#AND WHEN HE STOPPED WORKING THERE YOU THEN SAID FUCK IT AND MOVED BACK TO RUSSIA TO APPEASE THE GHOST OF YOUR DAD

[cavillscurls]

you came? ⟡ you called.

no-outbreak!joel miller x f!reader (feat. miss sarah miller)

It still seems impossible to let you go, especially when life gets tough.

warnings/tags: no outbreak au. joel & reader dated when she was finishing college, and he is in his late 30s. sarah is six. angst. breakups. family drama. classism & the discussions of wealth. right person, wrong time. depictions of depression & anxiety. sarah is involved in a car accident (she is ok!). hospitals. fluff. girl!dad joel. heightened emotions. unresolved feelings. hurt/comfort. ambiguous but happy ending. <3 reader is physically nondescript, but contains an individualized backstory. not beta'd & only slightly proofread. wc: 3.3k

He missed the call.

His baby girl was in the hospital, and he missed the fucking call.

It’s difficult not to feed into guilt as he rushes through the haze-ridden streets across town, pelts of rainwater hitting his windshield. Curses are spewed under his breath, and he feels the burn in his sinuses and the tremble in his chin, how his throat feels thick with every nervous swallow.

It appears they lost some control with how slick the roads have been, is what they’d said when he called back.

The nurse's voice was even and lackluster in a way that Joel knows is irrational to be bothered with, but he’s unable to reason. He doesn’t understand how the rest of the world can keep spinning when his feels like it’s falling apart.

Both kids and Mrs. Watson are alright, but we are concerned your daughter may have sustained a bit of head trauma from bumping into the window, and we took her back for a CT scan to be on the safe side.

He doesn’t blame Margie Watson, even in this irrational state of mind. Sarah and her son have always gotten along well, and she has been kind enough for the last two years to carpool Sarah home with them three days a week when his outrageous work schedule wouldn’t allow the time. It could’ve happened to anyone, anywhere.

Still, he wonders why now? Why his little girl?

His hair is flattened with rainwater when he bursts into the emergency room lobby. He’s not even sure he turned off the truck engine, but that seems of little importance as he stumbles toward the front desk, frantic eyes darting every which way to get a sense of where she may have been taken.

He’s had to do this—the waiting and worrying a parent often does for their child whenever they are upset, or sick, or hurt—many times. And every time, he’s done it alone. It’s overwhelming and all-consuming, and he thinks, for a little while, he quite literally forgets how to breathe. Has to forcibly rise and contract his chest to gulp down the oxygen that keeps his body moving, if only to be certain his baby comes out better for it on the other side.

Sweat pools at his temples. His heart is beating so violently in his chest, he hardly registers the woman at the desk speaking.

“We’ve got you all checked in, Mr. Miller. We also want to inform you that we went ahead and called the second number listed under Sarah’s emergency contacts.”

This gets his attention. His brows scrunch together. “Second—?”

“Joel?”

Air rushes back into his lungs, and there is the momentary sensation of relief. The memories flood, ones that he often tries to repress to no avail.

He blinks once. Twice. He thinks he’s gone absolutely fucking mad.

But then you’re cautiously stepping towards him, the glint in your eyes nearly as frantic as his, arms somewhat outstretched as if you’re ready to take him by the shoulders. Ground him as you have so many times before. Steady him when that feeling creeps in—the one he’s disregarded for decades in hopes that it would magically disappear—and stop the ground from falling beneath his feet.

You were always the stable one. Enduring and confident. All his loyalty and handiness couldn’t make up for what you did to his mind.

You were the calm.

Despite how crazy he was for you, Joel had never fit into your life. At least, not into your family’s mold of what your life should be.

Sarah was only ten months old when you met. It’s funny, measuring the passage of time through the years of his daughter. But she entered the world as the center of his universe, and everything that came to them after was simply pulled in by her orbit.

He wasn’t in any place to be meeting people, let alone dating as a newly single father, coping with an abandoned relationship. But you were so damn smart. So sweet. Your meeting was happenstance, a mutual friend’s birthday party for which he somehow managed to get the time off and a sitter. You were finishing up your degree and planned to attend grad school in-state. A beautiful girl from a wealthy family whom he somehow managed to charm. And even more importantly, you managed to impress his daughter.

He knew after your fourth date, when he had worked up the courage to finally introduce you to her, that this would be no casual fling. And it wasn’t.

A month turned to six, six months to a year, and suddenly, you were interwoven into each other's every waking moment. Joel had forgotten about the stress and heartache of his previous involvement; it was easy to do so when what was right in front of him felt entirely stable, and good, and real.

For his thirty-fifth birthday, you threw him a surprise party. Normally, such a display would not be his forte. But it was a modest enough affair, only the closest of friends and family, all packed into his backyard with Tommy on the grill and Sarah passing out those pointy party-store birthday hats. You’d strung up some lights, ordered a cake from one of the nicest bakeries in town, and even managed to hire his favorite local band to play for the night.

He remembers the bright smile on your lips so vividly, the smooth way you reached for his shoulder and pressed up onto your toes to kiss his cheek and purr a happy birthday, handsome, in his ear.

He bought the ring the very next day.

And when you said yes, bright, teary eyes and the sweetest smile, he was so happy.

It wasn’t much. He got Tommy to take Sarah for the evening and cooked you a three-course meal. Set a nice cloth along the table, even lit some candles. Placed your favorite record on the turntable. And just before dessert, he asked you to dance. Something that was usually begrudging, like pulling teeth to get him to do it, and you sprang up with elation, letting him twirl you around the living room until he pulled you in close, breathed in the scent from your neck, and asked you to marry him.

He felt your body slow, heard the little gasp from your lips, and when you pulled back to look at him, he could tell you didn’t believe him. He reached into his back pocket for the square velvet box, and the rest was history.

He was so fucking happy.

Your parents, however, did not appear to share the same sentiments.

They had always been kind enough, especially when his daughter was involved. But they were a different kind of people than Joel’s parents were, a different kind of people than he was altogether—old money, an ancestral stake in their town. They expected excellence, and there was no denying the pride they had in your smarts, your ambitions. Their view of the world was limited, chained to glory over happiness.

“This all just seems a bit impulsive, doesn’t it?”

“She has so much ahead of her, you can’t possibly expect her to settle down here!”

“We just wouldn’t want this to hold her back.”

The stress of it all had taken a toll on both of you, and the spring before you left grad school, you called it off.

Last he heard, you had taken a job up in one of the Dakotas.

Seeing you now? It feels like a stab to his already churning gut.

“Hey,” he finally hears himself say, but his voice doesn’t sound like his.

“Hey… hi.”

You’re a little out of breath, eyebrows pulled taut on your forehead, and his heart aches at the sight. He’s seen you this way, loving, concerned, more times than he can count. He never thought he’d see it—especially not for him—ever again.

You lift your left hand to rub soothingly across your cheek.

He doesn’t see a ring.

“Thank you, um,” he starts again, feeling all sorts of discombobulated, “you-you didn’t have to—”

You shake your head.

“Of course I did.”

And he looks at you now. Really looks at you, and he feels like you can see right through him. He feels that tightness creep into his throat again, and before he knows it, you’re expelling a shaky sigh and surging towards him. His arms open immediately.

The press of your body is anchoring, and he’s grateful that he can bury his tear-welling eyes in the mask of your hair. He squeezes them tight, focusing on the way you hold him, and the euphoric rush of getting to hold you. He never thought he’d get the chance again.

“Did you see her?” he croaks into your neck.

He feels you nod. “Only briefly when they brought her in,” you explain, softer now, voice wavering just like his. “She was awake. She was okay. Just looked a little shaken up.”

This relieves him. It’s nearly the same information the nurses gave him, but hearing it from you feels different. Genuine, like he doesn’t have to second-guess whether or not it’s worse than they’re making it out to be.

“Didn’t know they still had your information,” he grumbles, shaking his head. He realizes he’s held on too long, just a moment past acceptable, and starts to loosen his arms. “I can ask them to change it—”

“No,” you interject, peering up at him now like he’s said something of great offense. But the sharpness hastily wilts away, and you worry your bottom lip with your teeth, carefully slithering your arms off of him and crossing them over your stomach. You take a single step back, and his chest aches. “I mean, I… I’m happy to stay on as long as you need me to.”

He could ask Tommy. Albeit most of the time, if Joel’s busy, so is he. He contemplates his other options, and not much comes to mind. Then, he considers that this may be your way of asking if there are any other options. The thought, while arguably a long shot, stirs him.

He considers his next words carefully.

“I’m… m’sure she’s glad it was you,” he murmurs, and the crease between your brows softens. “Considerin’ I was no fuckin’ help.”

The crease returns.

“Don’t,” you counter, shaking your head. He knows that look. Knows you mean business. “Don’t do that. You couldn’t have possibly expected this.”

He knows he can’t argue. He’s tried countless times. Instead, he sighs. Hangs his head, props his hands on his hips, and taps an antsy foot.

“What’re you—”

He has to bite his tongue. What’re you even doing here? He wants to ask, but he cowers from the harshness. Braces himself for the fear of even asking.

“I mean… you’re here,” he opts for. “Didn’t expect you to be here.”

He peers up at you through hooded eyes, chin still tilted in shame, and your arms loosen until they finally fall slack at your sides. He wonders how this feels for you, if it’s just as anxiety-inducing as it is for him.

“Yeah, I um. I moved back in October,” you explain, seeming to hesitate before: “My dad’s not doin’ too well.”

His eyebrows shoot up, and then, a deep-set frown. He knows he isn’t your father’s favorite. Hell, your father ain’t his favorite either, but it’s not the news he was hoping to hear.

“M’sorry to hear that,” he says earnestly, and you thank him softly, sniffling.

He has a million questions. He doesn’t think there’s enough time left in his life to ask them all. And he finds himself panicking a little, sifting through each and every one of them, trying to choose the right one.

Just as he thinks he’s landed on it, a nurse in blue scrubs is approaching in his peripheral.

“Mister and Misses Miller?” she chirps.

You both turn your heads, but Joel hears the quiet gasp of air you intake, and sees the way your mouth hangs open, on the precipice of rebuttal.

“Is she ready for us?” Joel asks, never giving you the chance. Never even bothering to correct her himself. There are small wins in this, like the way your eyes flutter over to him in silent inquisition—no ill-will, just curiosity.

The nurse smiles. “Yeah, y’all are welcome to come on back.”

She winds you both through the sterile halls until he sees a sign that reads PEDIATRICS. He’s so aware of your footstep behind him, following closely. He has the momentary urge to reach back, seek out your hand, and with it, your comfort. But he refrains. Squeezes that same hand into a fist, and scolds himself for how foolishly simple it is to fall back into old habits.

The nurse stops at door 241 and taps her knuckles lightly three times before opening the door and letting you both inside.

The familiar sound of Barbie: Swan Lake is on the television. He knows this because it plays through about four times a day in the living room. Although most of the time, it’s accompanied by the unsteady little girl in her tutu in front of the screen, replicating each sequence more and more precisely each day.

This time, he finds his little girl propped up in the bed pressed against the center of the wall. Her wide eyes dart from the screen to him at the sound of the door, and he sees them well with tears.

His heart breaks. Literally, he thinks it’s cracked in two.

“Daddy!” she calls, and it sounds like she’s exhaling some great burden. A relief. A precious smile and hands reaching toward him despite the pain he’s caused in making her wait.

He’s stalking towards her immediately, crouching down on sore knees beside the bed so she can wrap those outstretched arms around his neck. He puts his own around her tiny body, trying not to hug her too hard despite the unbearable need to have her close. Safe. Always safe with him.

“Hey, babygirl,” he mutters, trying to swallow back tears of his own. And she’s brave, so brave in the way her little body trembles, but she never lets them fall.

When she pulls back, he places a lingering kiss on her forehead.

“M’so sorry I wasn’t here,” he says, tilting his head at her sadly. Her lips turn into a pout, and she reaches her tiny hand to take his much bigger one, giving it a squeeze.

“It’s okay, Daddy.”

He shakes his head. “No, it ain't, baby.” He lifts that same hand up to kiss her knuckles, too. “Can you forgive me?”

Her dimpled smile returns, and Joel thinks maybe the cracks have started to heal. “Can we... get ice cream after this?”

Shared laughter echoes across the room, and the levity of her question lifts the final weight from his chest. Too damn smart for her own good.

“Bribin’ me now, huh?” he asks, tsking his tongue. “Yeah… yeah, I think we can make that happen.”

“Then I forgive you,” Sarah says triumphantly, reaching out to give her father another much-needed embrace. The amused nurse places a clipboard of release papers onto the tray table.

“The CT scan and X-Ray came back entirely normal, Mr. Miller. Safe to assume Sarah is just dealing with a mild concussion due to the impact. Dizziness, sensitivity to the light—” she gestures towards the dimmed switch. “You may notice some bruising or swelling around the forehead—ice is your friend until that goes down. Other than that, just continue to monitor over the next couple of weeks. Lots of rest, ease back into high-intensity activities, and give us a call if anything worsens.”

He nods carefully along with her instructions. “Yeah, of course. Thank you.” The nurse offers all three of you a smile before excusing herself, the door thudding behind her.

The guilt lessens now that she’s here, safe, within reach, staring at him with her big-brown eyes and toothy grin. He feels lightheaded, the adrenaline worn off, and the emotional whiplash of the hours events pumping rapidly through his veins.

“Oh, look!”

Luckily, it’s his Sarah who breaks the deafening silence. Over the sound of whirring machines and stale air, she squeals, reaching under the flimsy blanket. The pulse ox monitor on her tiny finger makes him frown, but what she reveals from hiding can’t help but soothe the soul.

“Look what they gave me, Daddy!”

A little white teddy bear, the kind with a tulle bow tie wrapped around its neck, and a permanent smile stitched across its snout. She squeezes it to her chest and smiles widely, and Joel is met with the endearing sight of her two missing front teeth. They had fallen out only days apart.

He leans in close, all serious like. She giggles.

“You gotta name for ‘em yet?” he asks.

She nods her pretty head of curls three times.

“Paddington.”

“Fantastic choice.”

She laughs again, hugs Paddington tight, and Joel tries to be grateful for a moment. Tries to acknowledge all the hurt and sickness happening in the building around him that somehow did not infiltrate this very room today. Instead, he has a beautiful baby girl with only a bump on her head.

Instead, he’s been reunited with someone just as beautiful. Someone he wonders if he’d ever see again had it not been for what transpired today. He glances your way, finding you leaning casually against the wall with your arms crossed and an enamored look in your eye. You straighten a little when you catch him looking, and he feels compelled to shower you in a gratitude he's not sure he knows how to convey. He owes you, for more reasons than just this.

As if she can read his mind, Sarah’s voice picks up, just above a whisper now:

“Daddy…. Honey’s here.”

He feels himself go red to the tips of his ears.

There’s another breath of shared laughter, endearment, and maybe a bit of awkwardness.

Honey.

Just something he used to call you. Something innocent and fond. Naturally, Sarah picked it up, and eventually, she started calling you it too.

He gives you an apologetic look, and the way you peer back—so fragile, so careful in the way you appraise him and his babygirl—makes his tongue feel heavy. Like that name, that title, still festers there. Like he could scream it at the top of his lungs if it meant one chance to use it again.

“I know she is, baby,” he answers instead, squeezing Sarah’s arm tenderly. “You’ll have to thank her for comin’ all this way to check on you.”

Her eyes dart towards you again, and whatever she finds has them slanting back Joel’s way so sweetly. The kind of look no good father is immune to.

“Can she come get ice cream with us, too?”

His instinct is to decline. Soften the blow with a clever excuse, and talk his way out of big questions that seem too difficult to explain to someone so small, the way he always has.

But the words never come. They die on his tongue that still holds memory. Every word he’s ever spoken, every piece of time remnant with you.

He can’t say it. He won’t.

He looks at you, instead. Your shoulders gone slightly rigid, and your brows piqued with subtle curiosity. Like you’re waiting to see where he takes this next. He swallows hard, swallows down the fear, the regret, and anxiety.

“She’s more than welcome to,” he says, and his daughter beams. “If she’d like.”

He sees the stale lights reflect off your eyes, brimming with tears. Notices the way your chin trembles, and how you press your lips together in a hard line, the way you always do when you want to be brave.

He sees a gleam of hope. Memories swaying between the space you all occupy, assuring him that they aren’t just figments of his imagination, but real, and raw, and true. That they live just as deeply in you.

Your lips part, and he holds his breath.

“I’d love to,” you whisper, just loud enough for him to hear.

He exhales.

He sees a second chance.

And he has every intention of taking it.

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joel miller masterlist

[moonstruckme]

Ohh now that I have permission to request, could I request newgirl au rommates!marauders with a reader who is very independent and tries to do and deal with everything on her own. I mean we know how codependent the boys are and I would love to see how they would interact with a reader who is the complete opposite

Thanks for requesting (you never need permission babe haha) !

roommate!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1k words

Sirius lets out a low whistle, crossing his arms as he leans his hip against the couch to watch you. “Training to leave us for the circus?” 

“Ha ha,” you monotone. Your voice falters slightly as you wobble on the ball of your foot, standing on tiptoe atop a pile of thick books atop a chair in order to reach the uppermost shelf of the bookcase in your sitting room. “Do you guys never clean up here? It’s gross.” 

“Sounds like you’ve just answered your own question,” he says. “Why are you messing with it?” 

“Because,” you strain your reach, running a dusting wand along the shelf and stifling a gasp when your pile of books threatens to tip, “it’s the only empty shelf, and I have stuff to put here.” 

“Shit, babe, can’t your stuff wait a while? Remus will be home soon.” 

“So?” 

“So,” says Sirius, “he’s a tall bloke. He could at least reach up there without so much…peril.”

You make a dismissive noise. “I’ve got it.” 

You overextend your reach a tad, the books leaning precariously. The ball of your foot shuffles a few inches to the left in a semi-frantic instinct to regain your balance, but after a second you have to bail out, hopping down onto the chair and then the ground with a thunk that’s sure to win you favor from your downstairs neighbors. 

“Yeah,” Sirius drawls. “Looks like it.” 

You make a face at him. James comes out of his room as you’re moving the chair a couple feet to the left to climb back up. 

“I can’t decide…uhh…” He watches you ascend with brows drawing together in concern. 

“She won’t be deterred,” Sirius says swiftly. “What can’t you decide?” 

James’ eyes stay stuck on you as you pick up the dusting wand to try again. “I, erm, can’t decide what to have for tea.” 

“You said the other day that you were craving Thai,” Sirius offers. “Order takeaway?” 

Though you’re turned away, you can practically hear the smile enter James’ voice. “Genius. You want in?” 

“Sure. Pad see ew, please.” 

“Got it. What about you?” James asks you.

“No, thanks.” The duster looks suspiciously clean for how far you’ve gotten. You attempt a little hop to see the shelf. “I’ve got leftovers.” 

“Right, okay—god, please don’t do that.” James’ voice pitches when your books sway after another hop. “It’s a long way down the stairs if you break your neck and we have to call 999. Why did you say we can’t stop her?” he asks Sirius. 

“I tried telling her to wait for Remus—” 

“That’s a good idea. Remus is tall, love, let him do it.” 

“—but she wants to do it herself.” 

“Oh.” Similarly to how you could hear James’ smile before, now you can hear the lack of it. “I see. This is like the jar thing?” 

“The jar thing?” Sirius asks with mild interest. 

“Yeah. I found her struggling with a jar of spaghetti sauce the other night” —you roll your eyes; struggling seems a bit superior— “so I tried to help, but she wouldn’t let me. Accidentally shattered the whole thing in the sink trying to get it open.” 

At this point, you can feel both James’ and Sirius’ pointed stares at your back. You keep about your business as though you can’t. 

“We can’t have you breaking bones the way you broke the jar,” says James. “We don’t have liability insurance.” 

You huff a laugh. “I’m not totally familiar with how insurance works around here, but I don’t think you need that if you’re not employing me.” 

“Whatever.” Sirius’ voice is dispassionate. “If she wants to break her neck to prove a point, that’s her prerogative.” 

James sounds about to protest, but then you hear the door open. 

“What the fuck?” Remus asks under his breath, as though speaking to no one but himself. “What are you doing up there?” 

“It’s fine,” you insist, though admittedly it takes some willpower to continue dusting when your quietest roommate sounds so horrified. “I’m cleaning.” 

You hear the door shut and the lock click. There’s a papery shuffle as Remus sets down whatever he brought inside. “Why?” he asks, bewildered. 

“Uh, because I don’t want my books on a dusty shelf?” 

“Let me take care of that. Come down from there.” You start turning to give your rebuttal the same as you had to Sirius and James, but before you can Remus’ hands are at your waist. Your balance falters. 

“Careful,” he tsks, his grip on you tightening momentarily. “Step down, one foot at a time.” 

You find that, with his hands on you and his tone so resolute, you have a harder time refusing him. You put your foot down on the chair. 

“There you are.” Remus doesn’t seem inclined to release you until you have both feet on the ground, but he turns to give James and Sirius a look. “You were just going to let her do this by herself?” 

“We tried to tell her,” Sirius defends them. “She won’t have any help, she’d rather smash things.” 

Now Remus turns back to you, bemused. “Smash things?” 

“It was an accident,” you mumble. “I wanted to open my own jar.” 

“You’ve got to let James handle jars, babe,” Sirius tells you sagely. “He needs it, it makes him feel good.” 

James shrugs as though this may or may not be true. 

“Please,” Remus pinches the bridge of his nose, “no smashing anything while I’m away. Jars or bones.” 

“That’s what we were trying to tell her,” James says helpfully. 

You cross your arms, avoiding anyone’s eyes. “Fine.” 

Remus sighs. “Thank you.” He sets a fond hand on the top of your head, and the familiarity of the gesture sends a pleasant warmth all the way down to your toes. You feel a tad less aggrieved. 

“Thank goodness,” says James. “Hey, does this mean I can start opening your jars for you? And you’ll have takeaway with us tonight?” 

Your flatmates all look at you. “Sure,” you relent. “That would be nice, thanks. But I’m not going to start joining you for those bedtime stories you do in Remus’ room every night.” 

“I’m an unwilling participant in those,” Remus protests unconvincingly. 

“You should rethink that one,” Sirius advises you as he sits down on the couch, pulling out his laptop to begin ordering dinner. “We’re reading the Wrinkle in Time series right now; it’s riveting.”

[l1tw1ck]

Bottom!FTM Peter Parker x Top!Male Reader

i once again changed my mind on the spidey fic after writing 912 words of smut so. just take this. all you need to know is that reader is similar to how peter has spider DNA, you can imagine whatever DNA

cw: pheromones, cum as lube, anal sex, vaginal sex, squirting, daddy kink, possessiveness, creampie

“We’ve been too busy to spend time together…and no one’ll bother you for the rest of the day...” He walks over to you and reaches for the door handle to close the door and lock it. He wraps his arms around your neck. “You can do whatever you want. It's your reward.”

“Whatever I want?” Your hands move to his waist. “Are you sure? Because I’m very pent up, sweetheart.”

Peter slides his hands down from your shoulders to your belt buckle, his body going down simultaneously. He kneels and works quickly to free the tent in your pants. “Don't worry. I have good stamina.” He winks, dragging his tongue along your cock.

As you watch him seduce you with his blowjob skills, your thoughts about him start to bubble up. The fears and desires you’ve been ignoring are coming back full swing. You want him all to yourself. Keep him trapped in a little cage, clip his wings. Make sure nobody has the opportunity to even consider taking him away from you.

But you know you can't. Not to that extent. However…

Peter lovingly deepthroats your length, his lips stretching for you.

You can still make sure he belongs to you. You grab his hair and pull him off of you. “Take your pants off and bend over for me.” You order. He quickly stands up and hurriedly follows your command, pressing his hands against the wall and jutting his ass out for you. You don't doubt your underlings could make something to help you out. You quickly stroke yourself over his ass.

He's right in the palm of your hand. Everything he is, everything he will be, is yours.

His body twitches cutely as your cum splatters on his body. You cover your fingers with your cum and gently work his ass open, making sure to properly prep him. It's like you're marking him.

“Everything about you is so big~” Peter moans softly.

“You like it big, baby?” You push a third finger inside him.

“Mhm~ because it's you.” He discreetly sticks his hands to the wall, making sure he doesn't fall. You have no idea how long he's been pining over you. How often he's used dildos and sex toys to practice for if, and now when, he has sex with you. “I can wear a plug for you next time.” He says as your fingers slip out.

“You're perfect, you know that?” Your cock slowly breaches his rim. Well, he's almost perfect. There's still more to smooth out, but you have plenty of time to properly mold him. You reach over to his t-dick. He bites down on his lip as you stroke him. He sounds unbelievably sexy when he's trying to stay quiet.

As you get closer to bottoming out, Peter squirts. “Sss- sorry~” He gasps. “Don't stop~”

“Don't apologize, baby.” You start to rock your hips. “You're so fuckin’ sexy.” You groan.

Peter presses his head against the wall, saliva dripping down his chin as he forgets to swallow. “Daddy~” His lips tremble.

You subconsciously dig your nails into his waist, furiously turned on by what he said. He’s making your possessiveness worse. “Shit–” You press your torso against his back, fucking him more roughly. You bury your face in his shoulder, trying your hardest not to let your instincts take over.

Peter’s legs are so close to giving out.

“‘M gonna come..” You huff.

“Inside~ do it inside~” He mewls.

You fulfill his request and pump his ass full of your cum. You catch your breath. “You're driving me crazy, Peter.”

You reach for his neck and wrap your hand around it, gently pulling him to your chest. “Tired?”

“No- no, keep going-” He's surprised you're still hard.

“How about I use your pussy next, sweetheart?” You pull out of his ass and grab his thigh, lifting it in the air. Your cum dribbles down onto the ground, leaving a bigger mess to get cleaned up.

He shudders and nods. “Use me, Daddy~” He rests his head against your shoulder. “Fill me up~” He bites down on his lip as your cock slides inside his cunt.

“You're such a good little toy for me.” You slightly tighten your grip on his throat. “So perfect, just for me.” Your voice has a slight growl. Peter's spider senses go off. Not to warn him of danger, not necessarily, but to alert him of something different. Chills run down his spine as he struggles to figure out what that something is.

It feels…familiar yet somehow unknown. His body starts to adjust to this revelation.

“Fuck—” You can feel his pussy tightening even more around you. An intoxicating scent fills your nose. Pheromones.

He can smell yours too. He can't make sense of it now, he’s already starting to slip into a pheromone drunken state and the same goes for you.

“I can't...” You pull out and turn him around so he faces you. He quickly wraps his arms and legs around you for balance. You quickly enter him again and don't hesitate to pound into him. You bury your nose into the crook of his neck, taking his scent in directly. “You smell so good.”

Peter loses his ability to hold back, his moans echoing in the large room. “I’m gonna come~!” He whines.

“Good boy, squirt on Daddy's cock.” You sink your teeth into him right as he squirts. You come shortly after him.

He smiles before falling asleep.

[sshnzsr]

cigarettes after sex

wordcount: 16k

warnings: stepcest, smut, unprotected sex, getting caught during masturbation, lying about being on birth control, emotional manipulation, mentions of pregnancy, abortion, family issues, reader shows signs of depression, self-hatred, and isolation, poverty, arguments, smoking, lmk if I missed anything

note: This is my first time trying to write a long fic. It can be kinda repetitive at some parts that’s because I tried to make it longer. Take a look at my other works.

-

You hated Sunghoon. Not just because he was your stepbrother, but because he was perfect in everyone’s eyes. Your dad, your stepmom, even your cousins—they all adored him. Sunghoon, with his sharp jawline, dark eyes, and easy smile, could do no wrong. He got straight A’s, captained the ice skating team, and had a future everyone envied. Meanwhile, you were the screw-up, the rebellious one who skipped classes and talked back. No matter what you did, Sunghoon was always better. Your own dad, your biological dad, picked him every time.

It wasn’t fair. You remembered the day your stepmom moved in, bringing Sunghoon with her. You were sixteen, he was seventeen, and from that moment, it was like you didn’t exist. Family dinners were about Sunghoon’s achievements. Your dad’s praise was for Sunghoon’s discipline, his talent, his everything. You were invisible, and it burned. You wanted to hurt Sunghoon, to make him feel the pain you carried. You didn’t care how. You just wanted him to suffer.

The plan started as a vague idea. Seduce him. Play with his feelings. Make him want you, then crush him. You knew he wasn’t immune to you. You’d caught him staring sometimes—your tight crop tops, your short skirts, the way you flipped your hair. He tried to hide it, but you saw the way his eyes lingered. You were nineteen now, he was twenty, and the tension between you had grown. You weren’t kids anymore, and you could use that.

It wasn’t part of the plan to catch him jerking off. That was an accident. But it was the perfect accident.

You were sneaking into his room to borrow (steal) one of his hoodies, just to piss him off. His door was cracked open, and you froze when you heard it—a low moan, his voice, rough and desperate. “Fuck… Y/N…”

Your name. He was moaning your name.

You pushed the door open, heart pounding. There he was, on his bed, shirt off, sweatpants pulled down, his cock in his hand. His eyes were closed, head tilted back, lost in whatever fantasy he was having about you. His strokes were fast, his breathing heavy, and he didn’t hear you come in.

You should’ve left. You should’ve turned around and pretended it never happened. But you didn’t. This was too good. This was the key to your revenge.

“Sunghoon,” you said, voice sharp.

His eyes snapped open, and he scrambled to cover himself, face red with panic. “Y/N! What the fuck? Get out!”

You didn’t move. You leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms, a smirk on your lips. “Moaning my name, huh? That’s fucked up, stepbrother.”

He yanked a blanket over his lap, stammering. “It’s not… I wasn’t… You weren’t supposed to see that!”

“But I did,” you said, stepping closer. His room smelled like him—cologne and clean laundry—and it made your stomach twist in a way you hated. “What were you thinking about? Me naked? Me sucking you off?”

“Stop it,” he snapped, but his voice was shaky, and you could see his cock twitching under the blanket. He was still hard, even with you standing there, calling him out.

You sat on the edge of his bed, closer than you needed to be. “You want me, don’t you?” you asked, voice low. “You’re jerking off to your stepsister. That’s so dirty.”

He swallowed hard, eyes darting to your lips, your chest, then away. “You’re messing with me. Just leave.”

But you didn’t. You reached out, brushing your fingers along his thigh, just enough to make him tense. “What if I don’t want to leave?” you whispered. “What if I want you to finish what you started?”

His breath hitched. “Y/N, don’t fuck with me.”

“I’m not,” you said, and you meant it, at least in that moment. The plan was working better than you’d ever imagined. You leaned in, your lips inches from his. “Fuck me, Sunghoon. Right now.”

He stared at you, torn between guilt and desire. You could see the battle in his eyes, but you knew you’d won when he grabbed your face and kissed you, hard and desperate. His lips were hot, his tongue pushing into your mouth, and you moaned, climbing onto his lap.

The blanket fell away, and his cock pressed against your shorts, hard and thick. You ground against him, feeling the heat pool between your legs. This wasn’t supposed to feel good, but it did. Too good.

“You’re such a fucking tease,” he growled, hands yanking at your shirt. He pulled it off, exposing your bra, and his mouth was on your neck, biting, sucking. You arched into him, hating how much you wanted this.

“Fuck me,” you said again, tugging at his sweatpants. “I want your cock inside me.”

He groaned, flipping you onto your back. Your shorts came off, then your panties, and he was between your legs, his fingers brushing your pussy. You were soaked, and he cursed under his breath. “You’re so wet,” he said, almost to himself.

“Do it,” you begged, spreading your legs wider. “Fuck me raw. Cum inside me.”

His eyes darkened, and he hesitated. “You’re on birth control, right?”

“Yeah,” you lied, the words slipping out easily. You weren’t. You hadn’t been for months. But he didn’t need to know that. Not yet.

He didn’t ask again. He lined his cock up with your pussy and pushed in, slow at first, stretching you. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. He was big, bigger than you’d expected, and the burn felt so fucking good.

“God, you’re tight,” he grunted, thrusting deeper. His hands gripped your hips, and he started moving, fucking you hard, the bed creaking under you. You moaned, loud and shameless, wrapping your legs around him.

“Harder,” you demanded, voice bratty. “Fuck me like you mean it.”

He did. His thrusts were brutal, his cock hitting deep, and you loved it. You hated him, but you loved this—his body, his desperation, the way he looked at you like you were everything. You clenched around him, already close, and he groaned, his fingers digging into your thighs.

“Gonna cum,” he rasped, his pace faltering. “Where do you want it?”

“Inside,” you said, locking eyes with him. “Cum inside my pussy.”

He didn’t hesitate. A few more thrusts, and he buried himself deep, groaning as he came, his cock pulsing inside you. You felt the warmth of his cum, and your own orgasm hit, your pussy squeezing him as you shook, moaning his name.

He collapsed on you, breathing hard, and for a moment, neither of you moved. Then reality hit. You’d done it. You’d fucked your stepbrother, let him cum inside you, knowing you weren’t protected. It was disgusting, but it was exactly what you wanted. You’d hurt him now. You’d make him pay.

-

Weeks passed, and you kept the secret to yourself. Sunghoon was different around you—quieter, softer, like he was trying to figure out what happened. He’d try to talk, but you brushed him off, keeping your distance. The plan was working. You could feel the power shifting.

Then you missed your period.

The test confirmed it. Pregnant. You stared at the stick, your stomach churning. This wasn’t supposed to happen. It was supposed to be a game, a way to ruin him, not this. You felt sick, not just from the pregnancy but from the weight of what you’d done. You’d fucked your stepbrother. You’d lied. And now you were carrying his kid.

You didn’t tell Sunghoon right away. You let it simmer, let the guilt and regret fester. You hated yourself, but you hated him more. He was still the golden boy, still the one your dad loved. This was your fault, but it was his fault too.

You decided to drop the bomb at dinner. Your dad, your stepmom, Sunghoon—they were all there, eating some fancy meal your stepmom had cooked. You waited until everyone was quiet, then set your fork down, your voice casual but sharp.

“So,” you said, leaning back in your chair. “I’m pregnant. From Sunghoon.”

The room went dead silent. Your dad’s fork clattered onto his plate. Your stepmom’s mouth dropped open. Sunghoon’s face went pale, his eyes wide, like he couldn’t process the words.

“What did you say?” your dad asked, voice low, dangerous.

You shrugged, playing the brat like always. “I’m pregnant. Sunghoon fucked me. No big deal.”

Sunghoon choked, his voice barely audible. “Y/N… what? You said you were on birth control.”

You smirked, even though your heart was pounding. “Oops. Guess I lied.”

Your dad stood, his face red with fury. “You… you disgusting little…” He couldn’t finish, turning to Sunghoon. “Is this true?”

Sunghoon looked like he might throw up. “I… I didn’t know. She said she was protected.”

Your stepmom started crying, her hands shaking. “How could you do this? Both of you?”

But your dad’s anger was all for you. “You’re a disgrace,” he spat. “You did this on purpose, didn’t you? To ruin this family?”

You didn’t answer, just stared at him, defiant. Inside, you were breaking, but you wouldn’t let them see it.

“Get out,” he said, pointing to the door. “You’re not welcome here anymore.”

You expected it, but it still hurt. You stood, grabbing your phone, and looked at Sunghoon. He wouldn’t meet your eyes. Of course he wouldn’t. He was still the favorite, even now.

“Fine,” you said, voice cold. “I don’t need you.”

-

You moved out that night, crashing at a friend’s place. The next week was a blur—doctor’s visits, arguments with your friend about what to do, and the looming appointment at the clinic. Your dad had called, screaming about abortion, saying you had no choice. You didn’t want the baby, but the idea of ending it made you feel even worse. This was your mess, your fault, and you couldn’t escape it.

The day of the appointment came. You sat in the waiting room, staring at the sterile walls, your stomach in knots. You kept looking at the door, hoping, praying Sunghoon would show up. He was part of this. He should be here. You texted him, called him, left voicemails. Nothing. Radio silence.

Of course he didn’t come. Why would he? He was Sunghoon, the perfect one, the one who got away with everything. You were the fuck-up, the one who’d ruined your own life. Tears stung your eyes as you realized you were alone. Completely alone.

The nurse called your name, and you stood, legs shaking. You regretted it all—every touch, every lie, every moment you thought this would make you feel better. You’d wanted to hurt Sunghoon, but you’d only hurt yourself.

-

The apartment was a shithole, but it was yours. A tiny one-room box on a dead-end street, where the only sounds at night were creaking pipes and the occasional cough from the old folks next door. The walls were stained yellow from years of smoke, the floorboards creaked under your weight, and the single window barely opened, letting in the damp night air. It smelled like cigarettes and stale ramen, no matter how much you scrubbed. You didn’t have furniture—just a mattress on the floor, a rickety table, and a single chair you’d found on the curb. A string of fairy lights hung above your bed, the only thing you’d bothered to make look nice. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.

You’d been lucky to have some money saved up. Not a lot, but enough to cover the deposit and a few months’ rent in this rundown place. Your dad hadn’t called, your stepmom hadn’t texted, and Sunghoon—well, you’d given up hoping he’d show his face after the clinic. You’d sat in that cold waiting room, legs shaking, waiting for him to walk through the door. He didn’t. You went through with it alone, the abortion, and the memory of it clung to you like the tobacco stench in your apartment. It was a sharp, ugly pain, not just in your body but in your head, your heart. You hated yourself for what you’d done, but you hated Sunghoon more for letting you do it alone.

Life wasn’t good, but it was yours. You worked two jobs to keep it that way. Days at a greasy diner, wiping tables and dodging creepy customers, and nights at a corner store, stocking shelves while the radio played staticky pop songs. You came home exhausted, your hands smelling of bleach, your feet aching, but you didn’t cry. You wouldn’t. You’d made your choices—fucking your stepbrother, lying about birth control, dropping the bomb at dinner—and now you were living with them. No one was going to save you.

The nights were the hardest. You’d sit on your mattress, eating instant ramen from a chipped bowl, the fairy lights casting shadows on the cracked ceiling. You’d smoke, even though you hated it, because the guy who lived here before left half a pack of cigarettes, and it was something to do. The smoke curled around you, mixing with the ramen steam, and you’d stare at your phone, willing it to ring. It never did. Your friends had stopped texting, your dad had written you off, and Sunghoon was a ghost. You were alone, and the silence was louder than anything.

Until he showed up.

It was late, past midnight, the street outside dark and empty. You were on your mattress, scrolling through your phone, the cigarette smell heavy in the air. A knock at the door made you freeze. No one came here. No one knew where you lived. You grabbed a kitchen knife from the table, heart pounding, and cracked the door open.

Sunghoon stood there, his dark hair messy, his eyes shadowed. He wore a black hoodie and jeans, hands stuffed in his pockets, looking like he hadn’t slept in days. You stared, too shocked to speak. How the fuck did he find you?

“What do you want?” you asked, voice sharp, but your grip on the knife loosened.

He didn’t answer. He just stepped inside, brushing past you like he belonged there. You shut the door, your stomach twisting. The apartment felt smaller with him in it, his presence filling the space, making the air heavier. He looked around, taking in the bare walls, the mattress, the ramen packets on the table. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t say a word.

“Sunghoon,” you said, crossing your arms. “Talk. Why are you here?”

He ignored you. He set a plastic bag on the table, the kind you get from a convenience store. Inside were containers of actual food—rice, kimchi, some kind of stew. Not the instant crap you’d been living on, but real, cooked food. Your mouth watered just looking at it, but you didn’t move.

“I don’t need your pity,” you snapped, even though your stomach growled. “Get out.”

He didn’t. He sat on the chair, leaning back, eyes fixed on the floor. His silence pissed you off. You wanted to scream, to throw the food at him, to make him feel the hurt you’d been carrying since that night. But you didn’t. You just stood there, glaring, the cigarette smell stinging your nose.

This became the pattern. Sunghoon started coming over every few nights, always late, always unannounced. He’d walk in, drop off food, and sit in silence. Sometimes he’d bring other things—a blanket, a cheap lamp, a pack of bottled water. You didn’t ask how he found your address, and he didn’t offer an explanation. He never stayed long, maybe an hour, and he never talked. You tried, at first, to get him to say something.

“Sunghoon, why are you doing this?” you’d ask, voice rough from exhaustion. “You didn’t care when I needed you. Why now?”

He’d just look at you, his eyes dark, unreadable, then go back to staring at the floor. It drove you crazy. You wanted him to yell, to fight, to explain why he left you alone at the clinic, why he let your dad kick you out, why he was here now, acting like some silent guardian. But he gave you nothing.

One night, you couldn’t take it anymore. He was sitting there, same as always, a bag of food on the table—fried rice and bulgogi this time, the smell making your empty stomach ache. You were tired, your diner shift had been hell, and the sight of him, quiet and untouchable, pushed you over the edge.

“Talk to me, you asshole!” you shouted, slamming your hand on the table. The plastic containers rattled. “You don’t get to just show up and play hero after everything! You fucked me, you got me pregnant, and you didn’t even show up when I had to deal with it! Why are you here? What do you want?”

He flinched, just barely, but his eyes stayed on the floor. You stepped closer, your voice shaking. “Say something, Sunghoon. Or get the fuck out and don’t come back.”

For a moment, you thought he might. His hands twitched, like he wanted to reach for you, but he didn’t move. He just sat there, his jaw tight, his silence louder than your screams. You turned away, tears burning your eyes, and lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around you like a shield.

“Fine,” you muttered, exhaling. “Keep your fucking secrets. I don’t need you.”

But you did. You hated admitting it, but you did. The food he brought kept you from starving. The blanket he left was warmer than the thin one you’d been using. And his presence, as infuriating as it was, made the apartment feel less empty. You hated him, but you waited for him to come back every time he left.

One night, things shifted. It was late, the street outside quiet except for the hum of a distant streetlight. You were on your mattress, smoking, the fairy lights casting a dim glow. Sunghoon knocked, same as always, and you let him in, expecting the usual routine. He set a bag of food on the table—jjajangmyeon, your favorite—and sat down. But this time, he didn’t stare at the floor. He looked at you.

You were in a tank top and shorts, your hair messy, cigarette dangling from your fingers. His eyes lingered, tracing the curve of your neck, the bare skin of your thighs. You felt it—the heat, the tension, the same fucked-up pull you’d felt that night in his room. You hated it, but your body remembered.

“What?” you asked, voice sharp, but your heart was racing.

He didn’t answer, but he stood, stepping closer. You didn’t move, even as he stopped inches away, his shadow falling over you. The air was thick, the cigarette smoke mixing with the ramen smell, and you felt it again—that twisted desire, the need to hurt him, to feel him, to make him pay.

“You want me?” you asked, voice low, taunting. You flicked the cigarette to the floor, crushing it under your foot. “That’s why you keep coming back, isn’t it? You’re still thinking about fucking me.”

His eyes darkened, but he didn’t speak. You stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat of his body. “Go on,” you said, voice dripping with venom. “Fuck me again. See if it fixes anything.”

He grabbed you, sudden and rough, his hands on your waist. You gasped, not expecting it, and he kissed you, hard, his lips crashing into yours. It wasn’t gentle, wasn’t sweet—it was raw, desperate, like he’d been holding it back for weeks. You kissed him back, just as rough, your hands in his hair, pulling hard.

He pushed you onto the mattress, his body heavy on yours. Your tank top came off, then your shorts, and his hands were everywhere—your breasts, your thighs, your pussy. You were wet, embarrassingly wet, and he groaned when he felt it, his fingers sliding inside you.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice low, the first word he’d spoken in weeks. “You’re so fucking wet.”

You arched into him, hating how good it felt. “Just do it,” you said, voice sharp. “Fuck me.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. His clothes came off, and he was inside you, his cock stretching you, filling you. It was fast, rough, no pretense of care. You moaned, nails digging into his back, your body betraying you. He fucked you hard, the mattress creaking, the fairy lights swaying above. You hated him, hated yourself, but you came anyway, your pussy clenching around him, your body shaking.

He didn’t pull out this time either, cumming inside you, his groans muffled against your neck. You lay there, panting, the weight of it all crashing down. He stayed for a moment, then pulled away, sitting on the edge of the mattress, head in his hands.

You stared at the ceiling, the cigarette smell stronger now, mixing with the sweat and sex. “Get out,” you said, voice flat.

He didn’t argue. He grabbed his clothes, dressed, and left without a word. The door clicked shut, and you were alone again, the silence heavier than ever.

-

The apartment was a haze of cigarette smoke and regret. The fairy lights flickered, casting weak shadows on the stained walls, and the air smelled like tobacco and the leftover jjajangmyeon Sunghoon had brought earlier. You sat on your mattress, knees pulled to your chest, staring at the cracked floorboards. The silence was heavy, broken only by the rustle of Sunghoon cleaning up. He was tossing out the cigarette butts and empty ramen cups you’d left scattered on the table, his movements slow, deliberate, like he was trying to keep himself busy.

You didn’t know why you said it. The words slipped out before you could stop them, soft and shaky, barely audible over the hum of the streetlight outside. “I’m sorry.”

Sunghoon froze, a crumpled ramen cup in his hand. He turned to you, his dark eyes narrowing, shadowed by the dim light. His hoodie was loose, his hair messy, and for a second, he looked like the boy you’d hated for years—your stepbrother, the golden child who stole your dad’s love. But he also looked different, older, weighed down by something you couldn’t name.

He sighed, tossing the trash into a plastic bag. “You should be sorry for yourself,” he said, voice low, cutting. “You ruined your own life while you tried to ruin mine. What is your problem? Do you like living like this?”

His words hit hard, like a punch to the gut. You wanted to snap back, to tell him to fuck off, but he was right. You’d done this to yourself—fucked him to hurt him, lied about birth control, got pregnant, and blew up your family. Now you were here, in this shithole apartment, working yourself to death, alone except for his silent visits. You’d wanted to break him, but you’d broken yourself instead.

You forced a laugh, leaning back on the mattress, a bitter smile on your lips. “Yeah, I do. It’s peaceful.”

He stared at you, his expression unreadable, then let out a short, dry laugh. “You’re crazy.”

For a moment, you both laughed, the sound sharp and hollow, echoing in the tiny room. It was the first time you’d shared anything like this, a crack in the wall between you. But it didn’t last. His laughter faded, and he stood, walking over to you, his steps slow, deliberate. Before you could move, he was there, looming over you, trapping you between his body and the mattress. His hands pressed into the bed on either side of you, his face inches from yours. You could smell him—clean laundry, a hint of cologne, so different from the stale smoke of your apartment.

“I’m sorry too,” he said, voice rough, barely above a whisper. “I never wanted you to be here. I never wanted you to get an abortion.”

The words were a knife, twisting in your chest. You hated him for saying it, for bringing it up, for acting like he cared now, after everything. You shoved him back, hard, your hands against his chest. “Shut up. I hate you,” you murmured, voice shaking, but there was no fire in it. Just exhaustion.

He didn’t move, his eyes locked on yours, dark and searching. Then, quietly, he asked, “Can I stay the night?”

You froze, your breath catching. The question hung in the air, heavy with meaning you weren’t ready to face. Stay the night? Here, in your tiny, disgusting apartment, on your shitty mattress? After everything—the lies, the betrayal, the abortion, the silence? You wanted to scream, to tell him to get out, but your body betrayed you, warmth pooling in your core at the thought of him staying, of his hands on you again.

“Why?” you asked, voice sharp, trying to keep the wall up. “You wanna fuck me again? Is that it?”

He flinched, just slightly, but didn’t look away. “No,” he said, too quickly, then paused. “Maybe. I don’t know. I just… I don’t want to leave you alone tonight.”

You laughed, bitter and cold. “Now you care? Where were you when I was in that clinic, Sunghoon? Where were you when Dad kicked me out? You don’t get to play savior now.”

“I know,” he said, voice low, almost broken. “I fucked up. I should’ve been there. I didn’t know how to handle it. I still don’t.”

You stared at him, your chest tight, torn between rage and something softer, something you hated even more. You wanted to push him away, to keep hating him, but the truth was, you were tired. Tired of being alone, tired of the silence, tired of carrying this weight by yourself. His visits, as infuriating as they were, were the only thing keeping you sane.

“Fine,” you said, voice flat. “Stay. But don’t expect me to forgive you.”

He nodded, like he hadn’t expected anything else. He stepped back, giving you space, and you felt the loss of his closeness, your skin prickling. You turned away, lying on the mattress, pulling the thin blanket over you. The fairy lights flickered, the cigarette smell clung to everything, and you heard Sunghoon move, settling on the floor beside the mattress. He didn’t have a blanket, didn’t ask for one, just lay there, his breathing steady in the dark.

You didn’t sleep, not really. The night stretched on, the street outside silent except for the occasional car. You kept replaying his words, his apology, the way he’d looked at you. You hated how it made you feel—vulnerable, exposed, like maybe he wasn’t the monster you’d made him out to be. But he was still Sunghoon, the stepbrother who’d taken everything, the one who’d fucked you and left you to deal with the consequences. You couldn’t let yourself forget that.

Morning came, gray and heavy, light seeping through the cracked window. You sat up, your body aching from the hard mattress, and saw Sunghoon still there, curled on the floor, his hoodie bunched under his head. He looked younger like this, less like the perfect son and more like a boy who didn’t know what he was doing. You hated how it softened you, even a little.

You got up, stepping over him to make coffee with the cheap instant packets you kept on the table. The smell of it mixed with the ever-present tobacco, and you lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around you as you leaned against the wall. Sunghoon stirred, sitting up, his hair messy, eyes bleary.

“Coffee?” you asked, voice flat, holding out a chipped mug.

He took it, his fingers brushing yours, and you pulled back, ignoring the spark it sent through you. He sipped the coffee, wincing at the taste, but didn’t complain. You stood there, smoking, watching him, waiting for him to say something, anything.

“Why do you keep coming back?” you asked finally, voice low. “You don’t owe me anything. You made that clear when you didn’t show up at the clinic.”

He set the mug down, his hands resting on his knees. “I don’t know,” he said, voice honest, raw. “I just… I can’t stay away. I keep thinking about you, about what happened. I fucked up, Y/N. I know I did. But I don’t know how to fix it.”

“You can’t,” you said, exhaling smoke. “It’s done. I’m here now. This is my life.”

He looked around the apartment, at the bare walls, the mattress, the trash bag full of ramen cups. “This isn’t a life,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “You deserve better.”

“Fuck you,” you snapped, tossing the cigarette butt into an empty cup. “Don’t tell me what I deserve. You don’t get to decide that.”

He stood, stepping closer, and you hated how your body reacted, your pulse quickening, your skin tingling. “I’m not trying to decide anything,” he said. “I’m just… I’m trying to be here. For you.”

You laughed, sharp and bitter. “You’re a little late for that, stepbrother.”

He flinched at the word, like it burned, but didn’t back down. “I know,” he said. “But I’m here now.”

The air was thick, charged with everything unsaid—your anger, his guilt, the fucked-up history between you. You wanted to shove him, to kiss him, to scream until your throat gave out. Instead, you turned away, grabbing another cigarette, lighting it with shaking hands.

“Stay or go, I don’t care,” you said, voice cold. “But don’t expect me to need you.”

He didn’t answer, just stood there, watching you. The day dragged on, and he stayed, helping you clean the apartment, fixing the leaky faucet you’d ignored for weeks. It was weird, domestic, like you were playing at being something you weren’t. You didn’t talk much, but the silence was different now, less hostile, more fragile.

That night, he didn’t ask to stay, but you didn’t tell him to leave. He slept on the floor again, and you lay on the mattress, staring at the fairy lights, wondering what the fuck you were doing. You hated him, but you didn’t. You wanted him gone, but you didn’t. The cigarette smell lingered, the ramen cups were gone, and Sunghoon was still here.

-

The air smelled like cigarettes, stale ramen, and something new—Sunghoon’s cologne, lingering from where he lay beside you. You woke up in the middle of the night, your body warm, too warm, and realized why. His arms were around you, his bare chest pressed against your back. You were shirtless too, stripped down to your bra and panties, your tank top tossed somewhere on the floor. His jeans were still on, but the closeness, the skin-to-skin contact, felt wrong. So fucking wrong.

You weren’t doing anything, not really—just lying there, tangled together on your shitty mattress—but it didn’t matter. He was your stepbrother. The same stepbrother you’d fucked to hurt, the one whose name you’d moaned while he came inside you, the one who’d left you alone to face the consequences. The abortion, the exile, the mess of your life—it all started with him, with you, with that night. And now here you were, in his arms, like nothing had happened, like you weren’t both broken pieces of the same fucked-up puzzle.

Your throat tightened, tears prickling your eyes. You didn’t want to cry, not in front of him, not again. But you couldn’t help it. You hugged him back, your arms wrapping around his, your fingers digging into his skin. The tears came anyway, hot and silent, sliding down your cheeks. You wiped them away quickly, hoping he wouldn’t notice, and pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder, almost instinctual, like your body was acting without your permission. The warmth of his skin under your lips made your stomach twist—part comfort, part disgust.

You pulled away, slipping out of his arms, and stood, your bare feet cold against the floorboards. The apartment was dark, the street outside silent, just the hum of a distant car breaking the stillness. You grabbed a cigarette from the pack on the table and moved to the small window next to your bed, the one that barely opened. You forced it up, the cool night air hitting your face, and lit the cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating your trembling hands. You inhaled deeply, the smoke burning your lungs, curling out into the dark as you stared at nothing, your mind racing.

You’d ruined everything. You’d wanted to hurt Sunghoon, to make him feel the pain of being second best, but all you’d done was destroy yourself. The pregnancy, the abortion, getting kicked out—it was all your fault. You’d lied, manipulated, fucked him raw, and for what? This? A shitty apartment, a life of scraping by, and a heart that wouldn’t stop aching? You hated him, but you hated yourself more. And now he was here, sleeping in your bed, acting like he cared, and it made you feel even worse.

You didn’t hear him get up, but you felt him—his presence, heavy and warm, before his arms slid around your waist from behind. His chest pressed against your back, his breath hot against your neck. You stiffened, the cigarette dangling between your fingers, your heart pounding. He shouldn’t be touching you like this. Not after everything.

“Love you,” he whispered, his voice soft, raw, like he’d been holding it in for too long.

The words hit you like a slap. You froze, your mind reeling, and flicked the cigarette out the window, watching it fall to the street below. You turned your head, just enough to see him out of the corner of your eye. His face was close, his eyes dark, searching, and for a moment, you didn’t know what to say. Love? After all this? After you’d fucked each other up so badly?

You turned fully, breaking his hold, stepping back until you hit the wall. Your bra strap slipped off your shoulder, and you didn’t bother fixing it. “I feel disgusting,” you said, voice shaking, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “You’re right. What was wrong with me? I’m so disgusting. I… I should’ve never done something like that.”

His eyes softened, but he didn’t move closer, didn’t try to touch you again. “Y/N,” he said, voice low, “you’re not disgusting. We fucked up. Both of us. I should’ve stopped it. I should’ve been there.”

“Stop,” you snapped, tears burning your eyes again. “Don’t act like you care now. You didn’t show up. You let me deal with it alone. You let Dad throw me out. And now you’re here, saying you love me? What the fuck, Sunghoon?”

He ran a hand through his hair, his jaw tight. “I know,” he said. “I fucked up. I was scared, okay? I didn’t know how to handle it. You were my stepsister, and we… we did that. I couldn’t face it. But I’m here now. I’m trying.”

“Trying?” you laughed, bitter and sharp, wiping at your tears. “You come here, drop off food, fuck me again, and now you’re trying? You think that fixes anything? You think ‘love you’ makes this okay?”

He stepped closer, and you hated how your body reacted, your skin prickling, your pussy tingling despite the anger. “I don’t know how to fix it,” he said, voice rough. “I don’t know what to do. But I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t stay away. I hate what we did, but I don’t hate you. I never could.”

You stared at him, your chest heaving, torn between shoving him out the door and pulling him closer. The cigarette smell clung to you, the apartment felt smaller, and his words echoed in your head. Love you. It was wrong, disgusting, but it was there, a twisted thread tying you together.

“Get out,” you said again for the one hundredth time, but your voice was weak, barely convincing.

He didn’t move. Instead, he closed the distance, his hands gentle as they cupped your face. You didn’t push him away, even though you should’ve. His thumbs brushed away your tears, and you hated how good it felt, how much you craved his touch after weeks of nothing.

“I’m not leaving,” he said, voice firm. “Not tonight. Not until you tell me what you need.”

You laughed, a broken sound, and shoved at his chest, but your hands lingered, fingers curling into his skin. “I don’t need you,” you lied, but your voice cracked, giving you away. “I don’t need anyone.”

He didn’t argue, just pulled you closer, his lips brushing your forehead. It wasn’t a kiss, not really, but it felt like one, soft and careful. You let him, your body sinking against his, the fight draining out of you. You were so tired—tired of being angry, tired of being alone, tired of hating yourself.

You ended up back on the mattress, not fucking this time, just lying there, his arms around you again. Your bra and panties stayed on, his jeans too, but the closeness was enough to make your skin burn. You didn’t talk, didn’t need to. The silence said enough. His hand rested on your stomach, where the baby would’ve been, and you didn’t push it away. You just lay there, the fairy lights flickering, the cigarette smell heavy, your tears drying on your cheeks.

Morning came too soon, gray light filtering through the window. You woke alone, Sunghoon gone, but there was a note on the table, scrawled in his messy handwriting. “I’ll be back tonight. Eat something.” Next to it was a container of kimchi jjigae, still warm, and a pack of cigarettes—your brand, not his.

You stared at the note, your chest tight. He’d be back. He always came back. And you hated how much you wanted him to, how much you needed it. You lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around you, and sat on the mattress, wondering if you’d ever stop feeling disgusting, if you’d ever stop loving him, if you’d ever be free.

-

Sunghoon showed up late, past midnight, like always. The knock was soft, hesitant, and you let him in, your heart pounding. He looked tired, his dark hair falling into his eyes, his hoodie loose on his frame. He carried a plastic bag—more food, probably—and set it on the table without a word. But tonight was different. His eyes didn’t avoid yours. He looked at you, really looked, and you saw something raw, something broken.

“Why do you keep doing this?” you asked, voice sharp, tossing the cigarette into an empty ramen cup. “You say you love me, you bring me food, but you don’t talk. You don’t explain. Why didn’t you come to the clinic, Sunghoon? I begged you. I fucking begged.”

He flinched, his jaw tightening, and for a moment, you thought he’d stay silent again. But he didn’t. He sat on the rickety chair, hands clasped between his knees, and looked at the floor. “I wanted to,” he said, voice low, rough. “I tried. But Dad… he stopped me.”

You froze, the cigarette smoke lingering in the air. “What?”

He ran a hand through his hair, his voice shaking. “I need to tell you everything. You deserve to know. But it’s not an excuse. I still fucked up.”

You leaned against the wall, arms crossed, your heart racing. “Then talk. Tell me.”

He took a deep breath, like he was bracing himself, and started.

-

Sunghoon’s life wasn’t as perfect as you thought. Growing up, he was the kid who had to be perfect—perfect grades, perfect athlete, perfect son. His mom, your stepmom, was strict, always pushing him to be better, to make her proud. His dad left when he was young, and when his mom married your dad, Sunghoon was seventeen, already carrying the weight of her expectations. Your dad was the first man who treated him like a son, who showed up to his skating competitions, who bragged about him to friends. Sunghoon loved him, needed him, in a way you never understood.

But it wasn’t easy. Your dad favored him, sure, but it came with pressure. Sunghoon had to keep up the act—straight A’s, captain of the team, no mistakes. If he slipped, your dad’s disappointment was worse than any punishment. And then there was you. You, with your defiance, your sharp tongue, your freedom to fuck up and not care. Sunghoon envied you, even if he never said it. You didn’t have to be perfect. You could be messy, loud, real. He couldn’t.

When you caught him jerking off that night, moaning your name, it wasn’t just lust. He’d always noticed you—your tight shirts, your short skirts, the way you teased him with a smirk. But it was more than that. You were everything he wasn’t allowed to be, and he wanted you, even though he knew it was wrong. When you walked in, when you didn’t leave, when you begged him to fuck you, he couldn’t say no. He didn’t want to. He fucked you raw, came inside you, and it felt like freedom, like breaking every rule he’d been forced to follow.

But then you dropped the bomb at dinner. Pregnant. His kid. Sunghoon’s world stopped. He was twenty, still living under your dad’s roof, still trying to be the perfect son. Your dad’s rage was terrifying, but it was aimed at you, not him. Sunghoon felt sick, guilty, but also relieved. He was still the golden boy. You were the one who paid.

The day you went to the clinic, Sunghoon was a mess. You’d been texting him, calling, leaving voicemails that broke his heart. “Please, Hoon, I need you. I’m scared. Come to the clinic. Please.” He listened to them over and over, pacing his room, his hands shaking. He wanted to go. He needed to be there. He grabbed his keys, ready to drive to you, but your dad stopped him.

Your dad was waiting in the living room, his face hard, unreadable. “Where are you going?” he asked, voice cold.

Sunghoon froze. “To see Y/N,” he said, trying to sound steady. “She needs me.”

Your dad stood, stepping closer. “You’re not going anywhere,” he said. “She did this to herself. She’s a disgrace, and you’re not getting dragged down with her.”

Sunghoon’s stomach dropped. “She’s my stepsister. She’s pregnant. I can’t just—”

“You can, and you will,” your dad cut him off. “You think I’m letting you throw away your future for her? She lied to you, Sunghoon. She trapped you. You’re not the father type. You’re not ready for this.”

Sunghoon tried to argue, but your dad’s voice was like steel. “If you go to that clinic, you’re out of this house. No more support, no more money, no more family. You’ll be on your own. Is she worth that?”

Sunghoon wanted to say yes. He wanted to be there for you, to hold your hand, to face it together. But he was scared. Scared of losing everything—his home, his mom’s approval, his future. He was twenty, still dependent on your dad for tuition, for his skating career, for everything. He hated himself for it, but he stayed. He put his keys down, sat on the couch, and listened to your voicemails again, each one tearing him apart. He didn’t go.

Your dad made sure of it. He took Sunghoon’s phone, deleted your messages, and blocked your number. He drove Sunghoon to practice that day, watched him like a hawk, made sure he couldn’t slip away. Sunghoon skated, went through the motions, but all he could think about was you, alone in that clinic, facing the worst day of your life without him.

When you got kicked out, Sunghoon begged your dad to reconsider. He fought, yelled, said you didn’t deserve it. But your dad was unmoved. “She’s not my daughter anymore,” he said, and Sunghoon felt like he’d lost you too. He didn’t know where you went, didn’t have your new number, didn’t know how to find you. He was trapped, living in a house that felt like a cage, carrying the guilt of letting you down.

Months later, he found you by accident. He’d been digging through old family records, looking for something else, and saw your name on a lease agreement your dad had co-signed before cutting you off. The address was there, a shitty apartment in a dead-end street. He didn’t tell anyone, just drove there one night, his heart in his throat. When he saw you, smoking, living in that bare, smoky room, he wanted to cry. But he didn’t. He just kept coming back, bringing food, trying to make up for what he couldn’t fix.

-

Sunghoon’s voice broke as he finished, his hands shaking. “I should’ve fought harder,” he said. “I should’ve gone to you. I was a coward. I’m still a coward. But I love you, Y/N. I always did. That’s why I keep coming back.”

You stared at him, tears streaming down your face, the cigarette forgotten on the table. Your chest ached, a mix of rage, pain, and something softer, something you didn’t want to name. You’d hated him for so long, blamed him for everything, but now you saw it—the pressure, the fear, the way your dad had trapped him too. It didn’t erase what he’d done, didn’t make it okay, but it changed something. He wasn’t the golden boy, not really. He was just as broken as you.

“You should’ve come,” you said, voice raw. “I needed you, Hoon. I was so fucking scared.”

“I know,” he said, stepping closer, his eyes pleading. “I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

You wiped your tears, your hands shaking. “I don’t know if I can forgive you either,” you said, but your voice was softer now, less angry. “But I… I don’t hate you. Not anymore.”

He reached for you, hesitant, and you let him. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, and you buried your face in his chest, the smell of his cologne mixing with the cigarette smoke. You didn’t kiss, didn’t fuck, just stood there, holding each other, the weight of the past heavy between you.

The night stretched on, and you ended up on the mattress, his arms around you again, your bra and panties still on, his jeans unbuttoned but not off. It wasn’t about sex, not tonight. It was about something else, something neither of you could name. The cigarette smell lingered, the street outside hummed, and you fell asleep, tangled together, wondering if you’d ever be whole again.

-

The apartment didn’t smell like cigarettes anymore. The stale ramen scent was gone too, replaced by the warm, sugary aroma of vanilla candles and fresh laundry. The walls, once stained yellow, were now a soft cream, painted over during a weekend when Sunghoon showed up with cans of paint and a goofy grin. The cracked window had been fixed, letting in clean air instead of damp drafts, and the fairy lights were new, strung across the ceiling, glowing golden every night. Your mattress was still on the floor, but it was covered with a thick comforter and fluffy pillows, a cozy nest you and Sunghoon had built together. The rickety table had been replaced with a small wooden one, a thrift store find you’d sanded and painted blue. Your tiny apartment wasn’t perfect, but it was home, and for the first time in years, it felt like one.

You weren’t alone anymore either. Sunghoon was here, not just as a visitor dropping off food, but as your boyfriend. The word still made your heart flutter, even months after you’d made it official. It happened one night, after he’d told you about your dad’s sabotage, after you’d cried in his arms and admitted you didn’t hate him. You’d been sitting on the mattress, sharing a bowl of popcorn, the fairy lights casting a soft glow. He’d looked at you, his eyes nervous but warm, and said, “Can I be yours? Like, for real?” You’d laughed, tears in your eyes, and said yes, kissing him until you were both breathless. That was three months ago, and now, life was different. Better. Happier.

You stood in the kitchenette, stirring a pot of ramyeon—proper ramyeon, with veggies and eggs, not the instant kind. The radio played a cheesy pop song, and you hummed along, your oversized hoodie slipping off one shoulder. It was Sunghoon’s hoodie, soft and worn, smelling like his cologne. You wore it every chance you got, loving how it made you feel wrapped in him, even when he wasn’t there.

The door clicked open, and you turned, a smile already spreading across your face. Sunghoon walked in, kicking off his sneakers, his dark hair messy from the autumn wind. He carried a paper bag, the kind from the bakery down the street, and his grin was brighter than the fairy lights. “Guess what I got,” he said, holding the bag up like a trophy.

“Cupcakes?” you asked, eyes lighting up. You set the spoon down and wiped your hands on a dish towel, bouncing over to him.

“Better,” he teased, pulling out a box of your favorite cream-filled donuts, the ones with powdered sugar that always got everywhere. “And coffee. Real coffee, not that instant crap you used to drink.”

You laughed, grabbing the box and peeking inside. “You’re spoiling me, Hoon.”

“Good,” he said, stepping closer, his hands finding your waist. “You deserve it.” He leaned down, kissing your forehead, then your nose, then your lips, soft and slow. You melted into him, the donut box squished between you, and giggled when he pulled back, powdered sugar already on his hoodie.

“You’re a mess,” you said, brushing it off, but your hands lingered on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.

“Says the girl with flour on her face,” he shot back, smirking. He swiped his thumb across your cheek, wiping away a smudge you hadn’t noticed. “Cooking without me? Rude.”

“I was gonna surprise you,” you said, pouting playfully. “Ramyeon and donuts. Romantic, right?”

He laughed, the sound warm and bright, filling the apartment. “The most romantic. Move over, let me help.”

You both ended up in the tiny kitchenette, bumping into each other as you tried to cook. Sunghoon insisted on chopping the green onions, even though he was terrible at it, and you teased him mercilessly when he got onion juice in his eyes. “Big baby,” you said, handing him a wet cloth, but you kissed his cheek anyway, loving how he leaned into it. The ramyeon bubbled on the stove, the donuts sat on the table, and the radio switched to a slow ballad, perfect for the cozy vibe.

Dinner was messy, delicious, and perfect. You sat cross-legged on the mattress, the blue table pushed close, sharing the ramyeon straight from the pot. Sunghoon fed you a bite, laughing when broth dripped down your chin. “You’re hopeless,” he said, but he wiped it away with his thumb, his eyes soft, like you were the most precious thing he’d ever seen.

“Shut up,” you mumbled, cheeks warm, and leaned over to kiss him, tasting salt and sugar on his lips. The kiss deepened, slow and sweet, his hands sliding to your waist, pulling you onto his lap. You straddled him, your fingers in his hair, and he groaned softly, his grip tightening.

“Love you,” he whispered against your lips, his voice low, earnest. “So fucking much.”

Your heart skipped, and you pulled back, just enough to look at him. His eyes were dark, warm, and you saw it—the love, the promise, the boy who’d fought to be here, who’d chosen you despite everything. “Love you too,” you said, voice soft, and kissed him again, your hands roaming his chest, slipping under his shirt to feel his warm skin.

It didn’t go further, not tonight. You didn’t need it to. The closeness, the way his hands held you, the way he looked at you like you were his whole world—it was enough. You ended up curled on the mattress, the comforter wrapped around you both, the fairy lights glowing above. Sunghoon’s arm was around you, your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. The apartment was warm, the candles flickering, and for the first time in years, you felt safe.

“Remember when we painted the walls?” he asked, his voice rumbling in his chest. “You got paint in your hair, and I had to cut it out.”

You laughed, poking his side. “You were so bad at it. There’s still a streak of cream paint on the ceiling.”

He grinned, kissing the top of your head. “Worth it. This place looks like ours now.”

“Ours,” you repeated, the word sweet on your tongue. You hadn’t talked about moving in together, not yet, but it felt like it. His toothbrush was in your bathroom, his hoodies in your closet, his presence in every corner of your life. You liked it. You loved it.

You shifted, propping yourself up to look at him. “What’s the cheesiest thing you’ve ever wanted to do with me?” you asked, grinning.

He raised an eyebrow, pretending to think. “Hmm. Probably take you to one of those drive-in movies, like in old rom-coms. Popcorn, blankets, making out in the back seat.”

You laughed, swatting his chest. “Perv.”

“Only for you,” he said, winking, but his smile was so soft, so genuine, it made your heart ache. “What about you? Cheesiest date idea, go.”

You bit your lip, thinking. “Picnic in a park. Like, with a basket and a checkered blanket and those little sandwiches with the crusts cut off. And you’d push me on a swing after.”

He chuckled, pulling you closer. “Deal. Next weekend, picnic and drive-in. But I’m cutting the crusts off the sandwiches. You’d probably burn them.”

“Rude!” you gasped, but you were laughing, and he was too, and soon you were kissing again, slow and lazy, the kind of kisses that didn’t lead anywhere, just felt good. You fell asleep like that, tangled together, the radio still playing softly, the candles burning low.

The past wasn’t gone. The memories of that night, the pregnancy, the abortion, your dad’s betrayal—they lingered, like shadows in the corners. But they didn’t define you anymore. You’d both fought for this, for each other, and every day was a step away from the pain. Your apartment was a home, your life was yours, and Sunghoon was by your side, loving you through it all. It was sweet, it was messy, it was real, and you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

-

The apartment glowed under the fairy lights, the vanilla candle on the table casting a warm flicker across the room. The air smelled like fresh laundry and the faint sweetness of the donuts Sunghoon had brought earlier. You were curled on the mattress, wearing his hoodie, your legs tangled with his as you watched a cheesy rom-com on your phone. His arm was around you, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your shoulder, and every so often, he’d lean down to kiss your temple, making you smile. Life had been good—better than good. You and Sunghoon were in love, your tiny apartment was a home, and the shadows of your past felt far away. But shadows have a way of creeping back.

It started with a text. You didn’t see it at first, too caught up in giggling at Sunghoon’s terrible impression of the movie’s lead actor. His phone buzzed on the table, and he glanced at it, his smile fading. You noticed, nudging him. “What’s up?”

He hesitated, then handed you the phone. It was a message from his mom—your stepmom. “Come home tomorrow. Your dad and I need to talk to you. It’s important.” No emojis, no warmth, just cold words that made your stomach twist.

“About what?” you asked, sitting up, the hoodie slipping off your shoulder.

Sunghoon ran a hand through his hair, his jaw tight. “I don’t know. But… I think they know about us.”

Your heart sank. You’d been careful, or so you thought. Sunghoon still lived with your parents, commuting to your apartment most nights, but you hadn’t told anyone about your relationship. Not your friends, not your coworkers, and definitely not your family. The idea of your dad—your cold, unforgiving dad—finding out made your skin crawl. He’d kicked you out for the pregnancy, disowned you for less. What would he do to Sunghoon?

“How would they know?” you asked, voice small.

Sunghoon sighed, pulling you closer. “I don’t know. Maybe someone saw us. Maybe I slipped up. I’ve been… distracted lately. Forgot to clear my phone’s location history a few times.”

You swallowed, the warmth of the apartment suddenly feeling stifling. “What do we do?”

He kissed your forehead, his lips soft but firm. “We face it. Together. I’m not hiding you. Not anymore.”

You nodded, but fear gnawed at you. You loved him, more than you’d ever thought possible, but your family’s history was a minefield. You didn’t sleep much that night, even with Sunghoon’s arms around you, his steady breathing a reminder that you weren’t alone. Not yet.

-

The next day, Sunghoon went home. You stayed at the apartment, pacing, checking your phone every five minutes. He promised to call after the talk, to tell you everything, but hours passed with no word. By evening, you were a wreck, the vanilla candle burned down to nothing, the apartment too quiet without him. Finally, your phone rang, and you grabbed it, heart pounding.

“Hoon?” you said, voice shaky.

“It’s bad,” he said, his voice low, strained. “They know. Everything.”

You sat on the mattress, your knees weak. “How?”

“Dad saw us,” he said. “That day we went to the park, had that picnic. He was there, picking up some client. Saw us kissing, holding hands. He didn’t say anything then, but he told Mom, and they’ve been watching me. Checking my phone, my schedule. They know I’ve been coming to your place.”

Your stomach churned. “What did they say?”

He laughed, bitter and sharp. “Dad called you a slut. Said you seduced me to ruin me, just like before. Mom just cried, kept saying we’re sick, that we’re not right in the head. They told me to end it, to never see you again, or I’m out of the house.”

You felt sick, the memories of your dad’s rage flooding back. “And you? What did you say?”

“I told them I love you,” he said, voice softening. “I said you’re my girlfriend, my future, and I’m not giving you up. Not for them, not for anyone.”

Tears stung your eyes, a mix of pride and fear. “Hoon…”

“I’m coming over,” he said. “I need to see you.”

He was at your door in an hour, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his face pale but determined. You let him in, and he dropped the bag, pulling you into his arms. His kiss was desperate, hungry, his hands gripping your waist like he was afraid you’d vanish. You kissed him back, just as needy, your fingers in his hair, your body pressed against his.

“I’m done with them,” he said against your lips, his voice rough. “I’m out. I’m not going back.”

You pulled back, searching his face. “You’re moving out? Just like that?”

He nodded, his eyes fierce. “I can’t stay there. Not after what they said about you. About us. I’m staying here, with you, if you’ll have me.”

Your heart swelled, but fear lingered. “Of course I want you here,” you said, cupping his face. “But Hoon, what about skating? Your tuition? They pay for everything.”

“I’ll figure it out,” he said, kissing you again, softer this time. “I’ve got savings, some sponsorships. I’ll get a job. I don’t care. I just need you.”

You believed him, wanted to believe him, and for a moment, the apartment felt like a sanctuary again. You helped him unpack, making space for his clothes in your tiny closet, laughing when his socks got mixed with yours. That night, you made love—slow, sweet, nothing like the desperate fucks of the past. He whispered “I love you” as he moved inside you, his hands gentle, his eyes locked on yours. Your pussy clenched around him, your body trembling with pleasure, and when you came, it felt like a promise. You fell asleep in his arms, the fairy lights glowing, the future uncertain but bright.

-

But promises don’t erase reality. A week later, things cracked. Sunghoon was living with you now, his duffel bag a permanent fixture in the corner, his toothbrush next to yours. The apartment was still cozy, still yours, but money was tight. You were both working—your diner and corner store shifts, his new part-time gig at a skate shop—but it wasn’t enough. Bills piled up, and Sunghoon’s skating practice was suffering. He couldn’t afford the rink fees without his parents’ support, and you could see the stress eating at him, even if he tried to hide it.

It came to a head one evening. You were cooking dinner, a simple stir-fry, the kitchenette warm with the smell of soy sauce and garlic. Sunghoon was on the mattress, scrolling through his phone, his face tense. You’d noticed he’d been quiet all day, but you didn’t push, hoping he’d open up. But when you set the plates on the blue table and sat next to him, he didn’t look at you.

“Hoon, what’s wrong?” you asked, touching his arm.

He pulled away, just slightly, but it stung. “Nothing,” he said, voice flat. “Just tired.”

“Bullshit,” you said, keeping your tone light but firm. “You’ve been off all day. Talk to me.”

He set his phone down, too hard, and looked at you, his eyes sharp. “You want me to talk? Fine. I’m fucking drowning, Y/N. I can’t skate like I used to, I’m barely making rent, and I’m living in your apartment like some freeloader. I left everything for you, and now I’m stuck.”

You froze, hurt cutting deep. “Stuck? You said you wanted this. You said you wanted me.”

“I do,” he snapped, standing, pacing the small space. “But it’s not that simple. I’m trying, but it’s hard. I see you working your ass off, and I’m barely keeping up. I feel like I’m failing you, failing us.”

You stood too, anger flaring, but it was different from your old fights. This wasn’t about betrayal or the past—it was about now, about the life you were trying to build. “You’re not failing me,” you said, voice rising. “We’re in this together. But you don’t talk to me. You just shut down, like I’m the problem.”

“You’re not the problem,” he said, but his tone was sharp, frustrated. “It’s me. It’s this.” He gestured at the apartment, the cluttered table, the tiny space. “I thought I could handle it, but I’m losing everything—my skating, my future. And you’re just… fine. Like this is enough for you.”

His words hit like a slap. “You think I’m fine?” you said, voice shaking. “I’m working two jobs, Hoon. I’m trying to keep us afloat. I gave up everything too—my family, my old life. Don’t act like I’m not struggling.”

He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes wild. “Then why does it feel like you’re okay with this? Like you don’t care if we’re scraping by, as long as we’re together?”

“Because I love you!” you shouted, tears spilling over. “I don’t care about the money, the apartment, any of it. I just want you. But you’re pushing me away, acting like I’m holding you back.”

He stared at you, his chest heaving, and for a moment, you thought he’d pull you close, kiss you, make it right. But he didn’t. “I need space,” he said, voice cold. “I can’t think here. I can’t breathe.”

“Space?” you repeated, hurt turning to anger. “You live here now. Where the fuck are you gonna go?”

“I don’t know,” he said, grabbing his jacket. “The rink. Anywhere. I just… I need to figure this out.”

You stepped closer, your voice low, sharp. “If you walk out, don’t expect me to wait forever. I’m not your fucking safety net.”

He looked at you, pain flashing in his eyes, but he didn’t stay. He grabbed his duffel bag and left, the door slamming behind him. You stood there, tears streaming down your face, the stir-fry cold on the table, the apartment too quiet. You wanted to run after him, to beg him to stay, but you didn’t. You’d fought too hard to rebuild yourself, and you wouldn’t let him break you again.

-

Sunghoon didn’t come back that night, or the next. You heard through a mutual friend that he was crashing at the ice rink, sleeping in the locker room, showering in the communal bathrooms. He’d quit his job at the skate shop, pouring every hour into practice, trying to claw his way back to the top. You missed him, ached for him, but you were angry too. He’d chosen to run, to shut you out, and it hurt more than you’d expected.

The apartment felt empty without him. The fairy lights seemed dimmer, the blue table too big for one. You kept working, kept living, but every night, you checked your phone, hoping for a text, a call, anything. Nothing came. You wondered if he was okay, if he was eating, if he was thinking of you. But you didn’t reach out. You’d meant what you said—you weren’t his safety net.

A week later, you got a call from one of Sunghoon’s teammates, Jay. “You need to come to the rink,” he said, voice urgent. “It’s Hoon. He’s… he’s not okay.”

You didn’t hesitate. You grabbed your jacket and ran, the night air cold against your skin. The rink was a short bus ride away, and when you got there, it was dark, the parking lot empty except for a few cars. Jay met you at the entrance, his face grim.

“What happened?” you asked, your heart pounding.

“He fell,” Jay said, leading you inside. “During practice. He’s been pushing himself too hard, not sleeping, not eating. He hit the ice, and… he just broke down. He’s still out there.”

You followed Jay into the rink, the cold air hitting you like a wall. The ice gleamed under the dim lights, and in the center, you saw him—Sunghoon, sitting on the ice, his head in his hands, shoulders shaking. He was alone, his skates still on, his practice gear soaked with sweat. You’d never seen him like this, so small, so broken.

You stepped onto the ice, your sneakers slipping, and called his name. “Hoon?”

He didn’t look up at first, but his sobbing slowed, his hands dropping to his lap. His face was red, tear-streaked, his eyes hollow. “Y/N,” he said, voice cracking. “You came.”

You knelt in front of him, the ice cold through your jeans. “Of course I came,” you said, voice soft but firm. “Jay called. Said you fell. Are you hurt?”

He shook his head, but his hands trembled. “Not hurt. Just… fucked up. I can’t do this. I can’t skate, I can’t live like this. I miss you. I miss us.”

Your heart ached, but you didn’t touch him, not yet. “Why didn’t you call? Why did you run?”

He laughed, a broken sound, wiping his tears with his sleeve. “Because I’m an idiot. Because I thought I could fix everything by myself. I thought if I skated harder, if I won, I’d be enough. For you, for me, for them.” He gestured vaguely, meaning your parents. “But I’m not. I’m falling apart.”

You reached out, touching his cheek, your fingers cold against his warm skin. “You don’t have to be enough for them,” you said. “Just be you. That’s all I want.”

He looked at you, his eyes searching, and fresh tears fell. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice raw. “I didn’t mean what I said. I’m not stuck. I love you. I love our life. I just… I got scared. I don’t know how to do this without their support.”

You pulled him into your arms, not caring about the ice, the cold, the rink. He clung to you, his face buried in your shoulder, his sobs shaking both of you. “We’ll figure it out,” you whispered, stroking his hair. “Together. But you can’t run again, Hoon. You have to stay.”

He nodded against you, his grip tightening. “I will. I promise.”

You stayed like that, kneeling on the ice, until his tears stopped, until his breathing steadied. Jay brought you a blanket, and you wrapped it around Sunghoon, helping him off the rink. He was shaky, exhausted, but he held your hand, not letting go. You took him home, to your apartment, and for the first time in a week, the fairy lights felt bright again.

-

The apartment was a warm glow of morning light, the kind that made everything feel soft and safe. The window, no longer cracked, let in a golden stream of sun, catching on the cream-colored walls you and Sunghoon had painted two summers ago. The fairy lights were coiled in a box now, saved for winter nights, but the room didn’t need them to feel alive. A small shelf held your growing collection of thrifted books and Polaroids—snapshots of you and Sunghoon laughing at a street festival, kissing under an umbrella, sprawled on a picnic blanket with powdered sugar on your faces from those donuts he loved. The blue table, still a little wobbly, was cluttered with coffee mugs, a plate of half-eaten toast, and a tiny cactus you’d named Spike. The air smelled like brewed coffee, butter, and the faint musk of Sunghoon’s hoodie, which you were wearing, the sleeves too long over your hands.

Your mattress days were long gone. A proper bed sat against the wall, a secondhand frame you’d sanded and stained together, piled with a thick comforter and mismatched pillows. The apartment wasn’t big, wasn’t fancy, but it was home. Your home. Yours and Sunghoon’s. It had been two years since he left your parents’ house, two years since you both cut them off for good. No calls, no texts, no tearful letters begging for reconciliation. Your dad had tried, at first, leaving voicemails that went from angry to desperate before they stopped altogether. Your stepmom sent one letter, formal and cold, asking Sunghoon to “reconsider his choices.” You’d burned it in the sink, watching the edges curl and blacken, and Sunghoon had held your hand, silent but steady. That was the end of it. You didn’t need them anymore. You had each other.

You were twenty-one now, Sunghoon twenty-two, and life was quiet, steady, beautiful in its simplicity. You worked as a barista at a cozy café downtown, the kind with mismatched chairs and live music on Fridays. Sunghoon coached kids at the ice rink, teaching them spins and jumps with a patience you hadn’t known he had, and picked up shifts at a local gym, cleaning equipment and spotting for lifters. Money was still tight sometimes, but you managed—bills paid, groceries bought, a little left for small joys like movie tickets or a new plant. The past, with its pain and betrayal, was a distant ache, not gone but softened, like a bruise you barely noticed anymore.

You sat on the bed, cross-legged, sipping coffee from a chipped mug. Sunghoon was sprawled next to you, his head propped on one hand, his t-shirt rumpled from sleep. His hair was a mess, dark strands falling into his eyes, and he had that lazy, morning smile that made your heart skip. The radio played softly, some indie song about love and rain, and outside, the street was waking up—cars humming, neighbors chatting, the world moving on.

“Remember when we thought instant ramen was a personality trait?” you said, grinning over your mug.

He laughed, the sound warm, filling the room. “God, yeah. We’d eat it every day, like we were gourmet chefs. You’d put, like, a single slice of cheese on it and call it ‘fancy.’”

You shoved his shoulder, laughing. “Excuse you, that was high cuisine. You were the one who thought ketchup was a spice.”

He grabbed your hand, pulling you closer, his fingers warm against yours. “I stand by it. Ketchup makes everything better.” He kissed your knuckles, his lips soft, and you felt that familiar flutter, the one that hadn’t faded even after years together.

You leaned against him, your head on his shoulder, the coffee mug cradled in your lap. “We’ve come a long way, huh?” you said, voice softer now, thoughtful. “From that shitty apartment to… this.”

He nodded, his cheek resting against your hair. “Yeah. Feels like a lifetime ago. You were so mad at me all the time. Thought you’d kick me out for good after that rink thing.”

You smiled, but it was tinged with the memory. “I wanted to. But I couldn’t. Even when I hated you, I didn’t.”

He turned, shifting so he could look at you, his eyes serious but warm. “I’m glad you didn’t. I was a mess back then. Still am, sometimes. But you… you make me better.”

Your chest tightened, a mix of love and gratitude. You set the mug on the table and climbed into his lap, straddling him, your hands on his shoulders. “You make me better too,” you said, voice quiet. “I was so angry, so hurt. I thought I’d never trust anyone again. But you showed up, kept showing up, even when I pushed you away.”

He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you closer, his hands slipping under the hoodie to rest on your bare skin. “I couldn’t stay away,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper. “Even when I fucked up, even when I didn’t know how to fix it. I loved you too much.”

You kissed him, slow and deep, your fingers in his hair, your body pressed against his. It wasn’t desperate or hungry, not like the early days when every touch was a fight against the past. This was soft, certain, a promise in every brush of his lips. His hands roamed your back, warm and gentle, and you felt safe, loved, whole. You pulled back, resting your forehead against his, your breaths mingling.

“Tell me something,” you said, smiling. “What’s the biggest thing you’ve learned since we started this?”

He thought for a moment, his hands still on your waist, his thumbs tracing circles on your skin. “That I don’t have to be perfect,” he said. “Growing up, Mom and Dad… they made me feel like I had to be the best, always. No mistakes, no weaknesses. But with you, I can just be me. I can fuck up, and you’ll still love me.”

You smiled, your heart swelling. “I do. Always.” You kissed his nose, then leaned back, your hands on his chest. “Your turn. Ask me.”

He grinned, his eyes bright. “Okay. What’s the biggest thing you’ve learned?”

You bit your lip, thinking. “That I’m enough,” you said, voice soft but sure. “I spent so long feeling like I was less than you, less than everyone. Dad made me feel like I was nothing, like I’d never be good enough. But you… you showed me I’m enough, just as I am. I don’t have to prove anything.”

His smile softened, and he pulled you into a hug, his chin resting on your shoulder. “You’ve always been enough,” he whispered. “More than enough.”

You stayed like that, wrapped in each other, the radio humming, the coffee going cold. The conversation drifted, turning to memories, to how you’d grown. You talked about the early days, when the apartment was bare, when you lived on instant noodles and stubborn hope. You laughed about the time Sunghoon tried to “fix” the leaky faucet and flooded the bathroom, or when you burned a cake for his birthday and ended up eating the charred remains anyway, giggling like kids.

“We were so young,” you said, lying back on the bed, Sunghoon next to you, his hand laced with yours. “Not in age, but… in how we saw things. I thought hurting you would make me feel better. I thought I’d never get over it.”

He turned on his side, propping his head on his hand, his eyes tracing your face. “I thought I’d never be free,” he said. “From Mom, from Dad, from all their expectations. I thought I had to carry it forever. But you showed me I could let go.”

You smiled, reaching up to brush his hair from his eyes. “We saved each other, didn’t we?”

He nodded, leaning down to kiss you, soft and slow. “Yeah,” he said against your lips. “We did.”

The day passed in a haze of quiet joy. You cooked lunch together—spaghetti with homemade sauce, a recipe you’d perfected over months of trial and error. Sunghoon insisted on chopping the garlic, even though he always made a mess, and you teased him when he got sauce on his shirt. “You’re hopeless,” you said, but you kissed the spot on his cheek where a speck of tomato had landed, and he laughed, pulling you into a dance in the tiny kitchenette, spinning you until you were dizzy.

That evening, you sat on the bed, a blanket draped over your legs, sharing a bowl of popcorn as you talked about the future. Not big plans—neither of you were ready for that—but small ones. A weekend trip to the coast, maybe. A new shelf for your books. Trying a new recipe. Sunghoon wanted to teach you to skate, though he admitted he’d probably spend more time catching you than coaching.

“I’d be terrible,” you said, tossing a popcorn kernel at him. “I’d fall every two seconds.”

He caught the kernel, popping it into his mouth with a grin. “Good. More excuses to hold you.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart fluttered. “Cheesy,” you said, but you leaned into him, your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. The apartment was quiet, the street outside calm, and you felt something you hadn’t in years: peace.

Growing up together hadn’t been easy. There were fights, tears, moments when you thought you’d lose each other. The past—your parents, the pregnancy, the betrayal—had left scars, but they’d faded, softened by time and love. You’d learned to forgive, not just Sunghoon but yourself. You’d learned to live, not for anyone else, but for you, for the life you’d built together.

“I love you,” you said, voice soft, almost lost in the hum of the radio.

Sunghoon’s arm tightened around you, his lips brushing your hair. “Love you too,” he said, and you knew he meant it, not just for now but for always.

The night stretched on, and you fell asleep tangled together, the coffee mugs forgotten, the popcorn bowl tipped over, the world outside irrelevant. You’d grown up, not just in years but in heart, and you’d done it together, step by step, love by love.

-

The apartment was a cozy haven, bathed in the soft glow of morning light. The cream-colored walls were adorned with more Polaroids now—snapshots of you and Sunghoon at a carnival, sharing ice cream, laughing in a rainstorm. The blue table, still a little wobbly, held a vase of daisies, a new addition from your weekend market trips, and a stack of takeout menus for lazy nights. The air smelled like fresh coffee and the cinnamon rolls Sunghoon had tried (and mostly succeeded) to bake, their golden tops peeking out from a plate on the counter. The bed, no longer a mattress on the floor, was a proper frame with a plush comforter, piled with pillows that always ended up scattered after your late-night cuddles. The apartment was small, but it was yours—yours and Sunghoon’s, a home built from love and stubborn hope.

Three years had passed since Sunghoon left your parents’ house, three years since you’d both cut them off and chosen each other. You were twenty-two now, Sunghoon twenty-three, and life was good—really good. You’d upgraded from your barista job to managing the café, a role that came with better pay and creative control over the menu. Sunghoon was thriving at the ice rink, coaching kids full-time and even competing in local tournaments, his passion for skating reignited. Money wasn’t a constant worry anymore; you could afford small luxuries like weekend getaways or new furniture. The scars of your past—the pregnancy, the abortion, your parents’ betrayal—were still there, faint and faded, but they no longer defined you. You’d grown up together, learned to love without fear, and built a life that was yours, free from the weight of your family.

You were curled on the bed, wearing Sunghoon’s t-shirt and a pair of his boxers, your hair still messy from sleep. Sunghoon was in the kitchenette, flipping through his phone, his sweatpants low on his hips, his bare back lean and strong from years of skating. The radio played a soft pop song, and you hummed along, scrolling through your own phone, when an email notification popped up. It was from an old family friend, someone you hadn’t spoken to in years. The subject line was simple: “Checking In.”

You opened it, curious, and skimmed the message. It was mostly small talk—updates on their life, questions about yours—but one line stopped you cold. “I was sorry to hear about your dad and Sunghoon’s mom splitting up. Divorce is tough, but they seem to be moving on.”

You sat up, heart pounding. “Hoon,” you said, voice sharp. “Come here.”

He turned, eyebrows raised, setting his phone down. “What’s up?”

You handed him your phone, the email open. “Read this.”

He scanned it, his expression shifting from confusion to surprise, then to something like amusement. “They got divorced?” he said, looking up at you. “When?”

“I don’t know,” you said, taking the phone back. “This is the first I’ve heard. I mean… we blocked them. Nobody told us.”

He sat on the bed, a grin spreading across his face. “So, technically, we’re not step-siblings anymore.”

You stared at him, then burst out laughing, the sound bubbling up uncontrollably. “Oh my God,” you said, clutching your stomach. “That’s… that’s so stupid. We’re not related anymore?”

He laughed too, the sound bright and free, his eyes crinkling. “Guess not. We’re just… us now. No weird family baggage.”

You fell back on the bed, still giggling, tears of laughter in your eyes. “All that drama, all that guilt, and now it’s just… poof. Gone. They’re not even together.”

Sunghoon lay next to you, propping himself on one elbow, his grin wide. “Kinda funny, right? We went through hell because of them, and they couldn’t even make it work.”

You turned to him, your laughter fading into a smile. “It’s like… we’re free. Really free.”

He nodded, his hand finding yours, his fingers lacing through. “We always were,” he said, voice softer. “But this? It’s like the universe saying we’re okay. That we’re right.”

You leaned in, kissing him, slow and sweet, your lips lingering against his. His hand slid to your waist, pulling you closer, and you felt the familiar warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart. The kiss deepened, but it wasn’t urgent, wasn’t desperate. It was love, pure and simple, the kind that didn’t need to prove anything. When you pulled back, you were both smiling, your foreheads pressed together.

“Love you,” you whispered, your fingers tracing his jaw.

“Love you too,” he said, his voice low, warm. “Always.”

The discovery could’ve been heavy, could’ve stirred up old wounds, but it didn’t. It was a relief, a punchline to a bad joke, and it made you both lighter. You spent the morning talking about it, laughing over the irony, wondering what your parents were doing now but not caring enough to find out. They were gone from your lives, and their divorce was just a footnote, a reason to chuckle and move on.

-

That evening, Sunghoon was acting strange. He’d been fidgety all day, checking his phone, pacing the apartment, muttering to himself. You noticed but didn’t push, assuming he was just wired from the divorce news. You were in the kitchenette, washing dishes, humming to the radio, when he came up behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist.

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft, a little nervous. “Can we talk?”

You turned, drying your hands on a towel, raising an eyebrow. “You okay? You’ve been weird all day.”

He laughed, but it was shaky, and he ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… come sit with me.”

You followed him to the bed, your heart picking up speed. He sat, pulling you down next to him, his hand tight around yours. The fairy lights were plugged in now, glowing golden, and the room felt warm, intimate, like it was holding its breath.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice low, serious. “I’ve been thinking about us. About everything we’ve been through. The good, the bad, all of it.”

You nodded, your stomach fluttering, not sure where this was going. “Okay…”

He took a deep breath, his eyes locked on yours. “I love you. More than I ever thought I could love anyone. You’re my best friend, my home, my everything. And today, finding out we’re not tied to them anymore… it made me realize I don’t want to wait. I want you forever.”

Your breath caught, and he reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, velvet box. Your heart stopped as he opened it, revealing a simple silver ring, a tiny star etched on the band. It wasn’t flashy, wasn’t expensive, but it was perfect.

“Marry me,” he said, his voice steady despite the nerves in his eyes. “Not because we have to, not because of anyone else. Just because I want you, always.”

Tears welled up, and you laughed, a soft, shaky sound, your hands flying to your face. “Hoon,” you whispered, voice thick. “Yes. Yes, I’ll marry you.”

He grinned, wide and bright, and slid the ring onto your finger, his hands trembling. You kissed him, hard and desperate, your arms around his neck, his hands in your hair. The kiss was messy, full of tears and laughter, and when you pulled back, you were both beaming, the ring catching the light.

“I love you,” you said, your voice breaking, and he kissed you again, softer this time, his lips lingering.

“Love you too,” he murmured, his forehead against yours. “Forever.”

You didn’t want a wedding. Neither of you did. The idea of a big ceremony, with dresses and flowers and people you barely knew, felt wrong. You’d spent years tied to expectations, to your parents’ rules, and you didn’t want your love to be a performance. Instead, you went to the courthouse a week later, just the two of you, in jeans and t-shirts, the ring on your finger and a matching one on his. You signed the papers, said your vows in a quiet room with a bored officiant, and laughed when you tripped over the words, Sunghoon catching you with a grin.

It was enough. More than enough. You celebrated with takeout pizza and cheap wine, eating on the bed, the fairy lights glowing, the radio playing your favorite songs. You made love that night, slow and tender, his hands gentle on your skin, your pussy clenching around him as you whispered his name, your bodies moving together like they were made for it. It wasn’t about passion or need—it was about love, about being one, about promising forever in every touch, every kiss.

After, you lay tangled in the sheets, his arm around you, your head on his chest. The ring felt new, a little heavy, but right. You traced his collarbone with your finger, smiling when he shivered.

“Mrs. Park,” he said, testing the words, his voice teasing but soft. “Sounds good, huh?”

You laughed, poking his side. “Don’t get cocky, Mr. Park. I’m still me.”

He grinned, kissing your hair. “Good. I wouldn’t want anyone else.”

You talked until the candles burned out, reminiscing about your journey, laughing about the divorce news again. “We were so stressed about being step-siblings,” you said, shaking your head. “And now it’s like… who cares? They’re not even a thing anymore.”

“Right?” he said, chuckling. “All that guilt, all those fights, and they just… imploded. Guess we won.”

You smiled, snuggling closer. “We did. We really did.”

You talked about growing up, about how you’d changed. You weren’t the angry girl who’d wanted to hurt him, the one who’d lied and schemed. You were stronger now, kinder to yourself, proud of the life you’d built. Sunghoon wasn’t the perfect son, trapped by pressure. He was free, passionate, a man who loved deeply and fought for what mattered. You’d both learned to forgive, to heal, to love without conditions. The past was a lesson, not a chain, and you carried it lightly now, a story you’d survived together.

“I’m happy,” you said, voice soft, almost afraid to say it out loud. “Like, really happy.”

He looked at you, his eyes warm, his smile soft. “Me too,” he said. “Happier than I’ve ever been.”

The night faded into morning, and you fell asleep in his arms, the apartment quiet, the world outside irrelevant. You were married, not by a big wedding but by choice, by love, by a promise no one could break. You’d grown up together, from pain to peace, and now, you’d grow old together, just the two of you, forever enough.

-

The house was alive with the chaos of a Saturday morning. It wasn’t the tiny apartment anymore—that was a distant memory, a place you and Sunghoon still talked about with nostalgic smiles. Now, you lived in a modest two-bedroom home on the edge of the city, with a small backyard and a swing set the kids adored. The walls were painted a soft blue, covered in crayon scribbles and framed family photos—you and Sunghoon at the courthouse, your twins as newborns, all four of you at the beach last summer. The kitchen smelled like pancakes and maple syrup, the radio playing an old love song, and the living room was a mess of toys, books, and a half-built pillow fort.

You were thirty, Sunghoon thirty-one, and life was everything you’d dreamed it could be. You owned the café now, a thriving little spot with your artwork on the walls and Sunghoon’s skating trophies on a shelf. He ran a skating school at the rink, coaching kids and adults with the same passion he’d always had, his smile brighter than ever. Your parents were a faint memory, their divorce a footnote you’d laughed about years ago. You hadn’t spoken to them in over a decade, and you didn’t need to. Your family was here, in this house, with the two people who made every day a gift.

The twins, Hana and Minjun, were five, a whirlwind of energy and giggles. Hana had Sunghoon’s dark hair and your stubborn streak, always bossing her brother around. Minjun had your eyes and Sunghoon’s quiet charm, content to follow his sister’s lead but quick with a cheeky grin. They were sprawled on the living room rug, coloring a giant piece of paper, their crayons rolling everywhere.

“Mommy, Daddy’s burning the pancakes again!” Hana called, not looking up from her drawing, a lopsided rainbow.

You laughed, standing at the stove, flipping a pancake that was, in fact, slightly too dark. “He’s not burning them, baby. He’s just… making them extra crispy.”

Sunghoon, beside you in a faded t-shirt and sweatpants, nudged your hip with his. “Liar,” he teased, his voice low, warm. He leaned in, kissing your cheek, his hand brushing your waist under the hem of your shirt. “You’re the one who distracted me.”

You swatted him with the spatula, grinning. “Keep it PG, Park. Kids are watching.”

He chuckled, stealing another kiss, quick and soft, before turning to the twins. “Who wants pancakes?” he called, holding up a plate stacked high.

“Me!” Hana and Minjun shouted, scrambling to the table, their coloring forgotten. You set the plates down, cutting their pancakes into small pieces, while Sunghoon poured orange juice, dodging Hana’s attempt to grab the jug.

Breakfast was loud, messy, perfect. Minjun got syrup on his nose, Hana told a long, dramatic story about a butterfly she’d seen, and Sunghoon kept sneaking bites from your plate, his hand resting on your thigh under the table. You caught his eye, and he smiled, the kind of smile that still made your heart skip, even after all these years.

“Eww, Daddy, stop looking at Mommy like that,” Hana said, wrinkling her nose. “You’re all mushy.”

Minjun giggled, covering his mouth. “Yeah, mushy-gushy! You’re always kissing!”

You burst out laughing, and Sunghoon leaned back, pretending to be offended. “What? I can’t kiss my wife? Who made that rule?”

“Me!” Hana declared, crossing her arms. “It’s gross.”

“Gross?” Sunghoon gasped, scooping her up and tickling her until she squealed. “You’re gonna be mushy-gushy one day, kiddo.”

“Never!” she shrieked, giggling, while Minjun joined in, climbing onto Sunghoon’s lap, demanding tickles too.

You watched them, your heart so full it hurt. This was your life now—pancakes and laughter, crayon stains and tickle fights. You and Sunghoon were still so in love, the kind that made you steal kisses in the kitchen, hold hands under the table, make love late at night when the kids were asleep, your bodies tangled, your whispers soft. Your rings, simple silver bands, caught the light, a quiet reminder of the vow you’d made—not with a wedding, but with each other, every day.

Later, after the dishes were done and the twins were napping, you and Sunghoon curled up on the couch, a blanket over your legs. The house was quiet, the radio off, just the hum of the fridge and the distant chirp of birds outside. He pulled you close, your back against his chest, his arms around you.

“Happy?” he asked, his lips brushing your ear, his voice low.

You smiled, tilting your head to look at him. “Happier than I’ve ever been.”

He kissed you, slow and sweet, his hand resting on your stomach, where the twins had grown years ago. “Me too,” he said. “You, the kids… it’s more than I ever dreamed.”

You turned in his arms, straddling his lap, your hands on his face. “Love you,” you whispered, kissing him again, deeper this time, your fingers in his hair.

“Love you more,” he murmured, his hands sliding under your shirt, warm against your skin. The kiss heated, but the sound of small footsteps made you pull back, laughing softly.

“Mommy?” Minjun’s voice came from the hallway, sleepy and curious.

Sunghoon grinned, resting his forehead against yours. “Busted,” he whispered.

You climbed off him, smoothing your shirt, and went to scoop up Minjun, who was rubbing his eyes. Hana followed, dragging her blanket, and soon you were all piled on the couch, the twins nestled between you. Sunghoon draped an arm around you, his hand resting on Hana’s head, and you leaned into him, your heart full.

“Still mushy,” Hana mumbled, but she was smiling, snuggling closer.

“Always,” you said, kissing her forehead, then Sunghoon’s cheek.

The afternoon faded into evening, and you stayed there, a happy, messy family, built from pain and love, stronger than anything that had tried to break you. You’d grown up together, you and Sunghoon, from anger to trust, from chaos to peace. Now, with your twins, your home, your love, you were whole—a family, forever.

[gweelczz]

“Roots and Remedies”

Elias “Stack” Moore x Honey (OC)

Genre: Fluff with slight violence

Summary: Somebody tries Stack’s woman and Stack ain’t fucking with it

The sun was low and hot, spitting fire across the cracked concrete outside Roots & Remedies. Honey was standin’ on a stepstool inside, fixin’ a jar of bay leaves onto a shelf when she heard the ruckus — a voice, loud and ugly, barkin’ out over the quiet hum of the evening.

“Witchcraft! Devil’s work!” the man hollered, spittin’ onto the sidewalk like the ground itself owed him somethin’.

Honey set the jar down slow, wiped her hands on her skirt, and stepped outside. The man was a wiry little thing, face already turnin’ beet red, sweatin’ through his cheap button-up.

Her deep cognac eyes narrowed. “Ain’t nobody botherin’ you, sir,” she said, voice smooth but firm, her thick 4c coils tucked away in a pretty deep-purple headwrap that caught the light. “You best go on ’bout your business.”

“Business?” the man barked, takin’ a step toward her. “This ain’t business, it’s blasphemy! You sellin’ evil! Cursin’ folks!” He jabbed a finger toward the sign painted on the window — Herbs, Remedies, Roots.

A few folks lingered at the curb, watchin’.

Honey didn’t flinch. “Ain’t no curses here,” she said coolly. “Just folks tryna heal a little. You don’t like it, you can move along.”

The man puffed up, lookin’ like a rooster about to pop a vein. “You better shut this place down ’fore somebody shuts it down for you!”

Before Honey could open her mouth again, she heard it — that low, heavy scrape of boots on pavement. She didn’t even need to turn around.

Stack.

He moved like a storm rollin’ in — tall, broad, dressed in a suit with a red tie and hat accompanied by a cigar. Smoke flanked him dressed in a tweed suit with blue, cigarette in hand that Stack had rolled for him, cut from the same rough cloth.

Stack stopped right between her and the fool, thumb hooked lazy in his belt loop, a dangerous gleam in his eye.

“You heard the lady,” Stack said, voice a slow southern drawl, gritty like gravel. “Get the hell on.”

The man sneered, takin’ in Stack and then Smoke, eyes bouncin’ back and forth.

“Y’all supposed to be twins?” he asked, snickering like he thought he was clever.

Stack smirked his voice low and laced humor. He tilts his head down a bit, grills showing, “Nah we cousins.”

The fool laughed — a nervous, ugly sound — and shoved Stack right in the chest.

That was it.

Stack’s fist cracked into his jaw before the man could even blink, knockin’ him flat on his back. He let out a pitiful grunt, lyin’ there, stunned.

Smoke stepped up, starin’ down at him, his gold tooth flashin’ when he gave a cold, sharp laugh. “Told you, you dumbass.”

Honey watched it all with her arms crossed, lips pursed, but there was a little curl of pride under it too.

Stack turned back to her, brown eyes softer now when he looked at her. He reached out, thumb brushing lightly over her jawline.

“You alright, baby girl?” he drawled, low and rough like molasses.

“I’m good, sugar,” she said, voice just as slow, just as thick. Her hand slipped up to lightly squeeze his wrist — strong, calloused, warm.

He dipped his head a little, like he might kiss her right there if there weren’t still folks watchin’. Instead, he tucked her close under his arm, leadin’ her back toward the shop.

Smoke lingered just long enough to nudge the groanin’ man with the toe of his boot, makin’ sure he stayed down.

The door to Roots & Remedies swung shut behind them, the bell jinglin’ soft-like. Outside, the street buzzed with whispers and side-eyes, but inside, it was just them — the sharp scent of dried herbs, the creak of old wood under their boots, and the feelin’ that, no matter what foolishness tried to stir up outside, this was Honey’s ground.

And Stack?

He’d fight the devil himself before he let anybody take it from her.

⸻

Inside Roots & Remedies, the air was heavy with the scent of cedar and lavender, the last light of the sun stretchin’ long across the wooden floors.

Stack let the door fall shut behind him, the little bell jinglin’ once, then nothin’ but the sound of their boots against the worn floorboards.

Honey pulled away just enough to turn and look at him — her thick lashes low, cognac eyes glintin’ warm but wary. She untied her headwrap slow, lettin’ some of her thick black coils tumble free down her back, a habit she always did when she needed to breathe deep.

“You ain’t had to do all that, Stack,” she said soft, but the way she was lookin’ at him said she wasn’t mad about it neither.

Stack shrugged like it was nothin’, shoulders rollin’ slow under his tank, tattoos catchin’ the low light.

“You know I ain’t gon’ let no man talk crazy to you,” he said, voice thick, drawlin’ rough around the edges. “Ain’t gon’ happen, not while I’m breathin’.”

Honey leaned her hip against the counter, arms crossed, watchin’ him like she was tryin’ to see right down into his soul.

“You always been hardheaded like that,” she teased, but there was a tremble in her voice. One she couldn’t hide.

Stack stepped closer, boots heavy on the old wood, until there weren’t no space left between ‘em. His hands found her waist easy, rough palms slidin’ over the soft curve of her sides, holdin’ her like he was afraid she’d slip away.

He dipped his head low, forehead nearly brushin’ hers. His breath was hot against her lips.

“I gotta ride out soon,” he muttered, voice grittier than gravel. “Handle somethin’.”

Honey’s heart kicked up hard. She knew Stack’s somethin’ was never clean. Never easy.

Her fingers twisted in the hem of his shirt, holdin’ on tight. “Stack, don’t you—”

“I ain’t makin’ no promises I can’t keep,” he cut in, his thumb strokin’ slow over her hip. “But I’m tellin’ you right now… when I get back?” He pulled her closer, voice low like a prayer.

“I’m puttin’ a ring on that pretty lil’ finger. You gon’ be mine, Honey. Whole town gonna know it.”

Honey blinked up at him, heart slammin’ against her ribs, tears burnin’ the backs of her eyes — but she didn’t let ’em fall. Not yet.

“You betta come back to me,” she whispered, voice breakin’ just a little.

Stack gave her a half-smile, all sharp teeth and reckless heart. He kissed her forehead slow — a kiss that felt like it was settin’ a mark only she could see.

But before he could step away, Honey caught his hand, holdin’ him still.

“Wait,” she said, voice steady now.

She moved behind the counter quick, grabbin’ a small velvet pouch and two tiny bottles filled with oil. She handed one pouch and one bottle to Stack, the other set into Smoke’s calloused hand.

“Keep these on you,” Honey said, voice low, almost sacred. “I blessed ‘em myself. For protection. For strength. For comin’ home.”

Stack looked down at the little pouch in his hand, then back up at her — somethin’ hot and tender flashin’ in his eyes that he didn’t dare speak on.

Honey stepped even closer, pressin’ her palm flat against Stack’s chest, right over his heart. She closed her eyes and whispered a prayer, her voice thick with old words passed down from her grandmama and the women before her — words stitched with faith, strength, and stubborn hope.

When she finished, she pressed one last kiss to his knuckles, the ones already bruisin’ from the earlier fight.

Then she let him go.

Stack headed for the door without lookin’ back, pushin’ it open so hard the bell above it jangled wild, like it knew somethin’ was comin’.

Honey stood there, chest tight, clutchin’ the edge of the counter, watchin’ him disappear into the blood-red dusk — feelin’ in her bones that whatever Stack was walkin’ into, it might not let him come back easy.

If he came back at all.

Next chapter

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

Ghost AU: Dancer x Bouncer!Simon Riley | Author's note: smut! for some reason Simon is only hot to me in AU contexts; you're welcome btw

You hated Simon Riley from the moment you met him.

Stone-faced, hulking, rude as hell—he never smiled, never talked unless he had to, and always watched you from across the club like you were a goddamn criminal instead of one of the top dancers pulling in customers. His arms would stay crossed over his massive chest, black bouncer tee stretched tight, and his masked face just staring while you worked your magic.

The worst part? You knew he wanted you.

You could see it in the way his eyes would track your every move when you led some drunk asshole to a VIP booth. In the way his fists would flex when a customer got a little too handsy. He'd never admit it, though. Too proud. Too broody.

And he was an asshole, too. Always letting his 141 buddies—some group of Special Forces dickheads—get away with everything. They'd show up, loud and laughing, tossing money around, thinking they owned the place. You weren't even supposed to bring anyone into the private rooms without management’s approval, but if it was his friends? Simon didn’t say a damn word.

You swore he got off on making your nights harder.

That was until Johnny showed up.

Johnny was different. Sweet, funny, a little cocky but in a way that made you grin instead of grit your teeth. He actually talked to you like you were a person, not a piece of meat. When you flirted with him, it felt natural—not forced, not fake for the sake of tips.

One night after your shift, Johnny caught you smoking outside, all dolled up with nowhere to go. He offered to walk you home. Said it wasn't safe for a “pretty thing like you” out in the dark. You almost laughed him off, but his lopsided smile made you say yes.

And fuck, he was a good kisser.

One thing led to another—slow touches, pressed up against the door to your shitty apartment—and you realized maybe hooking up with a customer wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Maybe the rules were stupid. Maybe breaking them felt good.

But of course, Simon had to ruin it.

The next night, you caught him at the back of the club, arms crossed, leaning against the wall. Watching. Judging.

"You gettin' cozy with Soap now?" he muttered when you walked past, low and mocking.

You stopped dead in your heels, turning to glare at him. “Not that it’s any of your damn business, bouncer boy.”

His eyes flicked over you, slow and heavy. Like he was undressing you with just a glance. “Figured you’d have more standards.”

You laughed, sharp and mean. "Coming from the guy who babysits his drunk military buddies? Please."

For a second, it looked like he might actually say something real. Instead, he just stared you down, his jaw clenching under the black mask, something dangerous flashing in his gaze. The tension snapped tight between you—thick enough to choke on.

You hated him. He hated you.

The club was packed, a haze of smoke and cheap perfume clinging to the air. The bass thrummed through the floor, rattling up your spine as you moved, slow and sultry, weaving between the crowd. You spotted Johnny instantly—grinning that easy, boyish grin from the VIP booth, a whiskey glass in his hand, eyes glued to you.

He waved you over like you were old friends. You hesitated, glancing over your shoulder.

Simon was on the far side of the room, posted up near the bar. Arms crossed, black shirt tight across his chest, mask in place. Watching. Always fucking watching.

Good. Let him.

You smirked to yourself and sashayed your way over to Johnny, sliding into his lap like you owned him. His hands immediately found your hips, warm and heavy, but he didn’t push—you liked that about him. He was sweet. Playful. Not like the other guys who came through here.

You leaned down, whispering something filthy into Johnny’s ear just to be a brat, just to feel Simon’s eyes burning holes through your skin from across the room.

You felt it. The weight of Simon’s gaze. The way the room seemed to tilt toward him, even though he hadn't moved.

Yet.

Then Johnny’s hand slid a little lower, fingertips brushing the top of your thigh—right where your garters met bare skin—and that was it.

The next thing you knew, Simon was there, ripping you up off Johnny’s lap with a roughness that made you gasp. One hand wrapped firmly around your wrist, the other braced against your lower back, hauling you bodily away from the booth.

"Oi—!" Johnny started to protest, half-standing.

"Sit the fuck down, Soap," Simon growled—growled—without even looking at him. His voice was low, lethal, enough to make Johnny immediately freeze.

You struggled against Simon’s grip, half-hearted, more out of pride than real resistance. "The fuck is your problem, Riley?!"

He didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at you.

He dragged you down the hall toward the back rooms, shoving open the door to an empty storage closet and forcing you inside ahead of him.

The door slammed shut.

Silence.

Then Simon stepped closer—slow, controlled, a fucking storm brewing behind his mask.

"You think you’re clever, prancin’ around like that?" he rasped, voice pitched low and dangerous. "Sittin' in his lap, lettin' him touch you?"

You swallowed hard, heart hammering. “I wasn’t doing anything against the rules,” you snapped, but your voice shook.

He laughed. A dark, humorless sound.

"Fuck the rules."

Before you could blink, he crowded you up against the wall, one massive hand slamming next to your head, trapping you. His other hand gripped your chin, forcing you to look up at him.

“You’ve been fuckin’ teasing me for months,” he hissed. “Walkin’ ‘round here like you don’t know what you’re doin’ to me.”

You opened your mouth—whether to fight or surrender, you didn’t even know—but he didn’t give you the chance.

He kissed you.

Hard. Bruising. Teeth and tongue and heat, swallowing the sound you made, pinning you completely. His body caged yours, so much larger, so much hotter, pressing you deeper into the wall.

His hands found your hips, gripping so tight you knew there’d be bruises. He dragged your hips against his, and fuck, he was already hard.

"This what you wanted, yeah?" he growled against your lips. "Wanted to get fucked by the bouncer, huh? Wanted me to show you who you really belong to?"

You whimpered before you could stop yourself, grinding against him, desperate for more.

He laughed again, but this time it was low, darkly pleased.

"You’re not leavin' this room 'til you can’t even think about another man touchin’ you," he promised, voice rough with want.

And somehow, you believed him.

You barely had time to catch your breath before Simon's hands were everywhere—yanking your top down, dragging the skirt of your costume up your thighs. His touch was rough, all frustrated hunger, no patience left.

"You like bein' a little tease, don't you?" he rasped against your throat, teeth scraping over your pulse point. "Paradin' yourself around for anyone with a few quid."

You gasped when he shoved your panties to the side, two fingers dragging through the slick heat between your thighs. He groaned, low and guttural, when he felt how wet you already were.

"Fuckin’ knew it," he growled. "Knew you wanted this."

You couldn’t speak—you could barely think. All you could do was arch against him, whimpering when he pressed those thick fingers inside you without warning, curling them just right.

"Look at you," he murmured against your ear. "Already so fuckin’ desperate. Bet Johnny didn't even get you this wet, did he?"

You shook your head frantically, your hands clawing at his shoulders, tugging at his shirt, needing more.

Simon chuckled darkly, dragging his fingers out of you only to undo his belt one-handed, pants shoved down just enough to free his cock. He was big—thick and heavy in his fist—and your mouth watered at the sight of him, even through the haze of lust.

"Turn around," he ordered, voice sharp.

You obeyed before you even realized it, facing the wall, hands braced against the cool concrete. You felt him behind you, lining up, the head of his cock dragging through your folds in lazy, teasing strokes that made your knees threaten to buckle.

"You sure about this?" he asked, voice a little lower, a little rougher. Beneath the dominance, there was still that careful thread of control—Simon Riley never took what wasn't given.

"Yes," you whispered. "Please, Simon—fuck—please."

That was all he needed.

He slammed into you in one brutal thrust, forcing a broken cry from your lips as you stretched around him, full to the point of pain-turned-pleasure. He didn't give you time to adjust—just gripped your hips tight enough to leave bruises and fucked you like he meant it.

Fast, hard, relentless.

The slap of skin against skin filled the tiny room, mixed with your desperate little gasps and his filthy muttered curses.

"So fuckin' tight," he growled, pounding into you. "So fuckin' perfect."

Your head dropped forward, forehead pressed to the wall, as he rutted into you like a man possessed. His hand snaked around your waist, fingers finding your clit and rubbing rough, fast circles that had you screaming his name within seconds.

"That's it," he panted. "Let 'em hear you. Let everyone out there know who’s fuckin' you now."

The coil inside you snapped—white-hot and violent—your orgasm crashing over you so hard your vision blacked out at the edges. Your whole body shook, clenching around him, dragging a guttural snarl from deep in Simon’s chest.

He cursed again, low and savage, before slamming deep one last time, hips grinding into yours as he spilled inside you, filling you up with thick, hot pulses that made you shudder all over again.

For a long moment, the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the low hum of the club outside.

Simon stayed pressed to your back, his forehead resting against the side of your head, still inside you, panting like he'd just run a marathon.

Finally, he spoke—his voice rough and dangerous against your skin: "You're mine now, sweetheart."

And you were. You knew there was no coming back from this. No running. No pretending. Not with Simon Riley.

The second the high started to fade, you slumped against the wall, legs trembling, skin flushed and hypersensitive. Simon was still pressed against you, breathing heavy, his chest rising and falling against your back.

Slowly—almost gently—he pulled out, a soft hiss slipping through his teeth at the loss of your warmth. You whimpered, your body aching and used, but in the best possible way.

Simon didn’t say anything at first.

Just tucked himself back into his pants, fixed his belt one-handed, and then turned his attention fully back to you.

Without a word, he bent down, thick fingers hooking under your thighs, lifting you up like you weighed nothing. You squeaked in surprise, hands flying to his shoulders.

"Shhh," he murmured, voice still rough but quieter now. "Got you."

He sat you down carefully on an old storage crate, crouching in front of you. His gloved hand brushed your hair back from your face—surprisingly tender for someone who'd just wrecked you against a wall—and then he used his thumb to wipe a tear track off your cheek you hadn't even realized was there.

"You alright, love?" he asked, voice low but sincere.

You nodded, still a little dazed, a soft, fucked-out smile tugging at your lips. "Yeah... just... wow."

He huffed a small laugh, the tiniest crack in that usual stoic front.

Then his eyes darkened again.

"You don’t let anyone else touch you like that," he said firmly, voice dipping into something almost dangerous. "Not Soap. Not any fuckin' customer."

You blinked at him, heat rising to your cheeks.

"You made yourself real clear out there," you teased, but there was no real bite to it.

Simon leaned closer, until his masked mouth was hovering right at your ear.

"You’re mine now," he said again, like a vow, low and fierce. "Only mine."

You shivered, not from cold, but from the possessiveness dripping from every word.

He stood, towering over you again, and grabbed a discarded clean towel from a shelf. Without asking, he knelt between your legs, parting them easily, and started gently cleaning you up—careful, thorough, murmuring under his breath whenever you winced.

"Could've gone easier on you," he muttered, almost to himself. "Couldn't fuckin' help it. You drive me crazy, prancin’ around in those little outfits."

You bit your lip, trying to hide your smile.

Once he was satisfied you were alright, Simon stood again, grabbing your chin between his fingers and forcing you to look at him.

"You need somethin’, you come to me, yeah?" His eyes, the only part of his face visible behind the mask, burned into yours. "Don’t care what it is. Don’t care if I’m on shift, don’t care if it’s three in the fuckin’ mornin’. You come to me."

You nodded, swallowing thickly. "Okay."

"Good girl," he murmured.

The praise made your stomach flip wildly.

He helped you stand, smoothing your clothes down as best he could before tucking you close to his side, his big hand splayed protectively on your hip like a silent warning to the rest of the world.

When he finally opened the door to the club again, you caught sight of Johnny at the bar, nursing a drink and looking anywhere but at you.

Simon leaned down, mouth brushing your ear. "Don't worry about Soap," he said quietly, almost amused. "He knows better now."

And with that, Simon Riley—bouncer, enemy, now very clearly yours—led you through the crowd like he had every right to you.

And you had a feeling he was never letting you forget it.

[ang4lbaee-x]

Toji and his servant:3

Warning/content - f!reader receiving oral, some finger action, nipple play, nsfw language, Toji spitting on that poosay because he's a freak:3

A/n- so uh I originally wanted them to fuck but I kinda gave up:| so it's just Toji giving cunnilingus:> just enjoy this short story >_<

He stood there, cornering his cute servant, his arms on either side of your head. He leaned in, his lips grazing your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine.

“Where do you think you’re going? We’re not done talking yet,” he whispered huskily against your ear.

You looked up at him, your eyes wide and glossy.

“S-S-Sir,” you muttered breathlessly, “w-we can’t do this… whatever you’re planning to do—”

He suddenly cut you off, lifting you off the ground and slinging you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

You let out a yelp, your feet kicking in the air. “Wha—what! P-put me—”

He gave your ass a playful smack, a smirk crawling onto his face. “Be quiet, Y/N. I’m just taking you back to my room, love.”

Your cheeks flushed red at the nickname. You let out a whine, your body squirming around helplessly.

He carried you through the compound toward his room while you struggled and pleaded over his shoulder.

“N-n-no! W-wait, please put me down!”

“No can do, love,” he said, pausing briefly. “God, I’m going to make you feel so fucking good…” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to you.

You caught his whisper, your eyes shooting wide open. “Wha-what!? Toji, stop!”

But it was too late.

He kicked open his door, stepping inside before slamming it shut and locking it. He quickly crossed the room, tossing you gently onto the bed, careful not to be too rough.

Before you could scramble away, he straddled your hips, one hand tugging at the knot of his yukata while the other fumbled with the buttons of your uniform.

“T-Toji, h-hold on—” you stuttered, your words barely forming.

He opened his yukata, revealing his broad, muscular chest, glistening faintly with sweat. Your eyes widened, roaming his torso before flicking back to meet his intense gaze.

He tugged desperately at your uniform, and when you grabbed at his hands in protest, he easily caught your wrists and pinned them above your head.

Leaning in, his face just centimeters from yours, he spoke, his voice low and raw. “Please,” he breathed, his green eyes locked onto yours. “Let me take care of you, love… I want you so fucking bad.”

Before you could respond, he crashed his lips against yours, kissing you hungrily. He released your wrists, his hands moving to your body—one cupping your breast, the other wrapping tightly around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

His grip was firm, possessive. Even if you wanted to pull away, your body betrayed you, melting into his touch. Your arms slid around his neck, your fingers tangling in his dark hair, tugging and twisting.

His hand slipped under your uniform, working it off your body. Your torso was soon exposed, and without hesitation, he tore your bra away and tossed it aside, making you gasp in surprise.

“Shh… it’s okay, baby,” he murmured against your lips, breathless.

He continued kissing you feverishly, his hand moving to your plush breast, squeezing and rolling the soft flesh between his fingers.

You let out soft whines and muffled moans into his mouth, your body heating up rapidly, your need growing unbearable.

“God… you’re so soft… I want all of you, sweetheart,” he groaned, pulling back to trail kisses along your neck, slowly making his way down your body, stripping away every piece of clothing in his path.

You squirmed beneath him, helpless, as his kisses ignited every nerve ending in your skin.

Reaching the waistband of your lacy panties, he hooked his fingers under the elastic and pulled them down torturously slow, teasing you.

You whimpered, your cunt already aching and dripping with anticipation.

He tossed your panties aside, spreading your thighs wide open with his rough, calloused hands.

You looked down at him, your chest heaving. “Ah-hah, Toji—!”

Before you could finish, his mouth was already on your soaked pussy.

You cried out loudly, your head falling back into the pillows, your fingers flying to his hair, gripping it tightly. Your thighs instinctively wrapped around his head, holding him in place.

His tongue was relentless, swirling and flicking against your clit, sending jolts of pleasure up your spine. One of his hands wandered up your body, finding your breast again, teasing your nipple with sharp pinches and tugs while he feasted between your legs.

He pulled back slightly, his breath ragged. “Look at you… so pretty and wet for me,” he rasped.

He spat on your cunt without warning, spreading the slickness over your puffy folds with his fingers. “Mmph… so fucking pretty…”

“Ahh! Nngh—Toji!” you cried out, the sensations overwhelming.

A smug grin tugged at his lips as he continued to tease your soaked core. “Yeah? You need something, love?” he asked darkly, his voice dripping with amusement.

He leaned back in, his mouth resuming its sinful work on your clit. His free hand slid down your body, reaching your dripping pussy once more.

Using his fingers, he spread your folds apart, exposing your sensitive clit to his hot breath. Your legs trembled from the stimulation.

His tongue teased your entrance, dipping in slightly before dragging a long, slow lick up your slit, flicking your throbbing clit at the top.

You gasped, your whole body arching into him, desperate for more.

He groaned against your cunt, the sound sending vibrations straight through you. Toji was insatiable, devouring you like a man starved. If he had it his way, he’d stay between your legs for hours — days, even — worshipping every inch of you.

“Toji—ah! P-please, I—” you gasped, your words breaking apart as he flicked his tongue rapidly over your swollen clit.

He pulled back just enough to smirk up at you, his mouth glistening with your slick. His eyes were dark, ravenous.

“You close, love?” he drawled, teasingly stroking his fingers through your wetness. “Cum for me. I want to feel you fall apart on my tongue.”

You whimpered, hips rolling against his mouth without conscious thought, desperate for release. He latched back onto your clit, sucking hard as two of his thick fingers slowly slid into your tight, soaking pussy.

Your back arched off the bed with a cry. The combination of his tongue and fingers sent you spiraling. You clenched around his fingers, the pleasure blinding.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he growled lowly. “Give it to me.”

With a final, sharp flick of his tongue, you shattered — your climax ripping through you like a tidal wave. You screamed his name, your thighs squeezing around his head as you convulsed under him.

Toji kept working you through your orgasm, refusing to pull away until you were trembling, panting, completely spent. Only then did he finally lift his head, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, a feral grin tugging at his lips.

“You taste even sweeter than I imagined,” he rasped.

He climbed up your body slowly, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your trembling skin. When he finally reached your lips, he kissed you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

You clung to him weakly, still dazed from the force of your orgasm.

He pulled back slightly, brushing sweaty hair from your forehead with surprising tenderness. His thumb stroked your cheek as he looked down at you with something dark and possessive burning in his eyes.

“Don’t think for a second we’re finished, love,” he murmured against your lips. “I’m just getting started.”

A/n- I was absolutely freaked out while writing this😭 anyways thank you for reading! Sorry if it’s really bad. If I feel like it, I might do other parts about them:) I hate ts fuckass story

[16ferrari]

release and escape | M.R

pairing: Michael “Dr Robby” robinavitch x fem!reader

Summary: Robby’s escape when he’s home from work is you

Warnings: oral (f!male and male receiving), fingering, marking, crying, cum eating if you squint. Edited but maybe some errors!

Exhausted, sore, back pain, headache, hungry, feet hurting.

is all Robby felt as he opened the door and walked into the beautiful home whom he shared with his wife. He stopped at the door when he walked in, to just let out a deep and exhausted breath. He felt right at home but his brain was still at work, which is a habit he can’t seem to control his brain to understand when to shut down when he’s at home.

as he wandered farther into the house he took in the familiar scent and feel. Feet touching the soft fluffy carpet, instead of the hard white concrete floor that he wished everyday he wouldn’t have to face when he walked through those doors

His Nose filled with your signature scent of a coffee candle you always left running, even if he’s told you multiple times not to leave things that could catch on fire while you slept. he chuckled to himself in an almost dark, barely lit room, thankful for once you actually left it on so he could smell something other than the horrific scent the hospital gave him.

He walked into the kitchen, placed his backpack on the barstool and opened the microwave, to see the plate you had left him, now normally he be very would hungry, hungry like he hadn’t eaten in days or weeks, but tonight he shut the microwave door and just opted for a huge glass of water and made his way upstairs into your bedroom.

He quietly pushed open the door, not wanting to wake you up, but the creaking sound the door made, which he swore he was going to fix, creaked extra loud tonight and woke you up. “Robby?’’ Your voice was low and soft, with a Hint of excitement that he was finally home after a long night’s shift.

He walked over to your side of the and sat down in front of your legs, “sorry honey, stupid door couldn’t hide my secret entrance” he raised a gentle hand and moved the hair from your eyes, a smile appearing on his face once he saw the face he’d been thinking about all shift.

you light chuckled, “the door you said you would fix?, wow it came in handy tonight” you jokingly kicked his back with your foot.

“I’m gonna fix it soon, sweetheart” he pitched your thigh, and got up to take off the god awful blue sweater he usually wore to the hospital. Taking it off felt like a reward, like he was taking off a cape after working all night, saving people, losing people and getting them better. He threw the sweater to the floor, not wanting to care about it for a night. Next he took off his shirt which he took off groaning, arms and shoulders hunting as he lifted them to take off the shirt.

he heard movement from the bed and then the sound of your drawer opening, he looked at you and saw you pulling out the bottle you always pulled out when you saw any sort of body part of his hurting, muscle relaxer written on the front like it was going to work on his poorly worm out back, but he didn’t have the heart to tell you no, that it wasn’t going to work. Instead he sat on the edge of the bed, like he usually did, so you could apply the relaxer on his back.

he felt the tips of your knees hit his back softly as you filled the palm of your hand with the relaxer to rub into his shoulder blades. He groaned as he felt the small of your hands start rubbing against the parts that ached so badly. You continued like that for the next few minutes, pressing your hands and fingers into his back, drawing motions with your fingers to hopefully relieve his pain.

However you hit that one particular point that had Robby’s head falling backwards to meet yours. “Fuck right there, honey” you jabbed your thumb deeper into the point that hurt him the most, and continued on from there.

he could only groan and grasp, the relaxer actually helping him just for the night and just so right.

you pressed a kiss to his forehead, making your way down to his neck. He let out a deep breath of a laugh. “What are you doing?, honey” his hand found the back of your head, fingers getting lost in your locks.

You hummed, biting gently on his exposed neck. Your hand creeped up from behind him to run all over his toned stomach, you felt him suck in a deep breath. “Relaxing you?’’ You giggled, turning his head around so you kiss him. you felt him escape into the kiss, it was soft and gentle. Something he needed to heal his wounds that his line of work opened up, he missed your lips on his. He turned his whole body around so he was chest-to-chest with you. His palm came up to cradle your face, the kiss deepening, turning rough and passionate.

He wrapped an arm around your waist to lay you down on the bed. It felt right, so right. Having you there beneath him, the light from the opened window shining into the room, landing on your face creating a blue and beautiful silhouette to focus on your face.

You moaned into the kiss as he opened your legs and brushed his knee against your core hidden beneath your panties. He broke the kiss to follow a trail down to your neck, painting kisses and bites that surely left marks and colored lines that would be visible to the public eye, also hard to cover up. But you couldn’t care, robby didn’t either.

Your hands scratched down his back, head falling back into the pillows, the now intense pleasure getting the very best of you. “Supposed to be taking care of you” you groaned feeling the palm of his hand ceasing your breast through the pink silk nightgown you wore to bed.

he hummed tugging down one of the straps on the dress, he dropped his head to mouth at the exposed bud. “You are’’ his hand slipped under the dress, tips of his fingers messing with the seams of your panties, “by letting me use you” he pushed them aside, inserting his ring and middle finger in your now wet and pulsating cunt.

you cried out, back arching off the bed to meet his exposed hairy chest. ‘’ fuck robby” is what only could fall from your lips as he kept hitting that particular spot that had you seeing stars. The sounds that filled each corner of the room were nasty, and loud, something that Robby would rather listen to than the stupid sounds the hospital made.

Without removing his fingers Robby pushed your legs further apart and scooted down the bed so he could come in contact with your pussy face to face. You screamed into your hand as you felt his wet tongue make contact with your clit, sucking and licking, making circles with his tongue. He was getting nasty, drool falling down his chin, soaking his beard.

“Needed this” he replaced his fingers with his tongue, “needed you, needed your sweet pussy, honey” he spread your pussy lips more open with his fingers so he could make room for his tongue to go dig deeper into your extremely wet pussy.

You couldn’t speak. Tears started to fill your waterline as you felt your stomach start to tighten up, and legs began to shake impulsively from where they laid around on Robby’s shoulders. “Fuck, I’m close’’ he sped up his movements which made you cum faster and harder. You screamed in silence, back arching far off the bed. “fuck!, fuck! Fuck!” You tried to push Robby’s head away, but he refused to leave his spot from between your legs, he continued to lick your cunt clean, soaking up whatever you left behind.

‘’Robby please” your fingers ran through his hair, hoping he’ll stop, but he didn’t. He continued mouthing at your cunt, tongue slipping in and out of your cunt, before mouthing at your clit. “Fuck, am gonna cum again” your legs were shaking again uncontrollably, feeling his hand move up and down your leg was your final straw as your vision went white, you had came hard again.

Robby crawled over to hover above you, his hand laying against your cheek to soothe your cheek, which was stained with tears. “Did great sweetheart’’ he leaned down and kissed those tear stains, washing them away with his kisses.

You played with hairs on the back of his head. “I wanna take care of you now” he hummed, letting out a breathy laugh.

”you did take care of me?” You shook your head.

”yeah, but” you wrapped your leg around his waist, flopping him over so he was on his back, and you on his waist. “I wanna take care of you in my own way” he placed his hand on the small of your back drawing soft circles with his fingers.

”really how so?” You giggled, he really was clueless. Instead of saying, you decided to just show him. You moved down a bit to unzip his pants, freeing his cock which you immediately got your mouth around.

Robby’s head fell into the pillows, chest heaving up and down. Little murmurs of cuss words leaving his mouth. You bobbed your head up and down his thick cock, taking him the furthest down your throat, swallowing up those gags and tears that threatened to break from your eyes. You felt him grip the back of your head, helping you, moving your head at the speed he wanted you to.

”fuckk, sweetheart” Robby looked down at you, only to see you already looking at him. “You’re an angel” he took a photo in his head, your batted soft eyes looking up at him, cheeks hollowed, sucking on his dick like your life depended on it. Robby's hand tightened on your hair as he got closer and closer to his end, he couldn’t warn you to stop, was too caught up in his own pleasure to say anything. But, he came with a loud groan and that was enough for you to know that he clearly needed that.

you pulled your head off his cock with a pop and a sting of saliva falling from down your chin onto your chest. Robby sat up and pulled the back of your head towards him to crash his lips onto yours, he could taste a mixture of himself and you. The kiss like earlier was messy, needy, and nasty. You both fought for dominance, deepening the kiss, tongues fighting their way into each other’s mouths.

you pulled away from the kiss breathless and wanting more, “want more, robby. Way more” you whispered into his ear, hands clawing at his skin, neediness and desperation setting in.

His hand twitched against his thigh, he nodded his head agreeing in silence. He forced you onto your back, spread open your legs and lined his cock up with your wet folds. “Can’t hold back dear’’ he warned you. you didn’t want him to, you wanted him to let loose. Release all his stress and worries into you.

”don’t hold back, robby’’

[just-some-random-blogger]

STOP IT YOU STOP IT RIGHT NOW COCKWARMING DESTRESSING FUCKING CREAMPIE AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH SIR IM JUST A COCKSLEEVE IM INSANE HAHAAHHHA ITS FINE IM FINE

"Take my cock out," he said after a while, his eyes remaining shut. "Yes, my prince," you said, then reached between your bodies and unfastened his breeches. His cock was hard and hot in your hand, and it twitched when your thumb ran across the tip. "Sit on it."

WHEN CHAPPEL ROAN SAID ITS FINE ITS COOL THATS ME ACTUALLY

"My thighs ache." He didn't respond, just kept his face buried in your neck.

OBJECTIFYING HIM AND KITTY MEOW MEOWING HIM ALL AT ONCE

You sighed and tried to pull away, but he grabbed your hips, keeping you firmly in place, his grip tight enough to leave a bruise. "Daemon," you gasped. His hand came down on your ass, hard, the sound ringing out in the otherwise quiet room. You moaned, your hips bucking as a sharp pain coursed through your body, your cunt clenching tightly around his cock. "No moving," he said, his voice firm and cold, then he reached for the goblet once more. You sobbed, burying your face in his neck, feeling the hot tears running down your cheeks, your legs trembling from the strain. You had been in this position for so long, and your body was aching, but it wasn't enough, it was never enough.

nOT TO REQUOTE YOUR ENTIRE FUCKING FIC BACK AT YOU BUT

hE DOESNT GIVE A FUCK ABOUT ME AND YEAH WHAT SHE SAID

You didn't know why you craved this. To be used as nothing more than a vessel for Daemon's pleasure, for his pain. But you did. You wanted him to ruin you, to tear you apart, to break you until there was nothing left but an obedient toy, there for his use and his alone.

i felt that 😫 i felt that

His other hand dipped in-between your legs, finding the sensitive little nub he knew just how to play, and rubbed his thumb over it in a rough, hard circle. Your hips began to move on their own, but he tugged hard on your hair and growled, "Stay still," his breath hot and heavy against your lips, before his teeth nipped at your bottom lip, "or I'll tie you down."

DIABOLICAL WORK. CREAMED MY PANTS I THINK

He smiled at your struggles, your face warm and wet with tears, and continued his ministrations. His lips and teeth were rough against your skin, and he rubbed and pinched the little bundle between your legs, until your entire body was shaking.

stoP IT RIGHT NOW THE

He fucked you like this, hard and fast, [...] He suddenly stilled, his eyes shut tight as he spilled his seed deep inside of you. [...] "My sweet wife." He whispered.

mySWEETWIFE POST NUT CLARITY ILLL ILLLLLLLLLLLL

Kinktober - {Day Three} {<- kinktober masterlist}

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List} {Kinktober}

{Daemon Targaryen x F!Reader} Request {Anon}:Hey! about kinktober can i be 18 and 27 with daemon x fem reader with ambiguous appearance, please

~ There was not enough Daemon requests and I'm devastated ~

1.9k words - Kinks: Sorta angsty??? Dom / Sub & Cockwarming...

You were pulled from a soft dream by the touch of your handmaiden, the girl's fingers grazing against your knuckles as she whispered, "Princess, you've been summoned," her voice barely above a hushed breath.

The air around you was still warm from sleep, and the thick furs and silks felt like an embrace you loathed to leave, but you knew there was only one person who would call on you this late, and he was a man not to be ignored.

So, with a reluctant groan, you pushed yourself up and slipped from the covers. You shivered as the chilled night air wrapped around your nude body, and quickly found the shift that was left out for you.

"Is he in the study?" you asked, pulling the garment over your head, before grabbing the robe that lay across the chair beside your bed.

The handmaiden nodded and said, "He was pacing when I left."

"That bad, huh?"

"I don't know, your grace, I didn't linger."

"Right, of course," you sighed, then smiled softly at her and gave her hand a gentle pat. "Go back to bed. Thank you."

"As you wish, princess," the girl said with a small curtsy, before she disappeared through the door.

You sighed again, then made your way to the room across the hall and opened the door.

It was dark, except for the light of the full moon shining through the window, and the orange glow of a single candle burning in the windowsill. Your husband was sitting behind his desk, taking a long drink from his goblet. He took one look at you and you knew exactly what he wanted, it was always the same thing when he called on you at this time of night.

You were silent as you locked the door and crossed the room, then you silently stood beside him and waited. Quiet and dutiful, just how he liked you.

He sat there for a moment, just breathing, then he grabbed your hips and pulled you down to his lap. You straddled him, and he pressed his face into the crook of your neck, his goblet of wine was still clutched in his hand.

You ran your fingers through his hair and kissed his temple, then asked in a soft tone, "What's wrong my love?"

"Nothing," he mumbled, nuzzling further into your neck, slamming the goblet down on the desk.

He grabbed at your shift, pulling it up so that your bottom was bare, squeezing and kneading your flesh with his large, calloused hands, then he grabbed the front of it and ripped it open, revealing your breasts to him.

You gasped, the cold air causing your nipples to pebble and ache, but it was quickly swallowed by a moan as Daemon's mouth explored your chest.

His hands roamed, grabbing at your skin and your curves, leaving behind hot marks in their wake, while his mouth left sloppy wet kisses across your chest.

You rolled your hips against his, grinding your aching cunt against his cock. You thought he would be pleased with your enthusiasm, but instead, he gripped the back of your neck and pressed you close, then hissed, "Stop. Moving."

His tone made your stomach tighten, and you immediately did as he asked, stilling completely in his hold.

Daemon let out a sigh of relief, then leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. You stared at him, waiting for a sign of what to do, but all he did was sit there.

"Take my cock out," he said after a while, his eyes remaining shut.

"Yes, my prince," you said, then reached between your bodies and unfastened his breeches. His cock was hard and hot in your hand, and it twitched when your thumb ran across the tip.

"Sit on it."

You did as you were told, rising up and holding his cock steady, before slowly lowering yourself down on him. He groaned, letting out a sigh of relief, the sound filling you with a warmth that settled between your legs.

You sat there for a moment, adjusting to the size and girth of his cock inside of you, unsure what you were supposed to do next.

He opened his eyes, and looked at you. You could see the storm of emotions within them, the way they swirled like a maelstrom. You wished you could help calm his mind, but you knew all too well that there was nothing you could do.

He reached for his wine and drank it, before slamming it back down on the table, then he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a tight hug, burying his face in your hair.

You weren't sure how much time had passed, you had lost count of how many cups he had downed, and all you wanted to do was move. Your thighs were shaking, your hands clutching at the back of his neck, and every breath was a soft, desperate whimper.

But you were afraid to move. You were afraid to breathe too loud, afraid that if you moved a muscle, he would be upset with you.

Your husband was usually a forceful man. He liked control, and he enjoyed a good rough tumble. He liked to use your body, and take pleasure in it.

But tonight, he needed something different, and that terrified you.

"Daemon, my love," you finally breathed, unable to hold it in anymore. "My thighs ache."

He didn't respond, just kept his face buried in your neck.

You sighed and tried to pull away, but he grabbed your hips, keeping you firmly in place, his grip tight enough to leave a bruise.

"Daemon," you gasped.

His hand came down on your ass, hard, the sound ringing out in the otherwise quiet room. You moaned, your hips bucking as a sharp pain coursed through your body, your cunt clenching tightly around his cock.

"No moving," he said, his voice firm and cold, then he reached for the goblet once more.

You sobbed, burying your face in his neck, feeling the hot tears running down your cheeks, your legs trembling from the strain. You had been in this position for so long, and your body was aching, but it wasn't enough, it was never enough.

You didn't know why you craved this. To be used as nothing more than a vessel for Daemon's pleasure, for his pain. But you did. You wanted him to ruin you, to tear you apart, to break you until there was nothing left but an obedient toy, there for his use and his alone.

You needed him. You loved him.

And sometimes you hated him.

He finished his wine, then tossed the goblet to the side, it fell to the floor with a clang, rolling across the stone until it was stopped by the wall.

Then he reached for you, his hand going to the back of your neck and pulling you into a deep, hungry kiss. It was like he finally noticed you, as if he was just waking up, and he devoured you with his mouth and his hands, touching and kissing you wherever he could.

His hand came down again, harder this time, and you yelped against his mouth, but the sound was swallowed by his kiss, his tongue plundering your mouth, his hand tangled in your hair, pulling it tight, until your scalp burned and ached.

His other hand dipped in-between your legs, finding the sensitive little nub he knew just how to play, and rubbed his thumb over it in a rough, hard circle.

Your hips began to move on their own, but he tugged hard on your hair and growled, "Stay still," his breath hot and heavy against your lips, before his teeth nipped at your bottom lip, "or I'll tie you down."

You whimpered, his threat making your cunt tighten around him, and your thighs shake with the need to move. You tried to be good, tried to keep still, but it was so hard.

You didn't want to be tied down. You wanted to move, to ride his cock like a whore. To take your pleasure, and give him his.

He smiled at your struggles, your face warm and wet with tears, and continued his ministrations. His lips and teeth were rough against your skin, and he rubbed and pinched the little bundle between your legs, until your entire body was shaking.

He knew your body so well, and he played it like a musician would their instrument, knowing exactly how and where to touch you, to make you sing, until the pleasure built up inside you and finally, it broke.

You came, hard, your body writhing, his hand on your hip the only thing keeping you steady, and he watched you, his eyes glued to your face, drinking in the pleasure and pain that twisted your features.

This is what he needed, to have someone so desperate for him, and so in need of him. You needed him to fill you up, to use you, to fuck you. You needed him to hurt you and then make it all better. It felt so good for him to be the only one who could give you that. Your body, your desires, only for him.

He pulled you close, until your foreheads were pressed together, his eyes staring into yours. He drank up your cries and moans, and kissed them away, swallowing them down like sweet honey.

You clung to him, your body shaking, and he held you tight, his lips soft against yours, his hand gentle on your cheek, the other cupping your ass, his cock throbbing inside of you.

You looked at him, your gaze clouded with desire and pain, and you knew what he needed. You leaned forward and kissed him, tasting the wine on his lips, the smell of the alcohol and sex surrounding you.

He let out a low growl, and grabbed your hips, lifting you up off his cock and back down onto him, hard and fast, his cock filling you and hitting deep.

You cried out, throwing your head back, and he leaned in and nipped at the delicate skin of your throat, his teeth leaving welts on the canvas of your neck.

He fucked you like this, hard and fast, his hips slamming into yours, his cock reaching the deepest parts of you, and soon the only sounds in the room were his grunts, the wet slap of flesh against flesh, and your squeals of ecstasy.

He suddenly stilled, his eyes shut tight as he spilled his seed deep inside of you. You collapsed on top of him, your breathing labored, and he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close and pressing a kiss to your temple.

"My sweet wife." He whispered.

He slowly stood up, holding you close and carrying you back to your bedchambers. He placed you down, gently, and laid beside you, pulling the furs and silks over your naked bodies, tucking you into his side.

You rested your head on his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear, and closed your eyes.

"Do you wish to talk about what's troubling you?" you asked, running your fingers along his chest, tracing the lines of his scars.

"No," he said, his arm tightening around your waist. "It doesn't matter."

You sighed, "Very well."

He nodded, his eyes closed and his arms wrapped around you. He was like a storm, ever restless and chaotic, but sometimes, when the conditions are just right, the winds calm and the rain stops, and all is peaceful.

{<- kinktober masterlist}

[bweeeb]

FUCKED

Joel Miller x young reader

Summary: Joel gets caught with a hard-on when you're not supposed to be at his house. Your dad wouldn't be too happy to hear about it.

warnings: bad writing, i think this sucks, smut, light sex, cocksucking, cum inside, exposed sex, slutty reader, age gap, they get caught, we all wanted him so yes.

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And there you were — sitting outside with your hair down, wearing an oversized shirt that clearly wasn’t yours, probably stolen from one of your friends.

Joel felt like a goddamn pervert, standing there at his kitchen window, watching you blow out smoke from the joint, the weed scent drifting into his backyard — and still, his cock hardened at the sight of you laughing, lazily bringing the joint to your lips.

It made him feel even worse knowing your dad was his friend. He had no business thinking these kinds of thoughts about his neighbor’s twenty-year-old daughter.

Letting out a frustrated huff, Joel yanked himself away from the window, forcing himself not to do anything stupid — like touching himself right there at the sink, or worse, running upstairs to his bedroom for some damn privacy.

"Hey, I dropped the stuff from the truck in the garage,"

Tommy’s voice pulled Joel out of his thoughts, but all he got in response was a low grunt.

"You still stuck on that, man? Thought I was the one hooking up with college girls and you were the one judging me."

"I’m not gonna do anything," Joel grumbled. "Just tired. Need to clear my head."

Tommy smirked, grabbing his keys off the counter.

"Yeah, tired and backed up. Obvious."

"Shut up," Joel muttered.

"I’m serious, man. Try keeping it in your pants while Sarah’s gone, alright?"

"Get the hell outta here."

When Tommy finally left, Joel threw himself onto the couch, cracked open a beer, ordered a pizza, and flicked on the TV. Anything to get you off his mind. Anything at all. But then the doorbell rang — and there you were, hair messy, that sweet, mischievous smile on your face.

"Hi, Mr. Miller. My dad’s still at work, and basically everything at home stopped working."

Joel frowned.

"What do you mean, kid?"

"The wiring’s shorted out, the heater’s dead, no lights, no phone… everything’s just gone."

Joel shook his head, stepping aside to let you in. "Well, come on in."

"Thanks, Mr. Miller."

"Joel," he corrected gruffly. "Told you to call me Joel."

You just smiled that soft, knowing smile and curled up beside him on the couch.

"Sorry if I’m ruining your night," you said sweetly.

"You’re not," Joel lied. But every second you were sitting next to him, he could barely think straight — the scent of you, the warmth of your body — it was all driving him insane.

"I saw you smoking earlier," he muttered. "Shouldn’t be doing that."

You laughed, a sound that made his skin heat up.

"Come on. You never smoked a little to relax?"

"In college," he admitted. "But trust me — you don’t wanna get hooked on that crap. Your dad wouldn’t exactly be thrilled about his daughter turning into a pothead."

You leaned in closer, your voice dropping.

"So you’re saying this because you care what my dad thinks... not because you care about me?"

Joel shot you a sideways look.

"Why the hell would I care about you?"

You giggled — and then you moved the pillow from his lap, your hand finding the bulge he’d been trying to hide ever since you walked through the damn door.

"Looks like you do," you whispered.

"Stop," Joel warned, grabbing your wrist — but he didn’t pull you away.

"I don’t think you want me to stop, Joel."

You pouted, and Joel cursed under his breath, the fight draining out of him. You sank to your knees between his legs, pulling him free from his shorts, and took him into your mouth without hesitation.

"Shit," he groaned. "We shouldn’t be doing this."

But he didn’t stop you. Not even close.

"Oh baby," you murmured around him, making his eyes roll back."You wanna cum in my mouth, Joel?" you asked sweetly, and he gave a broken, desperate

"yes."

You sucked him harder, faster — until his hips bucked, his hand tightening in your hair — just as your phone buzzed against your butt. He snatched it up, meaning to ignore it, but then saw the name flashing across the screen: your father.

"Fuck," he muttered. You didn’t stop. You just smiled up at him wickedly — and answered the call.

"What the hell are you doing?" Joel hissed under his breath as your father's voice came through the speaker.

"Sweetheart? That you?"

"Hi, Ron," Joel said quickly, trying not to gasp.

"It’s Joel. She’s... uh... she’s stuffing her mouth, with...with pizza in the kitchen."

You gave him a warning look. Play it cool.

"Ah, figures. Got the alert about the outage. Just checking in to see if she was alright."

"Yeah," Joel managed, his voice strained as you sucked him deeper.

"All good here."

"Thanks for looking after my little girl."

"Yeah, no problem..." Joel said, right as you climbed into his lap, threw your shorts aside, and sank down onto him without any warning.

His head fell back, a deep groan tearing from his throat.

"I’ll let her know you called,"

Joel gritted out, barely hanging on.

"Alright. Thanks, man."

Without waiting for a goodbye, Joel ended the call — and immediately grabbed your hips, bouncing you hard in his lap.

"Goddamn, baby," he muttered.

"You feel so fuckin' good."

"You’re so big, Joel," you whimpered against his neck, clinging to him.

Joel's hands gripped your waist tighter, his thrusts deep and desperate, his need overwhelming him completely.

You shattered first — your whole body trembling as you cried out his name — and Joel followed right after, cumming deep inside you with a low, guttural growl. When it was over, the room was filled with nothing but your panting breaths — until you both heard it. A familiar voice, furious and dangerous: "What the hell did you just do to my daughter, you son of a bitch?"

You were so screwed.

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[loving-barnes]

EVAN BUCKLEY - SECRETS OF THE PAST

Author’s note: I thought I'd post a spicy one-shot with Buck. But my mind had a different idea. I wanted to include some (future) drama into the story, so I have a part where we have a glimpse into Y/N's life. Guys, I had to give us a backstory, okay? :D I hope you will like it. PLEASE, let me know what you think.

Summary: During a full moon shift, Y/N takes a chilling call that hits painfully close to home.

Pairing: Evan Buckley x female reader

Warning: mentions of suicide, abuse

Rating: 15+

Words: 3400+

Masterlist | Evan Buckley Masterlist

EVAN BUCKLEY - SECRETS OF THE PAST

The full moon was here, which meant a night shift at the dispatch centre. Y/N had to work again. Every newbie worked during the full moon. No excuses. It didn’t matter that some already worked during a night like this. As they said, it’s to experience the craziness of LA. As if not enough craziness was happening in her life outside of work.

“You have the package?” the voice on the other side of the line said.

Y/N’s eyes moved from her drink to the big box sitting in the living room. A few days ago, she received a package from her hometown. It was one of the last things her distant relatives sent her. 

It was a box with photos, documents, bits and bobs. She pushed the unboxing. There was no time or mood to go through it all. Y/N wasn’t ready to go back to the past. It was this fear that she’d find some skeletons in the closet. And she knew they would belong to her damn mother. 

“I do,” she replied. “Thank you for sending it to me. I hope that is all.” 

“Well, we went through it all. This should be it,” her aunt said. She was the sister of her late father. “The papers were finalised. You should receive the inheritance money shortly.” 

“I will send you 30% as promised,” said Y/N. “Can’t believe that it took almost two years to close this chapter.” Why? Her mother made everything difficult. 

“You don’t need…”

“Stop. I will. You’ve helped me a lot, and he was your brother. I’ll send you the money once I have it in my bank account.” 

Y/N sat down on the couch, the box silently calling to her. She could have a quick peek inside before the night shift. Once she ended the call with her aunt, she put the phone on the coffee table and stared at the damn thing.

Open me… Open me…

She pushed the box closer and got inside. She examined everything that went through her hands. There were photos of her mother and deceased father. Between them was the five-year-old version of her. It was from a time when they seemed like a happy family. She used to be tiny and innocent, hugging a stuffed toy. Little did she know that things would turn drastically for everyone in a matter of months.

Y/N took a sip of coffee, letting the bitter taste linger in her mouth for a moment longer. She put the photo at the end of the pile. Then there was a picture of her mother with a man. He seemed familiar. The bottom right corner had a date. The photo was from 1994. She examined the man some more. Those eyes, the lips. 

You know what they say: the world is a small place. What the fuck, how was this possible? What if this wasn’t him? Could it be?

She put the photo aside and started to dig through the documents. Y/N didn’t want to jump to conclusions until she found more proof. The box carried her old medical records from when she was a child. Everything about her childhood health was there. Then she got to an old yellow paper folder with more papers. 

Her phone rang. Maddie’s name appeared on the screen. She picked up the call. “Hey, Maddie. You are calling early.” Y/N’s eyes put the folder aside and looked back at the photo. Her thumb lightly stroked the face of the man.

“Hi! I was wondering if you’d like to grab an early dinner before shift?” 

“Well, I made myself some food to survive the night, but sure, I’m down,” Y/N replied. “What do you have in mind?”

“Great. I was thinking Chinese? I’m really craving Panda Express.” 

Y/N gasped at the mention of that restaurant. “Damn, I’d love that. Their orange chicken is amazing. You have me, Maddie.” 

The woman laughed. “Yes, I knew you’d be down. I’ll be at your place in fifteen. Be ready. I’ll call you once I’m outside. Bye.” 

Y/N sighed. She left the photos and papers scattered around the table. It was best to let it be, for now. For all she knew, it was nothing but a coincidence. Doppelgangers existed, right? 

She changed into appropriate clothes and put snacks into her handbag, and before she knew it, Maddie was already calling. 

Maddie was chipper that day. She had a bright smile, the happiness radiating off her; it was nice and scary. Y/N should have known there was something behind that smile. As they got to the restaurant and had their order delivered, the brunette spilt the beans. “Buck’s single again.” 

“Oh? How so?” Immediately, Y/N’s stomach turned. Did her advice ruin his relationship? Wait, that was like two months ago.

“They had a fight,” Maddie said. “Well, they’ve been fighting for some time now. And it got ugly. To sum it up, they broke up. Which means my brother is available,” she sang. The excitement bubbled more, and it made Y/N uncomfortable. 

“I don’t know what you are trying to do, but I am not falling for that.” 

“What? No, I’m not trying to do anything. I have just given you some interesting information you can process however you want.” Her voice said innocence, but her actions said meddler. “But my brother is cute, no?” 

Y/N glared at Maddie and pointed a fork at her. “He’s around my age. I’ve met him twice now, so I don’t know him. I’ll admit he’s cute. That’s it.” 

That answer satisfied the woman. She smiled at Y/N and put more food into her mouth. 

“I don’t know what’s going on behind those eyes, Maddie, but I hate what’s radiating off you. Like you have a plan in your mind.” 

“What? No, no,” she shook her head. “Nothing like that.” 

“Liar,” Y/N chuckled. 

They continued to eat the food. Maddie talked about her plans with Chim for Halloween. She was genuinely excited to attend a party with him. Y/N listened. However, her mind would drift back to what she found at home. That damn picture. It had to be a coincidence. 

“Hey, you okay?” Maddie’s question brought her back to the present. “You’ve zoned out.” 

Y/N shook her head and smiled. “I’m okay, just a bit stressed from this night. It’s the full moon. Last time I worked during the full moon, shit got crazy.” She knew how to lie. She learnt how to hide her emotions and struggles well.

“I remember my first full moon. I was traumatised by some of the calls. That’s when I realised Josh wasn’t lying about crazy shifts during the full moon.” 

Once finished, Y/N paid for the food. Maddie protested, but Y/N didn’t want to hear anything about it. “You’re driving me to and from work. I can pay for food if you don’t let me give you gas money.” 

An hour later, they were both sitting behind their assigned desks. The work day, or night, had begun. The first calls were dull. One woman was shouting at Y/N because she got the wrong order at McDonald’s. Then there was a drunk woman laughing most of the call because her friend fell into a deep bush and they couldn’t get her out. 

“What a bunch of idiots,” Y/N mumbled under her nose after she ended the call. 

“And it’s not even midnight,” Josh said as he passed her table. 

Her phone rang again. Y/N glared at Josh, who laughed at her face. She would have said something back to him, but she had to pick up the call. “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” 

There was silence on the other side. “This is 9-1-1. Do you have an emergency?” she repeated. 

Y/N waited for a few seconds. As she opened her mouth, a soft voice spoke from the other side. “H-hello?” It belonged to a child. A girl. 

“This is 9-1-1. My name is Y/N. Can you tell me your name?” Her fingers were ready on the keyboard to type down everything. 

“Samantha,” the girl replied. Uncertainty. Timidness. Fear. 

“Hi, Samantha. Can you tell me your age?” she spoke softly to the girl. Simple questions will have to be done for now.

“I’m 13,” she said, her voice trembling. 

“Can you tell me what’s wrong? Are you hurt? Do you need help? Can you talk?” She asked the questions slowly, one by one. The hair on Y/N’s arms stood up. Something felt strangely familiar about this call, and it was just the beginning. 

There was a whimper, and it almost broke her heart. “I ran away from home,” she said. “I ran away from my mum. I can’t… I can’t,” she cried. Panic. Fear.

It felt like the whole world was about to collapse on Y/N. Those words brought back so many memories. All those buried feelings came back to the surface. “Samantha, why did you run away from your mum? Are you hurt? Did something happen?” She feared one of the worst answers, and she did receive one. 

It started with a cry. “She beats me,” she admitted. “I can’t do anything right. I don’t want to go back home. I can’t do this anymore.”

Y/N typed all the information into the computer. “Can you tell me where you are?” 

“She’ll find me. I can’t. I can’t tell you where I’m hiding. You’ll send her to me, and it’ll all start again. She’ll punish me for running away, calling 9-1-1. She will hurt me again.” 

“No,” Y/N shook her head even when the girl couldn’t see. “You did the right thing calling 9-1-1. We can help you. I can help you, Samantha. Tell me where you are.” 

“No,” she cried some more. 

“Listen to me, Samantha,” Y/N’s voice was desperate. Her eyes were glued to the screens. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I want to help you. I need you to tell me where you are, so I can send the help you need, okay?” 

There was nothing but soft cries coming from the other side. “She’ll find me. She’ll beat me up. I can’t do this anymore. Everything would be better if I weren’t alive.” 

Those words were a warning sign. “Are you planning on hurting yourself?” This time, Y/N focused on the sounds from the other side. A siren from far away. Wind. The girl was somewhere outside. 

“I’d rather be dead than be under one roof with her.” 

Tears collected in Y/N’s eyes. She understood the pain the girl was in better than anyone. She was once the girl on the other side of the line. ���Samantha, listen to me,” her voice trembled. “I used to be you. I used to have a mother who abused me when I was a child.” 

When Y/N closed her eyes, her mind brought her to the memories she wished she had forgotten. She appeared on the kitchen floor, her mother holding a spatula tightly in her hand as she beat her with it. 

“Tell me where you are so we can help you get to a safe place and end the nightmare you live in,” she added after she swallowed the ball that formed in her throat. “You won’t have to live like this anymore.”

Silence. She was contemplating her options. “I’m on the bridge. 6th Street Viaduct,” she said. 

Y/N quickly switched lines. “All units, I have a 13-year-old female on the 6th Street Viaduct bridge. She’s suicidal and ran away from an abusive mother. I need the closest unit and medical assistance.” 

“This is 727-L-30. I’ll be there in two minutes,” Athena’s voice replied from the other side. Y/N was glad she was the one coming to the scene. Athena was a mother herself. She loved her children, and she would help this girl. 

“Copy that,” Y/N replied and switched back to the girl. “Samatha, help is on the way. Stay on the line with me, please.” 

“W-what’s gonna happen to me now?” 

Y/N took a deep breath through her nose. She tried to hold it together. It was hard. It was so close to home that she wanted to cry her eyes out. “Do you have a father, Sam?” 

“N-no. I’m all alone,” she sobbed.

“Any relatives? Someone you love from your family?” 

“I have some. However, my mother says no one wants to talk to me because I am the worst child ever. That I am nothing, just a worthless human being that she has to feed. She says…”

“Don’t believe her, Samantha,” Y/N jumped into her speech. “She’s wrong. You are so much more than that, Sam. You are not worthless, you hear me?” 

“You are just saying it…”

“No, I’m not. It’s the truth. My mother used to say it to me, too. She used everything against me. She isolated me from the world. She made me feel like everyone hated me. It wasn’t true. Please, don’t believe those awful words she says. Don’t believe what she has put inside your head. You are so much more than that.” The tears spilt out of her eyes, down her cheeks. Her voice trembled. She didn’t hide the fact that she started to cry. 

Y/N rested her forehead against her hands and sobbed. This was something she was aware could happen at some point. Some calls would be too close to home. However, now that it had happened, it was harder than she imagined. So much pain came back to the surface. 

“This is 727-L-30. I’ve got the girl.”

She let out a deep exhale, relieved that they got to the girl before she could hurt herself. 

“Dispatch, this is Captain of 118, we are on scene and have the girl in medical care.” This voice belonged to Bobby. Hearing his voice made her heart skip a beat. She almost forgot what she saw today.

One more deep breath. “Copy that,” she replied to him and typed down the information. 

That was the end of the call. Y/N closed her eyes for a moment. She needed to process it all. For now, the girl was safe. Everything else was in the hands of the law and CPS. 

A hand appeared on her shoulder. She gasped and turned to see Maddie standing above her. “Why don’t you take five?” Her voice was gentle. “Come on. Let’s get you some coffee.” 

Both women walked into the kitchen, where Maddie closed the doors, giving them privacy. Y/N poured them coffee, and they sat together behind a table. The silence was awkward.

“I heard what you said. Is it true?” Maddie asked. 

Y/N’s eyes moved to her. Sighing, she nodded. “Every word. One call and I was a child again, experiencing it all over again. One would say I should be over it by now,” she scoffed. “It’s easier said than done.” 

“We all have a fair share of trauma,” Maddie said. “And those who didn’t experience it have no idea what it’s like.” She took a deep breath. “My ex-husband beat me,” she admitted. 

Y/N’s lower lip trembled. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay, now,” Maddie’s lips curved up. She took a sip of the coffee. “If you’d like, we can talk about it. I can tell you my story if you are willing to share yours. It will stay just between us.” 

Y/N nodded. “I’ve never told anyone,” she sniffled. “Fuck, I knew it would be hard. I didn’t expect it to hit me like this.” 

The door to the kitchen opened. Sue, their supervisor, walked in. “Everything okay?” she asked. Her hand appeared on Y/N’s shoulder. 

“Yeah, just a difficult call,” Y/N admitted. “Too close to home.” 

“Do you want to go home?” Sue asked. “I can cover for you.” 

Quickly, she shook her head. “No, I’m okay. I need a couple more minutes to clear my head. Then I’ll head back to my desk. I know what I signed up for. I needed to experience it. I’ll be okay now.” 

. . .

Maddie kept her promise. She took Y/N for breakfast after their shift. The woman opened up about her own abuse by her now-dead husband. Good thing they took a seat away from prying eyes. They cried as they shared pieces of their lives that they tried to bury deep inside their souls. 

Y/N’s story had a better ending than Maddie’s. Y/N’s father saved her from the abusive hands of her mother. Maddie had to kill her husband to be free. 

What mattered was that they survived. The dark days, or years, were far behind them. Y/N was glad Maddie shared her story. Now, she felt like they had gotten closer. Friendships were something Y/N craved for. She had no one now. Her father died of cancer. Her evil mother was god-knows-where. The rest of the family lived far away. They weren’t close.

When Y/N got home, she didn’t go inside. Instead, she turned on her heel and got on the nearest bus to the 118 fire station. She needed to know more about the call. She had to know how it ended. 

Twenty minutes later, she arrived at the building. Her palms were sweaty. The garage door was open. She noticed firefighters walking around, doing their business. One step at a time. She walked inside, searching for a familiar face.

“Y/N?” Buck came out of a firetruck. He closed the door behind him. 

“Hi,” she greeted him. 

He smiled at her. “What are you doing here? Is everything okay?” 

She nodded. “Yeah, everything’s fine. Were you present for the call at the 6th Street Viaduct? A thirteen-year-old girl called 9-1-1.” 

“Yeah, we were there,” Buck said. “Athena got there faster than we did. Were you the one who took the call?” 

“Yes,” she said. “Her name was Samantha. Her mother abused her and isolated her from the world. She ran away from home… wanted to end her life.” 

“Y/N?” Hen approached them, dressed in casual clothes, holding a duffel bag. “What a surprise! What are you doing here?” 

“She came to ask about the girl, Samatha,” Buck explained. “Y/N took the call.” 

“What’s going on here?” 

The group turned to Bobby’s voice. He ambled his way to them, eyes locking on Y/N. “Hi. What are you doing here?” he asked. 

Y/N’s eyes wandered around Bobby’s face. For a second, she forgot to breathe. Her mind went back to what she found in that damn box. The photograph she held in her fingers. The world was a small place. Anything was possible. 

“Y/N?” Bobby said her name. 

She took a deep breath and came back to reality. “I’m here about Samantha,” she told him. “I was wondering if you could tell me how it ended. I know Athena got to her, and you said you had her in medical care.” 

“The girl had visible bruises, and she was in a bad mental state,” Hen said. “We took her to the nearest hospital, where she ended up in the hands of paediatricians and psychiatrists.”

“Athena called the CPS and gave them her statement,” Bobby added. “As far as I know, the child’s mother was taken into custody. They opened an investigation, and the woman won’t be able to see her daughter anytime soon.” 

Y/N took a deep breath. “Good,” she said. “I’m glad she’s safe now. I had to hear from you. I couldn’t wait for a report.” 

Han patted Y/N’s shoulder. “She didn’t jump because of you. Your words changed her mind, and Athena safely brought her to us.” 

She kept nodding, processing the words. Bobby scanned her body language. He wasn’t blind. He could see that this call was personal. But he wasn’t the one to pry. At least not now.

“Thank you for telling me,” she smiled at them. “I’m sorry if I interrupted you.” 

“No, it’s okay,” Buck said. “We are all just about to head home. Would you like a lift? I can drive you home if that’s where you are heading.” 

Y/N yawned, starting a chain reaction. They all laughed. “If it’s not too much trouble.” 

“I offered,” he winked at her. 

Hen playfully rolled her eyes and said her goodbyes. Bobby did the same, leaving the two alone. Y/N couldn’t help but watch Bobby leave. She was sure it was him. She was sure that the man in the photograph was Robert Nash. How was this possible? Were they classmates from school? Were they friends? Did they happen to live in the same city? Or maybe she was just crazy, and the man happened to have facial features similar to Bobby. 

Yes, that was it. There’s no way her demonic mother and Captain Nash were friends. 

For now, she had decided to swipe it under an imaginary rug. 

Y/N followed Buck out of the fire station into his Jeep. As promised, he drove her back to her apartment. 

[thebestsetter]

"No"

"C'mon dude!" Otoya asked - no, begged Karasu "It won't kill you!"

"I already told you. No." Karasu rolled his eyes "Want it in any other languages? Nein. Não. Non."

"Why?" Otoya huffed, making little clouds on the air from the cold, as Karasu unlocked the door to his mother's house for a so called 'emergency family dinner night' (apparently Otoya was a family member already) "Give me one good reason"

"Well, where to start?" Tabito put his index finger on his chin, like he was thinking deeply about something. Then, he began lifting the fingers from his other hand as he listed "One, you're a cheater. Two, you're my best friend. It's strange. Three, she lives in another country. Four, she's way out of your league, man. I could go on and on if you want me to."

"No, it's fine" Otoya frowned "I'm going to get your sister's number myself."

"And just how are you gonna do that?" Karasu smirked "She lives far away from here. There's no way for you both to communicate with each other. Just accept it, man. You won't ever see my sister again."

"I'm going to find out one day" Otoya said, while Karasu opened his door. "I feel it."

"Sure you do"

Karasu was already used to it, honestly. Ever since Otoya saw you at his birthday party four months ago, he's been pestering Tabito to give him your number.

Apparently, Eita had a "crush" on you, Tabito's sister. Ha, what a joke.

Like Karasu would ever let that happen. You're way too good for Otoya. You guys just can't be together.

And it's not like he's worried, too. You moved out of Japan at 17, when you got a letter to attend to college in Brazil. B-r-a-z-i-l. The other side of the world. It's literally impossible for you and Otoya to basically talk to each other, imagine dating. The thought almost makes Karasu laugh, honestly. It' so ridiculous. It's insanity. It's crazy.

"Hi, Tabito!" He hears his mother say when he oppened the door "Hello Otoya!"

"Hi mom"

"Hey, auntie!" Eita answered, smiling wide and smirking to Karasu while mouthing something very similar to 'I love your mom'.

Gross.

"Let's eat!" Mrs. Karasu smiled, clasping her hands together while making her way to the kitchen "I have a surprise prepared for you, 'Bito!"

"Oh?" Karasu smiled gently "I wonder what it is"

"I sure hope it's that new videogame that came out" Otoya said "I really wanna play it"

"You do know it's gonna be mine, right?"

"Dude, we're bros. We give each other goodnight kisses. I think we can share an expensive videogame"

"We don't kiss each other goodnight"

"Oh, so you agree with the videogame part? Great!" Eita smirked

"I hate you"

"Sure you do"

"So, about your surprise..." Karasu's mother came back from the kitchen. Apparently, the surprise was so big and great that she couldn't wait for dinner to tell everybody "I think I'm gonna tell you now"

"Stop making me curious, mom!" Tabito smiled "Spit it out, already!"

"Okay, okay. But I'm not gonna tell you. I'm gonna show you. Be prepared...

(Name)!"

Huh. That sounded strangely like your name.

And who's that girl that looks exactly like you, Karasu's older sister who Otoya has a big fat crush on?

"Hi, Tabito! You won't believe it: I'm gonna spend a month here in Japan! Isn't it great?"

No.

No way.

No fucking way.

"Oh my God" Tabito muttered, horrified

"Oh my God" Eita said, smirking "Impossible, huh?"

Oh God, please no.

This would be the worst month of Karasu's life. (And the best of Otoya's)

Not my best work but I had a test today, so I kinda have an excuse (no I don't)

[cinnamongrl2006]

Bruce wayne and dry humping, I beg of you‼️‼️

Bale Bruce Wayne x fem!reader ˚。⋆୨୧˚ mdni (18+)˚୨୧⋆。˚ ⋆ warnings: established relationship, dry humping, praise, age gap (reader in her early 20s, Bruce in his 40s) a/n: I meant to post this this morning but there was a power outage ALL OVER MY COUNTRY, so you get it now.

It started out slow, almost involuntary; he'd been locked in his study for hours, you missed him, craved his attention, his touch. You needed him to look at you, wide eyed and attentive, his hands on your waist, steadying you, as you talked his ear off about your day— pilates class in the morning, then a lecture, then...coffee with a girlfriend...— and you needed him to smile and nod and shut you up with a kiss and some stupid sarcastic comment; but he wouldn't, because he was busy.

So you took matters into your own hands, and you walked into the room, uncaring, not listening to his half-hearted complaints and grumbles. Bruce pushed his chair back, allowing you to sit on his lap, a routine you’ve done before.

He sighed when you finally settled atop his thighs, pressing a kiss to his cheek. His eyes were set on the screen in front of him, hands periodically moving from the keyboard to caress your waist, your thighs, your stomach, your back.

You just wanted to sit with him, but the way he held your waist and sporadically kissed the top of your head was making you wetter by the second.

Feeling bold, you shifted your position slightly, leaning into him and letting your hips move forward just a bit. It started slowly, almost innocently, as you pressed against his leg, testing the waters to see if he would notice.

As the friction intensified, you found a steady rhythm, rocking your hips against him. The sensation of his thigh against your damp cunt sent shivers through your body, and you couldn't suppress a soft sigh.

Bruce's focus shifted from the screen to your face for a moment, a soft smirk pulling at the corners of his lips. “What’s my pretty girl up to?” he asked, gently petting your head.

"Nothin', just bored..." You punctuated your words with a roll of your hips.

He was focused, eyebrows knit in concentration as he stared at the screen in front of him, his study was quiet save for the click-clacks of the keyboard and your whines when he bounced his leg— a nervous tic of his you were thankful for in times like these— rubbing the rough fabric of his pants against your aching clit.

"Right. Well, I appreciate the company, but I can't have you here distracting me. You think you can keep yourself busy, sweet thing?"

You nodded eagerly, biting your bottom lip to suppress a smile as you pressed your clothed cunt against his crotch. His usually steady breathing became ragged, a low moan escaping him as the bulge in his slacks pushed against your aching heat.

Despite his labored breathing and obviously hard cock, he stayed focused, his hands clicking away at the keyboard while he mumbled to himself, occasionally kissing your hair.

Sure, he could've stopped working for half an hour and fucked you to sleep, but he was good at multitasking, plus, he loved the way his girl looked when she worked for what she wanted.

As the minutes passed, you found yourself lost in the rhythm, grinding against him with increasing urgency. Your nails dug into his shoulders for leverage as you pushed yourself against Bruce. His breathing grew heavier, but he still didn’t shift his focus from the screen.

“Come on, sweet thing,” he said, his voice sweet but firm. “You know I can’t help you if you don’t put in the effort.”

You huffed at his words, irritation cursing through you. The wetness of your cunt was leaving a damp patch on both your panties and his slacks as you bounced on his thighs.  

Each movement was a silent plea for him to acknowledge you, but he remained focused on his computer screen, a smirk on his face as if he enjoyed your growing impatience.

You let out a soft whine, the heat pooling in your core becoming almost unbearable. “Please,” you murmured, hoping he’d finally look up, but he just chuckled softly, still typing away.

"Just a little longer, pretty girl. I'm almost done here." He tapped your hip with compassion, his gaze set on the screen before him.

With every grind against him, the pressure built until you couldn't hold back any longer. A soft moan escaped your lips as you finally reached your peak, your body trembling with the release.

"So desperate, I barely even touched you, sweetheart." His voice was sweet, but you could catch the mockery in his tone, making your cheeks go red.

You looked down, feeling a rush of embarrassment at his words. “Well, I couldn’t help it,” you admitted softly, your voice barely above a whisper, face scrunched in a frown.

He paused his typing, finally looking at you with a sympathetic smile. “I know. You really needed that, didn’t you?”

You chuckled and slumped forward, resting your head on his chest. Bruce's arms wrapped around your waist, holding you against him.

His expression softened, and he reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Hey, are you okay?” he asked, his voice low and caring.

"Yeah, just a bit overwhelmed." You nodded, leaning into his touch. "But I liked it," You assured him.

"Good. That's good." He leaned in closer, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, his warmth enveloping you like a blanket.

After a moment of silence he tilted your chin up with one finger, his eyes focused on yours. "How was your day, beautiful?"

────୨ৎ────

I am currently working on a LOT of requests, but my inbox is still open!! Just be mindful they might take a bit, I'm a girl, not a machine.

[enticingmelanin]

Royal Blood Ch. 1: Savior

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

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

Rating: E for Erotic.

Word Count: 12k+

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There he was. 

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

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

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

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

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

She sat, but her eyes never left him. 

What the fuck... 

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then it hit her like a second wave. 

Not anymore... Neither are you... 

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

How would he know that... 

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

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

“Saving you.” 

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

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

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

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

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

Akira’s heart dropped. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And suddenly... 

She was back in her abusive relationship five years ago.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His hands fumbled at the waist of her jeans. 

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

He didn’t. 

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

Pain. Cracking. Then...nothing. 

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

Donte stood above her, horror etched into his face. 

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

He fled. Left her bleeding out on the floor. 

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

And then— 

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

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

His mouth hovered over her neck. 

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

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

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

She had died and been born again. 

Changed...

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

And then he was there. 

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

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

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

He nodded, his forehead resting gently against hers. 

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

Her voice cracked open, hollow and trembling. 

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

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

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

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

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

Her voice dropped, barely above a whisper. 

“So… you’ve been watching me?” 

A faint smile touched his lips. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That smile grew a fraction deeper. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you know how to surge?” 

Akira blinked in confusion. “What?” 

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

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

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

Then— 

BANG! BANG! BANG! 

“AKIRA MONROE! FBI! OPEN THE DOOR!” 

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

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

They fell. 

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

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

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

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

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

Then silence. 

A silence so complete it rang in her ears. 

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

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

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

And then— 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lyle,” Stone called, “we’re set.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He let the silence stretch before answering. 

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

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

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

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

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

It was the silence of something new beginning. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Patience, love,” he murmured. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kutha’Mara awaited. 

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

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

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

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

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

“You built all this?” she asked. 

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

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

Stone looked at her now, quietly waiting. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was built for living. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Interesting... 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Akira raised a curious brow. “Queen Mother?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Tajé. "

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Akira turned to him. “And yours?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She smiled. It was unexpected but thoughtful. 

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

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

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

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

She stepped closer. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You found it,” he said simply. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“1692.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Goodnight, Stone.” 

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

She couldn’t stop thinking about him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, slowly, she pushed one open…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She let out a soft, wistful sigh.

“You’re quite the little trespasser.”

Akira jumped.

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

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

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

“I—I couldn’t sleep.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You're dangerous,” he said softly. 

She blinked. “Me?” 

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

Their silence pulsed with electricity—restrained yearning. 

Then, almost imperceptibly, she leaned forward. 

“Wait, Akira,” Stone said suddenly. 

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

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

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

But Stone’s expression soon sobered again. 

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

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

Love...

Akira’s eyes widened, soft and startled. 

“You... you love me?” she whispered. 

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

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

They paused, lips only centimeters apart. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bend over the island,” he murmured.

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

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

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

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

"Uunh!" she moaned loudly.

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

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

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

“Patience, baby girl.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don’t threaten me with a good time...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She nodded urgently.

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

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

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

"S-Stone," she stuttered breathlessly.

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

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

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

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

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

To be continued...

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

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

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Taglist:

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

[nebularsung]

⭑ renjun learns so fast... ﹙+18﹚

when you first offered to be renjun’s “how to treat a girl in bed” teacher, you hadn’t expected him to be such a fast learner.

what started as a casual, slightly tipsy conversation between friends took a sharp turn the moment he shyly admitted he was starting to like someone. he didn’t want to screw it up if things ever got intimate, and he… trusted you.

you, being the oh-so-generous best friend you were, offered to help.

what you didn’t expect was for him to agree right away, eyes sparkling with that familiar blend of curiosity and mischief that always spelled trouble.

now, your back was arching off the mattress, a whine caught in your throat as renjun’s tongue worked you over like a man on a mission. he’d pinned your thighs open with steady hands, firm but careful, keeping you there as if afraid you might squirm away from the overwhelming pleasure he was giving you.

“f-fuck—jun!” you cried out, fingers tangling in his slightly-too-long hair, tugging with enough desperation to make him groan low into your folds. the vibration made your legs twitch.

he pulled back just slightly, lips and chin glistening, eyes blown wide and pupils dilated. his mouth curved into a smug grin as he pressed a soft kiss just above your clit, warm breath making you shiver.

“am i doing good?” his voice was breathy, a little hoarse, and way too innocent for someone who just made your vision blur. you could barely nod—words were impossible when your brain felt like it was dripping out of your ears. 

renjun chuckled, a little too pleased with himself. “that’s not a no,” he murmured, fingers teasing along your inner thigh.

you squinted at him through a hazy, pleasure-drunk glare. “you were… supposed to be learning,” you managed to pant, trying not to melt into the bed entirely.

he leaned up just enough to kiss the corner of your mouth, fingers now slowly sliding through your slick folds, teasing—not giving you what you wanted, not yet.

“i am learning,” he said sweetly, curling a finger just slightly to test your reaction. “you’re a very hands-on teacher, darling.” you hissed at the pet name, one hand curling around his bicep as he finally slid a finger inside you. he watched you like you were the most fascinating thing in the world, lips parted in awe as he felt your walls clench.

“holy shit,” he whispered. “you feel… unreal.”

you whimpered, head falling back into the pillow.

“and you’re so wet,” he added, almost reverently. “is it bad that i don’t wanna stop yet? you’re just… so pretty like this.”

his second finger joined the first, stretching you open in slow, careful thrusts. his gaze never left your face—not even for a second. and the way his voice dipped a little lower, like he couldn’t help but praise you, made something flutter deep in your stomach.

“you’re making it hard to focus,” you whispered, breath catching.

he smirked and leaned down to kiss you softly—sweetly, like you weren’t already falling apart beneath him. “then i’m not doing it right. i want you to lose focus completely…”

your breath hitched as renjun’s fingers moved with more confidence, curling just right, brushing that spot inside you that made your toes curl and your legs try to clamp shut around his wrist.

“jun—fuck, right there, don’t stop—” you choked out, hips rolling helplessly into his touch. your hands were still in his hair, pulling, anchoring yourself to something as your body buzzed with tension.

he groaned at the way your walls fluttered around his fingers, his mouth dragging hot kisses across your stomach, up your ribs, taking his time as if he was memorizing you with his lips. “you say that like i’d ever wanna stop,” he breathed against your skin. “you’re too good like this. too pretty.”

you whined, tilting your hips, desperate for more.

and renjun gave it to you—eagerly.

his fingers pumped harder, faster, until you were panting and gasping and nearly sobbing his name. then he slid down again, tongue flicking out to circle your clit with slow, teasing licks. his fingers didn’t falter inside you, and now his mouth was back, sinful and warm and knowing.

you felt dizzy. overwhelmed.

“renjun, i’m gonna—” you cried out, back arching off the bed as the pleasure started to crest, full and heavy and all-consuming.

“let go,” he said against you, voice firm, gentle. “wanna feel you cum around my fingers, baby.”

that was all it took. you came hard around his fingers, a trembling, moaning mess, your body shaking as he worked you through every wave, tongue and fingers relentless.

and even as you were still catching your breath, heart hammering in your chest, he didn’t pull away.

he looked up from between your thighs, lips slick, eyes dark with want. slowly, he kissed the inside of your thigh—then the other—and murmured, “you still gonna teach me, or can i show you what i’ve learned so far?”

you blinked at him, dazed. “jun…”

“i want to fuck you, sweets,” he said, voice low, soft, reverent. “not just to learn anymore. i want you. all of you.” his hands slid up your thighs again, coaxing them apart. “please,” he added, kissing your hip. “let me?”

you barely had time to recover before renjun was hovering over you, his body sliding between your trembling thighs. his mouth was on yours in a deep, hungry kiss—tongue tasting the moans off your lips like he couldn’t get enough. you could still taste yourself on him, the heat of his skin pressed against yours like fire.

he didn’t ask again. he didn’t need to.

his cock was heavy, hard against your thigh, and when he finally slid inside—slow and deep, inch by aching inch—you cried out, nails raking down his back as your walls clung to him instantly.

“shit—fuck, you feel too good,” he groaned into your neck, his voice tight, strained. “like you were made for me.”

your back arched as he bottomed out, deep and full and perfect. he stayed there, buried inside you, hips pressed to yours as he looked down at you with something raw and intense in his eyes.

you reached up to cup his flushed cheeks, brushing damp hair from his forehead, but before you could say anything, he whispered:

“you really thought it was about some random girl?”

you blinked up at him, breathless.

renjun smiled—just a little, crooked, almost shy—but his eyes never left yours. “it was always you. i’ve been in love with you for months.”

your heart stopped. your body clenched around him involuntarily.

he hissed, gripping your hips tighter, holding you still as he pulled back, then thrust into you again—harder this time, more sure.

“you think i’d let just anyone teach me how to touch a girl?” he growled into your ear, fucking you now in deep, rough strokes that made you cry out with every push. “i wanted you to touch me. i wanted you to be the first, the only. because no one else makes me feel like this.”

you whimpered, legs wrapping tighter around him, urging him deeper, closer, more. “renjun…”

he grabbed your face, kissed you again like he needed it to breathe.

“i’m not learning anymore,” he said, hips snapping against yours with delicious force. “i’m taking you—because i’ve wanted you for too damn long. and now that i’ve got you, i’m not letting go.”

you gasped when he hit your sweet spot again, over and over, eyes rolling back, your body melting into his, lost in the rough rhythm of his thrusts and the broken praises falling from both your lips.

“mine,” he whispered, forehead against yours. “say it—tell me you’re mine.”

you barely managed a nod, choked and desperate.

“i’m yours,” you whispered back, eyes glossy with tears and need. “all yours, renjun.”

｜ 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌 𖹭 since you didnt give me a genre anon... i did a smut 😞 hope there's no problemmm ALSO SUPER HOT THIS KIND OF RENJUN TOO TYSM ANON I LOVE MY MAN!!! REQUEST MORE REQUEST MORE!!!

★ @lyvhie @spacejip @zhapire @onriyuview @dinosaurtoothbrushwithninjasauce

[luvlucia]

need a hand? - psh

summary: sunghoon comes home from the gym and gives you a hand || warnings: dom!sunghoon x sub!reader, masturbation, slight voyeurism, rough sex, he cums inside lol, cream pie || genre: established relationship, smut, fluff || word count: approximately 870

You thought you were home alone. Your boyfriend had gone to the gym and told you he wouldn’t be back for a while. With that fact in mind, and the fact you woke up from a nap you took having to press your thighs together to release the ache down there led to you deciding to take care of yourself before he got home.

You lie on the bed, your hands slipping under the hem of your shorts and the lining of your underwear before touching your aching core. You started to move your fingers in little circles, slowly speeding up your movements. You were having trouble getting any pleasure out of this though because all you could think of was your boyfriend and how much better it’d feel if it were him touching you.

Your eyes were shut in pure concentration on trying to get yourself off. You hadn’t heard the front door open, or your boyfriend’s footsteps, or even the bedroom door open.

Suddenly, “Do you need a hand?” You heard and you nearly jumped out of your skin, pulling your hand out from down there immediately. You were tense from shock and embarrassment as you made eye-contact with your boyfriend who had an amused look on his face.

“Sunghoon… I- I thought you weren’t going to be home for a while.” You shakily say.

“I wasn’t supposed to. But I was thinking about you and didn’t want to leave you alone for too long on my day off from work. But, you seem to be taking care of yourself… or trying to at least.” Sunghoon says, you blush even more than you already were. “You were having a hard time, weren’t you?” He then questioned, though you both knew the answer, as he walked closer to the bed where you lie.

You don’t try and argue as you simply nod, looking down in embarrassment.

“I’m here now. I’ll take good care of you, baby.” He said as he dropped his things and came to the bed. He took his shirt off and tossed it to the ground as he put his hands on both sides of you. “You could’ve just called me and asked me to help. You know I would’ve come right home for you, babe.” Sunghoon said and that was the flat out truth.

“I didn’t want to bother you.” You shyly say.

“You’re never a bother to me.” Sunghoon said as he pulled your shorts and underwear down and off you in a swift motion before staring down at your dripping pussy. “So beautiful.” He genuinely said.

You push his chest a little, “Stop.” You whine and he looks up at you, smiling, and offering a chuckle.

“I’m just telling the truth.” He says, still smiling as he takes his own bottoms off, his dick already half hard from watching you for a few moments earlier.

You look at his sprung up dick and instinctively reach out and start to pump him a few times, watching as his precum leaked out of his tip.

He gently pushed your hand away when he was fully hard and grabbed his shaft, positioning it.

“You ready?” He asked, looking up from down there to make eye-contact with you.

You grab onto his biceps as he fills you up until he’s balls deep in you before he slowly pulls out and slams back into you.

He starts to fuck you slow but rough and passionate. His hands are gripping onto your thighs, his hands then moving to your ass as he grips it to the point that it’d probably bruise.

You’re letting out whines and moans as he lets out grunts and groans in response. He buries his face into your neck, sloppily kissing your neck in an unrhythmic manner.

“So good. So good for me.” He grunts out. “Just needed me, right?” Sunghoon asks.

You can’t help but moan out at his words, “Yes, yes. Just needed you. You fuck me so good.” You say and it was the truth. He really did.

“Fuck yeah I do.” He agrees as he continues moving his hips against yours.

It didn’t take long for him to feel your hands grip and your pussy’s grip on him tightening, telling him that you were getting closer.

“Sunghoon… Sunghoon, ‘m cumming.” You say.

“Go ahead, sweetheart. Come for me.” Sunghoon says and that was all it took for you to let yourself go. Your orgasm hits you roughly and it was only shortly after that you were feeling his release filling you.

You both lie there as you regain your composure. Sunghoon kisses your neck a few times before he pulls out of you, the both of your releases pouring out of you. You look down and cringe a little at the feeling. Sunghoon notices and gives you a soft gaze.

“Come on, baby. Let’s go take a shower.” He said considering you were a sweaty and sticky mess and he was sweaty after working out in two different ways.

He gets off the bed and picks you up, bringing you to the bathroom.

“I love you, Sunghoon.” You find yourself softly saying as he carries you.

“I love you too, baby.” Sunghoon says.

ᥫ᭡ link to my masterlist