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The air in your apartment is still, thick with the silence of the late hour. You are in bed, but sleep is a distant country. You lie on your side, facing the large window that looks out into the inky blackness of the night.
The city’s glow is a distant hum, a muted pulse beyond the trees that line your property. It is not the city that holds your attention. It is the darkness itself. You can feel it. In your bones. In your soul. He was out there. Watching you. In the darkness. You knew it yet you weren't afraid.
In fact… it was the opposite. It made you feel alive… seen. The feeling is a constant thrum beneath your skin, a low-frequency hum of awareness that has been growing for weeks. It started as a flicker of intuition, a sense of being observed on your walks home, the feeling of eyes on you through the window as you undressed.
Now, it is a certainty. He is a shadow at the edge of your vision, a presence that fills the empty spaces of your home when you are alone.
You sit up slowly, the thin sheet pooling around your waist. Your bare skin prickles, not from cold, but from anticipation. You lean forward, pressing your forehead against the cool glass of the window.
"You are out there, aren't you," you whisper into the night, your voice barely disturbing the quiet. The silence stretches for a moment, then a voice, low and smooth, drifts back from the darkness. It is close, impossibly close, as if he is standing just beyond the pane of glass.
"Maybe." A small smile touches your lips. You shift, turning to face the voice more fully, the sheet slipping lower to expose the curve of your hip.
"…. that's stalking just so you know."
"I call it being protective," his voice replies, a hint of amusement threading through the deep timbre.
"Protective of what exactly?" you challenge, your heart beginning to beat a little faster, a heavy, deliberate rhythm in your chest.
"Of what's mine." The words settle over you, a possessive blanket that should feel suffocating but instead feels like a brand, a claim that sears you with its heat.
You belong to him, this unseen man, this phantom in the dark. And you want to belong. You look out into the darkness, trying to discern a shape, a form, anything that would give him a body. But there is only the swallowing black.
"Good night princess," he murmurs, and the voice seems to recede, leaving you alone again with the thundering of your own heart.
You lie back down, but the feeling does not fade. It intensifies. You close your eyes, and you can almost feel his gaze tracing the lines of your body, a phantom touch that is more real than any physical caress.
Sleep finally claims you, a restless, fitful doze filled with dreams of shadowy hands and a voice that commands your soul. You wake not to an alarm, but to a sensation. A weight on the bed beside you. Your eyes flutter open, and the room is bathed in the soft grey light of pre-dawn.
He is there. Sitting on the edge of your bed, as if he has every right to be. He is not a monster from a nightmare. He is beautiful. Sharp, intelligent eyes, the color of dark honey, are fixed on you. His hair is a shock of silver against the dark fabric of his hoodie, and his face is all angles and soft lips, a study in beautiful contradictions.
He is not smiling. He is just watching you, his expression one of intense concentration. You do not scream. You do not move. You just look back at him, the dream and the reality merging into one perfect, terrifying moment.
"Hongjoong," you breathe his name, a name you have never heard but have always known. He inclines his head slightly, a silent acknowledgment.
"You're real."
"As real as the ache you feel when you think I'm not here," he says, his voice even more potent up close. It vibrates through you, a low thrum that settles deep in your core.
He reaches out a hand, his fingers long and elegant. He does not touch you, not yet. He lets his hand hover over your cheek, so close that you can feel the warmth radiating from his skin.
"The bed bugs may not bite," he whispers, his gaze dropping from your eyes to your mouth, "but I definitely will."
And then he closes the distance. His lips claim yours, and it is not a gentle kiss. It is a possession. It is hungry and demanding, a sealing of the promise he made in the dark. His mouth is firm, tasting of mint and something uniquely him, something dark and wild. One of his hands finally makes contact, fingers tangling in your hair, gripping the back of your head to hold you exactly where he wants you.
He tilts his head, deepening the kiss, his tongue sweeping into your mouth to claim every hidden corner. You respond with a fervor that surprises you, your own hands coming up to clutch the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer. You have been waiting for this, craving this, and now that it is happening, you feel a sense of coming home, of a lock finally finding its key.
He breaks the kiss, his breathing ragged. His eyes are blazing with a fire that both frightens and excites you. He pulls the sheet away from your body, his gaze a physical touch as it roams over your naked skin.
"Perfect," he murmurs, more to himself than to you.
He shifts, moving over you, his body bracketing yours. He is still fully clothed, the rough fabric of his jeans a delicious friction against your bare thighs. He lowers his head, his lips trailing a path of fire down your neck. He nips at the sensitive skin where your shoulder meets your neck, not hard enough to break the skin, but just enough to leave a mark, a temporary brand of ownership.
You arch into him, a soft moan escaping your lips. His hands are everywhere, stroking, caressing, learning the landscape of your body. He palms your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your already hardened nipples, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your clit.
"Hongjoong," you gasp his name like a prayer.
"Tell me what you want, princess," he commands, his voice a low growl against your ear.
"Tell me everything."
"You," you manage to say, your voice breathy. "I want all of you."
He chuckles, a low, dark sound. "You'll have all of me."
He moves down your body, his mouth leaving a wet, warm trail. He pays homage to your breasts, taking each nipple into his mouth in turn, sucking and laving them until you are writhing beneath him, desperate for more. He continues his downward journey, his lips skimming over your ribs, your stomach, the dip of your navel. He settles between your thighs, his hands gripping your hips to hold you still. He looks up at you from under his lashes, his eyes dark with lust.
"I've dreamed of this," he says, his voice thick with desire. "Tasting you."
He lowers his head and his tongue is on you, a hot, wet stripe against your folds. You cry out, your hips bucking against his hold. He is merciless, his tongue exploring every inch of you, delving inside you, circling your clit with a precision that has you seeing stars. He licks and sucks, driving you higher and higher, his name a constant chant on your lips.
The pleasure builds, a tight coil in your belly, winding tighter and tighter until it snaps. You come with a sharp cry, your body convulsing as waves of ecstasy wash over you. He does not stop, lapping at your release, prolonging your pleasure until you are a boneless, trembling mess.
He moves back up your body, his lips claiming yours again, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. He quickly sheds his clothes, his movements economical and sure. His body is lean and sculpted, a work of art that makes your mouth water. His cock is hard and heavy, jutting out from a nest of dark hair. He takes himself in hand, stroking his length a few times, his eyes on yours.
"Are you ready for me, princess?" he asks.
You can only nod, your body still humming from your orgasm. He positions himself at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against your wetness. He pushes in slowly, inch by agonizing inch, stretching you, filling you completely. He feels incredible inside you, a perfect, hot, hard presence that completes you. He pauses once he is fully seated, giving you a moment to adjust. He looks down at you, his expression raw with emotion.
"Mine," he whispers, and then he begins to move. He starts with a slow, deep rhythm, his strokes long and deliberate. He watches your face, his gaze intense, as if he is memorizing your every reaction. He angles his hips, hitting a spot inside you that makes you gasp. "There," he says, a smug smile on his face. "Right there."
He increases his pace, his movements becoming harder, faster. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mingling with your moans and his harsh breaths. He hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, changing the angle and allowing him to go even deeper. The new position is electrifying, and you can feel another orgasm building quickly. He reaches between you, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight circles.
"Come for me," he growls.
The pressure of his thumb on your clit is a direct line to the coil tightening in your belly. It's a command you cannot disobey. His name is a ragged sob on your lips as you shatter around him. Your inner walls clench, a rhythmic, desperate pulse that milks his cock buried deep inside you. The pleasure is a white-hot wave, wiping out every thought, every sensation except the feeling of him, the sound of his groan as your body grips his.
He rides out your orgasm, his hips never ceasing their relentless pace, drawing out every last tremor of your release until you are limp and breathless beneath him. He lowers your leg from his shoulder, settling his weight more comfortably over you, his forearms braced on either side of your head. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and damp against your skin.
"So fucking perfect," he growls, the words vibrating through your chest. "And all mine." He begins to move again, his thrusts slower now, deeper, more deliberate.
He is no longer racing towards an end goal; he is savoring the journey. Each stroke is a statement, a reinforcement of his claim. His hips roll, grinding against you, the base of his cock pressing against your sensitive clit with every pass. It's a different kind of pleasure, not the sharp, intense peak of before, but a deep, rolling wave that builds slowly, filling every part of you.
You wrap your legs around his waist, your heels digging into the firm muscles of his ass, pulling him impossibly closer. You want to absorb him, to fuse with him, to make this moment last forever. Your hands roam over his back, feeling the shift and play of his muscles under his sweat-slicked skin. You leave your own marks, your nails scraping lightly down his spine, earning a low hiss of approval from him. He lifts his head, his honey-colored eyes burning into yours. They are dark now, pooled with a lust so potent it feels like a physical force.
"Look at me," he commands, his voice a low rasp. "I want you to see who's fucking you. Who owns this body."
You hold his gaze, your own eyes wide and dazed with pleasure. You see everything in his eyes: the obsession, the possession, the raw, unfiltered desire that has been watching you from the darkness for weeks. It is terrifying and it is the most exquisite thing you have ever seen.
"You," you whisper, the single word a vow. "Always you."
A savage, triumphant smile twists his lips. He straightens up, his hands gripping your hips, pulling them up to meet his thrusts. The new angle is devastating. He is hitting that spot inside you with every powerful lunge, the one that makes your toes curl and your vision blur. He picks up the pace, his control finally beginning to fray.
The rhythmic slap of his skin against yours becomes faster, harder, the sound of a man taking what is his. His jaw is clenched, his brows drawn together in a mask of fierce concentration. The muscles in his abdomen flex and tighten with each thrust, a beautiful, hypnotic sight.
You can feel him swelling inside you, getting harder, thicker. His breaths become harsh, ragged pants. He's close. You reach down between your bodies, your fingers finding your clit. You rub in time with his frantic thrusts, chasing that final, blinding release.
"Come with me, princess," he grunts, his voice strained. "Now."
The command is all it takes. Your body obeys, convulsing in a second, more powerful orgasm. A scream tears from your throat as your world dissolves into a blur of color and light. You feel him follow you over the edge with a guttural roar, his hips slamming into yours one last time. He buries himself to the hilt as he spills into you, his cock pulsing, filling you with the heat of his release.
It feels like a brand, a final, irrefutable mark of ownership. He collapses on top of you, his body a heavy, welcome weight, his heart hammering against your chest. You lie tangled together, a panting, sweaty mess, the room silent except for the sound of your breathing slowly returning to normal. He stays inside you as he softens, a lingering connection you are reluctant to break. He presses a soft, gentle kiss to your temple, a stark contrast to the ferocity of his lovemaking.
"Mine," he whispers again, but this time it's not a command. It's a statement of fact, a quiet, settled truth.
You turn your head, your nose brushing against his cheek. "Yours," you agree, a feeling of profound rightness settling over you.
He eventually rolls off you, pulling you into his arms, your back flush against his chest. He wraps an arm around your waist, holding you securely. The early morning light is now stronger, casting a soft glow around the room. The darkness is gone, but its presence remains in the form of the man in your bed.
You are no longer alone. You are seen. You are his. And as you drift off to sleep, held safely in the arms of your beautiful, obsessive stalker, you have never felt more peaceful.