#thread: how to: fixing a break | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

heeluvv · 2 months ago

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˗ˏˋ03. PAID SESSION

pairingᝰ.ᐟ park jongseong x fem reader ft. lee heeseung

warningsᝰ.ᐟ unprotected sex, oral (f), fingering, overstimulation, etc.

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ 3/9 completed!

──

the sky outside jay’s apartment is dull and overcast, the kind of cloudy that makes the air feel thick and unsaid things feel heavier. heeseung doesn’t knock twice—just once, knuckles dragging off the wood like he’s already exhausted by the weight of walking through the door. jay looks up from the couch when it opens, expecting the usual lazy smirk and offhand banter, but heeseung’s face doesn’t match the energy. he looks… off—not angry, not annoyed, just quiet in a way that stretches under his skin, like something inside him didn’t settle right. “you look like hell,” jay mutters, pausing his music with a flick of the remote. “didn’t think she was the type to drain you like that.” heeseung doesn’t answer. just kicks off his shoes with one foot and sinks into the couch like gravity has doubled in strength, elbows resting on his knees, head down. silence hangs in the space between them, long and stiff.

jay waits a few beats, like maybe heeseung just needs a minute. maybe he’s tired. maybe it’s nothing. but heeseung exhales—long and hollow—and when he finally speaks, it’s without looking up. “she left.” the two words come out flat, but something behind them wavers, the kind of break you can only hear if you’re really paying attention. jay’s brow twitches, arms crossing loosely over his chest. “left?” he repeats, and heeseung nods, still not lifting his head. “as soon as it ended. pulled on her hoodie and walked out like it didn’t mean anything.” jay blinks slowly. “and… did it?”

heeseung’s jaw tightens, muscles shifting beneath his skin as he finally lifts his head and leans back into the couch cushions, eyes staring at a point above jay’s shoulder like he can’t look him straight in the face. “i didn’t even talk to her before we filmed,” he says, voice quiet but full. “not really. just… hello, a few lines about consent and angles, and then—” he stops, swallowing hard. “and then we started, and everything changed.” jay studies him now, frown deepening, the smug tease he’d usually fire off noticeably absent. “what changed?” heeseung licks his lips, slow and nervous. “i didn’t wanna stop. not even when the camera shut off. i didn’t wanna let her go.” the words hang there, heavier than anything he’s said.

jay leans forward slowly, resting his elbows on his knees as he studies heeseung with a calmness that feels a little too practiced. his voice is lighter than before, careful almost, as if he knows whatever thread he’s tugging on has the potential to unravel more than either of them wants to admit. “so,” he starts, tone smooth but softened now, “who is she?” he doesn’t say it like he’s prying. not yet. it’s quieter, more curious than anything—like he’s tiptoeing into something fragile, not wanting to break it before he understands what it is. heeseung doesn’t respond immediately. his eyes stay fixed on the floor, unfocused, and his fingers twitch once against the hem of his jeans, then again, like maybe the answer is buried there in the fabric if he presses hard enough.

jay watches him, head tilting slightly. “you said she posted recently, right?” he prompts, still gentle, still casual on the surface. “just drop the name. i won’t stalk.” it’s a light joke, but it lands with a dull thud in the silence that follows. heeseung doesn’t laugh. doesn’t smile. he doesn’t even look up. he just shakes his head—small, deliberate, a tiny movement that’s almost easy to miss if you’re not looking closely. jay is looking, though. he sees it. sees how stiff heeseung’s shoulders are, how still his hands go after that single shake of the head. the shift in the air is subtle, but unmistakable.

jay leans back a little, eyebrows pulling in. “what—you don’t wanna share?” he asks, the edge of something creeping into his voice now. it’s not judgment. not annoyance. just… confusion. curiosity. maybe even a hint of something else. but again, there’s no reply. heeseung’s jaw is tense now, his gaze still fixed somewhere across the room, anywhere but on jay. his silence feels thick. weighted. like there’s something he’s protecting and doesn’t want to admit to—not to jay, not to himself.

they sit like that for a moment, the quiet stretching long between them.

and jay doesn’t need him to say it.

because they’ve all had their moments. they’ve all talked about their collabs, laughed about awkward edits, swapped notes on lighting and pacing and what works. but they’ve never dropped usernames. it’s always been an unspoken rule—don’t ask, don’t check, don’t pry. the anonymity protects everyone, keeps it from getting personal. and if it’s not personal, it can stay simple. professional. clean.

but this? this silence?

this is not simple.

and jay knows—whatever happened between heeseung and that girl?

it’s not just content.

the realization creeps in slow. jay’s brows lift, lips parting as he exhales through his nose and lets the tension stretch between them. “wait…” he says, the edge of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “no fucking way.” heeseung doesn’t budge. “dude.” silence. “you’re not giving me the name because you’re into her?” still nothing. jay leans back in disbelief, blinking at him like he’s seeing him for the first time. “bro.” heeseung’s jaw flexes. “you caught feelings?”

and that’s it. no witty comeback. no scoff. no smirk. just stillness.

heeseung goes completely still.

jay lets out a low whistle, leaning back into the cushions with his arms spread across the top of the couch like he’s trying to fill the space with anything but the silence. “that’s crazy,” he laughs, shaking his head like he’s heard something ridiculous, even though the grin on his face doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “mr. freakshow himself, down bad for a girl he doesn’t even know much of?” he tries to keep it light, playful, the kind of jab he usually throws without thought, but this one lands weird. heeseung doesn’t flinch. doesn’t argue. doesn’t roll his eyes or laugh with him. he just sits there, unmoving, like the weight of the truth is too heavy to shift around anymore. jay glances at him again, this time longer, the humor starting to fade from his mouth. “you serious right now?” he asks, quieter now, the air settling. “like… actually serious?”

heeseung doesn’t answer. doesn’t need to. his silence says everything, thick and loud and final, and jay leans forward again, elbows on his knees, the playfulness draining from his posture. “you’re really not gonna tell me who she is?” he presses, and this time there’s something different in his voice—something caught between curiosity and disbelief. heeseung shifts slightly, finally dragging a hand over his face, and mutters, “no.” jay tilts his head, trying to get a read, but it’s hard to see through it—the silence, the distance, the weird swell of something he can’t name growing in the pit of his stomach. “you think she’s the only one who made you feel something?” he jokes half-heartedly, but there’s a bitter edge beneath it now. “there’s, like, dozens of new creators every week.” heeseung glances up at him then, and the look in his eyes is so bare, so unguarded, that jay has to look away.

he shrugs like it’s nothing, standing to stretch and move toward the kitchen, even though there’s nothing waiting for him there. “you’ll move on,” he calls over his shoulder, like it’s fact. “you always do.” the words echo a little, float into the stillness like he needed to hear them aloud to believe them. heeseung doesn’t reply, and jay opens the fridge, stares inside like he’s suddenly deeply interested in the half-empty energy drink shelf. the longer the silence lasts, the heavier it feels—off, unfamiliar, like the ground has shifted just a few inches under both of them. jay grabs a can, pops the tab, and leans against the counter without turning around. “she must’ve been really good,” he says after a moment, voice quieter again, like the thought is sticking more than he expected it to. “or maybe you were just overdue.”

jay’s apartment feels too still once the door clicks shut behind heeseung, the weight of his silence lingering long after he’s gone. the couch feels cold, the echo of that final look he gave still playing in jay’s head, and for some reason, jay can’t stop pacing. he walks into the kitchen. opens the fridge. closes it again. stands by the window like the answers might be written in the clouds outside. but they’re not—so he does what he always does when something gets under his skin. he sits down, boots up his account, and scrolls through the new creators tab with idle swipes of his thumb, trying to let the algorithm distract him. names flash by, previews blur together, but one stops him cold. @babydollxo.

the profile is nothing flashy—no thirst traps, no bio full of emojis or promises—just a clean layout, a single post, and a display name that’s more suggestion than scream. it’s the thumbnail that makes him click—low lighting, soft curves, a still shot of thighs parted just enough to tease but not enough to show. he doesn’t recognize her. not even close. but something about it feels… personal. the video opens quietly, and what hits him first isn’t the visuals—it’s the sound. her breathing. her pace. the soft, near-whispered moan like she’s trying not to be heard. “fuck,” jay mutters, leaning closer, one hand braced on his jaw as the video loops back to the beginning. “who are you?”

he taps through her page, skimming the stats—no verification, barely a few thousand followers, but the engagement is insane. comments already pouring in, tips stacking, new subscribers flashing in real time. jay scrolls again, watching the preview once more before his fingers move on instinct—hitting follow, and typing out a message without even hesitating.

you’ve got good rhythm. ever thought about collabing?

it’s casual, confident, and quick—sent before he even second-guesses it. he settles back in his chair, lets the video loop again, and lingers longer this time, eyes trailing down the curves of her body. he doesn’t know her. doesn’t need to. he just knows she moves like she’s got something worth chasing.

he lets the video loop again, slower this time, volume just a bit louder, thumb hovering over the play bar like he wants to rewind and memorize every second of the way her hand moves. there’s something about her pacing—unrushed, unbothered, like she’s not performing for anyone but herself—that makes it worse. hotter. more real. she doesn’t show her face, but the shape of her mouth is visible in the soft outline of the mirror behind her, parted, pink, whispering something too faint to hear. jay’s hand slips beneath his waistband before he even realizes it, fingertips brushing over his cock already half-hard from nothing but her rhythm and the sound of her moans. “shit,” he mutters under his breath, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he starts to stroke himself slow, eyes locked on the way her fingers dip between her thighs. he watches the tension in her body, the way her hips roll, the way her knees twitch just before the clip cuts. it’s barely 40 seconds long, and it has him already grinding into his palm like it’s been hours.

he strokes himself slow, thumb dragging over the head, using nothing but the weight of her movements to guide his pace, lazy and deliberate. he imagines her beneath him, same lighting, same breathless moans, but this time his hands are the ones between her thighs—his name the one falling off her tongue. his hips lift slightly off the chair, chasing friction, fucking into his fist in slow, tight rolls that match the rhythm she set on screen. his breath starts to fog the screen, but he doesn’t care. he leans in anyway, watching the arch of her back, the twitch of her thighs, every small tremble that gives her away. “who the fuck are you,” he whispers again, voice strained now, knuckles tightening with each stroke, precum leaking warm across his hand. he’s close, but not rushing—just breathing, just fucking into his hand like she’s watching him right back. and then it happens—just as his eyes start to flutter shut, just as his cock twitches against his grip—

buzz.

his phone lights up in the corner of the screen, and he blinks, chest still rising fast, fingers stilled mid-stroke as the name flashes clear.

────୨ৎ────

the car ride home is quiet, the soft hum of the engine the only thing keeping your mind from spinning completely out of control. you stare out the window the whole time, watching buildings blur into neighborhoods, storefronts into trees, your reflection ghosting back at you every time the light hits the glass just right. your body feels heavy in a way that isn’t just physical—like you left part of yourself back in that bed, wrapped in sheets and tangled in someone else’s breath. your thighs are still sticky, your hair still smells like his detergent, and your phone hasn’t stopped buzzing since he posted the video. you don’t check it. not yet. you know what’s waiting for you there. attention. validation. noise. and none of it feels like enough to quiet the ache still blooming beneath your ribs. you just want to be home. you just want your bed. you just want this night to stop echoing.

you thank the driver and climb out quietly, your fingers trembling as they grip the strap of your bag. the air hits different now—colder, clearer, like it’s trying to sober you up from whatever high your body’s still crashing down from. the building looms in front of you, too familiar, too grounding, and your feet feel too loud on the stairs as you climb. you don’t expect nari to still be awake. you don’t expect her to be sitting on the couch in her hoodie and shorts, blanket over her lap, hair tied up and a mug of tea forgotten on the table. her head lifts when she sees you, eyes widening, expression soft and sleepy but instantly alert. “hey,” she says gently, not like she’s prying—just like she knows. you blink once. twice. and then the tears start rising up too fast to swallow.

“i did it,” you say, voice cracking before you can catch it, dropping your bag to the floor like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. “i filmed with someone. like… all of it. everything.” your eyes sting as you move to sit beside her, pulling your legs up on the couch, hugging your knees to your chest like you’re trying to hold yourself together with your own arms. “it wasn’t supposed to feel like this,” you whisper, breath hitching as her hand comes down gently to rub your back, slow and reassuring. “it was supposed to just be money. content. like… a transaction. but then—he was…” you trail off, shaking your head. “he made me feel things i didn’t expect. he made me forget it was even being recorded.” nari doesn’t say anything yet. just keeps rubbing your back, waiting.

“he was sweet,” you continue, voice barely above a whisper now, “and careful. and so good—like, not just at the physical part, but… the way he looked at me. like he actually cared.” you laugh then, bitter and soft and full of disbelief. “and then i got dressed. and i left.” you press your palms to your face, shoulders trembling with the weight of everything crashing back down. “i told myself it was business. that’s what i kept saying in the car. it’s just business. but it didn’t feel like that. not for one second.” nari doesn’t rush you, doesn’t try to talk over your spiraling. she just pulls you in, arms wrapping around your shoulders as she rests her chin against the top of your head. “i didn’t want to admit it,” you breathe out, “but i think… i liked it too much.”

nari pulls back just enough to look at you, her brows drawn, voice soft and steady. “do you regret it?” she asks, and the question doesn’t come with judgment—just care. you pause, really thinking about it, your heart still aching, your body still buzzing from everything he touched, everything he said. you shake your head slowly, fingers tightening into the sleeves of your sweatshirt. “no,” you say. “i don’t regret it. i just don’t know what to do now.” the truth settles between you like steam—warm, fragile, lingering in the quiet space nari always creates for you. she nods once, like she understands. like she already knew. “then we figure it out,” she says. “together.”

you stay tucked into nari’s side for a while after that, the quiet between you comforting in a way that nothing else has been all night. her arm stays around your shoulders, warm and steady, thumb tracing small shapes against your arm like she’s grounding you with each pass. your breathing evens out eventually, and the ache in your chest settles—not gone, not even dulled, but wrapped in something that makes it easier to hold. the light from your phone catches your attention when it buzzes against the cushion beside you, and you glance down without thinking. the notification flashes once—

@jayafterhours replied to your message.

your stomach flips. not from nerves, not from guilt, but something sharp and new and electric. you hesitate for half a second, then pick it up and unlock the screen.

the app opens instantly, and the message lights up clean beneath your own.

@jayafterhours: depends. how good are you at following directions?

it sits there like a dare. no emojis. no filler. just those words, sharp and smooth, wrapped in heat. you read it once. then again. and then a third time, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as something unfamiliar sparks low in your stomach. jay’s message isn’t careful or warm or soft. it’s cocky. bold. full of the kind of energy that doesn’t ask—it challenges. and it should be easy to ignore, should be nothing more than another opportunity—but after the way tonight left you exposed, this message feels like armor. like escape. like exactly what you need right now.

you’re still staring at jay’s message when your phone buzzes again—this time softer, quieter, like it knows it’s interrupting something private. nari’s still next to you, her hand resting gently on your arm, both of you folded into the silence after your confession. you don’t realize how tense your body has gotten until her thumb strokes over your sleeve, grounding you like she always does. “everything okay?” she asks softly, and you nod—too fast, too automatic. you glance down, thumb dragging over the edge of your screen, and your breath stalls when you see the name.

@heefreakshow: i’m outside

no punctuation. no lead-in. no warning. your stomach tightens. your chest tightens, breath catching hard as you blink at the message once, then twice, like it might go away if you look long enough. but it doesn’t. it just sits there—steady, waiting, pressing heavy against your ribs. “nari,” you say suddenly, voice softer now, “can you grab me that tea from earlier? i think it’s still on the counter.”

she nods easily, no questions, just kindness, slipping up from the couch and padding toward the kitchen in her socks. the second she’s out of sight, you grab your phone, the grip of it cold against your palm as you move toward the door on autopilot. your heart thuds unevenly as you reach for the handle, and for a moment, you hesitate—what are you even doing?—but your hand moves anyway. you open the door slowly, half-expecting to see no one there—to tell yourself you imagined it, that maybe the message wasn’t meant for you. but he’s there. standing just a few feet away in the hallway, hands in his jacket pockets, hood drawn halfway up like he’s trying to shrink into the shadows. his eyes meet yours instantly, and the world seems to stop moving. it’s the same face. the same mouth that kissed your shoulder, the same voice that whispered your name until you came undone. but it’s different now, too. softer. sadder. there’s something unreadable in his expression, something that pulls at you, something that says i’m not here just to see you—i’m here because i can’t stay away.

you step back without a word, letting him in with a tilt of your chin, your fingers tightening around the doorknob before you close it softly behind him. he’s still watching you—same mouth, same eyes, but something about him feels different now. more exposed. less in control. like the walls he held up on camera don’t follow him into your apartment. “i wasn’t gonna come,” he says after a second, voice quiet, husky at the edges, “but i couldn’t stop thinking about it. about you.” you freeze. not because of what he said—but how he said it. no teasing. no performative confidence. just the raw, stripped-down truth of a man standing in front of someone he wasn’t ready to lose.

“i don’t want to make this complicated,” he adds, eyes dipping away from yours for a heartbeat, “i know you’ve got your reasons. i know what this was supposed to be.” he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the envelope—thick, sealed, heavy with every cent the video made. “this is yours,” he says. “all of it.” your fingers curl instinctively, but you don’t reach for it. “i just…” he trails off, shaking his head like he hates himself for even being here. “i haven’t been able to stop thinking about how you sounded. how you felt. how you looked at me when the camera turned off.” his voice drops even lower, and when his eyes meet yours again, they’re raw. “you keep showing up in my head—and i don’t know how to turn it off.”

heeseung exhales like something inside him’s cracking open—like the silence you’re holding is slowly tearing through his chest. his fingers twitch at his side, still gripping the envelope he hasn’t let you take, like it’s the only anchor he has left. “i used to think people who said love at first sight were full of shit,” he says suddenly, voice low, almost ashamed of the words as they fall out. “like it was just something people told themselves when they were lonely. or desperate. or drunk.” his throat works around the lump sitting in it as his eyes flick back to yours, soft and vulnerable and scared. “but then i looked at you. and everything i thought i knew stopped making sense.” the envelope lowers. his hand opens. and now it’s not money between you—it’s him.

he steps forward slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid if he moves too fast you’ll vanish. you don’t breathe. don’t speak. your entire body’s frozen under the weight of what’s unfolding in front of you. his hand lifts, fingers brushing gently beneath your chin before tracing upward, knuckles grazing the line of your jaw. “you’re the most beautiful woman i’ve ever seen,” he murmurs, thumb pressing against your cheek like he’s trying to memorize the softness of your skin. “not just because of how you look. but the way you breathe. the way you speak. the way you left me speechless without even trying.” his forehead nearly touches yours now, his breath warm and unsteady between you. “i don’t want this to be about the fucking camera anymore.”

“let me in,” he whispers, and it’s so quiet, so desperate, that it barely holds itself together. “let me know you. i’m not asking for everything. i just want… something. something real.” your lips part, but no sound comes out—your chest rising hard, your pulse loud in your ears, your mind too full to form words. his eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up, searching you, waiting for permission you don’t know how to give. you could push him away. you could lie. you could tell him this is too much, too fast. but before you can speak—he leans in.

his mouth presses to yours with a softness that stuns you—nothing rushed, nothing demanding. just him. trembling, open, real. his hand cups the side of your face like he’s afraid you’ll break beneath him, his lips moving slowly against yours like he’s trying to tell you everything he doesn’t have the words for. your breath hitches. your lashes flutter. and for one suspended moment, there is no camera. no contract. no inbox. just him. and the way his mouth is kissing you like you’re the first thing that’s ever made sense

his lips move against yours with an aching kind of care, like he doesn’t want to rush it—like he wants to memorize every part of your mouth before the moment slips away. his hand tilts your chin just slightly, thumb brushing along the edge of your jaw as his other hand hovers at your waist, not pulling, not forcing—just holding, like you’re something he’s scared to lose. you lean into him before you can stop yourself, your fingers brushing lightly against his chest, catching in the fabric of his hoodie like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. the kiss deepens naturally, your mouths molding together with more weight, more heat, until his breath is tangled with yours. he exhales shakily into the kiss, lips parting just enough to let his tongue flick against yours, soft and slow and searching. you gasp quietly, your body pressing just a little closer, like the gravity between you both is impossible to resist. his thumb traces beneath your cheekbone, slow and reverent, like he still can’t believe you’re letting him do this. everything inside you is warm and light and crumbling.

the taste of him lingers sweet on your lips, heat blooming through your body in waves as the kiss stretches out longer than you mean it to—longer than it should. his tongue slides against yours again, a little deeper this time, a little more sure, like he’s just starting to believe this is real. your fingers clutch at the edge of his hoodie, pulling him closer without thinking, your chest pressing flush to his, your breath stuttering against his lips. you hear the softest, tiniest sound from him—almost a whimper, half-swallowed, too quiet to be on purpose. and it makes your stomach twist. makes your knees feel weak. his mouth moves lower, dragging to the corner of your lips, then kissing softly along the edge of your jaw like he can’t help himself. and it’s all too much. too good. too full of feeling you’ve been trying to deny since the second you walked out of his bed.

your hand lifts to his chest to ground yourself, fingers splayed over the beat of his heart that’s racing just as hard as yours. heeseung’s breath hitches, and he pulls back just enough to look at you—his mouth swollen, eyes dark, lips still parted. “i mean it,” he says again, voice rough and wrecked and so soft. “i want to know you.” your heart stutters. your mouth opens—but before either of you can speak again—

“y/n?”

the voice comes like a slap. bright. clear. and cutting straight through the warmth like a blade.

you freeze.

your body jerks back like a switch flipped under your skin, like your name being said aloud burned straight through the fantasy. you stumble out of his grip, lips still parted, breathing hard, your fingers releasing his hoodie so fast it feels like you just realized what you were holding. your eyes go wide as your mind scrambles to catch up, to remember where you are, who you are, who is in your apartment right now. “shit,” you whisper under your breath, heart hammering like it’s trying to punch through your ribs, like your pulse forgot how to settle. heeseung straightens a little, blinking, his expression shifting fast—from warmth to confusion to that same guarded tension you saw at the door. you turn quickly toward the hallway, barely able to process what you’re supposed to do next. “just a second!” you call back to nari, your voice thin and breathless, like you’re trying not to sound like you were just kissed like someone’s favorite memory.

she doesn’t answer right away, but her footsteps pad closer from the kitchen—slow, unaware, still far enough that you can breathe but not for long. you whip around to face him, panic laced in every inch of your movement. “you have to go,” you say, too fast, too tight, the words leaving your mouth before you can soften them. heeseung’s brows pull together, the smallest flicker of hurt in his eyes before he catches himself. “y/n,” he says gently, his hand half-lifted like he wants to reach for you again, but he doesn’t. “please. don’t shut me out again.” your throat tightens, your fingers clenching at your sides. you can’t do this right now. not with your roommate three steps away. not when your lips still taste like his name.

“this was a mistake,” you say, though your voice wavers at the end of it, and you hate how easily it betrays you. heeseung flinches—not dramatically, not with words, just the subtle shift of someone trying not to react to a wound they didn’t expect. “it didn’t feel like one,” he says, barely above a whisper, but there’s weight in it, something heavy that sticks in your chest. you open your mouth, but no words come out—just air, just panic, just silence. the warmth from his touch is still clinging to your skin, but it doesn’t feel soft anymore. it feels like a question you don’t have an answer to. you step back once, then again. and he takes the hint.

“i’ll go,” he says, voice dull now, and you hate it—you hate the way he sounds when he says it, like you’re undoing something that hadn’t even started yet. he moves toward the door without another word, his shoulders square, steps quiet like he doesn’t want to make it harder than it already is. your breath catches as he opens it, just wide enough to slip out, and for a second you almost call his name. almost. but then he’s gone.

and when the door clicks shut, it’s like your whole body deflates.

you don’t move at first—not even after the door clicks shut, not even after your heartbeat starts to slow. you’re frozen there, staring at the space he left behind, like the warmth of his presence is still lingering in the air, clinging to your skin. your lips are still parted. your hands are still shaking. and your thoughts feel like they’re spinning too fast to hold onto anything solid. you press your fingers to your mouth, just once, like you’re trying to erase the kiss from your skin—but all it does is make you remember how it felt. how soft he was. how much he meant it. and how badly you wanted to believe it.

“hey,” nari’s voice calls gently from behind, her steps slow and light like she’s trying not to startle you. “who was that?” her question isn’t sharp, not suspicious—just curious, just concerned. you inhale too fast, turning toward her with a smile you have to force into place, swallowing down the lump in your throat. “no one,” you say, and the words sound brittle even to your own ears. nari tilts her head slightly, stopping just a few feet away, her gaze soft but a little puzzled. “it sounded like someone was here. you okay?” she asks, her eyes searching your face like she already knows the answer isn’t yes.

you nod too quickly. lie too easily. “yeah,” you say, waving it off like it’s nothing, like your hands aren’t trembling from the ghost of a kiss that’s still burning through you. “just… someone dropping something off.” nari hums, unconvinced but not pushing, and moves past you toward the living room again. your shoulders fall the second she turns her back, the pressure of pretending scraping down your spine like sandpaper. you follow her slowly, your feet heavy, your mind louder than it’s ever been. part of you wants to tell her everything—to let it spill out in messy pieces like you did before—but the rest of you can’t. not yet. not when it’s still sitting in your chest like it means something more than it should.

you sink back onto the couch, your hands folding in your lap, trying not to feel the way your heart’s still pulling in opposite directions. “you want me to warm your tea again?” nari asks from the kitchen, casual, kind, unaware of how badly you need something—anything—to anchor you right now. “yeah,” you manage, your voice hoarse. “please.” she hums again, and the clinking of the mug hitting the counter fills the silence while you reach for your phone like a reflex, screen lighting up again with the last message you received.

@jayafterhours: depends. how good are you at following directions?

your thumb hovers over it for a second. just long enough to wonder what would happen if you said yes.

────୨ৎ────

jay could hear your footsteps before the knock even came—soft, steady, unhurried as you walked up the steps to his door. he didn’t move right away. just stood there, watching the blur of your shadow shift beneath the crack, listening to the quiet rhythm of your shoes against the concrete. when your knuckles finally tapped against the wood—quick, confident, not too firm—it echoed straight through his chest. and for some reason, his breath caught. he hadn’t even seen you yet, but something in the way you approached already had him standing a little straighter.

he opened the door slowly, not expecting much—just a girl, a creator, someone behind a screen turned in front of a lens. but then you were there. standing in front of him like you’d always belonged in his doorway. and for a second, jay couldn’t fucking breathe. it wasn’t just the way you looked, though that was enough to throw him off—lips bare, lashes soft, skin kissed with the kind of natural glow that didn't need lighting. it was the way you carried it. cool, calm, but not cocky. like you knew he’d be staring—and you didn’t mind one bit.

he had no idea what to say at first, and that wasn’t like him. so instead, he stepped back. made room. let you walk into his space while he held the door and tried not to think about the way your hoodie rode up just enough when you passed. “glad you came,” he said finally, voice lower than intended, the heat behind it already showing. and still, you didn’t say much—just nodded, eyes flicking over his apartment like you were already deciding if you liked being here.

and jay? yeah, he was already fucked.

he invites you to sit, his tone smooth and unbothered, like this is all routine. your eyes drift over the table—neat dishes laid out already, plates warm, silverware set clean and deliberate, like he’d done this more than once in his head before you actually showed up. the chairs are tucked in, a folded napkin on each side, and it’s not fancy, not showy—just thoughtful. the kind of quiet preparation that says he was expecting you. he gestures toward the one closest to the corner, letting you choose your seat, and only after you lower yourself does he finally move to the opposite side. the room smells like something savory—spiced, warm, familiar—but you’re too focused on the way he looks across the table. like he’s already unwrapping you with his eyes and hasn’t even touched you yet.

“i wasn’t sure what you’d like,” he says, sliding one of the plates toward you, “so i made something safe.” he says it with a shrug, casual, but the corners of his mouth twitch like he knows it still matters. you glance down at the dish—pasta, something seasoned and steaming lightly, nothing too heavy but just enough to show he gave a shit. the table feels too quiet for a second, but jay fills it easily, leaning forward with one forearm against the wood like he’s settling into something easy. “before we get into the rest,” he says, tone steady, “i just wanna know a few things about you.” you blink, not expecting that—not after the texts, not after the message that brought you here.

“what should i call you?” he asks, voice low but not demanding, like he wants to give you space to answer how you want. “real name, nickname, something else?” he waits. doesn’t press. just watches you with those sharp, dark eyes like he’s already cataloging every answer for later. you tell him your name—and he nods once, storing it somewhere behind the calm set of his mouth. then he asks another. “what’s your favorite ice cream?” and when you raise a brow, he shrugs again. “everybody’s got one. mine’s pistachio. but i don’t expect you to take me seriously after saying that out loud.”

the edge of a smile touches your mouth before you can stop it, and you hate the way it catches his attention immediately—like he notices everything, even the small shifts. he asks more. not deep things. just enough to make you talk. favorite time of day. worst habit. music you only listen to when you’re alone. it’s disarming. gentle. like he’s peeling you open slowly without ever putting his hands on you. and it throws you off balance, because none of it feels like an act. he’s not trying to seduce you. he’s just trying to see you. and somehow, that’s worse.

he doesn’t look at your chest. doesn’t stare at your legs. his eyes stay on your face like he wants to memorize it before the lighting and the angles and the camera strip it down. “i like knowing things,” he says after your third answer, voice quieter now, like it’s a secret he’s only saying once. “makes what happens later feel less like performance. more like chemistry.” your breath catches slightly, the implication not subtle but not crude. and he knows it. his mouth curves slowly around his next word. “boundaries,” he says, leaning back finally, like he’s shifting gears. “let’s talk about them.”

you sit a little straighter at the word—boundaries—as if the reminder helps you find your footing again. it feels like the only thing you can control in a space where everything else is already moving faster than you expected. jay watches you with that same measured gaze, not pushing, not crowding, just waiting. and somehow, that’s what makes it harder to speak. you inhale slowly, letting the words settle in your mouth before you release them. “i’m okay with most things,” you say carefully, voice quiet but steady. “just… not my face. i don’t want it shown.” your fingers curl slightly around the edge of your seat as the words leave you, like saying them out loud solidifies them in a way that’s permanent.

jay doesn’t blink. doesn’t shift. doesn’t even flinch. he just nods once, slow and certain. “easy,” he says simply. “i’ve worked around that before.” you blink, a little surprised at how quickly he agreed. “you can stay cropped, blurred, or angled out. whatever you’re comfortable with.” his tone doesn’t falter—there’s no question in it, no teasing, no hint of disbelief. just clean acceptance. and that, somehow, makes your chest tighten. “i don’t do spit,” you add suddenly, a little sharper now, like you need to draw one more line just to see if he’ll cross it. “noted,” he replies, just as calm.

“what about contact?” he asks after a beat, fingers tapping lightly against the table, not impatient—just thoughtful. “hands? mouths? toys? giving, receiving?” it’s the first time the words sound even remotely intimate, and it sends a ripple down your spine, but you don’t let it show. you answer carefully, listing what you’re okay with, what you’d rather avoid, and he takes it all in without interrupting. not once does he smirk. not once does he turn it into something dirtier than it needs to be. he just listens. and somehow that makes your pulse pick up more than anything he could’ve said.

“do you have a safeword?” he asks next, voice low but clear, no edge to it—just importance. you hesitate for a second, your teeth pressing gently into your bottom lip as your mind flips through words that feel right. something simple. something soft. something you’ll remember even when your thoughts are a mess. “peach,” you say finally, your voice barely above a breath. “if i say peach, we stop.” you don’t expect the way his eyes soften at that, like he wasn’t just listening—he heard you. he nods once, firm and sure. “peach it is,” he replies, voice quiet but absolute. “say it once, and everything ends. no questions asked.”

he leans back, letting the quiet settle. “anything else?” he asks, tone a little lighter now, like he’s giving you space to say no. your fingers twitch against the edge of your thigh. your heart’s still racing, your head still loud. but you shake your head slowly. “not right now,” you murmur. jay gives you a long look. not unreadable—but quiet. measured. like he’s still trying to piece you together without rushing it. and when he speaks again, his voice is lower, gentler. “i don’t want you to just feel safe,” he says. “i want you to feel seen.”

jay stands from the table slowly, pushing his chair in with one hand and tilting his head toward the hallway. “come with me,” he says simply, his tone softer now—less like a command, more like an invitation. you follow without speaking, your footsteps quieter this time as you trail behind him, your body still warm from the way he looked at you. the deeper you move into his apartment, the more the quiet hum of something personal settles in. the space is open but not cold—walls painted a cool gray, dark wood floors that soften each step, and framed black-and-white prints spaced carefully along the hall. everything feels… intentional. not staged, not overly curated—just clean, calm, and lived-in, like he only keeps what matters.

there’s a faint scent lingering in the air, something earthy and expensive—maybe sandalwood, maybe cedar, something low and smooth that fits him perfectly. the hallway passes a spare room, its door cracked open just enough for you to see a neat workspace with a monitor, ring light, and perfectly wound cords—no mess, no clutter. he’s the kind of guy who wipes surfaces even if they’re already clean. who arranges things by size without realizing it. and now that you’re walking through it, it makes sense. he feels like someone who controls the chaos before it ever starts. someone who doesn’t just direct scenes, but knows how to curate them down to the last breath.

when he opens the door to his room, he doesn’t say anything—just steps inside and waits for you to follow. and you do. slow, careful, your eyes scanning the space as you enter. the room is warm in tone, dimly lit by a lamp in the corner with amber-tinted light that makes the shadows look softer. the bedding is dark navy, sheets smooth and taut, a throw blanket folded at the edge with precision. there’s a small table near the wall with a speaker, a single coaster, and a lighter next to an unused candle. everything is exactly where it should be—but not in a clinical way. more like someone who lives in silence and pays attention to what it tells him.

the tripod is already set up across the room, angled down slightly toward the bed, lens cap off but nothing recording yet. it doesn’t feel threatening. just… real. you were expecting something more dramatic. lights. backdrops. fake velvet. but this is something else. this feels personal. honest. quiet. and maybe that’s what makes your pulse start to rise in your throat again. jay walks past you slowly, crossing the room to the dresser, and opens the top drawer without saying a word. you watch him carefully, still trying to piece together what kind of man sets a camera like that and still remembers to cook you lunch.

when he turns around, he’s holding something small and black, the shimmer of silk catching the light as he walks back toward you. the bag in his hand is delicate—drawstring ribbon, gold threading, and you already know what it is before he offers it out. “for you,” he says, holding it between you like it’s something important. “to wear.” you blink up at him, but his gaze doesn’t waver, doesn’t falter. “i saw it in a shop the day after i found your profile,” he adds quietly. “wasn’t looking for anything. just… saw it. and thought it would suit you.”

you give him a slight smile before you speak, “give me a minute?” you say, voice quiet but sure. jay’s eyes meet yours again, and this time he smiles without speaking. just a small tilt of his head, an unspoken take your time. you close the bathroom door quietly behind you, the soft click echoing louder than it should in your ears. the small silk bag is still clutched in your hand, your palm warm and damp against the fabric like you’re holding something much more dangerous. the light in here is brighter—clean, warm-toned, flattering—but it only makes your nerves feel sharper. the mirror reflects back a version of yourself that looks steady, calm, composed… but your chest is tight. your skin buzzes beneath your clothes. and as you lay the bag down on the counter, you realize this moment feels familiar. too familiar.

your breath slows as your fingers reach for the hem of your hoodie, pulling it up and over your head with a slow drag, your tank top following right after. you fold them both neatly beside the sink, more out of nervous habit than care. and for a second, you’re standing there in just your underwear, heart thrumming low in your stomach, staring at your reflection like it’s someone else’s body. you’ve been here before. not in this room, not with these lights—but in the feeling. the anticipation. the tight pull in your gut. the sting of wanting to impress someone who shouldn’t mean anything.

you think of heeseung. how it felt when you changed for him. how you stood in your room, under dim lighting, slipping on something you picked while he waited for you just down the hall. how it wasn’t supposed to feel like it did. how you thought it would just be performance. and it wasn’t. it was heat. it was vulnerability. it was dangerous. and now here you are again—different place, different man, but the same twisting ache curling around your spine. why does it feel the same? why does your body keep falling into this rhythm like it wants to be seen?

you open the silk bag slowly, the lingerie soft and light in your hands as you lift it out. black lace, just like he said. a deep plunge neckline, sheer mesh sides, satin ribbon at the center. the fabric is cool against your fingertips, delicate enough to feel like it might tear if you don’t handle it carefully. it’s beautiful. subtle. nothing flashy—but undeniably seductive. you step into it slowly, one leg at a time, pulling the straps over your shoulders, adjusting the fit around your waist. and as it settles against your skin, molding to your body like it was meant for you, you feel something crack open behind your ribs.

you shouldn’t like this. not the way you do. not the way your thighs press together, not the way your breath comes shallower, not the way you want to step out there and watch jay’s face when he sees you in this. you shouldn’t want to impress him—not after how confused you still feel about the last time. about heeseung. about what it meant, and what it didn’t. but your skin burns all the same. your hands tremble slightly as you fix your hair, as you smooth the hem, as you give yourself one last look in the mirror. “just business,” you whisper to your reflection. and even you don’t believe it.

you open the door slowly, just enough to slip through, your hands brushing down your sides one last time as you step back into the low light of his bedroom. the air feels thicker out here—warmer, heavier, like it’s been waiting for you. the door clicks gently behind you, and your bare feet make the softest sound against the floor as you move forward, your breath caught somewhere between your throat and your chest. you don’t look at him right away. not yet. you don’t want to see his face until you’re standing still, until your heart isn’t racing so fast it might show on your skin. but you feel it the moment his eyes land on you.

jay goes completely still—like the sight of you knocks the air out of him. he was sitting at the edge of the bed, adjusting the tripod when the door opened, but now he’s frozen, hands resting loosely on his thighs, lips parted just slightly as his gaze drags up your body. he doesn’t speak. doesn’t smile. he just looks—like you’re something he’s only seen in his head before this. something better in person. his eyes move slowly, taking in every line of lace, every sheer inch of skin, every soft curve the lingerie hugs like it was tailored just for you. and when your gaze finally lifts to meet his, he looks like he’s trying not to say something reckless.

“fuck,” he murmurs under his breath, the word falling out like it escaped before he could hold it back. he shifts forward just slightly, elbows resting on his knees now, fingers loosely laced like he needs to stay grounded. “you really wore it.” there’s something in his voice—something tight, restrained, too controlled to be casual. his eyes keep flicking between your mouth and your hips like he can’t pick which part of you he wants to touch first. “looks better than i imagined,” he adds, and it doesn’t sound like a compliment—it sounds like a confession. low, almost reverent.

you try to stay still under the weight of his stare, but your skin feels too hot, too bare, too sensitive. his gaze alone feels like it’s dragging fingers down your sides, smoothing over the lace, sinking into places he hasn’t even touched yet. he straightens a little, breath deeper now, like he’s forcing himself to remember why you’re both here. “can i fix the straps?” he asks suddenly, voice softer now, eyes flicking toward your shoulder where the delicate black lace has slipped just slightly out of place. “just the straps.” his tone is calm, careful—asking not assuming.

you nod once, and he rises without another word, his steps slow and deliberate as he closes the space between you. he moves behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat of his body at your back but not close enough to touch—not yet. his fingers reach up gently, grazing your skin as he slides the strap higher, smoothing it back into place with practiced ease. then the other. slow. patient. like he’s putting something sacred back where it belongs. “perfect,” he murmurs once, voice brushing warm against your neck, and then he steps back, keeping his hands to himself.

you can still feel him, even after he’s gone.

“lie down for me,” he says again, a little softer this time, like he’s coaxing the words past your skin. you move slowly, climbing up onto the bed with steady breaths, the lace hugging your body shifting with every motion. the sheets are smooth and cool beneath your palms, your body sinking slightly into the mattress as you stretch out along the center. jay watches from the edge of the room, his movements calm, practiced, but not rushed. nothing about this is rushed. he moves like he has all the time in the world to break you open piece by piece.

he disappears for a second, and you hear the soft click of a switch. the lighting shifts immediately—warmer, dimmer, all shadows and low gold. intimate. like candlelight caught in motion. and then, music. something slow, rich, vibrating low through the walls. it starts with a soft hum, something sensual and aching underneath, followed by a voice thick with emotion, sliding across the beat like a secret. the melody winds around your body before he even touches you. it’s moody, seductive, dangerous. like desire in the form of a song. like something you shouldn’t be listening to unless you’re ready to fall apart.

you don’t realize you’re holding your breath until the mattress dips beside you. jay’s back now, his body lowering beside yours, his hand brushing along your forearm with quiet intention. in his hand—black leather cuffs, soft-lined and already adjusted to your size. he doesn’t speak, doesn’t explain. he just takes your wrist, gently, lifting it with the kind of care that makes your breath catch, and buckles the first strap around you. the second follows. secure. firm. not uncomfortable—just enough to remind you that your hands aren’t yours anymore.

“you good?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. you nod again. “say it,” he murmurs, pausing just before the fabric meets your eyes. “i’m good,” you breathe. then the blindfold. satin, black, impossibly soft. he holds it above your eyes for a moment, his voice barely above the hum of the song when he speaks. “say it again,” he murmurs. “i’m good,” you whisper, lips parted, chest rising. and with that, the world goes dark. the music swells. your body buzzes.

you feel everything more sharply now—the way the sheet slides against your thighs, the soft brush of air across your stomach, the subtle shift of the mattress as he stands and steps away. the music pulses like a heartbeat, slow and full of heat, the vocals dragging out in a way that makes your lungs feel tight. and then, the faint sound of glass. a bottle being unstoppered. something being warmed. your body tenses, even as your breath grows slower, heavier. you're not afraid. but you are open. waiting.

the first drop lands just below your collarbone. warm. sharp. a sting that spreads and melts as fast as it came. your mouth parts in a silent gasp, your back arching as the sensation ripples across your chest. it’s followed by another—slower this time, deeper. your body jerks slightly against the cuffs, your breath catching as heat coils low in your stomach. and then, his voice—quiet, close, wrecked in the best way. “too much?” he asks, his breath ghosting over your shoulder. you shake your head, pulse thudding wildly beneath your skin. “good girl,” he murmurs, and the next drop comes before you’re ready.

his fingers hover just above your ribs, tracing the fresh trail of wax he’s left behind, not touching—not quite—just following the shape of the cooling heat like he’s painting with his breath. your back arches slightly, hips pressing deeper into the mattress as your bound wrists tug gently against the cuffs. the blindfold robs you of sight, but it sharpens everything else—the sound of the song still melting through the speakers, the rhythm low and slow, the singer’s voice drawn out in pure seduction. the room smells like warmth, like candle wax and skin, like want. your skin tingles in every direction, but he hasn’t even touched you where it aches the most. not once.

“you’re so sensitive,” jay says quietly, voice curved with something dark, something proud. he lets one fingertip finally graze over a spot where the wax has cooled—a slow, deliberate line that drags across your sternum, up the swell of your chest. your stomach clenches, a whimper caught in your throat as he drags it downward again, pausing just above your navel. “you feel everything, don’t you?” he murmurs, like he’s marveling, like he’s falling in love with the way your body moves beneath his. “but i haven’t even touched you.” his voice is warm honey over ice, and it makes your thighs twitch.

another pour. hotter this time. it hits just beside your hip, then crawls inward, a path of liquid fire that fades into a cruel, pulsing throb. your toes curl, breath catching hard in your throat as your back arches again, body fully open and helpless to the rhythm he’s set. “please—” you breathe, voice thin and unsure, but you don’t know what you’re asking for yet. “please what?” jay’s mouth is near your ear now, close enough that you can feel his smile. “you don’t even know what you want, baby.” he laughs, soft and low, and you swear the sound is almost worse than the heat.

his hands return—not between your legs, not to your breasts—just to your waist, where he spreads his fingers slowly along your sides like he’s claiming you inch by inch. the pads of his thumbs rub light circles into the bone beneath your skin, grounding you, teasing you, keeping you right where he wants you. “you take pain so well,” he murmurs, and then another line of wax pours across the top of your thigh—too close. too close, but not close enough. your whole body trembles, wrists straining against the cuffs as you gasp out his name. not loud. not sharp. just needy.

you feel it before you realize what it is—his breath on your inner thigh, his hands pressing your legs gently open farther, farther, like he’s worshipping the space between them. but still, he doesn’t touch. “i could make you come with just my voice,” he says, not cocky—confident. capable. and you believe him. because your body is already falling apart, already pulsing around nothing, already begging him without the words. “but i want you to ask me.” his lips brush the inside of your leg, not a kiss—just air. “i want you to beg me.”

your pride tries to hold on. it claws at your throat, tries to press your mouth shut. but your body betrays you. your hips lift without permission, your moan slipping free like it’s been waiting for this moment. “jay—please,” you gasp, voice raw now. “please, fuck, please touch me.” it’s broken. breathless. real. and it’s everything he was waiting for.

he doesn’t give you a warning. doesn’t make a show of it. he just moves—fluid and silent, settling between your thighs like he’s done it before in a dream he’s finally gotten to touch. your skin is slick with heat, glowing with wax and want, and he breathes you in like your scent alone is enough to wreck him. his hands slide beneath your thighs, palms warm, strong, tilting your hips upward just slightly so you’re perfectly open, perfectly framed, perfectly his. the first brush of his mouth is featherlight, almost nothing—just lips grazing over your inner thigh, barely touching your cunt, just enough to make you sob through gritted teeth. “so fucking pretty,” he murmurs against your skin.

his hands return to your waist without a sound, no command or question leaving his lips—just touch, warm and steady as his fingers slide over the edge of the lace that still clings to your body. you twitch slightly beneath him, the blindfold making every brush of his fingertips feel sharper, more exposed, and when his thumbs dip beneath the fabric, you realize what he’s doing—but you don’t stop him. he moves slowly, deliberately, not yanking or rushing, but peeling the lingerie off your skin like it’s something delicate, something earned. the lace folds away from your hips, dragged down inch by inch, baring more of your skin to the air, and your chest rises involuntarily when he shifts the straps off your shoulders. he eases the piece down your body, taking the time to trace every inch that’s revealed—his knuckles grazing your ribs, the curve of your waist, the crease of your thighs. when it finally slips free from your ankles, you feel more naked than you’ve ever been.

his hands return just as slowly, palms spreading up the backs of your thighs before gliding to your hips, like he’s reacquainting himself with skin he’d already claimed. he doesn’t speak. he doesn’t rush. he just takes in the sight of you—bare, breathless, bound beneath him, blind to everything but the beat of your own heart and the sound of his breathing. the song continues behind him, velvet-rich and dangerous, the lyrics curling through the shadows of the room like temptation: “bring your body, baby…” your lips part, your legs twitch, but he doesn’t move to fill the space between them—not yet. he just touches. lets the pads of his fingers skim the edges of your thighs, your stomach, the sides of your breasts, without truly settling anywhere. just to feel you.

the air is thick now, heavy with unspoken tension, and your body is buzzing, aching, completely at his mercy. you don’t know what’s coming next—his mouth, his fingers, another pour of wax—but you know that whatever it is, he’ll give it to you slowly. your skin still remembers the sting of the heat from earlier, the way your body pulsed with every drop, and now—now—without anything between you, it feels like every inch of your body is begging to be touched. your wrists flex against the cuffs, more reflex than restraint, and your breath comes out in a shaky exhale you hadn’t meant to release. his hands settle on your thighs again, fingers curling gently as he pushes them wider.

he licks a long, slow stripe through your folds that has your back arching off the bed. it’s not just the contact—it’s the way he does it, the reverence in his pace, the softness in his grip, like he’s worshipping something he thought he’d never be allowed to touch.

he doesn’t rush. he doesn’t groan. he doesn’t perform for the camera. he just devours. his tongue works in long, controlled strokes, collecting slick like it’s the only thing he needs to breathe, licking deep and purposeful like he’s trying to memorize how you taste. your head spins beneath the blindfold, your hands tugging uselessly against the cuffs as your body trembles beneath the weight of everything. you can’t see him, but you can feel the way he watches every twitch, every gasp, every time your thighs clench in his hands. he hums against you, not loud, not obnoxious—just pleased, like he’s satisfied with how quickly you’re unraveling under him. and when his lips wrap around your clit, sucking slow and tight, you cry out so loud it barely sounds like your voice.

you’re so close so fast, too fast, and he knows it. knows because he slows down again—easing the pressure, dragging his tongue in lazy circles that make your hips jerk in frustration. “not yet,” he breathes into your skin, and it doesn’t even sound like a tease. it sounds like a rule. like a command you’re meant to obey without argument. the music is still playing behind him—“just let me motherfucking love you…”—but it’s all a blur now, a background heartbeat to the way he laps you back up like he missed you between each breath. his fingers trail up your thigh slowly, slick with the wax he laid earlier, and it’s not until one dips between your folds that your breath stutters in your chest.

he slides in with ease, your body more than ready, and his tongue doesn’t stop. his mouth stays on your clit, soft and sucking, drawing it between his lips while he curls his finger just right, just enough to make your vision flash white behind the blindfold. “fuck—jay—” you gasp, thighs shaking now, unable to stay still under the rhythm of his mouth and hand. “please, I’m gonna—I need to—” your words dissolve into moans, into nonsense, because he doesn’t let up. he keeps going, steady and cruel, another finger joining the first with a wet slide that makes you whimper like a fucking prayer. he groans low when he feels you clench, not for show, but from hunger—he likes how tightly your body reacts to him. he lives for it.

you’re falling apart now. your hips are bucking, your legs twitching, your fingers digging into empty air as you gasp through another moan that cracks at the edges. “please let me—please let me cum,” you beg, your voice wrecked and wet and half-sobbing. and only then—only then—does jay lift his head. his fingers stay inside you, slow and curling, keeping you trembling just at the edge while his mouth ghosts over your thigh. “you want to cum?” he asks, voice low, ragged, almost teasing—but not cruel. “then beg louder, babydoll. i want the camera to hear how fucking desperate you are.”

his mouth returns without a word, settling between your thighs like he belongs there, like there’s nowhere else in the world he wants to be. you feel the soft exhale of his breath fan across your soaked folds, the warmth of it a cruel tease before the first drag of his tongue lands—slow, deliberate, curling through you like he’s savoring the very first taste. your entire body jolts against the cuffs, your mouth falling open in a choked moan as he licks again—longer this time, deeper. he just devours, each stroke of his tongue more intentional than the last, like he’s studying you. like he wants to memorize what makes your thighs twitch, what makes your breath skip, what makes you gasp his name with that tiny shake in your voice.

your legs are trembling already, wide open and held there by his firm grip, and when his lips wrap around your clit—sucking slow, tight, deep—you feel your whole body lurch off the bed. the blindfold only makes it worse—makes it better—because you can’t see it coming, can’t predict how fast or how gentle he’ll be, can’t do anything but feel everything all at once. “fuck—jay—” you cry, and he only hums in response, the vibration shooting straight through your core. his tongue works circles around your clit, soft and teasing, then firmer, faster, until your hips are grinding helplessly into his mouth, searching for more friction, more pressure, more anything. he pulls back just enough to slide a finger into you—then two—slow and curling, the stretch perfect, unbearable, perfect.

you’re right there. right fucking there. your walls pulsing around his fingers, your moans growing louder, messier, no longer soft or shy but wrecked, raw, real. your hips rock into him without grace, your body flushed and burning, but just as your orgasm starts to crest—he pulls away. completely. his mouth, his fingers, his heat—all gone. and you sob. a real, desperate sob that breaks out of your throat without warning, your back arching as your hands pull helplessly against the cuffs. “no—please—please,” you gasp, voice shaking. “i was so close—don’t stop—please don’t stop—”

he gives you no mercy. not yet. he returns to you slowly, his mouth brushing your clit with a soft kiss before his tongue drags over it again—firm this time, relentless. his fingers reenter you with no hesitation, curling with perfect rhythm, and now he doesn’t let up. he fucks you with his mouth like it’s what he was made to do, devouring every sound you make, every clench, every broken cry that escapes you. “you gonna cum for me now, babydoll?” he breathes against your skin. “gonna give it to me this time?” your only answer is a gasp—then a moan—then your whole body snaps, orgasm crashing over you so hard you cry out his name, thighs shaking violently, breath punching out of your lungs like it’s been ripped from your core.

he doesn’t stop. not when you cum. not when you beg. not when your voice breaks. he slows only slightly, mouth and fingers still working you through it—drawing it out, dragging wave after wave from your twitching body until it becomes too much, too sharp, too deep. tears are slipping from beneath the blindfold now, your voice hoarse as you sob through your second orgasm, overstimulated, unable to breathe without moaning. your cunt clenches around his fingers again, your cries turning into pleas as your thighs try to close, but he doesn’t let you. he holds you open. makes you take it. makes you fall apart again and again and again.

when he finally lets up, his fingers slip from you with a wet drag, and you collapse into the sheets—limp, slick, ruined. your chest rises in shaky pulls of air, your skin still twitching in places you didn’t know could feel, your wrists tugging instinctively against the cuffs even though you’re not trying to move. he doesn’t speak, not right away. you feel the bed shift beneath you as he moves, crawling up your body with a slowness that makes you ache in a different way. he’s not touching you—not yet—but his presence hovers, warm and close and overwhelming. then, you feel it. his breath against your mouth. the faintest graze of lips against yours. not a kiss. not quite.

your breath catches like a sob. you lean up the smallest amount, chasing the touch you can’t see, but his mouth barely brushes yours again and then pulls away. it’s cruel. gentle, but cruel. “please,” you whisper, voice so hoarse it barely comes out. your lips part again, desperate, trembling. “kiss me… please…” and finally, finally, he gives you what you ask for.

his lips press into yours, slow and full, his hand cradling the side of your face like you’re something breakable, like he wants to hold you still while he kisses the breath right out of you. there’s nothing rushed in it—no heat, no show. just intimacy. just need. he kisses you like he’s been thinking about it since the moment he opened the door. your legs fall open again, welcoming the weight of him, your body leaning into every inch of contact like you’ve been starving for it. his kiss deepens, tongue slipping slow and warm into your mouth, and you whimper under the blindfold, too fucked-out to hide how much you want it.

when he pulls away, you feel cold for only a second before you hear it—the low rustle of clothing, the quiet unbuckle of a belt, the unmistakable slide of denim down long, toned legs. your body tenses with anticipation, still aching in the best way, still sensitive and exposed and so ready for whatever comes next. you don’t need to see to know he’s watching you—all of you—the flush of your skin, the tremble in your thighs, the slick between your legs that’s already waiting for him. you hear the shift of fabric, then silence. and then, the weight of him between your legs again.

thick, warm, heavy against your thigh.

the mattress dips beneath his knees as he moves in closer, and your breath catches when you feel it—him, thick and heavy, dragging slowly along your inner thigh. he doesn’t push forward, doesn’t press in. just lets the head of his cock rest there, warm and slick against your oversensitive skin. the moment it brushes your folds—barely catching—you cry out, hips jolting up in instinct. but he doesn’t move. just stays right there, not giving you anything more.

he watches the way you strain beneath him, every inch of you open and ready, your wrists twitching against the cuffs like you’d reach for him if you could. your blindfold is soaked now, a tear trail drying on your cheek, your mouth parted in silent desperation. he slides the tip down slowly, catching just slightly at your entrance, then pulls back—barely there, not enough, and yet you whimper like it’s breaking you. he repeats the motion again, slower this time, teasing over your clit and down, dragging himself through your slick folds with lazy precision. and all the while? he says nothing. doesn’t praise you. doesn’t mock you. just lets you feel every aching inch without giving in.

your body bucks, hips rolling, trying to take more than he’s giving, but his hands move to your waist—firm, steady, holding you still. “please,” you gasp, voice cracked and wrecked. “please, jay, just—” but he hushes you with a kiss to your collarbone, soft and featherlight, and keeps grinding the thick head of his cock right where you want it most. never pushing in. just letting you suffer with the knowledge that he could—he just won’t.

he brings the tip back to your entrance again and pauses. and you feel it so clearly now—the pressure, the fullness that isn’t there yet but could be, the stretch you’re aching for. you try to speak, but your words come out as a sob, a moan, a broken little sound that barely qualifies as language. and then he does it again—rolls his hips just right so the head of his cock nudges your hole, teasing a shallow push that makes your breath stop entirely. your back arches, your thighs clamp instinctively around his waist, and your voice breaks. “fuck— please let me feel you. please… i want it, i want you inside—i need it so bad, jay—please.”

he hums, low and deep in his throat, like that’s the sound he’s been waiting for.

he doesn’t say anything—not when you beg, not when your hips buck up again in desperation—but his hands shift on your waist, grip tightening slightly like he’s finally giving in. you feel it in your gut first—the silence, the way the moment holds its breath, and then… the pressure. a slow, steady push, the thick head of his cock stretching your entrance open, and your breath leaves you in a single, shattered moan. he eases in with unbearable control, the kind that feels like his entire body is tense with restraint, letting you feel every inch as he sinks deeper, deeper, until your walls pulse and flutter helplessly around him. your mouth falls open. your thighs shake. your fingers flex in the cuffs above your head like you need something to hold onto—but all you have is him.

he moves slowly—so slowly it feels like time is breaking apart—his cock dragging along your inner walls in a stretch that’s equal parts bliss and pain, every inch carved into your body like it belongs there. “fuck,” he finally breathes, voice wrecked now, low and strained as he bottoms out completely, hips pressing flush against yours. “you feel—fuck—you feel unreal.” but you can’t respond. can’t speak. all you can do is feel, the thick weight of him buried inside you making it impossible to think, impossible to breathe. your body clenches tight, and he groans again, low and broken, like he’s losing himself just trying to stay still.

you’re soaked—beyond soaked, your slick coating his cock, dripping down your thighs, the sounds between you filthy and wet every time he moves. and still, he doesn’t fuck you. not yet. he holds there, deep and unmoving, letting you adjust, letting you fall apart around the stretch, like he knows this moment means something more than just release. and you feel it—god, you feel it everywhere. your chest is heaving, your toes curled, your head tossed back against the pillow even though you can’t see anything. you’re pinned, cuffed, blindfolded, full—and for the first time tonight, you feel the beginning of surrender settle into your bones.

“you still with me?” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw, his voice a tether to reality. you nod quickly, but that’s not enough. “words,” he whispers again, kissing the corner of your mouth. “i’m with you,” you breathe, voice hoarse. “i’m so with you. please don’t stop.”

he kisses you one more time—slow, tender, like a thank-you—and then he starts to move.

he moves inside you like he’s savoring it—like you’re the first person he’s ever touched, and he doesn’t want to miss a single second of what your body feels like wrapped around him. his hips roll slow, deliberate, dragging his cock out until only the head remains before sliding back in with a pressure that makes your eyes roll beneath the blindfold. it’s not hard. it’s not fast. but it’s devastating. every thrust lands deep, slow and punishing in the best way, the kind of rhythm that makes your chest ache and your breath shake in your lungs. your wrists strain above your head, but there’s no fight in it—only the overwhelming need to hold onto something as he pushes in again, and again, and again. he doesn’t say a word. doesn’t rush. just groans softly under his breath, like you’re pulling the sounds out of him without trying. like he’s been quiet for so long he forgot what it’s like to feel this way.

his hands hold your hips like he’s afraid to let go, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh above your thighs as he thrusts into you with the kind of care that feels dangerous. his cock fills you perfectly, stretching you out slow and deep, the drag of him along your inner walls making you feel every inch, every pulse, every tremble that ripples through your core. your body sings with it—raw and sensitive, already pushed past its limit, but craving more now that he’s giving it to you like this. like you matter. like you’re not just a girl cuffed to his bed, but something more—something precious. the air between you is thick with heat and the soft sound of your moans, your slick, the soft catch of breath each time he presses deeper. the music hums in the background, nearly forgotten—but the weight of the moment sits heavy in the rhythm of his body against yours.

he leans over you as he moves, chest brushing yours, his breath warm on your cheek, and it makes you feel consumed. like he’s not just inside you, but around you. wrapped into the cuffs. buried in the heat. woven between the gasps you can’t hold in. he presses a kiss to your jaw, then your temple, his pace never faltering as he sinks in deeper, grinding at the bottom like he wants to stay inside you forever. and the worst part—the best part—is how your body welcomes it. how you open more. cling more. beg silently for all of him. you whisper his name like it’s the only word left in your mouth, like you need him to know that you’re here—ruined, wrecked, and still desperate for more.

“you’re doing so good,” he finally says, voice so low it barely registers past the haze of pleasure blooming behind your ribs. “so good for me.” and that alone almost breaks you. it’s not praise for the camera. not some performative moan. it’s real, soft and meant only for you, and it hits something raw and deep beneath your skin. you whimper, body trembling beneath him, and his hand slides up your ribs, smoothing over the side of your breast before cupping your jaw with a tenderness that feels like it could kill you. he kisses your cheek and pushes in deep—slow, grinding, perfect—and you cry out again, your orgasm building back like you never even came the first time.

you don’t know how much more you can take—but his body never stops. his hips roll in that same rhythm, slow and deliberate, dragging his cock deep with every thrust like he’s trying to press into the parts of you untouched by anything before him. you’re trembling everywhere, your thighs slick and sticky, your wrists limp in the cuffs above you. and somehow, with his chest against yours, his mouth pressed to your temple, and his cock pulsing deep inside you—you feel safe. he kisses you again. not your lips this time, but your jaw. your cheek. your neck. each one softer than the last, like he’s pouring warmth into your skin. “you’re doing so good,” he whispers again, and you feel your chest tighten with it.

he adjusts his angle slightly, and the next thrust hits something sharp, something soft—something that makes your back arch and a moan claw its way from your throat. he feels it too. you feel his groan against your neck as he holds you tighter, keeps his pace just the same, grinding deeper instead of faster. and it ruins you. your whole body clenches around him, walls fluttering with every drag of his cock, and you whimper his name again, voice barely there. “you can let go,” he murmurs, breath heavy against your ear. “come for me, baby. just like that. let me feel it.” and you do. your body gives up everything.

your orgasm rolls through you like it’s weeping—a slow, full-bodied release that shakes your legs, curls your toes, makes your chest rise in stuttering waves as heat floods your veins. you cry out, not loud, but broken—soft and wet and trembling as your cunt clenches tight around him, milking every inch with desperate pulses you can’t stop. you feel like you’re floating, your body no longer your own, every nerve lit and raw and alive. tears slip from under the blindfold again, but it’s not pain. it’s everything—the stretch, the tenderness, the way his hand slides up to cradle the back of your head as he kisses your forehead through it.

“that’s it,” he whispers, still deep inside you, his thrusts slowing but not stopping. “just like that. you’re so good for me.” and god, it shatters you. your hips twitch helplessly, aftershocks trembling through your core, and you can’t even speak anymore—you just whimper, letting him keep you full, letting him rock into you with every ounce of patience he has left. his hand strokes over your jaw, your cheek, his lips brushing over the sweat-slicked skin above your blindfold like he wants to kiss every single place he can’t see.

he pulls out slow, one last deep roll of his hips before his cock slips from your body with a slick sound that makes your whole body twitch. you whine at the sudden emptiness, at the cool air brushing over your soaked thighs, at the way your cunt clenches around nothing now. but he’s already shifting, already rising onto his knees beside you. you can’t see him—but you can feel the heat rolling off his skin, hear the way his breath shudders in his chest, how his hand wraps tight around the base of his cock with a slick grip that makes your mouth fall open on instinct. he strokes himself slow at first, his breath thick with restraint, and you can tell—he’s been holding back for so long. for you.

he leans over you slightly, one hand braced beside your shoulder while the other works himself in long, steady strokes, each movement dragging a low groan from deep in his chest. “fuck,” he hisses, voice rough now, shaking, “you’re so fucking perfect.” your cheeks are flushed, blindfold still in place, mouth parted and waiting like it’s instinct—and when he sees you like that, spread and ruined and still needing, something cracks in him. “open your mouth, baby,” he breathes. “wanna see it. wanna come all over that pretty face.” and your lips part wider, a soft whimper slipping out as you tilt your chin up in obedience, wrists still tied above you, body too wrecked to move but so ready to take more.

his rhythm speeds up—rougher now, needier, the slick sound of him pumping into his own hand echoing through the room as he kneels beside your face. his breath breaks. his hips stutter. and then—he spills. hot, thick ropes across your cheek, your jaw, your lips, groaning your name like a confession as he fucks into his fist with one last desperate pull. “fuckfuckfuck—look at you,” he gasps, watching the way your skin glows under it, the way your mouth stays open, waiting. he leans closer as the last of it drips from his tip onto your bottom lip, and his thumb catches your chin, tilts it gently. “don’t close it yet,” he murmurs, breathing heavy. “just stay like that. fuck—just like that.”

he strokes the last bit out slowly, watching his cum drip down your face, catching in the curve of your mouth, the heat of your skin, and he breathes like he’s never seen anything more beautiful. his free hand brushes down your jaw, catching some of the mess with his thumb before swiping it gently over your bottom lip. “so fucking good for me,” he whispers again, and then he leans in, presses a kiss to your forehead without hesitation, soft and reverent.

he stays above you for a moment, chest still rising fast, eyes lingering on your face with something that doesn’t quite feel like control anymore. his hand brushes your cheek, knuckles grazing your jaw, and for the first time since it started, he looks like he doesn’t know what to say. not because he’s unsure—but because he’s overwhelmed. he reaches out slowly, hitting the button on the camera without looking, the soft click of it powering down echoing through the quiet like the world’s finally breathing again. then he moves for your blindfold, untying it with careful fingers, his breath brushing your skin as he leans in close. the light hits your eyes again, warm and low, and when you blink up at him—he’s already watching. not with lust. not with pride. just something softer. something that feels like wonder.

he doesn’t speak as he undoes the cuffs, just slides your arms down gently and brings your wrists to his lips one at a time, pressing soft kisses to the reddened skin there like he’s saying thank you without the words. your hands are too weak to hold him, but you lean into the contact anyway, body limp, breath shallow, held together by the warmth of his hands alone. and when he finally speaks, his voice is quiet—almost hoarse. “you okay?” he asks, barely more than a breath. and you nod, a soft sound leaving your lips. it’s not enough. he leans in and kisses your forehead like a reflex. then your temple. then the space just beneath your eye, where your skin is still damp from tears. “i got you,” he says softly. “you did perfect.”

he doesn’t make you move. he doesn’t ask. he just gathers you—an arm beneath your knees, the other cradling your back—and lifts you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. the walk to the bathroom is silent, but not cold. just full. the steam from the shower has already started to cloud the mirrors, warm air kissing your skin as he sets you gently on the edge of the tub and turns the water on, testing it with his wrist before letting it run. he moves slow—every step deliberate, every glance careful, like he’s still in that headspace where everything is about you. when the water’s warm, he comes back to you and crouches down. he doesn’t ask. he just touches your thigh, kisses your knee, and lifts you into the shower with him.

he stands behind you, arms wrapping around your waist, your body resting against his chest as the water rushes down your skin. his breath is steady now, slower, his lips brushing your shoulder as his hands begin to move. not sexually. not even intimately. just gently. like he’s piecing you back together with soap and fingers and quiet worship. he lets the water rinse between your legs, across your stomach, down your spine, holding you still like you might float away. when you shiver, he holds you tighter. when you sigh, he presses his mouth to the side of your neck and breathes you in like he needs the scent of you to stay grounded. “thank you,” he whispers once, and it’s so soft, you almost think you imagined it.

he helps you wash. helps you rinse. helps you breathe again. and when it’s over, he wraps a towel around your body, dries your hair with gentle pats, and leads you back to the bedroom with nothing but quiet touches. the room is darker now. still warm. still full of the echoes from earlier. he brings you to the bed, lifts the sheets, and tucks you in slowly—like it means something. and then he slides in beside you, shirtless, still a little damp, his arm wrapping around your waist like he was made to fit against you. no pressure. no words. just the soft, steady rhythm of him being there, his hand rubbing slow circles into your back while your head presses into his chest.

your body melts into his without resistance, legs tangled beneath the sheets, your face pressed into the dip of his chest like that’s where it was always meant to be. he smells like clean skin and leftover warmth—something earthy and faintly sweet, something him. his arm curls tighter around your waist, his fingers dragging soft, lazy circles across your back, and it makes your whole body settle. like gravity’s gentler now. like the world outside doesn’t exist. his breaths are deep and even beneath your ear, steady like a heartbeat you didn’t realize you’d been syncing to all along. and every now and then, his lips graze your hairline, quiet and constant, like he can’t stop kissing you without saying anything out loud.

you don’t try to speak. you don’t need to. your limbs are too heavy, your throat too sore, and the silence between you feels so much better than any sound. he shifts just a little, resting his chin on top of your head, and you feel his fingers still. not because he’s stopped. but because he’s watching. you can’t see it, but you know—he’s looking at you like you’re still glowing. like the room didn’t get dark. like his eyes are only made to find you.

and then—soft. breathless. almost too quiet to catch.

“you didn’t just do something to my body.”

he says it like a secret. like a confession. like something he wasn’t supposed to let slip.

“you did something to me.”

but you’re already falling. your lashes flutter. your body goes limp. and the last thing you feel is the warmth of his chest, the press of his palm on your spine, and the faint, dizzy ache of your lips curling into a smile you don’t even remember making.

────୨ৎ────

you lie there for a second too long. eyes wide open, pulse ticking in your throat like a warning, the weight of his arm draped over your waist like a secret you’re not supposed to keep. the sun’s fully risen now, the light clearer, sharper. the room doesn’t feel like it did last night. it’s too quiet. too still. and your heart? too loud. the memory of his hands, his mouth, the way he whispered against your skin—it all presses into you at once, suffocating in its gentleness. this wasn’t supposed to happen. it was supposed to be work. a collab. content. but everything about the way he held you said otherwise.

you shift gently, slow enough not to wake him, slipping his arm off your waist and sitting up with a breath you don’t remember holding. your legs feel shaky. your body still aches in places he touched like you were something worth worshipping. and that’s the problem. you weren’t ready for that. not the way he looked at you. not the way he made it feel like more than just a shoot. your phone buzzes again on the nightstand and it’s like ice through your spine—because this is what you wanted, right? the money. the exposure. the success. not the way he kissed your forehead in the shower. not the way he whispered thank you like you gave him something he didn’t deserve.

you climb out of the bed, quiet and careful, your feet cold on the floor. his shirt is still draped over the chair. your lingerie—wrinkled and damp—folded on the dresser like he couldn’t bear to toss it aside. you ignore the lump rising in your throat as you pull your clothes on, smoothing them over your skin like armor. everything feels wrong. tight. too small. your hands are shaking when you reach for your bag. you don’t look back at him—not even once—because if you do, you’ll change your mind. and this? this was just business.

you slip out of the room like a shadow, easing the door shut behind you as if you were never there. the hallway is silent. the apartment too still. and every step you take toward the door feels heavier than the last. your phone buzzes again, and you swipe it up with trembling fingers, ignoring the unread message glowing at the top of your inbox. you don’t even let yourself breathe until you’re outside, the morning air hitting your face like clarity. like guilt. you blink up at the sky, trying to will the sting in your eyes away, whispering to yourself the only line that feels safe right now—“it’s just content. nothing more.”

and you hope that if you say it enough… you’ll believe it.

the ride home is silent. too silent. your driver doesn’t say a word, and neither do you—just sit back with your bag clutched tight to your chest, your body aching in a way that doesn’t feel physical. your thighs are still sore. your lips still tingling. your wrists marked faintly from the cuffs. but it’s not the pain that lingers—it’s the warmth. the look in jay’s eyes when he washed your face. the way he held you after. the way his heartbeat steadied yours. your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag. you don’t want to remember that. you don’t want to feel this way. so you focus on the window, on the blur of early morning light cutting through city streets. and you keep your breathing even. one scene doesn’t mean anything. not if you don’t let it.

you don’t even say thank you when the car stops. you just slip out onto the curb, into your apartment building, through your front door, and straight into your room like muscle memory. your roommate isn’t home. thank god. the silence hits you harder now. you toss your phone on the bed and fall right after it, face down in the sheets, letting the last twelve hours replay in flickers behind your eyes. his voice. his hands. his weight pressed so carefully against yours. your mouth trembles, but no sound comes out. your chest rises, then falls. and you stay like that for what feels like forever—until your phone dings again. and again. and again.

you flip it over, eyes bleary. new notifications flood your screen—tips, subscribers, messages—and they keep coming. you stare at them blankly, your thumb flicking through without reading until one catches your eye:

@jakeoncam liked your video. @jakeoncam has followed you.

your heart stutters. your gaze sharpens. and then the messages from followers come into focus.

@yourbabygirl: you should collab with @jakeoncam 👀

@whoreforjake: pls do something with @jakeoncam!

@ruinmeeee: @jakeoncam x @babydollxo WHEN??

you don’t even think. your thumb taps over to his profile automatically.

and there he is.

verified. 5.5M subscribers.

that same preview still pinned at the top.

you remember him now. you remember the way he moaned, the way his hips rolled in tight, fluid motions. how he whined, “i'm gonna cum....fuck, baby...” and you remember what it did to you.

your thumb hovers over the message button. your reflection stares back at you in the dark screen. and you type without thinking:

@babydollxo: hey. wanna collab?

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ hoped you all enjoyed!!

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polaritydisturbed · 2 months ago

Text

The only explanation I’ve ever come up with is that his presence in Rose’s life changed her just enough that she was never in the right place or time to use the dimension cannon—or to become the Bad Wolf. Either of those things happening was crucial to the universe. Without the cannon, she couldn’t have returned to help stop Davros and the Reality Bomb, which threatened to erase all of non-Dalek existence. But without the Bad Wolf, the consequences could’ve been even worse.

Bad Wolf wasn’t just some one-off cosmic fluke—it was a thread woven through time itself. It left messages, influenced events, and nudged the Doctor toward the right decisions at the right moments. Pulling that out could unravel entire timelines.

And then there’s Captain Jack. Without the Bad Wolf to resurrect him, he might never have become immortal—no immortality, no Face of Boe, and no cryptic words of warning.

Now, to my knowledge, the Reapers did appear once more—in the comics. In Four Doctors, a crossover where the 10th, 11th, and 12th Doctors all meet, the Reapers show up when the 10th and 12th Doctors make physical contact. And yeah, that’s vaguely similar to when Rose holds baby-Rose and the Reapers appear at the church—especially since she physically stops her dad from being hit by the car. So maybe there’s a physical element at play.

…But also? That comic appearance kinda breaks my whole theory. Because let’s be real—Doctors bump into themselves all the time. Physical contact alone doesn’t usually do anything. So either the comics misunderstood how the Reapers work, or nothing means anything and every conclusion I’ve ever drawn about this show is as structurally sound as a Jenga tower in a wind tunnel.

i rewatched doctor who “father’s day”. the concept of reapers coming to fix wounds in time is very funny to me. because many times after and before that episode, the doctor and company have all but stabbed time to death, and yet no reapers have appeared to fix it. just that one time. was there some criteria they followed in that episode specifically to make the reapers appear? and also. why was roses dads death really that important of an event to warrant the reapers showing up?

very curious about that episode

#this show makes less sense the more you know about it and i respect that #davros really said “delete everything” and rose said “no ❤️”#how many doctors can you stack before reality breaks #doctor who is just “what if feelings caused multiversal instability”#rose tyler changed the universe with a little help from time trauma and sheer stubbornness #literally held the threads of time together with vibes and glitter #the face of boe is just captain jack in an aesthetic jar #comic book canon is like the wild west. anything goes. logic left the chat #rose really said “i can fix him (reality)”#rose tyler #new who #ninth doctor #doctor who #the doctor #Nu Who #NuWho

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cashmoneyyysstuff · 11 months ago

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shoto todoroki is fucking shameless. and surprisingly clingy.

he’d done a good job becoming a little more social little by little. he’s still a little wonky and awkward during the few times he tries to make conversation, but he tries and that’s the good part. you’re proud of him.

you’ve known shoto since you were kids, his closest friend, you’d seen him through it all and you’re so grateful that he’s found friends he feels comfortable and happy with, though he always reassures you that you’re dearest to him, which always makes you a little too giddy and flustered for somebody who’s supposed to be his closest friend and nothing more.

you’re in the cafeteria chatting with your mutual friends, shoto had told you to go off without him since he needed to go the bathroom and you found yourself sitting next to midoriya when he’d scooched in next to you, happy to see there was still a spot for him at the table. you liked midoriya a lot, he was sweet, cute and most importantly he made shoto come out of his shell in a way that you regrettably never could, plus the way he flails around when he gets embarrassed is pretty funny.

(you did notice ochaco’s face going completely blank for a few seconds, but you didn’t think much about it.)

after a few minutes of giggling and chatting shoto shows up, and something is immediately wrong with the way his natural straight face goes absolutely dead in the span of three seconds. it’s subtle, but you know him and it’s there. there also seems to be a chill in the room now.

he’s at your side of the table in three seconds, but he doesn’t register your smile in greeting as his cold gaze is glued to the green haired boy next to you.

“midoriya,” and his voice even sounds a little deeper, colder as he speaks like he somehow managed to use his right side on his mouth.

“that’s my seat.” he states calmly.

“oh ! my bad, todoroki !” izuku splutters an apology, but shoto’s eyes do not waver, staying fixed on the boy until he grabs his tray and makes a move to stand “i didn’t realize this was your spot, sorry !”

you feel a little bad at how intensely he’s apologizing, but you’re still shell shocked about that look. shoto seems unfazed though, his expression morphs slightly when izuku goes to squeeze in next to iida.

“i always sit next to yn.”

it’s so stupid. really, it is. how fast that makes your heart beat. because shoto does always sit next to you, he always has and he still always does when you come over to his house. but it’s the fact that he didn’t say he always sits here, in his unassigned assigned seat.

he said he always sits next to you. and your mind and heart races.

you don’t get much time to think because immediately he’s next to you, sighing before sitting as close to you as he can. he looks over to you and you look back, still a little startle but his features are soft again when he looks at you. he drops his utensils to thread his fingers with yours under the table.

“ did you wash your hands, mister ?” you tease, but you squeeze his hand when he squeezes yours. he frowns but it’s not the one from before. it almost looks like a pout and you snort.

“yes, i did.” he snips, you giggle and his eyes soften. even as you assure him you were just kidding he doesn’t mind, he couldn’t be mad at you.

you offer him a bite of your lunch as truce and he leans forward and plops a piece in his mouth from your chopsticks, then offers you a bit of his precious soba noodles and even holds a hand below them so they don’t spill because he insists on feeding you himself.

your friends pretend they don’t see the lowkey romantic exchange, but with the way shoto keeps insisting to have you eat his food and the soft barely there smile when you crack a joke that manages to break through his icey demeanor, they can start to figure out why he wanted to sit next to you so bad.

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cherrixpie · 6 months ago

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HOW NOT TO DATE A SLYTHERIN

part six of five

↬ being harry potter's sister wouldn't make dating theodore nott any easier - which was why you tried to hide it.

↬ nsfw; mdni; wc: 6.1k (oh god what did i do); tags: oral fem receiving, soft dom! theo, p in v, unprotected sex, theo is a munch, praise, slight virginity/innocence kink

( masterlist )

You sat cross-legged on the king sized bed in the room of requirement, fingers picking at the threads of the soft duvet beneath you. Anticipation curled in your insides as you fixed your eyes on the door. The room had answered your subconscious wish and provided a clock, an old grandfather clock, that ticked softly. Apart from your breathing, it was the only sound breaking the silence. Until the door handle clicked.

The door creaked open, and you looked up sharply, your breath catching as Theo slipped inside. His hair was damp from the rain still falling outside, and he shoved his hands into the pockets of his robes, his sharp features softening as his eyes landed on you. He hesitated for a moment, as if gauging the mood, before closing the door behind him with a quiet thud. There was a sort of tension in the room, or maybe you were imagining it because your nerves ran high. When Theo crooked his head, you realized what he was waiting for.

“Oh, Harry apologized,” you reassured him and Theo nodded, approaching the bed slowly. On his way, he shed his cloak and bag and sat down on the bed, unbuttoning the first two buttons of his shirt. “How did your friends take it?” you asked and scooted back to make space for him. Theo's eyes followed your retreating figure and he raised his brows, moving after you. “Are you running from me, tesoro?”

“Are you avoiding my question, Theo?” you countered and scooted back even more to tease him. Theo chuckled darkly and surged forward, trapping you beneath him by seizing your wrists and pushing them gently into the cushion. You couldn't help the high-pitched gasp that left your throat. One of Theo's large hands was enough to bind both your wrists, leaving you utterly helpless under his hungry eyes. The other drew a teasing line down your side.

“Wouldn't dream of it.” Theo dipped down to peck your nose, your cheeks, down to your chin. However, his kisses didn't stay that innocent. When a little sigh left your lips, you felt a sudden, sharp sensation at your neck and gasped. Theo chuckled and caressed the spot he had bitten down on with his lips, worshipping it. The hand that had been running up and down your side planted itself firmly on your hip as his hips moved almost instinctively and you felt something stiff rubbing against your core.

You stiffened, and Theo noticed in an instance. His lips and hands retreated immediately and he pushed himself up to bring some space between the two of you. With furrowed brows, he looked down on your panting figure. “Are you alright? Did I-”

“No!” you said quickly and scrambled to sit like him. “I'm fine, I’m- I was just surprised.” When you noticed the worried look in his cerulean eyes, you tried to explain. “You haven't- It’s just- I’m just-” But the words wouldn't make it past your lips. Instead, Theo got a hold of your gesticulating hands and brought them to his lips. “There is nothing to explain, cara mia,” he said softly. “I’m sorry I went too far.”

“You didn't, I-” you blushed furiously and averted your face, but you couldn't miss his raised eyebrow. “I liked it,” you whispered, staring stubbornly at the blankets of the four poster. Even out of your peripheral vision, you could see the change in his demeanor at your words. His frame visibly relaxed, but at the same time, his fingers locked with yours that had subconsciously been picking on the blanket. When you looked up at him, his gaze was steady but not intimidating. The soft, teasing grin he’d worn earlier had given way to something quieter- more patient.

It was strange. Minutes before, you had been flush against his body and been devoured by his lips, and yet this felt almost more intimate. You were hyper-aware of how close he was, the way his fingertips traced aimless patterns along the back of your hand. It was gentle, intimate, yet every nerve in your body was alive with tension. Your teeth nibbled on your bottom lip as you looked for the fitting words. Theo seemed to sense that you were holding something back, because he waited patiently. “You should know something,” you said.

“I-” you began, only to falter. The words caught in your throat, leaving a lump of unease behind. Theo's brows furrowed slightly, not in annoyance but intrigue. He didn't press, he just waited. In the silence, you could make out the steady rhythm of his breathing and it grounded you somewhat. You weren't about to confess a crime. Though, and you couldn't deny it, you were worried that Theo would be disappointed. You glanced down on your lap, where your hands lay intertwined. Finally, you forced yourself to meet his eyes, heart pounding so hard it almost drowned out your voice. “I've never… I’ve never done anything like this before.” You swallowed and avoided his piercing gaze. “I'm, like, a virgin.”

Theo's eyes widened as he suddenly understood what all your blushing and nervousness around the topic of intimacy meant. Though he had assumed you were less experienced than he was, for one because you didn't have that kind of reputation and secondly because he had to admit that you’d have to work pretty hard to beat him, he didn't think you would be a virgin. That someone as gorgeous and smart as you had never gotten busy with anyone.

You seemed pretty embarrassed, either of the topic or the confession, and your fingers seemed to tighten around his subconsciously. When you sent him a nervous glance, he got his features back under control.

“Nothing to be embarrassed about, dolcezza,” Theo said softly but your shame skyrocketed at once and you bundled up, hiding your burning face in your hands and letting out a long groan. You heard him chuckle and then felt his soft touch pry at your wrist. “Would you look at me, amore mio dolce?” Cheeks a bright pink, hair a mess and lips kiss-bitten, Theo couldn't think of a more endearing sight than when you let him remove your hands from your face and looked up at him. “We don't have to do anything, let's just cuddle some more and-”

“No!” you interrupted him fervently. “I mean… I do want to.” You seemed to grapple with something, and finally, you looked back up at him, your doe eyes glistening in the light of the many fires. “Is it bad?” Bad? Shamefully, Theo had to admit it only made his problem down there worse. At the same time, he started to question himself, and his lack of an immediate answer had you bite your lip nervously.

“It's not … bad,” he said in a great effort to keep his voice steady and composed. But he couldn't help his fingers twitch, burning to hold you, grab you, push you into the covers and make you his. Merlin he needed therapy.

“Then why are you acting so weird?” you said, noting his strained voice, averted eyes and twitching fingers, as ditched wanted to escape from yours. “Why does it make a difference wether I'm a virgin or not?”

That was a really good question, actually. Theo had deflowered plenty of girls in his lifetime and it had never made a difference to him how experienced they were. But when it was you, it did something to him. A dark, greedy part of him stirred at the thought of being you first, ruining you for all other men, teaching you, guiding you, making you his.

Theo groaned in frustration and let his head slump into the crook of your neck, throwing all pretense into the wind. Merlin, how it turned him on that- “You would give your virginity to me?” he asked into your neck and you nodded rapidly. “Yes!” “Are you sure?” You were taken aback by the graveness and severity in his tone, but it couldn't deter you. “Yes, Theo. I trust you.”

“Dio, dannazione,” Theo hissed and lifted his face from your neck to look at you with an intensity that knocked the air right out of your lungs. His fingers slipped out of yours and located themselves on your hip instead, in a tight grip, an attempt to ground himself and drown the monster in him out. “Cazzo, tesoro, it's not bad, quite the contrary, actually.” A humorless chuckle left his lips and you frowned up at him with innocent confusion. “What do you mean?”

When he leaned in, you found yourself pulled to him as if by magnetic force. His cerulean eyes were so dark, like black holes that held an overpowering pull on everything around them. And right now, it was you who was pulled into the abysmal depths. Your breath hitched when your lips were mere inches apart and Theo's voice sounded oh so softly, like a melody whispered into your ears. “I think … I think it's so hot that you want to give your first time to me.” You breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank Merlin, I thought you were going to run away or something.”

“You're ridiculous,” Theo mused but you shrugged, awaiting the touch of his lips readily. “You're the one with the virginity kink.” Biting your lip, you looked up at him with a daring smile and brought your voice to a sensual whisper that seemed completely laughable to you. “Theo, I’d let you take me any time you aske-”

Before you could finish your sentence, his lips clashed with yours in an uncontrolled fervor you had never seen from Theo. Theo’s kisses were slow and sensual, controlled and determined, and though they could also be passionate, he had never kissed you like this. Wild, senseless, barely more than a clash of teeth as he slipped his tongue into your mouth and straight up moaned. It was a kiss that set your whole body alight, electrified it, so that the simplest touch of his hands left you whimpering into his mouth.

Theo swallowed up all sounds as his tongue roamed around your mouth, as if he wanted to explore every inch of you, claim you whole. His usually so careful touches turned into barely restrained grips as his hands cupped your face. You didn't even realize you had given into his relentless push until your back met the mattress and he pulled away, leaving you gasping for air.

A storm was brewing in his eyes when Theo looked down on you in the sheets, but after a few deep breaths, he seemed to get himself back under control. “I don't have an innocence kink,” he insisted and you giggled, but he only smiled and played with a strand of your hair. “I don't. It's just… you. The thought of being your first.” And your last, if he had his way. But he didn't want to overwhelm you. With another long exhale, he kissed your temple softly. “You’re a fucking angel, you know that? I want to do this the right way, make it perfect…”

His lips found yours once more, but it was in a gentle caress. A kiss that felt like an answer to an unspoken question. His nose nuzzled against yours as his large hands glided down your body, mapping and lingering at your waist before one got a hold of your thigh. As his thumb brushed over the skin under your uniform skirt, he parted your legs gingerly and his hips slotted perfectly into the open space.

You felt so impossibly close to him he might just have consumed you whole. It was impossible not to feel safe in his capable hands that seemed to expertly draw all the right reactions out of you. Your bodies melded together as he let his hips rock experimentally and you mewled. Theo’s lips curled into a smirk you could feel against your own as he reveled in the effect he had on you. Smug bastard. In retaliation, you moved your hips against his and his breath hitched. “Cazzo, bella, mi farai dimenticare me stesso.”

His hands travelled further down to lock your hips in place. But instead of continuing to rub his hardened, clothed dick against your crotch, Theo departed from your mouth to trail kisses down your neck. With a swift motion, he moved you further back on the mattress, his hands held your thighs as he was on eye-level with your clothed core. Realizing his intentions, you propped yourself up on your ellbows to look at him. The way he looked at you through his dark lashes had the heat explode in your chest- and your cheeks. When you spoke, your voice came out in a broken stammer. “Y- you don't have to do that.”

“Sorry?” Theo said courteously as he trailed kisses down your thigh. You had to suppress a whimper and attempted to close your thighs out of instinct, but Theo kept them parted with ease. “No need to be embarrassed,” he smiled and you felt like the amount of fireplaces had just doubled.

“I-” you said tentatively as he was still worshiping your thigh, “I've heard many boys see it as a chore.” What you hadn't expected was for Theo to roll his eyes. “Then many boys are sciocchi,” he said as his fingers latched onto your skirt, gently prying at it. “But-” “I want to, cazzo, I want to. Do you know how long I've been yearning to taste your cute little cunt?” Theo interrupted you and brought a hand to your chin to make you unable to avert your hazy gaze. “So fucking long. Please, let me have a taste of you, Tesoro.”

It was almost impossible to meet his fiery gaze, but once you did, you found yourself nodding helplessly. “Good girl,” Theo praised and peeled down your skirt, placing it orderly on the nightstand. His calm manner made you feel as if he was teasing you, and you were about to scold him when you felt his index finger hook around your panties as he placed the softest of kisses on your pubic bone.

For some reason, this was what made your breath hitch and he hummed amusedly against your skin. One of his fingers came down to draw the lightest of circles on your clothed cunt and you squirmed uncontrollably under him. Theo's eyes glinted with amusement as he tutted. “So responsive…”

“S- stop teasing,” you stuttered and felt him shift between your legs. “Your wish is my command,” Theo murmured against your skin and, in one fluid motion, he had rid you of your panties. They joined your skirt as Theo dove down and you chocked on your own spit.

Expertly, Theo's lips closed around your clit and you stifled a sudden moan by slapping your hand over your mouth. You were startled when Theo's hand released your thigh and got a hold of your wrist. His eyes glinted dangerously up at you. “None of that, principessa. I want to hear you.” His index finger flicked against your clit and you mewled. Theo growled against your cunt as he dipped out his tongue into your wetness and started devouring you like his last meal.

You had never felt anything like this. Theo's mouth on your cunt felt so wild and uncontrolled, yet his lips or mouth nudged against your clit in constant, overwhelming stimulation. Your attempts to control your noises were rendered in vain as Theo touched you in all the right places and a loud, high-pitched moan of his name escaped your throat. His ministrations on your pussy came to a sudden halt as Theo stared up at you with an expression that had your insides squeeze in actual fear. “Do that again.”

As he returned to your cunt, you threw your head back into the covers. His tongue dipped into your warmth, messily making out with your pussy and practically worshipping your clit. Your thighs trembled, just as your voice when you let out another pathetic mewl of his name and you felt Theo moan into your cunt, the vibrations having you writhing and squirming.

With a loud groan, one of Theo’s arms shot up to hold down your waist to allow himself the perfect angle to devour you. Your juices covered the better half of his face but Theo couldn't bring himself to care. When he felt his hips rut against the mattress subconsciously, he forced himself to stop. This was about you, this would be all about you, his pleasure would come second to yours. But your cute little moans went straight to his clock as he reveled in the taste of you.

You were like ambrosia, Theo was convinced to be in heaven, and when you buried your trembling fingers in his locks in an adorable attempt to take control, he could not hold back the shudder that rippled through his body.

Theo found his iron discipline wavering when your back arched off the mattress and your desperate whimpers filled his ears. Merlin, you were heavenly, as you began to tremble and squirm in his tight hold. “Theo, I- I’m-” He knew what lay on your tongue and he knew you were too embarrassed to say it out loud, but he wanted to hear you say it so bad. “You’re what?” he murmured teasingly and you groaned, hiding your face in your hands. “I’m close, oh god, I'm close!”

You found yourself squealing when you felt one of Theo’s fingers that had been rubbing circles on your clit travel down and prod at your entrance. A gasp left your lips when he slipped it inside, lubricated by your juices, and curled it upward. Your grip on his locks tightened, whether to stop him or spur him on, you did not know, and he chuckled against your warmth. “Be gentle with me, cara mia.” God, the way he spoke Italian into your cunt had you wetter than you would like to admit. But of course, he noticed, and you knew from the slight smirk he gave you that he had made a mental note.

Theo added another finger and you felt your high approaching with accelerating speed, and somehow, the pleasure got even more intense. You had touched yourself before, but the weak orgasms you could draw out here and there were in no comparison to anything you felt right now. You knew Theo was watching you closely, you could feel his heavy gaze on you, but you couldn't stop your pathetic little “ah”s of pleasure. And when he curled up his fingers to meet a spot you didn't even know you had and his lips closed around your clit once more, you broke.

Releasing a strangled moan, your body spasmed as you were hit by the strongest orgasm you had ever felt, bucking off the bed as you squeezed your eyes shut and fell apart on his tongue. For a moment, you thought you could see the pearly gates of heaven as you grew impossibly light-headed. Wave and wave of pleasure washed over you, with the only thing grounding you being Theo. His mouth and fingers worked you through your high as you slowly returned to him.

Watching your heaving chest and teary eyes, Theo felt tempted to work you into overstimulation, giving in to the mean temptation to have you crying and and trashing in his arms, but he resisted the urge. Today was exclusively about your pleasure. Instead, he released your thighs and departed from your pussy with a last peck to your clit that had you jolt in his hold. Then, he returned to hover over you and revel in your fucked-out expression.

Theo dipped his head down to kiss you and you shuddered, tasting yourself on his lips. In fact, half his face was covered in your juices, and when he pulled away from the short but sweet kiss, you attempted to wipe some of it away with an apologetic expression. “Sorry,” you said sheepishly, feeling hesitant to meet his intense gaze. “I made a bit of a mess, didn't I?”

But one of Theo’s hands came up to seize your wrist and stop your feeble attempts. “Tesoro, why would you deny me my dessert?”

“D- dessert?” you stuttered, blushing furiously, and he laughed. Your weak slap against his abdomen seemed to go unnoticed, but your blushing did not. “cosi carina,” Theo murmured as he pecked both your burning cheeks. His eyes met yours and you shivered at the unmasked adoration in them. “How do you feel? Do you want to continue? We don't have to,” he assured you, but you shook your head with a little more fervor as necessary.

“I want to continue, that was … wow. It never…,” you avoided his eyes but he lifted your chin to make you look at him. “It never what?” “... never felt that good when I… you know…” Your embarrassment, even when he was literally covered in your juices, was so cute that Theo couldn't help the grin growing on his face. “Go on.” With a frustrated groan, you punched his chest. “When I … you know… touched myself,” you forced past your lips and he cooed at your shyness.

His head nestled into the crook of your neck and you heard him mutter close to your ear: “What did you think about when you touched yourself, tesoro?” Your heart pounded so hard in your chest you could barely get your words past it. “You. And me. A- and-” your voice broke off and faded into a soft mewl when you felt his fingers at your entrance once more, drawing tantalizing patterns around your clit.

“Go on,” he murmured again and your breath hitched. “Go on or I'll stop,” Theo threatened and you scrambled to keep talking. “Your hands, ah! I thought about your hands.” His dark chuckle made you shiver and he cooed. “You thought about my hands?” You nodded in shame, fisting his shirt and pulling him closer. “What else?”

You realized he was looking for a specific answer that you were very reluctant to give. The effect he had on you when he spoke in his mother tongue. But you just couldn't say it, so you copped out with “your voice.”

There was a mean flick against your clit and you gasped as Theo growled against your ear. Two of his fingers entered your cunt and stretched it out so deliciously you could feel it in your dry throat. “What else?” Stubbornly, you shook your head and he tutted. “Cos'altro c'è?”

“You’re mean,” you complained, but you could practically feel yourself growing wetter- and he could, too. “Dillo e basta,” he purred against the shell of your ear as his fingers curled and expertly hit the spot that had you seeing stars. “Just say it, tesoro.”

It was too much: his Italian, his fingers, the burning in your cheeks. The confession broke out of you. “It's hot when you speak Italian, okay?” you whined defiantly and Theo rewarded you with another curl upwards that had you shudder in his arms. “Good girl, I knew you could do it.” You didn't know what you hated more: how smug his voice was or how it had you dripping into the sheets. In an attempt to regain your dignity, you mustered all your strength and locked your thighs around his waist, flipping the two of you around.

With a raised brow, Theo watched your panting figure ontop of him. You straddled his waist and, in an attempt to take back some level of control, experimentally rocked your hips over his clothes erection. Theo’s breath hitched slightly and you gave him a triumphant grin, rolling your hips once again, and again, holding back moans. You gasped when he shifted under you and sat up, his hands latching onto your waist. Now it was him who rocked you back and forth on his lap, and you who buried your hands in his shirt and mewled at the pleasure.

“Nice try,” he chuckled into your ear. The satisfaction in his tone brought out your last remnants of defiance as you bit down on his neck so hard it made him hiss. “Cazzo, bella!” While he was distracted, your hand travelled down and you found the outline of his cock through his trousers. When your fingers closed around it, eliciting a deep grunt from Theo, you gasped. Though you had never seen another man in comparison, you were pretty sure Theo was massive, and you began to doubt wether he could even fit.

But before you could do anything else, Theo’s lips clashed onto yours and you were momentarily distracted by the mind-shattering kiss he gave you. His tongue slipped into your mouth easily as if he wanted to devour you whole, body and soul, and you were beginning to think he already had. Between kisses, he whispered unknown phrases in Italian. His lips in combination with his words made you increasingly desperate.

When he pulled away and you gasped for air, Theo gently removed your hands from his clothed erection and placed pecks on your frowning eyebrows. “Not tonight, cara mia, this is about you, and you only.”

“But-,” you protested weakly as he brought your hands to his neck and looped them around it. “I wanted to make you feel good, too.”

“Well, aren't you an angel,” he chuckled softly and kissed the corner of your lips. “The best way to make me feel good right now, tesoro, is to take off that blouse of yours.”

You scrambled to unbutton your school shirt, but it was a bit of a challenge with how hard your hands were trembling. All the while, Theo leaned back against the headboard and watched your attempts with the slightest hint of smugness shimmering within those cerulean eyes. He might as well have lit a cigarette, with how utterly appeased he appeared. A smug smile tugged at his lips as he watched your confused attempts to open your blouse. His nonchalance was maddeningly magnetic, with the casual grace of someone who held all the cards.

When you had finally managed to open your blouse, you were suddenly hit with a new wave of shyness. Your hands trembled slightly when you pried it open and discarded it onto the floor, watching Theo’s reaction closely. His eyes widened slightly and the smile fell from his lips. It was replaced by slightly parted lips that he wet with his tongue as his eyes took you in fully, traveling over your collarbone, clothed breasts and down to your soft belly.

Feeling self-conscious, you crossed your arms over your chest, but Theo sat up in one swift motion and pried them off, eyes locked to your lace bra. “No, no, no, niente di tutto questo,” he told you and you wondered whether he was even aware you had no idea what he had said. Oh, well, you’d gotten the general gist.

When Theo managed to lift his gaze from your boobs,they met yours with a softness you hadn't expected. “You’re so beautiful, Merlin, let me die to this sight.”

“You-,” you whispered, as if you were telling him a secret, “you’re not lying?” God, that lifted eyebrow, those damn eyes. His index finger brushed over your lip gently and you found yourself shuddering at the simple touch. Leaning closer, your cunt brushed over his thigh and you gasped. With a light smirk on his lips, Theo bucked it upwards and watched you suppress a moan and bury your hands in his shirt to stabilize yourself. Your vicinity enabled him to reach around your waist and flip the two around in one fluid motion.

“I'm not,” he said softly, looking down on your bare body splayed out for him in the sheets. Your pretty glistening eyes looking up at him so sweetly, he found himself enraptured by merely looking at you.

A pout tugged at your kiss-bitten lips. “How come I'm naked and you’re not?”

He smiled. “Fair enough.” With one hand, he tugged his shirt over his head, the other loosened his belt. With a shudder, he got lost in the feeling of your soft hands traveling up his torso and locking around his neck to pull him into a kiss. He gave in to your pull and dove down, shedding his trousers and slotting his hips between your soft thighs.

You almost forgot how to breathe in between kisses. Everything was so warm. His hands on your body, your skin against the fire from outside and within. His mouth, caressing yours. One of his hands travelled down your tummy and over the curve of your bare ass, grabbing a hand full of your thigh and lifting it to rock his clothed erection against your bare warmth. A strangled moan left your lips as you threw your head back and his lips latched onto your neck.

Your bodies rocked against and with each other, synchronizing into one fluid motion. Theo's somewhat strained baritone whispered sweet nothings in Italian into your ear. But it wasn't enough. Your hand ran down his back until it reached his boxers and you tugged at their hem, making Theo pant into your mouth. Spurred on by his reaction, you slipped your hand inside them and closed around his cock. For some reason, you shuddered against him and when he moaned against your skin, you took it as a sign to move your hand.

As if on instinct, his hips rocked into your hand and he groaned into your neck. “ragazza sfacciata. Little minx.” But before you could revel in having the upper hand for at least a short while, a much bigger hand closed around both your wrists and pressed them into the mattress over your hand. With a cheeky smile, Theo tutted at you. “Quite eager, aren't we?”

“Well, if you take so damn long,” you retorted and his eyes glinted dangerously before they softened once more. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked seriously, searching for any traces of hesitation or uncertainty.

You nodded. “Positi-” You were cut off by a squeak when Theo discarded his boxers and rutted his cock against your folds. He was massive, and excitement, as well as anxiety curled in your stomach. “Still sure?” he asked cockily and you nodded. Even though you knew it wasn't a smart move, you gave him challenging look. “What, are you scared to f-” Three fingers plunged into your wet cunt and you gasped at the new stretch, eyes burning. “That's what you got to look forward to,” Theo murmured hotly against your neck. “That and more.”

Even though nervousness bloomed in your stomach, you managed to catch his eye and give him a nod of reassurance. “Please, Theo, please, I want it, I-” “Merlin, you’re tempting,” Theo gritted out and gave your cunt a gentle slap that squelched embarrassingly loud. “Bene, spread your legs for me, principessa.”

You did and felt a blush bloom on your cheeks when the tip of his cock kissed your sensitive clit. Theo's hands drew reassuring circles on your belly as he hoisted himself up and pressed his tip into your entrance. He was big, and seemed even bigger now that he was actually in you. The stretch was so unlike his fingers that you forgot to breathe for a second. You felt Theo's worried eyes on you and smiled at him through the sting you felt. “Tell me if anything hurts,” he muttered before he moved in the next inch.

Theo could barely hold himself together as his tip slipped further into your tight warmth. Biting down hard on his lip, so hard he might have actually started bleeding, he summoned all his restraint. The urge to plunge into you and split you open was strong, but even stronger was his concern for you as he saw you well up and breathe steadily through your mouth. “Tesoro?” You nodded at him to keep going and squeezed your eyes shut as he sank in another inch. Theo couldn't hold back the moan that left his throat and your whimpers didn't make the situation any better.

“Are you all the way in yet?” you asked, unable to imagine that you could take much more, but Theo shook his head. “That's just half of it, Bella. Want me to stop?” You shook your head vigorously. “No, keep going.”

Finally, with a lot of patience and self restraint, Theo managed to sink into your tight cunt all the way. With a pant, he sank down onto his free elbow, hovering inches above you. Your eyes were squeezed shut, but you breathed steadily and let out the occasional whimper.

“Are you okay?” you heard Theo mutter and you opened your eyes to see cerulean blue. You took a deep breath and nodded. “‘M fine. Just-” you squirmed and Theo gasped, holding your hips down. “So full…”

Theo chuckled at your ramblings and pulled out before slowly moving back in. His steady movements slowly turned from stinging to pleasurable and small “ah”s escaped you as he established a steady rhythm. His breath was hot against your ear. “Fucking hell, bella.”

An embarrassingly loud moan escaped you when Theo hit that spot and you squirmed against his hand that still held your wrists in place. “T-theo!” Suddenly, you felt his hand slip under your back and unhook your bra, discarding it to somewhere unseen. His lips came down to wrap around your nipple and you arched your back off the mattress as his teeth nibbled at the sensitive skin, travelling up your tit before biting down gently and sucking, surely forming a bruise. Meanwhile, his cock still hit the spot that had you falling apart, chanting his name breathlessly.

The sensations were so overwhelming that tears slipped out of the corners of your eyes. You hiccuped, and Theo chuckled against the tender skin of your boobs. A coil tightened in your lower belly, if possible even more intense than the previous ones, and you squirmed pathetically against Theo’s hold. Finally, he released your wrists and they flew to his hair to bury themselves in it. As you felt your climax approaching, you whimpered something incoherent, but he understood.

His now free hand dove down to draw hurried circles around your clit and you jolted as the added pleasure brought you to the edges of consciousness. A scream of his name left your throat as you crashed into your high with full force, your back arched off the bed. His skillful fingers and gentle rhythm worked you through your high when his movements suddenly stuttered and the rhythm grew uneven. As you came down from your high, Theo rutted his cock into you heavily, three times before he pulled out and came onto the sheets.

Panting hard, Theo collapsed on the bed next to you and pulled your trembling figure into his arms. You buried your face in his chest as he caressed your body with soft touches, drawing patterns on the small of your back. When you looked up from his chest, your eyes met his and in your shared look, you tried to convey all your love, all your adoration and affection. You reached for his hand and locked his fingers, and Theo pressed a gentle kiss onto your temple.

"My friends were surprisingly supportive," Theo spoke into the silence and your eyes widened. Foreseeing your skepticism, Theo chuckled. "It might have been because I told them with a drawn wand. But I think Enzo's got a crush on you."

"You're crazy," you said, rolling your eyes. "I can't have two gorgeous men liking me." Even though you couldn't see it, you heard the frown in his voice. "You think Enzo is gorgeous?" You snorted. "I mean... objectively? But don't worry. I like them broody and Italian and stinking of cigarettes." A satisfied hum left Theo's lips as he pecked your temple.

“Ti amo, tesoro,” he whispered softly as he returned your smile. You leaned your head against his bicep and drowned in his cerulean eyes. “Anch'io ti amo, Theo.”

a/n: thank you so much for 300 followers and have a happy new year's eve! see you all in 2025!

#harry potter #harry potter x reader #slytherin boys #slytherin boys x reader #theo nott x reader #theodore nott x reader #theo nott #theo nott x you #theodore nott #theodore nott x you #theodore nott x griffindor!reader #theodore nott smut #theo nott smut

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somnambuletta · 2 months ago

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kept things

simon doesn’t say much when you give it to him.

a keychain—black leather, small and clean, thread etched patterns standing out like dna strands, meant to be there. it’s a simple thing, barely bigger than a thumb, stitched tight along the edges, soft from your hands. you don’t give it with fanfare— just place it in his palm, close his fingers around it.

“for your spare,” you say.

and that’s all.

he tucks it into his jacket without a word, but you catch the flicker of something in his eyes. quiet. focused. like he’s memorizing the (miniscule, and yet significant) weight of it. the idea of it. you.

the bracelet came before that.

black cord, woven thick with your fingers, made to look like something he’d actually wear— nothing glittery, nothing loud. but in the center, tied flush and seamless, your initials. his and yours. subtle, like a secret. simon hasn’t taken it off since.

it frays a little now— small threads poking from the edge, softened from showers, from wear, from living. sometimes, you see simon rub his thumb over it when he’s thinking, or when he's quiet, head down, sitting on the edge of your bed as the sun breaks in soft through the blinds. he never tugs at it like it's something in the way. the lieutenant never hides it. he just... adjusts it, now and then. tightens the knot when it slips.

like keeping it snug keeps you close.

when it finally starts to unravel, one side curling just enough to catch his glove, he comes to you with it. doesn’t say much—doesn’t have to.

just stands in the doorway, hulking and patient, holding out his wrist like it’s something fragile. like he’d rather wear it broken than not at all. “can you fix it? ”

that voice, rough and low, carrying more weight than he knows how to say. and you nod. you don’t tease. don’t call it sweet. you just take his hand and start retying the strands. tight again. secure again.

yours, again. simon doesn’t pull away when you kiss the inside of his wrist.

and later, when he clips your keychain onto the spare he keeps tucked safe in his gear bag, you catch the way he touches it once before letting it drop. a quiet moment, all his own.

kept things.

not loud, not grand. just the kind he never lets go of.

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty #creative writing #writing #writeblr #writers on tumblr #writing community #amwriting #cod modern warfare #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #call of duty x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x you #original writing #my writing

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togament · 1 year ago

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𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌. sakura, ume, kaji, suo.

"ever thought how it would be like to kiss them? here's how they love to do it."

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 : SUGGESTIVE KINDA SPICY, kaji is a mess (i’m in love), ume is a puppy man and he is needy, pls protect sakura, SUO????? SUO.

𝐒𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐑𝐀.

- shy, shy SHY. You gotta guide him through it, babe. But once he gets the hang of it (and once he gets over the embarrassment), expect him to be all over you. - Handsy when he hasn't seen you for the longest time, caressing softly and he pulls you into him so tightly you feel like you'd merge into one being. if he’s pissed, his hands are fiery, all over your body, groping and pulling at your clothes. - please don't kiss him in public. not like he doesn't want to. of course he really does. but he can't take the teasing and the attention it brings. (he also can't prevent himself from blushing, ok? you know how red he gets!)

𝐔𝐌𝐄.

- BIG SMILE KISSER. Your teeth kiss before you both do sometimes. Likes holding you in his arms when he’s kissing you. God. You know those sort of movie kisses where the love interest cups the lead’s cheek so lovingly, so softly like she’s about to break? Whispers sweet nothings to the main lead before leaning in for a perfect kiss? lmao you’re definitely not having that with ume. Sorry. - He’s a goofy kisser, giggles sometimes when you both are into it. Like, he’s just happy to be there, y’know? He whispers how much he loves you, how good you smell, how pretty you are though. who am i kidding? Any kiss is a good movie kiss with ume around. - Just expect him to ask for more than just a kiss after your lips leave his. firing all cylinders too. puppy eyes, all cutesy and stuff. He’s very needy. And I mean NEEDY.

𝐊𝐀𝐉𝐈.

- of course, goes without saying that kissing kaji’s sweet. If he can’t kiss you in public, he gives you his lollipop. You tease him often, twirling your tongue along the candy, puckered lips slowly sucking it in. you know he's staring. you know he's blushing. he hates how he loves it. - Once he gets you alone? GOD. he presses you up against the nearest surface and kisses you feverishly, fingers harshly tugging at the base of your head to control you the way he wants. You yelp and he takes that opportunity to ram his tongue into your mouth, only to have you suck on it like how you did his lollipop. - But when he’s not super pissed or it’s just a lazy day for him, he looooooves lazy make out sessions while listening to music with you. His hand’s on your cheek, pulling you close. Your arms around his neck, pulling him closer until you’re straddling him already. (his go to is deftones btw.) - Kaji’s kisses are fiery and needy one moment, slow and sensual the next. No in between.

𝐒𝐔𝐎.

- likes teasing before he leans in to kiss you. You could just be talking about mundane stuff and he’s looking at you with a hooded eye, gaze flitting from your eyes to your lips and back again. Tongue darting out his lips to wet them only to pull his lower lip slightly between his teeth. He knows how to work you way too well. - He likes it when you kiss him so desperately after he teases you. With how neat and proper he is, you’d expect him to prefer slow and languid kisses. au contraire, he likes it MESSY. Tongues battling for dominance, hands yanking and threading through hair, him biting your lip when he pulls away, whispered dirty talks. - it's crazy how he pulls away from you and he looks so neat and tidy while your hair's frazzled.

a/n: ok another one before i head to bed. goodness i really do have to fix my body clock soon lmao goodnight sweetpeas~

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pucksandpower · 6 months ago

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The World Can Wait

Carlos Sainz x Reader

Summary: no matter whether he’s wearing Ferrari red or Williams blue, standing on the top step of podiums or fighting for points, you’ll love Carlos through it all

The podium is eerily quiet now. The lights are dimmed, the bright flashes of cameras long gone, and the chaotic hum of celebration has faded into nothing. The night wraps itself around the circuit like a heavy blanket, but Carlos is still there. Sitting cross-legged on the podium, the silver P2 trophy rests beside him, untouched.

You find him like this after weaving through the empty paddock, the distant sounds of dismantling garages growing fainter as you near him. At first, you’re hesitant. You stop at the base of the podium steps, watching him from the shadows.

His head is tilted back, eyes fixed on the sky, though you doubt he’s really looking at anything. The set of his shoulders is tight, his elbows resting on his knees. He doesn’t notice you.

“Carlos,” you say softly, almost unsure if you should disturb him.

He doesn’t startle. Instead, his gaze drops, and he looks at you. There’s something hollow in his expression, a weariness that no trophy can mask. He doesn’t say anything, just gestures faintly with his hand for you to come up.

You climb the steps slowly, the sound of your shoes against the metal breaking the heavy silence. When you reach him, you hesitate again, standing just a few feet away.

“Are you okay?” You ask, careful, your voice low.

He exhales sharply, almost a laugh but not quite. “Am I okay?” He repeats, shaking his head. He leans forward, running both hands through his hair. “I don’t know, cariño. I don’t think I know how to answer that.”

You lower yourself down beside him, close enough that your knees brush. The chill of the night air seeps into your skin, but you ignore it, your eyes fixed on him. “Talk to me,” you urge gently. “What’s going on in your head?”

He doesn’t respond right away. For a while, the only sound is the distant murmur of the city beyond the circuit. Then he sighs, deep and heavy, as if it’s been trapped inside him all night.

“I’m just ... taking it all in,” he says finally, his voice quiet, almost broken. “I don’t know if I’ll ever stand up here again.”

The weight of his words sinks into your chest. You reach out, your hand brushing against his arm. “Carlos, don’t say that. You don’t know that.”

“But I don’t know that I will, either,” he counters, turning to look at you. His dark eyes are glassy under the dim lights, his jaw tight. “It’s Williams next year. Williams. You know what everyone is saying. You know what they expect.”

“Forget what they expect,” you insist. “This isn’t the end for you. It’s just-”

“-a step back?” He interrupts, his tone bitter. He shakes his head again, lips pressing into a hard line. “That’s what they all say, isn’t it? That it’s a ‘rebuilding year,’ a ‘fresh start.’” His voice drops, softer now but no less anguished. “But what if it’s not? What if this really is the end? What if I’ve peaked, and it’s all downhill from here?”

Your heart twists at the vulnerability in his voice. You don’t know how long he’s been holding this in, how long he’s been carrying this fear. “Carlos-”

“Do you know what I thought, standing on that podium tonight?” He cuts you off, his voice thick. He doesn’t wait for you to answer. “I thought, ‘This is it. This is the last time.’ I smiled, I waved, but inside I was just ... empty.”

His voice breaks on the last word, and he swallows hard, looking away from you. But you can see it — his hands trembling slightly, his chest rising and falling unevenly.

You don’t think. You just move. You reach for him, your arms wrapping around his shoulders, pulling him into you. He doesn’t resist. His head drops against your chest, and that’s when it happens. The tears come fast, silent at first, then with a shuddering breath that rips through him.

“It’s okay,” you murmur, your hand threading through his hair. “Let it out, baby. I’ve got you.”

He clings to you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, his arms wrapping around your waist. His tears soak through your shirt, but you don’t care. You press your cheek to the top of his head, rocking him gently. “Even if you never stand on another podium,” you whisper, your voice steady, “it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t make you any less. It doesn’t make me love you any less.”

He stiffens slightly at your words, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are red, his face streaked with tears. “You say that now,” he says, his voice cracking. “But what if I can’t give you the life you deserve? What if I can’t be-”

“Stop,” you cut him off firmly, your hands cradling his face. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare say you’re not enough for me. Carlos, you are everything. Do you hear me? Everything.”

His eyes search yours desperately, as if looking for something to hold onto. “Promise me,” he whispers. “Promise me you’ll still feel that way, even if ... even if everything goes wrong.”

“I promise,” you say without hesitation, your voice trembling with the weight of it. “On my life. I promise.”

He closes his eyes, a fresh tear slipping down his cheek. You wipe it away with your thumb, your fingers lingering against his skin. Then, slowly, you lean in, your lips brushing against his in a soft, lingering kiss.

When you pull back, his forehead rests against yours, his breathing still uneven but steadier now. “I don’t deserve you,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible.

“Yes, you do,” you counter, your hands slipping down to rest on his shoulders. “And if you can’t believe that right now, then believe this: I’m not going anywhere. Not now, not ever.”

He doesn’t respond with words this time. Instead, he pulls you back into his arms, holding you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the world. And maybe, for now, that’s exactly what you are.

The night stretches on, the podium still and silent around you. But neither of you moves. The world can wait.

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fleurvi · 7 months ago

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Secret Talents | Arcane Women

Request for arcane women discovering you have a hidden talent.

•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•

characters: ambessa, caitlyn, grayson, mel, sevika, vi

cw: Ambessa's is suggestive

•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•

Ambessa Medarda - Dancing

She's sitting there in her chair, eyes fixed on you as your body moves to the music Ambessa picked specifically for you. You take care in each movement. The extensions of your arms and legs draw her in. She has a drink in one hand as the other, empty hand awaits your approach. Her eyes scan your body as you walk towards her, gaze lingering on your hips. When you had agreed to give her a lap dance, she had no idea how enticing you would be.

You kick a leg over her lap, body rolling directly in her face, and you see her hand twitch with eagerness. She keeps her hand at her side though, giving you time to work before she completely loses her patience.

“You didn't tell me you could move like this. I'm impressed. Should we test how flexible you really are?”

✩♬ ₊˚.✂️⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Caitlyn Kiramman - Sewing

Caitlyn comes to see you after training, muttering to herself about the noticeable tear in her trousers. You wait until she removes the trousers and asks her to pass them over to you while she changes into pyjamas. You reach under the bed for your sewing kit and find the right thread colour. Caitlyn joins you in bed, curious as to what you're doing. When she sees that you're sewing up the hole for her, it warms her heart. It's oddly domestic and makes you feel like an old couple that's been doing this for years.

She's quiet as she watches you work, wondering where you learned such a skill. You pass her fixed trousers back over, telling her they're good as new, and she checks your work, thoroughly impressed.

“This is pretty good. How long have you been sewing? I've got a ton more clothes you can fix for me.”

✩♬ ₊˚.✂️⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Grayson - Puzzle Solving

Being married, Grayson enjoys having some kind of domestic peace. A cozy break from her dangerous job. When she comes home from a rough day to see you sitting at the kitchen table, whizzing through a puzzle book, she feels a protective instinct bubble in her stomach. She wishes she could frame this moment and keep it forever.

She leans over your shoulder, watching as you clear through a page of riddles. You get the answers faster than she could've thought, and she admires your deduction method that you messily jot down in the empty spaces. Your intelligence is a trait of yours that she values highly.

“You should come and work for me. Your brain is incredible, you know that?”

Mel Medarda - Piano

Mel is a fan of the arts, whether it be musical, theatrical, literary or visual. When she finds a book of sheet music among your belongings, she asks you to play for her. She leans on the piano, watching as you play for her. The focused look on your face is adorable, and the natural way your hands move among the keys is enchanting. Your musical talents fuel her own creativity.

Mel asks you to play for her while she paints. Knowing you're playing for her inspires some of her art pieces. If you ever want to pursue music professionally, you have her full support. Until then, your music will stay her sole artistic muse.

“Can you play that piece again? It's my favourite. It reminds me of us.”

✩♬ ₊˚.✂️⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Sevika - Singing

Sevika's got a soft spot for you. She catches you singing when you think you're alone and stays until the final note. She makes sure you can't see her at first. Then, she makes herself known when you're finished. She lets you know how much she likes your voice. It's like a moment of peace for her.

She asks you to sing for her when you're alone after a rough day. Your voice is like a warm blanket over her. She doesn't want anyone else to hear you though. She's selfish and wants to keep you all to herself.

“You're like my personal little songbird.”

✩♬ ₊˚.✂️⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Vi - Art

She finds a sketchbook of yours with cute doodles in it and asks you to replicate the designs on her gauntlets. She keeps any pieces of paper, folded napkins or fabric that you happen to scribble on. When it comes to more serious and larger pieces, she's relatively well-behaved. She watches you work, uncharacteristically quiet, as she focuses on your movements. She struggles to shut her mouth sometimes, but she really likes seeing your final products, so she behaves.

She brags about your talents and shows off what she's kept of yours. She wants everyone to see how amazingly gifted you are. Anything she finds that has an indicator of your drawing makes it into her personal collection.

“Hey baby, I got new gear. How about you pretty it up for me?”

•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•

thank you for reading!!!

my requests are open!

#arcane x reader #arcane #mel x reader #ambessa x reader #sevika x reader #vi x reader #caitlyn x reader #grayson x reader #mel medarda #✿ arcane #☆ mel #☆ ambessa #☆ caitlyn #☆ vi #☆ sevika #☆ grayson #🖋 mine

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jennxxe · 28 days ago

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Jerry fucking Fenbury.

pairing — erik campbell x fem! reader

summary — he cries. during sex with a sad song in the back

warnings — cursing, sex, erik being emo

a/n — best moment in the movie i fear

It started out normal. Well… normal for you two.

Clothes half-off, your thighs around his waist, some song from his “Songs To Be Toxic To” playlist humming in the background.. until it shuffled, cruelly, to something devastatingly sad. Like Phoebe Bridgers at her most lethal. You thought he’d skip it.

He didn’t.

Instead, mid-thrust, Erik fucking Campbell froze. Just stopped. Entire body locked up like a glitching NPC.

You looked up at him, breathless. “What—?”

His head dropped, forehead thunking against your shoulder. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

You blinked. “What? My tits? My—?”

“No.” He sniffed. Sniffed. “Jerry.”

You stared. “Who the fuck is Jerry?”

“My boss.”

A beat. “The one you hate?”

“Yeah.” He shifted, pulled out halfway, and just hovered there, eyes weirdly glassy. “Turns out he’s not just a dick. He’s my biological dad. Found out yesterday. He banged my mom at some biker rally in ‘99.”

The song shifted to something even sadder.

You blinked. “Are you… crying?”

He shook his head, violently. “No. Yes. Shut up.”

He buried his face in your neck and tried to thrust again but let out a broken little groan that was way too emotional for what was happening.

“I hate him,” he mumbled. “I hate him and now I’ve got his nose and apparently he also has a fucking Prince Albert so that’s just—why is this my life—”

You were frozen underneath him, unsure if you should laugh or comfort him or just, like, call a therapist mid-ride.

But all you could say was: “…So, are we still…?”

He didn’t answer. Just sobbed once—once—then muttered, “Keep going. I wanna dissociate.”

You thought after the crying, the climax, and the 7-minute silence while Phoebe Bridgers whispered emotional damage into the air, things would calm down.

Wrong.

He was now sprawled across your bed, one sock on, pants unzipped, legs wide like modesty had officially clocked out. His phone was at 4% and overheating in his hand as he rage-scrolled through Reddit threads like “My boss is my dad: r/familydrama edition.”

His head was in your lap. A little sweaty. Still damp from the tears. Eyes bleary. Voice flat.

“I found an article called 'Trauma Bonding in the Workplace,’” he muttered. “That’s what this is, right? He yells at me, I yell back, and secretly I just want him to teach me how to fix a carburetor and tell me he’s proud of me.”

You ran your fingers through his hair. “Baby, I don’t even think he knows how to fix a carburetor.”

He blinked. “He doesn’t. And he called Blink-182 ‘cringe’ the other day, which should’ve been my first clue that something was off.”

He held up his phone, showing you a stock photo of two dudes arguing in a garage. “This is what I wanted. Instead I got his hairline and unresolved rage.”

“Erik…”

“I let that man schedule my lunch breaks.”

You bit your lip.

“I’ve seen him eat mayonnaise on pizza.”

You nodded sympathetically.

“And now I’m stuck with his DNA and his wrinkly ass scowl.”

His voice cracked a little and he looked up at you with those messed-up blue eyes. “Do you think it’s like, inevitable? Like am I just gonna morph into him one day? Start asking people for their ‘TPS reports’ and firing interns for sport?”

You leaned down and kissed his forehead. “I mean… maybe. But at least you’ll be hot doing it.”

He stared at the ceiling, dazed. “I was inside you while mourning the loss of my father figure. That’s gotta be a Greek tragedy or some shit.”

“You were also listening to Phoebe Bridgers.”

“I know. It was spiritual.”

He sighed, tossed the phone to the floor, looked at his tattoo business card and whispered like a man accepting death:

“Oh my God. I’m a Nepo Baby.”

#final destination #final destination 6 #final destination x reader #the final destination #final destination franchise #final destination bloodlines #erik campbell x reader #erik campbell

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joelsrose · 1 month ago

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Feels Right (Part 3)

part 1, part 2

warnings: stepdad!joel, public groping??, small injury, fingering, oral, major daddy kink (duh), dirty-talk, lowkey baby-talk??, basically filth so pls read with caution!!! just to clarify reader is in her mid 20's!!

⋆｡𖦹 °. 𓇼 ⋆❀˖°

Beach day, as your mother so wisely declared at the dinner table the night before, came wrapped in wine-hazy excitement and that saccharine domestic enthusiasm she always mustered after two glasses of pinot, her voice laced with forced cheer as she reached across the table and placed her hand delicately on Joel’s forearm—his forearm, the same one you’d clung to hours earlier while he had his face buried between your thighs, moaning into your pussy like it was his goddamn religion.

“Oh, won’t it be nice, Joel?” she said, her voice all flutter and warmth, fingers trailing up toward his elbow in a way that made your stomach twist. “The sun’ll be shining. I’ll make those sandwiches—the ones you like, with the mustard and the little pickles.” She laughed, soft and dreamy, like it was a memory she was already holding, like this was something normal, something sweet. “How’s that sound, honey?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. His beer bottle was resting in his hand, his thumb slowly dragging condensation down the side as his eyes shifted, casually, toward you. Not her. Not the lasagna. You.

Your gaze was fixed on your plate—on the half-eaten mess of dinner you could barely force down.

“Sweetheart?” Joel said, the word rolling off his tongue with that easy, Southern lilt that always managed to destroy you. “What d’ya say?”

You looked up slowly, lashes heavy, eyes glassy, heat blooming behind your cheeks as your gaze met his—those old, kind, tired eyes that had watched you break apart in his lap, that had looked through you when he said, "You were made to ride this face, baby."

“The beach?” you echoed, voice low, dazed, barely holding onto the thread of the conversation as the edges of the room seemed to blur, your fingers absently tracing the condensation on your glass while your mind remained hopelessly tangled in the afternoon—in the weight of his hands pinning you down, the grind of his tongue, the growl he made when you sobbed his name, the way he licked you like he was starving and you were his final, favorite meal.

You still felt the ache between your thighs, the ghost of his stubble scraping your skin, and now he wanted to talk about the beach?

“Yeah,” Joel hummed, not looking at your mother, not even pretending anymore, his gaze resting steady on you as he leaned back in his chair, his voice wrapped in quiet suggestion, laced with amusement, “sounds nice. Get ya outta the house for a bit.”

“Yeah, she needs that,” your mother added quickly, too quickly, her tone light but laced with that quiet edge she always carried when she was trying not to sound critical—which only made it worse. She didn’t mean anything by it, not really, but it still landed sharp and familiar, that gentle, backhanded concern. “You’ve been moping around here all week, sweetheart.”

You blinked once, twice, lashes fluttering slow as you sat straighter in your seat, forcing a breath in through your nose as your face flushed—not from her words, but from the way Joel was still watching you, eyes dark and steady like he knew you were reliving every second of earlier, like he wanted you to.

“Okay,” you murmured, sighing softly as you picked up your fork again, your appetite still gone, your mind still far, far away. “Sure.”

⋆｡𖦹 °. 𓇼 ⋆❀˖°

It was the perfect day for the beach—blue sky stretching wide and endless, the sunlight dripping gold over everything, the breeze warm but not cruel, salt-sweet and tousling your hair just enough to feel cinematic. Your mom had been right, as she often was about these sorts of things, and the part of you that wasn’t still emotionally limping from being eaten out like a dying prayer wanted to admit it—it was nice. You’d followed behind her and Joel as they made their way across the sand, your mother in a one-piece that had far too much cleavage for someone her age, the floral pattern pulling at all the wrong places, her voice chipper as she talked about beach towels and SPF while Joel walked beside her like he hadn’t had his mouth on your pussy twenty-four hours ago.

He carried everything with ease—cooler in one hand, umbrella under the other arm, your mom’s tote bag slung over his shoulder without complaint—and his white T-shirt clung to his back, sweat already blooming down the spine, catching where the fabric stuck and making your mouth dry. His hair moved with the wind, ruffled and wild, and you watched him in silence, that tight, hot ache returning low in your belly like muscle memory, like your body was already bracing for what it knew he could do to you.

“Alright,” your mom sighed contentedly, settling into one of the beach chairs with a groan, adjusting her sunglasses and cracking open a can of something too pink to be water. “This is heaven.”

You nodded absently, but your eyes never left Joel as he dropped the cooler beside her and then turned to face the water, squinting toward the waves with one hand shading his brow, the wind pressing his shirt tight against his chest, revealing the outline of his shoulders, his arms, the slope of his stomach, the veins in his forearms that made you dizzy.

And maybe it was the heat, or the breeze, or the fact that you were already damp between your thighs before you'd even sat down—but when he looked over his shoulder, found you watching, and gave you that crooked, knowing smirk, something in you clenched tight, sharp and secret.

Because this beach trip wasn’t going to be innocent.

He wasn’t going to let it be.

⋆｡𖦹 °. 𓇼 ⋆❀˖°

Your mother had, of course, run into someone she knew—and was now standing further down the beach, arms animated, laughing too loud in that slightly performative way she always did when she wanted to be remembered fondly.

You could hear the hum of her voice over the breeze, a social little echo floating back toward where you lay on your towel, eyes closed, limbs stretched out, the sun making your skin feel warm and weightless. Joel sat beside you, quiet and still, sipping slowly from a bottle of water, his sunglasses low on his nose as he watched you like he wasn’t watching you at all.

“You need more sunscreen, baby,” he murmured suddenly, the words soft but firm, his voice curling low against the sound of the waves, thumb pressing gently into your arm as if testing the skin, watching it pale and bloom beneath the pressure. “You’re burnin’.”

“I’m fine,” you mumbled, voice loose and airy, caught in a mix of sun-induced haze and the deeper, headier daze that always settled over you when he was near, when his words brushed your skin like fingers and his hands always lingered a second too long.

Joel didn’t move. He didn’t laugh or tease or tug the corner of his mouth like he sometimes did. He just leaned down, voice dropping half an octave as he said, almost sweetly, “Not takin’ no for an answer. You know it’s my job to take care of you.”

And maybe it was the way he said it—my job—like he was your stepfather in a legal sense but your keeper in every other one, like it was ordained, like he’d earned the right to touch you, protect you, own you. Maybe that’s why you didn’t say anything when you felt him shift beside you, the rustle of his fingers near your spine, the soft pull of a knot being loosened.

Your eyes fluttered open just in time to feel the strings of your bikini top slip free—a gentle unraveling—and you gasped, sitting up halfway in alarm, your hand reaching to grab his forearm, sun-warmed and solid under your grip. “Joel!” you hissed, panic fluttering through your chest like birds in a cage.

He turned his head toward you, completely unbothered, eyes shaded behind his lenses, his hand still resting at the small of your back as he gave the faintest shrug.

“What?” he said, voice calm, patient, the corner of his mouth twitching just a little as he leaned in closer. “Gotta get this skin too. Can’t have you burnin’ where daddy likes to put his mouth.”

And then he smiled—so soft, so normal, like it wasn’t a filthy declaration disguised as fatherly concern, like he hadn’t just said it where anyone could hear if they wandered too close.

But you didn’t push his hand away. You didn’t retie the top. You laid back down, heart pounding, because you knew he wasn’t going to stop. And worse—you didn’t want him to.

He looked back once—just once—to make sure your mother was still deep in conversation down the beach, her laugh echoing faintly over the crash of the waves, too far to see, too far to hear, too far to save you from what he was about to do.

Then, with one hand braced beside your hip, Joel reached down, hooked two fingers beneath the loosened edge of your bikini top, and tugged it down, slow and shameless, until your breasts spilled free into the warm afternoon sun, the tan line stark and humiliating as it revealed just how much skin he was claiming as his.

You gasped—a sharp, startled sound—and tried to squirm away, but he was already reaching for the sunscreen bottle, uncapping it with one practiced flick of his thumb, eyes dark and hungry behind the shield of his sunglasses. You opened your mouth to protest, to say anything, but then he squirted a long line of cold lotion across your chest, thick and slick, and the only thing that came out of you was a whimper.

“Relax, sugar,” Joel murmured, rubbing his palms together once before settling them firmly on your bare chest, his fingers spreading wide as he began to massage the lotion into your skin in slow, maddening circles—thumbs sweeping over your nipples with no shame, no pause, no mercy. “Can’t have these pretty little tits gettin’ all pink and tender, now can we?”

You squirmed under his touch, your legs shifting uselessly against the towel, breath hitching with every slow, possessive glide of his fingers. He wasn’t just covering you—he was claiming you, kneading your breasts with a reverence that bordered on obscene, his hands both soothing and filthy, gentle and cruel in how they refused to stop.

“Goddamn,” he muttered under his breath, giving one breast a firm squeeze before his fingers circled the nipple and pinched, just hard enough to make your hips jerk. “I swear to God, baby, these’re the sweetest damn handfuls I ever touched. You know that? You got yourself the perfect pair of peaches, don’t you?”

You whined, cheeks flushed, back arching off the towel as his hands worked over your chest like he was trying to ruin you out here, in public, in daylight, with your mother one scream away.

“What’s that?” Joel teased, his voice low and syrup-smooth as he leaned closer, rubbing a little harder now, fingers tweaking and tugging as he spoke. “You squirmin’ ‘cause you like it? Huh, babygirl? You gettin’ all hot when daddy’s lotionin’ up his favorite girls?”

You made a choked sound—part gasp, part sob—as his fingers rolled your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, his other hand sliding down to cup the underside of your tit with a groan.

“Shit, look at these,” he breathed. “Fit in my hands like they were made for me. God made these just for daddy, didn’t He? Little sun-kissed clouds, just beggin’ to be licked clean.”

You tried to pull the towel up—tried to hide—but he caught your wrist, gently, easily, and pressed it back down.

“Uh-uh,” he murmured, shaking his head as he leaned down to press a slow, filthy kiss just above your nipple, barely resisting the urge to suck it into his mouth. “You’re gonna lay right here and let me take care of you, sunshine. Just like a good girl should.”

“Joel,” you whispered, voice tight and breathless, your hand clutched the edge of the towel like it could somehow shield you from what was happening—what had already happened, your bikini top still askew, your chest still flushed from his touch. “Anyone could see.”

“Yeah,” he murmured without looking away from you, voice low and casual, like he was talking about the weather, not the fact that he’d just been massaging sunscreen into your tits like they were his personal stress balls. “But you’re not gonna stop me, are you?”

And you weren’t. God help you—you weren’t. You stayed perfectly still, chest heaving under the warm air, your nipples still stiff, skin hot and sticky, pulse thudding behind your knees like a warning bell you’d long since chosen to ignore.

Then, as if time had always been on his side, like he lived for precision and sin, Joel tugged your bikini top back up, slow and measured, his thumb grazing the swell of your breast one last time before tying it tight, securing you like a secret he wasn’t done keeping. He reached for the sunscreen bottle with one hand, rubbed some over his shoulders like nothing had happened at all—just as your mother’s voice rang out behind you, louder than it needed to be, sharp and familiar.

“Oh my God,” she huffed, flopping back into her beach chair, sunglasses perched crookedly atop her head. “Susan talks for hours, I swear. We were only supposed to catch up.” She glanced at Joel, already slick and golden under the sun. “Joel, darlin’, can you get my back with some of that?”

“’Course, honey,” he said easily, his drawl thick and utterly unbothered, already rising to his feet and shaking the bottle in his hand as if he hadn’t just buried his hands in your tits like they were property. You watched him step behind her, the way his hands hovered just above her skin, the same hands that had squeezed you raw, his mouth now a straight line, his eyes flicking to yours like he knew.

You stood, quickly, too quickly. “I’m going in the water,” you muttered, your voice tight, brittle with something that hurt more than it should have.

Your mother turned just slightly, not even glancing up. “Alright,” she said lightly, tipping her head forward so Joel could rub the sunscreen across her shoulders. “Don’t be goin’ too far now.”

You nodded, throat dry, trying not to let the jealousy show in your walk—even though your chest was tight and your eyes burned, even though your skin still tingled from where his fingers had worked you over like you were something soft and sacred.

You moved across the hot sand without looking back, feet sinking into the grains, your hair sticking to your shoulders, your bikini clinging in all the wrong places—and you refused to imagine Joel's hands now on her, rubbing that same lotion into her back with that easy, practiced calm he used on everything.

But behind you, Joel’s gaze never left you. He watched the sway of your hips, the curve of your ass peeking out from your too-small bikini bottoms, his eyes catching on the line where the sun kissed skin he hadn’t touched yet—and he sighed, low and quiet to himself, like he genuinely regretted not rubbing sunscreen there too.

“Damn fool,” he thought. “She’s gonna burn. Shoulda done her thighs, her hips—’specially that sweet little ass. Gonna be red as a tomato come sundown.”

There was a flicker of genuine concern there, buried under the lust—a deranged, backward, unholy sort of protectiveness that made his jaw clench and his chest feel tight, the way only someone truly fucked in the head would feel about a girl he’d just groped under a towel while her mother passed out wine coolers ten feet away.

Your mother sighed dramatically from her chair, pulling her sunglasses down enough to squint after you, her tone casual but edged with disapproval. “Don’t you think that swimsuit’s a little small for her?” she muttered, mostly to herself but loud enough for Joel to hear as she passed him the bottle again.

Joel’s fingers squeezed around it just a little tighter, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. He didn’t look at her. Didn’t say anything at first.

Because all he could think about was how that “too-small” swimsuit had fit like a dream under his palms, how good it would look bunched at your waist, how your ass would arch into his hand the second he slid it down just enough to see the line where tan met pale.

He rubbed the sunscreen over her shoulder slowly, his eyes still lingering on the water, on you. And then—softly, just low enough to pass—he said, “Fits her just fine, if you ask me.”

Your mother sighed, the kind of long-suffering exhale she always made when she wanted to seem wise and exhausted all at once, the sunscreen cool beneath Joel’s palm as she shook her head. “Girls these days,” she muttered, adjusting her sunglasses, eyes still squinting out at the water. “Seriously… all of them trying to look grown before they’ve even figured out who they are. It’s all ass and attitude now. No mystery anymore.”

She took a sip from her drink, ice clinking lazily against the glass, oblivious to the way Joel’s jaw ticked ever so slightly, his hand stilling just above her shoulder blade.

He could’ve said a lot of things—wanted to, maybe. Wanted to tell her that mystery had nothing to do with the way her daughter had tasted on his tongue, or how she cried so sweetly when she came, how she whimpered his name like a secret she didn’t know how to keep.

But instead, Joel just hummed under his breath and smoothed the lotion into her skin, his fingers moving slow, absent, like his mind was somewhere else entirely.

Because it was. It was on the water, on the shimmer of your wet shoulders, the line of your back, the way your thighs parted just a little when you dove under.

It was on your ass, now almost certainly burning, and how he’d make it up to you later—with cool lotion and warm hands and maybe his mouth, whispering, “Told you I shoulda covered it, babygirl. Let daddy take care of it now.”

Your mom was still talking, but Joel wasn’t listening.

⋆｡𖦹 °. 𓇼 ⋆❀˖°

The rest of the day passed in a blur of saltwater and avoidance, the hours stretching long and golden as you spent most of them waist-deep in the ocean, drifting in and out of waves and thoughts, letting the sea do what Joel always did—pull you under, leave you breathless, then spit you out dazed and aching for more.

You swam until your legs burned and your fingers wrinkled, not daring to look back at shore, not wanting to see if he was watching—because you knew he was. You felt it, even with your eyes closed.

That heat across your back? That wasn't the sun.

When your mother finally called you back in, her arms waving dramatically like she was signaling a coast guard rescue, Joel was already back on shore, slipping his shirt over those broad, sun-warmed shoulders, muscles flexing as he folded towels and collapsed chairs like it was just another Sunday and not the aftermath of his hands on your bare chest, your bikini still damp with sunscreen and sin.

“Seriously, girl,” your mom huffed when you got closer, planting her hands on her hips like she was about to scold you for surviving the ocean. “I thought you’d drifted off to sea.”

You didn’t answer. Just reached for your towel, drying your legs in silence, your fingers moving too fast, too tight, then yanked your cover-up over your head in one quick motion—not looking at Joel, not even glancing, like that might undo the tiny shred of control you had left.

Your mother led the walk back toward the car, already rattling off half-finished thoughts about dinner, talking to herself as she always did. “Did I take the chicken out to thaw? I meant to take it out. Maybe we’ll do pasta—unless Joel wants steak. Do we have wine? God, I think we’re out of garlic…”

Joel drifted to your side with practiced ease, his steps in sync with yours, hands full of folded chairs, cooler dragging behind him in the sand, and yet his attention was all on you.

“How was the water?” he asked, his voice low, casual, almost innocent—but it made your stomach flip anyway.

“Fine,” you murmured, not turning to look, eyes fixed straight ahead, the sun catching on your lashes.

There was a pause. Long enough to feel it. Long enough to ache.

“You mad at me?” Joel asked softly, and it wasn’t teasing this time. It was gentle, the kind of quiet drawl that made you feel like the bad guy for trying to be mad at him.

You said nothing at first, your chest tightening with something unspoken. And then—barely audible, more breath than voice—you whispered, “You touched her.”

Joel exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh, and glanced over at you, his voice dropping even lower, that familiar edge sliding in like a knife wrapped in velvet.

“Didn’t touch her like I touched you,” he said. “Don’t wanna touch her like I touch you.”

You clenched your jaw, throat thick, the sound of your mother still talking ahead of you—so close, so clueless.

Joel leaned just a little closer, walking slower now, his voice thick with promise, with hunger, with possession.

“You think I’m thinkin’ about her when I’ve still got your taste in my fuckin’ beard?” he murmured. “You think I’m gonna kiss her goodnight when my mouth still remembers how you sound when you cum?”

You stopped walking.

He didn’t.

He just smirked. And kept going. Like he knew you’d follow.

⋆｡𖦹 °. 𓇼 ⋆❀˖°

You weren’t sure if it was because you’d been too in your head—still aching from Joel’s touch, still jealous, still clenching around the memory of his mouth on you—or if it was just your cheap-ass flip-flops finally giving up mid-stride, but one second you were walking behind your mother, and the next you were on the ground, palms scraped, ankle screaming, and breath lodged somewhere deep in your chest as the pain bloomed like fire.

Tears stung your eyes before you even realized they’d fallen, and then Joel was there—already crouched beside you, his big hands moving so gently, so carefully, cupping your cheek, thumb brushing under your eye.

“Oh, baby,” he whispered, voice thick with worry, low and sugar-sweet, like he’d slipped fully into some deranged domestic caretaker mode. “You took a tumble, huh? My poor lil thing—can’t leave you alone a minute without somethin’ happenin’, can I?”

Your mother had kept walking ahead, halfway to the car by now, muttering about dinner and traffic —until Joel raised his voice just enough to cut through the air like a clean tear.

“Hey—stop a second!”

Your mom turned, gasping the moment she saw you on the ground, “Oh sweetheart!” she clucked, quickening her pace and hurrying over, placing a hand on her chest like she was genuinely startled. She crouched for barely a moment beside you, her eyes flicking to your ankle, her mouth opening like she might say something maternal—

But then her phone rang.

She looked at the screen. Her eyes lit up. “Oh—I gotta take this,” she said, already turning on her heel, her sandals crunching in the sand. “It’s the real estate agent—I’ve been waiting for this call all day.”

You blinked up at her, speechless, lips parted, watching her walk away, phone to her ear, already giggling as she answered.

Joel’s hand slid to the back of your neck, his palm warm, grounding, the pads of his fingers moving in slow, soothing circles.

You looked up at him, still stunned. “She—she just left?”

Joel’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t comment. He just stroked your hair, and said, soft, “You’re alright now, honey. I got you.” Then, after a moment, he leaned down, voice darker now, slower, like he’d flipped into full protector-mode. “Gonna have to take you to the ER, I think. Can’t let somethin’ this pretty limp around. Gotta make sure nothin’ nasty’s happened in there.”

He looked at your ankle again, gently pressing, watching the way you winced, his brows furrowed with concern that felt real, not like hers—his voice slipping into that quiet, dangerously sweet place.

“’M gonna carry you, alright? Gonna hold you real careful. Daddy’s not gonna let anyone else touch you till we get it looked at.”

Joel lifted you up with an ease that made you feel smaller than you were—soft, breakable, like something he was born to carry—and your arms draped helplessly around his neck, the side of your face pressing into the warm curve between his jaw and shoulder. One of his arms cradled beneath your thighs, the other braced firm along your back, hand spread wide across the space just above your ass like a claim he wasn’t bothering to hide. His scent wrapped around you—salt, sunscreen, sweat, him—and for a moment, the pain in your ankle dulled beneath the thudding heat in your chest.

He started walking toward the car, his pace slow, steady, almost intentional, every step like a reminder that you weren’t going anywhere without him now.

Your mother had just finished her call, still standing a few feet away, sunglasses propped in her hair, voice light and airy as she turned to see the two of you.

She laughed—actually laughed—like the whole thing was a joke. “Oh come on,” she said with a shake of her head, waving her hand like it was all theatrics. “Don’t you think this is a bit dramatic now?”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Instead, you pressed your face deeper into Joel’s neck, burying your flushed cheeks against the warmth of his skin as his hand tightened slightly at your back. You felt the low rumble of his voice before he even spoke, his words aimed at her but meant for you.

“She’s hurt,” he said, calm but clipped, voice lined with something steel-rough. “I’m takin’ care of it.”

That made her blink—just for a second, just enough to register that Joel’s tone wasn’t playful—but then she waved it off with a breathy laugh, brushing a strand of wind-tossed hair from her cheek as she shrugged. “Alright, alright. Doctor Joel to the rescue, I suppose.”

Joel didn’t humor the joke. His jaw stayed tight, his arms still curled around you like a cradle, one hand braced under your thighs, the other steady at your spine. You felt the soft puff of his exhale against your temple as he adjusted his grip—not because you were heavy, but because he could, because you were so light in his arms, feather-soft, warm, clinging to his neck like some fragile thing he’d found washed up on shore. It made something deep and ancient flicker behind his eyes. Something protective. Something possessive.

“Gotta take her to the ER,” he said simply, voice low and even, but laced with enough quiet command that it didn’t leave room for argument.

Your mother sighed, like this was all happening to her, like your injury was a disruption to her neatly scheduled afternoon. “Shit,” she muttered, patting the back of her neck distractedly. “Well, I’ve got to meet with the real estate guy in twenty minutes. He just said that If I don’t show, I lose the slot.”

“You gotta do that now?” he asked, not rude, but pointed—his tone lined with disbelief, as if he couldn’t quite fathom that she was standing there debating appointments while her daughter was curled up against him in pain.

She scoffed, waving a hand toward her tote bag. “Come on, Joel,” she said, like he was being unreasonable. “You know how busy he is. He’s squeezing me in between showings. I’ve been trying to land this place for weeks.”

Joel didn’t answer right away. He just sighed through his nose, slow and steady, and adjusted you in his arms again, pressing you a little closer to his chest—not because you needed it, but because he did. The movement was gentle, but full of intention.

“Well, I gotta take the car,” he said at last, nodding toward the passenger side, then down at you, his gaze flicking to your face, softening for just a moment. Like a reminder. Like a pointed fact. Your daughter is hurt, that look said. And I’m the only one doing a damn thing about it.

Your mother made a face—tight, annoyed—but didn’t argue. She dug into her purse, pulled out her keys, and dropped them into Joel’s waiting palm with a dramatic huff. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll take an Uber.”

Joel didn’t thank her. Didn’t smile. He just turned toward the car, carrying you like something precious, already opening the door with one hand while keeping the other snug around your waist.

And you? You didn’t say a word. You didn’t have to.

Because the only thing louder than your heartbeat was the quiet way Joel muttered, “Daddy’s got you now.”

⋆｡𖦹 °. 𓇼 ⋆❀˖°

Joel helped you limp into the emergency room, only because you’d begged him not to carry you in bridal-style like you were five years old—or worse, like you were his five-year-old—and even then, he held your waist with one strong arm and your hand in the other, moving slow and steady beside you like he was afraid the wind might knock you over. Every few steps he’d glance down at you, brows furrowed with soft concern, thumb brushing over your knuckles as he murmured, “You alright, babygirl? Just lean on me. I got you.”

The waiting room was cold and too bright, the kind of sterile chill that seeped under your skin and made you shiver despite the warmth of the sun still clinging to your shoulders. Joel sat beside you, legs spread wide, one arm draped along the back of your chair, the other hand never leaving yours.

He held it like it was instinct, like the act of not touching you didn’t even register as an option. And you leaned into his side more than you meant to, your body aching, ankle throbbing, but comforted by the solid weight of him, the quiet way he kept his thumb moving over your pulse as if he could calm your whole nervous system with one simple motion.

When your name was finally called, Joel stood with you, guided you gently through the halls, and stayed just outside the room while they took your x-rays, pacing slowly like he couldn't quite relax without seeing you. The doctor, a kind-eyed woman who clearly saw through your brave face, told you it was nothing more than a bad sprain. A deep one, sure, but no fracture.

Back in the parking lot, warm dusk bleeding into the sky, you expected him to open the passenger door like always—maybe even buckle your seatbelt for you, like he’d done once after a grocery run—but instead, Joel rounded the car and opened the back door, his silhouette blocking the streetlight, gaze unreadable as he motioned with his chin.

You frowned, brow pinched in confusion as you hobbled toward the open door, your hand braced against the frame for balance. “Why the back?” you asked, your voice soft, suspicious, because Joel never did anything without a reason.

He looked at you with that same calm, steady warmth he always wore when he was about to say something that sounded harmless but meant everything else. His voice was low, rough from the sun and the sea and hours of silence he’d filled with tension you couldn’t name. “Just wanna sit with my girl for a bit,” he murmured, eyes dark and so soft it made your breath catch, “before we go home. That alright?”

Your heart twisted, the ache in your ankle somehow duller than the one that bloomed in your chest as you nodded and whispered, “Okay.”

Joel helped you up like you weighed nothing, one hand on your lower back, the other guiding your knee as you settled onto the wide backseat, the leather still warm from the heat of the day. The door shut with a soft thunk, and then he slid in beside you, stretching out long and loose, the car suddenly too quiet, the air thick with something heavier than heat.

Once you were down, reclined with your injured foot resting in his lap, he was all hands again—soothing, searching—palming your thigh with gentle sweeps of his broad hands, thumb brushing idle circles into your skin like he could erase the pain just by touching you. His voice was a murmur as he looked over your legs, the sun casting golden light over every inch of you.

“You feelin’ okay, baby?” he asked, eyes on your face even as his fingers trailed higher, just beneath the hem of your shorts. “Ankle’s not throbbin’ too bad, is it?”

You looked away, face warm, trying not to focus on the weight of his hand or the way his thumb dipped just slightly into the crease where your thigh met your hip. “It’s okay,” you breathed, almost shy. “The meds the doctor gave me helped.”

“Good,” he hummed, nodding slowly, the sound low and satisfied like he wanted you soft and drowsy, pliant in his lap, like he liked that you were dazed and dependent. His gaze roamed down the length of your legs again, his palm dragging slowly back up over your thigh, not quite teasing—not yet—but definitely lingering.

You hadn’t meant to say anything, hadn’t meant to let it spill out, but it was there before you could stop it, your voice cracking in the middle like a fault line splitting wide open.

“I can’t believe Mom didn’t come,” you whispered, eyes still on the window, watching the gold of the evening smear across the glass. “It’s like… it’s like she doesn’t even care.”

Beside you, Joel’s entire body stilled. His face dropped—not angry, not cold, but something else, something wounded on your behalf, like he felt it, too. Like it hurt him to see you hurt. He shifted closer without hesitation, his hand finding yours instantly, big and warm, calloused fingers curling around your trembling ones as he lifted them to his mouth and pressed slow, deliberate kisses over each knuckle, one after the other, like they were sacred, like you were.

“Awh, angel,” he murmured, voice soft and syrup-sweet, his breath brushing your skin with every kiss. “She just don’t get it, does she?”

You blinked fast, lashes damp, and a few tears slipped down your cheek—quiet, ashamed, like you didn’t want him to see. But he did. Of course he did. Joel always saw. Always knew.

“She thinks you’re all grown up,” he murmured, shifting closer, tucking your hand between both of his now, holding it against his chest like something breakable. “Thinks you don’t need nobody anymore. Doesn’t realise you still need takin’ care of.” He leaned in then, his voice softening to a coo, all low drawl and velvet comfort, and it cracked something open in you even more. “That’s why I’m here, hmm? That’s why daddy’s gotta take care of his girl.”

His thumb brushed over the back of your hand, slow and soothing, like he was tracing the sadness right out of your skin.

“Someone’s gotta make sure you’re safe. Someone’s gotta make sure you’re held, even when you don’t say it out loud. I see you, baby. Even when she don’t.”

And he meant it—you could feel that he meant it, every word weighted with something bigger than comfort, something deeper than lust. It was devotion, twisted and wrong and perfect in the way only he could make it feel.

So when he leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead, lingering there a little too long, you didn’t pull away.

You sniffled, trying to wipe your cheek with the sleeve of your shirt, but Joel was already there—his hand catching yours, stopping you, his thumb swiping that little tear before it could fall. And then his nose was brushing against yours, soft and slow, testing you, teasing, like he wanted to see just how much you’d let him get away with while your heart was still raw. His breath mingled with yours, warm and thick in the quiet of the car, and you could feel him watching your lips, feel the tension stringing tighter and tighter between your bodies.

“Let daddy kiss it better,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper, dipped in sweetness but heavy with something else—something darker, something that made your belly twist.

And then he kissed you.

His mouth was soft but sure, warm and deep and claiming, his big hand coming up to cup your jaw like he couldn’t bear the thought of not touching you everywhere at once. He kissed you like he was trying to take something from you—your sadness, your breath, your name. The moment your lips parted, he groaned softly into your mouth and tilted your head with the pads of his fingers like you were his, like this was something earned, something long overdue.

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t go far—just leaned back enough to look down at you, eyes hooded and full of something filthy and so loving it made you shiver.

“Aww, there’s my babygirl,” he cooed, voice dripping with praise and baby-talk so tender it made your eyes sting all over again. “M’sweet lil angel, all sad and bruised up. Poor thing. Want daddy to make you forget all about it? Hmm?” His hand was already moving, already dragging down the waistband of your shorts, his thumb dipping beneath the hem like he owned the right to touch you there. “Forget all about your mama and that achey lil ankle?”

You whimpered, breath catching, but he didn’t wait—he didn’t need your answer.

“Don’t worry, sugar,” he murmured, lips brushing your cheek as his fingers slipped lower, cupping you through your bikini with the softest pressure that made your hips twitch. “Daddy knows what his baby needs. Gotta take care of this precious pussy, don’t I? Gotta get her smilin’ again.”

You gasped as his fingers pressed down, slow and warm, teasing you through the fabric, and he groaned, like he could feel it.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, the word rolling off his tongue thick and low, laced with something filthy but still reverent, like your body was a prayer he’d been saying for years and only just now got permission to answer. His gaze dropped between your legs, lingering with that signature mix of awe and ownership, and then he smiled—slow, crooked, warm in a way that made your toes curl even as your ankle throbbed.

“Alright, my sweet lil sugarplum,” he breathed, slipping into that Southern, old-man cadence like it was second nature, like he’d earned the right to call you names no one else ever had. “Just lay back now and let ol’ daddy take care of it, hmm? You don’t gotta do a thing but be soft for me. Let me spoil you a little.”

You blinked up at him, your lashes still damp, heart beating too fast in your chest, and you didn’t protest—not when his hands found the waistband of your shorts, not when he looked up at you for just a second to make sure you were still with him, still his—before tugging them down in one smooth, unhurried motion. You gasped softly, hips lifting instinctively, your thighs parting just enough to let him work them off with ease.

He made a low, pleased sound in his chest as your bikini bottoms came with them, both pieces sliding down your legs with a whisper of friction, leaving your skin bare and glistening in the dim car light, and he tossed them—your little pink bikini and cutoffs landing in a forgotten pile on the floor of the back seat, like they were nothing more than a wrapper he was done with.

He spread your legs as far as the cramped space would allow, slow and mindful, careful not to jostle your injured ankle, one hand bracing behind your knee while the other gently adjusted the angle of your leg with a tenderness that made your throat go tight.

His touch was reverent, almost clinical—almost—but laced with something darker, something so deeply possessive it made your skin burn. And the moment your thighs opened for him, the moment your cunt was bared and glistening and aching in the thick silence of the car, Joel exhaled slow and low, like the sight of you undone between the seats had physically knocked the air from his lungs.

“Aww, honey,” he cooed, leaning in close, his voice syrup-slow and soaked in that Southern drawl that always melted your brain to static. His hand moved down to stroke your trembling inner thigh, rubbing lazy, soothing circles with his thumb. “You’ve had a day, haven’t you, babygirl?”

You whimpered in response, jaw clenched, eyes fluttering half-shut as the pain in your ankle throbbed beneath the weight of his words, mixing with the other ache—the one that pulsed low and hot in your belly, the one only he could touch.

“Got all hurt,” Joel murmured, thumb dragging dangerously close to the place you needed him most, his voice soft as cotton, laced with real concern even as his fingers teased at your slick. “Been sittin’ in this all day, huh? Soakin’ your little bikini, just achin’ for someone to notice. Bet that pussy’s been beggin’ for me since we left the beach, huh? Poor thing—so sweet and needy, all swollen and sad and nobody takin’ care of her.”

You let out a high, helpless sound, thighs twitching, your hands scrambling for something to hold on to—his wrist, the seatbelt, your own sanity—but Joel just hushed you with a kiss to your knee, so tender it made you shake.

“Ssh, now,” he whispered, pressing the pad of his thumb flat over your clit, rubbing slow and steady, careful not to overwhelm, careful not to make you cry more than you already had. “Daddy’s here now. Gonna take real good care of you, sugar. Gonna make that ache disappear till all you can feel is me.”

“Haven’t stopped thinkin’ about this pretty little thing,” Joel murmured, voice thick with want as he used two fingers to spread you open, slow and reverent, dragging them through your folds with a groan so low it sounded like it had been buried in his chest all day, just waiting to escape. His touch was so gentle, so deliberate, like he was worried you might break again—but that didn’t stop him from slipping those same fingers down, coating them in your slick like he needed proof of how wet you were for him. “Been drivin’ me crazy, sugar. Tasted so fuckin’ sweet, babygirl. Like somethin’ made special, just for me.”

You whimpered, back arching slightly, the pain in your ankle still pulsing but overwhelmed now by the rush of heat flooding through you at the way he looked at you—like he worshipped the sight of you undone. Your lips parted, your voice barely above a whisper as you breathed, “Please…”

Joel paused—just for a heartbeat, just long enough to look at you, and when he did, his eyes softened even more, crinkling at the corners with something warm and dangerous, something that felt like love and tasted like sin.

“Aww, baby,” he chuckled, the sound low and fond, like you’d just said something adorable, like he wasn’t about to put his mouth on you and eat you until you forgot your own name. “You sound so damn cute when you beg. So sweet when you ask nice.”

He leaned down then, lips ghosting over your inner thigh as his hands spread your legs again—still careful of your ankle, always careful, but wide enough for him to settle between them, big palms sliding under your thighs to hook them just right. And then he was there again, tongue warm and wet and so slow as he licked a long, lazy stripe up your pussy, groaning like it hurt to be away from you even for a second.

“Gonna take my time this time, baby,” he mumbled against your cunt, already lapping at you like a man possessed. “Wanna make sure you forget all about that hurt little ankle, all about that mama who walked away, all about anything but this tongue right here.”

And you did—because the moment his mouth sealed over your clit, all you could do was sob and grip the edge of the seat, your body trembling under the weight of his mouth and his words, every broken moan swallowed whole between the filthy praise he kept murmuring into your skin.

“That’s it, pretty girl. Let daddy make it all better.”

Joel groaned into you like he was starving—like the smell of you, the taste of you, the feel of your thighs trembling against his cheeks had sunk into his bloodstream like a drug he couldn’t quit.

His tongue moved with greedy reverence, slow at first, then deeper, wetter, filthier, until you were clutching at his hair with both hands, your hips twitching despite the ache in your ankle, your breath caught somewhere between a sob and a moan. He didn’t just eat you—he worshipped you, groaning like he was drunk off your slick, like your pussy was his favorite fucking flavor, like he was proud to be messy for you.

You were already shaking when he finally pulled back, chin soaked, lips slick and pink and shining in the dim car light. His eyes met yours as he sat back, wiping his mouth lazily with the back of his hand, that smirk of his softened by something that looked dangerously close to affection.

“Aww, look atcha,” he murmured, voice like warm syrup, full of baby-talk and filthy promise. “M’poor baby, all wet and cryin’ for me. She’s so sensitive today, ain’t she? So fuckin’ sweet I could stay down there all night.”

You whimpered, legs spread and shaking, chest heaving, your fingers still tangled in his hair as he leaned in close again, kissing the inside of your thigh like a thank-you, like a promise, like a claim.

“Alright now,” he said softly, cooing the words as he ran his hand up your stomach, over your ribs, not stopping until he was cradling your cheek. “We gotta start openin’ you up, don’t we? Can’t just rush it, babydoll—gotta be gentle with this sweet lil’ cunt. She needs daddy’s help, huh?”

You nodded, barely able to breathe.

He kissed your temple once, slow and soft, then looked down again, his hand sliding between your legs, fingers tracing your soaked folds with maddening patience. “You think you’re ready, baby?” he murmured, breath warm against your cheek. “Ready for Daddy to stretch this little pussy out real nice and slow?”

“Yes,” you gasped, already trembling. “Please, Joel—yes.”

“Good girl,” he praised, and then you felt it—just one finger, thick and warm, easing inside with devastating care. You gasped, hips jolting despite the ache in your ankle, the stretch already so much. It was only one, but he made it feel like everything—his knuckle brushing your entrance, his thumb circling your clit in soothing, lazy strokes.

“There she goes,” Joel murmured, eyes locked where he was buried in you. “Grippin’ me so tight, baby. Like this lil’ pussy doesn’t wanna let go.”

He worked the digit deeper, slow and deliberate, curling just enough to make you twitch, to make the ache bloom into something hotter. His thumb never stopped moving, coaxing soft whimpers from your lips, your thighs twitching under his grip.

“Gonna have to open you up real gentle,” he said, pressing kisses along your hip like he couldn’t help himself. “Gonna take my time, stretch you nice and wide for Daddy’s cock. You know that, don’t you?”

You nodded, breath hitching, and his expression softened—some of the tension in his jaw easing as his hand kept moving, steady and patient.

“Good,” he murmured. “My best girl.”

Joel watched your face, always your face, like every twitch of your brow and flicker of discomfort meant more to him than anything else in the world. He moved slow, careful—so careful—like you were something sacred he didn’t dare break.

And then he sighed, jaw flexing as he pushed in deeper, voice wrecked. “Fuck,” he breathed. “This sweet lil’ pussy—your mama could never squeeze me like this. Not even when she tried.”

The words hit like a slap and a kiss. Your eyes flew open, the heat of them searing through your gut, and Joel smiled—crooked, wicked, like he knew exactly what he’d done. Exactly how filthy you liked it.

“Think you can take another?” he asked, eyes dark, voice dipped in something soft and dangerous.

You hesitated, hips twitching toward him on instinct. You felt full already, stretched wide and aching—but the thought of him pushing deeper, of him needing more from you? You nodded.

“Y-Yes.”

Joel exhaled slow, like you’d given him oxygen, like your voice was the only thing keeping him grounded. “That’s my big girl,” he whispered. “So proud of you. Doin’ so good for Daddy.”

He kissed your thigh, hand spreading over your belly as he adjusted his grip. “Relax for me,” he coaxed. “Can’t rush a perfect little cunt like this.”

The second finger pushed in with careful pressure—hot, thick, overwhelming—and you cried out, legs trembling. The fullness stole your breath, your hands scrabbling against the seat for something to hold.

“There you go,” Joel murmured, voice velvet and honeyed sin. “That’s it. That’s my good, brave girl. Just like that. You let Daddy take care of you now, okay?”

He didn’t thrust, not yet. Just rocked his fingers the smallest bit, a shallow press that made your hips jerk and your jaw fall open. You whimpered, high and soft, your body trying to pull away even though every part of you wanted more.

And Joel? He just watched. Watched you fall apart with awe in his eyes and reverence in his hands.

He froze for half a beat, thumb stroking softly over your thigh, his eyes lifting to yours with that deep, furrowed concern that ached sharper than your ankle ever could.

“Hurts, baby?” he asked, voice low, tender, thick with so much care it made your eyes sting again.

“Yeah,” you breathed, cheeks burning, body clenching around him as your muscles fought the stretch, caught somewhere between craving and the overwhelming fullness of it.

“I know, babygirl,” he murmured, soothing, his fingers still warm and steady inside you. “You’re doin’ so good. Bein’ so brave.”

He kissed you again, higher this time, nuzzling the soft skin of your thigh before his voice dipped into that sweet, filthy lull that always made your body listen.

“Gotta get you used to it, angel,” he whispered, stroking his palm up your side, grounding you with his touch. “You feel full now? Just wait till Daddy’s cock is stretchin’ you wide on his lap, holdin’ you down while you whimper for more.”

You gasped, hips bucking on instinct, your breath stuttering as your body pulsed around him—and he felt it, knew exactly what that did to you.

“That’s why we gotta practice, huh?” he went on, pressing a kiss to your hipbone as his fingers began to move again, slow and careful. “Don’t wanna hurt you when I’m finally deep in you. Want you soft, open, drippin’—just beggin’ for it.”

You whimpered, thighs twitching against his shoulders, and Joel just whispered, “Shhh,” against your skin, like even your cries made him ache. He didn’t rush. Didn’t thrust. Just coaxed your body to yield to him, fingers curling and stroking with reverent precision, as if you were something blooming beneath his hands and he was the only one patient enough to tend you.

And then his mouth was on you—lips brushing your clit like it was something sacred, something too tender to take without reverence. His tongue moved slow, unhurried, licking you open with gentle, wet strokes, suckling like he was tasting you for the first time. His eyes fluttered closed, breath warm between your thighs like this was where he belonged—here, face buried in your cunt, fingers buried inside you, lips drinking you in like prayer.

“J-Joel,” you gasped, voice breaking apart in your throat, hips jerking forward before you pulled away instinctively from the sharp heat of sensation. “It—it feels good.”

And God, the sound he made.

A soft, low groan, proud and aching, like your pleasure fed something inside him that had gone without for too long.

“Yeah, baby,” he said between kisses, his voice hoarse and thick with warmth. “Knew it would. Knew you just needed some help, needed daddy to teach your sweet little body how to take it. You’re doin’ so good for me, angel.”

He curled his fingers just right, hitting the spot that made your mouth drop open in a silent cry, and then his tongue moved faster, lips closing tight around your clit, sucking just hard enough to make you shake. His fingers followed suit, easing deeper, moving in slow, rhythmic pulses that made you feel like you were unraveling from the inside out.

“Mm, that’s it, sugar,” he mumbled, his voice muffled between your legs. “Let daddy have it. Let that tight little pussy give me what she’s been holdin’ all damn day.”

And in no time—no time at all—you came.

Hard. Shuddering. Messy.

You smiled—really smiled—lazy and blissed-out, the ache in your ankle now a distant hum compared to the throb still pulsing low in your belly, a warmth that spread through your limbs like honey in the sun. Your chest rose and fell in soft little waves, your lashes fluttering as you blinked up at him, dazed and glowing, lips kiss-bruised and parted. It was the kind of smile that came from deep inside you, the kind that didn’t just stretch across your face, but bloomed in your chest and soaked into your skin—soft, sated, safe.

Joel smiled right back, and fuck, it did something to you—the way his whole face changed, the way his rough edges softened as he looked at you like you’d hung the goddamn moon. He moved up your body slow and sweet, kissing his way along your stomach, your ribs, the underside of your breast, until he reached the hollow of your throat, where he lingered—kissed you there, over your pulse, humming low against your skin like your heartbeat was the only thing worth listening to.

“Love seein’ my girl smile,” he murmured, voice thick with affection as his hands roamed again, broad and warm and so fucking handsy, squeezing at your hips, your waist, the curve of your ass like he couldn’t help it. “My sweet girl, lookin’ all happy and full and messy.”

Then he was kissing you again—messily, hungrily, his mouth slanting over yours with a groan, his lips sticky and wet, tongue slipping between your lips like he needed to taste the pleasure he’d just pulled out of you.

You gasped into his mouth, body arching up to meet his like instinct, like your skin missed his the second it wasn’t touching—and between kisses, breathless and stunned, you asked, “That’s what I taste like?”

Joel chuckled low, biting your bottom lip just barely before letting it go, his voice sweet and smug and absolutely ruined as he murmured, “Yeah, baby. That’s you. That’s how sweet you are—fuckin’ candy, darlin’. Sticky and soft and perfect on my tongue.”

You whined as he kissed you again, this time deeper, tongue sliding against yours in slow, filthy strokes, the kind that made your toes curl and your spine melt, your hands fisting weakly in his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

He kissed you like he wanted to crawl inside you—like he needed to taste every part of you to survive. His tongue swept into your mouth, deep and hungry, making you taste yourself on him, like that was the prize he'd earned. He swallowed your moans like they belonged to him, like he’d branded them into his chest, and when he finally pulled back—just barely, just long enough to breathe—he rested his forehead against yours, breath warm and tangled with yours as he whispered,

“Gonna keep you like this, baby. All fucked-out and smilin’. Nothin’ else matters. Just you, me, and this sweet little mouth.”

You barely had time to blink, to gather the breath he’d stolen, before his lips were back on your neck, mouthing along the curve of your jaw, trailing down the place just beneath your ear where he knew you shivered. His voice was rough and quiet, like he couldn’t stop touching you, couldn’t stop tasting.

And then his phone buzzed.

You felt it against the seat, the vibration dull but sharp in the quiet haze, cutting through the warmth like a blade. He didn’t flinch. Just kept kissing down your neck, teeth grazing lightly as his hand slid lazily over your ribs.

“Don’t you wanna get that?” you murmured, barely above a whisper, the words thick in your throat even though you already knew. It was probably your mother—calling to ask if he wanted steak or curry for dinner, or just wondering where the hell you two were.

“No,” Joel muttered, lips still on your skin, voice low and sweet and full of something that felt too big for the moment. “Just wanna love on my girl a little longer.”

You melted. Fully, completely. Nothing but warmth and ache and that quiet, golden feeling like your bones had turned to honey.

⋆｡𖦹 °. 𓇼 ⋆❀˖°

TAG LIST - and yes a next part is coming out ..!

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