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helaintoloki · 10 days ago

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Across the Hall

pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

warnings/notes: kind of a slow burn with fluff, angst, themes of insecurity, violence, reader has an abusive ex, eventual happy ending

a/n: this took me forever to write but hopefully you guys like it! and also friendly reminder that my requests are open so feel free to send in your ideas :)

summary: Bucky’s quiet life is disrupted when a new neighbor seeks his help

It starts with three knocks to his door.

Bucky had only been home for five minutes since returning from his workout when the noise startled him out of his contemplative state. He wasn’t exactly thrilled at the interruption considering he wasn’t expecting company so late into the evening, but he felt obligated to throw on a sweater to cover his arm and answer the door for whoever stood on the other side.

The man is taken aback when he finds you standing there before him nervously wringing your hands together with a timid smile. He doesn’t quite recognize you, but he vaguely recalls hearing word of a new tenant in the building and assumes that must be you. He notes the way your breath hitches in your throat at the sight of him and shifts uncomfortably in response, unsure as to what exactly it is you’re here for.

“Hi,” you promptly greet after regaining your composure. He’s much more handsome up close, and you hadn’t been prepared for that. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but I kind of have a bookshelf that’s a bit too heavy for me to move on my own and I was hoping you could help me? I just moved in across the hall so I’m trying to get settled in, but it’s proving to be more difficult than I anticipated.”

The stoic man can’t help but to let out an amused chuckle at your predicament; you appear so jumpy and nervous after asking such a mundane request, but he oddly finds it endearing. Bucky was known to keep to himself and avoid interactions with other tenants, but he figured he could make an exception for a new neighbor.

“Sure,” he offers with a friendly smile, feeling oddly proud at the look of relief that washes over your features in response. He didn’t exactly have any exciting plans for the evening, so he could spare some time to help you move your heavy shelf.

“Thank you so much, you’re a lifesaver!” You exclaim before offering your hand for him to shake. “I’m y/n, by the way.”

“James,” he replies before cautiously taking your hand in his left one, thankful for the fact he’d left his leather gloves on when returning home. You don’t seem to notice his abnormality as you pull your hand away and lead the man into your apartment.

Unsurprisingly, it’s sparsely decorated and overflowing with boxes that have yet to be unpacked, but there are hints of personal touches spread throughout. The bookshelf in question sits in the center of the room, and by the scratches in the floor Bucky can tell you’d fruitlessly attempted to move it yourself before seeking his help.

“Just tell me where you want it,” he prompts you before grabbing the edges of the shelf.

“I was thinking of having it up against this wall next to the couch,” you explain while wildly gesturing with your hands towards the empty space. “At least, it will be against the couch once I buy one…”

“I take it you didn’t bring a lot of furniture with you,” he jokes lightheartedly despite how awkward he feels being in the apartment of a woman he’s only known for about three minutes. He moves the shelf with minimal effort, though he plays up the amount of strain he experiences so that you don’t become suspicious of how incredibly strong he is compared to the average man.

“I was kind of in a rush to leave the last place I was staying so I brought what I could,” you explain with a sheepish smile. “Thank you again for this, by the way.”

“Don’t mention it,” he replies easily before stepping back to admire his work. “This good?”

“It’s perfect, thank you.”

“Anything else you need?” He offers, but you simply shake your head in response.

“I think that should be it for now, but if something comes up you’ll be the first to know,” you joke with a smile, appearing more at ease now with the man. Your face brightens before you wordlessly disappear into the kitchen, leaving Bucky alone and unsure if he should make his exit or not. However, before he can make a decision you quickly return with a Tupperware full of muffins. “Here, I just baked these an hour ago so they’re still pretty fresh.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” he tries to deflect with a bashful smile, but you’re insistent he take the container from your grasp and practically shove it into his hands.

“Really, take them. Consider them thank you muffins for allowing me to briefly inconvenience you.”

Letting out a small huff of amusement, Bucky finally relents with a nod and accepts your offering. “Thank you.”

“Well, I won’t keep you any longer,” you proclaim with a sigh before walking him out the door. “Have a good rest of your night, and don’t be a stranger.”

You part with a friendly wave before gently shutting the door behind him, leaving Bucky to stand aimlessly in the hallway with the container of muffins in his hands. He feels oddly warm and content inside, emotions that rarely follow interactions with strangers, but he figures you’re not really a stranger now.

However, you have interrupted his evening, for Bucky spends the rest of the night thinking about your smile.

~~~

Three days pass before Bucky decides to seek you out.

He isn’t sure what compels him to become so bold, but he knows that he has to see you again. You haven’t left his mind in days despite how hard he tries to push the thoughts down, so he figures he might as well get it over with and attempt to start another conversation. He can’t exactly recall any of his old moves back from his own time or know if they’re still reliable, so he approaches the situation the only way he knows how.

“Hey, neighbor,” he greets with a timid smile when you finally open your door. You look surprised to see him, but he doesn’t miss the way your eyes brighten at his presence. You thought the man charming but quiet and assumed his reserved nature meant he liked to keep to himself, so you’re pleased to see him again after the bookshelf fiasco.

“Hi, James,” you say with a pleasant smile. “What brings you here?”

“I was hoping I could trouble you for a cup of sugar?” He asks, face immediately heating with embarrassment at the insanely cliche request. James had a perfectly good container of sugar in his own apartment, but you didn’t need to know that.

“Of course! I actually just went grocery shopping, come in.”

Your apartment looks vastly different from the last time he’d been here, more personal touches spread throughout and only a handful of unpacked boxes still remaining. It feels warm and inviting, and Bucky swallows nervously as he processes the fact that this is only his second time in your space. Maybe he should leave you alone before he gets in too deep, before he has to ruin your camaraderie by coming clean about the person he really is and you decide that you don’t want an ex-assassin in your apartment anymore. Instead, he chooses to make small talk.

“How are you liking it here so far?”

“It’s nice,” you hum thoughtfully as you reach for the sugar up on the shelf. Bucky quickly looks away when your shirt starts to ride up with your reach, but he can’t ignore the way his stomach flips at the sight of a little skin. “Everyone I’ve met so far is friendly and it seems really peaceful. I like having my own place again.”

“Were you living with someone before?” Bucky prods, hoping he’s not asking too many questions. You smile faintly as you begin to pour the sugar into a small jar, but he notes the way it doesn’t reach your eyes.

“Yeah, uh, my fiancé. Or, ex-fiancé now, I guess,” you murmur with a humorless chuckle. “It didn’t work out.”

Your usually cheerful demeanor has now dulled, and Bucky feels guilty for having brought it up in the first place. He isn’t exactly sure what to say or do to make it better, but thankfully you choose to save the conversation for him.

“What are you using the sugar for, by the way?”

Bucky stiffens, eyes widening slightly as he realizes he didn’t rehearse a script to go along with his lie. He wasn’t making anything, but he didn’t think he could flat out tell you that the sugar was just an excuse to see you again.

“Apple pie,” he quickly replies, wincing at the abruptness of his tone while you smile and carefully slide the jar of sugar across the counter his way.

“Sounds good. I’m more of a pumpkin pie girl, myself,” you hum thoughtfully.

“Yeah, I’m not really a pie person at all. Just thought I’d try something new,” Bucky offers with a sheepish grin, eyes glancing around the apartment only to notice the empty space next to the bookshelf. “Still haven’t found a couch?”

“Nope,” you relent with a tired sigh. “I’ve been meaning to go couch shopping, but I’m kind of worried about how I’m gonna even get it up the stairs and into the apartment by myself.”

“I can help you with that,” Bucky blurts before he can stop himself. You appear taken aback at first, but a look of relief soon washes over your features at his words.

“Oh my god, would you really?” You exclaim with delight, and before Bucky can even process what’s happening you’re quickly throwing your arms around the man in an appreciative hug. He stiffens immediately upon contact, not used to such acts of affection and especially not from a woman as pretty as yourself. You, however, don’t seem to notice his awkward demeanor in the slightest. “You have no idea how much I appreciate you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he offers bashfully as he tries not to let you see how much of an impact your touch has on him.

“Does tomorrow around one sound good?”

“It sounds perfect,” he replies earnestly.

It isn’t until later in the evening that he realizes he’s never been couch shopping before.

~~~

As Bucky promised, he accompanies you in your search for a couch and helps you carry it into your living room. It nestles in perfectly next to your shelf, and you couldn’t be more thrilled.

You invite him to stay for a movie in celebration of finally having a spot to sit, and though he promised Sam he’d meet him for dinner he doesn’t have the heart to say no to you. That’s how Bucky ends up nestled next to you on the couch enjoying his first ever viewing of Silence of the Lambs.

“So you’re telling me you’ve really never seen this movie before?”

“I guess you could say it’s been on my bucket list,” he admits with a diffident laugh, grateful you’re none the wiser to the truth his words hold.

“It’s one of my favorites!” You gush enthusiastically before passing him the bowl of untouched popcorn. “But I think that might make me sound crazy to admit out loud.”

“Crazy is good,” Bucky assures you with a tender smile, chest tightening at the way your eyes light up in response to his words. “I like crazy.”

You settle into the movie together with ease, enjoying snacks and answering any questions Bucky has about the film. It amazes him how naturally he can fall into spending time with you, almost as if you were merely long lost friends and not strangers who lived across the hall from one another. He hadn’t felt this way since Steve, but even then, what he felt with you was different. Special. You existed outside of his life as a Sargent or the Winter Soldier, and he enjoyed having you help him fulfill his need for normalcy.

A random sitcom now plays to provide background noise as you and Bucky continue to converse way past the movie’s end. You long to know more about the handsome stranger who has slowly become a normal part of your routine, and you hang onto every word he says no matter how heavy your eyelids feel.

“I’m not sure if I have a favorite song, but I definitely think I won’t be able to get ‘Goodbye, Horses’ out of my head for the next few days after watching that movie,” he confesses with a wry grin that has you quietly giggling into your hand.

“You seem like the type of guy who listens to oldies,” you note with a thoughtful hum, prompting him to shift uncomfortably from his place on the couch. “Would you say you have an old soul?”

“Something like that,” Bucky notes with a wince. He wants nothing more than to be completely honest with you, but he fears it may be too soon to unload his history on you. He’s not sure he could handle the hurt that would come from you pushing him away if you didn’t like the truth. “Do you like that type of music?”

“I did at one point, but I kind of fell out of it once I started dating my ex-fiancé. He hated it,” you note while scrunching your nose in distaste at the mere mention of the man. “He hated everything, if I’m being honest.”

“Is that why you called it off and moved here?” Bucky asks before he can stop himself. He doesn’t mean to pry or be invasive of your past, but he wants to understand how any man could fumble an absolute gem like yourself.

“Well, that, and the fact that he had a habit of getting physical with me,” you confess casually with a despondent smile that fails to reach your eyes. Bucky rears back in shock at your confession, prompting you to quickly interject, “But I got out of there as fast as possible, and now I’m much happier on my own.”

“I’m… I’m so sorry you had to go through that,” Bucky offers gently. “I hope you know how incredibly strong you are.”

Smiling, you carefully reach across and take his gloved hand in your own. Despite not being able to feel the touch of your skin, the warmth you emit is enough to have his heart racing in his chest when you tightly clasp his hand.

“You’re unlike any guy I’ve ever met, James.”

“Bucky,” he corrects you gently. Your brows furrow slightly in response, prompting him to let out a small chuckle at your puzzlement. He gently gives your hand a squeeze before continuing, “My friends just call me Bucky.”

Realization sets as your brows lower and lips pull into a delighted smile at his clarification. You gently return the squeeze before nodding in understanding, thrilled at the idea of having your first official friend in the city.

“Okay,” you agree softly, “Bucky it is.”

~~~

You knock on Bucky’s door with the hopes of having him over for dinner, but it isn’t your neighbor that greets you on the other side.

“Can I help you, little lady?” The man says with a playful smile. His stature is intimidating but his features are kind, and for a moment you find yourself forgetting what you even came for in the first place.

“Is Bucky home by chance?” You ask with a bashful smile, hoping your eagerness to see the man in question isn’t too obvious to his guest.

“He should be on his way back with some takeout,” the man explains. “You like Chinese?”

He doesn’t allow you to answer before opening the door wider and allowing you entry into the apartment. It feels wrong to do so without Bucky being present, but you don’t want to be rude by rejecting the kind man’s offer. You swallow nervously when stepping foot into his home for the first time; the apartment is tidy but scarcely furnished, though you’re not one to judge considering you went four days without a couch.

“You a friend of Bucky’s?” The man asks while pulling out a chair from the island counter for you to sit. You nod.

“I just moved in across the hall, and Bucky’s been helping me get settled in. I’m y/n, by the way.”

“Oh, so you’re y/n,” he says with a knowing smile before offering a hand for you to shake. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Name’s Sam.”

“Nice to meet you,” you smile politely before freezing as his words finally settle in your mind. “Wait, really?”

“Of course, Bucky speaks very highly of you,” Sam affirms with a wink.

“What do I speak highly about?” A voice interrupts, prompting you both to turn your heads towards the man juggling boxes of takeout in the doorway. His eyes widen in surprise at your presence before a careful smile settles on his face. “Y/n, what brings you here?”

“I came to see if you wanted to join me for dinner, but I guess I’m jointing you and Sam instead. If that’s okay?”

“Of course it’s okay,” Sam answers for him, heartily clapping the man on the back. “A friend of Bucky’s is a friend of mine.”

You hide your laughter behind your hand at Bucky’s obvious annoyance towards his friend and decide to make yourself useful by setting the table for dinner. Despite this being your first time in his apartment, you’re easily able to find your way around his kitchen. It amazes him how quickly you’re able to make yourself comfortable in his space and how well you mesh into his life as if you’d always been a part of it.

“You never told me she was cute,” Sam murmurs under his breath with a playful nudge to Bucky’s side. The Sargent merely scowls in response before elbowing him back with more strength than necessary. However, the two immediately act inconspicuous when you turn your attention back to them and sit down to enjoy dinner.

“So how do you two know each other?” You ask before taking a bite of broccoli. Bucky gives Sam a pleading glance and attempts to convey his want for you to be kept in the dark about his true identity, and thankfully the Captain is able to pick up on his signals.

“We met through a mutual friend,” Sam answers with ease. “We actually hated each other at first.”

“Hate is a strong word,” Bucky tries to defend only to deflate at the pointed look Sam gives him.

“I don’t know how you can stand living across the hall from him,” Sam quips much to his friend’s chagrin.

“I’m actually really glad to be neighbors,” you confess with a sheepish smile, face heating with embarrassment while you try to avoid Bucky’s gaze. “I didn’t think I’d be able to make any friends when I first moved here, but he’s made it so much easier on me.”

“What are neighbors for?” Bucky offers with a careful smile before finally meeting your gaze. The room is charged with romantic tension as you two take in the other’s presence, and Sam makes sure to point this out to Bucky hours later when you finally return to your own apartment.

“I’m telling you, dude, she’s into you!” Sam exclaims from his place behind the sink. “You should go for it.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bucky rebuffs with a scoff while taking a freshly washed plate from Sam and placing it on the drying rack.

“You’re kidding, right? You think I didn’t notice the eyes you were giving her?”

“What eyes?”

“You know, the eyes,” Sam emphasizes, immediately imitating the look of longing Bucky had worn earlier in your presence. The soldier’s face scrunches in bewilderment before he quickly shakes his head in displeasure.

“Don’t do that, that’s not what I look like.”

“That’s exactly what you look like,” his friend defends before handing him another plate. “Look, all I’m saying is it wouldn’t hurt to maybe tell the girl how you feel and invite her out for something nicer than Chinese takeout.”

“Alright, let’s say I ask her out. I pull out all the stops, and it goes perfect. She decides I’m the guy she wants to be with, and I decide that I need to come clean about who I really am in order for that to happen? What happens when I tell her she’s dating the Winter Soldier? When I tell her about the blood on my hands? She doesn’t even know about the arm.”

Sam is silent after Bucky’s line of questioning, and unsurprisingly, he doesn’t have an answer. The super soldier sighs before slumping against the island counter and allowing his head to hang in shame and regret.

“I’ve already lost one good friend. I don’t know if I can handle losing another,” he admits quietly, almost afraid to voice the thought aloud.

Sam rests a comforting hand on Bucky’s shoulder but remains silent, contemplating his next words before finally giving him a reassuring pat on the back.

“You’ll never know if you don’t try,” he reminds him gently. “And you and I both know this girl is worth the risk.”

Bucky smiles faintly at Sam’s words, thoughts already straying to you and the light you’ve managed to bring to his life. He knows his friend is right, but he still can’t bring himself to make a move, at least not yet.

All he can do is hope you won’t mind having an ex-assassin super soldier for a boyfriend.

~~~

A harsh thunderstorm plagues New York and cuts off the power to your building. Your apartment is shrouded in candlelight as you make the best of what you have, and you’re grateful for the fact that Bucky so graciously offered to come over and keep you company until the electricity is restored.

“I hate thunderstorms,” you shudder after lighting another candle to set on the coffee table. “They weren’t very common where I was from.”

“They’re a little loud,” Bucky agrees pensively. Each clap reminds him of his foggy past in the war, and he finds himself fighting to keep the unwelcome memories at bay.

You seat yourself on the couch across from the man and drape your throw over your legs to keep you warm. The living room is freezing now that the heater is out, and despite the amount of layers you throw on nothing seems to help.

“I don’t think I ever asked this, but what do you do for work?” You prompt him after a moment’s silence. Bucky shifts uncomfortably on the couch.

“I, uh, I’m retired,” he replies lamely while offering you a meager smile. “Army veteran.”

“You served in the army?” You ask with piqued interest, shifting a bit closer to the man. “What did you do?”

“I was a Sargent.”

“I never would have guessed,” you say thoughtfully.

“It was so long ago, I don’t… really like to talk about it,” Bucky confesses, refusing to meet your gaze. He knows he’s not technically lying to you, but he’s also aware of the fact that he’s not giving you the entire truth. He doesn’t know how to be straightforward with you, too petrified of risking you becoming afraid of him and withdrawing yourself, but he can only hide his true identity for so long before you find out.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you immediately apologize only for Bucky to assure you it’s fine. “We can talk about something else. How’s Sam?”

“That topic actually might be worse,” he grimaces, but his lighthearted smile that follows signals he’s only kidding. “Sam is good, just busy.”

“Being Captain America?” You finish for him with a raised brow much to Bucky’s surprise.

“You know?”

“I don’t think it’s exactly a secret,” you reply with a sheepish smile while wrapping the throw tighter around yourself. “He looked so familiar when I first met him, and a quick internet search helped me put it together pretty quickly.”

Bucky’s heart leaps into his throat at your words. If you’d done your due diligence on Sam, who’s to say you hadn’t done the same for him? Knowing you, he feels it’s safe to assume you would have brought it up by now if you had found any real information about his past, and he tries to remind himself of this as he attempts to quell the panic bubbling inside him.

“I won’t tell anyone that I met him personally or that he visits this apartment building,” you assure him, incorrectly assuming the reason for his panic is a need to protect Sam’s privacy. “Not that I really have anyone to tell considering you’re my only friend here.”

“Thank you for that,” Bucky breathes out in relief, anxious to move on from the conversation. “But what about your friends back home?”

“I didn’t really have any,” you quietly admit. You look away almost shamefully and take a moment to collect yourself before you can meet his eyes again. “My friends were my fiancé’s friends, and I knew they would never pick my side over his if I told anyone the type of man he really was. I knew if I wanted to get away I had to cut them off too or they’d just tell him where I’d run off to.”

Bucky knows he has no right, but every time you mention your ex-fiancé he can almost feel the anger boiling inside him. He can’t comprehend how anyone could ever mistreat someone as wonderful and kind as you, and he knew if he ever got the chance to meet the man he’d make him pay for all the hurt and anguish he’d caused you. Bucky almost felt like your protector in a sense, like it was his responsibility to look after you now that you were alone in such a big city, and he hoped you didn’t mind the fact.

A sudden clap of thunder has you nearly jumping into the air as you immediately throw yourself at Bucky’s side and anxiously grip onto his arm. He’s grateful for the fact that it’s his right arm you hold onto, but he still finds himself stiffening at the sudden closeness. It’s been years since a beautiful dame has thrown herself at him like this, and his brain feels like it’s overloading as he tries to process the moment.

“I’m sorry,” you offer meekly, clearly embarrassed at your frightened outburst. You start to move away only for Bucky to pull you back, prompting you to look up at him in surprise.

“Don’t be sorry,” he assures you with a comforting smile. “That’s what I’m here for.”

You find yourself slowly relaxing at his benevolent demeanor, and with his permission you slowly ease yourself back into his side and allow him to wrap an arm around your trembling figure.

The rain continues to pour outside your modest apartment, but you find yourself able to fall asleep in the comfort of Bucky’s embrace. The man never makes an attempt to move, not even when the power returns and the lights finally turn on. Instead, he allows himself to enjoy the warmth your closeness brings and admires your relaxed features as you sleep soundly with your head resting comfortably against his shoulder.

He could get used to this.

~~~

You scored a job as a waitress at a nearby diner to help pay your bills now that you’re completely on your own and your savings are beginning to run low, and Bucky notices that you’re gone from your apartment more often than not. His knocks go unanswered, and he finds himself feeling sullen in response to your sudden absence. You’ve invited him multiple times to come visit you at work and enjoy a free slice of pie, and on this particular day he decides to take you up on your offer.

It isn’t a long walk from the building, and he appreciates having an excuse to leave his apartment for once. His stomach is twisted in nervous knots at the thought of finally getting to see you again while he rehearses what he plans to say. Bucky’s boyish charm isn’t what it used to be, and his romantic moves are rusty from years of inaction. However, he is able to remember one move in particular that always went over well with the girls back in his day, and for that reason he stops at a local flower stand to buy you the nicest bouquet of roses he can find.

Bucky is a man in love, and if his gift goes over well, he plans to finally come clean and tell you everything about his past so that he can have a chance at being with you. No more beating around the bush.

The diner is empty save for a few occupied booths, and this makes it easier to spot you when he sets foot through the front doors. Though the sight of you immediately brings a smile to his face, it quickly fades when he notes the distress on your features. Your eyes are wide with fear, hands moving frantically as you speak to a man Bucky doesn’t recognize, and he doesn’t miss the relief that seems to wash over you when you meet his eyes from across the room and silently plead for help.

“Bucky!” You call with a nervous smile, anxiously wringing your apron in your trembling hands. “Perfect timing.”

“Who’s this?” He asks with a raised brow, eyeing the stranger up and down methodically. Bucky could easily take the man without question, but he still didn’t like the look of him. The man’s eyes were shifty and calculating, and his demeanor was one of arrogance and callousness.

“Bucky, this is Michael-“

“Her fiancé,” Michael boasts proudly with a braggart smile.

“Ex-fiancé,” you correct him through gritted teeth, “and he was just leaving.”

“Fine, fine,” Michael offers before raising his hands in surrender. “I know when I’m not wanted, but don’t think this is over.”

Bucky grunts in irritation when Michael goes out of his way to harshly bump his shoulder against your friend as he pushes his way out of the diner, leaving you a terrified mess as you stand trembling in the middle of the walkway. You swallow thickly and meet Bucky’s gaze with an apologetic smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“I’m sorry about that,” you offer quietly, hands still nervously wringing your apron. Bucky notes the subtle quiver of your bottom lip and the way your lashes flutter quickly to hold back tears. You look terrified, and he hates to see you so wound up.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Bucky assures you gently as he sets the bouquet aside and takes your unsteady hands in his gloved ones. “Maybe you should sit down a minute and take a breath, yeah?”

“Yeah…” you murmur quietly before allowing him to gently ease you into the nearest booth. In your panic you hadn’t even noticed the flowers he’d brought, and despite your frenzied state you’re still able to offer him a bashful smile for his efforts. “Are these… are they for me?”

Nodding, Bucky grins before handing you the bouquet. “They’re for you, pretty girl. I thought they’d look nice in your apartment.”

“Thank you… for these, and for saving me back there. I can’t believe I froze like that.”

“What happened?” Bucky presses gently, wanting to know every detail possible so he can better protect you moving forward. You let out a shaky breath and absently fidget with the ribbon tying the flowers together as you begin to relay the events to your friend.

“I did everything I could to cover my tracks and start over, but he still managed to find me,” you murmur in defeat. “He wants me to come back home with him, and he says he won’t take no for answer. I don’t know what to do- he knows where I work, and it will only be a matter of time before he figures out where I live-“

“Hey,” Bucky urges gently, affectively stopping you from spiraling. “Nothing is going to happen to you under my watch. I’ll have Sam look into the guy, and in the meantime I’ll do whatever you need to feel safe, whether that’s walking you to work or crashing on your couch so you can sleep at night.”

You give him a watery smile and immediately rush to his side of the booth so you can throw yourself into his arms for a hug. He returns the embrace immediately, taking extra care not to use too much force with his vibranium arm while he holds you tightly to his chest. You don’t know when he’d managed to steal your heart, but you know that you’re falling in love with your neighbor from across the hall. He makes it so easy and has fallen into your life like a puzzle piece you hadn’t realized was missing from the picture. Unlike the men in your past, Bucky treats you with the utmost care and respect, and you adore him more than anything.

Bucky will keep good on his promise, and you trust him with your entire being to keep you safe.

~~~

As promised, Bucky has made it his own personal mission to be your bodyguard during your time of need. He drops you off and picks you up from work, accompanies you when you have to run out for groceries, and spends his nights sleeping on your couch. You feel guilty over the fact that the man is hardly ever in his own apartment anymore, so after some convincing you’re able to talk him into letting you cook him dinner at his place.

“Any word from Sam?” You prompt quietly while stirring a pot of marinara sauce on the stove. Life has been uneventful since Michael’s appearance at the diner, but you hate having to constantly look over your shoulder wherever you go. You don’t enjoy being on edge every waking moment and not being able to get a good night’s sleep, and you just want this whole situation to be over with.

“He hasn’t been able to find anything about your ex or his whereabouts. The man knows how to stay hidden,” Bucky replies with a scoff. The mere mention of him has the super soldier’s blood boiling, but he tries to remain composed for your sake. “But don’t worry. He can’t hide forever.”

Dinner is a quiet affair, and Bucky is disheartened to see how dejected and small you’ve become in the past few days. You aren’t yourself, not that he can blame you, but he just wishes there was something he could do to help you.

Nightfall comes soon after, and Bucky helps you get settled into bed. Despite being in his own apartment, he’s adamant that you take the mattress while he resumes his position on the couch. He thinks it will be safer that way, and he’ll be able to hear any threats before they make their way into the apartment.

“Try to get some sleep, doll,” Bucky utters softly, gently brushing his knuckles along your cheek before making his exit.

“Will you stay?” You blurt without thinking, surprising both you and Bucky as he stops in his tracks.

“Y/n, I… I don’t know,” he starts to say only for you to gently take hold of his hand and carefully tug him back towards you.

“I haven’t been able to sleep, and I’d feel better if you were here next to me,” you plead meekly, the exhaustion clear in your features. Bucky finds it hard to say no to you when you stare up at him with doe eyes and a trembling bottom lip; the sight pulls at his heartstrings, and so he finds himself carefully crawling into bed with you.

“Thank you,” you whisper gratefully as you shift onto your side to face him. Your noses are mere inches apart as you stare into each other’s eyes and enjoy the comfort of being together in bed.

“You’ll never have to thank me for wanting to take care of you,” Bucky whispers back while carefully pulling the blankets up higher over your shoulders. You feel the leather of his gloves brush against your bare skin and shudder before peering over at him.

“You sleep in those?” You voice curiously, prompting him to immediately stiffen in response. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without those gloves on.”

“I… have a prosthetic arm,” he confesses quietly, figuring now is as good a time as ever to tell you the truth. He refuses to meet your gaze as his lips pull tightly together into a frown, waiting for you to say something.

“Oh,” you hum softly. His heart pounds in his chest as he waits for judgement or disgust, but instead he feels your hand gently rest upon his left bicep. His entire body tenses, and he watches with bated breath as you run your fingers along the fabric of his long-sleeve shirt. You can’t feel the coolness of the metal, but you can sense the lack of flesh and muscle. He’s not sure how you’d never noticed before, but you weren’t exactly one for details.

“If it makes you uncomfortable I can sleep on the couch-“

“I think it’s cool,” you interrupt with a careful smile, no hint of insincerity or judgement in your tone. “You don’t have to show me if you don’t want to, but I don’t think it’s anything to be ashamed of.”

Bucky lets out an embarrassed huff of laughter and grapples with himself over your naivety. Would your opinion change if you knew what he’d done with his prosthetic arm as the Winter Soldier? He feels conflicted, but overall at ease with the fact that you seem receptive to his artificial appendage.

“You’re the sweetest girl I’ve ever met,” Bucky compliments you before leaning forward to press his lips against your forehead. You find yourself moving closer so that you’re pressed against his chest, and it almost feels natural to him when he wraps his arms around your frame and pulls you tightly against him.

Nestled in Bucky’s warm embrace, you’re able to enjoy your first peaceful night of sleep since Michael’s return.

~~~

Bucky leaves your sleeping form behind the next morning to pick up breakfast sandwiches from the nearby bodega for you both. He doesn’t exactly have the supplies necessary to make a homemade breakfast, but he knows you’ll never say no to a coffee and your favorite sandwich. When he returns, he finds that his apartment is empty and you’re missing from the bedroom. Initially he figures you must have gone across the hall to your own place to freshen up for the morning, so he’s not worried.

Bucky decides it best to bring the food over to your apartment, but before he can even knock on your door he’s met with the sound of commotion coming from the other side. He hears your muffled voice frantically speaking to someone followed by the sound of shattered glass, your screams prompting him to break down the door and barge his way into the room.

You sit cowering against your bookshelf while Michael menacingly towers over you. A fresh bruise blooms along your cheek while hot tears make their way down your face, and you look to Bucky pathetically for help while curling in on yourself. The roses he’d bought for you now lay scattered on the ground with shards of glass accompanying them, allowing the man to easily piece together what had occurred in his absence.

“You again,” Michael scoffs before slowly making his approach towards the super soldier. He flashes a snide smile as he condescendingly speaks, “Thanks for looking after my fiancé while I was away, but I got it from here.”

Bucky is unmoving, his eyes cold and unrelenting as his hardened gaze stares down at the intruder. Through your tears you can note the enraged tick of his jaw and the way his hands are tightly clenched at his sides as he holds himself back from doing something he’ll regret.

“She’s made it clear that she doesn’t want you here,” he nearly growls through clenched teeth. “You need to leave.”

“Or what?” Your fiancé provokes with a disbelieving laugh. “You think just because she bats her lashes at you and spends the night in your bed that makes you special? She’s a little attention whore, and you’re an idiot if you think otherwise.”

“You can’t talk about a woman like that,” Bucky utters lowly. His body is vibrating with rage, his ears beginning to ring while the tension continues to build within him. He notes the way you watch on helplessly from your place on the floor, and the last thing he wants to do is scare you by becoming aggressive, but Michael was making this feat more difficult with each second that passed.

“I can talk however I want about my own fiancé, pal,” Michael speaks before giving Bucky a harsh shove. The man remains unmoving, and your attacker momentarily falters when realizing how sturdy his opponent is. “Now do yourself a favor and mind your business.”

“Bucky,” you softly cry out, shoulders trembling and eyes pleading for him not to leave you.

James finds himself taking a deep breath in while allowing his body to relax. Michael’s antagonistic voice drones on, and he knows there’s only one way to remove this man from your apartment and out of your life for good. He just hopes you won’t hate him after what is to come.

His hand immediately shoots out and catches Michael’s throat, effectively cutting off his air supply and his ability to speak. Your startled gasp fills the room as Bucky lifts the man before throwing him through your doorway. He slams against the opposite wall with a deafening thud before landing on the floor, and despite the excruciating pain he feels in his body he still desperately tries to crawl away as Bucky takes slow steps towards him.

“Not so fun when you’re on the receiving end, is it?” Bucky taunts before kneeling down next to him. “You’re lucky I’m letting you leave here while you’re still breathing. But if you ever come here again, if you ever put your hands on her again, if you ever even think about her again, I’ll make sure you leave in a body bag. Is that understood?”

Bucky doesn’t receive an answer, but he knows he’s made his point clear when your ex pathetically scrambles onto his feet and books it down the hallway. Resting his hands on his hips, Bucky lets his head hang with a sigh. He didn’t enjoy having to berate the man in front of you, but he can at least take pride in the fact that your ex-fiancé will never bother you again thanks to him.

Bucky quietly makes his way back into your apartment and finds you carefully picking up the scattered shards of glass. You remain silent, even when he kneels down to help you, and he begins to worry that maybe he had gone too far.

“You okay?” He asks you in the softest tone he can manage. Your tired eyes peer up at him through wet lashes, and it takes you a moment to gather your thoughts before you can reply.

“Your glove came off,” you murmur quietly, and Bucky almost isn’t able to catch it.

“What?” He repeats before slowly turning his gaze to his left hand. Sure enough, his usual leather glove is missing and his metal hand is on full display. He swallows down the lump in his throat despite the building anxiety he feels, clenching and unclenching his fingers before looking back up at you. He must have lost it in the scuffle, and he’d been too engrossed in making his point clear to notice.

“That’s not a normal prosthetic arm… is it?” You feebly prompt him. Bucky refuses to meet your gaze and quickly stands himself upright before slowly backing away from you. He feels suffocated by his shame and his guilt, and as he takes in his surroundings he realizes that his worst fear is manifesting itself into reality right before his very own eyes.

He wordlessly leaves your apartment and swiftly locks himself back into his own living space. The walls are closing in around him, and Bucky can do nothing but let his anguish consume him.

He’d ruined everything.

~~~

You haven’t heard from Bucky in over a week and your knocks to his door go unanswered. You’re all alone again, and the isolation is suffocating.

You miss the man who had became a part of your daily routine and infiltrated your space with his kindness and warmth. You had fallen in love with him, your heart aching for him every time he was away, and now only a tightness in your chest remained in his absence. You hadn’t meant to embarrass him when pointing out his arm, and you meant what you said when you told him he had nothing to be ashamed of. Everything had happened so quickly you hadn’t had a chance to explain yourself, to explain that despite the fact that you knew everything, your opinion hadn’t changed of him.

Your meeting with Sam had led to a deep dive into the history of Captain America, so it shouldn’t have been a surprise that your search had led you to a plethora of information on the hero’s close friend James Buchanan Barnes. You knew you should have stopped yourself from reading further and instead asked Bucky to explain everything to you instead, but once you started reading you couldn’t stop. You were overloaded with information about his time in the war, his relationship with Steve Rogers, his affiliation with Hydra as the Winter Soldier, and his role in the fight against Thanos. It overwhelmed you, but it did not deter you from the man or prompt you to end your friendship with him. You weren’t afraid of him, and you worked desperately to get him to see that.

You hold a freshly baked batch of cookies in one hand while the other relentlessly knocks on his front door. You’ve been at this for about a good five minutes, and though it has earned you annoyed looks from neighbors that pass by you in the hallway, you’re determined not to give up until he sees you.

“Bucky, please,” you beg in exasperation, knuckles beginning to turn red from the constant impact against the wood of the door. “I know you’re in there so please come out. I can’t take this anymore.”

You’re met with silence, but this doesn’t deter you in the slightest; you know he’s in there and can hear your pathetic pleas. What you don’t know, however, is that he’s leaned right against the door on the other side watching you through the peephole. His mind is filled with turmoil as one part of him screams to open the door and let you in while the other insists this is for the best. What good does he have to offer you as an ex-assassin? What kind of life can you live tied down to the Winter Soldier? Bucky can’t bring himself to put you through the torment and the danger that comes with being his partner, and he curses himself for ever letting you get close to him in the first place.

“I miss you,” he hears you relent, voice wavering as you fight back tears. “You’re my best friend.”

Bucky can physically feel his chest tighten at your confession, and it takes everything in him to not open the door. He doesn’t think he can stand the torture any longer, and he begins to move towards his bedroom only for your voice to stop him in his tracks.

“I know everything,” you utter gently, prompting his heart to leap anxiously in his chest at your confession. “I know that you were a Sargent in World War ll, and your best friend was Steve Rogers. I know you’re the Winter Soldier. I know… I know that in spite of all of that, you’re the kindhearted man who befriended the complete stranger that knocked on your door and asked for help to move a bookshelf. You’re more than your past, and it doesn’t scare me like you think it does. I… I love you.”

You let your forehead fall against the door and shut your eyes, waiting with bated breath for any sort of response or movement from the other side of the door. You’re given nothing, and it’s now that you start to realize your friendship with Bucky is most likely over. You slowly back away from the door and set the plate of cookies beside it before taking one last longing look at his apartment.

“I’m sorry. I won’t bother you anymore,” you finally sigh, turning to make your way back to your own apartment. However, the click of the lock turning causes you to freeze in your tracks, and you hesitantly turn around to face the man whose door you’ve been assaulting for the past ten minutes.

His blue eyes are glossy with tears that threaten to fall, and his tired features display the torment he’s endured while isolating himself from you. He looks at you almost in astonishment, and for a moment neither of you dares to move or speak. You don’t know what to say or how much he’d heard.

“You…” he starts to say before taking a nervous swallow. “You said you loved me?”

You manage to flash him a meager smile while anxiously stuffing your hands in your pockets and casting your sheepish gaze to the floor. “I thought that was obvious. Why else would I be showing up at your door all the time?”

A quiet laugh of disbelief leaves him at your words, and Bucky feels confident enough now to leave the doorway of his apartment and take a step closer towards you.

“So this,” he says while raising his left hand and flexing his fingers, “doesn’t bother you?”

“Why would it when that very arm kept me safe?” You utter gently, taking another step closer so that the space between you grows smaller. You hesitantly bite the inside of your cheek before slowly raising your hand and offering it to Bucky. A pregnant pause fills the air as he stares down at your outstretched fingers, his brows furrowing with uncertainty while he hesitantly clasps your hand in his artificial one.

The metal is cool against your palm and brings an instant sense of comfort as you lock your fingers together. You fit together perfectly as if your hand had been made for him, and a funny feeling tingles within his chest as Bucky comes to this realization.

“I’m sorry for shutting you out,” he professes earnestly, gently pulling you against his chest so that he can wrap his arms around your figure. “Everything felt too real, and I was terrified of the possibility that you might not want to be around me anymore.”

“You could never do anything to scare me away,” you assure him gently, your eyes full of sincerity as you peer up at him. “I meant what I said, Bucky. You’re my best friend, and I love you.”

“I love you too, doll,” he murmurs with an adoring smile. Using the tips of his metal fingers, Bucky gently angles your face so that he can meet your lips in a kiss. Your eyes immediately flutter shut as you melt against him and savor the feeling of being so close to the man you’d missed so dearly while you were apart.

It’s as if the rest of the world fades away while you share your tender embrace in the middle of the hallway where you’d first met months ago. You came to the city for a new start, but Bucky never would have guessed that your arrival would signal the start of his own new beginning.

A bookshelf brought you into each other’s worlds, and a kiss in the hallway would keep you together for the rest of your lives.

#mel writes #mcu #marvel #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky x reader #bucky imagine #mcu x reader #mcu imagine

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lovelybucky1 · 8 months ago

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Ain’t as Good as I Once Was

warnings: old man!logan x AFAB!reader, riding, bratting, dom/sub dynamics, daddy kink, age gap, punishment, degradation, 18+ minors dni, divider from @strangergraphics

“C’mon, girlie, if you want it, you’re gonna have to take it yourself,” Logan’s gruff voice says from below you.

You’re sitting on his lap, trying desperately to fuck yourself on his cock as he sigs back and watches you. Despite your begging, Logan refuses to do the work for you.

“I’m too old for this shit. If you’re that fuckin’ horny, you can take care of it yourself,” he told you smugly.

You sank down on his cock and have been trying to bounce on it, but the strain on your thighs is too much to reach a satisfying pace.

“Please, Daddy, can’t you just fuck me?” you whine pathetically. Logan smirks a bit and chuckles through his nose.

“I ain’t as good as I once was, dollface. I doubt my old bones can fuck you the way you want me to,” he says, not seeming apologetic in the slightest.

You know he’s full of shit. He may be old and gray, but his healing factor keeps him in peak condition. He’d be able to fuck you just fine, he’s just a crotchety old man who wants to see you suffer for his entertainment.

He places a large hand on your hip and starts gently guiding you, urging you to rock back and forth. You follow his movements and while it’s better than what you were attempting, it’s still not what you want.

“You’re a spoiled fuckin’ princess, that’s the problem. So used to Daddy takin’ care of ya, you forgot how to ride, is that it?” Shamelessly you bite your lip and nod.

You wouldn’t call yourself spoiled. Well cared for is a better term. Logan never lets his girl go to bed unsatisfied, and now he’s suffering from the consequences of his actions.

“C’mon, flip me over and fuck me,” you say.

Logan raises an eyebrow at you.

“Who do you think you are, givin’ orders? If I want you to ride my cock, then that’s what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna fuck that pretty pussy with it until she’s had her fill.”

Logan lets go of your hip but you keep up with the same pace he set. With his hand now freed, he reaches over to the nightstand to grab his cigar and lighter. He lights up and smokes it as if he were at the bar, not in bed, deep inside his girl.

He looks up at you, bored, as smoke pours out of his mouth. You’ve been riding the edge of just enough for the past fifteen minutes and you’re getting increasingly frustrated with Logan’s lack of help. You briefly consider being more of a brat in hopes of egging him on enough to punish you with a hard fuck, but with the kind of mood he’s in, it’s likely that the punishment would be stopping entirely.

You let your head hang down as you brace yourself with your hands on his chest. The solid muscle covered in gray hair is hot, unnaturally so, under your touch and you desperately want to feel that heat on your back while he fucks you from behind.

“Daddy,” you plead quietly.

“What’s the matter, dollface?” he asks, playing dumb like the tease he is.

“I can’t do it.”

Logan smirks around his cigar like you just said the magic words he’s been waiting to hear this whole time.

“What’re you saying?”

You pout down at him. “I can’t make myself cum. I need you to do it for me”

Logan, surprisingly, grins at you. “Bet you regret calling me an old man now, huh?”

You furrow your brows in confusion, but you quickly realize what he’s talking about. Before this all started, you pounced on his lap and asked him to fuck you. He told you he was busy reading his book, and in your usual bratty fashion, you replied, “What, you can’t get it up, old man?”

“I didn’t mean it, Daddy,” you whine. “I swear, I was just teasing you.”

Logan hums but makes no effort to move. “Guess you better start behaving if you want something from me.”

“I promise I’ll be good. I won’t talk back anymore,” you attempt to bargain.

You both know that’s about as empty of a promise as you could give, but Logan doesn’t seem to care. He prefers when you’re trouble anyway; it’s the game you play. He’s the grumpy and mean and you’re the spoiled, demanding princess.

Logan stubs his cigar out in the ashtray on the nightstand and places both hands on your hips. He lifts you off of him with ease, something that never fails to amaze you, and sets you on the bed next to him.

He moves so he’s kneeling between your legs and holding them up around his waist, his cock lined up at your entrance.

“Spoiled fuckin’ rotten, you are,” he mutters as he pushes inside.

Logan always makes sure his girl goes to bed satisfied, no matter how much of a brat she is.

#logan howlett x you #logan howlett fanfiction #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett smut #logan howlett #logan x reader #wolverine x reader #wolverine fanfiction #wolverine smut #wolverine fanfic #wolverine #x men #x men fanfiction #x men smut #old man!logan

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nezuscribe · 5 months ago

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life as a hit man was dirty but simple, and gojo preferred keeping it that way. he didn’t know his clients names, they didn’t know his. he’d send over proof of his work, they’d wire in the money. dirty, yet simple.

so when he gets a message to kill the daughter of some oil tycoon, he doesn’t think much about it. sure he thinks it’s cheap to go for the kid, but what does he know. this is the most he’s ever been offered for a one shot job, so he’s not an idiot to turn this offer down.

and unfortunately, that meant his next confirmed target was you.

he gets your information, where you go to school, what apartment building you live in, where you like to eat. usually he prefers a straight shot to the head, but sometimes sneaking in something to your food lets him off easier.

gojo gets to know your routine. what you do at what time. what shows you watch, what your favorite sweater is. he watches from the high rises that faces yours, crouching down so none of your bodyguards could see the reflection of the magnifier of his rifle.

and gojo is used to taking out a wide range of people. men, women, grandpas, aunts. it’s just business to him. but there’s something about you that makes him hesitate to pull the trigger.

maybe it’s the fact that the weeks he’s spent trailing after you he’s noticed you’re pretty much a loner. you keep to yourself, never bothering anyone. you don’t seem to have my friends in your classes, or even out of them. gojo never questions to morals of his clients or who they ask him to kill, but judging you so far you seem to have done…nothing wrong.

you treat the old lady who works in the convenience story with such kindness that gojo wonders if you were born into this level of wealth, because most people of your status treat those beneath them like ants. you always hold the door open for your body guards despite them insisting they do it for you. you always buy some food for the stray cats in the alley you pass, and you never yell when you’re on the phone with your dad, even though gojo tracks those calls and feels the need to yell for you.

it all comes to a moment when you’re at your favorite coffee shop (he knows this because you come here so often), and you’ve managed to weasel away from your bodyguards. he knows they must be freaking out by now, but you just want some alone time.

he’s right there, right behind you, the little pouch of his condition of drugs that instantly kill in his pocket ready, and you turn around with your coffee cup and bump into him.

your eyes seen, letting out a shocked gasp as the iced drink stains his shirt and pants, the cup not empty on the floor.

“oh my god, oh my god,” you stutter out, scrambling to find some napkins, “i’m so so sorry! i didn’t even see you there - gosh,” you shove some napkins into his hands, trying to dapple the coffee away but it does nothing to help, “i can’t believe…!” you trail off, the two of you moving out of line so you don’t hold the others up and your shaking your head in dismay, mad at your clumsiness.

“it’s alright,” he assures you, waving it off as his eyes take in your appearance. “don’t even worry about it, accidents happen.” it’s the first time he’s seen you this close, and he feels that pouch growing heavier in his pocket.

because you’re pretty. really pretty. and he likes the plush of your cheeks, the scrunch of your brows, the way you’re nearly gnawing your lip raw. you seem even prettier in person, and there’s a lump forming in his chest, something he’s never felt before.

“no, no,” you murmur, trying to find the tide pen in your bag, only to realize you left it at home, “and it’s stained too, fuck. i am so sorry about this, you probably have somewhere to be and…” your words trail off as you scramble for your wallet, pulling out some cash as you push it into his hands.

it’s more than he needs to replace the shirt and pants, probably enough to buy him a couple pairs from ralph lauren, but you still seem to think it’s not enough as you look for more.

“it’s no worries at all, i keep an extra of shirts in my car for emergencies like this,” gojo lies smoothly and you look up from your purse, eyes wide in shame. fuck he really likes your eyes too.

“no, please take it, it’ll be on my mind all day if you don’t,” you insist, but he’s shaking his head defiantly, a reassuring smile on his face as he hands the money back to you.

“and it’ll be on my conscience all day if i take it,” he promises you, and after you realize he’s not going to retract his hands you take the cash, shoving it back into your wallet as heat settles all over your body.

of course with your luck you spill coffee all over the most attractive man you’ve ever met.

you still look worried, finding another napkin as you take out a pen from your purse, messily writing something down.

“this is my contact information if you ever need me to replace your clothes,” you hand it over to the man with an apologetic smile, “please don’t hesitate to call me, i know stains and that’s gonna be really hard to get out,” you go to say something else but your eyes dart to the large windows behaubd him, catching sight of your body guards who seem to have seen you, and your face falls.

“i’m really sorry, again, but i have to go,” you mutter as you speed off, waving goodbyes to the stranger as you duck your head down and leave the coffee shop, not wanting to cause another scene as three buff men race in to find you.

gojo stands there almost in a haze, looking at his stained white shirt to the napkin with your number and name on it.

almost as if he didn’t already know it, almost as if you weren’t the girl he’s supposed to kill.

and in that moment he realizes how screwed he is, because he’d rather down that packet right there than shoot you down, and he’s never felt this dread before.

#gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo drabble #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk drabble #satoru x reader

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bunnis-monsters · 2 months ago

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NSFW

Fern x Reader PT3(Final)

part 1

part 2

a/n: this is the final part of Fern’s main story, but not the end! You can still make Fern requests and I may rewrite this mini series in the future when I have time.

Fern had been depressed lately. He was a fairy, a dainty little thing, and you were now pregnant. He watched as you waddled around, struggling to do things.

If he were just bigger, he could ensure you never had to lift a finger.

All he could do was use magic to help when he could. Vines sprouted to grab things out of your reach or play with your pussy when you were feeling needy.

Fern wanted you so badly, to properly fuck into you and stretch out your fat cunt like he had before.

At night his wings fluttered softly as he rubbed your pregnant belly, kissing it. When his child was born, would he even be big enough to hold them? It made his heart ache to even think of such a thing. How could he protect his family when he was the size of a small doll?

That’s why he made a tough decision. Fern backed a bag, kissed your forehead and promised he would be back.

There were tales of a witch that lived in the center of the forest. She’d grant a single wish for anyone that came to her… but for a price.

He knocked once on the dirty window, noticing it was cracked and the wooden frame was chipped. Did anyone even live there?

The door creaked open, an old crone beckoning him in. “Hurry, I don’t have all day. Go on and tell me what you want.”

Fern sat on an upside down teacup, watching as the witch bustled about the dusty old cabin looking through books and half empty potion bottles.

“Uh… I wanted to know if you can make me… the size of a human.”

The witch paused, glancing at him. “I can, for a price. What are you willing to give me in exchange?”

It had been an entire day since you last saw Fern. He wasn’t the type to be out late, always returning before dark, so it was alarming that he had been gone for more than a few hours.

It was a bit hard walking now. You were six months along, but looked like you were closer to nine. Fern liked to joke that you seemed about ready to burst while laying his tiny head on your belly.

You could tell that his size was bothering him even more lately. As your pregnancy progressed, you needed more help, the kind someone as small as him couldn’t provide.

Despite what others may think, Fern was a proud fairy and hated that he wasn’t able to help his pregnant lover.

Fern wanted to provide and care for you, but that wasn’t really possible when he couldn’t even do most things for himself.

When the second day without any sightings of him filled around, you started to panic. It really wasn’t like him to be gone so long, especially when you were carrying his child.

‘Where could he be?’

Nearly a week passed without him. It was both depressing and terrifying, leaving you nearly bedridden at times. Everything seemed harder with Fern gone.

Even if he couldn’t do much of the heavy lifting, he used his magic to keep you from getting morning sickness, always comforted you when you were hormonal, and made sure all of your vegetables stayed fresh.

Without him, the world felt cold and uninviting. He made all the gray clouds disappear, but now that he was gone the sun had left with him.

You sat in your rocking chair as tears fell down your cheeks. After crying so much, your eyes were puffy and sore.

Even knitting for your unborn child was a chore these days, and you had only finished a single foot when you heard a knock at your door.

For a moment you thought Fern would be behind it… but that was stupid. He was the size of your hand, there’s no way he could knock that loud.

You didn’t rush to greet your guest. Instead you slowly put down the onesie you had been knitting and stood.

Trudging towards the door, you slowly unlocked it and pulled towards yourself…

“Hello, my love.”

You were breathless, eyes wide and mouth agape as you looked up to see a hair of brown curls and eyes as green as fresh oak leaves.

A hand reached out, cupping your cheek and swiping at your tears as you began to cry.

“Fern…”

You sobbed into his chest, warms wrapped tightly around him. He hugged you back, his eyes softening when your baby bump pressed into his abdomen.

“I’m so sorry, love. There was something I had to take care of, something so important I had to leave you for a while.”

As your lip wobbled, Fern began to explain what had happened.

After the witch asked him what he’d give in return, Fern was quick to answer.

“My immortality.”

You covered your mouth, eyes going wide as you swallowed harshly. “You… gave that up to be the same size as me?”

He nodded, smiling fondly as he tilted your chin up. “And I’d do it a thousand times over, love.”

Your eyes fluttered shut as he pressed his lips to yours a gentle, yet needy kiss. Although it felt amazing to kiss him after such a stressful week without him, you pulled back after a moment.

“But… why did you stay away for so long?”

Fern went pale, scratching the back of his head with a nervous laugh. “Let’s just say the process to become tall was… long and painful. That old witch enjoyed it too, I’m sure.”

After a moment of simply enjoying each other’s presence, you both walked inside.

After that, Fern waited on you hand and foot. He adored you, that was for sure. Every meal, activity, and even bathroom visit was managed by him.

Fern smiled down at you as he helped you into a bath, his eyes lingering in your heavy and swollen breasts.

When you hissed and winced in pain as your hands brushed against your sensitive nipples, Fern cooed out sympathetically.

“Here, just relax.”

His wings fluttered as his hands groped your fat tits, massaging and squishing them lightly. You let out such a delicious noise that he couldn’t help but lean forward and kiss your neck.

Fern’s cock twitched to life when milk spurted from your perky buds. He always got so hard when he was reminded you were heavily pregnant with his young.

“That’s it, feels good doesn’t it?”

His hand slipped between your legs, a vine replacing the now missing one at your tit while his other continued massaging you.

“Mmph… Fern…”

You had been so needy lately, begging for him to properly fuck you since he had returned. But he was hesitant. Fern didn’t want to potentially harm you or his unborn child…

But with some reassurance from you, the fairy joined you in the tub. He settled you onto his lap, continuing his ministrations.

His cock nudged at your warm cunt, desperate to be enveloped by your velvety walls.

And you wanted him just as much.

Fern groaned against your neck, keeping a hand on your baby bump for leverage as he bounced you up and down on his cock. It felt so good to stretch you out again and have you clench around him.

The vines rubbed at your clit, making you tighten up even more. You came again and again, your body way more sensitive due to your pregnancy.

He loved getting to fill you up with his seed. Watching the hot, white cum leak out of your cunt as he rinsed you off made him want to do it all over again.

But Fern wanted to go easy on you until after your pregnancy.

Months passed by, and Fern held onto your hand as you gave birth. Labor hadn’t been easy, but he was by your side the entire time.

“It’s a girl…”

You held onto your baby, eyes half lidded from exhaustion. Fern was an absolute mess, his eyes puffy and red as he sniffled.

“She’s beautiful…”

Fern handled almost everything as you recovered, and as your baby girl grew, her wings started to slowly develop.

“She has wings… is she..?”

“Immortal? Maybe, but I’m not sure… I impregnated you before the witch took my immortality, but she is half human…”

You kissed her little head, letting her nurse as your now husband knelt in front of you.

“I don’t want that for her, Fern. She would outlive all of us. Wouldn’t that be lonely?”

Fern paused to think, slowly reaching out to place a hand over your belly.

“… it wouldn’t be if we… gave her a sibling.”

And so the two of you had several children through the years, slowly repopulating the fairy race. You’d grow old together, and even if your children lived forever, at least they would have each other.

————————

NSFW TAGLIST: @avalordream @icommitwarcrimes @bazpire @im-eating-rn @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @yoongiigolden @peachesdabunny @murder-hobo @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @i8kaeya @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @keikokashi @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @honey-crypt @karljra @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @enchantedsylveon @mysticranger575 @readeryn68 @danielle143 @kittenlover614 @filthybunny420 @annavittoria-mm @makimamybelovedwife @blubearxy @omglovelylaila @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @fruk-you-usuk-fans @wil10wthetree @hammerhead96-blog @slightlyusedfloormat @bubblez-blop @sunshineangel-reads @heroneki-neko @soapybabyboop @anonymouskiwi

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a-hazbin-reader · 4 months ago

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Not me back on my BS 👀

Imagine being Alastor's wife in life and thinking you had the perfect husband even if he was a little distant most of the time. Then he goes missing, and you spend your entire life searching for him despite everyone around you wanting you to move on

When you die and become an angel you just assume that you'll see beloved Alastor again only to be confused that you can't find him. So you spend your afterlife roaming heaven in search of your husband.

It never crossed your mind that Alastor wasn't in heaven.

Until you find out about Adam and his exorcist army going to hell every year, and then you're stuck with the uncomfortable idea that your husband might be a demon. So you find a way to sneak down into hell during the extermination.

You almost regret the decision once you see the carnage and horror happening around you but you're determined to find Alastor. You don't even care that you're stranded in hell once the extermination is over, you had to know if he was down here.

You're easy prey for demons, so you have to do your best to be discreet about your true nature while you try to get information about Alastor. Only to find yourself surprised and confused when people talk about The Radio Demon instead.

"That couldn't be my husband..."

Your husband was kind, gentle, and warm with you while this Radio Demon sounded cruel, manipulative, and cold-hearted. The idea of these two Alastors being one and the same was baffling to you.

But despite your denial, all the facts lead to back to this overlord, a princess and a hotel... so for the sake of your sanity, you decide to find this hotel and put your fears to rest. You hide your angelic features as best you can and head out with your heart in your throat.

The hotel is beautiful and grand yet a bit creepy feeling, it's also rather empty despite it's large size. You feel swallowed up by it as you step inside, looking around for any sign of your Alastor but finding none.

You're just about to turn around and leave, satisfied that this lead was a dead end when suddenly a tall blonde demon woman in a red suit stops you, all smiles and giddiness. Somewhere in between excited squeals and being dragged around by your arm you manage to catch her name.

"You're Charlie..? As in-"

"OH! Don't let that silly title intimidate you! I'm here to help!"

She starts showing you around the hotel and introducing you to the staff and other guests, obviously assuming you're there to stay.

"Ah, I'm sorry, but I'm not here to be a guest... I'm looking for my husband and heard he might be here."

"You're husband? Well, I'm sorry but you've already met everybody here except for Alastor-"

"What about me~?"

You immediately recognize the voice behind the static, turning to see your husband-The Radio Demon-your Alastor-

He takes you in slowly, his smile faltering every so slightly-more of a twitch really- and his eyes widening in surprise once he realizes you're standing in front of him

"Y/N? What are you doing here?"

You're already walking towards him quickly, drawn to him like a magnet and forgetting all about pretending to be a sinner, wrapping your arms around him as you try not to cry with happiness.

"I've missed you so much, Alastor....I never stopped looking for you-this has to be a mistake why weren't you in heaven? I thought I'd see you again after I died but then you weren't there either and-I had to find you!"

He's stiff and awkward at first, hyper aware of your audience and baffled by your angelic appearance. How did you even get down here?? You didn't belong here-why did you try to find him?

Alastor grabs your arms and makes to push you away but one look at your watery eyes and he melts just like when you two were alive. He suddenly pulls you in tighter instead and refuses to look anybody in the eyes, instead focusing on you.

His wife, his innocent wife who had forced her way into his heart back when he was alive was here in his arms. She left heaven to come find a man who had only married her for the sake of keeping up appearances and stayed with her because she made him feel...something close to love...(it was love) (was not) (was too)

You had no business being in hell, not when there were so many ways you could get hurt down here. So many different ways he could hurt you... So Alastor nuzzled his head into your hair, breathed in your scent and pulled away from you.

Sharp claws scraped against your chin as he forced you to look into eyes that were once so familiar to you, his grip loosened slightly as you cupped his cheek. Even now that his true nature was revealed to you, you were unafraid and enamored with him.

"You should've stayed in heaven, my dear. As much as I have missed you as well... you don't belong down here-"

"I belong with you, I'm not leaving when I only just found you again!"

Your stubbornness when it came to him was always something he had liked about you, he was glad to see you still had it. At a loss for how to send you home and some part of him missing your company, Alastor decided to make a selfish decision.

"Alright my dear, you can stay down here and rot with the rest of us if you wish~ But I must warn you~"

Your relief is cut short when he suddenly pulls you in close by your waist, sharp teeth snarling at you in a twisted evil smile as you stare up at him with wide eyes.

"Warn me about what..?"

Alastor pulls you in a bit closer, lips nearly touching yours when suddenly he drops you and you barely manage to catch yourself. He's chuckling and walking away from you, a mean side to him that you've never seen before.

"You're going to have to deal with the real me now, I do so hope you can handle it~"

Spoiler alert: Wifey can match his freak just fine once she gets the hang of how things work 😏 but he's gotta try not to fall for her~

Ugh had this idea in my head for awhile where wifey is an angel who sneaks into hell to find Alastor but has to come to terms with the fact that he's MEAN 😡 and Alastor has to keep up the mean persona because all he wants is to spoil and coddle wifey but HES NOT IN LOVE HE SWEARS HE WAS ONLY USING HER AND ALL THESE FEELING AND URGES ARE JUST SECOND NATURE FROM MANIPULATING HER FEELINGS

Then maybe a part 2 where wifey realizes that a lot of their relationship is one-sided and she left eternal paradise to be with this jerk but oops- Alastor realizes how whipped he is for her and that he actually loves her

☺️

#hazbin hotel x reader #alastor x reader #alastor hazbin hotel x reader #alastor hazbin x reader #hazbin x reader

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archive4pervs · 9 months ago

Text

LEON'S GUILTY PLEASURE

SIREN IS TYPING . . writing debut! :33 this is my first ever leon fic, so please be nice! 3: i accidentally went a bit too far and made the word count 9.4k words..um..enjoy! reblogs and replies are really helpful & help me stay motivated so if you have any kind words to share, please do! i would love to hear them! i’m sorry for the really long delay in posting this but UHHH!!! idk ;(( my bae 3k helped me with the plot for the call & i hope i tagged everyone ^_^ i did my best to proofread so hopefully it’s good!

CONTAINS: older man leon! x pornstar! reader — age gaps, alcoholism, mutual masturbation, leon is co-depended with your content, he adores you, hinted erectile dysfunction, leon is lonely and sad, reader is there to put on a show for him, video call sex, dildo use, etc!

SYNOPSIS: a lonely man copes with two things, alcohol and porn, one night he comes across a video that catches his eye, pushing him down a spiral of coping through you. he adores you and your work, his only want in life is to get closer to you, and when you make a contest and offer the winner a chance at a one on one call with you, leon jumps at the opportunity.

slumping down onto his bed, a drunk leon kennedy, sat back.

a small groan left his lips as nausea swirled around inside his stomach, he didn’t have food in his system, and his stomach was full of whiskey.

aerial shoot, his favorite.

but, fuck. he overdid it, throughout the whole evening he had been nursing a new bottle of the bitter whiskey, drinking it down like it was water, not caring about the way it burned his throat. by now it was empty, the drug seeping into his system like a blanket, making his body feel hot.

slipping down onto his bed, leon stared blankly at the roof, the room was dark and quiet.

he wasn’t tired, he was drunk, but not tired. another groan came from him, his large calloused hand moving to his face. he rubbed his forehead, trying to ease the throbbing sensation in his head. he had always been tolerant of alcohol, but tonight his body couldn’t take it anymore. he thanked a higher being for not being insanely nauseous, he wasn’t in the mood to spew up the alcohol.

he let out a deep breath before he reached out and grabbed his phone.

hitting the power button, his eyes shut immediately as the blinding light of his phone hit his eyes. “jesus, fuck—“ he grunted, quickly turning down the brightness.

looking at the screen, he wasn’t surprised when he was met with an empty inbox. no texts, no calls, no emails.

a sigh left his lips, the reminder of his loneliness brought a heavy weight inside his chest. looking to his side, there was an empty spot next to him, the bed was cold.

he was lonely.

despite what he tried to tell himself, he craves romance, he craves stability. the idea of living a happy married life was something he dreamed about when he was younger, before 1998, before he became what he is now. now he scoffs at romance because deep down, he knows no one would want to be with an alcoholic old man. his prime is gone a distant memory. he feels like a shell of himself, he doesn’t have much to live for now.

the cycle of self-hatred and self-loathing was part of his daily routine, at night, he gets lost in his thoughts.

he can’t go a day sober, it would kill him. at least that’s what he thinks.

the memories of the people he had lost haunt him, no matter how much time passes, the vacant space he has in his heart doesn’t go away. no matter what he does to try and get rid of it.

the dating scene wasn’t for him, not anymore, not at this age.

he could go and pay for hookers and prostitutes to fulfill his sexual needs, but it was never enough. the pleasure was temporary.

he wasn’t happy.

leon hasn’t been happy in a long time, so long in fact, he doesn’t remember how it feels.

his gaze focused on his phone, he wanted to stop thinking. he needed to forget everything, his grief, his anger, his loneliness. that’s why he relied on alcohol, but tonight he didn’t want to drink himself to sleep.

so, that left him with one more option.

opening the internet on his phone, his dull eyes focused as his fingers typed.

pornhub.com

this was pathetic, leon thought to himself. he was pathetic, and he knew that, but that didn’t stop him from pressing on the top link.

his thumb tapped against the glass screen, entering the website.

he was quickly met with the thumbnails of various sexual acts. from girls with a cock shoved down their throats, to girls getting folded while a man is on top of them. leon was uninterested.

he never liked porn videos made with high production, it was fake, unappealing. the bright lighting, the obnoxious moaning, and the stupid faces the girls make. it was ick worthy, leon always preferred amateur porn. it was charming when a video was poorly produced, with bad quality, and crooked angles. he liked that over other porn videos.

opening the search bar, he typed the word amateur. after clicking search, he scrolled down various videos before he found one that caught his attention.

it was a masturbation video, the title wasn’t crazy either.

college girl masturbates solo :)

it was cute, the little smiley face felt so out of place on a site like this, but it piqued his curiosity. in the thumbnail your hands were between your thighs, and the position of your phone was up — like you were taking a selfie. he didn’t see much of your face, by the angle he could only see your soft lips as you bit your bottom lip. you were wearing a cute set of lingerie, too.

there was something so cute about you, from the cutesy title and your pretty lingerie, his curiosity lead him to click on the video.

the video loaded and the first thing he saw was your breasts as you adjusted the camera down. you were holding it yourself, the camera facing you. as the camera moved down, he saw your hands slipping down to your panties.

he couldn’t see your face, seems like you were shy.

he watched with anticipation as your fingers pressed against your clothed cunt, rubbing slow gentle circles on your clit. turning up the volume of his phone, he heard the way your breath hitched. he could see as your tummy moved up and down with every breath you took.

leon’s stomach tightened as blood began to rush to his cock, his hand moving to palm against his pants as he got hard.

after a minute of teasing, you put the phone down against your bed, leon heard fabric shuffling. after a few seconds, you grabbed the phone again. the angle stayed the same, but now he could see your pretty pussy.

it was slick, glistening.

his mouth went dry as he took in the sight, your manicured fingers gently pressed against your perky clit, your touch was light, and you were savoring the pleasure.

leon heard a soft moan leave your lips, his hips squirmed as he grabbed his cock through the fabric of his pants. his hand moving to slowly grope himself.

he continued to watch with eager eyes, his hand moving to unbutton his jeans and unzip his pants. eagerly, he slipped his hand under his underwear, his hand pulling his cock out.

it was standing tall, pre-cum leaking from the slit.

he shuddered, he hasn’t been this hard in what felt like forever. he genuinely thought he lost his spark, he was in his late thirties after all.

his hand wrapped around his cock, a shaky breath left his lips as he squeezed it. his cock was thick, it wasn’t the biggest there was, but it would leave girls dumbfucked. or well, it used to. he hasn’t gone that hard in a while.

his cock was pretty, his tip was reddish, veins adorned it. the ones that made the girls mushy and whimpery.

the mental image of the girls he’s shoved his cock into filled his head. truthfully, he doesn’t really remember faces, but he remembers how they reacted. their bodies trembling and loud moans.

oh, how he missed it.

as he stared at your pretty pussy, all he could think about was shoving his cock deep inside you. have you whimpering and gasping his name as he kept you folded.

his cock twitched, fuck.

you were getting him so hard, he didn’t even think it was possible given his track record in the last few years. biting the inside of his cheek, he let out a breath, he was this hard over a girl on a porn website, but he couldn’t get this hard when he was balls deep inside a hooker’s cunt. god, this was pathetic.

pathetic, pathetic, pathetic..

you’re pathetic leon.

even as the words repeated in his head, his hand was still working on his cock, jerking and tugging on his shaft. his eyebrows were furrowed and his lips parted slightly, keeping his gaze on you, he watched as you rubbed your clit faster.

he could hear your small shaky moans, you were close and so was he.

his balls were tightening, his breathing was heavy, small pants leaving his lips as he rubbed his cock raw. chasing for a high he hasn’t felt in years.

a choked groan left his lips as he came, cum spurting out of his tip in amounts he hasn’t had since he was in his twenties. his cum was milky and thick. he continued to gently jerk his cock as he rode out his orgasm, another groan leaving his lips as his head leaned back.

his eyes fluttered shut as he felt his cock softening in his hands.

holy fuck.

his mind was fuzzy, he had almost forgotten about his phone until he heard a moan come from it. he moved his gaze towards the screen and watched as your hand stayed between your thighs before they slammed shut and you began to ride out your orgasm.

leon watched with eager eyes as you rode out your high nicely.

he squirmed and let go of his flaccid cock, his cum staining his hand, his stomach, and his pants.

he moved his hands and they gripped his phone again, he tapped on your username and watched your profile. your profile picture was a shy picture of your chest, a different set of lingerie holding your tits up.

looking at your bio, he shuddered as he read your information.

your name was pretty, it suited you. he saw your age listed, twenty-one, he just had the cum of his life to a video of a twenty-one-year-old? a feeling came to him, he didn’t know how to feel. staring at his screen, his mind still processing that information, should he be disgusted? guilty? ashamed?

he sucked in a breath and gulped.

him, a man in his late thirties, almost forty, just came to a video of a twenty-one year old girl.

it felt wrong, right? she was almost two decades younger than him, when the racoon city incident happened you weren’t even born yet. this had to be wrong.

but it wasn’t, and he knew that.

sure, the gap was questionable, but it was legal. yet, he felt so..wrong.

the worst part was that even after he realized this, he still watched your other videos.

choked moans left your glossy lips, your eyes shut and eyebrows furrowed up in pleasure. your mouth was slightly agape, forming an ‘o’ shape. leon’s cock slamming down into your cunt, his hand was placed on the small for your back as he held your upper body down and kept your ass up.

he let out small pants, his eyes shutting in bliss.

your walls were warm and snug, sucking his cock back inside your cunt with a wet squelch. you were so wet, your cunt practically drooling. it was driving him mad.

his free hand was gripping your ass, holding onto the fat like his life depended on it, his dull nails digging into your skin. he let out a guttural groan as he felt your pussy tighten around him, squeezing, milking him. he didn’t have the self control he had back then, he was edging himself to try and last longer.

it was hard, his balls were heavy with cum, cum he wanted to stuff deep inside you.

his eyes shut tightly, he bit down onto his bottom lip, his thrusts got sloppily — fuck, fuck, fuck. “s-shit—“ he choked out, his head leaned back as a whimper slipped past his lips. his cock throbbed no matter how hard he tried to stop himself, his cum spurted out of his tip.

he shook as it spurted in waves, his eyes fluttered open and he panted. “sorry—“ he said, feeling bad for not letting you cum first and filling you up without any form of protection. you hummed in reply, your ass still in the air as he pulled out. his cock getting softer, his lidded gaze watched as his cum slipped out of your puffy pussy, falling in glops onto his sheets.

he felt hot as he watched it, he was about to say something when—

his eyes opened and a shaky breath left his lips, it took a moment for him to adjust to his surroundings. quickly sitting up on his bed, leon was met with the saddening realization he was alone.

you weren’t sleeping next to him, his bed was cold.

not only that, but his pants were wet. he pulled the blanket off his body and groaned when he realized he had cum inside his pants. rubbing his forehead, he slipped off his bed groggily.

it was still dark out, his bedroom was completely dark aside from the natural light of the moon that entered through his windows.

leon hastily took his pants and underwear off, throwing them across the room to where he thought his laundry basket was. he walked to his cabinets and dug into his underwear drawer before he put them on, stumbling a bit before he finished.

running his hands through his hair, he stalked over to his bed and laid down.

reaching out for his nightstand, he grabbed his phone, this time he was mindful of the brightness so he adverted his eyes and quickly lowered it before staring at the screen.

no new messages, he frowned, except an email. it was an advertisement.

he scrolled through his apps and found one, the one you’re most active on.

instagram.

leon was rather clueless about social media, but the only reason he had it was to stalk your account. he opened the app and saw that you had uploaded a new story. he quickly tapped on the bubble and watched through your posts.

you were out that night, you took photos and various videos of the night. wearing a little black dress, your tits were practically spilling out, one wrong move and your panties would be exposed. you looked beautiful though, he adjusted himself in his bed and stared at the picture you captioned ‘fit check! :D.’ he couldn’t get over how cute your little captions were, it was humorous. a cute little emoticon at the end of a text while the picture behind it was you in the sluttiest outfit you could find.

biting the inside of his cheek, leon took a screenshot of the story and continued to scroll by your posts.

you looked so happy, so pretty. leon loved the way you smiled, all teeth, it all seemed so genuine. you were with your friends in the videos, giggling and dancing along to whatever song the club was blasting.

after he finished going through your story, he clicked on your account, no new posts. a deep sigh left his lips as he put his phone back on his nightstand and turned to his side. pulling the blankets up, it didn’t take long for him to fall asleep once more.

leon wasn’t sick.

he wasn’t a bad man, he wasn’t a freak, he was just lonely.

he was lonely and desperate, that’s what he told himself. he had this lingering guilt that manifested in the back of his head, you’re a sick man, leon. that’s what it repeated, every night, while he re-watched your videos and looked through the photos he had saved, it spoke.

sick. you are sick.

leon swore he wasn’t, he was just a broken man. one that found solace in you.

the age gap was eating him up inside, he had never thought of himself as someone who would find girls in their twenties attractive. yet, where he was.

he didn’t want to imagine what people would say if they found out he jerked off nightly to the thought of you. not just your videos, but the thought of you. he found himself daydreaming about you, not just in sexual situations, but romantic ones.

at the store he finds himself looking at the flower display, thinking about getting you flowers, trying to guess what flowers you would like the most. in public, when he saw couples, a bitter swirl churned in his stomach. jealousy, he was jealous that he couldn’t do the same with you.

this was developing into more of a followership, it was slowly seeping into the realm of obsession. delusion was his best friend.

occasionally, you participated in live streams.

it was cute, you were more talkative there, and you interacted with your followers happily. he was a quiet supporter, he didn’t use the chat room. you were too intimidating, he didn’t want to say something that could make you uncomfortable. he mostly gave you gifts, sending in money for you, he didn’t say much when he donated. occasionally he would type a small message for you to read with each donation, but it was rare.

that didn’t matter though. being able to hear you say his name, albeit his username, made him happy.

in these live streams, he’s been able to learn a lot about you. he knows you’re a college student, he knows you’re studying literature, he knows you’re a good student, he knows your favorite food, your favorite animal, how you like to spend your time, and much more.

he knows more about you than the people he knows in his life.

tonight, you had scheduled a livestream. posting about it on your instagram story.

‘i’m gonna be live tonight at 8 p.m. come by to talk, and i have a surprise too! >_<’ leon was curious, a surprise? so, of course he entered the stream after you started it. he needed to know what you were planning, maybe he could be part of it.

you sat in front of your camera and greeted all of the people coming in.

leon stared at you, you were so pretty, he thought. god, he felt like a teenage boy.

get a fucking grip.

your eyes focused on the screen where the chat box was opened, he watched as your eyes lit up, “welcome back, kennedy!” you said, looking back at the camera. looking straight at him.

his mouth went dry when you addressed him.

he clicked on the chat box, looking through to see if there was another kennedy, he didn’t want to jump straight to conclusions and embarrass himself. but there was no one else with the display like that.

SKENNEDY001

okay, he wasn’t very good at making usernames. he stared at his screen, unsure of what to do. you addressed him, should he say hi back? he’s never spoken in the chat room before. what if this went wrong?

slowly tapping on the keyboard, he replied with a simple. ‘hello, how are you?’ — best he plays it safe, right? his face feels hot, and he feels embarrassed. he’s always been more of a silent admirer, honestly, he never expected you to actually notice him. all sorts of different thoughts filled his head, from negative to positive. what would people think, what would you think if you found out that the biggest reason you’re paying your bills was because of some man in his late thirties who watches your content like it’s the news.

but what if you were into that? he’s heard stories about girls thinking older men were attractive, were you that type?

“i’ve been good!” you replied, snapping him out of his flood of thoughts. “i’ve seen you around, i think you might be my biggest fan.” you winked.

leon’s heart was practically beating out of his chest, he knew you meant it like a compliment, but it felt like you were pointing out how much of a lonely loser he is. “i just wanted to say thank you, your donations really help.” you said with a smile, that same pretty smile that drove him crazy, the smile he adored.

he didn’t know what to say, if he wanted to, he could write a detailed essay about you and how much he admires obsesses over you.

‘you’re welcome.. i like to support you.’ he typed back, after hitting send, he squirmed. did that sound weird? staring at your face intensely as you read through the chat, you let out a small laugh. “thank you, kennedy.” you replied, looking back at the camera. seeing how full the stream was getting, he decided that this was the end of the conversation.

his chest felt fuzzy, a feeling he hadn’t had in years, a feeling he had completely forgotten about.

he was obsessed with you.

the stream continued smoothly, you teased the camera, showing off your body and tempting the men, like him, who watched. by now he needed to rub one out during your streams, who would he be if he didn’t?

the stream was coming to a close, but before you spoke. “oh! the surprise from earlier, i almost forgot.” you said with a small laugh as you leaned back against your chair.

“basically, i was thinking, why not have a little contest.” you said, smirking at the camera. “imagine this is an auction,” you said, “the highest bidder gets to have a private, on one, video call with me.” you said, looking at your camera. “who knows, maybe that call can lead to something else.” you hummed, winking at the camera as you slid your hand down your chest.

leon blinked, a call with you? it was a dream come true. the only thing this lonely man could ask for.

you continued on, opening a gift box for anyone who wanted to get a chance with you.

he ignored how this could lead to poor financial decisions, he needed that call. he needed you for himself, he needed you to address him — to talk to him, he needed your attention like a lost puppy.

the gift period was only open for about fifteen minutes, first come first serve type of thing.

luckily, unlike the other people in the stream, he’s a government agent. with that title comes money, so as a way to secure that call, he sent you thousands.

he watched as you read the screen, your eyes widening as you saw the notification come in that you had received a few thousand dollars from your shy admirer. “holy shit.” you gasped, “okay— we have a winner! we have skennedy001 that donated over a thousand dollars!” you said, stammering as surprise filled your bones. “i’m closing the bid, that’s way too much money!” you said, giggling as you shut the bid off.

the people in the chat were going crazy, some were taking the loss like losers while the others congratulated the mystery man.

not too long after the stream ended, leon shut his phone off and stared at it. a deep breath left his lips, he didn’t know what to expect after being called the winner, but when he got a notification someone had messaged him through the streaming app, he opened it.

what he didn’t expect was to have a message from you in his inbox.

‘hey, kennedy! omg, that donation was insane! i didn’t expect that much money, please let me give you some money back! i really don’t deserve that much!! :,,)) you’re so sweet, and i appreciate it sososo much!!’

leon stared at the screen, double-checking that it was really you that had contacted me, his face got hot, did he overdo it? was that too desperate? oh, definitely it was, but still.

running his fingers through his hair, he began to type back, trying to brainstorm what to say, but after a solid five minutes of debating his options, he finally replied.

‘hello, i’m glad you appreciated it, but no. it’s okay, you can keep all of it. that’s the reason i donated it. spoil yourself.’

he typed back, his icy blue eyes hyper focused on the screen, he watched as in the span of a few seconds a small text bubble popped up as three dots bounced around. you were replying.

‘aww! are you sure? like, a 100% sure? i’m just making sure!! i just don’t wanna feel like i’m stealing from you, or something LOL!’

your text was cute, lighthearted, and warm, you were so considerate. he liked that, and his thumbs began to type out a reply.

‘no, no. it’s okay, really. just enjoy yourself.’

he replied he was trying his best to not seem uninterested. he has been told many times before that he was very “dry texter” — he had been told how uninterested he sounded with his texting habits and how it could make someone want to stop replying, and he didn’t want that. he just wasn’t sure what to say.

‘omg i am so grateful for your kindness! i’ve seen you in my streams a lot, i have honestly wondered about you. i’m glad you won the bid, tbh i wanted you to win LOL it gave me a reason to talk to you!’

oh my god. leon’s eyes widened slightly at your text, you were bold, is this how it feels like to get butterflies? he blinked, how was he supposed to reply? he’s never texted a girl in her twenties, what do girls like? what will keep you interested?

‘oh, yeah?’ he replied, reverting back to his usual dry texts, but you were lively, you knew how to keep the conversation going.

the conversation was sweet and lengthy, you ended up suggesting you move to your instagram messages so she could talk to him more often.

leon’s heart was practically going to explode out of his chest, he was giddy yet nervous. you had told him that you guys could arrange the video call for the next day at night after you finish some college work.

he was stressed, leon wasn’t sure what to expect. he’s seen your pretty face, but you haven’t seen his. his instagram profile is of an old landscape photo he took a while back, what if the camera isn’t flattering for him? he did warn you that he was in his late thirties? he didn’t want you to get your hopes up for a younger man. maybe he should just keep his camera off.

nonetheless, that night, he went to sleep happier than he has been in a while.

≻ the next day, leon was practically counting down the hours, the minutes, the seconds, until he got to see you. in the morning, he had been excited — the people around him noted his giddy attitude, but when asked why, he didn’t say anything.

he couldn’t expose himself.

but as the clock ticked and the hours passed by, leon found himself much more nervous than he’s ever been. he doesn’t want to fuck this up, in his delusion. he thinks that if this goes well, maybe, just maybe, this could evolve to something more.

you were so sweet to him last night, but the more he thinks about it, perhaps it was flattery.

he hadn’t thought about it now, this might just be all an act. something to keep him wrapped around your pinky finger, but he decided to push those thoughts down so he wouldn’t spoil his night.

once he reached his place, leon was angsty, the sun was slowly going down. the sky was a beautiful mix of warm colors: orange, red, and yellow. he could also see a hint of blue mixed in as the night sky began to slowly settle.

entering his apartment, he slipped inside the door and shut it behind him. locking it, a person could never be too safe, right?

he kicked off his shoes and slipped off his jacket, he haphazardly threw his jacket on his sofa before he made his way over to his room. he plopped down onto his bed and slipped his phone and flask out of his back pocket. opening the flask, he raised the metal container up to his lips and took in a quick shot of whiskey.

he couldn’t go into this sober.

letting the flask rest on his lap, he opened his phone and opened instagram. he looked at the messages he had with you. oh, he forgot to reply to your last message a few hours ago. he pursed his lips, fuck he feels bad, leon wasn’t an avid texter, so it was easy for him to forget.

‘sorry for the late reply, i was working.’ he hit send before he could register how “dry” that sounded, he quickly scrambled to text a bit more, so he didn’t seem too boring. ‘i’m nervous for the call.’

why would he say that?

leon shut his eyes, he was really bad at this.

after a few minutes of leon anxiously waiting for your reply, a ping came from his phone. quickly looking down at the screen, he saw that you replied.

‘aww, don’t be nervous! i don’t bite, unless you want me to ;)’

he let out a breath at your words, it felt like you always knew what to say, the number of times you’ve said something sly during the conversation that had his chest fuzzy must be over ten in the span of twenty-four hours.

leon started to type back, but he stopped mid-sentence. he wasn’t sure what to say, he was fumbling over his words, and no sentence he tried to type up made sense.

he saw your text bubble pop up, you were typing.

‘what? did i make you nervous? ;p’ — yes, yes you did.

he felt like he was in his early twenties, stumbling and stammering when a pretty girl gave him attention. jesus, has it really been that long since he’s felt something like this? god, that’s so sad.

leon ran his fingers through his hair, pushing his dark hair back, ‘yes, i don’t know how to behave when a pretty girl is talking to me.’ now it was your turn to blush, leon leaned against his headboard as he stared at his phone.

‘ohhh? is mr. kennedy getting bold? ;)) i’m excited for the call, just give me one more hour ♡’

‘take your time.’

during that hour, leon decided to try and freshen up, at least a bit. he knew he wasn’t going to turn on his camera, but maybe getting refreshed would make him feel more confident in himself.

he changed out of his work clothes and took a quick shower, he slipped on some comfortable sweatpants and a black compression shirt that he typically used when he was working out. as he looked at himself in the mirror, he noticed the eye bags that hung under his eyes and the stubble that covered his cheeks and chin.

moving his hand up to his face, he ran his fingers through his stubble and sighed as he felt the facial hair scratching his skin. should he have shaved this morning? he didn’t know, he hadn’t been bare-faced in a few years now, as he aged the clean look he used to have didn’t fit him anymore.

reaching over for his flask that he had left on the bathroom counter, leon quickly took another swing of his flask and then sighed as he put it back on his counter.

he was so fucking nervous and for what? he’s been face to face with death before, he’s encouraged over thousands of zombies in his lifetime and yet he’s so nervous at the idea of talking to you.

feeling his phone buzz in his pocket, leon scrambled to take it out before looking down at his screen. it was you.

‘okay! i’m ready, are you? ;)’ — no, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be, but he replied, ‘yes. how does this work?’ he replied, unsure of what you were planning.

he watched as the text bubble popped up from your end as you typed again, ‘its suuuper easy! i’ll set up a voice chat and send you the link, then i’ll turn my camera on so you can see me!’ biting his bottom lip, leon moved out of the bathroom and sat down in his bed, his back resting against the headboard as he stared down at his phone.

‘okay, i’ll wait for you.’ he replied as he tried to relax, letting out a deep sigh, leon shut his eyes for a few seconds before he felt his phone buzz again.

looking back at the screen, you had sent him a link.

‘here it is! ;)’ the text said, his thumb hovered over the screen as he bit the inside of his cheek and hesitated before quickly tapping the link. the link opened up another website, the same one you use for streams. it took a few seconds for it to load, but he could tell his camera was off and his mic was muted.

okay, good.

eventually, the screen loaded and he saw you, you were wearing a cute tank top of a band, he’s seen the band name around before. it was popular back in the early 2000s, you didn’t have any sexy clothes on, it was actually cute. it made you feel even more real.

“hi!” you said as you waved at the camera, “let me know if the camera and audio are working properly, sometimes the app gives me issues,” you said with a smile as you stared at your screen. leon went to open the chat box, but he realized that if he wanted to make the most out of this call, talking to you would better.

taking in a deep breath, he cleared his throat and unmuted his microphone. “..it works,” he said, his face feeling hot as he spoke.

leon had always been rather charming and talkative in real life, so why was he so shy? it wasn’t anything like him, did his loneliness really ruin him? your eyes lit up when you heard his voice, surprised he spoke.

he watched as a smile curled on your lips, “i’m glad!” you said, leaning in closer, giving leon a full view of your cleavage, he noticed a black lace bra underneath your shirt. tilting your head to the side, you hummed, “soo..how was your day?” you asked curiously as you stared up at the camera with a small smirk. leon hated how quick it was for him to feel pressure growing in his pants when it came to you.

why was it so easy to get hard for you?

“it was good..you?” he asked softly, his hand slipping down his body to grip his cock through his pants. your smirk turned into a smile, “my day was good too! thank you for asking,” you hummed, “so, what do you want to do?” you asked, leaning back against your chair as you moved your hand to hold your tit, squeezing the mound playfully. “it’s just you and me, no need to be shy.” you winked.

leon squirmed in his bed, “..i don’t know actually,” he muttered, “i never got to decide how i wanted to approach this.” he said, squeezing his bulge and sighing. “..i wanted to just talk and get you know you more, but..” he trailed off, unsure if he should tell you that his cock was hard at the mere sight of you.

you seemed to get the hint when you heard the shaky breath that left his lips, “got too excited, didn’t you?” you teased, biting your bottom lip as you batted your eyelashes to the camera. “it’s okay, let me help you.” you offered, that pretty smirk of yours coming back to your lips.

leon’s eyebrows furrowed as he felt his cock throb inside his pants.

“..a-are you sure? i don’t want to ruin the call.” leon murmured, his voice uneven as he tried to resist the urge to slip his hand under his pants' waistband.

a small laugh left your lips as you shook your head, “of course not,” she said playfully, “you won this call, you get to choose whatever we do.” you said, “what’s your name?” you asked, moving to press your arms together to have them push up your tits.

leon let out a sigh and watched with a hazy look in his eyes as you pressed your chest together. “it’s leon.” he replied quickly, now eager to have you say his name.

humming, you smiled, “okay, leon. should i take off my shirt? i have a new pair of lingerie just for you.” that whole sentence could’ve made leon cum right there without any friction. the way you said his name, it was smooth, like honey. you were hot and you knew it, “y-yes, please.” leon mumbled out pathetically as he stared at his screen intensely.

you nodded and reached down for the bottom of your shirt, slowly pulling it up and discarding your shirt to the corner of your room. once your shirt was removed, leon got an eye full of your tits being held up by the new lingerie, it was a push up bra. your tits were rounded and plush, the black lace that surrounded the fabric was real pretty.

“do you like it?” you asked softly as you adjusted your bra strap, leon gulped and shuddered. “yeah, it’s pretty..it suits you.” leon said, you were so fucking hot. he wanted to jack off and cum right there, but that would just show how much of a pathetic man he is.

you only took off your shirt and leon came? embarrassing.

so, he edged himself. deciding to play it safe with palming himself through his pants. his hand moving slowly to not get too eager and fuck it up.

“you think so?” you mused, looking at the camera as your hands moved to squeeze your tits and push them closer. fondling yourself for his pleasure.

leon groaned and nodded, he knew his camera was off and that you couldn’t see it, but he couldn’t help it. “mhm, black suits you.” he said, shifting in his bed to adjust his position. “want me to take it off?” you asked curiously, looking at the camera with an amused smile. “i think my tits are pretty, it would only be fair for you to see.” you teased as you squeezed your mounds.

leon’s throat felt dry, he felt parched.

“yes,” leon shuddered out, looking down at the screen. you laughed and stood up, you adjusted your camera for it to catch your body as you stood. leon saw you were only wearing some cute little panties that brought out your ass.

turning around, your back faced the camera before you moved your hair out of the way and moved your hands to the clasps of your bra.

you were quick to unclip your bra and take it off, throwing it off to the side, to a place the camera can’t pick up. by where you threw your shirt, leon assumed. your movements were always so smooth, hypnotic almost. leon was convinced you were perfect, made with no flaws.

turning around, you held your tits up in your hands before you stepped closer and let your mounds drop. leon got a screen full of tits, you let out a laugh and moved your body in a slow sway, your tits moving around as you did so. “like ‘em?” you mused playfully before reaching up and squeezing your nipple.

leon’s head leaned back as a small groan left his lips, his hand moving down to grip his dick through his pants. “yes, fuck.” leon said with a pant.

you moved back from the camera and sat down onto your chair before adjusting the camera stand so leon could see you better.

“are you jerking off?” you asked, smirking at the lens, leon let out a small whine. “no, n-not yet.” he mumbled, his voice straining as he tried to sound level headed, but of course it didn’t work given how he stuttered. leon cursed at himself mentally, he sounds like a fucking pussy right now.

you let out a small laugh at his stutters, “what? you don’t wanna jerk off to me? you’re hurting my feelings.” you said softly as she tilted your head, leon’s eyes widened. oh shit, no, that’s not what he wanted to do.

“wait, shit—“ he tried to explain, “i didn’t mean it like that..i just want to savor the moment.” he said, shutting his eyes in embarrassment.

you smiled, “yeah? why not savor it while jerking off? i have my tits out just for you.” you teased, pouting as you did so. leon paused, you were right, your tits were out and you were willing to do anything for him and he was just edging himself?

a small groan left his lips, “yeah..okay.” he mumbled, his hand slipping under the waistband of his pants before he gripped his cock. his large hand wrapped around his shaft, his cock throbbing again due to the pressure, leon put his phone down and used his other hand to shimmy his pants down. once the waistband was wrapped around his knees, leon leaned back against the headboard and sighed as he gripped his dick.

reaching out for his phone, leon fumbled with it with one hand before finding the right position to hold it. unbeknownst to him, while he fumbled with the phone, he had pressed against the camera button.

his camera turned on and he had no idea.

you, on the other hand, were met with the sight of the mystery man that had been supporting you the most.

he was hot.

like really fucking hot, your interest on this man peaked after you saw his pretty face. he was resting his phone on his thigh was he held it up, you could see the stubble on his face, his dark black hair. he was older than you expected, but if anything it added to the appeal.

this man seemed to be seasoned, he was staring down at his phone with his eyebrows furrowed as a small sigh of bliss left his lips. he was jerking his cock, you noticed by the way his body moved, there was an arm that wasn’t getting picked up by the camera that worked on rubbing his cock raw.

you noticed how his icy blue eyes focused on you, staring at the screen of his phone with a lovesick look on his face.

he looked so pathetically hot, it wasn’t something you thought you’d find attractive, but seeing how desperate this older man was for you made you unbelievably horny. you squirmed in your seat before your hand slipped down, you moved and slipped your hand under the fabric of your panties. letting out a sigh, you felt your middle finger gently toy your clit.

“leon?” you mused, leaning your head back and spreading your legs for the camera to pick up how your hand was shoved under your panties. you reached over to your desk and grabbed a dildo, showing it to him. “wanna watch?” you offered, moving the silicone cock in a playful manner.

leon’s eyes widened in surprise, but nodded.

he gulped and you watched as his adam’s apple bopped up with the swallow.

leon watched as you slipped off your panties and grabbed a bottle of lube. you quickly coated your pretty pussy and dildo with the thick cream and leaned back once more.

your pussy was on full display as you pressed the tip of the dildo against your puffy folds. “ready?” you asked softly as you bit your bottom lip.

this whole scene that was unfolding in front of leon felt like it was going to kill him. he’s seen your pussy before, he’s seen you fuck yourself before, but there was something different this time. it was all dedicated to him.

only him.

“yes,” he shuddered as he gripped his cock tightly, you smiled at him and slowly slipped the dildo inside of you. a soft sigh left your lips as your warm pussy sucked in the silicone, leon watched eagerly. like a kid in a candy store, he would kill to be the one inside you.

your squirmed and rolled your hips against the dildo, looking into the camera as your free hand moved to grip your tit. “oh, leon.” you moaned out, smirking as you watched your screen to see his reaction. “you feel so good..” you teased.

leon’s eyes widened when he heard you moan out his name, were you pretending it was him fucking you? did you want to send his heart into cardiac arrest?

this cock throbbed against his hand, begging for attention, pleading for leon to let it cum.

leon’s balls were heavy with cum, it was unbearable to keep teasing, but he couldn’t help it.

a small whine left leon’s lips as he slowly stroked his cock, watching as you fucked yourself with your dildo. “you think so?” leon replied back, his face felt hot as he spoke, he’s never done dirty talk through the phone. he was embarrassed, was he doing it right?

you nodded, smiling hazily at the camera, “mhm..” you trailed off as a small gasp left your lips, the dildo focused on fucking your pussy. your eyes fluttered shut as you savored the filling feeling of your dildo, the silicone ridges and fake veins pressing and molding your walls. your pace was steady, your head leaning to the side as you continued.

leon was getting the perfect view of your pretty face and your stuffed cunt. he could hear the soft squelches coming from your cunt as it sucked the dildo back inside eagerly. he watched as your pussy glistened with slick, his body aching, he wanted to be there with you. he wanted to feel you.

but the world was cruel towards leon, and all he could do is watch and pretend he was the one fucking you.

“you’re so big.” you babbled softly, watching your computer screen, watching his reaction. he shuddered and trembled, moving on his cock slowly.

leon shut his eyes and grunted, his head leaning back desperately as his body ached. he occasionally looked back at the screen, looking at you with such admiration behind his gaze. like he was admiring a beautiful painting.

he was so cute.

“y-yeah,” he groaned, his body feeling hot, it was overwhelming. he felt the thinnest sheet of sweat coat his body, a swirling feeling coming to his lower tummy, it felt like a tight pressure. “—am i making you feel good?” he whispered out, his eyes shutting as his hand continued to jerk his cock.

each jerk felt like a rush of electricity went through his veins, an electric shockwave whose only purpose was to bring pleasure.

you moved your hand down and gently began to toy with your clit, pressing on the puffy bud as you fucked yourself. “no one has ever made me feel like this, leon.” you teased, moaning out his name softly. it was like music to his ears.

he couldn’t take it anymore, he physically couldn’t hold back, he should’ve gotten a cock ring to try and make him last longer.

“m’gonna cum, i’m sorry—“ he babbled, feeling bad for cumming so fast, he just didn’t have the self control he used to have on his prime. his hand began to jerk his cock in a fast, sloppy pace. his chest was rising and falling rather quickly, unable to catch his breath as he chased his orgasm.

leon moved his phone, he kept it by his lap, but by the position you could see his aching cock.

“it’s okay, baby.” you mumbled out, watching as he neared his orgasm. his dick was pretty, the size was okay, the thickness was there, and his tip was bright red. his hand gripped his shaft, he had pretty hands. large and masculine, you even saw an expensive watch wrapped around his wrist. you knew he had money, how else would he be sending you such high donations, but something in your stomach fluttered when you noticed.

you continued to fuck your dildo into your pussy, trying to match his sloppy pace. “cum for me.” you hummed, your tone playful and laced with lust.

this was so hot.

leon shuddered and moaned, his hand continued to rub his cock raw, he clenched his jaw and shut his eyes tightly as he focused on cumming.

the pressure in his lower belly was so tight, but after a couple of more harsh jerks, the tight knot inside his stomach burst. his balls strained and tightened as cum began to spurt out of his tip. it was thick and milky, staining leon’s stomach and hand.

while he came, leon’s body trembled, his toes curled, and his back arched slightly as a loud moan left his lips. he didn’t mean to moan out like that, but with the circumstances he couldn’t help it. this was pure bliss, his body felt lighter and his head felt fuzzy. he continued to slowly stroke his cock as it throbbed, he rode out his orgasm, his cum still spewing out of his cock for a few more seconds before his body relaxed.

leon shuddered as his cock began to go soft in his hand, he grimaced as he looked at the cum that stained his hand before wiping it off against his sweats.

panting, leon looked back at his phone, his face was red and his whole body was hot.

“shit, i’m sorry, i wanted to wait for you.” leon said breathlessly, you shut your eyes and continued to toy with your clit as you shook your head. “don’t apologize, it was really hot.” you moaned out, fluttering your eyes open as you looked at the monitor, eyeing him up as he laid back panting.

your clit was puffy and slick, aching for more.

rolling your hips up, your hands continue to work against your cunt, making your legs twitch and tremble. putting on a show for the lonely man in front of you.

biting the inside of his cheek, leon watched desperately, if he was younger he probably would’ve gotten hard again as he watched, but his cock didn’t have enough strength to stand. it didn’t matter, now leon could finally appreciate you, your pretty face, your pretty body, and your pretty pussy.

he loved the faces you made, they were so genuine.

if he was fucking you, would you be making those faces too? god he hoped so.

by now, a specific heat blossomed by your clit as your finger toyed with it. your touch was gentle and light, it felt like your clit was burning in the hottest way as the nerves went on overdrive.

“fuck, fuck, fuck—“ you whined, your voice strained as you focused on breaking the tight knot inside your lower tummy.

leon shuddered, seeing the way your eyebrows furrowed as you bit your bottom lip, you were so cute. leon wanted to say something, but it was like his brain was a blank slate. he couldn’t think, he couldn’t speak, he just watched as your glistening pussy throb.

it didn’t take long for the knot to snap, and once it did, your body jolted as a loud whine of his name left your lips. your thighs clamped together while your hand stayed pressed between your legs, the silicone cock was nestled nicely inside you, warm and sticky.

your body trembled as you panted, your head leaning back against the seat as you regained your thoughts.

god.

leon has seen you cum various times before, sure, but there’s something so different about it here. it was mind boggling and his head felt dizzy, a shiver going down his spine.

this was all a private show, all of this was only for him. no one else was as lucky as he was, he felt like he was getting spoiled.

watching you unravel and cry out his name had leon’s brain oozing, he felt demented, like his brain had melted and he was left as a zombie. he could tilt his head over right now and watch as his melted brain would come spilling out.

metaphorically, of course.

you reveled in the afterglow of your climax, your pussy felt like it was pulsating and throbbing. slowly, your hazy gaze focused back on the screen and you locked eyes with leon.

he let out a breath as he looked at you, it felt like you were really looking into his eyes.

he still had no idea his camera was on and you could see how enamored he looked.

slowly, with a long, soft squelch, you pulled the dildo out of your sticky pussy. you moved the silicone up to your lips and leaned in closer to the camera before you licked off the slick that coated the toy.

your tongue moved slowly, and occasionally you would glance at the camera, making eye contact with him as you cleaned up your dildo and the only thing that ran through leon’s head as he watched was: i wish that was me.

squirming, leon felt like his mouth was salivating at the sight.

eventually, you finished licking off your dildo before you placed a gentle kiss on its head before you put it away, hidden away from what the camera could pick up. “liked that?” you mused, tilting your head to the side with a cute little smile. it was almost funny how cute you looked after you fucked yourself in front of him.

“yeah.” leon said quickly, gulping back saliva as he looked at you so dearly, “um,” he began, clearing his throat awkwardly, “..is it okay to talk more? if you have the time.” leon mumbled, because deep down, he still wanted to talk to you — to carry a conversation with you, to try and charm you.

looking at the time displayed on your monitor, you hummed, drawing it out to tease him slightly. after a few seconds that felt like an eternity for leon, you looked back at the camera and nodded. “of course, i have time.” you said, winking at the camera before you stood up and slipped your panties on. you left the chair for a second before you picked up your band shirt off the floor and slipped it on.

plopping back down on the chair, you smiled and looked back at the camera.

“so, tell me more about you, leon.”

≻ the call ended not too long ago, leon rested his phone down on his bed as he let out a sigh and rubbed his forehead. his chest felt fuzzy and he felt giddy.

the two of you had spoke for a few hours and now that the call ended, leon yearned to hear your voice again.

he felt silly like this, but he couldn’t help it.

he missed your voice, your face, the way you moved your hands when you spoke, the small gestures you made when you talked about something you were passionate about.

he missed you.

reaching over for his flask, leon quickly popped it open and took another long swig. swallowing back his beloved whiskey like he was a dehydrated man drinking water, throughout the call, he hadn’t drank to try and not get drunk and ruin the moment. but now that the call ended and he had time, leon was happily swallowing back the whiskey.

hearing his phone buzz against his bed sheets, he reached out for it quickly, a swirl of excitement coming to him as he saw it was you that texted.

it was two attachments, a photo of your perky tits and another one of your computer screen — that’s where he saw it. he was on the screen.

the photo you had taken was when he had his phone down, getting a good angle of his side profile from the bottom. for the eyes of someone else, it was a good picture and he looked good. his hair was messy in just the right way, his adam’s apple was on display and given the fact his phone was down, the picture also captured his waist, chest, and shoulders. showing off his body underneath the shirt he wore.

it was a good photo, but leon’s heart dropped to the floor when he saw it.

had his camera been on the whole time? is that why there was a small red dot next to his selfie camera? clicking out of the photos, he read your text nervously, but after reading it, his face flushed.

taking back another swing of his flask, he shuddered.

‘you looked really good today ;)) wanna call again tomorrow? <3’

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#( 𝑣𝑚𝑝. ) 𝑔𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑐 ､､#leon kennedy #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy x y/n #leon kennedy x you #resident evil #leon vendetta #resident evil x you #resident evil x reader #x reader #resident evil smut

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biblicallyaccuratemeat · 2 months ago

Text

A Firm Hand

MDNI!!!

A/N: I posted this on ao3 a little bit ago, so I figure why not post it here too! Beta read by @teaflavoredwitch Bucky Barnes x female reader, past Steve Rogers x reader implied/referenced, cheating, alcohol, kind of dub con if you squint, p in v sex, dom!Bucky, protective Bucky, dirty talk, kitchen sex, spanking, fingering, drunk sex, size kink, friends to lovers, angst and porn, shamelessly self-indulgent

Word Count: 5.3k

Steve Rogers is a jackass.

Captain fucking America, mister cherry pie and morals, was a self-righteous prick. Bucky had never felt more pissed off at Steve in his one hundred plus years of living than he does right now. You curled up in his bed, bawling your eyes out and practically chugging some cheap magnum bottle of whiskey.

Steve, who apparently didn’t believe in too much of a good thing, when he decided to stick his patriotic dick in Sharon Carter of all people. Of course, you found out. Steve was a terrible liar despite having the balls to actually cheat on you. You don’t know why you immediately go to Bucky, but you do. In the year you’ve been dating Steve, you became rapidly closer with the former Winter Soldier. Perhaps it was the forced proximity, or maybe you were just kindred spirits.

Bucky, of course, falls for you. Hard and fast like an idiot. Forced to pine after his best friend’s girl as if his life wasn’t already a fucking sob story. Always the dutiful friend, listening to you vent about the pitfalls of your relationship with Steve and trying to offer sound advice. Bucky learns to tame the green eyed monster inside him, finding contentment as your friend and confidant.

When you show up on his doorstep at eight o’clock on a Saturday night, he knows Steve fucked up. He knows it without you even having to say a word, because he knew this would happen. He knew, on some level, that Steve didn’t deserve you. Not that Bucky deserved you either, god knows he was even less deserving. But you went to him, so that has to mean something, right?

The intensifying of your sobs pull Bucky out of his reverie, head snapping in your direction again. Some commercial blares on his shitty little TV in the corner of his bedroom, Even the Nights Are Better playing in the background on some allergy medicine ad.

“T-this was our song!” You wail, burying your face in a pillow as your body shudders with the force of your sobs. The bottle of whiskey remains clutched in your hand. If it weren’t for your inconsolable state, Bucky might’ve been impressed and slightly turned on at the way you chug the whiskey. A woman after his own heart.

Bucky grimaces, perched next to you, stock still, “Okay, dollface, I think that’s enough whiskey.”

He feels awkward and stilted, like his skin is on too fucking tight and the room is too warm. He feels way too self-aware, he’s tuned in to every little sniffle and hiccup.

Seriously, fuck Steve for this. Not only for breaking your heart, but also creating the perfect storm. You, vulnerable and drunk in his fucking bed of all places. A wet dream come to life, if he’s being honest.

He needs to get the whiskey from you. He practically has to pry it out of your hands, amber liquid sloshing inside the nearly empty bottle. Fuck. He should have cut you off way earlier. He grabs the remote, clicking the mute button, “Honey, let’s take some deep breaths, yeah?”

Bucky tries to smile reassuringly but it’s tight and stretches over his teeth in a weird way that makes him look more machine than man. You peer over the edge of the pillow smushed against your face, doe eyes blinking owlishly at him, “Deep breaths?” You echo, incredulously, “You want me to take deep breaths when I walk in on my boyfriend tongue deep in that blonde bitch? Are you fucking for real, Bucky?”

Bucky’s mouth opens and closes rapidly, like a fish out of water. He sure fucking feels like one, incredibly out of his depths. He’s not equipped for this, a tornado of hormones and heartbreak. His stupid silence somehow seems to agitate you even further, angelic features twisting and morphing through every stage of grief in a matter of seconds.

Your anguish quickly gives way to fury, chucking the pillow across the room, “Has he always been like this? Huh?”

Bucky blinks taken aback, “What? Steve?” He sighs, running a hand through shortly cropped hair, “No, doll, he hasn’t always been like this. I’ve known Steve since we were kids, and he’s never been a saint but he’s not usually an inconsiderate, lying, cheating asshole either.” Bucky’s voice is hard and contemptuous.

Bucky takes your dainty hand in his, squeezing reassuringly, “Hating Steve isn’t going to make this better. It’s not going to erase the pain he caused,” He pauses, pursing his lips as he tries to find the right words, “You gotta let yourself feel this, dollface. Feel the anger, feel the hurt, the betrayal. Don’t suppress it, because that’s just gonna make it fester.”

His jaw clenches, teeth grinding together. Bucky silently attempts to work through his own feelings on the matter. On one hand, his never wavering loyalty to Steve, his brother in arms and every sense of the word. On the other hand is you. Heartbroken, far too lovely for his comfort and the odd, delicate bond between you two. Bucky swallows, his mouth filled with a metallic taste as he fights down the ever growing urge to hunt Steve down and beat him within an inch of his life.

He realizes you’re staring at him, gaze hard, “Why didn’t you warn me?” You ask in a quiet, hollow tone that makes Bucky feel like his heart is going to shrivel up in his chest.

Running a hand down his face, Bucky huffs, “Warn you?” He echoes, “Honey, I… I didn’t know.” He implores, clenching his fists in his lap, “I swear to God, if I had known he was being such a fucking prick, I would’ve put a stop to it, I would’ve beaten the information out of him myself.”

“You didn’t know?!” You throw your hands up in the air, gesturing wildly, “You didn’t have a single fucking inkling? I don’t believe that for a second, Bucky,” You hiss, movements jerky and agitated as you tousle your hair, “You didn’t think to say, “Hey doll,”” You begin to mimic Bucky’s voice, “‘You’re about to date the goddamn devil!’”

Holding his hands up in a placating gesture, Bucky scoots back. Your accusation stings, hitting a nerve he hadn’t known was exposed, “Hey, hold on just a damn minute,” He says, his voice rising in defense, “I’m not fucking psychic, dollface. I knew Steve could be an inconsiderate ass sometimes, but I didn’t know he was straight up cheating on you.”

Bucky scoffs, a mixture of shock and anger coursing through his veins, “I’m not going to apologize for not knowing what my so-called best friend was up to behind your back. That’s not fucking fair.”

His gaze softens slightly, his voice lowering to a more conciliatory tone, “Listen, I’m sorry I didn’t see the signs earlier. I’m sorry you got hurt. But don’t think for a second that I would’ve ever encouraged you to be with someone who would treat you like this. You mean too damn much to me for that.”

You’re still pissed, of course. Feeling self-destructive, though Bucky’s heartfelt declaration hits deep. Your chest rises and falls rapidly, a feral kind of rage filling you, “Oh yeah? Well… you’re… You’re an ass!” You shout, a half-hearted insult. You weren’t really trying, you just wanted to burn bridges. You push yourself out of the bed, stomping out of the room. Slamming the door for good measure, the sound echoing through the apartment like a gunshot. Storming into the kitchen, you begin digging through Bucky’s sparse cabinets for more liquor.

Bucky stared after you, stunned and hurt by your somewhat childish outburst. Your accusations burned like salt in a fresh wound. He stood there for a moment, anger and confusion warring within him. Then, with a fierce scowl, he stalked after you, his long strides quickly closing the distance between his bedroom and the kitchen.

The floorboards creak under his heavy footsteps as he follows the path down the hallway. When he reaches the kitchen, he grabs the doorframe, leaning in. “Hey, wait a fucking minute.” He all but growls, his voice a deep, dangerous rumble. “I know you’re hurting, but you don’t get to just accuse me of being an ass and then stomp away like a fucking toddler.”

He steps further into the kitchen, a breath away from crowding you against the counter, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Steve being a prick, but I won’t accept you throwing blame at me when I'm trying my goddamn hardest to be here for you!”

Bucky leans back against the counter, scoffing, “We both know you’re better than this, sweetheart. Don’t let Steve’s mistakes make you forget that. I’m not the enemy.”

You snatch a bottle of vodka out of the cabinet, there’s no more than a few sips left. You down it in one go, sighing tiredly, “I don’t need you to be here for me. I don’t need you to fix me, Bucky. I’m not some little dolly for you to glue back together. You don’t need to make your fucking amends with me.”

Bucky’s expression hardens, snatching the bottle from your hands, “Watch your fucking tone,” He whispers, cornering you against the counter. There’s a glimmer in his eyes, you see it. The Winter Soldier lurking in the back of his psyche. It sends a perverse thrill down your spine.

“I’m not trying to fix you. You’re not some damn doll, I know that. I’ve always known that.” He pauses, taking a deep breath, “I’m here as your friend, to listen, to support you. But I won’t allow you to take your anger out on me, honey.”

You’ve never been good at knowing when to quit, it’s never been your strong suit. Now is not an exception, you double down on your brattiness.

“Don’t tell me to watch my fucking tone, I’m not a child.” You hiss, scowling up at him. He towers over you, all muscle and man. Damn him for being so fucking tall, built like a skyscraper. You damn near have to be on your tiptoes at this point, it’s ridiculous.

He grasps your chin hard, cheeks smushing up and lips forced into a pout, “Watch it, little girl,” He murmurs lowly, licking his lips, “You can be mad. You can scream and shout and curse until you’re blue in the face. But you don’t get to talk to me like that.”

Those sapphire eyes flashed with a mixture of anger, frustration, and a hint of something else, something that made your insides feel molten and heady.

“I’ve taken a lot of shit for the people I love. I’ve been beaten, tortured, and turned into a fucking weapon. But damn if I’m going to stand here and take your anger when all I’m trying to do is be here for you.” Slowly, deliberately, he leans in closer until his breath is hot against your pursed lips, “I know you’re hurting. I know you’re angry. But I won’t let you push me away, dollface. I won’t let you be self-destructive.” His voice drops to a fervent whisper, “You fucking try me, sweetheart. I’ve dealt with terrorist threats and mad titans. Fuck, I’ve been a terrorist. You think a little thing like you is going to scare me off?”

Bucky’s hand snakes around to the back of your neck. You whirl around, the world spinning, and he pushes you face first into the hardwood. You all but shriek in surprise, eyes comically wide. Your left cheek squished on the cool flooring, shoulders pinned down. Your knees prop your ass up in the air, curving your spine into a sharp arch. He has you right where he wants you, submissively positioned. An offering, your perky backside up in the air invitingly. Your body betrays you, a fucking shiver of pleasure wracking through you. You can feel your cunt leaking eagerly at Bucky’s manhandling.

You wonder if he realizes the effect this is having on you. All thoughts of Steve and his betrayal fly from your mind as your pussy throbs in time with your rapid heartbeat. Shame and arousal burn your cheeks, you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to will away your body’s traitorous reaction.

This is Bucky. This is fucking Bucky. Steve’s best friend, your weird friend-ish acquaintance. You know him because of Steve. This is a bad idea, horrible. You need to put a stop to this immediately before you actually let him have his way with you on the kitchen floor. Because you’re heartbroken, you’re pissed, and you’re far wetter than you’ve been in months. You’re too vulnerable and fucked up, not to mention drunk to make a sound decision right now. And you know, you fucking know if Bucky asked to rail you within an inch of your life… You’d say yes.

So, “Bucky, uh,” You begin to protest meekly, all the fire and spit on your tongue moments ago evaporating.

The hand that is now pressing down in the middle of your back and pinning your sternum to the ground increases in pressure fractionally. A silent warning of the consequences of pushing back even further.

The words die on your tongue, you focus your gaze on a piece of lint by your face and huff.

But then, slowly, deliberately he brings his hand down on your upturned ass. Delivering a sharp smack that echoes through the room. A surprised shriek of indignation rips from your throat, equal parts horrified and aroused. The stinging pain radiates across your tender flesh, a stark contrast to the coolness of the floor beneath you. “What in the fuck are you doing?” You demand angrily, scowl deepening.

“Keep testing me, honey, and I’ll show you exactly what happens to bratty little girls who don’t listen,” Bucky punctuates his words with another sharp smack to your ass, watching as the flesh and fat jiggle and redden beneath his organic palm.

He drapes his muscular torso across your back, leaning over your bent form. His breath is hot against your ear, his body a heavy, unyielding weight pressing down on you. It’s a comforting contrast from the rough treatment your butt is receiving, like a warm weighted blanket.

Despite your best efforts to stay quiet, a tiny breathless noise escapes your throat. Halfway between a moan and a squeak, the flush staining your cheeks darkens further. You bite your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, simultaneously mortified and turned on.

Momentarily caught off guard, the super soldier freezes, his vibranium hand resting on the curve of your hip. A look of shock and disbelief crosses his handsome features. He had expected anger, perhaps even more fighting back, but never in a million years did he think you would react so unabashedly with desire.

For a moment, Bucky simply stares down at you, taking in the pretty flush of your cheeks, the way your lips parted around that sinful little noise. His cock, hard and heavy, strains through his jeans and presses into the curve of your ass. That all-consuming hunger that HYDRA tortured out of his system returns with a fucking vengeance. His blood sings in his veins at your little noises and rushes to his dick.

A low, strangled groan escapes his throat as Bucky tries desperately to grasp at the last vestiges of self-control. His hand digs into the fat of your hip, squeezing and kneading almost unconsciously, “Fuck, honey…” He murmurs, his tone ragged with the overwhelming heat consuming you both, “Are you… are you getting off on this?”

Bucky moves impossibly closer, chapped lips brushing against the shell of your ear, “‘Cause if you are, honey… I’ll fucking wreck you and I won’t be held responsible for it.”

“Shut up,” You whine weakly, your shame and arousal fighting for dominance. Despite your half-hearted protest, you arch your spine deeper. You’re soaked, you know it. Embarrassingly soaked, probably through your fucking sweatpants at this point. Your cunt aches, feeling too empty. Bucky’s dark promise of wrecking you? Fuck if it doesn’t make you clench around nothing, needy and debauched. He’s barely touched you and you’re sure if he so much as brushes past your clit, you’ll cum harder than you ever have in your life.

Bucky’s eyes darken with lust as you arch your back, presenting your ass to him like a cat in heat. A low, approving growl rumbles deep in his throat. The hand on your hip slides back to palm the globe of your ass, sinking into the fatty flesh. You hope it bruises, god you want him to mark you. You want that vibranium arm to rip you into pretty little chunks and remake you into something new. Something Steve’s never touched, never kissed, never held.

“Shut up? Honey, the way you’re acting, you don’t want me to shut up,” He taunts, his voice a deep, seductive murmur.

That rips a pathetic whimper from your throat, eyes fluttering shut, “I’m too drunk for this.”

Bucky hums, “Yeah? You’re a big girl, you know how to say stop.”

You shudder, all but melting beneath him, “I’m too sad for this.”

Smack!

This time Bucky’s metal arm meets your ass cheek, you jolt, gasping. You’re panting openly against the hardwood, eyes screwed shut and blushing like a virgin. The intoxicating mixture of stinging pain and molten pleasure are far more powerful than the whiskey in your belly.

The former Winter Soldier all but rips your sweatpants down, bunching them around your knees. The cool air against your newly exposed skin makes you shudder, a perverse shiver racing down your spine. The rough, calloused pads of Bucky’s fingers dig into the tender flesh of your ass cheek, kneading and squeezing the malleable muscle possessively, “Fuck, baby, look at this ass… you’re fucking perfect,” He groans approvingly, hips rocking forward to grind his clothed erection against you, “Steve was a goddamn fool to ever even look at another woman.”

Without warning, he brings down his palm hard against your bare ass, the sharp crack of skin against skin filling the otherwise silent apartment. The biting ache blossoms across your nerves, quickly followed by a rush of heat and traitorous surge of arousal, “Maybe this is what you need, honey. You need to be manhandled, huh? I gotta slap that bratty attitude of yours outta your ass?” Bucky coos mockingly, dragging his blunt nails down the rapidly reddening skin.

You breathe shallowly, fuck it feels like you’re barely breathing as is. This is a side of Bucky you’d never dreamt of seeing, not even in your wildest dreams. He was always so stoic, quiet. It was like you were friends with a brick wall that used to be a sleeper agent. But this? Domineering, taunting, merciless Bucky? You were fucking drenched.

You hum in agreement, wiggling your ass back, too far gone now. Any sense of decorum or boundaries flies out of your little bird brain. All you know is Bucky’s punishing hand and his rock hard dick pressing against you.

He shifts, maneuvering your wrists to hold them firmly over your head with one large hand. He brings the other down on your backside in a series of sharp, biting slaps. A red handprint blooms across your skin, a brand. The pain gives way to a dizzying liquid heat that has you squirming and whining under him.

“Fuck, listen to you… making all those pretty little noises for me,” He pants, hips grinding slowly against the curve of your butt. Bucky was throbbing in his pants, achingly hard and straining angrily in the confines of his jeans, “Keep making those noises and I’ll bust in my fucking pants, honey.”

You can feel it now, how soaked you are. The cotton gusset of your panties clings to your puffy lips like a second skin. The evidence of your arousal is impossible to miss, the dark spot growing rapidly with each slap and taunting murmur. You rub your thighs together needfully, desperate for some kind of relief. Bucky’s gaze narrows in on your needy display, grinning wolfishly, “Fuck, honey, you’re absolutely soaked through,” His lips brush against your ear as he speaks, rolling his hips teasingly into your backside, “Is this what you need, doll? To be put in your place, spanked until you’re a needy, desperate little thing?”

Holding your wrists firmly above your head, his vibranium hand slides around your hip, fingertips brushing teasingly along the sticky fabric of your underwear. The material clings to your swollen, aching folds.

“You leaking just for me, honey?” Bucky murmurs, nipping at your ear. He brushes the edge of his nail across the swollen bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs. It’s so light that you almost don’t feel it, but you do and you sob in relief at the slightest touch. Your legs tremble, threatening to give out under you.

Bucky continues his maddeningly light caresses, “So fucking wet and ready for me…”

He circles your clit with the pad of his thumb, cool vibranium meeting feverish, swollen flesh. It swells and throbs under his ministrations. His fingers continue their unhurried exploration of your pussy, a single digit circling your entrance. You feel it push in slowly, sinking in one knuckle at a time. Your pussy flutters and clenches around the invading pressure, eager to be filled.

“This is what you needed all along, isn’t it honey? To be touched like this, to have someone take control and make this needy cunt drip?” He slides a second finger knuckle-deep into your dripping hole, pumping them in and out of your clinging heat as his other hand delivers harsh, biting strikes to your backside, “That’s it, honey, fucking take it.”

The thought of Steve’s vanilla, lackluster lovemaking paled in comparison to the passionate, almost feral way Bucky was claiming your body now. And his dick wasn’t even out yet. He could feel every inch of your silken skin trembling and quaking with need, your breathy cries and whimpering music to his ears. The tender, almost gentlemanly approach Steve usually had taken with you had left you wanting, craving something far more intense and fulfilling.

Bucky eases his fingers out and peels your panties from your sticky cunt, shucking the fabric to bunch it around your knees with your sweatpants. He reaches out once more, his calloused palm cupping the warm, plush flesh of your ass. He could feel the heat radiating off your skin, could feel the way your muscles clenched and trembled beneath his touch. His fingers sank into the giving flesh, squeezing.

“If you don’t fuck me right now, I think I’ll die,” You whisper, needy with shame burning your cheeks. And in that moment, it may as well have been true. To drive the point home, you wriggle your ass back against his groin, a clear invitation.

Bucky groaned, the sound torn from deep in his chest. His cock throbs and jumps at your needy words, desperate to be balls deep in your tight cunt. Faintly, he realizes he should hesitate, take a moment to think this through. But the way you presented yourself so wantonly to him made every logical thought fly out the window. He couldn’t resist, not you, not like this.

His hands flew to his belt, working it open with shaking hands. He quickly shoved his boxers and jeans down his thighs, freeing his aching cock. It sprang up, long, thick, and flushed a deep, angry red. The swollen head was leaking pre-cum, a bead of moisture rolling down the shaft. He wrapped a hand around it, stroking himself a few times, before shifting closer to you. Bucky sweeps the tip of his cock through your folds, from hole to clit, coating himself in your sticky slickness.

You gape at his dick, eyes wide as you peer over your shoulder. He’s fucking huge, because of course he is. Thick and girthy, this is going to hurt, you realize. And though that should deter you, or at the very least make you anxious, it only makes you wetter.

“Fuck,” You whisper, struggling to form a coherent thought, “You’re fucking huge. That’s… that can’t fit. It’s physically impossible.”

The bastard smirks, rubbing the small of your back, “Oh, it’ll fit, honey. I’ll make sure of that.”

You already feel your inner muscles tensing up, trying to force out something that isn’t even breaching you yet. A high-pitched keening noise rips from your throat as the bulbous tip sinks into your wet heat.

Bucky shudders as he feels your tight little cunt clenching and fluttering around just the swollen head of his cock. Fuck, you were so goddamn small, so fucking tight. He could feel every inch of your silky walls squeezing him, trying to push his thick tip out of your needy hole. It took every ounce of control not to just slam forward and bury himself to the hilt in your scorching heat.

He grit his teeth, his breath coming out in a low growl as he forced himself to hold still, to wait for your okay before he fucked into you. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to leave bruises, holding you in place as he fought for some semblance of restraint. Where was all that goddamn self-discipline that HYDRA beat into him? His dick was barely inside you and he was already a slave to your nubile body.

He rocked his hips slightly, just barely, letting you feel the thick, spongy head of his cock kiss your entrance with each shallow thrust. “Tell me to move, honey.” Bucky pants, sounding utterly wrecked, “Let me move.”

All you can offer is a small, pathetic whine in response.

That’s all the confirmation Bucky needs. He starts to move then, his hips rocking in shallow little thrusts as he eases inch after inch of his monstrous dick inside you. His grip tightens on your hips, digging into the plush flesh of your ass as he keeps you in place for each teasing thrust of his cock.

“God, honey, I’m gonna fuck this needy hole just like you want,” He growls, sweat beading on his forehead from the effort of holding back, “Gonna rub this thick fucking tip all over this slutty pussy until you’re dripping and begging for my cock. Fuck… you’re so goddamn tight. Squeezing my cock so fucking hard.”

“W-we shouldn’t be doing this,” You gasp, screwing your eyes shut against the onslaught of sensations. You’re already feeling overstimulated, too warm and too full. Part of you screams to crawl away from the excruciating sensation of being impaled on such a thick cock. You try your best to breathe through it, willing your body to relax. Your cunt weeps, rivulets of slick dripping down and around Bucky’s dick. You feel the little droplets running down your thighs, mixing with your sweat.

Bucky hisses through clenched teeth as he feels your arousal dripping obscenely down his length, your thighs trembling. He loops an arm around your hips, holding you up as he watches the way his dick is swallowed up by your tight hole. He could see you struggling, hear the conflict in your whimper, the way you whispered this was wrong even as your body screamed for his touch. He knew he should listen to the voice in both your heads telling him to stop, to pull away before they crossed a line from which there could be no return… but fuck, he was so goddamn close to the edge already.

His hips rocked faster, fucking his cock in and out of your clutching heat with rough, rapid thrusts. A wet, obscene symphony of squelching and skin slapping against skin fills the room, mixing with his labored breathing and low, strained grunts of pleasure.

“We… fuck.. We shouldn’t…” He repeated your words dumbly, but even as he said it, his cock kept moving. You could feel the tip kissing your cervix with each throbbing, leaking thrust. “But fuck, honey, you feel too good… too goddamn good. We can’t stop now,” Bucky leans forward, pressing his chest against your back, his lips brushing down the side of your neck, “Fuck, gonna make this pretty cunt mine. Fill it up real good, honey.”

“Oh, god,” You gasp, a fresh wave of arousal flooding through you at his words. Your toes curl, fingernails scraping across the floor, “I want that, please. Wreck me.”

The desperate, pleading tone of your voice shatters the remnants of Bucky’s already frayed control. His eyes roll back at your words, groaning. He feels your velvet walls clench and ripple around his throbbing dick, grasping him like a hot fist. Without warning, his hand slides from your hip to your dripping sex, rough fingers finding your swollen, aching clit.

He teases the sensitive bundle of nerves, rubbing tight circles around it with the pad of his thumb as he fucks into you hard and fast. His hips rock faster in tandem with the finger on your clit, each thrust pushing a gush of your juices around his cock and down your thighs.

You feel like you’re on fire, every nerve alight and singing Bucky’s name. You bite down on your fist, attempting to hold back the shrieks of pleasure bubbling up in your chest, “Right there, god, please!” You squeal, trembling with the burning need to cum, “God, don’t stop. Please don’t fucking stop, right there.”

Your whiny, wanton moans bring Bucky’s climax hurtling at him like a freight train. He ducks his head down, sinking his teeth into the meat of your shoulder and shudders. The feeling of your slick little cunt gripping his dick was maddening, and the needy, desperate sounds spilling from your lips were pushing him closer to the edge, “Fuck, honey. Just like that, keep screaming for me. Gonna blow my load in this hot little cunt.”

You whine in response, Bucky’s rough treatment of your clit sending you careening over the edge. Your cunt clamps down violently, slick release gushing out of your hole. Lips parting in a silent scream, you shudder, shattering beneath him. Bucky lets out a guttural moan, his voice raw with pleasure as you cum hard on his cock. A puddle of sticky wetness forms between your legs on the floor, dripping down the fat of your thighs. Bucky can feel his own orgasm building fast and hard, his shaft throbbing and pulsing as he caresses your clit through your aftershocks.

“Yes, fuck! That’s it, honey. Soak me, pretty girl, gonna- fuck!” He grunts, his hips slamming forward and burying his thick cock to the hilt in your spasming pussy with one hard thrust. He groans long and low as your sex milks him for all he’s worth, his hot seed flooding your insides.

Bucky shudders, hips jerking as he empties his heavy balls inside you, thick ropes of pearlescent cum coating your fluttering walls. He presses his hips tight to your ass, grinding against you. That’s enough for your legs to quit on you. His eyes widen as your legs tremble and then give out, your body going boneless and pliant in his arms. He tightens his grip on your hips, hauling you back up onto your knees. Bucky’s heart races, a wild bird in his ribcage, as he struggles to catch his breath in the aftermath of his intense orgasm.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, he eases his softening cock out of your well-used hole. A river of his thick cum oozes out after him, dripping down your inner thighs, joining the puddle of slick on the floor. Bucky can’t help but feel satisfaction at how fucked-out you look, sporting his bite mark on your shoulder. His hands slide around to cup the soft swell of your belly, his palms splayed across the gentle curve. He could feel the heat of your skin, the way it flushed and erupted in little goosebumps from his touch. His gaze heavy-lidded, dark with lingering lust as he murmurs in your ear, “We can’t do this again, right honey?”

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writtenbymoonflower · 1 year ago

Note

how about

and hear me out

room mate! marauders who are obsessed with their shy roomate

oh trust me, hunny, i am hearing you. hope this is okay! shy gn!reader x poly!marauders

cw: nothing really, just fluff, reader is very flustered

1.1k words

Your eyes were blurry as you shuffled into the sunny kitchen. You weren’t used to waking up to the curtains open and breakfast on the stove. You’d lived with people before of course, but none as lively as this bunch. You weren’t complaining, though, you were quickly warming to them, even though you had probably spoken a total of 50 words to your new housemates in the three weeks you had lived with them. Most of these words likely consisting of sorry, excuse me, thank you.

They had been talking though. Ever since the day you met they had been treating you like their best friend. Not even that. They were all best friends. (Though you considered that wasn’t all, on more than one occasion you had caught Sirius with his head in James’ lap, or Remus’ legs swung over one of the other boys. You had also observed a fair number of kisses between the three boys). But rather, they treated you like something precious, like a porcelain doll they were begging to get a hold of.

That thought made you immediately think of the nickname Sirius (or ‘Pads’ as the boys occasionally called him) had stuck you with.

“Hey, dollface! You sleep well?” The coal-haired boy looked like he was itching to beckon you under his arm, but resisted. You were thankful, not knowing if you could survive that.

“It was good.” You hummed, barely legible to James over the sound of his bacon sizzling. You padded over to the breakfast table, sitting one chair away from Sirius and his huge bowl of cereal. No sooner had you sat down when a steaming cup of coffee was placed in front of you by a spindly hand.

“Here you go, dovey.” Remus sat in the chair between you and Sirius.

“Oi, Moons. You’re blocking my view.” You turned in your chair to look behind you at the ‘view’ he was referring to, brows scrunching in confusion when all you saw was the archway. You heard a light chuckle from Remus and a snicker from Sirius as you whipped back around. The possible meaning dawned on you, making you his your heated face in your mug.

“Don’t torture the poor thing.” James scolded, giving a (what you were sure he believed was comforting) squeeze to your shoulder before he sat on your other side.

“I never tortured anyone.” Remus corrected from behind his morning paper, slowly eating a cup of berry-yogurt. “Collective punishment is a war crime, Prongs”

“Leavin’ me to the wolves huh, Moons?” Sirius sassed, sipping on his coffee that was mostly just cream and sugar.

“Oh trust me, I’m sure we all know how much you’d love to be left to the wolf.” James smirked, clearly in on a joke that you had no idea about. He abandoned his teasing to turn to you, fixing a horribly kind look that made your tummy turn to mush. “There is some bacon and eggs on the stove for breakfast, but I’m sure Sirius would let you into his cereal.”

“There’s also yogurt.” Remus looked pointedly to his near-empty cup.

“Oh no, I’m okay. I could never take your food. I’m not hungry anyway.” You muttered into your mug.

“You’ve gotta eat somethin’ babydoll. Can’t have you skipping meals.” Sirius had a playful, if not protective tilt to his tone.

“I’ll find somethin’ don’t worry.” You scrubbed your bleary eyes with irritated cadence, still on the brink of sleep despite the warm caffeine swirling in your system. Thick fingers wrapped around your wrist to pull your offending hand away.

“Gentle, sweetheart.” James scolded lightly. “Gonna hurt yourself like that.” He squeezed your hand before letting it go but it felt oddly like your face and your lungs were being squeezed as well. If this was the boys normal, you weren’t sure if you were going to survive.

You mumbled a sorry looking at the mahogany table like it held the meaning of life, or the extra hour of sleep you desperately craved.

“What’ve we told you? You say sorry too much, sweet thing. It’s like, your favorite word or something.” Sirius laughed, slurping down his cereal milk and licking his chops. You bit back another apology and rubbed your eyes again, though much more gentle this time. James cooed in sympathy.

“You still sleepy?” He rubbed your back again, which made you both more heated and more drowsy.

“Yeah.” You hummed, shamefaced as you played with the hem of your oversized t-shirt. You were thankful that you were still too shy to not wear long pants around them, because they would definitely be able to tell how tensed your legs were. Remus set his paper down.

“Do you have work today, love?”

“No, ‘s my day off.” James grinned at that, but Sirius spoke up.

“Happy coincidence! It’s ours too.” He grinned. “How about we all watch something? We can put something on in the lounge room and you can catch a bit of sleep on the settee?” He suggested. You shrunk at the thought of sleeping in front of them, but weren’t opposed to the idea.

“We’ll make sure to wake you up so you don’t sleep the day away.” James added, still rubbing your back. You were easily convinced.

“Okay, that does sound nice.” Barely above a whisper.

“We can all have a big lunch when you get up, too. Maybe we could go out?” Remus suggested as he led you gently to the living room. You tried to make your way to the armchair, but you were tugged to the couch.

“That won’t be comfy, dollface. Here you go.” Sirius sat on the settee close to one arm, Remus by the other. Sirius pulled you between them while James sat on the floor and you whined in protest.

“No, I’ll move. You sit here, James.”

Remus swore that was the loudest he had ever heard you speak.

“No, I’m good right here. Thanks though, sweetness.” James reassured. He was sat in the middle, though rather close to Remus so the mousy boy could reach out with one hand and scratch James’ scalp, roving his long fingers through the thick curls. You were so distracted that you were startled when Sirius tugged on you again, maneuvering your head onto a pillow that laid on his lap. You tensed before relaxing into his warmth. You tucked your legs into yourself as Remus covered you with a blanket before going back to loving on James.

“There you go, baby. That feel nice?” Sirius said, unfamiliarly soft as he stroked your hair, hand a welcome warmth on your scalp.

Baby. Baby. Baby.

It would surprise you if you woke up from this nap. Your heart had nearly stopped on the spot.

#poly!marauders #poly!marauders x reader #poly!marauders imagine #poly!marauders fluff #poly!marauders angst #poly marauders #marauders #marauders fanfiction #marauders fandom #james potter #sirius black #marauders era #remus lupin #drabble #fluff #poly!marauders x shy!reader #anon ask #anon request

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preqwells · 7 months ago

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downtime | logan howlett x reader

summary: logan had been meaning to show you the wooden cabin he'd visit when given the time— he didn't anticipate how enraptured he'd be with the the absence of chaos in his life

cw: slightly suggestive

domesticity looked good on logan in your eyes.

chopping wood for the fire you two would burn at night, making sure the weeds didn't interfere with the tomatoes you had been growing, and sometimes even fishing despite his lack of patience for it. his jeans hung low around his waist, hair speckled across his chest through his open-collared shirt—you had to admit, you liked this side of him. you two had decided you wanted to get away for a while since logan wasn't particularly needed at the moment. he had been wanting to show you the cabin he frequented when he wasn’t busy, daydreaming to himself with the thought of what your reaction would be to it. you weren't surprised at the nature of the wooden cabin. it was secluded and neatly tucked away in a corner of a vast forest that no one would dare to enter unless they were in for a rude awakening. maybe you were kidding yourself with the idea that you two might be able to go off-grid for a while, but it was a thought you both were willing to entertain.

you smiled to yourself as your eyes tore away from the much-welcomed sight of your boyfriend leaning back on the couch, hulking thighs spread as his head lolled back. your attention trailed back to the deer he had caught earlier in hopes you could do something with it. "should i slow-cook it? maybe even make it into a pot roast?" you suddenly spoke up from the kitchen, your lips pursed in thought as a lighthearted scoff left him, his eyebrow quirking up for a moment. "askin' the wrong person. never been known to be much of a chef, sweetheart." he gruffed out, too tired to allow his eyes to roll into the back of his head at the thought of even picking up on anything remotely related to cooking. "mm, you're right," you said through a small chuckle, your eyes still examining the raw meat, "could always just set up the grill out back. chop it up, make 'em into kebabs… but we don't have any skewers. if only there was something that we could use…" you playfully trailed off as you pressed your index finger to your lower lip as if conjuring a thought. logan quickly caught onto the fact that you were talking about using his claws as kebab skewers to which he shook his head in response, shooting you an amused glance.

he rose to his feet, floorboards groaning under his weight with each movement. "ha-ha, you're hilarious. damn near a comedian." he retorted as he made his way to you, placing his empty beer bottle on the counter before his arms wrapped around you, giving you a small squeeze. his front pressed to your back, your heart fluttering at the sudden contact. the contours of his muscles molded into your frame nicely, warmth emanating from him as his breath fanned against the nape of your neck. "well… i was thinking about signing up for the local comedy club. could be my big breakthrough, y'know?" you sighed in faux contemplation as you felt the softness of his lips pepper kisses from your nape to your pulse-point, his hands lingering on your waist. his thumbs found the belt loops in your jeans, tugging on them absentmindedly. "y'right, bet the squirrels and mornin' birds would love to hear the material you been practicin' on me." he murmured into your skin, eyes fluttering shut as he deeply inhaled your scent. seeing as how sensitive he was to scents, there were lots of scents he couldn't stand. hated the smell of gasoline, hated any kind of gaudy perfume— if he thought about it for too long, his nose would probably scrunch up out of disgust. yet he was particularly fond of your scent, fresh linen and cotton. your scent was as pleasing as your personality. you were good for logan. kind, compassionate— you smoothed out his rough edges. god knew he had too many.

domesticity looked good on you in logan's eyes. the wood you'd carry to the fire pit for your late-night chats recounting the events of the day, the tomatoes you'd complain about that wouldn't ripen and sometimes even fall off too early from local wildlife taking their swipes at it, and your insistence on him learning some proper patience for fishing since you still had a taste for wild-caught salmon. his hands found the hem of your flannel, sliding under the fabric as his fingertips grazed the softness of your skin, traveling down past your navel. warmth flooded your cheeks as a sheepish smile played at the corners of your lips, your hands on the counter to brace yourself. "logan— logan! i still have to marinate the meat." you hastily whispered before a breathy moan escaped you as his tongue rolled over your skin, teeth nipping at the crook of your neck. "mmm, don't worry 'bout it." he spoke into your neck before gently lifting you onto the counter, his eyes filled with affection. he didn't know how it happened, honestly. couldn't pinpoint it even if he tried to recall what you did that caused him to be so smitten with you. he quietly admired you for a few moments, taking in how hues of orange from the sun setting filtered through the window and cascaded onto the side of your face, his hand raising to cup the swell of your cheek. you didn't know it, but logan had made a quiet vow to himself to do everything in his power to make sure you were safe, in this life and the next.

he'd show you tonight how much he adored you, in more ways than just one.

#logan howlett x reader #logan howlett #wolverine x reader #wolverine #james logan howlett #james logan howlett x reader #xmen x reader #logan howlett x you #x men #wolverine x you #wolverine xmen

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seospicybin · 1 month ago

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WORSHIP.

I.N x reader. (s,a)

Synopsis: In the quiet halls of the church and the secrecy of the night, boundaries are tested, faith is questioned, and desires threaten to consume both you and Jeongin. Some sins are easy to resist—others, once tasted, become impossible to forget. (22k words)

Author's note: This is a verrrrry late Jeongin bday fic. Have holy water ready near you and hope you enjoy it ♡

WORSHIP Playlist 🎧

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are products of my imagination and used in a fictitious manner. Be aware that there are mentions of alcohol addiction and self-harm implicitly.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

The confession echoes in the empty church, absorbed by the stillness of flickering candlelight. Yang Jeongin kneels before the altar, his fingers curled together in a desperate grip, as if holding himself together.

"I have broken my vow."

The weight of those words settles heavily on his chest. He exhales slowly, but the guilt does not leave him. The silence stretches, pressing in on him, waiting for him to continue. But how does he put it into words?

How does he confess that, despite all his prayers, despite the years of devotion, he let himself want something—someone—he should never have?

Jeongin closes his eyes. Images flood his mind, unbidden and relentless. A voice, teasing yet thoughtful. Fingers brushing over the pages of his manuscript. The way you looked at him—not as a priest, but as a man. Your touch on him, your warmth around him, your heat pressed against him and that sweet, sweet taste of you that flooded his tongue.

Lowering his head, he lets out a slow, unsteady breath and murmurs—

"Lord, have mercy on me."

But mercy does not come. Not in the silence of the church, not in the warmth of the candlelight, not in the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat that refuses to quiet. He waits, as if expecting some sign, some force greater than himself to strip him of this longing, to pull him back from the edge before he falls again.

Nothing comes.

Jeongin forces his eyes open, staring at the altar before him. The crucifix looms overhead, a reminder, a warning—yet all he can think about is how your hands felt gripping the front of his shirt, how they felt against his skin. The way you pleaded so desperately to please him.

Please, please, please.

A shudder courses through him. He grips the rosary tighter, the beads biting into his skin. He should repent. He should beg for forgiveness. He should erase every trace of you from his thoughts before he condemns himself further.

And yet—

And yet, when he closes his eyes again, all he sees is you.

The scent of old paper and polished wood lingers in the air as Jeongin walks through the quiet corridors of St. Peter’s Church, making his way toward his office. The afternoon sun filters through the stained-glass windows, casting fractured colors onto the stone floor. A familiar stillness settles around him, the kind that has become second nature over the years.

He steps inside his office, closing the door behind him. His desk is neatly arranged, save for the stack of handwritten pages resting beside his laptop—his latest manuscript, still unfinished. With a quiet sigh, he glances at the bulletin board pinned to the wall, eyes lingering on the ad he had posted just days ago.

Looking for a part-time assistant. Flexible hours. Must be organized and comfortable with transcribing and editing. Contact: 010-XXXX-XXXX.

A simple request, nothing more. He hadn’t expected much, maybe a few inquiries at best. So when his phone buzzes against the desk, he barely glances at the number before answering.

"Hello?"

There’s a brief hesitation on the other end before a voice—soft, uncertain yet clear—fills the silence.

"Hi, um… I saw the notice about the part-time job? I just wanted to ask if it's still available."

Jeongin leans back in his chair, his fingers idly tapping against the armrest. There's something about the way you speak—the quiet curiosity, the faint edge of hesitation—that makes him pause before responding.

"Ah, yes. It is. Would you be able to come by this afternoon? We can talk more in person."

A beat of silence. Then, "Sure. Where should I go?"

"St. Peter’s Church," he replies smoothly. "Just ask for Father Yang when you arrive."

The pause is longer this time, and Jeongin can almost picture the way your expression must have shifted—surprise, confusion, maybe even disbelief. He waits, letting the weight of it settle.

"Father?" Your voice is quieter now, cautious.

"That’s right." He doesn’t elaborate, simply lets the word linger between you.

But despite your hesitation, you don’t back out. "Alright. I’ll be there."

"Good. I’ll see you then."

The call ends, and Jeongin sets his phone down, exhaling slowly. He isn’t sure why he feels the faintest trace of amusement lingering in his chest. Perhaps it’s the subtle curiosity in your voice or the fact that, even through the phone, he could sense the moment your perception shifted.

Either way, he knows one thing for certain: You don’t quite know what you’ve signed up for.

The church is quieter than usual when Jeongin steps toward the altar, dressed in his white and gold vestments. The scent of burning candles and aged wood surrounds him, a constant companion. He speaks with the steadiness that years of practice have given him, his voice echoing through the high ceilings as the congregation listens.

He doesn’t think much of the new presence seated at the back of the church at first. It’s only when he glances up, catching a pair of unfamiliar eyes watching him a little too intently, that something shifts. Recognition flickers.

The service continues, undisturbed, but Jeongin is aware of you now—the slight fidgeting of your hands, the way you shift in your seat, the lingering way your gaze keeps returning to him.

When the mass ends and the last murmurs of prayer fade, Jeongin descends the steps from the altar, moving through the thinning crowd with quiet purpose. He doesn’t need to search.

You’re still there, watching him.

He stops in front of you, tilting his head slightly as his gaze meets yours. There it is—the look he had anticipated. That moment of realization.

"You must be here about the job."

Your lips part slightly, a breath caught in your throat. "You’re Father Yang?"

Jeongin exhales a quiet chuckle, amusement flickering at the edges of his lips. "I am. Were you expecting someone else?"

"I—um—I guess I just didn’t recognize you right away."

"That happens." He doesn’t press further, though he can see the questions forming behind your eyes. Instead, he gestures toward the hallway leading to the back of the church. "Come on. We can talk more in my office."

You hesitate for only a second before following. Jeongin leads the way, his footsteps quiet against the stone floor, the hum of the church fading behind you.

Inside his office, the space is dimly lit by the glow of his desk lamp, the scent of ink and old books settling in the air. Jeongin takes his seat, but before he gestures for you to do the same, his gaze flickers over you—your clothes, the expensive bag resting on your shoulder, the delicate pieces of jewelry on your wrist and neck. Everything about you speaks of wealth, of a life where money is never a concern.

He doesn’t ask. Not yet. But the question lingers in his mind. Why would someone like you be looking for a part-time job at a church? If it’s just about building your resume, there are a hundred easier ways.

Still, he doesn’t voice the thought. Instead, he gestures toward the chair across from him. "Have a seat."

You do, sinking into the chair, only to immediately sit up straighter, as if trying not to appear uncomfortable. It doesn’t help that the setup feels almost interrogative—him behind the desk, composed and collected, while you sit stiffly across from him.

"So," Jeongin starts, leaning forward, hands resting lightly against the desk, "tell me a little about yourself."

You straighten, clearing your throat. "Well, I’m in my last year of college. I major in literature, and I do some freelance work—mostly editing and transcribing—so I thought this might be a good fit."

Jeongin nods but doesn’t drop his scrutiny. "Will this job interfere with your studies?"

You shake your head quickly. "Not at all. If anything, I need something to do other than just studying all the time." A small, sheepish smile. "And honestly, I need the experience for my resume."

That doesn’t explain it. Not entirely. But Jeongin lets it slide, for now. "That’s fair."

A beat of silence. Then he tilts his head. "Do you have experience working with writers?"

"A bit," you admit. "I've helped a few authors organize their drafts and notes. Are you working on a book?"

"I am." He watches your expression closely. "A detective novel."

Your eyebrows lift slightly. "Really?"

Jeongin leans back, lips curling slightly at your reaction. "Something wrong with that?"

"No, not at all," you say quickly. "I just… didn't expect a priest to be writing crime fiction."

"You’re not the first person to say that," he replies smoothly.

You shift slightly, and though you try to hide it, Jeongin can tell you’re still unsure about him. That’s fine. He’s used to being studied, just as he’s used to studying others.

He finally leans forward, folding his hands together. "If you take this job, you'll be assisting me with research, organization, and transcriptions. Some of it will be straightforward, some of it might require a little patience." His voice remains calm, steady. "Is that something you're comfortable with?"

You hesitate for only a moment before nodding, this time more firmly. "Yeah. I can handle that."

Jeongin studies you for a second longer, then gives a small nod. "Good."

You exhale, as if only now realizing you had been holding your breath.

"You can start this Monday."

Jeongin doesn’t usually like surprises, but he has to admit—watching you linger by the confession booth is an unexpected sight.

He had only been passing through the church hallways when he spotted you, standing just outside the small wooden structure, your fingers ghosting over the carved frame. Your expression is unreadable, but there’s something pensive in the way you stand there, like you’re considering stepping inside.

His lips quirk slightly. “Thinking about confessing?”

The way you jolt at his voice is almost comical. You turn sharply, eyes widening just a fraction before you compose yourself.

“I was just looking,” you reply, shifting slightly under his gaze.

Jeongin raises a brow, amused. “You sure? I can take your confession right now, if you’d like.”

For a brief second, your face betrays a flicker of flustered hesitation before you shake your head, smiling shyly. “Maybe another time.”

He chuckles softly, the sound echoing lightly in the quiet hall. “I’ll hold you to that.”

He nods toward his office. “Come on. You have work to do.”

He doesn’t wait for you to respond, simply turns on his heel, fully expecting you to follow—which, after a brief pause, you do.

Jeongin watches you carefully as you step into his office, noting how your gaze flickers over the space. It’s a little cluttered but not chaotic, a mix of stacked manuscripts, theological books, and a few scattered notes he keeps meaning to organize. The air smells faintly of old parchment and candle wax.

You don’t seem entirely comfortable here. He wonders if it’s the religious setting or just him.

Settling into his chair, he leans back slightly, hands clasped together. “Your tasks are straightforward,” he begins. “You’ll be editing, transcribing my handwritten notes, proofreading drafts, and organizing my files. Occasionally, you might have to handle emails from my publisher or literary agent.”

You nod, listening intently, but he doesn’t miss the way your eyes flicker toward his desk—toward the mess of papers he has yet to sort. If organization is part of your job, you’ll have your hands full.

“I don’t expect you to know everything right away,” he continues, watching for your reaction. “But I do expect you to be efficient and ask questions when necessary.”

“Understood,” you reply, your tone professional, composed.

He nods in approval before gesturing toward the chair across from him. “Then let’s get started.”

You settle in, pulling out your laptop, and soon enough, the only sound in the office is the rhythmic tapping of keys as you begin working through his notes.

Jeongin doesn’t speak much after that, but he keeps a quiet eye on you as he works through his own writing. The job itself isn’t difficult, but he can sense your unease.

It’s not the workload that unsettles you. It’s him. He’s used to that. Even now, after seeing him lead an entire mass, after watching him step down from the altar with practiced ease, you still seem unsure about him.

Maybe it’s because he’s younger than you expected—sharp-eyed and composed, but not in the soft, gentle way most priests are. Or maybe it’s the way he speaks, calm and deliberate, with none of the detached serenity that people usually associate with men of the cloth.

Or maybe, it’s because despite sitting across from you in full priest attire, he looks more like a professor than a man of God. Someone intellectual, analytical. Someone who doesn’t just preach scripture but dissects it.

He wonders if you even realize you’re staring. Instead of calling you out on it, he lets the silence stretch between you until, finally, he speaks.

“You don’t feel comfortable working here, do you?”

Your fingers freeze over the keyboard for a split second before you quickly shake your head. “What? No, it’s fine—”

He tilts his head slightly, a knowing look in his eyes. “You don’t have to lie.”

You press your lips together, clearly unsure of how to respond.

Jeongin exhales softly, leaning back in his chair. “It makes sense. A church office isn’t exactly the most comfortable workspace.” He twirls a pen absently between his fingers before glancing back at you. “Come to my apartment tomorrow instead. It’s where I do most of my writing anyway. You’ll be more comfortable there.”

You hesitate but then your eyes flicker around the room—the heavy bookshelves, the religious paintings, the ever-present scent of incense and candle wax—and Jeongin knows you’re considering it.

“If that’s what you prefer,” you say carefully.

His lips curl slightly. “It’s what makes the most sense. I’ll text you the address later.”

And just like that, the first day ends with a shift neither of you were expecting.

The next afternoon, Jeongin opens the door to find you standing outside his apartment, looking hesitant.

He takes one look at your face and smirks. “Did you expect me to answer the door in full priest attire?”

You blink, clearly caught off guard, and only now seem to realize that he’s not dressed in black clericals. Instead, he’s wearing a loose sweater and sweatpants, looking significantly more casual than the last time you saw him.

“No—I mean, I just…” You trail off, visibly struggling to phrase whatever it is you’re thinking.

Jeongin leans against the doorframe, amused. “I don’t wear that all the time, you know.”

Your reaction is enough to entertain him for the rest of the evening. But after a few more seconds of watching you flounder, he gestures for you to step inside.

His apartment is neat and minimalistic, lacking any unnecessary decor. But the first thing you notice isn’t the furniture.

It’s the wooden altar against the wall.

Your eyes linger on it for a second before you turn to him, brows raised. “So instead of a couch or a coffee table, you took an altar?”

Jeongin chuckles. “It was free.”

You exhale a small laugh, shaking your head as you take in the rest of the space. He watches as you carefully observe everything, adjusting to this new environment.

Finally, he nods toward the desk by the window. “Your workspace is over there.”

You walk over, running your fingers lightly over the surface before glancing back at him. “Where are you going to work if I’m using your desk?”

He shrugs, leaning against the wall. “I’ll be doing other things around the apartment.”

Your eyes narrow slightly. “Like what?”

His lips twitch. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

The first time Jeongin sees you, he knows you’ll be trouble.

Not in the way most people would think—there’s nothing outwardly rebellious about you, nothing loud or disruptive. No, your trouble is quieter, buried beneath the surface, where only those who bother to look closely can see it.

And Jeongin always looks closely.

You’re smart—he can tell from the way you speak, how you choose your words carefully, never giving more than what’s necessary. You’re meticulous, precise in your work, never making mistakes. A model assistant.

But Jeongin doesn’t trust things that are too perfect.

And you—you are undeniably beautiful. It’s a beauty so pure that it almost feels sacred, like stained glass catching sunlight or the flicker of a candle in a silent chapel. And yet, instead of making him want to protect it, it makes something inside him stir.

A need—subtle but insistent—to ruin it. To stain it. Just to see what would happen. And that is dangerous.

He’s spent years learning restraint, carving discipline into himself until it feels like second nature. But you… You tempt him just enough to make him wonder what you’re hiding.

Because there’s something—a flicker of secrecy behind your composed expression, a hesitation in your voice when you speak of your life. He sees it in the way your fingers press into your thighs under the table, in the way your smile never quite reaches your eyes.

Jeongin likes writing mysteries because he enjoys uncovering things—secrets, motives, the hidden truths people don’t want to admit. And next, it’s going to be you.

"Father?"

Your soft, melodic voice cuts through his thoughts, snapping him back to reality and God, he likes it when you call him that. Too much. The way you say it—gentle, reverent, like it means something—only makes it worse. He wonders, briefly, if you’ll ever say it in a different tone. Maybe a little rougher, maybe breathless—maybe—

"Father," you call again, stepping closer. Your hands are clasped neatly in front of you, a picture of innocence, of obedience.

Jeongin looks down at the manuscript in his hands, gripping it just a little tighter to keep his thoughts from straying too far.

"Do you mind if I leave early today?" you ask, tilting your head ever so slightly.

"Yes," he says immediately. Maybe too quickly. But he knows—knows it’s dangerous to be around you for too long.

You smile, grateful. "Thank you, but—there’s one more thing.”

Jeongin lifts his eyes, wary. "What is it?"

"Can I use your bathroom to change?"

Another easy request. Another easy yes. You excuse yourself, taking your bag with you, and disappear behind the door.

And Jeongin—he should go back to work. He should focus on something else. But he can’t. Because the only thing on his mind now is you. You, just beyond that door. Undressing.

He swallows hard, gripping the manuscript even tighter, but it’s useless. His thoughts are already running wild—imagining the soft rustle of fabric as you pull that dress over your head, imagining the bare expanse of your skin, the places he’s never seen, the places you keep hidden—

His breath catches and then his eyes dart to the crucifix on the wall. The sight of it stings, as if God Himself is watching, and Jeongin quickly reaches for the cross necklace hanging around his neck. His fingers tighten around it as he closes his eyes, whispering a quiet prayer.

But what is he even praying for? Not to stop—because he can’t stop. Not for forgiveness—because he doesn’t deserve it.

All he can do is stand there, gripping onto the fragile thread of his self-control, until the soft click of the bathroom door opening pulls him back to the present.

He turns swiftly—only to see you already pulling on your coat, concealing whatever outfit you’ve changed into. A small mercy, perhaps. But then he notices the deep red painted onto your lips. The scent of your perfume drifts through the air, warm and heady, curling around him like temptation itself.

You smile at him, utterly unaware of the war waging inside him. "Good night, Father. See you tomorrow."

And then you’re gone.

Jeongin exhales, slow and heavy, his gaze lingering on the closed door. He thought—hoped—that once you left, his mind would quiet. That he’d be able to breathe again.

But it’s harder now because your scent lingers in the room and so does everything else.

Jeongin does what he always does when temptation coils too tightly around his ribs—he leaves. He steps out into the night and the next thing he knows, it’s late, and he’s walking down an unfamiliar street, bathed in the glow of neon lights and passing headlights.

A group of girls passes by, giggling and chatting, their perfume lingering in the air. Jeongin keeps his head down, uninterested. But then—

"Father."

The word freezes him in place. Slowly, he turns around and there you are. For a moment, he isn’t even sure it’s you. The girl standing before him isn’t the same one he saw earlier in his apartment—poised, polished, careful in every movement. No, this version of you is different.

Your dress is short—too short—exposing far too much of your legs, hugging every curve of your body in ways that make his throat dry. The dim glow of the streetlights does nothing to hide the fact that you’re not wearing a bra, your nipples subtly pressing against the thin fabric. And your lips—painted that same deep red, like a mark of sin itself.

You smile at him, a little shy now, suddenly aware of yourself under his gaze. You clutch your coat tighter around your body, a small attempt at modesty, though it does nothing to undo what he’s already seen.

"I’m surprised to see you here," you say, voice light, but there’s something else beneath it—an uncertainty, a hesitance.

Jeongin exhales slowly, pulling his thoughts together. "I’m just as surprised," he admits.

A brief silence settles between you. Then, Jeongin asks, "Where are you going?"

You glance over your shoulder toward the club entrance, where bluish neon lights spill onto the pavement, casting strange shadows on the ground. Your lips part as if to answer, but the words trail off, and instead, you gesture vaguely in the direction of the pulsing music.

You don’t say it outright, but Jeongin can tell—it’s not something you want to talk about with him. So he nods in understanding.

You hesitate then, shifting slightly on your feet before drawing in a small breath. "Do you want to—" You stop yourself mid-sentence, breaking into a nervous laugh as you shake your head. "Never mind."

He knows what you were about to ask. "It’s too late for me anyway," Jeongin says instead, his voice careful, measured. "I have morning mass tomorrow."

At that, your brows lift slightly, as if the reminder of his priesthood catches you off guard. He watches your expression closely, waiting for the moment it clicks again—that no matter how different he may look outside of his collar, no matter how casual he may seem standing before you now, he is still Father Yang Jeongin.

"Don’t let me get in the way," he says after a beat. "Have fun."

You pause, your eyes lingering on him for just a second too long, something unreadable flickering in them. Then, without another word, you step away, rejoining your friends.

Before you get too far, Jeongin speaks once more. "Stay safe."

You pause, and when you respond, your voice is softer, more subdued. "Yes, Father."

And Jeongin—he stands there, watching. Watching the sway of your hips, the way the hem of your dress flutters with each step, the way the scent of your perfume lingers in the air long after you’re gone.

Jeongin doesn’t remember how it starts. One moment, he’s standing in the dim light of his apartment, and the next, you’re in front of him, close enough that he can count every slow rise and fall of your chest.

You look different—softer, unguarded, your lips stained that same dangerous red. Your dress clings to you, delicate fabric that threatens to slip off your shoulders with the slightest movement.

"Father," you whisper, and the way you say it makes something inside him snap.

His fingers twitch at his sides. Don’t touch her.

But then your hands reach for him first, trailing up his arms, slow and featherlight, until they slide over his shoulders.

"Do you want me to confess?" you murmur, eyes gleaming with something wicked.

Jeongin swallows. His throat is dry, his chest tight. You shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be looking at you like this, thinking of you like this.

And yet, when your fingers brush against his collar, your touch barely there, he doesn’t stop you.

"You tempt me," you whisper, and your breath fans against his lips. "Do I tempt you, Father?"

His hands move before he can think—gripping your hips, pulling you closer until there’s nothing between you but heat. Your body presses against his, and he swears he can feel every curve, every soft inch molding into him.

"Say it," you breathe, tilting your head up. "Say you want me."

His resolve shatters and the moment his lips crash against yours, it’s over.

You melt into him, your fingers tangling in his hair, nails grazing against his scalp in a way that makes him groan against your mouth. His hands roam down, gripping the backs of your thighs, lifting you—he doesn’t know where he’s taking you, only that he needs to feel more, needs to—

His name. You moan his name, not Father, not the careful title he hides behind, but Jeongin—breathy, desperate, yours.

Heat. Softness. The scent of something sweet, intoxicating, wrapping around him like silk. Your delicate fingers trailing over his chest, down, down—

Jeongin jerks awake.

His breathing is uneven, his body flushed with heat despite the cool air in the room. The sheets stick to his damp skin, and when he shifts, discomfort coils in his gut. He doesn’t need to look down to know.

Morning wood.

His jaw clenches as he drags a hand down his face, fingers trembling as he pushes his hair back. The clock on his nightstand glares at him, the numbers glowing an unforgiving 5:32 AM. Morning mass is in less than two hours.

"Shit."

He swallows hard, forcing himself to sit up. His body protests, his muscles taut with the remnants of the dream—the dream he shouldn’t have had.

Not about you. Not about your soft voice whispering Father in that same breathy tone. Not about your fingers digging into his shoulders. Not about the way your lips had parted for him, not in prayer, but in something far more sinful.

Jeongin shuts his eyes tightly. No. No. No.

He inhales sharply and forces the words past his lips. "Lord, have mercy."

But even as he murmurs the prayer, images of you flicker behind his eyelids—your dress, your perfume, the way your eyes lingered on him last night.

His fingers twitch, and before he can entertain another thought, Jeongin throws off the sheets and stumbles to his feet.

The cold shower does little to wash away the lingering heat. And as he stands under the freezing water, hands braced against the tiled wall, Jeongin wonders if this is the beginning of his ruin.

Jeongin exhales slowly before unlocking the door. He knows you’ll be standing there, just as you are around this time in the afternoon, but nothing prepares him for the sight of you holding out a coffee cup, your soft smile disarming.

“I got you this, Father,” you say, your voice gentle.

He hesitates only for a moment before reaching for it. And that’s when it happens. Your fingers brush—just the barest, fleeting touch, but it sends a current straight through him. He nearly flinches. Because just like that, the memory of his dream resurfaces, vivid and unforgiving. Your warmth against him, your lips parting in a breathless plea, the softness of your skin beneath his hands—

He pulls the cup away too quickly. The heat seeps through the paper, grounding him back to reality. “Thank you,” he murmurs, voice strained.

You tilt your head slightly. “How are you today?”

His grip on the cup tightens. “Fine,” he answers curtly.

Your eyes search his face, as if sensing something beneath the surface. Then, the question that nearly makes him choke on air—

“You look tired. Did you sleep well, Father?”

His breath catches, and for a moment, all he can do is stare at you. Do you know? How could you possibly know? The way you ask it—so casual, so innocent—yet it feels like a cruel trick.

He forces himself to look away. “I—” He swallows hard. “There’s a list of things I need you to work on today.”

He doesn’t answer your question. He can’t. Instead, he talks—quick, efficient, filling the space between you with instructions about editing, transcribing, emails. He needs distance. Needs to push you back into the safe boundaries of professionalism.

“I have a meeting with my parish soon,” he adds, relieved that it’s not an excuse. It’s the truth. The timing couldn’t be better—he needs to leave before he does something irredeemable.

You nod, obedient as ever, listening to every word, those wide, earnest eyes locked onto his. Your lips part slightly, as if you have something to say, but you stay quiet, waiting for his command.

And for a split second—just one—Jeongin feels the undeniable temptation to close the space between you. To reach out, cup your face, and press his lips to yours just to see if they’re as soft as he imagines. He jerks his head away, breaking the thought before it can go any further.

No. He needs to go. Now. He turns, already stepping toward the door when he hears it—

“Father.”

The sound of your voice stops him in his tracks. A rush of heat curls low in his stomach, his mind flashing back to the dream, the way you had said it—whispered, breathless, desperate. He clenches his jaw before looking back at you.

You smile, completely unaware of the effect you have on him. “Please take the coffee with you,” you say, nudging the cup toward him.

For a moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. Then, with a stiff nod, he grips the cup tighter, murmurs a quiet thanks, and walks out the door because if he stays any longer, he’s not sure if he’ll be able to resist the fall.

The meeting had done its job—Jeongin had managed to push you out of his mind, at least temporarily. Discussions about upcoming church events, budgeting concerns, and youth programs had kept him grounded in reality. By the time he steps onto the street leading back to his apartment, he feels a rare sense of relief.

You would be gone by now. He had been gone for hours. The thought steadies him. No need to walk on a tightrope, no need to police his own thoughts, no need to restrain himself from—

Jeongin freezes mid-step. Through the faintly lit window of his apartment, he sees a silhouette. His stomach drops. He fumbles for his keys, unlocking the door in a rush, and steps inside.

And there you are.

Sitting on his sofa, one leg tucked under the other, completely at ease, flipping through the pages of one of his novels. You glance over your shoulder at him, smile like you belong here.

“Welcome back, Father.”

The words make his breath hitch. It takes him a second too long to remember to respond.

“What… Why are you still here?” The question comes out more forceful than intended, his surprise laced with something dangerously close to panic.

You blink, tilting your head slightly as if his reaction is odd. “I've finished what you asked me to do,” you say simply, lifting the book. “And then I got curious.”

Curious.

Jeongin exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face. He doesn’t know whether to be frustrated or amused.

“Are you enjoying it?” he asks, his voice more measured now.

Your lips curve, eyes glinting with something unreadable. “It’s different from what I expected,” you admit. “Darker.”

You skim a finger down the page, absentmindedly tracing over the words, and he wonders if you have any idea how that simple action makes his stomach twist.

“You write about sinners a lot, Father,” you muse, flipping to the next chapter. “Do you relate to them?”

Your voice is light, teasing, but something about the question unsettles him. You don’t look up right away, waiting, as if you truly expect an answer.

Jeongin forces himself to exhale, to shove down the flicker of heat curling in his chest.

“You should go home.”

The words come out firmer than he intends, but it’s the only way he can maintain control of the situation. You shouldn’t be here. Not after he had spent the entire day trying to cleanse his thoughts of you. Not when the way you’re sitting there, curled up on his sofa, reminds him far too much of—

You move. Closing the book with a soft thud, set it on the coffee table and rise to your feet. There’s something hesitant in the way you approach him, something almost uncertain, and Jeongin braces himself for whatever you’re about to say.

Then, softly, you ask, “Father… can I make a confession?”

Jeongin stills. The words send a jolt down his spine.

The dream. His dream had started like this. You, standing before him, hands clasped in front of you, looking up at him with wide, expectant eyes. Except in his dream, your voice had been breathless, heavy with something unspoken. And when he had stepped closer—

No. Jeongin clenches his jaw, pushing the memory away. This is different. This is real. His fingers curl at his sides, nails digging into his palm as he inhales deeply. He reminds himself of who he is, of what this means, of the line he cannot—will not—cross.

Still, his voice is quieter when he finally speaks. “…Of course.”

The air in the apartment feels heavier when you sit beside him on the sofa. The cushions dip slightly under your weight, and for a moment, Jeongin wonders if this is a mistake—if allowing you to stay any longer is only inviting more temptation into his already fragile resolve.

You’re quiet, hands fidgeting in your lap, your posture unsure in a way he’s never seen before. The confidence you usually carry—the soft smiles, the teasing edge in your words—is nowhere to be found.

“I… I don’t really know how to start,” you admit softly, glancing at him through your lashes. “Do I have to say, ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned’ or…?”

Jeongin bites back a smile. “Not exactly,” he says, shaking his head. “You start by making the sign of the cross and saying, ‘In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.’”

A quiet, nervous chuckle escapes your lips, and you lower your head slightly. “Right. Of course. I should’ve known,” you murmur, though there’s no malice—only a kind of shy awkwardness.

You’re not someone who comes to church often. That much is clear.

“Let me ask you something,” Jeongin softens, leaning back slightly as he shifts his approach. “Why do you suddenly want to confess?” he asks, his voice quieter now—gentler, as though he’s worried you’ll shut down if he pushes too hard.

You hesitate before answering. “I… I wanted to talk about something,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “And you seemed like the kind of person I could talk to. Someone who wouldn’t judge.”

The words sit heavy in the space between you. For a second, Jeongin doesn’t trust himself to speak. Because the truth is—he is judging. Not you, but himself.

“I’m not here to condemn you,” he finally says, fighting to maintain the calm steadiness in his tone. “And if you feel comfortable enough to tell me, then there’s no need to be nervous.” He tilts his head slightly, watching the way your fingers twist the hem of your dress. “Maybe you don’t want forgiveness. Maybe you just want to be heard.”

At that, your shoulders loosen a little. The tension in your frame eases, and after a breath, you begin.

“My parents,” you start, “are… difficult. They’re strict. Demanding. Controlling.” You pause, trying to gather your thoughts. “They expect a lot from me. I always have to be the best—the perfect daughter. I do what they ask. I always do. But sometimes…” Your voice wavers, just slightly. “Sometimes, I feel like I can’t breathe.”

Jeongin doesn’t speak. He lets you keep going, his fingers curling against his knees as he listens.

“I know they want the best for me,” you continue, a touch more defensive now, as though you’re trying to convince yourself of it. “But it’s exhausting. The pressure. And the worst part is… I don’t get to enjoy anything. Being young. Being free. It feels like life is just passing me by while other people my age are out there living.”

You lower your gaze, your voice quieting. “That night… when I saw you. That was me blowing off steam.”

Jeongin clenches his jaw, the image flashing back with painful clarity—you, in that dress, with your red lips and bare skin, looking like temptation incarnate under the neon lights.

“I lied to my parents that night,” you confess, and there’s a thread of guilt woven through your tone. “I told them I was staying late for my part-time job. For you.” You glance at him briefly, your expression apologetic. “But I wasn’t. I went out with my friends instead. We drank. We danced. We—” You cut yourself off, shaking your head in frustration. “I know lying is a sin, but it’s the only way I get to do anything for myself.”

He should reprimand you. He should tell you lying is wrong, that deception is a slippery slope—but all Jeongin can focus on is the way your voice softens with something deeper. Something more fragile.

“I know it sounds stupid,” you say quietly, your fingers curling into your palms, “but sometimes, I feel… left behind.”

The words hit harder than they should. You’re not saying it outright, but he can hear what you’re implying. You’ve never had the freedom to explore. To feel things. To know the things others your age do.

He shouldn’t care. But he does. And it shouldn’t affect him. But it does. And yet—nothing tests his self-control like the question that leaves your lips next.

“Is it wrong…” you hesitate, your voice dropping into something softer, almost fragile, “to want to feel admired? To be wanted?”

Jeongin’s heart stutters.

“I like the way it feels,” you continue, eyes cast downward in quiet shame. “When I dress up, when I go out… the way people look at me. It’s like, for once, I’m not my parent's daughter and I'm just... me. I can see it in their eyes—how much they want me. And I—” Your breath catches, your lips trembling just slightly. “I like that.”

He swallows hard, the weight of your words pressing down on every weak part of him. Because God help him—he knows exactly what you mean.

And what’s worse? He wants you the same way. Maybe more.

Silence stretches between you, heavy and unspoken. The weight of your confession lingers in the air, and Jeongin feels it pressing down on him—on his chest, his thoughts, the fragile boundary he’s desperately trying to maintain.

You look at him expectantly, searching for something in his expression. Guidance, maybe. Reassurance. Or perhaps, you’re bracing for judgment, for him to tell you that what you feel is wrong. But he doesn’t. He can’t.

Instead, he exhales slowly, choosing his words carefully. “I think,” he begins, voice steady, “that you’re searching for something.”

You blink at him, waiting.

“It’s not wrong to want to be seen,” he continues. “To be wanted. We all crave connection in some way.” His fingers curl against his knee, a grounding effort to keep himself composed. “But admiration—lust—it’s fleeting. It won’t fill the emptiness you feel.”

Your lips part slightly, as if to protest, but you hesitate.

Jeongin leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs as he studies you. “You say you feel left behind, but… have you ever stopped to ask yourself what it is you’re truly missing?”

You frown, your brows drawing together.

“Is it the experiences themselves?” he presses gently. “Or is it the idea of them? The pressure to have lived a certain way, to match some invisible expectation of what youth is supposed to be?”

You lower your gaze, silent.

Jeongin sighs. “You’ve spent so long following the rules that now you’re swinging in the opposite direction, trying to grasp onto something—anything—that makes you feel alive.” He pauses. “But if you’re not careful, you might mistake empty attention for something more. And that kind of emptiness… it lingers.”

You exhale softly, your fingers stilling in your lap. “Then… what do I do?”

He hesitates. He could tell you to focus on the people who truly care for you, to find fulfillment in things that aren’t so temporary. He could remind you that your worth isn’t measured by how many eyes are on you, or how much you’re desired.

But saying those things feels… inadequate. Because deep down, he knows, he knows what it’s like to crave something he shouldn’t. To want something he cannot have.

So instead, he settles for something simpler. Something safer.

“Take your time,” he says quietly. “Figure out what it is you truly want, not what you think you should want.” His gaze lingers on you, softer now. “And don’t let anyone else define that for you.”

You stare at him for a long moment, your expression unreadable. Then, slowly, a small, wistful smile tugs at your lips.

“You’re a good man, Father.”

Jeongin stiffens, not because of your words, but because of the way you say them—soft, warm, almost reverent. Like you truly believe it. If only you knew.

He swallows hard, steadying himself as he lifts his hand. His fingers hesitate for the briefest moment before he presses the pad of his thumb to your forehead.

In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

His voice is firm, even, betraying nothing of the storm within him. But as he traces the cross against your skin, something unfamiliar coils deep in his stomach.

You close your eyes at the touch, exhaling softly. There’s a quiet reverence in the way you bow your head slightly, in the way you let him bless you without hesitation.

But Jeongin—Jeongin feels like he’s the one being undone. Because in this moment, as his fingers linger just a second too long against your warm skin, he realizes something dangerous.

You are the blessing. And you are the temptation. Both, intertwined. A paradox that he cannot afford to unravel.

When he pulls his hand away, you blink up at him, smiling softly. “Thank you, Father.”

Jeongin forces a nod, swallowing past the dryness in his throat.

You need to leave. He wants to tell you. Now.

But you don’t. Not immediately. You linger, watching him with those wide, searching eyes—eyes that make him feel like you can see through him. And maybe you do. Maybe you know.

But then, after a beat too long, you step back, exhaling as you gather your things. “I should go,” you murmur.

Jeongin nods stiffly. “Yes.”

“Goodnight, Father. See you on Monday.” You give him one last look before turning for the door.

And just like before, he watches you leave, the scent of your perfume lingering in the air like a ghost.

When the door clicks shut behind you, Jeongin exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face. Then, without thinking, he reaches for the cross around his neck, gripping it tightly as if it could cleanse the thoughts already sinking into him like a poison.

He murmurs a prayer under his breath but deep down, he knows, he knows that no prayer will be enough.

The soft click of the door handle echoes through the apartment, and Jeongin hears your voice calling his name. He doesn’t respond right away. His mind is elsewhere—on the broken showerhead, the water that wouldn’t stop spraying, the damp fabric clinging uncomfortably to his skin.

He steps out of the bathroom, running a hand through his wet hair just as he catches sight of you standing there, frozen in place. His white tank top is soaked through, the fabric outlining every muscle, and he can feel water still trailing down his arms, pooling at his collarbone before slipping lower.

“The showerhead’s broken,” he says, shaking his head with a small laugh. Then, with an amused glance, he adds, “Not that you’d be using it anyway.”

Your expression flickers—something unreadable but fleeting. Then you chuckle, a little too quickly, and Jeongin catches the way your gaze briefly drops before you avert your eyes.

Interesting.

He doesn’t comment, but he files that reaction away as he gestures toward his room. “I should go change.”

You nod, already moving toward your desk, but when he reaches his door, he leaves it slightly ajar. Maybe it’s a habit, or maybe it’s something else entirely.

As he pulls the damp shirt over his head, he senses it—a presence lingering, a gaze that wavers but doesn’t entirely look away. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t acknowledge it, but the thought makes his lips twitch into the faintest smirk.

Still, he takes his time, reaching for a clean shirt, slipping it on with ease before finally stepping back out. When he returns to the main room, he notices the way you suddenly seem very focused on your work.

Amusing.

“Ready to work?” he asks, watching as you straighten up, schooling your features into professionalism.

“Yes. Ready.”

But there’s something different in your voice, a slight hesitation beneath the surface. Jeongin doesn’t comment, only opens his manuscript, shifting his attention to the pages in front of him.

The work is straightforward—revisions, editing, transcriptions—but he catches the way your eyes drift every now and then, lingering on him longer than necessary. He doesn’t acknowledge it, but he notices. He always does.

Then, after a particularly long pause, he glances up just in time to catch you staring at his hands.

More specifically, at the silver ring on his finger.

“It was a gift from my parents,” he says casually, tapping it lightly against the desk.

You blink, startled, before offering a small smile. “It suits you.”

He hums in response, but something about the way you say it lingers. A quiet observation, thoughtful but restrained. Like there’s more you want to ask but won’t.

Instead, you shift the conversation. “Father, what do you do outside of this? Writing and—” A quick glance at the cross hanging from his neck. “Priesthood.”

Jeongin leans back slightly, considering. “I play the piano when I have time,” he says. “And sometimes, I work out.”

At that, he hears the faintest murmur from you. A barely-there comment, but he catches it anyway.

“So that’s why you’re so—”

His gaze sharpens. “What?”

Your eyes widen slightly before you shake your head. “Nothing.”

He watches you for a moment, then smirks but lets it go.

Eventually, the work for the day comes to an end, and Jeongin glances at the time. “I’ll walk you to the bus stop,” he offers. “I have to head to the church for a Bible study anyway.”

You nod, and the two of you step outside. The air is crisp, the sky brushed in hues of orange and pink. As you walk side by side, he asks, “What do you want to do after you graduate?”

“I want to be a writer,” you answer without hesitation.

Jeongin smiles at that. “And what do you want to write?”

A pause. A flicker of something in your expression. Then, you answer carefully, “Something like what you write.”

His smile lingers. “That won’t be too hard for you.”

You shake your head quickly. “No, I— I still have so much to learn.”

Jeongin meets your gaze, something unreadable in his eyes. “Then learn,” he says simply.

For a moment, the space between you feels different—something softer, quieter. But then the bus arrives, breaking the moment.

You flash him one last smile before stepping on. Jeongin watches as you take your seat by the window, your gaze flickering to him one last time before the bus pulls away. Only when you’re out of sight does he finally turn back toward the church.

And yet, long after you’re gone, he still feels the weight of your presence.

That morning, Jeongin is composed. Focused. His voice carries through the church with practiced ease, each word of the sermon spoken with reverence. He is leading the mass, guiding the faithful through their prayers, his heart steady in its devotion. But then his eyes sweep over the congregation, and he sees you.

You’re sitting in the third pew, dressed in black, the morning sun filtering through the stained-glass windows casting a golden glow around you. A halo of light. Divine. Tempting.

Everyone else has their heads bowed, lost in prayer. But not you. You’re watching him. And when your eyes meet, you softly smile.

Jeongin hesitates for just a second, long enough for his chest to tighten, for his grip on the open scripture in his hands to falter. It takes everything in him to look away, to steady himself before continuing, to remind himself where he is and what he’s doing. He forces himself not to think about the fact that you’re here, watching him, sitting in his church like you belong.

Thankfully, he makes it through the sermon. Through the prayers. Through the responses. Then comes the Holy Communion.

Jeongin steps down from the altar, his movements precise, the chalice steady in his hands. The congregation forms a line, each person stepping forward in quiet reverence. He should be thinking of the sacrament, of the body of Christ, of his duty to serve.

Instead, his breath catches the moment he sees you in line. There is something exhilarating about knowing that in just a few moments, you will be standing before him. That you will bow your head, open your mouth, and receive the host from his hand.

And that moment is here.

You step forward, slightly bowing your head before raising your gaze to his. Jeongin swallows. You are close enough that he can see the curve of your lips, the flutter of your lashes, the way you look at him—soft and knowing.

He whispers the words automatically, "Body of Christ."

"Amen," you reply.

Then, without breaking eye contact, you part your lips and stick your tongue out just enough to receive the wafer.

Jeongin places it on your tongue, and for the briefest of moments, his fingers hover too close, almost brushing your skin.

Most people close their eyes during this moment, lost in prayer. But not you. You look at him through your lashes, through the quiet sanctity of the church, you keep your gaze on him as your tongue retreats, taking the wafer with it. And then you smile—a soft, fleeting thing—before turning away, kneeling at your pew, your head finally bowed in prayer.

Jeongin lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His clerical collar suddenly feels too tight around his throat.

Once he's done with his duty, Jeongin finds you standing in front of the confession booth, your head slightly tilted, eyes filled with quiet curiosity.

He approaches, hands tucked behind his back, and asks teasingly, “Thinking of making another confession?”

You turn to him, smiling softly, hands clasped in front of you in that familiar, obedient way that stirs something in him.

“Maybe,” you say, your voice light, playful.

Jeongin chuckles, shaking his head. “It’s nice to see you here.”

Your smile lingers. “Maybe I should come here more often.”

It’s meant to be a casual remark, but the way your eyes flicker with something unreadable—something daring—makes Jeongin pause. He can’t let himself dwell on it, not here. So he looks away, searching for something, anything, to ground himself.

“The canteen serves good food on Sundays,” he says instead, forcing normalcy into his voice. “I could get you something to eat.”

You shake your head, the movement small but certain. “That’s kind of you, but I actually came to tell you I won’t be able to work for the next two days. I have family stuff to attend.”

Jeongin nods in understanding. “That’s alright. Enjoy yourself, and I’ll see you when you’re back.”

“Thank you, Father,” you say, voice gentle as you slightly bow your head. Then, as always, you smile before turning to leave.

Jeongin watches as you walk away, the hem of your black dress swaying with each step. He exhales slowly.

Maybe it’s for the best that you’ll be gone for a few days. Maybe he’ll finally be able to clear his head. Maybe...

Jeongin is mid-way through typing a response to his agent when the unexpected knocking pulls him away from his screen. He frowns, pushing his chair back, not expecting anyone at this hour. When he opens the door, the sight of you stops him in his tracks.

You stand there, completely soaked, rainwater dripping from the ends of your hair and down your cheeks like tiny pearls. Your dress clings to your skin, outlining every dip and curve of your body. You’re visibly shivering, yet despite it all, you’re smiling, breathless as you mutter an apology.

Jeongin exhales, his grip on the doorknob tightening. You shouldn’t have come.

He steps aside, allowing you in. “You should’ve just gone home.”

Your smile doesn’t falter. “I felt bad for not coming to work.” You rub your arms, attempting to warm yourself. “I thought I should at least get something done.”

The two of you just stand there for a moment. Raindrops patter against the windows, your soft breaths filling the silence. Jeongin knows he should move, do something—anything—to get you out of those wet clothes before you catch a cold.

He clears his throat. “Wait here.”

He turns on his heels, walking to his closet where he pulls out a clean bathrobe, then returns to you, holding it out. “Your clothes need to go in the dryer. You can wear this while you wait.”

You nod, taking it from his hands. “Thank you.”

Jeongin watches as you head toward the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind you. He releases a breath, dragging a hand down his face. You’re undressing in the next room.

He swallows. He turns sharply toward the kitchen to make a cup of tea for you. Focusing on anything other than the thought of you peeling that wet dress off your skin.

The bathroom door clicks open and he hears your footsteps coming. Jeongin barely has a moment to process the sight of you in his bathrobe before you're hesitantly handing him your wet clothes. He takes them without a word, nodding toward the sofa and the cup of tea sitting on the coffee table prepared for you.

“Sit down, have some tea while you wait.”

As he steps away toward the laundry room, he keeps his focus sharp, resisting the urge to think too much about how your scent lingers on the fabric in his hands or that he catches a glimpse of your underwear. He doesn’t even bother untangling the bundle—just shoves it all into the dryer, shuts the door, and presses start. The low hum of the machine fills the small space, grounding him.

When he returns to the living room, you’re no longer sitting but standing by his desk, cradling the cup of tea in your hands.

“You must’ve written a lot while I was gone,” you say, your voice warm, teasing.

Jeongin exhales a quiet chuckle. “I tried. My agent’s been relentlessly threatening me about the deadlines, so I had no choice but to be productive.”

You nod, taking a small sip of your tea. It’s in that moment that Jeongin notices it—a thin trail of red slipping down your thigh, stark against your skin.

His body reacts before his mind catches up. His hands find your hips as he pulls you close, lifting the hem of your bathrobe without a second thought. His first concern is that you hurt yourself—maybe you scraped your skin, maybe you tripped on the way here. His heart is in his throat, eyes scanning for the source of the blood.

Before he can see anything, you let out a sharp gasp and jerk back, pressing your hand against the fabric to stop him.

Jeongin lifts his gaze to yours, searching. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s fine,” you say quickly, too quickly.

His brows knit together, unconvinced. “What do you mean it’s fine?”

“It’s just—” You shake your head, clearly embarrassed. “It’s nothing serious.”

Jeongin isn’t satisfied with that answer. He can’t just ignore it. “Sit down,” he says, his voice gentle but firm. “Let me take care of it.”

You hesitate.

“Please.”

At that, you relent, perching yourself on the edge of the sofa. Jeongin disappears into the other room, retrieving the first aid kit. His mind whirls as he walks back.

Why did you react like that? And more importantly—what are you trying to hide from him?

Jeongin kneels in front of you, the first aid kit resting on the floor beside him. You’re clutching your thigh, not in pain but in an attempt to keep him from seeing.

“Let me take care of it,” he says softly, reaching for your wrist.

You hesitate before letting go, your hand falling to your lap.

Jeongin lifts the hem of the bathrobe slowly, carefully, exposing only what’s necessary. When he finally sees it—the crescent-shaped wounds pressed into your skin, fresh and oozing—his breath catches. He doesn’t need an explanation. He knows.

His hands move on their own, gentle and precise as he wipes the blood away with a clean cloth. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask why. Instead, he pulls out a cotton swab, dabs ointment onto it, and carefully applies it to your wound.

A sharp inhale escapes your lips, and instinctively, he leans down and blows a soft stream of air to soothe the sting. Your body trembles under his touch.

He keeps going, pressing gauze over the wound, securing it with a bandage to keep it sterile. The entire time, he hears your breathing grow uneven, the subtle shakes in your frame growing more noticeable. Then, he feels it—drops of warmth landing on your lap, one after another.

Tears.

Jeongin looks up, and his chest tightens. You’re crying. He says nothing but lets you cry, lets you break down in the quiet safety of his presence.

Then, with a voice raw and small, you speak. “It’s my mother.” You sniffle, a shaky exhale slipping from your lips. “She—she puts so much pressure on me. I can only take so much.” A bitter, self-deprecating laugh follows. “And when I can’t, this happens.” Your fingers graze over the bandage, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to stop it.”

Jeongin swallows, his own heart aching at your words. He shouldn’t touch you, but he does. His hand finds yours, firm yet gentle, anchoring you back to something solid.

“I just need to know,” you ask, lifting your gaze to his, “that everything will be okay.”

And that’s when he feels it—the unbearable pull toward you, toward the sadness in your eyes that he wants so desperately to replace with warmth, with something softer, purer, something that tells you that you are more than this pain.

So he lets himself. His hand moves to your face, cradling your jaw as he leans in. And then, he kisses you.

You’re softer than he imagined. Your lips taste like salt and sorrow, but beneath it, there’s something else—something fragile, something hopeful.

Jeongin is aware that he shouldn’t be doing this. But when he kisses you, truly kisses you, he feels something shift—something inside him unraveling, something he’s been trying to suppress for too long. It starts slow, soft, the press of his lips against yours nothing more than an unspoken question. But when you sigh into him, when your fingers tighten around his arms as if you’re afraid he might pull away, that quiet hesitation crumbles.

His hands move with purpose, sliding along the curve of your waist, parting the fabric of your robe like a sacred offering. His lips follow, pressing reverent kisses down your throat, across your collarbone, down the delicate line of your sternum.

Every kiss is a silent promise, an unspoken prayer. You're more than your pain. More than the wounds carved into your skin. More than the weight you're carrying on your shoulders.

His mouth worships you, his hands tracing every inch of you as if committing you to memory. When he reaches your ribs, he pauses, breathing in deeply, as though he's afraid he might lose himself completely if he goes any further. His forehead presses against your stomach for just a moment, his hands gripping your hips as if grounding himself.

“God, you're beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin, the words slipping out before he can stop them. He lifts his gaze to meet yours, searching for any trace of hesitation, but all he sees is trust.

Jeongin has spent years searching for divinity in scripture, in prayer, in quiet solitude. But here, now, with you trembling beneath his touch, he wonders if he’s been looking in the wrong places all along.

Everything about this moment—the warmth of your skin under his lips, the soft gasp that escapes you, the way your fingers tangle in his hair as if you’re holding on for dear life—tells him that he's walking a line he cannot uncross.

But as his mouth moves lower, pressing reverent kisses to the fragile skin of your inner thigh, he realizes that maybe he's already crossed it. Maybe he's been crossing it since the first time he met you.

Your breath hitches when his lips linger just above the bandaged wound, and for a moment, Jeongin forgets everything else. Forget that he's a priest, forget the weight of his collar, forget the promises he made.

Right now, all he knows is that you are here, trembling beneath him, looking at him like he holds the entire world in his hands. And maybe that’s why he forces himself to pause.

His lips are barely an inch from where you need him most, his hands gripping the curves of your hips, fingers digging into your soft flesh as he fights the war waging inside him. His forehead presses against your thigh, his breath warm against your skin as he tries to remember who he is supposed to be.

"Just one taste," he whispers, almost to himself, as if saying it out loud will justify what he's about to do. "God, all I need is just... one taste."

But as soon as the words leave his lips, he realizes how weak of a promise it is and as his mouth moves ever closer, as your body arches in silent invitation—deep down, he knows one taste will never be enough.

Jeongin lingers for a moment, his lips pressed to the delicate skin of your inner thigh, his breath warm and unsteady. His hands tighten around your hips, fingers pressing into your skin like he’s trying to hold himself back, trying to steady the trembling restraint unraveling inside him.

He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t want this. But he does. His lips trace reverent paths along your skin, his mouth pressing slow, deliberate kisses, each one deeper, more lingering than the last. He hears the soft, shuddering sound you make—half sigh, half plea—and it undoes something inside him.

His hands slide up, parting you legs wider, exposing the thing between your legs to him, Gosh, your cunt is not just wet, it's soft and flushed, quivering right in front of his face.

He doesn't waste another second, he lowers his head, exhaling softly. The warmth of his breath makes you shiver.

“I shouldn't do this,” he rasps as he falls apart at the seams.

But then, he smells it, the smell of your perfume, of your skin and of that delicate smell of female scent that he didn’t know he's been hungering for.

Jeongin traces his way from your clit to your cunt with his tongue and he's right, you're sweeter than he imagined, sweeter than any alcohol he ever tasted and none of them is as intoxicating this.

“Please...” He pleads, asking himself for one more taste.

He flattens his tongue against your clit and sample you again. He feels it, the way your body reacts to him, the way you arch toward him instinctively, seeking more. His resolve crumbles further, his self-control fraying as he presses a gentle kiss just where he knows you want him most. Right on your pulsing clit.

And then, finally—he gives in.

His arms curved around your thighs, fingers burrowing into the flesh and holding them open for his assault. He thrusts into you with his tongue, his lips and at times, he uses his teeth, eating you like a starving man.

A sound escapes you, something sweet and breathless, and Jeongin exhales sharply against you, his own restraint breaking piece by piece. He moves slowly at first, tasting, savoring, learning the way you react under him, how your body responds, how you whisper his name in a way that makes him feel utterly, devastatingly lost.

Your cunt is exactly as perfect as he's imagined all those nights as he lay awake on his bed and truthfully, in his sleep as well. The cause of him waking up with a hard on and all the cold showers he took after.

This is what he's been imagining of doing to you so he decides that he needs to make you come, and he will, he will make you come on his face. The thought alone is enough to make his cock jolts in his pants and there's a possibility that he may orgasm without even touching it.

Jeongin figures it's time to use his fingers next, running them between the fold and then slides two fingers inside, curling them to find the soft, textured spot that would push you over the edge.

You're shamelessly grinding back into his face now, your hand tangled in his dark locks, fingernails scratching his scalp, little sighs and moans spilling out of your parted mouth.

His arms steadily hold you in place, his touch both gentle and unyielding. He’s worshipping you, drowning himself in the feeling of you, in the warmth of your skin, in the quiet, gasping breaths that fill the air.

And when he hears you break, when your body tenses and shudders under him... everything else vanishes except you and your smell and your taste and the feeling of you clenching around his finger. And then—

Jeongin looks up and sees the crucifix on the wall of his apartment and his heart lurched as he looks at himself, kneeling as if he was praying to your cunt, kneeling with his head buried between your legs. He slowly pulls away and mutters to himself. What have I done?

Jeongin’s breath is uneven, his head is still rested on your stomach as he tries to ground himself, to remember who he is and what he’s supposed to be. But then you speak, your voice soft yet filled with something he can’t quite place—vulnerability, sincerity, maybe even wonder.

“No one’s ever done that to me before.”

He stills. His eyes search yours as if trying to confirm what you just said, and when he sees nothing but honesty reflected back at him, something inside him shifts.

“No one’s ever made me come before,” you correct your earlier remark.

He doesn’t understand how that could be possible, how no one has ever taken the time to take care of you, to taste you.

“No guy has ever gone down on you?”

You innocently nod in response to his question.

It unsettles him, but more than that, it makes him feel something else—something dangerously close to pride. He was the first. He was the one to show you.

Before he can dwell on the thought for too long, you reach for him, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt, keeping him close when he instinctively tries to put distance between you.

“Let me return the favor to you,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

He knows what you’re asking before you even say it. “You don’t have to,” he replies quickly, shaking his head as he attempts to step back, but you don’t let him.

“I know.” You tilt your head, looking up at him, your eyes dark yet pleading. “But I want to.”

Jeongin swallows, his resolve wavering. “I don't think— I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” you whisper again, the word laced with something that makes his body betray him. Your lips brush over the sharp line of his jaw, featherlight, teasing, testing. “Please, please, please.”

He exhales harshly, his hands twitching at his sides as he fights the war raging within him. The way you say his name sends a shiver down his spine, makes him feel as though you’ve wrapped yourself around him entirely, pulling him into something he knows he shouldn't give into.

“We don’t have to have sex. I just need to see you come," you coax with your low, sultry voice, one hand slipping under his sweater. “Father, please...”

One last plea, one final whisper of please against his skin, and he feels himself crumble.

You pull him by the arms, making him sit on the sofa next to you and your hands swiftly working open his slacks. The second his cock is out of its confine, you immediately claim his lap, straddling him.

The bathrobe loosely hangs around your shoulders and you do nothing to fix it. Your breasts are merely inches away from his mouth, the hardening buds inviting him to wrap his lips around it so he does. The hardness of your nipples and the softness of your flesh is all he could feel in his mouth.

You hover over his lap for a second to reposition yourself on him, allowing your slick cleft sliding against the underside of his cock and you begin stroking him that way. You feel so soft, so warm, so... wet.

Jeongin’s hands grip your hips, his touch hesitant, torn between holding you still and letting you move the way you want. His breath is uneven, his head tilted back against the sofa, eyes half-lidded as he watches you.

“This is wrong,” he whispers, but his grip tightens when you roll your hips again, slow and deliberate.

You lean in, brushing your lips against his ear, your voice sweet, teasing. “Then stop me.”

He doesn’t. Instead, he looks down to watch the way your flesh pressed against his, the way your clitoris peeking out, the way the weight of your body pressing against his cock gives him that similar feeling of having real penetrative sex and he thinks that maybe this wouldn’t count as a sin. Even if he was, he doesn’t want to stop. He doesn’t know how even if he wanted to.

Everything about it is messy yet highly erotic, the way your bathrobe hanging onto your elbows now, the way his slacks are pulled down just enough to free his erection, the way you shamelessly angle yourself so that his shaft would press on you in all the right places, the way it's just your arousal lubricating the two of you and nothing else, and God, he suddenly gets the urge to own you, make you, take you. He wants this moment to last forever.

As if you hear his thoughts and see through his head, you smile, tilting your head to meet his gaze. His pupils are blown wide, his jaw clenched tight. You can feel how much he’s holding back, how much restraint he’s using, and it only makes you want to push him further.

You move again, a little slower this time, watching the way his breath catches in his throat. His fingers dig into your waist, a sharp exhale leaving his lips.

“You should stop,” he tries again, but it sounds weaker now, unconvincing.

You shake your head. “Not until you let go.”

His hands tremble against you, and you know—he’s close to breaking. It's pure instinct that makes him grab your hips and work you harder and faster over him and then—

Everything flooding through him, you, your body, your legs caging his body, the taste and the smell of you that lingers on his tongue, mouth and face. A low moan escapes your mouth at the sight of his seed spurting onto his stomach and it feels like hours instead of seconds that he is suspended in pulsing, total-body release.

Jeongin stays still, his breath shaky as you press your forehead against his. The warmth of your skin, the way your body molds against his—it should be comforting, but all he feels is the weight of his own actions crashing down on him. What has he done?

His hands remain on your waist, fingers flexing as if debating whether to pull you closer or push you away. His chest rises and falls unevenly, his thoughts a chaotic storm. He shouldn’t have let this happen. He should’ve stopped. But instead, he let himself fall—let himself indulge in something he swore he would never have.

His throat tightens as he opens his mouth to say something—anything—but before he can, you shift slightly, tilting your head just enough to press a gentle kiss on his cheem. The touch is soft, delicate, filled with something he can’t quite name.

And then you whisper, “Thank you, Father.”

His entire body tenses. His stomach churns. His breath catches. The title feels heavier than it ever has before, suffocating him in ways he never imagined. He swore to be a guide, a shepherd, a man of God—and yet, here he is, lost in sin, drowning in temptation, unable to resist the warmth of you.

Jeongin shuts his eyes, swallowing hard. He doesn’t know if he should repent or pull you back in. And that terrifies him the most.

Jeongin has spent the entire morning convincing himself that last night was a mistake. That it was nothing more than a lapse in judgment, a moment of weakness.

But when he thinks of you—your warmth, your touch, the way you whispered his name—it lingers in his mind like the burn of whiskey down his throat.

This… whatever this is between you and him, it feels dangerously familiar. Like alcohol. Like the thing that once consumed him, ruled him, made him forget himself.

Addiction.

Jeongin knows what addiction feels like. He knows what it means to crave something so badly that it overtakes him, that it becomes impossible to resist. And he knows that if he doesn’t stop this now, if he lets himself fall again, there will be no stopping it. He has to put an end to it before it becomes something he can’t control.

So when you walk into his apartment that afternoon, smiling as if nothing happened, acting like last night was just another moment in time, Jeongin knows something needs to be said.

You set your bag down and move toward your usual spot by the desk. “Good afternoon, Father.” There’s something teasing in your voice, light and unbothered. “Did you get some writing done?”

Jeongin doesn’t answer right away. He watches you, the way you move so effortlessly through the space, like you belong here. Like you weren’t wrapped around him last night, dragging him into sin.

“Please, sit down,” Jeongin firmly says, his jaws are clenched. “We need to talk.”

Your smile falters, but you quickly mask it. “Alright,” you say, moving to sit across from him.

Jeongin sits across from you, his fingers loosely clasped together as he exhales slowly. The weight of the past few days sits heavy on his chest, pressing down like an unbearable burden. He doesn’t meet your eyes right away; if he does, he’s afraid he’ll waver.

“I used to drink,” he finally says, voice calm but distant. “More than I should have. At first, it was just a glass or two. A way to relax, a way to take the edge off. But then it became more. I started craving it—not just the taste, but the feeling. The escape.”

Your gaze lingers on him, silent but attentive.

“I convinced myself I had control over it. That I could stop whenever I wanted. But addiction doesn’t work like that.” He lifts his hands, rubbing his fingers together absently. “Relapse is always a possibility. No matter how strong you think you are, there’s always a moment of weakness. A moment when the craving wins.”

He finally looks at you, and his stomach tightens.

“This… what’s happening between us—it’s the same,” he admits. “I told myself I could handle it. That I could keep my feelings in check. That I could stop before it became something I couldn’t control.” His jaw clenches. “But I was wrong.”

You shift slightly, and Jeongin forces himself to keep going before he loses his resolve.

“I know what I have to do,” he says, his voice quieter now, almost pained. “I have to stop before this becomes something I can’t turn back from. Before I start craving you the way I once craved alcohol.” He swallows hard. “I have to distance myself from you.”

The words feel heavier than he anticipated, but they need to be said. He waits for your reaction, dreading it. But he knows—if he doesn’t do this now, he might never be able to.

“Why are you telling me this?” Your voice is quiet, cautious.

Jeongin meets your gaze then, his expression unreadable. “Because last night… it felt the same.”

The room stills. Your lips part slightly, as if to say something, but no words come out.

Jeongin swallows hard. “It felt like something I could lose control over. And if I let it happen again… I will.”

Something flickers in your eyes—hurt, confusion, maybe even frustration—but you keep your voice soft. “So what are you saying?”

He exhales sharply, pushing his chair back as if putting physical distance between you will make it easier. “I need to stop before it becomes an addiction.”

You stare at him for a long moment, searching his face, trying to understand. And then, as if the realization finally settles in, your hands tighten into fists on your lap.

“So, you’re going to distance yourself from me.”

Jeongin clenches his jaw. He nods. “I have to.”

The silence is unbearable. When he stands, turning his back to you, it takes everything in him not to look back.

From that day forward, Jeongin keeps his word and distance.

He doesn’t fire you—doing so would be unprofessional, and more than that, it would feel too much like running away. Instead, he sets clear boundaries. No in-person meetings. Everything is to be communicated through email, with phone calls only when absolutely necessary.

And you, as always, listen.

Days pass, then weeks. His inbox fills with your messages—concise, professional, devoid of the warmth that once lingered in them. You do everything he asks, following his new rules without question.

It should make things easier. It should make it hurt less but it doesn’t. Because every time he sees your name on his screen, he remembers the way you looked at him that night. The way you whispered please like a prayer. The way your hands clung to him as if letting go would break you. And he hates himself for remembering.

Then, one Sunday, he sees you again. It’s unexpected. You’re seated at the farthest row of the church, hands clasped together on your lap, head bowed in quiet prayer.

Jeongin’s breath catches for a moment, but he forces himself to focus, to continue leading the mass as if your presence doesn’t affect him.

Yet, as he reads out the prayers, his thoughts stray.

He prays for you. He prays that you find peace, that you heal—not just from the wounds on your skin but from the ones buried deep inside you. He prays that you are happy. Truly, deeply happy.

By the time the mass ends, Jeongin searches for you again, but you’re already gone and he doesn’t understand why disappointment sinks so heavily in his chest.

Isn’t this what he wanted? To stay away? So why does it feel like he’s the one being left behind?

He retreats to the sacristy, changing out of his vestments with quiet efficiency. He folds each piece carefully, letting the steady rhythm of the task ground him. Once done, he makes his way to his office, his mind already preoccupied with what he needs to do next.

Then, he sees you standing in the hallway, waiting.

Jeongin freezes for a split second before something warm blooms in his chest—something dangerously close to elation.

You notice him immediately. A small smile lifts your lips as you give him a slight bow. “Father Yang,” you greet, your voice gentle, familiar.

And then, as casually as if nothing has changed, you ask, “Can I now take your offer to buy me something from the canteen?”

Jeongin exhales a quiet chuckle, his lips curving into an amused smile before he nods.

The canteen is bustling with people—parishioners fresh out of mass, staff enjoying their break—but Jeongin manages to secure two slices of pizza casserole and a cinnamon roll for you. With the plates in hand, the two of you step outside, choosing a quiet table overlooking the garden.

For a while, you eat in comfortable silence. The sun is warm but not overwhelming, the soft hum of conversation from the canteen drifting through the open air.

After a few bites and a sip of water, you reach for a napkin, dabbing your lips with practiced elegance. Then, you open your mouth to speak.

Jeongin already knows what you’re going to say so he beats you to it. “I’m sorry.”

But you stop him with a small shake of your head. “That’s actually why I came here,” you say.

A small grin tugs at his lips. “So you didn’t come here to pray?” he teases.

You chuckle, a soft, genuine sound. “I did. But… I also wanted to apologize.” You pause, eyes flickering down for a moment before meeting his gaze again. “I’m sorry for what happened that night. I—I guess it was because you were there, because you were kind and…”

You don’t finish your sentence, you look down at your plate and

Jeongin exhales, lowering his voice. “I appreciate you saying that. Because it means you know and understand what you're apologizing for,” His fingers graze the rim of his cup, a nervous habit. “I have a vow to uphold, I have to honor God. The oath that I took. But that night…” He swallows. “I blame myself for that night. I took advantage of you.”

Your eyes widen slightly, a flicker of frustration crossing your face. “No.” Your voice is firm. “You didn’t.”

You place your napkin down, sitting up straighter. “I may have parents who control me, but I’m also my own person and I'm old enough to know what I want. That night, I chose to let you do that. I wanted it.”

Jeongin stays silent, watching you, searching your expression for any hesitation. He finds none.

After a second, you add, “But I'll respect your vow, Father. I won’t bother you again.”

And Jeongin—he should feel relieved. He should feel grateful that you understand, that you accept the boundary he’s desperately trying to reinforce.

But instead, it stings. It stings more than it should.

Jeongin reckons that if his hands are occupied, if his mind is filled with scripture, if his days are structured down to the hour—there will be no space for thoughts of you.

So he keeps himself busy. He leads mass three times a week, his voice steady as he delivers sermons, as if he truly believes that his words can wash away the impurities he carries. Sundays are the most demanding, yet the easiest, because the church is full and there are so many people that it’s easy to forget the empty space inside him.

He leads Bible study once a week, listening to discussions about faith and virtue, nodding along even as a quiet voice inside him whispers: You’re a hypocrite.

He assists the youth group, guiding young minds, helping them find their path before they can stumble into temptation. Before they can become him.

And every afternoon, he sits in the confession booth, listening to whispered sins through the lattice, offering absolution in the form of quiet reassurances and memorized prayers.

It’s been going on like this for a week now. Jeongin does not give himself a chance to rest, because rest means silence, and silence means space for memories to creep in. For your voice. Your touch. The way you felt beneath him, the way you looked at him like he was something more than just a man wearing a collar.

Jeongin grips the edges of the wooden pew in front of him, his knuckles turning white. He bows his head, inhaling sharply, as if he can exhale you from his lungs.

He has been strong. He has been devoted. He has repented. Or so he thought until his temptation shows up in front of him.

Jeongin stops in his tracks. His breath catches, his fingers twitch at his sides, his heartbeat kicks up to an unforgiving pace.

He thought—no, hoped—that drowning himself in devotion would cleanse him of you. That if he buried himself in scripture, in sermons, in the confessions of others, he could somehow wash away the imprint you left on him. But now, standing here, looking at you, he knows it was all in vain.

Jeongin exhales slowly, his fingers tightening around the strap of his bag as he takes in the sight of you. His apartment door feels a thousand miles away, and yet you—you—are impossibly close.

His heart betrays him before his mind can intervene, a rush of longing surging through his veins. You’re clutching something—a big paper bag. He can’t tell what it is, not when his focus keeps flickering to the way your hands tremble slightly, the way your eyes lift to meet his with that same quiet intensity that undid him before.

Jeongin swallows. This is it. A fight or flight situation.

But what exactly is he trying to fight? You? Or the part of himself that so desperately wants to take a step forward instead of back?

What exactly is he trying to run away from? Sin? Or the possibility that he doesn't regret it the way he should?

Jeongin doesn’t move because the real question isn’t whether he should fight or flee. It’s whether he has the strength to do either when all he really wants—all he truly, desperately wants—is you.

All of a sudden, you shift, standing upright from where you were leaning against the wall, clutching a bag in front of you. And then you smile. “Hello, Father.”

It’s just a greeting—nothing unusual, nothing improper—but coming from you, it stirs something deep inside him. Something he has spent nights praying to silence. Something he has drowned himself in work to forget.

For a moment, he is back in the confessional, back to the first time he heard those words from your lips. And then, he is back in that dimly lit room, back to the way you had whispered Father in a voice so delicate, so devastatingly sweet, that it had unraveled something inside him.

He swallows thickly and keeps his voice steady. “How have you been?”

You tilt your head slightly, as if surprised by the question. “I’ve been doing well.” A soft pause. “How about you?”

Jeongin doesn’t know how to answer that. He doesn’t know how to explain the countless hours spent in the church, the prayers that never seem to be enough, the guilt that clings to him like a second skin. So he lies. “I’m doing okay.”

You nod, as if accepting it. Then, gently, you ask, “Do you mind if I come in for a while?”

Of course, he minds. Of course, he should say no. But instead, he unlocks the door, pushes it open, and lets you inside—knowing full well that he’s stepping into temptation itself.

You place the bag you were carrying on the small dining table and carefully pull out a box, lifting the lid to reveal a cake inside. “I wanted to congratulate you,” you say softly. “For finishing your book.”

Jeongin nods, swallowing against the tightness in his throat. “Thank you.” His voice is quieter than he intends, like he’s afraid speaking too loudly will break whatever fragile restraint he has left.

He smiles, and it’s genuine—he is grateful for the gesture—but he’s afraid. Afraid of what will happen if he lets himself be grateful. Afraid of the thoughts in his head, the ones that threaten to spill out if he isn’t careful.

He forces himself to focus, “Have you received the last payment for your work?”

You nod. “I have, Father. Thank you.”

“You shouldn’t thank me,” he replies, shaking his head. “You earned it.”

Silence stretches between you, thick and uncertain. Jeongin isn’t sure how to carry this—how to hold this moment without it slipping through his fingers and becoming something he can’t take back. Should he stop it here? Should he say something that will make you leave? Or should he just let it happen?

Then, before he can decide, you speak. “Father, can I make another confession?”

His breath catches. He should say no. He should tell you to come to the church like everyone else, to sit in the booth and let the wooden partition separate you like it’s meant to. But that would be a lie.

Because the truth is, he wants to hear it. Whatever it is, whatever words you’re about to give him, he wants them.

The two of you sit facing each other. Jeongin sits motionless, hands folded neatly in his lap, as you take the seat across from him. The room feels too quiet, the kind of quiet that magnifies everything—the sound of your breathing, the weight of his own pulse.

"Are you ready?" he asks, voice steadier than he feels.

You nod and together, you make the sign of the cross, murmuring, "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

Your hands lower, folding over your lap, but your fingers fidget slightly, twisting together.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

The words hit him harder than they should. He has heard them countless times from countless lips, but from you, they settle differently—carrying something heavier, something more intimate.

"I'm not sure how to start but I'm okay," you continue. "I’ve been doing well. I still feel the pressure from my parents but I’ve managed to handle it without... hurting myself."

Jeongin exhales slowly. Relief is a strange thing—something he should embrace, something he should hold onto, but instead, it mixes with something else. A quiet, aching guilt.

"That’s good to hear," he says, and he means it.

"However, there’s something else," you admit, voice softer but carrying an edge. "Something that’s been bothering me."

Jeongin doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. He only listens.

"I’ve been thinking about why I took this job in the first place." A pause. You lower your gaze for a brief moment before lifting it again, searching for something in him. "Clearly, I didn’t need the money. I have more than enough."

The way you say it—it’s not an explanation. It’s a confession.

"I think… I was looking for something. A distraction. An escape." Your voice lingers in the space between you. "And of all the flyers on the bulletin board, I saw yours first and I don’t think that was just a coincidence. I think it was fate that I found it. That I found you."

Jeongin feels something coil in his chest. Fate. It’s a word that should comfort him, should feel divine, but instead, it makes him afraid.

"I liked working with you. I liked being around you." You pause, your voice almost fragile. "You made me feel… safe. At peace. Like you kept my darkness at bay."

Jeongin wants to hold onto those words, wants to accept them without letting them mean too much. But how can he, when they already do?

Then there’s a shift in your expression. Something deeper, something almost… dangerous.

"But then that night happened."

The silence that follows is unbearable.

"It awakened something in me," you say, voice softer now. "A different kind of darkness."

Jeongin swallows, but it does nothing to ease the dryness in his throat. Because he knows. He knows exactly what kind of darkness you mean and worse—he feels it too.

Jeongin sees it all—the way your thighs press together, the way your fingers twist at the hem of your skirt, the way your voice lowers, softer now, edged with something dangerous. He can hear it in your breathing, in the hesitation before you speak. And then, you say it. "I've been thinking about you."

Jeongin swallows, but the dryness in his throat lingers. He keeps his expression still, unreadable, though his heart betrays him, beating faster, harder.

"Just the way you look at me," you continue, voice almost fragile. "The way you speak to me… the way you say my name."

He exhales slowly, discreetly, as if releasing the pressure in his chest will steady him. It doesn't.

Then, your voice drops even lower, as if confessing something far worse. "Lately, I can't seem to focus on anything. I think about you constantly, and sometimes... sometimes that isn't enough."

His brow lifts—just slightly—but the movement feels like stepping closer to the edge of something irreversible.

"I've been getting off while thinking about you."

Silence. A deafening silence. Jeongin clenches his hands into fists in his lap. If restraint had a form, it would be the rigid line of his shoulders, the tension in his jaw. The part of him that should shut this down, that should guide you back into the light, is nowhere to be found.

Instead, he asks, "You've touched yourself thinking of me?"

Your nod is small, innocent, sinful.

"Mostly," you murmur, "I think of the way you look at me. Like you're trying to—" You stop. But he knows.

Jeongin exhales sharply, tilting his head ever so slightly, studying you. "And why did you come here tonight?"

You bite your lip. Hesitate. Lie.

He sees it before you even speak, and it almost makes him smile. "Remember, lying is a sin," he says, leaning forward, voice quiet but commanding. "So tell me—why did you come here tonight?"

The silence stretches between you. You hesitate, fingers twitching toward your thigh—the same spot where he knows you like to dig your nails into the flesh. The moment you realize he's watching, you quickly clasp your hands together in your lap.

"I want you to give me one more," you finally whisper.

His fingers twitch. "One more what?"

You shift in your seat. Your lips part, but no words come out at first. He watches, listens to the silence, lets it stretch until you can’t take it anymore.

"I want you to make me come again."

A slow exhale leaves him, steady, controlled, but something shifts inside him—something that tells him this moment has already spiraled past redemption.

Leaning back in his chair, Jeongin lets the tension settle into something almost… triumphant. He had suffered alone for too long, questioning whether he was the only one plagued by this torment.

And now—now, he knows. You wanted this. You wanted him.

His lips part, exhaling a quiet chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. His voice is calm, but edged with something darker. "You came here tonight, lying about your intentions. You said all of that in the middle of a confession." He tilts his head. "Do you know what that means?"

You lower your gaze, eyes on your clasped hands as if you've only now realized the weight of your actions.

"It means," he murmurs, "that you are willfully leading another person into wrongful action or thought."

A pause.

"And that," he continues, "is a sin."

Your breath shudders, fingers tightening around each other. "What do I have to do for my penance, Father?" you whisper.

Jeongin leans back in his chair, spreading his legs slightly, tilting his head back just enough to catch the crucifix on the wall in his peripheral vision.

Forgive me for I am about to sin again.

When he lowers his head again, his gaze finds yours—watching, waiting. And then—

"Get on your knees," he orders.

And you obey.

Jeongin looks down at you, his breath unsteady despite the effort to keep himself composed. You kneel before him, your hands resting on your thighs, waiting. There’s a flicker of hesitation in your gaze, but beneath it, something far more resolute. A silent plea. A challenge.

His fingers find your jaw, gripping firmly—not enough to hurt, but enough to make you look at him, to ensure you understand the gravity of what you’re asking for. He tilts your chin up, forcing your eyes to meet his. They are wide, expectant, full of something he shouldn’t acknowledge.

"So you want to me to make you come, huh?" His voice is lower than intended, almost hoarse.

You nod and he tightens his grip. "Use your words."

"Yes," you breathe, almost too quiet. "I want you to make me come."

He exhales sharply, his thumb tracing the seam of your lips, smearing the carefully applied lipstick as he studies the way your mouth parts under his touch. His restraint is thinning. He should stop. He knows he should. But your breath hitches, and something in your expression—so innocent, yet so utterly brazen—unravels him further.

"You know this is wrong to ask me that."

Another nod. "Yes"

Jeongin drags his thumb down, over the soft curve of your chin, his touch lingering before he lets go, sitting back. He should feel disgusted with himself. He should feel regret. But all he feels is this terrible, consuming desire.

"You're a filthy, filthy girl," he mutters, somewhere between scorn and wonder.

The words are barely out of his mouth before he sees the effect they have on you. Your lashes flutter, your breath stutters, your fingers tighten against your thighs. As if you’d been waiting for him to say it. As if you wanted to hear it.

The realization makes something dark coil inside him. Jeongin leans back, spreading his hands over his thighs as he watches you, watches the way you anticipate his next words, his next move.

"Take off your dress," he orders, his voice smooth, controlled, betraying nothing of the war waging inside him.

You hesitate only a moment before reaching behind you, unzipping the fabric and pulling it over your head. The dress pools at your knees, leaving you in delicate, cream-colored undergarments. His gaze sweeps over you, slow and deliberate, but his first instinct is not to linger where he shouldn’t—it’s to search for what matters most. Your thighs.

He looks for the marks, the wounds he knows too well. The evidence of your pain, your struggle. His jaw tenses until he finds them—faded now, healing. No fresh ones. No new pain.

Only then does he allow himself to truly look at you. Every curve, every delicate line of your body—so fragile, yet so unyielding in your desire. You kneel before him, and for the first time in three years, Jeongin feels something crack inside him.

Temptation has never been this human. This devastating. This inevitable.

Jeongin rises from his chair, slow and deliberate. The air between you shifts, thickens, as he steps forward, his presence looming over you where you kneel at his feet. His sharp, foxy eyes bore down into yours, and you meet his gaze without hesitation—bold, unwavering.

He exhales through his nose, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Then, with practiced ease, he lifts his hands to the collar of his shirt, loosening it just enough to ease the tightness constricting his throat. His fingers move lower, unfastening the first button, then the second, a calculated pause between each. Not out of hesitation. No, Jeongin is in control. He just wants you to wait.

His hands drop next to his belt, gripping the leather before he yanks it free with a sharp, deliberate pull. The sound slices through the silence, and he doesn’t miss the way your breath catches—just for a second. His lips twitch, but he says nothing.

Instead, he takes his time working the buckle open, then the button, then the slow, almost lazy drag of his zipper. He does it methodically, making sure you feel every second pass.

Anticipation is a game, and Jeongin plays to win.

When he finally pushes the fabric down, baring himself completely, he doesn’t miss a thing—the widening of your eyes, the quiet hitch of breath, the way your tongue darts out, wetting your lips like a creature starved.

Something about that look—hunger, reverence, surrender—makes his control slip, just a little.

Because, for all his restraint, for all the rules he’s tried to follow, Jeongin has always known one thing. He was never strong enough to resist you.

He watches you for a second, reveling in the way your lips part, how your breath quickens, how your pupils darken with need. But it’s not enough. Not yet.

His hand moves with purpose, fingers curling under your chin before sliding up to grasp your jaw, firm yet controlled. He tilts your face up, forcing your gaze to lock with his. “Eyes on me,” he murmurs, voice low, steady. It’s not a request—it’s a command.

You obey, though he can feel the way your breath hitches under his grip. He doesn’t loosen it. Instead, he presses his thumb against your lower lip, parting your mouth open wider. He holds you there for a moment, letting the weight of it settle, watching your lips quiver slightly under his touch.

“Keep it open,” he instructs.

And then, without warning, he slides two fingers past your lips, pressing them onto your tongue. Your lips wrap around them instinctively, your cheeks hollowing as you suck, slow and deliberate. He watches, fascinated, as your tongue moves against his skin, warm and wet, taking him deeper.

His breath comes heavier now, his restraint fraying at the edges as he feels the way you work your mouth around him, as if you’re showing him—wordlessly—just how much you want him, how much you crave him.

Jeongin swallows hard, his grip tightening ever so slightly before he pulls his fingers out of your mouth, hard enough that it makes a loud popping sound.

“Let's try that again,” he mutters with jaws clenched.

You keep your mouth open for him, ignoring how your saliva is dribbling from one corner of your mouth while keeping your eyes on him.

He wraps his hand around his cock, hard as it possibly gets and hot inside his palm. He gently rubs the tip with his thumb before aiming it toward your mouth.

“Keep it open,” he voice has an edge to it, rushed.

He puts his length inside and watches as his length disappearing into your mouth, little by little. When he deems he's deep enough, he swallows air.

“Now, close it.”

A hiss escapes his mouth the second you close your mouth around it. He's forgotten how good this is, how hot and slick a woman’s tongue could be, how perfect it feels around him. His eyes flick down and catches your hand going between your legs, caressing your clothed core.

For a second, he can’t believe this good girl, a trust fund baby and a taste for expensive clothes is nothing but a bobbing mess of head between his legs. He suddenly gets the urge to thrust into your mouth, he suppresses it but he decides to indulge himself just a little. He runs his hands through your hair, using it to keep your head still as he pushes deeper until he hits the back of your throat and immediately slides it back out.

Oh, he's never been harder than this before and when he pulls away, he can see every vein, he can feel the painfully swollen crest as it flares out. His cock is throbbing with so much need and that’s when he knows he has to feel you

But before that, he needs to taste you again.

"Get up and take everything off." His voice is steady, unwavering, though inside, restraint coils tightly around him like a vice.

You obey without hesitation. Standing up, fingers move with quiet precision as each article of clothing falls away, baring yourself to him piece by piece. He leans back in his chair, allowing himself a moment to take you in—the curves, the softness, the way candlelight casts flickering shadows across your skin.

Your body is a vision. His heaven. And yet, his ruin.

"Go to the altar," he instructs.

You turn, stepping forward toward the structure pressed against the wall, your back facing him. There’s something about the way you carry yourself—so trusting, so willing—that stirs something darker inside him. He waits, watching as you reach the altar, as your breath subtly hitches in anticipation as he makes you wait.

Slowly, deliberately, Jeongin begins to undress, shrugging off layers until only the dark fabric of his shirt remains, parted in the front, exposing the rise and fall of his chest. The cool air does nothing to ease the heat simmering beneath his skin.

He moves toward you. "Hands on the altar," he orders, his voice lower now, softer but laced with something unmistakable.

You comply instantly, palms pressing flat against the surface, body bowing slightly forward. He closes the space between you—not enough to touch, but enough for his presence to be felt.

Jeongin places a hand at the nape of your neck, his fingers spreading over your skin. The moment he makes contact, he feels the shiver that ripples through you, sees the way goosebumps bloom in his wake. He likes that. Likes the way you respond to him without a word, without even seeing his face.

His hand drags downward, fingertips tracing the curve of your spine at a maddening pace. You exhale sharply, your body betraying you in the way it subtly arches, in the quiet whimper that slips past your lips.

He lets his touch linger before withdrawing, dropping to his knees behind you. The first press of his lips against the back of your thigh is featherlight, a mere ghost of contact, yet your legs tremble as if he’s already undone you. And he hasn’t even started yet.

Jeongin lingers there, kneeling behind you, his breath ghosting over your skin. He watches the way your fingers curl against the altar, the slight tension in your shoulders, the way your body anticipates him without a single word being spoken.

He starts slow. The press of his lips trails higher, along the backs of your thighs, over the curve of your hips. He savors the way you shudder, the way your breath falters. His hands follow, gliding over your skin, fingers kneading into flesh, learning every dip and softness like a prayer.

Then, with a firm grip, he coaxes you apart. A sharp inhale from you. A deep exhale from him.

Jeongin leans in, burying his mouth between your ass cheeks. The first touch of his tongue on your cunt is tentative, almost reverent, but he quickly finds the rhythm that has you trembling against him. His hands tighten on your thighs, keeping you exactly where he wants you. He works you open with slow, unhurried precision, as if he has all the time in the world, as if he’s making up for every moment he’s denied himself this.

Your hands grip the altar tighter, your breathing turns uneven, your body tilts just the slightest bit forward. He takes it as permission. As confirmation.

The sounds you make, the way you try to stay quiet yet fail, send something dangerous surging through him. His nails dig into your skin as he holds you still, refusing to let you escape from the pleasure he’s giving you.

He used to kneel here, in front of the altar, hands clasped in prayer, head bowed in devotion. But tonight—tonight, he kneels for something else entirely. He kneels before you. Not in prayer, but in worship.

You're shamelessly arching your back more and as a test, Jeongin pulls away, he can almost hear your groan of complaints from the sudden loss of contact. He gets up, looming behind you, his breath measured, his control razor-thin and then he presses his mouth to your ear to whisper. "Turn around and sit on the altar."

You hesitate but obey, turning around to face him and lifting yourself onto the altar, your legs hanging over the edge. The contrast is almost poetic—the sacred and the profane, colliding in the dim glow of candlelight.

He steps closer, his hands bracketing you, his body caging yours. His gaze lingers on your lips before he tilts his head and presses his mouth to yours. Soft at first, testing. But you don’t yield. You keep your lips sealed, eyes flickering with something untamed, something that dares him to take more.

And Jeongin—God help him—rises to the challenge. His hand finds your throat, fingers wrapping firm but not unkind. He feels the pulse beneath his palm, fast and unsteady, matching the rhythm hammering inside his own chest. A push, just enough to make you tilt your head back until it meets the wall behind you. He leans in again, this time kissing you with purpose, swallowing the sharp breath you take in surprise. He kisses you until you have no choice but to part for him, until resistance crumbles and submission tastes sweet on his tongue.

His body follows, pressing against you, his hips meeting yours in a slow, deliberate roll. The friction is intoxicating, pulling a soft sound from your lips that nearly undoes him. He pulls away just as abruptly, his hand still firm at your neck, his lips hovering close enough that his breath fans over your parted mouth.

“Behave,” he murmurs, voice low, edged with something dangerous.

You nod, obedient, but it’s not enough. His fingers tighten, just for a moment—a reminder.

“Words!”

A breathless whisper. “Yes.”

Jeongin releases you, only to slide his hands down, pushing your legs apart with the same authority. His eyes drop, and for a moment, he forgets himself—no scripture, no vow, nothing exists but the sight of you bared before him.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, his breath coming a little heavier. He grips your thighs, pressing your feet to the edge of the altar, opening you further. Every muscle in his body coils tight with restraint, but when he drags his gaze back to yours, the weight of his next words settles between you like a confession.

“Stay still.” He tilts his head, voice softer but no less commanding. “Stay very still.”

You nod, and this time, he doesn’t correct you because he’s already too far gone.

He leans his forehead against your and both of you looking down to watch as his tip presses against your entrance, and then slowly, he slips it inside. He stops when the crest of his cock is in you, and then freezes, muscles quivering.

And just like that, he has his first bite of the forbidden fruit and barely able to keep himself from eating it all.

Another moment passes with the two of you just stare down at it, at the sight of his cock inside you. You look away first, looking at him as you ask, “How do I feel?”

You're so tight it's squeezing him and honestly, there are no words to describe what that wet, velvety walls is doing to him. All he can think about is sinking deeper into you, deeper into this hell disguised as heaven.

Jeongin has to force his brain to work to form a coherent answer, “You feel... heavenly.”

Then, unable to help yourself, you move forward just the tiniest. Impulsively, Jeongin grabs your neck again and quickly calming himself down, refuses to come from that little movement. Instead of fear, he sees the glint in your eyes, wild and daring, you're enjoying this a little too much.

“I told you to stay still,” he reminds you.

Your eyes going back to the place where you and him connected. Then together, you watch as his big hand pressing into your delicate flesh, watching it quivering around the tip of his cock. His thumb hovers over your clit before rubbing on it.

As you draw a sharp breath, he feels you clenched around him and he hisses, grabbing the countertop to keep himself from losing it.

He knows you're trying to stay still and you want to see yourself come around him as much as he does. He quickens the pace of his rubbing, of his thumb applying gentle pressures on your clit.

You have your lips pressed into a thin line until you can’t help it anymore but moan and plead. “Please...”

“Please what?” He asks, his voice dark and heavy.

You can barely talk as moans constantly spilling out of your mouth, your head lolling to the side, you arched back shoving your breasts closer to him. He doesn’t waste the opportunity to lower his head and sucks on your nipple, loving the feel of it hardening on his tongue.

He drags his mouth to your neck, kissing and about to bite on the skin when you suddenly come undone before him. Your body rolls as if you move along to the waves of pleasure washing over you, again and again, all the while you keep tightening around him.

The thought that he can make you come with only the shallowest of penetrations drives him wild. You slump in his arms as you slowly come down from your high and resting your head on his shoulder.

Jeongin is about to pull out but you grab his hip, stopping him. You shake your head as you take another second to compute words. “I want you to come inside me next.”

“You know that I can't,” he breathlessly mutters, his hand grips the edge of the altar.

“You don’t have to worry, I'm on the pill,” you assure him, your hand grasping at his shirt now, afraid that he'll try to get away again. And then—soft, breathless—you say it. “Please, Jeongin.”

You’ve only ever called him Father. The title has lingered between you, a constant reminder of what he is, what he shouldn’t be. But now, with his body tangled with yours, the weight of his name sits heavy on your tongue, waiting to be spoken.

If this is the last time that he gets to do it then yes, he's going to give it to you, to himself and frankly, he would agree to anything, no matter how wrong it is because for some reasons, that's what makes it sweeter so Jeongin nods.

A sly smile blooms on your face as you lean back against the wall, digging your heels to the edge of the altar. The little maneuver doesn't move him any deeper inside, but it makes you tighten around him, and nudges him closer to his climax.

You run your hands to the undersides of your breasts, circling your thumbs on your stiff nipples and then pressing them together to the middle, showing him how luscious and ample they are.

God, he needs to move, needs to thrust. He needs to fuck.

He watches as your fingers go to your clit and you start to get yourself off again. You drown out your moans by shoving the other fingers and pumping them in and out of your mouth, the same mouth that has gotten his cock hard as rock.

And then, you move your hips ever so slightly, rocking them just enough to let him slipping in and out of you. Oh, he's only an inch and half inside you but he can feel how wet, how tight, and the next thing he knows, he shudders as pleasure is taking over him. His legs trembling, he can barely breathe as it rips through him, his first time coming inside a woman in years.

He does all his best to stay composed, not wanting to miss out on anything, he wants to imprint it in his memory, the sight of his seed filling and then dripping out of you.

Jeongin pulls out just enough as his arms still wrapped tightly around you as if letting go would mean losing something he can’t bear to lose. Your breath is warm against his collarbone, your cheek pressed against his chest, and he can feel the faint, rapid beat of your heart against his skin. His own pulse is just as frantic, yet his body is still—both of you caught in the quiet aftermath of what you’ve just done.

His hands skim down your back, fingers tracing over the curve of your spine, grounding himself in the reality of you. He notices that the two of you knocked a few things off the altar but all he can focus on is the way you fit against him, how perfectly you mold into him, like you were meant to be here, like this.

Jeongin exhales slowly, his lips pressing against the top of your head, almost unconsciously. A thought creeps into his mind, unbidden yet undeniable—sin has never tasted this sweet before.

Jeongin watches as you remain on the altar, your body still bathed in the afterglow of everything you’ve done. He knows he should step away, put distance between you, but instead, he moves with purpose—retrieving a damp cloth from the bathroom. When he returns, he kneels before you, his touch slow, deliberate, as he cleans the mess he made. He does it with care, with reverence, as if making up for all the ways he has defiled you.

Afterward, he gathers your clothes, shaking off the weight of sin that clings to them as if the fabric itself remembers. He helps you dress—zipping up your dress, smoothing the wrinkles. Every movement is unspoken penance, his way of giving back what he took.

When he finally meets your gaze, he braces himself before saying it. “This is it.” His voice is steady, but inside, something cracks. He brushes your hair to the side and holds it there as he continues, “There’ll be no more of this.”

To his surprise, you only nod. “I know.”

Something about your acceptance unsettles him more than if you had fought it. Before the weight of it can crush him, Jeongin pulls you in, one last time, pressing his lips against yours. It’s not hunger, not desperation—it’s something gentler, something deeper. A kiss that lingers, that memorizes. A kiss that means goodbye.

When he pulls away, instinct guides him. His fingers brush over your forehead, and before he can stop himself, he traces a cross against your skin. A blessing. A final act of absolution.

He then looks at you, memorizing every detail—the way your lashes flutter as you blink, the way your lips are still slightly swollen, the way your chest rises and falls with each quiet breath. He wants to believe that this is mercy, that ending it now is the only way to save both of you. But as he watches you, standing there in silence, he wonders if salvation was ever meant for him at all.

“Go in peace,” he whispers.

You hold his gaze, searching, waiting. But there is nothing left to say. Slowly, you turn and step away, your presence fading like the last flicker of a dying candle.

Jeongin stands there, unmoving, as the air between you turns cold. He has given you his final blessing, but as he watches you leave, he realizes—

He may have absolved you. But he has damned himself.

Jeongin's manuscript has been approved. His agent gave him the green light, the final stamp of approval before it moves toward publication. This should be a moment of relief, of pride. He’s worked tirelessly, pouring himself into every page, yet all he can focus on is what this truly means. He has no reason to see you again.

And he should be grateful. This is his chance to break away from his biggest temptation, to put you behind him, to return to the disciplined, righteous path he chose for himself. But instead, he feels devastated.

The feeling sits heavy in his chest, like an ache that won’t go away so he does the only thing he can think of. He goes out of the door and starts walking.

The cool night air bites at his skin as he drifts aimlessly, his feet leading him through familiar streets, turning corners without much thought. It isn’t until he stops that he realizes where he is.

Here. The street where he met you that night. Jeongin’s breath catches in his throat as memories flood his mind, as vivid as if they had just happened.

The way the neon lights cast a bluish glow across your face, making your skin look almost ethereal. The delighted surprise in your eyes when you spotted him. The way your dress hugged your figure, your coat slipping off one shoulder, baring just enough skin to make his stomach clench. And your voice—sweet, teasing, full of something sinful when you looked at him and said that word.

Father.

Jeongin squeezes his eyes shut, willing the memory away, but when he opens them, he’s still staring at the neon signs flickering in the distance. And then, something tells him to go inside.

He doesn’t know what it is. Curiosity, perhaps. Or maybe it’s something far more dangerous. His feet move before his mind can stop him.

The bass of the music reverberates through his chest as he steps inside the club, past the flashing lights and the scent of alcohol thick in the air. There are people everywhere—bodies pressed together, laughter spilling from lips, fleeting touches and lingering gazes exchanged under dim lighting.

But Jeongin isn’t looking at any of them. He’s searching. His eyes scan the crowd, craning his neck, looking for a face.

That’s when he realizes the truth. It isn’t curiosity that brought him here. It’s you.

He stands frozen in place, the chaos of the club fading into a dull hum around him. The neon lights flicker, casting a bluish glow over his skin, but he barely notices. His mind is too full of you.

You, with your soft voice and knowing smiles. You, who looked at him like he was more than a man of God, like he was just a man—fallible, weak, yours. You, who made him forget every vow he swore to uphold.

He should have known from the very beginning. From the moment you stepped into his life, there was something about you that made him uneasy in the most exhilarating way.

You weren’t temptation in the way sin usually was—dark, indulgent, full of guilt and regret. No, you were something worse. You were sweetness, a warmth that melted into him, that made him crave more, that made him forget why he was supposed to resist in the first place. And that was far more dangerous.

Because even now, standing in a place he has no business being, it isn’t the alcohol that tempts him. It isn’t the fleeting touches of strangers, the bodies swaying in reckless abandon.

It’s you. It has always been you. His greatest sin. His sweetest sin.

And if he were to fall again—if he were to let himself be weak—he knows, without a doubt, that it would be for you.

Four months since that night. Since the lines blurred between faith and desire, between duty and the undeniable pull of something he should have never allowed himself to feel. Since he last saw you. Since he let you go.

Now, Jeongin’s life has settled back into its rightful order. His book has been published, his parish duties continue as always, and the weight of his sins remains locked in the quiet chambers of his heart. He has done what is necessary—repented, prayed, convinced himself that he has moved forward.

The confessional is his sanctuary, a place where he is not Jeongin but Father Yang Jeongin. Here, he is not a man burdened by past mistakes but a servant of God, a listener of sins, a guide for those seeking absolution. Today has been like any other—whispered confessions of impatience, dishonesty, lapses in faith. Forgivable sins.

Jeongin shifts, preparing to leave, when the door creaks open. Another parishioner. He waits. For a moment, there is only silence. Then—

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

His breath stills. It is a voice he knows. A voice he has spent four months trying to forget. Yours.

His hands curl into fists, hidden in the folds of his robe. You. Of all the people who could have entered this booth, it had to be you.

Your voice is steady, but he can hear it—the tremor beneath the surface, the weight pressing down on every syllable.

“It has been… four months since my last confession.”

Four months. The exact amount of time since that night. Since you were beneath him, your hands gripping his shoulders, whispering his name like a prayer. Since he felt your warmth, your skin, the unbearable gravity of something he should have never allowed himself to want. Since he let you go.

Your voice cuts through the thick silence. “I have tried to forget. To move forward. But I think of someone I cannot see again. Someone I cannot meet again.”

Jeongin’s chest tightens. He already knows. But hearing it—hearing you say it—makes it real in a way that nothing else has.

“And I know that when we are together, it will only lead to more sin.”

The weight of your words settles deep inside him. He should not ask. He should not pry. He should do what is expected of him—forgive, counsel, absolve. But he is weak when it comes to you.

“Sin is not merely in the presence of another,” he says carefully, his voice calm, even. “But in the intent, in the heart.”

A pause. The air between you tightens. “Do you believe that being with this person is wrong?”

Silence. Then, so softly that it almost doesn’t reach him— “Yes.”

Jeongin’s grip on his robe tightens. There is so much he could say. So much he wants to ask. But this space does not belong to him—it belongs to God. And Jeongin, despite everything, still clings to his duty.

“You must seek absolution,” he murmurs. “To let go of what burdens you.”

A sharp inhale. A shift in the air. “I don’t think I can.”

Jeongin’s composure cracks and then—softer, more fragile than before—you speak again.

“I need to be around him,” you admit, the words raw, unguarded. “Because he gives me peace.”

His heartbeat falters as your voice wavers, thick with something unspoken. “I feel comfortable with him. I feel safe.” A breath. “And I... miss him.”

His eyes squeeze shut. You miss him. The ache in his chest sharpens into something unbearable. This is not just sin. Not just temptation. It is something deeper, something neither of you have been able to name, something neither of you have been able to let go of.

And God help him, he misses you too.

Jeongin swallows, his throat tight. “Then pray,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “And I will pray for you.”

You sniffle before saying, “I don't think that will be enough for me.”

Then, the faint rustle of fabric. A shift. You do not say goodbye but he hears the door clicks shut.

Jeongin remains seated, staring into the silence, knowing full well that no prayer will erase you from his thoughts. He should let you go. He should let you leave. But he can’t.

His body moves before his mind can catch up. The door swings open, and he steps out, scanning the dimly lit hallway. You’re already walking away, your pace hurried, as if putting distance between yourself and the confessional will make what just happened any less real.

His feet carry him forward. Faster. And then—he reaches out. His fingers wrap around your wrist.

You stop. Slowly, hesitantly, you turn to face him and when your eyes meet his, Jeongin feels his breath catch. Your eyes are glassy, unshed tears clinging to the edges of your lashes. The sight of it—of you, standing there, hurting—nearly undoes him.

His grip tightens, just slightly. Just enough to ground him, to remind himself that you are here. That he has you for this fleeting moment. Then, before he can stop himself, before he can think about what is right or wrong—he tugs you forward.

His fingers slide from your wrist to your hand, threading together, and he leads you down the hallway. Past the rows of pews, past the flickering candlelight of the sanctuary, past the open space where the weight of divinity looms overhead.

The door shuts behind you with a quiet click, sealing you both inside his small, dimly lit office. The air is thick with something unspoken, something fragile yet impossible to ignore. Jeongin lets go of your hand, but the warmth of your touch lingers, burning into his skin like a memory he’s afraid to hold on to—yet even more afraid to let go of.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

You stand there, watching him, your eyes still glassy with unshed tears. And Jeongin—he stands before you, his breathing uneven, his pulse an unsteady rhythm beneath his skin.

What has he done? What is he doing? He should send you away. He should open the door and tell you to leave before this goes any further, before this fragile moment fractures into something neither of you can take back.

Deep down, despite everything he has told himself, despite every prayer whispered into the hollow of his chest—he wants you to stay. He swallows, his voice hoarse when he finally speaks. "You shouldn't be here."

A small, broken smile flickers across your lips. "I know."

Silence settles between you like a weight too heavy to bear.

And then, softly—almost pleadingly—you whisper, "Tell me to leave."

Jeongin stands there, staring at you, knowing exactly what he should say but unable to force the words out. If he were a stronger man, he would. But he isn’t. And the moment he steps forward, closing the space between you, he knows he’s already lost. His hands reach up before he can stop himself, fingers brushing against your face as if memorizing the shape of you—soft, warm, real.

You don’t move away. You don’t flinch. You just look at him, wide-eyed and waiting, as if you knew this would happen all along. And then, before he can second-guess it, before reason can drag him back into the light—he kisses you.

The second his lips meet yours, his resolution shatters. He was a fool to think he could resist you, a fool to believe that time and distance would erase the pull between you. Because the moment he has you again, everything else ceases to matter. The weight of his priesthood, the vows he swore, the life he built—it all dissolves into nothing compared to the way you feel against him.

You gasp softly, your hands clutching at his shirt, and that sound alone undoes him. He deepens the kiss, his fingers tangling in your hair, his breath shaky as he pulls you closer—too close. Closer than he should.

But he can’t stop. Not when you’re here, not when you taste like longing and quiet desperation, not when every fiber of his being is screaming for more. And in this moment, he knows—he will never be able to let you go.

Because this—you—is a sin he cannot repent.

And God help him, he doesn’t want to.

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#stray kids smut #skz smut #i.n smut #i.n x reader #skz x reader #stray kids imagines #skz imagines #stray kids scenarios #skz scenarios #skz fics #skz fanfics #kpop smut #kpop fics #kpop fanfics #seospicy smut

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sugurizz · 2 years ago

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(Smut/ NSFW +18 - minors DNI !)

Nanami always keeps clear boundaries with his subordinates. He's a highly professional man who never crosses a line when it comes to mutual respect with everyone around him.

It's almost admirable in your eyes..How efficient he is, how perfectly he executes every task of his job. only does he seem different at times...

You're just so thoughtful it almost annoys him. You've already picked up on each and every one of his little habits; the way he likes his coffee, exactly when he takes his coffee breaks, where he usually hangs his freshly ironed jackets, where each piece of paperwork is kept in his office...

...Might be the old age but it makes him feel things when you knock on his door, when you greet him with the "Morning, Nanami-san, I sorted the documents from yesterday for you", or when you get his jacket for him without him even asking, with a sweet "Nanami-san, please don't forget your umbrella tomorrow, it's going to be rainy."

You're the only one who's allowed to adjust his tie when it's a bit loose, the only one allowed to lay your hands on his chest and fix his collar -breathing in the scent of his colone along the way-, the only one igniting his primal desire despite his exhausting life.

Might be the old age but he certainly wishes he could get this kind of treatment at home as well. He's rather lonely, overworked and tired whenever he gets back to his empty apartment..

Wouldn't it be better if you were the one to bake his fresh bread and prepare his delicious sandwiches for him? Give him a kiss before he heads to work and send him pictures of your legs spread with one of his designer ties barely covering your pussy?

Wouldn't it be so much better if he came back to strip you naked and take a steamy shower with you? push you on his king-sized bed to devour your sex, then have you all prepped and pretty to take his cock?

He'd be so happy with any of that, so happy he's now stroking himself and fondling his balls, trying his best to picture the way your tits pressed on his chest in the cramped elevator yesterday.

He knew your birthday was coming up but you never thought he'd even remember something so seemingly 'irrelevant' to him. So you didn't expect to find a luxurious box delievered to your doorstep, with a handwritten wishcard that had a familiar scent to it.

A note saying "wear them with your black heels, it'd look perfect" was inside the box, signed with a beautiful -Kento- on the corner...

---

"Nanami-san, your morning coffee." You greeted him with a smile the next day, leaning down as you gently posed the cup next to him.

"Nanami-san, I'm wearing your gift for my birthday. And the fabric feels so soft on me..."

a large hand pulled you back by the arm as you were about to walk off..

"Don't go there, sweet cheeks. you know I'll ruin you.."

"Then ruin me, Kento..."

I'll be at my desk if you ever need me."

You closed the door behind you, flashing him an innocent smile on the way...

---

Nanami san was missing at work that evening, secretary y/n was not there either. But thankfully your coworkers didn't know the reason behind your absence..

Nanami is busy training your throat in his spacious apartment. Your ass is on the cold floor tiles, body stripped to the lacy lingerie he bought you, caged between the wall and his lower half as he goes balls deep in your throat.

His tie is leashed around your neck with his leg pushing between your thighs, the tip of his expensive leather shoe bumping against your tiny clit.

"How much did this pussy think of me, hmm? does she like my shoe kissing her? playing with her?"

His leg presses harder, your eyes cross in pleasure as you suffocate on his veiny length..

"Look down princess, she's dirtying herself, drooling on my shoe.."

he frees himself from your mouth, leaving you with a drooly tongue and snotty nose as you shiver under him.

"Nanami..my pussy wants you, put it in her..please!"

"Nasty minx." He flicks his tongue with a grin, tears his shirt open to reveal his broad shoulders and toned chest, then tirelessly lifts you on his biceps.

"Aww...I want her too, princess.."

he kisses you senseless, giving himself a few pumps before he splits you open.

He's fevereshly rammimg inside you..golden strands sticking to his sweaty forehead, blushy cheeks blooming and hazel eyes almost teary as he finally feeds the hunger for you..

"Y/n...I need a wife! I want you-fuck-" you hug on him tighter, pussy clenching at the way he growls it against your lips... he paints your stomach white, his embrace deliciously crushing your body.

---

...A few days later the rumors started circulating among the coworkers; Both y/n and Nanami suddenly started wearing rings around the same time, and Nanami's office door started getting double locked, too often...

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calebrity · 20 days ago

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landlocked

siren! rafayel x female reader

cw ▻ 18+, noncon, nsfw, smut, yandere and unhealthy behaviors, monster(?) on human, merman rafayel, minor violence, dark content beware

wc ▻ 11k, longform oneshot, buckle up

an ▻ HAPPY BIRTDAY RAF 🐬🐳🩵🎉🎂 i busted my ass on this one and its a day late but here we are :,) please heed the tags and do enjoy raf girlies :] eee his characterization is quite tricky but im getting there </3 (also please do forgive typos 🥲)

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, + 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 ♡

Waves crash against the rocks.

Sea salt shoots up and stings your cornea, your knuckles going white around the wooden ledge they grip onto for dear life. And to be perfectly accurate, that is what this is- life or death- something you’re not entirely certain you’ll make it to the other end of. With a frantic prayer, you plant your heels under the thwarts and try to find balance as the little canoe rocks violently.

Froth builds up around it; towering waves cresting over and leaving behind liquid dust, the air thick with it like a mist.

You squint your eyes to blot out the pelting rain; keeping them open for too long is a near impossible task anyway, what with the burn.

This was stupid, you know that. Whether or not it was a wise decision was never the question in your head.

No, the only one present- overarching all other thought, making it physically impossible to function in your day to day life- was if your fiancé was still alive. Or if what all the townsfolk gossiped about in whispering peels during brushes with them on the cobbled path was true—

If the waves got to him. If he was really lost at sea.

Stupid or naive or plain crazy (as one onlooker labeled you without so much as a care to just how worn-out this whole ordeal’s made you)- you don’t care. Truthfully, you think you’re a little beyond the point of it, of self doubt or second guessing.

The only room left is for action: the strong men at the tavern and the local fisherman you clumsily rallied together were helpful in some ways, but their help only lasted so long until exasperation kicked in and they called it quits.

The choice to do something is yours and only yours.

Look, girl. We combed the port front to back. Turned over the barrels and crates and all, found nothin’. And we’ve been hauling out them nets for weeks now— wouldn’t you be surprised-? nothin’ there, either. Your fiancé's gone. I’m sorry, but—

You didn’t stay to hear the rest, embittered by it.

They’d done you a kindness, carving time out of their strict schedules and afternoon, beer-induced naps. And you’ll always be thankful for that, that despite knowing deep in their hearts that you were a lost cause, they stepped up to bat regardless, but—

There’s no returning home for you. Wiping your brow of its sweat then throwing a towel over your shoulder, heading in for the night.

The spot beside you in bed is eerily empty and cold; you wake from nightmares in sheer darkness and swat a hand to feel him but you’re met with wrinkled sheets and a silence that sneers. Without him, this place is empty.

The town is beautiful- small- but beautiful- with its glittering fairy lights strung from shop to shop, worn paths branching off into pebbled ones that lead to the shore and the peer, the more developed side of it farther down the sand— and it used to feel comforting. Like home.

Now, there’s no lantern aglow on the porch banister to point you in the direction of home. You’re aimless and sad. Like a ship without a sail.

The first week afterward (the news that his crew never returned from their trip), you hid away in your room crying all day, the better part of you half expecting his footfalls to echo down the hall. Though, they never did. It’s fine, you’d reasoned with eyes clamped shut, splayed over his half of the mattress, he’ll be back tomorrow.

Tomorrow came. It went, too.

And he—

He’s still gone—

Worried neighbors flitted by and left steaming pastries by the door. You hardly had an appetite for them, though, delightful as they were sat outside your cracked window, the smell of pecan pie drifting under billowing, sheer curtains.

It’s encroaching on around a month now. A month of loneliness and denial and the cruel, pitying stares the locals level you in the times you seldom leave home.

Your fiancé's absence, as unexpected as it was devastating, has stretched on long enough to kindle a sort of determination in you. You pile your bones off the bed and set out for the shore with a small, leather bag at your waist and sandals that hang off your feet, nervous but hellbent.

That bag, now: floating off in the distance, whisked away by whirling winds and swallowed up by the sea. One valiant flipflop remains hanging off your big toe, but you question, albeit with little concern for it, for just how much longer it will last.

Your fingers shake as they peel hair from your temple. You can’t see, can’t see anything— the boat shakes and croaks as the bottom steadily fills, and you have the dreadful realization that you are slowly sinking and cannot stop it.

Through bleared eyes, you watch several, ringlet-like waves form on the horizon and disappear behind rolling, closer ones. You brace endlessly for impact, but another wave bulges and effortlessly lifts your canoe- a temporary respite from the others that come crashing over.

When it lets you down, you quickly squint to see what’s coming for you next and immediately pale.

It’s massive. Dark, cobalt, scraping the underbelly of the black sky. Another tall wave (but a small fish in comparison) interlopes into it and is swallowed within a blink. It only worsens it, feeds it.

You have no chance. None at all. It’s over. It’s over and despite it all- the pointed meddling of your neighbors and all the chatter meant to maim the stubborn belief you held that your to-be husband was still alive- a small hope flares to life in your chest.

It says maybe dying here wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe, if all of them were right after all, you’d be able to see him again.

As that unbeatable wave draws nigh, seemingly moving at a snail’s pace- casual in its approach but so terrifyingly powerful- it droops at the top and paints you in an opaque shadow.

You can’t see, can’t hear. The deafening roar of thunder and the foamy tide clapping against itself is tuned out. Your eyes see nothing but darting smears of lightning and the hurt of heartbreak and sea salt.

It’s happening. It’s over.

You give your fingers one last twitch to remind yourself that, for the moment, remarkably, you’re still alive. They feel fat with the cold, hardly budging.

Your last flip flop gusts over your shoulder and your ribcage rattles with a chill.

Your teeth chatter out one final prayer and perhaps a choked sob- although you can’t tell if it’s the brine gathering at your feet, rising with a gurgle- And you watch with wide, teary eyes as that tsunami finally descends—

A flash of color, indigo and bright, bobs above the slanted tide.

‘You. You shouldn’t be out here.’

Your eyes widen. Milliseconds before the boat is hit, a slosh from the side tips it and you’re catapulted into the open water.

It feels like an open flame.

Arctic temperatures freeze you to the bone. You’re reminded of hellfire as the cold licks away at your skin, limbs warping around you in violent currents.

You let out a scream of despair and watch as it turns to suds.

You know it was stupid, you know it was stupid, you know it was stupid— But you were hurting. And that life back at town- now devoid of the man you thought to be your veritable soulmate, who you were convinced you’d spend your final breaths with- is not the one you want to continue on with.

(But… you don’t wanna die.)

You dig to the surface with a sputter.

You manage to keep yourself afloat for all of two seconds before the ocean— or something that feels oddly like a fist— latches onto your ankle and pulls.

Consciousness is a slightly longer affair… but that, too, fades.

Teal blips across your spasming eyes. A vivid, long tail flicks along your arm, almost curiously, before curling behind you and disappearing.

Bubbles erupt from your jaw and shoot up, up, up.

Maybe, you think vaguely as the world blackens, quietens, you’ll find your missing fiancé lying at the seabed. The thought, surprisingly, isn’t as comforting as it is disturbing, but you suppose a reunion only in death would be better than none at all.

‘Silly human. Don’t worry, I got you.’

⊹⊹⊹

A voice breaks the quiet of night. Dulcet, lamenting.

The ocean whirs in his ears endlessly, his tail gliding below him in a dull swish. A school of fish passes by, and then another. A curious, blue one swims at his side and he biffs it dismissively.

“Not now, fishie.”

Rafayel isn’t concerned about the life swirling around him in colorful dots of assorted sizes, floating above the seabed, no- that’s all ubiquituous to him. It’s that song— that smooth sound drifting like a dirge from somewhere on the surface— that stirs something deep in his chest.

It was like that last night, too, and then a few nights before.

After over two decades of swimming in unbroken boredom- with each day bringing about the expectation of nothing more than waking up to see another- the siren feels a shift.

Something is breaking the monotony.

An excitement, existing deep in his chest but incipient, is invoked within him like an ancient god brought to wakefulness. Rafayel feels his bones rouse with the phantom aches of a slumber he never fell into- but the feeling is all the same. He rubs the disbelief from his eyes and pushes aside waving reeds before rocketing upwards.

When the waves kiss the morning foam,

From beneath the surface, the crescent moon is lopsided and shakes as Rafayel gets closer to breaching it.

The dainty shadow of a hand cuts in front of the white orb, as if wanting to capture it, before falling back to her side.

A gentle splash.

From up here, he can hear the things of land- the crickets and cicadas of summertime- purr from afar. That’s not what he came here for, though, what’s been stringing him in from the depths like fish in a trawl or moth to a flame.

And still, in the span of the last week, Rafayel has yet to get her name... (Something that definitely has to be remedied sooner or later, he quietly decides- despite the other half of him still holding onto the pride of coasting solo, the embarrassment at being led off by a mere voice. A land creature’s, at that.)

He latches onto the long, thick leg of the peer and props himself just under the overhang of it, laying his nose flat in the water but opening his eyes above it. It’s amplified now, that pretty noise, and the only thing separating the two- him and the human- is the planks of wood overhead.

Her feet rest on it. He hears her sandals squelch before she toes them off, sits down, and loops her legs over the edge.

Rafayel, with fluttering lashes and an interest so unexpected but strong it’s paralyzing- watches her heels make ripples just beside him, his heart thumping wildly. It could be out of the thrill of doing something this unusual, or the silent anticipation of maybe getting caught (although, he doubts he will, for the main reason that his kin don’t lack in cunning).

Maybe it’s just out of delight- the fibers of his being tingling with invisible sparks of… something. It makes him feel a little clumsy, innocent and fumbling like when he was a young merfolk just learning how to evade a rip current.

Similarly, she pulls him under. Drags him far out. Her voice is the tide and he’s all too willing to drown.

It’s… certainly not the first time he’s seen them- human legs- and he’ll be the first to admit that he wasn’t so sure about them initially- but he thinks he likes hers the best. It’s starting to grow on him, but just a little.

She’s soft. Smooth. At least, that’s how she appears- though he can’t say for certain because he’s never tested that theory, yet.

He’s extra careful to keep his hands to himself, intrigued as he is, lest his nails pierce through and break her. It’s a more common notion underwater, shared between much of the fishfolk, that humans are meant to be broken. Pieced apart in hungry hands or brought to the depths for a more extended, decadent death.

To be fair, he’s not a firm denier of that...

But this human, this girl who’s collided into his infinitely bleak life with all the grace of a ship wrecked hours off from shore, and whatever the hell she’s singing about— Rafayel’s not quite stupid enough to break her, no… He’s not quite willing to, either.

When the scent of roses pierces the lungs, The fish stranded at your fingertips…

For the rest of the moonlit evening, Rafayel floats beneath the peer at her (unwitting) side and listens to her languishing until she stands to her feet and retreats down the beach, disappearing into a cluster of warm, tiny lights in the distance.

Blood,

Blood covers the sea.

Rafayel, with an inexplicable pang of sorrow- unable to fight the influence of her songs- can’t help but wonder what has made the girl so sad.

It’s not in their baser nature, the sirens, to commiserate, least of all with the humans. It’s a weakness, to cry, an open wound that his kind is all too susceptible to deepening- so they avoid it entirely. Call it preservation. But for as much as Rafayel loves the ocean- and yes, to an extent, his people- he was never all that interested in their society, and if showing a little bit of heart for the landfolk means escaping the bland shadows of the sea, then maybe right now is a good time to start.

…Before she swims away, anyway.

⊹⊹⊹

Silence sours the balmy air of your home, but you swear you hear something singing to you.

It was real.

It had to be, what happened just a number of days ago.

When you’d been retrieved from a bed of seaweed on the shore with little memory of what happened, you had retained just enough to know that something was… off.

That something having to do with the violent storm at sea and your lack of succumbing to it- the darting shadow that appeared by the boat and was there when you went under— wasn’t adding up.

You… shouldn’t be alive.

That thought was present even in the thick mist of early morning as boats began unmooring from the docks— stark epiphany, realer than the concerned hands of the fishermen as they helped you into town, your legs hardly capable of carrying you there on their own. Much less your frazzled mind; you didn’t quite miss the way they’d stared at you during the trek off shore, throwing frantic looks over your shoulder even as the sand gave to the reedy path leading into the village.

The rolling waves got flatter as you drew off from it, but something in you- like some inexplicable base instinct- was telling you to run. Away or back to it, you don’t know, but you feel the frigidity of the sea still in your chest, lapping away at your sanity as days pass.

The burn is surreal. Nothing makes sense.

You should be dead- scraping there at the bottom of the sea, drifting with your supposedly dead fiancé in a place where the light doesn’t dare reach—

But you’re not.

The earth feels shapeless beneath your feet. A perpetual dizziness in your skull that makes you feel like you’re swaying on a dock- but your toes are planted in dry land.

You’re alive. The scale tipped against you but it didn’t matter. The sea spat you out, didn’t want you.

Surprisingly, you take the whole ordeal in stride. The first days after being plucked from the shore are rocky and dreamy, but you find your footing and with it comes an unexpected hope.

If you survived, your fiancé must’ve as well. He’d always been the stronger of you two, anyway, more stout and determined.

The waves did not drag him under. Couldn’t have.

The canoe you took out to sea is gone, not to your surprise. It was more or less reduced to splinters. But you wonder if it was even real to begin with, if the canoe ever existed that day when you unroped it from its notch and embarked on the perilous journey. Down to the very point where you pattered off your porch steps and made the choice to look for your fiancé yourself- the whole sequence of events is wrapped in a forgetful fog.

But deep down, despite the whispers of doubt surrounding you and your own mental haze, you know it happened. All of it.

It was real, and something

Is singing to you—

(Wet hands descend the span of your belly. Sand feels like gravel beneath you, soaked and cold beneath a yellowed moon as night fades. Reverent, curious. Long nails carefully unravel algae from your fingers and thighs. The debris is tossed away, thrown down the shore without thought.

-…. in good shape, cutie. Is there anyone on land who’d sing for you if you disappeared? A gentle laugh- but even in your state of unconsciousness, you pick up on the note of disdain there. I guess if there was, you wouldn’t turn to the sea so much.)

Hands. Curious hands kneading into you like wet clay on a spinning wheel. Reshaping. Admiring. There’s painterly intent in every touch, every brush. Something between the cove of your legs gives a wanting throb and your tongue feels like cotton. Fire licks from your belly to your brain and makes it benumbed, pleasantly heavy as the gentle, rhythmic lull of the tide cools the tips of your toes.

Salt burns your throat.

You wake with it sore.

Rubbing it groggily, you come to before dawn fully does, the horizon flickering with a diluted, white-orange beneath a starry sky.

It gets to be too much. The emptiness of your bed, the suffocating drivel of the townsfolk and the lack of certainty in what happened to you.

Dubbed crazy or not by all around you, you’re past the point of caring. You have to leave. Worried neighbors advised you against it, adamant that you ward off on visiting the peer at least until your mind fog lessened; preferably, you’d wait an extra few months so the wound of heartbreak would seal over, but it seems they know better than to ask that of you.

He’s still out there, your to-be husband. He’s got to be.

You think something else might be, too. The thing that saved you. Although, the reasons it has for doing so are beyond you.

Go back, a lilting voice sings somewhere in the back of your head, a dull throb like a separate, beating heart. It thumps in your skull and sends a thrill through you. It speaks in urgency, like it’s warning you not to disobey— but all the sharpness of it is masked in dulcet chords.

Go back, back to the sea.

Crazy or not, you think it’s calling for you.

The lyrics lead you to the front door. Maybe you ought to think this over more, sleep on it (God knows you’re failing at that seemingly simple task). But something is driving you, picking up and physically moving your limbs for you as if your settings have been switched to autopilot.

You shrug on a thin cardigan to stave off the crisp air of early morning, not bothering to lock your door behind you.

A weird, eerie voice in your subconscious- hardly sounding like yours- says you won’t be coming back anyway.

Thankfully, you have half the mind to shoo it away and steel your nerves. Of course you’ll be coming back home. You’ll find your errant fiancé and burst through the little blue-painted door with celebration. All the village will cough up their sheepish apologies for the things they’d said- the faithless assumptions they made- and raise a mug to his return.

The key to finding him is finding that other thing, first. The thing with a watery fist and roaming nails, the glinting coral-red eyes that blurred beneath coiling waves and the tail that you’re sure swam you back to safety.

The locals can say all they want about you: The ruddy, fading ring of scratches wrapping around the bone of your ankle—

That’s all the proof you need to spur you onward.

Onward is the ocean.

⊹⊹⊹

Water gushes against the rocks at the seaside.

Dark and slate-grey, they dry up under the sun immediately. Seagulls caw overhead. The sand is warm- not cool as it was in your last visit- near scalding as you head towards the shore.

You hiss and don’t make it halfway until you start leaping, bare feet burning. You hurry into the water, standing only ankle-deep, and mentally scold yourself for forgoing shoes— but to your defense, your sandals had been lost to the abyss that was the sea just barely seven days ago.

The horizon is blinding. Sunlight bounces off the plane of the sea and glistens, just as bedazzled as a wealthy woman’s neck. It’s a far cry from what it was last week- all whorling ridges and roaring waters- and for that you’re thankful.

That storm, and being launched into the hellish currents of it, will remain in your dreams for a long time coming.

Even now, just looking at it from far out takes your breath a little.

It’s horrifying. It’s… beautiful.

…And it’s singing to you—

“I know you’re there,” you whisper.

Your voice is just a breath at first, hushed as you toss a squirrely look down the beach- where the fishermen drudge around as little specks- and straighten your spine.

You’re alone here, though. You’re allowed to be as crazy as you want.

You speak louder, forcing down the lump of embarrassment in your throat that says your voice is falling on deaf ears. And you know the ocean doesn’t have ears, or eyes; it hardly had the heart to spit you back out of it.

But that thing that snatched you into its arms and left you boneless on the sand does.

With hands bunched, shaking, you declare, “I know, you’re there.”

Nothing.

A short whitecap curls over the tips of your toes and stretches a few feet behind you before receding.

It melds seamlessly into the blue.

Nothing, and then-

Yards off, a colorful blur warbles. As it swims closer, you hold your ground, squint to assure it’s not a sea turtle or other creature (albeit, no typical marine animal is that shape or size), and let out a little gasp. Its head pops above the surface gracefully, and it’s full of hair, a vibrant shade of indigo that strikes a familiar chord in you instantly.

“It’s you,” you startle, almost out of breath. The fingers clutched tightly at your sides unfurl. Your heart picks up its speed, an abrupt surge of emotions- shock, relief, and confusion- leaving no different an effect than a stungun would.

“You’re real, I- I knew it—!”

“Shhh,” is his first word, coral-blue eyes narrowing with apathy as he palms himself closer, about knee-deep in the water now. And yet you step away, applying some distance as you stagger because for whatever reason, the knowledge that his creature- or fish-man- saved you doesn’t take the cake when it comes to self-preservation.

You don’t even have a name to put to his face (or tail), and up until now, you were certain mermaids and unicorns and fairies only existed between the pages of whimsical books or the imaginations of children.

Right then, you think, they also existed in the sage warnings of the Greeks before they sailed off to sea.

The quiet epiphany plays with your nerves.

“You don’t have to be so loud, you know. I can hear you just fine, thanks.”

Ear-length, wavy hair bobs with the movement as he tilts his head. You can’t help but feel estranged from the idea of caution, though, as he drifts a bit closer and gives you a petulant pout.

He gets as close as the sandbar will allow before pausing, broad shoulders jutting above the ripples.

And he’s childish still, the picture of harmlessness as he looks up at you, squinting in the sun, and murmurs, “buuuut, I admire your enthusiasm, cutie... Were you looking forward to our reunion that bad?”

You blink, lashes fluttering. A breath you’d been holding finally escapes you, a whit of that unease ebbing out just like the cool tide underfoot.

You’re… hardly a sailor, anyway. You’ve no ship to be wrecked; no, the man that served as the anchoring element in your life is missing. The boat in your life has gone AWOL. With it your warmth and love. It’s why you’ve even come out here in the first place, the flights of fancy belonging to a grieving woman or not.

The reminder of your lost fiancé steels you.

You lift a shaky hand to use as a visor against the sun, blotting it out so you can peruse the man-fish without obstruction.

“You saved me,” is all you really know to say. You’d had all sorts of lofty plans coming back out here, but you’d never fully considered what you’d do if your new friend (he is a friend, right?) did show.

He lets out an amused, dry sound. The ghost of a smile curls at his pink lips, though. He can’t quite hide that one from you.

“I did. Have you come to show me your gratitude?” He lowers his gaze then, glancing at your shins momentarily before peering behind you, at the grassland stopped just after the shore and right before the village.

He grumbles, “Or will humans with pitchforks show up any minute, intent on slaughtering me and my kind?”

For some reason, the most you take from that statement is the very end of it, quickly saying, “T-There’s more of you?”

He looks up at you. Makes a scoffing sound but it only holds half its bite.

“Well, of course there is. Silly girl,” he comments, that little grin returning with a vengeance as behind him, something teal shoots up from the water and pelts a small flurry of droplets your way. You close your eyes and turn, the gentle sound of his laughs ringing out.

When you look back at him, a long tail- gorgeous and as pigmented as turquoise paint- flicks under the sun and glitters no different than rhinestones.

“It was only me that was generous enough to save you, though. That’s the most important part.”

⊹⊹⊹

Trust is a big word, it is.

But there is no doubt in your mind that you would’ve succumbed to a watery death if not for the merman- Rafayel, he’d informed with a coy flap of his tail- intervening, and you’re grateful to him for that. His saving you— it means something. And you owe him.

You head for the shore each morning with a silent debt hanging over your head, but he never demands anything of you in return. During lazy afternoons by the cove trading pretty, swirled shells and at first tentatively getting in the water with him to swim at nightfall, you wait for the catch to come, for him to name his price.

You think it’s only fair. Rescuing something as valuable as a life is nothing to scoff at: you’d cough up the change.

He never holds out his hand.

If anything, Rafayel seems wholly uninterested in that.

You’re not entirely sure why you formulated your ideas of merfolk around blood-thirst and thievery (perhaps because of the myths), but the one you’re befriending is nothing like that. He’s playful and sassy and a little bit flirtatious but you suppose- if the legends of sirens luring sailors to the depths are really true- then it adds up. It’s only natural he’d be a whit on the provocative side, right?

Rafayel is friendly, clingy even when you convince him that you have no intentions of alerting the village any time soon of his presence. You tell him with a wry laugh that they’d hardly believe you anyway because everyone thinks you’ve lost it.

You see it in his pleasant face- the blip of interest that passes by- that he wants to ask why, but he holds off on it when you pour him with questions about what goes on in the deep blue and if his kind really eats fishermen.

He huffs, propping his elbow on the half-submerged rock he’d helped you onto, still in sight of the shore but more intimate a setting.

“What kind of question is that? Do you really think I could do something like that? Look at me,” he balloons out his cheeks and puffs. “I’m an innocent little fishie.”

You laugh, and drop the interrogation in favor of a more lighthearted one. You ask Rafayel what life off land is like.

With a mischevious twinkle in his marbled, red-blue eye, he tells you about what lurks in ocean trenches first, painting vivid imagery in your head of glowing bulbs in the dark and rows of jagged teeth that peer out of deep crevices.

You blanche and he can’t help but chuckle softly, a dash of something in his gaze that resembles ardor as it flits appreciatively along the curve of your face.

It’s not all horrifying, though, he eventually concedes.

He scoops shiny things up from the sand lining the ocean floor and gifts them to you in your following meetings. He tells you that the fish- sleek and chromatic- dance around him in schools where everything is crystalline. They sleep on beds of coral under-tail and stick close to the fins of whales, apparently having nothing better to do. Sometimes they get a little clingy, he admits, and he has to shoo them away, but the little creatures are friendly- and his underwater world is nothing short of beautiful.

Rafayel loves the sea. It’s his home.

“And what about you, cutie? What’s your home like?”

That gives you pause, but just for a moment.

You know what home is like; you’d only dwelled there, in the tiny village off the shoal, since you were a little girl.

And home is nice…. Or, it was. Now, it’s a husk of the warmth you once knew. Days drag by in drab monotony and the added, very much unwanted reminder that your fiancé has yet to return. Seagulls squawk outside and tricycle bells ring. Concerned neighbors knock on your door but this place feels dull. No more face to put to this snuggly seaside village.

With a small smile- one that Rafayal thinks is more wistfully sad than anything- you tell the merman about the things you cherish here, deliberately omitting what you desperately miss.

Memories of childhood circle back to you in fuzzy fragments: Despite the present, you can still at least cherish the past, right…?

Listening to you recount gems of your youth with a smile, it’s evident to Rafayel that you love it here.

Just… he understands that maybe it’s not as much as you used to.

His face takes on more of a sober look then, his cheeks, dappled with teal scales that break the surface in some spots, dusting a soft pink. You don’t really understand why- perhaps a mild case of sun burn- but he asks,

“And what about in it? Is there… Someone who’s special to you, who brings it warmth? Even underwater, in order to survive, we merfolk need a suitable temperature, you know.”

Ah. That.

You offer a hum of acknowledgment before glancing off, far out to where the flat whitecaps stretch into nothingness. Lounging around by the coast with your new, unlikely friend, the scenery is idyllic here.

You almost will yourself into forgetting what you’re really here for, what hurled you face-first into this predicament.

Sorrow hangs in your heart. The visage of your fiancé passes in your head rapidly, kaleidoscopic, his smiles and the tender moments spent with him, the sound of his laugh.

You are less and less certain of yourself. You are not sure if the gossipping townsfolk are correct or not to assume the worst, but what you do know is that it’s creeping up on two months and not one shiphand has returned. Not even an errant oar has washed ashore.

“Yes. But…” A pause. You swallow thickly and give your head a belated, uncertain shake. Tears form in the back of your throat and you pile them down, frustrated they’d showed up uninvited.

Perhaps you’re more weak to all the bleak murmurs than you’ve let on.

You laugh, but the sound lacks humor. “Everyone thinks he’s dead, all the people at the village.”

“…You wanna share?”

You shrug and draw one knee to your chest, the other still bent over the rocky ledge, dangling in the cool water. They’re still today, the waters, relatively level— but inwardly, you warn yourself against being so easily deceived by them: they looked more or less the same the day you rowed out.

The storm was nothing short of terrifying, yes, but you think the lack of expecting it somehow made it more devastating.

“Well, there’s not much to,” you respond, tongue in cheek. You don’t mean to sound uninterested in this conversation all of a sudden, but you suppose it’s a defense mechanism. Rafayel props his elbows on the rock and listens intently, giving his brow a little quirk at your tone.

“But my… fiancé,” why the words are suddenly hard to get out, you don’t know, “he went off to sea. Hasn’t come back yet.”

At your knees, Rafayel is noticeably quiet, but you get the inexplicable sense that he’s invested.

“I guess he’ll come back with lots of fish whenever he does,” you sigh. Your attempts to remain lighthearted just barely working.

Quickly, you try to breeze past the topic, but the merman chimes- “A fisherman? You were courting a fisherman?”

Courting. The word sounds a little funny, medieval almost, but you hum.

It’s his turn to make a tongue-in-cheek comment, lifting his scaly fist to support his chin. “He must’ve been a real prize to deserve all that singing... What do I get for saving you?” He says playfully, almost pettily, but you get the weird idea that this is more serious to him than he lets on.

You want to heave a laugh at his pouting words, but confusion stops you. You snap your head to him.

“You-?”

Quickly, Rafayel quips, “Yes, just about the whole sea can hear you at night. Why is that surprising?”

For some reason, a whit of hope warms your chest throughout. If Rafayel is cognizant of something as trivial as songs from above the surface, surely he must’ve been privy to a shipwreck or the hurried shouts of sailors as their boat went down.

Not that you believe it did, just—

You scramble upright, planting your palms on the rock in a kneel as you say- in a voice you’re not keen on sounding as desperate as it comes out-

“Have you ever heard anything else? A- A boat sinking? People drowning or- or—“ You stuff out an anxious breath, all the worries and doubts you’d been housing for weeks now bubbling to the surface. You suppose if anybody has garnered your confidence, though, it’s the merman that saved your veritable life.

Still, a lump of unease burns in your throat. Thick and acidic. It makes your voice shake but you ignore it, leaning over the edge. If you fall in, he’ll save you again anyway. If not a friendship (but you definitely treat it as such), there is still a mutual fondness between you two- a silent trust- and you’re sure, beside the marks on your ankle he left by accident in the heat of the moment, he would not let harm befall you.

“Because they say he’s gone— my lover— they say his crew got hit by something- like a plague or a storm- and succumbed out there. But maybe- maybe you heard something? Rafayel- did you hear or see any group of fishermen out there?” You bluster, before adding on like an afterthought, “two months ago?”

The longer your mouth moves, the wider Rafayel’s eyes get.

And then, you think it’s something like… recognition that skips across multihued eyes.

He’s quiet for a moment, mouth ajar. His bright turquoise tail, the tip jutting out from the tide as it sways idly, stops midway in the air and floats awkwardly.

Your brow furrows. You fear the worst. Your nails dig into the gritty surface, fingerpads whiting as you shake your head.

“Rafayel-? W-What’s wrong?”

Curtly, he shuts his mouth. An easy smile replaces his momentary surprise.

When he speaks, it’s in a familiar, somewhat sarcastic but harmless tone, and his tail sparks to life behind him, albeit quite unsteadily.

“Nothin’, cutie,” he lifts an arm to adjust his perch on the rock but it slips. His face dusts pink, his brows twitching together; all of it, the clearly disturbed signs of his composure, he ignores. Your heart thrums.

“I was just thinking how brave you were to venture off to sea after him. He’s lucky to have someone like you still waiting at home for him.” His compliment is overlooked. You’re too caught up in the rush of unease that sweeps through you- the niggling feeling that says there’s something more to this you’re not seeing- that you can hardly utter a bashful thanks.

“But- did you happen to hear anything, or-?”

Rafayel adds casually, “I’m sure the guy is fine wherever he is, though. And no, cutie. But I’ll let you know if that changes.”

Something like hesitance grips you as you watch, with silence, the friendly merman lose the better part of his mirth. You wonder if you’ve said something wrong as his exterior hardens cooly, if you’ve divulged too much of your emotions and quite possibly lost your final companion. Maybe you’re overthinking it- but if that’s the case, if even a fish-man from the sea has taken the same opinion as the land-living locals, then some drama seems warranted.

You don’t want to be alone again. And Rafayel- Rafayel was starting to really grow on you despite all your differences—

He strums his fingers against his jaw, painting the picture of boredom, and puffs out his lips, eyes drifting away almost flippantly as if he’s dead to the wounded look you send him.

A yawn. He unfolds his lean arms and ducks under the water.

“Wait- Rafayel-?”

“Sorry, princess, the fishies are calling me. They said it’s getting late now, and that I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“But—“

“Hop on my back, let me take you back to shore. Your little legs can only doggy paddle you so far,” he lets out a light laugh but you don’t miss the dash of mockery there, as if you’re some unfortunate soul cursed with four limbs and warm blood. Still, you bite your tongue- and the unbidden pang of unease in your chest- and slip off the rock.

You loop your arms around his middle, his muscles flexing in response, lean and tight, and keep your chin above the tide as he floats towards the sand bar.

“Rafayel, are you okay?”

“Of course, cutie. Why, aren’t you?”

“Y-Yeah. It’s just-“ you poorly stifle a sigh, still a bit taken aback by his sudden desire to truncate your meeting. That, and his odd behavior when you asked about any possible shipwreck.

You eventually settle on, “Please just keep it on your radar. If you hear or see any ships, call me, okay?”

“We don’t have shellphones under the water, you know. How am I supposed to alert you?” You can’t see the face he’s making, saddled on his back as his long tail gusts through the gentle currents, but you realize he’s teasing.

“I- I don’t know,” you admit clumsily. “Maybe I’ll just know if you say my name.”

I mean, it’s not too crazy an idea, is it? You felt a stirring towards the ocean- real and audible- would a creature living in it really be so different?

Perhaps the townsfolk are right in their claims made against you, that you’ve lost it.

There’s nothing left in you that cares, though.

Rafayel lets out a small chuckle but sounds oddly endeared. “How romantic.”

“Rafayel—“

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll let you know if anything’s up. Don’t worry!”

⊹⊹⊹

From the shipdeck, the water is beautiful, even as it takes you down under, swallowing up the thick hull in a lazy gulp.

A white moon pours down. The waves sparkle like sequins. It’s… hypnotizing, in a way. Your fist flies to your collar when the sails tear, the harsh rip of it reminding you of the breath still in your lungs, and you hold the locket there like it’s a lifering.

The crewhands scramble for them- and for the tiny boat hanging off the side. Another powerful slosh to the boat sends slippery hands in a fray; you hear the vague sound of wood cracking, planks you thought to be sturdy splintering. You’re no more than a raft drifting, victim to the elements.

The emergency lifeboat whistles as it drops, freefalling from the ropes and into the coiling sea.

It has no heart for mercy, the sea, but you’ve still one for home, a deep-seated urge within to return that has your nails digging bluntly into your palms, blood drawing in the paths of them.

…H-Home.

Sailors scream around you.

Someone, you realize with a flash of confusion, in the chaos- in the maelstrom of wind and shooting rain- is even singing.

The sound of it chills you to the bone.

Dazedly, you think they must’ve lost it. To be fair, there’s no blame there— men have drowned in waters far flatter: your crew is miles from the nearest chunk of land and the vessel can’t withstand this weather— you’re all gonna die and the crewmate must know. He knows and he’s singing.

Crashing waves silence heavy thunder. The sky glows endless white, one last fissure of lightning darting down before the deck lights bright gold.

Fire surges. It dances in your eyes and you swallow a scream.

She’s waiting at home, still. It can’t be over, it can’t be, it can’t be—

Fiery yellow, and then everything spins, your world going lopsided as the ship groans and you tip.

And then, it’s all blue.

Dark, vast cerulean interpolated only by flotsam that drifts away the moment you reach for it, fingers desperately clawing for the surface.

Up, or down— you’re not sure which way you’re swimming.

You do know, though, that you never find your buoyancy.

Hands. Hands on you and dragging you down, down, down, and then it’s clear the wrecked pieces of the ship are getting further away, not closer. A deepness surrounds you. Cold, quiet. The storm’s effects are mitigated the lower you sink— it’s counterintuitive, you think, because surely you’ll drown regardless, but a strange sense of calm washes over you as the air peters from your lungs. They spasm as you choke.

But you got to get home, you must get home to her—

The tips of your boots touch the sandy floor.

It’s tranquil, under the sea. The reefs are vivid, swaying with bubbling marine life. Navy blue swirls around you and is limned with muted fire light, displacing itself with every wild movement of your limbs. You flail them helplessly but something—

Something is holding you down and it’s singing—

From afar, and through bleared eyes, the coral looks like upright rods of colorful bone, yellow and blushing-orange. An opaque red smears over them— curling and wavering into smoke-like trails. It’s reminiscent of black and white marble. Beautiful, in a way.

A long, glittering tail scrapes across your leg.

You realize it’s blood- your blood- and then in a heartbeat, a pair of talons pierce through the veil and—

A gasp.

You come to wakefulness with a frightened noise.

That dream- you’d been having it for days now, each more fragmented and blurry than the last… But this time, it’s strikingly clear.

Horror frosts your eyes over, glossy and wide as you undo the covers bound tightly around you, standing to shaking feet.

That awful, awful dream— it’s not in your point of view, you realize, it’s in your fiancé’s, and that same claw that had been gracious enough to scoop you up and save you from stormful, roaring swells—

Dragged your lover down to the depths, burying him in liquid oblivion.

As you shrug on a thin cardigan and hurry outside, dashing under moonlit lawns with the single-minded focus to reach the beach, you vaguely wonder if you’re being unreasonable, if all these little dreams and visions and songs you’ve been experiencing are nothing short of delirium. But this is too coincidental— Rafayel had smoothly shirked all your questions days ago, and you realize now that the dull look in his eye wasn’t boredom but jealously, ugly and sudden, masquerading under disinterest.

Knowledge of that- and your naivety- comes to you in piecemeal.

You’ve been stupid. You’d been holding onto the feeble hope that your soon-to-be husband was somewhere out there, scraping together shellfish on an uncharted islet or lost at sea with his crew-mates but alive. Deep down, you always knew it was the dreams of a fool.

But damn it all if you’d just… stopped yourself for one fucking second to nudge aside your denial and take a good look at your marine friend, you’d have seen the lack of common sense in it. Your lover’s met no different and no more painless, as much as it horrifies you- a fate than the sailors depicted in all those whimsical tales of old.

You sing out to the sea. Anger warms your chest like a fleece, cardigan be damned, fists clenched so tight your palms swell as you cry out.

Panic, subtle but niggling, speaks to you from underneath thick layers of hate and pain, but you’re beyond the point of reason. No, you need to hear it from the siren himself just what the fuck happened to your other half— if he can hear your lamenting after dark without issue, surely he would’ve at least caught wind of some devastation off the coast or spotted the debris in his own waters—

But he’s been keeping something from you.

“Rafayel!” You cry again. It’s impossible to swallow the lump in your throat; it seeks to climb to the surface but for now, with a remnant of control that surprises yourself, you manage to keep from spitting it up.

Nausea turns in your belly, but you keep it at bay. Just barely.

Unshed tears burn your cornea. “Rafayel!” You don’t scream, no, your lungs are too wounded and overwhelmed by the simple task of drawing air to, but it’s a near thing.

Furious, beginning to think he’ll conveniently not show or he’s merely ignoring you, your feet splash into the water until you’re shin-deep.

You hiccup. “R-Rafayel! I know you’re there!”

Eventually, a head bobs above the tide, infuriatingly nonchalant, and a turqoise fluke appears not long after it, twinkling just barely under a clouded, night sky.

He doesn’t look as tired as you’re sure you do- and not by a long shot quite as disturbed. If anything, he looks a little pleased with himself.

Wet indigo waves give a little bounce as he lazily approaches, watchful eyes glimmering with something you’re both too enraged and emotional to name. Something like betrayal courses through you— distracting you from the very real fact that the siren is drawing closer.

He says nothing as you shake your hands emphatically, eyeballs practically bulging out your head. They might pop out and roll. “You-! You knew!” You accuse, momentarily stunned at the broken sound of your voice. “You knew all along b-because you did it, didn’t you? You’ve been lying to my face this whole time— You killed him! Y-You ripped him apart I fucking saw it—“

Your tirade is clipped short with a hiccuping gasp as you fully erupt into tears. You don’t bother to wipe them or even hang your head, brows furrowed as Rafayel regards you with a contemplative, almost curious look.

An undercurrent of desire, dark and intense, exists under it, though, and you can’t will yourself for any longer to view him as the same harmless, aquatic humanoid who’d rescued you.

You find yourself for both a lack of coherency and also gratitude; he could’ve left you to decay at the bottom of the ocean for all you care, or thrown you to the hands of Neptune or the feeding pit of sharks— it’s almost preferable to this.

Rafayel’s face, admittedly handsome, in a pretty way (albeit, you’ve no idea why your brain is suddenly forming opinions on his appearance, especially now of all times), is relaxed, devoid of emotion. You recognize the impatience there, though… like there’s been a string that you’ve pulled taut.

The silent truth that has been overarching your life for the past couple months- you don’t want to come to terms with it or you might break otherwise.

For the life of you, you can’t even understand what his goals were in all of this—

You hurl your anger at him and flail your arms and shout until your trachea feels like aggregate when you swallow, and he waits it all out with an ease that gets you impossibly riled up.

You suck in a sharp breath and shudder when you open your eyes again, color seeming to reenter your periphery, and measure the distance Rafayel has bridged.

Gasping, you go to take a step back, knees knocking together like newborn foal as a distinct sense of panic rips through you- not right, it screams, and, you messed up, you messed up, you stupid, stupid—

“Silly girl,”

A loud splash. A resistance.

Rafayel lurches his arm, belly almost brushing against the sandbar, and takes ahold of your ankle.

You let out a yelp, instantly reaching down to try to unlatch him from you, dismay robbing you of oxygen, but it’s too late for that. Each of your clumsy attempts is precluded. Faded scars line the knob of your ankle and Rafayel presses into them with the smooth pads of his fingers- forcefully, but he’s mindful not to use his nails. He’s learned since the last time.

He gives one good tug and you stand no chance, falling with a slosh.

Pulling you towards him, he’s fully confident now that you’re in his liquid domain, slowly dragging you away from the shallow end, from home- or at least, the shriveled, sad remains of it.

Mortified, and still very much resisting him— the merman surprisingly gentle, cognizant of your frailty despite the iron grasp he subdues you with— you throw a frantic glance up and watch as the shore shrinks.

“No!” He’s very careful to keep your head above the tide, but you’re choking still.

This is not the first time he’s helped you into the ocean and swam recreationally with you, usually with the addition of little trinkets and pretty shells you bring to swap, but it’s definitely the first time he’s trapped you in his arms, lean and impossible to swat away, and ignored your asks to return to land.

You remember your front door then, funnily enough, how you left in a tizzy and far too shaken to lock it, and burst into another sob.

You’ll not be returning, will you?

“Please!” You blubber with all the grace of a fish out of water. You squirm like one, too. “Please, don’t kill me, Rafayel, don’t- don’t eat me—!”

A laugh, breathy but humored- cruel in its softness- rings at your ear. Gorgeous tail folded in front of you, brushing against your rear and the underside of your thighs as they fruitlessly kick out, Rafayel uses it to propel you both backwards, treating your kidnapping like a pleasant stroll.

“Of course I won’t eat you, princess,” he coos, placing a painless but clearly posessive- like he’s marking his territory- nip to the juncture of your neck and shoulder. It makes you shiver. “Don’t you understand by now?” He frowns, “You’re mine. The ocean’d sooner dry up then watch me lay a fin on you.”

There’s exactly zero things funny about this situation, so with a pang of wrath, you don’t know why he’s laughing. Maybe at the irony, because in any case, he most certainly has laid a fin on you—

You feel angry at yourself next in the seconds that follow, managing to bite into the flesh of his scale-dotted forearm and slip out of his grip— thrashing away without ceremony before he hisses and curtly regathers you.

“You’re a slippery fishie, huh, cutie? You can’t seriously think I’ll just let you swim away though, right?” His tone darkens then, deepening with a quiet warning you can’t help but feel is incongruous to the generally mild, sassy but otherwise friendly merman you’d grown to know.

When you try to break free again, the exertion summoning a state of near dry-drowning, Rafayel drops all efforts at patience and seizes you by the throat.

His hand curling around your neck, almost playing at the idea of testing just how tragic your power dynamic really is, he lets out a frustrated noise behind you. He knocks his nose into the side of your face, tealy lamella spotting the surface of his cheek and scratching against yours.

Unfamiliarly low, he grumbles out, “You’d better stop fightin’, girl, because if you spin out of control, there’s no guarantee what’ll happen to you. You’re hurting yourself. Stop it, now, I said.”

That fully frightens you. The scream buried within your throat dies, withers into nothing.

Attenuated, pointed nails graze the soft flesh of your jugular, reminding you of all the horrific, brutal ways he could sunder you in two, but they don’t draw so much as a drop of blood.

“P-Please—“ You sputter, desperately digging at his forearms that make an X over your midriff and collarbone, your toes launching out of the water. Your fight, for as valiant as it is, is sapping you of an impressive amount of energy and at an alarmingly fast rate.

But you can’t stop. You refuse to buckle to him- because to bow your head and agree to give in would be like finally surrendering to the cold reality that has, as of a number of weeks ago, completely shrouded your life.

Y-You can’t admit he’s dead— that you’re entirely crazy, widowed, and in the strictest definition alone—

“Ah-ah, princess,” he murmurs as you heave wildly, “don’t you think that’s enough running away? It’s not fair if I can’t come on land at all, you know. Come and swim with me for a while.” Rafayel coaxes, resuming his more mild demeanor within a blink.

He releases a somewhat exasperated, yet thrilled sigh. It shakes as it leaves his damp lips, blue and fuschia-red eyes glittering with barely repressed delight as he lifts his chin from your shoulderblade.

Then, he leans in towards your ear, and he sings.

⊹⊹⊹

Everything is dream-like.

Birds soar overhead in a breezy circle. They offer a few, occasional squawks that help you to the conclusion of seagulls: paired with the rhythmic, wet purr enveloping you- and the warmth flushing your cheeks- you’d wager you’re at the ocean.

Perhaps a relaxing beach day with your fiancé. He’s laid out the cloth (albeit, it feels oddly… hard, smooth as if the sand beneath is without lumps), and you’ve just stirred from a long nap set to the backdrop of light, gusting sand and crashing whitecaps.

Something in your core throbs.

A particularly tall wave in comparison to the other relatively flat ones smacks against the black rock and cools your skin. Sweat beads at your forehead, the center of your thighs offering a sequence of dull aches that have you feeling weak, wanting nothing more than to let your eyes roll back and stay that way.

You make an incoherent noise as the metaphorical fog clears, buttery, white light warming you. Dawn, you realize hazily, lashes fluttering open gradually, it’s dawn.

…But when you’d last blinked, it was late into the night.

Memories pour back in, a potpourri of muddled events tracing back to this moment- uncertainty startling you upright as—

A hand, firm and a little slimy, presses your belly down.

It bars you from most movement, strong but gentle. A tongue- long and flat and fucking mind-numbing as it laps at your pussy- swirls experimentally against your clit and vibrates with a low, satisfied moan.

Not yours; but the next one that rings out, high and aroused and very, very afraid, is.

You can hardly recognize the sound of it. A thick beat of silence passes before you finally do, brain struggling to reconcile with this startling, admittedly idyllic panorama laid out before you.

A disoriented glance tossed down tells you all you need to know to confirm your fears, a sickness churning so deep in your gut you think it’s plausible you could puke up yesterday’s supper. What spills out from your slack jaw is another helpless, pleasured mewl instead.

Rafayel, mostly submerged in the water but with his upper half braced against the flat rock’s ledge, drapes your legs (trembling, you confusedly note, as if they’ve been positioned that way for a while now) over his broad shoulders to better present his prize and feasts on it like a man starved. One large hand serves as like an anchor on your abdomen, keeping you moored as you positively lose your mind, the other carefully thumbing apart your slick folds.

Somewhere between the span of late last night and very early this morning, he’s gotten them puffy and unbelievably wet, your tight hole clenching around absolutely nothing as his lips- just as swollen and needy- suckle on your tiny bump of nerves.

You rest your head back against the smooth surface of the rock, lukewarm but not quite scorching yet- the sun still moseying its way up the sky, clouds parting to reveal a diluted yellow canvas behind them. Resignation weighs you down better than any hand ever could.

You bite down another moan mixed with a sob and leave dents in the tender tissue of your bottom lip.

He parts with your pussy for just a moment, hesitating like he’s sad to step out from its warmth, knuckling over your labia with a reverence you feel is misplaced considering the circumstances.

He’s cruel when he lifts his eyes to yours, heavy-lidded and utterly transfixed.

The sincere, amorous glint in them is like a bucket of ice water dumped over your head, something you couldn’t prepare for or adapt to in time, his head dipping down briefly to pepper a lingering kiss to the gooey seam of you. Mine, everything about the way he gazes up at you says, and, if you don’t believe me then let me prove it.

“You’re gorgeous,” he groans, the dark sphere of his pupils spilling out like ink onto a multicolored canvas. He’s worshipful in nature, but curious- tentative to every little twitch your fatigued face gives, wondering how to push your buttons just right- perhaps above all, just desperate to know if your slick cunt will keep supplying him with that sweet, hot nectar- but it’s been so generous to him thus far, so he figures he’ll just keep on taking.

“It looks just like a seaflower,” he murmurs, breath ragged over the placid lull of the tide as he strokes your flesh, “Like the ones I’d grab from the ocean floor to give you, but so much prettier... Sweeter.”

Rafayel is careful not to hurt you- you can tell, somehow, that he’s fighting tooth and nail with his inner animal, his baser instincts, to keep the last modicum of his control. Hurting you, no matter how accidental or quick, would be detrimental. He knows that. He’s felt it. And to be perfectly honest, he’s quite enjoyed it— but you don’t fall under the category of food or paltry entertainment, no, you’re so much more than that to him.

The pretty, kind girl who kept the brainless town out of your unlikely relationship, who sang her way into his heart and stole it despite himself. His best friend, his sweet little playmate and—

…Mate. Yes, his mate.

“Have you been feeling me?” He asks suddenly. “At home, in bed? I’ve been trying to call out for you,” he relays in an affected pant you wish to unhear as he resumes suckling at your shamefully wet pussy.

You hate this, how worked up he’s managed to get you, how pliant your own body has become as it all but sells itself to him- guilt and confusion swelling in your chest. “I’ve been trying to get you to see how much I like you, princess. B-But it’s like you’ve been shooing me away or something—“

You hardly give any mind to what he’s muttering about, the point of his nose nudging against your sensitive nerves and expediting your release as he licks eagerly at your folds, your whole body trembling with delight. You don’t think you really want to know, anyway.

Sea salt shoots up against the rock, licking your limbs with a cool spritz. He muffles a low breath of amusement into you. “But you’re here now, I guess. Mngh- and you’re so delicious. You’re… fragile though,” he pants, prodding his long, hot tongue against your tiny clenching hole before delving inside it with a violent shudder, his cheeks bright red. “You might have to help me inside, cutie. I don’t exactly wanna break you.”

That stuns you. His words, single-minded and husky, remind you of just how fucked up this all is— and a panic crosses the involuntary fog of your head as you snap it down to get a good look at him.

You were sure merfolk had their own means of reproduction, but it’d never been more than a passing curiosity until now, your heart in your throat as you squint to make out just what he’s working with beneath the water.

Lazily, he looks up to you and smiles when he discovers what you’re doing. It’s a hungered, smitten one, sharp teeth peeking out and all. All your squirming is nothing more than an attempt at self-preservation, unsure of just what he’s endowed with but vaguely knowing- by the size of his tail and difference of species- you sure as hell won’t be compatible with it.

The need to escape is puissant and your limbs begin to move— but they feel oddly leaden, less like flesh and more like stone.

“You wanna see me, pretty girl, yeah? What’re you planning to do?” He coos, swilling away at your watering cunt, nursing from the endless stream of juices like a man possessed. Your fiancé's face flashes before your mind and you make a choked sound.

As if sensing your thoughts, Rafayel lets out a little contented noise and nuzzles against the soft inner portion of your shaking thighs.

“He screamed, just so you know,” a low chuckle rumbles from his chest and warps into a pretty moan. It’s too light and dulcet for comfort, and it feels disproportionate to the general sting of it all. You loathe the unbidden current of arousal that gushes through you at it, wetting his slender fingers as it trickles down the thigh he cuffs.

One final shlick of your throbbing pussy and the merman maneuvers with relative ease onto the rock, his thick tail flopping off at the edge and disappearing into the crystal water. And there’s nothing exactly large about Rafayel’s stature, but he feels heavy as he hovers over you, elbows flanking either side of your head, and the appendage that seems to summon itself between you, drooping with engorged need over your stuttering belly—

You don’t want to look. Too afraid to.

You suppose you don’t have to, anyway: Rafayel grabs your face and cradles your jaw in his smooth palm, hot, labored breaths warming your slack lips. The sun is lifting higher, now, a clementine-gold sky burning like blood low on the horizon. Soon, the temperatures- and his touch as it charts out the most intimate parts of you- will begin to bake your skin.

“He was all bubbly under the water,” he groans with a trace of humor, “but I saw the worry written all over his face. Back then, I’d always wondered why he looked so concerned... not afraid, concerned. But I guess… it was ‘cause he had you to get back home to, huh, cutie?”

Saccharine sweet, he dotes before wrenching your chin up in a desperate, heedless kiss- the action all too cathartic too him but world-stopping for you- and you feel the fat head of something foreign bob between your folds.

“Poor guy,” he moans, voice absolutely ruined as you lurch helplessly beneath him, back arching to accommodate the impossible stretch. You expect it to hurt- to be a searing pain as his massive, inhuman cock spears you apart- but a near blinding delight racks through your body instead as he worms his way inside your walls, wet and primed, your eyes fluttering back.

“But at least his death served a purpose. You’d never have sung for me otherwise. Would never have- went out looking,” he shudders, hanging his head against the sweaty column of your neck, his brilliant-blue tail sloshing in the water on its own accord.

“It’s all thanks to him,” he growls out, tone oozing possession- the innocent little merman you befriended dematerializing before your very eyes. “You’re mine now. Mine.”

And when it’s all said and done, strong, toned arms gathering you up with a low splash as the docks rupture with gradual life, the boots of fisherman croaking over waterlogged wood, and Rafayel takes you under the water- giving you breath with a deep, intimate kiss-

You’ve the feeling that your dreams of reuniting with your lover will fulfill themselves in their own roundabout, warped way.

But you know Rafayel’s not ever letting you go as he undresses your finger of its sparkling ring and tucks you away in his underwater cove— placing you in his nest with reverence before prying apart your numbed legs with rekindled hunger.

Curling across your face, a soaked lock of your hair drifts absently in the still waters and Rafayel thumbs it aside, clipping it back with a little clamshell fashioned as jewelry. He leans over you contentedly, whole body and fluke swallowing you up without difficulty or protest, and happily feeds you oxygen from his lips.

You cling to him helplessly and have no choice— several hundred feet below land level— but to hungrily nurse from him every few hours and pray he won’t make the sudden decision to deprive you of it.

Something in his rippling eyes tells you he won’t, though.

He dips down to paste a lingering peck into your temple, the pad of his thumb roving appreciatively under your eye.

“Don’t you think you’ve seen enough of the land, princess? The brainless humans up there don’t want you anymore, and that’s okay,” he whispers, tiny bubbles floating like balloons before popping. “You belong down here, with me. Who says you need a tail or fins to be one of us?” Mistily, you wonder just what exactly he’s trying to say and who he’s trying to convince of its veracity, a blip of frustration marring his pretty face before it retreats.

“I’ll give you life for as long as I live,” he vows, mouth brushing tenderly against yours as his cheeks puff out and he blows.

“See? Just like this, princess. Just keep holding onto me.”

#love and deepspace #lads smut #lads rafayel #rafayel x reader #rafayel smut #rafayel x you #love and deepspace x reader #lads x reader #love and deepspace smut #rafayel love and deepspace #yandere #calebrity #if u see a typo #pretend u didnt #anyways back to my gege bullshit #expect at least a lil drabble of him within the next week or so 🤡#syluss new card looks domestic as hell as well so….#goodnoight 🫡

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