d-missler2000

[d-missler2000]

Kneel Pretty

Devils Night One-Shot Fan Fiction

Kai Mori (Father Kai) x Reader one-shot Devil’s Night Universe Genre: Dark Romance, Forbidden Romance, Smutty One-Shot, Religious Imagery, Tension-heavy, seductive, reverent and filthy. Warnings: Religious themes (priest kink), Power imbalance , light degradation/name calling, obsession dark romance themes. Summary/Blurb: Father Kai was meant to guide you toward salvation, but your confessions only ever made him fall further. Late-night visits to the church turn into something unholy when the girl who tempts him most steps into the booth with every intention of breaking him. And he lets her. Because this time, the sin feels a lot like worship.

nsfw content!

————————————————————————

The air in the church was thick with incense and silence.

It clung to the back of your throat, warm and heavy, as you stepped into the old confessional.

You weren’t religious. You never had been.

But every week, like clockwork, you came to him.

Father Kai.

He never called you by name.

Never touched you.

But his voice—low, velvety, laced with something that didn’t belong in a house of God—slid through the grate and made your thighs press together in guilt and want.

You knelt.

The candlelight flickered. And then you heard it: the familiar click of the door across from you.

He was here.

The quiet creak of leather gloves as he shifted. The faint scent of clove and spice.

Your heart stuttered.

“Forgive me, Father,” you breathed, head bowed.

“I’ve sinned again.”

A pause. Long enough to make your stomach twist.

Then his voice came—calm, cold, and cruelly patient.

“Then kneel pretty,” he said, “and tell me all about it.”

You shifted on your knees, the hard wood beneath you biting into skin, but you didn’t care. You never did.

Not when you knew he was on the other side of the screen.

The air between you sparked with static—his breath quiet, measured, too calm for what he had to know you were feeling.

“What is it this time?” he asked, voice smooth as velvet.

“Another man?”

A pause.

“A thought you shouldn’t have entertained?”

You exhaled, lips parted, your voice barely a whisper.

“No. Just one man.”

The silence crackled. You could practically feel his restraint.

“I see.”

You dared to shift again—just a little—thighs pressing together in a way you hoped he could hear. You knew it was wrong. That was the point.

You wanted him to feel it too.

“I wore the dress you hate,” you confessed.

“The one that rides up when I kneel.”

The edge in his breath told you everything.

“I’m not here to play with you,” he murmured, but his tone betrayed him—deep and frayed and strained.

You smiled, wicked and soft.

“You never are.”

Another long pause. This one felt like it stretched miles.

“You came here to be punished,” he said. Not a question—just a fact.

You bit your bottom lip and nodded even though he couldn’t see.

“Say it.”

“I came here to be punished, Father.”

He hummed low—almost pleased. It made your stomach flutter and twist with anticipation.

“I should make you pray,” he said.

“Out loud. On your knees. Until your throat is raw and you regret ever teasing me with that little f*cking dress.”

Your breath hitched. Your spine straightened.

“But I won’t,” he continued, voice laced with mercy dipped in sin.

“Because I like the way you break without me having to touch you.”

You clenched your fists, thighs aching, and whispered—

“Please.”

He chuckled, low and dangerous.

“I’ll tell you when it’s time to beg.”

The confessional creaked with every shift of your weight, the candlelight beyond the lattice flickering like it could sense something unholy about to take place.

You breathed in the scent of him—clove, musk, aged wood, and something sharper. You wondered if his hands were in fists. If he was gripping the edges of the bench to keep from doing what he really wanted.

“I touch myself when I think of you,” you said softly.

There was a pause so long you thought he might have walked out.

Then—

“Say that again.”

Your breath caught.

“I said… I touch myself when I think of you, Father.”

A low exhale. You felt it more than heard it.

“Where?”

The question was a growl—quiet, dangerous, fraying at the seams.

Your heart pounded. Your voice, barely a breath.

“My thighs. My chest. My…”

You hesitated, and he cut in.

“Say it.”

“My p*ssy,” you whispered.

The sound of leather shifting. A low, ragged inhale.

“You are testing me little one,” he muttered darkly. “You want to see what it takes to make me fall.”

And you did.

You wanted to see what Kai Mori looked like when he finally gave in.

“I want you to break your vows,” you said. “For me.”

He didn’t speak for a long time. Just the beat of your breath. The throb between your legs. The fire building.

Then—

The booth door creaked open. Heavy footsteps.

Your door snapped open.

And there he stood.

No mask. No collar. Just a man who’d spent too long pretending not to want what he did.

“You want to sin?” he asked, voice low and raw.

He stepped in, pulled the door shut behind him, and backed you against the wall of the booth. His eyes were black in the candlelight, jaw tight, breath ragged.

“Then kneel, pretty girl.”

You sank, heart hammering.

And when his fingers tangled in your hair, guiding your mouth where he’d been dreaming of it every night since you started coming here, he whispered it again—

“Only for me.”

The candlelight outside flickered like it knew—like it blessed what was happening behind the booth’s carved door.

You were already on your knees. You knew what you looked like from down there—eyes wide, lips parted, desperate.

Kai stood over you, quiet, composed… until he wasn’t.

“I’ve dreamed about this,” he muttered, his voice wrecked. “You on your knees in a church. Not praying. Just mine.”

He stroked a finger across your bottom lip, watching it drag and catch.

“Open.”

You did—obedient, aching.

He slid his thumb inside your mouth, pressing down on your tongue.

“Good girl,” he breathed, and you swore you saw his composure fracture right then and there.

“I should feel ashamed,” he muttered, “but all I can think about is how fucking perfect you look like this.”

You whimpered, and he pulled his thumb out slowly, then traced your cheek with the back of his hand.

“Such a pretty little thing,” he whispered. “Always testing me. Always looking at me like you want me to ruin you.”

Your breath hitched. “Maybe I do.”

His jaw clenched. His hand tangled in your hair.

“Then take what you asked for, little one.”

And he gave it to you—raw and reverent, slow at first, careful, like this was still sacred somehow. His hips rolled forward, controlled but needy, as your mouth welcomed him in—like a confession.

He didn’t stop talking. Whispering filth against your temple, praises laced with sin.

“You look so good like this.”

“Is this what you came here for, little one?”

“You taste like salvation. F*ck.”

You hollowed your cheeks, eyes locked on his—watching him fall from grace with every quiet moan he tried to bite back.

“Kai,” you gasped when he pulled you up, needing more, his restraint crumbling.

He backed you against the booth wall, one hand slipping up your thigh, fingers dragging through the mess between your legs.

“God won’t hear you here,” he murmured. “But I will.”

His mouth was on yours, tongue claiming, teeth scraping. His other hand cupped your jaw, holding you still.

“I’ll take your prayers now,” he said into your lips.

And he did—every gasp, every whimper, every desperate cry of please, more, yes, Father—like each one belonged to him.

Because they did.

The air in the confessional was thick with sweat and candle wax and him—his breath still uneven, lips swollen, collar askew.

You were curled against his chest now, tucked beneath his arm on the worn pew bench, your body still humming from what he’d done to you.

Kai’s fingers combed through your hair in lazy, reverent strokes, his other hand wrapped around your thigh like he wasn’t ready to let go. Like he never would be.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he murmured, though his voice held no regret—just that soft, ruined rasp like you’d finally undone the last of his edges.

You tilted your head up, eyes finding his in the warm dark.

“But you did,” you whispered. “And I’d let you do it again.”

His jaw twitched, his mouth ghosting over your temple. He didn’t answer—not right away. Just pressed a slow kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then your lips. Soft. Lingered. Possessive.

“You’re not a sin,” he said finally. “You’re a fucking test.”

You smiled, drunk on him, on the warmth, the quiet, the way he looked at you like you were the first thing he’d ever wanted for himself.

And then, even quieter—

“My little one.”

Your heart thudded. His hand squeezed your thigh just once before relaxing again.

“I can’t go back now,” he said into your hair. “Not after this.”

You shifted closer, fingers sliding beneath his shirt, palm flat over his heartbeat.

“Then don’t.”

The candles outside burned lower. The chapel beyond the booth stayed quiet. And in the shadows, wrapped up in his arms, you finally felt chosen.

Not saved.

But kept.

————————————————————————

[d-missler2000]

Burn Me Beautiful

Devils Night One-Shot Fanfic

Damon Torrance x Reader one-shot Devil’s Night Universe Genre: Dark Romance. Warnings: dark romance, NSFW, dark themes, obsession/possession. Summary/Blurb: He found you on Devil’s Night. You weren’t supposed to catch his eye. You weren’t supposed to let him in.

But Damon Torrance doesn’t ask. He doesn’t beg. He takes.And once you’re his, he doesn’t let go.

A dark, obsessive, and dangerously addictive one-shot about what happens when you lock eyes with the devil—and ask him to burn you beautiful.

nsfw content!

————————————————————————

Devil’s Night.

The air was thick with smoke, liquor, and secrets.

Damon Torrance stood with the others—Michael, Kai, and Will—drinks in hand, voices sharp with adrenaline and power. The kind of night where anything could happen and nothing was off-limits.

Will cracked a joke that made Kai roll his eyes and Michael smirk, but Damon didn’t laugh. He barely blinked.

His gaze was distant. Dangerous.

He wasn’t here for the chaos. He was the chaos. And tonight, he was hunting.

Cigarette between his fingers, he scanned the room like a god surveying his kingdom. Until his eyes landed on you.

Surrounded by your friends, head tilted back as you laughed at something, completely unaware that your entire world had just shifted.

Damon’s stare darkened. He took a drag from his cigarette, exhaled slow, and pulled off his mask—exposing a face carved in stone and shadow.

Will caught the shift immediately. His grin widened. He leaned in, clinking his glass against Damon’s.

“Dude,” he said, eyes gleaming. “I think you found a new toy.”

Damon didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Because his gaze was already locked on you. Like he was choosing his next sin.

He watched you like a wolf sizing up his next meal—silent, still, but with eyes that burned hotter than the Devil’s Night bonfire outside.

You felt it before you saw it.

That tingle at the base of your spine. The prickling awareness crawling up your neck. A heat that had nothing to do with the alcohol in your veins.

You turned.

And locked eyes with him.

Damon Torrance.

The man whose name was a warning. Whose smile could slice. Whose hands—rumored, feared, worshipped—knew how to unravel anything and anyone he set his sights on.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t look away.

He tilted his head, tongue slowly dragging over his bottom lip like he was already imagining the taste of you.

Then he nodded.

Once.

An invitation. No—a command.

Your friends kept talking. Laughing. But it was like the party melted away, sound turning to static as your feet started to move before you even realized.

Drawn to him. Pulled by something deeper than logic, older than fear. Something raw.

By the time you reached him, he was already turning, leading you away without a word.

Through the crowd. Down the hallway. Past closed doors and drunken bodies. Until you were in a room you didn’t recognize and the door clicked shut behind you.

Silence.

Then—

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice low, dangerously calm.

Your back hit the door. His body followed, caging you in, his hands planted on either side of your head. His breath ghosted over your mouth, his eyes wild with something too dark to be desire—but it still made your thighs clench.

“Why?” you whispered, barely able to think with him this close.

“Because I don’t play with things I don’t intend to keep,” Damon growled.

And then he kissed you.

Hard.

Teeth, tongue, fire.

It wasn’t a kiss, it was a claim—a possession, a punishment, a promise all in one. He kissed like he was angry you let him, and furious at how badly he wanted it.

Your hands tangled in his hair. His fingers slid under your shirt. His mouth trailed to your jaw, your throat, biting hard enough to leave bruises. Marks. Warnings.

“You taste like a f**king problem,” he muttered against your skin. “Lucky for you—I like problems.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you—your lips swollen, your chest heaving, pupils blown wide.

“Say it,” he ordered.

You swallowed. “Say what?”

“That you want this. That you want me.”

You hesitated.

Not because you didn’t want him—but because you knew what he could do with that kind of permission.

But still, you said it.

“I want you, Damon.”

A wicked smile curved his mouth.

“Then beg.”

His voice was a razor blade—sharp, slicing clean through the room’s heat and into your spine.

You bit your lip, heart hammering, pride and desire warring inside you. But Damon just waited. Watching you with those cold, merciless eyes like a predator who already knew you’d fold.

And maybe you would. For him.

“I want you,” you breathed. “Please.”

He smirked—dark and sinful. “Pretty when you say please.”

Then his mouth was on yours again, and this time there was no restraint.

You felt yourself being lifted, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively, back slamming against the door again as he ground his hips into yours. Every movement purposeful. Every drag of his mouth over your skin—possessive.

“I’m going to make you remember this,” he growled. “Every second. Every touch. Every time you walk tomorrow and feel me still inside you.”

Your breath hitched—equal parts fear and want—and he felt it. Smirked again, proud and ruined.

He carried you to the bed, laid you down with a gentleness that felt like a lie.

Then he looked at you. Really looked.

“Take off your clothes,” he said.

You moved to obey, pulse pounding, heat slick between your thighs. But he stopped you halfway—grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head, pressing his body against yours so you could feel just how hard he was.

“You don’t rush this,” he whispered into your ear. “You savor it.”

Then he took over.

Hands slow, dragging your clothes off piece by piece like he was unwrapping something expensive. Precious. His mouth followed, lips and tongue marking every newly bared inch.

“You like being looked at, don’t you?” he asked, voice dripping with heat. “Like being wanted.”

You gasped as his hand slid between your legs.

“Well, little devil,” he murmured, fingers teasing but not giving you what you needed, “congrats. You’ve got my attention. And I don’t do casual.”

His fingers slipped inside—finally—and your back arched as he curled them just right, his thumb brushing your clit, mouth pressed to your throat to catch the sounds you were trying not to make.

“I’ll learn every sound you make,” he growled. “And then I’ll make you scream them.”

And he did.

He took his time, teasing you to the edge over and over, never letting you fall until you were begging—really begging—his name on your tongue like a prayer.

When he finally pushed into you, it was slow, deep, perfect.

Your nails clawed at his back. His teeth found your shoulder. He didn’t let up, didn’t give you a moment to breathe, just kept pushing you higher, closer, tighter—

Until you shattered.

And when he followed—groaning your name, forehead pressed to yours like it was the only anchor he had—you realized this wasn’t just a hookup.

This was possession.

He pulled out slowly, still holding you, breath ragged. You were both a mess of sweat, bruises, and adrenaline.

And then, in the dark silence after, he kissed your forehead.

Gentle.

Soft.

Dangerous.

“Mine now,” he whispered.

And you knew he didn’t just mean tonight.

He meant always..

————————————————————————

[d-missler2000]

Kneel Pretty

Devils Night One-Shot Fan Fiction

Kai Mori (Father Kai) x Reader one-shot Devil’s Night Universe Genre: Dark Romance, Forbidden Romance, Smutty One-Shot, Religious Imagery, Tension-heavy, seductive, reverent and filthy. Warnings: Religious themes (priest kink), Power imbalance , light degradation/name calling, obsession dark romance themes. Summary/Blurb: Father Kai was meant to guide you toward salvation, but your confessions only ever made him fall further. Late-night visits to the church turn into something unholy when the girl who tempts him most steps into the booth with every intention of breaking him. And he lets her. Because this time, the sin feels a lot like worship.

nsfw content!

————————————————————————

The air in the church was thick with incense and silence.

It clung to the back of your throat, warm and heavy, as you stepped into the old confessional.

You weren’t religious. You never had been.

But every week, like clockwork, you came to him.

Father Kai.

He never called you by name.

Never touched you.

But his voice—low, velvety, laced with something that didn’t belong in a house of God—slid through the grate and made your thighs press together in guilt and want.

You knelt.

The candlelight flickered. And then you heard it: the familiar click of the door across from you.

He was here.

The quiet creak of leather gloves as he shifted. The faint scent of clove and spice.

Your heart stuttered.

“Forgive me, Father,” you breathed, head bowed.

“I’ve sinned again.”

A pause. Long enough to make your stomach twist.

Then his voice came—calm, cold, and cruelly patient.

“Then kneel pretty,” he said, “and tell me all about it.”

You shifted on your knees, the hard wood beneath you biting into skin, but you didn’t care. You never did.

Not when you knew he was on the other side of the screen.

The air between you sparked with static—his breath quiet, measured, too calm for what he had to know you were feeling.

“What is it this time?” he asked, voice smooth as velvet.

“Another man?”

A pause.

“A thought you shouldn’t have entertained?”

You exhaled, lips parted, your voice barely a whisper.

“No. Just one man.”

The silence crackled. You could practically feel his restraint.

“I see.”

You dared to shift again—just a little—thighs pressing together in a way you hoped he could hear. You knew it was wrong. That was the point.

You wanted him to feel it too.

“I wore the dress you hate,” you confessed.

“The one that rides up when I kneel.”

The edge in his breath told you everything.

“I’m not here to play with you,” he murmured, but his tone betrayed him—deep and frayed and strained.

You smiled, wicked and soft.

“You never are.”

Another long pause. This one felt like it stretched miles.

“You came here to be punished,” he said. Not a question—just a fact.

You bit your bottom lip and nodded even though he couldn’t see.

“Say it.”

“I came here to be punished, Father.”

He hummed low—almost pleased. It made your stomach flutter and twist with anticipation.

“I should make you pray,” he said.

“Out loud. On your knees. Until your throat is raw and you regret ever teasing me with that little f*cking dress.”

Your breath hitched. Your spine straightened.

“But I won’t,” he continued, voice laced with mercy dipped in sin.

“Because I like the way you break without me having to touch you.”

You clenched your fists, thighs aching, and whispered—

“Please.”

He chuckled, low and dangerous.

“I’ll tell you when it’s time to beg.”

The confessional creaked with every shift of your weight, the candlelight beyond the lattice flickering like it could sense something unholy about to take place.

You breathed in the scent of him—clove, musk, aged wood, and something sharper. You wondered if his hands were in fists. If he was gripping the edges of the bench to keep from doing what he really wanted.

“I touch myself when I think of you,” you said softly.

There was a pause so long you thought he might have walked out.

Then—

“Say that again.”

Your breath caught.

“I said… I touch myself when I think of you, Father.”

A low exhale. You felt it more than heard it.

“Where?”

The question was a growl—quiet, dangerous, fraying at the seams.

Your heart pounded. Your voice, barely a breath.

“My thighs. My chest. My…”

You hesitated, and he cut in.

“Say it.”

“My p*ssy,” you whispered.

The sound of leather shifting. A low, ragged inhale.

“You are testing me little one,” he muttered darkly. “You want to see what it takes to make me fall.”

And you did.

You wanted to see what Kai Mori looked like when he finally gave in.

“I want you to break your vows,” you said. “For me.”

He didn’t speak for a long time. Just the beat of your breath. The throb between your legs. The fire building.

Then—

The booth door creaked open. Heavy footsteps.

Your door snapped open.

And there he stood.

No mask. No collar. Just a man who’d spent too long pretending not to want what he did.

“You want to sin?” he asked, voice low and raw.

He stepped in, pulled the door shut behind him, and backed you against the wall of the booth. His eyes were black in the candlelight, jaw tight, breath ragged.

“Then kneel, pretty girl.”

You sank, heart hammering.

And when his fingers tangled in your hair, guiding your mouth where he’d been dreaming of it every night since you started coming here, he whispered it again—

“Only for me.”

The candlelight outside flickered like it knew—like it blessed what was happening behind the booth’s carved door.

You were already on your knees. You knew what you looked like from down there—eyes wide, lips parted, desperate.

Kai stood over you, quiet, composed… until he wasn’t.

“I’ve dreamed about this,” he muttered, his voice wrecked. “You on your knees in a church. Not praying. Just mine.”

He stroked a finger across your bottom lip, watching it drag and catch.

“Open.”

You did—obedient, aching.

He slid his thumb inside your mouth, pressing down on your tongue.

“Good girl,” he breathed, and you swore you saw his composure fracture right then and there.

“I should feel ashamed,” he muttered, “but all I can think about is how fucking perfect you look like this.”

You whimpered, and he pulled his thumb out slowly, then traced your cheek with the back of his hand.

“Such a pretty little thing,” he whispered. “Always testing me. Always looking at me like you want me to ruin you.”

Your breath hitched. “Maybe I do.”

His jaw clenched. His hand tangled in your hair.

“Then take what you asked for, little one.”

And he gave it to you—raw and reverent, slow at first, careful, like this was still sacred somehow. His hips rolled forward, controlled but needy, as your mouth welcomed him in—like a confession.

He didn’t stop talking. Whispering filth against your temple, praises laced with sin.

“You look so good like this.”

“Is this what you came here for, little one?”

“You taste like salvation. F*ck.”

You hollowed your cheeks, eyes locked on his—watching him fall from grace with every quiet moan he tried to bite back.

“Kai,” you gasped when he pulled you up, needing more, his restraint crumbling.

He backed you against the booth wall, one hand slipping up your thigh, fingers dragging through the mess between your legs.

“God won’t hear you here,” he murmured. “But I will.”

His mouth was on yours, tongue claiming, teeth scraping. His other hand cupped your jaw, holding you still.

“I’ll take your prayers now,” he said into your lips.

And he did—every gasp, every whimper, every desperate cry of please, more, yes, Father—like each one belonged to him.

Because they did.

The air in the confessional was thick with sweat and candle wax and him—his breath still uneven, lips swollen, collar askew.

You were curled against his chest now, tucked beneath his arm on the worn pew bench, your body still humming from what he’d done to you.

Kai’s fingers combed through your hair in lazy, reverent strokes, his other hand wrapped around your thigh like he wasn’t ready to let go. Like he never would be.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he murmured, though his voice held no regret—just that soft, ruined rasp like you’d finally undone the last of his edges.

You tilted your head up, eyes finding his in the warm dark.

“But you did,” you whispered. “And I’d let you do it again.”

His jaw twitched, his mouth ghosting over your temple. He didn’t answer—not right away. Just pressed a slow kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then your lips. Soft. Lingered. Possessive.

“You’re not a sin,” he said finally. “You’re a fucking test.”

You smiled, drunk on him, on the warmth, the quiet, the way he looked at you like you were the first thing he’d ever wanted for himself.

And then, even quieter—

“My little one.”

Your heart thudded. His hand squeezed your thigh just once before relaxing again.

“I can’t go back now,” he said into your hair. “Not after this.”

You shifted closer, fingers sliding beneath his shirt, palm flat over his heartbeat.

“Then don’t.”

The candles outside burned lower. The chapel beyond the booth stayed quiet. And in the shadows, wrapped up in his arms, you finally felt chosen.

Not saved.

But kept.

————————————————————————

[d-missler2000]

Lights Out, Hearts On

Lights Out One-Shot Fan Fiction

Josh Hammond x Reader one-shot LightsOut Universe Genre: Dark Romance Warnings: Intrusion, mild threat, tension, suggestive themes Summary/Blurb: You come home to find a stranger in your bedroom. He’s holding your cat, wearing a mask, and talking like he knows you. And the worst part? You don’t feel afraid—you feel seen. When Josh Hammond finally steps out of the shadows and into your life, he brings heat, danger, and the kind of touch you know you shouldn’t want. But some things were made to burn.

A dark romance one-shot filled with tension, teeth, and too many emotions to name.

nsfw content!

—————————————————————————————————————

You’d just gotten home, the winter night already settled outside. As you unlocked the door, a muffled voice caught your attention. At first, you thought it was your cat and called out, but there was no response.

Following the sound, you crept toward your bedroom, heart pounding like a warning bell in your chest. Peeking in, you froze.

A man in a balaclava stood in your room, holding your cat—who, somehow, purred contentedly in his arms.

“You can come in,” he said, voice low and disturbingly calm. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

He glanced at the cat and pet it gently. “Figured it was time I introduced myself. I think she likes me—or he, who am I to judge?” He lit a cigarette with steady fingers, the flame briefly illuminating his eyes.

You didn’t move. Your hand gripped the doorframe, nails digging into the wood. You kept your voice calm, quiet, but just sharp enough to cut through the tension.

“Strange way to introduce yourself. Most people knock.”

Your gaze flicked between his masked face and your cat—who looked more relaxed than you felt.

“If you’re not in my house to hurt me,” you said, eyes narrowing, “maybe start by telling me why you’re here. And maybe… put out the cigarette. My cat has lungs too.”

He chuckled. It was soft, dark. A sound that didn’t belong in your bedroom, but somehow did.

“Right,” he said, moving to the ashtray you hadn’t used in months. He tapped the cigarette out and dropped it in. “Didn’t think you’d care that much about the cat. Cute.”

You stepped in slowly, arms crossed over your chest. “You’re still in my house.”

“Technically,” he replied, setting the cat down. “But this place? It’s a bit like you. Looks soft. Cozy. But locked up tight. You made me curious.”

“You broke into my house because you were curious?”

He shrugged. “You could say that. Or you could say I’ve been watching you for a while now.”

The blood drained from your face.

He pulled off the balaclava, and for a moment, everything stood still.

Josh Hammond.

The name had weight. A reputation. A warning whispered in the streets under streetlights and cigarette smoke.

“You know who I am,” he said, voice lower now, more dangerous. “That’s good. Saves time.”

You swallowed hard. “And what is it you want?”

His smile was slow. Confident. Lethal.

“You.”

Silence pressed in around you. Heavy. Heated. Terrifying.

You should run.

You should scream.

But instead, you asked, “Why me?”

He stepped closer, boots silent on the carpet. The cat weaved around his legs like it trusted him more than it ever trusted you.

“Because you’re not like the others. And I like things that aren’t easy.”

You felt the air shift as he closed the space between you, only inches away now. Close enough for you to see the shadows in his eyes. Close enough for your pulse to trip over itself.

“You should be scared,” you whispered.

“I am,” he murmured, voice like a secret. “Of how much I already want you..”

You knew you should’ve backed away. Should’ve grabbed your phone. Should’ve screamed, or run, or done anything other than what you were doing now—standing frozen, heart hammering, caught in the gravity of him.

But instead…

You stayed.

Something in the way he looked at you made it impossible to move. Not fear. Not really. It was something else. Something worse. Something addictive.

“I don’t do this,” you said quietly, not sure what this even was.

He smirked. “Let strange men into your bedroom? Yeah. I figured.”

His voice was velvet over glass—smooth, but with edges. He stepped past you, slow and deliberate, and your breath hitched as the scent of him hit you: smoke, winter air, and something darker, like the night clinging to his skin.

He walked to your window, pulled back the curtain just enough to peek through.

“No one’s followed me. That’s good. For you.”

“You’re not making this better,” you muttered.

He turned to face you again, leaning against the wall like he belonged there. Like he owned the space now.

“But I’m not making it worse,” he said, voice low. “If I wanted to hurt you, I would’ve done it already.”

“That’s supposed to comfort me?”

“It’s the truth.” A pause. “I don’t lie to people I like.”

Your heart stuttered. “You don’t know me.”

“Not true.” He took a step toward you. “I know you leave your hallway light on because the dark messes with your head. I know you always check the door twice, but never lock the window in your kitchen. I know you drink your coffee with two sugars and caramel and a splash of milk, even though you tell people you drink it black.

Another step.

“I know you hum when you’re nervous. That your hands shake when you try to hide your anger. And I know you’re not scared of me right now—” his voice dropped, rough around the edges “—you’re scared of what it means that you’re not.”

He stopped a breath away from you. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to kill.

“Am I wrong?” he asked.

Your pulse was a drumbeat in your throat. Your lips parted, but no sound came out. Because no, he wasn’t wrong. And you hated that.

“I should tell you to leave.”

“You won’t.”

His confidence lit something hot in your chest. You hated it. You wanted more of it.

“You think you’ve got me figured out?” you whispered.

“No.” He tilted his head, eyes flickering down to your mouth, then back up. “But I’d like to.”

It wasn’t a line. It wasn’t a threat. It was a promise. One you had no business even wanting him to keep.

But god, you did.

And maybe that was the most dangerous part of all.

His eyes stayed on yours—sharp, unblinking, as if trying to see beneath your skin, beneath your bones.

“I’d like to,” he said again, quieter this time.

Then the space between you was gone.

His hand slid up, fingers brushing your jaw like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you—but wanted to anyway. Your breath caught as he tilted your face up toward his, his thumb grazing the corner of your mouth.

“You should tell me to stop,” he murmured.

But you didn’t.

And maybe that was the answer he’d been waiting for.

Because something in him cracked. You saw it happen—the exact second he let go of whatever leash he’d been holding himself back with.

He kissed you.

Not careful. Not gentle.

Like he’d already gone without it too long.

His mouth was hot, hungry, and rough in a way that made your knees nearly give out. You clutched at the front of his jacket as his hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you there, deepening the kiss like he wanted to memorize the shape of your mouth from the inside out.

It was chaos and control colliding—lips crashing, teeth grazing, a low sound vibrating from his chest like he hated how much he liked this.

You broke for air, breathing hard, but he didn’t step back.

His forehead pressed against yours, eyes closed like he needed a second to keep himself from unraveling.

“F**k,” he breathed. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You could barely think. Barely speak. But somehow, your voice came out, a whisper against his lips.

“Then don’t stop.”

His eyes opened slowly, the look in them like a lit match dropped into gasoline.

“I told myself I’d just scare you a little. Just get your attention,” he said, voice low and frayed. “But then I saw you. And all I could think about was this.”

He kissed you again—slower, this time. Deep and aching, like he was trying to brand it into you. Like he needed it more than air.

His hands slid to your waist, gripping tight, and you didn’t realize you were backing up until your legs hit the edge of the bed.

Josh paused, gaze flicking down to your lips, then lower.

“Say the word,” he said, voice like gravel and honey. “And I’ll stop. Right now.”

You looked up at him, heart slamming against your ribs.

But you didn’t say a word.

You just pulled him down with you.

Your back hit the mattress, the room suddenly too warm, too quiet except for the sound of your breath catching as he followed you down.

Josh hovered over you, braced on his forearms, eyes locked on yours like he was still waiting for the moment you’d change your mind.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you slid your fingers beneath the hem of his shirt, palms dragging over his stomach, and felt the sharp inhale he tried to hide.

That was all he needed.

He kissed you again—harder this time, desperate now, like he was trying to crawl inside your skin. His hands were everywhere at once—skimming your waist, cupping your face, threading into your hair like he couldn’t decide what part of you he wanted to touch more.

The restraint he’d worn like armor was gone. Completely.

“God, you taste like trouble,” he muttered against your throat as his lips found the hollow of your neck, nipping hard enough to leave heat blooming beneath your skin. “And I f**king love it.”

You gasped when he sucked a mark just above your collarbone, then felt his smirk as he kissed lower, letting his mouth trail fire down your skin.

Clothes became obstacles. Frustrations.

His jacket hit the floor. Your shirt was gone.

He pulled back just enough to look at you—really look. And it hit you like a punch: no one’s ever looked at you like that before.

Like he’d burn the world down if you asked him to.

Like you already owned him and he hated how much he liked it.

“You’re not scared of me,” he said, fingers brushing the side of your thigh as he pushed your legs apart, settling between them. “You should be.”

You arched into him, breathless. “Maybe I like danger.”

Josh laughed—low, wrecked, and disbelieving.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“Then show me.”

That was it.

Whatever part of him was still trying to be careful broke.

He kissed you like it hurt. Like it healed. Like he’d been starving and you were the only thing that could fix him.

And when his hands slid under the waistband of your shorts, you didn’t stop him. You welcomed the heat. The weight. The wicked.

You let him take.

Because for the first time in a long time, you wanted to be ruined.

And Josh Hammond? He was really f**king good at it.

The world narrowed to heat and breath and skin.

Josh’s hands roamed like he was mapping you out for the first time and the last. Every touch was confident, claiming—like he’d waited long enough and wasn’t holding back anymore.

You felt the sharp drag of his teeth against your neck, the scratch of his stubble against your chest, the way his breath hitched as your nails dragged down his back.

He peeled away the last pieces of clothing with slow, deliberate fingers, watching every inch of you like it was something sacred. Or maybe like it was something he shouldn’t want as much as he did.

You expected rough.

And yeah, it was.

But it was also intentional. Every move calculated. Every kiss lingering just a second too long. He touched you like he was learning your body by heart—like he wanted to ruin you perfectly.

“Tell me what you want,” he rasped, voice dark and cracked open.

“You,” you whispered. “All of you.”

His eyes burned.

Then he gave it to you.

There was no holding back now. The rhythm between you built fast, wild, and deep—like every thrust was a confession he couldn’t say out loud. Your name fell from his lips like a prayer, your nails dug into his shoulder blades like a promise you weren’t ready to keep.

You swore you saw stars when he came, forehead pressed to yours, moaning your name like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

And then—

Silence.

Just breathing.

Your body still tangled with his.

Josh didn’t move for a long time. He stayed there, holding himself above you, eyes half-closed, lips swollen from kissing, from devouring.

Then finally, he rolled onto his back beside you, arm draped across his eyes.

You turned your head, studying him.

And that’s when you saw it.

The crack in the armor.

Josh Hammond—the man everyone whispered about, the one with blood on his hands and fire in his eyes—looked tired. Like he’d been running from something for a long time and for once, just stopped.

“I wasn’t supposed to touch you,” he said into the quiet. “Wasn’t supposed to get close. That’s not how this works.”

You blinked. “What is this, Josh?”

He let his hand fall away from his face. Looked at you with something that scared you more than his mask ever did—honesty.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But I think I’m f**ked.”

You laughed once, soft and stunned. “Yeah,” you breathed. “Me too.”

He reached out and took your hand, fingers threading through yours like it wasn’t a mistake. Like he wanted to hold on.

“Whatever this is,” he said, voice low and raw, “it’s already too late to walk away.”

And in the silence that followed, in the soft hum of your heartbeat returning to normal, you realized—

You didn’t want to walk away either..

————————————————————————

[d-missler2000]

Pull the Trigger, Baby

Haunting Adeline One-Shot Fan Fiction

Zade Meadows x Reader one-shot Haunting Adeline Universe Genre: Dark Romance Warnings: Dark romance themes, NSFW, weapon play/kink, Possessive behaviour, Slight fear kink. Summary/Blurb: You thought you were alone.

But Zade Meadows has never been far behind.

And when he leaves you a rose and a warning, you learn just how far obsession will go—especially when it wants to protect you, possess you, ruin you.

A dark, seductive one-shot about what happens when the hunter stops watching and finally decides to take what’s his.

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A single red rose sat on your dining room table.

Thornless. Clean. Intentional.

Tied to the stem was a note, the handwriting sharp and deliberate.

“See? I found you, little mouse.”

Your phone buzzed on the counter.

Unknown Number: Lock the door. I left you a surprise.

Your breath hitched.

Another buzz.

Unknown Number: The rose isn’t the only thing I’ve touched tonight.

Your breath caught.

You glanced at the rose again—too perfect. Too intentional.

And then the next message came in.

Unknown Number: Don’t make me come in without knocking.

Your heart jumped. You rushed to the door, hand trembling as you flipped the lock—

Click.

Another message.

Good girl.

You swallowed hard.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy, until—

Knock knock.

Two slow, measured raps on the door.

Your body tensed.

“Who is it?” you asked, even though your voice came out barely above a whisper.

You already knew.

A voice like velvet and venom slid through the door.

“Your shadow, little mouse.”

Zade.

Your stomach twisted—not with fear, but anticipation. Like your body had already decided for you. Like it wanted to be hunted.

You unlocked the door, slowly.

He didn’t wait.

The second the latch clicked, he pushed inside, closing it behind him with the same kind of finality you’d hear in a loaded gun cocking.

Zade stood in your hallway.

All black. Hood up. Gloves on. And those eyes—dark, cold, calculated.

He looked at you like he was seeing everything.

Like he already owned you.

“You shouldn’t open doors for monsters,” he said softly, stepping closer. “Someone might get the wrong idea.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He stopped a breath away from you, fingers reaching up to gently trace the side of your jaw—

A touch so tender it was almost cruel.

“I’ve been patient,” he murmured, voice dipping lower. “So f**king patient. Watching. Waiting. Letting you pretend you’re safe.”

His gloved hand wrapped around your throat—not tight, just enough to make your pulse pound under his fingers.

“But you’re not.”

A pause. His gaze dropped to your lips.

“You’re only safe with me.”

Then he kissed you.

Hard. Like a man who’d been dying to. Like someone who knew he was crossing a line and didn’t care.

His other hand gripped your hip, pulling you against him. You gasped into his mouth, and he groaned—low and deep, like the sound he’d make dragging you to bed and wrecking you.

“You’ve been teasing me,” he growled against your lips. “Leaving the curtains open. Walking around in that little thing.”

His hand slid down your thigh, up under your dress.

“And now? Now you’re going to take responsibility for what you started.”

You should’ve pulled away.

You didn’t.

Because the truth was—

You didn’t want to run.

You wanted to fall.

Zade pressed you back against the wall, his body a shield, his eyes locked on yours. There was a hunger in him now—no, not hunger. Need.

The kind of need that turned men into monsters.

“You don’t even realize what you do to me little mouse,” he murmured, brushing his nose along your jaw, inhaling you. “I watch you every night. Fingering yourself in the dark like I don’t see it. Like I wouldn’t kill a man for even thinking of you like that.”

Your breath hitched as his gloved hand slid under your dress again, teasing you—slow, soft strokes over your panties.

Then… click.

You froze.

He’d drawn the gun.

You didn’t see it. You didn’t have to. The cold kiss of metal against the underside of your chin told you everything you needed to know.

“Hands on the wall.”he ordered, voice low, like a command laced in silk and sin.

You obeyed.

Your palms flattened against the cool wall, heart thundering. Your breath shallow. But your thighs pressed together, heat pooling low in your stomach.

You weren’t scared.

You were on fire.

Zade’s body pressed behind you, gun still nestled beneath your jaw.

“I could make you beg right now,” he growled against your ear, “and you would. You’d cry for it. Because you want to be broken by me.”

His hand trailed between your legs, fingers pressing into you through the fabric—slow, deliberate, punishing.

“So wet already,” he murmured. “You like this, don’t you? Like knowing I could end you and instead—I’m going to devour you.”

He pulled your panties down with one hand, the other still holding the gun steady.

Then his fingers slipped inside—slow, torturous. Curling just enough to make you gasp.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered. “No more hiding. No more pretending little mouse.”

He dragged the gun lower, sliding the barrel slowly down your throat, between your breasts, then over your hip as he crouched behind you, mouth now pressed to your inner thigh.

“You’ll come on my fingers,” he said, biting down gently. “Then you’ll scream on my c**k.”

And you did.

You came hard on his fingers, body shuddering, breath a strangled moan against the wall. And when he finally pushed into you—deep, relentless, desperate—he groaned like a man who’d finally gotten his first taste of salvation.

The pace was brutal. Controlled chaos. One hand around your throat, the other gripping your hip, dragging you back onto him again and again.

And all the while, he talked.

“I’ll bury myself in you every night if I have to,” he grunted. “Every f**king night until you know you’re mine.”

Your name left his mouth like a vow. Over and over. Growled into your neck as he thrust harder, deeper.

Until you shattered again, body clenching, legs shaking—

And he came with a broken sound, teeth on your shoulder, hips locked tight to yours like he never wanted to leave.

The gun clattered gently to the floor as he leaned against you, both of you panting, wrecked.

And then, softer… almost reverent…

“I love you like a curse,” he whispered. “Like a sin I’d commit twice.”

Your legs were still trembling.

Zade caught you before you could sink to the floor, arms strong and unrelenting as he wrapped them around your waist and pulled you into him—your back against his chest, the gun long forgotten on the floor.

He kissed your shoulder once, then again. Slower this time. Calmer. Like the storm inside him had passed, and now all that remained was you.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked softly, voice low but steady.

You shook your head, leaning into him. “No.”

He tilted your chin back gently, looking into your eyes like he needed the truth written there. When he found it, the corners of his mouth twitched up—just slightly.

“Good,” he murmured. “But you tell me if I ever do.”

“I will,” you whispered.

Zade reached down and pulled his hoodie off, then slipped it over your head without a word. It smelled like him—smoke, gunpowder, and something darkly masculine. You sank into it.

He lifted you in his arms like it was the easiest thing in the world, carried you to the couch, and sat with you in his lap. One hand rubbing slow circles on your thigh, the other brushing sweaty strands of hair away from your face.

You expected silence.

Instead, his voice came quiet, careful.

“I watch you because I don’t trust anyone else to.” He didn’t look at you when he said it. “You don’t know what kind of people are out there. What kind of things I’ve done to people who looked at you too long.”

You didn’t flinch.

You didn’t run.

You just leaned in, resting your forehead against his.

“I know.”

Zade’s hand slipped under the hem of his hoodie, fingertips ghosting across your stomach like he was reminding himself you were really there.

He let out a shaky breath.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” he admitted. “I only know how to take. Break. Control.”

“And still,” you said softly, “you’re holding me like I’m something to protect.”

His jaw tensed. His grip tightened for a second—and then he nodded.

“I’ll protect you ‘til the day I stop breathing little mouse,” he whispered.

He kissed you again, but this time there was no rush. Just reverence. Like you weren’t just the girl he watched. You were the girl he chose.

And he wasn’t going anywhere.

nsfw content!

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[d-missler2000]

Touch Me Where It Hurts

Little Stranger One-Shot Fan Fiction

Malachi Vize x Reader one-shot Little Stranger Universe Genre: Dark Romance, Forbidden Longing, Slow Burn. Warnings: Step-sibling dynamic, unhealthy emotional attachment, trauma themes, obsessive tendencies, possessive behavior, suggestive content, emotional dependency, light voyeurism. Summary/Blurb: He doesn’t speak—not with words. But in the way he touches you, watches you, sneaks into your room at night just to be near you… Malachi Vize says more than he ever could out loud. He’s your foster stepbrother, your late-night shadow, the quiet in your chaos. And even though no one talks about it, your bodies speak the same secret language. It’s soft, it’s strange, it’s wrong. But it’s yours.

Touch me where it hurts, Malachi. I’ll let you. Every time.

nsfw content!

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The music in your headphones drowned out everything—the tick of the clock, the whisper of midnight wind against the windows, the way the silence curled its fingers around your throat.

You were floating in it—alone, undisturbed. Until you weren’t.

A shadow moved across your peripheral vision.

You looked up just as Malachi slipped through the open window like smoke, silent and certain. His boots hit the floor with a muted thud, and your world shifted on its axis like it always did when he was near.

Malachi Vize—your selectively mute foster stepbrother.

Dressed in his usual black leather jacket, worn jeans slung low, shirt hugging his lean frame like it had been stitched on. His dark curls were an unruly mess, like he’d been pacing, anxious and wired.

He met your eyes, just for a second.

Then he raised his hands and signed, What are you doing?

You shrugged, pulling one earbud out. “Nothing.”

It was always nothing and everything with him.

He shed his jacket and boots like this was his room too—and in some strange, unspoken way, it was.

He sat on the edge of your bed, heavy and solid, and the mattress dipped toward him, like even the bed was familiar with his weight.

You didn’t talk. You never had to.

There was a language in the stillness between you—a language of quiet glances, of tangled sheets, of stolen midnight hours that didn’t belong to anyone but you two.

Sometimes he touched you. Sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes his pinky finger would brush yours beneath the blanket, and that was enough to unravel your whole chest.

He never stayed the whole night.

But when he did, you always woke up with your legs over his, your face tucked into his chest. And you never talked about it.

Maybe that’s why it hurt so good.

He was the only thing in your world that felt constant, even if he came with a storm inside him. A darkness you didn’t always understand—but never feared.

Because when he climbed through your window…

You stopped being lonely.

And that was enough.

You shifted on the bed, the silence wrapping around you like a second skin.

Malachi sat there, one foot on the floor, one knee bent on the mattress. Close enough to touch. Close enough to ruin. His eyes never left you—not once. They traced the curve of your jaw, the slope of your neck, the way your hoodie slipped just slightly off one shoulder.

You swallowed, and that was the only sound in the room.

He reached over, slow, and tucked the fabric back into place. His fingers brushed your skin—barely. But it burned like he’d set you on fire. He didn’t pull away.

You okay? he signed, gaze heavy, unreadable.

You nodded, heart thumping. “Are you?”

He didn’t answer. Not with his hands. Not with his eyes.

He just kept looking at you like he was trying to memorize the moment. Like if he blinked, it would disappear.

Then—without warning—he leaned in.

His forehead touched yours.

Soft. Gentle. Intimate.

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t move. Couldn’t.

His thumb brushed your bottom lip—barely there—and he pulled it away like it burned him. He opened his mouth… and for the first time in what felt like forever, he spoke.

“You make it quiet,” he said, voice raw and low and only for you. “When everything else is too loud.”

Your stomach dropped. He didn’t look away.

“I don’t talk,” he whispered, like a confession. “But you make me want to.”

Your eyes flicked down to his mouth.

He saw it.

He leaned in closer. Close enough for your breaths to mingle, for the tension to stretch so tight it nearly snapped.

“I think about you,” he murmured, his voice breaking slightly. “Too much.”

You reached for him without thinking—just the edge of his shirt, the hem caught in your fingers like a lifeline.

His hand covered yours.

“I come here because I don’t know how to stop,” he whispered, his voice cracked open now, vulnerable and hoarse and desperate. “And I don’t want to.”

Your whole body stilled. Your throat tightened.

“Then don’t,” you whispered.

And that was it.

He closed the distance—no hesitation, no asking. Just him. Kissing you like he’d been starving for it. Kissing you like this was the only thing keeping him alive.

His mouth was soft but urgent, hungry in a quiet way, like he was trying to savor you and devour you all at once. Like every kiss was a secret he couldn’t keep anymore.

You kissed him back, letting your fingers slide up under his shirt, over the scars and skin and silence. And he let you.

Let you touch the parts no one else was allowed to.

He was trembling.

And you realized—he wasn’t just obsessed.

He was in love with you in the way only someone broken could be.

Willing to bleed for it.

Beg for it.

Burn for it.

He kissed you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

Like he’d been holding himself back for so long it physically hurt—and now that he had you, he was unraveling in slow, shaking pieces.

You felt it in the way his fingers gripped your hips, like he was anchoring himself. In the soft, desperate sounds buried in his throat. In the way he exhaled your name like a prayer he didn’t think he was allowed to say.

When he pulled back, barely, his forehead pressed to yours again. Eyes clenched shut. Jaw tight.

“I dream about you,” he whispered. His voice was a rasp—ragged, raw. “Every fucking night.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

“I try to stay away. I try to be good,” he went on, still trembling, still trying to catch his breath. “But you look at me like I’m not… like I’m not ruined.”

He opened his eyes then—glass-green and flickering like flame.

“You let me be soft with you,” he said. “No one ever lets me be soft.”

You didn’t know what to say. Didn’t need to.

So you touched his face instead. Ran your fingers down the line of his cheekbone, tracing the curve of his jaw. And he leaned into it—like it broke something in him to be touched so gently.

“I need you,” he breathed. “I need you in a way that feels wrong. And I don’t care anymore.”

That was it.

He crushed his mouth back to yours—this time rougher, hotter, needier. His hands gripped the back of your neck, tilting your head, deepening the kiss until your knees went weak and your fingers dug into his shirt like you were afraid to fall.

You gasped when his tongue slid against yours, and he swallowed it like a man starved. He kissed you like it was oxygen, like he hadn’t breathed in days.

Your back hit the mattress.

Malachi followed, bracing himself above you with one hand while the other slid under your hoodie, fingertips ghosting over your stomach, up your ribs. Testing. Touching. Worshipping.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, voice thick with heat. “You’ve always been mine, haven’t you little sister?”

You nodded, dizzy from the way his mouth moved to your jaw, your neck—pressing kisses that made your whole body arch toward him.

“Say it,” he rasped, his breath hot against your throat.

“I’m yours,” you whispered.

And then?

He lost it.

His mouth crashed to yours again—this time reckless. Tongue tangled with yours, his hands roaming like he couldn’t choose what to touch first because he wanted everything.

Your thighs parted and he slotted his hips between them without thinking, grinding slow, like he needed to feel every inch of you pressed to him just to stay grounded.

He kissed you through the panting. Through the ache.

Clothes were pulled, not removed—bunched around waists, shoved halfway off limbs in your desperate attempt to stay connected. His shirt got caught around his neck, but you didn’t care. Neither did he.

Your hoodie was off in a flash, and his eyes dragged down your body like he’d been waiting his whole life for the reveal.

“Beautiful,” he whispered—barely audible, like it hurt to say out loud. His fingers traced every inch like a vow.

Then his lips followed—down your neck, across your collarbone, over the curve of your chest. His teeth grazed sensitive skin and you gasped, arching into him.

“God, I’ve thought about this,” he said, voice shredded. “Touching you like this. Being inside you.”

Your thighs trembled under his touch as he moved lower—slow but deliberate, like he needed to memorize you. Like you were holy.

Every kiss, every lick, every graze of his teeth was laced with the same desperate question:

Do I get to have this? Do I get to have you?

You nodded, breathless, reaching down to thread your fingers through his messy curls as he kissed the inside of your thigh.

“Please, Malachi…”

That was it.

He looked up at you, eyes blazing. “Say it again.”

“Please.”

And he devoured you.

Tongue slow, fingers gripping your hips to keep you in place, his mouth hot and unrelenting between your thighs. He pulled moans from your throat like he needed to hear them—like it was the only thing keeping his heart beating.

When you came, it was with your hands in his hair, your body arched, and his name gasped like a curse.

He didn’t stop.

He kissed his way back up your body, covering you with his weight, whispering things you didn’t expect from him. Things you’d never forget.

“I love the way you fall apart for me.”

“I want to live in you.”

“I don’t know how to breathe without this anymore.”

When he finally pushed inside you, it wasn’t fast or hard or rough—it was achingly slow. Like he wanted to feel every second of it. Like he wanted to live in the stretch, the heat, the gasp you gave when you wrapped your legs around him and clung to his back like you never wanted him to leave.

He rocked into you with the kind of patience that came from craving. From months of holding back. From a boy who had never been allowed to want something so pure.

And when he came—he shook. Forehead pressed to yours, tears gathering in his lashes he didn’t let fall.

He collapsed against you with a shudder, your skin sticky with sweat and love and something darker.

He didn’t speak again.

Not until minutes passed. Not until your hand brushed through his curls and his breathing slowed.

Then—

“Don’t leave me,” he whispered.

You tightened your grip around him.

“I never will.”

And for once, Malachi Vize believed it.

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