#dull answer ✨

[dull-n-shiny]

Nice to see someone like you on here.

I'm a shiny myself.

- @skyfire-the-pokemon-biologist

Appreciate that! Gotta have some people to speak up against the poor treatment shinies receive, even if it's only a handful.

Thats sick! Cool to actually get to talk to a shiny.

[greenorangevioletgrass]

tuesday in the park (a.d.)

pairing: divorced!art x reader

synopsis: your alone time at the park takes an interesting turn when a little girl breaks the quiet, but maybe... her dad is a good company.

warnings: language, smoking, mention of divorce, lily is an adorable lil oblivious cupid, sooo much tension tho, maybe smut in future parts? idk

notes: i am back and pathetic bitch boy art has officially given me a brainrot. this is also very self-indulgent and heavily based on my irl experience (except the fact that it's art, sadly) soooo... enjoy!

✨I do not have a taglist. Please follow @ficsbygreenorangevioletgrass and turn on the notification to get the latest update on my fics✨

City parks are fucking depressing. Especially the industrial type that’s square, and covered in concrete and has, like, four trees. They’re all well-manicured and hung with string lights, but there’s still barely enough greens to call it a park. And to add insult to injury, a Tiffany’s installation art currently sits at the head of the park—a giant diamond ring in a lush velvet box the size of a Range Rover. It’s gaudy as shit, and the massive Aston Martin billboard overhead is an assault to the eyes. You honestly have no idea why you’re sitting here.

Oh, right. It’s like 2PM on a Tuesday afternoon in some downtown office area, so there’s nobody else there. You can just sit and smoke and watch the water spout from the ground in pretty patterns. The steady rhythm of the fountain jets quiets the chaos in your mind.

Inhale. Exhale. As the fountain hisses and ceases, hisses and ceases…

And then suddenly… another pattern.

A pitter-patter. Like little footsteps. Quick moving, and then it stops. Right to your left.

You turn your head and see a little girl sitting right next to you. Her white sneakers look so small next to yours. She pushes a lock of dark ringlets off of her face as she watches the floor fountain in quiet curiosity and awe.

It takes you a moment to realize you still had a cigarette in your hand. You quickly stub it out as far from her as you can. “Uh… hello.” You frown at your own words, but how the fuck do you talk to kids in this situation?!

But the kid looks up and smiles at you politely. “Hello.” she nods and then returns her gaze to the water bursting in canon.

You’re even more confused. She doesn’t even seem deterred by sitting next to a stranger—willingly, at that. “Well, are you… are you alone?” 

“No. With my dad,” she answers, light as a feather.

“Oh, good. Good.” You sigh in relief and look around for any sign of a parent, adult, anyone looking for a missing child. “Where’s your—”

“Lily! There you are!” A man’s voice cuts through the dull noise of the city. You turn around to see him rushing over to the little girl, grimacing apologetically at you. “Sorry. I’m not a negligent father, I swear. I just… turned around and this little monkey’s run off.”

The little girl—Lily, apparently— giggles as her dad throws her a look, gentle but firm. “You said we could watch the water fountains, Daddy!”

“Yeah, but don’t run off like that…” He rolls his eyes, though you notice his sharp jaw twitching with a hidden smile.  And then, leaning into Lily’s ear but still loud enough within your earshot, “And you certainly weren’t supposed to invade this nice lady’s personal space—”

“It’s no trouble. I was just sitting here,” you quickly wave him off.

“Daddy, can I play over there?” Lily points at the streaming water at the center of the park.

The man pulls a face. “I don’t know, Lil—”

“Come on, Daddy…” 

“No way.”

“Just for five minutes. Please?” She bats her eyelashes, and you can immediately tell it’s her father’s Achilles heel. Because as much as you try to stay out of the conversation, you can hear the audible sigh coming from him, followed by,

“Fine. Five minutes, okay?”

The little girl bolts off to the fountains, tiny hands reaching out to the jet streams, testing out how strong it is. Figuring out the fountain pattern and stepping on each jet right as it shuts off, one foot after the other. It makes you wish it was socially acceptable for adults to do that, too. 

“You’re free to sit and watch her from here, if you want.”

He looks at you, like really looks at you for the first time. At your rolled-up button-down, the chain around your neck with a pendant he can’t see under your collar. But mostly at your kind eyes—weathered, witnessed, but somehow not judging.

He pushes his short blond hair out of his face the same way the little girl does, and the similarity almost makes you laugh… if you weren’t so worried about making a fool of yourself in front of this handsome man. “You sure? I… didn’t want to intrude.”

You shake your head softly and scoot over on the steps, allowing him just enough space to sit down.

He notices the stubbed cigarette between your forefinger and middle finger. “You got another one on you?”

It takes you a beat to realize what he’s talking about. “Oh!” You reach for your pack of Camel, and offer it to him, one cigarette stick already pushed out for easier access.

He takes it with a polite smile, but then pauses upon realizing he has no lighter either. “Um, do you mind if I borrow—”

You lean in as he puts it between his lips, one hand cupping the light from the breeze, and his heart stops at how close you are. Close enough to notice the gloss on your lips. Close enough to get a faint whiff of your floral perfume.

(And unbeknownst to him, your heart stutters a little, too, and you hope he doesn’t notice the way you fumble lighting your own cigarette.)

“Thanks, um…” he trails off. 

You tell him your name, and he repeats it almost thoughtfully. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, like he’s chasing the taste of your name as it leaves his mouth.

He nods. “I’m Art.”

He does look like it. The navy blue sweater hangs just right on his broad shoulders, understated but high-quality. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, showing a sleek black Piguet around his wrist. A simplicity to complement his refined features. His bone structure is cut like the gods, but the permanent frown etched between his brows, casting a shadow over his deep-set eyes, tells you that he is facing the troubles of man. And the awkward way he’s holding his cigarette makes him look like a boy. Of course, you can’t say any of that to him, so you settle with,

“Nice to meet you, Art.”

He can’t remember the last time somebody said that to him and meant it. And right now, sitting in this concrete park alone, he can see no pretense coming from you. No ass-kissing, no sizing-up, just a genuine kind gesture of a stranger. And it makes him so fucking relieved. 

“So what brings you out here?”

“Work, actually. A meeting,” Art replies somewhat vaguely. He’s not really keen on divulging the details of sponsorship and endorsement deals. Not when you don’t seem to know who he is. “Lily saw the park from the window and insisted we check it out when we’re done.”

“Ah, does she normally tag along with you to work meetings?” You ask with a playful glint, although the unspoken question of his whole situation is well heard. “She should. She looks like a great negotiator. Just saying.”

He chuckles. “Maybe she should. My, uh…” Art stops himself before he could say ‘wife’ because Tashi isn’t that anymore. Not his wife because they aren’t married anymore; not his coach either, because he doesn’t play tennis anymore. “Lily’s mom and I take turns every other week.”

And there it is. Your lips pull up into a soft line, not quite a smile but a gesture of understanding. “Must be tough.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s a lot of changes. But she’s doing okay, I think…” Art pauses, “I hope.”

You follow his gaze and look at Lily, who must be playing some kind of Indiana Jones fantasy scenario with the water fountains. Not an ounce of care in the world. “She looks like a tough kid.”

“She is.” Art smiles bittersweetly. “Anyway, you didn’t come here to listen to my sob story. What brings you to this park?”

The air that pulls both of you in releases, and you lean back on your elbows against the concrete. “Oh, I just finished work and I… needed some air.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m an interpreter.”

His eyebrows shoot up in interest. “Like the Nicole Kidman movie?”

“Exactly.” You point your half-cigarette at him, and share a tentative smile with him.

“Do you do, like… high-profile, UN-related assassination investigations, too?”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “It’s not nearly as cool in real life. Most of it’s pretty boring, like contract negotiations and focus group discussions…”

“But the stories you must’ve heard, right? Or do you just… zone out at some point?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes you end up shutting off your brain and go on autopilot.”

“But not today?”

You smile ruefully at him, and he knows the answer. You take a thoughtful puff of your cigarette. “It’s… a bit hard when they’re talking about… how they had to jump off of the ship and swim across the channel in the dead of night, because they would rather die in the open water—a couple of them did— than die working in the fishing vessel…”

“Fuck.”

“And I know it’s not really meant for me—they’re talking to my client sitting next to me. But when they look you in the eyes and speak to you…” you trail off, taking a long drag of your cigarette.

Art takes it as a cue for his cigarette, too, although he notices you tapping the ashes off one, two, three times. “Must be tough.”

You roll your eyes playfully at him for quoting your own words back to you. “Ah well, it pays the bills. Besides, I get to clock out at 2PM on a Tuesday and enjoy this…” you inhale through your teeth disdainfully, “beautiful, brutalist… Soviet-core park.”

He laughs, the real kind of laughter that throws his head back, and it warms your heart enough to laugh, too. “It’s bullshit, isn’t it?”

“It’s bullshit! And what the fuck is that horrendous giant ring doing here?” The two of you cackle over the installation art across the park. “And that billboard… it’s ridiculous.”

Art’s laughter dies down on his lips as he looks up at the billboard in question. The Aston Martin “Game Changers” campaign from last year. Fuck. Even when he’s completely separated from Tashi, her presence still looms over like a panopticon.

You turn to him with a smile still etched on your face, completely oblivious to the storm in his head. “What?”

But he looks ahead, too caught up in the hurricane to hear you. He just… looks up at the billboard, his face darkens.

Oh.

You feel silly for not putting two and two together—you’ve been staring at the billboard mindlessly for a good fifteen minutes, goddammit— so you tread very carefully. “That, uh… Lily’s mom?”

Art looks down on his lap, as if not daring to look at Tashi’s picture. Or at Lily, or at you. “Yeah.”

There’s no right word for it. There’s no coming back from this, nothing he can say can make this better, and he can’t help but kick himself for fucking up. What he is fucking up, he’s not entirely sure. But he’s not ready to end this conversation with you, not on such a weird note.

“I can’t imagine what it must be like…” because you can’t. Losing a spouse is hard enough, but to have it out there in the open…

“It’s tough,” he nods in confirmation, and you smile feebly at his attempt at a callback to your little inside joke. To the moment where things are fine, all things considered. 

If the air ebbed and flowed earlier, it must’ve just… froze now. You don’t even remember the cigarette in your hand until the ash falls onto your hand and you gasp at the sudden heat, putting it out on the ground.

“I’m sorry. I should get out of your hair—”

“Do you wanna get a drink some time?”

The question catches both of you off-guard, eyes blinking at each other in shock. He didn’t think he heard you right, and your mouth seems to work faster than the filter in your brain.

Your face runs hot, and you chuckle sheepishly. “Sorry. You probably don’t wanna hear that—”

“I do.” He’s not sure which question he’s answering. Maybe both? Definitely both.

“Oh! Um…”

And right in that moment, Lily comes padding over with squelching steps in her shoes, completely drenched but over the moon. “Daddy, Daddy, that was so much fun! Can we come back here? I see lights on the floor, and I think the fountain lights up at night!”

Art puts out his cigarette under his shoe, chuckling at his daughter,  “Baby, you’re soaked! Did you try to take a shower there or something?” immediately wringing water out of her hair.

“I’ll take a real shower when we get home.”

“Well, duh. But I don’t want you to catch a cold… come here.” He crosses his arm to grab the hem of his sweater and tug it over his head to put it on his daughter.

The girl looks thoroughly unamused as the clothing item falls halfway down her calves and the sleeves nearly touch the ground. “Daddy, this is ridiculous.”

You grin, and you can’t help but wonder how much of that sass came from Art. “Looks pretty chic to me.”

He nods at you, glad that you’re backing him up. “Thank you.” He then turns to Lily pointedly.

Lily half-smiles at you. “Thank you,” although she still isn’t quite convinced.

“I’m sorry, we really gotta go. But how do I, um…” he trails off. Gosh, he was hoping to do this out of Lily’s sight. Lily’s sight means Tashi’s sight, and he’s not ready for that talk just yet.

“Take my card.” You whip out a neat stainless steel case, and slides out a white-and-blue business card. Your name is printed in a sleek black font, right above ‘Interpreter’ in a smaller case. Your email and phone number follows.

His fingers brush against yours as he takes it, and he prays to God or whoever is up there that he doesn’t give anything away to you or Lily. Not a quirk, not a peep. Just two strangers connecting by chance.

“Thank you.” He nods evenly as he pockets the card, trying to contain the butterflies in his stomach—he’s always thought he was too old for that by now, but maybe… just maybe… “You have a nice day.”

“You, too.” You squint up at him under the sun, and then smile and wave at the little girl. “Bye, Lily.”

She waves at you as Art sweeps her up into his arms, and you don’t let yourself turn all the way around to watch them leave. Instead, with one final look at Art’s “Game Changers” billboard ad in the distance, you grab your pack of Camel and light another cigarette between your lips.

[girlboypersonthingy]

crawls into ask box

hi can i request for sal fisher w a s/o who likes to trace his face scars with their fingers 😎

YES YES YES I want this so bad, I wish this were me sooooo baaadddddd 😮‍💨 thanks for all the Sally face requests I’ve been getting! I’m living for it. If you’ve requested, I’ll get to it soon. Promise ✨ enjoy~

Notes: established relationship, first time saying ‘I love you’, tons of fluff, short little drabble

TW: spit (Sal drools a lil 😚)

Sal x reader- Quality Time

After a long day of you working and Sal having class, it was finally late and quiet, finally time to unwind and spend some quality time with your darling boyfriend. You sat in his bed, playing on his gearboy to pass the time as he took a shower. Gizmo is cuddled up next to your thigh, softly purring while you play your game. As you were just getting invested in the hand held game, the door swung open and in came Sal with wet blue hair dipping onto his black over sized t-shirt, wearing just the shirt and a pair of baggy blue boxers.

“Feeling better?” You glance at him for a moment then back to the game. “Yeah, I’m tired now.” Sal replies as he rubs the excess water out of his long hair with his towel, quickly throwing it aside before climbing on the bed with you. He didn’t hesitate in laying on his back and resting his head in your lap, watching as you continue your game. Besides the intense music and sound effects coming from the gearboy, it became quiet between you two, pleasantly quiet and calm.

You were so caught up in completing the level you’re currently on that you didn’t even notice that Sal had shifted his gaze from the game in your hand to your face above him, taking time to admire it all scrunched into a focused expression. He stared up at you for what felt like hours, taking in the view of you licking your lips and raising your brows. Your face is so pretty, so soft and whole, pretty much flawless in his opinion. As a smile crept up his cheeks, it was his soft sigh of contentment that made you glance down at him. From your point of view, his bare face was upside down with his head resting in your lap and his hair all pushed back- nothing was obstructing your view of his messily scarred face.

Quickly, you found yourself locked into his gaze, staring back down at him as his smile got bigger, revealing his teeth even more through the missing flesh of his cheek. Now your own lips are spreading wider, a wave of butterflies coursing through your stomach as you blink at him. “W-what?” You ask in reference to his loving stare. Sal takes a moment to answer, softly chucking first when the sound effects of defeat come from the gearboy still in your hand.

“You’re just really cute.” He finally responds, making you toss the gearboy aside and fully focus on him. You’re smiling so big now, it’s hard to keep your eyes open enough to see him. “No, you are.” And your hands find their place on his cheeks, your thumbs gently stroking his uneven skin, making Sal’s eyes gradually close as he relaxes under your fingertips.

For what felt like hours, you stayed this way- your fingers gently tracing over every scar and every part of his face that had never healed back over. Finger tips lightly ticking his forehead, your hands softly rubbing under his chin before circling back to his cheeks, all the while both of your smiles are unchanging. “Feel good, Sally?” Sal hums in response, eyes still closed as he feels himself getting sleepy.

It was relaxing for both of you- the different textures of his skin felt so unique to your hands. His bright and shiny molars caught your attention as they peak through the gaping hole in his cheek. It was then that you noticed a bit of drool pooling on the side of his cheek where his teeth were exposed, his breathing steady and nearly silent now. He was falling asleep.

“I love you.” It leaves your mouth as a breathy confession, making Sal open his eyes, one empty socket and a dull blue eye staring up at you. His expression changes rapidly from a look of surprise and excitement to one of adoration and endearment. His brows relax, his face begins to turn pink as he shifts his gaze away. He hasn’t replied yet so you nervously open your mouth again, hands still resting on his cheeks. “Sorry, you…you’re j-just so gorgeous.”

Sal turns his head to the side fast, using one of his hands to cover his crimson face. A soft groan leaves him and he pauses before speaking. “Stoooppp.” You would stop if it wasn’t for his smile showing from beneath his large hand, you could hear the giddy smirk in his voice when he spoke. So you decide to keep the sappy romance going. Carefully, leaving him time to stop you, you pull his hand away and continue gently stoking his cheek again. Silence falls between you two for a moment before Sal turns his head so he’s looking up at you again.

“I love you too.” His eyes are closed now and he seems relaxed again, his blushing cheeks having calmed down a bit thanks to your calming touch. Leaning over him slowly, you let your eyes close as you go for a kiss. Sal opens up his eye for a second to see you leaning in and he sits up ever so slightly to meet you in the middle. Your lips slowly part against each other’s, moving in different rhythms but somehow matching up perfectly. Your hands slide from his cheeks to behind his head, fingers tangled in his wet locks as you’re holding his face up to yours. You both savor the moment, hearts starting to beat faster and faster. Seconds later, you part with a soft gasp coming from both of you.

Something about you complimenting his bare face while also touching it and telling him you love him…makes him wanna put a ring on that finger immediately. He never thought he’d find a love like you and while he isn’t totally sure what he’s doing here, he wants to be with you like this forever.

[harrywavycurly]

Handle With Care: Take My Time

Masterlist: Here

CW: minor language, smut (unprotected sex, don’t be like them wrap your shit okay?), frat Harry.

A/N: I’ve been asked for their first time together by a few people so I hope y’all enjoy, I just love these two they are precious✨

Tag List: @gmikaelson @ell0ra-br3kk3r @tulips4harry @mellamolayla @mads3502 @empathyroad @idk199o @sassamanda77 @maudie-duan @macy-tpwk @namoreno @coralferrio1 @stylesftcher @mema10 @cherryloveshs @umadirectioner @styleswithaseaview @sunflower-tia @fangirl509east @howling-wolf97 @outofthisworl-d @triski73

Summary: You and Harry enjoy a lazy morning together✨

The soft glow of the barely rising sun filtered through the curtains, gently illuminating the quiet of your bedroom. Harry as usual stirred first, he's not sure why but every time he finds himself getting the privilege of sleeping in your bed he always wakes up first as if he needs to make sure you're still there and it wasn't just a dream. When his eyes flutter open he feels his heart swell with pure adoration when he looks down and sees you nestled warmly against him, your gentle breaths brushing his bare chest. A smile works its way onto his face at how peaceful you look and he hopes it's not just the dreams your having but also because you can feel his arm wrapped around your shoulders securing you to him.

Unable to resist Harry moves ever so slightly so he can place a kiss to your forehead, grinning at how even half asleep you instinctively tilt your head the tiniest bit so he has a better angle of your face, or more so your lips so he can lean down and press a kiss to them. It's a slow and lazy kiss, since neither of you have anything to do today Harry doesn't feel the need to rush, so he takes his time brining a hand up to gently hold your face. As his lips move against yours he feels your hand rest on top of the butterfly he has tattooed on his lower chest causing a very familiar and comforting warmth to travel down to his toes along with a dull tingling sensation he's become accustomed to anytime you touch him. When you smile against his lips he pulls away just enough so he can watch as you slowly open your eyes, a sleepy smile still on your face as you meet his gaze.

"Morning." You murmur as Harry's hand moves so it's cupping your cheek, his thumb running gently along your cheekbone.

"Morning sunshine." His voice is thick with sleep but there’s also a hint of playfulness making you let out a soft giggle as his preferred pet name for you rolls off his tongue. "Sleep good?" He asks as his hand that's resting on your shoulder begins drawing little patterns on your skin making a shiver run up your spine at his soft touches. When all you do is hum in response as you close your eyes and let out a sigh Harry can't help but lean in to place a kiss to the tip of your nose.

“Guess what.” He whispers not wanting to ruin the intimacy of the moment by being too loud. You just quirk a brow and lazily open your eyes as you lean into his warm touch.

“What?”

“We have nothing to do today.”

“Is that so?”

“Mhm.” He hums as he carefully maneuvers himself so he is hovering above you, a smirk on his face as he leans down and places a kiss to your cheek. “You know what that means don’t you love?” He asks as he kisses his way down your jaw to your neck, smiling against your skin when he feels your hands reach up and grab onto his arms when he gets to the spot just below your ear.

“What-what does that mean?” Your voice is breathy as Harry continues his trail of kisses down your neck, his tongue tracing patterns over the sensitive skin enjoying how your body begins to tremble underneath his touch.

“I can take my time lovin’ on you.” He answers, voice thicker now not just with sleep but with need, a need that only you can satiate. He continues to lower himself down your body leaving kisses as he goes, a smile takes over his face when he sees the swirling pink and yellow tye dye pattern of your night dress, the same one that had his mind a muddled mess of inappropriate thoughts all those months ago when you answered the door in it.

“You’re so pretty.” He mumbles against the fabric at your lower tummy as he positions himself between your thighs. His hands running up and down the tops of them a few times before pushing the skirt of your nightdress up and over your hips. He glances up meeting your gaze, your eyes are a swirling mixture of passion and affection that he’s sure matches his own.

“Tell me what you want.” He urges as he licks his lips, voice dripping with a desire to please you anyway he can. He watches you bite down on your bottom lip as he places a wet hot kiss to the very obvious damp spot on your pretty pink panties.

“You. I want you.” You breathe out softly as your hips jerk up when he places another kiss to your clothed center. He feels your hands tangle into his hair as his hands slide your panties down your legs at a achingly slow pace that makes a small playful smirk worm its way onto Harry’s face when he hears you let out the faintest of whines letting him know you’re just as desperate for him as he is for you.

“Harry.”

“M’right here baby.” He says softly as he places a kiss to the inside of your thigh. “Not going anywhere.” He assures you while placing a kiss to the inside of your other thigh.

He feels you tug at his hair, a signal he has learned over the last few months that he’s gotten to explore this side of your relationship means you need his attention. So without a word he adjusts himself so his face is once again hovering just above yours, eyes locking as your hands slide down to the back of his neck as if to keep him in place.

“I want to feel you.” It takes a minute for your words to click in Harry’s lust filled brain but he understands exactly what you’re saying when he feels you spread your legs wider and arch your hips towards him making your center meet his growing bulge that’s painfully tucked inside his black boxers.

His breath hitches and his eyes close when his hips instinctively rut down into you causing a breathy moan to slip past your lips.

“Fuck sunshine.” He groans as he opens his eyes so he can look at you. “You sure? I don’t-”

“Yes.” You say with a nod as you pull him down for a kiss, he holds back a moan when he feels your hands give his hair a nice tug before they travel down his back to the waistband of his boxers. “Please.” You plead when he pulls away, and Harry has never been one to be able to tell you no so he doesn’t stop you when you begin to pull his boxers down.

“Oh shit-fuck.” His words are jumbled together when he feels your hand wrap around him giving him a few pumps before he aligns himself with your entrance. With his eyes still locked on yours he slowly enters you, watching closely for your reaction, reveling in the gasps of pleasure you let out the deeper he goes.

“God you’re perfect.” he groans softly before leaning down to capture your lips in a heated kiss, your hands grab at his back as he begins moving in a slow, steady rhythm that have him swallowing down your moans as he deepens the kiss.

“Talk to me baby. How’s it feel?” He asks gently, craving your words after pulling away from your kiss swollen lips. A deep moan escapes you when Harry reaches down to grab at your leg, bending it at your knee so he can go even deeper with his thrusts letting the tip of his cock hit the spot inside of you that makes your toes curl.

“Amazing.” You answer with a moan as Harry’s pace quickens making your nails dig into the skin on his back. “So-oh god.” Your voice gets lost in a gasp as Harry grips your other leg and brings it over his hip so when he gives you a particularly deep thrust you get overwhelmed at how full you feel with him so deep inside you.

“Feels so-fuck you feel so good baby.” His voice is filled with desire as his lips find the spot just below your ear, giving it a gentle nip making a deep moan bubble up from his chest when he feels you clench around him.

“You were made for me huh sunshine?” He nips and sucks his way down your neck making your back arch as his thrusts begin to intensify. “Made for me to love on just like this.” He punctuates each word with a thrust of his hips until your hands are sliding off his back and gripping the sheets at your sides.

“Yes oh god-Harry.” Your strangled moan has Harry increasing his pace, knowing you’re nearing the edge and wanting you to fully let go for him he lifts his head, his eyes are full of nothing but love as they meet yours.

“Let go for me baby. I’ve got you.” He says as he leans down to place a kiss to your forehead. In this moment Harry swears he’s never felt so connected to someone as he does to you, only further proving to him that you’re it for him, no one else will ever have this kind of hold on him the way you do.

That’s all it takes before he feels you clenching and tightening around him, your eyes close as your lips part as his name falls from your lips over and over. It’s not until your hands come up and tangle into his hair giving it a few tugs that Harry tumbles over the edge of his own and drops his head into the crook of your neck as he lets the overwhelming sense of pleasure take over, mumbling a few curse words and declarations of how much he adores you against your skin as the two of you ride out your pleasure filled high.

“I love you.” He pants as he lays down beside you, pulling you into his chest with a smile on his face. “So much.” He adds before placing a kiss to the top of your head.

“I love you too.” You say with a sleepy little smile as you rest your cheek on his chest, Harry lets out a sigh of content when he peeks down a few minutes later finding your eyes are shut having fallen back to sleep while listening to the rhythmic beating of his heart.

“Sweet dreams sunshine.”

[lila-lou]

✨Helpless✨

Summary: Spent, trembling, his to ruin. Soldier Boy never asked—he took. And you let him.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader

Warnings: 18+ only! Slight Smut, Language, kinda dark

Word Count: 3847

A/N: English isn’t my first language, so please be lenient. 💙✨

Your breath came slow, heavy, and shallow, your body sprawled out across the motel bed, barely able to move. Every muscle felt spent, weak, the lingering ache between your thighs a reminder of just how rough he had been. But that was always the case when it came to Soldier Boy—he never held back, never treated you like something delicate, and certainly never asked if you could take it. He just did what he wanted, took what he wanted, and you let him.

The sharp sound of him sniffing echoed in the quiet room, and you shivered as the cool sensation of the powdery residue on your bare back faded under his touch. He exhaled through his mouth, satisfaction humming deep in his chest, then dragged his calloused fingers down the dip of your spine. You felt the bed shift as he leaned back, probably stretching out like the cocky bastard he was, basking in the aftermath of what he had just done to you.

“Fuck, sweetheart”, he muttered, his voice hoarse and laced with amusement. “You really are somethin’ else. Just layin’ there all spent—like I drained the fuckin’ life outta you”.

You swallowed, your throat dry. He wasn’t wrong.

You could still feel the way his hands had held you down, the way his body had crushed you beneath him, forcing you to take everything he gave. You weren’t new to sex—but you were new to this. To him.

At nineteen, you had only been with one person before him—your ex-boyfriend, who had been cautious, careful, treating intimacy like something fragile. But Soldier Boy wasn’t careful. He wasn’t gentle. He didn’t whisper sweet nothings or ask if you were okay.

And maybe that was why you kept coming back.

“You still with me, kid?”.

His huge, heavy palm slid over the curve of your ass, lingering for a moment before dipping between your thighs. The touch was slow, deliberate, almost mocking in its gentleness compared to how rough he had been before. You flinched slightly, your body still sore and hypersensitive. But even that small reaction seemed to amuse him. He chuckled under his breath, the sound low and throaty.

“Barely moving”, he said, his voice thick with satisfaction. His fingers grazed your skin again, teasing, testing, as if he wanted to see just how much more you could take. “Did I fuck you that good, or are you just bein’ dramatic?”.

You felt heat rise in your face, but you didn’t respond. What could you say? That you hadn’t expected any of this? That you didn’t know how to handle someone like him, someone who took whatever he wanted and left you gasping in his wake?

Your silence only seemed to spur him on. He shifted his weight, his body pressing closer to yours again. His lips brushed against the nape of your neck, the faint scratch of his beard making you shiver. He pressed a kiss there—soft, almost tender—before moving to your ear.

“You’re too quiet”, he murmured. “I like it better when you make noise”. His hand tightened slightly, his fingers splaying possessively over your thigh. “C’mon, doll. Don’t go all shy on me now”.

Soldier Boy’s hand lingered, fingers idly tracing the sensitive skin between your thighs, his touch deliberate, teasing. The way you flinched—just slightly, your body betraying you—only made his smirk widen.

“Still sensitive, huh?”, he muttered, amusement laced in his voice as his fingers drifted lazily over your skin, not quite pressing, just reminding you that he could. That he would.

Your breath hitched, but you still didn’t answer. You weren’t sure if you even could. Every part of you felt spent, drained, the dull ache between your legs a constant reminder of just how much he had taken from you.

But that wasn’t enough for him. It never was.

Soldier Boy exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as he leaned back against the headboard, utterly relaxed. His arm draped casually over his stomach, his other hand still resting against your thigh like he owned you.

Which—he did. At least in this moment.

“Y’know, you’re cute when you get all quiet like this��, he mused, running his fingers along the inside of your thigh, barely touching, just enough to make your skin prickle. “All fucked-out and speechless. Like a goddamn wet dream”.

You swallowed hard, your throat still dry.

He watched you for a moment, green eyes sharp, predatory. “That your way of tellin’ me you’re done?”, he asked, though there was no real question in his voice. He already knew the answer. He just liked hearing you admit it.

Your body tensed slightly, and he felt it, his grip tightening—just a little, just enough to remind you that he was still in control.

“C’mon, sweetheart”. His voice dipped lower, a slow drawl that sent a shiver down your spine. “I thought you liked this”.

And the worst part?

You did.

Maybe that was why you kept coming back.

He watched you, the smirk never quite leaving his face. His grip on your thigh stayed firm, fingers flexing slightly, possessively, like he was testing just how much more he could take from you. Like he was daring you to stop him.

But you didn’t.

You never did.

He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as he leaned in, his breath hot against your ear. “You like it when I break you down, don’t you?”, he murmured, his voice laced with smug amusement. “When I take that sweet little body and fuckin’ ruin it?”.

You felt the heat of his words settle deep in your stomach, twisting into something dangerous, something you didn’t want to acknowledge.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

You should have been ashamed. Should have told him no, should have pushed him away. But you just lay there, your body still trembling, your skin still tingling where his hands had been.

His fingers moved again, slow, lazy, dragging against your inner thigh in a way that sent a fresh wave of heat through you. His lips found your shoulder, his beard scratching against your sensitive skin as he kissed the faint bruises he had left there.

“You keep lettin’ me do this to you, sweetheart”, he murmured, his voice thick with amusement. “Makes me think you don’t really wanna stop”.

You swallowed hard, your throat tight.

“Maybe”, he continued, shifting his weight so that he was pressed against your side, his breath warm against your neck, “you like bein’ my little plaything”.

His teeth scraped against your skin, his grip tightening on your thigh as he pulled you closer. “Maybe you like knowin’ you’re mine”.

Your pulse pounded in your ears, your breath shallow.

Because the truth was, you didn’t think you could stop.

Not now.

Not ever.

Soldier Boy let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he gripped your hip and turned you onto your back. His strength was effortless, like moving you was as easy as handling a ragdoll. You barely had the energy to resist—not that you would. Not that you ever really did.

His hand found your jaw, fingers pressing into your skin, forcing you to look up at him. His green eyes, sharp and gleaming, raked over your face with something between amusement and possession.

"Open wide, baby", he murmured, his thumb tracing the corner of your lips, teasing.

And you did.

Because it was easier than thinking. Easier than questioning why you kept coming back, why you let him handle you like this, why the roughness, the dominance, the control made your breath hitch instead of making you run.

His smirk deepened, satisfied. "Good girl", he praised, dragging his thumb across your lower lip before pushing it just past your teeth. Testing you. Watching you.

His other hand slid down, resting against your throat—not squeezing, just feeling the way you swallowed beneath his touch. His grip was possessive, a silent reminder that he could do whatever he wanted to you, that you’d let him.

"You get off on this, don’t you?", he mused, tilting his head slightly, like he was studying you. "Letting me use you, push you past your limit".

You didn’t answer.

Not because you didn’t know what to say—because you weren’t sure you wanted to admit the truth.

Soldier Boy laughed, the sound low and rough, vibrating against your skin as he leaned in closer. "That’s what I thought", he murmured, brushing his lips over your jaw before pulling back, his grip on you unrelenting.

That´s when you finally spoke, though your voice was so soft it was barely audible.

“Ben…”.

It was the first word you had managed since he’d wrecked you, your throat dry, your body still trembling. You weren’t even sure why you said his name—if it was a plea, a protest, or something else entirely. But it made him pause.

For a brief second, something flickered in his eyes. A shift, subtle but there, like he hadn’t expected to hear his real name slip from your lips. Like it pulled him out of the hazy, cocky arrogance he wore like armor.

But then, just as quickly, the smirk was back.

"Didn’t think you had any words left in you, sweetheart", he murmured, thumb brushing over your swollen lips again, teasing. “What, finally got somethin’ to say?”.

You swallowed hard, trying to find the right words, but they caught in your throat. Because what could you say? That you didn’t know why you kept letting him do this? That you weren’t sure if you wanted him to stop—or if you were more afraid of what it meant if you didn’t?

His gaze darkened slightly, as if he could see right through you. As if he already knew.

“Y’know”, he muttered, tilting his head as his fingers traced along your jaw, his touch gentler than before, "You got that look again".

You swallowed. "What look?".

He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly, but his smirk faltered just a little. Just enough for you to notice.

"Like you're tryin' to figure me out", he murmured, thumb dragging along your cheekbone. "Bad idea, sweetheart. Ain't much to figure".

But that wasn’t true, was it?

Because beneath the arrogance, the cruelty, the dominance, there was something else. Something deeper, something heavier. You had seen it—just for a flicker of a moment, when you said his name.

Ben.

He had paused.

And that meant something.

"You don’t have to be like this", you found yourself whispering, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

His expression hardened instantly, his grip tightening—not enough to hurt, but enough to silence you. Enough to remind you who he was.

"That so?", he mused, his voice dropping to something colder, something more dangerous. "And what, exactly, do you think I am, sweetheart?".

You hesitated, pulse pounding. "I think…", You licked your lips, feeling the weight of his gaze. "I think you want to feel something real".

For the first time since you met him, he didn’t have a comeback.

The silence stretched, heavy, suffocating. His fingers twitched against your skin, and his jaw clenched.

Then—just like that—his smirk was back.

"Real’s overrated", he muttered, letting go of you as he leaned back, reaching for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. He lit one, inhaling deep, exhaling slow. "What I want is another round. You in or out, sweetheart?".

You knew damn well you wouldn’t be able to walk for days, but you still said it.

“Yes”.

Your voice was quiet, but steady. A single word, but enough.

Soldier Boy’s smirk deepened around his cigarette, something dark and knowing flickering in his green eyes as he exhaled a slow stream of smoke. He tilted his head slightly, studying you like he wasn’t sure if he should be impressed or just amused.

“Atta girl”.

The praise sent an involuntary shiver down your spine. He knew what he was doing—he always did. He could tear you apart and put you back together all in the same breath, and the worst part was that you let him.

Hell, you wanted him to.

His cigarette dangled from his lips as he grabbed your wrist, dragging you up and onto his lap effortlessly. Your body was exhausted, sore, but it didn’t matter. Not when his hands were already gripping your hips, not when his body was so warm and solid beneath you.

“You really are somethin’ else, sweetheart”, he muttered, his fingers pressing into your skin, possessive. “Keep lettin’ me wreck you like this—”, he let out a low chuckle, shaking his head.

“Look at you”, he murmured, dragging a hand up your back, fingers curling in your hair as he tugged your head back just enough to make you meet his gaze. His smirk faded, replaced with something heavier, something unreadable.

“You don’t even know what you’re doin’ to yourself, do you?”.

The words hit somewhere deep in your chest, but before you could even process them, he pulled you down into a bruising kiss, swallowing whatever weak protest you might have had.

And just like that, you were his again.

His lips crashed into yours with a force that stole what little breath you had left, his grip on your hair tightening just enough to make your scalp sting. The way he kissed you—hungry, demanding—made it clear this wasn’t about tenderness. It never was. This was about control, about reminding you who you belonged to in that moment.

You melted against him despite the ache in your body, despite the exhaustion weighing down your limbs. Because this was how it always went. He pushed, you gave, and somewhere between the rough hands and the bruising kisses, you lost yourself completely.

His cigarette was still burning between his fingers when he pulled back just enough to smirk at you, his lips slick from the kiss. He took a slow drag, exhaling the smoke lazily in your direction before flicking the cigarette into the ashtray beside the bed.

"Good girl", he muttered, voice rough as his fingers traced the marks he’d left on your skin. "Always so goddamn eager to be ruined, huh?".

You swallowed hard, your throat dry, but you didn’t deny it.

Didn’t even try.

His smirk deepened, like he could read every thought in your head, every unspoken truth you were too afraid to say. His hands slid down to your hips, his grip bruising as he pulled you down, grinding you against him.

A sharp gasp slipped past your lips at the friction, and he chuckled, low and dark.

"That’s right", he murmured, his voice like gravel, his lips ghosting over your jaw. "I want you to remember this, sweetheart. Every goddamn time you try to tell yourself you don’t want me—", his fingers dug into your flesh, forcing you to roll your hips against him again, "—your body’s gonna remind you who owns it".

You hated how right he was.

Because after this, after the bruises faded and the soreness dulled, you’d still feel him.

And you knew—without a doubt—you’d come crawling back for more.

Soldier Boy watched you with that smug, knowing smirk, his fingers still gripping your hips like he was daring you to try and resist. Like he knew you wouldn’t.

“Say it”, he murmured, voice low and commanding.

Your breath hitched. “Say what?”.

His smirk widened, but his grip tightened, just enough to make you whimper.

“That you’re mine”.

The air in the room felt suffocating, heavy with the heat still clinging to your skin, with the weight of whatever this was between you and him. He was toying with you, pushing you to admit the truth you kept swallowing down.

But you couldn’t.

You didn’t want to give him that power, didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of hearing you say it out loud.

And yet…

When he leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice dropped even lower, rougher, sending a shiver down your spine.

“I already know it, sweetheart”, he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. “I just wanna hear you say it”.

Your heart pounded, your body betraying you, the heat pooling in your stomach making it impossible to deny.

Your lips parted, but the words caught in your throat, too heavy to push out.

Soldier Boy pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, tilting his head slightly.

“No?”, he mused, that smirk never leaving his lips. “Guess I’ll just have to remind you, then”.

And before you could respond, before you could even process what he meant, he flipped you onto your back again, his body pressing you down into the mattress, trapping you beneath him.

You sucked in a sharp breath, your pulse racing, but he only chuckled, low and dark.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart”, he murmured, dragging his lips along your jaw, down to your throat. “By the time I’m done with you, you won’t even be able to think about denying it”.

He pushed you deeper into the mattress, his weight grounding you, his presence suffocating in the way that made it impossible to think about anything else—anyone else. Soldier Boy had that effect on you. Overwhelming. All-consuming.

His hands gripped your wrists, pinning them above your head with ease, his strength effortless as he hovered over you. His smirk was still there, but his eyes were darker now, the amusement laced with something heavier, something more dangerous.

"You gonna keep makin’ me work for it, sweetheart?", he murmured, his voice low, gravelly. "Or are you finally ready to admit what we both already know?".

You swallowed hard, pulse hammering in your ears.

He leaned in, his lips grazing your ear as he whispered, “You belong to me”.

A shudder ran through you, heat pooling in your chest at the certainty in his voice. He wasn’t asking. He was telling you. And the worst part? You weren’t sure you had the strength to argue.

His grip on your wrists tightened just slightly, just enough to remind you of his strength, of how easily he could break you if he wanted. But he didn’t. He never did. He pushed you, tested you, but he never crossed that line.

"You keep tryin’ to fight it", he continued, dragging his lips down your jaw, pausing at the pulse point in your throat. "But we both know how this ends".

You clenched your jaw, your breathing unsteady.

“You always come back”, he murmured against your skin, his voice laced with satisfaction. “And you always will”.

It wasn’t a threat. It was a fact.

Because despite everything, despite the rough hands and the dangerous smirks and the way he made you feel like you were standing on the edge of a cliff with no way back—he was right.

You would come back.

You always did.

And he knew it.

Then he drove himseld into you with a single, powerful thrust, filling you until it hurt.

A sharp gasp tore from your lips, your fingers instinctively gripping at the sheets. Soldier Boy chuckled, smug as ever, clearly pleased with himself.

“Too much for you, sweetheart?”, he taunted, his voice thick with mock concern. “Thought you could handle a real man?”.

Your breath hitched, your body still adjusting, still reeling from the way he took exactly what he wanted without hesitation, without restraint.

He tilted his head, watching your reaction like he was savoring every second of it. “Bet that little boyfriend of yours never made you feel like this, huh?”, he muttered, voice low, teasing. “Bet he was all sweet and careful, treatin’ you like you might break”.

His hand traced down your side, fingers pressing into your skin possessively. “But you don’t want careful, do you?”, he murmured. “You want someone who takes. Who owns”.

Your heart pounded in your chest, your body betraying you, your mind spinning.

He let out a breathy chuckle, brushing his fingers along your jaw before gripping it, forcing you to look up at him. His green eyes were sharp, focused entirely on you, like he was waiting for something.

“Go on, sweetheart”, he murmured. “Tell me who you belong to”.

Your lips parted, but the words caught in your throat.

He smirked, dragging his thumb across your lower lip. “C’mon now”, he coaxed, his voice a slow drawl. “Say it”.

His grip on your jaw tightened, his smirk deepening as he watched you struggle with the weight of his words, with the inevitable truth. He wasn’t going to let you hide from it.

Then, with no hesitation, he pulled you closer, his presence overwhelming, drowning out every thought in your head.

Your breath hitched as he settled against you, the heat between your bodies suffocating, heavy. The world outside this room didn’t exist. There was only him—his hands, his voice, the sheer power of his presence caging you in.

A gasp slipped from your lips before you could stop it, your fingers curling against his chest as he let out a low, knowing chuckle.

“There it is”, he murmured, lips brushing against your ear, sending shivers down your spine. “Knew you’d break sooner or later”.

His fingers traced along the marks he had already left on your skin—bruises, fingerprints, evidence of his claim on you. Possession radiated from him, from the way he held you against him, from the way he demanded everything without hesitation.

And then—

"I'm yours", the words tumbled from your lips, breathless, desperate.

His entire body went still.

For a moment, he just looked at you, something flickering in his eyes that you couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t amusement, wasn’t arrogance. It was something darker, something deeper.

Then his smirk returned, slow and dangerous.

“Damn right, you are”.

He reached up, brushing his fingers through your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your head back, exposing your throat to him. His lips ghosted over your pulse, lingering, taking his time.

His grip softened just slightly, his thumb stroking along your jaw. “You just needed to admit it.”

He leaned down, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“And now?”. His breath sent a shiver through you. “You’re never gonna forget who you belong to”.

And deep down, you knew he was right.

Because even after this, even after the haze cleared and the bruises faded…

You’d still feel him.

And you’d come back.

You always did.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰

-

Taglist: @blackcherrywhiskey @baby19sthings @suckitands33 @spnfamily-j2 @lyarr24 @deans-baby-momma @reignsboy19 @kawaii-arfid-memes @mekkencspony @lovziy @artemys-ackles @fitxgrld @libby99hb @lovelyvirtualperson @a-lil-pr1ncess @nancymcl @the-last-ry @spndeanwinchesterlvr @hobby27 @themarebarroww @kr804573 @impala67rollingthroughtown @deans-queen @deadlymistletoe @selfdestructionandrhum @utyblyn @winchesterwild78 @jackles010378 @chirazsstuff @foxyjwls007 @smoothdogsgirl @woooonau @whimsyfinny @freyabear @laaadygisbooornex3 @quietgirll75 @perpetualabsurdity @pughsexual @berryblues46 @deanwinchestersgirl8734 @kr804573 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @barnes70stark @roseblue373 @shanimallina87 @ascarriel @deanwinchesters67impala @thebiggerbear @quietgirll75 @barnes70stark @kellyls04 @spxideyver @ralilda @americanvenom13 @ozwriterchick

[msbigredmachine]

The Boy Next Door: The Final Chapter

MASTERLIST ✨ harmshake’s masterlist ✨ msbigredmachine’s masterlist

Word Count: 9.2k

💥TRIGGER WARNING: This chapter contains DARK THEMES. Please proceed with caution💥

“A quiet Connecticut suburb, forever scarred by the horrors hidden within one of its most luxurious homes.”

The news anchor droned on, her voice steady and professional, but still laced with the brand of disbelief that accompanied covering something too monstrous to fully comprehend.

“Authorities have confirmed that Mateo Hobbs, the serial killer Florida law enforcement has been tracking for the past eighteen months, has been apprehended. Linked to multiple kidnappings and murders spanning the East Coast, Hobbs recently embedded himself in an affluent Hartford, Connecticut neighborhood, hiding in plain sight.

“Perceived as a quiet, unassuming neighbor, Hobbs, using the alias Roman Reigns, was in reality, a ruthless, sociopathic predator. With deep ties to the notorious Samoan Sons crime syndicate in California, he’s alleged to have orchestrated a string of brutal crimes from Georgia to Florida all the way up to Connecticut, leaving a trail of devastation in his wake.

His reign of terror came to a violent end yesterday when he was shot by authorities during a tense hostage standoff in the basement of his Hartford mansion.”

The scene cut to an aerial view of Roman’s sprawling mansion, its pristine exterior now marred by crime scene tape and the steady movement of forensic teams. Uniformed officers and cadaver dogs scoured the property, methodically searching the grounds, the basement, and hidden crawl spaces for any remaining evidence of his crimes.

“His latest victim, Ivy Jones, a registered nurse and a single mother of one, had been missing for nine harrowing days. Jones, who was Hobbs’ next door neighbor and rumored to be his lover, was found in his basement, in critical condition but alive. Investigators say she was subjected to severe physical and psychological torture before she was found by authorities. Sources close to the case confirm that she was not the first woman to suffer at Hobbs’ hands—but so far, she has been the only one to make it out alive.

“Hobbs has now been linked to many more unsolved murders including the brutal killing of a pregnant woman whose remains were discovered months ago in a shallow ditch in the woods in this very neighborhood. Further investigation led authorities to a horrifying discovery within the basement of his mansion—two bodies, decomposing in separate barrels. The victims have been identified as local fitness coach Bianca Belair and attorney Gemini Beaufort. Both women had been reported missing in recent weeks, their disappearances previously unexplained.”

A pause, heavy with implication and omen.

“While authorities believe Hobbs acted alone, the full scope of his crimes remains unknown. Investigators are combing through evidence recovered from the property, searching for additional victims. The case remains open, and the search for answers continues.”

The broadcast cut to a clear image of Roman Reigns, reduced to a face on a screen, forever tied to death and destruction.

“For now, the nightmare is over. But for those who suffered at his cold, callus hands, the scars remain.”

Ivy drifted toward consciousness at a snail’s pace, the world around her emerging in fragments. First came the sterile scent of antiseptic, a smell she knew all too well. Then the steady, rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor, the faint hum of fluorescent lights, the muffled voices of nurses and doctors moving through the halls. 

A heavy fog clung to her thoughts, making it difficult to pull herself fully into wakefulness. Her body ached—deep, radiating pain that pulsed through her limbs and settled in her chest. She inhaled, the simple act an effort, her ribs protesting with a dull, bruising throb. 

She shifted slightly, and that was when she became aware of the wires. The thin, plastic tubing taped to her arm, the small pinch where an IV needle was inserted into her skin. It was wrong. Foreign. She was always the one on the other side of the hospital bed, checking vitals, adjusting drips, reassuring patients. Never the one lying there, helpless, under observation. 

Her eyelashes fluttered as she forced her heavy lids open. The room was shadowed in a pale yellow light spilling from the small lamp in the corner. The walls were the soft, muted green she recognized from the hospital ward where she worked. 

Her hospital. 

A sharp breath hitched in her throat as reality came rushing back in a cold, unforgiving wave. 

Roman. 

The basement. 

The gun in her hand, trembling, the trigger pulling back. 

The gunshots. The stunned look in his eyes. 

The thud of his body hitting the floor. 

Her stomach clenched, nausea rolling through her. Her fingers instinctively curled into the stiff white sheets beneath her, her body trembling at the memory. The horror of it still clung to her, wrapped around her like invisible chains. 

Ivy’s eyes flickered frantically around the dim hospital room, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. Panic clawed at her chest until they landed on a familiar, curled-up form on the floor near the hospital bed.

Duchess was asleep, her body rising and falling with deep, even breaths. A thick bandage was wrapped around her stomach, a stark reminder of Roman’s cruelty. Ivy’s throat tightened at the sight, guilt and sorrow intertwining. He had hurt her too. But she was here—alive. Loyal as ever.

Swallowing hard, Ivy tore her gaze away and searched further.

Zaia.

She was nestled in Becky’s arms, her tiny face tucked against the older woman’s chest, her dark curls tousled from sleep. Becky sat stiffly in the chair, her red-rimmed eyes wide as they locked onto Ivy’s. It was as if she had been afraid to blink, afraid Ivy would disappear if she looked away.

“You’re awake,” Becky breathed, her voice brimming with relief.

Ivy managed a faint, weary smile in acknowledgment, but her focus remained solely on her daughter. With what little strength she had, she whispered, “Zaia…Baby…” Her voice barely more than a breath, but it was enough.

Zaia stirred, her small body shifting as she blinked groggily. Then, as her vision cleared, she saw her mother; awake, eyes open, alive.

“Mama!”

In an instant, she was wriggling out of Becky’s hold, her small feet hitting the tiled floor. However, Becky caught her before she could rush toward the hospital bed, her hands shaking as she wiped at her tear-streaked cheeks.

"Ivy," Becky’s voice cracked, "Can she…can she climb in?"

"Yes." Ivy barely got the word out before her arms were reaching, aching to hold her child, to feel her warmth, to reassure herself that she was real. That she was safe.

Becky carefully helped Zaia into the bed, minding the wires and the IV. The little girl clung to her mother like a lifeline, her small body trembling, her sobs muffled against Ivy’s faded lilac hospital gown.

Ivy held her just as tightly, pressing her lips to Zaia’s curls, breathing her in, as if the scent of her baby could chase away the lingering nightmares. Tears streamed down their faces as she rocked her gently, whispering soft reassurances, "I’m here, baby. Mama’s here. I gotchu."

Zaia hiccupped between sobs, her fingers clutching at Ivy’s hospital gown. "I thought…I thought you weren’t coming back," she whispered. “I thought you were gonna d—”

The hopelessness in her tone cracked Ivy’s heart wide open. "Never, baby. I will always come back to you," she promised, her voice raw with emotion. "Always."

Becky wiped at her face, watching them, barely holding herself together. “She wouldn’t sleep,” she choked out. “She kept asking for you. I tried to calm her down. Told her not to be scared.”

Her voice wavered, and Ivy could see it; etched in the tightness around Becky’s eyes, in the way her lips trembled. Becky now knew what had happened in that house, the horrors Ivy had endured.

Blinking rapidly, Becky cleared her throat. “I’m gonna go find a nurse,” she said gently, her hand lingering on Ivy’s arm for just a moment. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

Ivy didn’t answer.

Because she couldn't bring herself to tell the truth. That she wasn’t okay.

Pushing all that aside, Ivy tightened her hold on her daughter, pressing her lips to the crown of her head, breathing her in. Nothing else existed. Nothing else would ever matter again.

"My sweet baby," she murmured, pressing her cheek against her daughter's. "My snuggle bug. I love you. More than anything. More than life itself."

Zaia sniffled, her little arms tightening around her mother’s neck. "I love you too, Mama."

The machines beeped softly in the background, the sterile hospital room surrounding them, but none of it mattered. In that moment, the only thing that existed was the warmth of her daughter in her arms, the unshakeable, unbreakable bond between them. 

As the day wore on, Ivy felt exhaustion settle deep into her bones, dragging down every limb. The hospital room felt unbearably small, the steady beep of the monitor beside her too loud in the quiet. Duchess lay curled in her lap, her warm body a source of quiet comfort as Ivy absently stroked her fur. Across the room, Zaia slept soundly on the couch, her small frame rising and falling with each peaceful breath. Ivy glanced over at her daughter, a weary ache pressing against her chest. Their reunion had been everything; painful, overwhelming, much needed. It was the first time since her hellish ordeal that she’d felt even the faintest spark of life in her chest.

A soft knock on the door made her tense.

Lilian, her boss and the head nurse, stepped inside, her expression gentle but firm. “Ivy,” she said carefully, “there are two people here who need to speak with you.”

Ivy’s stomach twisted, but she managed a nod.

Lilian stepped aside, allowing them to enter.

The tall man with striking blonde hair stepped forward first. Ivy recognized him immediately; it was he who shot Roman in the back. The one who ended it.

Behind him, a woman followed, dressed professionally but with an air of quiet confidence. Ivy couldn’t recall her name; she only remembered she was the last face she saw before waking in this bed.

The man’s expression was calm yet serious as he broke the thin ice. “Miss Jones,” he greeted, with a frail semblance of warmth. “I’m Detective Cody Rhodes.” He gestured to the woman beside him. “And this is Lieutenant Jade Cargill. We’re with Florida PD, handling the Mateo Hobbs case—or Roman, as you know him.”

At the mention of that name, Ivy flinched, her breath hitching.

Her reaction made Cody hesitate, but only briefly. “We wanted to check in on you… and also, if you’re up for it, ask a few questions.”

Jade’s approach was softer. She stepped closer, her eyes warm and understanding. “I know this is difficult,” she said gently. “But whatever you can tell us will help.”

Ivy swallowed the burn in her throat. She knew this moment would come, but she wasn’t ready. She didn’t think she ever would be. But she had to.

Duchess nuzzled into her, as if sensing her unease. Ivy absorbed the comfort, steadying herself.

Cody and Jade watched Ivy. Waited, patient.

She forced herself to breathe, to start. “He…” Her voice cracked. She pressed her fingers into her temples. “I don’t know how long he kept me down there for…a week, a month...”

Jade sat on the edge of the bed, her body turned slightly toward Ivy, giving her space but offering silent support.

“From what we gathered, it was nine days,” Jade said softly.

Ivy’s nails dug into her palms. She thought she could do this. She thought she could get the words out, but the second she tried, it was like reliving everything all over again.

Roman’s voice. His hands. His snide, cruel laugh.

Jade’s hand rested lightly on her arm. “It’s okay,” she soothed. “You don’t have to push yourself.”

Ivy took a shaky breath, clutching Duchess tighter, her voice barely above a whisper. “Gemini was in the basement with me. She was…she was dead when I found her…He killed her…”

She squeezed her eyes shut, shame flooding her veins. The last time they had spoken, Ivy had pushed her away. She had been cold. Dismissive. And now, Gemini was dead.

She would never forgive herself for it.

Her fingers curled into the sheets, her entire body trembling as a sob caught in her throat.

“He r-raped me. Over and over and over…”

The words barely left her mouth before a violent shudder overtook her entire body. Her breath expelled in short, sharp gasps as her tears obscured her vision. It felt as though a steel band had closed around her ribs, squeezing, suffocating. Her stomach lurched, bile lurking in the back of her throat.

The memory barreled into her like a truck, brutal and unforgiving; Roman’s weight crushing her, his hands pinning her down, his harsh breath in her ear, the unbearable pain, the helplessness…

Her body convulsed with deep, gut-wrenching sobs.

Jade moved instantly, wrapping an arm around Ivy’s shoulders, grounding her, steadying her. “Breathe, Ivy,” she murmured, rubbing slow, soothing circles into her back. “We’re here. You’re safe.”

Ivy gasped, grasping her chest as if trying to rip something out, that terrifying thing buried deep inside her. “I couldn’t stop him,” she sobbed. “I begged, I fought...I—I—”

Jade tightened her grip on Ivy’s arm. “It's okay, Ivy,” she goaded.

She turned, blinking up at her, desperate. “Is he dead?” she rasped. “Please tell me he’s dead.”

A heavy silence fell over the room.

Rhodes and Jade exchanged a glance, something unreadable passing between them.

Cody exhaled. “He had a pulse in the ambulance.”

The world around her screeched to a halt.

Her chest constricted so violently it felt like her ribs were caving in. Her fingers clenched the sheets so tightly that her knuckles ashened, her nails digging into the fabric as if trying to ground herself, to hold onto something—anything that would stop the panic from swallowing her whole.

“He’s alive?” she whispered, a frightened, broken rasp. 

“Barely,” Cody said carefully, disgusted at himself that he didn’t get the job done.

Jade leaned forward. “He’s being transferred out of state. He’s going to a maximum-security federal prison in Montana. Miles and miles away. He won’t be able to hurt you or anyone else ever again.”

Ivy could barely breathe. The walls felt like they were closing in. A sharp, ice-cold terror slithered down her spine, wrapping around her like a vice.

Cody’s voice was firm, absolute. “We failed the first time. We should have put him away. That won’t happen again. He’s never getting out.”

Jade squeezed Ivy’s arm. “You’ll never see him again. We promise.”

Ivy wanted to believe them. She wanted to trust that this was over.

But Roman had stolen so much from her.

And no matter how far away they sent him, she didn’t know if she’d ever feel safe again.

Sitting stiffly on the plush couch, her hands clenched together in her lap. The familiar scent of lavender and vanilla filled the air, a salt lamp casting warm hues against the walls. Dr. Ari’s office had never felt like a psychotherapist’s office. No stiff leather chairs, no sterile white walls. Instead, it was warm, inviting, with bookshelves lined with novels and plants cascading from their pots. Ivy used to love this space, used to tell Ari how she had the coziest office in the hospital. It had never felt clinical. Never cold.

Today, it felt suffocating.

Dr. Ari sat across from her, notebook resting lightly in her lap, her expression open, patient. She wasn’t just a colleague today. She was Ivy’s therapist. And right now, that made her feel like the enemy.

“I know this isn’t where you want to be,” Ari said gently. “But I appreciate you being here.”

Ivy didn’t respond. She kept her gaze on the floor, on the delicate weave of the rug beneath her feet.

“Let’s start small,” Ari continued. “How have you been sleeping?”

Ivy exhaled slowly. A question she could answer.

“Not great,” she admitted. “I wake up a lot.”

“Nightmares?”

A short nod. An understatement. The dreams weren’t just bad…They were choking, nausea-inducing. Literally, sometimes.

Ari didn’t push, didn’t ask for details. Not yet. Instead, she shifted slightly. “And Zaia? How is she doing?”

At the mention of her daughter, Ivy’s hands tightened in her lap. “She sleeps in my bed every night now,” she said. “She’s…not the same. Not as lively.”

Ari nodded knowingly. “She’s been through so much.”

Too much. More than any child should endure. Losing her father. Losing Gemini. Watching Gable’s head get blown off. Witnessing such violence firsthand. It wasn’t fair.

Ari let a beat pass before asking, “And Duchess?”

Ivy glanced toward the dog bed by the door, where the puppy lay, watching the two women carefully. “She won’t leave my side.”

Ari hummed in understanding. “She’s protecting you.”

Ivy swallowed against the tightness in her throat. She’d tried to protect her in Roman’s house, took a kick to the ribs for her. Words could never fully express how grateful she was for her bravery.

The silence crawled by like a serpent, cold, slithering. Ari’s voice was softer when she spoke again. “Ivy…do you feel responsible for Gemini’s death?”

She flinched.

Her stomach clenched, her nails biting into her palms. Though she had been expecting the question, it didn’t make it any easier to hear.

“She warned me,” she whispered, “Over and over again. She told me he was dangerous. She told me not to trust him. And I—I defended him.” Her breath hitched. “I let him in. Because of me, she’s gone.”

Her chest constricted under the crushing weight of the truth—Gemini had died trying to protect her. The evidence in her bag confirmed it. The police investigation unearthed even worse horrors: Roman had planted a camera in Gemini’s bedroom, watching her every move. The street cams showed him chasing her back into her house, murdering her, and stealing her bag and her car to erase the proof. Traces of her blood and his DNA smeared across her kitchen like a signature of death.

All because of her.

Ari let her sit with the words for a moment before she said, “That’s not true, Ivy, this wasn’t your fault.”

Ivy let out a bitter, humorless laugh. “Then whose was it?”

Ari held Ivy’s gaze, steady and sure. “The man who killed her.”

Her throat tightened. “I should have seen it.”

Ari shook her head. “He manipulated you, Ivy. You weren’t supposed to see it.”

A tear slipped down her cheek.

“I thought he loved me.”

Ari nodded, not interrupting, not rushing her.

“I—I was so stupid. I fell for him. Oldest fucking trick in the book. I let him into my life. I let him near my daughter.” Her voice cracked, self-loathing thick in her tone. “I slept next to him. I trusted him.”

Ari shifted slightly in her chair. “Again, that is not your fault.”

“Isn’t it?” Another bitter laugh. “I should have known. I should have seen it. I—I kept giving him the benefit of the doubt. I defended him.” Her breath hitched. “And all the while, he was killing people. He murdered innocent women. Angelo. Gemini.”

Ari gave her a moment before speaking again. “You didn’t know, Ivy. You weren’t the only one he deceived.”

Ivy clenched her jaw, forcing herself to breathe through the crippling guilt. She wanted to believe Ari. But how could she?

Her daughter’s father. Her best friend. Gone. Because of her stupidity.

The pain was unbearable. 

And then—

“Can you talk to me about what he did to you in the basement?”

Everything inside Ivy recoiled. Her body went rigid, suddenly forgetting the simple function of breathing.

The basement…

Her mind fought against the flood of memories, but it was useless. The cold, the dark, the endless hours of terror. The feel of his hands on her body. His voice.

Ari’s voice remained gentle. “Ivy, the police confirmed that Roman ra—”

“I don’t wanna talk about it!”

The words came out too sharp, too loud in the quiet room. Her heart pounded, her vision hazing at the edges.

Ari didn’t flinch. She simply nodded. “Okay. We don’t have to—not until you’re ready.”

Ivy sucked in a trembling breath, but it felt like she couldn’t get enough air.

Dr. Ari leaned forward slightly, her voice steady yet soft, like she was trying to anchor Ivy to the present. “But I need you to understand something. Your trauma...It won’t just go away on its own. You’ve survived something unimaginable. You need to let yourself process it.”

Ivy barely heard her. The words echoed distantly, dull and meaningless, as if they belonged to someone else’s story.

She had uttered similar words before. Had stood at bedsides, held trembling hands, looked into the vacant eyes of survivors and tried to offer comfort wrapped in clinical certainty. She had repeated the script so many times, assuring patients that healing was possible, that time and therapy would mend what had been broken.

But never—never—had she imagined those words would be spoken to her.

And just like all the patients she had treated, she didn’t believe them.

Because how could anyone come back from this? How did she process something that had gutted her, left her hollowed out and rotting from the inside? Roman had taken everything from her; her safety, her body, her trust. The horrors lurked stubbornly just behind her eyelids, shadows of memories she wasn’t ready to face.

After another long pause, Ari spoke again. “Avoidance won’t make them go away, Ivy. They’ll fester.”

Ivy swallowed hard. “I don’t care.”

“I think you do.”

“I just wanna go home. I wanna be with my daughter.”

Ari studied her carefully. “Zaia needs you to heal, Ivy.”

Her eyes stung. She looked away, her fingers digging into the fabric of her sleeves.

“I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t do this!”

“You can,” Ari insisted, firmly but kindly. “And you don’t have to do it alone.”

Ivy’s shoulders trembled.

Ari didn’t say anything else. She just let Ivy sit there, let her hold onto the silence like a fragile thread keeping her together.

And then, without warning, the dam broke.

A sob tore from Ivy’s throat, raw and gut-wrenching. She folded in on herself, shaking, gasping for breath between broken cries. The pain, the guilt, the fear—it all crashed over her at once.

Ari moved from her chair, settling beside her on the couch. She didn’t speak. She didn’t try to quiet her. She just sat there, her presence solid and unwavering as her patient let it all out.

Minutes passed before Ivy could calm down. She swiped at her tear-streaked face, her body exhausted from the weight of it all.

Ari handed her a tissue, waiting as she wiped at her swollen eyes.

“Same time next week?” Ari asked softly.

Ivy hesitated. The thought of doing this again, of dredging up more of the darkness, made her stomach churn.

But she had no choice.

She nodded weakly. “Yeah.”

Ari gave her a small, reassuring smile. “We’ll take it one step at a time.”

Ivy didn’t answer. She stared down at the crumpled tissue in her hands, her fingers tightening around it as if she could squeeze the pain out of herself.

One step at a time.

The words felt meaningless.

How could she take another step forward when every part of her felt shattered beyond repair?

As she stood on shaky legs and left Ari’s office, the world outside felt too bright, too normal.

And Ivy…

Ivy wasn’t normal anymore.

She wasn’t sure she ever would be again.

The sky hung low and gray, thick with the weight of a late November chill as Gemini’s funeral unfolded. The world seemed to mourn with them, the clouds heavy, threatening snow but offering nothing—just the quiet, biting wind that cut through coats and scarves. It was the week before Thanksgiving, but there was no warmth, no gratitude. Only grief.

This was the second funeral Ivy had attended in the span of a few months, and her heart could hardly withstand another. First Angelo, now Gemini. Two people who had meant the world to her. It felt unbearable, cruel. She had no more tears to cry, yet they still came, silent and unrelenting, as she clutched Zaia’s small, gloved hand in hers. Her daughter had barely recovered from burying her father, and now she was here, standing beside another fresh grave, saying goodbye to another adult who had loved her.

Gemini’s funeral was private, yet the quiet opulence of her family still bled into the event. The headstones surrounding her final resting place were regal, etched with gold, the markers of a family that had always carried itself with elegance. She was being laid to rest between her parents, a cruel sort of symmetry. Gemini had always missed them, always longed for them, and now, she would be with them forever.

Nearby, Raquel and Kelani, her colleagues and friends, stood, shoulders shaking, their eyes rimmed red from an endless flow of tears. They weren’t just coworkers; they were her sisters, her allies in a field dominated by men, who had loved and respected her fiercely. It was impossible to imagine their firm without her bold voice ringing through the halls, her confidence filling every room, her laughter turning the most grueling days into something bearable.

For three years, Gemini had been a constant in Ivy’s life; a force of nature, vibrant and unstoppable. She was the life of every party, the loudest voice in the room, the kind of friend who made the impossible feel within reach. Ivy had not imagined a world without her in a long, long time.

And yet, here she was.

Watching helplessly as Gemini was lowered into the cold ground, her laughter silenced, her light extinguished forever.

Ivy’s breath hitched, her chest tightening with the unbearable truth. Gem had been more than a friend. She had been a lifeline, a sister in all the ways that mattered. And now, because of the choices Ivy had made, that lifeline had been severed.

She could do nothing but stand there, numb and broken, as the earth swallowed what remained of her best friend.

Beside Ivy, Leo Beaufort stood motionless, his broad frame rigid in a perfectly tailored black suit. His presence was unmistakable—tall, striking, and composed—but there was a weight to him now, a quiet devastation pressing into his shoulders.

Gemini’s twin brother was her mirror. The other half of her soul. Ivy had known him as long as she’d known his sister. She had seen him laugh, tease, argue with Gemini in the way only siblings could. But she had never seen him like this—silent, stripped of the easy confidence he always carried.

As Gemini’s casket sank lower into the earth, Ivy felt him exhale, a breath so shallow it barely existed. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t cry. But the grief radiating from him was as heavy as the sky pressing down on them.

As the final words faded into the cold afternoon air and mourners began to drift away, Ivy forced herself to look up at him.

Something inside her cracked at the look on his face. His expression was raw, anguished, the tears he'd been holding in finally spilling forth.

Without a word, she pulled him into a crushing embrace. She felt the tremor in his tall body, his pain pressing into her own, bleeding together in the worst way.

“I’m so sorry, Leo,” she murmured, heartbroken for him.

“I felt it that day. When she…went,” he whispered against her temple, his voice unsteady. “I was in Tokyo, and I felt it. Half of my soul—shattered.” A ragged breath. “I knew something was terribly wrong. I just couldn’t get to her fast enough.”

Ivy’s lungs tightened, shame sinking its claws into her. “I was awful to her before she passed,” she admitted, the confession digging into her like a knife to the heart. “We fought, and I…” Her voice broke. “I never got to make it right.”

Leo pulled back just enough to cup her face in his hands, his touch startlingly gentle despite the storm inside him. His dark eyes, hollow with pain, burned with something else too—something resolute.

“Ivy, listen to me,” he said, steady and firm. “Gem knew you loved her. She loved you just as much. Whatever happened between you don’t change that.” His grip tightened, willing her to believe him. “This was not your fault. You gotta forgive yourself. Please. She’d want you to. I want you to.”

She wanted to. God, how she wanted to. But the weight of her regret felt immovable, crushing her beneath it. And maybe, deservedly so.

As Leo finally let her go, Ivy turned slightly, her gaze landing on another familiar figure standing just a few feet away.

Officer Hayes. Carmelo.

Equally lost. Equally broken.

The sharp, smooth, composed policeman was gone, replaced by a man drowning in grief. His sunglasses shielded his eyes, but they couldn’t hide the way his body shook, the way his shoulders curled inward, as if the magnitude of his sorrow was too much to bear.

Ivy took a slow step forward, then another, until she was standing beside him. A long, painful stretch of silence.

“I imagined a life with her,” he spoke up, his voice hoarse as he removed his sunglasses to wipe at his eyes. “Marriage. A family. I thought…I thought I had more time.” A sharp breath. “I didn’t do enough to stop this.”

Ivy turned to him, shaking her head. “Don’t,” she pleaded. “Don’t blame yourself.”

“How can I not?” His jaw clenched. “I never thought he was a threat. Never looked at him twice. And that’s the problem.” His voice wavered, thick with regret. “I should’ve dug deeper. Should’ve asked more questions. But I didn’t. I let him be around her—I let him be around all of us—and I didn’t see it.” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I should have known. I should have done more.”

Her chest tightened. She had no words, no reassurance that would make any of this easier. The what-ifs were stifling, an endless loop of blame and regret that neither of them could escape.

Carmelo let out a slow, unsteady breath. “I just wish I’d gotten to talk to her one last time,” he murmured. “Tell her how much I…” His voice broke, and he swallowed hard. “Just one more conversation, man. One more chance.”

Ivy squeezed his arm. “She knew, Melo. She knew.”

He gave a faint nod, but his hands clenched at his sides, as if holding onto something invisible, something slipping through his grasp.

After a beat, he exhaled and looked at her. “I’m happy you made it out,” he whispered. “I really am.”

Ivy blinked back fresh tears. “Thank you for taking care of Zaia,” she said. “She talks about you all the time, you know. Says you’re her hero.”

Something flickered in his expression—something softer, lighter, cutting through the thick haze of grief. His lips twitched, almost forming a smile, before it disappeared. 

“Zaia’s a good kid,” he said, voice quieter now. “She’s been through enough. I just did what anyone would’ve.”

They stood in silence, side by side, staring down at the fresh mound of dirt that covered Gemini’s coffin. Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke.

Because this—this was what devastation looked like.

Detective Rhodes stood outside the glass window of the hospital room, hands stuffed in his pockets, his frosty blue gaze locked onto the unconscious man inside. 

Mateo Hobbs. Roman Reigns. 

It didn’t matter what he called himself. He was nothing more than another psychotic criminal who had finally run out of places to run.

Two bullets. One from Ivy. One from him. And yet the bastard still lived.

He shouldn’t be surprised. Hobbs had slipped through his fingers too many times before, surviving when any other man would’ve been six feet under. But this time? 

This time, there was no escape.

Behind him, the hesitant shuffle of footsteps drew his attention. Dr. Michael Cole, a wiry, nervous-looking man with thinning hair and thick glasses, cleared his throat. “Detective,” he greeted, voice just shy of a tremor.

“How long?” Cody didn’t bother with pleasantries. His cerulean orbs never left Hobbs’ prone form, watching his huge chest rise and fall steadily beneath the hospital sheets.

Cole wiped his hands on his coat. “A week. The bullets have been removed, but he needs time to recover before he can be transported.”

“A week?” Cody echoed, his jaw clenching. He wanted him gone now.

“It’s the best I can do,” Cole insisted, shifting uneasily under the weight of Cody’s chilling glare. “Moving him too soon could cause complications—”

“I don’t give a fuck about complications,” Rhodes cut him off coldly. His fingers curled into fists at his sides. “The second he’s stable, he’s out of here. You understand me?!”

Cole nodded hurriedly, clearly eager to be anywhere but in Cody’s presence.

Rhodes turned back to the window, his voice dropping to a low, venomous promise. 

“You will never see the light of day again, Hobbs.”

A fortress of concrete and steel, Windham Federal Penitentiary sat deep in the wilderness in rural Montana, surrounded by endless miles of nothing. No roads. No civilization. Just mountains and forests stretching as far as the eye could see.

Maximum security.

No one had ever broken out. Many had tried. All had failed.

Guards patrolled the perimeter with semi-automatics. Watchtowers stood high, armed with snipers. The cells were reinforced, the walls impenetrable. A goddamn hellhole.

Exactly where Mateo Hobbs belonged.

But Rhodes made sure he wasn’t just another inmate. He had plans.

Sitting across from CO Strowman in a dimly lit break room, Cody laid it out. Strowman was a mountain of a man; six-foot-eight, built like a tank, with a shaved head, an unruly beard and a ghastly scar running down his cheek. A man whose presence alone made even the most dangerous inmate rethink their life choices.

Cody’s eyes locked on the grainy monitor displaying Roman…Mateo…sitting alone in his cell. Even injured, the bastard still carried that same quiet menace, his expression unreadable, his posture eerily composed.

“You watch him for me,” Cody said, his voice low, edged with something lethal. “I mean really watch him. Make his life a living hell. If he so much as breathes wrong, I wanna know.”

Strowman grunted, arms like tree trunks folding across his chest. “And if he steps outta line?”

Cody smirked. “Handle it.”

Strowman’s eyes gleamed with understanding.

Hobbs wasn’t getting out. And if Cody had his way…

He wouldn’t be getting out alive.

The drive across Hartford felt like a step toward something new—something better. Ivy’s grip on the steering wheel was firm as she navigated unfamiliar streets, her heart pounding in quiet anticipation. Moving again wasn’t ideal—twice in three years—but staying in that house, in that neighborhood, after everything that had happened? Impossible.

Was she running away? Again?

Or was it survival?

Maybe she was running. Maybe this was just another escape, another attempt to put distance between herself and the nightmare that had nearly swallowed her whole. But wasn’t that the point? To keep going, however slowly, however painfully, until the past loosened its grip? If this was running, then let it be. As long as it carried her toward something that had some fragile semblance of peace.

The house Angelo left her sat on a quiet street lined with towering trees, their bare branches dusted with the first hints of winter. It was beautiful. A two-story colonial with soft gray siding, black shutters, and a wide porch that wrapped around the front. The yard stretched out, perfect for a child to run through in the warmer months, and the crisp December air carried the scent of pine from the evergreens bordering the property.

It was a beautiful abode. Angelo had good taste.

As soon as Ivy parked, Zaia unbuckled herself and scrambled out of the car, her little sneakers crunching against the gravel driveway. “Mama, it’s so big!” she gasped, spinning in a circle. “We get to live here?”

Ivy stepped out, taking in the sight of it. “Yeah, baby,” she murmured, trying to push past the weight in her chest. “We do.”

Zaia grabbed her hand, practically bouncing on her toes. “Can we move in before my birthday?”

Ivy smiled, squeezing her fingers. “That’s the plan.”

It was good timing, really. A fresh start before Christmas. A new home, new memories—ones not tainted by fear and loss. Zaia would turn seven on Christmas Eve, and Ivy wanted her to wake up in a house that felt safe, filled with warmth instead of shadows.

To Zaia, this was all just an adventure. The idea of moving again didn’t phase her in the slightest. “I can decorate my room for Christmas, right?” she asked, eyes wide with excitement. “And can we get a big tree? Like, really big?”

Ivy laughed softly. “You can have the biggest tree we can fit.”

Zaia beamed. “And I can have a birthday party here?”

Ivy hesitated but nodded. “We’ll see what we can do.”

She wasn’t sure she had it in her to host a party, not after everything, but she wouldn’t take away Zaia’s excitement. Her daughter had been through enough.

Of course, not everyone was thrilled about the move.

“You’re taking my granddaughter even farther away from me?” Gloria, Angelo’s mother, snapped through the phone when Ivy finally broke the news.

Ivy let out a slow breath, already exhausted. “We’re moving, Gloria. That’s not up for discussion.”

“You expect me to drive all the way across town just to see her?”

“I expect you to figure it out if you actually want to see her.”

Gloria scoffed, muttering something under her breath. But Ivy hung up before she could utter another word. She didn’t care. She was done letting this woman dictate anything in her life. Gloria was not raising Zaia. She never had. And after everything Ivy had been through, she refused to let anyone—especially her ex’s bitter, spiteful mother—make her feel guilty for doing what was best for her daughter.

This was their life. And from now on, Ivy was going to live it on her terms.

For the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to believe that things could get better. That healing, no matter how long or winding the road, was possible.

Hope.

Maybe, just maybe, she still had some left.

In just a matter of weeks, Roman’s sprawling fortress across the street was reduced to rubble. Ivy stood by her window and watched as the demolition crew tore through it, their machines snarling as they ripped apart the walls that had once enclosed her in his deception. She had spent a lot more time than she wished to admit in that house, back when she had believed Roman was just a man, just her lover. They had cooked in that kitchen, their laughter filling the air between clinking wine glasses. They had curled up on that expensive leather couch, watching movies until she fell asleep against his chest. She had let him kiss her in that hallway, had given herself to him in that bedroom, tangled in silk sheets, never knowing that one day those same walls would close in on her, trapping her in the darkest nightmare of her life.

She thought its destruction would bring some kind of closure. Instead, she just felt hollow. The house was gone, but the memories remained, clawing at her, sinking their teeth into every quiet moment she tried to reclaim.

Therapy helped. Or at least, that’s what she told herself. Once a week, she sat across from Dr. Ari, picking at the edges of her pain, unraveling it thread by thread. But the nightmares didn’t care about therapy. They came regardless, slipping into her mind like a cruel whisper in the dark. She’d wake up gasping, her skin slick with sweat, the phantom weight of Roman’s body pressing her into the mattress, his voice dripping in her ears like poison. 

Then, those “thoughts” began creeping in, without warning, without pity. One moment, she would be doing something mundane, like folding Zaia’s tiny clothes, the scent of lavender detergent clinging to the fabric. The next, the darkness would slither in, whispering insidiously:

You’re broken beyond repair. You’ll never get better. He took too much from you.

Ivy clenched her jaw, shaking her head as if that alone could banish the thoughts. But they didn’t need an invitation. They curled around her mind, wrapping tight like thorns, their voices gentle, persuasive.

You won’t have to wake up screaming anymore. You won’t have to see his face every time you close your eyes. You’ll finally be at peace.

Just do it. 

End it all.

She had told Dr. Ari about those morbid thoughts; about the nights she lay awake, staring at the ceiling, the weight of exhaustion pressing her into the mattress, but sleep refusing to take her. About the moments when the idea of stepping further into the abyss felt less like surrender and more like relief.

Ari had nodded, unsurprised, unshaken. “These thoughts don’t mean you want to die, Ivy,” she had said softly, her gaze steady. “They mean you’re in pain. And pain needs to be acknowledged before it can heal.”

So she worked through it, piece by jagged piece. She wrote in a journal, even when the words felt too raw, too exposed. She let the music wash over her, heavy and loud, until the static in her mind quieted. She read the book Ari had given her, a guide for survivors, though some nights, she could only get through a paragraph before the words blurred.

And when the darkness became too much, when the past threatened to drag her under, she reminded herself why she kept fighting.

For Zaia. For the little girl who still looked at her like she was the safest place in the world.

For herself.

So she strapped up her boots, gritted her teeth, and moved forward. Even when it hurt. Even when it felt impossible.

She threw herself into packing up the house. It was something to do, something to keep her from drowning. Most people weren’t allowed past the front door anymore. The thought of letting anyone too close, of giving someone the chance to betray her trust again, made her chest tighten. The only exception was Carmelo. He came by often, checking in on Zaia, playing with her, making sure Ivy was eating, sleeping. Becky too, with her loud, unrelenting energy, forcing Ivy to exist in the world even when she didn’t want to.

Tonight, Ivy sat cross-legged on the living room floor, folding a pile of Zaia’s clothes into a suitcase. A few feet away, Zaia played with Duchess, the puppy’s tiny tail wagging as she chased a stuffed toy. Ivy allowed herself a small smile at the sight; at the simple, innocent joy of a child and her dog.

Then the news anchor’s voice cut through the background noise, sharp as a blade.

“Tonight, an in-depth look at the man who terrorized a quiet suburban neighborhood…”

Ivy’s heart lurched as his face filled the screen. Roman’s face. The familiar angles of his bearded jaw, the piercing eyes she had once loved.

Her breath hitched. Her vision blurred at the edges. The room tilted.

No. No, no, no.

She fumbled for the remote with trembling hands, her lungs tightening as if iron bands had cinched around her ribs. The words on the screen swam together; serial killer, rapist, sociopath; but all she could hear was his voice; feel his hands, his weight, his breath.

Her chest seized, air slipping from her grasp. Hyperventilating. She needed to breathe. She needed—

“You got it, Duchess, good girl!”

Zaia’s small voice cut through the haze of terror.

Ivy’s fingers finally found the power button. The TV snapped off, plunging the room into silence, save for the sound of Duchess’ soft panting and her own ragged breaths. She pressed a hand to her chest, grounding herself, forcing her lungs to expand.

She was safe. Roman was gone.

But the ghosts he left behind still refused to let her go.

The house buzzed with movement. The steady rip of packing tape. The shuffle of footsteps against hardwood. The low murmur of conversation between the movers as they carried out furniture. Ivy kneeled beside Zaia, supervising her as she carefully placed her toys into her toy box. Across the room, Carmelo grunted as he helped one of the movers lift the couch.

“Man, you got it?” he asked, adjusting his grip.

The mover huffed out a breath. “Yeah, yeah. Just a little heavier than I expected.”

Carmelo smirked. “You should hit the gym more.”

Becky laughed beside Ivy, shaking her head as she taped up a half-filled moving box. “Lyra’s gonna miss this one,” she said, pointing at Zaia. “She’s been talking about Zaia nonstop.”

Ivy smiled, warmth creeping into her chest. “We’ll visit. I promise.”

Zaia grinned, cradling her favorite plush bear. “I wanna see Lyra on my birthday!”

“Of course, baby,” Ivy murmured, reaching over to playfully tug her braid.

There was a knock at the door. More neighbors, coming to say goodbye. She had already cried too much today. Every hug, every well-wish, every we’ll miss you had threatened to break her all over again. She wasn’t sure she had any more tears left to give.

As she stood, Carmelo called out from across the room, rummaging through a half-packed box. “Yo, Ivy, you seen my sunglasses? I swear I left ‘em on the counter.”

Ivy sighed, brushing a stray loc from her face. “You mean the ones you lose every time you take them off?”

Carmelo scoffed. “Man, just tell me if you’ve seen ‘em!”

She smirked, shaking her head as she made her way toward the foyer. “Maybe check the top of your big ass head—”

She pulled the door open.

Her blood ran cold.

At the other end of her door, inexplicably, was Roman.

The side of his face was slick with blood, a deep gash splitting his temple. His shirt hung open, torn and stained, a bullet hole gaping through the fabric where she had shot him. But it was what he held in his left hand that sent the air wheezing from her lungs.

Angelo’s severed head. Gemini’s severed head. Their lifeless faces frozen in a final, gruesome scream.

Her knees locked, her breath catching in her throat.

Roman smiled, the evil glint in his eyes sending ice through her veins.

“Hey, baby girl.”

In his other hand, he lifted a gun. His gun.

The one she shot him with.

Pointing it right at her.

“No!”

BANG!

Ivy shot upright, a strangled gasp of terror ripping through her chest. The world spun around her. Her stomach twisted, bile rising fast and hot. She barely had time to throw off the covers before she was bolting to the bathroom, dropping to her knees in front of the toilet.

Her body lurched forward, her stomach twisting as she vomited. Her entire frame trembled, sweat clinging to her skin in a cold sheen, the contents of her stomach emptying in a grimy cascade.

Gasping for breath, she pushed herself upright, slow and unsteady, gripping the edges of the sink for support. She turned the faucet on, cupping cool water in her hands before rinsing her mouth, spitting out the lingering taste of bile. The cold water soothed the rawness in her throat, but it did nothing to calm the storm inside her. 

The dream. The same damn dream. Over and over. It refused to let her go.

Why wouldn’t it let her go?

With a shaky breath, she turned and sank onto the closed toilet seat, pressing her palms over her face. Her pulse thundered in her ears. No matter how many times she woke up, no matter how many deep breaths she took, the fear never left. It was with a vice-like grip that simply refused to loosen.

“Mama?”

Jumping slightly, she wiped her mouth quickly, looking up to see Zaia standing in the doorway, rubbing her eyes. Without a word, she stretched out her arms, allowing her daughter to walk into her embrace. She tugged her into her lap, pressed her lips to the crown of her head and smoothed a trembling hand over her little bonnet.

Zaia hesitated, then nestled closer, her small fingers gripping Ivy’s nightgown tightly. “I have bad dreams too,” she murmured, barely above a whisper.

Ivy’s heart clenched. She shut her eyes for a moment, resting her head against her daughter’s. Just a child. She should’ve never had to know this kind of fear.

A lengthy moment of silence drifted between them before Zaia sighed. “I’m gonna miss my friends when we move,” she said, her voice small and wistful.

Grateful for the change in subject, Ivy nodded. “I know, baby. But we’ll make new memories. We’ll celebrate Christmas in our new home. It’s gonna be fun,” she promised.

Zaia yawned, her grip tightening around her mom’s waist. “Okay.”

Ivy held her baby close as she carried her back to the bedroom, grounding herself in her warmth. The nightmare still lingered in the back of her mind, but here, in this moment, she wasn’t drowning in it.

She was still here. Still fighting. And maybe…just maybe…things would get better.

Somehow.

Three Months Later

Windham Penitentiary had descended into absolute bedlam.

Smoke coiled through the air, thick and acrid, stinging the eyes and burning the lungs of anyone still breathing. The relentless screech of alarms blended with the chaotic roar of hundreds of men, their voices rising in a primal symphony of rage and freedom. Inmates swarmed every hallway, their movements frantic and violent, like a hive disturbed. Some were smashing light fixtures, the bulbs bursting in showers of glass, plunging sections of the prison into flickering darkness. Others ripped mattresses apart, their stuffing floating like snowfall in the destruction.

Blood gushed over the concrete floors, fresh boot prints trailing in every direction. The guards who had been unlucky enough to be caught in the initial frenzy now lay crumpled, unconscious, or worse, their bodies discarded against walls like broken furniture. Those still standing were fighting desperately, swinging batons, deploying tear gas, yelling orders that fell on deaf ears.

Somewhere in the chaos, a cluster of correctional officers sprinted toward a specific cell, their faces tight with dread. Their radios crackled with desperate voices, but no reinforcements were coming. Not tonight.

They skidded to a stop in front of the open cell.

Their worst fear materialized before their eyes.

Strowman lay on the floor, his huge neck twisted unnaturally, a deep crimson pool expanding beneath his throat. His keys, slick with blood, glinted in his rigid fingers. His expression was frozen in something caught between shock and agony, his eyes still open, staring vacantly at the ceiling.

There was no one else inside the cell.

Hobbs was gone.

A cold, crippling silence settled over the officers even as the riot raged on around them. The hairs on their arms rose as the weight of realization crashed down upon them like a massive boulder. This wasn’t just an escape.

The ghost had slipped through another pair of fingers. 

Hundreds of miles away, Detective Cody Rhodes was wrecking his office.

“Fuck!”

He slammed his fists onto his desk so hard that the entire surface rattled, a stack of files toppling over the edge. His growls came in short, ragged bursts, his chest heaving with the sheer force of his rage. His eyes squeezed shut for half a second, then out came a guttural roar that burst from somewhere deep within his gut.

How? How had this motherfucker gotten away again?

He ran a shaking hand through his blond hair before gripping the edge of his desk and flipping it over with another roar, sending everything crashing to the floor. Papers, pens, his goddamn badge. None of it mattered.

Strowman was dead.

Hobbs was gone.

Again!

And he had nothing. Again!

With a furious snarl, he grabbed the nearest chair and launched it across the room. It crashed against the wall, splintering on impact, but the destruction did nothing to cool the fire burning through him. His vision blurred red, his thoughts a relentless cycle of curses and failures.

That bastard was out there.

Again!

And yet again, Cody had no fucking idea where.

The night stretched on, endless and black, swallowing the empty highway in both directions. The road was cracked and worn, long forgotten by civilization. There were no streetlights. No signs of life. Just the sound of wind scraping across the desolate land.

A lone, hulking figure moved through the darkness, blending with it as one, trudging along the side of the road.

He walked with an easy stride, his hood pulled low over his face, casting shadows where a beard once covered his jaw. Clean-shaven now, his features were different, altered just enough to make a second glance have doubts.

In one hand, he held a photograph. A woman with a little girl.

His thumb dragged over Ivy’s face, slow, thoughtful, lust-filled. Then Zaia’s. Fatherly, nurturing, comforting.

The low hum of an approaching vehicle broke the stillness. Headlights cut through the night, growing brighter, nearing fast.

Roman turned purposefully toward them, lifting his arm, extending his thumb. His grip tightened on the photograph.

As the car slowed to a stop beside him, his smirk widened.

She couldn’t breathe.

The bathroom felt smaller, much smaller. The walls were pressing in, trapping her in the harsh, artificial light. Her body trembled, still raw from retching, but the nausea wasn’t fading. Hadn’t faded for weeks, for one single horrifying reason. It wasn’t the nightmares. It wasn’t the stress.

It was something much more devastating. 

Her fingers curled around the plastic white stick in her lap, the small screen glaring up at her. A single word. A simple, undeniable truth.

Her stomach lurched, and she barely managed to swallow down another wave of sickness. Her other hand clutched at the counter as she forced herself to look again, to see the second test beside it. The same positive result.

Oh god.

A strangled whimper broke from her throat as she stumbled backward, pressing herself against the cold tile as if she could shrink away from the reality in front of her. Her chest heaved, her pulse a frantic, erratic, unnatural rhythm in her ears.

This couldn’t be happening.

I will always be a part of you.

His words echoed in her skull, that dark, possessive whisper that had haunted her even in freedom. She had spent months trying to erase him, trying to cleanse herself of his touch, his presence.

Her hands shook violently as she clutched at her stomach, fingers digging into the fabric of her shirt. She wanted to reach into herself and tear it out, wanted to claw him out of her, wanted to make this not real.

But it was real.

Her red-rimmed vision blurred as the first sob broke free, then another, until she was on her knees, gasping, unraveling, drowning in a fresh, endless nightmare.

She had fought so hard to escape him. So, so hard.

But now, he was inside her.

Literally.

Still here. Still owning her. Still tethered to her like a parasite.

A parasite he’d put in her.

You ain’t never gon’ be free of me. You belong to me forever, baby girl.

He was right.

She was never going to be free.

THE END.

A/N: Let me start off by shouting out and sincerely thanking my partner in crime, @harmshake, for her genius. All the brainstorming on Google Docs and the email back and forths paid off. This would have NEVER happened without her, she kickstarted this and is this reason this story has been so epic. Love you, dear!

Another massive thank you to everyone who has read and commented and supplied so many theories and guesses. I loved reading and responding to every one of them and I appreciate you all!

This is also to confirm that this universe ends here. A Part 2 will be damn near impossible for me, as writing this was so emotionally and sometimes physically draining. Again, it's a psychological (erotic) thriller, and cliffhangers are a staple that I'm happily taking advantage of.

On the bright side, there will be a reimagining of the characters from this universe in another universe, coming soon.

Would love to know your thoughts on this final chapter!

Dr. Ari is played by @trippinsorrows

🏷️: @harmshake @cyberdejos2 @thesamoanqueen @vebner37 @thewarlordsworld @trippinsorrows @herwickedlittlesins @jxtina-86 @wrestlingprincess80

@dreamsinfocus @fame-ass-ers @southerngirl41 @jeyusos-girl @romansthrone @wwecrazed2010 @sayyestoheav3nn @trentybenty

@purplehairgawdess @mohawkmama @po3ticb3auty @alyyaanna @murrylove @tribalhoochie @xbriexx @rollinssection @lovestoreadfiction

@papireigns-05 @vintage-pvssy @bebesobrielo @urasunflower @unfriendly–blvck–hottie @romanreignsbae

@theninthwonder @tabletheofhead @venusesworld @ariieeesworld @sassginaswanmills @prettyfilmz

@theglamclosetsl @empressdede @woahdude9481 @browngalmal @crxssjae @octaviastargirl @ashykneee

@twocentuar @surdelcielo @althegreat33 @alichesmi @eclectic-tee

@joannasteez @whatdoeseverybodywant @puppetmastermya @caramelcleopatraa @femdisa @zillasvilla @katrinnnn @callmekayd @msbluehaz3

@megamindsecretlair @headoftheetable @brwnsugababe @heauxvibez @christinabae @potatosackk @usoholic @4milly @luvrsluxe @juicypinksblog

@raya-hunter01 @lilucey @aisharmi @neverlookatthisblog @dayaimonee @nayys-world @kianaleani @shes2real @disc0fairy @paigereeder

@fearlesschimera @tshepisho @partypoison00 @originalgeezyy @muzaqueendom @naturally-nikkilynn

[hitlikehammers]

PART 2/2: in which lock-picking⛓️‍💥 is 100% a valid love language, and waking up with ✨Steve Harrington✨ was NOT the future (exactly. maybe. ish.)

...but waking up in a hospital bed just might be ♥️

<<< last time: And Eddie thinks that’s highly fucking debatable—he’s not sure where it comes from, because it’s a little out of place, Eddie didn’t say anything but maybe he’s just that transparent, the heart of him so quickly, so completely, and if that’s the case then it’s entirely fucking debatable because Eddie thinks he’s going to burst, splinter like a starburst, glorious in the unmaking for how big this thing that’s building in him feels, how certain he is that it’s about to break his ribs and he fucking looks forward to it, so no: Steve doesn’t love most because he can’t, because Eddie is overcome with this feeling and he, he— He’s drifting, because Steve’s heat is a heady fucking drug, and his heartbeat’s a metronome, a lullaby against Eddie’s back and it’s instinct, it’s unquestionable when he shimmies tighter into Steve’s hold and sighs the weight of the world out between his lips because… Because goddamnit, this feels right.

OR: y'know. Eddie thought he was dying in the Upside Down but then he's waking up in the future, in bed with Steve Harrington like what the fuck

Eddie comes to—again: un-fucking-expected—with the same sensation of his ribs snapping, the pain of it a dull thing he thinks he can just float through because his heart’s so gone on the impossible possibility of some future imaginary day where he, where Steve, where they—

“Eddie?”

Wait.

Wait, that’s…okay.

Back up.

He tries to take in what his senses are willing to offer him: something starchy, itchy against his skin, both sides—definitely not the sheets from the bed he’d just felt visceral underneath him. Pressure and aching at his chest: but less sweet the longer he focuses on it. Stinging and the pull of maybe-bandages, maybe-sutures, maybe both and something deeper, like…oh, wow, fuck, it’s entirely possible his ribs are already broken. His heart still feels full, but also scared, unsure, wrong-footed as more and more little clues seep into his consciousness, before maybe the clearest of them all: a shrill little beep that’s fast, like embarrassingly fast—

A monitor.

He draws a shaky breath—iodine, like, burning levels as he inhales and holy fucking shit, he’s in a goddamn hospital.

He’s, did he…

Is this what Steve meant, when he said ‘wake up’? Did Eddie…

Did Eddie fucking survive?

It’s in the spiral of that thought that Eddie clocks the same voice that jarred him out of his own head…in his own head, before. With the fancy sheets and the warmth and the home and—

What…what if it wasn’t in his head at all—

But his body, his pulse recognizes that voice as safety. As…rightness incarnate.

“Oh fuck,” and that’s the Steve Eddie knows best, right there, a little breathy and a little pitchy for frayed nerves and constant worry and the weight of the fucking world to make sure everyone—everyone else—makes it out as okay as possible.

And it’s in thinking that, that Eddie recognizes what Steve-in-his-headin-the-future-in-his-dream-in-his-maybe-not-quite-death-hallucination meant, when he’d said Eddie’s eyes softened. Because Steve’s heart on his sleeve, in his eyes, had looked peaceful, then. Content, even.

Not so frantic. Not so…scrambling.

Still just as blinding, though.

“Thank fuck, you’re awake,” Steve half gasps, a tiny clattering against the tile floor vying to draw Eddie’s gaze away but there was genuinely nothing in the whole goddamn universe that could take Eddie’s eyes off of Steve just now, those lips parted ever so slightly, cheeks that tiny bit rosy, pulse maybe-maybe-not visible just below the bandages on his neck.

He’s beautiful.

“What do you need?” Steve’s leaning closer, hands reaching but then kinda fluttering, kinda hovering, not sure where to touch and even if they knew the answer, kinda like they’re not sure if they can touch in the first place, yet all Eddie can do when he sees them, when he feels the shift in the air for how close they are; all Eddie can do is remember what it’s like to be pressed close to Steve’s body, to feel Steve’s arms around his chest, like they’re keeping him.

“What can I do,” Steve asks, so earnest and Eddie’s pulse does a little skip for it, how good it feels; “I—”

And Steve’s eyes are already big, just short of pleading, darting to the corners of the room maybe for water, maybe for a button to call someone to help more than he can—as if anyone can help more than Steve can, just now, because Eddie’s waking up from what it feels like to have Steve, and the most pressing possible thing in the world just now is SteveSteveSteve, near enough to feel, to breathe in—

Steve’s eyes are already big, though, is the thing, even before the full-on fucking crash of something to the floor makes him freeze. Eddie tries to peer down, winces as it pulls to much at…everything, kind of, Jesus H., but he hurts everywhere, and…

“The hell were you doing?” he asks in the absence of being able to see because…metal. Metal had hit the floor, from the height of probably-the-bed, after Steve had pressed into the mattress, shifted the weight, and then he’d blinked all owlish and adorable: culpability for whatever he’d been up to written all over his gorgeous fucking face.

“Umm,” Steve chews at his lip a little, eyes peeking up through his lashes, that look that makes Eddie weak and wobbly at basically every juncture it’s possible to tremble at like that, but he doesn’t duck away; he doesn’t even blush. He’s not…whatever he was doing—and Eddie’s range of motion is fucked, he’s already super well aware of that shit when he even tries to move to see the floor, to follow the sound—but whatever Steve was doing, he’s unrepentant. But in a way where he maybe recognizes that other people would have been less brazen.

Eddie’s wrist tingles out of nowhere—weird, when all of him is already kinda in a sort of dull, narcotic-shrouded pain—and he frowns, glances down at least that far and notices the slightest ring of red that’s less angry, not attached to bite marks and broken skin, and he has the wildest thought cross his mind just then, and he steels himself to crane his neck as far as he can, to limit the strain he’ll put on his middle because now he needs to see, because he kinda knew before he cut the sheets and ran into the fray that coming out on the other side meant life behind bars if there was any life at all, yet here he is, increasingly seeming like this is real, and this is his ‘other side’, and…

He’s just in a fucking hospital. He’s…he’s here, and he’s, he’s not…he’s not in fucking chains.

And it stings like a bitch, and Steve’s a second away from stopping him, reaching for him and pressing him safely back onto the the bed, but Eddie gets the glimpse he needs. Recognizes the shape on the floor, shiny steel against the scratched-up linoleum.

“Were you,” Eddie traces the ridges of his teeth with his tongue, because there are layers to what he’s about to ask; “were, umm, were you picking the,” and the first little clatter from before makes more sense if he’s right, and if he’s right, well, fuck.

It’ll be hot as hell, if he’s right.

“That?” Eddie tilts his head toward the floor because: cuffs. What he’d seen, what had fallen: handcuffs. On the floor. And they’d have had to have been not on the floor, and probably on him before, and so, he—

“Possibly,” Steve answers with a straight face, as unapologetic as ever, maybe more; maybe even defiant, and oh, wow. Steve Harrington picking his fucking handcuffs, setting his stupidly-quickly-lovesick ass free.

Hot as fuck; seriously.

“How positively criminal of you, Harrington,” Eddie grins half-maniacal, feels the stretch of it burn against a cut that’s gotta run half the span of his cheek but fuck it, the warmth flooding him is undeniable, is incredible—he’s giddy all of a sudden, straight to his bones.

“S’nothing on hot-wiring,” Steve shrugs, like it’s not fucking everything; “but I wasn’t,” and Steve takes a deep breath before he squares his shoulders, looks at Eddie straight-on and shit, if he thought the warmth in him up to now was something?

It’s kinda got nothing on what consumes him under those eyes.

“I wasn’t going to let you wake up fucking…shackled.”

And goddamn if the fire in that voice, those words, doesn’t light Eddie up like burning, doesn’t shake him to the core and then blanket him in sureness and the kind of protection he didn’t think really existed.

Save that he does kinda think it’s exactly what this man’s made of; made for.

And Eddie can’t escape the certainty rising in his veins and pumping, fierce and unshakable, that he wants—more than maybe anything—to be the one to give that same safety, that same promise of something unwavering and permanent and beyond question, right back to Steve.

“You’re an innocent man,” Steve leans in then, emphatic with it; “you’re a goddamn hero,” and he means it, holy shit, he believes that:

“Like hell I was just gonna,” and he shakes his head, like the idea is just that preposterous; like he cannot even consider anything but Eddie being free, and okay, and here, and…

Eddie’s struck with the sudden slap of realization across the fucking face that he couldn’t have gotten topside by himself. That someone had to get him from the hellscape to here. And of the able bodies in the Upside Down, no matter how strong the girls were, only one could have wrestled him through that gate. Only one could have…whatever he maybe needed, between this bed and that bat-strewn ground, it was, Steve would have been, he’d have—

The force his heart trips, then leaps with, is fucking cataclysmic. Eddie’s honestly surprised it doesn’t just tear out from his throat then and there.

“Plus they’re in the process of finishing the paperwork to make it all official, dropping the charges and all that, clearing your name,” Steve gestures vaguely in the air, like it’s all routine, the feds and the cops sweeping shit under the rug but then he remembers all the side comments he’d collected in the back of his mind these last few days about the ‘last time’ and then ‘the time before that’ and fuck all also the first time—

Maybe it is, just…sick and twisted and harrowing and heartbreaking routine.

“They’re just really fucking slow,” Steve smiles at him, all small and devastating and…

And okay, so that overwhelming urge to be a constant in Steve Harrington’s life, safe next to his heart kinda for always, zero to forever in half-a-blink?

Eddie knew he wanted, when he threw his vest at Steve’s bare chest more for Eddie’s own fucking sanity than anyone’s modesty, but it was all washed in the hopeless-helpless colors of desperation, of why not when I won’t see tomorrow; and now.

Now, all Eddie wants is tomorrow. Every tomorrow. No tomorrows without this man. Without what he saw, how it felt: what he knows in his marrow loving him would be.

It’s probably that conviction etching into his cells that makes makes him softer, a little weepy around the edges; drives him to need through the next words that escape:

“Steve,” Eddie breathes, wishes Steve were just that little bit closer so that the distance he can reach could reach him:

“Thank you.”

“Of course,” Steve waves him off almost, like he doesn’t think everything he is, everything he’s done is monumental. Not just the cuffs but with the cuffs like the cherry on top of how Eddie would—will, if he’s given the chance—devote all that he has and all that he is to making Steve happy. To making him as calm and warm and loved as Eddie could feel in that bedroom, in his head or in the future or on death’s fucking door.

“I mean,” Steve starts, and Eddie can already feel how he’s angling to downplay the thing that’s only swelling, building, growing under Eddie’s own ribs and, well: no.

No, Eddie won’t be standing for that.

“Stevie,” and Steve’s gravitated wordless just close enough for Eddie to be able to brush his fingertips against Steve’s wrist, to curl and pull his hand into Eddie’s grasp, palm splayed above Steve’s knuckles, holding. Keeping.

“Thank you.”

And Steve stills a little, stares at him like he can see what’s tucked up tight and dear in Eddie’s chest and maybe he can, because his voice is feather-light and a little bowled-over. A little…a little awed.

“You’re welcome.”

So yeah, maybe he can see what’s in Eddie’s chest, less tucked in this moment now than fucking, like…

Blooming.

“Do you believe there’s anything waiting when we die?”

Eddie’s gonna blame the frantic blossoming warmth coursing through him for the way he blurts that shit out with no preamble, like maybe the flowering wonder of it all pushes it out without permission, sweet on the back of his tongue but heavy because it matters so much; because it’s all just nostalgia.

For now.

“What?” Steve gapes a little, sounds dumbfounded; maybe a little wary. Fearful.

His hand’s still held under Eddie’s, though, so it’s only natural the way Eddie lifts his fingers and presses them palm-to-palm like it means something.

“Do you?”

“I…don’t know,” Steve swallows hard enough the follow down the taut line of his throat, fucking mesmerizing.

So maybe the way Eddie licks his lips before he says anything more isn’t…isn’t just for the sake of the topic and its weight, is all he’s saying.

“I,” and Eddie doesn’t really know where he’s going, here, or else: he knows exactly where he’s going.

He’s just not totally sure the path he’s planning to chart along the way for getting there.

“When we were down there, and I was telling you to go after Wheeler,” which yeah, okay, surprise direction there, weird little detour, but…it doesn’t feel wrong.

Which means, if it’s right instead: then that’s everything that is Steve in Eddie’s lungs for breathing, in the chambers of his heart. So he leans into it.

Squeezes Steve’s fingers laced together with his.

“Eddie,” Steve starts, sounds tired, spent, and Eddie was never going to let that happen; no matter where he’s going, or leading them down the path of his revelations, the truth etched new but also deep in his bones like it was only waiting to be found and known.

“It was because that’s what I wanted. For me. I wanted to,” and his breath catches on a little chuckle, so light and choked and a little hysterical as he adds, giddy and a little bashful all together at once:

“Unambiguously, umm,” and he trails a little, wants to hide behind his hair just a touch but to do that would require a broader capacity to move in the first place and more, so much more: it would mean letting go of Steve’s hand.

So: absolutely not.

Especially not when Steve’s gone full dropped-jaw gaping at him, his fingers in Eddie’s grasp twitching like he’s confused, like maybe there’s part of him short-circuiting, and Eddie feels his exhales tremble when he finally blinks, finally tilts his head and takes Eddie in at a new angle before he asks, genuine and not just a little lost:

“Seriously?”

And Eddie…Eddie’s actually never been more serious in his life, so.

“Like,” and he circles Steve’s knuckles delicate-like with his thumb: “I wanted the chance, to try, I guess, yeah.”

And he doesn’t know if he’s risking everything to own it, even if he’s owning just a sliver of the breadth and depth that he feels, but he does know unequivocally that he wouldn’t hold it back if given the choice, the opportunity to do it over and not show his bloody-beating heart on display.

A bloody-beating heart that’s moving quicker, slamming harder against his chest but…that actually feels like the only correct thing it could do. Because this merits it.

This kinda is his whole fucking heart.

“Do you still?”

It takes Eddie a longer string of seconds than he’d prefer to own to, to process the words as having meaning, no matter that he doesn’t fucking understand what they’re aiming at.

“What?”

“Want,” and Steve’s the one squeezing Eddie’s hand now, turning a little to graze at the line of his veins at the wrist; “the chance.”

And he says it deceptively casual, despite how he’s staring at their hands, determinedly not meeting Eddie gaze as Eddie gets his chance at the gaping.

“Fuck yes,” Eddie finally huffs on something not unlike unabashed fucking joy, save that this thing he’s feeling is so much bigger, and when Steve looks up, meets his eyes and his own glimmer, shine so bright and brim with such disbelief, but so much stronger and with such hope, Jesus.

Eddie can’t help the giggle that bubbles out of him. Like his whole fucking soul gets shaped into a single breath of exultant delight.

And they both hold to one another, trace across skin and map the lines and dots and scars, and Eddie’s not stupid, he knows this isn’t how it works but…

But he’d still bet money on the fact that the way he’s touching Steve, so innocent and so quietly intimate, is healing his wounds, shoring up his weaknesses and stitching him up fuller, better, breath by shared-sacred breath.

It’s heady as fuck. It’s exquisite.

“Why’d you ask me about when we die?”

Steve’s the one to break the still, and even that’s not breaking anything, really; he speaks so soft. He’s stroking down from Eddie’s thumb back and forth.

It’s not breaking anything.

“I saw something,” Eddie whispers, not sure what reaction that’ll get, and Steve’s staring at their hands again, marveling really, so Eddie can’t read any hint save for the crinkled furrow in his brow.

“But you didn’t die.”

Which isn’t the reaction he thinks he expected, even if Eddie couldn’t name what he did expect. And it’s also not a revelation he thought he’d receive.

“Not at all?”

Because he’s genuinely surprised. He at least figured he’d flatlined like…long enough to have visions of absolute and total domestic bliss and shit.

But Steve’s shaking his head decisively, holding on to Eddie just a little bit tighter.

“You had a pulse, whole way to he hospital,” he tells Eddie, voice gone a little hoarse; “it wasn’t strong but,” and Steve looks up at him, and fuck, those eyes are too shiny now and Eddie doesn’t want that, he doesn’t want his Steve to hurt, he—

“I fucking held you,” Steve croaks and oh, oh he’s shaking, Jesus—

“I kinda,” and he swallows with a click Eddie can hear, around a throbbing pulse Eddie can see, wants nothing more than to soothe with his lips against that tender skin; “I kinda had to make sure, so,” and the hand that’s not holding Eddie’s comes up, trembling as he reaches toward Eddie’s chest:

“Kept my hand pressed, just,” and his voice gives, and he looks up at Eddie with something like devastation, begging something like permission because he doesn’t know that everything that Eddie is, is his.

But he will.

He will know.

“Yeah?” Eddie breathes out, holds Steve gaze as he nods, as he tries to make it clear that anything Steve needs is his, and then some.

It takes a second, but the shine in those eyes finally shifts, finally brightens and then Steve’s breathing’s made of tremors, but his hand finds Eddie’s chest and sends something sparking like lighting through him just as the whole of Eddie feels immediately like he’s home.

And Steve’s hand on his chest feels exactly like it did in their future bed, in their future room, in their future life.

Their always love.

“Yeah,” Steve whispers, then takes a moment, palm splayed wide just above Eddie’s bandages, before he’s gripping Eddie’s wrist with the other hand a little harder:

“It’s so fast,” he exhales like it holds the whole world and then some; he wonders at just Eddie’s heartbeat under his touch and god.

God, but Eddie…Eddie couldn’t have imagined he’d ever feel like this. Let alone feel like maybe it’s mutual, maybe it’s real, maybe he can keep it and stay in this feeling for forever.

“Fuck yeah it is,” Eddie murmurs, then he chuckles, inhales deep maybe just to better feel the weight of Steve’s hand; “making up for the lost opportunity, y’know,” and fuck, all he wants is to be able to lean, to kiss the pout of those lips, to taste what it means to love somebody like he’s never done before.

“Making up for what it missed the last time your hand was there to feel it.”

And Steve’s hand above his thrumming heart twitches just a little, but never flags or makes to move, to leave, and Eddie thinks that he’d be fine if he lived the rest on his days with Steve like that, near enough that he could press a hand to Eddie’s heart at all times and just…just know that it’s his.

Because maybe it’s sudden—it’s definitely quick—but Eddie’s never known anything like he knows this.

“Eddie,” Steve finally whispers, a question and a claim and a means of cradling Eddie to his heart, somehow, for how swathed in light and affection Eddie feels in that moment, in just the shape of his name like it’s never been spoken before.

“I saw the future,” Eddie blurts out in a rush, breath coming a little quicker and heart-under-Steve’s-hand pounding harder. “Maybe. I don’t know, I mean, it sounds so stupid when I say it out loud but it felt so,” but then he looks into Steve’s eyes again and Steve is listening, Steve’s maybe doesn’t think he’s crazy, so he feels safe enough to say with his whole fucking chest:

“It felt real, Stevie.”

“What was it?” Steve asks, so quiet, so gentle like he doesn’t want to disturb this thing either, like he doesn’t need to hear it spelled out yet to know it’s delicate, the most important thing in the world, which fuck yeah it is, even as it cracks and chokes for the flood of feeling around it when it presses up from Eddie’s chest:

“Us,” Eddie breathes it out like the precious truth it genuinely fucking is:

“It was us.”

And Steve doesn’t say anything, but his eyes glimmer all the more, swimming with a riot of emotion to a degree than Eddie feels drowned in awe just to see it, and his hands on Eddie hold tighter, more fervent, devoted like a pledge for the way it runs through Eddie’s blood and sings in his veins:

“Even if it wasn’t real,” but Eddie’s doesn’t believe that, not really, not in his heart of hearts where it all pounds into the crevices that map Steve’s touch; “even if I wasn’t seeing the actual future,” and maybe he wasn’t, maybe that wasn’t their future, and maybe he’ll never know, but what he does know, is—

“It felt right, Steve.”

He knows that clearer than he knows the sky is blue.

“It was just a few minutes,” Eddie flounders a little, mostly because he remembers how good it was, written indelible into how much he wants, here and now:

“But I have never felt anything so right.”

He breathes, shaky and shallow and too fucking fast, but then Steve starts stroking his palm along the unmarked spaces of his chest, back and forth over the gallop of his heart like he means to stay there. Like he could ever want to keep.

“Well,” Steve whispers, his eyes on the path of his hand to make sure he doesn’t draw any pain—as if he ever could—until he knows the safe route over and back, again and again, and then he looks up, catches Eddie’s eyes and locks there, doesn’t pin so much as holds, holds, holds.

And good fucking god, Eddie feels it glisten through him like starlight; Eddie feels remade before Steve’s leaning in, lower than to meet Eddie’s mouth but then he’s pressing his lips to the dip between Eddie’s collarbones, holding there, breathing like he means to savor, like he means to cherish, like he means to, to…

To stay.

And Eddie’s heart’s under that hand and those lips all at once, wholly Steve’s while it quivers like a riot, while it leaps as Steve changes the world, writes their fucking future where his mouth drags wet and warm and ardent and there’s nothing in it at all that can be anything other than at least on the way to love as he breathes, fucking vows:

“We gotta try, then, don’t we?”

♥️

>>>also on ao3✨

for @penny00dreadful 🖤 still very fucking sorry it's this late

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @estrellami-1 @finntheehumaneater @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @live-laugh-love-dietrich @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here @pukner @ravenfrog @sadisticaltarts @samsoble @sanctumdemunson @shrimply-a-menace @slashify @stealthysteveharrington @swimmingbirdrunningrock @theheadlessphilosopher @theintrovertedintrovert @themoonagainstmers @theohohmoment @tillystealeaves @tinyloonyteacups @tinyplanet95 @warlordess @wheneverfeasible @wordynerdygurl @wxrmland @yourmom-isgay @1-tehe-1

divider credit here and here

[pretty-little-mind33]

Pop music: "I cant say no to those eyes" + Tangerine ❤❤❤

SKY'S 3K CELEBRATION

i hope you enjoy this, anon ✨💕

~ 🎶 ~

When you'd convinced Tangerine and Lemon to walk into the crazily decorated Halloween store Lemon had seemed rather pleased.

Tangerine, on the other hand, looked pissed.

"I hate these things," he mutters, touching the dull end of the bloodied prop knife as the animatronic struggles through its lines. "So corny."

You're practically skipping through the rows and rows of costumes, tongue stuck between your teeth as you concentrate. You can't even hear Tangerine's complaining or Lemon swatting his hand over his brother's head.

"Shut yer mouth, can't ya see she's enjoying herself?" Lemon hisses, motioning his head towards you.

Tangerine's gaze softens and he shoves Lemon away. He walks over and sees you rummaging through the costumes. You hand him a nurse one absentmindedly.

"Gonna patch me up real good, darlin'?" he teases, seeing how skimpy the costume looks. You don't answer him as you hand him another. A fairy costume this time and Tangerine's eyes widen at how much skin the model is showing.

"Bloody hell, luv. Ya want the whole neighborhood staring?"

"Tan," you warn him and he holds the costumes without complaint, muttering an apology. It really isn't his place to judge your choice of clothing.

Tangerine walks behind you like a lost puppy as you hand him various costumes you're debating choosing and Lemon snickers—which earns him a death glare from his brother.

"Oh!" You suddenly exclaim, grabbing a princess costume. It's just the right amount of cute and slutty. You turn, showing Tangerine. "Isn't it cute?!"

Tangerine nods, imagining you in that dress and he swallows. He drops the other costumes on the shelf and takes the princess one, looking it over. You grin, turning as you can the area.

"Aha!"

Tangerine watches you grab another costume and then you show it to him, grinning wider. It's a bodyguard costume. A plain black suit, an ear com, and some shades.

"What's that for?"

"For you! I'm the princess, and you're my bodyguard!" You sound giddy and Tangerine raises his eyebrows. He certainly doesn't mind having the task of watching over you when you're at a party. He does that anyways.

He looks at the stupid costume and scrunches his nose in disgust. "Can I wear my own suit?" he asks seriously.

Your eyes light up. "You're gonna dress up?!"

"Ya, in my suit," he teases.

"And the accessories?" You point to the ear com and the sunglasses.

"Maybe." He crosses his arms, sending you a smirk.

You bat your eyelashes at him.

Tangerine's resolve crumbles embarrassingly quickly. "Shit," he whispers, "you know I can't say no to those eyes." He reaches up and his finger tips skim your cheek gently. "I'll dress up as your bodyguard, sweetheart, hm? Keep ya safe? Is that what you want?"

He's teasing but you nod and lean into his touch. You're smiling so wide he's concerned for your poor cheeks but his chest fills with warmth. He laughs when you grab the costumes and rush over to show Lemon.

Tangerine can almost hear Lemon's future taunts when he finds out how quickly he folded for you but he doesn't care.

Fuck, he's really in deep now.

tags: @kravensgirl, @brokeaesthetic, @earth-elemental18, @lqrlei, @princesssunderworld, @longlivedelusion, @thewinterv, @siriuslycaptainofthedawntreader, @simplyreflected, @kpopgirlbtssvt

[revasserium]

hiii, can I still request a drabble? if yes, I want to ask for prompt 1, vocabulary list: stay with rafayel. bcs I think this boy is definitely a tsundere, will do and say literally anything but the truth that he wants you to stay with him. clingy rafayel is just so cute! thank you, I love your writings by the way ✨

send me one + a character and i'll write u a drabble

24. vocabulary list: stay

rafayel; 2,073 words; fluff, fem!reader, pining, slight!spoilers, no "y/n", teeth rotting fluff

summary: 5 times rafayel asks you to stay + 1 time you do instead

a/n: it's just cuteness u__u

001.

“Stay.”

You are both children, and the summer sea is lapping at your feet. Sand squeezes between your toes and shells glitter like diamonds scattered across your stretch of secret beach. Rafayel’s pinky is hooked through yours. You laugh a laugh that sounds like heartbreak, even though Rafayel is too young to know what heartbreak means —

He wonders, later, if creatures of the sea are both with heartbreak in their bones — because what is heartbreak if not the sea? With the way it sings to an endless sky, the way it cups the world in its palm, the way it loves so helplessly — the beach, the seafarers, the rain — only for its loves to sink into its depths and never rise again.

“I can’t — you know I can’t!” you’re still laughing, digging your toes into the sand, as if this were all just a game.

Rafayel huffs, “I don’t! I don’t know!” and he knows he’s being petulant, being childish. But he figures he still is a child, by the measure of the sea, so he should be allowed at least this.

“I’ll be back tomorrow!” you say, you promise, so carelessly, as humans are wont to do.

Rafayel bites his lips, and a part of him knows that you won’t be. Still, he forces a smile, a sigh, and nods.

“Okay then… I’ll see you tomorrow.”

002.

“Stay…” he’s drunk. He can taste it in the weight of the humid air on his tongue. It’s late — the summer moon hanging huge and turgid on the horizon. Even the tide is lazy as it sloshes against the long stretch of shore just outside his window, weighed down by the summertime dreams of long lost loves, the shrapnel bits of broken promises.

You sigh as you look down at him, your eyes bright in the dim lighting of his giant studio.

“I really should be getting back…” you glance at the large clock on the wall, but your eyes flicker back towards him and Rafayel seizes on the chance, pushing himself up and tugging at your sleeve.

“You told me you’d come back and now… you’re leaving again…” he knows he sounds like a petulant child but he feels like a petulant child, the half-bottle of champagne dulling his senses and muffling his usually razor sharp wit.

“I —” a frown creases your forehead as you crouch down beside him, looking over his face, “I said I’d… come back?”

Rafayel sighs again, letting his eyes fall shut, “You don’t even remember…”

He feels the cool of your palm against his cheek and fights down the urge to moan and lean in closer, to press you to him.

“You must really be drunk, huh…” your voice is soft and helpless, but he can hear the hint of your resigned laughter. A moment later, he feels the couch dip as you sit back down, tugging his head into your lap as you run an absent hand through his disheveled hair.

He shakes his head, “Not drunk…”

“Shh… just sleep, okay?” you murmur, pressing your hand to his forehead and smoothing out the tiny frown threatening to crease his brows.

“Will you be here when I wake up?” he asks, even though he doesn’t really want to know the answer.

Your laughter is soft, and maybe even a little sad as you caress his cheek.

“Maybe.”

003.

“Stay… still.” Rafayel has both your wrists pinned above your head, his eyes narrowed as he looks down at you. You tug at this grip, cheeks flushed as you glare up at him.

“Stop! It’s fine —!”

“It is not fine,” he bites out as he reaches down to tug up your shirt. You squirm beneath him, your skin burning hot as his eyes skate down the length of your torso to catch on your lower abdomen, where you can feel the wound you’d gotten during your latest mission splitting open, oozing a steady stream of warm blood onto your freshly laundered sheets.

“This — you —” his eyes are wide as he looks up at you before his gaze is drawn back down. A look of horror seeps into his face as he lets go of your wrists.

“I’m — it’s okay — I’m okay…” you say, wincing as you push yourself into a half-sitting position, him still half-hovering over you with an expression caught between anger, terror, and confusion. You sigh, looking down at the large, rather ungainly gash on your lower abdomen.

It’d hurt like hell, sure, but now, it’s mostly faded to a dull throbbing and the occasional zing of pain that shoots up your spine. Vaguely, you wonder how many stitches it’ll have to be this time.

“Y-you’re…” Rafayel sounds distraught, and even though he glares at you again, you can hear the tremor in his voice.

“I just need some sleep… and tomorrow, I’ll go get it checked out.”

Rafayel slumps sideways onto the bed next to you, an arm thrown over his eyes.

“I’ll come with you.”

“If you want,” you lay back against your pillow, shifting gingerly so as not to agitate the wound even more.

“Do you have a first aid kit?”

“Yeah, in the bathroom — but —”

You can only sigh as Rafayel makes his way to the bathroom and comes back a moment later with the first aid kit and a determined frown.

“Now really — stay still.

004.

“Stay close…” Rafayel’s voice is sweet and warm by your ear.

You bite down a rack of shivers a second before he pulls away, laughing at something someone is saying. The bright lights of the exhibition are a bit overwhelming but you’d promised to show up, and so you had.

The dress you’re wearing is a bit tight, but you hitch a smile to your face as a wealthy art collector smarms at Rafayel, waxing poetic about canvases and colors and the sea. You watch with a muted amusement as Rafayel charms the man into a purchase, and then, as soon as he’s got the signed check, sends the babbling socialite on his way before turning back towards you with a soft shudder.

“I think that’s enough networking for one night.”

You blink, blustering as he tugs you off to one side, grabbing two more glasses of champagne as he goes.

“Wh — but — what about the other buyers?”

Rafayel rolls his eyes, “I really only need to make one or two big sales a year, and then the rest —” he flaps his wrist with a painful, marked nonchalance, “that’s all just for clout, anyway.”

You heave a deep sigh, swallowing down a laugh as Rafayel sips at his drink.

“Shouldn’t you at least try to appease some of the other attendees?” you ask, looking around at the various glitterati of Linkon society.

“Nope!” Rafayel sounds too pleased as he grins at you, reaching out to clink his glass against yours, “I don’t really care what most of them think, anyway.”

“Most? So… you do care what some of them think?” you probe, curious now as to who’s opinion Rafayel might put above his own.

Instead, he leans in, pressing in so close that you feel his hot breath against the lobe of your ear, feel the weight of his words ricocheting down your spine —

“No… just the one.” He pulls back and your heart stutters in your chest.

“And… who might that be?” you ask, your voice breathy and thready and just a tiny bit jealous.

Rafayel’s smirk pulls wide, “Oh… a certain Hunter with a mean streak and a weird obsession with claw-machine plushies.

005.

“Stay with me… please…” his voice is hoarse with want, his pupils blown so wide they almost swallow the midnight magic of his eyes.

“Rafayel, you’re burning up!” you press your palm to his forehead and frown, your other hand wrapped around his wrist, his pulse fluttering beneath your grip.

“D-don’t worry — it’s just — it happens ever year —”

“Still! We should go see a doctor —!”

“No! No — no doctors…” his voice is harsh and he pulls you back towards him with such force that the wind is knocked clean from your lungs as you sprawl against his chest, held there by the weight of his arms and the aftershocks of surprise still coursing through you. Vaguely, you note that he’s much stronger than he’s ever let on — less vaguely, you note that his thumbs as pressing into the bare skin of your side as he bites his lips and looks anywhere but at your face.

“Rafayel? Are… are you okay?”

“It’s — I’m fine —” he lets out another ragged breath and you know implicitly that he’s lying.

“You’re not fine — I’m going to grab some ice — o-oh!” you topple backwards as he pulls you back, strong arms encircling your middle as you try too get up and make for the kitchen.

“R-Rafayel?”

He lets out a long breath as he hooks his chin over your shoulder; in your periphery, you can see the dark blush blooming across his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, can feel the heat seeping through his thin shirt and yours to your skin. You can smell slightly salty sweetness of his skin as he holds you to him, his eyes closed, lashes almost damnably long in the moonlight as he tugs you back and slumps against the couch.

“I don’t need anything else but you… so… can you just… stay?”

His voice is soft, almost pleading.

You swallow; you nod; you sink into his embrace, wondering briefly if you’d felt something similar to this before. Or perhaps you’d made a promise like this, once upon a time. But the moon is soft and low and heavy on the horizon, and the sea outside is sweet as it shushes against the long stretch of beach, the water casting a myriad of dancing starlight scattering across Rafayel’s studio ceiling.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say, leaning back into his embrace.

“Good…” he says, nosing into the soft spot between your neck and shoulders; you shudder as his lips brush against the sensitive skin there, “good,” he says once again before leaning down to press a longing kiss to your shoulder.

006.

“Stay…” you peer blearily up at him through the haze of sleep, all your limbs feeling both heavy and weightless all at once. The events of the night prior flashes behind your eyes and you flush hot at the memory.

Rafayel lets out a soft chuckle, “Oh how the tables have turned.”

“Hm?” you make an uncomprehending noise, frowning slightly as he leans in to press a soft kiss to the back of your hand, still sitting up, the soft white sheets pooling around his middle, the morning sun casting him in a halo of silver and gold.

“Nothing. I’m just gonna go grab some breakfast — I’ll be right back.”

Still, you pout, digging your fingers into his wrist as you shake your head and whine.

“Don’t… don’t leave.”

Rafayel lets out a soft sigh, laughing as he leans back down to kiss your bare shoulder.

“I’ll just be in the kitchen… I won’t go any further than that — I promise, okay?”

You loosen your grip ever so slightly, “Can your promises be trusted?”

He tuts, gently tugging his arm free, “Of course they can — I found you again, didn’t I?”

You hum, burying your face back into the soft linen cover of the pillow as Rafayel gets up to prep breakfast.

He returns less than ten minutes later with a silver tray and a helpless smile as he looks down at your slumbering form, before he leans down to press his lips to yours, curling his fingers into the baby hairs at the nape of your neck and shimmying back under the blankets with you.

He loops his arms around you and smiles to himself as you burrow deeper into his chest, mumbling incoherently.

“Stupid girl… as if I could ever, ever leave you again.”

[dc418writes]

Trial & Error

Summary🪄: Joel tries to help you get some rest

🚨: no outbreak!Joel, minor age gap (reader is late 20s, Joel is mid 30s), AU with no Sarah (pls don’t hate me 🫣) pretty much all fluff💕

A/N🎤: this is my submission to @beefrobeefcal ‘s Married Joel Sat on Me challenge (please check out the other works and/or submit your own if you’d like☺️!), and I hope you guys like what I came up with✨

*DISCLAIMER!: I DO NOT CLAIM OWNERSHIP of pictures used as they were all found via Pinterest. Although my writings are imagined with a black reader, anyone can read and enjoy😌*

“Baby,” Joel drawls in that deep voice smooth like silk that always makes you melt, “you should be sleeping.” His lips sweetly press against your forehead after carefully tilting your head back so your doe eyes would be on him.

He wasn’t surprised to see your silhouette through the front curtains as his black pickup pulled in the driveway. The living room illuminated with flashes of blue as you watched something he couldn’t quite tell - if he had to guess, probably one of baby Morgan’s favorite shows you tended to play so she could calm down.

It had been a bit of a habit now with your newfound insomnia. And having to take care of a sick five-month-old while being under the weather yourself didn’t help.

“I’m not tired though.” Even upside down, it was obvious to see the exhaustion in those pretty features that had him addicted from the first time he saw you. The darkened puffiness under your eyes. The dull look to your usually bright skin.

“But you need sleep. The past couple days you’ve only been gettin three, maybe four hours.” Although calm, you could feel his concern. Knew he was stressed that his two girls were dealing with things he couldn’t seem to help with. Especially not with this new house taking up all his time.

“I don’t know what else to do.” You sigh, leaning your head on his shoulder as he sits beside you draping his arm around the back of the dark sectional. Any other time, his overall presence along with the warmth emanating from his wood and leather scented skin would have you relaxed enough that you could easily find rest. Now it was just one of a long list of futile attempts.

“Wanna try those sleep gummies again?”

“I think my body’s used to it since it didn’t work that first night.”

His deep hum rumbles under your fingertips on his sternum. “Tea?”

You shake your head, “Being sick made me all tea’d out. Plus I think the chamomile’s gone.”

“Could always try warm milk?,” he suggests with a slight grin. He already knew your answer, but he loved watching your cute, button nose crinkle in disgust.

“I’d rather be knocked over the head,” you answer making your husband deeply chuckle. “Let’s face it, this is just how things are for now. I’ve tried pretty much everything.”

Joel wasn’t one to easily accept defeat though thanks to his stubborn nature.

“I uh was talkin’ about it with a buddy on the job. He mentioned something about a..weighted blanket? Said it works for his kid so I tried to find one at the store, but the lady said they’re all out for now.”

Tilting your head up, a soft smile curls along your lips meeting Joel’s cocoa gaze focused on you. It shouldn’t be anything surprising at this point of your relationship, - being together for three years and married for two - but you can’t help how your heart flutters at how caring he could be. If a certified cure was revealed today or tomorrow, you know he’d make a way to be the first in line.

Leaning forward, you peck his lips once before moving to his bearded jaw, “Thank you for trying.”

His mouth finds yours again easily sliding your hips, with his thick hands, to sit across his lap making you giggle between each nip and press of your lips against his. “I’ll stop by tomorrow to check again. Try that other store across town too.”

As if feeling left out from all the love, Morgan first whimpers then cries from her nursery just off from the living room. You mentally groan dreading how long it’ll take to get her back to sleep.

“I got her,” Joel states leaving a last kiss on your forehead. “You try to rest.”

“No it’s okay, I got her. Plus I’ll have to check her temp-,”

His hands only tighten on your hips preventing you from standing. “Baby I can do it. Relax.”

“What if she’s hungry?”

“I can warm a bottle.”

“I can at least help though,” you pout trying to wiggle free. Instead, you’re manhandled to lie down with your husband sitting on your lower back and butt pressing you into the plush cushions. Turning your upper body as much as you could, your eyebrows slightly furrow in shock and amusement while Joel just crosses his arms as if you’re now permanently part of the furniture. “J-Joel! Wha-?”

“Ya left me no choice. It was the only way I could get you to stay.”

“By crushing me with your big ass?!”

You could be so dramatic. “Hey, this big ass is your fault,” he laughs. “Fillin’ me up with all that food and pastries.”

Marriage had been good to Joel. His mental health and financial stability had improved, and he seemed overall a happier person. The only drawback seemed to be the effect it had on his waistline. His once toned abdomen now a pleasant pouch and thighs a bit thicker causing him to go up a size in his jeans - and even then they still hugged tight.

Not that you minded. You loved Joel’s new ‘dad bod’ just as much as his more slender form. Sometimes even more as you watched him get ready for work or walk around in his sweatpants as he carried and played with Morgan. If it wasn’t for your current situation, you might even be pregnant with baby number two you were so attracted to him.

“Sure, it’s my fault and not that burger and fries you get every day for lunch,” you playfully huff trying to shimmy your way from his hold.

He slightly tilts his head from left to right knowing you had a point, “Alright fair.” Eventually, you finally submit to the fact you weren’t leaving letting your arms extend in front of you. And dare you say, it even began to feel comfortable. “Now, if I get up I trust you’re gonna stay here?”

“Yes seeing that my back is broken,” you reply rolling your eyes. That earns you a warning - yet always playful - smack to the back of your thigh as he stands now leaving you to the cold, open air. “Good girl. I’ll be right back.”

The softest of smiles forms of your lips rolling onto your back to watch him happily stride to tend to his baby girl. “Hey love bug! How ya feelin huh?” Her cries instantly silence into hiccups as soon as she’s lifted to lie on his chest. She even babbles as if having a full conversation while he presses the back of his hand to her forehead. “No fever that’s good.”

A certain, familiar smell clues Joel to what the issue is though. “We gotta get this diaper off you babygirl,” he states moving to lie her on the changing table. “That’ll make you feel better right?” It’s like she understands every word reaching her chubby arms up with a short giggle. They grow into excited squeals as Joel takes turns blowing raspberries onto her bare stomach and tickling that spot under her chin between cleaning her up with baby wipes.

Such a daddy’s girl through and through.

It takes maybe ten minutes more of coos mixed with rocking and bouncing before Joel has her asleep again; carefully lowering her into her crib for the night. ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ playing on a low, constant loop from her star projector to make sure she stays that way as he eases out her room and shuts the door behind him.

His ebony eyes are trained on you now padding the short distance to the couch and leaning over your body. That one curl at the top of his head tipping forward. “Alright, your turn princess.”

You only lift your arms with a smile letting him lift you over his broad shoulder to carry you down the hall to your shared bedroom. Luckily you’re already in your pajamas when you gently flop against the brown comforter. He leaves you to get comfortable - shifting under the covers and wiggling to find that sweet spot - while he discards his clothes in the bathroom to shower and brush his teeth.

In a few minutes, he’s appearing through the misty doorway with wet almond strands still trying to dry and a pair of black boxer briefs over his hips. The little “ooh” that slips from your lips as he slides into bed makes him furrow his brows in confusion while you twist to lie on your stomach reaching back to pat your bottom. “I got an idea.”

“Yeah?,” he smirks wetting his bottom lip. “We definitely haven’t tried that before.”

“Jesus, get your mind out the gutter. I mean crush me again,” you laugh.

Although he scoffs in faux offense, he still does as you say positioning himself so half his body covers yours and long leg nearly straddles your back. His nose mere centimeters from yours blowing steady streams of air as you practically share your pillow. “What’s your plan here?”

“Well, until we find one, I was thinking..maybe you could be my weighted blanket,” you shyly explain. “I know it’s probably dumb, but earlier-,”

“Worth a try,” Joel winks closing the small gap to peck your nose then lips. His fingertips tracing soothing lines back and forth along your neck.

For a while, you both just lied there talking about your respective days or whatever came to mind. Around one in the morning, Joel could see your blinks become slower and slower until it was an apparent struggle to keep your eyes open. Your words even beginning to slur and answers sound like adorable nonsense.

You hadn’t even realized you eventually drifted off until the next morning when you were woken up by Morgan’s cries through the monitor. The sun shining a bright golden hue through the crack in the curtains.

A note on the nightstand is the first to catch your attention - clearly written by your husband from the tilted and slightly mushed together handwriting - making you tiredly smile.

‘Glad to see you got some rest xx’

[dull-n-shiny]

Hello sweetie! Welcome to Rotomblr!

I also have my own shiny pokemon, a sweet little cutiefly! Her name is Bituin, Bitty for short 💖

@ladyzee-oddityhunter

Thank you!

That's lovely, great to hear that another little shiny is in a good home. Not going to think too hard about your username, based on your blog description though it seems to be about just oddities in general and not, y'know, shiny hunting.

Dunno if this counts as an oddity or not, but I enjoy collecting Pokéballs with fucked up paint jobs.

[darcydekarios]

✨Day 6 of Gale Tits Week

Saturday Sweater Bunnies 🐰🐰

This week has been brought to you by the combined efforts of these lovely Galemancers:

@tociminna, @optimisticgrey, @avabjorna36, @astarioffsimpmain and myself 💜

This week has been so much fun, and I truly love this Tumblr community so much.

This will be my first time publicly posting any of my writing on here, so bear with me for any grammar mistakes/spelling errors. Because proofreading? Phst, we don’t know her

If any of you are like me, then you’ve fantasized about what you could lick off of this man’s chest. Seriously, it’s a daily thought running through my mind. I could eat a steak dinner right off this man’s happy trail.

So, here’s a little fantasy. Slight NSFW under the cut:

The scene is this:

You are curled up in your cozy Waterdeep library that your husband is now more than happy to share with you. The rain beats heavily against the window, the thunder a dull roar.

Your enchanting book of a magic world hones you in, but reality gives way to your senses. You hear clanking coming from downstairs where your husband resides. Curious, you set your book down and follow the sound.

​ You reach the kitchen of your shared tower to see Gale mixing contents in a large bowl while joyfully whistling to himself.

You take in his handsome presence. His shoulder length, chestnut hair is half tied back with loose tendrils framing his forehead, his long sleeves are rolled up to the elbow revealing his strong forearms flexing as he stirs. The shirt he wears leaves three buttons undone, showing one of your favorite sights: that dark chest hair splayed against his chiseled pecks.

Damn him.

He knows exactly what this does to you. Was he also purposely not wearing an apron just to show more of his chest in hopes that you would come down and find him this way?

Coy bastard.

“Well, hello there, my love,” he gives you a warm smile as he notices you standing there, practically drooling.

“What cha making there?” You stride towards him casually, ignoring the subtle heat already pooling in your lower belly.

“Ah, I thought I may surprise you with my famous brownies, as a reading snack for this rainy day.” He gives you a wink as he sets the stirring spoon down and dips a finger into the batter. “Would you like to try?” He asks, holding his now batter covered finger close to your lips.

You look into his eyes as your mouth moves closer. You part your lips, slowly encasing him in your warm mouth, your tongue taking its time to wrap around his finger, the sweet chocolate batter making your taste buds dance. Your hand reaches up to grab his wrist as your mouth pulls back with a “pop,” leaving his mouth parted slightly, a quiet breath escaping between them. His pupils now darkening with desire.

Two can play at this game.

“Mmm, very delicious,” you say as you lick your lips. Dipping your finger into the bowl, you bite your lip, “Wanna try?”

He raises an eyebrow as he moves his mouth towards your hand. Your grin turns cheeky as your other hand pushes against him slightly, unbuttoning just a few more buttons and smearing the batter down his exposed chest.

“Oops,” you shrug playfully.

He looked down at his chest, then back at you, a broad grin stretching across his face, “And what do you intend to do about this?”

​ You don’t answer him with words, but instead with a gentle push, his bottom now against the counter. You press yourself against him, unfastening the remaining buttons of his shirt.

​Dipping your head down, you start at his happy trail, and lick your way up his chest, sure to lap up every bit of the brownie batter. The tip of your tongue darting between every crevasse and flattening as it reaches his pecks and up to his neck, as he leans his head back, his breathing now choppy as he releases low moans of ecstasy.

​You finish off with a small nibble right under his jaw as you pull back. Taking in your husband’s melted puddle of dark eyes, you rub your lips together. “Tastes even better now.”

​A low growl emits from his chest as he pushes you back against the kitchen island behind you. Spinning you around to press your ass up against his hardened groin, he whispers low into your ear, “I suppose your reading snack can wait.”

[allgoodnamesrgoneee]

✨ New Patreon Upload! ✨

Hey everyone! I’ve just uploaded my first William Saliba fic on my Patreon, and you definitely don’t want to miss it!

Head over now to check it out and show some love! 🙌

📖 Link in bio! ✨ Let me know your thoughts after reading! 💬

Don't forget my fics now available for ONLY $3 ($4.50 on iOS) each on my Patreon shop if you're looking for something specific; don't miss your chance to catch up on all the exclusive content!

For the Record

Masterlist

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 — You’ve spent months keeping your relationship with William Saliba a secret. You’re a rising Black sports journalist, and he’s one of the biggest names in football—a pairing the world wouldn’t hesitate to tear apart. Now that everything’s out in the open, the question is: can you have both your career and the man who makes your heart feel like home?

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 — William Saliba x Black!Reader (sports journalist!reader)

𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 — 17.7k

Warnings! FLUFF!! emotional tension, slow burn with payoff, secret relationship, mutual pining, comfort, NSFW! SMUT (18+), unprotected vaginal sex, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, cowgirl, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, soft dom!William, sub!reader, praise kink, emotionally charged intimacy

Preview

**********

You wake up tangled in a mess of sheets, warmth, and sin.

That’s the only way to describe it. Sin.

It's not even seven in the morning, and already your body is reminding you what went down last night. Your thighs are sore, your back carries a dull, pleasant ache, and there’s a love bite high on your inner thigh that stings just enough to make you wince a little.

That'll make yoga tomorrow interesting.

The room smells like bergamot and skin and something heavier—sweat, maybe. Or desire that still lingers in the air like an aftershock.

It's quiet except for the hum of the city in the distance, softened by thick curtains drawn half-shut. Morning light filters through in warm stripes, dancing across the hardwood floor and catching on your skin in soft gold. You blink against it, lashes fluttering against a pillow that doesn’t smell like yours. The sheets don’t either. They smell like him.

You shift slightly, just enough to feel the solid weight behind you. An arm is slung around your waist, loose but possessive. His chest is warm against your back, steady breaths brushing the nape of your neck. You can hear the faint rustle of the comforter as he stirs, but he doesn’t wake—not fully. He pulls you in tighter, like you’re his anchor to sleep, his grip reflexive and familiar.

You don’t move. Not yet.

There’s a part of you that doesn’t want to break this moment.

For once, you’ve forgotten about the twelve unread emails, the press conference at noon, the editor breathing down your neck, and the interview notes scattered on your kitchen table. For once, you don’t feel like a journalist, like a woman constantly trying to prove she deserves to be in every room she walks into. You feel… human. Soft. Safe.

You feel his fingers brush against your stomach in a lazy half-dreaming caress, and a smile tugs at your lips before you even realize it. One of those stupid, full, cheeks-aching smiles you try to hide but never manage to around him.

“You awake?” you whisper, voice still hoarse with sleep. Your throat feels dry, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

A low grunt rumbles against your back. “Non,” comes the groggy reply, muffled by the pillow. His lips press lazily to your shoulder. “Sleeping.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

“It was a ‘come back to sleep with me,’” he murmurs, lips grazing your skin again. His accent is thicker in the mornings, wrapped in gravel and honey.

You roll your eyes, but there’s no heat behind it. "You know I’ve got work, right?”

He lets out a dramatic sigh like you just told him the world’s ending. Then, without warning, he flips you onto your back with zero effort, his arm slipping under your waist as he settles half on top of you. You yelp, more out of surprise than anything else, but your body immediately molds to his, the way it always does. His weight is solid, grounding. Familiar.

“William,” you warn, voice breathy now, mostly because his lips are trailing slow, sleepy kisses up the side of your neck. “Seriously.”

"You’re warm,” he mumbles, like it’s an argument he’s already won.

“I’m also late.”

“Je m'en fous.” His hand moves down your side, fingers splayed wide. “You can email them. Say there was traffic.”

You snort. “Traffic where, sir? In your apartment?”

He lifts his head to look at you, one brow raised. “Exactly. Bedroom traffic. You got caught in a collision.”

You blink at him. “You mean you ran me off the road last night?"

His grin is smug. “I don’t hear you complaining.”

You try to glare at him, but it’s hard when his palm is cupping your thigh, thumb lazily brushing over that now very sensitive love bite.

“This is harassment,” you mumble, squirming as you try to wriggle away. But he just chuckles, dips his head to kiss your collarbone, then your sternum. The kisses aren’t rushed. If anything, they’re slow on purpose. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“You say that like you didn’t try to climb me like a tree last night.”

You shove at his shoulder, laughing despite yourself. “I did not.”

“Bébé,” he says, pulling back just enough to give you a look. “You told me, and I quote, ‘You’re six foot three for a reason; now put it to use.’”

Your hand flies to your face, heat flooding your cheeks. “Shut up.”

William grins, clearly pleased with himself. He kisses your forehead this time, surprisingly sweet. “You were cute. Bossy. A little mean.”

“You love it.”

“I do,” he says, no hesitation. “And you love me being clingy in the morning.”

You pause for a beat, heart stuttering a little. He doesn’t seem to notice the shift in the air—maybe because he’s too busy burying his face into the curve of your neck again, or maybe because he does it without thinking. Like saying he loves you isn’t even a question anymore.

You bite your lip. “I do, but I really do have to go.”

With a sigh that sounds like the end of the world, he finally rolls off of you, flopping onto his back like he just gave up his life’s mission. “Fine. Go be an adult.”

You wrap the sheet around your body like a toga as you slip out of bed, glancing over your shoulder with a soft smile. “I’ll come back later.”

“T'as intérêt.”

//// A little amuse-bouche of the smut ////

You clutch at the sheets, your legs falling open as he ducks his head. His lips close around your nipple and you cry out, arching your back off the bed. His tongue slides over your skin, sucking you into his mouth, his hand cupping and squeezing you in a way that sends bolts of pleasure through your whole body.

"Fuck," you whisper, feeling his stubble against your skin as he kisses lower. His hands are on your hips now, squeezing, kneading, urging you to lift your hips up toward him.

When you feel his breath against your panty-covered mound, you stop breathing.

He doesn't tease now. No. His hands part your thighs, and he yanks your panties off in one quick tug.

And then his mouth is on you, hot and slick and messy, his lips pressing soft, loving kisses on the soft skin of your inner thighs, close to where you're aching for him, wet, leaking but not enough—

"Will," you gasp, trying to buck up into his mouth to get him where you need him. "Please."

His hands grip your hips and pin you down, keeping you still as his tongue slides up between your folds. You're gasping, your hips fighting his grip, trying to get him closer, but he holds tight, his tongue dragging up your center, back down again, light and teasing. You're dripping now, your folds slick with your arousal.

"Will, baby," you whine. "Pleeease—"

And then he's there. Right there.

You arch off the bed the moment his lips wrap around your aching, swollen clit. His tongue flicks once, twice, and you lose it, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you cry out for more. No words coming out, just moans and cries, your fingers sliding through his hair to grip his head and pull him closer.

"Taste so fucking good, baby," he growls, pulling back to press open-mouthed kisses on your inner thighs. "Can't get enough—"

He spears his tongue inside you then, licking up through your folds, and you let out a scream, your hips jerking off the bed again. But he's not letting go, holding you in place with strong arms as he fucks into you with his tongue.

He pulls away for a second and your breath catches at the look on his face. He's staring at your wet, swollen pussy with a look of ravenous need, his breath coming hard, his fingers gripping your hips almost brutally, as if he’s losing control.

You feel his fingers on your pussy, and before you can register what he's doing, he’s pushing them inside you, so fucking easy with how soaking wet you are. His mouth finds your clit again, lips closing around it as he pulls it into his mouth, sucking, and his fingers are fucking into you, in and out, a slow curl in his knuckles. You can feel your climax approaching.

His hands grip your thighs tighter. "T'aime ça?" He murmurs against your clit, looking up at you. The sight of him there, his mouth against your wet pussy, his eyes heavy-lidded with lust—your vision starts to blur at the edges.

"Yes, yes, fuck," you whimper.

He groans deep in his throat and picks up the pace of his fingers, fucking into you faster and harder while his tongue dances around your clit in tight circles. You can't breathe. You're clutching at the sheets like they're going to keep you from flying off the bed, your legs tensing and relaxing against the mattress. Your stomach starts to clench, and your thighs start to shake.

"Will—" you gasp. "I—" You don't get to say anything more. You just shatter. Shatter apart on a scream of his name, your vision going dark at the edges, your body tightening and convulsing on his fingers. You're shaking so hard, your teeth chatter as you come and come and come.

His mouth slows, tongue sliding through your wetness as he keeps you riding your orgasm as long as possible.

When he pulls away, you're still shaking, legs still tensed, still twitching. His fingers slide out of you slowly with a wet squelch, and you feel him crawling up the bed beside you, turning your head to rest on his chest.

Your lips press a kiss to his skin as he slides an arm underneath you, holding you close.

"Okay?" He murmurs softly, rubbing circles on your back.

You nod. Your face feels hot, like you're burning up, and you can’t find the words to describe how you're feeling. It's like he's broken you apart and put you back together again. Everything feels different. Lighter.

Will just hums, kisses the top of your head, and keeps rubbing your back.

It takes a second before you realize he’s still hard. Rock-hard and straining against his pants.

"Baby," he laughs, reading your expression. "You're still shaking. Let's take a second to recover, yeah?" he teases. "I'm not going anywhere."

You flush, biting your lip. "Sorry—"

"Don’t apologize, it's okay," he says, stroking your hair back. "Take your time, chérie. You need it."

You nod and relax into his chest.

But a second later, you're squirming, feeling him against your thigh and the burn of lust reignites between your legs

"Will," your voice is husky.

"Yes?" His tone is indulgent.

You shift your hips again. "I want it."

**********

-Bianca🌻

[zhenyaiam]

𝑺𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒌𝒂 𝒂𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒚𝒈𝒖𝒂𝒓𝒅

Summary: A spoiled piltie. Always get on Sevika's nerves.

Cw: NSFW, dom!Sevika, bottom!reader, fingering, oral, fem!reader

a/n: 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐈 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭. 𝐈𝐦 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐨 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞, 𝐬𝐨 𝐢𝐭𝐬 b𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 . 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐭𝐲𝐩𝐨. 𝐀𝐧𝐲𝐰𝐚𝐲, 𝐈 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝. 𝐄𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲.✨

Silco had struck one of his biggest deals of the year, assigning Sevika to guard one of Piltover's elites. Eager not to miss the party tonight, you decided to sneak out through your window.

Or at least you tried, until strong hands grabbed your waist and pulled you back inside, tossing you onto your bed. Sevika stood over you, her eyes cold and her usual scowl on her face. "Where do you think you're going?" she demanded with her aggressive voice.

You looks up to her and sighs in frustration

"Nowhere? Just wanted to sit.. There. Yeah.." You looked at the window sill.

“A likely story.” She retorted, crossing her arms in disapproval. “You think I haven’t noticed your little sneaks out for the past few weeks? I’m not an idiot, sweetheart.”

“Ahgg there’s is a big party. They are waiting for me. I want to go there.” You said annoyed as you stands up from the bed looking up to the older woman.

“I don’t care. You aren’t going and that’s final.”

She responded, a hard edge to her voice. She was a tall woman, her arms covered with battle scars, her chest visibly muscular even through her shirt, and her prosthetic arm a dull metallic grey, and she towered over you.

“I’m your bodyguard. Everything is my job, and that means watching where you go and what you do. And you are not going out into the city where you can get hurt. Now either you give it up, like a good little girl, or I will physically prevent you from going anywhere tonight.”

"This is pure shit!" you grumbled and sat down on the bed.

In an instant, Sevika grabbed your chin in her grip, tilting it up and forcing you to look at her. “You will refrain from using such language, Y/N. I don’t care who the hell you think you are, you will show respect to me. Got that?” She asked, her thumb tracing your lower lip, her body pressed against yours as she forced you to stay in place, almost mocking you.

You mumbled something under your breath and answered.

"Got it"

Her eyes travel down to your dress as she pulls up onto the edge of your bed, still towering over you.

“Im a Piltover elite.” You huffs. “Not just some dirty Zaunite that you can just...look down.” you looked up and down Sevika

“Do I look like I care hm?” Her eyes never leave your face, though she does occasionally look at your chest.

She leans in a bit closer, not seeming to worry that she’s invading your personal space.

“If you won’t show the appropriate respect for the house rules, maybe I’ll make you regret being so disobedient.” She says with a smirk and her eyes once more travel down your body.

"I am superior to you."

“And? Does that put you above house rules?” She says, the smirk still on her face.

“...”

“That’s what I thought.” She says, her hand moving back onto your waist.

You push her hand away but her hand not budge.

“Leave me alone.”

“And why should I do that?” She asks, her other hand moving to join its partner, her grip tight enough to dig into the fabric of your dress.

“Because I said so. You work for ME. You do as I say.” You tried to push her hand away once more. But her hand didn't move.

As soon as those words leave your mouth her eyes narrow. Before you can respond, she shoves you down flat on the bed and pins you down, your thighs between her legs. Her grey piercing eyes looking trought your soul.

She presses you down and looks you in the eye for a moment before moving her lips just centimeters away from yours.

She says this through gritted teeth. “You don’t get to say that to me.”

“Sevika what are you doi—?!”

You look at her confused.

She doesn't give you a chance to respond, her chemtech arm moving up to press against your cheeks. She draws you closer so that your mouths are just millimeters apart.

She leans in closer, her eyes locking with your own.

“Do you need a reminder on where you stand?" She asks, her voice low.

“Im a the one who you protect. So you obey me.” You said as you tried to push her off of you.

Her voice is harsh even though it's close to your ear, her face still practically against yours.

"You obey me. I'm the one who keeps you safe, who protects you at all costs. So I think it's about time you pay for all that."

Her hand moves up your thigh to rest beneath your dress and she rubs her hand against your leg, pushing your dress up.

“Sevik—”

She silences you without hesitation, her chemtech hand moving back to your waist, this time to undo the buttons of your dress exposing your breasts.

She looks at you for a moment before leaning back to take in the sight.

"Mmm..." She hums, her voice softer now.

"My little Piltover elite all for me." She says before moving back. Her chemtech arm moves to your shoulders and her mouth moves back to your ear.

She whispers, "So I think it's time you started paying back."

You trying to cover yourself with your hands.

"Oh, are you still self-conscious about your body?" She asks, her voice slightly teasing.

She doesn't let you cover yourself before pulling your hand away. Pinning your hands above your head.

She licks your ear in spite and grins. "I don't think you should be. And you know I have these too. I've seen these before you know? " She says, a smirk on her face.

“S.. Sev.” You squirm, she squeeze your wrist to say you do not move.

”I hate you so much” You look away from her in embarrassment.

Her grin grows wider, she seems to enjoy your discomfort.

"But.. I think you're actually quite stunning." She says with a smirk.

"Especially right now."

You push her away or at least trying.

“Ah ah, don’t push me,” She said, grabbing you by the chin and forcing you to stay still again. With her chemtech hand, she grabbed your wrists and pinned them firmly to the bed again, her body trapping yours underneath hers again, the heat of her body pressing against yours.

“Don’t act innocent. I’ve seen that spark in your eyes, that fire craving a taste of me. Why else would you keep trying to make me snap?” She murmured, pressing a kiss onto the corner of your mouth.

"Why would I ever want someone like you?" You asked.

“Oh really?” She asked, her breath warm against your skin, brushing close to your neck, a hand tracing over the edge of your throat. “Because I'm the only one who's * ever put you in your place, darling. That's why.”

She leaned in closer, her hand wrapping around your throat, not squeezing, just lightly, threateningly holding you in place. “I'm the only one who's ever had the audacity to grab you and push you down."

"That, doesn't mean anything" You spitted out.

"Doesn't it now?" She purred, her thumb brushing over your lips, her eyes gleaming dangerously. "You've only ever been with those who treat you with kid gloves." She whispered, her voice like a sweet poison, as she loomed over you from above, her lips brushing against your forehead.

“But not me, I know how to handle you.

I know how to push you down to your knees. And you like it, don’t you? Because I’m the only one who puts you in your place.” She mused, her lips curving in a small smirk. "You want some control in your life, you like this feeling because its new to you. You always got anything you wanted. Without objections."

“I’m not just another spineless fool at your beck and call...

And now—” She gently tightened her hand on your throat, not enough to hurt you. Before you could say anything Sevika lips were on yours.

It was an possessive kiss, not tender or gentle in any way, Sevika’s lips crashing against yours in a fierce, demanding claim. Every inch of her mouth tasted, teeth grazing over your lower lip, drawing small gasps from you at the sharp tingle of pain and pleasure combined.

You tries to break the kiss what succeed for a second.

"I-I don't want this!" You said trying to get up from Sevika’s grasp.

Sevika grinned, pulling away just long enough to speak before diving back in, her lips moving against yours urgently. “Oh please. You wouldn’t still be lying here if you didn't want this.” She mumbled into the kiss, her fingers sliding through your hair, tugging your head back to expose your throat to her onslaught.  She nipped and kissed her way down your jaw and neck, her teeth scraping over the sensitive skin. While her hands parting your legs more, under her body. One of her hand wanders down to you core.

“Do you honestly think you could hide this from me?” She asked, her tone playful as the edge of her thumb found your clothed cunt, circling it making your breath hitch, her mouth still on your neck, her tongue lapping at the hollow of your throat. “The looks you’ve been giving me, the way you’re always trying to push my buttons, so I’d pin you down and tease you? You can’t hide it.”  She murmured. “You just want someone to make you scream."

Her fingers circling over your clit a bit more, her thumb applying just a tiny bit more pressure, enough that you made the most delicious sound, your head falling back. “Someone to put you in your place,” She continued, her tongue tracing over the curve of your shoulder as she made her way further down, nipping at the sensitive skin. “And I’m that someone.” She with a swift motion take your underwear down dipping her head between your legs.

Her tongue flicked out, flicking over your clit with a quick, calculated move, before she licked at you with an almost teasing, almost torturous pace. With each swipe of her tongue, an electric thrill of pleasure shot up your spine, a small whimper leaving your lips, your back arching slightly. Sevika’s hands grip your hips tightly, holding you in place.

"You don't get to hide this from me," She groaned, her mouth pressed against your sensitive skin, the sounds of her pleasure, muffled against your core. Her hands grip your thighs, spreading you with ease. “I'm going to find that sweet spot and make you sing."

At that, she licked at your clit, with a slow, almost languid pace. You shivered, your body squirming in her grasp, and Sevika kept you steady with a firm hold on both of your hips, not allowing you to move away from her assault.

Your breath hitched, your body shaking. "That’s it, baby girl, let me hear you." She mumbled, her fingers pressing against your clit, rubbing quick circular motions. You choked on a moan, one hand gripped firmly in your sheets while the other tangled in Sevika’s hair. Sevika grinned against your skin, feeling the shudder wrack through your body. “I’ve got you.”

"Sevika, mm please" You tried to arch your hips towards her.

“You need something, baby?" She asked, her tongue lapping at your clit as she spoke, her breath hot on you. “What do you need? Use your pretty words, darling.”

"Don't stop."

“I didn't want to” She whispered, her tongue flicking in quick motions, matching the rhythm of her two fingers as they pushed into you, her thumb still rubbing circles over your clit, and she pressed your legs open wider.

Her free hand traced over your stomach, before slipping up, tracing along the line of your ribs. Then she reached up, finding one of your nipples and pinching it, before rolling the harden bud between her fingers.

You gasped and arched your back, your body trembling under the attention, a sharp cry leaving your lips as she did. Sevika grinned and continued her ministrations, her mouth leave your sensitive flesh sucking the other nipples of you while her fingers pumping in and out of you.

You moaned, your breath coming out in pants now, your body shaking in her hands. “Sev..ika, I’m... I need...”

“What do you need, darling?” She asked, her tone teasing you as she nipped at your sensitive flesh, her fingers pumping into you even rougher than before curling them upwards, her thumb rubbing in fast circles over your clit. “Use that pretty voice, baby girl. Tell me what you want.”

With a strangled gasp, you managed to get the words out “I’m.. close, I’m so close..”

At that, Sevika smirked, her fingers curling in a come-hither gesture, pressing against your sensitive spot. “Then let go for me, pretty girl. I’ve got you.” She leans to your lips kissing you.

The sound of your moans echoed in the room, swallowed by Sevika’s mouth with every kiss. “Perfect girl,” She growled between kisses, her tone rough. “Making these perfect sounds for me. So sweet, so good. Gods you’re so beautiful.”

The pleasure built up inside you, like a dam ready to break, then Sevika leaned down, her mouth back to your pussy and sucked hard.

You couldn’t hold back. A sharp cry tore from your throat.

Your body jerking as wave after wave of intense ecstasy washed over you, white hot sparks of pleasure danced around your vision, all thoughts of anything but Sevika, her mouth and her fingers vanished in an instant, her name tumbling from your lips like a prayer, your hands gripping the bed sheets tight enough to turn your knuckles white.

Sevika groaned at the taste of you, her fingers still working, pushing you further over the edge as she licked at you like a woman starved, drinking up you pleasure like her sustenance.

Your body still jerked and convulse slightly, small whimpers escaping yiur4 throat, your body shivering from the intensity of your orgasm. It was only after Sevika pulled away from you, the sudden lack of contact making you whimper, that you slowly started to come back to yourself, your body still twitching gently.

Sevika moved back up her body, a self-satisfied smile on her lips. You was flushed and panting, your hair sticking to your forehead, and Sevika couldn’t help but take a moment to appreciate the sight.

“There,” she said, her tone a touch smug. “That looks much better than some stuffy up-city party.”

[kathlare]

feeling snowflakes

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary:On a chilly December evening in London, Amelie and Lando attend the premiere of her Christmas special, A Nonsense Christmas.

Wordcount: 2.1 k

Warnings: just fluff

full masterlist // request over here!

December 12th, 2024 - London United Kingdom

liked by stargirlames, helmetkisser, and others

ameliedaymanupdates: Mother has arrived!! 🎬✨

View all 19,018 comments

maxie_willdrive: okay but how is she already in christmas mode when i still have halloween decor up?? → ickylixx: @maxie_willdrive bc she’s booked and magical and you’re lazy babe 😭

gigiforamelie: i can’t believe we get glinda AND christmas especial energy in the same month → stargirlames: @gigiforamelie 2025 is the year of the ✨amelie cinematic universe✨

pastelcharles: why are they the only couple allowed to be this cute → ferrarifloss: @pastelcharles everyone else should just retire honestly

lanmeltok: the lando x Amelie shared premiere content is keeping me ALIVE → simpfornorris: @lanmeltok he looked at her like she hung the moon and the mistletoe

mclovinhim: the way he stands behind her like a bodyguard AND boyfriend i’m cryinggg → mintymaxy: @mclovinhim max fewtrell somewhere crying into his latte 💀

lanaf1supremacy: she walked in like she owns christmas and cinema → carlozluvclub: @lanaf1supreacy bc she DOES

hatewatcher666: idc what y’all say she’s mid → honeybeestans: @hatewatcher666 and yet you’re here… commenting… watching her sparkle. be serious 😭

softlaunchseason: lando at fashion events >>> lando on track → helmetkisser: @softlaunchseason don’t let him hear that he’ll cry into his ski goggles again

americasstepcouple: i’m gonna need one (1) netflix romcom starring them immediately

ameliasjacket: HOW is she switching from Glinda sparkle to Christmas romcom in 0.2 seconds → elfyoulando: @ameliasjacket fr she's got RANGE and rhinestones

yallhatemyjoy: this relationship is PR i fear → user9920: @yallhatemyjoy yeah okay and the sky is purple. get help.

candylanelando: they’re so annoying and cute and IN LOVE i’m going to combust

bambinosparkle: the real nonsense is how fine she looked in that dress → holidaydior: @bambinosparkle pls i barked when she stepped out the car 💀💀

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

It was a crisp December evening in London, the cold air biting as Lando and Amelie stepped out of the car, still feeling the thrill of the Wicked premiere in Sydney days earlier. They'd just landed after a long flight, their excitement not dulled by the time zone change, because there was more to celebrate—Amelie’s Christmas special, A Nonsense Christmas, was premiering tonight on Netflix, and Lando couldn’t be prouder.

He reached over and took Amelie’s hand as they made their way through the flurry of activity outside the venue. The red carpet stretched out before them, lined with fans eagerly waiting to catch a glimpse of the stars. But before they could step onto it, Amelie had to do what she did best—pose, wave, smile, and answer a few questions.

As they entered the press area, Amelie squeezed Lando’s hand one last time before letting go. —I’ll catch up with you soon, love. Stay out of trouble...—

He smirked and winked. —You know me, Ames. I’m all about keeping the trouble fun.—

She smiled, shaking her head, and walked off toward the photographers. Lando stood there for a moment, watching her mingle with the press, looking every bit the glowing star. The way she was handling the buzz, the excitement—it was exactly where she deserved to be. This was her moment.

He was suddenly drawn away by a chorus of excited voices. As he turned, he saw a small group of Amelie’s fans standing across the street, calling out to him.

—Lando!— one of them shouted. —Lando, over here!—

Grinning, he waved back, the playful glint in his eyes evident as he jogged over. —Alright, alright, I’m coming,— he called back, making his way to the group, his heart warmed by the love and adoration they had for Amelie.

Lando’s feet hit the pavement lightly as he crossed the street, the cold air tugging at his jacket, but the warmth of the moment made it all worth it. Fans had gathered, a mix of familiar faces and some new ones, holding up signs with Amelie’s face, waving posters, and calling out for him.

The barricade was still there, of course, but it didn’t stop the energy from pulsing through the crowd. Fans were yelling, cheering, and snapping photos. As he got closer, some of the fans shyly waved at him, unsure if they could approach. Lando smirked, easily catching the attention of one of the braver ones who stood with her camera ready.

—Oi!— he called out playfully. —Come on, no need to be shy.—

One of the fans grinned and shyly asked for a selfie, and Lando, always happy to oblige, knelt down to her level, his smile easy and genuine. He snapped a couple of quick photos, handing the phone back with a wink.

—There you go.— he teased.

The fan was beaming, nodding vigorously as she thanked him. Lando lingered for a moment before hearing someone call out his name again, this time from a group of girls further down the barricade. They were waving bracelets in the air, homemade and colorful, with little charms attached.

—Lando! Can you pass these to Amelie? Please?— one of them shouted. —We made them for her!—

Lando couldn’t help but smile, a warmth filling him at the thought of these girls pouring their time and effort into making something so sweet for her. He glanced back at the group, giving them a thumbs-up.

—Absolutely, don’t worry, I’ll give them to her,— he promised, his voice light and teasing. —She’s gonna love these. You guys did a good job.—

They grinned back at him, and then, suddenly, one of the girls ran up to the barricade, a small handmade card in her hand.

—It’s just a little note for her,— the girl said shyly, holding it out for Lando. —Tell her we’re proud of everything she’s done, and we love her so much.—

Lando took the note gently, giving the girl a small nod of appreciation.

—You guys are amazing,— he said, his voice soft with sincerity. —I’ll make sure she knows you all love her. You’re gonna make her day.—

The fans all cheered, calling out their thanks as he turned back to head towards Amelie. But as he walked away, he couldn’t help but linger on the thought of how much these fans adored her, how much love and support she had from all over the world. And how, somehow, he got to be the one standing next to her, holding her hand, living in the middle of all of it.

When he finally reached the press area, he spotted Amelie right away. She was a vision, standing under the bright lights, laughing and smiling with a journalist. She was so in her element here, so effortlessly graceful, and it filled Lando’s chest with affection—no, admiration. He admired her more than anyone could imagine.

He approached quietly, slipping behind her as she finished up with the interview, waiting until she turned around to see him.

—Well, well,— he said, his voice low, a smirk tugging at his lips. —Look at you, Dayman—

Amelie’s eyes lit up when she saw him, the excitement of the premiere still dancing in her eyes. She stepped towards him, instantly slipping her hand into his.

—Hey, you,— she greeted, her voice a mixture of warmth and playful sarcasm. —Did you behave yourself? Or did you make a scene with the fans?—

He rolled his eyes but couldn’t help but grin. —I was just giving the people what they want. Some selfies, some gifts for you. You know, the usual.—

Her expression softened, the fondness clear as she squeezed his hand. —You’re such a dork, Lan.—

—A cute dork,— he corrected, pulling her a little closer, dropping a kiss to her temple.

—Yeah, yeah, cute dork. How’s everything?— she asked, looking over at the pile of gifts, including the bracelets.

Lando gave a little nod, still holding onto the note the fans had handed him. —You’ve got a lot of love out there. A lot of people waiting for their turn to tell you how much you mean to them. You really do have a thing with the fans, huh?—

Amelie blushed slightly, her cheeks tinged with a hint of pink as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. —They’re so sweet,— she murmured, her voice softening. —I never expected to have this kind of support, you know? It’s overwhelming, but in a good way. I’m just so... grateful.—

Lando smiled at her, his heart giving a little squeeze at her humility. She always downplayed her success, always so humble despite everything she had achieved.

—Well, they’re not wrong,— he said, voice warm. —You’re amazing. And I think it’s pretty clear to everyone how much you’ve grown, how much you’ve done this past year. Look at all the things you’ve accomplished... you’re unstoppable, Ames.—

Amelie’s eyes softened as she looked up at him, her expression tender. She cupped his cheek, brushing her thumb across his skin. —You’re my biggest supporter, Lan. You’ve been by my side through everything, even when I didn’t deserve it.—

Lando chuckled, leaning into her touch. —You’re saying you didn’t deserve me? Because I beg to differ.—

She raised an eyebrow, smirking. —Oh really? You think I’m lucky to have you?—

He leaned closer, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered, —I think I’m the lucky one.—

Amelie’s smile grew, a little more shy, a little more genuine. —You really know how to make me blush.—

Lando pulled back slightly, still holding onto her hand as he gave the note and the bracelets to her. —These are from your fans. They made them for you, and I promised I’d bring them to you. I think you’re going to love it. They're sweet as hell.—

Amelie’s eyes lit up as she took the items from him, her fingers gently caressing the small gifts. —Oh my god, they’re so cute. They really didn’t have to... wait, look at this one, this bracelet has your name on it!—

Lando chuckled, watching her excitement, his heart swelling with affection. He couldn’t stop grinning at the sight of her joy.

—You deserve it, Ames. All the love. All the happiness.—

She stepped into him, pressing her forehead against his briefly, the moment tender and filled with unspoken words. The world around them buzzed with excitement, but here, right in this moment, it was just the two of them, wrapped up in their shared history, their growing love, and the undeniable truth that no matter what came next, they had each other.

Amelie smiled up at him, the warmth of their shared connection radiating through her. —I love you, Lan.—

And Lando, with that grin of his, kissed her softly on the lips, the weight of everything they’d been through, everything they’d built, felt like nothing compared to the way he felt about her.

—Love you more, Ames. Always.—

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

liked by jadenhossler, schecoperez and others

lando.jpg: the only nonsense here is how you keep getting prettier every time I blink 🎄✨🎬

View all 98,027 comments

charles_leclerc: at this point, you’re just competing for the title of “Most Whipped.” → lando.jpg: @charles_leclerc competing? i’ve won it 🏆

jadenhossler: bro, you need to get a grip, she's not gonna run away. → lando.jpg: @jadenhossler she’s perfect, what am I supposed to do? 😩

kyliejennerfan01: no cap, Amelie’s outfit was fire 🔥🔥

maxfewtrell: How many takes did you need to get that one, mate? 😂 → landonorris: @maxfewtrell 47. It was worth it. 😎

ameliedayman: I swear you just like making me blush on the internet 😭💖 → landonorris: @ameliedayman You’re making it hard to not shout about you everywhere. 😏

alex_albon: if you blink again, it might be a little much for the camera 😅 → lando.jpg: @alex_albon totally worth it though. No regrets 💯

lando_norris_fan42: "You blinked and she’s prettier"—bro, you’re just a simp 😂

f1_lover22: Can’t lie, this post has me weak in the knees. Couple goals, honestly. 😍 → f1.racingfan: @f1_lover22 I’m pretty sure they are the definition of couple goals at this point.

mickschumacherfan: why am I getting emotional over this??? → f1melancholy: @mickschumacherfan Same. These two make me believe in love again. 🥲

f1fansforever: this account is turning into an Amelie fan account and I’m living for it 😂

[thesunloveschips]

Eye of the Storm - Chapter 18: Renewed Desire

Summary: In the wake of Rhysand’s ascension as High Lord, the Bone Carver gifts a prophecy. More than five hundred years later, Azriel continues to wait for the one who is finally reborn as his High Lady’s sister. All it takes is a dip in the Cauldron for things to start falling into place.

Chapter Summary: In an attempt to help them, Lucien invites the sisters for a journey. The shadows always take her side. Two years later, Azriel and Nyra finally let their desires take over. (SMUT FROM THE NEXT CHAPTER)

Author's message: From this chapter onwards, I will not follow the original plot. There will be a timeskip among other changes.

@feerique always and eternally grateful to you!!✨✨

Word count: 5.5k (Enjoy!!)

Click here to access the Masterlist of the Eye of the Storm

****

After the war, the  Cauldron made Archerons were dragged into politics with Vassa’s request to draft a new treaty. 

The twins worked on the draft treaty and correspondences while Elain helped out those affected by the war in Velaris. 

And one fine day, Lucien paid a visit. Nesta answered the door. 

“We’re the only ones here. You’ll have to go to the River House for the others.” Nesta sounded dull. 

“My lady.” He bowed. “I’m here to speak to the three of you.” 

Nesta blinked and quietly made way for his entry. She closed the door and held his gaze before she turned and entered the house. “Come with me.” 

They moved towards the corridor and stopped in front of a room. Nesta knocked on the door. “We have a visitor.”

Papers shuffled, wood moved against wood, fabrics swished, and Nyra Archeron opened the door. The lightning wielder saw Lucien and exited the room, closing the door behind her. 

They reached the backyard where Elain was planting saplings. Elain immediately turned and met Lucien’s gaze. Nesta cleared her throat. “He wishes to speak to us.” 

Elain quietly set aside her tools, stood up, brushed off the dirt on her hands, and joined them. She looked at him, her gaze unwavering. “Yes?” 

The male was now definitely entranced. Probably because she was addressing him for the first time. 

“Before I begin, let me clarify that I’m not suggesting this because. . .” The autumn-born trailed away, looking at Elain. She tilted her head in a Nyra fashion. “I’d like all three of you to come with me.”

“Why?” Nesta was not even harsh. 

“A change in scenery.” 

Silence prevailed before Elain spoke. “The sunlight here is not that great.”

“What kind of change in scenery?” Nyra had only asked and Lucien had begun advertising all the different places he’d travel to after leaving Night.

“We’re not used to travelling. We’ll only burden you.” Nesta was cordial with her implied refusal but he was adamant. 

“I’m going for diplomatic discussions. It won’t be hectic. It’ll give you more ideas for the treaty drafting.” Lucien paused looking at Nyra before shooting his next question. “And wouldn’t you like to see the world?” 

The lightning wielder looked up at him, clearly intrigued. “Are you prepared for this?”

“I can only try, my lady.” He honestly answered. 

“Do you understand what this means?” Elain finally asked. 

“You are people. I know how to behave around people.” He answered, looking straight into those brown eyes. 

“That’s not what I meant.” She retorted. 

“I also understand that you’ll have your cycles. I have helped my mother with hers so there’s no need to worry on that front.” Elain simply blushed as her sense of propriety from her human life prevailed. “I’m a decent cook. And I’ll be ready for whatever you need of me.”

“You need not worry about cooking. We’re good at that.” Elain waved her hand. 

“It’s not just the cycle.” Nesta sighed. “We’re different from other fae. We’re even different from each other.” 

And Lucien remained persistent, silently meeting their gaze in turns. 

“All right.” Nyra was the first to succumb. 

“I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into.” Elain comment lightheartedly. Lucien only stared at her in disbelief.

“Fine.” Nesta agreed.

“Do you have any pending works I can assist with?”

Nesta opened her mouth to refuse but she halted. She contemplated the offer and met his gaze with more acceptance. “Actually, yes.” 

“I’ll join you after this.” Elain nodded at him and quickly returned to her work. 

“It’s nearly dinner time.” Nyra mused. 

“Shall I cook something?” Lucien offered. The twins looked at him blankly. 

“When I accepted your assistance for pending works, it was not for household chores.” Nesta wondered why he would even offer to cook for them right now. 

“We can dine outside.” Nyra suggested.

“Eula’s.” Elain called from the distance. 

“Eula’s, it is.” Nyra looked at the sky, its pink and violet hues bringing the night. 

“Come with me, Lucien.” Nesta began. “I’d like your opinion on something.” The flame wielders headed inside. 

Nyra continued to stare at the sky as she reached Elain. “Does his presence bother you?” 

“Quite the opposite.” Elain whispered. “Is it the bond or is it him that calms me?”

“Maybe, you’ll know soon.” Nyra walked away. 

An hour later, they had dressed and departed. Eula’s was a fifteen minute walk. Many people greeted Elain, having interacted during her daily visits to the city. Neither twin interacted with anyone. Lucien smiled politely at a few familiar faces. They reached Eula’s nearly half an hour later. 

****

The shadowsinger was already sitting on the roof of the building opposite the one where Eula’s was. He’d seen Nyra as she walked with her sisters and that redheaded bastard. 

Green silk wrapped her body and flowed with her every movement. Hair in a loose bun with curls escaping near her ears. 

When was this female ever going to let him have his senses? 

Every single time he saw her, she consumed him wholly. 

He wanted to be near her, touch her, kiss her, and whisper sweet things to her. 

Could she ever give him a moment to catch his breath?

And then he remembered.

She was going to leave. 

His heart cracked. 

And the shadows were wailing. 

But if this is what was needed. If this is what she needed to regain her spirits. He’d support her. 

****

Azriel winnowed in front of the townhouse. He was nervous. He felt pathetic. Maybe, he should’ve come after a while. They’d only just returned from dinner. 

As soon as his shadows were about to take him away, the door opened. 

Nyra watched him with wide eyes and took a step outside. The shadows stopped and let him be. More shadows were around her wrist.

Fuck. 

Fuck. 

This beautiful creature, brilliant and full of wonders. What had he ever done to deserve a mating bond with her? 

“Were you leaving?” She whispered. 

“Yes.”

“And now?”

“I want to stay.” 

That moment filled with tenderness and intimacy they shared before the High Lords’ meet bloomed again. From when she’d kissed the corner of his lips. 

“Come in.” She led Azriel to the office she’d taken over and he closed the door behind him. 

Silence prevailed as she sat on her desk, now empty of all the papers and pens. Nyra looked at her hands. “I’m leaving.”

“I know.” 

She looked up at him.

“They told me.” She nodded and looked at the black snakes crawling around her fingers.

Azriel did not know what to say. He wanted her to stay but if this is what she wanted then how could he say otherwise? 

What if this is what she needed? A change? 

Change helped him a lot. He learned how to fly, cook, sew, kill, maim, and so much more. Perhaps he’d changed for the better and worse. 

The bond between them thrummed silently, a reminder of life. The storms in her mind were chaotic.

He walked forward and stopped two steps away from her. “May I?”

“What are you asking?”

“To touch you.” He heard her breath hitch. She nodded.

“Words, Nyra.”

She looked at him, eyes gleaming. “Yes.” 

Azriel wrapped her in a hug, his entire frame covering her like a shield against the world. There was no one but them. 

Nyra wrapped her hands around his torso. 

“Be safe.” He felt her nod against his chest. “Be happy.” Another nod. “Write to me.” She raised her chin, rested it against his chest,  and looked up at him. 

Gods fucking damn this world. 

She was too fucking adorable like this. 

He never wanted to let go.

“You’ll write to me too?” She whispered. 

And he smiled. “I’ll write to you too. But I may delay when I’m on a mission.”

“Mhm.” 

Azriel brushed the hair away from her forehead and kissed her there. 

“Have you had dinner?” She asked. 

Azriel went rigid. “No.” 

“Shall I prepare something then?” He was blank for all but a second before he began panicking. The shadows began cheering and panicking. 

She’s accepting? No, she wasn’t. 

She’s only offering food. She doesn’t know. Exactly. 

Of course, she doesn’t know. Because he was a fucking coward, that’s why.

Should we apply for leave? No!

A month? A month? Why were these idiots going overboard? 

Master hasn’t had sex in fifty two years. Owing to Amarnatha’s reign and the overload of work before his mating bond with Nyra snapped. 

He’s become a beacon of celibacy.

Does master remember how to bed a woman? What? 

How to please our mistress? What even? 

He’s going to embarrass us. What in the everloving fuck?

“Have you had dinner?” Azriel managed to ask between his shadows’ commentary. 

“Yes. I can cook-”

“I’ll eat at the House. I don’t want to bother you.”

“Nonsense.” She leaned back to look at him properly. Nyra seemed mad at how he spoke about himself. “You’re not a bother.”

A silence settled between them. He played with the baby hairs on her forehead and the side of her ears and Nyra enjoyed it as she felt ticklish. 

“How are your nightmares?” She asked. His hand near her ear stopped playing with her ear and dropped to her shoulder. 

“Manageable.” He was lying. 

“And the headaches?” 

“Tolerable.” Another lie. 

“You’re a terrible liar.” 

“Lying is a part of my job description. I’m famously good at it.” Azriel tried to lighten the mood with an awkward smile. She sees through you.

“Unbelieve.” She was playing with his hair when she traced his ears. He loved her touch. He wanted more of it. “Your ears remind me of when I was human.”

“Bad memories?” 

“Bad and good.” She seemed to be lost as she traced the curve of his ear. Azriel sighed, her touch a reminder that the world was worth something. 

She was still wearing that green silk. Her neck craned to look at his face and he only wanted to kiss her. This was unbearable. 

“I’ll take your leave now.” He kissed her left hand and let the shadows take him away even as she called his name. 

****

The next day right before dawn, Rhysand stood at a distance from the townhouse with Lucien. “Day Court?”

“Yes, I’ve received a welcoming reply for our arrival.” 

Rhysand wondered when Lucien would discover his paternity. Politics was such a twisted thing and he only pitied the male who was unaware he’d be inevitably dragged into it even more than he already was. “If anything happens-”

“I know. You’ll slit my throat.”

“I was going to tell you to call out for me. If you’re anywhere in the Middle, then contact might be difficult so be prepared for greater risks.”

“Why would we go to the Middle?” Lucien looked at him oddly. 

“You’ll find that your mate is curious about plant life in the Middle. The twins may be drawn towards the monsters.”

“The Weaver?” 

“We won the war but three ancient gods are now free.” The twin gods and Bryaxis were released for war and were now free to roam the lands even though recent reports suggested their presence in the Middle. 

“What if the monsters are drawn to them?” 

“Elain’s power shouldn’t. The twins will.” Rhysand sighed. “I’ll ask Azriel.” He closed his eyes and sighed. His power thrummed and the next minute, the Spymaster joined them from a swirl of shadows. 

“What?” 

“Brooding already, brother? The sun hasn’t even risen.” Rhysand smirked. 

“And what are you doing here?” Azriel coldly asked, turning towards a larger fae cloaked in greying rags. 

The Suriel grinned, displaying its sharp teeth. Its face turned to the townhouse standing at a distance. 

Nyra Archeron appeared at the balcony in a nightdress and a robe, stretching her arms. And then she turned to look straight at Azriel. 

His breath hitched. If he could ever wake up to that sight, embracing that beautiful female, he’d count himself blessed. 

“Blessed you are indeed, shadowsinger.” The Suriel’s ominous voice spoke. “And even more blessed you will be.” The wind took those words and carried them away to the world. 

The Suriel took a step only to see a flash of lightning as Nyra emerged. It grinned and folded in the middle, a casual bow. “Greetings to the Sovereign of the Skies.” 

Azriel’s shadows were with her, twirling around her hands and hair and the hem of her nightdress.

“Your robe looks fantastic, Conqueror of the Cauldron.”

At that comment, the shadows slashed the Suriel, dismembering a leg. It kneeled with the other and cackled. As though it had been misted, the ghastly creature disappeared. 

Azriel walked over to her. The shadows had produced a cloak which materialised on her shoulders. They wrapped her up nicely in it, tying all the knots for her. 

Nyra frowned at him, probably for fleeing like that last night. She closed her eyes and buried her face in the cloak. Fur tickled her cheeks and she removed her face. The cold made her blush. “Rhys? Lucien?”

“Hello, Nyra.”

“Good morning.”

“Hello, hello. Good morning.” She was unusually cheerful for someone who’d frowned at him. 

Why did you run away? Here we go. Again. When were they going to stop reprimanding him like a child?

She thinks you rejected her. What?

You should listen to her when she speaks. 

Oh fucking fuck. He didn’t. Azriel could never reject her. He would never dare. 

“You’re in a good mood.” Rhys remarked fondly, a tone Azriel remembered had been reserved for Maia and now, Nyra.

“Nesta made hot chocolate. And none of us are having nightmares these days.” 

“And you’re still sleepy.” Lucien eased into the conversation. Azriel wondered if last night’s dinner had increased the familiarity between him and the sisters. 

“It’s winter.” She pouted. Azriel would have a heart attack any time soon if she remained that adorable. “I’d rather be in bed than anywhere else.” 

“We’re to leave soon. I hope you haven’t forgotten.” Lucien reminded. They were going to leave this afternoon. The Day Court was the first destination. 

“I remember.” And she was going to leave thinking he’d rejected her. But she was just too pretty for him to stay in her presence and remain sane. 

Azriel took a step forward and she immediately glared at him and then turned to Rhys. “I need to freshen up. Meet you later?”

“We’ll meet you after breakfast.” Rhysand assured. 

****

Azriel, being his calm, stoic self with no ability to communicate the deepest of his feelings, watched quietly as Nyra and her sisters left with Lucien. She spared him a withering glance before the party winnowed away. 

Once they left, the shadows began screaming. You better write to her, you stupid male. 

Beg for her forgiveness. 

You’re a grown adult. Miscommunication at this age is disgusting. For a Spymaster, he had fucked up in communicating vital information to his mate. 

Get your shit together before someone else sweeps her away. 

There’s no shortage of males or females who’d want her attention and affection. 

They wouldn’t shut up. They kept on screaming and yelling so much that he winnowed away to his mother’s house for comfort, knowing they’d behave around her. 

****

Two years later. 

Azriel knew he had fucked up. He was the one who’d proposed the idea of writing and he was also the one who’d stopped correspondence. 

Despite Nyra being upset with him, they’d written to each other and then there was a mission that lasted too long. 

He assumed that a pause warranted an explanation but his draft letters were unsatisfactory and he ended up not sending a letter or replying to hers. He even disappeared when she visited. 

It had been nearly four months since they stopped corresponding and two years since she’d left Velaris. 

Azriel couldn’t do this. He couldn’t live without seeing her, or talking to her, or feeling her. He wanted to lose his senses to her. 

He was also scared. 

Because she was his equal and identical in one particular aspect—they did not forgive or forget as evinced by how she’d killed her mother. And this much might have been enough for her to consider him a traitor. 

And with fear and need, he finally showed up at the Archeron residence with her favourite cheesecake. 

****

The living room of the manor was a scene from a horror novel. Probably because Nesta was glaring at Azriel from the armchair she had seated herself on. 

“I’m sorry.” He bowed his head. He’d been so afraid of Nyra’s reaction that he’d forgotten that Nesta Archeron was a terrifying female. 

“I hope you’ve made arrangements for your funeral.” She was frosty one moment and then gave him an overly cheerful smile. “I’m looking forward to that.” 

Nesta was really looking forward to his death. Surely, Nyra was not that harsh. Right? 

The door opened loudly and Nyra marched in, eager and bright as she called her twin. “Nesta, there’s. . .” 

She was radiant in silver, he wanted to kneel and beg for everything. 

His heartbeat felt heavy, the organ ready to break through his ribs. His mouth parted and throat dried and he did not say anything. He had no words no matter how many times he’d rehearsed his apology. 

And then Nyra noticed Azriel, who stood up instantly. He was nervous and anxious and so many things but she simply dismissed his existence and started talking to Nesta about a new novel. 

The twins chatted for not more than two minutes before promising to resume the conversation later. Nyra turned on her heel and headed towards the door when her name escaped his lips. 

“Who are you?” She sounded like she’d met an unpleasant creature and she’d rather be anywhere else. 

The shadowsinger flinched. “It’s me. Azriel.”

“Come to think of it. I knew someone by that name.” Thunder roared outside. “That Azriel who did not write for four months?” 

“I-”

“Or was it that Azriel who did not bother showing his face for the past year?” Oh, she was so gloriously merciless. 

“Nyra. .”

“I thought he was dead.” She smiled so sweetly and Azriel heard Nesta snort. “Since he did not visit or write.”

“I’m alive, Nyra.” He moved closer.

“Shall I rectify that?” Lightning crackled at her fingertips as she raised her hand. 

“Please. .” It was foolish to avoid our precious mistress. 

She spared him nothing before walking away. Azriel followed her. “Nyra. Please. Just listen to me.” 

Nyra simply walked as if he didn’t exist and entered her room. He followed and caught her wrist. When she turned back, Azriel was greeted with indifference. 

“I had a mission that lasted a month and I wrote letters and never sent them because I didn’t think any of them was adequate enough reply and by the time I wrote a decent letter, five months had passed and I’d already heard that you were furious and I-ow!” 

Nyra smacked his arm, interrupting his rant. “What’s the point of writing letters if you can’t be bothered to send them?” 

Azriel took a step back in response to her advancing towards him. He moved around the bed only to be chased after. She was furious. “You could’ve just visited.” 

“I had another mission.” 

“That’s what letters are for.” She grabbed a bottle of something and threw it at him. The shadows caught it and gently set it down where it was. “No, don’t protect him.” She took a pen. “Let him feel everything.” 

“Nyra, please.”

“You fucking idiot!” The pen hit him. He caught the empty vase. Clearly, the shadows were siding with her. And then she grabbed a dagger. “You and your stupidity warrants everything I throw at you.” Exactly!

“Sweetheart, that’s a dagger.” Azriel only processed the sound of the weapon landing on the wooden column behind him. His wings dropped. 

“You repeat this again and I won’t miss.” Gods, she was so beautiful—all feral and angry at him. At him. 

Oh, this marvellous female. 

He wanted to drown in her.

And she picked up a sword. Where did she even get that from? We gave it to her. 

“Nyra.” And his every call of her name was a prayer. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

“Sorry?” The apology did not have the intended effect. Lightning coursed from her palm to the sword. “How dare you throw your flimsy apologies at me after no contact for months?” 

“I know. Let me-”

“Months. Months! And you think you deserve to be pardoned?” Thunder roared like a chained beast demanding freedom.

“My drafts were not good enough.” 

“I did not want perfection from your letters, I wanted you.” Nyra threw the sword away and looked around for something else to throw at him. “I wanted to know if you were alive, breathing, healthy, and you delivered nothing.” She removed her slipper and aimed for his face. Azriel dodged it in time. 

And she stopped pacing around, stopped picking up things. Nyra simply stopped and Azriel travelled through the shadows in front of her and took her in his arms. 

“You were worried about me?” Azriel asked while praying silently.

Nyra struggled against his grip. “How dare you question that? You absolute-”

“I won’t. I won’t. I swear I won’t.” He hugged her tighter. Nyra began to relax. The shadows gently pried the sword from her hand. 

Azriel picked her up and deposited her on the table. He let go of her but his hands remained on either side of her, supporting himself and cornering her so she wouldn’t escape. 

Azriel leaned forward and brushed their noses against each other. 

A soft feeling came to life. 

The same as what bloomed back when they’d shared a moment before Azriel departed for the High Lords’ Meet two years ago. Before Nyra left Velaris.

The scales began leaning towards balance as Azriel and Nyra breathed against each other. 

Desire renewed itself and buried affections began sprouting. 

Azriel saw her eyelashes and her cheeks glowing golden under the lights. She was breathing heavily after her outburst as she watched her hands play with a strap on his leathers. And he was desperate to meet her gaze. 

He placed his hand on her shoulder and let the thumb graze her collarbone. The hand ascended to her neck and stayed there while his thumb traced her chin and pushed it upward so that she would look at him. Midnight blue greeted him gently. 

“Inconsiderate ass.” She mumbled. The warmth was returning to her and Azriel was relieved. 

The shadows carefully floated over to her and one brave tendril tugged at her finger. She looked at it and turned her hand to show her palm as a sign of her consent. More shadows appeared. The remaining ones slowly brought to her many crumpled papers, all of it raining in the room. 

All the drafts master wrote for you. 

And for the first time, Nyra looked at the shadows in shock. Because she could hear them. 

“These are his drafts?” She slowly looked around her.

Yes, drafts from the very first letter he wrote to you. He thought we threw it away but we saved. . . You can hear us? 

“Yes.” She replied. And she heard them cheering like a little band of children. 

And in the middle of it all stood Azriel, surprised that she could hear them. 

Could you try to speak to us from your mind? That’s how our tactless master communicates with us? They sounded all too eager to talk to Nyra.

Like this? And when Nyra succeeded, they cheered again. She smiled at the dark wisps as they gently pushed her towards the dining table. 

We’ve got cheesecake for you, mistress. And from a pocket of shadows, the cheesecake Azriel had purchased earlier appeared. 

Thank you. She was happy. 

I was the one who bought it. Azriel deadpanned. 

Azriel? Nyra’s voice in his mind had him flustered. 

We apologise on behalf of our master. He can be an idiot at times. The shadows easily intervened. 

Azriel immediately raised his mental shields before contemplating. The mating bond now seemed stronger. Did that have anything to do with Nyra being able to hear the shadows? 

Yes. He’s an idiot. Nyra replied dryly. What have you lot been up to? Surely not brooding by his side. She was utterly happy while addressing the shadows. 

We missed you. Azriel was convinced the bastards were trying to flirt with her. And our master was the only one brooding because he was too afraid to send you letters. 

Your master is an established idiot. 

That he is. The woe to belong to someone as grumpy as he. The shadows had now begun bitching about him, right under his nose. He’s insufferable when he writes letters to you, mistress. His attention to detail is agonising. 

“Why are you troubling them?” She watched him with an easy smile but his gaze had changed. It was heated and all the lightheartedness thawed, making room for something heavier. 

“May I?” His voice was deeper than it usually was and Azriel was obviously looking at her lips. Nyra wanted this. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted this two years ago and even now. How had things not changed?

“Yes.” Her consent was probably the most commemorative thing that had ever happened in his life. Azriel brought his other hand down from her neck which pulled her closer by the hip. 

Their lips were close. Still so close and still not touching. So when Nyra leaned forward and pressed a chaste kiss, leaned back, and looked up at him intently, Azriel moved and devoured her.  

Nyra loved his mouth on hers, his hand on the back of her neck. Absolutely enjoyed him taking control and demanding every bit of her. 

Her head leaned back and even further and Azriel grabbed it before it hit the wall. When he moved a little away from her, leaving her gasping after their kiss, Azriel looked like he had every intention to make her moan. 

“What. . .” She rasped, hauling air inside her like he was. 

“Hold on to me.” Because he was not going to accept her grabbing anything other than him—not the table, not the sheets, it had to be him. 

Her hands wrapped themselves around his neck, fingers combing his hair, nails grazing his scalp inducing a soothing sensation. “Good girl.” 

His mouth moved to her jaw and descended to her neck, sucking harshly. She had such supple skin, he never wanted to take his mouth off her. 

“Beautiful.” He looked up at her. She was flushed and breathless. Her hair messier than before, the straps of her gown removed from her shoulder, two purple marks on her neck and collarbone. And the sight of her hurt so deliciously. 

“Tell me I can touch you more.” Azriel was begging now. “Tell me I can undress you.” 

Nyra might’ve fainted right then. Or maybe she wanted him to make her faint. The shadows were too much. Felt too good with their fluttery touches. 

She’d had sex before but . . what was this? This was new. 

Was it because he was her friend? 

Because she already found him attractive? 

Because she’d already been half way in love with him? 

“Yes.” Her hand cupping his jaw moved and she touched his lips with her thumb. Nyra leaned in and kissed him, relishing in the slow start and their passionate progress.

Her skirts were now a bother, forming layers  between them. And her slippers, why were they not off? One of them was stubbornly dangling off her feet. And then she felt the cool touch of the shadows remove her slippers and slide up her legs. 

“Do the shadows. . .” She broke the kiss and looked up at him. “Do they always participate?”

“They are?” He looked dumbfounded. 

“They’re teasing my legs.” 

Azriel spared the dark tendrils a glance, his eyebrows raised. “That’s a first.” He mumbled to himself. 

Nyra did not understand why this new piece of information made her feel special. And she moaned, head leaning back and closing her eyes. They’d pinched her inner thigh. And Azriel eagerly bit her neck. 

Her breathing was already heavy and stuttered. And Nyra wanted to fall, so down. But Azriel squeezed her waist. She opened her eyes to see this beautiful male starving for her, waiting to feast. 

“Bed?” Nyra nodded quickly. He scooped her up, hoping he’d last long enough to give her pleasure. 

It had been quite some time since he last had sex. Nearly fifty two years. Forty nine something years busy worrying about Rhys and plotting to get him back and around two years since the mating bond. 

Restrain me if I’m too rough. Obey her without question or complaint. Because if he was going to do this, he had to ensure a safeguard for her. 

Yes, master. The shadows solemnly vowed. 

This was everything he wanted. Nyra in his arms and his mouth on her. And he would burst because this female was indescribably endearing. Her hand came to his shoulders and then on his chest. 

“Off.” She whispered against his lips. “Take it off.” 

Azriel tapped a siphon and the leathers on his upper body dematerialised. He removed his siphon-attached gloves and let the shadows set them down. He felt his boots unbuckle as the shadows helped him out of it. 

Nyra felt the cotton of her sheets on her palms as she was set down by the side of the bed. Azriel leaned back and stood straight. Impatient at his own shadows for taking long, he yanked the boots from his legs and threw them away. 

Meanwhile, Nyra gathered her hair and brought it forward from one side. The shadows immediately swarmed over to unzip the dress and pulled it down, helping her out of it. 

Azriel felt tortured at heaven’s doorstep. Nyra in black made him want to kneel. 

His hands went to his belt and unbuckled it with speed and ease. Unbuttoning his pants and letting the shadows pull them down immediately while he moved closer. His undershorts remained. 

“Are you sure?” He placed a hand on her cheek. 

Nyra was looking at him, his body. She placed a hand on his chest, on the scar left behind by Jurian’s spear. A reminder of the day her sisters were Made into fae. She stood up and kissed the scar. 

She looked up at him coyly. “Do I need to write a letter that you might not answer?” 

Azriel raised his hand to the back of her throat and ascended to tangle his fingers on her hair. Azriel pulled her soft, thick hair and her gasps were beautiful. 

“I’ll write you as many letters as you want. For now, I’d show you all that cannot be written.” 

Nyra smiled, amused at that. “There are smutty books. Many things are written in those.” 

Azriel smiled faintly. “Not for us.” He kissed her ear. “We’re real.” He whispered. 

Nyra’s knees weakened. And she sat on the bed as if she’d been dropped. And he was on his knees, parting her legs. 

She leaned back, supporting her body with her elbows and watched his kiss and lick and suck her thighs. 

She felt herself become more sensitive as each second passed. Her back felt the cold of the sheets. Goosebumps were all over her hands and upper body. Her legs were warm and wherever Azriel placed his mouth, Nyra felt heat. 

And she could feel her damp underwear sticking to her. “Stop teasing.” 

“Patience is a virtue.” He was so close. He kissed her inner thigh. Azriel had half a mind to rest his head against that incredibly soft thigh. Maybe he’d finally get some good sleep. 

“I’m not feeling particularly virtuous right now.” To know that she desired him brought him peace and then his own desire rattled that peace.

“As if I’m any better.” Azriel chuckled faintly. And he bit her inner thigh once, pulled the fabric of her underwear aside and licked. 

Nyra wanted to breathe. She really did. But Azriel was gently licking her as if he were savouring her taste. It was the first time but she would probably cry or scream if he kept on teasing her anymore. 

Heat filled her as she met his gaze. Breathing had become a legitimate task because she couldn’t seem to do it unconsciously.

His hands which remained on her inner thighs moved. He now held her thighs from below and lifted it. With no difficulty, he’d placed her legs on his shoulders. 

The shadows snipped her panties and disposed of it, leaving behind their cool touch. And Azriel whispered. “Lie down, Nyra. And take all of me.”

****

TAGLIST:

@waytoomanyteenagefeels @impossibelle @esposadomd @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @judig92 @bunnyredgirl @sh4nn @a-frog-with-a-laptop @kattzillaa @ronnieglennn @wallacewillow0773638 @forgiveliv @justdreamstars @donttellthecats @cat-or-kitten @jojodojo02 @wandas-dream @evylynny @weasleyreidstyles @stqrgirlies-blog @why4anne @acourtofdreamsandshadows @saltedcoffeescotch @mybestfriendmademe @macimads @footyandformula @noelli-smv @mqlfoyelf @thehighlordishere @slytherintaco @spideytingley @deeshag @footyandformula @nebarious @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @prettylittlewrites @lilah-asteria @5onedirection5 @hanitastic @sevikas-whore @krowiathemythologynerd @myladysapphire @freyagallileaevans @azrielrot @rcarbo1 @i-am-infinite @latinxbipride @moni-cah @fantanbietsson @julsgrace @angel-graces-world-of-chaos @byunniebaekhyunnie @fhgsvbnh @halo-mystic