#DYS CASCADE

[xianqu]

I WILL REPLY TO IMS SOON IM SO SORRY ;___;

[thekinslayed]

A Moment's Reprieve

summary | Aemond just can't seem to get a moment alone with you, driving him to the point of madness.

pairing | aemond targaryen x wife!reader

tags | 18+, MINORS DNI!, lil quickie, rough sex, aeggy cameo <3, slight exhibitionism, semi-public sex, not proofread :P

wordcount | 3.3k

note | hi, it's been a minute <3 feeling kinda meh about this but i hope u guys like it!

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

It was hard to fuck while wearing leather. The heat from Aemond’s body was so easily trapped in its wall, dissipating into fat droplets of sweat cascading down his back. Moving around was no easy feat either, but the momentary suffering would have to suffice. He was easily lost enough in the fire in his loins that burned hotter than the damp flush creeping up his chest. His thrusts were hasty, his grip on your exposed breasts tight as he slammed himself in and out of your core.

On better days, he would have taken the time to take you apart piece by piece, perhaps starting with his mouth on your sweet cunny, but you both hardly had time to even undress. Your skirts were carelessly rucked up to your hips, neckline haphazardly unbound just enough to free your teats, while your husband had lowered his breeches just enough to expose his hard, swollen cock before he drove into you. Your grip on his bicep was tight, while your nails dug into the bedpost with the other for support as you stood by the bed’s edge. The pulsating of your core was enough to drive him mad, the dizzying haze of desire overwhelming his wife just as it did with him. 

“H-husband, I’m so close,” you moaned in his ear, head leaned back into his chest. He must have grunted something in response, though he wasn’t sure he even heard himself, voice lost in the din of loud smacking of his trim hips against your plump arse, and your sweet melodic mewls. The rising heat in his belly let him know he was right with you, only a few thrusts behind the release that threatened to overtake him. It was easy to get lost in it all— in you, in your warm, perfect walls. So much so his thrusts turned even more desperately erratic as his body moved in its own accord, his usually alert mind hardly registering the creaking of wood and the sudden breeze into his marital chambers.

Then he heard cackling.

“Seven fucking Hells, brother!” 

Aegon stood at the threshold, one hand still on the doorknob and the other clutching his stomach as he doubled over in laughter. The younger whipped his head at the intrusion, eyes widening before shifting to cover you with his body. He heard you gasp, before scrambling to cover your exposed chest away from Aegon’s curious eyes. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Aemond barked, turning to move to storm over where the idiot stood when he caught his brother eyeing the exposed flesh of your upper thigh, but your firm hand on his wrist kept him where he was to save yourself the last bits of dignity. 

“I… ha!” the elder snorted, laughter finally dying down into low chuckles that rumbled from his chest. He exhaled a deep sigh, dramatically wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “Mother sent me to call on you because court starts in five minutes and she believes the Seven Hells have cooled over when she found me ready before you, but I guess you were preoccupied, eh?” he shrugged, amethyst eyes twinkling with a mischievous glint that irked Aemond to no end. “Dear me, fucking before noon? And I thought I was oversexed.”

“Shut up before I make you,” Aemond seethed. His wife sighed, peeking over his shoulder to speak to Aegon.

“Would you give us a few moments, brother? Let Her Grace know we will be right out,” you asked softly, smiling sweetly enough to earn a tight squeeze on the hips from your dragon in warning. 

“Of course, best to, uh, finish up then,” he responded, wagging his finger mockingly before turning to leave, snickering. “Good to know I had you taught well, Aemond!”

“You fucke–”

The door slammed shut before Aemond could finish, sighing against your temple in exasperation from the ruined moment. The soft kiss on his cheek was hardly enough to make up for it, the humiliation in his chest killing whatever drive in his gut. He begrudgingly tucked his softened length back into his breeches before helping you with your laces. You turned to face him once your dress had been rightened, hugging his waist and leaning your chin against his chest. 

“Such a shame, everything was feeling so good,” you pouted up at him. Aemond grunted in agreement, head still running hot in annoyance.

Surely, the court wouldn’t be too curious if his brother strolled in with a bruise on his face. He’d been in worse shape before, what was a little marked-up cheek?

There must be some sick game the gods were playing on Aemond. They were teasing him, testing to see how long he could withhold being unable to have a moment alone with his wife before going completely mad. Court took up a better part of his afternoon, long hours of appeals and hearing whatever problems their people wished to voice. It took much of him to keep his eye forward, ignoring the heat radiating off the flesh of your arm that was warmed by the sticky air of the mid-summer sun filtering into the throne room, while you stood by your husband’s side, his nose engulfed by the flowery sweetness wafting from your hair.

Supper was just as torturous, though having you sat by his side slightly made up for it, and teasing you under the table was a good way to pass the time. Aemond’s rough fingertips crept up your skirts and took hold of your thigh, and he would be lying if he said he didn’t relish in the way you swatted his hand away in panic, cheeks growing adorably flushed. With dessert promptly served and devoured, the one-eyed prince all but jumped from his seat, your hand in tow to lead you back to the privacy of your chambers, but the deep drawl of his grandsire’s voice halted him before anything else, inviting him to the Tower to speak on a matter of the utmost discretion. He let your hand go with a scowl, helplessly watching you walk off into the direction of your apartments.

His grandsire sat him down to talk until well into the night, speaking in hushed tones of a matter of concern in the Reach. He was to fly to Oldtown to settle brewing disputes in the Hightower seat in his grandsire's stead, a task entrusted to him that required his sharp eye and his partiality to matters of politics. 

His steps were heavy on his return, his chest even heavier, and when he finally crossed the threshold of your spacious apartments, you were deep into your slumber. You snuggled up into his side of the bed, arm extending to where he should have been. When a responsibility like this would’ve once had Aemond eager to fly out at first light, he found himself unable to tear himself away from you when duty called, having found a home in your arms that sheltered him with warmth and lightness his reality was so deeply void of. 

He was gone for a sennight—a slow-passing, cruel week.  

The separation was torturous, and not a moment passed where your husband’s mind didn’t wander to his sweet wife. He’d tucked one of your handkerchiefs into his pocket before his departure, tracing the embroidered curves of your initials with his thumb when he grew agitated within Oldtown’s walls. They had given him a comfortable accommodation, a bed much too large to sleep in alone. Aemond had grown spoiled with your warmth, and with this temporary withdrawal, sleep came miserably.

At the week's end, disagreements were smoothed and hands were shaken. Aemond took to the skies, not a second too soon after the Lord Hobart thanked him for the crown’s aid, his longing for home shamelessly showing itself in the tension in his shoulders every minute he was there. Daeron would have to forgive him for not flying together as much as the younger wished, but his brother, ever the kindest out of all the dragon princes, saw him off with a nod of understanding and a firm pat on the back, whispering the promise of his own return to their family. 

Vhagar traversed the horizon at a speed unexpected for her size and age, but his old girl shared her rider’s wish for home. They cleared the distance in a day, and the returning prince was greeted by Ser Criston and a wheelhouse that would take him back to his home, to you.

But the gods wouldn’t grant Aemond reprieve that easily. 

The streets bustled with life as the carriage rolled through the cobbled streets. He had returned just in time for his father’s nameday, a week-long celebration for the ailing king that called for the grandest celebration, with music, wine, and dancing for guests hailing from all over the realm. Aemond watched through the thin slits of the carriage— faces passing in a blur, voices of every pitch overlapping the other. His brow furrowed in perplexion when they took a sudden turn, an unexpected route that led him away from the hill leading to the Keep, but right to the middle of the celebrations— the melee.

“Queen’s orders, my prince,” Cole explained, standing stoically in front of the brooding prince. “She wished to have you join the celebrations as soon as you returned, have the family all present in front of the people.”

Aemond grumbled under his breath all the way up the steps to the royal box, plopping exhaustedly into his seat beside Aegon. The elder patted him hard on the back, adding to his aggravation, clearly oblivious to his dampened mood. “Good to have you here in time to join us, brother, Reyne’s just about to fuck Tarly up,” he cackled, taking a big swig of his wine. 

“A change of clothes first would have been nice,” Aemond huffed, ignoring the battling knights as he looked around for his wife. He twisted around his seat in confusion at the absent sight of you, earning a look from his grandsire that had him uncharacteristically slumping in his seat.

“She’s with Helaena,” Aegon said, whose eyes stayed glued to the violent display before them. “Orwyle said it was ill luck for pregnant women to look upon violence or whatever he was on about. Your wife’s keeping her company.”

Aemond sighed defeatedly, his chest twinging with annoyance. Of fucking course. Everything seemed to be working against his wishes, toying with his already short patience. Gods be damned, they would know better to keep a man like him away from his wife. Perhaps this made him seem like an addict, no better than a drunk stuck to his bottle or a pervert to a whore, but he was well past the point of denying it. You were a part of him, whether either of you could help it or not.

He turned to his mother, who sat frowning with a hand half-covering her face as she watched on, muttering some half-excuse of wanting to freshen up and be rid of the smell of dragon on his skin before enjoying the festivities. The queen granted him leave with the ghost of a quirk on her lips and a knowing look, waving him off dismissively with a ringed hand.

He all but dashed the way back to the Keep, strides large and booming through the halls back to Maegor’s Holdfast. His pulse thumped heavily in his ears, his chest sparked with a renewed lightness with every step closer. Aemond found you in his sister’s apartments, sat on the settee as you embroidered. 

Your head shot up as the door swung open, eyes brightening like a starry night when they landed on him. “Aemond!” you gasped, promptly jumping up from your seat and into his arms. With how tight your arms wound around his neck, it was clear his dearest wife was just as tortured as he. 

Aemond nuzzled his nose into your hair, breathing in the sweet scent of your skin he had missed dearly. With you back in his arms, right where you belonged, everything felt warm. He felt near bursting at the seams, his body immediately responding to the heat of your body pressed against his. His lips found yours on instinct, hungrily devouring the sweet taste he’d grown starved for. Large, calloused hands wandered on their own, finding purchase on your rear with a tight squeeze. It made you whine, pulling away in haste to glance at a sleeping Helaena.  Her third pregnancy often had her weary, as she was now, laid on her bed, with the twins tucked on either side as they slept through the peaceful haze of the late afternoon.

“Come,” your husband ordered, grasping your wrist to pull you out of the room. The growing fire in his loins left him too impatient to lead you up another flight of stairs where your apartments were, urgency nagging at him to hasten lest someone called for him to return to the melee. He led you with quick steps to the end of the hall, in a quiet alcove where he pressed you against the wall, caged between his arms.

His mouth devoured yours, tongue slithering into the warm cavern and dancing with your own. It soon descended onto the length of your perfumed neck, nipping and biting at the spots that pulled deep, pleasant sighs. Your hands gripped his doublet, subtly pushing him away as you called his name.

“Husband, h-here?” you asked, mewling as he sucked on a particularly sensitive spot below your jaw. You were right, this wasn't exactly an ideal location for your reunion, but he was pressed for time, and having to wait to have you until nightfall would drive him to insanity.

“There’s not one soul around, dearest,” he said into your skin, parting with a kiss on the fresh mark. With the inhabitants of the Keep all away at the tournaments, the halls were empty enough, save for the occasional passing servant and the knight standing guard outside Helaena’s door. With the near ravenous state Aemond was in, he could give less fucks who could witness him taking his wife. Your skirts were messily rucked up to your hips, wandering hand dipping past your smallclothes and finding your heat, already dripping in sweet arousal. “Did you miss me this much, wife? You’re already soaked,” your husband chuckled devilishly, eye darkening when you bit your lip as he teased your slit. 

You nodded at him eagerly, a whine rising from your throat when his fingertip brushed against your pearl. “You were gone for too long, husband. It has been miserable without you. When I saw Vhagar fly over the city I could have dashed to the gates myself if Helaena didn’t need me,” you pouted. His heart swelled at your sweetness, peppering adoring kisses onto your hairline as you pulled him in even closer.

“I have been tormented just the same, my love. Every day that passed, you were all I thought about,” he whispered. “No one will keep me away from you now, sweet girl, I promise you.” 

Somewhere in the frenzy of tongue and spit, your smallclothes fell to the stone floor and his breeches were aptly unlaced. Your smaller, dainty hand wrapped around his hardened length, stroking his leaking cock. Gods, it was pathetic how he could come from your slightest touch. He grasped your wrist to stop you, gulping as he continued to twitch in your hold.

“Wait,” he huffed. The need possessed him with a primal urge, prompting him to grab hold of both of your thighs to lift you off your feet. With you pressed against the wall and holding onto his shoulders for dear life, Aemond sunk you onto his cock, down onto the hilt. There was little time to savor the subtle pulsating of your walls, his hips taking on a steady pace from the start. “Fucking... finally,” he grunted.

You bounced in his firm hold, lower back rubbing against the rough stone, but you didn’t seem to mind one bit. Quite the opposite, rather, with the way you openly moaned, your voice echoing through the dim hall. “Gods!” you whined. Your husband’s pace suddenly shifted, hips starting to slap more ferociously against yours. Any soul who would have the misfortune to walk these halls at this very moment would hear you from the opposite end from the resounding rhythm of skin against skin.

“There are no gods here, wife, just you and I,” Aemond growled against your ear, before biting down on your shoulder, making you squeal even louder.

“I– mmph! Ah, Aem–” Any semblance of coherence on your usually pretty head dissipated in a heady jumble. It made your husband smirk, despite the heat starting to tingle in the back of his neck.

“Something to say, my love? Or have I already fucked you into a loose whore, hm?” he taunted, chuckling under his breath when you merely whined in response. He was starting to overheat in his leathers, the sharp warmth in his nape slowly trickling down his spine to signal the start of his end. Something deep within his core made his abdomen flex, the ache in his thighs no match for the utter bliss of the warm embrace of your lovely cunt. With your legs wrapped around his trim waist, his hand raised to the back of your head, fingers wrapping around your hair to pull your forehead against his. He quickened his pace to spur you to your end first, thumb rubbing your pearl in tight circles. “Come for me, wife. I want to feel you spill around me. Go on,” he rasped, breath hot in your ear.

His wife was a moaning mess. You were never this loud, even in the privacy of your own chambers, but the separation had you desperate, heart sticky with need in a way you had never let yourself be before. He and you were both the same in this way, never too forward with what you wanted, until desire ate away at you from within and you started to lose better thinking.

With a particular harsh thrust, your release broke with a moan that Aemond was sure had echoed to the White Sword Tower. He came no second later with a lower, quieter grunt into your neck, spilling thick ropes of his warm seed into your quivering cunt.

You both stayed there for a second, breaths heavy and minds still in a cloud. Aemond placed you back onto your feet, though wobbly. He huffed amusedly, earning a warning smack on his chest as you furrowed your eyebrows playfully. His lips placed a kiss on your damp forehead, and you kissed his scarred cheek in return. For a second, you only looked at him, your flushed cheeks lifted in a smile, and it made him happy. 

An echo of clinking steel let Aemond know his time was up. He made sure your dress had been rightened and your hair smoothed before tying his breeches back up. The prince peeked to see Cole coming up the staircase, no doubt sent by his mother to take him away again. He sighed heavily, nuzzling one last time into your neck as you rubbed his back comfortingly. “You should go. Mustn’t let your mother fret,” you said softly. Your husband merely grunted in response, savoring the feeling of your fingers running through his hair. 

A clear of the throat from the knight made Aemond finally pull away, frowning despite the pleased smile on your lips as you smoothed his doublet. He parted with a kiss all-consuming, and whispers of a promise to fetch you the moment he could. 

His return to the royal box came with much reluctance, though his demeanor visibly changed. The tension was gone in his shoulders, his aura different, and his face not so grim anymore. He settled back into his seat with a deep exhale, directing his attention to the faceless lordlings swinging swords much too large for them, though his mind stayed in an alcove somewhere in the Keep. 

Beside him, Aegon yawned loudly, having grown deathly bored with the melee. Sensing the younger’s subtly brighter demeanor, he snickered under his breath. “Feeling rather refreshed now, are you?” he teased. 

Aemond’s gaze flickered to him in a glance, turning back to watch the young Bolton land the winning blow. “Hm, yes, quite.” He lifted his hand to a squire for wine, taking a small sip to quench his parched throat.

“Even without a proper change of clothes?” Aegon pushed, raising his brow mockingly. He cackled as Aemond shifted in his seat, a warning glare in his lone eye. The elder, unbothered, merely patted his brother’s knee as he shook his head. “Good for you, brother.”

[tojisun]

immoral in a stranger’s lap (WIP)

established price x f!reader; poly!141 x f!reader

cw: smut - mdni; switching povs; older men x younger women trope; so much speedrun yearning from the squad; john calling the ‘shots’ and shots being reader; power dynamics at play // 2.6k words

extra notes: filing this as WIP wednesday because i could no longer find the inspiration to finish it. i have a concrete idea of how i wanted it to go but writing it became so difficult, still hope it’s a good read! (title from gibson girl - ec)

Captain has a pretty darling—apparently she’s doe-eyed and young. 

She packs him food when she can and always writes him letters, dainty envelopes spritzed with perfume and sealed with wax and baby’s breaths. 

They always sit atop every other sealed envelopes because the rookies are afraid of damaging the package. No one can really blame them, not after seeing the extent of care and love put into a single parcel. Apparently, she writes to their Captain even when she has a burner to use to contact him; choosing to, instead, fill up envelopes with a love so sweet it makes their teeth ache. 

Captain has a pretty darling—that’s the news that’s been circulating around the base recently, cascading through the gaps of their barracks and settling into the corners of their own rooms. The knowledge of normalcy pierces against the hard-set routine that sustained them through the years, and fills their jowls with their own yawning desire.

Because now they know it’s achievable. Liveable. Guilt no longer races through their veins when they dream about the idea of settling and, instead, they lean into the want yowling from the bases of their stomach. It makes them twitch, leaving them feeling too hyper-aware of everything. 

Hunger swirls from their irises and they watch, on the sidelines, as their Captain submerges himself in the one good thing he has. They refuse to name the new feeling, the one rising from their desires, but it is futile—it bloats, leaving them gritting their teeth and clenching their jaws as though by doing so, they could stop the venom. 

They couldn’t. Jealousy sings in their blood.

-

They were startled by the invitation, frozen in their steps when the Captain extended his home to them—“My baby wants to get to know my friends.”

His smile was kind, gentle, the years having made him brighter, but his eyes—the look in them is cold, calculating. Dangerous on all fronts. There was a beast lying in waiting and its presence bore down on them, the siren sounds of a threat ringing because this one was greater than them all.

“Alright,” Ghost replied, the first to get his voice back.

“Great,” their Captain said, then he was off, hand fishing his burner from his pocket to call his pretty darling. His beautiful sweetheart.

‘My baby’ he said. 

And now, they get to meet you. 

Their gums ached with the phantom desire to bite; to have their teeth digging into flesh—not tearing fully but puncturing enough to mark. To taste.

Their eyes met, their blood thrumming with singularity, and their excitement palpable as it left them in tethers. Because there was much to be said about the mutual desire; how it rippled amidst them all, now noticed by their Captain and invited to play. 

-

The quaint little house lives on the outskirts of the city, not really detached but far enough to know that this was a conscious decision carved out by their Captain. 

It has a huge front lawn from inside the white picket fence, littered with a well-tended garden full of shrubs and flowers and stone plants. Their trained eyes flit to the hanging entryway sign—“Home Sweet Home”—and to the small baby’s breath wreath tacked underneath the plank, and feel viscous nectar slide down their throats. 

It’s all so domestic, so gentle, that a strange feeling settles deep in their stomachs, their steadied steps dying down to shuffles as their boots crunch against the gravel. They feel like intruders, even when they have yet to set foot inside their Captain’s home. Their mission-trained bodies are stark against this place, which oozes with comfort and flowery scents so delicate it makes their blood jump.

Simon takes the lead again, herding the pack in silence. He raps his knuckles against the well-loved door, sharp knocks bouncing from the wood. Soap and Gaz are both quiet behind him, and they are all tense in their reluctant patience. 

It seemed like now that you are close—just a door away—they no longer know how to leash the desire lapping at their feet; ears straining, mouth dry. The hunger scratches at their throats, ragged. Angry. 

(It had taken weeks when their Captain finally reached out again with a date and a location, disclosing the details in a way he always did for missions. It had grounded them for a while, bodies locking the way they do when their Captain barked out orders—his expectations pushing them to their limits, their mind geared into a focal point. 

“Be kind,” he said, lighting a cigarette.

Gaz ran his tongue on the back of his teeth, head tilting at the sudden twitch from Soap.

“‘Course,” the Sergeant replied with a grin, one that was a bite too big. “We always are.”

Their Captain hummed, eyeing Johnny with a pensive look. Kyle looked away, hoping to melt into the background to avoid any more of their Captain’s playful teasing. 

Then, Kyle met their Lieutenant's eyes, wide and rabid, and saw his desire leaking from his pores. His fists were balled, leather gloves straining against the force, and Kyle felt a shiver rack his body at seeing the tangible excitement coming from Simon.

It was so huge, it felt daunting. Addicting.)

Their fingers twitch at the sound of the door’s lock clicking—something they catalogue—before it swings open. 

Johnny’s shoulders tense up, his breath getting stuck in his throat at the morbid anticipation burning through him. Simon’s bulk is hiding the view, a solid wall between him and you, but Johnny waits, sees the way their Lieutenant’s gait changes, and knows he needs to be good. 

“Oh! You must be John’s friends!” 

Simon devours the sight you make, razing his eyes down your form, noting the fine details of domesticity that you’re clothed in—all soft and flowy material that brings out the shine in your eyes as you look up at him, head tipped up to account for the ridiculous height difference.

Something glints in his peripheral—

“Yeah,” he hears himself say. “It's nice to finally meet you.”

A diamond ring.

-

Their Captain introduces you to them, cinnamon in his eyes and his words honeyed. Your name settles on the tip of their tongues, waiting to be digested. To be sounded out by their own voices.

Simon murmurs it to himself, feels the word sliding between the cracks of his teeth like milk, and gulps it down, starving. It fuels him, this little piece he now has of you, and sets him ablaze as you flutter between them with gentle questions and quiet giggles.

You are soft—too soft for any of them, in fact—but they can see why their Captain is enamoured, his own desire greater than their own. It is intense as it scalds down their spines and jagged because their Captain isn’t a good man, they all aren’t, but there is something disconcerting in the way their Captain had claimed you. 

It was rushed, sweet to a fault, but done so rapidly it felt like a beast pouncing on its prey. Like their Captain had seen the beauty of your soul and decided, then, that you’re all his.

Simon washes down the taste of defeat in his mouth with his whiskey, mentally dedicating this drink to his Captain because he knows he would’ve done the same. He would’ve kept you in a home just as cozy; would've played house with you to distract you from the foulness of his virtues because kindness, civilian to that extent, can become so foreign to them now. He would keep you full of him, satiated with his presence and dripping with his cum—

“Sweetheart, c'mere.” Their Captain’s voice pierces the staccato of his thoughts. Simon twitches, suppressing the full-body jolt because there’s something measured in the way their Captain called you. 

They watch as you pad towards him with a hum, a bounce in your steps, before reaching to cup his cheek the moment you get close. 

“Hi,” you murmur, a breath too quiet.

Their Captain chuckles, basking in your warmth, before curling an arm around your waist and tugging you to his lap. You fall with a little gasp, your hand tight on Price’s shirt as your eyes swing to them in surprise.

“John, they–” 

Price kisses the back of your shoulder, fixing his arm over your stomach. “They won’t mind.” Dark eyes turn to them too. “Would you, boys?”

They feel parched; thirst palpable in the way they have their jaws clenched, their tongues heavy inside their mouths. They devour the pretty sight you make—all bashful looks and hunched shoulders, looking so utterly soft, so charmingly fragile, atop their Captain’s lap.

It sets off their base instincts, their desires ravaging their sanities.

“No,” Gaz is surprisingly the one to reply. His voice was smooth and clear, bouncing against the walls with surety. “Don’t mind at all.”

There must be something in the way Gaz was looking at you or perhaps you were also able to hear the unabashed want coating his words, but whatever it was, it made you sit up straighter, head tilted to the side, thinking. 

Considering.

It makes all of them jolt, even Price feels a stirring inside his jeans at the sudden shift in your posture, because this changes everything.

It was not that they would be satisfied with only having a look, with only seeing what they want and pretending that their thoughts—dirty and ragged and full of filth—are enough to satiate the fire stoking deep inside, but they didn’t want to set off their Captain.

They didn’t want to meet the beast inside the man’s eyes, and be further punished by having you be taken away from their reach. Because the moment they crossed that little door, the moment you smiled up at them and told them that they’re welcome in your quaint little home, in your space, you were theirs.

And their Captain would just have to deal with that.

But Price is already looking at them with crinkled eyes, his lips busy as it dragged all over the expanse of your shoulder, his palm gentle as it rubs over your stomach. 

Kyle takes it for what it is—a permission.

-

Johnny fists his cock, muffling his moans on the back of his palm, remembering the way you looked. The way you smelled. 

All flowers and vanilla—it’s cliche yet so, so fitting. 

You were so curious, poking at Ghost’s tattoos and murmuring your awe at every revelation of their becoming, stories that were watered down because they didn’t want to scare you. They didn’t want to push you away.

You were so enamoured by them, all giggly when Garrick told you about his recent mission with the Captain and Laswell, pressing yourself to his space and vibrating in anticipation at every turn. Their Captain rumbled in laughter when you turned to him with a gasp, disbelief coating your voice as you whined, “John, you didn’t!”

There was that pride in your eyes when their Captain reassured you of their success, and you preened when he said, “We had to return to you, after all, baby.”

You got so quiet and shy, then. So docile, just like the precious darling that you are.

So it burned him when it had been his turn to receive your attention. 

“‘Soap’?” you asked, nose scrunching in that way that made him coo.

“Yeah, lassie. S’cool, huh?”

You were sitting so close, he could feel the heat from your thigh reverberating from where it was pressed to his. He breathed you in, slow and careful, and felt ablaze with the knowledge that everyone’s eyes were on you two.

Not only their Captain’s but Simon’s. Their Lieutenant whose growled promises ravaged his throat the night before, grunting and groaning, using Johnny’s skin as an alternative to yours. 

(“Imagine ‘er, Johnny.” He rutted forward, lips tickling the shell of Johnny’s ear. “Imagine ‘er so full of you.”

It had Johnny mewling, ragged gasps rasping between his clenched teeth because he could imagine it, alright.

He imagined the way you’d be stuffed—greedy holes gaping as you took their cocks and their cum. Their Captain would be there, Garrick too. Their Captain would fuck his own fist as he watched them take you apart with pleasure, and Garrick would have your mouth, his tip painting your lips with his pre- before fucking it down your throat.

“Fuck!” Johnny cried out, humping the mattress to get more stimulation; to feel better.

He imagined that he was rutting against your chest, sliding between the valley of your tits while Ghost took him from the back. He imagined the way you would watch them, enraptured amidst your pleasure because he knew you wanted a show. 

They always do.

“Cum for me, pup,” Ghost rumbled into his ear and Johnny’s body locked in obedience, intense euphoria seizing him whole.)

He cums with your name on his lips, rumbled in a way he hopes would drive you mad. Would make you desperate. 

Johnny wants to make a slut out of you. Strip your sweetness and tinge it with sin—show you what they say about men like him. Like them. He wants to take you, or whatever scraps their Captain gives them, because every inch and every part of you is too delectable.

“Fuck,” he whispers, eyeing the thick rivulets of cum pooling in his palm. 

What he would give to see you lick this clean.

-

“So, what’d you think of her?” Their Captain asks as he twirls his glass of bourbon, the alcohol sloshing carefully from inside the cup like liquid gold. It snags fractures of light, smothering the little glints with its every ripple.

Simon hums, distracted, his mind a gallery made up of all of the little bits and pieces he was able to snatch from that day in the quaint little house: the sound of your voice, the titter of your giggles, the way you looked up at him when he offered to help pluck out the cups stowed away in the highest shelves, before your lips danced into a grateful little smile, dimpling your cheeks and wrinkling your eyes.

You were everything he adored. The woman of his dreams, there, in the pretty little cage that their Captain has you in. 

“She's beautiful,” Ghost says, quiet. Honest. “The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, really.” 

It is in the stretching silence that follows that he picks up his own whiskey and pours it into his parched mouth to wash down the desire lodged in his throat. He doesn’t look at his Captain; he doesn’t want to be the one to ask.

He wants it to be offered; to be presented to him like the twisted blessing that it is. 

Simon wants to know if you would allow him. If you would allow all of them to have you too. 

Price huffs, his glass clinking against the table when he had put it down. Simon licks the back of his teeth as he waits, patience thrumming underneath his veins raggedly. He feels like a boy, waiting to be told that he’s done good; that his obedience is going to be rewarded lucratively. 

Price chuckles like he can read the thoughts churning in Simon’s mind.

“Not yet,” is all that their Captain replies. 

Not yet—it was not a rejection, then.

Simon burns, feeling the way such simple words sustain him. The idea that they were allowed to taste, not now, not yet, but soon, in that cage that you call a home.

[multihaven]

rafe would love the idea of dying between your legs.

rafe eating your pussy for hours. he gets so pussydrunk so quick — the entire bottom of his face is drenched with sweat and slick. his cheeks are red, pupils blown wide.

his eyes roll into the back of his skull like he gets off on it just as much as you do.

you firmly grasping his head, the buzzcut he’d recently gotten not giving you much to hold onto anymore, grinding into his face. you’ve come multiple times and been edged for hours — you’re pretty sure you’re floating on clouds right now.

rafe gripping the tops of your thighs, arms wrapped around them like they're bracketing him into your cunt. rafe looking up at you through his droopy eyelids, loving the way your face is screwed up in pleasure.

it makes his eyes roll back into his skull because he truly loves eating you out for hours. it's one of his favorite pastimes; loves the way you fall apart under his tongue.

you continually arching your back upwards, making the most pornographic back arch ever been seen. your thighs keep clenching and unclenching around rafe’s head, keeping him locked in place between your legs. one hand gripping the pillow above you, the other bracing rafe’s head.

you grinding against rafe's face and releasing high pitched whines because it feels too fucking good; feels ethereal.

your clit rubbing up to the tip of rafe’s nose, all the way down to his bottom lip over and over again. your slick getting fucking everywhere.

rafe pressing both palms down on your pubic bone to keep you steady, teasing you, not letting you move. you whine high in your throat in frustration, wanting to chase the friction of rafe’s mouth and tongue.

you trying to squirm away and push rafe’s face away after a while because you’re so overstimulated. rafe ignoring you and just eating, slurping, licking your cunt slower and harder. your body physically convulsing because it's just too much, but loving being addicted to the feeling.

rafe switching from kitten kissing your cunt all over, to kitten licking, to giving long fat licks from bottom to top. kitten kissing your inner thighs, rubbing his thumbs in small caresses on your inner thighs. giving pretty hickies all over them, loving the contrast of deep purples and blues and pinks and reds to your skin.

you staring at rafe because he looks so beautiful like this and always has been — between your thighs, face and mouthful of pussy, practically pleading to eat you for hours.

loving the intense eye contact when rafe gets to work, you practically melting from every sensation.

you releasing the tiniest 'uh, uh, uh"s, each word getting higher and higher in pitch because of how good rafe’s tongue is — fucking in and out of your sloppy hole. carefully caressing your clit, pursing his lips ever so slightly and sucking. the added suction makes you shiver.

rafe humming and moaning into your cunt because of how wet and messy he's getting. loving how tight you are whenever he fucks his tongue in and out of you.

he pulls back from time to time to look at the mess of you — smooth skin, bright pink and red, strings of spit and slick going every which way, shiny wetness everywhere.

your relentless clenching causes even more slick to slide slowly down your cunt, adding to the pool of fluids below you.

the only sounds in the room are the wet 'shlick' noises coming from your pussy and rafe’s mouth, your whines and moans and panting, rafe’s hums and groans that are muffled by your cunt, his heavy breathing through his nose.

rafe slowly trails his hands up from their places on your thighs to your breasts, leaving feather light touches and tracing them before focusing his attention on your nipples.

you end up riding rafe’s face. thighs tightly bracketing his head, not allowing him to move an inch. both of your hands gripping both sides of his head for the life of you, white-knuckling.

your head tilted all the way back, your hair cascading down your back and your face is faced towards the ceiling of the bedroom.

your hips and cunt grind against rafe’s lower face ��� cunt still grinding and thrusting against his chin, mouth, and tip of his nose.

you make tiny circles, cunt dragging deliciously against both of rafe’s cheeks, his mouth wanting to follow your cunt when it leaves his mouth.

rafe leaving light bruises on your hips and inner thighs, gripping you to keep you where he wants you and how he wants to move you. his arms wrapping over the tops of your thighs, able to grip the inner thighs and spread you open like he wants to.

you just full on fucking his mouth with your cunt. steady thrusts and grinds feel so heavenly against your wet and sloppy cunt — pink and red and warm and slippery from the relentless amount of friction and pleasure it's endured for the past few hours.

your mouth slack jawed, eyebrows furrowed upwards. rafe is eating you so good — it's like rafe was truly made to eat pussy, the way he gets off on it; the way he eats it for his own damn pleasure.

he usually humps the bed while slurping your cunt — it gets him so hard. hearing your whines, whimpers, moans, groans. wet, obscene, lewd sounds from his mouth and your cunt. needs to pound his dick into the mattress and release the pressure because it's just too much.

rafe making you come over and over and over. after you come, he doesn't stop — he keeps licking and kissing and sucking and fucking his tongue and fingers into you. you’re pratically sobbing from the amount of overstimulation you’ve endured for the past few hours.

no matter where you two are, rafe will eat your pussy — two in the morning in a club or bar bathroom, backseat of the car, on the deck of his family’s boat, on his knees outside of the house in the shadows by the pool, on his knees in an alley way, on every goddamn surface of the house.

[sunbeamlessreads]

Let Him See - Oscar Piastri x Reader One-Shot

❝ He kisses you like he’s waited for permission. And that’s what makes you break. ❞

[oscar piastri x reader]

~8.2k words | rated: E

tw: 18+, emotional neglect, infidelity, porn with plot, smut, possessive behavior, complicated breakup dynamics

lando stopped seeing you. oscar never missed a thing. now the whole paddock knows.

notes: i tried writing in present tense for this, which really isn't in my ballpark. not sure if i loved it, but maybe i'll do more of it later on. i’m sorry i made lando out to be such a dick. i promise ill make up for it!! enjoy! <3

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The McLaren party is elegant in that vaguely overstated way team events always are—polished chrome fixtures, dim gold lighting, and drinks served in glasses that clink too delicately for the kind of tension simmering beneath the surface.

You walk in on Lando’s arm. A black strapless dress hugging you like it was tailored in vengeance. The ruffled ruching along the bottom cascades like spilled ink with every step you take. You planned everything—the heels, the bold red lipstick, the subtle shimmer in the inner corners of your eyes. All for him.

He barely glances down at you.

Lando says something to a passing engineer, nods at a sponsor, then slips out of your grasp as naturally as water slipping through your fingers. No one notices the slight shift in your balance when he lets go. But you do.

You’re left standing beside a bar you didn’t want to be near, surrounded by people who smile too brightly and ask questions you don’t want to answer.

You’re his girlfriend—the public face of a dying relationship neither of you have the courage to end. He doesn’t even try to hide it anymore. He’s across the room within minutes, grinning down at a woman in a red backless dress, hand resting low on her spine. It’s a familiar stance. You’ve seen it before. You’ve even been on the receiving end of it—back when he still bothered.

Your chest aches, but you don’t flinch. Not here. Not while people are watching.

Someone asks you if you want champagne. You decline with a polite smile, then excuse yourself—something about needing to take a call, voice breezy, unbothered.

You step out of the ballroom like you’re slipping out of a skin that doesn’t fit anymore.

The hallway is dim and mercifully empty. You exhale, back against the cool wall, and pull your phone out of your clutch—blank screen. No missed messages. No excuses to stay outside longer than you should.

You open WhatsApp. You type a few words. Delete them. Start again. Then stop. You let your head tip back until it rests against the cool wall, eyes fluttering closed for a second.

You wore this dress for him.

You practically starved yourself all day, got your makeup done by the same artist who preps you for photoshoots, shaved every inch of your body until your skin ached—and he didn’t even look at you.

A sharp sting pricks behind your eyes, but you blink it back. Your mascara is too good to waste on someone who hasn’t kissed you in public in weeks.

You shift your weight in your heels. They’re taller than you usually wear—he once said he liked when you looked just a little out of balance, like he had to catch you. He hasn’t caught you in a long time.

The hallway feels like limbo. You’re not sure if you want to scream or vanish. The silence settles over you like a second skin—until it breaks.

“Hey.”

You look up.

Oscar stands a few feet away. Hands in his pockets. Brows knit with something like concern—or maybe anger, but not at you.

You straighten up instinctively, “Hey.”

His gaze flicks toward the ballroom, then back to you, “He didn’t even notice you left.”

Your voice catches before it comes out, “He never does.”

Oscar doesn’t speak. He just stays there, watching you like you’re not crazy for feeling the way you do.

For a few seconds, that’s enough.

You look away first. Not because you’re embarrassed—but because his eyes are too steady, too full of something that burns beneath the surface. Like if you look too long, you’ll start crying or say something you can’t take back.

Your gaze falls to the floor, to the veins in the marble tile, to the perfectly manicured hand holding your clutch like it’s the only thing holding you together.

Then, softly—like the truth finally scraping its way up your throat—you speak.

“He does this a lot,” you murmur, “Leaves me at these things. Flirts with whatever blonde he hasn’t slept with yet. Sometimes it’s just talking. Usually it’s not.”

You swallow. The bitterness coats your tongue.

“And I’m supposed to smile through it. Pretend I don’t care. Because we’re McLaren’s golden couple, right? I look good enough on his arm, and he looks better in the photos. Win-win.”

Oscar doesn’t interrupt. He stays where he is, still but attentive, like if he moves too fast you might break.

You don’t stop. It’s pouring out now.

“I tell myself it’s fine. That I knew what I was signing up for. That it’s just how he is. But then I see the way he touches them—like they’re interesting. Like they matter.”

Your voice drops, quiet and sharp:

“He hasn’t looked at me like that in a long time.”

The silence after that is loud. Heavy.

You take a shaky breath and force out a dry laugh. “God. I sound pathetic.”

“No,” Oscar says immediately, “You sound hurt.”

You blink. His voice is too honest. Too kind.

It cracks something wide open.

“Of course I’m hurt,” you whisper, “I feel disposable. And maybe I am. Maybe that’s why I don’t leave. Maybe I’m scared if I do, no one else will want me.”

Oscar moves then.

Just a step. Slow. Controlled. Like he’s grounding himself.

“That’s not true,” he says, sincerity and care laced in his voice. 

You lift your eyes to his. His tone doesn't match how furious he looks. Not at you—never at you—but at everything you just said. At every bruise Lando left behind that didn’t show up on your skin.

“I’m tired of watching him hurt you,” he says, voice like steel wrapped in silk.

The breath catches in your throat. You didn’t expect that. Didn’t expect him to say it. Not so simply. Not so seriously.

You fold your arms across your chest, trying to find a shield in sarcasm. It’s the only armor you have left.

“What, you want to make him jealous or something?” A laugh, light and mocking. A shrug, “Go ahead.”

You don’t mean it. It’s a deflection, a defense. Something to push him back before he gets too close to the bleeding parts.

But Oscar doesn’t laugh.

He steps in.

Close.

Too close.

You feel his hand brush the side of your face, gentle fingers slipping behind your ear. He pauses—waits for you to stop him—and when you don’t, he tilts your chin just enough.

And then he kisses you.

Your body locks. Every muscle goes taut.

Your lips are frozen against his, breath caught somewhere in your chest.

But his mouth is soft. Steady. Patient.

He kisses you like he’s waited for permission.

And that’s what makes you break.

You melt.

Fingers tangling in the collar of his shirt, you kiss him back. Rough. Desperate. Furious with yourself for how good it feels. For how long you’ve wanted this, buried it, pushed it down under years of Lando’s carelessness.

Oscar groans when your hips tip into his.

The kiss deepens. His hands grip your waist—hard, grounding. Yours slide up his chest, grabbing fistfuls of cotton like you need to hold on or you’ll collapse.

You hit the wall with a soft thud. He doesn’t stop. You don’t want him to. One of his hands finds your bare thigh where your dress has shifted, the other cradling your jaw.

He kisses you like he needs to prove something. Like he’s making up for every second Lando didn’t touch you.

You moan into his mouth—too soft, too shocked at yourself.

He pulls back just enough to breathe against your lips.

You’re both breathing heavily; you more than him.

Your lipstick’s ruined. His pupils are blown. His chest is rising and falling like he’s just come off a cooldown lap.

Then—voice low, rough, shaking with restraint—he says,

“Room 321. If you mean it.”

And he steps back. Hands still curled like he wants to reach for you again.

But he doesn’t.

He leaves you standing there in a dim hotel hallway, breathless, shaking, lips tingling, with your heart slamming against your ribs and your mind screaming that something just changed forever.

Room 321.

You stare at the number plaque for a moment.

You knock once, and the door opens like he was already standing behind it—waiting.

Oscar stands in the soft glow of the hotel room, still in his suit pants, white shirt rumpled with the top two buttons undone. His jacket’s folded neatly over the back of a chair. His hair’s a little mussed like he’s been running his hands through it since he left you.

His eyes land on your lips first. Then your throat.

Your lipstick is smudged from the hallway kiss. You didn’t fix it. You didn’t want to.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands there. Chest rising slowly. Eyes locked on yours. There’s something sharp in his silence—not anger, not regret. Restraint.

You step into the room slowly. The door closes behind you with a dull thud that feels heavier than it should.

He still doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

The tension crackles between you like a tripwire no one wants to step on first.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says quietly, eyes dark.

Your chest lifts, lips parted slightly as you look at him across the room, “Then tell me to leave.”

He doesn’t.

Instead, he takes a slow step forward.

You mirror him.

Another step. Closer. Breath catching.

Until there’s no more distance between you.

He reaches out—hesitantly—fingers brushing your chin, then trailing along the line of your smudged lipstick.

“You look like you’ve already been kissed,” he says. 

You breathe, “You did that.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “I did.”

That’s when the tension snaps.

The second his mouth meets yours again, everything else dissolves.

It’s rougher this time. Starved. Less like a kiss and more like a confession torn from his chest. His hands cradle your jaw, fingers pressing just beneath your ears like he’s grounding himself in the feel of you. Your arms loop around his neck instantly, your body melting into his like it always belonged there.

His tongue slips past your lips, hot and slow, as your backs bump blindly into the desk behind you. A McLaren cap falls to the floor unnoticed. You gasp softly into the kiss, and he groans into your mouth like it’s killing him not to take more.

His hands slide down your arms, then to your waist, where he grips you tightly—not to push, not to rush. Just to hold. Just to feel.

You don’t pull away when he reaches behind you and finds the zipper of your dress. It comes down slowly, the sound impossibly loud in the quiet of the room. His knuckles brush your spine as he guides the fabric off your shoulders.

You’re still kissing when it falls to your ankles.

Still kissing when you push his shirt off, fingers slipping under the undone buttons, palms brushing warm skin. He shrugs it down his arms and lets it fall with a soft rustle to the carpet. His pants follow soon after, as you blindly undo his belt and unbutton them. 

His hands don’t leave your body. Not once.

You walk backward together, mouths fused, breath short, until the backs of your knees hit the bed.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to look at you.

Then he bends slightly and lifts you—carefully, like you might shatter in his arms—and lays you down on the sheets as if it’s an offering.

Your hair fans out against the pillows. Your chest rises and falls quickly. Oscar stands over you for a second, chest heaving, jaw tight, eyes moving across every inch of your skin.

Then he climbs onto the bed and kneels between your thighs.

You watch him watch you, lips parted, body burning.

He leans in and kisses your neck—softly at first.

Then lower.

And lower.

Down the column of your throat, over the swell of your chest. He shifts the fabric of your bra aside, reaching beneath you and removing it gently, with trembling fingers, and kisses the curve of your breast, then bites gently.

You gasp, fingers grasping at the sheets.

He sucks gently—and when he pulls back, there’s a blooming red mark just beneath your collarbone.

Then another. Between your breasts.

Then one lower, over the swell of your ribcage.

He takes his time. His mouth moves down, and you lose count of how many places he claims with his lips and teeth.

You squirm as he shifts, adjusting on his knees to reach lower, pushing the edge of your panties aside so he can press another kiss just above your hipbone—then right at the inner curve of your thigh.

He sucks there, too. A long, slow draw that makes your fingers fist the sheets.

“Oscar—”

“Shh,” he murmurs, voice husky, “Let me leave them.”

Another bite. Another mark, just shy of the place where you’re already aching for him.

“I want him to see every single one of these.”

Your eyes flutter shut.

You’ve never been kissed like this—not for show, not for ownership, but for the sheer need to leave a piece of himself behind on your skin.

By the time his mouth trails back up your thighs, your panties are damp with heat and your breathing’s gone shaky.

Oscar leans up, one hand bracing beside your waist. His other hand finds the waistband of your panties and begins to ease them down—slowly. Carefully. Like unwrapping something delicate.

He watches your face the entire time.

They slide down your legs with ease, and he tosses them aside.

You’re bare for him now—fully, completely—and you’ve never felt so seen.

He kisses your knee. Then the inside of your thigh again. Then finally, finally, his mouth hovers over where you need him most.

You’re already soaked. He groans when he sees it.

“Fuck. Look at you. I’ve thought about this,” he says softly, eyes fixed on where you’re already wet for him. “So many times.”

You can’t answer. You can barely think.

His hands spread you open gently—reverently—and then his mouth is on you.

Warm. Wet. Soft.

The first stroke of his tongue is unhurried, a slow drag from bottom to top that makes your spine arch off the mattress. You gasp, hips twitching, but his grip is firm on your thighs.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers against you.

He licks again—long and deliberate—then presses soft kisses to your clit, switching between his tongue and his lips like he’s tasting something he wants to savor.

You moan—high and broken—and he groans back like he feels it.

His hands hold your thighs open, thumbs stroking slow circles into your skin. You’re writhing now, overwhelmed, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in your belly with every passing second.

Your fingers claw at the sheets. You feel it coming, your body locking up—

Until he pulls back.

Your hips lift off the bed, chasing the loss, but his hands still you.

He leans in, kisses the inside of your thigh again—slow and deep—a soft, open-mouthed press that lingers just long enough to leave another blooming bruise.

Then he hovers over you, mouth wet, eyes locked on yours.

“You’re close,” he murmurs, “I can feel it. You’re shaking.”

You nod, lips parted, breath stuttering.

His hands slide up your thighs, grounding you—but instead of returning to where you’re desperate for him, he pulls back more.

“Don’t come yet.”

Your brows draw together, lips twitching in protest, “What—why—?”

Oscar leans in again, hand wrapping around your thigh to hold you open as he presses a kiss just above your aching heat. 

His voice is low, but firm, “Because I want to be inside you when you fall apart.”

The authority in his tone makes you clench around nothing. You whimper as he sits back on his heels, rubbing his palms over your thighs in soothing strokes.

“Please…” you whisper.

His mouth tilts into the faintest smirk—not smug. Hungry.

Then he crawls back up your body, leaving another trail of slow kisses across the bruises he’s left down your chest.

“You don’t come without me tonight,” he says quietly against your skin. “You understand?”

You nod, barely breathing.

“Say it,” his tone is demanding, but not impatient.

“I—I won’t come until you’re inside me,” you surrender. 

He moves back up to kiss you—soft at first, then deeper, longer—as he reaches over to the nightstand. You hear the foil tear, the familiar sound grounding the moment in something real. His body shifts against yours as he sits back briefly to roll the condom on, his breath catching as his hand moves.

Then he’s back above you—one forearm braced beside your head, the other hand sliding down to guide himself to your entrance. His cock brushes against you, hot and thick and so ready.

But still, he pauses.

“Are you sure? You won’t regret this later?” he asks, voice quieter now. Not demanding. Not coaxing. Just open.

You reach up, cup his jaw, thumb brushing his cheek.

“Yes. I’m sure. I want this. I want you.”

Oscar exhales—one soft, shuddering breath—and presses his forehead to yours for a moment, like he’s soaking those words in.

He sinks into you slowly—not teasing, just careful, controlled, like he’s doing something sacred. His hips press forward inch by inch, stretching you open, filling you fully until your thighs tremble against his sides.

You gasp, clutching his biceps, head tipping back into the pillows, “Oscar…”

“I know,” he breathes. “Fuck, I know. You feel—”

He cuts himself off with a groan, jaw tightening as he bottoms out, “So fucking tight. Like you were made for me.”

He stills inside you for a moment, forehead pressed to yours, both of you shaking with the effort of not losing it too soon. He brushes your hair away from your face with the gentlest touch, his palm cupping your cheek like he’s afraid you might break if he lets go.

“You okay?” 

“Yes,” you whisper, “Move. Please.”

So he does.

The first thrust is slow and deep, rolling through your whole body. His hips pull back and push forward in a smooth rhythm that feels like worship. Each time he fills you, you feel more of yourself unravel, like he’s stripping you bare with every stroke.

He kisses you through it—long, lingering kisses against your mouth, your cheek, your jaw, your throat.

“You’re mine now,” he murmurs, “Say it. Say you’re mine.”

You breathe it against his lips, broken and honest:

“I’m yours.”

He groans, burying himself deeper.

His pace stays steady, grounding—not brutal, not rushed, but deliberate. Like he wants to make this last. Like he needs you to feel it for hours after.

His hand slides down your side to grip your thigh, pulling your leg up around his waist to angle you just right—and when he thrusts again, you choke on a moan.

“Right there?” he pants.

You nod frantically, eyes wide and wet.

“Yeah, baby. That’s it,” He stumbles through his words, deep within his own pleasure, “You take me so well.”

You cling to him like he’s the only real thing in the world, his name slipping from your lips between soft gasps, your body clenching around him, slick and pulsing and completely his.

When your orgasm hits, it’s not sharp—it’s deep. A wave that rolls through you, full-body and consuming. You cry out, and he swallows the sound in a kiss, fucking you through it with soft praise and steady hands.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Let go. I’ve got you.”

You don’t even realize you’re crying until he kisses the corner of your eye.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, “You’re safe.”

He comes only seconds later, thrusts stuttering, mouth falling open against your neck. You feel him groan into your skin as he grips your thigh and spills into the condom, his whole body shaking with the effort.

And when it’s over, he doesn’t pull away.

He just collapses into you—gently—his chest pressed to yours, his arms wrapping around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his hold.

You lie there tangled in each other, your fingers brushing through the damp hair at the nape of his neck, your thighs still parted around his hips.

Neither of you speaks.

You don’t have to.

You’re both suspended in that quiet stillness—the kind that only comes after something real, something that changes the shape of you.

After a long moment, he shifts slightly, careful not to crush you. His hand strokes your thigh where it’s still curled around his waist. He places a soft kiss on your cheek, then another on your jaw. Then he pulls out gently, drawing a small whimper from your throat.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, brushing his hand down your hip, “You okay?”

You nod. Your voice is still trapped somewhere in your chest, so you let your hand answer for you, fingers curling around his bicep. He disposes of the condom quickly, then returns to the bed without hesitation, lying beside you and immediately pulling you into his arms.

He doesn’t ask if it was good.

He doesn’t need to.

Instead, he cradles you, one arm wrapped tightly around your waist, the other brushing soft fingers through your hair.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers.

“I’m fine,” you murmur. “Just… a lot.”

You feel his smile against your forehead. His hand slides up and down your back, slow and steady, grounding.

“Hey,” he says gently after a pause. “You don’t… regret this, do you?”

You shift slightly to look at him. His eyes are wide, open, vulnerable—stripped of all the heat and control from earlier. He’s just Oscar now. Soft-spoken and careful with your heart.

You shake your head slowly, “No. I don’t.”

His shoulders relax.

“Okay,” he says, “Good. I just—I need you to know…”

He hesitates, thumb brushing your side, “This doesn’t have to mean anything. If it was just about him—if it was just something you needed to do — that’s okay.”

You blink. His voice is steady, but there’s a hint of sadness tucked into it. Like he means what he’s saying, but part of him hopes it isn’t just that.

You slide your hand up his chest, over the steady beat of his heart, “It wasn’t just about him.”

His brows lift slightly. You lean in and press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“I wouldn’t be here if it didn’t mean anything.”

Oscar exhales—slow and shaky—and you see the tension leave his body like someone just untied a knot that’s been there for months.

He pulls you in tighter. You tuck your head beneath his chin, leg slipping between his, arms around his torso, his scent already warm on your skin.

“Okay,” he murmurs, “Stay?”

You nod against his chest, “I want to.”

You fall asleep like that—in his arms, his fingers tangled in your hair, your body marked with proof of what happened.

Not revenge.

Not just sex.

Something.

The first thing you feel is warmth.

Oscar’s chest beneath your cheek. His arm still slung around your waist. The faint hum of city life beyond the hotel windows. You blink slowly into the early light, your lashes brushing the skin of his collarbone.

He’s already awake.

You can feel it in the way his fingers trace lazy, absentminded shapes along your back. He’s not in a rush. Not trying to move you. Just… there, soaking the moment in.

You shift slightly, stretch, and wince a little—your thighs ache, in the best way. Oscar immediately pauses.

“Sore?” he says, voice still rough with sleep.

“A little,’ you respond quietly.

He kisses your forehead, “Good sore or… need-an-ice-pack sore?”

You snort, hiding your smile in his chest, “Good sore.”

He hums, content. His hand returns to your back. You both stay still for a few more seconds—not talking, not overthinking—just breathing together.

Then, softly, “You don’t have to sneak out,” he says, “You can walk out like you belong here.”

You glance up at him, “I kind of do belong now… don’t I?”

His lips lift into a tired smile, “Yeah. You do.”

You press a soft kiss to his jaw before finally sitting up, the sheets slipping down your body, baring the constellation of love bites he left down your chest. His eyes flick to them, and his smile shifts—pride, possession, a little satisfaction.

“He’s gonna see those,” he says.

“Good,” you echo, voice quiet but sharp.

You find your underwear, pull on your clothes from the night before — everything still wrinkled from the floor. You go to the mirror, fix your hair just enough, and borrow his hoodie. He watches you do it all in silence.

Before you leave, he stands, cups your face in both hands, and kisses you slow. Sweet.

“See you down there?”

You nod, “Yeah. I’ll be around.”

You open the door.

Step out.

And you’re not five steps down the hall before you hear the elevator ding.

You hear the sound of footsteps before you register anything else—then the shift in atmosphere. Heavy. Cold. Unwelcoming/

You turn.

Lando steps into the hallway off of the elevator, coffee in hand, hoodie tied low around his hips, damp curls falling over his forehead like he just stepped out of the shower.

He doesn’t speak right away.

He just stops—eyes locked on you—and stares.

At the heels.

At the wrinkled black dress from last night.

At the hoodie hanging off your shoulders—Oscar’s '81' hoodie.

Then his gaze lands on your neck.

The bruises.

The silence stretches, thick and venomous.

“Wow,” he mutters, taking a slow sip of his coffee, “Didn’t think you’d stoop that low.”

You raise an eyebrow, heartbeat steady, “Funny. I was thinking the same about you for the last six months.”

His eyes flicker—a flash of guilt, gone in an instant.

“So what, then?” he snaps. “You fuck my teammate to even the score?”

You shrug one shoulder, “I didn’t realize we were still keeping score.”

“You really let him leave those on you?” His voice cuts sharper now, bitter, “Is that what you’re doing now? Walking around marked up like a fucking trophy?”

“He didn’t do it to prove a point,’ You step closer, just enough, “He did it because he wanted to touch me. Because he actually looked at me.”

Lando’s jaw clenches,

"You’re still mine.”

That’s when you laugh—not cruel, but quiet. Final.

“No, Lando. I was never yours,” you say with a confidence you didn’t know you possessed, “I just played the part.”

His lips part like he wants to fire back, but no words come.

You walk past him without another glance, heels echoing softly against the hotel carpet. His coffee hand twitches like he wants to stop you—to say something that could undo what he just saw.

But he doesn’t.

He can’t.

The bruises on your neck do all the talking.

The tension hits before you even step onto the concrete.

You’d heard whispers all morning—something about a joint media pen meltdown, Lando snapping mid-question, storming off, Oscar handling it with trademark calm. Nobody quite knows why. No one’s saying anything aloud. But everyone feels the shift.

Especially in the McLaren garage.

The energy is tight. Controlled. Like an engine revving just a little too high.

You move through it like a blade through silk.

Sunglasses on, McLaren pass hanging low on your chest. Hair neatly pulled back, hoodie zipped halfway. You tried to cover the hickeys— light foundation along your collarbone, you hadn't expected to need color corrector on this trip—but Monaco’s heat is unforgiving. The bruises are starting to bleed through the coverage, soft and red and obvious.

You don’t adjust your zipper.

Let them wonder.

As you step through the divider into the team area, a few heads turn. You're familiar enough to them. People don’t stare—not directly—but eyes flick. Conversations pause. It’s subtle, but you’re used to it by now.

Oscar’s standing just to the side of the media tent, debrief notes in one hand. He looks up the second you appear—and though his expression doesn’t change much, you catch the tiny lift at the corner of his mouth. Just for you.

He doesn’t come to you.

You don’t go to him.

Not yet.

You pass close enough that your arm brushes his, and the heat between you sizzles like something private. He doesn’t look, doesn’t touch.

But he says, quiet enough for only you to hear, “He cracked.”

You smile faintly, “I heard.”

“They asked about quali, he said something about ‘teammates knowing their place.’”

You raise a brow, amused, “Classy.”

“Zak pulled him out. Press has no idea what the fuck he meant,” Oscar says, with a hint of boyish triumph laced in his voice. 

“But you do.”

He doesn’t answer that—just smiles again, a little wider this time.

You walk past him and take your place in the viewing area beside one of the engineers. From across the garage, you feel Lando’s eyes land on you. Just a flicker.

Just long enough.

He sees the bruise peeking above the collar of your hoodie. The faint outline of teeth just beneath your jaw.

He looks away.

You don’t need to say a word.

Oscar already said it for you—with his mouth on your skin, with his name on your lips, with every mark he left behind.

Qualifying starts, and Monaco doesn’t give anyone room to hide — not on track, and definitely not off it.

From the team pit wall, you watch it unfold through tinted lenses, headset perched loosely around your neck.

Oscar’s smooth. Fast. Calm through Sector 1, surgical through the hairpin. Lando’s twitchier. Overcorrecting. Radio sharp. He goes wide into Turn 12 and mutters something that gets bleeped on the live feed.

The garage knows.

Everyone knows.

Even the engineers are glancing at each other between data runs. The tension hasn’t lifted—it’s just gone quieter. Deeper.

Zak walks past you once, then again, and doesn’t say anything.

You don’t move.

Oscar finishes P3. Lando P7.

When Oscar’s lap time flashes on the board, there’s a flicker of something like satisfaction in the way he lifts his visor. He doesn’t celebrate. Doesn’t gloat. Just pulls back into the garage like he’s done his job—and knows you were watching.

You head toward the back hallway after the session ends. Quiet space behind hospitality, where the drivers come through before facing the press.

You’re leaning against a wall when you hear the voices before you see them.

Lando’s.

“Why don’t you tell them what you were really thinking on that last lap?”

Oscar’s.

“Excuse me?”

Lando’s.

“You wanted to beat me. You needed to. Don’t act like this was just another quali for you.”

Oscar’s voice is quieter, cooler, “Every quali, I want to beat the guy next to me. That’s the point.”

Lando laughs, sharp and joyless, “You think you’ve won something, don’t you? Some prize of a woman?”

You step into view.

They both go quiet.

Oscar’s eyes flick to you first—not surprised, not smug. Just aware. Present.

Lando sees the faint hickey blooming again, the one the foundation couldn’t fully hide, and his jaw ticks. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t have to.

You tilt your head, “Everything alright?”

Oscar looks at Lando for half a second longer, then turns to you.

“Yeah,” he says, calm and even. “We were just clearing the air.”

This earns him a glare from Lando. 

You smile at Oscar, brush your hand lightly along his arm as you pass.

Lando stays frozen.

It’s dark when you find Oscar again—rooftop level, away from the noise. He’s leaning on the railing in his McLaren hoodie, watching the city lights flicker over the water.

You slip in beside him.

He doesn’t look away from the skyline.

“He’s pissed,” Oscar says.

“He’ll stay pissed,” you admit quietly.

“He’s not just mad about it being me,” a beat, “He’s mad because he never thought you would leave him.”

You nod, fingers grazing the edge of the railing, “He never thought I’d let anyone else touch me.”

Oscar turns to you then. The tension’s gone now, burned out somewhere between the lap and the hallway. He notices you shivering and removes his hoodie, handing it to you without a word.

“Do you regret it?”

“No,” you respond, more assurance in your voice than the last time he asked. You turn fully toward him, “Do you?”

He just looks at you—steady, thoughtful, something softer than anything he’s shown all day.

Then he shrugs one shoulder and smiles faintly, “Not even a little.”

You lean in.

Kiss him.

The kiss is soft—nothing like the one in the hallway, or the ones from last night, hot and breathless with desperation. This one is calm. Confident.

Yours.

Oscar’s hands rest lightly on your waist, the cool night breeze lifting strands of your hair between you. Monaco glitters below, impossibly golden. You kiss him once. Then again. Slow. Unrushed. Like no one’s watching.

Except someone is.

You don’t notice it at first—the small mechanical click behind you. Subtle. A shutter. A camera lens adjusting to the low light.

By the time you pull back, it’s already done.

Oscar’s head lifts just slightly, eyes narrowing toward a corner of the rooftop—barely visible through a line of glass. Not press-official. Paparazzi freelance. The ones who sell exclusives when the media team’s off-duty.

“Shit,” Oscar mutters under his breath.

You turn, eyes locking on the shadowed figure just as they duck behind cover.

Too late.

“Think they got it?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

Oscar nods slowly, expression unreadable, “Yeah. They got it.”

You exhale—not panicked. Just… bracing.

Because the image will drop. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow morning. You in his arms, mouth on his, Oscar’s hoodie on your shoulders, his fingers curled around your waist like he’s holding something that matters.

It’s not a rumor anymore.

It’s not a whisper in the paddock hallway or a locker room assumption or something Lando only suspects.

It’s proof.

The photo drops sometime after 2 a.m.

It’s soft. Intimate. The Monaco skyline blurred behind you, Oscar’s hands gentle on your hips, your lips brushing his in a kiss too tender to be casual. You’re wearing his hoodie, your body leaning into his like you belong there. The headline spins fast, and the image spins faster.

“Piastri and mystery girl— late-night kiss confirms more than paddock rumors.” #MonacoGP #OP81 #McLaren #F1WeekendRomance

By the time the sun rises over the harbor, the image has circled the globe. Instagram reels. Reddit threads. Private group chats with McLaren team tags. 

Some know who you are. Others ask. Everyone guesses.

No one’s surprised.

Not even Lando.

He sees it around 6 a.m. His phone buzzes with the notification, a WhatsApp ping from someone in media: “Bro…?”

He clicks it, thumb slow, still groggy from a half-slept night.

The image fills his screen in just about a second flat.

And for a second, he doesn’t feel anything at all.

Then it hits—slow and thick, like cold water spreading under his ribs. He stares at the photo, eyes scanning over the curve of your smile, the way your fingers curl into the back of Oscar’s shirt, the undeniable ease in your body.

You look happy.

He hasn't seen that look on you in months.

The worst part is how quiet the fury is—how it doesn’t come out loud, how it just sits there in his chest.

He doesn’t throw the phone.

He just stares, jaw tight, thumb hovering above the screen like he could rewind the moment and undo it.

But it’s already out.

And nothing will unsee it.

The paddock is different that morning. The kind of quiet that’s not actually quiet—just loaded.

Oscar walks in calm. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t shrink. He gives one quick nod to Zak, another to the comms lead. Then walks into the garage like he hasn’t just become the most searched man in F1.

Lando’s already in the back, zipped into his fireproofs, eyes locked on the telemetry like it might give him something to hit. When Oscar appears beside him in the media pen, the tension is immediate—even before the interviews start.

“Oscar,” one reporter says, half-laughing, “you’ve been trending all morning. Surprised by the attention?”

Oscar’s lips tug into a polite half-smile, “Not particularly.”

“Balancing a fast lap and a fast… personal life?” someone else jokes.

He doesn’t miss a beat, “One lap at a time.”

Lando laughs then—too sharp, too loud, “He’s got more than enough time to focus on everything else, clearly.”

The PR handler stiffens. The reporters go quiet. One camera clicks. Someone tries to move the topic on, but the moment lands.

Oscar doesn’t react. Just folds his arms across his chest, gives a small smile, and looks straight ahead.

You hear about it an hour later.

And when you enter the garage, it’s like parting smoke. The space tenses. Heads turn. No one quite meets your eyes, except for Lando —a glance, sharp and quick, from across the space.

He looks away.

Oscar doesn’t.

You find him standing near the screens, headset tucked around his neck, one hand in his pocket. He sees you and offers the smallest, softest smile.

You pass close. Don’t touch. Don’t stop.

But your fingers graze his as you go.

He breathes like it’s the first time all day he’s been allowed to.

Later, after the final briefings wrap, you find him alone behind the paddock—tucked into a quiet service alley, the marina glittering beyond the concrete walls.

He doesn’t hear you approach. Just stands with his back to you, hands braced on the railing, still in his gear. His shoulders rise and fall in slow rhythm.

You stop beside him.

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

Then, “So,” you murmur, “that’s one way to go public.”

He huffs a laugh. “Guess we don’t get to control the timing.”

You glance sideways at him. “Regret it yet?”

He finally looks at you — eyes soft, voice quieter than it was all day, “Not even a little.”

You nod slowly, “Me either.”

He exhales, like that’s what he was waiting for.

“It’s going to be loud,” He warns

“I know.”

“He’s not going to take it quietly,” Oscar adds. 

“He’s not my responsibility anymore.”

Oscar studies your face — the calm in your expression, the steadiness in your voice — then lifts a hand to your jaw, thumb brushing gently beneath your cheekbone.

“If it gets messy—” Oscar starts. 

“We’ll deal with it,” you reassure him with a confidence foreign to you. 

He nods once.

"Good luck out there."

The Monaco sun glints harshly off the harbor, but the air inside the McLaren garage is colder than it should be. Everyone’s already seen the photo. The photographers couldn’t have asked for a cleaner shot.

No one says a word about it — not to your face. But there’s something in the silence. The way engineers glance between Lando and Oscar before looking away. The way a strategist clears his throat before relaying sector data like he’s afraid it might ignite something.

You stay quiet. Poised. Present in the garage like you’ve always been. Just another figure with a headset and a McLaren pass. Except now, yesterday's bruises aren’t just hickeys—they’re headlines.

Oscar’s composed during formation laps, fully in the zone. Lando, on the other hand, can’t seem to keep still. His fingers twitch on the wheel. His visor drops early. And when he lines up behind Oscar on the grid, his car nose to the back of the #81, the message is clear:

He’s not racing for position.

He’s racing him.

The lights go out at the start, and the tension snaps taut.

Oscar gets off the line clean. Fast. Aggressive, but composed—the kind of driver who cuts through chaos like he’s above it. He settles into P3 behind Leclerc and Max, calm radio calls rolling through your headset.

“Tyres feel stable. Brakes coming up nicely.” His tone is smooth. Professional. Locked in.

“Copy that, Oscar. You’re looking good. Just manage the gap.”

Lando, meanwhile, is chewing through the field from P7, but he’s not driving—he’s fighting. And it shows. He’s too heavy into the Nouvelle Chicane. Nearly clips the barrier at Mirabeau. Gets squeezed by Hamilton going into the tunnel and screams down the radio like it’s personal.

“Is anyone actually gonna call shit today, or should I just punt him off the fucking track?”

“Lando, stay focused.”

“Oh, now you want focus. Should’ve told golden boy to stay out of my way in quali.”

Twenty laps in, Oscar’s holding steady in third with tire wear perfectly balanced. Lando’s muscling his way up to P5, then P4 after a gutsy dive into Sainte Devote. It’s impressive. Chaotic. Pure Lando.

“Tell him if he’s going to block me, he better commit to it. This half-ass defending doesn’t help anyone.”

The pit wall tries to smooth it over.

“Copy, Lando. Maintain focus. Oscar’s running clean.”

There’s a beat of static. Then Lando again.

“If he wants to play team leader, he better drive like it.”

In Oscar’s car, there’s only quiet. Steady updates. Clean cornering. No rise. No reaction.

Just sector after sector of control.

But it’s Oscar who makes it look effortless.

Final laps tick down. Lando’s close—closer than he’s been all weekend—but not enough.

You watch the checkered flag fall from the garage viewing area, headset still clutched in one hand, heart thudding in your chest. Oscar crosses the line second—a solid, beautiful finish. No mistakes. No drama.

Lando follows in fourth.

The crowd roars. The team celebrates.

But inside the garage, the energy is split.

Half the crew glances toward the monitors. The other half glances toward you.

No one says anything.

But the silence speaks volumes.

The garage claps for Oscar’s podium. It’s not dramatic. No confetti. But the applause is sincere. You stay tucked to the side as he peels off his gloves and helmet, curls damp and jaw clenched with adrenaline.

He doesn’t look for you.

He knows you’re there.

The podium happens in a flash champagne, interviews, cameras. Oscar is graceful. Deflecting the kiss photo with a shrug:

”I try to keep focus on track. Everything else…” He shrugs. “That’s not what wins points. I let the track speak louder than the tabloids.”

Clean. Cool. Unbothered.

Lando’s post-race media scrum doesn’t go as smoothly.

His smile is too tight. His answers too short.

“Happy with your pace today?”

“No.”

“Anything you’d like to say about team dynamics?”

“I think a few people need to remember who they were before the cameras showed up.”

You’re not sure if it’s coincidence or fate. Lando's leaning against the wall near the back of the hospitality area, arms crossed over his chest, fire suit still half-zipped, sweat drying on his neck. The air between you tightens instantly.

He sees you before you speak.

“So that’s it?” he says, voice low, mocking, “You get your moment? Photo hits the press and suddenly you’re Piastri’s girl now?”

You keep your voice even. “It’s not about the photo.”

“No?” His eyebrows lift, “Looked like it. Looked like perfect timing, actually. Right before race day. You really going for the full storybook arc, huh?”

You cross your arms, matching his stance, “You think I planned that? You think I wanted to be caught?”

He snorts. “Certainly didn't stop.”

You step closer.

“You didn’t stop sleeping around. You didn’t stop ignoring me. You didn’t stop until I was already gone.”

His mouth twitches—not a smile. Something bitter.

“And you think Oscar’s different?”

“I know he is.”

He studies you then. Really looks. Like he’s trying to find the part of you that still belongs to him. The part he can poke and prod and control like he used to.

But it’s not there.

His breath stutters. He looks away—jaw tight, hands clenched.

There’s movement behind you.

Lando glances past your shoulder—posture tensing.

Oscar stands just beyond the corner. Silent. Watching.

But he doesn’t step in.

He meets your eyes—not Lando’s—and with one subtle nod, he turns to go.

Because he trusts you to handle this.

Because you needed to take this one yourself.

You find Oscar later by the hospitality coffee station, half-dressed down from his suit, fingers curled around a water bottle, his race boots unlaced. The crowds have thinned. The crew’s winding down. But he’s still here—waiting.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low.

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“You saw?”

“I heard,” he says. “Then I saw.”

He studies you.

“You handled him.”

You nod, then smile faintly. “So did you.”

Oscar lifts his water bottle and takes a sip.

You step closer. Not rushed. Just enough.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

“For what?”

“Not stepping in.”

“Didn’t need to,” he replies, “I knew you could handle him.”

You lean into his side, your hand resting on his chest. His arm slips around your back like it’s instinct.

There are still cameras around.

Still whispers.

Still fallout coming.

But for now, it’s just the two of you.

Still standing.

FROM PADDOCK DARLING TO PIASTRI’S MYSTERY GIRL: MONACO GP’S MOST TALKED-ABOUT WOMAN

Well, well, well. Things are heating up in more ways than one at McLaren—and this time, it’s not just on track.

In case you missed it (though how could you?), Oscar Piastri made headlines this weekend for more than just his flawless P2 finish in Monaco. The 23-year-old Aussie was spotted sharing a kiss with a woman who—until recently—had been very publicly linked to his teammate, Lando Norris.

Yes. You read that right.

The viral photo, snapped late Saturday night on a rooftop terrace above the Monaco paddock, shows Piastri in what can only be described as a very cozy moment with a mystery girl who fans quickly identified as Lando’s longtime (but reportedly estranged) girlfriend.

Wearing his hoodie. With his hands around her waist. And what appear to be love bites peeking out from beneath her collar.

(We zoomed in. Don’t act like you didn’t.)

The woman once seen at every race on Lando Norris’ arm is no longer just a grid-side accessory—she’s made it very clear whose garage she’s in now. And it’s not Norris’.

Neither Oscar nor the woman in question have made an official statement, but the body language has said plenty. The pair has been spotted multiple times, hand-in-hand, unabashed.

While reps for McLaren offered no official comment on the photo, the tension in the garage during Saturday qualifying spoke volumes. Sources inside the paddock describe Norris as “visibly short-tempered,” with one engineer claiming he was “racing like he had something to prove.” As for Piastri? Calm, composed—and, if we may, focused.

He brought home P2.

Norris? P4—and reportedly less than thrilled.

Let’s not forget: this isn’t the first time Lando’s off-track antics have made waves—rumors of infidelity have followed the Brit through the past few seasons, though they were often brushed aside by his ever-loyal girlfriend. Until now.

While nothing has been confirmed (yet), it would certainly appear that she’s Oscar’s now.

Whether this unexpected romance will fuel drama or just give Oscar a boost on track remains to be seen, but one thing’s for sure: we’ll be watching.

Very closely.

Stay tuned. The summer break’s never felt so far away.

© Copyright, 2025.

[jjkssin]

Embrace of Ruins. Jk

Pairing: King jk x widowed (fem) reader.

Character count: 14,962

Genre: Dark Romance | Historical

Tropes: Dominant , controlling jk, forced proximity, obsession , captive romance, war , fragile female lead, mentions of death, mature.

Summary: When ruthless warlord Jeon conquers a rival kingdom, he slaughters its royal bloodline including the cruel king who once claimed Y/N as his wife. But instead of casting her aside, Jeon takes her as his own, stripping her of her former title and making her his possession. She was never meant to be a queen. She was meant to be his.

The air reeked of blood and burning wood, the sky dark with the smoke of a fallen kingdom. Screams had long since faded into silence, leaving only the sound of victorious banners fluttering in the wind.

The Kingdom had fallen.

This was not just another kingdom swallowed by his empire. No this war had been waged with a purpose far beyond power. It was her. The ghost of a woman he had never seen, only heard of in whispers the famed beauty of the lost kingdom, Y/N.

People had spoken of her ethereal grace, of her skin that glowed like moonlight and eyes that held galaxies within them.

At the heart of the carnage, Jeon sat upon the grand throne, one boot resting on the fallen king’s lifeless body and the golden crown of the fallen king crushed beneath his boot.

The scent of blood and smoke lingered in the air mingling with the screams of the last remnants of a dying dynasty.

His victory was absolute. The kingdom now belonged to him. And so did everything within it.

Including her.

She was a vision in a silk dress , the color of winter’s first snow.

___

Amidst it all, She ran.

Bare feet against the cold marble, her silken gown now soaked in the lifeblood of her people, dragging behind her like a ghostly shroud. The palace corridors, once familiar, had become a maze of death and ruin. She barely noticed the bodies, the shattered glass of once grand chandeliers. All she could hear was the pounding of her own heartbeat, the rasp of her breath and the distant clamor of armored boots in pursuit.

She had seen him.

He had stood amidst the wreckage of her throne room, a wolf in the den of slaughter, dark eyes scanning the ruin with calculated indifference.

He had looked at her like a claim already made, and that had been enough to send her fleeing.

She stumbled through the grand doors of the palace and into the frozen night, her thin gown no barrier against the relentless cold. Snowflakes kissed her tear streaked cheeks as she pushed forward, her breath rising in desperate clouds.

The forest loomed ahead a tangle of frostbitten branches and endless dark. She plunged into its depths without hesitation. The crown she had once been forced to wear had been torn from her head, her hair cascading around her face in disheveled waves.

The trees whispered around her, the wind howling like a grieving specter. Her feet tore through the frozen undergrowth, bare skin sliced by unseen thorns but she did not stop.

She could not stop.

She knew they would come. She had seen it in his eyes obsidian pools that swallowed light, a gaze that spoke of possession and a hunger far more dangerous than the battlefield he had razed.

She tried to be silent, tried to disappear into the vast expanse of snow and night but her body betrayed her. A misstep her foot catching on a hidden root sent her tumbling forward. She crashed into the snow, pain exploding through her limbs as she gasped, clawing at the frost with trembling hands.

She scrambled to rise, but it was too late.

A shadow loomed over her, swallowing the pale light of the moon.

Him.

The air shifted with his presence, heavy with something she could not name. His breath came steady, controlled, unaffected by the chase. He had known this would happen. He had allowed her to run, entertained her futile escape before closing in like a beast playing with his prey.

"You thought you could run from me?" His voice was velvet over steel, dark and slow, as though savoring the moment.

Y/N trembled, her body wracked with exhaustion, yet she found herself inching back, her palms sinking into the snow.

Jeon crouched before her, gloved fingers tilting her chin upwards, forcing her to meet the gaze she had so desperately tried to avoid.

"You should know better" he murmured, his lips brushing against hers. "I do not chase what I do not intend to catch."

The rumors had not done her justice.

She was exquisite, a masterpiece carved by the gods themselves.

Even in her disarray, she was ethereal.

Tears welled in her eyes, but she did not fight. She had nothing left to fight for.

A cruel smile tugged at Jeon's lips as he leaned forward.

"Your king is dead. Your kingdom is mine"

With that his hand moved lower, gliding down the torn fabric of her gown, feeling the tremor beneath his touch. And then without warning, he slid his arms beneath her one under her knees, the other wrapping around her back.

She gasped as the ground disappeared beneath her, the sudden closeness of him knocking the breath from her lungs. Her hands instinctively grasped at his shoulders, clutching at the thick fabric of his cloak as he lifted her effortlessly.

The world around them blurred as Jeon carried her back, his strides slow, deliberate, savoring every second of the act.

His men stood waiting at the forest’s edge, their eyes carefully averted, knowing better than to interrupt.

Jeon was the master of every inch of this kingdom now but she was a different kind of victory.

A victory he would not let slip from his grasp

__

Jeon had wanted her from the moment he had laid eyes on her. A forbidden desire had taken root deep within him when he had first seen her beside the now dead king , a man unworthy of even touching the hem of her gown, much less claiming her as his.

__

The journey from the snow laden forest to Jeon’s kingdom was a silent one. His kingdom loomed ahead like a fortress of stone, walls that could never be breached.

When they finally crossed the threshold into the warmth of Jeon’s kingdom, the heavy iron gates closed behind them with a resounding clang, sealing off the outside world.

He called for his servants, his voice firm and authoritative.

“Take her to my chambers,” he ordered coldly. “Strip her of the dead king’s colors. She wears only what I give her now.”

__

The scent of lavender and jasmine filled the air as the maids scrubbed away the blood, the dirt, the remnants of her former life.

But no matter how many times they washed her, no matter how many hands gently soothed her skin, there were things that could not be erased.

The marks on her body. The scars both physical and emotional that she had borne under her husband’s cruel reign.

Afterward, Y/N was dressed in a delicate white nightgown. It clung to her thin frame, the silk soft against her skin, but it did nothing to ease the chill in her bones. The gown was far more modest than the opulent dress she had worn in her past life but it was far too intimate for her current circumstances.

As the maids finished their task, they led her down the stone corridors of Jeon’s castle to his private chambers.

The room was enormous, warm with a roaring fire. She stood silently before him, her eyes cast downward. Jeon stood by the bed his posture strong, unyielding and as always, a palpable aura of control surrounded him.

He moved toward her without a word, his presence overwhelming.

His eyes narrowed as they settled on her shoulders and arms.

His fingers hovered near her shoulder, brushing against the faded remnants of bruises.

“That pathetic excuse for a king,” he spat, his voice dripping with disgust.

“A man unworthy of a throne, unworthy of a crown and certainly unworthy of you."

Jeon growled, his hands flexing as if he longed to tear apart a man who was already rotting in the ground.

"What did you call him?" he mused, tilting his head. "My king? My husband?" He laughed, dark and mocking.

"No king allows his castle to fall while he cowers in his chambers. And a husband…" He paused, his fingers ghosting over the fading bruises on her wrist.

His expression turned cold. "A husband does not treat his wife like a common whore to be used and discarded. I barely had to lift my blade before he was groveling at my feet, begging for his life like a spineless dog"

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut, the image flashing in her mind. She had not loved the king, but his death had been brutal. The sound of steel slicing through flesh, the gurgled choking as he bled out it haunted her.

Jeon exhaled, stepping back slightly.

"I should make you my whore," he mused. "A slave to warm my bed, nothing more. It would be fitting for the widow of such a disgraceful man."

Her stomach twisted in fear.

"But no," he murmured, as if reconsidering. "Though your husband was a disgrace, you are now mine"

His gaze darkened, something unreadable flashing in his eyes.

"Did he ever touch you properly?" Jeon murmured, his voice turning low, almost teasing.

Jeon chuckled darkly. “Of course not. I imagine he was just as pathetic in bed as he was on the battlefield. Weak. Incompetent.”

He leaned in, his breath ghosting over her ear. “Did he even know what to do with you? Or did he fumble like the fool he was?”

Y/N’s breath stuttered. The air in the room felt heavy, suffocating. She didn’t want to answer. She didn’t want to think about it.

Jeon chuckled at her silence.

“You will no longer be a widow,” he said casually, as if discussing the weather.

“You will be my wife. You wil bear my mark and sleep in my bed and by the time I am done with you, you will forget you ever belonged to anyone else.” His voice low in command.

Y/N's breath caught in her throat. "W-what?

Jeon smirked, amused by her reaction. "You are still royalty, no matter how pathetic your bloodline is. And I do not waste what has value." He reached for her again, his fingers brushing over the fabric of her underdress.

Before she could protest, Jeon grasped the thin strap of her underdress and pulled, the silk slipping from her shoulder with ease.

Y/N gasped, instinctively clutching the fabric to her chest.

"Still shy?" His fingers trailed down her arm, his touch deceptively soft.

"Your husband must have taken his pleasures without care. Rushed. Unskilled."

His gaze flickered over her, unreadable.

"A shame. I prefer to savor what is mine."

Y/N trembled as he grasped the other strap, slowly sliding it down her shoulder. The silk pooled at her collarbones, threatening to slip further.

Y/N’s throat tightened, a tear slipping down her cheek . Heat rushed to her cheeks, shame and something unfamiliar twisting inside her.

"You were wasted on him," Jeon murmured. "But you will not be wasted on me."

His hand gripped her waist, pulling her closer. She gasped, her heart hammering against her ribs.

"You will be my wife before the sun rises. And no kingdom, no force in this world will take you from me."

Jeon murmured, his voice laced with something deeper, something unshakable.

“I could touch you in ways that pathetic fool never could. I could make you beg, make you forget he ever existed.”

His hands slid lower, gripping her thighs holding her still.

“You will know what it means to be wanted,” he promised. “To be craved.”

She closed her eyes as his lips descended, as his touch deepened, as the last of her old self was stripped away like the silks of her gown.

She had been the queen of a doomed king. A nameless ghost in a gilded cage. A woman forgotten by the very man who had sworn to own her.

But Jeon was not a man who forgot what belonged to him.

He pressed her back against the silk draped bed, his gaze burning into hers as he loomed above her, all shadow and heat, all power and intent.

"You will curse me," he whispered, his lips hovering just above hers, "and you will crave me all the same."

His mouth claimed her then, slow and consuming, as if proving his words true. As if sealing the vow between them with something far more binding than marriage, more damning than devotion.

She let herself sink, let herself be undone, because there was no kingdom left to fight for, no crown left to bear, only this. Only him.

And as his hands traced a path of ruin and worship alike, she realized something with aching finality.

She was not lost. She had simply been claimed.

__

The first light of dawn crept through the towering windows, painting the stone walls in hues of muted gold. The warmth of the sun did nothing to chase away the lingering shadows of the night before.

She stirred, her body aching not from pain, but from the imprint of him.

Her body heavy with exhaustion.

Her skin burned where his touch had claimed her, the memory of his hands and his voice still lingering in her senses like a lingering scent, impossible to escape.

She blinked against the morning light, the thick, heavy silence of the room pressing down upon her. The bed was empty beside her, the space where Jeon had been only a ghost of heat.

A low voice broke the silence. “Did you sleep well?”

Her body tensed, her muscles still trembling from the storm of the night before. Jeon stood near the tall windows, his silhouette framed by the light, his presence as imposing as ever.

He looked unchanged powerful, untouchable.

"Get up," he commanded, already reaching for the black silk robe draped over a nearby chair. "We have matters to attend to."

She hesitated, sitting up slowly, the silk sheets slipping from her bare shoulders.

"What matters?"

Jeon turned, fastening the robe around his waist, "Our wedding."

Her breath caught.

Jeon chuckled, "What? Did you think I would leave you as a nameless concubine?" He stepped closer, gripping her chin between his fingers.

She searched his gaze, trying to understand, to make sense of this shift. "Then... I will be the queen of this place?"

"You wish to rule?" His voice was measured but there was an edge of something deeper beneath it.

Y/N swallowed hard. "No. But.." She hesitated, unsure how to put the ache in her.

She trailed off, shame burning in her throat.

Jeon studied her, a thoughtful hum vibrating from his chest. "You are not meant for war," he said at last.

"Not meant for bloodshed and for dirty politics." He tilted his head, his gaze heavy.

"You are meant for me."

His words did not soothe her as he likely intended them to.

She had listened. She had obeyed. She had surrendered in body.

But she would not surrender this.

"I will not marry you," she said, her voice quiet, yet firm.

"I will not be your wife unless I am your queen," Y/N said, her voice trembling but unwavering. "You took my kingdom, my home, my name. If I am to be bound to you, I will not be just another possession. "

His fingers curled slightly, then relaxed. Slowly, he turned, dark eyes locking onto her with something unreadable something slow-burning, something dangerous.

"You will," he said simply.

She lifted her chin, a flicker of defiance breaking through her usual obedience.

"Not if I am not to be queen."

A slow, mirthless smirk tugged at his lips. "Is that what you want?" He stepped toward her, his presence suffocating, the air in the room shifting like a storm about to break.

"A throne?"

She clenched her fists in her lap, her pulse thrumming against her throat. "I was a queen before you tore my kingdom apart." Her voice did not waver, though her breath did. "I will not be cast aside as some nameless wife while you rule alone."

Jeon studied her in silence, the weight of his gaze heavy, assessing. Then, without warning, he moved.

Faster than she could react, his fingers closed around her throat not choking, not hurting, just a firm grip, possessive, commanding. He tilted her head back, forcing her to look up at him, his thumb pressing lightly against the delicate pulse at her neck.

"You speak as though you have a choice."

She gasped softly but she did not break away.

Jeon’s other hand traced the curve of her jaw, his touch deceptively gentle, a contrast to the quiet fury simmering in his dark eyes.

"You were not a queen," he murmured. "You were a prisoner in a cage, a wife to a spineless rat who did not deserve you. You wore a crown but it was never truly yours. "

His fingers tightened slightly around her throat, enough to remind her of his power, enough to send a shiver down her spine.

"And now, you demand a throne beside me?" He leaned closer, his breath fanning against her lips. "No. You will kneel before it instead."

Her heart pounded, her breath shallow, but she still managed to whisper "If I mean nothing more than a body in your bed, end this now."

The air shifted violently.

Jeon’s grip tightened for the briefest moment just long enough to make her dizzy before he released her completely. He exhaled sharply, stepping back, his jaw taut, his gaze dark with something volatile.

For the first time since conquering this land, since taking her, someone had denied him.

And he did not tolerate defiance.

"Very well," he murmured, his voice eerily calm. "If you will not walk to the altar, you will be dragged to it."

Today, she would become his wife.

Not his queen.

He would marry her, not as a political arrangement, not as a necessity but because he wanted her.

He was a conqueror. He alone was enough to rule his land.

__

The silk gown clung to Y/N’s trembling frame, the deep red fabric as heavy as the chains she could not see but could feel in every step she was forced to take. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, nails pressing into her palms as the realization settled deeper into her bones. The room was deathly silent, the air thick with the scent of incense and candle wax.

Jeon stood before her, a predator draped in black and gold, exuding dominance with every breath. His patience was a thinly veiled thing, stretching dangerously as he watched her remain still, unmoving, unyielding.

"Come forward," he commanded, his voice steady but edged with warning.

Her feet refused to move.

In a single, fluid motion, he closed the distance between them, his fingers wrapping around her wrist in an iron grip. He yanked her forward, forcing her to stumble against his chest.

“You speak of power as if it is something I would give you,” he murmured, his voice deceptively soft, venom laced beneath the words. “You forget your place.”

She gasped, struggling against his grip, but he was relentless, his fingers digging into her wrist as he pulled her through the vast hall.

"You will stand beside me, Y/N," he said, voice cold, final. "But a throne is not something I share."

He did not stop until they stood before the officiant.

A lump formed in her throat, but she swallowed it down, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her break.

Jeon studied her for a moment before sighing, almost in disappointment.

“I was willing to grant you this wedding without force. To let you walk beside me, instead of dragging you like a conquered spoil of war.”

“I did not win this kingdom with patience. I won it with blood.”

Then, louder, he addressed the officiant. “Begin.”

The ceremony was as empty as her heart. No grand feast, no celebration. Just her, him and the officiant bearing witness to the binding of a vow. She repeated them in a hollow whisper, her voice barely her own.

But as he pulled her in for the final kiss, sealing her beneath his name, his rule.

He tasted the salt of her tears on her lips.

For a moment, just a moment, he felt the bitter sting of something less than victory.

Because despite binding her to him, despite claiming her, despite stealing her body, her name. He felt the weight of something he could not conquer.

He had burned kingdoms for her. Killed kings for her. Stolen her from the ashes of a life she never wanted. Yet her sadness was a wound he could not stitch.

Jeon had indeed won the war.

But he had not won her.

__

(End)🤍

[inkzectz]

Emotionally unavailable Barney

Explanation:

( based on a convo with a friend )

Just sort of based on Barney’s behavior throughout HL2, I know it’s a popular headcanon to believe Barney would resent Gordon, but I honestly feel the opposite is true. Barney seems to have a hard time grasping that Gordon is really there, like Gordon’s presence seemed to have set him 20 years in the past, he seems to associate Gordon with good memories from before the res-cas and the combine, he makes constant nostalgic throwbacks and quips about Gordon, it honestly felt like he was dying to rekindle that old friendship. It feels like he’s trying to push out the bad memories, not wanting to acknowledge what actually happened because despite every single throwback he never once mentions the resonance cascade or anything that happened afterwards, it’s all good memories. I think that Gordon (realistically) would need someone to talk to about everything that happened, he never got a moment to really process anything, being constantly on the move, and out of everyone there Barney is kind of the only person that could understand; but with Barney being a resistance leader I feel like he’d gotten used to hiding his feelings and putting up a strong front for the sake of other people, being a leader part of his responsibility is keeping everyone in good spirits, in turn I think he’d have a hard time being vulnerable around others.

This short comic is kind of a play on that, Gordon wanting to talk to Barney about it, just needing some sort of reassurance, and what better way then talking to your old best friend about it? Gordon’s presence making Barney feel like the good ol’ days for a moment, he views Gordon with such a warmth that for a moment he forgets the world sucks.

Before being harshly reminded of the past he’d been pushing so far out his mind in order to be in best spirits during what is the most important mission of his entire life, and trying to shut down any conversation about it in order to not dwell on the past during an extremely stressful and important mission.

I’ve been thinking about freehoun so much if you couldn’t tell.

[monamipencil]

— choking hazard | h.js

⋆ pairings; joshua x fem! reader ⋆ genre; smut, fluff, humor, friends to lovers (?) ⋆ w.c; 3.7k+ ⋆ warnings; intoxication (liquor), mention of walking in on chan, josh is lovingly annoying, big dick! josh, tipsy sex, oral (m. receiving), face-fucking, unprotected sex (she's on pills), reader can be picked up, rough sex, creampie ⋆ a/n; im thankful for @nonuify, @chwepen, @okiedokrie and @whipped-for-kpop-fics for collectively losing it with me while talking about big dick! josh. without them, this wouldn't have been posted lol. xoxo, enjoy <3

“i don't believe a single shit that you just spewed.”

you scoff at your close friend seated on the camping chair adjacent to yours.

“hey, i'm just saying the truth.” Joshua defends himself with a shrug. his smile looks almost angelic under the glistening cascades of moonlight and the dying campfire.

almost is the key word. because there's a glint of something else lurking underneath his dilated pupils. he takes a sip from the canned beer, and a few drops trickle down his chin. he wipes it off with his sleeve.

“your dick is a choking hazard? and a girl you slept with, told her friends that?”

“yep, that's right.” he hides his smirk behind the beer can. it seems that the liquor in your system is doing tricks on you as you watch his eyes dip down to the exposed skin of your collarbones.

you can’t help but laugh at his affirmation. your cheeks puff up, and your eyes crinkle as you do so. Joshua loves your laughter, and it makes him laugh as well. but he can only tongue his cheek now, watching you keel over with laughter. 

“i’m sorry, Josh. that’s the most out-of-pocket shit someone could say.” you take a breather and try to calm down. “how did we land on the topic of cock, again?” 

it’s almost midnight. most of your friends have fallen asleep or are in their tents, scrolling through their phones. which leaves you and Joshua outside, watching the fire trickle down to embers and drinking the last cans of beer till you both pass out. 

but somehow, the conversation has changed lanes to your friend’s diabolical cock size. 

“because you told me that you walked in on Chan jerking off and didn’t expect him to be ‘oh so huge!’” he mimics your voice, and you slap his shoulder while he laughs. 

“well, i still don’t believe you. so,” you blow a raspberry at him and turn away to look at the sky. you are barely tipsy but feel light-headed because of the long hike and how spent your body is. the last thing you want on your mind is Joshua’s cock. 

but it’s safe to say that you’re intrigued. 

“you don’t have to,” his voice echoes with a strum of his guitar. he must’ve picked it up again. but you don’t look at him. especially not with the way you’re all hot and bothered right now. 

“you just have to see it.” you choke on your saliva and make the mistake of turning your head. he has shifted closer to you, his hair tickles your cheeks, and you see his eyes trained on your lips. 

“calm down, player.” you huff and back off. but it’s you who needs to calm down. joshua appears very calm and collected with his sweet smile and shit. but you’re not buying any of that. 

“player?” his voice raises a pitch before he chuckles with a husky timbre. and his low voice sends shivers down your spine straight to your core. you tighten your thighs and wish that he doesn't notice it. 

“hey, it's not my fault people mistake my kindness for something more.”

“kindness? oh forgive me for not knowing that making out with every girl is an act of kindness.” 

“you sound like you’re jealous.” 

he whispers into your ear. and you notice his closeness only now. his knee presses into yours as he manspreads, and he leans into your frame. the smell of beer and his signature scent hits your nose, forcing you to take a deep breath of fresh air. 

in your moment of silence, Joshua confirms his answer. “so you are jealous.” 

you don’t answer and shift in your chair, trying not to cast your gaze on his thighs. or, more specifically, his cock. which you’re pretty sure would be visible against the tightness of his pants. 

“uhh, i’m going to hit the bed. you should too.” that’s all you offer while walking away as fast as possible.

the path to your cabin is short, and you sigh, feeling stupid. obviously, he’s just playing. you’d have a hard time listing the girls he has not kissed because of the lack of them. maybe dares don’t count, but it’s still a blasphemous amount. 

entering the cabin, you immediately take off your counselor shirt and toss it on your bed. you go through your bag, trying to find a sweatshirt you could wear.  

“woah, no bra?” 

you yelp in surprise and cover yourself with your hands. you don’t need to turn around to figure out who that is. 

“joshua, can you not fucking knock?!” 

“calm down, this is my cabin too.” 

your heart palpitates when he closes the door and walks towards his bed, which is adjacent to yours. you scramble to wear any piece of cloth you can find and lie down on your bed as soon as possible. 

you don’t hear a single sound from his side, so you turn in the bed to look at him. which adds to your fluster as you find him already looking at you. he doesn’t utter a word, continuing to look at you. you hold eye contact, mesmerized by the deep brown of his eyes. 

“what?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. 

“just curious,” he shakes his head, eyes still gazing deep into yours. 

“about?” 

“how you’d look, trying to take my cock in.”

your mouth runs dry and you lick your lips, still not breaking eye contact. a fuzzy warm feeling pools in your stomach and your hard nipples graze against the material of your shirt. you sit up, done with this game of push and pull. 

he follows suit, watching you walk towards him. you offer him no words and kneel on the floor while looking up at him. joshua sucks in a sharp breath, trying to contain himself. his finger grazes against your cheekbones, softly pushing back stray hairs. 

he groans when you press your palm against his boner. he leans back, observing you with a lazy smile. you try not to vocalize your surprise when you confirm that Joshua is not lying. the sheer outline of his cock intimidates you. your nails dig into his thighs, and he snickers at you. 

“scared, honey?” his voice is saccharine, and he looks at you with such adoration. but you know, behind that sweet mask lies something better left undisturbed. 

and you’re treading on the very line that will disturb it. but it doesn’t scare you. it excites you. somehow, the thought of Joshua breaking his demeanor fills your veins with adrenaline. 

more excited than scared. the response lies on the tip of your tongue, and you want to say it. the little liquor in your system gives you a confidence boost. you hook your finger under the waistband of his briefs and pull it down with one smooth pull. 

his cock springs free, and you’re rendered speechless for a second. Joshua’s cock is long and girthy. his pretty pink tip oozes with pearls of precum, and he’s well-groomed. you never thought you’d describe a dick as pretty, but here you are.

you finally find the courage to wrap your hand around his length. you bite your lip, squeezing his cock that lays heavy on your hand. he shudders and sighs at your touch. you lean forward and lick the precum off his tip. 

“fuck,” he curses, carding his hand through his hair. he sounds so hot, and it makes you envy all the girls he’s slept with before. 

you’re still hesitant to wrap your lips around his cock, and he senses it. “want some help?” he offers, and you impatiently nod. 

he chuckles, standing on his feet. you wait patiently on your knees, watching him discard his shirt. 

“you think too much, you know?”

before you can ask him what he means, he slaps his cock on your cheek. any and every thought evaporates from your brain, and you can only focus on how good it feels.

you don't say anything but stare up at him with glassy eyes and an open mouth. he laughs, and a devilish tint lurks behind his irises.

“like getting slapped by my cock?” his other hand holds your nape, and you nod eagerly. you lift your hands to rest them on his thighs and close your eyes.

he tugs your hair, forcing you to look at him. “look at me.”

he slaps his cock on your face again. and again, and again. and again till you're absolutely cock drunk, begging to have him down your throat. he slaps his cock one last time on your face. you whine, digging your nails into his thighs.

he chuckles again, cooing at you. “open your mouth.”

you obey, letting your mouth hang open for him. he teases the tip of his oozing cock by rubbing it on your lower lip. you push out your tongue, causing him to chuckle. he taps his cock on your tongue before pushing the tip in.

you hum in content and suck on his tip, swirling your tongue around it. you tease his slit, tracing it with your tongue. joshua bites his lip, and his eyebrows knit in pleasure.

“fuck,” he groans, a sound that fills your heart with pride.

“gonna go a bit deeper, yeah?” you hum around his cock, and he curses.

he pushes your head down his cock, gently. you open your mouth to accommodate him, but the ache in your jaw stops you. you make a noise, stopping him. he does, waiting for you to adjust to his girth.

his fingers caress the side of your face and your nape, causing you to shiver when he brushes a sensitive spot on your neck. his other hand gently holds back your hair. you look at him, nodding your head.

you feel the ache in your jaw lessen when he pulls out, leaving only the tip in. it's soon taken away as he fills your mouth again. he continues so at a mild pace.

you swirl your tongue around his cock, and suck in your cheeks as much as you can. he goes a bit deeper, and you gag, tears pricking your eyes. he moans shamelessly, his movements a bit lazier now.

he pulls out again, and you gasp for breath. a string of saliva connects your lips to his tip. he slaps his cock on your lip, enjoying the wet feeling and sound. it sends a shiver of pleasure to your core as well, which is now soaking.

your panties stick to your core like a second skin. you're afraid that your arousal would drip down your leg. your cunt clenches around nothing and your hard nipples graze against your shirt. the thought of him fucking you fills you with ecstasy.

with your newfound enthusiasm, you move forward, taking his tip between your lips. you maintain eye contact as you do so. you bob your head up and down, gagging at times as you do so. your nails graze the back of his thighs in a pleasurable manner.

“oh god,” he stops your movements, taking a deep breath to compose himself. his abs strain and a few veins pop up at his neck.

“just—just tap my thighs thrice if it's too much, ok?” you blink and nod at him. you relax your jaw and wait for him.

even though you prepare yourself, it still takes you by surprise. he pushes his cock inside in one go and holds your head. you gag and choke, feeling tears stream down your face and drool down your chin.

his hand grips the back of your head, and you feel him twitch in your mouth. your nose brushes against his pelvis and your lips touch the base of his cock.

he feels heavy in your mouth, and you choke on him again, more tears falling from your eyes. he pulls out with ease, and you cough and breathe as much as you can.

you look like an absolute mess right now, a heavenly mess, Joshua thinks. with tears and drool coating your face, your lips swollen, and god, the fucking way you're looking at him.

“think i'm a choking hazard, yet?”

you laugh, but it's cut off when your throat hurts. he giggles and apologizes sheepishly.

“so? should i cum inside your mouth, or?” he teases.

“fuck me, please.”

he curses under his breath, pulling you up to crash his lips against yours. you fall on his bed with him hovering over you. his lips are gentle at first, but the kiss turns deep. his tongue glides over yours, and he kisses you deeply. the ache between your legs grows as you feel his tongue slide over the places his cock was touching a few seconds ago.

his hand wraps around your neck gently, and he squeezes the side occasionally. he pulls away, gasping for air. his chest is pressed to yours, and you feel his heart hammering the way yours does.

his cock grazes against the skin of your thighs, heightening your arousal. “joshua, please fuck me, already.” you whine, nails scratching his back.

“so impatient,” he smiles, kissing your forehead.

he helps remove your shirt and groans at the sight of your hardened nipples. his hands fly to your chest to fondle and squeeze your breasts. he rolls the bud between his fingers and flicks them gently.

he glides his hand down your waist till he finds the hem of your shorts and pulls it down. you relax on his bed with a sigh. it feels so erotic to spread your legs in front of someone you deem a good friend. not to mention that you were choking on said friend's cock a few minutes ago.

you don't miss the smirk that plays on his lips as he observes your stained panties. and it makes you shy, causing you to close your legs, but he stops you. his hands resting on your inner thigh to spread your legs out.

he slowly removes the only clothing left on your body. the arousal sticks to your panty as he peels it off you. he tosses the cloth away and massages your inner thighs, slowly working up his way to your folds.

his fingers prod between your folds, rubbing them up and down and feeling the wetness of your soaking cunt. his thumb brushes your clit, and you fold your legs, bringing them closer to your chest.

he circles your clit, sending waves of pleasure through your body. he leans down to kiss your cunt, and lick the arousal dripping down it.

“not now,” you push his head away, way too eager to take his cock. he kisses your folds before finally pulling away. he looks up at you, smiling softly, but you don’t miss the mischief swirling in his eyes. he kisses your lips again, hands wandering down your body. 

his cock presses on your thighs, and you whimper, almost begging for him. “we don’t have condoms, though. is that fine?”

“yes, i’m on pills.” you say in a nasal tone, your own hands discovering his body. 

“and as long as you don’t have any virus, i’m fine.” you finish, looking at him dead in the eye. he scoffs, rolling his eyes. “i kiss, ok? i don’t get dirty as often.” 

“if you say so,” you sing, pulling him closer and pressing your chest to his. 

“fuck.” he whispers, slotting his lips on yours.  

he breaks the kiss and rubs your thighs. he adores you with his eyes before moving away to align himself to your entrance. he rubs his tip on your folds, and you gasp. “this is gonna hurt a bit,”

and god does it fucking hurt. you have seen guys with his length before, but the girth takes your breath away. you moan with a moan to your eyes and curl to your toes. joshua rubs your nub to distract you from the pain. his other hand strokes your thigh and stomach gently. 

when you seem accommodated enough, he pushes in further. and he does so till he’s deep inside you. it takes everything in him not to push it in one go. the wet warmth of your walls makes him lose his mind, and your clenching doesn’t help either. 

he takes a firm hold of your hips and presses his hand flat on your tummy. he feels his cock through you, and it makes him moan with a bite to his lips. he rests his hand on either side of your head. “wrap your legs around me,” you quickly obey. 

who knew you’d become such a mindless slut for Joshua’s cock? and who could even blame you? his cock stretches your walls with a delicious pain. and you can’t help but clench around him, sucking him in further and further. your hole flutters around his cock, and you’re more than pleased to see the effect you have on him. 

you play with your nipples as he prepares to pull away. he looks at your hands before slapping them away, “tch, bad girl.” 

he pulls out, except for his tip, and you immediately feel empty. he guides his cock inside you again, and you moan when he stretches you out again. he sighs before pulling out again. this time, he snaps his hips to yours in a quick motion. 

he pauses to observe your reaction. “fuck!” you yell, your abdomen fluttering with the deep breaths you take. he takes it as a sign to continue. he snaps his hips again with a vigor he hasn’t shown previously. his moans sync with yours as he continues to thrust in and out of your cunt.

your hands fly to wrap around his strong shoulders as the bed beneath you trembles with his thrusts. his cock drives into your cunt, filling you to the brim. but he’s careful to not hurt you, ending up using only half of his length. 

he undoes your legs around him and shifts to stand on the floor. he pulls you with him, and you yelp. “shh, don’t want them to find out what we’re doing, do you?” he places his forefinger on your lips and caresses your cheek. 

“don’t care,” you whisper, and it takes him by surprise. the change in your behavior fuels him to only fuck you harder. he grips your hips, using them to maneuver your movements. he eases in, filling you entirely, and pulls out, only to slam his cock back in. 

“fuck, see that?” he asks, interrupting your moans and whines. you lift your head, looking at his cock stretch you out. but that’s not what he’s talking about. he slams back in, and you see a bulge in your stomach. you gasp, your walls fluttering at the sight of the bulge. 

joshua fucks you harder, focusing his eyes on the bulge, and your clenching drives him over the edge. he looks up to find you focusing on the bulge as well. one of his hands finds your face, squeezing your cheeks together. 

he leans in, kissing your puckered lips harshly. his thrust only turns rougher with each passing second. the sound of skin slapping, your whimpers mixed in with his moans, and the distinct creak of the bed serve as a drug for Joshua. he picks you up, and you wrap your arms and legs around him in instinct.

you cling to him as he fucks you in the air. you don’t even have time to be impressed by his strength because his cock occupies every space in your mind. his cock screws into your cunt, harder and harder each time. you whine, nails digging into his shoulders. 

his thrusts turn erratic, hips stuttering desperately to meet yours. he gasps, and his cock twitches with the need to release. fuck, he needs to come inside you. the mere idea of it drives him to fuck you with more strength. 

your moans get louder, surely to catch the attention of bypassers outside the cabin. his gasps and moans make you look at him. his head is thrown back, and he fucks you mindlessly. his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows, and you’re overcome with the need to mark it. a sheen of sweat coats his body, and the light shimmers off it, making him look heavenly. 

he pulls you closer, pressing his chest to yours. he shifts one of his hands to hold your weight, grabbing your ass, and the other wraps around your upper back. you grind your hips, chasing some friction. he groans, tongue darting out to meet yours. 

you eagerly welcome his tongue, tilting your head to kiss him deeply. your moans are swallowed by him, and both his hands now grip your ass. he kneads them in his hands, fucking you faster each time you clench around him. 

“fuck! fuck!” he curses, hips stuttering to meet yours. your toes curl, and you scratch his back, biting his shoulder to quiet down your screams. you clench around him one last time and climax on his cock. 

with a final thrust, he succumbs to his pleasure, releasing his load inside of you. you moan in unison, and he rushes to place you on the bed. he falls on top of you, cock still planted deep inside your cunt. he twitches, releasing the last of his load inside of you. 

he doesn’t pull out, opting to stay inside you as he rests his forehead on yours. your legs tremble, and you take frequent breaths to calm down from the high.

“believe me, now?” your eyes are closed, but you can feel his smirk. you kiss him to shut him up, not wanting to hear his bragging.

with a kiss on your forehead, he pulls out. you hiss, your cunt feels empty, and you almost whine for him to put it back in. he falls to your side on the bed. you both lay breathless and stare up at the ceiling.

your legs and your core feel sore. a sigh leaves your lips, knowing you can't walk tomorrow without looking like a duckling.

“i'm calling in sick, tomorrow.” you inform your—what is he to you now, anyway?

his hand caresses your legs and sides as he cuddles up next to you. you snuggle into his warmth, slumber filling your veins.

“that bad?” you're too tired to retort his teasing.

“yeah. turns out your cock isn't just a choking hazard, it's also a health hazard.”

his laughter echoes through the walls of your cabin, and he hugs you tighter. you fall asleep with a smile on your face.

tags; @seungkwanschicken @aaa-sia @dokyeomkyeom @bangantokchy

@asyre @armycarat2612 @bewoyewo @gyuguys @embrace-themagic

@aaniag @nurihihi (send an ask to be on the taglist!)

[stargirlygirl]

Lads walkingvin on mc pleasuring themselves with sex toys they didn't know she had

star girl's initial words: thank you so much for requesting! hope you like this one. i've seen writers do this prompt before, so my apologies if i have nothing new to add. ALSO there's no raf as our relationship is tricky😔

they catch you during solo time

⭑.ᐟ caleb

i imagine you're sprawled out on your shared bed and caleb's been working a lot recently. when the colonel comes home, his sharp ears instantly pick up on your quiet gasps and moans.

he's in stealth mode as he creeps down the hallway and peers at you through the ajar bedroom door. pathetic. were you so needy you couldn't even close it? he thinks. but those thoughts fade as soon as he sets those tired sunset eyes on you.

oh, you naughty girl.

your lip is drawn between your teeth as you pump a pretty pink dildo in and out of your pussy. your slick glistens in the late afternoon light, covering your inner thighs and the lucky sex toy between them.

caleb groans low, palming his growing bulge through his too-tight trousers. he watches your back arch and hand stutter, burying the dildo deep in your cunt. the sweetest whimpers cascade from your lips, caleb's name slipping out amongst them.

he's already storming into the room before he can stop himself.

the colonel grabs your hand and wrenches it off the dildo. your eyes snap wide open, and your chest heaves.

"caleb!" you exclaim, trying to sit up, but you're still full of the toy. his other gloved hand presses the centre of your chest down, effectively pinning you to the mattress.

"what's this, pips?" letting go of your hand, he grips the base of the dildo and draws it out of your snug walls. you let out a soft moan, gnawing on your lower lip once more as you stare up at your partner.

"miss me, huh?" he asks cockily, sliding the dildo back in at an agonisingly slow pace. you nod energetically. his hand on your chest trails up, his leather-coated fingers tangling in your hair. he pushes your head up while kneeling on the bed, your foreheads touching while he fucks you with the toy.

he breathes out, "i missed you, too, honey. but this isn't fair. you can't do this without me." you whine as he pulls the drenched dildo out in one go. your arousal drips onto the bed.

caleb frowns. the dildo doesn't look anything like his cock. it's thinner and longer.

he asks, jealousy tinging his voice, "am i not good enough?"

"no!" you blurt out, reaching for the dildo, but he tosses it over his shoulder like a piece of trash.

"caleb!" you whine. but you don't have time to scold him before your massive boyfriend is climbing on top of you. shoes on the bed and everything, he cages you in.

"don't i make you feel good? are you bored of me?" he interrogates you, his eyes betraying his hurt. they look glassy in the sun's final rays.

you shake your head panically and insist, "no! that's not it, baby. i've-i've had this one for ages, i swear! n' i love how you make me feel. always make me feel so good, babe."

closing the distance between you, caleb catches your lips in a fiery kiss. he kisses you like he's trying to devour you and prove a point at the same time— that he can satisfy you in ways no one else can. especially wayyyyy more than some fuck ass dildo that doesn't even deserve to go near your sacred cunt.

all night long, caleb demonstrates just how attentive of a partner he can be. of course, while still in his uniform.

⭑.ᐟ xavier

you recently bought this new sex toy that you've been dying to try out. with xavier crashed out on the couch, you turn off the movie you two were watching and sneak off to your bedroom.

pulling the rabbit vibrator out of the box, you check the instructions and make sure everything is in working order before turning it on. it's low buzz echoes throughout the room, making heat pool in your tummy. stripping off your shorts and panties, you flop on the bed and start teasing yourself with the vibrator.

it's only been a few minutes of having the long part nestled deep in your cunt when the bedroom door softly creaks open.

in peers a sleeply xavier, one slender hand rubbing his eyes while he murmurs, "i heard a buzzing, love. is everything okay—" your eyes lock, and you frantically pull the vibrator out and turn it off.

"xavier!" you squeal grabbing the covers the hiking them up over your body. your poor boyfriend, he just stands here, wide-eyed in the doorway.

you grumble from beneath the quilt, "babe! go away!" it's quiet for another minute or so before you feel the space next to you sink with xavier's weight. you clutch the covers for dear life, but he pries them away from your hands.

your face is flushed as you stare up at your partner. his big eyes rest on you, his lips slightly pouty.

he says softly, "you could have told me you wanted my attention."

you shake your head and admit, "i wanted to try out my new toy, babe."

"oh," he mumbles, glancing away momentarily. feeling guilty, you place your hand on his bent thigh and squeeze it.

"xav," you call quietly. the only sound that can be heard is the rain pattering against the windows.

he gazes back down at you and offers, "why don't we try it out together?" sitting up, you fish around for the toy beneath the quilt.

"you sure you don't mind?" you ask, your hand closing around the handle. he hums in agreement as you pull it out.

grinning, you inform him, "it's a bunny, like you." he stares at the sex toy quizzically.

"what?" he asks. you laugh as you kick the covers off and shuffle over to him. he takes the toy from you while you spin around and sit on his lap, your back against his chest. grabbing his wrist, you bring the vibrator down to your pussy.

"let me show you how it works..."

⭑.ᐟ sylus

the crime overlord shows up at your linkon apartment unannounced, only to find you moaning his name with a bullet vibrator on your clit. your eyes are closed, head thrown back as the constant buzz takes you to a higher dimension.

sylus chuckles cockily, "what a warm welcome kitten." your eyes shoot open and immediately find your partner taking a seat at the end of your bed. you remove the vibrator from your clit and fumble to turn it off.

his deep voice interrupts your efforts, "please, sweetie. go on. pretend i'm not even here." you're too pleasure-drunk to come up with a witty remark to hopefully wipe that stupid smirk off his face. so you just lie back, eyeing him cautiously as you flick your vibrator back on and pick the sole setting every girl needs.

"you sure?" you ask breathily, spreading your legs wide for your boyfriend. he nods, still grinning arrogantly. you run the small vibrator through your folds, wetting it thoroughly before pressing the tip on your clit. a moan tears through your throat, jagged as your free hand cups your breast beneath your tank top.

sylus observes the slight tremble in your legs and how your back arches as you alternate between pinching your nipples. the vibrator never falters; it provides the kind of consistency men often struggle to.

nonetheless, you miss your partner's strong, rough hands on you. you miss those thick fingers curling up into your g-spot, and his hot mouth sucking on your sensitive bud.

"sy," you whimper, removing the vibrator from your pussy and switching it off.

"something wrong, kitten?" he teases, but you notice the strain in his voice.

sitting upright, you pout at him, "please, baby. 's no fun without you." he chuckles richly before standing up and making his way over to you. his black leather pants can't conceal his hardening length, that's for sure.

leaning down, you hold his cheeks and draw him into a loving kiss. you two haven't seen each other for days.

drawing back, you pant, "missed you, sy. need you." you cling to his leather jacket and pull him down onto the bed. his large frame engulfs yours as your lips and tongues dance the line between love and lust.

"please," you mewl into his mouth. separating, spit connects your swollen lips.

your boyfriend chuckles, "what do you need from me, sweetie?" the glittering ropes snap as you draw in a sharp breath, your eyes hungrily gazing at his lips.

"need all of you, sy. in me, till sunrise," you whine. he hums low, the sound caught in his throat. coming in close, he captures your lips in another heated kiss and vows to fulfil your every desire.

⭑.ᐟ zayne

pleasure shoots through your body, the clitoral suction vibrator doing everything and more to your swollen nub. you're unable to stifle your moans as the bedroom door is quietly pushed open.

zayne's head peaks in, his sleep-deprived hazels wandering over you. he gulps, his gaze narrowing in on the toy in your hand. heat flares in his lower tummy, your broken whimpers fuelling the blood rushing to his cock.

unintentionally, your boyfriend swings the door wide open. the hinges squeak, and so do you as you notice him standing there.

"zayne!" he strides in, seeming as calm and collected as ever while his eyes shift to the vanity.

"sorry, my love. i didn't mean to disturb you," he murmurs, undoing his beige waistcoat. reaching the wardrobe, zayne's back is to you as he starts undressing.

hearing the buzz stop, he urges you on, "please, keep going. i'll only take a minute." the sheets rustle and soon enough, your warm, bare body presses into your lover's from behind. your arms encircle his hips, fingers toying with his belt buckle.

"zaynie," you coo. he turns in your grasp and cups your cheeks, his white shirt half-unbuttoned.

you grin sweetly, "i missed you. will you please come to bed?" zayne's cool thumb strokes your cheekbone soothingly as he thinks over your proposal.

he clarifies, "don't you want some alone time, dear?" you shake your head while keeping your eyes on his.

"i want you," you respond breathily. standing on your tippy-toes, you pull your boyfriend into a hungry kiss. pushing your body flush against his, you giggle into his mouth at the hardness poking into your stomach.

breaking the kiss, you ask smugly, "how long were you watching me?"

pink dusts zayne's cheeks as he rasps out, "not very long."

"and you're already this worked up?" you tease. your lover sighs, but a small smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

"i'm afraid you have that kind of effect on me, darling," he admits. chortling softly, you draw him into another tender kiss— one of many tonight.

masterlist

star girl's final words: random lore drop for today is that i love the sound of music, and sylus's line is inspired by/adapted from gayorg's when he finds maria sitting alone at night (just before something good).

[heyimkana]

SO- uh kingdom and empires type of thing- Sacrificial bride reader with emperor jin-woo. To stop the wrath of the emperor on the small kingdom, the king gives his daughter (reader) to emperor as a sacrifice.

everyone things jin-woo is a cruel emperor and many rumors are going all around the world of his cruelty, so reader is sacred to the bone when she is before jin-woo. (He's just antisocial so he doesn't want to correct the rumors just like how rumors of him spread after jeju raid)

Jin-woo being SUCH A SWEETHEART and giving reader time and space even after their wedding. (He fell for reader) So whenever reader tries to get close or do any action to make their relationship more comfortable, jin-woo internally goes over the moon. (He's smithen for reader and I'm all for it)

OMGOMGOMG EMPEROR!JINWOO 😩 okay so I know you want to see some cute fluffy lovey-dovey scene and we'll get there trust me, but hear me out okay what if it started out like this:

WC: 1.1 K | Warnings: Murder, slight gore

With his long, silky smooth raven hair cascading past his shoulders, and his fringe falling over his eyes like a curtain, Emperor Sung Jinwoo is a sight to behold. His features are sharp and breathtakingly handsome, his body, sculpted by the Gods, swathed by black robe from shoulders to toe. He towers above others with his intimidating height, his gleaming purple eyes bestowing fear upon those who dare to stare back into them.

The emperor carries a dangerous air around him wherever he goes, his hair often tied in a high ponytail with two sheathed daggers resting on each side of his hip. He charges first during battles, despite being the most vital piece in the kingdom. Fearless and undefeated, his name echoes throughout the realms. Every victory he's brought home was all because of his strength. Every peace he'd attained was all because of the blood he'd shed. Death follows everywhere he walks, the soil drenched crimson beneath his feet.

Cold and distant, the young lord is very efficient with his words, which often leads to people misjudging his character. Some people perceive him as arrogant. Most people see him as cruel and merciless with the way he treats his prisoners, but no one knows that behind the gates of his palace, he's a gentleman who holds his family dearly, who seeks blood only to create a world where his young sister could walk freely without men leering at her from the shadows. He takes care of his dying mother so earnestly with the tenderness that rivaled her own, his touch so delicate as he washes her hair every morning, despite having his hands constantly soaked in his enemies' blood.

Jinwoo defeats and conquers other kingdoms, killing their leaders in cold blood in front of everyone to see. They don't know that behind the scenes, their king and his subordinates are nothing but a bunch of corrupted men who took advantage of their own people. They thought the emperor brought chaos to their land, but his knights knew the truth. It was justice.

Emperor Jinwoo doesn't do forgiveness. If there's a man who murders or steals on his watch, then they'll be executed on the spot. No trial, no second chances, nothing. He holds honesty, virtue, and loyalty above everything else. And tonight, in this small kingdom he steps inside, he finds none, and so, the old town is littered with corpses of those who dared to dishonor a lady or betrayed their own kin.

The King of this kingdom, who offers his daughter for Jinwoo to take in exchange for sparing his own life, makes his blood boil the most. How could a father, whose duty was to protect his family, be so willing to give up on his only child, just to live for another day?

"I'll take your daughter," Jinwoo says in response, his gaze falling on the maiden's face. She's gorgeous, the most beautiful woman he's ever seen, but that's just it. She can offer him nothing but her beauty and a woman's charm would never be enough to reignite the fire within him, to restore the piece of humanity that has grown thinner and thinner with every throat he slit with his dagger.

The maiden, of course, shows repulsed hatred toward him. For all she knows, Jinwoo is an invader, barging into her land one night and slaughtering every warrior in sight. But as a princess, she has a role to fulfill and one of those is to bring peace to her kingdom no matter what the cost. And if her purity and her womanhood could win the heart of the new dictator to bestow mercy upon them, then so be it.

She walks forward and stands before the young emperor who brazenly sits on her father's throne with his dark robe smeared with her knights' blood. Some of the scarlet has stained his fair cheek, but even then, he still appears divine in some ways. The princess takes a moment to stare Jinwoo right in the eyes, unfazed by his overwhelming aura. She makes sure he understands that despite being nothing but a gift for his hand to seize, she deserves every ounce of respect he could show her.

Jinwoo arches his brow at the challenge but then he finds himself smiling. He rises to his feet, practicing his courtesy. "Forgive me, Princess," he greets with a bow of his head, his voice rumbling low and deep as he introduces his name. It brings shivers down her spine in all the most exciting ways though she'd rather be beheaded than admit it aloud.

Only then does she perform her bow. Blazing fire resides in her eyes still, a sign that she won't be so easy to tame, but for the first time in his life, Jinwoo feels... thrilled. Because of what, he's not sure yet. But he figures he'll find out soon enough.

He asks for her name and she gives it to him through gritted teeth.

"Do you love your father, Princess?"

She's taken aback by the question. Out of all the things he could've asked her... "Yes, my lord," she answers, a second too late than she's supposed to.

Jinwoo's eyes linger on the faint bruise blooming on her skin. It circles her neck like a pair of hands crushing her windpipes. His eyes glow as his voice turns a pitch lower. "Even after what he's done to you?"

She swallows. She's steeled herself for this, but the terror coming solely from his gaze still creeps into her skin. "Yes."

His lips curve up again at her answer, and she ponders, how could a demon like him, smile so angelically?

Jinwoo then leans in close, his lips a breath away from her ear. "I hope you're a better fighter than you are a liar," he whispers.

There's a mix of confusion in her glare, but the emperor no longer pays attention to her. "Close your eyes, Princess," is the last thing he speaks before he addresses her father, who stands nervously before the audience. She does as she's told as it is her duty now to do whatever he commands her to do.

Seeing the emperor accepting his gift, a wicked, victorious grin emerges on the King's lips but that's the only thing he manages to do before his head rolls to the ground. Startled gasps and horrified shrieks ring throughout the hall but before the princess can open her eyes to witness the headless corpse falling to the ground, Jinwoo embraces her from behind. His fingers gently cover her eyes, letting her stay in the darkness, hoping it will comfort her the way it always comforts him.

"You're with me now, Princess," he murmurs in her ear, and it rattles her bones. "I'll take care of you."

It's a promise and a blessing, but for a woman who has lost all her kingdom, her dignity, and her entire family in one night, it feels like a curse.

"What are you going to do to me?" she asks with a shuddering breath, to which he says—

[andy-15-07]

An heir of Rome

PAIRING: Lucius Verus Aurelius x f!reader

WORD COUNT: 1485

Paul Mescal Masterlist

The grand marble halls of the Palatine Hill glowed golden under the setting Roman sun. Empress Y/N gazed out over the sprawling Forum, her silk stola cascading around her like water, the fine fabric embroidered with golden laurels befitting her station. A servant entered quietly, bowing low.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” the servant said softly, head bowed, “the Emperor awaits you in the gardens.”

Y/N smiled faintly, already knowing what this would mean. Lucius Verus Aurelius, her husband and the newly crowned ruler of the Roman Empire, often found peace among the blooming flora of their private sanctuary, far removed from the relentless politics of the Senate and the demands of the people. She dismissed the servant with a wave and made her way to him.

She found Lucius standing beneath an olive tree, his golden-brown curls illuminated by the dying light of day. He wore his imperial toga loosely, the purple of royalty draped casually over his powerful shoulders. He turned at the sound of her footsteps, his face breaking into a rare, unguarded smile reserved only for her.

“Y/N,” he said warmly, closing the distance between them. His hands found hers, calloused from years of training with the sword, yet gentle as they enveloped her smaller ones. “You’ve been hiding from me today.”

“I’ve been thoughtful,” she replied, her tone teasing but her gaze searching his. “Your Senate meetings are as tedious for me to hear about as they are for you to attend.”

Lucius chuckled, the sound deep and rich. “You’ve no idea. If I could abandon them all and spend my days here with you, I would.”

“You’d miss the thrill of the arena,” she countered, raising a brow. “And the glory of Rome.”

His expression softened. “Rome is nothing without you by my side, Y/N. I meant every word I said when we wed. You are my equal in all things.”

Her heart swelled at his words, though a shadow of uncertainty flickered within her. What she had to tell him now would change their lives forever.

“Lucius,” she began, her voice trembling slightly, “there’s something I must tell you.”

His brow furrowed, concern flashing in his amber eyes. “What is it, my love?”

She took his hand and placed it over her abdomen, her voice barely above a whisper. “I am with child.”

For a moment, time seemed to stand still. Lucius stared at her, uncomprehending, before the realization dawned. His eyes widened, and a joyous laugh escaped his lips.

“By the gods!” he exclaimed, lifting her effortlessly into his arms and spinning her around. “An heir! Y/N, you’ve given me the greatest gift of all.”

His exuberance was contagious, and she found herself laughing as well, her worries momentarily forgotten. He set her down gently but kept his hands on her waist, his expression turning serious.

“Are you well? Have you seen the physicians? You must take no risks. Tell me what you need, and it shall be done.”

“I am well,” she assured him, touched by his concern. “And I have already consulted with the palace medics. They say all is as it should be.”

He cupped her face in his hands, his gaze fierce and tender. “You must promise me, Y/N. No more long walks in the heat, no late nights with the advisors. I will not have anything threaten you or our child.”

“I promise,” she said softly, placing a hand over his. “But you must promise me something in return.”

“Anything.”

“You will not let the weight of Rome crush you, Lucius. You are a warrior, but even warriors need rest.”

He smiled, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to her forehead. “As long as I have you, I will never falter.”

---

Months passed, and as Y/N’s belly swelled, Lucius grew more protective. He personally oversaw her safety, ensuring no harm could come to her. Their nights were filled with quiet moments of intimacy, his hands resting on her abdomen as they spoke of the future.

Finally, the day arrived. The palace was thrown into a flurry of activity as Y/N went into labor. Lucius refused to leave her side, despite the protests of the midwives.

“Stay with me,” Y/N whispered, her face pale but determined.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he assured her, his voice steady despite the fear gripping his heart.

Hours passed, each moment stretching into eternity. Y/N’s cries of pain tore at Lucius, but he held her hand, whispering words of encouragement and love.

At last, a sharp cry filled the room, and the midwife held up a squirming, red-faced infant.

“It’s a girl,” she announced, her voice reverent.

Lucius stared in awe as the child was placed in Y/N’s arms. Her tiny features were delicate, yet she cried with the force of a storm, filling the room with her presence.

Lucius knelt beside Y/N, tears streaming down his face as he touched the soft cheek of his daughter.

“She’s perfect,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Our daughter. Our future Empress.”

Y/N smiled weakly, her exhaustion evident, but her joy radiant. “She will rule Rome one day, Lucius. And she will do so with strength and wisdom.”

Lucius pressed a kiss to Y/N’s forehead, his heart overflowing. “She will be the greatest ruler Rome has ever known. Just like her mother.”

He held his daughter in his arms, marveling at her tiny fingers curling around his. “You have my heart already, little one,” he murmured. “I will protect you and your mother with my life.”

The room was quiet now, save for the soft cooing of their newborn daughter nestled against Y/N’s chest. The midwives had retreated to give the imperial family a moment of privacy, leaving Lucius, Y/N, and their child surrounded by the glow of flickering oil lamps.

Lucius knelt beside the bed, his fingers brushing against the baby’s cheek in awe. Her tiny features were a perfect blend of them both—Y/N’s delicate nose and soft lips, framed by the faintest wisp of golden-brown hair, like his own.

“She’s so small,” Lucius whispered, his voice filled with reverence. “And yet, she already feels like the strongest part of me.”

Y/N smiled through her exhaustion, cradling the baby close. “She’s already taken your heart, hasn’t she?”

“Completely,” Lucius admitted, his amber eyes gleaming with unshed tears. He leaned forward, his lips brushing the top of his daughter’s head with infinite tenderness. “I’ve never known love like this, Y/N. Not until you, and now her.”

He straightened, his expression shifting to one of solemnity as he looked between his wife and child. “She deserves a name worthy of her destiny. She will not just be our daughter; she will be a symbol of hope for Rome, a future Empress who will rule with wisdom and grace.”

Y/N tilted her head, her tired eyes soft with curiosity. “Have you chosen a name, my love?”

Lucius nodded, a small smile breaking through his seriousness. “Aurelia. For the golden light she brings into our lives and the strength she will carry as our heir. Aurelia Verina.”

“Aurelia,” Y/N repeated, her voice barely above a whisper as she looked down at their daughter. “It’s perfect, Lucius.”

Their daughter stirred in her arms, her tiny fingers curling instinctively around Y/N’s thumb. Lucius watched the interaction with awe before gently taking one of the baby’s hands in his own, marveling at her fragility.

“She will be loved, cherished,” he vowed, his voice steady despite the emotion behind it. “And she will know the strength of her mother’s heart.”

Y/N reached for Lucius’ hand, entwining their fingers as they gazed down at Aurelia together. “And she will know the courage of her father,” Y/N added softly. “With us, she will never lack for love.”

Lucius settled onto the edge of the bed beside Y/N, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. For a moment, the weight of Rome seemed distant, unimportant compared to the warmth of his wife and daughter in his arms.

Aurelia shifted again, letting out a small cry. Y/N chuckled, adjusting the blanket around the baby. “She already has your spirit, Lucius. Fierce and demanding attention.”

Lucius laughed, a deep, genuine sound that filled the room. “If she has your patience, she’ll balance it well. Together, she’ll be unstoppable.”

As the baby quieted, Lucius leaned his head against Y/N’s, his lips brushing her temple. “This is everything I’ve ever dreamed of, Y/N. A family. A future.”

“And Rome will be stronger for it,” Y/N murmured, resting her head against his shoulder.

For the first time in what felt like years, Lucius allowed himself to relax, to be not just Emperor, but a husband and father. As Aurelia drifted into sleep, Y/N leaned into Lucius’ embrace, and the three of them shared a quiet moment of peace, wrapped in love and the promise of tomorrow.

In the stillness, Lucius whispered to his daughter, “Sleep well, Aurelia. You are the light of our lives and the hope of Rome. I will protect you with every breath I have.”

And with that, Lucius tightened his hold on his family, feeling an unshakable sense of purpose. Rome’s future was no longer an abstraction—it was here, in his arms. And he would ensure it would flourish.

[willowsnook]

let me take care of you (CS)

Carlos sainz x driver!reader 

summary: reader gets into a bad crash in the GP and an unlikely rival is the one who insists on looking after her

—--------------------------------------

“Good luck, princesa,” Carlos said with a smirk. “Enjoy my backside for the next two hours.”

You rolled your eyes, jaw tightening as you ignored him. Ever since you had joined F1 from F2, he’d been a pain in your ass. Always there with his teasing comments, playful jabs, and outright refusal to take you seriously. It’s not like you were even off to a bad start – you were sitting sixth in the standings. It was just unfortunate that it was he who was in fifth. 

The lights went out and the roar of the engines drowned out everything else.

You launched off the line cleanly, getting the jump on Norris and holding your position into Turn 1. Carlos had a better start, though—of course he did—and by Lap 5, he was taunting you over team radio after a tight overtake on the outside.

Lap after lap, you were glued to his rear wing. The pit wall was impressed. Your engineer’s voice buzzed in your ear with calm encouragement, but you barely heard it over the pounding of adrenaline in your chest.

Then came Lap 27.

You were chasing Carlos through a fast chicane when your rear right tire clipped the sausage curb—just slightly. But slightly was all it took.

The car snapped left violently.

Your reflexes kicked in, but it was already too late. You spun across the track, the world blurring until—

Bang.

The side of the car slammed into the barriers, and everything went still. Carbon fiber crunched, gravel flew, and the engine sputtered before dying out entirely.

Silence.

Then your shallow, ragged breathing filled your helmet. You blinked, dazed, trying to process what just happened. Pain bloomed in your ribs and shoulder, but nothing felt broken.

“Y/N, are you okay?” your engineer’s voice cracked through, urgent.

You fumbled for the radio button. “Yeah. I’m okay. I’m okay.”

The medical car was already on its way as the marshals waved yellow flags across the sector. You heard Carlos’s voice faintly over the open channel.

As they helped you out of the car, you stumbled, the world going black before you hit the ground. 

—-----------------------------------------------------

Later that night, after finally being discharged from the hospital, you were happy to let the scalding water of the shower rain down on your skin. You looked horrible–bruises blooming all over your torso and arms and you soon had the realization that no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t lift them above your shoulders. 

Frowning, you tried again, desperate to wash your hair, but the pain stopped you every time. The sound of your hotel room door opening snapped you out of your thoughts and you instantly rolled your eyes thinking about your manager coming to check up on you again. 

“I said I was good Marissa–” 

The curtain was yanked back, and there stood not Marissa, but Carlos. He had a crazed look on his face, his hair tousled, and you stood there in shock for a moment as he scanned your injuries. 

Instead of shrinking back, you stood dejected. “I can’t wash my hair.” 

He nodded and took a step back, reaching his hand behind him to pull off his shirt. You turned around as you heard him undress and step into the shower behind you. You let your head fall back in the water and then turned to him. 

His eyes were soft now, none of that usual cockiness present as he gently guided you under the spray. "Lean forward," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the water.

You obeyed without question, too exhausted to fight. His fingers worked carefully through your hair, massaging shampoo into your scalp with a tenderness you'd never experienced from him before. The silence stretched between you, filled only by the sound of water cascading down.

"You scared the shit out of me today," he said quietly, his hands never pausing in their gentle ministrations.

"Did I?" The words came out smaller than you intended.

"Sí." His thumb traced along your shoulder blade, avoiding the worst of the bruising. "When you didn't get out of the car right away..."

You turned to face him then, water streaming down both your faces. Up close like this, you could see that he was trembling and you tried your best to ignore it. 

“Conditioner,” you interrupted. “That’s next.”

He nodded, reaching to grab it before detangling your hair. Next was body wash, and involved him carefully maneuvering the dark spots on your skin. 

“Can you get out?” He asked after turning off the water. You nodded but didn’t move right away, and next thing you knew, Carlos was wrapping a towel around you and lifting you out of the shower. “Do you want me to dry your hair?”

You giggled at that and a relieved smile broke out on his face. “I knew you cared about your hair too much.” 

“I have sisters, carino,” he argued back. 

He helped you into your pajamas with clinical efficiency, his eyes respectfully averted whenever possible. The domesticity of it all felt surreal—this man who had been your rival, your tormentor on track, now carefully guiding your arm through a sleeve as if you might break.

Once you were settled on the edge of the bed, he grabbed the hairdryer from the bathroom. His fingers worked through your damp strands with surprising skill, the warm air enveloping you both in a cocoon of white noise.

"Why are you here, Carlos?" you finally asked as he gently patted your hair dry.

He paused, hands stilling against your scalp. "I tried to see you at the medical center, but they wouldn't let me in. Then I heard they'd taken you to the hospital..." His voice trailed off. "I waited outside for three hours."

"Three hours?" You turned to look at him, wincing at the movement.

"Sí. I missed all the post-race interviews. My PR manager is furious." He shrugged, resuming his gentle ministrations. "Worth it."

“But you don’t even like me,” you said with a frown and his movements stilled.

“Is that what you think?” 

“How could I not?” You said with a dry laugh. “All you do is antagonize me.” 

Carlos set the hairdryer aside and moved to sit beside you on the bed, careful not to jostle you. His dark eyes searched your face, and for the first time since you'd known him, he looked uncertain.

"Dios mío," he breathed, running a hand through his still-damp hair. "You really don't see it, do you?"

"See what?"

"That I've been trying to get your attention for months." His laugh was hollow, self-deprecating. "The teasing, the comments—I thought you knew. I thought you were playing along."

You stared at him, processing his words. "You have a funny way of showing interest."

"I know." He dropped his head into his hands. "I'm an idiot. But you're so... untouchable. So focused. So fucking good at what you do that it terrifies me." He looked up at you, and finally, you could see it. 

Before you could answer, a yawn slipped out of your mouth and his expression softened. “We can talk about this tomorrow, rest now.” 

While you settled into bed, you expected to see him grabbing his clothes to head out but instead he pulled the covers back and climbed in next to you. 

“What are you doing?” You stuttered out. 

"Making sure you're okay," he said simply, adjusting the pillow behind his head. "What if you need help in the night? What if your pain gets worse?"

"Carlos, I'm fine—"

"You couldn't lift your arms two hours ago." His voice was firm but gentle. "And you passed out at the track. Humor me, princesa."

The nickname didn't sting like it usually did. Instead, it sent warmth spreading through your chest as you settled back against the pillows. The bed was large enough that there was space between you, but you could still feel the heat radiating from his body.

"This is weird," you murmured into the darkness after he'd turned off the lights.

"Sí, it is." You could hear the smile in his voice. "But good weird or bad weird?"

You considered this, listening to his steady breathing beside you. "Jury's still out.” 

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

Jacaerys returns to Dragonstone after spending some time in Winterfell. He comes back looking differently…and has learned some new things 😏👅🐱

Request: 9 for Jacee ‘’Where have you learned to do that?’’

Warnings: 18+, smut, oral (f receiving), slight fingering, assumption of cheating

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

Months have gone by since the prince Jacaerys left for Winterfell to gain House Stark and the North for the cause of his mother, Queen Rhaenyra. His visit should have been a short one, but Cregan Stark insisted he spent more time in the North. According to his letter, Lord Stark had taken a liking to him and wanted Jacaerys to get a true experience of the North. He said that getting closer to the northmen would help gain their support. 

Life on Dragonstone was lonely without him. A part of yourself was missing. 

You spent time with Baela and Rhaena, helped Lucerys get more confident with his dragon, played with Joffrey when no one would. You were in the early stages of a civil war, the adults didn’t have much time for the young boy. The Queen was grateful for your help. 

A few days ago, after you got back from riding your dragon, a raven came from Winterfell — a new message from Jacaerys saying he should be expected to return in the late afternoon. 

Excitement bubbled in your stomach. 

Rushing to your chamber, you didn't want to greet him smelling of dragon. You shed your riding clothes as a handmaid helped you fill your tub with hot water. She added rose oil to make your skin soft and you made sure to scrub extra hard with the brush. You wanted to look nice for Jacaerys. 

After bathing, you put on a clean dress and asked Baela for help with your hair. She was the best at braiding. 

‘’Do you think he missed me while he was away?’’ 

Behind you, Baela chuckled as she twisted your braids and pinned them. ‘’I wouldn't doubt it, Lady Y/N.’’ 

Hearing a dragon's roar, you jumped and went to your window. The air was gloomy, making it difficult to see through the horizon. You bit your lip, searching for an olive green shape. Although he was a small dragon, Vermax’s red wings were easy to discern in the skies.

You glanced over your shoulder to Baela. ‘’They’re here.’’ 

She finished your hair, ensuring every strand fell perfectly in place, and you descended the stairs with Baela on your tracks. 

As you reached the great hall, you saw the Queen and her children standing near the painted table, accompanied by a hubbub of voices. Lucerys talked animatedly about sword practice while a very excited Joffrey was jumping on his feet, excited to see his big brother. Rhaenyra told them to quiet down and give Jacaerys some air, which made you laugh. 

The sound caught their attention, and Jacaerys' eyes shifted to you. 

He had grown since he left — his shoulders broader, his stature more commanding. His once pin-straight hair now cascaded in soft curls that framed his face perfectly. He looked nothing like a Targaryen anymore. 

‘’Jace,’’ you whispered, a smile lighting up your face as you approached him.

For supper, a small feast was held in his honor. Daemon and Rhaena joined you for the meal, raising their cup to Jacaerys’ return. 

When the hour started to get late, you and Jacaerys retired to your chamber. Half-way there up the stairs, he pulled you into a corner of the staircase and kissed you the way he had been dying to since he got back. You pulled a moan out of him when your teeth glided against his bottom lip, and circled your arms around his neck as his hands were gripping your hips with a strength that was new. 

A voice came from the staircase below — probably one of the servants —, prying the two of you apart. You giggled against Jacaerys' shoulder. 

Once you reached the privacy of your chamber, Jacaerys shut the door and drew you to him again as he kissed along your jaw and down your neck. You moaned under the touch of his mouth, melting against him as your fingers worked on each other’s clothes, pulling at the laces and buckles until they fell off your bodies and onto the floor.

You tried to not step on your dress as you walked back to the bed, then let your shift slip down your shoulders and pool at your feet, leaving you fully naked. 

‘’Gods.’’ 

You blushed as Jacaerys followed down your neck to between your legs, taking his time to admire your body. You had never felt truly desired before him. Only objectified — as were all women in Westeros.  

‘’Do you like what you see, my Prince?’’ you asked, his eyes finding their way back to yours. 

Jacaerys didn’t respond. All he did was gently push you down into the bed. 

You expected him to get on the bed too, but to your surprise, he kneeled at the end of it and pulled you close to the edge. A frown drew between your eyebrows as you looked down. You opened your mouth to ask what he was doing on the floor, but the words got caught in your throat as Jacaerys kissed the inside of your thighs. 

It was something new, but not disagreeable.  

Then, he pushed your thighs further apart and pressed the sweetest kiss right over your slit, causing you to squirm. 

‘’Jace, what are you—’’

Your question died on your tongue as he peaked out and flicked your clit, sending a jolting sensation up your core. Jacaerys didn't stop there — he was far from finished with you. He laid his tongue flat and licked a fat strip up your entrance to your clit, stirring a gasp from your lips. 

Your reaction made him smile, encouraging him to pursue. He took a second lick of your cunt, then captured your clit between his lips to suckle at. You let out a mewl of pleasure, your hand traveling down your body to clutch at Jacaerys's soft hair. He alternated between sucking and licking at you, the room filling with obscene noises as your legs tightened on each side of his face, caging him. 

Releasing your clit, Jacaerys slid his tongue between your folds, tasting your arousal on his tongue. You've had his fingers inside you, but never his tongue. Arching your back, you pushed against his face, asking for more. And Jacaerys was happy to give it to you, adding a finger to the mix and pushing deeper inside you.

With your free hand, you clutched the sheets, biting your lips and holding back the moans that wanted to slip out. Had Lucerys’s bedchamber not been so close to yours, you would not have held them back. But y0u didn’t wish to scar his young ears. The poor boy would not be able to look you in the eyes again. 

Jacaerys withdrew his tongue and added a second finger, moving the former back to your clit and making a slobbering mess all over you. 

The rush of pleasure filling your body intensified and you rolled your hips into his face with abandon as your orgasm snapped. Your husband’s name left your lips in a delicate whimper, throwing your head back as he lapped at you, taking everything you were giving him. 

Easing your hands off his hair, you slowed your hips down. 

Jacaerys took the cue and left your pussy alone. 

‘’Where did you learn that?’’ you asked, looking down between your legs as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 

He rose to his feet and fell back on the bed with you. ‘’The North.’’ 

Your heart sank, and a knot formed in your stomach. Thoughts raced through your mind, thinking he had bedded another woman. You would have never thought that he would commit infidelity.

Seeing the concern etched across your face, Jacaerys reached out to gently cup your cheek, his touch warm and reassuring. ‘’No,’’ he said softly, his eyes searching yours for understanding. ‘’Not…’’ He shook his head. ‘’Never.’’ 

His words washed over you like a wave of relief.

‘’Northmen, when they get drunk, they talk a lot. About their hunts, about their horses, about the things they do to their women in bed. I didn’t know women could be kissed there, but I wanted to try it. Did you…did you enjoy it?’’ 

A smile curled on your lips as you looked at him. His physique may have changed while he was in the North, but inside, he was the same nervous boy you wed in the spring. 

You nodded slowly. ‘’Can you do it again?’’

—

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[gmikaelson]

My Lady | K.M

["Come on, darling," he coaxed, ignoring Klaus entirely. "Wouldn't you rather have some fun company? Nik here is such a brooding bore when he travels. All 'look at this building I destroyed in 1492' and 'here's where I disemboweled a rival in the 17th century.'"]

Contains Smut (jump to the next asterisk if you'd like to skip)

Masterlist

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"Klaus!" you whined, arm flung across your forehead in theatrical distress. "I'm literally dying!"

Klaus strolled into the courtyard, finding you dramatically sprawled upside down on a chaise lounge, your hair cascading toward the floor, and your face flushed from the oppressive New Orleans summer heat. The courtyard offered little relief from the humidity that hung in the air like a wet blanket.

His lips quirked upward at the sight of you. Even in your disheveled state, or perhaps especially because of it, you were captivating. Your eyes found his as he approached, and you pointed accusingly at him.

"How are you wearing a Henley right now? It's like a thousand degrees!" You gesture wildly at his typical dark clothing, which showed no signs of being affected by the heat.

Klaus chuckled, crouching beside the chaise to be at eye level with your upside-down face, his amusement evident in his eyes.

"One of the perks of being the most powerful creature on earth, love," he teased, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your flushed cheek. "The weather doesn't bother me."

You groaned, rolling your eyes dramatically.

"Show off," you muttered. "I'm melting, and you're just...comfortable. It's not fair."

Klaus tilted his head, studying you with predatory interest that had nothing to do with blood and everything to do with how your thin summer dress clung to your curves, damp with perspiration.

"I could always turn you," he suggested silkily, though he knew your answer. It was a conversation you'd had many times. "Then you'd never have to suffer through another heatwave."

You shot him a look, somehow managing to appear formidable despite your ridiculous position.

"Nice try. I'd rather melt than become a vampire," you retorted stubbornly. "Now be useful and fan me or something."

Klaus laughed outright at your demanding tone, a sound few in New Orleans ever heard from the feared hybrid.

"Always so demanding," he mused, standing up and moving to sit at the end of the chaise. "I've killed men for less, you know."

Despite his words, he lifted your legs and settled them across his lap, his supernaturally cool hands providing immediate relief against your overheated skin.

"Mmm, that helps," you sighed, some of the tension leaving your body. "Maybe you are good for something after all."

Klaus scoffed, his eyebrows shooting up in an exaggerated expression of offense as he placed a hand over his heart.

"Good for something?" he repeated, his British accent more pronounced in his mock outrage. "I'm wounded, love. Truly devastated."

Despite his theatrical affront, his cool fingers continued to trace patterns on your calves, providing relief from the oppressive heat. His blue-green eyes glittered with amusement.

"Here I am, a thousand-year-old Original hybrid, feared across continents, and I've been reduced to a personal cooling system for a stubborn human." He shook his head in feigned dismay, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "What would my enemies say if they could see the great Klaus Mikaelson now?"

You grinned up at him, finally righting yourself on the chaise lounge though you kept your legs draped across his lap. Your hair was a tousled mess, and beads of sweat still glistened on your neck.

"They'd say you've gone soft," you teased, poking his chest with your toe playfully. "The big bad wolf, tamed by a human girl."

You leaned in closer, the mischief in your eyes matching his own.

"But don't worry, your secret's safe with me. I won't tell anyone you're actually sweet underneath all that...murdery exterior."

Klaus captured your foot as you poked him again, bringing it to his lips in a gesture that was both gallant and possessive.

"Careful, sweetheart," he warned, though his eyes still danced with humor. "I have a reputation to maintain. And I'm not above proving just how 'murdery' I can be to anyone who crosses me."

He pulled you closer across his lap, his free hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, his touch a delicious contrast of cool against your overheated skin.

"Or perhaps I'll demonstrate other skills entirely," he murmured, his voice dropping to a seductive timbre as he leaned in, your lips almost touching. "I can think of several ways to make you forget about the heat."

You raise a brow, "Absolutely not," leaning back and flopping back against the chaise, "too hot for that."

Klaus let out a short, surprised laugh at your blunt rejection, not used to being denied anything he wanted, especially in this department. His eyebrows rose as he watched you dramatically flop back against the chaise, your arms spread wide in surrender to the heat.

"Too hot?" he repeated, sounding both amused and slightly incredulous. "That's a first. I don't believe anyone has ever refused my advances due to the weather."

He leaned back slightly, studying your flushed face with a glint in his eyes that suggested he wasn't entirely deterred.

"Though I must say, love, the sight of you all...glistening..." his gaze traveled appreciatively over your body, lingering on where your thin dress clung to your skin "...is making it rather difficult to respect your climate-based abstinence."

You roll your eyes at him, though a smile tugs at your lips despite the discomfort.

"Your ego will survive the blow," you retorted dryly. "And stop looking at me like that. I'm serious, Klaus. It's too hot to even think about...that."

You fan yourself with your hand for emphasis, eyes narrowed at him in warning, though there was no real heat behind it. You drape your arm over your face. 

Klaus sighed dramatically, but his hands remained cool against your legs, providing some relief.

"Very well," he conceded with exaggerated magnanimity. "Though I'm certain I could change your mind..."

He trailed off suggestively before shifting gears, his expression becoming more contemplative.

"Perhaps we should leave New Orleans for a while," he suggested, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your ankle. "I have properties all over the world. We could go somewhere cooler. London is quite pleasant this time of year. Or perhaps a villa in the Swiss Alps?"

The casual way he suggested international travel, as if they might pop over to another continent the way most people would go to the corner store, was so quintessentially Klaus.

You peek at him from under your arm, "Seriously? What about everything you have to do here? You can’t just...leave"

Klaus gave you a look that was equal parts amused and arrogant, his lips curving into that signature smirk that had both charmed and terrified people for centuries.

"Can't I?" he challenged softly, his tone suggesting that the normal rules and limitations simply didn't apply to him. "I'm Klaus Mikaelson, love. I do as I please."

He shifted on the chaise, turning more fully toward you while keeping your legs draped across his lap. His cool fingers continued their soothing patterns against your overheated skin.

"New Orleans has survived without me before. It will manage for a few weeks," he continued, his blue-green eyes gleaming with sudden enthusiasm for the idea. "Elijah can handle any pressing matters. And frankly, the city could use a break from my...particular brand of leadership."

He leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially.

You studied him from beneath your arm, the sincerity in his voice catching you off guard. It was these glimpses of the man beneath the monster that had drawn you to him in the first place, the moments when his passion wasn't directed at vengeance or power, but at beauty and experience.

"You're serious," you said, slowly sitting up despite the heat, your eyes searching his face. "You would really just...drop everything and go?"

Klaus reached out to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear, his touch gentler than most would believe him capable of.

"For you? Yes." The simple answer held an unexpected weight, a reminder of how much he had changed since you'd entered his life. "Though I must admit, the thought of you in a bikini on a private beach is certainly an added incentive."

He grinned wickedly, the tender moment giving way to his more typical roguish charm.

You shove his shoulder, "of course it is," but can't help the giggle that escapes you.

"I heard Y/N and bikini. I’m in. Where are we headed?" Kol says, strolling into the courtyard.

Klaus's expression darkened instantly at Kol's intrusion, his playful demeanor with you vanishing like smoke. He turned his head slowly toward his younger brother, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

"We are not headed anywhere," he corrected, emphasizing the 'we' with a threatening edge to his voice. "Y/N and I were discussing a private getaway."

Kol sauntered further into the courtyard, completely unfazed by his brother's obvious displeasure. He flashed a charming, mischievous smile at you before dropping dramatically onto a nearby chair, sprawling with casual grace.

"Private's boring," he countered, his own accent lilting with amusement. "Besides, I'm excellent company. Ask anyone."

You couldn't help but laugh at the immediate tension between the brothers, though you remained comfortably draped across Klaus's lap, one of his hands still possessively on your leg.

"I don't think your brother shares that assessment," you observed dryly, glancing at Klaus's thunderous expression.

Kol leaned forward, his eyes sparkling with the particular brand of chaos he so enjoyed creating, especially at his brother's expense.

"Come on, darling," he coaxed, ignoring Klaus entirely. "Wouldn't you rather have some fun company? Nik here is such a brooding bore when he travels. All 'look at this building I destroyed in 1492' and 'here's where I disemboweled a rival in the 17th century.'"

His impression of Klaus was deliberately terrible, designed specifically to irritate his brother.

Klaus's jaw tightened, his grip on your leg firming slightly.

"Kol," he said, his voice deceptively soft, a sure warning sign to those who knew him well, "don't you have somewhere else to be? Preferably far from here?"

Kol grinned wider, clearly enjoying getting under his brother's skin.

"Not really, no. My schedule's wide open." He winked at you. "So, where are we thinking? Somewhere with beaches, I hope. I'd love to see what kind of swimwear our Y/N favors."

At this, Klaus's patience visibly snapped. He moved with supernatural speed, suddenly standing over Kol with a hand around his throat.

"Choose your next words very carefully, brother," he growled, his hybrid nature flickering beneath the surface of his control.

You sighed, used to the Mikaelson siblings' dramatic confrontations, and pushed yourself up from the chaise despite the heat.

"Boys," you admonished, sounding more like a tired parent than a girlfriend, "can we not do this today? It's too hot for Mikaelson drama."

Rebekah makes an appearance from one of the balconies, "Do snap his neck, Nik. He pissed me off today" 

You turn, glaring at the blonde Mikaelson.

Klaus's grip on Kol's throat tightened momentarily, a smirk crossing his face at Rebekah's encouragement. His eyes never left his younger brother's face, though Kol still managed to look amused despite the precarious position.

"See, Rebekah agrees with me," Klaus said silkily, the dangerous edge in his voice unmistakable.

Rebekah leaned over the balcony railing, her blonde hair cascading down as she observed the scene below with casual interest, as if her brothers threatening to kill each other was merely everyday entertainment, which in the Mikaelson household, it essentially was.

"He used my favorite lipstick to write obscenities on my mirror," she explained to you, her British accent clipped with annoyance. "Chanel, limited edition. Snap away, Nik."

"Rebekah! No," you exclaimed, fixing the Original sister with a stern look before turning to Klaus. "And you! Let him go. I'm not spending another week listening to you all plot revenge because you daggered him again."

You place a hand on Klaus's arm, your touch gentle but firm. "Klaus."

For a tense moment, it seemed he might ignore you, his fingers still wrapped around his brother's throat. Then, with visible reluctance, he released Kol with a small shove.

"Consider yourself fortunate that Y/N has more patience for your antics than I do," he warned, stepping back to stand beside you, his arm possessively circling your waist.

Kol rubbed his throat dramatically, though they all knew it would take far more than that to cause him any real discomfort.

"Always hiding behind your girlfriend's skirts, Nik?" he taunted, unable to resist pushing further. "How the mighty have fallen."

Rebekah rolled her eyes, pushing away from the balcony railing.

"If you're not going to kill him, at least tell me where you're planning to go," she called down. "I might join you. This city is dreadfully dull at the moment, and the heat is ruining my hair."

You look between the three Original siblings, a mix of exasperation and fondness on your face.

"So much for our private getaway," you murmured to Klaus, leaning into him despite the heat. "I think our couples vacation package just got upgraded to include all the homicidal Mikaelsons."

Klaus looked down at you, his irritation with his siblings momentarily forgotten as he took in your resigned amusement.

"I could still kill them both," he offered helpfully, though there was a glint of humor in his eyes now. "Problem solved."

"No," you say firmly, "just...how about we all just go to the beach instead? Is there even a beach around?"

Klaus looked at you with an expression of mild betrayal, clearly not thrilled at the prospect of his romantic getaway transforming into a family outing.

"There's Grand Isle," he conceded reluctantly, his thumb absently stroking your waist where he still held you. "About a 2-hour drive south. Though I was thinking more along the lines of a private island in the Caribbean, not some local stretch of sand crowded with tourists."

Kol clapped his hands together with exaggerated enthusiasm, bouncing up from his seat.

"Grand Isle it is! I'll go pack the alcohol," he declared, clearly delighted at having successfully inserted himself into your plans. "We'll need lots of it to make this family bonding tolerable."

Rebekah disappeared from the balcony, only to reappear moments later in the courtyard, already looking more excited than she had in weeks.

"I have a new bikini I've been dying to wear," she announced, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder. "Elijah will hate this plan, which makes it even better."

As if summoned by the mention of his name, Elijah appeared in the doorway, impeccably dressed in a full suit despite the heat, not a drop of sweat visible on his composed face.

"I'll hate what plan?" he inquired, his voice measured and elegant as always.

Before Klaus could intervene, Kol jumped in with gleeful mischief.

"Family beach trip, brother! Sun, sand, and siblings. What could possibly go wrong?"

Elijah's expression remained impassive, but a slight tightening around his eyes suggested he was already calculating the potential disasters.

"Indeed," he replied dryly. "Given our family history, I imagine quite a lot."

Klaus looked down at you, shaking his head slightly.

"You see what you've started?" he murmured, though there was more resignation than genuine anger in his tone. "Now we'll have the whole circus with us."

You stood on tiptoe to press a quick kiss to his cheek, your eyes twinkling with amusement.

"It'll be fun," you whisper back. "Besides, this way they can't destroy the compound while we're gone."

Klaus sighed dramatically, but his arm remained firmly around your waist.

"You have a strange definition of 'fun,' love," he commented, watching as his siblings began debating the logistics with increasing animation. "The last time all of us were at a beach together was 1702, and it ended with a small village being burned to the ground."

Rebekah waved a dismissive hand.

"That was Kol's fault, and they were witch hunters anyway," she pointed out breezily. "Besides, Y/N will keep you all in line. She's the only one with any sense around here."

Elijah checked his watch, somehow managing to look both resigned and dignified.

"If we're to undertake this...excursion...I suggest we leave early tomorrow to avoid the worst of the traffic," he said, already bringing order to the chaos as was his nature.

Klaus looked at you with a mixture of exasperation and fondness.

"Still certain about this, sweetheart?" he asked quietly. "It's not too late to slip away, just the two of us. I'm quite skilled at disappearing."

Your smile fades, sensing the tension in his tone. Suddenly, the feeling of guilt starts to creep in. “I’m sorry, did I overstep? I didn’t mean to” 

Klaus's expression softened immediately at your sudden concern, the irritation in his eyes giving way to something softer. He reached up to cup your face with one hand, his thumb brushing your cheekbone.

"No, love," he assured you quietly. His voice pitched low enough that even his siblings' supernatural hearing would have to strain to catch his words. "You didn't overstep."

He glanced at his siblings, who were now engaged in an animated debate about transportation arrangements, before returning his gaze to your worried face.

"I just...I wanted some time alone with you," he admitted, a rare vulnerability flickering across his features. "Away from all this chaos and plotting and New Orleans politics. Just us."

The admission seemed to cost him something; Klaus Mikaelson wasn't accustomed to expressing such straightforward desires, especially not in a way that might be perceived as weakness.

Your guilt visibly deepened, your eyes clouding with regret as you placed your hand over his where it rested on your cheek.

"I'm sorry," you whisper. "I didn't think. We can still go away, just us. I'll tell them I changed my mind."

Klaus studied your face for a moment, then shook his head with a small, genuine smile that few besides you have ever witnessed.

"No," he decided, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. "You were right to include them. They're...family." The statement still sounded somewhat foreign on his tongue after centuries of betrayal and daggerings. "And they're your family now, too, God help you."

He leaned in to press his forehead against yours, his next words meant only for you.

"Besides, I've waited a thousand years to find you. I can survive sharing you with my insufferable siblings for a weekend." His lips quirked upward. "Though I make no promises about Kol's continued existence if he makes one more comment about you in swimwear."

Your smile returned, relief washing over your features as you wrapped your arms around his neck, uncaring of the heat or his siblings' presence.

"Thank you," you say softly. "And I promise we'll take that trip, just us. Anywhere you want to go."

Klaus's arms encircled your waist, pulling you closer despite the summer heat.

"I'll hold you to that, love," he murmured against your ear. "I have quite a list of places I want to show you. And things I want to do to you in those places."

His suggestive tone made you blush, which only widened his smile.

Kol's deliberately loud voice interrupted the moment.

"If you two are quite finished being disgustingly sweet, we need to know if we're taking one car or two tomorrow. Personally, I vote for separate vehicles. The thought of being trapped in a car with Nik for two hours while he glowers is less than appealing."

Klaus rolled his eyes but kept his arms around you.

"Two cars," he called back without looking away from you. "I'm not subjecting Y/N to your incessant chatter for the entire drive."

Rebekah snorted elegantly.

"As if your brooding silence is any better," she retorted, before turning to you with a conspiratorial smile. "Come on, Y/N. Let's go plan what to pack. You'll need something spectacular to make my brother properly regret taking you to a mere local beach instead of his pretentious private island."

˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚

By the time you finally made it back to your room, the sun had long dipped below the horizon, and your limbs felt like they weighed a hundred pounds each. Your feet hurt, and you were about three outfit changes away from a full mental breakdown. Rebekah had run you through what felt like a full fashion week

Klaus looked up from the grimoire he'd been studying, his lips curving into an amused smile at your dramatic entrance. He was lounging on the bed, already changed into comfortable pants, his chest bare in concession to the persistent heat, which didn’t actually bother him.

You flopped face-first onto the mattress beside him with an exaggerated groan, your hair splaying across the pillows. You didn't even bother to remove your clothes or shoes, you simply lay there like a woman who had survived some great ordeal.

"Rebekah's made me try on so many things," you mumble into the bedding, your voice muffled. "I think I've worn more clothes in the last three hours than in my entire life."

Klaus chuckled, setting aside the ancient spell book and shifting to gently remove your shoes, one at a time.

"You've discovered one of my sister's most fearsome qualities," he commented, his fingers massaging your feet briefly after freeing them. "Her shopping stamina is truly supernatural. Even I find it exhausting, and I've endured torture sessions that were less grueling."

You turn your head to the side, just enough to peer at him with one tired eye.

"She made me try on fourteen swimsuits," you informed him gravely. "Fourteen. And then she decided the first one was best anyway."

Klaus laughed outright at that, the sound warm and genuine in a way that few outside this room ever heard.

"That sounds like Rebekah," he agreed, his hands moving to your shoulders, beginning to knead the tension there with just the right amount of pressure. "Though I must admit, I'm looking forward to seeing the results of her tyranny."

His voice dropped lower, taking on that seductive quality that never failed to send a shiver down your spine, even in your exhausted state.

"Perhaps you'd care to model the winner for me now? Give me a private showing?"

You groan again, this time in response to his magical fingers working the knots from your shoulders.

"Not a chance," you mutter, though there is a smile in your voice. "I'm saving it for tomorrow. Besides, I think if I change clothes one more time today, I might actually die."

You finally summoned the energy to roll onto your back, looking up at him with tired but affectionate eyes.

"Your sister is intense," you say, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw with your fingertips. "She's convinced I need to, and I quote, 'make your jaw drop' when you see me at the beach."

Klaus caught your hand and pressed a kiss to your palm, his blue-green eyes darkening slightly.

"My jaw drops every time I see you, love," he murmured against your skin. "Though I admit I'm intrigued by whatever Rebekah has planned."

He leaned down, his lips hovering just above yours.

"Should I be worried about having to murder every man on the beach tomorrow?" he asked, only half-joking. "Because I will, you know. Without hesitation."

You smile, “Please don’t kill anyone for me,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around his neck

Klaus smirked against your lips, his weight shifting to hover over you more fully, supported on his forearms.

"No promises, love," he murmured, the possessive glint in his blue-green eyes making it clear he wasn't entirely joking. "A millennium of habits isn't easily broken."

His lips finally met yours in a gentle kiss that quickly deepened, his hand sliding beneath your shirt to caress the warm skin of your waist. Despite your exhaustion, you respond eagerly, your arms tightening around his neck, pulling him closer.

"Besides," he continued between kisses, trailing his lips along your jaw and down to the sensitive spot just below your ear, "you can't expect me to behave when every man on that beach will be staring at what's mine."

The possessive words should have irritated your independent nature, but coming from Klaus, whispered against your skin in that lilting accent, they sent a shiver of desire through you instead.

"I thought you'd be used to it by now," you teased breathlessly, your fingers threading through his dirty-blonde curls. "People stare at me whenever we go out."

Klaus pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his own darkened with desire and something deeper, more vulnerable.

"I'll never be 'used to it,'" he admitted, his voice rough with emotion. "Just as I'll never be used to the fact that you chose me, knowing exactly what I am."

The rare moment of openness caught you off guard, and your teasing smile softened into something more tender. You cup his face between your palms, eyes meeting his directly.

"I'll always choose you," you whisper, the simple truth of it reflected in your gaze. "Even when you're being a possessive, paranoid, infuriating pain in my ass."

Klaus laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest where it pressed against yours.

"Such romantic declarations," he teased, nipping at your lower lip. "You do know how to make a man feel special, sweetheart."

His hand slid higher beneath your shirt, his thumb brushing the underside of your breast as he kissed you again, more deeply this time, swallowing your soft gasp of pleasure.

"Now," he murmured against your mouth, his voice dropping to that seductive timbre that made your body respond immediately, "I believe you mentioned being exhausted from changing clothes so many times..."

His lips traced a burning path down your neck as his clever fingers began working on the buttons of your shirt.

"Allow me to help you out of these," he suggested, his smirk evident in his voice even as his mouth continued its delicious assault on your sensitive skin. "After all, I wouldn't want you to overexert yourself."

You lift your head to look at him, “Yeah? I am still hot, so I think taking these off is a great idea.”

Klaus's eyes darkened at your agreement, a predatory smile spreading across his face as he sat back on his heels, straddling your thighs. His hands moved to the buttons of your shirt with deliberate slowness, unfastening each one with tantalizing precision.

"You are indeed hot," he agreed, his voice dropping to that rough velvet tone that never failed to make your pulse quicken. "In every sense of the word."

*

As he parted your shirt, revealing the lace of your bra underneath, his gaze traveled over your exposed skin with open hunger. Despite the countless times he'd seen your body, his reaction was always the same, as if each time was the first, and each revelation of your skin was a gift he hadn't expected.

"Beautiful," he murmured, helping you sit up just enough to slide the shirt from your shoulders before easing you back down.

His hands skimmed down your sides to the waistband of your shorts, his touch leaving goosebumps in its wake despite the lingering heat of the day. With practiced ease, he unfastened them and began sliding them down your legs, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Better?" he asked, tossing the shorts aside and running his palms up your bare thighs. "Though I must say, you're still overdressed by my standards."

Your breath hitches as his fingers trace the edge of your underwear, your body already responding to his touch despite your earlier exhaustion. The heat that had been oppressive all day transformed into something entirely different under his skilled hands, a heat that came from within, that made you arch toward him rather than pull away.

"Your standards are impossible," you managed to reply, your voice already husky with desire. "You'd have me naked all the time if you could."

Klaus chuckled, the sound dark and promising as he unhooked your bra with a flick of his fingers, drawing it slowly down your arms.

"Can you blame me?" he asked, his gaze appreciative as he took in your bare breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples and drawing a soft moan from your lips. "When you're the most exquisite thing I've seen in a thousand years?"

He lowered his head to replace his fingers with his mouth, his tongue circling one sensitive peak before taking it between his lips. You gasped, your back arching off the bed as your hands tangled in his hair, holding him to you.

Klaus took his time, lavishing attention on each breast until you were squirming beneath him, your earlier fatigue completely forgotten. Only then did his mouth begin a downward journey, trailing kisses across your ribs, your stomach, and the jut of your hip bones.

His fingers hooked in the waistband of your underwear, drawing them down with deliberate slowness as he looked up at you from beneath his lashes, his blue-green eyes nearly black with desire.

"Now you're properly dressed," he murmured approvingly as he tossed the last piece of fabric aside, leaving you completely bare beneath him. "Or undressed, as the case may be."

You instinctively brought your thighs together, "stop," you say softly, blushing, looking at me like that.

Klaus's lips curved into a knowing smile as he placed his hands gently on your knees, not forcing them apart but simply resting there, his thumbs tracing small circles on your skin.

"Like what, love?" he asked, his voice a seductive rumble as he held your gaze. "Like you're the most magnificent thing I've ever seen? Like I want to worship every inch of your body until you're trembling and crying my name?"

He leaned forward, pressing a surprisingly gentle kiss to your inner knee, his eyes never leaving your flushed face.

"I'm afraid I can't stop," he continued, his accent thickening with desire. "Not when you're laid out before me like this. Blushing so beautifully for me."

His hands slid up slightly, applying the gentlest pressure to your thighs, a request rather than a demand.

"Let me see you, Y/N," he murmured, his tone softening to something almost reverent. "All of you."

The way he said your name, like it was something precious on his tongue, sent a shiver down your body. Despite your instinctive shyness, you found yourself responding to the gentle coaxing of his hands, your thighs slowly parting for him.

Klaus's breath caught audibly at the sight of you exposed to him, his eyes darkening further as they took in every detail. There was something almost worshipful in his expression, a stark contrast to the ruthless hybrid who terrorized New Orleans.

"Perfect," he whispered, his hands sliding further up your thighs, his thumbs now dangerously close to where you were already wet for him. "Do you have any idea what you do to me, sweetheart? How you make me feel?"

He moved up your body to capture your lips in a deep, passionate kiss, his bare chest pressing against your breasts, creating a delicious friction that made you gasp into his mouth. One of his hands tangled in your hair while the other continued its teasing journey between your thighs, never quite touching where you most wanted him.

"Even after all this time," he murmured against your lips, "I still can't believe you're mine."

His fingers finally slid through your folds, finding you slick and ready for him. He groaned at the discovery, his forehead resting against your as he began to circle your clit with exquisite precision.

"So wet for me already," he praised, his voice rough with need. "Is this what you needed, love? My hands on you? My mouth?"

His lips trailed down your neck as his fingers continued their skilled assault, drawing soft moans from your throat as your hips began to move against his hand, seeking more.

"I always need you," you exhale, arching into his hand. "Klaus," you continued, whispering his name.

Klaus growled low in his throat at your words, the sound more beast than man as he captured your lips in a fierce, consuming kiss. His fingers worked more deliberately between your thighs, circling your clit before sliding lower to tease your entrance.

"Say it again," he commanded against your mouth, his voice rough with desire. "My name on your lips is the sweetest sound in this world."

Your hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as pleasure built within you, making you arch more insistently against his skilled touch.

"Klaus," you gasp, head falling back as he slides one finger inside you, then another, curling them to hit that perfect spot that made you want to cry out "God, Klaus, please..."

your plea broke off into a moan as he lowered his head to take one nipple between his lips, sucking hard as his fingers continued their relentless rhythm inside of you. Your body responded eagerly to his every touch, your hips moving in counterpoint to the thrust of his hand.

"Please what, love?" he teased, lifting his head to watch your face contort with pleasure. "Tell me what you need."

Your eyes, dark and heavy-lidded with desire, met his as your hands moved to fumble with the waistband of his pants.

"You," you managed, your voice breathy and urgent. "Inside me. Now."

Klaus's control visibly frayed at the demand, his eyes flashing gold for a brief moment before returning to their stormy blue-green. He withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his mouth to taste you with a groan of appreciation that sent another wave of desire through your body.

"As my lady commands," he murmured, quickly divesting himself of his remaining clothing with supernatural speed.

He settled between your thighs, the hard length of him pressing against your entrance as he braced himself above you on his forearms. For a moment, he simply looked down at you, his expression a complex mixture of desire, possessiveness, and something deeper that he rarely allowed himself to name.

"Mine," he whispered, the single word containing a thousand years of loneliness and the wonder of having finally found someone who accepted all of him, monster and man alike.

You reach up to cup his face, your thumbs stroking his cheekbones with tender affection even as your body arched impatiently beneath his.

"Yours," you agreed softly, the simple truth reflected in your eyes. "Always yours."

Klaus finally pushed forward, entering you in one smooth thrust that had you both gasping. He stilled for a moment, buried to the hilt inside of you, his forehead pressed against yours as you shared breath.

"And I am yours," he admitted in a rare moment of vulnerability, the words barely audible even to you. "Completely."

Before you could respond, he began to move, setting a rhythm that was neither gentle nor rough but perfectly calibrated to drive you toward the edge. Each thrust was deliberate, hitting exactly where you needed him most, his centuries of experience evident in the way he read your body's responses.

"Klaus," you moaned, your legs wrapping around his waist to draw him deeper, your hands clutching at his back as the pleasure built within. "God, yes, right there..."

He increased his pace in response to your encouragement, one hand sliding between your bodies to circle your clit as he drove into you with increasing urgency. His lips found your neck, sucking and nipping at the sensitive skin there, careful not to break the surface despite the vampire instincts that urged him to taste you.

"Come for me, love," he commanded, his voice strained with the effort of holding back his own release until you found yours. "Let me feel you come around my cock."

The crude words combined with his skilled touch pushed you over the edge. You cried out his name as your body convulsed around him, waves of pleasure washing through you with an intensity that left you breathless and trembling in his arms.

Klaus grinned in triumph as he felt your inner walls pulsing around him, his control finally snapping. His thrusts became harder, more erratic as he chased his own release, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he murmured a stream of praise and possession against your skin.

"So perfect, so beautiful, mine, all mine," he groaned, his body tensing above you as he finally found his release, spilling deep inside you.

*

For several moments afterward, you remained entwined, both breathing heavily as you came down from your shared high. Klaus eventually rolled to his side, taking you with him so you lay cradled against his chest, his arms wrapped possessively around you.

"Still hot?" he asked, a hint of smugness in his voice as he pressed a kiss to your temple, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your cooling skin.

You snort softly at his smug question, your body still tingling pleasantly from your lovemaking. You pressed closer to him despite the lingering heat, your fingertips tracing the tattoo on his shoulder.

"Definitely," you admit, a satisfied smile playing on your lips. "But I like this kind of hot. Quite a lot actually."

You lean in to press a soft kiss to his chest, right over his heart, feeling it beat steadily beneath your lips. Klaus hummed contentedly, his fingers continuing their gentle exploration of your skin, tracing the curve of your spine with feather-light touches.

A comfortable silence settled between you, broken only by your gradually steadying breaths. Your mind wanders as you lie in his arms, thinking about the moments during your passion when you’d felt his lips at your neck, the careful restraint he always showed despite his nature. You’d noticed how he'd pulled back, even in the height of pleasure, maintaining that careful control he always exercised around you.

You lifted your head to look at him, eyes serious as they met his.

"Klaus, you know you can drink from me, right?" You say quietly, your hand coming up to cup his cheek. "I trust you. Completely."

Klaus went very still beneath your touch, his eyes widening slightly at your unexpected words. Something flashed across his face, hunger, desire, fear, before he carefully schooled his expression.

"That's...not a good idea, love," he replied, his voice rougher than usual, betraying the effect your offer had on him. "You don't know what you're asking."

You push yourself up on one elbow, looking down at him with determination in your gaze.

"I know exactly what I'm asking," you countered firmly. "I've seen you feed. I know what you are, Klaus. I've always known."

His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking there as he struggled with the offer and his own desires.

"It's different with you," he finally said, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from your face with surprising tenderness. "I don't want you to see that side of me. Not in our bed."

You lean into his touch, your expression softening but remaining resolute.

"It's part of who you are," you said simply. "And I love who you are. All of you."

Klaus's eyes darkened at your words, a complex mixture of emotions swirling in their blue-green depths. His thumb traced the pulse point at your throat, lingering there as if he could already taste you.

"You don't fear it?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "What I might do? That I might lose control?"

You shook your head, your hair brushing against his hand.

"You've never lost control with me," you reminded him, your faith in him absolute and unwavering. "Not once in all our time together. I trust you, Klaus. With my life. With everything."

Something in him seemed to crumble at your words, not his control, but rather the wall he'd built between these two parts of himself. He pulled you down to him, capturing your lips in a kiss that was both tender and desperate, his hands framing your face as if you were infinitely precious.

"If I hurt you," he murmured against your mouth, "if I take too much..."

"You won't," you interrupted with complete certainty, your fingers threading through his hair as you held his gaze. "I know you won't."

Klaus studied your face for a long moment, searching for any sign of doubt or fear. Finding none, he gently guided you to lie beside him, positioning you so that your back was against his chest, your head tilted to expose the elegant line of your neck.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered against your skin, "at any moment, and I will. Immediately."

You nodded, your body relaxing trustingly against his as his arm circled your waist, holding you close. You felt his lips press against your pulse point, soft and reverent, before they parted to allow his fangs to extend.

"I love you," he breathed against your neck, the words he so rarely spoke aloud given freely in this moment of ultimate vulnerability.

Before you could respond, his fangs pierced skin with surprising gentleness. You gasp, not in pain but in unexpected pleasure as the initial sting gives way to a sensation unlike anything you’ve experienced before. It was intimate in a way that transcended the physical, a connection that made your earlier lovemaking seem almost ordinary by comparison.

Klaus drank slowly, carefully, his arm tightening around your waist as a tremor ran through his body. You could feel his pleasure in the way he held yoy, in the soft sounds he made against your throat. It was nothing like the violent feeding you’ve witnessed when he tore into enemies; this was reverent, controlled, deeply personal.

After what felt like both an eternity and not nearly long enough, he withdrew his fangs, kissing the small wounds he left behind. You felt lightheaded but not weak, the experience leaving you with a strange euphoria that tingles through your entire body.

Klaus turned you in his arms to face him, his expression more open and vulnerable than you’d ever seen it. There was a hint of your blood on his lips, his eyes still showing traces of gold around the edges, but his gaze was clear and focused entirely on you.

"Are you alright?" he asked, concern evident in his voice as his hand came up to stroke your cheek.

You nod, a slow smile spreading across your face as you lean to kiss him, tasting the metallic hint of your own blood on his lips without hesitation.

"More than alright," you assured him, your voice soft but steady. "That was...incredible."

Relief washed over his features, followed by something that looked suspiciously like wonder as he pulled you closer, his forehead resting against yours.

"You are extraordinary," he murmured, his accent thicker than usual with emotion. "A thousand years, and I've never..."

He trailed off, seemingly unable to find words adequate to express what he was feeling. Instead, he simply held you, his fingers stroking through your hair as both your breathing synchronized in the quiet room.

"Thank you," he finally whispered, the simple words carrying the weight of centuries of loneliness and the gratitude of a man who had finally found acceptance in the arms of someone who saw him, truly saw him, and loved him anyway.

"You're welcome. And tomorrow at the beach, when you want to strangle me for putting you in that situation, do be sure to remember how extraordinary I am."

Klaus's serious expression broke into a surprised laugh, the sound rich and genuine as it rumbled through his chest. His eyes crinkled at the corners, the vulnerability of moments before giving way to amused affection as he gazed down at you.

"Using my own words against me already?" he teased, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along your bare shoulder. "Clever girl."

He pulled you closer against him, tucking your head beneath his chin as his arms encircled you possessively. Despite the lingering heat of the night, neither of you made any move to separate, the intimacy just shared creating a bond that transcended physical discomfort.

"I'll endeavor to remember your extraordinary nature," he promised dryly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, "even when Kol is making inappropriate comments about your swimwear and I'm contemplating removing his liver."

You laugh softly against his chest, your fingers absently tracing the birds tattooed on his chest.

"Just his liver? You're getting soft in your old age," you quip, tilting your head up to meet his gaze with mischief dancing in your eyes. "The Klaus Mikaelson I know would threaten at least three vital organs and possibly limb removal."

Klaus smirked, his hand sliding down to cup your backside in a possessive squeeze.

"The night is still young, love," he reminded you, his voice taking on that dangerous edge that always sent a shiver down your spine. "Don't tempt me to demonstrate just how 'soft' I'm not."

His expression sobered slightly as his other hand came up to trace the spot on your neck where he'd fed, the marks still visible.

"Are you truly alright?" he asked more seriously, searching your face for any sign of discomfort or regret. "I didn't take too much?"

Your teasing smile softened into something more tender as you reached up to touch his face, your thumb brushing across his cheekbone with gentle affection.

"I'm perfect," you assured him, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his lips. "It was perfect. You were perfect."

Klaus seemed to absorb your words like a man who'd been thirsting for them his entire life, his eyes closing briefly as if to savor the moment.

"It was...intimate," he admitted quietly, opening his eyes to meet your gaze again. "More so than I expected. Sharing blood with you, it's different than feeding. Than anything I've experienced before."

There was wonder in his voice, a rare vulnerability that he showed to no one else. Your heart swelled with love for this complex, dangerous, damaged man who trusted you enough to reveal these parts of himself.

"Different good?" you asked, your voice soft in the quiet room.

Klaus nodded, his fingers threading through your hair as he drew your face up for another kiss, this one deeper, more thorough.

"Different extraordinary," he murmured against your lips, echoing your earlier description. "Like everything about you."

You melt into his kiss, your body molding against his despite your recent exertions. When you finally parted, both slightly breathless, you settled back against his chest with a contented sigh.

"Just think," you mused sleepily, your earlier exhaustion returning now that the adrenaline was fading, "tomorrow you get to see me in the swimsuit that took fourteen tries to select. After that, you might even forgive me for subjecting you to a family beach day."

Klaus chuckled, his arms tightening around you as he pulled the light sheet over your cooling bodies.

"I've already forgiven you," he admitted, his voice softening as he felt you drifting toward sleep. "Though I reserve the right to be thoroughly irritated with my siblings when they inevitably ruin what could have been a perfect day alone with you."

You hummed in acknowledgment, your eyes already closed as you curled closer to him.

"They won't ruin it," you murmured, your voice fading as sleep began to claim you. "They're family. Our family."

Klaus gazed down at you, his expression softening in a way it never did when others were present. The fearsome hybrid, the terror of New Orleans, looking at this human woman as if she were the most precious thing in his thousand years of existence.

"Sleep, love," he whispered, pressing a final kiss to your forehead. "Tomorrow will be...interesting, if nothing else."

As you drifted off in his arms, Klaus remained awake, watching over you with an expression that mingled wonder, possessiveness, and a fierce protectiveness that would have terrified anyone who might wish you harm. In the quiet darkness of the room, with you warm and trusting in his embrace, Klaus Mikaelson allowed himself to acknowledge what you had become to him, not just lover, not just companion, but home.

A concept he'd never truly understood until you.

Taglist: @ariesandwolves

[junkpuppet225]

Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

summary: Daryl makes you cry and instantly regrets it. Early Alexandria Era. Reader lost her entire family when the world went to hell and the thought of opening herself up to that kind of love again terrifies her.

warnings: I think I just managed one curse word in this one. No smut. Drop of angst, dash of fluff. Enjoy!

a/n: This is another short blurb from the mind of @dixondisease! Thanks for the inspo! I hope you love it! Quickly written and barely proof read. Enjoy! 💋

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“You don’t want this heart. It’s already broke.”

Daryl chews at his bottom lip as your quiet words pierce his soul - blue eyes cast down at rough hands hanging between his knees. You sit beside him on the front porch of your borrowed home in Alexandria staring out into the vacant streets like they hold the answers to all of life’s questions. Like why someone as strong as Daryl just poured his heart out to you? You’re all on borrowed time in this dying world and putting a label on whatever this is seems pointless. One of you will be dead sooner rather than later.

You want to protect his heart from what splintered yours into a million pieces.

“Daryl it’s just not worth—-.”

There’s so many things he wants to say - to make you realize he doesn’t have the communication skills needed to have these types of conversations - he doesn’t know the right words to explain how much you mean to him. He wants to assure you he can mend your broken heart. That what he feels for you is worth the risk of dying if he only gets to be yours for a day but instead he says something he’ll regret for the rest of his life.

“You’re right…, ain’t worth it.”

You ain’t worth it.

Four grumbled words seal his fate and taste bitter on his tongue. You’re worth it. You’re worth everything but he’ll be damned if he’s going to sit here and let you rip his heart from his chest. You above anyone should know life’s to short for what ifs.

The way you flinch as he shoots to his feet stops him from storming off - forcing his eyes to lock with yours as you lift your sorrowful gaze - fresh tears filling their depths. When the first tear betrays you he feels his own heart crack in his chest bringing him down to your side again. His anger dissolves into pure panic as his hands sink into your hair. There’s no denying the love you have for him - it’s pouring out of your watery gaze with the tears cascading down your cheeks. He should know better than anyone how hard it is to give your heart to someone when you feel like you’re not worthy of their love.

Desperate words flood brain - short sentences he doesn’t know how to verbalize without them coming out wrong. Words that get caught in the back of his throat and choke him.

I’m sorry. I love you. You’re worth it. You’re worthy of my love - you’re the only person I’ve ever wanted to give it to.

Instead he just whispers please don’t cry as his rough thumbs brush the tears away from your beautiful face. You let your eyes fall - soft sobs bubbling up from your chest as you try to pull away. He’s right. You’re not worth it. All the trauma you’ve faced…, it isn’t worth fighting for. You aren’t worth fighting for.

Daryl deserves so much better - someone who isn’t so utterly broken on the inside. Someone who hasn’t lost everyone she’s ever loved to this new world.

He whispers your name softly begging you to take a breath and stop crying because of him but it’s no use. Looking into his ocean eyes only reminds you that loving him puts him at a risk you can’t begin to comprehend. Losing him would crush you. The thought of him putting your safety before his…, the thought of him getting killed because of you brings a loud sob to your lips.

“…no no no no… don’t cry. Please don’t cry. M’s-sorry.” It’s took him months to get up the courage to tell you how he feels about you and unsurprisingly he’s managed to screw it up. He just wanted… more with you now that there’s walls and stability but you’re not ready - he sees that now and he’ll wait for you because you’re worth waiting for. “Yer worth it. Yer so fuckin’ worth it y/n. I love you. I didn’t mean—-.”

You shake your head, heart twisting in your chest at his desperate words. “…love makes you weak Daryl…” You whisper as he tightens his fingers in your hair, closing his eyes as your broken words sear the knife deeper into his heart. He’s presses his forehead against yours pulling needed air into his lungs. “…then let me be weak for once Y/N.”

His soft words only make you cry harder as you jerk your face from his grasp and push to your feet quickly. “Weak means dead in this world! You can’t ask me to let you die.” You sob flying down the steps and into the street to get away from him. Why couldn’t he just leave things how they were? Stolen kisses during supply runs. Two lonely people searching for solace in the darkness. Physical you were good at - this emotional shit ruined everything.

You will your legs to move - to run right through these suffocating gates and back into the wilderness. Out there things are simple - survive. Inside Alexandria there’s hope and promise and the gut retching realization that you want what Daryl wants. You want all of him and everything he has to offer. The thought slows your attempt to leave then Daryl’s at your back wrapping strong arms around your middle as he buries his face in the bend of your shoulder.

“Please stop cryin’. I didn’t mean to make ya cry. It’s rippin’ me up inside.” He whispers against your neck placing soft kisses along the tender spot just below your ear. “Please….”

You try to take in a deep breath but it’s no use, his warm lips against your skin rack your body with sobs. “M’sorry…, yer everything to me. We can take things slow…, ain’t gotta rush into nothin’ I jus’… jus’ wanna be with ya anyway I can.” Daryl pleads pressing his head against the back of yours as his own heartache nearly cripples him. “Please…”

“D-Daryl… I w-want…”

He grips your waist as he turns you to face him keeping his eyes cast down while his forehead meets yours again.

“I’ll do whatever ya want… whatever ya need…” He whispers as his hands find your hair again sinking his fingers in deep - idly pulling you closer to him. The heat from his body helps calm you - the slow rise and fall of his chest against yours soothing your own heartache away. “I w-want you Daryl. I want… everything with you I just… just d-don’t want to lose you too. My heart can’t take losing you too.” His thumbs return to your cheeks brushing away more tears as you step into his warmth - your lips nearly touching as he takes in a quick breath, eyes closing tightly. “Ya won’t lose me. I’ll claw my way outta hell to find ya.” The slight smile that spreads across your face brings on his as you lean into his kiss, sliding your hands up his chest to grasp either side of his neck.

“Jus’ give this a chance and I promise I’ll never make ya cry again.” Daryl whispers against your lips as you nod deepening the kiss quickly as he pulls you closer letting his hands fall down to your hips to grasp them roughly. If it’s the last thing he ever does he’ll prove that you’re worth it.

x

[sobbingscripter]

DAY 5: Five Golden Rings

☃️Snow☃️

Tags: [mlw][mdni][squirting][praise][make love not war][mating press]

❄️☃️❄️

"I like snow."

Alucard's voice is quiet, and you stir, eyes wide, and you clutch your covers to your chest, watching as he stands at your window, crimson jacket tossed over the backrest of the chair of your vanity, bloody gaze locked on the tumbling snowflakes outside the glass.

"So... Pure. Untouched by any—"

"Why are you in my room in the middle of the night?"

Your question rips Alucard away from his reverie, but he simply narrows his eyes, gaze hardening just a bit but he keeps his gaze on the tundra storm.

"Everything seems so far away during these winters. They're nothing like the winters before my Master. These ones.... They're..."

He pauses, searching for a word.

"Warmer."

Shaggy black hair cascades down his back, unkempt, and wild, bangs hiding portions of his face, everything else only being lit by the faint moonlight that pours through your now open window.

And he turns to you, eyes glowing like the embers of a dying flame, shadows playing on his features in the most joyful way ever. Like children in a schoolyard.

"These winters—"

"Alucard, I'd really love for you to continue your soliloquy but it's 2 in the morning and it's cold outside. This is prime time sleeping weather." You huff, pulling the quilt higher up, covering your chin in the promising warmth. "Plus, I've already got my special socks on."

Alucard raises a perfect brow, a twitch of amusement in the corner of his mouth. "Special socks?" He repeats and watches, as you poke your woolen toes out from under the thick blankets. Blue wool with white snowflakes knitted sparsely, very clear winter themed, especially when he catches a glimpse of those puffball tassels attached to the socks.

Alucard's mouth forms an 'o' shape, his head tilting and he takes a seat at the end of your bed, frosty fingers creeping up the leg of your sweatpants, wrapping around your calf and jerking you roughly towards him.

You yelp, when you find yourself straddling Alucard's lap, broad thighs still clad in tailored suit pants, keeping your legs spread and his nose brushes against muscles of your neck, stopping to inhale the scent at your pulse point.

Strong hands bracket your hips, thumbs brushing over the exposed skin of your hips and Alucard forced you to sit down, a silent order that you knew better to obey.

He could suck you dry, faster than you could him.

"You smell..." Alucard trails off, and your lips part in offense.

"The fuck you mean I smell?" You scoff, brows knitting into a frown but all that aggression melts away when he lets out that melodious chuckle.

It pairs with the dim moonlight so well, each bubbly change of cadence accompanying the dappling moonlight.

"I was going to say, you smell like cinnamon and sunshine." Alucard hums lowly. "But you had to go and be the impatient little thing you are."

Cool hands move to rest on the small of your back, and Alucard tilts his head back, meeting your gaze with a look that could almost be mistaken for a lovesick puppy.

"Can I have my Christmas present early?"

Alucard's got you locked into place, knees spread, face pressed against the unruly covers. One arm is pinned to the small of your back, the other tucked beneath your cheek, causing you to drool mindlessly as he coaxes the next orgasm from your already sensitive body.

"Alucard... Please.." Your plea is desperate, your ass pressing against him because once more, he's teasing you with the rosy and flushed crown of his cock, ridged head brushing and wading between your slippery folds, nudging at your needy clit.

"Still so impatient, aren't you?"

He teases, notching his cock at your fluttering entrance, pushing in just halfway before pulling back, tutting you playfully while his free hand rests on one fat globe of your ass.

"Not wet enough." Alucard feigns disappointment, as he pushes your fat apart, leaning a bit lower and spitting. Cool saliva travels down the cleft of your ass, joining the mass of wetness between your thighs and your legs nearly shake at the sensation.

Alucard roughly reaches for your ankle, shifting your position until you're on your back, eyes wide and bleary, your chest heaving and nipples pebbled from the frosty air and body flushed.

And he looks down at your slippery cunt, slick and glistening with spit and your cum, and he shakes his head.

"Not nearly wet enough."

He shifts, lowering himself until Alucard's broad shoulders are pressed against your thighs, one thigh tossed over his shoulder and the other laying to his side.

A long tongue slivers from between his lips, sweeping up the fluids that make a puddle against your hole, before spitting them back, and your back arches at the sensation.

Fingers find their way into his hair but you're not sure if it's to push him away, or pull him closer, but when his lips latch around your sloppy clit, your eyes roll back in your head and you claw at his scalp.

You shake your head, hair messy and eyes watering as his hand creeps up your thigh, gloved and he tugs the fabric off with his teeth, spitting it across the room before his palm presses to your swollen folds.

And he rubs his hand fast, side to side, like he's trying to give you a friction burn in the best way possible.

And you gasp, nails digging into his flesh and your legs shake, eyes glazing over as droplets start to splatter, against your inner thighs, against his awaiting tongue and his face.

Alucard makes you squirt with ease. A fact that's almost scary.

But you don't have time to dwell on it, not when he's sinking into you while your body's still pliable and easy.

"So perfect."

Alucard shifts your body beneath him, your toes touching the wall above your head, his face hovering over yours and his hair falls forward, an obsidian curtain hiding the stolen kisses Alucard snatches while you're too overstimulated each time he bottoms out.

Alucard's hands rest above your head, his forearms supporting his weight as he makes you take the deepest and slowest thrusts known to man. Each movement made to have you feel every single inch, forcing your insides to commit his shape to memory, and he groans, low in your ear.

"You take me so well, pretty." He praises, pressing a kiss to your temple as he shifts, angling his hips until his cock head brushes against that spongy spot that only he seems to be able to hit.

Your voice is a mess of moans and mewls, a cacophony of lewd sounds accompanied by the sound of sticky flesh hitting sticky flesh, and Alucard rolls his hips, his tip grinding against the plug of your cervix and you gasp.

"I'm so deep, aren't I?" He teases you. And you merely nod your head, fat tears rolling down your cheeks because it's just so fucking good.

"You're such a perfect thing." Alucard whispers. "Bathed in moonlight, crying because of how good it feels."

His tongue laps up your tears and if you were any more coherent, you'd whine about the fact that he's getting pussy juice on your face but you can't.

Not when he's kissing you so softly (internally and externally) and he's coaching you through another orgasm.

"One more."

Alucard coos softly, hips rocking into you with such a sweet gentleness, dragging against your inside over and over, as his pelvis bone presses against your needy clit. And your eyes are watering before you know it.

Your cum leaking out around Alucard, drool running down your cheek but not for long before he laps it up like a greedy mutt, crooning praises into your ear.

They've started to meld together. The "so pretty"s, the "good girl"s, the "that's it". All of them.

All you can really focus on is when Alucard pulls out of you, his cock resting on your lower belly to give you a visual of just how deep he was.

And scientifically speaking, you shouldn't even be alive. But then again, should any of us?

No.

But you survive it, because like Gloria Gaynor said, 'I will survive', because as long as you know how to love, you know you'll stay alive.

And if you didn't know how to love, you knew how to take it because Alucard wasn't fucking. He was making thorough love and by God, were you taking it like a champ.

"Alucard..."

You breathe out shakily, eyes rolling back in your head as he slips back inside, pulling out all the way, before slowly sinking in once more.

"Hm?" He hums, crimson gaze locked on where you take him so easily, amused and enchanted by the sight.

"You don't— have to pull out... Like... When you need to finish.."

You mutter softly, eyes barely open but your legs are open enough for the both.

You've never let Alucard finish inside. Always forcing him to pull out because of the fear of pregnancy and the worry that vampire cum may not adhere to the laws of a NuvaRing, an IUD or even a condom.

Alucard's shoulders stiffen when you speak, head tilting and you almost wish you didn't catch that glinting smile through the teariness of your eyes and the shadows of your lashes.

"Oh really?"