#Powerful LED Spotlight

[kabuki-writes]

A Reflection Of Venus

chapter: 1 chapter 2 | 3 | 4

pairing: emperor geta/emperor caracalla x acacius' daughter!reader

summary: For years Acacius was able to keep his precious and only daughter away from the Emperor's eyes. But after his latest victory, he couldn't evade the already inevitable.

warning(s): mention of alcohol consumption | swearing | sexual implications | semi-edited | english is not my first language, faults may occur | please let me know if i missed anything

Note: Reader is the daughter of General Acacius and his wife, which is not Lucilla in this fanfiction.

word count: 3.1k

General Acacius was a hero for the Roman Empire, a sun that was burning brighter with every new victory he won in a new war campaign ordered by Emperor Geta and his twin brother Emperor Caracalla. The reign of the twins was nothing compared to one of their deceased father Emperor Septimius Severus, who was once one of the closest friends and brother-in-arms of Acatius. While Severus fought wars mainly to protect the borders of the already massive Empire, his sons' hunger for expansion became clear from the very first day they inherited the title "Emperor". And general Acacius became their tool in this project. Nothing was too expensive, they backed him with legions, war-ships, the best equipment and supply, and the capable general became an unstoppable force, a soldier of the God Mars himself. But at what cost?

As the years went on, he'd rarely been home, always travelling with his marching soldiers and being on the front line of every battle he fought. And when he came back, he felt sick from all the pomp and gold the Emperor's threw at him, the victory processions through Rome, while the smell of blood still lingered in his nose and the cries of the women and children echoed in his mind. It was one of those days. The sun stood high over the wide street that lead to the Palatin, the sides filled with the cheering crowd - common people, soldiers, slaves, senators, merchants, they all celebrated his victory in a triumphant procession. His marching soldiers were led by Acacius chariot, clothed in the white armor of a victor. His face could've been one to be carved in marble, stoic and upright, facing the great Palatin, where the Emperors would await him.

Geta and Caracalla - the twin-sons of Septimius Severus, Emperors of Rome. They stoof there in golden Armor like sun gods with their golden crowns on top of their short gingerblonde hair. Their unusual pale skin was a testament to their wealth as they could afford to stay out of the sun, which burns especially hot on summer days like this one, and of course on the battlefields in Africa, where Acatius' men had to fight against the rebellious Nubians. They awaited their victor with proud smiles on their lips, while Acacius' procession ended at the footsteps of the Emperor's palace. He walked the marble steps towards them, his long cloak moved in tact with his walk. He didn't look forward to see the faces of Rome's tyrants again, but they hadno idea.

Instead, he greeted them as he was used to. His hand on his chest, speaking the words.

"I greet you, my Emperors. Nubia is no more. I present a new victory to you, to the realm and to the Roman people."

With a proud look on their faces and a wide smile, the twins stepped forward. Emperor Geta hold the laurel wreath of victory in his hands and places it on top of Acacius' greying hair.

"And Rome rewards it's heroes with gratitude and admiration. We bow to your victories, General Acacius."

With those words, he offered him to turn around and face the celebrating crowd. Geta and Caracalla took their places at his side, giving him a moment of spotlight, applauded by the people, while they did benefit from it as well. Acatius was their general, their armored knight. Every victory he presented was another triumph for their own reign and power. After the earned celebration in front of the common folk, the Emperors and Acacius retreated inside, where servants quickly served them wine for a toast.

"Another great victory, you never disappoint us, dear Acatius," Geta expressed and hold his glass up for a toast, his brother Caracalla following the gesture. "To the glory of the Roman Empire".

"To the glory of your reign", Acacius lied and took a sip from his glass, trying to numb himself a bit with the taste of the alcohol. How he hated conversations with both of them.

" But don't get too comfy here, my brother and i were already discussing another campaign soon. You'll get everything you need, just tell us how many soldiers and ships and it will be granted," Geta explained, which left a bitter taste in Acacius mouth. His jaw clenched for a moment, while he tried everything not to show his distaste about another war campaign.

"Please forgive me, my Emperor, but isn't the realm big enough already? Rome has already difficulties to feed the people. Further expansion would-"

"They can eat war", Emperor Caracalla threw in with an almost diabotical grin, while Acacius got a warning eye from Geta. It was clear that his words weren't the ones both wanted to hear right now.

"Don't worry about things like that, Acacius. You're a military general, your job is to win battles - nothing more. Do you understand?"

"I understand," he answered, even though he hated to hear that he was reduced to this. He'd experienced war and peace alike and therefore he knew about the dangers of continuing this madness. Moments like this really let him question if those maniacs were of the same blood as Septimius Severus.

"But you're right, you've earned yourself at least a bit of rest - one or two weeks. Don't worry, we've taken care about the wellbeing of your family. They got everything they needed and more in our attempt to show our gratitude for your service to the throne. Speaking of which.... we expect you to join us for a great feast tonight - here in the palace. A party to celebrate your victory, it is accompanied by a couple of fights in the arena tomorrow," Geta explained joyfully, while Acatius tried to keep his mask up.

"I am incredibly honored, but would prefer to spend time with family after being away for such a long time."

"The Emperors show you their gratitude and you're insulting us. We expect you to come and you will come", Caracalla hissed with a sudden shift of tone, his eyes staring at Acacius in clear anger, while his brother placed his hand on his shoulder in an attempt to calm him down. But his staring eyes were warning Acatius once again.

"Of course, we don't just invite you, but your whole family. Bring your wife and... you have a daughter, if i'm not mistaken? We haven't had the pleasure of getting to know her yet, since you never brought her to any festivities. I am sure she will be delighted, if you don't plan on hiding her again."

Acacius stood there in silence, a reaction that made Caracalla burst out into laughter as if he'd just heard the funniest joke from his brother. The respected general didn't even look at him, why should he. Standing here in front of them should've been an honor, yet it felt like a disgrace. They were nothing but spoiled kids with the power of an empire in their hands. And now they even forced him to reveal his dear daughter to them. Something he tried to avoid for too long, knowing fully well about the debauchery and excessiveness of Geta and Caracalla.

"We're waiting for an answer, Acacius?", Caracalla purred with a wide grin on his pale face, revealing his gold tooth.

"It will be an honor to be your guest... together with my daughter."

_____________________________________________

You watched the face of your father sunken away in his thoughts, as you made made your way to the palace in a palanquin carried by a couple of slaves and protected by soldiers. The city was painted in darkness which made the palace seem like a temple with all the lights that welcomed you. It was an exciting moment for an upper-class lady to be a guest at the palace, especially for you, a woman that usually stayed away from the most parties. Not because you wanted to, but because it was an order from your father. You obeyed, yet it bothered you, even more when you'd reached the age of a young woman - the age in which it was expected from you to find a proper husband.

"Why are you so worried, father?", you finally managed to get off your lips, pulling Acacius out of the battle he fought in his head. He couldn't just tell you that he despised all of this and especially the Emperors himself as he couldn't be sure if someone outside this palanquin could hear him. So he simply took your hand and placed a soft and caring kiss on the ring that had been a present for your last name day.

"I guess I'm rather tired than worried. The parties in the palace are always quite excessive, music, dances, feasts... i just came back from the desert and now i have to enjoy all those things", he sighed and looked at you. "And i don't want to stay too long, especially not till the orgy starts. The servants will come and bring us home before that." And even you knew he would rather go and murder Dyonisos himself than allowing his daughter to stay and witness this.

All those words and yet you knew it wasn't everything.

"I'm glad that you take me with you this time. I've only known the imperial palace from afar," you confessed, while you straightened the long, blue dress you wore. It was decorated with all sorts of silver embroidery and jewelry, encapturing the stars and moon. Your long hair was styled by your servant Yanna into a high braid and finalized with a silver diadem. For the first time you really got the chance to make yourself so presentable that you almost felt like a princess. In the end, you were about to meet the Emperors which made it important to look like the woman you were - the daughter of a general. And you also presented his household tonight, because your mother felt sick tonight. She often suffered from migraine, which kept her a prisoner for days sometimes.

"You really look beautiful", your father said to you, it was honest, but there was a hint of worry in his eyes, which you still couldn't grasp. But there was no chance to take this conversation further as the palanquin stopped. Acacius got out first to help you out. He knew the way as it wasn't the first time for him to attent an official ceremony or party here. Through a long corridor you reached a large room with with an open access to the garden terrace facing the beautiful gardens. It was packed with people from the Roman upper-class, wealthy merchants, politicians and military officers, who were accompanied by their wives, sons and daughters. While they chatted and feasted on the large selection of delicious looking food, a group of musicians played their melodies to which professional dancers moved their bodies.

All those private parties at the homes of your friends seemed to vanish straight from your mind, nothing could be compared to what you were seeing now. It nearly took your breath away, while two royals were watching you from the other side of the room.

_____________________________________________

Geta and Caracalla were sitting on a higher ground, which was highly decorated with two golden chaise longues, cushions and velvet drapes. They were accompanied by a selected group of slaves, women and men, who were assigned to bring them anything they wanted, to do anything they wanted.

While Geta was in in a conversation with one of the senators, which clearly bored him according to his facial expressions, it was Caracalla, who noticed the new guest first, while he fed his little monkey Dondus a grape.

"Such a shame that he hid his daughter for so long. She is a gorgeous looking bird, don't you think? ", he whispered to his brother with a mischievous grin, patting his arm so that he would turn his attention to Acacius and you. Geta's eyes quickly went to you, admiring the way your dress hugged the shape of your curves.

"The gods must've sent us Venus herself to honor us with her presence," Geta answered, while an unreadable smile played on his lips. „No wonder our dear General is so protective of her. Is she already promised to someone?“

„Why do you ask me!?“ Caracalla snapped back, as if his brother didn’t know that he had a lot of spies around the city, who delivered him the newest gossip from the streets of Rome. With an annoyed eye roll, he leaned forward, adjusting the golden laurel wreath on his head. „No, she is a blank parchment. Probably untouched too.“

Geta still watched you with an intense interest as if you were a rare diamond, he needed to claim. But he was not the only one in this room, because Caracalla stared at his brother, noticing the way he looked at you. There it was again, the old melody. Whenever he wanted something, Geta wanted it too. They already shared the title of Emperors, their wealth, their whores… It was already something that cooked in him for a long time. But now he had an eye on you and wasn't happy about the fact that Geta might try to get you too.

Before he could even bring this thought to an end, his twin brother Geta already stood up from his chaise lounge and made his way through the crowd, the direction was clear. Caracalla's nose twitched in a mixture of nervousness and anger, and he got up quickly as well, not as gracefully as he wanted to, but he didn’t care. He had to tame the inner urge to backstab his brother before he could even reach you.

_____________________________________________

You still stood at the side of your father sipping on your first goblet of fine wine, while your eyes went over all the different guests and the excessive decor. Your father was sunken in a conversation with another general, Marcus Galbanus, an old friend and brother-in-arms of Acacius. But their conversation quickly stopped as soon as the Emperors approached them. Both your father and Marcus Galbanus lowered their heads and greeted them according to the etiquette, while you curtsied deep. This was the very first time you got the chance to meet the Emperor's of Rome Caracalla and Geta. And given the importance of those two figures, you even felt a little nervous.

"We almost feared you wouldn't show up to your own party, Acacius. But we're happy you made your way here... we already heard that your dear wife lays sick. Please, send her our best wishes. Nonetheless we would be delighted if you could introduce us to your company tonight", Geta demanded in a playful tone, knowing how much Acacius had tried to delay this. Caracalla stood at his side, his staring blue eyes drilled themselves into your appearence. Even though he was a man that had tasted a lot of men and women, one even more sensual than the other, your whole appearence, your face, your lips, your smile, everything - you reached a sentience in his mind that could only be gifted by the gods. The mere thought of having you infected his brain like a curse.

You could sense the tension that raised in your father as if everything in him resisted the situation. Yet he placed his hand softly on your shoulder and did as they wished. "This is my daughter, y/n..."

"I'm honoured to meet the Emperors of Rome", you said in a soft voice, earning you an appreciating smile by Geta and an unreadable grin of Caracalla.

"Oh the pleasure is on our side, my dearest. How do you like this Ceremony in honor of your father's victories?", Geta asked. But before you could even answer, his brother added, while he took another sip of his wine "Your father is a Roman hero through and through, isn't it right Acacius?" His tone had something else in it, almost as if it was some kind of mistrust. But you needed to ignore the irritation you felt and simply nodded.

"It is breathtaking. I've never witnessed something like this and it makes me incredible proud to see the gratitute he earned himself through the love he has for Rome and its people," you answered, trying to remind the Emperor's of Acacius loyality, which was undoubtful.

"Then you'll enjoy the ceremony in the arena tomorrow as well, i'm sure. Please, we invite your father and you to be our guests."

"I don't think that such entertainment is suited for a young woman of her status," your father suddenly interfered in a calm yet set tone, only earning the laugh of Caracalla. "Let your daughter decide for herself, General."

The atmosphere shifted to an unspoken intensity. You could sense your father's worries and given all what you've heard from the colosseum, you didn't really think of it as something worth to witness. Seeing people die in such a terrible way only for the pleasures of the masses seemed like a farce. Acacius always called it the most needless form of brutality amongst humans, he despised this himself and therefore avoided going into the arena whenever he could. But you also read the eyes of Geta and his brother, who waited for your answer and would not accept a simple 'No'.

"It would be an honour," you answered, and Geta leaned forward a bit, which made your father's jaw clench in anger. Not because of your answer, he was aware that a choice was not existing, when facing an Emperor, but because the way the twins looked at you as if you were a price they could simply claim. But you were a smart girl and definitely not naive, so he fully relied on that.

"So this is a 'Yes'?", Geta asked again and you looked him straight in the eyes, not backing off. "Yes."

"Excellent!", Caracalla shouted and clapped into his hands. "We'll have a lot of fun tomorrow."

The corners of Geta's mouth twitched to a smile and he nodded in response to his twin. Yet he hid his displeasure of having him as a rival in this little game. It was clear that Caracalla had layed his eyes on you too, but he won't allow him to simply take and fuck you like you were a common whore. Maybe you could've potential for something more and strenghten his position as well as his popularity. Because both Emperors were still unmarried - and it was expected from them that this would change sooner or later.

[jjjjisun]

Haerin getting facefucked and taking a load on her face/tits

Haerin, The Cat Slut

Haerin X Male Reader | 2515 words

Tags: gangbang, facefucking

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Haerin paced the length of her cramped studio apartment, her breaths echoing in the silent room. The dim glow of the streetlight poured in through the window, casting long shadows that danced with her movements. She was down to her last few thousand won, her group's legal battle draining her faster than she could replenish them, as if she had other means to get money. Her heart ached at the thought of disappointing her fans and being another K-pop idol labeled as a failure.

She paused by the window, her reflection staring back at her. Wide doe eyes, upturned nose, and full lips - the cat-like features that had once landed her in the spotlight now seemed like a cruel joke. She knew what she had to do. Desperation clawed at her, but she pushed the fear aside, steeling herself for the only option.

Mr. Jae's office was bathed in the warm glow of sunset, the expansive view of Seoul reduced to a canvas of oranges and reds. He looked up from his desk as she entered, his eyes lingering on her lean form. He was a formidable figure, his age etched in the lines around his eyes, but his gaze was sharp, appraising.

"You wanted to see me, Mr. Jae?" Haerin asked, her voice steady despite the butterflies wreaking havoc in her stomach.

He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin. "I hear your group is in trouble, Haerin. Money trouble."

She bit her lip, nodding. "Yes, sir. We're facing some... legal issues."

He smirked, standing up and rounding his desk. "Issues that can be solved with money."

She took a deep breath, and her decision was made. "I have something to offer you, Mr. Jae. Something that might... interest you."

He raised an eyebrow, stopping in front of her. His scent enveloped her, a heady mix of expensive cologne and power. "Oh? What could you possibly have to offer me, Haerin?"

She tilted her head up, meeting his gaze. "Myself."

---

Mr. Jae's eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering across his face before quickly schooling his expression. He reached out, his thumb tracing her bottom lip. "You're offering to be my mistress?"

Haerin swallowed hard, the question making the reality of her situation sink in. "Yes," she whispered.

He chuckled, low and dangerous. "You're bold, I'll give you that." His hand slipped around her waist, pulling her against him. "But I'm not interested in just fucking you, Haerin. I want to own you."

Her breath hitched as his hand moved to her ass, squeezing hard. He leaned down, his breath hot on her ear. "I want to fuck that sweet little mouth of yours. I want to feel your tight pussy wrapped around my cock."

A shudder ran through her, his words painting vivid images in her mind.

"Well?" he asked, nipping at her earlobe. "Can you handle that, Haerin?"

She hesitated, then nodded. "Yes," she breathed, her voice barely audible.

He grinned, his tongue flicking out to lick her neck. "Good. Then I think we have a deal."

---

The terms were hashed out quickly, and a contract was drawn up and signed before the night was through. Mr. Jae's servants brought her a change of clothes, and she followed them to a luxurious apartment, her mind racing. She was awake, she told herself. This was her choice.

But as Mr. Jae led her to his bedroom, she couldn't shake off the nerves. He was a powerful, strange man who had just bought her like property. And now, she was expected to serve him, to give herself over to his will.

He undressed her slowly, his fingers trailing over her skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps. She stood still, letting him explore her body, her heart pounding in her chest. When she was naked, he导 her to the bed, pushing her down until she was sprawled on her back.

He loomed over her, his eyes dark with lust. "Spread your legs, Haerin," he commanded, his voice rough.

She complied, her breath hitching as he looked his fill. He crawled onto the bed, settling between her thighs. His hands roamed her body, pinching her nipples, caressing her breasts, until she was writhing beneath him.

"Please," she gasped, her body aching for release.

He chuckled, his fingers trailing down her stomach, stopping just short of her pussy. "Please, what, Haerin?"

"Please touch me," she whispered, her cheeks flushing red.

He obliged, his fingers strumming her clit, slipping inside her, pushing her closer and closer to the edge. She moaned, her hips lifting off the bed, seeking more friction. He took advantage, his mouth descending on her, his tongue flicking out to lick her, to taste her.

She cried out, her orgasm hitting her hard, her body convulsing as he continued to lick her, drawing out her climax until she was a panting, quivering mess. When she finally came down, she found him watching her, his eyes filled with a hungry, possessive gleam.

"Good," he said, his voice hoarse. "That's just the beginning, Haerin. With me, you'll learn to come on command. You'll learn to crave my touch. You'll learn to obey."

She nodded, her body already humming with anticipation. She had made her choice. Now, she just had to learn to live with it.

Saturday was an oppressive cloud hanging over Haerin all week. She counted down the hours and minutes until she was to belong to Mr. Jae again. Yet, as she stood before his penthouse door, her heart pounding like a timid rabbit, she knew there was no turning back. She had made her choice.

Mr. Jae answered the door himself, his gaze sweeping over her, lingering on the black dress that hugged her curves. His lips curled into a satisfied smirk. "Right on time, Haerin. I like punctuality."

She followed him inside, her heels clicking against the marble floor. The penthouse was a symphony of luxury, but she barely noticed, focusing solely on the man leading her to the dining room. A table set for two dominated the space, the scent of expensive food wafting through the air.

They ate silently, Mr. Jae watching her every move, every mouthful. She could feel his predatory gaze, anticipating the moment they would move from the pretense of a meal to the real purpose of her visit.

When her last bite was taken, he pushed his chair back and stood. "Finished?"

She nodded, her throat suddenly dry. He held out his hand, his palm facing up. "Come, Haerin. Let's begin."

She placed her hand in his and let him tug her to her feet. His grip was firm and unyielding as he led her to the bedroom. A king-sized bed dominated the space, and the sheets were pristine and inviting—or they would have been, had she not known what was to come.

He turned to face her, his eyes dark with desire. "I've been looking forward to this all week, Haerin. I hope you have too."

She took a deep breath, steeling herself. "I'm ready."

A cruel smile graced his lips. "Good. Let's see how ready you are." He pushed her down onto the bed, his hands going to his belt, his pants falling to the floor. His cock sprang out, thick and hard, an intimidating eight inches.

Her eyes widened, her heart hammering in her chest. "Mr. Jae—"

"Shh," he hushed, climbing onto the bed, his knees straddling her shoulders. "You said you were ready. Prove it."

She opened her mouth, an automatic response, but he wasn't gentle. He thrust in, his cock hitting the back of her throat, making her gag. He didn't pull back, instead withdrawing just enough for her to catch her breath before thrusting in again.

Tears stung her eyes as he face-fucked her, his cock sliding in and out, choking her again and again. She could feel the saliva dripping down her chin, her face a mess of tears and drool. He took her mercilessly, ruthlessly, not caring if she choked, if she gasped for breath.

"Fuck, you're so tight," he grunted, his hips moving faster, his cock pounding into her mouth. "You're my little cat slut, aren't you, Haerin? Your only purpose is to make me come."

She wanted to deny it, to tell him she was more than just a piece of ass, but all she could do was gag, her body writhing beneath him as he used her mouth, her throat, taking what he wanted. And still, he didn't stop.

For an hour, he fucked her face, his cock a relentless intruder, his groans filling the room. She thought she would suffocate, thought she would die on his cock, but still, he didn't stop. And then, finally, when she felt she couldn't take anymore, he pulled out, his cock aimed at her face.

"Here it comes, cat slut," he growled, his voice strained. "I'm going to mark you as mine."

Warmspurts of cum hit her, landing on her cheeks, her nose, her tits. She gasped, her body convulsing with a backward orgasm, her climax catching her by surprise. He grunted, milking his cock until the last drop fell on her skin.

"There," he panted, looking down at her ravaged face with a satisfied smirk. "That's the price of pleasure, Haerin. And you're just getting started."

She lay there, cum-covered and used, her body aching, her throat sore. But as she looked up at him, she realized she wasn't just a transaction to him. He wanted her, desired her, perhaps even more than he wanted to control her.

-----

Haerin arrived at Mr. Jae's penthouse, her heart pounding steadily against her ribs. She knew what awaited her, yet the usual dread was replaced with a strange anticipation. The day before, Mr. Jae had sent a message, a simple arrangement for a special service, sending ripples of excitement and trepidation through her. She had never done anything like this, but the promise of increased payment had sealed her decision.

The door opened to Mr. Jinwoo, her former manager. His eyes rake over her in a way that makes her skin crawl. Behind him stand four of her former bodyguards, their gazes equally predatory. She stepped inside, her head held high, refusing to show the unease coiling in her stomach.

Mr. Jae was already there, his smile cold and calculating. "Ah, Haerin, punctual as always. Today, we have some guests. They're eager to... catch up with you." He gestured to the men behind him, their grins predatory.

She swallowed hard, but her voice was steady. "I'm ready."

Mr. Jae's grin widened, and he snapped his fingers. "Good. Let's begin."

They led her to the bedroom, her feet moving on autopilot. She was stripped, her clothes discarded, until she stood naked before them. Mr. Jae pushed her down onto the bed, her back against the mattress, her legs dangling over the side.

"Spread your legs, Haerin," he ordered, and she complied, her thighs shaking. He stood between them, his cock already hard, ready. "Today, you're going to be our little slut. You're going to take everything we give you, right?"

She nodded, her voice barely a whisper. "Yes."

Mr. Jae's grin was feral as he fisted his cock, slapping it against her lips. "Then open up, cat slut. It's time for your face-fucking."

She opened her mouth, and he slipped inside, his groans filling the room as he thrust in and out, his hips moving in a relentless rhythm. She gagged, her tears flowing freely as he fucked her mouth, his cock hitting the back of her throat again and again.

"This is what you are, Haerin," he grunted, his voice rough. "A slut for cock. My slut."

Behind him, she could see Mr. Jinwoo. He unzipped his pants, his cock springing out, thick and veiny. He climbed onto the bed, his body pressing against her hip as he lined his cock up with her pussy.

"Look at you, taking two cocks like a good little whore," he sneered, guiding his cock into her pussy. She gasped, the sensation of being filled in two places overwhelming as he started to move, his hips slapping against her thighs.

She could feel a third body behind her, the click of a lube cap filling the room. Fingers worked into her ass, scissoring, stretching her. Then, a cock, thick and unyielding, pushing inside, filling her. She moaned, the sensation of being stretched to the limit, of being filled, almost too much to bear.

Two more bodies joined, one on each side of her, their cocks in her hands. They pumped their hips, using her hands, fucking them relentlessly as they groaned and grunted.

In the background, she could hear the muffled sounds of porn, the rhythmic slapping of skin on skin. She looked over, her eyes widening as she saw one of the bodyguards, his cock in his hand, his phone filming the scene, its light blinding in the dimly lit room.

"For hours, we're going to use you, Haerin," Mr. Jae growled, his hips moving faster, his cock pistoning in and out of her mouth. "We're going to fill you with our cum. And then, we're going to share this video with your little group members. They can see how you've become our little cum-dumpster."

She whimpered, the thought of the other members seeing her like this, of their disgust, their judgment, pushing her closer to the edge. She could feel her orgasm building, the intense pleasure of being used, of being filled, impossible to ignore.

"Fuck, she's going to come," Mr. Jinwoo grunted, his cock slamming into her pussy, picking up the pace. "She's fucking loving this."

She did. The shame, the degradation, the intense pleasure, all mixed, pushing her over the edge. She screamed around Mr. Jae's cock, her body convulsing as she came, her orgasm ripping through her like a storm.

Mr. Jae came next, his cock throbbing in her mouth, his cum filling her, spilling out the sides of her mouth. He pulled out, his cum dripping down her chin, and she automatically licked her lips, tasting him, savoring him.

One by one, the others came, filling her pussy, her ass, her hands with their cum. They pulled out, their cocks glistening, and she could feel the semen dripping from her, coating her, marking her.

She was a mess, a cum-covered slut, used, filled, and claimed. And as they all stood there, catching their breath, their laughter filled the room.

Hours later, the room was filled with moans, grunts, slapping skin, and her screams muffled by the gag. It was a symphony of lust, a ballet of debauchery. They used and filled in all her holes.

"That's our little kitty kang," Mr. Jae chuckled, his hand gentle on her face. "Always coming back for more."

She smiled, exhausted and sated. As she looked at the video being sent to her group members, she knew this was just the beginning. This was her new reality, her new life. And despite the shame and degradation, she couldn't wait for more.

[aamircoeur]

just distressed (not a damsel) - ultraman, ken sato.

getting familiar with your robot-like saviour after his nth time of saving your life.

PART 2.

cw: brief mention of bl00d. sfw, female reader. UNEDITED

"hello again, little ma'am." the huge character looked down on you, his glowing eyes acting as a spotlight as he held you on his palms. a purple-colored, lizard-like kaiju had destroyed the top of the apartment building that you were staying at, and luckily, ultraman was there to save you.

only for, like, the sixth time this month.

"not causing trouble again, are you?" ultraman teased, and you just rolled your eyes, making the being laugh.

the first time was when you were on your first (and after that incident, also the last) date with a guy you met at a bar. he took you to sumida river for some sight-seeing, and a kaiju appeared from underneath the waters, targeting those who were at the bridge. out of fright, the people screamed and scattered like ants, including your date who left you to flee for his own safety.

upset, you took a moment to process the happenings around you while you stared at the back of the guy as he ran. without noticing, the kaiju creeped from behind you in an attempt to catch you off-guard and eat you for its lunch (you assumed). fortunately, ultraman was there in the nick of time, blasting the kaiju with his powers that came from the moon or something, you thought. you really didn't understand how he or his powers worked, and you really couldn't bother learning either.

being the only person to stay on the bridge, ultraman approached you after sending the kaiju back to where it emerged from. "uhm, hi," he said, looking down on you as he was wiping debris off of his shoulder. "you okay?" he tilted his head.

"yes, i am. thank you!" you shouted at him, hands cupped to both sides of your cheeks.

he nodded. "okay, get home safe, little ma'am." he said before walking away. you looked at him as he made his way through the water. you thought about the weird nickname and shrugged, thinking that everyone must be little to him when he's that big.

upon arriving home at your apartment, you saw a series of messages of apologies and excuses from the guy you went on a date with. you scoffed and blocked him without responding.

the second time that you were saved by ultraman was when you unfortunately got in the crossfire between him and a kaiju that looked like a dinosaur. you were underneath a separated car door after trying to run to safety, your left leg and forehead dripping with blood, and you were too light-headed from the blood loss to help yourself out of your current position.

after the shaking of the ground has stopped, assuming that the battle has ended, you opened your eyes only to reveal that everything was blurry. an elderly woman was crouched in front of you, slightly tapping your face before wiping the blood off of your forehead. "oh, you poor thing," she said. a tear made its way across your cheek, finally feeling the pain after the numbness had faded away. "you'll be okay," the woman said before standing up and walking into the middle of the street, and it was the last thing you saw before passing out.

the elderly woman had called for ultraman, waving her arms out as high as she could. seeing her from a few streets over, ultraman rushed to her, careful with his steps to avoid stepping on a car. "hello! is something the matter?" ultraman greeted.

"here, here!" the woman called and led her to where you were. shocked, ultraman knelt down and lifted the car door, placing it down on the sidewalk before scooping you up into his palms. "poor girl has been bleeding since i saw her." she added, her hands cupped together, worriedness heard in her voice. "if you rush, we might save her!" she exclaimed.

ultraman nodded and stood up on his feet, slowly moving covering you with his other hand. "thank you, madame. please, go home to where you'll be safe." he said before flying off.

hearing a constant beep woke you up from the hospital bed that you stayed in. you squinted your eyes as you adjusted to the light on the ceiling, you then saw your right leg with a cast. groaning, you took a deep breath before looking around more. there was a desk beside you with a folded piece of paper.

you reached for it and unfolded it, and there was a note in blue ink that said, "the bills have been covered. please, get well soon."

the third time of being saved by ultraman was when a kaiju attack has been reported near you once again and ultraman took you to safety via his palm because you couldn't walk properly with your cast.

by the fourth time, you simply greeted the character with a simple hello despite having yet another kaiju attack near you. ultraman greeted you back, laughing after realizing that he was getting used to seeing you when there's a kaiju attack and saying, "hello, little ma'am."

for the fifth time, you were in a restaurant for dinner that had unfortunately caught on fire because of a flame-spitting kaiju. although you had the opportunity to leave early the moment smoke was seen to guarantee your safety, you helped every person you could to leave the restaurant instead before helping the staff control the growing fire.

the fire department in the city was handling the fire in a hospital which led to their lateness in handling the one in the restaurant you were staying at. fortunately, the five million meters tall (your exaggeration) superhero was there, helping the humans put out the fire and successfully doing so.

as the staff were being interviewed by news reporters, you went on your way to a different restaurant instead to continue your dinner. a few streets down from where the restaurant was, you walked downtown to where the road was quiet and empty, and you just casually bumped into ultraman.

by casually, you meant that he almost stepped on you after not looking before taking a sharp turn. "woah there!" the huge being exclaimed, his robotic voice echoing throughout the evening. you had your hands in the pockets of your jacket as you looked up at him.

"wait, i know you." he said before going down on his knees and lowering his body to take a better look at you. "little ma'am!" he exclaimed, his bright eyes widening.

you squinted your eyes at the brightness and smiled sheepishly. "hey, ultraman."

ultraman sat up and held out his palm for you, which you accepted. you stepped on his finger before making your way towards his palm, and he then lifted you up before holding you in front of him as he looked at you.

"what brings you here?" you asked, crossing your legs on his palm, making yourself comfortable.

he let out a small chuckle at how used you were to stay on his palms. "uh, fire, in the uptown," he explained. your eyes widened as your eyebrows lifted. "woah, were you there?" he asked, worried.

you nodded. "yeah, i was supposed to have dinner but then the ceiling started burning. i tried to help some elderly people to head outside." you explained.

ultraman smiled down at you, happiness obvious in his robotic facial expression. "you've helped greatly." he said.

you laughed and swatted your hands in front of him. "nah, the cook and waitresses helped control the fire before you got there." you said.

"no way," ultraman shook his head. "don't undermine what you've done, because you've done great. i never would've dumped the bucket of water if i had known that there were people inside, and it would have been hard for me to help them out with my big size." he said. "really, thank you for the help."

you just smiled at him and scoffed playfully. "just another day for a super human," you joked.

you and him shared a laugh and continued your talk. "so, what're you gonna do now?" he asked you, now leaning on the office building behind him as he got more comfortable throughout the conversation.

"ah, i wanted to continue my dinner, but there's this big bug that just wouldn't stop pestering me," you joked, referring to him which made him drop his jaw playfully as if he was offended.

the two of you laughed. "what about you?" you asked.

ultraman tilted his head to the side and rested it on his shoulder. "oh, man, i am beat. i might nap for weeks after tonight, so i'm leaving the city-saving to the new superhero called "little lady". ever heard of her?" ultraman said.

"nah, never. she sounds cool though, probably pretty with big muscles, i assume?" you rode along with his joke, making him laugh.

"oh, yeah, definitely. really pretty thing," he said casually.

your laughter halted upon hearing what he said, making your cheeks and ears flush at the compliment. when he finally realized the words that came out of his mouth, ultraman fixed his posture and stuttered an excuse. you laughed and patted his palm. "don't worry, hypnotizing people to make 'em think i'm good-looking is part of my one hundred and three superpowers."

ultraman let out a hearty laugh at this, making your stomach warm by hearing it. "yeah? better get started to knowing each one."

you smiled at him and took a deep breath. your conversation had finally stopped, the two of you thinking about your own things. after a few more small talk, ultraman had decided to call it a night to let his body rest after the fight with the kaiju. you agreed and he let you down from his palm before standing up to his height that surpassed the building's.

"also, if you want dinner, tonkatsu tonki is the place to go." he said before waving off and flying off.

and the sixth time was now. "hey." you greeted, a tired expression visible on your face.

"always in the centre of the tornado, huh, little ma'am?" he said as he had you in his palms once more, walking you towards the evacuation center.

"lucky me," you sarcastically said.

"lucky you, my personal damsel in distress." he echoed you jokingly.

you rolled your eyes.

taglist: @ttulipwritezz @c-losur3 @saeyari @luvly-writer

[melanchoire]

I just read your “killer” story with yujin and Karina and omg you’re an amazing writer; the detail and descriptive sting you use makes it so much more immersive!(which I love). I was wondering if I could resist a Ryujin x yeji x reader nsfw fic?

BEHIND THE CAMERA, BESIDE THEM ──── hwang yeji & shin ryujin

── ( 💜 ) from debut until now, the fans have adored your unbreakable connection with yeji and ryujin — little do they know, the true chemistry burns brightest when the cameras are off, and the line between platonic friendship and something intoxicatingly taboo begins to blur with every lingering touch and unspoken desire.

pairing. soft dom!yeji x sub!6th member!fem reader x mean dom!ryujin

warning(s). bitting, cunnilingus, degradation, fingering, making out, pet names, spanking, use of strap—on (and refer to it as a dick like once or twice).

word count. 7,0k

author's note. this took SO LONG but it’s finally here 🙌🏻

the weight of the stage lights always felt heavier than they were, the heat radiating down onto your skin as you took your place. years of training, grueling schedules, and the endless push for perfection had led you here, to the gleaming spotlight of your dream. you were finally part of itzy, a name that echoed with power and precision, a group of six distinct individuals bound together by a shared ambition. and yet, even amidst the rush of adrenaline and the cacophony of cheers, a current of uneasiness would sometimes simmer beneath the surface.

before debut, the connections were different. you’d known the other girls as trainees, shared countless hours in the practice room, but outside those walls, your lives had diverged. you existed in a parallel world outside the company. studies, a part–time job to help your family, those things claimed you when you weren’t under the fluorescent lights of the practice rooms.

you knew the others, yes, but true closeness had been a gradual bloom. it was strange how you gravitated towards yeji and ryujin. yeji, the ever–composed leader, and ryujin, with her effortless cool, were magnets in their own right. you, caught in their orbit, discovered a peculiar resonance. you were the same age as ryujin, and maybe that's why you got along better, but the thing you had with yeji was different. lia and chaeryeong, despite being the same age as yeji and ryujin, respectively, seemed to have their own established dynamic, one that didn’t quite include you.

initially, it hadn’t been romantic at all. you’d just clicked, your conversations flowing easily, a shared understanding forming with each passing day. while you enjoyed the company of all your members, the connection with the other two felt like a shared language, a comfort in the intensity of your demanding schedules. but the fans noticed, and they were very, very good at turning everything into a ship. at first, the pairing of yeji and ryujin seemed normal, the dynamic of the charismatic leader and the playful one playing out naturally on screen. but then, you were pulled into their orbit.

it started small, casual touches, a hand lingering a moment too long on your arm, an extra squeeze during a group hug. soon, it escalated. it was in the moments where you were all on stage, the girls being touchy with you, and you tried to focus on your performance, but the warmth of their skin next to yours kept distracting you.

and that’s how things started to blur, how the fans began to weave stories around the three of you. the others had their established pairings, lia and yuna, and chaeryeong with anyone she decided to joke with. but the dynamic with you, yeji, and ryujin had another flavor. when the fandom’s “two main characters” started to include you in their interactions, your ship quickly became a love triangle. a particularly dramatic one.

the studio choom set was a stark white canvas, the neon purple lights casting long, dramatic shadows. the air crackled with the energy of their performance, a showcase of fierce precision and undeniable chemistry that left you breathless. yeji and ryujin looked like visions, their dark makeup accentuating their sharp features, the black eyeliner and dark lipstick giving them an almost dangerous allure. the grey–blue tank top and pants on yeji clung to her lean frame, while ryujin’s military green outfit mirrored the same edgy aesthetic. even their hair, straight and with blunt bangs, had the same sinister and powerful vibe. the air crackled with their combined energy, the kind that made your stomach flip even if you weren’t the one performing. the staff milled around, capturing the behind–the–scenes moments, the casual banter, the stolen glances.

you watched, a quiet observer, as they posed for photos. their lean figures outlined by the vivid light. the camera zoomed in, capturing their raw, untamed aura. you felt a slight pang of jealousy, a feeling you were trying to understand. then, suddenly, they turned, their eyes locking onto you.

“come here.” ryujin had said, the command half–teasing, half–serious. before you could react, they were flanking you. suddenly, you were the center of their attention, the cool steel of their gazes pressing in on you. you were pulled between them, ryujin’s arm snaking around your waist and yeji’s hand settling heavily on your shoulder.

“like this.” yeji murmured, her voice low. you felt the heat of her body pressed against yours, the ghost of her fingers grazing your shoulder. ryujin’s hand squeezed your arm, a subtle possessiveness that made the hair on the back of your neck tingle. the cameras clicked, capturing the tableau of light and shadow, the intensity of the three of you. it was like being caught between two forces, a dynamic you weren’t entirely sure how to understand. the fans did, of course. they were quick to interpret the images, calling yeji and ryujin your “devil twins”, with you in the middle, like a prized possession.

the red carpet of the awards ceremony was another battlefield. the photographers’ flashes were relentless, a sea of light that highlighted every detail of your carefully curated outfits. lia, chaeryeong, and yuna had created a moment for the cameras, their playful half–hearts a display of their affection. you remember feeling a pang of fondness as you watched them, their laughter a light melody in the chaos. then, yeji and ryujin entered the fray.

then, you felt the familiar tug on your arm, breaking your gaze. you turned to find yeji, her eyes alight with mischief. she moved smoothly, her arm looping around your shoulders from behind, her other hand reaching across your chest to meet the other on your shoulder. her touch was warm, possessive, her fingers brushing against your neck sending a shiver down your spine — at the same time, ryujin mirrored her actions, her arm low on your waist, hands settling on your hips, her fingers pressing into your side. the sudden contact made you catch your breath. and you didn’t know what to do, if you should move away, laugh about it, play along, or keep staring blankly at the camera.

before you could even process their actions, they were both pressing closer, surrounding you in a cage of their affection. you could feel the heat radiating from them, their gazes intense on your face. both girls were like predators marking their territory, each touch a bold statement. you felt caught in the middle, your arms hanging uselessly at your sides, your expression a mixture of confusion and bemusement.

the cameras continued to gleam. you could see the surprised looks from some of the cameramen and paparazzi, but they had gotten used to you and your group’s antics. but you, you felt trapped, almost suffocated by the sudden intimacy. you were always the one to take the back seat, letting others have their time and space, so this was a new experience for you.

you could smell their perfumes, a fragrant mix of floral and musk, and you felt lightheaded. it was a whirlwind of flashing lights, soft touches, and a dizzying sense of being watched. the contrast between your stunned silence and their bold affection was the perfect fodder for fan speculation, the love triangle becoming a headline.

the next thing you knew, yeji and ryujin were turning their heads slightly, puckering their lips towards your cheeks. you could feel the soft touch of their lips against your skin, the briefest of kisses that set your heart racing. your hands moved without you wanting to, rising to your chest, unsure of whether to push them away or just… let it happen. your face, no doubt, was a mirror of your internal turmoil, a mix of confusion and something akin to exhilaration. how could you have gotten here? how had you and your friends gotten to the point where you were the center of a love triangle? you knew their actions were meant to excite the fans, to start new rumors, but was it really like that? or were they playing a game that you weren’t aware of?

the fans were ecstatic by the pictures. they were quick to comment on the interactions, calling you out for being oblivious to the situation, but they didn’t know that you were trying to figure it all out. you were never one for romantic relationships, you never had time for them between school, work and now training to be an idol. snd now, you had these two girls, full of chaos and affection for you, and you didn’t know what to do.

after the event, when you got back to the dorms, you found yeji and ryujin already on the couch, waiting for you. yeji patted the space next to her, while ryujin just looked at you, with those familiar eyes you couldn’t place, the ones that gave you chills and made your heart race.

“you did good out there. you looked pretty on the red carpet. also, you performed amazing on stage, leather suits you well.” yeji said, her voice soft, contrasting with the playfulness she had shown earlier. ryujin hummed in agreement, her gaze never leaving your face.

“you were really cute.” this time it was her, a smirk playing at the corner of her lips. you sat in between them, feeling their eyes on your face. you tried your best to not react to them, afraid that you might give the other members some ideas.

“you guys were too.” you replied, your voice a tad shaky. you were always trying to be the mature one, the one to follow the rules, but at this point you found yourself wanting to lose yourself in their games.

they just smiled at you, and you knew, in that moment, that this was not going to end anytime soon…

summer is here and that means vacations finally, but do you know what that also means? having to work during the holidays… the company definitely wouldn’t let any of you have a proper break during the holidays that you have after an exhausting year working in the music industry. of course, what could be better than creating a new show and spending all the time filming your life during the time you have to rest from the exhausting schedule of an idol?

the van hums, a low thrum against the backdrop of los angeles traffic. you hold the selfie stick, the camera lens capturing the three of you in its frame. the bright californian sun streams in, illuminating the happy chaos unfolding around you. you adjust the angle, wanting to make sure everyone is visible. yeji, ever the composed leader, sits to your right, her smile serene and radiant. to your left, ryujin leans close, her chin resting on your shoulder.

“hi, midzy! we’re on our way to the hotel, and we’re so excited to show you all of LA!” you spoke, voice bright and enthusiastic, even though you felt a little self–conscious talking to a lens.

“you look good between the two of us.” ryujin murmurs, she murmured, a smirk playing on her lips as she hummed, her breath warm against your skin. you feel her warm breath on your neck, a ticklish sensation that sends a startled blush rushing to your cheeks. she hums, a low, contented sound, and her face slips further into the crook of your neck, her soft hair brushing against your skin. you could feel your heart pounding a little faster than normal.

your breath catches. this is… a lot. the camera is still rolling, the red light a glaring reminder that thousands of midzy will be watching this later. you steal a glance at yeji, hoping for some kind of intervention, some guidance, but she’s just smiling, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

yeji, noticing your surprised expression and the blush creeping up your neck, chuckled lightly. “ryujin!” yeji exclaims, her voice laced with mock exasperation, “she looks good with us hugging her, not just between us. you’re making it sound like she’s a sandwich.” yeji reaches over, pulling you into a gentle hug. “see? like this.” she says, pressing a soft kiss on the crown of your head. her head rests against yours, a comfortable weight. for a moment, the chaos swirling around you fades away, replaced by the warmth of her presence.

you manage a weak smile, feeling the heat rising in your cheeks. you look back to ryujin and she raises an eyebrow at the camera, a subtle arch that speaks volumes. it’s a look that says “i know what i’m doing” and you swear, for a split second, you see a glint of mischief in her eyes. you quickly refocus your attention on the camera. “we’re almost at the hotel! can’t wait to see what surprises LA has in store for us.”

you tried your very best to avoid eye contact with her, but it was impossible, you felt her stare penetrating you. you cleared your throat and shifted the camera slightly to a better angle of all three of you.

“yeah, we’re having a blast already!” you added, forcing a wide smile, hoping the camera wouldn’t pick up on your inner turmoil. ryujin simply snickered.

later, after the whirlwind of unpacking and settling into your rooms, the six of you gather by the hotel pool. the california sun is setting, casting a warm, golden glow over the water. lia and yuna are already engaged in a water fight, their laughter echoing around the pool deck. chaeryeong, perched on the edge of a sun lounger, watches them with amusement, occasionally chiming in with a teasing comment.

you take this opportunity to record a solo segment for the vlog. adjusting the camera to selfie mode, holding the camera up in front of you, you talk directly to the lens. “hey midzy!, as you can see, we’ve arrived at the hotel and everything is so amazing! the pool here is so nice and everyone is already having fun! it’s so warm and the sun feels amazing…” you continued, speaking to the camera as if you were having a one–on–one conversation with each and every one of your fans, sharing your excitement and happiness.

suddenly, you felt warm arms wrap around your torso from behind. yeji, with a mischievous grin, was attempting to lift you up, trying to throw you in the pool. you braced yourself, digging your heels into the ground. “yah! yeji unnie, no!” you exclaimed, giggling as you struggled against her.

“let’s go swimming!” yeji exclaims, her voice full of playful energy.

you put up a resistance, gripping the edge of the pool deck as yeji tries to pull you forward. “yeji, no! i don’t want to get my hair wet!” you laugh, struggling against her surprisingly strong grip.

“just a little dip.” she teased, her voice laced with playful menace. her attempts at picking you up weren’t very successful, to say the least. “ryujin, help me!” yeji yells, desperation creeping into her voice. you’re momentarily distracted by her plea, which gives her the necessary moment to push you.

before you can react, a pair of hands grips your thighs from under the water, pulling you downwards. you gasp, the shock of the cold water stealing your breath. you don’t even remember seeing ryujin go in the water. you saw her go in some moments ago, when yuna started the underwater breath–holding contest, (which yuna lost almost immediately), but how could she have stayed under for so long? it had honestly slipped your mind that she was still in there with how much time passed. you’re certain that she didn’t even come up for air after she went in.

a surprised yelp escaped your lips as you felt yourself being pulled downwards. you could practically hear yeji laughing as she was using this help as an opportunity to push you from behind, pushing herself into the water along with you. you hit the water with a splash, the shock temporarily taking your breath away.

you surfaced coughing lightly, your hair plastered to your face as you grabbed onto ryujin’s shoulders for support. her dark hair clung to her forehead, beads of water glistening against her skin. she offered you a dazzling grin, her hand moving to brush the wet strands of hair away from your face, brushing your sopping wet strands away from your eyes, and you feel her fingers graze your temple, a fleeting touch that sends a shiver down your spine. you found yourself caught in her gaze, the familiar spark in her eyes sending shivers down your spine.

behind you, yeji is laughing, the sound of a melodic chuckle that resonates through the water. “you look like a wet cat!” she teases, her hands resting on your hips, keeping you steady.

ryujin’s hands move to your waist, her fingers gently squeezing your skin. “a very cute wet cat, i must admit.” she shoots you a wink and a playful smirk.

you’re surrounded. yeji’s hands on your hips, ryujin’s hands on your waist, and you find yourself thanking the universe for the fact that you're underwater. the blush that you feel rising in your cheeks would be enough to rival the brightest sunset. you suddenly hope that none of the other cameras are recording this moment, otherwise you would have to invent a new name for the shade of red that will be shown on your face.

“you two are going to be the death of me.” you manage to whisper, your voice hoarse from the water, and the adrenaline from your sudden plunge.

“oh, we’re just getting started.” ryujin replies, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

yeji simply smiles, her eyes locking with ryujin’s for a brief moment, before turning her attention back to you. “you know you love it.” she says, her voice a soft murmur that sends another shiver through you. and despite the chaos, the teasing, the unexpected plunge into the pool, you can’t help but smile. maybe, just maybe, you do.

you glanced down at your now slightly wet camera, feeling relieved that the company provided waterproof equipment. trying to keep your voice steady despite your racing heart, you turned the camera back to face you.

“well, i guess i’m in the pool now! this is my punishment for talking too much!” you exclaimed with a forced laugh, your eyes darting between yeji and ryujin. you tried to move your body to get out of their reach and find some space, but you were tightly trapped in the middle of both of them.

“it’s okay, we’ll keep you company.” ryujin said, her voice a low murmur as she moved closer, her arm wrapping around your waist, bringing you closer to herself.

“yeah, it’s not like you can go anywhere now, are you?” yeji added, her voice full of teasing playfulness, tightening her grip around you.

you felt your heart leap into your throat as you looked between them, your voice catching in your throat. “i… i guess not.” you replied, a nervous laugh escaping your lips. you suddenly became very aware of the closeness of their bodies, their warmth radiating and surrounding you. you swallowed thickly, the rapid pace of your heartbeat was almost deafening.

“we’ll make sure you don’t get lonely.” ryujin whispered, her lips dangerously close to your ear. her touch sent a jolt through you, causing your cheeks to flame even more.

“oh we definitely will.” yeji added, her eyes gleaming with pure mischief. “we’ll just need your full attention, is that okay?” she continued, her voice dripping with honey.

you suddenly felt so overwhelmed with emotions. you loved these two, you did, with everything you could give. but you weren’t sure how much more of this you could handle. you had to get out of this situation, and fast. your mind raced as you desperately searched for a way to de–escalate this situation.

“wait, wait!” you said, raising your hands in front of you, turning the camera towards your two bandmates. “i think we need to involve our midzy in this!” you proclaimed, trying to mask the panic in your voice. “what do you guys think? should yeji and ryujin team up to throw me in the pool again? or what else should we do?” you finally finished, taking away the attention from yourself and placing it on the camera, hoping that your fans would find some fun activities to do, and hoping they would forget about the current situation involving you and the two girls.

you could feel their stares on you, their amusement palpable. you didn’t dare to look in their eyes, simply continuing to talk to the camera and pretending that everything was okay, while trying to avoid the two girls’ gazes.

“okay midzy, so let’s see your proposals. i’ll wait for them in the comments!” you announced finally, ending the recording. you looked down at the camera, turning it off. you took a deep breath and turned your attention back to the two girls, unsure if you should laugh or cry at the situation you just put upon yourself. one thing was certain, this LA vacation was going to be very interesting…

the heavy door of your hotel room thuds shut behind you, the sound echoing the exhaustion that reverberates through your very bones. you’d spent the entire day under the relentless california sun, filming content for your vlog, the vibrant blue of the pacific ocean acting as a backdrop to your every move. it had been a dream, a perfect blend of work and vacation, but now, all you craved was the soft embrace of your bed. you’d already called it a day, knowing the footage you had was more than enough for one vlog, and the chaotic brilliance of lia and yuna’s combined efforts would surely be a highlight reel on its own.

you drop onto the bed with a groan, landing on your stomach, your limbs splayed out like a starfish that washed ashore. a loud moan escapes your lips, a testament to the sheer weariness you feel. the mattress dips on either side of you, and you don’t even need to turn around to know who it is. yeji and ryujin, always close by, always a comforting and playful presence.

yeji’s hands find your shoulders immediately, her touch gentle as she begins to knead away the tension. “are you tired, hun?” she asks, her voice soft and concerned, a stark contrast to the boisterous energy she had displayed poolside just hours ago. “you worked really hard today.”

on your other side, ryujin is a whirlwind of mischievous energy, her focus immediately drawn to the discarded camera. she picks it up, tilting it towards herself, her lips curving into a playful smirk as she watches her reflection on the small screen. it’s almost as if she’s flirting with the lens, and with the image she sees staring back at her.

she abandons the camera soon enough, letting it fall onto the bed with a soft thud. her attention is now fixed on you. she shifts onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow, her other hand slipping under the short sleeve of your t–shirt, her fingers playing with the thin strap of your bikini top that rests on your shoulder.

“i really like the color.” she murmurs, her voice dropping into a husky purr as she studies the shiny color fabric against your skin. “it looks beautiful on you.” you had on a simple black t–shirt and short shorts for the camera, but underneath, you were already prepared to enjoy the pool with the rest of the girls.

you smile, a genuine, tired smile, turning your head to look at her. “it’s a new one.” you explain, your voice a bit raspy from the day. “my mom picked it out for me, for this trip.”

ryujin raises an eyebrow, a slow, deliberate smirk pulling at the corner of her lips. “your mother makes good things.” she says, a suggestive tone coloring her voice, her gaze lingering a beat too long on the curve of your breasts.

you let out a playful snort, swatting at her shoulder with the back of your hand. yeji lets out a soft giggle from behind you, the sound a comforting melody.

with a sudden groan, you roll onto your back, your eyes widening in mock–horror as you take in the scene around you. yeji and ryujin are perched on either side of you, practically straddling you, their bodies a tantalizing presence.

“you two.” you say, letting out a breathless laugh that's half–exasperated, half–fond.

it’s all the invitation they need. the onslaught of attention is immediate, dizzying. yeji’s hands return to your scalp, her fingers gently combing through your hair, her touch creating a soothing wave that washes over you. she then trails them down to your shoulders, letting her fingertips dance across your skin.

ryujin is equally captivating, her hands finding the curve of your hips, then moving down to your thighs, her touch sending shivers down your spine. it’s a warm, possessive caress. Both of their attention is making the heat rise under your skin.

then, yeji’s face lowers, her lips brushing against yours, a soft, tender kiss that sends warmth flooding through you. you close your eyes, leaning into the touch, wanting more of her.

at the same moment, ryujin brings her lips to your neck, her tongue tracing a slow, deliberate path, nibbling and kissing at your sensitive skin. a gasp escapes your lips, feeling the wet trail of her kisses heat up your skin. she continues her ministrations, her lips traveling from your jaw to your chest, leaving a trail of wet kisses and a promise of things to come.

the gentle pressure of yeji’s hands on your face is the only thing keeping you grounded, her soft lips allowing you to keep some semblance of sanity. but it’s slipping, fast. it always does when it’s both of them.

ryujin, pulling back for a moment, her eyes dark with desire, tugs at the hem of your wet t–shirt, pulling it up and over your head, tossing it carelessly somewhere across the room; a dismissive move. your bikini top is now in full view, the wet fabric a striking contrast against your skin, the molded cups hugging your curves in a way that makes both their breaths catch. your gaze drifts from ryujin to yeji, your eyes asking a question without uttering a word.

ryujin’s gaze is fixed on your chest, and you can practically feel her gaze on the fabric covering you, her lips pulling into a bite as her fingers begin to trace the edges of your bikini top, her touch sending shivers down your spine.

she then takes your mounds into her hands, her fingers giving them gentle caresses and squeezes. you can’t help the moans that escape your lips at the pleasurable sensation. she continues her descent, leaving kisses and bites across your chest, moving down towards your ribs, then your stomach, her lips leaving a fiery trail in their wake, stopping at your waist and hips, her hands holding you firm.

yeji, noticing your sounds, takes your face into her hands, and silences your moans with her kisses. it is a deep, passionate kiss, her tongue dancing with yours, exploring every corner of your mouth, stealing the sounds that were previously escaping you.

under the combined assault of their ministrations, you feel your resolve crumble. your hands move to their hair, gripping it in a desperate plea for them to continue, to never stop. the world around you dissolves, leaving only the two of them, their touch, their kisses, the intoxicating blend of comfort and desire that only they can evoke. the exhaustion is gone, replaced by a burning need, a primal yearning for more. you’re lost to them, surrendered, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

ryujin’s fingers splayed across your lower back, her thumb brushing tantalizingly just above the curve of your ass. she leaned in, her lips grazing the shell of your ear as she whispered. “we’ve been thinking about this for so long... thinking about having you this alone.” her voice was low and husky, sending shivers down your spine.

“mmmh, ryujin was right. taking this opportunity doesn't seem like such a bad idea.” yeji murmured, her hand sliding up your stomach to cup the swell of your breast. your nipple pebbled beneath the lace at her touch, straining against the smooth material.

ryujin chuckled darkly, nipping at your earlobe before soothing the sting with her tongue. “i told you she was a keeper, yeji. i think it’s time we showed our girl here a really good time…”

with that, ryujin captured your lips in a searing kiss, her tongue delving into your mouth to claim you thoroughly. behind you, yeji’s hands continued their exploration of your body, sliding over every curve and hollow until you were aching with need.

ryujin’s kiss deepened, her tongue dancing with yours as she explored every inch of your mouth. her fingers tangled in your wet hair, gripping it tightly as she held you in place, dominating the kiss. behind you, yeji’s hands slid around to your back, deftly unhooking your bikini top with practiced ease.

the soft fabric fell away, baring your breasts to the cool air of the room. your nipples hardened instantly, straining towards the warmth of ryujin’s chest pressed against yours. ryujin broke the kiss to trail her lips down the column of your throat, her teeth grazing your collarbone before she sucked hard, no doubt leaving a mark.

yeji’s hands slid down to your hips, hooking her fingers in the waistband of your shorts and panties. with a swift tug, she yanked them down your legs, leaving you bare and exposed. ryujin’s hand slid around to grope your ass, squeezing the supple flesh roughly.

she nipped at your shoulder, her breath hot against your skin as she growled. “i want to taste every inch of you, babe. i want to make you scream my name until you’re hoarse... until you forget every other girl’s name except for mine.”

yeji chuckled darkly behind you, her hand sliding up your inner thigh, her fingers brushing maddeningly close to your aching core. “mmmh, i can’t wait to see you come undone, baby.” yeji purred, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. her fingers found your slick folds, stroking them teasingly, not quite touching where you needed her most.

ryujin’s hand slid up from your ass to your breast, cupping the weight of it in her palm. she rolled your nipple between her fingers, pinching and tugging at the sensitive bud until you gasped. her mouth found yours again, swallowing your cries of pleasure as she kissed you deeply, her tongue plundering your mouth with ruthless intensity.

ryujin smirked against your lips, her eyes glinting wickedly as she pulled back from the kiss. without a word, she reached over to her discarded purse and rummaged inside, pulling out a strap–on dildo and a bottle of lube.

she held them up, grinning at you and yeji with a lascivious smile. “ready to have some real fun, girls?” ryujin asked, her voice dripping with lustful promise.

yeji giggled, biting her plump lower lip as she nodded eagerly. “i thought you’d never ask.” she purred, hooking her fingers into the waistband of her jean shorts, sliding them down her long legs along with her panties. leaning back against the headboard of the bed, she spreads her thighs, exposing her wet folds to your shy gaze.

ryujin licked her lips hungrily at the sight, but she turned her attention to you first. she pushed you down onto your hands and knees, your ass raised high in the air. the position left you vulnerable, exposed, and aching with need. she ran her fingers down the curve of your spine, tracing the dip of your lower back before delivering a sharp smack to your ass. the sting of the slap sent a jolt of pleasure through you.

yeji grinned, her dark eyes sparkling with anticipation as she watched ryujin buckle the harness around her hips, securing the dildo in place. she squirted a generous amount of lube onto the thick, girthy cock, stroking it a few times to ensure it was slick and ready. the toy bobbed obscenely as ryujin moved, the thick head glistening with a bead of moisture. ryujin had clearly prepped it, eager to be inside you.

in front of you, yeji watched with rapt attention, her blue eyes dark with desire. she crooked a finger at you, beckoning you closer. “come here, baby. i want that pretty mouth of yours on my pussy. now.”

with a final glance over your shoulder at ryujin, you turned your attention to yeji, crawling forward until your face was mere inches from her dripping sex. you could smell her arousal, could feel the heat radiating off her skin. your mouth watered at the thought of tasting her.

ryujin, meanwhile, positioned herself behind you, her hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. she rubbed the head of the strap–on against your ass, teasing your crack and your dripping slit before pushing forward, the thick cock spreading you open as she hilted inside you with one hard thrust.

you cried out in a mix of pain and pleasure as ryujin entered you in one brutal thrust, her thick strap–on spearing your tight heat open. your back arched, pushing your ass higher in the air as your body struggled to adjust to the sudden intrusion. ryujin groaned, her fingers digging into the flesh of your hips as she held you in place.

the thick strap–on stretched you deliciously, filling you so completely that you could feel every ridge and vein of the silicone cock pulsing inside your tight heat. your inner walls clenched down, fluttering around the intrusion as your body adjusted to the sudden penetration.

“fuck, you’re so tight.” ryujin groaned, her fingers digging into the flesh of your hips as she held you in place, impaled on her thick shaft. she started to move, pulling out until just the tip remained inside you before slamming back in, setting a hard, fast rhythm that had the bed shaking beneath you.

the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with ryujin’s grunts and growls of pleasure. her hips smacked against your ass with each powerful thrust, the lewd sound echoing in your ears.

in front of you, yeji watched the lewd display with hooded eyes, her chest heaving with each ragged breath. she tangled her fingers in your wet hair, gripping it tightly as she pulled your face against her dripping sex.

“put that tongue to good use, baby.” yeji panted, her hips rolling against your face in a silent demand. you could feel her wetness coating your cheeks, smearing across your skin like a perverse paint.

obediently, you leaned in and dragged your tongue along her slit, moaning at the tangy–sweet taste of her arousal. you could feel ryujin’s strap inside you, stretching you deliciously as she continued her relentless pace. your pussy clenched around her, trying to draw her deeper, to hold her inside you.

yeji gasped, her head falling back against the pillows as you explored her most intimate places with your tongue. her fingers tightened in your hair, holding you in place as she ground against your face, riding your mouth with wild abandon.

ryujin leaned over you, her chest pressed against your back as she bit down hard on your shoulder, marking you as her own. her hips never stopped their brutal pace, the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room along with your combined moans and cries of pleasure.

“that’s it, baby.” ryujin panted against your ear, her voice a low, guttural growl. “take my cock like the good little slut you are. fuck, i can feel you squeezing me... you love this, don’t you? love being used like a fuck toy.”

yeji’s moans grew louder and more urgent as your tongue delved deeper, exploring every fold and crevice of her dripping sex. her clit throbbed against your lips, the sensitive nub swollen and aching for your touch. you oblige, flicking your tongue rapidly over the bundle of nerves, feeling yeji’s body quiver and shake in response.

“don’t listen to her, love. she’s just messing with you. just keep what you’re doing, you’re being so good for me…” her thighs clenched around your head, holding you in place as she ground her cunt harder against your mouth, coating your lips and chin with her slick arousal.

ryujin’s thrusts grew more erratic, her hips slamming against your ass with bruising force. the strap–on plunged in and out of your dripping pussy, stretching you wide around its girthy length. you could feel every ridge and vein of the toy as it ravaged your most intimate depths, stoking the fire building low in your belly.

ryujin’s hands slid up your back, her fingers splaying across your shoulder blades before pushing down, forcing your chest to the mattress. this new angle allowed her to drive even deeper into you, the head of the strap–on kissing your cervix with each brutal thrust.

the room filled with the carnal symphony of your combined lust — the slick, obscene sound of ryujin’s hips slapping against your ass, yeji’s wanton moans, and the wet, filthy noises of your mouth working over her weeping cunt. your own cries of pleasure were muffled against yeji’s sex, vibrating deliciously through your throat.

you could feel your climax building, your inner muscles starting to flutter and clench around the thick intrusion stretching you wide. your fingers clenched in the sheets, fisting the fabric as you teetered on the edge of ecstasy, desperate for release.

ryujin could feel your pussy starting to spasm around her cock, your walls clenching and fluttering as your orgasm approached. she groaned, her hips slamming against your ass with renewed vigor, determined to make you come undone.

“that’s it, baby, come on my cock.” ryujin growled, her voice a low, guttural rumble. her fingers dug into the flesh of your ass, no doubt leaving bruises in their wake as she held you in place, fucking you with wild abandon.

yeji’s moans reached a fever pitch, her body tensing and shaking as she teetered on the brink of her own release. “i’m... i’m gonna come, fuck!” yeji screamed, her voice cracking with the force of her impending climax. her pussy clenched, the walls fluttering wildly as a gush of fluid spilled from her core, coating your chin and dripping down onto the sheets below.

ryujin felt your pussy clamp down around her like a vice, your inner muscles rippling and squeezing the strap–on as your orgasm crashed over you. she let out a guttural moan, slamming into you one last time before stilling, buried to the hilt inside your spasming cunt.

wave after wave of pleasure washed over you, your body shaking and trembling as you came harder than you ever had before. your vision went white, stars exploding behind your eyelids as ecstasy consumed you utterly.

behind you, ryujin shuddered, her hips giving a few last, erratic thrusts as she rode out the aftershocks of your mutual climax. she collapsed against your back, her chest heaving as she struggled to catch her breath.

yeji went limp above you, her thighs falling open and her chest rising and falling rapidly as she too tried to regain her composure. she stroked your hair almost tenderly, petting you as you all came down from the high of our shared release.

in the aftermath, the room was filled with the sound of your ragged breathing and the occasional aftershock that still made your bodies jump and twitch. the scent of sex and sweat hung heavy in the air, a testament to the passion and lust that had just been unleashed.

as the initial intensity of your shared orgasms began to subside, a comfortable lassitude settled over the three of you. ryujin rolled off of you, slipping the strap–on out of your sensitive pussy with a soft, wet sound. you winced slightly at the sudden emptiness, your muscles still fluttering and clenching around the space where the toy had been.

ryujin disposed of the strap–on, tossing it carelessly towards the foot of the bed before pulling you into her arms. she curled around you protectively, your back to her front, her arms wrapped around your waist. yeji, not to be left out, rolled to face you both, her hand finding yours and intertwining your fingers.

for a long moment, the three of you simply basked in the afterglow of your lovemaking, the warmth of your naked bodies pressed together a comforting contrast to the cool air of the room. ryujin’s fingers traced idle patterns on your stomach, dipping teasingly into your navel before sliding back up to cup the soft swell of your breast.

yeji leaned in, capturing your lips in a slow, sensual kiss. it was a kiss filled with lazy satisfaction and a promise of more to come. when she finally pulled back, her eyes sparkled with mischief and a hint of something deeper and more tender.

“that was incredible.” yeji murmured, her voice low and slightly hoarse from her earlier cries of pleasure. “we’re definitely going to have to do this again sometime…”

ryujin chuckled, nipping playfully at your shoulder before agreeing. “you can count on it, baby. a sexy little thing like you will be seeing a lot more of us... if you play your cards right.”

she punctuated her words with a teasing smack to your ass, making you gasp and squirm in their embrace. yeji giggled, her fingers squeezing yours gently as if to reassure you that you were in good hands... and that those hands would be all over you again very soon.

[anna-scribbles]

if the agrestes weren't rich i think that gabriel would be the normal one. like gabe's problem is that he stopped running into natural limits due to absurd wealth and his obsessive nature led him to develop some kind of god complex where he won't accept that anything is out of his control. I think that if gabe was broke again and just simply couldn't afford to go on an international goose chase for ancient magic artifacts of untold power, if he had to work a 9-5 to live and couldn't just disappear into his basement lair to commit domestic terrorism and say evil monologues to himself, then he would be way more normal. he'd just be some guy. he might even let himself have a mowhawk again. but I think that emilie would be way LESS normal if they weren't rich. like emilie needs so many people to be obsessed with her so much all the time in order for her to function. and gabe would still have his toxic codependent obsession with her, sure, but that wouldn't be nearly enough. emilie has to be at the center of the world's spotlight at all times because she doesn't know how to exist if she's not performing. anyway all this to say I am so certain that if the agrestes were not disgustingly wealthy, emilie agreste would one million percent be running a massive family vlogger youtube channel

[seriallover]

Why certain people capture the spotlight?⭐️

1. The luminaries, the Sun and Moon naturally draw attention in a birth chart. People with strong Sun or Moon placements tend to light up any room they enter, effortlessly standing out.

Just like everyone loves capturing the beauty of a sunrise or the glow of a full moon, those with these placements have a magnetic energy that people can’t help but notice.

It’s almost like they’re always in the spotlight, which is why they often feel the need to look their best.☀️🌕

Beyoncé, Purva Phalguni Sun, Chitra Lagna and Venus.

Michael Jackson, Magha Sun and Shatabhisha Lagna.

Bella Hadid, Purva Phalguni Moon and Lagna.

There's not much to say about Beyoncé and Michael that isn't already well-known—they're icons in their own right, the biggest stars of our time. Bella Hadid has become the most photographed model off-duty and in 2022, she was named Model of the Year.

Gia Carangi, often hailed as the first true supermodel, paved the way for all the other supermodels that followed. She had a Shravana Sun and Lagnesh, with Hasta as her Lagna and a Shatabhisha Moon.

Britney Spears, Shravana Moon, was one of the most photographed stars for a while. The crazy amount of media attention even led to harassment and really affected her mental health.

Gisele Bündchen, Pushya Sun and Purva Phalguni Lagna, the only "Ubermodel"-that means being more than a supermodel.

Lauren Hutton, Pushya Moon and Lagna, holds the record for the most Vogue covers—26 in total.

I previously explored about how lunar-dominant people often achieve significant success on social media.

2. Chitra Nakshatra, known as the "Star of Opportunity," carries the Shakti of "accumulating merit." The word "Chitra" translates to "wonderful" and "pleasing to look at," as well as "illusion."

The deity of this nakshatra is Tvastar, the celestial architect who designed the universe. The symbol of Chitra is the "pearl" or "bright jewel," symbolizing beauty and uniqueness.💎💍

"Chitra" also means "picture," so individuals with this nakshatra are often naturally photogenic. 📸Tvastar, as the creator of Maya (illusion), grants those under Chitra the ability to craft captivating personas, making them talented models, photographers, actors, and successful on social media.

Kim Kardashian, Chitra Sun, built a career centered on her image. As one of the first influencers, she's become one of the most prominent and influential figures on social media. In 2015, she released “Selfish��, a book featuring a collection of her selfies.

Cindy Kimberly, Chitra Moon and Shravana Lagna, shot to fame because of her striking beauty. Her big break came when Justin Bieber posted about her on his Instagram. Now, she’s a major beauty influencer and a well-known model.

Anna Nicole Smith, Chitra Sun and Hasta Moon, made a name for herself as a model, completely based on her image. She was once one of the most photographed women in the world, and photographers loved working with her, often saying she was one of the easiest and most exciting people to capture on camera.

The thing with Chitra individuals is that, because of Tvastar, the celestial craftsman, their features often become iconic. For instance, Kim drew the attention to the BBL, Cindy’s nose has become a major inspiration for many women, and Anna Nicole brought attention back to curvy bodies at a time when the "heroin chic" look was in vogue, reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe's era.

3. Dhanishtha🌟 Shakti is "power to give abundance and fame," meaning "the most famous," "the most heard of." This nakshatra is recurring in the charts of people who usually marry famous individuals, making them well-known as well, often attracting more attention than their partner.

Princess Diana, Dhanishtha Moon and Magha Lagnesh, was the most photographed woman in the world, holding the record for the most sold-out paparazzi pictures, including one that sold for 6 million dollars.

Marilyn Monroe, Rohini Sun, Dhanishtha Moon, and Ashlesha Lagna, was also one of the most photographed women of her time.

4. Shatabhisha, meaning "hundred stars" and represented by a veiled star and an empty circle, is a nakshatra ruled by Rahu. ⭕️

This nakshatra is associated with illusion, the power to effect radical change, innovation, the foreign, esoteric influences, and trends. The empty circle can also symbolize the idea of a cult or community, like the Navy for Rihanna.

Rihanna, Shatabhisha Sun, stands out as one of the most influential artists and fashion icons. She has consistently set trends in the fashion world, with her style serving as an inspiration to many. Recently, her maternity looks have redefined how celebrities approach their appearance during pregnancy, bringing a stylish twist to the norm.

Demi Moore, Lagnesh in Shravana and Jupiter in Shatabhisha in the first house, set a trend for nude pregnancy photoshoots. At the time, this was quite controversial, but it has since become a common practice not just among celebrities, but also for non-celebrity women.

Elizabeth Taylor, Sun in Shatabhisha, was also a major target for paparazzi. George Hamilton once remarked:

"I remember when the word 'paparazzi' came along, and it just meant a bunch of guys who were all photographers looking for Elizabeth Taylor. Desperately looking for Elizabeth Taylor! And that was the beginning of paparazzi. They were not going for glamour anymore. They were going for the destruction of glamour."

[on-a-lucky-tide]

cw: body dysmorphic Nikolai.

Nik has never joined Price in the shower. He doesn't like the vulnerability of it. Too naked.

Price is in peak physical shape even at the age of thirty-eight. There are underwear models that would give their right arm to have his arse and thighs; his stomach is flat, defined, his shoulders and biceps chiselled and veiny, tits to die for. He's fit, handsome, perfect in every way.

And Nik just.

Isn't.

Not in his eyes, anyway.

He's never been body confident. Not even close. A childhood spent being shamed for being "large" led to a life of trying to minimise his bulk, further exacerbated by the body negativity of the gay scene. It was always manageable with a healthy dose of self deprecation and the distraction of work, but now he's knocking on the door of fifty, the deficiencies he sees in his body are only increasing. His handsome, athletic partner is a harsh comparison.

They fuck with the lights off, preferably with John on his knees so he can't see the ogre grunting over him. If Nik can get away staying mostly dressed, he'll go for it. He's managed to keep his lack of confidence under wraps by schmoozing, flirting and bravado. Or so he thinks. Despite knowing John for the better part of two decades, Nik has underestimated his powers of observation. Fatal error.

One night, John insists. "Come shower. S'late. Want you inside me an hour ago." Nik doesn't want to. He tenses up, tries to hide it by pouring more wine, but John's tugging at his belt and kissing his neck.

So Nik turns all the lights right down, undresses, and sidles in behind John to soap up quickly and get out. He makes himself small, shoulders hunched, smoothes his hands over his torso and into his hair. His heart's beating hard, blood thundering in his ears. He's so distracted by planning his escape that he doesn't see John going for the lights until it's too late.

Suddenly, the stark white spotlights are up high and Nik drops his arms to cover his stomach, his chest, his everything. John's too quick. He grabs Nik's wrists and forces them to the wall. Despite the three inches of height he has over John, Nik feels small as his heels slide on the tiles and his entire body refuses to cooperate

He's pinned, exposed, he shakes, and John's leaning in close, the water streaming over his head and plastering his hair flat. "Nik, I know what you bloody well look like," John growls.

Nik's lower lip quivers.

"I know what you look like," John repeats, softer. He kisses Nik's shaking lips as the first tears slide free of his eyes. "'m done lettin' ya hide. Thought you'd relax the longer we were together, but y'ain't, so s'time for some tough love. Ey, ey... Look at me."

Nik tries to drop his chin and close his eyes. He feels humiliated. Vulnerable. He does as he's told, the water beading on his eye lashes as he looks up into John's stern blue gaze.

"Yer mine, love. All mine. Most precious thing I 'ave. Need ya to trust me to love ya right."

Nik swallows the lump in his throat, opens his mouth to say something, but only chokes out a sob. John releases his wrists and wraps his shoulders instead. Nik stands in his arms and the tension drains out of him in tears.

John takes him to bed naked. He spends the night in the softer light of the bedside lamp running his hands over Nik's body, moving Nik's hand to his hard prick as concrete evidence of how hot he finds him. Even with the light on, with every inch of him on display.

It's going to take time. Not like John can undo forty years of damage. But he can at least help heal the wounds and kiss the scars.

[https-bobreynolds]

six strings to save a god

pairing: robert ‘bob’ reynolds x enchantress! reader

summary: bob nearly blew his cover in an undercover mission where you both absolutely cannot use your powers at, so you save him with metallica instead.

author’s note: rewatched stranger things and got inspired by THE eddie munson, you will be missed💔

UNDERGROUND CLUB BELOW THE VIENNA STATE OPERA HOUSE, WESTERN EUROPE - 11:32 PM

private auction night

the air tastes like ozone and old bourbon. velvet curtains cover cracked plaster. there’s an antique chandelier above the bar flickering with blood-red LED bulbs, casting shadows like broken glass across the crowd.

somewhere in the crowd: mercs, arms dealers, hydra defectors, and warlords who don’t technically exist.

and at a table just beneath the second mezzanine, is robert ‘bob’ reynolds, looking perfect in a slim-cut black suit, nerves unraveling by the second.

you sit beside him, swirling untouched whiskey, watching him come apart thread by golden thread.

“he’s looking at me,” bob murmurs, too quiet for anyone else to hear. “he knows. the madripoor guy in the corner, he keeps- he’s not blinking.”

you glance up.

the man in question tilts his head, one brow raised. hands drifting way too slowly toward the holster under his coat.

bob’s about to snap. you can feel it under your skin like the low thrum of the void stirring.

“we got what we need, we have to leave this place now.” you whispered, giving him a look.

you didn’t say anything more, but he understood quickly, giving a nod.

“under any circumstances, do NOT engage and do NOT use any of your powers.” you remember bucky say, right before the mission.

you cannot let sentry, void or enchantress lose it here.

this is not the place for sun gods or eldritch abominations, so you do the only thing that makes sense in a room like this.

you stand, smooth as static, and quickly vanish into the shadows behind the stage, where a two-piece synthwave duo just finished their eerie, looping set.

and waiting backstage, among broken amps and stolen crates, you see it:

a scratched jackson king v custom.

you pick it up. test the weight. check the strings.

you walk out slow.

the crowd goes quiet for a beat. spotlights flicker to follow.

you nod at the DJ, who knows not to mess with it.

then, you slam into the intro to “master of puppets.”

the distortion screams.

the riff punches through the smoke like a fist. dirty. loud. real.

people down on the floor cheer, some boo, some start laughing in disbelief.

the suits look confused. a few start pulling out phones.

one of the auction security guards near bob’s table mutters, “what the hell-“

bob exhales like he’s been underwater for five minutes, he slinks out with the crowd’s attention squarely on you.

and you?

you shred.

“end of passion play, crumbling away

i’m your source of self-destruction…”

you sing like it’s prophecy, like the world’s about to burn and you’re the one lighting the match.

heads are banging, drinks are spilled, the tech auction upstairs is forgotten.

that guy from madripoor? he’s now two whiskeys deep and head-nodding like you’re doing a private concert just for him.

your fingers blaze through the solo like they were built for this. the guitar’s raw, snarling. just perfect.

and in the dark corner of the second tier, where no one’s watching anymore?

bob slips through a side door. free and clear.

you hammer the final riff with one last scream of strings.

“MASTER! MASTER!”

silence crashes like a wave behind it. the crowd roars, half of them think you’re just the best part of the party, the other half are too dazed to care.

you bow low, tossing the guitar off-stage like a mic drop.

and walk out like you own the world, panting as you slam the door behind you.

“you-” he starts, breathless. “you just-”

“i shredded,” you say, breathless and smug. “and saved your ass.”

he huffs a laugh, still dazed.

“i was gonna blow it,” he admits. “i could feel it coming… like the whole thing was about to fall apart.”

“well,” you smirk, brushing your hair back. “good thing i know how to play the hits.”

he looks at you, really looks at you.

the city glows behind you, the music still ringing faintly from the club.

and he says, “you’re kind of unreal, you know that?”

you shrug. “takes one to know one, sunshine.”

you look at each other for a second too long.

and somewhere in the club behind you, the next DJ starts spinning, but nothing could top what you just did.

tag list:

@lovetoalll

[venusincleo]

𝒱𝑒𝓃𝓊𝓈. ²

 𝙾𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝚅𝚎𝚗𝚞𝚜♀︎🥀

✧ Part One ✧

Warnings: MDNI • Explicit • Terry Richmond x Black!OC [Self Insert], completely self-indulgent, fluff, flirting, teasing, glamour kink, possessiveness kink, S&M themes, oral sex (both fem and masc receiving), erotic asphyxiation, unprotected p in v, and more…

Summary: After a long, draining week, Terry and Cleopatra spoil each other for Valentine's Day the only way they know how; love languages and love making.

Word Count: 3.4k ❣ 

A/N: Hey y'all! 𝙾𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝚅𝚎𝚗𝚞𝚜 will be the name of my oneshots (or two shots 🤭) as a collection, so I thought it was only right to be inspired by thee Venus Day itself, Valentine's Day. A couple days late, but always on time 🌚 I hope you enjoy this one 🫶🏾❤️

Full Playlist for  𝙾𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝚅𝚎𝚗𝚞𝚜.

• • •

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒓𝒐𝒅𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒚, Terry recalling the barbershop talk that he was pulled into as R&B music played at a low volume from their local station. He held Cleo’s hand over the center console as she peered at his side profile and warmth fluttered throughout her chest as she watched him drive and listened to his story.

Before they pulled up at the well-known theatre in their neighborhood, Terry instructed her to close her eyes as he found a parking spot in the small garage on the side of the building. He opened her door like the pure gentleman he was and wrapped an arm around her waist to lead her into the venue. Quietly, he gave the clerk his tickets for the show and watched intently as the usher pointed out which way was quickest to get to their seats.

Keeping a tender hold on her waist, he walked her down the aisle of seats and stopped near the front where he led her through the few people who were already sitting. When they made it to their seats, Terry kept an arm around her even in their theatre chairs and then, he began to reveal the surprise.

“Open your eyes.”

In the warm, low light of the theatre, Cleo could see closed velvet show curtains and she turned to her left and right to see people of all colors chatting with whoever sat next to them. With a quick hand to Terry’s thigh, she turned towards him to see an amused smile on his face. The man held up a bill for the orchestra show they were seeing and Cleo’s jaw almost dropped to the floor.

“Had to bring my music-head to hear some live, right?” No forewarning came before the tears that began to well in her eyes yet again, and this time, she couldn’t hold them in, not even a little bit. Terry leaned foward to move her hair out of her way, and as soon as one tear fell he wiped it with his thumb and pressed his soft lips against hers.

When he pulled away, she sniffled and brought her bent index fingers to the space under her eyes to keep her makeup from streaking.

“I love you so much, it don’t make no sense.” She blinks her last tears away then, turns back to the stage to see the lights dimming even more allowing for a spotlight to be cast on the platform itself.

Easing into their calm afternoon at the matinee, the conductor comes out in front of the opening curtains and introduces the orchestra and the music they’ll be playing. Soon enough, the powerful projection of live instruments fills her ears, her chest and then her whole soma as she floats through such a performance. But, as she didn’t want to forget any of the notes that she’d experience this night, Cleo grasped Terry’s hand in hers and she squeezed, finally grounded once more.

The rest of the night was a blur though, in the best way possible. Cleopatra was buzzing from the magical symphony, and the presence of her favorite person. So much so, that even her attempts at grounding herself were met with a fairytale-like lull back into la-la-land.

She really hoped it would never end.

As they walked out of the upscale restaurant that Terry chose to treat her to, they smiled at eachother and made conversation about nothing in particular. All throughout the ride to Terry’s place, Cleo couldn’t keep her eyes off of him, a blessing if she’d ever received one. It was truly like she was his little princess, and there was nothing that he didn’t do to make her feel loved by him. It was a breath of fresh air from what she was used to.

Quietly, they pulled up to his house, and Terry opened the passenger side door for her, helping her down so that her heels were stable on the concrete. And as the two lovebirds walked hand-in-hand to his front porch, Terry asked for her to close her eyes one last time.

“Terry, you really didn’t have to do all of this.” She begins to whine, feeling like her gifts didn’t match up to his in the slightest. As her glossy eyes peered up at her man, he just squeezed her hand in his, and rubbed his thumbs along the back of her palm.

“Mnh, mnh. Don’t do that baby. You deserve the world,” Cleo looks away from his eyes as she can feel herself about to cry again. But Terry uses his free hand to grab her chin to avert her attention back to him.

“You deserve the world.” He repeated as he stared into her eyes. “And I’m gonna spend every minute I have with you trying to give you just that.” Without another word, he unlocked his front door and ushered her into his home then right to his living room. The wall adjacent to his couch was decorated with red heart balloons, all taped in a mosaic-like pattern, and there were different heights of candles arranged in a straight line. As she stepped closer she realized that some of the balloons had messages on them, and she leaned forward to read them, her eyes flooded with tears now.

While she read the notes that he wrote, Terry grabbed the little black box out of his pocket and got on bended knee behind his lady. As he opened the box carefully, Cleo could feel the extended silence and turned to speak to him.

“Baby, this is…” Her voice trailed off as she saw her man kneeling before her, and she held her hand over her mouth as a single tear fell down her cheek.

“It’s been a little over a year, of loving you, of laughing with you, of noticing your small quirks and then falling in love with them. You shine so bright to me. Always trynna help somebody, always wanting to be the voice of encouragement. And I love that I’ve been able to give you back the things that you pour into this world so freely. So, Cleo, will you marry me?”

Her eyebrows turn upwards in an overflow of emotion and all her mind is telling her to do is give him her hand, so she does.

“Y-Yes.” Her voice trembles as her heart nearly beats out of her chest, and while she watched Terry slide the pretty, oval-cut lab diamond over her finger, she cries softly at the reality of the moment. “Yes.”

As her fianceé raises to a standing position, towering over his lover, Cleo cupped his face in both of her hands, delivering a series of lush pecks to his lips. On her last kiss, she slightly opened her eyes to stare into his, as she interlaced his lips in hers with more passion.

“You said you had a surprise for me?” Terry breathes against her lips, grasping at her waist through the dress he bought her. The young woman smiles as she remembers the tiny gifts she had for him, and she slightly presses her lips against his for the ghost of a kiss.

“I do. But you’ll have to take my dress off to see it.” She teases, taking a step backwards and throwing her bag to the side of the couch. Terry nearly dives forward, his tender hands moving to push her dress from her shoulders, and then down her arms and her torso. When he finally gets it off of her, he reveals her laced lingerie that seems to perfectly match the fallen fabric as well as her sheer black tights.

His eyes gaze over the bits of her brown skin that peak through the floral pattern, and Cleo can’t help but smile at his obliviousness. She grabs his hand in hers, and directs it to his first gift right along her rib. As he moves closer to make out the cursive ink imbedded in her skin, he realizes that his name is spelled among the loops.

𝒯𝑒𝓇𝓇𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒

He was speechless as he let his eyes trail back up to his wife to be, and she sported that same little coy look that always seemed to get her what she wanted.

“And…” She began walking over to his couch, where she hooked her thumbs into the waist of her panty hose teasingly. “I was hoping that you could help me take off these stockings.”

Terry followed her eagerly, but before he could even touch her, she sat him down on the couch in front of her and stepped between his legs. He gazed his pretty green eyes up at her as she took a deep breath in, staring her lowered doll-like eyes down at him.

Taking her waiting as his cue, his hands reached for her stockings slowly, and pulled them down her bergamot and jasmine scented skin. His pants tightened as he smelled her, his eyes fluttering with arousal. As he pulled the tights down further he stopped at her ankles, hesitating as he debated himself. He really wanted her to keep the heels on…

“Rip ‘em.” Cleopatra nearly whispered, ready to feel his hands on every part of her. As quick as he could, Terry found himself tugging at the thin fabric, tearing a hole in them and pulling them from under and around her feet. Once he had removed the stocking from her heels, he threw the torn remains to the floor, his hands magnetizing back to her legs to squeeze at her thick thighs. All that was left now was one last surprise.

With the last bit of patience she had left, Cleo turned on the ball of her heels and bent over slowly, showing the silver and diamond letters that made up Terry’s name on the back of her thong. It was like electricity surged through his body as he saw his name above her plump, round ass. Hedging his bottom lip between his teeth, he let his eyes feast on the treat in front of him as his mind ran down a list of all the things he wanted to do to her.

Acting as if she didn’t know her ass was marked with his name, she moved his coffee table up a bit and then turned back to look at him.

“Get undressed for me.” She demanded sweetly, gazing wantonly as Terry’s hands swiftly untied his shirt, and unwrapped it, getting up to meet Cleopatra where she was standing. He pulled the shirt the rest of the way off of his body, and tossed it aside, stepping even closer to his woman. She ran her eyes up and down his daunting frame, the center of her thongs soaked through with her essence.

He reached his big hands around her waist, lightly hovering over her ass as they looked into each other’s eyes. Cleo took it upon herself to lean forward and press her lips against his peck, trailing up the side of his neck and kissing all over his left shoulder and nibbling at the skin.

“You so fuckin’ sexy.” She expressed, a breathy moan etched in her words. Terry brought his face down to hers and instantly parted his lips, his wide, flat tongue welcoming hers for a slow dance of desire. He widened his jaw, allowing his tongue to explore her mouth fully as he palmed her ass. His long fingers tucked under the string of her thong and caressed her plump flesh, easing down the valley of her ass until they got to her watering pussy.

A moan left her lips at the feeling of his fingers stroking through her moisture but he reached his free hand to her neck and directed her back to their fiery kiss. Slow, sloppy, dominating movements of his tongue kept her frozen in place, just taking what he gave her with no protest. When he finally pulled from their lip-lock for air, his eyes zeroed in on her lowered glossy orbs and his grip on her neck tightened just a little.

“You like belonging to me?” He rasped, his aquamarine eyes turning a moss green color.

Cleo’s eyebrows furrowed with pleasure as he continued to stroke his fingers through her throbbing center.

“Uhn, yes Papi.” She moaned, pressing her body into his so he could have more access. As he realized how ready she was for him, he gave her a teasingly short peck, and loosened his hold on her neck.

“Good. I like showing you how well I treat what’s mine.”

He spoke no other words as he kicked his shoes off and then unfastened his pants, intently lowering them down his legs. His threatening bulge was obvious through his breifs; hanging down next to his thighs like it was trying to touch the floor. Fuck. Cleo thought.

She took her bottom lip between her teeth as she tilted her head to marvel at it, and then averted her gaze back to his eyes. A smug grin found it’s way to his face, but he made no moves to reveal what she so desperately wanted to see. He only sat on his couch, his legs spread apart like usual, and then he motioned for her to meet him there with his index and middle finger.

Cleo stepped forward quickly. She was long overdue for a release of all the feelings and energy she had built up by just looking at Terry. He grinned at the added height to the normally petite woman, but hummed in delight as his lips met her soft belly. They trailed against her stretch marks as his hands ventured behind her to grab at her ass yet again. As his kisses circled her navel, Cleo held his head in her dainty hands feeling her core pulse for him.

A breathy moan left her lips as she felt his touch so consistent against her skin. Terry used this time to look up at her, seeing her eyes closed in bliss as he catered to her gently. While she was up in her mind, he took his teeth and moved her thongs to the side then, used his tongue to lick from her opening all the way to her clit.

“T-Terry.” She looked down to see his transparent eyes staring back at her and all she could do was moan at the feeling. Taking her moan as encouragement to keep going, Terry pulled her even closer and widened his mouth for her thick, wet pussy. He clasped his lips around her clit, creating a vacuum effect as he sucked at her flesh, causing an overflow of ecstacy to flood her soma.

“Ohh, fuck. Yes, baby.” Already primed from the foreplay, it seemed like she had met her end just as quickly as he started, and Cleo began to buck her hips into his face to reach her impending climax.

Her movements turned choppy, her body going into overdrive as she chased her high, whines and hearty moans leaving her lips as her lover continued to suck on her.

“Shhhhh-it.” She cursed as her body gave all that she had to Terry, dripping all over his chin and in his mouth. Proudly, the man slurped on his woman, lapping up her juices as a trophy of his efforts. Tenderly, he placed a kiss on her plush and trimmed mound, then leaned back slightly to watch her next actions.

The aroused woman hooked her thumbs into the sides of her thongs and took them off, seeing her man follow suit and take off his briefs as he sat back against the cushions of his sofa. Surely, she stepped forward and straddled his lap, slightly grazing her slick folds against his shaft. Terry took in a sharp breath at her teasing, as she pressed her body against his in anticipation.

His quick hands found the back of her lace bustier and unhooked the fastens on the thin fabric, letting it fall from her supple breasts. Taking the thin straps from her shoulders, Terry kissed at the heated skin as he examined her. Her chest rose and fell swiftly, hollow on her exhale. Her lips quivered with the need for more and she began to claw at the nape of his neck.

“Please, baby.” She whimpered, still grinding her slit over his throbbing dick. As her lingering cum coats his sensitive skin, he moans at the sensation. Terry puts the last of her lingerie to the side and wraps his lips around her hardened nipple, sucking just tenderly. Whispered moans left her lips quietly, falling into the air as she allowed her eyes to flutter closed.

Soon, she can feel her fianceé’s large hands squeezing at her perky titties, and she bites back a moan. With her grinding, Terry’s suckling and squeezing, she’s overwhelmed with pleasure, and she knows just what will ground her.

Cleo reaches her hand between her and Terry, taking his dick in her hold and lining him up to her opening. A soft moan erupts from Terry’s throat as he feels her warmth, and then as she slides down his length, stretched by his thickeness, he burries his face in her bossom.

“Ughhh.” He moans loudly. He leans his head back upright, and as Cleo raises her hips to begin riding him, she throws her head back like clockwork.

“FFF-Fuck.” She stutters, overcome by the size of her partner. Eyes lowered by upturned eyebrows look deeply into the soul of the transparent ones in front of her and a jump reaches her core. Entranced by the immaculate feeling of being inside the woman he loves, Terry stares back at Cleo adoringly, his bottom lip tucked between his teeth.

“Hmmm.” He hums in approval at her rhythm. As she goes up and down his shaft, she cups his face in her hands then, glances at the diamond on her finger. Engaged.

Her eyes bright now, with the thought of spending the rest of her life with Terry, Cleo rolls her hips and speeds up her movements just a little. Feeling her heightened energy, he wraps a hand around her neck softly at first, allowing his thumb to outline the length of her throat and then, he tightens his grasp. With a quick movement, he pulls her face close to his, their lips a breath apart.

“I love the way you fuckin’ me, Mama.” His grovelly voice sends chills down her spine and she reaches her hand to his wrist to hold his hand in place. Her other hand goes behind his head, her almond-shaped nails grazing along his fade as she keeps riding.

“I know you do, Papa.” She replies with her soft, angelic voice, throwing her head back again. Terry can tell she’s close and he squeezes the sides of her throat just a little bit tighter, sending Cleo into a frenzy. Her eyes roll to the back of her head as she grinds herself to a climax and within seconds, her legs are shaking with the pure energy coursing through her veins.

“Terryyyyy.” She cries loudly, feeling her love come down all over her fianceé. At the sound of his name, Terry can feel himself twitching within Cleo’s tightness and his face contorts with bliss as he feels her creaming all around him.

“Ughh, shit baby.” Just as his eyes lull closed, Cleo eases herself off of him and kneels in front of his throbbing shaft. Quickly, she takes him in both of her hands and places him in her mouth, sucking on him diligently. As she strokes and sucks him, Terry’s eyes open as he feels the change in sensation, and his eyebrows furrow as he gets close.

“Ugh ugh, ughhhh. Fuckk Cl-Cleo.” His rasped voice is a bit higher in pitch as he moans out for his woman and she continues how she’s going for a few seconds more. Once she can taste the earthy savor of his pre-cum on her tongue, she slows down her motions and allows him to empty his load in her mouth.

His moans trail off as she laps up all of his cum, swallowing before she sucks at his tip a little more. Depleted now, and all out of energy to fully protest, Terry places his hand on her cheek and pulls her up ever-so-softly, bringing her up to lay against him. Sweet, light-hearted kisses forego a shared laugh between them, and Cleo leans her head on her man’s shoulder.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, baby.” He cooes tiredly. The full-hearted young woman takes a deep breath as she fans her clammy skin.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, my love.”

• • •

I do not condone any translations, replications or plagiarisms of my original work. Please do not repost as your own. Reblogs and comments/notes welcome. ♥︎

• • •

[reveryfics]

Marvelous

Charles Xavier x Male Reader

Summary: Charles and Eric's need for new mutants brings them to a mutant owned Burlesque club, introducing them to a particular shape-shifter.

A/N: I'm back earlier then expected, but hopefully this and the Valentines Day fic make up for when I was gone. Requests open.

The velvet curtains parted with a sigh, releasing Charles and Eric into the smoky embrace of the Burlesque club. The air hung thick with the scent of perfume, sweat, and anticipation. A sharply dressed maître d' immediately recognized them, his eyes widening slightly before a professional smile smoothed over his features. "Gentlemen," he murmured, ushering them through the crowded room. "Your table awaits."

They were led to a plush, dimly lit booth nestled near the grand stage, a prime vantage point for the evening's entertainment. The murmur of the crowd, the clinking of glasses, the low thrum of the music – all of it faded into the background as the house lights began to dim, casting long, dramatic shadows across the room. A hush fell over the audience, a collective intake of breath before the show began.

Then, you appeared.

A single spotlight pierced the darkness, illuminating the stage and revealing your striking presence. The shimmering blue of your skin seemed to absorb and reflect the light, an otherworldly hue that immediately captivated the eye. A cascade of luxurious blonde curls framed your face, contrasting beautifully with your unusual blue skin tone. A delicate pearl necklace rested against your chest, the creamy orbs glowing softly against your skin. The undeniably scandalous outfit you wore, a masterpiece of shimmering fabrics and strategically placed embellishments, clung to your body like a second skin, accentuating every curve and line. You moved with a mesmerizing grace, each step, each gesture, imbued with a confidence that radiated outwards, filling the entire room. It was as if the stage were your own private domain, a world where you reigned supreme. You danced with a passion that transcended mere performance, lost in the rhythm with the other Burlesque dancers, each movement a story told in the language of the body.

Your eyes swept across the audience, a slow, deliberate survey that took in every face, every expression. Then, your gaze locked with theirs. A slow, knowing smile spread across your lips, a hint of mischief dancing in your eyes. You danced closer to their booth, your hips swaying rhythmically, your eyelashes fluttering like butterfly wings as you dipped low, your eyes locking with Charles's. You knew exactly who they were, and precisely why they had come. And you were damned if you wouldn't offer Charles a private showing of your… talents.

The crowd erupted in cheers, a wave of voices chanting your name, a testament to your popularity. As the music reached a crescendo, your body began to shift and change before their very eyes. The transformation was seamless, fluid, almost magical. Feminine features melted into masculine contours, delicate lines hardened into powerful angles. It was a breathtaking display of control and artistry, a testament to your mastery over your own form. The audience gasped, captivated by the spectacle unfolding before them.

Charles visibly licked his lips, his eyes glued to the stage. For a moment, he seemed to forget Eric's presence beside him, lost in the mesmerizing performance. "He's quite… marvelous, isn't he, Charles?" Eric murmured, his eyes fixed on you.

Charles could only nod, his breath catching in his throat. His gaze remained locked on the stage as you shed the last remnants of your costume, revealing a skin-tight ensemble that accentuated every curve and line of your newly formed body. The performance was hypnotic, a captivating blend of power and grace.

When your show concluded, a stagehand approached Charles, discreetly gesturing for him to follow. Eric gave him a knowing look, a hint of amusement in his eyes, as Charles was led through the club, the pulsating music and excited chatter fading slightly as he neared your dressing room.

The room was small but luxurious, decorated with plush velvet drapes and ornate mirrors. You were seated on a silken chaise lounge, a robe loosely draped around your form, a picture of relaxed power. A half-empty bottle of champagne sat on a nearby table, along with two crystal glasses. "Charles Xavier," you purred, a hint of amusement in your voice. "I knew you'd come."

Before Charles could even speak, you reached out, your fingers brushing against his hand before closing around his wrist, tugging him closer. Your eyes, intense and knowing, looked up at him through your lashes. "Crawling back to a shapeshifter, after Raven left you," you whispered, your voice laced with a playful challenge, a hint of vulnerability beneath the bravado. "So scandalous, yet I have a feeling you enjoy it."

Charles felt his cheeks flush, a mixture of embarrassment and intrigue swirling within him. He couldn't deny the similarities between you and Mystique, but there was something different about you, an undeniable spark, a magnetic pull that drew him in. "Perhaps," he admitted, his voice a low murmur, his eyes searching yours. "But something tells me you aren't like Mystique. Although we could use someone of your… talents."

A throaty laugh escaped your lips, the sound both seductive and playful. Your body began to shift and change once more, the transformation as seamless and captivating as it had been on stage. It was a display of power, a demonstration of your complete control over your own form. "How could I say no to someone so… persuasive?" you purred, your voice a silken caress.

You released Charles' wrist, rising to your feet and backing him against the vanity. One hand cupped his cheek, your touch surprisingly gentle, while the other rested on the cool surface behind him, trapping him in your gaze. "We're going to get along nicely," you whispered, your breath warm against his skin. Then, you leaned in, capturing his lips in a quick, tantalizing kiss, a promise of more to come.

You pulled away, licking your lips, a mischievous glint in your eyes. With a graceful turn, you walked out of the dressing room, offering a playful wave to Eric, who was waiting just outside, a knowing smile playing on his lips.

Charles touched his lips, a small, involuntary smile playing on his mouth. He knew he was a sucker for people like you, for the thrill of the unexpected, the allure of the unknown. He was drawn to your confidence, your power, your undeniable charisma.

"I'm so screwed," he muttered, a mixture of amusement, apprehension, and a touch of excitement swirling within him. He knew he was walking a dangerous line, but he couldn't resist the temptation to follow where you led.

[razrbladekiss]

MAPLE HAZEL | Joel Miller — Part Two

SUMMARY: another day, another visit to joel’s little coffee shop. he’s as miserable as ever, and you’re probably the only person brave enough to want to spend time with joel outside of his work.

PAIRING: no outbreak!joel miller x afab!reader

WORD COUNT: 3.5k , i’m afraid this is v. short. </3

WARNINGS: fluff. angst. our luke danes-y joel is having a hard time trying to mentally confront his feelings. you’re just as annoying and oblivious to it all as always. mentions of food consumption. reader refers to her parents verrrrrry brief. mentions of reader’s hair blowing into her face, but otherwise nothing to note.

SERIES MASTERLIST

Joel’s back is flush to the counter when you amble through the door this morning, hair strewn across your face, strands set into sticky peach gloss. A few strong gusts of wind—and a stupid confidence in your locks to stay in place—has led you into this precarious position.

Typical. On a morning where you’d like to feel good about yourself, you’re suddenly left feeling like hot garbage.

“Coffee. Now.” Guttural and bone-tired, you hurl at him. But he doesn’t move. His eyes affixed to the chalkboard above the strategically placed syrup station, arms folded over. You’re lucky if he’s even heard you for his attention is wholly deployed to the new menu that he’s spent the better part of thirty minutes creating.

You trudge—cold and dishevelled—through the cafe, feeling eyes on your back. The woman whose face, outfit, and attitude is always put together, is currently struggling through her morning no thanks to the glorious October weather. And the fact that last night’s date went to absolute shit is no help to you today, either.

“Joel.” Exhausted from the day already—despite it barely pushing eight twenty—you squeak. He grunts in response, pointing to the coffee pot that’d just finished brewing as he awaited your inevitable appearance at his door.

Still, he doesn’t move. So you take it upon yourself to shift from one side of the counter, to the other—dropping your purse on it as you do so. It’s weird, being here. Being in Joel’s territory. It gives you a random power trip, more than anything.

But that’s short lived when you realize that your favorite pink polka-dot mug is too high on the shelf—and Miller is too enamoured with whatever it is that he’s doing—so you settle for the less appealing yellow butterfly one, and begin to pour in the liquid that’s definitely comparable to black tar heroin.

You take a swig, before you’re traipsing away from the carafe that you’ve been so gratefully acquainted with.

“I’m so over today already.” You moan, walking over to your seat. You’d have liked to have been sipping on a fresh maple hazel latte today, but you’ll take what you can get so long as you’re not having to actually make it yourself.

You lean over the counter—zoning in on the miniature cake-case—and lift one of those beautifully round cinnamon rolls. You take a bite, and all seems to be right in the world. Aside from the man whose bun you’ve just stolen.

“Joel, are you even lucid right now?”

“I am.” He mumbles, wondering whether the specials should be placed before or after the main menu. It’s a predicament he didn’t think he’d be faced with at this time on a Friday morning. But here he is.

“Whatcha doin’?” A little bit intrigued—because Joel has never struck you as a perfectionist—you ask. He doesn’t respond straight away, and you don’t mind because you’re raking your fingers through tangled strands, wondering why you never carry a hairbrush with you anymore. You’re also munching on your illegal cinnamon roll.

“Just tryin’ to make this stupid place look a little better.” He exhales a deep, exaggerated breath. Joel’s line of sight meets yours when he swivels around, a wonky smile pulling at your lips and a sheen of sticky buttercream icing twinkling beneath yellow spotlights.

He takes you all in. The black dress that you’re donning, your favorite double-breasted woolen coat—that you pull out of your wardrobe each fall—the collection of bracelets decorating your wrists. You’re a marvel, despite feeling less than adequate. A different kind of beauty.

Joel bites back any feelings, and blinks at you.

“Did you just take that cinnamon roll without paying?”

You nod, swallowing down the last mouthful, followed by a long sip of coffee. “I did. And I’d do it again.”

Yeah. He thought as much.

“The specials board looks good.” Striving to change the subject, you tell him. You look up at it, impressed by his handwriting and ability to draw little pumpkins and maple leaves. It’s sweet. “Why’d you change it?”

He glances at it with you, noticing too many imperfections. He sighs.

“Was boring me, the old one. But now…”

“Now this one isn’t up to scratch either?” You pose, setting your lips into a straight line. “But I think it looks great. And I come in here every single day, so I think that I’m qualified to say that.”

Joel chuckles. He supposes that you’re right. He also supposes that you need another refill.

“How’d last night go?” Almost as if he doesn’t want to know the answer, he asks. All the while pouring enough coffee into the mug to drown a small town. “Was Costco guy a hit?”

You groan. Dramatically. Joel grimaces.

“I take that to mean no, he wasn’t.”

Wordlessly, you nod. You take a long, drawn out pull of your coffee. Again. And Joel checks you out. Again.

The apples of your cheeks appear to be slightly more subdued, now. No longer blazing red. And your smile—despite faltering at the mention of your date—is as bright, and toothy as ever.

She’s so beautiful.

I wonder whether or not he was a jerkoff.

Soft spoken, Joel asks about Marcus for the last time when you swirl the remnants of coffee about in the mug. He’s curious. Maybe a bit too much.

“Ugh, I don’t even know what to say.” Slightly depressed—completely unlike you—you start. “It was so crappy, Joel. I had high hopes, but he was just so…eh.”

“Eh?”

“Yeah. Eh.”

“Meaning?”

“Boring. Irritating. A literal life-sucking, soul-destroying, personality vacuum.” Blunt, you tell him. “I’d rather sit and watch an entire room of paint dry, than have to spend another waking minute listening to him ramble on about his vapid life.”

Plump lips contort—against his better judgement—into a little smirk. Satisfied, perhaps. Content with the fact that your date—the one that you unintentionally rubbed into his face—went so awfully bad, you don’t even want to talk about him.

Very, very satisfied.

“But my lunch with Maria was great.” Starting to smile again, you explain. “She told me that she and Tommy are heading to Cancun next summer. And that they’re hoping to start trying for a baby—“

Joel grimaces. He hates this.

So. Much.

“Come on, it’ll be cute. Uncle Joel.”

He stares at you, a few loose curls poking out from above the backstrap of his hat makes it almost impossible to take him seriously.

“I’d rather not think about my brother and his wife trying for a baby.”

Your eyes roll. “Grow up, you prude.”

Joel’s hands fuse to his hips, a light sheen of sweat coating the skin of his forehead. He can’t tell if it’s because he’s hot, or starting to get annoyed.

“How is that me being a prude? I just don’t wanna think ‘bout my brother having—“

“Enough.” Warning—though fighting a giggle—you say. “I can’t believe that when I say that you’re brother is trying for a baby, you automatically envision Tommy having sex. That is not normal.”

He supposes that you’re right, but still. The mental image haunts him.

Maybe it’s just a girl thing, to think of that so positively. Like it’s something to share with the entire world. But to him—a guy—it’s the most inconceivable thing.

Perhaps it is a little bit prudish.

“Moving swiftly on…” Hands placed gently against the newspaper left at the spot to your right, you make eye contact with him again. “Maria said she’d cover tomorrow night.”

Joel says your name, letting his head tilt back a little bit. He seems annoyed at you for going behind his back like this. You can’t find it inside yourself to care, though.

“She said she’ll be happy to. ‘Cus you never go out, and have no friends, and no social life, and—“

“I get it.” His baritone is low as he growls. It’s almost primal. It’s actually a little bit seductive, you feel.

Despite being handsome—almost painfully so—you’ve never thought about him like that. It’s never once crossed your mind to harbor these feelings about your friend, but that has completely unintentionally awakened something inside of your already chaotic—much too busy—brain. And your vagina.

You feel very Bridget Jones-y, now. In a strange position, but wholly comfortable with the fact that you’re stuck here. In fact, you don’t hate the thought of pushing some more.

“And considering that you never get laid, neither, I said that I’ll be happy to help out.”

Joel’s dick twitches. His face falls.

“With setting you up, of course.” You finish, watching fifty different emotions flit over his hardened features. One of which being complete unadultered fury.

Fury for the fact that, maybe, you’ve teased a little too close to home. and getting to grips with being single stings. Or fury because he wants you, and you’re trying to push him onto another body.

Regardless, Joel looks pissed.

And so, with that, you take the morning paper, and stuff it into your little purse. He watches intently, and the little adjustment to your panties through your dress absolutely does not go unnoticed as you stand to attention beside the barstool.

Your coat is being shrugged on in a heartbeat.

“I’ve gotta shoot. My parents are coming to stay with me Monday for a few nights, and I needa stock up on tea leaves, fresh linens, and enough red wine to get so drunk that perhaps I’ll be able to tolerate an hour with my mother.”

Joel forces a laugh.

“See ‘ya tomorrow.”

“Yeah.” He watches you leave—like each day before this one—and smirks. “See ‘ya tomorrow. Maybe.”

Your head whips around as you get to the door, eyebrows fused together. With eyes squinting, you point at him. “Thin. Ice.”

The next evening rolls around faster than what you might’ve liked, and is considerably colder than before. A black scarf wrapped around your neck really tampers with the vibe of your very put-together outfit for movie night.

But you suppose that if you were to leave that at home, then you’d absolutely die of frostbite. And then the question of who’d annoy Joel if I was six feet under? rattles around your head. And you can’t possibly carry on with the prospect of death.

So the scarf stays on. And so does the matching hat.

“You look like one of the snowmen that the kids build on the green.” Is what he greets you with when you enter the coffee house. Neck and chin swathed in faux cashmere.

“Very funny.” You mumble, pulling down fabric to reveal your perfectly plush lips. “Let’s go. I’m starving, and it’s cold.”

“Don’t forget your coal ‘n carrot.” Maria jokes from behind the counter, and Tommy is almost doubled over laughing at his wife.

They’re so cute together. It makes you sick.

“Don’t poke the bear.” Joel murmurs to his brother. “I’ve gotta spend the evening with it, and I’d really rather my head stay intact—“

“I can hear you.”

Joel glances over his shoulder shrugging on his denim jacket with the white borg trim, and stifles a laugh at the sight of you; completely clothed from your cheeks down. It’s adorable.

“Sorry.” Murmuring again, he says. He gestures for you to go out first, before he’s turning to his brother and Maria, mouthing a quick thank you.

She simply smiles in response, and turns to her husband when the two of you leave the building.

“He’s totally into her.”

“Oh, no doubt about it.” Tommy replies. “Just hope he’s not too chicken shit to do anything ‘bout it.”

She agrees with a soft hum, making tracks to a table of new customers to take their orders.

Per Joel’s request, the two of you grab a burger from a very—very—greasy joint a few blocks away from the movie theatre, and you find it being one of the best you’ve ever had in your life.

Piled to the absolute high-heavens, it’s safe to say that you’d never seen such a creation before. Cheese, bacon, lettuce, tomato—a boat-load of pickles—and, like, six onion rings, had that monster very deserving of its title of gut-buster.

But the way that you absolutely mangled that thing had Joel way more impressed. He’d only ever watched you devour cinnamon rolls and the odd stack of pancakes. This was like a fever dream.

And the fact that you then decided on grabbing a purse-full of snacks to take into the screening of Beetlejuice with you, has you very deserving of a few freebies from his humble cafe.

“That movie never fails to make me smile.” You say as the two of you walk—arm in arm—back into the cold, dreary night. “But it always begs the question; if the Maitland’s died by drowning, then why aren’t they wet throughout the movie?”

Joel laughs and shrugs, finding himself tightening the grip that his arm has on yours. Neither of you mind.

“I just think that Keaton plays a demon super well—“

“Don’t call him that.” You defend. “I mean, I know that he technically is one, but still. He’s a stand up guy.”

“He’s a total jerk—“

“Joel.” You whine. He’s one of your favorite fictional characters, and it’s killing you to hear this slander. “He’s my—he’s my boy. I love him.”

He blinks at you. His respect for you is dwindling, mainly because you’re essentially saying that Keaton’s portrayal of a green-haired gremlin is better than his version of Batman.

Blasphemy.

“He’s hot.” You say after a few moments of silence, feeling your cheeks heat at the confession. “In a dilf-y way. I think.”

Two brown eyes almost bulge out of Joel’s head, and he literally cannot help the laugh that bubbles from the fissures of his throat. You are very troubled.

“That’s concerning.”

“The fact that I like older men is concerning to you?”

His heart thumps. He’s not sure why, but it does. It’s a strange sensation—one he’s not able to describe in so many words—but he enjoys it. He thinks.

Maybe.

“No.” He clears his throat. “The fact that you find Michael Keaton—as Beetlejuice—hot is concerning to me, kid.”

You throw your head back laughing, motioning to a bench that looks fairly dry. You’re not ready for your evening to end quite yet.

“Why’d you always call me that?”

Joel unhooks his arm from yours, taking a seat as you plop down onto the birchwood. He lets out a little grunt as he goes down, something about his back and knees hurting from slaving away alllllll day.

“Call you what? Kid?”

You nod.

“Dunno.” He shrugs, leaning back. Joel extends his legs, just watching the city lights pass him by. “I’m a lot older than you. It’s habit, I ‘spose.”

Dallas is bustling, tonight. A cold, foggy evening will seldom stop the population of Texas from stepping out on a Saturday night. Phil’s Line Dancing club is packed, as per usual. Wall-to-wall with people just looking for a good time.

The atmosphere is unmatched, to you. Nothing feels as good as your state. Especially on weekends and football days. You get a little wet just thinking about the Cowboys playing AT&T.

Your home is so vibrant. So colourful and beautiful, and you’re happy to be seeing Dallas in all of its glory with Joel by your side tonight.

Many a drunk couple stumble past you both as you sit and chat on the bench, the thought of his last sentiment still hanging over your head like a little rain cloud. He may be a lot older than you, but you don’t mind. You still see him as a friend.

A good friend, as a matter of fact. Great, even. The best, perhaps.

A friend who despite seeing every single morning—and sometimes evening—you still feel like you cannot fill in the blanks on the sordid details of his life.

“Can I ask you something?” You turn so that you’re facing Joel, eyes searching his face for an answer. He smiles. The lines around his mouth, crows feet and forehead wrinkles have your eyes softening.

He’s so handsome.

“Yeah, shoot.”

Fiddling with the chain on your wrist—the one that Maria got you from Toronto—it’s a struggle to find your words. The right words, anyway.

You clear your throat after an awkward juncture, finally able to verbalize what you want to say.

“Did Tess leave because of me?”

It comes like a ton of bricks to the chest. Joel didn’t think you’d ask such a heavy question, least alone after spending the evening—outside of the shop—together. It’s a very jarring—painful—position to be thrust into. But it’s a question that he knew he’d have to respond to first as last.

His heart wrenches. He knows the answer, but he doesn’t know whether you do.

“I won’t be offended. Honest.”

“Where’s—uh—where’s this comin’ from?” He stutters over his qualm, hand reaching for the back of his neck. He rubs at the skin, feeling his heart pound. “Did someone say somethin’?”

Your head shakes. “No. I’ve just been thinkin’…”

“Why?” Comes a little bit curt. He kicks himself, but you don’t seem fazed by his tone. “People talkin’?”

Again, you’re shaking your head. “No, Joel, I just wanna know.”

Inquisitive as ever.

He swallows thickly the acrimony that’s rising to the surface at the thought of Tess and the day that she left. Trying to keep it suppressed hasn’t done him the favor that he thought it would’ve.

“She left ‘cus she had enough.” He spits, doing the most to avoid eye contact. “Of me. Of Birch Grove. Of everything that I fuckin’ did.”

You gasp. You don’t think that you’ve ever heard Joel curse.

Raw with emotion, his voice sounds barren. Bare. There’s nothing left to say, on the topic, but so much at the same time. But he owes this to you.

“She never liked you, y’know?” Almost guilty, he says. “Said you’re always too chirpy and flirty—hell, I think she was just projectin’ ‘cus I never saw her happy to see no one.”

“No way.” Not nearly sarcastic enough, you laugh. “I’m surprised that she never spat in my coffee.”

“Yeah, well. I’d never put anything past her.” A little bitter, he responds. “Hated all you girls that’d come in. Even scared off Josie—told her not to come back, or she’d tell her husband that she was tryna screw me—“

Genuinely shocked, your jaw hangs low. “Jesus.”

“Yep.” He watches over the stragglers stumbling out of Phil’s, and looks at you.

Your cheeks, nose and ears are stippled with a rosy blush. If he were to set his calloused palms against your tender skin, he’s sure that the cold would be almost bone-chilling. But he refrains.

“Nasty, nasty piece ‘a work. Glad she left, if I’m honest.”

“You two…You seemed so happy.”

“We were.” Honest comes his proclamation. “Until we weren’t. Until she started to get envious of every single female that walked through the cafe doors, and turned into a big blonde green-eyed monster.”

“Jealousy is such an ugly trait.”

He agrees with a tight-lipped smile and a nod, ignoring the fact that he was feeling that very emotion when you went out on a date. With a man who wasn’t him.

But now, here you are. With Joel. On a not date. But he’ll take what he can get, so long as the two of you can have some time together.

“God, Joel. I couldn’t imagine my life not coming to see you every morning.”

He smiles.

“What?” You blush. But it’s not apparent, what with the way your skin is already flush.

“Nothin.’” Joel’s teeth show beneath the scratchy hair of his mustache. You smile back. “Just couldn’t imagine mine if you didn’t come ‘n bleed me dry of lattes ‘n cinnamon rolls, either.”

That’s wholly the truth. Something he didn’t think he’d ever find himself letting you become privy to. Yet, here he is.

“That’s sweet. It’s nice to know that you have a heart beneath all the band shirts, and flannels.”

“Yeah, well.” He stretches his arms out and you slide closer to him—taking the man completely by surprise—nestling comfortably into his side. A perfect fit, actually. “It’s hard to get to, but it’s there.”

You smile up at him, eyes twinkling beneath the streetlights above.

“That’s good to know.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Your gaze is averted to the sidewalk, now. Focused wholly on the night passing you by. “Hopefully I hold a tiny little place there.”

Joel hugs you into his side, silently reassuring you that there’ll always be a tiny little place in his heart just for you.

[saphiccarma]

Sex with a Ghost

Summary - You weren't sure why you were on Earth, or why you could sense the Darkhold, but you did know you encountered the most beautiful woman on earth.

Warnings - Smut, fingering (R receiving)

A/N : I've never written smut before 😭I apologise if it's really bad (which it probably is)

Wanda moved to a house out in woods after Westview, shame filling her at what she had done. She hadn't meant to take control of all those people, make them her puppets in her own little personal town where she could live out her personal fantasy of having a life with Vision. Part of, the largest part, loved that. She had children who ran around and baked with her, who loved her and she loved them.

She saw the boys now, bolting in through the room, their smiles bright. From an outside view Wanda saw herself stirring some brownie batter. They dipped their fingers in as Wanda scolded them playfully.

It was a dream. It was all a dream. At least that's what she wanted to believe. In some reality, she had this. She had her boys and presumably Vision. A sick feeling boiled in her stomach, one filled with rage and jealousy, but also sadness.

Wanda was yanked out of her dream, her perfect dream, and back to her reality. Her eyes opened blearily, blinking away sleep as she adjusted to the light coming in from the window and softly illuminating the room. Weird, she didn't remember opening the curtains. Sitting up slowly, she listened to the birds chirping, her sheep bleating, the wind swaying the trees, and footsteps. Wanda did a small double take. Footsteps, feathery light, were above her, just barely audible.

As the footsteps continued, Wanda threw on some clothes, changing out of her night gown and opened the window fully. She stepped out, using her powers to elevate her to the roof. Wanda landed softly, a contrast to her emotions, and raised her hands, prepared to fight.

She froze.

A woman stood on the roof, her legs bending and straightening as she spun around. Her arms flew through the air as she danced along the rooftops. Blowing in her face, the wind ruffled her hair and made it whip around her face. The dress she wore was dancing with her, billowing as the wind spun past. The sunlight hit her just right so that it looked like a spotlight coming from below. The oddest part was her body. The tips of her fingers, the end of her nose, the outline of her entire figure, seemed to be floating away - attempting to carry her body up in little wisps. She looked like a ghost.

The woman slowed, spinning around and making eye contact with Wanda. Slowly, she blinked, her arms coming down to rest at her side as she tilted her head in a way that reminded Wanda of a puppy.

"Hi," she said softly, her voice mixing with the wind.

"Who are you?" Wanda asked, her Sokovian accent making it through just barely.

Blinking slowly, the woman approached Wanda, her hands splayed out in a placating way, as if she were approaching a scared cat. She got into touching distance before stopping.

"You do not know me?" Curiosity dripped from her words as she titled her head once more.

Wanda shook her head, scowling at the woman, "No."

She didn't look the slightest bit familiar. Nothing about her seemed familiar. The woman sighed, her shoulders sagging.

"But you can see me?" she asked, raising a brow.

"Why wouldn't I?"

A smile crept across the woman's face, "Because I'm a ghost."

^______________________^

As you thought, Wanda was a force to be reckoned with. She contained a violent power that was meant to be controlled, one that could not run free. Her magic was a force of nature, not meant to belong to someone who ran free throughout the world. Wanda would have been raised properly and properly taught if she had raised by witches.

You drifted through her house, taking in the cozy decoration. Couches, meant for a family lined the living room, beneath a TV and in front of a roaring fireplace. Wanda led you to the kitchen, her steps hesitant, yet confident. She had a calm vibe to her house in the decor, and despite that you couldn't help but shiver. An air of darkness lingered in the house. It floated in the air, wafting through all the corridors and seeping through the floor. The Darkhold.

"You are in possession of the Darkhold," you murmured.

Wanda's head snapped towards you, her brows furrowed, and nose scrunched, "How do know that?"

Offering her a soft smile, you pointedly glanced down at her fingers, "The tips of your fingers are stained with the darkness of it, and I can feel it."

"You can feel it? How?" she asked, pausing in her walking, staring at you curiously.

You pondered her words, wondering the best way to explain it. Even you didn't quite know yourself. Your powers were a mystery to you, they simply came to be when you died. Dying wasn't a pleasant experience, having been stabbed, you could still remember the blood flowing from the wound as you limped through the snow. When you were alive you were no one of significance, not even a witch. And yet, when you died, the gates to the underworld refused to let you in. Rather you were rejected and forced to wander the world, drawn to the dark forces of life.

"I do not know," you shrugged, answering honestly, "I just do."

The woman tilted her head, regarding you in an odd way. She was a pretty woman. Red hair cascading down her back, slightly messy, that fell atop her brown jacket. Green eyes that had the ability to shine bright red, but both beautiful.

"Why are you here?" she questioned, taking a step closer.

You licked your lips, "Because I thought you could see me. No one's seen me in years."

Carefully you took a step forward, even though Wanda looked like she wanted to step back and raised your hand slowly. Eyeing you warily, Wanda didn't step back, but her breathing increased, bushing the top of your head. Ever so slowly, you placed your hand on her arm, and for once it didn't phase through her skin.

"I'm not phasing through," you whispered, pressing your hand into her skin, "It works."

You smiled up at her, a sight Wanda found adorable, the way your pale eyes shimmered and your lips curled upward in pure delight. While you were adorable, she wasn't sure what to think of you. A ghost, who appeared at her home out of blue, and somehow knew she had the Darkhold.

"Sorry," you stepped back, hand falling away, "It's been a while since I've been around someone."

"That's alright," Wanda's lip quirked upward.

You bit your lip, pondering your next question, toes bouncing just slightly, "What do you plan on doing with the Darkhold?"

Wanda's mood changed immediately, her shoulders tensing and eyes turning to daggers.

"That's none of your business," she snapped, the thinnest layer of red coming to coat her eyes.

"I can help," you offered, enjoying the way she seemed to perk up, the red dispersing from her eyes, "I've been following the Darkhold around for years."

Licking her lips, Wanda's eyes bore into you, your fingers fidgeting ever so slightly.

"I'm going to bring my kids back," she whispered.

A sadistic grin crossed your face, "I know how to do that."

^______________________^

You danced in the spare room in Wanda's house, your legs burning and lungs thumping from exhaustion. The nightmare was still in the front of your mind, phantom pain in your stomach. A knife being plunged into your stomach by a girl your age, the snow coating you as you were left to die, hauling yourself up to limp away, and finally collapsing in the snow.

There were light footsteps entering the room, ones that you ignored, hoping Wanda would go back to sleep. But she didn't, you caught a brief glance of her leaning on the doorway, her arms crossed and a small smile on her face, filled with adoration. It had been a few months since you first met Wanda, and while the woman was harsh, sometimes considered cruel, you understood her. She was kind to you, welcoming you in and caring for you.

"You should stop," Wanda said softly, her eyes taking in your sweaty face. She didn't even know ghosts could sweat or get tired; she didn't even know you could eat.

You gave her no response, continuing through the movements. Your arms hurt from being raised and if you could bleed, you were sure there would be blood staining the floors. Red wisps stopped your movements, pinning your arms to your sides, spinning you around to face Wanda who had her hand raised slightly.

Glaring at you, you huffed, "Wanda."

She approached you, gently cupping your jaw in her ring clad fingers, digging just slightly into your cheeks. The tips of her fingers were cold, stained from the magic of the Darkhold.

"I told you to stop." Her voice carried an air of dominance. One that filled you with shame.

"Sorry," you mumbled, "It just helps me to cope with stress."

While your gaze was fixed on the floor, you didn't notice Wanda's lips curl into a smirk. She leaned in close, her breath warm against the shell of your ear.

"I know a better way to help you destress." Her voice was sultry as she spoke those words, pulling back and tilting your chin up.

Your heart pounded as she pulled you in for a harsh kiss, her lips pressing up against yours. Fighting for dominance, Wanda shoved you back towards the wall, slamming you against it. Her teeth bit down on your lip, requesting permission to enter. Your lips parted to allow her tongue to slip in. It was a heated kiss, one that only ended when Wanda pulled back, her breathing heavy.

Her pupils were blown as she looked down at you, "Bedroom?"

You nodded, letting out a surprised squeak when Wanda lifted you up, your legs wrapping around her waist. Taking the opportunity, you nipped at her neck, relishing in the way she growled softly. Teasingly, you liked a strip up the column of her throat. Wanda let out a shaky breath, the palm of her hand landing on your ass.

"Stop that."

You grinned against her neck, pressing a soft kiss before biting down hard. Wanda growled once and suddenly she was no longer holding you up and you were falling flat on your back before you landed on the mattress. She climbed on top of you, trapping your body to the mattress,

"Someone's being naughty," Wanda smirked down at you, her eyes filled with mischief.

You smiled up at her cheekily as her hands snuck under your shirt, making their way to your breasts. Her hands came to tease your nipples, pulling at the little nubs and twisting. You gasped, squirming underneath her. She leaned down to kiss at your neck, nipping and soothing the marks over with her tongue.

"Wanda.." you whined, hands coming up to pull on the fabric of her shirt. Ignoring your whine, one of Wanda's hands slide down the side of your body, making its way to the waist of your pants. She tugged on the waistband, and you lifted your hips up, allowing her to pull it off with your panties and throw it to the side. She shuffled down, keeping her left hand playing with your breast, and the other resting on your waist. Her lips, soft against the wisp of your skin, trailed up the length of your thigh, kissing up to where you needed it most.

You whined, tugging at her hair, "Touch me."

Wanda chuckled, the sound cruel and cold, "I am."

A moan escaped you when she bit the inner skin on your thigh. Her index finger and thumb twisted your nipple harshly, resulting in a breathy moan from you. You tugged at her hair, trying to encourage her to get on with it. Wanda just laughed, her breath tickling your core. She swiped her fingers up your folds, your slick gathering on them.

"Aww," she cooed, not at all sweetly, "Is this all for me? I've barely touched you." Her fingers tapped on your lips before you could respond, asking for entrance. Opening your mouth, you licked her fingers clean of your slick, her fingers heavy on your tongue. "Does my needy baby want me to fuck her?"

"Yes," you pleaded when her fingers popped out of your mouth, "Please."

Wanda didn't respond, instead attaching her mouth to your clit, swirling around it. Her fingers entered you slowly, ever so tediously pumping in and out. She licked and sucked at your clit as you moaned, pulling at her hair for more. She ignored your silent please, instead continuing to swirl her tongue around your clit and pump in and out of you slowly. Picking up pace, she switched to hammering into you harshly, curling every now and then, hitting your sweet spot. Moving her mouth away, Wanda silenced your whine by attaching her lips to yours, kissing you passionately. With everything going on, you quickly reached your climax, that familiar heat coiling in your stomach. Your legs trembled as you started to let go, pressure building inside you, and just before you could have release, Wanda stopped. Her fingers pulled away and she stopped kissing you.

"No!" You cried, sitting up slightly to grab at her hand and pull it back to your core. Wanda laughed in faux pity, frowning at you. Before you could protest anymore, her fingers rammed into you once more. Wanda edged you two more times, pulling you to the edge, reading your body language, before she would pull back and look at you with regret that she didn't really mean. And for the fourth time, two of her fingers pushed into your sore pussy, her palm slapping against your clit if she went far enough. If it were any other time, you would've been embarrassed at the wet sounds that came from the room and the moans that escaped your mouth when she hit the perfect spot. Your climax came quickly, her skilled fingers bringing you to the edge.

Her fingers slipped out just slightly, causing you to panic, "Please, please, please," you begged, "Please."

Wanda continued pumping in and out of you languidly, considering your plea, "Go ahead." You sighed with relief when her fingers picked up pace, pounding into you again. Your climax came as quickly as it had gone, your body tensing as you finally let go, spilling all over her. Pulling out slowly, Wanda brought her fingers to her mouth, moaning at the taste of you.

You laid panting on the bed, arms spread out as your chest rose and fell. Wanda flopped down next to you, her other hand that wasn't in her mouth coming up to brush your hair out of your sweaty face. Smiling at her you kissed her lips softly, tasting yourself on her. She hummed softly, pulling you closer. The two of you sat in silence for a moment, your head leaning on her chest, listening to the sound of her heartbeat, her very real heartbeat. Her fingers played with your hair, stroking your neck softly as she wrapped herself around you.

"Let's get you cleaned up," she whispered, placing a kiss on the top of your head.

"No," you whined, pulling her back when she tried to pull away, "Stay here."

Wanda laughed, the sound soft and melodious, "Just a few more minutes."

You smirked in victory, whispering three words you never said until you met Wanda, "I love you."

[lecsainz]

Hope you're doing amazing! I love your blog so much! I come here almost every other day to day dream about my favourites and read your pieces again and again. Could i request Carlos x reader fic where Carlos comforts the reader after some reporters prod into their private life and the reader feels overwhelmed... Angst to fluff and maybe smut in the end?

SHE’S A BAD BAD GIRL

parings: carlos sainz x famous!reader

authors note: I gotta say, mixing a bit of AU with regular fanfic, can I just say I love doing magazine features?

summary: that one where the media makes up stuff about your relationship with carlos but he ain't gonna let that shake our relationship.

☆. . . masterlist !

Exclusive Source Reveals Startling Insights Into the Relationship of F1's Rising Star and the Elusive Heiress

The Power Couple: Carlos Sainz and Y/N Y/L/N's Love Story or PR Masterpiece?

By TMZ Magazine - September 2023

In the glitzy world of fame and fortune, where the line between reality and illusion often blurs, power couples are born just as swiftly as they fade away.

None have captured the public's attention quite like that of Formula 1 sensation Carlos Sainz Jr. and the enigmatic heiress Y/N Y/L/N. This power couple's whirlwind romance has been the subject of intense speculation, with many questioning the authenticity of their love. In a TMZ exclusive, we delve into the inner workings of their seemingly sensational union, revealing what lies beneath the surface.

It's no secret that the world of celebrity romance often blurs the lines between genuine affection and calculated publicity. In the case of Carlos Sainz Jr. and Y/N Y/L/N, sources close to the couple suggest that their relationship might be more PR strategy than a heartfelt connection. Our exclusive source, a close friend of the couple, disclosed that the pair has carefully orchestrated their romance to maximize benefits on both ends.

"They both know that being in the spotlight can help boost their respective careers," our source shared. "They decided it's a mutually beneficial arrangement. Carlos gets more media coverage, and Y/N can use his popularity to her advantage."

Y/N Y/L/N, the elusive heiress whose life has been shrouded in mystery, has raised eyebrows with her numerous high-profile relationships over the years. It's no secret that she's been romantically linked to at least eight A-list celebrities, including musicians, actors, and even fellow heirs. Despite her apparent aversion to fame and the media circus that surrounds it, Y/N has consistently found herself in the headlines due to her high-profile affairs.

"The irony is that Y/N has always claimed to hate the attention that comes with dating famous people," our source revealed. "Yet, she's continued to choose partners from the same world she professes to despise."

As the couple's relationship has garnered more attention, their PR teams have been working tirelessly to manage the narrative. They've employed tactics such as carefully timed public appearances, social media posts, and interviews to keep the public intrigued and invested in their romance. This calculated approach, however, has led many to question the authenticity of their connection.

"Their teams are skilled at using the media to their advantage," our source admitted. "It's all about perception and maintaining their status as a 'power couple.'"

As the world continues to watch this captivating couple's every move, one question lingers: Is their love story genuine, or is it a calculated maneuver to seize the attention of the masses and advance their respective careers? Are Carlos and Y/N truly in love, or are they orchestrating a well-choreographed PR campaign for mutual benefit?

Stay tuned for more exclusive updates and revelations from TMZ Magazine.

Y/N lay sprawled across the plush sofa in the cozy living room of her shared home with Carlos in Spain. The afternoon sun streamed through the windows, casting warm rays of light across the room. She'd been catching up on some reading when her phone buzzed incessantly, drawing her attention away from the book.

The headline on her screen was impossible to miss: "The Power Couple: Carlos Sainz and Y/N Y/L/N's Love Story or PR Masterpiece?" The TMZ article had surfaced online, and her heart sank as she read through the scandalous claims about their relationship. It was a relentless invasion of their privacy, dissecting their love as if it were a staged performance.

Tears welled up in Y/N's eyes, and she felt overwhelmed by the intrusion into their lives. She knew she had to confront this with Carlos, who had always been her rock in times of turmoil.

Carlos entered the room, sensing the tension in the air. "Y/N, what's wrong?" he asked, his voice filled with concern as he sat down beside her.

She handed him her phone, unable to speak the words herself. Carlos read through the article, his expression growing darker with every word. He clenched his jaw, his protective instincts kicking in. "This is complete nonsense," he muttered angrily.

Carlos's anger simmered as he continued to read the invasive article. His protective instincts flared, and he couldn't fathom how anyone could twist their love into something so far from the truth.

"They have no idea what they're talking about," Carlos said, his voice low but filled with determination. "This is just trash journalism trying to stir up controversy."

Y/N looked up at Carlos, her eyes filled with gratitude. She'd always admired his strength and resilience. "I know, Carlos, but it still stings. I hate how they're trying to make our love seem fake."

Carlos's expression softened as he turned to her. "Mi sol," he whispered, using the affectionate term he had for her. "Our love is as real as the sun streaming through those windows. Don't ever doubt that."

Y/N managed a faint smile, her heart aching a little less with his reassuring words. "I just wish we could shut them up, Carlos."

A mischievous glint flickered in Carlos's eyes as he looked at her. "Well, maybe we can," he said cryptically.

Before Y/N could ask what he meant, Carlos swept her into his arms and stood up. She laughed in surprise, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"Carlos, what are you doing?" she asked, her laughter mixing with curiosity.

He grinned down at her, his eyes dancing with mischief. "I'm taking my sunshine to our room," he said, "away from all this nonsense."

Y/N couldn't help but giggle as Carlos carried her bridal style down the hallway to their bedroom. His laughter joined hers, and it echoed through their home, drowning out the noise of the world outside.

In that moment, as Carlos playfully carried her, Y/N realized that their love was a sanctuary, a refuge from the chaos of fame and gossip. It didn't matter what others said or wrote about them. What they had was real, unbreakable, and filled with a kind of love that could weather any storm.

As they reached their bedroom, Carlos gently set Y/N down, and they both burst into laughter. He pulled her into a tender kiss, sealing their promise to protect their love from the prying eyes of the world.

As Carlos set Y/N down in their bedroom, their laughter filled the air like a sweet melody, banishing the remnants of unease brought on by the intrusive article. With a loving smile, Carlos cupped her face in his hands, his gaze locked onto hers.

"You know," he whispered, his voice laced with desire, "there's one thing those journalists will never understand."

Y/N's breath hitched as she met his intense gaze. "What's that?" she asked, her voice barely more than a soft murmur.

Carlos leaned in, his lips brushing against hers in a teasing, tantalizing kiss. "That our love," he murmured, his voice husky, "is the real deal."

Their kisses deepened, their passion igniting like a flame. Carlos's hands slid from her face down to the small of her back, pulling her closer. Y/N's fingers tangled in his hair, and she moaned softly against his lips.

Their love was a fire burning brightly, an unbreakable bond that no amount of gossip or scrutiny could diminish. As their clothes fell to the floor, they reveled in the intimacy that was entirely their own, a celebration of their genuine love.

In the quiet of their bedroom, away from the prying eyes of the world, Carlos and Y/N proved that their love wasn't just a masterpiece of public relations. It was a passionate, fiery, and deeply genuine connection that left no room for doubt.

As their bodies entwined and their moans of pleasure filled the room, they knew that their love was their most cherished secret, a sanctuary where they could be their true selves, far away from the judgmental eyes of the world.

liked by charlesleclerc , taylorswift , and 13.657.473 others

carlossainz55 just had the best night of my life! thanks, gossipmongers, for the motivation.

tag: yourusername

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[emiplayzmc]

I like how realistically there would be such an odd power dynamic with Spamton and Tenna. (I am posting so much about these two and I do not apologise, they make me ill /pos)

Like. Think about it. This is some random Addison mailman that was suddenly catapulted into the spotlight that ends up meeting, befriending, and even becoming BUSINESS PARTNERS with a ruler of a Dark World that isn't even his own. Realistically he should frankly be nervous around Tenna, at least at the start, because Heaven above, what if he messes it up and gets this much more powerful person pissed at him!! Tenna, by all accounts, is much more powerful than Spamton is, he took over the TV World and trapped its residents in binding contracts that they can't get out of, + his tendency to blow up and spontaneously crash out and/or guilt trip. He's definitely not ALL pathetic cringefail wooby and I feel like a lot of people are already skimming past that with his character.

And yet, at the same time, Spamton is in contact with this highly powerful person who was able to help him reach such grandiose heights — Tenna wants what Spamton has and wants his secrets to success and remembrance as he's likely slowly fading into obscurity and obsoletion while the Internet and email gets stronger by the day. He probably didn't want to do anything that would make Spamton leave because that would mean that the one person who can help save him from being forgotten would be gone. He says it takes 'a bit of sweet talking' to get Spamton to give up the secrets in the first place by signing the ol' dotted line, he likely didn't want to scare him off by being forceful about the contract despite his own position, especially given that he cared about the salesman as well. In this way, SPAMTON also holds power over TENNA, albeit likely not intentionally.

Their dynamic is so interesting to me because of this weird mix of power / friendship they likely had.

They're business partners. One could ruin the other's career in an instant, and the other could let him slowly fizzle out while desperately clawing to keep what attention he still has.

They're best friends. One is the ruler of a whole world and the other is a puppet to something much greater than both of them that's likely being dripfed knowledge of the truth about their world.

They care about each other. One thinks the other tried to manipulate him into a contract that resulted in him losing it all, the other thinks he was led on and lied to. Both still obviously care about the other despite the surface hatred that they likely tried to convince themselves into believing along with everyone else.

Spamtenna, platonic or romantic, interests me so much augh. Such a confusing dynamic between the two and I am eating it up, I would love a Spamton Sweepstakes-style event for Tenna that would give us more insight to their story while also showing more of Tenna's character beyond 'how much of him is intertwined with Spamton's story, where does one begin and the other end?', more of the scheming and controlling host side or the desperate, nostalgia trapped, doomed by the narrative side. I want to know more about how Tenna operates to mess with the dynamic with Spamton a bit more, he's so fun to look into for his character already. Playing with my tuoys (I am actively looking into my tuoy's character to see how best I can make my heart hurt with him).

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Unspoken Melody p.1

Hi guys, here's a new story about Oscar and YN, a famous pop star. Let me know what you think :) If you want to read more of my stories, here's my masterlist.

Two drivers, one unforgettable concert, and a chance encounter with a pop sensation that leaves Oscar questioning everything he thought about music—and maybe even himself.

Oscar leaned against the wall of the car, arms crossed over his chest as he watched Lando fiddle with his phone.

“I still don’t get why you dragged me here,” Oscar said, raising an eyebrow.

“Because you need to live a little,” Lando replied with a grin. “And trust me, you’ll thank me after tonight.”

Oscar rolled his eyes but didn’t push further. He wasn’t a fan of pop music, and this YN person, though apparently a big deal, wasn’t even on his radar. All Lando had told him was that she’d invited him to her concert as a thank-you for being in her latest music video. When Lando added a casual, “You’ll love her,” Oscar had scoffed.

The venue was already buzzing when they arrived. Lando, predictably, had VIP seats right in the center. Oscar couldn’t deny the setup was impressive—the lights, the crowd, the electric energy that pulsed through the arena. Still, he kept his expectations low, determined not to get swept up in the hype.

Then, the lights dimmed, and the crowd erupted into cheers. A spotlight illuminated the stage as the first chords of a song Oscar didn’t recognize echoed through the arena. And then he saw her.

She walked out with a confident grace, her voice captivating from the first note. Oscar felt a jolt run through him, like he’d just been plugged into the very power grid lighting up the stage. Her presence was magnetic, her smile dazzling under the glow of the stage lights. He couldn’t look away.

“See?” Lando nudged him with a knowing smirk. “Told you.”

Oscar ignored him, his focus entirely on YN. She moved effortlessly, her voice weaving through the air like it was meant to be there, commanding everyone’s attention. For the first time, Oscar understood what people meant when they said someone was a star.

By the time the concert ended, Oscar’s hands were sore from clapping. Lando shot him a smug glance as they stood to leave.

“You were into it,” Lando teased, elbowing him in the ribs.

“I wasn’t—” Oscar started, but the lie died on his lips. He had been into it. More than into it.

“Well, you’ll be glad to know we’re not done.” Lando pulled out his phone and glanced at the screen. “We’re going backstage.”

“What?” Oscar’s stomach flipped. “Why?”

“To say hi, obviously. She invited me.” Lando rolled his eyes. “Don’t be weird about it.”

“I’m not being weird,” Oscar muttered, though his pulse was racing. The thought of meeting her up close, of hearing her speak directly to him, felt like more pressure than being on the starting grid of a Grand Prix.

Lando led the way to the VIP area, breezing past security with a casual confidence that Oscar envied. Oscar, meanwhile, felt like his legs were made of lead as they walked through the backstage corridors.

The VIP lounge was smaller than he expected but no less glamorous. Laughter and conversation filled the room, but Oscar barely registered it. His gaze zeroed in on her instantly. YN stood near the bar, chatting animatedly with a group of people. She was even more stunning up close, her smile as radiant as it had been on stage.

“Lando!” she exclaimed when she saw them. Her eyes lit up, and she crossed the room to greet them.

“YN!” Lando pulled her into a friendly hug. “Amazing show, as always.”

“Thanks.” Her gaze shifted to Oscar, and for a moment, he felt like he couldn’t breathe. “And you must be…?”

“Oh, right.” Lando clapped Oscar on the shoulder. “This is my mate, Oscar. He’s a driver too. Not in music videos, though.”

Oscar’s face burned. “Hi,” he managed, his voice embarrassingly soft.

“It’s nice to meet you, Oscar,” she said, her smile warm. “Did you enjoy the show?”

“Yeah, it was… incredible,” Oscar admitted, his usual cool demeanor completely abandoned.

“Glad to hear it.” She tilted her head slightly, studying him. “You look a little nervous. Don’t worry, I don’t bite.”

Lando burst out laughing, and Oscar shot him a glare. “I’m not nervous,” Oscar said quickly, though his voice betrayed him. “Just… impressed.”

Her laughter was light and genuine. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

For the rest of the night, Oscar tried to play it cool, but every time YN spoke to him, his heart raced. As they left the lounge, he couldn’t shake the way she had smiled at him, how easy it had felt to talk to her despite his initial nerves.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Lando asked as they walked down the corridor toward the exit. He had his usual smug grin plastered on his face.

Oscar gave him a half-hearted glare. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Maybe a little,” Lando admitted with a chuckle. “But you’ve gotta admit, I was right. She’s amazing.”

Oscar sighed, his expression softening. “Yeah, she is.”

They stepped out into the cool night air, the muffled sounds of the crowd still buzzing behind them. Oscar shoved his hands into his pockets, glancing at the ground as they walked toward Lando’s car. His thoughts were a whirlwind of her laughter, her voice, and the way she had looked at him like he wasn’t just some guy tagging along.

Lando unlocked the car and climbed into the driver’s seat. As Oscar slid into the passenger side, Lando glanced over at him with a smirk.

“You’ve got that look,” Lando teased.

“What look?” Oscar frowned.

“The ‘I’m completely smitten’ look,” Lando said, leaning back in his seat with a laugh. “Don’t even try to deny it.”

Oscar groaned, tipping his head back against the seat. “I’m not smitten.”

“Sure, mate. Whatever you say.” Lando started the engine, but before pulling out, he added casually, “Just so you know, she has a boyfriend.”

Oscar blinked, the words hitting him like a splash of cold water. He sat up straight, turning to look at Lando. “What?”

“Yeah, some actor guy. Been together for a while,” Lando said, his tone nonchalant as if he hadn’t just crushed Oscar’s very fragile, very unexpected hopes. “She doesn’t talk about him much, though. Likes to keep it private.”

Oscar stared out the window, a strange mix of relief and disappointment settling in his chest. Relief, because it meant YN’s warmth and attention toward him had been nothing more than her natural charm. Disappointment, because, well… maybe he had been a little smitten after all.

Lando glanced at him as they drove off, his grin softer now. “Don’t overthink it, mate. She’s just one of those people who makes everyone feel special.”

“Yeah,” Oscar murmured, forcing a small smile. “Guess so.”

But as they merged onto the highway, Oscar couldn’t help replaying the evening in his head. YN might have been unattainable, but she had left an impression he wouldn’t forget anytime soon.

Part 2

[darkseidex]

13K words . Smut / explicit sexual content (18+). Established relationship. Vaginal sex (m/f). Oral sex (m + f receiving). Panties used as gag (soft bondage). No condom (wrap it up IRL). Grinding (intense). Spit play. Power play / dominance. Gagged begging. Praise kink. Overstimulation. Wet lace. Lap riding. Aftercare (detailed). Domestic softness. Love as worship. this was in fact in the drafts for so long: i was SCARED. tags : @faegoddessog enjoy cutie <3

Helena couldn’t say she missed life on the pole—at least, not the way people expected her to. She didn’t long for the hazy, sweat-slicked nights that bled into bleary-eyed mornings, her muscles aching as she dragged herself to class with glitter still clinging to her skin. She didn’t miss counting crumpled bills in the back of an Uber, smelling like cheap perfume and tequila, wondering if she had enough for groceries and gas. And she definitely didn’t miss the heels—those sky-high stilettos that turned her feet into raw meat by midnight and left her ankles screaming by dawn. No, no matter what anyone said, you never get used to them.

But there were things she did miss. God, did she miss them.

She missed the club—L’Enfer Doux, the kind of place with velvet ropes and custom cocktails, where the air always smelled like smoke, sex, and somebody else’s money. It wasn’t just a strip club. It was a playground for the rich, the bored, the dangerously curious. Heirs in designer suits, Grammy-winning singers with wandering hands, actors whose faces were lit up on every billboard in L.A. slipping in with sunglasses on at night. They’d come for a taste of something raw, something they couldn’t get at home—some pleasure untouched by prenups and publicists.

And Helena gave it to them, night after night, with a smile like sin and a body that obeyed music better than gravity.

She missed that part—the performance. The adrenaline that surged in her veins the second her platform heels touched the stage. The spotlight cutting through the haze, catching the sheen of sweat on her collarbones. The way the bass would hum low and thick in her chest, until it took over, until she wasn’t Helena anymore. She was Summer Night—every movement deliberate, every glance lethal. The way she arched, twisted, dropped into a split like her bones were made of silk threads, and the whole room would exhale. And then came the rush. Bills—fifties, hundreds—fluttering through the air, kissing her skin, her thighs, her chest, like worship.

That was the part no one ever understood.

It was never just about the money.

It was about power. About slipping into a persona made of silk and smoke, one that no man could touch unless she let him. It was about watching their eyes widen as she moved, about becoming the fantasy, the hunger, the unattainable thing they could never quite buy—even when they tried.

For three songs, she was God.

And then she met him.

Her beau. Her beautiful, wide-eyed deer in headlights.

Bambi.

She didn’t know his name at first, didn’t care to. They told her he was a big deal—Hollywood’s latest golden boy, fresh off the press circuit for some Oscar-bait biopic she couldn’t be bothered to Google. Helena didn’t follow celebrity gossip. It all blurred into the same cocktail of chiseled jawlines and drug rumors. But when she stepped out onto the velvet path that led to the private lounges at L’Enfer Doux her gaze landed on him—and she felt something shift.

He was perched on the edge of a leather sofa like he didn’t belong there, shoulders tense, long fingers locked together between his knees. His icy blue eyes flicked around the room like a trapped animal—half curiosity, half panic. His hair was a little messy, like he'd run his hands through it too many times on the ride over, and there was a faint flush high on his cheekbones, like the room was too warm or the shame was already starting to rise.

His friend—or manager, maybe both—was the one who did all the talking. A guy with designer stubble, loud cologne, and a mouth full of money. He clapped a heavy hand on Bambi’s shoulder, grinning like he owned the place, and slapped a black Amex on the counter with a smirk.

"Two hours," he said. "Private room. Treat him nice—he needs to relax."

Helena didn’t flinch. She’d done this before—hundreds of times. But something about the way Bambi’s jaw clenched made her pause.

He looked like he wanted the floor to crack open and swallow him whole.

There are certain types that drift into places like Velours. You know them the moment they walk through the gold-trimmed doors. The entitled ones. The ones who wear their wealth like armor and act like slipping a few bands down your panties makes you theirs. The ones who lean back, drink in hand, eyes crawling all over you like they’re selecting a cut of meat.

They were easy to spot.

But he wasn’t one of them.

He looked like he’d been dragged here against his will, like this whole thing was a dare or a punishment or an escape he didn’t want. He looked soft in all the places men in this world were supposed to be sharp. No arrogance, no assumption of ownership—just quiet discomfort and a gaze that kept flicking to the floor.

He looked like a boy who’d wandered into the woods and didn’t know the wolves were watching.

And Helena—no, Summer Night—had seen every kind of man the forest could swallow whole. The creeps who licked their lips before they even sat down. The slick ones with champagne promises and snake-oil eyes. The heartbreakers who called you “baby” and made you believe it for a minute. She’d danced for them all. Moved like smoke. Played her part with a smile dipped in molasses and razor wire.

But this one—he was different.

He didn’t look like he belonged here, in a place gilded with desire and half-truths. He looked like he’d been pushed through the velvet curtains by someone bigger than him, faster than him, and was only now realizing the air inside was thicker, hotter, scented like sweat and perfume and sex.

She walked toward him with a practiced grace—slow, deliberate, the heels clicking against the polished floor like punctuation marks to a song only she could hear. Her hips rolled with that liquid rhythm born from muscle and memory, from years of learning how to hypnotize a room before she even opened her mouth.

He was sitting at the edge of the couch like it might swallow him whole. Shoulders hunched forward, elbows on knees, fingers tangled into nervous knots. His suit jacket was too crisp, like he hadn’t moved in it much. His eyes—wide, arctic blue, rimmed with lashes too pretty for someone this anxious—flitted up to meet hers for a breathless second. Then back down again, as though eye contact alone might burn him alive.

And Helena’s pulse shifted.

Not from attraction. Not yet. But from curiosity. The kind that curls like smoke under a locked door.

She led him to the private room, letting her fingertips graze the side of his wrist in passing—a whisper of contact. She didn’t need to look back to know he followed. Men like him always did. Not because they wanted to own her, but because they didn’t know how not to.

Inside, the room was dark velvet and gold, warm light spilling from vintage sconces like honey on skin. The couch was deep red leather, soft and cool to the touch. Music thrummed faintly through the walls, bass low enough to feel in her ribcage but distant enough to be forgotten. It was a womb of a room. A place designed to slow time, soften edges, erase guilt.

She stood in the center for a moment, barefoot now, her heels left in the corner like broken promises. The silk strap of her top slipped over one shoulder as she lifted her hand to the clasp behind her neck.

Then—

“Wait,” he said, voice low and almost hoarse, like he hadn’t used it in hours.

She paused. Looked over her shoulder. His eyes were on her—not on her body, but on her face. Steady. Searching.

“What’s your name?” he asked, like it mattered.

She let the practiced smile slide into place. “Summer Night.”

It rolled off her tongue like sugar. She’d said it so many times it hardly felt like a lie anymore.

But he didn’t take it. He didn’t nod or smirk or make some joke.

“No,” he said softly, fingers tightening in his lap. “Your real name.”

And just like that, everything shifted.

Her hand dropped from the clasp. The silence in the room thickened. Her spine straightened, subtly. She turned to face him fully now—not as Summer, but as something quieter, more fragile beneath the gold lighting.

Nobody asked that. Not really. Not unless they wanted to pretend they were the one who could save her. But he wasn’t wearing that look. His face didn’t say, I could fix you. It said, I want to know you.

That was worse. That was harder.

She studied him for a moment—really studied him. The pink at the tips of his ears. The way his chest rose and fell just a bit too fast. The rawness in his gaze, the sincerity trembling beneath the surface like a cracked mirror.

And then, before she could stop herself, before she could tuck the truth behind another joke or sultry grin, she let it slip.

“Helena,” she said. Quiet. Real.

And he smiled. Not that cocky, crooked smile she saw a hundred times a night. Not a smile that meant you’re mine now. Just something soft. Something human.

“Hi, Helena,” he said, like they were at a park bench instead of a velvet-draped room built for sin.

And for the first time in a long time, she felt naked without taking off a single piece of clothing.

“You… don’t have to dance if you don’t want to,” he said, voice low and deliberate, like a wild animal trying not to spook another. “We could just talk.”

The words hung in the air like dust caught in soft amber light—delicate, unreal.

Helena didn’t react at first. She blinked slowly, almost suspiciously, as if the sentence needed time to echo through the padded silence of the room. Her mind raced through a dozen default responses, most of them forged in iron: a coy laugh, a lifted brow, the familiar shape of Summer Night’s voice slipping like honey into something practiced. Oh, sweetheart… talking costs extra.

But the words didn’t come.

Because his voice didn’t feel like a transaction. It didn’t carry greed, or even desire.

It carried permission.

Like he wasn’t asking her to perform. Like he was offering her a way out.

Helena felt something shift in her spine—a slackening, subtle but sure. Her arms, still lightly folded across her bare front, loosened. The strap of her top, which had slipped over her shoulder minutes earlier and never been fixed, now felt like a fragile thread holding her between two selves. Summer would’ve pulled it back up or let it fall completely. Helena did neither.

Her mouth parted, then closed again. No words. No coy smirk. Just breath.

Talk?

In this room?

Where mirrors watched from behind tinted glass, where the walls were padded in plum velvet and trimmed in gold? Where the air was always warm and a little too sweet, humming faintly with perfume, champagne, and the quiet pulse of a bass beat bleeding through the floor?

It felt absurd.

And yet… his face was open. His posture stiff, like he hadn’t unclenched since stepping inside. His hands twisted in his lap, fingers restlessly picking at a loose thread on the seam of his trousers. He wasn’t leaning back like he owned the room. He wasn’t eyeing her like he’d paid for her time.

He was asking. Gently.

Like she could say no, and he’d mean it when he said that was fine.

Helena tilted her head, something unspoken curling behind her eyes. The tension in her neck eased. And then, without fanfare, she crossed the room—not with the exaggerated sway of Summer Night, but in a way that felt almost accidental, like gravity had pulled her forward instead of a routine.

She sank onto the couch across from him, silk brushing against leather as she tucked one leg beneath her, the other foot bare and still arched from hours in heels. The cushions gave beneath her like a sigh. Her hair fell over one shoulder as she leaned back slightly, watching him.

And sure enough—he relaxed.

Not all at once. But his shoulders dropped. The knot in his brow loosened. It was the kind of release that only came when someone stopped pretending they were okay.

She watched the tension bleed out of him like ink in warm water.

“What would we even talk about?” she asked at last, her voice low, smoky, but no longer manufactured. The kind of tone she reserved for twilight walks and people who’d earned the truth.

He gave a shrug, eyes flickering up to meet hers with something soft behind them.

“I don’t know. You. Me. Life.” A pause. Then, quieter: “Stuff that’s not sold by the hour.”

Helena stared at him for a beat too long. Long enough to feel it in her chest.

There it is.

The moment.

The tilt.

The breath between then and now.

The shift she hadn’t expected, the one that cracked something small but sharp inside her. Like a pinprick to a balloon. Not loud. Not messy. Just sudden.

Because for the first time in what felt like forever, someone saw her—really saw her—and didn’t try to lay claim to the vision.

And that was the moment she realized: She hadn’t been standing on solid ground in a long, long time.

So she sat down.

Not too close—never too close. Just enough space to draw a line between intimacy and distance, just enough room for him to wonder if he should cross it. A velvet buffer, soft and deliberate. She folded herself into the couch like she was sinking into still water—one leg tucked under her, the other stretched long and bare, her skin catching the muted gold of the sconces above. The silk of her skirt rustled faintly, the only sound in the room aside from the low hum of the music bleeding through the walls.

She didn’t speak. She just watched.

Watched him rake a ring-clad hand through his hair, the blonde strands tousling in uneven waves. His fingers moved with the kind of nervous energy that didn’t know where to go—tugging, smoothing, curling again. The silver bands on his knuckles glinted under the warm light, momentarily catching on the strands before he let them fall back to his lap.

He looked like he was trying not to vibrate out of his own skin.

And still, she said nothing. Only picked at the corner of her acrylic with a slow, absent rhythm. Her nails were perfect—long, squared, cherry matte—but beneath one, a sliver of raw skin peeled. She caught it between her thumb and middle finger and gently worried it loose, feeling the tiny sting pulse up her hand. A tether to the moment. Something real.

His knee bounced once, then twice. He stilled it with his hand, as if embarrassed by the movement.

And then he spoke.

Quiet. Careful. Like the words had been sitting behind his teeth for minutes, too afraid to come out.

“Do you ever get tired of it?”

The question hung in the air like smoke. Light, but impossible to ignore. It curled into the soft places of the room—the gold trim, the velvet cushions, the faint scent of champagne and her perfume—and settled between them.

Helena didn’t move. She kept her eyes on him. Not surprised. Not alarmed. Just… still.

He looked at her again, properly this time, his gaze dragging up from the space between them to her face. His eyes were pale blue—clear and uncertain, like sea glass that had never learned how to lie. He didn’t look like he regretted the question. He just looked like he wasn’t sure he had the right to ask it.

“I mean,” he continued, licking his lips, “not the dancing. I guess that too. But the… pretending. The people. The way they look at you.”

Helena didn’t answer right away. She watched him squirm beneath the weight of his own honesty. That same hand that had combed through his hair now rubbed at his jaw, then dropped again. He was warm in the face, his ears pink, his posture still caught somewhere between apology and yearning.

Do you ever get tired of it?

God. No one had ever asked her that.

Not like that.

Not with sincerity. Not with a voice that cracked a little on the vowels. Not with a gaze that didn’t drop to her thighs halfway through the sentence.

She should’ve lied. Slipped into character. Told him something vague and sultry and noncommittal. Something Summer Night would say.

But instead, she let her head tilt slightly, let her hands fall still in her lap. She leaned back into the velvet cushion, the strap of her top slipping further down her arm, unnoticed. The moment felt too human for performance.

“Yes,” she said.

Simple. Bare.

The word slipped from her lips like a truth too tired to hide.

And for a moment, he just sat there—hands frozen mid-motion, breath caught at the back of his throat—as if he hadn’t expected her to actually answer. But Helena could tell it mattered. Could feel how still he went after it. Not out of shock, but respect. Like he understood the cost of honesty in a room like this, where most truths were drowned in music and money.

She watched him again, carefully. Her lashes lowered, her nails resting gently against the curve of her knee. He didn’t speak. Just ran his hand through his hair again, slower this time, as though grounding himself.

And then she tilted her head. Just a little. Enough to shift the weight of the moment.

Her voice came softly, like a match struck in a dark room.

“Do you?”

His eyes flicked up—quick, startled.

The question was sharp, but quiet. Like a blade made of glass.

Helena didn’t clarify right away. She wanted to watch him wrestle with it. Wanted to see how a man like him—clean-cut, platinum-eyed, coated in the soft sheen of fame—handled being undressed by something intimate rather than physical.

When he didn’t answer, she let the silence stretch. Luxurious. Heavy.

Then, with a voice that was more smoke than silk: “Do you ever get tired of it? The fame. The flashing lights. The headlines. The pressure to be perfect all the time. The interviews that ask who you’re dating before they ask who you are.”

That struck something.

He shifted—subtle, but enough.

One of his legs moved. His hand, still resting on his thigh, curled into a loose fist. She noticed the way his thumb brushed over the cool metal of one of his rings, over and over, like a nervous tic.

She didn’t press. She let him sit with it.

He exhaled—shaky, slow. The kind of breath you let out when you’ve been holding one for too long without realizing.

“I…” he started, voice catching slightly in his throat. Then he swallowed, brows knitting together as he searched for the words that could carry the weight of what he felt.

“Yeah,” he said finally, barely above a whisper. “All the time.”

The admission was raw. Almost boyish in its vulnerability. It cracked something open in the air between them.

Helena didn’t smile. Didn’t nod right away. She let it settle over her like a shawl, warm and quiet.

Then she leaned forward, slow and fluid, her elbows brushing her bare knees, the silk of her skirt whispering as it shifted with her. Her top slipped slightly, the strap now barely clinging to her shoulder, but she didn’t notice. She wasn’t Summer Night right now. She was just a girl with tired eyes and too much soul to keep inside her chest.

“They think it’s glamorous,” she murmured, her voice almost too low to catch. “The clubs. The cameras. The interviews. The attention. But no one sees what it costs. No one asks who you were before all of it.”

Her fingers toyed gently with the edge of a ring on her pinky, a gesture so absentminded it gave her away.

He looked at her then—really looked.

Not like she was a dancer. Not like she was a momentary indulgence. He looked at her like she was someone he could’ve passed on the street and still somehow known. A kindred thing. Bruised in a matching place.

“It’s like… you get handed a script,” he said, voice steadier now, “and everyone expects you to stick to it. You smile when they say your name. You laugh when the jokes don’t land. You keep your hands folded just right, and God forbid you slip up or get tired or—hell—feel something real. Because if you do, you’re ungrateful.”

A pause.

“Or dramatic. Or replaceable.”

Helena’s gaze didn’t leave his.

There it was. The click. The shift. The recognition.

Like two people caught in the same kind of loneliness, dressed in different clothes.

And for the first time in a long, long while, neither of them felt alone in the silence.

They spent the rest of the night talking.

Not in the shallow, surface-skimming way that passed for conversation in most of the world she inhabited. No, this was different. This was slow. Intimate. Deliberate.

It started like a whisper, the two of them navigating each other’s cadence, his voice a little shy at first, hers still caught between Summer and Helena. But as the hours wore on, something inside her started to exhale. Her shoulders softened. Her words came easier. She laughed—a real, quiet laugh that didn’t have to rise above music or noise. And he smiled every time, like he’d earned something precious.

Time bent around them. Two hours slipped into three without either of them noticing, like the night had loosened its grip on the ticking hands of the clock. The soft light from the sconces cast a gentle glow over her collarbones, over the slope of his jaw, haloing them in something that felt almost sacred. Somewhere beyond those velvet walls, the club still throbbed with bass and neon, but in here? In here, it was just them.

He listened with that rapt, open stillness that made her feel like she was the only sound in the room.

She talked more than she meant to. About school—how she was studying behavioral biology, though most people assumed she barely finished high school. About her mother, who thought Helena worked nights at a restaurant uptown and still called every Sunday to ask if she was eating enough vegetables. About how she used to choreograph routines in her childhood bedroom, using a cracked full-length mirror and the edge of her bed as a makeshift pole.

He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t try to turn her stories into a doorway for his own. He just watched, absorbing every syllable like a man drinking rain after a long, dry stretch of silence.

And when the knock came—soft and quick, like a reminder that this was still a business—he shifted slightly, just enough to reach for his wallet. The house manager’s voice followed, muffled through the door.

“Time’s up, love. He wants more, you know where to find me.”

Helena opened her mouth to offer him the out. She always did. But he beat her to it.

“How much for the rest of the night?” he asked, not looking at the door. Only her.

She blinked. “It’s—”

“Three thousand,” came the answer through the door. “Flat.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even raise a brow.

He opened his wallet with a kind of casual familiarity, like it wasn’t the first time he’d held thousands in his hands. But there was nothing performative about it. No flex. No dominance. Just ease. As if he wasn’t buying time so much as making space—for her. For this. For the quiet miracle unfolding between them.

He laid the bills on the small table between them, neat and deliberate.

Then looked at her and said, “You can go if you want. I don’t want to keep you here if you’re tired. If you’ve had enough. I just… I’d like to keep talking, if you’re okay with that.”

Helena stared at him, stunned for a beat longer than she meant to. Because it never felt like this.

Even when they paid, it always felt like ownership. Like time bought meant time owed. But this?

This felt like an invitation.

Not a cage. Not a performance.

So she stayed.

Not because of the money.

Because his presence didn’t weigh on her.

Because the way he looked at her made her feel unburdened.

She shifted on the couch, curling one leg beneath her again, and this time let her shoulder brush his. The contact was warm, incidental, unspoken—and neither of them moved away. Her skirt pooled softly around her thighs, silk whispering over skin. She toyed with the edge of a cushion, letting her nails graze the stitching absently, and he spun one of his rings slowly around his thumb, eyes still on her, but not invasive. Just steady. Safe.

They talked about everything and nothing. About what scared them. About dreams they couldn’t explain. About childhood memories, old injuries, favourite flavours of ice cream. She told him she liked the quiet just before sunrise. He said he liked thunderstorms because they gave him permission to be still.

And when they ran out of words, they sat in silence.

The kind of silence that isn’t awkward. The kind that feels earned.

Soft. Whole. Like a warm bath or the first inhale after crying.

Outside, the city kept moving. But inside, beneath gold light and velvet hush, Helena forgot about Summer Night. Forgot about the heels, the mirrors, the men who didn’t look her in the eye.

She was just Helena.

And for the first time in years, that was enough.

It had felt like enough—just being there with him.

Enough to breathe. Enough to rest. Enough to forget who she was expected to be.

But then his eyes met hers.

And suddenly, enough didn’t feel like enough at all.

Something shifted. Something tightened low in her belly, warm and foreign and electric. Not the sharp, calculated thrill she knew from the stage, not the practiced seduction of a gaze held too long. This was messier. Softer. Real.

For once, she was the one who felt her nerves twist at the center of her stomach like ribbon caught in a wind.

She leaned in.

Slowly. Gradually. Testing gravity.

Close enough to see the way his lashes curved, thick and golden near the root. Close enough to hear his breath stutter just slightly, like he didn’t trust his lungs to hold steady. Her hand lifted without her realizing it, fingers grazing the edge of the couch cushion between them as she shifted her weight.

And then she caught it—his scent.

Not the usual cloud of too-much cologne or old spice trying too hard to prove something. No, this was different. Complex. Warm and clean and faintly spiced—amber, maybe. A whisper of citrus at the edge. Expensive. The kind of scent that came from quiet wealth, not loud labels.

Her nose brushed the air between them as she dipped her head, the smell of him making her eyelids flutter—because God, he smelled like a life she hadn’t let herself imagine. A life with real sheets and quiet mornings and someone waiting with coffee already poured.

And still… he didn’t move.

Didn’t close the space. Didn’t chase it.

He waited.

For her.

For permission.

Helena let her gaze drop—to his lips, parted just barely. Soft. Hesitant. So still.

She wasn’t used to this part. The in-between. The tension that wasn’t born of performance, but of possibility.

Her voice was gone. Her body had taken over.

She leaned in just a breath closer—enough for her knee to brush his, for the silk of her skirt to whisper against his pants. His eyes flicked to her mouth and back up again, wide and blue and searching.

And then, slowly, as if pulled by something ancient and magnetic and completely out of their hands—

Their mouths met.

Not crashing. Not desperate. Just landing.

A soft, careful kiss—featherlight at first, like testing the shape of a secret. His lips were warm, unsure, and so gentle it nearly broke her in half. There was no hunger, no push. Just quiet reverence. The kind that made her head spin faster than any tequila shot ever had.

Her hand found the edge of his jaw, thumb brushing over the faint stubble there, anchoring herself to him. He inhaled softly against her lips, and she could feel it—his breath mingling with hers, a fragile sigh passed between them like a promise not yet spoken.

She tilted her head slightly, deepening the kiss, but only by a thread.

Because this wasn’t a fire. This was a slow burn. A candle lit in the dark, flickering between them, steady and warm.

And when she finally pulled back—just enough to breathe—her forehead rested against his without thinking. Their noses brushed. Neither of them opened their eyes.

They didn’t need to.

In that moment, the kiss still lived in the air between them, humming on both of their mouths like a vow.

Her lips were still tingling when she pulled back.

Forehead to forehead. Breath to breath.

For one suspended second, it was perfect—quiet, golden, untouchable.

Then it hit her.

The moment. The intimacy. The kiss.

Not the kind she gave with half-closed eyes and a mind already elsewhere. Not the kind laced with seduction or control. This kiss had been… hers.

And that’s when panic slithered in, sharp and sudden and cold in her veins.

She inhaled, a little too sharply.

The warmth in her chest cracked like thin glass. She blinked fast—once, twice—and sat back abruptly, putting a few inches of velvet and silence between them. Her hand dropped from his jaw like she’d touched something scalding.

She didn’t meet his eyes.

Her fingers busied themselves, smoothing her skirt, adjusting the strap of her top that had fallen off her shoulder. She ran a palm down her thigh like she needed to erase the feeling of closeness. Her heart was a fist in her throat now—tight, thudding, panicking.

What the hell was she doing?

This wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

This was work. This was a room, a couch, a long night, and a man who’d paid to spend time with her. Even if it hadn’t felt like that. Even if he hadn’t treated her like that. Even if everything had been soft and safe and—

“Shit,” she whispered under her breath, barely audible.

Her eyes darted to the door, her posture now tighter, drawn in like someone who’d just remembered they left something burning on the stove. She bit her bottom lip, not in flirtation, but in that old, automatic way she did when she was trying not to cry.

He sat very still beside her. Careful. Like he knew the wrong movement would send her spiraling.

“Helena,” he said gently, voice low and laced with concern.

The way he said her name—it didn’t help.

It made her stomach turn and tighten all over again.

“I—I shouldn’t have…” she started, then cut herself off. Her hand rose to her mouth like she could tuck the kiss back in.

But it was already out there. Between them. Real and breathing.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said quietly. “It was just a kiss.”

That made her laugh. One soft, disbelieving exhale that held no humor.

“There’s no such thing as just a kiss,” she murmured, eyes still fixed on the floor.

Especially not here. Not when she hadn’t been kissed like that in years. Not when her body still remembered the way he waited for her. Not when his touch hadn’t asked, hadn’t taken—only invited.

She drew her knees up a little, wrapping her arms around them, suddenly cold. Her voice dropped into something fragile.

“I don’t do that. I don’t… kiss people in here.”

He nodded slowly, like he understood even if he didn’t.

“I know,” he said. “I didn’t expect you to.”

Another beat of silence.

Then, quietly: “Do you want me to leave?”

She finally looked at him—eyes rimmed with something raw, like she was standing barefoot on the edge of something huge.

And for a second, her mouth parted like she was about to say yes. But her eyes said please don’t.

She didn’t answer.

Not yet.

Because part of her still wanted to run.

But another part—the part still humming from the softness of his mouth—was begging her to stay seated.

Her eyes were wide, caught somewhere between fight and flight, and he could practically see the internal storm flickering behind them. Her breath was shallow, her hands wrapped tight around her knees like she could physically contain whatever was breaking loose inside her.

He didn’t move. He stayed exactly where he was, his body angled toward her, but not too close.

“Helena,” he said again, voice warm, patient—like a hand outstretched but never grabbing. “Hey. Look at me.”

She did.

Slowly.

Like it cost her something.

And when she did, he offered the smallest, softest smile. No pressure behind it. No gloating. Just a kind of quiet gratitude.

“I liked it,” he said.

Her breath caught again, like she hadn’t expected him to be so plain about it.

“I liked you in that moment. Not Summer. Not the version of you I paid to sit in this room with.” He paused. His tone didn’t harden. If anything, it softened further. “You.”

Her eyes dropped to his hands—one resting on his thigh, the other loosely curled on the cushion beside him. Not reaching for her. Not demanding anything. Just… there.

“I didn’t plan to kiss you,” he said. “That wasn’t what I came here for.”

A short laugh escaped her, dry and tight. “You think I planned it?”

He smiled, a breath of something close to relief sliding through him at the sound of her voice again.

“No. But it happened. And it was…” He hesitated, searching for the right word, then offered it without bravado or flourish. “Beautiful.”

She shook her head a little, a lock of hair falling into her face, and she pushed it back with trembling fingers. “You don’t even know me.”

“Not all of you,” he said quietly. “But I know what I felt. And I’m not going to pretend I didn’t feel something just because it wasn’t part of the plan.”

That made her still. Not because she didn’t believe him—she could see the truth of it plain as day—but because it had been so long since anyone had spoken to her like this. Like what she felt mattered, even if it scared her. Even if it didn’t make sense yet.

“I’m not trying to own it,” he added. “Or change it. Or turn it into something it’s not.”

He shifted slightly, just enough to close a few inches of space between them—but still not touching.

“I just need you to know… I’m glad it happened.”

Her gaze finally met his again. Full on.

And this time, she didn’t look away.

Didn’t smile. Didn’t speak.

She just looked at him, with eyes still glassy at the edges, chest still rising and falling with that shaken rhythm—but her hands began to loosen. Her shoulders dropped a fraction. The panic, though not gone, began to settle.

Because for the first time in a very long time, she kissed someone and didn’t feel like it was being taken from her.

He became one of her regulars.

But not the kind that came for skin and spectacle.

He came for her.

Came like clockwork, like muscle memory, like a secret need he couldn’t quite name. And every time, she let him in. Not into her body—no. Into that quiet space between the beats of her curated life, where Summer Night didn't exist and Helena could just be.

Sometimes they talked.

She'd ease down beside him, not across from him like a client, but into him, folding her body into the curve of his like she belonged there. Her leg would slide across his lap, her hips nestling just enough to find comfort without implication. The silk of her outfit would whisper across the dark fabric of his slacks, her perfume curling into the air between them—warm vanilla, soft musk, sweat and citrus from a day too long.

And he’d talk. God, he’d talk.

Not performatively. Not to impress. He spoke the way people speak when they finally find someone who listens with their whole body.

About long days on set. About late-night rewrites. About feeling like he was losing himself in a role he couldn’t climb out of. His voice would come low and uneven, punctuated by sighs, by long silences that didn’t need to be filled.

Sometimes he rambled—about the nerves that coiled in his chest before every take, about the director who praised him in public and criticized him in private, about the weight of being wanted but not known.

And she’d listen.

Sometimes with her chin on his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut to the sound of him. Sometimes with her forehead resting against his, breathing in every word like incense.

Her fingers, those sharp, cherry-red acrylics, would slip into his hair. And even though his locs were no longer soft blond but dyed jet black for the character he was inhabiting, she never flinched at the change. She simply combed through them—slowly, rhythmically, scratching gently at his scalp in a way that made his shoulders sink, made his jaw unclench, made the rest of the world fall away.

She never rushed it.

Not once.

She traced his scalp like it was familiar territory. Like she'd mapped it in another life.

And sometimes, in the middle of his rambling—when his voice cracked or his hands twitched with something he couldn’t say—he’d go quiet, and simply lean forward until their lips brushed.

Not hungry. Not needy. Just asking.

A soft, almost bashful pucker.

And she’d kiss him. Once. Twice. No more.

Her lips parting just slightly, brushing his, lingering like a word on the tip of a tongue. No tongue, no heat, no hands beneath clothes. Just mouths finding each other in the dark.

Nothing more. Never anything more.

Because somehow, the absence of more made what they had feel sacred.

He never asked her to dance.

Not even once.

She remembered offering, once—half-laughing, half-daring—as she stretched out her legs across his lap and looked at him through heavy lashes. But he just shook his head, one hand resting over her ankle.

“I like you like this,” he’d said, voice low and certain.

Like this.

Unstripped. Undone. Unmasked.

And that scared her. Because she didn’t do this. Didn’t crawl into laps like it was home. Didn’t kiss clients. Didn’t stay after the transaction ended. But with him?

She lingered.

Past her shift. Past closing.

Sometimes, when the music thinned and the lights dimmed toward morning, she’d find herself still tucked into him, his hand resting warm on the back of her thigh, her fingers still cradling his scalp like a tether. They didn’t speak then. They didn’t need to.

Whatever this was—it wasn’t defined.

But it wasn’t nothing.

And every time she left, she’d carry the shape of his breath in her lungs. The taste of his quiet reverence on her lips. The ghost of his voice in her ears, still murmuring about things that had nothing to do with her—but which she somehow felt responsible for easing.

She never danced for him. But it didn’t matter.

Because when she climbed into his lap, it felt like the first time someone had caught her.

She stared at him.

Still as stone, but inside—chaos.

The kind that starts in the chest and blooms outward, slow and unstoppable. Her heartbeat thudded against her ribcage like it was trying to get out, her breath thin and shallow as she watched him rise to his feet across the room.

He didn’t rush to fill the space she left behind. He didn’t cross the distance or ask again. He just stood there, steady and open, like a lighthouse in a storm, waiting to see if she’d swim toward him or let herself drift back into the dark.

“I’m not asking you to be her,” he’d said.

“I’m asking to see you.”

And it unraveled her.

Because he didn’t look at her like she was a fantasy. Or a role. Or a moment in a night he’d forget.

He looked at her like she was a person. A woman. Real. Present. Worthy of knowing—not just watching.

Helena’s gaze dropped to the floor, her eyes tracing the edge of the velvet rug, the gold glint of a coin someone must’ve dropped, the scuff on the toe of her stiletto. Her pulse was everywhere—in her throat, her wrists, behind her eyes.

Outside. He wanted to see her outside.

Where her lashes were shorter. Where her perfume didn’t mask exhaustion. Where she didn’t have music and mirrors to fill the gaps in conversation. Where she couldn’t retreat behind a performance if things got too raw.

She lifted a hand to her chest, like she could steady the storm building behind her sternum. Her fingers brushed the edge of the chain she always wore under her top—a gift from her mother, hidden from the customers, the one piece of herself she never let the club see.

And then, slowly, as though her body had already decided before her mouth could catch up—

She nodded.

Once. Small. Barely there.

And then, finally, she lifted her eyes back to his.

They were still soft. Still waiting. Still watching her like she was something delicate that didn’t need to be fixed or changed, just held carefully.

“I—” her voice cracked, barely above a whisper. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Okay.”

He blinked, a slow inhale passing through him.

“Yeah?” he asked, like he didn’t quite believe her. Not out of doubt—but out of reverence.

Helena let a breath escape her. Not shaky. Not scared. Just… real.

“Yeah,” she said, more firmly now. “Okay. Yes.”

And for a moment, neither of them moved.

Because something had shifted. Something had broken open. And the air between them felt brand new.

He didn’t rush in to hug her. He didn’t try to kiss her. He just smiled—this small, crooked, relieved smile—and nodded like he was tucking the moment into his chest to keep safe.

“Good,” he said gently. “We’ll take it slow.”

And Helena smiled too.

Tiny. Tentative. A little scared. But real.

The kind of smile you give someone when you're not sure where this is going—only that, somehow, you want to find out

That had all been two years ago.

It felt like another life now. Like a story someone had told her once, blurred at the edges but still vivid where it mattered. The lap-sitting nights, the soft kisses, the tentative yes. All of it had unraveled into something real—something neither of them had language for at first, only instinct.

Apparently—she’d learned this much later—he’d been booking her nights out at the club. Quietly. Regularly. Buying the time without showing up. Just to make sure no one else had access to her. Just to give her space to breathe. To rest. To know that, for once, she could sit in that velvet room with no obligation, no pressure, no eyes on her body like it owed them something.

And the money had added up.

Slowly, steadily, without fuss.

Enough to cover her rent. Enough to pay off her last tuition bill. Enough to leave.

It hadn’t been dramatic. There was no big announcement, no glittery goodbye. She just stopped showing up one night, her locker empty, her heels gone. Just a folded note left behind for the girls she loved and the ones she didn’t. All it said was: thank you for seeing me.

Shortly after that, he moved her in.

It wasn’t planned—not really. But it happened, like everything between them did: slowly, then all at once. A stack of her mail started arriving at his place. Her toothbrush appeared next to his. Then her bonnet hung from the bathroom hook. And eventually, her scent clung to his sheets.

The couch was what sealed it.

It was late—always was. She’d been straddling him, giggling through a lazy kiss, the hem of his T-shirt riding up her thighs, her arms wrapped around his neck like home. They’d just eaten takeout, some ridiculous fusion she’d insisted on trying, and she still had sauce on her mouth when he kissed her again.

And again.

And again.

She was tipsy on him—his cologne, his laugh, the way he kept brushing his nose against hers like he couldn’t believe she was real. Her giggles melted into sighs as his hands traced her waist like he was learning her all over again.

“You should just move in,” he’d murmured against her collarbone, in between kisses, in between breaths.

She’d pulled back a little, blinking down at him, the smile already curling her lips before she could think.

“Are you serious?”

He looked up at her like she was made of light and oxygen and every soft thing he’d ever missed out on.

“Dead serious. Rent’s stupid. I like waking up with your leg on me. You keep eating all my cereal, might as well make it official.”

And she’d laughed—that deep, belly-soft laugh she never used on stage.

Then she kissed him again, slower this time. Deeper. More sure.

“Okay,” she’d whispered into his mouth, smiling.

“Yeah?” he asked, hands squeezing gently at her thighs.

“Yeah,” she said, threading her fingers through his hair. “Convince me a little more, though.”

He did.

Right there on the couch. Between leftover takeout containers and her open textbook. With her giggling against his mouth and his hands reverent and sure, and the TV still playing something no one was watching.

That was two years ago.

And somehow, even now—after toothbrushes and taxes and arguments about laundry—he still kissed her like that. Still looked at her like that. Like he couldn’t believe he got to keep her.

And Helena? She still hadn’t danced for him.

But she never had to.

And now here she was.

A ring on her finger. A promise wrapped in gold and quiet intention. Her nails were freshly done—short, almond-shaped, painted the softest shade of champagne blush—but it was the ring that caught her breath every time she looked down.

Thin band. Simple. Elegant. Chosen with care. Slid onto her finger in a moment of laughter and certainty that still felt unreal.

It was the night before the wedding.

Not a rehearsal dinner. Not a last hurrah. They’d opted out of the bachelor and bachelorette thing without hesitation—no wild parties, no staged chaos. They didn’t want to celebrate apart.

They just wanted to be together.

So instead of confetti and crowds, they were home.

Their home.

Her dress hung in the next room—ivory satin, sleek and minimal, draped like poetry. His tux was already steamed, the boutonnière she picked for him tucked carefully in the fridge beside a bottle of orange juice and leftover Chinese. It was quiet. Soft jazz played low from the speaker in the corner. The night pressed gently against the windows, the city outside humming faintly, respectful of what this moment meant.

She was curled up on the couch, the very same couch where he once convinced her to move in—with kisses, with laughter, with all that soft, unshakable love.

He was in the kitchen now, barefoot, pouring her tea. He knew how she liked it—peppermint, two sugars, splash of oat milk. He hummed along to the music, voice warm and a little off-key, and it made her chest ache with the kind of joy that felt like grief in reverse. So good it almost hurt.

She glanced down at the ring again, blinking slowly.

Two years ago, she was on stage.

Not dreaming of this. Not imagining vows and white dresses and a man who’d hold her like his hands were made for it.

And now?

Now she was twenty-four hours away from promising him forever.

No stage lights. No red velvet. Just this.

Him, humming in the kitchen. Her, blinking back tears she didn’t quite understand. A quiet kind of miracle unfolding between four walls that smelled like vanilla and peace.

He padded back into the room, tea in hand. Set it down gently beside her, then lowered himself onto the couch. One arm draped behind her shoulders, the other slipping beneath the blanket she had pulled over her lap. She leaned into him without thinking—her body knew the shape of him now like it knew breath.

“You okay?” he murmured, his lips brushing her temple.

She nodded, biting the inside of her cheek.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Just… can’t believe it’s tomorrow.”

His fingers found her hand beneath the blanket, curling around hers. His thumb rubbed slow circles over the ring.

“I can,” he said. “Been waiting for it since that first kiss in the club.”

She huffed a laugh, eyes glassy.

“I panicked after that kiss.”

“I know.” He grinned. “You tried to pretend it didn’t mean anything. You were very dramatic about it.”

“Was not,” she muttered, nudging him.

“Were too.”

They both laughed. That full-body kind of laugh that comes with history, with safety, with us.

And then he kissed her.

Not rushed. Not frantic.

Just slow. Certain. Like a man who had loved her for two years and was ready to love her for sixty more.

And she kissed him back with that same quiet fire in her chest.

Because tomorrow, the world would watch them say I do.

But tonight, it was just them.

Just Helena.

Just him.

“I wanna dance for you,” she whispers against his lips, breath warm and barely there.

He stills beneath her, his hands resting lightly on her thighs, like he’s afraid to grip too tightly and break the moment. His eyes search hers, a flicker of surprise in that stormy blue.

Not because he didn’t want this. Because he never expected her to offer it. Not after everything. Not after the club. Not like this.

“You sure?” he murmurs, voice low, already husky.

“I’m sure,” she says, pressing her forehead to his. “But no touching unless I say so.”

That gets a smile out of him. Crooked. Breathless.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She rises from his lap, slow and deliberate, the hem of his oversized tee clinging to her thighs before sliding free. Her bare legs catch the low lamplight as she disappears into the bedroom, leaving him sitting there—hard, stunned, eyes wide like a man staring at divinity.

When she returns, the robe is the first thing he sees. Cream silk, loose, untied, barely hanging on her shoulders. Then the lace. Soft white. Delicate. Transparent in all the right places. The kind of lingerie meant for private worship, not performance.

The music begins—"Partition" humming through the speakers, low and dark and heavy. She moves with the beat—hips slow, liquid, every shift of her body confident, intentional. She’s not performing for a crowd. She’s unwrapping herself for him.

He leans back on the couch, jaw clenched, breath caught, his knuckles pale where they grip his own thighs. She hasn’t even touched him yet, and he’s already trembling.

She turns around.

Back arched.

One hand slides up the length of her thigh, across her waist, under the edge of the silk. She lifts the robe slowly—deliberately—and lets it fall from her shoulders, pooling to the floor without ceremony. The lace underneath is barely-there, a whisper over her skin, hugging her ass, clinging to her breasts, dipping low between her thighs.

She sways in time to the music, moving in slow, teasing circles.

Her hands slide down her own body—over her hips, across her inner thighs—and when she looks back at him over her shoulder, eyes half-lidded, he swears under his breath.

“Jesus, Lena…”

“Don’t you dare touch yourself,” she purrs, turning to face him again. “You sit still. You watch.”

And he does.

God, he does.

Because she is art. All curves and control. All sweetness laced with sin.

She climbs into his lap like she owns it—knees on either side of him, pressing her body flush against his. Her fingers lace into his hair, nails grazing the base of his skull as she rolls her hips in time with the song. He’s already so hard it aches, trapped beneath sweatpants and restraint.

She rocks against him slow, dragging herself over the length of him with maddening precision. Her lips brush his jaw, his neck, just barely.

“Two years,” she whispers. “Two years, and I’ve never given you this.”

His hands twitch on her thighs, desperate to touch, but still obeying.

“And now?” she breathes. “It’s yours. All of it. Every move. Every inch.”

He groans—low, guttural, wrecked.

Her hands trail down his chest, her mouth brushing his again, not kissing, just hovering. Letting him feel the warmth of her, the soft wet promise of her tongue just out of reach.

“Dance for You” plays now—sultry, slow, pleading.

She grinds down again, slow and deep, her breath hitching as she feels how ready he is beneath her. Her lace sticks to her heat now, wet and aching, dragging over the hard length of him.

Still, she takes her time.

Still, she holds control.

She leans in, lips grazing the shell of his ear, and whispers:

“You can touch now.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

His hands fly to her hips, gripping her like he’s afraid she might vanish. One hand slides around to cup her ass through the lace, the other pressing against the small of her back as he grinds up into her, matching her rhythm. Their breaths sync, fast and shallow.

She moans—soft, needy.

He catches it with his mouth.

And finally, finally, they kiss. Messy. Deep. Tongue and teeth and desperation. The kind of kiss that says: I’ve been waiting to worship you like this.

And in that moment—hips moving, hands exploring, lace stretched tight and soaked between them—there’s no club. No past. No space between them.

Just her.

Just him.

Just love dressed in sweat, lace, and slow, grinding worship.

Their mouths crushed together—wet, open, needy—as she rolled her hips down over him again, slow and deep, letting him feel everything. The lace between them was soaked now, clinging to her like second skin, dragging over his length with a friction that was more devotion than desperation.

He moaned into her mouth—a low, helpless sound—and she swallowed it, kissed it, rocked harder just to feel him lose that self-control he always wore so carefully.

Her hands moved to his shoulders, nails pressing into his skin as she lifted and lowered her hips in steady, sensual rhythm. There was no music anymore—not really. Just the wet drag of her core against him, the quiet curse that slipped from his lips every time she circled her hips just right, and her breath—shaky, hot—against his cheek.

"God, Lena…" he gasped, head falling back against the couch. His grip on her waist tightened, not to control, just to hold. To anchor himself in her.

She leaned in again, tongue trailing the curve of his throat before whispering, “You like that?”

He could only nod. Could only groan when she ground down again, slower now, deeper, pressing the full heat of her against the thick strain of him through his pants. It was torture in the sweetest sense.

“You been thinkin’ about this?” she asked, rolling her hips again, letting the tip of his cock press right where she needed it. Her voice was velvet—breathy, teasing, but full of something that went deeper than play. “Me, dancing on you like this? Givin’ you all of it?”

“Every damn night,” he rasped. “Since the first time you sat in my lap.”

Her nails dragged down his chest. Her mouth hovered over his, their breaths tangling.

“I used to imagine what it’d be like,” she murmured, grinding again, slow and heavy, like she could feel his thoughts unraveling with every motion. “But I wanted to wait. I wanted it to be like this.”

She rocked again, and this time he bucked up, meeting her grind, and they both gasped—her nails clutching his shoulders, his head falling forward, their foreheads pressed together like a prayer they were too breathless to finish.

The pressure was mounting—hot and thick between their bodies, trapped under fabric, pulsing between her thighs. She could feel him twitch beneath her, every slow grind pulling him closer to the edge, every wet drag making her whimper into his mouth.

Her lace was soaked now. His sweats were dark at the front. But neither of them cared. They weren’t rushing it. They were feeding on it.

“I’m gonna lose my mind,” he groaned, voice all wrecked gravel, hands shaking on her hips. “You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me, Lena.”

“Shut up,” she whispered, breathless. “Just let me love you.”

She took his face in her hands—tender, commanding—and rocked again, again, again.

Her body rolled over him like tide against shore, slow and relentless. She kissed his lips, his cheek, his jaw. Let her tongue slip against the shell of his ear as she whispered:

“Come for me, baby. Just like this. Let go.”

And he did—a low, broken cry muffled against her shoulder, his body jerking once, twice, his grip bruising at her hips as he spilled into his sweats, breath shaking, mouth pressed to her neck.

She kept grinding. Slower. Gentle now. Riding him through it.

Loving him through it.

And when he slumped beneath her, flushed and shaking, his face buried against her chest, she held him like she was the only thing keeping him whole.

She grinned as he opened his mouth for her, like he was offering his tongue and soul in one breath.

The panties were still warm from her body, damp and sticky with the heat of her, the lace so soft yet soaked through where she’d been grinding against him, leaving her need in every thread. She brought them to his lips and watched him—made him—look her in the eyes as she gently pushed the fabric between them.

He let out the faintest moan as the taste of her hit his tongue—sweet, musky, hers. The lace filled his mouth, pushing against his tongue, the stretch of it making his jaw go slack. He breathed heavier through his nose, head tipping back against the couch like he’d just been claimed.

And he had.

“There,” she whispered, voice thick with honey and heat. “Now you can listen.”

She pressed her fingers to his jaw, holding it closed, eyes scanning his ruined face. His lips stretched around the lace, plush and flushed, saliva already beginning to dampen the corners. His pupils were blown wide. His cock twitched, standing hard and aching between them, the flushed head still slick with the mess she’d already pulled from him.

But he hadn’t had her yet. Not really.

She wanted him wrecked when he finally did.

She shifted down, straddling his thighs again, her slick folds just barely brushing the base of his cock. The contact made them both shudder—her wet heat smearing against his sensitive skin, his hips jerking like he couldn’t help it.

He tried to speak. She heard the muffled grunt. Saw the desperation in his eyes.

“Mm-mm.” She shook her head, smirking as she leaned in, lips grazing the shell of his ear. “You don’t get to say a word. Not with me on your tongue.”

He whimpered.

She reached down between them, nails grazing his abs, his hips, until her palm closed around him again—slow, deliberate, and filthy. Her strokes were shallow at first, just the tip, teasing, twisting, milking precome from the flushed head. Webs of it stretched between them with every tug, sticking to her hand, to his stomach, slick and obscene.

He was trembling.

Chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. Fingers clawing into the couch cushions like he was holding onto reality by a thread. His thighs were flexed beneath her, every muscle taut, his eyes pleading with her.

And God, it made her wetter.

“You gonna come again, baby?” she cooed, pumping him faster now, watching his whole body tense. “Gagged on my panties like a good boy, and you’re already close, huh?”

He moaned—loud, muffled, needy.

And she loved it.

Loved the way he broke for her. Loved the power. The trust. The way his eyes stayed on hers, worshipful and wrecked, like she was the only thing that made sense anymore.

She leaned down, her lips grazing his as she whispered against the lace, her voice a purr wrapped in smoke:

“You look so fucking pretty like this. Ruined. Full of me. Falling apart for your wife.”

His whole body shuddered at the word.

Wife.

And just like that, he snapped—hips thrusting up into her hand, his muffled cry strangled by soaked lace, his cock pulsing hard as he came again, thick and hot, spilling over her fingers, his abdomen, trembling beneath her.

She stroked him through it. Slow, gentle. Letting him ride every wave.

Then she leaned back, panting, grinning wickedly down at the mess she made. Her hand still wrapped around the base of him, her own thighs slick and shaking with want.

“You took that so well,” she whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw. “But I’m not done.”

She reached for the lace in his mouth.

“Open wide.”

She didn’t take the panties out.

Not yet.

Not when he was already gasping behind them. Not when his thighs trembled beneath her, and he was blinking up at her like she’d just rewritten gravity.

No—he hadn’t earned that yet.

She kept her soaked lace stuffed in his mouth, his lips parted around it, cheeks flushed, jaw aching—but he didn’t spit it out. He held it like a vow. Like he wanted the taste of her to be the only thing he was allowed to breathe.

“Still so noisy,” she murmured, dragging her fingers down his throat. “Even with your mouth full.”

He let out a sound—something strangled and broken, like a moan and a sob wrapped into one. She smiled.

Then she lifted her hips and lined him up.

Her slick heat pressed against the head of his cock, and his whole body jolted—knees bucking, arms trembling, eyes rolling back for a second as she paused.

Just… teased.

She swirled her hips once, letting the head catch and slip against her folds. Slick sounds filled the room, sticky and hot and obscene. Her thighs were soaked. He was rock hard, already twitching, so ready he couldn’t stay still.

But still gagged. Still obedient. Still gagged with her panties.

“Such a good boy,” she whispered, leaning down, her breath dancing against his cheek. “But I want to hear you.”

She ground down a little, letting just the tip slide in, and his entire body arched off the couch—chest pressed to hers, breath catching against her collarbone, hips trying to chase the rest of her inside.

She didn’t give him that.

Not yet.

“Not gonna let you talk,” she whispered, slowly circling her hips with just the tip in. “Not until I hear how bad you want me.”

He whined—muffled, desperate, pleading.

The sound went straight to her core.

“You’re doing so well,” she cooed. “But if you want more, you’re gonna have to beg for it. I want to hear you be loud for me.”

And then—finally—she sank down.

inch by inch.

She watched him unravel with nothing but her hips.

The lace still in his mouth, heavy with the slick heat of her body, soaked and dark and pressed between his lips like a holy offering. He moaned behind it—loud, unfiltered—and it vibrated through the air like a secret he couldn’t hold.

And still, she didn’t take it out.

Not until he earned it.

Not until he got loud.

Her hips rolled with practiced grace, but there was nothing performative about it. This was for her. This was for him. This was for them. The grip of her pussy around him made his legs tremble, his breath hitch, his fingers claw at the fabric of the couch like he didn’t know where he was anymore.

She grinded in slow, maddening circles, letting the swollen head of his cock drag against the velvet-soft walls inside her, milking every inch of friction until he was shaking beneath her.

She could feel him throbbing—hard and heavy inside her, his release from before still slick on his shaft, mixing with the wet that soaked her inner thighs. Her own arousal was everywhere, coating him, dripping down between them, the sound of their bodies obscene, sticky, wet, deliciously loud in the quiet of their apartment.

Her nails raked down his chest, the pads of her fingers pressing into his skin, claiming him inch by inch as she rocked over him. Her pace was unrelenting—not fast, not rough—but deep, so fucking deep, her hips dragging in slow grinds that had her clit catching right against the base of him, again and again, making her gasp through her teeth.

And he moaned.

Loud.

Behind the lace, it was animal. Raw. Like the taste of her soaked into the back of his throat and short-circuited every nerve in his body.

She smirked. That’s it.

She leaned down, her chest brushing his, mouth just at his ear.

“You wanna talk?” she whispered, her voice all grit and velvet. “Wanna beg with something other than your eyes?”

He nodded wildly, moaning again, helpless.

She reached up, her fingers curling into the lace at his mouth—drenched now, saliva dripping down his chin, his mouth aching from the stretch—and slowly, she pulled it out, dragging it across his tongue.

His mouth fell open.

He sucked in a breath like he’d been drowning and finally came up for air.

And then—

“*Fuck—*baby, please—oh my God—please don’t stop—don’t fucking stop—please—”

His voice shattered. Hoarse, broken, soaked with need. The kind of begging that didn’t come from performance—it came from surrender.

And her whole body clenched.

She dropped the panties to the floor and slammed her hips down, hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. Her thighs slapped against his hips, the sound sharp and slick and dirty. She rode him now—grinding down, bouncing in perfect rhythm, dragging him deeper and deeper until he was hitting that spot that made stars dance behind her eyes.

“Oh, fuck,” she whimpered, her hands planted on his chest now, riding him like she owned him—because she did.

“You feel that?” she gasped, circling her hips with a shiver. “Feel how fucking wet I am for you?”

He nodded again, but words failed him now. His mouth hung open, panting, his body jerking beneath her as he lost rhythm, lost reason. His hands gripped her hips like lifelines, desperate to hold on.

Her clit dragged against his lower abdomen with every grind, every pulse. She could feel her orgasm building—tight, electric, relentless. And she didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

“Come with me,” she whispered, her voice shaking, her entire body trembling. “Come with me, baby. Fill me. I want it. Give it to me—fuck—please—”

And then she snapped.

Her orgasm hit like fire under her skin, lighting her up from the inside out. Her legs locked around him, her pussy fluttering violently as she came, crying out his name so loud she felt it echo in her chest.

And that was it for him.

He shouted—loud, filthy, completely wrecked—as he emptied into her, hot and thick, his body convulsing beneath hers as pleasure ripped through him.

They clung to each other as they fell apart.

Her mouth on his throat. His hands fisting in her hair. Their breaths tangled, sweat-slicked and shaking.

They stayed like that—together, raw, drenched in each other—until her thighs stopped trembling, until his grip softened, until the silence after was filled with the soft beat of their heartbeats pressed chest to chest.

She kissed his lips.

Tender.

“You did so good,” she whispered.

And he laughed—broken, breathless, in love.

“I’m never walking again.”

She was still catching her breath—chest heaving, lips parted, thighs trembling where they rested on either side of his hips. Her body was sticky with sweat, flushed and shining under the warm lamp light. His come was still inside her, thick and slowly dripping, her folds still fluttering from the orgasm he’d given her.

And she looked wrecked.

Eyes half-lidded. Cheeks flushed. Mouth swollen from kissing, biting, moaning.

But she didn’t realize yet—

He wasn’t done.

Not even close.

He let her collapse against his chest for a beat, her ear pressed to his heartbeat, arms limp around his neck. She was murmuring something—sweet, satisfied, smug—and that’s when he moved.

Fast. Precise.

He flipped her.

One second she was lounging on top of him, boneless. The next, her back hit the couch cushions with a surprised gasp, her legs spread wide around him, her hands scrambling for purchase as he settled between her thighs.

“Wha—” she blinked, eyes wide.

“Oh no, baby,” he growled, voice dark, gravel-thick and low. “You think you get to do all that to me… and I don’t get my get back?”

Her mouth opened.

He grinned.

“You didn’t think I forgot about that little lace gag, did you?”

And then he dragged his fingers down her belly, slow and possessive, until he reached where their bodies were still slick and messy and joined. His come was thick inside her, her arousal mixing with it, leaking from her entrance and glistening against her thighs.

He licked his lips.

“You made a mess,” he said, eyes locked to hers.

Then—without warning—he spit on her pussy. Let it drip over her folds, his fingers spreading her apart with a reverence that bordered on worship.

She whimpered.

He didn’t wait.

He dove in.

Mouth open, tongue flat, lips wrapping around her swollen, overstimulated clit as he sucked—hard. Her legs snapped around his head like instinct, her back arching with a sharp, helpless cry.

“FUCK—!”

“Louder,” he growled into her, the vibrations wrecking her. “I want the neighbors to know who made you this messy.”

She couldn’t breathe.

He licked everywhere—from her slit to the tight ring of her entrance, where his come was still dripping out. His tongue was filthy now, devouring her, slow and relentless, licking everything she’d taken from him right back into her.

She tried to pull away, overstimulation making her shake.

He grabbed her hips and slammed her back down onto his mouth.

“Nuh-uh,” he muttered against her, voice muffled. “You started this. You take all of it.”

And she did.

She screamed. Moaned. Begged. Her hands clawed at the cushions, her thighs shaking violently as he sucked her clit and fucked her with his tongue until she came again—harder than before.

And when she tried to catch her breath?

He stood. Towered over her.

His cock—still hard—glinted in the light, soaked in her slick and his own release.

He grabbed her by the hips, pulled her to the edge of the couch like she was his, and lined himself up.

“You wanna gag me, huh?” he murmured. “Let’s see how you like being speechless.”

And then he slammed into her.

All the way. No warning. No patience.

Just deep, punishing thrusts.

Her mouth dropped open, no sound coming out at first. Then—

“Baby—fuck—wait—!”

“No,” he growled. “No waiting now.”

He fucked her hard. Deep. Fast.

The couch creaked beneath them. Skin slapped. Wet sounds filled the air—slick, messy, beautiful. She clawed at his shoulders, her head thrown back, tears springing to her eyes from the sheer intensity.

“You like gagging me?” he panted, thrusting faster. “I’ll fuck you ‘til you can’t even speak, baby.”

Her body was unravelling.

Tears streaming. Voice hoarse. Breath gone.

“Who do you belong to?” he hissed, reaching between them to rub her clit in tight, brutal circles.

“You!” she screamed, arching into him. “You, baby, please—fuck, I’m gonna—”

And she did.

Hard.

Her orgasm hit like an earthquake—legs locking, body convulsing, pussy clenching around him so tight it dragged his release from him seconds later.

He cursed loud—growled—his thrusts sloppy, desperate, until he buried himself to the hilt and spilled everything inside her.

They shook together.

Collapsed together.

A mess of limbs, breath, sweat, come, and love.

And when she could finally speak again—lips still trembling, voice raw—she looked up at him, kissed his jaw, and whispered:

“…okay. Maybe you won that round.”

He smirked, brushing her hair back.

“I’ll take the win. But don’t get comfortable, baby.”

And she grinned, biting his shoulder gently.

“Never do.”

They didn’t speak after.

Couldn’t, really.

Their bodies were slack, trembling, slick with sweat and pleasure and everything they’d given each other. Helena lay half-draped across him, her hair a damp halo over his chest, her cheek pressed to the curve where his shoulder met his collarbone. His arms were wrapped tight around her waist, still grounding himself in the feel of her skin.

His breath ghosted over the top of her head.

Hers came in shallow, shivering exhales, her thighs twitching occasionally as the last remnants of her climax ebbed away.

“I broke you,” he finally murmured, voice hoarse, like gravel and honey.

“Mhm,” she mumbled, lips brushing his skin. “You broke me good.”

They were quiet again. Just breathing. Holding.

Until he slowly sat up—arms still full of her—and pressed a kiss to her temple.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he said gently, nudging her hair out of her face, thumb brushing along her damp cheekbone with infinite care. “You’re leaking all over my couch.”

She let out a weak laugh, more breath than sound. “It’s our couch now.”

He grinned, then lifted her—slowly, carefully, like she was something fragile and sacred. Her body sagged against his chest, legs still shaking, her lashes fluttering as he carried her to the bathroom.

The lights stayed low.

He set her down on the edge of the tub and turned on the water, adjusting it with one hand while the other smoothed over her thigh, steady and soft. Once it was warm, he reached for the lavender soak she loved—the one she used after long shifts in her club days. The scent filled the air, sweet and calming, like comfort incarnate.

He helped her into the water, and she sank in with a groan, the heat rushing over her sore muscles, washing between her thighs, easing the ache he’d left inside her.

He joined her, settling behind her, pulling her back into his chest. Her head dropped against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut as his fingers dipped into the water and began to trace light circles over her stomach, her hips, her thighs.

“I love you,” he said into her damp hair, voice steady now. “So much it scares me sometimes.”

She turned her head, kissed his jaw.

“I know,” she whispered. “You showed me.”

He kissed her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. His hands kept moving, rinsing her skin, soothing the red marks he’d left, letting her feel safe in the aftermath of being worshipped.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asked softly, fingers grazing her inner thighs where she was most tender.

She shook her head, voice sleepy. “No. You held me the whole time.”

He smiled, kissed her again, and reached for the washcloth. He didn’t ask. He just lathered it in soap, then gently, reverently, cleaned between her legs—soft swipes, murmuring apologies she didn’t need, praising how good she’d been, how beautiful she looked when she fell apart just for him.

When the water began to cool, he pulled her out, wrapped her in a towel, and carried her back to bed. He helped her into his softest T-shirt—worn, oversized, still warm from the dryer—and pulled on a pair of sweats before slipping under the covers beside her.

Their bodies tangled instantly.

Her leg over his hip. His arm under her neck. Her face pressed into the hollow of his chest.

“I love you,” she mumbled into his skin, half-asleep.

“I know,” he whispered, smiling against her hair. “I’ll keep reminding you anyway.”

And they drifted off like that.

Still sore. Still soaked in each other. But whole.

Home.