#In Praise of Patterned Papers

[uwmspeccoll]

Decorative Sunday

In Praise of Patterned Papers was printed in an edition 360 copies by Graham Moss at his Incline Press in Oldham, England in 1997. It includes dozens of paper samples and a collection of essays by noted British designers and patterned-paper experts Tanya Schmoller, Paul Nash, Phyllis Barron, Enid Marx, Alan Powers, Sebastian Carter, Victoria Hall, and Graham Moss himself. Moss writes:

What you have here is a guide book rather than an encyclopaedia, not a study so much as an exuberance. . . . Patterned paper is a particular type of decorated paper, and has as many uses as you might put it to. The main emphasis of this collection of essays is to take a look at its use as a book covering, with a little but the occasional turn of the head to look at other decorated papers used in bindings.

The patterns shown here are by Sarah Nechamkin, Hans Schmoller, Edward Bawden, Enid Marx, and Robert Simon.

View more posts on decorative papers.

View more posts on Incline Press publications.

View more Decorative Sunday posts.

[highdefhoetry]

in his hands.

cw: nsfw!! female reader, hand kink, cnc-ish, fingering, G-spot stimulation, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, verbal teasing, praise, use of term "babygirl", aftercare, some mild possessiveness, caleb is a meaniehead

word count: 1760

Caleb sits across the table from you, completely oblivious to your stolen glances as he twirls the pen between his fingers. He follows a strange pattern where he spins it once, twice, then lays the tip back onto the blank sheet of paper in front of him. His fingers tap, tap, tap on the edge, clicking the pen open and closed. The black beads on his bracelet clink against each other with every movement, the perfect accessory to the thick ring on his index finger. You find yourself unable to look away, despite knowing what would happen if you were noticed.

You’ve always liked his hands. To you they were perfect, lovely to look at and even better to hold. The length of his fingers. The large size of his palm. The chapped skin on his knuckles. The warmth you felt whenever thw two of you held hands. They were a comforting familiarity, one part of him that remained unchanged yet had grown with him as he matured.

You understood why he still called you pipsqueak. With palms pressed against one another, yours still looked tiny compared to his.

While you're busy daydreaming, he plays with his pen a few more times, seemingly lost in thought, before he suddenly looks up and meets your eyes. When he notices you staring back, a little smirk creeps up his face, one you know will be followed by playful teasing. You quickly turn your head away.

You’ve been caught. And when you glance back at him and see the cocky look in his eye, you know that he’s not going to let it go until he’s teased you to hell and back.

“What’s up, pipsqueak?” he teases. “See somethin’ you like?”

You shake your head and bury your face back into your work, trying to ignore his quiet chuckles. 

“Don’t get all shy now,” he cocks his head to one side to better see your face, seeking out the flustered expression you’re trying so desperately to hide. “Fess up. Why were you starin’ at me?”

You stay silent, mumbling some half-assed excuse about not being able to focus. He laughs at your poor attempt to change the subject. A sudden warmth covers your hand, followed by soft strokes from calloused fingertips. When you turn your face away to hide the heat rising in your cheeks, he takes your hand and holds it gently.

“Come on, now. You can tell me anything. You know that, right?”

He rubs his thumb across your knuckles, slipping it in the spaces between each finger. You eventually succumb to his gentle touch, intertwining your fingers in his. You toy with the ring on his index finger, poke at the black beads on his bracelet, trace the patches of flushed red on his knuckles that contrasts the paleness of his skin. You stroke each one with your thumb and index finger, feeling the dry, cracked skin beneath your hands.

A good deal of time passes before you finally snap out of it. When you meet Caleb’s gaze once again, you find him grinning victoriously, as if he’s just won some unspoken contest you never agreed to enter.

“You…!” is all you manage to stutter out.

“Me?” he smiles innocently. “What did I do?”

“...”

He lifts your hand to his lips and gives it a small peck in an attempt to softly coax you out of your shell. It makes you melt from the inside out, but still, you refuse to admit defeat. He watches you carefully for a few more seconds, giving you one last chance to come clean. When you don’t, he gets up from his seat across the table and circles around to your side. Before you can get a word of protest out, he picks you up and tosses you over his shoulder, carrying you straight to the bedroom.

He plops you down on the soft comforter, trapping you in place with both hands at either side of your body. You try struggling, but he simply pins you down by straddling your waist, making it so that all you can do is wriggle slightly beneath him. He leers down at you with a wild, uncouth grin, like a wild beast about to consume its prey. 

The sweet, honey-eyed Caleb is gone. You realize a little too late that you are totally, completely, undeniably fucked.

“I won’t let you run away, from this” he growls, with one hand on your thigh and the other gripping your arm, holding you firmly in place.

“Caleb…!”

“I saw you staring at my hands,” he gives your thigh a squeeze, smirking when he hears your muted squeal. “What do you want me to do with them? Hmm?”

You put up a half-assed fight, pretending to hate how he’s cornered you despite your growing wetness. He quickly picks up on this after slipping his hand under your panties. His fingertips brush against the entrance of your hole, circling it for a moment before sliding towards your swollen bud. He smiles when you let out a small moan.

“Tell me what you want, babygirl.”

His voice is gentle and low, but his touch is firm. He rubs your clit in a slow, deliberate motion, with just enough pressure to build you up but not enough to push you over. You arch your back and press your mound further into his palm, begging him without words. 

“Say it,” he leans forward, mumbling in your ear. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

You start to whine, unable to handle the way he’s teasing you. He’s being extra mean tonight, barely flicking your throbbing bud and ignoring the attempts you’re making to guide his fingers into your hole. You know he won’t comply until you give him what he wants. Which is the last thing you want to do.

“Mmm… Caleb…” you whimper cutely, hoping to appeal to his sense of mercy. He chuckles darkly, his once friendly eyes filled with sadistic glee.

“What are the magic words?”

“Nghhh… Caleb, please!”

“Please, what? I’m pleasing you right now, aren’t I?” 

He sticks one finger into your pussy, just for a moment. When he pulls it out, he slaps your mound hard just to throw you off. The tiny, surprised shriek you let out is met with a mean-spirited laugh. 

“Okay!!” You cry out, unable to hold back any longer. “Finger me, please!”

“Yeah? You want my hands inside you?”

“Yes! I want them inside me, please…”

A wicked grin stretches across his face as he savors his victory. Satisfied with your pathetic pleas, he finally yanks down your panties and gives you what you want.

First one finger pushes itself into your hole. He pumps it in and out, making sure to caress that sweet, sweet spot inside of your walls. You’re singing like a bird within seconds. Another finger is added, easing in gently so as not to hurt you. He finds his rhythm and uses your moans as his guide, focusing on your G-spot to build you up to the biggest orgasm possible. He presses his thumb against your clit, massaging it in tandem with his rapid fingering, and soon you’re squirting all over his hand. He pulls out momentarily to lick his fingers, savoring the taste of you on his skin. His amethyst eyes lock onto yours, feasting on the desperation permeating your gaze. Distracted, you cry out when he shoves his fingers back inside.

This time, he’s a bit more forceful. That first little orgasm was just a warm up. When he gets like this, one is never enough, and he won’t stop until he’s brought you to tears. With his swift fingers curled inside you, he pumps in and out at such a fast pace that you begin to see stars. That one little spot inside of you becomes his target, a button he presses over and over again until you reach climax once again. The second time is much more intense than the first; you can feel the soaking wet bed sheets underneath you, along with the slick fluid covering his fingers. 

Still not enough. He wants more.

He fingerfucks you again and again, forcing out countless orgasms that shoot through your body like hot lightning bolts. Your voice starts to feel hoarse from the screaming and shrieking, sounds that only seem to spur him on. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve cum, having given up on keeping track long after the third or fourth. And Caleb shows no signs of stopping. 

He whispers his affection into your ear while he plays with your pussy, telling you how beautiful you look as he makes a mess of you and how lovely your voice sounds when you make those cute noises for him. He fills your head with sweet praise, his words worshipping your form and beauty, weakening you with every syllable.

“That’s it,” he coos while coaxing the last orgasm from you. “That look on your face… that’s mine. Only make that face for me.”

You mumble something in agreement, barely able to form coherent words as you cum one more time. Inexplicable pleasure ripples through your body, setting ablaze every last nerve ending from head to toe. You go limp, covered in sweat and completely worn out from his torment. Caleb pulls out his fingers, licks your fluids off his skin one last time before he switches gears. He grabs a towel from the dresser and gently pats your face dry, pushing some of your tangled hair away from your face. That crazed look in his eyes is now gone, and once again he admires you with utmost affection. He asks if you need water, if you want a warm blanket, if you wanted to be held or left alone. You say yes to the first two, and cling to him when he asks the third. 

After you finish drinking a full glass of water, he wraps you up in the warmest blanket on the bed and cuddles up next to you, playing with your hair in a soothing, gentle manner.

“Soooo,” the teasing tone returns to his voice. “When were you gonna tell me you had a thing for my hands?"

You pout at him, feigning annoyance, but he just laughs and hugs you tighter. 

“I’m definitely going to use this against you, by the way.”

You don’t have the energy to argue back. Exhausted, your heavy eyelids shutter closed, and soon you drift into a peaceful slumber, which Caleb’s arms still wrapped snugly around you.

[rafesbimbo]

Hi my love, could you do a gynecologist!rafe but with sex toys??

warnings: pt.2, age gap, medical kink, doctor/patient power dynamic, vibrator use, unprotected vaginal sex, overstimulation, orgasm control, creampie, praise + degradation, explicit language, breeding talk, not proofread!

pairing: gynecologist!rafe x reader

you don’t even ask why the room looks different today.

there’s no paper sheet this time, no stirrups either. just a soft leather bench—low, cushioned—and a warm towel already laid out for you to sit on.

rafe closes the door gently behind you, locks it, then turns.

“i’m trying a new setup,” he says casually, like it’s nothing. “just you and me. and a few pieces of equipment.”

you blink at the black cloth he’s unfolding. laid out inside: a sleek silver bullet vibrator, a thicker pink wand, a long toy that curves upward, and… a pair of wireless earbuds?

your mouth opens. “what’s that for?”

he smiles, calm and professional. “this is a focused stimulation protocol. we’ll be testing internal and external response patterns. i’ll be tracking your body’s reactions—tightness, temperature, muscle tension, vocalization. if you follow direction, we’ll finish with penetration.”

you swallow hard. “oh—okay.."

he helps you out of your clothes slowly. he deliberately folds them, setting them aside.

he has you lie back, legs open, hands relaxed at your sides.

“deep breath for me,” he says, voice low as he clicks the wand on. “and keep your eyes on me.”

the wand touches your clit and your hips jerk. it’s too much—you’re already sensitive from just being there, bare and watched under his gaze.

he hums in approval.

“good. you're very responsive. now don’t move.”

he keeps it there. doesn’t push, doesn’t thrust, just holds it steady while his other hand gently strokes your inner thigh. you’re panting, thighs already shaking. when you moan, he shushes you softly.

“quiet. you’ll distract the data.”

your orgasm hits like a wave—slow, rolling, overwhelming. you cry out without meaning to, clutching at the edge of the bench.

“mhm,” he says, making a little note in the tablet beside him. “that’s one.”

you barely recover before he’s sliding the curved toy inside you—warm, lube-slicked, angled perfectly—and turning that on too.

you feel it immediately, deep pressure that makes your toes curl.

rafe watches your face closely. “g-spot stimulation,” he murmurs. “let’s see if it triggers another release.”

you whimper, eyes glassy. “dr. cameron—feels so full—”

“you’re doing so well,” he murmurs, pressing the wand back to your clit at the same time. “just one more.”

you scream into your arm as you come again, harder this time.

wetter.

you don’t even realize you’re crying until his thumb wipes your cheek.

“beautiful baby. perfect reactions.” his voice is quieter now. “you’re ready.”

he sets the toys aside, wipes you down with something warm and gentle. then unbuckles his belt.

his cock is thick, flushed, leaking at the tip as he strokes it once.

“last part of the exam,” he says, voice rough.

“i need to feel you around me. just to confirm everything’s working the way it should.”

you nod, dazed. “yes… please. i want it.”

he sinks into you slow—slow enough to feel every inch.

you moan, eyes rolling back.

“fuck,” he groans. “tightest little cunt i’ve ever felt. all that prep and you’re still squeezing me."

you are, though. you’re so ready it hurts.

he moves with purpose. slow and deep, hitting the same spot the toy had touched. your whole body is electric—every nerve edge-sharp.

“you gonna come on my cock now?” he pants.

“gonna let me fuck another one out of you?”

you nod desperately, nails digging into the bench. “yes—yes, i’m coming—!”

he doesn’t stop. he fucks you through it, keeps going until your moans fall apart and your thighs shake uncontrollably.

“gonna fill this little pussy up,” he grits, breath stuttering. “need to see how your body reacts to cum. medical necessity, baby.”

you cry out as he finishes inside you, hips pressed deep, holding you full.

he stays there for a long moment. breathing with you. keeping you close.

“we’ll run a follow-up in seventy-two hours. i’ll want another sample then.”

[heavenlybodies333]

Study Buddy -S.R

Spencer Reid x Hotch’s daughter!reader

You’re going to fail. Again.

You already feel the burn of it in your chest when you drop your pencil for the third time and let your head hit the kitchen table with a dull thud.

“Don’t cry,” Spencer says, sitting across from you with a soft smile. “That’s statistically proven to ruin your retention rate.”

You groan. “I hate statistics.”

“That’s not a healthy mindset.”

“I’ve taken this class three times.”

“And you’ll pass it this time.”

“Why? Because you’re here?”

He raises a brow. “Yes?” You glare at him. He laughs. But he softens almost immediately, reaching out to tap the top of your notebook gently. “Look. You’re not dumb. You just panic when numbers stop behaving like words. You need muscle memory. You need to trust the patterns.”

“You sound like you’re flirting with a math problem.”

He grins, almost proud. “I am.” You groan again, but this time you manage a smile too.

You hate that your dad asked him to help. You hate that it’s the one favor you didn’t have the energy to say no to. Because now Spencer’s here every night, giving you soft praise and patient corrections—looking at you like you’re not a walking disappointment.

Spencer slides your pencil back toward you with two fingers. It bumps your wrist. You stare at it like it’s a weapon. “You’re going to pass,” he says again, voice calm. Certain. “You just need to get out of your own way.”

“You sound like my therapist.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Does your therapist also make you flash cards and bring you pastries from that overpriced bakery on 9th?”

You glance at the croissant on the corner of your notebook and shrug. “Not lately.”

He smiles again—God, that gentle, knowing smile—and says, “Try this one. And this time, don’t second guess yourself.”

You look down at the formula he’s written out. You walk through it slowly, out loud like he taught you. Your hands shake less now. You write the answer down and look up, heart thudding. He doesn’t check the paper. He just looks at you and nods. “Correct.”

You light up instantly, so relieved you almost cry again—but for a different reason. “That’s the first one I got right tonight,” you breathe.

“Yep. And it won’t be the last.”

Your chest aches in a different way now. Because he looks so proud. Like he always does. Like he’s the only person who sees you trying and not failing. You want to kiss him. You really, really want to kiss him. “Spencer,” you say, soft. His name lands a little too warm between you. He meets your gaze, cautious now. His voice lowers. “Yeah?”

Your fingers curl around the pencil. “Can we take a break?”

He nods, already reaching for your water. “Yeah, okay. Ten minutes?”You shake your head. “No.” You push your notebook aside. “I mean a real break.”

He freezes, catching the edge in your tone. You stand up slowly and walk around the table. Your fingers trail along the surface until you’re beside him. You sink to your knees between his legs. He looks down at you, breath caught. “Are you—”

“You said I need muscle memory,” you whisper, hands sliding up his thighs. “Let’s build some.”

His eyes flutter shut. “Your dad asked me to help you study.”

“And you are,” you murmur. “You’re very good with your fingers.”

He exhales sharply, head tilting back as your fingers find the button of his pants. “This is wildly irresponsible.”

You blink slowly. “This is what I want.” That’s all it takes. His mouth is on yours before the words have fully settled in the air. He kisses you hard and low, and when you gasp, he swallows the sound, tugging you up off the floor and into his lap like he can’t bear to be apart for a second longer.

Your thighs straddle his. His hands slide up beneath your shirt—warm palms against warmer skin, lifting and learning and memorizing you in real time, breath hitching while he kisses down your neck and slowly works his hand beneath the waistband of your leggings.

“What’s the formula for standard deviation?”

You gasp as his fingers drag through your wetness, teasing. “I—fuck—you’re evil.”

“Answer correctly and I’ll make you come,” he says, kissing the corner of your mouth. You whimper.

“You said you needed incentives.”

You try to focus. Try to pull the answer from the recesses of your brain while his fingers slide in, curling just right. He moans softly against your ear. “Say it.”

“Square root of the variance,” you pant. “It’s the square root of the variance.”

“Smart girl.” he breathes, kissing the inside of your thigh again like a reward.

“Now,” he whispers, fingers slipping deeper, “what are the 3 formulas for non-Linear regression?”

You whimper. He plays with your slick, watching your face melt. “Come on,” he murmurs. “You know this. Exponential, logarithmic and?”

You moan instead of answering, and he grins, mouth at your jaw. “Wrong. Try again.”

You half-laugh, half-plead. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m your tutor,” he says, punctuating it with another slow thrust of his fingers. “And this is positive reinforcement.” Your breathing picks up, but before either of you can take it any further, you hear a noise in the hallway.

You freeze. Spencer pulls back, eyes wide, a slight panic flashing across his face. You both scramble to straighten up, pretending like you weren’t just about to cross a line you never intended to—but both of you wanted to.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath.

Spencer’s voice is low. “We should… talk about this.”

You nod, quickly fixing your hair. “Yeah. Later.”

But the truth is, both of you know it’s only a matter of time before you both cross that line. And when you do, it’s going to be anything but casual.

a/n: Spencer Reid x hotch’s daughter is my Roman Empire

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

[ateezscupid]

─── FEB FILTH FEST: Call Out My Name - DOM & SUB ♡

SUMMARY / You woke up needy, and Hongjoong helped.

warnings ✩ PORN LINK, SMUT, DOM/SUB dynamics, soft!dom hongjoong, fem!reader, sub!reader, vanilla sex, daddy kink, praise, not really ddlg (the lg part weirds me out) so it's kind of just dd, oral (f), unprotected sex

word count ✩ 1,95k

tags ✩@desirehorizon @tangerineastronaut @felixs-voice-makes-me-wanna @starillusion13 @mingitheskzstan @bbdeongi @dawn-iscozy @xh01bri @mallielovssyou @clxssy1997 @soreberry

ATEEZ MASTERLIST / REQUEST / FEB FILTH FEST

NOTE !! None!

"Harder…" you mumble in your sleep, your fists clenched tightly under the blankets. The room is silent except for the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall. It's 8 AM, but the curtains are drawn, keeping the light at bay.

You whimper, your body jerking itself awake. You looked around and scoot closer to Hongjoong, feeling embarrassed for disturbing him. The digital clock beside the bed glows 8:03 AM, the red digits pulsing steadily like a silent alarm. The room is small, cluttered with the remnants of last night's study session: textbooks, empty cups of coffee, and crumpled papers litter the floor and desk. The air is stale, a testament to the lack of open windows and fresh air.

"Joong…" you shook him a bit. His eyes snapped open, and he sat up with a start, scanning the room with a wild gaze. Recognizing the safety of his own space, he relaxed slightly.

"You okay?" he whispered, his voice thick with sleep.

You shook your head, pushing the covers off of you and crawling on top of you. "No," you tugged at your shirt. "I need you…"

Hongjoong's eyes softened, and he reached out to pull you closer into his arms. "Yeah? How bad?" His question was gentle, his voice a soothing balm to your ringing head.

"Really bad," you tugged at your shirt. "P-Please. Just….u-use your mouth or something." You felt your cheeks flushing hot with embarrassment. You had never been this vulnerable with him before.

"Aw, is my baby needy?" he teased, trying to ease the tension, but the tremble in your voice didn't go unnoticed. He could feel the urgency in your touch. With a sigh, he rolled onto his back, giving you access to his bare chest. "Do whatever you need to feel better," he said, his eyes searching yours for reassurance that this was really what you wanted.

"N-No, I need-" you tear your shirt off. "I need this." The fabric was sticky with cold sweat and it was suffocating you.

"Yeah?" he runs his fingers up and down your waist. "Okay… lay down."

You nod and plop onto the other side of the bed, laying on your back, the cool air from the air conditioner a welcome relief on your bare skin. Hongjoong sits up, the sheets falling away from his chest as he hovers over you, spreading your legs.

He pulled your pajama shorts down to your thighs, exposing your most intimate parts to the coolness of the room. His warm breath tickled your skin as he leaned in, placing a gentle kiss on the inside of your left thigh. You felt a shiver run up your spine, the anticipation building like a crescendo in a symphony. The touch was light and feathery, his tongue tracing patterns that made you squirm with pleasure. He moved closer, his nose brushing against your core, and you could feel the heat from his breath.

"Joongie~," you mewl as his mouth finds the right spot, his tongue swirling and pressing down, sending waves of pleasure through your body. His eyes meet yours, filled with hunger and affection as he continues to explore your wetness with tender strokes. Your back arches off the bed, pushing your pelvis closer to his face, desperately seeking more.

"R-Right there, right there-" you run your fingers through his hair, guiding him as his mouth works its magic. Each flick of his tongue sends shockwaves of pleasure through your core, making it impossible to hold back the moans that spill from your lips. He hums in response, the vibrations adding another layer to the sensations.

You could feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge, your breaths coming out in ragged gasps. Hongjoong's tongue moved in a steady rhythm, lapping up your wetness as if he was afraid he might miss a single drop. His eyes never left yours, and you could see the determination in them to bring you to climax.

"R-Right TH--FUCK!" You cry out. "D-Don't stop!"

Hongjoong smirks, the vibration from his voice adding to the pleasure. He knows exactly what you need. He flattens his tongue and presses it firmly against your clit, the pressure and speed increasing as you get closer to the peak of pleasure. Your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging gently as your body tenses. You're panting now, each breath shallower than the last.

"H-Hongjoong!" you moan, your eyes rolling back as the pleasure intensifies. Your legs quiver and tighten around his neck as you feel yourself approaching the brink of your climax. His tongue never falters, lapping at you with an urgency that matches the racing of your heart. You can feel your muscles tense up, the heat within you building like a volcano ready to erupt.

With a final, desperate push, you come apart in his mouth, your body spasming as the orgasm washes over you. The room fades away, leaving only the sensation of his tongue and the sound of your own cries of pleasure. He continues to lick and suck gently, riding out the waves with you until they subside, leaving you trembling and breathless on the bed.

When you open your eyes again, the room is a hazy blur of shadows and early morning light. Hongjoong wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, a smug look on his face. "Feel better?" he asks, his voice low and smoky.

"Mhm…" you mumble, your voice a mix of satisfaction and exhaustion as your body relaxes into the mattress. You can feel your heart rate slowly returning to normal, the throb between your legs echoing the beat of your pulse.

Hongjoong pushed his boxers down a bit, just enough for his cock to come out. It was hard, standing tall and demanding attention. You could see the precum glistening at the tip, a testament to his own need. "Now, let me take care of this," he murmured, his eyes locked on yours as he positioned himself between your legs.

He gently pushed your legs further apart, and you felt the tip of his erection brush against your sensitive skin. Your breath hitched, the remnants of your orgasm still pulsing through your body as you anticipate his next move. With a firm grip on his shaft, he guided it to your entrance, pausing for a moment to appreciate the view. Your eyes locked onto his, filled with a mix of lust and love as he pushed inside you.

"You feel that?" he whispered, his voice a seductive purr as he began to rock his hips, his cock inching deeper into you. The sensation was exquisite, filling you up completely, stretching you around him. You nodded, unable to form coherent words, your eyes fluttering shut as he claimed you with a gentle but firm strokes.

"Spread your legs a little more for me, pretty girl," Hongjoong instructed, his voice a seductive whisper that sent shivers down your spine. You obeyed, opening yourself up to him completely, and he took full advantage of the invitation. With a gentle push, he sank deeper, his cock sliding in and out of you with a slick sound that filled the room.

His movements grew more deliberate, his hips rolling into yours in a slow, steady rhythm that had you squirming with pleasure. The friction was perfect, his length hitting all the right spots and sending sparks of pleasure through your body with every thrust. You could feel yourself clenching around him, trying to hold onto the feeling of fullness as he began to quicken his pace.

"Joong…" you moaned, your hips rising to meet his, eager for more. His eyes darkened with desire as he watched your reaction, his own need growing with every whimper and gasp you made. He leaned down to kiss you, his tongue delving into your mouth as his cock drove deeper into you. The kiss was as passionate as it was possessive, a silent declaration of his love and desire.

"God, you feel so fucking good," he groaned against your lips, his teeth grazing your bottom lip before he bit down gently, claiming it as his own. Your hands gripped the bedsheets, your nails digging into the fabric as you tried to hold on to the sensations threatening to overwhelm you.

His rhythm grew faster, his cock pistoning in and out of you with increasing urgency. Each thrust sent a shock of pleasure through your core, and your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper. You could feel the tension building again, your body begging for release.

"F-Faster," you whimper, your voice barely above a whisper. The words seemed to spur Hongjoong on, his hips snapping against yours with a newfound fervor. The slap of skin on skin filled the air, punctuating the quietude of the early morning. His eyes never left yours, the intensity of his gaze sending shivers down your spine.

"Oh my god," you shudder, nails digging into the pillow under your head. You pull it over your face and close your thighs, trying to muffle the sounds escaping you. His chuckle is muffled by your skin, sending vibrations through your core.

"It's okay, baby. I got you," he grabs your hips, not stopping his pace, his movements becoming more demanding. You can feel his muscles tensing, his breaths growing more ragged. The bed creaks under the weight of your passionate dance, the sound only adding to the intensity of the moment.

"Cmon, give it to me baby," he moans, your voice muffled by the pillow as your body arches off the bed. The pleasure is unbearable, a sweet agony that has you writhing under him. He's so deep inside you, filling you up in a way that nothing else ever could. Your toes curl, your nails dig into the mattress as he hits that spot inside you that makes you see stars.

"D-Daddy, I-I'm-"

"Let it out, baby," he growled, his own need clear in his voice. He grabbed your thighs, pushing them apart wider as he drove into you with a ferocity that sent you spiraling over the edge. Your orgasm crashed over you like a wave, your body trembling and shaking with the force of it. Your muffled screams filled the room, the pillow doing little to hide the raw passion of the moment.

As the intensity of your climax began to subside, you felt him tense above you, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His eyes searched yours, looking for permission, for the green light to let go of his own control. You nodded, your body still pulsing with pleasure.

"Good girl," he murmured before pulling the pillow from your face and capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss. His tongue invaded yours, mimicking the rhythm of his hips as he thrust into you one last time, his cock swelling and spilling his hot seed deep within your quivering walls. The feeling of him filling you up was almost too much to handle, but it only served to heighten the aftershocks of your orgasm.

When he finally pulled out, you felt empty and exposed, your body still sensitive from the intense pleasure. He leaned over to kiss your neck, his teeth grazing the tender flesh as his hand found your clit, sending a jolt through your system. "You're so beautiful when you come," he whispered, his voice hoarse with his own release.

"T-Thank you…" you managed to murmur, your voice still shaky from the intensity of your orgasm. Hongjoong pulled out of you gently, his cock leaving you with a feeling of emptiness that was almost painful. He collapsed beside you, his chest heaving with exertion, his body glistening with a sheen of sweat.

"Let's go clean you up."

[seokgyuu]

The Sweetest Thing

All your life you’ve been your sisters’ punching bag. Never good enough. Never fully accepted. When your mother makes one of them choose you as her maid of honor you reluctantly agree. Semi-vacationing in Tuscany with your ‘beloved’ family, you meet two handsome strangers one night and let them do whatever they want with you. Too bad you didn’t ask for their names first.

Pairing: Heeseung x F!Reader x Sunghoon 

Genre: Strangers to ???, Porn with Plot

Warnings: CHEATING!!! reader is hooking up with her sisters’ fiancés, sisters are horrible and suck, mentions of past verbal abuse, reader is somewhat a pervert (she defo is), heeseung & sunghoon definitely are perverts, heeseung & sunghoon are mean, they have nothing good to say about their fiancés, alcohol consumption, adult content MDNI! smut warnings under the cut

Word Count: 9.2k 

a/n: and here it is!! my little box of filth. i wanna give a shoutout to @c-oupsie for hyping this up and telling me to keep going, ilysm!! and also @chwepen for beta-reading!! sending you smooches. <3 now everyone, please enjoy this sausage fest.

Taglist: @skzenhalove, @haelahoops, @deobitifull, @shiningnono, @jakeswifez, @slut4hee, @gyuhanniescarat, @branchrkive, @doublebunv, @capri-cuntz, @jaehyuniewifeu, @whateverhoon, @c-oupsie

Smut Warnings: threesome, dom!heeseung, dom!sunghoon, sub!reader, lowkey public sex, p in v sex, throat fucking, unprotected sex (be smarter than this pls!!!), degradation (usage of the words: whore, slut, filthy, stupid (only indirectly?)), praise, tit job, mc is described to have big tits, sunghoon can carry mc, manhandling, cum eating, cum play, shower sex, consensual sex taping, pls tell me if i missed any!!

Pastel colors are slowly but surely becoming your greatest enemy. You can’t count how many different patterns and matches you have seen on this day alone - and the preparations for this wedding have been going on for months. 

In all honesty, you didn’t even want to be here. As pretty as Tuscany is - this is the last place you want to be at right now. You would rather sit at home and play a game, would rather sleep in and not have your mother be all over you, pressuring you to do better in a job you never wanted in the first place. 

It is your sisters’ wedding. Yes, sisters’. They are both getting married at the same time, same place. Just the grooms are two different men (even though you wouldn’t put it past them to share a man for convenience). Men, you haven’t even met yet. Men, that your mother and sisters kept on swooning over. Look, it is no surprise your sisters got lucky in that department; They are extremely conventionally attractive and they love doing fun things like going out and spending money on things they really didn’t need. 

You grew up with them being six and seven years older than you, making them already inseparable when your mum decided to push another one out. Getting along with them sure as hell wasn’t an easy task, in fact it still isn't. It’s pretty clear you only got the job as Linda’s maid of honor because your mother threatened her to do so. There was probably a very heated rock, paper, scissors round going on between your sister dearests to decide who got to have you. 

And now you are here. In warm, beautiful Italy with yet another color scheme to look over and authorize. You surely didn’t sign up to suddenly become the wedding planner as well. 

“Yeah, that’s perfect, thanks,” you say to one of the florists who are just now setting up the arrangements for the rehearsal dinner happening tonight. 

It’s hot, so hot that you have to take shelter every ten minutes because of the fear of burning up. You don’t usually like to spend this much time outside - let alone in the scorching hot sun, so this is rather the change for you. 

When the florists leave to get another load of flowers, you decide to take this as the next round of shade and air conditioning inside the resort your sisters have chosen for their special day. 

It’s insanely beautiful. High ceilings, incredible murals on the wall, a big round table in the center of the entrance hall with a crystal vase on top, filled with flowers that would make the florist outside turn green in envy. 

The air inside immediately cools you down and you take the moment to sit down in one of the arm chairs in the lobby to calm yourself. Only a week. That’s all you need to survive. A week with your sisters and their fiancés, soon to be husbands and your and their families. Guests would arrive the night before the wedding and as soon as the reception was over - you could finally leave and hopefully not see your sisters for another year or so. 

“Ah, there you are.” You close your eyes for a second. 

“Shouldn’t you be outside?” Linda and Liza are standing in the lobby in their designer sun dresses, very obviously judging you for not being where they want you to be. 

“I just came in to escape the heat for a second, that’s all.” You explain as you open your eyes again. The two certainly don’t look happy. In fact, they roll their eyes and flick their perfect hair over their shoulders.

“Okay, well, time is up. If this wedding doesn’t go according to plan, it’s on you.”

“You don’t want us telling mum you don’t care about your big sisters, do you? She’d be so disappointed knowing you aren’t doing your job right.” 

Your fists almost immediately ball into fists. How many times have they been like this over the three days you’ve already been here? You honestly lost count. One week. Just one week.

“I was just about to go back outside, don’t worry.” 

Anger well hidden away, you stand up and present them with a fake smile, moving to go back outside. 

“Oh and, Y/N?” Linda’s voice feels like a ray of ice hitting you, “try to look a little bit more presentable when talking to our staff. We don’t want them to think we can’t actually afford being here.” 

Your sisters giggle happily all while you bite your tongue once more. One week. Stay calm. One. Week. 

Something about the Italian sky seems different. Maybe it’s because you’re not close to a big city, but the stars shine brighter than you’ve ever seen them. It feels like a movie; the stars and moon so visible with no cloud in sight, the small street of Arezzo you’re currently sitting in - a small restaurant with a small menu but a nice older man that speaks decent English. A glass of wine standing on the small table beside you and the first bit of peace you’ve felt in days. 

It’s when you take your next sip of wine you see them. 

Two men straight out of a magazine walking towards one of the free tables next to yours and sitting down. There is nothing you can do but stare. Both of them have dark hair, one of them a bit shorter than the other. They are dressed elegantly, designer shoes and pants, blazers hanging over their chairs. Even if you wanted to - you could not possibly say which one was more attractive. 

What a nice way to end a horrible day, you think. Smiling, you finish your glass and immediately order the next, not entirely used to drinking so much, but not caring since you are miles away from home and no one here knows you anyway. The waiter nods and then proceeds to go over to the newcomers. The one with the slightly lighter hair and the mole on his nose orders in perfect Italian, with just enough of an accent for you to know they aren’t from here. Your choice of table appears to be perfect for watching them, listening to them converse in a language you understand. 

And it all stays innocent like this - they talk about their flight and about friends - until suddenly the conversation sways.

“I honestly- fuck, I can’t believe we’re actually doing this, you know?” The one with shorter hair says and his friend sighs, taking his wine glass and finishing it in one go. Impressive. There was at least half left in yours. 

“I don’t know what to tell you. We committed and now we’re fucked.”

“Just that we aren’t getting actually fucked.”

They look at each other before they laugh, shaking their heads. Meanwhile, your ears perk up. 

“Fuck, I really don’t know the last time she let me hit it, Hoon. I think I’m going crazy.”

“Yeah, same here. Like, yeah, we fucked once the day before her flight. But literally only missionary and she didn’t suck me off.”

“Again? Dude, is she ever even putting her mouth on it?” 

“Nope. Ever since we got engaged she’s like this fucking prude. Is yours like that too?”

“Yeah. I got her flowers and her favorite chocolates and she still wouldn’t even jack me off, like fuck, if it’s gonna be like this forever I can just go cut my dick off.”

Jesus. These two seem to be in very happy relationships. Makes you almost feel better to not be in one. Even if your mother would beg to differ. She’s been desperate for you to find a match for ages. For whatever reason, really, considering her two golden girls were about to get married to rich and handsome heirs. 

“Just one good blowjob, man, that’s all I want, really. I miss getting some good fucking head.”

The way short hair looks at mole - with so much understanding and pity, you can’t help but chuckle. Chuckle loud enough for them to take notice. 

Their gazes burn on your face before you even see them. But when you do your smile dies and instead makes room for horror. They heard you laugh at them. Even worse, they know you’ve been listening. Shit. 

Thankfully, you are three glasses of delicious white wine in and the fourth one is almost empty. Which means you aren’t the sweet little wallflower you’d usually be. Scary, how alcohol can change people.

“Oh, I am sorry. I shouldn’t have eavesdropped.” You apologize, placing your hand over your heart. 

“Agreed.” Short hair says, his eyebrow raised. Now, with both of their eyes on you, it seems like they are even more attractive. Perfect faces with pretty eyes and soft looking hair. Handsome men in unhappy relationships that fail to give them what they need. It’s almost comical how the switch in your head turns over, how the persona you normally never let anyone see until you’re in a secluded space comes out and gives you the courage to speak your next words.

“I just couldn’t believe my ears,” you let your finger glide over the rim of your glass, eyes on the two men with your tongue slipping out to lick over your bottom lip, “how anyone would be opposed to having sex with you.” 

Oh.

Sunghoon and Heeseung’s ears perk up just like yours did earlier. Eyes widen slightly as they understand the innuendo in your words. 

They think about the same thing - the last time they took a girl together. Probably during senior year in college. Back then, they used to do that regularly. Having almost the identical type in women. Instead of having to let her choose, she’d get them both. 

But it’s been years since then. They are in committed relationships now, about to get married. And still - neither of them can deny that you fall right into their usual prey, or well, the prey they’d chosen back in college before their parents had picked out their wives for them. 

It’s the way you look at them, the way your eyes say so much more than your words. It is also the way both of them feel like they are 22 again with nothing but getting their dick wet on their minds. One thing about Heeseung and Sunghoon - they always worked perfectly in a pair. Back in college and now, too. They can almost read each other’s minds at this point, only a short exchange of looks needed to know neither of them gave a single fuck about anything right now.

“Want to sit down with us?” Sunghoon asks and points at the free chair opposite them. You smile. 

“It’d be my pleasure.”

The very small bathroom stall is crowded with three people, but you make it work. 

Sunghoon is holding your head in place, his cock buried so deep down your throat he’s seeing red. You’re perfect. The sweetest thing on the outside, and a filthy little whore behind closed doors. You literally begged him to thrust down your throat without paying you any mind. You wanted, no, needed him to use your throat, to act like you were nothing but his little fuck toy. And, shit, he was more than happy to do exactly as you asked. 

His hips are moving in rapid speed, his groans music to your ears. Drool is running down your chin and dripping onto your knees. He is not holding back, he is just doing whatever he wants with you and you are throbbing. Throbbing around Heeseungs fat cock that is fucking into you with no care in the world. 

Heeseung is sitting on the toilet seat, his hands on your hips, cock rapidly leaving and entering your sopping hole. His head is literally spinning at how fucking good you feel. He bets you’d also sound fucking perfect if only Sunghoon’s cock wasn’t in the way. He can tell by the way you are already squeaking around his best friend’s cock, how your pussy is continuing to spasm around him after you already came on his cock once before.

“Take it, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Heeseung breathes out, hips speeding up and your eyes roll back into your head, your body seemingly on fire. You can’t remember the last time you’ve been fucked this good by a strange or, in this case, two strangers. All you know is that you’ve already cum before and that Heeseung surely will get you over the edge another time. He’s thick and veiny and he fills you up so good there was nothing you could do but cum after only a minute of him fucking you like an animal. 

“Shit, look at you,” Sunghoon groans, one hand now wrapping around your throat, his eyes glossy as he stares down at you, still fucking down your abused throat, “you’re a perfect little fucktoy, aren’t you? Enjoy being used by two cocks, huh? Fuuuuuck, you’re gonna make me cum, fucking slut.”

Heesung feels you squeeze around his cock, feels the way you suck him in even deeper. 

“This filthy little thing likes when you talk to her like that, Hoonie. Squeezing my cock so fucking hard.” His head tips back and his mouth drops open as he focuses on his pleasure, already fantasizing about stuffing you with his cum. He moves his hands up, squeezing your perfect tits over your dress and you moan around Sunghoon’s cock, tears streaming down your face. Every touch, every thrust, every word is getting you closer to another high. With Heeseung’s hands on your breasts you can freely move your hips now, bouncing up and down on Heeseung’s cock, matching his thrusts perfectly. 

There is no chance Sunghoon will last much longer. Your mouth, your throat - he’s scared he already developed an addiction to them. Maybe it’s the long time he hasn’t experienced anything like this, but right now it feels like no throat has ever taken his cock so well before.

“Where should I cum, huh? Down your throat? On your pretty face?” Sunghoon groans, his cock twitching over and over before he finally pulls out, jerking himself off so you can answer the question. 

“Cum on her tits, look at those fucking perfect tits, bro.” Heeseung decides to answer for you and Sunghoon smirks as he watches Heeseung get your tits out of your dress for which you thankfully don’t need a bra. Your perfect tits bounce free now and Sunghoon nods, eyes glued to them and how they bounce now that Heeseung continues to fuck into you, your back now arched against him. 

“Fucking hell, such fat fucking tits,” Sunghoon is in a trance, mouth dropped as he jerks himself off with the help off your spit and his precum. 

“Tell him to cum on your tits, slut, come on, tell him how much you want his cum all over you,” Heeseung whispers into your ear, his cock still continuing to ram into your g-spot like it has never done anything else. 

You moan loudly, eyes flying open and Sunghoon almost doesn’t need you to say anything - your fucked out face could well be enough to make him cum. 

“Pl-please g-give me your cum, want it a-all over my tits, pl-please, need it so bad!” You cry out and Sunghoon feels his orgasm hit him, thick spurts of cum landing on your tits and neck, some even on your lips that you hungrily lick off of them, only making another spurt come out of Sunghoons cock. 

“Holy fucking hell, shit,” he groans, falling against the stall door, his chest heaving. 

Heeseung, meanwhile, grabs your hair and tilts your head back as he does his final thrusts, filling your pussy with his seed, white making you feel warm inside and tipping you over the edge, milking him for all he has with your own orgasm, high pitched moans escaping you as your toes curl and your hands grip the material of your dress. 

Once he’s done fucking both of you through your orgasms, Heeseung helps you up, his cock slipping out of you. You’re a little shaky on your legs and Sunghoon catches you before you can fall, his eyes immediately going to your tits that are covered in his cum. He licks his lips. 

“If we had more time I’d take you to my room and fuck those tits until they are covered in even more layers of my cum, baby.” He mumbles, one finger scooping up some of his release and shoving his finger in your mouth, watching in awe how you eagerly suck it clean. 

“Holy fuck, you’re perfect.” Heeseung has put his cock back into his pants, considering to get it back out just to have you lick it clean of your and his juices. He decides against it mainly because he knows there isn’t much time. He and Sunghoon have to get back to the hotel, their fiancés probably awaiting their return. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up.” Sunghoon says, but you shake your head, only putting your tits back into your dress and stepping back into your panties.

“I wanna keep it for a bit, keepsake if you will.” 

Both men are silent. Where the fuck have you been before they got engaged to the sisters from hell? For a second they contemplate just keeping you. Using you for when their soon to be wives were being difficult again. 

Obviously, though, this was just a fantasy not meant for reality. 

Perhaps it’s well deserved. Having the worst morning all week, the day right after you fucked two strangers in a restaurant’s bathroom. Two engaged strangers. It’s not a surprise that you didn’t care about the blurred lines of their… relationship status, considering you’ve had quite a few hook-ups with married men who were out of town and needed someone to fulfill their needs while their perfect trophy wives were sitting at home waiting for them. Not the proudest thing you’ve done, but whatever gets you cumming. 

Today, your sisters seem to have it out for you especially. You blame it on the nerves, after all their perfect fiancées are about to arrive today. Everything needs to be in order, their dresses, their hair, their nails, everything. 

You’ve become their personal stylist, nail artist and hairdresser all for nothing more than a chuckle at the way your shirt rises up and shows your stomach that they love to comment on. It’s a win-win situation, for sure. 

“Can’t you see you’ve made a mistake!” Liza screeches, pointing at her (to your eyes) perfectly drawn eyeliner. You blink at her and take a deep breath. Six days. 

“I apologize.” Quickly, you move to fix your error, but your sister slaps your hand away and rips the pencil out of your hand.

“No, thank you. I’ll do it myself, like everything else, you useless piece of trash.”

Six. Days. 

Since there is no point in responding to her, you only nod and turn to Linda who is currently checking herself out in her hand mirror. 

“Anything I can do for you?” You ask, feeling ridiculous. One could think you’re their personal assistant and not their younger sister. 

“Just get out, Heeseung and Sunghoon are about to arrive and I don’t want them seeing you first thing, imagine their shock.”

Heeseung and Sunghoon. 

Something rings in your head. Had they ever mentioned their fiancés names before? Probably - why else would they be so familiar to you. 

“Alright. I’ll be by the pool then.” 

Neither of them deems it appropriate to even slightly acknowledge you before you leave the room.

A huge sigh leaves you the second you step out of Linda’s room and instead head for your own. Just a quick change into a bikini and down you go. A few hours in the sun, maybe a couple laps in the pool. Another bit of peace while your sisters are occupied. Sounds like the perfect morning to you. 

Just that, when you reach your room and change into said bikini - you notice a bruise right above your hip. Your eyes widen at the sight, moving closer to the mirror to inspect it. There is no other possible reason but what happened last night. 

“Shit,” you mumble, looking around your clothes for this one light pink scarf you could easily wrap around your hips as some sort of cover. The last thing you want is for your sisters to see this and ask questions. Bad enough you had the face and figure you had - imagine their outrage if one of these was even further damaged! 

For as long as you can remember your sisters had been your biggest haters. No matter what you did, if you changed your hair or your wardrobe, they’d be mean to you about it. To them, you were nothing but an unwanted addition to a family they had deemed already perfect. Neither of them had ever wanted another sibling, especially not six and seven years apart from them. Suddenly, you were the center of attention, had your mother cradling you and loving you and not giving them the attention they were sure they deserved. 

Even now, at their grown ages, about to get married, they couldn’t seem to get over it. 

From an outsider's perspective their lives were fairly more successful than yours. With great jobs in high positions, a perfect routine that included gym visits four times a week, and of course their perfect soon-to-be husbands. If it weren’t so frustrating it might have been funny how they literally kept them from you - kept everything from you. Blocked you from their socials to not be associated with you, living in their own little bubble, acting like you didn’t exist. 

So, expect your surprise when Linda called and asked you to be her maid of honor. You had only accepted because you know your mother would be devastated if you didn’t. 

That all seems like an okay trade for the view of the hotel pool right by the beach, your body rubbed in sunscreen and your sunglasses on top of your nose listening to music and enjoying your moments without a sister (or mother) around to tell you what to do. 

But your life wouldn’t be yours if your peace weren’t suddenly interrupted by the high pitched laugh of one of your sisters floating through the air and reaching your ears. It hadn’t even been half an hour. Maybe, you think, they won’t even come over. After all, they had hidden you away from them for as long as they had been together. Perhaps they wanted to wait til the day of the wedding next week to finally introduce you. 

Curiosity gets the best of you at last. Who are these men they’ve been gatekeeping from you, who have been nothing but your mother’s pride? Slowly, you turn into the direction of the high pitched laugh, opening your eyes behind your sunglasses. 

And the world around you seems to shake. 

“No fucking way,” you breathe out, moving quickly to get up. Panic arises within you, sheer ugly panic that has your body shaking. This can’t be true. This can’t be happening! You move to throw your phone and headphones onto the lounge chair, your eyes darting back and forth between here and your sister’s location, finally freeing yourself of all the things that can’t get wet to jump into the pool. It seemed like the only way not to get noticed by them. 

There are several other people in the pool and the splash of you jumping in had been drowned out by the sound of a child laughing and screaming. You stay underwater for a good while, thanking your strong lungs, and only come back up when you feel like enough time has passed for them to have left - only to be met by absolute horror. 

They had taken seats right next to your stuff. In their bathing suits from Chanel or Prada or whatever, they looked breathtaking. Not that they would ever get into the pool. It wasn’t them, though, who made your blood turn cold and the insides of your stomach threatening to say hello again - it was their fiancés. 

Short dark hair, beautiful faces. One with a mole on his nose. The other with clear shock in his eyes. 

The men from last night. 

As if to remind you further, you feel the bruise on your hip suddenly starting to throb with pain. You wince and look down, noticing your make-shift cover up being gone. Wonderful. 

Your sisters notice you now, their eyes widening when they see you in the state you’re in. Dripping with water, your hair pushed back out of your face, your body dressed in nothing but a flimsy bikini. They had always envied you for your breasts - not that they would ever admit this. But seeing them right now made them even angrier, after  all Heeseung and Sunghoon were right here and could see those monstrosities! 

And yeah, they see. See your body in that bikini that is leaving nothing to the imagination. See your tits almost falling out of the bikini top - tits that were covered in Sunghoon's cum not even 24 hours ago. They see your pretty face, your long eyelashes, droplets of water sliding down your soft skin. 

Heeseung and Sunghoon don’t realize the gravity of the situation yet, right now all they think about is how they’ve hit the jackpot because you’re in the same hotel as them. Right now, neither of them knows who you are besides the girl they’ve fucked the night before. 

“Y/N!” Liza screeches, “get out of that pool right now, you look ridiculous!” 

Linda gets up and grabs one of the towels next to her, throwing it into the Pool. She wants you to cover up, needs you to cover up. 

It is then that Sunghoon and Heeseung slowly understand. Your name. They have heard that name before. Time and time again. 

“Mum made me pick my ugly little sister as my maid of honor, Hoonie, can you believe her?” 

“Ugh, Y/N, called today. Wanted to congratulate us. Can you believe her? I bet she is so jealous, Hee, she could never get a man to stay. She’s just… too…. ew.”

You’re their sister. Their little sister they have nothing good to say about. 

You. The girl from last night. The girl who potentially could become the best fuck of both of their lives. 

If they had been able to, they would have looked at each other. But they are too mesmerized by you getting out of the pool with the towel wrapped around your body, or at least around your upper half. They can still easily see your legs, your perfect thighs, the little bikini bottom that does almost nothing to cover up your ass, can see the bruise that is a clear indication of what happened last night. It’s safe to say they are both growing harder in their trunks. Relatively bad timing. 

“Sorry, I told you I would be at the pool,” you mumble once you get out, grabbing for your stuff.

“I don’t think so, I would have remembered that!” Liza hisses, her arm sneaking around short hair. So, he must be Heeseung. Heeseung who had his cock buried inside of you mere hours ago and whose cum was most likely still inside of you. 

“Just go back upstairs,” Linda shoos you away with her hand and you let your eyes wander to mole next to her. Sunghoon, then. Sunghoon who had been craving a mouth around his cock, Sunghoon who had his cock in your mouth, who had cum all over your exposed tits. 

Your body heats up and you quickly turn around to leave. 

“It was nice to meet you!” Sunghoon calls after you and you swallow hard, not turning back to them before you leave. 

Dinner that night is horribly awkward, to say the least. The fact you’re even allowed to participate is insane. Your parents are delighted to welcome you once you sit down, your sisters and their fiancés showing up a little while after you. 

As it turns out, the two men had insisted you’d join them for dinner. Judging by the way they look at you, you feel like they’d rather have you be their dinner. 

Nothing could have prepared you for this. For the utter want you see in their faces, the utter want you feel in your bones. It makes all of dinner extremely awkward, makes you press your thighs together, shove around your food on the plate because suddenly your appetite is for something entirely different. 

But you know you can’t. The first time, so you tell yourself, was fine because you didn’t know who they were. You even go as far as to blame your sisters for this, after all they had never bothered to show you what Heeseung and Sunghoon look like. 

Now, it’s different. Now you know who they are. And as much as you despise your sister’s, you don’t think you could do this to them. 

… Or at least that’s what you tell yourself. Because the second you excuse yourself to go to the bathroom and find yourself pressed against yet another stall door, you know you’ve been lying to yourself.

It’s Heeseung, his hands on your hips, digging into the bruise on your side, having you moan in no time.

“What are the fucking odds, hm?” He whispers, his breath hitting your face. You open your mouth to answer, but Heeseung dips forward, his tongue sliding into your open warmth, his lips pressing down on yours. It doesn’t matter what you thought of before, doesn’t matter who he is. Your body is taking over, melting against the strong man, against his chest and arms. 

Heeseung kisses you hungrily, like he has been starving for days. He had wrapped his hand around your wrist and yanked you into the one bathroom stall for men, had claimed you as his for the next few minutes.

“We-we can’t!” You cry out, pushing him away, but Heeseung only grabs you harder, turning you around, your chest hitting the door and a gasp escaping your mouth.

“If we can’t, why are you so fucking wet, baby?” His fingers are inside your cunt the next second and your eyes roll back, hips already chasing his touch. He smirks behind you, shoving your dress up with his free hand. Your backside is a sight to behold and he licks over his lips before landing a slap to your right ass cheek. You squeak. 

“I guess bathroom stalls are just our thing now, aren’t they?”

Just that this one is spacier. You’re pressed against the door that leads right into the open restaurant. You can hear the people outside, can hear the sound of cutlery meeting plates, of glasses clinking. 

“Hee-Heeseung, yo-you’re my sister’s fiancé!” You tried again, even though your hips were already bouncing on his fingers. Heeseung chuckled lowly.

“Don’t tell me now you care about the fact I’m in a relationship. It seemed like yesterday you couldn’t wait to get this taken cock shoved into your pussy.”

He’s not wrong. You bite down on your lip and turn slightly, looking over your shoulder into his dark eyes. God, he’s beautiful.

“Please,” you pout then, and his smirk comes back, his nimble fingers freeing his rock hard cock. You lean back against the door, your cheek pressed against the cold wood, your hands on either side of your head. Your pussy is dripping down his fingers and once he removes them, you’re already impatient to feel his huge cock fill you up.

Wiggling your hips, he lands another slap on your ass before shoving his cock into you, both of you groaning once he bottoms out. 

Then, he doesn’t show you any mercy. One of his hands sneaks around you, pressing down on your mouth to keep you quiet as he fucks you right into the door. He is panting, staring down at the way his cock slides in and out of you over and over again. His other hand fishes for his phone in his pocket, halting his thrusts for only a second to concentrate on opening the camera on the phone and hitting record. 

“Need to bring Hoonie something to jerk off to later,” he grins as he continues to fuck you, your moans getting numbed only by his hand. He just feels too good. Feels like no other cock you’ve had before. He’s big, wide and so god damn veiny. Every vein seems to drag along your walls, seems to push you closer to the edge. Your eyes are rolling back as your ass bounces off his hips, as his thrusts become sloppier with every second. He needs to cum soon and so do you. There isn’t much time for this, no time in fact. But he’s been craving you, and so has Sunghoon. Thank all the luck in the world for him to have won that rock, paper, scissors round. 

“God, you take it so well, you’re such a good little whore, aren’t you? All ready to go when I need to get my cock in you, fuck.” 

Heeseung’s words make your pussy spasm around him, his next groan deeper than before. He changes the angle slightly, fucking into you faster and harder, his orgasm getting closer with every little squeeze of your pussy. 

“Gonna cum so hard into your pussy, gonna have you sit at that table with my cum trickling into your panties.” He breathes into your ear and bites into your earlobe after, causing you to triple over the edge and cum hard around his cock - taking him right with you. 

He curses as he fucks both of you through your orgasms, his cum filling you up, warming you from the inside. 

Planting kisses on the back of your neck, Heeseung pulls out, watching his release drip out of you. 

“I could get used to this,” he says and puts your panties back into its rightful place. 

It doesn’t stop there. And it also doesn’t stop with Heeseung. But while Heeseung is more daring (coming to your hotel room at night, sending you pics of his dick after a shower, telling you to send him a voice note of you cumming), Sunghoon decided to take his time to make his move. You know it’s coming. You just don’t know when. 

Heeseung is like a wild animal - he can’t get enough of you. He wants to have his hands on you, his dick in you and his cum all over you as many times as he can. But the week only has seven days, and you only have four more to go until this whole thing is over and they are married to your sisters. 

Four days until you won’t be around them all the time, four days until Heeseung won’t be knocking on your door at two in the morning asking you to get on your knees. He fucks you like he owns you, like he knows your time is limited. It is, after all. He leaves marks where it is hard to spot them, kisses you in places no one has ever kissed before. 

Yes, the nights with Heeseung are special and steamy and perfect - and yet you wonder where Sunghoon is in all of this. You see the way he looks at you, and you did get a dick pic from him the night you and Heeseung fucked at that first dinner, courtesy to him seeing the video Heeseung took of you. And that is the thing, Heeseung films you. He films you when you’re on top of him, when he’s behind you, when you got his cock down your throat, when you’re bouncing up and down his cock. All of it goes straight to Sunghoon, all of it leads to Sunghoon cumming all over himself in the bathroom and sending you a picture of it. He never leaves his room, though, never does anything about it.

It’s day minus three til the wedding and you’re at the beach with everyone. The other maid of honor has arrived, and so have the two best men. Jake and Jay, they had introduced themselves as and judging by the way they were looking at you… they knew exactly who you were. If you weren’t so busy with Heeseung, you’d gladly have slipped into one of their rooms at night. 

You’re laying on your towel, happy to have everyone around you be busy with something that isn’t you. Your book is in your hands, the words getting more and more raunchy, your thighs pressing together. Perhaps this isn’t the best place to read smut, but it’s not like you have any control over when these scenes happen in the book. You just know every word hits you deep and has you biting down your lip. Even with the soreness still left between your legs from last night's visit, you feel yourself growing wetter with every sentence. 

“In broad daylight, sweetheart, really?” 

The voice makes you flinch, your book flipping closed as you turn around, spotting Sunghoon standing right above you. He is wearing a slight smirk on his lips and you feel your cheeks heat up. Not just because he caught you with your book but because he’s standing there in nothing but his trunks, a cup of iced coffee in his slim hand. His chest is defined, so are his abs. His arms look strong, toned, like they could throw you against a wall and hold you there. You swallow the lust that is daring to come up.

“What do you want?” You hiss, sitting up and looking at him. 

He hasn’t really talked to you much. Too busy giving you looks and pretending like he didn’t when your sister or parents or any other already arrived wedding party approached him. 

“What would I want?” Sunghoon asks back, tilting his head. The view he has from up here, your tits sitting in your bikini top, looking as delicious as they always did. It takes all in him not to drag you up and take you in front of everyone. 

You snort and roll your eyes, turning back to your book.

“Well, if there is nothing you want, you can leave me alone.” 

He watches you, how you lay back on your stomach, how you open the book and look for the page you just read. Licking over his lips, he roams his eyes over you. At this point, he has lost count of how many times he’s looked at you. How many times he has waited in the bathroom at night for Heeseung to send the videos, the pictures. As much as he was jealous, he enjoyed looking at you as he used his lubed up hand to get himself off. Except… for the last two days. He hasn’t sent you a picture of him with his cum all over his torso or thighs for two days because he simply hadn’t let himself reach climax. He’s been edging himself for all this time, waiting for the right time to unload all of his seed… preferably on you. 

It doesn’t feel like enough. Just getting to watch you through a screen, imagine what you would feel like. Your mouth, he remembers. Vividly. Your pussy… he can only wonder. Only guess when Heeseung sends him those videos or when he tells him before they head down to breakfast. 

Letting his eyes wander over your frame, your neck and back, your hips and ass, your legs… 

“Get up.” He says. You don’t move. 

He growls.

“I said,” his voice is low and warmth gathers at your core, “get up.”

It is when you still don’t move, Sunghoon feels his patience run thin. He places his iced coffee on one of the tables next to the lounge chairs.

Then, he is quick to pull you up, both his hands on your hips, a yelp coming out of you as he skillfully gets you on your feet. You stare at him with wide eyes and your mouth agape. Oh… your mouth. He has to restrain himself - already half hard in his trunks. Sunghoon looks around, sees his fiancé in a conversation with your mother. An idea flashes before him and he smirks slightly, alarm bells ringing in your head. What is he planning?

Not even a second passes when he grabs his iced coffee and spills it all over himself.

“God, watch where you’re going!” He yells, making all of your family members and their friends look at you. This little shit. 

Linda immediately jumps to her feet.

“Look what you’ve done!” She screeches and you press your lips together, acting the part of the guilt ridden sister.

“I am sorry, I didn’t mean to!” You defend yourself, but your sister just shoots you a deadly gaze. 

“My darling, are you alright?” She is looking at Sunghoon now at his coffee stained self. He shakes his head.

“I really wanted that coffee. And these are my favorite trunks,” he sighs, “come on, Y/N, you’re gonna get me a new coffee.”

“I can get you a new coffee, babe!” Linda tries, her fingers wrapping around Sunghoon’s arm. It fills you with a sense of triumph when he moves out of her grip.

“You didn’t do this, honey. She did. Go back to your lounging.” He says it to her, but looks at you. And, god, you don’t think you’ve ever been more aroused in your life. 

It starts in the elevator up to his room. His hands are on your tits and your tongue is in his mouth. He groans when he feels you grabbing around his cock, hand swiftly inside his swimming trunks. There are no words being exchanged, only moans and sighs and gasps as he presses you against the wall, your kisses getting deeper and heavier by the second. 

Sunghoon has never wanted anyone as much as you right now. His cock is begging to be freed, leaking into his trunks. His thoughts are spiraling, a part of him just wants to push those skimpy bikini bottoms to the side and just fuck you right here, no matter if someone could walk in at any second, the other wants to take his time, bring you to his room and explore every inch of you. 

When the elevator stops at his floor, he drags you out, glad no one is around to see as he pushes you against the wall next to the now closing elevator doors, his hand immediately moving between your legs. He moans at the wetness already there. Well aware you haven’t been in the pool or the ocean today. 

“Fuck, look at you. So fucking wet.” He mumbles against your lips, pulling them into yet another heated kiss just as his fingers slip underneath your swimming suit, making you whimper. Your hips roll against his hand and he bites down on your bottom lip, fingers getting closer to where you want them, need them, the most. 

But he pulls away, grabbing your hand and leading you to his room, getting the keycard out of the small pouch he had in the pockets of his trunks. You watch as he opens the door, watch as impatience and need radiate off him and another feeling of triumph, of confidence overcomes you. He is actively choosing you over your sister. He wants you not her. 

Once you’re inside and the door is closed, you find yourself stuck between him and yet another wall, or in this case, door. His first mission is to get your tits out, his hands losing the strands of your top, the little fabric falling onto the floor a second later. He licks over his lips.

“I’ve been dreaming of these, baby,” he whispers, “come on, get on your knees.”

You do as told instantly. Dropping to your knees, eyes focused on him and only him. On how he now shoves his trunks down slowly, his cock, hard and red at the tip, springing free for you to admire. Your pussy starts throbbing. How badly you want him inside you, how badly you want him to fill you up with his cum, joining Heeseung’s from last night. 

“Open up, slut.” Again, you obey. Your mouth drops open, tongue sticks out and Sunghoon’s cock twitches at the sight. This is what he has been dreaming about. Your mouth around his cock, your perfect heavy tits naked and oh-so ready to be painted like that first night. 

“Good girl, so, so obedient.” He moves closer, right hand around his cock as the left is leaned against the wall, helping him keep his balance. Slowly, he brings the tip of his cock to the tip of your tongue, watching as you lick over it immediately. His eyes don’t leave yours when he begins shoving it in, his chest heaving. There is a good chance he might not last long, but he won’t let you leave this room without his cock having been inside you and if that means going again right after his first or second load. 

You take him like a pro. Feel him slide down your throat, hitting the back of it before going even deeper. You choke just slightly, breathing through your nose. He stops only when he is fully buried, his breath getting heavier with every passing moment.

“You take it so fucking well, what a good little whore.” Sweat is pooling at the top of his forehead, his knees about to give in. He begins to move his hips slowly at first, but when you tap his thigh, he takes it as a sign to go harder. And, shit, does he go harder. Throwing his head back as he brings both his hands to your head, holding it in place as he thrusts down your throat over and over again. His balls hit your chin whenever he moves to bury himself again, his moans and groans nothing but music to your ears. 

“Oh fuck, oh fuck!” He groans in pleasure, pulling his cock out and the next thing you know there is cum all over you. Your tits are full with his seed, your neck, your chin, your face. You gasp slightly, staring at him with your lips swollen from the roughness of his movements. He breathes hard, hand around his cock to hold it steady as waves of his pleasure make more cum land on your tits. 

“That’s right, look at you, fuck,” his eyes are glossy watching your tits covered in his cum, his cock not losing any of it’s hardnes even after the amount of cum he just left on you. It’s not hard to notice. Your fingers scoop up a bit of it, sucking them clean and not letting him out of your sight. Sunghoon feels like he might have reached heaven. 

“You’re so fucking filthy,” he grumbles, pulling you up by your arms and crashing your lips against his again. He pulls you to the bed and pushes you down, watching your cum-covered tits bounce as you fall. You know what he wants and you slightly sit up, your elbows behind you, watching as he moves on top of you. His eyes are still so full of hunger, of need, of pure and hot lust. 

His cock slides between your tits, his hands pushing them together around it. Then, he begins to thrust again. Just like he had wanted back at the restaurant. Fuck your tits covered in his cum, add a little more. 

You feel like the luckiest woman on earth with him like this. Using you to get off, his cock fucking your tits like a madman, whimpers and moans and groans, his head thrown back as he enjoys the feeling. It is even better than his imagination. Every second feels like he’s gonna ascend any moment now. His skin is tingling with desire and he wonders if it’ll ever stop. Right now, he thinks, he could probably go on for hours, for days. Just you and him and your tits and your mouth and your pussy. 

When he looks down again, sees the way you look at him, see the way his cock looks sandwiched between your breasts, Sunghoon can’t help but cum again, less than before but still enough to cover your chest and neck, adding even more paint to the already perfect canvas. 

Exhaustion is starting to spread through his bones, but he’s ignoring it. Instead, he pulls you up with him again, kissing you hard, fingers now finally finding their way into your bottoms again. He shoves them inside you immediately. 

“Sunghoon!” You cry out, fingers gripping his strong shoulders as he places you on his lap, straddling him. He fucks you with his fingers, hard and fast. Your pussy squeezes them, your arousal dripping onto his bare thighs.

“So, so wet. So fucking filthy with my cum all over you. Tell me, baby, are you a whore?”

“Y-Yes!” You squeak. He grins wickedly, adding a third finger to the two. You cry in pleasure, bouncing up and down on his long, perfect fingers.

“So eager to be called a whore. Fucking a taken man, two taken men. Your sister’s men. Aren’t you ashamed?” He breathes into you ear and you moan again, nails digging into his skin.

“N-No!” You answer and he laughs quietly, thumb now pressing down on your clit. You feel the first tears starting to pool in your eyes.

“Oh, but you should be. Such a dirty fucking whore, full of cum, getting her pussy fucked by her sister’s fiancés fingers,” He chuckles, “and soon his cock.”

You reach the edge just then. When he promises you his lengths, when he tells you how ashamed you should be. As if you don’t know. That’s what makes this whole thing so ridiculously hot. 

He fucks you through your orgasm, kissing your mouth again, tongues slashing against each other in a heated fight. You need him to fuck you. Right now. And as if he could read your mind, Sunghoon picks you up, hands underneath your thighs, lips never leaving yours and brings you to the spacious bathroom. 

First, he fucks you in front of the mirror. Makes you watch yourself, getting fucked like a cheap whore by his sister’s soon-to-be husband. He makes you lick his cum off his fingers, thrusts them as deep down your throat as his cock is penetrating you. 

Your pussy might be the best he’s ever had. The second he was buried inside of you, he knew he was done for. Knew this couldn’t be the last time he did this. Every bit of you, he wanted for himself. He even thought about asking Heeseung to back off, which he knew his best friend never would. Not with you. Not when you were this perfect. Fulfilling their every need, letting them do with you whatever they wanted. 

When he gets you in the shower, he washes the drying cum off of you softly. He’s still inside of you, his still not fully satisfied cock. You squeeze around him, throb around him. You need him to do more, he knows it as well as you. But he’s gentle. Uses a sponge to get every bit of his seed off your body, his lips kissing your cheeks, lips, nose, neck and breasts. It’s almost too soft for you. 

This is supposed to be about nothing but sex. He is supposed to fuck you, call you names while you’re at it and then disregard you. Instead, he’s being gentle. 

That is, until the door outside opens and your sister’s voice interrupts the softness. It makes room for yet another wicked grin and Sunghoon’s first thrust inside of you for minutes. Your hand flies to your mouth covering the pathetic whimper that would have come out. Sunghoon’s eyes sparkle.

“Hoonie? Are you in the shower?”

He begins to thrust again, his hands on your hips, staring into your eyes as he gives you his fucking all. Your eyes roll back.

“Yes, darling. Your stupid sister managed to get me all sticky with that coffee!”  

Your pussy fluttered at the words. He grinned wider.

“Oh, like it when I call you stupid?” He whispers into your ear, cock twitching rapidly as he bites into your neck, hips showing you absolutely no mercy.

“Ugh, I am so sorry about her! She’s not just a klutz, she’s also insanely dumb. I can’t wait to never see her again after this is done.”

Perhaps these words would have hurt you, if Sunghoon wasn’t railing you like the god he was. Every thrust was smooth and yet hard enough to make your toes curl. He made quick work to lift you up, your legs now wrapping around his middle as he continued to fuck into you, moaning into your neck to drown out the noise. 

“Yeah, she is a real piece of work,” he finally replied, his eyes staring into yours as he smirked. 

“No wonder she can’t get a boyfriend! Who would ever want to be with that?” 

Sunghoon rolls his eyes, pressing his body closer to yours, kissing you again, his tongue licking sensually over your bottom lip. It makes a shiver run down your spine. 

“Anyway, where did she go? I didn’t find her in her room.”

Sunghoon reluctantly parts from you.

“No clue. She got me a new coffee and stormed off like the big baby she is.” 

He grabs your tits again, squeezing and massaging, nipple between forefinger and thumb, leaning down so he can put it in his mouth and suck and bite down, your hand on your mouth pressing down harder. 

You explode around him. Squirt like a fucking porn-star, liquid shooting out of you and down his legs, mixing with the water of the shower. Sunghoon’s knees are once more about to give in. He moans against your lips, hoping Linda didn’t hear and at the same time also hoping she did. Your climax makes him cum for the third time that day, his hot semen filling your spent pussy, painting it white like the clouds. 

“That, she is indeed,” Linda laughs, “anyway, we’re gonna go get dinner in the city, baby. I’ll be at Liza’s room, love you!”

Sunghoon doesn’t answer and Linda just leaves. You feel like no words were even needed to understand. 

Once you’re sure Linda is gone for good, Sunghoon and you step out of the shower. It’s quiet between you, quiet and somewhat heavy. You don’t like it one bit. You’re quick to grab your bikini and put it back on, relieved to know you most likely won’t find your sisters back at the beach where you’re headed now. 

You don’t turn around again when you leave the bathroom. And you also don’t expect Sunghoon to say anything. Still, when you open the door to leave, you feel just a tiny bit disappointed that he doesn’t hold you back. 

How utterly pathetic of you. 

Heeseung doesn’t come for you that night. You wonder if it’s because of Sunghoon and decide it most definitely is because of Sunghoon. 

Yet, the slightly younger male doesn’t come to seek you out either. 

Tonight, it’s just you. 

And perhaps, you think, that’s just how it’s supposed to be. 

to be continued...

header & divider credit to the wonderful @wongyuseokie <3

[heeluvv]

LOVENOTES.ᐟ

pairing ᝰ.ᐟ shy! sim jaeyun x reader

warnings ᝰ.ᐟ blowjob, sub! jake, praise kink, overstimulation, etc.

natty’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ mdni, hate comments will be deleted.

the first time you find one, it’s slipped between the pages of your notebook, tucked so carefully that it could have easily gone unnoticed. a small, folded piece of paper, slightly crinkled at the edges, as if whoever wrote it had second-guessed themselves a dozen times before finally mustering the courage to leave it there.

your fingers tremble slightly as you unfold it.

"you look really nice today."

it’s not signed. there’s nothing to indicate who wrote it, no distinctive handwriting that you can immediately recognize. just a simple, almost shy admission written in neat, slanted script.

you glance around the room, scanning the faces of your classmates, wondering who might be watching, waiting for your reaction. but no one meets your gaze. no one looks even remotely suspicious.

it becomes a pattern after that.

every few days, another note appears. in your locker, slipped into the pocket of your bag, between the pages of your textbook. always handwritten, always short, always unsigned.

"the way you laugh makes my whole day better."

"i wish I had the courage to talk to you."

"you’re beautiful in ways i can’t put into words."

the anonymity should make you uneasy, but it doesn’t. there’s something so earnest about them, so completely genuine, that all you feel is warmth spreading through your chest each time you find a new one.

and then, you start to notice.

the way jake stares a little too long when he thinks you aren’t looking. the way he fidgets with the sleeves of his hoodie whenever you walk into the room. the way his face turns an unmistakable shade of red if you so much as smile in his direction.

jake, who barely speaks to you, who stumbles over his words whenever you ask him a question, who always seems to be lingering near but never quite close enough.

jake, whose handwriting—now that you’re paying attention—looks an awful lot like the one on the notes you’ve been collecting.

the realization sends your heart racing. you don’t say anything at first, don’t confront him, don’t let on that you might know. instead, you watch. you notice the way his hands twitch as if resisting the urge to reach for something, the way he swallows hard when your fingers graze his as you both reach for the same book.

one day, you decide to test your theory.

you wait until class ends, until the hallway is mostly empty, until you see jake stuffing his books into his bag, his movements tense and deliberate. with a deep breath, you step closer, your fingers brushing the edge of his desk as you pass by.

“you know,” you say softly, just loud enough for him to hear, “whoever’s been leaving me those notes… i hope they know i’d really like to meet them.”

his hands freeze, his grip tightening on the strap of his bag. slowly, he lifts his head, and for the first time, you watch as an entire storm of emotions flickers across his face—panic, hope, something dangerously close to longing.

you let out a soft chuckle, the sound light and teasing, as you slowly made your way around his desk, closing the space between you with an easy confidence. now standing directly in front of him, you could see it clearly—the way his fingers tightened around the strap of his bag, knuckles paling as if holding on for dear life. his posture was stiff, his breath unsteady, and his eyes, wide with something between panic and anticipation, flickered up to meet yours. he looked like a deer caught in headlights, caught red-handed, though for once, it was in the best way possible.

your gaze drops briefly to the bag clutched in his hands, the very thing that exposed him, the very thing that gave away the thoughts he had so carefully tucked away in ink and paper. you tilt your head slightly, amusement dancing in your eyes as you shift your focus back to him.

"i love the way you write about me, jakey..." you murmur, voice soft but laced with something undeniably knowing, undeniably intoxicating. the new nickname rolls off your tongue so smoothly, so naturally, as if it’s always belonged to you. you watch the way his breath stutters, the way his grip on the bag falters for just a fraction of a second before tightening again, as if he’s unsure whether to pull it closer or let it slip from his grasp entirely.

you reach out with slow, deliberate movements, fingers barely brushing against his skin as you push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. the metal frames are cool under your touch, a stark contrast to the warmth radiating from his flushed face. you don’t miss the way he tenses at the contact, his breath hitching, his shoulders going rigid as if the mere proximity of your hand is enough to unravel him.

the moment lingers, thick with something unspoken, something heavy. his wide, nervous eyes flicker between yours, unsure of where to look, unsure of what to do with himself. and maybe it’s that uncertainty, that helplessness, that makes your stomach tighten, makes heat coil low in your abdomen. because he’s so easy to tease, so easy to break down with just the right touch, just the right words.

your hand remains close, the space between you nearly nonexistent now, your face mere inches from his. he smells good—clean, warm, faint traces of something familiar that only makes you want to lean in even further. your lips curl into something wicked, something teasing, as you let out a soft hum, watching the way he swallows thickly, his fingers twitching slightly where they rest against his lap, as if unsure whether to move or stay perfectly still.

"what's wrong, jakey?" you purr, voice dripping with amusement, with mock concern. your tone is light, playful, but your eyes say something else entirely—something darker, something knowing. you drink in his reaction, how he squirms under your gaze, how he shifts slightly in his seat as if trying to escape the intensity of the moment.

and god, you love it. love the way he looks at you, love the way he stammers, love the way he seems so completely at your mercy. it’s intoxicating, so much so that you feel the heat pooling between your legs, a slow, aching throb that only grows the longer you watch him squirm.

your fingers find their way into his hair, burying themselves in the soft, fluffy strands as if they belong there, as if they were always meant to tangle and twist in the dark locks. you take your time, twirling the strands lazily around your fingers, feeling their silky texture between each gentle tug. the motion is slow, deliberate, almost hypnotic, and yet, it’s nothing compared to the way your eyes never leave his.

he’s frozen, wide-eyed and breathless, his lips parting slightly as if he wants to say something—anything—but the words never come. maybe it’s because your touch is too much, too intimate, too intoxicating. or maybe it’s the way you tilt your head slightly, a smirk playing at the corners of your lips as you lean in just enough for your breath to fan against his flushed skin.

"you want me, jakey?" you murmur, voice dripping with a teasing lilt, each syllable slow, savoring the moment. you don’t need his answer—you already know. it’s written all over him, from the way his body tenses beneath your touch to the way his fingers curl helplessly against his thighs, unsure whether to grab onto something or keep trembling in place.

your lips ghost over his cheek, barely grazing the flushed skin before dragging toward his ear, slow and torturous. the warmth of your breath sends a visible shiver down his spine, and when you finally let your lips brush against the sensitive shell of his ear, it’s like he completely unravels.

a soft, broken whimper escapes him, followed by a quiet, shuddering breath as his body betrays him, squirming, pressing further into his seat as if trying to ground himself. his grip tightens against the fabric of his pants, knuckles white, every muscle in his body strained as he struggles to maintain some semblance of composure.

but it’s useless—you can feel it, see it, the way he’s already falling apart from something as simple as your touch, your voice, your lips barely even touching him. and god, you love it. you love the way he melts under you, love the way he reacts, so sweet, so helpless. it only makes you want to push further, to see just how much more he can take before he completely breaks.

"please... please..." he whimpered, voice trembling, thick with desperation. his breath hitched as his hips instinctively bucked, the fabric of his pants doing little to hide the way his cock twitched, aching for attention—aching for you. he was restless, every muscle in his body coiled tight with anticipation, needing more, needing anything you were willing to give him.

"hmm, you've been such a good boy, jakey..." you cooed, voice dripping with sweet amusement as you let your fingertips trace lightly over his clothed thighs, feeling the tension beneath them. with a slow, deliberate movement, you gripped the arms of his chair and pushed it back, creating just enough space for you to sink down onto your knees before him. the sight of him like this—eyes glassy with lust, lips parted, breath shaky—only fueled your desire to tease him even further.

your hands roamed, starting at his thighs, kneading the firm muscle beneath your palms before sliding up, up, towards his waist. you could feel the heat radiating from him, his body reacting to your every touch. with a slow, torturous motion, you let your fingers ghost back down, stopping just before where he needed you most. his breath came out in shallow pants, his fingers gripping the armrests so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"you want this really bad, jakey?" you murmured, voice low, sultry, teasing as your gaze dropped to the straining bulge in his pants. he let out a desperate little whine, shifting in his seat as though that might somehow alleviate the throbbing ache between his legs. his need was palpable, his body screaming for you even when his words failed him.

your fingers trailed up to his zipper, slow and deliberate, the sound of metal teeth parting filling the air as you dragged it down with agonizing ease. his breath hitched, body tensing beneath your touch, every fiber of his being reacting to the way your fingers brushed against him—light, teasing, knowing.

his thighs twitched, his hips shifting as he tried to hold himself still, but the anticipation was too much, too overwhelming. he squirmed, his breath coming out in broken, needy gasps, chest rising and falling rapidly as you took your time, relishing the way he unraveled right in front of you.

"please... y/n..." he whimpered, voice strained, thick with desperation. the sound sent a thrill down your spine, and you couldn’t help but smirk at the way his resolve was crumbling, piece by piece. he was so vulnerable like this—so beautifully, helplessly desperate for your touch.

your hands moved with a teasing slowness as you hooked your fingers around the waistband of his pants, dragging them down inch by inch. the fabric clung to him, as if even his clothes refused to part with the heat radiating off his body. you could feel how tense he was, how his muscles flexed beneath your fingertips, his thighs trembling ever so slightly as you peeled away the final barrier keeping him from you.

his boxers slipped down in the same motion, and the moment they were low enough, his cock sprang free, slapping back against his abdomen with a soft, almost lewd sound. the sight alone made your breath catch—so hard, so flushed, twitching with every tiny movement, as if aching for any kind of relief.

a choked moan escaped his lips, his head tipping back against the chair, fingers digging into the chair as he tried to ground himself against the intensity of it all. he was completely exposed to you now, vulnerable and needy, his entire body betraying just how badly he wanted this—wanted you.

your fingers wrapped around his length, warmth radiating from him, his skin burning hot beneath your touch. the moment you made contact, a sharp gasp tore through his lips, followed by a broken whine that sent shivers straight down your spine. he was already so worked up, so desperate—his cock twitching in your grip, thick beads of precum spilling from the swollen tip, trailing down in glistening strands. the sight alone made your mouth water, the way it throbbed, the way his body reacted to even the slightest touch.

his hands flew back, fingers gripping onto the edge of the desk behind him, knuckles turning white as he tried to ground himself. his chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, his lips parting as more sounds spilled from him—needy, unfiltered, shameless moans that only made your desire to ruin him even stronger.

"f-fuck... y/n..." he whimpered, voice cracking, hips instinctively bucking up into your hand, chasing even the slightest bit of friction.

your grip tightened just a little, testing, teasing, watching as his whole body tensed at the sensation. you started slow, agonizingly slow, your fingers stroking him in soft, deliberate movements, dragging up from the base, squeezing lightly just under the tip before gliding back down. each stroke had him gasping, his thighs trembling on either side of you, his entire body completely at your mercy.

"so fucking big, jakey..." you murmured, voice laced with both admiration and teasing, your thumb circling the tip, spreading the precum that dripped so generously from him.

his head tipped back against the chair, mouth falling open as a deep, shaky moan left him. he looked so wrecked already, so beautifully desperate, his body betraying just how much he wanted—no, needed—your touch.

your hands moved faster now, each stroke slick and effortless, his cock completely coated in his own precum, the lewd wet sounds of it filling the space between you. the way it dripped down, pooling at the base, only fueled the heat simmering in your core, making you tighten your grip just enough to make him shudder.

"y/n—!.." he choked out, voice breaking into a desperate whine as his head fell back against the chair, exposing the long column of his throat. his eyes screwed shut, lips parted, breath coming out in sharp, uneven pants, his whole body trembling beneath your touch. his fingers clawed at the desk behind him, gripping the edge like it was the only thing keeping him from completely falling apart.

"you're doing so good, baby... fuck..." you purred, voice thick with hunger, your eyes drinking in every little detail—the way his brows knitted together in pleasure, the way his muscles tensed with every stroke, the way his thighs quivered on either side of you, completely at your mercy.

but what really drove you insane was the way he whined for more, how his body instinctively chased your touch, his hips stuttering forward despite how hard he tried to keep still. you could feel him twitch in your palm, his need growing, his body on the verge of breaking under the intensity of it all.

his hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat, the flushed color of his cheeks making him look so utterly wrecked, so beautiful like this—falling apart for you, because of you.

your tongue flicked out, barely ghosting over his swollen tip before pressing flat against it, collecting the thick beads of precum that had pooled there. the taste was intoxicating—warm, slightly salty, completely addictive—and you let out a soft hum of satisfaction as you savored it. the moment your tongue made contact, a loud, broken moan ripped from his throat, his hips jerking up involuntarily, as if his body was begging for more before his mind could even catch up.

his thighs trembled beneath your touch, muscles flexing as you dragged your tongue down the underside of his length, tracing along the prominent vein that pulsed with every rapid beat of his heart. slow, deliberate, teasing. you took your time, savoring the way his cock twitched in response to every flick of your tongue, every wet kiss you left against his burning skin. when you reached the base, you pressed your lips there, sucking lightly before dragging your tongue back up, tracing the same path until you reached the tip once more.

without warning, you took him into your mouth, the heat of it enveloping his sensitive tip as your lips wrapped around him. his reaction was immediate—a sharp gasp, followed by a low, shuddering moan as his hands instinctively shot to the desk behind him, fingers curling around the edge like he was trying to keep himself grounded.

your tongue swirled around his tip as you sucked, hollowing your cheeks, creating just the right amount of pressure to have him unraveling beneath you. your hands weren’t idle either—one gripped the base of his cock, stroking in tandem with the rhythm of your mouth, while the other pressed against his thigh, feeling the way it tensed under your touch.

"shit, shit, shit—y/n!" he gasped, voice high and desperate, his entire body shaking. "too much… please!"

but even as he begged, his hips twitched forward, as if he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to pull away or push deeper into your warmth. his body was betraying him, chasing the pleasure even as his mind tried to resist, and you loved every second of it.

his glasses slipped from his face, tumbling onto the floor with a soft clatter, but he couldn’t bring himself to care—not when his entire body was shaking, overwhelmed by the unbearable heat coiling in his stomach, the tight knot threatening to snap at any moment. his breath came out in ragged, uneven pants, chest rising and falling rapidly as he teetered on the very edge, his thighs trembling beneath your touch.

"fuck… fuck…" his voice was wrecked, breaking apart with every syllable, barely able to form the words through the waves of pleasure crashing over him. "y/n, can i cum? please… c-can i—i?" he whined, his voice raw with desperation, his body completely at your mercy. small, glistening tears slipped down his flushed cheeks, his brows knitted together as he looked down at you, his eyes glassy, pleading.

the second you gave him a nod, the smallest signal of permission, his control shattered entirely.

his head tipped back, his lips parting in a loud, unrestrained moan as his body seized, completely undone beneath your touch. your hands moved even faster, stroking him with a relentless pace, and at the same time, you took him deeper into your mouth, feeling his cock twitch violently against your tongue.

"ah—ahh, fuck—!"

his entire body tensed as pleasure crashed through him like a tidal wave, his hands scrambling for anything to hold onto as his release hit him with overwhelming force.

hot, thick ropes of cum filled your mouth in an instant, the sheer amount catching you off guard as you tried to swallow, a few soft coughs escaping you as you struggled to take it all. he was gasping above you, moaning brokenly, completely spent, his body still shaking as aftershocks coursed through him.

his glasses lay forgotten on the floor, his mind hazy, clouded with pleasure. the only thing grounding him now was you—your touch, your warmth, the way you were still there, taking everything he gave you.

after finally catching your breath, you lifted your gaze to meet his, watching the way his dazed, unfocused eyes struggled to stay open. his chest rose and fell in rapid, uneven breaths, his body still trembling from the aftershocks of his release. he looked completely wrecked—his hair damp with sweat, sticking messily to his forehead, his lips parted as he tried to steady himself.

but you weren’t done with him yet.

no, you wanted him to remember this for the rest of his life.

your fingers wrapped around his length once more, feeling how sensitive he had become, the way he twitched helplessly in your grasp. the second you moved, stroking him with slow, deliberate motions, a broken whimper tore from his throat. his whole body jolted, thighs quivering as the overstimulation sent sharp jolts of pleasure straight through him.

"w-wait, i—" his voice was barely coherent, breathy and wrecked, his head lolling to the side as he tried to process what was happening. but you didn’t give him a chance to recover, didn’t give him room to protest.

without hesitation, you leaned in and took him into your mouth once more, swallowing him down in one fluid motion until his tip nudged the back of your throat. his reaction was immediate—his body tensed so violently that his hands scrambled for something, anything to hold onto.

"ah—fuck, y/n—!" he cried out, a high, desperate moan ripping through him, his hands gripping at the desk behind him as his body writhed under your touch. he was so sensitive, every nerve in his body on fire, overwhelmed by the unbearable pleasure of being overstimulated.

his thighs tensed beneath your hands, his hips jerking up instinctively despite the way he shook uncontrollably. tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, his lips trembling as he tried to form words, tried to beg—but nothing coherent came out, only broken whimpers and desperate gasps.

you could feel him throbbing against your tongue, his body completely at your mercy, and it only made you want to push him further—to drag him past his limits, make him drown in pleasure until he couldn’t think of anything else but you.

and by the way his body continued to tremble, the way his voice cracked as he moaned your name, you knew he wouldn’t last much longer.

and you loved every second of it.

"y/n! i—i can't!" he cried out, voice cracking under the weight of overwhelming pleasure. his words came out breathless, barely coherent between the sharp, desperate gasps that spilled from his lips. his body trembled violently, his back arching slightly as he writhed beneath your touch, every nerve in his body on fire.

but his pleas only fueled you further, only made you more determined to push him past his breaking point, to make him feel nothing but you.

his moans grew louder, more broken, his chest heaving as he struggled to breathe through the overstimulation. his hands clawed at the surface behind him, fingers curling into helpless fists, unsure whether to push you away or pull you closer. his thighs quivered beneath your grip, his entire body fighting against the pleasure that was consuming him whole.

"p-please, too much—" he whined, voice high-pitched, almost desperate, but you could feel how his cock twitched in your mouth, how his body betrayed him despite his pleas.

you weren’t stopping. not when he was falling apart so beautifully for you.

the more he gasped, the more he moaned, the more you wanted to ruin him completely, to make sure he would never forget the way you made him feel tonight. and by the way he trembled, the way he clung to anything that could ground him, you knew he was close—so close to breaking, so close to surrendering entirely to you.

"shit! oh my god—y/n!" he screamed, his voice breaking into a desperate, uncontrollable sob of pleasure as his entire body convulsed beneath you.

his back arched off the chair, his thighs trembling so violently that he nearly lost his footing, hands flying to grip the desk behind him in a feeble attempt to ground himself. but it was useless—he was far too gone, drowning in the unbearable intensity of his release, completely at your mercy as pleasure wracked through him like a powerful, unrelenting wave.

his cock twitched violently in your mouth, and within seconds, he was spilling over once more—hot, thick ropes of cum flooding past your lips, the sheer amount far more than before. some of it trickled down your chin, dripping in sinful streaks as you tried to swallow, but there was just too much.

his moans turned into high, broken cries, the overstimulation sending him spiraling into a place of pure ecstasy, his body shaking so hard that his knees nearly buckled. tears pricked at the corners of his tightly shut eyes, his lips trembling as he gasped for air between moans, his chest rising and falling erratically.

"f-fuck, oh my god," he whimpered, voice raw and strained, his mind completely fogged over with pleasure. his fingers twitched against the desk, his body so spent, so overstimulated, yet still so incredibly sensitive under your touch.

his release dripped from your lips, warm and thick, and you could feel the way he shuddered at the sight, the realization that he had come so hard, so completely wrecked by your hands, your mouth, your touch.

and even as his body trembled, even as he struggled to come down from the high that had just shattered him to pieces, you knew deep down—he still wanted more.

natty’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ something new for sure but i just love sub jake so this was a must. hoped you enjoyed!

[dear-aubade]

Oh my good God your writing is absolutely fabulousssss 🤤 The way you write about Joel and his baby girl is sending me into orbit!!! Genuinely I cannot wait to read more of your work 😍 Do you think that you would ever do one where Joel comforts his baby if she got jealous? There’s a few different ways this could go but the idea of him comforting his sweet girl when she’s upset over something like seeing another woman in Jackson hit on him or something makes me think terrible, nsfw thoughts 😆🩷🎀

This was so fun to write, thank you for the ask anon! Hope you enjoy!

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: When you see a woman making a move on Joel and storm out in a flurry of tears, Joel realizes exactly how much he’s been neglecting his baby. He’s determined to make it up to you.

Notes: Smut, oral (f receiving), dom!joel, sub!reader, praise, nicknames (sweetheart, baby, babygirl, little girl, honey, darling, any fanfic-typical nickname Joel has for reader), jealous!reader, oblivious!joel (sorta), semi-public, implied age gap

You were fuming.

It was Tommy’s birthday and Maria had decided to invite the entire town of Jackson to the Tipsy Bison that night to celebrate. The bar was lively with the hum of chatter and small talk, the smell of whiskey and beer curling in the air, paper lanterns hung in a zig-zag pattern across the ceiling.

Normally you would have loved to go out like this. It gave you an excuse to dress up all pretty and do your makeup, maybe even get Joel to abandon his stone-faced stoic facade and go dancing with you after he’d had a couple drinks.

Except for the fact that the night had gotten off to a horrible start.

The past few weeks Joel had been busy. Very busy. Which you didn’t blame him for, of course—he was one of the town’s strongest working men and the people needed him to help with patrol. But recently a worker at the Bison had sprained his ankle and Seth had asked Joel to help cover him while he healed, which meant that now Joel was gone during the day for patrol and several nights during the week while he fixed barstools or whatever it was Seth had him working on.

The nights he actually was home, he usually went straight to bed with you after placing a kiss to your lips and gave a murmured, “Goodnight.” You couldn’t even remember the last time he’d touched you, really touched you.

And you knew that Joel was a good man, that the reason he was so exhausted all the time now was because he was doing work for the community.

It didn’t stop his girl from getting a little needy and missing him.

Tonight you had taken advantage of the outing. You’d made sure to do your makeup immaculately, with your lips glossed and eyes lined to make them look all doe-like and pretty, how Joel liked them. You’d curled your hair and pinned the top part of it back in a half-updo with a white satin bow. You’d even worn a new dress that you’d traded for a couple days before. It was baby pink, hugging your bust and waist before flaring out the smallest bit around your hips. The short hem paired with your white heels showed off your legs very nicely.

You’d thought that maybe if you put enough effort into your appearance tonight, Joel would want to touch you no matter how tired he was.

Unfortunately, so much self-grooming had caused you and Joel to be a little late, which meant rushing out the door and speed-walking over to the Bison so you two weren’t more tardy than you already were, which meant there wasn’t time for Joel to appreciate his princess in her pretty dress.

Now that you guys were here at the bar, he was hardly looking at you. His large hand was still holding yours so you wouldn’t get lost in the crowd, but he hadn’t even said anything about how you looked tonight. Did he even care? It made you want to whine and cry or stamp your little heeled foot against the floor until he paid attention to you.

But you didn’t. You wanted to be his good girl…and you didn’t want to ruin Tommy’s birthday, either, by making a scene.

Joel kept craning his neck around to look for his brother, and when he found Tommy and Maria standing at the bar, he guided you over with him with a hand on the small of your back.

“Joel!” Tommy exclaimed, expression bright as he embraced his brother—overly bright. It was clear he’d already had a few glasses.

Joel slapped Tommy on the back. “Happy Birthday.”

“Happy Birthday, Tommy,” you said softly right as Maria was thanking the both of you for coming.

“What did you get me?” Tommy asked his brother.

Joel grunted as he put his hand back on your waist. “Right to the point, aren’t you?”

“A book? A shirt? A razor? I’ve been needin’ a new one of those, mine broke just yesterday—“

“Boots,” Joel said. “Traded for ‘em last week. They’re back at the house.”

Tommy grinned. “Awe, now you’ve just ruined the surprise.”

Joel rolled his eyes. “Tommy—“

“Oh, that reminds me! There’s somethin’ I need to show you real quick.” Tommy turned to you. “Mind if I borrow him for a few?”

You frowned. “Well—“

Without waiting for a response Tommy dragged Joel away, heading for some unseen destination across the bar. You couldn’t tell where they were going from your position in the crowd. You tried not to wilt.

A moment later Maria handed you a drink. “You look nice,” she commented.

“At least someone noticed,” you grumbled, taking a sip. The alcohol burned your throat.

“Joel giving you trouble?”

You shrugged.

Maria waited for you to elaborate. When you didn’t, she pressed. “I was going to go sit with some friends over there.” She gestured to her right somewhere. “Want to join?”

You sighed, then shook your head. “I don’t think so. Thank you Maria, but I don’t want my mood to infect your guys’.”

“Well…alright. If you’re sure.” And with that, she left you to your own devices.

It had been hours. Or…maybe a half hour. Forty five minutes? You weren’t sure. Enough time for you to have made a home for yourself on one of the barstools with several now-empty liquor glasses in front of you.

And Joel still wasn’t back.

Your toes were starting to go numb in your tight shoes even just sitting there, so you huffed and got to your feet—you only swayed a little. You were determined to find Joel and make him dance with you.

You weaved in and out of the crowd as you searched. Where had Tommy taken Joel? Was it….this way? That way? You couldn’t think very clearly right now. How many glasses had you….?

You finally spotted the back of Joel’s head through the throng of partygoers. Your eyes lit up and you started to move in that direction, ready to tug on Joel’s hand and stand on your tiptoes for a kiss. Why had you even been upset again?

You squirmed between two people to move closer and—

There was a woman beside Joel. She had honey brown hair and keen, wise eyes. She was older than you—much older. Closer to Joel’s age. Her name was Sharon…Shannon…something?

You froze as she laughed at something someone said and put a hand on Joel’s arm.

Your eyes went wide and you didn’t know whether you wanted to scream or start crying. Joel suddenly turned his head and met your gaze.

Your body decided for you. Tears pooled on your lashes and you turned to duck out of the bar before you made even more of a fool of yourself.

The crisp, cool night air greeted you as you escaped the Tipsy Bison’s warmth. You sniffled and kept walking, not even really sure where you were going.

“Darlin’?” Joel’s voice reached you and you heard footsteps from behind.

You sped up.

But Joel was Joel, and so he quickly caught up to you with his long legs. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

“Not now, Joel.”

“Hey.” He grabbed you and turned you around, his grip gentle but firm. “Sweetheart, what happened?”

“Get offa me,” you protested, trying to push away.

“What’re you…” He paused. “Are you drunk?”

“No,” you whined. You broke out of his grip and kept walking, turning around the corner of the Bison and walking around the back of the building. “Leave me alone.”

“Baby.”

At his tone you stopped. Even though you were embarrassed and upset and didn’t want to see his face, a small part of you still wanted to be obedient.

He came around your front and lifted your chin so you were looking up at him. His stern gaze melted away and his eyes softened. “Honey, what’s wrong?”

Your bottom lip quivered. “What’s wrong?” You sniffled and took a step back. His hand fell away.

“What’s wrong is that you don’t pay attention to me anymore. You work all day and all night and it feels like you hardly have time for me now. I even got all dressed up tonight for you, wore a new dress and everything, a-and you didn’t say anything, didn’t even look—“

You blinked and more tears ran down your face. “And now I jus’ saw Sharon or Shannon or whoever that woman was flirting with you, and you didn’t do anything—”

You cut off as your face crumpled. You looked down, shivering from the cold.

“I know she’s older and…and probably smarter, and she—”

“Whoa, whoa, sweetheart.” Joel tenderly gripped your upper arms, ducking his head to try and get you to meet your gaze. “What…what are you thinkin’? You think she could ever compare to my babygirl?”

You opened your mouth to respond but he prattled on before you had the chance. “The moment she touched me I pulled away. I don’t know if you didn’t see or what, but…” He shook his head. “Baby, I only have eyes for you. You know that.”

He wiped your tears with his thumbs. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around more often. It’s just until Seth’s friend heals up that I’ll be gone. I should be out of bar duty by next week.”

“And what about tonight?” you whined.

At that, Joel smiled. “You really think I didn’t notice how pretty you looked, sweet girl? I was trying not to get a hard on in the middle of Tommy’s party.”

You almost smiled. Almost. But you were still mad about Shannon, and you still felt needy and lonely and you were pretty sure you were way more than tipsy and you still kind of felt like punching Joel in his handsome face a little bit.

He leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “So sorry that I made my baby feel alone….and needy…and neglected…” He punctuated each word with a kiss to a different part of your face—your cheek, your nose, your lips.

Now that you were alone, Joel’s eyes roved over your body shamelessly. “Look at you….” he cooed. “So beautiful.” His hands fell to your waist. “And this pretty new dress.” His eyes looked lower, down to your feet, and he grinned. “Your shoes match your bow. You said you dressed up just for me?”

You sniffed and nodded. “M’still a little mad at you.”

“I know, pretty girl.” He kissed your jaw. “Why don’t you let me make it up to you?”

That sobered you up real quick. “Wh….here?”

“Why not?” Joel pressed your back to the wall of the building. “No one’s around.”

“But someone could—”

“Shhh.” He kissed lower this time, at the skin beneath your jaw. “Here’s what’s going to happen.” He pressed a kiss lower. “I’m going to make my little girl feel good right here and now so she doesn’t have to wait another minute.” Another kiss. “After that I’m gonna carry her back to our bed….” Another. “And there I’m gonna make love to her until she gets absolutely sick of it.”

You squirmed as his beard dragged along your skin the lower and lower he kissed, lips now at your collarbone. “I-I don’t know if I’d ever get sick of it….”

He nipped at your skin and you gasped. “Then you had better have enough energy to be up all night, sweetheart.”

Joel kissed down the center of your clavicle, the middle of your breasts, down your tummy over your dress….soon he was kneeling before you, looking up to meet your gaze with those dark brown eyes of his.

“Joel—” you said, still a bit uncertain.

“Lean back against the wall, babygirl.”

You hesitated, but obeyed. Any complaints or protests you had against the situation dissolved as soon as Joel lifted one of your legs and pressed a kiss to the inside of your ankle.

His lips traveled upward. He kissed along your calf….the inside of your knee…your thigh….soon he pressed the skirt of your dress up to your waist.

He paused.

Then:

“Oh, sweetheart.” It was nearly a groan. His eyes flicked up to yours. “No panties?”

You smiled shyly. The truth was you’d forgotten almost entirely about that—it had been a quick last minute decision to forego wearing anything beneath your dress, but seeing his eyes dark with lust now….you definitely did not regret it.

“I’m a little glad I didn’t have time to look you over properly before coming here,” he murmured, lips skimming your hip bone. “If I knew you weren’t wearin’ anything under this we would have never left the house.”

You could feel his breath on your inner thigh now as he moved his head and you whimpered. “Joel.”

“Shhh, no whining honey, ‘less it’s about how good it feels.” He placed a kiss right above the patch of skin above your bud. “Just let that pretty head of yours empty—I’ll take care of you.”

Whatever you were about to say in response left your head as Joel hiked your leg over his shoulder and started to lick at your clit.

You gasped and one of your hands threaded through his salt and pepper curls to steady yourself. His tongue flicked against your swollen, needy button teasingly. Your lower belly simmered with the heat of crackling coals.

Joel’s large hand found purchase on your hip and he squeezed in response to each noise that escaped you. He was soon embracing you with his full mouth, tongue licking between your folds, at your bud, into you. It was as if he was everywhere, helping himself to your taste and enjoying every bit of it.

“Oh,” you sighed, pushing your hips into his mouth involuntarily and his head bobbed in time with his motions.

Each flick, each twist of his tongue had you nearly writhing, and you were pretty sure it was only Joel’s hand on your hip keeping you from collapsing.

“Joel, I—it’s—oh please, I can’t—” You were babbling mindlessly, head empty, unsure of what you were even really saying.

Joel just chuckled against you, the vibrations running through your core making you gasp.

“Such a pretty pussy,” he murmured as he sucked and licked at your wetness. “‘S like you were made for me—just keep rockin’ your hips—oh, good girl.”

He lapped at you as you let out a high-pitched whine. You were there, right there, with his nose nudging at your clit and his warm wet tongue pushing into you and he was shaking his head and oh—

You bit your knuckle to muffle your moan as you came, your folds drenched, your lower belly warm, your legs shaking, your clit tingling.

“That’s it, that’s it.” Joel kept murmuring praises as you came down from your high, hips squirming from oversensitivity.

He placed soft and slow kisses on your right hip before rising and gripping your waist. Your legs nearly buckled.

Joel chuckled and caught you as you stumbled a bit, sweeping you up in his arms, the ease in which he lifted you making your belly swoop.

He pressed his lips to your hairline in an achingly sweet kiss. “How’s my girl feeling now?”

You let out a happy hum and rested your head on his shoulder. “Better.”

“Good.” You could hear the smile in his voice as he started to walk, carrying you like you were a princess. You supposed that you were, in a sort of way. You were his.

“Don’t go fallin’ asleep yet, babygirl.”

You hadn’t even realized that you’d been drifting off until he had said something. It wasn’t your fault. The gentle sway of him walking with you had rocked you to sleep…

“Sorry.��� You yawned.

“I’m the one who’s sorry, honey,” he said. He held you closer. “And you gotta stay awake with me. I got a lot more I wanna do to apologize to my princess.”

The low voice he used made your heart flutter.

You were in for a very long night.

[darlinluxx]

𝐒𝐈𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐀𝐑 | 𝐊𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐀𝐄 𝐁𝐘𝐄𝐎𝐊 ౨ৎ

pairing : saebyeok x fem!reader

fluff

warnings : none

summary : Cheol starts seeing you as a mother figure

a/n : inspired by @karli6 comment on one of my posts bc it’s so cute i couldn’t not write about it

𝐓he scent of lavender fills your small apartment, a comforting aroma that’s become synonymous with Saebyeok. it’s a stark contrast to the grit of her life, the harsh edges that you know so well, and a gentle reminder of the soft woman beneath. you’re perched on the edge of the couch, a half-finished crossword puzzle abandoned in your lap. Saebyeok is at the small table, her brow furrowed in concentration as she counts the meager money spread out before her.

you watch her, a fondness blossoming in your chest. you love that even in her moments of vulnerability, there’s a strength that radiates from her. it’s the same strength that protects her younger brother, Cheol.

speaking of Cheol, a small, hesitant cough echoes from the doorway. you look up and see him, his backpack slung low on his shoulders, his eyes large and uncertain. he’s holding out a crumpled sheet of paper.

“i… i need some help.” he mumbles, his gaze darting between you and Saebyeok.

Saebyeok glances up, her expression softening as she notices Cheol. “homework again?” she sighs, a hint of exasperation in her voice. she picks up a pen, ready to tackle the task at hand. but Cheol shakes his head, his focus locked on you.

“not for you.” she shuffled closer, his gaze imploring. “can you help me, please?”

your heart melts. it’s not that Saebyeok isn’t good at academics, but her way of teaching sometimes involves a lot of direct answers, whereas you prefer a more patient, guiding approach. you know that Cheol can be easily intimated, and perhaps you offer a calmer space for him to learn.

you set aside your crossword and smile, beckoning him closer. “of course, Cheol. let me see.”

he practically barrels himself into the space next to you on the couch, his small body warm against your side. as you smooth out the paper, you see it’s a math problem involving fractions, a subject dreaded by many young students.

“okay,” you say, pointing to the equation with a pen. “this looks a little tricky, but we can break it down. what do you think about first finding the common denominator?”

you spend the next half hour patiently explaining the concepts, drawing diagrams on scrap paper, and gently nudging him towards the solution. you praise him for every small victory, and his eyes light up each time he grasps a new idea. you realize these moments are precious. you enjoy being able to support and teach him.

Saebyeok watches from the table, a subtle smile playing on her lips. when you finally help Cheol arrive at the correct answer, he bursts into a grin, his satisfaction radiating through the room.

“thanks! you’re the best!” he declares, his eyes shining with newfound confidence. he scrambles off the couch, heading to his room, leaving a trail of discarded papers in his wake.

you turn to Saebyeok, a warm feeling settling in your chest. “he’s a smart kid, just needs a little encouragement.”

she nods, her eyes holding a complex mix of affection and almost… relief? “yeah.” she says quietly, returning to the money.

over the next few weeks, you notice a pattern forming. Cheol starts seeking you out for help with his homework more often. it’s never forced, always a gentle request. and you never refuse. you find yourself looking forward to the quiet evenings spent poring over textbooks and diagrams with Cheol. it’s a nice change of pace from the anxiety and fear that usually permeates both his and Saebyeok’s lives.

sometimes. he even asks for help with things beyond schoolwork. it’s in these seemingly mundane moments, as you help him, that you feel a strange connection to Cheol, like you’re something more than just his sister’s girlfriend.

one evening, as you’re helping him with a particularly challenging history assignment, Cheol pauses, his small fingers tracing the outline of an illustration in his textbook. he looks up at you, his eyes wide and earnest.

“you’re like mom,” he says, the words spilling out before he can think them through. “she used to help me with my homework too.”

a wave of emotion washes over you. it’s not even a conscious decision, but you pull him into a gentle hug, holding him close. it’s a bittersweet revelation. his mother is a gaping hole in both their lives, a void you can’t ever hope to truly fill. but if you can offer him a semblance of stability, of care, it’s something you desperately want to do.

you feel Saebyeok’s eyes on you from across the room. you look up and lock her eyes. she’s watching you with a soft smile on her face, a silent understanding passing between you. she knows the weight you carry with Cheol’s words, and she knows the strength you hold within as well.

you squeeze Cheol gently, kissing the top of his head. “well, i’ll try my best, okay?” you say, before returning to the history book, a different kind of warmth filling the space within your small, lavender-scented apartment. it’s more than just homework, it’s the beginning of something that feels like family. and you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

[animasola86]

F o r g e t f u l 🎀 1 / 4

Your roommate has a dirty secret - you. The only problem is: you can't remember anything about that. And there might be even more problems when you realize just what kind of relationship you have with her.

a dominant woman X a submissive girl with a memory problem

WARNINGS: F!Reader-insert! NSFW! Explicit sexual content. Mistress/pet. Domme/sub. Memory loss. Manipulation. Gaslighting. Praise kink. Dubcon elements. Fingering. Sex toys. Object insertion. Bondage. (More tags on AO3.) WORDS: 5.5k

A/N: Remember: if these tags are not for you, you better turn back now! If you know my other stories, you may be used to my very explicit writing style, but this is still some of the darker stuff, somewhat. It's rough, but there is an actual wlw story buried beneath the depravity, I swear! And: THIS IS FICTION! Nobody got hurt in the making of this series. (By the way, the header is just for aesthetics, it's up to you to decide how Mistress looks like and obviously Reader looks however you want to insert her. I tried my best to keep her neutral.) Another note on the fandom tags: I write characters who could be anyone, so I thought about some kick-ass ladies who may fit the role here. I'm sorry this is not about your favorite character, but maybe it can still somewhat fit? Give it a try :)

1 🎀 2 🎀 3 🎀 4

You're staring at the pictures with your lips parted and trembling, your cheeks warm, a strange tingle in your nape. Your hands are shaking as you file through the prints. They look weirdly professional, good lighting, even better angles, the background is blurry while the focus lies directly on...

You.

It's you in those photographs, you in various positions, you in different outfits... or with nothing at all hiding your curves. Some pictures are just showing certain body parts, some angles you've never seen of yourself, some more flattering than others.

But whatever you see, you can't hide the fact that it arouses you. It's not the subject, you're usually quite self-conscious about taking nudes of yourself (even though you gotta admit that these look quite well made, so surreal that you feel almost proud of yourself), it's actually two things that make your core throb:

One: you are in clearly compromising positions, bent over with your legs spread wide, on your back, bound to the bed with cuffs around your wrists and ankles, or tied up with soft-looking rope in intricate patterns, your body composed in ways you haven't thought possible (or comfortable).

And two: you are always stuffed. There are various objects sticking out of both your cunt and your ass, sometimes there's even something in your mouth that's held open by a spider gag. It varies too, not all holes are occupied all the time, all at once, in some pictures it's just one and it's particularly stuffed and stretched (is that an eggplant?).

Your body reacts more and more as you flip through the thick printed paper. The worst thing about it all:

You can't remember a goddamn thing!

Shame and arousal course through you as you stare at yourself. But you can't put them down, can't stop. In this photo, you're wearing a black leather harness that accentuates your breasts. You're standing, with wide legs, a spreader bar attached to your ankles. You're blindfolded, your arms tied behind your back. It's a series of pictures, you realize.

First from the front, then from the back (your ass cheeks look great with how they're pushed up by the leather straps). You notice something shiny between them: a butt plug with a sparkly diamond base. It's glowing, or blinking as you see in the next picture where the light is gone.

Your insides convulse a little, your muscles clenching around nothing. It's like looking at porn, but you can't ignore the familiarity about the body portrayed. It is undoubtedly yours.

But then again: you've never had anything up your ass, not in your conscious state at least. But here (and in those other pics) you have, and the next print even shows a close-up of the plug in your ass. It's a strangely aesthetic photo considering the unflattering motif and angle, but it certainly does things to you. Though you can't be sure if the tension in your stomach comes from embarrassment, excitement or sheer terror at the revelation that somebody took these pictures of you – and you can't even remember it.

Swallowing hard, you pry your eyes from the prints, your hands still shaking, as you look around the room. Somebody can only be one person. Your gaze scrapes over the shelves around you, full of camera equipment, old-fashioned film containers next to a plastic box full of SD-cards, various lenses and other extras, and then the cameras themselves, three at least, behind glass doors, kept away, like the pictures you found in a large brown envelope hiding in a drawer.

You've been looking for some hair ties, an innocent search, knowing your roommate wouldn't mind, but now you feel as if you've stepped into a different world, uncovering secrets you should have never known about. Even if they are about you.

Taking a shuddering breath, you look back at the pictures in your hands, your cheeks positively aflame now as you trace the blurry lines of your body before the focus shifts to a close-up of your cunt, shiny and reddened, your clit swollen, with black clamps attached to your pussy lips, thin metal chains disappearing off to the sides, holding your folds open while something black and girthy vanishes into your body.

The next pictures show a white-gloved hand gripping the base of the dildo, and you flip quicker through the sheets to create the motion, seeing the toy going in and out of your cunt, guided by the anonymous hand, spreading your core, diving in to retreat with an extra layer of shine before disappearing again, and as you stare at the prints, you can almost feel it moving inside you, a faint memory as your muscles clench and unclench, your arousal building up before it drips into your underwear.

You are torn between being very horny upon seeing these pictures and utterly disturbed. If you could only remember these scenes, then it wouldn't be as bad. But you can't. There's nothing, only fog that slips through your mind's imaginary fingers as you try to catch it, as you try to make sense of this. You feel your heart beating faster while your eyes tear up from staring unblinkingly at the prints in your hands.

This can't be real. Confusion merges with betrayal, your belly feels tense, your heart clenches in rhythm with your walls, your throat closes up as the first tear spills from your lashes.

You let go of the pictures, watching them scatter over the desk and down to the floor, every angle of your body on display, every inch captured in embarrassing detail, your holes filled or gaping, your mouth gagged or stuffed or open, there's drool, there are tears, there's wetness glistening on your skin in almost every shot. Your eyes may be the scariest part staring up at you. They're either glazed over, unfocused, or rolled back and hooded, some bloodshot, some watery, and some look almost defiant, a moment captured in time where you seemingly fought back?

The ones where you're blindfolded are the least terrifying, those are the ones where you can dissociate, where you can imagine somebody else being tied to whatever surfaces there are, tables, benches, beds, chairs, artfully presented, where it's just a body, clad in sexy lingerie and high heels, or adorned with ropes, or in the moments after where the skin is dented by the intricate patterns left behind by the ties.

The close-ups are also getting to you. You've never seen your own cunt or ass up close like this, so again, it could be anyone's holes filled and spread and used by various objects. The sheer amount and variety of them is quite concerning. But it's the unconventional ones that make you shiver, that create that tension in your stomach. The cucumber pushed deep into your ass so only its thinner stalk or whatever its called pokes out. The wide eggplant parting your labia in an obscene fashion, its entire body stuffed into your cunt, creating a slight bulge in your lower stomach.

There's another stack of photos atop a large envelope (the whole drawer seems to be dedicated to just you), and your curiosity gets the better of you after all. It's a series of pictures showing different round objects pushed into your holes. From marbles to ping pong balls to actual tennis balls, they're all shown vanishing into either your ass or your cunt, pushed by a delicate finger clad in a white glove, one after the other, and you can only assume how many would actually fit. It's not a video, you can't be sure, but you can imagine whoever did this to you didn't stop at just one.

Indeed they didn't, as the next photo shows. Another set of hands, also wearing white gloves, is grabbing your ass cheeks and pulling them apart, making your sphincter wink at the camera, before, in the next shot, your hole is gaping, allowing a strange view inside, rosy flesh stuffed with white little balls (you can see at least three, but more are hinted at behind them). You feel a little sick looking at the rest of the series of pictures, where they come back out as your hole puckers, pushing and pushing.

Your body reacts in earnest, your muscles clenching around nothing, deep shivers crashing down your spine. You flip past more of these kinds of photos, until you stop when you see white-gloved fingers poking at your cunt, spreading your lips, gathering your slick that glistens on the surface of the latex gloves, and you let out an audible gasp when the next picture doesn't show them push in, but shows only a wrist (attached to a slender arm) poking out of your stretched hole, gripped by tight skin, suggesting the entire hand is stuck inside you.

Your stomach gives a nervous growl at the sight, your breath hitching in your throat. You swallow thickly, your nostrils flaring as you force yourself to breathe through your nose to calm yourself. The stack of pictures shakes in your hands as you flip through more extreme insertions, more vegetables, some fruits, an entire apple made it up your cunt apparently, while they went from using one cucumber in your ass to at least three, stretching your rim impossibly wide. The sight alone makes your asshole clench violently, and you wonder why you never felt sore after being stuffed so full and spread so wide.

But your body seemingly adjusted, returned to its former state, unharmed, giving no hints at what actually happened to you. Strange. It's almost as if this happened to somebody else after all. But it didn't. It is your body. You may not know your cunt or ass up close, but you recognize the rest, your boobs, your arms, your belly, your legs, your feet, the birthmarks that make you you. It is you in these pictures, in every single one.

Only you.

A strangled sob escapes you as you look over the desk, seeing more and more envelopes, hiding in plain sight, more prints, some smaller, some bigger, all filled with motifs of your body being used in various fashions, one more degrading than the next. Shame settles low in your stomach, like a heavy weight that makes it hard to breathe. Your head is spinning, blood rushing in your ears so loudly you are startled back into reality as you suddenly hear the creaking of the door.

Footsteps follow, before someone clears their throat.

You whip around, dropping the last pictures you were holding, more shots of your stuffed cunt, wet and glistening as it's assaulted by more household items. Your eyes widen when you see your roommate in the door frame, a smug smile on her beautiful face as she crosses her arms over her chest.

“Oh hi,” she says in a nonchalant tone, tilting her head. “What are you doing here, pet?” she adds, and you frown at the nickname, a strange sensation crashing through your nerves.

“I... uh... I was looking for...” you stammer, taking a step away from the desk and the mess you made by dropping all those prints. “A hair tie,” you whisper breathlessly, curling your shaking hands into fists as you stare at her. “What... what are these? Did you take them?” you then ask, your voice trembling as much as your shoulders while you look from her back to the discriminating evidence you found by accident.

Your roommate sighs, unfolding her arms as she walks towards you. She's taller than you, slender and still curvy in the right places, her long hair falling over her slim shoulders. You force yourself to look into her eyes and not get distracted by the cleavage her tight dress creates or how close she is. She stops right in front of you, looking down, a softer looking smile curling her full lips.

“You know I did,” she says quietly, reaching up a hand to caress your cheek with the back of her finger. You shiver under the touch, but don't flinch away. “You agreed to this, remember?”

“No,” you breathe out, blinking quickly as you feel tears welling up in your eyes.

She clicks her tongue, shaking her head. “Shh, it's okay, pet, don't worry. You did. I would never do anything to harm you,” she whispers, leaning closer until you feel her hot breath on your lips. “You wanted to be my muse, you begged me for it,” she adds, biting her lip sensually before leaning in to press her warm mouth to the corner of yours.

You stiffen, eyes widening, your heart nearly exploding in your chest. You can't remember any of this. Why is she saying that? She is just your roommate!

You moved in only a few months ago, replying to an ad you saw on the bulletin board of your college dorm. A cheap room in a good neighborhood, your own room, away from the distractions of having to live with people you don't like or know that well, it sounded too good to be true. But it was true, and the woman looking for roommates was so nice, so enticing. You met her at a neutral place, to get to know her (fall for her charm), before she showed you the apartment, and you moved in later that week.

It was perfect. Until it wasn't. Not that you noticed it right away. You just never saw her. Now that you thought about it, you can only (barely) remember going to your classes (you are still going to your classes, right?), while the rest of the day is somewhat of a blur. You can't, however, remember going to your job at the coffee shop (do you still have a job? How are you paying for this place?), and the more you try to remember, the more holes come up, black and all-consuming.

You frown as you stare at her. She leans back slowly, watching you. Her hand is on your face, the pointy nail of her thump scraping over your bottom lip as her long fingers caress the shell of your ear.

“No need to worry, pet,” she says quietly, her voice a low soft thrum, rich like honey, that tickles something inside you that you've fought all your life. Why does she keep calling you 'pet'? And why does it affect you so much? “Everything is just fine. And I'm not even mad that you just went into my room like this. I told you you shouldn't, didn't I?”

You swallow as she lowers her hand and closes it around your throat, giving it a gentle squeeze. You feel your pulse throbbing against her palm. “I'm sorry,” you gasp out.

She smiles at you, moving her hand even lower, teasing her fingertips along the neckline of your shirt. “It's okay. You know the consequences. It'll be fine.” You furrow your eyebrows, breathing harder, not understanding anything. “Not the first time, hm?” she adds, giving you a wink. Her words make no sense, your head is hurting with how tight you pull your eyebrows together, and with all the thoughts and questions whirling about in a wild dance of confusion.

“I... I don't –”

“Shh,” she shushes you, her hand gripping your chin. You freeze. “Be a good pet and go back to your room. I'll clean this up. Put on the clothes I chose for you. Wait for me when you're done. Do you understand?”

You stare at her, your body tensing up, your cunt clenching hard around nothing. Her words, the cadence of her voice, the dominant tone, it all brings you to do one thing, your mind emptying as words spill from your trembling lips. “Yes, Mistress.”

You don't even know where these came from. Mistress? Pet? What is going on? But your body moves on auto-pilot, your mind swirling, still fighting the confusion, but also easing into a strange void, triggered by words you've heard before, or so it feels, commands you've answered many times in the past.

She lets go of your chin, giving you a warm smile, even though her eyes are dark and somewhat cold, and you nod, bow your head and shuffle out of the room, your legs trembling as you make your way back into your bedroom across the hall.

For a moment you're wondering how you got here, why you're here, but then your gaze falls onto a pile of clothes on your bed. You walk closer, picking up item after item. A short black skirt, pleated, barely long enough to not be considered a belt. A tight tank top, white and almost see-through. A set of fancy black underwear, a lace bra with an intricate flower pattern, a thong of similar design. There's also a pair of sheer black stockings, a garter belt and straps to attach each piece together.

Your stomach tenses at the sight. You've seen these pieces before, in the photos you shouldn't have seen. It's a blur how you put them on, your head spinning, your hands shaking, but you still somehow manage to dress in time before you hear footsteps on the floorboards outside your room. Your heart beats faster, your chest heaving, tight in the bra and top, straining, something cold crashing down your spine before it gathers hot and pulsing right between your legs.

Before the creaking of the door announces your roommate, you suddenly fall to your knees, your feet tucked under your rear, your hands automatically finding purchase in your lap, folded neatly as you stretch your back and square your shoulders, breathing deep as you train your eyes straight ahead, waiting for the door to open. You have no idea what made you assume this position, why it feels so familiar, so safe in a way.

Your roommate (your Mistress) enters your bedroom, her high heels thudding over the carpet as she walks up to you, tilting her head as she watches you closely. “Stand,” she says, and you do, your legs moving seemingly on their own. Once you stand, stiff with your arms pressed to your sides, chest pushed out, your neck straight, eyes wandering over the tall frame in front of you, she nods. “See? You haven't forgotten. Good girl,” she says, and the praise shoots through you like a pistol shot, straight into your clit, making it throb and ache, your heart beating in the same hurried rhythm.

She walks around you then, her long fingers brushing over your bare arms, around your shoulders, down your spine, until she gives your ass a soft slap, making you gasp quietly. She repeats the motion, but this time, she leaves her hand on your cheek for a moment, squeezing it, her fingernails digging into your soft skin. You stiffen, breathing a little harder.

“You're so beautiful,” she whispers as she leans into you, looming behind you, her breath ghosting your jaw. “My perfect little muse.”

You feel her lips brushing against the soft spot behind your ear, a hot kiss that makes you shiver, while her hand gropes your ass, fingertips teasing at the thin fabric of your thong tucked between your cheeks.

Suddenly she leans back, lets go of you, and you hear her walking a few steps before she stops, a deep sigh echoing through the room. You turn around slowly, unsure if you should, but when you do, you freeze as you watch her pick up the glass of water on your bedside table.

“Baby, I told you to drink more,” she says with a tilt of her head. “You always forget, hm? So busy, head always in the clouds...” She walks back to you, holding the glass in front of you, her eyes boring into yours as she waits for you to grab it. You do, your hands shaking. “Drink up, pretty girl. You know you need it.”

She's so caring, you think as you bring the water to your lips, holding her gaze, but as soon as you feel the cold liquid running down your tight throat, an image flickers before your eyes. Your roommate (Mistress) sitting on your bed, moving a clear glass straw in a stirring motion, swirling the water, making a faint sheen of powder disappear. You feel as if you've watched her do that many times. What is that? What did she put in here? Vitamins? Or something else?

But you can't even question it further, can't find the courage to ask, when you realize you've drank the whole thing, every drop of water (and whatever else was in there) now in your stomach. “Good girl,” she praises and smiles at you, before she takes the glass from your clammy fingers and puts it back on your bedside table. “Now let's get you ready for our big night out, yeah?”

You frown, another faint memory peeking through the fog in your head. It seems to be getting thicker now. Strange. But this image, you still see somewhat clearly before you. You had plans tonight, you remember now, you wanted to go out. Where? No idea. But you needed a hair tie. Yeah. That's why you went into your roommate's room in the first place. Some details are blurry (were you supposed to go out with her? Have you done that before? Why would you? You barely know the woman...), but somehow they don't matter anymore.

She steps back in front of you, her fingers vanishing in the cleavage of her dress before she pulls something from between her breasts. You blink in confusion as you recognize the shape. It's a metal butt plug. And she stored it between her boobs? Interesting.

“Open wide, pet,” she tells you, and without even questioning it, you part your lips and let your tongue roll out. She looks pleased as she puts the rounded object into your mouth. It's warm, and the taste triggers something else in you. Another familiar sensation. It's her, you know without knowing, her taste, sweet and a bit salty, exploding on your tongue, sinking deep, causing soft shivers to crash down your spine, something hot gathering low in your gut.

You've had your face on her chest before, huh? Must be. Your cheeks burn up badly, your breaths loud through your nose as you suckle on the butt plug between your lips, your eyes scanning the pretty face looking down at you. She keeps her fingers on the base, pushing the object in and out, and you find yourself licking around it, coating it in your saliva. Like you've done before. You think.

She watches you before she lets go of the plug and puts her palm over your mouth. “Keep it nice and warm for me, okay?” she says, leaning closer until her nose brushes against yours. You give a jerking nod, tightening your lips around the narrowest part of the plug while its body rests hard and heavy on your tongue. “Good.”

You feel saliva pooling in your mouth, and the urge to swallow becomes stronger. But you focus on the woman in front of you as she straightens up again, her hands on her hips. Her whole presence, her aura, has you in its grip, you feel, it's impossible to fight it, to protest, to do anything except the things she demands of you. All it takes is a look, a word, her voice driving through you like an electric current that controls your every limb.

And so you move when she tells you to turn around and bend over, and as you rest on your forearms on the edge of your bed, she nudges your legs apart and steps between them, her hands sliding under your skirt and pushing it up. You stiffen slightly, breathing harder, your heart thundering inside your chest, but you can't object, you don't want to. You just endure.

And a tiny part of you, through the fog in your head, lights up, a growing heat that creeps down your spine, tenses in your stomach, seeps lower until it gathers in your core, scorching, wet, and it's all you feel when she pushes your thong aside and moves her fingers along your slit, dipping gently between your puffy lips and into your slick, the loud squelching noise making your ears burn.

She prods at your entrance, teases your clit, but then she moves up again, and without warning or command or reassuring words pokes right against your puckered hole, and as you gasp around the plug in your mouth, flinching slightly, she stretches your rim and pushes into your ass, a slim finger, a pointy fingernail, digging against your tense muscles. In and out it goes until there are two fingers, then three, and it burns, the friction too much, like little daggers poking at your nerves.

“Come on, pet, relax,” she says from behind you, moving her fingers deeper, curling them, pushing and prodding against protesting muscles. “You've done this before. You're a pro at this, remember?”

Her words bring up the hazy memories of the pictures you saw, of the various items wedged into your tight ass, and some just don't make sense. Three cucumbers? Really? While it already feels like too much when she 'only' has three slim fingers inside you? How did you manage that? Your stomach gives a distant growl as drool slips past your tight lips and onto your bed.

“Fine, I'll lube you up this time,” she sighs and removes her fingers with a strangely wet pop. This time? She doesn't usually? It's almost as if you can remember the pain of the dry friction, but then why can you never remember any soreness afterwards? Confusion lingers on your mind as you hear her footsteps leaving the room.

You remain in your bent-over position, your hands clawing at the sheets as you suckle mindlessly on the metal plug in your mouth, trying to make sense of it all. You come to no conclusion whatsoever when she eventually returns, and you hear the squirt of some liquid before you can feel it. Large dollops of something cold pressing against your tight hole. You groan against the object between your lips as she pushes deeper, her fingers, slick and cold, sliding in and out again.

This time she stretches your hole by scissoring her fingers, knuckles digging into your tense muscles, and you hear another squirt and something cold lands on your hot skin, slipping right into you. You shiver, goosebumps breaking out on your exposed skin. She keeps doing that, filling you up with more and more lube, you assume, her fingers pushing it deep, coating your insides. It's a strange sensation, but again, this feels somewhat familiar, and triggers more memories you seem to have suppressed before, or forgotten.

You see yourself strapped to a reclining chair, your legs raised up in some sort of stirrups, ankles tied and wrists bound to the armrests. You're naked, and she is kneeling between your wide open legs in front of a large plastic bucket or something like it, and there's a tube inside your ass, something cold (water?) pressing through it and into you, and you see and feel it filling you up, your stomach bulging, and you feel sick, your insides cramping, but you can't say anything, there's a gag in your mouth, so all you can do is squirm in your restraints, until you feel a different sort of pain as she slaps your mound with a force that makes you cry out, makes you flinch remembering it, and she keeps at it, hitting your clit with precise blows until it's all puffy and throbbing badly, and you throw your head back and whine helplessly, your belly still bulging, filling up, while her voice coos into your ear:

“You want to be clean, pet, don't you? So we gotta clean you up properly. You don't want to be dirty for our guests, now do you?”

You frown deeply as those words echo in your cloudy head. Guests? But the question vanishes slowly, replaced by the sensation of her fingers digging deep into your ass, spreading more lube, and in the back of your mind you're just glad she isn't giving you another enema. A strange thought to have, but it makes sense in the dizziness that holds you hostage. Breathing harder, you press your forehead into the bed, swallowing hard around the plug in your mouth.

As she works on (in) your ass, you start to feel a tingle in your neglected pussy, a spasm deep within, a little clench, a needy little urge, and instead of holding still, you find yourself grinding your rear into her hand. She stops immediately, a deep sigh escaping her as she pulls her fingers out of your ass and grips your nape with her wet hand. You shiver and stiffen, holding your breath as she pulls you into a standing position.

Her free hand grabs the base of the plug and pulls it out of your mouth where it clangs against your teeth, causing you to flinch. You swallow the excess spit and take a shuddering breath as you feel the warm metal pressing between your ass cheeks. With how she worked you open, it slips in easily enough, and your muscles clench slightly around its narrow neck, but it's only after she smacks your soft cheek a few times in rapid succession, making you whine and shudder as your skin tightens, that you're tensing up enough to hold it in place.

She lets go of you and spins you around, then holds out her hand to you, her fingers glistening in lube and your own wetness. “Clean,” she says, and even though your stomach makes a loud grumble of protest, you find yourself leaning in and closing your lips around her slim fingers. A strange taste of artificial strawberry and something else, something tangy and your own, floods your senses, but you close your eyes and flick your tongue around her digits, focusing on the task and not on the taste and the origin of it.

Eventually she pulls her hand away and pats your cheek, leaving a trail of saliva on your warm skin. Your eyes flutter open as she leans around you and adjusts your thong, pulling it back in place, then pushes your skirt down again. Her eyes meet yours, the gaze intense, creating another soothing wave of heat that rolls over you gently, that makes you clench around the plug in your butt. A smile grazes her full lips, and you find yourself smiling back.

“Alright, now put your hair up, get your shoes and your coat, and wait by the front door,” she tells you as she steps away, holding your gaze until you nod obediently. Your mind is reeling at this point, confusion and arousal warring inside of you. What is happening?

You don't know, and you don't seem to care too much either as you start moving, following her orders. You end up on your knees again, right by the door, waiting like a dog, and the image couldn't have been more fitting when you see her approaching with a strange leather band in her hands. You blink when she crouches down before you and fixes what you can only assume is a collar around your neck. It sits tight enough to notice it, but you can still breathe freely and swallow against it without it restricting you in any way.

You're still confused why you need this (and why you accept it so easily). Your roommate (Mistress) cups your face and looks at you with a warm gaze that makes you bite your lip, her hands rubbing over your cheeks before she tugs her thumbs under your chin and lifts it so she can lean in and press her lips to yours. Your eyes flutter shut as you part your lips and meet her tongue, the kiss deep and soft, gentle gliding of tongues and lips, a warm gesture, sending sparks through your nerves that make you throb with a need that feels both familiar and eerily unknown, frightening.

A single thought ricochets through your empty head: You would do anything for this woman.

“My beautiful pet,” she whispers against your tingling lips, the tip of her tongue tracing the corner of your mouth. “Are you ready?”

Without thinking, without wondering what for, you nod eagerly, a breathless “Yes, Mistress.” leaving your swollen lips. She gives you another peck and stands up then, snapping her fingers in a way that leaves no room for interpretation. You stand immediately, swaying slightly on the high heels you were told to wear. You're still smaller than her, but having to look up only amplifies the sensation coursing through you. Your devotion for her.

She grabs a large bag and shoves it into your hands, and you know by the weight and feel of it, that it holds camera equipment. A distant memory shimmers behind your glassy eyes, of stumbling into her room, finding those envelopes in the drawer of her desk, of flipping through countless pictures of your naked body, of your holes being stuffed and stretched, of being tied down, of letting her do with you whatever she wants. What has disturbed you earlier is barely worth a flinch now.

It's what you do. It's what you are. Her muse. Her pet. She chose you and you obey. It's what you do, it's what she does. She's your Mistress, after all.

1 🎀 2 🎀 3 🎀 4

End notes: Yes, our dominant lady here is indeed inspired by a character from my other (m/f) Dom/sub story: Infatuated: Mistress.

By the way, a little disclaimer at the end here as we go to the next (heavier) chapters: I am not a BDSM professional or expert, I am a writer with a dirty mind and access to the Internet. This is fiction, gaslighting people is bad, consent is very important, but when a hot lady tells you to do something, you gotta do it, that's the law (jk). Please see this as what it is: a fantasy and nothing more.

Thank you for reading! Next chapter on Saturday!

MASTERLIST // AO3 // ORIGINAL WORKS

[littlelovelunette]

Ok ok maybe this is more wicked for you mother...

Yandere reader who let's ambessa sleep in and takes care of some of the less hands on duties for her, reading over reports and letters or something. It's soemthing she's done before, but only ever with ambessa present, this time she only wanted to let her precious wifey (criminal warlord) have a rest :(

Ambessa comes in eyebrow raised and pretending she's not impressed or aroused by seeing her partner in a more leadership position- defying her still. She reader trying to get up from the desk to greet her and ambessa commanding her to stay sat, kicking the chair back from the desk so she can fit infront of it and eating reader out...

Meanwhile reader is like "n-no I should be doing that! Don't get on your knees for me!" 😨 cuz ambessa is our queen wifey (murderous warmonger) and should not be on her knees for anyone!!!

Rest Up Or Eat Up

—Ambessa Medarda x Yandere!Reader

oral, praising, body worshipping

Ambessa and you had been together for quite a while now and she'd noticed this pattern of yours. Whenever you were attached with someone, you felt the need to worship them and relieve them of whatever problems they had. Of course, Ambessa didn't have a problem with you worshipping her— rather the opposite— she seemed to enjoy it and maybe even took sadistic pleasure in seeing your acts.

Ambessa was fast asleep when you entered the bed chambers. Some long hours of training had really taken it out of your wife. You sighed.

“Sleep well,” you muttered under your breath and pulled the soft cotton blankets further over your warlord wife’s shoulder, planting a subtle kiss on her temple.

Ambessa's face was relaxed for once and not frowned with concentration. She knew she could always let her guard down around you.

You looked at the pile of papers at the desk next to the huge window through which you could see almost all of Noxus, sunlight seeped in and reflected on the golden edges of the window sill.

“Lots of work, huh?” You walked upto the desk, and looked down at the papers, reading some titles as you picked it up. “This should be easy,” you glanced at Ambessa who was still deep in her slumber so you decided to take a little look at her work.

Sitting down at her chair, you dragged yourself closer to the table, and started the work. It was mind wrecking and you had no idea how Ambessa balanced the Noxian soldiers and her life with you. Suddenly, you felt a little guilty of never really offering to help her full-time.

Yes, you did help every now and then because you just want your wife to rest. It's not easy being a wife to a Noxian Warlord— it's as if she can never have a full rest and whenever there's war again— all the quality time spent feels too less. You never even know if she's gonna come out of the war alive. You sighed once again, this one heavier than the one before.

You shifted in the chair and focused on the work. Hours passed you'd been there like that, you had no idea how Ambessa put up with you after heavy paper works like these. Just then, you heard heavy footsteps. You turned and saw Ambessa standing by the back of the chair, arms crossed and a stern expression on her face.

“What are you doing?” Ambessa asked, raising a brow.

“Helping you out, dear,” you said, dropping the pen.

“I don't need help.” she said in a firm voice.

“Everybody needs help sometimes.” you reasoned.

“Well, I'm not ‘everybody’.”

Silence lingered in the air for a bit before Ambessa shook her head and kicked the chair. You thought you'd fall and squeaked, eyes squeezing shut. Ambessa caught the back of the chair, now you were facing her.

“Ambessa—”

She dropped to her knees in front of you, pulling your legs over her broad shoulders and pressed her face against your pantie-covered crotch. She took a deep sniff.

“Ambessa!” You gasped, you didn't expect something like this.

“Shhh, just enjoy this,” Ambessa grabbed the waistband of your panties under your dress, and pulled them down with her teeth, maintaining undeterred eye contact with you throughout the act.

“But Ambessa, you shouldn't be down there on your knees,” you said before your breath hitched in your throat, Ambessa's stare at you turned into an intense glare.

You paused before adding;

“I should be the one doing that!”

Ambessa wasn't listening. Her nose nudged your clit as she licked a bold stripe up your pussy. “Mmm,” she groaned at the sweet taste of your pussy.

Her tongue swiped past your clit making you try to thrust your hips at her. Ambessa laughed, a low chuckle. “You're so pretty when I pleasure you,” Ambessa whispered before she engulfed your clit in her mouth and gave it a powerful suck.

You cried out, grabbing the arm rests of the chair.

“Bessa, please!—” your breath came in sharp gasps, “I should be there on my knees— Ah!”

Ambessa gave an amused smirk, “Just like that, sweetest,” Ambessa muttered before she slurped your pussy. The soft smell of musk and arousal hit your nostrils and your toes curled. Ambessa didn't stop there, she continued worshipping your body for a change.

Your mouth formed an ‘O’ as your thighs trembled in her expert hands, “Please,” you whispered, “You shouldn't be on your knees for anyone.”

“I want to be,” Ambessa said, dragging slow kisses over your wet folds and clit, her lips lingered a moment longer on the sensitive nub before she flicked it with her tongue.

Your hips immediately bucked under her ministrations, “T-too good, please, fuck,” you cussed under your breath.

“You're taking me very well,” Ambessa said as she spread you open with two fingers, tongue darting inside your slit again, heightening your pleasure. All you could do was moan and melt into a puddle in the chair, hand gripping her hair and the other gripping the edge of the wooden table.

“I'm gonna—”

“Yes, finish for me, mi amor,” Ambessa muttered against your pussy, feeling your walls tighten needily, your release gushing out of you as your body locked into place. You twitched, a small moan of her name at the tip of your tongue but Ambessa was so good with her mouth— not a single verbal sound exited your blissful body as you came undone for her. On her tongue. Sitting in her chair. Clutching her desk. Having done her work.

You were completely and utterly hers.

[uwmspeccoll]

Decorative Sunday

Paste Paper Patterns

Victoria Hall is a noted English maker of marbled and paste papers. These original samples of her paste paper work are included in her chapter on the paste papers she produced for the book covers of Incline Press and Rampant Lions Press imprints in the Incline Press publication In Praise of Patterned Papers, printed in an edition 360 copies by Graham Moss in Oldham, England in 1997. In her chapter, Hall also makes reference to the metallic colors used by American paste-paper artist Claire Maziarczyk including a sample of her work.

View another post with a sample of Victoria Hall paste paper.

View a post on Claire Maziarczyk paste papers.

View more posts on decorative papers.

View more posts on Incline Press publications.

View more Decorative Sunday posts.

[aixeko]

──────<3 MINDFUCK ༺♱༻

WEEK 4 | SINNERS SAVAGERY + APART OF @edgeray EVENT

| Synopsis | Demons linger where shadows play; in silence, hearts betray, whispers echo, and desires catch fire in the haunting depths of the night.

With every kiss, a scythe may cut, in which terror envelops one's gut; together they dance on the edge of fate, finding beauty in a love that is too late.

So let the night weave its spell, for in the dark they know so well, and though demons are whispering fright, in their twilight, the lights are ignited.

| Starring | Slasher!Arlecchino x Investigative-Psychologist!Reader

| Setting | SLASHER/SERIAL KILLER AU

| Scenario | [ ONESHOT ] SMUT Porn with plot. Long Introduction. Dark romance. Intersex Arlecchino. Manipulation. Body worship. Dacryphilia. Obsessive & sadistic Arle. Cunnilingus. Fingerfucking. Degrading & Praise Kink. Implied cannibalism. Mastrubation. Unreliable character. Female anatomy for reader, pronouns are not mentioned. 

► RADIO CHANNEL [ Author note ]

⚝ TAKE OFF MY CLOTHES, OH, BLESS ME, FATHER.  ⚝ Ended on a cliff hanger lmfao, I will probably expand on it since this is only ⅓ of the ideas I have for Slasher Arle. ⚝ Anyway, thank you so much to Ray for letting me participate in this event <3 Even though it’s quite late but nonetheless thank you for accepting my work as a part of your event…! ⚝ This is how I imagine Slasher Arlecchino to look like or basically arlecchino from commedia dell'arte

[ Word count: 5147 ] | Art credit: Nut_nog on Twitter | Heart divider gif

"In and every heart that is meticulously dissected by my hand has its part in orchestrating the string of fates to bring you closer to me... and further away from life, my greatest tragedy."

Those were the exact words spoken to you during a mysterious call on the very first Halloween Eve when the infamous Mirthless Harlequin made her debut as a renowned and feared killer.

Frightened citizens have declared many titles for the Mirthless Harlequin, such as The Jester who doesn't laugh, The Living Embodiment of Demons, The Surgeon, and The Heart Collector.

Yet all these titles are of little to no comparison to the true identity of the beast that lies dormant behind that twisted, sinister mask.

The muted saturation of the walls is splotched in what is most likely the victim's blood; written on it is the detail of what had transpired before the crime scene occurred, and the freshest blood drips down the wall, spelling the name of the person responsible for the attack as if in pride or apathy toward the fallen soul.

At the centre lies a chair and a small table draped in a deep velvet cloth; an organ rests atop it, the very one that would become a trademark for the killer's distorted way of leaving a mark behind. A heart, perfectly preserved with it carefully wrapped in crimson ribbons, each twist and turn creating intricate patterns that speak volumes about the attempt at humanising the organ.

Around the table, papers of various poems and photographs of the victim's missing parts were scattered across, but even with those morbid aspects, one letter in particular has caught the eyes of the world. A letter in which a cryptic note rests inside, hinting at an obsession, not towards the killing but towards the person who will, no, whom she wants to investigate and find the truth behind the "Mirthless Harlequin."

The second paragraph was quite strange, switching from the gruesome details of the first to quoting a poet and novelist for children and young adults as follows:

Walls have ears. Doors have eyes. Trees have voices. Beasts tell lies. Beware the rain. Beware the snow. Beware the man. You think you may know.

But it wasn't until the very last paragraph that you would finally choose to be the one in charge of leading the case; there your name is written repeatedly, blood surrounds it like the base of a cake, and an unknown white substance decorates it like frosting, a substance you come to identify and regret upon investigation.

A mask which you dreaded oh so much, a mask which you wanted to rip apart, and yet when that day arrived, you prayed to the Lord above to take away the sight of what lies hidden by the mask, a sight of the unmistakable face your body and soul have fallen into the grasp of. 

The aroma of caffeine envelops your senses, overshadowing the aching desire to rest. Although it keeps your consciousness awake, you cannot replicate the same for your body.

Your blinks began to weigh your eyelids heavily with their slow momentum, and at any second now, you feared your body could give out on you and you would fall face-first onto the office coffee machine.

Much anticipated, your body did give out, but the harsh feeling of the appliance never came into contact with your skin; rather, a calloused yet careful hand pressed against your forehead, strong enough to prevent you from falling over.

"It's no wonder you haven't answered my messages or calls," an inviting yet foreboding voice sounds beside you. "Working overtime isn't going to earn you an easy ticket to an ongoing decade-long murder case—"

"I know, I know, you don't have to lecture me like everyone else; I have heard it about a thousand times already," you grumbled, grabbing her wrist and using it to straighten yourself before your eyes made contact with her crimson-crossed ones.

Arlecchino's eyebrows are furrowed, darkening her expression further; her eyes, which are often alluring and enigmatic due to her ability to hide the complexity of human emotions, seem to take on a more dangerous underlining.

Whatever tiredness had anchored you suddenly disappeared as she pulled your hand off hers, switching it so that she would be the one gripping your wrist. The clock on the wall ticked loudly, each second tightening the tension in the air and reflecting her thinning patience. She leaned down, her head turned to the side to whisper into your ear, but when she parted her lips, no words sounded out—a rare occasion showing the intensity of her frustration.

Her jaw clenches. "But you still refuse to listen; how can they depend on their best investigative psychologist when the one in question has not a single sane cell left to think with?" she asks, a rhetorical question you noted, but her words come out more like a growl demanding an answer.

"I am sane enough to work, and excuse me...! I didn't study my fucking ass off for nothing; I will have you know that just because I let you have your way with me so often doesn't mean I am not independent; for fuck's sake, I graduated with high honors!"

You expected her to fire back a remark rebutting your claims, seeing the twitch of her mouth, but she quickly caught you off guard when she placed her hand on your knee and held you over her shoulder.

You let out a surprised sound, instantly yelling with fisted hands coming into contact with her back in a furious retort, "ARLE! LET ME DOWN."

"Stop acting like a child; this is for your own health."

"I AM PERFECTLY HEALTHY-" Arlecchino interrupted you, her voice booming throughout the entire police department. "Healthy is a word that perfectly describes the OPPOSITE of what you are; you have been skipping your meals and overworking yourself to the point of passing out."

You tried giving your two cents, but sensing your next moves, her voice increased in volume. "I WILL be taking you back home, and you WILL have a warm bath, eat a proper meal, and go to sleep; end of statement."

Like a cowardly dog, when its owner is disappointed in it, you can only soak in annoyed silence and mumble incoherent, derogatory language that Arlecchino chooses to ignore.

Arriving at your car, Arlecchino put you down in the passenger seat, buckling your belt and closing the door for you before going to the driver's seat herself.

You turn to look at her the moment she has settled down, leaning as close to her as possible with the seat belt wrapped around you.

"Peruere-! You don't get it, Halloween Eve is coming up in a few days, which means she will be committing her 13th crime this year! Thirteen victims-!"

Arlecchino slowly turns her head to you, her facial features clearly expressionless to the naked eye, but to you, this is the most enraged you have ever seen her.

"Do you hear how insane you sound right now? You're obsessed. To think a criminal has you acting this way; I would even dare say you sound downright in love with this murderer." Arlecchino leaned in closer, and instinctively you flinched away slightly. "Don't tell me that you would prioritise your parasocial relationship with a killer over the person whom you married." Although it doesn't sound like a question, it was phrased like one by her tone.

You bite your bottom lip and slump back into your seat with an audible groan; it wasn't because you couldn't answer the question, no, far from it. If it were any normal argument between you two, then you would've easily answered no; you wouldn't choose a killer over her, your lover, but the fact that she would assume such things from you has hit a spot you never knew she could. How can she think so lowly of me to presume the worst betrayal of all, obsessive towards THAT forsaken woman? Can someone not do their job without any intent of malice anymore?! The absurdity of the situation has your head aching, to believe that it all started because you wanted to make sure no one else would die from the 'Mirthless Harlequin' anymore, all because you chose selflessness over selfishness.

The ride back home would be in complete silence as you stubbornly refuse to apologise for your actions, nor would Arlecchino stoop so low as to abandon the facts and satisfy a brat.

"I'm going to prepare your bath; don't do anything unnecessary while I'm gone."

Arlecchino has calmed down from the argument during the quiet ride back home and is rather friendly now; monetarily, she places her hand on top of your head and ruffles it as she makes her way past you.

"I'm not your kid," you groan, running your hands through your hair to fix the mess that she made.

Your lover only glanced over her shoulder with a glare, a silent threat to your words, but nothing you couldn't handle, and thus she left for your shared bedroom to prepare a bath.

You stand in the hallway, confused about what to do next as you're not usually this free; it's not that you overwork often; it's that you're often way too engaged in what you are doing. Admittedly, you couldn't really say that 1 a.m. is early, especially for most people, as they are asleep by and/or before this time. You turn around for a split moment to make sure the door is locked before you take off your shoes and place them in the wooden shoe rack.

"Might as well analyse that data report Navia gave to me earlier."

You stifle a yawn as you walk up the stairs, turning the corner into the hallway that leads to your office and shared bedroom. The quiet of the night surrounds the house with the exception of the light sound of water coming from the bedroom, a perfect blend with the soft creak of the floorboards beneath your feet.

You perk up and see the many portraits displayed across the hallway of you and Arlecchino, some of them including your friends and coworkers. For what seems like the first time in a long time, a curve is formed in the corner of your mouth.

You stand in front of your office door, eyes gazing at the portraits beside it featuring Arlecchino and you back when you first started dating one another; you still remember that day vividly. It was 12 years ago, a week before the infamous killer first appeared. Your eyes narrow slightly; what a coincidence, you think; life works in such mysterious ways, but it's still often shocking how different destinies are all tied together in the pathway of fate.

Shrugging it off, you grasp the wooden handle of the dark oak door leading to your workspace, twisting it before cracking it open slightly. Just then, a memory of the earlier argument between Arlecchino surfaces, piercing your thoughts.

"Don't tell me that you would prioritise your parasocial relationship with a killer over the person whom you married."

Now that you think about it, Arlecchino has been acting quite out of character today; when you usually have over time, she isn't as mad as she was today, but then again, you did ignore her messages and calls for almost 24 hours. However, in your utmost defence, you need to have your phone on silent mode so you won't be distracted and procrastinate. Coupled with the recent data, you and the rest of the Harlequin investigation team have been hard at work accumulating it over the last few months.

In one of the meetings discussing the various sources gathered for the infamous killer case, a single piece of evidence caught your attention: "A single white hair strand," you mumbled.

"What are you muttering about?"

A shiver runs down your spine, a moment of fear clouding your mind at the sudden sound of another voice, but you're quick to calm down once you recognize the voice belongs to none other than Arlecchino.

"Peruere..." You turn around and say, "Don't creep up on me like that again; it's scary."

Arlecchino raises an eyebrow, crossing her arms and shaking her head in disapproval. "You are standing in front of the door, mumbling incoherent words to yourself in the dark; if it were any other person, wouldn't you be considered the unsettling one?"

Blink, blink, blink. You couldn't even deny it because she's right, and the truth hangs in the air like a balloon waiting to pop.

"Arg... Whatever, forget what you heard and saw; I was thinking about work. By the way, you're done with setting up the bath, right?" You grab her hand, not waiting for a reply to lead her inside and into the bathroom.

"You wanted to bathe together?" Her voice softens, tinged with an unexpected apologetic tone for not considering this turn of events. "I'm afraid I can't; I need to prepare dinner for you since you have been eating only processed food lately, and it's detrimental to your heart."

"Ah..." A wave of embarrassment crashes over you as you realise how swiftly you had dragged her inside and assumed the fact that you would bathe together before even asking for her permission or if she was in the mood to do so in the first place. "I see... It's okay."

Seeing the flustered and disappointed undertone of your words and expression, Arlecchino devises a solution to improve your mood.

"If I am fast enough, I can join you later; is that alright with you?"

Much to your shame, you nodded way too fast for your liking, which in turn resulted in a light smirk from Arlecchino sent your way for the sudden clinginess. Her dark, tattooed hand rises and descends gently, resting on your head as she pats it lightly. The gesture is both comforting and oddly intimate, a soft reminder that you are her lover and the only one capable of seeing this side of her, seeing Peruere.

"Call me if you need anything."

"Mkay, I love you," you whisper, getting closer to the bath as you begin to take off your clothes.

"... Yes, I... love you too."

You didn't question the odd pacing of her words, assuming that she's still not used to saying those words back even after a decade of being together. The door closes with a soft click, and you're fully undressed, a sigh leaving your lips as you step foot inside the hot bath.

You allow your body to relax in the tranquil warmth of the softly cascading water, sinking deeper until only the features above your nose remain above the surface. The gentle flow conceals you whole, creating a cocoon of serenity, an occurrence that is rare for the likes of you. As you close your eyes, the world outside seems to fade away, leaving only the soothing sounds of the water and the faint echoes of your thoughts. In this moment of peacefulness, you allow yourself to let go of all the things that have weighed you down, allowing comfort to wash them away and ground you in a sense of much-needed peace.

Your thoughts linger on what food Arlecchino will be making for you, how pleasant her skin would feel against yours right now, and the upcoming Halloween Eve.

"A single white hair strand? How do I know this isn’t some sort of ploy she set up?” You question Navia, arms crossed in a vice-like grip, as you analyse the hair under the microscope. “Is it fake hair or from a doll?”

"Haha, it's simple, Dr. Snezhevna, because she herself stated in this letter that the hair strand belongs to her,” Navia replies, her tone steady and amused as she watches your demeanour shift dramatically upon seeing the familiar letter in her hand.

An audible groan escapes your lips as you snatch the letter and another from the pile of letters dedicated to the killer to compare the heart stamp and writing styles. As you read, the distinct vocabulary matches flawlessly, with not a single difference between her signature stamp and her writing style, confirming she deliberately left her own DNA behind.

“This woman genuinely pisses me off... Does she think I’m a fool? Or is she that cocky to be under the impression we aren't capable of matching her information with our extensive network database?”

Navia lets out a light chuckle, leaning back in her chair and looking drastically more relaxed than you do.

“I’ve heard Commander Wriothesley uncovered that the fresh blood she uses to spell out her name contains a secret, obscure code imprinted onto it and that it doesn't belong to the victims, though we don't know exactly who it belongs to as of now.”

“Seriously?! God forbid this damn criminal gives me a break!” you exclaim, frustration bubbling over. “The day I finally catch her, I’m going to give her a piece of my damn mind, alright.”

You open your eyes and rise from the water, leaning back against the bath as you take a deep exhale.

"Who are you, and why am I the one you desire so much...?" You said aloud to yourself, your mind foggy with the jester again, easily shattering the peaceful atmosphere that had settled around you.

"Who am I?" Arlecchino's voice echoes throughout the bathroom, causing you to yelp at the unexpected sound.

"Peruere...! Do you seriously have to always randomly creep up on me?!" You turn to face her, your heart racing as you look up at her with displeasure.

"It is not I who am the problem, but it is you who lack awareness, darling; I called your name countless times, and you keep muttering to yourself as always."

Oh.

"Ah, oh, my apologies... hm, wait, are you already finished with cooking? How long have I been here...?" you ask, looking down at your reflection in the water with much shame before raising your hands from under to see the pruney fingers caused by your prolonged exposure to aqua.

"Less than half an hour, the food has already been brought up; you can go and eat right now if you want."

"But—" you tried protesting since you still wanted to bathe with her, but, as always, she read you so easily and responded before you could even get a sentence out.

"We have an eternity before us; you should eat first lest you want an upset stomach, and you should also begin getting ready for bed."

"Sigh, if you say so," you stand up from the bathtub, the warm water dripping from your skin as you reach for the towel hanging beside the tub, wrapping it around yourself snugly. You glance at Arlecchino with a small smile that then turns into a smirk. "You should keep the door open while you're washing up."

As expected, the teasing remark made little to no effect on her, and you're left with her staring at you, unamused.

"So bland, my love, you could have faked your expression or agreed for my sake."

You leave the room with a laugh, and as you take in the sight before you, you can't help the soft smile that replaces the smug smirk that had once dominated your features moments ago. Clothes carefully selected for your comfort and a perfect amount of portion for you to relish are laid out before you on your shared bed; what a thoughtful soulmate you have, you mentally acknowledge.

You lie contentedly inside the soft blankets, the light of the waning moon illuminating your features through the window, painting your face in its most desired parts. You sink further inside, your body never wanting to leave this paradisiacal space; yet likewise, life often works against you, and a notification causes you to straighten yourself grudgingly.

Who would be texting you this late is your initial thought, but the moment your eyes land on the unknown caller who has sent you a voicemail, you nearly drop your phone. Rapidly, you scan the room for the calendar, completely forgetting the phone in your hand has a built-in one, and your heart nearly drops as you realise it's the 29th. Two days before Halloween Eve and two days before the woman strikes again. Another unfortunate soul is soon to fall victim to a killer whose identity is yet to be known aside from her details as a woman with a jester-like appearance.

Shakily, you search for your earbuds and pair them to your phone upon retrieval before you open voicemail and press on the recently sent one. A chill runs down your spine at the sound of the familiar voice beginning to talk to you.

"In the ticking shadows where time slips away, a hero stands tall yet fears the fray.

With every heartbeat, the clock's cruel hand counts down the moments that they both understand.

Time is a thief, relentless and cold.

As you chase the thrill, the stories unfold.

Yet in this chaos, a bond begins to bloom.

Two souls entwined in the depths of doom.

A hero and a villain, bound by a thread.

In the twilight of choices, where both may tread.

The dawn of your death is arriving, my dearest angel. I await the day we shall personally introduce one another, which happens to be only two days from now."

Tsk. You clutch the phone in your hand, slumping back onto the mattress with a hand over your eyes. How frustrating it is to be haunted by someone who is seemingly untraceable, and now you have suddenly received confirmation on who the next victim will be, which conveniently enough happens to be you. You feel calm; you look relaxed, yet internally, you would be lying to yourself if you said you weren't terrified of what would happen to you on that fateful day.

You didn't realise you had been crying until Arlecchino's gentle hands brushed away the tears that streamed down your cheeks in quietude.

"Peruere..." You murmured, the sudden feeling of everything around you crashing down.

You removed your hands from your vision and wrapped them around her waist, pulling her close as you began to sob uncontrollably; the warmth of her body brought comfort to what was left of you. Your lover didn't say anything, opting to keep silent until moments later when the clock struck two.

"She's going to kill you on Halloween Eve," Arlecchino said eerily and softly.

You froze in place, the tears continuing to fall unchecked, but the moment she uttered those words, something sounded incredibly hard to swallow; you had worn earbuds the entire time to prevent her from hearing the voicemail, and there was not a soul who could have heard the message aside from you and the sender, the killer herself.

"But how did you know...?"

Arlecchino looked at you like you were a lost dog, and without many words, she shook her head in yet more disappointment. "Why else would you be crying? It's an obvious assumption based on how you have been acting as of late, the sudden unease, overworking for the past month, and your muttering about some sort of finding." 

Right, right, of course, that's correct; how foolish and frightful of you to think beyond the possibilities.

"Ahaha... Of course, I'm sorry, Peruere... I just need to relax; I am just... so scared. I have never felt such fear before, you know."

Arlecchino stared down into your glistening eyes in wordless moments, a long and slow pause of lifelong connection and understanding passing within those time frames. Slowly, she leaned down, her movements calculated and gentle, as if afraid to break your already fragile body.

Like second nature, your hands subconsciously trail her barely dry body to the nape of her neck, enveloping it and pulling her cooler frame to your warmer one.

Her gaze remained locked on yours, searching for the discomfort and fear lingering in your soul and how she, as your lover, could dissolve those worries into mindless tranquillity.

"Whatever happens," she whispered, her voice a sultry murmur in your ears, "you're not alone."

Multiple kisses follow those words, a few on the right side of your jawline to the left side, one here and there on your neck, and lastly on your collarbone, where she's blocked by the fabric of your shirt.

Simultaneously, Arlecchino pulls the cover off you and runs a hand through your hair, pushing back the strands that have obscured your beautiful features for her hungry eyes to feast on.

"Let me take care of you, little dove."

At the sound of the slight neediness in her raspy tone and that insatiable stare, you could feel a knot forming in your stomach and an aching feeling below it. You couldn't bring yourself to trust your own words, so, choosing the best possible option, you consented to her request with a nod.

Usually, the woman would say something about the lack of vocalisation, but today the air was of a different flavour because she took no time lifting your shirt just above your breasts.

She peppered kisses on every inch of your perfect imperfection, savouring the delicious taste of your body in her mouth; oh, how she wished she could devour it all.

"Peruere... please," you plead, desperate to cloud your mind with her rather than your impending doom.

"Patience," Arlecchino enunciated, her salivating tongue trailing your body but avoiding the part where you desire her the most.

Your impatience overwhelms you, and your hand goes to grip her wet hair, pulling her upward to your hardened nipples. In a weak attempt for her to fasten her pace, you let out a pathetic, whiny plea.

Through lidded eyes, her pupils direct to your face a prideful, almost invisible smirk that flashes on her lips at the sight of you breaking apart under her feathery touch.

"I have barely touched you, sweetheart, and here you are," Arlecchino pressed her knee directly on your clothed vagina, causing you to shamefully moan, "so eager for me."

Her hot mouth latches onto the right side of your perky nipple, making sure to give the left one the same attention by pinching it with her thumb and forefinger. A gasp is involuntarily ushered out of your lips, followed by more pleas for her to continue her relentless assault.

Pitying you this time, Arlecchino's pull at the hem of your pants causing a short cry of pain to be released from you and an unexpected whimper at the feel of the icy air against your womanhood.

"Naughty girl, such innocent looks but such perverted thoughts; you're already this wet," the tip of Arlecchino's finger touches your clitoral area. "And I haven't even started."

The slow progress of her foreplay obliterated to nothingness as she forcefully thrust two colossal fingers inside your aching cunt. A high-pitched scream pierced the room, but it would not be long until you were silenced by her mouth.

"How... adorable," Arlecchino groaned in between kisses, her eyes wide open to observe every twitch and change in your lascivious expression.

Like a starving animal, Arlecchino wanted more; she needed more, she craved more, and in a split moment of lost control, she decided to satiate her desire for your addictive melodies. Thus, she pulled away from your lips, increasing her speed and slipping in a third finger as your pussy morphed and fit her fingers like a puzzle piece.

You bite your lips, trying to muffle your sound as she plunges faster and deeper into you, and of course, this doesn't go unnoticed by her because how dare you try to get rid of the sound she's craving so much?

She manoeuvred you into a more advantageous position, pulling your legs over her shoulders, thrusting into the deepest part of your cunt, and rubbing your clitoris furiously with her thumb all the while she got to enjoy your pleasurable sounds up close.

"Good girl, fuck... just like that, sounds so good for me; you're so close, aren't you, doll?"

Arlecchino's hand comes to latch itself onto your hair, pulling it with satisfaction as an ominous grin creeps its way onto her once monotonic features. Her eyes seemingly take on a deeper vermilion hue at your face, filled pathetically with pleasure and fat with tears in those precious, mindless gazes.

"MMPH-AH," pant, pant, pant. "Don't stop! Fuck, fuck, fuck! I'm so close...! AH! PERUERE—"

Your back arches off the bed, eyes rolling back as you see a distorted reality comparable to that of heaven; so much pleasure and so much energy are used that the next thing you know, you are passed out on the bed while Arlecchino licks your cunt clean.

Arlecchino's thumb swipes over your lip in a tender touch, eyes scanning your serene sleeping form, and contrasting with the loving touch is a sinister grin spread across her features, a mix of admiration for her work of art and something darker that dances in her eyes during the dead of the night.

Her hand trails down to the aching bulge that's imprisoned in her pants as she studies the rise and fall of your chest. She pulls her hardened cock out, rubbing the leaking precum all over the base of her length like it is lubrication.

For a moment, she allows herself to bask in the sight of you all peaceful and unaware, completely vulnerable in your deep slumber. A mix of a moan and a groan sounds from her lips as she moves up and down her enraged member, the corners of her mouth curling higher as she considers the delicate line between protector and predator, each heartbeat echoing the thrill of the beautifully unknown night.

"Sweet dreams," she whispered, her words laced with a playful edge that held secrets only the abyssal night could understand. She masturbated faster, her climax coming quicker than she expected, but not one that was unappreciated. She pulled back slightly, that sinister grin never leaving her swollen lips, an unsettling mixture of warmth and foreboding in the stillness of the atmosphere.

She switched the same hand that was used to fuck you senseless to her mouth, and effectively, she came as she tasted your arousing scent and ejaculated all over you soon after.

A satisfied enough sigh emanates from her, opting to settle down on top of your chest after calming down from her high to feel the sound of your heartbeat against her ear. The smile that seemed to stretch endlessly expanded at the thought of your heart in her hand, devouring her mind. Soon enough, the beating of your heart shall be in her hands for her to safeguard until it can no longer pulsate without its host.

"My greatest tragedy."

[zaynessbeloved]

Say it's me you want

Synopsis: You weren’t supposed to feel this way about her. It started with a look lingering too long, burning too deep. You told yourself it was nothing, that she was just captivating like that. You’ve only ever crushed on boys before, but Rafayel made you feel something different. Something sharp and soft all at once. When jealousy stung and curiosity pulled harder, you finally stopped running from what you felt. One kiss turned into something more, and suddenly you were touching, tasting, and learning what it meant to want her, and finally have her.

Content warnings: fem!raf, party girl raf, non-canon rafayel, explicit sexual content, oral sex (f!receiving), fingering, exploration of sexuality, first-time with a woman, internalized insecurity, light alcohol use, jealousy, possessiveness, emotionally vulnerable dialogue, light dominance/submission dynamics, soft praise kink, mutual pining, consensual intimacy between women, kissing, biting, multiple orgasms, emotional sex.

Pairings: fem!Rafayel x reader

Word count: 30k

A/n: in order to celebrate pride month, i posted a poll for you guys to pick one of the guys as fem and rafayel won, hehe. so here it is fem!raf for whoever enjoys this kind of content, and i hope you'll like it.

p.s. i don't condone any type of hateful, homophobic behavior. so if this is not for you, please scroll. i will not hesitate to delete these types of comments and block you :)

that being said, enjoy 🌈

A/n 2: there will be a part 2 to this;)

part 2

Chapter 1

Rafayel was everything you weren’t.

Where you walked through campus trying not to draw attention, she moved like she deserved it—head high, laugh bright, hips swaying with an effortless kind of confidence that turned heads without trying. University, to her, wasn’t just about lectures or credits; it was a stage, and she was determined to steal every spotlight. If there was a party, she was already at the center of it. If there was music, she danced to it like it was written for her.

She didn’t just attract attention—she thrived on it. A flash of that disarming smile, a tilt of her head, and suddenly everyone was leaning in closer, caught in her orbit. Professors, classmates, strangers—no one was immune. Least of all you.

And honestly, you didn’t even want to be. Because Rafayel was beautiful in a way that felt unfair—like someone had sculpted her with soft gold light and left her to wander among mortals just to see what would happen. Breathtaking didn’t quite cover it. And yet, she wasn’t cold or untouchable, not some high-maintenance queen perched on a throne. No—she was warm. She was easy to talk to, easier to laugh with, and dangerously easy to like.

For her, being a social butterfly wasn’t a learned skill—it was instinct. She floated through every conversation like she’d been born knowing the right things to say, the perfect tone to strike, the exact smile to wear. And you, like the rest, were no exception.

You still remember how it started. Her smile, the way she said your name like it tasted sweet on her tongue. The casual way she draped herself over the arm of your chair during your first week, as if you’d already been friends for years. It hadn’t even taken a month before she’d wrapped herself around your routine, fluttering into every crevice of your day until you started wondering how it felt so natural.

And really, how could it have gone any other way? Because as fate would have it, you were also fortunate enough to be roommates.

Your life on campus had always revolved around rhythm—small comforts folded into familiar patterns. Mornings with coffee from the quiet corner café, afternoons tucked away in the campus studio with paint-stained fingers and half-dried palettes, evenings curled up in the dorm with soft music humming low from your speakers. You liked routine. You didn’t need chaos to feel alive. Spontaneity had its charm, sure—but only when you invited it in on your own terms.

So, on paper, living with someone like Rafayel should have been a disaster. She was color and noise where you preferred silence and softness. The kind of girl who thrived on attention, who found electricity in the pulse of nightlife. Her version of a slow evening was spent preening for a party, glass of wine in hand, eyeliner sharp enough to slice through the air. She was everything the roommate email warning had made you dread.

But strangely, it wasn’t a nightmare. You were different—drastically so—and yet your lifestyles didn’t clash the way you thought they might. Rafayel never tried to drag you into her world, not really. She offered the invitation often, a teasing grin curling at the edge of her glossed lips as she leaned against the doorframe, asking if you felt like crashing a party or sneaking into some underground rave with her latest crew. But there was no pressure behind the ask, and the both of you knew what the answer would be.

Still, she always asked. And you appreciated her for that—for never pushing, never mocking the quiet you clung to. You never complained about the noise she brought back, the soft thud of her heels at 2 a.m., the echo of laughter trailing behind her, mixed with her perfume. She never judged the nights you stayed in, wrapped in oversized sweaters, surrounded by half-finished sketches and barely touched tea.

Somehow, it worked.

There was one night, though—early in the semester, when the air still tasted like fall and possibilities—that you said yes. You’re not even sure why. Maybe it was the way she pleaded, her voice dripping with honeyed charm and half-laughs, telling you you deserved to be reckless for once. Maybe it was how her eyes sparkled when she talked about dancing under bad lighting and kissing strangers and chasing stupid stories. Or maybe it was just the way she looked at you that night—like you were a canvas she’d just been dying to paint.

Whatever it was, you caved. And the moment you said yes, she lit up like she'd won a prize.

She flitted around the room like a stylist on a mission, fretting over your outfit as if the fate of the night rested entirely on what you wore. Clothes flew across the bed, accessories jingled like windchimes in her hands, and she muttered to herself with the kind of focused intensity you usually only saw in her makeup mirror. You sat cross-legged on your mattress, watching her with a mixture of amusement and mild exasperation, your chin resting on your palm as you tried not to smile too much.

She had taste, that much you couldn’t deny. Everything she wore was a work of art—bold, unapologetic, striking. Her makeup was always something to behold: glitter-laced or smokey and sharp, sometimes delicate and otherworldly, like she’d stepped out of a dream. And no matter what she chose, it worked. She wore creativity like a second skin. Her clothes followed no rule but her own, and yet somehow, every look was flawless—raw and expressive, a visual melody that made people stop and stare.

That night, you let her take over your closet with a kind of quiet surrender. Maybe it was the way she moved—confident, radiant, alive—that made you feel like letting go for once wouldn’t be such a terrible thing. Maybe, just maybe, it would even be fun.

And it had been fun. More fun than you’d expected. More fun than you’d ever admit out loud. And really, why should you deny it? There was no shame in the way that night had bloomed around you like something soft and rare. You remembered the outfit she’d pulled together with surprising care—not overly flashy, not exaggerated or attention-grabbing, though you knew she could’ve made it so if she’d wanted. Instead, she’d chosen restraint. She’d paid attention.

She didn’t say as much, but you saw the thoughtfulness in every layer, in the colors she picked and the way the fabric skimmed your figure without shouting for a crowd. When you stood in front of the mirror, you didn’t see someone else staring back. You saw yourself—just a little more radiant, a little more daring. Accentuated, not reinvented.

And you felt beautiful. Not in the loud, dramatic way Rafayel so effortlessly embodied—but in your own skin, in a way that didn’t feel borrowed. You were grateful for that. Grateful that her excitement hadn’t swept her too far, grateful she hadn’t tried to mold you into some echo of herself. She only ever added, never replaced. That kind of care—subtle, unspoken—meant more to you than any outfit ever could.

Then, of course, being Rafayel, she’d gone and matched her outfit to yours. Not identically, but enough to feel like a pair—complementary, harmonious. It pulled a soft, involuntary smile from you. She caught it, grinning triumphantly as she grabbed your hand and tugged you out of your little safe corner of the dorm.

She didn’t let go once. That night, she stayed by your side—not hovering, not smothering, just there. You’d half expected her to disappear into a swirl of friends and admirers, some impossibly magnetic social circle you’d never quite seen up close. But if they were there, she didn’t seem to care. Not that night. That night, she was yours.

She smiled and laughed and leaned in with a conspiratorial wink as she led you toward the drink table, making some joke that had you giggling before the first shot even burned its way down your throat. The second one was worse, and you grimaced through it, earning a bright, delighted laugh from her that warmed you more than the liquor ever could.

And then the music pulled her attention—and she pulled you with it. But not into the chaotic heart of the dancefloor like you feared. No, Rafayel stopped at the edges, in that liminal space between wild abandon and quiet observation. She didn’t shove you into it. She didn’t force your hand. She just turned toward you, her fingers finding yours again, and coaxed you gently—come on, just feel it.

And you did. You let your eyes fall closed, let the beat sink into your chest, let the alcohol soften your bones. You felt the bass ripple through the soles of your feet, the dull thrum of energy in the air, the brush of her fingertips still lightly tangled in yours. And through it all, her perfume clung to you—warm, sweet, intoxicating. The kind of scent that wrapped around your thoughts long after it was gone.

You danced—awkwardly at first, but that didn’t last. Not with her swaying beside you, beaming like your joy was a secret she’d been waiting to unlock. Maybe she thought you’d been too stiff before. Maybe she was just happy you came. Either way, she looked at you like you’d done something right by being here.

And you laughed. God, you laughed. And later—when the night had melted into blurred laughter and flushed cheeks and aching feet—you found yourself lying in bed, replaying it all. The colors. The sound. The look on her face. And not once did you regret saying yes.

After that night, saying yes to her slowly became a rhythm. Not quite deliberate, not yet habitual—but with each passing week, the hesitation dulled. By the time second semester rolled around and the air began to soften with the first touch of spring, you found yourself agreeing to more and more of Rafayel’s spontaneous suggestions. A walk. A coffee. A bookstore detour. No longer did you weigh your silence before answering. Sometimes, your body moved before your mind even caught up.

One morning, unremarkable and quiet, she’d mentioned getting coffee—casually, half to herself as she slipped on her boots near the door. And before she could say another word, you were grabbing your bag.

She blinked at you, surprise flickering across her face like sunlight through leaves. But only for a moment. Then she beamed, bright and unfiltered, and with a delighted skip in her step, she matched her pace to yours as you strolled toward the campus café together.

Later that day, you lay side by side on the freshly mowed grass, coffee cups cooling in your hands, your skin warmed by spring’s gentle return. Rafayel turned her head, arched a brow in amusement, and teased you for leaving your cave, for daring to breathe air that hadn’t been recycled through your dorm room.

You rolled your eyes, naturally—but you were smiling, and she saw it. Because it was easy. Being with her was easy. Strangely, unexpectedly so. Her extravagance, her dramatics, her love of attention—it didn’t grate the way you might’ve once thought it would. In fact, you’d started to enjoy it. Or rather, you’d started to enjoy her. The full, messy, sparkling presence of her. You had your own kind of mischief, sure, but it wasn’t like hers. Hers was louder, brighter, like glitter in motion. And instead of repelling you, it pulled you closer.

It became a pattern—woven in quietly, like a new thread through familiar cloth. She took you to a museum next. An art exhibition she’d been gushing about for weeks, her eyes lighting up with every brushstroke and artpiece she described. And of course she asked you. Because you shared that passion. That hunger for texture and shadow and meaning hidden beneath layers of pigment.

You went. You studied together, sometimes. Pulled chaotic all-nighters with too much caffeine and not enough sleep when she wasn’t out partying. She even convinced you to come to two more parties with her, and each time, her excitement was more infectious than the last.

The first year of university slipped by like a dream—flickering with laughter and late-night talks, unexpected routines, and the kind of quiet companionship that made the days feel lighter. And when the time came to pack your things and head home for the summer, you felt it—that feeling. A dull ache under your ribs. The quiet disappointment that you wouldn’t see her every day anymore. That there would be an empty half of your room. That the beat of your daily rhythm would fall a little quieter without her in it.

But Rafayel? She was having none of it. Distance did nothing to dim her. Even in separate cities, in separate lives, she insisted on being close. She texted you constantly—unfiltered, chaotic, hilarious messages that popped up at all hours. She called, facetimed, sent voice notes that made you laugh in the middle of the night. She’d rant dramatically about things that barely mattered just to make you smile, exaggerate stories to the point of absurdity and then cackle when you finally caved and laughed along.

And you missed her. More than you expected to. There were nights when the house was too quiet, and you found yourself staring at your screen, waiting for her name to light it up. Nights where your playlist played too soft in the background, and you lay curled in bed, realizing you’d started looking forward to her calls like clockwork. Not just because she was loud or entertaining—but because she made you feel seen.

And one of those nights, with the window cracked open and the scent of rain in the air, you let the thought in. She had become part of your routine. A loud, beautiful, insistent part of it. You didn’t know when it happened, but now it was simply true. And you didn’t know if that was a good thing or a dangerous one.

————

You’d always been the organized one. The type who color-coded folders, packed two weeks before moving day, and somehow managed to balance study sessions with social obligations like clockwork. Your summer had been productive—filled with textbooks, late-night reading marathons, and a few familiar faces from your hometown that made the days pass a little quicker. Comfortable. Predictable.

And still, Rafayel lingered in your life like the scent of her perfume—soft but inescapable, present even when she wasn’t there. Always just a text, a call, a ping away. She’d kept you laughing, even from miles apart. And it was obvious—so obvious—that she’d had way more fun than you had. Her summer looked like a highlight reel: beach bonfires, neon nights, strangers turned friends, stories told with stars in her eyes.

You didn’t mind. Not at first. Not until she mentioned her. It started simply enough, folded into one of her sun-drenched ramblings—a story about a girl she’d met at the beach one morning. Apparently, they’d clicked instantly. Laughed too loud over iced drinks, talked like old souls, and then—of course—ended up challenging each other to a swim race.

And that was the moment something in your chest twisted. You remembered all too well how Rafayel talked about swimming—her element, her escape. You’d seen the glint in her eyes when she showed you old videos, when she talked about winning competitions like it was no big deal. You’d always laughed when she teasingly tried to drag you into the pool, dared you to race her. You always refused, knowing full well you’d lose, and she’d just grin at you, playful and smug and shining.

But this girl had said yes. Had raced her. Had done something you never dared to.

You didn’t understand why it bothered you. She had dozens of friends—dozens of stories about random, electric connections with people who came and went like seasons. You never flinched at those. Never cared, not really.

But this felt… different. Because it didn’t stop at that one story. No—throughout the rest of the summer, she kept coming up. A passing mention here, a laugh there. Something she said, something they did, some inside joke you weren’t part of. And with each mention, the feeling in your chest grew tighter, hotter—until frustration bloomed quietly beneath your skin, like a secret you didn’t know how to name.

You tried to rationalize it. Told yourself it was nothing. That you were tired. Sensitive. Maybe even a little jealous of how easily Rafayel connected with people. But those excuses fell flat the moment you realized how often you were thinking about her. How quickly her name pulled your attention. How your mind wandered back to her at night, again and again.

And then came the worst part—the part that made your stomach twist and your thoughts spiral into something messy and impossible. Because the truth started to echo in your mind. You’d felt this before. This ache. This want. This strange desire to be closer, to know what she was thinking, to be the one making her laugh, the one she mentioned in every story. You’d felt it before—just never about a girl. Or rather… never let yourself think you could feel it for one.

It wasn’t that it scared you because she was a girl. That wasn’t the part that rattled you. It was the realization that scared you. The sheer helplessness of it. Of knowing that whatever this was—this thing you didn’t have a name for yet—it had already taken root. It had already changed the way you saw her.

And now, you didn’t know what to do with it. You didn’t know how to act around her. Didn’t know if she could see it in your eyes. Didn’t know if it was something you should say aloud, or something you should bury before it bloomed into something more dangerous.

Because the truth, when you finally let it settle, felt like a wave crashing against your chest. You had a crush on Rafayel. And it terrified you, not because of who she was, but because you didn’t know what it meant for you. For your friendship. For the delicate, perfect rhythm you had already grown so used to.

The thing is, you had never really paid much attention to this particular subject before. Yes, you had crushes on guys before, and when it came to girls, you did think they were pretty. But honestly, neither of them really struck that cord in you. You never found yourself daydreaming about a certain person, and you weren't really the type to do that, if you were being honest. You were grounded, your head on your shoulders and not in the clouds more often than not. You’d always been grounded, feet on solid earth, your head never quite lost in the clouds like others your age. You didn’t write names in margins or imagine fairy-tale kisses behind closed eyes. Your heart never stuttered in your chest when one of your fleeting crushes smiled a certain way or brushed your arm in passing. They just… didn’t have that effect on you.

Your heart didn't really skip when one of your few crushes over the years did a certain gesture or spoke in a certain way that was sure to make you feel at least something. But there wasn't really anything like that. And there wasn't this unexpected and unwelcomed feeling of quiet jealousy stirring in your chest at the mere thought of the person getting close to someone else.

But now here you were, alone in your childhood room, sprawled across your bed in soft sheets, biting your lip and rolling around every few minutes, trying to make an understanding of this feeling. Rationalize it. Trying to convince yourself that this was ridiculous and you shouldn't even feel this way. Rafayel to you, was a friend. Your dramatic and energetic roommate. The one who always found herself orbitating around you in one way or another, trying to make you come out of your shell, slowly but surely. Never pressuring, never being too much to handle, even though she was intense. But she just clicked in the place beside you like it was hers to claim. And if you think about it, maybe Rafayel did see you as a good friend. A pleasant person to hang around, even if you weren’t that similar on the surface.

As time passed, as you grew closer, you did realize she wasn't all that different. She could also be quiet, and intense in a way that felt heavy. She was also often anxious about things, but she was sure to mask it well behind well-crafted smiles and teases. 

Your phone was somewhere nearby, silent. And all you could think about was her. Rafayel. She was intense, yes, but never too much. Somehow, her chaos fit beside your stillness like a puzzle piece finding home. She didn’t demand anything from you—didn’t push when you hesitated, didn’t mock when you clung to comfort. She simply existed next to you, radiant and strange and herself, and you had grown used to her presence like breath. Like background noise you didn’t realize you’d miss until it was gone.

And now, she wasn’t here. She was in another city. Maybe laughing with someone new. Maybe texting someone else the way she used to text you every night. Maybe talking about that girl from the beach—the one brave enough to race her, bold enough to earn a place in one of Rafayel’s stories. You hated how often she came up. Hated how the mention made your chest ache with something unnameable. Something sharp.

Jealousy wasn’t an emotion you were well-acquainted with. But that’s what it felt like—quiet and persistent, crawling under your skin like an itch you couldn’t quite scratch. And no matter how many times you rolled your eyes or told yourself it was ridiculous, the truth was always waiting beneath the denial: this wasn’t just friendship anymore. At least, not on your side.

It confused you, unsettled you in ways you didn’t know how to voice. You weren’t scared because Rafayel was a girl. That wasn’t what made your heart race and your thoughts spiral. It was the vulnerability of it, the helpless newness of it. The part of you that didn’t know how to act now, how to look at her without wondering if she could see it inyour eyes.

And maybe it was the fact that you had no idea how she’d feel if she knew. Because you’d heard the rumors, the late-night whispers and drunken hallway drama. Stories about kisses at parties, flirtations that leaned both ways. Rafayel wasn’t known for relationships, but she wasn’t known for being closed off either. You’d pieced the truth together slowly, listening without asking, tucking away small details.

She might be bisexual. That was the quiet conclusion you reached. And the realization was a strange mix of comfort and terror—because suddenly, the possibility existed. And with it, came every question you’d been avoiding. Every fantasy you didn’t dare name. Every what-if that now had just enough oxygen to burn.

————

The campus was buzzing with life—students hauling duffel bags and suitcases across uneven walkways, laughter spilling from open car doors, voices calling out greetings that blurred together in the sun-soaked air. Some wore the wide-eyed wonder of freshmen stepping into a brand-new world. Others looked like they'd barely survived the last semester and were already dreading the one ahead.

You stood somewhere in the middle of that spectrum. There was a quiet thrill to being back, to returning to a space that had started to feel like your own. You looked forward to slipping back into the rhythm of campus life, to reclaiming the small routines you’d built in that shared dorm room. But layered over the comfort was a thread of unease, one that had tangled itself deeper with every step closer to your door.

Three months. That’s how long it had been since you last saw Rafayel in person. Sure, you’d seen her—her face on your screen, her voice crackling through video calls, her texts chiming in at ungodly hours with chaotic energy and blurry photos. And yet, the distance between you had felt real. Tangible. Like a pause button had been pressed on something you couldn’t quite name.

Her smile still made you grin, even from afar—soft and involuntary, sometimes even exasperated, especially when she went on some dramatic rant or gave you a tour of whatever weird café she had found that week. But none of it had prepared you for seeing her again in person.

You had just started unpacking, hands methodically placing books on the shelf, clothing folded into neat drawers, when the door slammed open behind you with all the grace of a thunderclap.

“Roomie!” she announced, sing-song and smug.

You jolted, nearly dropping the sweater in your hands as you turned—only to find her already stepping inside like she owned the air around her. Which, of course, she kind of did.

Rafayel stood in the doorway, her purple hair pulled up in a messy, glitter-dusted bun, sunglasses perched on her head, and that ever-familiar backpack sliding off her shoulder like it had no weight at all. Her eyes—those sharp, gleaming amethysts—scanned the room and landed on you with a satisfied grin.

“Already at it, huh?” she teased, eyeing your half-organized side of the dorm. “I was gone three seconds and you’re already nesting.”

You didn’t even have time to reply before she was crossing the room with that effortless stride of hers and throwing her arm around your shoulders, pulling you flush against her side.

The hug caught you off guard. Not because it was unfamiliar—but because of how familiar it was.

You scoffed a quiet laugh, returning the hug almost without thinking, your body reacting before your brain had time to catch up. You hadn’t realized how much you’d missed this. Missed her.

Despite the way your heart kicked once—just once, sharp and fast—you didn’t pull away. You leaned into it. The scent of her—something floral, something wild—hit you instantly, dizzying in its closeness.

“Well, aren’t you clingy as usual?” you murmured, a small smile tugging at your lips as she finally let you go, stepping back with a dramatic gasp.

“Excuse you,” she said, hand on her hip. “I’m being warm. Affectionate. Which, might I add, is very on-brand for someone who was sorely missed.”

“Uh-huh,” you said dryly, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t act like you didn’t miss me.” she tilted her head, eyes glittering, voice lilting just slightly toward the edge of flirtation. “You totally did. Bet you cried into your pillow every night.”

You laughed, but something about the way she said it—the way her voice curled around the words, soft and teasing—landed differently. It tugged at your chest in a way you weren’t prepared for. And your cheeks… well, you hoped to God they weren’t warming, though they absolutely were.

You cleared your throat and smirked, reaching for the safety of banter.

“Please. The only thing I missed was sleeping without your nightly concert of Instagram reels at full volume.”

“Ouch.” she clutched her chest. “Wounded. Betrayed. And here I was, thinking of getting you a welcome-back cupcake.”

“You can still get me the cupcake,” you said, folding your arms. “As an apology for that entrance. My heart’s still recovering.”

“Oh, c’mon,” she drawled with a wink. “That was nothing.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. And inside, quietly, you were buzzing. Because being with her again felt like flipping a light switch—everything was suddenly louder, brighter, more real. The room hadn’t felt full until she walked into it. And now that she was here, throwing her backpack onto the bed and talking a mile a minute about the girl on her train who wouldn’t stop sneezing—you were starting to realize just how long you’d been holding your breath. And now, you didn’t quite know how to let it out.

Falling back into the rhythm of campus life came naturally—like slipping on an old, well-worn sweater that still smelled faintly of summer. The dorm room was exactly how you’d left it, with its too-thin walls and soft hum of traffic from the street below. And Rafayel… well, she fit back into your life like she’d never left at all.

She was sprawled out across her bed, limbs languid and unapologetically relaxed, the ends of her purple hair spilling across her pillow like ink. A half-empty iced coffee sat sweating on the nightstand next to her speaker, which hummed with a song you didn’t recognize—something dreamy and full of bass. She hummed along absently, scrolling through her phone with one hand while animatedly recounting the chaos of her summer with the other.

“So we get to these cliffs, right?” she began, eyes bright as she shifted to prop herself on one elbow. “And my friend Riley’s like, ‘No one’s actually gonna jump, we’re just pretending,’ and of course I’m already kicking off my shoes before she even finishes her sentence.”

You blinked at her. “You jumped first?”

Rafayel gave you a look like you’d just asked if the sky was blue. “Head first into freezing water. I may or may not have screamed the whole way down, but it was iconic, okay?”

You laughed, the sound spilling out of you before you could stop it—genuine, warm, a little disbelieving. “You’re insane.”

“Thank you,” she said, flashing a grin, clearly taking it as a compliment. “Honestly, I think I peaked. It’s all downhill from here.”

She launched into another story—something about a bonfire that turned into a karaoke contest and ended with her getting a makeshift crown made of glow sticks. You listened, smiling as she spoke, her words tumbling over each other in their rush to be heard. It was so her—spontaneous, magnetic, a little chaotic. But charming, always. Effortlessly charming.

And when she turned to you, eyes expectant and voice lilting, it caught you off guard.

“Okay, your turn,” she said, rolling onto her stomach and kicking her feet in the air. “Tell me everything. And don’t you dare say nothing happened, or I’ll cry. Real tears.”

You chuckled softly. “You won’t cry.”

“Try me,” she challenged, narrowing her eyes playfully.

You hesitated, not because you didn’t want to share, but because everything you could think to say felt so small next to her stories. But still, you told her about your summer—the quiet moments that felt like home. Lazy mornings with your childhood friends, stargazing on the roof of your cousin’s house, falling asleep in hammocks with a book balanced on your chest. You skipped over the more complicated parts, the restless nights spent thinking of her.

She listened, chin propped on her hand, expression soft and focused. And when you finished, her face lit up.

“That sounds perfect,” she said, almost dreamily. “Like the kind of summer they write songs about. Way better than mine. No cliff-diving-induced near-death experiences. Just vibes.”

You snorted. “You jumped off a cliff. I organized my bookshelves.”

“And I’d still trade,” she said, bumping her shoulder into yours as she passed by, heading to the closet for her slippers.

You watched her move, more out of instinct than intent—and that was the problem. Your eyes followed the sweep of her hair, the delicate arch of her back, the curve of bare shoulders peeking through the strange, flowy tank top only she could pull off. Her shorts were patterned and a little too intricate to be casual, but somehow they worked. Of course they worked.

And your heart did that thing again—that stupid skip that had no right making itself known.

You blinked, forcing your gaze away, pretending to dig through your backpack for something that didn’t exist. You reminded yourself of what you’d decided this summer. You weren’t going to say anything. Not yet. Maybe not ever. It wasn’t fear of how she might react—Rafayel wasn’t cruel. She’d never laugh at your feelings. She’d never belittle something like that.

No, it wasn’t her you didn’t trust. It was yourself. Your certainty. Or lack thereof. Because what if this was a fluke? What if this wasn’t real? What if this whole mess of emotions was just one long, slow unraveling you’d regret later?

So you didn’t say anything. You told yourself there was too much at stake. And if keeping her in your life meant swallowing this new, shaky truth, then so be it.

You moved through the weeks as if nothing had changed. Classes began. Deadlines crept in. Simone and Tara became your weekday constants, swapping notes and coffee orders with you as you pieced together projects in cluttered libraries and overfull group chats. You fell into the rhythm again, predictable and safe.

But Rafayel was the storm you always returned to. She still swept into your life like she was born to exist in motion—bursting into the dorm with your favorite takeout after a bad day, shoving iced coffee into your hand with a breathless “I’m so late, drink this while I change,” as if it were nothing. She still danced in the center of every party, effortlessly lit from within. People were drawn to her, pulled into her gravity.

And somehow, through all of it, she kept showing up just for you.

————

It came out of nowhere. Or maybe, if you were being honest, it had been coming all along—drifting quietly beneath the surface, waiting for a moment like this to finally break through.

It was a Wednesday afternoon, middle of November, the kind where the air had a bite but the sun still clung stubbornly to the sky. You were in that odd lull between classes, walking across campus with Rafayel, who had declared—loudly and dramatically—that she was suffering from "emotional starvation" and needed coffee and sugar immediately, otherwise she would simply perish.

You had rolled your eyes, of course. “You act like we haven’t been living in the same room for the past two months.”

“Exactly,” she’d said, linking your arm with hers like it was the most natural thing in the world. “We’ve been cohabiting, not living. There’s a difference, cutie.”

Her words were exaggerated, but her pout was real, and eventually, with a sigh and a reluctant smile tugging at your lips, you let her drag you out toward the campus café. There was something oddly grounding about walking beside her in the thinning autumn light, your fingers cold from holding your drink, her voice animated and full of unfinished thoughts. She talked about deadlines and professors and the disaster of her last group project—and you listened, letting her energy warm the space between you.

And then it happened. You were walking past the long path that cut through the edge of campus, nearly bare trees standing like skeletons on either side, when Rafayel suddenly gasped.

It was a soft sound at first, surprised and bright, followed by a burst of movement as she darted forward without a word, arms flinging out as she threw herself at a girl walking in the opposite direction.

The girl staggered back with a half-laugh, caught off guard but not unhappy about it. And that’s when you knew—they knew each other. Not casually. Not vaguely. The kind of knowing that came with late-night memories and shared secrets. That easy rhythm of familiarity between them, the way they smiled, the way their bodies leaned toward each other without thinking—it told you more than words ever could.

Your footsteps slowed. Rafayel was beaming, her arms still loosely looped around the girl’s shoulders, both of them laughing over something you couldn’t hear. And then she turned, eyes catching yours like a spark across a wire.

“Oh! This is her,” Rafayel said, voice laced with sudden excitement. “This is the girl I told you about—the girl from the summer camp, one of the cliff jumpers.”

Your breath caught in your throat, though you somehow managed to smile.

“Nice to meet you,” you said, holding out your hand like it didn’t cost you anything.

The girl shook it, friendly enough, but her focus was elsewhere. Her attention hung on Rafayel with a kind of quiet possessiveness, stepping a little too close, touching her arm just a little too long. And Rafayel didn’t move away.

You hated the way it made your chest tighten. Jealousy, you realized, wasn’t as loud as people made it seem. It wasn’t rage or confrontation. It was the quiet panic behind your ribs. The sharp, stupid ache in your throat when someone else stood in a space you thought you’d somehow earned without ever saying so.

You stood there for another moment or two, exchanged pleasantries, let the conversation roll over you like static. And then, thankfully, Rafayel’s hand found your wrist.

“C’mon,” she said, tugging you gently back onto the path. “We’ve got pastries with our names on them.”

You walked beside her in silence at first, sipping your coffee and pretending you weren’t still picturing the girl’s hands on her arms. Her laugh echoing against someone else’s skin. And the memory stayed with you long after.

And what you hadn’t expected—what truly caught you off guard—was the realization that Rafayel had noticed something too.

At first, she didn’t say anything. Just watched you with that tilted head and narrowed gaze she used when she was trying to figure out a painting that didn’t quite make sense. You’d smile, just a little too tightly, every time the girl’s name came up. You’d deflect with a joke, change the subject, or busy yourself with something trivial. You thought you were being subtle. You weren’t.

And Rafayel, for all her flair and theatricality, was exceptionally good at reading people. Especially you. She didn’t bring it up. She knew you. Knew that if she asked directly, you’d laugh it off or dodge the question entirely. Maybe you’d even get annoyed. No—she knew better than that.

Instead, she started noticing the little things. The way your brows furrowed when she mentioned the girl’s name. The way your voice dipped a fraction when you asked how her day went and she casually added, “Oh, I ran into her again.”

At first, she brushed it off. Maybe she was overthinking. Maybe it was just your usual resting frown face. But she kept noticing. Again and again.

And what bothered her more than your reactions was how familiar it felt—this kind of quiet retreat. This kind of guardedness. It reminded her of herself.

Because for all the ways you were different—structured, grounded, quieter—you shared one thing in common: you both hid your real feelings behind carefully constructed façades. You pretended nothing was wrong until it burned.

So Rafayel didn’t press. She just kept watching. And wondered when, if ever, you’d tell her what you were really feeling.

————

One thing about Rafayel—she was stunning even with no makeup on. Unfairly so. The kind of beautiful that didn’t ask for attention but caught it anyway, like sunlight filtering through curtains on a slow morning.

Right now, she was sprawled across her bed in nothing but a towel, legs bare, damp strands of lavender hair sticking to her shoulders as she leaned toward her small mirror. She applied her makeup with lazy precision, flicking her eyeliner with practiced ease, humming something under her breath to the rhythm of the music playing softly from her phone.

You were supposed to be focused. The project open on your laptop demanded it—pages of research waiting for your attention—but your eyes had other plans. They drifted. Again and again. To the curve of her shoulder. The way the towel clung to the tops of her thighs. The delicate motion of her hand as she swept highlighter across her cheekbone.

She looked softer like this, glowing in the quiet light, but you knew that softness would soon be layered over with something bolder. She was clearly preparing for another party—tonight’s look already shaping into something vibrant, dramatic, Rafayel.

And lately,  she hadn’t been going alone. That girl—the girl—had started appearing more and more in Rafayel’s stories. Her name, her laugh, some inside joke you weren’t a part of. It had become a pattern. A presence.

And every time she was mentioned, something unpleasant curled in your chest. Jealousy, maybe. Resentment, even. And while you knew you had no right to feel that way, knowing didn’t make it stop. You’d tried to push it down, to smother it with reason, but feelings didn’t care about logic. They simply existed, rising quietly until they drowned you.

You hadn’t said much all night. Too quiet, too still. And Rafayel being Rafayel, noticed. She flicked a glance your way, eyes narrowing just slightly. Then she leaned back on her elbows and tilted her head toward you.

“You’re being suspiciously boring tonight,” she said, the corners of her mouth twitching upward. “Like… emotionally constipated levels of boring. Do I need to check your pulse?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

She smirked. “I’ve been talking to myself for the last ten minutes, and I know you’re not working because your screen hasn’t scrolled once. Either you’re dead inside, or you’re mad at me.”

You exhaled a soft laugh, forcing your shoulders to relax. “I’m not mad.”

“Hmm,” she said, clearly not believing you. “Then you’re brooding. Which is worse.”

You tried to muster something light in return, something to deflect, but your words came out a little too flat. A little too practiced. “I’m just tired.”

Rafayel gave you a look—one of those long, assessing ones that made you feel like she was seeing through the spaces between your words. But she didn’t press. Not directly. Instead, she brightened with her usual flair, flipping her brush dramatically between her fingers.

“Perfect,” she announced. “You need to unwind. Come with me tonight.”

You blinked. “To the party?”

She nodded. “Obviously. You’ve been acting like a ghost lately, and I miss your adorable semi-social presence.”

“I—” You hesitated, and she caught it immediately.

Her smile turned sly. “What, you’re too tired and too antisocial now? Damn. The bar is in hell.”

You snorted, and something about the way she grinned at that made the tension in your chest ease, just a little.

“Fine,” you muttered. “I’ll come. But don’t expect me to dance or socialize.”

Rafayel gasped. “You wound me. You come to a party with me and expect to sit in a corner? You know that’s illegal, right?”

You shook your head, but you were smiling now—genuinely. And she knew it.

Normally, you wouldn’t have hesitated. These invitations were familiar by now—spontaneous, chaotic, and very her. You would have sighed, maybe rolled your eyes, and followed her out into the night with a quiet kind of surrender. But tonight, your voice had stilled at the edges. It came out flatter than usual, your smile a shade too polished, like something gently rehearsed. A pause lingered where certainty used to be.

Rafayel noticed, because nothing seemed to get past her lately. But she didn’t ask. She just turned up the volume on her usual charm, laughing brighter, teasing louder, as though she could press her warmth into the quiet spaces and coax you back out again. And eventually, you gave in. You always did.

But this time, you moved differently. You’d slipped away to get ready before she could pick through your closet the way she usually did, before she could spin your reluctance into another dress-up game. When you returned, dressed and composed, something in the room shifted.

Rafayel had always thought you were beautiful. Not the loud, attention-stealing kind of beauty—the kind that people turned around for without knowing why. It was quieter. Something that lived in the curve of your smile when you were amused but trying not to show it, or in the way you concentrated when you were focused, oblivious to the world. It had always been there, just beneath the surface, and Rafayel had noticed. Again and again.

But tonight—tonight was different. When you stepped into view, something stilled in her. You weren’t trying to make a statement, not like she did. And yet, you made one anyway. Not through glitter or shine or bold color, but through the quiet confidence in the way the fabric clung to you. It wasn’t something she’d picked for you, but it suited you—more than she wanted to admit.

She let her eyes linger, just for a moment. Longer than she probably should have.

You looked... stunning. Hot, if she had to put a word to it. But she’d already known that. It just hit different tonight—undeniable in the dim dorm light, like seeing a painting she thought she knew in an entirely new frame.

Her mind flickered briefly, curiously, to the question that had circled her thoughts more than once before.  Was it a choice?The way you’d never spoken about anyone, never hinted at crushes or weekend flings. It wasn’t possible that no one had been interested. You were too striking, too sharp, too you for that. Which left only one possibility—that you had kept yourself untouched on purpose.

The thought stirred something in her—part fascination, part something else. Still, she was quick to compose herself, smoothing her features into something more familiar. A smirk curled at her lips, practiced and easy, as she finally turned fully to face you.

“Look who’s finally catching up,” she said, her voice dipped in that usual flirtation—light, effortless, never serious enough to demand a response. Her tone dripped with suggestion without naming the thing at all.

You were distracted, though. Lost in your own mess of thoughts. You hadn’t noticed the way her gaze had softened for half a second before it sharpened again. You didn’t catch the pause in her breath.

Because your focus had shifted too—and now it was your turn to forget yourself.

You looked at her in the mirror. You told yourself you were used to this by now. The way she dressed, the way she owned her space. But something about the way her shirt clung tonight—low at the neckline, deliberate in its looseness—paired with those jeans that sat low on her hips, framing her body like a sculptor had designed it all by hand—it caught you off guard.

Her waist curved into something unfair. The silver glint of her belly piercing shimmered when she shifted, and your eyes followed the arc of movement before you could stop them. It was a second too long. Just enough to feel it.

You blinked hard and looked away, heart suddenly a little louder than before, as if your body realized something your mind wasn’t ready to name.

To save yourself, you cleared your throat and reached for levity. “Are you planning on causing a scene tonight?”

Rafayel’s smirk sharpened like a blade sliding into silk.

“Sweetheart,” she purred, turning to grab her bag with slow, purposeful grace, “I am the scene.”

She didn’t glance back, but you caught the smile she wore as she said it—knowing, wicked, and just this side of affectionate.

You swallowed a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, barely able to stop your own smile from curling behind your lips. And somewhere beneath all that teasing and laughter, something delicate and dangerous shifted in the space between you.

————

Parties had never been your thing—and Rafayel knew that. But she still looped her fingers through yours with the same breezy confidence she always wore like perfume, and you still followed her into the pulsing noise and swirling crowd of the off-campus frat house like gravity itself had lured you in.

It was packed. Music thrummed through the floors and bodies pressed far too close, but tonight, none of that mattered. You didn’t even flinch at the noise or the spill of light bouncing off cheap decorations. You welcomed it. Needed it. Something—anything—to drown out the thoughts that had taken up residence in your head lately.

Or more accurately, the person.

You’d been trying to ignore it. That persistent hum in your veins whenever she touched you. The way your gaze drifted and lingered—on her bare legs in shorts that never seemed to be long enough, on the soft curve of her lips when she pouted for dramatic effect, on the subtle sway of her hips when she walked like the world owed her applause.

It had crossed into dangerous territory weeks ago. It wasn’t just admiration anymore. It wasn’t even the innocent kind of crush you could laugh off.

Your thoughts were getting bold—the kind that made you flush in the middle of the night when you remembered how it felt to wake up to her warm body sprawled beside yours in bed, her hair tickling your arm, her breath soft and slow. The kind that made your heart race when she stood a little too close. When she leaned in to whisper some biting, flirty remark into your ear just to watch you flinch.

So when her hand found yours again, weaving through the heat and crowd, your breath caught—sharp and sudden in your throat. Her fingers were long and cool against your palm. Elegant. She always held you like she knew you'd follow. And you did.

But as you walked behind her, winding through the music and the laughter and the haze of cheap beer and perfume, your thoughts spiraled again. Why wasn’t she meeting anyone tonight?

That question was meant to stay in your head. But your lips moved before your mind could stop them, casting it out like a careless net.

Rafayel tilted her head as you spoke, her eyes drifting toward the makeshift bar where someone had arranged bottles with questionable labels and an assortment of glowing mixers. She seemed distracted at first, scanning the options like she was choosing artwork for a gallery wall.

Her answer came with the same nonchalance she wore like a second skin, voice lilting, playful. Not even looking at you. But her words hit like icewater in your chest. Because she mentioned her. That girl. The one who lingered too close in every memory you didn’t want to keep replaying. The one with smiles that felt rehearsed and touches that screamed intention. The one Rafayel was supposed to meet tonight. The one she’d chosen before.

You knew it. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you already knew. But hearing it aloud stirred something sharp. Bitter. Not even jealousy anymore—something quieter and just a bit tad too dangerous. Disappointment.

She turned back to you a moment later with a drink in her hand and that familiar smirk blooming on her lips—rosy, effortless, infuriatingly beautiful. She pressed the cup into your palm without comment, like always. Like nothing had shifted between you. But it had.

Your fingers wrapped around the plastic, but your mind was somewhere else—tugging at the edges of your self-control like an unraveling thread. The words came before you could stop them.

“I mean, you don’t have to babysit me,” you said lightly, but your voice came out flatter than intended. “You could still go meet up with them.”

You didn’t look at her when you said it. You took a sip of the drink instead, trying to ignore how your hand trembled faintly at the rim.

Rafayel blinked once. The smirk faltered—not fully gone, but fractured just enough to show the hairline crack beneath it. Her expression didn’t shift into something dramatic or angry. That wasn’t her. But there was something behind her eyes now—a small furrow between her brows, a flicker of confusion, maybe even something close to hurt.

“…Is that what you think I’m doing?” she asked, voice still light, but noticeably slower.

You shrugged, forcing a laugh that didn’t quite make it past your lips. “Just saying. You don't have to stay with me the whole night out of pity.”

Silence. Not awkward, but heavy. The kind that settles in your ribs and makes it harder to breathe.

She stared at you for a beat longer than necessary. And then, as if on cue, her mask slid back into place—smirk tilting upward, lashes low, gaze unreadable.

“You know, cutie,” she murmured, leaning just a little closer, “if I wanted to be somewhere else, I wouldn’t be here.”

You weren’t sure what stung more—her not saying the girl’s name again, or how much you wanted to believe her.

Rafayel turned slightly, the glitter of her top catching the pulse of the party lights as she faced the mess of bodies on the makeshift dancefloor. From where you stood by the counter, you saw the smirk tug at her lips as she sipped her drink, head tilting as she watched a guy nearly drool all over himself while attempting a body shot off a girl too busy laughing to care.

She rolled her eyes with a soft huff of amusement, the curve of her mouth curling higher as if she were watching a poorly written scene unfold in real time.

You followed her gaze, grateful for the distraction, trying to steer your mind anywhere but where it kept circling. The alcohol she’d handed you was sticky-sweet with something sharp buried underneath, burning down your throat like it was punishing you for every thought you weren’t supposed to have.

You leaned back against the counter, letting the low thump of bass vibrate through the room, through your bones. Rafayel looked relaxed again, or at least she wore it well—shoulders easy, one hip cocked as she rested her elbow beside you, the edge of her cup balanced lazily in her other hand. Still, you couldn’t help but wonder if your earlier comment had thrown her off more than she let on.

But before you could spiral further, she turned toward you with that unmistakable glint in her eye—the one that always came before trouble.

“Should I be bold enough to propose something?” she asked, head tilting, her voice syrupy with mischief.

You met her gaze, raising a brow with slow defiance. You’d learned by now not to flinch first—she liked it when you gave her resistance, liked pressing until you bent, just a little.

“That depends,” you murmured, angling closer without meaning to, your voice lower, laced with challenge. “Should I be concerned?”

Her laugh was low and honeyed, a dramatic little whine threading through it as she brought her drink back to her lips. “Ouch. No faith in me at all. How disappointing.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth curved despite yourself. It was always like this with her—this push and pull, teasing and toeing the line of something you didn’t know if it should be crossed.

She tipped the rest of her drink back in one motion, throat working in a way that drew your eyes before you could catch yourself. You looked away too late. If she noticed, she said nothing. Instead, she leaned in, eyes flicking toward the chaos of the living room before turning back to you, voice smooth as silk. “Tell me, sweet thing… ever done a body shot before?”

The words slipped from her lips like a secret. Her tone was light—too light. Playful on the surface, but there was something beneath it, something languid and dangerous, something that made your stomach tighten and your skin prickle.

You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t. Not with the image crashing through your mind like a match to gasoline.

Because of course she had. Rafayel was the kind of girl who turned any room into her playground, who was always five steps ahead, daring others to keep up. You’d always been content trailing behind—until lately. Until the way she touched your wrist lingered too long. Until her laughter started to feel like a private invitation. Until her gaze began to feel like it was peeling you open.

So you didn’t respond with a yes or no. You just scoffed softly and let her take your hand again, your skin burning where she gripped you, tugging you through the crowd. The music got louder, the lights blurrier, voices sharper with alcohol and laughter.

Someone whistled nearby. A cheer went up as a guy—half-naked and smug—took a shot off a girl’s stomach with unnecessary flourish. You recognized them vaguely: the usual suspects, the self-declared kings and queens of campus. Always loud. Always extra.

Rafayel barely spared them a glance before securing your spot in the next round like she’d done this a hundred times before—and you suspected she had. She turned to you then, one hand perched on her hip, the other resting on the edge of the table, her smirk curling with amusement. It wasn’t quite cocky. But it was close.

“So,” she purred, leaning in just a touch, “wanna take it off me… or should I go first and show you how it’s done, newbie?”

Her voice danced around the words, casual, playful—but the drop in her tone was unmistakable. Velvet and heat. It wasn't intended to be seductive. Probably. But your body didn't know the difference.

Your mouth went dry. Your brain short-circuited. And your imagination—traitorous thing that it was—offered up an entirely different version of what those words could mean. The tension coiled low, dangerously low. Your stomach twisted with something that felt embarrassingly close to butterflies. Lower still, heat flickered at the base of your spine.

You caught yourself just before you could visibly blush. Tilting your head, you leaned closer, close enough to catch the faint scent of her perfume—something floral, warm, her—and offered a smile of your own. One that barely masked how flustered you were.

“How about you just surprise me instead?” you said, tone soft, almost lazy, letting the words hang there. “Or are you too much of a tease to commit?”

Rafayel’s smirk twitched, just slightly—like she hadn’t expected you to throw it back that smooth. Her eyes narrowed in amusement.

“Oh?” she drawled, fingers drifting over the edge of the table as she chose her shot. “Someone’s getting brave tonight.”

You were. But only because the alcohol had blurred your hesitation, and the way she looked at you made it so easy to forget every reason why you shouldn’t be. And you had a feeling this night was only getting started.

Rafayel turned toward the shot table with the same ease she moved through every space—like the world always made room for her. The glass caught a glint of light as she poured tequila, the golden liquid sloshing slightly before settling, and she hummed in approval, lips curving with amusement.

Then, without looking, her hand landed on your shoulder, firm and warm, and gently nudged you backward. Not forceful, but guiding. Protective, even—though she’d never admit it that way.

You let her steer you, stepping away from the rowdy cluster gathering near the drinks, noting how her gaze flicked toward the louder group with a hint of disdain. You suspected she didn’t want an audience—especially not that one. You couldn’t agree more. These moments always felt a little like they belonged to just you and her anyway, whether you wanted them to or not.

You still lingered close to the table, eyes darting to the tequila glass in her hand, then lower—drawn to the wedges of lime nestled in a plastic dish, glistening under the low kitchen lights.

“Go on,” Rafayel said, voice lilting with mischief, “Pick one.”

You shot her a look, already reaching for the lime. “You know I’ve had tequila before, right? I’m not that clueless.”

She laughed at that—sweet and unbothered, the sound warm enough to wrap around you and pull you in. There was no mockery in it, just that syrupy delight she always took when you pushed back a little.

“I know,” she replied, her tone light but edged with something softer, almost approving. “But you’re cute when you act like you’ve got it all figured out.”

You rolled your eyes, but the heat rising in your chest was impossible to ignore. There was something in the way she looked at you tonight. Something different. Not intense, not heavy—but curious. Attentive. Like she was seeing a version of you she hadn’t seen before, and didn’t want to look away.

You turned toward her, lime in hand, one brow raised. “So? How does this work?”

You didn’t expect the way her smile curved smaller, more dangerous. Nor the way she leaned in, her breath brushing against your neck—just barely—and igniting something sharp and involuntary inside your chest. Your pulse skipped instantly. Froze. Raced.

“Just follow my lead,” she murmured.

It was barely audible over the music—but she was close enough that you felt the shape of her words against your skin. And before you could respond, before your brain could even form a coherent thought, her tongue swept slowly over the side of your neck.

Your body jolted, breath caught halfway between a gasp and a prayer. A shiver rippled up your spine, subtle but uncontrollable. You didn’t even realize you’d gone rigid until she pulled back and you exhaled all at once, trying to ignore how warm your cheeks had gotten.

Rafayel said nothing. But the glint in her eyes spoke volumes. She saw everything.

“Head up for me,” she said next, gentle but commanding, and you obeyed without argument. The moment felt suspended in time. Detached from the chaos around you.

She poured a trail of salt over the exact spot she’d just licked, her fingers lingering a second too long on your jaw as she straightened. Then her gaze caught yours again—and something had shifted. The lights played tricks with her features, casting shadows across the edge of her jaw, but her amethyst eyes were unmistakably darker now. Focused. Almost predatory.

“Now,” she said, her lips curling as she licked them absentmindedly, “Put the lime between your lips.”

Her voice was casual, but your body didn’t register it as such. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. Still, you complied—tucking the lime between your teeth, grimacing slightly at the sharp, bitter tang that met your tongue.

Rafayel chuckled lowly, clearly amused by your expression, but didn’t give you the chance to overthink. She stepped closer. One step. Two. Close enough now that her chest nearly brushed yours.

Her gaze never left yours. Not when she leaned in again. Not when her tongue dragged slowly across the salted skin of your neck with deliberate, maddening pressure. The sensation left your knees feeling a little less certain beneath you, left your lungs tight and shallow.

Then she straightened and threw back the shot in one clean motion, head tipped, the line of her throat exposed as she swallowed.

You weren’t sure where to look—her lips, the curve of her neck, or the floor. Anything but the wild thudding in your chest and the heat that had pooled embarrassingly low in your stomach.

But you didn’t have time to process. Because she turned to you again—and now her face was inches away, her breath warm, her mouth hovering. And without breaking eye contact, Rafayel leaned in and took the other side of the lime between her lips, her mouth brushing yours in a way that wasn’t quite a kiss. But wasn’t not one, either.

She sucked on the lime slowly, letting the motion linger. The space between you was charged, electric, and your entire body buzzed from it—frozen, strung tight, painfully aware of every single inch where you didn’t touch but could.

Your lips were so close it was maddening. And your mind, stupid and helpless, started spinning. What if there wasn’t this stupid lime between you? What would her mouth taste like? And why did your body ache to find out?

Then, mercifully—or not—she pulled back, tongue darting across her lips to chase the last of the bitterness. You swallowed hard and removed the lime, tossing it onto the table, your fingers trembling more than you cared to admit.

Rafayel was smirking again—but the look in her eyes wasn’t just teasing anymore. It was sharper now, reading you, cataloguing every twitch of your expression, every breath you hadn’t fully taken.

You didn’t know what to do with that. So you smirked back, because pretending was easier, safer. You leaned casually on the edge of the counter, tilting your head. “So that’s the famous body shot, huh?”

Rafayel braced her hand beside you on the table, trapping you in place without touching you, her breath still laced with tequila and citrus.

“Hope I didn’t disappoint,” she replied with a mock-innocent shrug, eyes dancing with heat and something almost smug.

Your pulse thudded stubbornly in your throat, loud enough that it almost drowned out the music around you. The burn from the body shot still lingered on your skin, but it was nothing compared to the way your heart raced, thundering ahead of your thoughts. A thousand of them, chaotic and conflicting, tripped over each other in your head.

Don’t read too much into it. That’s what you told yourself. That’s what you had to tell yourself. Because Rafayel was like that—flirty, playful, always dancing on the edge of meaning and meaninglessness. Her words were sugar-laced, her touches light, designed more to amuse herself than seduce anyone. You’d seen it before. She flirted with friends, strangers, bartenders, sometimes just to see how red their cheeks would go. And tonight? You were probably just the latest subject of her attention.

The way she’d smirked when your breath caught, how she’d laughed—warm, sweet, and unapologetic—when you tried to play it cool. It was her. It was just her. That carefree, teasing rhythm she carried everywhere she went.

But still, you couldn’t help wondering if there’d been something else in the way she looked at you. A flicker too long. A shift too subtle. Her hand on your jaw hadn’t felt indifferent. Her breath on your neck hadn't been meaningless.

Or maybe you were just losing it. Because the truth—the ugly, inconvenient truth—was that your heart wanted it to mean something. And that was the entire problem. You were smart enough to know better. Smart enough to protect yourself. Or at least you should have been.

But instead, you reached for the bottle. The tequila sloshed slightly as you poured yourself a shot, pretending you didn’t feel her eyes on you. You licked a dash of salt from the back of your hand, welcomed the burn of the alcohol as it scraped its way down your throat, and winced at the sharp tang of lime.

A soft chuckle cut through the bass-heavy music. You didn’t have to look to know it was her. Rafayel leaned in, her breath warm against your cheek, still tinged with tequila. “Wanted a taste for yourself too, hm?”

You didn’t answer, not right away. Then she added, voice lower, almost murmured, “Not brave enough to try what I taught you just now?”

There was a curl of a smile in her tone. Flirty, yes. But deliberately light. As if the moment from before hadn’t registered as anything worth lingering on. As if you were already supposed to have let it go.

You turned to face her, lips parting on a dry response—something sarcastic, something safe—but you never got the chance to say it. Because someone else appeared, cutting through the crowd like she owned the night.

She practically launched herself toward Rafayel, one arm flinging around her shoulders with a practiced ease that made your stomach twist. Rafayel straightened in surprise, blinking once, caught off guard—but not pulling away. And you went still immediately.

Your lips pressed into a tight, polite line, one you couldn’t mask fast enough. Of course it had to be her. That girl. The one who always seemed to orbit Rafayel a little too closely. She’d never done anything directly to you—no insults, no blatant disrespect—but she didn’t have to. The way she smiled at you like she knew something you didn’t, the way she lingered around Rafayel with a sense of ownership, was enough to twist the knife.

And now she leaned into Rafayel’s side like it was routine, like her body fit naturally there, like she belonged. Your insides tensed. Alcohol made everything feel warmer, louder. Emotions you could normally swallow down rose a little too fast, too raw. Still, you forced a smile. Stiff. Fragile.

She returned it with one that didn’t even try to pretend. Her hand, previously looped around Rafayel’s shoulder, casually slid lower, fingers finding her waist like it was second nature.

“Ayel,” she purred, gaze focused only on Rafayel. A small, calculated pout formed on her lips. “Didn’t think you’d actually show up. Why didn’t you look for me?”

Me, not us. The way she said it was intentional—whether she realized it or not. And that nickname… Ayel... it fell from her tongue with too much sweetness, too much history. Like it was hers. Like she was hers.

You swallowed hard, smile frozen in place. It was a mess of feelings. Jealousy? Definitely. Insecurity? That too. But more than anything, it was the sinking realization that, for all the ways tonight had felt different—for all the ways Rafayel had looked at you—you were still probably just another moment in her never-ending string of playful flirtations.

And maybe you hated how much you cared about that.

You turned to her with a practiced ease, meeting Rafayel’s gaze with something light, something that pretended not to sting, but your next words weren’t addressed to Rafayel, but to the girl.

“Sorry for keeping her away from you,” you said smoothly, almost breezily. “Told her she didn’t have to stay with me tonight. She could’ve joined you.”

Then, before Rafayel could say anyting, you turned back to the table and downed another shot. It hit harder than the last. Or maybe that was just your chest tightening.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Rafayel frown, something unreadable flashing in her expression. But you didn’t linger. You focused on the shot glass, the lime rind, the burning trail of alcohol that numbed things just enough.

The girl laughed softly—one of those feigned, sweet sounds laced with something sharp. She shifted closer to Rafayel again, fingers still teasing at her waist, trying too hard to pull attention back toward her.

“I didn’t think you’d bring your roomie,” she said, voice dripping with a false kind of niceness. “But hey—surprise of the night, right? I missed you. Had no one to keep me company. The guys were unbearable. Drunk and loud and doing the usual dumb shit.”

You could imagine the pout on her face without even looking. And you didn’t want to look. You didn’t want to see any more of her hands on Rafayel. Didn’t want to hear another syrupy word from her mouth. Didn’t want to feel the way Rafayel’s silence stirred something inside you—something that hurt more than you could rationalize.

You just wanted the night to end. Or maybe just for her to go.

But the worst part was that you still weren’t sure what Rafayel was thinking. Not really. Not now, not ever. And that—more than anything—made your chest ache.

Despite catching the flicker in your expression—the way your posture closed in on itself, the way your voice lost just a shade of warmth—Rafayel still turned to the girl with her usual ease. Not flirtatious this time, but playful enough to remain perfectly, frustratingly ambiguous. She didn’t push the girl away, but she did shift, just slightly, her weight leaning toward neutrality. Not quite enough to reassure you. Not nearly enough.

You didn’t wait to analyze it. You poured another shot like it might wash the jealousy from your bloodstream, like the bitterness of lime and the burn of tequila might numb the ache tightening in your chest. It didn’t. But the glass was cold, the salt sharp, and the moment gave you something to do besides watch Rafayel stand there with someone else’s hands on her body.

You turned toward them with a smile so practiced it could’ve passed for real, your lips still tinged with citrus. “No worries,” you said, voice airy, light, sweet enough to crack your own teeth. “I’ll just see you later. Have fun.”

You didn’t wait for her reply. You spun on your heel, disappearing into the press of bodies before her voice could reach you, before her eyes could hold you still.

The music was loud, pulsing deep in your chest like a second heartbeat. Sweat clung to the back of your neck, bodies moved in chaotic sync, and for once, you welcomed the noise, the distraction, the thrum of everything around you. You let your body sway, loose and light, like your heart wasn’t sinking further with every beat of the song.

Still, behind your closed eyes, all you could see was that girl’s hand on Rafayel’s waist. The syrupy voice. That nickname. The unshakable way it all felt intimate. Like you weren’t even there. Like you never were.

You knew better than to take it personally. Knew that Rafayel was always like this—open, magnetic, untouchable. Her flirtation wasn’t a promise, it was a performance. And tonight, you were just another audience member who’d clapped a little too hard.

You didn’t even flinch when a stranger’s hands landed on your hips from behind. He was warm, unsteady, and swaying with the music like he didn’t quite know where his limbs ended and yours began. You let him. You didn’t care. Or you were trying not to. One song bled into the next, and you kept moving, his chest brushing your back, his hands sliding against your waist like he belonged there.

You didn’t stop him when his mouth ghosted along the side of your neck, breath warm, lips grazing the exact spot where Rafayel’s tongue had lingered just minutes before. Your chest constricted at the memory, and maybe that’s why you let him press a kiss there. Maybe that’s why your body didn’t protest when he turned you around and looked at you like he wanted more.

You kissed him. You kissed him because you could. Because his mouth was there and open and asking, and your skin was too hot and your thoughts too loud. His lips were soft, eager, and tasted vaguely of rum. His tongue slid against yours with practiced ease, and your hands curled loosely around his shoulders, grounding yourself in the motion, not the man. But it wasn’t enough.

At one point you made the huge mistake of opening your eyes, half lidded and dazed, lips still entangled with his. And your eyes, as if by a curse, found Rafayel in the crowd of people. She stood just beyond the crowd, unmistakable even in the haze of pulsing lights and moving shadows. Her lavender hair shimmered faintly beneath the lights, her posture as regal and relaxed as ever. And draped across her, with all the subtlety of a stake through the heart, was the girl.  

Your heart twisted painfully when you saw that the girl had her arms around Rafayel’s neck and was peppering kisses on her neck while swaying to the music. But what twisted the knife was the fact that Rafayel was watching you, and had been for a while, you supposed. Her eyes locked on yours the second you saw her in the crowd. Her gaze didn’t waver, didn’t flinch when you met it. Those amethyst eyes were darker now, something simmering just beneath the surface. You couldn’t name it, didn’t dare to hope. But it held you still—eyes locked even as her hands rested on the other girl’s waist.

You wanted nothing more than to close your eyes and disappear. Run away from this horrible jealousy, this horrible ache. But something in you twisted painfully, so your eyes stayed locked on her unreadable ones as you kept kissing the guy. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the fractured lighting casting shadows across the curve of her jaw. Or maybe it was just the cruel, glittering lie you’d been whispering to yourself for weeks now: that maybe, just maybe, Rafayel saw you as something more than her occasional companion in chaos. That maybe those looks, those touches, that soft curl of her voice when she used your name—maybe they meant something more.

But then, she moved—slowly, deliberately. Her fingers slid into the girl’s hair, tilting her chin up with all the grace of a puppeteer. The girl leaned into it, willing, eager, and a moment later, Rafayel’s lips were on hers—soft, slow, sensual. But her eyes never left yours.

That was what shattered you. She kissed another woman like she meant it, like it was art, but she looked at you while doing it. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Your thoughts dissolved into static, drowned in heat and confusion and something feral curling in your belly.

You should’ve looked away. Should’ve torn your gaze from hers and buried yourself in the anonymity of this boy’s mouth, his hands, his hunger. Instead, you kept kissing him—because what else was there to do? You let his tongue slide against yours, let his fingers tighten at your waist, let your own nails press into his shoulders. A distraction. A punishment. A plea.

And still, Rafayel watched you. Still, her mouth moved against that girl's like she wasn’t tasting her, but you.

A moan slipped from your throat when the boy bit your lower lip, and you hated it. Hated how your body betrayed you, how your skin prickled with heat, how your thighs pressed tighter together as your imagination twisted everything. His hands on your waist became hers. His mouth on your neck—hers. His lips at your ear became the phantom echo of Rafayel’s voice, velvet-smooth and maddeningly sweet.

The ache inside you unfurled into something darker and heavier. Your body burned, aroused and aching and furious all at once. And still—still—you didn’t look away. Because you couldn’t. Because her gaze had you caged and collared and she didn’t even need to say a word.

And somewhere in that unbearable tension, in the exchange of heat and power and silence, a truth cracked open between you. This wasn’t an accident. Rafayel knew exactly what she was doing.

You couldn’t blame her for kissing someone else. Hell, you were also kissing this random guy. That should’ve evened the scale—made it fair, made it easy. But it didn’t feel fair. And nothing about this was easy.

The difference was that you were overthinking everything, trying to stitch meaning into the silence between glances, while Rafayel…she was impossible to read. Her gaze had never left you, even as her mouth moved against someone else's, and that alone unraveled something fragile inside your chest.

It was stupid, truly, how your body responded not to the hands currently on your waist, not to the lips trailing lazy paths against your throat, but to the quiet weight of her attention. Even now. Especially now.

The guy shifted behind you, encouraged by the soft sound that had escaped your lips—one born of everything except him. He pulled you in tighter, mouth brushing the shell of your ear as his voice dipped low. “Wanna get out of here?”

The question wasn’t a surprise. His voice was warm, his touch bolder now, and the meaning behind his words as transparent as it could be. But you didn’t want him. You never did.

He was nothing but a failed distraction, a bad idea wrapped in cologne and sweat, and not even remotely enough to erase the image of Rafayel’s lips on someone else—or worse, the way she watched you while doing it.

You hesitated just long enough to regret the whole thing. Your gaze flicked up to meet his, and you summoned the ghost of a smile, slurred but soft. Too soft, maybe. “I—uh, don’t think we should.”

The music drowned most of your voice, but he leaned in again anyway, lips grazing your skin, persistence tightening into something more arrogant.

“C’mon, pretty girl,” he murmured, breath warm against your neck. “Let me make you feel good, yeah?”

That made your spine go rigid. Not because of the words, but because they weren’t hers. Because they didn’t land the way they were meant to—didn’t stir anything but discomfort and the overwhelming desire to peel yourself out of your own skin.

You shoved him back, not harshly, but firmly enough to draw the line.

“Sorry,” you said, voice tipping toward hoarse, “you should find someone else for that.”

He scoffed, muttered something under his breath that you didn’t quite catch, and then you turned away without asking him to repeat it. You didn’t care. Not about him. Not about his bruised ego. All you wanted was distance—space, air, another drink, maybe something strong enough to wipe Rafayel kissing that girl from behind your eyes.

You shoved your way through the crowd, a little less steady than before, the music pounding in your skull, colors strobing too fast to track. You weren’t drunk, not fully. But the alcohol had settled into your limbs, sweet and stupid, blurring everything at the edges.

And maybe that’s why—when you reached the table again, breathless and half-numb—you reached for another shot without thinking. Or maybe you did think. Maybe you just didn’t care anymore. Not when the taste of jealousy still burned hotter than the liquor ever could.

Your cheeks burned, flushed with heat that had little to do with the thick, suffocating air of the room and everything to do with the scene that kept looping behind your eyes. Over and over. A relentless replay of her mouth on someone else’s skin, her gaze fixed on yours while it happened.

The bass thudded through the walls, vibrating in your ribs, but it was the pulse between your thighs that demanded the most attention now—persistent, aching, humiliatingly real. Your skin was damp with sweat, your throat dry, your body flushed and restless in a way that had nothing to do with dancing or alcohol.

You pressed your legs together tightly, trying to suppress the needy throb, biting down on the inside of your cheek. It didn’t help. Not really.

God, what the hell was happening to you?

You dragged in a shaky breath and closed your eyes, hoping—stupidly—that the darkness would bring some kind of clarity. But it only intensified the heat curling low in your stomach, only made you more aware of how soaked you were beneath your jeans, how your heart was still racing for all the wrong reasons.

Your thoughts weren’t coherent anymore. They were a fever dream of tongue and teeth and glances that felt like possession. You didn’t know what any of it meant—if it even did mean something—or if the alcohol was just dragging you deeper into your own fantasy, making you read into things you shouldn’t. Things that weren’t yours to want.

Still trembling slightly, you reached for a half-empty bottle on the table. You weren’t even sure if it was still tequila, but it didn’t matter. You tipped your head back and downed another shot, the liquor cutting down your throat like fire. You winced, coughing softly into your shoulder as you exhaled, the burn settling into your chest.

Bad idea. You knew it. You knew you should stop. But your thoughts were a mess and the party around you was louder than ever—music pounding like a heartbeat, people brushing too close, bodies moving in waves—and it was all too much. The heat. The air. The ache. The need to get out of your own head.

With a soft, frustrated huff, you reached for your cardigan, fingers fumbling a little as you peeled it from your arms and draped it somewhere near the edge of the table. Your bare shoulders prickled in the overheated air, skin slick with sweat, chest rising and falling a little too quickly.

You leaned forward, palms braced against the edge of the table, trying to ground yourself, trying to just breathe. But even that felt like a losing battle. Your head was spinning from the alcohol and the crowd and the weight of her eyes still branded into your memory.

You didn’t look toward the dance floor. You couldn’t do it. You weren’t sure what you’d do if you saw her still there—if she was still kissing that girl, still pretending like none of this meant anything. You weren’t sure which part would hurt more—that it didn’t mean anything to her or that you’d let it mean too much to you.

 The alcohol was warm in your blood now, humming through your veins like static. The music pulsed all around you, relentless, a rhythmic throb that seemed to echo the chaos in your chest. Your thoughts kept circling back—never stopping, never giving you peace—and it was getting harder to tell if the dizziness came from the shots or from the spiraling ache Rafayel had unknowingly carved into you.

You needed air. You needed silence. You needed to be anywhere but here. Eyes half-lidded, your lashes heavy with haze, you turned around—unsteady, your steps slow and uncertain—as you pushed through the crowd, making your best guess toward the bathroom. Your balance wavered with each step, shoulders brushing past others, sweat and perfume clinging thick in the air like static. 

When you finally reached the bathroom and slipped inside, the door clicked shut behind you like a mercy. The noise dulled instantly. The world outside fell away.

It was cooler in here. The air kissed your flushed skin like a balm, and you let out a shaky breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. For a moment, you just stood there, breathing in that blessed quiet, your hands trembling at your sides.

Then you moved toward the sink, your heels clicking softly against the tile. You braced yourself on the porcelain edge and lifted your gaze to the mirror, and the sight that greeted you made your stomach flutter for entirely different reasons.

You looked unrecognizable. Your cheeks were flushed a soft, petal pink, lips slightly parted as you panted for breath. Your makeup had begun to smudge just barely—just enough to make your lashes look heavier, your eyeliner a little smokier. A lock of hair had slipped from behind your ear and curled against your damp neck, and your eyes—glassy and blown from the alcohol—held a dazed, longing kind of sheen.

You looked like someone trying not to fall apart. Or maybe someone already halfway there.

You swallowed hard and gripped the edge of the sink tighter, as if grounding yourself might keep the rest of you from slipping. But your thoughts weren’t finished with you yet. The image was still there, dancing behind your eyes—the press of that girl’s hands on Rafayel’s waist, her lips trailing along that slender neck you’d thought about too many damn times, and Rafayel’s gaze, fixed squarely on you while it happened.

It was maddening. Cruel. Beautiful. And it made your core throb all over again.

You exhaled another shaky breath, fingertips fumbling to turn the tap. The cold water stung your skin, sharp enough to jolt your nerves—but not enough to silence the thoughts running feral through your mind. You washed your hands slowly, more ritual than need, the chill biting at your wrists as if punishment for thinking too much, wanting too much.

You didn’t dare splash your face, not when your mascara was already hanging by a thread. Instead, you braced yourself against the sink, eyes slipping closed as you inhaled deeply through your nose, trying—and failing—to will away the burn between your thighs, the slick discomfort of your ruined underwear clinging to you like a secret. You hated how turned on you still were. Hated that no amount of cold water or deep breathing was enough to shake her out of your bloodstream.

You didn’t even hear the door open. Didn’t hear the click behind you, or the soft shuffle of footsteps drawing near. The bass from the party throbbed against the walls like a heartbeat, dull and ever-present. So when you felt someone behind you—close enough to taste the heat radiating from their body—your entire frame stiffened.

Your eyes snapped open. And there she was. Rafayel. Reflected in the mirror like a vision conjured from your own delirium, her gaze unreadable and dark, pupils blown wide, lips slightly parted like she might say something—but didn’t.

“Shit,” you breathed, voice unsteady as your heart stuttered violently in your chest. “You scared me.”

She didn’t flinch or smirk. She just watched you through the mirror, the line of her mouth pulled taut, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she stepped closer—close enough that her presence wrapped around you like gravity, the warmth of her body brushing your back, her perfume subtle but unmistakable.

Your throat tightened.

“Where’s your friend?” you asked, each word sliding off your tongue too smooth, too casual, your tone rehearsed, meant to sound careless. It didn’t.

Rafayel scoffed lightly, a breath through her nose, her voice low. “Left,” she said, like it didn’t matter. “Don’t care, really.”

Something in your chest pinched. It shouldn’t have meant anything—it didn’t mean anything, right? But the relief that bloomed low in your belly was a betrayal.

“Then why are you here?” you asked, forcing your voice light, even though you could already feel the answer in the way her eyes hadn’t left yours since she entered. You turned casually, facing her now.

Her expression shifted—something subtle, something tight. “Where else should I be?” she replied, too casually. “With her?”

The words stung more than they should have. The way she said her, as if to see if it would make you flinch.

“Well,” you said, breath catching, “you seemed to have fun.”

You didn’t say kissing her. You didn’t have to. The implication hung there like smoke.

And maybe she was tipsier than she looked, or maybe just tired of pretending—because her patience snapped like a thread. In one slow, deliberate motion, she moved. Her hands planted on the sink behind you, bracketing your hips, trapping you in place. The cool porcelain kissed your lower back, but her warmth was all you could feel.

Your breath hitched. You didn’t move, frozen in place.

“Is that so?” she murmured, her voice still that maddening blend of amusement and bite, her tone dipped in velvet sarcasm. “Should I turn around and go after her, then?”

You blinked up at her, mouth dry, pulse slamming under your skin.

“If that’s what you want,” you replied, trying to match her tone, to stay calm. Detached. You failed miserably.

Her jaw ticked. You saw it—barely—but it was there. The tension. The shift. “We both know it isn’t.”

Her voice was soft now. Dangerous. Something hot unfurled in your stomach. And maybe you were too far gone to stop yourself. Maybe you were sick of pretending, of folding your feelings into polite silence. Your gaze didn’t waver as you pushed forward—just a little, just enough to press your body into the edge of hers.

“Isn’t it?” you murmured, your voice breathy, drawn out. “Then what do you want?”

The air tightened between you like a wire stretched too thin. Her eyes flicked to your lips, and stayed there.

Your mind stuttered—stalled, really—as your tongue swept instinctively across your lower lip. It was dry, parched from too much heat and tequila, but none of that mattered. Because Rafayel’s eyes followed the motion like a predator watches prey—slow, deliberate, hypnotic.

Amethyst gaze pinned you, and for a moment, she didn’t speak. Just studied you with that cool, unreadable focus, like she was cataloguing your every reaction. And then her eyes flicked back to yours. Still calm. Still controlled. But something deeper swam beneath the surface now—something sharper and searching.

You weren’t sure what she was trying to find. But you were sure she was getting close.

“You’re mad at me,” she said, voice low but steady. It wasn’t a question.

The words caught you off guard. You exhaled sharply, a breath shaped more by instinct than thought. “What?”

Her head tilted slightly, the edge of her lip quirking—not a smile, not quite. “You are. Or at something I did.” her tone held that casual lilt she used so well, but there was an unmistakable note beneath it. Curious. Careful.

Her eyes didn’t waver. And suddenly, it was you who couldn’t look away.

Rafayel was always easy to read if you only skimmed the surface—if you mistook the easy laughter and silky quips for simplicity. Most people did. That was the point. She wore her charm like armor, let it sit between her and the world like a polished mirror—reflecting just enough to keep everyone guessing, never enough to be truly known.

But you had seen the cracks. Little ones. Fleeting moments where the stillness behind her eyes slipped through—the hush between sentences, the breath caught too long, the joke delivered just a beat too late. There was more beneath the act. You knew that. You’d been paying attention.

And right now? Right now, something about her was off-kilter. Just a little. Just enough to make you wonder.

She was trying to sound amused, like this was all beneath her, like your tension and her kissing the girl and the entire night didn’t press down on her like it did on you—but her voice was clipped. Barely. Her posture just a touch too stiff, as if bracing for something she didn’t want to admit.

You swallowed hard.

“I—I’m not mad, really. It’s all good. I’m fine.” The words tumbled from your mouth too quickly, wrapped in a laugh that didn't quite land. It sounded hollow, even to your own ears.

Rafayel didn’t move, didn’t even blink. She only frowned—subtle, but unmistakable. The kind of expression she wore when a painting wasn’t coming together, when something in the lines didn’t sit right. She stayed close, hands braced on either side of the sink, body angled just enough to trap you between cool porcelain and her heat. The bass-heavy music outside was muffled to a distant throb, and so were your racing thoughts—blurred, drowned, fading beneath the pull of her.

She was too close. Too warm. And gods, she smelled good—some soft, citrus-sweet perfume laced with the bite of her cologne, heady enough that it made your knees feel like they were about to buckle. And it didn’t help—didn’t help at all—that your underwear clung uncomfortably between your thighs, soaked from all the tension you’d been pretending didn’t exist.

“Don’t lie.” her voice cut through you, a soft slash of breath, close enough to taste. There was a low burn beneath her tone—frustration maybe, or something messier.

You couldn't even answer. Your eyes fluttered shut, lashes trembling. The scent of her, the alcohol in your veins, the slow, heavy ache coiled low in your stomach—it all blurred together, leaving you suspended in a moment that was too sharp and too soft at once.

She exhaled. You felt it before you heard it, warm breath ghosting over your neck, and then her head dipped.

Your breath caught. Rafayel nuzzled against the side of your throat, her hair brushing your cheek, her mouth maddeningly close to your pulse. You froze like your body forgot how to function, fingers curling around the edge of the sink to stop yourself from melting into her. She was so close.  And you didn’t move. You couldn’t and didn’t want to. Not even a little.

She breathed you in, slow and deliberate, as though she had every right to, as if this—you—belonged to her in this moment. Her voice came next, low and cool against your skin, tinged with something sharp at the edges. “You smell like him.”

Your teeth sank into your lower lip hard. Anything to stop the sound—small and aching—that crawled up your throat at the sensation of her breath and the implication behind her words.

She dipped lower. Her lips brushed just beneath your jaw—not quite a kiss, not quite not.

“I hate it,” she murmured, each syllable curling against your skin like heat seeping through silk.

You exhaled, ragged and trembling, and hated how much your body liked hearing that.

She pulled back just enough to look at you, the space between you barely more than a breath. Her eyes searched your face like she was reading the strokes of an unfinished painting—and maybe she was. Your cheeks were flushed, lips parted, pupils wide and glassy with something far stronger than alcohol. You weren’t sure what she saw, but whatever it was, it made her breath hitch.

You opened your mouth to speak—to say something, anything that might anchor the moment—but your voice caught in your throat. It didn’t matter. Rafayel was already ahead of you, like she always was.

“Tell me I’m reading too much into this.”

Her voice was soft, low, carried on a breath that smelled faintly of tequila and lime. But that wasn’t what made your heart stutter. It was the way her voice trembled just slightly, like she already knew you couldn’t say it. Like she needed to hear the lie just to stop herself from doing something reckless.

You didn’t lie. You couldn’t. And gods, you wished you could.

You wished you could laugh it off and lean away, say she was being dramatic, ridiculous even. That none of this meant anything. That you hadn’t imagined kissing her before sleep, or catching yourself looking at her lips when she smiled too long, or secretly wondering what her hands would feel like somewhere other than your shoulders.

Your gaze dipped, unthinking, landing on her lips for the first time that night—soft, flushed, parted just enough to let out a shaky exhale that you felt more than heard. And then she kissed you.

Her lips found yours in a kiss that didn’t ask for permission and didn’t offer an apology. It was slow and sensual, but anything but careful. It tasted like tequila and tension and the weeks of aching silence that led to this moment. And when she groaned—deep and low, like something inside her finally snapped—it ripped straight through you.

You didn’t even think. You just kissed her back. Desperately. Hungrily. Your mouth moved against hers like it had been waiting for this, lips parting in sync, like some forgotten rhythm between you had always existed, just waiting to be played.

Your hands braced harder against the sink, just to keep from falling into her.

She groaned again—low and throaty—and her hands left the sink, moving up—fingertips ghosting along your jaw until they cupped your cheeks with startling gentleness. She pulled you closer, her thumbs brushing your skin like she couldn’t believe you were real. Like she needed proof you wouldn’t vanish the second she blinked.

And you—tangled in the press of her mouth, in the heady, breathless sound of her groaning again against your lips—you forgot to breathe. Forgot what had come before. Forgot everything except the heat and the taste and the terrifying, impossible truth that you had never kissed anyone like this before.

Her tongue brushed yours in a slow, deliberate sweep, and you let her in—mouth parting wider, surrendering with a need that had nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with her. The taste of tequila lingered faintly on her breath, but it was drowned out by something far headier. Her.

She moaned low against your mouth, the sound shameless and unfiltered, vibrating down your spine like a fever you couldn’t sweat out. One hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, fingers weaving through your hair with startling tenderness, anchoring you to her like she was afraid you might vanish. The other found your waist—barely a touch at first, her fingertips grazing your skin as if testing a boundary.

And then she felt your response—how your body arched into hers, how the quiet moan slipped from your throat unbidden—and her grip tightened. Her fingers slipped beneath the hem of your top, pressing more firmly now, claiming a small patch of skin at your hip and drawing slow, lazy circles. Teasing. Cruel.

You whimpered softly into her mouth, your knees wobbling under the weight of sensation. Your body was on fire—alive and trembling with the kind of ache that only grew sharper with every restrained touch.

She broke the kiss without warning, just far enough to drink you in—eyes half-lidded and impossibly dark, lips slick and parted, her breathing uneven.

And then she leaned back in. But this time, she didn’t go for your lips. Instead, she pressed languid, wet kisses to your jaw, down the delicate slope of your neck, pausing to taste you there—each kiss slower than the last, as though savoring something forbidden. Your fingers finally moved, one curling over the slope of her shoulder, the other slipping into the silky strands at the back of her head. She groaned the moment you tugged gently, her breath stuttering against your throat.

“Should I stop?”

The question slipped out like a whisper into your skin—soft, genuine, but thick with the kind of anticipation that made your whole body tense. Her voice was low, edged in something too raw to name, though her mouth never stilled against your neck.

You swallowed hard, a shallow breath trembling past your lips as you whispered back, “No.”

Your voice barely carried in the thick air of the bathroom, which no longer felt cold. Heat clung to your skin now, to every press of her mouth and drag of her hands. When she bit softly at your neck—just enough to leave the faintest sting—you couldn’t help the broken sound that escaped you.

She cursed against your skin. “Fuck.”

Her hands shifted, gripping your hips with firmer intent now, and in the next moment, you found yourself on top of the sink, her body between your thighs like it had always belonged there. Your legs parted automatically, mindlessly, aching for her. For more.

Her mouth stayed busy at your throat, leaving a trail of heat behind each kiss. Your chest rose and fell against hers, both of you breathing too fast now, too uneven. And then—slowly, deliberately—her hand began to move. From your waist, up, under your top, her fingers grazing the soft skin of your stomach before gliding higher, stopping just beneath the swell of your breast.

But she didn’t touch you fully. Her lips hovered near your ear, her voice a breathy tease, barely there. “Still okay with this?”

The smirk was in her tone, not her words, the way it always was with her. Playful. Dangerous. And gods, it made your head spin.

You’d had enough of standing still—of letting her overwhelm you with every brush of her mouth, every slow, torturous touch that left you trembling but never quite satisfied.

 So you moved. Your hands gripped her sides, fingers digging in just enough to earn a startled gasp, and then you pushed her back—not far, just enough to free your mouth from her neck—and kissed her. Hard. Messy. Desperate.

Rafayel made a surprised sound in the back of her throat, but she didn’t hesitate. Her lips crushed back against yours with even more heat, more hunger. A moan vibrated against your mouth as your hands slid up to find her waist, pulling her closer like your body had given up trying to pretend it didn’t need her.

She tasted like tequila and temptation, like something you shouldn’t crave but did anyway. Her thumb slipped beneath the edge of your bra, a gentle graze beneath the soft fabric, and you let out a louder moan—unable to bite it back. Your back arched just slightly, your body leaning into her like it had always belonged there.

She broke the kiss again, just enough to look at you, and the sight of her knocked the breath from your lungs. Lips slick and dark with your kiss, eyes glassy with something that looked far too much like want. She was staring at you like she wanted to devour you and say something all at once—but couldn't quite choose which came first.

You stood there, panting, waiting.

“How about we leave?” she asked, breath rough around the edges, her voice low but tight with tension. Her eyes stayed fixed on yours, searching, like she wasn’t sure if she’d crossed some invisible line.

The words barely registered. Leave? Did she mean stop? Did she regret this? The high from her touch crashed for a moment, and something cold crept into your chest. You blinked at her, uncertain, the confusion—and flicker of hurt—no doubt plain on your face.

She saw it. Because she swore under her breath, quietly, like cursing herself, and pulled you into another kiss—not as desperate this time, but slow and full, like she was trying to erase the doubt from your mind one brush of her lips at a time.

Her mouth hovered against yours when she finally spoke again, breath ghosting over your lips. “I meant,” she said with a soft exhale, her thumb still dragging tender circles beneath your bra, “do you want to leave the party?”

The knot in your chest unraveled just enough for your breath to come again. She wasn’t running from this. If anything, she wanted more.

Your head tipped back slightly, eyes fluttering closed for a beat as the heat between you pulsed. She wanted to go—but with you. And that meant something.

You nodded. Rafayel stepped back, but only enough for you to slip down from the sink. Her gaze never left you, her expression unreadable except for the storm still smoldering behind her eyes.

Then, without a word, her hand reached out. Fingers brushed yours. And when you didn’t flinch, didn’t question it, she laced them together—slowly, deliberately, as if it meant something she couldn’t say aloud.

You blinked at her, startled by the tenderness of it. But she only squeezed your hand once and then tugged you toward the door, her grip firm and warm, pulling you with her into whatever came next.

You slipped through the crowd like a shadow half-formed, the bass thudding through your bones while laughter and glass and bodies collided around you in drunken rhythm. But the party had already faded into something distant, something irrelevant. Your body moved, but your mind was caught somewhere else—still trapped in the heat of that bathroom, in the way her mouth had claimed yours without hesitation, the brush of her hands beneath your clothes, the moan she pulled from you like it belonged to her.

You could still feel it—her breath on your neck, the ghost of her lips on your jaw. It had set something off in you, something deeper than just want. Now every heartbeat was a slow, deliberate ache. Every step you took was soaked in memory.

And maybe it was the alcohol—or maybe it was just you—but now your mind wouldn’t shut up. What if she regretted it? What if she laughed it off in the morning? What if she chalked it up to tequila and impulse and said it was all just fun?

Your stomach twisted as the cab pulled away from the curb, the world outside rushing past in streaks of color and noise. You barely remembered getting in. You didn’t remember climbing out. All you really remembered was the weight of Rafayel’s hand wrapped around yours the whole time—loose, like a secret.

The next thing you knew, the door to your dorm swung shut behind you with a soft click, and you were suddenly, startlingly, alone with her.

Your back hit the door gently, not rough but sure. Her hands found your waist like they belonged there, and her mouth was on yours before you could say a word.

You moaned into the kiss, reflexively, helplessly, as your hands scrambled for purchase on her shoulders. She tasted like everything you remembered—mint, liquor, and something darker, something sweet and a little dangerous. Her lips moved with an ease that made it feel like she’d kissed you a hundred times before. Like she’d always meant to.

The music was gone now. The noise. The lights. It was just her.

Her fingers slipped beneath your top again—more confident this time, more deliberate—and your breath caught in your throat. Your cardigan was long gone, abandoned somewhere at the party, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but the heat of her hands on your bare skin and the way she kissed you like she’d been starving for it all night.

Rafayel pulled back just enough to look at you—your chest rising and falling with shallow, trembling breaths, lips parted, eyes glazed with heat and hesitation. The soft lamplight caught the sheen of sweat along your neck, the flushed curve of your cheek. You could feel her gaze as much as see it, dragging over you like silk and fire.

“You’re overthinking,” she murmured, low and taut, as if the words strained something in her to say them aloud.

There was no mockery in her tone. No teasing, no sharp smirk tugging at her mouth. If anything, she sounded… disappointed. No, not at you—at the fact that you were still doubting any of this. That you were still somewhere else when she was right here, touching you like she meant it.

Your eyes met hers in the dim, flickering light, and your voice escaped before your mind could catch it. “Do you really want this?” The question came out softer than you meant, like it had been buried too long under your skin.

The second it left your mouth, you saw something flicker across her expression. Her mouth parted, her brows twitched. And then she kissed you hard.

No hesitation this time. Just heat and teeth and hands gripping tighter at your waist like she couldn’t stand the distance for even a breath longer. You moaned, unable to help it, your thighs clenching at the sheer intensity of it. Her lips left yours only to trail down, hungry and wet, over your jaw, your neck, drawing breathy, helpless sounds from you with every flick of her tongue and every scrape of her teeth.

“Fuck, you don’t get it.” The words broke from her between kisses, between open-mouthed groans against your throat. Then her teeth sank into your skin in a sharp bite that made your gasp twist into something closer to a whimper. “You really don’t get how much—”

She didn’t finish the sentence. Maybe she couldn’t. 

Instead, she sucked hard on the sensitive skin just below your ear, her breath hot and shaking against your pulse. Your back was pressed harder to the door now, the chill of it clashing with the fever crawling up your spine, and when her thigh pressed between yours—just the barest graze of her knee through your jeans—you shudderedloudly, unapologetically. And Rafayel noticed.

“Oh?” Her voice dropped, amused and hoarse, and she rocked her leg forward just a little, testing. The friction hit you perfectly, and your moan escaped before you could swallow it down. 

“Yeah,” she breathed into your skin, dragging her hands slowly up your ribs, fingertips brushing the curve of your bra. “I’ve wanted you for so fucking long… Should I spell it out for you?”

You gasped as her hands wandered beneath your top, sliding heat across your stomach, your ribs. Her knee pressed upward again, slow and rhythmic now, making your breath catch every time. Her lips brushed your ear, voice like velvet frayed at the edges.

“I didn’t think you were into girls,” she murmured, not accusing—just raw. “So I never assumed. Never pushed.”

Her honesty made something twist and unravel inside you. You whimpered, your hips involuntarily rocking into the press of her leg, desperate for more. “Fuck, Raf…”

At the sound of her name falling from your lips like that—high, breathy, desperate—she groaned low in her throat, almost feral, and buried her face against your shoulder.

“God. Don’t say my name like that.” She sounded ruined, hungry. “Fuck, you sound so pretty when you moan.”

She pulled back just far enough to look at you, and her eyes were dark now, wide with heat, pupils blown open so much you could barely see the violet. And yet still, she held back. Still, she waited.

You reached for her with shaking fingers, dragging her mouth back to yours, and when you kissed her this time, it wasn’t messy—it was needy.

“Touch me more,” you whispered into her lips, the words trembling but no longer shy. “Please.”

And Rafayel smiled against your mouth—slow and wicked and almost reverent. Like she’d been waiting to hear that forever.

Her fingers ghosted up your sides with the hem of your top, a silent question written in the brush of her knuckles. You answered without a word, arms lifting, spine arching just enough to let her pull it over your head and toss it aside. The cool air kissed your skin, goosebumps rising—but it was nothing compared to the way she looked at you.

You barely had time to register her expression before her hands found the clasp of your bra, undoing it in one smooth, practiced motion, as if she’d been waiting for this—planning for this.

The garment slid off your shoulders, and the sharp inhale she took was almost a reverent sound. Her gaze raked over you slowly, hunger simmering beneath the surface, but her face stayed calm—composed in that way only Rafayel could manage, even when her eyes were dark with want.

Then her tongue swept out across her lips, and that composure cracked just a little.

One hand slid to your lower back, splaying wide as she coaxed you into a gentle arch beneath her. The moment your spine lifted from the door, she leaned in—slow and deliberate—her mouth closing around one of your nipples with a sigh that sent shivers down your legs.

Your cry wasn’t gentle. It ripped out of you, half-moan, half-shock, because God, she was good at this. Her tongue swirled with maddening precision, the suction just enough to send your head spinning, and all the while—all the while—her knee was still pressing between your legs, a rhythmic pressure you were beginning to lose your mind to.

She didn’t say anything as your hips bucked, as you instinctively arched further into her mouth, chasing more friction, more heat. But she could feel it. She could feel the desperation coiled tight in your body, the way you trembled against her, the wet heat pulsing against her thigh.

And then she smiled. “Let me take care of you, cutie.”

The pet name sounded devastatingly different now—lower, huskier, laced with something far more dangerous than teasing. You whimpered at the sound of it, and that was all she needed.

She pulled back, lips slick, eyes half-lidded as she took your hand and led you to the bed without letting go. The sheets felt impossibly soft against your back, though you barely registered the texture. All you could feel was her—her body following yours, her presence crawling into every heated breath, every flutter in your chest.

She climbed over you, slow and deliberate, straddling your hips like she owned them. And maybe, in that moment, she did. Your hands reached for her on instinct, dragging her down into a kiss that stole what little breath you had left. She moaned softly into it—low and approving—and let her weight settle just enough between your legs to draw another shaky gasp from you.

One arm braced beside your head while the other moved with aching care—from your jaw, down the line of your throat, pausing at your breast where her fingers cupped and lifted it again. Her thumb brushed teasingly over the sensitive peak, eyes locked on yours with a gaze that felt like it could split you open.

She looked so beautiful above you—hair mussed, cheeks flushed, lips slick from your skin—and it finally hit you. This was really happening. She was really here, and the way her fingers pinched your nipple made your back arch with a soft, broken mewl.

Her breath stuttered. She cursed under it, lips dragging featherlight over your ear. “If you want to stop, just tell me.”

The words were quiet, serious in a way most things from Rafayel weren’t. Not a challenge. Not a tease. Just a line drawn for you to cross—or not.

But you didn’t even think. You turned your head, brushed your lips against hers in the barest whisper of a kiss, and exhaled the only answer she needed.

“Don’t stop.” And she didn’t.

Her mouth drifted from your lips to your neck with a slow, languid hunger, her tongue tracing heat into the skin before her lips sealed over your pulse. She sucked gently, just enough to make you squirm beneath her, and her fingers—still twisting and teasing your nipple—coaxed another arch from your body.

The reaction pulled a low, amused chuckle from her throat. It wasn’t mocking—no, it was rich and indulgent, laced with satisfaction, like the sound of someone savoring something rare and sweet. That soft laugh alone sent a shiver down your spine.

Her kisses trailed lower, dipping to your clavicle, then further down to the curve of your breast. She drew a slow mark there, a small bruise blooming under the press of her mouth, and all the while her eyes were locked on yours—watching your face the way an artist watches canvas for the first flicker of color. Like she was memorizing your reactions with every brush of her lips.

You gasped sharply when her mouth wrapped around your other nipple, tongue circling with slow, unrelenting attention. The stimulation was too much, too good—you moaned helplessly, hips twitching beneath her. And then she bit, just enough to sting, just enough to make your whole body jolt. Her lips came off with a soft, wet pop.

“You’re so responsive,” she murmured, voice breathy and low, slipping through her smirk like silk.

The words shouldn’t have made you clench your thighs tighter around her hips, but they did. God, they did. And her expression told you she felt it too—the little twitch of pressure, the way your body answered hers without hesitation.

Her hand released your breast and glided up, fingertips brushing the side of your neck before curling around the back of it, pulling you up into her again. You met her halfway, mouths colliding in a kiss that was nothing short of messy—wet, open, tongues tangled and gasps shared between breaths. Your hand buried itself in her lavender hair, pulling gently, and the sound she made—somewhere between a moan and a sigh—told you exactly how much she liked that.

It gave you the confidence to push further. Your other hand crept under the hem of her shirt, finally tracing the warmth of her skin. Her stomach tensed at your touch, a soft intake of breath breaking between your lips. So you bit down gently on her bottom lip, teasing her, and the groan that rumbled in her chest made your skin burn.

You flipped the script, trailing kisses down the elegant column of her neck, finally tasting her skin for yourself. She tilted her head for you almost instinctively, one hand sliding up into your hair as your mouth placed open, wet kisses along her pulse.

“Mm… you’re learning fast,” she whispered near your cheek, her voice a little breathless now, a little ragged. “Playing now, aren't we, cutie?”

The pet name dripped like wine from her lips—warm, familiar, possessive. And the way she moaned again when you sucked softly at the base of her throat told you she wasn’t in control anymore—not entirely. Not when your lips were on her. Not when your fingers were drawing slow paths over her stomach, your body pressed so close she could feel every throb of heat between your legs.

You smiled against her skin, feeling bold, tasting the edges of power between the pleasure.

“Then stop me,” you murmured.

“Oh, god…” The words slipped from her lips as you sucked at her throat, and she tilted her head back, baring more skin to you like an offering.

You didn’t hesitate. Your mouth grew bolder, lips and tongue trailing the delicate line of her neck. When you found the tender spot just beneath her ear—where her pulse fluttered wildly—she mewled softly above you, hips stuttering against yours.

That sound alone made something coil tight in your stomach.

And yet, the jealousy still lingered, bitter and stubborn, crawling up your throat despite how close she was—despite how she moaned for you. 

You murmured against her skin, barely louder than your breath. “You still smell like that girl.”

The words were petty, broken by the way you were panting, but they slipped out anyway—half-buried beneath heat and insecurity. Your lips didn’t stop moving, even as you said it.

You felt her stiffen slightly, just enough to notice, but before she could speak—before she could twist the moment with one of her glib, too-clever remarks—you pushed her back. Not hard, but enough to make her shift off you, her expression flickering between confusion and hurt.

She probably thought you were done. But then you moved, closing the distance in one heartbeat—both of you now on your knees on the bed, facing each other in the low light. Your hands reached for the hem of her shirt, fingers curling around it in silent question. You didn’t look at her face—you couldn’t—but you waited all the same.

A beat passed. Then another. And then she chuckled, soft and breathless. She caught your hands in hers, her smirk lazy, eyes dark and gleaming. There was hunger in her gaze now—no mask, no teasing deflection. Just want.

She guided your hands upward, slow and steady, raising her shirt inch by inch until it caught beneath her arms and revealed the smooth line of her torso, the swell of her breasts rising in the cradle of her black bra.

“You can touch me as much as you want,” she said, her voice husky with desire.

It wanted to be playful, light—but she was breathless now, too, cheeks flushed deep rose, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven waves. Her bravado was starting to crack under the weight of what was building between you. Still, she held your gaze like a dare.

And god, you wanted to rise to it. Your fingers trembled slightly as you touched her again, this time more boldly—fingertips trailing up her sides, mapping the heat of her skin like it might vanish if you didn’t memorize it. Her muscles tensed under your touch, but she didn’t stop you. She only leaned in closer, her lips brushing your ear in a whisper that sent shivers crawling down your spine.

“But if you're going to be jealous,” she murmured, her voice like honey and smoke, “you’ll have to make it up to me.”

Your eyes locked with hers again, breath catching at the flush coloring her cheeks, the way her lips were slightly parted like she couldn’t quite catch her breath. And gods, you didn’t think you’d ever see her like this—eyes blown wide with want, shoulders heaving, trembling slightly under your touch.

Not unless it was in one of your daydreams.

But this wasn’t a dream, and the smirk that tugged at your lips said as much. You exhaled slowly, pushing her shirt higher, watching her shift to help you pull it over her head. She stripped it off in one smooth, sinuous motion—and the second it was gone, her hands cupped the sides of your face and dragged you into a kiss like she couldn’t stand another second of not having you.

There was no room for hesitation anymore. Your arms slid around her waist, drawing her in, your fingers fumbling slightly with the strap of her bra until she groaned softly against your mouth. The sound made your stomach flip, heat blooming in every nerve. You undid the clasp, finally, and she shrugged out of it without fanfare, tossing it somewhere behind her as if it didn’t matter in the slightest.

And then she pulled you close, fully. Her bare chest pressed against yours, breasts soft and warm, and the sudden friction of your nipples brushing made you gasp into her mouth. You moaned, loud and sharp, the sensation too much and yet not enough. You kept moving, chasing it, rubbing instinctively against her with every shift of your hips.

Rafayel swallowed every sound you gave her like they belonged to her. Her hands slid lower—waist, hips, then finally settling at the curve of your ass, fingers splaying with intent. She didn’t squeeze yet. Just held you there. Let you move.

“Oh, God… this is—” you couldn’t finish. The words fell apart on your tongue, dissolved into breathless moans and whimpers that clung to her mouth like a prayer.

But Rafayel understood anyway. She pressed a kiss just beneath your jaw, her voice a murmur against your skin, rough with restrained want. “Feels good, yeah?”

You barely managed a nod before she shifted again, lowering herself into the pillows and pulling you over her, guiding you until your thighs framed her waist. You followed without thought, lips finding hers once more as your body molded into hers.

Your bare chests slid together with every kiss, every stolen breath, nipples brushing with every movement, and you swore you could drown in it.

Rafayel’s hands moved again, one braced at your hip while the other guided you gently, deliberately, rocking you forward against her. The friction of denim against the soaked fabric of your panties made you whine, hips moving before you could think.

“God, just like that…” she whispered, her tone soft but frayed with heat. Her eyes were half-lidded, hooded with dark want, watching the way your body moved atop hers.

The rhythm was slow, torturous, your body begging for more even as you clung to the delicious tension. And Rafayel—of course—was content to take her time.

“Don’t rush, cutie…” she breathed, her hands tightening just slightly on your hips as you rolled against her. “I want to feel you come apart right here.”

And the way she said it—low, sultry, like she already knew she had you—you moaned again, desperate, undone, pressing yourself closer like you could melt into her.

You couldn't stop the tremble that rippled through your body—couldn't bite back the moan that spilled from your lips, raw and unfiltered, as your hips rocked instinctively against her. The friction, maddening and just shy of enough, made your breath catch in your throat. You were moving without thought now, lost to the slow rhythm, chasing the edge she kept you dancing along.

Rafayel watched you like you were a painting coming to life. Her eyes were wide and heavy-lidded, fixed to your every movement like she didn’t dare blink. Her gaze trailed from the flush on your cheeks to the way your parted lips trembled with each breath, and when your eyes met hers—hazy and hungry—it was like something in her unraveled entirely.

“You are so gorgeous like this,” she murmured, her voice a breathless rasp, reverent and frayed. “I’ve imagined you on top of me so many times… trembling in my arms, taking whatever you wanted from me.”

There was no flippant edge to her tone—no teasing remark to soften the blow. Just pure, unfiltered desire, spoken like a confession pulled from the deepest part of her.

Your lips parted in surprise, teeth catching your bottom lip as your hips rolled again, slower this time. The words lingered in your mind like a spark catching fire, and your body answered for you—a low whimper escaping you as your head dropped to her shoulder.

“Fuck,” she hissed, her breath shuddering as you moved just right, her fingers digging into the curve of your ass like she was trying not to lose herself completely. “Just like that…”

You lifted your head, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “What else did you imagine?” you whispered, your voice low and velvet-soft as you pressed a kiss beneath her jaw, then another just beneath her ear.

She shivered beneath you. Your teeth found a patch of skin there, nipping lightly. She cursed under her breath and pulled you tighter against her, her nails scraping lightly over the back of your thigh.

“I imagined a lot,” she said finally, her voice barely above a breath—hushed and almost pained from how much she wanted you. “But most of all… I wanted to make you feel good. So good you’d forget anything that wasn’t me.”

Her hands guided your hips once more, the drag of your clothed core against her thigh making you moan again, your forehead resting against hers.

“I want to taste you so badly,” she whispered, lips brushing yours, voice shaking with restraint. “You have no idea how long I’ve been thinking about it.”

And the way she said it—like it was both a sin and a promise—you knew you'd never forget it.

You kept grinding down on her thigh, caught in a rhythm that made it hard to breathe, let alone think. Every roll of your hips drew a sound from her that echoed your own—low, drawn-out moans that vibrated between your bodies like shared heat. You didn’t know what to do with your hands, not really, but that didn’t stop you. The haze was thick in your head, and you were bold with it—your fingers drifting upward, cupping one of her breasts before gently pinching her nipple between them.

She groaned at that—deep and wrecked—and bit down against your neck, just enough to make you gasp. Her voice came like a breath dragged through smoke, rasped and dripping with need. “Fuck, cutie…”

The pet name, usually tossed out like a lazy tease, sounded ruined now—like it barely held together under how much she wanted you.

Her grip on your hips tightened, possessive and unyielding, guiding your rhythm until your movements faltered—until you trembled in her arms, thighs quivering from the edge you were so close to spilling over.

Then she stilled you. You whimpered, lips parted in confusion and want, but she was already watching you—eyes dark and greedy, lips wet and slightly swollen from the way you'd kissed her. Her tongue darted out to wet them again as she leaned closer, her voice lower now, almost reverent.

“Let me taste you,” she murmured, like it was both a plea and a promise.

The words landed like a spark to dry kindling, and you cursed without thinking—your hips jerking slightly as a soft, involuntary mewl slipped from you. You hated how easy she made you fall apart. But Rafayel—oh, she lived for it. She heard that sound and smiled like someone who’d just won something expensive and rare.

She didn’t wait for a clearer answer. She didn’t need to. That sound had said everything.

In one smooth movement, she eased you off her lap, laying you back against the mattress, your legs trembling beneath her. She kissed you once—slow and deep, like a promise sealed—and then began her descent.

Her lips traced a path down your body, unhurried, leaving a burning trail behind. When she reached your stomach, she paused to mouth at the skin there, teasing you with just her breath, her fingers already working open the button of your jeans. You squirmed beneath her, more plea than protest, your hands fisting in the sheets when her touch ghosted just above your waistband.

“God, you're so eager,” she murmured with a soft laugh—half groan, half worship.

You couldn't help the soft, desperate mewl that slipped from your lips as her mouth pressed warm and slow against your stomach.

“Please…” your voice was trembling, cracked open with need. “I need to come so badly.”

That made her groan—low and deep in her throat, like she felt it everywhere. Her eyes found yours, sharp and dark and glittering with heat. Your jeans were already undone, her fingers slipping under the waistband with a confidence that made your breath hitch.

She leaned back just enough to give herself space, voice dipping into something rough and coaxing. “Can you lift your hips for me, cutie?”

You didn’t even wait for the end of her sentence. Your hips were in the air before she could finish, shameless in your need. She chuckled, clearly pleased with the response, and eased your jeans down your legs, slow and deliberate, like she wanted to savor the sight of you. When they were gone, she sat back on her heels for a moment, her gaze sweeping down your body until it landed on the soaked fabric clinging to you.

“Fuck…” she breathed, more to herself than to you. And then, with a sinful sort of reverence, she lowered herself between your thighs, settling there like she was made to live in that exact place.

Her fingers brushed softly along your inner thighs, featherlight, until she pressed her lips to the skin there in a kiss that burned. You trembled beneath her.

“Good girl,” she murmured against your thigh, her voice all velvet and heat. “You’re so wet for me. Look at you.”

You gasped, the compliment hitting somewhere deeper than it should’ve. Your eyes fluttered open, and you looked down to find her already staring up at you—absolutely breathtaking in that moment, all lavender hair and flushed cheeks, a little smug, a little reverent, and still entirely her. That knowing look in her eyes, like she already had your body memorized.

“Don’t tease,” you whispered, voice cracking as your hips shifted, desperate. “Fuck, Raf…”

She didn’t answer right away, just leaned in and pressed her mouth to the inside of your thigh, her lips parting slightly against it in a kiss that was all promise and no relief. You arched into it, chasing the pressure, needing more—but she didn’t give in just yet.

Another kiss, this one slower. Her breath just barely fanned out, teasing the wet fabric like she could draw pleasure from just that alone. 

Instead of diving in, she lingered—her lips barely brushing your thigh, her voice murmuring against your skin like a secret she didn’t mean to say out loud.

“I suppose,” she said softly, breath ghosting over the damp heat of your panties, “you’ve never done this before?”

The question made your breath catch, heart pounding against your ribs. But it wasn’t the question itself—it was the way she asked it. Casual, almost curious. But the flick of her tongue on her teeth and the quiet tension in her grip gave her away.

You swallowed down your nerves and found your voice, trying for nonchalance despite the way your hips were already twitching beneath her. “I—I mean, I’ve been eaten out by guys before.”

And then it happened. Her teeth grazed your inner thigh before she bit—just hard enough to make you jolt, your back arching in startled pleasure. A shocked moan ripped from your throat, the sting of it sharp and gone too quickly, replaced by the soft kiss she pressed to the mark.

She didn’t say anything for a beat. But when she finally spoke, her voice dropped—low, rough, and undeniably tinged with something else. Not quite irritation. Something darker, hotter.

“Yeah?” she muttered, mouth brushing the edge of your underwear, warm breath curling over you. “Did they make you come?” a pause. “Or did you fake it and let them believe they were gods?”

You didn’t have the breath to respond. Not when she kissed you there again, firmer this time, lips pressing right where you were wettest through the fabric. A desperate whine slipped from you, hips buckling up, chasing her mouth. Her fingers flexed against your thighs, holding you down.

She noticed. Of course she did. Rafayel always noticed everything. A low chuckle vibrated from her throat, rich and pleased. “Mm. Thought so.”

You tried to wriggle against her again, but she just hummed, amused and maddeningly patient.

There was something possessive about her now—the way she held you open, the way she stared at you like you were hers already, like the thought of someone else touching you had no business existing in the same universe.

And god, that shouldn’t have made you wetter. But it did.  Her tongue licked a slow, deliberate stripe up the center of your panties, and your entire body jolted with it.

“Let me show you how it’s done, hm?” her voice was honeyed and edged with heat, like she was already drunk on the thought of making you unravel.

“F-fuck—please,” you gasped, your fingers fisting the sheets. “I can’t take this anymore…”

She smiled against you. You didn’t see it, but you felt it. The smirk in the press of her lips. The delight in your desperation.

“You’ll take it,” she whispered. “You’ll take all of it, cutie.”

Her tongue only flicked against the soaked fabric a few times—lazy, exploratory laps that made your hips twitch and your breath stutter—before she drew back with a sound of quiet approval. Then her fingers slipped in, graceful and deliberate, hooking into the waistband of your panties. She tugged them down in one smooth pull, dragging the damp material down your thighs with a casual ease that made your face burn.

You barely had time to register the chill of air against your soaked heat before she was back between your legs—settling like she belonged there, like she had all the time in the world to ruin you.

And then she licked. Not gently. Not teasing anymore. Her tongue found your clit with startling precision, a firm lap that tore a cry straight from your throat. Your whole body jolted from the shock of it, your thighs trembling around her shoulders before you could even catch your breath.

Rafayel hummed against you, and you felt her smirk before you saw it—low, smug, utterly pleased with herself. The sound vibrated against your core, and your hands flew to her hair, fingers tangling in those soft lavender strands without thinking. She let out a low, satisfied moan at the sensation, the noise sinking straight into your spine.

Her eyes flicked up at you as her tongue dragged slowly through your folds—watching you unravel, cataloging every twitch, every gasp. You were utterly at her mercy, and she knew it.

Your hips jerked again, chasing more, desperate now. Needy.

“God, please—” you gasped, barely aware you were even speaking. “Raf…”

She didn’t answer with words. She just wrapped her lips around your clit and sucked. Sharp. Gentle. Then again. Alternating between soft licks and firmer suction, her rhythm unhurried but devastating. Every movement was maddening in how precise it felt, like she had mapped you already, like she knew exactly how to make you fall apart.

Your thighs tried to clamp around her again, body trembling under the weight of pleasure, but her hands slid up to pin your hips down with a firm, almost lazy pressure.

“Oh,” she murmured against you, breaking only long enough to flick her tongue again, “don’t rush me.”

And then she went back to it—lips hot and wet and relentless.

You choked on a moan, the pressure building so fast it was dizzying. She was too good. Too controlled. And you were already starting to lose that control entirely.

Your eyes rolled back as a moan tore loose from your throat, raw and helpless. Your spine arched sharply off the bed, every nerve lit up with pure, unfiltered need. Your hands fisted tighter in Rafayel’s hair, tugging with desperate abandon—and the low, wrecked moan she let out in response vibrated straight into you, reverberating deep where you were already aching.

That sound alone made your legs tremble.

Her mouth didn’t falter—if anything, she seemed to thrive on it. On the way you bucked under her. On the way you gasped her name like a curse, like a prayer.

“Ohhh, fuck—I'm gonna…fuck, I’m close—” The words tumbled out of you, breathless and broken, your chest rising and falling in frantic rhythm.

She heard you, and the glint in her eyes was nothing short of devilish. Without warning, her tongue slid down again, past your clit, sinking into you with aching precision. The wet, sinful press of it made your hips jerk violently. The cry that left you was strangled and high, your thighs clenching helplessly around her.

It was everything. The alcohol. The hours of want. The month of unbearable tension. All of it unraveled in that moment, snapping loose inside you like a breaking tide.

You shattered. Your body convulsed against her mouth, trembling hard with every aftershock as your orgasm crested and crashed through you in violent waves. You cried out again, her name caught somewhere between a sob and a moan, the pleasure dizzying and all-consuming.

Your fingers curled in her hair, pulling hard enough that it should’ve hurt—but Rafayel didn’t even flinch. If anything, she moaned into you again, low and satisfied, drawing the last of your climax from your body with slow, languid strokes of her tongue.

Her eyes found yours as she coaxed you through it—hazy, heat-drunk, dark with something unspoken. Possessive. Worshipful.

You were panting hard, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven heaves, your head tipped back against the pillow, eyes fluttering with the aftershocks that hadn’t yet let you go. Your whole body trembled in the aftermath, legs still parted and twitching from oversensitivity, when Rafayel finally pulled away with a low, throaty groan.

She dragged her mouth up the center of your body in slow, reverent motion, every kiss damp and lingering. By the time she reached your lips again, she was breathing just as hard—flushed, wrecked, utterly drunk on you.

And when her mouth met yours, it was desperate. You could taste yourself on her tongue, unmistakable and intoxicating, and the sound you made was high and helpless, a soft, mewling whimper that only spurred her further. Her hand slid low, fingers trailing with purpose as she kissed you again—wet, open, claiming. Then lower still.

She found you again—sensitive, pulsing—and her fingers dipped between your slick folds. You whimpered into her kiss, jerking slightly as she teased, barely brushing before slipping one finger inside you with practiced ease.

“Fuck, yes,” she whispered against your mouth, voice completely wrecked, a low rasp that made your core tighten again. “You were so good, cutie… tasted so sweet…”

The endearment curled something in your chest. You barely had time to react before she slid in deeper and pressed another kiss to your jaw, her hips shifting against yours with aching restraint.

“God, you're so tight,” she groaned, her voice almost delirious now. “Perfect. Just… taking everything I give you like you were made for it.”

You moaned, arching into her, your hands rising to curl around the back of her neck, pulling her close. Your breasts pressed together again, soft friction that made you gasp. You bit at her jaw, trembling when she added another finger, and your thighs clenched instinctively around her hips.

“R-Raf…I don’t—” your voice broke as her fingers curled deep, finding a spot inside you that made your entire body jolt. Your back arched off the bed, your mouth falling open with a soft cry. Her eyes lit up, wild and hungry, pleased with the raw honesty of your reaction.

“Mhmm… right there, huh?” she breathed, and then she bent to your throat, sucking at the skin until you knew you’d wear the mark tomorrow. Her voice was smug, but beneath it, there was something gentler—wrecked and tender at once.

“You don’t… what, baby?” she murmured, her tongue flicking against your pulse as her fingers pumped into you, steady and unrelenting.

You fought for breath, the build rising again too quickly, and the words came out ragged, half-whimpered between gasps. “I’ve never… done this before. With a woman. So I… I don’t know…”

You didn’t need to finish. Her rhythm slowed slightly, and for the first time since her mouth had touched you, she paused—just enough to lean back and meet your eyes.

Even through the haze, her expression shifted. Something warm and sincere flickered across her face, quieting the rougher edge of her desire. Her voice softened, low and careful, like she didn’t want to break you open any more than she already had.

“Hey,” she murmured, brushing her nose along your cheek. “You don’t have to know. I’m not here for that.”

You blinked up at her, lips parted, your walls clenching around her fingers at the intimacy of her words—at the way she held you, not just with her body but in the space between each breath.

“I just want to make you feel good, yeah?” she whispered. “We don’t have to go any further. Don’t worry your pretty head.”

The tenderness gutted you more than anything else had tonight. Not the pleasure, not the kisses—this. The way she looked at you like you were fragile and beautiful and deserving of being held right there, in that ache.

You didn’t have to answer aloud. You kissed her instead. And Rafayel kissed you like she’d wait as long as you needed.

You wanted more—more of her, more of this—but somewhere between the rise of your hips and the way your chest heaved for breath, a flicker of doubt stole in. It slipped uninvited into your bloodstream, quiet but sharp, and your brows knit slightly without meaning to.

What if she didn’t enjoy this? What if the idea of you—new, unsure, trembling beneath her—wasn’t enough?

That frown tugged at your lips, not quite erasing the lust in your eyes, but softening it with something fragile, something you couldn’t quite hide.

Rafayel saw it immediately. Her fingers were still moving inside you—slow, curling, coaxing moans from your throat without effort—but her attention locked on your face, and her expression shifted. Not annoyed. Not even impatient. Just—pained. A little wrecked.

“Fuck,” she breathed, eyes dark as she leaned in closer, her forehead falling gently against yours. Her voice was ragged, husky at the edges, full of tension that vibrated just under her skin. “Don’t look like that, cutie. Please.”

Her lashes fluttered, brushing against her cheeks as she exhaled—long and shaky. “I want you. So fucking badly I can barely hold back. But you’ve never done this before and I—” she faltered, voice dipping, “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to overwhelm you. So don’t… don’t think I’m hesitating because I don’t want this.”

She opened her eyes again, and they were raw with restraint, amethyst depths burning with barely leashed desire. “The problem is I want this too much.”

The vulnerability in her voice pierced something inside you. You leaned up instinctively, closing the space between your lips, catching her mouth in a kiss that was soft but certain—an answer. A promise.

When you pulled back, your breath was warm against her cheek. “I’ve wanted you for months,” you murmured, the words falling out like truth finally unshackled. “Please… take me, Rafayel. I need you.”

You looked up at her then, a little hesitant, the edge of uncertainty still there. “But if my inexperience is going to be a problem, we can stop. I don’t want to ruin this for you.”

Her reaction was immediate. A groan, almost guttural, tore from her throat, and then her mouth was on yours again—hard, hungry, desperate in a way that made your toes curl and your fingers cling to her back.

“Don’t say that,” she whispered between kisses, every word landing like a vow. “Don’t you ever say that again.”

Another kiss. Fierce. Dizzying.

“I don’t care in the slightest,” she breathed, and this time her voice was shaking with how much she meant it. “Fuck, I want you. All of you.”

And the way she looked at you, like she’d been starving for you and had only now been allowed to taste. There was nothing performative about it. No pretending. No pressure. Just Rafayel wanting you exactly as you were.

She slipped her fingers from inside you, slow and wet, and the sudden absence made you gasp—a soft, startled whimper catching in your throat as your hips instinctively chased after the sensation. The cool air kissed your heat in her wake, and you blinked up at her, dazed.

Rafayel moved away only slightly, enough to lean back on her knees and begin tugging at the waistband of her pants. The room filled with the quiet rustle of fabric and breath, the sound of your heartbeat pounding loud in your ears. Her gaze never once left you—dilated pupils, dark lashes, lust simmering low and thick behind her amethyst eyes. But there was something else layered beneath it too. Something that made your breath catch.

Need. Reverence. Want wrapped in affection so intense it felt like gravity pulling you closer.

You reached out for her—an instinct, not a thought—and it earned you a low, amused chuckle as she crawled back toward you. Her mouth found yours again, this time slower, deeper. She kissed you like she knew you were nervous. Like she could feel the tremble in your breath, the rise and fall of your chest trying to find rhythm.

Her voice brushed against your lips, warm and hushed, edged with heat but anchored in something more tender. “Do you trust me?”

Your nod came without hesitation—your body moved before your voice could.

That seemed to be all she needed. She coaxed you back onto your spine, hands guiding without pressure, until you were sprawled beneath her again, open and waiting. The bed shifted slightly as she rose to her knees, and then her fingers curled around your right leg, dragging it slow, deliberate, over her shoulder. You watched the movement—your breath caught somewhere between awe and anticipation.

Her palm slid along your calf, squeezing gently, and her lips pulled into a grin that was equal parts wicked and reassuring.

“Relax,” she murmured, nuzzling the inside of your knee with her cheek before she shifted again.

This time, it was her turn to curl a leg around you. Her right thigh looped around your waist as she settled in close—closer than you thought possible—and the moment your eyes flicked down between your bodies, your entire breath seized.

She was glistening, dripping onto the sheets. Want slick between her thighs, glistening in the low light. And it was so close to your pussy, so ready to touch, to slide against yours, that you couldn’t stop the moan that slipped from you—raw, needy, involuntary. Your hips jerked upward, trying to close the space.

You heard her inhale at the sound. Heard her smile. Felt her hand stroke your outer thigh again as she murmured, playful but low with need, “Mmm, you're eager, aren’t you?”

You couldn’t answer with words. Not when your whole body was burning, already aching for the press of her against you. You could only nod, biting your lip, eyes glazed as she moved just slightly.

She groaned low in her throat, the sound curling around your ribs like smoke. Her hands found your waist with an aching sort of reverence, fingers pressing into your skin as she inched closer—agonizingly slow, deliberately restrained. Her body hovered just shy of yours, a breath away, the tension between you almost unbearable.

Her eyes, half-lidded and dark with lust, swept over the flushed rise of your chest, drinking in every tremble, every inch of your need. And when her fingers ghosted down, grazing your soaked folds with featherlight curiosity, your breath caught in your throat, a soft mewl slipping out before you could stop it.

“Relax for me, pretty,” she murmured, her voice a breathless rasp, as if she were already halfway undone. Her thumb traced soothing patterns into your thigh, and her lips curved—playful, fond, heat-drunk. “Follow my lead. I’ll make us both feel good.”

The words slid down your spine like warm honey, and then her fingers dipped between your legs—just one slipping inside, shallow at first, then withdrawing, teasing, coaxing your walls to flutter and tighten with every pass. You whimpered, hips shifting instinctively, chasing more.

Then Rafayel shifted again, planting one arm behind her for balance as her other hand remained possessive on your thigh. And just as you tried to inhale, to steady yourself, her eyes met yours.

That look—like the whole galaxy had narrowed to this one moment between your thighs—hit you harder than her touch.

And then she moved, her hips rolled forward, slow and deliberate, her pussy sliding over yours in one seamless, molten grind.

The sensation made your back arch off the bed with a startled, broken moan—so loud and raw it barely sounded like you. Her own groan met yours, deep and shaking, pulled from somewhere far below the surface. She did it again, slower this time, letting the slick friction of your bodies melt together—wet, warm, aching.

It only took a few more rolls of her hips before your body understood, matching her rhythm instinctively. Her thigh flexed against yours, her fingers digging tighter into your leg as your clits caught on each other with every motion, drawing moan after moan from both of you.

You couldn’t think, couldn’t form words—your thoughts scattered and fevered, drowned beneath how good she felt, how real it was, how impossibly right.

Rafayel was flushed—gorgeous and flushed—her lavender hair falling across her face, strands sticking to her cheeks as her mouth parted on a quiet gasp. Her eyes were locked on yours, hungry, reverent, mouth twitching up at the corners like she couldn't believe it either. Like she’d wanted this just as long.

Her hips rocked forward again, and you cried out, voice catching on a moan that tangled with hers, the rhythm between you growing more frantic, more desperate.

You didn’t even have room in your mind to wonder if you were doing it right—because the look in her eyes answered everything.

She was wrecked. She was beautiful. And she was falling apart on top of you, just as much as you were for her.

“You’re doing so well,” Rafayel gasped, her voice tight and wrecked with pleasure, and the sound of it alone sent your eyes rolling back. Her grip on your leg tightened, fingers digging in like she needed the anchor, needed you. Her breath shuddered across your skin as she rasped against your leg, barely able to hold the words together. “Perfect—just like this. Fuck, cutie… you feel so good. I’m—damn, I’m close.”

Her hips dragged against yours again, slow at first, then faster, grinding down with increasing desperation. Every slick roll of her body sent pleasure shooting straight through your core, making you gasp and cry out and clench helplessly around nothing.

“I’m close too,” you breathed, eyes fluttering shut as you arched into her, trying to match her pace. “God, Raf—I wanna come with you.”

The words tumbled out in broken gasps, your body trembling, every muscle drawn tight with the edge of it. You tried to move faster, to chase the release pooling in your belly, but it was too much, too good—especially when her hips pressed down again, harder this time, slick and perfect.

“Please,” you whimpered, “I’m so close, I need—”

“Oh, fuck, cutie—” she groaned, her voice cracking, “don’t beg like that.” She was unraveling above you, her whole body trembling with restraint.

 “You’re so wet,” she muttered, almost to herself, looking down between your bodies with a dark gleam in her eyes, “Look at that… how good we fit… how easy it is to slide against you…”

You moaned brokenly, biting down on your lip as heat surged through you like wildfire. The tension was unbearable—right there, teetering on the edge—and Rafayel wasn’t helping, her own voice thick with need as she pushed you closer and closer.

“C’mon, angel,” she breathed, hips stuttering against yours as she breathed out, voice rough with heat and coaxing. “Let go for me, yeah? Come apart. Let me feel it.”

That did it. Just a few more slick, desperate rolls of her hips and the dam inside you broke. Your body convulsed, a high-pitched cry tearing from your throat as you came hard, clinging to her like your life depended on it. Her name caught on your tongue, broken and trembling.

Rafayel didn’t last a second longer. She chased the sound of her name from your lips and followed you over the edge, her own moan low and syrupy as she came with you, her body jerking in rhythm with yours as your slicks mixed and made a mess of everything between you.

You were both gasping for air, trembling, wrecked and glistening—but she didn’t pull away.

Instead, she slumped forward, mouth catching yours in a heated, messy kiss, tongue dragging over your lips like she couldn’t stand even a second of distance. You moaned into her, still so sensitive, but you kissed her back just as desperately—hungry and languid, lips sliding together in the haze of afterglow.

“You did so well,” she murmured against your mouth between kisses, voice a breathless hum of praise. “Fuck, you were perfect.”

You couldn’t even speak. Your breath was still trying to come back to you, your skin still tingling, your body still wrapped in hers—and her mouth was on you again, claiming you with slow, reverent kisses. Like she needed to memorize you. Like she didn’t want to let you go.

The air between you was thick with warmth and want, the kind that lingers long after the pleasure has passed. And from the way Rafayel held you, lips dragging slow and lazy down your jaw, it was clear the heat between you wasn’t over just yet.

You stayed like that for a while—tangled in each other, skin to skin, your bodies still humming with aftershocks neither of you dared to name yet. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and sex, softened only by the slow rise and fall of your breaths syncing, like waves finally retreating from the shore. You were dizzy—buzzed from the alcohol, sure, but mostly from her. From the weight of her draped over you, from the way her lips still lazily explored your neck as if she couldn’t quite stop.

“I think the hangover is creeping up on me,” she murmured into your skin, voice low and petulant, like she was mourning the end of your high already. A tiny whine slipped through her lips, so unlike the composed, maddeningly theatrical girl the world knew. It made you chuckle, even though your head throbbed too.

You didn’t talk about what had just happened yet. The words hadn’t caught up to the moment. So you let yourselves fall into quiet comfort instead. She clung to you shamelessly, splayed out across your body like a lazy cat, her limbs tangled with yours, and no apparent intention of moving.

She heard your soft laugh and lifted her head with a mock pout, strands of damp hair clinging to her flushed face. “Don’t laugh,” she grumbled. “You’ll be suffering right alongside me soon enough.”

Her makeup was ruined—smudged by heat and sweat and the brush of your bodies—but you thought she’d never looked more beautiful. Her cheeks still glowed with afterglow, her lips swollen, her violet eyes a little dazed. There was something almost unreal about her like this, half-drunk on lust and barely holding onto her usual theatrical armor.

She caught you staring. And naturally, she couldn’t help herself. “Someone can’t take their eyes off me, huh,” she cooed, her smile slow and feline. “Cutie, if you keep looking at me like that, I might melt right here before the hangover even hits.”

You flushed, scoffing under your breath and glancing away, but she wasn’t having that. She gently turned your chin back toward her with two fingers, eyes locked on yours with something softer now—less teasing, more real.

“Don’t get shy on me now, hm?” her thumb brushed your jaw. “Look at me.”

So you did. And for a second, it all caught up with you. What you’d done. What you’d said. The taste of her still on your tongue. You didn’t even know if it had really happened, or if it was just a beautiful illusion crafted by alcohol and desperation and months of buried want.

Rafayel saw the spiral in your eyes before you could voice it. Her lips pressed to yours in a slow, grounding kiss, coaxing you gently back into the present. Her hand settled on your jaw, steadying you, thumb stroking your cheek with the kind of reverence you hadn’t expected from her.

“You should get out of that pretty little head of yours,” she whispered against your lips, voice quieter now, velvet-soft. “I meant everything I did tonight. Everything I said.”

You nodded, swallowing hard. Her smile grew, warm and unguarded, and she kissed the tip of your nose.

You winced slightly, the gesture catching you off guard—and of course she noticed.

“Oh, so now you’re bullying me?” she huffed dramatically. “I see how it is.” her voice dropped into a playful murmur as she trailed kisses down your neck. “You didn’t seem so mouthy when I was between your legs, cutie. You were moaning so sweetly. Being so nice to me. And now you’re bullying me?”

Your cheeks burned, and you gave her a light smack to the side. “Can you not say things like that? Jesus, Rafayel.”

She just laughed, unbothered, and nuzzled into your throat like she owned the space there. Then she shifted, squirming her way up until she hovered above you, her violet eyes catching yours—bright, watchful. The smirk faded just enough for you to recognize the shift in her. She was about to ask something real.

“How long?” her voice was soft, almost curious. But not quite.

You blinked. “How long what?”

Rafayel tilted her head, her expression unreadable for once. No sly grin. No sharp quip. Just raw amethyst eyes, rimmed in smudged liner and open in a way you rarely saw.

“How long have you wanted this?” she asked, then hesitated just for a beat, as if she decided if she was really gonna go for it and say it. “Wanted… me.”

The question didn’t carry the weight of accusation, but something in it still made your breath catch. She was trying to sound nonchalant, casual even, but you could hear it. The crack in her voice. The part of her that needed to know.

You looked away for a moment, then forced yourself to meet her gaze. You couldn’t lie to her. Not now.

“Since before tonight,” you said, voice quiet but sure. “Since before the party. Before… her.”

You saw the flicker of amusement tug at her lips, soft and a little smug.

“So you were jealous.” she grinned wider when you rolled your eyes. “I knew it. You always frowned when I brought her up.”

You smacked her arm again, and she just beamed, undeterred. She kissed you again—quick, playful, a little breathless—and then murmured against your lips, “So… is that why you kissed me tonight? Because you saw me with her?”

You frowned, chest tightening. “No. I didn’t have any right to be jealous.”

“No,” she agreed. “But you still were, weren’t you?”

You looked away, cheeks burning. Her voice had dropped to something slower now, more thoughtful, as she traced idle patterns across your bare hip.

“And you still didn’t answer me, cutie,” she added softly. “Is that why you let this happen?”

You knew what she meant. She wasn’t asking if you’d done it to hurt her. She was asking if it had been real.

So you reached for her hand, fingers threading between hers. She glanced down at the movement, then back up to your face, her expression unreadable—but no longer guarded.

“I think you know me better than that, Raf,” you whispered. “I’m not that petty. I’ve wanted to kiss you for a long time. I just… didn’t know if I should.”

Rafayel stared at you for a moment longer—then leaned down and kissed you again. This time, she didn’t rush. She just lingered there, warm and steady, her thumb brushing over your knuckles like she could memorize every piece of you by touch alone.

And in that quiet, with her body wrapped around yours and her kiss still warm on your lips, you knew she believed you.

Your kisses deepened, no longer tentative, no longer testing—just hungry, lazy, unhurried. You melted into the warmth of her body, the press of bare skin against bare skin. Rafayel lay draped over you, her thigh slung possessively over your waist, her limbs loose and content like a cat in a sunbeam. The room was still—thick with the scent of sweat and skin and the faint remnants of perfume—and somewhere beyond it all, the dull weight of the oncoming hangover loomed like a storm cloud waiting to break.

But you didn’t care. You were tired. A little dazed. A little tipsy still. But there was something else—something low and curling, gathering again in your stomach with an ache that had nothing to do with thirst or headache.

She shifted slightly, brushing against you in that unconscious, intimate way she had. And you felt it again. Desire. Heat, slick and growing. And the curiosity that had been haunting the back of your mind for months crept forward like a secret you’d tried to ignore. You'd never gone down on a girl before. You’d been with boys who expected you to lie back and be quiet, who never asked what you wanted, let alone what you wanted to give. But Rafayel was different. And for all your nervousness, the idea of tasting her made your pulse stutter.

You wanted to. You wanted her. But how the hell were you supposed to say that?

You stayed quiet, letting your hands speak instead—sliding through the silky strands of her purple hair, tugging gently until she let out a pleased, indulgent little moan.

“Mmm… you’ve really got a thing for pulling my hair, don’tcha?” she hummed, lips brushing yours as she smiled lazily.

“You talk too much,” you murmured against her mouth, trying to sound teasing, not shaky.

She laughed—light and amused, like velvet against your chest—and you kissed her again before you could lose your nerve. This one was hungrier, bolder. She opened for you easily, tongue meeting yours like she'd been waiting for it, like she knew this was coming.

You rolled her beneath you in a tangle of limbs and covers, your bodies sliding together as you shifted. She let you, delight flashing in her half-lidded eyes even as she blinked up at you in surprise.

Your lips found her neck again, the space just beneath her jaw, and she moaned as her fingers curled into the sheets. Your hand trailed downward, fingertips skimming the slope of her ribs before closing around her breast, soft and warm and yielding. You kneaded gently, listened to the way she gasped, the way her thighs flexed around your waist in a wordless plea.

Then her hips moved—subtle, almost shy. But it was there. A quiet lift. A silent please.

You bit her neck, just hard enough to mark, and she shivered beneath you.

“O-oh… do that again,” she breathed, head tipping back to bare more of her throat for you. Her voice was high, near-whimpering now—so unlike the smug, self-possessed girl she’d been before. This Rafayel was different. This Rafayel was undone. Yours.

So you did. You bit her again, a little lower this time, and her back arched with a soft cry, her hands fluttering helplessly against your arms. Her nipples peaked under your fingers, and when you brushed one with the barest graze, she gasped—louder now, almost desperate.

Underneath you, Rafayel wasn’t teasing or taunting. She wasn’t in control. She was open. Responsive. Beautifully unraveled. And she had no idea what you were planning next.

But still, your hands didn’t drift. Your lips stayed fixed to her neck, marking her in slow, possessive kisses, as your mind whirled, trying to work up the nerve to go lower. To tell her what you wanted without falling into silence or embarrassment. Her thighs shifted again, restless against you. Her breaths came faster, broken and hot, her fingers twitching against your shoulder.

“Cutie,” she breathed, a little impatient now, hips shifting again under yours. “You trying to drive me insane on purpose?”

She noticed you didn’t really respond, or that you were not 100% present. Rafayel’s fingers curled beneath your jaw, gentle but firm as she guided your face away from the crook of her throat, just enough to see you properly. Her brows were faintly drawn, eyes wide and dark with heat, but behind that was something softer. A thread of concern, even in the middle of all that breathless pleasure.

“Hey…” Her voice was hushed, velvet-soft. “What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?”

You shook your head quickly—too quickly, maybe. Her touch lingered on your cheek, and she didn’t press, but the question remained, written across her features in unspoken script. You didn’t want to explain. So you kissed her instead, harder this time. Not rushed, but urgent—an attempt to swallow the nerves crawling up your throat.

Rafayel gasped softly into your mouth, surprised, her lips parting beneath yours, but she responded instantly, always eager to meet you in your madness. When you pulled back, your cheeks were flushed, your breath shaky, and you didn’t need to look at her to know she was studying you.

“I want to try something,” you said, your voice roughened by restraint, trying too hard to sound nonchalant.

Her expression flickered. You could feel her curiosity sharpen, her gaze searching yours like she was trying to solve a riddle before you gave the answer. But when she tilted her head, when she didn’t press you with words, you took it as a cue. You dropped your gaze and let your lips return to her skin—this time lower. A kiss to her jaw. A slow drag down her throat. Her breath hitched.

Then lower. Your tongue circled a nipple, experimentally slow, and Rafayel let out a moan, sweet and sharp and trembling. Her head fell back into the pillows, lashes fluttering, hair spilling wild around her like a storm.

“Oh, fuck… cutie,” she breathed, laughing a little breathlessly even through the pleasure. “What exactly are you trying to tell me right now?”

You didn’t answer. You just kept going, trailing kisses down the line of her ribs, over the soft curve of her stomach. Your hands were gentle, bracing her hips, and as you lowered yourself between her legs, you looked up.

You could feel your own hesitation in the tightness of your shoulders. Not because you didn’t want to—god, you did—but because this was uncharted territory. Because you wanted it to be good for her. Because you didn’t know what the hell you were doing.

Rafayel’s breath caught when she met your gaze. You saw it in her face—the realization dawning, a bloom of pink spreading across her cheeks like rising heat.

Still, she didn’t say anything right away. She just smiled softly, a little crooked. Then she tilted her head, amusement and fondness flickering in her gaze. “…Go ahead.”

You swallowed, heart hammering, but something still made you pause, even if just for a second.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you admitted, voice quiet, barely more than a breath.

Her expression didn’t shift. If anything, it deepened into something more tender—warmth, ease, maybe even pride. Her hand found your cheek again, thumb stroking the skin there in soothing circles.

“Then don’t think so hard,” she murmured. “Do whatever you think’ll feel good. You’ll figure it out.”

And with that, she reclined slowly, giving herself to the moment, to you. Her body relaxed under your hands, and she smiled again—open, ready, trusting.

For a girl who always had a witty comeback, always had control of the room, she had never looked more beautiful than she did now—laid out for you, gaze soft, lips parted, breathing just a little faster than before.

You took your cue, inhaling softly as you lowered yourself between her thighs, letting your courage take the lead before hesitation could anchor it down. Rafayel gasped when she felt the first brush of your breath against her—so soft, so tentative it made her twitch. Her hips lifted slightly, as though coaxing you closer without words.

The sight of her was enough to make your mouth water. She was already slick again, flushed and pliant from the heat winding between you. You swallowed, steadied yourself, and turned your head instead—not yet brave enough to taste her, not yet. You started with the softest kisses to her inner thigh, reverent and lingering, as though mapping your way forward with your mouth alone.

A breathy, approving moan slipped from her lips.

“Don’t get shy on me now, cutie,” she murmured, voice warm and low, like silk pulled over bare skin. “You’ll ruin the anticipation.”

But she didn’t rush you. Didn’t push. Just let herself sink back into the mattress, limbs loose and gaze half-lidded as she watched you explore.

And when you finally looked up, she was already looking down at you. Eyes hazy, lips parted, her chest rising and falling with slow, measured breath that stuttered as your gaze locked. She didn’t say a word—but she didn’t need to. The invitation was in every inch of her expression, in the quiet flex of her thighs, the gentle rock of her hips.

So you took it. You leaned in and let your tongue part her folds, just once, slow and unpracticed—but the sound she made in response ignited something in you. A soft, broken moan, her back arching as if her body wanted to chase the warmth of your mouth.

So you did it again. Long, languid strokes of your tongue that dragged along the soft slickness of her, tasting her. Learning her. With every pass, her breathing grew more ragged, more erratic—until you circled your tongue around her clit, experimentally light, and her hips jerked.

“God—fuck.” her voice rasped through the air, threaded with disbelief. “Right there… just like that.”

The praise made your cheeks burn, but you didn’t stop. If anything, you doubled down, watching the way her body reacted to every shift in pressure, every flick of your tongue. Her fingers curled into the sheets, white-knuckled, and the other hand tangled into your hair, guiding you gently, keeping your face close like she never wanted you to leave.

You moaned into her from the sheer intimacy of it, from the way her thighs bracketed your head so trustingly, so needily—and she answered that sound with a deeper one of her own, almost guttural.

Whatever you were doing, you were doing it right. She wasn’t the type to fake her pleasure, and she certainly wasn’t doing that now—not with the way her body trembled, with how her voice cracked around half-sobs of your name.

So you kept going. You changed the rhythm, played with pace—lapping and sucking until you could map her reactions, know what each twitch or gasp meant. And when she moaned your name again, voice shaking, you slid one finger inside her, curling it carefully.

That did it. Her whole body jolted under your touch, a strangled moan tearing from her throat. “Oh my god—fuck, there. Cutie… please—”

The way she begged, breathless and undone, made something bloom deep in your chest. You did it again, curling just right, tongue never ceasing, and she bucked into your mouth with a cry, loud and raw. The desperation in her voice undid you completely.

“Shit—don’t stop. I’m gonna—fuck, I’ll come if you—” Another moan swallowed the rest of her sentence, and you pushed a second finger in, feeling the tight clench of her walls and the heat threatening to spill over.

You pulled back just enough to whisper against her soaked core, voice hoarse with want. “Wanna make you come.”

And then you dove back in, lips slick, tongue greedy, fingers stroking her just right—just like she needed.

You didn’t think you’d ever see Rafayel like this. So flustered. So flushed and gasping. So thoroughly ruined by your mouth. She moaned your name again and again, high and broken, while her hips rocked instinctively against your face, chasing the release building under your touch.

And then, suddenly, she froze—every muscle tense, her thighs trembling as her voice cracked. “Mhmm—fuck, I’m… oh, I’m coming. Shit—cutie—”

You felt it. The shudder that rippled through her, the sweet rush of wet heat on your tongue as she came with a choked cry, head thrown back and fingers gripping your hair like it grounded her.

You coaxed her through it, slow and steady, the way she had done for you not so long ago. Every flick, every swirl of your tongue softened, easing her down from the high, and when she finally collapsed back against the bed, breathless and glowing, your heart nearly burst from how beautiful she looked.

Rafayel—undone and utterly yours in that moment—exhaled a shaky laugh, eyes glazed and lips pink from biting back more moans. “…You’ve been holding out on me, haven’t you?”

Her voice was hoarse, teasing, laced with the remnants of her pleasure. You looked up at her, flushed and trembling, lips slick and heart thudding.

“Guess I’m a fast learner,” you managed.

She grinned, lazy and satisfied, eyes twinkling as she tugged you up by your hair. And when she kissed you, she moaned again into your mouth, tasting herself on your lips with zero shame.

“Mm,” she whispered, nose brushing yours, “we’re definitely doing that again.”

© zaynessbeloved 2025

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST HERE AND ON MY AO3.

.ᐟ✧ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask. do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own. thank you!

taglist: @syluslittlecrows, @asiaticapple

[novella-november]

See, here's the thing about generative AI:

I will always, always prefer to read the beginner works of a young writer that could use some editing advice, over anything a predictive text generator can spit out no matter how high of a "quality" it spits out.

I will always be more interested in reading a fanfiction or original story written by a kid who doesn't know you're meant to separate different dialogues into their own paragraphs, over anything a generative ai creates.

I will happily read a story where dialogue isn't always capitalized and has some grammar mistakes that was written by a person over anything a computer compiles.

Why?

Because *why should I care about something someone didn't even care enough to write themselves?*

Humans have been storytellers since the dawn of humankind, and while it presents itself in different ways, almost everyone has stories they want to tell, and it takes effort and care and a desire to create to put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard or speech to text to actually start writing that story out, let alone share it for others to read!

If a kid writes a story where all the dialogue is crammed in the same paragraph and missing some punctuation, it's because they're still learning the ropes and are eager to share their imagination with the world even if its not perfect.

If someone gets generative AI to make an entire novel for them, copying and pasting chunks of text into a document as it generates them, then markets that "novel" as being written by a real human person and recruits a bunch of people to leave fake good reviews on the work praising the quality of the book to trick real humans into thinking they're getting a legitimate novel.... Tell me, why on earth would anyone actually want to read that "novel" outside of morbid curiosity?

There's a few people you'll see in the anti-ai tags complaining about "people being dangerously close to saying art is a unique characteristic of the divine human soul" and like...

... Super dramatic wording there to make people sound ridiculous, but yeah, actually, people enjoy art made by humans because humans who make art are sharing their passion with others.

People enjoy art made by animals because it is fascinating and fun to find patterns in the paint left by paw prints or the movements of an elephants trunk.

Before Generative AI became the officially sanctioned "Plagiarism Machine for Billionaires to Avoid Paying Artists while Literally Stealing all those artists works" people enjoyed random computer-generated art because, like animals, it is fascinating and fun to see something so different and alien create something that we can find meaning in.

But now, when Generative AI spits out a work that at first appears to be a veritable masterpiece of art depicting a winged Valkyrie plunging from the skies with a spear held aloft, you know that anything you find beautiful or agreeable in this visual media has been copied from an actual human artist who did not consent or doesn't even know that their art has been fed into the Plagiarism Machine.

Now, when Generative AI spits out a written work featuring fandom-made tropes and concepts like Alpha Beta Omega dyanamics, you know that you favorite fanfiction website(s) have probably all been scraped and that the unpaid labours of passion by millions of people, including minors, have been scraped by the Plagiarism Machine and can now be used to make money for anyone with the time and patience to sit and have the Plagarism Machine generate stories a chunk at a time and then go on to sell those stories to anyone unfortunate enough to fall for the scam,

all while you have no way to remove your works from the existing training data and no way to stop any future works you post be put in, either.

Generative AI wouldn't be a problem if it was exclusively trained on Public Domain works for each country and if it was freely available to anyone in that country (since different countries have different copyright laws)

But its not.

Because Generative AI is made by billionaires who are going around saying "if you posted it on the Internet at any point, it is fair game for us to take and profit off," and anyone looking to make a quick buck can start churning out stolen slop and marketing it online on trusted retailers, including generating extremely dangerous books like foraging guides or how to combine cleaning chemicals for a spotless home, etc.

Generative AI is nothing but the works of actual humans stolen by giant corporations looking for profit, even works that the original creators can't even make money off of themselves, like fanfiction or fanart.

And I will always, always prefer to read "fanfiction written by a 13 year old" over "stolen and mashed together works from Predictive Text with a scifi name slapped on it", because at least the fanfiction by a kid actually has *passion and drive* behind its creation.

[secretl1fe0fm3]

have you underneath all of my beliefs ~ eva x fem!reader

summary: you find yourself on a wellness retreat, where you meet eva, the presumed leader of the female empowerment group. as the days pass, her interest in you grows, and she’s determined to uncover every secret you keep, no matter what it takes.

warnings: smut (with plot), soft dom!eva, sub!reader, dirty talk, fingering, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, praise kink, aftercare if you squint

an: the long awaited eva fic is finally here!!!! i had so much fun writing this one, and i hope yall enjoy :,) she could manipulate me ANY DAY. (lmk if anyone is interested in a part 2, i have some ideas hehe)

18+ minors dni!!!

2k+ words

You hadn’t expected to stay this long.

The first day was filled with polite smiles, herbal teas, and long moments of uncomfortable silence as women from all walks of life tried to untangle themselves from the grasp of their inner demons. You kept your distance while still participating, not wanting to share much about your haunted past.

But Eva noticed you.

At first, it was subtle. A glance from across the communal fire. A brush of her hand against yours when she passed you a blanket or a cup of tea. But each day, her presence grew stronger. She didn’t speak often in group sessions, only doing so to lead them, but when she did, the others listened. Everything seemed to revolve around her, everyone looking up to her for guidance.

You’d catch her watching you during morning breathwork. Her eyes followed the way your chest rose and fell, studying every twitch in your expression. During meals, she always found a way to sit near you, never directly across, never too obvious, but always near. When you shared, which was a rarity, she listened with an intensity that felt almost invasive. Like she could see every unspoken truth inside you, waiting for you to bare more of yourself to her.

———

You returned to your room after the evening group fire, still feeling the weight of Eva’s gaze on you. She hadn’t said a word to you tonight, but she didn’t need to, she got her message across.

Your room was quiet when you stepped inside, the soft sounds of the woods humming outside your window. You moved to pull back your blanket, and that’s when you saw a folded piece of thick paper sat right in the middle of your pillow.

Your name was written on the front in soft, cursive handwriting. You picked it up and unfolded it with shaky fingers, reading the words over and over.

Come to the attic after dark. I want to talk. You’ve been holding something in. I want to help you let it out. -Eva

Your fingers stayed curled around the paper, gripping it tight, absentmindedly crinkling it a little.

You weren’t sure how long you stood there, staring at the note, but you already knew it wasn’t up for debate, you had to face your fears this time.

———

The house was dark, hushed in the way it only got after everyone had gone to bed. You moved carefully, bare feet brushing over the wood floors, trying not to make a sound.

The note was still tucked in your hand.

Upstairs, a light flickered from the attic doorway. You hesitated at the bottom of the stairs, then slowly made your way up. The steps creaked softly under your weight. When you reached the top, the door was already open.

Eva sat in a chair, legs crossed, one hand resting against her cheek, her other holding a mug that steamed gently. Her robe was loose, the floral pattern falling off one of her shoulders. She looked up at you as you stood in the doorway, uncertainty etched all over your face.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she said softly, voice low. “But I hoped you would.”

You stepped inside, unsure whether or not to speak. The door shut behind you with a gentle click, and Eva set her mug down.

“You can sit,” she said, nodding toward the cushion across from her. “Or stand. Whichever feels more honest.”

You hesitated, then lowered yourself onto a cushion, heart beating a little too fast. The stained-glass window emanated colored light across the room, casting strange shapes on the wooden floor.

Eva smiled, watching you.

“I like when people come in nervous,” she said, her voice almost teasing. “It means there’s something worth digging into.”

You swallowed, fiddling with your fingers. “You said you wanted to talk.”

“I did,” she nodded. “But only if you’re ready.”

Her tone was warm, inviting you to slowly open up, but you remained silent as your eyes studied her.

“I’ve been watching you,” Eva continued, leaning forward just a little. “You keep your distance during the group sessions. You give just enough to look open, but you’re not. Not really.”

You shifted slightly under her gaze. “That’s not true.”

“No?” Her eyes lit up, like you’d said exactly what she wanted. “Then tell me something real.”

You hesitated, lips parting, but nothing came out.

Eva’s smile deepened at your silence this time. She uncrossed her legs and stood, walking toward you with slow, measured steps. She knelt in front of you, not quite touching yet, but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off her body.

“I can feel it on you,” she whispered. “Whatever it is you’re hiding. It weighs heavy.”

You looked away, and her fingers brushed under your chin, coaxing your gaze back to her.

“I want it,” Eva murmured. “All of it. I want you to give it to me. And I want you to want to give it to me.”

There was something in the way she said it, perfectly persuasive. Her thumb stroked along your jaw, like she was trying to coax a confession out of you.

“I know how to hold secrets,” she said. “I know how to take pain and turn it into something beautiful. But I need you to trust me.”

You blinked, your voice coming out quieter than you meant. “Why me?”

Her eyes didn’t leave yours, flicking down to your lips before quickly returning to your stare.

“Because you haven’t let yourself open up yet,” she said simply. “And I want to be the one who does that for you.”

Her hand slipped lower, resting over your chest, pressing gently over your heart, feeling the steady beats under her palm.

“Can I?” she asked, voice a whisper now. “Will you let me?”

The room had gone still at her question, the only sounds were your breathing, and hers. A slow, steady rhythm, like she knew how this night would end long before you stepped through the door.

Eva’s hand still rested over your chest, her palm rising and falling with every breath you tried to keep steady. You were trembling slightly, her presence leaving a heavy weight in the air.

“I can feel how much you want to let go,” she said, voice soft but sure. “You’ve been holding it in for so long, haven’t you?”

Your eyes burned and you didn’t know why, but you nodded.

“Good girl,” Eva whispered. “That’s the first truth. Now let me take care of you.”

You didn’t answer as your body leaned into hers instinctively, and that was all the permission she needed.

Eva kissed you deep, one hand cradling the back of your neck, the other sliding down your side, tracing your curves. Her lips were warm and soft against yours as she kissed you like she was memorizing the way you taste, and the sounds you made.

Her hand slipped under your shirt, her fingers felt hot against your bare skin. She traced along your ribs, your stomach, until her touch reached the waistband of your pants. She paused there, pulling away momentarily, her eyes locked on yours

“I want you to let me in,” she whispered. “Don’t hold back with me.”

You gave her a small, shaky but eager nod. She smiled as her lips met yours again, the kiss deeper than the previous one. She eased her hand beneath the fabric, her touch featherlight, but deliberate. Eva pushed your panties aside before she stroked slowly along your wet folds, her fingers sliding through your slit with ease.

“You’re already trembling,” she murmured, her voice low and soft. “You’ve been needing this, haven’t you?”

You whimpered, biting your lip.

Eva moved her fingers in slow, careful circles against your clit. Her lips stayed close to yours, placing soft kisses over your mouth, your cheek, and your jaw as you spread your legs a bit wider, wordlessly inviting her to go further.

She pushed two fingers inside you, deep and slow. The stretch made you gasp, and she held still for a moment, letting you adjust to the feeling.

“Just like that,” she whispered. “You’re doing so well.”

She began to move her fingers, thrusting in and out of your heat, her thumb gliding against your clit in a steady rhythm. Your hips bucked up towards the touch, chasing the pressure as desperate moans fell from your lips.

“Stay with me,” Eva murmured, pushing your hip down with her free hand. “I want to feel you fall apart.”

Your muscles tightened, heat coiling deep inside you. Her thrusts sped up, but she didn’t rush you. She watched you slowly unravel, her voice anchoring you in quiet affirmations between kisses.

You’re safe. I’ve got you. Let it happen.

Your orgasm crashed over you without much warning, clenching down around her fingers as you threw your head back, a low but loud moan filling the quiet room. Eva held you through it, her fingers still moving just enough to help draw your climax out of you. You clung to her floral robe, your cheek against her shoulder, your body trembling in her lap.

But she didn’t stop.

Eva shifted you, gently laying you back against the cushions on the floor. She pressed soft kisses along your thighs, over your stomach, then met your gaze again as her fingers found your wet core once more.

“I know you can give me more,” she whispered. “But only if it feels good. Only if you want to.”

You were already nodding before you even realized, before your brain caught up to your body.

You didn’t have words anymore, just ache and need swirling low in your belly as she leaned over you. She gave you a quiet nod in return and leaned in, kissing your shoulder as her fingers pressed against your soaked cunt.

She easily slipped her two fingers inside of you again with a practiced curl that made your hips jerk. Your mouth opened in a sharp gasp.

“You can take it,” Eva whispered, lips brushing the corner of your mouth. “You need this. Don’t fight it.”

Eva stroked your clit in a lazy, circular rhythm, never faltering. Your body tensed immediately, already so close it hurt. You grabbed at her wrist to ground yourself.

The pressure built fast, almost too fast. Your body was still overstimulated from the first orgasm, and every stroke of her fingers now felt overwhelming. Your thighs tried to close around her hand, and she used her free arm to gently pin one down.

“Shh,” Eva cooed, breath warm against your cheek. “It’s okay. Let it happen. I’ve got you.”

Her fingers curled inside you, pressing against your sensitive sweet spot with every thrust. Your muscles tensed as your breath started turning shallow and quick, tears welling up in your eyes from the pleasurable overstimulation.

Your body stiffened, back arching painfully as your mouth opened in a silent cry as your second orgasm tore through you. It was white hot and too much, crashing over you in thick waves, dragging every sound out of your throat.

Eva held you steady as you came undone again. Her fingers didn’t stop moving, not until your body started to twitch, thighs jerking from the intensity, breath coming in soft sobs.

“There you are,” she whispered. “That’s it. Give it to me. Just like that.”

Your legs trembled uncontrollably, your hands gripping her arms as the aftershocks hit you hard. Your body was soaked and shivering as she slowly pulled her fingers out of your spent heat.

Eva gathered you into her arms, pulling you into her lap. Her touch gentle and soothing. She pulled a soft blanket over your body and held you close, rocking you slightly.

You felt weightless and empty in the best way, like something you didn’t know you were carrying had finally slipped free.

Eva brushed your hair back from your damp forehead and kissed you softly.

“You did so well,” she whispered. “You let go. I’m so proud of you.”

A small content smile formed on your lips as you tucked your face into her neck. You weren’t sure where to go from here, but you knew you didn’t want to leave.

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