#Male Edge Routine

[sixeyesonathiel]

finally birthing male manipulator satoru with girl failure reader wwww

gojo satoru was used to getting what he wanted.

and he wanted you.

not in some deep, profound way—god, no. not at first. it started as a game. a challenge. a passing amusement that piqued his interest one random thursday morning when you stammered out an apology after bumping into his desk, cheeks flushed, eyes wide. he watched you trip over your own words, clutch your pen like a lifeline, and tuck your legs up onto the chair like you could shrink out of existence if you tried hard enough.

prime target. textbook girlfailure behavior. he could spot it from a mile away.

this was supposed to be easy.

he’d start small. nothing too intense. just a little white knight routine—softboy edition. give you just enough attention to get you spinning. love-bomb in casual doses. trauma-dump-lite over late-night fries. maybe let his voice go quiet and vulnerable one evening and say, “you remind me of someone i cared about.” glance away, bite his lip, look just the right amount of broken. play the victim just enough to make you feel like you had to fix him.

he’d make you think he saw you. that he understood you.

except you, with your messy hair and oversized hoodie sleeves pulled over twitchy fingers, dodged every single one of his perfectly curated attempts like your avoidant attachment style was running military-grade defense protocols.

“you okay, sweetheart?” he asked one afternoon, leaning a little too close to your desk, silver hair slightly tousled, reading glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, his voice low and silky. lips curved into a smile that’d made stronger girls fold. “you looked a little sad today. i worry about you sometimes.”

you blinked up at him, lashes fluttering like you couldn’t believe he was talking to you. your throat worked around a half-swallowed gulp. then your face shifted. shutters slammed down. you forced a grin, lopsided and sharp around the edges.

“yeah, i’m just like this. it’s seasonal depression, but, y’know… year-round. i’m fine.”

you said it so matter-of-factly. like he was asking about the weather.

satoru froze, his hand briefly twitching near his glasses as he pushed them up slowly, searching for meaning in a world that had suddenly gone sideways.

what the actual hell.

okay. maybe you needed more.

he started sitting next to you in class. always coincidentally. elbows brushing, knees knocking. his thigh warm where it grazed yours. he sent you memes at 1:37 a.m. with captions like “us fr?” and “ur literally me,” despite you barely replying to half of them. he offered his jacket when the AC kicked on and watched the way you hesitated, blushed, and then said, “i run on spite, not warmth.”

and then, the pièce de résistance:

“i just feel like… you’re different,” he said one evening outside the library. the campus was quiet, sky the kind of inky navy that made everything feel more cinematic. he stood with hands stuffed into his hoodie pocket, a calculated slouch, glasses slightly askew, hair falling across his forehead. his voice dipped low, coaxing. “everyone else is so fake. but you? you’re real. you’ve got this… broken, beautiful thing going on.”

you tilted your head. stared. then squinted at him like he was a suspiciously priced antique. “did you get that line off tiktok?”

he flinched.

bro.

he ran a hand through his hair. a slow, dramatic drag of fingers. girls walking by giggled. he didn’t look up. he was malfunctioning.

he was trying. actually trying. not just running a script. not just playing games. he was pulling every page from the softboy manipulator playbook and rewriting it with style. the gaslight-gatekeep-girlboss starter pack, optimized for 2025.

and still. you met his carefully calculated charm with self-deprecating jokes, sarcasm, and the kind of deadpan delivery that made him question if he was losing it.

“you should save that line for someone without warranty issues,” you said, staring at him with a crooked little smile. “i come pre-broken.”

he left that encounter walking in slow motion, hoodie sleeves dragged over his hands, mouth set in a pout. if a sad indie movie montage started playing around him, he wouldn’t have questioned it.

here’s the thing, though: you liked him.

it was obvious.

he saw it in the way your gaze flickered to his mouth when he talked. the way your fingers curled tight around your notebook when he leaned in too close. the way your breath hitched just slightly when he used your name in a sentence. you were down bad.

but you were also your own worst enemy.

years of romantic misfires and silent yearning had turned you into a master of avoidance. you would rather make a joke about your emotional damage than let someone touch your heart. rather ghost your feelings than face them.

and it was frying his entire nervous system.

one night, 2:14 a.m., satoru lay on his bed staring at your latest post: a blurry picture of your cat with the caption “me.” it had two likes.

he stared at it longer than any man should. took a screenshot. set it as his lock screen for five minutes. unironically laughed.

then groaned and stuffed his face into his pillow.

“no,” he muttered. “no. she’s the one who canceled our group study session with ‘sorry i’m busy disappointing my ancestors.’”

and yet.

he kept thinking about the way your voice dropped to a whisper when you didn’t think anyone was listening. the way you fiddled with your sleeves when you were nervous. how you always sat at the edge of a group like you weren’t sure you belonged there.

you never clung to him. never fed into his savior complex. never let him be the one who "fixed" you.

and for some reason, that made him want to try harder.

not because it was a game anymore. because… well. because you were infuriating. weird. unpredictable. not like the others. god, maybe you were even kind of funny.

whatever. it wasn’t that deep.

gojo satoru: male manipulator dodged by the one girl who wanted him back… just enough to sabotage it.

and now he’s the one thinking way too hard about someone who won’t even sit next to him two days in a row.

he doesn’t like you.

he just… finds you interesting.

that’s all.

shut up.

[yanderedrabbles]

Private Military Contractor - Yandere Noncon

Yandere Male x Fem Reader Heavily inspired by this incredible fic.

He took you. Plucked you straight off the street on the way back from class. He must have known your routine down to a tee, because he did it all with a casual, brutal efficiency. Parking his rented van on the quietest road on your route, stacking a ladder and some paint cans outside so you'd think he was just a regular workman. The door open and waiting just for you, though you didn't know it yet.

You remember greeting him ‐ a quick good morning to be polite - without stopping or even really looking at him. You walked a little bit past the van without realising he was following you. Oblivious right up until the moment he grabbed you, one paw against your mouth to swallow your scream.

He was quick. So ruthlessly quick. Yanking you inside the van and closing the door before you even fully registered what was happening.

He wants you around for one thing and one thing only. He made that abundantly clear on the first day, when you were scarcely through the front door and he was already tearing off your skirt. He would have fucked you in the van the second he took you if he thought he could get away with it.

He isn't gentle. He bends you over the couch with your wrists held together in the small of your back. If you squirm too much, he twists your arm so hard you scream that he's going to break it.

He fucks you dry. Shoving himself inside of you despite how tight you are, how unready and unwilling. He groans at the first thrust, so obscenely satisfied. Like he's finally tasting a prize long differed.

He doesn't last long during the first round. Spilling himself into you after less than three minutes.

He's big - too fucking big. The cum that drips out of your cunt is tinged pink with blood. If he notices it, he doesn't care. He just stands there for a minute, stroking himself hard again and then it's time for round two. Your tears haven't even had time to dry.

He fucks like a soldier in a foreign war zone. Taking, claiming, stealing. It doesn't matter that you're not his to have; he has his guns and his training and to him that's all the reason he needs.

He fucks like he hasn't had a woman in years. With all the pent up energy of long, lonely nights spent in the ugliest parts of the world. He fucks you like a man who's finally gotten his hands on the fantasy he's nursed through all the worst moments of his life.

He fucks like he's terrified of losing you now that he finally, finally has you.

You can't stand after he's done with you. Your cunt burning so bad you think you're on fire from the inside out. He doesn't care that you hang limp from his grip. He just picks you up and tosses you over one broad shoulder and takes you to his bedroom.

You come out of your shock only when you feel the handcuffs closing around your wrist. He's literally chained you to his bed.

You start screaming again then. Frightened and begging and finally realising that this is really happening. It's not a bad dream or a story on the news, it's actually fucking happening to you.

He ignores you, pulling off his heavy combat boots and locking his pistol in the draw across the room. Maybe he's waiting for you to tire out, for your throat to start hurting and for you to quiet down. You don't.

He sighs like you're nothing more than an inconvenience and then slaps you so hard your ears ring and white dots spark across your vision.

His use of violence is so causal, so easy. It's shock that keeps you quiet more than the pain.

Before evening on the first day, he fucks you four more times. He doesn't listen when you beg him to be gentle, beg him to go slow. He ignores you when you plead with him to fuck your mouth instead, as much as he wants, just so long as he gives your pussy a break.

Men like him exist on the knife edge between life and death. Is it any surprise that it leaves its mark? That he wants to take whatever pleasure he can because god alone knows how much time he has left?

He doesn't kiss you until the very end, when he's deep between your thighs and you've dug your nails so deep into his back that you're going to leave scars. He kisses you when you're too hurt and sore and scared to turn away. He kisses you and it feels like he's finally staking his claim. Like part of him didn't believe you were real until he'd fucked you again and again and there was no one to stop him.

The next morning, he shoves a bitter tasting pill under your tongue and keeps his hand over your mouth until he's sure it's dissolved.

"No kids," he says simply and it makes you want to laugh at the absurdity of it.

Yeah, you agree silently, no fucking kids. Especially not if you're the father. Especially not in a world where men like you exist.

He has an appetite that's borderline impossible to satisfy. Once he starts kissing you, he doesn't stop. Teeth nipping at your lips until you give in and even then it's not enough. He wraps one massive hand around your throat and squeezes.

"Kiss me back," he breathes, his lips just an inch from yours.

You kiss him and he takes it like you're everything he's ever dreamed about, the prize he's somehow earned.

After that, he spends a lot more time exploring your body. It's like he needed to get some of that desperation out of his system before he could think straight.

He's less feverish when he touches you, but no less impatient. He pries your thighs apart with one brutal yank and drops his face to your pussy. You try and jerk away from him, try and close your legs despite the massive forearms keeping them spread. You don't want him there. It's too intimate, it's too vulnerable. Hasn't he taken enough?

He licks you like he has no shame. Not even a little shy about having his tongue deep in your cunt. He tries different tricks - slow and sensual, rough, tight little flicks. He doesn't seem to care how you respond to any of it. It's more so an experiment to see which way he enjoys eating you out.

You cum on his tongue, your eyes screwed shut in guilt. You hope he won't notice, hope he'll just get bored and leave you alone.

He growls in a pleased sort of way, looking up at you with his mouth and chin slick. Oh, he definitely noticed.

You can't meet his eyes after that.

He's not a doomsday prepper. Or at least not exactly. But everything he has is off the grid. A house with its own solar panels and borehole, no technology except for his old fashioned satellite phone.

He doesn't talk much. Not even when he's fucking you. You might get the occasional good girl or a snarl for you to take it, take it just like that.

But he doesn't talk. Doesn't comfort you, doesn't insult you, doesn't even explain himself. (Though you suppose the way he holds you at night - tight, like you're going to be ripped away from him if he doesn't sink his claws in - is explanation enough).

He has money. Blood money you suppose. He doesn't go to work or leave the house much but still manages to buy you all sorts of expensive things. Silk negligees, satin panties, scented candles that melt into body oil. You aren't sure why he bothers. He's usually too impatient to appreciate any of it - most of the panties end up a torn, wet mess by the time he's done with you.

You look through his closet one day. There's a box full of military patches - Blackwater, Raytheon, MPR, a dozen more you don't recognise. And you know for a fact they aren't just some stupid collectibles, aren't there just so he can play out some militaristic power fantasy. He really worked for these companies. The patches feel real - their quality designed for hard weather and harder work. You understand him a little better after seeing them.

You don't know him. Don't recognise him in the slightest. He's a stranger to you - to the point you don't even know his name. At first you assume he took you because you were the only one stupid enough to get caught. But a few days with him and you realise that's not true at all. He knows you.

He feeds you your favourite cereal every morning, even though you can tell by his frown that he doesn't approve of your dietary choices. He has a closet packed full of your clothes. You thought he somehow raided your house but it's all new. He went out and bought exact copies of all your regular outfits, down to the tiny Victoria's Secret thongs that you like.

How? How could he gather so much information about your life while you didn't even realise you were being watched?

He takes you down to his basement one day, when you've been particularly insistent about asking him who he is. There are rows and rows of guns. Semi and fully automatic rifles, sniper rifles, shotguns. Shit you aren't even sure is fully legal.

You aren't sure why he's showing you this. Is he trying to scare you? Is he trying to goad you into escaping just so he'll have an excuse to punish you?

You look into his eyes - monster, monster in the shape of a man - and finally realise what he's trying to say.

No one is coming to save you. No one even knows where you are. But if by some slim chance they try and take you away, they'd better hope to be fucking bulletproof.

You stop asking him about himself after that.

He decides he wants anal one day in the shower. He's pressed up against your back and running his cock up and down between your ass. The tip keeps getting caught on your puckered entrance and maybe that's what puts the idea into his head.

You're too slow to realise what he's planning and he has one thick hand gripping the back of your neck before you can even think of running.

It's slow, painful going. He wants to shove himself in like he always does but the nature of it stops him. The tip is the worst part. You bite your lip so hard you can taste blood, your hands and tits both pressed up against the glass.

He presses his lips against your temple, watching your face screw up as he gets deeper.

"It's okay to cry."

There's a sick pleasure to his voice. He flicks your clit and your entire body clenches around him. He hums at that, amused and pleased.

And the worst part? He somehow makes you come. When he's finally loosened you up enough to start thrusting, he hits something deep inside you. He notices it - he notices everything about you. He laughs a little and slips his fingers into your pussy. That's all it takes to send you crashing over the edge, your whole body pulsing and aching all at once.

"That's what I like about you," he snarks into your ear when he's done, "I can make you come no matter how much you don't want it."

He turns you around and looks down at you. The expression on his face makes you want to vomit. He looks at you with a kind of loving softness. A tenderness that ignores all the awful, awful things he's done to you.

If you didn't realise it already, you knew it for a fact right then and there.

He's never going to let you go.

He takes your chin between his fingers and pulls you onto your tip toes to kiss him.

"Why?" you ask for the millionth time since he took you. And for once, he answers.

"Because I could. Because I can."

[wanderingbue]

Turns out, Wilson thinks he’s gay.

He drops that bomb on a Thursday night, sitting on House’s couch, where they’re splitting a greasy pizza and a large order of onion rings. Wilson’s not nearly drunk enough for it to be a joke, is the thing. His hands and voice are steady when he explains how it’s haunted him since he was a teenager, how he ran from it and into three failed marriages, how he cheated because he liked the thrill of the chase but was always unsatisfied with the outcome. He wants to tell the important people in his life to ask them for support in this new era, and House is the first one to know.

And yeah, it could explain things. A lot of things. Like the haircare routine, the regular mani/pedis, the shoe collection. This wouldn’t surprise many people. But House isn’t sure he believes him.

Still, Wilson is his best friend, so he tries.

He doesn’t interrupt the first time he sees Wilson getting a little too close and smile-y with a male nurse. (He interrupts the second time, because he knows that nurse is a vegetarian, and House can’t have that influencing Wilson’s cooking and takeout habits.)

He doesn’t sabotage Wilson’s first date with another man. (He does steal Wilson’s phone the next morning and delete the guy’s text asking for a second date, because anyone asking so soon is desperate, and Wilson can do better.)

He tells Wilson which shirts, ties, and pants make him look gay, only this time, he means it positively. He starts TiVoing Queer as Folk for them, instead of The L Word. He offers Wilson poppers one weekend, then has to explain what they are, and how he came to find out about them in the first place (he used to rave in the 80’s, so what?).

House is being supportive, really. Even if he still doesn’t totally buy that Wilson is actually gay.

Mostly, he doesn’t think Wilson is gay because nothing changes.

Wilson still comes over most nights to watch trash TV and drink beer. He still dutifully drops his responsibilities at work, albeit briefly, to provide a diagnostics consult, or to assist in some borderline illegal scheme. They still hang out, and argue, and laugh, and bicker, and celebrate wins together, and are there for each other in the quiet aftermath of loss. They’re still the same.

Maybe Wilson is just confused because he expected to have a wife and kids, and to live in the suburbs by now. Maybe he thinks the reason for this heteronormative failure is that he’s been chasing the wrong kind of tail, instead of the fact that he spends half his time at work and the other half with House, leaving no room for anything or anyone else. And maybe House should feel guilty about that, about robbing Wilson of the life he deserves and forcing him into a fake midlife sexuality crisis, but he doesn’t.

He sort of feels bad about that part, though—the fact that he doesn’t feel bad at all.

But he’s forced to acknowledge his faults when Wilson approaches him in his office one night, trembling before he can even get the words out, I can’t hide how I feel anymore, I need to tell you the truth.

House accepts that he’s selfish because he lets Wilson kiss him breathless, knowing Wilson will never be able to kiss anyone else like this again, knowing that when he tells Wilson to take him home, he’ll never be able to leave. Now he gets it all, the early mornings and the late nights, the warm beds and the cold shoulders, the biting words and the gentle apologies, and every jagged edge left will be weathered by time.

He understands that he’s greedy because he drinks up all the praises and pleading, every filthy word Wilson moans into his ear and whispers into his skin. There’s a lifetime of hunger behind it, a cosmic collision of pain and joy and grief and devotion. It’s a wine aged for twenty years between them, bottled want and yearning, poured into an overflowing glass.

He recognizes that he’s possessive, because he knows he’s got him now, and it's for good. There’s no more sharing attention, or waiting his turn, or swallowing the bitter bile of jealousy. Wilson will stray from any map to follow his true north.

So, whatever, maybe Wilson is lying about being gay, but at least House is honest about being worse.

[abbotjack]

You Knocked, I Let You In

summary : You’re not from his world—you don’t speak in vitals, don’t flinch at blood, don’t belong to the people who call him “Abbot” like it’s both a sentence and a survival tactic. But when he texts—too late, too clipped, too careful—you go. Because Jack Abbot never asks for anything, not really. And tonight, for reasons he won’t say, he wants you. A cherry-red dress. A quiet reservation. A man built to hold pressure, not affection. He’s never been good with words. But he’s about to show you everything he means.

word count : 6,839

content/warnings : 18+ only MDNI, emotionally intense sex, aftercare, oral (f receiving), protected vaginal sex, depiction of PTSD and emotional repression, grief, mention of a patient death (child), emotionally guarded older male character (Jack is in his 40s), younger female character (mid 20s), emotionally soft Jack Abbot, grounded realism, possessive tenderness, trauma-informed characterization, anddddd a lot of smut with feelings.

a/n: this one’s been collecting dust in my google docs for a while—wasn’t sure if it was any good, but figured someone out there might need it as much as I did.

You shouldn’t be here.

That’s the first thing you think when the cab pulls to a stop at the corner of 15th and Vine—where the pavement turns to gravel just before the sidewalk ends and the streetlamp hums like it’s about to go out. There’s no front porch light, no house number you can see, just a dented mailbox with the paint scraped off and a storm door that sticks if you don’t lift it by the handle.

But you’ve been here before.

Not often. Not enough. Just enough to still feel it in your legs.

The house is red brick and slouched. Duplex, probably built in the fifties. One of those old Allegheny Valley homes too stubborn to die. It leans slightly to the right, like maybe the foundation gave up a long time ago but the rest kept going out of spite.

You step out into the drizzle, heels hitting the concrete with a hollow click, and the cold April air clings to your dress like a second skin. It’s too thin for this weather, but you wore it anyway—slippery and low-backed, cherry red and just barely long enough to keep from being indecent. You don’t wear red. You’re not the kind of girl who makes a scene. But tonight you needed him to see you.

You’re still not sure why he texted.

You’re still not sure why you came.

You’re not a fixture here—you’re a flicker. The kind of girl a man like Jack Abbot never plans around. Just thinks about too often. Just calls when it’s too late to be polite.

And maybe that’s what you like about it.

Because you don’t live in a world of routines and rotas and rounds. You’re not in medicine. You don’t know what a central line is or how to read an EKG. You work at the city’s adult literacy nonprofit, helping people who slipped through cracks in the system big enough to bury them. You teach night classes in a fluorescent basement on the North Side, surrounded by broken chairs and stained carpet and students with parole bracelets and kids who need dinner by six.

It’s good work. Quiet work. Important.

But it doesn’t leave much room for wanting things just for yourself.

And Jack Abbot has never once asked you to be small.

You step carefully up the cracked incline of his driveway, heels clicking softly against the uneven concrete. Jack’s truck is parked just slightly crooked, like always—angled enough that the passenger side catches the streetlight, the front end turned a little too close to the retaining wall, like he pulled in fast and didn’t bother correcting.

You slow as you pass it.

The passenger-side mirror is fogged at the edges, streaked faintly from rain, but you lean in anyway, breathing warm against the glass to clear a patch. Your reflection stares back—lipstick still intact, not too bright, not too desperate. You smooth a hand down the front of your dress. It clings a little from the damp.

You don’t touch the mirror. You don’t need to.

Instead, you straighten your spine, cross the last few feet, and raise your hand to knock.

Once. Then again. Knuckles on wood, sharp and clean.

There’s a pause.

Then the soft clatter of a lock, then another.

Then silence.

When the door opens, he doesn’t say anything.

Just stands there.

Jack Abbot isn’t tall enough to tower, but he doesn’t need to. There’s something in the way he carries himself—shoulders slightly hunched, stance uneven from the prosthetic—that makes people instinctively give him space. Not out of fear. Out of recognition. Like they know he’s walked through something hard and quiet and didn’t come out clean on the other side.

He’s still in his black scrubs, the collar rumpled. Underneath, the cuff of a white undershirt is visible—stained faintly at the edge, like he’d wiped his hand on it without realizing. Could be blood. Could be iodine. Could be coffee. He hasn’t shaved in days. There’s a cut healing at his jawline, a bruise blooming high on one forearm. And his eyes—that slow, searching stare that never stays still—carry the quiet of someone who’s watched too many people bleed out under fluorescent light and learned to keep his voice steady anyway.

He doesn’t speak. Just stands there, watching you like he’s waiting to see whether you’ll flinch first.

He looks like he just got off shift.

He looks like he never left it.

“Hi,” you say.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

His gaze drops. Tracks the fabric. The way it clings to your hips. The slit at your thigh. Then climbs again, slowly, until he’s looking at your mouth like he’s remembering something that never should’ve been said out loud.

“I’m not in the mood for small talk,” he says, voice rough and clipped, like it’s meant to keep you at a distance.

You arch a brow. “Relax. I wasn’t planning to ask how your day was. You texted me, remember?”

“That was an hour ago.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

He looks at you, unmoving. “I typed it an hour ago. Hit send ten minutes ago.”

You snort—just barely. “Jesus. You ghost me for a month, then get pissy I didn’t teleport here?”

Jack doesn’t flinch. Just watches you. Like he’s trying to count all the ways this is going to be a bad idea.

You step past him, shoulder brushing his chest. You feel the heat of him—his restraint like a wall you could kick in if you wanted to.

“I’m not here to coddle whatever brooding thing you’ve got going on tonight,” you say, casting a glance back over your shoulder. “If you wanted silence, you could’ve kept the draft in your messages.”

Jack shifts—just enough that you notice. Eyes steady, weight shifted, like he’s tracking something under your skin.

“You wearing anything under that?”

You smile with your teeth. “You planning to find out or just stand there being weird about it?”

He exhales through his nose—short, sharp. Glances down once, then back up.

Then steps aside and pushes the door the rest of the way open.

“You’re still late,” he says.

“And you’re still full of shit,” you reply, walking in without waiting.

The door clicks shut behind you.

You shrug your coat off and let it hang on the crooked hook by the entryway. His silence follows you like steam—slow, clinging, heavy in the chest. You’re halfway into the living room before you realize he hasn’t moved—Jack is staring at you like he’s trying not to say the thing he’ll regret. Like he already knows how this ends and is still pretending he has a choice.

You turn.

You arch a brow. “You gonna hover all night, or…?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just moves—slowly—toward the coffee table. His movements are clipped, functional, like he’s still coming down from shift adrenaline.

“You hungry?” he asks.

You blink. “What?”

“I made a reservation.”

You snort. “At a place with silverware?”

“Unfortunately.”

“You—” you blink again, actually thrown for once, “—you made a reservation at a real-ass restaurant.”

“Look, I didn’t expect you to show.”

You tilt your head. “But you made the reservation anyway.”

He scratches at the back of his neck, not looking at you. “They had online booking. It wasn’t emotional.”

“So what? You were gonna eat coq au vin alone and pretend it was character development?”

He finally looks at you, deadpan. “I was gonna sit at the bar, drink overpriced scotch, and ignore the people having birthday dinners behind me. It’s practically therapy.”

You laugh. Actually laugh. And his eyes flick to your mouth like he forgot they do that.

“I thought we were walking,” you say.

“We are,” he says. “To my truck.”

“Oh, romantic.”

“You wanna walk through the Strip District in that dress?” he asks, not even looking at you. “I’m all for a dramatic entrance, but I’m not in the mood to commit a felony in public tonight.”

You smirk. “You think I need a bodyguard?”

“I think if anyone says the wrong thing to you,” Jack mutters, eyes flicking down the length of your dress again, “I’ll end up punching someone in the face—and I’m already covered in someone else’s blood.”

You go still for half a breath.

And he catches it. Like a pulse under your skin.

His jaw works once, then he exhales through his nose—tired, sharp.

“I’ll be quick,” he says. “Don’t touch anything.”

He disappears down the hallway, one boot clunking against the baseboard, prosthetic hissing faintly as it shifts with his stride. You don’t sit. You pace, slow and quiet, absorbing his house like it’s telling you something he won’t.

The walls are neutral. Medical journals stacked beside a box of ammo he hasn’t unpacked. Framed medals, yes—but not displayed. Tucked in a dusty cabinet beside an unopened bottle of whiskey and a Ziploc full of blood donation cards. There’s a water bottle on the counter with his name on the cap in someone else’s handwriting. There’s a sticky note on the fridge that says Don’t forget Friday—Robby.

You lean against the kitchen doorway.

There’s still a black bag by the door. Trauma pack. Half-zipped. Red tape on the handles. He’s always got one ready—even when he’s off.

When he comes back, he’s not dressed for candlelight.

He’s dressed like himself.

Black button-down, sleeves rolled halfway. Dark jeans. That same leather jacket you once saw him use to splint someone’s arm after a three-car pileup. His hair’s still wet, but pushed back now. He smells like cedar soap—something clean, sharp, bought on purpose—and something darker beneath it, like heat and metal and memory. Not cologne. Just him. The kind of scent that lingers even when he doesn’t.

He doesn’t smile when he sees you.

But he does stop. And look.

“You good?” he asks.

You grab your coat from the hook. “Better than you.”

“Doubt that,” he says, already at the door. “I’ve had three cups of hospital coffee and a fentanyl OD cough in my face. That’s called building resilience.”

“I think that’s called exposure therapy.”

“No, that’s what this is,” he mutters, opening the front door for you.

Outside, the rain softens everything—headlights, corners, voices. The kind of night that makes even the city feel like it's whispering.

Jack walks ahead, boots hitting the concrete with that uneven cadence you’ve learned by feel, not sound. You trail behind, pulling your coat tighter, watching his back, the broad line of his shoulders under the jacket. He doesn't glance back, but he doesn’t need to. He knows you're there.

He opens the passenger door to his truck. Holds it open without fanfare.

You hesitate, one foot still on the sidewalk.

“You really made a reservation?” you ask.

Jack nods once. Doesn’t look at you. “Yeah.”

You narrow your eyes, stepping closer. “So we actually have a table?”

He glances at you now, sharp and sure. “If I walk in with you in that dress, they’ll give us one.”

Then he shuts the door gently behind you, like he’s sealing something in.

The restaurant is warm and low-lit, the kind of place where the menu doesn’t have prices and everyone talks like they’re trying not to wake a baby. A converted warehouse with exposed brick, matte silverware, and waitstaff in black aprons who glide, not walk.

You step in first, rain-slick and radiant under the vestibule light, and Jack follows just behind. His presence doesn’t just fill a room. It tilts it.

The hostess does a quick scan, eyes pausing on your dress, then on Jack’s face, then on the two of you together—like she knows better than to ask questions. She checks the list, but Jack cuts in, voice low.

“Abbot. Table for two.”

Her posture straightens. “Right this way.”

The table is small. Intimate. Tucked into a corner where the candlelight flickers just enough to make the shadows feel intentional. You slide into your seat across from him. The tablecloth brushes your thighs. Jack drops into the chair like he’s still trying to convince his body to sit still.

You watch him take in the room like a trauma bay—sizing up exits, memorizing sightlines, cataloguing who’s already drunk and who might start something. You’re not surprised. Jack doesn’t know how to be off-duty. Not really.

“I’ve never seen you eat anywhere with cloth napkins,” you murmur.

He lifts his eyes, deadpan. “I can evolve.”

You lean back. “Is that what this is? Personal growth?”

Jack unfolds his napkin like he’s done it a hundred times. “It’s carbs and a distraction.”

“And me?”

He looks at you for a long second. “A complication.”

You smirk. “Careful. I might put that on a dating profile.”

He doesn’t smile—but his eyes betray him. That flicker of something darker. Hunger, maybe. Or memory.

A waiter appears—tall, the kind of man who probably judges how you hold a fork. He hands you menus and starts his monologue, but you only half-hear it. Your eyes are on Jack. He hasn’t looked away from you once.

When the waiter leaves, Jack doesn’t reach for the menu.

You do.

“What?” you ask, without looking up. “You don’t read?”

“I already know what I want,” he says.

You freeze for half a second.

Then flip the page. “You always this forward in public?”

Jack shrugs. “Just forward enough.”

You glance up. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I’m trying not to,” he says quietly.

Silence folds in between you—soft, ambient, but charged. You can hear the clink of cutlery, low jazz humming from the ceiling speakers, the faint hiss of water being poured into someone else’s glass. Jack shifts in his seat—not restless, just recalibrating. You recognize that posture. He’s about to say something he’ll pretend didn’t matter.

“You look good,” he says finally.

You meet his eyes. “You already said that.”

“I didn’t.”

You tilt your head. “Thought you didn’t do compliments.”

“I don’t.”

“Then what’s this?”

Jack leans forward slightly, elbows on the table. His voice is quieter now, more grounded.

“This is me trying not to go home with your dress still in the seat crease of my truck.”

You’re warm now. Not from the wine. From him. From the way his gaze doesn’t drop, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t ask.

“I thought you wanted this to be civilized,” you say.

Jack exhales, slow and sharp. “I wanted it to be public. That’s not the same thing.”

You lean in, just enough that the candlelight touches your collarbone.

“So what happens after dessert?” you ask, sweetly.

Jack’s mouth curves—not into a smile. Something more dangerous.

“You think I’m gonna make it to dessert?”

Jack doesn’t touch his wine. Just traces the rim of the glass with the side of his thumb, like he’s giving his hands something to do besides reach for you.

You, on the other hand, sip yours slow. Watch him over the edge like you’re still deciding if you’re going to let this happen.

“You always this twitchy at dinner?” you ask, setting the glass down.

“I’m not twitchy,” he mutters.

You raise your brow.

“I’m alert.”

You grin. “You know what civilians call that?”

“Hypervigilance?”

“Therapy’s working.”

That gets him. Just a flicker—something behind the eyes, that half-breath pause he does when he’s almost about to smile. But he shakes his head like he’s brushing it off. Always brushing it off.

“You’re good at that,” he says.

“At what?”

“Getting under my skin.”

You blink—caught off guard by the honesty in his voice. He doesn’t say it like an accusation. He says it like it’s inevitable. Like it already happened.

“I’m not trying to,” you say, quieter now.

“Yeah,” Jack says, eyes locked on you. “That’s the problem.”

A beat. The waiter brings bread. You ignore it.

Jack leans back a little. Not relaxed—never relaxed—but more settled. Like whatever this is, he’s decided to let it stretch a little longer.

“You like what you do?” he asks.

You tilt your head. “That a real question or small talk?”

“Real,” he says, without missing a beat. “You do this thing where your shoulders drop when you talk about work. Even when you say it’s exhausting. I noticed.”

You go still.

Then—cautious: “You remember what I do?”

Jack meets your eyes, unwavering. “Adult literacy program. GED prep. Half your students can’t keep consistent hours because they work night shifts or care for their kids. One of them asked you to help fill out a DMV form last week and didn’t know how to sign their own name.”

You stare at him.

“I listen,” Jack says, voice steady. “Doesn’t mean I know what to say back.”

You look down for a moment. His words hit somewhere too soft, too unguarded. You weren’t expecting softness—not from him. But here it is, tucked under the barbed wire.

“I thought you were half-listening that night,” you say. “The one where you were icing your shoulder and bleeding into your scrub top.”

“I was bleeding into someone else’s scrub top,” he corrects, dry. “Mine was already ruined.”

You smile. “Still. I thought I was talking to the wall.”

“You were,” he says. Then softer: “But the wall has ears.”

You both fall quiet again—but not from discomfort. From weight.

Jack shifts forward slightly, elbows on the table now, posture subtly open in a way that would go unnoticed by anyone else. But you notice. Because you know how rare it is.

“You ever want to do something else?” he asks.

You shrug. “Sometimes. But I like that I get to be useful. And I like that it’s mine.”

He nods. Absorbs that.

“What about you?” you ask. “You ever think about walking away?”

His fingers tighten just slightly around the water glass.

“Every night,” he says. “But I don’t.”

“Why not?”

Jack looks up at you then, sharp and tired and honest.

“Because the minute I stop showing up,” he says, “someone else has to hold the pressure. And I don’t trust most people to not fuck that up.”

You don’t reply right away.

Instead, you let your foot brush his under the table. Just barely. A whisper of contact.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull back.

“You ever let anyone take care of you?” you ask.

He huffs a breath—almost a laugh, but not quite.

“You offering?”

“I’m not a nurse.”

“No,” Jack says, voice dropping a register. “You’re worse. You see through it.”

You look at him across the table.

Candlelight catches in the corner of his eye. He’s not looking at your mouth anymore. He’s looking at you like he’s memorizing you in case this is the last time he gets to do it.

That scares you more than anything.

But you don’t look away.

“You want to get out of here?” you ask, voice low.

Jack doesn’t move.

Doesn’t blink.

“Yeah,” he says. “But I’m not rushing.”

You swallow. “Why not?”

He leans in. Just slightly. His voice soft now. Barely a murmur.

“Because if I take you home right now,” he says, “I’m not letting you leave before sunrise. And I’m trying to be good.”

Your heart trips.

“But you’re not good,” you whisper.

Jack stares at you like you’ve already undone him.

“No,” he says. “But I want to be. With you, I want to be.”

Dinner’s done.

The plates are cleared. The wine is low in the glass. Whatever tension was humming earlier has now settled into something denser—gravity, almost. Like the weight of what neither of you is saying has taken up its own seat at the table.

You reach for your purse when the check comes.

Jack watches you. Doesn’t move.

“I’ll get it,” you say.

“No,” he says.

You blink. “Jack—”

He tilts his head—just enough to be a warning. “Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“I invited you.”

“Since when do you play by date rules?”

He leans back in his chair, eyes fixed on you. The collar of his button-down is open just slightly now, sleeves pushed up. His forearms rest against the edge of the table—still, tense. You can see the cut healing along his knuckle, the way his jaw shifts like he’s chewing back a longer sentence.

Then he says, voice low and level:

“I had a kid code on me last night. No warning. Collapsed mid-handoff.”

You stop moving.

Jack doesn’t blink. Doesn’t shift.

“You ever do chest compressions on someone who still has their baby teeth?”

The air around you goes sharp. Quiet.

His voice doesn’t waver. “It’s been a long fucking month. And you—” he lifts his chin slightly, like pointing at you without pointing, “—are the first good thing to happen to me that I didn’t have to stitch shut or call time on.”

You don’t speak.

Not right away.

Jack exhales slowly. Not dramatic. Just tired.

“So please,” he finishes, softer now. “Let me pay for your damn meal.”

You sit back, lips parting—but the words don’t come.

He doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t soften. He just looks at you like he needs you to let him have this.

So you nod. Once.

“Okay,” you murmur.

Jack signals the waiter with a tilt of his fingers and slides his card into the checkbook before the guy even finishes approaching.

When he turns back to you, his voice is lighter. Barely. “Thanks for not fighting me on it.”

“I figured you’d pull the dead kid card.”

“I didn’t,” he mutters. “I pulled the I care about you card. You just weren’t expecting it.”

You shake your head, smiling now. “I really wasn’t.”

Outside, the streets are still slick. Reflections of stoplights ripple in the puddles. You walk side by side in silence, coats tight, his hand resting near your lower back without ever quite touching. Not possessive. Just... present.

He unlocks the truck with a low beep. You slide in, silk sticking slightly to the seat.

Jack closes the door behind you, then rounds to his side. The interior smells like his jacket. Clean, worn-in, edged with cedar and something darker.

He starts the engine.

Doesn’t drive yet.

His hand rests on the steering wheel. The other on the gearshift.

You’re watching him. And you know he knows.

“You okay?” you ask, voice soft now.

He doesn’t answer immediately.

Just taps once on the steering wheel. Then again.

Then: “I haven’t had you in my house since Feburary.”

You tilt your head. “You keeping track?”

“I remember things that mess me up.”

You stare at him. “That what I do?”

Jack finally turns to look at you.

And it’s there—all of it. The restraint, the need, the fear, the ache. The thing in his chest he’s been keeping taped down with dry humor and trauma protocol.

“You make me feel like there’s a version of my life I don’t hate,” he says. “That counts for something.”

Your breath catches.

And that’s when he shifts into gear.

The drive is quiet.

Not uncomfortable. Just dense. His hand rests near yours on the console. The city passes by in wet blurs of neon and old brick and memory. And when you reach his street—familiar now, in that strange way trauma and attraction make things sacred—you realize you’re holding your breath.

He parks in the same crooked way he always does.

Then cuts the engine.

But doesn’t move to open the door.

You glance over. “You gonna make me sit here all night?”

He looks at you—long, measured.

Then says, “You sure you’re ready to come back inside?”

You don’t answer.

You just open your door.

The front door clicks shut behind you, and suddenly the quiet feels thick. Like the space inside his house is closing around you both, absorbing what little restraint you walked in with. You’re in the same hallway you stood in earlier—same floorboards, same shadows, same air—but your pulse is different now. Everything is.

Jack tosses his keys into the bowl by the door. The clatter echoes.

He doesn’t turn around right away. Just stands there, head down slightly, like he’s bracing. Rain beads along his collar, catching in his jawline stubble. You can see the tension in the back of his neck, the way his hands flex once at his sides and then still.

You don’t wait for him to move.

You step up behind him slowly, the hem of your dress brushing your knees, heels soundless now on the rug.

“Jack,” you say quietly.

He turns.

And the way he looks at you—it’s not clean. It’s not soft. It’s wrecked. Like you’ve been haunting him for weeks and now you’re finally standing here and he doesn’t know where to put the want.

“I think about you,” he says, voice low, raw. “Every fucking night.”

You stare at him. “Then why didn’t you call me sooner?”

“Because I knew I wouldn’t just want to hear your voice.”

That lands between you like weight.

Neither of you speak.

You just look at each other in the dark. And then, without warning, his hand finds your waist.

He pulls you toward him in one solid motion—not rough, just… inevitable. The kind of motion that’s been held back for too long.

Your bodies slot together like you remember each other. Like your hips already know where to rest against his. His hand stays at your waist, fingers firm but not possessive. The other lifts to your jaw, thumb skimming the edge of your cheekbone.

He doesn’t kiss you yet.

He just looks at you.

And it’s too much.

“Say something,” you whisper.

Jack swallows hard. “I’m trying not to fuck this up.”

“Then don’t.”

His fingers tense. You feel it at your hip. In your pulse. In the way your breath catches when he finally closes the last inch of space and kisses you.

It’s slow at first.

Not sweet.

Just devouted.

His mouth moves against yours like he’s trying to memorize the taste, like this is the last time and he wants to make sure it’s enough to live on. His hand slides up the back of your neck, into your hair, anchoring you there like he doesn't trust himself to stop.

You moan softly into him, and his breath catches.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he murmurs against your lips.

“Sure I do,” you breathe. “That’s why I wore the dress.”

He laughs once—low, ragged—but it dies quickly in his throat. The sound is swallowed by your mouth, by the feel of you pressing closer.

You walk him backward without thinking. Past the narrow hallway, past the living room. His hand is on your waist again. Your fingers find the buttons on his shirt but don’t undo them yet.

The house is quiet except for breathing. His and yours. Tangled.

You hit the doorframe of his bedroom.

But he doesn’t open it.

Not yet.

He rests his forehead against yours. He’s breathing hard now—like he’s keeping himself caged on purpose.

“I don’t want to rush it,” he says again. But this time it doesn’t sound like hesitation. It sounds like pain.

“You’re not.”

Jack pulls back half an inch to look at you. His eyes are blown wide. His mouth’s a little open. He looks—not undone—but stripped back.

“I can’t do this halfway,” he says. “Not with you.”

“You’re not supposed to,” you whisper. “That’s the whole point.”

He lets out a long, harsh breath.

And then—finally—he opens the door behind you and pulls you through it like he’s choosing to burn for it.

Jack’s bedroom is dark. Not in a neglectful way—just lived-in. A man’s space. Clean but uncurated. Worn boots under the chair. A folded sweatshirt on the dresser. An open book spine-down on the nightstand: Emergency Procedures & Field Triage. Pages marked in pencil. Of course.

He kicks the door shut behind you.

And for a moment, he just stands there. Breathing. Looking at you like you’re still some unsolvable thing he’s scared to touch wrong.

You move first.

Hands sliding up his chest, fingers finding the edge of his shirt, palms flattening over his heart.

“You sure?” you ask again—voice low, but steady.

Jack’s hands come to your waist, rough and warm. He leans in close, mouth hovering just above yours.

“I’ve been sure since the second you knocked on my door,” he says. Then lower—almost broken: “And I hate that I waited.”

The kiss this time is hungry.

Less control. More need. His tongue slides against yours like he’s chasing something deep, something he couldn’t name even if he tried. You press into him, gasp when his hand fists in the side of your dress, gripping like he’s terrified you’ll vanish mid-breath.

“Take this off,” he murmurs against your mouth. It’s not a question. It’s a plea, said like it’s been echoing in him for weeks.

You reach behind your back, unzip slowly—eyes locked to his the whole time.

Jack steps back half a foot. Watches.

The dress drops. Pools around your ankles.

You’re standing there in lace and nothing else.

He breathes in once, shallow.

“Jesus,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “You wore that for me.”

You nod. “Of course I did.”

His eyes rake down your body—every curve, every detail. His hand lifts. Hovers near your hip. Doesn’t touch yet.

“I don’t know what I did to get this,” he says.

“You survived,” you whisper. “That’s enough.”

He lets out a harsh breath—something close to a sound of grief. And then his hand lands on your bare waist. Heavy. Certain.

He kisses down your neck—slow, biting when you moan, tongue smoothing after like apology. His hands find your back, unclasping your bra in one practiced motion, sliding the straps down your arms like they’re made of silk. You shiver. Not from cold. From him.

“You’re so warm,” he murmurs against your skin.

“You always run cold,” you whisper back, breath shaking.

Jack sinks to his knees.

You inhale sharply.

“Jack—”

“I need to feel you first,” he mutters. “Need to taste you. You don’t get it—I’ve been thinking about this for months.”

You look down—he’s already kissing the inside of your thigh, just above the lace. Soft at first. Then harder. Like he’s mapping something. Marking you.

You gasp when his teeth graze the edge of your panties.

He groans.

“You’re already shaking,” he says, voice full of that broken admiration he doesn’t know how to hide. “That for me?”

“All for you,” you whisper.

He slides the lace down your legs, slow. Watches you step out of them.

Then his hands grip behind your thighs and he pulls you against his mouth.

His tongue is everywhere. Slow circles, deep flicks, his mouth moving like he’s memorizing you from the inside out. One hand holds your thigh wide, the other digs into your ass. When your hand finds his hair, he groans against you—louder now, messier. You can feel how much he needs this in the way he licks like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground.

“Jack—Jack,” you gasp, hips twitching, thighs trembling, “I—fuck—I’m close—”

“Good,” he growls. “You should be.”

When you come, you come with your fingers tight in his hair and your head thrown back, gasping his name like it’s a secret you weren’t supposed to tell. He keeps going. Slower. Gentler. Licking you through it with reverence, with dedication, with the kind of awe he’ll never say out loud.

When he stands again, his mouth is wet, jaw flushed, eyes glassy.

You’re breathing hard.

“You okay?” he asks. Quiet. Real.

“Need you to fuck me,” you say. “Now.”

Jack swears. Low and harsh.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, pulling his shirt over his head, tossing it aside.

“No,” you whisper, stepping into him again, naked and still shaking. “I’m gonna save you.”

Jack lifts you onto the bed like it’s instinct. His hands under your thighs, his body bracketed against yours—solid, tense, hot. The mattress dips beneath your weight, and you stretch out beneath him, bare and burning, chest rising and falling like your ribs don’t quite know how to contain the want.

You prop yourself on your elbows. “Take your pants off.”

He stares at you for a long beat. His chest rises.

Then—low, cracked: “Say it again.”

“Jack—” you whisper.

“No. Say it like you need it.”

Your breath stutters.

“I need to feel you,” you say, voice raw now. “I need you inside me. Right now.”

He swears under his breath. Voice frayed. “Fuck, okay.”

His jeans are gone fast—belt unclasped, zipper shoved down, cotton briefs pushed low. You watch the whole thing with your bottom lip caught between your teeth, eyes dragging over the hard line of his stomach, the blunt, heavy length of him curved against his thigh. He’s thick. Flushed. And already leaking.

“Jesus,” you breathe. “You were hard the whole time?”

Jack climbs back over you, jaw clenched, one hand bracing beside your head. “Since you knocked on my door.”

You reach down between you, wrap your hand around him.

He groans—full-throated, wrecked—and drops his head to your shoulder like he’s just been shot through.

“Shit. Don’t tease me right now,” he mutters.

“I’m not,” you say. “I want you. Like this.”

He looks up at you. Eyes dark. Pupils blown wide.

“Condom’s in the drawer,” he says roughly. “Top left.”

You nod, stretch, grab it. Tear it open.

Your fingers brush his cock as you roll it on, slow and deliberate, and the hiss he lets out could bring a lesser man to his knees.

You look up at him, chest bare, thighs parted, breath gone.

“Jack. Now.”

He doesn’t tease.

He presses forward, one hand guiding himself to your entrance, the other gripping the back of your thigh to anchor you wide for him. You’re wet—already soaked—and the first push is hard enough to make your whole body arch.

“Fuck—” Jack grits. “You’re—shit, baby—you’re so tight.”

You grab his shoulder, nails digging into skin. “Don’t stop. Don’t even think about stopping.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he growls.

He thrusts in fully, slow and deep, and your body takes him—inch by inch, stretch by stretch, until your hips are flush and his forehead is pressed to your collarbone.

Neither of you moves for a second. You just breathe.

And then he starts to fuck you.

It’s not soft. It’s hungry. Measured. Deep. Like he’s trying to get further inside than flesh will allow. Every snap of his hips pushes a breathless moan from your throat. His hand fists the sheet beside your head; his other arm cages you in. Your legs wrap high around his waist, pulling him closer, closer, like you don’t want a single inch of him wasted.

“You feel—” he grunts, “—so fucking good.”

You rake your nails down his back. “Harder.”

He obeys.

Each thrust now hits deeper, heavier, like he’s giving you every part of himself that the world hasn’t already taken. Your breath breaks. Your thighs tremble. His hand finally slips between you, two fingers finding your clit with brutal precision.

“Jack—Jack—I’m gonna—fuck—”

He’s panting now. Losing rhythm. But he doesn't let up.

“Come on,” he grits. “Let me feel you. Give it to me. Give it.”

You break.

You come hard—legs shaking, hands gripping, eyes squeezed shut, crying out his name like it’s the only one you’ve ever learned how to say.

He follows.

With a hoarse, broken moan, he buries himself deep and stays there—body locked tight against yours, pulse stuttering hard enough to feel in his throat, jaw pressed to your shoulder like the release ripped something loose he didn’t know was still held shut. He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t even shift. Just keeps his arms cinched around your waist like he’s bracing for impact that never came.

You thread your fingers through his hair—slow, grounding. He doesn't speak right away. When he does, it’s quiet. Raw.

“I don’t…” He swallows. “I don’t know how to be good at this.”

You press a kiss to his temple. “You don’t have to be,” you whisper. “Just don’t stop trying.”

Jack stays inside you, barely breathing, the tremor still in his chest. His weight settles over you—not heavy, not crushing. Just solid. Protective. One arm under your neck. The other spread wide across your ribs like he’s still counting them to make sure you didn’t break.

You let him stay there. Let him breathe. Let him feel it. Because you know Jack Abbot doesn’t get to feel often—he just responds. Just survives.

Eventually, he lifts his head. Barely.

You meet his eyes.

They’re a little bloodshot. A little dazed. And so fucking open it nearly knocks the wind out of you.

“You okay?” you whisper.

He nods, slow. “Yeah.”

Then, quieter: “Yeah. Just—fuck.”

You smile. “That’s articulate.”

“I’m not built for articulate,” Jack mutters, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. “Especially not when I’m inside someone who just ruined me.”

You arch a brow. “Ruin’s a strong word.”

“You don’t see what I look like right now.”

“You look good.”

Jack huffs—half a laugh, half a sigh. “I feel like I ran a marathon with a collapsed lung.”

You trace your fingers along the edge of his jaw. He lets you.

“Didn’t peg you as a cuddler,” you murmur.

“I’m not.”

“You haven’t moved.”

“I will,” he says, but doesn’t. His hand flexes on your hip. “Eventually.”

He eases out of you a few minutes later, slowly, carefully—like he’s handling an injury he doesn’t want to aggravate. His fingers trail down your thigh, steady and warm, like he’s checking for damage. When your breath catches, he pauses.

“Too much?” he asks, voice low.

You shake your head. “No. Just… full.”

Jack exhales, something quiet and wrecked. He bends, presses a kiss to the inside of your knee. Not performative. Not playful. Just soft. Reflexive. Like his body doesn’t know how else to say I needed this.

Then he’s up. Moving efficiently. Still naked but somehow still Jack—controlled, composed, capable, even after being completely undone.

He comes back with a towel, a glass of water, and one of his black undershirts. Doesn’t make a show of it. Just kneels on the bed and gently wipes between your legs, slow and careful, like you’re something he’d bleed for again if it meant he could keep you whole.

You let him. Let him take care of you the way you knew he would if he ever let you close enough.

You sit back against the headboard once you’re clean, his shirt pulled over your head. Your legs are still shaky. Your breath still catching now and then in your chest.

Jack returns to the bed wordlessly.

He doesn’t sprawl. Doesn’t lean. He sits beside you like something important’s about to come loose in him if he doesn’t say it now.

You look over at him.

“You do this for everyone?” you ask, teasing—but it’s soft, not sharp.

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t take the bait.

He looks at you.

And says, plainly: “I don’t have people over like this.”

That stills you.

He goes on, voice lower now, like it’s hard to say aloud. “You know that. You’ve always known that.”

You don’t reply right away.

Because you do know. You knew the first time he kissed you like he wasn’t supposed to. You knew the second time, when he didn’t say your name but held your hand under the table at a bar. You knew every time he pushed you away and still showed up when it mattered.

“I know,” you say. Quiet. Sure.

He looks at you again—really looks—and it’s all there. The weight of it. The risk. The want.

“I’m not fucking leaving,” Jack says finally. “And you’re not just here for the night. Not after that. I can’t—” He breaks off. Swallows. “I can’t pretend you’re just passing through. I don’t want to.”

You lean into him. Let your head rest on his shoulder. The shirt smells like him—soap, sweat, sex, something that lives deep in the cotton, like the way old homes hold heat.

His arm comes around you without hesitation. Holds you firm. Solid. One hand at the small of your back. Like if he doesn’t keep touching you, it won’t be real.

“Okay,” you whisper.

And he kisses your temple—slow, lingering.

Not like a man who needs sex.

Like a man who needed you.

Like a man who’s been surviving too long alone and finally, finally found something he’s willing to stay for.

[flux1563]

The Porn Shoot ft yunjin

Tags : Squirting, creampie, pussy gape, video call sex, male reader

Words : 7730

"You're up next, Yunjin," the director called out, his voice slicing through the muggy summer air. The bustle of the film crew around her grew distant as she stepped into the spotlight. Sweat trickled down her neck, sticking her shirt to her skin like a second layer of glue.

Yunjin took a deep breath and focused on the beat of the music pumping through her earphones. She had practiced this routine a hundred times in the mirror, but the pressure of the cameras and the expectant gazes of the group made her heart hammer like a drum in her chest. She closed her eyes for a moment, blocking out the chaos, and when she opened them, she saw the text from her manager, Y/N, again. "Can u come to my car, i need to tell u something." The words danced in front of her like a mirage, taunting her.

With a furtive glance at the director, she made a split-second decision. She mouthed an apology to her groupmates and dashed off the set, the clack of her heels echoing down the alley. The car was parked at the end, a sleek black sedan that had become a second home over the months of their relentless schedule. She could see his silhouette through the tinted windows, a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips, the orange ember burning like a beacon.

Her heart was racing as she opened the door and slipped into the cool, leather embrace of the passenger seat. The scent of smoke and cologne filled the air, and she took a deep breath to steady herself. "What do you want to tell?" she said, her voice wavering slightly.

Y/N turned to her, his eyes dark and unreadable. For a moment, she thought he might actually have some news about their upcoming tour or maybe a surprise visit from the record label. But instead, he leaned in and kissed her, his cigarette dropping to the floor mat with a hiss. Yunjin's thoughts froze as she processed the suddenness of his action. She'd never seen this side of him before, and the warmth of his mouth on hers sent a jolt of surprise through her body.

But she didn't pull away. If anything, she leaned into it, her own stress and pent-up desires taking over. The kiss grew more urgent, his hands tangling in her hair as she gripped the armrest, their breaths mingling in the close quarters of the car. The fabric of their clothes whispered together, the sound a stark contrast to the loud silence that enveloped them. Yunjin's body responded in a way that was both thrilling and terrifying, her skin tingling with a heat that had nothing to do with the sticky weather outside.

Breaking away, he whispered, "You're so beautiful." His hands slid down to her shoulders, his thumbs brushing the exposed skin of her collarbone. The words sent a shiver down her spine, and she couldn't help but wonder what had brought this on. Was it the intensity of their work, or something else entirely? The question hovered at the edge of her mind, but she didn't dare voice it, afraid to ruin the moment.

He reached for the hem of her shirt, his movements slow and deliberate. She watched as his eyes widened with excitement when he saw the bare skin of her stomach. Her heart hammered in her ears as his fingers traced a line up to her breasts, teasing the fabric of her bra. The anticipation was almost too much to handle, her body already humming with need. She hadn't felt this alive in weeks, not with the constant pressure of perfecting their performances and meeting endless demands.

As Y/N's hands grew bolder, Yunjin felt a mix of emotions - fear of getting caught, confusion about the sudden turn of events, but mostly, a fierce, unbridled craving for more. Her own hands found his face, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss as she straddled him on the plush seat. The engine of the car hummed beneath them, a steady rhythm that mirrored the beating of their hearts. The world outside the tinted windows faded away, leaving only the two of them and the electric tension that crackled in the air.

With a gentle tug, he peeled her shirt off her shoulders, revealing her lacy bra. His eyes darkened as he took in the sight, and he leaned in to kiss the spot just above the fabric. She gasped, the sensation sending waves of pleasure through her. Her hands trembled as she reached behind her to unclasp the bra, letting it fall away. His warm palms cupped her breasts, thumbs circling her hardened nipples. The heat of his touch sent bolts of sensation through her, and she couldn't help but arch into his hand.

Yunjin's skin was sticky with sweat and desire as she leaned back into the seat, her breaths coming in shallow pants. He kissed his way down her body, peeling off her tight jeans and panties in one fluid motion. She was laid bare before him, her pussy swollen and glistening in the dim light. His eyes roamed over her, and she felt his gaze like a caress, leaving her skin alight with anticipation. The sight of his hunger for her was intoxicating.

Her nipples were bright pink, peaked like cherries at the end of a warm summer's day, begging to be tasted. He took one into his mouth, sucking gently at first before increasing the pressure. She moaned, her back arching off the seat, her hands clutching at his hair. He switched to the other one, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin, and she gasped. The pleasure was exquisite, a perfect balance of pain and pleasure that had her legs trembling.

Her pussy was meaty, the skin a deep, flushed red that spoke of desire. He kissed his way down her body, his breath hot against her skin. His tongue traced the delicate folds, and she quivered under his touch. His fingers slipped inside her, exploring her wetness with a gentle insistence that had her hips rocking against his hand. He groaned against her, the vibration sending a fresh wave of heat through her. She felt so exposed, so vulnerable, but also so powerful.

"Keep going, your mouth is so good," she gasped, the words spilling out of her like a confession. His tongue circled her clit, teasing it mercilessly until she was panting. Her fingers curled into the leather of the seat, her body tightening with the beginnings of an orgasm. He knew exactly how to touch her, how to make her body sing with pleasure.

He looked up at her, a smug smile playing on his lips before he plunged his tongue deep inside her. She moaned loudly, the sound muffled by his mouth. Her pussy build the pressure until she was sure she couldn't take anymore. "I'm gonna cum, Y/N," she whimpered, the words barely coherent. "Is it okay to squirt?"

"Just do it, Yunjin," he said, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down her spine. And with those simple words, the dam burst. Her body convulsed as she came hard, her juices spurting out and soaking the seat beneath her. The scream that tore from her throat was primal, echoing in the confined space of the car. She had never been so uninhibited, never felt so alive.

He didn't stop though. If anything, the feel of her squirting around his fingers only spurred him on. He began to pump his hand in earnest, his two digits sliding in and out of her slick channel with an ease that spoke of experience. She could feel herself tightening around him, her orgasm still riding her like a wild wave. The pleasure was almost too much to bear, but she didn't want it to end.

"Yes, Y/N," she moaned, her voice a desperate plea. "Right there, keep touching it." He chuckled against her skin, his breath hot and heavy. He knew just where to touch her to send her over the edge again, and he wasn't about to let her down. His thumb found her clit once more, rubbing it in a slow, circular motion that had her bucking her hips against him.

Her eyes squeezed shut, her mouth parted in a silent scream as the orgasm crashed over her like a tidal wave. The squirt grew more intense, spraying against his hand and the leather seat. It was a mess, but she couldn't bring herself to care. All she knew was the exquisite sensation of his tongue swirling around her clit, his fingers still pumping in and out of her. The warmth of his breath against her skin only added to the sensory overload.

"Three squirt," she heard him murmur, his voice a low rumble in his chest. She could feel another climax building, her body a tight coil ready to snap. "Four squirt," he said, and she lost count as the contractions took over. Her pussy clenched around his digits, her squirts becoming a continuous flow as she rode the waves of pleasure. She had never felt like this before, never knew she could.

Her body was a symphony of sensation, each touch and kiss a note that played in time with the pulse of the bass outside the car. She could feel the vibrations of the music video shoot through the pavement and up into her very core. The world outside didn't matter; all that existed was the rhythm of his hand and the warmth of his mouth.

Yunjin's pussy was a machine of pleasure, squirting in time with his expert ministrations. Each pulse of her orgasm was a gush of wetness that soaked the seat, a testament to the power of his touch. Her legs were trembling, her muscles quivering as she rode the waves of ecstasy. She could feel herself growing wetter with each passing second, her body responding to his every command.

"Fuckk so much squirt from ur mouth and fingers," she moaned, her voice thick with arousal. She had never been so vocal before, but something about the way he played her body like an instrument brought out a side of her she didn't know existed. It was raw and primal, and it was exhilarating.

He sat up, his eyes gleaming with lust. He unzipped his pants, revealing his hard cock, which stood at attention like a soldier waiting for his orders. Yunjin couldn't help but stare, her mouth watering at the sight. She had never felt so hungry for someone, so desperate to feel them inside her. "Please," she begged, "just fuck me already. I can't wait anymore."

But Y/N had other plans. He reached over to the center console and pulled out a bottle of water. He unscrewed the cap and took a sip before leaning back down to her pussy. The coolness of the liquid on her sensitive skin made her jump, and she watched in amazement as he began to rub the water onto her clit with his thumb. The sensation was strange, but it soon gave way to a new kind of pleasure as the water mixed with her juices. He worked her clit in a slow, deliberate rhythm, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Wait," he said, his voice thick with lust. "I want to make you squirt five times again before I fuck you."

And with that, his mouth returned to her pussy, his tongue dancing over her clit while his fingers plunged in and out of her wetness. Yunjin's eyes rolled back in her head, the pleasure so intense it was almost painful. She could feel another orgasm building, her body tightening around his hand. He was relentless, his mouth working her clit like it was the most delicious thing he'd ever tasted. She could feel her pussy clench and release, a symphony of pleasure that had her toes curling.

"One," she gasped, her voice trembling as she felt the first spurt of wetness. "Two," she moaned, her hips bucking against his face. The squirts grew stronger, her body convulsing with each wave of ecstasy. "Three, four..." she lost count as the orgasms rolled through her, each one more intense than the last. She could feel herself getting wetter, the squirts turning into a torrent that soaked his hand and the car seat beneath her.

Yunjin was panting, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. But He wasn't done yet. He sat up, his hand still buried in her pussy, and leaned over to grab the bottle of water again. He brought it to her mouth, tilting it so that the cool liquid spilled over her tongue and down her throat. The contrast of the cold water against her burning desire was exquisite. "Five," she whispered, her eyes glazed with lust.

And then, with a final, powerful thrust of his fingers, she felt it - the fifth orgasm ripping through her like a bolt of lightning. Her pussy clenched around his hand, spraying water and juices everywhere. She screamed his name, the sound echoing through the car. He watched her with a mix of awe and satisfaction, his own arousal palpable in the tense air.

"I want you to suck my dick," He said, his voice strained with need. "But we don't have enough time."

Yunjin nodded, her body still trembling from the intensity of her climax. She knew the risks of getting caught, but she couldn't deny the desperate craving to feel him inside her. "It's okay," she whispered, her eyes never leaving his. "Just fuck me now."

With a feral growl, he positioned himself between her legs, his cock slick with her juices. He took a moment to appreciate the sight of her, sprawled out on the car seat, her chest heaving and her pussy glistening with need. Then, without further warning, he pushed inside her, his cock sliding in easily due to her squirts. Yunjin's eyes went wide as she felt the stretch, the sensation of fullness that was so overwhelming it was almost too much to handle.

Her orgasm hit her like a freight train, the initial penetration sending her soaring over the edge once more. Her pussy clamped down on his cock as she came, her muscles contracting in a delicious symphony of pleasure. He groaned, the feel of her tight pussy milking him almost pushing him over the edge.

"Why you so sensitive?" he murmured, his voice thick with lust. "Do you need it this bad?"

"Your cock is just so fucking big," Yunjin managed to gasp, her eyes squeezed shut as she felt every inch of him fill her up. It was true; his size was something she had never experienced before. It was almost painful, but in the most exquisite way. Her pussy stretched around him, the sensation of being so utterly filled sending her over the edge again.

"I can feel it," she whispered, her voice barely a murmur. "Your cock is touching every corner of my pussy." His eyes darkened with desire at her words, his grip on her hips tightening as he began to thrust in earnest. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the car, punctuating the quiet night air outside. The leather of the seat squeaked beneath her as he fucked her hard and fast, each stroke pushing her closer to another orgasm.

Her squirts grew more intense, her pussy contracting around his shaft like a vice. It was as if her body was trying to milk him dry, to pull every ounce of cum from him. Yunjin's moans grew louder with each thrust, her voice hoarse from the screams of pleasure that had torn from her throat. She had never felt so alive, so wanted. The way he claimed her, so rough and unyielding, it was as if he owned her, as if she was nothing more than a toy for his amusement.

Yet even as her body responded to him, she couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt. This wasn't supposed to happen, not with her manager, not when they had a music video to finish. But the feeling was quickly drowned out by the fire that raged through her veins, the need to feel him deeper, to come again and again.

Her legs were trembling, her body slick with sweat and desire. Each squirt seemed to come more easily now, her pussy gushing like a fountain each time he hit that perfect spot. He groaned, his movements growing more erratic as he felt her tighten around him, her orgasms pushing him closer to the edge. "You're so good, Yunjin," he panted, his hips slamming into her with a ferocity that was almost scary. "So fucking good."

Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she could only manage a breathy "Ahh..." as he brought her to climax after climax. It was as if her body had become a machine solely designed for his pleasure, each squirt a testament to his skill. The car rocked with their movements, the leather seat sticking to her skin as she bucked and writhed beneath him. The world outside had faded away, leaving only the two of them in a bubble of lust and passion.

His grip on her hips grew bruising, his thrusts deep and punishing. He was relentless in his pursuit of her pleasure, pushing her to heights she had never dreamed of. And she was powerless to stop it, her body responding to his every demand. Her pussy was a fountain of desire, squirting uncontrollably with each stroke of his cock. The sound of their lovemaking filled the car, a symphony of wetness and passion.

Her orgasms came in waves, one after the other, each more intense than the last. She could do nothing but gasp and moan, her voice reduced to a series of breathless "Ahhhs" that seemed to fuel his lust. His eyes were locked on hers, watching her unravel beneath him with a hunger that was almost frightening. But she didn't care. All that mattered was the feeling of him inside her, the way her body responded to his touch.

Yunjin's pussy was a fountain, a never-ending source of wetness that only grew more intense with each thrust. She could feel it gushing out of her, soaking the seat, the fabric of her panties sticking to her skin. The sight of her own juices pooling around his cock was too much to handle, and she squirted again, the force of it pushing him deeper inside her. "Ahh, yes," she moaned, her back arching as she gave herself over to the pleasure.

Her eyes squeezed shut, she could only manage to breathe out the word, "More." Her body was a playground for his desires, and he took full advantage, his hips pistoning into her with a rhythm that was as mesmerizing as it was punishing. Each time she thought she had reached her peak, he pushed her further, his cock hitting that magical spot that had her squirting uncontrollably.

Yunjin's pussy had become a machine, churning out a deluge of liquid with each powerful thrust. The sound of her squirts filled the car, a symphony of pleasure that seemed to crescendo with every gasp and moan that she couldn't hold back. Her thighs were slick with her own juices, the sticky mess a testament to the intensity of their passion.

All she could do was let out a breathy "Ahh," over and over again, her body no longer under her own control. Each time he pulled out, she felt the emptiness keenly, only to be filled once more by his thick, pulsing cock. It was as if her body had a mind of its own, eagerly welcoming him back with a fresh spray of wetness. Her orgasms were a blur, each one more intense than the last.

Her pussy was a fountain, a never-ending stream of liquid desire that soaked the seat beneath her. The leather stuck to her skin, the fabric of her clothes plastered to her body as she squirted in a rhythm that matched the beat of the music thumping outside the car. The sight was mesmerizing, a visual symphony of passion that had her mind reeling.

"Why haven't you cum yet?" she panted, desperation lacing her voice. Yunjin's body was on fire, each pulse of pleasure making her want more. She could feel the tension coiling in his body, his muscles tight with the effort of holding back. It was a delicious torment, knowing she could push him over the edge at any moment.

"What do u mean, Yunjin?" he asked, a hint of frustration in his tone. "We just began fucking for 10 minutes."

"It's just..." she panted, her cheeks flushing a deep shade of pink. "It feels so good, every part of me wants you to keep going. But, I can't help but wonder if it's because I've been holding back for too long."

Y/N chuckled, the sound deep and rich in his throat. "Don't flatter yourself, Yunjin," he said, his eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and desire. "It's not just you. I'm a man with needs, and you have a very... responsive body. It's like you're made to make me feel this good."

He leaned in for another kiss, his teeth grazing her bottom lip before delving back into her mouth. His hands roamed her body, squeezing and caressing, leaving trails of fire in their wake. She felt his cock pulse against her inner thigh, the head slick with her juices. The pressure was building inside her once again, a coil of need that threatened to snap.

"I don't have the stamina of a monster," he murmured against her neck, his breath hot and ragged. "But it's because of you, Yunjin. Your pussy is so fucking sensitive, so slutty. It's like it's begging for more."

Yunjin felt a blush creep up her neck, a mix of embarrassment and excitement. His words were crude, but the truth in them was undeniable. She had never been with someone who could make her feel like this, who could coax so much pleasure from her with such ease. Her body was his playground, and she was more than happy to let him explore every inch.

"Are you having enough of squirting, Yunjin?" he asked, his voice a low purr that sent shivers down her spine. She bit her lip, trying to form a coherent response. "I-I don't know," she stammered. "It's just... it's never been like this before."

Her eyes were indeed going blurry from the overwhelming sensations, and her mind was a haze of pleasure. Each squirt felt like a release of pent-up tension, a pressure valve letting out a flood of desire. "It's okay," she murmured, "keep going."

His strokes grew more erratic, his breath coming in harsh pants as he felt his own orgasm approaching. Yunjin could feel his cock swelling inside her, the head rubbing against her G-spot with each powerful thrust. She clutched at his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin, urging him on. Her pussy was a vice, squeezing him tightly with each contraction.

"I think I have enough of squirt," she gasped, her voice strained. "I can't take it anymore." Her mind was indeed a blank canvas, the only color being the overwhelming pleasure that consumed her. Her eyes were glazed over, the world around her fading to a blur as she focused solely on the feeling of his cock pounding into her.

"Where do you want me to cum, Yunjin?" he asked, his voice thick with lust. "In your mouth? On your tits? Or do you want me to fill your pussy up?"

"In my pussy," she breathed, her eyes fluttering open to meet his. The words were a declaration, a silent admission of the depth of her craving for him. She felt her pussy clench around his cock, her body begging for release.

Y/N groaned, his control slipping as he thrust into her with renewed vigor. He was a man on a mission, each stroke aimed at filling her to the brim. The car rocked in time with their movements, the windows steaming up as the night outside grew darker. His eyes were wild, his face a mask of pure, unbridled lust.

Yunjin's pussy clamped down on him, her muscles spasming with every thrust. She was close, so close to another mind-shattering climax. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps, her nails digging into his back as she urged him on. "Cum in me," she whispered, the words barely audible over the sound of their skin slapping together. "I want to feel it, all of it."

His eyes narrowed with determination. He pulled out, his cock slick with her juices, and flipped her onto her stomach. He spread her legs wide, exposing her pink, swollen pussy to the cool air of the car. With a growl, he plunged back in, his strokes frantic and wild. She was so tight, so wet, that every inch of him was coated in her squirt. The feeling was indescribable, a mix of pleasure and pressure that was driving him to the brink.

He knew he didn't have much time; the film crew would be looking for her soon. The thought only spurred him on, the thrill of the forbidden mixing with the need to mark her as his own. He reached under her, his hand finding her clit. He rubbed it in time with his thrusts, his fingers coated in her juices. The sound of her wetness filled the car, the slap of his hips against her ass a rhythm that matched the beat of the music outside.

Yunjin's squirts grew more frequent, her pussy gushing around his cock with every stroke. She was close, so close to the edge, but he wasn't going to let her fall over just yet. He wanted to feel her tighten around him as he came, to know that he had pushed her to the brink of pleasure and beyond.

With the powerful thrust, he hit her G-spot, and she let out a scream that was muffled by the seat. Her pussy clamped down on him like a vice, her juices spraying all over his cock and balls. Y/N could feel his orgasm building, the pressure in his balls growing to almost unbearable levels. He leaned over, his hand still working her clit as he whispered in her ear, "Take it all, baby. Take every drop."

Her pussy was a fountain of pleasure, a never-ending geyser of squirt that coated his cock with her desire. He could feel her muscles clench around him, her body begging for more. "Cum for me, Yunjin," he growled, his voice hoarse with need. "I want to feel you milk me dry."

With each stroke, she could feel herself getting closer to the edge, her body wound tight with anticipation. Her squirts had become a steady stream, soaking the car seat beneath her and making the leather stick to her skin. She gripped the edge of the seat, her knuckles white with the effort of holding on. "Fuck me, Y/N," she moaned, her voice a desperate plea. "Fuck me until you fill me up."

His grip on her hips tightened, his pace increasing. His cock was a relentless force, driving into her with a ferocity that left her breathless. She could feel his balls slapping against her ass, a delicious sensation that only added to the pressure building inside her. His breath grew ragged in her ear, his teeth nipping at her neck as he approached his climax. "I'm going to cum," he grunted, his voice strained with effort. "I'm going to fill you up."

Yunjin's body responded to his words, her pussy clenching around him like a fist. She could feel the hot pulse of his cock, the precursor to his release. The thought of his sperm filling her up was almost too much to bear, pushing her over the edge once again. Her squirts grew more intense, the car seat beneath her a soggy mess of desire.

With a final, powerful thrust, Y/N released, his hot cum spurting deep inside her. He groaned, his entire body tensing as he emptied himself into her welcoming depths. Yunjin felt the warmth spread through her, a feeling of completion that was as overwhelming as the orgasms that had come before. Her pussy spasmed around him, her squirt mixing with his cum in a delicious mess that coated his cock.

"I can feel it," she whispered, her voice shaky with pleasure. "Your sperm so full in my womb." The words sent a shiver down his spine, his cock twitching with the last remnants of his orgasm. He had never heard anything so erotic in his life, and the knowledge that he had claimed her so completely had him feeling like a king.

Yunjin's breath was indeed heavy and short, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. Her eyes were glazed with desire, and her cheeks were flushed a deep shade of pink. She was a vision of beauty and wanton lust, and he couldn't believe she was all his. Slowly, he pulled out his cock, the sound of their mingled wetness filling the car.

He leaned back, his chest heaving, and watched her for a moment, her body still trembling with the aftershocks of her orgasm. Then, with a smirk, he said, "Thanks, Y/N. I'll go back to shooting again."

His eyes lit up with a mischievous glint, and he reached out to grab her hand before she could move. "Hold on, it's not over yet, Yunjin," he murmured, his voice still thick with lust. "I want you to ride me this time."

With surprising agility, Yunjin repositioned herself above his lap.

Her legs trembled as she straddled him, his cock standing tall and proud, still slick with their combined juices. She bit her bottom lip, her eyes never leaving his as she reached down to guide him back inside her. The head of his cock nudged at her entrance, and she gasped at the feeling of fullness that washed over her again.

Without warning, Y/N grabbed her hips and pulled her down, impaling her on his shaft in one swift motion. Yunjin's eyes went wide, a high-pitched squeal escaping her lips as she felt him fill her up completely. The suddenness of it all was shocking, but oh so delicious. Her pussy clenched around him, eager to feel every inch of his length.

"Fuck," she screamed, her voice echoing in the small confines of the car. "You're so deep, it feels like you're hitting my womb."

Her body began to quiver, her legs shaking as she struggled to keep herself upright. She felt the pressure building again, the familiar sensation of an orgasm approaching. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she threw it back, her pussy spasming around his cock. He watched in amazement as she began to squirt once more, her juices drenching him and the car seat beneath them.

"Fuck," she moaned, her voice a mix of pleasure and disbelief. "That feels so good, Y/N. I love you."

The words hung in the air, a declaration that neither of them had expected. His eyes searched hers for any sign of doubt, but all he found was a mirror of the desire and affection that burned within him. He leaned in to kiss her, his mouth claiming hers in a fiery embrace that stole the very air from her lungs. "I love you too," he whispered, the words a gentle caress against her swollen lips.

With newfound determination, Yunjin began to ride him, her hips moving in a sensual dance that had his cock sliding in and out of her soaking wet pussy. She was a vision of beauty and passion, her breasts bouncing with each movement, her hair a wild cascade of silk that framed her flushed face. His hands roamed her body, his fingers digging into her hips as he guided her movements, urging her to take him deeper, to show him just how much she craved his touch.

Her eyes closed, her mouth formed a perfect O as she took him in, her walls tightening around him like a glove. She was in her element, her body moving with an instinctual rhythm that seemed to have been programmed just for this moment. And as she moved, her breasts swayed, begging for attention. He couldn't resist the temptation.

He leaned forward, capturing one of her nipples in his mouth, flicking it with his tongue. Yunjin's eyes shot open, her back arching as a fresh wave of pleasure crashed over her. He sucked hard, drawing a gasp from her, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak. She threw her head back, her long hair cascading down her back as she rode him with a newfound ferocity.

Her pussy spasmed around his cock, a fresh squirt of juices coating him as she neared another orgasm. With each movement, she could feel the pressure building, her body begging for release. His eyes never left hers, his gaze intense and unwavering as he watched her unravel. He knew she was close, and the anticipation was killing him.

He reached up, his hand wrapping around her neck in a gentle yet commanding grip. His thumb stroked the pulse point, feeling the rapid beat of her heart as she rode him. His other hand found its way to her clit, his fingers moving in a slow, deliberate circle. Each touch sent a jolt of pleasure through her body, making her squirt even more.

Her eyes snapped open when the sound of her phone ringing pierced through the haze of lust. It was the cameramen, their anxious voices crackling through the speaker. "Yunjin, where are you?" they called out, their words a stark reminder of the world outside their passionate bubble.

His eyes widened with excitement, his grip on her neck tightening ever so slightly. "Give me your phone," he murmured, his voice a dark promise. Without hesitation, Yunjin handed over the device, her eyes never leaving his.

He took the phone, a wicked smile playing on his lips as he accepted the call. "What's the problem, guys?" he said, his voice deceptively calm. On the screen, the cameramen's faces were a picture of frustration and worry. "Yunjin's just busy with another shoot right now, a porn shoot"

Yunjin's eyes widened in shock, but before she could protest, he flipped the phone to show her riding him, her mouth open in a silent scream of pleasure, her eyes rolled back in ecstasy. Her pussy was still spasming around his cock, and the sight of her in such an exposed and vulnerable position was too much for her to handle. She squirted again, her body betraying her in the most delicious way.

The cameramen's voices grew louder, their concern morphing into shock and excitement as they realized what was happening. He held the phone out, his thumb hovering over the speaker button. "Do you want them to hear you cum, Yunjin?" he whispered, his voice a seductive taunt. "Should we give them a little show?"

Yunjin's cheeks flushed a deeper shade of pink, but she couldn't deny the thrill that shot through her at the thought of being watched, of having an audience to her pleasure. The phone vibrated in his hand, and she felt a new pressure building inside her. Her pussy was a furnace, the heat of their combined lust threatening to consume them both.

Her protests died on her lips as he pushed the button, the sounds of their passion now echoing through the phone's speaker. The cameramen's gasps and murmurs of approval were like a drug, making her body even more responsive to his touch. She could feel the camera's eyes on her, watching every move she made, and it only served to heighten her arousal.

Her pussy was a furnace, her squirts coming in a steady flow that soaked the car seat beneath them. Each stroke of his cock sent waves of pleasure crashing over her, and she could feel the tension building once more. Her body was a symphony of sensation, every nerve ending singing with desire. His hand remained firm on her neck, his grip just shy of painful, as he continued to pump into her with a ferocity that left her breathless.

Yunjin's eyes flickered to the phone, the sight of her fellow groupmates' faces watching her on screen only fueling her passion. She wanted to protest, to tell them to stop, but the words were lost in the haze of pleasure that consumed her. Instead, she leaned back, her breasts thrusting towards the camera, a silent invitation for them to watch. The thought of their eyes on her, seeing her in this vulnerable, wanton state, was a thrill she hadn't anticipated.

"I can't stop squirting, Y/N's dick is so big," she screamed, her voice raw with passion. Her pussy was a fountain around him, her juices glistening in the dim car light as they continued to fuck. The camera feed was a blur of skin and movement, a testament to the intensity of their encounter. His smile grew wider as he watched her reaction, his cock swelling even further at the sound of his name on her lips.

Her walls were tightening around him, each spurt of her orgasm gripping him like a glove, the sensation unlike anything he had ever felt. His own climax was approaching, but he held back, wanting to savor the feeling of her tightness, her wetness, her desperation for his cock. "Look at them," he murmured, tilting the phone so she could see the groupmates' faces, their eyes wide with shock and excitement. "They're watching you, Yunjin. They know how much of a slut you are for me."

Her eyes went wide with a mix of mortification and arousal, and she threw her head back, her breasts bouncing with each thrust as she screamed out his name. "Y/N, your dick is so big, I can't stop squirting," she moaned, the words a desperate plea for more. The camera crew's voices grew louder, their encouragement spurring them on like a twisted cheering squad. The thrill of being watched was intoxicating, a heady mix of power and vulnerability that had her pussy contracting around him with renewed force.

His hand tightened around her neck, his other hand now gripping her hip, guiding her movements with a roughness that she found oddly reassuring. He was in control, and she was his to take. Her breath hitched as she felt another orgasm building, the pressure in her abdomen growing to a crescendo. "Do it," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "Make me cum for them."

He didn't need any further encouragement. With a savage growl, he bucked his hips up, his cock slamming into her with a force that made her entire body shake. The car rocked with the intensity of their lovemaking, the windows fogging up completely as the outside world was forgotten. The music from the set outside had turned into a faint background melody, a rhythmic pulse that matched the beating of their hearts.

Yunjin's pussy was a vice around him, her muscles rippling and spasming as she squirted over and over. He could feel the heat of her, the tightness of her, the way she clung to him like a lifeline as he brought her closer to the edge. His strokes grew deeper, more powerful, each one pushing her closer to the brink. And as she watched the stunned faces of her groupmates on the screen, she realized that she didn't care.

Her body was his playground, and she was more than willing to perform for their eager eyes. The knowledge that they were watching, that they could see her in this raw, primal state, only served to make her more desperate for his cum. She braced herself, her hands gripping the headrest as she bounced on his cock, her juices soaking them both.

He could feel his orgasm approaching again, the tension in his balls almost painful. He watched the screen, the sight of her squirting for their cameramen's eyes making him growl with possessive lust. His hand moved to her clit, his fingers working it with the precision of a maestro, bringing her closer to the crescendo that would match his own.

"When I cum, you squirt for me," he said, his voice a dark promise. His words sent a shiver through her body, her pussy clenching around him in anticipation. He knew she was close, her breathing had turned into pants, and her eyes were squeezed shut as she rode him.

"Yes," she moaned, her voice barely a whisper. "I'll squirt for you, Y/N. I'll show everyone how much I want you." The idea of being so open, so exposed, was terrifying, but she couldn't deny the thrill it brought. Her body was no longer her own; it was a vessel for his pleasure.

He leaned in, his teeth grazing her earlobe as he whispered, "Good girl." His hand tightened on her neck, his other hand guiding her hips to match his rhythm. She could feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles flexed with each powerful thrust. His cock was a steel rod inside her, filling her completely, stretching her to the point of pain and back to pleasure again.

"Fuck, your pussy's so tight," he groaned, his voice a mix of awe and lust. "I'm going to cum deep inside you, mark you as mine." The words were like a spell, and she felt herself respond, her pussy clamping down around him as if to pull him closer. "Fuckk ur cum is so good, Y/N," she panted, her words a desperate plea for more.

With a growl, he thrust into her one last time, his cock pulsing with his orgasm. She felt his warm seed spurt into her, filling her up to the brim. The sensation was overwhelming, and she let out a scream that was part pleasure, part pain, part love. Her pussy contracted around him, milking every drop from his cock, and she squirted once more, the force of it so strong it sprayed onto the car windows.

Y/N pulled out of her, his cock glistening with their combined fluids. He was still hard, still eager, but he knew that this was a moment to savor. He leaned back in his seat, panting, and pointed the camera at her soaking wet pussy. The sight was obscene, beautiful, and utterly intoxicating. Yunjin's eyes widened with shock as she realized what he was doing, but she couldn't find it in herself to be embarrassed. Instead, she lay back against the car seat, her legs spread wide, and allowed him to film her in all her post-coital glory.

"Look what I've done to Yunjin," he said, his voice filled with a dark satisfaction that sent a shiver down her spine. "You're so fucking beautiful when you squirt." He leaned in, capturing her mouth in a bruising kiss, his tongue delving deep to taste the remnants of their shared passion. The phone was still recording, the camera capturing every moment of their intimacy, broadcasting it to their unknowing groupmates and crew.

Her makeup was indeed a mess, smudged and running down her cheeks in rivulets. Her hair was a tangled mess around her face, a wild halo of desire that framed her flushed features. Yunjin couldn't help the feeling of pride that swelled within her; she was his creation, a masterpiece of lust that no one else could claim. Her pussy was still gaping, the 'O' of her lips swollen and red from his relentless attention. And she could feel his cum, thick and warm, slowly leaking out of her, a testament to their shared climax.

The phone in his hand was forgotten for a moment, the live feed still broadcasting their intimate moments to the shocked crew. The cameramen stared, slack-jawed, at the screen, their eyes glued to the sight of Yunjin's squirt-soaked pussy. The other groupmates had gathered around, a mix of horror and fascination playing across their faces as they watched their manager claim her in such a primal way.

The members of Lesserafim voice was the first to break the silence, thier eyes glued to the phone. "Yunjin, can we get fucked like you?" Their murmured, their voice filled with awe. The question hung in the air, thick with the scent of desire and curiosity. Yunjin's heart skipped a beat as she stared at the screen, her thoughts racing. The idea of sharing this intense pleasure with her group was both terrifying and exhilarating.

With a smoldering gaze, Yunjin leaned into the camera, her voice a seductive purr. "Of course all of you can," she said, her words dripping with promise. She watched as the shock on their faces turned to excitement, their eyes sparkling with the same hunger she felt.

He smirked, his hand sliding down to her still-quivering pussy. "But not until we're done here," he added, his thumb swiping through the mess they had made together. He could feel her tense up at the thought of sharing, but the excitement was palpable.

"Look at me, baby," he whispered, his eyes locked on hers as he brought his hand to his mouth, tasting her juices. "You're so fucking sweet." He knew that she was watching him, could feel her gaze on him as he licked his thumb clean, savoring her taste. The thought of her grop wanting a taste too only made him harder.

The cameramen's shouts grew louder, their voices a cacophony of lust and excitement. "Yeah, we want a turn!" one of them called out. "Please, let us fuck her too!"

His smirk widened, his eyes darkening with a predatory glint. He knew he had her full attention, and the power he wielded was a heady aphrodisiac. He turned to Yunjin, his voice a seductive whisper. "They want you," he said, his hand still playing with her sensitive folds. "Should we give them what they want?".

[davinawritings]

An Alien Thank You

Pairing: Alien X Female Human Reader

Warnings: Smut, Oral (Female Receiving), Multiple Tongues, Squirting

You had never thought aliens were real until one appeared in your backyard. When it happened, you had only been in your new home for about a month. As a writer, you had moved to a small, secluded house in the countryside for some peace and quiet while working. Other than the bi-monthly trips to the food market, you were completely alone with your work and thoughts.

The day had started like any other. You had made breakfast, showered, and even got in a few hours of writing. Suddenly, there was a noise outside your office window. Upon looking, you had seen nothing and waved it off, but moments later, you heard it again. No longer able to ignore it, you had gone out back to see what it was. 

Imagine your shock when a massive creature stood in your backyard, poking around your garden. The creature stood about eleven feet tall and was a dark blue, almost black. Its chest was broad, double the length of your shoulders, and seemed packed with hard muscle. Its shoulders had sharp ridges that nearly looked like thick scales. Its thick thighs had similar ridged scales along the outside. Strong arms lead down to large hands that look terrifying with their sharp nails. The creature’s head was all sharp angles, and its eyes were solid black as they stared at you. 

The scream had been stuck in your throat, but the creature must have seen the panic on your face because it quickly held up its hands and claimed that it meant no harm. You still kept your distance as the creature explained that he was not of your planet but was currently stuck on earth while working out how to build a way home.

You had taken pity on the creature and, against what most would consider better judgment, had decided not to freak out and instead befriend the large creature. You learned his name was Oltuth, and he came from a planet you had never heard of. He was traveling and exploring when his ship malfunctioned and crashed a few miles from your secluded home. Your house was the first place he had come upon that wasn’t just open land, so he had been looking for sustenance in your garden.

You knew you probably shouldn’t invite some strange alien creature into your home, but you felt bad for him, and you couldn’t deny that it was kind of nice to have someone to talk to. You also knew that most people would probably just attack Oltuth without hesitation if they found him, so you offered him refuge in your home under the promise of him being peaceful and kind. He quickly promised, and you were very glad he did.

He became a great help around your house and an even better friend. He helped you around the house and with your now flourishing garden. You both built a routine together while you worked on your book, and he worked on a way to rebuild and repair his ship. The days passed much faster with him to talk to, and before you knew it, months had passed. You both grew closer, and you grew almost sad when you thought about him eventually leaving you to return home. 

Today had gone like any other with Oltuth, and you now sat with a nice cold glass of sweet tea, simply enjoying the late-night sky full of stars while you both talked about the different ways of your species. 

Oltuth clears his throat before he says, “I would like to thank you for the kindness and generosity you have shown me these past few months. If you are okay with it, I would like to show you how the males of my planet thank our females for caring for us the way you have for me”. Excited to learn something new about his species; you quickly agree with an enthusiastic, “Yes.” 

He grabs your smaller hand in his own and brings you inside to the couch. He gently guides you to sit, your butt on the edge of the sofa. Your breath hitches as Oltuth moves his large body between your legs, gently prying your legs open. He kneels before you, gently removing your shorts along with your panties. His long, pointed tongue starts gently lapping at your clit as soft mewls leave your mouth. His jet-black eyes stay trained on your face as you wriggle on the couch. 

His hands grip your thighs tighter as he shifts his tongue into your wet hole. The thickness makes you moan as he licks along your inner walls. You lay back against the cushions, hips thrusting against his face as you slowly feel that beautiful high building. Without warning, you feel something wet, flicking against your swollen clit. Your eyes snap open, and you look down. His large tongue is still buried deep in your cunt, but another slightly smaller tongue is now playing with your needy clit.

You whimper and moan out his name at the double stimulation, tears gathering in your eyes at the overwhelming feeling. The tip of his tongue flicks along that special spot deep inside you, and you try to close your legs on reflex. Oltuth growls and pulls your thighs further apart, speeding up both of his tongues. 

Your knuckles turn white as your grip tightens on the couch. The tongue inside you practically vibrates with how fast it’s thrusting inside your dripping cunt. Your back arches as the smaller tongue moves to match the speed and vibrations of his bigger tongue. 

You look down again to find Oltuth staring right at you, and with one more thrust, you cum hard, clenching on his tongue, your juices squirting out of you as a scream is ripped from your body. Each clench of your cunt is met with another thrust from him, making your orgasm feel like it lasts for hours. He finally slows down as your legs twitch in his hands, giving you a few final licks to clean you up.

He stands before picking you up and bringing you to your room to lay you on the bed. You give him a smile and say, “I really like how your males say thank you, Oltuth.” He gives you a grin before saying, “That was just to get you ready for the real way we say thank you.” Your eyes widen as you look down at his body. A slit at the apex between his thighs opens as three large cocks extend out, one by one, each a little bigger than the last. 

Your eyes flick back up to his face, and all you can think is that your next book is definitely going to be a smutty alien romance story.

❤️💕🖤🖤💕❤️

[jayparked]

𝓂𝓊𝓈𝒾𝒸 𝓉𝑜 𝓂𝓎 𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓈 | 𝒿𝑜𝓃𝑔𝓈𝑒𝑜𝓃𝑔 | 𝓂

snippet: "Ride me." Jay huffs. It's a command, not a request. He moves back to the head of the bed, adjusting the pillows before leaning back against them. Lifting the covers away from his body, he removes his boxers slowly. looking into your eyes as he does so. pairing: park jongseong x female reader genre: smut au: music producer jay, established relationship rating: explicit/18+, minors dni word count: 9.7k warnings: thunder and lightning storms, cigarette smoking sexual warnings: early morning sex, unprotected sex, lots of moaning, y/n tries to be a brat but jay aint having it, forced orgasm, oral (female and male receiving), jay almost lets y/n dom but then quickly changes his mind, spitting/mentions of drool, fingering, biting, marking, light bruising (from fingernails and biting), choking, language, some light foot worship, jay just really needs y/n to moan the way she did earlier so he can use it for his track, voice recording, brief use of sex toys i.e: restraints and vibrator, begging, whimpering, overstimulation, dirty talk, cigarette use, uhh jay uses the ashes from his cigarette on y/n’s nipples as a stimulant..., there’s some real good aftercare in there too so don’t worry, they’re like...grossly in love

The sound of the rain pitter pattering against the window is what initially draws you from your slumber. It falls rhythmically in a way that would normally lull you back to sleep, but the loud, harsh, fast contact of the water against the glass is almost flinch worthy. It isn’t an ordinary skylight window above a bed. The bedroom walls are slanted invertedly so that when you’re lying on the bed and look up, the window is slanted right above you. You watch as the raindrops hit the window and slowly slide down.

Yawning, you stretch out your arms and feel your muscles tighten before relaxing and you sigh softly with pleasure. You rub your eyes with your fists, blinking quickly as the moonlight escapes past the clouds barrier and cascades across your face causing you to squint annoyedly. Jay loves leaving the specially built blinds up at night, something you had to grow accustomed to after some time living together. Night after night watching him gaze wistfully towards the moon, it became your favorite part of your nightly routine. Watching that look of childish wonder gloss over your boyfriend’s eyes...there’s just nothing like it.

Tonight, the sky isn’t so peaceful. Lightning angrily streaks across the sky making you jump and clutch the flannel sheets to your chest.

"It wake you up too?"

You gasp, a sharp intake of breath causes your voice to squeak.

"You scared me, Jay!" You slap your boyfriend's shoulder lightly with the palm of your hand. He chuckles and rolls onto his side to face you, black hair swooping down over his forehead, just above his very awake looking eyes.

"Sorry. The thunder woke me up a little while ago. I was waiting for it to get you next." The edges of his eyes pinch together as he smirks, his voice sounding more sultry than playful. You shake your head trying to distract yourself from leading your mind down that alley. But it's hard when he looks that good and especially since you just had a dream about his-

"So. Now that we're both up..." he whispers and runs his pointer finger down your arm from your shoulder to your fingertips. "What should we do?" His big innocent eyes are all a ploy, you know that for sure. His pupils are blown out and his breathing is uneven. He knows exactly what he wants to do...and you're not sure if you're against it.

"How about..." you start slowly. You run your hand up his naked chest, feeling his muscles flex under your palm. He sighs and closes his eyes, completely enjoying the feeling of your hand rubbing against his bare skin. His sleep swollen lips part open and you can hear his breaths coming out sharp and quick, his heart rate rising quickly. You guide your hand down his chest and over his abdomen which makes him take in a sharp breath between his teeth. Jay's eyes remain closed so it's easier to marvel over the way his bottom lip starts to quiver, or the way the moonlight cascades shadows off his eyelashes, or the way his cock becomes more and more visible as it hardens under the sheets.

"How about we go back to sleep!" You say excitedly and remove your hand from your boyfriend's body. You throw your head back into your pillow and quickly close your eyes, pretending to instantly fall back asleep. If only it was that easy, right?

"I think we both know there's no point in sleeping now," Jay says, a low growl vibrating deep in his throat. He grasps the sheets in his hand and with one quick motion he throws them off your bodies and onto the floor. Cold air coats your skin and you tuck your knees up to your chest to try to keep in the warmth.

"Oh. Don't worry." Jay grabs your shoulders and turns you on your back, grasping your knees and opening up your legs so that he could kneel between them. "I'll warm you up real quick."

Your heart thumps loudly in your chest, your stomach on fire with anticipation of what's to come. A streak of bright lightning flashes outside once more, followed by a loud clap of thunder over your heads. Jay moves his hand from your shoulder and rubs his palms up and down your thighs- the warmth of his skin makes you sigh and your shoulders relax further into the bed as his hands get further and further up your leg. He gets closer and closer to the edge of your pajama shorts, each time his hands move up and down your legs you're annoyingly aware of the nearness. Like a magnet, your hips move downward to shift your body closer to him, trying so desperately to close that distance. All you want is for him to reach his long fingers underneath your shorts and relieve all of the tension building up at your clit.

"You still with me?" His voice is sultry, almost grainy. He leans back against his heels, now even further away from your heat. But that doesn't stop his roaming hands. Jay's thumb rubs against your talus and moves down to the arch of your foot. At first you flinch from the contact, his fingers tickling your skin. But you relax as he continues to massage your feet, total bliss overtaking your body.

"Sorry," you sigh out. "Feels so good."

Jay smiles, the hunger gone from his eyes for a moment and in their place is the look of a caretaker wanting to bring comfort. He longingly looks at your foot as he continues to massage it and as you look at him you can see clearly how much he loves you. With every soft and delicate touch down to the way he treats every inch of your body as if it were a prized gem.

But then the hunger returns and he moves away from your feet, crawling up towards your face until his lips are mere centimeters away from yours. The heat from his breath makes you hold in your own breathing, your lips parting, desperately wanting for him to kiss you.

This small action does not go unnoticed and Jay prides himself in his ability to have you wrapped around his beautifully long fingers. "Is there something you want?" His lips barely brush over the tops of your own with his annunciation of 'you want'. Shivers run down your spine and your eyes flutter closed, tilting your chin up towards him and elongating your neck. Jay lets his eyes roam over your body, licking his lips as he focuses on the spot of your neck that he knows is extra sensitive.

"What do you want?" His voice is so soft, far beyond a whisper or even a murmur and it completely contrasts against the ever nearing booming of thunder. There's a hidden softness behind his eyes as he peels them away from your body to look into your own. His bangs are falling over his eyes again and you take your hand to sweep them away. Instead of resting your hand back at your side, you cup his cheek, feeling the softness of his skin beneath your fingertips.

Sighing, you can only manage to get out one word in response, "You."

Both of your lips pull together with a force stronger than magnets. There's a faint remnant of smoke hidden behind his breath that's so addicting you can't help but deepen the kiss further. Tongues swirl together and it feels like you've slipped into a dream. One of his hands cradles the small of your back while the other one weaves fingers into your hair. A light tug on your scalp makes you moan into Jay's mouth and he replies hungrily by taking your bottom lip between his teeth, pulling gently yet hard enough to make your head lean forward so that your shoulders lift off the bed.

Jay pulls your body forward more, the hand on the small of your back raising you up until you're both sitting facing one another. His chest feels warm to the touch despite the chill that lingers in the room. You don't blame him though. Your body also feels like it's radiating more heat than normal. With each kiss adds a whole other degree to the body temperature between the two of you. And you just can't get enough. 

"Ride me." Jay huffs. It's a command, not a request. He moves back to the head of the bed, adjusting the pillows before leaning back against them. Lifting the covers away from his body, he removes his boxers slowly. looking into your eyes as he does so. This man is so confident it's almost unsettling. But you know he knows how much you love watching him undress. And it wouldn't be Jay if he wasn't teasing you in some way.

The band of his boxers dips below his hips, exposing his deep muscle lines. The bulge of his cock is so prominent it's making your mouth water and legs twitch with anticipation. Finally, he pulls them all the way down and releases his hardened cock from its cotton cage. He looks harder than normal, the redness of his skin a whole new shade of red than before. A large vein pulses at you, encouraging you to get closer and indulge in all the pleasures it offers you.

When Jay's hand grasps his shaft and strokes lazily, that's when your mind starts to feel hazy. Your mouth starts to salivate and that burning need between your legs is growing so intensely if you don't act on it soon you just might combust right here in this very spot.

You crawl towards your boyfriend slowly, watching him leisurely pump his cock in a way a cat would watch a mouse eat. Batting his hand away, you take his thickness in both of your hands, feeling the warm blood pump through his veins. Jay winces as you grip him a little tightly, the tip of his cock nearly throbbing in your hands from the pressure. You lean over him and open your mouth slightly, allowing a bead of drool to drop down and run down the side of his shaft.

"Fuck." Jay leans his head back against the headboard and moans.

"I'm so hungry for you," you purr and flatten your tongue against the side of his cock and lick one long stripe up to the tip, swirling your tongue around it before sliding your tongue back down again. Jay moans underneath you, muscles already shaking from the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

"Do you want me to suck you off or ride you?" You continue to use your tongue to play with him, licking down to the base of his cock before leaving little love bites at the base of his stomach and along his hip bones. Using one of your hands, you reach upward and apply pressure as your hand climbs up his stomach muscles, feeling every curve against your palm until you get to his chest and repeat the motion downward. Another moan leaves his beautiful lips and you can't help but smirk as you realize you could do this all day. Watching him melt in your hands and seeing him mentally debate with himself was a power surge unlike any other.

“Ri-ride me. I want you to ride me.” The words barely come out audible. His eyes are wide as he blinks rapidly, trying his best to stay present, his jaw and neck muscles bulging. He’s so close to the edge you think about ignoring his request. If you just suck him off all the way through, there would be punishment. No doubt about that. As appealing as being punished by your super sexy boyfriend might be, you decide to abide by his request and position yourself over him, your entrance hovering over his weeping cock.

“No more teasing.” The pleading tone is gone from his voice. Instead, it’s commanding and authoritative.

But you choose to ignore that once again.

“Can you even last?” You stick your tongue out playfully, gently biting down as you smirk. Your hands roam over his chest and lightly graze his nipples, a small act that normally drives him insane and right now you can see the clear focus in his eyes. You picked the wrong night to try to be playful.

“Fuck it. You wanna play games? I can play games.” In one sweeping motion, Jay has you on your back, his body hovering over yours. His hand is back on the small of your back, his fingertips gently kneading the muscles of your flesh before he digs his nails in, leaving a trail of scratch marks down your spine.

He tilts his head to the side as he looks into your eyes, pausing to think about something that thrills you to your bones. You’ve never been with a more imaginative partner before and although sometimes his ideas seem scary at first, you trust him completely.

“Oh,” he says simply. “You thinking about something interesting?”

“I’m thinking about all the ways I want you to fuck me.”

“Oof. What a foul mouth you have. Such vulgar words coming out of those pretty lips of yours. I’d fill it if I wasn’t so inclined to fuck that pussy of yours.”

You hitch in a breath, that tingling sensation spurring back to life deep within your core.

As if reading the thoughts of your body, he moves one hand slowly down your midsection, pausing right above your pelvic area. You want to rub your thighs together, hell, you want to touch yourself- no screw that, you need him to fuck you right here and right now. A floodgate of desire opens up within you and you need his cock inside of you. Now.

“Jay please, please fuck me. I need you inside me. I need to feel you.” It came out whinier than you initially intended, but now’s not the time to dwell on one’s tone.

Completely and utterly satisfied with his victory, Jay lines his cock up with your entrance, the tip of his head brushing past your folds and picking up the slick coming out of you. Moaning with the contact, as little as it may be, you try to scoot down further to feel him against your clit. But he holds your hips down firmly in place. You’re not going anywhere unless he wants you to move.

Jay pauses and turns around, grabbing your pillow. You push on your feet, lifting your ass off the bed so that he can rest the pillow underneath there. Now, slightly elevated, he has a better angle and a straight accessway to your g-spot.

Leaning forward, Jay lightly wraps his fingers around your throat, squeezing lightly. Your eyes flutter backwards, already at risk of coming undone from the buildup alone. His pointer finger is pressing right where the sensitive spot on your neck is underneath your ear and it takes everything you have to keep yourself from moaning like a sick person.

The head of his cock teases your entrance once more, getting closer and closer until literally just the tip goes inside before he abruptly pulls back out.

“Please. No more teasing.” You beg, wiggling your shoulders as you pout.

“Not so funny now that you’re on the other end, huh?” Jay lowly chuckles and that’s when he thrusts his hips forward, his cock sliding right into you.

“Oh!” You yell as the tip brushes against your g-spot instantly. Your gasp gets caught in your throat because of his hand around your neck and you nearly swallow your own words. The restricted airways has your head feeling lighter than normal and it gives you a new high that’s impossible to feel if he would have done this without his hand squeezing your neck. Your walls contract instinctually around him, desperately trying to adjust to his length and girth. The light tug feels so satisfying and you grip his forearms tightly, fingernails leaving small half-moon shaped marks in his skin.

“Ugh, you’re so wet and still so tight,” Jay whines and slowly moves his hips back and forth, not enough to remove the head of his cock from you, but enough to brush against your bundle of nerves over and over and over again. He releases his hand from your neck and moves it down on the bed to support himself as he quickens his pace. 

Arching your back already, you shut your eyes tightly as you try to keep yourself from coming too soon.

Not quite sure if it’s the angle, the day, or the way he’s rhythmically moving his hips, but this all feels too good. Even more so than sex with Jay usually is. The way he's pounding you into the mattress has your body contorting in what should be inhuman ways. Your arms bend as you grip the sheets above your head, your back arches in a possessed like manner as Jay continues to use his cock to send you over the edge. Sex has never felt this good before. He has never made you feel this good before. Your body is shaking- no, vibrating as you feel that white heat getting closer and closer. Your breath hitches in your throat before you let out the most pornarific moan you've ever heard in your life. Upon hearing you, Jay stutters inside you, his orgasm hitting him harder than he expected. You're still coming down from your own high, the dark spots in the corners of your vision are finally disappearing.

"Holy fuck," Jay pants as he slowly removes himself from you. “You’ve never made that sound before.” He’s sitting back on his heels once more, staring at you with a look of wonder. There’s a spark in his eyes, one that you recognize, and you stifle a laugh knowing what’s about to come next.

“Inspired?” You smile.

“Immensely,” he delights. His fingers start to tap rhythmically against his thighs as he looks over to his music equipment in the corner of the room. In the most innocent and inoffensive way, he’s long forgotten you as his creative mind kicks into overdrive.

“Go.” You yawn. “I’m gonna go back to sleep.”

Jay leans down and gives you a quick kiss on your temple, leaving the bed to quickly pull on his sweatpants and seating himself in his chair, firing up his computer and putting on his headphones.

Your eyes droop slower and slower, getting heavier each time you blink. The last thing you see before sleep takes you is your boyfriend leaning forward in his chair, back muscles rippling as he lights a cigarette, the smoke swirling up towards the ceiling as he exhales, dancing through the fringe of his bangs as it ascends.

“Ugh!”

Your eyes shoot open, sleep being yanked away from you by a loud bang and the yell from Jay. Sitting up, you see your boyfriend’s fists clenched tightly, resting on either side of his keyboard. His face is red, the vein on his temple starting to bulge and his shoulders are hunched so far that his shoulders are almost touching his ears.

“Jay? What’s wrong?” You rub your fists into your eyes, trying to keep the grumpiness of being abruptly woken up at bay.

“Oh, baby. I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to wake you up.” He slides his headphones off his ears so that they’re sitting at the base of his neck. The ends of his hair is coated with sweat, the tips of his ears red from the headphones being on for too long. Pivoting his chair towards you, you can see the stress lines on his forehead and the strain in his eyes. There’s a nearly finished cigarette tucked between his fingers at the knuckles and a few finished ones lying in the ashtray by his keyboard. He huffs on the one in his hand quickly before putting it out in said ashtray and then climbs onto the bed to sit across from you, his knees touching yours.

"I've been working on this track for the past three hours now. I just can't get the pitch right." He shakes his head in defeat, a long sigh leaving his lips as he does so.

"This happens all the time, but it’s okay. You always get it in the end." You try to sound encouraging but instead your voice comes off dull and uninterested.

Jay's mouth pulls to the right side of his face, making the lines by his cheeks and dimple deepen. "This one is different. I'm already starting to forget how you sounded."

Baffled, you tilt your head to the side and nervously laugh. "Me? I thought I dreamt that!"

"Yes you! I've never heard anything more...more...more," he snaps his fingers as he tries to think of the right word, "more exhilarating! It was dramatic. It was sexy, inspiring even. It was a sound that could tell anyone what you're feeling. It's pure bliss." His fingers absentmindedly make their way to the divot on the inside of your knee, rubbing slow deep circles into your skin. On a regular day, the touch would barely be noticed. Right now, on the other hand, his touch ignites a fire in your blood, raising your body temperature to a whole new degree. It's suddenly hard to swallow and you're very, very aware that you are watching as his lips form words as he speaks, barely comprehending said words at all. The way his jaw moves and the way his mouth molds around each syllable and seeing flashes of his tongue gently touch the rooftop of his mouth.

"Y/N? You fall asleep with your eyes open again?"

You're brought back down to earth, blinking rapidly as you feel your boyfriend softly shake your shoulder.

"Sorry," you rub your eyes and suppress the urge to yawn, "I guess I'm still tired."

"Let me tuck you in." He goes to lay you back down and you gladly let him.

"Here," you mumble, lips barely moving and eyes already shut. You let the weight of your arm bounce against his side of the bed . "You should sleep too. Take a break. Work later."

He doesn't respond but his weight is still on the end of the bed. You can feel the dip and you just want him to lie down already.

"Jaaayyy," you whine, eyes still closed.

"I think," his pitch has changed, a low murmur making your eyes pop open wide immediately. You know that tone. You know it all too well and your body starts to overheat again, "I want to do something else."

Slowly lifting your head, you intend to look into his eyes, but you're very quickly misguided as you watch your boyfriend slowly pumping at his cock, quickly making himself go from semi hard to fully hard in mere seconds. His blue boxers rest below his hip bones, giving yourself a full display on the thing that is going to wreck you into the next dimension momentarily.

"O-oh." You sit there frozen, unsure of what to do next.

"I know I just fucked you but honestly? I can do better." There's a devilish smirk painted onto that beautiful face of his and you've never been more excited to be a sinner.

You match his smirk and use your feet to kick the covers off the bed and before you're done with the action, he's on top of you. Lips that usually feather lightly across your body now hungrily nip and lick over your rib cage, around your hip bones below your stomach line, and over the swell of your collar bones. Each nip and pull makes you shiver beneath him, your hands tracing over the muscles on his back. Your legs come up and hug his hips, now trapping him in place. One of Jay's hands grabs a fistful of your yellow night shorts, tugging them to the side but not necessarily taking them off. His thumb digs into your hip bone while he kisses around your breasts. The closeness of his fingers to your core is driving your body absolutely mad. You're already so turned on and ready to be touched and you know that he knows that that's what you want.

And yet…

His tongue delicately swirls your nipple and you hold your breath for a moment. The coolness of the air mixed in with his saliva makes you feel chills throughout your entire body. He flattens his tongue directly on the tip of your nipple as he squeezes the other breast with his hand and you quickly move your hands from his back and into his soft black hair. You grip tightly at his roots, already feeling your back start to arch as he continues to lick and lap at the hardening buds on your chest.

"Hmm...already?" He chuckles as he takes your nipple between his teeth.

"Hnng," You groan out and grip his hair tighter. Your breathing shallows and your body can't decide what it wants. You want him to rub your clit oh so badly but you don't want him to stop massaging your breasts. The way his tongue swirls around your nipple is almost too good. No one should be this talented with their mouth.

He moves to the side of your breasts and leaves love bites in an array of patterns on your skin.

"Why'd you stop?" You gasp and grip his shoulders. The love bites feel great, they definitely don't help the surge of arousal going straight down into your shorts, but you know you were close to coming and you've never come from nipple stimulation alone.

"You weren't moaning how I wanted you to. Ah- which...actually reminds me..." And just like that, his body is off of yours, taking the heat with him. Getting off the bed, Jay opens one of his desk drawers and removes a small microphone with a clip. You watch as he gathers the necessary chords, no ordinary recording device would do. He quickly attaches one end of the chords into his computer and fishes the rest of the line out as he walks back towards the bed. Still holding the hand sized device, he places his knees on either side of your hips, giving you a full view of his beautifully erected cock. You mentally note that he has definitely shaved recently, his skin looking so soft and kissable. The thought of kissing and sucking at the areas around the base of his cock makes your mouth water. While he busies himself with trying to find a way for the microphone to rest on top of the headboard without falling, you help yourself to a little taste of him.

The tip of his cock is salty with precum and you lick your lips quickly to lubricate them. Jay's hips instinctively flinch backwards, but once he looks down and sees what you're doing, all he does is smirk and continue to work on setting up the microphone.

You slowly insert the head of his cock onto the top of your tongue just inside your mouth. Exhaling, you let your warm breath fall across his shaft and small goosebumps appear at his midsection. Taking a long stripe from the base of his cock and back to the head, you avoid any chastising about teasing by promptly inserting him fully into your mouth, slowly and inch by inch allowing him to sink further and further back into your throat. You go until the tip of your nose and your lips touch his midsection, his length now fully submerged in your throat.

"Jesus you're not playing around tonight aren't you?"

You hum a response that makes his hips sputter, a stuttering groan leaving his lips quickly followed by a whispered ‘fuck’.

Slowly moving your head back, you go until the tip is almost past your lips before moving back down his shaft. You keep up the slow pace, mostly to annoy him and also to insure that he doesn't come anytime soon.

His hands, without warning, are weaving through your hair as you swirl your tongue around his tip. He guides you, quickening your pace and he continues to hit the back of your throat over. And over. And over-

Jay pulls himself back and his cock is out of your mouth.

"You're a sneaky little devil. You almost had me." He wags his finger at your face, making small tsk tsk noises with his mouth as he recenters himself and pulls his boxers up, hiding his beautiful cock from view. "Now, where was I?" He leans back towards the microphone and turns it on, a bright red light blinking up on the side. Adjusting the angle one last time, he's finally happy with his setup.

"Do you know what this is for?" He points to it and gets off the bed. Humoring him, you shake your head no.

"I need you to make that sound you made earlier. Do you understand? I don't want it. I need it."

Worriedly, you realize he's heading towards the closet and fear and excitement root into your chest as you watch him bend down to the last drawer of the dresser and take out a shoe box.

Sauntering back to the bed, he carelessly throws the shoe box onto the bed and some of its contents fall out. A bright blue vibrator as long as your forearm is the first you see followed up by light gray fuzzy handcuffs. There's more in the box, at least half a dozen other toys that Jay only likes to break out when he feels like you need to be punished, or if he needs a specific reaction from your body.

Right now, you're thinking it might be both options.

Jay picks up the handcuffs and looks them over in his hands. He's acting as if he's never used them on you before and that in itself is thrilling because now, you don't know what's going to happen next.

Pulling out three more pairs from the box, he wordlessly cuffs your wrists and ankles to the bedposts while you willingly, and wordlessly, allow him.

Still without words, he moves back to the bed. That's when you notice how steady his breathing is. And although appearing to be calm under a heated situation, his cock continues to throb and twitch, the head surely getting redder and angrier by the second underneath his boxers.

His hands are moving down your body, feeling every curve, reading every detail in your skin as if he were reading braille. Fingers dip inside your waistband, hooking around the material before sliding them down your legs, annoyedly realizing that he should have removed them before cuffing you to the bed. Without blinking, he grasps the material between his hands and tears the fabric as if it were nothing more than a single sheet of paper. The anticipation of his touch is driving you crazy and you're never going to get over the fact that your boyfriend has now literally torn your clothes off your body in order to get you naked.

"Please, babe," you pull at your restraints, the fuzzy padding protecting your wrists from any real harm and you try your best to spread your legs out further for him, "touch me."

Unresponsive, Jay eyes your core, looking at it in a way a man starved looks at a loaf of bread. His hands are on your thighs now, deeply kneading your muscles with his fingertips. His thumbs graze over bruises from previous escapades and it feels borderline euphoric.

"Touch me." You repeat and watch angrily as he remains unresponsive. His hands dip lower, over your knees and down to your shins. Desperation bubbles up from within the pits of your belly and rises until you feel it fester in your throat until you can't keep it down any longer.

"Touch me!" You yell and not so gently nudge his side with your leg. Finally, he looks up at your face and chuckles under his breath.

"So needy," he says with disappointment, but a smile paints softly across his face. "So ungrateful and so spoiled."

Jay's hands move quickly, fingers suddenly grip tightly at your hips as he raises up your lower half until it's level with his face. You bite on your bottom lip to keep yourself from yelping as his fingernails scratch into your skin before moving to support your weight by cupping your ass. You can feel his hot breath hovering over your clit, making you feel just how truly wet you are. Jay gulps down hard, looking as if being presented with a grand holiday meal.

"You're glistening, baby," he groans, proceeding to attach his lips onto your clit. The moment his tongue makes contact with your slickness, you inhale quickly. Finally, finally some contact.

He swirls his tongue slowly around your clit, no longer making direct contact. Gathering as much juices as he can, he spits it back out onto your clit. Warm mixes with cold and you sit up quickly only to be pushed back down by your boyfriend's strong hands. He keeps his hand on your chest right below your collarbone as he uses his other hand to wipe your juices and his spit around your clit.

It's so wet you almost miss the feeling of his bare hands.

"So, so messy." He tsks at you and continues his movements. "What am I going to do with you, Y/n? Hmm?"

You stay silent at the sound of your name instead of his usual pet names for you. His piercing brown eyes stare deep within yours as he continues to stroke you.

"Do I let you come from my fingers? From my tongue? From my cock? What will make you make that pretty...pretty sound again?"

You whimper as he inserts a single finger into your hole, your vagina naturally clenching around the digit. It's not enough. It's not enough. It's not enough.

Jay chuckles and you know he's finding humor in the way he has you wrapped around his finger...well...quite literally. He knows how weak you are when it comes to him, knows you'll do anything for him and knows exactly what to do to make you feel good.

"Are you going to be a good girl and make that pretty sound again? Hm? For me?" He inserts another finger and slowly curls them inside you, beckoning you towards him and touching that spongey bundle of nerves that sends you straight into the heavens.

"I'll try!" You cry out, wishing that he would apply more pressure inside of you so that you can finally release the orgasm that has been building up bigger and bigger. You’re honestly not sure if you can make the same moaning sound that he’s referring to because, quite honestly, you have no idea what you sounded like in the first place.

Jay pushes down your hips that you weren't aware you had raised upward. He keeps his free hand there while he quickens his pace with the other. The beautiful and sinful acts that his fingers can do to your body are coming into effect as you start to shake beneath him. Your breathing is more ragged than ever and you pull as hard as you can at your restraints without caring if it'll hurt you later. The coil deep within your body starts getting tighter and tighter, readying itself to break and unfurl.

You open your mouth to let out a deep, long moan but right as the sound erupts out of your mouth and into existence, Jay pulls his fingers out of you and sits back, completely untouching you.

Your orgasm disappears in a snap and you groan out angrily.

“Okay what the fuck,” you sound angrier than you intended. 

“Can’t let you come like that. It’s too easy.” He looks at the bed and pushes past some of the toys until he finds one that breaks out that devilishly handsome smile that you love oh so much.

In his hand he’s holding a simple, small, white vibrator.

Now, vibrators aren’t your favorite and he’s well aware of this. You come too quickly and aren’t able to savor that sweet build up feeling of fire within your lower half, that numbness that overtakes the tips of your toes and makes you want to kick them straight into a wall. The fact that he picked this out of the box of other torturing devices means that he plans on making you come. A lot. And in a short period of time.

Upon realizing his intention you think about pleading with him to use something else, anything else. The tiredness behind your eyes creeps up slower than the night, but it does not slow its pace. You want to come. You want to make him come. And then you want to sleep wrapped up tightly in your boyfriend’s arms.

Jay turns the vibrator on and watches as it purrs to life in his hands. He strokes the length of it as if it were the back of a cat. Now, looking at you, he grins, showing his pearly white teeth and another wave of arousal washes over you. Power exuberates from every inch of his body as he saunters back over to you. A bead of sweat forms at your temple and slowly slides down past your cheekbone. It tickles and makes you shiver, but you don't take your eyes off Jay.

"Are you ready?" he says softly upon reaching the edge of the bed. Standing in between your legs, he waits for your response.

You sigh, "yes," and let the muscles in your legs relax.

Jay places the tip of the vibrator on your left thigh and you moan immediately at the touch, feeling the sensation creep up to your core. The vibrator stays in place for a few moments while Jay watches your expressions intently. His eyebrows are furrowed so deeply that they almost touch and his mouth is scrunched together and pushed to the side. This has become more than sexual pleasure.

This is a science experiment.

"How does it feel when I do this?" he queries and moves the vibrator slowly up your thigh and stops just before it touches your core.

"It feels...torturous." Your hips start to shake purely from lack of physical contact where you need it the most. You try to hold in your pouts, try to hold in your pleading, but if your clit goes any longer without getting relief you're going to lose your mind.

"Good." And then right as you're about to beg for him to touch you, the vibrator is thrust right on your clit with a strong unmoving pressure.

Your hips roll forward and you don't have time to think before you cry out and feel your orgasm come and go quicker than you can blink. The vibrations run deeply through your body and after waiting so long, you just couldn't hold on.

"Whoa. Record time." Jay smarts but keeps the vibrator on you.

As you come down it starts to feel uncomfortable. Overstimulation is not something you're able to have the patience or willpower for.

“You can keep going,” Jay encourages and increases the speed on the vibrator. You whimper and look at him anxiously as your whole body begins to tremble.

“Moan for me, baby. Don’t hide those pretty sounds from me.”

They’re not moans quite yet. It starts off as small gasps as your body desperately tries to adjust to the overstimulation, angry when it realizes it can’t. That’s when the tears prick your eyes. You try to be tough and hold on but you feel another orgasm being forced from your body and you cry out in pleasured agony.

Jay removes the vibrator mid orgasm and your muscles immediately collapse into the bed. Panting harder than a dog on a hot summer day, you truly hope that that was the sound he’s looking for.

“Hmmm...not quite…”

“Please, Jay. Let me help you come. Forget about the sound. Let's get you off so we can go back to sleep.” Your throat feels hoarse as you talk from lack of water or the intense screams and moans, you’re not sure. Perhaps a mixture of all of it. Either way, you’re tired and you wish you could help him, but this project seems like a lost cause.

“Rest for a second. I need to listen to something.” He moves quickly to his computer, putting his headphones on crooked and clicking away at the screen. Your body is too tired to watch what he’s doing.

A few moments pass before Jay stands up again and you notice a freshly lit cigarette in his hand.

“I’m sorry, Y/n. I’ll untie you-” Jay pauses mid step and mid sentence and stares at the cigarette in his hand, quickly looking to your naked body, and then back at the cigarette.

"What's wrong?" You strain your head to try to meet his gaze but he's off in another world. His lips move as he mumbles lowly to himself, words incomprehensible to you from this far away. Taking a long drag from the cigarette, he holds in the smoke as he observes the cancer stick before walking closer to you. He’s sworn to quit so many times, but claims the nicotine helps him stay focused when he works on long projects. It’s not a favorable habit, but you just cannot deny how sexy he looks while taking a long drag from a cigarette and letting the smoke swirl out of his pretty lips. It fits his artistic rockstar image a little too well.

Finally you're able to catch: "that wouldn't be messed up...would it?"

"What wouldn't be messed up?" Annoyance is a nice way to put how you're feeling right now. You're just laying here, tied up and your boyfriend is only five feet away from you, completely ignoring your existence. Unfortunately he does this often; spacing out, talking to himself, unable to sense his surroundings. When it's music related it's admirable. When you're involved? Straight up annoying. But it’s even worse when the two are combined.

"I have...a crazy idea. Please let me know if it's too out there and we'll discard it immediately."

You gulp down what feels to be a big rock in your throat that doesn't want to be swallowed. His tone is cautious yet excited and he doesn't look you directly in the eyes but off to the side of your head.

"What is it?" You say slowly, wishing more than ever that you could sit up and talk to him face to face.

Jay brings his cigarette up in front of his face, his eyes concentrating hard on the object in front of him.

"I want to use the cigarette ash as a stimulant on you."

Immediately the first thing that comes to mind is 'what the actual fuck'. You've never heard of anyone using any part of cigarettes as a form of sexual pleasure. But then you let your mind breathe for a second and the idea sounds rather...arousing? Just the thought of Jay flicking his cigarette ash onto your body sounds so degrading and he usually doesn't dip in that direction sexually.

He's carefully watching your face now, looking for any sign that you're not on board with this.

You smile.

"Where on my body?" You say seductively. His eyes light up, that same sexual deviant smile back onto his face. Excitement is evident as his chest rises and falls at a quicker pace. And finally, finally, he walks towards you, that cigarette held loosely between his fingers.

His shadow casts over your midsection as he towers above you. One arm crosses his chest while his other arm, the one with the cigarette, rests on top. It looks like he's about to take another drag but stops himself just before it touches his lips.

"I was thinking...your nipples?"

Your mouth immediately starts to water and your legs involuntarily shift, wanting ever so badly to rub together. Suddenly you're hyper aware of how hard your nipples are. They're like little gumdrops resting on top of your breasts and when you close your eyes you can still feel the wetness of Jay's tongue as he swirled his tongue around them.

Most people use candle wax or ice cubes as nipple stimulants.

But then again, you and Jay aren't most people.

"Please. Do it." Eagerly, you roll your hips forward and jut your chest forward towards him. A deep hunger is rooted in his eyes as he takes a quick huff, blowing the smoke up towards the ceiling before climbing onto the bed. Your heart is beating fast and hard in your chest as you wait for him to make his next move.

Jay’s cock twitches back to life, a newfound surge of want coursing through his veins while your body reacts the same. He quickly checks to make sure his microphone is still on and then puts the cigarette between his lips. He gives himself a quick pump as he moves closer to your body.

Forget the cigarette ash, you think to yourself. You want him.

And he apparently wants you too.

Jay’s hands move expeditiously down the sides of your body, running over your hips and down your thighs as he positions himself between your legs. He uses the head of his cock to rub against your swollen clit, your hips bucking with the sudden contact. Unlike previously, Jay is in no mood to take his time. After rubbing up and down your folds a few times, he uses your slick as lubrication and promptly inserts himself into your hole. He grunts deeply as he bottoms out and you’re left gasping as your body adjusts to his size. Jay rests his chin on top of your head as he breathes heavily around the cigarette hanging crooked in his mouth, away from your hair. The smoke wafts around you and slightly burns your nostrils but you love it.

He’s addicted to cigarettes.

You’re addicted to him.

After giving himself a moment, Jay finally starts to move, rocking his hips slowly back and forth to generate some momentum. A deep moan gurgles from the back of his throat and you can see in his eyes how difficult it is for him to hold himself back.

The air in the room gets stuffy with the heat of your bodies mixed in with the smoke. It makes you both pant harder, faster.

“I can’t take it anymore,” Jay growls and sits back, his cock unfortunately slipping out of you. He takes your legs and sets your feet against his shoulders and realigns himself with your entrance. Without giving you both time to adjust, he slams deep within you, your body jolting in response as he hits your sensitive spot.

“Fuck!” He yells and quickens his pace, his cock relentlessly filling every inch of space within you. Small whimpers move past your lips and a fire lights behind Jay’s eyes.

“What was that? I can’t hear you?” As his hips continue to rock into you, he grabs the microphone off the top of the headboard and shoves it in your face. With his other hand he takes a drag from his cigarette, blowing the smoke to the side before leaning down, hovering the cigarette a few inches above one of your nipples.

You look up at him hopefully and you’re open to tell him it’s okay when he taps his pointer finger on top of the cigarette, gray ash tumbling down towards your body.

“Ah!” You exclaim as the ash hits the peak of your breast. The initial impact of the ash to your skin makes your body panic, completely unused to the sensation. But then, it feels erotic. The nerves in your nipples sing with pleasure and your back arches as the warmth sinks deeply into you. You watch as your breasts bounce with each thrust Jay gives you and the ash rolls down onto your chest.

He continues thrusting and taking drags from his cigarette despite looking winded and exhausted. The headboard bangs against the wall, mirroring the thunder still booming in the distance. Soft groans and moans fill the room until Jay pushes your legs closer to your face, going deeper inside of you.

“Dear god your pussy is just too good. You’re still so wet after everything else. Always wet for my cock aren’t you?” His thrusts are getting longer, sloppier.

“Always. I love your cock,” you exhaustedly whisper. You can feel that coil deep inside you wanting to unspring so badly and only Jay can get you there.

He takes a final drag from his cigarette and flicks the biggest chunk of ash towards your nipple. You moan out as it makes contact at the same time the tip of his cock kisses deeply against your cervix, a high pitched moan that makes your eyes roll backwards.

And then he presses his thumb on top of your nipple, smearing the ash on top of you and right as he does it he thrusts so hard and deeply into you and holds himself there.

“F-uh-uck!” You sputter out the mother of all moans as your orgasm rips through you making you see a bright flash of white.

“Oh shit!” Jay grunts and thick ropes of cum spill inside you.

You both take a moment to regain your breaths. Then Jay removes your legs from his shoulders, setting you down gently and fully removing himself from you. He moves to his desk and puts his cigarette butt into the ashtray and his microphone next to the keyboard. He takes a moment and places his fists behind his back right at his hip bones and leans back until a satisfying crack sounds out through the room.

Jay looks back at you with complete adoration in his eyes, a natural smile forming on his lips as he puckers them to give you an air kiss. Promptly untying you from your restraints, he rubs small circles into your wrists after he frees you, the pressure soothing your aching joints.

“I love you,” he mutters tenderly and places a kiss on top of your forehead.

“I love you too.” You smile.

He gets up and heads to the bathroom while you remain on the bed. You hear the bath turn on and run rapidly and the sound makes you feel the sleep wanting to pull you back in. You can't feel your thighs or any part of your lower half for that matter, but yet your muscles still tremble from the overwhelming aftermath of your multiple orgasms. Gazing upward, the white ceiling looks so dull above you and yet, somehow, comforting. Your mind instinctively tries to find pictures within the grooves but it proves to be too much work for your brain right now. So you go back to just staring absentmindedly. Jay is saying something from the bathroom but your brain is too tired to focus on what it was he was saying exactly. Body still trembling, you close your eyes and will for sleep to take you.

But then hands are on your body, lifting your head off the pillow. And then you're being carried, your body feeling weightless. You groan out for your bed, wanting nothing more than to be completely buried in blankets as sleep overcomes you.

The bathroom light has been dimmed and some of your favorite scented candles are lit on the counter. An aroma of lemon and rose petals waft throughout the room. You breathe in deeply through your nose and sigh out of your mouth, your body melting in your boyfriend's arms.

Jay gently places your feet on the mat in front of the freestanding soaking bathtub. There's mountains of bubbles already rising on top of the water and you can't wait to sink down into it.

Jay uses his hand to grip your elbow, guiding you as you put one foot in the water and then the other.

You sit up front where the faucet is dumping soothing warm water. You put your hands together and let the stream pool into your palms and run over your skin. This is total bliss and your aching muscles begin to relax happily.

Water splashes behind you and you turn around to see Jay getting into the bath as well. You smile at him before turning back around and picking up a handful of bubbles.

"What shampoo do you want? The good smelly one or the deep clean one?" Jay holds both bottles in either hand, looking back and forth between the two.

You look back at him and tiredly try to decide. The “good smelly one” is peach while the deep cleaning one is a tea tree extract.

"Would it be weird if I combined both? It honestly might be really good." He awaits your input.

"Both are fine." You nod your head and turn back to the front. You turn off the water and lay your arms over both edges of the tub.

Gentle hands run down your hair from the top of your head down to the tips before returning to your scalp. His fingers massage the shampoos into your head and a low wistful grumble escapes your throat. You feel the shampoo lathering in your hair and the way Jay's fingers move with purpose has you closing your eyes in pure bliss. He uses the pads of his fingers to massage deeply into your skull, nearly lulling you to sleep.

His hands leave your hair and you hear the clicking of another cap opening and then it clicks shut a moment after. His hands are back on your body but this time they're on your shoulders. A strong lavender smell enters your nostrils and it dawns on you that he's massaging your soothing body wash into your skin.

It's silent in the bathroom except for the small droplets of water tinkling from the faucet into the tub. It's not an eerie silence, it's almost tranquil.

You spend a bit more time in the bathtub together. Jay completely taking care of you to wash off every trace of cigarette ash that was left on your body. His hands soothingly rub alongst every inch of your body.

“I’m ready to get out,” you sigh. You’re leaning against Jay’s chest, his bare skin comforting against your own, “before I completely fall asleep in here.”

“Okay. Let me get out first and grab your towel.” He attentively lifts your body forward to give himself some room to emerge from the bath. Water runs off his body and onto the tile floor as he crosses the room for his towel first. You pull the drain plug in the bath and watch as a tiny whirlpool appears.

After aggressively rubbing the towel in his hair, Jay wraps it around his waist to cover himself, his hair looking static as it sticks out in every which way. He grabs you a fresh towel from the cupboard, the fluffy white one you usually save for special self care relaxation days.

Padding his way back over to you, he drapes the white towel in both of his arms and holds it out, waiting to envelope you in it once you step out.

You stand up slowly, clutching the edges of the tub as you push yourself up. Your legs are still quite shaky. For the most part they still feel pretty numb. You lift one leg up carefully and find your footing on the tile before gingerly taking out your other leg. Jay wraps you tightly in the soft towel that could honestly be a blanket if one chose to do so. You sigh into it, your muscles relaxing as Jay dries you off.

“Let’s get you to bed. We can watch a movie.” After he says it, Jay pauses to look at you. Afraid that something is on your face, your hand touches your cheek questionably. He reaches up and moves his hand under yours so that he’s cupping your cheek, his thumb tracing softly against your cheekbone.

“I love you,” he says softly before leaning in and kissing your lips. As soon as your lips touch it feels like you’re melting into him all over again. And all too soon, the kiss is over.

Swiftly, he picks you up bridal style and carries you to bed as you giggle and cling to his neck. He lightly places you back onto the bed and pulls back the covers and quickly throws them over your body once you’re comfortable. Jay adjusts your pillow to make sure your head stays straight and makes sure every one of your toes is snuggled and warm before handing you the TV remote and then walking towards the door.

“What snack do you want?” He calls from the door frame, his hand lightly brushing against the soft pastel yellow paint.

“Surprise me!” You call as you flip through the different genre suggestions, your brain not even registering what the titles are.

After giving up and picking a random movie, Jay walks in with some water bottles and a bag of pretzels and climbs into bed next to you.

“Don’t you want to get back to your music?” You inquire as you grab a handful of pretzels. He gets himself comfortable next to you by adjusting his pillow, grabbing a fistful of pretzels himself once he’s done.

“Nah. That can wait. I just want to be here with you.” He smiles before popping a piece of the tasty snack into his mouth.

Your heart swells knowing how much he wants to be back in that chair working his magic. Normally you couldn’t drag him away from that stupid computer. So you don’t push it and snuggle in deeper next to him, letting your head fall against his shoulder.

Together you munch away, forgetting about sleep entirely, and listening as the thunder grumbles in the distance.

a/n: thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed :] if you did please reblog and leave a comment!

♡ masterlist

© all rights reserved. do not copy, modify, translate, or repost. jayparked 09/05/24

[jacksabbotts]

✧ cold cut — ❪ part five ❫

. ᵒ . ➛ PAIR . dr. jack abbot ( the pitt ) x fem!morguetech!reader . ᵒ . ➛ SUMMARY . in which one compliment, one coat, and one very stupid scalpel cut send you spiraling back into jack abbot’s orbit—bleeding, babbling, and absolutely not prepared for what he says next

. ᵒ . ➛ TRIGGER WARNINGS . lowercase intended!!! graphic injury ( scalpel cut, blood ), medical imagery ( stitches, not graphic, er setting ), mild medical anxiety, emotional spiral / anxious overthinking, self-deprecating inner monologue, implied crush / unrequited feelings ( perceived ), power imbalance ( attending physician x hospital staff ), flirting in a professional setting, profanity

. ᵒ . ➛ AUTHOR NOTES . dont look at me! the jacket is my way of edging them before we get to the actual edging 😏😅 the jacket has earned its way to the castlist. it is a main character now

series masterlist || inbox || ggc request form ━━━ * ✷ ⊹ * ˚ ✷ dividers by @cafekitsune and @uzmacchiato

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the coat was back where it didn’t belong—on your desk, draped like a memory you couldn’t fold shut.

you didn’t put it back on ( even though he told you to wear it ). you’d thought about it, thought maybe the extra warmth would keep your brain from spiraling—but the weight of it on your shoulders made it worse. you couldn’t breathe with it on. so you'd placed it carefully in the corner of your desk, hoping it would stop staring.

it didn’t.

you had a body on the table. male, late fifties, post-op complications. nothing traumatic. nothing you hadn’t seen a hundred times before. you went through the motions : pulled the cart into place, adjusted the overhead light, unzipped the bag. the hum of the cooler, the click of your pen, the rustle of latex gloves—routine, familiar, grounding.

still, you kept glancing back.

'don’t look at me like that,' you muttered, tugging the sheet down to expose the man's torso. 'not you. him.' your eyes flicked to the desk. 'the coat. it’s staring again.'

you sighed and looked back at the body. 'you ever have a doctor who ruined your entire emotional equilibrium with one compliment and a jacket? no? lucky you.”

the corpse didn’t answer.

'not that i think it was a real compliment,' you added, setting up your scale and camera. 'i’m not delusional. he was just being polite. a guilt offering. like a sorry for making you feel like a walking pathology specimen last week kind of thing.'

you adjusted the camera. 'still. he didn’t have to say it. it suits you.' you rolled your eyes and shook your head. 'that’s the kind of thing that short-circuits a girl’s brain, you know?'

click. photo taken.

'i’ve been thinking about it for two days,' you continued. 'you know what that means? i haven’t watched any tv. i haven’t listened to my podcasts. i—' you hesitated. '—i forgot to label the scalpels last night. me. the scalpel-labeling queen. not my idea, im not that self-absorbed.'

you peeled back the id band on the corpse’s wrist, checked it against the log.

'i’m pathetic,' you mumbled.

the body, to his credit, said nothing.

'anyway, let’s get your sample. then i’ll stop rambling and let you enjoy your eternal rest in peace and silence and climate-controlled perfection.'

you reached for the scalpel.

and you weren’t looking. not at your hand. not at the angle.

you were thinking about his hands. the way they’d stitched your palm last week. the way he’d said your name—well, okay, nickname. still. his voice had dipped when he said it.

and that was when it happened.

a sharp slip. a hiss of pain. the blade biting in—clean, fast, too deep.

you dropped it with a gasp.

blood bloomed through the glove almost instantly.

'oh, come on,' you groaned, grabbing a wad of gauze with your good hand. you applied pressure, but it wasn’t enough. the blood was already dripping onto the floor, your shoe, the tray of sterile tools.

you turned to the body again, holding up your bleeding hand. 'well, congratulations. you’re the first dead guy to see me have a full-on medical spiral in real time.'

still no reply. obviously.

'don't look so smug. this is your fault, you know.' you pressed the gauze tighter. 'if you’d just let me stay distracted without bleeding about it, we wouldn’t be in this mess.'

the corpse was unmoved.

you looked down at your hand. it was a mess.

you were going to need stitches.

which meant only one thing.

you were going to have to go upstairs.

the elevator ride to the er felt like ascending to your own personal hell.

you kept your hand cradled close to your chest, gauze pressed tight, blood still seeping through the layers. the pain was manageable. the shame? not so much.

you should’ve waited. should’ve radioed someone. should’ve done literally anything else but walk yourself, in your oversized morgue scrubs and haunted raccoon eyes, up to the one place you’d been aggressively avoiding since the beginning of your shift. since he told you it suited you. since your entire brain short-circuited and your hand decided to follow.

the er doors slid open with their usual groan, and you stepped into the chaos like a deer crossing a freeway at rush hour.

don’t panic, you told yourself. just get someone other than jack abbot. anyone. a resident. a nurse. a vending machine with first-aid supplies.

you made it five steps before you heard your name.

'hey—morgue girl?'

she, dana, appeared at your elbow like a horror movie jump scare, coffee in one hand, chart in the other. her eyes scanned you—then dropped to the soaked gauze in your hand.

her whole expression shifted.

'what the hell did you do?' she asked, half-concerned, half-amused.

'i—uh—i had a moment,' you mumbled. 'it’s fine. i’m fine. just need some stitches.'

dana’s brows lifted. 'sure looks like more than ‘just’—wait, you walked up here like that?'

you nodded. she blinked. 'jesus,' she muttered, then turned and called over her shoulder. 'hey, jack!'

'dana!'

but it was too late.

jack appeared from bay two, chart in hand, brow furrowed—until he saw you. everything in his expression changed. his shoulders straightened. his steps quickened.

you wanted to sink into the linoleum.

'what happened?' he asked, voice low, serious, and somehow ten times louder than anything else in the room.

'i—' you lifted the gauze. 'it’s not that bad.'

he didn’t answer. just reached out and gently took your wrist in his hand, tilting it so he could see. the pressure was feather-light. his fingers were warm.

he pulled the gauze back.

blood bloomed. fast. too fast. you felt light headed. his jaw flexed. 'bay three,' he said, already steering you toward it. 'i really don’t need—'

'bay. three.'

you opened your mouth to protest—too late. he’d already turned, barking over his shoulder to dana, 'get one of the kids to cover four and five. i’m taking care of this one.'

dana blinked. 'uh, i could grab shen? he’s—'

'no.' jack’s voice sliced clean through the noise. final. '’ll do it.'

you flinched.

dana raised an eyebrow but backed off with a knowing smirk, already halfway down the hall.

you didn’t move.

jack turned to you, hands already gloved. 'go.'

you followed because your legs didn’t have the spine to disobey. the curtain swished closed behind you, and you found yourself once again in the crash room. the scene of the crime. the battlefield of coats and compliments and feelings.

he gestured to the bed.

you hesitated.

'up.'

you climbed onto the gurney like you were being sent to the gallows.

you watched him gather the suture kit. watched the ease in his movements, the confidence in his hands. prepped a tray of supplies with practiced ease. you stared at the ceiling, avoiding eye contact like your life depended on it.

'you—you don’t have to,' you said, voice shaking as you stared at your shoes. 'i mean, you could ask one of your residents. i’m sure they’re—'

'i trained them,' jack said flatly. 'doesn’t mean i trust them.'

you blinked. 'but—'

he stepped closer. took your injured hand with such deliberate gentleness you nearly forgot to breathe. 'they’re still learning,' he said. 'you’re not a practice body.'

your heart stuttered at that.

his fingers were careful. gentle, even—but his eyes? still sharp. still on you.

the sterile silence stretched while he prepped the stitches. you watched his hands work, the burn in your palm nothing compared to the burn in your face.

he didn’t speak again until the needle was in his grip.

'so, how’d it happen?'

you tensed. 'it’s—uh, it’s nothing, really. just a—uh—a stupid slip. happens all the time, you know, just one of those days and the scalpel was, um, sharp—obviously—and it just—'

'try again,' he said, without looking up.

you swallowed.

'tell me the truth,' he added, quieter this time. 'you’ve done this job for how long? three years?' your heart stuttered because that? there was no reason he'd know that. and that meant that he'd asked about you. he'd purposely tried to find out information about you.

'four.'

'exactly. so i doubt you just forgot how to handle a scalpel overnight.' he glanced up, brow raised. 'what really happened?'

you shriveled under his stare. your mouth opened. closed. opened again. and then it all came out at once.

'i—okay—i was distracted, alright? i was cleaning the table and i just—i wasn’t thinking straight because someone told me to keep their stupid coat and then they told me it—it suits me—and i couldn’t stop thinking about it which is ridiculous because i know you were just being polite and trying to be nice and maybe like, not feel guilty for yelling at me which is fine by the way, i wasn’t mad or anything but it just got in my head and—and—then i knocked the tray over and i grabbed the blade without looking and now we’re here—so.'

silence.

utter silence.

you didn’t breathe.

your eyes were huge.

because, oh god, what had you just said? why had you said that?

and jack abbot was fucking grinning. not smirking. not smoldering. grinning. like a goddamn kid. like someone just handed him the sun.

'jesus christ,' he muttered, shaking his head. 'you’re unbelievable.'

you buried your face in your uninjured hand. 'i know, i know, i didn’t mean to say all of that, just—forget it—'

'no way.' he was beaming now. 'you think I gave you my coat because I felt guilty?'

you looked at him like he’d just accused you of grand larceny. 'well—yeah?' you squeaked. he huffed out a laugh—soft, warm, real. 'morgue girl…'

'what?'

he bent forward slightly, still holding your hand with one of his own, the needle paused in the other. you blinked up at him, still reeling, still red, still trying to play catch-up while he tugged the last stitch tight.

he cut the thread with a flick of surgical scissors.

then he looked at you. really looked.

and he said, voice low, not flirty, not teasing—earnest. 'yeah, okay. the first time i gave you the coat… that was guilt. i’ll admit it.”

you froze. 'but the second time?'

he leaned back on his stool, hands braced loosely on his knees, head tilted like he was debating how honest to be.'that wasn’t about guilt,' he said.

he glanced away for half a second—then back. 'that was because i didn’t like the thought of you freezing half to death down there. not when i could do something about it.'

your lips parted. no words came.

'i’ve worked in this hospital for years,' he went on, almost to himself. 'plenty of people down in the morgue. most of ‘em i barely remember. but you?' his eyes caught yours again.

'you’re the first one i’ve ever gone downstairs for.'

you felt your breath stick in your throat. your fingers twitched. your skin felt too warm under the er lights.

'i didn’t mean to mess with your head,' he added, softer now. 'but i’m not sorry for noticing you. not sorry for the coat. and i’m definitely not sorry for wanting to make sure you’re warm.'

you whispered, 'why?'

his smile curved slow and dangerous.

'because i like you cold,' he said, standing. 'but i like you warm a hell of a lot more.'

then he brushed his knuckles—very gently—down your cheek. just once. he chuckled again, shaking his head as he went back to stitching you up—like he hadn’t just said the most unhinged thing in the world.

and then he walked out like he hadn’t just wrecked your soul and left your brain in seventeen different emotional pieces on a hospital gurney.

your brain fizzled out.

your brain short-fucking-circuited. completely. full system shutdown. he left the room like nothing had happened—like he hadn’t just said those words, hadn’t just looked at you like that, hadn’t just touched your face like you were something gentle.

and you were still sitting on the damn gurney with your hand bandaged and your heart trying to claw its way out of your chest like it was auditioning for a medical emergency of its own.

what.

the actual fuck.

was that.

you replayed it. again. and again. and again.

because I like you cold. but I like you warm a hell of a lot more.

who says that?? who says that and then leaves?? who says that to you, the awkward morgue tech who talks to corpses and can’t look a resident in the eye without breaking into hives?

your ears were ringing. your skin felt like it had been dipped in lava. you could still feel the ghost of his knuckles on your cheek. like it had been branded into your nervous system.

you kicked your feet a little off the side of the gurney.

you wanted to scream into your hands. or crawl into the nearest biohazard bin and never return. or maybe pass away quietly in the trauma bay because that would be less humiliating than what just happened.

you glanced down at your bandaged hand. still there. still throbbing. still very much stitched up by the man who just emotionally detonated you like a code blue in your chest cavity.

you whispered to no one :

'…what the fuck.'

and then immediately clapped a hand over your mouth, because oh my god, that had come out aloud.

you peeked toward the hallway. no one. thank god. except—was that dana? you scrambled off the gurney like it had caught fire.

you needed to get out. away. back to the cold, back to the dead, back to your lane.

because this?

this was too warm. too dangerous. too much. and the worst part?

the worst part was how badly—how embarrassingly badly—you wanted him to say something like that again.

🔖  .   @princesssunderworld  @mayabbot  @imherefordeanandbones  @arigoldsblog  @oldmanbunnylover  @i-mushi  @autumnleaves1991-blog  @lovelexi717  @peggyofoz @qtmoonies  @nfwmb-gvf   @babybatreads  @cheekym8s  @bitteroceanlove  @spooky-librarian-ghost  @dr-yapper  @yutasgem  @keseqna  @gardeniarose13  @witchbitchlovesdilfs  @sotragedynut  @robbyrosierobinavitch  @anglophileforlife @flyinglama  @sillymuffintrashflap @letstryagaintomorrow @caterpillarskimono @maiamore @madzleigh01 @qardasngan @imightbeinsanebutwtv  @foolishseven @anxiousfuckupon  @coldmuffinbanditshoe  @blueliketheseaa  @justfaefaeee  @sweetdayme4427  @404creep  @yourdaydreamerfan  @ddrawers96  @m14mags   @twiddledeedumsworld  @jetless  @thedamnqueenofhell  @topnerd03  @abllor @loud-mouph @cannonindeez @nubecita040   @beebeechaos  @cwzham  @homebytheharbor  @painment  @namgification   @catmomstyles3 @livingavilaloca  @hello-lisa1026  @emma8895eb  @shadowfoxy @thesnugglingduck @britt217 @reignbooks8506 @kmc1989 @chuiisi  @Lumpypoll @generalstarlightobjest @dlljdhsh @misshoneypaper @Sabi127 @Coleground @sevenberry @Cherry_cosmos @idontcarenoughtonamethis @Sammiib444 

if your user is white instead of gray it means i was not able to tag you, i copy and pasted straight from the forms so that means there must be typo, feel free to resubmit a form ( linked below ) and i will update the taglist. this not all the people who have requested to be tagged ( i am one person and i will get everyone on the list at some point. thank you !!!! * ✷ ⊹ * ˚  want to join the morgue tech!reader taglist??? click here!!!!

[veneralice]

art credit to @Qianbenshan on X ! all credit to the artist!

divider credit to @cafekitsune ! all credit to the original creator of the divider!

the ocean’s call / rafayel (m.)

rafayel just thought it would be funny to lead the fisher’s daughter astray by crowning her in water and blood - he’s killed so many of rafayel’s brethren, after all. if only he had known how hard it is to resist the desire of something you cannot have. (14.7k words)

content/content warnings: reader as the daughter of a fisher who hunts mermaids for their caviar (yum), reader and father’s relationship is not physically abusive but perhaps emotionally idk how to properly describe but i don’t want to leave it untagged, reader probably has some daddy issues (and i don’t mean that in the mocking way but in a the-author-has-daddy-issues-and-this-shit-is-not-funny-or-sexy kind of way), some body-horror detailing caviar harvesting, stealing star wars names for my background characters because i just finished andor and i’m not good at naming stuff, oral sex (male receiving), body worship (fem. receiving), switch!rafayel who seems submissive at first but in reality is just a crybaby dom, animalistic behavior (rafayel’s shark ass bites reader), some flesh-eating thoughts on rafayel’s behalf because you give him cuteness aggression, no actual cannibalism (wouldn’t that be funny) (i love yellowjackets), some overstimulation (both receiving) if you squint, idk . Idk i just kinda went crazy over this . who even wrote this

You were nine when your father took the joy out of the sea for you.

Perhaps you should start this off differently. You should remember the way it was a perfect summer’s day, and you had just finished your very first day of tutelage under the shrine maiden in Whalefall City. Your mother, whose rejection of that idea had been whittled down like a wooden arrow for the entire spring, had finally relented and allowed you to pursue a shrine maiden’s education. One day, it would be her daughter calling her to prayer and not the sneer-faced woman who currently held the title of ‘seasinger’. It wasn’t because your household was necessarily non-religious, or averse to the faith practiced in the city.

It’s just that your father spits on the holy city’s faith by partaking in the hunt of mermaids, just for sport, just for fun, just because he can.

Before that magical summer, you had never once been able to affix a picture to that. You knew your father was a talented fisher who was able to draw out even the most difficult of oceanic bounties, and he always made sure your family was fed. But you were a daughter, you see, a fact your father always had secretly mourned no matter how much it hurt your mother (“How I have groveled and suffered to deliver you to this earth!”), and thus you had never been taken with on the boat to hunt the mermaids littering the shores of Whalefall City.

You’ve seen them. It’s impossible not to. They dive in elegant curves, as whorling as the waves, a star-speckled shadow across the water before they disappear in its depth. The colors of the rainbow, the shimmer of the night-sky in their tails. More myth than real life. More dream than reality. Yet still here, sharing these waters with the citizens of the city. Lurking. Hiding. Surviving.

As per your own tradition, you bend down at the curve of the cliffpath you always took towards the sea and scoop up the wild-growing oceanvales. This was something you never once had told anyone about, and it was a daily routine you never neglected, feeling as though the day would remain incomplete if you didn't. This was not part of the religious teachings one received in the halls of the Dolphin's Hall, but it was a part of you, just as the ocean was. In the end, everything returns to salt. You throw the oceansvale into the waves and watch as the petals dissolve above the water's surface, as if sending a paper lantern off to carry your wishes.

In that moment, on the edge of you casting one last look at the horizon and in the turn of your heel to begin the climb back home, a blue-haired, child-like head bobs above the waves. You almost miss it, absentminded as you are, but you do see it: the small hand, barely differing to your own human one, furling around the petals and taking them with it as both hand and mermaid disappear. It makes you smile, almost making it worth it; as if this routine had finally been acknowledged for what it was. You wondered if mermaids and humans could be friends.

You couldn't have known how decisively crushing your father's answer would be.

The door is already open when you come home. An ominous sign, a warning for yet to come. The door was never left open, especially not on days where your father is supposed to take to the sea so he can partake in his favorite illegal dealing. There's no specific law condemning the prizing of roe out of a mermaid's womb, but it isn't looked upon with favor, either. The scriptures had always foretold of a deep unity between earth and sea, between moving plates and shaking waves, between mineral and salt. To turn your back on the ocean's creatures was to turn your back on the seasinger's preachings. That does not erase the hunger for their caviar, though, and the black market flourishes. And as long as the black market for caviar flourishes, your father refuses to cut into his own pockets, especially now, when the taxes in the city become more unforgiving and unforgiving with the preparations for the festival that is to be celebrated in just a moon's turn.

Your father is standing just beyond the door, in the dimly-lit hallway leading to the comfort of your mother's kitchen. His face is suffused with blood, red with anger, a fact that makes you duck your head in alarm, but is in vain. As soon as he sees you, your father's hand grips your frail shoulder and turns you toward him, his face the shadowed grimace of a man annoyed. "Did I not tell you to not go near that cliff time and time again?" he chastizes. For the moment, he holds himself back; your mother has drawn herself up in preparation of your defense, and her face mirrors the storm clouds you perceived in your father's grimace. But you can feel the need for him to shout rise steadily, like a tsunami beginning to swallow you whole. You lower your gaze to the ground, not knowing what to say. When you don't answer, your father finally shakes you and barks out, "Speak, girl! If it hadn't been for old Luthen pointing you out to me, I would have never found out about this, and then we'd be fishing out your bones out of that damned cove instead of a good piece of salmon for dinner!"

"Oh, leave it!" Your mother's hands shake off your father's threatening grip, and you allow yourself to breathe again. At your mother's chest, the world is safe. There are no scary men or scary bed-time stories about the unruly ocean. Instead, the scent of cinnamon and warm wood wraps you in its’ embrace, and you hide your face in the crook of your mother’s arm as she glares at your father. “She’s gonna be a seasinger, this girl is, and I won’t have you interfering with it. We all agreed to listen to her wishes. She’s not gonna be a fisher like you, Galen!”

“Well, I sure hope she won’t, because she does not heed a single warning I’ve ever taught her about it! Those mermaids don’t exactly gallop into my nets of their own free will, they’re dangerous!”

“You’ve made your point, now shove off.” Your mother glides her hand over the curve of your head. Protective, caring. Her presence is the calming lighthouse in the stormy seas, guiding you home, and although your father is still enraged, you believe the worst to be over. You are wrapped up in a childhood kingdom that is still entranced with the unknown, the beckoning of the deep, the ocean’s call. No one has taught you how to drown yet.

Not yet. But someone will, now.

Your father, your only father. You remember him tying knots in all ur robes, the way he made you laugh when swinging you up into the skies, up, up, and beyond. His fingers digging into the sides of your tummy to tickle the giggles out of you, claiming the sound was so joyous that all on earth and in the sea should rejoice in it. But you also remember the way his fingers dug into the soft of your flesh, yelling at your fingers bitten down to the quick, belittling you for your fear. The sneer on his face when he couldn’t fathom where your stupidity came from. The stormy eyes. This was the man who had never been taught better on how to love his family, and he won’t change for you, not for your mother or anyone else.

So when he encircles your wrist with his manacle-like fingers, you already know you’d been hoping for a reprieve and now the guillotine came swinging down to behead you. Your mother’s startled voice speaks up, but you cannot even begin to decipher the words, because your father is already shouting, “I don’t want to hear it, not from you, not when it’s your fault she’s turned out this soft and naive! If she wants to be a seasinger so badly, I’ll teach her what it means to sing into the sea!”

Her panicked voice is swallowed by the wind as your father begins to tug you down the pebbled path winding down from your house into the city, but you quickly turn off-path as your father begins to steer you towards the ocean. The salt is in your eyes and in your mouth, and you cannot be sure if the sharpness on your tongue is the rain, your tears or the taste of pure fear. As you angle up your head to look at the house one last time, your mother stands in the door, looking incredibly forlorn. You understand that look very well: that although your father is an incredibly hotheaded, temperamental man, the fact still remains that his little sport paints a target on the fishers’ backs.

It is time to stop romanticizing the mermaids now.

It’s the only thing you can think of as they claw the mermaid to ship. The words repeat over and over in your head, like the sharp stones thrown against the waves as the soft water makes them yield. They become round and pliant, your thoughts, running together in a string as you stare at the sight and try not to look. You don’t want to see. You don’t want to see. But they make you: Old Luthen (you’d spit on the name if you could) has his hands settled on your shoulders, keeping you turned towards the sight of your father and his shipmates heaving the gods’ dearest creation on deck. You try to see through the face, make yourself not acknowledge it, as if it could help if you pretend not to take note of her face. But she looks back at you, straight on. Her pearlescent eyes zero in on the way old Luthen has his fingers carved into your shoulders, the way he could crush and grind you down like brittle bones if you resist. And she understands: you are as trapped as she is. It is a terrible thing, this understanding that passes between the two of you, and you wish it hadn’t happened, wish she would have growled and screamed at you as she did at her captors.

The understanding flees her eyes pretty quickly when they begin to carve her out like a pig on a spit.

It’s terrible. The fear on your tongue turns into bile, and then you find yourself swallowing back vomit, not trusting yourself to throw up when your father was still intent on punishing you. The knife glides into the soft-scaled tail way too easily, giving way to a glittering, human-like nightmare. You’ve seen the way clams guard their precious pearls, the almost pretty membrane surrounding them to keep them safe. The translucency of it made it a beautiful wonder to behold, but there’s nothing beautiful about this, not when they’re clawing at the mermaid’s insides as if they were the bothersome strings of a spider’s web. The mermaid thrashes and screams, and then the bloodcurdling noise coming out of her mouth is unrecognizable, because they begin to serrate at the edges of her wound to drive into the hard scales surrounding her womb. To get everything, y’know, there’s people paying a pretty penny for their organs. S’pposed to have miracle healing properties. You swallow and swallow and swallow, but when they begin to tear at the flesh that was supposed to keep her roe safe, and the guts begin to speckle your feet, you find your way out of Luthen’s prison-hold and throw up right over the side of the ship. You can still hear her sobs, despite the sound of Luthen’s laughter - can’t stomach the fisher’s life, can she, your daughter? - and more deafeningly so, you can hear how loud the silence is in your ears when she finally quietens down, when she returns to the sea, the only burial the men give her. One last time, you’re looking at her as she bobs in the waves, her helpless arms streaked with wounds she suffered as she strained against the nets and knives. You think of those arms, and her ocean eyes, the way they had looked like a nightmare come true and yet the gaze they contained had been softer than any look your father had ever given you. Maternal, almost.

You close your eyes and think of your own mother. You guard that image of her, imprint it on the back of your eyes as your father settles his hand on the top of your head. Wanting to slip back into the role of the nurturing, caring father. Your fists clench and unclench at your sides. “It’s not a pretty thing, girl,” he says, and it’s supposed to sound soothing. Instead, it feels like he’s stabbing your ears with the same knife he used to gut her womb with. “They know what we’re capable of. They like us just as little as we like them. Your songs will help you nothing. It changes nothing.”

But something had changed. Irrevocably, unrepairingly, it had changed. As they paddle you back to the shore, all you can think about is the fact that this mermaid, this stranger, had viewed you more kindly than your own father had. And you carry that look with you as you grow into a woman, as unacknowledged and resented as the young daughter you had been.

From his hidden viewpoint, Rafayel can only glimpse the edges of your skirt. It’s a silver, diaphanous material, hugging the back of your legs like a seastar clings to the rocks. Expensive. Noteworthy. The garb the students of the shrine’s faith don as they perform their traditions, as if they don’t smile at the sea’s creations with one corner of their mouth and spit with the other. Disrespectful, your faith is, as disrespectful as your father’s nets and his arrogance as he takes to the sea. Rafayel’s sea. “Father, you forgot to take your hooks with you again,” your voice then rings out, freeing him from his hateful looks. It sounds too melodious. It should be as scratchy, as bothersome, as vile as humanity’s existence. But he is Lemurian at heart, and he cannot help himself from appreciating your lovely voice. A true seasinger, he begrudgingly thinks, but then he hastily corrects himself. A seasinger with the talent for it, but a liar nonetheless. Humanity can only deceive. “You should at least maintain the illusion that you’re hunting for something … legal. They’ve been cracking down on the black market’s dealings for a while now.”

“Only makes my prizes more precious, girl,” comes your father’s dry retort. He’s never once called you by your name in the entire time that Rafayel has begun to trail you, following your traces around town. He hears the gentle splash of your feet hitting the water, feels his senses prickle as he becomes aware of the way your body braves the spitting sea. “Just means I’ll get a better fetch for this stuff because of how rare it is. Alright, hand it over, before you catch a cold. Stupid attire you’ve got on there barely even protects you from the wind.”

“The sea warms me, father.”

“Pah!” The mockery comes easy to your father, he, whose entire business relies on his mockery of the Lemurian species. He can’t tell whether you’ve handed the bucket to your father, but he can tell when you retreat, the way your toes send up sandstorms all along the beach as you wade back to shore. “Spare me. If I wanted a sermon, I’d be sitting next to your mother in that overstuffed hall of yours. And I’ve told you countless times to avoid this cove!”

You ignore the latter part of his sentence. “The Dolphin’s Hall would have to be hit with a meteorite to ever move you to its sanctuary, father.”

“Ha! Haha!” His laughter seems biting, then becomes less striking as your father begins to paddle away. It creaks, heavy with his gear; the little rowing boat is just a distraction from the heavy vessel way out in the ocean his friends are waiting for him on. “It hasn’t taken your humor, at least. Alright, get back now. Go on!” He has to shout as the distance grows. “Gonna catch a cold, you will! And kiss your mother from me!”

The murmured answer you give him is lost on both your father and Rafayel, but it doesn’t sound very assenting. What isn’t lost on Rafayel is the realization that your father is the worst person in the world, but you are his favorite daughter, and that knowledge drags you down like an anchor rapidly descending. Keeping you in one places, weighing you down. Your footsteps become heavy as you walk up the beach, not as graceful as the way you had carried yourself in the sea. As he begins to follow you upstream, following the ocean’s arms deeper into the woods which border your village, he can still hear you angrily muttering to yourself.

He doesn’t know what to make of that. When he had suggested to his court that he’d revenge himself on the fisher and his entourage, his advisors had only given him a pained smile. Most of the elders still cling to the memory where their devotees on land would outstretch their hands in a blessed union, where their friendship made the moon wax and wane with happiness. They shake their heads in sadness with every murdered mermaid, as if that would fix anything. And yet, there are also those with a mind as murderous as his, still cautioning him, she’s not her father. If we take what is precious to them just because we can, what makes us better than them?

Morality. Rafayel scoffs to himself, sounding as resigned as you did in your trudge upward. As if that could help with anything. Had your father thought of morality when he had killed sweet Lyra right before her wedding night? Had he thought of morality when he desecrated her corpse for a handful of eggs, which could have been Rafayel’s nieces and nephews to dote on?

The ocean merges into a river he refuses to swim in, so Rafayel halts at the edge of the water to watch your slight frame disappear into the city. He doesn’t like to leave behind his tail in favor of awkward, human legs, but if he wants to keep an eye on you, he will need to. He’s getting pretty good at this, actually: Looking at you. Memorizing the way your lips curve into a smile, the shark teeth glint inside the grin you sport for when something makes you laugh. The way your light and deft fingers can tie the most powerful of sailor knots. The way your gentle hands hold a knife in the most reverent manner, as if this was an honor entrusted to you, not in the uncouth way your father points it at precious life.

You are not like him, uncomfortably so. It rankles Rafayel to see how much you are trying to escape your father’s taint.

The more he watches, the more he sees that taint poisoning you. You are a river current, slowing, slowing under the poison the human world dumps into you. It eats away at you, the way the rust claims the metal it swallows before it destroys the metal whole. The way you lower your head like a supplicant, shameful of the tales your fellow shrine maidens carry when your father sports another ‘treasure’ on the market. The way you paint on a smile when necessary, because you do not have the strength to face the naked truth. Your careful fingers, always touching in devotion. Moving to prayer. Guiding along to the sea’s chants. Hands of peace, not of war.

Of course, that only makes you an even more delicious offering. Even the gods know an innocent life is more precious than the forced sacrifice of a man already doomed for punishment.

As the sun sets on Whalefall City, people begin to flood the Dolphin’s Hall with eager chatter. Rafayel melts back into the shadows of the impressive dome, becomes one with the many murals depicting the ocean’s history. The hall itself is decorated in such an ornate manner that it makes Rafayel question whose devotion had turned into flesh here, bearing fruit to a worship so true that even Rafayel doesn’t dare think of blasphemy. Perhaps there was a time where humanity hadn’t been an accursed thing for him to ponder over. A long time ago, when words and actions still had meaning.

But then is not now. And now, everything has changed.

He watches as that change warps you, the shadow that passes over your face taking on the shape of his long lost Lyra. When you look up again to lead the group into prayer, your eyes have steeled over - as if through the entire room full of people, his thoughts have reached you. They hang above you like the clouds gathering before a storm as you begin the sermon, your voice crystal-clear, never wavering. Whatever doubts your father has stirred in your heart, they do not find their way here.

The last bell of prayer rings out at the same time as you bow to the masses. In acknowledgement, they murmur back their only line in the script - may the moon guide you through the storm - and then turn, flooding the exit like over-eager sardines squirming inside a can. Rafayel joins the stream of people, casting one last look back at you, but you’ve already risen again and turned your back on him. Your connection is broken now, a fact that Rafayel is secretly relieved, then aggrieved about.

Why does that matter to him, anyways?

On a full-moon night, Rafayel decides to cut you loose before you can confuse him further.

He’s been anticipating this for days now, anxiously looking up into the sky every time his head broke through the waves. As a seasinger, you are required to take part in monthly ablutions under the light of the full moon, returning to her domain of power before the wax and wane pulls at the seas. You’re supposed to take the maiden in training with you, but over the past few months, you’ve rejected her every time, gently but sternly relegating her to other tasks to be completed inside the Dolphin’s Hall. You want to be alone with your shame, alone with the fact that you seem to speak to the moon like she’s your only friend.

You’re not aware of the fact that Rafayel has been quietly listening on, every full moon night. As a Lemurian, he does not partake in a faith that revels in the worship of the sea. And yet, here he sat come every full moon, hiding himself in the rivers converging into the shallow pool in which you submerge yourself. He cannot keep hanging on to your every word. If he wants to revenge himself on the old fisherman, he has to do it now, before his too-humanoid-heart foils his plans and spares you. He thinks of Lyra and her kindly face, knowing she’d disapprove, but he makes himself go through the motions anyways.

He hadn’t been prepared for your reaction.

You don’t divest yourself of your clothes when you enter the pool, but Rafayel doesn’t have to imagine much to paint a picture of what is beneath, anyways. The satin hugs the shape of your body like a fervent lover, beginning to pool around you as you accept the water’s embrace. Lower and lower you sink, before you dive into the water to be fully submerged and rise again. He comes to a halt just a few feet away from you, on the periphery of your gaze. You do not see him yet. But he sees you. He sees the way the water falls in rivulets from your luminous lashes as they frame your clear eyes, sees the way the moonlight drinks in your irises. There’s a jealousy he cannot pinpoint inside his chest as the water begins to tear down your cheeks, framing your face so gently. You shudder slightly when the cold begins to settle in your bones, and your hands come to cover your exposed arms. As Rafayel realizes that he should not feel so enticed by the sight of a mere mortal being and his heart begins to tighten, you finally turn your face and realize that you aren’t alone here.

For a very long, heart-stoppingly awkward moment, no one says anything.

Rafayel stiffens up, waiting for your scream. He has planned this carefully, and he knows there is no way any help will reach you here, not when you’re in his domain. The moon may peer her gaze over these waters, but the water is his dominion, his kingdom. You are trapped inside the palm of his hand, and he is readying himself to swallow you whole.

But you don’t scream.

Your breath comes more shallowly, speeding as your lungs rush to fill air. He idly wonders how that feels like, the way the lungs balloon inside that easily broken chest. Despite all this, despite the circumstances, despite the fact that you are quite aware what the sight of a mermaid might mean to you, your eyes do not fill with fear. So Rafayel doesn’t move, either. He watches you and the way your chest constricts, listens how your breath stutters. And then you finally speak. “Is it you?” you whisper. “Did you hear my prayers?”

The magic of the moment is broken then, and Rafayel audibly breathes out. He almost breaks out into mocking laughter, - me, fulfilling your prayers? - but he stops himself short, not intending to waste the opportunity. If you would come willingly to meet your fate, then that would be even better. “Your prayers?” he repeats, and then, although he couldn’t make his disbelief clearer, he says, “Do you really think a being like me would bother to listen to any of your prayers? After all your kind has done to us?”

You take in his words with an austere expression. “No, I suppose not,” you murmur out, biting down on that full lower lip. No, don’t think about biting that lip for her. Don’t think about it. He chases away his own thoughts and instead begins to wonder why you’re not scared yet. Are you aware that there is nothing you can do to change this fate? “But one can hope. I couldn’t ever call myself a seasinger if I didn’t still have faith that the earth and the salt could reconcile again.”

“And whose fault is it that a reconciliation seems to be so impossible?”

You blink at him, fresh rivulets of water carding through those lashes like tears. You look like you’re crying, even though Rafayel knows you are not. “Do not take me for a hypocrite,” you tell him, sounding entirely too earnest. “I am quite aware of whose fault it is. We humans bear the sins of our fathers, after all.”

You sound bitter.

She’s not her father. If we take what is precious to them just because we can, what makes us better than them?

Rafayel hums at that. It doesn’t matter; it doesn’t change anything. He’ll kill you swiftly if he has to, give you a kind death. It’s better than anything your father’s crewmates have ever given to any mermaid they’ve stumbled upon. You won’t suffer, that he promises you, but he’s not going back on his word, not for anything. So he makes himself move closer. You still don’t scream for help as he approaches you, just muster him warily, like you’ve encountered a familiar face on the street yet cannot remember where that familiarity comes from. “And if I was your friend?” he asks, challenging your logic. “Then what? Would all be forgiven, and we’d dance in a circle throwing flowers?”

“Why don’t you find out?”

You stretch out a hand.

He should spit on it. If anything, he should claw at that hand like a man drowning and pull you into the depths. Your father does not deserve to cradle your corpse and reminisce about the day he’s held you for the first time. He deserves to suffer beyond all measure, and Rafayel intends to see to that. He schools his features into polite neutrality before he readies himself for the killing strike.

Rafayel draws in a shuddering breath. And then, like the liar he is, he takes your hand.

It is as soft as he had imagined. Too human, too weak, too frail. Every bone and sinew feels like it will give with just a squeeze, broken beyond repair. It feels like a betrayal.

He can barely make himself think a proper thought when you use the opportunity to step closer to him. He can smell you now, that distinct scent of myrrh and burnt offerings that clings to your skin. This is the scent he’s been using to track you for months. Below the too-thin garb of your seasinger attire, he can see the way your precious collarbones lift and sink in quick succession, your breath coming entirely too fast now. You’re panicking. You are deathly afraid of him. And yet you ignore that fear to squeeze his hand, as if this was just another interaction in the Dolphin’s Hall to you. In your eyes, he finds that steady faith that holds your spine rigidly straight, the look you can never give your father because of how you defer to him. “You’re much taller than I thought,” you tell him, your voice shaky. Then you give him a tentative smile. The light of your hope is reflected in that expression, and it hurts to realize that he will be responsible for diminishing that forever.

It’s okay, he tells himself. I’ll just grow closer to her so she’ll trust me, and then, when I’ve got her wrapped around my finger, I’ll kill her in front of her father’s eyes. “You look too small for a human, so I’m not certain you’re equipped to be delivering these kinds of judgements on appearances,” is all he says in response.

“Well, that is a valid observation.” You haven’t let go of his hand yet. Rafayel makes no move to free himself, either. You are locked into this situation, moved by something neither of you can understand. You let your gaze roam over the entirety of his face, the way it lingers on the sharp edges of his ears, the scales rippling down his throat. He certainly hopes you don’t see the way he squirms beneath that gaze. “But you’re my friend now, so you’ll forgive me for my deadly honesty. I fear that is just part of who I am, so you’re going to have to live with it.”

“Is that how one becomes a friend? This quickly?”

“Oh, certainly. You’ve been holding my hand for quite some time now. No,” you rush to say as he attempts to disentangle himself, fingers flashing to grip his arm. His first instinct is to strike out, to defend himself from humanity’s danger. He wrestles that instinct down until it becomes nil. He is bending at the edges, unraveling like threat inside your skilled hands. You guide him back towards you and intertwine your fingers. Your seasinger voice lulls him into a sense of security that is going to get him killed someday. She’s already bewitching you far too much for this plan to work, his inner voice cautions. The sound is growing increasingly frantic, every thought stumbling after the other until it turns into a senseless avalanche. Kill her now, before she undoes us all. Kill her now. “Will you let me prove that our friendship can work?”

No, his inner voice shouts. She’s your enemy’s daughter. SHE is your enemy. KILL HER NOW.

The warmth of your hand melts into his every bone. Sinking in like poison. “I suppose I have no choice,” he tells you, sealing his fate.

Rafayel begins to realize how fucked he is.

He was already quite aware of his awful disposition before he ever approached you, the way your mortal face charmed him the way a snake ensnares its victims. Too pretty for a human, a trap laid bare. He feels that very trap biting into his skin every time you smile at him. It draws blood every time your touch brushes him. As ridiculous as it sounded, he feels himself exploding from a second puberty, your every notion setting fire to his blood.

He struggles to maintain his murder fantasies. It’s a little bit difficult to focus on when all his dreams plague him with the image of you.

Today, you’ve asked him to accompany him to the hidden cove that he’s watched you frequent when he was still trailing you. It’s a beautiful location, the sandbank curving to accommodate the ocean’s kisses as it laps at the earth. Almost absentmindedly, your bare feet come to a halt every few meters to gather up a bundle of oceansvale, a flower you’re particularly fond of and have been ridiculed with by him. Idiot human, he had said, as if your obsession with the ocean wasn’t big enough already. You’re a seasinger, for crying out loud. Aren’t you religious enough without an obsession with the only flower that blooms near these waters?

You’d only looked at him with a steady, self-satisfied look. Are you jealous, per chance?

Yes. As if. Like he’d care what you’re obsessed with and what not. Anyways, mermaids don’t fall in love with humans. They kill them. By luring them to the sea, to be exact, so you’re halfway to the gallows already, so who’s the idiot now?

“What’s all this, then?” Rafayel wildly gesticulates around him - at the sweeping cliffs, the sand-carrying wind, the beautiful beach. The atmosphere is way more serene than he is, a calm and quiet getaway. The perfect hiding location for a forlorn daughter. “I hate using my human legs. If you were going to take me to the ocean anyways, why torture me before you do it?”

“I very much appreciate you using your human legs, Rafayel. But I am afraid the hike up to the mountain and down to this place is the point of the trip.” You give him a lopsided smile, the kind that makes him dizzy with emotions. Sickening. He clenches a hand inside the pocket of the jacket you lent him. “You know, I’m a little disappointed you don’t recognize the place. This is where I first met you. I remembered you straight away, yet you were ignorant.”

He waves away the words. “I’m a Lemurian, after all. Time passes much more differently for us than it does for your kind. What does an encounter like this mean in the grand scheme of things? ‘Tis a single star in the universe we traverse.”

The words make you frown. In fact, the frown disfigures your face entirely, your nose scrunching and your lips twitching together in an expression of dejectedness. He almost eats his words, almost hurries to tell you that of course he remembers, that he couldn’t forget the tiny human who bothered to throw the ocean flowers, even though its inhabitants were humanity’s enemies, but then you speak up again and the matter becomes irrelevant. “Then I ought to be thankful this star turned out to be brighter than it was. I’m quite thankful we got to meet again. I’ve always wanted a chance to meet a mermaid, to fight back against this enmity between our species.”

“Quite the conciliator, you are.” Rafayel follows you down unto the beach. Your feet trace a path into the sand which he follows dutifully, making sure to cover your tracks in case your father still admonishes you for coming here. “Is that what you meant when you saw me for the first time? ‘Did you hear my prayers’?”

“Yes. My mother’s always mocked me for that too, you know. She’s the only one who listens to me about this stuff, and even though she loves me a lot, she’s not above teasing me. I guess it’s kind of an inside joke in my family.”

Rafayel takes note of the way your eyes steel over. He knows you long enough now to recognize that stance. If you were a soldier, this would be the position you’d move into if you had to defend yourself against the thoughts about your father. Even when he is not present, he haunts your wellbeing. Even when it’s your mother you think about, his phantom always lurks right behind. “Your father isn’t too fond of the ocean?” he asks. The lie on his tongue tastes vile.

Like the rotting corpse of a gutted mermaid.

You shake your head. “No, he’s fond of the ocean, alright,” you correct. When you sink into the water, clothes and all, Rafayel joins you immediately. Before your eyes, his legs merge back into his trusted tail. It makes you shake with laughter. “You know, I wanted to make a joke about you being like a fish in water, but um. You are one. A fish, I mean. In water.”

“You’re too funny,” Rafayel deadpans. “Truly, I am beside myself with laughter.”

You turn away your face and laugh into the palm of your hand, as if that could hide your mirth. Not like he’s feeling every single vibration in the water that your quiet giggles send out. The sound settles in his chest, taking root there. “Note taken,” you chortle still. “I’ll work on my jokes.”

“Don’t bother. You’ll never be as funny as I am.”

“Oh yeah?” You swivel your head around to him. Whatever smart response Rafayel was cooking up dies inside his mouth, turning dry in the face of your beauty. The dimples in your cheeks make you look younger than you are, your face luminous with real happiness. This is what had been lacking from your expression inside the Dolphin’s Hall. You were living for your faith, for your duty, leaving yourself much too neglected. But you were finally growing comfortable inside your skin. Opening up to him.

Kill her, the voice still whispers. He smothers the spark of that thought before it sets his brain on fire. Rafayel swallows. “Is that all you brought me here for, then?” he sighs. “To bore me with your unfunny jokes and reminisce about the past?”

“You sure do know how to kill the moment.” The sentiment makes you snort. You finally turn your face to the horizon, and Rafayel can breathe comfortably again. Looking at you for too long makes him want to dig into you. With knifes, of course. Not with kisses. Or his fingers. Of course not. Nothing of the sort. None. “I just wanted to free my mind for a little bit. It gets incredibly loud in there, sometimes.” You tap your temples, the guardians of your thoughts. He wants to climb into that brain and see for himself how loud it is. He’d risk turning deaf to hear. “Everyone always looks to me, because I’m a seasinger, but they aren’t looking at me, not really. So I make myself entirely into that role I’ve been given. And I lose sight of who I really am. When I’m here, I don’t have to do that. I can just listen to the ocean. And she listens to me.”

You sound wishful.

In his own silent moments, when Rafayel discards his own roles, he is able to admit to himself that he wants to read your every wish from your lips and make them come true. If possible, he’d crown you in oceansvale and pearls, to show you the beauties of the watery underworld and all it has to offer. But that is something he can never allow himself to desire. So, like you, he makes himself steel over, and then asks instead: “Aren’t I listening to you?”

“Sure, but you’re just required to, aren’t you? You’re my friend.” You nudge him with your shoulder, the touch a brand of fire on his skin. You’re so, so warm. Rafayel chases that sensation as you lean away, and you let him drape himself over you, already used to his clingy behavior. You’re my friend. You’re my enemy. “The ocean doesn’t have to listen, but she does. She’s been a better parent to me than my father has. He’s always thought I wasn’t worth raising because I was of the cursed sex, anyways.”

“Does that matter? Your mother loves you.”

“But he’s my father.” And your voice breaks. As he angles another look at you, he realizes that you’ve been gazing at the sea with tears in your eyes. If you were Lemurian, you wouldn’t need him to crown you: your own pearl-teary eyes are already beginning to fill with treasure. Like tidepools, they spill over, painting your face in salt-burned tear tracks he wants to kiss until his mouth runs dry. Rafayel curls an arm around you, all thoughts of murder forgotten, and all he can think of is how to comfort you properly so you’ll never have to mourn your father again. “He’s my father,” you repeat with a muffled voice against his shoulder, as if he didn’t hear you the first time, “He should have loved me anyways. I would have become the son he wanted if he gave me the chance. But he didn’t want me. He didn’t want me.”

Rafayel doesn’t know if it’s the ocean or his blood he hears rushing in his ears. His mind has already become clouded with rage, swirling into a hurricane that tears your father apart. He rocks you back and forth, and he hopes it feels like the ocean is cradling you, carrying you far away from your sorrow.

It’s already been two full moons since Rafayel has become your ‘friend’.

Your birthday has come and gone, and you’ve scared Rafayel out of his own skin when you burst into tears as you accepted his gift. It’s just a necklace made of a shell, idiot, he had clarified, flustered. It’s not like I spent money on it or anything. It was just something I had laying around and wanted to get rid of.

Rafayel, you had said, voice shaky with teary joy. It’s everything to me.

It’s getting harder and harder to convince himself into doing what he set out to do.

Particularly today he finds himself reaching back for the memory of his bloodlust, watching you guide new devotees to the sea to be baptized, like turtles taking to water for the first time. He’s seen his fair share of baby turtles scrambling to the sea, muddling up the waves as their tiny legs fought to master them. These children are not dissimilar to the freshly born turtles. Traitors, the lot of them, he thinks to himself, but the threat feels hollow. Cursed species, they are. Liars and deceivers all. He tries to ignore the irony of that prejudice considering the nature of your relationship.

When you finally send the kids off and join him in the water, he schools his features into a childish pout he hopes will mask his hatred. “You’ve made me wait all evening,” he complains, the annoyance in his voice real. It has been quite some time since you got to unwind with him. The thought of Rafayel looking forward to seeing you again had made him panic, and he had scrambled to avoid you for a few days before his own longing drew him back to you. “I was freezing to death here.”

“As if!” Your laughter rings as jubilously as the bells inside Dolphin’s Hall call to prayer. There’s a myth as old as humanity which decrees that when the bells ring twelve times, the gates of heaven will open to flood the world entire. Only the true believers will become one with the sea, the earth finally reunited with its one true love. The planet will become a single ocean again, and it will be as if land and sea never had separated, all creatures under the moon united under one banner. “I know exactly well that wherever you live is way colder than whatever temperature these waters are. This must feel like a hot bath for you in contrast.”

Rafayel sniffles, caught in the lie. “It’s the principle that counts.”

Your smile gentles. “Rafayel,” you say. The way that name rolls of your tongue makes him want to roll his eyes back into his head: if all sermons sounded like this, he’d be the most devoted follower of the sea’s faith alive. Your voice is the single most exultant sound any living creature could create. Perhaps you were a siren in your past life. “Don’t tell me you missed me.”

I miss you all the time, he thinks. I miss you even when I fantasize about killing you. I miss you even when I should be grieving all the mermaids my brothers and sisters have lost. I miss you even more when I watch them take brides and grooms and make the kingdom of the depths a happier place in the face of adversity. You would like us, the way we cling to hope like you do. “I bet you’d like that,” he drawls out, feigning normalcy. “Any living being would want to be missed by me. I’m very beautiful, after all, and very desired.”

“Truly? Are they all vying for your attention down there?” You flick his shoulder, intending to be teasing. Even the pain is welcome. He tries to ignore the way his stomach flips. “And yet you’re here for me. What an honor, oh desirable bachelor.”

“You should be honored,” he tells you. It sounds arrogant, but why shouldn’t he be? He is beautiful after all. For once, he’s not lying. Rafayel takes pride in his appearance, and he preens at the chance of receiving a compliment from you.

You cock your head at him. It’s supposed to look threatening, but you hold all the danger of a sweet otter. “Don’t make me laugh,” you tell him, still joking, but your voice is breathy.

Maybe his looks don’t leave you as untouched as you pretend to be. Maybe he’s not the only one feigning.

Rafayel brushes his fingers over the hollow of your arms, following the veins as they reach upward. It makes you shudder. He delights in it. “I adore hearing you laugh, sweetling, but it’s not the intention I have here,” he says. He is in and out of his body at the same time. Most times, he smothers these thoughts before they reach his mouth, yet he continues to speak as if this were just another dream of you. “Go on. Say it. Tell me I’m beautiful.”

Your lips part, speechless. Behind you, the human world goes on, tickering away like a fluid mechanism. With or without you. You look like as if you realize that the ocean is beckoning. He is beckoning. If you’re not careful, he’ll drown you, bones and all. “You’re beautiful,” you whisper then, the sound of it caught up in the rushing of the waves. They cling to the sand, dragging it with the pull of the tide. He yearns to do the same.

His hand comes up to cradle your face. You fit perfectly into it, as if you were made for him. As if he was made to compliment you. Rafayel’s heart stutters in his chest, threatening to burst. “Again,” he says, his voice steady. (He doesn’t know how he does it. He feels like he’s about to explode.) “You can do better than that.”

You draw in another sharp breath, your lungs fluttering. The human body was so very fascinating. He wants to reach inside you and look at everything, feel it all. “You’re truly beautiful, Rafayel,” you try again, and this time, you pitch up your voice. Every word is clearly enunciated. You look at him straight on. “All the wonders in this world pale in comparison to you.”

Oh. Oh.

“You,” Rafayel breathes out. His fingers are shaking on your face, but they hold on. Latching on to you. If he strengthened his grip, will he be able to crush your skull? Will he be able to reach inside? His body feels heavy with desire; as he bends towards you, he finds that you’re already meeting him halfway, and this time, the soaked material of your clothes exposes the sight of your stiff nipples. He yearns to warm them up for you, to take them in his mouth and kiss you until you’re burning from the inside out. He’s always wondered what you would taste like.

You are both torn out of the fantasy at the sound of your voice in a human mouth, carried by the wind from the shore. You draw apart hastily, as if a spell had been broken, and you fumble to rearrange your clothes and fix your hair although nothing had happened. Rafayel tucks his traitorous hands behind his back.

“I,” you manage to say, your voice drowsy with the lingering desire, “I have to get back. I’ll see you?” You phrase the order like a plea, as if Rafayel wouldn’t bend over backwards for you. You miss his assenting, fervent nods as you whirl around and wade back to shore, your own hands drowning in the material of your dress as you lift it up and wring it out. The water trails behind you in his stead, leaving him behind.

He’ll totally be able to carry out his revenge, alright.

It’s getting increasingly difficult to resist you.

The more time passes, the more it feels like the sun rises and sets just for you. Your happiness is his own, your sadness his bitter grief. Every emotion you ever display resonates so deeply in his soul that he grows hazy with responsibility, wants to reshape the world in your image. Every tear you shed is carefully collected like his own well-cared for treasure, every laughter bottled in the memory palace of his mind. His mind traces each and every one in your absence, creating melodies which cannot compare to your voice. He is becoming enraptured. He is coming undone.

Even the distance is beginning to choke him. You feel so close and so far. He wishes to lap at your body like the ocean does when you perform your prayers, wants to smother you in a hug that threatens the ocean’s might when you dive down with him. In the few times where you were able to swim with him - your timetable strict, your parents suspicious - he’s allowed you to trace your hands over the scales of his tail. To you, it’s the satisfaction of a curiosity. To him, it is a so startling intimacy that he wants to weep. There is no room for justice as his heart expands to encompass you, and it grows inside his chest, breaking apart his ribcage so it can guard you from the world. There are no words. You’re in every breath, every steady push of his blood.

Although the active threat of your father’s suspicions has come between the two of you, every meeting rarer, but becoming more precious over time, it cannot erase the wish for his soul to reach for you. You doze away in your place on the stony slopes surrounding the pool you perform your ablutions in, and Rafayel is content to guard your slumber, dipping in and out of the water. He never strays away for too long. He makes sure to count every strand of those stunning lashes that had already enticed him when he first met you here, follows every vein inside your face to see where it branches into. What was hated has become dear to him now, your humanity as endearing as your very existence. He wonders what you dream about. Wonders if you dream about him, as often as he dreams about you. His brain has become very enamored with you, every fold of the thing having been etched over with memories of you.

Your father is already hounding you. Your newfound happiness hasn’t gone unnoticed. It should please Rafayel, how your friendship has changed your life for the better. You are standing up straight, opening up to the world. When you laugh, it finally sounds like your vocal cords are singing in true harmony, never again pushing for the falsity you used to employ to wave away concerns.

If anyone were to discover you were sneaking away with a mermaid, they’d be dumbfounded. Perhaps they’d mock you for it. But if your father were to discover you two, then it wouldn’t take much until Rafayel would find himself face to face with the same knife he used to kill Lyra.

I’ll have to tell her the truth, Rafayel thinks then, stricken. If I really love her, then I have to let her go. He closes his eyes, losing himself to the sharp sting of grief inside his chest. That’s what Lyra would have said, anyways. She was always so enthusiastic about fairy tales and happy endings and true love. He mourns for the way his childhood had been shaped with the loss of her, and the loss of all the mermaids that had ever died an unjust death. But it has taken on a new meaning. He looks into your face and cannot find it himself to justify the means to the end he had intended for you. There was nothing vengeful or freeing about this. If anything, he’d push himself off to his own metaphoric end, because Rafayel has reached the ends of his wits and he’s finally accepted that there is no you without me. He stretches out a hand to card his fingers through your dry hair before it can fall into the water. What a blessing it is to do at least this, to be cherished by you.

He begins to ask himself how he is supposed to leave you.

As Rafayel’s thoughts take a turn for the worse, you open your sleep-drowsy eyes. They are still blurred over with the dreams you’ve been chasing, just slowly becoming clear and taking in your surroundings. “Raf?” you whisper, and he tries not to melt at the nickname. No one’s ever thought up a nickname for him. So many things you’ve given him that he will never be able to repay you with. So much light you’ve brought into his dark, dark life. The bottom of the ocean, despite all its magic, had never been as bright as this. “I’m here,” he tells you, the sentence literal, but he means it with every ounce of his soul.

You blink away the last traces of unconsciousness, your pretty lips stretching open to release a yawn. “I was afraid you’d left,” you tell him. Also so literal. But in the way you look at him and your tone turns up with hope, he finds himself recognizing the underlying meaning, just as you had discerned his.

He’s told you so many lies already. What’s one more? “I’d never leave you,” he tells you, and he tries to mean it. In another universe, he would be able to mean it. Rafayel swims closer so he can throw an arm over your frame as you lie back down, and he angles himself up so he can cage you in-between his hands. As he arranges himself, he abandons the scales and tail in favor of his awkward human legs, caging your delicate waist inbetween his knees. He’s balancing himself on top of you now, not caring if the drops of water pearling off his skin splash on you.

You don’t look like you care, either. You stare at him as if there’s nothing else in the world, just the two of you for all eternity. The thought fills him with happiness.

Slowly, very slowly, as if asking for permission, you lay your hands on his naked chest. The tips of your fingers are even softer than the palms of your hands, a testament to your nature. Not a toiler, not a warmonger. Something more peaceful and calmful, that brings his own soul rest. “I dreamt about you,” you tell him, honest as a Lemurian. He smiles at the inadvertent way you had answered the question he’d been thinking of while you were sleeping. “What was your dream about?” he asks, anchoring his weight on one hand so he can use the other to curl around the side of your throat. He can feel the pocket inside it traveling as you swallow to gather your bravery.

“A little bit like this situation right now.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to elaborate, friend.” Rafayel’s fingers dig into the supple flesh of your shoulder as they move, then gently claw at your skin as he follows the curve of your arm. He’s always been fascinated with your human skin, the way it seems entirely different from Lemurians although they look so similar. The smallest of things could break it. Bruises bloom like flowers with the lightest force. It makes him want to cage you inside his chest, where he can keep you safe from harm and make sure no one will ever hurt you again. It’s irrational, and unnecessary. But he just can’t help himself.

You narrow your eyes at him playfully, blissfully unaware of his thoughts. “Are you enjoying this?”

Now Rafayel begins to smile as well. It is entirely genuine, and only reserved for you. He is yours, heart and soul. “Of course I am,” he confesses, feeling as exposed as a newborn babe. “You always act so unbothered by me, you know. I was beginning to worry whether I was the only one caring about this … friendship.”

Your own hands have begun to wander. You place them directly on his cheeks, directing his gaze at you, as if you weren’t already the single fixed point around which his entire existence was centered around “Rafayel,” you say. “I don’t want to be just your friend.”

His breath catches. He searches your eyes for a joke, for the mockery, but you are serious. And for once, his own mind blanks at the possibility that his feelings might be reciprocated. “Do you… mean it?” he whispers, afraid. Vulnerable. She’s human, she’s a liar, she’ll lie to you, watch. This isn’t possible. This is a trick.

“Shall I prove it to you?”

Rafayel’s heart stops.

(God, he always knew you’d be responsible for his death.)

The answering smile you give at the sight of his eagerness makes his insides melt into the same constitution as a jellyfish. There is a fire at the core of his existence, and you have come to kindle it. He feels the blood rush; in his cheeks, in his body, down his abdomen. He is alight with emotion, bursting at the seams. As you flatten your palm and curve it around the shape of his chest, he chokes out a, “Yes. Please.”

Your touch is hesitant, but your eyes are determined. “I love you, Rafayel,” you finally tell him, the magical words that crack open his chest like a volcanic crater exploding into the water. He collapses against you, crushing his lips against yours, and then he can’t tell where you start and he ends because of how you meld against him. Every inch of his body comes alive with the sensation of you against him, and you fit into every curve inside his body. Your lips carefully trace the shape of his own, moving against his tenderly, carefully. He can’t bring himself to entertain the same restraint as you do: as he digs his hand into the curls of your hair, he angles your head appropriately and then delves inside to finally taste that sinful mouth he’s been dreaming about for so long.

Your answering whimper is smothered almost immediately by his beckoning tongue. Greedily, selfishly, Rafayel kisses you as if his life depends on it; like he might die without ever getting lost on your tongue, dissolving like sugar. He groans into your mouth when you carefully tangle your tongue with his own, not used to this kind of kiss. When he tries to pull back to grant you a reprieve, your heavenly lips wrap around the tip of his tongue, sucking on it in the mock-fashion of a blowjob.

He almost comes then and there, that’s how embarrassingly obsessed he is with you. Only you.

You chase him as he disentangles himself, but Rafayel quickly busies himself with your throat, littering those veins he’d been staring at like a vampire starved with kisses. “You have no idea,” he whimpers into the skin there, speaking directly into your soul, “how you make me feel. No idea. You’re dangerous.”

You don’t mock him for once. Instead, Rafayel is gently pushed to the side. Before he can worry about being rejected, you straddle his lap and sit down like a queen crowned on her throne, and the sight makes him so breathless that Rafayel finds himself falling back against the wet ground without complaint. Your lips are kiss-swollen and smiling, a sight he mentally declares to be his favorite sight in the world. “I’ll find out soon, enough,” you promise, the words as delicious as your kisses. “For example, how does this feel?”

And you grind down, your clothed core sliding over his exposed cock in a perfect glide.

Rafayel throws his head back, cussing in Lemurian. He doesn’t even realize the crack of pain as his head hits the ground, his entire nervous system too caught up with the sensation of you rubbing against the most sensitive spot of his body. There’s a sound he doesn’t immediately recognize, a quiet giggle that shakes your entire body, and then the feeling of the weight on top of him shifting as you bend down to kiss your way down this body. “My Rafayel,” you murmur against his abdomen, lips shaping the words against his hipbones. He almost trills in happiness at the sound of that. Yours. “You’re so, so, so beautiful.”

If it was possible to dissolve in extreme happiness, Rafayel would be seafoam on the water surface right now.

He digs his fingers into the hard stone, unyielding as it is, as your lips seem to vanish off his skin right before reaching his already erect dick. He catches the look of your eyes, the slight surprise at his size - he can’t lie, it makes him want to puff up in pride - but then you begin to sport a scary smile, the kind that makes Rafayel realize that you’re going to suck the life out of him, and he’s already on the brink of death from the possibility of this happening alone. “My love…” he begins to caution, but then he chokes off as each and every one of your fingers wraps itself around the shaft of his cock, and there is no consciousness to form thoughts, no thoughts at all.

You kiss the tip of the head, tongue peaking out to catch the first beads of pre-cum. “Gonna make you feel good, I promise, Raf.”

He wants to answer, he swears he does. There is just no way he can. Rafayel’s entire body arches off the ground as you take him in your mouth, and he’s barely aware of the way you slightly choke on the size of it - his hands go to your head, are you alright, are you okay, love? - yet that doesn’t stop you; the slide of his cock on your tongue continues and continues and continues, and then he feels himself hit the back of your throat and he cries out in pleasure, feeling like a star that’s exploded.

“Fuuuuuuuck.”

You sound like you want to laugh; your mouth shakes and shudders around him, and that makes him tug at your hair, unwillingly, instinctively. He’s about to apologize, but your own tugged out moan makes him hold himself back. He hates hurting you, but you seem to enjoy it, so he tangles his fingers into your hair and gently begins to guide you up and down, up and down. He hisses at the sensation, of the clenching around his dick, the gentle swipes your tongue makes when you get to. “You’re so good to me,” he tells you, watches the way your eyes light up with the praise. He’s never even thought about how lovely and romantic sex could be. Love-making. “So good.”

You hum, and Rafayel hisses; it’s a delicious kind of vibration, both torturous and pleasing. “Please,” he pleads with you, his fingers shaking. Not aware of what he’s asking. But you seem to understand, you speak the language of his soul; you hollow your checks and suck, and then his eyes do roll back so far into his own head that he thinks he can finally see his brain and all the images of you he imprinted on it. As your fingers begin to stroke in time with your tongue, he begins to feel like he’s shaking out of existence, both here and not. Both bound and untied. The coil in his abdomen begins to tighten, his toes curling at the way you drag your tongue around the tip, suckling, teasing. Your lips pop as you remove your mouth, pumping him quicker and quicker, watching him. A predator devouring its prey. “Beautiful,” you say again. “The prettiest, my Rafayel. Look at you taking it so well.”

He keens at that, hands sliding down to claw at your arms, not sure if he wants you to stop or keep going. He’a never experienced an orgasm building up like this, a literal supernova beginning to build at the edges of his perception. “I,” he gasps out, looking for words, finding none, but you help him out of his predicament by kissing him messily, the taste of his own pre-cum lacing his tongue. Your hand, every caress growing in pressure, continues to pump his cock even when he cries out against your mouth, even as his teeth find your shoulder and latch onto it to bite it. You don’t push him away, not even when he explodes into your hand, his release beginning to pearl over your hand as you continue to fuck him through the orgasm. When he begins to sob against your collarbone, pushing at your dangerous hands, he finally understands how deadly a single human being can be.

You’ve ruined him, and he couldn’t be happier about it.

The second you remove your hand, Rafayel flips you onto your back and begins to lick your fingers clean, pleased at the way your mouth drops into that cute little shocked ‘o’. Intertwining your fingers, he drags his tongue over every inch of your palm, taking note of the way your eyes zero in on the length of it. His chest rumbles, pleased; he wants to be as desirable, as perfect to you as you are to him. You are an absolute miracle, a wonder to behold. “Your turn,” he tells you, and your eyes darken.

But you shake your head. “Raf,” you say. Your voice is deadly serious. “If you don’t fuck me right now, I’m going to explode into a thousand pieces and you’ll never see me again.”

Despite the sensuality of the situation, Rafayel finds himself bursting into laughter. Your own obscene, reddened lips curl into a matching grin, and for the moment, you are both innocent again, youthfully in love. Love-making, he thinks again. I want to make love to you for the rest of my life, for all eternity. “I love you,” he says out loud. “And I don’t want you to explode. But I want to show you how much I love you, as well. I want to worship you from head to toe.”

Your eyes widen in the most adorable way. As someone who’s always lowered herself as a supplicant, you find yourself entranced by the idea of being an object of worship. “You do?” you ask, unsure.

Rafayel raises your still sticky hand to his face, not caring about the mess. He wants to be messy with you. He wants to be part of you. “There’s nothing else in this world,” he begins, kissing the inside of your wrist, nuzzling the skin there. “I adore as much as you. I already worship you. Your hands, your face, your waist, your entire body. All of it is holy to me, holier than any faith I’ve ever believed in my entire life. And if that is a sin, then I will die the happiest sinner to have ever graced this earth.”

The way you blush at his words make him want to eat you whole. He’s never once considered partaking in human flesh, and although he isn’t too fond of what could possibly be considered cannibalism, his desire borders on the urge of devouring you entire. You are just too sweet.

“I’m going to eat you,” he actually tells you. Your answering laughter only makes his chest constrict in pure, unbridled joy.

He backs the words up with another gentle nip to your fingers, his sharp teeth only stopping short of breaking the skin; he finds himself back at your throat, lapping up the thin stream of blood and listening in to the way your laughter turns into a strangled moan. “Oh,” you yelp. “I thought that was a joke.” That makes Rafayel grin; with the taste of your salt on his tongue, he begins to kiss the space inbetween your chest, his fingers gently rolling your nipples through the thin dress you’re wearing. You sigh in please, your back arching just so slightly at the feeling of his fingers on you. “Adore this chest,” he tells you, trying to stay true to his word, but he’s already getting lost in the delicious sight of you surrendering to your pleasure. Following an urge that’s been haunting him ever since that almost-kiss on the beach, he wraps his lips around the rose-bud like nub and suckles it into his mouth, the sound of your sharp outcry like music in his ears. He groans against your chest and hopes you can hear the sound inside your heart; he wants to crawl inside and live there, reside under your skin. As he kisses the nipple with the same fervor he did your mouth, his other hand gently fondles the neglected nipple until you begin to whine for him to stop, the gentle torture not enough for you.

He abandons your chest in favor of your soft, soft stomach - he smushes his cheek against it like a cat, reveling in the way it feels. “God, I love you,” he says, hands cupping your waist. You don’t answer him, too lost in the sensation of his knees beginning to grind against your exposed core for some friction: your dress has ridden up, revealing the lack of underwear. His mouth runs dry, sparing only a moment of pondering where he asks himself whether the seasinger’s attire just doesn’t include underwear; you don’t leave him any more time to think as your fingers claw their way down his back, the pain as erotic as your lewd moans. “Please,” you beg him, grinding up your hips against his. He’s rock-hard again, straining to be inside you. “Please, I need you so bad. Fuck me, Raf.”

“You’ve got a filthy mouth,” he grits out. It’s not a reprimand, more an articulation of how crazy you drive him. Rafayel’s hands glide to the small of your back, lifting you up to receive him, readying you. You’re staring straight into his eyes, panting heavily, and he wonders whether you’re actually seeing him or staring into his soul. “I love you,” you say in response, clinging to the words like a lifeline. His heart jumps and jumps and jumps in chest, struggling to break out of its cage to join hands with yours. The head of his cock nudges against your labia, opening you up, and you fold open like a pond lily, more beautiful than even the oceansvale you adore. “I love you so much.”

“But I,” he tells you, voice strained, “love you more.”

And he pushes inside.

For a second, it feels like all kingdom come. It’s blasphemous and religious all at once; Rafayel feels whole, feels like you’ve become one person as he stretches you open. You feel so perfect around him, so, so perfect. “Oh, gods,” you whisper, the only time you take the name of your articles of faith in vain, a fact that he’s arrogantly proud of, and then Rafayel draws back and curls back inside again, the head of his dick nuzzling against something spongy that makes you wail like a woman stabbed. He almost pulls out, if not for the way you kiss him like this is the last time you ever will, your tongue inside his mouth before he can register, and then the hunger you illicit in him is too much to tolerate and Rafayel begins to fuck into you.

“Full,” you whimper, the words drawling together on your tongue as if you don’t even have the peace of mind to formulate the thoughts properly. Rafayel drags his cock back, pulling out almost entirely before he snaps it back inside; you bare your teeth at him in the same manner as he had done before he had bitten you, which would have made him smile at the way his behavior’s rubbing off on you. But there’s no space to do anything, no controls inside his mind. He’s become prisoner to your gummy walls, the way your warmth swallows his whole, every clench of your pussy around him like a shooting star frying his nervous system alive. “So perfect,” he whines, letting his instincts take over, and your fingers shakily hold on to his shoulder as he begins to piston in out of you. The slapping of flesh meeting skin is so loud it makes you screw your eyes shut in embarrassment, yet you offer up your body all the same. Your legs interlock behind his back as he continues to grind into you, in and out, in and out, in and out. “God, you take me like you were made for me. You’re a dream come true. You are. You are.”

“Rafayel,” comes your pitiful answer, but he’s not paying attention to you right now, not when his body is so hyperfixated on the way you make him feel and the way your own pleasure becomes the forefront of his mind. “S’too much. Slow down.” Your pussy flutters around him, dragging him back in every time he tries to pull out, and his solution is to pump into you quicker, harder, deeper. There is no sound, none that could be described when his cockhead begins to kiss your cervix, and now Rafayel’s chasing after your climax, desperate to get you there before he comes again. There are tears pooling at the edges of your eyes, tears which he licks up with the same delicacy he would use to gorge on you, lose himself in the taste of your cunt. His own tears blur his sight, dripping onto your face, searing into the skin there. “I can’t,” he bawls, sounding entirely too heartbroken for the way he fucks you, the way he folds your body into position to take him better, take him deeper. The bloody trails your nails leave on him don’t even make an impression on him anymore. He sobs into the curve of your throat, chasing, chasing. He ruts into you like a man possessed.

Even in your fucked out state, your shaky hands brush away the tears from his face. He hisses into the palm of your hand, swallowing his sobs, ignoring the hiccups. His own hand finds its way down your body until he’s sure he’s found your clitoris, finding the confirmation in your stuttered out “Fu-u-uck,”, and the hasty circles he draws have your thighs shaking in time with the constant snapping of his own hips, meeting him halfway as he chases your climax, pounding you into the ground. “Gonna come, gonna come, gonnacomegonnacomecomeRaf.” The last of your sentence becomes unintelligible as your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, and he holds you close to his chest and continues to fuck you through it as his own begins to spill inside you, no stop to it seemingly in sight, up until the heartbreaking sob that falls out of your mouth breaks him out his trance and snaps him awake. His hips come to a stuttering halt, the picture of a stumbling drunk, then stop completely, and Rafayel slumps, still inside you. He can feel his semen dripping outside, running down his thighs, pooling on the ground. He’s dimly fascinated by the fact that he even has this much cum, but the majority of his consciousness focusses on the way you kiss his forehead, his head, everything you can reach.

“Don’t expect me to move anytime soon,” he mumbles from where his face is smushed against your boobs, and your laughter makes his head shake like the oceanvale bobs in the wind. “Well, darling. You’ve certainly showed me how much you love me.”

“Oh, I haven’t even gotten started, Raf.”

This time, it’s he who laughs. He hides his face in your chest and laughs, loud and free, in a way that he’s never been able to ever since he’s been a child. He feels your fingers comb through his blue-pink hair and feels like he’s finally home.

When you wake up from another nightmare in the night, crying for Rafayel like he’s abandoned you, he kisses every tear away until he’s positively certain you’ll never remember the way that dream felt again. You are safe in his arms, joined to his hip, bonded to his soul.

Caught up in so much luck, Rafayel forgot the looming threat.

He forgot how perfectly capable your father was of stealing away Rafayel’s happiness

The memory of Lyra drifted away from him as steadily as his craving for revenge did. She had raised him like her own in his dead mother’s stead: they’d been best friends once, and she became his only connection the mother that had labored and labored to give birth to him. Lyra had always warned him to take good care of his long hair, as it looked exactly the same as his mother’s, and she’d spent all her free time brushing the tangles out. It wasn’t Rafayel she was seeing, not really. But if she was chasing the after-image of her best friend in her son, then there really wasn’t anything he was going to do about it, not when he looked into her face and could only see his mother. They had been united in their loss, and then loss had divided them again.

It’s mother’s long hair, and Lyra’s plea for him to maintain it, that ends up being weaponized against him. Someone is tearing at his hair like a leash, pulling him from the safety of the pool. “Father, no!” You shout. You’ve never raised your voice in anger, not once. “Let go of him!”

“I’ve told you countless times!” Your father’s voice overpowers your own easily, as loud as the thunder before the lightning, as loud as the bells inside Dolphin’s Hall. Rafayel had always guessed you’d been trying to drown out the sound of your father’s shouting, the way he’d done your entire life. “They’re not to be trusted! Ask him! Ask the bastard why he’s entertaining you in the first place!”

You draw back from the accusation, the word ‘entertaining’ like a slap to the face. “He loves me,” you defend him, but your voice has become meek, small. As Rafayel thrashes in your father’s and a second man’s hold, he catches sight of your pale face, the way it’s stained with fear. For his life? Or because of an anticipated betrayal?

“Bullshit.” The unknown man spits at the ground.

“I love her,” Rafayel manages to stay. There’s a punch thrown at him that bites the taste of blood back into his mouth, foreign, not as welcome the way your blood had been. His teeth have cut into the insides of his cheek. “Which I can say with more certainty than you can, you bastard. Yes, I’ve entered her life under a guise. You murdered the woman who raised me. You’ve killed countless of my siblings. But I saw the way you starved your daughter of love and affection, and I vowed I’d never do that to her.”

“Do not play hero with me,” your father says, the hatred in his voice like the lash of a whip. Your own small hand spins out, and for a moment, Rafayel scared he’s lost you, that it’s him you’re going to strike. But your fingers wrap around your father’s wrist, as i you can do anything, as if this wasn’t the hand controlling your entire life. “Let him go, or I swear I’ll tell everyone,” you vow. The threat inside your voice is as venomous as the enmity your father’s had contained. “I’ll tell them where that caviar you so adore comes from, I swear it. Let him go or kill us both. Or maybe I’ll kill you.”

Your father halts in his shock. Rafayel can’t tell what is happening, his head still lowered to the ground by the hand pinning him there, tearing at his hair. It loosens then, and he’s kicked aside, like some stray dog that was a bother and is then forgotten. When he looks up, he sees you locked in a stare-off with your father - your father, whose looking at you as if he’s never once seen you in his entire life.

Perhaps he hasn’t.

“Walk,” is the only thing your father says then. “Walk before I forget myself.”

Rafayel struggles to sit up, to defend you as you had defended him, but you shake your head at him, the dismissal clear enough.

He watches as you leave him behind. How ironic, for you to have feared abandonment, when here he sits being abandoned now. Lost and alone.

In the following days, you don’t turn up. When Rafayel comes to search your human house, despite the fact that your father had threatened to kill him, the building is empty, stripped of all its belongings. None of the vendors in the city know about what has happened, giving only absentminded shrugs and I-do-not-cares. You’ve turned into an actual dream, a fantasy conjured by his love-sick brain, a haunting nightmare. He finds himself clenching his chest as if the heart contained inside was going to give out, broken apart like an empty shell by a mere mortal’s love.

He fears he’s going to die like this.

Alone, and unmourned, and forgotten.

When his desperation mounts in impulsiveness, he either decides to flee Whalefall City or look for you one last time. He can’t remain here, not when he looks everywhere for you, in the strange faces of this place or the gentle tosses of the waves in the harbor, in the sound of a melodious seasinger calling to prayer. It’s driving him insane. He turns up on the steps of Dolphin’s Hall, half-crazed from the loss of you.

It’s there where he witnesses the miracle of the Gods.

It’s not you, sadly; but your shrine maiden, freshly appointed as the new seasinger, hurries thorugh the throng of hall-going attendees. “It’s you!” she exclaims, a haunting echo of the very first words you addressed at him.

That makes him wary. “How do you know who I am?”

She blinks as if Rafayel was the one acting suspicious. “Well, because she’s told me, of course. And your description doesn’t really fit to any of the people here. In a city like this, it’s easy to recognize a new face.” The girl - no, woman - unfolds a letter, revealing a penmanship that he’s never seen, but which he recognizes with his heart.

Rafayel, the very first word on the paper shapes, in elegant loops, written in the soft scribbles of love.

He’s gone to meet you before the letter can hit the ground. Your successor, shaking her head, watches him go.

You’re right where you said where you would be, sitting in the surf like a mermaid would, your human legs anchored in the sand as the ocean drinks the earth. Your arms are crossed over your chest, over clothing he’s never seen before: garment from below the sea. His heart pounds inside his chest.

When you turn your head to face him, the smile on your face is entirely real.

Rafayel hurries to meet you, and then you are embracing each other like one soul being knit together; there was a physical pain in being separated from you that had strangled him for every second that you had been gone, drowning on land like a beached fish. He swipes your windswept hair out of your face, behind your ears, holding your head in his hands. You fit there, as always, like a missing puzzle piece. “I thought … you wouldn’t want to see me again,” he chokes out, the words a struggle. His tongue is heavy with sorrow, weighed down by his betrayal. “I mean, I wanted to tell you the truth. Long before I ever wanted to confess my feelings. I was going to do this properly. But I didn’t expect you.”

You snort, as if amused. “I could see that.”

His thumb strokes your cheekbone, as gentle as a clam reaches to embrace its pearl. “No, you don’t understand,” he tells you, and his chest unlocks in the same way it had when he had allowed himself to be vulnerable with you. “From the very beginning, I hadn’t expected you. I came to you with a heart heavy with hatred, blind with pain. I was so sure of myself, so sure of what was going to happen. But you reached inside me and changed everything. I’ve never even realized how painful it was to be me. Not until you administered the cure.” Rafayel leans his forehead against yours, tasting his tears. Crying, for the first time in so long. Only you. Only you. “Say something. Please.”

“Rafayel.” Your voice is wondrous. When Rafayel looks into your eyes, he only sees pure and unadulterated love, the kind of love that had drawn him off the edge of self-destruction and right into your safe arms. “Don’t you realize you’ve done the exact same thing with me? You’ve come into my life and filled it to the brim with a kind of joy I’ve never thought would be possible for me. I had resigned myself to my fate, to always be under the thumb of my father, and then you came, with all your unbridled anger and pompousness and unconditional love. If it hadn’t been for you, I might never have been able to shake off my parents’ expectations and build a life for myself with you.”

“With me?” Rafayel speaks the world gingerly. As if he can’t let himself believe it. As if he can’t let himself believe that the kinds of happy endings Lyra had always lectured him about were possible, after all.

If you witness true love, hold on to it.

Your fingers are reverent on his face, your smile so all-encompassingly loving. “How else are we going to heal this deep rift between mermaids and humans? I promised to show you, after all.”

Rafayel bursts into laughter. It’s an unexpected reaction, as unexpected as the miracle in his life that had been you, love of his life you. “That doesn’t sound too bad,” he admits, and instead of taking your hand as he had done so long ago under the secretive gaze of the moon, Rafayel finally gets to kiss you in the light of day, claiming you in front of the whole world.

[opashoo]

The Rain World Undergrowth AU cast lineup! (which is basically just everyone)

I tried doing one of these way back in 2024 and never finished, which is probably a good thing because some of these designs have changed a decent bit since then. (Those who've seen the old, incomplete lineup know that my original Rivulet was a cis guy, and Watcher didn't even have a design yet.) With this, I'm hoping to start up the askblog soon-ish.

Anyway, Undergrowth synopsis and lore, as well as some alternate outfits under the cut:

Undergrowth is an anthro AU that takes place during the time of the Endless Winter. The blizzards of Saint's timeline have come sooner and deadlier, forcing most slugcats and scavengers to settle in underground geothermal pockets or adopt lifestyles suited adapted to the cold. All the game's events and timelines are compressed so that everything happens in quicker succession.

The AU takes place in Moon and Pebbles' retaining wall and centers around Saint after the events of their campaign, who has taken to the teachings of Rhinestones Beneath Shattered Glass and started a garden in Undergrowth. Here they have gathered all the other slugcats to live in safety. The other slugcats see Saint as a mysterious benefactor who knows more than they should, rescued each of them from certain death for unknown reasons, and has given them shelter from the blizzards, but for Saint, it's all part of a comfortable routine formed from countless lifetimes of repetition.

In their most recent lifetime, however, things have started to change. Things aren't where they should be. People aren't where they should be when they should be. Events that have always fallen on consistent times and dates simply don't. Saint starts getting dream visits from someone they've never met before in all their past lifetimes, one who brings ominous warnings about the future.

The Characters Survivor / ommuy aka omi One who persists most of all cis male - he/him

Monk / sahini mayabi aka maya One of the peaceful way cis female - she/her

Gourmand / makikanae aka maki One who knows food Yongasabi 3rd gender - they/them

Saint / sapinae aka saen One who suffers; saint agender transfem - they/them/any

Spearmaster / masinabi aka nabi Messenger nonbinary trans man - they/he

Hunter / hanitae aka hanta Hunter trans female - she/her

Artificer / sattokubi aka satto Arsonist cis female - she/her

Rivulet / yanginaeja lamlan aka lani Wandering stream afab demigirl - she/they

Watcher / banolnak yopwa aka banno Atop the watchtower unstable genderfluid - she/he

Enot (???) N/A - it/its

Survivor, Monk, and Gourmand are from a colony that has historically lived outside the retaining wall, but got lost and were separated inside the retaining wall before Saint found each of them and brought them back to the shelter.

Saint is from a retaining wall far away, built atop one of the few true mountains in this world. They were born and raised in a monastery, trained for a grand purpose that they have long since abandoned.

Spearmaster and Hunter were in the retaining wall on business before the blizzards outside kicked up and the land outside became impassable while Hunter's supply of medicine dwindled. With Hunter bedridden and cut off from NSH, Spearmaster had no choice but to take her underground and follow the stranger who promised treatment in their garden.

Artificer was taken in and trained by a corrupt scavenger clan who saw her grief and rage as a tool to be shaped and used; first, to exact revenge on the scavengers who killed her children, then to demolish the clans who had apparently enabled such a corrupt system. When she overstepped her station and terrorized Metropolis, she was deemed an outlaw and enemy to all scavs. Saint found her buried in the snow on the edge of death.

Rivulet comes from a far off retaining wall, given the mission of delivering Five Pebbles' rarefaction cell to Moon by whatever means necessary. She had no idea that removing it would have accelerated 5P's collapse so immensely. She would have met her end at a toll full of scared and suspicious scavengers had Saint not arrived just in time to defuse the situation.

Watcher has been plagued since childhood by visions, a sense of lacking identity, and a spiritual burden spanning thousands of generations. After exhausting all other leads, she hears a promising rumor: There is a former member of a religious order, sheltered away in a garden deep underground, who may have the answers he seeks.

Enot (???) kohga ota gimok juhei ha giga naka. shou kolgi cho yoshouja ihoga palakkida. kagihei nakani deila sin pagsada.

[rafesangelita]

♡ gooning to your instagram page was a regular occurrence for stepbro!rafe, but getting caught? that’s something that didn’t happen everyday..

warnings: stepcest, reader is bit of a bimbo, male masturbation, rafe is super pervy and kinda icky in this lol, name calling, handjob, messy kissing, oral (f. receiving), praise, mutual pining (?), dirty talk, pussy slapping, overstimulation, unprotected sex, rafe is a loser so premature ejaculation, marking, cock warming, multiple orgasms, creampie

wc: 2.0k

“such a fucking slut, ‘posting shit like this.” rafe cursed under his breath, his phone in one hand and his cock in the other. jerking off to your slutty instagram account had become a part of his daily routine. he hated that you were so active on it, but then again, if it wasn’t for you, he wouldn’t have so many pictures and videos to keep him sane while he fantasized about fucking his bratty little stepsister. pathetically enough, rafe knew he had to keep his grimy hands off of you, and fuck, did it piss him off. to have something so close, yet so far out of his reach.

your story highlights alone was enough to hold him off for the next year, but your actual posts? he swore anyone who came across your page was in gooning heaven. he’d never admit it, but he once spent two entire hours jerking off to a video he had secretly took of you two having a ‘whoever could eat their cone the fastest’ contest, his cock raw and aching to be left alone by the time he decided to give it a rest. he was mesmerized, watching you lick and lap at the icecream, the sweet succulence dripping down your chin, and eventually your tits when you couldn’t keep it from melting.

his eyes screwed shut at the memory, the video currently playing on his phone not being any different. instead of icecream dribbling down your chin, it was whatever alcohol your best friend had just poured in your mouth, the excess liquor running down your neck and chest. you had squealed when you swallowed the burning substance, your tits bouncing as you jumped excitedly with your friends. rafe groaned at the sight. you couldn’t be that oblivious, right??? at some point you had to know what you were doing when you posted this for everyone to see?

your micro bikini top did nothing to support the weight of your tits, a nipple peeking out before you innocently tucked it back underneath the poor excuse of pink material. he clicked out of your story and immediately blew up the image of your recent post. you were on all fours, face down and ass up as your skin sparkled underneath the neon lights of the party you had went to earlier tonight. you looked like you were straight out of a playboy magazine. rafe groaned, his chest heaving as he teetered the edge of cumming all over himself.

he thought about manhandling you out of that bikini and fucking you stupid for wearing it out in the first place. he’s had to watch you whore yourself out for nearly a year already, his life becoming a living hell since the day you first moved in and introduced yourself with that stupid faux innocent look in your eyes. the mini skirts you never failed to bend down in front of him in, the tube tops that basically had your tits spilling out of them, fuck, there was so many things about you that made him horny out of his mind. “oh, shit!” rafe dropped his phone, his door opening just as his orgasm washed over him.

“what the f-fuck?!” he was trembling underneath the covers, his eyes widening as you quietly shut his door behind you. “what are you doing?” he whispered, fumbling around as his high still had his hips stuttering. you giggled, watching as his face morphed into one of full blown pleasure before he turned away from you. “i just wanted to check on you since i heard noises, that’s all..” you sat down on the edge of his bed, biting your lip as his back muscles rippled beneath his skin, your eyes moving to the phone next to him. “oh, well you couldn’t have picked a better time?” rafe scoffed.

you flipped the device over, gasping softly when you saw your instagram illuminating the screen. “hey, that’s me!” you laughed, taking his phone in your hand and holding it up to him before he lunged for the thing, taking you down with him. “rafe!” you yelped, his hand coming up to clasp over your mouth. “shut the fuck up! you’re gonna get us in trouble, dummy!” he cursed, his face just centimeters away from your own. you swallowed thickly, nodding as he slowly moved his hand down. “why am i on your phone?” you asked, noticing the way his pupils blew wide at your question.

“what?” he faltered, watching as a smile formed on your lips. “oh my god—” the realization hit you when you looked down, his bulge prominent in his boxers. “were you touching yourself?” rafe’s eyebrows knitted together as he backed away, looking at you as if you had just insinuated the most offensive thing he’s ever heard. “a-are you serious? of course not—” you trailed your hand down, cupping him through the thin material, “it’s okay if you were.. i do it too.” rafe froze, inspecting your face for any kind of hint that you were joking. you weren’t.

“what the fuck are you talking about?” he said through gritted teeth. you peered up at him innocently, batting your eyelashes at him as he made no attempt to move away from you. “i touch myself and think about you, ray. all the time.” you whispered against his lips, placing a soft kiss there before letting your head fall back against his pillows. “i know it’s wrong, but i can’t help it..” this was rafe’s wet dream coming true. “whenever you walk around shirtless i just imagine riding your abs. you’re so strong, rafe, i think about you choking me with these arms.” you ran your nails up the skin of his forearm.

holy fuck.

rafe didn’t believe he could ever be this turned on in his life. “yeah?” he let himself relax, your fingers slipping underneath the waistband of his boxers as you gripped him at the base. you felt the sticky residue from his previous orgasm in your palm, a hum leaving your lips at the revelation. “did i make you cum already?” the man above you groaned. how you sounded so sweet asking the most dirtiest question was beyond him. “fuck— yes, you did,” he nodded, his mouth parting once you started stroking him, “may i pleaseee make you cum again?” rafe nodded frantically, his hips thrusting into your palm.

taking your lips in a searing kiss, rafe didn’t hold back from slipping his tongue in your mouth, the sensation making you moan as you two practically drooled over one another. he wasn’t gentle in the slightest, his teeth nipping your bottom lip when you ran your thumb over his throbbing tip. “oh, god,” he hissed, pulling away momentarily to inspect your outfit.. or lack thereof. you laid underneath him in nothing but a sheer night top, your g-string sitting perfectly between your puffy folds. “you look so fucking hot.” rafe breathed out, cupping your tits before rolling your nipples between his fingers.

you gasped, spreading your thighs so he could lay between them. “i need to taste you, please let me,” he pressed a sloppy kiss to your chin, both of your lips glossy with spit. you moaned, whimpering a ‘yes, please!’ as he snaked down your body. when he got to eye level with your soaking cunt, he teased you by slowly moving your sorry excuse of ‘panties’ aside before spreading you open. you shuddered, taking your bottom lip between your teeth as you waited for his next move. pinning your thighs to the tops of his shoulders, rafe kissed your sensitive bud before diving in.

immediately, your back arched off of his mattress when his tongue attacked your poor clit, the back of your hand muffling your scream as your thighs clamped around his head. you were squirming, nails digging into his skin for dear life as he ate you like a man starved. “if only you knew,” rafe spoke, “i’ve been losing sleep over this pussy, ‘been wanting to do this since day fucking one.” you cried out at his words. you’ve wanted him for yourself the second he helped you with your moving boxes, that smug smirk on his face drawing you in since the very beginning.

your hips unintentionally chased his mouth, his hands pinning you down in place. “feels so good!” you whined, propping yourself up on your elbows so you could watch him. the tip of his nose was glistening with your slick, his tongue poking your entrance as lapped away at your juices. he was so good at this, you felt jealousy pooling in your tummy for any other girls who might’ve seen this sight, and felt his skilled tongue. “you taste so fucking good, this is unreal.” he marveled, sucking your clit before rolling your sensitive bundle of nerves between his lips. you gasped sharply, a scream sitting on the tip of your tongue.

rafe continued like this until you attempted to move away from him again. grabbing a pillow from your side, you smothered your face with it as he pushed you over the edge, a high like never before washing over you in waves of pure ecstasy. rafe watched you shake and thrash underneath him, his pussy drunk gaze raking down your trembling form. you moaned, sobbed, and cried until all you could do was whimper in sensitivity. “no more,” you sighed, your body jolting as rafe flicked his tongue continuously over your clit. black dots spotted your vision, your heart beating fast in your ears.

“..can’t take it, rafe!” you sobbed, tears welling in your eyes as he dismissed your cries. “yes, you can, you’re gonna have to..” just as you were going to ask him what he meant by that, he kept your legs on his shoulders as he stood up, slamming into you without warning. you couldn’t conceal the sound this time, your shriek bouncing off of the walls of rafe’s room. turning his head to see if the door was locked, he cursed under his breath when he saw it wasn’t. “you just want us to get caught, huh?” you shook your head, your nails digging into the flesh of his stomach.

rafe covered your mouth, your eyes rolling to the back of your head when you felt him pinch your clit. “just give me one more, baby, that’s all. ‘wanna feel this pussy squeezing around me when i fill you up with my cum.” you had tears running down your cheeks now. embarrassingly enough, rafe felt his climax approaching fast, his cock still aching from cumming not even twenty minutes ago. overstimulated and hysterical, you were spasming around rafe’s length in no time, every ridge of his cock bringing you to your final orgasm of the night, rafe following suit.

he leaned down, grunting praises in your ear while he painted you white inside, your thighs shaking uncontrollably against his chest. not daring to remove his hand away from your face yet, he sucked bruises into the skin of your neck, marking you as his own. you laid limp like on his bed, taking the last few of his thrusts before he stilled completely. you were a fucked out mess to say the least. gently placing your legs down, rafe stayed nestled inside of you as he pulled you against him. unintentionally, you had started tracing shapes into his skin, a sheen of sweat coating his forehead as you two kissed.

“this just made a lot of shit complicated.” he stroked your chin, your glassy eyes flickering over his face. “not really,” you started, “we’ll just be sneaky.” rafe blinked slowly, a groan rumbling from his chest as you clenched around him. “look down, i want you to see something.” you did as he said, a small whine leaving your lips as he pulled out, his cum dribbling out of with ease. “i’m the only one who can have this pussy, you understand?” you nodded, pecking his cheek before wrapping your arms around his neck. “come on, let’s get you back to your room before world war three breaks out in this house.”

[suunani]

just for fun ( jeong jaehyun )

there’s nothing wrong about kissing your bestfriend just for fun, right?

❛ content 1.9k words, male reader, bestfriend! jaehyun, fluff fluff and fluff again, mutual pining, detailed kiss scene.

( part two )

friday nights were sacred.

no matter how crazy life became — whether jaehyun was juggling back-to-back schedules with his group or you were drowning under a mountain of deadlines — movie night was untouchable.

it wasn’t something either of you had ever needed to discuss about; it was just there, as natural and essential as breathing. a tradition born from years of friendship and countless nights spent sprawled out on your couch.

the setup was always the same: the couch, an oversized blanket big enough to cover both of you, the coffee table crowded with snacks and drinks.

jaehyun always managed to make a mess with the popcorn, and you never failed to call him out for it, only for him to grin sheepishly every time, a sparkle in his eyes that promised he'd absolutely do it again next week.

it was comfortable, dependable. a routine so ingrained that neither of you could imagine life without it.

tonight, like every other friday, the two of you had settled into your usual spots.

jaehyun was stretched out beside you, his long legs taking up more than their fair share of the coffee table. one of his socks was missing (why, you didn't know and didn't care to ask) and the other hung loosely from his foot like it was holding on for dear life.

and you were curled up at the opposite end of the couch, the blanket draped across both of you, your toes brushing his shin beneath its soft folds.

the movie you’d picked — a romcom that netflix had all but begged you to watch — played on the tv. you weren’t paying much attention though, the storyline fading into white noise as you absently picked at the popcorn. jaehyun, on the other hand, seemed more invested, his dark eyes fixed on the screen.

it wasn’t until the movie reached its climactic make-out scene that the atmosphere shifted. the two characters on screen were tangled up in each other, all messy passion and heavy breathing. you glanced at jaehyun out of habit, expecting him to crack a joke or roll his eyes like he always did during these moments.

but he didn't.

instead, he was quiet, his expression thoughtful in a way that set your nerves on edge.

“what if we tried that?”

his voice was so casual, so matter-of-fact, that it took a second for his words to register. you blinked, turning your head to look at him fully.

“what?”

jaehyun didn't look away from the screen, his hand dipping lazily into the popcorn bowl, grabbing a handful as he spoke.

“that,” he nodded toward the tv, his tone so relaxed you almost thought you'd misheard. “kissing. you and me.”

the words hit you like a cold splash of water, and you stared at him, waiting for some sign that he was joking. but his expression didn’t change.

he chewed his popcorn slowly, his face calm, like he’d just asked what you wanted for dinner.

“i… uh…” you stammered, suddenly hyper-aware of the blanket you were sharing and the way his knee was just barely brushing yours. “what are you talking about?”

jaehyun finally looked at you then, his gaze steady and calm, his lips twitching into the faintest smile.

“i’m just asking,” he said with a shrug, like it wasn’t the most absurd thing he’d ever said. “you’ve never thought about it?”

you let out a disbelieving laugh, your heart pounding in your chest. “thought about kissing you?”

“yeah,” he nodded, leaning back against the couch, his expression unreadable. “i mean, why not? we’re best friends. we’ve done everything else together. what’s one more thing?”

“jaehyun…” you trailed off, unsure how to even respond.

he was really serious — or at least, he didn’t seem to be joking at all. and that made it worse. or better. you couldn’t decide.

he turned his head to look at you again, his gaze softer this time. “what? it wouldn’t be weird. i mean, we already know everything about each other. it’s not like it’d change anything.”

“not change anything?” you repeated, incredulous. “you think kissing your best friend wouldn’t change anything?”

“not unless we wanted it to,” he replied simply, his tone so steady it almost calmed the storm raging in your chest. almost.

you stared at him, searching his face for some kind of explanation. but he wasn’t teasing you. he wasn’t laughing or smirking the way he usually did when he was trying to get under your skin.

he was just… waiting.

“you’ve really thought about this, haven’t you?” you asked, your voice quieter now.

jaehyun tilted his head slightly, considering you.

“yeah. i guess i have,” he admitted. “i mean, haven’t you? even a little?”

your brain felt like it was short-circuiting. you wanted to say no, to deny it outright, but the truth was, the idea didn’t seem as far-fetched as it should have.

you’d spent years at each other’s sides, your lives so intertwined that you could barely tell where one ended and the other began. and sure, there were moments — quick, fleeting moments — when you’d looked at him and wondered.

but this? this was real. and it wasn’t a fleeting moment anymore.

“i don’t know,” you said honestly, your voice barely above a whisper.

jaehyun smiled again, a small, patient curve of his lips that sent butterflies swirling through your stomach.

“then let’s find out,” his voice was low, almost hesitant.

you froze the moment he leaned in, his movements slow and deliberate, like a question he was silently asking.

it felt like the world had paused, holding its breath along with you. his eyes flicked to yours, searching, giving you all the time in the world to stop him, to pull away, to laugh it off like the best friends you’d always been.

but you didn’t. you couldn’t. your heart hammered against your chest, wild and unrestrained, and you knew he could probably hear it.

when his lips brushed against yours, it was featherlight, tentative, like he was testing the waters, hesitant but hopeful. your breath caught in your throat, and a spark ignited deep in your chest, sending tingles down to your fingertips.

his hand slid up to cup your jaw, his thumb tracing an impossibly soft line along your skin. the gentle touch sent shivers cascading down your spine, but it wasn’t unpleasant. your heart thudded against your chest like it was trying to escape, and a warmth you couldn’t explain spread through your entire body.

the kiss was slow at first, unhurried, almost experimental, like neither of you could believe what was happening. but then, instinct took over. you kissed him back before you could think better of it, your body moving on its own, feeling the slight curve of his smile against your lips. warmth bloomed between you, and your heart pounded harder with every second.

his lips were softer than you’d imagined — though you weren’t sure why you were imagining it at all. he tasted faintly of the popcorn you’d shared earlier, and there was something about the familiarity of it that made your chest ache in the best way.

jaehyun tilted his head just enough to fit perfectly, deepening the kiss in a way that felt so natural, it was almost like muscle memory. one of his hands slipping to your hip while the other stayed on your jaw, his fingers curling there gently, and he pressed closer, so close you could feel his breath mingling with yours.

you couldn’t think about anything else. it was just him: the warmth of his body so close, the way his lips moved against yours like they belonged there, the gentle press of his fingertips against your skin.

the world around you just… faded, like it didn’t exist anymore. all that mattered was this moment, the two of you tangled in something unsaid but utterly undeniable.

when the kiss finally ended, the two of you pulled back slowly, your foreheads brushing against the other as you tried to catch your breath. your chest heaved, and you realized he was breathing just as hard as you were, his lips slightly parted as though he wanted to say something but didn’t know how.

before you could speak, before you could even begin to process what had just happened, jaehyun grinned, a soft, lopsided grin that made your heart flip, and leaned in once again. this time, it wasn’t as tentative. he pressed a quick, playful kiss to your lips, a soft 'mwah' sound filling the quiet space between you.

his hand on your jaw tilted your head just slightly, like he didn’t want to give you any room to second-guess this.

it was over almost as soon as it began, but it left you blinking, stunned, your heart beating so loudly it was all you could hear. he chuckled softly, his face still close, his breath fanning over your skin.

“okay,” jaehyun said, leaning back just slightly, though his hand lingered on your hip. “i’m officially adding that to our list of top-tier decisions.”

you let out a shaky laugh, the sound more real than you expected it to be.

your hand, which had somehow ended up tangled in his hair, slipped back into your lap. you glanced at him, taking in the way his lips were slightly swollen, his hair adorably mussed, his cheeks dusted with a faint pink.

“i can’t believe you actually…” you started, your words trailing off as you gestured vaguely between the two of you.

“kissed you?” he finished for you, his lips quirking into that lopsided grin. “yeah, me neither. thought you’d push me off the couch, to be honest.”

you shook your head, the heat in your cheeks spreading like wildfire.

“i thought about it,” you admitted, only half-joking, your voice quieter now.

his grin softened into something gentler, something that made your chest ache all over again.

“but you didn’t,” he said, his tone quieter.

you swallowed, your throat dry, and shook your head again. “no. i didn’t.”

for a moment, the air between you shifted.

the weight of what had just happened settled over you both, heavy but not unwelcome. it felt like standing on the edge of something new, something you couldn’t quite name yet.

jaehyun nudged your knee lightly with his own, breaking the tension just enough.

“so,” he said, leaning back against the couch with a sigh that was almost too casual. “what’s the verdict?”

you raised an eyebrow, the heat still lingering on your face. “the verdict?”

“yep,” he tilted his head, his grin teasing but his tone softer, more earnest. “should we pencil in a round two?”

you rolled your eyes, though your lips betrayed you, curving into a small smile.

“you’re lucky that wasn’t terrible,” you muttered, your voice fond despite yourself. “or we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”

jaehyun let out a laugh, deep and warm, and you felt yourself relax into it. the movie playing in the background faded into little more than white noise. the real focus was here, in the space between you two.

after a quiet moment, jaehyun spoke again, his voice softer this time.

“this doesn’t feel weird, does it?”

you shook your head slowly, meeting his gaze. “no. it doesn’t.”

and it didn’t. for all the ways it should’ve felt strange or awkward, it didn’t. it felt…right. comfortable. like something that had been waiting to happen all along.

jaehyun’s lips quirked into another soft smile, his gaze warm and steady on yours.

“good,” he said, his voice a little quieter now. “because i think i kind of like kissing my best friend.”

[sevsevteen]

Being the only girl in an all-male group wasn’t just physically exhausting - it was emotionally taxing too.

There were moments you felt like you had to work twice as hard just to be seen, moments when ypu quietly stepped aside when the boys shared laughter about things you couldn’t quite relate to, and moments swallowed by your own tears just so no one else would feel burdened.

But you was observant.

If not talking, you were watching. Listening. Learning.

Over the years, you picked up on things that no one else noticed.

You knew Seungcheol hated the silence after an argument - it reminded him of his own pressure as a leader. So you’d hum quietly while folding towels or play a silly video loud enough for him to hear when things got too still.

You knew Wonwoo comforted himself with routine. So when he was upset, you'd nudge his favorite mug into his hands and sit beside him without a word, letting him talk only if he wanted to.

Hoshi needed to move when he was overwhelmed, so you’d tug him into the practice room and dance with him, no matter how tired you were. Even if it was just ridiculous jumping around until both of you were breathless with laughter.

Jeonghan needed reassurance - not in words, but in effort. So you’d help him brush out his hair, straighten his jacket or fix his mic, quietly showing him that you always had his back.

No one really asked you to do any of this. You just… learned. Because while it wasn’t easy being the only girl, these boys were your family.

But knowing them inside and out could also have it's own disadvantages - especially when the others couldn't see what you saw daily. There was a sense of responsibility you held to keep the members grounded, and sometimes things just won't work out.

Just like today,

The practice room was louder than usual. Laughter echoed off the mirrored walls as the members collapsed over one another, teasing Minghao about a behind-the-scenes clip that had gone viral.

“Come on, you were kind of stiff,” You watched Seungkwan chuckle, nudging Minghao with his shoulder.

“Stiff?” Soonyoung snorted. “Let’s just replay it, shall we? For educational purposes.”

The video played again - Minghao in rehearsals, looking a bit off-beat and dazed, clearly tired. The laughter grew louder, piling on, but you sat at the edge, smile fading.

Minghao laughed too, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

He kept his head slightly down, jaw tight, and though the corners of his lips were curled, you could see his fingers twisting the hem of his hoodie—an old habit you knew well.

“Okay, that’s enough,” you said softly.

“Relax, it’s just a joke,” Vernon waved off, still grinning.

“No, really. It’s enough.” Your voice was firmer this time.

You stood, looking directly at them. “He’s tired. He’s been practicing just as hard as everyone else.”

The room went a little quieter, tension flickering in the air. But before anyone could say more, Minghao stood abruptly, grabbing his water bottle.

“I’m gonna get some air,” he said, still smiling, but his voice was rough—like he was holding something back.

The door clicked shut behind him.

No one moved.

You let out a quiet breath, staring at the door.

“You didn’t have to snap,” someone mumbled.

“I didn’t. But he did.”

And that silence? It said everything. Because they all knew you were right.

Behind a joke, sometimes there’s a line—and tonight, they crossed his.

-

[bernardsbendystraws]

𝑷𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒚 𝑷𝒆𝒓𝒗

obsessive .ᐟ matt is a panty perv

⚠︎ smut, panty stealing, jerking off, edging, male!recieving, degrading, praising, horny and more lol

“Holy…” Matt huffs, his chest tight as he holds the dainty fabric up to his nose. The lace in his hands is delicate—it reminds him of you. 

You’re always wearing those pretty bows in your hair, the ones that are silky and soft. He loves it. The little accessory always reminds him how pretty you are—how lucky he is to call you his. 

The underwear weighs in his hand like a feather. His eyes are glued to the fabric, his throat tightening as he swallows thickly. It’s just so…you. So perfect. 

Small ruffles with a tiny bow in the front makes his heart pummel into his throat. The added details make it a bit too real. You’re his girl, but honestly it all seems like a dream. Too good to be true. 

“Oh my god.” 

The whisper is barely audible. Matt makes his way to your shared room, tentatively making sure the shower is still on as he hears you hum in chorus with the running water. 

Your voice is sweet. The melodies floating through the door makes this feel too intense. He should ask you. Matt’s your boyfriend, there’s no reason he shouldn’t just go touch you. 

But this is more than that—it’s deeper than touching what’s his. 

“Fuck.” Matt hisses as he palms over his hard cock through his sweats. The bulge is throbbing, his dick practically pulsing as he imagines your pussy dampening the soft fabric in his hand. 

As he lays in the bed and tugs down his sweats and briefs, he hears your echoing taunts of you always calling him a perv. The joke you always seem to reiterate when he acts a bit too obsessed. But, you’re not ever just teasing. 

It’s true. He is a perv—an obsessive lover who seems to burn for the thrill of anything to do with you. 

This is a habit for Matt, an odd routine that makes him burn with excitement. He always likes taking care of you. He’ll cook, clean, and he always insists on doing the laundry. You’re his girl, it’s his job to make your life easier, it’s his pride and joy. 

But your panties always seem to go missing. Some of them return after a few laundry cycles, but some get too ruined for him to ever return. 

That’s the case right now.

A rip of fabric echoes as Matt rushedly tries to wrap the cloth around his hand as he fits his fist around his length. He winces at the noise, but he can’t find it in himself to care the second he feels the soft fabric collide with the side of his dick.

“Fu-fuck,” he hisses, his eyes screwed shut as he lets the wetness on his tip leak onto the panties. There’s enough precum to thoroughly soak the fabric that rushes up and down his cock with the way he has it twisted in his hand—it’s enough to make him melt under the sensations of pure bliss and relief. 

Matt’s head falls backward, a large huff of air escaping his lips as he feels the brutal thrill of doing something so filthy. 

Up and down. 

His movements are repetitive, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he tries to keep the subtle noises erupting from his throat to a low volume. 

Part of him is desperately trying to stay focused on the sound of the shower running, wanting to make sure he doesn’t get caught. But he just can’t. Not when it feels this good—not when he can picture the exact panties he has in his hand on the floor when he was deep inside of you the other night. 

“God—shit!” he groans loudly, too deep in his imagination as he recalls pumping his cock fully inside of you, your nails clawing into his back as you begged him to go harder—deeper. 

The way you always tell him exactly what to do always makes him lose control. Matt can’t help but take your words and sprint. That night, you wanted it harder—so he pounded you, listening to your screams like they were the best praise to ever exist.

When you go speechless it’s even better. Your lips will open and shut with silent cries. It’s too good for your mind to even comprehend how to react—that’s when he finds himself hypnotized, obsessing over how to give you everything and more. 

“Sweetheart, I—I—ohmygod,” he rushes, his hips starting to lift off the bed as he fucks his cock into his own hand. His mind races with images of you—your tits bouncing, your lips parted, and your legs trembling. 

All the things that make him lose himself in his imagination. 

He’s gone. Matt’s lost in pure euphoria, his moans and grunts getting louder without any recollection of the risky situation. 

The sound of the bathroom door opening doesn’t register in his mind. You open the door, your hand clutching your towel around your damp skin before you feel yourself flush with a wave of shock and excitement. 

It’s a sight. 

Matt’s ruthlessly fucking into his hand, your ripped panties soaked and strangled around his fingers. Your chest tightens at the scene in front of you. 

It’s everything. 

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you can’t help but feel your thighs clutch together, your feet hesitant as you walk over and sit on the edge of the bed. 

“Ma—” Your words fall short as he lets out a raw moan. The dip of your weight on the mattress doesn’t even phase him. 

Matt’s so caught up in his imagination—drowning in the way your panties feel so fucking good gliding with his hand—he doesn’t even realize you’re right here. 

A sudden touch makes Matt jolt, your damp hand sliding onto his thigh. 

His breath is ragged, his eyes hazy as he stops his movements abruptly, his dick twitching for more. “I—I, I was just—”

You don’t let him finish. Sliding your hand up, Matt gasps as your fingers tentatively graze around his hand holding his length, his eyes squinting shut as you lightly trace your palm around the side of his cock before letting your hand fall back down to his thigh. 

“You being a perv again, hm?” you taunt. 

Matt goes to reply, to argue with at least some sort of dignity, but his words only come out as a jumbled breath as you palm around his throbbing tip. 

It’s not fair. He was so close—merely seconds away from finishing. But now it hurts—now he feels the ache to be satisfied like he needs it in order to breathe. 

“Baby, fuck—I couldn’t…couldn’t help myself,” he rasps, his hair messy with some strands sticking to his forehead that glistens with a light layer of sweat. 

His hips move slightly, desperate from some sort of friction—but you move your hand and slide your palm up and down his thigh, laughing under your breath as he lets out a whine. 

Matt tries to grab your hand, he tries to reach even further to at least clutch your fingers, but you slide just out of reach. 

The grin over your face makes him burn with a pink flush, his brows furrowing as his lips tighten into a thin line. “Sweetheart, I…please?” he asks, his voice groggy while his face sweetly falls into a pout. 

How could you say no?

Your hand covers his own, the ripped, damp panties layered between your palm and his knuckles as you gently glide his hand to go up and down. 

The way your hand grasps his makes everything blurry. His eyes run in and out of focus, his face scrunching as you squeeze your hand around his, making the pulse of his length even more apparent. 

“Oh my—oh my god, baby….you’re…you’re so fuckin’ per-perfect.” Matt lets out a groan that echoes through the room, his voice shaky as he continues to ramble, “-can’t believe—fuck—can’t believe you’re mine—all mine, just—mmm, fuck.” 

You coo softly at his babbling. Matt feels his stomach drop as you pick up the pace. His dick is leaking pre-cum profusely, practically echoing his heartbeat with how much everything aches. 

“P–please, fuck—need to c-cum so—” 

He’s close. You can tell he’s just about to tip over the edge, nearly brimming insanity with the way he’s fucking himself up into your hands tangled together. 

So you stop. 

Your hand rests back onto his thigh, tearing his own away as you gently rub your fingers over his knuckles. 

“Pervs don’t get rewarded,” you taunt, sliding your palm up and over his hip bone, sliding up all the way to his collarbone before gently massaging the side of his cheek. “-you started without me. And you ruined my favorite panties, Matthew.” 

God. The way you say his name makes even more blood rush down to his dick. He feels his balls tighten painfully, his cock twitching as he swallows the lump in his throat. 

“No! No, no, no—please, baby, please—”

His words fall flat as you grab his hand again. You tear the panties out of his grip, looking shamefully at him before discarding the fabric onto the floor. 

He watches as you reach over to the nightstand, pulling out a dildo and setting it on top of the dresser right next to the ribbon you always tie in your hair. The lump in his throat builds as he watches you sigh, tightening your towel. 

“I was gonna let you use this on me…but I think I’m gonna make you watch since you decided to be a panty perv…again.” 

Oh.

Oh.

The dirty words leaving your lips sets something off in his mind. All the pent up frustration and desire clouds his sense, his attitude adjusting like a switch as he grabs onto your wrist firmly. 

Your eyes widen as he pulls you onto the bed, your towel dropping from the quick movement. 

The soft sheets beneath you stick to the damp skin of your back, every inch of your body practically vibrating with anticipation as you watch Matt grab the dildo and the ribbon from the nightstand with a determined look on his face. 

“Fuck that. I…I’ve had enough,” he tuts, kneeling on the bed with a certain glint in his eyes that makes you feel like his prey. “-I may be a perv, but god…you make me insane.” 

Oh…you’re just getting started. 

part of my 11k follower special ₊˚⊹♡

a/n: a collab with cherry baby @luvs4matt !!! got the inspo from my dog stealing my fav pair of underwear and chewing them up (i'm still salty) BUT - are y'all ready for part two???

── 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒃𝒊𝒈 𝒕𝒊𝒕𝒔, 𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒆 ꫂ ၴႅၴ

[cece693]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY BRUCE

pairing: batman/bruce wayne x male villain synopsis: Every superhero had a birthday and Batman was no exception. However, even if the bat considered it just another day, his arch nemesis—Y/N—didn't see it that way. He may be a villain, but even he had morals and not giving the birthday boy a gift was one of them.

The moon hung low over Gotham, casting a silvery glow on skyscrapers usually marred by chaos. Tonight, however, the city lay oddly serene. Batman patrolled the rooftops, cape fluttering gently, suspicion etched into the tense lines of his jaw. It was his birthday, a fact he'd attempted to bury beneath paperwork and rigorous training routines. Yet, as the night unfolded without a whisper of crime, his instincts screamed that this unusual peace was orchestrated rather than coincidental.

"This is strange," Bruce muttered into his comm, eyes scanning the vacant streets below.

"The scanners are clear," Alfred’s voice crackled back reassuringly. "Perhaps Gotham decided to give you a night off."

Bruce huffed softly. "Gotham never sleeps, Alfred."

"Maybe she just needed a gentle persuasion." A voice, smooth and amused, echoed behind him. Bruce spun around instantly, heart leaping into his throat. Perched casually on the edge of the rooftop was Y/N—villain, troublemaker, thorn in Batman’s side, and oddly enough, keeper of his greatest secret.

"You," Bruce growled, defensive yet intrigued. "This is your doing."

"Happy birthday, Bruce," Y/N offered warmly, lips quirking into a teasing smile. "I figured you'd appreciate something unique. A rare day off."

"Why?" Bruce demanded, wary eyes tracing the playful grin that usually spelled trouble.

Y/N shrugged, fluidly pushing himself up to approach slowly. "You underestimate us villains, Wayne. We have our morals. And birthdays," he emphasized with exaggerated innocence, "are sacred."

Bruce watched him closely, heart hammering for reasons he refused to examine. "You could’ve exposed me, turned this city against me—"

"But where's the fun in that?" Y/N interrupted gently, stepping close enough to feel Bruce’s breath hitch. "Your secret's safe. Consider it part of the gift."

Bruce narrowed his gaze, defensive armor slipping for just a heartbeat. "And what's the rest of it?"

"Peace," Y/N whispered, leaning in conspiratorially. "Something you've never truly known."

Bruce was frozen in place as Y/N’s hand lightly cupped his jaw, thumb brushing gently against the stubble there. The villain’s eyes flickered down to Bruce’s lips, lingering purposefully. "You didn't have to—"

"I know," Y/N murmured, voice softer now, genuine in its unexpected tenderness. "I wanted to."

Without giving Bruce a chance to retreat or react, Y/N pressed forward and captured Bruce’s lips in a fleeting, gentle kiss—a mere brush, intimate and electrifying. Bruce stiffened, yet his body betrayed him, instinctively leaning into the warmth before he realized it. Then Y/N stepped back, eyes shining mischievously beneath the moonlight. "Enjoy your night off, Bruce Wayne."

He turned gracefully, coat fluttering behind him as he disappeared into the shadows. Bruce stood unmoving, heart pounding, fingertips tracing his lips as though memorizing the sensation.

In the silence that followed, Bruce’s communicator crackled again. "Master Bruce?"

He swallowed hard, voice oddly husky. "I'm fine, Alfred. Just...Gotham’s quiet tonight."

"Indeed," Alfred replied, a knowing lilt coloring his tone. "Happy birthday, sir."

[reilemon]

💫Xavier, Xavier, Xavier...💫

♡︎synopsis: Xavier shows you what happens when you push your luck.

♡︎pairing: Xavier x fem!reader

｡°⚠︎°｡MINORS DNI (18+ ONLY)｡°⚠︎°｡

♡︎cw: established relationship, edging, orgasm denial, oral sex (both male and female receiving), fingering, creampie, pet names

♡︎word count: 2.1k

♡︎a/n: Okay, it starts when MC falls onto the sofa and Xavier asks 'what's your answer'. Although I love how MC reassures him after, I changed some stuff between that moment and the doorbell, to set the tone for the rest of the fic 🤭.

♡︎ special thanks to my beta reader ♡︎@its-de♡︎ for reading and helping me with this!

divider by @cafekitsune

The back of your knees hit the sofa making you plop down onto the couch.

Xavier cages you in with his legs on either side of yours, his hands resting on the back and armrest. "So, what's your answer?"

You grin in amusement. He's so cute (and hot) when he gets jealous. You squish his pillowy cheeks "Are you jealous?"

He averts his gaze, pouting. "No."

You can't deny how attractive he looked just now as he basically cornered you onto the couch with the raised eyebrow, the intense gaze as he towered over you.

You did get a feeling that you may have talked about Lumiere too much, and this merch unpacking didn't help. Still, you want to tease him more. Because he's being ridiculous and he should know that all of you belongs to him - Xavier.

You check the time on the digital watch in the distance. You should have around four, five minutes. Biting back a mischievous grin, you look up at him with innocent eyes as your hands wander from his cheeks, down over his torso to slowly stroke the front of his pants. "I've been talking about Lumiere too much, have I?"

His breath hitches as he watches you unbutton his pants.

"Let me make it up to you." You free his already hard dick. You always make him worked up so easily. Your tongue slides from the base towards the tip, your mouth giving the cockhead attention while your hand strokes the rest of his length.

Xavier's hand rests on your head, and he's resisting the urge to buck his hips, to feel more of your delicious mouth.

He pants "You still haven't -"

The doorbell rings.

He completely forgot about the delivery that was on the way.

You take the chance of momentarily distraction and pull away. "We can't keep the delivery guy waiting."

Disbelief written all over his face, he grabs you by the chin. "Nope. I still haven't heard the answer I want."

You swat away his hand and you squeeze through between him and the couch, rushing towards the door. You chime over your shoulder "I'm the injured one here, Lumi - I mean, Xavier!" And you can't help a sly smile that creeps up on your lips when you're away from his eyesight.

Xavier heard that nice and clear as he zipped up his pants. You're so paying for that later.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

The rest of the days of your recovery are the same - uneventful. You had the checkup, leveled up in the game, watched more movies and TV shows, ate those healthy porridges and Xavier's questionable smoothies. The new Lumiere merch and your occasional teasing of Xavier made this mundane routine more exciting. You had the ‘girlfriend in recovery’ immunity, so you made good use of it. You would either "accidentally" refer to him as Lumiere, or you'd keep suggesting to him to wear the costume once you're fully recovered.

You adored seeing his pouts, and you couldn't help but feel excited when he's jealous, especially when you remember that one night in the club bathroom*.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

Couple of days pass since your full recovery and return to work. Both you and Xavier were too busy while getting back on track with everything, but tonight you finally have time for each other.

Finally.

You're aching for his touch. He didn't want to do anything while he was your caregiver, even though you insisted that you're fine. You did tease him that time when he was wearing the Lumiere costume, but he didn't mention it later and neither did you.

As much as you complained about that "mundane routine", you missed it now that your schedule is hectic again, so you decided to invite Xavier for a movie night. You're going to watch an old movie "The Mask of Zorro" and eat dinner that already arrived. You change into pajama shorts and your favorite Xavier's hoodie that you stole.

A few minutes later the doorbell rings, so you answer it - and you almost squeal in excitement when you see Xavier in Lumiere outfit at your doorstep.

He decided to wear this since you already bought it for him, and because he did feel silly for feeling jealous of his own persona. Seeing your enthusiasm makes him amused and glad that he indulged you.

And he ignores the jealous feeling creeping up in his chest again.

He steps in and greets you by taking your hand a planting a soft kiss on top of it. Then he pulls you by the waist and gives your lips a gentle peck.

You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him into a deeper kiss. You pull away with a smile, your finger dangling the ear cuff "Let's go to the bedroom."

"I thought you invited me for dinner?"

"That can wait."

Xavier chuckles and lifts you up princess style and walks towards the bedroom, as you kiss and lick his sensitive neck.

When he softly places you on the bed, you immediately sit up to the edge, his crotch right in front of you. You sweetly look up at him as your hand strokes over his clothed member “I think I owe you something, Lumiere.”

Lumie- Xavier’s jaw clenches. He takes a deep breath and his gloved hand catches you wrist. “Lumiere, huh?”

That sly grin threatens to tug at your lips. Oh, this is going to be good. You give him your best innocent pout and angelic doe eyes, acting oblivious.

Letting go of your wrist, he takes off your hoodie, revealing you’re wearing nothing underneath, your breasts bare and already nipples perked up. He kneels in front of you, one gloved hand groping one while his mouth gives attention to the other one, gently kissing and sucking sensitive the nipple. Shortly after, you lie down, resting on your elbows, as he takes off your shorts and panties together.

With his teeth, he removes a glove from one hand and offers you his two middle fingers which you take into your mouth, sucking on them, tongue swirling, generously coating them. Breaking the string of saliva between your lips and his digits, with feather-like touch, he grazes between your lower lips, his eyes hungrily eyeing your pussy that is already glistening with arousal.

You swallow an impatient moan, but you subtly wiggle your hips, urging him to press harder.

"So impatient." He chuckles and stills your hips with his other hand, the leather glove providing a new and exciting sensation. You jolt as his fingers suddenly press your clit, rubbing it in painfully slow motion, but you can't move your hips to stimulate yourself more, your small whines showing your frustration.

"What is it, princess?" Xavier innocently asks. "Don't you like it when I’m gentle?"

A sigh leaves your lips. "I do... Lumiere. You're so gentle and sweet." As much as you want to beg for him to touch you more, take you right now, you want to provoke him even more.

So he continues with the teasing - grazing your clit, going around your dripping entrance for a few more minutes before finally slipping one finger inside, a moan slipping from your lips, making his hard cock twitch. He slips it in and out a few times before the second finger joins. The front of his pants is becoming unbearably tight as he listens to your beautiful moans when his finger curl hitting that sweet spot inside you, his mouth salivating at the sight of your wet pussy being finger fucked by him, so he latches his lips onto your bundle of nerves.

Your eyes roll back as he does so, your hand finding purchase in his fluffy hair, but you still can't move your hips as he is firmly holding you, his hand pressing your lower belly. He got you so worked up with all the teasing that you're starting to feel the heat pooling in your pussy, your leg muscles twitching as you try to meet the thrusts of his fingers.

You only manage to whisper Lumi-, before suddenly both his fingers and lips pull away, a frustrated whine leaving your lips as you were so close to cumming.

Xavier gives you a self-satisfied smirk "I'm just taking it nice and slow with my princess." and then he pushes you further onto the bed and flips you over on your stomach, propping your ass up. He silently sighs in relief behind you as he unzips and frees his throbbing cock.

You arch your back as you feel the cockhead swiping between your folds, and just when you're about to move, that gloved hand stops you by your lower back. You bite the pillow in annoyance and let him take his sweet time, the tip teasingly slipping in and out.

He bends your leg, spreading you out more for him, and lies down on top of you, his clothed body putting oppressing weight on top of your completely naked form. His hot breath tickles your ear and the gloved hand wraps around your neck, making you look up at him "Were you gonna say something, bunny?"

Your pussy flutters around his tip, and you open your mouth to beg him to just fuck you, to let you cum, but you stay silent and swallow thickly, and you only shake your head.

He hums in amusement and lets go of your neck to prop his weight on his hands as he starts moving his hips. With shallow thrusts he slowly eases himself inside you, he lets out a choked groan as your walls clench around him when he bottoms out.

You mewl into the pillow as his hips roll at a languid pace, and you flinch when his fingers find your clit, pinching it and rubbing small circles. You can move your hips now, but he's set on being "gentle" and all you can do is whine and moan underneath him as his slow strokes make you cream around his cock, the delayed orgasm flaring up again.

(Un)fortunately for you, Xavier knows your body too well, and just as you thought you could cum without a warning, he completely pulls out and his hand leaves your tender bud.

You groan into the pillow "Xavier!"

"Oh?" his voice is clear and composed, but you don't see him shutting his eyes as he's squeezing his tip with his hand. In a few seconds he calms down and leans over you, whispering in your ear "I thought you wanted Lumiere... "

You were so desperate to cum you didn't notice that you dropped your sweet innocent act.

He flips you on your back, pushing your legs up by the back of your knees, with his heavy cock just resting between your swollen folds.

He swats away your hand when you reach down to put it back inside, but presses his thumb on your needy clit, making you squirm at the contact.

“Please…” You pant.

“Hm?” He cocks an eyebrow “Who are you talking to, my little bunny?”

You whimper as your bud is neglected yet again “Xavier… Just fuck m- !” You don’t finish the sentence and Xavier completely buries his dick inside, then pulling back almost completely before shoving it back inside, and you cry out in pleasure as his cock pounds into you with the vigorous pace that you desperately needed.

The heat rushes through your body, head dizzy, but you muster enough strength to sit up and grab Xavier by the back of his neck, slipping off the ear cuff, wrapping your arms and legs around him, needing to feel his whole weight on top of you as he mercilessly pounds into you.

His hips falter for a moment, but he continues at the same pace - angling his hips to keep hitting your sensitive spot while his pelvis slaps against your swollen pearl. His arms wrap around your torso and he pulls you into a sloppy, wet kiss.

Right before the waves of your orgasm overtake you pant Xavier, Xavier, Xavier against his lips, and with your pulsing walls around his girth, he thrusts deep inside, filling up your pussy as he moans my love in your ear.

The two of you lie there, wrapped into each other’s arms, your face nuzzled into the crook of his neck, hips still moving to help the other come down from their high.

When he pulls out, you notice your mixed fluids all over his white pants. “I think those pants are ruined.” You comment and then your eyes squint at him “Was that your plan all along?”

He avoids your gaze, impish smile on his lips. “Maybe.”