#Bluetooth speaker bar | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sunshineangel0 · 2 months ago

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TO HAVE AND TO HOLD —﹙ K.SM ﹚

⌁ wc 9.1k warnings marriage of convenience, single dad!seungmin, nsfw content, unprotected intercourse, light choking, emotional tension, slow burn, fake marriage, mild angst, soft comfort, small town meddling. a/n wow i didnt think i would write almost 10k words!! but here i am and got carried away with seungmin (i should study but lets ignore that). ive just finished reading "wild side" by elsie silver and this idea immediately sparked in my head!! this was so seungmin coded and i just needed to write it. i hope you all like it!! 💕 ⌁ part two of the "twin heart series"

The sky over Summerdale wasn’t just darkening, it was bleeding out. A deep lavender haze rolled in slow from the water, swallowing the last threads of daylight like it had something to say and no rush to say it. The tide lapped against the cliffs below the bluff, whispering its secrets through the pine trees that edged the shoreline, soft and rhythmic, like breath against a sleeping body.

Down on Main Street, the neon sign above The Scallop Heaven blinked in its usual broken pattern "Sca op Heaven" thanks to the leftmost ‘L’ giving out sometime back in February. Nobody had fixed it. Nobody cared. That was the thing about Summerdale: things broke, people shrugged, and life just went on. You either made peace with the cracks or you left. Most people didn’t leave.

You pulled into the back lot, headlights sweeping over the dumpsters and salt-stained siding. The gravel under your tires made that familiar grinding sound, like bones rolling in a socket. You turned the engine off and exhaled a breath that felt like it had been aging in your lungs for years. Your body slumped just slightly in the driver’s seat, caught in that strange twilight stillness where movement felt like too much to ask.

The envelope on the passenger seat stared up at you, sealed but scuffed, the corner bent, the weight of it far heavier than the ounces it contained. It wasn’t just paper. It was intention. Agreement. Consequence. It might as well have been a brick.

You didn’t reach for it. Not yet. Just kept your hands on the wheel and watched the lights flicker off in the upstairs apartment, one room at a time. Soft glows blooming behind worn curtains. Minseo’s bedtime routine was unfolding exactly as expected: the nightlight shaped like a crescent moon staying on, the lullaby playlist humming from the old Bluetooth speaker, and three bedtime stories, in the same order every night. God help you if you swapped them. She was stubborn like that. Solid in her routines. Maybe because everything else in her life had already shifted too much.

Finally, you picked up the envelope and stepped out into the thick, salt-touched air. The car door shut behind you with a quiet, final thud.

Inside the bar, the world was dim and warm in a way that didn’t invite questions. The lighting came mostly from mismatched neon signs advertising brands like Schlitz and Genesee, none of which had been stocked in the fridge since at least 2014. The air smelled like lemon cleaner, spilled whiskey, and wood soaked with too many conversations people pretended not to remember. The kind of place where silence spoke louder than music.

A TV in the corner muttered through a baseball game, the announcer’s voice low and static-filled. Nobody was paying attention.

Behind the bar, Seungmin moved like a man trying to keep from unraveling. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, forearms tensed as he wiped the countertop in slow, punishing strokes. His face was unreadable, carved from quiet resolve and low-grade irritation. Like he was always one memory away from breaking something he couldn’t fix.

He didn’t look up right away when you walked in. Just kept working the cloth like it had insulted him personally.

Then the bell over the door jingled, and his head lifted. His eyes met yours. No smile. There never was, not lately. Not with you. Not because he didn’t want to—but because with you, he didn’t allow himself to slip. Not even for a second.

“You’re early,” he said, voice even, low.

You lifted the envelope slightly. “You’re always here.”

That earned you a shrug—one of those quiet, almost imperceptible movements that said more than words could. A shrug that meant so what, what else is new, what choice do I have.

You crossed the room and slid onto the barstool closest to the register, dropping the envelope between you like a gauntlet. He looked at it like it might bite.

“Everything’s in there,” you said. “License forms, witness sheet, affidavit, notarization schedule. We just need two signatures. And someone willing to lie with a smile.”

He nodded once, then reached for a clean glass and started drying it, gaze fixed somewhere behind you.

“Minseo asleep?”

“Out cold after book number three,” he said. “Same one she always picks. The penguin with the astronaut helmet.”

You smiled without meaning to. “She likes the ending.”

“Because it makes sense,” he said. “It’s the only part that does.”

And there it was again—that stretch of silence. The kind that settled in when two people didn’t know how to name the space between them. Or maybe they did, and neither one wanted to say it out loud.

“I talked to the social worker today,” you said, voice quieter now, like it might spook something. “She asked if we’d set a date.”

His hands paused for just a second. A flicker.

“And?”

“I told her February fourteenth.”

That got his attention. He looked at you for real this time, not just the flick-and-glance. His stare pinned you—focused, assessing, familiar in its intensity.

“Valentines day,” he said. “Day of lovers. Good omen.”

“It’s also three weeks from now.” “I know.”

You studied him—jaw clenched, scar on his knuckle still visible from the bar fight last spring, a faint smear of blue ink on his wrist. Minseo’s markers. Her favorite color.

“You still okay with this?” you asked.

For a beat, he didn’t answer. Just dried his hands slowly, folded the towel, and leaned forward onto the bar.

“I’m not doing it for me.” Soft. Quiet. Unflinching.

“I know,” you said, almost on a breath.

Because this wasn’t about him. Or you. It wasn’t about whatever unfinished history lived in the way he never quite met your eyes when you got too close. This was about the girl upstairs, whose parents had vanished under the weight of their own failures. About keeping her out of the foster system. Out of the trauma mill. Out of courtrooms that didn’t care if she still slept with a stuffed giraffe.

You’d offered your name. He’d offered his time. Together, you’d offered a lie that looked enough like stability to pass as truth.

“This place smells like regret and fried seafood,” you muttered, fingers tapping on the bar. “We couldn’t have met literally anywhere else?”

Seungmin lifted an eyebrow. “This is where I work. This is where I live. This is where she eats.”

He didn’t add and this is all I’ve got, but it echoed anyway. Subtext carved into every breath.

“I’m sleeping in the spare room,” you said. “I figured.”

“And if you snore, I’m buying noise-canceling headphones.” “Be my guest.” “And if this gets weird—” “It’s already weird,” he said. “But we’re still doing it.”

You looked down at the envelope again. It didn’t look heavy anymore. Just final. Your name, written beside his, in ink that wouldn’t wash off.

“You ever think we’re gonna wake up one day and regret this?” you asked.

Seungmin didn’t flinch. “Every day.” And then, with the same calm he used to pour drinks, he peeled the envelope open, pulled out the first form, and flattened it against the counter like it was just part of the job. You watched him. The steadiness of his hands. The restraint in his voice. The quiet ache tucked in the corners of his expression. This wasn’t love. Not yet. But it was something. Duty. Survival. A pact made over coffee and desperation. And somewhere beneath all of it—rising, quiet and patient—was the beginning of something else. Not fake. Not anymore.

You watched Seungmin slide the paperwork out of the envelope like it might disintegrate if he moved too fast. His fingers were steady, precise—the kind of steadiness that comes from trying to hold it together when everything else is coming apart. He didn’t rush. Didn’t fumble. This wasn’t someone signing a few forms for convenience. This was someone about to step out onto a high wire, fully aware there was no net.

He didn’t speak. He almost never did when the stakes were high.

Instead, he read. Line by line. Eyes scanning the page like every word might bite. That was Seungmin’s armor—silence. Careful, controlled, and sharp-edged. But you saw the way his gaze caught on a single line near the top of the form:

Minor child: Minseo Kang.

The name was printed in a government-issued font, uniform, cold, sterile but it still made his jaw tighten. His shoulders shifted, almost imperceptibly, like the weight of her name landed somewhere real. Somewhere that hurt.

He didn’t say Yeji’s name. You didn’t either. That part of the story lived under your tongues now, heavy and unspoken. But the memory didn’t care about silence. It showed up anyway.

Three months ago, your phone rang out of nowhere. The name on the screen stopped you cold: Seungmin. It looked like a mistake, like a ghost dialing from a part of your life you’d already packed away.

You hadn’t spoken in nearly a year. Not really. Just a handful of polite holiday texts. A few heart reacts on mutual friends’ photos. Enough to say we still exist in the same orbit, but nowhere near enough to call it closeness.

Back in high school, you’d barely lived in the same world. You ran with the loud ones, the party crowd, the kids who cut class and vacationed in the Hamptons like it was a birthright. Seungmin had been the quiet boy in the back row, always scribbling in the margins of his textbooks, always turning in homework on time even when no one else bothered.

Then, junior year, he surprised everyone by trying out for the baseball team. Surprised them even more when he became the best batter your school had seen in years. His swing was clean. Focused. Brutal. You remember someone saying he hit like he had something to prove.

But after graduation, when the rest of your class scattered, NYU, UCLA, study abroad programs, gap years in Europe, Seungmin stayed in Summerdale. That always stuck with you. That he stayed. Like the town had something left to hold him, even when most of you couldn’t wait to run.

You picked up expecting awkward small talk. Instead, his voice hit like a car crash. No hello. No lead-in.

Just: “She’s gone. She left her at the apartment and she’s gone. Might need a lawyer at hand.”

She was Yeji. His ex-wife. A hurricane of a woman with pretty lies and a self-destruct button she kept pressing. You remembered her as beautiful, brittle, always halfway out the door. Addiction clung to her like a shadow, quiet at first, then louder, then everything. It had eaten her slow, until there was nothing left but smoke.

Minseo had been six. Alone in the apartment. Crying. Clutching a crumpled lunchbox and a handful of crayon drawings like they could keep her safe.

By the time CPS showed up, the caseworker took one glance at Seungmin, a bartender, single, rent two weeks overdue, and started filling in the foster home recommendation before he’d finished his sentence.

That’s when he called you. Not because you were the best option. Not because you were qualified. Not even because you were particularly close anymore.

He called because you were the only person who wouldn’t ask why him.

Minseo wasn’t his, not on paper. Not biologically. But Yeji had been four months pregnant when she and Seungmin met and got married a few weeks later, and that had never mattered to him. Not once. He’d been twenty-three and drowning in side gigs, barely making enough to cover groceries, but when Minseo was born, he’d signed the birth certificate without hesitation. He’d rocked her to sleep at three a.m. He’d learned how to braid hair. He’d shown up for parent-teacher meetings when Yeji stopped pretending to care. He’d never called her his stepdaughter. He never would.

That night on the phone, you remembered his voice cracking just once. Then he swallowed it down and said, “She’s mine. Even if the paperwork doesn’t say it. She’s mine.”

And before you could even think it through, you said, “Then I’ll make the paperwork say it.”

And then, a breath later: “We’ll get married. For you to get custody.”

There was silence on the line. Heavy. Shocked. Real. He didn’t argue. Didn’t ask if you were joking. He knew you didn’t joke about things like this.

Finally, he said: “Okay.”

And now, here you were. In a half-lit bar that smelled like regret and lemon cleaner, watching him flip slowly to the last page.

The pen between your fingers felt heavier than steel. He paused. Voice low. Careful. “You don’t have to keep doing this. If it’s too much, if you want out, say so now.”

Your fingers curled around the edge of the bar. “Don’t insult me.”

“I’m serious.” “So am I.”

You stood. Not fast. Not dramatic. Just moved, steady and quiet, around the bar until you were close enough to see everything. The faint hollows under his eyes. The smudge of ink on his wrist, still there from Minseo’s last doodle session. The scar on his chin from the fight two springs ago, when some drunk said something about Yeji and didn't walk away fast enough.

“She’s a kid,” you said. “A good one. She says thank you when people hold doors. She remembers birthdays. She cries every time Bambi’s mom dies even though she knows it’s coming. She’s still soft. Still kind.”

His throat worked once. He didn’t speak. “She deserves more than being handed off to a stranger just because the system can’t figure out what love looks like without a blood test.”

When he finally spoke, his voice was wrecked. “And you deserve more than a fake husband with joint custody trauma.”

You huffed. “Don’t flatter yourself. This is strictly bureaucratic foreplay.” A beat of quiet. Then—dry, but soft:

“Liar.” Your stomach flipped.

Not because he was wrong. Because he wasn’t.

But you didn’t let it show. Instead, you held the pen out between you, steady and certain. “Let’s get married, Min.”

He looked at you.

Really looked. Like he was cataloging every piece of you—hair, expression, the resolve in your spine—so he’d remember what you looked like before things changed.

Then he took the pen. And signed.

The Marigold House looked like a set designer’s fever dream, whitewashed clapboard siding gleaming under the late afternoon sun, every window framed with blue shutters that matched the hydrangeas blooming in the front garden. The walkways were lined with crushed shell gravel, crunching lightly under dress shoes and kitten heels, and a trellis of marigolds curled over the gate like the house had grown into the name. It smelled like vanilla, orange blossoms, and something sugary-sweet, like a candle shop or a memory you couldn’t quite place.

You hated it.

Not because it wasn’t beautiful. It was. Everything was, too much so. Too coordinated. Too pretty. The kind of place where people threw real weddings, not legal chess moves disguised in tulle.

The courtyard out back was a honey-drenched watercolor, rows of white folding chairs, cream ribbons fluttering in the breeze, mason jars full of wildflowers perched on every other aisle. It was staged to perfection. Like someone had tried to manifest joy with Pinterest boards and afternoon light.

You stood just off-center from the archway, draped in gauze, strung with fairy lights, clutching a bouquet you didn’t like. Too much lace. Too many peonies. But Minseo had gasped when she saw it that morning and whispered, “You look like the fairy queen from the movie,” and that was the only reason you kept it. Not taste. Not tradition. Her.

Your hands didn’t shake. But your stomach was a war zone.

Across the aisle, Seungmin stood like a man sentenced, navy suit crisp, jaw locked, posture stiff like he was daring the moment to knock him down. He didn’t fidget. Didn’t even blink. Just watched the archway like it might collapse on him. Like maybe he was hoping it would.

He looked good. Too good. Tailored in ways that were unfair, broad shoulders in clean lines, throat dusted with stubble he hadn’t shaved close enough. A bruise-like shadow under one eye from too many sleepless nights. Still, somehow, he looked like gravity. Like a person you’d follow off a cliff if he asked with that voice of his.

In the second row, Chan leaned toward F/N with something snarky on his tongue. She elbowed him before he could finish. You caught her looking at you, and for a moment, her smile softened into something almost tender.

You looked away.

The officiant, a woman named Dottie who gardened with combat boots and baked lavender scones for the PTA, stepped forward with a clipboard in one hand and dirt still under her nails. She cleared her throat with theatrical warmth. “Let’s begin,” she said, a little too loud, her consonants clipping like she was used to reading storybooks to children. “Today, in front of friends and family, we gather to celebrate the union of Kim Seungmin and Y/N L/N”

Union.

The word hit your chest like an elbow. You wanted to laugh. You wanted to leave.

Instead, you felt the small, certain tug of a hand at the hem of your dress.

Minseo. She sat in the front row in a white cotton dress and a flower crown too big for her head, eyes wide, face glowing with the kind of happiness that didn’t know how to question itself yet.

She beamed up at you like this was the best story in the world, and you were the hero.

And just like that, the ache in your stomach stopped mattering.

The ceremony became a blur. Words like commitment, home, forever washed over you like fog. You didn’t hear half of it. You nodded in the right places. Smiled just enough. You remembered the feel of sunlight on your cheek and the way your bouquet weighed heavy against your wrist. You remembered the moment Seungmin reached for your hand.

His touch was calm. Unflinching.

Your breath caught. He wasn’t acting. He looked at you, not like a friend, not like a partner in some plan, but like someone seeing something for the first time that he’d known all along. Dottie smiled like she could feel the shift. Like she’d seen it before in other people and was already rooting for you.

She turned to Seungmin. “Did you prepare something?” He nodded. Slowly. Pulled a folded page from his jacket pocket. But he didn’t unfold it. Didn’t read it. He just held it. Like he needed to know it was there. Then he spoke. Low. Steady. No theatrics.

“You already know I’m not good at this. I don’t do speeches. Or… gestures. But I do what matters. I show up. I stay. I try. Even when it’s hard. I know Im not the best man or... lover or father. But as long as were married I promise to give my best to ensure that you, and Minseo will always have a warm home and a... person you can come home to. I know Im a hard guy. But you said yes. When you didn’t have to. When no one else did. And I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to be someone who deserved that.”

Silence. Thick and dense. No one moved. No one breathed. You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat sharp and unfair. Your chest ached like someone had pulled it open and replaced your ribs with strings. His words were so honest. Raw, Truthful. It made you wonder how long he had thought about them. About what to say. An now you felt bad.

Because you didn’t have vows. You weren’t supposed to have anything.

But then Dottie looked at you, that warm-patient-knowing expression, and suddenly you were speaking. You didn’t remember deciding to.

“I...", you looked up, directly into Seungmins steady brown eyes. They look like hot chocolate swirls, the ones after you stirred the liquid in the mug for minutes with a spoon. They look warm. Sincere. And like theyre holding the world together. Your troath went completely dry, but you continued talking:" I didn´t say yes because someone had to, but becasue I wanted to. Because you never asked for anything, even when everything hurt. Because you carry more than you should. Because the second you said Minseo was yours, I believed you. Ive known you since high school, Seungmin. Even though I didn´t always acknowledged you back then, ignored you most of the time in class, to be honest, I still always had an eye on you. On the hardworking student doing his homework inbetween classes, trying to keep his 90 average just so he can get a scholarship for college. I always saw more in you than just the quiet boy. I always knew you deserved more. And I hope that I will be the one who can give you that”.

Seungmin’s hand gripped yours just a little tighter. Behind you, Minseo sniffled. “That was so good,” she whispered. Way too loud. Someone laughed. Someone else wiped their eyes. You smiled, small. But real.

Dottie beamed. “By the power vested in me by the great state of California and the overwhelming desire of everyone here to see you kiss already—kiss your wife.”

Seungmin didn’t move. Not at first. Then, slowly, like gravity had to decide for him—he stepped in. Closed the distance.

His hand found your jaw, thumb brushing the edge of your cheekbone, and he leaned in like he was stepping over a line neither of you had dared touch before.

And when his lips met yours, it was quiet heat.

He kissed you passionately. Not like he was following a script. Not like he owed anyone anything. But like he was choosing it. Choosing you. Choosing this. And for a moment, the world went still.

His hand stayed steady, fingers curled at your neck. Your mouth opened slightly—only slightly, and he breathed into it, like he was trying to remember the shape of you. It ended before it could deepen.

But you knew. He was choosing you. Choosing this. Like you daydreamed about in class when you were a teenager. About the quiet boy, whose plush lips you wanted to feel against yours so so desperately and who you just wanted to feel close to you. And how you punished yourself back then for being this dumb and not befriending him because you belonged to the popular kids.

But now, he was choosing this. And for a moment, the world went still.

No lie. No paperwork. Just lips. Just warmth. Just the sound of your heart saying finally, finally, finally.

The sun was sinking fast behind the cliffs, casting long shadows over the bluff as guests trickled into the reception space—once a quiet garden, now transformed into a makeshift ballroom draped in paper lanterns and fairy lights. Tables sprawled beneath the open sky, centerpieces spilling with late-summer blooms, wax-dripped candles flickering in rhythm with the coastal breeze. Someone had already hit play on the playlist: soft indie-folk weaving between clinking glasses and easy laughter.

You didn’t let go of Seungmin’s hand right away. Neither did he.

Then Minseo came bounding toward you, arms flung wide, crashing into his side like she’d waited all day for this moment. He caught her without flinching—solid, instinctive—one arm around her tiny frame. The other let go of yours. Gently. Like he didn’t want to. Like maybe he shouldn’t have.

Back to the plan.

You slipped into the crowd like a shadow in tulle. Smiling when you had to. Nodding through small talk. Thanking people for coming. Hugging people too tightly or not tightly enough—people who didn’t know half the story. Most of them thought this was love. That was the point, wasn’t it? Selling the illusion. Convincing them. Convincing yourselves.

Chan found you by the dessert table, which had already been ravaged—cupcake casualties thanks to sugar-hyped toddlers and nostalgic uncles. He had a wine glass in one hand and that unreadable smirk in place.

“So,” he murmured, just loud enough for you. “That kiss?”

You gave him a flat look. “Let me guess. Looked fake as hell.” Then, quickly, to not raise any suspicion, you added: “You know… because we had to do it in front of family and all.”

He tilted his head. “Well actually? Looked pretty damn real.”

You took a sip of champagne instead of answering. Not because you were hiding anything—because you didn’t know what the answer was. Not anymore.

Across the patio, Seungmin caught your eye.

He was crouched by Minseo again, adjusting the strap on her glitter-covered sandal while she chattered wildly, arms slicing the air. He nodded along, completely absorbed. Like nothing else existed. Like this—her, now—was the only thing that mattered.

F/N came up beside you, slipping her arm through yours. Quietly anchoring you.

“You okay?” she asked. Light tone, but real. You nodded. “I think so.”

She glanced toward the empty arch where the ceremony had been, lights still strung across its frame like stars caught in the wood. “You looked happy up there.”

You followed her gaze. “I was.” Just for a moment. Just long enough to think—maybe you weren’t pretending anymore.

Dinner passed in a blur: speeches you half-heard, bites you barely tasted. The dance floor opened. Chan spun Minseo until she collapsed into laughter. Seungmin stood at the edge, hands in his pockets, eyes on her like she might vanish if he blinked.

You drifted off again—habit by now. Toward the edge of the garden, where the lights thinned and the music turned into a distant hum. The grass felt cool under your bare feet when you slipped off your shoes. Finally, the air had cooled too, kissed with salt and stillness.

Then came footsteps. Measured. Familiar. Seungmin.

He stood next to you, saying nothing at first. Just quiet presence. Shoulders a little tight. Hands in his pockets.

“She had fun,” he said eventually. “Said she felt like a princess.”

“She looked like one.” You both smiled. Yours faded first.

“This is going to get harder, isn’t it?” He didn’t play dumb. Just nodded once. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t think it would feel like this.” You turned to look at him. “What does it feel like?” He didn’t answer right away. So you did.

“Like I’m in something I don’t know how to want… but I don’t want to lose it either.”

He nodded again. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”

The silence between you didn’t stretch awkward—it stretched heavy. Full. Like it had weight. Like it was holding everything you couldn’t name. Everything that kiss had awakened, shifted, stirred. Then he said, “Thank you. For today. For… all of it.”

You didn’t say “you’re welcome.” Instead, you said, “If this is what faking it feels like… I’m scared to know what real would even look like.”

He didn’t answer. Not with words. He just stepped closer.

Close enough for you to smell the faint citrus of his aftershave, the warmth rising from his skin, the lived-in softness of him that always felt a little like home.

“Then let’s find out,” he said—so soft you almost missed it.

You didn’t kiss him again. Not yet. But you didn’t walk away either.

The bridal suite looked exactly how a stranger would imagine it: One bed, drowned in rose petals you didn’t ask for. A bottle of unopened champagne sweating in a silver bucket. A clawfoot tub in the corner, positioned like it was waiting for a romance novel cover shoot. Everything white and soft and staged, like someone tried to force intimacy into the decor.

You stood in the doorway for a moment too long, shoes dangling from your fingers, unsure what to do with all that... expectation. It hung in the air heavier than the jasmine-scented diffuser on the vanity.

Seungmin stepped in behind you, hesitated, then shut the door with a soft click. The noise of the party downstairs vanished, sealed off in an instant.

Silence, now. Just the two of you. No Minseo, no guests, no cameras, no pretending.

Only you. And the one bed.

He scratched the back of his neck, already tugging at the stiff collar of his dress shirt. “So... this is what we’re working with.”

You gave a short laugh. “It’s aggressively romantic.”

“Feels like a setup.” You glanced at the petals on the bedspread and snorted. “That’s because it is.”

He didn’t answer, just moved toward the window and cracked it open an inch. The sea breeze filtered in immediately, tugging at the curtains and carrying with it the scent of salt and night-blooming flowers. You walked to the armchair in the corner, dropping your heels beside it and sinking into the cushion.

Your feet were sore. Your back ached. Your head buzzed with champagne and things left unsaid.

“We can flip for the bed,” you offered after a beat.

Seungmin glanced over his shoulder. “Flip?”

“Yeah. Winner gets the bed. Loser gets the... uh.” You looked around. “The chaise lounge that looks like it’s built for Victorian fainting, not sleep.”

He gave a half-smile. “Or, hear me out, we’re adults. Were... officially married. It’s a big bed. We can both fit.”

You stared at him for a second, waiting for the punchline. But he didn’t flinch.

“Yeah,” you said slowly. “Yeah, okay.”

You stood and padded toward the bathroom, peeling out of your dress with practiced movements. You folded it neatly over the back of the chair and pulled on the hotel-provided robe, soft, oversized, impersonal. The makeup wipes felt cool on your skin, like an eraser dragging away the bride mask you’d worn all day. You shortly cleansed your face and dabbed on a serum and moisturizer, before fiddling your hair into a quick braid.

When you stepped back into the room, Seungmin was already on his side of the bed, facing the window. Still in his dress pants and undershirt. The top three buttons undone, tie tossed over the bedside table. He hadn’t touched the champagne either.

You crossed to the opposite side, climbed under the covers cautiously. The sheets were crisp and cold and smelled faintly of bleach.

The mattress dipped with your weight. The room felt smaller somehow.

You lay on your back at first, arms pinned close, staring up at the ornate crown molding. He did the same. For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then “Can’t sleep?” His voice was low. Barely more than a murmur.

You smiled at the ceiling. “Didn’t even try yet.” More silence. Not awkward. Just... thick. Pregnant with whatever was pressing at the edges of this whole night.

“I keep thinking about earlier,” you said eventually. “The kiss. What Chan said.” Seungmin’s voice came slower this time. “Yeah. Me too.”

You turned to face him. He was already looking at you. Eyes open. Vulnerable. Like he didn’t know what the hell to do with how close you were now, physically or otherwise.

Your knees bumped under the covers. Neither of you moved away.

“I didn’t expect it to feel like that,” you admitted. “Me neither.”

Another beat. Then you asked, “What did it feel like to you?” He licked his lips, eyes darting across your face like he was searching for the safest way to answer. “Like I was breaking a rule... but it was a rule that never made sense in the first place.”

That stopped your breath for a moment. The quiet pressed deeper between you, wrapping you both in it. Your fingers shifted beneath the covers, brushing against his by accident—or maybe not. He didn’t pull away. His pinky grazed yours. Then lingered.

A whisper of contact. Stupid and small and devastating. Your breath hitched.

He heard it. Of course he did. His hand turned palm-up, open. Waiting. You didn’t think. You just slid your fingers into his.

The sheets rustled as he shifted slightly toward you. Closer. So close now, your knees aligned. The line of his body was heat and muscle and hesitation.

“Do you think we’re making a mistake?” you whispered. He shook his head, the motion barely visible in the dark. “No. I think not doing anything would be the mistake.”

You exhaled slowly, heart thudding so loud it felt like he could hear it. Then he said, “Can I touch you?”

The question landed like a drop of warm honey in your chest, slow, deliberate, sweet.

You nodded. “Yes.”

His fingers lifted to your face, brushing your cheekbone. Gentle, reverent. He traced the line of your jaw, then your bottom lip, his thumb barely grazing it.

You leaned into it, eyes fluttering closed. Everything in the room faded—the rose petals, the champagne, the fake romance. What remained was something quieter, rawer. The truth, maybe. Or at least the beginning of it.

You shifted closer, chest to chest now, knees tangled.

You could feel his breath on your skin, the hitch of it as your hands explored the space between shoulder and waist, slipping beneath the edge of his shirt. Warm skin. Steady heartbeat. Every inch felt like a confession.

Neither of you rushed it. But the ache was building. Slow and hungry.

And this time, when you kissed him, there was no audience, no plan, no pretending.

Just you. Just him. Just real.

The kiss started slow.

Cautious. Soft. A testing of boundaries neither of you had dared cross before now. His lips brushed yours once, featherlight, almost reverent. Like he was asking permission even as your bodies already answered.

You kissed him back. That was all it took. Something inside Seungmin snapped, some invisible thread that had held him in check all day, through the ceremony, the photos, the act. It unraveled in a heartbeat.

He surged forward, mouth hungry, hands threading into your hair as he deepened the kiss like he wanted to climb inside you. His tongue licked into your mouth, desperate and sure. You moaned, breath caught, thighs instinctively parting beneath the sheets.

“Fuck,” he growled, pulling back just enough to look at you, hair messy, pupils blown wide, lips already swollen. “Sorry. Im so sorry, but gosh, Y/N. Do you know how long ive wanted to do this? Do you know how hard it was all day, marrying you, making you my wife and having to pretend you haven´t been showing up in my wet dreams since high school?", he growled. "Pretty, popular Y/N L/N. You know how bad I wanted to fuck you back then? Do you know how bad I want you right now?"

"Show me,” you whispered. That did it.

He moved fast, tugging the robe off your shoulders, baring skin inch by inch like unwrapping something sacred. His hands didn’t fumble. They claimed. Traced. Gripped.

“Look at you,” he murmured, dragging his mouth down your throat, over your collarbone. “So fucking beautiful. My wife.”

The word sent a jolt straight through you. You weren’t used to hearing it like that, hot and reverent in the same breath. You didn’t think it would turn you on the way it did. But Seungmin said it like a vow. Like a right. Like he was ready to worship you with his mouth and his hands and every sharp edge of him.

“If we’re already married,” he said against your chest, licking a slow stripe up your sternum, “we might as well act like it.”

Then his mouth closed around your nipple and your back arched hard.

He sucked deep and slow while his fingers slid between your thighs. No teasing. Just heat and friction and filthy, slick pressure. You were soaked already—your whole body trembling, wrecked from a day of pretending.

He kissed lower, dragging the sheets with him, settling between your thighs with a low groan.

“Been thinking about this since I saw you today,” he admitted, breath hot against your core. “That little white dress. You didn’t even know how good you looked, did you?”

You whimpered as his mouth found you, tongue firm and greedy, licking you open like he was starving. You couldn’t stay still, hips grinding, thighs clenching around his head. He didn’t stop. He held you there, hands anchoring you down as his tongue fucked you deeper and his voice vibrated against your skin:

“Take it, baby. You can take it. That’s it... that’s my girl.”

You were already close, embarrassingly fast, but he pulled back just before you tipped over.

“No,” he muttered. “Not yet. I want you to come on my cock first.”

He crawled up your body again, his chest flush with yours, cock heavy and hard between you. One hand grabbed your jaw, angling your face to meet his eyes.

“Last chance,” he said, voice dark and low. “You want me to stop?”

You shook your head fast, desperate. “No. Don’t you fucking dare.”

He growled and kissed you again, messy and deep, grinding against your core like he was already inside you.

“I’m going to fuck you raw,” he whispered into your mouth. “I’ll pull out. I swear. For now. But I need to feel you. All of you.”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Yes, yes, just do it, Seungmin, please.”

The blunt head of his cock slid against your entrance, wet, hot, perfect. He pushed in slow, inch by inch, jaw clenched so tight you thought he might snap.

“Jesus,” he hissed. “You feel... fuck, baby, you feel like heaven.”

You weren’t quiet either. You dug your nails into his back as he bottomed out, the stretch too much and not enough all at once. The feeling of him bare, skin to skin, filled some kind of void you hadn’t realized was aching.

Then he started moving. And the rhythm wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t careful. It was raw.

He fucked you like he owned you, like he’d earned it after every second of pretending, every fake smile, every polite touch that meant nothing compared to this.

The bed creaked. Your moans turned high and desperate. His grip bruised your hips as he drove into you harder, faster, head pressed to your shoulder.

“You’re mine tonight,” he groaned. “Mine. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped. “All yours.”

“Fucking right you are.” One hand reached up and wrapped around your throat, not tight, but enough to claim. To hold. To make your breath catch as he pounded into you, each thrust snapping something loose in your brain.

You clawed at him, pulled him closer, whispered his name like a prayer.

When your orgasm hit, it was violent, body locking, back arching, vision gone white. You sobbed his name, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes.

Seungmin cursed low and pulled out just in time, spilling hot across your stomach with a strangled noise that sounded half-pain, half-devotion.

He didn’t collapse immediately. He stared down at you, panting, flushed, ruined and whispered, “You’re everything.”

Then he kissed you again. Slow now. Gentle. Full of wonder. And for the first time all day, the act was over. This was real.

The room was warm now. Too warm.

The air felt thick with sweat, breath, and everything unsaid. Your heart still pounded in your ribs like it hadn’t caught up with the rest of your body yet. Your chest rose and fell in slow, uneven waves, the world quiet except for the soft rustle of sheets and the muted whistle of the breeze through the cracked window.

Seungmin was still above you, braced on his elbows, forehead resting gently against yours like he couldn’t quite let go yet. Like if he moved, the spell might break.

You weren��t in a rush either. His breath ghosted over your cheek. Warm. Human. Steady. “I wasn’t supposed to do that,” he said, voice low and ruined.

You didn’t move. “But you did.”

“Yeah,” he breathed, more to himself. “I did.” His thumb brushed your jaw. Just once. Soft. Reverent.

“I should’ve taken it slower,” he murmured. “You deserved more than that.”

You turned your head, met his gaze in the dim light. “That was more,” you said, quietly. “That wasn’t nothing, Seungmin.” He exhaled like he’d been holding that breath for days. You reached up and pushed the damp hair off his forehead. “You okay?”

He nodded, slow and quiet. “Yeah. I just—”

His mouth opened. Closed. He rolled onto his side, pulling you gently with him so your body settled into the curve of his chest. One arm wrapped around your waist. Not tight, but firm. Protective.

You felt safe. It startled you a little, how safe. “I kept thinking about it,” he said into your hair. “All day. You. Us. I told myself I wouldn’t... not unless it meant something.”

You pressed your palm to his chest, right over his heartbeat. “And did it?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. It did.” Silence stretched between you again. This time, it felt like a blanket. “I used to think about you,” you said, your voice a murmur in the dark. “In school. In class. I’d pretend I didn’t notice you, but I did. Every time.”

He let out a quiet breath, the hint of a laugh buried in it. “I used to imagine you were way out of my league.” You smiled into his chest. “I kind of was.”

“Yeah,” he said. “You were. And now you’re... my wife.” The word made your stomach twist in a way you weren’t ready for. “You don’t have to keep calling me that,” you said, light but careful. He pulled back just enough to see your face, his expression unreadable.

“I want to.” You swallowed. “Okay.”

His hand stroked down your back, slow and soothing. “This doesn’t have to be anything we’re not ready for,” he said. “But I’m not going to pretend anymore, either.”

You blinked. “Pretend what?” “That I don’t want you. That I haven’t wanted you for a long time. That this... doesn’t feel like the start of something.”

Your throat tightened. “We made a plan. For Minseo. For—”

“I know,” he said. “And I meant it. I’ll keep my promise. We’ll raise her right. We’ll keep her safe.” His hand slid under the blanket, palm warm against your spine. “But I’m allowed to want the rest too. If you want it.”

You turned in his arms, meeting him fully, heart raw and exposed. “What if I’m scared?” you asked.

He cupped your face again, his touch almost unbearably gentle now. “Me too,” he whispered. “But if we’re going to build a lie that feels this real... maybe it’s not a lie anymore.” Your breath hitched.

“I meant what I said,” he added. “You didn’t have to say yes. But you did. And I want to be the man who makes that mean something.”

You felt the tears sting before you could stop them. “Seungmin...”

“I’ve got you,” he said, voice breaking just slightly. “Whatever this turns into. However long it takes. I’ve got you.” He kissed your forehead. Then your nose. Then your mouth. Slow. Tender. Nothing urgent, just connection. Just care. He held you like something precious. Like something he’d finally been allowed to keep.

THREE WEEKS LATER

The mornings had started to find their rhythm.

Not perfectly. Not smoothly. But real.

You woke to the smell of pancakes, again. Seungmin had a thing about breakfast, apparently. Said it anchored the day. You suspected it was more about giving Minseo something constant, something warm to start from. She still clung to her routines like a life vest.

You padded into the kitchen barefoot, robe slung haphazardly around your body, hair in a loose braid that had barely survived the night. The sound of cartoon voices filtered in from the living room, Minseo’s Saturday morning ritual, and over it all: the low sizzle of batter on a skillet, and Seungmin humming some unidentifiable tune under his breath.

He looked up when you walked in.

His hair was a mess. He hadn’t shaved. There was flour on his wrist and a smear of something syrupy on the hem of his shirt. He looked like someone who belonged in a kitchen at 8:07 a.m., tired but present.

His eyes lingered for a beat too long on your legs. “Good morning, wife,” he said, voice still sleep-scratchy.

You rolled your eyes, fighting a smile. “We’re still doing that?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Feels right.” You walked over and stole a piece of half-cooked pancake off the spatula.

“Hey,” he protested, swatting at your hand half-heartedly. “That’s illegal.”

You shrugged, mouth full. “Sue me. But as far as Im concerned Im the lawyer in this household. You can punish me if you want, though”

“I already married you. Isn’t that punishment enough?” Behind you, a tiny voice shouted from the living room: “I heard that!” Seungmin snorted. “She’s always listening.”

You leaned against the counter and watched him flip the next pancake, his movements efficient and quiet. You could tell when he was tired, he moved slower, less crisp. There were new shadows under his eyes. He’d been picking up extra shifts again, covering for a coworker who disappeared without warning.

You crossed the kitchen and slipped your arms around his waist from behind.

He paused for half a second, then relaxed into it, leaned back slightly so your cheek fit into the curve of his shoulder.

“This okay?” you murmured. “Yeah,” he said. “Better than okay.”

He turned the stove off and let the last pancake settle in the pan. Then he turned around, arms sliding around your waist now, pulling you in close.

It was still new, this touch. Familiar and strange at once. Domestic. Intimate. The kind of thing people didn’t notice when they’d been doing it for years. But for you, every brush of skin still felt like a step forward.

He looked down at you, eyes soft. “I like this,” he said. “Us. Here.”

“Even with Minseo insisting on watching that weird octopus show every morning?”

“Even then.” You reached up, brushed a strand of hair off his forehead. “You look exhausted.”

“I am.”

“You could sleep in once in a while, you know.”

“And miss Saturday pancakes?” You rolled your eyes again, but your heart ached a little. With love. With guilt. With everything you still didn’t quite know how to say out loud. Minseo called from the couch, “Is it ready yet?”

Seungmin kissed your temple. “That’s my cue.” You watched him go, watched the way he moved toward the small girl sprawled on the carpet in her dinosaur pajamas, plate in hand, grin already blooming.

She squealed when she saw him. He sat cross-legged beside her, balancing the plate on his knee, feeding her bites between episodes like it was the most natural thing in the world. You leaned against the doorway and just… watched.

Watched the man who used to be a stranger to you, now barefoot in your house. Watched the girl who used to cry herself to sleep, now giggling through a mouthful of pancake. This wasn’t love yet. But it was something. And it was growing.

SIX MONTHS LATER

The laundry never stayed folded.

Minseo had this habit of digging through the baskets looking for the dress, the blue one with the sparkles and the spaghetti straps and the small ink stain that hadn’t washed out. It didn’t matter that there were six other perfectly fine outfits. That was the one. Always had been.

So when you walked into the bedroom and found her standing triumphantly on the bed, arms up, mismatched socks already on, blue dress clinging to her sides like a second skin, you didn’t bother arguing.

Seungmin looked up from the dresser with a crooked smile and no energy to stop her.

“You wanna tell her it’s not weather-appropriate?” he asked.

You looked at Minseo’s messy braid, her socks pulled up to her knees like legwarmers, and shrugged. “I’m not trying to die today.”

“She’s terrifying when she’s committed.”

“Gets that from you.”

He smirked and walked past, pressing a soft kiss to your jaw on the way to the kitchen. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t tense. It wasn’t new anymore, this casual touch, this quiet affection. It happened all the time now. In the mornings, when you passed each other at the bathroom sink. At night, when you reached for his hand in the dark. Mid-conversation, when he tucked your hair behind your ear like he’d been doing it forever.

It had crept in slowly. The love. It hadn’t arrived like fireworks. It hadn’t needed to.

It came in the form of grocery lists and hair detangler and "I already took out the trash" and “Did you eat today?” and the way Minseo had stopped correcting people when they called you her mom. It came in the form of a fully lived-in life.

The apartment reflected it. Messy in the corners, clean where it mattered. A basket of crayons on the coffee table. Three jackets by the door. A fridge full of leftovers in takeout containers labeled in Seungmin’s blocky handwriting. Pictures on the wall, Minseo in the park, Seungmin asleep on the couch with her on his chest, a blurry photo Chan had taken of the three of you, laughing so hard it looked fake. But it wasn’t.

You spent Sunday mornings in bed now, all three of you, tangled in sheets and limbs, cartoons playing quietly in the background. Seungmin called it “the family puddle.” Minseo insisted on pancakes every time. Sometimes he burned them. You still ate them anyway.

He never said I love you with words. But he said it when he kissed your shoulder in the kitchen. When he pulled you back into bed after the alarm. When he wrote “get home safe” on the inside of your wrist with a marker before you left for court one morning.

One night, long after Minseo had gone to bed, her nightlight casting blue stars on the ceiling, you sat on the couch, half-draped over Seungmin’s chest, and whispered, “Do you ever think about how this all started?”

His fingers kept tracing slow circles on your back. “All the time.”

You tilted your head to look up at him. “Do you think we were faking it at first?” He shook his head. “I think we were afraid to believe it was real.”

Silence passed like a heartbeat. “And now?” you asked.

Seungmin looked down at you. The smallest smile curved his mouth. “Now it’s just us.”

You nodded, pressing a soft kiss to his chest, over the spot where his heart beat slow and steady. “Yeah,” you whispered. “It is.”

Minseo stirred in the next room. The wind rustled the trees outside the window. The clock ticked. The radiator clicked.

It wasn’t magic. It wasn’t extraordinary. It was real. And for the first time in your life, real felt like enough.

The windows fogged faintly from the heat inside and the chill of the ocean air outside. Salt crusted the edges of the glass, and the soft clang of pans echoed faintly from the open kitchen. The smell of frying bacon, buttery toast, and strong coffee settled into the booths like an old friend.

It was early enough that the rush hadn’t started. Just a few regulars with coffee cups refilled without asking and a waitress wiping down the sugar dispensers with a rhythm born from muscle memory.

Minseo sat in the booth, legs swinging, a chocolate chip pancake face-down in syrup, her cheek smudged with powdered sugar. She was in one of her moods, singing quietly to herself, narrating her breakfast like a cooking show host. You and Seungmin sat across from her, shoulder to shoulder, a shared cup of coffee between you, half-sipped.

You were barefoot in sneakers. He was still rubbing sleep from his eyes. This was your life now. Breakfast booths. Sticky menus. A child quietly humming a melody to her strawberries. And it felt… good. It felt settled.

“Be honest,” Seungmin said, leaning in, voice low and conspiratorial, “You think she’s going to finish that pancake or wear it as a hat first?”

“She’s definitely wearing it,” you whispered back. “Excuse me,” Minseo said through a mouthful, “I can hear you.”

You both laughed, one of those quiet couple-laughs, full of shared language and affection that didn’t need names. The bell over the diner door chimed.

Yang Jeongin stepped through, carrying a clipboard and a half-zipped jacket, his hair still damp from the ocean air. He moved with the kind of ease you only earn when you’ve come home and decided to stay.

“Hey,” he called, nodding toward the booth as he passed. “Morning, folks.” Minseo perked up immediately. “Mr. Jeongin! You’re late!”

Jeongin grinned. “I prefer fashionably delayed.” He ruffled her hair as he passed and headed behind the counter, slipping into a soft rhythm, checking the order forms, restocking napkins, greeting the cook with a backhanded high five. The place already looked more alive under his care, like it remembered how to breathe again.

Seungmin watched him for a moment, then leaned toward you. “Can you believe he came back?”

You raised a brow. “You mean the boy who once said, and I quote, ‘I’d rather eat my diploma than run a diner in Summerdale?’”

Seungmin smirked. “The very same.”

“You guys still talk?”

“Sometimes. Late shifts. He’s… different now. Softer. In a good way.”

You glanced over to see Jeongin talking to F/N by the pastry case. Her eyes lit up in that way that was half surprise, half defense, like she hadn’t expected him, and yet somehow always had. Something unspoken passed between them.

Seungmin followed your gaze. “He’s not here just for the diner.”

“No,” you agreed. “He’s not.”

Then Seungmin turned back to you. Minseo was now constructing a pancake tower with a level of engineering brilliance that might win her a scholarship someday. The diner clinked and buzzed around you. And suddenly, everything slowed.

You looked at Seungmin, and he looked at you, and it wasn’t one of those cinematic, heart-racing, swell-of-music moments. It was quiet. Steady. Earned.

“I love you,” he said. Just like that. Your breath caught, but you didn’t freeze. You just smiled. Slowly. Like something inside you had clicked into place.

“Took you long enough,” you murmured. He kissed the back of your hand, soft and sure. “I know.” From across the table, Minseo looked up.

“Is this one of those gross love moments?” she asked.

You both nodded, grinning. “Good,” she said. “Because I want waffles next time.”

You laughed, leaned into Seungmin’s side, and let the moment settle.

Outside, the sea crashed in its usual rhythm. Inside, your family ate pancakes in a booth under flickering fluorescent lights. And it was perfect.

©sunshineangel0 𖹭 if you liked this work, please consider reblogging, commenting or liking! xoxo franzi 💋

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harmonyrae · 5 months ago

Text

Crimson Ice

Synopsis: Zayne is the most self-less, kindhearted person you know. He remembers everything you like and is very aware of your needs. He's done his research and has encouraged you to consider his offer. And tonight, you are more than ready, but there's one thing you need to do first.

Content Warnings: SO FLUFFY but then steamy, explicit language & sexual content, mentions of menstrual cycle, feminine products, blood/bleeding, fingering, oral (m&f receiving) & yes oral while on period so blood near mouth (I researched it don't worry), needy Zayne, 18+ MDNI

Word Count: 5k

You lean against the counter and close your eyes, letting the steam from the tea kettle warm your face. The phone barely rings twice before Zayne picks up.

“Everything okay, my love? I just got off work.”

The butterflies in your stomach swirl when you hear him use that name. You giggle to yourself and try to ignore how the butterflies turn to fireworks.

“I was wondering if you could stop at the store for something?”

“What do you need?”

You’re glad he can’t see how you’re blushing. It’s not that you’re embarrassed, you’re just not sure you’ll ever get used to talking about your period so openly with him.

“Can you pick up some pads for me?”

You hear the door to his car close and assume the Bluetooth is connected. His voice sounds far away when he speaks again, you can tell you’re on speaker phone.

“The same kind I’ve gotten for you before? Or something else?”

You hesitate for a moment and wait until you hear him driving to speak again. You didn’t need anyone in the parking garage to overhear your pad preferences. You’re about to speak when you hear a faint chirp.

“I’ve taken you off speaker phone.”

You laugh softly, the blush on your cheeks deepening.

“Thank you… Yeah, the same ones. I should have picked up more yesterday.”

“So the tracker app I recommended was accurate then?”

“Yes… it was. I don’t know how, but it’s strangely accurate with the predictions. It sent me a message yesterday to make sure I was prepared and I didn’t take it seriously.”

“Well now you know for next month. Did you need anything else? I can pick up dinner?”

Your stomach growls, how long has it been since you ate something? The nausea is always bad on day one, so you’ve barely eaten. Now that the sun was setting, you were ravenous. Instantly, the image of a massive burger comes to mind. Followed by a milkshake.

“Is that burger place you took me to still open? The one with the really weird milkshake options?”

“Yes, last I checked it is still open. Do you want a cheeseburger?”

You turn off the stove and move the kettle to the counter. You struggle to open the honey jar with one hand and drizzle honey on the bottom of your mug. Your grunts of frustration echo through the phone. You hear Zayne’s low chuckle.

“You know you can put me on speaker, right?”

You scoff and close the honey jar loudly. You drop the tea bag into the mug and pour the steaming water on top of it.

“I had it handled…”

“I’ll get you what you ordered last time, with the extra crispy fries and a… carrot cake milkshake?”

The disgust in his tone is evident and you cover your mouth to stifle your laugh. He’s being so sweet… Of course he remembers what kind of pads you use and what you ordered. He always remembers. Your heart pounds and you just want to grab him and kiss him…

“Darling?”

Zayne’s voice cuts through your fantasy and you nearly drop your phone. You sigh and slide onto the bar stool, resting your head on your hand as you wait for your tea to cool.

“Yes, that sounds perfect. I’m really hungry…”

“Have you been nauseous today? Did you drink some ginger tea?”

You stir the tea in front of you. The strong scent of ginger is almost too much, but it has helped calm your stomach all day.

“Drinking some now. I’ve had a few cups actually.”

“Good, I hope it helped. I’ll be home soon.”

You hang up and sip your tea. When you woke up this morning you knew something was off, you usually don’t have cramps when you start your period so you were confused with your stomach ache. Usually back pain makes you double over, but this month mother nature graced you with something new. When the familiar nausea hit you, you rushed to the bathroom and sure enough.

You were looking forward to a relaxing weekend with Zayne, but he had been called in for an emergency surgery and now your period… You scroll through your phone until you find the checklist you made for this weekend. Shopping for the hospital’s charity gala would have to wait, you were too bloated to find the right dress. Organizing the attic was definitely not happening, you were not risking inhaling dust and sneezing. Baking cookies for the Hunters of Tomorrow… you’d eat all of them and spend the next three days feeling guilty and sick. You take your mug to the sink and quickly wash it, setting it on the rack to dry. You shuffle to the living room and flop down on the couch.

The next thing you know, the front door is opening, you didn’t know when you fell asleep but your neck was killing you. You sit up and roll your neck, the tense muscles popping. You sit up and try to smile at Zayne as he approaches you. His expression is calm, but is laced with concern.

“Does your neck hurt?”

You nod and sheepishly look away. He sets two large paper bags on the coffee table and removes his coat, draping it over the couch as he walks around behind you. You tremble as his cold fingers trace your neck and slowly massage the strained muscles.

“Sorry…”

He’s always apologizing for his cold hands, but you’ve grown to love the chill that runs through you when he touches you. You tip your head forward to let his fingers work up the center of your neck. His thumbs press against a particularly tender spot and you flinch. He pulls back immediately and places his palm over the spot, gently cooling the skin and easing the pain.

“Don’t apologize. It feels good.”

He removes his hand and you almost whimper at the loss of contact. You’ve been thinking about curling up with him all day. His skin cooling yours, his fingers tracing lazy circles dipping lower to massage your lower stomach. A shiver runs down your spine, you stretch, trying to distract yourself from the onslaught of dirty thoughts.

Zayne sits next to you and opens the bags on the table. He pulls out your pads, the exact brand you wanted, and then a new box of ginger tea. You smile when you notice he got the honey ginger flavor. He also pulls out a box of your favorite peanut butter chocolate candies and you let out a squeal. He looks over at you and smiles, those bright green eyes sparkling.

He opens the food bag next and places the first container down, opening it to reveal a huge order of extra crispy fries. You immediately reach out to grab one, but Zayne smacks at your hand gently.

“Patience. Let me get everything set up for you.”

He was always pampering you during your period. Massages, cooking, gentle words of affirmation. It drives you crazy, especially with your worst symptom getting harder to ignore. You’ve been in a relationship with him for almost a year and only last month had you finally worked up the courage to tell him about it. He was familiar with your ovulation routine, but he had no idea how feral you became during your menstrual cycle. He spent almost an hour assuring you that it was normal and there had been several studies about sex during your period being healthy. Going as far as explaining that it might help alleviate cramps. You weren’t sure at the time and he left for a conference a few days later, so you didn’t have a chance to revisit the topic.

“Fine. I’ll get some silverware.”

You stand and go to the kitchen to get two sets of silverware and plates. You return to your spot on the sofa and watch Zayne lay out napkins on the coffee table, he reaches for the plates and his fingers brush against yours. You nearly drop them, but Zayne grabs them firmly. He takes your hand and pulls you down onto the sofa. His gentle gaze makes the burning sensation between your legs even worse.

“A teriyaki-glazed burger with cheese, lettuce, tomato, mayo and a thick slice of grilled fresh pineapple. You always go for a sweet and salty option don’t you?”

“Why should I have to choose when this burger exists?”

He laughs and carefully plates your burger. He opens the container with his and your eyes nearly start watering. You cough and lean forward, peering into the box at his burger.

“What on earth did you get?! Why does it smell so spicy?”

He plates his burger and you spot the grilled jalapeños and pepper-jack cheese. When did he start liking spicy food?

“It’s called a ‘Heatwave Burger’ - it has pepper-jack cheese, caramelized onions, a chili aioli, avocado and grilled and fried jalapeños.”

Your mouth hangs open and you stare at him.

“I accidentally had fried jalapeños at a banquet during the conference I was at last month and ended up really liking them. Since then I’ve tried a few things.”

He pops a fried jalapeño in his mouth and he sighs, savoring the flavor. His cheeks flush as the heat filters through his senses. His glasses slip down his nose a bit and you bite your lip suppressing every urge to tear them off of his face and kiss him. You weren’t a big fan of spicy food, but tasting the heat on his tongue while his cold fingers held you close…

You clear your throat and grab your milkshake, sticking your straw in and taking a large gulp. If you can focus on eating maybe this urge to jump his bones will subside. You carefully cut your burger in half and take a bite. Goosebumps rise along your arms as you chew, the sweetness of the pineapple mingles with the smoky teriyaki. When you look over, you see Zayne watching you while he nibbles on a fry. Your cheeks flush and you pout.

“Why are you staring?”

He smiles and cleans his hands on a napkin. He carefully removes his cufflinks and starts rolling up his sleeves. You freeze, staring at his hands as they roll the fabric up over his elbows. Damn your weakness for forearms. And damn him for having spectacular ones.

“I’m just happy to see you eating.”

You force yourself to look up at him. A small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. Is he doing this on purpose? Rolling up his sleeves like that? You drop your gaze and focus on your burger. You’re only able to finish half of it and a handful of fries before you’re full. Zayne splits the fries between the two burger containers and you place the half you didn’t eat inside. You both stand and walk into the kitchen, placing the containers in the fridge and the leftover milkshakes in the freezer.

“They’ll be a nice midnight snack.”

Surprised, you look at Zayne as he washes the plates and silverware at the sink.

“You never approve of midnight snacks… Who are you and what have you done with my Zaynie?”

You hold up two fingers and point your finger gun at him. He chuckles, his shoulders shaking as he turns to dry his hands on a towel. The water drips down his arm and you watch the muscles in his forearm twitch and flex. You let out a shaky breath. He looks so good like this. Sleeves rolled up, glasses sitting low on his nose, face flushed from his spicy burger, just washing dishes after dinner. The domesticity of it all is the most attractive thing in the world to you right now…

“You’re staring again.”

You blink and watch him step towards you. You instinctively step back and your hip hits the edge of the counter. You wince and grab your hip, Zayne’s hand covers your own and you hold still, the feel of his skin touching yours is intoxicating and you just want to freeze this moment. Zayne steps closer and his breath tickles your ear.

“Have you thought about what we talked about last month?”

You finally meet his gaze. His eyes scan your face, his other hand stroking your arm. He leans forward to press a kiss to your forehead.

“I have…”

“My opinion hasn’t changed. Whatever you want to do, I’m here.”

It takes all of two seconds for you to throw your arms around him and slot your mouth over his. He wraps an arm around you and braces himself against the counter with the other. With your chest pressed against him, you can feel his heart pounding in his chest.

You drop your hands to his waist and pull his shirt up, untucking it from his pants. As your fingers fumble with the buttons he grabs your hips and starts to pull you towards the bedroom. His lips ghost over your neck and jaw, teasing kisses as he walks. With his shirt open, you run your hands over his chest, your fingers circling his nipples as you latch onto his bottom lip.

He throws open the bedroom door and you don’t bother to try to close it. Just as you approach the bed, you spin, your hands pushing against his chest to push him down. He grunts as he falls onto the bed. You kneel in front of him and start to unbuckle his belt, but he grabs your hands.

“Wait, this is supposed to be about you… not me.”

You can’t stand it anymore. You’ve worked hard to find a balance, a give and take, but every time Zayne turns you on you have only one desire. And every time you try to act, he pushes back and pampers you. Even when you’re not on your period, he always focuses on your pleasure first. But now that you’re finally indulging, you can’t stay quiet any more.

“I should –”

You cut him off.

“Zayne, I love you so much, but… I don’t want this to just be about me. You don’t realize how good it feels for me when I pleasure you. When I hear you moan and whimper… fuck, I’m obsessed with those sounds.”

He looks down and runs a hand over the back of his neck. He clears his throat and shifts on the bed. Your hands rise to cup his face and he slowly looks up to meet your gaze.

“You deal with so much every day, your job demands everything from you and you come home and put my needs above your own. You’re the most selfless person I know and I love you for that, but all I want right now is to help you let go. You deserve to feel good, your needs are important to me.”

He runs his hands down your arms. The crease between his brows is deep, you can’t help yourself, you lean forward and kiss the center of his forehead. His face relaxes and he lets out a breath. You rest your forehead against his.

“Zayne, I’ve come from just sucking your dick.”

His grip on your forearms tighten, his legs tremble against your waist.

“You can do whatever you want to me later, but I need this. I need you to let go for me…”

You run your hands down the sides of his neck and onto his chest. His hands rest on your arms, not directing them, simply moving with you. You slide them over his shoulders and push his shirt over and down his arms. He lets go of you and shrugs his shirt off, letting it fall behind him on the bed. Your hands glide down his chest and over his abs.

“To taste you…”

You lean forward and lick along the hollow ridge at the center of his stomach. He groans, his hands gripping the comforter.

“To feel you…”

You bend your knee and stand just enough to drag your nose along his jaw before dipping down to his collarbone. You place tender kisses along the top of his chest and then turn your head to suck his nipple into your mouth. He gasps and his hands release the comforter to reposition behind him to stop himself from falling.

“To watch you lose control for me…”

You lower yourself to your knees and continue unbuckling his belt. When you look back up at him, his chest is heaving and his eyes are barely open. He stares down at you and watches you unzip his pants. You hook your fingers into the waist and yank them down harshly along with his underwear. The sudden pull causes him to fall back onto his elbows.

He gasps as you wrap your hand around his cock and slowly start to pump him. He sits back up, his hands propping him up. You run your thumb over his swollen tip, perfect beads of precum slowly leaking out. Your mouth waters and you squeeze his thigh with your free hand to ground yourself. You don’t want to rush this…

“Wait…”

You barely hear him over the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears. You look up and watch his eyes drop to your chest.

“Take off your shirt.”

You’re about to argue, but the way he looks at you… he’s begging. God, that’s fucking hot. You release him for a moment to pull your shirt over your head. You reach behind you and unhook your bra, letting the straps drop down your shoulders. You watch Zayne’s pupils dilate as you pull the cups away.

You lick your hands and rub the center of your chest before tracing circles around his slit gathering more of his precum. His mouth drops open when you rub your hands together and smear his release between your breasts. You wrap your hand around his cock and lean forward, with your free hand you cup one of your breasts and start to rub his cock against it. He struggles to catch his breath, a stream of precum dribbles down from his cock and onto your chest. You release his cock and cup your other breast, bringing it up to the other side.

You squeeze your breasts together around his cock and use your thighs to move up and down. You keep your eyes on Zayne’s face, his mouth hangs open and he moans as he watches his cock move between your breasts. Your fingertips brush against your nipples making you shiver. He lifts a hand and reaches towards you.

“No!”

He stops and clenches his fist.

“No touching…”

He drops his hand back onto the bed. He closes his eyes and bites his lip. You smile at how his glasses have slipped further down his nose and his chest glistens with sweat.

“Take off your glasses, baby.”

He sighs, opening his eyes enough to lift his hand to pull his glasses off to drop them on the bed beside him. You shift to place one foot on the floor under you and use the leverage to bounce up and down faster. His hips twitch as his cock swells and the urge to thrust builds. Just as his grunts turn to whines, you lean back and release your breasts. His eyes fly open and he glares at you.

“I know baby, I’m sorry. But… I can’t ignore my cravings at this time of the month…”

He barely has time to register your words before your tongue darts out to lick his slit. You finally hear him whimper. You’re about to come just from hearing that tiny sound. You wrap your lips around his tip and suck, you feel Zayne’s legs shake and you look up to see he’s collapsed back onto the bed. You wrap your hand around his base and stroke him slow while your tongue traces circles around his tip.

A muffled groan causes you to stop, you see his arm draped over his face so you reach your other hand under to cup his balls. You massage him for a moment before gently squeezing. His arm flies off his face and he groans loudly.

“I want to hear you, let me hear you… please baby…”

You lick the underside of his shaft, his slightly salty flavor is exactly what you’ve been craving. You can’t hold back anymore, you take him into your mouth slowly. He thrusts his hips and you don’t lecture him, you’re both too far gone to care. You hollow your cheeks and suck all while massaging his balls. You flatten your tongue and start bobbing your head trying to take him as far into your throat as you can. You’re proud of your progress from the first time you tried to deepthroat him - you almost threw up when his tip hit the back of your throat. Now, the sensation makes your clit throb.

You can feel his legs shake as he tries to stay still for you, but that just won’t do. You squeeze his balls again and he moans your name. You groan and the vibrations of your voice send him right over the edge. His release hits the back of your throat and you close your eyes, tears streaming down your cheeks. You focus on breathing through your nose and bobbing your head, keeping your lips sealed around him so you can swallow as much of his cum as possible but it still leaks out of the corners of your mouth.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuuuuck!”

To hear Zayne swear is a treat, he is usually so composed and reserved. You know you’ve achieved your goal of having him fall apart when he’s a babbling mess of whimpers, moans and swears. As he comes down from his climax, you swallow around him and use your tongue to clean up. He’s so sensitive post-release, but shit, he’s still so hard.

You release him and rub your cheek against his shaft. He lifts himself up to rest on his elbows as he looks down at you. He groans at the sight and his hips shift backwards.

“Please… let me… touch you… now…”

His staggered breathing makes you smile. You nod and he sits up to grab your arms. He hauls you onto the bed on top of him. With your chest pressed against his, he wraps his arms around you, one hand sinking into your hair to keep you where he wants you. He kisses you in a frenzy, not wasting a moment to press his tongue into your mouth and taste himself. You taste the tiniest bit of something spicy and remember how hot his dinner was. The aftertaste makes your eyes water and you tuck your hands under him, letting yourself get lost in his flavor.

He rolls you over and supports himself on his elbows, he chuckles as he takes in your cock-drunk expression. He dips his head and places kisses along your neck, chest, stomach, hips… As he tucks his fingers into the hem of your sweatpants you try to stop him.

“The bed…”

Zayne kisses your hands, urging you to loosen your grip and let go. When you do, he doesn’t hesitate to tug your pants and panties down completely.

“I’ll buy us a new bed if I have to, please don’t make me stop, I need you… I need this –”

His fingers find your clit and the sudden chill makes your hips jerk. You were so incredibly close, but the thought of your climax wasn’t as exciting when the mess would be twice as messy. You feel Zayne kiss your inner thigh, urging you to spread your legs further. You sit up on your elbows and try to close them instead.

“Za-ayne… You can’t…”

“Darling, as long as I don’t ingest menstrual blood I’ll be fine. Besides, I know you prefer my tongue elsewhere.”

He dips his head just enough to let the tip of his tongue roll over your sensitive clit and you’re gone. You collapse onto the bed and relax your hips so Zayne can spread you open. He presses your thighs down and closes his mouth around your bundle of nerves. His tongue circles and flicks, pausing to suck and kiss before repeating the cycle. He presses two fingers into your tender pussy and you cry out his name.

“Say my name again… say it just like that, again..."

You do just that, over and over until he is curling his fingers so deep tears are streaming down your cheeks. His tongue matches the pace of his fingers and when he speeds up you only have time to let out a strangled whine before you’re seeing white.

His fingers continue pumping you through your orgasm, while kissing your thighs. When he finally pulls his fingers away, you sob. He rolls you on your side and pulls you to his chest, letting you cry into his embrace. Damn, your rollercoaster emotions.

“I’m so-sorry, I don’t kn-ow why I’m cr-crying. That felt so-o g-ood.”

Zayne chuckles and the rumble of his chest against your cheek calms you. Your tears slowly stop and your breathing regulates. Zayne’s hand caresses your back, using his evol to cool you down. You rest your forehead against his chest and slide your hand up his torso. You gently push against his chest so you can look up at him.

“It really did feel good. So… good. I’m –”

“Don’t you dare apologize.” He cuts you off and you smile. He knows you too well.

“I was going to say…I’m ready for round two.”

Zayne’s eyes widen in surprise and you giggle, savoring the moment. It’s not often you render Zayne speechless. It doesn’t last long, he rolls over again and you cling to him as you adjust to your new position on top of him. His hands hold your hips as he guides you into a sitting position. Your muscles stiffen and you look down, expecting to see his stomach covered in blood.

“Hey, look at me.”

You close your eyes, forcing your hips to relax. You open them to see Zayne looking up at you like you’re his entire world and your chin begins to tremble again. His hands gently massage your hips and he smiles softly.

“I love you.”

You feel every worry melt away, this kind, caring, selfless man is everything to you. You’ll spend everyday telling him that. But tonight, you’ll show him how much he means to you. And you do just that, for hours on end. Zayne has always had a surprising amount of stamina, but when you finally stop, it’s clear he is going to need the rest of the weekend to recuperate. As tired as he is, he still gets out of bed and picks you up, taking you to the bathroom to clean up.

“Let me help you clean up, please?”

While he’d usually deny you, he sighs and lets you help. The look of pure bliss while you wash his hair, yeah, you’re willing to beg to do this again. However, he still doesn’t let you walk when your shower is done. He wraps a towel around you and carries you to the guest room. He brings you a pair of pajamas and a pad. You put on the panties with a fresh pad and crawl into bed, reaching out a hand to Zayne. He glares at you before tugging off his t-shirt and sleep pants. He crawls into bed with you and savors the heat of your skin against his. His steady heartbeat lulls you to sleep.

When you open your eyes, it’s still dark out. You make a mental note to put a digital clock in the guest room before crawling out of bed. Zayne wasn’t there and you were already feeling anxious. If he is cleaning up the bedroom right now, you swear you’ll start crying again.

The guest room door squeaks as it opens - another mental note, fix that. The faint glow of the kitchen light draws your attention and you follow it. You lean against the doorframe and smile as you take in your half-naked boyfriend stuffing his face with the rest of his dinner. You clear your throat and he nearly falls off of the bar stool. He turns to look at you, a glob of sauce smeared across his mouth.

“Midnight snack?”

He wipes his mouth and grabs a fry, reaching out to hand it to you. You walk up to him and take the fry. You don’t miss the way Zayne’s eyes roam over your bare chest and he winces. You really did a number on him if getting even slightly hard makes him tense up. You cross your arms over your chest and lean down to look at him.

“You okay?”

He sighs and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you closer.

“Just a little sore and very hungry. It’s been a while since we –”

“Fucked like rabbits?”

His cheeks redden as he looks down to the floor. You pull away from him and round the island to retrieve your leftovers from the fridge. You set the box down to pick up a blanket from the laundry basket sitting at the dining table. You wrap the blanket around yourself and sit beside Zayne.

“Thank you.”

Zayne tilts his head and raises a brow, his mouth too full to say anything.

“It did help with my cramps.”

Zayne swallows and leans over to kiss your cheek. His thumb follows to clean off the sauce he left behind.

“I’m glad. But if this is going to be a regular occurrence I think we should invest in a few things.”

You poke at the frozen surface of your milkshake.

“Like what?”

“Like a waterproof blanket, would be useful even when you’re not on your period with how much you –”

“ZAYNE!”

He chuckles and wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close to kiss you again.

“I’m sorry my love, but I’ll never be ashamed of how good I can make you feel. You’re my world and like you said last night, your needs are important to me too.”

AN: I did literal research to make sure eating someone out on their period was safe and Doctor Zayne is spot on. It’s also important to make sure the other person is tested for any bloodborne diseases. Obviously Zayne would know since he is the primary care physician and I have a HC that they would share that information with each other without hesitation. So yeah, don’t ingest it, use a “dental dam” (basically a barrier/shield) and know each other’s boundaries & health status.

𝕿𝖆𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙: @trishiepo0 @not-so-quite-human @kitsunetori @babyx91 @libriomancer @lilyadora @crowskitten22 @letharue @silverbrain @alastor-simp @drama-trauma @0tterteeth @mysticcollectionvoid @godzillaglitter @m00nchildwrites @plsdonttakemyname @hauntedbysmut@withering-dream @lostwingz2236 @simpfortheseven @havenhope-art @lly5duck @freddy-2002-blog

Sylus Period Smut - Crimson Intimacy Rafayel Period Smut - Crimson Tides Xavier Period Smut - Crimson Glow

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spookysanta · 3 months ago

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Chapter 1: The Suite Life

Ongoing tags:

[Modern Romance] [Slow Burn] to [Fireworks [Black!Reader] [Younger!Reader] [Reader is That Girl] [Obsessed Michael™] [So Much Eye Contact] [Vacation Fling] turns into [Something Real]

Potential TW/CW: [Swearing] [Light Sexual Tension] to [Eventual Smut]

i couldn't help myself y'all. i'm TOO excited about this fic. i have the first four or so chapters written so you'll get more very soon! enjoy my loves. make sure to sign up for my tag list and send some prompts to my ask box if you haven't already!

It started with sunlight and silence.

Not the kind of silence that meant emptiness — the kind that followed laughter, that stretched long and lazy across a hotel suite still buzzing from the night before. The kind that came with tossed throw blankets, a mostly-empty wine bottle on the counter, and at least three half-packed suitcases sitting open like they’d lost a fight with joy.

You stirred first.

The clock read 9:06.

Your bonnet was barely hanging on. Your phone was wedged beneath your thigh, still buzzing with unread messages and group chat chaos. You blinked, stretched, and reached for the remote with one foot before flopping back dramatically onto the pillows.

From the other bed, Tati groaned. “Who the hell opens curtains before ten?”

You smiled into the blanket. “We did. Last night. For the moonlight.”

“Corny,” she mumbled. “You’re corny.”

“You were crying at 2AM about how the sky looked like velvet.”

She sat up. “You were crying at 2AM about how this is the first time we’ve all been in the same room in six months.”

A pause.

You blinked at her.

She blinked at you.

And then you both smiled.

“Okay, but I was right,” you said.

“You were disgustingly right.”

By 10:00, all five of you were awake — sprawled across couches, floor pillows, or standing in the kitchen in sleep shirts and socks, laughing over bad hotel coffee and one suspicious mimosa someone found in the back of the fridge.

Was and Tati flipped through brunch spots on their phones, Jae played DJ from the Bluetooth speaker, and Kris kept reapplying lip balm like they were filming a reality show.

You were on the floor, legs stretched out, drinking something you hadn’t identified yet.

“So,” Nas said, looking up from her phone. “We hitting the strip today or saving our energy for tonight?”

“What’s tonight?” you asked.

Tati turned from the mirror, one brow raised. “Somebody booked us a spot at that rooftop bar downtown.”

Jae nodded knowingly, “With the floor-length windows and the impossible cocktails.”

“And the DJ who looks like he knows three languages and only speaks in bass drops.” Kris pointed a manicured finger your way.

“Oh that place,” you said, lips curling. “The one where the hostess stares through your soul if your heels aren’t at least four inches.”

“She’ll have to fight me,” Tati muttered, slipping on lashes without looking. “I brought platforms.”

Getting out wasn’t a rush.

Just the slow settling of women who’d worked too hard, cared too deeply, and were finally allowed to be soft for a few days. You painted your toes while Kris pinned your hair. Jae filmed you all on her phone saying “cheers” with coffee cups and sleepy eyes. Tatti rummaged through her duffel to find a partner to her lone earring that she had to wear. Nas turned on a playlist labeled “vacation softness,” and by noon, there was a distinct shift in the air.

The kind that said: we’re here. We earned this. And something’s about to happen.

You just didn’t know what yet.

And by late afternoon, the suite had turned into a cloud of heat and getting-ready haze.

The Bluetooth speaker was working overtime. The bathroom counter looked like a glam bomb had gone off. You were in front of the mirror, curls wrapped in satin and lashes fanned out on a napkin, deciding between two tops that technically weren’t even yours.

“Go with the black one,” Kris called from across the room, sipping something pink in a wine glass. “No shade, the other one gives Homecoming Lite.”

“Homecoming Lite is cute,” you argued, holding it up again.

“It’s cute if you’re looking for a 4. We’re dressing for tens tonight.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t disagree.

By the time the sun slipped below the skyline, the five of you were glowing — skin glazed, edges laid, eyes sharp. The hallway smelled like setting spray and expensive perfume as you clacked your way toward the elevator, full of nerves and body oil.

“We look good,” Jae said, turning her camera on selfie mode.

“We look dangerous,” Tati corrected, popping her hip.

You smiled into your glass. “Let’s act like it.”

The rooftop bar looked like something from a movie.

You stepped out of the elevator and onto a floor of glass and gold — panoramic windows, shadows moving in silhouette, music vibrating through marble and champagne. A warm breeze swept in from the open terrace, and the bass rolled through your chest like a second heartbeat.

You felt it immediately — eyes on you. Heads turning. A shift in the air.

This city moved fast. But tonight… you moved faster.

“Table’s over there,” Nas said, pointing to a curved velvet booth with perfect view of the DJ and the skyline. “The hostess said we’ve got bottle service for the first round.”

“So what you’re saying is we’ve peaked.” Kris reasoned with a nod.

Jae, the resident party girl, smiled evilly, almost rubbing her hands together like a supervillain. “Let’s start with tequila and see what mistakes present themselves.”

It was close to midnight when you noticed him.

You were at the edge of the terrace now, cooling off with your drink in hand, hair lifting slightly in the breeze. Your friends were dancing, half-laughing, caught up in the music, and you were lost in your thoughts — until the hairs on your neck stood up.

You felt it before you saw him. And then you did see him.

Across the terrace, by the bar.

Black shirt, low taper, a perfectly lined cut, that effortless posture like he wasn’t trying to impress anybody — and failing miserably.

Michael.

He didn’t move at first, but just watched. His eyes were dark, and his expression was unreadable.

You couldn't help but away... But you looked back.

And he was still watching.

He made his way over slow — deliberate — weaving through bodies like the room wasn’t even crowded. You felt your stomach flip once.

Then twice.

“Hi,” he said simply. Deep. Calm. Like the start of something.

You tilted your head. “Hi.”

Michael smiled. “You from here?”

“Nope.” You replied cooly, popping the 'p'. The name of the game was keeping your cool. Because here he was, smelling like the most expensive cologne out, towering over you, eyes trained on your gaze.

“Visiting?”

You nodded. “Girls’ trip.”

His eyes dropped for just a second — to your lips, then back. “Well… I’m glad you came.”

You raised a brow. “Why?”

“’Cause otherwise I wouldn’t be standing here about to embarrass myself.”

You blinked onece, then smiled. “You shoot your shot like that with everybody?”

“Only the ones who can make me forget my drink order.”

Tags: @blackisy2k @hamzahsf4vg1rl @siasoup @heyyimmisunderstood @mirathebookworm @iluvv.angel @blondfortheweekend @Plan3tCh1ld @remcycles @browngirldominion @smokestackenrgy @marvel-dork98 @chaneajoyyy @jackierose902109 @Secretisme4 @marley1773 @wrldfantasy @remcycles @bxrbie1 @pinkprincessluminary @honestlyurslol @bxrbie1 @uhhh-nunyabidniz-heaux @nybearsworld @eclecticblkgirl @corvusmorte @yallsuck-00 @glambyk @Siqeth @omg-mymelaninisbeautiful @xoxo-lai @perfectlyimperfectme @Mea-bby @kianaleani @prettiest1ittleliar @Mejustme06 @kpop-servant @kneelarhmstrung @rossie-things @thatssonani @esachicaa @ajenae @adornn4jadaa @Kindofaintrovert @bigpumpum18 @famousphilosopherwombat @Transparentphantomface @omg-mymelaninisbeautiful @theesmartblonde @-harmonytbh @jiminsjams123 @li-da-savage @Fckwritersblock @christinabae @Tianna-blanche @queenofklonnie22 @marley1773 @Secret89sblog @secretisme4 @nybearsworld

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#michael b jordan #x black woman #x black reader #the girls' trip fic #michael b jordan smut #michael b. jordan #michael b jordan x black reader #michael b jordan x reader #x black girl #x black fem reader #x black y/n #x y/n #x reader #x you #spookysanta

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c-monthecob · 3 months ago

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Rindou Haitani Headcanons!

🎧 When he was little, he used to want to be a contortionist.

🎧 Whenever he blacks out drunk, Ran puts a pillow under his head and puts a blanket over him.

🎧He can predict the weather with his joints. (Ran doesn't believe him.)

🎧Some bar owners have Ran's number saved, so he can come pick his little brother up when he's too wasted.

🎧His playlist is a mess. One minute it's R&B, then it's an anime opening, then it's heavy metal

🎧Never failed to finish a keg.

🎧He has a collection of stolen road signs. Ran encourages this odd hobby and even dares him to steal bigger signs.

🎧He cracks his neck and knuckles constantly, and his joints pop like an old man.

🎧Ran would have to wake up in the middle of the night to adjust to him in his sleep because he'd sleep like a ragdoll.

🎧He has a reputation among party hosts for not letting him touch the speakers. Every time he gets his hands on them, he plays music so loud he breaks them

🎧He's a nice drunk, as long as no one tries to stop him from getting another drink.

🎧He'll say something funny asf with a straight face and send everyone into a laughing fit. "Ya'll laughing but I'm serious!" No, he's not.

🎧Screams bloody murder whenever Ran tries to hug him

🎧When adults berate him, they tell him not to "Make that face." He has no idea they're talking about his severe resting bitch face.

🎧When he asks what they mean, they'll think he's being smart because his voice naturally sounds sarcastic.

🎧His hair was supposed to be a darker blue, but because of Ran (and his refusal to wear glasses), he got the wrong color

🎧When South fought them, he genuinely didn't want to fight. (Have you seen the size of that guy?) The only reason he fought was because he didn't want to look like a pu$$y

🎧Tone deaf. Years of DJing will do that to you.

🎧He has a sixth sense for when Ran wakes up. He uses his friends as scapegoats for Ran's punishment for waking him up.

🎧He attended a court-mandated AA meeting and convinced the other members of the group to go out drinking with him afterward.

🎧Looks over his shoulder every time he's at the gym (He's convinced Kakucho is lurking in the shadows)

🎧Got drunk and ranted to a statue about his problems for half an hour

🎧He was a grumpy baby. Never smiled at anything, never laughed, never acknowledged anyone or anything in front of him. (His parents thought he was blind or deaf for a while.)

🎧Ran put an airtag in his wallet in case he wanders off when they're clubbing. (He doesn't know)

🎧Woke up at the Shibuya crossing twice

🎧People will walk past him and tell him to "smile more."

🎧 Anti-social until the drinks come out

🎧Teachers stop him in the hallway and ask him, "Is everything alright?"

🎧They'll pull him out of class to ask him if "everything at home is okay?"

🎧Nothings wrong with him. It's just his resting bitch face.

🎧Homeless people know him personally and let him sleep in their spots when he blacks out drunk.

🎧In the final timeline, he goes out drinking with Hanma. The only time they get along is when they're wasted

🎧His mom wouldn't get him Bluetooth headphones, so he cut the wires on regular ones and walked around pretending he had Bluetooth. (Ran never lets him live this down)

🎧Maladaptive daydreamer. It's so bad he'll start daydreaming while driving.

#tokyo revengers #tokyo revengers manga #tokyo manji gang #rindou headcanons #rindou haitani #ran haitani #haitani brothers #headcanons #tokyo revengers headcanons #alcholic

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mikaylathenerd5 · 2 months ago

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One of These | Roman Reigns

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Pairing: Roman Reigns × Shiloh Lucero

Summary: Roman never thought he’d want to share his space with anyone—until her. What started as one quiet night over dinner has turned into something bigger. Now, the two of them are building a life together, one soft moment, one box, one heartbeat at a time. From the first unspoken invitation to the last kiss in the kitchen, this is the story of finding home—in another person, and in yourself.

Content Warning: None

Word Count: ~5k

A/N: A girl literally have too much time with being on summer break lol but my loves you wanted more of this pairing so I do hope you love it ✨

✨🖤 If you haven’t read You Already Do — the one shot that started it all — you can catch up HERE first! 🖤✨

Before we begin—🖤 I just want to say thank you in advance for reading, reblogging, commenting, and sharing your reactions to my work. Every note, tag, and ask means more than I can say. This is a story about choosing softness, about finding home in the quiet moments. I hope it wraps you in warmth today. ✨

“Letting someone in means handing them the match and trusting they won’t burn the house down. But sometimes... they light the fire that keeps you warm instead.”

The world outside Roman's condo was washed in gray—quiet rain tapping against the windows, the occasional rumble of distant thunder low and sleepy in the clouds. The scent of honey garlic salmon still lingered in the air, softened now by the citrus in Shiloh’s dish soap and the clean warmth of fresh towels stacked on the counter. Soft lo-fi music played from the Bluetooth speaker on the counter, barely louder than the weather outside.

Shiloh was barefoot, wearing one of Roman’s long-sleeved black shirts and a pair of soft sleep shorts. The shirt swallowed her frame, dipping off one shoulder, sleeves rolled up to her elbows as she rinsed the last of their plates in the sink. Her curls were up in a loose bun, a few tendrils sticking to her neck from the steam and warmth of the kitchen. The yellow glow of the under-cabinet lights softened her silhouette.

Roman leaned in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, watching her with that rare, unreadable look he only ever wore around her—part awe, part peace, part something he hadn’t figured out how to name yet.

Not like she was a guest. Not like this was temporary.

Like she belonged there.

He didn’t speak at first, just stood there taking her in—the way she hummed quietly under her breath, swaying a little, the way she stacked the plates like she did it every night, the way she always reached for his mug first when unloading the dishwasher. There were two mugs on the counter drying—hers pale pink, his matte black. She always put them side by side.

"Tupperware?" she asked, glancing back briefly. "I’m packing up the rest of this salmon before it mysteriously vanishes again."

He smirked. "Bottom cabinet. Behind the protein powder I don’t use."

She laughed, soft and easy, and Roman felt something in his chest shift. He didn’t know what it was exactly—maybe a realization, maybe surrender. But it curled around his ribs and settled in like it belonged.

It wasn’t the first time she’d been over. She had a toothbrush in the bathroom. A silk bonnet draped across his nightstand. Her favorite tea tucked in the cabinet next to his protein bars. Her fuzzy socks hidden between couch cushions. She’d spent more nights in his bed than in her own over the last month.

But something about tonight felt heavier. Not in a bad way. Just...full. Like his home was holding its breath.

Roman stepped into the kitchen slowly, bare feet silent against the tile. He rubbed his jaw, searching for the right words. His voice was low when he finally spoke again.

"You ever notice how you already live here?"

Shiloh paused, sponge still in her hand. Her fingers tightened slightly, and she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, a flicker of tension passing through her shoulders. She turned slightly, glancing at him over her shoulder. Her expression softened—curious, slightly wary, like she wasn’t sure what she was stepping into.

"What?"

He shrugged one shoulder. "You do. You got your mug next to mine. Your scarf’s on the back of my chair. You rearranged my spice rack."

She smirked. "That was a crime scene — cinnamon does not go next to oregano."

Roman chuckled but didn’t look away. "I like the way it feels when you’re here."

Shiloh turned fully, drying her hands on a dish towel before leaning back against the counter, the fabric twisted between her fingers. Her brow furrowed a little like she wasn’t sure if this was casual or serious or somewhere in between.

"What are you saying, Ro?"

He moved closer, stepping into her space until only the hem of his shirt and the flicker of something unspoken separated them. He didn’t touch her—just stood close enough to feel her warmth, close enough to breathe in the faint scent of coconut and hibiscus on her skin. His eyes were steady, but there was a tension in his shoulders.

"I’m saying," he murmured, "I want you to stay. Not just for dinner. Not just overnight. I want you here. Like...really here. Your stuff in the drawers. Your name on the mailbox."

The rain picked up outside, a steady hush behind the windows. It filled the silence like a third heartbeat.

Shiloh blinked slowly. She didn’t answer right away. She looked at him for a long time, like she was weighing what it meant to belong somewhere. A thought flickered—sharp and familiar. Stillness had never lasted in her world. It always came before the shift, before someone left, before something cracked. What if he changed his mind? What if she took up too much space, the way others said she did? This kind of certainty always scared her. But the quiet in Roman’s eyes didn’t feel like a trap. It felt like a door.

And Roman didn’t rush her. He just stood there, breathing through the nerves crawling under his skin, hoping she could feel how real he meant it.

Finally, she exhaled—something quiet, something shaky—and nodded.

"Okay," she whispered. "I’ll stay."

Roman didn’t grin. Didn’t celebrate. He just stepped forward, finally letting himself touch her face, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth before pressing a kiss to her forehead.

"Good," he said, voice thick. "Cause this place already knows you. You might as well call it home."

Shiloh let the dish towel fall to the counter. Her hands lingered in the air for a moment, as if they weren’t sure what to do next, then slowly lowered. She took a quiet breath, grounding herself in the weight of his words, the safety of his presence. Then she wrapped her arms around his waist, face tucked into his chest, and Roman exhaled like he hadn’t taken a real breath in days.

He murmured into her hair, soft and almost smiling, "Even with my terrible spice rack?"

She laughed against his chest, and just like that, the heaviness between them cracked open into something tender. Something right.

Roman didn’t fall asleep that night.

He held Shiloh close in the dark, one arm around her waist, the other hand resting where her ribcage rose and fell against him in the hush between raindrops. She slept easily—like she belonged there. Like she’d always belonged there.

His room smelled like coconut oil and her vanilla body butter. The lamp glowed amber in the corner, casting a soft glow across her overnight bag and the folded hoodie she always wore when she stayed late. There were no boxes yet—no tape, no clutter—just the early traces of a shift not yet unpacked. But the thought of her doing it—waking up here every morning, falling asleep here every night—settled something in him he hadn’t realized was restless.

He didn’t move or fidget, barely even blinked. Just lay there, breathing her in like it was something sacred. Something still. Something rare. The kind of peace he never let himself get used to.

It scared him, how badly he wanted it.

It scared him more how natural it felt. Like something he’d always been waiting for without realizing it. Like ease wasn’t supposed to be earned in pain.

He’d spent most of his life keeping people at arm’s length. Even the ones he loved. He’d let people in before. And every time, they left with pieces he never got back. But Shiloh had crept in quietly, wrapped around the edges of his routine until she became part of it. Folding his laundry without asking. Cooking for him even when she was tired. Laughing at the way he got grumpy when someone messed with his gym bag. She didn’t poke at his walls—she just leaned on them. Warm. Patient. Solid. Unlike others who pressed and prodded, who tried to climb them or knock them down, she simply stayed. And somehow, over time, the weight of her presence made those walls feel less like protection and more like a cage he didn’t need anymore.

He kissed her shoulder before the sun came up.

"You really staying?" he whispered, even though she couldn’t hear him.

She shifted slightly in her sleep, brow soft, breath even. She didn’t answer.

He smiled into her hair and closed his eyes.

The next morning, Roman was in motion before she even woke.

He’d brewed her favorite tea, cleared out another drawer, and texted Solo to ask if he still had the toolbox. He just needed to tighten a couple screws in the dresser—nothing urgent, but it mattered now.

Before leaving the room, his eyes caught the kitchen. Her mug still sat beside his on the counter, pale pink and untouched from last night. He stared at it for a beat longer than he meant to, feeling something settle behind his ribs—something like certainty. Side by side like they always were. He took one last glance at her sleeping form, curled under the throw blanket she always dragged across his bed. Her fingers twitched lightly like she was dreaming, face tucked into his pillow.

Yeah. She was really staying. Her mug in the kitchen. Her hoodie on the chair. Her name already stitched quietly into the edges of his day.

And maybe—just maybe—that meant he could, too.

The late afternoon sun was just starting to dip when Roman’s truck backed into the curb, golden light flashing off the windshield as he threw it in park. It had been a few weeks since that quiet night in Roman’s condo, when a simple dinner turned into something bigger—something permanent. Since then, boxes had been packed, logistics sorted, and plans made with the kind of calm chaos that only love could hold together. Today was the day Shiloh officially moved in.

The air was thick with Florida heat and the scent of rain from earlier showers still clung to the pavement. A few kids down the street shouted over a basketball game, the rhythmic bounce of the ball punctuating the steady hum of cicadas. Just ahead, Jaida and Rhea were already at the front door, laughing as they fumbled with the spare key Shiloh had given them weeks ago. Both of them turned with grins that stretched wide and unapologetic, Jaida waving a coffee in one hand and a bag of snacks in the other.

“You’re late!” Jaida called, her braids swinging behind her as she popped open the front door. “We’ve already claimed the good bathroom.”

“You don’t even live here,” Roman muttered, slipping out of the truck. He slammed the door shut with a little more force than necessary, and his expression was pure exasperation.

Rhea smirked. “Might as well get used to it. You’re about to be outnumbered.”

Shiloh gave Roman a nudge with her hip, eyes gleaming. “Play nice.”

Naomi hopped out from the passenger side of Jimmy’s car with her arms already full of folded blankets and labeled storage bins. “Don’t start fighting before we finish moving the plants, please. I promised Shiloh’s cat I’d keep his vibe space intact.”

Roman groaned but took the bin from her without argument.

“Yo, what’s this?” Jey’s voice rang out as he walked in carrying a box labeled candles + lotions. “You got a whole spa in here or what?”

“It’s called self-care,” Shiloh called back, amused.

Solo trailed behind him, expression unreadable as always. “That’s box seven marked ‘bedroom stuff.’ You moving in or opening a store?”

Roman shot them both a look. “Y’all touching her stuff like you’re not replaceable.”

Jimmy smirked, already sliding into the kitchen. “Man’s in love and suddenly everything’s off-limits. Don’t break the Shiloh pillow, it’s sacred.”

“I will throw all y’all out,” Roman muttered.

“Sure you will,” Jey grinned, slapping him on the back. “After you fold her pajamas and light a candle or two.”

“Hey,” Jimmy called, strolling up behind Roman and handing him a cold bottle of water like it was a peace offering. “Think of it this way—you finally got a house full of women who like you. Enjoy it.”

Roman looked around—at Naomi giving orders like a general, at Jaida already turning on the Bluetooth speaker, at Rhea helping Shiloh carefully unpack the box of incense and candles—and exhaled through his nose. “Remind me why I let y’all talk me into this.”

“Because you love her,” Jimmy answered simply.

Roman didn’t say anything.

But he didn’t have to.

Inside, the condo was already alive with motion and music. The smell of fresh paint still lingered faintly beneath the scent of palo santo and lavender. Shoes were scattered near the door, a half-unpacked box of throw pillows sat beside the couch, and the sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains they’d hung just last week. Roman lingered in the doorway for a moment, taking it all in. The scene before him looked nothing like the place he'd once come home to in silence. For years, this space had echoed—too clean, too quiet, too bare. He remembered standing in this same spot alone, late nights after matches or workouts, with only the hum of the fridge and the flicker of the streetlights outside. It hadn’t felt like a home. Just a place he happened to live. But now? Now it breathed. Now it held memories-in-progress and the woman who made it all feel intentional. That contrast stung a little—in the best way. Because he remembered what it felt like to be the man who never let anyone get too close. And now here he was, watching his whole damn life shift with the weight of one person’s presence. He wasn’t used to this—to joy without it falling apart eventually—but he was starting to believe it might stay.

He caught sight of Shiloh standing barefoot in the center of the room, her eyes closed as she breathed it in like it was hers already. She smiled to herself before stepping toward Rhea, humming softly to the music. The moment lodged itself in Roman’s chest—quiet, whole, undeniable.

Shiloh caught Roman’s eye as she passed, mouthing a quiet thank you. He didn’t respond. Just tugged the brim of his cap down and lifted another box off the truck bed.

Naomi sidled up to him and bumped his shoulder. “You soft as hell right now.”

“Shut up.”

“Uh-huh.”

The front door opened again, and Roman assumed it was Jey or Solo arriving with the last of the boxes. But then—

"Roman!"

His mother’s voice. Sharp, familiar, and cutting straight through the noise like it always had. Roman froze. His heart stuttered, caught somewhere between disbelief and dread.

His mother’s voice.

He turned slowly, heart already in his throat.

There she stood. Dressed sharp but casual, arms crossed, mouth already twitching into a disapproving smile. And flanking her, just as unannounced, were his two sisters.

“Oh my God,” Shiloh whispered, halfway to the hallway. “That’s your mom?”

Jaida was frozen, Rhea quietly lowered the incense, and even Naomi looked caught off guard.

Roman closed his eyes and counted to five.

“Y’all really couldn’t text first?”

His mother walked past him like she owned the place, eyeing the half-unpacked boxes, the music, the energy. “And miss the chance to see the woman who finally got you to act right? Not a chance.”

Roman sighed. “Welcome to the chaos, Ma.”

His mother turned back toward the door, arms still crossed. Roman pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling hard. He loved her, but damn—she always did know how to bulldoze into his life like a freight train, no warning and no brakes. A muscle ticked in his jaw, caught between irritation and reluctant affection. “And before you ask how I knew—ask your cousin.”

Roman blinked. “What?”

Jey coughed into his fist, suddenly very interested in the floorboards.

“Don’t look at me,” Jimmy said, backing away with both hands up.

Roman gave him a long, slow look that said betrayal without a single word, then narrowed his eyes in mock offense, like he’d just been stabbed with a butter knife. He pointed a finger at Jey. “You? You’re on dish duty for a month.”

Jey threw up his hands. “C’mon, man! It slipped!”

“I’ll make sure you slip when I wax the floor,” Roman muttered. “He was the one on the phone last Sunday, rambling about throw pillows and candle scents.”

Jey muttered, “I just said it was cozy in here. Maybe accidentally mentioned someone was moving in.”

Roman stared at him. “Accidentally?”

His mother raised an eyebrow. “That’s how I knew to wear flats.”

She smiled, tight but warm. Then turned to Shiloh. “You must be her.”

Shiloh swallowed. Then nodded.

“Good,” his mother said. “You’ve got a kind energy.”

She glanced back at Roman, her expression softening further. “He don’t bring people around. Never has. Not unless it’s serious. So the fact that we’re standing here? That says a lot.”

Roman’s stomach tightened. His mother never said shit like that lightly. Not to anyone. Not about anyone. The fact that she said it in front of the whole damn family—he felt the words land somewhere deeper than pride. Maybe this was realer than even he’d let himself believe.

One of his sisters chimed in with a teasing grin. “And that he’s letting anyone touch his stuff without having a meltdown? He must be in love love.”

The other nudged Shiloh with a wink. “We’ve been waiting to meet the woman brave enough to deal with his grumpy ass. Welcome to the family, girl.”

Shiloh laughed, nerves easing. “Thanks... I think.”

Roman groaned from across the room. “Y’all done?”

His mother didn’t look at him. Just smiled at Shiloh again. “Let him pout. He’s always been like that. But he loves hard. And if he’s picked you, then you’re something special.”

Jimmy wandered over, grinning. “You should’ve seen him last week, Ma. Tried to rearrange her bookshelf and nearly had a meltdown when he couldn’t find his protein powder afterward.”

Jey snorted. “Man was out here talkin’ about balance like it’s a feng shui situation.”

“Don’t forget the day he vacuumed twice ‘cause her cat shed on the rug,” Solo added, deadpan.

Roman shot them a glare. “I will deadbolt this door behind y’all.”

Naomi leaned against the kitchen counter. “Aw, he’s just a softie wrapped in tattoos and trauma.”

Shiloh tried to hold in her laughter, cheeks pink from all the attention.

His mother raised an eyebrow. “Tattoos and trauma? You just described half this family.”

Shiloh blinked, caught off guard by the quiet approval. It reminded her of the times she’d sat in awkward silences in other living rooms, smiles tight, conversations strained. No one had ever looked at her like this before—not with ease, not with trust. For once, she didn’t feel like she had to prove she belonged. She just... did. Something in her chest cracked open—this was the first time she’d ever been acknowledged like this by someone’s family. Not just tolerated. Welcomed. The smell of garlic bread wrapped around her like a hug, and for a second, she thought of all the nights she’d wondered if this kind of softness could ever be hers. It settled over her like warmth, equal parts grounding and overwhelming.

Roman’s sisters were already making themselves at home—laughing as they moved through the condo like they’d been there a hundred times before, teasing him about Shiloh’s scented candles and pastel mugs. One grabbed a broom. The other offered to organize the spice cabinet. Someone turned the music up just a bit, and Shiloh’s cat wandered into the room, weaving through legs like he owned the place.

Roman looked around at the loud, messy, loving hurricane, the scent of garlic bread wafting from the oven and an old-school R&B track crackling faintly from the Bluetooth speaker. The aroma reminded him of holidays at his grandmother’s place—tight spaces, louder laughter, and too many hands in the kitchen. Back then, he’d watch the chaos from the sidelines, never sure where he fit. Now, the chaos felt like home. He’d willingly invited it in—people who knew how to make noise, take up space, and still leave room for him. For a moment, his mind flashed back to the echoing quiet of his old apartment—days when silence stretched longer than it should, when meals were eaten standing up, half-distracted, with no one to ask about his day. That life had been simpler. Cleaner. Lonelier. He remembered the way he used to keep one cabinet empty, just in case. Now, there was music in every corner, people in his space, voices layered like harmony, and the faint scent of Shiloh’s favorite lavender oil curling around the edges of it all—and for the first time, it didn’t feel like too much. It felt right.

He wasn’t a man of many words.

But right then, watching Shiloh laugh with his mother in the kitchen and Jaida pretend to fight Rhea over who got the better closet, he knew:

He wouldn’t change a damn thing.

The condo was quiet now.

After hours of laughter, unpacking, and unexpected family arrivals, everyone had either gone home or crashed in guest rooms, leaving behind the hum of the dishwasher and the faint echo of old-school R&B still playing low from the Bluetooth speaker in the kitchen. Outside, the moon hung low, spilling silver light across the patio and casting faint shadows against the sliding glass doors.

Roman stood there, barefoot on the hardwood floor, hair still damp from a recent shower. He held a half-eaten cookie in one hand—chocolate chip, the kind Shiloh liked to bake when she was stressed. He’d stolen it off the cooling rack like a kid who thought no one would notice.

The glass door reflected a different version of himself. Less armor, more softness. He stared for a beat longer, then looked past his reflection and out into the quiet street.

Behind him, he heard the light pad of footsteps.

Shiloh emerged from the hallway, wearing one of his oversized shirts and a sleepy smile. Her curls were piled up in a loose bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She didn’t say anything at first, just walked up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her cheek between his shoulder blades.

"You stole my cookie," she murmured.

He smirked, not turning around. "It was lookin’ at me funny."

She snorted softly. “That’s your excuse?”

“I'm sticking to it.”

She leaned up on her toes and pressed a soft kiss between his shoulder blades. “You’re lucky I like you.”

Silence settled again, but it wasn’t empty. It was full. Full of everything they didn’t need to say out loud.

“I still can’t believe your mom just... showed up,” Shiloh said after a while, voice muffled against his back.

Roman chuckled low, the sound vibrating through her chest. “I can. She’s been crashing my peace since 1999.”

She pulled back just enough to look up at him. “She was really sweet to me.”

Roman finally turned, cookie forgotten as he wrapped both arms around her and pulled her close. “That’s ‘cause she likes you. If she didn’t, you’d know.”

He leaned down and brushed a kiss to her temple, then another along her cheekbone. Shiloh tilted her head, inviting the attention, and their noses brushed before he kissed her mouth—slow, lingering, the kind that spoke without words.

Shiloh tilted her head. “You think she really meant it? What she said? About me being good for you?”

He studied her face, thumb brushing against the edge of her jaw. “You’re the only thing that ever slowed me down. And I don’t mean that in a bad way.”

She blinked. “What do you mean then?”

Roman exhaled through his nose, eyes flicking past her like the words weren’t easy to pull from his chest. “I mean... I used to move like I had something to prove. All the time. Everything felt like a fight. But with you, I don’t feel like I’m losing ground by being still.”

Her throat tightened, but she nodded, leaning into his palm.

He tipped her chin and kissed her again—this one deeper, slow and reverent, like he was trying to memorize the taste of forever.

“That night—when you asked me to move in—I didn’t think you meant it,” she admitted against his lips. “Not really.”

“I don’t say shit I don’t mean.”

“I know. I just... I’ve never had this before.”

He bent forward, pressing his forehead to hers. “You do now.”

They stood there in the glow of the moonlight and the hum of a home finally feeling like one. His fingers grazed the hem of her shirt, slipping beneath to find the bare skin of her back, rubbing gentle circles there like he never wanted to stop touching her.

After a beat, Shiloh pulled back with a sly smile. “You still owe me a cookie.”

Roman grinned. “I’ll bake you a whole damn batch tomorrow.”

She raised a brow. “You? Bake?”

His smirk widened. “Alright—I’ll stand behind you and stir while you bake. Still counts.”

Shiloh laughed, and Roman pulled her in tighter, one hand resting against the small of her back. He dropped a final kiss on the top of her head and held her there like it was the easiest thing in the world to do.

Then, quieter: “You remember that night you made cinnamon cookies ‘cause you couldn’t sleep?”

She looked up, brow furrowed slightly. “At my old place?”

“Yeah. I showed up around 1 a.m. with nothing to say and everything on my mind. You didn’t ask. Just gave me a warm one and let me sit on the floor next to you while you cleaned the kitchen.”

Shiloh smiled, her fingers curling lightly into his shirt. “You fell asleep against the fridge.”

“I felt more at peace than I had in years. Didn’t realize it then, but that was the first time I ever felt like I could stop running.”

She didn’t respond right away—just rose up to kiss him again, slow and certain, and let it linger.

And just like that, the quiet wasn’t empty anymore.

It was theirs.

A few weeks later

It was a rare day off.

Sunlight spilled across the bed in thick, golden slants. The world outside could’ve been buzzing with noise, but inside Roman’s condo, everything was still. Shiloh lay nestled beneath the comforter, eyes open but unmoving. Roman’s arm was wrapped snug around her waist, his chest pressed to her back, his soft snores brushing the back of her neck.

She didn’t dare move. Not yet. Not when this was the kind of morning she used to dream about—a quiet life wrapped in strength, warmth, and someone who loved her so deeply it made her believe in stillness.

Somewhere in the background, the soft jingle of her cat’s toy bell echoed as he batted it across the hardwood floor. The scent of last night’s cinnamon lingering faintly in the sheets made the moment feel even softer—lived in, real.

Here, in this bed, was warmth and weight and breath syncing between two bodies who had finally learned how to rest.

Roman stirred minutes later, burying his nose into her neck before pressing a kiss into her shoulder. Then another at the nape of her neck. He mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, "You smell too good to be legal," before tightening his arm around her.

She smiled into the pillow. "Morning, Mr. Reigns."

He groaned. "What time is it?"

"Too early for chaos. Not too early for kisses."

His lips found her skin again. This time, a little slower. A little lower. Hands sliding under the hem of her shirt, fingers stroking softly over her stomach like they’d been molded just to memorize her.

She hummed. "You’re not even awake yet."

"M’awake enough for this."

He didn’t push further—just a few lingering touches, a lazy kiss, the kind that lingered long after lips parted. A kiss that said you belong here. A kiss that reminded her that love didn’t always have to be loud. Sometimes, it was just breath and skin and the kind of silence that didn’t need to be filled.

Eventually, they got out of bed—reluctantly. Shiloh threw on one of his shirts, oversized and worn, while Roman padded barefoot to the kitchen in sweatpants, hair still tousled.

He insisted on cooking breakfast. Shiloh offered to help. He declined. Firmly.

"I got it," he said, already cracking eggs like he was auditioning for a cooking show. "I have a system."

"Your system includes burning toast and undercooking bacon," she said, hopping up onto the counter with a coffee mug.

"Slanted criticism for someone who once exploded a bag of popcorn in my microwave."

"It was one time!"

He flipped a pancake that was already looking a little too crispy around the edges.

"You’re a grumpy domestic alpha," she teased.

"And you’re distracting."

He kissed her forehead as he passed, his hand trailing briefly down her spine. She swiped the spatula from his hand just in time to salvage the last pancake.

The cat pounced nearby, batting the bell toy into the pantry door with a thunk. Roman side-eyed it. "Your son’s got too much energy this early."

"He’s thriving," she said, smirking. "He’s got two parents now."

Later, while putting away dishes—his shirt hanging off one shoulder, toes bare on cool tile—Shiloh found a small folded scrap of paper tucked in the back of the silverware drawer.

Roman’s handwriting, messy but bold.

You make this house a home.

She didn’t say anything. Just folded it carefully and slipped it into her journal—the one she only wrote in when something mattered.

And when she kissed him minutes later without a word, he knew exactly why.

Not everything needed explaining. Not when it was already written into the walls, the warmth, the rhythm they were slowly building together.

And this—this quiet kind of love—was exactly what they both needed all along.

Remember I was outta trust I didn't ever wanna fall in love I didn't ever wanna care too much But he changed my mind — Ella Mai, “One of These”

Author's Note 📄:

If this one shot resonated with you—if you felt the weight of that quiet love, smiled at Roman trying so hard to make space, or teared up a little when Shiloh tucked that note away—please like, comment, reblog, and share your thoughts. 🖤✨ Every tag, comment, and ask lets me know that these moments mean as much to you as they do to me. I hold them close. Here’s what I’d love to know from you:

💬 What would you like to see next from these two? 💬 Which moment in this one shot hit you hardest? 💬 Are you craving more softness next, maybe some spicy, or is it time to explore deeper layers of their intimacy?

And if you want to follow this story as it grows, be sure to join the main taglist. Just send me an ask or reply below—I’d love to add you. 🖤

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@romanreignsluver1 @ashykneee @fame-ass-ers @baybehkay @queenofklonnie22

@blackchickinthedesert @thekittysmeow @rollinssection @punksyeet

#roman reigns x black oc #roman reigns #roman reigns x black reader #roman reigns x reader #roman reigns fanfiction #wwe x black oc #roman reigns fanfic #roman reigns fluff #you already do series #wwe fanfiction #Spotify

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orangameelectronics · 2 years ago

Video

youtube

The Perfect Companion for Outdoor Enthusiasts: Explore the Benefits of IPX5 Waterproof Bluetooth Speakers

Get ready to elevate your outdoor experience like never before with high-power stereo TWS Bluetooth speakers. Designed to surround you with crystal-clear sound, these portable speakers are a must-have for any outdoor enthusiast. Whether you're hitting the beach, going on a camping trip, or simply enjoying a backyard BBQ, these speakers will take your party to the next level. With their powerful sound output and wireless connectivity, you can enjoy your favorite tunes with friends and family, no matter where you are. The TWS (True Wireless Stereo) technology allows you to pair two speakers for an immersive and balanced audio experience. You can create a wireless stereo system that fills your entire space, providing a truly captivating soundstage. Built to withstand the elements, these speakers are durable and rugged, making them perfect for outdoor use. They are also compact and lightweight, making them easy to carry around wherever you go. Don't settle for mediocre sound quality when you can surround yourself with high-fidelity audio. Upgrade your outdoor adventures with high-power stereo TWS Bluetooth speakers and immerse yourself in the music you love.

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prettygirl-gabi · 3 months ago

Text

The Quiet Side of Me

Pairing: Sarah Strong x Reader

Fandom: Women’s College Basketball

Summary: there’s always a quiet side… always

🏷️: @paigeshirleytemple , @cowboybueckers , @unknowgirlypop , @yailtsv , @nicebellee , @sitawita , @thatonesuschix , @vamptizm , @elalfywhore , @starfulani , @authentic-girl03 , @paxaz535 , @azziswrld , @jadasogay , @paigeluvvr , @melpthatsme , @lessi-lover , @courtsidewithlani , @elswhore , @italyyy , @lightsgore , @private-but-not-a-secret , @aubreygriffin , @issilovesherself , @graceeeeeesblog , @sayurireidotcom

It was KK’s idea to host the team movie night in our dorm, which made sense considering she had the projector, the LED lights that changed color with the bass, and, well… me.

“Y/N, you’re literally the life of every room. If we’re gonna do a movie night right, we’re doing it here,” KK had said, practically tossing a bag of kettle corn at me like it was a done deal.

And she wasn’t wrong.

Most of the time, I am the loud one.

The one telling stories with dramatic hand motions, cutting into every silence with a joke, throwing pillows or snacks across the room like I’m on a talk show set instead of a college dorm.

I bounce from couch to bean bag to floor like I’m made of pop rocks and soda.

But not tonight.

Not when Sarah’s here.

And apparently… that was new for the team.

The evening started as chaotic as usual. Azzi showed up first with a giant tote of snacks and a Bluetooth speaker already playing SZA.

Jana came in right behind her and screamed when she saw that I’d made lemon bars again.

“Y/N, you did not! You literally know I’m trying to cut sugar!”

“Which is why I made a double batch,” I grinned, winking at her. “One for your fridge, one for tonight. You’re welcome.”

She hugged me like I’d saved her life.

KK was setting up the projector while Ice and Allie debated over whether we should start with Mean Girls or Rush Hour 2.

Ayanna walked in wearing a onesie with rubber ducks on it and immediately tried to convince Morgan to trade spots on the floor for her bean bag.

And Sarah? She slipped in quietly through the chaos, hair damp from her post-practice shower, wearing her UConn sweats and a hoodie I’d stolen from her twice already.

“Hi,” I murmured, low enough for just her.

Her hand found mine as I stepped back into the hallway to let the others fight over the playlist. She didn’t have to pull—I was already leaning into her.

“Hi,” she said softly, eyes crinkling.

I kissed her cheek and tugged her toward my bed in the corner. There was an unspoken agreement: that was our spot tonight.

I didn’t even think about the switch in me until halfway through Rush Hour 2.

My head was resting on Sarah’s shoulder, her arm wrapped securely around my waist, fingers tracing small circles through my hoodie (hers, again).

We weren’t talking.

We didn’t need to.

My legs were draped over hers, our socks tangled up like we’d been fused together since birth.

And I was quiet. Peaceful.

My friends, however, were… not.

“Wait, wait, pause it!” KK yelled from the floor, throwing popcorn at Allie, who was holding the remote.

“Did you see the way Jackie just flipped that table?! That’s me every time coach calls on Jana to shoot from the arc in drills.”

“Oh my god, shut up,” Jana groaned from the floor. “You’re just mad I got more reps than you last week.”

“You did not—”

“I have the stats, don’t make me bring receipts,” Jana grinned.

Azzi cackled from the bean bag chair next to Ice, and Ayanna tossed a gummy worm at someone—it might’ve been me, honestly, I couldn’t tell.

And through it all, I just… stayed where I was. Leaned into Sarah, eyes fluttering half-closed, tracing the stitching on her sleeve with the pad of my thumb.

It was like all the noise faded the second her arm came around me.

A beat later, KK’s voice cut through the room like a siren.

“Wait. Wait a damn minute.”

Everyone looked over.

I didn’t move.

KK sat up from the pile of pillows she’d claimed, turning around to stare directly at us.

“Is Y/N—quiet?”

Heads turned. I could feel it—eight pairs of curious eyes shifting toward me and Sarah on the bed.

“Bro,” Ice whispered. “She hasn’t made a single chaotic comment in like… twenty minutes.”

“That might be a record,” Allie added.

“No cap,” Ayanna said. “She didn’t even react when Chris Tucker goes ‘Do you speaka any English? DO-YOU-UNDERSTAND-THE-WORDS-THAT-ARE-COMING-OUT-OF-MY-MOUTH?’—that’s her favorite quote!”

Jana gasped. “Y/N. Babe. Blink twice if you’ve been possessed.”

I slowly lifted my head from Sarah’s shoulder and blinked exactly twice.

The room lost it.

Sarah laughed quietly beside me, her arm tightening around my waist. “I don’t think she’s possessed,” she said calmly. “Just comfortable.”

Azzi narrowed her eyes at me, grinning like she’d just unlocked a new level in a video game. “Ohhh. I see how it is.”

“Yeah?” I said, voice hoarse from not speaking for a bit. “What do you see?”

“This domestic cuddly version of you. Quiet Y/N is a whole new player.”

“She’s only like this with Sarah,” Morgan chimed in. “I’ve never seen her go mute in the presence of chaos before.”

Sarah smirked, pulling me a little closer. “She’s not mute. Just… mellow.”

“She turns into a lapdog,” KK said. “Like a golden retriever that got hit with the sleepy spell.”

“I am not a lapdog,” I muttered, though I was actively nuzzling into Sarah’s shoulder while saying it.

Everyone collectively went, “Awwww.”

It wasn’t like I was hiding it. It’s just… when I’m with Sarah, it’s different. The world quiets. I quiet.

And for someone who feels like they’re constantly on around people, always expected to be the funny one, the loud one, the lightning rod—it’s a gift.

Sarah never asks me to perform. Never expects me to be anything but what I am in the moment.

Sometimes that’s wild and dramatic.

And sometimes, it’s just this: me in her arms, half-asleep by the second act of the movie, breathing in sync with the rhythm of her chest.

“You guys act like I’m a whole different person,” I said lazily, still nestled against Sarah but now halfway peeking out from under her hoodie like a turtle.

“Because you are!” KK said, laughing. “Normally you’re throwing popcorn and quoting TikToks. Tonight you’re just… cuddles and sighs.”

“I like her like this,” Sarah said, looking down at me with a softness that made my stomach flip. “She’s extra snuggly.”

Azzi fake gagged. “Okay, I’m gonna need you two to take that cuteness down like ten notches.”

“Nope,” Sarah said, completely unbothered.

I grinned into her shoulder. “Sorry, Z. No refunds.”

Ice grabbed her phone. “This moment needs to be documented. Everyone say ‘Y/N has a soft mode’ on three.”

“Do not post that,” I said, lifting one finger in warning.

“Too late,” Jana said, already air-dropping the photo to half the room.

“Sarah unlocked secret Y/N,” Ayanna teased. “Like a bonus level with cheat codes.”

“Quiet mode, activated,” KK said, doing a fake robot voice.

“All right,” I said, sitting up just enough to glare at them all. “You laugh now, but just wait ‘til I bring feral Y/N back for next week’s Uno tournament.”

“Promises, promises,” Allie sang.

Sarah pressed a kiss to my temple. “You’re cute when you threaten people.”

I flushed. “Don’t encourage me.”

Eventually, the teasing died down, and the movie played on. By the time Rush Hour 2 ended, Azzi and KK were arguing over the next pick, and most of the team had started migrating toward the snack table for round two.

I stayed where I was—tucked into Sarah like gravity had chosen her over the floor.

She rubbed my arm gently, voice quiet in my ear. “You okay?”

I nodded. “Better than okay. Just… recharging.”

She smiled at that. “I like quiet you.”

I peeked up at her, smiling. “I like that you don’t need me to be anything else.”

“You never have to be,” she said simply. “You’re enough—loud or soft, center of attention or asleep in my lap. I love all of it.”

I didn’t say anything at first. I just buried my face in her hoodie again, the weight of her words settling warm and slow in my chest.

Then, softly: “I love you too.”

From the kitchen, someone yelled, “We heard that!”

I flipped them off without even looking.

Sarah just laughed and kissed my forehead.

And maybe they were right. Maybe I did have a “quiet mode.”

But if that mode only unlocked with Sarah—if it meant I could just exist, soft and small and whole—then I was okay with that.

Actually? I loved that.

And Sarah?

Well, she never once tried to turn the volume back up.

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

-Thank You For Reading!💚💙

-prettygirl-gabi✨️💗

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philipsindia · 2 years ago

Text

Sound Bar Bluetooth Speaker

Are you tired of the dull, tinny sound that comes from your TV or computer speakers? If you're looking for an immersive audio experience, look no further. Philips, a trusted name in the world of consumer electronics, has designed a remarkable solution for you - the Philips Sound Bar Bluetooth Speaker. In this comprehensive guide, we'll delve into the world of these innovative speakers, examining their features, benefits, and how they can enhance your audio experience.

Technical Specifications

Sound

Speaker output power 200W

Subwoofer output power 120W

Speaker system output power 320W

Loudspeakers

Main unit speaker drivers

L: full range (48x90mm) + tweeter; R: full range (48x90mm)) + tweeter; C: full range (52mm) x 2

Subwoofer type

Active

Wireless subwoofer

Subwoofer driver’s 1 x low frequency (165.1mm/6.5")

Power

Standby power consumption Main unit: <0.5 W; Subwoofer: <0.5 W

Subwoofer power consumption 20 W

Main unit power consumption 25 W

Main unit power supply 100-240V AC, 50/60 Hz

Subwoofer Power supply 110-240 V~; 50-60 Hz

Packaging dimensions

Packaging type Box

Number of products included 1

Height 45 cm

Width 18 cm

Depth 106 cm

Gross weight 11 kg

Net weight 8 kg

Tare weight 3 kg

EAN 48 95229 10235 4

3. Benefits of Choosing Philips Sound Bar Bluetooth Speakers

Choosing Philips Sound Bar Bluetooth Speakers comes with several significant advantages:

3.1. Enhanced Audio

The most prominent benefit is the enhanced audio quality. Say goodbye to inaudible dialogues and distorted sound. These speakers make sure you don't miss a beat.

3.2. Easy Setup

Setting up the Philips Sound Bar Bluetooth Speaker is a breeze. You don't need to be a tech guru to get these speakers up and running.

3.3. Space-Saving

These speakers are compact and can fit neatly under your TV or on a shelf. They save space without compromising on audio quality.

3.4. Versatility

You can use these speakers for various purposes, including watching movies, streaming music, and gaming. They're incredibly versatile. Read More

#soundbar #dolby atmos #dolby atmos soundbar #dolby atmos soundbars #across the spiderverse #Sound Bar Bluetooth Speaker #Bluetooth Speaker #Sound Bar

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torturedreid · 7 months ago

Text

The Perfect Formula

BARTENDER SPENCER

word count: 1265

warnings: drunk reader

The BAU’s bullpen had been transformed for the night, a rare occasion where work was on pause, and celebration took center stage. Strings of lights sparkled around the desks, and a large Bluetooth speaker on Derek’s desk blasted Garcia’s eclectic mix of holiday classics and ‘80s pop. The mood was relaxed, the team scattered around the room with glasses in hand, laughing and unwinding. A makeshift bar had been set up on the break room counter, cluttered with liquor bottles, mixers, and fresh fruit.

You leaned against the counter, watching as Spencer Reid stood at the center of it all, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, meticulously measuring liquids into a shaker. His tongue poked out slightly as he concentrated, and his cheeks were flushed a light pink, either from the heat of the room or the attention he was drawing from the team.

He’d taken charge of the cocktails after Morgan joked that Reid’s genius might finally be put to use for something other than criminal profiling. What had started as a tease quickly turned into a spectacle, as Spencer muttered to himself about ratios, volumes, and chemical balances while precisely measuring ingredients.

“Spence, you could just eyeball it, most people just pour and pray,” you teased, resting your chin on your hand as you watched. “It’s a party, not a chemistry experiment.”

His eyes flicked to yours, wide and flustered. “Eyeballing it would risk an imbalance in flavor profile, which could ruin the entire drink. It introduces too many variables. Cocktails, especially something as classic as a Daiquiri, require precision. The ideal ratio is two parts rum, one part lime juice, and one part syrup. Deviate from that, and you throw the balance off entirely.”

“Sounds pretty straightforward,” you said with a shrug, obviously joking, but of course he didn’t understand that.

“It’s deceptively simple,” he countered. “The ratio is easy to remember, but the variables compound quickly. For example, the dilution from the ice adds approximately twenty percent water to the final mixture, so you have to account for that when calculating the initial ingredient volumes. And then there's the acid-to-sugar ratio in the lime juice and syrup, which needs to fall between 1.2:1 and 1.6:1 for optimal flavor.”

You stared at him, blinking. “Did you just…math a cocktail?”

Spencer smiled faintly as he reached for a lime. “Of course. Math is the foundation of mixology.”

He began squeezing the lime, pausing briefly to weigh the juice on a small scale he’d brought over from the lab. “The average lime produces about 30 milliliters of juice, but that can vary depending on the ripeness and size. Too much acidity and the drink becomes harsh. Too little, and it tastes flat. This lime gave me 28 milliliters, so I'll adjust the syrup accordingly to maintain balance… for the record, this isn’t just a cocktail. It’s a daiquiri. The original recipe was created by Jennings Cox in the last 1800’s, and its simplicity makes it particularly vulnerable to imprecision.”

You couldn’t suppress a laugh. “You really are a genius, you know that?”

Spencer glanced at you, his face flushing deeper. “I’m just applying basic principles of chemistry and physics,” he said, his tone modest but his expression pleased.

“You’re applying science to make a party drink,” you teased.

“And doing it perfectly,” he replied, with a rare bit of sass, pouring the lime juice into the shaker.

You watched as he added the rum with his standard precision, using a jigger to measure out 60 milliliters before pouring it in. Then came the syrup, which he poured slowly, his eyes narrowing as he calculated the exact amount to offset the slight deficit in lime juice. Finally, he added ice, giving the shaker a firm tap before picking it up and shaking with a smooth, practiced rhythm.

The clink of ice against metal filled the room as his arms moved fluidly, the muscles in his forearms flexing, exposed from where he’d rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. You tilted your head a little, unable to look away as he focused entirely on his task.

“Spencer-” you started, your tone teasing.

“Not yet,” he interrupted, holding up a finger without breaking his rhythm. “If I stop shaking too soon the drink won’t chill properly, and the dilution will be uneven.”

You smirked, waiting until he finally strained the drink into a glass. He slid it across the counter to you, looking up with a mix of anticipation and nervousness.

“Here,” he said, his voice soft. “Let me know what you think.”

You took a sip, letting the tartness of the lime and the smoothness of the rum wash over your palate. It was perfect- bright, balanced, and refreshing.

“Spence, this is amazing,” you said, meeting his gaze.

His lips quirked up into a small, bashful smile. “Really?”

“Really,” you confirmed, raising the glass in a mock toast. “To Spencer Reid, cocktail extraordinaire.”

He chuckled softly, his blush deepening and he turned to prepare another drink.

--------------------------------------------

Hours later, the party was in full swing, but you found yourself repeatedly drawn back to Spencer’s bar. Each time he made you something different- a Margarita, a Negroni, an espresso martini- explaining the history and chemistry behind each one as he worked. You found it endearing, and hot, even as your head began to feel pleasantly fuzzy from the alcohol.

“Another, please,” you smiled, sliding your empty glass across the counter.

Spencer raised an eyebrow, his hands hesitating over the bottles. “That’s your fourth drink,” he said cautiously.

“And every single one has been delicious,” you replied, leaning on the countertop.

“Maybe you should slow down,” he suggested, his tone gentle but firm.

“Come on, Spencer,” you sighed, pouting dramatically. “You’re the barkeep here. Don’t leave me hanging.”

He sighed, relenting as he began preparing another cocktail. “You know, alcohol inhibits your prefrontal cortex, which is responsible for decision-making and impulse control.”

“Yeah, yeah, science boy,” you said, waving him off. “Just make the drink.”

By the time you finished that one, the world felt slightly tilted, and your laugh had become louder, less contained. You stumbled against the counter, giggling as Spencer reached out instinctively to steady you.

“Okay,” he said firmly, taking your glass from your hand. “That’s it. You’re done.”

“What?” you protested, looking up at him with puppy dog eyes. “No way, I’m fine!”

“You’re drunk,” he replied, his voice soft but unwavering.

“I am not drunk.”

“You just called me a wizard and asked if we could open a bar together,” he pointed out. “No more drinks for you. You need water.”

“But Spence,” you whined, swaying slightly.

“Water,” he repeated adamantly, guiding you to a nearby chair and handing you a glass of water. “Drink this. You’ll thank me in the morning.”

You took the glass with a dramatic sigh, slumping into the chair. “You’re no fun.”

He crouched down in front of you, his elbows resting on his thighs, his eyes warm and concerned. “I’d rather be no fun than let you drink yourself into a black-out.”

“Fine,” you grumbled, sipping the water. After a moment, you added, “But you’re still cute when you’re bossy.”

Spencer froze, his eyes widening as his face turned a deep shade of red. “I-uh-”

“Relax, genius wizard,” you said with a lazy smile. “It’s a compliment.”

He stood quickly, muttering something about getting a snack. As he moved behind the counter again, you couldn’t help but grin. Even in your inebriated state, it was fun watching the famed Dr. Spencer Reid unravel.

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darkseidex · 2 months ago

Text

Kiss it better

right... this one is just a tad bit raunchier than usual but daddy hank is here!!!

၄၃4,315 words. Smut / explicit sexual content (18+). Established relationship. Vaginal sex (m/f). Oral sex (f receiving). No condom (wrap it up irl). Backroom bar sex. Ice cube play. Ass eating. Light power play / dominance. Praise kink. Possessiveness. Size kink. Furniture destruction. Aftercare (detailed). Soft moments after sin.၄၃

Imani knew her man was a damn freak; hell, she knew it from the moment she set eyes on him. He’d made her a napkin rose—a napkin rose, of all things—delicate, careful, and tucked it behind her braids with a reverence that felt too intimate for a first date. His smile had been soft, boyish almost, but his eyes carried something darker, deeper. Like he already knew what her moans sounded like and planned to hear them firsthand.

She knew he was a freak that fourth date too, the one they spent curled up on her couch with reruns of The Bernie Mac Show filling the silence between soft laughter and teasing glances. He’d had his hand in her sweatpants before the second commercial break, fingers warm, steady, unhurried—like he had all the time in the world to learn what made her come undone. When he finally slid them past her panties and coaxed a gasp from her chest that damn near made her see the pearly gates, she’d thought she might pass out. But nothing could’ve prepared her for the way he pulled his hand back, slick and glistening, and brought his fingers to his mouth to suck them clean, never breaking eye contact.

That had been a year ago.

A year of love. A year of watching him work behind the bar, sleeves rolled up and veins flexing as he poured drinks, always glancing her way like she was the only woman alive. A year of kisses that left her breathless, nights of moans swallowed by his mouth as he worshipped between her thighs like he needed her to survive. It was routine now—every night, his hands parting her like scripture, his tongue offering prayers in the form of strokes and hums. Sometimes, when the pleasure crested so high she thought she might break, she'd look down and catch him gazing up at her like this was his religion.

She had to remember all of that—the sweetness, the sanctity, the sheer pleasure—before she walked behind that bar and wrapped her fingers around his pretty little throat. Because right now? He was pissing her the fuck off.

He stood there like he hadn’t done anything wrong, face matching her annoyance like it was him who had the right to be irritated. That worn Met’s cap sat snug on his curls, his jaw tight as he worked the shaker in practiced rhythm. Their usual Friday night routine—her coming down from upstate in her favorite jeans and leather boots, sitting in her usual seat, ordering her usual dirty martini—should’ve been sacred. Predictable. Comforting.

But not tonight.

Because last night, that man—her man—came waltzing into their apartment with a cat in his arms. No warning, no heads-up, just “She followed me, I couldn’t leave her.” As if Imani was supposed to co-sign a whole living creature invading her space with a meow and a mystery. And when she asked him where the cat came from, whose it was, and why the hell she was sitting on their bed like she paid rent—he got cryptic.

Cryptic.

Talking in half-sentences. Shrugging. Saying “It’s complicated.” Like this was some noir film and not real life where litter boxes needed cleaning and fur got on everything she owned.

Now she sat across from him, long legs crossed, sipping her martini like it didn’t taste slightly more bitter than usual, trying not to imagine tossing the cat and maybe him out the window just to make a point.

Last night, the key had barely turned in the door before Imani knew something was off.

The apartment was quiet—too quiet. No music playing from the Bluetooth speaker. No whiskey glass sweating on the counter, waiting for her like always. Just the sound of her heels clicking against the floor and the low, unmistakable purr of something alive.

Then she saw it.

A small calico cat—wide-eyed, dainty, and comfortably perched on the middle cushion of their couch like it had been invited. A pale pink collar dangled from its neck, no tag, no name. Just vibes and entitlement.

“What the hell is this?” she asked, already knowing.

Hank emerged from the kitchen like a man caught mid-crime, holding a half-filled bowl of milk and wearing that same sheepish smile he always used to get out of trouble. “She followed me,” he said. “Found her outside the bar. Wouldn’t leave me alone.”

“Did you try not bringing her here?”

“She was cold, Imani.”

“She has fur, Hank.”

He set the bowl down gently, like he didn’t feel her eyes burning holes through his back. The cat hopped down to lap at the milk without hesitation.

“And you didn’t think to call me?” Her voice was low, too even, the kind that came just before a storm.

“I didn’t think you’d pick up,” he said with a shrug. “You were at work.”

“Oh, so now I don’t deserve a heads-up when you bring strays into our house?”

He leaned against the counter, folding his arms across his chest. That damn Met’s cap was still on, tilted back like he hadn’t just disrupted her peace. “It’s just a cat, Imani.”

“No, Hank. It’s a decision. And you made it without me.”

Silence spread between them like wildfire.

She watched his jaw tighten, the way it always did when she was right and he knew it. But instead of an apology, instead of anything that might cool the heat in her chest, he said the one thing that sent her over the edge:

“It’s complicated.”

Imani blinked. “It’s a cat.”

“She reminds me of something,” he muttered, suddenly unable to meet her eyes.

“What, Hank? Your past life? Your drug-dealing days? Don’t start getting poetic now.”

He pushed off the counter, agitated. “You wouldn’t get it.”

“Try me.”

But he didn’t. He just stood there, breathing heavy, jaw clenched, like saying the truth would split him open. She grabbed her overnight bag from the hook by the door and turned without another word.

“You're really leaving?” he asked.

Imani didn’t even glance back. “I’m going to sleep somewhere cat-free. Don’t wait up.”

Was it petty? Absolutely.

Imani didn’t want to spend the night curled up in Jazz’s bed, limbs tangled awkwardly in a nest of pillows and pastel throw blankets, pretending like she wasn’t seconds from texting Hank to pick her up. She didn’t enjoy explaining—through the tight exhaustion that frayed her nerves and tugged at the corners of her eyes—why she wasn’t home on a Thursday night wrapped up in the arms of the man she loved.

But it wasn’t about the damn cat. It was never about the cat.

It was about trust. It was about them.

Hank got into shit, sure. She knew that. He had a past—rough-edged and reckless—but he’d never hidden it from her. He’d been open about the bruises, the bad decisions, the scars he kept tucked under tattoos and half-truths. That was the deal. That was them. They didn’t keep secrets. She knew his inner world the same way she knew her own. Every ache, every soft underbelly thought. He’d let her in like no one else ever had.

So why couldn’t he just tell her?

Why had he looked at her—her—the woman who had stood by him, slept beside him, kissed the bruises into softness—and decided she didn’t need to know? That she couldn’t handle something as simple as a stray cat?

That’s what cut. That’s what ignited the fire in her chest. Because if he could hide this, what else could he hide?

She loved that man. Hell, she was gone for him. From his shaggy blond hair always half-tamed under that worn Mets cap, to the way his black shirt clung to the curve of his torso and did nothing to hide the quiet strength of him. She loved the way he looked at her like she was his only lifeline, the way his voice dropped low when he was teasing her, the way he touched her like she was fragile glass and fire all at once.

But love didn’t erase the need for truth.

She didn’t want pretty lies wrapped in soft affection. She wanted him—whole, unfiltered, raw. And last night, he didn’t give her that.

So here she was, sat in this damn bar, watching him serve everyone with that same easy smile—the one he used to kiss her forehead with. She shifted in her seat, the smooth silk of her dress whispering against her skin, clinging to her curves like a second thought. The dress was backless by design and intention, leaving nothing between the dim light and the art inked into her skin.

Her tattoo started at the swell of her left hip, delicate vines curling like smoke across her lower back, before climbing in a slow, winding path up along her spine. Clusters of leaves branched out at intervals, some small and tight like budding secrets, others wide and fully bloomed, etched with feather-light shading that gave them depth and motion. The design trailed all the way to her left shoulder blade, where the final leaves stretched outward like they were reaching for air.

On her, it wasn’t just a tattoo—it was a story. Wild, feminine, rooted in control and softness. Every leaf a chapter. Every curve of ink a moment survived.

People looked at it. Of course they did. Especially under the warm bar lighting, where her skin glowed like bronze and the ink stood out sharp and stark. But only Hank knew what the whole thing looked like. Only he had traced it with his fingers, with his mouth, with that reverent sigh he made when he got to the spot right below her shoulder and whispered, "I could get lost here."

But tonight, he wasn’t looking. And that pissed her off even more.

“Beautiful piece.”

The voice came from two stools down—deep, smooth, just a little too confident.

Imani didn’t turn right away. She sipped her martini, let the cool burn of olive brine sit on her tongue before glancing over her shoulder.

The man was tall, polished in a way that said corporate by day, problem by night. He looked at her like he recognized beauty when he saw it and wasn’t afraid to name it. His eyes dropped again to her back, lingering at the curve of her waist where the vines began their ascent.

“Sorry,” he said with a half-smile, “It’s just rare to see a piece like that. It’s not just ink—it’s... intention.”

Imani tilted her head, amused. “You flirt like you read poetry at open mics.”

He laughed, warm and unbothered. “Only when the muse is sitting in silk and staring at the bartender like he owes her a lifetime of apologies.”

That made her pause. Not because it wasn’t true. But because he wasn’t the only one who heard it.

From behind the bar, Hank’s shoulders had gone stiff.

He didn’t look up at first. Just kept wiping down the same clean glass, the motion too tight, too focused. But then he did glance up, eyes narrowing the second he clocked the way the man leaned a little closer, the way Imani’s dress dipped lower when she shifted, the way his tattoo—the one he'd kissed more times than he could count—was now a conversation piece for a stranger.

Hank didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. His jaw locked. His eyes darkened. And when he finally set the glass down, it hit the bar just a little too hard.

Hank didn’t say a word at first.

Just moved with that coiled calm that made Imani’s spine tingle—not from fear, but familiarity. That particular brand of quiet he only pulled out when he was simmering just beneath the surface.

He turned off the music first.

Mid-song, right before the second chorus could drop, the speakers went dead. A few people groaned, one woman let out a dramatic “Aww, come on!” but Hank ignored them all.

Then came the lights—dimmed low until the bar was cast in gold and shadow, and conversations started dying out like candles being snuffed.

He walked to the door and flipped the sign.

CLOSED.

It was barely past ten.

“What the fuck?” someone muttered near the back. “It’s Friday, bro.”

“You got work in the morning?” Hank asked over his shoulder, voice light, but eyes sharp. “Didn’t think so. You’ll survive.”

He didn’t argue. No one did.

They filtered out slowly, confused and grumbling, but none of them challenged him. Maybe it was the way his voice dipped. Maybe it was the way he moved—like a man who’d been nice for too long and was finally done with it. Or maybe it was the way he kept glancing over at the woman still sitting at the bar, back straight, martini in hand, silk dress clinging like a dare.

She didn’t move. He hadn’t said a word to her yet, but that look— That heavy, unwavering, don’t-you-dare-leave kind of stare— It pinned her to the seat like a hand at the back of her neck.

Once the last person left and the door shut with a solid click, he didn’t go back behind the bar. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, dark eyes locked on hers, thumb running slow along his jaw like he was trying to decide between saying something reckless or doing something reckless.

“You closed the whole bar?” she finally asked, cool as the glass in her hand, though her heart was doing cartwheels in her chest.

His voice came low. “Didn’t like the crowd tonight.”

She arched a brow. “Or just one person in particular?”

He didn’t blink. “I don’t like when people touch what’s mine with their eyes.”

Her breath hitched. That old, familiar ache curled in her belly—equal parts anger and desire.

“Oh, so I’m yours now?” she said, raising the glass to her lips.

“You been mine,” he murmured, stepping closer, “Even when you were pissed at me. Even when you left me sleeping alone.”

He stopped on the other side of the bar, eyes raking down her exposed back, slow and hungry.

“And you know damn well you wore that dress for me.”

She leaned back with a snort, setting her empty glass on the bar with a deliberate clink. “You’re not gonna charm your way into my panties.”

Hank tilted his head, mouth twitching at the corners like he was trying real hard not to grin. “That so?”

“That’s exactly so,” she said, folding her arms across her chest, her dress dipping just enough to make his jaw flex. “You can close the bar, dim the lights, play your little caveman games—but you’re still on thin fucking ice, Hank Thompson.”

He stepped around the bar slowly, like a man approaching a wild animal he didn’t want to spook—but fully intended to tame.

“Who said anything about charm?” he asked, voice low, hoarse with restraint. “I’m not tryna sweet talk my way anywhere tonight, Imani. I’m tryna talk. But I need you to listen.”

She looked up at him, jaw set, fire in her eyes that didn’t shake. “I have been listenin’, Hank. Been listenin’ for months. When are you gonna admit that you don’t trust me? That somewhere deep down, you still think I can’t handle the parts of you that get messy?”

Her voice cracked, just a little, like a hairline fracture through glass. “Why can’t you just say that?”

Hank exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over his jaw, jaw clenching as he stared at the floor for a second like it held the answer. Then he looked at her, really looked—and everything in him softened.

“I love you,” he said quietly, voice rough with guilt and something deeper. “I trust you so much, Imani... with my own damn life.”

He took a step closer. Then another.

“I just... I wanna keep you safe. That’s it. That’s all it’s ever been.”

She stared at him, blinking slow, trying to hold the wall she’d built up brick by brick—but his words hit soft and sharp, and she hated how easily they cracked through.

“You don’t have to protect me from you, Hank,” she said, quieter now. “You just have to let me stand next to you.”

His brow furrowed, like the weight of that truth was landing for the first time.

She stood, silk slipping down her thighs as she rose to meet him eye to eye. “You don’t have to close bars and shut people out and carry everything alone. I’m not scared of the parts you think are too heavy. But I need you to stop hiding behind this idea that you’re the shield and I’m something delicate.”

He swallowed hard. “You’re not delicate.”

“Damn right I’m not,” she said. “But you love like I am.”

That landed. He didn’t speak—just stood there, chest rising and falling, like he was deciding between falling to his knees or pulling her in so tight the world would disappear.

She let out a soft, broken laugh—a small, wet sound that caught in her throat and slid down into something hollow. Her fingers brushed beneath her eye as if to catch the emotion before it could spill, but it was too late; her voice was already cracking.

“Is this what you do before you leave?” she said, shaking her head slowly, like the thought physically pained her. “Pull away. Start keepin’ secrets. Say less. Love softer. Set the stage so when you go, it’s already quiet?”

Her eyes locked on his, searching for something. For reassurance. For contradiction. For the Hank who used to spit truth with no hesitation.

He didn’t speak.

And that silence cut deeper than anything.

“I’ve seen this before,” she said, a whisper now, her voice thinning under the weight of too much knowing. “That slow drift. That quiet kind of cowardice where you pretend you’re protectin’ me when really, you’re just scared I’ll stay and see too much.”

She was trembling—not visibly, but deep, in the way her hands clutched the edge of the bar behind her, grounding herself against the pull in her chest.

Hank stepped forward, just once. His jaw clenched tight, and when he finally opened his mouth, his voice came out low, raw, like it’d clawed its way up from his ribs.

“I love you.”

The words hit the space between them like a confession, heavy and earnest.

“I think about you every single day, Imani,” he went on, voice thick, like he was forcing it through years of practiced silence. “From the second I open my eyes to the minute I shut ‘em. And even then, I still dream about you. About us. About the way you laugh when you’re brushing your teeth or how you hum when you’re workin’ in the kitchen, like you don’t even know you’re doin’ it.”

Her lips parted. She didn’t move.

“I’m not pullin’ away ‘cause I’m leavin’,” he said. “I’m pullin’ away ‘cause I love you so damn much it scares me. Because if somethin’ happened to you—because of me—”

His voice cracked. Just a hairline fracture, but it reverberated through the room like a shout.

“I just wanna keep you safe, baby.”

His shoulders dropped as he exhaled like he’d finally let go of something heavy he’d been carrying for too long.

The room went quiet again. Even the air felt still, like it was waiting.

Imani’s throat bobbed as she swallowed the knot forming there. Her hands loosened their grip on the bar. And when she spoke again, it was quieter. Gentler. Not because she wasn’t angry—but because now she saw the wound behind the wall.

Then, with a gentle movement, Hank tilted her chin upward, his fingers cradling her jaw like it was something sacred—like if he wasn’t careful, she might shatter right there in front of him.

Her skin was warm beneath his touch, soft and trembling with everything she wasn’t saying. Her lips parted slightly, eyes wide and searching his face for hesitation, for regret—finding neither. Just raw, unfiltered want wrapped in restraint.

And then he kissed her.

Slow.

Full.

Like he had all the time in the world but had waited long enough.

His lips were soft but certain, brushing over hers with the kind of reverence that came from knowing exactly what he stood to lose. He kissed her like a man who’d spent too many nights sleeping alone, memorizing the curve of the bed where she used to be. Like a man who had something to prove—but not with words, with touch.

Imani breathed him in as if his mouth were the only air she trusted. Her hands moved on instinct, sliding up the firm plane of his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt like she needed to feel him—to confirm he was real, here, hers. The scent of him hit her: smoke, musk, and the faintest trace of cedarwood. That cologne she loved, the one he never wore for anyone else.

His hand dropped from her jaw, sliding down the bare expanse of her back—skin still warm from the low bar lights—to rest at the small of her spine. His palm splayed wide, steadying her, pressing her into him until there was no room for distance, not even breath.

And then the kiss deepened.

Not with urgency. Not with apology.

But with the kind of aching slowness that could rebuild empires. The kind that said, I know every version of you. And I still want them all.

She gasped softly against his mouth, a broken little sound that made him hold her tighter, arms wrapping around her like shelter. Her dress shifted with the movement, silk sliding over her hips, her tattoo catching the light like a secret she’d only ever let him trace.

When they pulled apart, it wasn’t from doubt—it was from air. Their foreheads pressed together, breath mingling in the quiet space between them, both of them still trembling in the aftermath.

Hank didn’t open his eyes.

He just whispered, “There you are.”

Imani’s fingers stayed against his chest, rising and falling with his breath. And for a moment, neither of them said anything. The silence wasn’t tense—it was thick with everything that had just passed between them: the apology, the fear, the promise.

She closed her eyes and let herself lean into him, the tension in her shoulders uncoiling, her heartbeat slowing against his.

Well it was… until he roughly murmured four words into her ear.

“Get on the counter.”

Her eyes snapped open.

He didn’t move—didn’t repeat himself, didn’t clarify. Just stood there, muscles taut beneath her palms, waiting. His tone wasn’t a request. It wasn’t even a dare. It was claiming.

Imani stepped back slightly, enough to look up at him, heart thudding so loud in her ears she could barely hear herself speak. “Excuse me?”

But he was already shifting—already clearing the two glasses and one lonely cocktail napkin off the edge of the bar with one swift sweep of his arm, sending them clattering into the sink behind him.

“Now,” he said, eyes dark, voice low and commanding. “Please.”

The “please” was a formality. They both knew she was going to listen.

She hesitated only for a second. Then, slowly—deliberately—she turned, hands finding the edge of the bar as she boosted herself up, silk dress sliding against her thighs, cool wood meeting the backs of them as she settled atop the counter.

Her legs dangled, knees brushing his hips as he stepped between them, hands braced on either side of her.

His eyes raked over her face, then down her body like he hadn’t just spent weeks pretending he didn’t need this—like now that he had her again, he didn’t intend to let her out of arm’s reach.

“You mad at me?” he asked, tone quiet, but there was that smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. That cocky, low-lidded grin that only came out when he knew she was right on the edge.

“Still deciding,” she said, voice breathless despite herself.

“Mm.” He leaned in, lips brushing against her jaw, trailing heat down to her neck. “You can finish deciding later.”

Then his mouth found the spot just beneath her ear—the one he knew ruined her—and Imani’s fingers curled tight into his shirt as her breath hitched sharp.

Then, without warning, he dropped to his knees.

Imani’s breath caught like it had been yanked from her lungs. One second, Hank was eye-level, eyes burning into hers—and the next, he was sinking, palms dragging down her thighs as he lowered himself between them like a man bowing before an altar. His gaze never wavered, even as he hooked his fingers in her panties, pulling them down agonizingly slow, letting the damp fabric stretch and cling before he tossed them aside like an afterthought.

She was already glistening, already soaked for him, the evidence of her want catching the low, warm light. He groaned when he saw her, a low, needy sound that vibrated straight through her, and he muttered under his breath like a man possessed.

“Goddamn… I missed this pussy.”

Then he leaned in.

His tongue met her folds in one long, unhurried stroke that dragged a guttural moan from her chest. He didn’t dive in—he savored. Licked her with the patience of a man who had nowhere else to be and nothing else on his mind but her. His lips sealed around her clit, warm and insistent, then sucked gently—just once—and her legs nearly closed around his head from the shock of pleasure.

But Hank was already gripping her thighs, locking her open, holding her in place like a man who planned to stay.

“You’re gonna sit still,” he murmured, breath hot against her, “and take every fuckin’ second of this.”

And then he got to work.

His mouth was sinful—hungry. He moved like he knew her body better than she did, tongue sliding through her folds, circling her clit with precision, then dipping low to fuck into her with slow, filthy strokes. When he moaned against her, it sent vibrations pulsing through her core, and Imani cried out, her hands flying to his head, fingers tangling in his shaggy blonde hair.

“Hank—shit—”

He doubled down, lips sealed tight over her, tongue flicking now, fast and sharp and perfectly wicked. He was greedy, devouring her like she was the last meal he’d ever eat. And God, the way he stayed—unbothered by the way her hips jerked, by the choked sounds leaving her throat, by the way she tried to squirm from the overwhelming sensation—just made it worse.

No, not worse. Better.

He didn’t come up for air. He didn’t ask if she was close. He knew.

She was unravelling, every muscle trembling, hands shaking as she gripped his head tighter. His tongue moved faster, mouth sucking, licking, tasting her like it was the only language he spoke.

“I—I’m gonna—Hank—fuck—” Her voice cracked, eyes squeezing shut.

And then she came.

Hard.

Her thighs trembled violently, heels digging into the bar edge, as she screamed, her orgasm crashing through her like a tidal wave. Her hips bucked against his face, but he didn’t move—stayed locked in, mouth sealed to her as he drank her down, tongue still flicking lazily even as she writhed, whimpering from overstimulation.

When he finally pulled back, he looked wrecked. Lips glossy, chin soaked, eyes wild and dark with hunger. He licked his bottom lip slow, collecting every last trace of her from his mouth like she was his favorite flavor—and he wasn’t done yet.

“You still mad at me?” he rasped.

Imani could barely sit upright. She blinked, eyes glassy, mouth parted, chest rising and falling like she’d run a marathon. Her silk dress was still hiked up around her hips, her thighs trembling, slick glistening between them like he hadn’t just pulled an orgasm straight out of her soul with nothing but his mouth.

And then his hand was on her throat.

Not tight. Just firm. Just enough to remind her—to ground her. She gasped, breath catching as his fingers curled just beneath her jaw, thumb stroking slow across her pulse like he could feel her defiance and desire beating under her skin.

He tilted her chin upward, eyes locking onto hers.

“When I ask you a question,” he said, voice low and rough, “I expect an answer, baby. Where’s your manners?”

That smug, dirty glint in his eye—like he already knew she couldn’t form words yet—made her legs tighten involuntarily around him. He smiled, slow and dark, leaning in until his lips were brushing hers, still wet from her.

“You go dumb on me already, sweetheart?” he whispered. “Or you just like bein’ bad?”

Her breath stuttered. “I—I’m not mad,” she managed, voice small and wrecked.

He hummed, pleased. “That’s more like it.”

Then his mouth was on hers again—hot, claiming, tongue sliding past her lips in a kiss that was equal parts apology and possession. His hand stayed at her throat, thumb pressing just a little firmer now, not enough to choke—just enough to make her feel it.

“Bet you’re still throbbing for me,” he murmured against her lips. “Bet if I slid two fingers back inside you, you’d come again in thirty seconds, easy.”

She whimpered, legs twitching. “Hank…”

He stilled.

His grip on her throat didn’t tighten, but his thumb paused against her pulse, the silence sudden and heavy as the air shifted. His eyes—still molten, still so dark with need—narrowed with quiet warning.

“‘S not my name right now, baby,” he said, voice a low, gravelled rasp against her lips. “You know what it is. Don’t act brand new.”

Imani’s breath stuttered. Her lashes fluttered as the words sank deep—not just into her ears, but down her spine, straight to her already aching core. Her thighs tightened around his waist, her hands moving instinctively to his chest like she needed something to hold onto, something to ground her.

She licked her lips, eyes wide, heat blooming under her skin. “Yes, Daddy.”

That smile he gave her in return—slow, primal, possessive—could’ve ended civilizations. His free hand moved to her jaw, holding it open just enough for his next kiss to feel like a claim. Deep. Dominant. A reminder.

“There she is,” he murmured, lips brushing hers. “There’s my good girl.”

He pulled back just enough to watch her face, his fingers slipping down from her throat to the valley between her breasts, tracing the swell of them still barely held in place by her half-fallen dress.

“You know what happens to bad girls who lie, right?” he asked, his tone almost teasing—but edged with authority. “Sayin’ you’re not mad, then comin’ on my tongue like that? After the way you looked at me across this bar, like you wanted to strangle me and fuck me in the same breath?”

She let out a shaky moan, unable to stop the way her body responded—wetness growing between her thighs again, her nipples pebbling beneath the thin silk of her dress.

He leaned in again, mouth grazing her ear as he whispered:

“You can be mad at me, baby. You can hate me a little. But this?” His fingers slid down, between her thighs, brushing through her slick again—coaxing a full-body shiver out of her. “This is still mine.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Imani caught the glint of motion—Hank’s hand reaching into the half-melted bucket of ice that cradled a forgotten bottle of champagne.

She barely had time to react.

The sound of sloshing water, the clink of shifting cubes—and then his hand emerged, gripping a single, solid block between his fingers. Her brows knit, breath catching in anticipation.

“Hank…” she whispered, unsure if it was a plea or a warning.

He gave her that look again—that low-lidded, wicked smirk that said trust me, but also I’m not about to behave. He leaned in close, still holding the ice, and kissed her slowly—deep and slow, tongues tangled, heat and intention crashing together like waves.

Then, without breaking the kiss, he brought the ice block to the dip of her throat and pressed it there.

Cold.

Sharp.

She gasped into his mouth, her back arching off the counter as the ice met her flushed skin. The shock made her moan—loud, involuntary—and he swallowed the sound greedily, his free hand gripping her thigh to hold her in place.

“Shhh,” he whispered, breath hot against her lips, lips brushing her jaw as he dragged the cube lower. “Let me cool you off.”

The ice trailed down between her breasts, catching on the edge of her dress. He yanked the fabric lower with one hand, baring her fully to him. Her nipples were already tight, flushed deep rose—and he didn’t hesitate.

He rubbed the ice directly over one nipple, the cold contact drawing a strangled sound from her throat.

Her head tipped back, a broken gasp flying from her lips. “Oh my God—”

He chuckled darkly. “Sensitive, huh?”

He circled it, slow, letting the cold harden her even more before dipping his head down and sealing his mouth over the ice-slick skin. The contrast of freezing cold and wet heat nearly undid her—his tongue hot and hungry as he lapped at her, suckled her, bit down just enough to blur pleasure and pain.

Her legs kicked once, reflexively, and he caught her thigh mid-motion, holding her open with a growl.

“Stay still.”

The ice cube had already begun to melt in his grip, water trickling in a cool line down her stomach as he moved it to her other nipple. This time, she sobbed.

Hank was relentless. Alternating cold and heat—ice and mouth—worshipping her chest like he was memorizing her responses.

“Look at you,” he murmured, pulling back to admire his work. Her nipples were swollen and wet, the silk dress now plastered to her skin, and her breath came in ragged little gasps. “So fuckin’ pretty. Like art.”

He dropped what remained of the ice to the floor, then leaned in close, fingers sliding back between her thighs where she was soaked all over again.

“Soaked,” he said, dragging the tip of his fingers through her folds. “That ice get you off, baby?”

She whined, hips rocking against his hand. “Yes—yes—”

“You want more?” he asked, voice all smoke and gravel now. “You want Daddy to ruin you proper?”

She nodded, dazed, desperate.

He grinned, kissed her once more—messy, consuming—before growling against her lips:

“Then bend over the fuckin’ bar.”

Imani moved like she was possessed—chest heaving, skin flushed, her silk dress bunched at her waist as she turned, planted her hands on the edge of the bar, and arched her back. The wood was cool beneath her palms, but her entire body burned.

Behind her, Hank let out a low groan—guttural, unholy.

Her ass was a work of art. Full, soft, round—highlighted by the sheen of sweat slicking her skin, thighs still sticky from the mess he’d already made of her. She was soaked, clenching with nothing inside her, twitching in anticipation like her body already knew what was coming.

And then she heard it—the clink of ice again.

“Hank—what—”

“Don’t speak,” he muttered. “Just feel.”

She barely had time to breathe before his hands were spreading her apart again, rough but careful, thumbs pulling her open until she was fully exposed—every inch of her glistening, every soft fold laid bare to the cold air and his starving eyes.

Then she felt it—cold, sudden, unforgiving.

He slid the ice along the seam of her pussy, right through the swollen lips, letting the cube melt slowly as it traced her slit. She gasped, hips jolting, a cry torn from her throat before she could stop it. The sensation was jarring—cold water meeting heat, then vanishing as quickly as it came.

Then his mouth followed.

Warm tongue licked right through where the ice had been, slow and deliberate. The contrast nearly broke her.

He took his time.

Licking her pussy like he was trying to memorize it, kissing her clit with his lips parted, tongue swirling over it like a slow spell while his fingers gripped her hips to anchor her. She moaned into the bar, hips twitching with every flick, every suck, every open-mouthed moan he let vibrate against her.

But he wasn’t done.

Oh no.

She felt his hands slide lower, dragging her ass cheeks apart even more, and she knew what was coming.

He didn’t give her time to react—didn’t warn her.

He just spat once, hot and wet, right between the cheeks—and then followed it with his tongue. Slow. Bold. Possessive.

Right there.

“Oh my—” she choked, head snapping up, eyes flying wide as her entire body seized at the contact.

His tongue was filthy—circling, teasing, probing, his nose buried against her pussy, beard damp with her as he moaned into her ass like it was dessert. He was ravenous, devouring every inch of her most sacred places like he’d been starving for it.

And the worst part? He still had the ice cube in his mouth—half-melted now, so as he licked her, the cold dripped over her pussy, over her clit, sending shivers through her every time his mouth shifted.

He was multitasking sin.

Hot tongue, cold water, soft sucks—every swipe of his mouth was torture, and she was soaked. Her thighs were trembling. Her knees nearly buckled. The bar was the only thing keeping her upright.

“Fucking—fuck, Daddy—” she sobbed, breath catching, voice wrecked. “I can’t—I can’t—”

But he just grunted, deeper now, licking up and down with zero shame, like her ass was his meal and he had nowhere else to be. He kissed it, bit it, spanked it once with the flat of his palm before spreading her again and diving back in—tongue sliding lower, teasing, tasting.

“You’re mine,” he growled between licks. “You hear me? This pussy, this ass—mine.”

She could only nod, moaning incoherently, entire body trembling as she began to unravel again. Her orgasm was building hard and fast from just his mouth—no fingers, no penetration, just pure worship.

When she came, it wasn’t a climax—it was obliteration.

She screamed, legs giving out, face pressed to the bar as her body convulsed, thighs squeezing tight around his head. He stayed there, moaning into her, licking her through it, drinking her down like he couldn’t get enough.

When she finally collapsed forward, weak and shaking, he rose slowly—face drenched, eyes feral, cock hard and leaking in his jeans.

He licked his lips, grabbed her by the waist, and whispered against the shell of her ear:

“Now I’m gonna fuck you so deep you forget what bein’ mad ever felt like.”

He carried her into the back room like a man who didn’t plan to return to the world outside. The heavy door swung open with a creak and slammed shut behind them, muffling the outside world with a soft, final thud.

This wasn’t some pristine private lounge—it was a dim, grimy corner of the bar meant for backdoor deals, stolen kisses, and bartenders sneaking shots. The air was thick with the scent of spilled liquor, wood polish, and sweat. A single neon bar sign glowed hot pink and electric blue in the window, flickering just enough to give the room a pulse. The light cast over everything—walls, skin, sweat-slicked shoulders—in a haze of sweaty sin.

And in the middle of it: that leather couch. Worn. Sunk in the middle. Framed by a scratched coffee table and two barstools that wobbled when you breathed near them.

Hank dropped down onto the couch, dragging Imani with him, straddling his lap, her thighs already slick against his jeans. Her silk dress was pushed up to her hips, exposing the soft curve of her ass as she settled on top of him, panting, wrecked, needy.

He kissed her like he needed oxygen and she was the last breath left.

Then—he slid inside her.

All the way.

She moaned so loud it bounced off the walls. Her head rolled back, her hands gripping the back of the couch, fingers digging into the cracked leather as he bottomed out inside her. No gentle start. No teasing now. He was already deep, thick, pulsing with hunger.

“You feel that?” he growled, voice low and broken. “That’s Daddy makin’ a mess of you.”

And then he fucked her.

Brutal.

Unapologetic.

The couch slammed into the wall with each thrust, the back legs lifting slightly from the floor like it was trying to escape the force of them. The side table next to them trembled with every bounce of her hips—and then it gave up entirely.

CRASH.

A half-full bottle of cheap champagne toppled, dragging down two glasses with it, the glass shattering across the floor in a glittering spray of violence. The sound barely registered under the slap of skin, the sharp whine of wood against tile, the moans spilling from Imani’s throat as Hank pounded into her from below.

“Room’s fallin’ apart,” he rasped, gripping her hips so tight she’d feel it for days. “And you’re still takin’ this dick like you were made for it.”

The neon light flickered wildly, sputtering with every slam of her body into his. The room felt alive with it—like it was breathing with them, gasping, groaning, trying to contain something too raw for walls to hold.

Imani was gone. Head thrown back, sweat running down her spine, lips parted in a constant, broken moan. Her body rocked against him, mouth open in a silent scream as he snapped his hips up harder, faster, deeper.

Another crash.

A barstool tipped over somewhere behind them. One of the legs cracked with a splintering snap as it hit the floor.

Hank didn’t stop. Didn’t look. Didn’t care.

He pulled her chest to his, arm wrapped around her waist, mouth pressed to her ear. His voice was thick, breath hot, words sharp and filthy.

“This pussy’s so wet it’s makin’ the fuckin’ furniture break,” he growled. “I should fuck you in every corner of this damn bar. Mark every room till the whole place smells like you.”

She sobbed, legs trembling, hands digging into his hair.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he whispered, thrusts growing ragged now. “Come for me again, baby. Soak this dick one more time. Ruin me.”

And when she came—it was devastation. Her nails scratched down his back, her entire body locking up with a scream as she came hard, clenching around him with a wet, fluttering grip that made his hips stutter.

He held her tight, let out a deep, guttural growl, and came inside her, grinding deep as he filled her to the brim, their combined mess leaking out around him, down his thighs, soaking into the broken couch like a final act of war.

The room stilled.

Just the drip of liquor on the floor. The crackle of glass beneath the table. The neon buzzing overhead, casting their sweat-slicked skin in blue and pink as they stayed locked together, panting, wrecked, still connected.

And somewhere behind them, the barstool lay split in two.

The room was wrecked.

Glass on the floor. Liquor dripping off the edge of the busted side table. A barstool laying on its side like it had been in a fight and lost. The couch they were tangled on creaked beneath them, one leg cracked, cushions damp with sweat, cum, and Imani’s silk dress bunched beneath her thighs.

And in the center of the storm—them.

Still wrapped around each other.

Hank’s chest was heaving, heartbeat crashing against hers. His cock was still buried inside her, softening slowly, but neither of them moved. Her forehead was pressed to his collarbone, her lashes fluttering as her breathing came back down. The air smelled like sex and skin and champagne.

He stroked her back. Slow. Steady. One hand dragging up and down the slick length of her spine, his palm wide and warm, grounding her.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice rough, low, but laced with a kind of reverence that made her throat tight.

She nodded slowly, her fingers fisting into his damp shirt. “Mhm.”

He pressed a kiss to the side of her head, then another, then another—soft, scattered, like he couldn’t stop. “You were so fuckin’ good for me, baby. Took it all like a fuckin’ dream.”

She let out a soft, exhausted laugh, too wrecked to be bashful. “Felt like a damn exorcism.”

He chuckled into her skin, and she felt his body relax under hers. His hands never left her. They slid down her arms, then back up to her shoulders, his thumbs tracing over every tense knot with slow, gentle pressure.

“Lemme clean you up,” he whispered, brushing her curls off her face. “Stay here.”

She blinked up at him, eyes soft, lashes wet. “Don’t leave.”

“I’m not,” he promised, tucking a kiss under her chin. “Just getting something warm.”

He lifted her off his lap with careful hands, gently lowering her to the couch like she was something delicate now—nothing like the man who’d just fucked her into the furniture. He pulled his jeans up lazily, but didn’t bother to fasten them. His body was marked with her—scratches down his back, lip a little swollen from biting. He looked spent, and yet somehow more focused than ever.

She watched him disappear into the bar, heard the water running in the back sink. Then he came back with a damp cloth, still warm, and a clean bar towel he’d clearly folded with intention.

“Open for me,” he murmured, kneeling between her legs again—but this time with tenderness that could’ve made her cry. He cleaned her slowly, gently wiping away the mess between her thighs, checking her face for every flinch, every breath.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No,” she whispered, brushing her fingers through his hair. “You made me feel like I was the only thing that mattered.”

His jaw clenched, eyes meeting hers like he’d been waiting his whole life to hear that.

“You are.”

When he was done, he kissed her knee. Then her hip. Then crawled up beside her, pulling the bar towel over her like it was a damn blanket. His arms wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her into his chest, bare skin to bare skin.

They lay there like that—bodies intertwined, her head tucked under his jaw—as the neon light flickered above them and the scent of them filled the room.

He kissed the top of her head again. “I love you,” he said, soft and true. “Even when I’m dumb as hell.”

She smiled into his chest. “You are. But I love you anyway.”

“Good,” he murmured. “’Cause I’m never lettin’ you go.”

tags : @blossom-ndlala

(lmk if you want one)

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