melodichaeuxx-lacritquexx - Tumblr blog

melodichaeuxx-lacritquexx · 9 days ago

Text

🍑 GEORGIA PEACH 🍑

Stack and Susannah Mae Whitfield aka Peaches.

Summary: Folks called her Peaches before she ever stepped on stage, and the name stuck the way honey clings to warm skin—sweet, natural, and just a little messy. Nobody sent for her. She showed up on her own terms. With not much more than a worn traveling dress, a fan tucked in her cleavage, and a laugh that could make sinners lean in, Peaches arrived at The Blackline looking for a fresh start and a full purse. But she didn’t come in desperate. She came in ready.

Warnings: HARDCORE SMUT

Savannah, Georgia–born in the backroom of her auntie’s boarding house on a sweltering June morning…

Two part series

The Blackline–Late Afternoon, Golden Hour

The front doors creaked open just as the sun hit the curtains and painted everything inside in bronze. Heat clung to the velvet walls, thick and perfumed, wrapping around the new girl the second she stepped inside.

Peaches.

Sandy brown curls pinned up, a fan tucked into her cleavage, curves wrapped in a dusty rose traveling dress that had seen better days. Her lipstick was fresh, but her shoes were worn. She looked like temptation come knockin’—with a past and a punchline in every sway of her hips.

“This the place?” she asked, letting the double doors shut behind her with a slap, “Smell like sin and good money in here.”

A man near the bar chuckled under his breath. One of the housemen tried to straighten his tie. Peaches didn’t notice. She was too busy looking up—admiring the gold ceiling, the stairwell that curved like a question mark, and the big shadow leaning against the upstairs rail.

Stack.

He clocked her instantly.

Didn’t say a word. Just lit his cigarette, watching the new girl from above. His eyes dragged down her body like they’d been waiting for her.

Elias “Stack” Moore was clean and crisp in a dark vest and open collar, suspenders hanging easy at his sides, a gold tooth flashing when he smiled—though right now, he wasn’t smiling. He was watching.

Peaches stood near the front parlor, fan in one hand, lips glossed and pouting just enough to tempt sin. When their eyes met, it was like two seasoned gamblers at a table—each clocking the other’s bluff, charm, and heat in a single sweep.

Stack spoke first, smooth as aged whiskey.

“You the new flavor I heard comin’ through?”

Peaches grinned, wide and brazen.

“Depends who’s tastin’.”

That made him smile. Just a flick of it—but enough to make the room feel hotter. He made his way down the stairs, slow and wicked. Peaches hummed to herself when he stepped closer, slow and deliberate, eyes dragging down her body like he was counting blessings.

“How can I help you, baby?”

His voice dropped a register—low, velvety. That sound that curled around your spine and made even silence feel intimate.

Peaches shifted her weight, letting her hips settle just so.

“Well, I’m Peaches. Fresh from Savannah. I sing, I swing, and I ain’t scared of much.”

“Peaches,” he repeated, tasting the word, “That suit you.”

He reached for her hand—not rushed, not timid—just confident. Raised it to his lips and pressed a slow kiss to her knuckles, all while holding her gaze.

“Elias Moore. Folks call me Stack. I run this place.”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t let go. His lips stayed a beat longer than they should’ve, and Peaches felt it all the way down to her thighs.

“Well, Stack,” she said, her voice syrupy, “Looks like I came to the right door.”

He finally let her hand go, turning slightly to call over his shoulder.

“Minnie! Show our guest to the green room.”

A young woman appeared from the side hallway, moving with the kind of calm that settled a room without trying. She wore a dark wrap dress dusted lightly with flour, a kitchen cloth tucked in her hand, and her wide brown eyes held a hush of quiet knowing—not nervous, just tuned in. The kind of woman who could read your whole mood in a glance and never call you on it—just smile soft and say, “Mmmhmm.”

“Yes sir.”

Peaches gave Stack one last up-and-down sweep—not shy, not subtle—and turned to follow Minnie.

They passed through a narrow hall, the scent of rosewater and dusted velvet trailing behind them. As they neared the back stairwell, a richer smell crept in—butter, cinnamon, maybe brown sugar—the kind of scent that made a girl slow down and breathe.

Peaches cocked her head, lips parted.

“Mmm. Somebody back there tryin’ to seduce me through my nostrils.”

The woman leading her smiled gently, her steps unhurried. She wore a simple black wrap dress with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and her voice, when it came, was soft like honey on warm toast.

“That’d be me. I just pulled a peach cobbler from the oven. Figured the house could use a little sweetness tonight.”

Peaches turned to take her in—plush frame, wide eyes that knew too much, and a half-smile that made you feel like you’d already said too much. She didn’t walk fast, didn’t fidget. She moved like someone who knew exactly how much space to take up—and how to listen when the room spoke.

“You bake and do tours?” Peaches teased, grinning, “What, you gon’ sing me to sleep next?”

Minnie didn’t laugh. Just gave her a look from the side—eyebrows raised, lips pursed—like she’d seen every kind of woman come through these halls and already had Peaches pegged as the kind who talked big but had gold under all that peach.

“I do a little bit of everything,” Minnie said, “Keep the girls fed. Keep the energy right. Keep an eye on things.”

She opened the door to the green room, then looked back with a knowing glint.

“This where we put the new girls first night or two,” she said gently, “Ain’t your permanent room—just a place to breathe, wash up, get your bearings. We’ll place you proper once they see what your light look like.”

Peaches walked in slow, taking in the velvet chaise, basin stand, and the faint scent of lavender tucked into the linens.

“I done slept in worse,” she muttered, half to herself, “Ain’t no complaints.”

Minnie lingered in the doorway, her arms crossed loosely.

“Stack’s the one who sends the clothes up. He always does that for the new girls.”

Peaches looked over her shoulder, lips curled.

“He always kiss hands too?”

Minnie’s smile curved sly.

“That depends. But lingerin’ on the balcony the way he did?” She paused, eyes twinkling with quiet knowing, “That only happens when he’s interested. Real interested.”

Peaches raised an eyebrow, mouth parting like she had a flirt on deck—then thought better of it. Instead, she turned back to the room, tracing her fingers over the dresser’s edge.

“Good to know.”

Peaches walked barefoot now, freshly bathed, robe tied at the waist, curls loose and frizzing with the heat. Her skin was still dewy from the tub. The green room smelled of rosewater and lavender, with a full-length mirror in the corner and a trunk at the foot of the bed.

She sighed, rolling her neck.

“Well damn. If this the temp room, I hope the permanent one come with a butler and a man who know how to eat pussy sideways.”

“You talk big for somebody just got out the bath.”

Peaches turned—startled but not scared—to see a woman leaning against the wall near the vanity, holding a folded bundle of clothes in her arms.

Cordelia.

Tall. Dark-skinned. Eyes lined sharp like a siren, gold hoops catching the low lamplight. She was dressed in black and moved like smoke and secrets.

“Name’s Cordelia,” she said, walking in, “Stack asked me to bring you somethin’ to wear tonight. Said you ain’t got much yet.”

Peaches smiled wide, hand on her chest.

“Well now, tell Mr. Big and Bossy I appreciate him thinkin’ of my modesty.”

Cordelia tossed the bundle onto the bed, “Ain’t nobody in this house modest, sugar.”

“Oh, I’m gettin’ that real quick.”

Cordelia smirked, stepping closer, “You a talker.”

“I’m a singer. And a lover. And a fighter, if the mood strikes.”

Peaches plopped on the bed, crossing her legs and patting the spot beside her.

“C’mon. Sit with me, pretty. Tell me what the hell I done walked into.”

Cordelia raised an eyebrow, but her lips twitched—she liked this one already. She sat.

“This here’s The Blackline. We do what we want, when we want, and we get paid good to do it. The pay depends on what you give. Some girls sing. Some fuck. Some do both. Some pour drinks with extra wrist. You pick your hustle.”

“I can do a lil’ of all that,” Peaches said, grinning, “Long as the coin good and the sheets clean.”

Cordelia laughed, tossing her curls.

“You gon’ do just fine.”

Peaches leaned in, dropping her voice.

“What about the twins?”

“Stack and Smoke?”

“Mmhmm. Who runnin’ this pleasure palace?”

Cordelia’s smirk turned knowing.

“Stack does the talkin’. Smoke does the watchin’. Stack’ll flirt with you, sleep with you, and still forget your name in the morning. Smoke won’t say two words, but if he looks at you too long? You’ll think about it for the rest of your life.”

Peaches cackled, “You makin’ ��em sound like a good time and a bad idea rolled into one.”

“That’s exactly what they are.”

Cordelia rose first, smoothing her skirt.

“I’ll let you get decent. You got an hour before he wants to see what you can do.”

“Who? Stack?”

Cordelia turned, pausing in the doorway.

“Who else? Smoke don’t bother with auditions—he’s busy handlin’ the kind of work that don’t get sung about.”

She paused, eyes flicking over Peaches with a smirk.

“Stack though? He always wants the first taste.”

The green room hummed with stillness, the late-day light casting a warm, slanted glow across the walls. Outside, footsteps creaked faintly along the upstairs hall. Laughter echoed from the bar below. Somewhere, a piano tuned itself in slow chords.

Peaches stood in front of the vanity, robe slipping from her shoulders, naked but not bare. She was wrapped in heat, in promise, in something that felt like electricity thrumming low in her belly. The bundle of clothes Stack had sent sat folded on the bed—peach satin, gold trim, a whisper of a dress. Next to it, a note written in a man’s hand, short and crooked:

Sing like you mean it. —S.

She snorted.

“Cocky bastard.”

But her lips curved up anyway.

She took her time getting ready.

Powdered her chest. Oiled her thighs.

Dabbed perfume behind her ears, under her breasts, the inside of her knees.

She wore it like intention—like scented warning.

The dress slid over her hips like water, clinging to her curves, dipping low in the back and lower in the front. No bra. Just skin and softness and the gentle weight of her breasts moving with her every breath. She pulled her hair up in loose, intentional curls, pinning each piece with care.

Her reflection stared back, full lips glossy, eyes lined with a little more black than usual. Not for disguise. For declaration.

“You gon’ give them somethin’ to remember, baby,” she told herself.

Just as she slipped on her heels, there was a knock at the door.

Three soft taps.

She walked over and opened it to find Minnie holding a small silver tray with a crystal glass and a spoon.

“Figured you could use a little somethin’ before you sing,” Minnie said, voice warm.

“What’s this?”

“Peach whiskey with a drop of honey. Eases the nerves.”

Peaches took the glass, sipped slow, and sighed as it slid down her throat.

“You might be dangerous, you know that?”

Minnie just smiled, stepping back.

“Stage’ll be ready in ten. Cordelia’s lightin’ the candles now.”

“And Stack?”

“Already waitin’.”

Peaches closed the door behind her and turned back to the mirror. Her heart beat harder now—not with fear, but with readiness. She looked like a storm in peach satin. And he was going to feel every inch of her voice when it hit that room.

She grabbed her fan, touched her lipstick one last time, and whispered to her reflection:

“Let’s go make a memory.”

The music room in The Blackline was draped in shadow and silk, with low-hung lamps casting golden halos across polished wood. A hush had settled in. Patrons leaned forward in velvet chairs. Cigarette smoke danced beneath the chandeliers.

The upright piano murmured. A slow, sweet tune crept out—something bluesy, almost shy. The band was light tonight, just piano and bass. The kind of sound that gave a singer room to breathe. To seduce.

The side curtain rustled, and a silhouette appeared.

Peaches.

She stepped out into the light, hips wrapped in peach satin, skin gleaming with powder and oil. The dress clung to every curve, the hem brushing her ankles, the neckline low enough to cause distractions in the front row. Her hair was pinned just high enough to show the slope of her neck, and her eyes scanned the crowd like she was searching for her next sin.

She didn’t speak.

She didn’t smile.

She let the silence grow pregnant with curiosity before sauntering to the mic and lifting the fan in her hand—gold silk with tiny peach blossoms stitched into the folds.

And then, she sang.

🎶I want a little sugar…in my bowl…🎶

🎶I want a little sweetness…down in my soul…🎶

Her voice was molasses and fire, sliding over the notes like a silk slip sliding down thighs. Men shifted in their seats. Women leaned in. Even the servers froze in the doorway.

In the far back corner, half-shrouded in smoke and low light, Stack sat with a half-empty glass and one leg draped over the other.

He was still.

Watching.

One elbow on the armrest, his gold tooth catching a flicker of candlelight every time his mouth twitched. But he didn’t smirk. Not now. Now, he was hungry. His gaze trailed up the length of her thighs to the way her mouth shaped each lyric.

🎶I want a little steam…on my clothes…🎶

🎶Maybe I can fix things up, so they’ll go…🎶

She dipped into the next note like it hurt. Like she was laying something on the altar.

And she was.

Because Peaches wasn’t just singing.

She was laying claim.

Every roll of her hips, every glide of her fingers across her chest—intentional. Every line pointed toward one man who hadn’t moved once, but who had been eating her alive with his eyes since the first note.

She could feel him.

It was like his stare had weight—like it sat between her thighs and tugged on every moan in her throat.

She walked away from the mic, slow, singing over her shoulder as she moved between tables.

🎶You been acting different, baby…sleepin’ cold at night…🎶

🎶I think I need a taste of somethin’ that feels right🎶

Someone whistled.

Someone groaned.

But she only had eyes for one man.

And when she reached the edge of the stage again, she turned her back to the crowd, rolled her hips once—deep and low—and looked directly at Stack Moore.

🎶I need a little sugar in my bowl…🎶

🎶And baby…I need you.🎶

The last note rang out like a secret.

Then the room erupted—applause, hoots, laughter. But Peaches didn’t wait for a bow. She gave a single wink, fanned herself once, and strode off stage with her hips still talking.

Behind her, Stack sat motionless for a beat.

Then he stood.

Drink abandoned.

Suit sharp.

Intent clear.

The applause still rang in the halls long after she left the stage.

Peaches walked slow, fan still half-open in her hand, the satin of her dress whispering at her thighs. The green room was dim now, lit by a single lamp and the golden glow of the hallway spilling in through the cracked door.

She set the fan on the vanity and leaned in close to the mirror. Her lipstick hadn’t moved. Neither had the fire in her eyes.

“Still got it,” she whispered to her reflection.

That’s when she heard it—two knuckles to the door, low and deliberate.

She didn’t turn. Just smiled.

“Come in, sugar. Door’s already open.”

The hinges creaked, slow and smooth.

Stack Moore stepped inside like he’d always belonged there. The door shut behind him with a soft click.

His vest was undone now, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The tension in his shoulders hadn’t loosened a bit. If anything, he looked more dangerous in the quiet—like a storm that hadn’t decided whether to kiss or kill.

“Well?” she asked without facing him, “Did I pass your little test?”

Stack said nothing for a moment.

Then his voice came, velvet-dark.

“You didn’t just pass, baby. You fucked up the curve.”

Peaches turned, slowly. Leaned back on the vanity, one hand resting on her hip.

“That right?”

Stack’s eyes dragged over her—not greedy, not rushed. Reverent. Like he was still hearing her voice echo in his skull.

“Didn’t expect that sound to come outta you,” he said, stepping closer, “Thought you’d be good. But you ain’t good.”

He stopped just a breath away.

“You dangerous.”

Peaches licked her lips slowly.

“And what that make you?”

Stack’s smile came slow, eyes glinting.

“A man who wants a second listen.”

He reached for her hand again—like he had when they first met—but this time, he didn’t kiss it. He just held it for a moment, calloused thumb brushing along her knuckles.

“That last note…” he said quietly, “Felt like it hit me in the ribs.”

“I was aiming a little lower,” she teased, voice soft.

He huffed a breath—almost a laugh—but didn’t let go.

The silence between them swelled, thick with everything unspoken. The tension wasn’t sharp—it was molten, slow-burning, coiled.

“You always sing like that?” he asked, eyes locked to hers.

“Only when someone worth singin’ for in the room.”

She said it like a challenge. And he took it like one.

He leaned in, lips near her ear.

“Don’t make a habit of impressin’ me, Peach. I might start askin’ for encores.”

She tilted her head, barely brushing his mouth with her cheek.

“Might not be a bad thing…long as you remember who’s got the mic.”

He pulled back, studying her like a painting—something too detailed to take in all at once.

Then he let go of her hand.

“You rest up. You got folks buzzin’ downstairs already.”

He turned to leave, then paused in the doorway.

“I’ll be watchin’.”

And he was gone.

Peaches stood there a beat longer, heat still prickling beneath her skin.

Then she whispered to herself, smirking into the mirror:

“Oh, he already is.”

Phase one.

Stack leaned back in the leather, one elbow on the armrest, a cigar smoldering in his other hand. His dark eyes tracked Peaches from head to toe—the soft, plush robe barely covering her thick, honey-toned thighs, the way her hips swayed when she stepped into the warm glow of the room.

“Go on,” he said, voice smooth and slow, “Let’s see what you got, Peach.”

Peaches smiled—slow and lazy—her lips painted red to match the curve of her nails. She stood a few feet in front of him, swaying with the music like her body carried its own rhythm. Her eyes locked on his as she slipped one hand to the sash at her waist and pulled, letting the robe fall open.

Stack’s grin widened.

Underneath? A sheer slip that left nothing to the imagination — her nipples pressed dark and tight against the fabric, the curve of her belly soft and inviting, the weight of her ass and thighs moving with every shift.

Stack exhaled, smoke curling from his lips.

“Mm. You pretty,” he whispered, “You know that, don’t you?”

Peaches tilted her head, “I know what I look like.”

She turned slow, presenting her ass, letting her robe slip completely from her shoulders. Then she bent at the waist, hands sliding down her legs as she moved her hips to the beat. Stack leaned forward slightly, watching the deep arch of her back, the way her thighs trembled like they were daring him to grab them.

“Keep goin’,” he said, voice darker now.

She did. But she didn’t rush. She climbed onto his lap, straddling him, her warmth heavy against his thighs. The slip rode up, exposing the tops of her thighs. Her lips brushed his ear when she whispered.

“Want me to dance for you, daddy?”

Stack chuckled, hands automatically moving to her waist.

“Mmhmm. Show me you know how to move.”

She rolled her hips over him slow, grinding on his lap with deliberate pressure, her breath warm on his neck. Stack groaned low in his throat—she had weight, she had power, and she wasn’t shy about using it.

“Damn,” he muttered, “You know how to work that big ass, don’t you?”

She leaned back, grabbed the straps of her slip, and peeled it down, letting her breasts fall free. Soft. Heavy. Beautiful. She grabbed them, pinched her nipples, rolled them slow while she stared into his eyes. Stack’s grip on her hips tightened.

“You wanna taste ‘em, huh?” she teased, grinding harder.

Stack smirked, “Don’t tease me, Peach. I’ll flip you over this chair right now.”

Peaches laughed, low and throaty, “Oh, will you?”

She bent forward, kissing him—slow at first, then filthy, tongue tangling with his, her body pressing close. Stack groaned into the kiss, his hands sliding down to her ass, fingers gripping the flesh like it was his.

That’s when Peaches flipped it.

She pulled away, grabbed his wrists, and pinned his hands to the arms of the chair.

Stack blinked.

“…What you doin’, girl?”

Peaches smirked.

“You always in charge, huh? Always got these girls droppin’ to their knees, lettin’ you take every inch of control.” She rolled her hips again, her pussy dragging over his growing bulge through his slacks, “Not tonight. Tonight you sit back and let me make you beg.”

Stack’s breath hitched.

“You talkin’ big,” he muttered.

Peaches leaned in, her lips at his ear, voice dropping to a low growl.

“I move big. Watch.”

And before he could say a word, she slid down between his legs—not because he told her to, but because she wanted to. She looked up at him through heavy lashes as she unzipped his slacks, pulling his thick dick free, letting the cool air hit it.

Stack grunted, “Shit—”

Peaches smiled.

Then she licked him.

Slow. Long. Flat-tongued.

From base to tip, her saliva coating every inch as her hand stroked in rhythm. Stack’s head fell back, a sound escaping him he didn’t mean to let out.

“You like that, daddy?” she teased, “Like my mouth on you?”

Stack looked down at her, eyes dark, lips parted.

“Yeah…I like it.”

“You gon’ love it.”

She took him deep, lips sealing around him, her throat working in smooth, controlled pulses. She rolled her neck, bobbing slow and slick, every motion deliberate. Stack groaned—loud—his hips jerking once.

“Fuck, Peach—shit—”

She pulled off with a wet pop, spit and precum glistening on her chin. Her hand kept stroking him as she leaned in close, whispering:

“You ain’t runnin’ shit right now. You just sittin’ there lettin’ me ruin you.”

Stack stared at her, chest heaving.

“…Goddamn.”

And she went back in—slurping, gulping, humming, sucking him like she was writing her name on his soul.

Stack, for once, didn’t know what to do with his hands. He let her work, let her dominate him with her mouth, and for the first time in years, he felt out of control.

Peaches popped off his dick again with a loud, wet slurp and stared up at him, lips swollen and glistening, spit dripping off her chin.

“Uh-uh, baby,” she said, voice sweet and dangerous, “Don’t you reach for me.”

Stack’s chest heaved. “I—fuck—I can’t help it—”

“You can,” she said, standing just enough to lean into him, her breath on his lips, “And you will. Now bring them hands up.”

Stack blinked, confused, stunned, dick still jumping between them.

Peaches smirked and whispered, “Grab the back of that chair.”

Stack slowly raised his arms, hooking both hands over the top of the leather. His muscles flexed. His breath came hard.

“Now don’t let go,” she purred, trailing her fingers down his chest, “You move them hands before I say, you don’t get to cum.”

He swallowed, “Yes, ma’am.”

She grinned.

“Good boy.”

And then she dropped again.

Mouth wide. Tongue flat. Full submission of throat.

She devoured him—slow stroke, then fast. Tongue twisted, throat fluttered, lips sealed tight around the base as her nose pressed into his pelvis. Her hands gripped his thighs, squeezing just enough to anchor him, her nails biting into his skin.

And all the while?

She was looking up.

Right into his soul.

Stack stared down at her, jaw clenched, hands gripping the leather behind his head like his life depended on it. His thighs trembled. His lips parted. He looked completely wrecked.

“Shit…Peaches…what the fuck…” he moaned, almost whispering it like a prayer.

She pulled back slow, lips dragging up his shaft, then swirled her tongue around the tip, licking up his precum with a hum.

“Don’t you dare look away,” she whispered, “I want you to watch me.”

Then she sucked the head again—hard, sloppy, loud.

Slurp. Gulp. Moan.

Her tits bounced with every bob, spit flying, dribbling down to his balls, her rhythm perfect. Controlled. She used her neck like a pro, tightening her throat, then releasing, then doing it again—just enough pressure to make him see stars.

“Peach—I’m close—I can’t—baby please—”

“You better hold it,” she said, not slowing once, “You better let me take you over the edge. Hands still on that chair, baby.”

He whimpered.

Actually whimpered.

His entire body shook beneath her, thighs clenching, toes curling, abs flexing.

Peaches sped up. Faster now. Her hands sliding up to stroke the base while her mouth worked the top—wet, brutal, filthy. She sucked like she meant to break him.

Stack was gasping.

“I’m gonna cum—I’m gonna—fuck—fuck—”

She nodded with him still in her mouth, humming deep.

That vibration?

Finished him.

His body snapped, his hips jerking once, twice—then he exploded into her mouth, hard, fast, shooting deep. He cried out, head falling back, hands still gripping the chair as his dick throbbed between her lips.

Peaches didn’t pull back.

She sucked him through it. All of it.

Drinking every drop. Swallowing with slow, delicious moans. Letting her tongue glide across the tip before she finally, finally pulled off.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

And smiled.

“You can let go now, daddy.”

Stack slumped in the chair like a man who’d seen the gates of heaven and hell.

“…You tryna kill me?”

Peaches straddled his lap again, licking her lips.

“Nah, baby,” she whispered against his mouth, “I’m tryna own you.”

Stack blinked up at her, still panting, still holding onto the back of the chair like his soul hadn’t fully come back down yet. His chest rose and fell in slow, shaky waves. His mouth opened—but nothing came out.

Peaches licked her lips slow, one last time.

Then smiled.

“Whew,” she said softly, half-laughing, mock fanning herself, “You good, daddy?”

Stack just stared.

Like a man watching the rapture walk out in red nails and thigh meat.

His voice came out hoarse.

“…Where the fuck you learn to do that?”

Peaches looked over her shoulder as she tied her robe loose and slow, the silk hugging her hips again. Her smile turned sly, playful.

“Mmm…” she teased, “a lady never tells.”

She leaned down just enough to press a kiss to the top of his head—soft, sweet—and whispered:

“But I’m glad you liked it.”

And with that, she straightened up, flipped her braid over her shoulder, and made her way to the door like she hadn’t just taken the breath from his body and the bones from his legs.

Stack tried to gather himself—but failed.

She was halfway out the room when the door cracked open.

Cordelia.

Stunning. Sharp. Dark red lips and matching heels. She stepped just into view, one eyebrow arched like she already knew everything.

Peaches winked as she slipped past her.

“All yours, Cordy.”

Cordelia looked her up and down, caught the smirk, then turned her gaze inside.

Stack was still there—ruined, legs wide, chest heaving, sweat clinging to him, pants still open, hair messy, mouth parted.

Cordelia tilted her head, then let out a short, musical laugh.

“Well damn,” she said, hand on her hip, “Didn’t think I’d see you speechless.”

Stack wiped a hand down his face, still dazed.

Cordelia smirked and leaned against the doorframe.

“She flipped you, huh?” she teased, “Got in that chair and reminded you who got the power between them thighs.”

Stack shook his head slowly.

“…Don’t even know what to say.”

Cordelia laughed louder this time, reaching to close the door behind her.

“Mmhmm. That’s what I thought.”

And with a wink, she let the door click shut—leaving Stack alone, still tasting Peaches in the air, still feeling her in every twitch of his body, and wondering what the hell just happened to him.

Cordelia crossed her arms, leaned against the wall, and looked Peaches up and down.

Then she let out a deep, satisfied laugh.

“Baaaaby,” she said, dragging the word like silk, “You ain’t even been here a week and you already got Stack lookin’ like somebody took the bones out his body.”

Peaches cackled, adjusting the top of her robe, “He was talkin’ all big, too. ‘Gon flip you over this chair’… ‘Gon stretch you out’…”

Cordelia raised a brow, “And you flipped him.”

“Sure did.” Peaches popped her lips, “Had him holdin’ onto that chair like it was floatin’ in deep water.”

Cordelia hollered, leaning against the wall and bending slightly, one hand on her knee, “Ooooh you wrong for that!”

Peaches was giggling now, playful and proud.

Cordelia straightened up, eyes still gleaming.

“Nah but for real? I love your energy,” she said, smile settling into something warm, “You ain’t scared of nobody. Not even Stack. And that man be out here actin’ like God got him on retainer.”

Peaches laughed but looked at her—really looked.

“And you? You been here a minute,” she said, “The way you move…all them girls look up to you.”

Cordelia shrugged, but her grin stayed cocky. “Somebody gotta teach these babies how to handle power and heels at the same time.”

Peaches nodded, “Well, I think me and you? We gon’ make a hell of a team.”

Cordelia pushed off the wall, stepped closer, voice low and sister-sweet.

“We already do, Peach.”

She tapped Peaches’ hip and added with a wink, “Thick girls gotta stick together in this place. These niggas ain’t ready for all this softness in one room.”

Peaches smirked, hand on her hip, “They gon’ learn today.”

Cordelia reached for her hand, gave it a tight squeeze.

“You need anything—anything—you come find me. I mean that.”

Peaches squeezed back, “Same goes for you.”

Cordelia smiled, warm and real.

Then she looked toward Stack’s door, lowered her voice, and said with a grin:

“You know he ain’t gon’ stop thinkin’ about you now, right?”

Peaches rolled her eyes playfully, “That man already think he in love.”

Cordelia laughed, “Mmhmm. And that’s your problem now.”

Peaches gave her a playful shove, “Girl, shut up.”

And the two walked down the hall together—hips swaying, laughter echoing, thick thighs and thick power moving through The Blackline like they owned it.

Because honestly?

They did.

He realizes too late…

He’s the one getting ridden all the way down into the mattress.

And the kicker? The only other woman who’s ever made it into this room before was Cordelia—and Stack’s about to realize why Peaches deserves that same crown…

Phase Two

Stack was already shirtless when she entered, tattoos stretched across his chest, slacks hanging low. He leaned against the edge of the bed, gold tooth glinting as he smiled slow and wide.

“You made it to Phase Two,” he said, eyes dragging over her body like syrup, “Only one other girl been in this room.”

Peaches raised a brow, “Let me guess. Cordelia.”

“Mmhmm.” He nodded, “She earned it.”

Peaches stepped closer, hips swaying, her full figure moving like a threat dressed in perfume.

“Good. I plan to do the same.”

Stack’s grin deepened. He sat down on the edge of the bed, legs spread, dick already hard and waiting, twitching beneath the loose slacks.

“Phase Two,” he said, voice thick, “is about stamina. Control. You get on this dick and show me you can ride. Not bounce like you cute. Ride it. Grip it. Take it all. Show me you can own it without losing rhythm.”

Peaches nodded slow, licking her lips.

“Yes, Daddy.”

That made him grunt.

“Good girl,” he muttered, “Now come take it.”

She moved like honey poured over heat—slow, decadent, unstoppable. She straddled him, thick thighs spreading wide, her weight grounding her hips against his lap. She reached between them, pulled his dick free, and rubbed it along her slick slit, teasing, soaking it.

Stack groaned.

Then she sank down.

Slow. Deep. Every inch.

Stack’s head fell back, “Fuck.”

Peaches let out a low moan, then grinned, “You feel that, Daddy?”

“I feel it.”

“You gon’ feel all of it.”

She started to ride.

Slow at first—grindin’, rockin’, just massaging his dick with her pussy like she was workin’ dough in a bowl. Stack gripped her hips, tried to set the pace, but Peaches slapped his hands away.

“Uh-uh. You said ride, didn’t you?”

Stack blinked, stunned, “…I did.”

“Then sit back,” she whispered, rolling her hips again, deeper, dragging that fat pussy across every inch of him, her weight making it hit different.

He grunted. “Shit—”

She began to move faster, but it wasn’t just speed—it was precision. Her pussy gripped him like velvet, her thighs keeping control, her rhythm unbroken. She alternated grinds with bounces, her ass slapping down against his thighs, the sound wet, nasty, perfect.

Stack’s hands gripped the sheets.

“Goddamn, Peach—”

“Shhh,” she whispered, still movin’, “Let Mama work.”

He stared up at her, mouth open, breathing hard, his usual filth caught in his throat because he couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, couldn’t even handle what she was doing to him.

Peaches grabbed her tits, rode deeper, hips circling, that BBW body raining pressure down on him like a full-body blessing.

“You said keep up,” she moaned, hair sticking to her neck, “But you the one tryna tap out.”

Stack could only groan, his thighs twitching beneath her.

She leaned forward, lips brushing his ear.

“Look at you,” she whispered, “Wanna be in charge so bad. But you ain’t in control of nothin’ right now.”

Then she sat up again and bounced harder.

Ass clapping. Tits swinging. Wetness dripping.

Stack choked out her name.

“Peach—fuck—baby—slow down—”

But she didn’t.

She rode him like she was claiming land. Like that dick had a deed on it and she was signing her name with every bounce, every grind, every filthy cry.

And when she finally felt him twitch, close, about to break?

She stopped.

Ground her hips slow, pussy fluttering around his dick and said with a smirk:

“You wanna cum, Daddy?”

He nodded, desperate.

“Then beg.”

Stack let out a broken, humbled laugh.

“Shit…Peaches…”

“Beg me.”

“Please,” he groaned, “Please let me cum. Let me cum in this pussy, baby. You got it. You win.”

She moaned low, leaned in close, kissed his mouth with tongue and sweat.

Then rode him again.

“Beg nicely,” Peaches toyed with him.

“Can I cum in this fat, fuckin’ pussy, please?”

“…no.”

Peaches lifted off his dick, wrapped her lips around him and slid down to the base. Stack came hard—deep, loud, wrecked, dick buried in the back of her throat while his body jerked and seized. She kept him from releasing beneath all that thick, perfect weight.

Peaches slowly released his dick from her mouth while he twitched.

And whispered in his ear:

“Phase Two? Complete.”

The Blackline’s private upstairs bath. The room is dim with soft amber lamplight, a clawfoot tub filled with steaming water, rose petals scattered lazily across the surface. A wooden tray rests on the rim with oils, soap, a soft sponge, and a basin of warm rinse water. Stack is already in the tub—shoulders broad and relaxed, head tipped back, eyes closed, steam curling around him like smoke…

The water lapped quietly against the porcelain, soft splashes echoing in the stillness.

Stack had one arm slung over the edge, the other resting on his chest, fingers occasionally flexing like he was trying to shake off a thought.

“Where the hell that girl go?” he muttered, brows twitching beneath closed lids, “Ain’t got time to be sittin’ here wet and waitin’…”

The door creaked open.

Soft.

Silent.

Peaches stepped in on bare feet, wrapped in her own silk robe, the hem just brushing her thick thighs. Her hair was tied up high, a few loose curls slicked to her temple. She saw him laid out—chest rising slow, lips parted, the slope of his neck glistening with sweat and steam—and smiled to herself.

She didn’t say a word.

She moved to the basket the other girl had been preparing, rearranged the soap and oils the way she liked it, plucked a warm towel from the rack and placed it close.

Then, she crept closer.

Stack groaned.

“Damn it, girl, I said bring the scrub, not leave me sittin’ in here like—”

His eyes blinked open fast.

And locked onto hers.

Peaches stood at the side of the tub, one hand on her hip, the other trailing down to grab the bar of sweet bay rum soap. Her smirk was slow, wicked, proud.

“Well,” she said, low and amused, “You ain’t dead, so I guess I ain’t too late.”

Stack blinked. Sat up slightly.

“What you doin’ in here?” he asked, voice hoarse.

She shrugged, dropping the robe from her shoulders in one smooth pull.

The silk slid down and pooled at her feet, revealing her thick, naked body beneath—soft belly, warm brown thighs, heavy breasts rising with breath. The heat from the bath fogged the mirror behind her.

Peaches dipped the sponge in water, squeezing it once.

“I saw that lil girl tryna fumble her way through bathin’ you,” she said, “Figured I’d do it right.”

Stack watched her like a man trying to remember how to breathe.

She knelt beside the tub and leaned in.

“I ain’t one of these half-scared girls just here to make you feel important,” she whispered, dragging the sponge over his shoulder, “I want you to feel…good.”

He groaned softly as the sponge slid across his chest, trailing steam-slick paths down his torso.

“You somethin’ else,” he muttered.

“I know.”

She dipped the sponge again, slower this time. The water rippled. Her hand was steady.

She began to work—sponge in one hand, warm water in the other—slowly washing down his chest, tracing the curve of his ribs, the deep cut of his stomach. She didn’t flinch at the scars. She admired them. Touched them like they were treasure maps.

Stack watched her now—eyes hooded, lips slightly parted, breathing shifting from slow to something deeper.

When she reached the waterline, her hand stopped.

“I can keep goin’,” she said, “or you can ask me to.”

Stack’s tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek. A beat passed.

“Keep goin’,” he murmured.

Peaches dipped both hands beneath the surface, sponge forgotten now, and slid her palms down the insides of his thighs. She washed every inch of him— no shame, no hesitance, just smooth, controlled touch that had Stack’s breath catching in his throat.

“You let that other girl touch you like this?” she asked, low and amused.

He scoffed, “She ain’t never even made it this far.”

“Didn’t think so.”

She poured water over his chest again, slow and deliberate, and when she leaned in to reach around him, her bare breasts brushed his shoulder. On purpose.

“Peaches,” he rasped.

She tilted her head, “Mmhmm?”

“You tryna get me hard in this tub?”

“I ain’t tryin’,” she said, fingers trailing under the water, “You already there.”

His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist.

She met his eyes—bold, firelight flickering in both sets.

He pulled her closer, chest rising fast now.

“You keep fuckin’ with me like this, I’ma have you on that tile floor in ten seconds.”

Peaches smiled.

“I ain’t scared of water,” she whispered.

Stack’s hand was still wrapped around her wrist, the tension taut between them—but Peaches didn’t flinch. She held his gaze like she already knew what he was thinking…and just wanted to hear him say it.

Then, under the surface of the water, her fingers moved again. Slow. Gentle. Purposeful.

He twitched against her palm.

“See how easy you give it up?” she whispered, voice warm as the steam swirling around them, “Ain’t even tryin’ hard.”

Her hand moved again, stroking him beneath the surface. She leaned closer, lips near his ear, whispering filth laced with syrup.

“Feels heavy in my hand,” she breathed, “Hot. So thick. Bet it’d feel even better on my tongue…”

Stack’s jaw locked. His eyes rolled halfway shut before he forced them open again, fixing them on her face.

“What else?” she whispered, still stroking, “Besides this. Besides wet pussy and deep throats—what else gets you?”

He hesitated. That was rare. Stack always knew what he liked. Always took what he wanted. But Peaches? She was different. She didn’t take it—she earned it from him, peeled it right off his skin with a smile.

“C’mon,” she coaxed, licking her lips, “You already halfway gone. Might as well give me the rest.”

Stack’s eyes slid down her body. The way her bare breasts glistened from the heat. The way her thighs parted slightly even though she was kneeling. The way her lips curled like they already knew his secrets.

“…feet,” he said finally, voice low and reluctant.

Peaches stilled her hand just long enough to let the confession hang in the air, then gripped him tighter.

“Feet?” she echoed, a little smirk in her voice.

He nodded slowly, “Pretty ones. Painted up nice. Soft. I like the way they move when a woman’s ridin’. I watch ‘em curl.”

Peaches bit her bottom lip, “You like when they press against you? Rub all up your chest?”

Stack groaned.

She leaned even closer, lips brushing his earlobe now. “You like when a woman puts her pretty feet on your face and lets you smell how warm she is?”

His head tipped back.

“I knew it,” she whispered, “You like it nasty. Real nasty.”

Then she pulled back just enough to meet his eyes again—and he looked wrecked.

But she wasn’t done.

“Tell me somethin’ else,” she said softly, still stroking under the water. “Somethin’ you don’t tell nobody.”

Stack was breathing heavy now. Water beading on his chest. Lips parted. She watched him try to decide if he should keep it to himself.

And then he said it—quiet, raw, vulnerable:

“…sometimes, when I’m alone,” he murmured, “I—taste it.”

Peaches blinked slow.

“You taste what, baby?”

“…mine.”

His eyes lifted, met hers.

Peaches let out a low moan—real, unfiltered. Her lips parted, pupils dilated. She didn’t tease him for it. Didn’t laugh. She just leaned in close, brushing her lips over his cheek, then his ear, and whispered:

“That’s the hottest shit I ever heard.”

The confession still hung in the air like steam—thick, hot, daring.

Stack’s chest rose in steady rhythm, his arms now resting along the edge of the tub. He didn’t say anything after that last truth—just watched her. Eyes hooded. Lips parted. Vulnerable in a way he rarely let anyone see.

Peaches soaked it in.

And then she moved.

Quiet, deliberate.

She reached for the rinsing basin, still warm, and slid it closer to the edge of the tub. Then, gently, she lifted one of Stack’s heavy legs out of the bathwater, guiding his foot into her lap like it belonged there.

“Let me touch what carries you,” she spoke softly, almost to herself.

Stack raised an eyebrow, watching her—part suspicion, part awe.

She picked up a soft cloth, dipped it in the warm basin, and began to wash.

It wasn’t rushed. She cradled his foot in both hands, turning it gently, fingers gliding across the arch, the heel, the ball. The cloth moved in slow circles, massaging, not just cleaning. Her thumbs pressed into the sole with care, like she was reading something sacred through his skin.

Stack watched, chest tight.

She glanced up then—those deep, honeyed eyes full of heat and pride.

“These feet done stomped through war, through Chicago back alleys, through Delta dirt. All that blood on your name…and you still walk like a king. Deserve to be tended to like one.”

Stack swallowed.

Peaches smirked, “But you mine right now.”

She slid her fingers between his toes, and he groaned —not from discomfort, but from the pure vulnerability of the act.

“Red suit you,” she whispered, noticing the faint red polish still on her own toes, “Next time I’ll paint mine while I sit in your lap. Make you watch.”

She lifted his foot and kissed the arch.

Stack’s eyes closed briefly.

She moved to the other foot, repeating the slow ceremony—cloth gliding, fingers strong but gentle. She took her time, circling her thumbs into the pads beneath his toes, watching every twitch, every shift of his jaw.

He finally spoke again.

“…you know what you doin’?”

Peaches smiled faintly, “Always.”

She dried him with a warm towel, slow and sensual, then kissed both feet again before setting them back into the tub. When she stood, her body dripped with steam, her hair slightly damp, her hands scented of oil and him.

Stack reached for her wrist.

“I ain’t done with you,” he rasped.

“You ain’t supposed to be,” she said, leaning down to kiss his mouth—slow, deep, claiming.

Peaches dried him slow. Let him sit there in the steam like royalty while she gathered the towel tight around his shoulders, then reached for the whiskey she brought—because Stack always liked a sip after heat.

But he didn’t reach for the glass.

He was just watching her. Quiet.

Not brooding. Just…quiet.

Peaches cocked her head. “You alright?”

He nodded once.

But something in his face was different—slack with thought, like whatever just passed between them had tugged at something he wasn’t used to showing.

She crossed her arms under her chest, still damp, robe tied back around her body now, “You lookin’ at me like I done cast a spell.”

Stack huffed a laugh under his breath, leaning forward, arms on his knees.

Then, he said it.

“…you get to me.”

Peaches blinked, surprised he’d said it out loud.

“I do?”

“Yeah,” he said, voice quiet. Rough, “You do.”

His eyes drifted down to his feet, now clean and resting on the checkered floor tile, before flicking back to hers.

“You talk slick like the rest, but you don’t play the same. You don’t just want to please me. You want to own how I feel it.”

Peaches didn’t deny it.

“I ain’t just a body,” she said, “I’m a woman. I know what power feel like, and I know how to use it soft.”

Stack tilted his head, lips parting, “That’s what’s messin’ me up.”

She moved closer then—bare feet stepping soft on the tile—until she was between his knees. She bent slightly, cupped the side of his jaw, let her thumb stroke just beneath his lower lip.

“You ever been touched like this before?” she asked.

“…not like this.”

He meant more than the bath.

He meant the way she saw him.

“Good,” she whispered, “Then I get to be the first.”

They both stilled.

Steam curling at their feet. The whiskey still untouched. The bath now cooled behind them.

And then Stack said, almost to himself:

“You dangerous.”

Peaches grinned slow, kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Only if you fight it, sugar.”

It’s a slow afternoon at The Blackline. The main floor is quiet—curtains drawn to soften the light. Peaches and Cordelia are in the lounge, sipping sweet tea over crushed ice. Cordelia has one leg tucked beneath her, silk robe loose at the collar. Peaches is sprawled sideways on the fainting couch, toes painted red, still reeling from the bath earlier with Stack.

Cordelia swirled the ice in her glass with a lazy flick of her wrist.

“You took your sweet time up there with King Stack. Girl had a towel in her hand for forty-five minutes before she realized you wasn’t comin’ back down.”

Peaches smirked, biting her straw, “He was dirty. I did a thorough job.”

Cordelia gave her a look, “Uh huh. I bet you got between every toe.”

Peaches crossed her ankles, grinning, “Damn right I did.”

Cordelia leaned back with a knowing laugh, eyes narrowing just a little, “So what is it? You really got it bad for him, huh?”

Peaches tilted her head, lips pursed like she was about to play coy—then gave up the act with a shrug.

“…I do,” she said, matter-of-fact, “I got it bad bad.”

Cordelia perked up, “Oop—lemme get comfortable then. Go on, say it with your chest.”

Peaches laughed, tossed her head back, and let the tea glass clink gently on the table beside her.

“You ever just look at that man,” she said, slow and dreamy, “and wanna climb him like a sugar maple?”

Cordelia choked. “Girl—!”

“I’m serious,” Peaches said, waving a hand, “He walk in all slow, got them dimples sittin’ pretty in that smug-ass face…Them lips always slick talkin’ some sinful shit, and all I’m thinkin’ is what else they could be doin’.”

Cordelia fanned herself, “You filthy.”

“And he got that swagger, Delia,” Peaches went on, eyes gone glossy with memory, “You seen the way he fixes his cufflinks? Like he know you watchin’—but he ain’t gon’ rush it. He likes bein’ admired.”

“Mmhmm,” Cordelia hummed, “He always smell good, too. Like bay rum and heat.”

“Yesss,” Peaches moaned, “And his voice—low and ragged like he just woke up from a bad dream and need me to rock him back to sleep…”

Cordelia snorted,,“You need help.”

“I need that man,” Peaches corrected, licking her lips, “I wanna ride that dimpled face and bless it. I wanna leave lip gloss on that thick neck and make him beg for it back.”

Cordelia threw a pillow at her.

Peaches caught it and hugged it with a wicked grin. “I’m just sayin’,” she whispered, “he keep makin’ these lil noises when I touch him? I’m liable to break somethin’ on purpose just so he gotta call me for help.”

They both fell into laughter then, doubled over with no shame, no filter. Just two women enjoying the way they spoke desire out loud.

Cordelia wiped her eye, “Lord, when Stack finds out just how deep you in, he ain’t never gon’ be right again.”

Peaches grinned slow, “That’s the plan.”

The laughter settled into a soft buzz, both women stretched out in the velvet heat of the lounge, sipping slow and grinning wide.

Peaches kicked her feet a little, eyes still dreamy. “I swear, that man could ruin me and I’d write him a thank you letter in lipstick.”

Cordelia gave her a sideways look, smile tugging the corner of her mouth. “You sound like me three summers ago.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mmhmm.”

Peaches sat up a little straighter, eyes glinting, “Go on then. Spill it. You and Stack—y’all ever…?”

Cordelia snorted, sipped her tea like it was liquor, “We ain’t never been exclusive, if that’s what you mean. But yeah, we done danced a few dances.”

Peaches’ grin widened, “Bet y’all was nasty.”

Cordelia’s eyes narrowed playfully, “Always. But let me tell you somethin’—Stack think he like to share. All that big talk about threesomes and pretty girls tangled up in his sheets…but he don’t like when the girls forget about him.”

Peaches cackled, “I knew it!”

Cordelia leaned in, voice lowering like a delicious secret, “One night, me and this creole gal from Shreveport got to kissin’—real slow, real deep—while Stack was sittin’ back watchin’. Thought he was chill. Thought he was enjoyin’ it.”

“He wasn’t?”

“Oh, he was…‘til we kept goin’ without him.” Cordelia smirked, “That man got off the bed, grabbed my chin, and told me ‘Don’t make me remind you who’s runnin’ this show.’”

Peaches fanned herself, “Lord have mercy…”

Cordelia laughed. “He don’t mind a show. But he don’t like bein’ left out the spotlight.”

They both giggled again, soft and knowing, bonded by secrets only girls like them ever shared.

Then Cordelia’s voice dropped a note, smoky and sweet.

“But you know what he do love? When I bend over slow at the end of the bed and shake this ass while he behind me. Naked. No music. Just the sound of this ass, wet pussy, and him breathin’ hard and tellin’ me ‘Do it again.’”

Peaches let out a slow, low hum, “Mmm. He like to watch.”

“He do,” Cordelia said, “He’s visual. Always has been. You get to movin’ just right, lookin’ back over your shoulder while he’s holdin’ himself? Whew. You’ll have that man crawlin’.”

Peaches let her tongue glide across her bottom lip, “Then I got him already.”

Cordelia winked, “I know you do.”

The low thump of a door closing signaled someone entering from the side.

Smoke strolled through the lounge in that slow, deliberate way of his—sleeves rolled up, holster peeking under his open vest, cigar between two fingers like it had been there since dawn. He didn’t look their way, didn’t nod, didn’t speak—just moved like a shadow on a mission.

Peaches and Cordelia both went quiet as he passed.

Watched every step.

Waited ‘til the office door clicked shut.

Then—

Peaches spoke, “Mmm. Somebody woke up grumpy.”

Cordelia chuckled, “That man always look like he fightin’ somethin’ internal.”

Peaches, tilting her head, eyes mischievous.

“He ever dipped his toe in the Blackline pool? You know…had a lil’ swim?”

Cordelia responded, flat, “Nope. Smoke don’t fuck girls from the house.”

Peaches’ brows shot up, “Not even a taste?”

Cordelia shook her head, “Don’t look twice, neither. Cordial, quiet, gone.”

Peaches licked her bottom lip slowly, “Mmm. Shame. I’d take both them Moore boys, stack ‘em like pancakes and slide some syrup between.”

Cordelia burst out laughing, nearly dropped her tea.

Peaches, grinning proud, “Look like Smoke need some nookie, though. Somethin’ warm to knock that chill off his bones. He too fine to be walkin’ around lookin’ like the ghost of Christmas ain’t-never-came.”

Cordelia fanned herself, still laughing, “You stupid.”

Peaches shrugged, “Just honest.”

They clinked their glasses.

The air in Stack’s office was thick with tension.

Cigarette smoke curled toward the ceiling in lazy spirals as Smoke leaned back in the leather armchair across from the desk, voice low and gravelled.

“I don’t trust Vaughn’s numbers. Too clean.”

Stack sat behind the desk, sleeves rolled, jaw ticking. He’d been pacing before settling in.

“We ain’t lettin’ no preacher pimp out the numbers game under our nose. You wanna hit back, hit back loud.”

Smoke nodded, “Loud and clean.”

Stack opened his mouth to reply—then froze.

His eyes caught movement through the open door that led into the hall. At first it was just a swish of fabric. Ivory silk. The faintest whiff of vanilla and summer peaches.

Then he saw her.

Peaches.

Barefoot. Wearing the thinnest slip known to man—barely dusting the curve of her thighs. No bloomers. No drawers. No shame.

She didn’t say a word.

Just caught his gaze.

Held it.

Then, like a slow sin on a Sunday morning, she turned around right there in the open hall, bent over deep, hands gripping her ankles, and shook her ass in the most obscene, hypnotic rhythm he’d ever seen.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

Stack’s mouth dropped open. Speechless.

“Stack?” Smoke asked, not looking up, “You hear me?”

Stack blinked, didn’t answer.

Peaches straightened, gave him one last glance over her shoulder with a smirk so filthy it could’ve started a fire, then disappeared around the corner like nothing ever happened.

Smoke stood up, “The hell got into you?”

Stack snapped out of it just as Smoke crossed to his side and looked out the door.

Nobody there.

Just empty hall.

Silence.

Smoke narrowed his eyes, “You seein’ ghosts now?”

Stack cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck, “Somethin’ like that.”

Smoke gave him a look, “Uh huh.”

But Stack didn’t elaborate.

He sat back down slow, eyes still locked on the spot where Peaches had been. His palms rested on the desk like he needed grounding.

The deal could wait.

He was officially ruined.

Stack hadn’t touched her in days.

Not since that stunt outside his office—the one where she bent over slow and gave him a view no man should witness without consequences. And she knew what she was doing. Had the nerve to walk away after like she ain’t just set a fire in his blood.

Since then, he’d watched her quietly.

Watched how she’d taken to the house like she’d been born in it—pullin’ in high rollers, dressing to kill, makin’ grown men spend their whole check just to get near her perfume. She was glitter and heat and danger in silk, and she was his.

But she’d been showin’ out.

And he needed to remind her.

That morning, Stack lit a match, pressed it to the tip of his cigarette, and paced his room barefoot—bare chest rising slow with every breath, slacks slung low, tension pulling tight across his shoulders.

He’d waited long enough.

Time to finish what he started.

Time to show her who she belonged to.

He opened the door, called for one of the girls with a look sharp enough to cut.

“Tell her I want her upstairs.”

The morning stretched across Little Rock in streaks of syrupy gold, soft and unbothered. The Blackline was hushed—the stage unlit, the halls still, the piano keys resting untouched from the night before. The only sounds were the faint clink of teacups downstairs and the soft brushing of someone’s broom in the far back hallway.

Peaches lay half-awake in her bed, face turned toward the lace-curtained window, one leg outside the covers, toes flexing now and then in the quiet. Her room still smelled like honey-dipped perfume and night sweat. Her body still felt half drunk on sleep…and something else she hadn’t named.

Then came the knock.

Two soft taps.

Peaches didn’t move, not until the door cracked slightly and a familiar girl’s voice whispered, “He want you upstairs.”

No name.

Didn’t need one.

Peaches blinked slowly, “When?”

The girl smiled faintly, “Now.”

She didn’t rush. Just slid out the bed, let the cotton robe fall over her shoulders, and tied it at the waist. Her hair was still in its wrap, but she didn’t touch it. He wasn’t summoning no showgirl. He wanted her.

The walk up the back stairs was quiet—familiar creaks, familiar hush. The sun streamed in through the upper windows like it had business there, casting golden lines along the polished wood.

She didn’t knock.

Just opened the door and stepped inside.

Stack was already pacing.

Shirtless.

Slacks slung low over his hips, the line of his abdomen visible beneath the soft, golden morning light. His bare feet made no sound on the worn rug, and his jaw was clenched like he’d been chewing on something bitter and hot all night.

He paused when she entered but didn’t turn right away. Just let his fingers brush through his hair once, like they itched to pull something. Maybe her.

“Door shut?” he asked, voice low.

Peaches nudged it closed without a word.

When he turned, his eyes were already on her. Tired. Wild. Intense in that quiet, burning way he got when something had been eating at him and he was done trying to ignore it.

She leaned back against the closed door, arms folded loose across her middle. “You rang?”

Stack didn’t answer right away.

He just stared at her, eyes dragging over her like his fingers were already there.

Then, softly:

“You ain’t had no business walkin’ past my office yesterday like that.”

Peaches raised one brow, “I was stretchin’.”

“You was tauntin’,” he shot back, voice rougher now. “Had me sittin’ there like a damn fool while you out there clappin’ that ass like church bells.”

Peaches smiled slow, “And what you do when church bells ring, Daddy?”

Stack stepped forward once, like the leash on his self-control had snapped halfway through the night.

“I answer,” he growled.

Silence stretched between them, thick as molasses, charged with something electric.

Stack’s chest rose with a deep breath, “Get over here.”

Peaches tilted her head. “What if I don’t?”

He didn’t smirk. Didn’t tease. Just said, low and sure, “Then I’ll come take you.”

Her breath hitched—just a little (🤏🏿).

She didn’t move right away.

But her robe slipped a little lower on one shoulder.

And her toes curled softly into the floor.

Stack didn’t move at first.

He just stood there—bare chest rising slow, jaw tight, eyes locked on her like he was starving and furious about it.

Peaches stayed against the door. Calm. Amused. Dangerous.

“I told you to come here,” he said again, voice low.

She smiled soft, “And I heard you just fine.”

Stack took a slow step toward her, “You think this shit funny?”

“I think it’s cute,” she said, tilting her head, “You mad ‘cause I ain’t crawl to you like the rest?”

Another step.

“Girl, I run this house.”

She stepped forward to meet him, “And I run you.”

That shut him up. For a second.

His jaw clenched. His breath caught. His body wanted to grab her, shove her to the bed, claim her.

But his pride was stuck between his ribs.

“You walked that fine ass past my office like you wanted to ruin me.”

“I did.”

“You came in my house, my space—”

“And made you submit,” she said, stepping in so close her breath hit his lips, “Made you sit quiet in that chair with your dick hard and your mouth shut.”

Stack flinched like the words slapped.

Peaches grinned wider.

“You the King, Stack. I know that,” she said, her voice syrup-sweet now, “But I ain’t no pawn. I move how I move.”

He still didn’t say nothing.

His lips parted slightly, breathing harder now.

“And since I’m one of your girls,” she added, brushing her chest just barely against his, “I might let you boss me around.”

She leaned up, close to his ear. Whispered it slow.

“But you still gon’ do what I say…when I say it…with your fine self.”

When she pulled back, Stack’s mouth was open like he had something to say, but no words came.

Speechless.

Her eyes danced.

“Mmhm. Thought so.”

She turned from the door and moved past him—a slow brush of hips, a whisper of heat—like she already knew she’d won this round.

Stack watched her walk across his room, fists flexing at his sides, still trying to figure out how the hell she’d gotten the drop on him again.

And why it turned him on so damn bad.

Peaches didn’t linger after shutting him up.

She let her fingers trail down his chest—just a touch— before turning her back and sashaying across the room, robe swaying like a tease, hips rolling like thunder in slow motion.

She paused at the door, hand on the knob, and looked over her shoulder.

“Stay sweet, Daddy.”

Click.

Gone.

THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED:

Stack couldn’t shake her.

Not that he tried.

He’d catch her in the hallway, laughing with one of the girls, hair tied in silk, stockings hugging her thick thighs like they was painted on. She’d glance his way, let her eyes travel down his body like he was just another appetizer—then keep it movin’.

Didn’t stop.

Didn’t speak.

Just looked.

A look that said she knew exactly how much he wanted her.

One afternoon, he was in the back parlor. Curtains drawn. Mirabel on her knees between his thighs, working her mouth like a girl desperate to please, pretty lips stretched around him, hands shaking slightly with effort.

He was barely paying attention.

The door to the hallway creaked open, and that honey-rich scent hit the air before she even stepped inside.

Peaches.

Stack opened his eyes.

She walked past slow, wearing a form-fitting satin number that glistened like peach nectar, breasts soft and high, thighs thick and bare beneath the hem. No panties.

She saw him.

Saw Mirabel.

Didn’t blink.

She just gave him that look—the one where her lips curled at the corners like she already had him wrapped, owned, conquered. Then she swayed on past, hips switching like music, knowing damn well he’d be useless the rest of the day.

By the time night fell, Stack was seething quiet. Not with anger.

With hunger.

She had him starved, and she knew it.

And still, she didn’t fold.

Didn’t beg.

Didn’t come knocking.

Just strutted through the house with power in her step and a little smile on her lips—the kind that said, you’ll come to me when you ready to behave.

And he was this close.

This damn close.

It was late.

The Blackline was humming low—the clink of glasses downstairs, soft jazz from the gramophone, a few muffled laughs from the card room.

Peaches had just finished her set, rhinestones still clinging to her skin, that peach-colored silk dress hugging every generous curve. She slipped out the back hallway toward her room, hips moving in that same slow, rolling sway that had been driving Stack insane for days.

She turned the corner and nearly ran into him.

Stack.

Leaning against the wall like he’d been waiting.

Bare chest beneath an open shirt, sleeves rolled, slacks loose on his hips. Eyes sharp. Hungry.

He didn’t say a word at first. Just straightened, towering over her, blocking the hallway with his body.

Peaches tilted her chin up, lips curling in that soft, taunting smile, “Daddy.”

That was all it took.

He grabbed her.

Big hands on her waist, spinning her until her back hit the wall. She gasped, but he was already there—chest pressing into hers, mouth at her ear.

“You wanted my attention?” he growled, voice low, thick, “Now you got it.”

Peaches licked her lips, that same smile tugging her mouth, “Took you long enough.”

Stack’s hand shot up, fisted in her hair, jerking her head back just enough so he could look her in the eye.

“You been struttin’ around my house like you runnin’ shit,” he rasped, “Got me sittin’ in my own office hard as a rock while you just keep on walkin’. You think you gon’ keep playin’ with me, girl?”

Peaches’ breath hitched, “I might.”

Stack’s jaw flexed, “Nah. You ain’t.”

He kissed her then.

Hard. Claiming. Tongue deep, teeth scraping her lip, groaning into her mouth like he was pulling her back into his orbit. His free hand slid up her thigh, dragging that dress high, high, until his fingers brushed bare skin.

“No panties?” he muttered against her lips, voice sharp with disbelief, “You been walkin’ around like this all night?”

“Mmhm,” Peaches whispered, breathless.

Stack’s teeth grazed her ear, “You dirty little tease.”

He lifted her without warning, big hands gripping her ass, pinning her to the wall as her legs wrapped around his waist.

“You gon’ take this dick,” he said, low and final, “Right here.”

Peaches moaned, arms clinging around his shoulders, “Then give it to me.”

Stack unzipped with one hand, freed himself, and lined up with that hot, dripping center he’d been starving for.

He didn’t ease in.

He slammed deep.

Peaches cried out, head snapping back, nails digging into his back, “Oh—shit—”

Stack growled, hips already pounding, each thrust hard enough to rattle the wall behind her.

“You think I’ma let you walk away again?” he grunted, thrusting deeper, harder, chest slick against hers, “Nah, baby. You mine.”

Peaches whimpered, meeting every stroke, dress bunched at her waist. “Yes—Daddy—fuck—”

“You gon’ remember this the next time you decide to test me,” he rasped, one hand gripping her throat lightly, thumb under her chin, “Say it. Who you belong to?”

“You,” she gasped, tears at the corners of her eyes from the intensity, “I’m yours, Stack. Yours.”

Stack’s thrusts turned relentless, filthy—grinding into her, grunting in her ear, whispering how sweet her pussy gripped him, how he’d been dreaming of this for days.

Peaches was moaning, sobbing out little praises, calling him Daddy, biting his shoulder just to ground herself as he took her apart.

When she came, it was hard and wet, her whole body clenching around him with a cry so loud he had to cover her mouth with his hand.

And he didn’t stop.

He fucked her through it, through the shaking and the tears and the trembling legs, until he slammed in deep one last time, chest trembling, jaw clenched, and groaned against her throat as his whole body locked up.

With a growl of restraint, he pulled out quick, gripped himself tight, and spilled hot all over her belly, pussy, and thighs, panting through his teeth as he stroked the last of it out with trembling hands.

His breath was ragged, forehead pressed to hers, sweat glistening down his spine.

They stayed like that a moment longer, pressed against the wall, her thighs still clinging around his waist, his release sticky between them, breathless and wrecked.

Stack kissed her throat—rough and lingering.

“Next time,” he rasped, voice hoarse, “you beg for it.”

Peaches let out a breathy laugh, eyes half-lidded, “Might just make you beg first.”

Peaches slid down the wall with her thighs still trembling, breath hot against his skin as she crouched between his legs on the floor. His dick hung heavy, still slick, twitching with the remnants of what they’d just done. Her lips curled into a sinful smile as she dragged her fingers between her thighs, collecting the thick mess of him and her, still warm, still wet. She moaned low at the feel of it.

Without breaking eye contact, she brought her fingers to her mouth and sucked slow—obscene. Her lashes fluttered, her tongue swirled, tasting the filth they’d made.

Stack growled deep in his chest, watching her tongue lap up every drop with a greedy tongue . He leaned back slightly, letting her have the view of his smug grin and the tension in his flexed abdomen.

“Goddamn, girl…” he rasped, voice thick, strained, “You nasty.”

Peaches just smirked, crawling back up over him with lazy hips and a mouth still wet, “Damn right.”

She reached down again, scooped up another mix of their cum from where it dripped along her inner thigh, and lifted her fingers to his mouth.

“Open,” she whispered.

Stack hesitated for only a heartbeat—then let her slide her fingers past his lips. He groaned around them as the taste hit his tongue—salt, musk, sweetness, sin. His eyes rolled shut for a moment as he sucked them clean, jaw clenching tight. The sound he made was somewhere between a growl and a moan.

Peaches leaned in close, her lips brushing his jaw.

“Now you know how good we taste together.”

Stack’s tongue slid slow along her fingers as he sucked the last drop from her skin, his breath coming harder now, like the flavor of her had stirred something all over again. But Peaches wasn’t done—not even close. She watched his mouth work, then pulled her hand back with a soft pop of suction and dragged her wet fingers down his chest, nails lightly grazing the muscle and hair.

“Mmm,” she purred, bringing a thigh up again with that slow, bossy roll of her hips, “You think just ‘cause you picked me up like I ain’t weigh nothin’, slammed me against that wall, and fucked me full—you runnin’ things?”

Stack smirked, lips still glistening, “Ain’t that what I just did?”

Peaches leaned in, tongue flicking the sweat from his collarbone, her voice all molasses and bite, “Boy, please.”

She rocked her hips forward, just enough to tease him, not let him slip back in, not yet.

“You got my name tatted on that big ol’ dick now,” she whispered against his ear, “Stamped and branded. You feel me?” Her hand cupped him, possessive, “Every time it jump…it’s thinkin’ of me.”

Stack’s throat bobbed. His grip on her hips tightened. But he didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. She had him, and they both knew it.

Peaches sat upright again, back arched, tits proud and glowing with sweat. She dragged her fingers down his chest one more time, then tapped his sternum with the tip of her nail.

“If you gon’ keep tryin’ to match this freak,” she said, slow and dangerous, “then you best learn to let me have my way when I want it. However I want it.”

Stack’s jaw ticked, breath caught in his throat, pupils blown wide.

“I don’t care if they call you King Stack,” she smirked, “That crown don’t mean shit when I’m sittin’ on your face…or ridin’ you till you beg me to stop.”

She leaned forward again, lips barely brushing his, “You gon’ let me play with you, baby?”

He growled, deep and ragged, and rolled them in one sharp motion—flipping her back to him, hand gripping her wrists above her head as he loomed.

“You talk slick, Peaches,” he rasped, voice thick with need, “You better be ready to back it up.”

She giggled, breathless, thighs parting on instinct.

“Oh, I’m ready, Daddy.”

@theereinawrites @angelin-dis-guise @thee-germanpeach @harleycativy @slut4smokemoore09 @readingaddict1290 @blackamericanprincessy @aristasworld @avoidthings @brownsugarcoffy @ziayamikaelson @kindofaintrovert @raysogroovy @overhere94 @joysofmyworld @an-ever-evolving-wanderer @starcrossedxwriter @marley1773 @bombshellbre95 @nybearsworld @brincessbarbie @kholdkill @honggihwa @tianna-blanche @wewantsumheaad @theethighpriestess @theegoldenchild @blackpantherismyish @nearsightedbaddie @charmedthoughts @beaboutthataction @girlsneedlovingfanfics @cancerianprincess @candelalanegra22 @mrsknowitallll @dashhoney25 @pinkprincessluminary @chefjessypooh @sk1121-blog1 @contentfiend @kaystacks17 @bratzlele @kirayuki22 @bxrbie1 @blackerthings @angryflowerwitch @baddiegiii @syko-jpg

483 notes · View notes

melodichaeuxx-lacritquexx · 11 days ago

Text

1K notes · View notes

melodichaeuxx-lacritquexx · 18 days ago

Text

I BLOCK MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS

31 notes · View notes

melodichaeuxx-lacritquexx · 22 days ago

Text

Title: Slippery When Wet

Summary: An unexpected thunderstorm has you closing down your bar early, but as you're going to lock up, someone from your past washes in with the storm.

Pairing: Ex!Namjoon x Bartender!f!reader

Genre: Non Idol AU/smut

Word Count: 2551

Warnings: Vulgarity, sexual language, reader and Joon have a past, lots of unexplained history, a smidge of violence (reader slaps Joon), Joon is a bit handsy, oral (F receiving), unprotected sex, cumshot, dirty talk, obvs 18+ mature MDNI and all that.

A/N: This story was written for Sara in @bangtanwritershq between @pars-ley, Sara and myself. We focused on using the prompt of the seven deadly sins to write something and I chose wrath. Thank you both for this, it was so fun and @pars-ley the BANNER is glorious as always, you're a true artist 💜

As always, thank you @cafekitsune for the beautiful dividers!

You sigh as you look out the windows of the bar, wincing as the heavy rain obscures your view of the night.

“Damn it…” You sigh, wiping down the bar and putting away the last of the glasses. You’d sent your other bartender home for the evening early and now it was just you closing things down.

The shitty weather had sent most of your regulars home early and by the time the sun was setting, the bar was deserted.

Instead of letting up, the heavy downpour just peppers the roof of the small bar, signalling that it would be smarter to just hang out and wait it out for the evening.

Shaking your head, you wipe your hands on a clean bar rag, then walk from behind the bar towards the door to lock it.

It was just your luck that at that moment, a rain drenched figure burst inside, setting off the chime above the door and startling you.

“We’re closed-” You call out to the sopping wet man yanking the door shut behind him.

Wait, you knew that profile-

“Namjoon?” You ask in disbelief, cursing your luck.

He turns towards you, his hair plastered to his head as he wipes his face.

“Fuck…” He mutters, shaking the rain from his hair as he pushes it back.

“Goddamn it, Joon! I just fucking mopped-”

He looks down at the puddle growing under him before giving you a sheepish smile.

“Sorry-just…fuck, just let me stay til this lets up.” He pleads with you, glancing back out as a flash of lightning streaks across the sky a moment before thunder shakes the building.

You let out a frustrated noise, throwing up your hands before retreating behind the bar to grab some of the bar rags.

“Don’t go trekking your mess all over, I just finished cleaning up. The last thing I need to be doing is following your big clumsy ass around to redo all my work.” You snap out.

“Great customer service skills you have there.” He retorts, which only causes you to get more irritated.

You can’t help but grin as you throw the dry towels at his face as you walk by to lock the door and he fumbles trying to catch them.

“Still an asshole, I see.”

What are the chances that he’s stuck with me here in this stupid ass storm?

You steal a glance back out the door before turning back to him, watching as he picks up the towels and mops his face and hair with one.

Even more irritating is how this man can look so fucking sexy even after coming in from a rain storm.

You shake yourself from that kind of thought and march back over to the bar, trying to keep your eyes off of him.

“Just…don’t touch anything, don’t do anything and once this lets up, you leave. Got it?” You demand, earning you a sigh from him.

Of course, he completely ignores you, walking over and seating himself at the bar, giving you a smirk that has your blood boiling in more ways than one.

Fucking dimples…

“What did I just say?” You can’t help but bite out.

He just leans over and rests his elbow on the bar, resting his chin in his palm as he studies you.

“Still as feisty as ever, aren’t you?” He says softly with a look that implies he’s loving every moment of this.

You just roll your eyes, turning around to straighten some bottles to keep yourself busy.

“You know, you could offer me a drink, you’re not being very friendly…” He taunts.

“You’re not a customer, Namjoon. Don’t get too comfortable, it won’t be long before this storm tires itself out and-”

With your back to him, you hadn’t noticed that he’d gotten up and rounded the bar until he’s pressing his chest against you.

You tense as his damp clothes seep into your own, his arms slipping around your waist as he leans in to nuzzle your neck.

“Namjoon-what the fuck are you doing? You’re getting me all wet-!”

His breath tickles your skin as he chuckles and his hands slip from your waist down your hips.

“Am I? Getting you all wet?” He whispers, causing you to turn around in shock, pushing him back.

No fucking way you are going to tell him he’s doing just that and oh does the smile on his face piss you off.

“You’re still such a prick, Joon, doing shit to rile me up.”

He takes a step towards you again, his eyes taking you in.

“You used to love it when I riled you up."

The bottles clink as you take a step back, running into the shelves.

“Yeah, used to. Before. Long time ago.” You snap at him, trying to deny that his hungry gaze is making you feel things you shouldn’t be.

You are plenty used to the male gaze, working in a bar, and you easily deflect any advances aimed your way.

But Kim Namjoon is another creature entirely; he always has been when it comes to you.

Despite the sex crazed whirlwind of what could be called your past relationship, things hadn’t ended well and you’d never gotten along since.

Yet here he was, looking at you with that same predatory gaze, making you want to simultaneously slap him and tear his clothing off.

All of this spirals through your head as he closes the distance and grabs the back of your neck, yanking your mouth to his.

Anger and lust rise up like bile within you, and you shove him back once again, the crack of your hand connecting with his cheek registering before the sting on your palm.

Silence fills the void between you as you stare at him, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath.

Yet instead of rage or hurt in his eyes, you only see desire and before you can stop yourself, you’re the one crushing your lips to his.

“Fuck-” He growls against your mouth, his tongue plunging in to seek yours out as you grasp a handful of his still damp hair and yank it.

His hands grab your ass to yank your body against his, grinding his obvious erection against your pelvis.

The fuck am I even doing? Echoes in your mind, but you just push it away as his lips leave yours to pepper wet, open mouthed kisses along your jaw and down your neck.

“Used to, hm?” He breathes against your neck, one of his hands dropping to slip between your thighs and up your skirt.

A gasp escapes your lips, despite knowing that your encounter was heading this way.

“Kim Namjoon!” You try to protest, but you’re dismayed to hear the desperate whine behind your words.

He doesn’t miss it either and you can feel his lips curling into a smirk against your throat as his fingers dance along the edge of your panties.

“Mmm, yes baby?” He whispers as he wets your pulse with his tongue, following it up with a harsh suck that you just know is going to leave a mark.

He always was one for leaving behind his reminders-

Your hand drops to try to push his hand away from your crotch but he just catches your wrist and pulls it behind your back before pushing your panties aside.

“Joon-” You protest, or at least you think you do; the way his agile fingers plunge through your folds and circle your clit blanks your mind.

“Baby…” He groans, the hiss of pleasure he breathes against your neck before biting down gently has you seeing stars.

You hate how he knows exactly how to touch you, despise how he knows very well that if you wanted him to stop, he would.

The ragged whimper that comes from your throat only urges him on as he pushes one of his fingers into you, his thumb pressing firmly against your sensitive nub.

The only consolation is the way his groans are deepening, his hot breath against your neck coming in quick puffs as he seems to be losing control as quickly as you are.

Before you can manage to formulate another thought, he’s withdrawing his hand abruptly to spin you around and bend you over the bar.

“Fuck, I missed your ass, baby-” He rasps out as he yanks your skirt up, using one of his palms to hold you down to admire you for a moment.

You reach out to grab the edge of the bar in front of you, clinging onto it as the sound of him unbuckling his belt and freeing himself from his pants mixes with the harsh ragged breathing from both of you.

You fully expect him to just thrust into you, but you’re shocked when he suddenly drops to his knees behind you and takes two handfuls of your ass.

“NAMJOON!” You cry out as his tongue plunges into you twice before he drags it up from your clit to your ass, then back down again.

Your knuckles turn white from the grip you have on the bar as he buries his nose into you and all but growls into your cunt.

His hands knead your ass as he spreads you open, using his thumbs to pull your lips apart as he feasts on you.

“I fucking hate-how good your tongue is-” You cry out as your thighs tremble, and he laughs against your cunt even as said tongue continues to curl and flick against you expertly.

Before you can utter another word he starts sucking harshly on your clit, causing you to jerk back against him and let out a desperate cry.

His teeth nip gently and pull at it, then he pulls his hand back and brings it down on your ass before giving another torturous suck.

If your eyes were open, you know you’d be seeing stars, your climax barreling down on you as he pushes a thumb into you.

“OH FUCK!” You scream as you come, and before you can even register what’s happening, he’s standing and pushing the tip of his cock into your pulsing entrance.

His hand slips up your spine gently as he holds you down, a rough groan escaping him as he bottoms out inside of you.

You’ve yet to even recover from your climax before he pulls his hips back only to thrust back into you, holding himself deep inside of you before repeating the motion.

The way your cunt clenches around him causes him to choke out a moan, and the hand on your spine slips up to grab your shoulder, pulling you back onto him as he starts pounding into you.

“Oh fuck, baby, tell me you missed this; tell me how much you missed me fucking you-” He demands, the hand on your shoulder moving to your throat to pull you up against him, his other hand dropping between your legs to tease at your clit.

The wet noises of your bodies colliding erode the tentative hold you have on your sanity, and you struggle to form words.

A small part of you wants to protest yet you can’t deny that the one thing you’ve both always known is how wild this man drives you.

“Fuck…you…” You stammer out, but he just pulls you against his chest tighter, turning your head to press his lips to your ear as his thumb caresses your pulse.

“Say it…say it, baby…you fucking love my dick buried deep in your sweet, tight little pussy…” He whispers harshly, his hips never losing their rhythm.

His words just heighten the intense pleasure, his deep, rough moans driving you mad as his fingers pinch and tug at your overstimulated clit.

“F-fuck, Joon…oh fuck yes, I fucking-love it-” You stutter, each thrust causing you to gasp as your walls start spasming around him.

He suddenly curses and slaps your clit harshly, then rubs harshly against it as he growls out, “Say it, what do you love? Say it, I’m so fucking close, baby-”

“I love when you fuck me! Joon, I’m gonna come! Oh fuck, JOON-” You scream, bucking back onto him as you finally let go and clamp around him.

You can’t even process the words and curses leaving his mouth as your vision goes white, your orgasm slamming into you like a freight train.

Long, desperate moans echo in your ear as he coaxes you through your climax before he gasps and cries out, pulling out of you suddenly and bending you back over the bar.

His hot cum spurts all over your ass and back as he jerks himself off, each raspy cry and exclamation punctuating another surge of sticky mess on your skin.

Your chest heaves as you try to catch your breath, slowly coming back to your senses as he rubs the head of his dick through the mess that’s now dripping down your cheeks.

“Fuck…” He gasps out as he looks down at you.

You turn your head to look up at him, unable to stop yourself from admiring those goddamned dimples and the satiated look on his face.

“Missed how sexy my cum looks on your skin, baby…” He grins, biting his lip as he appreciates your sticky backside.

“Asshole.” You mutter, but you can’t help the stupid grin that accompanies it.

“Hold still…” He hums, stepping away for a moment to grab a clean bar towel to gently clean you up.

“Shame…I should have taken a picture-”

You finally stand, grabbing the now soiled towel from him and tugging your skirt back down.

“Kim Namjoon, I swear-” You object loudly, but you’re cut off as he crushes his lips to yours, grasping the back of your neck, his arm slipping around your waist to hold you close.

“Mmm..” He hums against your mouth, smiling as your protests die down.

Moments pass before you finally break the kiss, pushing him back to shake your head at him and sigh.

“You’re such a pain, Joon. It’s just my luck that you got stuck here during a storm.” You huff out, but he just smiles as you lick your lips, still tasting him.

He finally pulls his boxers and pants back up, dimples peeking out as he looks up at you.

“Oh baby, it’s not a coincidence…you know I can’t stay away from you for long.” He leans back against the bar beside you, tugging you into his arms as he tips his head back to look at you.

You slap his chest, irritated but somewhere deep down, you’re delighted.

“Stalker.” You accuse him, narrowing your eyes.

He merely grins, planting a kiss on your lips.

“The storm stopped.” You announce, looking out the window, trying to distract yourself from him.

“So…your place or mine?” He grins, nuzzling into your neck.

“Neither!” You protest, but he just nips your shoulder in response.

“Okay, then I’ll just take you to the shower here and fuck you til you can’t stand-”

“KIM NAMJOON!”

“Oh I love how you say my name, baby…”

Much as your pride hurts to admit, you just can’t help yourself with this man.

122 notes · View notes

melodichaeuxx-lacritquexx · 23 days ago

Text

Prey Animals (15)

— Pairing: Yoongi x reader, Poly Ot7, eventual Bts x reader,

— Genre: Omegaverse, Mafia au, Polyamory au, Found family, Suspense, Eventual Smut, enemies to friends to lovers, Healing & Themes of trauma,

— Summary: In a world where Beta's are rare, valuable, and often have more than one pack; Beta Min Yoongi does everything he can to keep his mafia heritage a secret from his primary pack. Little does he know he's not the only one who's living a double life.

— Words: 9.2k

— Warnings: Graphic depictions of physical violence, Domestic violence, Fear, Fluff, Yearning, Doomed lovers, Guns, blood

— Check in at the end for my notes on this chapter! —

(2 hours to go, Yoongi).

The music seems louder when Yoongi heads back inside. The twirl of people faster and faster. Dizzying. Moonbyul and Hyejin are there in the center with a ripple of red feathers and silver hair but you are nowhere to be found, absent from the throng. Yoongi almost crashes into someone, hurrying, tearing through the crowd with barely more than mumbled apologies.

Yoongi is no longer a planet in orbit, Yoongi is a comet crashing into the ground. Yoongi manages to excuse himself- ducking around the arm of an aunty that seems keen to grab him by the ear and talk his ear off about her grandson. He heads in the direction of the courtyard, out the wide windows just to clear his head. He catches your scent on the wind and his feet carry him forward, speeding up now that he knows you’re close.

The garden has been put to bed for the winter, it’s nothing more than a tangle of thorned sticks. You stand with your back to him, blocking his view of the fountain, dead center in the middle of the neatly trimmed hedges, still enough to be a statue. and Yoongi can see the deep plunge of your dress, your hair that lies over your pack in elegant Hollywood waves. Yoongi’s heart is beating so fast. You do not turn to him. You must not hear him approach.

Yoongi doesn’t know if you’ve just forgotten your jacket or if it was purposeful- if you wanted to feel the cold.

He stops a handful of paces back from you. Collecting himself and wiping back his hair before he clears his throat and you turn, nearly jerking.

Yoongi can see the moment you realize it’s just him, not Geumjae. Your eyes trace his eye, finding it absent of scar and your shoulders melt. Your eyes soften. It’s a bit of a curse, that he and Yoongi look so alike. You set a hand over your heart like it must be thundering (is it beating just as fast as Yoongi’s is? Would you let him rest his ear against your chest and listen to it?).

“Fuck. You startled me.”

“Sorry. I just wanted to talk to you.”

“Just talk?”

Yoongi swallows. Decides to be brave. “I mean I was hoping for a dance too but-” You look like you don’t know what to do with that. Like you don’t know what to say. You don’t bite your lip; you can’t even look at him. He wants to apologize for the other night; for surprising you with that. A confession was hardly what you needed in that moment. Saying those things however true- was more for him than it was for you.

“A room full of people and you’re the only person I want to talk to.”

Yoongi makes you smile with that, even if it’s just a little. You can never resist smiling when you’re around him. You’ve missed him these last few days. He came by once after your confrontation but you stayed inside until his frantic knocking at your front door dissipated. Avoiding him out of sake for his own survival or yours- you’re not quite sure.

You feel a little guilty for that now, just a little. Even more guilty at the measuring look that he sends you that makes sure you’re alright with what he’s said. He checks to make sure he’s not pushing your boundaries too much. But his eyes still flicker to your throat and then up to your face, lingering just a beat too long on your lips.

Yoongi steps a little closer. You do not take a step back.

The scar under your chin has faded to a faint pink, nearly invisible under an unhealthy layer of concealer. But Yoongi remembers. You both do. What he’d said the other night. I could love you. You wonder if that’s still true.

You’ve been avoiding him, but you don’t have the energy for that right now. The not eating and the stress, the constant terror that eats you from the inside out. It has consumed all of your willpower. This. Yoongi. The one good thing in your life- is something that you cannot run away from right now. You don’t have the strength to resist it.

You can’t shake the idea that this might be the last time you get this. That this is your last offering of any kind of tender look or sweet concern. If a tree falls in the forest does anyone hear it? If no one loves a girl- does that make her a girl at all?

You feel cut off from so much. This might very well be the last kindness you’re ever showed. As you’re nothing more than a threat to the family and a puppy for your husband to kick at.

When Yoongi looks at you it’s like everything else disappears for him. He even trips on the uneven steps because he’s busy looking at you. Moving one step closer until he’s almost toe to toe with you.

“Your dress is-”

“He made me wear it.”

“I know.” Yoongi does not look down, just at your face.

“I hate it.”

“I hate it too. You look great in it but-” Your hands tighten in the skirt. Smiling sadly. “It’s not you.”

You tip your chin down, staring at him from under your eyelids. “It’s not.” You agree.

You don’t move an inch.

You feel like a person when he looks at you; not like the countless other things your brain tells you that you are. Your husband has conditioned you well- turned you into his creature that hinges on approval. You don’t even know what you’d like to wear- what would- in yoongi’s words ‘be you’. But you do know what would make you the most pleasing to the eye and that’s enough. That’s all you can think about. Everything else is sort of secondary. Underneath the dress- your brain whispers to you that you’re worthless- a waste of space and oxygen, something disgusting and unseemly. Worthwhile of his attention and closeness and kindness only because you have use.

But when Yoongi looks at you- that voice quiets and you feel like you’re something delicate and beautiful. Not just something lurking in the dirt with the worms and other little bugs. Ready to be squashed under shoes.

He never stares at you like you’re a thing and not a person, even though you know that your dress makes you look it. Yoongi has never wanted your body. Not in that way. You’ve never caught him staring while hungry. You wonder if you’re pretty to him at all, you know the rest of his pack are men and most people have a preference. Yoongi is not most people, but you still wonder if he could ever want you that way. He says he could love you- but you know not all loves are created equal. How could they be? When both Yoongi and Geumjae use the same word.

You have to admit, you find it improbable that anyone could want you. You’re used goods. Damaged and maybe defective. After what Geumjae’s done to you, he’s made you worthless to everyone but him.

The music is faint just barely spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows here rustling the leaves and wisps of incense. The chill is stiff. You’re cold, Yoongi can tell because you’ve got goosebumps rising between the freckles on your arms.

He doesn’t care that someone might be watching. That everyone who matters is just a few short feet away. The darkness makes Yoongi bold; the darkness makes Yoongi stupid.

Yoongi gets close enough to hug you if he wanted and you don’t make to step away. You can see his breath in the cold march chill as he breathes out. “You shouldn’t be out here like this. I don’t want you to be cold.”

Your hands tighten by your sides and Yoongi dares not risk it, palm open and hovering. His hand hovers close enough that you can feel his warmth but not his skin. Yoongi’s rests it just millimeters away, tensing like he wants to grab your hand.

In the fountain, something trickles softly though it’s not full.

“It’s not the 1800’s Yoongi, people don’t die just from a little chill. I’m not going to get sick.”

You barely suppress a shiver in your revealing dress. Although you wonder if it has more to do with his eyes on you than anything else. Yoongi’s eyes don’t flicker low, not again, he just stares at you.

You look a little better tonight. There isn’t as much as a haze in your eyes like you’re dissociating from everything- like you’re going to that place you described where no one and nothing (including Yoongi) can touch you. You’ve got a clarity today that Yoongi savors. You’re wearing such thick makeup there’s no telling how many bruises you’re hiding underneath it. Dark eyeliner makes your youthful eyes look foxlike and refined.

Not for the first time. Yoongi realizes how terribly young you look. Heart aching.

Yoongi searches your face. “You misunderstand me. I said that I don’t want you to be cold, but maybe if you caught a cold- I could help you get better.”

He knows his words don’t make sense but still, you recognize what he wants to say. He’s never struggled to articulate his feelings or show love before, not before you. Now he feels like he could try a hundred different ways and still not make it right. Still not show you. “I could love you; I could make you better, I could care for you.” But Yoongi doesn’t say any of that- no.

He takes off his jacket and slings it around your shoulders. You make a noise in your throat, eyes going wide in surprise. He steps close enough and hardly has to touch you to do it. You stick your hands through the too long sleeves, clawed fingers curling around the hem.

You look down at it, holding out your spindly arms, then up at him. It’s so big on you it wrinkles at the shoulders.

Yoongi pauses to roll up the sleeves for you. His fingers brushing your wrists. “Thank you.”

Yoongi’s eyes on you are heavy. He says nothing yet. You’re wearing his clothes; he looks at you with something akin to wanting. You’re not sure what else it is melting his gaze, making him smell so much like chocolate. You’re used to Yoongi’s happy scent. But it’s still just as absurdly good as the first time you scented it on the air. He smells thick and drippy. You’re sure you’ve never seen that emotion directed at you before.

“One dance? Before I take you home?” The choice is easy; staying here with you. And Yoongi decides that this is enough for tonight.

All of the business with Don can wait for another day. They can all kill each other in the meantime- Yoongi has plans with you. After this dance Yoongi will drive you away from here and go to some gritty fast-food place and get you full of however many calories Geumjae has made you skip. Feed you French fries and chicken nuggets from his own hands even. (And pretend he’s not looking at how close your lips get to his fingers the whole time).

He’ll spend the entire drive thinking about leaning across the console to kiss you. He could do it- quick. You’re not wearing lipstick (You took off the bloody red shade that Geumjae made you wear the second his attention seemed diverted).

There would be no red imprinted on Yoongi’s skin from your mouth- or at least- none besides in his memory. No one would know.

Does your body burn as he does with this? Or are you too full of fear to feel anything at all?

He imagines it happening. Is it okay? Can I kiss you? Can I get our mouths all aligned and can I taste you? Can we go slowly? I know you’d probably need them to be slow and I don’t mind at all, I’m in no rush.

You are both full of things you want to say and can’t. Your handshakes just slightly, lurching as you take his hand. Unsure one second, then vicelike the next.

You keep Yoongi at an arm’s length as he leads you in a waltz. Both of you daydream of a hypothetical illness that you might get because of the cold temperature, some sickness that can be fixed by a few days rest and some warm soup that Yoongi could provide. Pulled together in a bed however big or small you wouldn’t mind. His hand on your forehead crooning. “You’ve still got a fever little lovely. Rest just a little longer.”

Simple dreams, equally as impossible as they are sweet. He pulls you in tighter against him in your skimpy gown. It’s only to keep you warm, he justifies as you melt into his hold. His hands are wide and warm on the small of your back under the jacket. You stumble in your heels on the uneven stones of the garden and Yoongi heaves you up so that you’re balanced on his toes. The bones in his feet ache in protest but he ignores the pain, your surprised giggle better than morphine.

Yoongi certainly feels like an addict.

He spins you, going faster in those practiced steps; it startles a laugh from your mouth, "Yoongi! Let go! We’re gonna fall!” Your words sound girlish and young. It’s a sound that he’s never heard from you and wants to hear again and again. You slow to a gentler pace. Swaying softly from side to side.

You rest your whole body against his and Yoongi holds you up without comment, a tree to your vine. he rests his cheeks against your temple.

Its then that he notices, nose pressed to your hairline, that your scent is shifting. The undercurrent of your scent has always been rainy, not quite petrichor but something close. It’s slowly sweetening and losing it’s soggy edge. It gets stronger and stronger until Yoongi’s breath goes deep and shaky when he breathes in. Rattling around in his chest.

Yoongi does not know what your scent is like when you’re happy. Yoongi has only ever scented you when you’re miserable, when you’re desolate, when you’re destroyed. On your worst days you smell like rainy mornings. The ones where you’re stuck outside and wetter and colder than you like. But now your scent is shifting into something warm. Not like you’re outside in a rainstorm but inside and looking out, safely resting maybe while something’s baking.

You smell like a freshly baking cake, with buttercream and notes of vanilla and nut. It evokes images of lazy Sundays and cupcakes topped with cherries or maybe birthday candles glowing soft and warm. Those moments when Yoongi was a child and begged his mother for another slice of birthday cake and she gave in. You smell like wishes and frosting. Like sprinkles and presents and childhood. Yoongi wants to bury his face in your neck. Does after a moment, breathing in deep. A gentle hum eased from his throat.

Yoongi noses at your scent gland, just a little bit, drunk on you. And you sigh tipping your head to the side after a moment, hidden from view in this garden. Something so basic that neither of you have been allowed until now. Scenting is something basic, a basic component of alpha and omega relationships. A simple rub against the throat or wrists lets everyone know this person is protected, this person is safe.

The grip on his lapel goes strong, your legs widen and part at the hips to get closer to him. Yoongi ignores the fact that you’re pressing yourself up all against him. Doesn’t think he could stop himself from instigating the shit out of something you’d both probably regret. (Not because you don’t want to- but because it would put you both in even more danger than you already are).

“You just had to take all the good didn’t you.” He nuzzles into your scent gland. Damn his sweet tooth. Not quite understanding.

Out of two brothers, why would one have so much more softness than the other? One gentle and kind while the other is bloodthirsty and violently selfish. Why did you have to choose the wrong one? Would things have gone differently if you’d met Yoongi first? You can’t bear it anymore; you have to know what you��re giving up.

“What would it be like Yoongi?” You’re crying, softly but it’s there, eyes filling with unshed tears. The kind of emotion that you can hardly breathe through clogging your throat. But these are your last few moments with him- they must be. And you don’t want to cry through them and miss it.

“If you took me away from here, what would it be like?”

Yoongi struggles to hold onto your happy scent, dwindling in the empty courtyard. Your deliciously sweet scent slips away to rain, to thunderstorms echoic and explosive. His scent is already going from chocolate to salt. You are rain and he the ocean, together you are a typhoon. You both know how much wanting something you can’t have can hurt you.

You reach out, holding him close to you like you’re prepared to grasp the future he’ll paint for you. Your hands find their way around his shoulders. And slowly almost like you’re testing to see if you’re allowed, you play with the small baby hairs at the back of his neck. Small and soft. Sensitive enough that it makes Yoongi squirm in all the best ways.

Yoongi picks his head up from your shoulder, eyes flickering from your lips to your eyes. Fuck.

Yoongi runs his hands up and down your back to comfort you through the longing. Like this garden aches for rain- Yoongi aches to give it to you. Anything and everything, his heart on a platter if that’s what you wanted. He’ll rip it out of his chest if you want him too.

Yeah, he definitely isn’t making it back to the pack by tomorrow morning.

His voice is hushed, barely a whisper with his mouth pressed to your ear, “We’d get takeout every few nights and play rock paper scissors to decide who gets to be the little spoon. I’d take you out to the ocean and take you on drives. I’ll make sure you always have enough sugar and butter and flour in the kitchen and you can be as quiet as you need to be or as loud as you want. You can have whatever you need. I’d like to give it to you. You could steal all my favorite sweaters and I’d never say a thing about it.”

You laugh at that. Somehow- Yoongi just knows that’s something you’d do. “And I’d never ever raise my voice at you.”

“No yelling?” You’re almost shy about it. And Yoongi realizes that you think- even in this game of make believe. That you think you’re asking for too much.

“No yelling.” He agrees, He keeps speaking softer, like to whisper his wishes out loud is like trying to hold onto a shooting star. You can shout at me, call me names, and I promise I won’t ever do the same back. I want to make you so happy you forget my brothers fucking name, you’ll never have to say it again. I want to erase everything he ever did to you. I want to give you so much good you forget what pain ever felt like.”

You try and pull back, but Yoongi just holds you against him. Keeps you tucked safe. “You can’t.”

“I know. But I’d like to try.”

There are other things he wants to say, mornings of calm that he’d like to dictate to you before they happen- like little promises. What kind of life would you want? A quiet one or an exciting one? One full of meals together and movie nights? Or one with vacations and fancy restaurants? Nights to bed early or up late giggling below covers? What would you like- You only have to say it and Yoongi will give it to you.

Companionship is different than romantic love but that’s there too. Yoongi had been so easily swept up in the tide with the others but with you everything feels different. What is love without understanding? What good does mutually assured destruction do when walking away would hurt Yoongi just as much. He’s not a good person- he knows that. But somehow- leaving you here would be the worst thing Yoongi’s ever done.

Although Yoongi has never been someone to subscribe to traditional gender roles; He’s never felt more like he could give you it. He could be your protector. He already has been these last few months. It’s intoxicating. He could be that man for you.

With the others, part of him has always known that he was never meant to stay. There was always suspicion in every look they gave. Beta’s are mercurial, the whole world knows they’re never meant to belong to one person. But you look at him like none of that matters. Like he’s just himself. Like he’s just Yoongi.

Maybe he understands a little too well, why Geumjae wants to keep you all for himself.

“I’d leave you sticky notes on the refrigerator tell you that I love you every time I had to leave, I’d never- ever let you be cold.” His voice breaks on the last word. “And I’d show you my pack.”

You swallow thickly at his promises. Yoongi watches the bob of your throat. He hopes to a god he doesn’t believe him that they’re not empty ones. You turn your face up to his, begging wordlessly for more.

You’ve never forgotten that there’s someone else for Yoongi (there almost always is for beta’s) several someone’s else’s who have Yoongi’s attention the way you do.

You’re not jealous of them, his pack. Those faceless people that Yoongi loves. If anything you’re only curious. You know how the family treats outsiders. If Yoongi loves 6 other people enough to put everything on the line for them, then they must be something special. The little bits and pieces he’s told you can’t have done them justice.

You sink into Yoongi’s arms as he holds you up without any visible effort. How is it that someone like Yoongi wants you? You can tell by the way he’s holding you that he feels like he needs you close. It’s so different from the way that Geumjae touches you- half wild with want or lust or rage. Usually with your wrists above your head. Bound by rope if you’re being particularly disobedient. Like your skin is only beautiful with bruises rising to the surface.

Geumjae touches you like you’re something he owns. Watches you like you’re his and only his to watch.He watches you like everything you are and everything you’ll ever be is his to do away with.

You hate it. You hate the way that he watches you. You can always feel his eyes on you. Even now just the memory of how he’s looked at you makes you feel filthy. It makes you feel like there’s something under your skin that can’t be cut or burned or starved out.

Not that you haven’t tried.

But Yoongi feels different, he’s a force of nature. It’s intense but it doesn’t make you intimidated, only calm. Pulse sluggish and eyelashes fluttering as your face tilts up and his tilts down. You wonder how they handle his undivided attention. Those faceless people that probably pull him closer with sweet blushes on their cheeks, Not shove him away. Not like you did the other night.

Intimacy is something you’re afraid of. You worry you might always be a little bit afraid. The last time you gave this away so freely you found yourself shackled to a monster.

You wish you’d never run away that other night.

Whatever you’re imagining in your head about his pack- you know the reality of the people Yoongi loves must be better. He’s not the kind of man who would settle for someone the way you’ve settled for Geumjae.

“What are they like? What’s it like to have a pack?” What’s it like to be loved? To be taken care of? I need a hint of it, just a little bit before I go, so that I understand. So that I can give up.

Yoongi tries not to let himself get misty-eyed thinking about them, temporarily distracted from your desolation. On the top of the world and beneath it, fingers brushing your cold forearms under the sleeves of your jacket. The touch hidden but so good it nearly burns.

“It’s- being loved is so-” he trails off, reminding himself that what he’s saying isn’t for himself- but you. What do you want to hear? What do you need to hear too damn this all and run away with him?

“It’s everything.”

The more you believe what’s in Yoongi’s eyes, the scarier it gets. Whenever you start to think about what’s been done to you- you get more and more terrified. If Yoongi’s love makes you feel like a person, then Geumjae reduced you to so much less than that. An object. A thing.

You don’t know if you can come back from that. You have only one thought as Yoongi starts to describe it:

I want more.

"Having a pack- it’s like having a family but better. It’s not just love, although that’s part of it-It’s having everyone there- all the time they’re just there and you’re never alone. I hadn’t felt lonely in years before I came here. Everything gets less lonely and more fun like- even going to the grocery store becomes the best time. Every time is the best time with them. And it doesn’t even feel tiring; even when you want to sleep, you’d rather stay up with them.”

He’s pulled away from you a little, lost in his musings and memories. Enough that a cold breeze can worm it’s way between the two of you. His big palms on your forearms. You don’t mind him touching you. Yoongi never touches you like he wants more, it’s like it’s never a second thought. Does he know how special it is to you? Being touched like this without intent Violent or otherwise? Your body is trembling, anticipating it anyway. But you stare at him as he talks. As he smiles. His short description is hardly enough to explain why he loves 6 people so much that he’d give up anything just to see it again or why he’s still fucking here.

Some things, you just have to experience.

He’d give up anything, anything but not you.

No. Yoongi decides right then and there that he will never give up on you. Maybe because deep down- Yoongi knows to the others he’s hardly a necessity. Yoongi knows that eventually; the others will be fine. They’ll grow past this if they haven’t already. They all have their primary partners and Yoongi has nobody. He’s no one’s first choice. Seokjin has Namjoon and Tae has Jimin. The only person that truly need him even half as much as you do is Jungkook and even then, proper medication might make Yoongi obsolete one day. What an ache it is to be needed.

The only outlier is Hoseok.

But Yoongi had done a good job of bringing him into the pack’s orbit, where he could be under the care and pressure of Jin and Namjoon. It still leaves a bitter taste at the back of his throat that tells of lost time. Growing older alone when you should have grown older with someone (It’s only been 4 months- but 4 months can feel like an eternity when you’re 28). Realistically, Hoseok was never going to end up mated to Yoongi, since beta’s don’t mate.

The pack have got each other, but you’ve got no one but him.

You’re meant to be in their pack. Yoongi can feel it in his blood. Maybe it’s something instinctual- a precursor to biological compatibility that has him feeling a little drunk on your happy scent. You have a similar scent profile to the rest of the pack. A sweet, food-oriented scent. You belong in Yoongi’s bakery too, he’s sure you must be the keystone to it. Yoongi is talking himself into it.

What would you smell like mixed with Hobi’s caramel? Would you be Caramel cakes or more flan? Wrapped up with Taehyung’s simple spice- Would it get gooey like cinnamon rolls or more like carrot cake? You’d be all coffeecake with Namjoon, a simple Vanilla cake with Jimin, angel food cake with whipped cream to Seokjin’s sweet milk. Those honey cakes you made the other day might be the best match for your and Jungkook’s combined scents.

I want more.

Yoongi has a feeling that you could spend days trying to put your scents into baked creations. And he’d savor each of them. It might take a lifetime of trying to get it right. But Yoongi would like to help you get that. A lifetime. No pain. No sleepless nights where you go small. Yoongi wants that for you. He wants to see it.

I want more. I want more. I want more.

More.

“It sounds so beautiful.” You rest your cheek against his chest. Unworried about your makeup rubbing off and sticking to the silky fabric. His fingers skim over the fabric on your sides, under the jacket, palms covering the gaps to keep you warm. Each of the tiny crystals feels like a bubble against his skin.

Yoongi holds you like you might be a piece of it, the last bit of his pack that he hadn’t known he’d been missing. Your scent turns, fading the longer he holds you. He holds you closer in reply, slipping again. Going back to the rain, the cake melting through his fingers.

You don’t look as sad as you smell when you smile up at him. Tears dance in the corner of your eyes and Yoongi’s hand is already prepared to wipe them away when it looks like they’re about to fall.

“Get back to them safe alright?”

Yoongi’s heart plummets. He doesn’t ask after the darkness in your eyes, he doesn’t say anything because this sort of sadness needs actions and not words to solve. The tears that drift down your cheek find a home in his palm and then his lips as he leans close. One kiss to your cheek, one to your temple. Between your eyes. It doesn’t work, you only cry more. Shoulders trembling.

What is a bucket to a hurricane? A cup of water to a tidal wave. Sadness always did have a way of sticking. Yoongi would empty the ocean handful by handful if he thought it would make you happy.

Yoongi just pulls you in tighter to his chest as you cry and cry. He gives you minutes like that, swaying to the music softly. The night is winding down. It’s not midnight yet but soon.

When he looks up to the balcony. He’s not surprised to find Geumjae standing there. His palms pressed flat the the balcony watching both of you.

Yoongi doesn’t know how long he’s been watching but it doesn’t matter. Anything he’s seen is enough to damn you both. Yoongi keeps his gaze as he clutches you tighter. You fit perfectly under Yoongi’s chin; your whole body fits perfectly against his. Just a little shorter and smaller than him. Just enough that he’s comfortingly large and not looming like his older brother. His body a castle and not a cage for you to find safe haven in.

Yoongi stares Geumjae down as he rubs his chin along the top of your head, scenting you, marking you. Everyone inside will be able to tell that you’ve stood close like this. That you are protected by the family beta. It’s a clear challenge to Geumjae and Yoongi sees his nostrils flare and his fists tighten.

The rage in Yoongi’s body is not for you. Geumjae on the other hand, Yoongi would do more than shout and kick and scream. He wants his brother’s blood on his hands. He wants to hurt Geumjae the way he’s hurt you.

Yoongi’s starting to believe that you should have never been Geumjae’s to begin with. And who could deny him? Who would? No matter the ring on your finger you will be Yoongi’s one day. Something feral and bloodthirsty swallows him as he stares at his demon of an older brother.

Yoongi has the same blood in his veins as Geumjae, both of them raised on the same poison. He’s a demon too, Yoongi just has to feed it.

You don’t see Geumjae, you just nuzzle into Yoongi’s throat, trying to dispel his saltwater scent and ease away his unhappiness like he’s trying to get rid of yours.

Your voice is soft as you laugh lightly, wiping away a tear that’s dripped down the end of your nose. It rings clear across the quiet garden. The music inside fading. Geumjae goes so still Yoongi feels his first trickle of fear.

“It’s funny- you’re so good at helping, you’ve been trying to make sure as little blood gets spilled as possible. The family- me- everyone. You just want to help them but you don’t want the power at all do you?”

Deep in the garden, the music doesn’t play. The snow doesn’t fall. Even the roses hold their breath and stay still. You stand there in Yoongi’s arms while Geumjae leans in to hear your every word. Neither of them moves yet. Two predators staring each other down waiting for fight or flight to flip it’s coin. Anger a hair trigger away from becoming violence.

You laugh again sadly, unaware of just quiet how in danger you are. Yoongi’s pulse climbs higher and higher.

“You should be the next Don, Yoongi.”

Yoongi doesn’t respond. Still staring Geumjae down. His hands going from possessive to protective in a second, you notice the shift to his posture. The silence stretches for a moment. And Yoongi’s heart is beating so fast he can feel it in his hands. Taste blood already on the back of his throat. You look up at him, but he doesn’t look down at you.

Yoongi watches, in slow motion, as you turn.

Before you can even recoil Yoongi is already dragging you away and through the garden. Past the roses, past the fountain. Geumjae near vaulting down the steps, black leather shoes tapping out a quick beat. Half carrying you through the garden as fast as he can. There’s an exit on the other side- Yoongi remembers seeing it.

Your dash is mad and driven entirely by instinct. White gravel scatters like loose teeth from your fast footsteps. Crunching underfoot.

Geumjae shouts your name but neither of you pay it any mind.

It’s probably stupid for Yoongi to think he could steal you away like this- without any prior planning. But he’s drunk enough on love to try. Maybe you should have taken that advice from Geumjae because love has made both of you so fucking stupid. Really this is ridiculous. I can’t even believe I’m writing this.

You can hear the thunder of Geumjae’s feet when stone becomes tile. His enraged roar that bounces around your head. It’s silly, if either of you had a gun this would be over in a second. You pause for precious seconds to kick off your high heels, running, just as fast as Yoongi is or trying to. “Go! Don’t stop- through here.” Yoongi will never let go of your hand. Dragging you up and taking some of your weight, urging you to go faster. One hand on your palm, the other behind your shoulders pushing you so fast that you stumble.

You only make it to the entryway. Just before the steps start.

You sink into the warmth of the lit passageway like a frog sinks into a not yet boiling pot. Nearly out to the front of the mansion before he finally catches up to you. Faster and stronger than both of you. An alpha chasing after a beta and an omega. An alpha Hunting its prey.

Geumjae grabs you by your hair and pulls you clean off your feet in the empty entryway. You feel the pins in your hair pull and several strands rip away from your skull with a bright lance of pain. Several valets and attendants move from the open doors, not quick enough in their surprise. The photographers thankfully retired for the night. Their hands hover outreached and worried but they can’t interfere. Geumjae doesn’t care about making a scene. Yoongi whirls around, trying to step between the two of you too late.

As much as he’s seen violence, Yoongi has so rarely had the rage to act. It’s intoxicating. Just a little.

Your yelp of pain lights something dark in Yoongi’s heart. Geumjae pulls you by your hair, you kick, trying to keep your feet under you. He wants to hurt Geumjae for that. The shock on his face when Yoongi reverses course and connects his fist with his face is something Yoongi will savor forever. It’s almost worth the pain in his hand, he shakes it as the fury ricochets, and Geumjae spits blood onto the floor. Yoongi’s knuckles are bloody. Geumjae’s nose is bleeding. Yoongi grins, you’re behind him.

Geumjae raises his fist, Yoongi smiles, cocks an eyebrow, and Geumjae lowers it.

“No one makes my wife laugh but me,” And oh, Yoongi realizes it just then; Geumjae still thinks that this is a love story.

(Don’t you know better by now? Or do you still think this will have a happy ending too? I’ll promise you one, but you’ll have to earn it.)

“Oh really, you’re sure?” Yoongi tries to goad him into it. Geumjae can hurt you all he wants, but if he points the barrel of a gun even slightly in his direction the entire family will be out for his blood, and they both know it.

But fuck it. Yoongi doesn’t want to wait for it.

Yoongi was never taught to fight with the same dogmatism that Geumjae was but he gives it his all. Swings and hits and hits, as feral as he is desperate. He doesn’t go down when Geumjae lands one punch to his stomach. After so many weeks swallowing down his anger and not fighting back for you this feels like divine intervention.

You yell, “stop!” and Yoongi gets a hit for following your orders. Disobeying them after the next. Blood fills Yoongi’s mouth for the first time tonight (and it will fill twice more.) as Geumjae’s fist connects with the side of his jaw. Once, twice, again. Until Yoongi thinks he might be passing out.

“You’re going to kill him! Jae! Stop-” your husband has never stopped when you’ve asked. Not once. Your hands wrap your husband’s waist, trying to drag him away from Yoongi. One of Geumjae’s elbows hits your temple and you go down like a stone. Knocked out cold. Yoongi sees it happen and lunges to try and catch you. But another pair of hands is there to catch you before you hit the floor.

It's Moonbyul, and Hyejin’s not far behind.

Moonbyul is surprisingly strong for a woman, even for an alpha. She shoves Geumjae and Yoongi apart, catching Geumjae’s fist before it has the opportunity to collide with Yoongi’s face again. Maybe it’s just because she’s just so tall.

Yoongi’s dizzy. Grips the edge of a marble column to stay standing while he catches his breath. He knows his face must look absolutely fucked. Especially from how the attendants are looking at him.

Hyejin drags you away. Pushing you to the wall and putting her body between yours and your husband. She turns around and hisses.

Moonbyul shoves Geumjae away hard enough that he hits the wall with a crack, leaving an impression in the plaster. He tries to lunge for you again and she kicks his knees out from under him in a motion that’s as brutal and trained as any action movie hero.

Yoongi hears the crack of something. Geumjae’s leg trembles and he drops to one knee.

Geumjae and Moonbyul might have both been trained as all alphas in the family are. But it’s clear she’s retained much more of those skills than he has.

“Enough!” she barks, she stands between the two of them. Yoongi wipes the blood from his face. It leaves a red ring around his wrist, like rust around the end of a drain pipe. Geumjae gets up on shaking feet, and Yoongi laughs at the fact that his legs look about ready to give out. She did damage. Moonbyul is Geumjae’s height and twice as dangerous with her sharpened teeth bared.

Hyejin holds you on the floor as you start to come too. She whispers soothing words to you. Crouched over you protectively. Hair wiped from your temple. Yoongi’s not surprised; he’s seen the fond looks Hyejin has shot you at dinners. Omegas tend to stick together.

Moonbyul is the sole alpha in her pack. She’d once claimed she would never trade her little nest of omega’s not for their equivalent weight in jewels. But if her omega’s interest in you is anything possessive, they’ll have to go through Yoongi to have you. He doesn’t have time for another group vying for your attention. Geumjae is the more prescient threat.

Moonbyul shoves Geumjae back when he continues, stalking in Yoongi’s direction. Blinded by rage.

“It’s not midnight yet. Don’t make me do something I’ll regret.” She reminds him. Geumjae stills, but then decides doesn’t care, lunging. Blind with rage.

Moonbyul rewards him with a kick between his legs. Yoongi laughs. Tries to lung himself and gets the same treatment.

While they’re still…collecting their thoughts. Kneeling on the floor, hands covering tender objects. Moonbyul helps you and Hyejin stand, putting both of you behind her. Yoongi’s scared for a second before you reach for him. Hyejin lets Yoongi go to you, Moonbyul only twitches but lets him put his body between you and Geumjae again. Single minded through the pain between his legs. Yoongi’s pain tolerance might have always been shit, but it’s still better than Geumjae’s. He’s still on the floor.

Yoongi laughs again, blood drips down his chin, Tongue pushing through the bit part of his cheek.

“I don’t know what this is about- but you need to cool off. They’re coming with us.”

It feels too easy, Geumjae snarls loudly but no one pays his useless show of aggression any mind. Yoongi and her mate pull you to your feet and the three of them lead you unsteadily outside. “I’m fine I’m fine just dizzy.” Moonbyul’s hand presses with long nails between your shoulder blades, Hyejin’s lower on the middle of your back, Yoongi on the small of it, casting an anxious but piercing glance back in the direction of Geumjae. Standing there in the lit-up columns silhouetted.

He stops at the top of the stairs. One of the valets hands Moonbyul her keys. Hyejin dips down to say something to you so softly that Yoongi can’t hear it. Still staring back and at Geumjae, making sure that he doesn’t follow you down the stairs.

The valets know not to ask questions, they look relieved that this fight is being taken out of their hands. Out of sight and out of mind. Yoongi resists the urge to flip him off as Moonbyul’s flashy pink sportscar car pulls away.

Moonbyul guns it before you’ve even truly settled with Yoongi in the backseat. You slump into Yoongi’s side and he pulls you nearly into his lap. Tucking you back where you belong under his chin. “I’m sorry- I’m sorry Yoongi- he’s going to- you have to”

“Shh” he rubs a hand down the small of your back, fingers drumming against your spine. “None of that now.”

Yoongi see’s Moonbyul eyes hovering on the two of you in the rearview mirror. Her gaze flickers away. Moonbyul runs her hands through her hair, reaching to get a hand on her omegas knee. Hyejin looks up at her from the passenger seat. You tilt your face up, watching the touch. Keeping your eyes on her hands.

It’s funny. Yoongi’s only ever seen you watch Geumjae’s hands that way before.

Moonbyul looks from you to Yoongi. So quick that Yoongi almost misses it. Almost. “We can’t interfere any more than we already have, there’s still an hour till midnight. With any luck, no one will notice either of us have drawn blood.” Oh right, the rules, the succession. Yoongi had almost forgotten through his terror for you and the satisfaction of finally putting Geumjae in his place.

“Where do you want us to take you?”

Yoongi keeps his hand on the side of your head soothing the bruise there no matter how much you insist you’re fine. Yoongi barely acknowledges the ache in his stomach from one of Geumjae’s punches. The ache between his legs feels far away.

No blood can be shed at the beta’s residence. It’s an easy choice to make since it would be suicide for Geumjae to try and hurt you both there. Honestly- the families would probably love to have one of the contenders for Don taken out by such a basic rule.

It’s times like this that Yoongi remembers that the gang really isn’t anything more than several criminal organizations that decided to Parle a few generations ago and haven’t fully integrated yet. All of this, all of the politeness is the only thing that keeps war from breaking out outright.

Moonbyul pulls into the narrow alleyway carefully. Her mate walks you inside, keeping you supported with one arm under your shoulders. Yoongi makes to follow but Moonbyul grabs him by the back of his collar.

“You owe me an explanation after I just stuck my neck out for you. Give them a second. Hyejin will get her sorted.” She commands. And Yoongi gets back into the car, the front seat this time, after a second. Yoongi watches you head inside in the rearview mirror. Watches Hyejin put the lights on like she knows where they are. Watches her set you down at the kitchen table through the window before she shuts the blinds.

Moonbyul turns the car around, facing the entrance to the house, backed up close so that they can see anyone who might try and enter. Moonbyul let the car idle, the v8 a low purr. She drums her hands on the steering wheel and waits for Yoongi to explain.

She finally gets frustrated enough to speak after the fifth minute when he remains stalwartly silent.

“I thought betas were supposed to be smart or something- that you’re supposed to not let love and hormones get in the way you know. Are you just dumb or is it really true that beta’s just as stupid as the rest of us?”

Yoongi laughs ruefully, rubbing away the ache in his jaw. He can already feel it bruising. One of his teeth in the back feels sharp. Like Geumjae chipped it when he hit him. “Unfortunately, we’re just as likely to make mistakes as anyone.”

“Is she a mistake?”

“No. Never.” For what it’s worth Yoongi’s answer is instant. His face tightens at the simple suggestion. “The only mistake I’ve ever made was letting my brother live this long and letting him think he could be Don.”

Yoongi sees her jaw untense, but she doesn’t ask the question that he knows she’s been wanting to. She keeps her own personal stake in this a secret, hidden for what moment he doesn’t know. Yoongi knows she won’t ask for the position until she feels like she’s got enough of a barging chip.

He eyes the clock on the dashboard. It’s 11:31. Yoongi only has till midnight.

“I’m sorry for kicking you in the balls.”

Yoongi shrugs, “I sort of deserved it.”

“Sort of?”

Yoongi can’t stop his smile, even though his whole body aches. Getting beat up sucks. Yoongi’s not as surprised this time.

Yoongi knows that Moonbyul wants the power that comes with the title of Don. And what’s more- he thinks she’d be good at it. At least she knows when to listen to you- a member of the family that might be unimportant at first glance. She doesn’t ask yet, even though she could right now. Yoongi might even give it to her just to piss of Geumjae.

Her voice is flat and she gives nothing away when she asks, “What are you going to do?”

“Barter the Don position for her life? Run and hope we make it? Kill my brother? Fuck if I know.” But even saying it, Yoongi knows he won’t run. That he can’t. There’s only one place that Geumjae will go if he takes you and leaves and two lives don’t equal six. Yoongi isn’t a fool.

His only option is to kill Geumjae. Yoongi realized it the second he saw him standing there on the balcony.

But even then, the family doesn’t take kindly to outsiders that aren’t mated. Your marriage means nothing. You’ll be a loose end then, an omega that knows too much. If Yoongi kills Geumjae, your life still hangs in the balance.

But he can consider that later.

For a moment, just a moment. Yoongi closes his eyes and thinks home. Of them, of going back to Jin and Namjoon and Hobi and Jungkook and Tae and Jiminie and taking you with him. The dream tastes like sugar and damnation. Sweet and yet impossible.

When he opens his eyes, the clock on the dashboard reads 11:32.

Moonbyul nods like the plan makes sense, even though it’s barely a plan at all.

“I could make you a deal.”

“No thanks. I know what you cost.”

Moonbyul laughs, rubbing her bottom lip with a finger. “Smart man.”

They’ve been out here for a long time and Yoongi wants to go inside and see what you’re doing. He saw the lights flicker on but not much else inside the house. Hopefully, you’re getting cozy in Yoongi’s bed and he can fulfill one of his many fantasies and get to fall asleep next to you. Tomorrow morning maybe. He’ll summon the heads of house and tell them who he’s chosen. He’ll stay a little longer and figure out some other way to manipulate you away from Geumjae.

Maybe he’ll get to protect you while you sleep tonight, curled up against his chest, maybe you’ll finally feel comfortable enough to nest.

Nesting is a biological behavior that only omega’s exhibit, the simple act of accumulating scented objects to appease an omega’s innate desire for comfort. It’s emotionally pleasing for both alpha’s and beta’s too- A sign that an omega trusts you. It’s a different more pack like sort of intimacy. Most omega’s nest on beds, some like the floor, some like pillows piled in deep walls around a shallow center. Yoongi would give you all of his clothes and anything you might need for it and wait for you to invite him in. He wonders what yours looks like back home in Geumjae’s house.

He’ll be there to push away any nightmares that might strike you with warm hands and soft presses to wake you. And in the morning, he could wake you up with gentle breaths and touches. With breakfast and coffee maybe. And you could decide what you want to do. If you want to stay with him there forever. Or if you want to try and go home with him.

It’s a pipe dream; it’s all a pipe dream. And still, Yoongi wants it. He wants more so bad for a second, he doesn’t even read Moonbyul’s look. Discerning. The way she fiddles with the keys to the car still on. “But still, this favor comes free of charge, If you need me- just-” She breaks off, eyes flickering down at the side mirror.

Moonbyul kicks the door open so fast that Yoongi hardly realizes what’s happen. Yoongi’s spell breaks at the sight of a gun as she rips it out of her lapel with a flash of custom pink detailing. Of course, she has a fucking pink gun.

Yoongi gets out of the car prepared to duck below the chassis to avoid gunfire. But there’s no one here, no one at all but Moonbyul is hauling ass up towards the house. Up the stone path, to someone standing in the doorway with their hand to their head.

The light’s out in the main room of the cottage.

“What the fuck?”

Hyejin is standing at the door. Blood dripping down her nose. Wiping at it. Moonbyul glances behind her, and puts her gun away. Whipping out a red handkerchief to hand her, keeping the blood from getting on her already red dress.

A growl rips out of Moonbyul’s chest, loud, demanding without words that Hyejin explain Yoongi cranes his neck, but the house is empty- you’re gone. He shoves past the two of them, going to his bedroom- empty. Just the way he left it, The bathroom- also vacant, whirling.

The window out the kitchen is open. Letting in the cool nighttime breeze from outside.

“She didn’t mean to push me- I just tripped and-” And Yoongi breathes deep as Moonbyul angry scent dissipates. Weirdly- the alpha smells kind of like Coca-Cola when she’s angry her peppermint going sweet and medicinal, almost artificial.

Both Yoongi and Moonbyul ignore Hyejin’s lie. It’s better for the four of you if this goes unaddressed. The rules say that no blood can be spilled here in the beta meeting grounds; the Eden in this life of violence and bloodshed. You’ve spilled blood here on this sacred place. Somehow you have broken this rule, however unintentionally.

Yoongi knows you didn’t mean to hurt her- you couldn’t have meant it. You wouldn’t hurt a fly. But no one needs to know.

“She got a text from Geumjae and tried to get the phone from her. I don’t know how long I was down.” Yoongi’s kicking himself for the way they were parked; you probably sneaked out just behind them. Walking towards the open window. You’ve got too much of a head start but Yoongi knows where you’re headed. He finds your phone in the grass, just outside.

It’s completely shattered, the screen frozen and winking dully, but Yoongi would know the picture on it anywhere.

Yoongi hasn’t seen the pack’s faces for 4 months, not since his phone got broken, stollen, shot through (what have you). It’s a grainy cellphone picture but Yoongi recognizes it instantly.

On your phone is a picture of a picture. A photo in a frame; one that Yoongi knows for sure is still halfway across the country and on the mantle at the pack’s apartment. A picture of the seven of them all together just after they’d officially become a pack. At the beach, the 7 of them.

The alphas are on one side of Yoongi and the omegas on the other, Jin with his head stacked on top of Yoongi’s at the center. Yoongi has never shown you a picture of them, but you’re smart. Yoongi knows you’d be able to figure out who the people in the photo are and more importantly what they mean to him.

Below the picture is just one simple text.

Husband (11:39pm): You or them.

~-~

(Read the first Version of this story Here)

Notes:

reading yoongi's internal monologue where he's like thinking that the m/c is the one that understands him- really ties into later in the story when hoseok is actually the only person who understands her properly and their bond. i truly think that yoongi a. deserves to feel a little bit alone. and b. was worth the devastation he felt.

the whole dance scene is really a refrence to twilight tbh

the scene where yoongi is like 'he's no one's first choice," yoongi is being an unreliable narrator here and trying to justify staying and saving the m/c because he would be hobi's first choice.

i really like the line where yoongi is saying he decides to be brave because yeah, he is deciding.

i love their short quick dialouge, its like so- new relationship? like idk how to describe it but it shows how much they know each other and how comfortable they are with each other- i think it stands out from the rest of the dialogue in the last chapter in a really fun way like- it's so informal and without finess and i think it really pairs well with how stripped down they feel.

hmmmm i added the 'more' bits but- maybe i'll end up taking them out? on second glance i'm not sure how well they'll fit.

72 notes · View notes

melodichaeuxx-lacritquexx · 27 days ago

Text

BE MINE

Epilogue

💜Fic Pairing: BTS Member x OFC

💜AU/Genre: Dark Romance | Demon Member

💜Warnings: (for entire work; not chapter specific) Mental Illnesses/Troubled Childhood/Alcoholic Parent/Mentions of Domestic Violence/Physical Violence/Stalking/Gore/Mentions of Blood/Sexist Remarks/Derogatory Remarks/Detailed Murder/Murder of an Animal/Language/Adult Themes/Sexual Themes/Mind Control/Telepathy (invading thoughts w/o permission)/Fingering/Masturbation/Manipulation/Alluding at Drug Usage

💜Rating: MA

💜Word Count: 8.806

Epilogue

Five Years Later

“Is it too salty, Ma?” Kamryn asked, holding the spoon steady as her mother-in-law tasted the soup she was preparing.

“N-no. It’s-s good.”

Kamryn had suggested her mother-in-law move in with them a couple of years after they married, and she couldn’t be happier about it. While having that conversation, it was the fourth time she’d seen Jimin cry—overjoyed by the generosity of his wife, offering something most newlyweds would never consider. And the transition seemed to be the best for everyone. Toni’s condition had improved drastically as she was no longer bound to a wheelchair—able to get around slowly with a walker. The doctor said that her recovery was miraculous, and the fact that she was able to speak after decades of being nonverbal was unheard of. Nothing against the doctors, but they were only looking at her physical condition. Kamryn knew it was more than that. It was spiritual. She had prayed Toni would begin to heal after the tie to Jimin’s father was severed—and she did. There was no coincidence that she was able to speak for the first time in years only days after his death.

Even with her progress, Jimin and Kamryn agreed that hiring Ashley—one of her former aides at the nursing home—would be best. She came by daily to help out with bathtime, speech therapy, and physical therapy—basically, what she was doing at the facility, just on a more personal level now.

Jimin was able to afford not only his mother’s care, but the cars and the extravagant house he’d purchased for Kamryn as a wedding gift from his many business ventures. The advice Taehyung’s father had given him—the day Jimin decided, for the first time, against manipulation—had been a tremendous help. He and Taehyung had even worked on several projects together and made one hell of a team—both in and outside of the office. Jimin found it was easy to build a friendship with him and valued their connection.

Another project they had worked on together, in secret, was building their girls’ dream homes right next door to each other. He and Kamryn had even attended the newlyweds’ housewarming, neither woman knowing that they would be moving in next door. It wasn’t until a year later that Jimin and Kamryn married and he surprised her with their new home.

“Okay,” Kamryn said, putting a lid on the pot and setting the flame to low. “The food should be done in about thirty more minutes. Would you like a snack to hold you until Ashley gets here?”

Jimin’s mother shook her head.

“Need t-to s-sit,” she suggested, offering the seat on her walker.

“Oh, Ma.” Kamryn smiled, placing both hands over her heart. “Why are you so sweet?” She tucked salt and pepper hair behind the woman’s ear. “I’m fine. I promise. But, thank you.”

Toni smiled adoringly at her daughter-in-law. She had loved her from the moment she’d first laid eyes on her. There was something different about that day that made her feel ready to try speaking. When Kamryn and Jimin met her in the courtyard under her favorite tree, Jimin kissed her hand and introduced Kamryn as his girlfriend.

“Hi, Ms. Toni. It’s so nice to finally meet you,” Kamryn had said.

“H– H–” Toni attempted, and Jimin’s eyes widened in shock. He immediately called for Ashley, who was not far from where they stood. Kamryn was unsure what was happening, even though she recalled Jimin telling her that his mother was nonverbal. She didn’t understand the magnitude of the moment, but her heart pounded as she kept eye contact with the woman.

“Hi,” Kamryn repeated, kneeling in front of her wheelchair, taking her hands in hers. When she smiled, it brought tears to Toni’s eyes. There was something about her, something so good, so warm—something Toni had not seen in forever. Something she was never able to give to Jimin. Kamryn was like a breath of fresh air, and Toni inhaled deeply, taking her in and allowing her to fill her lungs.

“H– Hi,” Toni repeated barely above a whisper, over-pronouncing the word, and Kamryn’s smile grew even wider.

It was as if Kamryn had hand-delivered a prophecy, wrapped in courage and determination just for her.

Ashley arrived moments later. Kamryn invited her to stay for dinner before she left, assisting Toni to her first-floor bedroom. Kamryn scooped some of the soup and some rice into tupperware containers, then left the house to meet up with Mariah. Kamryn beamed when she saw her friend approaching and appreciated the cool breeze as they waddled closer to each other. The two waved, already talking before they could reach each other.

“Oooooh, bitch. The hair is hairing today!” Mariah squealed in a girlish tone before hugging Kamryn. “What did you bring me today? It smells so good.” Her light brown eyes seemed to shine from anticipation.

Poor Mariah was thirty-five weeks pregnant and was still having morning sickness. It was strange—she could hardly keep food down. Kamryn had become concerned as it was like watching her friend wither away, so she tried cooking foods she loved. Thankfully, any dish Kamryn brought for her seemed even more delicious than the last. So, the women started meeting daily on the plush lawn between their two houses to chat and exchange dinner.

“I made that veggie soup you and Tae love.”

“Stop calling it veggie soup,” she teased. “It has ground turkey in it.”

“Okay, and? It still has hella veggies,” Kamryn said, chuckling. When Mariah took the tupperware, Kamryn took the opportunity to rub her friend’s tight belly. “How was your appointment today?” Leaning down, she spoke to her baby bump. “Hey, my Buddy Boy. Are you being nice to mommy?”

“Girl, I’m ready so for this to be over,” Mariah admitted, rubbing the other side of her belly with her free hand. “The appointment went well. He is doing great, getting bigger and heavier,” she said with a sigh, “and thanks to your cooking, I’ve gained some weight, too. And I am not getting sick as often. But now sleeping is a struggle. I’m so fucking tired, Best,” she said with a sigh, addressing Kamryn by the nickname they used for each other—short for bestfriend.

“Awww, babe,” Kamryn said, standing back to her full height. “Is your back still hurting? Is the body pillow I got you not helping?”

“Yeah. The pillow helps, but when the pain hits, it’s horrible. I only get relief when Tae puts his finger in a specific spot on my back and presses down. The doctor thinks the baby may be sitting on a nerve.” Mariah informed her, still rubbing her round stomach while Kamryn stood with her hands on her lower back. Both women stood in familiar pregnant woman stances. “All I can do is take Tylenol, which doesn’t seem to do much. You know I have a tea blend for neuropathy, but I don’t want to take the risk of some of the herbs being harmful for little man.”

Caring for Jimin after what happened with his father seemed to only catapult Mariah into her calling. Researching herbs to heal his wounds and manage his fever while also curating other blends for holistic healing only stoked the flame that was already ablaze in her spirit. Shortly after, she launched Rooted Grace, where she sold her herbal blends that supported the body through illnesses, ailments, or just everyday symptoms. She’d even made one for her painful periods and had one ready for her and Kamryn’s postpartum recovery.

“I’m sorry, babe. I hate that you’ve been suffering, but you know I’ll do anything to help. I’ll even finger you when Tae is not home,” Kamryn said with a devilish grin as she playfully moved toward Mariah, wiggling her eyebrows. It was the fastest Mariah had moved in weeks, nearly dropping the food.

“Eww,” Mariah shrieked. “Not when you offer like that.” After composing herself, she continued to feign disgust but shifted her body to the side, allowing Kamryn’s touch and nodding her head when she found the spot. Mariah seemed to melt under her friend’s fingers—instantly relieved. “Why are you like this?” she muttered as her eyes fell shut.

“Because you love it.”

“I do.” She sighed a satisfied breath. “But, enough about me. How is Little Miss doing?” she asked without opening her eyes.

“She’s good—getting heavy so I’m peeing every couple of minutes,” Kamryn exaggerated. “But, thankfully, she’s been pretty chill so far. I pray things stay this way,” she said while massaging Mariah’s magic spot with her index and middle fingers. Only two months behind Mariah, Kamryn had just entered her third trimester and had had a pretty easy pregnancy so far.

“I pray they do too. Are your ankles still swelling?”

Mariah pulled at Kamryn’s dress, trying to get a better look at her.

“A little bit,” Kamryn admitted, kicking her foot up so that she could see them herself.

“They have gone down a lot though,” Mariah said with a satisfactory tone. “I know you’re tired of going to the restroom as babygirl is getting bigger, but you gotta keep drinking plenty of water. Cut back on the salt, try to stay off your feet as much as possible, and keep them elevated when you’re resting.” She released the dress to fall back down over Kamryn’s ankles.

“Yes, mom,” Kamryn joked while nodding her head, and Mariah smiled uneasily. She clutched the food with one arm and took Kamryn’s free hand, as if her touch would lessen the blow of her next question.

“Speaking of—Have you talked to your mom?”

Kamryn’s massaging hand halted for a fraction of a second, and her whole body seemed to tense up. At this point in their relationship, Kamryn had completely washed her hands of her mother. The last time they spoke, Kamryn had been so excited she decided to tell her she was getting married.

“I can’t believe someone wants to marry your difficult ass. It won’t last long. Mark my words—you’ll do something to fuck up like you always do. I won’t be surprised when he sees past your little sweet girl act, realizing the bitch you truly are,” her mother had told her. She was a horrid woman, but had gotten progressively worse after she and Kamryn’s father finally divorced.

“You will not speak that negativity over me. And you will not speak to me that way—not anymore,” Kamryn had said through gritted teeth. It took everything in her not to bring up that her mother’s difficult personality was the reason she and her father didn’t work out—and why Kamryn had gone minimal contact with her years ago. She wanted so badly to throw that in her face—to call out her bitterness and resentment, but she decided to take the high road. “As a matter of fact,” she paused for a moment before continuing, “I think it’s best that we not speak at all. I pray you receive everything you deserve. Goodbye, mom.”

Even though her father didn’t walk her down the aisle at her wedding—they weren’t there yet—she did, at least, invite him. They were still navigating their relationship with respect and healthy boundaries in place. He’d even sent packages full of baby clothes and necessities they would need. She and Jimin would never have to buy baby wipes with the amount he’d stocked them up with. Even if they shared with Mariah and Taehyung, they’d probably still have wipes left when their daughter started kindergarten.

“No, I haven’t but–” she said, pausing and forcing a weak smile. “But, I’m okay.”

When she’d found out she was pregnant, she had confided in Mariah. Despite how her mom was, she’d hoped this chapter of her life would be different. Somehow, she thought having a child of her own would bring them closer. She daydreamed about calling her mom to ask for advice about her pregnancy ailments or what to do when her child got sick. Never would she ask for parenting advice, but her mother did raise her. Kamryn figured she could at least get advice on medicine or home remedies. Her mother had taken care of her basic needs and kept her alive—surely she had something to offer.

While it did hurt—not having this moment with her mother—she knew going no-contact was the best decision for her and her family. It was a sacrifice she was willing to take.

“Well, I told you my mom has offered to be your stand-in,” Mariah laughed lightly and Kamryn didn’t miss her glossy eyes. “She told me to tell you to call her any time, day or night. She loves you so much.”

“Mrs. Brenda has filled in more times than she’s aware of.” Kamryn felt the lump in her throat and her own eyes beginning to mist. “Tell her thank you and I love her. Between her and Ms. Park, Yuna and I won’t be missing a thing.”

Before the tears that rimmed their lashlines could fall, Taehyung pulled into their driveway, followed by Jimin.

“I see you were able to find the spot,” Taehyung said, coming over to take the food from Mariah and relieve Kamryn’s fingers by pushing his own into the spot. Kamryn clenched and unclenched her hand several times, thankful for the reprieve.

“Hey, gorgeous,” Jimin greeted before kissing Kamryn’s lips, then her cheek, then the top of her head. “You okay?” he asked, noticing the emotions welling in her eyes and she nodded with a smile. He pulled her under his arm and rubbed her belly. “Hey, pretty girl,” he said, leaning slightly toward Kamryn’s belly. His daughter greeted him with a soft kick which made the couple laugh.

The men chatted for a brief moment and had a sidebar conversation about putting a table in the girls’ spot so they wouldn’t have to stand while they chatted. They, then, escorted their pregnant wives back to their respective homes as the sun began to set on the horizon.

After dinner—once Toni was settled and Ashley had left—Jimin finished cleaning the kitchen. When he entered their bedroom, Kamryn had just gotten out of her bath. Jimin kicked himself for taking too long—she was already moisturized and wearing her robe. He would jump at the chance to see her naked, even if it were for the millionth time.

“Did I tell you how cute you look today? Not beautiful. You’re always beautiful,” Jimin corrected, kissing her temple, “but cute? My goodness.” He hugged his wife from behind, leaning down to lift her tummy gently to relieve her of their baby’s weight. Kamryn melted into him, allowing her head to fall back to his shoulder. The temporary relief felt nice, and the fact that he was so attentive to her needs felt even better.

“Oh my God. I love this so much,” Kamryn moaned and Jimin chuckled, planting light kisses on her shoulder and neck. “And you always say I’m cute when my hair is down,” Kamryn said, grabbing her scarf from the countertop to tie her wash-and-go up for the night.

“I love it. It’s just so pretty, and fluffy, and bouncy,” he said, taking the opportunity to pull one of the curls to watch it bounce back before she confined them with the satin fabric. “I hope Yuna has your hair. Hell, I pray she gets everything from you.”

Although it sounded like he was referring to physical features, it was more than that. Because of his ancestry, he had no idea what he would pass to his baby. He hadn’t mentioned it to Kamryn verbally, but his reaction to the news—that she was pregnant—was not ideal. The excitement he was sure she expected was replaced with fear and uncertainty. He tried to play it off like he was surprised—too stunned for words, but she noticed.

He had dragged Kamryn through puddles of his bullshit from day one. If he’d cursed their baby—tainting her blood with his darkness—he wasn’t sure how he’d live with himself. But he was only half demon. That meant that his daughter was less likely to become…like him. Right?

“Don’t say that.” Kamryn turned slowly in his arms to face him. With her hair now up and out of her face, she traced his features with her fingertips. “I don’t think God would bless me with an angel who doesn’t share some of her father’s features.” Soft fingers started at his eyes as she gazed up, head tilted, fully examining him. “These beautiful brown eyes that are so gentle and disappear when he laughs.” She moved further down, “This sweet little button of a nose.” Tracing down the line of his cupid’s bow, she reached his lips. “And these fucking lips. So full and soft.” She whispered the last part, the original conversation lost as she admired him, entranced by his mouth. “And you have a good heart, Jimin.” She placed a hand over his chest. “So many qualities that made me fall in love with you. Our girl is blessed to have a father like you.”

On tiptoes, she reached up to kiss him—gently at first. Then, she sucked his bottom lip into her mouth, licking across its plush fullness. Jimin closed his eyes to contain the tears that threatened to fall from his eyes, quickly deepening the kiss. Besides her words that’d warmed his heart, he’d been falling more in love with Kamryn daily. She was the love of his life and she was carrying his seed. The pregnant version of her body made him crazy—insatiable—wanting to be buried inside of her all the time. And while her libido had increased, it was still a challenge to keep up with him—one that she loved striving to achieve. He pulled her closer while gripping two handfuls of her ass, feeling the firmness of her round belly press into him. With one hand, he caressed the tightly stretched skin on her tummy as his tongue explored her mouth, brushing against hers as he tasted her—creating a perfect tango as their tongues danced.

“Uhm,” Kamryn moaned into his mouth, fingers curling into the fabric of his white button-up as she pulled him closer.

“Need– You,” he murmured between kisses. It was as if the vibration of his deep voice reverberated through her body, down her spine, and straight to her already wet pussy. When his tongue brushed the roof of her mouth, her knees nearly gave way.

“Want you,” she whispered, soft breaths grazing his lips. “So bad.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Please.” Her voice was light, whiny—pulling him closer to the dark.

When he got like this—so needy for her—he had to actively restrain himself. His eyes flickered as he fought internally to calm himself. Sex with Kamryn was amazing, wild, and could get rough, but he had to chill out. Though she had pouted that he was handling her like glass, he couldn’t help himself, not wanting to harm their baby girl. He knew he wasn’t going to poke the top of her head or some shit like that, but he didn’t want to take the chance of hurting either of his girls in any way.

He clenched the bubblegum-pink silk of Kamryn’s robe that covered her butt in his fists, gently directing her from the bathroom to their bedroom. Slowly, he laid his wife onto their bed, pulling her with him as he crawled to the center where the fluffy white duvet swallowed her, surrounding her body like a cloud. Lowering himself to his stomach between her parted legs, he watched her—unblinking and intense. Then, as if unveiling a masterpiece, he parted her robe allowing it to fall open and drape on either side of her. Collecting moisture from between her folds with his thumb, he sucked it into his mouth with a moan. Finally, his eyes left hers slowly, settling on her pussy as he began brushing her clit with his slick thumb. When her tiny moans and whimpers traveled to his ears, he shuddered, clenching his jaw tight.

“I love the little sounds you make for me. I want to hear more—louder. Let me hear you, baby” he said before he disappeared between her thighs. She gasped and moaned loudly when he spread her lower lips with his warm tongue. The warmth of his breath on her skin only seemed to make her wetter. Slurping loudly, he hummed at her taste. “Mmm. You’re so fucking wet! Fuck!” he said breathily. “All this for me?”

Jimin didn’t think he would ever get used to how insanely wet pregnant pussy got. Kamryn was already a strong contender for Aquafina, but this? This was another level.

“Yes, sir,” Kamryn whined. “Always wet, ready, and willing for you.”

Her words made his impossibly hard dick that much harder, and Jimin groaned into her wetness. Jutting his hips slightly, the friction on his dick against the bed, along with the noises she was making, made his skin tingle. He wasn’t sure how long he would last. Unsure if he could refrain long enough to bring her to climax this way. He fought against the need to be inside of her.

But the way Kamryn was feeling, it wouldn’t take long to get her there. She’d had to squeeze her thighs together earlier, just watching as he swaggered across the lawn—those fucking glasses, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, looking like sin personified.

“Kamryn,” he growled, his voice rough. She loved the way he said her name and he knew it, smiling against her pussy when he heard her nails scratching across the covers before gripping the fabric tightly in her hands. The sounds spilling from her throat, her back arched from the bed, and the way her eyes rolled back looked as if she was possessed.

🩷: Do it.

💙: You like that shit, huh?

🩷: Love that shit.

With her command, he knew what she was asking for. She willed him and his demon as she saw fit and he happily served. He stretched his tongue, knowing that a few swipes deep inside of her warmth would tip her over—and it did.

“Mmm, Fuck! Jimin,” she screamed, drawing out the last syllable of his name as she came hard, legs quivering under him. She grinded on his tongue and lips, unabashedly, until her body slowed—thoroughly sated. The extra licks to her overstimulated clit made her body jolt as if lightning had shot throughout her system. Her fingers snaked through his hair before gripping a handful. Tugging at his tresses, she tried to lift his head as tears filled her eyes, her moans still filling the air around them. “Jimin.”

He didn’t think he would be able to resist the urge to dive into her love, but the way she was enjoying his mouth served as excellent motivation. The sting on his scalp as she pulled at his hair only turned him on more. Moving his arms off her thighs, he lifted them higher to rest on his shoulders—careful not to disturb the hold she had on his hair. With her cheeks slightly suspended off the bed, his hands now palmed the sides as he gave her ass a squeeze before moving her hips exactly how he wanted.

“Yes, baby?” he asked tauntingly between licks before dragging his tongue along her slit then dipping back in. He slurped, accepting her sweetness into his mouth before pulling out of her. “Tell me, Kamryn.” Then, he dipped back in, holding her firm to guide her slowly up and down his tongue.

“Oh— Jimin— Please,” she begged.

He pulled out. “Please what? Use your big girl words for me,” he continued to tease. Diving back in, his tongue licking and pressing deeper than any human’s ever could, he captured her clit with his top lip—creating a maddening suction as he ate her from the inside out.

“Please... Please... Please,” she whimpered repeatedly, voice trembling with every violent quake of her body—as if her soul was attempting to escape from her skin—as she came completely undone for him again. She tugged at his hair—harder—and he groaned as her thighs clamped around his head, but he didn’t let up. How could he when the words spilled from her like a reverent prayer, pleading for release? Ask, and it shall be given. “Please,” she begged again, far more strained than before. Her moans broke mid-breath. Her walls fluttered around his tongue, squeezing it as her essence spilled across it. He moaned in response—hungry and honored—as he drank all that she blessed him with. He didn’t need to see her face to know she was crying, but he still knew. He could feel it in his heart and with the way the bed moved in rhythm with the soft sobs that bounced out of her.

Pulling his tongue out, forcing it back to its normal length, and gently returning her legs to the bed, he climbed up her body. Kissing up her belly, her silk-covered breasts, and her neck until he reached her tear-streaked cheeks, he told her, “Look at me baby. Are you okay?” His voice was soft, reassuring.

She opened her eyes, and more tears escaped to travel into her ears. She sobbed softly.

“That felt so fucking good. I don’t know,” she sniffs and stammers, “I don't know why I’m crying.” Still panting and sniffling, she realized it was partly due to her hormones, but also because of the conversation she’d had with Mariah about her mother. She was emotional because, while one person in her life couldn’t seem to care less for her, she had an entire village of chosen family who loved her more than she ever could’ve imagined. Kamryn held a combination of grief and gratitude intermingling in her heart.

Jimin hadn’t invaded her private thoughts or influenced them, just like he’d promised years ago. But he knew something was eating at her—he’d seen it when he first got home. And he also knew that she wasn’t ready to talk about it. For now, he would help take her mind off of it, at least for a moment. Even with her face frowned and contorted with sadness, she was beautiful. “Maybe your heart just got too full. It needed to make some room for me to fill it back up again,” he offered, while kissing her jawline, then her neck. His words brought fresh tears streaming across her beautiful face. He leaned back on his heels and began to pull at the belt she now had to tie under her breast due to her growing belly. He unwrapped her body like the gift it was so slowly, the fabric tickled as it grazed over her skin. She glowed—not just from the pregnancy or the oils and butters she used to moisturize her skin, but from the light that seemed to radiate from within.

With her robe fully open, her sexiness on display, Jimin licked from her ear to her eye, swiping the tears away. Then, he trailed kisses down her body. From her neck, he made a stop at the peaks of her breasts, sucking and kissing her tight nipples. Sniffling between moans, her body squirmed under him, and he imagined this must be what heaven felt like. He kissed the roundness of her belly, traveling down to where it met the soft mound of her pussy, his heart full.

He sat up on his heels again—this time to unbutton his shirt. Slowly, he tugged at the buttons but too slow for Kamryn’s liking. With a dark, heated gaze, she sat up, reaching for and yanking at the fabric. The action sent the buttons to fly onto the carpeted floor.

“Take… it… off,” she commanded, then sniffled while wiping her face, which caused Jimin to smirk. Was she switching into her dominant mode tonight? He ripped the rest of it off, exposing his extremely tight and toned abdomen. With how often he’d been making Kamryn cum—almost daily—his body was chiseled, and his powers stronger than ever. In exchange, Kamryn seemed to be growing stronger as well—both emotionally and mentally. As the years passed, she’d been advocating for herself and setting boundaries in ways she never had before. Her confidence now matched who she was, and Jimin grew prouder of her with each passing day. Not to mention—the constant stretching and strengthening of her pelvis—birthing would probably be a breeze. Well, at least a little easier.

She gasped as her mouth hung open and her eyes lit up, always turned on by the sight of him. He was perfect. Sitting up, legs straddled around him, she rubbed the palms of her hands up and over his stomach, bobbing in and out of the valleys between his abs. Her hands slid up to his chest, squeezing each pectoral before brushing his nipples with her thumbs.

Jimin hissed and his dick twitched, but he allowed her to explore his body as she always did. For her, his form seemed different each time she admired him. He began to pull his boxer briefs down, and Kamryn watched his abs move under his skin as he lifted his knees to push them over his legs. Allowing the lust for her husband to overtake her, she wrapped a tiny hand around his smooth, warm dick, peering at him with hooded eyes. Her lashes fluttered slowly as she looked up at him, dripping seduction. Leaning over the best she could, she ran her tongue over his slit, collecting the glistening bead of precum that had accumulated there. Taking his head into her mouth, she sucked softly while rimming its edge with her tongue.

“Ugh… shit!” he said before trapping his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Will you obey me tonight?” she asked before taking him back into her warm mouth.

With that phrase, Jimin knew that his suspicions were right. Kamryn was stepping into her power, and he wouldn’t complain—at all. He loved watching this side of her. She continued the pattern of circling his tip then sucking lightly.

“Yes,” he answered, barely above a whisper.

Kamryn pulled off of him completely, leaving his dick cold—deprived of her mouth. His tip wept, leaking at the loss of her. She even pulled her hands away.

“Excuse me?” she asked with an indignation that didn’t quite match her smug expression.

“Yes, ma’am. Yes, ma’am,” he said enthusiastically, hoping to fix his mistake. “Yes, ma’am. Baby, please.”

Satisfied with his desperation, Kamryn smiled.

“Lay down,” she directed, and he did.

As he shifted onto his back, Kamryn waited on her knees. Once settled, she moved between his legs, wasting no time to have him in her mouth again. Focusing on the head for a bit, she licked and sucked before descending further then came back up. With each motion, she took more of him in her mouth until he was tapping the back of her throat. Pushing even deeper, she relaxed her jaw and throat to allow him to slip in deep.

“Guh, guh, guh.”

The sound coming from Kamryn’s wet throat and the feeling of dipping further down it made Jimin’s toes curl and his eyes roll. Slobber coursed, warm and wet, down his shaft. He loved sloppy head and Kamryn seemed to enjoy giving it. She pulled all the way off of him, spit on his tip, and did it all over again. Jimin’s balls tingled as his hips bucked slightly off the bed, watching as spit strings connected her mouth to his manhood that was already shining from her slobber. He laid there with his arms down by his sides—knowing from experience what would happen if he touched her without her permission.

“Ah. Ugh. Oh shit,” he hissed. “May I— Fuck your mouth?”

She took him deep into her throat again, then pulled off slowly, savoring each veiny inch with her tongue. When she sat up, her chin glistened from the spit that dribbled over it. She swiped it away before it could travel down her neck, using it and the saliva that was already on his skin, she fisted his dick, pumping him in her hands. He grunted, completely turned on by the sight.

“Do you want my mouth? Or this pussy?”

“Pussy… pussy, please. Please,” he begged without hesitation, hips still jutting.

Kamryn straddled him and lined him up to her entrance. She was so fucking wet, her slick poured from her to drip down Jimin’s dick. He was struggling, trying to respect her dominance in the moment but he wanted so badly to grab her hips and fuck up into her.

Kamryn was fully aware, seeing his eyes flicker before tightly closing shut. Finally, she began to sink down, filling herself with him until her ass met his thighs.

“You want to touch me so bad, don’t you?” Kamryn asked breathily as she rocked her body slowly, lifting herself slightly with one arm on his stomach and the other on her thigh. Her hips found their rhythm, rolling smoothly, drawing loops and curls like calligraphy—tracing love letters onto his body. She tightened her walls around him with each pull, relaxing them as she pushed back down. Jimin panted as he clenched the duvet—grunts and groans escaped as he nodded his head enthusiastically. When her hand slapped the side of his face, Jimin’s eyes popped open suddenly and his dick twitched inside of her. “Use your words like a big boy,” she teased, sliding her little hand from his face to squeeze firmly around his throat, as she continued to wind her wetness on his dick.

“Yes,” Jimin answered—his voice now gravelly and eyes fully aglow. Kamryn smirked, loving that she was able to summon that side of him so effortlessly. This was the side of him that fucked her—raw and unrestrained—while Jimin, at his core, was a more passionate lover. The beast that she awakened didn’t hold back just because she was pregnant. She knew that he would never hurt her, but he would feed her rough sex when she craved it. And today…she needed it. This also meant that her being in control of this session was out the window. Slowly sliding his fingers up her arm to grip her wrist with one hand and using the other like a vise, tightening on her hip. He controlled the movement of her ass as he fucked into her, matching her tempo.

“Shit,” she said, excitedly—knowing what she’d gotten herself into.

“Do it again,” Jimin provoked with a raised eyebrow. “I dare you.”

Kamryn’s heart pounded in her chest as if threatening to escape and gallop away. She hesitated for a brief moment, pulled her hand from his grasp, then slapped him again. She wasn’t no bitch and he’d dared her—she had to remind him of who she was. She wasn’t scared of him.

Suddenly, he reminded her of who he was when he was on top of her—still tethered together—before her hand even had the chance to leave his skin.

“You know you done fucked up, right?” Jimin growled, already pounding into her. He held her crossed legs over one shoulder as he fucked her tight, wet pussy. The sounds of her smacking, pleasure-soaked pussy enveloped them, pushing them to further lose control within each other. Her walls began to clench around him, and he knew she was close already.

“I know,” she screamed—hips moving to meet him, chasing her orgasm, as her brows knit tightly. “I know. I know.”

“Did you need me that badly? You needed me to wreck this shit?” He held her legs with one hand while the other hung lazily at his side. It was like this was just a walk in the park for him while Kamryn was unraveling below him.

“Yes,” she shrieked and her body quaked. Jimin smiled, watching her pretty face as she was about to fall apart for him. “Yes!”

“Yes? Excuse me?” He asked, mocking the tone she’d used earlier before he pulled out.

“Nooooooooo,” Kamryn exclaimed as she reached for him, tears brimming her lash line. “Please, Jimin. Yes, sir. Yes, sir!”

“Hands and knees. Now,” he growled, to which Kamryn quickly complied.

Looking up, she realized he’d fucked her all the way up to the headboard. Before she could move back, he was already behind her and pushing inside.

“Fuck,” she whimpered at the welcomed intrusion. Her head pressed into the plush, upholstered headboard as he quickened his pace. Jimin ripped the scarf from her hair, sending it to cascade over her shoulders and used a handful of the curls to pull her back against his chest, fucking into her deeper. Harder.

“Is this what you wanted, Kamryn?” he growled in her ear. “You wanted me to fuck you like a bitch off the street instead of my wife?”

“Yes,” she groaned. “I’m your dirty little bitch.”

“You have been showing your fucking ass lately,” he said, his voice impossibly deep and rough. “I let you take control a few times and you forget who runs this shit—who runs this pussy,” he said, spearing into her. “Let’s make sure you don’t forget again. Huh, little slut?” he hummed against her ear, sending chills down her spine and heat through her belly.

“Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Yes, sir,” Kamryn answered. “Oh!”

“Good girl.”

“Fuck,” she drew out the word that seemed to come from deep within. Kamryn came long and hard, body spasming. “Jimin,” she yelled, her tone so anguished, if anyone overheard, they’d think she was hurt.

“I know, baby. I know. But this is what you wanted. So, take it all for me, okay?”

It was as if his words sent her right back to the peak of her climax, not giving her a chance to fully come down. After she came again, he slowed his pace as she began to go limp in his arms. Long and deep, he continued to stroke her walls, holding her up with an arm across her chest and an open palm under her stomach as he continued. Inching them closer to the headboard, he released her, letting the side of her face rest against it. Her hands were pressed against it as well, their position resembling one of surrender. As to not push her belly against the bed, Jimin leaned back on his heels and fucked up. Holding her hip with one hand, he held her head against the headboard as he dug deeper, pulling screams and profanity from those pretty lips of hers.

“Oh my God. Oh my God,” she exclaimed, voice muffled. Jimin yanked her hair while leaning forward to meet her.

“Not God,” he barked. “Jimin. Bitch, stop playing with me,” he said, strokes speeding up again. “Say my name. Tell me who you belong to,” he demanded, his breath hot against the shell of her ear. “Say… it.”

“Ah!” she exclaimed when he bit down on her shoulder with slightly extended teeth before he licked the sting away. “Shit! Jimin! Jimin, baby, I’m— Yours. I’m yours,” Kamryn affirmed, voice hoarse.

“I don’t fucking believe you,” Jimin snarled. Kamryn reached a hand behind her, wordlessly asking for mercy, but he denied her. Removing his hand from her belly, Jimin grabbed her wrist, pulling her hand away from his hip and pinning it high onto the headboard, leaning his chest to her back.

“You think that little shit is gonna stop me?” His voice dropped even deeper. Darker. Filthier. “You know your safeword. Use it if you need to.” Kamryn shook her head, teeth clenched, loving the way he was punishing her. “Now, as I was saying... I don’t believe you.” The way his hips met her ass sounded like a round of applause, appreciation for the show they were putting on. “Make me believe it. Show me, Kamryn.”

Her pussy clamped down, milking him as she came again. “I can’t. Please. I— Can’t,” she said as she panted. She didn’t think she had another orgasm in her as her strength was quickly diminishing. “No– More.” Her desperation and begging only fueled him as he drove into her. Releasing her hair, his hand traveled down to her throat.

“Look at you,” he taunted, slowing his strokes to dive impossibly deep. “You’re so full of me, you can hardly breathe. But, you’re my perfect little slut, taking every inch like you were made just for me. Such a sweet little slut and you love this dick. Don’t you, Kamryn?”

Using his fingers, he pulled her face toward him and captured her lips in a wet, desperate kiss as her pussy continued to smack wetly, her essence dripping down his thighs.

“Yes, sir,” Kamryn replied breathily against his lips.

“Say it,” he demanded. They’d stopped kissing, but he remained close, enjoying the feel of her ragged, warm pants on his mouth.

“I’m your sweet… little slut,” Kamryn whispered, completely spent. “And— I love… that dick.”

“Good girl.”

As he had reminded earlier, Kamryn knew her safeword, and she had yet to utter the word. Jimin finally pulled out, still holding her limp body against him. With his free hand, he pulled the sheets back and gently laid her down, tucking her naked body under the covers. From her nightstand drawer, he grabbed her bonnet—unsure where the scarf landed—then began tucking her hair into it. Then he grabbed her satin-clad pillow and lifted her head to rest on it.

“Are you okay, baby?” he asked softly as he slid into bed behind her. Kamryn nodded as Jimin grazed his fingers across the mark on her shoulder where he’d bitten her. “Was I too rough?” Kamryn had gotten comfortable, mind in a haze from being completely satisfied. She couldn’t find the energy to speak but managed a soft shake of her head. “I’m glad,” he whispered, kissing the mark, then licking a wet trail up to her neck where he sucked and lapped at her skin. His hand snaked around her, rolling her pebbled nipple between his fingers as he pressed his thick length against her entrance. He lifted her leg, inching back inside her, and whispered, “Open up for me, baby. Let me in.”

A week after her due date, Mariah finally delivered the sweetest, cutest baby boy Kamryn had ever seen. Kamryn’s daughter kicked and twirled in her tummy, seemingly aware of the arrival of the best friend fate had already assigned to her. Even while very pregnant, she was by Mariah’s side every step of the way—from the time she went into labor until she was holding her son.

To prepare for the family to come home from the hospital today, Kamryn had gone grocery shopping, stocked the house, and finished the last-minute details on Yunho’s nursery. Kamryn was bursting at the seams, heart full with excitement and happiness for her friends. With Mariah’s nurturing spirit and Taehyung’s loving patience, she knew they would be amazing parents.

“Are you excited?” Jimin asked Kamryn, watching her bounce on her toes with excitement. He thought she was adorable, watching for her friends from the large picture window of their living room. He wasn’t surprised when she turned to face him with eyes full of tears. She had always felt her emotions deeply, but since being pregnant, she was even more sensitive. “Aww, my baby,” he said with a chuckle, standing from the couch to hug her. “You are amazing, you know that? Mariah and Tae are so blessed to have a friend like you.”

“Jimin,” she whimpered before full-on sobbing. He just held his crybaby closer, rubbing comforting stripes over her back, and kissing her temple.

“Shh,” he hushed. “They’ll be home soon.”

“I know,” Kamryn sniffled. “I’m just so happy. My friends are doing well, Yunho is here and healthy, and we’re expecting our princess soon.” She paused, placing her hand over his, resting on the side of her tummy. Yuna greeted her parents—as if knowing they were talking about her—with flutters and a strong heel against her father’s palm. “Oh,” Kamryn giggled at the feeling, looking up to meet Jimin’s eyes to see if he’d felt it.

“Whoa.” He beamed, understanding the way his wife was feeling. His heart felt so full, having her, their child, his mother, and the friendship he shared with Mariah and Taehyung as well. Jimin knelt down before his wife, placing his hands on either side of her stomach, placing kisses over her clothed belly. “Hey, daddy’s baby. Did you hear us talking about you?”

“She always gets so excited when she hears your voice. And she went crazy when Yunho was born.”

Mentioning this took her back to the moment. She recalled how calm her daughter was before. Yuna would move enough to not raise any concerns, as if readjusting to find a more comfortable position, and kick for her daddy. Kamryn and Jimin had joked that she was going to come out meditating because she was so chill. But it seemed like, as soon as Yunho crowned, she became a ball of energy and hadn’t calmed down much since. Kamryn chalked it up to her getting bigger and her progressing further into the pregnancy, but something in the back of her mind told her otherwise. Maybe it was because she and Mariah were so deeply connected.

“She knows her bestie made it here safely. She was probably cheering him on,” Jimin offered. Kamryn smiled at the sweet idea. “Come on, babe. Sit down until they come. You know you don’t need to be on your feet if you don’t have to be. And you’ve been doing a lot these past few days to get things ready for Mariah. You need to relax.”

Jimin continued to dote on his wife and force her to chill for the last couple of months of her pregnancy. They both cried tears of joy while welcoming their perfect little princess. Just as easy as her pregnancy was, delivery and the following two years with their daughter were just as smooth. She rarely cried, only doing so when she was hungry or tired. She even slept through the night from the very beginning. Yuna was the best baby, making Jimin and Kamryn joke about having ten more children if they would all be like her. And at two years old, she was able to hold a full conversation and was incredibly smart for her age.

“That baby has been here before,” Kamryn’s dad said when Yuna took his phone, swiping through the apps to find the children’s game he’d downloaded for her on his last visit. “Look at her. She knows what she’s doing, for real,” he gushed.

“She is beautiful,” said the woman her father was dating.

“Thank you,” Kamryn said, her tone not quite arctic but definitely not the warm one she’d begun using with her father. There was something about this woman that didn’t sit right with her.

“I was telling Kenny,” she began, referring to Kamryn’s father, “about my granddaughter. She’s eight now and was so smart at this age, too. Now, she’s making straight A’s and speaks like a little woman. My baby taught herself how to play the piano and even speaks Spanish.”

Kamryn discreetly rolled her eyes, noticing that everything they talked about seemed to circle back to the woman somehow.

Yuna loved her grandfather and sat on the floor next to his feet. Every time the woman spoke, she would side-eye her. The woman continued to chat about herself and placed a hand on Kenny’s thigh. When she touched him, Yuna would look at her full on with menacing eyes.

“Look,” Kamryn’s dad pointed out the child’s expression. “You better get off me, Sheila.” He laughed such a hardy laugh, the sound becoming more familiar to Kamryn as the years passed. It was contagious, making Kamryn crack up too. Sheila, however, was not amused but tried to play into it.

Reaching over, in an attempt to poke her chubby cheek, Sheila said, “Why are you looking at me like that, little girl?”

Yuna stood, dropping the phone to the carpeted floor, and stared at Sheila—not blinking. Her face turned red and she began to cry. Her wails were so shrill, as if she were in pain, but her eyes never left the woman’s. The eye contact was only broken when Kamryn came over, scooping the toddler into her arms.

“Shh… it’s okay, Sweet Face. It’s okay,” Kamryn said with a comforting tone. “I think it’s naptime,” she said to her father.

“Awww. That poor baby,” he said as he stood. “Okay, well, we’d better head on out.” He met his daughter in the middle of the floor and rubbed the cloud of curls on his granddaughter’s head before kissing her cheek. “I love you, Nugget,” he said, and Yuna began to calm a bit. “Love you, Kami.” He kissed Kamryn’s cheek just as Sheila appeared next to him. She tried to rub Yuna’s back, but she began wailing even louder.

“Okay, okay. I’ll leave you alone,” the woman conceded.

“You don’t like her either, huh?” Kamryn joked after they’d left, bouncing her baby in her arms as she walked around their home. Coincidentally, Yuna had calmed down completely before they were even out of the driveway.

“No. No like her,” Yuna admitted, burrowing her face into her mother’s neck, causing Kamryn to laugh out loud.

Later that evening, Kamryn recounted the incident with Jimin.

“That was odd behavior for her,” he said, sounding concerned.

“I think she just doesn’t like the woman. Hell, I don’t either. You should have seen how she was looking around the house. It was like she had a calculator behind her eyes, trying to estimate how wealthy we are. I’ve only met her a few times and each time, I got bad vibes. But I won’t say anything to Dad about it. You know how he is. He’s gonna have to learn on his own.”

“Damn,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t going to mention it, but the first time she was over here, that’s exactly what she was doing. ‘I picked a good one this time. I’m gonna be set, fucking with his ass. She got this big ass house. She’s rich so I’m sure she won’t be opposed to me becoming the beneficiary on that fat ass life insurance policy he got. Now, all I have to do is get his dumb ass to marry me.’ That’s what I heard her thinking.

“I fucking knew it!”

Kamryn hadn’t thought much about what had happened with Yuna, but it weighed on Jimin. He, automatically, wondered if Yuna may have picked up bad vibes like her mother or if she could hear the woman like he could.

The next day, Kamryn and Mariah took the kids to the park. The weather was beautiful and the ladies sat on a nearby bench, chatting about Sheila. Mariah cracked up after hearing how Yuna reacted to the woman.

The babies played in the sandbox only a couple of feet away from them. Yuna wasn’t exactly a fan of getting dirty, but Yunho loved playing in dirt, scooping it up with his tiny hands, his toy excavator, and dump truck. And she would go wherever he decided to go. She followed as they went to play on the little playground for a bit, but would always find their way back to the sandbox. When they returned the final time, another child about their age came to sit with them.

The little boy took one of Yunho's trucks to play but Yunho didn’t let anyone but Yuna play with them. He would even cry if Taehyung touched them.

“No,” Yunho whined. “Gimme.” He reached his plump hands out in a grabbing motion, but the boy turned his back, continuing to play.

Mariah, after seeing her baby boy starting to cry, stood up, looking around.

“Where the hell is his mama at?”

“She better come get him before I do,” Kamryn said jokingly, but also 100% for real. “Fucking with my nephew—”

Mariah laughed at her friend before stepping over to speak to a woman who was likely the boy’s mom.

“Yuna, you say no,” Yunho said with tears streaming down his chubby cheeks, clearly asking his friend for backup.

Yuna left his side and stepped in front of the boy, her back to her mother and the other women. Yunho turned his body so that he could watch what she would do. Without uttering a word, Yuna’s eyes burned a fiery yellow and her little teeth elongated. Yunho giggled at the sight but the little boy dropped the truck, as he let out a spine-chilling scream and trembled in fear while pissing his pants. His mother rushed over to grab him, looking down at her hand when she noticed he was wet. Concern painting her face, she looked down at Yuna for any evidence that she’d hurt her son. When she looked at her, she saw nothing but the most beautiful honey-brown eyes and the chunky features of a typical toddler. Coddling her son, she walked away as Yuna sat back down, handing the dump truck to Yunho.

Yuna was the perfect blend of her parents—with her tan skin, calm brown slanted eyes, and a cloud of soft, curly locks. She was kind, like her mother. Intense, like her father. Neither of them knew it yet, but Yuna was a force to be reckoned with, destined for greatness far beyond their imaginations. The perfect fusion of light and darkness. She was not born to please anyone. She was made out of love—and so, she was destined to lead with it. But she was also born equipped to protect herself and those she loved from anyone who dared to approach with harmful intent.

A/N:

Hello, Loves!

I pray that I've done this story justice and that you've enjoyed it all the way until the very end. I had fun writing the push and pull relationship between Kamryn and Jimin. I also loved Mariah! What was your favorite part?

Thanks so much to @moonleeai for going on this crazy ride with me and beta reading this chapter 🫶🏽💜

Ok...love you. Byeeeeeee!

10 notes · View notes