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dilfismz · 2 days ago

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Hi! Can you write jealous professor dom!cho sangwoo x student sub!reader. Can you make sangwoo become real mad and some spanking too? Thank you so so much 🥹🥹

Mine

Summary: Turns out Professor Cho doesn’t like it when stupid young boys touch what’s his.

A/N: there are a few flashback scenes in order to build a backstory so don’t be confused!

Warnings: age gap, inappropriate teacher/student relationship, spanking, some degradation?, p in v, no prep (Sangwoo is desperate), dom/sub dynamics, and hair pulling.

In all honesty, you and Professor Cho had become close by complete accident. If you could even call it close…more so acquainted. You could recall every detail of your night spent together as if it had just occurred. Every single time you step foot into his lecture hall you can’t help but reminisce.

⋆ ──── ❍ Δ □ ──── ⋆

The bar was quiet that night, many students in their dorms studying for finals. Luckily for you, yours had concluded in one long, godforsaken day. It was tough but the reward was getting to celebrate the end of the semester early.

Sliding into a seat with your friend you spot him. He was seated a few spots down, leaning casually against the bar. He looked out of place in his crisp, tailored shirt and sharp jawline—older than most of the patrons and far more composed. His presence seemed to draw attention without trying, though he didn’t seem interested in anyone else around him.

You weren’t sure why you caught his eye, but you did. His gaze lingered on you for a moment before he spoke, his deep voice cutting through the noise.

“Not a regular here, are you?”

You smiled faintly, shaking your head. “Does it show?”

“Just a little,” he said, taking a sip from his glass. “You seem…young for this crowd.”

The comment made your cheeks flush slightly, but you held his gaze. “Maybe. But you don’t exactly blend in yourself.”

He chuckled, low and warm, and moved to sit closer. “Fair enough. I’m Sangwoo.”

You gave your name, and from there, the conversation flowed with surprising ease. You told him about your studies, your aspirations, and the stress that had driven you here tonight. He listened intently, asking thoughtful questions that felt more probing than casual small talk.

“I have to say,” he murmured at one point, leaning in just slightly, “I don’t usually find myself talking like this with someone… your age.”

You shrugged, trying to ignore the way your pulse quickened. “Maybe age doesn’t matter as much as you think.”

He studied you for a moment, his gaze flicking to your lips before returning to your eyes. “Maybe.”

The air between you shifted, heavy and undeniable. When he suggested leaving, you didn’t hesitate.

The night blurred into stolen kisses in the cab, whispered words, and the heat of his hands on your skin. You fell into his bed with reckless abandon, the difference in your years forgotten in the haze of passion.

The next morning, sunlight streamed through the curtains, forcing your eyes open. The unfamiliar room was quiet, save for the soft sound of breathing beside you.

You turned your head to see Sangwoo lying on his back, his arm resting over his eyes. The sharp lines of his face were softened by the light, but there was a tension in his expression that hadn’t been there the night before.

“Good morning,” you said quietly, unsure of what else to say.

He let out a soft sigh, finally lowering his arm to look at you. His eyes were darker now, clouded with something that felt like regret.

“This… probably shouldn’t have happened,” he said, his voice low.

The words stung, even though you’d expected them. “Why not?”

He sat up, running a hand through his hair. “You’re young. Too young to be tangled up with someone like me.” His tone wasn’t harsh, but there was a firmness to it that made your stomach twist.

You sat up too, pulling the sheet around you. “You didn’t seem to mind last night.”

“That was a mistake,” he said, glancing at you briefly before looking away. “I should’ve known better.”

The silence that followed was heavy, the warmth of the night before replaced with a cold, sinking feeling. You wanted to say something, to argue that you were old enough to make your own decisions, but the look on his face stopped you.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, standing and reaching for his shirt. “You’re… incredible. But this can’t happen again.”

As he moved about the room, dressing and avoiding your gaze, you couldn’t help but wonder if you’d ever been more than a fleeting distraction to him.

⋆ ──── ❍ Δ □ ──── ⋆

Another thing you always thought of when you’d step into Professor Cho’s room is the moment you’d realized just how disastrous your night together actually was.

The first day of the new semester carried the usual energy—a mix of fresh starts and quiet dread. Students milled into the lecture hall, some chatting excitedly, others scrolling through their phones or sipping lukewarm coffee. You were somewhere in the middle, adjusting the strap of your bag as you stepped into the massive room.

You hadn’t given much thought to your schedule beyond the requirements you needed to fill. This class—some upper-level finance course you had reluctantly signed up for—was just another stepping stone toward your degree. You were more concerned with surviving the workload than anything else.

That was, until you looked up.

Your heart nearly stopped.

There, standing at the podium, flipping through a stack of papers with an air of quiet authority, was him.

Cho Sangwoo.

Your throat went dry.

For a second, you thought you had to be mistaken. But there was no mistaking him—not the sharp jawline, not the dark, intelligent eyes that had lingered on you once in the glow of a streetlamp, not the hands you could still feel on your skin if you let your mind wander too far.

You froze mid-step, the chatter of the other students fading into white noise. The last time you’d seen him, he had been pulling his shirt over his head in a dimly lit bedroom, his words clipped, his expression guarded.

“This can’t happen again.”

And yet, here you were.

And here he was.

As if sensing your gaze, Sangwoo glanced up from his notes.

The reaction was instant.

His confident posture faltered, his fingers tightening slightly around the edges of his papers. His brows lifted just barely before his eyes widened in unmistakable shock. You saw the exact moment recognition hit him, watched the composed, professional mask he undoubtedly wore every day crack—just for a second.

A blush rose to his face.

It was slight, barely there, but enough for you to notice. Enough for you to know that despite his careful words that morning, despite whatever lines he had drawn in his mind between you, the sight of you standing in his lecture hall had caught him completely off guard.

The confident, articulate professor—who had surely done this a thousand times, who commanded rooms full of students without hesitation—had lost his composure.

Your stomach twisted.

For a fleeting moment, it felt like you were back in that dimly lit bar, your bodies too close, your words laced with the kind of reckless flirtation that had led to this. The memory burned through you so suddenly that you were sure it showed on your face.

But then, just as quickly as the moment had come, you watched him shove it back down.

Sangwoo cleared his throat sharply, turning his attention back to his papers. The color in his face faded as he schooled his expression into something unreadable, his professional demeanor snapping back into place like a steel trap.

But you had seen it.

You had felt it.

And now, you had to sit through an entire semester pretending it had never happened.

Swallowing hard, you forced yourself to move, slipping into a seat near the middle of the lecture hall. Around you, students continued their chatter, completely unaware of the silent war raging inside your head—or his.

Sangwoo took a breath, straightened his tie, and finally spoke. His voice was steady, controlled.

“Good morning. Welcome to Financial Strategies.”

If you hadn’t seen the way his hands curled slightly against the podium, you might have believed he was completely unaffected.

But you had seen it.

And you weren’t sure either of you would be able to ignore it.

That day, after class ended you sat frozen in your seat, your fingers gripping the edge of your desk as if that could steady the storm of emotions brewing inside you.

Sangwoo hadn’t looked at you once throughout the entire lecture.

Not directly, at least.

Instead, his eyes had skimmed over you like you were just another student, his voice measured, his posture rigid. But there were moments—fleeting, barely-there moments—where his fingers tensed slightly on the podium, where his breath hitched in the smallest, most imperceptible way before he forced himself forward.

And now, as you remained seated while the rest of the students shuffled out, he still wouldn’t meet your gaze.

“Stay after,” he had said near the end of class, his voice neutral, yet somehow sharp.

You knew this conversation was coming. There was no avoiding it.

Sangwoo stood by his desk now, organizing papers that didn’t need organizing, straightening his laptop screen only to close it again. It was almost frustrating—watching him fidget with anything but you.

Finally, he exhaled through his nose, as if bracing himself.

“If you wish to remain in this class,” he started, his voice clipped, “you will forget about what happened between us.”

You swallowed, gripping your bag strap tightly, but said nothing.

He continued, his expression carefully blank, though you could see the tension in his jaw. “It was… inappropriate. A mistake.” His fingers curled around the edge of his desk, the only sign that his control wasn’t as steady as he wanted it to be. “And it cannot affect your education.”

Your throat felt tight.

He was speaking to you as though that night had been some careless accident, as though it hadn’t been charged with something real. And yet, even as he spoke, his voice was too deliberate, too forced, like he was convincing himself as much as he was convincing you.

But you didn’t miss the way his fingers twitched slightly against the desk.

Your gaze dropped to his hands—the same slender hands that had once roamed your body, tracing paths of fire along your skin.

You could still feel them if you thought about it long enough. The way they had tangled in your hair, how his fingertips had brushed over your bare waist with aching slowness, how they had tightened possessively around your wrist just before he kissed you—

“Are you listening?”

Your head snapped up.

Sangwoo was watching you now, his brow furrowed slightly, his lips pressed together in a thin line.

You nodded, trying to ignore the heat rising in your face.

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face before crossing his arms. “Good,” he muttered. “Because I can’t have distractions in my classroom. Whatever… that was, it’s over. Understood?”

His words were cruelly impersonal, but his body language betrayed him. The stiffness of his shoulders, the way he seemed almost restless standing still, as if part of him wanted to move, to do something else.

You wondered if he was remembering it, too.

The weight of him pressing you into the mattress. The way he had looked at you, his usual self-control slipping with every kiss, every touch.

You sat up a little straighter, ignoring the pang in your chest. “Understood,” you said quietly, though the words felt like a lie.

For a moment, he didn’t move.

His fingers tapped once against the desk. Then again.

Then, as if snapping himself out of something, he turned away, collecting his things with more force than necessary. “You’re dismissed,” he said, not looking at you.

You hesitated.

But there was nothing left to say.

So you grabbed your bag and walked toward the door, feeling his eyes on your back even though he had told himself not to look.

————-

Now here you are today and you have done exactly what Sangwoo asked.

For months, you kept your distance, pretending as though nothing had ever happened between you. No lingering glances, no hesitation when he called on you in class, no trace of the night you had spent tangled in his sheets. You became cold, detached—indifferent.

And it was driving him insane.

At first, he convinced himself that this was what he wanted. That this was the right thing.

But then Jisoo happened.

A boy your age. Bright-eyed, eager, always quick with a joke that made you laugh—actually laugh. You had never laughed like that in his class before. Not when you were with him.

Sangwoo ignored it at first.

But then it happened again.

And again.

Soft whispers shared between the two of you, your heads leaning close as if nothing else in the room existed. His blood simmered every time Jisoo touched your arm, every time he caught you smiling at him—every time he saw you looking at Jisoo the way you used to look at him.

But today was the worst of it.

Today, Jisoo had whispered something in your ear, and your face had gone warm—cheeks flushed, lips parting just slightly in surprise before you giggled.

Sangwoo gripped his pen so hard it nearly snapped.

The moment class ended, his voice cut through the murmurs of students packing up their things.

“Stay after.”

Jisoo glanced at you, curious. You barely reacted, nodding as you finished gathering your notes.

The last student filtered out.

The door clicked shut.

Silence.

Sangwoo remained standing at the front of the classroom, bracing his hands against the desk, his head tilted downward. You could see the tension in him—the way his fingers curled, the way his breaths left him in slow, controlled exhales.

You knew this was coming.

You waited.

And then, finally, he spoke.

“Tell me,” his voice was low, measured. “Do you plan to seduce him the way you seduced me?”

Your heart stuttered.

The accusation hung heavy between you, thickening the air, making it harder to breathe.

“What?”

Sangwoo lifted his gaze, and for the first time in months, his carefully constructed mask had cracked.

No indifference. No feigned professionalism. Only raw frustration—barely-restrained jealousy simmering beneath the surface.

He took a step forward, slow and deliberate.

“You heard me,” he murmured, his voice dark. “Is that your plan? To make him desperate for you? To make him think, even for a second, that he can satisfy you the way I did?”

Heat pooled in your stomach, but you forced yourself to hold his gaze. “That’s not—”

He scoffed. “Not what?” Another step forward. “Not true? You don’t think I see the way he looks at you? The way you let him lean into you, whisper in your ear?”

His jaw clenched.

“Do you think he can touch you like I did?” His voice dropped lower, barely above a whisper. “Think he can even attempt to please you?”

Your breath hitched.

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides, knuckles whitening. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you forced out.

His lips quirked up—not in amusement, but something far crueler.

“Liar.”

Your stomach flipped.

You hated how easily he unraveled you.

Sangwoo exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. “I shouldn’t care,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “I told myself I wouldn’t.”

You swallowed hard.

“But then I see you with him,” he continued, his voice quieter now. “I see you laughing, smiling, and I—” He cut himself off, exhaling sharply as if disgusted by the confession sitting on his tongue.

Your pulse pounded in your ears.

“You’ve been punishing me,” he murmured. “All these months, Ive been trying to forget, trying to pretend it never happened—but it did. And here you are pulling this shit right in front of me.”

His fingers twitched.

“And it still matters to you…”, you intended to ask but it came out more like a statement.

Sangwoo inhaled sharply, and before you could react, his hand shot out—grasping your wrist.

Your breath caught.

His fingers, long and slender, wrapped around your skin. Not tight. Not pulling. Just holding.

A mistake.

A reckless, dangerous mistake.

But neither of you moved to stop it.

“You don’t get it,” he murmured, his voice lower, almost pained. “I broke the rules for you once.”

Your throat went dry.

His fingers slid down, tracing your palm before hesitantly releasing you.

Then, barely above a whisper—so quiet you almost missed it—he admitted:

“I think I’d break them again.”

Your stomach clenched.

Sangwoo exhaled slowly, looking at you as if he were already regretting saying it out loud. But it was there now. It couldn’t be unsaid.

For the first time in months, he wasn’t telling you to forget.

He wasn’t telling you to leave.

Instead, his voice was quiet. Measured. Unsteady.

“Stay, it’s your turn to be punished.”

You take a tentative step in his direction, testing the waters. Sangwoo blinks slowly, looking you up and down, “You stay there”, he commands while walking to the lecture hall door. He locks it with a flick of his wrist and returns.

He sits on his chair behind the large desk he often spends hours sitting at. He spreads his thighs, patting them expectantly.

You take this as a sign to straddle him but he immediately grunts in dissatisfaction. “No, bend over my knees, face down ass up”.

You flush at the command, all self respect fleeing your body as you comply without a second thought.

Tch tch

He clicks his tongue mockingly, all while lifting your skirt up to expose your plump ass, barely covered by a tiny thong.

“Now did you wear this for me or him”, Sangwoo asks, a scowl etched onto his features.

“You Sangwoo, always for you-”, before you could finish your sentence a loud smack echoes throughout the lecture room. Before you can even register the pain another red hot slap lands on your bottom, leaving you breathless.

“It’s sir”, he commands, a shit eating grin already overtaking his features.

“Y-yes sir”, you respond.

“Good fucking slut, finally you do something right. Maybe I should’ve done this right away, then we never would have had that silly little problem huh?”

You simply nod, his words going in one ear and out the other. Sangwoo pulls your hair harshly, forcing your head back to look at him.

“Speak when you’re spoken to”, he commands, his other hand landing another firm slap to your stinging ass.

“Yes sir-“, you moan as he kneeds the sensitive flesh, “-wish you would’ve done this sooner.”

He nods in approval, forcing you off of his legs and pushing you against his desk.

You can hear him unbuckle his belt and all but shake with anticipation. You’ve waited oh so long to feel him again.

Suddenly his swollen tip is prodding at your entrance, your thong pulled to the side. Sangwoo lets out a heavy sigh and declares, “I’ve waited way too damn long to do this again…now tell me have you been whoring around campus or is the last time your pussy got stretched with me?”

“Y-you sir, haven’t done anything since that night”, you splutter out, backing up into him, hoping he’ll just push in already.

“Good girl, that’s what I like to hear”, he says right before completely bottoming out in one harsh thrust.

Sangwoo doesn’t start out gentle, he keeps thrusting into you slowly but oh so roughly. You swear you can feel him reaching spots even he didn’t hit last time.

Your eyes roll into the back of your head as his hands grip your hips with a bruising force. He scoffs at your desperate mewls, “I won’t last long sweetheart so you’re gonna take what I give you and be grateful, ya?”

“Yes sir”

Sangwoo can feel his glasses slipping down his nose as his pace quickens. The entire room is filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin and its filthy.

“Please don’t stop sir I’m close”, you beg as you feel that all too familiar feeling within you.

He doesn’t stop. His hands gripping you even tighter as he grits his teeth, cock twitching as your gummy walls suck him in.

“Fuck, it’s like this pussy was made for me, can’t believe I stayed away for so long”, he gasps out.

That’s all the praise you needed to reach your peak. Your walls spasm around Sangwoo and he continues his assault on your insides, coming to an abrupt stop as you feel his warm seed fill you up.

The both of you are a panting mess and he runs his hands through his own hair, pushing him glasses back up his nose.

When Sangwoo finally pulls out he sighs and looks at your pathetic form in front of him.

“Clean yourself up and we’ll have a serious conversation about how this arrangement is gonna work.”

#x reader #squid game 2 #squid game #cho sangwoo #cho sang woo #cho sangwoo x reader #x reader smut #professor au #park haesoo #hwang inho #smut #teacher student #dilfs are real #berlin #money heist korea #money heist #seong gihun #sae byeok

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goldfades · 14 hours ago

Text

family ties | chapter one, DAYLIGHT | burrow⁹

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine it's crucial that we stand in solidarity with those who need our support. right now, the people of palestine are facing unimaginable hardship, and it's up to all of us to do what we can to help. whether it's raising awareness, donating to relief organizations, or supporting calls for justice and peace, every action counts. we can amplify their voices, shed light on their struggles, and work towards a future where every individual can live with dignity and freedom. your support can make a difference!

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MASTERLIST

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 3.7k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | the youngest kelce has spent her whole life navigating the chaos of her famous last name, always lingering in the background while her brothers took center stage. but when travis falls for taylor swift, she suddenly finds herself feeling like a third wheel in her own family. and after your heartbreak with an nba player, you never thought you'd find love again.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | just normal prologue stuff! kelce family bantering, mentions of jayson tatum, olivia h mention (IT WAS FOR THE PLOT I SWEAR), heartbreak (but no graphic descriptions), nothing else!

⟢ ┈ ev's notes: okay listen guys i had to think of a random basketball player and the first one i thought of was jayson tatum. if ur not attracted to him, just like... imagine someone else but the celtics are not mentioned so... it's fine!!!!! it's a minor little detail but yeah!

also, i might change some stuff that was from the OG fic just because it doesn't fit the plot i've made LOL. enjoy!

You were an accident in every possible way.

Born an astounding eight years after Travis, nearly eleven after Jason, you weren’t exactly planned. By the time you came along, your parents had been convinced they were done, their hands already full with two loud, competitive boys who spent more time wrestling in the backyard than sitting still. And then—there was you.

A baby sister in every sense of the word.

Your brothers treated you like some kind of rare, delicate thing at first, unsure what to do with you other than stare into your crib and poke at your tiny hands. But that didn’t last long. Before you could even walk, Jason was letting you sit on his lap while he played video games, and Travis had appointed himself your unofficial bodyguard, glaring at anyone who so much as breathed in your direction.

You grew up surrounded by chaos—loud dinners, backyard football games that almost always ended in someone getting tackled too hard, and a house full of laughter. Your parents tried their best to raise you with the same principles that had shaped your brothers, but you were different from the start.

Where Jason was responsible and steady, you were restless. Where Travis was loud and the life of the party, you were observant.

It wasn’t that you were quiet—no one raised in a Kelce household could be described as quiet—but you learned early on how to move through the world a little differently. Being the youngest meant you had to be quick-witted, fast on your feet, and always ready to hold your own. If you didn’t, you’d get run over.

By the time you hit high school, you had learned how to use your last name to your advantage. It got you free drinks at parties, easier conversations with teachers, and a built-in reputation before you ever had to prove yourself. But it also came with expectations—the kind that lingered over you like a shadow.

People expected you to be just like your brothers.

Maybe a little wild, maybe a little reckless. Definitely athletic. Definitely loud.

And you were some of those things.

You were an athlete, sure—your dad would’ve had an aneurysm if you weren’t—but not in the way people wanted. You had a sharp competitive streak, but you never cared about being the best. You played because it was fun, because it was expected, because you liked the feeling of winning, but you never had dreams of making it big. Not like Jason. Not like Travis.

And as for being reckless? You were a Kelce, so it was in your blood. But you were also smart. Calculated. Where Travis would throw himself into anything just to see what would happen, you thought three steps ahead. You weren’t scared of getting into trouble, but you were good at avoiding it.

That was the thing about growing up the way you did—watching your brothers carve their paths before you. You learned how to navigate things differently. You let them be the loudest people in the room while you played the long game, slipping through cracks unnoticed until you wanted to be noticed.

You didn’t date much in high school—not seriously, anyway. Not because people didn’t try (being a Kelce came with its perks), but because most boys were too intimidated by the idea of dating Jason and Travis Kelce’s little sister. You never really minded. Most of the guys at your school weren’t worth your time, anyway.

But you did notice the way people looked at you.

The way guys wanted to say they had a shot with you, even if they never tried. The way girls sometimes whispered about you, speculating if you were actually as down-to-earth as you pretended to be. The way teachers expected you to either be a slacker or a prodigy, like there was no in-between.

You weren’t sure when exactly you started feeling like an enigma—like people had decided who you were before you even had a chance to figure it out for yourself.

Maybe it was when your friends started bringing you to parties just because your last name got you through the door. Maybe it was when people started assuming you were only where you were because of your family. Maybe it was when you realized that, no matter what you did, you’d always be compared to the brothers who came before you.

By the time you graduated, you had perfected the art of keeping people at a distance. You knew how to smile just enough to be approachable, how to joke just enough to make people like you. But you also knew how to keep things yours.

And so you did.

You left home with the intention of making a name for yourself—outside of football, outside of the Kelce legacy. You weren’t running away from it, exactly. You just needed something that was yours alone.

And for the most part, you succeeded.

You built a life that had nothing to do with your last name. You found your own friends, your own career, your own world. You managed to exist outside of the NFL bubble, despite how often it tried to pull you back in. And for years, that was enough.

You were nineteen when you met Jayson Tatum.

Nineteen and reckless in the way only someone on the verge of something monumental can be—when success feels inevitable, and the world hasn’t yet taught you how cruel it can be. You had grown up in the shadows of your last name, in the periphery of stadium lights, in the echoes of your brothers’ roaring crowds. But Jayson was the first person who made you feel like the center of something.

You weren’t naïve. You knew what it meant to love someone like him—someone whose name was already in the rafters, whose presence carried weight before he even walked into a room. He was smooth, confident, charming in that way that made you want to believe him. And maybe that was the problem: you did.

It started fast, the way these things always do. Courtside seats, late-night flights, whispered phone calls from different time zones. He made you feel special, called you his “genius,” said he had never met someone like you before. But love with him always came with conditions. He loved you, but he wanted you to fit into his world, to mold yourself into the spaces left between his career, his schedule, his life. And you tried. God, you tried. You sat in the stands, smiled for the cameras, learned the rhythms of his world even when he never bothered to learn yours.

And it was never enough.

It was always push and pull, a constant cycle of breaking and rebuilding. He would tell you he couldn’t do it anymore, that you were too much, that he needed someone who understood his life. And then weeks later, he’d be back, whispering apologies, promising he had figured it out this time. And you—stupid, hopeful, nineteen, then twenty, then twenty-one—kept believing him.

Until December 2022. The last time. The worst time.

You had always been careful, always known how to exist just outside the spotlight, but this time, the breakup wasn’t just yours. It was public. Messy. Everywhere. Headlines dissecting your relationship, tabloids picking apart your heartbreak like it was something they were entitled to. Your face plastered across the internet, grainy photos of you leaving restaurants, ducking into cars, standing alone in a crowd. Strangers speculating about you, about him, about what went wrong, about whether you were as heartbroken as they hoped you’d be.

And the worst part? You were. You just didn’t want them to know it.

You had never cared about fame—not like that, not in the way the world suddenly seemed to demand from you. You weren’t built for it, for the attention, for the scrutiny, for the way people suddenly decided you were interesting now that you were broken.

It was the lowest you had ever been.

After that, you buried yourself in work, in building something no one could take from you. You stopped trusting the cameras, stopped giving interviews, stopped letting people in. And love? Love became something you didn’t have time for. Something you couldn’t afford.

Not until Joe. But that was another story.

⟢ JULY 2023

The Kelces did the Fourth of July the same way they did everything else—loud, chaotic, and with enough food to feed an army.

The backyard was still a mess from the day’s events. Empty plates stacked on tables, beer bottles scattered across the deck, remnants of water balloons forgotten in the grass. The kids had long since crashed, curled up in the living room after a full day of running around, and your parents had finally turned in for the night. That left just the three of you—Jason, Travis, and you—lingering in the kitchen, picking at the last of the food and settling in for what was, by tradition, gossip hour.

Jason was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, looking half-exhausted, half-amused as he nursed what was probably his final beer of the night. Kylie had gone upstairs an hour ago, throwing a “don’t let him stay up too late” over her shoulder before disappearing. Travis was still riding the high of a long day—barefoot, tanned from the sun, and grinning like he knew something you didn’t.

You, for your part, were perched on the counter, sipping a Coke because you had a feeling one of you needed to remain at least somewhat coherent.

“So, uh,” Travis started, reaching for the last deviled egg on the platter. “Speaking of cool people, guess who I started talking to?”

Jason shot him a tired look. “Oh, here we go.”

You glanced between them. “What do you mean, talking to?”

Travis grinned. “Taylor Swift.”

You blinked. “What?”

Jason groaned, running a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ, Trav.”

“What?” Travis said, clearly enjoying himself. “It’s not a big deal.”

You snorted. “You just casually dropped Taylor Swift into the conversation like it’s the weather. That’s not normal.”

Jason pointed at you. “Exactly. Thank you.”

Travis rolled his eyes, shoving the deviled egg into his mouth. “It’s not like that. We’ve just been texting. I shot my shot, and what do you know? The Kelce charm works.”

Jason looked unimpressed. “Define ‘texting.’”

Travis chewed thoughtfully. “Like… texting.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Travis.”

He smirked. “Okay, fine. I invited her to a game. She didn’t come, but she thought it was funny. We started talking. She’s cool as hell.”

You stared at him, processing. “Hold on. You shot your shot with Taylor Swift—arguably the biggest pop star in the world—by inviting her to a football game?”

Travis shrugged. “I mean, yeah.”

Jason huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “I hate that it worked.”

You leaned forward, intrigued now. “Wait, so what do you guys talk about?”

Travis grinned. “Oh, you know. Life. Music. Football. Friendship bracelets.”

Jason made a strangled noise. “I swear to God—”

“I’m serious!” Travis held up his hands. “She thought it was funny! That’s what started it, actually.”

You narrowed your eyes, skeptical. “And how often are you guys texting?”

Travis took a sip of his beer, clearly stalling.

“Travis.”

He sighed dramatically. “Every day. Okay? Happy?”

Jason looked at you, then back at him. “Holy shit. You like her.”

Travis scoffed. “Of course I like her, she’s Taylor fuckin’ Swift.”

“No,” you cut in, pointing at him. “Not just, like, ‘fan’ like her. You actually like her.”

Travis hesitated. And that was all you needed to see.

Jason whistled low, shaking his head. “This is gonna be a disaster.”

You grinned, tilting your head. “Or… it’s gonna be the greatest thing to ever happen to you.”

Travis gave you a look, something half-serious beneath all the usual bravado. “You think?”

You shrugged. “I think you have a long road ahead of you if you actually wanna date Taylor Swift. But if anyone’s got the balls to do it, it’s you.”

Travis sat back, considering that. Then he smirked. “Yeah. You’re right.”

Jason groaned. “Oh God.”

You hopped off the counter, stealing the beer out of Travis’s hand and taking a sip. “I can’t wait for Mom to find out.”

Travis laughed, shaking his head. “You’re evil.”

“You love it.”

And just like that, the topic shifted—because that was the thing about being a Kelce. No matter how big the news, how crazy the story, at the end of the day, you were just family. Talking shit in the kitchen, making fun of each other, and watching history unfold in real time.

The whole thing kind of unraveled in front of you.

One minute, Travis was dropping Taylor Swift’s name into a conversation like it was nothing, and the next, she was there. Not in a surreal, once-in-a-lifetime, see-her-from-a-distance kind of way—but in the real way. The kind where she was suddenly just… around. Sitting across from you at dinner, feet tucked under her on the couch, sipping a drink at the same backyard parties you had been going to your whole life.

It wasn’t weird, not exactly. It was just happening.

You had been close to fame before, obviously. Jason and Travis had built their careers in the public eye, and you had spent your whole life in and around that world, brushing shoulders with athletes and celebrities who treated your last name like a golden ticket. You knew how to navigate it, how to smile politely and act like it didn’t phase you.

But this was different.

Because this wasn’t just fame. This was Taylor Swift—and she wasn’t just a headline or a name on a stadium marquee. She was here, in your world, existing in it like she belonged. And the strangest part? She kind of did.

You liked her. She was easy to like. Funny, quick-witted, smarter than people probably even realized. She had this way of making everyone feel like they were the only person in the room when she talked to them. Even you, at times, when she wasn’t entirely preoccupied with Travis.

And, well. That was the thing, wasn’t it?

Because she was preoccupied with Travis.

That was the whole point.

She wasn’t your friend. She wasn’t coming around to hang out with you. She was here for him. And that was fine. It was great, actually. You had never seen your brother like this before—completely, stupidly, out-of-his-mind happy. He glowed around her, and you were happy for him.

But somewhere along the way, you started to notice it.

The third wheel feeling.

It wasn’t obvious at first. Not in the beginning, when everything was still so new and exciting and unbelievable.

But then came the dinners where you felt like a spectator to their conversations. The trips where you ended up walking three steps behind them. The inside jokes you weren’t a part of, the glances they shared across rooms like they were in on some secret that you weren’t.

And sure, Travis had always been larger than life. His presence had always been something you had to navigate around. But now? Now, there was them. And you? You were just… there.

It got to the point where even your nieces—who were still young enough to have no filter—started noticing. You’d barely sat down at one of your parents’ Sunday dinners when Wyatt, with all the innocence of a child, looked up at you and asked, “Where’s your boyfriend?”

You had laughed, mostly out of shock, but the sting was still there. And then it happened again. And again.

And that was how Elliot became your best friend.

At just over a year old, she was the only one who didn’t ask why you were always alone, or where your mystery boyfriend was, or when you were going to bring someone home like Travis had. Instead, she was just happy to exist beside you, happy to let you carry her around like a little security blanket when you needed an excuse to step away from them.

You spent more time with her than you did with the adults most nights, letting her babble nonsense at you while you tuned out the rest of the room.

Joe Burrow wasn’t born into greatness.

He was born into a world where nothing was guaranteed, where talent didn’t always mean success, where hard work didn’t always lead to the dream. He grew up watching his father grind his way through the football world, moving from coaching job to coaching job, never staying anywhere long enough to feel settled. He understood from a young age that football wasn’t just a game—it was survival. It was everything.

But for most of his life, Joe wasn’t the guy. He wasn’t the five-star recruit, the kid whose name carried weight before he even stepped on the field. He was good—great, even—but great didn’t always mean enough. Ohio State was supposed to be his shot, his moment, the place where he proved himself. Instead, it was where he sat on the bench, waiting for a chance that never came, watching other guys take the field while he tried to convince himself it wasn’t slipping away from him.

There were nights he thought about giving it up. That maybe it just wasn’t meant to be. That maybe football had already given him all it was going to. But he wasn’t built to quit, and when LSU came calling, he took the leap.

That was the moment everything changed.

LSU wasn’t just an opportunity—it was a resurrection. It was the first time he felt like the guy, like he wasn’t just taking up space on a roster but actually belonged there. The game slowed down, the doubt faded, and for the first time in his life, he thought: Maybe I can actually do this. Maybe I can be great.

Then came 2019. The season. The Heisman. The national championship. The moment his life shifted from maybe to inevitable. He went from overlooked to undeniable, from backup to first overall pick, from fighting for a shot to standing at the top of the football world.

And somewhere in all of that, there was Olivia.

She had been there from Ohio State, through the struggles, through the late nights spent questioning everything. She was safe, steady, someone who knew him before everything changed. And for a while, that was enough. They built a life together in the in-between spaces of his career—through the transfer, through LSU, through the draft, through the move to Cincinnati.

But something had shifted along the way. Maybe it was the fame, the pressure, the way football consumed everything in its path. Maybe it was the fact that he had spent so long chasing this dream that he didn’t know how to slow down, didn’t know how to be the kind of man who could put something else—someone else—first.

Or maybe they had just grown into different people.

The love had been real. That was never a question. But real didn’t always mean forever, and when the cracks started to show, neither of them could ignore them. The long distance, the late nights, the feeling of being together but not really together. Football had always been his first love, and Olivia had always understood that. But understanding didn’t make it easier.

By the time the breakup happened, it felt inevitable. A quiet ending, no messy headlines, no dramatic fallout. Just two people who had spent years trying to make something work, finally realizing it wasn’t meant to.

Joe had never been one for public spectacle, had never been the guy who wanted his love life picked apart. But that didn’t stop people from talking. From wondering when he’d date again, who he’d be seen with, what kind of woman would fit into the world he had built.

But he wasn’t looking. Football was still everything, still the thing that took up all the space in his life.

At least, until you.

#( daylight | joe x kelce!reader )#joe burrow #joe burrow x you #joey b #joe burrow bengals #joe burrow fan fic #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow smut #joe burrow x oc #joe burrow x y/n #bengals

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hees-mine · 3 days ago

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Second chance - L. HS

Pairing: heeseung X reader

Warnings: smut, the usual.

Genre: ex’s to?

WC: almost 4k

“Didn’t expect to see you here.” You rolled your eyes the moment you heard your ex’s voice from over your shoulder.

It was a party your mutual friends were throwing, so you don’t know why he thought you wouldn’t be there, but something deep down is telling you he knows full well and just wanted an excuse to come up and talk to you.

“Surprise, surprise,” you mumbled in response, tapping the rim of your glass.

“You treat me like I’m a stranger.” he lowers his head with a soft chuckle and takes the vacant stool next to you to sit on.

“Not a stranger, but no need to be unnecessarily cordial,” you say, not sparing him a glance.

“Would it be unnecessary to at least treat me with some decency?” His question is almost laughable to you.

“The same way you treated me with decency back when we dated,” your reply is sarcastically, and he can’t help but chuckle.

“So you’re still not over it?” He says, referring to the breakup.

“No, I am. I just find it funny after how things ended. You expect me to just welcome you back into my good graces.” Picking up your cup, you take a small sip of liquor.

“The past is the past. We could always start anew, you know, maybe even be friends,” he shrugs.

“You can’t be serious.” Laughing incredulously, you roll your eyes once again, finding him to be amusing.

“Fine, maybe not friends, maybe we could be fuck buddies” his suggestion sounds even more humorous than his previous statement. This just kept getting better and better.

“So that’s why you’re bothering me? You don’t have any shame do you?” You finally look at him and he looks like the same old heeseung that broke your heart.

“No need to feel shame. I’m just a guy who misses his ex’s pussy” he smirks.

“You’re disgusting.” You scrunch your nose, making a face of disgust.

“Fair enough,” he annoyingly grabs your cup, purposely drinking from the spot that had your lip stain on it. “But don’t for a second act like you don’t miss the way I fuck you,” he says cockily. “Besides, if I recall correctly, the last time I had my dick in you, you said it was the best ever.”

You cringe at the thought. “That was then, this is now.” You keep a straight face.

“Okay, will let me give you a refresher.” he places his hand over yours. “Let me remind you what it’s like to have me inside you.” he looks at your lips, then your eyes, his tongue licking the remains of your liquor off his plump lips.

A shaky sigh escapes your lips, and you close your eyes, exhaling deeply, hating that he still had this effect on you. “I think I should get going.” Attempting to leave proves useless as he grabs your wrist, keeping you there.

“I think you should come back to my place with me. Come on, no strings attached, just me and you for one night.”

It’s hard to say no, it’s hard to think straight after five months, you’re still not over him. He pops up in your dreams. Sometimes, you swear you still smell his cologne on your pillow or the soft melody of him humming in your silent apartment.

Obviously, one of you was more affected by the split, that being you, and right now, instead of keeping your ground, you felt yourself slipping.

“This isn’t the best idea,” you mutter to him.

“So? Who cares, baby? Let me fuck you” his words sound gross in your ears but still give you a chill in your spine. His request is so nasty yet irresistible.

“I- I have too much respect for myself to allow this now if you’ll excuse me I’m heading home” you stood up and he quickly follows you not ready to take no for an answer you both weave through the crowd him hot on your trail.

“Respect? Is that what you call it when you were sucking me off in the public bathroom stall? Or when you let me bend you over the balcony? And don’t forget that time we spent Christmas at your families. You were so fucking needy for it you could barely keep your hands off my cock at the dinner table” You’re both at the exit now, making your way outside. The fresh air feels chilly on your skin, but it does little to nothing to quell the heat between your legs, his words going straight to your core, and you hate to admit how much just the memory was turning you on. “Had to cup your mouth the whole time while I fucked you 'cause you couldn’t keep those slutty little moans to yourself” he presses himself against your back, his hot breath fanning your ear.

“S-stop it.” You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to ground yourself.

“Why?” He places his hands on your waist, and you don’t push him away.

“Cause-“

He cuts through your words. “Cause it’s turning you on, isn’t it? Bet that pussy is already getting sticky for me.”

Read full story on my Patreon

#heeseung smut #enhypen heeseung smut #heeseung x reader #lee heeseung smut #lee heeseung #heeseung fluff #heeseung #enhypen hyung line #enhypen lee heeseung #enhypen fluff #enhypen hard hours #enhypen smut #enhypen fanfic #enhypen heeseung #enhypen scenarios #enhypen

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scoobydoodean · 3 days ago

Note

Okay real talk. Do you think Dean fears femininity or fears being exploited* and used for things associated with femininity: caretaking, softness, nurturing, etc. Again, it seems there is a subset of fandom that is very literal when seeing posturing and taking the least charitable, kink-shaming position imaginable.

No I do not think Dean fears being associated with these things. As someone who more or less identifies as a genderless blob (except when I don't) and has spent their entire life being deeply confused by "traditional gender roles" and what the actual fuck people mean when they refer to the "maculine" vs "feminine" along some kind of spectrum, I have a lot of trouble articulating my thoughts around this subject. That's also why I don't usually engage with it. But I think it's clear that a lot of people throughout Dean's life try to minimize his feelings and experiences by questioning (through the "traditional" lens of these things) his masculinity and/or associating him with the feminine. Dean has been on the receiving end of challenges to his masculinity and association with the feminine intended to criticize him far more times than he's pushed those narratives on others, though we know he isn't a stranger to the handle side of the knife. I think people sometimes look at the way Dean is mocked and assume that they're supposed to believe Dean feels humiliated by being associated with softness, nurturing, caretaking, etc. But I think it's difficult to argue that he is humiliated as much as he's frustrated, because he doesn't stop nurturing and caretaking and being soft despite it all.

What these moments do serve to illustrate is Dean being expected to play the role of an eternal happy-go-lucky playboy who can't be tied down in one breath then a nurturer who never thinks a horrible thought and always has energy to care for others the next. He's ridiculed for being rough edged then he's ridiculed for being too soft. These chameleon-esque expectations are designed in such a way that it is impossible for him to please anyone. When he is one thing, he is not the other, therefore he fails. When he is a brother, he isn't being a parent. When he's being a father, he isn't being a mother (again in the "traditional" lens) and vice versa. When he's angry, he isn't being loving and forgiving enough. When he's sad or depressed or lost, he's being a nancy. I think the impossible expectation—to be both "feminine" and "masculine" simultaneously in the traditional sense—is something a lot of people will find relatable. Especially if you grew up with one or both parents imposing traditional gender roles on you, then criticizing you for your nonconformity AND your conformity to those roles in turns.

The thing is that tender IS Dean's default, and I don't think he's ashamed of that as much as people sometimes try to make him ashamed, or he withdraws because he realizes he is being harmed through that tenderness and then he is ridiculed for not being tender enough (often by the very person whose actions caused him to withdraw). Dean is a killer with blood under his nails but also that's not who he is. He's a nurturer who helps children deal with their bullies and tends to cuts on his brother's hand and wants a home. He's a weapon but he loves hugs and tells his mother it's okay and he'll never leave her and tells his dad it's okay when he comes home a wreck (2.01, 5.16). He's the sword of heaven, but he also cooks for his family and wraps blankets around their shoulders when they're sick. I literally have a whole tag dedicated to how incredibly tender Dean can be, and I think it's a huge stretch to suggest that he's embarrassed in every one of the hundreds of scenes where that tenderness shines, or that he in some way rejects that tenderness. Angels have fallen from heaven in response to his capacity to Care. Kings of Hell have softened their cruelty. Gods have turned from the path of destruction. Countless people have been driven from possession by his voice reaching out to them calling them home to him (tag). Dean is the narrative heart of the story and the hearth of the house. Tender is his default, and he contains multitudes.

#mail #the hearth of the house #dean the narrative heart

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carlos-in-glasses · 3 days ago

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Favorite Lone Star Fandom Memories

Thank you @thisbuildinghasfeelings for coming up with this lovely idea! And thank you for the tags @firstprince-history-huh @heartstringsduet @tellmegoodbye @nisbanisba

@carlossreaders @she-walked-away @reyesstrand @rmd-writes

@welcometololaland @nancys-braids @everlastingday @strandnreyes

I have had the best time being part of this fandom so far. Whatever I expected when I first rocked up in September 2022, it wasn't this. What a time we have had. We've been through so much. We've laughed, we've cried, we've swooned, we all became experts on baseball, TV ratings, various laws, and probably know a map of Austin better than we know a map of our own hometowns. I hope with everything I have that this place continues to thrive with love for Tarlos and 911 Lone Star. I hope that I've made some friends for life. I hope that this time during the show's run will be remembered fondly. We got unlucky with this cancellation, but oh my goodness, in other ways we have been so lucky.

First, please enjoy Elaine Paige singing Memory from Cats the Musical. A song for how I'm feeling right now. I promise it's not a Rickroll and I sincerely apologise if you got caught up with me accidentally Rickrolling Lem the other week.

Now! Some memories!:

The time @thisbuildinghasfeelings wanted to know what hospital Carlos would have been taken to after Bridges shot him. I was CRYING LAUGHING because she went to the Texas sub-reddit and was all “Hypothetically, if someone were to get shot in the desert…” and left this message, which quickly got deleted by the mods who probably thought she’d just shot someone:

The time I met @heartstringsduet irl in London last year and wore the below t-shirt, which I got at the 2023 Paris Convention with @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut by my side 😭. And just being able to talk to them in person about life and the show and hug them!!!! And speaking of the 2023 Paris Convention – I got to to look right into the ultimate cow-eyes and tell this guy that he played my favourite character of all time:

The time I got my ass handed to me by @lemonlyman-dotcom because I used the word vest instead of tank top in a WIP.

The fics I wrote that came out of conversations with others/prompts – they wouldn’t exist without some of you. It makes the writing life feel a lot less solitary and also a lot more about the world's most fun mystery box. Thank you so much

Leaving the most batshit comments on poor @rmd-writes and @welcometololaland fic (Un)Professional Services You two really were troopers in the face of that.

Reading fic so good I've spent the next day at work daydreaming about it and looking forward to the next chapters of chaptered fics – and then getting to tell people how much I enjoyed their work! It’s amazing. YOU ARE ALL SO TALENTED.

Posting Sensitivity, my first fic, and refreshing the page to see that I had 8 kudos. I was blown away. And the comments and responses to other fics that have made all the difference during many tough weeks. Thank you, thank you.

The reactions to when I introduced my poor boyfriend to my Tarlos blanket and then when I put it over my legs lmao:

@goodways post about Carlos’ slutty buttonless shirt look in 1x02 – I can’t find the post, but it was gold! And just so many other Shannon posts omg. The blank sign made for Carlos. Iconic.

When @strandnreyes posted this about TK’s absurd camera roll in 4x04.

Of course when Rafael Silva told me that Tarlos switch and @reasonandfaithinharmony made a gif set out of it!

The Tarlos wedding. I brought a mini bottle of Prosecco for the occasion.

The time I thought @ladytessa74 invented Frog and Toad for chapter 3 of The Lovely April. Also...chapter 3 of The Lovely April genuinely helped me cope with the show's cancellation. So that was a biggie.

The art that has been made for my fics by @heartstringsduet @whatsintheboxmh @thisbuildinghasfeelings and @bonheur-cafe. Absolutely extraordinary. I can’t believe it. Thank you forever. Once again, you’re so talented.

Finding the show. Finding you.

Open tag and tags below!:

@paperstorm @goodways @lightningboltreader @alrightbuckaroo

@cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut @herefortarlos @bonheur-cafe

@lemonlyman-dotcom @ladytessa74 @liminalmemories21

@freneticfloetry @chicgeekgirl89 @sugdenlovesdingle

@reasonandfaithinharmony @carlos-tk @pimento-playing-hopscotch @eclectic-sassycoweyes

@fangirl-paba @actual-sleeping-beauty @kiwichaeng @literateowl

@emsprovisions @ironheartwriter @sapphic--kiwi @butchreyes

@captain-gillian @laelipoo @nancys-braids @goldenskykaysani

@hereghostslive @anactualcaseofthetruth @henrygrass

@theghostofashton @the-126-family @rangersoup

@annoyingcloudearthquake @butch-buckley - if you want to share/haven't already! No pressure ever! ❤️🩷🧡💛💚💙🩵💜

#Favorite Fandom Memories #911 Lone Star #Tarlos #cig tagged

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lightdancingwords · 3 days ago

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Second Chances - Part Fourteen of ?

Pairings: Beau Arlen x Y/N Female reader Series Summary: A chance meeting in a grocery store brings a second chance for you and for Beau. The only thing standing in your way are your respective pasts... and a tiny little roadblock. Word Count: 3,199 Tags/Warnings: SO. MUCH. FLUFF. And a minor car accident, surgery, medical scare. A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!

Note: I've several of you comment this, so here's official statement: I am likely to never end this story at this rate! I'm loving Beau and his relationship with Y/N! So until I'm burnt out on Beau or run out of ideas... consider this story ongoing! Divider: credit to @sweetmelodygraphics

Chapter Fourteen: A Little Miracle

The weeks following the Victor Hanlon case brought a welcome change to Beau’s life. For the first time in what felt like forever, there was no looming threat, no murderer taunting him in the shadows. The town had finally found peace—and so had he.

At home, things had shifted. Y/N had begun working part-time, cutting back her hours as her pregnancy progressed. Beau insisted it was time for her to slow down, and though she was hesitant at first, she soon found comfort in the extra time spent at home. She filled the afternoons with nesting—folding tiny baby clothes, arranging the nursery, and making sure every last detail was ready before their new arrival.

Beau, in turn, had committed himself to being present. He kept strict work hours, making sure that once he was home, he wasn’t just physically there—he was there. No more late nights, no more falling asleep at his desk. He made a point to leave the stress of the job at the door, because nothing in the world mattered more than his family.

Each evening was precious. He’d come home to the sound of Eliza’s laughter as she played in the living room, her curls bouncing as she ran into his arms the moment he stepped through the door. “Bo-Bo!” she would squeal, clinging to him like a koala as he scooped her up.

“Hey there, wolf-child,” he’d murmur, pressing a kiss to her head before setting her down to go greet Y/N.

And Y/N—God, Y/N. She was radiant. She always had been, but there was something about seeing her carry their child, watching the way she cradled her belly as she moved through the house, that sent a wave of warmth through his chest every time. She was softer now, more at ease, and it filled him with relief. He’d almost lost her once—to distance, to fear—but now? Now she looked at him the way she always had, with love that was unwavering and sure.

The nursery became their shared project, something they could do together after Eliza went to sleep. Beau had insisted on assembling the crib himself, despite Y/N’s amused skepticism.

“You sure about this, cowboy?” she teased, leaning against the doorframe as she watched him struggle with the instructions.

“I built a shed once, Y/N. I think I can handle a crib,” he grumbled, flipping the page of the manual.

She laughed, stepping forward to press a kiss to his cheek. “Just let me know when you need my help.”

And, of course, he did need her help—half an hour later when he realized he’d put one of the pieces on backward. But Y/N never teased him for it. Instead, they worked side by side, laughter filling the nursery as they pieced everything together.

By the time they were done, Beau stood back, hands on his hips as he admired their handiwork. “Not bad,” he said, wrapping an arm around Y/N’s shoulders.

She leaned into him, her head resting against his chest. “Not bad at all.”

Each night, once the house was quiet and Eliza was asleep, Beau and Y/N would retreat to their bedroom. It was in these quiet moments, under the soft glow of the bedside lamp, that they truly reconnected, no longer sheriff and expectant mother but simply Beau and Y/N—two people deeply in love, savoring the stillness that came with knowing they were exactly where they belonged.

Beau would pull Y/N close, his strong arms wrapped around her as she settled against him, her body warm and soft from exhaustion. His beard had grown back over the past two months, neatly trimmed now, the rough edge of it brushing against her temple as he nuzzled close. He had always been a touch-driven man, and with Y/N, that need was even stronger. His hand would instinctively find her belly, his fingers trailing gentle, absentminded patterns over the curve where their child grew.

“Is the little one movin’?” he murmured against her hair, his voice thick with sleep but filled with curiosity.

Y/N hummed softly, her hand sliding over his as they both rested against her belly. “Yeah,” she whispered. “You feel that?”

Beau went still, his breath catching slightly when he felt the tiny, fluttering kick beneath his palm. He grinned, the warmth of the moment settling deep in his chest. “They’re gettin’ stronger,” he mused, his voice full of wonder.

Y/N chuckled, her eyes still closed as she leaned into him. “Well, they take after you.”

“Nah,” Beau murmured, pressing a kiss to the side of her head. “They take after their mama.”

She smiled, though there was a teasing lilt to her voice. “That’s assuming they’re a ‘they’ and not a ‘he’ or a ‘she.’”

Beau huffed a soft laugh. “You still sure about not findin’ out?”

Y/N turned slightly in his arms, looking up at him with those warm, knowing eyes that always made his heart stutter. “I like the surprise,” she admitted. “The wonder of it. Don’t you?”

He studied her for a long moment, his fingers brushing up and down her spine as he considered. Finally, he sighed, nodding. “Yeah. I do.” His lips curved into a slow smile, one of pure contentment. “Either way, they’ve got a hell of a mama waitin’ for ‘em.”

Y/N reached up, cupping his face, her thumb tracing lightly over the trimmed edge of his beard. “And a damn good daddy.”

Beau exhaled, pressing into her touch. “I can’t wait to meet ‘em,” he murmured. “To hold ‘em. To see who they take after.”

Y/N smiled, pressing a lingering kiss to his jaw. “Me too.”

Beau tightened his arms around her, holding her as close as her growing belly would allow. He kissed her forehead, then her cheek, then the corner of her lips before finally capturing them in a slow, tender kiss—one that spoke of love, of devotion, of the life they were building together.

And as the night stretched on, wrapped in warmth and love, Beau finally allowed himself to believe it. The storm had passed, and what remained was stronger than ever.

They were home. They were whole.

And soon, they would be complete.

The late morning sun filtered through the blinds of the sheriff’s department, casting soft lines across Beau’s desk. It was an easy day for once—no major cases, no looming threats. Just paperwork and the kind of slow, methodical work that came with keeping a town in order. He didn’t mind it. It gave him time to breathe, to settle into this quieter phase of his life.

Y/N had left for her doctor’s appointment not long ago, pressing a lingering kiss to his lips before heading out the door. “I’ll be back before lunch,” she’d promised, rubbing her belly with an affectionate smile. “You behave yourself while I’m gone.”

He’d grinned at her, tipping his hat. “I make no promises, darlin’.”

Now, as he leaned back in his chair, skimming over a report, he let his mind drift to her. To their baby, growing stronger by the day. To the future he was finally able to picture so clearly—marriage, raising their kids, growing old together. He was exactly where he was meant to be.

Then Doris’s phone rang.

Beau barely registered it at first, too engrossed in his paperwork, but the moment she answered, he caught the sudden shift in her tone. The lighthearted lilt in her voice disappeared, replaced by something sharper, something that made his stomach twist before he even knew why.

“Wait—slow down,” Doris said, sitting up straighter in her chair. “Where is she now?”

Beau’s head snapped up, his heart already hammering. He was on his feet before he even realized he’d moved.

Doris met his gaze, her face pale. “Sheriff…” she hesitated, gripping the phone tightly. “It’s Y/N. She was in an accident.”

Everything in the room faded—the sounds of quiet chatter, the rustling of papers, the hum of the fluorescent lights. All of it blurred into nothing as Beau felt the air leave his lungs.

“What?” His voice was low, sharp, controlled—but barely.

“She was on her way back from the doctor’s office,” Doris said quickly, her expression tight with worry. “A truck ran a red light—hit the driver’s side. Paramedics are with her now.”

Beau didn’t wait for more. He was already moving, his boots pounding against the floor as he grabbed his hat and keys. Jenny stepped out of her office just in time to see him rush past.

“Beau—what’s going on?”

He didn’t stop, didn’t slow. “It’s Y/N.”

Jenny’s face paled, but she was right behind him, reaching for her radio. “I’m coming with you.”

The drive was a blur of sirens and speed. Beau barely heard Jenny’s voice as she relayed their arrival to dispatch. His hands were tight around the steering wheel, his knuckles white, his heart slamming against his ribs.

He’d never been this scared. Not when Victor Hanlon had been hunting him. Not when he’d stared down the barrel of a gun before. This was different. This was her. His Y/N. The mother of his child. The woman who had become his entire world.

The hospital came into view, and Beau slammed the truck into park, barely waiting for it to stop before jumping out. He was through the emergency entrance in seconds, his eyes wild as he scanned the waiting area.

A nurse at the front desk looked up as he approached, her expression shifting to sympathy the moment she saw him. “Sheriff Arlen?”

Jenny knew there was nothing she could say to calm him. Beau had been through gunfights, taken down killers, but nothing in his life had ever terrified him like this.

“Where is she?” His voice came out low and sharp, filled with barely contained panic.

The nurse hesitated for a split second, then gestured toward a set of double doors. “She’s in the operating room. The accident triggered premature labor. There were complications, so they’re performing an emergency C-section.”

Beau felt the air rush out of his lungs like he’d been punched. “Complications?” His voice was tight, barely controlled.

“She lost consciousness briefly on the way here,” the nurse explained quickly, “and her blood pressure was dangerously high. The doctors determined it was safest for both her and the baby to proceed with surgery.”

Beau swallowed hard. His entire body felt numb. He couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

“I need to be with her,” he demanded, his voice rough with emotion.

The nurse hesitated. “Sheriff—”

“I need to be with her,” Beau repeated, his jaw clenching, his green eyes filled with a desperate kind of determination. “Please.”

The nurse held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded. “I’ll get you scrubbed in.”

The sterile scent of the OR filled Beau’s nose as he stepped inside, his body encased in scrubs, his heart hammering in his chest. The bright lights illuminated the surgical table where Y/N lay, her body draped in blue surgical sheets. Her face was pale, her eyes fluttering open as he approached.

“Beau,” she whispered weakly, her lips barely moving.

He was by her side in an instant, grabbing her hand, his fingers threading tightly through hers. “I’m here, darlin’,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I’m right here.”

She tried to smile, but exhaustion weighed heavily on her. “The baby…”

“They’re gonna be okay,” Beau reassured her, even though fear clawed at his chest. “You’re gonna be okay.”

The doctor glanced at him briefly. “Sheriff, we’re about to begin. Just focus on her.”

Beau nodded, his grip on Y/N’s hand tightening as the procedure started. He heard the quiet murmurs of the surgical team, the soft clinking of instruments, but all of it faded into the background. The only thing that mattered was the woman beside him.

Y/N let out a shaky breath, her fingers squeezing his. “I’m scared.”

Beau leaned closer, his lips brushing against her temple. “I know, darlin’. But you’re strong. And I swear to you, everything’s gonna be just fine.”

Minutes stretched into eternity. Beau held his breath, waiting, praying. Then—

A cry.

A sharp, piercing wail filled the room, strong and insistent. Beau’s heart nearly stopped before it slammed back into rhythm, his breath catching in his throat.

“Congratulations,” the doctor said. “It’s a boy.”

A boy.

Beau let out a shaky laugh, his eyes glistening as he looked down at Y/N. “Did you hear that, darlin’?” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “We’ve got a son.”

Y/N let out a soft, relieved sob, her lips trembling. “A boy,” she repeated, her eyes shining.

Beau glanced up as the doctor carefully lifted their baby, wrapping him in a blanket before handing him to a nurse. The tiny newborn let out another cry, his little fists waving in the air.

“Would you like to hold him?” the nurse asked.

Beau swallowed hard, his entire world narrowing to the small bundle being placed into his arms. He cradled his son carefully, his breath catching as he looked down at the tiny, pink-cheeked face.

“Hey there, little man,” Beau whispered, his voice breaking. “I’m your daddy.”

The baby quieted slightly, blinking up at him with unfocused eyes. Beau let out a soft laugh, pure love crashing over him like a tidal wave. He turned to Y/N, gently lowering their son so she could see him.

“He’s perfect,” she whispered, her fingers trembling as she reached out to touch the baby’s tiny hand.

Beau pressed another kiss to her forehead. “Just like his mama.”

Y/N let out a tired, contented sigh, her fingers brushing over the baby’s soft skin. “We need a name.”

Beau nodded, gazing down at their son. “What do you think, darlin’?”

Y/N smiled weakly. “You pick.”

He looked at the baby, his heart swelling with something indescribable. He thought of the strength Y/N had shown, of the fight she’d endured to bring their son into the world. He thought of the love he felt for his family, of the home they’d built together.

“What about Caleb?” Beau murmured. “Caleb Arlen.”

Y/N’s smile widened. “Caleb,” she whispered, nodding. “I love it.”

Beau exhaled, holding their son a little closer. “Welcome to the world, Caleb,” he murmured.

As the medical team finished tending to Y/N, Beau sat beside her, their son cradled between them. Relief, love, and exhaustion blended together in the best way possible.

They had made it.

And now, their family was complete.

The steady beep of the monitors was the only sound in the quiet hospital room. The sterile scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, but to Beau, the space felt warm—because she was here, because their son was here.

Y/N lay propped up in the hospital bed, still pale but awake, her hand resting protectively on Caleb’s tiny body as he slept peacefully against her chest. His little fingers twitched in his sleep, his breaths slow and steady.

Beau sat in the chair beside them, one hand covering Y/N’s, his other resting lightly on Caleb’s back. He couldn’t take his eyes off them. The past twenty-four hours had been a nightmare, a blur of panic, fear, and desperation. But now, here they were. Alive. Safe.

“You really scared me, darlin’,” Beau murmured, his voice rough with emotion.

Y/N looked up at him, her eyes soft but tired. “I scared myself.” Her fingers curled over his. “I don’t even remember the crash. Just waking up in the ambulance and—” Her voice caught, and she took a shaky breath. “And realizing something was wrong.”

Beau exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. He had faced killers, had stared death in the eye more times than he cared to count. But nothing—not a single moment in his life—had terrified him more than the thought of losing her.

“When Doris told me…” He shook his head, running a hand over his face. “I’ve never driven so fast in my damn life. And then they told me you were in surgery, that there were complications—” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, his grip on her hand tightening. “I thought I was gonna lose you, Y/N. I thought—”

“I know,” she whispered, her fingers brushing against his knuckles. “I know, Beau.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to steady himself. “I don’t ever wanna feel like that again.”

Y/N’s free hand lifted, cupping his cheek, her thumb brushing over the trimmed stubble along his jaw. “I’m here,” she murmured. “I’m okay. We’re okay.”

Beau leaned into her touch, pressing a kiss to her palm before looking down at Caleb, who was still sleeping peacefully against his mother. “And him?”

Y/N smiled weakly, her fingers ghosting over Caleb’s tiny back. “He’s early, but the doctors say he’s strong. He’s perfect.”

Beau exhaled slowly, his heart aching with love and gratitude. He traced a careful finger down Caleb’s tiny arm, marveling at how small he was. “He is,” Beau murmured. “Tough, just like his mama.”

Y/N let out a soft laugh, though it quickly turned into a wince. “Oof. Don’t make me laugh yet.”

Beau immediately frowned, his concern flaring. “Are you in pain? Should I get the nurse?”

She shook her head, squeezing his hand. “I’m okay, Beau. Just sore. I just need to rest.”

Beau nodded, his fingers tightening around hers. “Then you rest, darlin’. I’ve got you.”

Y/N closed her eyes briefly, her breathing steadying. Beau watched her for a long moment, then gently lifted Caleb from her chest, cradling him in his arms. The baby stirred slightly but remained asleep, his tiny lips parting as he nestled into Beau’s chest.

Beau swallowed past the lump in his throat as he held his son. The weight of him, the warmth—it grounded him. He pressed a soft kiss to Caleb’s forehead, his voice thick with emotion.

“You and your mama scared the hell outta me, little man,” he murmured. “But I swear to you, I’ll never let anything happen to either of you. You hear me? Never.”

Y/N watched him, her heart swelling as she saw the fierce love in Beau’s eyes. “You’re gonna be the best dad, Beau.”

He looked at her then, his green eyes soft and full of conviction. “I learned from the best,” he murmured. “From you.”

Y/N smiled sleepily, her body finally relaxing as she let herself drift into much-needed rest. Beau stayed where he was, rocking Caleb gently, his world finally settling into place.

The storm had passed. And now, all that was left was love, healing, and the life they were building together.

Beau pressed another kiss to his son’s forehead before whispering, “Welcome to the world, Caleb Arlen. You’ve got one hell of a family waitin’ for you.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, everything was exactly as it should be.

Tag List: @spxideyver, @deadlymistletoe, @bitchykittenconnoisseur, @aarpfashionvictim, @stoneyggirl2

@foxyjwls007, @katastrophicmind, @globetrotter28, @deansimpalababy, @daisychaingirl

@nancymcl, @deans-baby-momma, @kickingitwithkirk, @kmc1989, @ozwriterchick

Want to be a part of this tag list or others? Comment here and I'll add you! And check out my other stories that are currently being written!

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harunade · 3 days ago

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i love your writings so much🙂‍↔️🫶now please hear me out -

imagine mafia jiwoong being whipped up for his step sister(😭😭)

(i beg you please write it if you liked the idea😭)

hmmmm mafia jiwoong is something very possible… he’s a very powerful man with many connections so it’s no wonder he has as high of a status.

definitely the type to do everything cold blooded. he only cares about his money, and his mom, as she is the only family he has left. jiwoong would do anything to protect her and to protect his secret from her. after all, you don’t go out in the street screaming that youre the capo of a mafia gang.

and… there’s you. jiwoong wasn’t expecting his mom to remarry anytime soon, but she found a lucky bastard to make her happy, so who was he to oppose his sweet mother’s happiness? the said man was your father.

the first time your older brother saw you, he didn’t pay you any mind. he had a lot to think about, he had people to talk to and orders to give, and you could see his frustration as his face twisted at the dinner table. “hey.. you feeling okay?” you asked him lowly as he was lost in thought. brushing you off, he internally appreciated how attentive you were.

some time had passed and jiwoong’s interest in you only grew. the more time you spent at his house, the more intriguing you seemed. you were always careful, clean and made sure not to be a nuisance. you always wore cute short pijamas that always worked jiwoong up whenever he saw them, but he couldn’t ever admit that. unfortunately for him, jiwoong had grown a soft spot for you. and you did too.

the rare interactions between the two of you became more and more frequent, until you two considered yourself friends, well… more than friends..

one night you two had one too many glasses of red wine and you somehow ended up on jiwoong’s lap, smearing your red lipstick all over your lips. even after the hangover was gone, you could still make out vividly how his soft lips felt on yours and how his hands guided your hips to grind agaisnt his clothed cock. it wasn’t usual for the older boy to mess around with girls, as he considered it dangerous for them to find out, but you were an exception. he was drunk with your kisses, and got under your skin.

nothing happened that night excluding the dry humping that made jiwoong come in his pants, but the dynamic between the two of you surely changed from then on. your little make out sessions continued, and evolved to something else,

jiwoong couldn’t bring himself to fuck you, he would feel guilty as he was scared something might happen to you, so he resorted to eating you out. day and night, you were falling apart on his tongue, as he lapped like an addict on your juices.

—

the day you found out the truth of who your step brother really was, you almost fainted. “do you feel alright?” he asked as your skin got pale and your eyes widened. you couldn’t believe what you heard. the tortuing people, the debts, the under the table jobs, everything… was so weird. strangely, you were mostly worried about him. you didn’t know why, bur your heart ached at the thought of him getting in any way hurt. “are YOU okay? is anyone after you or something? have you gotten yourself into something sketchy?” the guilt and worry was visible in your eyes, and jiwoong couldn’t help but melt at the sight of you. that’s how much aof an effect you had on the previously stone hearted boy.

“don’t worry, princess. nothing will happen to me or to you. i’ll keeo you safe here with me” he murmured before pulling you into a tight hug

#harunade #zb1 hard hours #zb1 hard thoughts #zb1 x reader #zb1 smut #harunade jiwoong #zb1 jiwoong #jiwoong x reader #jiwoong smut #zerobaseone jiwoong

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qwordavoider · 2 days ago

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Fuck It Friday

Tagged by @inawickedlittletown

He is some more of my Dad, Not Donor wip! I am thinking about posting a few chapters of it soon to give myself time to get more of Parting Waves written. Hope you like it!

They waited for the next hour for Connor’s parents to arrive. Bobby had found some children's books on his way back from the cafeteria in the hospital library, so they were taking turns reading to him. He seemed to like Tommy the best because he could do different kinds of voices for all the characters. Since he had the concussion and other injuries to heal from, Liam spent most of the time with his eyes closed just listening.

It was 10:05 when they finally heard rushing footsteps come down the hallway. Two people only slightly older than Bobby came rushing.

The woman he assumed was Connor’s mom had tears streaming down her face as she looked at Liam, then at Buck, then back at Liam.

Liam immediately tried to stand up in Buck’s lap. “Gramma!”

Buck stabilized him so he wouldn’t fall into the table they had put his food on. Connor’s mom stared at them both for a couple of seconds longer before she sobbed, turned around, and ran out of the room.

Bucks couldn’t help but be mad at her with the way Liam’s face fell. He understood that everyone grieved differently, but Liam needed them right now.

Liam then turned an expectant face to Connor’s dad “Grampa?” his voice quiet and sad.

“I’m sorry, I have to go check on my wife. Can you just stay with him?”

In that moment Buck wanted to yell at them, What the hell do you think I have been doing since last night? Your grandson needs you right now! But, he didn’t. He just turned to Tommy and gave him one look. Tommy nodded, Buck was grateful that he seemed to understand that he was asking him to go check on Connor’s parents.

As Tommy left the room, Liam turned to Buck, eyes glistening “bye bye?”

Buck didn’t have it in his heart to try and explain why his grandparents just ran out of the room. He didn’t quite understand it himself. So, he just pulled Liam to his chest so he could hopefully try and get some more sleep.

no pressure tags: @moonydanny @chococara25

#bucktommy #tommy kinard #evan buckley #bucktommy fic #dad not donor #my wips

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yojeongin · 11 hours ago

Text

playing dangerous | k.dy

→bff’s stepdad!doyoung x f!reader

genre: smut, semi-angst, some fluff, forbidden affair, semi-character study

synopsis: summers are meant to be spent having fun with your best friend not fooling around with her step father.

warning(s): ADULTS ONLY, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT! cheating, age gap (not focused between mcs), yearning, power imbalance, massive frued psychosexual theory undertones (that old man won), morally grey characters, alluding to cycle of predation and abuse of power, manipulation, lowkey ageism, doyoung heavy mommy issues (worrying actually), oral (m receiving), cum kiss, fingering, foot play, unprotected sex, creampie, voyeurism.

wc: 15.8k || anthology masterlist || soundtrack || ao3

disclaimer: this is purely fictional; in no way am I condoning this behavior, trying to offend anyone, nor is it meant to place such image on the idol, these are only characters. read at your own discretion.

an: sorry this took longer than expected, im 3hrs late oops. the corporate lifestyle has been kicking my ass so bad (im so fucking miserable) and i wasn't satisfied with what i was going to post last week anyway so hope this is better (hope).

“Are you sure that’s your step dad and not step brother?”

Disbelief was too soft of a word for what you truly thought. When your friend had given you notice that her mother had married her boyfriend of two years (news to you), you had expected the man to be decrepit and gray haired. Not someone not too much older than what you were.

Earlier you had confused him with one of the movers who helped bring in your friend’s and her mother’s items into the new home. You went as far as shooting him a flirty smile while making way to your friend who sat peacefully on the porch swing with a glass of cold lemonade to aid her from this horrid summer heat.

“Yeah…“ she whines, throwing her head back enough to hit herself a tad with the backrest. “He makes her happy. As long as he does, I don’t care how old he is.” She felt judged by your constant questioning. As if she was the one marrying the man. As if she was living through her mother and her decisions to wed someone significantly younger than her. You were the last person she wanted to feel judged by, however could they truly blame your incessant curiosity and shock? Specifically when you never knew her mother was dating. What kind of best friend are you to not be as close as you believed?

Meghan wasn’t the youngest, the woman was sixty and this man looked to be in his late twenties. How could they blame you for your curiosity?

“So how old is he?” You shift beside her, the swing rocking with every move. “He turned thirty in February. She hasn’t had a partner since I can remember, this is good for her.” Her words attempt to convince her more than you, emphasized by the harsh desperate slurping within the empty glass.

Your friend turned 25 in February too.

“Oh wow, so since he was a kid too?” You joke. It doesn’t land.

“Y/n!” She hits your arm, you laugh in return. “What?!” You whine through laughs, this time purposely rocking the swing. “Come on…” It aches like nails on a chalkboard if she thinks about it. Meghan is her mother, she could easily be Doyoung’s mother as well. She knew Doyoung's mother.

“I know what you’re thinking.” She sighs, hands and glass on her lap. “Yes, the age gap is insane but… they’re old enough.” Your friend frowns, another attempt to convince herself and failing miserably.

Raising your hands in defeat, she smiles, continuing her playful acts of harm. “Want a glass?” She offers, you decline, your mind stuck on the beautiful man standing roughly a few feet away from where you two sat. Your head struggles to not turn his way and gawk like you’ve done earlier. It's difficult, you'll find throughout these months.

You knew you shouldn’t be fawning the way you are. After all, he is now Meghan’s husband. Meghan who has treated you like her own child since Pre-K. But God, you couldn’t help admire the way sweat rolled down his face and the way he wiped it away with the back of his delicate hands.

At this moment, you’re not too bitter about your summer plans being halted. Not when he’s noticed your covetous glances and sly grins. Perhaps that's what started it all. Your restraint, pulling him step by step to where you sat. Sweat adorning his face and forcing his hair to frame his beautiful features, glistening in this sun.

A tender smile to the public eye but a reciprocative grin to you, “Welcome girls.” He smiles, wiping his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to pick you up from the airport.” He turns halfway to look at the movers entering the home. “Duty calls.”

He was cliche with his words, yet smooth enough to make your grin widen. Like a white collar in those vintage Hollywood movies. His voice, softer than imagined. He drew you in the same way you drew him. It was bound to happen.

Tina shook her head, a dismissive and polite smile. She covers her eyes from the sun which did not ambush either. Rather, it was a futile attempt to shield her emotions, easily projected onto her eyes. It’s not resentment she felt towards him. Discomfort and confusion for his decisions is.

Doyoung looks at you briefly, as if to say “I suppose we are not there yet?”, answered by your own polite smile. He dismissed it immediately, shaking his head with a slight chuckle which forced Tina to uncover her eyes, confused.

“Will you be a dear and get me a drink?” He asks when their eyes finally meet. If it means that he won’t read her any longer, Tina nods standing up. She’s out of the picture faster than he had asked without a care that Doyoung took her spot next to you.

Doyoung smiles your way, his knee bumping into yours while he settles. You return the smile, looking at the contact. Your legs criss-crossed on the swing and his rocking you both. It’s silent besides the movers and Meghan’s music inside the home. Nevertheless, this feels comfortable, scarily so for a first-time meeting.

“I’m sorry for being the reason you two had to cancel your trip.” Doyoung leans over, elbows on his thighs. His back is on full display, wet shirt clinging to the wide muscles that force your lower lip in between your upper teeth.

Your eyes don’t unglue from him, chills running across your body for such a warm day. You sigh, following a streak and bead of sweat from his temple down to his neck. “It's fine, we didn't want to walk around for hours and see old buildings.” You reassure sarcastically, although the tone deadpans.

“No? But Italy is very beauteous. Meghan recounted, you two had been planning on it as an incentive to get through grad school. I'm truly sorry for the inconvenience.”

Doyoung did not expect to be met with laughter. He was soft spoken, tender, genuinely sorrowful, and a welcoming host. Why must you laugh at him? He’s not too sure.

His quizzical look does not subside, “I was joking, Mr. Kim.” You giggle, wiping at your threatening tears. His eyebrows furrow, yet, folds his handkerchief to a clean corner, doing the task for you. He's so close. So comfortable with being this near to a complete stranger.

“You’re narrowly five years younger than I. Please don't call me that.” He defends petulantly, forgetting about what brought you both to this topic. It sounds insane and dumb to be called that as if he was his father or an old man, he was only thirty.

It is insane and so is marrying a woman who was his current age when he was born.

You hum a response, turning away from him with a slow nod. “Do you always talk like that?” Your voice lures him again, craning his head to look at you. “Like you’re a pretentious liberal arts professor.” It’s lighthearted and mocking at the same time. Your smile slowly forms and he mirrors it.

“My father is a professor. Not for the liberal arts though but perhaps it rubbed off.” “Perhaps.”

He laughs softly in light of your continuing mockery, “Y/n, correct? I fear I haven’t properly introduced myself.” Doyoung shifts in his spot, his body facing you. He extends his hand and you take it. His fingers are nimble and long, his palms clammy but soft, and his grasp is strong but delicate against your own.

Your smile doesn’t falter, thumb caressing his knuckles, an act he replicates against your own. “Yes… beautiful house by the way. What do you do for a living?" You ask curiously, met by a scolding shriek when Tina and Meghan come out with glasses of lemonade, something you did not want. Lemonade and their interruption, it's interchangeable.

"Y/n those things are not asked!" Meghan scolds, handing Doyoung his glass. He laughs, shaking his head while taking a sip. You watch some of it slip from the corner of his lip. He is such an unfortunate person when it comes to liquids, it seems. Regardless, you wondered what it would be like to clean it off of him…

Someone cleanse you of these thoughts, this is forbidden grounds.

"Why not?" You ask confusedly, looking at the components inside the cup. Nothing but murky pulp-filled sweet water. Your emotions present on your face, perceived wrongly by the only man there who felt it was your response to being scolded. "It's completely fine to ask that now, don't worry." Meghan shoots him a look, irksome at the use of 'now'. She doesn't have to wonder what he meant, only in dissecting his tone.

"I'm an aerodynamicist. Right now we're working on finding a solution to reduce the consumption of fuel." His voice is a pitch higher, tossing that pretentious tone to his words, forgetting his drink while fully turning to everyone as he excitedly gets into the topic. "The main culprit —or so we think— is the wings… let's say the wings of an aircraft. Their shape to be specific contributes to th—" Before he could finish, Meghan hums interrupting. Her words later followed, "Yeah, yeah, sounds fun. Dinner is ready so it's best we stop the chit-chat if we want something warm to eat."

Both you and Tina turn to her mother, a quick glance full of judgment and some surprise. She's never interrupted any of you when passionately speaking about your interests, this was new. Tina doesn't dare look at Doyoung though, she simply walks back inside with her still full drink in hand. Meghan on the other hand waits for him to stand up and follow her. His shoulders slumped and head low, a reassuring smile thrown your way but his dull eyes say otherwise.

"We're glad to have you girls here." Doyoung utters with a nod, turning to follow his wife. "Welcome." The only thing that leaves Meghan's lips. At the time it sounded like that, a welcoming. Now you realize she was responding to the expected devout gratitude for taking you in all those years ago and even now.

What a way to introduce their relationship to you. What a way to cement the reality of the dynamics between all.

There was a foreign air after that fateful day, something you had never expected when it came to spending time with your best friend and her mother. This was stuffy and suffocating. You chopped it to the different location, you will soon find it's the repressed feelings of everyone in this house and of those that lived before.

Meghan tried her best to not show her unwillingness towards her husband, yet it was evident to all that she held animosity for some odd reason. No amount of smiles and reassuring pats could tell any of you otherwise but they satiated him and no one would interfere with that.

Doyoung was doting and sweet. He immersed in conversations to learn more about his guests and later rewarded them with things mentioned in passing. This was his way of showing his affection. It became paternal in a way that you didn't like and in a way that made Tina uncomfortable but which she could understand. Odd, extremely so, considering he could easily be her brother. If she was to voice her dilemmas, Doyoung would fully understand. Yet like you've told her before: "If you don't speak, God won't hear you."

To you, Doyoung was yet another guy that could have been in your college classes. He made sure to act like it when he finally got comfortable and that resulted in joking and lax conversations about his interests and yours, similar to the first day. Giggles and lingering touches, too close at times for two strangers. This way he felt young and correct again.

The downside came the following day, going back to that paternal and reserved front as if he was the same age as his wife and not what he portrayed with you. Treating you and Tina like kids and that's what you both loathed about his time with Meghan. She only seemed to suck the life out of him when night fell.

Doyoung pandered to her and was at her feet with anything she asked, yet she still patronized him and shut him down when he spoke of his career and parents. Meghan never outright spoke of it but she loathed when he brought up his parents. She hated the house, the basement, the attic, the garden, and the greenhouse. She hated that damn greenhouse more than anything.

You couldn't understand where her feelings stood. She had a family, a complete family. A loving and providing husband, a daughter that would always be there for her, and an established and stable home that was all hers for the time being. What more could she ask for?

Despite Meghan's and Tina's inability to feel at home, you found yourself to fit right in in every groove.

Your bare feet are met with soft dewy kisses from the garden's grass as you sprint inside the house towards Doyoung's study. Leaving a trail of dew on the wooden floorboards. Meghan observes you from the kitchen island, pursed lips and raised glasses as you turn the corner and to the hall where those dark panel mahogany double doors greet you, brightening with every knock.

It takes three rhythmic knocks for him to know it's you. Uttering a 'come in' with a light hum. Instinctively, you smile to yourself, hand turning the now golden door knob. Not feeling the grooves of mosaic crystal and cold copper makes you frown. So does the untouched silver tray of breakfast.

You step over it when making your way inside, closing the door behind you and leaning against the cold wood when he does not turn around. Sunlight peaks through the large glass stained bow windows, his desk perfectly curved to fit into the space. The decor on the windows are your favorite.

The greens and pinks perfectly project onto his skin, making him look diaphanous. The lilies and hummingbird paint a story of near-to-death flowers seeking ailment before they perish and like the knights they are, the hummingbirds come to their aid to bring them back to life. He explained it in the way his father had, revealing his mother to be the hummingbird and his father to be the lilies saved from the misery he was in. That explains the devout love his parents had, manifested all throughout the house and the one Doyoung sought.

He now finds the story to be the other way around with no happily ever after. There's no salvation this time.

When he finally turns, he greets you with a tired smile, shoulders slumped and neck aching. He slept on the chaise lounge. The uncomfortable and awfully warm upholstered leather chaise lounge that's too short for his height. He's been there the entire day after last night's argument with Meghan over her trying to clear out his mother's greenhouse and build a shed for her crafts room. She's not content with the basement and she is not content with him giving you your individual room.

"Found you some critters." You open, his smile widens when you pull out the worn paper bag he gave you to put them in. Walking towards him, he takes it from your hands, nimble fingers gracing your drying ones. "Found these stiff on the tomato pots." You point at the caterpillars. "This butterfly was stuck to the tree trunk. Is it acting or actually dead?" Doyoung lets out a sly hum. "No… it does seem like it's near death, though." taking the butterfly out of the bag.

He looks at it for a moment, noticing the lower wings are damaged but covered by the upper wings. "There… clipped." He gently moves the upper wings with the tweezers. "Rather dramatic if you ask me. She is fine to fly but a little caring should not be bad." He stands from his seat, knees cracking to indicate his lack of movement. He places her in the terrarium, it hops around seeking the flowers you've helped him pick.

It's silent for a moment, he hums a melody while scolding the butterfly as he feeds her sugar water. You sit on his desk chair, swiveling while drumming around the taxidermy scalpels — A few of these have left some scratches on your fingers. He makes sure to lock his items inside his desk drawers, Meghan has explained her disdain and disgust for his hobby and in fear of her digging through and tossing them like she's done with the taxidermy decor, he takes extra precautions.

"Why haven't you eaten?"

Your voice makes him turn, closing the door to the terrarium. He leans against the table, crossing his arms across his chest and taking a grasp of his jaw. Rubbing it as if he was thinking of an answer. He can't lie to you though, he knows you're able to see through his lies. At least surface level, it's the small things he grants you.

"I don't like omelettes. She knows that." He confesses. "I don't like black tea and that is what's on the tray." Your leg raises, feet now dry but stained with that yellow-green hue. Your cheek rests against your bruised knee while taking in his words. He watches all your actions, biting the inside of his cheek as punishment for looking at your limbs.

"Want me to make you anything?" There's some innocence in your voice that warms his chest. Interlaced with your desire to please. Please, please, please.

He smiles fondly, eyes fluttering, and a warm feeling in his chest.

"Don't coddle me." "Generosity."

He slowly approaches you, rearranging the scalpels you played with. He looks down, analyzing you like you were one of his dissected butterflies. Pretty, soft, and delicate. Doyoung knows it's wrong to think of you this way. He's allowed Meghan to fuck the thoughts away from him but they cling to his brain while they're at it. It's vile and disgusting. The act to be precise.

"Is she still upset about the room?" You look up at him, resting against the backrest. He takes a closer look at your outfit. Denim high rise shorts, white lace short strap top, and red ribbon in your hair that he wrapped around the strands a while ago and you never got rid of. The same one he uses to decorate bigger taxidermy species like the squirrels the neighborhood cat leaves laying on the porch. You want to think it's metaphoric but you sound stupid trying to find a connection despite the words lingering in the tip of your tongue. Fresh and clear on his mind.

"I don't mind taking the attic, it's nice and cozy. Your dad did a good job decorating it." A reassuring smile that he does not accept. "What are you, Harry Potter? It's your room and it's my house." That first day during dinner, Doyoung expressed his gratitude to you for being part of their family. It did not pertain to him, he believed family deserved their own space.

His actions worked to ease and win Tina over even if it was a tad but Meghan felt a stabbing sense in her lower stomach and a scratch in her brain that made a whirling dark orb manifest. It's the same feeling that brews the longer she stands behind those mahogany doors hoping to hear what is said but the whispered mutters and her aged ear drums hand no aid.

Doyoung pulls his footstool, taking a seat before you. His hands trickle down to your foot, picking off the remaining blades that stain his own hands. He looks up at you when he reaches for a wipe, the green stains cling when the fabric graces the arch of your sole.

"It tickles." You state, he hums. Fingers press harder. "Better?" You nod. He looks at you during the ministration, putting your foot down delicately to do the same with the other. You watch his every move and he receives your gaze with a smile when he meets it. "My mom would do this when I would run around the garden. She hated when I left stains on the floors. Said they wouldn't come off but when I would go to sleep she painted over the footprints and re-stain the floor." He smiles fondly, warming up your skin from the cold, damp wipe. His fond touch doing most of the job.

"It sounds like a prank that turned into preservation. Maybe she liked seeing your growth. Meghan marked our growth on the walls of her apartment. I'm sure the landlord has painted over them now."

He hums, taking in the comparison. It's cute, nice and nostalgic but it highlights the passage of time and how mortal things seem around you and the other two. How mortal things around him can be too.

Doyoung is doting and sweet. Soft and gentle, immersing himself in his actions to not hurt the other. You envy Meghan, you're sure of it now.

"You should really put shoes on, I can't keep cleaning your feet." "You have no obligation."

He looks at you the way Mary Magdalene did when washing Jesus' feet. He looks at you like his savior and redeemer, you're not sure why or you haven't been able to fully understand him yet.

He nods, his growing finger nails pinching below your toes. You wince, confusedly looking at him. "The critters will recognize your pattern and their missing friends. Don't cry when you're pinched," He playfully scolds the way his parents used to do; voice lowering upon seeing a shadow come from under the doors. "I won't be able to kiss the pain away." He raises your foot, the action new but comforting to your taste. His eyes don't tear away when his plush lips come in contact with your newly cleaned feet. It's soft, warm, sort of wet but nice enough for you to let your hand reach for where he touches.

This is wrong, plentiful wrong but Adam (Doyoung) will drag you to take a bite of that forbidden fruit if he keeps going.

Something ate away at Meghan the longer she stood behind those thick doors. The same way ants crawled around the food she had made him earlier. That made her aching worse and if she didn't open those doors now, she won't remain sane.

She takes a few breaths in, noise seizing to come through, making things far more unsettling. Decidedly, she pushes through, opening both doors dramatically, taking in the image of her husband and faux daughter. Her eyes waver as her voice wants to do. Impotence and defeat.

Nothing.

"Must you punish me?" She directly questions. Her eyes fleeting to your lax position on his chair, recognizing the ribbon from the decor she threw out and his proximity to you. "You can't knock?" He turns his attention back to his craft, as if he had not been kneeling before you seconds prior. "Rehydration solution, Y/n."

With a syringe, he injects it onto the body of the second butterfly while you wet a paper towel, taking a beaker of solution to the other side of the room. You don't speak, following the steps he's taught you in the process.

"It's my house." Meghan states. "It's my house." Doyoung corrects.

The older woman glares. If looks could kill, the house would be hers once and for all.

"The ants are eating your breakfast." "Oh good, they'll stay away from the peonies."

He smiles to himself, Meghan can't see it but she's sure of it and that irks her more. She turns to your moving figure, handing him a warmer solution to pour in the container and put the critters in. Taking in the interaction, her eye spasms. The green stains on his slacks and your clean feet. She has no proof nor a concrete case but she knows it was nothing decent. Disturbed by the bond, she swallows her huff but not the irking orb that eats away her love for you.

"Y/n, give us some alone time." She bites, her words laced with the venom of the centipede he's wrapping around stiff caterpillars. "We're not done with this." He tuts. Meghan, appalled by his opposition, allows her jaw to slack. Her emotions are rampant and fiery that he would contradict her. That he found it in himself to not slouch his shoulders and go along with her decisions.

Your gaze flits between them, their glaring not seizing. The tension is palpable, leading you to fumble the cloth holding onto the piping hot beaker. You know how hot glass can be but when you're the magnetic pull that's causing this, it's something you don't focus on.

Your shriek forces them to break their combat, that motherly look Meghan often had returns when she sees your irritated hand and the way you fall back onto his chair the moment the scalding solution splashes over your bare feet.

They rush towards you, watching their step over the broken pieces of glass. While Meghan attempts to question if you're okay, Doyoung is already in the process of rubbing Silvadene over the light burn of your palm. She watches in amazement how delicate he is. His fingers grace over the skin, if it wasn't stinging you'd repeat that it tickles. And if his wife wasn't here, he'd replicate the image of soothing your aching feet with kisses.

With every passing second, Meghan feels that obscure orb grow and grow. Her motherly instinct is consumed by it, disgusted queries plaguing her heart and soul seeing him sit on the foot stool and place your feet over his lap. This is how the stains on his slacks came to be. His nimble digits rubbing the ointment on noticeable ailments and on spots you pointed at with minute pained whimper that she'll take as pleasure.

This isn't right. Meghan no longer feels like a mother to you. And this is only one of many instances her feelings are reassured.

Doyoung didn’t want to argue any longer in the dark depths of his cold bedroom. It was amazing how quickly his marriage was falling apart in the span of a few weeks when the two shared a beautiful —so he’s forcing himself to think— relationship. Now all he can do is whisper his grievances to his wife who finds it disrespectful that he’s rebutting her own arguments due to his age.

Meghan will never say it out loud but she respects Doyoung less and expects him to treat her like his superior for said gap, forgetting they were in a relationship and should both treat each other accordingly and not like mother-son; disgustingly.

Said argument is what led a tired Doyoung to sigh heavily on his way out of the bedroom in hopes of relaxation by either watching something in the media room or basking in the night’s breeze while sitting on the porch swing with a glass of whiskey on the rocks or an ice cold beer.

The latter makes him smile fondly.

Decidedly, Doyoung pads towards the kitchen, his bare feet absorbing the coldness of the wooden floors, ignoring his scolding after you burnt your feet. The closer he got to the large room, the sound of his padding mellowed out compared to the rummaging of items. For a second he feared they'd gotten an infestation of mice. It would not be the first time the house had any.

His inquiries were disposed of once reaching the kitchen when he saw such a pretty image that made him relax. And similar to the mice he once fended against years ago with his father, you sat in front of the fridge, feasting, with a bottle of whipped cream at hand. Allowing the sweet dairy to fall upon a strawberry that you indelicately shoved into your mouth without a care that its juice spilled from the corner of your lips and the dairy followed behind, creating a light pink ribbon to decorate your pretty lips the way those glosses you often smear do.

It oddly reminds him of the first day you two met. He looks at you the same way you looked at him. Lingering and foreign attraction, although it's not so foreign now.

It's not right, but you're closer and closer to taking a bite out of that apple.

You don't bother cleaning the cream off, continuing to push the berries into your mouth. One after another as your stomach yearns for more. You could’ve continued, although halt at his endeared chuckle. You're startled, feeling a cold sweat wash through your entire body. If there was one thing you hated was people catching you eating late at night. More so when you're filling your aching body with self targeted disgust and sweets. Like a child, the one he treats you as when the other two are near but forgotten about when it's just you two.

This is what holds you back, the apple seems so rotten and further at times.

Doyoung doesn't speak, walking towards you with a napkin in hand, taken on his way. He crouches down to your level, making you break out of that frozen state. “I’m sorry…” you whisper, eyes following his, seeking any reaction. “For what?” He questions sweetly, hand cupping your jaw softly. Shooting you a quick glance and smile before continuing his ministration.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come down to eat in secrecy.” You swallow hard, a lump formed in your throat with his touch, unaware of when. “I know she doesn't like it but usually she comes up to tell me dinner was ready and…” You shrug, meek voice making his chest compress, he senses unwarranted guilt. As if it was your fault his wife kept using food as punishment.

Meghan had told him you were asleep, not that she didn't let you know dinner was ready and that disquiets him. His eyebrows furrow, other hand reaches your face, softly wiping the strawberry juice with his thumb. Licking it beforehand. Doyoung is closer and closer with every passing day. Just last night his touch lingered in between your thigh and knee, you imagine he'll reward you and slip his fingers between your lips soon. Whichever ones and you won't be opposed to it like prior times.

Doyoung gives you a semi-scolding look, “I've told you before. It's my house, you can eat whenever and whatever you want, Y/n." He pats your cheek, pecking it for reassurance. The action startles you every time. They never feel soft and innocent. Always intentional but when he pulls back and gives you a reassuring smile, it forces you to ponder how much you want his generosity to be more than that? It's wrong, you're aware of it, always will be.

His touch lingers a little longer, fleeting stares from your own eyes to lips as his pads waltz across your skin until he finally finds it in himself to let go. “Still hungry?” He asks, helping you up. Ready to deny, your stomach rumbles loudly, giving you no time to privy it of its rights for yet another day. Doyoung simply nods with a smile, cocking his head to the entrance.

“Put your shoes on, let's see what's open at this hour.” “It’s very late to eat a big meal, Mr.Kim…”

The smile on his lips attempts not to falter at what you call him. Doyoung hated it with his entire soul. You weren't going to seize as long as he didn't seize treating you like Tina, like you're his stepdaughter too. Although, in this instant it's punishment for making you feel so ill and needy.

You want more, you crave more, but you can't have more.

It's odd to you how both can easily bask in the delicacy of tense intimacy and this… disgusting forced idea of a familial relationship at times. Especially when they would intertwine like it is now. You hate him for it sometimes. 'Coward' is what bounces in your head often when his touch lingers just to treat you like he treats Tina when his sick brain tells him to.

Regardless, Doyoung doesn't get to respond or scold, his bedroom door slams and Meghan has reached the kitchen watching as he crouches over you. She sees the dirtied napkin and your red lips. She sees his hand ghosting over your cheek and the (bitter) smile he had falters when his eyes land on her. While with you it was full of fondness and amusement (she believes), disgust greets her. She's been aware of it for a while now.

"Y/n go to your room." She demands lowly, her hands clinging to her sleeping pants. "No." Doyoung interferes, and like that day in his study, Meghan glares at him, offended by his insistence on speaking back to her like a child disrespecting their elders. "Go to sleep." She grits out, turning to you. You stand up, keeping a distance from Doyoung who immediately speaks. "Go put your shoes on, let's go get you something to eat."

Meghan's lips fall ajar. A scoff and slight cackle hearing his words and the soft look he shoots you. "Are you fucking serious right now?" She asks infuriated, walking closer and slapping his hand off of your arm which aided in stabilizing you when getting up.

"She's hungry, Meghan." Doyoung spits back, disgust building in his gaze. His wife shoots him a response with hers, almost saying "That's not my concern." but the words don't leave her for she knows it will push things further. It's futile, Doyoung scowls and his head slowly shakes the longer he looks at her. There it is, that disgust once again and it eats away at her.

"You told me she was asleep. I didn't take you for someone gluttonous." Meghan could only describe the brewing feeling as embarrassment and pure seething rage. Who did Doyoung think he was to confront her like this? Implication full of disgust and hitting her where he knew it hurt. More so in front of the one causing all the problems. With your faux naivety and innocent looks. With that cunning smile you shoot her when around him. Meghan knows what you are, she knows what men like and she's experiencing it before her eyes. Men are weak.

If you were to peak inside her head and heart, that obscure growing orb was nothing but rotting tar.

"Don't be insolent. Don't bring that up in front of her!" She spits out, "Y/n go to your room!" Disturbed by being undermined by two people she deemed lesser than her. Doyoung attempts to stop you again, his grip a bit harsher than before. You look at where his hand is. This is familiar, revoltingly so. You feel like a child in the middle of their parents' argument. Getting pulled left and right until they tear you apart stitch by stitch. It's painful in all senses and when Meghan opens her mouth to yell at her husband, you screw your eyes, shaking your head and freeing yourself from his grasp.

"I'll go. I'll go… I'll go. Please." You repeat like a mantra, hoping your words will make it all end. The latter begging them to not include you, to leave you alone and forget that your existence is brewing something between them.

You always wonder how Tina is able to sleep through this and not wake up from their screaming. They no longer attempt to hide the potency of their vocal chords nor their words. You know they talk about you when the muffled voices take over or when Doyoung tells her to lower her voice while she laughs maliciously about how much of a vile, disgusting, and infelicitous asshole he is. Otherwise, you know their problems stem from their joint resentment about the power dynamics.

When two people want the same thing at the same time, things are bound to burn over.

Doyoung didn't take long to walk out after she called him those names again. Throwing in his face that he's a pretentious brat with nothing worth fighting for. Meghan has found going against his upbringing to be successful in debilitating him. The only downside is that he loathes her more and more and respects her as much as she does him. Very little to null.

Sleep fleets away. Fear floods you with the idea that Meghan was capable of barging into your room any second now and reproach you for ruining her marriage. She doesn't tell you directly and neither do the other two in the house but her demeanor change is more than clear. Her warm smiles are officially gone, cold and resentful glares replace them. And she no longer cares that they call her out for ignoring you.

Her hugs are foreign to you and her food no longer is edible. That love she once poured into her meals is gone with her motherly instincts. It aches, horribly so. You've known her and Tina since you began your academic career. When your parents couldn't pick you up or take you to school, Meghan was there. Summers were spent with them like this one with the exception that they were the happiest memories.

You have Tina, you know that. She's your sister. Although, you would prefer to not see her argue with her mother about you or see them give each other the cold shoulder after. You don't want her relationship with her mother to worsen, that's the last thing you want but you can't control what people feel. You're aware of that, Meghan isn't.

It's 1:00AM when sleep finally comes back to you and you feel safe enough. The comforter brings you the warmth you're lacking but isn't able to fill your chest. Soft lamentable sighs have left your lips all night over how horrid this summer has turned.

A part of you blames Doyoung. His addition has ruined the balance the three of you had. His cowardice of accepting Meghan's punches and seeking her motherly care during those years blinded him of the bigger picture — it's quite obvious now, confirmation is all you needed.

The other part of you accepts that Meghan is a decrepit insecure woman who seeks power and control of anyone that isn't her and that fills you with both anger and hurt, feeling no immense remorse for threading around Doyoung the way you do. You're allowed to indulge yourself from time to time.

Meghan wants puppets, not family.

Immersed in your pity and vexation, you don't notice when your bedroom window opens. The latch closing is what makes you turn around startled. A dark figure creeping through the shadows, tall and slim. Fright replaces the sleep you felt, manifested in an attempt to scream until your mouth is hastily covered with warm clammy hands that you instantly recognize by the bony nimble fingers. Doyoung.

A finger to his lips, shushes you, he sits on the corner of your bed. You swallow, your head spinning and light front the freight he just caused you. When you relax, you shake your head with a silent laugh. "You scared me," 'Asshole' silently balanced on your tongue. "For a second you made me believe Nosferatu was real." You joke, "But that would mean an old hag has been haunting me for ages, and I just met you." He pats your cheek almost condescendingly without saying sorry but meaning it. At least you think he's sorry.

"Here." He smiles — the most he does to entertain you—, handing you a bag you hadn't noticed earlier. That may explain the sweet smell of warm blueberries waltzing through the room to sedate you and make you more receptive to what he offers. "You didn't have to." You protest, he meets it with a shake of his head and raises a hand letting you know to just be quiet and take it. He does it with a smile on his face and it irritates you but it's also very beautiful that you oblige. "Thank you." You croon, a smile involuntarily creeping on your face. He responds to your words with a caress of your cheek.

"I've told you to not call me Mr. Kim before, haven't I?" His words slow down your movement, smile faltering. "Is that not your name?" You quip, giving him a quick glance while cutting the waffle into squares. It's warm and soft, as he is. Unfortunately if it's left in the open for too long, it will harden and rot. As he will.

There's some tenderness in his gaze, muddled with the same irascibility Meghan looks at him with when he talks back to subvert her. It makes your eyebrows furrow while you slowly chew, it's an odd feeling. Unfortunately for you, he's smart enough to read a person and divert the conversation. It so happens to be that he doesn't do it with Meghan anymore because he enjoys seeing her peeved and red.

He's become so cynical. The things marriage does to you.

"Regardless, please don't call me that, you make me feel old." "You are old." Your teasing makes him gasp, jaw slack with semi-offense before ruffling your hair, destroying the braid. You laugh at his actions, successfully forgetting his earlier look.

"I'm only five years older than you!" He whisper-yells, offense still imprinted onto his being. "Then don't treat me like you're much older." Spoken in between laughs, your words do settle in his mind. Doyoung knows this happens often, it disgusts him but at the same time it keeps him morally sane.

Yes, he touches you more than he should. But he balances it out by indulging your childish attributes that make you act bubbly and younger around him.

Yes, he looks at you with rapidly growing attraction and lust. But he balances it by teaching you step by step on how to maintain perfectly taxidermied insects the way paternal figures do.

He understands and feels that underlying disgust. It's self-punishment for thinking about you when he is married despite loathing the woman. His attraction to you is punishment for that alone.

He should still remain a good man. He is a good man.

Until he learns to enjoy the power trip. He can somewhat understand his wife for that.

Coward.

His smile begins to lose its intensity, nodding while getting comfortable on your bed. He's receptive when you feed him squares here and there, making sure to look directly in your eyes when he takes them into his mouth. Lips wrapping around the black plastic fork and lapping at the syrup hiding between the backside grooves just to watch you immediately replicate his actions. It's a soothing dance, ego indulgent to know you take what he gives.

"Listen," You feed him again. "I'm sorry for earlier." He covers his mouth, "For continuing to put you in those situations, truly sorry." His hand goes up to his chest, his wedding band is gone, causing a warm feeling to brew in your stomach, manifested as an involuntary smile on your lips.

You shrug, nonchalantly as if it didn't matter when you knew it did. "Not my first rodeo." You mutter, feeding him the last bit before placing the tray on the nightstand. He looks at you, taking in your reactions and the stuck sigh that you finally release when he doesn't prod.

You never spoke of your own family. It was always Meghan and Tina this, Meghan and Tina that. At the beginning he wondered if they would be preoccupied knowing you were here, meeting a stranger despite being in safe hands. Yet after a month he noticed the conflicting projected emotions on your face when he spoke about his parents and how loving to each other they've always been. He could tell admiration and resentment were bigger emotions you carried. Now it does not surprise him that you're saying this. More so, it's confirmation.

"How did you even meet her, by the way? I just can't think of a scenario where you'd meet a woman like Meghan."

Curiosity and petulance lace your voice. He smiles to himself, taking your hand into his, reassured he was taking the right steps when you reluctantly relax against his touch. "My mom grew up in a house with four brothers. She always felt the need to prove she was as important as them. You know, rough housing, sports, academics, that sort of thing." He shrugs, "Futile because my grandparents loved and supported her no matter what she did. There truly was no difference in their treatment of the five — very progressive, they were. Kind of holistic— she simply made that rivalry up in her head."

You'd ask what any of this had to do with your question, but Doyoung likes to speak, he likes to speak about his parents. Even if it was a simple redaction.

"So she spent her entire life doing things that would put her far away from those related to housewives. Never learned how to cook, clean, gardening was her only token but that's because she was a botanist. My dad did everything else." He laughs, fond memories of seeing his dad in frilly aprons and pink mittens. He chose them, all the decor was his pick. Doyoung only ever lets you use them when you're in the kitchen.

"This was ten years ago, I was visiting them from college for the summer when I found she had created a crafts room out of this room." His free hand points around the walls of your room, wallpaper in a quilt design explaining it all. "She said she was too old to not know basic things like mending a hole in dad's socks or helping him with dinner. That he was getting old and weak too, it was a job for two to get anything out of the oven."

He hums, gaze on your interlocked hands. "So I drove her daily to these classes at the community center. That's when I first met Meghan, she was there to teach the classes. Nothing went past pleasantries and my mom joking about how I'd look good with Tina."

Selfish you are for letting vile manifest and spread through your chest when hearing those words. Tina… Tina couldn't handle Doyoung. They can't even stand to be in a room together without it being awkward. So selfish of you to make this about yourself, squeezing his hand scolding. He takes it with humor, feigning not noticing for the sake of his ego.

"Of course my mom didn't know Tina's age, when she realized how much younger she was, she stopped the jokes. They became somewhat friends, never seeing each other outside the community center to my knowledge. I didn't see Meghan for years after that but three years ago when my mom's Alzheimer's worsened and she had forgotten the difference between toxic versus non toxic liquids, she ended up poisoning herself by drinking insecticide. Later we found cleaning supplies with her lipstick on the mouth. It's at the funeral that I saw Meghan again and she was there for my dad and I…"

You didn't imagine this would take that turn. He always spoke so fondly of his parents like they were still around somewhere. Never said where but still around. You now realize it's their lingering presence around everything here.

"I'm sorry, Doyoung…" He dismisses you, shaking his head and kissing your hand. He's trying to control his labored breathing, warm and harsh against your skin, his hand clammy.

"Dad felt so guilty for it all. He taught about the development of the human brain, did neuroscience studies for the university and certain labs here and there all his life and he couldn't save his own wife. So… he left me too. He left for a study, who knows where and I haven't heard from him since." He smiles, a sort of bitterness that he didn't want to have for his father. Reluctance to accept that it was perhaps more than a trip. "Lawyers came days after he left, everything left to my name on both their ends. Meghan had been the only one to check in on me besides extended family but they live far away, there's not much they could do."

Guilt floods you. Why couldn't you just push back that desire to belittle Meghan more in your mind. The worst part is that your brain won't stop telling you that she only took advantage of his vulnerability. Sweet, vulnerable Doyoung who lost his parents in a span of weeks left to rot on his own with a huge house, assets, and a desire to give and give to anyone willing to comfort him. Convenient.

Doyoung hums, sitting up. The silence helps him admire you, or simply distract himself from this gushing open wound. The braid he destroyed, cascading over your shoulder. Shoulder covered in a thick light yellow lace strap with matching ribbons on the chest. He smiles noticing the small details, he recalls helping you sneak into Meghan's craft room to make that night gown. Fabric and ribbon he took from his mother's stash.

She would like you, he believes so.

"You've made good use of the marigold dye." Doyoung smiles, his hand reaching to touch the strap. His fingers dance over it, letting them touch your skin. It's cruel and mean but very elating. He's been playing this teasing game and unfortunately, it's you who wants it more. From then on, they inch closer to the ribbon. Fingers jumping on every spot and ending on the bow, delicately admiring it.

Truth be told he kept his touch there to feel the increase of your respiration. Chest moving up and down faster than previously. He smiles to himself, almost mischievously when he notices a new item around your neck. "The roses too… my mother would have been so content with you." He giggles, patting your cheek prior to giving himself the liberty to touch the rose beads that form a necklace.

She would like you, he's sure of it.

"Very ingenious, so good." Doyoung hums, his hand trails to hold your neck. You nod slowly, entranced in your humiliating arousal from just his touch. You feel pubescent, frothing at the mouth from one touch. Stupid. He's just another man… a man that coddles and holds you in secrecy. It's the forbidden excitement laced with guilt at how treacherous the human mind and body can be.

Clearing your throat, you look around, avoiding his gaze. "Yes, well, she has a lovely and fruitful garden… Greenhouse too, I found some purple cabbages from the spring season, they'd make a lovely dye." You divert but his touch doesn't fall, his other hand opts to join on your cheek, cradling it.

Instinctively you lean into it, forcing you to look at him. There's no teasing or patronizing looks on his end and you're thankful for it. It's full blown admiration and desire in those dark orbs that pull you closer to him while he caresses you. They allow themselves to rake your face. Every feature but most of all your lips and eyes, longing to land on your pupils as to bless whatever you see. On your forehead to reassure that he is your safe haven as you are becoming his. It oddly reminds you of the looks he gave when cleaning your feet before the accident. Like Mary Magdalene admiring her savior.

Doyoung thinks he is allowed this indulgence for once. He can punish himself after but he can no longer go without tasting your skin on his lips, he feels so famished. Letting out a shaky breath, he softly rises, bringing your head closer to him. Breath labored with every move and warm against your skin when he's mere centimeters from it. Shutting his eyes and pursing his lips, letting them fall on your eyelids.

Velvet and moist, that's how his lips feel. You sigh in relief, unaware you had been holding your breath. His lip travels to the other eyelid, it's quick unlike prior, for he rushes to kiss your forehead, lingering for as long as he can before letting out a content sigh of his own, and a liberated smile. He wants to laugh at how absurd he is being but that would only keep wasting time.

Doyoung is so close to your lips when he decides it is best to take the full risk, however you both hear the soft knocks against your door and the rattling of the doorknob. He can't describe the feeling as freight, more so irreverent wrath.

"Y/n? Y/n why is the door locked?"

Tina.

The man instantly pulls away. His touch burns you both and guilt manifests itself through blown out pupils — your own, not his. Your lips are ajar when he places his finger up to his own, like the way he entered your room and disappears the same way. He says nothing and neither do you, opening the door when he's not in view.

The doorknob continues to rattle until she feels the weight of your hand on it. You sigh heavily before opening the door, looking at her blankly which she notices but does not mention. She never does.

"I heard voices." "I'm watching a movie."

She hums. She believes you. She believes you. She does…

"Why was the door locked?" She asks, concern on her face. When your eyes divert from hers, she can tell something had gone on. You usually enjoy having her know everything about you. That's what best friends do, yet at the moment you loathe her for it. That's what sisters do. That gnawing disturbance of frustration and impotency. The type she's felt this entire summer break.

You simply hum, she giggles.

"How bad was it now?" She now finds humor in knowing she always sleeps through their arguments. It's not so funny to you. "Nothing special, I was in the kitchen when he stormed out then she followed behind and they went at it after I left." She giggles once more. Unsure now if it's because she actually finds it comedic or she doesn't know how to respond.

This is her mother and her happiness they're talking about. This is you, her best friend and your friendship on the line.

It’s not like you can tell her that her stepfather defending you from her mom for the millionth time isn’t pushing her into deeper hatred. It’s not like you can tell her that her mother purposely starved you for the day out of pure unadulterated jealousy because her husband desires you more than her. No, can you? No. Silence and lies will do.

"Hey, did you know how Meghan and Doyoung met?" You ask, looking at where had laid. Tina shrugs, "She told me they saw each other at a coffee shop from time to time and talked since then. She doesn't like coffee though." She shrugs again.

Oh Tina. Willfully ignorant and avoidant. Perhaps the story is right but you're sure that if Tina fully knew her mother had met doyoung ten years younger with baby fat still on his cheeks and younger than she is, her dilemma would only worsen. Coward.

Unlike Tina, Meghan didn't hesitate in barging in after a few minutes. It leaves you and her daughter dumbfounded when the angry look becomes bewildered and disappointed, like she had expected to find something (or someone) to prove her suspicions.

"Mom?"

Meghan acknowledges it with a sigh, "Go to sleep, it's late." Making you both feel ten again at one of multiple sleepovers during school nights. Tina responds with a nod. You, you look at her for any trace of something. There's worry, that's for sure. And there's also anger. Nothing new.

The front door is slammed downstairs, causing Tina to get a startled look on her face that is reassured when Meghan shakes her head, dismissively. She opens her mouth to calm her daughter when a disgusting thought tells you to do the talking for her. She deserves even this bit.

"It's Doyoung, don't worry."

And it's disturbing to Meghan that you spoke her thoughts, word for word while looking at her.

Meghan has gotten her confirmation for the night.

That night had given some clarity to Doyoung. Arguments with his wife seized for the most part and before they could begin, he was out the door for his nightly runs. That's what she believed at least. He tampered with his smartwatch to mark his steps knowing she would look through it.

Reality is that he crept up the trellis to your room. Spending the nights under the covers with earphones in, door locked, lights off, and a movie lulling you to sleep while getting a few whispered conversations in here and there. His lips or yours pressed against each other's ear. It was the closest to kissing you would get at.

When you do fall asleep, he tucks you in. Caresses your hair and kisses your forehead goodnight before crawling back down the trellis and entering through the front door. To continue his reality of being married to a woman that no longer treats him with the care he sought but at least he can provide it for you and that you've slowly been returning.

Doyoung has taken that into account and rewards you for it. The gifts were small at first, snacks that Meghan wouldn't allow into the house, books in your wish list. They later became more intricate. Your personal taxidermy and diaphonization kits (locked in his study), pendants of the critters utilized, a camera to document your process, and the most recent being two chickens and doves.

The animals irked his wife more than anything. She has spent the past two months arguing about tearing down the greenhouse and it only took you a mention of the excess of caterpillars and worms in there for him to bring in the chickens. You looked after them, sure, however the chickens with free range left their eggs and droppings everywhere. It felt intentional how she found them laying on her clean laundry, pecked her if they saw her, and worse off stained all of her fabric. They abhor her as much as she does them.

At least the bleeding-heart doves are lovely to look at despite their cold shoulder towards her. Tina gets a ruffle of feathers, you and Doyoung some crooning, and spooning among each other when it's you and him peering upon them. It's the small things that drive her deeper into her madness.

Like seeing you sit criss-crossed on the plush bright grass. It's dewy again, much taller now than it was before but he promised to mow soon. Right now he's too busy hammering in old nails onto stained wood and footprints —yours and his— to create a coup for the chickens. Not by her demand, no. He'd never take hers seriously, but yours.

"Diaphonized insects are horrid. They're all brown. I think I should give wet species a chance." Doyoung takes your words in, a simple chuckle looking at your pout. Petulant and spoiled. "Y/n, you're not drying them fast enough." He corrects, you shrug knowing he may be right but working with insects has bored you. "Either way, centipedes and spiders look disgusting in those vials."

The chickens flock around you, pecking the ground. Their clucking became louder, frustrated the longer they weren't able to obtain what they wanted. Doyoung gives them a quick glance, a fastidious kind of melody, one he isn't used to. Neither are you according to the stink eye you give them. It's pleasant to Meghan, leaning against the sink with peering bright eyes, it feels like justice for once.

It's a delicacy. Your desperate attempts to calm them down, Doyoung's hammering exasperating the chickens, and finally… A loud and pained screech from you, pushing away the hen that victoriously clucks as it swallows the culprit of your scream. One of the neighbor's centipedes.

Doyoung drops his tools, rushing to your aid. He watches you tumble, attempting to stand, however the aching sting and burn on your foot doesn't allow it. Meghan watches every movement from you both. Your disgruntled whines and moans, his shushes in an attempt to calm you down. Hands clasping around your feet, soothing the inflamed bump in hopes it did something. It didn't, it irritated the wound further.

"I told you the critters would recognize your feet." He jokes, scolding in the process. The stinging is intense enough that waspishly, you huff, pouting his way. "Nuh-uh." You reply, rolling your eyes when he throws in a glare. He shakes his head, finally sitting, his knees aching. Like the day you burnt your feet, he takes your feet in his lap, looking over the wound while your soles leave stains again.

He smiles to himself, an airy laugh as if he was coming up with something, fingers waltzing over the bite. "I told you to put shoes on, I won't always be here to help you." Smile turns into a grin, teasing as he lets his lips fall over the wound.

It stings. The warmth of his own flesh against the boiling fire of yours, it's not pleasant and you make it known. With the exception that it comes out strangled and pleasured. Much to his delight, making his lips part, tongue gracing the area just to add more pain and more pretty sounds to leave you.

It's an erotic image to anyone who experiences and sees it. Meghan feels the boiling pain in her chest, the same way you do on your foot. The only difference is that Doyoung won't attempt to soothe hers. He won't even acknowledge it.

Doyoung is looking up at you with a curling smile, lips pulling apart from your skin, eyes raking the expanse of your exposed thigh when the dress rode up. " Met with a harsh pull, Meghan reaches both of you, hands on Doyoung who stumbles to stand up. It's hard to decipher what her expressions read, all emotions coursing through like a bad acid trip, colors roaming around in a slew.

Anger, disgust, pain, defeat, resentment. It made no difference, it was all negative.

"How do you plan on defending this now, huh?" She asks, wavering voice when she looks between you two. "What could you possibly say to make this look normal, Doyoung?!" Her voice rose, startling Tina who had been in the entertainment room when she heard your scream. Like usual, she opts to remain where she's at. It's no use involving herself when she's known how this would all end since the beginning.

"Sucking the venom out, Meghan. Fuck me, why do you have to make everything so salacious?" Doyoung grits, a tone she had not fallen for years ago.

His speech and tone has changed within these months. He no longer spoke like a poised character, he spoke like you. He smelt like you and his quirks adapted to yours. Doyoung was no longer Meghan's and that's a fact she's finding difficult to deal with. Similar to how parents aren't able to understand the autonomy of a child as they grow.

Frustratingly so, his response made sense to her. She's seen it in movies, she's read about it — so she thinks. Unfortunately for her, this was only a sting, like a mosquito or a bee sting, something that will subside with ointment just like your burns weeks prior. There was nothing to suck out nor was it recommended.

"How convenient." She scoffs. Meghan hated how upset she was. She knew this was bound to happen and why she kept her relationship hidden from you for the past two years.

Meghan knew your interests, knew your beliefs, and knew you her entire life. She knew how drawn everyone instantly is to you and woefully, she knew Doyoung would be one of those people too. She was proven right the first day when she saw him approach you on that swing and converse so easily. Touch you so easily…

It never got better as the days went by. Why was it so easy for him to cave and give you a room? A room meant for her hobbies. A room meant for hobbies, as his mother had wanted. Why did he allow you into his study without hesitance when she could only remain for five minutes or so? Why did he have to please you by offering dinner? It's been a while since he's taken her out to dinner. Yes, it was wrong of her to privy you of basic needs but earlier in the day she had seen you so content in that stupid greenhouse and understood fully why he kept refusing to tear it down besides grief. You kept it alive just like his mother did.

Her jealousy doesn't outweigh her disdain for being undermined. Like a person working night and day, loyal to one job for years on end and aging throughout them to be replaced like nothing by a new set of fresh meat. A kick to the rear and a big "Fuck you, you're no longer useful and too old for us to care about your opinion." That's how her relationship with Doyoung felt when he met you.

When they started dating, Doyoung sought her sweet reassuring words and pet names. Her gentle touches and pats when he did a good job. Her comforting food and the affection she gave Tina. It was pleasant, she knew what he wanted all along and she was more than willing to give it to him as long as he reciprocated her own desires. Surrendering control and devotion.

Those things no longer belonged to her. His devotion shifted to you —she's witnessed it on multiple accounts— and control is his again. That's one way of looking at things. He moves her and Tina into his home, doesn't let her make any changes and instead rubs it in her face that you adore the house and its quirks. His house and his quirks.

If everything reminded her already of his parents, it now reminds her of you too and how much more power ghosts and a child have rather than her.

Meghan scoffs and huffs every now and then while rebutting his arguments. He mimics them to show her how absurd she is being. It's a never ending cycle they've grown comfortable with but that needs to stop. This isn't what either signed up for when they legally bound their love. If you can even call it that, it's more than clear both were pitifully lonely and disturbed.

"Are you even hearing yourself, seriously?" Doyoung sighs, offended at the implications she kept throwing at him. His thoughts may be vile and depraved when it comes to you but he's punished himself enough. Meghan doesn't seem to understand that while he now recognizes he never did love her, rather sought the affection of a mother, he was bound to honor those vows.

But he was only a man and men are weak.

Meghan has double the years of experience he does and she knows that if you ever stop seeing her with those same eyes Doyoung once saw her with and which Tina is bound to by the universe's request, and gave him free reign, he'd take the opportunity without a thought.

"No, are you hearing yourself? Better yet, do you see what you do?!" She glares, "You enable her to do whatever she wants. Parade around my home as if it was hers. Make a mess of the floorboards, lock herself with you in that stupid study, for what? Your disgusting bugs? Really, Doyoung it's odd how much time you two spend together, you don't even spend that time with your own stepdaughter, neither of you have spent time with Tina. She’s supposed to be Tina’s best friend."

Doyoung felt his frontal lobe develop for the second time in his life. Stepdaughter… Fuck, he was only thirty with a twenty-five year old stepdaughter. Does anyone see how disturbing and odd this fucking is? No, he definitely cannot stay in this for much longer.

"And you know what? Jesus, you're acting like a fucking brat yourself." She scoffs. "The longer you spend with her, the more immature you become. Genuinely, what use was it for your parents to give if you're going to act like a child." She shrugs.

"Don't even bring my parents into this, fuck off." Doyoung disturbed glares at her. "Don't fucking do that. It only seems that way because you hate when anyone is better than you. Smarter and secure than you, get a grip, Meghan. Don’t forget that I’m closer to her age than yours. I’m allowed to be childish, remember that… Don't fucking bring them up ever again."

He was right but that's exactly what she hated most.

"Honestly Meghan," Dumbfounded, Doyoung sighs, hands rubbing upon his face exhausted. "You've known Y/n longer than me. If you don't plan on trusting me, at least trust her. What kind of mother are you if you can't offer her that?"

His tone quickly twisted into condescension, the sheer feeling of being talked down upon by someone who knows nothing about life irking her furthermore and the slight consideration that gnawed at the back of her head was ultimately consumed by that twisted rotten tar in her soul.

"Well she isn't my daughter is she?" Meghan spews without thinking. "She's not my fucking daughter. Not by blood, not metaphorically, nor by law. Tina is my daughter and you know what my daughter doesn't do? Throw herself at my shithead of a husband like any other hussy does!" Her hands meet with his shoulders multiple times, abrasive like every word. No regard that those words were loud and clear for you who remained on the grass and Tina in the entertainment room with the TV on full blast. No longer able to hide and ignore like she's done all along.

Doyoung doesn't mind the contact or the harsh words towards him. What he does mind is her rejection of motherhood. Yes, she's correct to an extent, however how harsh must one be to deny the impact their motherly doting has left on a young and impressionable child? He has fairly understood your restraint and guilt after each encounter is interlaced with your respect towards Meghan and now all he can think about is how that shattering reality will affect you.

Will affect him…

It's disgust and resentment that meets Meghan— she takes it with pride. It's empathy that meets you when he turns to face you. Seeing the instant heartache aflame in your eyes and through the cracks of your chest.

Pity is what you take it as. Disturbed by such, you stand up, the walk of shame towards that stupid greenhouse his wife detests so much. A soft shut is what makes him turn back to Meghan, disdain so palpable that Tina can feel it as she peers through the window. Relenting to the reality she's been trying to avoid these months. It's odd to be a background character in something that affects her directly. She knows there's more to come and when it's done, she'll have two options, only one right answer.

Her mother or her best friend… her sister.

Their words are muffled on the further end of the greenhouse. You imagine this is what Tina would hardly hear in her slumber and it was nice to an extent. You've always admired her discipline. You can't say you admire it now, many of those arguments could have been prevented if she spoke up about her discomfort towards her mother dating a man near her age, a man that sought the affection she was given. A grieving man.

Tina was disciplined but she was also a coward just the way Meghan wanted her to be. The way Meghan wanted all of you to be. Fearing yet adoring her. Devout like a disciple to their God.

Meghan was nowhere near a God. She was closer to a pathetic haggard with no accomplishments in life besides her daughter's, living vicariously through her. She attempted to do the same with Doyoung and it may have worked for a while. She soon realized that she couldn't do such a thing with someone that's always had more opportunities than she's had.

Doyoung had two loving parents his entire life. Just like you.

Regrettably, they weren't able to be near him as much as he would have liked them to be due to their career. Just like you.

However, they provided no matter what — even in the after life — and it showed throughout the house and the love he still holds for them. Their presence is felt in the grooves of doorknobs she replaces, the carvings on the wooden doors she plans on modernizing, the stained windows she'll break, the chips on the kitchen island she will fix, the garden with horrid flamboyant flowers that are eaten away by pests, and that ghastly greenhouse with plants that pretentiously have to mean something.

There's no grasp of control in a house that is meant to exude security, love, and reassurance. No grasp if she's not the one to plant that seed.

Fortunately for you, the house welcomed you in and now you don't care how much you rub it in her face. This was meant for you and if she thought of you as the complete opposite of what she's groomed you into, you'll let the entire world know that Doyoung and everything she wanted to obtain is yours by prophecy.

"How's your foot?" The soft voice that greets you nightly approaches you, his warm fingers taking your shoulder, spinning you around and forcing the pen in your hand to drop. The solemn look on your face and the exaggerated pout makes him sigh, your shrug forcing his touch away. "Better."

Doyoung nods as a response, approaching and taking you in a tight embrace to reassure you that it was all going to be okay, that Meghan was nothing but bitter and defeated.

"I'm sorry…" He whispers against your hair, leaving kisses here and there. Your sigh, tightening his embrace. "It's not you who said it." You expel, burying your head in his chest the way your doves do. He kisses your head again, reward for such a sweet action.

"But it's my fault she did." "It doesn't matter now."

Doyoung peels away as much as he can without breaking the embrace. His eyes search yours for a hint of sadness, however all he can see is fiery anger and vindictiveness.

His hand takes your cheek, both warm and soft. "It does..." He hums, "You know it does." Eyebrows furrowed, concerned with how easily you've given it up. He knew you'd be upset but relent is not what he expected. No, he does not like this.

You pout, grip on his torso tightening to leave the feeling of your touch lingering for as long as it could. "It'll pass."

Doyoung truly didn't know how to fix this on his own, it's not his duty to do so either. Yet, the last thing he wanted was to see you upset over the words of someone so vile who did not deserve any strong emotion conveyed. Prior times he was able to pacify you with his gifts or embraces, nowadays it's been a bit harder.

"Will it?" "It has to. I'll have time to mourn later."

Mourn.

Doyoung thinks about the last time he allowed himself to mourn. He wonders if you'll follow in his footsteps and ignore it, falling in the embrace of a rancid older person who will only take advantage over the loss of a profound relationship. He doesn't want you to do that, you should seek comfort in the arms of someone who can oddly comprehend you despite the hierarchy being completely different.

It should be him.

Decidedly, Doyoung leans in, like that first night in your room. His lips don't linger above your features or your lips like last time. This time he dives in, taking your lips into his in a slow and tender kiss. You reciprocate it instantly, holding onto him for dear life, afraid to be tossed around once more.

Your lips part slightly, seeking air although inviting him further in. Doyoung moans into the kiss when your hands creep under his shirt, they're peculiarly cold for such a hot summer. Alluding to the death that floods you from Meghan's rejection. He can tell you're replaying her words over and over every time your kisses get hungrier. Tongue overlapping his and savoring him further. Fingernails raking his smooth pale back. He'd be glad to parade those pink streaks, it's the least he could do.

He wasn't far off. It's interesting how easy one can hate someone they've loved for so long. All you had in mind was punishing Meghan for what she just said. She's killed you. She's killed that little girl that looked up at her like a mother. Mother's are supposed to be nurturing and kind. But like she's said, she doesn't owe it to you. You're not her daughter, never were.

Cruel, cold, and a bitch she was. You could be that too, you've become aware of it with every cold shoulder and scowl from her. You'll be what she truly sees you as if that'll make her happy.

Men are weak, you've known this too. She's taught it to you. So why not start proving it with her husband? Giving him that chance everyone knew he awaits.

Your hands warm up the longer they roam around his torso, ripping the buttons off his shirt. He doesn't seem to care, not when it's a piece Meghan made him. "Will you make me feel better, Doie? Will you help me forget? I think we both need to forget?" You whisper against his lips, his labored breathing mixing with yours, chasing your lips as a response.

He whines like a pet being denied a treat, teased and laughed at. To satiate him, you peck his lips, nipping them and earning another whine, pleased this time. He nods fervently, his own hands grasping your body, making sure you're here with him.

Swollen lips leave open mouthed kisses along his jaw, trailing to his throat. Nipping softly at the taut skin. He hisses and gasps here and there but he never pushes you away. He takes what you give, just like you.

Thankful for such, it's time you take a bite of that apple, rotten and all.

Doyoung groans when he feels your teeth cling to his Adam's apple, fingers pressing into your own skin. His body is now cold, similar to how your hands were at the beginning, it's infectious but delicious. He needs more of whatever you give him. Greedy, greedy, greedy.

It's easy to read his mind, the way those eyes look at you, ten times more intense than before. Enough to push you into creating a trail down his torso, similar to the stream of sweat that clung to him that first day you met. This felt nice against his cold skin. The warmth of your mouth and delicacy of lust intermingled into making his groin harden. You notice the need, fingers clumsily toying with the belt buckle until it's gone.

You tease here and there, fingers clinging to the hem of his underwear, scratching above his pubic hair and making him hunch over, only stopped by the feeling of your forehead on his exposed torso, purposefully giggling to have your breath tickle his greedy skin.

"It tickles." He utters, looking down at you with blown pupils. You smile, looking up at him with wide eyes, pressing your knuckles into his skin. "Better?" You question, he grins and nods.

You use his shirt as a cushion underneath your knees, it's futile and barely aids but it's better than bare concrete. Seeing there was no use to taunt him any longer, your fingers crawl within his underwear, grasping the phallic in much need of attention. He hisses feeling your grasp, it's soft but firm, tugging him out brusquely on purpose. He liked that.

Doyoung pants, attempting to control his breathing. It's been so long since he's been touched, any time Meghan attempted he was flooded with disgust and self hatred, pushing her off when she aimed to at least kiss him. He could live with it, believing his sex drive had died before you came into the picture. But with you around the house and him 24/7, it was becoming very difficult to do anything about his increased sex drive.

"You're so hard… When's the last time you had any action?" You ask casually, hand rhythmically rocking against his shaft, thumb collecting any drop of pre-come to smear against him. He's reluctant and embarrassed to answer but your sweet smile is so convincing that he responds with a guttural moan.

"I see." You hum, kissing his tip as a reward, eliciting another moan. Masturbating in the shower was not enough. Sometimes Meghan tried to get in there with him and it would make him flaccid immediately. It seemed the only times he could ever relieve himself was in the comfort of his study. His favorite times when you and Tina took advantage of the pool and sun bathed with his research papers in hand. That excited him most, the image of you in a skimpy swimsuit in front of his window and reading his thoughts on a subject you couldn't care for as much but would take just because it was made by him. You took anything he gave you.

The memory alone made him twitch in your hand, a giggle leaving your pretty lips. Like this, he would get so much harder like this. "I get it, Doie. I won't stall any longer." You relent, leaning further to take him in your mouth. The damp and warm cavity force a moan out of his own, holding onto your hair as he throws his head back. Fuck, he's been craving this for so long.

Doyoung feels his ears ring. His own breathing along the squelching of your throat floods them. He thinks this is heaven, although he doubts an act like this would allow any of you in. Right, it wouldn't. Not after you both submit to the temptation of forbidden fruit. But it's better this way, what fun is there in being a garden when you can't have what makes you feel good? Even if it is a sin.

He relishes in the feeling of your mouth around him, head bobbing on its own despite your free hand giving him permission to push as much as he wants. Your tongue swirls around his cock, pressing firmly against the veins and dancing around the rest. It tickles, but he's sure you're aware. It is your favorite game after all.

He looks as pretty as the first day you met him. Beads of sweat rolling down his face, forcing his hair to frame and emphasize those pretty features of his. His ragged moans sound like those of an angel, pushing you further down his cock. It feels suffocating, he's not as girthy but he is long and it makes it much harder to push through. Even so, you want to be good for him, you've always wanted to be. This forces you to push through, gagging a few times but persevering until your nose hits his pubic bone.

Doyoung feels elated at this new found feeling. Your throat is so tight and warm, it feels like a reward for all he's endured. Sadly for him, it's torn apart, gifting him with an image of you teary eyed, gasping for air and a mixture of come and spit threading you both. He couldn't think he could get any more hard but this image alone makes him spurt pre-come onto your chin.

You give him a quick glance, smiling sweetly at him. "Close?" You ask, "You can come in my mouth, Doie." You utter, leaning in to take him in. He closes his eyes feeling your mouth around him again, dizzy and seeing stars. He feels the breeze enter from the windows of the greenhouse, whirling around you both. He finds that his body is no longer cold, it's scorching as yours.

Doyoung didn't think he could be so overstimulated before coming, it may be with the fact that he hasn't been touched for so long or how one of your hands clutches his into your hair, yanking to feel arousal from the sting. He swears can see a bead of your wetness roll down your leg when he looks down at you, cursing and bucking forward.

It hurts, you won't lie but that is exactly what made you keep taking him and pulling back out. The strain against your throat elating until he finally took it within himself to do as you wanted. His jutting forward with a harsh grasp on your hair, fucking your face and forcing you to gag while one of your hands plays with his testicles, only pushing him to go faster. Your other hand pushing aside your soiled panties and playing with your clit. It's a slick sticky mess, uncomfortable at best but the feeling alone does enough for you.

Doyoung mutters curses here and there. Pretty words too which you receive with moans that make him increase the pace. Both of his hands are on your hair when he finally feels himself spill in your mouth. His moan is so loud you wouldn't doubt that anyone outside of the greenhouse could hear him. You squeal, taken by surprise and also feeling yourself suffocate. Even when he's still inside of you, some of his come spills from the sides of your mouth, rushing out like water from a broken dam when he rips himself apart from you.

He feels out of it, trying to calm himself after such an intense orgasm as you are. Head thrown back, gasping for air without spilling any come still in your mouth. When you think you're stable enough, he helps you up. Kissing your soiled cheeks and licking his lips to savor himself. The image makes your pupils dilate. Taking himself in like it was melted ice cream, without a care. No one is as receptive to taste themselves but he was.

You hadn't come yet, and this image only made you want to reach that high more and more. Doyoung cluelessly smiles at you, appreciative of what you've done. It's wiped away when you take his face into your hands, kissing him. Instinctively, his lips part, allowing you to push his own cum into his mouth from yours. He's taken aback but weirdly aroused.

Narcissistic, egocentric, or whatever anyone wants to call it. It does not change the fact that Doyoung immediately hardens at the taste of himself mixed with the taste of your spit. The sweet tones of the lingering chocolate you two ate with the saltiness of his orgasm. Similar to a disgusting and corrupted salted caramel dark chocolate. It's not for everyone but it is meant for you two.

Hastily, he helps you up on the data table. Pulling down your wet panties and rubbing them along his hard and aching cock. He moans into the kiss, ragged and needy while he jerks himself off to increase the feeling. His tongue mingling with yours, swirling his come around both your mouths until it becomes warmer and lesser.

Fingers intertwined in your hair, tugging to hear more of you. Desire to hear more and more leads to shaking nimble fingers to trail the inside of your thighs. He smiles into the kiss feeling the scorching warmth within. Claiming and begging to be touched. He's no cruel man, not all the time at least, so he grants you this reward after all the ones you've given him.

Slowly, his ring and middle finger enter you easily with the slickness he's caused. The intrusion causes you to moan against his mouth this time, giving him the advantage to nip your tongue. It doesn't take Doyoung long to allow his fingers to move within you, pumping relentlessly to hear your pretty sounds. Guttural with the remaining come you two interchange.

You've always thought he had pretty fingers, since you met. Purposefully scraping yourself and staining your feet with grass to have him touch you. Nimble, long, and delicate enough to curl within your walls and cause a shiver down your spine. With the length, it doesn't take him long to reach your sweet spot. His pistoning motion and curl forcing cries and withering beneath him. Doyoung isn't as cruel or sadistic but this… he can understand why sadism exists.

Your legs don't seize to shake, a sheer layer of perspiration coating your body and face. He needs to let you finish, he just has to. It's not long until your body gives out, you need this or you'll probably pass out on this table alone.

But Doyoung allows himself to indulge that sadism he's contemplated for the past few minutes – enjoying his contradiction on cruelty. Halting his moves and ripping his hand away, taking the last drop of remaining come into his mouth to greet you with a cheshire grin as you look at him in surprise and betrayal. Every nerve in your body stings you left and right, punishing and taunting you for the lost glory.

"What the actual fuck?!" You gasp, looking at him, panting harshly with a body ready to explore from heat and desire.

He doesn't respond, letting the come and his spit trickle down to his glowing red cock, slacks and underwear pooled around his ankles. Now that his mouth is free, he chuckles. "Had to save some for lube." He shrugs, positioning himself between your legs. He kisses your cheek reassuringly, rubbing the come around him until he pushes within you. It feels different than his fingers and your mouth for the both of you. Surely, nothing will ever be as good as the actual thing.

Doyoung doesn't move just yet. Allowing you to get comfortable while he contemplates on whether you should leave the red gingham dress on. It's too pretty and he was there when you made it. Meghan had hated when you told her he allowed you to use his mother's machine and fabric. She hated that you were taking over her on her own craft.

Hm… yes, just for that he'll let you keep it on.

"Come on, Doie… Fuck me as hard as you can." You lean in, whispering against his ear, biting his earlobe. That was enough incentive for Doyoung to begin thrusting. It's slow but hard at first, setting the pace. It doesn't take long for him to quicken it, increasing your moans with it. You hold onto him tightly as he pounds into you. So deep into the pleasure of being full again that neither of you speak.

Legs pushed wide open against the table, his glute muscles flexing with every hard stroke. He kisses you here and there, licking away the beads of sweat from your neck like a starved animal in need of more.

The taste of your skin drives him insane, nipping and licking until he reaches your breasts. Pushing down the fabric of the dress to take one into his mouth. Engulfing it, harsh suction that leaves you wanting more. His teeth aren't as kind to your nipples but you don't mind as long as he is well fed. As long as you're able to please him.

"You feel so good, Y/n… I won't ever be able to get enough of you." He pants, thrusts hardening, hips swiveling to get closer to you, enough that his pubic bone creates friction against your needy clit. That intensifies the feeling that pushes you further into an orgasm. Doyoung feels it when you squeeze around him and moan his name like a mantra, pulling at his hair like he's done to yours.

"Please… I've been good. Please, let me come, Doie." You beg, implore. You couldn't handle it any longer. He's come once before, when this is finished, he'll have two orgasms. Yet all you have is aching, an overdue orgasm that will knock you out soon if you don't release it.

Pretending to ponder your prayer as he harshly pounds into you, lips consuming yours. Tongue gracing yours in search for a sliver of his come's taste still lingering within you. It's not as evident as before but he eventually finds it, smiling into the kiss and nodding.

"Let it go, baby." He croons, shushes leaving his lips as he keeps fucking you. His permission setting your body free that each thrust makes you feel so sensitive and it's not until he reverts back to those initial harsh and deep thrusts that you squeal and moan loudly. Clinging to his body for dear life while your legs spasm and come around him. The image sends him into his own orgasm. Feeling your body tremble against his while you cry out in pleasure from something he's caused. It's beautiful and if possible, he'd have you as the main piece with those pretty red ribbons you love so much on your hair, surrounded by his taxidermy as the main attraction because you're precious enough to preserve.

The thought peeves him but he won't dwell, not when you still feel so warm and good around his spent cock.

"Has she ever made you come this much?" You ask between giggles, looking at the pool of cum seeping into the wooden table and dripping onto the concrete floor. Doyoung groans remembering his reality. "No. I don't even touch her, why do you think there's so much?" He glowers, shaking his head in the process. "I don't want to think about her. Not now… with you so pretty and open for me." He grins, leaning in for a kiss.

You hum against his lips, wrapping your arms around him. "All this come for me?" You question sweetly, faking naivety, he nods, a light chuckle. "Only you have made me feel so alive and hot." He utters, burying his face in your chest, kissing your tits slowly.

A content sigh leaves you, eyelids fluttering, a malicious grin when you look forward.

There she is, five feet away with a dull and dead look on her face, Meghan.

"I bet."

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