jinnie

20s • she/her • nsfw • jjk and l&ds • purely indulgent fic enjoyer

[kentofic]

hi, i’m hyejin! 💗

this blog is for reading, screaming over, and writing fic. I write and reblog smut all day, so please minors do not interact 🔞

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my masterlist

my tags: my writing • my ramblings • fav fics

my fixations: love and deepspace • jujutsu kaisen

my loves: zayne • sylus • nanami kento

[beechu-beechu]

Fem!Rafayel

Oh, you sweet little siren

[beechu-beechu]

Who's gonna protect miss bodyguard now 😔😔😔

[riritzuu]

cat dad kento 🐈

[bibbysstuff]

his favorite show is on

[florasuno]

Someone asks Zayne if he knows his wife’s Taco Bell order and he says “My wife is the dearest, most important person in the universe and I love her very much, why would I take her to Taco Bell?”

Someone asks Caleb if he knows his wife’s Taco Bell order and he grabs the mic with both hands and says with passion “Beefy 5 Layer Burrito but we are BOYCOTTING because they got rid of the Quesarito!”

[mandalhoerian-deactivated202510]

(4) 🦭 signed, sealed, delivery pending...

Raf doesn't take well to you leaving for university. Shenanigans ensue. Congratulations on giving a literal seal separation anxiety.

genre: fluff, comedy | word count: 7K | read on ao3

< previous | next (wip) >

note: i'm sorry this is late but i hope you enjoy that it's a bit longer in the word count! we will be back to the present in the next chapter with THE REVEAL! YAYYYY

It’s your last evening on the island.

Your bags are already packed. Two suitcases, a duffel, and now a fourth carry-on — one Mom insisted on adding last minute. It's half-insulated, stuffed with three Tupperwares of home-cooked rice and frozen stew andthree packs of marinated something-or-other wrapped with ice packs and to be put into the dorm fridge ASAP, jars and jars full of pickled vegetables, frozen dumplings layered in foil, a suspiciously heavy thermos labeled 'for emergencies only,' and god knows how many packs of your favorite snacks. There’s even a loaf of bread wedged on top like an afterthought. It’s less of a bag and more of a portable pantry. She’d kept slipping things into it all morning, muttering about how the dorm won’t have "any real food and you have to cook your own" and you’ll thank her when you’re freezing and tired and want something warm.

The other bags are crammed tight, zippers barely holding, the fabric stiff from years of use. One of the suitcases is missing a wheel. It screeches whenever you drag it across the floor, like it knows this is the last time it’ll scrape across this house.

Your ferry ticket is tucked into your wallet, itinerary triple-checked, outfit for the next morning already laid out on the back of a chair. Tomorrow, you’ll board the ferry not to work it, not to haul crates or wrangle tourists, not with your shirt tucked into old cargo shorts and your name on a patch, but to leave. For good, or for long enough that it might as well be.

University waits on the mainland. City air. Dorms. Cafeteria food. The smell of dry-erase markers and hand sanitizer and too many strangers crammed into a lecture hall. Your name printed on a laminated student ID that looks nothing like you.

Your parents had gotten a bit emotional, naturally. Mom kept touching your face like it might disappear, brushing your hair off your forehead with a smile that twitched at the corners. Dad had retreated to the garage, insisting he needed to reorganize the fishing tackle, though nothing had changed in that cabinet since you were ten. You’d caught him wiping his eyes with an oily rag.

Your friends had made plans for one last group call the night you arrived. Someone had promised to mail you festival candy every year. Someone else swore they'd visit, though you all knew they wouldn’t. Everyone was being kind. Everyone was pretending not to notice the knot in your throat.

Except — you hadn’t seen him.

Not really. Not in days.

You’d caught glimpses of him at a distance, once from the second-story window of your school during lunch, his sleek shape out past the reef where the sea meets the cliffs, another time while biking past the overlook near the old radio tower, just a head bobbing in the shallows.

But not at the cove. Not where you always found him.

Not since the day you skidded onto the sand beside him and babbled about your university housing being confirmed, about the dorm you'd picked and how it had real hardwood floors and a communal kitchen. You’d talked too much, too fast, nervous energy bleeding into every word, and he just sat there. Still, as if his body had forgotten movement. His eyes had gone wide, not cartoonish or expressive, just strange. The way some animals look when lightning cracks the sky — more instinct than comprehension.

He’d made a faint sound, something between a chirp and a cough, and then rolled away to show you his back with this stiff, resigned shuffle. Like air leaving a balloon.

You hadn’t thought much of it at first. You thought maybe he was bored. Maybe full. Maybe the tide was too low and he didn’t want to move again.

He had just stared out at the horizon.

And then hadn’t shown up the next day.

Or the one after that.

You’d started going by the cove each evening just in case, each time finding nothing but waves and rockweed and the ghost of where he used to be.

So now, with your heart thick and your sandals in hand, you leave the house to seek him out for one last time. The sky has gone soft and lilac with the last light of day, bruising gently at the edges like an old plum. The wind brushes against your cheek like breath, carrying the distant scent of salt and something faintly metallic, seaweed sun-warmed and half dried. The sand is still warm under your feet, tender from the afternoon sun, and each step feels both too slow and too fast.

Your dress is plain this time, something old, soft and familiar, already wrinkled, smelling faintly of lavender detergent and ferry salt. There's a safety pin holding the hem where you never got around to mending it properly. The pattern’s nothing special, just a scatter of flame lilies across soft white cotton, but Raf’s always been weirdly drawn to it. You’d caught him staring at it more than once, eyes fixed not on you, but the bright, strange flowers trailing down the side of the skirt. Maybe it was the shape, the color, the unfamiliar way it moved in the wind like flickering candle fires. You’d decided, in a half-laughing sort of way, that it made sense. He was a seal. He’d probably never seen a flower before.

And it's a cheap way of trying to hold his attention now. 

You wind your way around the tidepools, stepping over seaweed-slick rocks, squinting into the breeze as gulls wheel overhead, screeching their approval of the approaching twilight. The cove is quiet. The way it always is this time of day — tide low, sky deepening, water turning to silver glass, like someone poured a breathless hush over the entire shoreline.

And here he is, completing the painting.

Raf.

He’s lying at the edge of the rocks, lumped in a pile of his own sulk, flippers tucked close and head turned toward the horizon where the sun is beginning to dip. He looks like a statue someone forgot to carve the face onto—still, slow-breathing, stubbornly present.

You stop a few feet away and raise your brows. "Hi, hi, hi, my cutie pie," you call, in the same rhythm you've always used—the sing-song greeting that once had him springing upright, barking like he'd been summoned by royalty.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even look startled. Like he knew you’d come. Like he’s been lying there for hours, maybe all day, waiting for you and doing a terrible job pretending he hasn’t.

"Raaaaf," you whine. "Don’t do this."

You inch closer, navigating the rocks with practiced hopping, one foot bracing while the other leaps forward, the soles of your feet stinging from the uneven stone. He shifts slightly as you approach, but only enough to angle away from you, offering you nothing but the slope of his back and the faint twitch of one earless head.

You sigh, easing yourself down beside him, careful to keep a respectful distance. You wrap your arms around your knees and let the silence stretch, like a long breath held between waves.

"Seriously? You’re gonna be like this?" you mutter. "I’m not dying, you know. I’ll be back."

He flicks his tail once, like punctuation. Noncommittal. Moody.

"You know," you go on, voice softening, "most seals would’ve at least looked sad. Maybe whimpered a little. Instead, I get full passive aggression. Complete stonewall."

Still nothing.

You rest your chin on your knees. The wind plays with your hair, threading it across your face. It smells like dried kelp and brine, and the faint sweetness of crushed beach plum.

He’s still watching the horizon. Pretending you’re not there.

You remember not being able to sit still on the beach without Raf nosing at your backpack, tugging it half into the water just to get your attention. Once, he dragged your towel three meters down the shore while you were diving, then looked genuinely offended when you got angry.

He brought gifts, too — bits of sea glass, shells worn smooth, a shiny bottle cap once that you’d still kept in your drawer. Once, he rolled up with a perfectly intact Gucci sandal that definitely wasn’t yours and dropped it in your lap like an offering. Always a treasure. Always for you. You always joked that he had a hoarding problem, but deep down you wondered if he just liked seeing you surprised.

You also dove together. Or rather, you dove while he spiraled around you like a corkscrewed comet, all fins and glee, sometimes vanishing below you only to burst up like a shadow chasing light. He liked playing chicken with your bubbles, popping up right in front of your goggles with a bark that echoed through your mask and made you choke from laughing.

But lately, none of that.

"You’re the only one I didn’t get to say goodbye to," you murmur. "And I thought — well. I don’t know. I thought you might at least come see me off."

He doesn’t respond. But his curled whiskers twitch. Barely. Maybe it's just the wind. Maybe not.

You don’t blame him. Animals know. Cats sit in suitcases. Dogs vanish when the leash comes out. You just didn’t think a seal could tell. But then again, Raf was never just a seal.

"I’ll be back during holidays," you promise. "And I’ll bring snacks. The good kind. They have so much variety in the mainland. None of the soggy fish fries. I’ll get those crunchy things you liked. You remember those?"

He lets out a soft, resigned noise. Less a huff, more a breath held too long. For all the ignoring and sulking, the usual dramatics of his is missing, and it’s making your heart clench.

You smile, a little. "Okay, okay. I’ll try harder. You’re so high maintenance."

Still, he doesn’t come closer. Doesn’t nudge your hand or toss something shiny at you. He just lies there, quiet and distant and solid as stone.

You stay until the sun slips behind the sea, until the sky turns to bruised blue and the stars begin to appear. One by one, the cove starts to change, growing cool and strange under moonlight. Your legs ache. Your eyes sting. You’ve said goodbye in your head a dozen times now, but it still hasn’t landed.

Eventually, you rise. Sand clings to your toes. Your dress rustles in the wind.

But you pause before you go. Just once. Just long enough to glance back.

He’s watching you.

You smile, small and wobbly. "I'm going to miss you the most, you know."

The morning of your departure is mostly quiet. The island is smaller than it has ever felt before. Or maybe you’ve just grown too big for it.

Mom wakes you with gentle hands and a bowl of warm congee, topped with a perfectly jammy egg, and as you’re washing up, the sight of your bags lined up neatly by the door of your family home feels unreal, like it belongs to someone else’s life. The ferry you’ve spent your whole life working on will be taking you away this time, but not just across the water to another island. This time, it’s the mainland. This time, you won’t be coming back in a few hours.

Dad loads the last of your stuff into the trunk as you’re having breakfast while muttering about ferry times like it's not him who gets the final say about them. You’re wearing the outfit you picked three days ago: practical, still slightly wrinkled, but something that makes you look like someone who has a plan.

Your dress from yesterday hangs near the door, flame lilies fluttering in the breeze each time someone opens it.

There are only a few things left to pack into your backpack, your charger, your toothbrush. Mom tucks a flat envelope into your duffel when she thinks you’re not looking. You let her.

“Are you sure you have everything?” she asks, and you know she’s not really talking about the bags.

“Yeah,” you say, shifting the strap of your carry-on over your shoulder. “I triple-checked.”

There’s a silence that settles between the three of you — not uncomfortable, just heavy with the weight of change.

Dad clears his throat. “You know, if you need anything—”

“I know.” You smile, trying to keep things light. “You’ll have me on the next ferry back before I even finish a sentence.”

Mom huffs a soft laugh, shaking her head. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

The joke lands, but the truth sits beneath it. Leaving feels impossible even as you stand at the threshold of it.

The ride to the dock is short, too short, the windows slightly fogged from the still-chilly morning. The conversation in the car starts with Mom nagging before the seatbelt even clicks. "You triple-checked your toothbrush? You always forget your toothbrush. And your charger—the thing with the thing—the long plug one? And a rain jacket. You didn’t pack a rain jacket, did you?"

You're already dissociating. She takes that as permission to continue.

"And don’t wait too long to buy your textbooks, because the good copies go fast. And when you run out of what we packed, don’t just live on instant noodles. You need real food. You need greens. Do you even know where to buy produce? Ask someone. And don’t sleep with your hair wet. You’ll get headaches. You will."

Dad doesn’t say a word. He drives like he’s praying for tunnels.

"And don’t put your laptop on your bed," she adds. "It overheats. You do that. You do that all the time."

You sigh. "I’ll be fine."

"You won’t be fine if you fry your hard drive again. I don’t want a crying phone call from the mainland at two a.m., asking if we backed up your files. We didn’t. Don’t do that to me again."

You nod. Because if you speak again, you’ll laugh or cry or scream, and none of those are safe. You nod, promise, nod again.

Everything’s been arranged: they’ll drop you on the mainland and spend the day in town, just to stretch the goodbye a little longer. Mom has already named three restaurants she wants to try. Dad has said “we’ll see” to all of them.

The dock is alive with movement — vendors dragging ice chests into place, deckhands coiling ropes, early commuters standing in quiet lines. The ferry waits at the end, squat and familiar, ropes taut and mist clinging to its sides. Somebody’s playing music through a phone speaker too loud, and it echoes between the beams of the terminal.

You stand with your parents near the loading ramp. Dad double-checks your ID for the fourth time. Mom tugs your sleeve down over your wrist, then back up again. She smooths the back of your collar like it’s a goodbye ritual—like maybe if the fold is just right, you’ll be protected from everything.

Then—

“Wait,” Mom says, sharp and alert. “Where’s the red suitcase?”

You blink. Scan the stack beside you. Duffel. Suitcase. Food carry-on.

Three.

There were supposed to be four.

“The red one,” she says again, louder now. “The one with your bedding. The toiletries. The extension cord! And your skin care—do you know how expensive that serum is?”

You turn slowly.

And then you see it.

Out in the harbor. A bright, bobbing flash of red. Moving steadily away from the dock.

Being dragged.

By something large, round, and unmistakably gray.

“RAAAAFFF!”

There’s a pause on the dock, like the hush that comes over a herd upon a loud noise. Then someone nearby laughs like it’s a sitcom.

He’s paddling like he has all the time in the world, flippers slicing through the water with purpose. The red suitcase is clamped in his jaws, handle caught like a leash.

“Oh my god,” Mom gasps, slapping Dad’s arm. “He’s stealing the luggage! He’s actually — he’s taking it!”

“Relax,” Dad says, shielding his eyes with one hand. “It’s fine. They’re waterproof.”

“Not animal-proof!” she hisses. “What if he unzips it with his teeth? What if the sunscreen pops open? It’ll be like an oil spill in there!”

You stagger forward. “Raf! What the hell! Get back here!”

The dock crowd thickens — fishermen with crates half-unloaded, tourists with raised cameras. Two kids shriek with laughter. A woman in a floral bucket hat whispers, "Is that trained? Like one of those therapy dolphins?"

Your entire head is on fire.

“Raf!” you shout again.

He swims like a parade float, silent and committed, red suitcase bobbing behind him like an accusatory balloon.

“I swear to god, Raf, this is not a bit! This is NOT CUTE!”

He pauses. Just long enough to make eye contact.

Then gives the suitcase a little tug and keeps going.

“Do something!” Mom cries, pacing in tight frantic circles.

“I am,” you snap, yanking off your shoes.

“WHAT? No, you’re not—don’t get in the—!”

Too late. You’ve dropped your backpack along with your jacket and mentally said goodbye to your cute outfit, and are halfway down the dock ladder.

The water bites immediately. Icy and dense, winding its way into your clothes with zero mercy. You grunt, teeth clacking. "Raf," you sputter, dog-paddling furiously, "if you don’t drop that suitcase right now, I will bite you back."

Your arms ache. Your dress — your going-away outfit chosen specifically to make an impression on your dorm mates — is plastered to your skin, heavy as a sack. You slip once, crash forward, get a mouthful of salt and indignity.

“Come here, you kleptomaniac!”

His fin splashes. Not too far away, but not within grabbing distance either. He makes it look effortless — long body cutting through the waters without a hitch, flippers paddling leisurely, his precious stolen luggage swinging to and fro in tow like the tail end of a comet.

He barks at you once, quick and clear above the slap of waves. Taunting you, almost. Calling you back. Come catch me. If you think you can.

"Yooooouuuu," you growl, dragging your freezing, seawater-logged self forward, arms stiff and dress dragging like annoyingly behind you. "You absolute menace. After days of ghosting me like a moody little shit, this is your grand finale? This? This is what you pull the morning I’m leaving?"

It happens quickly — the cold has slowed your reaction times and made you clumsy. An uneven wave buffets you from below and sends you lurching sideways. There's a confused second before your head sinks under the surface and icy black closes around you. You kick automatically, heart pounding, lungs burning with sudden terror. But it's only seconds before you bob up again, gasping and spitting out seawater.

And he’s right there.

Raf floats beside you, nose hovering near your shoulder, eyes wide and black as obsidian. His nose nudges at you, first one side, then the other, gentle, inquisitive pushes against your shoulders like he's testing the give of you. It should be funny, a seal checking in on you like this. 

You blink at him, dazed. His expression — if a seal can even have one — is alarmingly innocent. No trace of mischief. Just concern. That wide-eyed, alien kind of worry that somehow reads so clearly across a face that isn't built to show it.

A laugh escapes you, helpless and watery. It’s all too much: the cold, the shouting, the absurdity of nearly drowning because your emotionally unwell sea-friend decided to hijack your journey.

From the dock, someone’s yelling your name. You can hear Mom now, shrill with worry. The sound of boots clattering. The unmistakable click of a camera shutter.

"Aw!" someone coos. "He’s helping her swim!"

"Silly boy," you chide fondly, reaching out carefully with one stiff hand. "Trying to play savior after kidnapping my belongings."

But Raf remains where he is, letting your fingers brush briefly across the top of his slick head, his whiskers tickling at your inner forearm in soft bristles. The intent he has in looking at your face with those deep, unfathomable twin dark mirrors that reflect your own image back to you tells you he means something by it. Something significant. He whines quietly in the back of his throat, low and rasping. You hear something in him in that moment, something mournful. The sound seems to travel directly through water to nest itself inside your ribs.

"I'm very angry at you," you murmur, patting him gently one final time on the nose before pulling away. "Give it back."

He noses at your shoulder. As if asking for another stroke. As if he hasn’t done anything wrong. As if this is just another normal day in paradise and there isn't chaos unfolding overhead, nor witnesses observing the weirdest act of petty theft ever witnessed in these parts.

You wrestle the handle free from his surprisingly tight grasp and glare at him reproachfully, pushing the suitcase back towards shore like a surfer sending her board off on its own mission. You hear cheers from the direction of the ferry. More than likely, they assume you got whatever had attracted the seal's interest away safely and are celebrating accordingly. But Raf's cries behind you sound plaintive rather than victorious at having succesfully delayed your departure, almost apologetic. You ignore them stubbornly, instead focusing on getting yourself and the suitcase back ashore in one piece.

He's the better swimmer of course, so it doesn't take long for him to catch up with ease. His giant bulk bumps you repeatedly in the side like he's trying to help keep your head above water in case the weight of the luggage drags you down. He makes an obvious attempt at stealing it from you mid-stroke every so often, but he seems more interested in keeping you company rather than any real attempt at further sabotage, content enough to simply be nearby rather than running off again with his ill-gotten prize.

You reach the dock ladder exhausted and out of breath, Dad lifting you up bodily by your armpits onto the dock as though you weigh nothing while Raf circles below in clear agitation at not being allowed up onto dry land himself. Mom's clearly been fretting this whole time judging from her frazzled appearance when you finally make it to the surface again, wrapping a thick blanket around your shoulders with the urgency of someone trying to contain a small explosion and clucking over you like an anxious hen as Dad attempts to lure the wayward suitcase closer in order to fish it back in.

“You spoiled him,” she snaps, pointing an accusatory finger at the gray head still bobbing below. “He thinks he’s family. This is what happens when you let wild animals eat from your hands and sleep next to you. I told you this would happen. I told you.”

You know she's upset and concerned, but still it irks you to have someone else talk about Raf that way. Even if the trouble's been caused due to his bad temperament for the day. "I know he's not a pet," you snap. "He's just playing, Mom."

Dad looks up from his attempts at retrieval. "Have you noticed him becoming aggressive recently?"

You shake your head immediately, remembering the tenderness of Raf's worried attentions moments prior when you both had been alone together. The same worries which Mom is currently expressing aloud. "Not at all, no, and even if he were, we'd know because we've seen the signs long before it became a problem, Dad. Don't treat him like he's sick or rabid. That's just cruel. He's doing great."

Dad lifts both hands in defeat, giving up on making any sense of the situation.

"C'mon, let's get you changed," Mom decides finally, guiding you away towards the family ferry with one of your carry-ons trailing behind her.

You twist around to look for Raf — who hasn't seemed to realize yet that the two of you have abandoned their efforts — only to feel your chest clench painfully when you find him gone completely from sight, as though he never existed in the first place.

It begins the moment the dock recedes, the ropes unwinding from their cleats like threads unraveling from the hem of a shirt you can’t stop wearing, even when it no longer fits. The ferry groans forward. Beneath the swell and churn of propellers, your mother is still murmuring into the lid of her thermos, rehearsing the list of things she’s convinced you’ll forget the moment you step foot into the dorms, though she’s already said it twice, maybe three times.

You don’t register the splash. Not over the drone of the engine, the high, desolate cries of gulls circling overhead like winged punctuation marks. But others do. There’s a shift in the air — an intake, a thrum, a ripple of attention moving across the deck.

“Is that the same seal?” someone says, the words caught halfway between delight and disbelief.

You know before you turn.

There’s a charge in your chest, a tightening beneath your ribs, the inexplicable weight of knowing you’re being seen.

Raf.

Not basking on the rocks. Not lurking near the moorings. He’s in the open now, out in the deep, and he’s keeping pace.

A streak of mottled gray slicing through the wake. Each curve of his body surfaces, glistens, then vanishes again. Unerring. Tireless. As if the ocean were built to part for him.

It’s not a game. It’s not curiosity. He’s following.

“Like a dolphin,” someone breathes.

You fold your hands into your coat pockets as if you could anchor yourself there, contain the vertigo rising in your chest. He’s never followed the ferry, never even crossed the cove’s border over to the populated areas. He was fine in the open sea. He liked the quiet vastness of it, the way the water stretched wide and unpeopled. What rattled him was the presence of others. People. Crowds. The tight concentration of noise and motion. Places where voices bounced off concrete and metal, where strangers reached and pointed and lingered too long with their eyes. He'd always skirted the edges of such spaces, drawn but wary, inching closer only to vanish when attention turned sharp.

He'd avoid the fishing boats, the ports, the children with their bright towels and sticky hands. You’d seen it — how the jerk in his posture came quick and absolute, how he slipped into the water like a breath held underwater the moment someone raised a voice. His world had rules, unspoken but absolute: stay hidden, stay safe, stay away.

And now — he is here. In the thick of it. Among the diesel-smudged air and the spectacle of faces. Moving with intention, not accident.

The meaning of that hits you hard, sharp beneath the ribs.

This isn’t a lapse. It’s a decision.

And now, here he is. Out where it’s loud, unpredictable and unkind.

The significance lands with a weight that makes your knees ache. This isn’t just a fluke. It’s not momentary courage or curiosity. It’s will. It’s devotion dressed in salt.

You’d never thought him capable of that kind of leap, of forsaking instinct for longing.

And maybe that’s what stings most. That he would go where even people haven’t. That he would follow when others chose not to. That he would brave something that once made his whole body flinch.

For you.

The ferry’s path threads the archipelago, a slow, ceremonial glide from island to island, each stop familiar and hollow. Wind-worn docks. Sun-cooked ropes. The same children pulling at their parents’ sleeves, the same vendors stacking crates of sugar fruit and bread. But everything feels warped now, longer, thinner, stretched too tight.

At the first island, you almost allow yourself relief when he doesn’t appear right away. But as the horn sounds and the ferry pushes off again, he surfaces in the wake.

At the second, he’s waiting. Still. Still as stone, except for the water whispering over his back.

By the third, a crowd has gathered. Children at the rails. Teens with phones out. Someone throws a cracker. Raf doesn’t so much as twitch. His eyes don’t leave you.

You sit pressed against the window, arms crossed so tightly across your stomach it aches. And still your gaze drifts, pulled to the edge again and again.

By the fourth island, you feel it in your shoulders — the pressure, the strain. Every dock feels harder to leave.

By the fifth, you’re standing, wind tangling your hair, your eyes burning.

By the sixth—

Your hands are clenched on the railing. Your eyes overflow without warning. There’s no noise to it. Just a slow descent of tears, tracking over your cheeks, falling onto the scarf your mother insisted you bring.

Most animals understand human patterns to an extent, even intelligent mammals like dolphins have been studied for their social intellec t, but seals operate on different cognitive mechanisms altogether compared to the more popularly researched sea animals, and whether Raf could comprehend anything beyond being a nuisance at best for most folk still remained unclear.

But. He’s still there.

He shouldn’t be.

But he is. A small, relentless shape. Never flagging.

And something about that undoes you.

What kind of creature follows you this far? Not for food. Not for spectacle. Just because it cannot fathom not following.

Not even people do that. Not even the ones who promised to.

There is something about his persistence, mute, unwavering, ferocious in its simplicity, that hollows out your chest. It’s devotion in its rawest form. Without language. Without demand. And it devastates you.

He follows without knowing where you’re going. That’s what shatters you. That he has no map, no endpoint, no idea of how far or how long, or what he'll be encountering. 

He doesn’t follow the route. He follows you. And even that is too simple.

He follows the grief of your absence before it’s fully formed. He follows the outline of goodbye.

And it undoes you. That kind of devotion. That kind of belief.

You press your knuckles to your eyes, heat blooming beneath your lids, something bitter and unwelcome tightening behind your sternum. The shame swells in the silence, low and heavy and undeniable. You were unkind. Too sharp. You treated him like he was something ordinary like a kid throwing a tantrum.

He's following, of course he is. Because you're all he knows. Because you taught him connection, safety, love, companionship unique to humanity. He thought you to be permanent. Stable. And trusted that no matter what happened to you, even if something took you away from him temporarily, you would return. That's how it had always been like for three years now. And instead of saying your goodbyes properly, like friends would, like friends ought to, like he deserves, you had cut things short by storming off.

He was a fucking seal for god's sake, you wouldn't be able to text him later or call to apologize, or invite him around yours once you've settled down properly at school. What does he know about distance and change, time passing, plans changing, responsibilities?

What does he know about leaving, period?

The mainland bleeds into view like a wound stitched from concrete and steel. 

Steel-gray docks yawning out across the harbor, cranes like rusting skeletons, the skyline stacked with buildings and noise. The water darkens here, churned by hulls too large and too many, and everything smells like salt drowned in engine grease.

People swarm the terminal, dockhands shouting over backup alarms, tourists fumbling with overstuffed bags, someone loudly asking where the restrooms are in a dialect not meant for shouting.

You feel it before you see it, the grit in the air, the way the water thickens under the ferry’s weight, the scent shifting from brine and seaweed to engine oil and burnt plastic. The sky flattens. The noise rises. It’s too bright here, too many sharp edges. The city swells toward you with its teeth showing.

A break in the noise.

A wave of sound fractures across the dock, screams, laughter, confusion honed to a blade’s edge.

He breaches the harbor like a rupture. Like something breaking the surface that was never meant to be seen.

Back home in the archipelago, it would’ve been met with little more than a glance. A hum of acknowledgment. Maybe a laugh, if he bumped into someone’s net or made a mess of a drying line. Seals weren’t miracles, they were a fact of the shoreline. They barked at low tide, hauled out on back porches like they owned them, draped themselves across sun-warmed stones under strict observation and firm protection. The archipelago didn’t just live alongside them, it carved space for them. Regulations kept their beaches clear, nets modified, engines slowed. Raf wouldn’t have been strange there. Just another wet face in the crowd. Maybe even invisible.

But not here.

But here—

Here he is spectacle. Alien. Out of place and unallowed.

Their fascination curdles fast. Not wonder, not even confusion, but that wide-eyed, teeth-baring kind of hunger. The city doesn’t know how to love a wild thing unless it can be packaged. Catalogued. Consumed. And Raf, still panting and soaked, has become a glitch in the script they thought they were following.

Raf, soaked and singular, rising from the water as if the sea itself is offering him up is a slick blur of grey and glinting salt. He’s already on the ramp. Not floundering — no. He throws his body forward with that stubborn, undignified determination only he can wear like majesty.

Phones raise like weapons. Fingers twitch with the instinct to reach. No one touches him, but it’s not restraint. It’s restraint like a child watching flame, longing to burn their fingers just to see if it will scar.

He knows. You can see it in the set of his shoulders, the too-wide stance of his flippers, the way he never once turns his back. He’s pressed taut with it, the knowledge of being watched by a crowd that doesn’t believe he should exist in their space.

He’s never looked more out of place.

Never smaller.

His flippers slap against the aluminum. He grunts. He screams. He galumphs. There aren't any docks here, no rocks for him to perch on, none of the old familiar salty scent of ocean he's so accustomed to. There are strangers. Scents and sounds that frighten him. There is nowhere else to go but onward.

People scatter in the ferry. A cup of coffee drops. A camera flashes. Somewhere, a child claps.

He disappears for a moment, past the threshold, into the ferry’s belly.

By the time you reach him, he’s tucked himself into the far corner of the lower deck, pressed against the vending machine like it’s the last safe place on earth, chest still heaving, whiskers trembling, his flippers flush to his sides like some strange version of a hug. He doesn't respond immediately despite seeing you, seeming more stunned than anything else as if trying to make sense of this new environment.

"Raf, holy shit, I am so sorry." The words spill out all at once, almost clumsy in your hurry to get them out. The floor hums under your knees as you sink to them, the metal cold through your jeans. "Look at you, oh god, I'm so sorry I left you behind—"

Your name hangs between you, threaded through with things unsaid, the gravity of a thousand shared days suddenly coiled too tight.

When he moves, it feels like something unsticking — a bone sliding back in place, a bruise blossoming, a slow surrendering of distance. It shudders up his entire body, a tremble that works its way from toes to fins until his tail slaps the ground once, hard, a final, reluctant release of control.

And then he’s on you, squirming close and eager. Lumbering with relief and excitement, almost knocking you flat as he nuzzles and paws at your shoulder insistently with those giant paddles, still somewhat damp, shaking so hard his whiskers quiver. He huffs softly against you as if still having trouble believing you're truly here now after following the ferry all the way from home.

"Oh, my cutie pie, yes hi hello," you mutter quickly, attempting pet him while simultaneously keeping both your bodies from toppling over backwards. "I'm right here. No need to panic anymore."

After several minutes of vigorous cuddling, Raf finally settles a little when you continue scratching soothingly down his side, leaning into it like he's finally allowing himself to believe you're really in front of him now.

You sigh quietly through your nose, carding gentle fingers through his furry head as his rumbling squeaks resumes again within his chest.

"Yes, you were so brave. I promise you we won't do this ever again. You're amazing for making it this far and sticking with me the whole way. Good boy."

He flops against you bonelessly as if finally feeling safe enough to let his guard down now that you're both aboard together and seemingly alone for now. With no witnesses around to react negatively or try touching him without your approval first, he relaxes more and lets his eyelids droop, his snoring soft and pleasant.

"God, you're silly. Look at this... you think I've forgotten about you stealing my stuff? Oh no, honey, not today."

Raf sighs gustily, nudging your cheek with his nose in halfhearted protest.

You stare fondly down at him and consider what the hell you're supposed to do now. He can't remain here like he would be able to back home -- his home. Wildlife restoration would undoubtedly send someone to relocate him immediately if they got wind of it, and there's also the risk of getting cornered by animal control services who would come and take him away for fear he might bite or attack people if provoked. Not to mention the dangers of either being hunted or caught in a fishing net while being too tired to swim to freedom... The thought of either happening fills you with dread.

No, Raf can't stay here, this place isn't made for him.

It's good that he's currently in the ferry. Dad can take him back on board, since he'll have to turn around anyway to go home; surely, the crew won't mind another passenger along with them back across the channel.

"I'm sorry I made you push yourself," you say, even though it's just you and him and an empty, humming hallway. "And I'm sorry for not telling you goodbye properly. That wasn't fair of me. I was just so. So..." You shake your head, throat pinching dangerously. "I don't know why it didn't occur to me that leaving wouldn't be something like just going next door and I could come out and spend time with you when I wasn't so angry anymore. How could I think I'd see you everyday still?"

He offers only silence, save for the faint whistling in and out of his nostrils. His warmth steadies you, despite everything. Like standing knee-deep in an ocean that hasn’t decided yet which way to shift.

"This has to be animal abuse, right," you blurt, scrubbing roughly at your face.

He chuffs at you impatiently, bumping your elbow with his nose. When you look down, you catch the flash of one black eye gleaming in the low light of the ferry's hallways while the other is buried in the shadow of your coat. If he understands or not, you can never quite tell. But the look he gives you is oddly patient — tender, almost, the same gentleness that draws seabirds to follow ships, the instinctual tug of home and kin.

His chest puffs like he's inhaling a great lungful of something, then sags again, sputtering. It's impossible to tell whether he means to answer or just exhale noisily to distract you, but it does draw your attention nonetheless.

“Yeah, okay, thank you, heard loud and clear,” you continue, falling silent for a while. “You gotta leave though, Raf, you can’t stay here.”

He wiggles as if refusing, and you double down. “You can’t. You saw outside, people don't—it's not like home, there are more people living on this city than on the rest of the archipelago combined. And most of them haven’t seen animals like you doing what you did today before, and certainly not so closely... If word gets out, people might try to capture you, take photos of you, stuff you away inside a glass case... And it's gonna happen no matter where you go here because they don't have any wildlife landmarks like we have at home. At least there you're in open space. Here, if anyone catches you, you'd be taken away from me one way or the other."

He goes very still. Still like water before a wave breaks. There is a hush to him. A quality to his attention you recognize now — focus, not fear. Attentiveness, not alarm.

He's so smart. Impossibly perceptive and sharp. Clever as he comes. An animal with the intelligence of a human child twice their age. He looks up at you now as if trying to convey that he understands perfectly what you mean with the threat of danger inseparable from your explanation, and isn’t pleased by this.

"That’s why you have to be a good boy and let Mom and Dad drop you off back home, okay? You just need to stay where you are and let the ferry carry you away, okay? You'll be safe and sound. And I—"

Raf lets out an agitated squeal and begins pawing frantically at you, startling you badly as his flippers smack repeatedly at your sides. He scrabbles onto your lap with his awkward gait until you give him your hands and then, using them as a grip, squeezes your forearms urgently. There are sounds you don’t understand but recognize — indignant clicks, low croaks, mournful huffs. They thrum through his body as if through a flute. The noises vibrate somewhere between anger and distress, each one higher than the last.

“I’m not leaving you forever,” you breathe. Your voice is torn silk. “I’m not.”

He digs his claws harder into your forearms like an admonishing kitten, making insistent warbling calls back at you. He's upset, afraid; his vocalizations grow frantic, almost desperate, seeking reassurance.

"You can trust me on this one," you say, petting him gently, soothingly. "I'll come back. Promise. Okay?"

He whines pitifully against you, sounding unconvinced by the notion.

"For breaks and holidays, yeah, plus visits too. Just because I won't be around as much doesn't mean I've disappeared completely or abandoned you. I'll just be a little farther away for awhile and there will be more time between the trips to see each other."

And when Raf merely grumbles louder rather than showing any sign of having understood, you pull him closer into you, tucking his head under your chin protectively and hold him tight for as long as you dare, ignoring the ache beginning to blossom in your knees from squatting here on the cold floor, letting your pulse slow and fall in time with his own steady breathing. You run your hand down his smooth pelt one final time, savoring the sensation and imprinting it deep within your memory.

"I love you, you know that right?" You mumble into his silky fur, knowing he likely couldn't actually understand or process what that particular phrase meant aside from recognizing it as something he's heard countless times before and which calms you significantly every time it passes your lips, yet perhaps he does, or maybe there's the barest hint of comprehension from whatever he takes away from the emotional subtext rather than the literal meaning of your words. "I won't go ahead and forget you that easily. Never could."

In response, Raf shifts just enough so he can meet your stare, eyes like glossy ink drops blinking up at you slowly. Then he licks your cheek very firmly in an approximation of affection, prompting you to wipe your saliva stained skin with your sleeve.

[blueberrisdove-sideblog]

Hmmmm...Did you write the LNDS men of "How their lovemaking look like"? If not, what is their kind of lovemaking look like? Is it rough and passionate, sensual and intimate with a deeper connection?

໒꒱ ₊˚ THEIR LOVEMAKING ?!

❧ warnings : fem!reader. nsfw/smut, p*ssy drunk men, biting & marking, creampie, manhandling, mild degradation, non-stop s*x size kink & difference and Xavier is a freak in his part.

❧ note : i was waiting for someone to send me an ask like this. ily.

．𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒 — 𝓉𝒽ℯ 𝒹ℯ𝓋ℴ𝓊𝓇ℯ𝓇.

Sylus doesn’t just fuck—he consumes. His desire is a bottomless pit, insatiable and overwhelming, and he buries himself in them like he’s trying to lose himself completely. His cock forces you open, stretching your pussy around his girth, thrusting in deep, slow, intentional. He makes you feel every inch, dragging against their walls until your gasping, shuddering, their body betraying you as you squeeze down on him.

His grip is unyielding. Fingers digging into their hips, forcing you still, holding them in place while he watches your body react, burning the sight into his memory. He wants to hear you break—hear the way your moans crack, the way you beg without meaning to. He feeds off of it. His mouth is on you constantly, sucking marks onto your throat, biting your shoulder, tongue lapping at the sweat beading on your skin.

His voice is a low rasp against your ear, rough, strained—“Take it. Let me feel you.” Not a command. A demand. His thrusts grow rougher, deeper, hips snapping against theirs with force, the wet sound of skin meeting skin echoing in the dimly lit room. He’s lost in you, drunk off the way your pussy clenches around him, milking his cock, pulling him in like you don’t want him to leave.

And he won’t. Even when he fills you, pumping you full with thick, hot cum, Sylus doesn’t pull out. He stays inside, cock still throbbing, stretching you open, keeping you full. His breath is ragged, lips brushing against your temple as he murmurs, “I need more.”

And then he starts moving again.

．𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁 －𝓉𝒽ℯ 𝓊𝓃𝓈𝓉ℴ𝓅𝓅𝒶𝒷𝓁ℯ 𝒻ℴ𝓇𝒸ℯ.

Caleb fucks like he fights—mercilessly, all-consuming, and without hesitation. He doesn't slow down, doesn't ease you into it. The moment he's inside, stretching your pussy around his cock, it's over. His thrusts are rough and fast, forcing you to take him, knocking the breath from your lungs with every snap of his hips. He’s big, and he makes sure you feel it—feel the way he splits you open, fills you so deep your legs shake from the sheer intensity of it.

He holds nothing back. His grip on your thighs is bruising as he keeps them spread, keeping you wide open for him, helpless beneath his relentless pace. There's no escape, no chance to catch your breath. His cock pounds into you, dragging against your walls with each brutal thrust, every stroke sending another shock of pleasure straight to your core. You’re shaking, overstimulated, but Caleb doesn’t stop—not until he’s gotten his fill.

His voice is low, breathless, rasping against your skin as he leans down, pinning you beneath his weight. “You can take it. Don’t run from me.” His teeth graze your neck before he bites down, hard, leaving marks, staking his claim in a way that makes your body clench around him. The second he feels it, he laughs, a rough, breathy sound against your ear—like he knew you couldn’t resist him.

His cock twitches inside you, driving in deeper, faster, harder. His body tenses, muscles straining as he slams into you with one final thrust, spilling inside, filling you up with thick, hot cum. But even then, he doesn't pull out. Doesn't move. Just stays there, cock still throbbing inside you, making sure every last drop stays right where he put it.

Caleb presses his forehead against yours, breath still heavy, his fingers tightening around your hips as if daring you to move. Then, with a smirk and a rough kiss against your lips, he murmurs—“We’re not done.”

And just like that, he starts again.

． 𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄 － 𝓉𝒽ℯ 𝑔ℯ𝓃𝓉𝓁ℯ 𝒸ℴ𝓃𝓆𝓊ℯ𝓇ℴ𝓇.

Zayne makes love like he’s savoring every second, like he’s memorizing the way you feel beneath him. His touch is firm but tender, guiding your body with ease, making sure you’re comfortable, worshiped, and wanted. He kisses you slowly, deeply, taking his time as he slides his cock inside you, stretching you open inch by inch until you’re completely full. He groans softly against your lips, feeling the way your walls flutter around him, trying to adjust to his size. “You feel perfect,” he murmurs, his voice low and warm, as if he’s already drunk off the feeling of you.

His pace is slow at first, deliberate—he wants you to feel everything, to savor every drag of his cock against your walls, every inch sinking deeper, pressing into spots that make your breath hitch. His hands roam your body, tracing your curves, holding you close, making sure you never slip away from him. He watches every reaction, memorizing the way your lips part, the way your back arches, how your fingers clutch at him like you need him.

“Look at me,” he breathes against your cheek, his fingers tangling with yours, pressing your hands down beside your head. His thrusts grow deeper, hitting the spot that makes you tremble, makes soft moans spill from your lips. His forehead rests against yours, his breath mingling with yours, lost in the moment. He’s passionate but controlled, making love to you like he has all the time in the world—as if nothing else exists beyond this.

As your pleasure builds, his movements grow more desperate, his breathing heavier, his control slipping as he thrusts harder, deeper, chasing the feeling of being as close to you as possible. His grip on your hands tightens, his lips brushing against your skin as he groans, “I need to feel you come around me.” And when you do—when your body clenches down on him, trembling beneath him—he follows, his cock pulsing inside you, spilling his warmth deep inside, filling you up completely.

Even after, he doesn’t pull away. He stays buried inside you, holding you close, his lips tracing lazy kisses along your jaw. His voice is a quiet whisper against your ear, full of affection, “I don’t want to let go.”

．𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑 － 𝓉𝒽ℯ 𝓇ℯ𝓁ℯ𝓃𝓉𝓁ℯ𝓈𝓈 𝒻𝓇ℯ𝒶𝓀.

Xavier is a force of nature in bed—wild, eager, and unrestrained. The moment he’s inside you, he’s on fire, driven by an overwhelming desire to pleasure you and himself in equal measure. His hands are all over you, pulling your body close, keeping you right where he wants you as his cock stretches you open, moving with a desperation that only fuels his hunger. His thrusts are fast, almost frantic, as if he’s trying to lose himself in you, as if he needs to feel you swallow him whole.

His voice is thick with need, rough and low as he growls, “You’re gonna take all of me, aren’t you? You won’t run from me.” The words are almost taunting, daring you to feel the heat of his craving, the way his body demands to be used. He’s demanding in his own way, but there’s a subtle submission beneath it all—a quiet desperation to please you, to make sure you’re as overwhelmed by him as he is by you.

His cock drives into you with relentless force, hitting places that have you gasping, your body shaking under him. He’s rough, no doubt, but it’s more than that—there’s a freakish hunger in the way he fucks, an unhinged need to feel everything. His fingers dig into your skin, his chest pressed against yours, sweat slicking your bodies together as his hips snap faster, harder, chasing that edge, pulling you with him.

When he feels you starting to unravel beneath him, he loves it. His mouth finds your neck, biting down on your skin as he whispers, “Fuck, you’re perfect. You feel so fucking good, I can’t stop.” His voice cracks as he groans, the desperation in his tone almost needy, like he’s begging for more, begging you to let him ruin you.

Xavier isn’t afraid to let go of control, but when he does, it’s a complete submission. As he comes inside you, hot and thick, he falls apart with a moan, his cock twitching, pumping every last drop into you, feeling the tremors rattle through his body. And then, when he’s done, he doesn’t pull away—he collapses against you, panting, soft, his head buried in the crook of your neck, whispering, “I’ll always let you take control. Just... fuck, you’re too good.”

He’s not afraid to let you see his vulnerability, even in the aftermath of that primal need.

．𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋 －𝓉𝒽ℯ 𝓅𝓁𝒶𝓎𝒻𝓊𝓁 ℴ𝓃ℯ.

Rafayel is the kind of lover who turns the bedroom into a playground, not taking things too seriously but still knowing exactly how to make you melt. He’s a bit of a goof, always with a wide grin on his face, as if he’s just as excited to have you as you are to have him. His cock isn’t the biggest, but the way he uses it is pure fun—enthusiastic and eager, every thrust coming with a playful, almost mischievous energy.

He’s not smooth—no, that’s not his thing. He fumbles a little as he tries to position you just right, his hands a little too clumsy, but it only adds to his charm. “Wait, wait... Okay, hold on. Got it!” He says, breathless with a chuckle, before finally finding the rhythm. His pace is all over the place at first, but he’s trying so hard, grinning like a fool every time you moan, completely adoring the sounds you make.

His voice is lighthearted, teasing as he looks at you with bright eyes, his breath coming in shallow pants. “Oh, shit, you feel so good. Wait, did I just—oops!”He laughs, a little embarrassed by his own awkwardness, but he doesn’t stop. He really doesn’t stop—he’s just trying to make you feel as good as he does, even if he’s a little clueless about how to do it just right.

His cock slides in and out of you with a goofy grin plastered on his face, his hands holding your hips tightly but not with the roughness of others. His touch is gentle, like he’s treating you like something delicate, though his enthusiasm might suggest otherwise. “You’re so warm... I think I can do better. You ready?” He asks between thrusts, not realizing just how perfectly he’s already making you feel.

There’s something so endearing about his approach—he’s a little bit of a mess, but you can’t help but laugh and enjoy the moment. When he finally comes, his face is flushed, a goofy grin on his lips as he breathes out a satisfied, “That was awesome. I’m a pro, huh?”

Even after, he’s still silly, holding you close, nuzzling your neck. “That was fun, right? We should do that again… maybe with less accidents next time.”

© 2024-2025 blueberrisdove-sideblog all rights reserved. pretty please, do not steal my dividers, translate and plagiarize any of my works, or either repost my works in any other platform without asking, thank you!

[kentofic]

sorry i haven’t been very active lately !! I’ve been spending most of my time falling HARD for my girlfriend 🫣💗

[aerosarrow]

caleb used the power of puppy dog eyes!!! its very effective!!!

iykyk this vid lol

[iz-star]

I want to melt into you.

Twitter

[daikonfarmer]

i fell into the deep trenches of lads

i'm one month into the game and the lore- THE LORE.

happy birthday, raf.

and oh, i made a lil more for different mc's

[kentofic]

my gf is sleeping over for the first time today and I’m about to start tweaking out

[aransmind]

doctor zayne?

[poisonf0rest]

Just thinking about Sylus giving you attitude when he mimics your words during the event, but he really hates when you flip it back on him... especially when it means you stop begging/talking to him next time you have sex as revenge.

Best believe he's pounding you deep into the mattress as soon as he realized what you're doing, nonstop filth coming out of his mouth as he begs you to forgive him and let him hear you once more as you fight nearly to tears to keep your sounds muffled just to torture him a little longer.

[poisonf0rest]

so beg for forgiveness

♱⋅── a/n: 2.4k of filth and Sylus being absolutely whipped for you, doing anything you ask just to earn your forgiveness.

He’s insufferable.

The way he mimics you—voice pitched high in a cruel, sing-song lilt—makes your blood boil.

"Sylus, Sylus," he taunts, leaning down to moan into the shell of your ear, "Please, Sylus, slow down. Too big, too much. Sylus."

You shove him hard, your frustration met only with his low, infuriating chuckle as you storm away.

But later, when Sylus coaxes you back into bed as if nothing happened, as if his little stunt is already forgotten—you remind yourself that you haven’t forgotten.

And you certainly won’t let him go unpunished.

Sylus always fucks you like he loves you. Like he’s obsessed with you. Every hulking inch of his six-foot-something body pressed down onto yours in devotion only the vulnerability of skin on skin could provide, each slow, languid thrust jostling your entire body, inching the two of you up the mattress until he drags you back down, leaving a kiss on your ankle as he does so. 

And god, he feels good. Always does. Hot and heavy, babbling praises and sweet promises into your neck as your nails dig bloody lines into every rigid plane of muscle across Sylus’s back. 

One of his hands cups the eternity of your lower back as he pulls your hips flush against his, the other gently tugging your chin up to his gaze, brows furrowed as his eyes dart between yours, clouded in confusion and concern.

Because despite his efforts, you haven't made a single sound for the past twenty minutes.

Good, he deserved to feel guilty. 

You huff, jerking your chin out from his palm as you swat his arm away. 

“You… Are you alright?” Sylus stops moving completely, cock throbbing against your walls, and the sudden lack of stimulation has you writhing. 

Before he can pull out entirely, you grab his shoulder leverage, shooting him one last glare before you begin fucking yourself up against him. 

The man is merely stunned into silence, unsure whether to stop or continue as you continue grinding your hips up, chasing your own pleasure as you use him as little more than a toy—refusing to let even a whimper past your teeth even as your thighs begin to shake.

Still chasing your own orgasm, you’re too busy to see the concern melt off Sylus’s face, quickly replaced with a wicked grin as he realizes what you’re playing at. 

Oh, so you’re still mad? Did he hit a nerve earlier? 

Sylus sighs, feigning disappointment as he watches you struggle to keep quiet, poor hands clawing and grappling against him as you struggle to take him on your own. Effort straining your muscles, his cock a tight fit without his help. What a fussy little kitten he has. 

Sitting back on his heels, you hiss in frustration as the new angle forces his cock to slip right out, smacking against his abs with a lewd sound as your combined slick drips down his heaving stomach. 

“Are you still upset about what I said earlier?” 

You huff, turning your head to the side as you prop yourself up on your elbows, about to climb onto Sylus’s lap to finish yourself off something stops you halfway. A hand pushes against your chest, forcing you back down onto the mattress with an angry groan, already missing the feeling of him filling you.

Struggling is pointless, Sylus’s entire weight trained on keeping you pinned beneath him, palm large enough to encircle your neck as it travels up, squeezing ever so lightly. 

“Not even going to respond?” You bare your teeth in a mock snarl and Sylus laughs, that annoyingly arrogant grin back on his face. ”Where did all your manners go? This kitten sure knows how to hold a grudge.”

You know he’s baiting you, trying to get a rise out of you, goading you into talking. And it nearly damn works, having to bite your tongue as you glare up at him with all the ferocity you can muster when he begins kissing around your knee and inner thigh, depriving you of his cock as he leans down onto his stomach. 

“Mhm, I’m sorry. You’ll forgive me, won’t you?” Sylus asks, sweeter than honey, words muffled into your inner thigh, each one coming out in between shaky breaths as he inhales deeply against the juncture of your thigh. “Please, let me hear you again.” Another kiss, ” Please let me hear your voice.”

He takes a moment to enjoy the view of you, spread open and desperate even as you stubbornly deny him his favorite thing in the world—your moans. He smiles, squeezing your hips and dragging you closer until your thighs are draped over his, knees bent. You shiver as his breath ghosts over your core, his thumbs pulling apart your lips.

The combined mess from earlier is still splattered across your skin, and Sylus wastes no time before dragging his tongue across it. He can’t help it, you taste so good. Sound even better, if only you’d stop this ridiculous game. 

Nipping and kissing into your thighs, Sylus never breaks eye contact as he works his way down to your poor fluttering pussy, blowing cool air just to watch you shiver. And when he suddenly latches his lips onto your clit, flicking his tongue up, you nearly forget about revenge. A moan rips from your throat, and only by slapping a palm over your mouth do you manage to muffle it, shaking into Sylus’s mouth as he growls between board strokes of his tongue. 

“Don’t. Do not hide them from me.”

Sylus’s hand immediately comes up, forcing your palm off your mouth. Still eating you out, his hand encircles both your wrists for good measure, pinning them to the mattress.

Sylus knows how to play your body too well, hot tongue circling your clit in slow, devoted motions until breaking away, fucking into your cunt as he watches in smug victory as you grind against the perfect arch of his nose in ways you know will bring you over the edge far too quickly. His usual patience is gone, only desperation remains. Desperation to prove himself, desperation to break you.

You swear you nearly taste blood with how hard you’re biting your lip. 

He's making out with your pussy like a man starved, the way he refuses to part even long enough to breathe, the way his hands are still holding your wrists tight enough to bruise, the way he's still fucking begging you to let him hear your voice. You’re coming before you can help it, forcing your head to the side as you bite into the pillow, muffling your cries as you barely stop yourself from saying his name. 

Sylus doesn't miss it. He lets out a noise that's half laugh, half moan, before sitting back on his heels, pulling his tongue out of your pussy and replacing it with two thick fingers.

"That hardly counts, I could barely hear you." You try to ignore the way he crawls back over you, lips swollen glistening with your release and drool, his entire hulking body trembling at the mere sight of you coming undone. "Was my apology not enough? I'll do more. I'd do anything to earn your forgiveness."

Sylus kisses your bruised thighs again, above your womb, your stomach, chest. It's a trail of fire up your body, worshiping every inch he can reach as the pads of his fingers curling to push against that spongy spot inside of you. It's so hard not to make a sound, especially when Sylus has the gall to press his forehead against your temple, whispering pleas in your ear as he continues fucking you with his fingers.

"I just need to hear your voice again, pretty thing, just a little. I want to hear how good I make you feel. Please."

"Sy--" Fuck. You barely stopped yourself, shaking your head violently as you claw at Sylus's biceps, pulling his arm in closer, faster.

Sylus all but whines at the denial of his name.

He lowers himself entirely, each ragged breath hot against your ear just as his neglected cock, twitching and leaking against your stomach. “Please, let me make it up to you. I’d give you anything, everything you could ever want.” His fingers curl, hitting your g-spot with cruel accuracy even as he continues begging so, so sweetly. “I’ll be—“ a lick across your ear, “such—" sucking the sensitive shell, “—a good boy."

Your moan is broken, strangled, and barely audible, breaking through your clenched jaw, but the way your whole body convulses let him know you're close. He kisses you hard, swallowing every sound, his hand never ceasing between your legs.

"You're going to forgive me now, won't you, sweetie?" He coos, and when you nod desperately, Sylus pulls back to watch your face. "Say my name, say it, please. Please, talk to me. You know I can’t even cum anymore without hearing your voice. Hearing you ask for me, my cum."

The confession is filthy, and does horrible, terrible things to you.

“You—” you growl, frustration thick in your voice, hating how easily you gave in. “You’re disgusting. Mean.”

Sylus’s eyes nearly roll back at that—at the sound of your voice after so long. You sound divine, even when you're furious. He groans, rutting his hips against you, the underside of his cock dragging along your stomach as you hiss in faux disgust.

“Oh? So you are talking to me again?” he moans, reveling in the feel of your heat wrapped around his fingers, your slick on his lips, the way your glare flickers between hatred and something far more dangerous.

"Again,” he pants, “call me that again."

"Disgusting."

Sylus bites his lip, moaning low into your ear as he grinds against you, his touch relentless.

"Mean," you sneer, trying to shove him away, but you are powerless against his hulking body, every inch pressing close enough to have you gasping for breath.

"Awful."

"You’re,” Your breath catches as his fingers quicken, his thumb circling your clit with devastating precision. You’re going to come again. “Fucking evil.”

"Yeah,” Sylus repeats, chuckling, eyes half-lidded and dazed as he watches you convulse around his fingers, “I’m the big, bad, evil villain.”

So mean isn’t he? Cooing sweetly as you come undone, violently squirting as your cum drips down his wrist and forearm. If you want evil, then he can do that too. He can earn your forgiveness and have you beg for it too.

It's all too much. The man is a demon, a monster, an angel, and his fingers are working you up to the highest heavens, the way he looks down at you in reverence as his hair falls in a messy curtain, a look of utter adoration on his face. And the way his cock, red and throbbing, presses against the juncture of your hip and thigh, dripping precum down the length as he neglects it all for you.

But you want him. All of him.

"Sylus."

He moans, loud and deep, like the sound of his name on your lips is enough to undo him. You can’t help it—you’re crying now, hot tears burning at the corners of your eyes as you gasp for air.

"Sylus, Sylus. Sylus." Your voice cracks, raw with need. "M’sorry. Please, I want—ah fuck—I need you, fuck. Want all of you. Sylus."

He’s on you before you can finish, mouth crashing into yours, kissing you with a feverish intensity that would bruise any other's lips. He kisses you like he’s starving, swallowing every syllable, every whimper, like he’s terrified you’ll take it all back.

And then—you feel it. The sudden, hot spray of his cum between your bodies, painting your stomach and chest as he whines into the kiss. Untouched, undone just from your voice, from the way you’re finally his again.

"Thank you, thank you," Sylus groans against your lips, voice wrecked, relief pouring out of him like he’s been waiting an eternity just to hear you say those words.

He keeps his fingers moving, edging you dangerously close to another orgasm, until you're practically squirming in his grip. Even then, he doesn't stop, he doesn't remove his fingers. He pulls back just far enough to watch your face, eyes wide and searching.

"Again, kitten, again. Please, keep saying my name."

"Sylus."

Your body is trembling, and his hand doesn't stop until you're squirming away, the stimulation too much. Only then does Sylus finally pull his fingers out, licking them clean, the other hand cupping the back of your head as he kisses you again.

"Forgive me?"

You nod, and Sylus grins, fanged and fucked-out.

"Say it out loud for me."

You scoff, "Yes. I forgive you."

"Perfect. Then I might have to ask for your forgiveness again."

And just as he finishes his confession, your knees are pressed up to your ears, folding you in half as Sylus slides back into your dripping cunt. Without any resistance the entirety of his length thrusts deep inside of you, your lower stomach bulging ever so slightly from his girth, your mind blanking as you’re spread wide against the muscular jut of Sylus’s hips. His hands are everywhere, gripping your hair, squeezing your neck, grabbing at your waist and hips, pulling you up into every thrust. 

"Forgive me, you're so perfect. So beautiful." He kisses along your neck, whispering his praises and compliments, forcing his thumb into your mouth as he pries your lips open to hear you better. "Never keep these sounds from me again, understand?"

You moan a yes around his thumb, and Sylus growls.

"That's a good girl."

He doesn’t relent. Sylus effortlessly begins guiding you into his thrust with one hand, the other remaining pressed against your abdomen, stroking at the outline of his dick pressing through with every rock forward. Large hands splay your thighs wider, closer, impossibly stretching you out until all you can feel is him. 

“Forgive me.” Your breasts jolt with each thrust and before he can stop himself Sylus leans down and bites, nipping and licking into the sensitive peak as you sob from the pain and pleasure. It makes you dizzy, the gentle licks and kisses over your skin in mock apology until he bites down again. And again. 

There’s no remorse in Sylus’s voice anymore, only pussydrunk and obsessed. “Please, forgive me.” Utterly obsessed. Devoted, perhaps.

[miothle]

💌 Zayne

[kentofic]

my valentine is a fellow zayne girlie so i made her a card with special zayne ‘menu’ items (aka silly themed names for her favorite snacks) and I’m gonna give her a bunch of snacks and some homemade sweets 💕

..am i doing too much, be honest 🥲

[kentofic]

well she’s my girlfriend now, so it worked 😃

[kentofic]

my valentine is a fellow zayne girlie so i made her a card with special zayne ‘menu’ items (aka silly themed names for her favorite snacks) and I’m gonna give her a bunch of snacks and some homemade sweets 💕

..am i doing too much, be honest 🥲