sleep.

He can only but watch you, eyes crinkled at the corners with a beautiful genuine smile, the like of which he keeps only for you. He kisses the top of your head and waits for dawn.

That is how you ended up in your bed, wrapped in two pairs of arms, with two mouths driving you to distraction, adored and sinfully worshipped.

"I think, my lovely wife, that you don't want me to know how much you love this." Annatar's fingers at your entrance halt, and you whimper, begging in breathless moans for him to continue.

"That the attention you crave from me cannot possibly be satisfied by one pair of hands, that I must build an army to ravish you, one by one, until you're a shaking quivering mess." His warm breath ghosting over your skin as he teases you is driving you wild, and you buck up into his fingers. He withdraws them completely and fixes you with a scolding glare.

"Ah ah, you're not chasing us tonight, there is more than enough for you, greedy little thing, you have to exercise patience for once." Halbrand's smile is so sweet, you could almost forgive him, no, them, the torture inflicted upon with two pairs of hands, two mouths, not to mention-

"Do you think she's ready? She's dripping for it, she'll feel so fucking good," Halbrand turns to his counterpart, his hard cock throbbing for your attention, seeming to beg to be allowed to touch you further, a reminder of who is really in charge here.

"Do you deserve us yet, love?" You'd beg for their touch if Annatar had not already silenced you, his lips pressed to yours as he languidly strokes himself.

The moment he pulls away, Halbrand takes his place, worrying your bottom lip with his teeth, kneading your flesh with such desperation, it wrenches your heart. He retreats slightly to give you a reprieve, to let you take in a breath and to stare at your face in wonderment.

Your hair is mussed and tangled, your blushing face covered in a sheen of sweat, your lips parted and panting; he looks at you like you hung the stars in the sky.

Annatar cuts short your respite with a bruising kiss, pulling your head back with his fingers in your hair, tugging at your scalp deliciously, the twang of pain shooting straight to your core.

Halbrand reaches between you and finds your swollen clit, so eager to please, his patience already thin and wanting.

There is nothing but the two sweat-slicked bodies pressing you into submission; you can think of nothing else but the thrills they bestow on your frazzled senses.

Annatar's hard length prods insistently at your back, making you giggle and reach around for him. You feel his lips at your neck; you can picture his self-satisfied expression as he taunts you with his caress, running the tip of his cock along your entrance.

You arch back against him, pulling him closer, but Halbrand holds you firm, claiming your lips for his own once more.

They are relentless; one pulls away so you can catch your breath only for a second before the other steals it, devouring you like starving men.

"You know just how to please us, angel," Halbrand murmurs in your ear, shifting your weight and positioning you over Annatar's lap.

He eases inside you slowly, languorously, with one hand around your throat pulling you back into his dangerous embrace. You lock eyes with Halbrand, looking up at you through hooded eyes, panting in tune with you, his every breath matching yours.

As Annatar starts to move, your toes curl and you reach for Halbrand, your hands on his shoulders as you tense your thigh muscles against the long, leisurely strokes inside you. It isn't long before you feel yourself clench around him, relieved to finally find your release.

"Not yet, love," you hear Annatar sigh, brushing your hair over your shoulder and pressing a kiss to the nape of your neck.

He robs you of the fullness in your core as he pulls out, breath shuddering as he mourns the loss of your tight wet heat around him, but he perseveres; tonight is for you, his pleasure can wait.

They make eye contact over your shoulder and Halbrand's face lights up; it is his turn with your cunt and he doesn't hesitate, burying himself to the hilt, teasing your breasts with his tongue as you press closer to meet his thrusts.

One hand is entwined with his sweat-soaked curls, the other woven into Annatar's long golden hair, pulling them to meet you in a clash of tongues that spikes a wave of slick between your thighs, provoking a long guttural groan from the pair of them as they take you in all your glory.

"So fucking tight on my cock, so wet, listen to those moans, you'd fuck us both over and over until you can't stand, wouldn't you?" Halbrand's stream of consciousness is ceaseless as he ruts into you, as Annatar traces your sides and kisses you languidly.

The polar opposite sensations have you in a spin and you grip the bedsheets, desperate for any kind of release from this exquisite torture.

"You are beautiful like this, love," Annatar whispers in your ear, biting your earlobe, "anyone would think you like being the Dark Lord's needy little plaything? Is that it? You so enjoy being at our mercy, like a good little slut, that you'll take anything we give you." His voice is becoming rough, his pupils blown, as he gives himself over to the pleasure the three of you share.

Every drag of Halbrand's cock is accompanied by a ragged moan that reverberates in your core; you run your fingers through the soft hair on his chest, face buried in his neck, as Annatar sucks a deep bruise on your neck, fingers tracing your entrance as Halbrand bounces you on his thighs.

You feel Annatar's length once more at your entrance, and you can't breathe. No way is he about to do what you think he is planning. You gasp as Halbrand's thick cock enters you, followed by Annatar's long clever fingers stretching you deliciously, robbing you of breath and sense.

You arch your back, breasts in Halbrand's face only for a second before he takes a nipple in his mouth, giving you all the attention you crave and more.

It's too much, your sensitised flesh screams for release, as Annatar adds another finger, then another, whispering praise in your ear with every addition.

"Good girl, so good for us, are you ready for me, love? Need you, want you, can't wait any longer..." he withdraws his fingers as Halbrand slows his thrusts, idly pumping into you as a wordless agreement passes between them.

"Tell us to stop," Halbrand groans, gripping your thighs like you might slip through his fingers, "tell us you don't want this and we'll stop, tell us you don't need this just as much as we do, that you haven't dreamed of us taking you at once..."

Even if you wanted them to stop, you couldn't find the words to do so, all powers of language and reason seemingly spent.

"She would never," you hear Annatar behind you, readying his cock with your wetness, tip at your entrance. "She wants this more than us, don't you, sweetling? So sweet, so fucking good, but a needy slut all the same-"

He interrupts himself by sliding into your cunt, thrusting up and moaning in your ear, offering you his fingers that you take in your mouth gladly, muffling your scream as you taste yourself on his fingers. You rest your forehead on Halbrand's, body tensing at the new intrusion; they give you a moment to adjust, to accommodate this alien sensation of both of them inside you.

"Are you ready, love? You're ours, and we can have you whenever we wish." Halbrand gives a low chuckle at your parted lips, your blown pupils, and throws all caution to the wind.

When they both thrust inside you, you see stars, you can't breathe, it's too fucking much-

"Don't fucking come, that's a good girl," Halbrand has to be the one to speak, Annatar is buried in your neck, thrusting in time and panting, kissing every inch of you he can reach.

They have you fixed between them, nowhere to go, no way to move, prisoner to their attentions. The way they're stretching you out, you're not sure you'll ever be content with one husband again, you're so thoroughly spoiled with two.

Halbrand finds your lips and swallows your moans, finding your swollen clit amidst your tangled flesh; so in tune are the three of you that you don't know where you end and they begin.

You feel hands clawing at your breasts, tracing your sides, pulling at your hips, but there is no distraction from the incredible fullness in your core. Your thigh muscles burn as you take every delicious inch twice over, the sweet spot inside you coiling, inflaming you and driving you to madness.

"Done so well, love," you hear Halbrand say between groans, "do you think you should be allowed to come?"

They both smirk at you adoringly as you cry out, pleading, trembling.

"Please, fuck... please, I've been so good, please..." Your throaty moans are lost as your husbands hungrily claim your lips one after the other, someone's fingers in your hair, tracing the sensitive tips of your ears; you’ve lost track, only feeling flesh on flesh.

"Come for us, darling, such a good needy little whore for us, for your Dark Lord, given us everything, and you always will, won't you?" Annatar's question breaks you from your reverie and you whimper.

"Yes, love, everything, always." You don't know what you're saying, and you don't care, totally lost in the spell he has cast over you.

Stars explode behind your eyes, warmth floods your body, and you're wracked with a pleasure that surmounts anything you've ever experienced with him before. You can feel them pulsing inside you, a satisfying warmth filling you up as you greedily take it all, your walls milking every drop of seed deep into your womb.

It's too much, intense and drawn out, but they hold you between them, wringing every clench and moan they can from you as you ride your high, exhausting every last drop of pleasure from you, before laying you down between them, still touching you all over, encompassing you in every which way.

It takes a minute for you to come back to them, but when you do, they're already kissing better the bruises they've left, soothing your aching muscles.

"We should do that again," you murmur, each hand tracing their faces, revelling in the different sensations they afford you.

"We have all night, love, rest for now." Halbrand chuckles, stroking your hair, as Annatar parts your thighs, and settles his face between them.

"On second thought-"

You don't get much rest that night after all.

#sauron x reader #annatar x reader #halbrand x reader #the rings of power #they're a lot!!! i am sorry!!!#i actually have a lot of thoughts about this fic but im just gonna drop it and run lmfao sorry!!#this is probably one of the filthiest things I've ever written #i have no words #thank you for reading!!#my fic

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hogwartsfirebolt · 1 year ago

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the game’s the game

“What was going through your mind when you spotted the Snitch?”

Two camera shutters go off like lighting, but Draco doesn’t blink. It’s almost the end of the season, and he’s done a press conference every week. He’s used to them.

“Fucking finally,” he answers, and the journalists all laugh. They think he’s joking, and he can already imagine the articles they’ll publish tomorrow pronouncing him cheeky and funny, but he means it wholeheartedly. Six hours in the sky, drenched all the way through his pants in rainwater, and facing the very best player in the league? He had half a mind to jump off his broom if only to have the game end somehow.

“This is the second time you face PU and well, Harry Potter, this season,” says another reporter, a young, pretty woman with her hair pinned up and a reverent tone when she speaks Potter’s name. Like everyone. “Are you expecting to encounter him at this year’s Cup? And if so, how does that make you feel?”

Draco breathes out hard through his nose. Across the room from him, sitting at his own table against the wall opposite, Potter’s doing his own press conference. He’s wearing a hat backwards, the light blue of his team hoodie contrasting with his golden-warm skin tone. He has a hand to his chin, rubbing his short beard in thought at some question he’s being asked. Probably about just how sweet it had been to snatch that Snitch right from under Draco’s nose. He’s earnest and so gorgeous Draco can’t stand the sight of him.

“The game is the game,” Harry’s voice carries, clear and chesty, deeply masculine as he says his favorite little quote that means absolutely nothing and that fans have been yelling and tattooing on their bodies the whole season. “We don’t take any victory for granted. Coach has been running us to the ground, she won’t stop until we have that trophy in Puddlemere, and we’re doing our best to make her proud.”

“Oh, I’m certain we’ll face them at the Cup,” is what Draco answers at last. “Honestly? I think no other team comes even close. We’ll face them, and then we’ll bring the Cup home to Appleby. As Potter himself likes to say, the game is the game.”

All the cameras around him go off, the sound of Quick-Quills scrabbling and the reporters’ scandalized gasps at his use of Potter’s quote. He grins, puts his olive green Arrows cap on and stands to leave. He needs a fucking shower.

Later on, he’s sprawled on his hotel room couch, drying his hair with a towel and watching a replay of the game on the enormous television, making mental notes about his own flying, his mistakes, the times he dove too soon or hovered too low. When the screen follows the blue jersey with POTTER 7 emblazoned across the back, he looks closely, trying to spot mistakes but knowing he won’t find any. Potter’s probably the best flier of the century, and Draco loves Quidditch too much to lie to himself about that.

He’s admiring one of Potter’s physics-defying feints when there’s a knock on his door. Immediately, his heart takes up a gallop, and he has to press a hand to the center of his chest with a frown.

“Calm the fuck down, Malfoy,” he mutters. It’s a disproportionate reaction and he’s irritated with himself for it. It’s not as though it’s the first time. Or the tenth.

He pauses the game with a flick of his wand and makes his way to the door, through the archway that separates the TV room from the kitchenette. A quick look at the archway across the suite to make sure the bedroom is as he left it, and he’s at the door, taking a deep breath.

Potter’s grin is huge when Draco opens. He’s foregone all his team outwear, and is now in a familiar, worn leather jacket and a black sweater. His hair is wet, as though he rushed after his shower so he could get here quicker. Draco opens his mouth to say something, but before he figures out what, Harry pushes inside, turns around and presses him against the door, big hands gentle on Draco’s waist. Draco’s heart hasn’t gotten the “this isn’t the first or tenth time this happens,” memo, and is still running a marathon inside his chest, so he says nothing.

There’s a plastic bag in Potter’s hands. Dinner, probably, he usually brings dinner when they meet after a game. His wide smile reveals white teeth, a crooked canine that Draco knows is a baby tooth that never loosened. Round, stylish glasses cover the most intoxicating green eyes Draco has ever seen, and they’re shining with tonight’s victory. And Draco might be — definitely is — the world’s sorest loser, but he’s also the world’s biggest slut for Quidditch excellence, and he has it right here, holding him against his hotel room door.

“The game is the game?” Harry asks, amused, already leaning in, the hand on Draco’s waist moving to wrap the whole way around him and pull him close.

“Just some stupid phrase I’ve heard from a dickhead,” Draco answers, but the words hold the shape of a smile and are uttered right into a kiss there at the end.

It’s always a race at the start. They're both high from the game, still in that mindset, and it’s a competition to see who can undress quicker, who can make the other harder, who can earn the first moan and coax the first orgasm of the night. But after that first one, after Draco’s jaw aches dully and Potter is softening between his legs, everything slows down a little. Potter helps him up and they share the tacos Potter brought, watching the last minutes of the game they played earlier with Draco’s legs up on Potter’s lap, where he’s massaging his knees, his quads, making sure he’s not achy from kneeling for him.

“I really fucked that one up,” Potter comments. His tiny self on the screen just pulled out of an impossible dive at what looks like a 90 degree angle. He sounds earnest, which is the only reason Draco isn’t kicking him right in his beautiful face.

“I hate you so much. Only you would call that a fuck up.”

Potter hums, his massaging hands moving from Draco’s calf to his heel, his thumb pressing into his sole. On the screen, tiny Draco swerves a Bludger aimed to his head, and his teammate Owen is flying to him to make sure he’s alright.

“That guy is so into you,” Potter points out.

“I know. We fucked all through rookie year.”

Potter turns to look at him so fast it must hurt his neck. Draco raises an eyebrow, confused at the strong reaction.

“What?”

“I — I don’t know,” Potter says, suddenly sheepish. His hands haven’t stopped moving over Draco’s foot. Potter’s skin is dark, but Draco can still make out the blush spreading across his cheekbones. “Isn’t it weird? He’s a teammate.”

There’s something he’s not saying. It’s evident in the way he bites his bottom lip, in the way he obviously wants to look away but is too ridiculously brave to actually do it. Draco’s heart thumps inside his chest, so hard he’s sure it must be audible to Harry too.

They’ve never named this thing between them. The first time they did it, after the quarter finals one year before, with Potter’s ill advised kiss that ended with them fucking in the showers of the stadium after Potter had wiped the damn dust with Draco on the pitch, they agreed to keep it quiet, and that was the last they discussed of it. It’s going on fourteen months since then, and they’ve done it at least once a month, when the league brings them to nearby towns, and sometimes when it doesn’t and they take a quick midnight Portkey to each other to blow off some steam.

Draco had never in his life been as well-fucked as he’s been this past year, and he definitely doesn’t want to lose it. Potter’s always been honest and open with him, vocal in bed about how much he wants him, filthy in his occasional text messages when they’re apart, but he’s never given any indication that he wants anything other than exactly what they have.

“It’s not weird,” Draco says slowly, unsure of what to think of this exchange. “We stopped a while ago. I was clear that I didn’t want — that I’d rather we stayed friends and teammates, without any complications.”

“Right,” Potter says. He sounds relieved, and Draco feels like he’s three steps behind the conversation they’re having. He’s about to ask, but Potter’s fingers on his calf smooth over an old knot and he groans instead, letting his head fall back onto the couch cushion.

“That feels great,” he says, and Potter repeats the motion.

“Yeah. I think you pulled it when you made that X turn.”

The turn he made to try to beat him to the Snitch, he doesn’t say. How he had enough awareness to know Draco attempted it while diving for the Snitch himself is beyond comprehension, but Draco has long accepted that Potter is simply insane about the game. He notices everything, considers everything, takes every risk. If he weren’t a player himself, Draco knows he would be following Puddlemere and Harry wherever they played for the entire season, wearing a pale blue jersey with the number 7 on it.

“Probably,” Draco says, closing his eyes and groaning again when Harry keeps pressing the same point. After a moment, he feels something softer brushing his calf, and opens his eyes to find Harry bent over his leg, kissing a path up towards his knee. He can’t help the embarrassing little sound he makes, and Harry’s laugh is a puff against his skin as he keeps moving up, breath warm on the wet trail of his kisses up Draco’s thigh. In the background, the presenters are going crazy over a feint Harry pulled, the sound of the audience carrying all through the stadium and out of the TV speakers.

Harry has made his way high up and is kissing Draco’s birthmark, a brown, apple-sized beauty mark an inch below his groin when he lifts his head to ask, “Why didn’t you want to?”

Draco can’t believe he’s using his mouth to speak at that moment. He licks his lips, trying to make sense of the question.

“What? What are you even — ?” He tries to sit up a little, but Harry moves over him instead so they’re eye-level without Draco having to move at all.

“With Caddell. Why didn’t you want to keep seeing him?”

“Owen? Why the fuck are we talking about —,” Draco lets his head drop down onto the cushions again, a sigh punched out of him. Harry takes pity and leans forward to kiss him, lips soft over Draco’s, knowing exactly how to coax his kisses out of him the way he likes best.

“I just want to know,” Harry whispers against his lips. He’s breathless just from touching Draco, from rubbing his legs, from kissing him. Fuck, this is insane.

“I like him, but it wasn’t very exciting.” Draco says. He closes his eyes as Harry begins to kiss down his neck, and tries to really think about it, because he’s not even sure himself. “I wasn’t willing to risk our teamwork when what we had wasn’t even that … electric. I don’t know. This sounds insane.”

Harry shakes his head, his beard rubbing against Draco’s collarbone. “It doesn’t. I get it.” He bites on the delicate skin connecting neck and shoulder, licks a path down his chest. “I get electric.”

“Fuck yes you do,” Draco says, nonsensical, but he feels he can’t be blamed when Harry is brushing his lips over his nipples, broad hands moving around Draco’s body to secure a grip over his ass.

“Is this?” Harry asks, mouth nearing the V of Draco’s hips, the edge of the trail of hair leading to his crotch. “Electric?”

Draco swears, fingers running through Harry’s hair and finding a grip, hard. “If you don’t put your mouth on me right now I swear I — yes.”

He spreads his thighs to accommodate Harry between them, one hand gripping Harry’s hair and the other curled around the cushion over his head. It is electric, the way Harry knows exactly which buttons to push, sliding a finger inside him while keeping him on his tongue. He’s a prodigy in this too, the star player who knows every move in the playbook that is Draco’s body.

It feels like no time at all, no effort at all before Harry is pulling back, dragging Draco closer by the waist and working himself inside. The feel of it, the sound of them together, the look into Harry’s open gaze, his sweat dripping onto Draco’s chest and his hands underneath Draco’s back, holding him, pulling him onto him, have Draco nearing release almost too fast for his liking, but the night is young and it’s been so long that he lets himself go, a cord snapping in his core, eyes open as he watches Harry watch him come apart.

“Come on,” he says once he’s come down, lifting his hips, shifting his weight onto his shoulders. “Show me what you got, Potter.”

Harry groans and leans forward, kisses Draco’s jaw and his neck, and drives his hips faster. Draco wraps his arms around Harry’s back, moves with him as much as he can in the tight embrace, and remains close as Harry meets his own peak and tumbles down the edge.

They lie together for a couple minutes afterwards, panting into each other’s skins, basking in the afterglow.

“Some pro-athletes. We have the stamina of two eighteen year old virgins,” Draco mutters into Harry’s hair after a while, and feels Harry’s chest rumble with his laughter. The room is cast in the warm glow of the foot-lamp that stands beside the sofa they just fucked in, exactly like two eighteen year old virgins having the chance to touch for the first time in their lives.

Harry always goes boneless and slow after a good lay, so Draco eases him off his body with tenderness, a gentle hand to Harry’s chest, followed by a kiss.

“Let's go to bed, yeah?” He whispers.

Harry groans. “I don’t want to move.”

“That’s too bad, because I’m exhausted and I’m going to bed. Some idiot drove me to the ground on the pitch today.”

He stands up and shakes out his legs, testing the soreness of his muscles. There’ll be an ache tomorrow, but nothing he can’t handle.

Despite his complaint, Harry is already standing up too, coming up behind Draco, a hand finding its way to the flat of his belly, his forehead on Draco’s shoulder as though he can’t bear not to touch him for even a second.

“Bed it is,” he declares against the skin of Draco’s shoulder, sounding halfway asleep already. Draco huffs a laugh and pulls him towards the bedroom, pausing at the kitchenette to grab two glasses of water that he watches Harry drink in three gulps, a couple drops sliding down the sides of his mouth, into his beard and down his neck, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“What?” He asks when he catches Draco watching him, and Draco shakes his head and pulls him to bed. He’s so handsome it’s genuinely upsetting sometimes. Draco thinks he’d throw a tantrum about it daily if it weren’t for the fact that he gets to touch him.

They try their best, but they don’t manage a second round before their eyes fall shut, tucked into each other like two hands cupped under a stream of water, tumbling into a satisfied, exhausted sleep.

Harry wakes him with a kiss before daybreak, the last of the night chilling the room and puckering Draco’s skin.

“Do you have to go already?” Draco asks, one eye still closed and a hand curled possessively around Harry’s bicep, not entirely on purpose.

Harry shakes his head, kisses him again with a gentleness that is meant to go nowhere but extend this kiss, warm and sweet.

“I thought we could talk.”

Draco is nodding before fully grasping the meaning, but even once he does he’s not tempted to back away. Must be the night, still cocooning them, must be Harry’s arms around him that are making him brave, but he’s not nervous anymore, not now that he’s remembered what they’re like, together.

“It is electric,” he says, suspecting that’s what Harry wants to talk about. “It’s always electric with you.”

The smile blooms slowly, lighting up Harry’s face from within, his beautiful eyes, unhidden this early in the morning, his glasses still on the bedside table. Harry sits up a little, clears his throat. It seems like he’s been gearing up for this, he’s squaring his shoulders the way he does before trying a dangerous feint, before performing a play that will have Draco biting dust. This insane, wonder of an athlete. Draco forces himself to shake the last of the sleep away, to focus on him, on what he wants to say.

“I know that … so many of us want you,” Harry starts. “On your team, on mine, the whole league, actually. But I —”

He looks like he’s stating an absolute truth, like he has irrefutable proof, and Draco is taken aback. He knows some of the guys find him attractive, but that’s not the same as being wanted. He shakes his head. “What? Where did you get that?”

“I’ve talked about it with the guys, but that’s not the point,” he adds hurriedly when he sees his eyes widen. Draco hasn’t said a word to anyone, not out of shame, but out of sureness that they were sneaking around, that they were making it a point to hide. Apparently, he was wrong. Harry continues, “What I want to say is … I know we’ve not agreed on anything, that you’re free to want others, be with whoever you want to be with. I thought that you knew where I stood, that if you weren’t saying anything it was because you didn’t want the same thing I did, but it’s been brought to my attention that if I’ve not made an honest offer, I can’t assume you’re saying no.”

Draco’s heart is hammering inside his chest, inside his throat. He doesn’t want to jump to conclusions, but if he’s right, it seems Harry is saying …

“I don’t want this to be a once a month thing. I want to bring you home, I want you to meet my family, and I want the guys to know that I’m saying no to all the people they set me up with because I’m taken and completely uninterested in anyone else. Are you … is that something you want, too? I know you might have better offers, but I – ”

The covers crinkle under Draco’s knees as he sits up, throws a leg over Harry’s body so he can fully sit on his lap and brings him forward by the neck.

“You beautiful idiot. What could be a better offer? Why would I care about any other offers when I have the best one right here?”

They’re kissing, and Harry’s gasping, and Draco’s frenzied heart pounds against his sternum. He nods into the kiss, feels dizzy with how much he wants what’s being offered. Fuck. There’s nothing he wants more.

Harry pulls back a little, whispers: “Does this mean we’re — ?”

“Yes, fuck. It’s — The game’s the game.”

“What — That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Shut up. It’s your quote.”

Then they’re laughing into a new kiss, and it’s not the first, or even the tenth time they’re together like this, but Draco’s heart still goes crazy for this man, for his unlimited talent, his openness, his electric company. Quarter finals are coming up, then semis, then they might meet again on the pitch and Draco might lose and throw a strop and want to tear the hair out of his head over the beautiful Quidditch Harry plays, and then they’ll get to go home and celebrate a victory. No matter who takes the trophy. That’ll be the game.

Read On Ao3

#quidditch rivals but ohh they’re secret lovers bet NOBODY saw that coming #kinda unsure about the tone shift at the end but ITS LATE I’m sorry ok #I just wanted earnest Harry which is MY FAVORITW THING #drarry #drarry fic #Draco Malfoy #Harry Potter #my writing #mywriting

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