#Kitchen Knife Guide | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

joelsrose · 3 months ago

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warninnggssss omg stepdad!joel smut - this is not everyones cup of tea so pls pls be warned also as always 18+ for smut, otherwise to the of age freaks pls enjoyy hehhehe

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You sat at the end of the table, hands resting quietly in your lap as the hum of conversation floated between the clatter of cutlery and the occasional laugh from your two college friends, visiting for the week under the impression that this was just a harmless little getaway—some sun, some sleep, a few homemade meals in the country.

The kitchen smelled like rosemary and roasted meat, the air thick with steam and late evening light spilling in golden across the counter tiles. Your mother sat beside you, bright-eyed and flushed from wine, humming softly to herself as she passed the gravy boat across the table, her hand brushing against Joel’s wrist like it was second nature.

Joel.

Your stepfather.

Your very recent stepfather.

The same man who first walked into your life with a busted toolbelt, a sharp drawl, and a set of rough, dust-smeared hands that knew how to fix things. Walls. Leaks. Cabinets. Hearts, maybe. He was supposed to just reconstruct the kitchen—then, somehow, the bathroom, the laundry pipes, the broken fence in the backyard. And then, before you even realized it was happening, he was reconstructing his whole damn life around your mother.

Married four months ago. Living in your house. Sitting now at the head of the table, sleeves rolled to the elbow, carving meat with quiet precision, those thick, veiny hands guiding the knife like it was sacred ritual.

He didn’t speak much during dinner. He never did—just nodded now and then, a low rumble in his throat when someone addressed him directly.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

He had that heavy, slow way about him—shoulders broad, voice gravelly, expression unreadable unless he was looking at you. Then it shifted. Just a little. Just enough. Like his eyes softened, or his mouth twitched into something barely shy of a smile. But only for a second. Only for you.

He wasn’t your father. As many times as your mother tried to make it so—“Can you ask your daddy what time he’ll be home?” or “Your daddy said he’d pick up more of that good brisket from town”—you never said the word. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

Not when your thoughts about him weren’t the kind daughters were supposed to have.

Not when you couldn’t stop noticing the way his shirt clung to his back when he mowed the lawn. Or how his voice sounded first thing in the morning, gravel and heat, rasping low as he stood in the doorway with a steaming mug of coffee and tired eyes.

Not when you still dreamed about the way his hand lingered on your lower back a little too long the night of the wedding, guiding you through the crowd with a touch that didn’t feel familial.

Not when the man who’d been in your life less than a year looked at you sometimes like he’d undo every rule in the world just to have one moment of honesty with you.

And now here he was, sitting across the table, carving roast beef with those strong, calloused hands, the flicker of candlelight catching in his beard and glinting off the silver band on his ring finger that your mother slipped on with shaky hands one courthouse morning.

You swallowed hard, tearing your eyes away, trying to focus on your friends, on the mashed potatoes, on anything but the way Joel kept looking at you when your mother wasn’t watching.

Anything but the fact that he knew you weren’t calling him daddy for a reason.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

The living room was dimly lit, the last sliver of pink sunset bleeding through the windows, casting golden streaks across the hardwood floor and the frayed edges of the old throw rug your mother refused to replace. You sat curled up in the corner of the couch, remote in hand, aimlessly scrolling through Netflix with half-lidded eyes, the sound of your friends' soft laughter filling the space around you like warm static.

Your mom had disappeared upstairs just after dessert, fingers laced in Joel’s, her voice pitched high and giddy as she declared, “We’ll leave you girls to your wine and gossip—don’t wait up!” And just like that, they were gone, the creak of the stairs and the hush of a door closing upstairs the only trace of them.

You tried not to think about it. About him. About the way Joel had glanced at you as he stood, one hand braced on the back of her chair, the other resting at his side like he didn’t know what to do with it, his eyes lingering on you for just a moment too long.

“God, what even is there to watch anymore,” you muttered absently, scrolling past title after title, your voice heavy with the kind of lazy boredom that comes after a full meal and a long day. Beside you, Ava stretched out with a little groan, her feet nudging under the blanket as she reached for her glass of wine, while Camila leaned in closer, eyes dancing with a mischievous glint that made your stomach twist even before she opened her mouth.

And then, softly—too softly—like a secret whispered between childhood friends and forbidden crushes, Camila nudged your arm and murmured, “Okay, seriously though… your stepdad is hot.”

The words hit you like a slap. Immediate. Merciless. Your whole body tensed, your spine straightening as if on instinct, fingers clenching tighter around the remote as you turned toward her, eyes wide, heartbeat stuttering.

“What the hell?” you snapped, louder than you meant to, the heat rising to your cheeks so fast it felt like fire, like shame, like panic. “Camila—what the actual—”

But she was already laughing, head thrown back, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of her glass as she looked at Ava, who only grinned and shrugged, clearly amused by your reaction. “Relax,” Camila said through her giggles, waving a hand like she could brush it all away. “I’m just saying. The flannel? The beard? He’s got that, like, hot handyman-slash-mountain-man energy. You know I have a type.”

You blinked at her, words stuck in your throat, your brain short-circuiting beneath the weight of something you didn’t want to name—something clawing up your ribs like guilt. You wanted to tell her she was out of line. That it was gross. That Joel was married to your mother, for God’s sake. But instead, all you could manage was a choked-out, “He’s—he’s not—he’s—just—stop.”

And it was Ava’s turn to raise a brow, her smile a little too knowing. “You’re blushing,” she teased, her voice sing-song and cruel in the way only best friends could be. “Oh my God, she’s totally blushing.”

“I am not,” you snapped again, but your voice was unsteady, your face burning, your entire body suddenly too hot for the blanket draped over your lap. You shoved it off, stood up too fast, nearly tripping over the coffee table as you made your way toward the kitchen, trying to pretend like you weren’t unravelling, like your skin wasn’t tingling in places it shouldn’t be.

Because they didn’t know.

They didn’t know the way Joel looked at you sometimes when your mother wasn’t watching. They didn’t know how his voice dropped when he said your name. They didn’t know how his hand had brushed your waist this morning when he reached past you for the sugar and you felt it for hours.

They didn’t know. And you were terrified they might find out.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

Camila and Ava had long since fallen asleep in the downstairs guest room, their quiet breaths threading through the stillness of the house, the kind of deep, wine-soft sleep that only came with familiarity and full stomachs and the comfort of being a guest rather than the daughter. Upstairs, you lay in your childhood bedroom, the sheets cool against your skin, your fingers twisting absently in the hem of your tank top as you stared at the ceiling—unmoving, unblinking, like maybe if you kept your gaze steady enough, long enough, it might finally offer you answers to questions you didn’t know how to ask out loud.

It wasn’t that late yet—just brushing past midnight, the witching hour when everything felt thinner, when walls couldn’t hold in secrets and silence started to echo. You wondered if your mother and Joel were asleep already, or if they were still awake in the room down the hall, the one that used to be hers alone before he arrived with his heavy boots and toolbox and made himself at home. A small, traitorous part of you imagined them lying in bed together, her curled against his chest, his arm draped protectively around her waist as he whispered something low and fond into her hair.

You cringed at the image. Not because it was gross. Not because you didn’t want your mother to be happy. But because the weight that coiled inside your stomach at the thought of her in his arms wasn’t disgust—it was jealousy. Quiet, bitter, shame-soaked jealousy that tasted like guilt and felt like sin.

You turned onto your side, fingers pressing into the mattress like you could ground yourself with touch, like maybe if you pressed hard enough you’d stop the thoughts from blooming. But they kept coming, gentle and relentless, winding themselves around you like ivy. You wondered if either of them had noticed the way you always looked away when they kissed in front of you, or the way you flinched ever so slightly when their hands found each other in passing, fingers laced like it meant nothing, like it was normal.

Maybe they thought you were still adjusting. Maybe your mother thought it was some kind of unresolved grief for your father, that you couldn’t accept the idea of her moving on so quickly, tying herself to someone new. Maybe Joel thought it was awkwardness, or disapproval, or some adolescent refusal to see him as a part of the family.

But the truth was far more dangerous. Far more complicated.

Because you weren’t mourning the past. You weren’t angry about her happiness. You were mourning something else entirely—something unspoken and selfish and terrifying.

You were mourning every moment he touched her and not you. Every laugh he gave her and not you. Every soft glance, every private kiss, every piece of him that she got to keep while you sat in the corner pretending you didn’t notice, pretending you didn’t care.

Your thoughts—feverish and tangled and too loud in your head—were suddenly interrupted by a soft knock against the wooden door, three gentle taps that pulled you back to earth so abruptly you nearly sat upright. You thought, for a second, maybe one of the girls had left something behind—toothpaste on the bathroom counter or a charger cord tucked beneath the sheets—so you called out without thinking, your voice barely carrying across the room.

“Come in.”

The door creaked open with a slow, careful push, and instead of Camila or Ava’s familiar silhouette, it was him—Joel. His broad frame filled the doorway, shadowed in the dim hallway light, shoulders hunched ever so slightly like he hadn’t meant to startle you, one hand braced against the doorframe like he was still deciding whether to step fully inside.

You reached instinctively for your side lamp, fingers fumbling with the switch until warm yellow light bathed the room, casting everything in a soft, golden hush. You blinked up at him, eyes adjusting, breath catching at the sight of him standing there like some kind of fever dream.

“Joel?” you asked, your voice coming out quieter than you intended, breathless not from surprise but from the sheer weight of his presence, the way he looked in that moment—undone, unguarded, real in a way that made your skin prickle.

“Hey, darlin’,” he said, that low, southern drawl curling around the words like smoke, as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him with a gentle click that sounded far too loud in the silence of the house.

He looked—God, he looked like trouble.

Hair mussed from sleep, silver at the temples and curling slightly where it met the nape of his neck, beard soft and full, still flecked with that salt-and-pepper scruff that made him look older than he was but somehow stronger for it. He wore a plain, threadbare t-shirt, stretched across his chest in a way that made your stomach tighten, sleeves rolled just enough to show the veins in his forearms, the kind that only ever came from years of labor, of building things with his hands. His grey sweatpants hung low on his hips, worn soft with age, and barefoot—he looked every bit the rugged, rough-edged man who fixed your mom’s house and accidentally broke something inside of you.

It wasn’t technically unusual for Joel to be in your room—sometimes he’d swing by to drop off something you left in the kitchen, or fix the ceiling fan that rattled in summer, or bring you tea when you were sick and shivering in bed, too weak to do anything but mumble thanks. He’d stand by the door usually, or maybe lean against the wall, say something gruff but kind before disappearing again.

But not like this.

Not late at night. Not when the rest of the house was asleep. Not when you were lying in bed in nothing but a thin camisole and panties, heart stuttering like it didn’t know what to do with itself.

You shifted again, this time a little more nervously, the sheet clutched tighter around your lap even though it did nothing to hide the way your body responded to his presence—your skin flushed and warm, your breath shallow, nipples still visibly peaked beneath the whisper-thin fabric of your top. You saw it then, the way Joel’s gaze flickered, just for a second, dragging across your chest before meeting your eyes again, and something about the way he didn’t look away fast enough made your stomach twist into knots. He wasn’t trying to pretend. He wasn’t playing dumb.

He came to sit on the edge of your bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, the motion tilting you slightly toward him. He braced one hand beside him, the other resting loosely on his knee. “Were you asleep?” he asked, voice low, his drawl even rougher at this hour, as if it had crawled up from his chest and hadn’t quite settled in his throat yet.

You shook your head slowly, trying not to look too guilty, too obvious. “No,” you said quietly. “I… couldn’t sleep.”

Joel nodded, like he already knew, like maybe that’s why he was really here, not because he happened to be passing by. “Your friends were nice,” he said after a pause, the corner of his mouth twitching into something that could’ve been amusement—or warning. “That Camila though… she’s trouble.”

You let out a small, breathy laugh, the sound a little shaky as you tried to exhale the nerves tightening inside your chest. “Yeah,” you said, nodding. “She is.”

Joel looked at you for a long moment, the silence stretching thin, and then asked, voice low and even, “You have fun?”

You answered too quickly. “Yeah.”

He didn’t miss it. His brow furrowed, not deeply, just enough to signal that he’d caught something he didn’t like, that he could hear the wrongness in your tone the way he could spot a crooked nail from across a room. “What’s wrong?” he asked, that same hand still braced on the bed beside you, his fingers so close to your thigh you could feel the heat of him even through the sheet.

“Nothing,” you said, shaking your head, eyes darting away before you could stop them. “It’s nothing, Joel.”

He tilted his head, slow, deliberate, voice soft but firm like he was coaxing the truth out of you the same way he might coax a wild animal from the woods. “C’mon, sweetheart. You know you’re not a great liar.”

Your throat went tight. You pressed your lips together, tried to hold it in, tried to act normal, tried to act like your skin wasn’t tingling in every place he was near.

“It’s stupid,” you murmured. “Just… one of them said something. Kinda weird.”

Joel straightened a little, his eyes narrowing with something darker, a flicker of protectiveness tightening his jaw. “Weird?” he repeated, his voice sharper now. “They say somethin’ mean to you?”

“No—no, nothin’ like that,” you rushed to say, shaking your head, heart beating hard enough that you were sure he could hear it in the quiet room. “It wasn’t mean. Just…”

He waited. He didn’t speak right away, just tilted his head slightly, the soft creak of the mattress the only sound between you as he waited for you to gather the courage to speak.

“They said something,” you murmured finally, voice barely above a whisper, your eyes trained on your fingers where they twisted nervously in your lap, knuckles white from the tension you refused to let rise to the surface. “About you.”

Joel was quiet for a beat, then let out a low, careful hum. “Oh,” he said, not shocked, not offended, just… waiting. Another pause. “Okay.”

You looked up at him then, meeting his gaze for the first time since the words had started tumbling from your mouth, and it felt like standing too close to the sun—too warm, too intense, too dangerous. His eyes were calm, steady, and yet you felt like they were peeling layers off you without even trying.

“You can tell me,” he coaxed, his voice the softest kind of gruff, the kind that scratched gently at your throat and made you ache in places you didn’t have names for. “Ain’t gonna get upset, sweetheart. Promise.”

You swallowed hard, your heart thudding louder now, the heat creeping up your throat in a slow, mortifying wave as you looked down again. “They just…” you huffed, frustrated with your own inability to say something so simple, so ridiculous, even though it had been clawing at your thoughts all night.

“They said you were…” you trailed off, then forced yourself to look up, cheeks burning as you finally let the words escape. “They said you were ‘hot,’” you mumbled, using your fingers to make sarcastic little quotation marks in the air, the motion clumsy and half-hearted, your voice wrapped in embarrassment and something else—something you couldn’t disguise.

Joel blinked slowly, like he was processing it carefully.

He just sat there, eyes fixed on you, expression unreadable but far from indifferent, and in the quiet that followed, something in the air shifted. It was subtle—barely a breath—but it was there. Heavy. Humming. Like the moment before a summer storm breaks.

And then, finally, in that low, quiet drawl that had already undone you more times than you cared to admit, Joel tilted his head and said, “That right?”

You gave the smallest nod, unable to find your voice, your cheeks hot under the weight of his gaze.

He chuckled, and it was somehow worse than silence—warm and familiar and achingly beautiful, the kind of laugh that wrapped around you like smoke, like comfort, like danger disguised as something gentle. “That’s what’s got you all twisted up, honey?” he asked, his voice teasing now, smooth as whiskey and just as sharp. “That why you’re up past midnight, lookin’ like you got somethin’ sittin’ heavy on your chest?”

“I’m not upset,” you said quickly, the words spilling out too fast, too defensive. “It’s just—” you shrugged, eyes falling to your lap again, “weird.”

Joel raised an eyebrow, the mattress shifting slightly beneath his weight as he leaned in just enough to make you feel it—his presence, his size, the scent of him that smelled like cedar and something warmer, deeper, something male. “Ain’t that weird,” he said, like it was fact. Like you were the one being unreasonable.

You blinked at him, heart stumbling over itself. “What?”

He shrugged, one corner of his mouth tugging into a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “What—you think I’m hideous or somethin’, darlin’?” he asked, voice laced with mock offense, but there was something beneath it, something hot and coiled and barely leashed.

“No,” you said quickly, instinctively, your body tensing. “No, but—”

Joel cut you off with a slow, quiet laugh, the kind that sent goosebumps across your arms. “D’you agree with your friend?” he asked, his voice quieter now, lower, thicker, like molasses sliding slow over bare skin. “Simple question, angel.”

You swallowed hard, every part of your body suddenly too aware of itself—your hands, your legs beneath the sheet, the way your breath caught in your throat. “I—” you stammered. “You’re my—my stepdad. It’s weird.”

Joel’s expression didn’t shift. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t flinch. He just watched you, calm and steady, as if your panic was a ripple in a pond he’d already seen coming.

“Ain’t weird,” he said again, this time definitively, like he was putting the matter to rest, the final nail in a coffin you didn’t even realize you’d built together. “You’re my stepdaughter, sure,” he said, voice slow, smooth, dragging each word like he wanted you to feel them deep in your chest, “but that don’t change the fact that you’re a goddamn stunnin’ girl.”

Your breath hitched.

His eyes flicked down for a heartbeat—your lips, your collarbone, the outline of your thighs beneath the sheet—before meeting yours again. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with seein’ beauty, even if it’s standin’ right in front of me in my own house. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with noticin’.”

His hand flexed again against the mattress beside you, the muscles in his forearm shifting subtly, a quiet tension that mirrored the storm building between your ribs.

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with wantin’, either,” he said again, and this time it wasn’t casual or dismissive—it was low, like a confession, like he meant every word, like he wasn’t just talking about himself.

Your breath hitched, your chest rising too fast, falling too slow, and before you could control it, your thighs—hot and aching beneath the thin layer of sheets—pressed tighter together in a desperate attempt to calm the pulsing ache that had bloomed low in your stomach. But it was no use. Your body betrayed you before your mouth could even try to lie.

And Joel saw it.

Of course he saw it. He always did.

He let his gaze drop, just for a moment—just long enough to trace the path of your clenched jaw, your flushed chest, the twitch of the blanket where your legs shifted beneath it—before dragging his eyes back up to yours with a slowness that made your skin feel like it might catch fire under the weight of it.

“It’s wrong,” you said, barely more than a breath, and even you could hear how unconvincing it sounded. Your voice faltered halfway through the sentence, like your mouth was trying to say something your heart didn’t believe.

Joel’s lips parted in a soft, nearly pitying sound, almost like a laugh—but gentler, rougher, like he was mourning the guilt you were dragging behind you like a chain. “That why you’re squirming, sweetheart?” he asked, voice like gravel and honey, rich and wrecked and too kind for the words it carried. “Sittin’ there all flustered, lookin’ at me like I done somethin’ to you?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. The air felt thick enough to drown in.

Joel leaned in just a little, his voice dipping lower, like the walls had ears and he didn’t want anyone else to hear what he was about to say.

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with me takin’ care of you,” he murmured, slow and steady like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Makin’ you feel good. Keepin’ you safe. It's my job, ain’t it?”

You swallowed hard, and he saw that too.

He kept going, not touching you, not even leaning closer—just letting his voice wrap around you like his hands would, if you asked.

“These boys your age… they don’t know how to treat you,” he said, his mouth curving into something soft, something almost sad. “Don’t know how to be patient. Don’t know how to listen.”

His hand shifted slightly on the mattress, just enough to make the sheets pull tight where his thigh pressed close to yours.

“They’ll rush you,” he said, voice barely a whisper now. “Use you up. Leave you empty.”

He let the words hang, heavy and devastating.

“I’d never do that to you, baby.”

You let out a soft sound—breathless, choked, almost involuntary—the kind of desperate little noise you might’ve tried to bury into a pillow if you were alone, but now it just slipped out, raw and real and open, hanging there in the charged air between you.

Joel’s eyes darkened instantly, and his voice followed like a velvet trap. “Aw, angel,” he cooed, low and dripping with something syrup-thick and sinful, “you’re aching, ain’t ya?”

You nodded, barely, shame crawling up your spine, your thighs clenching again under the sheets like you could hide the truth from a man who already saw it, already knew. And yet… you nodded. You nodded because it was true. Because every cell in your body felt hot and heavy and needy in a way you couldn’t soothe on your own anymore.

“Ain’t nothin’ to be embarrassed about, sweetpea,” he murmured, shaking his head slow like you’d just said something silly, something naive. “It’s normal,” he added gently, like this was a lesson. Like he was here to teach. “You’re a girl with needs, and I’m a man who understands ‘em. Ain’t nothin’ dirty about that.”

His hand came up, calloused fingers brushing your cheek with a kind of reverence that made you dizzy, his thumb stroking softly under your eye like he could smooth the guilt out of you if he just touched you gently enough. “Sweet girl,” he whispered, so low it made your chest ache, “always so good for me.”

You felt warm all over, like something inside you had melted and was slowly seeping into every inch of your body, like honey left in the sun.

Joel leaned back just slightly, humming low in his throat, eyes never leaving yours, like he was thinking—weighing something. And then, in a tone so casual, so infuriatingly calm it made your stomach twist, he said, “How ‘bout I help you out, huh?”

You blinked, confused, dazed, the words hitting you like warm water to the face. “Help me?” you asked, voice small and hesitant, caught between fear and want, your hands twisting in the sheets like they might anchor you to the moment.

He nodded slowly, his hand sliding from your cheek to rest on your knee—over the sheet, but the heat of it still bled through like a brand. “I want you to show me, baby,” he said, his voice still soft, still that same gentle, soothing register, like he wasn’t asking you to cross a line you could never come back from. “Show me how you do it when you’re all alone.”

Your breath caught. Your face burned. The blush that bloomed across your cheeks felt like it went all the way down to your chest, to your core, to every private place you’d ever touched in the dark.

“I—Joel,” you stammered, but your voice crumbled before it could form a protest.

He tilted his head, squeezing your knee through the sheet, patient and unbothered. “Ain’t nothin’ to be shy about, angel,” he said, his voice dipping lower, rougher. “You think I don’t know you been lyin’ here at night touchin’ that sweet little pussy all quiet-like, tryin’ not to make a sound?” He let out a low chuckle, but there was no cruelty in it—just warmth, affection, like you’d done something precious.

“Bet you rub that clit nice and slow, tryin’ to make it last, huh?” he murmured, eyes locked on your face, watching every tiny reaction like he was reading scripture. “Bet you squeeze your thighs together after, all messy ‘n wet, pretendin’ you’re not thinkin’ ‘bout me.”

You buried your face in your hands, humiliated and flushed, but Joel’s voice pulled you right back out, soft but firm. “C’mon now. Be a good girl and show me.”

You hid your face in your hands, hot with shame, your entire body throbbing with heat, soaked in places you didn’t dare acknowledge, and still trembling with that same awful, beautiful ache—the one that told you this was wrong, and yet made it impossible to pull away.

You were mortified, confused, soaked to your thighs and full of a desperate longing that made your skin feel too tight, your thoughts tangled and wet and unbearable.

Joel chuckled softly, the sound low and warm, curling in your stomach like smoke. “You trust me, don’t you?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, gentle and coaxing and so sure of the answer he didn’t need to hear it.

But you nodded anyway, fingers twitching as you lowered your hands just enough to meet his gaze, tears brimming in your eyes though you didn’t even know what you were crying for.

“Good girl,” he murmured, and that phrase—good girl—broke something loose inside of you, made your breath catch and your throat tighten like it meant something more than just praise. Like it meant ownership. Like it meant love.

Then, in a voice that was suddenly lower, rougher, more dangerous and yet still laced with the same softness that made your stomach flip, he said, “Now go on, baby. Show your daddy how you take care of that pretty little pussy when you’re all alone, thinkin’ ‘bout me.”

You whimpered, the sound barely making it past your lips, and shook your head a little, helpless. “I—I don’t know what to do,” you whispered, your voice cracking like it was made of glass.

Joel gave a quiet, affectionate sigh, like you’d just said the sweetest thing he’d ever heard. “That’s alright, sugar,” he said, sliding a heavy hand beneath the sheet and letting it rest there for just a moment before slowly, deliberately, peeling it back.

You froze as the cool air met your bare skin, the way his eyes didn’t look away, didn’t hesitate, just drank you in like this was the most natural thing in the world, like he wasn’t your stepfather and this wasn’t your childhood bed, like this was inevitable.

“Let’s take this off then,” he said, more to himself than to you, as he folded the sheet down past your hips, your thighs, your trembling legs, until you lay there exposed, vulnerable, soaked through your panties with shame and arousal.

Joel’s eyes swept over your bare thighs, lingering on the soaked fabric clinging to the soft curve of your cunt, the way it shimmered faintly in the low lamp light like it was glowing—wet, messy, desperate. You hadn’t even touched yourself yet, hadn’t done more than breathe, and still, your body had betrayed you, eager and hungry and utterly undone just from the sound of his voice, the scrape of his knuckles, the weight of his gaze.

And Joel saw it.

Of course he did.

He let out a soft, almost pitying coo as he shook his head, tongue pressing briefly to the inside of his cheek like he was trying to hold back a sigh. “Honey,” he murmured, slow and low, that molasses drawl laced with disappointment more than anything else. “You’re drippin’, baby.”

The words weren’t cruel, but they still cut through you like a knife, made your skin prickle and your breath catch, not because he was mocking you—but because it was the truth. Because it was said like a reproach, like he was gently scolding you for keeping this from him. Like he was hurt.

“Jesus,” he whispered, shaking his head again, the softest furrow in his brow. “You waitin’ this long to ask for help, baby? Layin’ up here, soaked and achin’, all by yourself?” His voice dropped even lower, eyes still fixed on the wet patch that was growing darker by the second. “That ain’t good for you, sweetpea. All that tension. Sittin’ in your belly like poison. You know better than that.”

You whimpered, small and mortified, your eyes stinging with some ugly cocktail of shame and want and that unbearable tenderness only Joel could wring out of you.

“You shoulda come to me,” he said, as soft as a prayer, his hand drifting up to rest against your thigh, close but not touching—not yet. “Coulda knocked on my door, baby. Just a tap. I’d’ve taken care of you real easy. Real sweet.” He let out a quiet sigh, like this hurt him more than it hurt you. “But instead you’re up here, rubbin’ those pretty little thighs together like that’s gonna do the job.”

You whimpered again—quiet and pathetic, a sound barely born before it trembled out of your lips—and Joel made a sound that was halfway between a groan and a sigh, his whole body shifting like it hurt him to hear you like that, like your suffering was something sacred. “My sweet girl,” he rasped, rough with reverence, and as if the words alone weren’t enough to mark you, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your temple, slow and tender and terrifying in its intimacy.

You froze.

It was almost absurd—after everything, after the confessions, after the filthy words spoken in soft murmurs, after sitting in your soaked underwear before him like an offering—but that kiss, that small, chaste brush of lips to skin, shattered you in a different way. You and Joel had never shared physical affection beyond fleeting, innocent moments—a hand to your back when you were sick, a brush of shoulders in the kitchen, the occasional hand-off of a cup of tea or a charger cord. But this? This was different. This was personal. This was loving.

More intimate than anything else he could have done.

And then, his voice dropped again, low and drawling, thick with heat and authority. “Alright,” he said, his tone like velvet soaked in whiskey. “Take those panties off real slow for me, sugar. I wanna see that sweet pussy beg.”

Your breath caught hard in your throat, your fingers twitching against the sheets, and for a second you didn’t move—couldn’t move—because the words had landed so heavy, like a weight dropped into your chest. But then, with trembling hands and a heart that felt too big for your ribs, you obeyed.

You reached down, fingers hooking into the waistband of your underwear, soaked through and clinging to your skin, and began to ease them down, slow and hesitant, your eyes flickering up to meet his just once, just long enough to see the way his gaze had darkened—hungry, wild, but still soft. Still Joel.

The damp fabric peeled away from you, shame dripping off you in waves as you slid the panties down your thighs, over your knees, until they slipped past your ankles and landed in a silent heap on the floor beside the bed.

You were breathless now—your chest rising and falling in shallow little gasps, your skin flushed from head to toe, your legs trembling beneath you—and you didn’t even know if it was from fear or want or that horrible, beautiful mixture of both.

Joel didn’t say anything at first. He just looked.

Eyes fixed between your legs, steady and unhurried, drinking in the sight of you like it was something holy, something he didn’t quite deserve to see but was going to relish anyway. His gaze was slow, heavy, and unbearably calm—as if he hadn’t just coaxed you into peeling off your soaked panties and baring yourself in the soft hush of your childhood bedroom with the door shut and your mother asleep down the hall.

And then, in that voice—low, rough, coated in syrup and sin—he spoke.

“Spread them legs for me, baby,” he murmured, each word drawn out like he wanted them to linger in the air with you. “Let daddy see all that slick.”

Your cheeks flushed so hot it made your head spin, and for a second, your instinct was to turn away, to close your legs, to hide. But instead—God help you—you smiled, small and shy and aching with embarrassment and need, your body humming with the unbearable thrill of being seen.

Joel smiled too—lazy, pleased, touched with something warmer than it had any right to be. “That’s my good girl,” he said, the praise so soft and familiar it made your chest ache. “Gettin’ comfortable for your daddy, ain’t ya?”

You nodded, almost bashful, your thighs parting just a little wider beneath his gaze, the air cool against your soaked skin as the wet heat between your legs pulsed steady and demanding.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he said, his voice sinking even lower, that dangerous softness thickening into something you could feel in your bones. “Go ahead. Show me how you rub that sweet clit.”

You hesitated only for a moment, heart pounding so loud it was all you could hear, and then—because you couldn’t not obey him, because the way he was looking at you made you feel small and precious and filthy all at once—you did as he said.

Your fingers slid between your thighs, tentative and trembling, and when they brushed over your swollen folds, a broken little gasp left your mouth—because you were soaked, slick, messy in a way that made your face burn with shame, and Joel saw all of it. Your fingertips found your clit, swollen and begging, and you gave it the lightest, slowest circle, your legs twitching as your breath stuttered.

Joel let out a low groan, like the sight pained him, like he was holding himself back from something feral. “That’s it, baby,” he rasped, his eyes fixed to your fingers like he was hypnotized. “Touch her real gentle. Let her know daddy’s watchin’.”

“That feel good?” he asked, voice low and slow, like he already knew the answer but wanted to hear it—wanted it offered up like a gift on your trembling tongue.

You nodded, breath shaky, fingers still working soft circles against your clit the way he told you to, hips twitching just a little with every pass. “Y-Yeah,” you whispered, too dazed to even pretend you had shame left in you.

Joel tilted his head slightly, that familiar crease forming between his brows, not angry—just expectant, like a teacher waiting for the right answer from a student who already knew better. “Yeah what, baby?”

You swallowed, chest fluttering with nerves and something hotter, deeper, heavier. Your voice was barely a whisper when it left you, breath catching halfway through.

“Yes, Daddy.”

The sound he made in response was filthy—a low, deep groan rumbling straight from his chest, so raw it made your thighs twitch and your core clench. You could see it in his face, the way his jaw went tight, how his hand flexed again where it lay on the bed, like he was holding himself back from something that required restraint.

“Good girl,” he murmured, and those two words—so soft, so reverent—landed heavier than anything else, sinking into your skin like praise and ownership all at once. And then, with a tenderness so at odds with the filth between you, he placed one big, warm hand on your thigh—his thumb brushing soothing little arcs into your skin—and leaned in to press a quick, burning kiss to your shoulder, beard scraping against your skin, his breath hot and damp where his lips had just been.

“You’re doin’ so good for me, baby,” he whispered, barely pulling back. “Such a sweet girl—touchin’ herself just like Daddy asked.”

You whimpered, spine curving as your fingers moved faster now, helpless under the weight of his words, his touch, his eyes. You did as he said—not because you had to, not because he forced you, but because the sound of his voice, the heat in his gaze, the approval dripping from every word made you want to be good. Made you want to be his.

“Keep goin’, sugar,” Joel said, his hand tightening just slightly on your thigh. “Let Daddy see you fall apart. Let me see what that sweet little pussy looks like when she comes.”

Your fingers moved faster now, slick and shaky, the soft pressure turning greedy, desperate, your hips rising off the bed in tiny, involuntary pulses as the heat in your belly began to coil tighter, higher. The room was filled with the wet sound of your arousal—loud, obscene, almost embarrassing in how eager you were—and still Joel said nothing for a moment, just watched, eyes dark and full of something you couldn’t name, something between awe and hunger and ownership.

He inhaled deeply through his nose, like he was trying to commit the sound, the scent, the sight of you to memory, and his voice dropped an octave, ragged around the edges.

“Look so fuckin’ sweet spread out like this for me, baby,” he said, almost like it hurt to say, like the words tasted too good in his mouth to come out clean. “My precious girl… puttin’ on the prettiest damn show a man could ask for.”

Your breath hitched at his praise, your thighs twitching, fingers circling your clit faster now, harder, your other hand clutching the sheets like you’d fall through the bed without it.

“You gettin’ close, sweetheart?” Joel asked then, and his voice—low, rough, tender—wrapped around your body like a second skin, like heat itself. “That little pussy about to come just from your fingers, huh? Just from daddy watchin’ real nice?”

You nodded, too frantic to form words, mouth falling open in a soft gasp as your body trembled beneath his gaze, every nerve ending alive and raw.

He leaned in just a little, resting his forearm on his knee like this was casual, like this was just a late-night conversation and not your stepfather watching you masturbate in your childhood bed.

“That’s it,” Joel murmured, voice thick with hunger but still achingly gentle, like he was speaking to something sacred, something tender and breakable. “Good girl—look at that messy lil’ cunt cryin’ for me, fuckin’ weepin’ like she’s been starved her whole goddamn life.”

And that was it.

The coil snapped.

You came undone with a shattered, strangled whimper, hips jerking beneath your own hand as the orgasm ripped through you like heat lightning—fast and sharp and blinding. Your whole body shook, your thighs clenching tight around your wrist as slick spilled out of you in wet pulses, and the only thing tethering you to earth was the sound of Joel groaning, low and ruined, like the sight of you breaking for him had knocked the breath clean out of his lungs.

“Fuckin’ hell, baby…” he rasped, watching your body twitch and flutter through the aftershocks. “That’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Before you could even come down from the high—before you could catch your breath or close your legs—Joel shifted forward, leaned in, and pressed the softest kiss to your still-pulsing, overstimulated clit.

You shuddered, your legs trembling violently, your whole body jerking like you’d been shocked, because it was too much—too much—and still, he kissed you there, soft and wet, like it was a mouth made to be worshiped, and he had every right to worship it.

“Can't wait to eat this sweet pussy all fuckin’ day,” he muttered against your folds, so filthy it made your toes curl. “Could live off what she gives me.”

You let out a noise—half a sob, half a gasp—your legs twitching in overstimulation, your chest heaving, eyes wide and glassy with something too big to name.

Then Joel was moving—pulling back, licking his lips like he’d just tasted something divine, and reaching for your face with hands that were still so gentle it made you ache. He cradled your cheek like you were porcelain, and leaned in close, eyes locked to yours.

And then, for the first time, he kissed you.

It was dizzying—soft and sensual, lips slow and reverent, his breath fanning across your cheek as his mouth moved over yours like he’d been waiting a lifetime to do it right. No filth. No commands. Just Joel. Just him.

When he pulled back, his forehead just barely grazing yours, he looked at you like you were the only thing in the whole damn world worth saving—like he’d burn the house down if it meant you’d never feel lonely again. His thumb brushed tenderly across your lower lip, tracing the shape of your mouth like it belonged to him, and his voice dropped into a soft, hushed whisper.

“I’m so proud of you, baby,” he murmured, reverent, wrecked, like you’d just done something brave instead of obscene.

“You… are?” you asked, barely able to get the words out around the haze still curling in your chest, that dazed warmth thick and dizzying in your veins.

“‘Course I am,” he said instantly, the words falling out with such quiet certainty it made your chest tighten, his voice steady and heartbreakingly sincere, like there wasn’t even the possibility of doubt in his mind. His thumb brushed your cheek again, slow and warm, and he looked at you with something so proud and tender it nearly broke you. “You were real brave for me, sugar. So sweet. So good.”

His voice dipped lower, softer now, almost like he was sharing a secret meant for your skin alone.

“Touched yourself like an angel, baby. Like you were made to be watched.” He let out a shaky breath, still a little wrecked himself, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe it. “The way you spread those thighs, all flushed and achin’... shit, sweet girl, you made yourself come so pretty for me. Like you’d been waitin’ your whole life to let someone see.”

And God help you, but you smiled at that, soft and small and shy, your heart thudding unevenly in your chest as you leaned back up to kiss him again—slow, sweet, a little unsure but filled with something quiet and blooming.

He moaned against your lips, low and approving, one hand cradling your jaw as he deepened the kiss for just a moment, like he couldn’t help himself, like the taste of your mouth was something he’d never stop craving.

“Gonna keep makin’ you feel good like you deserve, sweetpea,” he whispered when he finally pulled back, pressing a kiss to your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, then your jaw. “Just gotta get you ready for me first, yeah? Can’t rush somethin’ this special.”

“Okay,” you breathed, and the sound of your own voice surprised you—how soft it was, how trusting.

Joel smiled like he already had forever planned out.

“Good girl,” he said, and your heart stuttered. Then, with a gentleness that made your throat ache, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead, his hand brushing back your hair like you were something cherished.

“Now get some sleep,” he whispered. “Daddy’s right here.”

And he stayed—just like that—sitting on the edge of your bed, hand still resting lightly on your thigh, as your eyes fluttered closed, your body sore and soaked and safe in the dark.

#joel miller #joel miller smut #pedro pascal #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfic #joel miller one shot #ellie tlou #pedro pascal one shot #joel miller fic #joel miller tlou #joel miller the last of us #tlou joel #tlou hbo #joel miller x female reader #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal x reader #pedro x reader

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yandere-daydreams · 5 months ago

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tw - non/con, afab!reader, kidnapping, captivity, semi-public sex, and wildly unbalanced power dynamics.

Valentine's Day is Satoru's favorite.

Suguru likes Halloween more (albeit, mostly the part where they dress you up in a slutty costume and fuck you with a B-rated horror movie playing in the background), but he's got a soft spot for anything that makes Satoru happy. You think something about the shamelessness of it all appeals to him - pale pink stuffed animals tall enough to reach your waist, boxes of sickeningly sweet chocolate that you'll never get around to finishing, gifts that serve no other purpose than to affirm your love for him. Of course, you can't actually get either of them much of anything, not with so many locks on the apartment door, but he and Suguru still do their best to make the day special.

Your morning starts early. Suguru sweeps you out of bed while Satoru sleeps in, holding his hand over your mouth as he explains exactly what'll happen if you ruin his little surprise. Predictably, it involves lingerie - all pink silk and red lace and unnecessary frills. He gives you a white teddy bear before taking you back to the bedroom, a heart-shaped pillow embroidered with a cursive 'Be Mine' cradled in its plush arms.

A few minutes later, he'll guide your hips as you grind against its expressionless face, Satoru's cock lodged halfway down your throat.

If you're lucky, they'll get called away shortly after the first round - to tend to their students or to handle some curse, you aren't picky when it comes to what gets them away from them. If you're not lucky, Suguru will suck love-bites into your chest while Satoru makes breakfast, occasionally calling you into the kitchen to try pancake batter or grimace while he licks whip-cream directly off of your cheek. You aren't allowed to hold cutlery, not after trying to gauge out Satoru's eyes with a butter knife shortly after your abduction, so they'll take turns feeding you before leaving for the day, Satoru pressing kisses into your cheeks and promising he'll be back soon while Suguru laughs and shakes his head.

While they're gone, you'll wander aimlessly, picking at your meager list of chores (vacuuming, laundry, etc. - enough to keep you sane, but not enough to stave off the restlessness) and generally lamenting your pitiful existence. When you find the teddy bear thrown haphazardly into a corner of their bedroom, you'll consider trying to wash it before tearing its seams open with a pair of safety scissors and hiding its disparate pieces in different places around the apartment for lack of a better way to get rid of them. You'll try to sleep the time away, but you won't be able to.

It's dark by the time they get home. Suguru made reservations months ago that you're already running late for, so you'll be allowed to dress yourself for the first time in as long as you can remember. Going out is treated like a privilege, something you ought to be thankful for, but it's hard to be appreciative with Satoru's arm wrapped so snugly around your waist, with Suguru hovering behind you, occasionally resting a hand on the back of your neck whenever you gaze lingers a little too long on any one thing. Satoru slips the hostess a bill that might've made your mouth water a little over a year ago, and you're seated at a table on the outskirts of the dining area, well hidden from prying eyes. They'll make conversation that you try and fail not to join in on, and after ordering dessert, Satoru's hand will slip under the hem of your dress. You'll ask to leave before the food reaches the table, but Suguru will insist on staying until he's gotten his money's worth and you've cum on Satoru's fingers more times than you'd care to count. When you're red-faced and teary-eyed, the waiter will ask if you're alright, and Satoru will pull you into his side while Suguru tells him that you've always been a little nervous in public.

You won't make it home before things boil over. Suguru will park somewhere seclusive as Satoru eats you out, knee deep in the backseat. When Suguru joins you, you'll finally get your present - double-penetration, both holes stuffed while they take turns filling your mouth with their tongues. You'll sob and scream and beg them to stop, say that it's too much, that you're already overstimulated, but they'll insist on making sure you get everything they have to give you. They've been looking forward to this all year, after all. It'd be a shame not to let you enjoy such a thoughtful gift to the fullest.

Exhausted and humiliated, you'll fade in and out of consciousness as Satoru carries you upstairs and Suguru runs a bath, shyly admitting that their present might've been a little self-serving. It's only after they get you tucked into bed, Satoru already excitedly telling Suguru all of his many, many plans for a quickly approaching White Day, that you'll fade into the mercy of a dreamless, thoughtless sleep.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen #jjk imagines #jujutsu kaisen imagines #yandere jjk #yandere gojo satoru #yandere geto suguru #geto suguru x reader #gojo satoru x reader

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wendichester · 2 months ago

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⋆ 𐙚 ̊. sweet, oblivious, you²,

summary. dean likes you. sam likes you, too. lucky you, oblivious to it all.

pairing. dean winchester x reader x sam winchester genre. smut ( mdni )

wordcount. 2263

notes / warnings. as requested by many families, here's the unholy part 2. i need to go confess myself now to the pope (my local priest isn't equipped enough) ✌🏻// explicit language, explicit sexual content ( sex on the kitchen table!!! ), just weird and kinda hot??

ᯓ★ read part 1

It starts to change after that night.

Not in any big way, not all at once. It’s not like Dean drops to one knee or Sam starts reading you poetry by firelight (though honestly, neither would be completely off-brand at this point). No, it shifts in the quiet ways. The subtle ones. The ways that feel like they’re nothing — until suddenly, they’re everything.

Like how Dean now insists on sitting next to you at every meal. Not across, not diagonally. Right next to you. Close enough that your elbows brush when you cut into your food. Close enough that his arm accidentally finds the back of your chair more often than not, his fingers ghosting over your shoulder, like he just needs to rest his arm somewhere. Totally innocent.

Sure, Dean.

Sam counters with morning coffee.

You don’t even remember telling him how you like it, but one day it’s just there — your exact brew, perfect amount of sugar, that one creamer you love but keep forgetting to buy.

“You didn’t have to—” you start, blinking sleepily.

He shrugs, easy and casual, but there’s that gleam in his eye. “Didn’t mind.”

Dean starts walking into the kitchen shirtless.

Because of course he does.

“Too hot to wear a shirt, sweetheart,” he says one morning, voice husky with sleep, like it’s a suffering he’s graciously enduring for your benefit.

Your brain hiccups for a second. Sam drops his knife against the counter with a little too much force.

It’s war.

You just sip your coffee and try not to combust.

Training sessions become the next battleground.

Dean offers to “spot” you during strength drills. And by spot, he means stand behind you, one hand on your lower back, one guiding your wrist, voice low in your ear, breath brushing your neck like he’s trying to reprogram your nervous system.

“Atta girl,” he murmurs, just a little too close. “Keep that form tight, yeah? Just like that.”

Meanwhile, Sam’s out here playing the long game — patience and precision. He takes you through defensive maneuvers, calm and steady. But his hand lingers when he helps you up off the mat. His body presses just a second too long when you crash into his chest. And his praise?

Way more dangerous than Dean’s.

“You’re a fast learner,” he says one afternoon, gaze locked on yours, his thumb brushing your cheekbone after a sweaty match. “I like that.”

You freeze. Swallow hard. Laugh it off.

They both see it.

They both want more.

One night, Dean finds you in the library, legs curled under you, hoodie slouching off one shoulder. You’re so into whatever lore you’re reading that you don’t hear him until he drops onto the couch beside you, legs spread wide, knee bumping yours.

“Whatcha readin’?” he asks, all easy charm.

You hold up the book without looking. “Something about Norse possession rituals. Kinda creepy. Kinda cool.”

Dean watches you over the rim of his beer. “You’re kinda cool.”

You blink at him. “What?”

He grins. “Nothin’. Just sayin’. It’s… cool. That you’re into that stuff.”

You stare at him, a little amused. A little suspicious. “Are you okay?”

“Peachy.” He throws his arm across the back of the couch — again, purely accidental — and lets his fingers brush your shoulder. “You cold? You can borrow my hoodie if you want.”

You’re wearing a hoodie. His hoodie.

He knows. He gave it to you last week and hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

You’re about to make a joke when Sam walks in, sees you two curled up, and stalls.

Something flashes behind his eyes. Something dark and determined.

He says nothing. Just walks over, grabs a book from the shelf — and drops it in your lap.

“You should read this one next,” he says smoothly, ignoring Dean completely. “It ties into that ritual text. Same demon class. More dangerous, though.”

Your fingers brush when he hands it to you. His touch is warm and deliberate. You feel it all the way down.

Dean clocks it.

His jaw ticks.

Game on.

Later that night, you’re walking down the hall toward your room, yawning. Dean’s voice calls out behind you.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You turn — and he’s there, way too close, one hand braced on the wall beside your head.

His smirk is soft, but it’s hiding something sharp underneath. Something hungry.

“You got plans tomorrow?” he asks, voice honey-slick and low. “Thinkin’ about takin’ you for a drive. Just us. Sunset. You know. Mood lighting.”

Your heart skips a beat. “Oh. Um. Yeah? That sounds nice.”

He leans in — just slightly — enough that your breath catches.

“You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

Before you can answer, a door opens behind you.

“Hey,” Sam says, voice calm but cool. He steps into the hall, barefoot, shirt rumpled, like he’s been pacing. “Didn’t know you were still up. I was about to make tea. You want some?”

Dean doesn’t move. Sam doesn’t blink.

You’re caught between them, flushed and wide-eyed, every cell in your body screaming that something’s happening, even if you don’t know what exactly it is.

You laugh — nervous, flustered — and nod. “Sure! Tea sounds great.”

Sam’s eyes flicker to Dean. “Coming?”

Dean peels himself off the wall with a lazy roll of his shoulders. “Nah,” he says, but the look in his eyes promises blood. “I’ve got other things on my mind.”

And then he walks off, all swagger and smirk, leaving you and Sam standing in the hall like the first scene of a very slow, very dangerous fire.

Sam turns to you, gentle again. “Chamomile okay?”

You nod, suddenly short of breath.

He smiles, soft and devastating. “Good.”

⋆ 𐙚 ̊.

It starts with a look.

One look, too long. Too loaded. Too everything.

You’re in the kitchen again. Nothing special — tank top, sleep shorts, mug in hand. It’s late. You can’t sleep. The bunker hums with quiet and warmth. You’re barefoot on cold tile, staring into the fridge like it holds answers to questions you haven’t asked yet.

And then Dean’s there.

Leaning against the counter like he was born to brood, beer bottle dangling from two fingers, jaw shadowed with stubble and sleep. His eyes drag over you, slow and simmering, and for once?

He doesn’t look away.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice low and sandpapery.

You shake your head. “Nope. Thought warm milk might help.”

He smirks. “Old school. Cute.”

You roll your eyes. “Thanks, grandpa.”

But your heart ticks faster.

He doesn’t laugh. Just watches you, like he’s trying to memorize something.

You go to the stove. Pour milk into a saucepan. And then?

You feel him behind you.

Not close — not inappropriate — but present. Solid heat. Quiet intensity. You stir the milk and try not to notice the way your breath shortens. The way you’re aware of him in a way you weren’t before.

Dean doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

He’s just there. Waiting.

And then Sam enters — quieter than usual, in joggers and a soft black tee, hair mussed, eyes unreadable.

You expect things to ease.

They don’t.

He sees you.

Sees Dean.

And something shifts in him too.

He walks over to you — not Dean. To you. And places a hand lightly on the small of your back, fingers splayed.

“Everything okay?” he murmurs, voice soft but loaded with that same heat Dean’s carrying. A different flavor — gentler, deeper — but no less intense.

Your mouth goes dry.

Dean watches Sam’s hand. His jaw flexes once.

And suddenly… something clicks.

You freeze, spoon mid-stir.

They aren’t just being friendly.

They haven’t been for weeks.

The lingering touches. The quiet glances. The midnight coffees and training sessions that feel like something out of a dream you’re not sure you should be having. The way Dean’s hand finds your waist when you pass too close. The way Sam’s voice drops when he calls you by name, like he’s saying something sacred.

Holy shit.

You’ve been so dumb.

You look up — Sam on one side, Dean on the other — and finally, finally see it.

They want you.

Both of them.

The room tilts.

The milk starts to boil.

Dean moves first — reaches over you, kills the burner with one flick of the wrist. His body brushes yours, solid and hot, and you gasp just slightly when you feel his chest at your back.

“You okay, sweetheart?” he murmurs, mouth just behind your ear.

You nod. Lie. “Fine.”

Sam’s hand still hasn’t moved.

Dean’s breath ghosts down your neck. “You sure?”

You should say yes.

You should say you’re going back to bed, thanks for the weird vibe, have a good night—

But instead?

You turn.

Right between them.

Your eyes flick from one brother to the other, and for the first time, you don’t play dumb. You don’t look away.

You look back.

Sam swallows hard. Dean licks his lips. You feel the air crackle.

“Tell me,” you say, voice shaking slightly. “Tell me what this is.”

Dean tilts his head, watching you like a lion would a lamb that just bared her throat. “What do you want it to be?”

Sam’s voice cuts in, soft but certain. “We want you.”

Dean nods. “We’ve wanted you.”

The words slam into your stomach like heat lightning.

You blink.

“Both of you?”

Sam steps closer. “Yeah.”

Dean moves in, too. “We know it’s… different. But we’re not gonna lie to you. Not tonight.”

Your pulse hammers. “You’re serious.”

Dean’s fingers lift to your jaw. “Sweetheart. Do I look like I’m fuckin’ around?”

You open your mouth — to argue, to ask more, to do something — but then Sam kisses you.

Just like that.

Big hand curling around the back of your neck, mouth warm and sure, and it’s like your brain short-circuits. You melt against him instinctively, fingers curling in his shirt, lips parting under his with a helpless, startled noise.

And then Dean’s mouth is on your throat.

Not kissing. Tasting.

His tongue flicks along the line of your neck, rough stubble scraping gently, and your knees almost give out.

Sam pulls back just enough to breathe. “You okay?”

You nod. Whisper, “Please.”

That’s all it takes.

Dean lifts you like you weigh nothing. Hands under your thighs, mouth crashing into yours now — hot and filthy, tongue sweeping past your lips like he’s trying to ruin you from the inside out.

Sam follows, fast and quiet, hand sliding under your shirt, warm palm skimming your waist.

“Bed,” you gasp between kisses.

Dean growls against your mouth. “Didn’t plan on making it that far, sweetheart.”

They lay you out on the kitchen table.

Dean strips your shorts off in one smooth tug, kneeling to drag his mouth up your thigh, slow and reverent. Sam kneels opposite him, pressing soft, lingering kisses up the other.

You stare at the ceiling, panting, heart trying to escape your ribs.

This is real.

This is happening.

Dean hooks his arms under your knees, spreads you wide. “You still with us?”

You nod frantically. “Yes. God, yes—”

Sam’s mouth replaces your answer.

Warm. Wet. Perfect.

He eats you like it’s worship.

Dean groans at the sight, lips brushing your inner thigh. “Fuck, Sammy. That’s not fair.”

Sam pulls back just enough to smirk. “She tastes like heaven.”

Dean doesn’t wait — he takes the other side, tongue flicking over your clit as Sam pushes two fingers inside you, curling just right, deep and slow.

You scream.

They hold you down gently, murmuring filth like a prayer.

“Look at you,” Dean groans. “So fuckin’ pretty when you fall apart.”

“She’s shaking,” Sam says, awed.

They devour you.

And when you come — because of course you do — it’s not quiet. It’s not graceful. It’s violent. Ripping through you like fire, hips arching, fists gripping Dean’s hair while Sam strokes you through it with something dangerously close to reverence.

When you finally breathe again, Dean’s standing, mouth wet, unbuttoning his jeans.

“You want more, sweetheart?” he pants, eyes blown wide.

You nod, half-drunk on bliss.

Sam kisses your shoulder. “You sure?”

You pull him down by the shirt and kiss him hard. “Yes.”

Clothes vanish — you’re not sure how. You’re all hands and mouths and noise. Dean presses inside you slowly, groaning so deep it shakes the table. He fills you like he was made for it, rocking into you with slow, brutal thrusts that make you keen.

Sam kisses your lips, your throat, your chest, whispering praise against your skin.

When Dean pulls out to let Sam take his place, your whole body trembles. Sam’s slower — deeper. He kisses your temple when he bottoms out, hands holding your thighs like you might disappear.

They trade you.

Again.

And again.

And when they both finish — one groaning against your neck, the other gasping into your mouth — you lie there, boneless and wrecked, caught in the heat and scent and feel of them.

You’re not sure who moves first.

Dean brushes your hair back. Sam kisses your knuckles. You curl between them, blinking up at the ceiling, heartbeat finally slowing.

Dean grins. “Still think we’re just bein’ friendly?”

You snort, dazed. “You two are the least friendly people I’ve ever met.”

Sam chuckles, breath warm against your shoulder. “Guess we’ll have to prove otherwise.”

Dean presses a kiss to your temple.

And for once, you don’t feel like the prize.

You feel like the winner.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

#dean winchester #sam winchester #dean winchester x reader #sam winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #sam winchester x you #dean winchester smut #sam winchester smut #dean winchester fluff #sam winchester fluff #dean winchester fic #sam winchester fic #supernatural #spn #.docx

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sharponsight · 2 months ago

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Beyond Stainless: What Blade Steel Tells You About Your Knife’s Edge Sharp On Sight | Knife Sharpening Madison WI & Beyond

When most people buy a knife—whether it’s for filleting fish, breaking down a deer, or prepping vegetables—they’re looking at price, size, maybe even brand. But ask anyone who’s spent time on the water, in the woods, or at the cutting board, and they’ll tell you: what really matters is what’s in the steel.

At Sharp On Sight, we specialize in sharpening everything from hunting knives and fishing blades to kitchen knives and barber shears, and the #1 thing that determines how we sharpen a blade—and how well that blade performs—is the steel it’s made from. In this post, we’ll go beyond the “stainless vs. carbon” debate and show you how blade steel affects sharpness, edge retention, and ease of sharpening, especially for folks in Madison WI and the surrounding outdoors-loving areas.

Why Steel Type Matters: Not All Metal Is Created Equal

Knives might look similar, but under a microscope (or a whetstone), they tell a very different story. Some blades chip easily but hold a screaming edge. Others roll instead of chipping, meaning they’re durable but might dull faster.

To understand that, we need to talk about two key properties: hardness and toughness.

Hardness vs. Toughness: Know the Difference

Hardness refers to how well a blade resists deformation. Harder blades stay sharp longer—but can be more brittle.

Toughness means how well a blade resists chipping and cracking. Tougher blades won’t break easily, but may dull quicker.

Think of it like this:

A hard blade is like a pencil tip—great for precision, but snap it wrong and it breaks.

A tough blade is like a crayon—less precise, but it survives a drop or hard twist.

The trick is finding the right balance for your use case—and knowing how that affects sharpening strategy.

Knife Steel Categories (and What They Mean for You)

There are hundreds of steels, but let’s simplify and break them into three groups that cover most working knives.

1. Basic Stainless Steels (e.g., 420HC, AUS-6, 440A)

Common in affordable hunting and kitchen knives, these steels are:

Highly corrosion-resistant

Easy to sharpen

Lower edge retention

Good for: Casual users, filet knives, tackle boxes Sharpening Tip: Touch these up often—they dull faster but sharpen easily. A basic ceramic rod or strop does wonders.

2. Mid-Range Steels (e.g., VG-10, 14C28N, D2)

These offer a balance between edge retention and ease of sharpening.

Moderate corrosion resistance

Holds an edge longer than basic steels

Still reasonably tough

Good for: Everyday carry, kitchen prep knives, serious anglers and hunters Sharpening Tip: These benefit from progressive grits—don’t jump from coarse to fine too fast. For example, go 320 > 600 > 1000.

3. High-End or Tool Steels (e.g., S30V, S90V, MagnaCut, M4)

These are performance steels—designed to take a razor edge and keep it, sometimes at the expense of being hard to sharpen.

Very high hardness and edge retention

Often brittle if not heat-treated properly

Some have excellent corrosion resistance (like MagnaCut)

Good for: Field dressing big game, professional chefs, heavy-use knives Sharpening Tip: These steels require patience. Diamond plates or a professional service like Sharp On Sight are your best bet.

How to Tell What Steel You Have

Sometimes the blade is marked. Sometimes the box says. But often, you don’t know—and that’s okay.

Here are some clues:

Hard to sharpen? Likely a high-carbon or powder steel like S30V or M390.

Rusts easily but sharpens quickly? Probably a high-carbon steel like 1095 or O1.

Feels “soft” and needs frequent touch-ups? Could be 420HC or a budget stainless.

If you’re not sure, bring it to us at Sharp On Sight in Sun Prairie, just north of Madison WI—we’ll identify the steel and choose the best sharpening method.

What Blade Steel Tells You About Maintenance

The steel also determines how you should care for your knife between sharpenings:Steel TypeRust RiskStropping NeededEdge Maintenance420HC / 440ALowOccasionalFrequent honingD2 / VG-10ModerateRecommended4–6 months with useS30V / M4 / MagnaCutHigh (varies)Essential1–2 times a year (but professional help often needed)

Want your knives to last longer between sharpenings? Ask about our leather strop kits or honing tools next time you drop off your blades.

Kitchen, Fishing, Hunting: What Steel Works Best?

Let’s match steel to the job.

🥩 Kitchen Knives

Best for home cooks: 14C28N, VG-10, or German stainless like X50CrMoV15

Best for pros: SG2, White #2 carbon, or high-end stainless like S35VN

Why it matters: Kitchen blades are used daily, and micro-chipping happens easily. The steel determines whether a knife needs frequent touch-ups or holds its edge longer.

Pro tip: Softer stainless knives can be touched up with a honing rod weekly. Harder steels benefit from stropping or whetstone touch-ups.

🎣 Fishing Knives

Best for freshwater use: Stainless steels like 420J2 or 440A (low rust)

Best for saltwater or professional use: LC200N, H1, or MagnaCut

Why it matters: Fillet knives are thin and flexible, so toughness is more important than edge retention. But in wet environments, rust resistance wins.

Pro tip: Always rinse and dry after use. Even stainless can rust if salt or scales sit on the edge too long.

🦌 Hunting Knives

Best for skinning: D2, S30V, 1095

Best for all-around field use: MagnaCut, 3V, or CPM Cru-Wear

Why it matters: Game processing is hard on an edge. You need something hard enough to stay sharp, but tough enough not to chip when you hit bone.

Pro tip: High-carbon steel is great if you can keep it clean and oiled. Otherwise, modern powder steels offer the best of both worlds—if you’re willing to invest.

Sharpening Realities: What Steel Means for Your Edge

Here’s the blunt truth: a “better” steel doesn’t mean you’ll never need sharpening. In fact, many high-end steels need professional sharpening more often because they’re harder to do correctly at home.

At Sharp On Sight, we:

Measure factory angles (and correct them if needed)

Use grit-matched stones, diamond plates, and stropping compounds

Offer whetstone-only sharpening for traditional Japanese and high-end blades

Handle hunting, kitchen, fishing, serrated, and clipper blades

Located in Sun Prairie and serving the greater Madison WI area, we’re not just about putting a new edge on your blade—we’re about understanding the steel and restoring the performance it was built for.

Final Thoughts: Know Your Steel, Sharpen Smarter

A knife is only as good as its edge—and an edge is only as good as the steel behind it.

Understanding how blade steel affects toughness, hardness, corrosion resistance, and sharpening ease gives you more than just knife knowledge—it helps you make smarter buying decisions, maintain your gear properly, and get the right service when your edge needs work.

Whether you're out chasing musky, prepping garden vegetables, or packing up for deer camp, Sharp On Sight is your go-to sharpening expert in Madison WI and beyond.

Need Your Knife Sharpened?

📍 Drop Off: 215 E Main Street, Sun Prairie 🔧 Services: Kitchen knives, hunting knives, barber shears, clippers, serrated blades, tools 🗓️ Turnaround: Next-day in most cases 📞 Questions? Reach out anytime or swing by the Sun Prairie Farmers Market starting May 3rd

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rhiannonsknife · 2 months ago

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cooking for lottie (because she definitely cant) and she walks up behind you, gets on her knees and starts eating you out…. *insert freaky sonic gif*

new domestic wife lottie thought for you!! every now and then, i will lock in for my fellow lottie lovers and drop multiple lottie pieces after almost exclusively writing for shauna, jackie & rhiannon 😭 nsfw content, mdni.

domestic (wife!!) lawtie :(((

you’re barefoot in the kitchen, humming to yourself as you dice vegetables for breakfast, the dull thunk of the knife hitting the cutting board keeping time with the sizzle of butter in the pan. behind you, lottie watches from the doorway, wrapped in a robe. her hair is still messy from sleep, one hand idly toying with the hem as she leans her shoulder against the frame.

“you always look so serious when you’re cooking,” she murmurs teasingly, finally making her presence known.

you laugh under your breath, focused on guiding the knife while simultaneously keeping an eye on the pan. “well, making breakfast in this kitchen takes some focus. our stove is old as hell, lot!”

you don’t hear her cross the floor, she’s always quiet like that, only feel her sudden warmth press against your back. lottie’s chin drops to your shoulder, nose brushing your neck.

“i keep telling you we can afford getting it replaced…” she sing-songs, warm breath curling around your ear as her fingers start to play with the baby hairs at your nape. “you’re warm…and you smell good.”

you tilt your head toward her, smile over your shoulder. “you’re weird”

“i know.”

then she sinks to her knees.

you don’t register it at first. there’s only the soft shift of weight behind you, the rustle of fabric and sensation of her skin brushing against your calves. it doesn’t click until her hands slide under your shirt, palms smoothing over your stomach as her mouth presses a kiss to the small of your back.

“lottie…?”

“shh,” she murmurs, nuzzling lower. “just keep doing what you’re doing”

the first few kisses she peppers across the back of your thigh are gentle. then her teeth graze you and one of her hands slips forward, under the waistband of your sleep shorts.

“lottie.”

another hum, her hands already sliding down your shorts and underwear. you shiver as they pool at your ankles, the cool morning air hitting your thighs.

“you’re always taking care of me,” lottie muses, pressing her cheek to your hip as she maneuvers you to face her way. “feeding me…loving me…” her breath is hot against you and she spreads you with both hands. “now i want to take care of you.”

your hips jerk instinctively the moment lottie puts her mouth on you, almost knocking into the stove. her lips part, her tongue sliding between your folds as though to memorize the shape of you. lottie stays on her knees, still fully clothed, still composed, while you’re bare and unraveling under her touch.

“i- lottie-” you try. your voice comes out thin.

in response, lottie only holds you tighter, pulling you against her mouth with both hands.

she has always looked at you like you were more than you believed yourself to be. now, her mouth is proving it all over again: there’s something desperate in the way she licks into you, like she’s starving, and you’re the first real thing she’s been given in weeks. lottie doesn’t rush, yet never stops. minutes pass with your legs trembling and her tongue lapping up your wetness, refusing to waste a single drop.

when her lips finally seal around your clit and suck, your entire body jolts. a cry punches out of your chest, one of your hands slips, and you brace yourself against the oven handle with a whimper.

“i’ve got you,” lottie whispers, without her mouth ever leaving you. she flicks her tongue against you again, circling, then presses in deeper. “just let go.”

you glance down, fingers tangled in her hair, and catch her eyes: lottie is looking up at you with her pupils blown wide, mouth swollen and slick, her hands clutching your thighs. “please,” she whines. “give it to me”

you don’t even know if she means your orgasm or your everything. either way, she gets it.

it rips through you suddenly, your knees buckling, thighs clenching around her head. you cry out as you fall apart, and lottie groans against your cunt, licking through every wave.

it takes minutes before you’re able to register anything again. your head is fuzzy. your legs ache. your body’s pulsing still from the aftershocks. lottie doesn’t stand. instead she guides you down with her, arms around your waist as she lowers you both gently to the floor. immediately, you collapse into her lap, boneless, back to her chest.

you can smell the eggs, surely burnt by now, and still don’t move to fix it.

lottie wraps her arms tighter around your middle, face buried in the crook of your neck until your eyes blink open.

“there you are,”

#lottie matthews Ღ #˙🔞 ̟ !! mdni #lottie matthews x reader #lottie matthews x female reader #lottie matthews x you #yellowjackets #yellowjackets x reader #yellowjackets x female reader #yellowjackets x you

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fanficsat12am · 11 days ago

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You were never supposed to matter (1)

Targeting the fans was only the beginning. If he truly wants to bring down HUNTR/X, Jinu knows he has to strike at their core by focusing on one of their beloved managers, (Y/N). But what happens when the demon prince of pop finds himself falling for the very heart he planned to break?

wc: 1.9k

divider credits go to @hyuneskkami 💛 PARTS: (1) (2)

Letting out a sigh, your shoulders droop in exhaustion, your marbled countertop now looking like the softest mattress in all of Korea. With the way the Saja Boys have been climbing the charts lately, Rumi’s voice disappearing, and the backlash from the canceled live performance, you had no idea how you were supposed to manage this nightmare.

You knew about the girls’ second life—how they protected the world from Gwi-Ma’s demons while maintaining the perfect image of K-pop idols. You were one of the few people Rumi trusted with her secret, having accidentally seen the marks on her back during a fitting. After years of working with HUNTR/X, you’d gotten good at spinning lies to Bobby and the others: exploding demons? Special effects. The girls falling from the sky mid-rehearsal? Just some ambitious wire work. But with the recent threat of the hot, muscular demon boy band, you had been on your toes for days, coordinating with the PR team on how to keep the girls afloat amongst their competitors.

Your eyelids begin to droop, heavy from exhaustion—until something shifts.

The air changes. The night breeze picks up, colder now, sharper.

Your eyes snap open. You reach back, grabbing the nearest knife from the block. As you spin around, your blade lands inches away from a familiar figure—a raven-haired boy standing in your kitchen.

“Easy, easy, easy,” he says, hands raised in mock surrender. As he takes a step closer, the streaks of moonlight seeping through the curtains reveal him in his human form—the one plastered across billboards and fangirl daydreams.

And who could blame them?

He was the epitome of perfection. The sharp jawline, the tousled black hair, the lean frame that moved with dancer precision—it was a weapon in itself. He was sculpted to charm, built to be adored. Even now, bathed in silver light, he looked less like a demon and more like a dream.

But it was his eyes that made you hesitate—those honey-colored irises, warm and gleaming with something almost human. Almost.

“What the hell are you doing in my house?” you demand, eyes narrowing.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he replies calmly.

“Oh sure, because trusting a demon has never gone wrong before,” you snap, stepping closer, the blade still pointed at him.

But he doesn’t flinch.

“Well... your little friend believed me when I promised to keep her secret. Purple hair with demon marks sound familiar?”

That stops you. Just for a moment. Just enough.

Jinu sees it—and steps forward, gently pressing a finger to the tip of your knife and guiding it away.

“Now that I have your attention,” he says calmly, “I want to help you.”

You let out a sharp laugh. “And what makes you think I’d ever believe you?”

He sighs, gaze lowering. “I don’t expect you to. I just… I want to be like her. To be free. But until they reach the Golden Honmoon, we’ll never escape Gwi-Ma’s control.”

Your jaw tightens. “You have those marks for a reason.”

“I made a mistake—”

“No,” you snap. “You made a choice.”

Your grip tightens on the knife. “And that’s why I can never trust someone like you.”

In a split second, the blade flies from your hand—but before it can touch him, he vanishes in a puff of violet smoke. The knife hits the wall with a dull thunk, then clatters to the wooden floor.

A small, pale blue card flutters down from where he once stood. You hesitate before picking it up.

A cartoon duck smiles on the front.

You open it.

Inside, in delicate handwriting, it reads:

“Come find me when you’re ready to listen.”

You roll your eyes, toss the card into the bin, and fall back onto the couch with an exhausted sigh.

But as the night settles in, you can’t help but wonder, why did Rumi trust him? And why, deep down, did part of you want to believe him too.

__________________________________

As you watched the girls practice the dance for what felt like the umpteenth time, your mind kept wandering back to last night’s encounter. There had to be a catch. Demons were all the same—selfish, vile, cruel.

So what did he really want?

The memory of his honey-colored eyes lingered like a bruise in your thoughts. Warm, almost sincere—but lies always wore a pretty face.

So many questions spun through your head like a whirlpool, dragging you under until—

“Helloooo?”

You blinked. Zoey was waving her hand inches from your face.

“Earth to (Y/N)?” she teased, dragging out the last word.

Your eyes widened, snapping back to the three girls now staring at you.

“You okay?” Mira asked, head tilting, brows furrowed with a mix of concern and suspicion. “You’ve been acting… different today.”

Zoey pipes up again, “Yeah, you’ve been looking at us like—” She tilts her head to the side, eyes wide, like she’s under a spell.

You giggle softly. “Yes, I’m fine. Just thinking.” You send them a reassuring smile.

They all nod, understanding. You always had a lot on your plate as a manager.

“We’ll go ahead and call it a day,” Rumi says. “Let’s pick it back up tomorrow.”

The other girls sigh in relief, clearly eager to be swallowed by the nearest couch. As they turn to pack their things, you reach out and gently grab Rumi by the wrist. She stops, her violet hair swaying slightly as she looks back at you.

“Can we talk?” you whisper.

Her brows crease. “Yeah, sure, uhm…” She glances over to Zoey and Mira. “You guys go ahead. I’ll catch up later.”

“Sounds good,” Mira calls. “See you tomorrow, (Y/N)!”

“Bye, (Y/N)!” Zoey waves excitedly before leaving with her pink-haired companion.

Once the door clicks shut behind them, the room grows quieter.

You turn to Rumi, wasting no time.

“Have you been talking to Jinu?” Your voice is firm. “And don’t lie to me.”

She stiffens. Her eyes dart away, debating silently. Then, quietly—

“Yes.”

You let go of her hand as if burned, staring at her like she just suggested disbanding HUNTR/X.

“Rumi…”

“It’s not what you think—”

“Not what I think?” Your voice sharpens. “Rumi, he’s a demon! One of the very monsters you’ve sworn to hunt and destroy. You’ve hated their kind since you were a little girl!”

She hesitates, but then… she speaks.

“He’s different.”

She bites her lip. “He’s not like the others we’ve fought. He just… he doesn’t enjoy the hurting. It’s like he’s trapped in something he didn’t ask for.” She pulls her sleeve up slightly, revealing the faint glowing marks etched into her skin.

“People change,” she says, voice low. “Sometimes… they just need a reason to.”

Before you could respond, the studio lights flickered once… twice… then died. The room plunged into darkness.

“Get out,” Rumi said sharply, her voice instantly shifting into that protective, no-nonsense tone. “Now.”

“Wait, what are you—”

“Go!” she shouted, already dashing in the opposite direction.

Heart pounding like a war drum in your chest, you grabbed your phone with trembling hands and fumbled to switch on the flashlight. The weak beam flickered to life, cutting through the thick veil of darkness as you sprinted down the hallway, footsteps echoing against the studio walls.

But halfway through, you skidded to a stop—your breath caught in your throat.

A low, sickening growl echoed from the shadows ahead. It wasn’t human. It wasn’t even close.

Then came the sound of claws—wet, ragged, scraping against the walls. From the cracks and corners, they emerged—a horde of demons, crawling out like living smoke. Half-shadow, half-nightmare. Spines jagged like broken glass. Eyes glowing red in the dark. Limbs bending wrong, too many joints, too many teeth.

You turned to run—but they were faster. One leapt toward you, its mouth splitting open in a shriek that pierced your skull.

You screamed, stumbling back, and instinctively squeezed your eyes shut.

You braced for the pain. For the end.

But it never came.

Instead, a feral snarl ripped through the air, so loud and guttural it made your bones rattle. The sickening crunch of impact followed, like something had been thrown straight into the wall. Hard.

Your eyes snapped open.

There, standing between you and the demon pack, was a tall figure draped in a jet-black hanbok, its fabric swaying gently like smoke in the still air.

“Jinu?” you whispered

But not the Jinu you knew.

His human illusion had fallen away. He wore a traditional black gat, its ribbon fluttering in the unnatural wind that had suddenly stirred. From beneath the wide brim, his eyes burned golden—not warm, but wild, predatory. Smoke, thick and purple-black, coiled around the edges of his silhouette.

His body moved like liquid shadow, sleek and elegant, but every step oozed restrained violence. The demon who had attacked you lay crushed against the wall in a heap of limbs, twitching before going still.

Jinu didn’t even glance back.

He didn’t speak.

But as the others lunged at him, he moved with a speed that was inhumane.

Effortless. Precise. Beautiful in a way that made your breath catch and your spine crawl.

He cut through them like a blade of darkness—one clawed hand dragging a demon to the ground, the other summoning a flick of searing smoke that split through flesh like fire through paper. Each motion was deliberate, calculated, protective—but brutal.

You stared, frozen.

Not because you were afraid.

But because you understood.

He hadn’t come for them.

He came for you.

You watched as he dealt with the last of them, holding it by the throat and with a crack of finality, letting it fall limp to the ground—it’s body fading into ashes. He looks back to you, but the look of anger and bloodshed in his bright golden eyes was gone, now back to a warm hue. The silence seemed to stretch between the two of you, almost palpable. He walks towards you. Every step echoed in your ears, louder than your own heartbeat. Your instincts screamed—Run. Turn away. Don’t let him get close. But you stay frozen in your spot. He stopped just inches away, closer than you should’ve ever let a demon get. He raised his hand slowly. You flinched and shut your eyes, breath hitching sharply.

This is it, he’s going to kill me himself.

Instead, you felt his ice-cold finger lifted your chin gently, his touch featherlight. Your eyes fluttered open. You find his gaze inspecting every inch of your face, his bows furrowing just the slightest as he memorized every detail.

“Are you okay?” he asked, a hint of worry in his voice.

You nodded, though your voice trembled. “Y-yeah.”

He let out a soft breath, the corner of his lips curling into the faintest smile. “Good.”

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then his expression shifted—just slightly, like a storm creeping back in behind his eyes.

“I shouldn’t have come here,” he murmured, gaze dropping for a second.

Before you can speak, he steps back. The smoke curling around his form starts to rise again, swallowing him like mist.

“Wait—” you call out, reaching a hand toward him

But he’s already fading.

“Don’t follow me,” he says, voice soft but clear. “Not until you’re ready.”

Then, just like before, he vanishes into a ripple of violet haze.

You’re left standing in silence. The hallway, once haunted by demons, now feels too still. Too empty.

And then… something flutters gently to the floor.

Your eyes lower.

Another card.

Same pale blue. Same cartoon duck. But now, taped to the back, a single ticket—National Theater of Korea. Tomorrow. 8 p.m.

You pick it up slowly, heart thudding in your ears.

Inside the card, in that same careful handwriting:

“Come find me. I’ll be waiting.”

You want to throw it away.

You should throw it away.

But instead, your fingers tighten around it. You stare at it for a moment longer… then quietly tuck it into your pocket.

#x reader #jinu kpdh #jinu #jinu kpop demon hunters #jinu kdh #kpop demon hunters #jinu x reader #k pop demon hunters #saja boys #kpdh x reader #jinu saja x reader #kpop demon hunters x reader #jinu kpop demon hunters x reader #jinu kpdh x reader

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heesvnqie · 15 days ago

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Shadows Of Desire- Shim Jaeyun!Jake

pairing: shim jaeyun!jake x Reader genre: bestfriend's pyschopatch brother x reader, dark romance, psychological thriller, horror warnings: dark themes, porn with plot, psychological tension, emotional manipulation, knife imagery, references to violence (including animal cruelty), obsessive behavior, explicit sexual content,unprotected sex (wrap it up irl!), oral (m & f receiving), rough intimacy, overstimulation, possessive themes, emotional distress, and betrayal. word count: 15k (the longest fanfiction I've ever written, phew) a/n: This fanfiction has been a thrilling journey into the shadows, born from your vision of a dark, magnetic Jake and a reader torn between fear and fascination. Thank you for guiding this story through its twists—your requests shaped its haunting tone and emotional depth. For all the jakeu girlies like me, dropping a bomb!

The sun was dying, its last rays clawing through the half-drawn curtains of Hana’s house, painting the living room in streaks of blood-orange and shadow. The place always had a strange weight to it, like it was holding secrets in its walls, but today it felt heavier, almost alive with tension.

You’d been Hana’s best friend since middle school, spending years sprawled on her bedroom floor, trading secrets over bowls of popcorn or cramming for tests until your eyes burned. But today, Hana was different—skittish, her movements sharp and unsteady as she ushered you through the front door. Her sneakers scuffed against the polished hardwood, and her fingers twisted the strap of her backpack so tightly her knuckles whitened.

“Keep it quiet, okay?” she hissed, her voice barely above a breath, as if speaking too loudly would shatter something fragile. Her dark eyes flicked toward the staircase, wide and glassy, like she was waiting for a predator to slink down from the shadows. “Jake’s home.”

Shim Jaeyun. Her older brother. You’d heard his name before, but he was more myth than man in Hana’s stories—someone she mentioned in rare, trembling whispers, always with a look of dread. “He’s not right, Y/N,” she’d said once, late at night during a sleepover, her voice muffled by her pillow. “He’s… I don’t know, he’s fucked up. Like, really fucked up. Just promise you’ll stay away from him, okay?” You’d nodded, more to calm her than because you understood. But the way her voice cracked, the way her hands shook when she spoke of him, stuck with you. Jake was a ghost in her life, a shadow she couldn’t escape, and now you were about to step into his territory.

You set your bag down by the couch, the soft thud sounding too loud in the oppressive quiet. The house was dim, the air thick with the faint scent of cedarwood and something sharper, metallic, that you couldn’t place. A clock ticked somewhere, its rhythm uneven, like a heartbeat struggling to stay steady. Hana grabbed your arm, her grip tight enough to bruise, and tugged you toward the hallway. “Let’s just go to my room,” she said, her voice high and thin. “We can study there.”

But before you could move, a sound stopped you cold—a slow, deliberate creak from upstairs, like someone was pacing across the floorboards, testing their weight. Hana froze, her breath hitching, her nails digging into your skin. “He’s up there,” she whispered, her lips barely moving. “Fuck, Y/N, just… don’t look at him, okay? Don’t talk to him.”

You nodded, but curiosity was a live wire in your chest, sparking with every step you took. You’d never seen Jake, not even in photos—Hana kept none of him, and their parents’ house was strangely barren of family portraits. All you had were her warnings, her fear, and the stories she’d let slip over the years. Stories of Jake coming home late, his clothes stained with something dark and sticky that wasn’t always paint. Stories of him smiling at her in a way that wasn’t kind, his eyes empty, like he was looking through her. Stories of knives—how he’d sit at the kitchen table, twirling a switchblade between his fingers, the blade catching the light as he hummed tunes only he could hear.

The staircase loomed ahead, a dark spiral leading to the second floor. Hana’s grip on you tightened as you passed it, her eyes fixed on the floor, refusing to glance up. But you couldn’t help it. Your gaze lifted, drawn to the shadows at the top of the stairs, and that’s when you saw him.

Shim Jaeyun.

He stood at the edge of the landing, one hand resting lazily on the banister, his posture deceptively relaxed. He was taller than you’d imagined, lean but wiry, his black hoodie clinging to a frame that seemed built for precision, like a coiled spring ready to snap.

His dark hair fell messily over his forehead, casting shadows across his face, but it was his eyes that hit you like a punch—piercing, unreadable, a deep brown that bordered on black, like twin voids swallowing the light. They locked onto you, and the weight of his gaze was physical, pinning you in place. His lips curled into a faint smirk, but it wasn’t warm. It was sharp, like the edge of a blade, and it sent a shiver racing down your spine.

“Hana,” he said, his voice low and smooth, almost mocking, as he leaned forward slightly, his fingers tightening on the banister. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing a friend.”

Hana flinched, her body shrinking against yours, her breath coming in shallow gasps. “She’s… she’s just here to study, Jake,” she stammered, her voice barely audible. “We’re going to my room. Don’t—don’t bother us, okay?”

Jake’s smirk widened, but his eyes never left you. He tilted his head, studying you like you were a specimen under glass, something he could take apart piece by piece. “What’s your name?” he asked, his tone casual but laced with something darker, something that made your pulse spike.

You swallowed, your throat dry, forcing yourself to meet his gaze even though every instinct screamed to look away. “Y/N,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.

“Y/N,” he repeated, dragging out the syllables, tasting them like they were something he could savor. He took a step down the stairs, slow and deliberate, and Hana let out a small, choked sound, tugging at your arm. But you couldn’t move, rooted to the spot by the intensity of his stare. “Pretty name,” he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Suits you.”

Hana yanked you harder now, pulling you toward the hallway, but Jake’s presence filled the space like a storm cloud, heavy and inescapable. As you passed the staircase, he descended another step, close enough that you caught the scent of him—cologne, sharp and expensive, mixed with that same metallic tang you’d noticed earlier, like iron or copper.

Your stomach twisted, a cocktail of fear and something else you didn’t want to name. His hand moved, and you saw it then—a glint of silver in his palm, a small switchblade he’d pulled from his pocket. He didn’t open it, just turned it over in his fingers, the metal catching the dim light as he twirled it with practiced ease, like it was an extension of himself.

“Don’t stay too late, Hana,” he said, his tone almost playful, but there was an edge to it, a warning wrapped in silk. His eyes flicked to you again, and the smirk returned, sharper now. “Wouldn’t want your friend getting… lost.”

Hana didn’t respond, just dragged you down the hallway, her breath ragged as she fumbled with the doorknob to her room. She shoved you inside and slammed the door, locking it with a click that echoed in the silence. Her back pressed against the wood, her chest heaving, her eyes squeezed shut like she was trying to block out the memory of him.

“He’s so fucking creepy,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I told you, Y/N, he’s not normal. He’s… he’s a fucking psychopath. I’ve seen him do things, things I can’t—” She cut herself off, shaking her head, her hands trembling as she hugged herself. “Just stay away from him, okay? Promise me.”

You nodded, but your mind was elsewhere, replaying the encounter in vivid detail. Jake’s eyes, his voice, the way he’d moved—like a predator playing with its prey, not because he was hungry, but because he enjoyed the game.

And the knife. God, the knife. The way he’d handled it, so casual, so intimate, like it was a lover’s hand he was caressing instead of a weapon. It should’ve terrified you, and it did, but there was something else there too, something that made your heart race and your skin prickle with heat. Something you didn’t want to admit, not even to yourself.

You sank onto Hana’s bed, the springs creaking under your weight, and tried to focus on her as she paced the room, muttering about how she hated living here, how she couldn’t wait to move out. But your thoughts kept drifting back to him.

To the way he’d said your name, like it was a secret he wanted to keep. To the way his fingers danced over that blade, precise and controlled, like he knew exactly how much pressure it would take to break skin.

The room felt smaller now, the walls closing in, the air too warm. You glanced at Hana’s desk, cluttered with textbooks and sticky notes, and noticed a photo tucked under a pile of papers—one of her and her parents, smiling at some beach vacation. No Jake. It was like he’d been erased from their lives, a phantom they refused to acknowledge. But he was real, too real, and he was upstairs, maybe still twirling that knife, maybe thinking about you.

“Y/N, are you even listening?” Hana’s voice cut through your thoughts, sharp and exasperated. She stood in front of you, hands on her hips, her face flushed with frustration. “I’m serious, you can’t go near him. He’s dangerous. I’ve seen him—” She stopped, biting her lip, her eyes darting to the door like she was afraid he’d hear her through the walls.

“Seen him what?” you asked, leaning forward, your curiosity outweighing your caution. “Hana, what’s he done?”

She shook her head, her hair falling into her face. “I don’t want to talk about it. Just… trust me, okay? He’s not someone you mess with. He doesn’t feel things like normal people. He’s—” Her voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible. “He’s a monster.”

You wanted to press her, to demand details, but the fear in her eyes stopped you. It was raw, visceral, the kind of fear that came from living with something dark for too long. Instead, you nodded again, forcing a smile you didn’t feel. “Okay, I promise,” you said, but the words felt like a lie even as they left your lips.

Hana exhaled, some of the tension easing from her shoulders, and moved to her desk, pulling out her laptop. “Let’s just do this stupid project,” she muttered, sitting cross-legged on the floor. “The sooner we finish, the sooner you can get out of here.”

You joined her, spreading out your notes, but your mind was fractured, half-focused on the words in front of you, half-lost in the memory of Jake. The way he’d looked at you wasn’t just curious—it was possessive, like he’d already decided you were something he wanted to claim.

And the knife… you couldn’t shake it. You imagined him alone now, maybe in his room, the blade flicking open with a soft snick, his fingers tracing its edge, testing its sharpness. Did he ever press too hard? Did he ever let it bite?

Hours passed, the sky outside turning black, the house growing quieter. Hana’s yawns grew frequent, her head bobbing as she fought to stay awake.

You were about to suggest calling it a night when you heard it—a faint sound from the hallway, like metal scraping against wood. Your heart lurched, and Hana’s eyes snapped open, her body going still.

“It’s him,” she whispered, her voice barely a breath. She grabbed your hand, her palm clammy. “Don’t make a sound.”

You held your breath, straining to listen. The sound came again, slower this time, deliberate, like someone was dragging a knife along the wall, carving a line through the silence. It stopped just outside Hana’s door, and you swore you could feel him there, his presence a cold pressure seeping through the wood. The doorknob rattled, just slightly, and Hana let out a strangled whimper, her hand crushing yours.

Then, nothing. Just silence, heavy and suffocating. After what felt like an eternity, Hana exhaled shakily, releasing your hand. “He’s gone,” she said, but she didn’t sound convinced. She crawled to the door, pressing her ear against it, listening for any sign of him. “You should go home, Y/N. It’s not safe here.”

You nodded, your throat too tight to speak. You gathered your things, your movements jerky, your skin still crawling with the memory of that sound.

Hana walked you to the front door, her eyes scanning the shadows like she expected him to appear out of nowhere. “Text me when you get home,” she said, her voice urgent. “And don’t come back for a while, okay? Not until I know he’s… not around.”

You stepped outside, the cool night air a shock against your flushed skin. The street was quiet, the only sound the distant hum of a car engine, but you felt exposed, like eyes were watching from the darkness.

You glanced back at the house, and for a moment, you thought you saw a silhouette in an upstairs window—Jake, standing motionless, his face hidden in shadow. But when you blinked, he was gone.

You walked home, your heart pounding, your mind a tangle of fear and fascination. Jake was everything Hana had warned you about—dangerous, unhinged, a psychopath. But there was something else, something that pulled at you like a current, dragging you toward him even as you tried to swim away. His eyes, his voice, the knife. He was a riddle wrapped in a threat, and you were already caught in his game.

The days after your first encounter with Jake were a blur of unease and fascination, like you’d brushed against something sharp and couldn’t stop thinking about the sting. Hana’s warnings echoed in your head—her trembling voice, her wide eyes, the way she’d locked her bedroom door like it could keep him out. “He’s a psychopath, Y/N,” she’d said, her words heavy with a fear that felt lived-in, worn like an old coat. “He doesn’t care about anyone. Not me, not our parents, not you.” But her fear only fueled your curiosity, a reckless part of you drawn to the danger in Jake’s eyes, to the way he’d twirled that switchblade like it was an extension of his soul.

You tried to stay away, you really did. For a week, you avoided Hana’s house, texting her excuses about being busy with school or family stuff. But her house was a magnet, and Jake was the iron in its core. Every night, you lay awake, replaying the moment he’d said your name, the way his voice had curled around it, possessive and intimate. You saw the glint of his knife in your dreams, the blade catching the light as it spun between his fingers, a dance of control and menace. You hated yourself for it, but you wanted to see him again—to test the edge of that danger, to see how close you could get before it cut.

It was a Thursday when you gave in. Hana had texted you, begging you to come over to finish a group project for your literature class. “Jake’s not here,” she’d promised, her message punctuated with a string of anxious emojis. “He’s been gone all week. Please, Y/N, we’re so behind.” You agreed, telling yourself it was just for the project, that you weren’t hoping to hear the creak of his footsteps or catch that metallic scent in the air.

When you arrived, the house was quieter than usual, the kind of quiet that felt like it was waiting to be broken. Hana met you at the door, her smile strained, her eyes darting behind you like she was checking for shadows. “Come on,” she said, pulling you inside. “Let’s get this over with.”

You spread your notes across her dining room table, the same table where you’d imagined Jake sitting, twirling his knife while Hana cowered upstairs. The thought sent a shiver through you, and you glanced toward the staircase, half-expecting to see him there, leaning against the banister with that smirk. But the house stayed silent, the only sound the scratch of Hana’s pen and the occasional rustle of paper.

Hours passed, the sky outside bruising purple as dusk settled in. You were deep in a discussion about Wuthering Heights—Heathcliff’s obsession, Catherine’s defiance—when you heard it: a soft click, like a key turning in a lock. Hana’s head snapped up, her pen freezing mid-sentence. Her face drained of color, and she grabbed your wrist, her fingers cold and clammy. “He’s back,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Fuck, Y/N, he wasn’t supposed to be here.”

Your heart kicked into overdrive, but it wasn’t just fear. There was a thrill in it, a pulse of adrenaline that made your skin tingle. You should’ve been scared—Hana’s panic was contagious, her eyes wide with terror—but all you could think about was him. Jake. The way he’d looked at you, like you were a puzzle he wanted to solve or break.

The front door creaked open, and footsteps echoed through the house, slow and deliberate, each one sending a jolt through Hana’s body. She pushed her chair back, ready to bolt, but you stayed put, your gaze fixed on the hallway. You heard the jingle of keys, the rustle of a jacket being tossed aside, and then he appeared.

Jake stood in the doorway, his black hoodie unzipped to reveal a plain white shirt clinging to his lean frame. His hair was messier than last time, falling into his eyes, but those eyes—God, those eyes—were just as piercing, just as empty. He carried a small canvas bag, the kind you’d use for groceries, but the way it hung heavy in his grip made you wonder what was inside. His gaze swept the room, landing on Hana first, then sliding to you. The air shifted, grew heavier, like a storm rolling in.

“Hana,” he said, his voice smooth and low, with that same mocking edge. “Working hard, I see.” His lips twitched into a smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes. They were cold, calculating, like he was already three steps ahead in a game you didn’t know you were playing.

Hana’s grip on your wrist tightened, her nails biting into your skin. “We’re just doing school stuff,” she said, her voice high and brittle. “Don’t… don’t bother us, Jake.”

He ignored her, his attention fixed on you. He set the bag down on the counter, the contents clinking softly—metal against metal. Your stomach twisted, but you couldn’t look away. He reached into his pocket, and your breath caught as he pulled out the switchblade, the same one from last time. The silver gleamed under the fluorescent lights, and he flicked it open with a soft snick, the sound sharp enough to cut through the silence. He didn’t look at the knife, didn’t need to—his fingers moved with muscle memory, twirling it effortlessly, the blade a blur of motion.

“Y/N, right?” he said, his tone casual, like he was asking about the weather. But the way he said your name was different, heavier, like he was claiming it. He stepped closer, the knife still dancing in his hand, and Hana let out a small, choked sound, pulling you back.

“Jake, stop it,” she snapped, her voice trembling but defiant. “Leave her alone.”

He paused, his head tilting slightly, the knife slowing to a stop between his fingers. He held it lightly, almost delicately, but the threat was unmistakable. “Relax, Hana,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension. “I’m just being friendly.” His eyes flicked to you again, and something flickered in them—amusement, maybe, or something darker. “You’re not scared, are you, Y/N?”

Your mouth went dry, but you forced yourself to speak, to meet his gaze even though it felt like staring into a void. “No,” you said, the word coming out quieter than you meant. It wasn’t entirely true—your heart was pounding, your pulse loud in your ears—but it wasn’t just fear. There was something else, something that made your skin flush and your breath hitch. Something you didn’t want to name.

His smirk widened, sharp and dangerous. “Good,” he said, his voice a low purr. He closed the knife with a flick of his wrist, the blade disappearing into the handle, but he didn’t put it away. Instead, he slid it across the table, letting it spin slowly, the metal glinting as it caught the light. It stopped inches from your hand, and you stared at it, your fingers twitching with the urge to touch it, to feel the weight of it, to understand what he saw in it.

“Jake, stop,” Hana said again, her voice cracking. She stood now, pulling you up with her, her eyes darting between you and the knife. “We’re going to my room. Just… leave us alone.”

He didn’t move, didn’t speak, just watched as Hana dragged you toward the stairs. But as you passed him, his hand shot out, catching your wrist—not hard, but firm enough to stop you. His touch was cold, his fingers strong, and the contact sent a jolt through you, like electricity arcing between you. Hana gasped, but Jake’s eyes were on you, only you.

“You should stay,” he said, his voice soft but commanding, like he was testing you. His thumb brushed over the pulse point in your wrist, and you wondered if he could feel how fast your heart was racing. “We could have fun.”

Hana yanked you free, her strength surprising, and practically shoved you up the stairs. “Don’t talk to him,” she hissed, her voice shaking with a mix of fear and anger. “Don’t even look at him, Y/N.”

She slammed her bedroom door behind you, locking it with a trembling hand. She leaned against it, her chest heaving, her eyes wet with unshed tears. “I told you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “He’s not normal. He plays with people, Y/N, like they’re toys. And that knife…” She trailed off, shuddering, wrapping her arms around herself. “I’ve seen him cut things, hurt things, just because he can. He likes it.”

You sank onto her bed, your wrist still tingling where he’d touched you. Your eyes drifted to the door, half-expecting to hear that scraping sound again, the knife against the wood. “What’s with the knife?” you asked, unable to stop yourself. “Why does he…?”

Hana shook her head, her expression haunted. “It’s like his fucking obsession,” she said, her voice bitter. “He’s always had it, since we were kids. He’d sit there for hours, sharpening it, flipping it, carving things into the furniture. Once, I saw him…” She stopped, swallowing hard, her hands clenching into fists. “I saw him with a stray cat, Y/N. In the backyard, late at night. He had that knife, and he was… he was just cutting it, not deep, not enough to kill, but enough to make it scream. He was smiling, like it was nothing. Like it was fun.” Her voice broke, and she pressed a hand to her mouth, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I ran inside and locked my door. I didn’t sleep for days.”

Your stomach churned, a sick mix of horror and fascination twisting inside you. You should’ve been repulsed, should’ve wanted to run as far from this house as you could. But instead, you pictured it—Jake in the moonlight, his face calm and focused, the blade glinting as it moved with precision. You hated how the image didn’t just scare you; it intrigued you, pulled you in like a dark tide. “Did you tell anyone?” you asked, your voice quiet, almost guilty.

Hana shook her head, wiping her eyes. “Who would believe me? Our parents think he’s just… troubled. They sent him to therapy when he was younger, but it didn’t do shit. He’s too smart, Y/N. He knows how to play people, how to make them think he’s normal. But he’s not. He doesn’t feel things like we do. He doesn’t care if he hurts someone. He just… enjoys it.”

You nodded, your throat tight, trying to process her words. But your mind kept circling back to Jake—his cold touch, his piercing gaze, the way he’d spun that knife like it was an extension of himself. You wondered what it would feel like to hold it, to feel the weight of something so dangerous in your hand. The thought was wrong, so wrong, but it lingered, curling around your thoughts like smoke.

Hana sat next to you, her breathing uneven, her hands still trembling. “Promise me you’ll stay away from him,” she said, her voice urgent. “I know he’s… I don’t know, intense or whatever, but he’s dangerous, Y/N. He’ll pull you in, and then he’ll break you. That’s what he does.”

“I promise,” you said, the words automatic, but they felt hollow. You wanted to mean them, wanted to believe you could walk away and forget the way Jake’s eyes had locked onto yours, the way his voice had made your name sound like a secret. But deep down, you knew you were lying—to Hana, to yourself.

The rest of the night was a blur of half-hearted studying, Hana’s nervous energy filling the room like static. You kept glancing at the door, your ears straining for any sound—a creak, a scrape, anything to signal he was still there, lurking just out of sight. But the house stayed quiet, too quiet, and when you finally packed up to leave, Hana insisted on walking you to the door, her arm linked tightly through yours like she was anchoring you to safety.

Outside, the night was cool, the streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement. You glanced up at the house as you stepped onto the porch, and your heart stopped.

There, in the upstairs window, was Jake. He stood motionless, his silhouette stark against the dim light of his room, his eyes fixed on you. He didn’t wave, didn’t smile, just watched, the switchblade in his hand catching the light as he twirled it once, twice, before letting it disappear into his palm.

Hana didn’t see him—she was too busy checking her phone, muttering about calling you an Uber—but you felt his gaze like a physical touch, cold and unyielding. You turned away, your heart pounding, and forced yourself to walk down the street, the memory of that knife and those eyes burning into you.

The next few days were torture. You couldn’t focus, couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep without seeing him—his smirk, his blade, the way he’d held your wrist like he already owned you.

Hana texted you constantly, checking in, begging you to stay away from her house. But the pull was too strong, the need to know more about him, to understand the darkness that clung to him like a second skin.

It was late one evening, a week later, when you found yourself back at Hana’s house. She’d invited you over again, swearing Jake was out, that he’d been gone for days. You told yourself you believed her, but deep down, you knew you were hoping he’d be there. You needed to see him, to feel that rush again, even if it scared you.

The house was dark when you arrived, the windows black, the air heavy with the promise of a storm. Hana let you in, her face pale, her hands fidgeting as she led you to the living room. “We’ll work here,” she said, her voice tight. “It’s… safer.”

But before you could sit down, you heard it—a soft, rhythmic tapping from the kitchen, like metal against wood. Your heart leapt into your throat, and Hana froze, her eyes wide with terror. “No,” she whispered, grabbing your arm. “He’s not supposed to be here.”

The tapping stopped, and the silence that followed was worse, heavy and suffocating. Then, slow footsteps, deliberate, echoing through the house. Jake appeared in the doorway, wearing a red stripped with white sweater, brown belt buckled on beige pants, muscled forearms, one hand holding the switchblade. He wasn’t twirling it this time—just holding it, the blade closed but gleaming faintly in the dim light. His eyes found you immediately, and the corner of his mouth lifted in that familiar, dangerous smirk.

“Didn’t expect to see you again so soon, Y/N,” he said, his voice low and smooth, like he was savoring the surprise. He stepped closer, and Hana shrank back, her breath hitching. “Miss me?”

Hana’s grip on your arm was painful now, but you couldn’t move, couldn’t look away. He stopped a few feet away, leaning casually against the wall, the knife still in his hand. He tilted his head, studying you, and then, slowly, deliberately, he flicked the blade open. The snick was sharp, final, and you felt it in your bones.

“Jake, leave her alone,” Hana said, her voice shaking but fierce. “I’m serious.”

He ignored her, his eyes locked on yours. “You ever held one of these?” he asked, holding up the knife, letting it catch the light. “It’s… calming. You want to try?”

Your mouth went dry, your heart racing, but you didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because part of you—some dark, reckless part—wanted to say yes, wanted to feel the cold metal in your hand, to know what it was like to hold something so dangerous, so much like him. And he saw it, that flicker of curiosity in your eyes, because his smirk grew, his gaze darkening with something that wasn’t quite amusement, wasn’t quite desire, but something in between.

“Enough, Jake,” Hana snapped, stepping between you, her body trembling but her voice steady now. “Get out.”

He laughed, a low, quiet sound that sent a chill through you. “You’re no fun, Hana,” he said, but he didn’t move, didn’t put the knife away. He just stood there, watching you, the blade still in his hand, a silent invitation hanging in the air.

Hana grabbed your hand and pulled you toward the stairs, her steps quick and desperate. You followed, but not before glancing back at Jake, just for a moment. He was still watching, still smiling, and as you disappeared up the stairs, you heard the soft snick of the knife closing, followed by a low chuckle that echoed in your ears long after you reached Hana’s room.

Jake was a specter haunting your every thought, a blade pressed against the thin skin of your restraint. Since that night in Hana’s kitchen, he’d carved himself into your mind—the way his voice curled around your name, dark and possessive, the way his switchblade spun in his fingers, a dance of menace and control. You knew he was dangerous, knew the cold glint in his eyes wasn’t just a trick of the light. But knowing didn’t stop the pull, the reckless hunger to see how close you could get to his edge without falling over.

Hana’s call came on a Wednesday afternoon, her voice rushed and frazzled through the phone. “Y/N, I’m drowning in this lit project,” she said, the words tumbling out. “Can you come over? I need you to save my ass before this deadline kills me.” She didn’t mention Jake, and you didn’t ask, but the thought of him was there, a shadow in the corner of your mind, beckoning you back to that house.

“On my way,” you said, grabbing your jacket, the decision made before you could second-guess it. You told yourself it was for Hana, for the project, but the lie was flimsy, crumbling under the weight of your curiosity, your need to feel that electric chill again.

The sky was a bruise of gray clouds as you reached Hana’s house, the air thick with the scent of impending rain. The street was eerily silent, the kind of quiet that made your own breathing sound too loud. You knocked on the front door, the sound swallowed by the heavy stillness, and waited. No answer. You knocked again, sharper, but the house stayed mute, its windows dark and unblinking. A prickle of unease crawled up your neck, but you pushed it down, fishing out your phone to text Hana.

Hey, I’m here. Where you at?

No reply. You tried the doorknob, half-expecting it to be locked, but it turned with a soft click, the door groaning open like a warning. The air inside was cold, heavy with that familiar mix of cedarwood and something sharper, metallic, like blood or iron. You stepped into the foyer, your sneakers barely whispering against the hardwood, and called out, “Hana? You here?”

Silence answered, but it wasn’t empty. It was alive, charged, like the house itself was watching you. You set your backpack by the stairs, your eyes darting to the shadowed corners, the dim hallway stretching into darkness. “Hana?” you tried again, your voice thinner now, swallowed by the oppressive quiet.

A faint sound came from behind you—a soft snick, like metal flicking open. Your heart stopped, your body going rigid as the air shifted, colder now, heavier. You turned slowly, dread pooling in your stomach, and there he was—Jake, emerging from the shadows of the living room doorway like a phantom, his presence sucking the light from the room. He was closer than you’d expected, too close, his lean frame filling the space, his black hoodie unzipped to reveal a tight shirt clinging to his chest. His dark hair fell into his eyes, but they gleamed through the strands, piercing and unreadable, locked on you.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice low, smooth, with a lilt of amusement that sent a shiver down your spine. “Sneaking in, are we?” He held his switchblade in one hand, the blade open, glinting faintly in the dim light as he tilted it, letting it catch the shadows. His other hand rested casually against the wall, but there was nothing casual about him—not the way he stood, not the way he looked at you, like you were prey he’d been waiting to catch.

You swallowed, your throat dry, forcing yourself to stand your ground even as every instinct screamed to run. “Hana called me,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. “She said she needed help with a project. Where is she?”

Jake tilted his head, the knife twirling slowly in his fingers, a hypnotic motion that drew your eyes despite yourself. “Hana?” he said, his tone mocking, like he was playing with the word. “Not here. Must’ve slipped out. She’s like that—always running off.” He stepped closer, the floorboards creaking under his weight, and you backed up instinctively, your shoulder brushing the wall. “But you’re here,” he added, his smirk sharpening, “and that’s so much more… interesting.”

Your pulse hammered, a mix of fear and something hotter, more dangerous, curling in your chest. He’d come from behind you, silent as a ghost, and the realization made your skin prickle—the house had felt empty, but he’d been there, watching, waiting. The air was thick now, electric, like a storm about to break, and you couldn’t look away from him, from the blade, from the way his eyes seemed to see through you.

“I should go,” you said, but the words lacked conviction, your body refusing to move. His presence was a cage, invisible but unyielding, and you were already trapped.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice soft but commanding, a velvet threat. He was closer now, close enough that you could smell him—leather, smoke, and that sharp, metallic tang that clung to him like a second skin. The knife stopped twirling, and he held it loosely, the blade pointed down, but its presence was a pulse in the air, a reminder of what he could do. “You came all this way,” he murmured, his eyes searching yours, dark and hungry. “Might as well stay.”

Your breath hitched, and you hated how it betrayed you, how he noticed—the slight flare of his nostrils, the way his smirk deepened. “Why?” you asked, the word slipping out, a challenge you didn’t mean to issue. “What do you want from me?”

He laughed, a low, quiet sound that felt like it crawled under your skin. “What do I want?” he echoed, stepping closer, so close you could feel the heat of him, the weight of his gaze. “I want to know why you’re not running, Y/N. Why you’re standing here, looking at me like you’re not afraid, when you should be.” He lifted the knife, not threateningly, but deliberately, letting the blade brush the air between you, a whisper of cold steel. “You feel it, don’t you? The pull.”

Your stomach twisted, his words too close to the truth. You did feel it—the pull, the dark current dragging you toward him, toward the danger he embodied. You knew what he was, or at least you suspected it—the emptiness in his eyes, the ease with which he wielded that knife, the stories of blood and screams that clung to him like shadows. But it didn’t push you away. It drew you in, like a moth to a flame, and you hated how much you wanted to burn.

“I’m just here for Hana,” you said, but the lie was brittle, and he saw it shatter in your eyes.

“Sure you are,” he said, his voice a purr, laced with amusement. He leaned closer, his breath warm against your cheek, the knife still in his hand, its presence a cold counterpoint to his heat. “You ever held one of these?” he asked, his tone shifting, intimate now, like he was sharing a secret. “It’s… different. Like holding a piece of the world in your hand. You want to try?”

Your mouth went dry, your eyes flicking to the knife, to the way it gleamed, sharp and perfect. You should’ve said no, should’ve backed away, but the part of you that was reckless, that was drawn to him, wouldn’t let you. “Show me,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them, your voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes darkened, something like satisfaction flickering in them. He flipped the knife closed with a soft snick, the sound sharp in the quiet, and held it out to you, handle first. “Take it,” he said, his tone coaxing, a dare wrapped in silk. “Feel it.”

Your hand trembled as you reached for it, your fingers brushing his, cold and steady, the contact sending a jolt through you. The knife was heavier than you expected, its handle worn smooth from years of use, and you turned it over in your palm, the weight grounding but thrilling, like holding something forbidden. You looked up at him, and he was watching you, not just your face but your hands, the way you held it, like he was seeing something new in you, something he wanted to keep.

“Careful,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent. “It’s not forgiving if you don’t respect it.”

You nodded, your heart pounding, the knife cold against your skin. “Why do you like it?” you asked, the question raw, unfiltered. “What’s it mean to you?”

He stepped closer, his body inches from yours, his eyes locked on yours, dark and unyielding. “It’s truth,” he said, his voice soft but heavy, like a confession. “No masks, no lies. Just… power. You decide how it moves, how it cuts. It’s like holding someone’s soul in your hand.” He reached out, his fingers brushing yours as he guided your hand, turning the knife slightly, the motion deliberate, intimate. “You feel that, don’t you?”

You did. The knife felt alive, a pulse of potential in your grip, and the way he was looking at you—hungry, almost proud—made your head spin. You handed it back, your fingers lingering against his, and he took it slowly, his gaze never wavering.

“Good girl,” he murmured, the words sinking into you, warm and dangerous, like a spark in dry grass. He stepped back, twirling the knife once before slipping it into his pocket, but the air between you stayed charged, heavy with unspoken promises.

The front door slammed open, and you flinched, the spell breaking like glass. Hana’s voice cut through the house, high and breathless. “Y/N? I’m so sorry, I got stuck at this stupid neighbourhood meeting—” She appeared in the kitchen doorway, her face flushed, her backpack half-slung over her shoulder. Her eyes darted between you and Jake, and her expression tightened, a flicker of unease crossing her face. “Jake,” she said, her voice clipped. “What’s going on?”

He leaned back against the counter, his smirk lazy but sharp, the knife gone but its presence still lingering. “Just chatting with Y/N,” he said, his eyes flicking to you, a private challenge in them. “She’s good company.”

Hana’s gaze snapped to you, her brows furrowing. “You okay?” she asked, softer now, stepping closer. You nodded, your throat tight, your mind still reeling from the knife, from him, from the way he’d appeared behind you like a ghost.

“Let’s go upstairs,” Hana said, grabbing your arm, her touch firm but not desperate. She led you out of the kitchen, her steps quick, and you followed, but not before glancing back at Jake. He was watching you, his smirk softer now, almost knowing, like he’d seen a part of you you hadn’t meant to show.

As you climbed the stairs, the weight of the knife lingered in your hand, cold and heavy, and you knew you were sinking deeper into something dangerous, something you weren’t sure you could—or wanted to—escape.

Jake was a fucking inferno, a blaze of danger and desire that scorched your thoughts, leaving you raw and aching for more. Ever since that night in Hana’s kitchen, when you’d gripped his switchblade and felt his dark, empty eyes burn into you, he’d infected you—his Aussie drawl, his knife play, his fucking presence a drug you couldn’t kick. He was a psychopath, no question, with that cold, calculating edge, but it didn’t scare you off. It made your pussy throb, made you want to dive into his darkness and see how much you could take before you burned up.

Hana’s text hit your phone on a Friday night, the sky black as sin, thunder growling in the distance like a beast ready to pounce. “Movie night, my place, 8 sharp,” she’d typed, casual as hell. “Be there, Y/N, need you.” She swore she’d be home, and you latched onto that, telling yourself you were going for her, for some dumbass movie and snacks. But deep down, you knew the truth: you were chasing Jake, craving that electric jolt he sent through you, that mix of fear and want that made your clit pulse just thinking about him.

The house stood like a fucking haunted relic, its windows dark except for a weak, a faint yellow glow from the kitchen, flickering like a trap set just for you. The air was heavy, thick with the smell of rain and something metallic, like blood on the wind. You knocked, the sound dying in the oppressive silence, and waited, your heart jackhammering in your chest. Nothing. You pounded again, harder, but the house was a goddamn tomb, silent and watching.

Your phone showed 8:10 p.m. No word from Hana. A flicker of panic sparked, but you shoved it down, twisting the doorknob. It gave way, the door creaking open like a warning, and you stepped into the foyer, the air cold and sharp with that familiar mix of cedarwood and steel. “Hana?” you called, your voice echoing, swallowed by the shadows. “You in here?”

The silence was alive, crawling over your skin, making your nipples harden under your shirt from the chill and something else—anticipation, maybe, or dread. You dropped your bag by the stairs, your boots barely making a sound on the hardwood, and headed for the kitchen, drawn to that sickly glow like a moth to a fucking flame. The hallway was a black void, shadows pooling like ink, and you felt eyes on you, invisible but heavy, making your pussy clench with a mix of fear and need.

You hit the kitchen doorway and froze, your breath catching like a knife in your throat. Jake was there, leaning against the counter like he fucking owned the place, a vision of Aussie sex on legs. His black tee clung to his lean chest, a leather jacket draped over his shoulders, sleeves rolled up to show off forearms corded with muscle. His dark hair was a perfect mess, framing those sharp cheekbones, and his lips—fuck, those lips—curved in a smirk that promised all kinds of sin. His eyes, dark and bottomless, locked onto yours, and your cunt pulsed, slick already just from one goddamn look.

He was flipping his switchblade, the silver blade catching the light as it spun, a casual, deadly dance that made your heart race. He looked like trouble, the kind of guy who’d fuck you senseless and leave you ruined, and you wanted every second of it. “Well, shit, love,” he drawled, his Aussie accent thick, dripping with charm that felt like a blade to your throat. “Didn’t expect you to walk in lookin’ like that.” His eyes raked over you, slow and deliberate, making your cheeks burn, your pussy aching under his gaze.

Panic hit hard. Hana wasn’t here—she’d fucking promised, but she wasn’t, and Jake was, looking like he’d been waiting for you all along. Your instincts screamed to run, to get the hell out before he could sink his claws in deeper. “I—fuck, I gotta go,” you stammered, spinning toward the hallway, your boots slipping as you bolted, your heart in your throat.

You made it halfway to the door before you skidded to a stop, a choked scream ripping from you. Jake was there, leaning against the foyer wall, his body a sudden, impossible barrier, the switchblade still flipping in his hand, his smirk sharp as a razor. “How the fucking hell? Weren’t you just there?” you gasped, your voice shaking, your mind spinning. He’d been in the kitchen, flipping that damn knife, not ten seconds ago—how was he here, blocking your way, like he’d slipped through the goddamn shadows?

He laughed, a low, dirty sound that sent a shiver straight to your clit. “I’m quick when I wanna be, darlin’,” he said, his accent wrapping around the words, making them sound filthy, dangerous. He stepped closer, and you backed up, your ass hitting the wall, your pulse pounding so loud you could hear it. “You ran,” he said, his tone low, teasing, but his eyes were dark, hungry. “What’s got you so spooked? Thought you were tougher than that.”

Your throat was dry, your body a live wire, humming with fear and a need so intense it made you flush, your cheeks burning, you were soaking through your panties. He was right—you’d run because Hana’s absence was a fucking betrayal, because this house was a trap, because he was a predator and you were prey, and yet… you wanted to be caught. “Hana said she’d be here,” you said, forcing your voice to hold, to meet his gaze even though it felt like staring into a void. “Where the fuck is she?”

He shrugged, the knife flipping faster, a silver blur that made your cunt throb with some fucked-up mix of fear and want. “Beats me,” he said, his tone too easy, like he was playing with you and loving every second. “Probably off somewhere, doin’ whatever. You know how she is—never where she says she’ll be.” He closed the distance, the air thick with his scent—leather, cologne, and that sharp, metallic bite that was all him. “But you’re here, love,” he murmured, his eyes burning into yours, “and I’m not lettin’ you slip away that easy.”

Your skin was on fire, your clit pulsing, your whole body screaming to run but aching to stay. He was too close, his heat seeping into you, the knife a silent threat, a promise you didn’t know if you wanted kept. “I should wait for her,” you said, but it was weak, a pathetic attempt to hold onto something normal when all you wanted was him, his danger, his fucking everything.

“Fuck waiting,” he growled, his voice low, that Aussie drawl making your pussy clench. He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot and teasing. “You don’t want Hana. You want me. You want my cock, don’t you? Want me to fuck that tight little pussy till you can’t think straight.” His words hit like a shockwave, making you flush so hard your skin burned, your cunt dripping, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

You should’ve pushed him away, should’ve screamed, but instead, you moaned, a soft, needy sound that gave you away. His smirk widened, his eyes darkening with hunger, and he pressed himself closer, his body hard against yours, the bulge in his jeans unmistakable, pressing against your thigh. “That’s what I thought,” he said, his voice a filthy purr. “You’re so fucking wet for me already, aren’t you? I bet that pussy’s begging for it.”

Your cheeks were scorching, your body trembling with need, and you nodded, unable to stop yourself, unable to lie. “Yes,” you whispered, the word a surrender, and he groaned, low and primal, his lips crashing into yours, a kiss that was all teeth and tongue, raw and fucking filthy. You kissed him back, desperate, your hands clawing at his jacket, his shirt, needing to feel him, to drown in him.

He shoved you against the wall, his hands rough, ripping at your clothes, tearing your shirt open, your bra pushed up to expose your tits. “Fuck, look at these,” he growled, his hands squeezing, his thumbs brushing your nipples, making you moan, your pussy clenching. “Such perfect fucking tits, made for my mouth.” He dipped down, sucking hard, his teeth grazing, and you arched into him, your clit throbbing, your body screaming for more.

His knife was out again, and your breath hitched, fear spiking but only making you wetter, your cunt aching as he flicked it open, the snick loud and final. He didn’t cut you—just let the blade trace your skin, a cold, teasing touch along your collarbone, down to your stomach, making you shiver, your hips bucking against him. “You like this, don’t you?” he said, his voice thick, dirty. “My knife on your skin, my cock so fucking hard for you. You want me to fuck you with this blade in my hand, don’t you, love?”

You moaned, your cheeks burning, your pussy dripping, and you nodded, too far gone to care how fucked up it was. He smirked, setting the knife aside, but its presence lingered, a ghost in the air as he ripped your jeans down, your panties following, leaving you bare, your cunt glistening for him. “Fuck, look at that pussy,” he said, his voice rough, his fingers sliding through your folds, finding your clit, rubbing slow, torturous circles that made you gasp, your hips grinding against him. “So fucking wet, so ready for my cock. You’re gonna take it all, aren’t you? Gonna let me fuck you stupid.”

“Yes,” you gasped, your voice breaking, your body on fire, and he groaned, his fingers plunging into you, stretching you, making you moan, your clit pulsing under his thumb. “Please, Jake, fuck me,” you begged, your cheeks flushing, your need for him a living thing, clawing at you.

He didn’t make you wait. He unzipped his jeans, his cock springing free, thick and hard, the sight making your pussy clench, your mouth watering. “You want this cock, love?” he said, stroking himself, his voice a filthy drawl. “Want it deep in that tight little pussy, fucking you till you scream?”

“Yes,” you moaned, your hips bucking, your cunt aching to be filled. He lifted you, your legs wrapping around his waist, and carried you upstairs, his steps silent, the house a blur of shadows and heat. His room was dark, reeking of him—leather, cologne, metal—and he threw you on the bed, his body covering yours, his eyes burning with need.

He didn’t waste time. His hands were on you, rough and hungry, spreading your thighs, his fingers teasing your clit, making you writhe, your moans loud and desperate. “Gonna fuck you so hard, love,” he growled, his accent thick, his cock pressing against your entrance, teasing, making you whimper. “Gonna make this pussy mine, make you come all over my cock.”

He thrust into you, hard and deep, and you screamed, your pussy stretching around him, the pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. He didn’t go slow—his pace was relentless, his cock slamming into you, hitting that spot that made you see stars, your clit throbbing with every thrust. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his voice rough, his hands gripping your hips, bruising. “This pussy’s fucking perfect, taking my cock like it was made for it.”

You moaned, your cheeks burning, his dirty talk making you flush, your cunt dripping around him, the pleasure building, overwhelming. “Jake, fuck, I’m gonna—” you gasped, your body trembling, your clit pulsing as he fucked you harder, his thumb finding it, rubbing fast, sending you over the edge.

“Come for me, love,” he growled, his voice a command, his cock thrusting deep. “Come all over my fucking cock, let me feel that pussy squeeze.” You shattered, your orgasm ripping through you, your cunt clenching, your body shaking, your screams muffled against his shoulder. He didn’t stop, fucking you through it, his thrusts brutal, his groans growing louder, more feral.

“Gonna fill you up,” he said, his voice thick, his cock twitching inside you. “Gonna pump this pussy full of cum, make you mine.” He came hard, his thrusts deep, his release hot and overwhelming, and you moaned, your body trembling, feeling every pulse, every drop.

When it was over, you lay there, panting, your body slick with sweat, his weight pressing you into the bed. His arm draped over you, possessive, his fingers tracing your skin, lazy but claiming. The knife was on the nightstand, closed but gleaming, a reminder of the edge you’d danced on. “You’re fucked now, darlin’,” he murmured, his Aussie drawl soft but heavy, his lips brushing your ear. “This pussy’s mine, and you’re not going anywhere.”

You flushed, your cheeks burning, your cunt still tingling, and you nodded, knowing he was right. You didn’t want to leave. You wanted him—his cock, his knife, his fucking darkness. Hana’s voice came later, frantic, calling your name from downstairs, but his grip tightened, holding you close. “Let her fucking wait,” he growled, his voice low, filthy. “You’re mine tonight, love.”

And you were. You stayed, lost in his heat, his danger, the storm outside a faint echo of the one he’d ignited in you, and you knew this was just the start—dark, filthy, and fucking unstoppable.

The afterglow of Jake’s touch lingered like a bruise, tender and raw, your body still humming from the way he’d fucked you—hard, deep, claiming every inch of your pussy like it was his to own. His cum was still warm inside you, his scent—leather, cologne, and that sharp metallic bite—clinging to your skin, marking you as his. You lay sprawled across his bed, your chest heaving, your cunt still tingling, your cheeks flushed from the filthy things he’d growled in your ear, his Aussie drawl turning every word into a weapon that made you drip. His arm was slung over you, heavy and possessive, his fingers tracing lazy, teasing circles on your hip, each touch reigniting the fire in your core.

The house was a fucking crypt around you, its silence broken only by the distant rumble of the storm outside and the faint, frantic sound of Hana’s voice echoing from downstairs. “Y/N? Where the hell are you?” she called, her tone sharp with worry, her footsteps creaking on the hardwood. You stirred, your body protesting, your mind foggy with Jake’s heat, but his grip tightened, pinning you to the bed, his lips brushing your ear, hot and commanding.

“Stay,” he murmured, his voice a low, filthy growl, that thick Aussie accent making your clit throb. “She can fucking wait, love. Your pussy’s still mine, and I’m not done with you.” His words sent a fresh wave of heat through you, your cheeks burning, your cunt clenching around nothing, already aching for him again. You should’ve moved, should’ve answered Hana, but the weight of him, the promise in his voice, kept you locked in place, your body betraying you with every shuddering breath.

The knife on the nightstand gleamed in the dim light, its blade closed but heavy with meaning, a reminder of the edge you’d danced on—his blade on your skin, cold and teasing, his cock slamming into you, his dirty talk pushing you over the brink. You shivered, your nipples hardening, and Jake noticed, his smirk widening, his fingers sliding up to pinch one, making you gasp, your pussy slick with need.

“Fuck, you’re so responsive,” he said, his voice rough, dirty, his eyes dark with hunger. “Look at you, all flushed and needy, your cunt begging for my cock again. You love this, don’t you? Love how I fuck you, how I own this tight little pussy.” His hand slid lower, cupping you, his fingers teasing your clit, slow and deliberate, making you moan, your hips bucking against him, your cheeks scorching with embarrassment and want.

“Jake,” you gasped, your voice breaking, your body trembling under his touch. “Hana’s downstairs—she’ll come up here—”

“Let her,” he growled, his fingers plunging into your pussy, curling, hitting that spot that made you see stars, your moan loud and desperate. “Let her see how fucking wet you are for me, how you take my fingers, my cock, like a good little slut.” His words were a shock, filthy and raw, making you flush so hard your skin burned, your cunt dripping around his fingers, your clit pulsing under his thumb.

You should’ve been ashamed, should’ve pushed him away, but you didn’t. You wanted it—his filth, his control, the way he made you feel like you were his and his alone. The knife caught your eye again, and you shivered, a fucked-up mix of fear and arousal twisting in your gut. He followed your gaze, his smirk turning wicked, and he reached for it, flipping it open with a soft snick that made your heart skip, your pussy clenching around his fingers.

“Still thinking about this, huh?” he said, holding the knife up, letting the blade catch the light, his fingers still fucking you, slow and deep, making you whimper. “You want it, don’t you? Want my blade on your skin while I fuck that pretty pussy again, make you scream for me.” His voice was a dirty caress, his accent thick, and you moaned, your cheeks burning, your body arching into him, needing more, needing everything.

“Yes,” you whispered, the word a surrender, and he groaned, low and primal, pulling his fingers out, leaving you empty, aching, your cunt throbbing with need. He brought the knife closer, not cutting, just tracing the flat of the blade along your thigh, the cold metal making you shiver, your clit pulsing, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he said, his voice rough, his eyes burning with something beyond desire—possession, maybe, or something darker. “So fucking wet, so ready to take whatever I give you. You’re gonna let me fuck you with this knife right here, aren’t you, love? Gonna let me make you come so hard you forget your own name.”

Your cheeks were on fire, your body trembling, and you nodded, too far gone to care how fucked up it was, how dangerous. He set the knife aside, but its presence lingered, a shadow in the air as he shoved his jeans down, his cock springing free, hard and thick, the sight making your pussy clench, your mouth watering. “Get on your knees,” he growled, his voice a command, and you obeyed, your body moving before your mind could catch up, your cunt dripping as you knelt before him.

“Suck it,” he said, his hand tangling in your hair, guiding you to his cock, the tip glistening with precum. “Show me how much you want it, how much you love my cock.” You moaned, your cheeks flushing, and took him in, your lips stretching around him, your tongue swirling, tasting him, the salt and heat of him filling your senses. He groaned, his grip tightening, his hips thrusting, fucking your mouth, his dirty talk relentless.

“Fuck, that’s it, love,” he growled, his accent thick, his cock hitting the back of your throat, making you gag, your pussy dripping onto the sheets. “Take it deep, let me fuck that pretty mouth, make you choke on my cock. You’re so fucking good at this, so fucking mine.” His words made you flush, your clit throbbing, your hands gripping his thighs, needing to please him, needing to be his.

He pulled out, sudden and rough, and you gasped, your lips swollen, your breath ragged. “On the bed,” he said, his voice a low snarl, and you scrambled up, your body trembling, your cunt aching to be filled. He pushed you down, spreading your thighs, his eyes dark with hunger as he looked at your pussy, slick and ready, your clit swollen, begging for him.

“Fuck, look at this cunt,” he said, his voice thick, his fingers sliding through your folds, teasing your clit, making you moan, your hips bucking. “So fucking wet, so fucking perfect. You’re gonna take my cock so good, aren’t you? Gonna let me fuck you till you’re screaming, till this pussy’s ruined for anyone else.” His words were filthy, raw, making you flush, your cheeks burning, your body trembling with need.

He thrust into you, hard and deep, and you screamed, your pussy stretching around his cock, the pleasure so intense it was almost too much. He didn’t hold back, his pace brutal, his cock slamming into you, hitting that spot that made you see stars, your clit pulsing with every thrust. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his hands gripping your hips, bruising, his voice rough with need. “This pussy’s fucking mine, taking my cock like it was made for it. You love this, don’t you? Love me fucking you raw, making you come all over my dick.”

“Yes,” you moaned, your voice breaking, your body trembling, your cheeks scorching as his words pushed you closer to the edge. “Jake, fuck, I’m gonna come—” you gasped, your pussy clenching, your clit throbbing as he fucked you harder, his thumb finding it, rubbing fast, relentless.

“Come for me, love,” he growled, his voice a command, his cock thrusting deep, his thumb pressing hard on your clit. “Come all over my fucking cock, let me feel this pussy squeeze me, show me how much you fucking love it.” You shattered, your orgasm ripping through you, your cunt clenching around him, your body shaking, your screams muffled against the pillow. He fucked you through it, his thrusts savage, his groans loud and feral, his cock twitching inside you.

“Gonna fill this pussy,” he said, his voice thick, his thrusts deep, his release close. “Gonna pump you full of cum, make you mine, love. You want that, don’t you? Want my cum dripping out of this tight little cunt.” You moaned, your body trembling, and he came hard, his cock pulsing, his cum hot and overwhelming, filling you, marking you.

He collapsed beside you, his chest heaving, his arm pulling you close, possessive, his fingers tracing your skin, still teasing, still claiming. The knife gleamed on the nightstand, a silent witness to the fire between you, and you felt it—the weight of what you’d done, the depth you’d fallen into. “You’re fucked now, darlin’,” he murmured, his Aussie drawl soft but heavy, his lips brushing your temple. “This pussy’s mine, and you're getting dressed now."

Your cheeks burned, your cunt still tingling, and you nodded, knowing he was right. You didn’t want to escape. You wanted him—his cock, his knife, his fucking darkness. Hana’s voice came again, closer now, her footsteps on the stairs, but Jake’s grip tightened, his lips finding your ear, his voice a filthy whisper.

Jake’s command—“You’re getting dressed now”—cut through the air like the flick of his switchblade, sharp and unyielding, his Aussie drawl lacing the words with a dangerous edge. You lay sprawled across his bed, your body still warm from his touch, your skin tingling where his fingers had been, the memory of his heat lingering like a phantom. The house was a crypt, its silence broken only by the distant growl of the storm outside and the sharp, panicked sound of Hana’s voice from downstairs, calling your name. Her footsteps creaked on the stairs, closer now, each one a hammer against the fragile moment you’d shared with Jake.

You stirred, your limbs heavy, your mind clouded with the weight of him—his piercing eyes, his knife, his presence that filled the room like smoke. His arm was still draped over you, possessive, but he shifted, propping himself on one elbow, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he watched you with that smirk, lazy but predatory. “Move, love,” he said, his voice low, teasing, the accent thick and warm, like a lure. “Unless you want Hana to see you like this, all… undone.”

Your cheeks flushed, a rush of heat that made you look away, your heart pounding as you sat up, the sheets slipping against your skin. The knife on the nightstand gleamed, its blade closed but ever-present, a silent threat that sent a shiver through you—not fear, not entirely, but something deeper, something that drew you to him even now. You reached for your clothes, scattered across the floor, your fingers trembling as you pulled your shirt over your head, the fabric catching on your damp skin.

Jake moved too, fluid and deliberate, like a panther stretching after a hunt. He stood, his fitted black tee clinging to his lean frame, his leather jacket slung over the bedpost where he’d tossed it earlier. He grabbed his jeans, pulling them on with a casual ease that belied the tension in the room, his eyes never leaving you. The way he watched you dress—slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing every movement—made your skin prickle, your breath hitch. “You’re quick when you’re scared,” he said, his tone mocking but soft, his smirk widening as he zipped up, his fingers brushing the knife on the nightstand, lingering there, teasing its handle.

“I’m not scared,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt, tugging your jeans up, fumbling with the button. It was a lie, and he knew it—you could see it in the glint of his eyes, the way they darkened with amusement. Hana’s footsteps were louder now, almost at the top of the stairs, her voice sharper, edged with worry. “Y/N? Are you up here?”

You froze, your heart slamming against your ribs, but Jake didn’t flinch. He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell him—leather, smoke, that metallic tang that clung to him like a shadow. He picked up the knife, flipping it open with a soft snick that made your breath catch, the blade catching the dim light like a promise. “She’s gonna lose it, you know,” he said, his voice a low purr, his accent curling around the words. “Hana, I mean. Seeing you with me. You sure you’re ready for that?”

You swallowed, your throat dry, pulling your jacket on, your eyes flicking to the door. “I’ll handle it,” you said, but the words felt fragile, like they might shatter under the weight of his gaze. He twirled the knife, the motion hypnotic, and stepped closer, the blade held loosely, not threatening but present, a reminder of the line you’d crossed.

“Handle it?” he echoed, his smirk sharp, his eyes searching yours. “You’re in deep now, love. No handling your way out of this.” He leaned in, his breath warm against your cheek, the knife tilting in his hand, the flat of the blade brushing the air near your arm—not touching, but close enough to make your skin tingle. “You feel that, don’t you? The rush. You’re not running. You don’t want to.”

Your heart raced, his words too close to the truth. You should’ve bolted, should’ve pushed past him and met Hana at the door, but you didn’t. You stood there, caught in his orbit, the knife a cold star in the space between you. “Why are you doing this?” you asked, the question raw, your voice barely above a whisper. “Why me?”

He tilted his head, the knife pausing, his eyes narrowing like he was peeling you apart, layer by layer. “Why you?” he repeated, his tone softer now, almost curious. “Because you see me, Y/N. Most people don’t. They see what they want—a brother, a son, a fucking monster. But you…” He stepped closer, the knife twirling again, slow and deliberate. “You see the blade, and you don’t flinch. That’s rare.”

The door rattled, Hana’s fist pounding against it, her voice muffled but urgent. “Y/N? Open the door! What’s going on?” You flinched, the spell breaking, and turned toward the sound, but Jake’s hand caught your wrist, his grip firm but not painful, holding you in place.

“Let her wait,” he said, his voice low, commanding, his eyes burning into yours. “We’re not done here.” He released you, stepping back to grab his leather jacket, sliding it on with a grace that made your stomach twist. The knife disappeared into his pocket, but its presence lingered, a weight in the air, a promise unspoken.

You moved to the door, your hand on the knob, but you hesitated, glancing back at him. He was fully dressed now, leaning against the bedpost, his arms crossed, his smirk softer but no less dangerous. “Go on,” he said, nodding toward the door, his accent thick, teasing. “Face the music, love. But don’t think this is over. You and me—we’re just getting started.”

You opened the door, your heart in your throat, and Hana nearly fell into the room, her face pale, her eyes wide with panic. “Y/N, what the hell?” she hissed, grabbing your arm, pulling you into the hallway. Her gaze darted to Jake, and her expression hardened, fear and anger warring in her eyes. “What are you doing here, Jake? I told you to stay away from her.”

Jake didn’t move, his smirk unwavering, his eyes flicking between you and Hana. “Just having a chat,” he said, his tone light but laced with that mocking edge, his accent curling around the words like smoke. “Y/N’s good company. Better than you, sis.”

Hana’s grip tightened, her nails digging into your skin, and she pulled you toward the stairs, her voice low and urgent. “We’re leaving. Now.” You followed, your legs unsteady, your mind reeling from Jake’s words, from the way he’d looked at you, from the knife that wasn’t in his hand but might as well have been.

The house seemed to watch as you descended, the shadows deeper now, the air colder, heavier, like it was pressing against you, urging you to stay. You glanced back, just once, and saw Jake standing at the top of the stairs, his silhouette stark against the dim light, his eyes fixed on you. He didn’t follow, didn’t need to. His presence was a tether, pulling at you, even as Hana dragged you outside.

The storm had broken, rain pelting the pavement, soaking your clothes as you stepped into the yard. Hana was shaking, her hands fumbling with her phone, muttering about getting you home. “You can’t come back here,” she said, her voice breaking, raw with fear. “Not while he’s around. You don’t know what he’s capable of.”

But you did. You knew, or at least you were starting to, and that knowledge was a dangerous and a spark in your chest. You nodded, letting her lead you to her car, the rain washing away the warmth of Jake’s touch but not the memory of it. As you drove away, the house loomed in the rearview mirror, its windows black, and you swore you saw him again—Jake, standing in the doorway, a shadow in the rain, watching you go.

You didn’t speak, didn’t tell Hana the truth: that you were already too deep, that his knife had cut you in ways you couldn’t explain, that you weren’t sure you wanted to escape. Jake was a poison, a psychopath, a blade, and you were drawn to him, to the edge he offered, to the darkness you couldn’t resist. And as the city blurred past, you knew you’d be back, drawn to him like a moth to a flame, ready to burn.

The rain was a relentless curtain, hammering your house for three days straight, turning the world outside into a blur of gray and shadow. Since fleeing Hana’s house, Jake had become a specter in your mind, his presence a cold weight that pressed against your every thought. His voice—that thick, teasing Aussie drawl—haunted you, whispering through the cracks of your resolve: You’re in deep now, love.

The memory of his switchblade, its cold steel in your hand, his dark eyes watching you like you were his to unravel, clung to you like damp air, stirring a dangerous mix of fear and fascination. You’d promised Hana you’d stay away, but the promise was a fragile thing, crumbling under the weight of your own curiosity, your own need to understand the void that was Shim Jaeyun.

Your house was a sanctuary turned prison, its walls too thin to keep him out of your thoughts. Your parents were gone for the weekend, leaving you alone in the quiet, the silence broken only by the storm’s growl and the creak of settling wood.

You sat on your bedroom floor, surrounded by scattered notes for a literature project you hadn’t touched, your laptop screen dimmed to a faint glow. The clock read 12:47 a.m., the witching hour, and the air was thick with the scent of rain and something else—something sharp, metallic, like a premonition.

A knock at the front door shattered the stillness, three sharp raps that echoed like gunshots. Your heart stopped, your breath catching as you froze, your eyes darting to the window. The curtains were drawn, but the porch light flickered through the gaps, casting jagged shadows across the room. Another knock, slower this time, deliberate, like whoever was out there knew you were listening, knew you wouldn’t ignore it. Your phone buzzed on the bed, Hana’s name flashing, but you ignored it, your feet moving before your mind could catch up, carrying you downstairs, your pulse a frantic drumbeat.

You paused at the door, your hand hovering over the knob, the rain’s roar louder now, mingling with the thud of your heart. You peered through the peephole, and there he was—Jake, standing in the storm like he was born from it, rain streaming off his leather jacket, his black tee plastered to his lean frame, his dark hair slick and falling into his eyes.

The porch light carved his face into sharp angles, his cheekbones stark, his lips curved in a faint, unsettling smirk. His eyes—those black, bottomless voids—locked onto the peephole, like he could see you through it, and your stomach twisted, fear and something hotter curling together. In his hand was the switchblade, open, its blade gleaming wet, the rain sliding off it like blood.

You should’ve locked the door, called the police, done anything but what you did. But your hand turned the knob, the door creaking open, and the cold rushed in, carrying his scent—leather, smoke, and that metallic tang that was his alone. He didn’t move, just stood there, the knife twirling in his fingers, his smirk widening as he tilted his head, rain dripping from his hair onto your doorstep.

“G’day, love,” he said, his Aussie accent thick, his voice low and smooth, laced with a manic edge that sent a shiver down your spine. “You gonna invite me in, or make me stand here like a drowned rat?” His eyes flicked over you—your oversized hoodie, your bare legs, the way your hands trembled—and his smirk sharpened, like he was already peeling you apart.

“What are you doing here, Jake?” you asked, your voice steady but thin, the door still half-open, a barrier you weren’t sure you wanted to maintain. “It’s the middle of the night.”

He laughed, a low, jagged sound that vibrated through the air, his knife pausing, held loosely but with intent. “Middle of the night’s when the real shit happens,” he said, his tone almost playful, but his eyes were cold, calculating, like he was measuring how far he could push you. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you, Y/N. About that spark in your eyes when you held my knife. You felt it, didn’t you? The power.” He stepped closer, the toe of his boot crossing the threshold, and you backed up, your heart racing, the air between you charged like a storm about to break.

“You need to leave,” you said, but the words were hollow, your body rooted to the spot, your eyes drawn to the knife, to the way he handled it with such ease, like it was part of him. “Hana’s been texting me. She’s worried. She’ll know you’re here.”

His smirk didn’t falter, but something flickered in his eyes—amusement, or maybe something darker. “Hana,” he said, dragging out her name like it was a curse. “Always sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong. She doesn’t get it, does she? Doesn’t see what I see in you.” He stepped fully inside, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft click, trapping you in the dim light of your living room. The rain was muffled now, but the house felt alive, its shadows shifting, its walls holding their breath.

“What do you see?” you asked, the question slipping out, raw and unguarded, your back pressing against the couch as he moved closer, the knife twirling again, a silver blur that drew your gaze like a magnet. You hated how you wanted to know, how his presence was a blade at your throat and a lure you couldn’t resist.

He stopped, inches from you, his heat seeping into the cold air, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your skin prickle. “I see someone who’s not afraid of the dark,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent, his accent curling around the words like smoke. “Someone who looks at a monster and doesn’t run. You’re like me, love—just a little. You’ve got that hunger, that need to know what it’s like to break things, to feel the world bend under your hands.” He lifted the knife, not to threaten, but to show it, the blade catching the light like a mirror to his soul. “You felt it when you held this, didn’t you? The truth. No lies, no masks. Just you and the edge.”

Your breath hitched, his words sinking into you, stirring memories of that night—the knife’s weight, the way it had felt like holding a piece of him, the way his eyes had seen you, really seen you. “You’re wrong,” you said, but your voice trembled, the denial weak against the truth he’d laid bare. “I’m not like you. I don’t hurt people. I don’t… enjoy it.”

He tilted his head, the knife pausing, his smirk twisting into something almost pitying. “Don’t you?” he said, his tone soft but cutting. “Ever wanted to hurt someone, Y/N? Not with a knife, maybe, but with words, with silence, with something sharp inside you that you didn’t let out? Ever wanted to see how far you could push someone before they broke?” He stepped closer, his boots silent on the carpet, his eyes burning with a manic intensity. “That’s what I do, love. I push. I cut. I find the truth. Pain’s the only honest thing in this world—it strips away the bullshit, shows you who someone really is. You ever felt that? The clarity when it’s just you and the void?”

Your stomach churned, his words a blade twisting in your gut, because you had felt it—not his kind of violence, but moments of anger, of wanting to lash out, to shatter something fragile just to hear it break. You’d buried those impulses, called them wrong, but he saw them, named them, and it terrified you how close he was to the parts of yourself you hid. “That’s not me,” you said, your voice shaking, your hands gripping the couch, your eyes flicking to the knife, to the way it gleamed, a silent promise.

He laughed, a low, chilling sound that filled the room, his knife twirling faster now, erratic, like his thoughts were unraveling. “Keep telling yourself that,” he said, his accent thick, his eyes glinting with something wild. “But you’re here, Y/N. You opened the door. You let me in. You’re not screaming, not fighting. You’re listening, because deep down, you know I’m right. You want to know how far it goes, how dark it gets. You want to feel it—the rush, the control, the moment when nothing else matters but you and the blade.”

The room felt smaller, the walls closing in, the air heavy with his words, with the weight of what he was offering. You backed up, your legs hitting the coffee table, your hands trembling as you steadied yourself. “You’re insane,” you whispered, but it lacked conviction, your eyes locked on his, unable to break free.

“Insane?” he said, his smirk sharpening, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Maybe. But insanity’s just truth without the filter, love. It’s seeing the world for what it is—raw, ugly, beautiful. You ever felt empty, Y/N? Like nothing matters, like you’re just going through the motions? That’s where I live. That’s where the knife comes in. It makes things real. It makes me feel.” He lifted the knife, tracing the air with it, not close enough to touch but close enough to make your skin tingle. “I think you’re empty too. I think you’re looking for something to fill it.”

Your heart was a wild thing, pounding against your ribs, his words cutting deeper than any blade could. You wanted to deny it, to scream that he was wrong, that you were normal, that you were nothing like him. But the pull was there, undeniable, the way he saw you, the way he spoke to that hidden part of you, like a key turning in a lock. “Why me?” you asked, your voice raw, the question spilling out like a confession. “Why do you care?”

He paused, the knife still, his eyes softening for a flicker, something almost human breaking through the madness. “Because you’re not afraid to look,” he said, his voice quieter now, his accent raw, unguarded. “Everyone else—Hana, my parents, the fucking shrinks—they see me and they flinch. They see the monster, a psychopath, something to fix or lock away. But you… you see the man behind it. You held my knife, Y/N. You looked at me like you wanted to know me, not change me. That’s why.”

His words hit you like a blow, stealing your breath from your lungs, your eyes wide, your chest tight. You remembered that night in his room, the way his gaze had held you, not with cruelty but with hunger, with need. He wasn’t just playing with you—he was searching for something in you, something you hadn’t realized you’d given him. And now he was here, in your house, his knife a silent question, his presence a challenge you couldn’t ignore.

The doorbell rang again, shrill and jarring, cutting through the tension like a scream. You flinched, your head snapping toward the door, and Jake’s smirk returned, his eyes stayed cold, unreadable, as he stepped back, giving you space but not release. “That’s her,” he said, his tone casual, almost amused, his knife flicking closed with a soft snick. “Hana, come to save you. Question is, love—do you want saving?”

You moved to the door, your legs unsteady, your mind a storm of fear, fascination, and something you couldn’t name. You opened it, and Hana stood there, soaked from the rain, her face pale, her eyes wide with panic. “Y/N, thank God,” she said, her voice trembling, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “I’ve been texting you for hours—why didn’t you answer?” Her gaze landed on Jake, and she froze, her expression shifting to raw terror. “What the fuck is he doing here?”

Jake leaned against the wall, his leather jacket glistening with rain, his smirk lazy but sharp, his eyes flicking between you and Hana. “Just dropped by for a chat,” he said, his Aussie drawl thick, mocking. “Y/N’s been a great host. Better company than you, sis.”

Hana’s hands balled into fists, her fear giving way to anger as she stepped toward you, grabbing your arm. “Y/N, we’re leaving,” she said, her voice low, urgent, her eyes darting to Jake like he was a snake ready to strike. “He’s dangerous, you know that. You can’t be around him.”

You pulled your arm free, your heart pounding, your eyes flicking to Jake, to the knife in his pocket, to the way he watched you, waiting, testing. “Hana, wait,” you said, your voice shaking but firm, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “I need to say something.”

Hana’s eyes widened, her mouth opening to protest, but you held up a hand, your gaze locked on Jake, your chest tight with a truth you couldn’t hold back any longer. “I see you,” you said, your voice raw, trembling, the words heavy with meaning. “I see what you are, Jake. The darkness, the… the monster. And I’m not afraid. I should be, but I’m not. I feel it too—the pull, the emptiness, the need to know how far it goes. And I hate it, but I… I can’t stop wanting to understand you.”

The room was silent, the rain a distant hum, the air thick with the weight of your confession.

Jake’s smirk faded, his eyes darkening, something raw and unguarded flickering in them—surprise, maybe, or something deeper, something that looked like recognition. Hana gasped, her hand covering her mouth, her eyes wet with tears. “Y/N, no,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “You don’t know what you’re saying. He’s not—he’s not someone you can save.”

Jake stepped closer, his boots silent on the carpet, his eyes never leaving yours, his presence a force that filled the room. “You mean that?” he asked, his voice low, his accent thick, almost vulnerable. “You see me, and you’re still here. You’re not running.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out the knife, but he didn’t open it—just held it, the handle worn, a piece of him offered to you. “That’s more than anyone’s ever given me, love.”

Hana grabbed your arm again, her grip desperate, her voice shrill. “Y/N, stop this,” she said, tears streaming down her face. “He’s a psychopath. He’ll hurt you, he’ll break you—I’ve seen it, I’ve lived it. You can’t do this.”

You turned to her, your heart aching at her pain, at the fear in her eyes, but you couldn’t lie anymore—not to her, not to yourself. “I know he’s dangerous,” you said, your voice steady now, the truth a weight you were ready to carry. “I know what he is, Hana. But I feel something when I’m with him—something real, something I can’t ignore. I’m not trying to save him. I just… I need to know who I am when I’m with him.”

Hana shook her head, her sobs choking her words, her hands trembling as she let go of you, stepping back like you’d burned her. “You’re choosing him,” she said, her voice barely audible, raw with betrayal. “You’re choosing a monster over me.”

“I’m not choosing,” you said, your eyes stinging, your throat tight. “I’m just… I’m just being honest. I’m sorry, Hana. I’m so sorry.”

She stared at you, her face a mask of grief, then turned and ran out into the rain, the door slamming behind her, the sound echoing like a gunshot. You stood there, your chest heaving, your eyes burning with unshed tears, the silence heavier now, suffocating.

Jake was still, his knife in his hand, his eyes on you, softer now, almost human. “You didn’t have to do that,” he said, his voice quiet, his accent warm, like he was seeing you for the first time. “You could’ve gone with her. Could’ve left me behind.”

You shook your head, stepping closer, the distance between you shrinking, the air charged with something new—something fragile, something real. “I meant it,” you said, your voice steady, your eyes locked on his. “I see you, Jake. And I’m not running. Not yet.”

He studied you, his eyes searching, the knife slipping back into his pocket, his hands empty now, open, like he was offering you something more than steel. “You’re braver than I thought,” he said, his smirk returning, but it was different—less sharp, more real. “Or crazier. Either way, you’re mine now, love. No going back.”

You nodded, your heart a wild thing, your mind a storm of fear and truth and something you couldn’t name. The rain pounded the windows, the house a witness to the line you’d crossed, to the darkness you’d chosen to face. Jake was a blade, a psychopath, a danger you couldn’t escape, but he was also a mirror, showing you parts of yourself you’d never dared to see.

The rain battered your house, a relentless howl that swallowed the silence left by Hana’s departure. You stood frozen, your confession to Jake—a raw, jagged truth—still ringing in the air, your chest tight with the weight of what you’d done. The living room was a cage of shadows, the dim lamp casting Jake’s silhouette against the wall, his leather jacket slick with rain, his black tee clinging to his lean frame, his dark hair damp and framing his sharp cheekbones. His eyes, those black voids, held yours, softer now, almost human, but still laced with that dangerous edge.

He moved before you could speak, closing the distance in a single step. His arms wrapped around you, sudden and strong, pulling you against his chest, the scent of leather and metal enveloping you. His embrace was warm, grounding, but it carried a current of something wild, like a storm trapped in his skin. “You’re not alone, love,” he murmured, his Aussie accent thick, his voice low and raw, vibrating against your ear. “Not anymore.”

The words broke something in you, a dam you hadn’t known was there. Tears welled, hot and unstoppable, spilling down your cheeks as you pressed your face into his jacket, your hands clutching his shirt, trembling. You cried—for Hana, for the line you’d crossed, for the darkness you’d seen in him and in yourself. Jake’s hold tightened, his fingers tangling in your hair, his breath steady but heavy, like he was anchoring you to him, to this moment, to the truth you’d both named.

And as you stood there, the storm raging outside, you knew this was the end of one story and the beginning of another—one you’d write together, in shadows and steel, in truth and terror, in the space where monsters and mortals met.

@heesvnqie | Do not steal, plagiarise, translate, or repost any of my work

TAGLIST:-

@slutofpsh

@laurenalpha123

@dreamiestay

@amortenha

@peonywon

@mitmit01

@heeevangelizesme

@gvni-eve

@yourmomni

@leov3rse

@punchbug9-blog

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sereia4skz · 28 days ago

Note

HIIII

drabble, female reader, bf leeknow

prompt: "open wide." (they're cooking, except she's just sitting pretty on the counter and taste testing for leeknow lol)

1.5k Followers Event | open wide

pairing: minho x reader

genre: fluff

warnings: one sex joke from Ji

event masterlist: #1.5kStarsForYaya

━━━━━━━━━━━━⋆｡°✩

You’re not really helping. Sure, you offered to help, but Minho took one look at your excited little grin, your swinging feet as you parked yourself on the kitchen counter, and just shook his head with a fond sigh.

So here you are, legs crossed, back leaning against the cupboard, watching your boyfriend work in the kitchen like he was born to be surrounded by flame and seasoning.

He moves like muscle memory, fluid and efficient, sleeves rolled up, jaw set in soft concentration. And he doesn’t complain when you keep sneaking fingers toward the cutting board, only slapping your hand away with the back of a wooden spoon. Gentle. Always gentle with you.

“Open wide.”

You blink up at him. Minho’s in front of you now, holding out a spoon with a small bite of sauce-laced something. He doesn’t wait for your answer, just guides it to your lips with a raised brow and a barely-there smirk.

You part your lips automatically, letting him feed it to you with that infuriating calm he always wears, as if this moment, like every other, is completely in his control.

It tastes amazing. You let out a hum of approval as you lick the corner of your lip. But then, just as you’re about to give him your actual feedback-

“Damn, what else is she opening wide for?”

You nearly choke. Your head snaps toward the voice, of course it’s Jisung, halfway through a drink on the couch, grinning like the little gremlin he is. He’s not even looking at you, just laughing to himself like he’s the funniest man alive.

Minho sighs. Long-suffering. The way he does every time his friend opens his mouth.

“You wanna get fed next?” he calls without missing a beat, already turning back to the stove.

Jisung perks up like a dog at a treat. “Depends. You hand-feeding me too? Wanna feel those soft hands-”

“or I can feed you this knife,” Minho offers sweetly.

You snort, nearly sending yourself into another coughing fit. "Kinky~"

Minho returns to you a second later with a new bite, a little twinkle in his eyes like this is all a game. You don’t miss the way he nudges your knees apart with his hips, purely for space, you tell yourself, and lifts the next spoonful to your mouth.

“You gonna behave this time?” he murmurs, and you’re not even sure if he’s talking to you or to Jisung across the room.

Still, you nod obediently and open your mouth, letting him feed you again. You chew slowly, savoring it, eyes fluttering shut.

“Mmh,” you mumble. “It’s perfect.”

Minho’s gaze lingers a second longer than necessary before he nods, turns back around, and mutters, “Course it is.”

Behind you, Jisung’s still mumbling about how he wants his turn next.

"Ya! Stop grumbling, I'm already making you dinner!"

━━━━━━━━━━━━⋆｡°✩

taglist: @diekleinesuesse @tillaboo @felixsonlyrealwife @geni-627 @skz8riley @lezleeferguson-120 @pixie-felix @headfirstfortoro @alnex05 @baby-stay92 @encoredesires @androgynouscrownorbit @channiesluvrclub @my-neurodivergent-world @chims-dimple @bookswillfindyouaway @stellasays45 @angel-writes-skz-here @m-325 @0sunshinecryptid0 @beal-o @hug4helios @oksullen @rileylovescats @dreamyfelixx @yxna-bliss @turtledove824 @enhacolor @skzz0213 @hannahlue @purplelady85 @velvetmoonlght

#skz x reader #skz imagines #stray kids x reader #stray kids #lee minho x reader #lee know x reader #lee know #lee minho x you #minho x reader #1.5kStarsForYaya

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obsessedhoneycomb · 11 days ago

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hey mon!! i don’t know if you’re doing requests or anything but if you are could you possibly do oscar endo reader? your endo stories have brought me comfort on those flare days. hope you’re doing well❤️

thanks for this lovely request, I can’t say no to this 🥹 it makes my little soul warm knowing my endo stories brings you comfort, may your cramps go away with a swish of a magic wand ❣️I poured my experience to this, and I need to say that every body is different in this matter, but we’re in this together 🥰 enjoy this

-> endo stories - George one & two, Max

I love every part of you

Oscar Piastri x fem!reader

Summary: You’re about to enjoy Oscars home race with his family. Your body have a different plans, so momma Piastri is the hero of the day.

Warnings: endometriosis, period, period blood, discomfort, pain, painkillers, surgery and post surgery, also love and support from Oscar and Piastri girls

Word count: 1.9k

Walking through the paddock you felt like a queen. Hot weather in Australia made your skin glow with sweat but you didn’t care. It was homerace of your boyfriend, Oscar Piastri.

He was already invested in the preparations for qualifying, when you arrived at the booth where his mom Nicole and his sisters were, greeting you happily. You were very close as a family.

While you were talking with Nicole, you felt slight cramping at your lower abdomen, thinking nothing of it. Your period was a constant struggle, sometimes it came early, sometimes none at all. From time to time you were struggling with cramps that led you to bedridden state but you had now four months of absolute bliss of having slight cramps.

Oscar was in Q3, when sharp pain shot through your belly like a knife, leaving you paralysed against the wall, breathing in and out desperately, praying for it to go away, sweat washing over you even more that it was. Nicole took you aside from the sight of the prying eyes of the press, looking at you with worry. “What’s the matter, darling?”

You held your tears back, your hand placed over your abdomen. “I-I don’t know. Just sharp pain.”

Nicole led you to the restrooms in the back, closing the door behind you, noticing the red stain on your white skirt. She took in a sharp breath, mortified about how to tell you and not fill you with panic.

“Darling… just lean over the sink here and breathe through it. I-“ she tried to talk you through it, her eyes sliding down your figure to your skirt, her brows furrowed in worry. You caught that expression, turning around slightly. “What is it?”

She glanced up at you with sympathy only woman can provide. “I'm sorry, sweetie, but… I think your period just came.”

Looking into the mirror with horror written over your face, you couldn’t believe it. Out of all days it just came this weekend in Australia.

“Oh god… I…”

Nicole quickly rummaged through her purse, finding a small tampon. “That should be enough until I take you home.”

“But Osc-“

“This is an emergency. He’ll understand.”

And that was how you ended up in the car with her, driving to Oscar's childhood home while his sisters stayed back at the track to keep him informed about you after he was done with qualifying.

You only remember how you ended up in Nicole’s huge bed in her spacious bedroom, falling asleep after she managed to get some painkillers into you, placing a cold towel on your sweaty forehead with a heating pad at your lower belly.

She was at your side to the moment Oscar stormed through the house calling your name, only to find you laying under the covers, sleeping soundly with his mother beside you holding your hand.

“Mom…” he wasn’t the one to show vulnerability, but for you he would bleed out to death.

Nicole smiled softly. “It's okay, baby. She’s okay. Let's talk a little.” She got up from the bed, guiding Oscar out, him stealing the last glance at your sleeping form.

When they got to the kitchen, she poured them some iced juice. He sat on the bar chair, looking into the glass, watching the orange liquid. “I should’ve been there for her. I should’ve jump out of the car and-“

“Osc, stop it. We handled it together greatly. The press didn’t even notice her being gone. She was so embarrassed, poor thing… but what makes me worried is her cramps. She fainted nearly three times before we got here. That’s not healthy.” Nicole had frown on her face, glancing at Oscar as if she wanted some answers.

He sighed, running a hand over his face. “She’s- I don’t want to talk about it without her consent.”

That piqued her interest. “What do you mean?”

Frustrated, Oscar was blushing. “Mom. It’s a girl's intimate thing.”

“Well, I’m a woman, baby. I gave birth to you and your sisters. What’s new about women's intimity?”

Taking a sip of juice he decided to speak. “Well… she’s cramping a lot. Not only on her period but sometimes through her cycle. And yeah, I know a lot about her cycle because I’m a grown and interested man in the woman I love so… also her periods are not regular, she is really feeling low most of the time. She was on so many examinations, I was with her for each of them, believe me, watching her in tears after she was prodded through and through with some instruments was not on my bingo card. But… she has endometriosis.”

Nicole felt the air leaving her lungs, looking at him perplexed. She knew, reading about it many times, she wanted to be educated for her girls just in case. “Oh my god, darling… that’s horrible.”

Oscar ruffled his messy hair with a grunt, he shifted a little. “For the past couple months it was good, her periods were light and she was getting better. I guess you never know in this matter of illness.”

“What’s the prognosis?” Nicole asked with concern.

“The doctor said that it would be wise to get into surgery and cut those lesions out, but she was scared. Needed the time to think about it. So, it’s up to her. Everywhere we were, the clinic, her gynaecologist, they recommended that she should get pregnant soon, to avoid problems in the future. But that made me so fucking upset. Like, she’s a mess without a baby, how’d she possibly function with it? Yeah, we want to have a family in the future, but right now this is not on the top of the list. I will pay every penny for her to get pregnant later through every possible method if we’re not able to do so naturally. I just want her to feel good in her own body for a while, if it’s possible.” Oscar was on the verge of tears.

Nicole took a step closer to him, placing a hand over his shoulder. “Talk to her. It would be good for her to undergo that surgery. Even though she’d be better for some months, it’s still worth it.”

You woke up sweaty, groaning. Feeling something wet between your legs, you ran to the bathroom next to the bedroom to change your tampon and pad which was soaked through. Letting out a painful sigh, you just sat there, pitying yourself. Until you heard a knock. “Baby? Can I come in?” Oscar. He saw you in a way worse so you just whispered yes. Walking inside, he took in how you sat on the toilet, the mess of your period on your legs and the pad laying beside you on the ground. He took it and started to clean it off.

“Oscar. Don’t do that. It’s disgusting.” You tried to stop him, but your pain, even though it was a little dulled by the painkillers, shot you back.

“No, it’s from you. This was part of you a while ago. And I love you completely. I love every part of you, so, let me be here for you in this. I’m not weak. And I’m certainly not disgusted.” He looked at you sharply but then he softened a little. You nodded, grateful for him being like that.

After he cleaned it up, he looked for the fresh pad in the bathroom, handing it to you, while he sat on the ground beside the toilet.

“I talked with my mom. She said you fainted in the car from the pain.”

You looked at him, her eyes welling with tears of embarrassment. “I did…”

He cupped your cheeks softly. “Hey, hey, love… don’t cry. It’s okay. She’s worried about you and- I explained why you’re like this. She understands.”

“Really? She doesn’t see me as some kind of failure?”

“No, honey. I told her that you can undergo a surgery and-“

“I thought about it.”

He raised his brows in surprise. “You did?” His hands now ended behind you on your back, rubbing the skin there, bringing your some kind of comfort.

“Yeah. I want this pain to end. Even though it’s not a hundred percent sure that I’ll be clean of it in the future, I still want to try it. Because I can’t live like this.”

“Well. I’ll be your biggest supporter through that. We can do it soon. I’ll manage a reserve driver for my-“

“Osc, stop. No. If I’m to get that surgery, it will be when you’re free from schedule. You need to fight for your title this year. I’ll wait for a few months.”

“Are you sure? I'd do everything for you. I don’t care.”

“It's flattering, but no. Let's do it over summer break.”

“Okay. Whatever you want.”

Slowly you woke up to the sharp light in the room, a shush of machines whispering in the background. You felt cold, but somehow good, your eyes tried to adjust to the warmth of the light.

Suddenly your hand squeezed gently another, you turned your head to that someone sitting beside you. “Oscar…” your raspy voice echoed through the hospital room.

He nearly choked on his tears, he didn’t want to scare you how much he was worried about you earlier but he couldn’t help it anymore. “Yes, I’m here, love… you made it.”

You smiled weakly, now slightly feeling the ache in your body, but it wasn’t that bad as you imagined. “How long was I out?”

“Two hours. It was quick.” He kissed your hand, as if you were about to sublime, you chuckled at that.

“That’s good, I guess…” you whispered.

“Try to sleep some more. I’ll be here.”

And then you were out again.

Few hours later, you woke up more refreshed, the anesthesia completely out of your system, you were able to talk more and even sit up a little. The doctor and nurses came to check on you, giving you smiles and warm words about your recovery.

Oscar sat at your side while you were slowly sipping on the black tea which felt like heaven right now. He took the cup from you gently, placing it on the bedside table.

You felt curious. “I want to look at those scars.”

He nodded, helping you lift the duvet for you to look at your naked stomach. There were four tiny scars with blisters over them.

You raised your brows in surprise. “Oh. Four of them. I expected only three.”

“It's like a new procedure or something like that. I googled it.” Oscar was proud of having that information.

“That means you looked at my naked body while I slept.” You gave him a feigning gasp of shock.

“Sorry, I was curious and I couldn’t help it.” He felt a little bad.

You chuckled softly. “It’s okay. I’m just kidding.”

Oscar huffed a little but then he smiled lovingly. His hand brushed through your messy hair, kissing your forehead. You relished in that moment, taking in the warmth of his lips on your skin, his scent filling your mind with calm energy.

“You’re the bravest person I know.” He said, smiling, caressing your cheek with his finger.

“I’d be lost without you. You’re my whole world, Osc.” You whispered, staring into his eyes.

Your little moment of love was interrupted by the Piastri girly gang walking through the door inside the hospital room. Oscar grunted softly, but his sisters and his mother were already at your side, hugging you gently, giving you the awwws and ahhhs. You just laughed a little, what your body allowed you.

He watched that family scene in front of his eyes and he just couldn’t help the idea running through his brain.

When this year's season is over, he’s gonna marry you.

Please don’t use my writings without permission! Pictures found on Pinterest.

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vanteguccir · 11 months ago

Text

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ9 MONTHS AFTER * MATT STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　where Y/N's and Matt's babies are finally born after 9 long months of waiting; OR, where Matt is finally a dad.

FEATURING　Matt Sturniolo x reader　REQUESTED?　yes.

WARNINGS　::　Pregnancy, crying, mentions of labor, pain.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

The contractions hit Y/N like a tidal wave, her breath catching in her throat as she gripped the edge of the kitchen counter, her knuckles turning white. The pain radiated from her lower back, wrapping around to her abdomen in tight, relentless waves. She sucked in a sharp breath, her heart pounding in her chest.

They had been waiting for this moment for nine long months, and yet, now that it was here, the reality of it was almost overwhelming. She tried to call out for Matt, her voice wavering, but the pain was so intense that it felt as if it was squeezing the sound right out of her.

Matt was in the living room, his eyes glued to his laptop as he reviewed some emails. It had been a busy few weeks leading up to the due date, and he was trying to get ahead of things before the twins arrived.

The sound of Y/N’s voice, strained and filled with pain, cut through his concentration like a knife. His head snapped up, his heart skipping a beat. He leaped from the couch, knocking his laptop to the floor, and sprinted into the kitchen, his heart racing with panic.

"Honey? What’s wrong? Is it- oh God, it’s happening, isn't it?" Matt’s voice was a mixture of excitement and sheer panic as he reached her side. He placed a gentle but trembling hand on her back, his eyes wide with concern as he watched her struggle to breathe through the contraction. "Breathe, baby, breathe. Do you need water? No, wait- sit down. Should you sit? Or should you lie down? Oh my God, I should call 911!"

Y/N squeezed his hand, her face scrunched up in pain, but she managed a breathless laugh.

"Matt, relax... it’s okay. Just-" She interrupted her own sentence when a new wave of pain invaded her whole body.

"Come here, sweetheart." Matt gently guided Y/N to the edge of the kitchen chair, his expression shifting from sheer panic to a momentary calmness, trying to ground himself in the situation.

He knelt down in front of her, his hands trembling slightly as he placed them on her knees. His eyes, wide with worry, locked onto hers as he tried to steady his breathing.

"How long has this been going on?" His voice held a perfect mix of calmness and nerves, the gravity of the situation starting to dawn on him. He reached out instinctively, his hand gently resting on her stomach, feeling the tension in her muscles.

"Oh God, I don’t know." Y/N replied, wincing as another contraction hit, this one even stronger. She grasped Matt's hand tightly, her grip involuntarily squeezing his fingers. "Maybe an hour or so... but it’s so much worse right now."

Matt’s eyes widened, the shock and concern evident in his expression. He swallowed hard, trying to keep his voice steady as he spoke.

"Okay, okay, don’t panic." His voice was a bit firmer now, though a subtle tremble betrayed his nerves. He gently cupped her face in his hands, his touch warm and reassuring as he looked deeply into her eyes. "We need to time these contractions, okay? See if they’re far apart or getting closer together..."

Y/N nodded weakly, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she tried to focus on his words. Matt quickly grabbed his phone, fumbling with it slightly as he opened the timer app. He sat back on his heels, his eyes darting between the screen and Y/N's face, waiting for the next contraction to hit.

When it did, she squeezed his hand again, and he hit the timer. They both watched the seconds tick by, the silence in the room only broken by Y/N's labored breathing. The contraction passed, and Matt stopped the timer, noting the time with a furrowed brow.

"Okay, that was... three minutes." He said, his voice barely above a whisper. He looked up at her, his heart pounding in his chest. "We’re close, Y/N. We need to get you to the hospital now."

He helped her to her feet, moving with a newfound urgency but still managing to maintain a steady calmness, knowing he had to be strong for her. He wrapped an arm around her waist, supporting her as they made their way out to the car, his determination stronger than ever.

He opened the passenger door of their car, gently easing her into the seat before rushing to the driver’s side.

"Matt, the... the bag."

"Right! The bag!" Matt practically yelled as if suddenly remembering the concept of bag. "I'm gonna be right back, baby!"

He darted back to the house, running around the kitchen like a man possessed, searching for the hospital bag they had packed weeks ago. He spotted it by the door and grabbed it, nearly tripping over his own feet in his rush to get back to Y/N.

"Here, I’ve got the bag! And... what else? Do we need snacks? Maybe you want something to eat before we go?"

Y/N's response was a groan as another contraction hit, stronger this time.

"Okay, no snacks, got it. We’re going to the hospital now, I promise. I’ll get you there, Y/N. I won’t let anything happen to you or the babies, okay?"

As he started the car, his mind raced. He had planned for this moment, had rehearsed it in his head a thousand times, but now that it was happening, he felt completely unprepared. His hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white, and he glanced over at Y/N, who was trying to remain calm despite the pain.

Matt hated seeing her in so much pain, his heart aching with every sharp intake of breath she made.

"Okay, okay, we’re going. We’re going." He muttered to himself as he pulled out of the driveway, his voice a mix of determination and barely contained panic. The streets of Los Angeles blurred past them as he sped toward the hospital, his mind racing with all the things he needed to do.

"Siri!" He suddenly barked at the car’s dashboard, his voice urgent. "Send a text to Chris and Nick."

"What would you like to say?" Siri responded in its calm, robotic tone.

"Um... Uh..." Matt hesitated, trying to form a coherent sentence as he glanced nervously at Y/N, who was breathing heavily beside him. "Tell them... we’re on our way to the hospital. Y/N's in labor. Get there by tomorrow morning. And don’t panic like I am because... just get there!"

"Sending message to Chris and Nick." Siri confirmed, and Matt let out a shaky breath, his hands trembling as he continued driving.

Y/N chuckled softly, despite the pain, and Matt shot her a quick, incredulous look.

"What? What's funny?"

"You are." She managed to say between contractions. "You're... adorable when you're freaking out."

Matt’s face flushed as he gave her a sheepish grin.

"I'm just trying to keep it together here, baby. You’re the one doing all the hard work."

"Trust me... I know." She replied, wincing as another contraction rolled through her.

Finally, they pulled up to the hospital entrance, and Matt jumped out of the car, nearly forgetting to put it in park in his haste to get to Y/N's side. He waved frantically at a nurse standing nearby, who immediately came over with a wheelchair.

"She's in labor! It's happening! We need to- she needs- help!" Matt's words tumbled out in a rush as he helped Y/N into the wheelchair, his voice rising in pitch with every word.

The nurse smiled reassuringly, clearly used to panicked fathers-to-be, and guided them inside.

"Don’t worry, we'll take good care of her. Just follow me."

As they were whisked away to the delivery room, Matt's heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing with thoughts of what was about to happen. He couldn't believe that in just a few hours, they would finally meet their babies.

Once in the right room, Y/N was settled onto the bed, her breaths coming in short, sharp bursts as the contractions intensified. Matt stayed by her side, clutching her hand as if it was his only lifeline. He leaned in close, his voice trembling but filled with love as he whispered,

"You’re doing amazing, sweetheart. I’m so proud of you."

Y/N squeezed his hand, her eyes locking onto his.

"I need you to stay calm, okay? We've got this... together."

Matt nodded, swallowing hard as he brushed a few strands of hair from her face.

"Together. I’m right here with you, every step of the way."

The room buzzed with activity, doctors and nurses moving around with practiced efficiency, but all Matt could focus on was Y/N’s face, her eyes squeezed shut as she battled through another contraction.

Time seemed to warp in the delivery room. Minutes stretched into hours, the pain of each contraction relentless, only broken by brief moments of respite. Matt stayed by Y/N’s side, his voice soft and steady as he encouraged her, even though his own nerves were frayed to the core. He watched the monitors anxiously, every beep and flicker, causing his heart to jump.

"Matt." Y/N whispered, her voice trembling with exhaustion as another contraction hit. "I can’t... I don’t know if I can do this."

Matt’s heart broke at the sight of her so vulnerable, so exhausted. He took a deep breath, brushing a few strands of hair away from her sweaty forehead and leaning in close, his lips brushing her temple.

"You’re the strongest person I know." He murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "You’ve got this, baby. I’m right here with you. And in the end, everything will be worth it, yeah?"

Hours later, after what felt like a lifetime of labor, the doctor finally said the words they had been waiting to hear.

"It's time to push."

Y/N gritted her teeth, her entire body trembling with the effort as she bore down, Matt’s hand in hers, his words of encouragement a constant in the whirlwind of pain and exhaustion. The room seemed to close in around them, everything else fading away as they focused on bringing their babies into the world.

"Breath." Matt murmured, his hand gently rubbing her tense shoulders. "Just focus on your breathing. In and out, slow and steady. You got this, sweet girl. It's almost ending."

The first cry shattered the tension in the room, a tiny wail that echoed in Matt’s ears like the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. He watched in awe as the doctor carefully lifted their first baby - a tiny, wriggling girl - into the air.

Time seemed to freeze as the nurse quickly wrapped her in a blanket and handed her to Y/N. Matt felt tears well up in his eyes as he looked down at his daughter for the first time. She was perfect, with a shock of dark hair and rosy cheeks, her eyes squeezed shut as she continued to cry.

"She’s beautiful." Y/N whispered, tears streaming down her face as she cradled their daughter against her chest, gluing her small head to her chin. Matt leaned down, pressing a kiss to Y/N’s forehead, his own tears finally spilling over.

But the moment was short-lived as Y/N was hit with another wave of contractions. The doctor quickly reminded them that there was still one more baby to bring into the world, taking their daughter away from them so Y/N could concentrate.

"One more, honey. Just one more. You can do this. You're so strong, I know you can." Y/N, though exhausted, steeled herself for the final round, and with Matt’s unwavering support, she pushed again.

Minutes later, another cry filled the room, this one just as heart-wrenching and beautiful as the first. Their son was born, his tiny fists clenched as he wailed with the full force of his little lungs.

"I don't... I don't know how to hold- Oh, okay." The nurse placed him in Matt’s arms, ignoring his sentence. He stared down at his son in awe, his arms trembling with fear of holding him in the wrong way, or worse, dropping him.

The baby boy was the spitting image of his sister, with the same dark hair and tiny features, though his cries were slightly less intense.

"He's... he's so small." Matt whispered in awe.

Matt’s breath caught in his throat as he carried his son over to Y/N - who was already holding their girl again -, his heart swelling with a love so profound it was almost overwhelming. He gently placed their son in Y/N’s free arm, and for the first time, they looked down at their twins together, their hearts filled with an indescribable mixture of joy, relief, and pure, unconditional love.

"We did it." Y/N whispered, her voice trembling with emotion as she looked up at Matt, tears streaming down her cheeks. "They’re here, and they’re perfect."

Matt could only nod, his throat too tight with emotion to speak. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his daughter’s tiny forehead, then his son’s, feeling the warmth of their little bodies against his skin. They were so small, so fragile, and yet so full of life.

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

The next morning, the first rays of sunlight filtered through the blinds of the hospital room, casting a warm glow over the quiet scene. Y/N was resting peacefully, her exhaustion from the previous night’s labor evident in the serene expression on her face as she slept. The twins were nestled in their bassinets beside the bed, their tiny chests rising and falling in a synchronized rhythm, the only sounds in the room being their soft breathing.

Matt sat in the armchair near the window, his eyes moving between Y/N and their newborns, a small smile playing on his lips. He had hardly slept, but he didn’t mind. He was too filled with wonder, still wrapping his mind around the fact that he was now a father to two perfect little beings. The magnitude of the moment wasn’t lost on him, and every time he looked at his family, his heart swelled with a mixture of pride and overwhelming love.

Just then, a soft knock on the door drew Matt’s attention. He stood up quickly, careful not to disturb Y/N, and opened the door to find Nick and Chris standing in the hallway. Both of his brothers looked a little disheveled, their hair slightly messy from a night of restless sleep. Chris held a bouquet of flowers in one hand, and Nick had a stuffed animal - a small bear with a yellow bow - tucked under his arm. The moment they saw Matt, their faces broke into wide grins.

"Hey, Dad." Nick joked softly, giving Matt a one-armed hug while still holding the bear. "How’s it feel?"

Matt chuckled, the sound low and full of affection.

"Surreal." He admitted, stepping back to let them in. "Come on, they’re right over here."

Chris was the first to approach the bassinets, his breath catching as he looked down at the sleeping twins. He placed the bouquet on a nearby table, his hands trembling slightly as he reached out, but then hesitated, as if afraid to disturb the peaceful scene. Nick followed, standing beside him, his eyes wide as he took in the sight of his new niece and nephew.

"They’re so tiny." Chris whispered, his voice cracking as he looked over at Matt, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "Oh, my God, Matt... they’re so small."

Nick nodded, his usual bravado momentarily stripping away as he gazed at the twins.

"Yeah." He added, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "How is this possible?"

Matt felt a lump form in his throat, seeing the raw emotion on his brothers’ faces. He watched as Chris finally let out a shaky breath and reached down, his fingers gently brushing against his niece’s tiny hand. The touch seemed to undo him completely, and within seconds, tears spilled over, streaming down his cheeks.

"Chris." Matt said softly, his voice full of understanding as he placed a comforting hand on his brother’s shoulder. "It’s okay, man."

But Chris couldn’t find the words to respond. Instead, he just nodded, tears continuing to fall as he stood there, overwhelmed by the sight of his niece and nephew. He had always been the emotional one, the heart-on-his-sleeve brother, and in this moment, he felt everything with an intensity that was impossible to contain.

Nick, on the other hand, was struggling to maintain his composure. He swallowed hard, his jaw clenched as he fought back the tears that threatened to spill over. He wanted to be strong, to keep it together, but seeing Chris break down and knowing just how much this moment meant, even he couldn’t hold back completely. He let out a shaky breath, wiping his eyes quickly.

Matt noticed Nick’s struggle and gave him a reassuring smile.

"It’s okay to cry, you know." He said quietly, his own eyes misting over. "They’re your niece and nephew. This is a big moment."

Nick managed a small, watery laugh, shaking his head.

"Yeah, yeah." He muttered, his voice thick with emotion.

Matt grinned, pulling both of his brothers into a tight hug. The three of them stood there for a moment, embracing each other, their silent bond stronger than ever before. When they finally pulled away, Chris wiped at his eyes, sniffling a little as he turned back to the twins.

"Can we hold them?" Chris asked, his voice still shaky but filled with awe.

"Of course." Matt replied, his heart warming at the thought of his brothers meeting their niece and nephew properly. He carefully lifted his son from the bassinet, gently cradling the tiny bundle before handing him to Chris. "This is your nephew." He said, watching as Chris took the baby with the utmost care, as if he were the most delicate thing in the world.

Chris’s breath hitched as he looked down at the baby in his arms.

"Hey, little guy." He whispered, his voice choked with emotion. "I’m your Uncle Chris. You’re going to be so loved, I promise."

Nick took his niece from Matt, holding her close, his eyes wide with wonder as he gazed at her tiny features.

"Hi, princess." He murmured, his voice soft. "I’m your Uncle Nick. And don’t worry, I’ll always have your back. You’re in good hands."

He cleared his throat, blinking rapidly, but when the little girl's tiny hand grasped his finger, Nick’s composure slipped. He bit his lip, trying to hold back the tears, but a few escaped, trailing down his cheeks.

"They're perfect... You and Y/N did good, Matt."

Matt felt his own eyes sting with tears as he watched his brothers, their love for his children evident in every trembling breath, every tear they tried to hold back.

"They really are." He whispered, his voice filled with pride as he watched his brothers bond with their niece and nephew.

The soft rustling of sheets drew Matt’s attention back to the bed, and he saw Y/N slowly stirring, her eyes fluttering open. She looked groggy, her movements sluggish as she tried to orient herself.

"Matt?" She called out, her voice hoarse and weak, a faint frown creasing her brow as she tried to sit up.

Matt was by her side in an instant, his hand gently brushing her hair back.

"I'm here, baby." He said softly, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. "The babies are right here, and Nick and Chris are with us."

Y/N’s gaze shifted to where Nick and Chris stood, each cradling a baby in their arms. Her eyes softened, a sleepy smile tugging at her lips as she saw them.

"Hey, guys." She murmured, her voice raspy but filled with warmth.

"Hey, Y/N." Chris replied, his voice thick with emotion as he carefully sat down on the edge of the bed, still holding the baby boy close to his chest. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I’ve been hit by a truck." Y/N joked weakly, managing a small laugh despite her exhaustion. She reached out for Matt, her eyes pleading for his help. "Can you help me sit up? I want to hold them."

"Of course." Matt said, his voice tender as he gently supported her back, helping her sit up against the pillows. He adjusted the bed to make her more comfortable, his movements careful and precise, always mindful of her comfort.

Once she was settled, Y/N looked at her babies, a rush of love flooding her system. Chris carefully handed her their son, his eyes shining with unshed tears as he watched Y/N cradle the tiny bundle in her arms. The baby boy squirmed slightly, his little face scrunching up as he nestled into Y/N’s embrace, and Y/N felt her heart melt at the sight.

"Hi, sweet boy." Y/N whispered, tears slipping down her cheeks as she pressed a soft kiss to her son's forehead. "Mommy’s here."

Nick, still holding their daughter, hesitated for a moment before offering her to Matt, a silent question in his eyes. Matt nodded, and Nick carefully placed the baby girl into his brother’s arms. The little girl yawned, her tiny fist curling up near her face, and Matt felt his heart swell with a fierce, protective love as he looked down at his daughter.

"She's got your eyes." Nick teased softly, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand.

"And her nose." Chris added, his voice still wavering with emotion.

Y/N smiled, looking at Matt, who was gazing down at their daughter with such love and awe that it made her heart ache in the best way. She could see the tears in his eyes, the overwhelming emotion that he was trying so hard to keep in check, and it made her love him even more.

"It's like I've waited my whole life for this moment."

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

"Ready?" Matt asked, his voice soft as he looked over at Y/N, his heart pounding in his chest.

Y/N nodded, her eyes shining with unshed tears as she gazed back at him.

"Ready." She whispered, her voice steady, filled with a quiet determination.

They walked up the path of their house together, Matt balancing his baby boy in one arm while Y/N held onto his other arm. The front door, painted in a cheerful shade of brown, seemed to welcome them home as they stepped inside. The familiar scent of home - fresh linen, a hint of lavender, and the comforting smell of wood - washed over them as they crossed the threshold.

Matt paused in the entryway, taking a deep breath as he looked around. Everything was exactly as they had left it, but now it felt different, infused with the anticipation of this new chapter.

"Welcome home, little lovies." Y/N whispered, leaning down and brushing her lips against her daughter’s small head covered by her light pink beanie.

Matt led the way, his steps slow and deliberate as he carried their son into the living room. He paused in the center of the room, turning in a slow circle as he looked around.

"Look, little guy, this is where we'll spend most of our time together." He said softly, his voice taking on a warm, inviting tone as if he were talking directly to the babies. "Right here, in this room. We'll have family movie nights, and you’ll play with your many toys on the rug... and when you’re a little bigger, we’ll build forts with blankets and cushions."

Y/N followed him, her heart swelling with love as she listened to him talk. She could see it all so clearly in her mind; tiny feet pattering across the hardwood floor, peals of laughter filling the air as they chased each other around the coffee table, and sleepy cuddles on the couch after a long day of playing. It was the life they had dreamed of, and now it was finally real.

"And this." Matt continued softly, leading Y/N out of the living room and down the hallway to the master bedroom. "Is Mama and Dada's room."

He pushed the white door open, revealing the room they had shared for a year now - after they moved in to their own shared house -, now feeling so much more significant with the addition of their new roles as parents. The bed was neatly made, the pillows fluffed and arranged just the way Y/N liked them, and the soft curtains billowed slightly in the breeze from the open window.

"This is where you’ll come when you need comfort." Matt said, his voice thick with emotion as he looked down at their son, still cradled in his arms. "Where you'll crawl into bed with us on stormy nights, or just because you want to be close. And we'll always be here, waiting to hold you, to keep you safe."

Y/N’s eyes filled with tears as she looked up at Matt, her heart overflowing with love for him, for their children, for the life they were building together.

"They’re so lucky to have you as their dad." She whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. "And I’m so lucky to have you as my partner in this."

Matt’s gaze softened as he looked at her, his eyes filled with the depth of his love.

"I'm the lucky one." He murmured, leaning down to press a soft kiss to her lips. "I get to spend my life with you and our beautiful babies. I don’t think I could ever ask for more."

Leaving the bedroom, Matt led them to the one right by the side, stopping in front of a door that had been carefully painted in soft pastels. He pushed it open gently, revealing the nursery inside. The room was bathed in the warm, golden light of the afternoon sun, and the soft colors of the walls and furniture created a peaceful, serene atmosphere.

"Now, this is your room." Matt said softly, his voice full of pride and love as he stepped inside.

He carefully set the bag that was held by his free arm down on the plush rug in the center of the room, turning to Y/N as she entered behind him.

"We've spent so much time getting it ready for you." Y/N muttered, her eyes shining as she looked around the room.

"That's right. This is where you'll sleep, where you'll have sweet dreams and where we'll sing you lullabies every night. Also, where your mama is going to read all those cute little stories every day."

Y/N carefully placed their daughter in the crib, brushing her fingers over the soft white blankets they had chosen with so much care. She looked around the room, her heart swelling with a deep, almost overwhelming sense of love.

"It’s so beautiful." She whispered, her voice catching in her throat as she looked up at Matt, her eyes lowering to her baby boy still on his arms, his big blue eyes now appearing smaller with the heaviness of sleep that dominated them. "They’re going to be so happy here."

Matt’s hand found hers, their fingers intertwining as they stood together, looking down at their tiny daughter, who was already drifting off to sleep in the crib.

"We all are."

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

I also wrote it while listening to a really beautiful brazilian song about pregnancy. I'm gonna let it right below so yall can listen to it and see the translation through Spotify! 🩷

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