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joelscurls · 2 years ago

Text

best kept secret

pairing: dbf!Joel Miller x f!reader

words: 6.7k

summary: In an attempt to keep your relationship secret, Joel agrees to a blind date set up by his best friend / your father. You don't take it well.

warnings: 18+ minors dni, pre-outbreak, age gap (reader is in her early 20s, Joel is 36), secret relationship, angst, explicit smut, oral (f!receiving), unprotected piv, semi-public sex, car sex, creampie, some fluff; lmk if I missed anything!

a/n: so sorry it took me almost a month to post something new ffs - life got busy and my inspiration simultaneously disappeared. but we're back, baby! anyway, dbf!joel owns my ass, so here's my rendition of him. as always, ty to my baby @javisashtray for reading this over for me and helping me through the creative process <3

Joel’s bedroom window offers a perfect view of the sunrise; of shy, pink light creeping over treetops and the roof of your dad’s house across the street.

It’s gorgeous — breathtaking, even — maybe because you can count on one hand the number of times you’ve actually seen the crest of morning. You’re far more privy to late nights and sleeping in as long as you can push it, never been one to be up with the lark, so to speak.

You don’t mind the early wakeup call, though, not when it’s this: Joel’s head tucked between your thighs, his tongue rolling lazily over your clit, your eyes still adjusting to the light as he spreads you open for him.

He’s humming against you, his coarse beard tickling soft skin, thumbs dug into muscle to hold you in place as your back bows reflexively off the mattress. He looks so sweet like this, so eager to please, staring up at you with blown pupils.

“C’mon baby,” he purrs. “Just gimme one before you go.”

They’re the first words he’s said all morning, the first thought that’s necessitated utterance. His voice is hoarse and deep and drips honey-sweet at your core.

Even so, despite how badly you want to — because you always want Joel’s mouth on you — you’re not sure you can.

Because you need to get home before Denise next door leaves for her early shift. Before Susan a few houses down takes her dog out for a walk.

Before the neighborhood wakes and somebody sees you leaving Joel Miller’s house. Or worse, before your dad catches you slipping into the house in yesterday’s clothes, your car in the driveway still cold.

But with another experimental flick of Joel’s tongue, you forget all that, a content little sigh slipping past your parted lips, betraying you.

Just one, you tell yourself, and then you’ll head out.

“Fuck, okay — yeah,” you breathe, twisting your fingers into the roots of his curls.

With your permission, he buries his nose in your mound. Licks at you again — with more purpose, this time. One long, drawn out lap followed by another.

He’s so gentle with you, so careful, caressing your folds with his tongue like they’re made of paper. It’s a dizzying juxtaposition to the way he laid you down last night and fucked you, teeth scraping your neck and cock bruising your cervix.

You’re still sore, your walls tender where he stretched them, but your pussy is drooling nonetheless, surely making a mess of the bedsheets underneath you.

Because you’re insatiable when it comes to Joel.

For the past few weeks, since the first time you’d found yourself in his bed, you’ve craved him. Regardless of how sated he’s left you each and every time, you’ve needed more.

It’s dangerous and stupid and undeniably wrong, having a fling with your dad’s best-friend. But you’re finding it difficult to consider the morality of it all when just his tongue makes you come harder than any other man’s cock ever has.

That tongue, now dipping into your apex, drawing more slick out of you as his thumb finds your swollen clit — It’s overwhelming how good it feels, how good he is at this.

He’s bringing you to the edge languidly, savoring the taste of you, the feel of your silky flesh. It’s like he doesn’t want this to be over, needs to stretch the moment as far as it’ll go, milk every last second before you slip from his grasp.

But it’s going to end soon; it’s inevitable with the way he’s laving your pussy, the crushed velvet of his tongue gliding through your folds so wet and warm. Your orgasm is building, and you’re powerless to stave it off any longer.

“Joel,” you warn, his name a high-pitched whine.

“Shh, I know babygirl; it’s okay.”

Two of his fingers hook at your entrance and push in, pacifying you as his thumb continues working your clit. “I got you. Let go for me, sweetheart.”

The soothe of his voice floods your senses like nitrous; renders your body loose and your head foggy. You come apart with a string of shattered breaths, eyes rolled back and fingers twisted into the duvet.

Joel talks you through it: that’s it, pretty girl; so good for me; always so good for me, and though he sounds so far away, his words are the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

The world comes back into view slowly. Air settles in your lungs. And you can’t help but laugh at how fucked-out you feel when you peer down at Joel, his gaze already locked on you, expectantly.

“Okay?” he asks, rubbing at your inner thigh.

“Yeah,” you exhale, corners of your lips pulling taut. “More than okay.”

He smiles back at you. Props himself up with hands planted either side of you on the mattress and hovers over your feeble form.

“Good,” he whispers, dipping his head down to kiss your forehead, your nose, your mouth. He licks into you, letting you taste yourself on him — a little sweet, a little bitter — and his lips are so soft that you nearly melt. “Did so good, angel.”

You want nothing more than to spend all day in this bed with him. Return the favor a few times over. Learn what he looks like in the afternoon sun against the backdrop of navy blue sheets. What he tastes like after his coffee rather than before.

“I don’t want to leave,” you admit against his mouth and he frowns, taking one of your hands in his. He presses a kiss to each of your knuckles, one by one, his eyes never straying from yours.

“I don’t want you to either, darlin’. But you can come back tonight, yeah?”

Tonight. Hours away. A whole day between now and then. But it’ll have to do.

“Tonight,” you repeat. Solidify it.

You slink home just as the street lights dim.

The house is quiet when you enter, apart from the incessant ticking of the grandmother clock in the living room. It sets off a throbbing in your head, a dull pang right at the front of your skull that you massage with two fingers as you ascend the stairs.

You move cautiously up each step, wincing at every creak of old wood. It must take minutes to reach the second-floor landing, and then you’re tiptoeing past your father’s room, listening for signs of sleep behind the seal of his door. Sure enough, you catch it, a single, drawn-out snore, loud enough that you let your feet fall, shuffling the rest of the way to the bathroom across the hall.

You immediately crank the shower on, climbing in as soon as you see steam. Lathering your skin with citrus-scented body wash, the smell of sex washes off your body and down the drain.

The warm water soothes your sore muscles; bittersweet relief. You stand there until the stream grows icy, stepping out and toweling yourself off just as you hear the familiar blare of your dad’s alarm on the other side of the wall.

By the time you’ve dressed and made your way downstairs, he’s already in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee with his back to you.

Sink empty, counters borderline sparkling, a coaster tucked under his warm mug — your father is a neat man. He does not take kindly to mess.

God forbid, anybody disrupt the sacred balance of his home; move something and forget to put it back, break something of his that should be kept intact.

“Hey.”

“Hey, kiddo,” he yawns. Turns to face you. “You were up early. Heard the shower going.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” you lie.

“Something on your mind?”

Heat blooms across your chest and up your neck. There’s no way he knows — you’ve been far too careful. Still, you’re on edge, and the question lodges itself between your ribs uncomfortably as you frantically search for an answer.

“Uh, n-no,” you stutter. “Just work stuff, I guess.”

He seems to buy it, reaching for the percolator and re-filling his mug with a sigh, “Just gotta give it time. You only just started. Plus, it’s your first job out of school. They don’t expect you to know it all right away.”

It’s good advice, if not misguided. You nod as if you’re absorbing it, taking it straight to heart. As if your mind isn’t preoccupied.

You grab a mug from the cabinet. Fill it with coffee and creamer. Perch yourself at the breakfast table and take a slow, steadying sip.

The caffeine has just about seeped into your bloodstream when-

-there’s a knock at the door.

Your dad shoots you a puzzled look, one which you immediately return. Who could that be, so early on a Wednesday morning?

And when he pushes open the door to reveal none other than Joel, you just about fall out of your chair. Your nails absentmindedly dig into the wood of the table in an attempt to brace yourself.

“Oh, buddy — hey! Come on in,” your dad says, patting him on the back as he steps over the threshold. “Wasn’t expecting you.”

You grasp the handle of your mug like a lifeline. For a fleeting moment, you worry the ceramic will shatter in your hands.

Joel is dressed — blue cotton t-shirt covering his broad back and the deep, red scratches you left there when you dug your nails into skin, your legs hiked over his hips and your face tucked into his chest.

The pair of boxers peeking over the waistband of his jeans are different from the ones you pulled off of him last night, the ones he shimmied back into before you slept cradled in his arms.

He’s a different Joel here, now — your father’s friend, your neighbor — not the man who breaks you down with his tongue or the one who calls you his good girl while you take his entire, throbbing length.

No, this Joel, standing in your kitchen in the presence of your father, has never betrayed him. Hasn’t tasted his friend’s daughter or felt the tight embrace of her wet, warm cunt around his cock. This Joel is reliable, honest, not one to do harm.

You do not desire this Joel, cannot. You must look at him with apathetic eyes. Must keep the boat of your longing at bay.

Easier said than done. It’s as if your desire for him is a feral beast, fed by his touch and left starving in its wake. You feel like you’ve just run a marathon, sweat beading at your collar as you not-so-subtly follow the subconscious flex of his hands, the bunching of fabric over his biceps.

His voice bounces off the backsplash, and your fingers tighten around the handle of your mug.

“Yeah, I uh — I went to make myself coffee and realized I was out. Was hopin’ you might have some to spare?”

He can’t be serious. He came over for coffee? He couldn’t get some on the road?

“I’m afraid she took the last of it,” your dad’s eyes point to you, and you ignore the burn of Joel’s gaze when his follow.

“Ahh,” he says. “‘ts okay. I’ll grab some on my way in.”

His fingers taptaptap on the edge of the countertop, bottom lip tucked between his teeth like there’s something else. Another reason he came here.

And then you spot it — your wallet, dark red leather, poking out the top of Joel’s back pocket.

You must’ve left it in his room before you hurried home. Somewhere amongst the mess of trinkets and trash on his dresser. You half-remember dropping it there last night as he’d kneeled in front of you and peppered kisses up the length of your leg.

Thankfully, your dad is oblivious as ever, giving Joel the perfect opportunity to inconspicuously slip you your wallet when he turns around and crosses the kitchen, placing his empty mug in the sink.

Joel sidesteps once, twice, extending his arm and snapping it back as soon as you have the wallet in your grasp.

Your father clears his throat. Spins to find Joel exactly where he was. “I’ve been thinking,” he starts, wrestling a slice of bread out of the bag and dropping it into the toaster, “I gotta set you up with this co-worker of mine, Deb.”

Joel freezes. You watch as the color drains from his face and his large hand anxiously cards through dark curls. You’re pretty sure you freeze too, breath caught somewhere in your throat until your dad turns to you and you remember to exhale.

“You know Deb, right, honey?” he asks. You mentally flick through the rolodex of your dad’s coworkers.

There’s Leanne, tall redhead, hosted a potluck a few months back at which you tasted the worst mac & cheese you’ve ever had. And Barbara from accounting, who he got into a heated argument with over who makes the best BBQ in the city. You only remember her name because he hadn’t shut up about how wrong her opinion was for a full week.

This woman actually thinks the Smoke Shop has got better ribs than Lou’s. I said to her, Barbara, your taste buds must be absolutely torched.

But Deb? You don’t recall a Deb. Still, you’re pretty sure you hate her, just in hearing her name in this context.

You shake your head, no.

“Well, I guess you haven’t seen her in a while. She was there that day I brought you into the office.”

“When I was ten?” you retort.

“Yeah, I guess it was that long ago, huh?”

You shrug. He returns his attention to Joel. “Anyway, Deb – she’s around your age, just got divorced about a year back, and she’s a real nice woman. I think you two would really hit it off.”

“Is that so?” Joel replies. You swear his voice wavers. If your dad notices, he doesn’t say anything.

“You’ll like her Joel, I promise. I mean, when’s the last time you went out with a nice lady? Not since – what was her name — Jean? And if things were going well with her, I’d hope you’d tell your old friend.” The toaster pops, and he retrieves his slice of toast. Grabs a butter knife from the utensil drawer.

“No, I ain’t seeing Jean,” Joel sighs. Flashes you an apologetic glance as your dad slathers his toast in artificial purple jam, blissfully unaware.

“Well, you gotta get back out there!”

Joel’s gaze rolls to the ceiling. “I don’t know – I’m just not real interested in datin’ right now.”

You exhale, then — a quiet declaration of relief that seems to go unnoticed — unperturbed even when your dad continues his pitch.

I’ve known this woman for years Joel, I’m telling you, the two of you’d be the perfect match; she’s a looker too, real pretty.

Ew. Tuning him out, you check the clock, find that you only have a few minutes before you need to get going. You stand from the table and make your way toward the sink with your now-empty coffee mug in hand.

Would I ever lead you astray? your dad is asking just as you brush past Joel. His hand, idle by his side, catches the fabric of your blouse and you have to fight to ignore the pinprick of electricity it ignites under your skin.

“No, I know,” Joel grumbles. “I trust your judgment ‘n all, ‘ts just-”

“Will you just give her a chance?”

“Jesus; fine.”

The mug slips from your grip, falls into the sink with a clang.

Your dad glares at you, expression softening only when you gesture to the still-intact ceramic lying on its side in the basin.

He’s quickly distracted, then, jotting a series of numbers down onto a scrap of notebook paper, the blue ink pressed in so hard that it’s beginning to bleed through.

“Atta boy,” he drawls, sliding it across the counter. Joel pinches it between two fingers, folds the paper without looking at it and stuffs it into his front pocket.

“Promise you’ll give her a call tonight? I may or may not have already talked you up, and I need to know you’re not gonna make me look bad here.”

Joel has to see you staring at him out of the corner of his eye. He must. If looks could kill, he’d be six feet under already. But he’s refusing to meet your gaze, eyes glued to the cabinet directly in front of him as he nods. “Yeah, I’ll call her tonight,” he says, a small, unconvincing smile pulling at the corner of his lips.

He’s actually agreeing to this?

You need to get out of here before you say something rash.

The anger bubbles in you slowly, then all at once, threatening to boil over as you slip on your shoes and sling your bag over your shoulder.

Marching toward the door, you offer a half-hearted bye, not bothering to look back before you leave.

The office is already milling with people by the time you stroll in, ten minutes late.

The conversation between Joel and your dad is still running laps in your head as you sneak past your boss’s door.

It sticks there through the morning and well into the afternoon, your dad’s words an incessant earworm: I think you two would really hit it off.

The thing is — you can’t blame Joel for saying yes to the setup. Not really. Your situation is complicated, messy, bound to end badly.

Maybe he’d be happier with Deb.

They could take walks together, stroll through the grocery store or down the street hand-in-hand. Throw dinner parties and shamelessly gush about their relationship to their friends. All without fear of being caught doing something wrong.

Because that’s what this is, you and Joel — it’s wrong. Not like you weren’t already well aware of that. Leave it to some woman you’ve never met to rub it in.

The day passes infuriatingly slow.

The pile of emails in your inbox only grows larger by the time you’re due to clock out, stack of reports on your desk barely touched. You wince when your boss stops by your cubicle on her way out, eager for an update.

“Sorry, Linda; a couple of these were more time-consuming than I’d hoped,” you lie. But you can tell she doesn’t buy it, not one bit, her expression souring as you shuffle through papers.

“I need these done by the end of the week, no matter what.”

“Of course,” you mutter, face heating with embarrassment. “I’ll get them done and on your desk by Friday.”

“Thanks.” Her heels are already clacking on tile when you open your mouth to apologize again, your sorry lost to the ether.

You gather your things and scramble to your feet as soon as she’s out of view, not sticking around to watch your computer power down. By the time you get to your car, Joel’s number is already dialed on your phone.

He picks up after two rings.

“Darlin’ — are you okay?”

It’s admittedly uncharacteristic for you to call him so early. You usually wait until after dark, when you’ve both retreated to your respective bedrooms, away from listening ears.

But this can’t wait. It’s been eating at you all day, digging into your work. If you don’t talk to him about it, you’re going to end up unemployed. You don’t bother to ask if he’s still on the job site, around other people. “You’re going on this date.” It’s not a question. More of an accusation.

“Baby,” he sighs. You try your best to ignore his molasses drawl and the way it seeps into your chest.

“Why didn’t you say no?”

“How could I?” he groans. “There’s your dad, askin’ me if I’m seein’ someone, sayin’ he’s already told this lady about me – what am I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know.” Your voice comes out a whine. “Make something up. Tell him you’ve taken a vow of celibacy.”

He laughs, low and breathy on the other end. “Yeah, baby. Think he’d believe that one, f’sure.”

“Fuck,” you huff. “I just— I don’t-“

You want to tell him not to go. To cancel. Fake his own death. Do whatever it takes to get out of this. But you have no right, not really. The two of you aren’t dating. You don’t have any control over what he does or who he sees. And you don’t want that, no. You just want him to choose you.

“I don’t wanna go, darlin’. I really don’t. But if I do this, I think it’ll get him off my back for a while. He won’t have a reason to suspect that I’m foolin’ around with his daughter.”

Fooling around. His phrasing is a metaphorical punch in the gut.

It’s not exactly a lie. You haven’t put a label on this thing, whatever it is. It’s been purely physical: lips slotted to lips, tongues pressed together, swapped sweat and saliva. But hearing it reduced to two words, words with such a casual connotation — as if you haven’t been driven by overwhelming desire — makes your stomach churn.

Joel doesn’t seem to clock it when you go quiet, a cocktail of rage and sorrow sloshing around your insides. “It’s for the best,” he adds, a shot of hard, burning liquor.

“Yeah,” you say defeatedly. Choke back the pathetic tears that creep up your throat. “For the best.”

He ends the call with the excuse of bad cell reception. Promises to talk to you later. You’re not sure that you believe him.

The phrase fooling around curls up in your head, a wet dog, its fur dripping into the crevices of your rattled brain the entire drive home.

You dodge Joel’s calls for the remainder of the week.

There’s no use in talking to him when you have nothing to say, when you know any words you attempt will be overtaken by tears.

Even so, it doesn’t stop him from trying. His number lights up the screen of your phone at least twice a day.

He leaves voicemails that you do not listen to. You can’t. The last thing you need is his syruppy drawl in your ear. You’ll break; you know you will.

So instead, you delete them. Rid yourself of temptation.

But you still ache for him — a devastating truth. You lumber through the days, bones heavy with hurt. Find yourself kept up at night by thoughts of Joel and the infuriatingly soothing timbre of his voice, the intoxicating callous of his fingertips against your soft skin.

It’s a lonely thing, yearning for Joel Miller.

On Friday, your father beams at the dinner table. He’s grinning like a child as he stuffs a forkful of rice into his mouth.

“Joel and Deb’s date is tomorrow,” he says. “Think they’ll really hit it off, don’t you?”

You’re dumbfounded for a long moment — can’t believe that this is your life now: being asked about your thoughts on Joel and the ever-elusive Deb as a couple. When it takes too long for you to answer, your father’s fork stills pointedly on his plate, and you sputter.

“Oh! I mean, I don’t know. Like I said, I don’t remember Deb.” You can’t help your condescending tone. Your dad doesn’t seem to catch it anyway.

“Well,” he says, “I think they’ll be a match. Hoping so, anyway. The man has been such a hermit lately — maybe if he has a lady, he’ll get out more!”

“You sound real excited,” you grumble. Stab four peas on the prongs of your fork.

“It is exciting. I’ve never set anyone up before. And the best part is, the place they’re going to — the Tavern — it’s got rooms you can rent out for wedding receptions. Just imagine if down the line, they got mar-“

“Dad,” you stop him. You think you’ll be physically sick if you let him finish that sentence. “Sorry, I just — I’m really tired, all of a sudden. I think I’m going to head to bed early.”

It’s not a complete lie. You’re emotionally exhausted as a result of the past couple days. Sleep sounds like a much-needed, blissful escape right now.

Your dad doesn’t question you. He just nods. Swipes your plate from in front of you and brings it to the sink along with his.

Of course, you find it impossible to actually drift off that night. Tossing and turning, you battle the glaring urge to get up, slink into the home-office and look up directions to the Tavern.

Not that you’re planning to go there anytime soon — you’re just curious. That’s all.

Around midnight, you give up, pad down the hallway and into the room parallel yours. The computer dials up slowly, and you chew your bottom lip as you wait.

You snatch a piece of paper from the printer and a pen from the #1 Dad mug that sits next to the monitor. Click on the internet icon and type the words into the search bar.

This is definitely a bad idea. Maybe the worst you’ve had in a while.

You jot the address down anyway.

Downtown Austin is buzzing with life.

Patrons spilling out of bars, tourists striding down the street in their brand new Stetsons – it almost distracts you from the task at hand.

At just past seven, you’d told your dad you were going out, meeting a friend for drinks. He’d been a bit taken aback, seeing as you’re not very social these days, but he’d seemed happy. Relieved.

That’s not what you’re doing, of course.

No – in reality, you’re turning into the parking lot attached to the Tavern. It’s packed to the brim with cars, but you still manage to find Joel’s truck, its license plate number burned into the back of your mind after countless mornings of absently reading it as you snuck past.

It’s idle and empty when you inch by, and even though you knew he’d be here, on this date, your heart still sinks. Because maybe a tiny part of you had hoped he’d stand Deb up.

You should leave. It was stupid to come here in the first place. What are you going to do — storm inside and demand that he leave with you?

You consider it for half a second, groaning when you realize how pitiful you are. Defeated, you swing your car into a spot at the back, facing the building, and shift it into park. You hug the steering wheel dejectedly.

From here, you have a straight-shot view of the restaurant’s entrance, a set of double doors at the side of the building. Groups spill out every so often, every pair that emerges causing your back to arch reflexively.

Joel and Deb are probably discussing their interests right now, bonding over a shared connection with your dad. You can vividly picture the smile likely plastered across his face — the same one you’ve elicited with sweet filth whispered in his ear.

And you’re here, sitting in your running car, watching the door. Your pulse thumps obnoxiously loud in your ears.

Minutes pass like molasses, slow and thick. You watch the clock on the car radio obsessively, betting with yourself on what time they’ll leave. After thirty minutes of nothing, you’re convinced that they’re going to close the place out.

But then the door opens again, and you straighten up, immediately met with the sight of Joel and Deb.

She’s talking animatedly, eyes widening every few words, blonde hair wafting around her narrow face. It’s undeniable that she’s stunning, even from far away; possesses the kind of beauty you see on magazine covers in line at the grocery store. The jealousy that pools in your gut burns like acetone in an open wound.

She takes his arm as they walk toward the parking lot, and he lets her, despite the rest of his body appearing strangely rigid.

You wonder if he’ll take her home. Lead her to his truck, help her up the step to the passenger seat and sneak a look at her ass under her dress before shutting the door. If they’ll leave her car in the lot for the night, come back to retrieve it in the morning once he’s helped her forget about her loser ex-husband; let the scent of her perfume seep into the bed sheets to cover up yours.

But he doesn’t lead her to his truck. You watch as they unexpectedly turn down a row of cars, disappearing from your view completely, his arm still locked with hers.

He could still kiss her. Press her against the car. Promise her that he’ll call — and he will, first thing tomorrow. He’s probably just being a real gentleman. Treating her like a woman he might want to marry someday.

Maybe he knows, after just one date, that she’s his soulmate. He’ll buy the ring in a couple weeks. They’ll be engaged in a month’s time, and he’ll say he just couldn’t wait any longer.

She’s the one thing I’ve been missing.

You stew in the agonizing unknown for what feels like hours before Joel materializes once again, backside illuminated by headlights as he strides toward his truck.

And then — he stops. You see the exact moment he notices your car in the parking lot, his eyebrows threading together and his hands splaying over his hips.

He’s staring directly through the windshield. At you.

Fuck.

He takes a few slow steps. Stops in front of the hood. Narrows his eyes and flexes his jaw.

With a deep breath, you unlock the doors. Gesture for him to get in the passenger side.

He immediately rounds the car, prying the door open and climbing inside just as a SUV pulls out the row he and Deb had walked down.

The door slams when he yanks it closed. The sound echoes through the cab of the car.

“You wanna fuckin’ explain what you’re doin’ here?” he snaps. You’re afraid to look him in the eye, embarrassment and now, anger, spooling hot behind your ears.

You know you’re in the wrong. You shouldn’t have followed him. But does he have to be so hostile?

When your gaze finally meets his, he looks — distraught — jaw clenched and lips set in a straight line. His fingers absently dig into denim-covered thighs.

“I don’t know,” you mumble, “I just wanted to see how you were with her.” And it’s the truth; not one you want to be admitting right now, to him, but it’s the truth nonetheless.

“Doesn’t give you the right to spy on me.”

“So what was I supposed to do? Sit at home and mope while the guy I was seeing is on a date with someone else? Oh no, I’m sorry,” you throw your hands up, form air quotes with your fingers, “the guy I was fooling around with.”

This seems to strike a nerve. His jaw twitches, and his fingers still on his lap.

“It wasn’t like that,” he grits

“No? Isn’t that all this was to you: fooling around?”

There’s a beat. Joel sighs.

“No — fuck, no. Of course not.”

His expression softens. A crack in solid stone. “I tried callin’ you,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

“I know,” you admit.

He nods. Another beat.

“Did you kiss her?” you ask.

“No.” He says it with intent, with promise, eyes firmly locked on yours now.

Your mouth goes dry.

“No?”

“No,” he repeats. “I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t want to.”

“You don’t want her?”

“No,” he says flatly, his pupils bulging in the lamplight, black bleeding into the brown of his irises. “I don’t want her.”

“Why not?”

He leans forward. His weight presses into the center console and his breath fans your face — warm, tinged with the scent of cheap beer.

“I don’t want her,” he says, voice an octave lower, “because I want you. I thought you knew that?”

The radio drones between the two of you, some classic rock song you think you recognize flitting through the speaker. Your pulse beats staccato in your throat, off tempo.

“You want me?” you ask, a little breathless, and the next words you say are beyond dumb, beyond reckless, but you say them anyway. “Prove it.”

Joel doesn’t hesitate. He closes the slight distance between you and kisses you, hard, his tongue frantically sliding against yours through parted lips.

It’s sloppy, and desperate, and you feel drunk on the taste of him, on longing laced with carnal need. He’s groaning into your mouth, grabbing your head with both hands, burying his fingers in your hair — as if he can’t get close enough, as if he’ll only be satisfied once he’s swallowed you whole. You’re pretty sure you want him to.

Your hands move frantically to his t-shirt, then, bunch into the fabric and pull. You need to feel the skin underneath, need to rove your hands along his bare chest. He accommodates, tugging the shirt by the back of the collar, lips separating from yours ever-so-briefly to bring it over his head and toss it onto the backseat.

And then he’s back on you, licking into your mouth again, eliciting a whimper from you when his hand wraps around the side of your throat, just under your jaw.

Your palms splay across his torso, wander over warm, golden skin. You’ve missed this, god, you’ve missed this — but it’s still not enough. You need to feel more of him. In your mouth, in your hand, in your cunt — you’re not picky. Just need him in whatever way he’ll provide.

“Joel,” you whimper into his mouth, fingers winding around his bicep.

He pulls back. Peers at you through hooded eyes. “What is it, baby?” he asks through labored breaths.

“Need you — please.”

He immediately unbuckles your seatbelt. Lowers his seat back and manhandles you onto his lap. You go easily; slot yourself to him with legs folded on either side of his thighs.

Wrapping your arms around the back of his neck, you grind down into his lap. His cock strains against denim underneath you. He groans when you swivel your hips and brush the heft of it again with your clothed heat.

“You gonna let me fuck you?” he asks into your mouth, his forehead pressed to yours.

Your breath catches.

You know what he’s really asking: are you going to let him fuck you here, in the parking lot of a public establishment, where anybody could see?

But you don’t care. In fact, you’re way past caring, the emptiness of your cunt too painful to ignore any longer. Let them watch him take what’s his.

You nod frantically. “Yes,” you pant. “Please.”

Joel nods too, as if he’s accepting his fate. He’s going to fuck his friend’s daughter in the passenger seat of her car. There’s no way around it — not when you’re begging for it. He’s going to give you what you need.

“Okay,” he soothes, “I got you baby.”

He helps you out of your pants, then; clumsily maneuvers them down and off your legs along with your panties and tosses them aimlessly into the back.

He doesn’t bother to take his jeans off. Lets you unzip them and pop the button open, your nimble fingers making quick work of it. And then you’re pulling his cock out of his boxers, stiff and leaking in your grasp.

You steady yourself with hands on his shoulders just as he begins to pepper placating kisses along your neck. “Go ahead baby,” he whispers into your ear. “Take it; it’s yours.”

His head falls back against the seat as you stroke him a few times and line his cock up with your dripping entrance, his hands clasped around your waist.

You sink down slowly, savoring every inch of him as he burrows in deeper. He’s so thick, stretching you like it’s the first time again, your walls fluttering as they relax around his cock.

“Fuck,” Joel slurs, fingers digging into your skin impatiently when you still, fully seated on him.

“Gotta move baby — please move.”

He’s so fucking deep, though, his cockhead bumping your cervix, and your entire body feels gelatinous atop him. A cloying sort of heat hangs around your head. You swivel your hips weakly, your forehead falling to rest on his with a heavy sigh.

Joel is happy to take control, bucking up into you so hard you see stars. You can’t suppress the string of moans that spill from your mouth, and Joel doesn’t seem to mind. He’s just as loud, anyway, his broken sounds bleeding into yours, bouncing off glass and leather.

Neither of you can muster an actual word, though, not with him rutting up into you, sheathing himself in your pussy over and over again. He’s relentlessly hitting that spot — the one that has you practically clinging to him for dear life.

It’s approaching too quickly; he’s going to make you come.

One of your hands flies to the roof of the car in an attempt to brace yourself, flat palm pressing into it so hard you worry it’ll pop.

Joel takes the opportunity to drag you down in his lap, spearing you on his cock, and the sudden change in angle makes you cry out.

“Oh f— ahh, oh my—“

“That’s it,” he coos, “you got it, babygirl.”

His words tip you over the edge, your entire body locking up as you gush around him. You’re wetting his lap, slick splattering his thighs, and he loves it, his fervid moan telling you so.

His movements begin to falter then, hips stuttering underneath you as he chases his own high.

“Cmon, baby,” you goad, “please fill me up.”

He grunts when he spills inside, his face nestling in your chest, heaving as he works through it and begins to come down. You don’t move, not that Joel would let you, still holding you on his lap like he’s afraid to let you go.

You nuzzle into his embrace as his cock softens inside you.

You stay like that for a while, probably too long given that anybody could easily look into the car and see you straddling him. You don’t have the energy to care.

Eventually, you lift your head from its spot on Joel’s chest. Look up at him with bleary eyes.

“Joel,” you say.

He meets your gaze, face shiny with sweat and his hair a mess. He looks gorgeous like this, you think. The way only you get to see him.

“Yeah?” He grazes along your arm with featherlight fingers. His touch raises goosebumps on your skin.

“Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?”

“About wanting me.” In truth, you’re not sure you want the answer. But you need to know, definitively, if Joel is yours. You’re done sharing him.

“Oh, baby,” he drawls. “Of course I do. You’re all I want. Do you want me?”

And it’s a stupid question. He has to know that. You’re nodding before he can even finish it. “Yes,” you breathe. “I want you, Joel”

“Then it’s settled. It’s me and you. No more…interlopers.”

You giggle. Reluctantly separate yourself from his body and re-dress. You settle back into the driver’s seat with achy legs.

You’ve never felt more content than you do in this moment.

Still, you’ll have to hide — won’t be able to share the news of your new relationship with friends or coworkers, your dad — and neither will Joel.

You don’t care much, not as long as he’s yours, but you need to be sure he feels the same.

“Joel,” you stop him as he opens the passenger-side door to get out. He stills with one leg swung out the door.

“Yeah, darlin’?”

“Are you sure you don’t mind…being a secret? Don’t mind keeping me a secret?”

He looks at you like you have two heads.

He pulls his leg back into the car. Shuts the door and leans over the console again.

Taking your chin between his fingers, he forces your gaze. Makes sure you’re listening.

“I want you — doesn’t matter who knows or doesn’t know. Long as you’re mine.”

Your chest tightens, and your heart squeezes inside your ribcage.

“I’m yours?”

He smiles. Presses a chaste kiss between your eyes, on the tip of your nose, on your lips. The same way he did the other morning.

It all feels somehow sweeter, now.

“Yeah, angel. You’re mine. My girl.”

end notes: tysm for reading! please consider commenting and/or reblogging if you enjoyed! I've been toying with the idea of turning this into a series so lmk if that's something you'd be interested in hehe.

Also, I hopped on the bandwagon and made a sideblog for notifs! I'll be doing away with a taglist from here on out, so follow @joelscurlsupdates & turn on notifications if you wanna be notified when I post a new fic :-)

tag list: @janaispunk @amanitacowboy @fhatbhabie @frannyzooey @lola8888673

#joel x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #dbf!joel #joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal fanfiction #tlou fic #the last of us fanfiction

7K notes · View notes

heegyukeluv · 9 months ago

Text

the devil wears prada (sjy)

pairing: idol!jake x afab!reader

synopsis: As Sim Jaeyun stepped out of Prada’s after party, everyone ignored his goodbyes to the sea of paparazzis, because the buzz was about the lucky person who got to disheveled his hair. Jake’s honest answer for that was: the devil. And she for sure wears Prada.

my's note: i love how everyone saw Jake’s after-party photos and thought the same thing (i'm everyone). disheveled hair jake after-party prada that’s all. and i just realized i don’t know how to write a quickie lol enjoy <3 (please take into consideration this is a work of fiction, this doesn't represents the artist's image)

warnings: SMUT - so minors DO NOT interact!, protected sex, oral (f. receiving), cum eating, quickie but not really, public (?) bathroom sex, mirror sex, reader is quite dom with jake (i can't help myself), mention of alcohol. lmk if i missed something!

wc: 5.4k

NOT PROOFREAD.

taglist 💖: @yvnempire

The air was thick with the scent of luxury – champagne and expensive perfumes mingling with the buzz of the conversations in every corner of the room.

You had your back leaning against the marble counter of the bar, fingers nonchalantly tracing the edge of your vibrant drink and eyes drifting through the sea of people. Everyone was dressed to impress, each guest showcasing their creativity through Prada’s clothes, accessories and shoes.

Working in the fashion industry came with perks, and being invited to exclusive after-parties was undoubtedly the best one. So you weren’t a stranger to this world. The glamourist atmosphere, the music playing as a soft background, the dim lights casting a perfect blend of elegance and casualness over the place.

It made your body shiver with joy, fulfillment at its most filling your chest, as the surroundings seemed to confirm what you already knew: you were in the right place – your place.

Earlier, at the main event, you watched the showcase with sparkling eyes, recording specific moments to use later as inspiration for your own creativity process. You loved how free you could be with your ideas while doing your work, not to mention the possibility of adding tons of yourself to it. Some might call it an egoistic behavior, as if your job existed solely for your own satisfaction. But the creation was yours, so why shouldn’t the outcome be about you too?

You took another sip of your drink, your sharp gaze scanning the room.

As soon as you stepped at the after-party, many other designers and some artists approached to compliment both your visual and your work, and you confidently talked with them. Yet, coming not from one, but from a few of them, there was an underlying tone; their praises were not solely aimed at your outfit or your impeccable creations, but rather an attempt to carve a path to your heart – or, perhaps, under your dress.

You never denied you had a good appearance. Together with your sense of style and your fearless demeanor, you enchanted anyone who crossed your way. The badass woman aura you exhaled was almost palpable and extremely hot for those who watched – with heart and lustful eyes – as you passed by.

Despite the usual lingering intense gazes on you, far from feeling intimidated or even shy by them, there was one pair of eyes burning deeper, piquing your curiosity as you kept on searching for its owner.

It was like you every motion was being captured by them, following you across the room, and no matter how many conversations you effortlessly maneuvered through, all you could feel was the constant, intense weight of the said gaze.

After one more drink and some uninterested noddings at the guy who took place near you at the bar, you finally found him.

Sitting on the middle sofas of the main room, drink in hand, together with his group, devil eyes staring at you shamelessly, biting his lip and looking extremely hot as doing so.

You quirked an eyebrow in his direction, not even bothering to follow the bla-bla-bla coming from the random guy anymore, his words sounding like nothing to you at that point.

Especially because the attractive man looking at you didn’t even flinch after getting caught, as if it was the purpose from the beginning. If anything, he deepened eye contact in a daring, cocky manner, almost challenging you to react over the tension that started to hang in the air between you two.

Unlucky to him, you weren’t the type to follow anyone’s lead but yours, so you simply let out a soft scoff, a smirk tugging at your lips as you deliberately took another sip of your drink without breaking the new unspoken game – the one you were sure you would win.

You observed closely how he drifted his gaze away from yours just to blatantly check you out, stopping on your bare thighs for a moment before doing the same on your exposed chest, the neckline of your dress giving the perfect bait for men like him.

He shifted on his seat, gulping and then assaulting his lower lip with his teeth once more, as if trying to contain himself from running all the way to you, just to undress you properly instead of keep on doing that with his glare.

You would be lying if you said that his demeanor wasn’t helping to ignite the fire from your core to your entire body, skin heating with a hint of desire. Even so, you waited patiently.

The random designer talking to you was long gone already, though you barely noticed, unnecessarily engrossed in your little game.

With a subtle, innocent tilt of your chin, you motioned your head slowly as a signal, beckoning him to come closer, without breaking eye contact. The simple gesture caught him off guard; his confident atmosphere stumbling to keep itself up, eyes growing wide in surprise, and you found it irresistibly adorable.

The corner of your lips curled when he stood up after whispering something to one of his friends, who quickly glanced at you and then showed a small smile. You finished your drink as he made his way over, his steps relaxed, but his eyes avoiding yours. You almost chuckled at the endearing scene.

As he approached, you noticed how young he seemed to be, perhaps even younger than you. Not to mention his incredible inebriating fragrance and self beauty – the plump pink lips and the high bridge nose perfectly sculpted doing things to you.

“Hey,” he greeted, eyes straightaway dropping to your exposed neckline, lingering on the curve of your chest.

You leaned in just slightly, making sure he got a better view, batting your lashes with a sly smile. “Hey.”

Without asking for your preference, he ordered two drinks. You decided to let it slide for now – being surprised could be fun every now and then, and maybe accepting his drinks could be one of the keys to get something more.

“You’ve been turning heads all night.” He finally said after a while, the hot, aussie accent didn’t go unnoticed by you. Your body heat increased as an immediate response.

As you tilted your head slightly, letting a small smile play on your lips, you smoothly replied with faux innocence. “Have I?”

“Mhm,” he nodded, thanking the bartender for the drink as he handed you one, oblivious of the rhetorical question. Your smile widened. “Can I know your name?”

“Y/N,” you politically extended your hand, eyes sharp on his face. His grip was hesitant, and the moment your fingers touched, an unexpected jolt of electricity shot through your body. You suppressed a slight shiver.

“Jake,” he introduced himself, caring little to nothing about showing how affected he got just by feeling your soft palm on his.

His breath hitched, getting caught on his throat as his eyes darkened. He couldn’t help but think about how your touch would feel elsewhere on his body.

The excitement flooded your chest instantly, you had to hold back yourself because you realized that if you wanted – and you so did – those perfect lips would be attached to yours in no time, and if you were lucky enough, they would be exploring other parts of your body as well.

“Nice meeting you, Jake.” You murmured, pronouncing his name with your most velvety voice, slowly pulling your hand away to grab your drink from the counter, sipping it.

Jake tracked your deliberate movements, wetting his slightly parted lips when he saw your red lipstick staining on the glass edge, utterly in disbelief he simply discovered someone who definitely came out from his wettest dreams, who would turn the smallest, innocent gesture into something sensual.

Even the simple act of blinking in his direction seemed meticulously calculated to make it hard to resist your advances, fueling the growing tightness inside his pants.

Not to mention how sexy his name rolled out of your beautifully tinted lips.

Jake leaned his arms on the marble counter, turning his head to keep on watching you, as if your presence were an alluring, tempting show, happening right in front of his eyes just to damage his weak heart.

“I couldn’t stop looking at you.” He blurted out shamelessly, shattering the ‘cool’ facade he was trying to maintain under your intense gaze.

There was something about how sincere, seductive, and yet, desperate he sounded, as if his greatest longing in life was to have you right away. You were enjoying that guy so much so far.

“I’ve noticed,” you chuckled with your eyes brimming with flirtation, shifting between his plush, kissable lips and his desire-filled orbs. “And are you planning to keep just looking?”

Jake blinked, momentarily taken aback with your quick and direct response. Although you had an obvious confident aura radiating through your pores, he definitely didn't expect you to be so straight to the point, thinking he would have to ease things a bit more.

And honestly? He found your vibe more exciting than he would like to admit.

“I guess that depends on what you want,” he answered, voice dropping a tone, trying to match the energy you exuded.

Ignoring the chills running through your spine by his low murmur, you softly chuckled and leaned back against the bar, gaze still locked with his.

“Oh, Jake,” you teasingly cooed, grinning, with your voice dripping with amusement, “I always get what I want.”

It was visibly apparent how your words ignited something on his body, perking up in anticipation while his eyes deepened and his jaw clenched; if you looked close enough, you would see the slight bulge in his crotch area.

Jake straightened his posture, finishing his drink in one go without breaking eye contact, hooded eyelids offering you the most magnetic sight you saw that night until that moment.

Then he leaned in closer, the tension between you two increasing with every heartbeat. “Meet me in the bathroom,” he whispered in your ear, a cocky smirk creeping onto his face.

As he walked towards the restroom area, his confident stride only added to the thrill. Men would be promising you the best night of your life just to leave you hanging and dealing with your situation alone. However, Jake seemed to exude an air of boldness blended perfectly with devotion, making a rush of anticipation bubbling in your core.

You let out a small laugh, not even caring about finishing your drink. The thrilling game had just started and you were so ready to play.

Jake’s lips tasted like heaven. And fancy liquor.

His hands were everywhere, but mainly on your ass and neck, his desperation evident by the way he pressed your back into the cold wall, sucking your lips as if his life depended on it.

After following his traces, feigning indifference as best as you could to the open public, it took mere seconds before you felt his strong grasp on your hips guiding you into the bathroom – fortunately, they had private, separated spaces, making it easier for the two of you to steal as much privacy as the party allowed.

You could hear the muffled hum of the songs playing as a background, merging with the lewd sounds from the messy, hungry kiss you both shared and the soft groans rumbling from Jake’s throat as well.

Just minutes ago your plans were completely different; just some kisses and calling it a night, definitely not imagining things going further than that. However, the way Jake’s mouth skilfully moved against yours made you wonder how good it would feel in other places of your body, like in between your legs, and you just had to give it a chance.

“You taste so good,” he murmured, barely breaking the contact, lips already swollen and reddened due to your lipstick and your not so gentle bites.

You hummed in response, unable to form proper words about how amazing of a job he was doing just by kissing you.

Your fingers tangled in his silky brown hair, tugging without restraint because you quickly realized how much Jake liked it. He moaned, lips parting against yours with the intensity of the pull, your hazed gaze catching a quick glimpse of his eyes rolling back – an extremely devilish view.

Although stumbling a bit, Jake managed to easily place you at the edge of the sink’s counter by lifting you firmly gripping your thighs, the feeling alone making you wince as your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist for support.

The room seemed to shrink as your breaths quickened, the boiling sensation bubbling in your stomach as you anticipated for more of his intense, heated, passionate touches.

Jake, just as breathless, decided to assault the flesh of your neck and exposed collarbone, getting drunk on your scent and softness as he did so, loving how you tilted your head just enough to give him some more access to explore.

A soft moan escaped your lips and your fingers tightened on his hair when he nibbled your sensitive spot, close to your earlobe, sending jolts of electricity directly to your pussy.

You could feel a smirk creeping into his mouth, right before he questioned teasingly, slowly sucking the area. “Do you like that?”

You fought to keep your composure, a soft smile threatening to break through as the heat blossomed in your core. His breath tickled your skin, deliberately waiting for your answer while igniting every inch of you by keeping on playing on that spot.

The first reaction you gave was another moan together with your nails digging on his shoulders and scratching his scalp. Then you admitted, still struggling to hold yourself back. “Fuck, yes. I do.”

Jake cooed at you, gently pulling away from the curve of your neck to study your dazed expression; lips agape releasing heavy breaths, cheeks flushed with a delicate pink and eyes half-lidded, fluttering slowly, still dripping in the same confidence you once carried, as if even under his lead you were the one commanding.

“You look hot and messy, and I haven’t even started yet.” Jake teased, a playful smile gracing his lips as he pressed them against yours again.

“Do you always talk that much?” You murmured, not quite intending to judge his demeanor, but a bit annoyed and amused by how he appeared to need to hear you frequently while savoring you.

“Only when I'm nervous.” Jake answered honestly with an awkward chuckle, helping you to remove his jacket, which landed straight on the ground and he couldn’t care less.

“Oh, do I make you nervous Jakey?” You smirked, thirsting over his now exposed veiny arms.

Watching Jake’s cheeks being painted with a faint blush while he swallowed hard under your sharp gaze, clearly getting flustered, brought back the control you thought was lost.

“Maybe a little,” Jake tried to play it cool, but his voice came out smaller than he expected, and he tried to avoid facing you by leaning to kiss you again.

A glint of mischief sparkled in your eyes when you noticed he was losing his composure. You kindly held his head still, forcing him to keep his gaze on you. “Aw, come on, Jakey. Don’t shy away now,” you said, a smooth voice layered with playfulness and a sultry, almost mocking undertone. “You haven’t even started yet, isn’t that right?”

Jake nearly moaned when he heard your words, not because of them itself but by how hot you sounded. His cock throbbed painfully inside his pants, his underwear probably stained with his leaking precum at that point.

Jake got fooled at some moment by thinking he was the one in charge, even provoking you while exploring your desires initially, but the reality was that he had been following your lead like a lost puppy all along.

There was something about how confident and dominant you seemed to be since the beginning, not faltering a single moment to his boldness, and somehow you carried that still, assuming the control gracefully, as if it was your job. And Jake was very grateful for you doing so.

His eyes softened and his breath hitched.

“Tell me, what do you want from me?” The question slipped from his plush, beautiful lips, laced with desire and a touch of vulnerability without much cohesive thinking, clouded mind craving to satisfy you, because that meant his own fulfillment. “I wanna give you everything.”

Devoting to a devilish goddess like you was a tempting surrender he was eager to embrace.

You felt a pulse straight in your clit and your cheeks heating, the weight of his desperate words triggering your following behavior.

Jake saw the way your face brightened up, realizing he had opened the hell’s gate and he was eager to enter – if you were the personification of the devil, he was more than willing to drown into your lustful, tempting sea of sins.

“What do I want from you?” You echoed, an amused grin curling the corner of your lips as your eyes traced Jake’s attractive features, pausing on his perfectly sculpted high-bridged nose, accompanied just below by his tasteful lips. You smiled, caressing it with your thumb. “I want them. Eat me out.”

Jake’s breath got caught on his throat and his eyes grew in a slight surprise, not only due to your bold, straightforward request, but mainly because the idea of having your pussy in full display for him to play sounded too dreamy.

“Are you sure?” He asked in a low, contained voice, struggling to keep down his excitement, biting his lower lip, aiming to confirm he wasn’t going insane.

“I know what I want, Jake.” You cocked your head with a raised eyebrow. “And you?”

Jake’s eyes immediately dropped to your chest and then your bare thighs. The dress had ridden up due to the position so he was able to see a hint of your laced, black panties. He wet his lips, mouth watering while he lowered enough to bend comfortably and be eye level with your cunt.

You watched, fascinated by how in trance he seemed to be, as though your final word was the cue for him to dive into you completely.

Your stomach fluttered in anticipation as you propped yourself up to help Jake slide your panties down your legs, gentle hands caressing your smooth skin as he did so. Then he grabbed your ass and pulled you forward, shooting you a quick glance and smile before burying his face between your legs, the smell of your pussy intoxicating his senses.

He first gave it a small, slow kitty-lick, testing the waters, then frowned in pleasure, groaning with your delicious taste dissolving on his tongue.

A soft gasp slipped from your lips and you quickly pursed them to stifle the sounds threatening to escape, fighting the urge of allowing yourself to let go so easily. One of your hands searched for support on the edge of the counter and the other held on tight to Jake’s hair.

Jake gave a long, savoring lick, finishing with a delectable, lewd sucking noise in your clit, as if he was starting to make out with your pussy. Your mouth fell open and your eyes fluttered shut, your limbs feeling like jelly as a wave of weakness coursed through you.

His hot muscle started to work faster, steadier and precise in between your folds, your entrance and your sensitive bundle of nerves, giving each of them the right amount of attention.

“Holy shit, Jake,” you moaned shakily, unable to keep it low. “You’re so fucking good at this,” you threw your head back, unconsciously waving your body towards his face, practically griding on it.

Jake moaned with your praise, skilfully shaking his head whenever he flickered his tongue in your hole, just to rub your clit with his nose, before moving back to suck on it, entirely immersed on his duty to please you.

He was on cloud nine.

Your taste flooding his senses, your body reacting to his stimulus, heating up and shivering under his precise touch, your pretty moans filling up the space straight into his ears, like angels singing – though he was sure you were a devil in disguise.

Every noise coming from your throat was sending a rush of electricity directly into his dick, not to mention how your cunt became wetter and wetter with the lewd mixture of his own saliva and your arousal. Jake could die that moment and would be happy with it.

Reading the way your breathing grew heavy and feeling how you clenched around the tip of his tongue, Jake deduced you were near to the edge.

“I’m close–” You whispered, confirming his theory.

The knot on your stomach tightened when Jake began to focus mainly on your clit, sucking and flicking his tongue on it, eager for your release – perhaps more than you. “I’m really close, Jak–”

Your arms nearly failed to keep yourself up as your orgasm hit, a long moan falling from your mouth interrupting your warning, your spine arching with the euphoria wave and your eyes rolling to the back of your head. Your juices coated Jake’s tongue, who took all of it proudly; you hissed feeling his mouth still working on your sensitive cunt, and you pulled him away by his hair.

Without a word Jake brought his lips to yours, making you taste yourself still hazy minded after your strucking climax. You groaned, slowly starting to move your hips to get down from the counter, Jake unconsciously helping you through it by supporting your weight until your heels landed on the floor.

You lightly pushed Jake’s chest to move him away, meeting his dazed expression, one that had nothing to do with the alcohol in his veins. You grabbed the hem of his black shirt, quietly asking for him to remove it. And he did without hesitation.

"Fuck me," you demanded, taking a glimpse of his beautiful toned abs, a bit out of breath and even needier now. "Fuck me and watch you doing it through this mirror."

Jake flashed a quick grin, still recovering from the smothering and delightful feeling of being in between your legs, before fumbling with his belt, hands frantic undoing the button of his pants to slide them down.

You took your sweet time to thirst over the outline of his covered, extremely hard length, interrupting his actions by gripping his wrist, savoring the moment as you licked your lips, mouth watering.

“It’s a shame we cannot take much longer,” you started, fauxing innocence as you stepped closer just enough to touch him over his white boxers. A small, provocative chuckle coming from your throat before you murmured. “Really wanted to feel you in my mouth.” And then you kissed the corner of his parted lips.

Jake whimpered when you softly squeezed his neglected dick, leaning closer to you instinctively, holding onto the edge of the counter behind you while resting his sweaty forehead on your shoulder. His breath was heavy against your skin, where he pressed his lips a few times until reaching your earlobe, nibbling.

Your sneaky hands entered the hem of his clothing piece to jerk him off; your teasing, deliberate moves were driving him insane. The way your warm palm rubbed his sensitive tip made his groans increase just as much as his pulse, and he moaned a bit louder when you finally freed his aching dick out of his boxers by pushing them down, allowing your hand to pump his shaft easier.

With closed eyes, you enjoyed the waves of pleasure going down, directly to your cunt, making you wet again by hearing Jake’s sultry noises and hot breath brushing against your ear.

Your lips grazed along his jawline at the same time you threatened your fingers through his slightly dampened hair, disheveling it even more before pulling it away from the curve of your neck, so you could capture his mouth in a slow, passionate kiss.

"Condom?" You asked under breath after parting away from his mouth, slowing your hand on his dick. You noticed his body tensing right after your question, eyes growing wide in panic, which piqued your curiosity.

There’s no way he…

"Shit, I didn't bring–"

You let out a soft scoff, part laughter, part disbelief. Without missing a beat, your hands resumed their movement, this time teasing him by randomly stopping, repeating the motion a few times. His moans grew louder, hips bucking desperately against your hand as if seeking more, his mouth agape and eyes glistening with despair.

"What a naughty boy," you cooed, slowly shaking your head in a false disappointment. "Were you planning on going raw with me, Jakey?" You questioned, voice low, layered with playfulness.

Jake winced, desperation growing inside his chest, fearing you to leave him now, when he needed you the most.

"N-No..." He shook his head, “I wasn’t– I forgot, I’m sorr–”

"Unluckily we just met.” You interrupted. “I don't know you well enough to let you do that. Right?"

Jake nodded, though he wasn't sure if he was truly following your words. You were loving to see him falling apart so easily, almost begging for you not to leave him through his messy moans.

His breath hitched and he almost grabbed your hand in place when you let go from his hard, red and needy cock. "P–please…" He finally pleaded, holding your waist as his eyes searched for yours in complete despair.

You quirked an eyebrow, smirking at his endearing demeanor. "Aw, you really wanna fuck me, don't you?" You caressed his cheek with your clean hand, smiling.

“I really do,” Jake whispered, moving his head just enough to kiss your palm. “Please, let me–”

“Not without protection, Jakey,” you said firmly, although with a hint of teasing, because you had a way out of that situation without harming your health.

And the said solution was inside your purse, which got tossed on the ground at some point of your initial make out session with Jake.

Jake's puppy sad eyes followed your every motion when you moved his hands off of your waist, thinking he had messed up completely. But then he saw you grabbing your bag and taking a condom off of it, showing to him with a playful grin.

"And lucky to us, I'm always prepared, Jakey.”

You slowly approached him again, his gaze catching the alluring sight of you gently opening the packaging using your teeth, while your eyes confidently remained locked onto his, loving to see his bewildered expression.

Without a word, you slid the condom on his length, stroking it a few times before turning your back to him, bending over the counter and lifting your dress, revealing the beautiful view of your bare ass.

Jake’s firm hands instinctively gripped your hips and he positioned himself behind you while biting his lip in anticipation, the thrilling excitement boiling stronger in his cock.

He searched for your eyes in the mirror in front of you two, and of course you were already looking at him through your hungry orbs, savoring the image of Jake’s craving your body.

"Now fuck me as desperate as you seem to be."

Your words hung in the air for seconds before Jake’s mind snapped away from your tempting view in the mirror; your boobs nearly jumping out of your neckline, lips swollen but carrying the same confidence, and your eyes. Your fucking eyes. Your devilish eyes.

“Your desire is my pleasure, Y/N.” It was all Jake managed to say with his low, husky voice, before pushing deep into you.

Your mouth fell open with the breathtaking sensation of being filled up, and Jake began to slowly pump into you, giving you a little time to adjust. Or you thought so.

You still had no idea that he was already stepping near the edge of his own release, that being the reason for his deliberate hip rolls – there was no way in hell he was going to let the opportunity of enjoying your delicious squeezes around his dick slip away that easily.

“F–fuck,” his voice cracked as he whispered. “You f–feel amazing...”

You looked at Jake in the mirror after hearing how weakly his words came out, as if he were already lost in a haze of his own pleasure. And he truly was. A soft moan escaped your lips at the sight of his head tilted back, eyes closed, and mouth slightly parted, a faint smile gracing his lips.

When a specific deep thrust hit your g-spot, you almost cried out and Jake quickly paid attention to it. Then he bent you even more on the marble counter with one hand forcing your back, to ease his access to your sensitive area and help with his movements, speeding his hips the right amount to make you roll your eyes.

“T–that’s it...” You moaned. “Fucking me so good.” You praised and Jake groaned, his hands immediately sliding to cup one of your covered breasts, massaging it while keeping his pace, eyes locked at the insanely delightful view in the mirror.

A sequence of moans slipped out of your throat as Jake started fucking you hard and fast, desperately even. How your walls clenched tight around his cock was driving him insane, and he seeked for more of that addicting feeling.

The sound of the distant music did nothing to cover the slams sounds echoing the bathroom at that point, and honestly, neither of you cared anymore, far gone in your own pleasure.

At some point your own body started to encounter his pushes into you, but it wasn’t enough. So you straightened your posture a bit, tugging Jake’s hair while looking at his eyes in the mirror – his fucked up expression sending shivers down your spine.

“Faster, Jake.” You urged, a bossy tone dripping out of your mouth like a sweet sugar that Jake grew obsessed with. And he instantly obeyed.

Your free hand cupped Jake’s on your boob and your eyes fluttered close while you tilted your head back, lost in the amazing feeling of Jake pounding into your g-spot, a mess of moans and whimpers coming from both of your mouths.

Since he had his eyes open, Jake watched your body quivering with his thrusts, the fucking Prada logo on your dress shining with the dim light of the bathroom, your makeup slightly smeared due to the mess. It was completely out of this world how good you looked, and the way you were squeezing his dick together with the view, sent him even closer to the edge.

“I’m gonna cum–” He said in one go, as an eager statement, not a warning, desperate to feel his release.

Your breath started to quicken with his erratic pace, and you fluttered your eyes open again, catching the sight of Jake’s concentrated frown and mouth agape, letting out the prettiest moans you ever heard.

You said nothing, you just tightly gripped the hand on your chest and leaded it to your clit, inciting him to rub it for you. Jake got your message, and with all the overwhelming stimulus, your second orgasm hit, mouth falling open gasping for air as you supported yourself on the marble counter, your head falling forward while you kept on feeling Jake’s deep thrusts.

You clenched involuntarily around his dick, and that was enough for him to achieve his climax as well, resting his head on your shoulder, holding you close still.

Jake moved back with a hiss, completely dizzy and fulfilled. He removed the condom and tossed it onto the trashcan before dressing himself back again, helping you to recompose since your legs were shaky.

“Thank you,” you said in a hoarse voice when he offered you your purse and your panties, to which you decided not to wear again because, well, it was on the floor.

So you cheekily pushed into Jake’s pocket without saying a word, and he didn’t even noticed, too focused on looking out for you by supporting you to keep steady.

You turned to the mirror, fixing your messy hair and makeup as best as you could.

“How do we get out of this bathroom now?” Jake asked after the silence, watching you re-apply your red lipstick.

You just smiled, placing a sweet kiss on his cheek to purposely leave a mark there. “Like this.” And you simply opened the door, not even caring about the instant stares you received as you did so, Jake following your lead right behind, a small shy smile adorning his lips.

With a last goodbye look, you parted ways, your confidence evident in your stride, and Jake fumbling to smooth down his disheveled locks, now with the acknowledgment that the devil definitely wears Prada.

#jake x reader #sim jake x reader #jake smut #jake sim x reader #jake hard thoughts #jake hard hours #jake sim hard thoughts #jake sim hard hours #enhypen x reader #enhypen smut #heegyukeluv works

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hcneymooners · 2 months ago

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౨ৎ when i feel you (from within), i exist. : second half.

wnba!paige x wnba!azzi. men & minors dni.

hey, sugar. read the first part here.

cw: that weird blurring of lines in your friendship when you’re both in love with each other, light sexual content, mentions of weed, love confessions, avoiding each other at public events, the embarrassment of wanting someone so badly you'd do anything for it, being mean to each other because it's easier than taking the leap.

notes: i hope you guys enjoy this. i feel a bit kinder about it than the first part. still giving credit to where credit is due. dedicated to the beautiful @loeysoi simply because i love her and appreciate her warm, creative spirit so much.

anyway, i hope you all enjoy. all my love. always.

they don’t talk about it, but it consumes them. it almost seems to up the stakes. they think about it all the time.

paige thinks about it, gasping and shuddering underneath the ho,t spraying shame of the shower. azzi thinks about it, lying on her side in the dark with her eyes pressed shut and her mouth parted.

they both get invited to the same athletic philanthropy event. something clean and public and charitable, which makes it worse, somehow.

azzi sees paige first. she always does. paige is near the drinks table, talking with her teammates, backlit by the golden wash of some fake candlelight. when paige finally sees azzi, it’s later, deliberately so. she has that practiced distance, the kind that makes you feel childish for wanting anything. the realization, once made, makes azzi’s face flush with the salt-heat that comes with tears.

she turns to go three hours in, her blown-out curls now flat and devoid of any further interest to beautify her tonight. she looks beautiful as she leaves (she comes to this conclusion later via an instagram fan page) in her gown: blue leopard, cut down to her belly like an incision. her chest peeks out delicately, something azzi often feels she isn’t, and she’s careful to be camera-aware as she bends to scoop teammates and friends into loose, departing side hugs.

she makes it down the long velvet hallway on her own. it smells like mildew. old money and old fabric. it’s a museum, so there are exhibits to catch her eye. she’s calling her driver. she’s almost out. but it’s on the stairs that she finally falls.

she trips over air, or maybe all of her carefully built emotional architecture, built just for this evening, has found the crack in its foundation.

either way, she’s going down. one step, one twist of the foot.

she lands hard. hits the middle spread of the staircase, the step wide enough for her to bring her knees to stone and crack the front of her foot against the edge before rolling over with a sick little cry. she winces as she examines the sole of her foot, the awkward roll and bend of her ankle. lets out a mewl of pain as she presses into the center.

there’s a sharp cut there, beading with blood like a stigmata. there’s not a lot, but there’s just enough to embarrass her.

and then paige is there. of course. not running, not even striding. just appearing, like she’d been there all along. she’s at the bottom of the stairs, hands in her pockets, mouth drawn into something unreadable.

her eyes move over azzi’s body. assessing, maybe. amused. azzi feels the salt-heat climb back into her face. she wants to get up on her own, to say something casual, to pretend none of this matters.

she wasn’t going to say anything, really. she wasn’t. she was going to be good about it with a slight grimace and roll of her eyes as if to say god, i’m so clumsy, even though they both know it’s not true. but instead, her skin-brain connection is corrupted, and the pain wins out, and she says it before she means to.

“fuck you.”

it comes out low and neat. not thrown, not spat. in the same way her flatmate in london used to drink whiskey during that one semester abroad. measured and burning. it seems to hit paige like a slap.

one light eyebrow lifts, then both. cartoonish surprise. azzi tries to push herself up, mortified, but her ankle screams and she crashes back down, dress blooming around her like a wave.

somewhere in the distance, someone puts on “empires” by niki and the dove like a sick joke.

nothing stays the same i've learned my lesson well if you wish too hard it eludes you just the same but my love is young, it's young it burns the edges of my heart i'm dying for ya

her scream gets swallowed up by the synths. it’s grotesque and a little funny. she hates that.

paige moves then, her body always responding to azzi’s own, and practically flies up the steps to where her best friend is heaving hard through her nose. azzi isn’t in any position to refuse her help, but she digs her nails into paige’s pale shoulder when she bends and smiles, sharp and bittersweet, at the pained grunt she gets in response.

maybe that’s why paige is purposefully so slow when she picks her up, strong hands sliding up beneath azzi’s clenched thighs and gathering up every bit of her dress as she swings her off the ground. it’s definitely that and not the fact that there’s love between them threatening to be lost. love, along with the memory of their bodies wet and pressed together in the sanctity of that dallas shower.

her face gets rushed with that burst of tears again, and she tries to turn away, but once again paige proves that she knows her innately, is so intimately involved with the fabric of who azzi is. paige slows, a hand coming up to tenderly bring azzi’s face into the open by the base of her neck.

“hey,” she says, and azzi begins blinking fast because everything is fine. it is. “hey. azzi, mama, look at me. does it hurt?”

azzi lies, but not really. “yeah.”

“shit, maybe we should take you to the er. they can—“

“charge me thousands for what i already know?” azzi snaps. “i just need to put ice on it.”

paige is quiet for a moment, and then she says, “okay, princess.”

and azzi knows when they get to her car, paige is going to climb right in after her and sit with her hands curled around the delicate bridge of her calf as she keeps her foot elevated. and then they’re going to arrive at azzi’s apartment.

and then paige will never leave.

which azzi used to want. but since the kiss, she’s not sure anymore. because paige let her leave. well, maybe azzi could’ve—

the car pulls round and azzi looks right into the headlights, lets the mean shine bleach out all of her doubts.

✈︎

“god, are you trying to kill me?”

paige looks up from where she’s bandaging azzi’s foot.

“i don’t know,” she answers drily, and azzi rolls her eyes. “i could be asking you the same question.”

azzi flushes then.

when they’d entered her apartment she’d immediately demanded paige put her down and had shimmied out of her dress until she only had her ass tucked into a pair of deep blue briefs and a bare chest. she’d ignored the hitch of paige’s breath from behind her and hobbled into her bedroom to grab an oversized loewe cotton tee.

she’d planned to hobble her way back out, but paige had come into the room with a hard look and swung her back up until she could dump her onto the l-shaped sectional.

“bitch,” azzi mutters and paige presses her thumb into the bruise right above her ankle.

azzi cracks her jaw with the clench of it, and paige’s mouth quirks up.

“watch your mouth, az.”

and just like that, she’s back in doctor mode. her hands are clinical, confident. azzi watches her and aches.

it reminds her of high school, college. when bruises were an invitation. when paige used to press into her softest spots, those mottled blooms of gold and violet, under tables and behind closed doors, pushing until azzi broke. her eyes or her cunt, one of them always leaking.

they never talked about that either.

god forbid.

paige’s eyes are still trained on the swelling like it’s got secrets. if she keeps pressing it, something’s going to speak.

so, she presses again. slower this time. thumb dragging just slightly across the indigo strip of pain swatched across azzi’s brown skin like she’s testing ripeness. like she’s wondering: which one is wet?

something in azzi’s stomach flips.

it’s not a question out loud, but it hangs in the room like steam. and azzi knows what she means. or doesn’t mean. or can’t say. her thighs twitch a little, involuntarily, and she hates herself for it. hates how paige notices. how her steel blue eyes flick up, fast and sharp.

“does that hurt?” she asks, the words so soft they’re nearly a coo. her thumb stills, warm and heavy against the throb.

azzi nods. lies again. or maybe doesn’t.

“here?” paige asks, sliding the edge of her thumb lower, closer to the hinge of azzi’s ankle. slower this time, like she’s waiting for the wince, or the breath hitch. like she wants to feel it in her teeth.

“paige,” azzi says, and it’s not a protest. it’s a warning. or a plea.

“hmm?”

azzi leans back against the couch like she’s trying to melt into it. tries to tilt her face away, but paige’s free hand catches her at the neck again, not rough but definite. they’re always like this: somewhere between a chokehold and a cradle.

“you’re flushed,” paige murmurs, the thumb still circling now in a pattern azzi can’t ignore. “you hot?”

“you know i am,” azzi says, and it’s an irritated whisper.

paige hums again and lets the sentence curl in her mouth before she licks it clean and says, “yeah. i know.”

she shifts forward, her hand never leaving azzi’s ankle, and the other trailing up her calf now, slow and reverent. “still wanna ice it?”

azzi can’t answer.

doesn’t want to.

she just lets her legs part a little wider and watches the way paige’s mouth changes when she notices. but then. but then paige gets closer, and once again, azzi just blurts it out, her mouth a river with no dam.

“will we always be like this? just pressing?”

and it’s so revealing. the ache persists in the way she says “just pressing.” it’s tactile and vague and brutal all at once. it reveals how their bodies are always so close but never aligned, always almost.

paige doesn’t answer. maybe her hand presses just a little harder, and azzi gasps.

her whole body folds in on itself like a piece of fruit bruising from the inside out, and paige—sweet, stubborn, unbearable, in love paige—presses again like she’s asking something with her hands that she doesn’t have the language for.

and azzi, caught in that taut place between wanting and wincing, kicks out reflexively. not hard, not really, but it’s the wounded foot. the one she’d been babying. the one paige had carried her because of.

the contact is enough. it doesn’t injure, but it startles. azzi’s ankle throbs, and her chest feels worse, like it’s been punctured. when paige reaches out again, softly this time, carefully now, azzi jerks away, and her eyes are welling, and they both realize they’re standing on the edge of something they can’t unknow.

azzi is tearing up and trying not to, and it’s worse because she knows what it means now. knows that pressing can’t be only “play” anymore. not if it makes her cry. not when it’s been echoing in her chest since they were kids, since bruises under tables and reverent touching on court.

paige opens her mouth to say something. another sorry, maybe. azzi just shakes her head and says, quietly and shaking:

“we can’t keep doing this. it’s not just touching anymore.”

paige seems to drop like a body in a fall, and she bends until her forehead is on azzi’s shin and she can smell the thick slather of coconut oil and honey cream on the skin. she gathers strength that quickly dissipates as she thinks of what azzi may say if they do talk about it.

“i asked you,” azzi continues, “not to be sorry. and then i texted you to talk about it because i knew we would end up just like this.”

“you broke the rule,” paige mumbles, and azzi pulls her bun so that the other woman lets out a hiss of pain.

“it’s a stupid rule, madison.”

paige sits up then, her middle name coaxing out the meaner part of her that azzi secretly likes.

“don’t fucking call me that, azzi.”

“then stop being mean.”

“is this what you wanna do?” paige asks, squaring her shoulders. “because i can get real mean.”

“oh, fuck you, bueckers,” azzi huffs, and she tries to swing her legs off of the couch but paige holds her down with a warm palm on her good ankle. “always so big and bad.”

“nah, because you know that’s not the first time we’ve done that, but you want to talk about this one.”

something about that makes azzi feel as though she’s backed into a corner, so she verbally lunges with venom sweet and dripping from her teeth.

“i want to talk about this one because you can’t be a coward, and justify not talking about it because we're not teammates anymore.”

paige’s eye twitches, and azzi lets her sit there and flinch like she’s been buzzed by an electrical wire. she manages to get up and lets out a thin yelp from between her teeth. paige lets her be in pain, and that almost makes azzi cry.

almost.

with a drawn-out sigh, she begins to hobble her way to her bedroom because she’s already embarrassed; she might as well commit to the bit. it’s a pitiful, miserable little escape, teeth gritted and eyes shining, and she can feel paige watching her go the same way you’d watch someone walk out into traffic.

she makes it a few, bumbling, shuffling steps forward before paige pushes off the sectional and dives for her. they’re kids again: two newborn basketball prodigies with a rivalry running under the bone of the friendship.

paige goes lower as azzi tries to weave out of the way, and snags her leg with an open hand. her fingers curl, long and hard, around the muscle, and azzi can’t pry it loose. so, as expected, she begins to fight. which means she falls.

azzi yanks her leg up, trying to slide it out of paige’s hand, but paige has never been above playing dirty with her. her palm glides sweetly around azzi’s good ankle and then switches to the other, the one with the bone bruise and thirty thousand leagues of pain. she clutches it, and azzi lets loose a sharp “holy shit!” at the white flash of agony and stumbles.

she loses her balance, begins to plummet toward her shiny apartment flooring. paige catches her without thinking, rolls onto her back underneath her just in time. azzi lands heavy on top of her, her breath knocked out in a sharp, startled gasp.

their faces are too close, and azzi can feel the vibrational echo of the way their ribs knock together. paige’s hair has come loose. azzi can smell the cheap, scentless conditioner she always uses when she’s traveling. azzi plants her hands on paige’s chest to push herself up, but doesn’t.

her best friend’s hand is splayed wide over her spine. she can feel the tremor in it. the heartbeat. she feels it as it moves lower, as it dips to squeeze at the fatty crease of her ass and thighs. it’s less erotic than it would be with anyone else.

paige always liked the fuller parts of her. azzi thinks it's because it makes her feel comfortable enough to take more.

azzi narrows her eyes, narrows them further when paige mockingly does the same. she asks, breathless and wrecked,

"if i hadn't booked that flight to dallas, would you have ever called me?"

paige’s eyes widen, blue and startled. azzi’s hands are idly on her tits, and it would be slightly funny if azzi wasn’t desperate for the truth. instead, she presses down on the tissue. thinks of paige’s nipples, rosy pink and hard in the mornings when she takes those frigid showers, and then crushes them like the flowers they remind her of.

paige grunts, and she pushes uncomfortably on the base of azzi’s spine.

“chill,” is all she says, and azzi grabs her face and squeezes.

“i told you not to be sorry. i asked you not to regret it,” she says again.

paige shrugs. “‘nd i didn’t, ma.”

“you didn’t respond to my text message.”

“right, cause imessage is the place to have life-changing conversations. i wonder if our government’s tried that.”

“we could’ve facetimed,” azzi protests, slightly outraged. “you know that i’m always available for you.”

something flickers across paige’s face. azzi seizes it.

that twitch, that terrified, guilty twitch, like a rabbit’s nose. she can see paige’s beautiful, pink brain begin to expand; she’s finally realizing the full weight of her, sitting on her chest, of how they sit in one another’s lives.

azzi tilts her head, lashes low, almost tender as she says,

"why. wouldn’t. you. call. why were you lying all alone, getting high like the loser you like to pretend to be? say it."

paige's throat bobs. she squeezes the meat of azzi’s thigh like she’s grounding herself there. she mutters, almost inaudibly:

"didn’t know if you wanted me to."

azzi lets out a little sound, high and bitten-off, like it tears straight out of her chest. she fists her hand harder in the collar of paige’s t-shirt.

“why wouldn’t i want you to, p?” paige relaxes slightly, knowing they’re back on softer ground with the use of the nickname. “what exactly was i doing that would’ve ever taken precedence over you?”

“you were in your skims dress,” paige says, and azzi’s face twists with confusion. “you posted a picture on your story. that’s your date dress.”

azzi sits back, eyes fluttering like she’s receiving a premonition.

“you weren’t mad about losing the game,” she says, and it's not a question.

paige grins against her mouth, that stupid cocky grin azzi wants to punch out and kiss at the same time, and says:

“that’s the point of the game, princess. someone wins and someone loses.”

azzi closes her eyes.

“there is something seriously wrong with you, paige.” she opens them again and reaches down to pinch the side of her best friend’s neck. "i was at a last minute brand event."

“hey!” paige squeals, and azzi lets a wry smile tug at her mouth. "how was i supposed to know that?"

"by calling me, madison," azzi hisses, sliding off of paige’s stomach to sit on the floor. she sighs.

“would you ever tell me that you loved me, if you did? like loved me. for real.”

she hears paige shifting, sees her rise in the periphery of her eyesight. she’s not sure why it surprises her when paige turns her head by the chin, fingertips fragile enough to allow azzi to pull away if she wants to.

“azzi,” she says, her face so soft it’s like a wound, “i do love you for real.”

azzi’s whole body jerks like she’s been struck. this is the body when it has forgotten how to process tenderness and has spent so long bracing for impact.

she blinks at paige, wide-eyed and trembling, mouth parted. for a second, they just stare at each other.

paige’s hand is still there, cradling the hinge of her jaw, thumb slipping instinctively higher, brushing the soft undercurve of azzi’s lip. she sends it higher, slips it inside. she tastes like azzi’s skin.

“are you into that?” paige murmurs, eyes never leaving her finger on the slick petal of azzi’s tongue. “tasting yourself?”

it’s too much.

“what the fuck is wrong with you?” azzi answers.

paige smiles. azzi lets out a noise. it’s hoarse, punched-out, almost feral. she launches forward.

the kiss lands clumsily, all teeth and open mouths, azzi’s hands scrabbling at the loose fabric of paige’s t-shirt like she’s trying to climb inside her. paige catches her like she’s been waiting her whole life to. she’s still conscious of keeping azzi’s foot out of the collision, and that makes azzi kiss her harder.

she fists a hand in azzi’s curls and yanks her closer, chest to chest, hip to hip, until there’s no air left between them.

it’s not delicate. it’s not even sweet. it’s desperate.

they are both swollen with greed.

azzi pulls back just an inch, just enough to pant against paige’s mouth, to feel her breath coming in hard waves. she searches her face, studies the flushed skin, the slack pink mouth, the wildness in paige’s blue eyes.

paige must see the same thing reflected in her because she shudders, almost shakes. she grabs azzi’s shirt like she’s ripping off a band-aid. azzi lets it go. the cotton burns up somewhere behind them.

her mouth finds azzi’s breast like instinct, like muscle memory, needling at the peaked nipple with her teeth. azzi spasms so hard she almost tears away.

"mmm," she breathes out.

"yeah," paige answers, voice low and heavy like fruit. “c’mon, mama.”

then paige’s hand is slipping into the elastic of her shorts, blunt fingers dragging through slick, through heat, until they find the saltwater taffy pink of her, the electric pearl right above it. she presses there. not gently, not cruelly, just certain. azzi’s hips chase her touch.

azzi almost bites through her own tongue, trying not to scream. she knows what is wet this time.

she curls over paige like she’s trying to fold them into one person. she cups paige’s jaw, palms the strong lines of her throat and cheeks like she's memorizing them. paige presses her forehead to azzi’s, hand still working slowly, dragging circles, and mouths into the wet, open space between them:

"azzi."

paige lifts her head.

azzi cradles her face in both hands like she’s trying to crush paige and save her at the same time.

"p," she manages, and paige rubs against her with new urgency.

forehead to forehead. breath and blood and everything loud between them.

the wanting’s already unspooling through both of them, irreversible.

it’s good sometimes, azzi thinks, to break the rule.

#mine ; 🐎.#pazzi #pazzi fics #paige x azzi #paige bueckers x azzi fudd #paige bueckers #azzi fudd #uconn wbb #uconn huskies #dallas wings

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rainydetectiveglitter · 11 months ago

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Your Midheaven Brand Identity:

A Guide to Boosting Your Social Media Presence

When it comes to building a strong brand identity, your Midheaven (MC) sign can offer invaluable insights. This astrological point reflects your career, public image, and how you’re perceived by the world. While many focus on their Rising sign to guide their personal brand, the Midheaven is actually more influential in shaping how you're perceived professionally. Also, consider how this relates to your IC for a more rounded approach.

Midheaven in Capricorn (Aries Rising)

Brand Identity: Your public persona should project authority, reliability, and professionalism. You’re seen as a goal-oriented and disciplined figure. Highlight your achievements, strategic thinking, and leadership skills.

Social Media Tips: Focus on structured content such as detailed guides, case studies, and professional milestones. Use a polished, business-like tone. Incorporate posts that reflect your strategic planning and long-term vision. Share behind-the-scenes looks at your projects to show the effort and planning involved.

Brand Colors: Deep green symbolizes growth and stability, gray for professionalism, and navy blue for authority and trustworthiness.

IC Connection: Leverage Cancer's emotional depth and nurturing qualities to soften the Capricorn edge. Share personal stories that reveal your emotional investments and how they drive your professional goals. This adds a relatable human element to your otherwise authoritative presence.

Ambitious and Professional: Emphasize your leadership skills and career-driven mindset.

Structured and Goal-Oriented: Showcase your strategic approach to achieving success.

Public Image: Present yourself as competent, disciplined, and reliable.

Social Media Tips:

Share content that highlights your achievements, career milestones, and strategic insights.

Use strong, authoritative visuals and a professional tone.

Midheaven in Aquarius (Taurus Rising)

Brand Identity: Your brand should emphasize innovation, originality, and a forward-thinking mindset. Showcase your unique perspective and contributions to progressive ideas.

Social Media Tips: Create content that reflects cutting-edge trends, technological advancements, or visionary concepts. Use engaging formats like interactive posts, futuristic graphics, and thought-provoking discussions. Position yourself as a leader in new ideas and unconventional solutions.

Brand Colors: Electric blue represents innovation, silver for technology, and neon green for modernity.

IC Connection: Infuse your Leo charisma into your Aquarius content to make it more engaging and personal. Share your passionate insights on future trends and show how your creativity shapes your forward-thinking approach. This blend enhances your appeal and relatability.

Stability and Luxury: Focus on high-quality, luxurious content and the practical aspects of your field.

Innovative and Unique: Bring a fresh, unique perspective to traditional topics.

Aesthetic Appeal: Use rich, earthy colors and visuals to create a soothing, attractive profile.

Social Media Tips:

Share content related to comfort, luxury, and tangible results.

Use high-quality images and engaging, thoughtful posts.

Midheaven in Pisces (Gemini Rising)

Brand Identity: You are seen as empathetic, artistic, and intuitive. Your brand should be focused on creativity, emotional connection, and spiritual or philosophical insights.

Social Media Tips: Use your platform to share evocative stories, inspirational content, and artistic expressions. Emphasize emotional resonance and creativity in your posts. Engage your audience with reflective and soulful content, such as personal journeys or meditative practices.

Brand Colors: Soft pastels evoke calm and creativity, sea green for emotional depth, and lavender for spirituality.

IC Connection: Incorporate Virgo's analytical skills to add depth and clarity to your Piscean content. Provide well-researched insights and practical advice wrapped in a creative or emotional narrative. This combination balances creativity with substance, appealing to a broad audience.

Versatile and Communicative: Showcase your adaptability and ability to handle a variety of topics.

Inspirational and Imaginative: Focus on creative and philosophical insights.

Intellectual Engagement: Share informative and engaging content that stimulates thought.

Social Media Tips:

Use diverse content formats, such as articles, videos, and infographics.

Share posts that combine creativity with intellectual depth.

Midheaven in Aries (Cancer Rising)

Brand Identity: Your public persona should be dynamic, confident, and pioneering. Emphasize your leadership abilities and proactive approach.

Social Media Tips: Share bold, decisive content and take a stand on relevant issues. Use energetic visuals and assertive language to engage your audience. Highlight your initiatives, new projects, and leadership moments to convey authority and drive.

Brand Colors: Bright red for passion and leadership, orange for enthusiasm, and black for strength and sophistication.

IC Connection: Balance Aries’ assertiveness with Libra’s charm and diplomacy. Engage with your audience in a way that is both bold and approachable, showing your leadership qualities while maintaining a sense of fairness and balance.

Dynamic and Courageous: Emphasize your proactive and pioneering approach.

Balanced and Harmonious: Highlight your ability to bring harmony to challenging situations.

Community Focus: Showcase your role in fostering positive change and leadership.

Social Media Tips:

Share bold, action-oriented content that reflects your leadership and dynamic nature.

Use harmonious and engaging visuals that balance professional and personal elements.

Midheaven in Taurus (Leo Rising)

Brand Identity: Your public persona should reflect stability, practicality, and an appreciation for quality. Focus on your reliable and steady approach to success.

Social Media Tips: Share content that highlights your achievements, high standards, and practical advice. Showcase luxurious or high-quality aspects of your work or lifestyle. Use a consistent, polished visual style to emphasize reliability.

Brand Colors: Earthy tones for stability, gold for luxury, and deep green for growth.

IC Connection: Integrate Scorpio’s intensity and depth into your Taurus-centric content. Share powerful personal experiences and transformative moments that underline your commitment to quality and reliability. This adds a rich, emotional layer to your dependable image.

Creative and Charismatic: Showcase your artistic talents and strong presence.

Stability and Practicality: Focus on grounded, practical aspects of your creativity.

Transformational Experiences: Share stories of personal growth and resilience.

Social Media Tips:

Create visually striking content that highlights your creativity and achievements.

Use a combination of dramatic and practical elements to engage your audience.

Midheaven in Gemini (Virgo Rising)

Brand Identity: Your public persona should be adaptable, communicative, and intellectually curious. Highlight your versatility and wide-ranging interests.

Social Media Tips: Create diverse and engaging content, from informative articles to interactive posts. Showcase your quick thinking and adaptability by covering a range of topics and trends. Use engaging formats like quizzes, debates, and live interactions to connect with your audience.

Brand Colors: Bright yellow for creativity, turquoise for communication, and light gray for neutrality.

IC Connection: Blend Sagittarius’ enthusiasm and philosophical insights with Gemini’s adaptability. Share your adventurous experiences and broad interests in a way that stimulates curiosity and engagement among your followers.

Analytical and Knowledgeable: Emphasize your expertise and practical solutions.

Versatile and Communicative: Highlight your ability to adapt and share diverse insights.

Movement and Learning: Incorporate elements related to continuous learning and exploration.

Social Media Tips:

Share detailed, informative content that offers practical value and insight.

Use a clear, organized visual style with engaging, versatile formats.

Midheaven in Cancer (Libra Rising)

Brand Identity: Your brand should be nurturing, empathetic, and community-focused. Emphasize your caring approach and ability to create supportive environments.

Social Media Tips: Share content that highlights your commitment to community and emotional well-being. Use personal stories, testimonials, and supportive messages to build a sense of belonging. Engage with your audience through compassionate and encouraging interactions.

Brand Colors: Soft blues for calm and trust, warm whites for purity and care, and sea green for emotional balance.

IC Connection: Incorporate Capricorn’s professionalism and structure into your Cancer-centric content. Present your nurturing approach in a way that also highlights your organizational skills and strategic thinking. This creates a well-rounded and credible public persona.

Balanced and Nurturing: Focus on creating harmony and providing support in your field.

Professional and Caring: Highlight your ability to blend professionalism with a caring approach.

Community and Relationships: Showcase your role in fostering connections and support.

Social Media Tips:

Post content that emphasizes balance, community, and supportive interactions.

Use elegant, harmonious visuals and empathetic messaging.

Midheaven in Leo (Scorpio Rising)

Brand Identity: Your public persona should be dramatic, charismatic, and authoritative. Emphasize your creative flair and leadership.

Social Media Tips: Share powerful, impactful content that showcases your expertise and creative achievements. Use bold visuals and compelling narratives to engage your audience. Position yourself as a leader and visionary in your field, using confident and inspiring messaging.

Brand Colors: Gold for leadership, royal purple for creativity, and bright red for passion.

IC Connection: Incorporate Aquarius’ innovative and unconventional ideas into your Leo-centric content. Highlight how your creative vision is informed by progressive thinking, adding a unique and forward-looking dimension to your leadership.

Intense and Impactful: Showcase your deep insights and transformative impact.

Creative and Bold: Highlight your innovative and charismatic approach.

Power and Influence: Emphasize your leadership and ability to inspire change.

Social Media Tips:

Share powerful, thought-provoking content that reflects your depth and creativity.

Use bold, dynamic visuals and impactful language.

Midheaven in Virgo (Sagittarius Rising)

Brand Identity: Your public persona should be detail-oriented, analytical, and practical. Focus on your ability to provide valuable, well-organized information.

Social Media Tips: Share well-researched content, practical tips, and detailed insights. Use a methodical approach to present information clearly and effectively. Highlight your expertise and problem-solving skills through structured posts and informative articles.

Brand Colors: Earthy tones for reliability, navy blue for professionalism, and muted green for practical growth.

IC Connection: Use Pisces’ creative and philosophical perspectives to add depth and richness to your Virgo-centric content. Combine practical advice with imaginative insights to engage your audience on both intellectual and emotional levels.

Adventurous and Insightful: Focus on exploration, learning, and philosophical insights.

Practical and Organized: Showcase your ability to apply your expansive ideas in practical ways.

Health and Movement: Incorporate elements related to well-being and personal growth.

Social Media Tips:

Create inspiring content that reflects your adventures and learning experiences.

Use clear, organized visuals and practical advice.

Midheaven in Libra (Capricorn Rising)

Brand Identity: Your public persona should be balanced, diplomatic, and aesthetically refined. Emphasize your ability to mediate and create harmonious environments.

Social Media Tips: Share content that reflects your sense of balance and aesthetics. Use a polished, graceful approach in your posts and interactions. Highlight your ability to bring people together and foster collaboration.

Brand Colors: Soft pink for harmony, light blue for balance, and neutral tones for sophistication.

IC Connection: Incorporate Aries’ boldness and assertiveness into your Libra-centric content. Show how your diplomatic approach is driven by strong convictions and proactive leadership, creating a balanced yet dynamic presence.

Ambitious and Balanced: Highlight your strategic approach and ability to create harmony in your field.

Professional and Diplomatic: Showcase your leadership and ability to handle complex situations with grace.

Success and Influence: Emphasize your achievements and your role in fostering professional relationships.

Social Media Tips:

Share content that highlights your career milestones, strategic insights, and professional network.

Use strong, balanced visuals and a professional tone.

Midheaven in Scorpio (Aquarius Rising)

Brand Identity: Your public persona should be intense, transformative, and powerful. Emphasize depth, passion, and your ability to handle complex issues.

Social Media Tips: Share content that delves into deep topics, transformative experiences, and impactful insights. Use powerful imagery and compelling narratives to engage your audience. Position yourself as an authority on complex or intense subjects.

Brand Colors: Deep reds for intensity, black for power, and rich purples for transformation.

IC Connection: Integrate Taurus’ steadiness and practicality into your Scorpio-centric content. Balance your intensity with reliable, grounded insights to provide a comprehensive and credible perspective.

Innovative and Transformative: Focus on cutting-edge ideas and profound impact.

Practical and Grounded: Highlight your ability to make innovative ideas practical and effective.

Personal Transformation: Share stories of growth and change.

Social Media Tips:

Post forward-thinking content and transformative ideas.

Use striking visuals and impactful, thought-provoking messaging.

Midheaven in Sagittarius (Pisces Rising)

Brand Identity: Your public persona should be adventurous, philosophical, and enthusiastic. Focus on your broad vision and love for exploration.

Social Media Tips: Share content that inspires and excites. Highlight your travels, philosophical insights, and adventurous pursuits. Use engaging formats like storytelling and exploration to connect with your audience.

Brand Colors: Vibrant oranges for enthusiasm, blues for expansiveness, and purples for creativity.

IC Connection: Use Gemini’s versatility and communication skills to enhance your Sagittarian content. Present your adventurous insights and philosophical reflections in an engaging, accessible way, appealing to a wide audience.

Creative and Visionary: Showcase your imaginative and expansive approach.

Exploration and Inspiration: Focus on your passion for discovering new ideas and inspiring others.

Versatility and Insight: Highlight your ability to communicate diverse insights and inspirations.

Social Media Tips:

Create content that reflects your creativity, exploration, and visionary ideas.

Use imaginative visuals and engaging, inspirational messaging. Alright! Now go and ...

2K notes · View notes

favefandomimagines · 3 months ago

Text

My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys (f.l)

Summary: Y/N discovers a secret that could cost her and Frank everything

Request: @soflowra hiiii!!! could i request a frank langdon x reader where she finds out about the benzos and kind of confronts him? (thank youuuu!!!)

AN: I took some creative freedom with this one lol

The hum of fluorescent lights was constant in the ER, like the white noise of chaos. Monitors beeped, patients groaned, and somewhere down the hallway, someone was yelling about a broken femur. Dr. Frank Langdon thrived in the noise. It kept his mind racing, his hands moving, and the darkness at bay.

Y/N stood in the doorway of Trauma 2, arms crossed over her chest, watching him work. The moment was so typical of him—snapping orders, trauma gown tied loosely around his body, a half-empty Red Bull undoubtedly nearby. Sarcastic, fast-talking, brilliant. God, he was brilliant.

She was on her way back to OB when he caught her eye and winked.

“Should’ve been a trauma doc, sweetheart,” he called out as he approached her.

She rolled her eyes, fighting back a smile. “Maybe in my next life.”

They’d been together for a year. It started just after his divorce—messy, public, and the talk of the hospital for months. She wasn’t trying to be anyone’s rebound.

But with Frank, it didn’t feel like that. There was something real underneath all his walls and caffeine highs. Something warm. Vulnerable. Something he’d given only to her.

She loved him.

But lately… something felt off.

It started with charts. She was covering for another doctor in General that week—odd, yes, but she liked to keep her skills sharp. While reviewing a patient’s post-op pain management plan, she noticed the dose of hydromorphone seemed high. Not alarmingly so—just… off. She shrugged it off. Maybe it was an attending’s call.

Then another chart. Then two more. All written up by Frank.

Each time, the dosage ordered was slightly higher than what the patient had been administered.

She brought it up casually while they were at the nurses station after another OB consult he paged her for.

“Hey,” she said softly, “you ever accidentally order the wrong dose on a discharge script?”

His eyes flicked to hers. “What are you talking about?”

“I just saw a few that looked a little high. From you.”

He didn’t blink. “Pain is subjective, right? I go by instinct. Better to have it and not need it.”

She nodded. But her stomach curled, tight and uneasy.

By the end of shift, she couldn’t ignore it anymore. Frank was still Frank, still sarcastic and lightning-fast, still showing up to every shift extremely over-caffeinated. But there were cracks.

When she ran out to his car to grab her jacket, she found an empty oxy bottle in his car’s cupholder. Not prescribed to him, no prescription on it at all.

It was nearly midnight when she decided. She stayed late after her shift, combing through the hospital’s prescription logs. She knew the system. She knew the way people tried to hide it. She also knew what to look for.

Her heart cracked as the pieces came together.

He was stealing. Masking it under the chaos of the ER. Signing off on more than what was used. Logging it as administered. And no one else had caught it.

Not yet.

She confronted him later that night in the on-call room.

Frank was sitting on the edge of the cot, sipping from a fresh Red Bull and scrolling through his phone like nothing was wrong. He looked up, grinned. “Hey, baby. Didn’t think you were on tonight.”

“I’m not,” she said quietly, shutting the door behind her.

He frowned at her tone. “Everything okay?”

“I know, Frank.”

His expression didn’t change. “Know what?”

“I know about the pills. I know what you’ve been doing.”

Silence fell. Thick and suffocating.

He stood slowly, the can in his hand shaking just slightly. “I don’t know what you think you know—”

“Don’t,” she said sharply. “Don’t lie to me.”

He swallowed hard. “Y/N…”

“You’ve been altering scripts. Signing off on meds that were never given. I checked the logs. You think no one would notice?”

“I’m not a junkie,” he snapped. “A junkie couldn’t do what I do every day. I run trauma codes, I intubate drunk driving victims with one hand and hold pressure with the other. A junkie couldn’t do that.”

Her chest rose and fell in a slow, controlled breath. “You’re addicted, Frank. That’s what this is. And I don’t care how steady your hands are or how many lives you save—you’re still stealing. You’re still lying. And if Abby finds out…”

That stopped him. The sound of his ex-wife's name leaving the lips of the woman he loved.

“She will fight you for custody,” Y/N continued, her voice cracking. “And she’ll win, Frank. You think the board will let you near narcotics again? You think a court’s going to hand your weekends with the kids to someone diverting benzos from their hospital?”

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t speak.

“This isn’t just about us,” she whispered. “You have kids, Frank. They didn’t ask for any of this.”

He turned away, his shoulders tight, head bowed like the weight of the room was finally crushing him.

“I know,” he murmured. “God, I know.”

She swallowed the knot in her throat. “You want to tell me you’re not a junkie, fine. But what happens when Abby finds out? When the hospital files a report? What happens when you have to look your kids in the eye and explain why Daddy can’t come around anymore?”

His breath hitched.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” she added, softer now. “But this… this will destroy you, Frank. If you don’t stop it now.”

He didn’t say anything.

He laughed bitterly, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t get it.”

“Then help me understand.” she pleaded. “You lied to me, Frank. For months.”

He didn’t say anything.

“Why?” she whispered. “Why couldn’t you just tell me?”

Frank sat down again, burying his face in his hands. His shoulders shook, and for the first time since she’d known him, he looked like he might break.

“After the divorce,” he said finally, voice hollow, “I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her face. Everything I lost. And then the ER… it’s never-ending. One shift bleeds into the next. I needed to keep going. Just… keep going.”

She said nothing. Let him talk.

“So I started small. Just to take the edge off. Then I needed more. And I knew how to get it. Then we got together and you deserved more than the mess that I am.”

Y/N’s eyes burned.

“I’m not proud of it. I’m not… asking for forgiveness.”

She sat down beside him, but didn’t touch him. “So what now?”

He looked up at her, eyes red. “I’ll tell Dr. Robby. I’ll get clean. I swear. I just—” His voice broke. “I can’t lose you.”

She reached for his hand.

“Frank,” she said softly. “You need to get clean because you want to. Not for me. Not for this relationship. But for you.”

He nodded slowly, brokenly.

“But I’ll be there,” she said, “every step of the way. If you let me.”

He squeezed her hand. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Maybe not,” she whispered, “but you still have me.”

#imagine #imagines #the pitt imagine #the pitt #dr frank langdon x reader #dr frank langdon imagine #frank langdon x reader #frank langdon #dr frank langdon #frank langdon imagine

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randomthefox · 3 months ago

Text

Let's talk about Dante and Vergil's swords, Rebellion and Yamato, and their "publication history" if you will.

In DMC1, Dante's default sword he starts with is Force Edge. It is described as being a "momento from his father."

However by the end of DMC1, Force Edge has its true power unlocked and becomes the devil sword Sparda.

It stays like that permanently afterwards, it never reverts back to being regular Force Edge. So when they were developing DMC2 they needed a new regular default sword for Dante because they couldn't just have him start out using Sparda, so they came up with Rebellion.

I doubt they put any thought into this whatsoever at the time. But when Itsuno was making DMC3, he decided to take the sword they came up with for Dante from the second game and rewrote it a little so that the Rebellion was the sword that Sparda left Dante after all!

Since he was also rewriting Force Edge to be the key that locked away the Underworld, and they had another non-Force Edge sword invented up, it opened things up so that they could take that sword they invented to replace Force Edge in DMC2 to have a lot more importance invoked into it!

And since they were also taking Vergil and completely changing his character for the sake of their plot for this prequel game, let's also give him a keepsake sword from Sparda! You might not realize this if you hadn't beaten DMC1 at least on hard mode, but the Yamato was NOT just some random cool samurai sword that they gave Vergil because he's so cool. You see back in DMC1 if you beat it on hard mode you unlocked the Legendary Dark Knight mode, which was a model swap for Dante where he was dressed up as Sparda. And along with Sparda's clothes and DT, you also got to use Sparda's sword the Yamato!

That's right, the Yamato as a sword actually predates Vergil the character as we know him. The detail that it has the power to DIVIDE things in two is even right there in the description from the original game as well! So Itsuno took this bonus weapon that is described as being wielded by Sparda, and decided it was the matching keepsake weapon given to Vergil in DMC3. Since Vergil is the older twin, he gets the sword Sparda actually used himself.

The way these swords of such esteem power and prominence have the origin of Itsuno taking disparate elements from the baton passing development of the first two games where the original was made by Kamiya and the second game was made under duress is really nifty to me. Playing DMC5 you'd almost think it was all planned out from the beginning, but nothing could be further from the truth. That's the mark of true creativity I think. Instead of just saying DMC2 was bad and ignoring everything about it, he took the default sword from that game and did something creative with it. Now in the majority of peoples minds, Rebellion is the signature sword for Dante. And by that same token, most fans don't have any idea that Yamato was an unlockable weapon all the way back from the first game because it's just so iconic as Vergil's signature blade.

Pretty cool, I think.

#dmc #devil may cry #dmc dante #dmc vergil

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valkyriexo · 9 months ago

Text

Work of Art | Hyunjin

ᑉ³pairing; Best Friend Hyunjin x Reader

ᑉ³genre; Angst (ish?), Smut

ᑉ³warnings; SMUT MDNI, Jealousy, dirty talk, swearing, P in V, unprotected sex , fingering, edging, Semi-public sex, Smut. SMUTTT minors do NOT interact

ᑉ³Authors Note; 1k event Commisson giveaway winner @skzdreamer13 (sorry it took so long ! ) Also... this is a bit longer then i intended it to be i got... carried away hehehe

The art studio smells like paint, the familiar scent swirling in the air as you dip your brush into a swirl of color. The canvas in front of you is slowly taking shape, the blend of pastel blues and soft pinks beginning to resemble the hazy skyline of a dreamscape you’ve been envisioning for weeks. You’ve lost track of how many hours you’ve spent on it, layering colors, fine-tuning the details, but it doesn’t matter. You’ve always loved getting lost in your work.

Across the room, Hyunjin sits at his usual spot by the window, sketchbook propped on his knee as he sketches something you can’t quite see from where you stand. It’s comfortable, familiar, the two of you working in companionable silence. Every now and then, you glance up to find him already looking at you, eyes soft and focused, like he’s trying to memorize every detail of the moment.

You’ve been friends for what feels like forever, bonded over late nights in this very studio, sharing music while you worked side by side.

It’s...... easy with him, always has been.

Hyunjin is the kind of person who understands you without you needing to say anything. He knows your moods, can read the subtlest change in your expression, and you’ve always been able to share everything with him — your art, your frustrations, your dreams. This studio was your place. You’d both stay long after everyone else left, the hum of creativity and quiet conversation filling the space between you.

“What do you think?” you ask, turning your canvas toward him. His opinion has always mattered to you. Hyunjin’s eye for detail is sharp, but more than that, you trust him to be honest.

He looks up, his gaze landing on the canvas. A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips, his eyes softening as he takes it in. “It’s beautiful,” he says, voice low, almost reverent. “There’s something... ethereal about it. It feels like a memory.”

Your heart flutters at his words, the compliment striking deeper than it should. “That’s what I was going for,” you say, stepping back to look at your painting again.

Hyunjin nods, his gaze flickering back to the painting. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, just studies it with that intense focus he always has when he’s taking something in. Then, quietly, he says, “You always manage to put so much feeling into your work. It’s one of the things I... admire about you.”

There’s a softness in his voice that makes your heart skip, something unspoken in the way he says those last words. He doesn’t look at you when he says it, his eyes still fixed on the canvas, but there’s an underlying tenderness that you can’t quite ignore.

You open your mouth to respond, to say something — anything — but the air feels thick with something you can’t name, and before you can find the right words, the door to the studio swings open.

Han walks into the studio, a burst of energy and excitement trailing in his wake. He’s carrying a bag of takeout, the aroma of food filling the air as he enters. His face is lit up with a wide, enthusiastic grin, his eyes sparkling with genuine excitement.

“Hey, everyone!” Han’s cheerful voice fills the studio as he strides in with takeout. “Thought you might be hungry.”

You turn to greet him, your mood lifting at the sight of his familiar, easygoing smile. Han sets the bags of food on the table with a casual grace. “I brought some takeout. Figured you two could use a break.”

“Thanks, Han,” you say, trying to keep the atmosphere light. You catch Hyunjin’s reaction from the corner of your eye. His smile tightens just a fraction, and he shifts his gaze back to his sketchbook, an unreadable expression settling on his face.

“Perfect timing,” Hyunjin says, his voice polite but lacking its usual warmth. “We could use a break.”

Han begins unpacking the food, his eyes bright as he glances at your painting. “Wow, Y/N, that’s incredible,” he says with genuine admiration. “You’ve really outdone yourself.”

You smile at the praise, feeling a warm flutter at Han’s enthusiasm. “Thanks, Han. I’ve been working on it for a while.”

As Han continues to unpack the food, you notice Hyunjin’s shoulders are tense, his focus remaining on his sketchbook. There’s a subtle shift in the air, a change you can’t quite place but that feels almost tangible.

“Mind if I join in?” Han asks, setting up a plate of food for you and Hyunjin. His casual tone and easy smile make it clear he’s just as comfortable here as he is anywhere else.

“Of course,” you reply, “It’s good to have you here.”

Hyunjin finally looks up, his gaze fleetingly meeting yours before he returns to his sketchbook. “Yeah, it’s nice to have a break,” he says, his tone once again polite but detached.

As you all sit down to eat, you find yourself drawn into Han’s stories and jokes, your laughter mingling with his. It’s clear that you’re enjoying his company, and you can’t help but notice how his presence brings a different kind of energy to the studio.

Hyunjin, on the other hand, remains subdued. He joins in the conversation, but his responses are brief, and his attention seems.....

....divided.

The studio hums with the soft sounds of conversation and the clinking of utensils as Han continues to engage with you and Hyunjin over lunch. His attention is focused on you, and you can’t miss the playful glint in his eyes.

Lately, Han has been visiting the studio more frequently. At first, it was just a casual drop-in here and there, but recently, he’s been making it a regular thing. The three of you have been spending a lot of time together, discussing art, sharing ideas, and even grabbing lunch like today. His presence has added a new dynamic to your studio time, and you can’t deny that it’s been refreshing.

When Han started coming around more, it felt like a natural extension of your routine. He’d drop by with coffee or lunch, sometimes bringing along his own sketches to work on. You found some joy in his company , and it was easy to get lost in conversation with him. His enthusiasm for art matched yours, and his friendly, easygoing nature made him a great addition to your creative space.

The more Han visited, the more you two grew close. You started to look forward to his presence, finding comfort and inspiration in his company. You’d often stay late into the evening, chatting about everything from art to life.

But with Han’s increased presence, something shifted. You noticed how your interactions with Hyunjin became less frequent. Where you used to work side by side, sharing thoughts and critiques, you now found yourself pulled into conversations with Han.

“So, Y/N,” Han starts, leaning slightly closer with a teasing smile. “How do you manage to make everything look so effortless? I’ve seen your work, and I know it’s anything but.”

You laugh, a bit flustered by his directness. “It’s a lot of practice and maybe a bit of luck,” you reply, trying to keep things light.

Han grins, his gaze lingering on you. He gently tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering just a moment longer than necessary. “I’d say it’s definitely more than luck. I’ve seen your paintings turn into something incredible. Maybe you’ve got a secret.”

You feel your cheeks warm at his touch and compliment. “Maybe I do,” you say, matching his playful tone. “But I’m not sure I’m ready to share it just yet.”

Han chuckles softly and reaches over to hand you a paintbrush, his fingers brushing against yours in the process. “Well, if you ever decide to let me in on that secret, I’d be more than happy to help you with it.” He gets a little closer, his arm grazing yours as he leans in. “You know,” he says, leaning in a little closer, “I was thinking... maybe we should test that theory. How about we paint something together one day? I’ve got some ideas and I think it could be a lot of fun.”

“That sounds interesting. What kind of ideas do you have in mind?” you reply.

Just as he starts to respond, Hyunjin, who has been quietly watching, stands up abruptly. His voice, though calm, carries an unmistakable edge. “It’s getting late,” he says, his gaze flickering between you and Han. “I think it’s time to wrap things up for today. Y/N, you should probably head home too.”

Han’s expression shifts from playful to slightly confused. “Already? I was just about to ask Y/N to—”

Hyunjin cuts him off with a firm yet polite tone. “I’m sorry, Han, but we’ve all had a long day. We can catch up on the details another time. Y/N, let’s get going.”

You glance at Han, his eyes reflecting a mix of disappointment and surprise, before turning to Hyunjin. “Yeah, I guess it is getting late,” you agree, though you can’t help but feel a twinge of guilt as you stand up.

Han’s disappointment is evident as he offers you a small, wistful smile. “Alright, Y/N. We’ll talk about it soon. Have a good night.” His words are warm, but there’s a hint of frustration in his eyes as he gathers his things.

As Han exits the studio, you turn to find Hyunjin already heading towards the door, his expression a mix of frustration and anger. He’s usually so composed, but there’s something in his demeanor tonight that feels sharp and unsettled.

“Hyunjin, wait up,” you call, catching up to him as he moves toward the entrance. The studio is now quiet, the clinking of utensils and hum of conversation replaced by an uneasy silence.

Hyunjin stops and turns to face you, his gaze intense. “Y/N, I didn’t mean to rush you, but..." He pauses, his voice faltering slightly as he searches for the right words.

“Actually, never mind,” he says abruptly, his tone shifting to a forced calm. “Have a good night, Y/N.”

He begins to walk toward the door, but you reach out, your voice trembling slightly. “But, Hyunjin? What’s wrong?”

Hyunjin stops, his back to you, and for a moment, you can see the conflict warring within him. He turns his head slightly, but the emotion in his eyes is hard to decipher.

"You've...you’ve been spending a lot of time with Han lately.”

You take a deep breath, trying to keep your voice steady. “He’s been coming by the studio more often. We’ve just been working on some ideas together.”

Hyunjin’s jaw tightens, his frustration evident. “I’ve noticed. It’s just—” He stops himself, running a hand through his hair. “Never mind. It’s none of my business who you spend your time with.”

Hyunjin’s frustration is palpable as he crosses his arms, his gaze fixed on the floor. The usually calm and collected friend is now visibly shaken, and the intensity in his voice is unmistakable.

“Hyunjin, what's wrong?” you ask, concern evident in your voice.

Hyunjin looks up, his expression hardening. “Nothing’s wrong,” he says, his voice clipped. “I’ll stop interrupting your time with Han.”

Before you can react, he turns away from you, heading towards the door. The sudden shift in his demeanor makes your heart ache, and you can’t just let him leave like this.

“No, wait!” you call out, rushing to catch up with him. “Hyunjin, please, don’t go. We need to talk about this.”

Hyunjin pauses but doesn’t turn around. “There’s nothing to talk about,” he replies, his tone flat. “I just... need some time alone. It’s better this way.”

You reach out, placing a hand gently on his arm. “Hyunjin, don’t shut me out. We’ve always been able to talk through things. I don’t want to lose our friendship over this.”

Hyunjin stiffens under your touch and then turns to face you, his eyes blazing with an emotion you hadn’t expected. The usually composed and easygoing Hyunjin is now a whirlwind of frustration and jealousy, his features tense and his jaw set tight. The raw intensity in his gaze is something you’ve never seen before — a mix of hurt and anger that makes your heart ache.

You’re taken aback by his intensity. “Han’s just been trying to be friendly and lighten the mood. I didn’t think it was anything more than him wanting to hang out and have a good time.”

“Are you seriously that oblivious?” he snaps, his voice cracking with the weight of his emotions. “I’ve been sitting here, watching him flirt with you, and all you seem to notice is how charming he is.”

Hyunjin’s voice trembles with frustration. “It’s not just about him being friendly! It’s about watching you with someone else, someone who’s clearly interested in you. And while he’s making moves, I’m just supposed to sit here and pretend it doesn’t bother me?”

You feel a pang of guilt, your own emotions a whirlwind of confusion and concern. “Hyunjin, I—”

“Do you really not get it?” he interrupts, his tone harsh and edged. “I’m in love with you, Y/N. I’ve been hiding it for so long, thinking maybe it would go away or that it didn’t matter because we’re friends. But seeing you with Han, seeing how easily he gets to be close to you, it’s like... it’s tearing me apart.”

He stands there, struggling to keep his composure, his breath coming in uneven gasps.

“I... I didn’t know,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “Hyunjin, I never imagined you could feel this way. I thought... I always thought you’d see me as just a friend, nothing more. Why would you ever think that—”

Hyunjin interrupts, his voice strained. “Because you are special to me. I’ve been falling for you for so long, and I’ve been trying to ignore it, hoping it would go away. I’m sorry if I’ve been selfish, but it’s killing me to see you with him when all I want is to be close to you.”

He pauses, taking a deep breath as if bracing himself. “But I’ll give you space since it’s clear the feelings aren’t the same. I’m sorry for bringing this on you.” His voice is barely above a whisper, filled with regret and resignation.

Before you can find the right words to respond, before you can process the whirlwind of emotions, Hyunjin turns abruptly and walks toward the door. His steps are heavy, each one echoing the weight of his confession.

“Hyunjin, wait!” you call out, but he doesn’t turn back. The door closes softly behind him, leaving you alone in the quiet studio, your heart pounding.

You stand there, stunned and at a loss, the room feeling colder and emptier than before. Your heart feels like it’s been shattered. Your vision blurs with tears, and you try to hold them back, but they come uncontrollably. You bite your lip, trying to stifle the sobs that escape.

You’ve been in love with him for as long as you can remember, but you never dared to hope he could feel the same way.Standing there, tears streaming down your face, you clutch the edges of the doorframe, trying to ground yourself.

You take a shaky breath, desperately trying to compose yourself. With trembling hands, you wipe at your tears with the sleeve of your shirt, attempting to pull yourself together.

Summoning all the strength you have left, you push open the door and step out into the dimly lit hallway. The cool air hits your tear-streaked face, but it does little to soothe the turmoil you.

As you open the door, you come face-to-face with Hyunjin, who is standing right outside, as if he was about to come back in. His eyes widen in surprise when he sees you crying, and his expression shifts from pained resignation to a mix of shock and vulnerability.

You both stand there for a moment, the silence thick with unspoken words and raw emotion. Hyunjin's eyes are red-rimmed, and he looks as though he's been caught in a moment of hesitation, his own tears glistening in his eyes.

Hyunjin’s gaze drops, and he looks away, clearly struggling with his emotions. “I was just—” he starts, but his voice falters, and he wipes at his eyes quickly, as if trying to regain his composure.

As you both stand there, Hyunjin's gaze slowly meets yours. There’s a mix of desperation and hope in his eyes, as if he’s grappling with the urge to fix what’s been broken.

His expression softens, and with a trembling breath, he takes a step closer to you. The space between you seems to shrink as he closes the distance, his movements slow and deliberate.

Without a word, Hyunjin gently places his hands on your cheeks, his touch tender and warm. His eyes search yours for a moment longer, as if asking for permission. Then, he leans in, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that is both soft and filled with emotion.

The kiss is hesitant at first, but it deepens as he pulls you closer, his lips moving against yours with a sense of longing and desperation. You can feel the trembling in his hands

As Hyunjin’s kiss deepens, it feels as though time stands still, the world outside the studio fading away. The intensity of the moment pushes you both backward, and with each tender touch of his lips, you find yourselves moving slowly but inevitably back into the studio, the door closing shut behind him.

The kiss continues, now more urgent and passionate, as if he’s trying to pour all the words he can’t express into this one moment.

When the kiss finally breaks, you both stand there, breathless and slightly disheveled, still close together. Hyunjin’s gaze is tender, and he looks at you with a mixture of relief and hope.

"Why me? I don’t get it” you say.

Hyunjin’s smile widens, and he gently wipes away a tear from your cheek. “Why you? Because you’re everything I’ve ever wanted—kind, talented, and absolutely incredible.Because you’re like your art—full of beauty and emotion. Every piece you create reveals a part of you, and I’ve been captivated by that. I’ve been waiting for the right moment to show you just how much you mean to me.”

He kisses you again, this time more desparetly, as if he needs to breathe and your his oxygen.

You can feel his hand slide down your body and he takes your hand in his. You feel your own heart skip a beat, and you can't help but smile as you continue to kiss, as he pushes you back allowing you to sit up on one of the tables in the studio. He takes the opportunity to put his body between your legs.

His tongue explores your mouth, and you can’t help but respond, your own tongue dueling with his.

You can feel the heat radiating from his body. Your hands reach up to touch his chest, feeling the firm muscles underneath your fingertips, and Hyunjin lets out a low groan, his eyes darkening with desire.

“Fuck, I want you,” he growls, his hand gripping your hip tightly.

You can feel his erection pressing against you, and you moan softly, your own desire building up inside of you.

You break the kiss, gasping for breath. Hyunjin’s lips trail down your neck, nipping and sucking at your sensitive skin. You arch your back, moaning as his hands roam over your body, cupping your breasts and pinching your nipples through the fabric of your shirt.

“Hyunjin, please,” you beg, your hands tugging at his shirt.He obliges, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it aside. You can’t help but stare at his muscular chest, your fingers tracing the lines of his abs.

He smiles, looking at you, as if asking for permission with his eyes. You nod and his hands reach towards you to unbutton your shirt. You undo your bra on your own, and together both items fall to the ground. You blush as he stares at you.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, his hands cupping your breasts and squeezing gently.

You moan, your nipples hardening under his touch. You can feel your wetness soaking through your panties, and you grind your hips against Hyunjin’s. He groans, both hands now gripping your hips tighter.

Hyunjin leans down, taking one of your nipples into his mouth and sucking gently. You try to stifle your moan, your hands gripping his hair as he switches to the other nipple, biting down gently. His lips trail back up to your neck as his hands begin to slide down the sides of your body.

His fingers find their way to your panties.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he growls, his fingers tracing the lines of your panties.

You moan, your hips bucking as his fingers slip under your panties and into your wetness. He strokes your clit, and you cry out, your orgasm building up inside of you. Hyunjin continues to stroke you, his fingers moving faster and faster. His fingers are long and slender, and you can feel them stroking you from the inside.

"Oh g-god, Hyunjin" you say, as he brings you closer and closer to the edge.

"Yeah? Does that feel good baby?" Hearing him call you "baby" sends a flutter through your chest, a warmth spreading in the pit of your stomach. It’s not just the word — it’s the way he says it, soft and full of affection, like it belongs only to you. You’ve heard the word before, but from his lips, it feels different — intimate, tender, and so undeniably right.

Your legs begin to tremble as your orgasm builds. Hyunjin kisses you again, his tongue exploring your mouth as his fingers continue to move inside you.

You break the kiss, gasping for breath. "d-don't stop" you whine. Hyunjin continues to kiss you, swallowing your cries as his pace speeds up. You grab onto Hyunjin's shoulders as you begin to ride his fingers, your body trembling with pleasure. "Fuck, I'm going to cum," you cry, as your orgasm approaches.

"Not yet," he whispers and you feel as he pulls his fingers out of you. "I want your cum on my cock."

You blush, as his hands reach down to unbutton his pants. He pushes his pants and boxers down in one swift motion. His erection springs free, and you can’t help but stare at it.

“Do you want this?” he asks, his hand wrapping around his cock and stroking it slowly.

You nod, your hand reaching out to touch him. Hyunjin groans, his hips thrusting forward as your hand wraps around his cock. You stroke him slowly, matching his rhythm. You pressed your thumb down onto his dripping red tip, and you could hear him whine.

“Fuck, that feels good,” he says as he slowly spread open your legs. He pushes you back a little to line his tip up to your entrance.

"You ready for me?" he asks, teasingly.

"Please," you reply, desperately.

He pushes in, his cock stretching you open as he enters you. You moan, your hands gripping his arms as he begins to move, thrusting slowly at first.

"Please, Hyunjin, please." You begged, as your eyes closed from the pleasure.

"God, you're so tight," he groans, his hands gripping your hips, pulling out slowly before thrusting back in, back out, and back in again.

and he feels SO good.

And then he stops..... while still inside you.

Confused, you open your eyes to see a frozen Hyunjin. “What’s wrong?” you ask.

“I-I...." he stutters. Hyunjin’s face pales as his eyes dart nervously to the canvas behind you. "I spilled paint,” he says, gesturing to the canvas behind you. He hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck, visibly distressed. “I’m so sorry, Y/N. I know you worked so hard on it, and I just... ruined it.” His voice breaks slightly, and he looks away, unable to meet your gaze.

You look at the canvas, your heart sinking a little. The once vibrant colors you’d carefully layered over days of meticulous work are now smeared and distorted by splashes of dark paint. What was supposed to be a serene landscape, full of soft pastels and warm hues, is now marred by streaks of harsh, misplaced colors running down the surface.

"It was perfect, and I ruined it," he whispers, his voice thick with regret. "I know how much this meant to you."

Hyunjin’s hand is covered in streaks of dark paint from knocking over the paint, and you can see how the paint has seeped into the creases of his hands, clinging to him like guilt.

He stares at his hand, then back at the ruined painting, shaking his head. "I should’ve been more careful," he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. "Look at this... I can't believe I did this to your work."

He looks up, shocked. "Y/N..."

"Hyunjin," you say. "It's okay. It's just paint."

"But..." he starts.

You cut him off with a kiss. "I'd rather have you than the painting," you whisper. "Besides I think your art is prettier than mine."

"You...you do?"

"Mmhm," You say nodding your head."Besides....I always said I wanted you to paint me one day..."

" You want me to paint you?"

You answer his question by moving his paint coated hands together and placing them both on your chest, leaving his paint handprints right on you.

You've never done anything like this before, but the idea of being so intimate with Hyunjin is incredibly arousing.

You gasp at the sensation, your body trembling with desire. Hyunjin's touch is electric, and you can't help but moan as he continues to explore your body with his fingers. He moves one of his hands and traces a finger over your collarbone, leaving a trail of paint in its wake.

You feel as he begins to thrust into you again.

Your eyes close from the pleasure, and you moan as his cock fills you completely.

"Oh fuck," you say, your voice cracking. You feel Hyunjin's pace quicken as his cock continues to pound into you. His hands roam, allowing more paint to make its way onto your body. You place your hands into an open yellow and purple paint nearby and place your hands on his chest, covering him with paint as well.

"Oh fuck," Hyunjin growls, his voice hoarse with lust. He grabs you by the hips, and lifts you off the table.

"Wrap your legs around me," he says.

You do as he asks, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him closer. His cock is still buried deep inside you, and the new angle sends shivers of pleasure through your body.

"That's it," he says, his voice husky. "Hold on tight."

He begins to move again, his pace quickening as he pounds into you, his cock hitting just the right spot inside you.

You cling to him, your arms wrapped around his neck and your face buried in his shoulder. You can't help but cry out as your orgasm approaches.

"Oh god, Hyunjin," you cry, your body trembling. "I'm gonna come."

"Yeah?" he says. "Me too."

His thrusts become faster, harder, as he pounds into you. Your cries echo in the room, and you feel him throb inside you.

"Come for me, Y/N," he growls.

"Oh god, Hyunjin," you cry, as your orgasm hits, your nails digging into his shoulders. He continues to thrust into you, drawing out your pleasure. You cling to him, your body shaking as the waves of pleasure wash over you.

"Fuck," Hyunjin groans, as he comes, his cock pulsing inside you, completing the masterpiece by painting your walls.

When you finally come down from your orgasm, you look down at Hyunjin and see that he's covered in paint. His face, his hair, and even his clothes are covered in a rainbow of colors.

You can't help but laugh at the sight, and Hyunjin joins in your laughter.

"You look beautiful," he says with a soft smile, his eyes tracing your features. "Like a work of art. Something I'd spend hours admiring, and still, it wouldn't be enough." He places you back down on the table and pulls you into a tight embrace, and you can feel the warmth of his body against yours.

The two of you stay there for a moment, wrapped in each other's arms, before you finally break away.

"We should.... clean up," you say, gesturing to the paint that's covering both of your bodies.

Hyunjin nods in agreement, but neither of you move.

Instead, he leans in and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.

"We'll get cleaned up soon," he says, his voice soft and tender.

"Right now, I just want to hold you."

You smile, a wave of happiness washing over you. "I'd like that," you say, nuzzling against his chest.

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#k-labels #hyunjin #skz #stray kids #skz smut #stray kids smut #straykids #k labels #skzstarnet #supernovanetwork #smut #hyunjin stray kids #skz hyunjin #stray kids hyunjin #hwang hyunjin #hyunjin smut #hyunjin x reader

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dibator · 1 year ago

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The Downloaded by Robert J Sawyer

SHADOWPAW PRESS The new novel from Canada’s top science-fiction writer THE DOWNLOADED ROBERT J. SAWYER In 2059 two very different groups have their minds uploaded into a quantum computer in Waterloo, Ontario. One group consists of astronauts preparing for Earth’s first interstellar voyage. The other? Convicted murderers, serving their sentences in a virtual-reality prison. But when…

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#Canadian authors #Creative Edge Publicity #Robert J Sawyer #science fiction #Shadowpaw Press #The Downloaded

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astridthevalkyrie · 7 months ago

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“You think people ever look at us and wonder why you would be with me?” Rafayel had frozen in place, his hand mid paint stroke as he gazed down at you from his ladder. You’d been curled up on the couch, watching him comfortably while your thoughts took a depressing turn that was anything but comfortable. “No,” he’d said, “absolutely not. No one in their right mind would think that.”

contains: afab reader, edging, rafayel making reader praise themselves, rafayel speaks in hindi, probably ooc and with grammatical errors sorry i wrote this all in like one hour at 10 PM and i was crying for half of it

it's been a while since my own insecurities have actually given me the creative kick to write something like this, so sucks to be insecure i guess, but yay fic!!!!

Insecurity. What a bitch.

It’s life-ruining, at its worst. It makes you look into the mirror and imagine even the reflection looking back and sneering at what it sees. It makes your heart pound as you walk in public, wondering how many people would smile once they get the privilege of losing sight of you. It makes you sob at night when you’re alone, mind knowing that there is no one in the world who is uniquely terrible, but your heart convinced that you’re the exception.

It makes you say something, accidentally, to your boyfriend.

“You think people ever look at us and wonder why you would be with me?”

Rafayel had frozen in place, his hand mid paint stroke as he gazed down at you from his ladder. You’d been curled up on the couch, watching him comfortably while your thoughts took a depressing turn that was anything but comfortable.

“No,” he’d said, “absolutely not. No one in their right mind would think that.”

If you’d been more acute in the moment, you might have heard the warning in his voice, the irk of a god who has just had his most precious jewel taunted.

But you’d continued instead. “They would. You’re so handsome, so gorgeous. Ethereal. Not to mention incredibly talented. And I love you, and I think we’re really compatible personality wise, but looks…you have to admit you could do a lot better.”

It was then you’d began to note how it felt much hotter in the studio than it had a few minutes ago. Like there was an unseen furnace, prickling with an angry fire about to grow into an inferno.

Rafayel’s voice had been, ironically, icy. “How could I do better than you?”

“C’mon, be real, Raf.” It had been hard to keep the pain out of your words, and impossible to keep the thoughts choking you inside. You’d started to plead, some part of you convinced that it would help if he would simply agree that your every insecurity was valid. “I’m not a supermodel. I’m not a genius. I’m not an angel, either. There’s nothing about me that’s extraordinary. Not like you are.”

And then he’d moved.

And now, you’re still on the couch, crying out brokenly with nothing to grip onto, as his hand holds your wrists above your head, and his cock thrusts in and out of you in the most maddening pace you’ve ever experienced.

He’s never been like this. When you plead, Rafayel gives in. He is weak to you, as he’s shown time and time again. But not today. No matter how much you beg with teary eyes for him to go faster, he shakes his head, slowing down even more. With a punishing growl, he pushes all the way in, and all the way out, leaving your drooling cunt clenching around nothing.

It’s torture. Pure and simple.

“What was it you said?” he breathes harshly, leaning down to press hot kisses on your neck that burn so perfectly you sob. “Ethereal? Talented? A supermodel?”

“Rafayel,” you gasp. He ignores it. His eyes are a violent shade of purple, the most dangerous you’ve ever seen them. There are scales blooming all over his body, as though denying you is the key to awake this dormant side of him, to make you submit.

“I’ll give you what you want,” he whispers, biting and leaving a fresh bruise planted on your skin. “Just tell me what I want to hear. Go on.”

He pulls out and you feel the tears running down your cheeks.

“Say, ‘I’m beautiful.’”

In.

“Say, ‘I’m gorgeous.’”

Out.

“Say, “I’m fucking ethereal.’”

You can taste salt from your own sobs, both from being denied, and from the unimaginable cruelty of having to praise yourself. It’s impossible. You want the reward so bad, but you can’t claw your way to it, because the rules are too imposing. The conditions, blinding.

“Be real,” he taunts, repeating your own words back to you, “come on, start easy. ‘I’m pretty.’ Go on.”

Heaving in a breath, you taste the bitter words on your tongue. “I-I’m pretty.”

Your back arches off the couch as he rewards you with his fingers on your clit, rubbing soft circles while he’s inside you. “Mmhm. You are. And?”

“Please, Rafayel.” You’re clenching so tight around him, and you can see from how he shudders that it pains him just as much as it pains you, this wait, this little game of keep-away. “Please don’t make me—“

You’re cut off by his hand cupping your cheeks, and his lips stealing a salty, breathless kiss. “Meri pyaari gurya,” he groans, kissing you again, “meri chand.” Kiss. “Meri humsafar.” Kiss. “Mine, mine, mine.” Kiss, kiss, kiss. "Do you think I keep anything that isn’t worthy of the Sea God?”

You shut your eyes, crying harder. The logic is loud, but your thoughts are louder. He’s only saying it to reassure you, he’s only saying it to be nice, he’s only saying it because he pities you…

“Meri dulhaniya,” he saves for last, because he knows it’ll break you, “I have nowhere to be. I’m fine staying buried inside you, all day and all night, while your sweet little pussy gushes for me. I’ll bring you to the brink, again and again, but I won’t let you cum, my pretty muse, because either you admit that you’re the most beautiful human in this world, or I’ll fuck it into you till you forget otherwise.”

Trembling, you open your eyes. There is nothing but conviction in his gaze. Conviction, and hunger.

And you realize two very important things. One, that your stamina is nothing compared to his, and you will never hold out against him, and two, that is not something one does out of pity, but out of unyielding, undying adoration.

“I’m,” you swallow, cheeks burning, “beautiful.”

A sharp thrust of his hips makes you moan his name, mouth falling open as he kisses you deeply, and you swear you can feel him hardening even more inside you.

“I’m gorgeous.”

“Yes,” Rafayel hisses, fingers rubbing your clit to match his thrusts.

Eyes rolling back, you cry out, “I-I’m…”

“Fucking ethereal,” he provides, and you think you can feel fire flicking from his lips on your cheeks.

“Fucking ethereal,” you whine, pulling him into a kiss this time.

His hips slam against yours and you cry out against his mouth as his tongue ravages yours. There is nothing Rafayel hates more than someone misunderstanding his art, least of all the art itself.

Your toes curl and your nerves are electrified, everything fading away except you and Rafayel, and his cock and his fingers and his lips, and the couch he’s pounding you into, and you tug at his hair and practically scream as you cum.

He’s still softly licking at your lips as you come down from your high, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. The air escaping you is light, and for the first time in a long time, there is nothing stuck in your chest, a soft fluttery feeling replacing the heaviness that you’ve been carrying what feels like your whole life.

Gazing back up your lover, you cradle his face, noticing that his lovely purple hues have morphed into an even lovelier pink, only a second before you notice he hasn’t cum yet.

“That’s a good start,” Rafayel whispers, capturing your lower lip between his teeth and tugging.

It bounces back into place for him to kiss softly, before he continues, “Now, let’s try ‘most beautiful human in the world.’ If you get there, I might consider letting you have a break.”

#love and deepspace #rafayel x reader #rafayel smut #lads smut #l&ds #love and deepspace rafayel #rafayel x mc #rafayel #valkyrie stories

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joosthead · 5 months ago

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skin || j.k. x f!reader

WARNING #1: explicit real person fiction ahead, dni if below 18. dni if anti-rpf

WARNING #2: explicit rpf/real person fiction content ahead. read at your own risk. dni if anti rpf, dni or read ahead if you simply don’t like rpf lol

₊˚⊹⋆ joost wants to make a song.

₊˚⊹⋆ for @spentandpent’s contest 😅🩷 (2 months late)

₊˚⊹⋆ reader: f!reader. notfamous!reader. normal au a.k.a. reader has an office job and attends university. reader is not dutch

₊˚⊹⋆ word count: 10.3k

₊˚⊹⋆ cw: smut (established relationship, consensual audio recording during sex, f!receiving oral, mirror, ruined orgasm, overstimulation, squirting, vibrator, multiple orgasms, unprotected piv, slight breeding kink, creampie), kind of really porny i can't lie. pwp. crying both out of (momentary) sadness and because cumming 🩷 reader🤝being total crybabies🤝juno

WARNING #3: rpf ahead—don't like it, don't read it. do not repost this on any other platform, screenshots or text alike. do not click ahead if you don’t want to read rpf. do not interact if you are below 18. how to block tags/words on tumblr.

₊˚⊹⋆ track(s) of the fic: “skin” by mac miller, “p power” by gunna

₊˚⊹⋆ junote: vibrator. go big or go home right 🩷 as always @howisjoostfanfictionforfree my partner in filth 🩷 @spentandpent for infecting me w the overstim brainworms 🩷 and lovely @xiaoflan for listening to me complain about this fic ! 😆🩷 i love and appreciate you all 🩷 the art for the header is by one of my amazing best friends <3

18+ only — explicit rpf content ahead, minors dni, anti rpf dni. 4th and final warning!

“Are you ready, mijn schat?” Joost asks in a soft voice, sitting on the edge of the bed next to you.

“Ready as I'll ever be, Joosti.”

One of his nicest microphones is set up on your bedside table, wires crossing every which way, his laptop on the ground and hooked up to it.

This was an idea that came about spontaneously, as most things regarding Joost come about; on the train home together, sharing his wired earphones with each other and listening to your playlist of liked songs when Skin by Mac Miller came on. His ears perked up and his eyes brightened at the first few seconds, and you knew you were in for it.

There’s a woman in the first few seconds—she sounds like she’s having a positively great time, mewling softly, panting in a way that sounds almost like you when Joost is fucking you good. This was on your playlist?!?! You couldn’t fathom a situation where you’d listen to this in public, but here you were, hearing it all as you watched Joost and his mouth drop open a bit.

Your cheeks warmed and he poked you in the side—“Oh my god,” he said, taking your hand and shaking it. “You know what this means, right?” You shook your head no though you knew the answer—”Our turn!!!!!” He said it so loud that an old lady beside you gave him a dirty look, and he just smiled at her. “Can we? Can we?”

“Joost.”

“I just want to hear what it’s like—if I made a song and your beautiful voice was in the background like this or you were my little producer tag.”

“Very creative,” you laughed, sarcastic. Secretly…you two aren’t exactly public about your relationship. He would post about your anniversaries, your birthday, Valentine’s Day, your vacations; they know you exist, and that he has a long-term girlfriend, but you were so private you were almost elusive. “You want my moan in the back of your song?”

Something so…obvious under his belt. Something so loud. It was unlike you, and you knew it would never be released, at least not in the raw form he’d likely want it to be in, but it was still something. Something that made your stomach turn in that way that felt good and not scary, even with how rarely you were in the public eye.

You existed in the backgrounds of Joost, Appie, Alanis, Stuntje’s Instagram stories; you existed as a tag of a username, a pixelated and blurred out face in Joost’s photo dumps to protect your privacy. You exist out of the spotlight, in the background, not as the beat of his song, but you figure—it is only a matter of time until you join him in the sun.

“Who better than you? I want you everywhere, schat. Your moan will become my trademark,” he reasons, and as always—master of persuasion, at least with you. “One time. And it’ll just be between us, okay? Or mostly for me, I love hearing you.”

You decided in a quick second that you’d do it—all Joost has ever done is protect you, and even with your easily overthinking mind, this sounds fun as all hell to the little devil in your mind that wants everyone to know that he’s yours, you're his. No one else’s. Being possessive doesn’t come naturally in any other part of your life other than Joost.

“Okay,” you said, resting your head on his shoulder, holding his hand in yours. “Let’s do it, Joosti.”

“Wahhh—I love you!!!” Joost exclaimed, pressing a kiss to your forehead and going back to happily looking out the window.

“Mijn meisje,” he says softly, and it makes your stomach turn, the smooth glide of his voice as you lie back onto your pillows. You imagine how it’ll sound in the mp3 file. “Thank you for doing this for me.”

“It’s not a big deal,” you say, shaking your head. “We would’ve had sex anyway—why not make something of it?”

“It’s a big deal to me.”

You nod, “I can imagine.” Joost fiddles with a dial on the side of the microphone, presses a button somewhere else, tidies the wires. “What do you think it’ll sound like?”

Joost snickers a little to himself before starting— “Agh! Joost! Fuck me harder!” he whines, high pitched and teasing. “Urgh, Joosti, you’re so huge inside of me!”

“I do not fucking sound like that,” you laugh, slapping him on the shoulder to his barking laughter. “Schat, you’re so tight, I think I’ll cum in three seconds!”

“Hey!” Joost says, laughing as he leans to you for a kiss. “Okay, it might be the truth but I think it’ll sound good. As long as it’s you, we should win a Dutch Grammy for this.”

Outside the window, it’s rainy; the roof is pelted with the droplets of water of an autumn in Amsterdam, loud and incessant and comforting. Your room in this old house is humid with the moisture, but you’re sure it’s mostly just the two of you and your warmth making it feel so stuffy.

“We haven’t even made it yet and you want a Grammy?”

“Why not? I know we’ll get one, don't doubt us,” he grins, slinking off the bed and crouching in front of his computer. Joost’s customary wired earphones are plugged into it and he places a bud in his ear. “Mic check, 1, 2, 3,” he says, Joost Klein style, the sound waves appearing on the screen. “This issssss me and my baby’s recording session number one—“

“Number 1? The only one, Joost.”

“Okay, okay. Recording 1 of 1. Our ears only.” Pausing a little, Joost gets that expression on his face that lets you know he’s about to say something strange and he does: “Do you think we can make ASMR mouth sounds from this? Dutch kissing ASMR or something?”

“I think we can make more than mouth sounds when it comes down to it.”

Joost laughs, lifting his computer and placing it on the corner of the table behind the mic; gets up close to it, whispering and tapping on the wood of your bedside table like the people in the ASMR videos you both watch at his behest before bed, “Explain to them what we are going to do, schat,” you laugh and he shushes you, “This is very serious work, we have to be quiet, shhhh.”

“Uhm…” you say quietly, stifling back a snicker as you get close to the mic from the side. “We’re going to record us fucking—“

“Bad word, schat,” Joost whispers, shaking his head at you disappointedly, “Think about the advertisers.”

Tapping on the metal body of the microphone, you roll your eyes and start again, “We’re going to have s-word—“

“That’s better.”

“And record the sound from it so Joosti can put it in a song,” you whisper and he nods, mouthing, “Good job!” and giving a thumbs up before he brushes aside your hair to put the other half of his wired earphones in your ear.

Immediately, you’re met with the sounds of your shared soft breathing and Joost’s hollow tippy taps on the base of the mic. When he goes quiet, the pitter patter of the raindrops upon your roof are loud enough to hear clearly. “I turned up the sensitivity so we don’t have to move it around while we’re recording,” he says, and you nod.

“I can hear that.” Every single sound and movement you make for the coming hours will be captured on this little waveform. Your voice echoes back to you in your ears, and you scrunch up your face. “I hate my voice.”

“I love your voice, mijn schat,” he says, getting on the bed in front of you. “Sounds even better when you’re saying my name.” Smiling at him, you settle back against your pillows in your prettiest pajama set, a camisole and a pair of loose shorts, both printed with small blue flowers all over. Joost takes the ribbed fabric of your shorts between his fingers, tickling your thigh, “This one is my favorite one.”

“Every one is your favorite one,” you counter as you open your legs for Joost to sit between.

“As long as you are wearing it, schat—of course,” Joost says, sighing wistfully as he takes the earphones out from both your ears and drapes them on the nightstand. “Are you sure you don’t want to film? You’re so pretty.”

You roll your eyes as he laughs—it was definitely a topic of conversation after the fact, recording video of it like you have a few times before, just isolating the sound after. You argued that the sound from a real microphone would be better, and he argued, “Why not both?”

You shut it down, telling him that your room would just become your own personal porn studio if he did both and would never go back to normal, and he died of laughter as the old lady on the train gave you a shocked look and moved away.

No filming. At least not today.

“Do you want your song, or do you want a video?”

“That is an extremely hard decision, baby.”

“Make it before I make it for you.”

“I want my song,” Joost says, simply and finally, and you nod.

“You’ll get your song.”

Joost lies down on top of you and the weight is comfortable as he holds himself up with one hand and cups your face in the other.

He hasn’t shaved in a few days, his stubble scratchy against your chin as he comes forward and kisses you, soft lips against yours, his body warm and heavy and already grinding his crotch against your center as he slides his hand up your side, bringing up the hem of your camisole.

You’re hyperfocusing on all the sounds; you’re both quieter than normal, just the smack of your lips against each others, the licking of his tongue into your mouth; the sound of fabric against fabric as he grinds his hips into yours and groans, half-hard already; the shifting of Joost lifting your tank top and exposing your tits to his dilating blue eyes, getting back up off you on his knees.

Joost runs his knuckles down the curve of your breast and over to the other, making your nipples pebble in the already cooling air, your muscles jumping and leaping with how sensitive you are. “How cute,” he murmurs, and your cheeks burn. There’s something different about him today—if you think about it, if you were a music artist and your girlfriend let you record audio of how good the sex is, you’d be cocky too.

The confidence looks good on him, a small smirk on his lips as you gaze up at him through your eyelashes and take off your shirt completely, tossing it to the side and lying back again.

Joost tugs on your shorts and you shimmy them down as he rolls one of your nipples between his fingers, the sensation tying a knot in your stomach with want for him. “Why aren’t you taking off your clothes?” you ask, tilting your head to the side as he lies atop you again.

“Just want to try something,” he says, placing a kiss between your breasts before he moves over to your nipple, taking it in his mouth and kneading the other breast in his hand.

Grazing it lightly with his teeth, you let out a small hiss at the sensation before he closes his lips around it and sucks; your mouth drops open watching him as he does it, intent and content with his place on you. You just got him back after a month and a half away in Berlin working on music nonstop—you have an inkling that you both feel like this is where he belongs.

For a while, you both lie there as he mindlessly suckles at your tits, as you play with his hair and pretend like there isn’t a pool in your panties waiting to be addressed further than this—you don’t want to rush him. “Art can’t be rushed,” or whatever he says when he’s too busy editing visuals or tweaking his tracks in progress.

Stifling back a sigh, you tug at the short hair on the nape of his neck, his tongue swirling around the stiff peak of your nipple. A tiny little mewl lets itself out of your mouth as he laps at it. Pulling back with a pop, nipping at the skin next to it—“Dude…” he starts. “You’re being… so quiet. Is someone a little shy, schat?” Joost grins, kissing you.

You furrow your brows. You are but you’re not going to get called out by the most outgoing person you know like this. “No, I’m not.”

“I think you are, you haven’t said a word.”

“I’m not,” you insist, smiling once you realize that you have the perfect comeback. “You’re just not doing enough to make me say anything.”

Joost’s entire face changes, falling completely flat with his eyes narrowed at you and you grin. “Oh, I haven’t done enough? Is that what you said, lieverd?”

“I don’t wanna say it’s not enough. But definitely not enough to give you your Dutch Grammy award-winning sound bite. The pace you're moving, we’ll get a participation trophy at best.”

“I’m not doing enough—I am lying on your tummy letting you berate me while I suck your boobs, don’t think I forgot about the last month!!!” he exclaims, voice rough and accusatory and silly, smile so wide as he jabs his finger in your face. “Don’t think I forgot!!!”

“You’re still on that?” you laugh, squishing his cheeks, getting his hair out of his eyes.

“Duh,” he grumbles. “It’s half the reason why I wanted to do this.”

“Forgive me, then.”

There’s been no time for you to call or Facetime him in this past month; only texting and one-sided voice messages from Joost pleading for you to send him a voice memo back but you’ve refused, either willingly or unwillingly. You’ve been so tired, your voice and energy all going to talking to clients and people in real life that you just couldn’t muster the strength to send him back any after a long day—Joost couldn’t call for long either, too occupied with the final touches on the album.

He asked you one night, sleepy voice rasping about how he just wanted to hear you, and he sounded so hot—you texted back that you couldn’t sound sexy and all he said was that he didn’t care if you sounded sexy. He just wanted you.

Still, you couldn’t let it happen.

Joost whined all the way up until his train home got to the station; all the way home in the car as you drove him and asked about his work; all the way up to now, pouting with his prickly chin on your bare chest and his arms wrapped around your waist.

“If that isn’t enough, how far can I go to get my audio clip, then?” Joost asks.

The both of you are competitive as can be with each other.

So long ago, you bet him he couldn’t make you cum just from internal stimulation alone—he proved you wrong and then some. He bet you last year (and every year before that you’ve been together) that he could last all of November not cumming—you manage to prove him wrong anywhere from 2-5 days before his birthday on the 10th. Everything is a competition, everything is a game for you two, that’s what makes the relationship so fun.

If you give Joost an inch, he’ll take a mile, and you know that better than anyone.

“As far as you think it takes, Joosti.”

Wordlessly, he gets up off from you and sits on the side of the bed facing the wall, in front of the mirror that’s there now—obtained at a swap meet somewhere in the city and hauled back by you both; standing against your wall, the top rounded in an arch, used mostly for outfit checks and Joost to try on a million different clothing pieces before he decides on things he wears all the time.

“Sit between my legs, baby.”

“Why should I do that for you?”

“Because I want you to do it for me,” he says, looking back at you and patting his lap. “Here. Sit down or none of this will happen.”

Usually, Joost is never so commanding—he’d rather ask you, sweetly and nicely to please do something for him. There isn’t a demanding bone in his body. And yet…

You take the seat between his legs and look at yourself as he hooks his fingers in the white and lacy waistband of your panties and pulls them down your thighs, down your calves. His lips ghost over the nape of your neck as he watches you in the mirror—Joost is always intense, always strong-willed, but it’s as if he’s come back a changed man.

“I want you to watch me do enough.”

He hooks his hand under your right knee; you let him bring your leg up and drape it over his, spread wider than you’re used to. The same is done to the other leg; if you tried to close them, you’d be unable to.

“I’ll get those sounds out of you if it kills me, lieverd.”

The cotton of his shorts, Tears as always; your shared necklaces resting on the chest hair that pokes out of the neckline of his wifebeater—they rub against your backside as you adjust your position on him, Joost’s warm and clothed body making your naked skin feel piping hot.

He places his hands on your inner thighs, squeezing lightly. There is the feel; of his rough fingertips gliding against your silky skin, dancing across the jumpy nerves of the junction between your leg and the beginnings of the most sensitive parts of you.

“Do you know how hard it was for me not to hear your voice for so long, lieverd?”

With his gentle hands, Joost spreads you open, exposing the most private part of you to both of your eyes, his chin hooked on your shoulder and looking down directly at it. You almost shrink into yourself, bringing you closer to his chest against your back, rising and falling steadily. In contrast, your breathing is so erratic, you feel as if your lungs might tire.

The microphone will pick up your labored breathing, as much as you’re trying not to make a single sound; the mirror reflects your furrowed brow back at you as he dips his fingers inside, light and gentle, bringing the wetness back up to circle your clit slowly.

“Mooi,” Joost murmurs, gazing intensely down at your form in his hands, putty in and between his fingers. “Look at you, hm?”

You’ve done this so many times—watched as he’s fucked you, in the mirror or when you watch your bodies meeting, over and over again when he fucks into you, cock reaching your deepest parts. But today is something different, you can’t tell why, but it brings hot heat to your chest and cheeks, to see it so clearly.

You can’t deny it—it’s you in that mirror, it’s you with your legs spread for him, it’s you.

It’s Joost behind you, a mess of blonde hair, no glasses on today, his rough chin against your shoulder as he pets you slowly. 1982 exposing you, 1983 doing the rest of the work.

“Als een mooie bloem, mijn lief,” he murmurs, two fingers spreading your lips, another rubbing your clit so gingerly you want to swear at him to go faster, harder, but you know he’ll just do the opposite of your wishes in this mood he’s in.

“A flower?” you breathe out, and Joost smiles at you in the reflection. Still though, you know your words aren’t what he wants at the moment.

“Pretty flower,” he says, and the smile is gone.

The sound—the sound of his fingers rubbing tight circles on your clit, the wetness from your pussy all he needs to do so, not spit or lube or anything else. Just the slickness of the back and forth of his hands on you.

The rain beats down on your roof, louder now, the backdrop for those filthy sounds coming from you. “You’re still so quiet, I think the mic will capture the rain more than you,” he mumbles into your neck, kissing and nipping at it. ”The quieter you are, the longer we have to do this.”

“Is that really an issue?” you say, labored through the consistent circles of your clit. You turn away, looking at the side of his face—“Ah, my god,” you whisper, moaning softly as he brings his hand up to your nipple, rolling it between his fingers and kneading your breast.

“Not really, but I question how much you can take.”

“I can take a lot, you know that.”

“If you can take a lot—why are you looking away?”

He moves your chin gently so you're looking at yourself in the mirror again, and he’s looking at you so intently, pupils so blown out you'd almost think his irises were black. You look down at your pussy to avoid how burning his gaze is; watch as he pets at your entrance, and slides his two middle fingers inside, the stretch warm and all you’ve needed the past several minutes.

Still you hold it back, chomping down on your bottom lip not to let any sound close to a real moan out—you’ve made the rules for yourself: not loud enough to be usable, the least amount of sounds possible, and the biggest one, proving to be the hardest as he continues…don’t say “Joost.”

When Joost starts curling his fingers inside of you, pace slow as ever and he grinds the heel of his hand against your clit—you have to stifle a whimper, both at the sound, and the appearance of it, his fingers disappeared inside of you. “You’re really going to do this, lieverd?”

“I never said I’d make getting your song easy.”

“I like a challenge.” Joost gives you a kiss to your temple and you smile even as he ceases his fingers moving. “That's why you’re my girlfriend.”

“Hey,” you giggle, and then stop giggling when he moves his fingers faster and it makes a truly blushworthy squelching noise come from inside you. He does it again—why would he stop, seeing the way your face screws up in pleasure in the mirror at the pads of his fingers on your g-spot?

For some reason, you expected him to be nice about it, let you have a little break—but two can play this game, you know that well.

Your wetness is louder than even the rain, his rhythm making the sound almost incessant. “Do you think we could make that the beat?” he thinks out loud and you give him a bewildered expression.

“You…no. One day I’ll understand your thought processes.”

“What do you mean? You already do.”

You never realized how loud it could be to do any of this. Can people hear you so clearly all the time? Your neighbours, your roommates, strangers.

The countless times you’ve fucked in backstage dressing rooms, club bathrooms, the backyard—this is what it sounds like? There is no mistaking it. On the audio recording, it’ll be even clearer. Your voice, high pitched and breathy. Joost’s voice, deep and low and rumbling against your neck.

“How many people do you think, schat? How many have heard us?…I think they would like it, how it sounds when I’m inside you.” You shake your head, heat rushing to your cheeks and the tension in your chest rising at the same time at his words.

“You're so wet, my baby, and this is only the beginning—what about when you cum? How loud do you think you are then? What will my fans think when they hear this, hm?”

“Jo—mmm, fuck,” you sigh, stopping yourself from saying his name.

This shame and arousal growing inside of you—they’re like two sides of the same coin for you, and they accompany that tightening in your stomach, so close to cumming. The impish and petulant devil on your shoulder tells you not to do it so quickly, not to let Joost get what he wants after you agreed so eagerly to this entire thing.

You screw your face up, thinking of… paperwork and saying bye to Joost at the airport and sad kittens in animal shelters—you have never actively avoided an orgasm in your life, but this is working quite well, and it seems to be obvious.

“Schat, are you serious right now?” You open your eyes to see yourself and Joost behind you, his lips a straight line, no amusement to be found on his normally jovial face. “What are you doing?”

“Being a challenge, I thought you knew,” you say, voice more wavering than strong—your eyebrows furrow, a sheen of sweat on your forehead as Joost continues crooking his fingers right into your g-spot. Almost immediately, you lose your focus on keeping your climax away, melting into the pleasure of his thick fingers fucking you open.

“Say my name, baby, that’s all I want from you.”

“No,” you say softly, turning your head and resting it back on his shoulder—he knows what you want, and he can’t resist you. “Please?”

Joost looks at you, blue eyes so warm you almost think he’ll give you what you’re asking—a kiss, his lips on yours, but he only gets so close that your noses brush, that all you can do is breathe into his mouth and hope he gets closer.

You try to adjust yourself, but he holds you in place with his forearms, still thrusting his fingers inside of you, your face contorting in pleasure with every single move he makes closer and closer to your face, tipping you right over the edge, right where your climax is and then—

Nothing.

As quickly as he moved them, Joost takes his fingers out of you, resting them wet on your thigh as you tense with what you thought was going to be an orgasm, a tidal wave of bliss flowing through you. In reality, the waves subside quicker than usual without him fucking you through it, and the sensation is ruined—almost completely.

Pathetically, you let out a whimper, can’t even let out the moan or the gasp of his name he wants so badly, that’s how miserable it feels. Joost’s never done that with you before—he’s always gotten you to the peak and rode down with you through it, kissing and licking and petting you through it and even past that point, mischievous and pushing your buttons when you swear at him to give you a break from all the bliss.

“Joost,” you pout, eyebrows furrowed and mouth downturned. “Fuck you.”

“Fuck me? You weren’t doing what I wanted, schat, why should you get a good one out of that?” Joost scoffs, and though he doesn’t seem too serious, breathing heavily against your back with you, you can’t help but feel like you did something so wrong. “You’re playing too much.”

It makes sense now—he asked you for one thing—one thing.

Wasn’t much to ask, either. Microphone and equipment straight from his yet to be unpacked suitcase. Joost’s one reprieve from album mode until he’d take the train back for him and Tantu to do a final once over on every single track. This stage in the process takes weeks, sometimes even months—pushing too many buttons on the control panel, their soundboards and computers and plans all prodded and poked and pushed to the limit until the project is the amalgamation of their creative vision and perfection.

This time, you pushed too many buttons; through all of this, you’ve forgotten that Joost has been at home less than 24 hours, that the train ride from Berlin to Amsterdam was 6 hours long with no stops, no wi-fi, no you to soothe his worries, only album preparations far past his self-imposed deadlines and his own thoughts.

You’re both workaholics—it’s why you get along so well, but it means that you know better than anyone that the last thing you’d want to be after so long is annoyed, and annoyed on purpose at that.

When he’s as petulant as you’ve been so far, you know that you can get annoyed as well, asking him to just—stop. And he does, but you couldn’t do that for him. Joost has gotten frustrated with you before, sure, it happens enough that you’re not so affected by it anymore.

But he’s never been so frustrated before that he’s ruined your orgasm. For some reason, the expression on Joost’s face, the heat of the moment, the dull pulse between your legs at both your immense need for him and the emptiness you feel at such a clipped climax has you emotional and overanalyzing the last half hour, every bratty quip of yours, every response from him.

“I’m really sorry, I know you had a long few days, I shouldn’t have—” Water lines your eyes, and you try to blink it away when you ask in a weak voice, “Are you mad at me?” You feel terrible. Embarrassed.

Joost meets your eyes in the mirror, eyes widening in surprise at your emotions strung so tight; you break, a tear running down your cheek which you quickly wipe away because you feel like you're making a big deal out of things and it’s just—aghhh!!!!

“No, my baby, of course not,” he smiles, face sympathetic, lips pouting at his baby being so emotional. Such a reaction would usually make you roll your eyes at him, but he’s so sweet, you have to nuzzle closer to him. “Come here,” he says, wrapping his arms around you and letting you curl up in his lap. “You’re so cute, mijn schat,” he coos, giving you a wet kiss on the cheek as he hugs you tight.

Joost is so kind to you, it makes you feel a bit silly—not in a bad way, just one where you’d never think you’d be sitting on his lap, naked, being comforted about having your orgasm ruined by him. Almost five years of this kindness, you’re not sure you’ll ever be used to it.

“I just got a little frustrated that’s all, none of it was serious, okay? I thought it would be a little fun for us to try something new like that, but I should’ve talked about it with you before—I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you say, wiping your eyes a little. “Just don’t look so serious next time, I really thought you were angry.”

“I got too in the moment, I guess.” Joost moves your hair aside and kisses you on the lips, tender and sweet. “I’ll make up for it, I promise you.”

With that, you nod, letting him kiss you, letting him suck your lower lip in his mouth and then lick into yours, touch so devastatingly slow it almost makes you whine again with anticipation. Joost places a gentle hand over your throat, giving it a small squeeze, and he laughs when you moan, quiet and stifled into his mouth at the pressure. “You know, you’re very pretty when you’re desperate,” he says softly when he pulls away, and your cheeks burn.

“I could say the same about you, Joosti.” He noses at the side of your face, and you melt at the feeling of his skin on yours. “Am I not pretty all the time?” you tease, and he rolls his eyes.

“Don’t start, schatje. Gorgeous, beautiful angel—is that what you want me to say? Lie down and hold your legs back.”

Quickly, you get off of him and lie back down on the bed on your mountain of pillows, and he takes his place sitting between your legs, wet fingers running through your folds as he takes a look at you, all of you. “Aren’t you pretty?”

He takes your left hand, kisses your palm then your fingers, then he places it firmly on the back of your left knee. He does the same for your right side, then lies in between your open legs, staring, examining. One finger down your slit, collecting your wetness on the tip—Joost leaves a bite on the meat of your ass, trailing kisses all the way until he kisses over your entrance, over your clit.

You breathe heavily with anticipation, but still, you find it in you to tease. “Doing a lot of silent things for an audio recording, Joosti.”

“Not silent—all of it is important, every second.” He shakes his head to

“Defeats the whole purpose of the audio? Doesn't it?” You smile, flexing your ankles, feeling your muscles stretch as Joost teases your clit with his index finger, makes you open your legs wider. “The whole point is to record how good you make me feel, right?”

“You want to be silent so badly for me, you want to play around so much—why are you calling me out for it? That I want us to have fun?” Joost rolls his eyes, but then smiles at you, trying to soothe the burn. “I like when you play,” he murmurs, then spits on your pussy, making you full body shiver when you do. “Play even more, let’s make this recording go hours.”

“And I’ll cum all I want?”

“Careful what you wish for.” Joost rubs the spit over your bud, spreading you with two fingers and petting at it with another. “Als een prinses, schatje. Spoiled.”

“Spoiled,” you mock, and he shakes his head at you, grinning.

You probably shouldn’t rile Joost up so much—it’s too late for you to save yourself when he dives in, wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking hard. The spit and silky softness of his tongue make you keen, how good it feels to have him on you, his lips sucking so much, so good, so wet.

The slide of Joost’s finger inside of you surprises you, how gently he pets against your spot internally as he laps at your pussy; you sigh, having to close your mouth on purpose to not make any sound. He sucks your clit between his lips, tightening, loosening, several seconds passing as he continues the pattern, making you groan with the feeling of him eating you out so well. It’s too much; you cry out when it hits what feels like 10 minutes with his tongue on you, but is really only 20 seconds at most.

Too much, so good—bucking your hips up, you squirm, futile against his strong hands holding you down by the backs of your knees folded almost to your chest as he drinks you in, the wet sound of his mouth smacking against you so humiliatingly wonderful you could cry. How are you supposed to stay silent now?

“I’ll never get enough of this, lieverd,” he says before diving back in, lips wrapped around your clit as you moan out at the suction, whining as you hold onto his arms for support, because pushing against him is no use—either way, who are you kidding? The last thing you want is for him to stop, especially after that first “orgasm”. Completely breathless, you stop trying, tired hips back on the damp bed sheets.

“Good girl, baby,” Joost praises at your defeat, your finally being subdued. The nickname makes you shudder, arousal pooling deep in your stomach, and you squeeze at his arms for some sort of comfort in response.

Joost nips at the thin and sensitive skin of your inner thigh and it makes you yelp, then he comes back and licks through you again, fucking his tongue inside of you.

There’s no sense of organization or pattern anymore with what he’s trying to do—he’s lost it. He’s lost it.

Your climax hits you like a freight train, your stomach and thigh muscles spasming, any control you had—lost. “Mmmf…fuck!” you exclaim, throwing your head back on your pillows as Joost keeps sucking your clit through your orgasm, white on the edges of your vision at how intense he’s doing it. “Ugh… shit!” you cry, panting out when he keeps going.

“It’s only a matter of time until you give me what I want, schatje,” he says in a quiet, sing-song voice, then attaches himself back to you. Your clit is practically numb with pleasure now, and yet, the waves are rolling through you, erratic and wonderfully uncomfortable.

You laugh out, tears at the edges of your eyes at how intense your nerves feel, how fried they are—“Joost, enough!” and he lets up off you. He sits back up and pouts at you, lips and cheeks wet with your arousal.

“‘Jooooooost!!!’” He laments, cursing at the sky in jest, and you laugh at how dramatic he is. “The line is ‘Joost!!’ Lieverd! Joost!!!” he says his own name in a weird, breathy moan that you’re half sure really will make it to a final draft of a song of his.

Holding yourself up, legs open and so wet between them, you purse your lips for a kiss, which Joost gives you. “You said we can make the recording go hours—I’m sure I’ll say it one of these times.”

“Okay, I’m glad I say the recording can go long—I will need a minute.” As Joost pulls back, you tilt your head to the side; he sounds… strange. Embarrassed, almost, and his cheeks are pink, and he can’t look you in the eye anymore, completely different from your ravenous and intimidating boyfriend from 45 minutes ago. “I think I came in my pants.”

“You’re kidding,” you scoff, throwing your head back and laughing.

Joost gets back up off the bed, stands. “Do I look like I'm kidding?” he says, pointing down to the wet spot on his crotch—he must’ve ground against the bed too much, how cute.

“You haven’t done that since we started dating,” you laugh, watching as he strips off his shorts and his underwear looks just as bad.

“Well, I did it again. Your fault. This sucks.” Joost shimmies down his boxers, picking them up and throwing them in the hamper; it hangs on the rim, he’s already soft, and he looks at you so dejectedly, then at the ground. You start to say ‘aww’ —he’s so cute and pathetic this way, but he wags a finger at you, saying, “Do not say ‘aww’ at my dick, you’re annoying,” and it makes you laugh harder until he’s laughing too, climbing on the bed and kissing you sweetly, pulling back only to take off his shirt and then immediately come back to you.

Laying atop you, he wraps his lips around your nipple, pulling at it gently with his teeth as you wince in the pain and the pleasure. Joost lays his tongue flat against it, laps at it, switches to the other one.

“I just love you,” he sighs, latching onto you again immediately after, and it makes you smile—insatiable, truly.

A few moments of this—letting Joost lave over your skin, the stiff peaks of your breasts, sucking hickeys into the meat of them—and he’s ready to sit back against the headboard together.

Your legs are open and his hand is between them in an instant, running his fingers along your skin. It feels strangely electric…not his fingers on you, but his arm against yours, the side of his sweat-sheened body against your hip, what it feels like to see “Thanks for today” on his collarbone and your name and lipstick mark tattooed on the other side of his neck forever.

Your thoughts are interrupted by Joost’s voice—“Why aren’t you saying my name, hm?” he says, gazing at your lips, his nose brushing against yours. You press a chaste kiss to his chin as he circles your clit, spreading your wetness around with his fingers. “It’s mean. It is sinister, what you’re doing.”

“You’re gonna have to work for it, I’m serious.”

“I will work overtime, I’ll be just like you,” he smirks, and shuts you up when he attaches his lips to yours, slips his middle fingers inside of you, grinds the heel of his hand on your clit as you gasp into his mouth, let him move down and suck at your jaw, your pulse point.

The concentration it takes not to lose it makes your eyebrows knit together. He murmurs, “Do you hear that, my love? Do you hear how wet I make you?” says it into your open and mewling mouth, the sound of it all—the squelch of your wetness at the behest of his fingers fucking your pussy. You’re beholden to him, and he enjoys it so much. The person you are at work and in life; normally so collected, preferring the comfortable quiet of your life together, now so bold to let him do this.

“Wat een mooi geluid, mijn meisje. You have me under your spell—what will happen when everyone hears this? Your siren song, hm? Is that what you want? Everyone to know how good I make you feel?”

The surprise on everyone’s faces that you could sound like this, all because of Joost—goofy, grinning, laughing Joost. Serious as ever about coaxing these sounds out of you as he kisses you slowly, tongue so languid on yours, tempting you, seducing you into giving him what he wants.

You’re almost delirious, the bubbling of laughter rising in your body as you grip onto his arm, so big, three of Joost’s thick fingers nestled inside of you and curling against your spot, stroking it with no abandon. You’re stretched thin around him, squirming and twitching with the rising peak coming to a head in your body.

He doesn’t even thrust his middle fingers in and out of you; only keeps them there, deep and to the knuckle inside of your pussy as he curls his fingers inside of you again and again, petting and petting and petting at the most sensitive part inside of you. At the same time, he circles your clit with his thumb—you could almost pass out with how good it feels, how hot you are in this room, rain beating on your roof, his mouth on yours and receiving every single moan and breath you put out.

The only thing absent is a crackling fire and a bottle of wine to fit the mood, but you can’t really complain.

“Happy?” he asks, smiling.

“Joost,” you choke out, eyebrows furrowing as you gaze at him, then close your eyes, touching your forehead to his, clutching his bicep, the challenge to yourself not to say his name all but forgotten.

“Yeah, baby?” Joost grins—in the pursuit of his craft, your boyfriend has turned evil.

“I feel like…” you start, face screwed in pleasure, words stolen from you by his curling fingers, confused at this feeling inside of you you’ve never felt before. “I just feel…”

“What is it, baby?” Joost teases, fucking into you, devilish. “Can you tell me? Can you use your words, like I’ve been asking you to?”

“I’m gonna…”

Burning hot and building up and up and up inside of you, in your stomach, in your chest, your tired thighs tensing the knot in your stomach tightens and tightens and tightens until it snaps, hard and fast; you don’t even realize the curses and almost chanting of his name tumbling out of your mouth as you look down and see—

Clear liquid runs down from your pussy, down your ass as you groan out, a punched out moan tumbling from your lips. The wet squelch around his still moving fingers even louder now—oh my god? There’s wetness beneath you now, a small laugh of disbelief coming from Joost as you gush all over his fingers and hand and writhe with your powerful climax, the bed under you wet, the comforter wet, everything wet, and all because of Joost.

You whine and he nods, smiling at you. “Schatje…I didn’t think it would work…”

“Oh my god,” you whisper, half laughing and half embarrassed at the mess you’ve made, panting and completely out of breath. “This is so embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing?! Mijn schat, that’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen, I think.” He takes his fingers out of you with a sound that makes you cringe, and holds his hand in the air, fingertips dripping with your wetness, shiny and slick. You had no idea you could even do that, let alone feel whatever white hot pleasure was ripping through you while you did, and you laugh at his amazement with your hands over your mouth.

“We’ll have to change the sheets again,” you pout once you realize—you just changed them yesterday before he got here, and the other set of sheets is dirty. Ughhhhh.

“I’ll wash the other sheets—I would change them a million times over if it meant you doing that again.”

“We’ll run out of sheets before that happens, Joost.” He hates changing the sheets, but he’s so desperate for it, obviously.

“I’ll make new ones,” Joost says proudly, then kisses you. “Please don’t worry about the bed. I’ll take care of it, and to be honest, I would like you to mess it up even more.” Kiss on your lips. Your worries have melted away with it. “You were so good to me, yet I still didn’t get my song. Tell me, why is that, mijn schat? You want me to torture you for longer?” he says softly, kissing you on the lips.

“It’s not torture,” you breathe out and Joost laughs. “I said your name, what more do you want from me?”

“It’s not torture? Is that right?” he asks, and you nod, coming up to kiss him again, “I want to be inside you, lieverd, that’s what I want.”

Only now do you notice that he’s hard again—the same hand he used to finger you wrapped around his cock, your wetness his lubrication alongside the precum drooling from his tip. “That’s what you’ll get, then,” you say, sweet and smiling and so ready for it even after Joost has had his way with you for what feels like hours now.

It’s your wetness that’s darkened Joost’s arm hair and the hair on his stomach; your wetness facilitating his sharp sighs as he pleasures himself to the sight of you, the thought of you, the sound of you.

Beaming, Joost turns away to the side. “If it isn’t obvious to you, the audience,” he says into the microphone in a silly voice. “This is the first time I’ve made her squirt, and she still wants me so bad!! What the fuck!! I am sooo so lucky!!! What amazing sight, wow. Shoutout lieverd, for real!!” Your laugh is sure to be captured in the background, your small “Shoutout Joosti!” too. Joost turns back to you—”My one in a trillion, baby,” a kiss to your lips, your body being laid on the damp sheets again and your legs opening in response.

“mijn_schatje_loml_voor_altijd_TANTUPLSDONOTLISTEN.mp3” has been running for 1 hour, 33 minutes, 8 seconds, 3 milliseconds—feels like so much longer. Joost lies between your legs again on his stomach, his cheek on your thigh, his calves in the air swinging and happy and him batting his eyelashes at you “innocently.” “Dickhead,” you laugh, knowing he wants to put his tongue on you again, and he laughs too.

“Your favourite one, though, right?”

“Yes, my favourite one.” You roll your eyes at his giggles but smile nonetheless at him. “I want you inside me, Joosti, don’t make me wait, please.”

Joost holds up a finger—“One criticism—”

“Already?!” you exclaim. “What is it?”

Joost gets up off of you and goes to the dresser to the side of your bed. You tilt your head in confusion—there isn’t much in there he could need for the rest of this, but he seems to be determined. “I think it’s the cutest thing when you call me Joosti and I never want you to stop doing that,” he starts, rummaging through the drawer. “But I think for the sake of the song, or your part in it, it would be better if you just said ‘Joost.’ Can you do that?”

“I can do that, Joost,” you tease, your perfectionist musician of a boyfriend coming out in full force.

“Good, good, schat. Now can you say it while I’m using this on you?”

Joost turns around holding…Ole Reliable, the name you both call a taupe vibrating wand that was your best friend before you two started dating, is your best friend when he’s gone for longer than a month or two and your fingers aren’t enough when you two are FaceTiming…to Joost’s absolute displeasure. When he’s home, it hides in your underwear drawer—but trust, he knows where it is.

“Be serious, Joost,” you laugh in disbelief. There’s no way that Ole Reliable will be part of this with how much lighthearted vitriol Joost has treated it in the past, calling it his “mortal enemy,” his “biggest competition.” This isn’t real.

“It takes you like, 3 hours to cum after I’ve made you cum so many times, this will help,” he shrugs, and he’s right. You’re so overstimulated at this point that he’d have to fuck you for longer to get you over the edge, but the vibrator is a bit overkill—it’s powerful, and you’ve made your own legs shake with it countless times, with or without Joost.

“I think I’ll end up…squirting—ew, I hate that word—even more if you use it.”

“It’s not so bad of a word, mijn schat. And either way—bed is already dirty. Why not go all out so we don’t have to clean up again?”

Joost makes a good point, and you know he’ll want to see more of your newfound ability later on—minimizing the cleanup later sounds good, so you lie back, open your legs, run your fingers through your wet folds as his eyes widen at your eagerness. “Let’s go all out,” you giggle and he flops on top of you, exclaiming, “Yayyyyy!!!”

It’s slow, the way he hooks your legs over his thighs, long presses the button of the vibrator, presses it again once so it turns on completely, and then recoils in surprise when he presses the largest button again and again. “Whaaattt the fuck, I didn’t know there were so many patterns in it. That is crazy. You use this?! What is ‘thumping feature.’ There are so many buttons. What…” Joost looks at it in wonder, the vibrations sure to be going through his entire forearm—that thing is strong, and you know it.

“There are only 2 buttons, Joost.”

“That is a lot to me.”

Cycling it back to the lowest, most tame setting, he places the head on your clit, gentle; you hiss at the waves coming through you, even at the lowest rate it could possibly go. “Do you like that, baby?” he asks, voice low, other hand coming down to slip a finger in your pussy. “You look like you love it.”

Nodding, Joost takes your hand and wraps it around the handle of the wand, and you hold it against yourself as he jerks his cock between your legs, enveloping the warm head of it in your entrance. It slips in so nice—you’ve been ready for it for hours now, you'd be surprised if it didn’t just slide in. Your eyes roll back, the back of your head hitting the wire frame of your bed, the vibrations coursing through you and his big cock parting your slit.

“Oh, fuckkk, schat,” Joost moans as he sinks into your soaking wet pussy. “So fucking wet, baby, you feel so good.”

Breathless, you nod, as Joost glides right in; he’s thick, but you're so wet. Three orgasms and counting for you, it’s so easy now. Angling the vibrator, you move it so you can see it all—how messy it is when he pulls his hips back to adjust how he’s thrusting into you, his pubes and happy trail wet with your juices, the hair on his thighs wet as well. What a mess you’ve made.

“Oh my god—“ he says, rolling his neck back in pleasure once he finally bottoms out inside of you, the wand pressed against his pelvis just as much as it’s pressed against yours. Joost bites his lip, shaking his head. Not so much of a mortal enemy, after all, is it? “How do I compete with this thing…”

“This thing could never be you, Joost,” you breathe, and it’s true. So tired, so happy, you’re a little emotional about it for some reason.

How he holds you so warm and safe and tight, always, never a question on if he wants and loves you—he always does and always will. In bed together like this, sheltered from the rain in your home together, your cats scratching at the door and a whole life ahead of you; on the train giggling with each other about the middle-aged and elderly side-eyeing his barking and boisterous laughter; in club bathrooms and snow covered curbs and swimming pools in your backyard and the couch downstairs.

The rest of the world should be envious about what you have, who you hold. Joost, this house, that audio recording, and you, forever.

“Hehe!” Joost leans over to the microphone and gloats into it, “Me—1! Vibrator—zeroooo! Hahahahah!”

You laugh—and this, forever. You could never trade this in.

Pulling Joost in, you kiss him sweet and slow, little thrusts of him inside of you as he moans into your mouth incessantly, every breath of his a whimper, it must feel so good—buried balls deep in your pussy, vibrator against your clit and pressed against the few centimeters of shaft that can’t fit in you when he begins thrusting inside of you sloppily, the hollow clap of his hips against you filthy as you moan out his name against the humming backdrop of the toy you're using together.

Every nerve in your body winds itself tight around the coil in your stomach as he fucks into you, a smooth and steady rhythm that makes you lose yourself, trying to wrap yourself around him, wanting to devour him whole, wanting to make it so it’s just you and him and no one else in the world, no one outside these walls, no one else. With Joost breathing into your mouth, his sweaty bangs tickling your forehead, the taste of his tongue on yours—there might as well be no one on this earth except you and him.

“I can't do it, Joost, it’s too much,” you whine as he keeps driving into you—god, you want it so badly, but three and a half orgasms later and you’re entirely spent, letting him do all the work as you moan loudly, no control over yourself or your body. The vibrator is pressed flush against your clit and gets you to the precipice faster than you’d like right now.

“You can do it, baby,” he coos, and you know there’s no way to get out of this. Either way, you wouldn’t want to, legs wrapped around him, the buzzing of the vibrator such music to your ears, the feeling of his cock driving into you and Joost, a warm and heavy and perfect weight atop you. As you claw at his shoulders, his back, he holds you open with his strong hands, your squirming no match for his strength with every deep seat of his cock inside of you. “I know you can, you can do it.”

When he says it, you believe it; you have to bite and suck at his neck in order to focus on keeping it together long enough for him to cum, apologizing to Lola in your head at your treatment of her, how she’ll be blooming purple and red by the time the sun rises tomorrow. Joost ruts into you, pressing the vibrator hard to your clit and it’s so…it’s so much, the mattress squeaks with how spirited his hips are against you, loud slaps of skin against skin and your name, his name, intertwined on this wavelength, on this track for everyone to hear.

“Joost…fuck, Joost!” you cry out again and again, tears coming to your eyes with how hard and fast your orgasm rips through you, repeating Joost’s name like a prayer, an oath, gushing around him and too fucked out to kiss back properly when he licks into your mouth, grounding you back to this bed even as you sob out in pleasure, fat tears rolling down your cheeks at how amazing he’s making you feel. “I love you,” you breathe, blissed and fucked out tears streaming down your cheeks at how good it feels, all open and airy.

“Why are you all sappy, baby? ‘Cause I’m fucking you so well?” Joost teases, pressing wet kisses to your tear stained cheeks, your mouth bitten red with his nips, his kisses all throughout this.

“Yes, I love you, Joost,” you sniffle, wrapping your arms around his neck, bringing him closer even if it means the vibrator gets pushed even harder against your aching clit.

He laughs, continuing his feverish thrusting as he finally gives you the kiss you want. “I love you too, mijn hart.”

You don’t notice him fumbling around on the side table as he kisses you, bringing the wired earphone from the nightstand back to your ear, your eyes widening in surprise.

“Do you hear that, mijn schat?” The feedback, his voice, doubled and almost echoing as you hear it in real life and it plays out in your ears, delayed. You have to try and dampen the rest of your senses to focus on what you’re hearing. The slopping of his hips against your ass, the low pitched vibrations of the wand, his voice.

Joost’s voice that distracts you until you’re snapped out of it by him pulling out, stroking his cock and panting heavily, cheeks and chest and neck pink with exertion, skin shining with sweat. “What are you doing?” you mumble.

“You’ve already done so much, schat,” Joost breathes, and you shake your head, looking up at him through wet eyelashes.

“Finish what we started, I want it all.”

Obediently, Joost nods, inching himself back inside you again; it sounds so wet in your ears, the microphone capturing every gritty detail, every squelch of yours and his.

“Schat, I wanna…fuck, I wanna cum inside you so bad,” he whines, erratic thrusting with every word, losing it again, losing the practiced, methodical musician that you know so well. Even with his whining, his voice is deep, needy, chanting your name like you moaned his. “Wanna…fuck, I wanna fuck it in you ‘til it takes, I want everyone to hear it, see it, know you’re mine…mine, mine, mine…”

“Yeah, baby?” you smile, his cheek laid against your tits as he grinds against you, then goes back for long, deep strokes inside of you. Joost groans so loud against your skin, spit and sweat on the softness of your breasts; so overwhelmed, he takes your nipple in his mouth and sucks, nipping at you through his own orgasm, stuttering his hips into your pussy.

Warm ribbons of Joost’s cum paint your insides and fill you up so well, your moans finally joining his as he comes down from his high, moaning and sobbing out your name, lieverd, schat, collapsing on your chest and heaving for his breath again as you catch yours once more, satisfied with your recording together.

“That a good enough song for you, Joost?” you smile, eyes already closing with the bliss of such a good recording session together.

“Dutch Grammy worthy, mijn meisje,” Joost breathes, and you laugh as he reaches to the side and shuts his laptop, ending your recording. “How about another recording session later?”

—

A month later and you’re carrying a paper bag of takeout from a few blocks down, earphones blasting a new demo from Joost and Tantu, using the spare key under Tantu’s doormat to get into his apartment from the cold. You set down the bag on the counter of his tiny kitchen, place the key back under the doormat, get three bowls together to split the takeout between, get utensils and glasses of water and what have you before you enter the bedroom studio.

The takeout fights you tooth and nail; cheap food spilling everywhere, oil and sauce and vegetables on the counter and the rims of the bowls that you have to wipe up with the one (1. ONE!) paper towel left on the roll in the kitchen. Is this what happens when Ruby isn’t in town and they’re in album mode? You figure it must.

You manage to wrestle it all together precariously, using every square centimeter of the one paper towel you have in your arsenal before picking up all three bowls—two of them nestled in your left arm, one of them held in your right hand.

The door to the bedroom is closed shut—your arms are full, and you spend a few moments fussing about how to get in without having to go back into the kitchen and set down the food, but you hear Tantu and Joost’s muffled voices through the door.

“Oh my god, I shouldn’t have skipped ahead—“

“You should've never played it, Tantu!”

“Well, you shouldn’t have kept it on your desktop for anyone to see! With my name on it!”

You tilt your head in confusion, and then knock on the door with your foot; in an instant, Tantu opens it for you, and you hear, loud and clear: “I wanna fuck it in you ‘til it takes, I w—” before Joost slams the laptop shut and says, “Baby, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I—”

2 fics in a few weeks!! lfg!!! i hope you enjoyed!! <3 thank you so much for reading! likes, comments, reblogs always so so appreciated <3 : ) they keep me writing!! askbox anon on hereeee - juno

#joost klein smut #joost klein x reader #joost x reader #joost smut #joost x you #joost fanfiction #joost klein fanfiction #joost fanfic #joost klein x you #juno's fics #juno’s writing #juno’s smut #normal au

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thedensworld · 1 month ago

Text

When Love Kills | W. J

Pairing: Wen Junhui x reader

Genre: mafia au!, exes au!

Type: angst, fluff, action, smut (mdni!)

Word count: 12k

Summary: Love is a double-edged sword—one for a kiss and one for a kill. Jun was meant to do one thing: uphold his family’s ruthless legacy. But everything changed when he met the woman he loves.

Jun arrived in South Korea after six years, returning to a place that felt strangely like home. The city had changed—skyscrapers seemed taller, neon lights brighter, and the streets more crowded, all moving at a relentless, breakneck pace. Yet the air held a sense of nostalgia, a reminder of the time he first set foot here a decade ago, learning the language, understanding the world of business, and tasting a freedom he rarely experienced back home.

The driver navigated the bustling roads, eventually pulling up at a high-end hotel where Jun would stay until his work was done. A simple task, at least in theory—secure the prime minister’s daughter.

Ji Jaekyung, the prime minister, had quietly forged an alliance with a rival syndicate in South China. Betrayal was something Jun’s father could never tolerate, and he had ordered his son to ‘take care of it.’ But Ji Jaekyung was a cautious man, his daughter a carefully guarded secret. No photographs, no public appearances—she was a ghost even in this hyperconnected country. Yet Jun had his ways.

A single bank account—the one receiving regular transfers from Jaekyung—had led Jun to her. A small apartment in a quiet neighborhood, nothing extravagant, almost too ordinary. Tonight, he stood across the street, watching through the café window. She was there, laughing, her short hair framing her face, eyes crinkling with joy as she spoke with someone—a boyfriend, perhaps? That would make things more interesting.

Jun’s gaze lingered, a strange pang tugging at his chest. He hadn’t expected this—hadn’t expected to feel anything at all. But there was something familiar about the sight of this city, a memory buried beneath years of distance.

Back in his hotel room, the city lights spilled through the tall glass windows, casting a cool glow. He should be focused, preparing his men for tomorrow's briefing, but his mind refused to stay on task. His thoughts wandered, retracing old memories of this city—the late-night walks, the crowded markets, the warm, humid summers.

And most of all, the girl he met one summer night. You.

He hadn’t thought of you in years, and yet now, in this familiar city, the memory of you felt too close, too vivid. The taste of yout laughter, the warmth of your touch—it all rushed back with a force he hadn’t anticipated.

But that was then. This was now.

Tomorrow, he would have to forget sentiment. His father had given him an order, and sentiment had no place in this world.

Jun woke up in the morning with a dull ache of desire, a boner—one night in Seoul, and already his dreams were haunted by memories of you. He sighed, glancing down at the unmistakable evidence of his thoughts. His hand reached for his phone, fingers dialing quickly.

"I’ll be late for the meeting," he informed his men, voice steady despite the heat pooling in his chest. "Something urgent to take care of. Very healthy, I assure you."

He leaned back against the pillows, letting his mind wander. "Y/n…" he whispered, the name a ghost on his lips. Memories rushed in uninvited—one summer night in college, the first time he saw you.

It was the beginning of summer break. Jun and his friends had decided to blow off steam at an arcade. The place was alive with flashing lights and laughter, but nothing captured his attention like the girl on the dance game platform. Long hair swaying, laughter bright and infectious, you danced with a carefree joy that seemed to pull all eyes toward you.

"This is Y/n," one of his friends had introduced, nudging him. "She’s an art student."

Art student—that explained the wild creativity in your movements, the way you painted the air with every step. But what lingered most was your scent, a subtle sweetness that seemed to linger even when you weren’t near, an intoxicating memory.

One date became two, then three, and soon, he found you in his bed, bare and vulnerable, the world beyond those sheets forgotten. For the first time, Jun felt himself attach to someone—truly, dangerously. And it was you.

You held him with a warmth and softness no one else could replace—a touch that seemed to whisper comfort, a presence that wrapped around him even in the coldest of nights. If he ever met you again, he would make sure you knew that nobody else had ever taken your place. But there was one problem—he didn’t know if he would ever meet you again.

"Y/n, where are you?"

Jun waited in the shadowed corner of an old, abandoned building, its peeling walls and broken windows a testament to forgotten days. His fingers drummed lightly against the worn leather of the chair’s armrest, impatience simmering beneath his calm exterior. His people were on their way, and they had clear instructions.

"Bring her alive. Don’t you dare touch her," Jun had ordered, voice cold and precise. At least not before he arrived. Killing her immediately would be such a waste. There was so much potential—so many ways she could be useful. And if there was one thing his father valued, it was Jun’s efficiency. He never wasted anything. He never left a trace.

The creak of the rusty door pulled him from his thoughts. Jun stood as three men entered, one carrying a figure slung over his shoulder like a sack of rice—unconscious, her limbs hanging limply.

"Money first, then we’ll hand her over," one of the men demanded, his voice gruff.

Jun’s gaze slid to his right, where Minghao stood with a quiet, composed demeanor. A silent nod from Minghao, and Jun gestured for the money to be handed over. One of the men seized the briefcase, snapping it open and greedily flipping through the crisp bills.

They set the girl down on a dusty chair, her head lolling forward, long dark hair cascading over her face. But as Jun stepped forward, a chill ran down his spine. Something was wrong.

"Are you sure this is the right girl?" Jun’s voice was sharp, a sliver of suspicion threading through his usual calm.

"She's the only one there," one of the men replied, barely looking up. "Exactly where you told us."

Jun’s jaw tightened. The girl he had seen last night had shoulder-length hair. This one… He reached out, brushing a few strands aside—and his world seemed to freeze.

Familiar features stared back at him, pale and unconscious but unmistakable.

"Y/n…" he whispered, the name escaping him like a secret he had tried to bury.

Ji Y/n. His ex-girlfriend. The woman who had vanished from his life six years ago.

"What’s wrong, boss?" Minghao’s voice cut through the tension, but Jun barely heard it.

His chest tightened, a storm of emotions crashing against his resolve—shock, confusion, and something he didn’t dare name.

He forced a steady breath, eyes never leaving your face. "We’re going to stay here longer than expected," he murmured, his voice betraying none of the chaos inside.

The drive back to his hotel was tense and silent, the hum of the city outside muted by the weight of his thoughts. In the back seat, you lay slumped against the leather, still unconscious, your chest rising and falling with a steady rhythm—a reminder that this was real. That you were real.

Once inside his suite, Jun dismissed his men, locking the door behind him. He stood there for a moment, staring at your figure on the king-sized bed, trying to process the chaos in his mind.

Six years. Six years of unanswered questions, of searching without knowing he was searching. And now, you were here. But why? How?

Stepping closer, he leaned over you, his hand brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. The softness of your skin was the same, the gentle curve of your lips unchanged. Memories threatened to overwhelm him—the laughter you shared, the nights tangled in each other’s warmth, and the sudden, aching emptiness when you disappeared.

His jaw clenched. He needed answers, but he wouldn’t get any while you were unconscious.

He turned away, forcing himself to think logically. First, he needed to make sure you were unharmed. Jun grabbed a damp towel, gently wiping away the faint traces of dirt on your cheek. Your breathing remained steady, your pulse calm beneath his fingertips.

But who were you now? What had brought you to this dangerous world? Are you the daughter of Ji Jaekyung?

Jun leaned back against the wall, his gaze never leaving you. For now, he would wait. Because the moment you opened your eyes, he would demand every answer you owed him.

Morning light filtered through the hotel’s thick curtains when you finally stirred, your head pounding, ears ringing. A dull ache spread through your body as consciousness returned in fragments. Flashes of memory hit you—the door of your apartment bursting open, three towering men storming in. You thought it was Jena, your friend, coming by. But then rough hands grabbed you, muffled your screams, and darkness swallowed you.

A familiar voice pulled you from the fog of confusion.

"Awake already?"

You blinked, eyes adjusting to the bright room. Clean sheets, a spacious layout—luxury everywhere. Panic tightened in your chest until your gaze landed on the figure leaning casually against the wall.

"Moon Junhui…" you whispered, disbelief lacing your voice.

A faint smile played on his lips. "So you do remember me."

You pushed yourself up on the bed, the silk sheets slipping from your shoulders. "Where am I? What is this—"

"A hotel room. My hotel room." He stepped closer, leaning against the desk, arms crossed over his chest, an unsettling calm in his eyes. "Relax. You’re not going anywhere… yet."

Silence thickened between you, tension simmering beneath the surface.

"What is Ji Jaekyung to you?" Jun’s question cut through the air.

You frowned, your heart pounding faster. "What’s wrong with him?"

"So, he’s not your father?"

You hesitated, then nodded slowly. "He… he is my father."

Jun’s gaze sharpened, a dangerous curiosity in his eyes. "You don’t sound so sure. Your father passed away when you were sixteen, Y/n. So tell me… which one is a lie?"

Your breath hitched, the truth clawing at your throat. Six years of running, hiding, trying to forget. And now you were trapped—trapped in a room with the one person you never thought you’d see again. The one you once loved… and you tried to hate.

He moved toward you, and you instinctively scooted back, your back pressing against the headboard. But before you could retreat further, his hand caught your wrist—not harshly, but firmly.

"Relax," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your arm, where a faint blueish mark had begun to form.

Jun’s eyes darkened. "Why would you defend yourself against men twice your size?" His thumb traced the bruise lightly, his touch almost gentle despite the situation.

You didn’t answer, your throat tight, a mix of fear and stubborn pride keeping you silent.

Jun sighed, pulling out his phone and calling for room service, his tone cold and commanding. "Bring a first aid kit. Now."

But as he ended the call, his gaze lingered on you—intense, unreadable. Memories you tried to forget flooded back—his touch, his voice, the warmth you once craved. And you hated how, even after six years, he still held something in your chest—an ache you couldn’t ignore.

"Now, you’re going to tell me—who is Ji Jaekyung’s real daughter?" Jun’s voice cut through the quiet of the room, sharp but calm as he watched you finish your breakfast.

He had tended to your bruises himself, his touch surprisingly gentle, ordering room service to bring you a warm meal. He hadn’t said much, letting you eat in silence while he took a shower. But now, standing before you in his neatly tailored suit, his patience was gone.

"I’m his daughter," you replied, your voice steady.

Jun chuckled, a low, humorless sound. "I dated you, Y/n. I knew your family. Ordinary people. They weren’t part of any political circle, let alone connected to Ji Jaekyung."

You met his gaze, unwavering. "I told you, I’m Ji Jaekyung’s daughter. If you have anything to do with him, then do it to me."

Jun’s expression didn’t change, but there was a brief flicker in his eyes—something like frustration or disbelief. He said nothing more, simply adjusted his suit jacket and stepped away. Moments later, you heard the door click shut behind him.

Silence settled around you. He was gone, leaving you alone in the spacious, luxurious room. A chance. Maybe your only chance.

Just as you stood, a voice cut through your thoughts.

"I’m Minghao, Mr. Wen’s right-hand man."

You froze, turning to see a young man leaning casually by the door. He had a calm, almost disinterested expression, but his gaze was sharp.

You sighed, leaning back against the plush chair. "You mean Moon Junhui?" you corrected, using Jun’s Korean name.

Minghao’s lips twitched slightly, a hint of a smile. "Yes. He went out for a business meeting and left you with me. You’re not allowed to leave without my supervision."

Your hands clenched in your lap, a mix of frustration and resignation washing over you. That man—he hadn’t changed at all. Still controlling, still calculating.

And yet, even now, your chest tightened with a confusing ache—anger, fear, and something else you refused to name.

Jun returned to the hotel room as the evening sun cast a warm, fading light through the curtains. His suit jacket was the first to go, discarded over a chair, his gaze immediately falling on you, curled up on the bed, still asleep.

"Did she say anything about Jaekyung?" Jun asked, loosening his tie.

Minghao, who stood by the window, shook his head. "No, sir. She insists she’s his daughter."

Jun’s lips curled into a faint smile. "I believe even his real daughter would rather disown him," he muttered, waving Minghao off. "You can leave for tonight. I’ll be going alone."

Minghao nodded, slipping out quietly.

Jun walked over to the bed, his gaze softening slightly as he looked at you. A moment of quiet hesitation. Then he leaned down, gently touching your shoulder. "Wake up. I’ll drive you back to your apartment."

You stirred awake, blinking against the dim light. His words barely registered, but you nodded, getting up slowly. In the car, the silence stretched between you two, thick and tense. Jun’s eyes remained fixed on the road, his expression unreadable.

At your apartment, you fumbled for your keys, and Jun followed you inside without asking, his eyes scanning your modest living space.

"Who's this? Your boyfriend?" Jun asked, picking up a framed photo of you with a younger man, both of you smiling brightly.

"So you like them younger now?" he teased, a hint of something bitter in his voice.

"Not your business, Jun," you muttered, already searching for your phone, checking if you missed any important messages.

A sudden knock at the door cut through the tension. "Y/n, are you ready? We need to be there before the Prime Minister," a man’s voice called out.

Panic surged through you. You spun around, grabbed Jun by the wrist, and dragged him into the kitchen. "Stay here. Don’t make a sound."

You rushed back, smoothing your clothes, and unlocked the door with a bright, apologetic smile. "Sorry, I fell asleep. I’ll be ready in 15 minutes."

"Got it. Don’t take too long," the man replied, his footsteps fading down the hall.

You turned to find Jun leaning against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his lips. "You need to go, Jun."

"Going somewhere with the Prime Minister, are we?" he drawled, his tone laced with amusement. "So tell me, are you his daughter or his mistress, Ji Y/n?"

Your patience snapped. You tried to step past him, but his hand shot out, catching your wrist. His touch was firm but not painful, his eyes searching yours. The heat of his presence was too familiar, too close.

"Let go," you hissed.

"Make me," he challenged, his voice low.

In a swift motion, you stomped on his foot, and he grunted, instinctively letting you go. You didn’t spare him another glance, marching off to your bedroom to get ready.

Behind you, Jun leaned against the wall, rubbing his foot with a mix of pain and reluctant admiration. "Still got some fight in you, huh?" he muttered under his breath, a faint smile pulling at his lips.

Jun watched you all night, his car parked discreetly across the street. He saw everything—from the moment you stepped out of the sleek black car, escorted into a high-end restaurant, to the late hours when an older man led you into a lavish hotel lobby.

His jaw tightened, fingers gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. His chest twisted with a mix of rage and disgust. He had pieced it together, or at least he thought he had. Ji Jaekyung was using you, presenting you as his daughter to entertain his clients—perhaps even worse. The thought sickened him.

By the time dawn brushed the city with pale light, Jun was already waiting in your apartment, a storm of emotions swirling beneath his calm exterior. The door creaked open, and you stepped in, your makeup smudged, hair disheveled, exhaustion written all over your face.

"Tell me," Jun's voice cut through the quiet, cold and sharp. "What is that bastard making you do?"

You froze, surprise flashing across your features before you frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"Ji Jaekyung," he spat the name like a curse. "What is he making you do? Is he forcing you to entertain his clients? To sleep with them too?"

Your expression twisted with shock, then fury. "Fuck you, Jun. It’s none of your business!"

"None of my—" He stepped forward, his towering presence making the small space feel even tighter. "It becomes my business when I see you being treated like—"

"Like what?" you snapped, your voice rising, tears stinging your eyes. "Like a tool? A pawn? How the hell did you even here?"

"Don’t twist this, Y/n! I’m trying to help you, but you’re too stubborn, too damn prideful to admit you need it!" His voice escalated, fingers twitching with the urge to shake you awake.

"By accusing me of being a whore? By making me feel even smaller than I already do?" You tried to push past him, but he blocked your way, his glare unwavering.

"I’m not letting you walk away from this. Tell me the truth!" he demanded, his voice like a thunderclap.

"Get out of my way, Jun!" You shoved him, but he didn’t budge. His anger, his judgmental gaze—everything overwhelmed you.

"I won’t! Not until you—"

The sharp crack of your palm against his cheek silenced him. The room fell still, the sound of the slap echoing. Your chest heaved, tears spilling freely now.

"I’m tired, Jun. I’m so damn tired," you whispered, your voice breaking. "I don’t need your judgment. I don’t need your pity. And I don’t need you."

After leaving South Korea six years ago, Jun had learned how to mask himself. He buried the version of himself that only Seoul had known—the carefree, warm-hearted boy who once believed in love. In his father’s world, there was no room for softness. He trained relentlessly, sculpting himself into a weapon, a businessman, a strategist. He drowned himself in work, in power, in everything that would keep his mind too busy to think about you.

But tonight, as he watched you being paraded like a mistress—escorted by a man old enough to be your father, vanishing into the shadowed halls of a luxury hotel—every wall he built crumbled. All the effort to forget you was worthless. Because seeing you like that didn’t just hurt—it enraged him. You were his lover, and you were never meant to be anything else.

The phone in his hand felt like a lifeline, his father’s voice crackling on the other end. "It’s taking longer than expected to find his daughter," Jun reported, struggling to keep his voice steady.

"I’ve managed a few business matters here well," his father replied, almost dismissive. "Honestly, it would be easier to end him than to keep searching for his daughter. The man’s a coward—paying someone to pretend to be his child."

"I know. Ji Jaekyung is a damn snake," Jun muttered, jaw clenched. But now, a new resolve burned in his chest. He wasn’t just going to finish his father’s mission—he was going to save you, even if you didn’t want to be saved.

"Listen to me, Y/n," Jun's voice was sharp, cutting through the suffocating silence. He turned to face you, his expression a fierce mix of anger and desperation, while you stood there with tears streaming down your cheeks.

"Jaekyung has a lot of debt with my family in China. He promised his daughter as collateral for the deal, and he broke that promise. If you keep pretending to be his daughter, you’re walking straight into danger. Real, unforgiving danger."

His words struck like a whip, each one leaving a mark, but before you could even process them, Jun stormed out, the door slamming behind him with a thunderous bang. The sound echoed in your chest, leaving you alone in a silence that felt louder than anything else.

Your mother was murdered the night you left Jun.

The call came from the police, their voices cautious and clinical. They informed you that your mother had been found dead in her apartment. They tried reaching your brother, Seungkwan, but you knew they wouldn’t succeed—it was nearing the KSAT, and Seungkwan usually buried himself in his studies outside.

The first piece of evidence they found was a security camera recording of a stranger leaving your mother’s place in the dead of night. A dragon tattoo was visible on his arm—a dragon you recognized. The same ink Jun bore on his back.

"It's from a Chinese crime syndicate," the officer explained, his voice tinged with grim seriousness. "We suspect your mother may have been involved with them."

But you knew better. Your mother was no involved to the syndicate. And you couldn’t let Seungkwan know. He had worked so hard, pushing himself to become a police officer so he could catch the person who killed your father. Another tragedy would shatter him.

It all spiraled into a tangled mess. Your parents had once worked for Ji Jaekyung, and both were killed by people with that dragon tattoo. Now Jun, with the same tattoo, had shown up—searching for Jaekyung’s daughter.

One night, a man in a sleek suit appeared at your door 6 years ago. His expression was as sharp as his attire.

"Ji Jaekyung wants to meet you."

Seungkwan was asleep, exhausted from his studies, so you left quietly.

The proposal was straightforward: become Ji Jaekyung’s daughter. Smile, play the role, and he would pay you enough to support Seungkwan’s dream of entering the police academy. No further explanations, just one threat:

"Or else, we’ll have to do something about your brother."

That was the leash around your neck.

From that moment, you were a hostage in a game far beyond your control. You learned about Long Wei, the syndicate Jaekyung was tangled with—the same syndicate responsible for your parents' deaths. You thought you could uncover the truth by diving into this chaos, but instead, you were trapped deeper.

You hated all of it—the politics, the business, the way innocence was trampled for power. But you had no voice, no power. Just a thin, fragile line of survival with a bullet always aimed at your head.

"I brought chicken!" Seungkwan's delighted voice filled your apartment, a burst of warmth you didn’t realize you needed. You looked up from your laptop, seeing him still in his uniform, clearly fresh from his shift.

"You didn’t even change," you noted, a soft smile tugging at your lips.

"Figured I had some clothes here anyway," he quipped, already darting into your room. "Don’t start without me!"

Moments later, he emerged in a faded pajama set he had once left behind, immediately joining you at the small dining table where you’d set out the chicken and a few cold beers.

"My shift was a nightmare," Seungkwan grumbled around a mouthful of chicken. "Two separate thefts in one shift! Why do criminals love my schedule? Seriously, is it me?" He gestured dramatically, his expression an exaggerated mix of exhaustion and outrage.

You laughed, the sound easing some of the tension you’d been carrying. "Maybe they just love giving you a challenge."

"Chicken is the best stress relief," he declared, tossing another piece into his mouth.

But your laughter faded when your phone buzzed, and you saw the caller ID—Ji Jaekyung’s assistant. A sense of dread settled in your stomach. The man wanted you at a meeting with clients tomorrow. Seungkwan’s eyes darkened as he recognized the name.

"I’m annoyed," he muttered, throwing his fork into the chicken box, his mood dampened.

"I’m sorry," you whispered, your hand reaching for his, giving it a gentle squeeze. "We have to get through this."

Seungkwan’s jaw tightened. "If only our parents hadn’t worked for that bastard, we wouldn’t be stuck in this mess—especially you."

A thick silence settled between you, rage and sadness lingering like an uninvited guest at your table.

"I promise, I swear," Seungkwan’s voice trembled, his grip on your hand tightening. "I’ll catch everyone who made our lives this hard. I won’t let them win."

"You have a beautiful daughter, Mr. Ji."

The familiar man across from you smiled, his words smooth but laced with something darker. So, this was how people like him played their games—one meeting with Ji Jaekyung, a pleasant exchange of words, deals sealed over expensive wine. And in the end, it was always the innocent who paid the price.

Just like your parents.

Would you be next?

Jun tilted his head, watching you squirm in your seat, your gaze fixed on the ornate carpet beneath you. Beside you, Ji Jaekyung wore a pleasant smile, sipping his wine with the ease of a man who controlled the room.

"Your visit was rather surprising, Jun. I was expecting one of your uncles, actually. I can't believe they sent the serpent himself," Ji Jaekyung mused, swirling his glass.

Jun chuckled, his voice light, but his eyes sharp. "I apologize if my visit seems a bit impolite. I was just playing around in the city—feeling nostalgic."

Jaekyung nodded, a smile never leaving his face. "Ah, nostalgia. I heard you graduated here. My daughter is an alumna of the same university."

Jun’s gaze shifted to you. "Is that so?" he murmured, leaning back with an air of casual interest. "You're very secretive about her for someone so beautiful."

Ji Jaekyung’s hand moved to your hair, brushing a strand behind your ear with a touch that felt cold rather than comforting. "She is beautiful. I simply want to protect her. You know how it is—enemies can be unpredictable."

"That's very fatherly of you," Jun said, his smile unwavering. "Do you consider me an enemy?"

Ji Jaekyung laughed, the sound loud and full, yet hollow. "Of course not. You're practically family. I know your grandfather, your father, your uncles... No, you could never be an enemy."

Jun’s smile widened, though his eyes never softened. "Since we’re practically family, may I take your daughter with me tonight? I find myself feeling a bit lonely here in Seoul."

Your eyes widened, a jolt of shock running through you. He had trapped you with a simple question—one that Ji Jaekyung couldn’t refuse without appearing rude, and one you couldn’t reject without risking angering either man.

"Of course, of course," Jaekyung agreed with a chuckle. "I’m sure my Y/n doesn’t mind. You don’t mind, right?" His gaze shifted to you, a smile masking a warning.

The weight of your fate pressed against you like a stone. You were nothing more than a pawn in their game, your life a currency exchanged with a polite smile. And maybe that was all you were meant to be—something to be used, polished, and displayed, but never truly free.

Jun drove in silence, the city lights spilling over the windshield, their glow a pale wash against the dark leather interior. The gentle hum of the engine filled the void between you, but it did nothing to calm the storm in your chest. Every breath felt sharp, every heartbeat a painful reminder of how your world kept spiraling out of control.

Your gaze remained fixed outside, the blurred neon signs and bustling sidewalks passing like ghosts. But your mind wasn’t in the present. It was wandering, lost in the echoes of a time you had tried so hard to forget.

Six years ago, you were different—bright-eyed and hopeful, your world centered around love and simple dreams. Jun was a part of that world, his laughter a melody you cherished, his touch a promise of comfort. But then everything shattered. Your mother was murdered. Your father’s name was stained with secrets and blood. Seungkwan was left clinging to his dreams of justice while you were forced to live as someone you weren’t.

Was it all a lie? Was Jun just another player in this twisted game? Even then, when he held your hand, whispered sweet promises—was he already playing a role? Was everything a calculated move, leaving you to fend for yourself in this nightmare?

The ache in your chest grew unbearable. You wanted to scream, to demand answers. But part of you was terrified—terrified of hearing the truth, of confirming that the one person you once loved was just another betrayal.

The car eventually slowed, pulling into the familiar driveway of the grand hotel where Jun was staying. He stopped in front of the entrance, but neither of you moved. He let out a quiet sigh, fingers tapping against the steering wheel in a slow, rhythmic pattern.

You didn’t respond. Your fingers dug into the fabric of your dress, knuckles white. You had nothing to say to him. Nothing that wouldn’t break you further.

After a long moment, Jun stepped out, moving around to open your door. Ever the gentleman, even when his actions felt like cruel mockery. You stepped out, your legs feeling like lead, and followed him into the grand, silent lobby. The warm, golden light of the chandeliers felt oppressive, a stark contrast to the cold emptiness pooling in your chest.

The elevator doors closed around you, trapping you in the suffocating silence. You stood beside him, his reflection in the mirrored walls a ghost haunting your thoughts.

When the elevator chimed, you stepped out without waiting for him. But he followed, his footsteps quiet but ever-present. He opened the door to his suite, and you walked in, each step feeling heavier than the last. The familiar scent of expensive cologne and polished wood washed over you.

Your hands moved mechanically, a reflex born from nights of forced smiles and silenced pride. Your fingers reached for the zipper of your dress, pulling it down, the fabric slipping off your shoulders. Cold air touched your skin, but you didn’t feel it. You were numb, lost in the hollow routine you had perfected—a doll performing its part, a daughter sold for survival.

But just as you began to let the dress fall, a strong, calloused hand caught your wrist.

“Stop.” Jun’s voice was sharp, cutting through the suffocating silence. His grip tightened, his touch burning against your skin.

You looked up, your hollow eyes meeting his. His expression was unreadable, but his jaw was clenched, a faint tremor in his grip. Anger radiated from him, his dark eyes stormy, but beneath the fury, something else lingered—hurt, desperation.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, his voice low but shaking with barely contained rage.

“What do you think?” Your voice was empty, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. “This is what I’m supposed to do, right? Isn’t this what you wanted? What he wanted?”

“I never—” His voice broke for a second, but he quickly composed himself. “Don’t ever say that. Don’t you dare think I’m like them.”

“Then why did you take me?” Your voice rose, trembling, your chest heaving with a rush of anger you didn’t even know you had left. “Why, Jun? Is this your revenge? Is this how you prove your power over me?”

“Revenge?” He scoffed, his eyes narrowing. “You think this is revenge? Watching you—watching you reduce yourself to this?” He released your wrist, but the heat of his touch lingered, burning against your cold skin. “This isn’t you, Y/n. This was never you.”

“Then who am I, Jun?” you shot back, your voice cracking. “A liar? A puppet? A pawn in your sick game?”

“No.” He took a step closer, his anger palpable, but there was something else—pain, raw and unhidden. “You’re the woman I—” He stopped himself, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “Damn it, Y/n. You’re not some doll for them to play with. Not for him. Not for me.”

“Then what am I?” Your tears broke free, hot against your cheeks, your voice desperate. “Because this is all I know now, Jun. This is all I’ve become.”

A thick silence fell between you, your breaths heavy, your tears blurring your vision. His fists were clenched at his sides, his chest rising and falling rapidly as if fighting to keep his own emotions in check.

You stood there, trembling, your arms wrapped around yourself like a fragile shield. Jun’s presence was overwhelming—tall, intense, his dark eyes fixed on you with a mixture of shock and anger. But you couldn’t stop. The dam had broken, and the words poured out like a torrent you couldn’t control.

“My father… he was killed. By people with those dragon tattoosn. And I thought it was just a coincidence, I thought… I thought I could escape. But I couldn’t.” Your voice wavered, your breathing coming in short, frantic gasps. “I met you, and for once, I thought I could be happy. But then… my mother—my mother was murdered too. They said it was the same people. The same syndicate. Your people.”

Jun’s eyes widened, his brows knitting together. He tried to reach out, but you stepped back, your voice rising.

“Don’t touch me!” you cried, the tears streaming down your face. “Don’t you dare touch me, Jun. I was a fool. I thought I could protect Seungkwan, that I could find a way out. But I ended up becoming Ji Jaekyung’s puppet. I became his fake daughter, a plaything for his clients, all because I had no choice. And now you—” Your voice broke, a sob escaping your lips. “Were you part of it, Jun? Were you always part of it? Did you know everything?”

“Y/n, stop—” he began, but you cut him off.

“Stop what? Lying to myself? Pretending that you’re different from them?” You laughed bitterly, your knees giving out as you sank onto the cold floor. “I don’t know who you are anymore. I don’t even know who I am. I’m just a pawn in their game—a doll they pass around. And you… you might be just another player.”

Jun moved towards you, but you curled into yourself, hiding your face in your shaking hands.

“Did you use me, Jun? Did you ever care? Or was this all a game to you? A way to keep me under control? To keep me as a bargaining chip?” Your voice was hoarse, your body trembling uncontrollably. “Because that’s what I’ve become—someone they use, someone you might have used too.”

“Y/n, no,” Jun’s voice was rough, desperate. He knelt before you, reaching out but hesitating, his hands hovering in the air. “I swear, I didn’t know. I didn’t—”

“Then why?” you looked up at him, your tear-filled eyes pleading. “Why are you here? Why are you pretending to protect me?”

“I’m not pretending.” He leaned forward, his own voice breaking. “I never used you. I never lied to you. I… I didn’t know about your parents. About your mother. I swear, Y/n.”

Your vision blurred, your breathing ragged. You wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe those desperate, pained eyes looking back at you. But the darkness around you was suffocating, and trust was a luxury you no longer had.

“Then what are you, Jun?” you whispered. “A savior? Or just another monster wearing a kind face?”

His hands finally found yours, his touch warm, but you couldn’t feel it. You were drowning, trapped in a whirlpool of doubt, fear, and grief.

“I’m someone who won’t lose you again,” he whispered, his voice raw. “Not to them. Not to anyone.”

Jun’s arms held you tighter, his embrace warm but desperate, like a man trying to keep you from slipping away. His hand cradled the back of your head, his lips pressing against your hair as he whispered, “Y/n, listen to me. I swear to you, I didn’t know. I didn’t know they would hurt your family. I didn’t know you were trapped like this.”

His voice trembled, yet there was a firm resolve beneath the fear. “I swear, I’m not a part of Jaekyung’s schemes. I came here to deal with him, to bring him down for everything he’s done—not just to you, but to everyone he’s destroyed.”

You leaned back slightly, your tear-streaked eyes meeting his, searching desperately for any hint of deception. Your voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. “Are you telling me the truth? You’re not lying to me again?”

“I’m not lying. Not now, not ever again.” Jun’s gaze never wavered, his thumb gently brushing away your tears.

Your fingers tightened on his shirt, fear and desperation clawing at your chest. “Then save me, Jun. Please. I can’t do this anymore."

Jun’s thumb brushed against your cheek, wiping away the last of your tears, his touch so gentle that it sent a shiver down your spine. His eyes searched yours, a storm of emotions swirling within them—regret, longing, and something deeper, something that had never truly left even after all these years.

And then his lips were on yours.

It wasn’t a hesitant kiss, nor a cautious one—it was a kiss of desperation and yearning, of a man who had lost you once and was terrified of losing you again. His lips moved against yours with an urgency that sent warmth flooding through your chest, his hand slipping to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as though he needed you to breathe.

You melted into him, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, clinging to him as though he was the only solid thing in your crumbling world. His other arm wrapped around your waist, pressing you against him, and you felt the rapid beat of his heart against your chest, matching the wild rhythm of your own.

Jun’s kiss softened, the fierce urgency giving way to something deeper, something that spoke of all the years of regret, the nights spent wondering if he should have come back sooner. His lips trailed over yours, slow and tender, as though memorizing the shape of your mouth, whispering promises with every touch.

Your hands slipped up to his shoulders, and you felt his muscles tense beneath your touch. But he didn’t pull away; if anything, he pulled you closer, his fingers tangling in your hair, his forehead resting against yours as his lips moved softly, lovingly against yours.

“I missed you,” he breathed against your lips, the words a quiet confession. “I never stopped thinking about you, never stopped loving you.”

A soft, broken sound escaped your throat, and your fingers tightened on his shirt. “Don’t leave me, Jun. Please… promise me, don’t leave me.”

“I won’t,” he whispered, and you could hear the promise in his voice, the desperate need to be the man you could trust again. “I swear, I won’t.”

His lips found yours again, slower this time, savoring each second, each gentle press, his hands cradling you with a care that made your heart ache. It wasn’t just a kiss—it was a promise, a silent vow that you weren’t alone anymore, that he would stand with you, fight for you.

And for the first time in years, in his arms, you felt safe.

Jun's sleek, black car sliced through the bustling city streets, the quiet hum of the engine a sharp contrast to the tension hanging in the air. Minghao sat in the passenger seat, his gaze fixed ahead, but his voice clear and steady.

“Her parents worked for Ji Jaekyung for a long time,” Minghao began, fingers drumming lightly on his knee. “Her father, Ji Ho-seok, was a lawyer—he worked for us. Her mother was a housewife, quiet but smart.”

Jun leaned back against his seat, his jaw clenched as Minghao laid out the twisted history. The dim overhead light cast sharp shadows over his face, making the anger in his eyes even more pronounced.

“So, Ji Ho-seok wasn’t just a victim of his own honesty,” Jun muttered, his voice low and edged with rage. “He was framed. Jaekyung made him a scapegoat, painting him as a traitor to Longwei so they would take him out.”

Minghao nodded, his expression grave. “That’s right. Jaekyung manipulated the narrative. Ho-seok’s death wasn’t just an accident. It was a calculated move. He convinced Longwei that Ho-seok was a threat, a liability who might expose their business dealings in Seoul.”

“And then he didn’t stop there,” Jun continued, his fists tightening. “Six years ago, he found out about Y/n. He used her—forced her into this fake daughter role to exploit his connections. And when her mother tried to protect her…”

“Jaekyung had her killed. Made it look like another syndicate move, but it was all part of his plan,” Minghao finished. “He knows that Y/n’s survival means his control over her. The moment she tries to escape, he can turn everything against her.”

Jun’s chest heaved with barely contained fury. The woman he loved had been caught in this twisted game for years—used, threatened, and forced to play a role that trapped her.

Jun strode into the safe house with Minghao and a group of guards trailing behind him. The cold, metallic hum of the place seemed to amplify the shock on the faces of the Longwei members stationed in Seoul. Their whispers died down immediately, replaced by a tense, suffocating silence. It wasn’t every day that their young boss appeared without warning—especially not with that fierce, unyielding glare in his eyes.

“Everyone, listen up.” Jun’s voice cut through the air like a blade, cold and authoritative. “I want this man found by tonight.”

Minghao stepped forward, holding up a clear, high-resolution image of a man—his features hardened with age, but the distinct dragon tattoo on his forearm was unmistakable. The room seemed to shift, the guards exchanging uneasy glances.

“This man killed Ji Ho-seok fifteen years ago,” Minghao announced, his voice steady but intense. “He was one of us—Longwei. But he betrayed that honor the moment he became a pawn in Ji Jaekyung’s game.”

Jun’s gaze swept over the room, his jaw clenched. “I want him alive. No excuses. No mistakes. If he tries to run, you make sure he regrets it.”

The men nodded, already pulling out their phones, making calls, and exchanging brief, whispered instructions. They knew better than to disappoint Jun—especially when his voice carried a darkness they rarely heard.

Jun stepped quietly into the hotel room, the soft click of the door almost drowned out by the city’s distant hum. His eyes immediately found you—sitting by the window, wrapped in one of the plush white robes, your knees drawn to your chest. Pale morning light filtered through the glass, painting you in a soft, ethereal glow, but your expression was distant, lost somewhere beyond the bustling streets below.

“You’re back.” Your voice was soft, barely above a whisper, but it carried a weight he couldn’t ignore.

“I promised I wouldn’t leave you alone.” Jun closed the door gently behind him, shrugging off his suit jacket and tossing it onto a nearby chair. His gaze never left you, taking in the way your fingers absentmindedly traced invisible patterns on your knee.

Silence stretched between you two, but it wasn’t the comforting quiet you used to share. It was heavy—thick with questions, with fears, with everything left unsaid.

“I thought about everything… about how this started. How one decision ruined everything,” you murmured, your voice cracking just slightly. “I feel like I’m drowning, Jun… I don't even know if there’s a way out.”

He crossed the room in a few strides, kneeling beside you. His warm hand reached for yours, covering your cold fingers. “There is. I swear there is. And I’ll make sure you’re free from all of this.”

You looked down at him, searching his eyes, desperate for even a flicker of certainty. “You promise?”

“I do.” His voice was steady, his grip firm, grounding you. “I’ve already started. Minghao is tracking the man who killed your father. We’ll get answers. And I won’t let Jaekyung touch you again.”

Your eyes stung, a tear slipping free despite your best effort. “It’s just… I keep thinking you’re going to disappear too. Like I’ll wake up, and you’ll be gone… just like everything else.”

Jun’s hand moved, cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tear. “I’m not going anywhere, Y/n. Not now. Not ever.”

His forehead pressed gently against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “I lost you once. I won’t lose you again.”

You met Seungkwan at a quiet, tucked-away cafe far from the city center. He was already there when you arrived, his uniform jacket draped over the back of his chair, his face pinched with worry. The moment you sat down, his sharp gaze settled on you.

"You look tired," he noted, his tone softening just slightly. "You haven't been sleeping well, have you?"

You offered a weak smile. "Sleep has become a luxury I can't afford."

Silence hung between you as you stirred your coffee, the warmth seeping into your fingertips. Finally, you took a deep breath, bracing yourself. "Seungkwan, I need to tell you something."

His expression tightened, and he leaned in, immediately alert. "What is it?"

"It's about Jun. He... he’s here. And he promised to help me. To help us escape from Ji Jaekyung," you whispered, watching his reaction closely.

Seungkwan's face darkened, his jaw tightening. "Jun? Your ex, Jun? He's with Longwei. He's part of the syndicate. The same people who ruined our family."

"I know," you admitted, struggling to keep your voice steady. "I know what he is. But he promised me, Seungkwan. He’s not like the rest of them. He’s trying to help."

Seungkwan leaned back, crossing his arms, his disbelief painfully clear. "Help? A man from the same group that killed our parents? That controlled Jaekyung? How can you even believe him?"

"Because he’s different!" Your voice broke, drawing a few glances from nearby tables. You forced yourself to lower your tone, tears burning in your eyes. "Because I have no one else to turn to. Because I’m so tired, Seungkwan. I’m tired of being Jaekyung’s pawn. I’m tired of living in fear, of pretending, of wondering who will be next—us, our parents, everyone we love."

Seungkwan's expression softened, but the tension didn't leave his shoulders. "Sister…"

"He promised me, Seungkwan. He promised to protect me. I know how this sounds, but I trust him. Maybe I’m a fool, maybe I’m desperate, but I need you to believe in me. Just this once. Please, understand."

Seungkwan ran a hand through his hair, letting out a shaky sigh. "And what if you’re wrong? What if this is just another trap? What if he’s using you like everyone else?"

"I don’t know," you admitted, your voice a bare whisper. "But I’d rather take a chance with Jun than keep living this nightmare. I can’t do it alone anymore."

Silence stretched between you two, only the faint clinking of cups and murmurs of the other patrons filling the air. Finally, Seungkwan leaned forward, his gaze soft but still cautious.

"Then let me help too. Don’t keep me in the dark. If you trust him, fine—but I’ll be watching. And if he betrays you, I won't hesitate."

A small, shaky smile tugged at your lips. "Thank you, Seungkwan."

"I just want you safe. That's all I ever wanted."

You stepped out of the cafe, the cool air brushing against your face, calming the lingering ache in your chest. The black sedan parked by the curb seemed almost out of place in this quiet neighborhood, but the tinted window rolled down as you approached, revealing Jun's familiar, composed face.

"How was the talk with him?" Jun asked, his voice steady but his gaze searching.

You slipped into the passenger seat, closing the door with a sigh. "He’s skeptical, but I told him everything. He’s worried, but… he’s willing to trust you. For now."

Jun's lips curved slightly, a trace of relief in his expression. "That’s a good start."

The car smoothly pulled away from the curb, and for a while, silence filled the space between you. But Jun’s hand found yours, his thumb brushing against your knuckles, a quiet comfort you didn’t realize you needed.

"Let’s take a break today," he suddenly suggested, glancing at you. "There’s a place I want to take you."

You blinked, a hint of surprise in your eyes. "Where?"

"You'll see."

The cityscape gave way to quieter streets, familiar corners, and warm nostalgia began to seep into your chest. Your heart skipped a beat when you realized where you were—your old university district.

The car stopped by a small, colorful alley with photo booth stations lining one side, neon lights flickering in the daylight. Memories rushed back, the laughter, the warmth, the days when everything was simpler.

"We had our first kiss there," Jun pointed to a particular photo booth, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "You remember? You were so nervous, kept laughing to avoid looking at me."

Your lips curved, a small laugh escaping. "And you kept teasing me until I got so annoyed that I pulled you down and kissed you first."

"Best surprise of my life." He chuckled, a softness in his gaze that made your heart ache.

Jun led you down the alley, his hand still holding yours, and he insisted you both take a new set of photos. The first shot captured your shy smile, the second was Jun leaning close to kiss your cheek, and by the third, you were both laughing, caught in that familiar, carefree feeling.

As the photo strip printed, Jun pulled you aside to a small cafe next door, the same place you used to visit after classes. He ordered the same iced coffee you loved, and you shared a slice of cake by the window, the warm sunlight painting gentle patterns on the table.

"You know," he murmured, watching you take a bite. "I thought I lost this feeling... That simple happiness of being with you."

Your fingers tightened around the cup. "I thought I lost you."

Jun leaned forward, resting his hand on yours. "You never did. And I won’t let you go this time."

Warmth spread in your chest, the weight of fear and doubts momentarily melting away. This was Jun—the Jun you loved, the one who made you feel alive. And for the first time in so long, you felt like you could breathe.

Jun drove with one hand on the wheel, the other gently holding yours. The city’s noise faded into the distance, replaced by the rhythmic whoosh of waves as the beach came into view. The golden hue of the setting sun stretched across the sky, its reflection dancing on the water’s surface.

He parked near the empty shoreline, and together, you stepped out, letting the cool breeze brush against your face. Without a word, Jun pulled down the back bunk of his car, and you both settled on it, facing the endless sea. His jacket draped over your shoulders, enveloping you in warmth as his arms wrapped securely around you.

Silence fell comfortably between you, the soothing crash of waves filling the space. The sky melted into a fiery orange, then a soft purple, stars slowly emerging one by one. But as the darkness grew, so did the weight in your chest.

Finally, you leaned against him, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek. Jun’s voice was soft, almost hesitant, cutting through the quiet embrace of the evening. "Why did you leave me?"

Your breath hitched, eyes fixed on the waves crashing against the shore, a rhythmic reminder of how time never stopped, even when your world crumbled.

"I didn't leave, Jun... I was forced to disappear." Your voice trembled, the bitterness of the truth catching in your throat. "After my mother was killed, Ji Jaekyung came to me. He knew everything—who I was, who my family was, how vulnerable I was. He gave me a choice, or at least pretended to. Play his daughter, entertain his clients, and in return, he'd keep Seungkwan safe. But I knew it was never really a choice."

Jun's hold around you tightened, his jaw clenching against the side of your head. "And you couldn’t tell me? You couldn't come to me?"

A faint, sad smile curved your lips. "How could I? I didn’t even know if I could trust you back then. After I learned about your family’s connection. Everything became a blur, and I was scared. I didn’t know if you were part of it... if you were just another trap."

Silence stretched, heavy and cold. Jun’s fingers trembled slightly on your shoulder, his breath warm against your temple. "I would’ve torn the world apart for you… if you had just told me."

"Would you?" You whispered, a tear slipping down your cheek. "Or would you have seen me as a burden—a weakness in your world of power and secrets?"

Jun leaned back slightly, just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes fierce, filled with a pain that mirrored your own. "You were never a burden. You were everything I wanted… everything I thought I couldn’t have. And I was an idiot to let you go."

Your hand reached for his, intertwining your fingers. "Then don’t let me go this time, Jun."

"I won’t," he whispered, his lips brushing against your forehead, a promise sealed in the warmth of his touch.

Jun's strong hands gently lifted you onto his lap, and once you settled, he cupped your cheek with tenderness, his thumb brushing your skin as if you were the most delicate porcelain. His other hand began a slow exploration, starting at your thigh and gliding with a featherlight touch beneath the hem of your dress. His fingers traced every curve and dip of your body as he leaned in closer, capturing your lips in a soft, lingering kiss.

"You're mine, Y/n," he murmured against your mouth, the words a gentle command. His hand slid to the nape of your neck, pulling you deeper into the kiss with a fervent intensity. "Say you're mine," he urged, his fingers dancing up your thighs, lingering at the curve of your waist before tracing the outline of your stomach.

You gasped his name, a soft moan escaping as his fingers brushed against your most sensitive spot, teasing and exploring with deliberate slowness. His lips never left yours, devouring you with a passionate hunger as his fingers slipped inside, moving with a steady, rhythmic intent. Captivated by the sounds you made, each soft whimper and sigh, he began to undress you, the cool night air whispering over your bare skin.

Your fingers moved with urgency, unbuttoning the last remnants of clothing between you both until skin met skin. He lifted you effortlessly, laying you back against the soft, worn cushions of the car's backseat. Spreading your legs, he positioned himself between them, his gaze locked on yours.

"Tell me each name that bothered you," he said, his voice a low promise. "I'll show them that touching you means messing with me."

With infinite care, he entered you, and the world around you seemed to disappear. The warmth and tightness enfolded him, and in that moment, there was only the two of you, cocooned in each other's embrace, with the gentle sound of waves lapping in the distance, an intimate symphony to your shared solitude.

Twelve men sat rigidly on the cold, metal chairs, fear starkly painted on their faces. Thick ropes wound around their torsos, binding them to the chairs, their wrists tied behind their backs, rendering them helpless. The dim light overhead cast a sickly glow, accentuating the sweat beading on their foreheads. The room smelled of damp concrete and something darker—panic.

Jun stepped into the room, Minghao trailing behind him with a steely gaze. Jun’s sharp eyes scanned each terrified face, lingering on the man he recognized—the one he saw that night, leading you through the hotel lobby. Rage simmered beneath his calm exterior, a silent storm brewing.

He remembered your voice, trembling but steady, each word a needle prick against his chest.

"What did they do to you?" he had asked, his jaw clenched, his eyes never leaving yours, desperate for the truth.

"Everything... They did... everything."

The quiet crackle of the burning charcoal snapped him back to the present. A thick metal rod, its tip glowing a fierce orange, sat on the smoldering heat, a twisted promise of pain.

"What should we do to them, boss?" Minghao's voice was steady, but there was a tension beneath his words, a coldness matching Jun’s simmering fury.

Jun's gaze never left the men, especially the one he recognized, whose face had turned ghostly pale.

"For whoever laid their hands on her," Jun’s voice was calm, almost emotionless—a chilling contrast to the violence in his words. "I want them to touch that." He pointed to the searing metal rod, the heat radiating from it like a promise of hell.

Minghao nodded, signaling to the men holding the rod. They stepped forward, the fiery glow reflecting in the captives’ wide, terror-stricken eyes. Some thrashed against their bindings, whimpering and begging, while others shut their eyes, murmuring desperate prayers.

Jun’s phone buzzed in his pocket, the screen flashing with a familiar name—Ji Jaekyung. He signaled Minghao to keep an eye on the captives before stepping away, his expression unreadable. With a swipe, he answered, his voice calm but guarded.

"Mr. Ji," Jun greeted, leaning against the cold wall.

"Jun, my boy!" Jaekyung's voice carried a forced warmth, laced with a hint of tension. "I haven’t seen my daughter since yesterday. She’s not answering her phone. I thought you two would be together. Care to tell me where she is?"

Jun’s jaw tightened, but he kept his voice steady. "She needed some fresh air, Mr. Ji. I figured she'd enjoy some time away without all the... usual pressures."

Jaekyung chuckled, though the edge in his laughter was clear. "Fresh air? That's sweet of you, but you know how dangerous this city can be. Especially for a young woman like her."

"Don’t worry, she’s in good hands."

"Good hands, you say?" Jaekyung's tone turned sharper. "I hope you're not forgetting our arrangement, Jun. You understand how important my daughter is to me... and how unpleasant things can get if something happens to her."

Jun’s fingers curled tighter around his phone. "Rest assured, Mr. Ji. I always take good care of what's mine."

A brief silence stretched between them before Jaekyung's voice softened again, but the threat lingered beneath. "See that you do. I expect her back soon, Jun. Don’t disappoint me."

The call ended, and Jun lowered the phone, his gaze darkening. He looked back at the room where the captives were. His grip on the phone was so tight his knuckles turned white.

"Minghao," he called out, his voice cold.

Minghao approached immediately, reading the look in his boss’s eyes. "Jaekyung’s getting anxious?"

"He's getting suspicious." Jun’s voice was low, almost a growl. "Have someone follow him. I want to know every move he makes. If he sends anyone to look for her, I want to know before they even leave his doorstep."

Minghao nodded, already typing instructions to his men. "And the men here?"

Jun’s gaze returned to the captives. His voice was ice. "Continue. Make them talk. I want to know everything they did to her. And I want them to feel what it means to lay their hands on her."

With one last glance at the room, Jun stepped out, his mind racing. He needed to protect you, and to do that, he needed to stay two steps ahead of Ji Jaekyung.

Jun’s car sped through the city streets, neon lights casting fleeting colors across his face. His grip on the steering wheel tightened as he dialed the secure line to his father. The call connected after a few rings, and a deep, authoritative voice echoed through.

"Jun?" His father's voice carried the weight of decades of power. "Is something wrong?"

"Father," Jun began, his voice steady but tense. "I need your permission to eliminate Ji Jaekyung."

A sharp silence filled the line, followed by a low, incredulous chuckle. "Holding his daughter isn't enough? Have you lost your mind, Jun?"

"No, Father. I've seen enough." Jun’s voice remained firm. "Ji Jaekyung has tainted the deal further than Longwei expected. He’s using our name, manipulating our men, and worst of all—he's exploiting innocent lives. He uses a false daughter to shield his business, dragging her into a world of filth."

His father’s silence deepened, the weight of his contemplation almost palpable through the phone. "Are you certain this isn't personal?"

"It is personal too," Jun admitted without hesitation. "But even without the personal part, his actions have become a liability. He hides behind our name, but he’s a snake, corrupting our reputation."

"Jun, killing an ally can bring consequences. The balance in Seoul will shift. His partners, his clients, they might turn against us. He just needs a warning."

"But if we keep him, he’ll turn them against us with his lies and deceit. I can handle the fallout. I will clean up every trace."

"Would you stake your position for this decision?" his father asked, his tone now sharp, testing.

Jun didn’t hesitate. "Yes. If you give me your approval, I will do everything. No one will ever trace it back to us."

A slow exhale echoed from the other side. "Very well, Jun. But remember, this is your choice. If you fail, it’s your head on the line, not just his."

"I won’t fail, Father."

The call ended. Jun's jaw clenched as he tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. The weight of what he was about to do pressed down on him, but it was a weight he was willing to bear.

The car pulled up to the hotel, and Jun stepped out. His expression remained cold, but beneath that exterior was a storm of determination. He was going to protect you, no matter the cost.

The television screen in the hotel room flickered to life, its glow casting a pale light over the dimly lit space. You were curled up on the bed, staring blankly at the screen, trying to distract yourself from the whirlwind of emotions inside you. But then the program shifted, the tone turned urgent, and a news anchor appeared, her face a mix of shock and professionalism.

"Breaking News—South Korea's Prime Minister Ji Jaekyung has died in a tragic car accident earlier this evening. Authorities report that his vehicle lost control on a mountain road before crashing into a ravine. Emergency responders arrived on the scene, but Ji Jaekyung was pronounced dead on arrival. The cause of the accident is still under investigation, but preliminary reports suggest a possible brake failure. This sudden loss has sent shockwaves throughout the nation."

Your breath caught, and the remote slipped from your hand, clattering against the floor. A cold chill spread through you as your eyes widened. Ji Jaekyung… dead?

Your thoughts raced—was it truly an accident? Could it be connected to Jun? You remembered his words, his quiet but fierce promise to protect you. You covered your mouth, trying to suppress the mix of fear and relief flooding your chest.

The screen continued to show footage of the crash site—flashing lights, twisted metal, and officers cordoning off the area.

"The Prime Minister's office has yet to release an official statement. Reports indicate that Ji Jaekyung’s car was traveling alone, and there were no other passengers. The investigation is ongoing."

Your heart pounded against your ribs as the door clicked open. Jun stepped in, his sharp suit barely wrinkled, his expression unreadable as his eyes immediately found yours. He saw your pale face and glanced at the television.

"You did this," you whispered, a mixture of disbelief and shock in your voice.

Jun's face softened slightly, his steps careful as he approached you. "I told you I would protect you."

You stared at him, tears pooling in your eyes. "Did you… was it really an accident?"

"It was necessary," he said, his voice gentle but unyielding. "He can never hurt you again."

A tear slipped down your cheek, and your legs gave way, but Jun caught you, pulling you into his arms. His hold was firm, grounding you as your mind struggled to process everything.

"You… you killed him," you whispered against his chest.

"Yes," Jun murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "And I'd do it again to keep you safe."

The weight of everything crashed down on you all at once—fear, anger, betrayal, and an overwhelming sense of relief. Your chest tightened, and a sob tore itself free from your throat.

Your fingers gripped the fabric of Jun’s suit, twisting it as your body trembled. A wretched, broken cry escaped your lips, raw and unrestrained. Tears streamed down your cheeks, soaking into his shoulder as you buried your face against him.

"I-I thought… I thought he'd never let me go," you choked out, the words barely coherent between your sobs. "I thought… I thought I’d lose everything—Seungkwan, you—"

Jun’s arms tightened around you, a steady, protective embrace. He didn’t speak, didn’t try to hush your cries. He simply held you, letting you release every ounce of fear and pain you had bottled up for so long. His hand moved gently, cradling the back of your head, his other arm wrapped around your waist, grounding you.

"You’re safe now," he whispered, his voice steady, a calm in the storm of your emotions. "No one can hurt you. Not anymore."

Your sobs grew louder, uncontrollable. Years of suffering, of living under someone else’s shadow, of being used, manipulated, and threatened—all of it broke free. Your knees buckled, but Jun held you, sinking with you to the floor.

"I was so scared… so tired…" you cried, clinging to him. "I don’t want to be afraid anymore."

"And you won’t be," Jun murmured, resting his cheek against the top of your head. "I promised you, didn’t I? I will protect you… no matter what it takes."

You didn't know how long you cried—minutes, hours—it all blurred together. But through it all, Jun never let you go. He stayed, a silent, steady presence in the chaos of your breaking heart.

Life changed swiftly, almost ruthlessly. You followed Jun to Guangzhou, leaving behind the shadows of Seoul for the neon-lit city bustling with life. Jun was a name whispered with both fear and respect here, a man painted as the villain in countless stories. But to you, he was never a villain—he was your hero. The man who pulled you from the jaws of despair, who held you when you were broken, and who taught you how to survive.

Guangzhou was a different world. Jun's life was a world of negotiations done in half-lit rooms, whispers exchanged in crowded clubs, and loyalty measured in blood. You learned quickly that being Jun’s partner wasn’t just about standing by his side—it was about keeping up, about becoming strong enough to protect yourself and everything you held dear.

He introduced you to Minghao, who taught you self-defense. Hours spent in a private dojo, where you learned how to disarm a knife-wielding attacker, how to break a grip, how to move swiftly and strike precisely. Every bruise, every ache became a reminder of your growing strength.

Jun didn't just shelter you; he prepared you. Over sleek mahogany tables filled with maps and documents, you learned the art of strategy—how to anticipate moves, how to read people, how to negotiate. You became a quiet but sharp presence in his meetings, your observations valued, your voice heard.

"You’re not just my woman, Y/n," Jun whispered one night, his fingers tracing along your jaw as you lay in his arms. "You’re my partner. I need you to be strong. Strong enough to stand by me… and strong enough to protect yourself when I can’t."

And you became that.

Yet, being Jun's partner meant facing danger. You felt it the night a black sedan rammed your car, your body jolted against the seatbelt as your driver struggled to regain control. You heard it in the sharp, cracking sound of gunfire in a dim alley one evening, Jun’s arm pulling you against the wall, his body shielding yours.

You saw it in the cold glint of a knife pressed against your throat when you were kidnapped by a rival syndicate. You remembered the terror, the way your voice didn’t shake as you spoke to the man holding you, buying just enough time until Jun stormed in, his men dismantling the enemy with calculated precision.

But Jun, like he promised, was always there. When you were dragged out of the car wreck, he was the first face you saw, his voice soothing you even as blood ran down his cheek. When you were taken, he didn't sleep until you were back in his arms.

Your life was a dance on the edge of a blade, a world where chaos and calm intertwined. But in every shadow, Jun was your light. In every storm, he was your shelter. He was a villain in the stories of others, but to you, he was a savior.

Amidst all this, a call came from Seoul—Seungkwan’s voice on the other end, trembling but determined.

“I did it, Y/n,” he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. “I found him. I found the man who killed our parents.”

Your heart raced, the room around you fading into silence. “Seungkwan… where is he?”

“I have him in custody. He’s confessed. Ji Jaekyung set it all up—made him do it, made him kill them to cover his tracks.”

A cold rage settled in your chest, but also a twisted sense of relief. The ghosts of your parents had haunted you for so long, their deaths an open wound that never healed. Now, that wound had a face. A face that could finally be punished.

“Y/n?” Seungkwan’s voice softened. “Are you okay?”

Tears slipped down your cheeks, but a small, determined smile touched your lips. “I’m okay, Seungkwan. Because you did it. You brought justice to them.”

Jun noticed your tears as he entered the room, his gaze softening as he knelt before you. “What’s wrong?”

You met his eyes, your hand reaching out to grasp his. “Seungkwan found him… the man who killed my parents.”

Jun’s jaw tightened, his fingers threading through yours, offering his silent, unwavering support. “Then we’re one step closer, Y/n. To finally ending this nightmare.”

Or maybe, one more nightmare.

The grand hall of Long Wei's headquarters was a spectacle of opulence—crystal chandeliers casting a warm, golden glow over a sea of influential faces. Laughter and the clinking of glasses filled the air, but a sharp tension cut through the room as a man grabbed you, a knife pressed against your neck. Gasps rippled through the crowd, fear seizing those who watched. The man’s voice trembled as he shouted threats, his grip on you shaky, his eyes wild.

“Everyone back! I swear I’ll—”

But his voice faltered when he noticed the subtle change in the air—an eerie calm, an odd sense of confidence. You stood perfectly still, your breathing steady, your gaze unwavering. The knife against your skin was a cold whisper, but fear didn’t cloud your eyes. Instead, there was something else—annoyance.

Jun stood a few feet away, leaning casually against the marble pillar, a glass of wine still in his hand. His head was tilted slightly, a slow, amused smile tugging at his lips. He didn’t rush, didn’t shout. He simply watched, his eyes locked on you.

And you knew what that meant—his trust in you was absolute. Even though he was nervous, considering you were eight months pregnant, his confidence in your abilities never wavered.

The man’s grip tightened, his voice shaking. “I said move back, or she’s—”

Before he could finish, you moved. Your heel slammed down on his foot, hard enough that he cried out, his grip loosening just enough. Your hand shot up, grabbing his wrist, twisting it sharply until the knife clattered to the floor. His free arm reached for you, but you drove your elbow into his ribs with a force that made him gasp.

The room watched, frozen, as your fist collided with his jaw in a clean, precise strike, sending him sprawling to the ground.

Chaos erupted around you. Long Wei’s guards surged forward, tackling the man to the floor, rough hands ensuring he wouldn’t rise again. But you hardly noticed. Jun was already at your side, his arms wrapping protectively around you, pulling you close. His hand instinctively rested against the gentle curve of your stomach, feeling the faint movement within.

“You’ll be the death of me, baby,” he whispered, his voice half-scolding, half-loving, his lips brushing your temple.

You leaned into his touch, your own hand resting over his. “I didn’t even break a sweat.”

Jun chuckled, though there was a hint of exasperation in his voice. “If you weren’t eight months pregnant, I’d be proud. But right now, I’m just trying not to have a heart attack.”

Behind you, the party guests were beginning to murmur, the tension slowly dissipating. Long Wei’s men dragged the failed attacker away, and whispers of admiration and shock spread through the crowd. Even Jun’s father, who had been watching from the balcony, gave an approving nod.

“Come on,” Jun murmured, steering you gently toward a quieter corner. “Let’s sit you down. You’ve done enough for tonight, hero.”

You chuckled, letting him guide you, your fingers lacing with his. “Maybe next time, they’ll think twice before trying to mess with Long Wei’s family.”

Jun’s expression softened as he looked down at you, his hand never leaving your stomach. “They better. Because I can’t lose either of you.”

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