lilith

You had fallen asleep with your lips pressed against his collarbone and one of your legs thrown over his naked waist. “Mornin’, beautiful.” He smiles, watching you blink awake. The dimples in his cheeks deepen in a way that makes you want to cradle his face and kiss every single one of them. He's just such a cutie. “Sleep well?” he asks, massaging your soft hips. It's been about two weeks since you moved into his small apartment. Or rather, it's been about two weeks since your father chased you out of the house after you told him you'd be living with the same person he never approved of. “Mhm.” Humming a response, you lift your chin off his chest and turn over so your back is now facing him, though his bicep is still tucked beneath your head like a pillow.

Now that you're lying on your side, James does the only normal thing his mind can think of at that moment after seeing your naked back. His other hand comes up to massage the creamy skin along the small of it, his eyes tracing over the tiny beauty ‘nd stretch marks that make you all the more beautiful. He can't help but slide the blanket down a little lower just to see more of your skin and the pretty scars painting your back like you're the canvas. So beautiful. He even bends his head down to press open-mouthed kisses against your back, trailing them up your spine.

Due to his ticklish touches, you instantly arch your back, your lips parting as a breath pushes past them.

He doesn't expect you to let out a little whine from those touches alone. “Oh, really?” The hand that isn't tucked beneath your head finds your waist and pulls you closer against him. You instantly smile against his bicep, loving the fact that he just can't get enough of you. He kisses your bare shoulders, even trailing down your shoulder blades. Everywhere his lips go, they leave a trail of goosebumps behind. It's almost the equivalent of Bigfoot leaving his fat footprints behind. Then he trails the kisses back up.

“We just woke up, and you're already making me-- ah, shit,” James grunts as he tucks the arm that's beneath you tighter, pulling you closer against him. His other hand travels up and down your stomach, his thumb circling just beneath your belly button. What a hold he has on you now that you can barely move.

“No one's making you do anything...” you manage to get out before gasping. You feel James's grin against the back of your head as his fingers, which had been toying beneath your belly button, travel even lower. Your body instantly tenses, pressing your spine impossibly closer to his chest. Fuck. You reach your hands over your head, tangling your fingers in his hair. Oh, how you love mornings now. You turn your head just enough to catch his mouth, kissing him as your lips find his bottom lip.

He whines before pulling away abruptly. “No. No, no. I can't handle. I need to-- ” Breathing heavily, he pulls away from you and rolls onto his back, facing the ceiling as he drags you on top of him. You're still facing away from him, your spine pressed against his chest, your head resting on his shoulder before it lolls back. “Ah, fuck,” he breathes. “You make me feel so dirty.”

He starts by teasing you, taking his time as he bites down on your shoulder again, trying to ease the bundle of nerves twisting in his stomach. You're far from quiet when another whine slips past your lips. You're so cute. He might just need to bite your whole arm off next. He just wants to cut you open and live inside you instead of this apartment that's practically draining his bank account at this point. You already live in his mind rent-free, so why not live inside you forever?

He spreads your thighs even farther apart, your legs resting on either side of his. He wastes no time, taking his tip as he starts easing it inside you, little by little, already losing his mind over how warm you feel. “Mmm.” You throw your head back deeper against his shoulder, your fingers tangling tighter in his hair as he begins moving in a slow rhythm beneath the covers. It feels so good.

What a shame. Three loud bangs on the cheap bedroom door make both of you jump apart before either of you can get lost in the moment. It scares the life out of you, but what confuses you more is that James doesn't say a word before scrambling to put on his boxers, nearly tripping over them in the process because of how fast he's trying to get them on.

Who is that? How the hell did they get inside? Why does he look panicked?

It seemed like whoever's behind the door is impatient as fuck. You don't know how they manage to bust the door open, but all your mind can focus on is the three huge, scary-looking men who just barged in, oh! ‘nd also the fact that you're fuckin’ naked!

“What the fuck?!” you scream. You grab the blanket and yank it up to your chest, securing it beneath your armpits so it won't slip as your wide eyes dart between the men.

“Aww, this is cute.” The tallest man standing in the middle looks the creepiest. He's got the nastiest RBF you've ever seen in your life, and the huge skull tattoo covering the left side of his face only makes him look scarier. The other two are shorter, but the muscles they carry more than make up for it. All three of them turn to James, who thankfully managed to get his boxers on before they barged in.

“You hurt my heart.” The guy keeps talking as soon as he spots James. What the fuck is going on? You tighten the blanket around your chest. “You said you'd have my money a month ago. Then you said a few weeks, then a few days, and now I hear you got yourself a nice little apartment.” He throws both his arms out, gesturing around the place. “But I still haven't heard when I'm getting the damn money you owe me.” He lets out a chuckle, and the way his tongue quickly darts out of his mouth is weird as fuck, almost like a twitch. His eyes are wide and absolutely crazy as shit.

The color drains from James’s entire body until he looks as pale as a ghost. You shake from where you're still sitting on the bed, your eyes moving frantically around the room, trying to figure out what the hell is going on. He doesn't know how to go about this. You weren't supposed to know about these guys, let alone find out that he owed them money. Thousands of dollars at that. 

“I don’t have it on me right now, but I promise you my next paycheck-- ”

“The thing is...” The crazy looking guy circles James, giving you a glance that makes your skin crawl as you pull the covers impossibly closer. If you could disappear into this blanket, you would. “You keep making promises, and no matter what, you just keep on breaking ’em.” He pats James’s cheek before using the force of his hand to push his face away. “As I said, it hurts me, y’know? feels like you don’t take me seriously.” The guy looks toward the two shorter guys behind him, sending them some signal. All of a sudden, they begin approaching the bed you're on.

James notices the signal immediately. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Wait, wait, wait. She’s naked, she’s fuckin’ nak-- ” James starts backing toward the bed, his hands spread out in front of him as if he can shield you. But before he can get any closer, the main creepy guy grabs him, suddenly pressing a knife against his neck while forcing both of his hands behind his back.

“’Nd you’re gonna be fuckin’ dead if you don’t give me my money.” His hot breath hits James’s ear.

“C’mon, man! I don’t have it!”

You kick and squirm when they begin climbing onto the bed to grab you, but you know you don't stand a chance. “Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!” You thrash and fight against them, still fucking naked underneath the covers. But it’s no use. One slap from one of the men makes you limp, your body finally giving out from the fear. Both men grab onto your elbows as tightly as possible while you shakily keep gripping the blanket against your chest, or at least try to.

You are so furious. You are so scared. You are so confused. Never in your life would you have thought you’d ever be in this situation.

“You didn’t have the money last month. You didn’t have the money last week. You didn’t have the money a few days ago. ‘nd you still don’t have my damn money now.” James doesn’t even look at the guy when he speaks. He’s only looking at you, his nose flaring. This business is between them. Not once did he bring you up, and not once did he mention anything to you. He was supposed to have this under control. This is exactly what he wanted to avoid.

“So that’s all you care about? Hm. Okay.” The creepy guy nods as if he’s saying, alright then. That doesn’t sound good. James finally looks away from your struggling body.

The creepy man makes a motion with his head toward the other two men. “Switch. Give me her.” The men holding you release their grip on command. One of them immediately grabs James from the creepy guy, keeping his wrists restrained behind his back.

“Hello, hello, miss.” The creepy guy grabs your hair in one hand, wrapping it around his fist and yanking your head back. The sting makes you gasp in shock. “I think she likes it.” He looks over at your boyfriend, who is pulling against the restraints of the guy behind him. You don’t like it. You hate this. You feel like you could throw up right now, right onto this asshole’s shoes.

He follows James’s eyes. “What? You don’t like seeing this?” His grip tightens around your hair, and you gasp again from the pain. It’s already sensitive as it is. “Ahh, fineee. I won’t hurt her.” You almost let yourself breathe a sigh of relief at his words, even though he’s already hurt you mentally and physically. You just want this situation to be over. “Just kiddinggggg.” You’re really stupid to think he wouldn’t do anything else. This is a feeling you’ve never experienced before. Your face feels like it’s burning in one specific spot.

The knife cuts across the side of your cheek. “See what you did to her, James? Liars make liars.”

Jame’s jaw twitched, his elbow jamming into the guy behind him, who hunched over and grunted but didn't release his grip.

The creepy guy lowers the knife toward the blanket still wrapped around you, pressing the tip against the fabric in a demand for you to let go. You frantically shake your head, your eyes dropping straight to the floor as you grip the blanket tighter around yourself. You don’t want to. You don’t want to. You don’t want to. You continue shaking your head, your bottom lip wobbling.

When you continue to refuse, he grabs the back of your neck and forces you down to the ground at his feet. One of your hands shoots out to catch yourself from the fall while the other still grips the blanket, desperately trying to keep yourself covered.

“This is your final warning.” He stares James directly in the eyes before the guy holding your boyfriend finally releases him. James doesn’t waste a second. He immediately runs over to you, dropping down onto his knees beside you. His hand lands on your shoulder as the men begin leaving, acting as if they didn’t just traumatize you within the last few minutes.

“I’m going to fix this, okay?” You keep your stare on the floor, your lips wobbling and your eyes overflowing with tears. “Baby, please don’t be mad at me. Please. Don’t. Don’t be mad.” He cups your face, tilting it up so you’re looking at him. But the second he sees nothing but tears filling those pretty eyes and the deep gash from the knife on your cheek, his heart squeezes. “Are you mad? Don’t be mad. It’s over. They’re gone.”

“Got it” he kept looking through the menu before smiling. “Oh they’re doing a discount on whipped cream, we should get one”

You laughed “alright, go for it”

After placing the order, the two of you went back to watching the movie while waiting for the food to arrive. James gently rubbed your sides with his thumb, making you smile as the minutes slowly passed.

About half an hour later, the doorbell finally rang. “I’ll get it” he said, quickly getting up and a few seconds later, he came back with the paper bag in his hands.

“Ohhhh that’s the good stuff” you grinned as you opened your frozen yogurt.

“Thanks babe” you said before taking your first spoonful.

“My pleasure” he smiled, taking a bite of his own pineapple yogurt.

The two of you ate in comfortable silence until James suddenly held his spoon in front of your mouth.

“Taste this, it’s really good”

You leaned forward and took the bite, and your eyes immediately widened.

“Okay that’s actually better than mine”

“I told you” he laughed before quickly realizing. “Oh shit the whipped cream, I almost forgot ! “

He reached into the bag, grabbed the can and sprayed a little into his mouth before nodding to himself.

“Yeahhh that’s good”

You laughed before opening your mouth, silently asking for some too.

And without saying a word, James smiled and sprayed a little whipped cream into your mouth, his eyes never leaving yours. You swallowed but a small bit stayed in the corner of your lips.

He leaned a little closer.

“What?” You asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You’ve got some here” his thumb gently brushed the corner of your mouth, wiping it away before he gently licked the cream off his thumb.

You looked at him for a second

Okayyy that was lowkey hot.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The movie kept playing in the background, it was completely forgotten. James’s hand found your waist again, gently pulling you closer until your forehead almost touched.

You smiled at him before closing the tiny distance between you, pressing a slow kiss against his lips.

He smiled into it, one hand cupping your cheek while the other staying around your waist.

James gently pulled back from the kiss, looking at you softly. “Lemme try something” he said, before taking the can again. “Open your mouth for me” he asked, cupping your chin as you obeyed.

He sprayed some cream into your tongue. “Don’t swallow it just yet” he said before spraying some in his own mouth.

You already knew where this was going, and you were excited to see how things will go…that’s until James’s mouth found yours, sharing the sweetness between your tongues. His mouth moved with yours feverishly, wanting to feel you completely, when he suddenly started sucking on your tongue.

You let a little whine when he did that, it was fucking hot to have him licking your tongue, letting the kiss becoming messier.

When he pulled away from you a long, white, thick string of saliva mixed with the residues of whipped cream formed between your mouths, fuck that was a sigh to see.

“Lie down baby” he ordered, before getting on top of you. His fingers reached to the fabric of your shirt, taking it off, leaving you bare chested. The cold air made you shiver, causing your nipples to harden.

James’s mouth was now on your neck, sucking at the skin there, he was completely mesmerized by you. The poor frozen yogurts were completely forgotten but all you could think about is the feeling of James bitting the sweet spot of your neck. Slowly his eyes drop down your nipples, the tip of his finger gently toying with the bud as his other hand reached for the can once again.

He slowly sprayed cream over your nipple, licking it off greedily until his mouth closed completely around it, sucking it and pulling it with his tongue.

You couldn’t hold back, you moaned softly as he latched onto your other nipple. Your hand tangled in his dirty blonde hairs, pressing him over you even more as he sprayed some cream all over your body just to lick it off.

“Such a beautiful girl” he whispered, spreading cream all over your breast and belly, licking every single inch of skin he could find.

“Oh James…” you whimpered at the feeling of his tongue tasting you, “I need you” your head tilted back, you needed more, you craved him.

James’s fingers toyed with your underwear asking for your permission, when you nodded he pulled it off with a small smirk on the corner of his mouth.

“Get on all four baby” he ordered softly.

You didn’t waste time and obliged, your ass now in the air as you buried your face in the cushion’s pillow.

“Good girl, oh look at you” he murmured. He gently parted your legs, his fingers teasing your pussy, he felt the wetness on his fingers. “Oh baby, you’re completely soaked…” he whispered, leaving little kisses on your right cheek.

“Please James—I need you” you moaned; the simple contact of his fingers wasn’t enough, you needed them inside of you.

“You need what? Say it or you’ll get nothing” his voice was so soft, it didn’t matches the words he was using.

“Finger me, fuck me, I just wanna feel you” you said pathetically, feeling your cunt throbbing, aching for him.

Suddenly he gently slide the tip of his index along your wet pussy, teasing your pearl in the most delicious way. You couldn’t hold back the loud moan that came out of you as he started drawing circle on it.

“Fuck look at you” he breathed out before giving your ass a little kiss, his middle finger joined too, rubbing every sensitive nerves till he slides them in you, the squelching sounds were the only audible thing beside your pants and moans.

“Oh James—it’s so good !” You whimpered, drooling on the pillow as he kept his atrocious ministration.

“Such a good girl, fuck look at you taking my fingers just perfectly” he praised before taking the whipped can and spraying some on your cheek and lower back. All this just to lick it off again while his fingers kept moving faster inside of you.

“Oh I’m gonna come—faster” your pussy pulsed against his digits, squeezing them softly, while he kept kissing and worshipping the back of your body.

“Go on, lemme hear you” he suddenly took off his fingers just to turn you on your back again, spreading your legs. He saw the complete wet mess on your cunt and without hesitation he ate you.

His warm tongue tasting every corner of your pussy, playing with your clit with the tip of his tongue, and the worse was feeling him smirking while eating you. Every time he dived it deeper you pulled him against you even more, wanting him to devour the shit out of you. And the noises he made, made it worse.

“Taste so good, fuck I could die between your legs” he murmured between licks, as he looked up at you, eyes on fire, that damn smirk on the corner of his mouth still present as he munched on you.

It didn’t last long till the bundle of heat ached to be released, you felt that familiar knot, twisting your insides. The feeling of his tongue, the view of him appreciating the taste of you was all you needed.

You came with a loud cry, your hand still clinging to the back of his hair as your legs trembled gently. James pulled back from you, his chin coated in your essence, lips shiny and moisturized, begging to be kissed.

He always had those red, puffy lips after eating you and that was a sigh to die for.

You quickly brought his chin up, parting your lips to welcome his. You tasted yourself on his tongue as it melted on yours.

Your hands rested on his shoulders, you pulled him back just enough to get on top of him, never leaving his lips. You kissed his neck, looking for that soft spot that would make him shiver every time, the soft pants that came out of him were like music to your ears.

“Lemme take care of you now” you whispered, before taking off his tank top. His eyes closed for a minute when your fingers gently traced his skin.

You looked around and found the can again, you sprayed some on his chest and abs, licking at the sweet cream off him.

“So beautiful” he whispered, his hand cupping your jaw as you went lower till you reached the waistband of his shorts.

You bit your lips as you took it off, rubbing your hands all over his boxer, your eyes saw the wet spot of precum on it. You looked up at him with a smirk.

“All that?” You chuckled, but he wasn’t laughing at all, his eyes were half lidded, head titled back, the state he was in just screamed ‘do me’

And that’s what you did.

The boxer quickly flew away, replacing the fabric by your hand, wrapping around the base of it. James let out a little gasp as you did so. Your hand working on him gently, you cupped his cheek and kissed him, your hand still stroking his length altering between fast and slow.

“Love you—love you so much baby” he whimpered between kisses, his body started overheating, some sweat started forming on his forehead, neck and chest. He looked absolutely wrecked and fucking hot.

You went down once again, your hand never leaving him till you slowly licked his tip, his hips jerked off, his head was completely titled back, as he whimpered pathetically.

“More please—baby please—fuck I’m coming” he whined out, as you took his tip into your mouth, sucking on it like the best lolipop you’ve ever had.

You softly spat onto his skin, just to deepthroat it all this time, the sweat was clinging to his body, his mouth open, like he was trying to mumble something but all he could do was pants and whimper.

“Fuck I’m—I’m coming” that’s all he said before he came into your mouth, his chest rising and falling as he catches his breath, you pulled away from him, bringing your lips to his. The kiss was slow, extremely slow, he moved his lips lazily against yours, wanting to make the moment last as much as he could. His nose brushing against yours sensually.

It felt intimate, just you two, bodies tangled in sweat, and some leftover of sugary cream, kissing in the most sloppily but slowly way, his warm hand rubbed your back gently, giving you a sort of comfort.

Finally you pulled back a little, he looked at you with those admirative eyes, and shit you felt your legs mushy and about to pass out.

“I love you” he whispered in your ear, before pecking your cheek.

a/n : please, no hate on this, i’m only human, this is fiction, please don’t come at me for writing this— when people quite literally romanticize rape on here. this was something i needed to write, i don’t want to get hate for it because it’s incredibly vulnerable so please give me a break im tired, take in consideration that this is purely a form of art. That being said, take care of yourself, if you can relate (which i hope you don’t.) please please please don’t let a monster dictate your life.

“HE GAVE IN TO TEMPTATION. Men are weak, you shouldn’t let one moment define the rest of his life.”

The priest’s voice drifted through the dim confessional like dust motes in a shaft of stained-glass light— heavy with the scent of old incense and mildew. Father Elias sat on the other side of the latticed screen, his silhouette hunched like a weathered gravestone in the small-town church.

The building itself was a relic— cracked plaster saints with peeling paint, wooden pews worn smooth by generations of sinners, a rusty crucifix hanging crooked above the altar as if even God had grown tired of holding it straight. Outside, the wind moaned across the empty plains, carrying the faint howl of coyotes circling the bones of dead cattle.

You knelt on the hard wooden step, knees aching, fingers twisting the hem of your thin cotton dress; the fabric clung to your sweat-damp skin, faded like everything else in this godforsaken stretch of America.

Your body felt foreign, animal.

The violence had stripped the softness from you and left something feral in its place: a wild thing with bared teeth and trembling flanks, hiding in tall grass, ready to bolt or bite at the slightest shadow.

Sleep came in fitful snatches, curled tight like a wounded deer, muscles locked against phantom hands. Hunger gnawed but food tasted of ash. Touch— any touch—sent you spiraling into that dark place where flesh became meat- where your own body betrayed you with memories of tearing and bruising.

You had come to the church seeking absolution for your anger— but Father Elias offered counsel for the sinner instead.

“You have to remember that forgiveness is for everyone, even the man who hurt you,” he continued, voice soft as grave dirt. The words landed like stones in still water, rippling through your chest.

You swallowed hard, throat raw— the confessional smelled of candle wax and old sins and through the screen, you could see the outline of his clasped hands, knuckles white. Everything was so detailed yet so distant.

“Father… he didn’t just hurt me. He took. I said no. I begged. And he laughed.”

The memory surged, brutal: gravel digging into your back like the teeth of the earth itself, his breath hot and sour like cheap whiskey and damnation, hands pinning your wrists as if nailing you to some profane cross. Your dress torn like fucking temple veil.

Afterward, you crawled into the ditch like an animal fleeing the slaughterhouse— limbs shaking, throbbing with violation, soul leaking out onto the dirt.

Days blurred into weeks of hiding in motel rooms, washing blood from your undergarments in sink basins, staring at your reflection until the girl looking back became something hunted and hollow-eyed.

The pain had animalized you: instincts sharpened to survival, trust evaporated like morning dew on the sagebrush. You flinched at footsteps, bared metaphorical teeth at kindness, fucked up your own attempts at connection because intimacy now smelled like violence.

A prey animal wearing human skin, yearning for a shepherd who wouldn’t lead you to slaughter.

Father Elias sighed, the sound heavy with centuries of doctrine. “Holding on to anger only gives the devil another victory, my child. Let it go before it festers into something that damns you both.”

You pressed your forehead against the cool wood, tears slipping silent down your cheeks. The church creaked around you, wind rattling the loose panes like bones in a shallow grave.

Outside, the vast western sky stretched merciless, highways cutting through it like veins opened for bloodletting. You thought of the man—your executioner —sitting somewhere in this same county, perhaps lighting candles in this very church, confessing to the same priest.

Forgiven by God while you carried the carcass of what he left behind.

“He has confessed his sins before God,” the priest said gently, almost pleading. “Perhaps it’s time for you to let this go.”

The words carved into you. Let it go.

As if pain were a coat you could shrug off on the porch step.

As if your body could forget the way it was split open under moonlight, turned from temple to battlefield.

You had become the wounded lamb limping through the valley of shadow, but no rod or staff comforted you. Instead, rage simmered beneath the fear—a wild, gnashing thing that made you want to burn the fields, to scream at the indifferent heavens until they cracked.

“We all fall into sin,” Father Elias murmured, finality in his tone. “His happened to hurt you. But grace is for the fallen. Pray on it, daughter. Seek the light.”

You left the confessional on unsteady legs, the animal inside you snarling low. The church nave stretched long and empty, dust dancing in beams of colored light from windows depicting martyred saints pierced and bleeding. You genuflected out of habit, the motion mechanical, then slipped out into the blazing afternoon sun.

The dirt parking lot was empty save for your old pickup, paint sun-bleached and rust-eaten. You drove the back roads with windows down, wind whipping your hair like a scourge. Fields of dying wheat rolled by, golden and rotten at the roots, scarecrows standing sentinel like crucified sinners.

Home was the crumbling farmhouse on the outskirts— the same one that would later shelter you and James. For now, it stood lonely, porch sagging under the weight of unspoken prayers.

You stripped in the dim bedroom, standing naked before the cracked mirror.

Your reflection showed the thing you had become: ribs faintly visible from weeks of barely eating, bruises long faded to yellow ghosts on your hips and thighs, eyes too wide and haunted. Scratches from your own nails where you had clawed at your skin in nightmares, trying to scrub him out. Breasts that once felt soft and inviting now seemed like burdens, cunt a site of trauma rather than pleasure.

You touched yourself experimentally, fingers tracing the folds that had been forced open, and flinched at the echo of pain.

No wetness, only dryness and dread.

The yearning was there, buried deep— a desperate hunger for tenderness that felt like blasphemy in this landscape of judgment.

Nights were the worst. You lay on the iron bed, sheets tangled like restraints, listening to the coyotes sing their hymns. Dreams came feral: running endless highways, hooves instead of feet, the executioner’s truck always gaining, his hands turning into claws. You woke gasping, body slick with sweat that smelled of fear.

Masturbation brought no relief— only fragmented attempts that ended in tears, fingers too rough in mimicry of violence, leaving you emptier.

The animal in you paced, wounded and wanting, craving a touch that healed rather than hunted.

Days passed in ritual. You worked odd jobs at the roadside diner, pouring coffee for truckers whose eyes lingered too long, making your skin crawl with animal wariness.

You avoided the church after that confession, but the priest’s words haunted the empty rooms like ghosts.

Forgiveness. Grace. Letting go.

They clashed with the truth etched in your flesh: some sins left teeth marks that no prayer could erase.

You read old Bibles by lamplight, tracing passages about redemption, but they felt hollow.

The God of this land seemed distant, more interested in forgiving the wolf than binding the lamb’s wounds.

One evening, storm clouds gathered low on the horizon, turning the sky the color of bruised flesh. You sat on the porch with a bottle of cheap wine, the animal inside restless. Thunder rumbled like distant judgment.

You thought of the man who hurt you— perhaps he slept easy now, absolved, while you carried the weight of his temptation.

Anger rose, hot and righteous, but so did the exhaustion of holding it.

The priest was right about one thing: it was poisoning you, turning you more feral, more isolated. But forgiveness felt like dying all over again.

So you drove to the edge of town as lightning split the sky, pulling over at an old crossroads where faded signs pointed toward forgotten places. The rain came sudden and violent, washing the dust from your windshield as tears from a penitent’s face.

You stepped out into it, dress clinging transparent, arms spread as if inviting the heavens to strike. Water mixed with salt on your cheeks.

“Why?” you screamed into the gale- to no one in particular. “Why why why why.”

That night, back at the farmhouse, you lit candles around the bedroom, mimicking some half-remembered ritual. Naked again before the mirror, you traced the lines of your body with trembling fingers, trying to reclaim it.

“This is mine,” you whispered to the reflection. But the touch stirred only echoes.

The yearning deepened into ache: for hands that asked, for a body that sheltered rather than invaded, for intimacy slow as desert twilight and tender as a mother’s lullaby.

Longing twisted with carnal hunger. You wanted to be laid on an altar of flesh and worshipped, not sacrificed.

Sleep claimed you eventually, curled fetal like a creature in its den. Dreams shifted slightly— a figure on the horizon, boots kicking up dust, eyes like moss after rain.

A lover, perhaps.

A man who understood the animal and gentled it without breaking.

Morning brought pale light filtering through threadbare curtains. You rose, body stiff but the feral edge slightly dulled by the storm’s catharsis.

The priest’s words lingered, but so did your truth.

Forgiveness might come later, or never. For now, survival meant seeking the light he spoke of, even if it led down uncertain roads.

You packed a small bag— few belongings, a worn Bible, a change of clothes—and climbed into the truck. The engine coughed to life and highways stretched before you, endless blacktop cutting through golden decay, telephone poles like crucifixes.

You didn’t know where you were going, only that staying meant becoming more of a beast.

The priest’s counsel echoed: forgiveness for all. But your body remembered the violence, and it demanded proof of another way. Proof that flesh could sing hallelujah instead of screaming damnation.

Proof that a man’s weakness didn’t have to mean your destruction.

The desert swallowed your taillights, stars wheeling overhead like indifferent witnesses.

You passed abandoned farms and rusted water towers, relics of dreams long dead. Each mile peeled back another layer of th armor— fear giving way, inch by painful inch, to the fragile wish for connection.

By the time the sun bled orange across the plains, exhaustion and something like grace settled over you. The farmhouse waited somewhere ahead, empty and beckoning, its porch light a distant votive in your mind’s eye.

You pulled over once more, killing the engine under a sky turning violet. Sitting on the hood, legs dangling, you let the cooling metal warm your thighs. Hands pressed to your stomach, you breathed deep the scent of creosote and possibility.

The rape had made you feral, yes— quick to run, slow to trust, body a battlefield of phantom pains and instinctive snarls. But beneath it, the girl who once believed in tenderness still flickered, a candle in the ruins of faith.

“Forgiveness,” you whispered to the wind, tasting the word like bitter sacrament.

Not for him.

Not yet.

But perhaps space for something new.

For hands that built instead of broke.

For a lover who would kneel in the dirt and kiss the wounds without demanding you forget they existed.

Night fell fully as you resumed driving. The radio crackled with a faint Jeff Buckley melody— your heart beat in time, animal and human entwined, carrying you toward the farmhouse where dust settled on empty rooms, waiting for the man who would finally answer the prayer.

In the days that followed, solitude wrapped you like a shroud. You cleaned the old place with ritualistic care: sweeping floors that groaned like penitent knees, hanging faded curtains, placing wildflowers in cracked jars on the windowsill.

Each task was an act of reclamation, pushing back against the wildness. Yet at night the memories returned— visceral torrents.

The weight pinning you.

The grunt of conquest.

The way your voice had cracked on “please” until it became whimper.

You woke clawing at sheets, nails leaving red crescents on your arms, body slick with the sweat of prey.

One afternoon, you found an old rosary in a drawer, beads worn smooth. You held it, running fingers over the cross, and whispered fragmented prayers.

Not for the executioner’s soul, but for your own. For the feral thing inside to find rest.

The priest’s words returned unbidden: “We all fall into sin. His happened to hurt you.” They stung less sharply now, tempered by distance, but still you rejected the easy absolution.

Your hurt was not collateral. It was a ravine carved through your life, deep enough to echo.

You began walking the back fields at dusk, boots kicking up red dust, dress trailing like a robe. Coyotes watched from the treeline, recognizing kin in your wary stride.

One evening, a storm threatened again. You stood in the open, arms raised, letting the first fat drops hit your upturned face. Rain soaked through fabric, outlining the curves the executioner had claimed, but this time you did not flinch.

Instead, you imagined different hands— gentle ones tracing the same paths with reverence. The yearning intensified, a deep ache between your legs that was desire and fear braided together.

You slipped fingers under the wet hem right there in the field, touching tentatively. Slow circles on your core, breath hitching not with trauma but with tentative want.

The animal watched, curious rather than terrified.

You did not come, but the act felt like small sacrament— reclaiming the altar of your body one raindrop at a time.

Returning to the house drenched, you stripped and stood before the mirror once more. Water beaded on skin marked by faded lines.

You spoke aloud to the reflection: “You are more than what he made you.”

The animal inside softened its hackles, curling tighter but no longer snapping.

Letters arrived sporadically— distant family, concerned friends— but you answered little. Isolation was both cage and sanctuary.

In the quiet, you read from the worn Bible and secular books scavenged from thrift stores: stories of fallen women finding grace on the road, of bodies remade through love.

The longing evolved from vague hunger to specific prayer.

You wanted eyes that saw the scars and kissed them anyway. A voice that praised instead of degraded. A sex that filled with consent and care, slow as the turning of seasons.

The priest’s final counsel lingered during a return visit to the church weeks later. You did not enter the confessional this time but sat in a back pew as Father Elias prepared for evening mass. He noticed you, offered a nod heavy with unspoken words.

After the sparse service— a handful of elderly parishioners murmuring responses—you approached him in the vestibule.

“Father,” you said, voice steady despite the tremor in your hands. “I heard your words. About forgiveness. About sin.”

He clasped your shoulder lightly, a fatherly touch that did not trigger flight. “The Lord’s mercy is infinite, child. Even for the weakest among us.”

You met his gaze. “I’m trying. But the animal he left in me… it doesn’t forget easily. I’m learning to walk again. To want again.”

He smiled sadly, the lines on his face deep as arroyos. “That is the beginning of grace. Go in peace.”

You left lighter, though not healed. The drive back felt like pilgrimage. The farmhouse appeared on the horizon, its lights (you had left one burning) like a beacon.

Inside, you prepared simple food, ate at the wooden table, then bathed by lamplight. The water caressed your skin, warm and forgiving.

Fingers explored again, slower, imagining a future lover’s mouth replacing them. Soft moans escaped, echoing off tiled walls— sounds of tentative healing.

That night, sleep came deeper. Dreams featured open roads and a man walking toward you, hands open, voice like gravel and honey. James, though you did not yet know his name.

The animal in you perked its ears, in recognition.

The road finally delivered you to him on a night when the sky hung low and bruised, thunderheads rolling across the plains like the wrath of an old testament God.

You had pulled into the gravel lot of a half-forgotten roadside bar on the outskirts of another nowhere town. The air smelled of spilled beer, cigarette ash, and the metallic promise of rain.

Inside, the jukebox wept low country songs, and he was leaning against the scarred wooden bar when you entered, a silhouette carved from the very dust and decay of this land.

James.

Tall and lean as a fence post left too long in the sun, shoulders broad from years of hauling lumber and laying rebar on half-built churches that never quite got finished.

His dark hair fell across his forehead in careless waves, streaked with blond like moonlight on barbed wire.

A faded tattoo of a thorn-crowned cross peeked from the open collar of his shirt, ink blurred by time and penance. Scars traced his knuckles and the line of his jaw— road stories, bar fights, nights spent wrestling with angels and losing.

He was no savior in white robes.

James was a sinner with callused hands and a quiet faith.

A drifter architect of sorts, he built things that stood against the wind: barns for widows, shelters for runaways, sometimes just temporary altars out of scrap wood.

Men whispered he had blood on his ledger from a youth spent running moonshine and worse, but the women who knew him spoke of gentle strength— the way he held doors and held silences, never rushing, never taking.

A man who had buried his own ghosts under desert highways and risen with dirt still under his nails.

Your eyes met across the hazy room.

Something ancient stirred in your chest— the feral animal inside you paused its pacing, ears pricking not in flight but in wary recognition.

He didn’t approach like the others, with hungry grins and grasping hands.

James simply nodded once, a slow tip of his chin, and slid a glass of whiskey down the bar toward you when the bartender asked your order.

“Looks like you’ve been driving through hell’s back forty,” he said, voice low and gravel-rough, laced with that slow southern drawl that wrapped around broken things and tried to mend them. “the name’s James.”

You talked that night in careful fragments, perched on stools while lightning flashed outside. He listened like a confessor who had never betrayed a secret, black eyes steady as you skirted the edges of your story without spilling the blood yet.

He spoke of his own wanderings: building in dying towns, laying hands on structures and souls alike, searching for something real amid the rot.

“I don’t pretend to fix what’s broken,” he murmured. “But I know how to hold it gentle. The world’s got enough violence already.”

He didnt come inside the farmhouse that first night. Instead, he walked you to the door, hat in hand, rain dripping from the brim.

“If you ever want company that don’t demand nothing, I’m staying at the old Miller place down the road. No pressure, pretty.”

Days turned to weeks.

James became a presence rather than a conquest. He appeared with fresh-cut wildflowers for the sagging porch, helped patch the leaking roof without being asked, his hammer strikes rhythmic as prayer.

Evenings found you on the porch swing, sharing silence and then stories. He told you of the churches he restored, of laying bricks like laying down sins, of praying over foundations that might outlast him.

You spoke haltingly of the animal the rape had left behind— the flinch at sudden movement, the nights curled like a wounded coyote, the way your body had become a locked tabernacle no one was allowed to enter.

James never pushed.

Touches came slow: a hand steadying your elbow on uneven steps, fingers brushing yours when passing a mug of coffee. Each one asked permission with its gentleness.

“You set the pace,” he would say quietly, eyes on the horizon. “I’ve got nowhere else to be.”

Over months, he became your lover in the truest sense— not through claiming, but through presence. Shared meals at the scarred kitchen table. Walks along the dust roads where he matched your stride, never leading. Nights sitting close on the couch, his arm around you only when you leaned in first, thumb tracing soothing circles on your shoulder.

The animal in you learned his scent— sandalwood, sweat, and honest earth —and stopped baring teeth. Trust bloomed tentative.

One evening, as summer faded into golden, you sat together on the porch steps. James turned to you, voice soft as grave dirt.

“I see everything you carry, darlin’. The way that bastard tried to make you into something broken. I hate it down to my bones. But I see you too— my girl, still reaching for light. When you’re ready, if you’re ever ready, I want to show you that touch can be different. Yours to command.”

Your heart ached with the weight of it.

Here was the man who had become your lover through patience and quiet devotion, not force. The wanderer with boba eyes and callused redeemer’s hands, ready to kneel at whatever altar you offered.

The farmhouse waited behind you, oil lamps glowing soft, the longing had grown into something ready. James waited too— steady, reverent—until you took his hand and led him inside, the threshold crossing like the first true breath after long suffocation.

Pleasure wasn’t punishment.

Pleasure. isn’t. punishment.

James’ fingers brushed a strand of hair from your face, gentle as evening vespers. “You look like you’re carrying the whole damn county on your shoulders tonight, pretty.” he murmured. “Let me take that weight off you.”

His breath hitched, thhose dark eyes, shadowed by the brim of his worn hat, filled with a sorrow so deep it mirrored the dry riverbeds outside.

He pulled you against his chest, heart thudding steady beneath faded cotton. “Christ, baby. It tears me up inside knowing someone laid violent hands on you. Made you think love had to hurt. I’d burn the whole fucking town down if it’d erase that night for you.” He kissed your temple, slow and lingering. “But I can’t undo it. All I can do is prove different. Every damn time you let me.”

The wrought-iron bed dominated your room, sheets worn soft from years of strangers’ dreams. You sat on the edge of the bed, knees together, vulnerable as a sinner at the altar.

James knelt before you, large hands resting on your thighs but not gripping. Never gripping unless you asked.

“Tell me what you need tonight,” he said, thumbs stroking circles that sent warmth pooling low in your belly. “We go as slow as you need. You say stop, I stop. You say more, I give you everything.”

“I need you close,” you whispered, voice cracking like parched earth.

All of you. Skin and soul. Show me tenderness, Make love to me like I’m something sacred.

James rose and undressed first, shedding flannel and jeans with unhurried grace. His body was lean muscle and scars— road life etched into him: a knife fight in El Paso, a crash outside Tulsa.

You reached out, tracing the tattoo over his heart— he shivered under your fingers but stayed still, letting you map him.

“Your turn, if you want,” he said softly.

You nodded.

He helped peel the flannelj from your shoulders, reverent as disrobing a saint. Cool air kissed your bare skin, nipples pebbling. His gaze drank you in—hungry but holy.

“Fuck, look at you,” he breathed. “Beautiful. So beautiful. I’m so lucky.”

Tears stung your eyes and he cupped your face, thumbs wiping them away.

“None of that shame, darlin’. Not with me. You’re allowed to want this— to need it slow and deep and loving.”

James laid you back against the pillows, the mattress dipping under his weight as he stretched beside you.

Skin met skin— warmth against warmth. His hand traced your collarbone, down the valley between your breasts, over the soft plane of your stomach. Every touch asked permission.

“Here?” he’d murmur.

You’d nod or whisper yes, and he’d continue.

You kissed him first, desperate for connection. His mouth tasted of smoke and salt, slow and devouring in the gentlest way, tongues slid together.

He groaned into you, a low rumble that vibrated through your chest. “So sweet,” he praised against your lips. “So pretty.”

Your hands roamed his back, feeling the flex of muscle, the raised lines of old scars. He rolled partially over you, careful to keep weight distributed, one thigh pressing gently between yours.

The pressure against your core made you gasp— slick heat building already, arousal a slow, sacred burn rather than frantic fear.

“Feel that?” he whispered, grinding softly, deliberately. “Your body’s getting ready for me, baby. So wet already. Does it feel good?”

“Yes,” you moaned, hips tilting up to meet him. “Don’t stop touching me.”

James worshipped downward— mouth latching onto a nipple, tongue circling with wet heat while his hand kneaded the other breast. Sensation bloomed: sparks shooting to your cunt, thighs parting wider of their own accord.

The old fear flickered— rough hands, forced entry—but James’s voice anchored you.

“You’re okay. It’s me, you’re okay, you’re safe pretty girl.”

He moved lower, kissing the dip of your navel, the crease of your hip. Pausing at the apex of your thighs, breath ghosting over glistening folds. “Can I taste you?”

You threaded fingers through his dark hair, tugging lightly. “Please, James.”

His tongue was heaven and hell— broad, flat strokes from entrance to clit, then tight circles that had you keening. He hummed in pleasure, the vibration pulling a curse from your lips, “Fuck—yes, right there.”

James drank from you like communion wine.

Two fingers pressed at your entrance, circling, waiting. “Inside?” he asked, voice muffled against your flesh.

“God, yes. Slow.”

He slid them in, curling against that spongy spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. The stretch was perfect, full without pain.

Pleasure wasn’t punishment.

He worked you open with patient devotion, mouth never leaving your clit. Pleasure coiled tight, intensse —body as altar, his tongue as prayer.

You came with a broken sob, thighs trembling around his head, walls fluttering around his fingers.

He licked you through it, murmuring, “That’s my girl. So good, coming so pretty for me. Let it all out.”

Aftershocks rippled as he crawled back up, kissing the tears from your cheeks. His cock rested heavy and hot against your thigh, leaking. You wrapped a hand around him, stroking the length.

“I want you inside,” you said, vulnerable and raw.

All the way. Skin to skin. Fill the places that hurt.

James’s eyes darkened with emotion. “You sure? We can wait. I’d wait forever for you.”

“I’m sure.“

James positioned himself between your spread thighs, rubbing the thick head through your slickness. Teasing your clit until you whimpered. “Eyes on me,” he commanded gently. “Breathe with me. If it’s too much, we stop.”

The first push was exquisite pressure. Inch by inch, he sank into you, groaning deep in his chest.

“Holy fuck— you’re tight. So perfect, swallowing me like you were made for me.” Fully seated, he stilled, forehead pressed to yours. Sweat beaded on his skin. The fullness was overwhelming—stretching, claiming, but chosen. “Talk to me, baby. How does it feel?”

“Full— fuck… safe.” Your legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his lower back. “Move. Please”

He did. Long, rolling thrusts, each withdrawal dragging against every nerve, each return grounding deep. The wet sounds of your joining filled the room— obscene. His hand slipped between you, thumb circling your clit in lazy spirals.

“Look how well you take me. So fucking strong. Brave girl, letting me in like this. I love you.”

Emotions crashed through the pleasure. You clung to him, nails scoring his shoulders lightly.

James adjusted, hips undulating in deep, grinding circles rather than pounding. The head of his cock kissed that spot inside with every motion, sweat slickin your bodies, sliding skin on skin.

The scent was heady— sex and sage and his musk. You tasted salt on his neck when you licked him.

He whispered praises like scripture: “Am so lucky, so fucking lucky….”

Tears slipped from both of you now, mingling-/ his pace never rushed, even as your second orgasm built.

“Come for me again,” he urged, voice cracking. “Let me feel that pretty pussy squeeze me. I’m yours. All yours.”

It hit you like revelation— waves of ecstasy rolling from core outward, cunt pulsing around his thick cock. You cried out, and James followed soon after, burying deep with a guttural moan, spilling hot and thick inside you. Pulse after pulse, marking you with love instead of violence.

He stayed buried, collapsing carefully to the side and pulling you atop him so you rested on his chest.

For long minutes, only breathing and the creak of the old house. His hand stroked your back in long sweeps. “You okay? Any pain?”

“None,” you whispered, tracing the tattoo on his chest. “Just full.”

He kissed your hair. “Good girl. You were so good. So beautiful. I’m so lucky.”

The night stretched on. You talked in the afterglow, voices soft as he told you stories of the road— lost highways where he’d prayed for something real.

You shared fragments of the trauma, how it felt like God had turned his face away. James held you tighter.

“Maybe he sent me instead. A sinner to love a saint.”

Later, desire stirred again. You rode him this time, slow and deliberate, hands braced on his chest, he looked up at you like you hung the stars outside.

“Ride me however feels good, pretty’. Use me”

His hands rested on your hips, guiding but never forcing; you ground down, taking him deep, clit rubbing against his pelvis.

Curses fell from your lips —“Fuck, James, you’re so deep”— mixed with his praises: “Beautiful. Take what you need.”

Orgasm claimed you both again, slower, sweeter.

Afterward, he drew a bath in the clawfoot tub down the hall, lukewarm water from th pipes. He washed you with careful hands, soaping every inch, rinsing with cupped palms.

Then you did the same for him, kneeling between his legs, mouth eventually finding his spent cock to coax it back to life with tender sucks and licks. He came down your throat with gentle hands in your hair, whispering, “I love you.”

Days blurred into this rhythm in the farmhouse. Mornings where he woke you with his mouth between your legs, tongue tracing on your clit until you shattered.

Afternoons on the porch swing, his fingers inside you under a thin blanket while cicadas sang.

Nights of full union— missionary with eyes locked, spooning with his hand cupping your breast, against the wall with one leg wrapped around him, always slow, always checking.

One stormy evening, lightning illuminating the rusted cross outside, vulnerability peaked.

You broke down mid-act, old memories surfacing as he moved inside you. James stopped instantly, slipping free, pulling you into his lap.

“Hey, hey. I got you. We don’t have to.” He rocked you through sobs, kissing tears, murmuring, “That bastard doesn’t get this part of you. Only I do, and only when it’s love.”

You eventually asked him back in, needing the reclamation. He entered you again like returning to prayer, movements even slower, foreheads pressed. “You’re safe, you hear me?”

James proved it time and again— intimacy wasn’t the violence of the past. It was slow unraveling, ecstasy in the flesh. You found peace in the decay —in the creaking bed, the flickering lamp, the man who loved you like the last honest prayer in a godless land.

And in his arms, the truth finally settled over your bones like warm rain on parched earth: you were never guilty.

Not for a single second.

The violence done to you was not divine punishment, not the wages of some imagined sin, not a lesson carved into your flesh by a cruel God. It was cruelty, plain and merciless, enacted by a weak man who chose evil.

You carried no stain. You owed no penance. The blood and the breaking had never been yours to atone for.

And in that, you bloomed.

—🏷️ taglist

Death teaches you that time isn’t money, it’s blood. And you’re both bleeding out fast.

You met James in the oncology ward on a Tuesday— same rare, aggressive cancer. Same prognosis: months, give or take.

The nurses called it “the twins’ corner” because you two were the youngest ones there who still had enough fire left to crack jokes about the food tasting like cardboard.

He had that crooked smile and eyes that looked like they’d already seen the end of the world and decided to stick around anyway— you bonded over shared hatred of the beeping machines, the way the doctors talked in probabilities instead of truths, and the fucking rules.

Let me explain— absolutely no prolonged physical contact. You were both too weak, too prone to infection, too much of a liability if one of you coded because the other’s touch sent blood pressure spiking.

“For your safety,” they said. Bullshit.

So you talked. Hours. Days. Whispered across the gap between beds like prisoners tapping on walls. Never touched. Not really. A brush of fingers when passing meds, ashoulder bump during the rare supervised walk. That was it, absolute torture.

But you planned. God, you planned like kids building a fort. You smuggled notes— saved painkillers for the escape high; a little cash stash from visitors who still pretended you might beat this. One night was the promise; one real night before the morning rounds found empty beds and called it in.

Death would have you in the morning. Tonight, you made it wait.

The escape was clumsy and perfect— you slipped the night nurse an extra dose in her coffee (thank you, hoarded pills), timed the security camera blind spot, and shuffled out the service door like ghosts who still had legs.

The cold hit like a slap, the winter air sliced through your thin hoodies and you cursed under your breath, lungs already protesting. James grabbed your hand— properly this time, no one to stop you— and you both laughed like idiots because it hurt and you felt alive.

You hailed a cab with the last of your saved money, the driver giving you a long look but taking the cash anyway.

“Beach,” James said, voice rough. “The one with the shitty pier.”

The driver didn’t ask questions— it’s like people rarely do when they see the hollow cheeks and the way you both move like glass about to shatter.

You huddled in the back under the hospital blanket you’d stolen, his coat draped over both of you, his body was fever-warm against yours, all sharp bones and trembling muscle. You pressed your face into his neck and breathed him in—antiseptic, sweat, and hospital air; but it was the scent of a man you’d take to the grave.

And God, every breath hurt. Every breath was holy.

The cab radio played some old song about lovers and purple rain, you both stayed quiet, fingers laced so tight it felt like the only thing anchoring you to the world.

The beach was deserted when you got there, wind whipping sand against your legs as winter waves crashed black and silver under the moon.

You paid the driver extra to fuck off and not report anything, then stumbled down the path together, leaning on each other like drunks who’d finally admitted they were in love with the bottle.

The cold sand stung your bare feet but you didn’t care. You spread the blanket and collapsed onto it, James pulling you against his chest immediately. No rules. No monitors. Just skin and breath and the vast indifferent ocean.

“We’re idiots,” he muttered, lips brushing your hair. His voice was laced with that blunt honesty you’d come to crave. “Should’ve done this months ago.”

You laughed, the sound cracking in the middle. “Hospital would’ve lost their shit. ‘Bad influences,’ they called it. Like touching someone is bad.”

Like touching the person who makes you want to live is worse than the cancer and dying alone— devoid of love.

James tilted your chin up, his beautiful eyes already wet. “You. You’re the only thing that’s ever been worth the chemo.”

You kissed him then. Slow at first, tentative like you were both afraid the other might die then and there, but hunger won.

You kissed like you could confuse death into forgetting both of your names. Tongues and teeth and desperate little sounds that the wind stole away. His hands—finally, finally—slid under your shirt, tracing the ridges of your spine, the sharp jut of hips that had once been softer.

You were both too thin, bodies marked by needles and scars and the slow betrayal of cells gone rogue, but mortality stripped you down to your truest selves. Nothing hidden— no pretending to be strong.

Tears came easy. You cried into his mouth and he tasted them, pulling back only to press his forehead to yours.

“I’m scared,” you whispered, shocking yourself with how easily it came out. No filter— dying people don’t have time for armor. so it seems.

“Me too,” James said, thumb wiping your cheek. “Every second. But not of this. Not of you.” His hands roamed lower, mapping you like a cartographer who knew the map would burn by dawn.

You shivered— not from the cold —and pressed closer, legs tangling with his. The blanket wasn’t enough but you didn’t care because heat built where your bodies met, frantic and clumsy.

You talked between kisses, the kind of conversations only dying people have the courage to finish. “What if we’d met in a bar instead?” you asked, fingers digging into his hair. “Would you’ve wasted time on small talk? Pretended we had forever?”

James huffed a laugh that turned into a cough and he wiped blood from his lip without comment. “No. I would’ve known. One look and I’d have dragged you home, there’s not enough lifetime for you.”

You straddled him on the blanket, the cold sand seeping through but irrelevant. His hands gripped your thighs, reverent and rough.

“I love you,” he said, blunt as a scalpel. “Not the dying-you. I just love you.”

“I love you too, my Luck.” You rocked against him, feeling him harden beneath you.

That was his little nickname— the thing he’d given you throughout the months, the thing you so desperately needed; luck.

Clothes came off in layers— hoodies, shirts, pants shoved down with shaking hands. The winter air bit at exposed skin but your bodies warmed each other— touch turned desperate: hands everywhere, mouths chasing pulses at throats, collarbones and lower. You tasted the salt of his skin, the faint metallic hint of blood and medicine.

He groaned when your hand slipped inside his pants, your fingers wrapped around his heavy length, stroking slow and honest. “Fuck, you feel—” He cut off with a hiss, hips bucking. “Don’t stop. Please.”

You didn’t, because there’s something unbearably beautiful about people with no future making plans until sunrise, and you had absolutely no intentions of letting go. You whispered filthy promises against his ear: how you wanted him inside you, how you’d ride him until the stars blurred, how you didn’t give a shit if it killed you faster because at least it would be this.

James flipped you gently onto your back, careful even now, and settled between your legs. His mouth explored— teasing nipples that tightened in the cold, dipping lower to taste you until you were cursing and crying his name into the wind. Every sensation was amplified— pain and pleasure braided together.

Hope was too expensive— but wonder was free, that’s why you needed to hold onto this night, before life took you both away. This was all you’d ever dreamed of— feeling the awe of a man indubitably starstruck by what he was holding between his hands— and blessed be the moon and the stars for allowing you to have this.

When he finally pushed inside you, it was slow, the eyes of a lover locked into yours. You both gasped as the stretch burned beautifully— you were wet from tears, the want and the sheer defiance of it all; and he moved like he was memorizing every second, thrusts deep and measured because neither of you had stamina— but you at least had need. He didn’t stop until he was at the hilt, so snug where he resided, at least allowing you a moment to catch your breath.

You wrapped your legs around him, heels digging into his back, urging him harder. “More,” you demanded. “I want to feel you tomorrow when they drag us back. I want bruises.” You begged him for marks, for a proof that you’d felt something good once in your life, and James did just that. He kissed path down your neck, leaving a train of dark brands, until you were clenching around him desperately.

He cursed, raw. “You’re so beautiful, you know that? Tell me pretty girl, do you know that?” You nodded against him, because if you opened your mouth and talked, it would all come out a string of nonsense, so instead you bit down on his shoulder until you felt him throb inside of you.

It was messy, sand and all, but it didn’t stop you— you were dripping, the sounds muffling with the loud wind, the hum of the sea not bothering you one bit. It was the most devastating thing you’d ever felt— and you’d gone through a lot. But holding someone so tenderly— while knowing you would eventually have to let go, was God’s biggest lesson to you.

“Please… please, need more.” you urged him, nails clawing at his back.

James buried his face in your neck for a second, teeth grazing your skin, “Shit…. baby, I’m not going anywhere, give me a little breathing room.”

You were aware of just how hard you were clenching around him— but for your credit, the need was way too intense to hold back.

You obeyed though, unclenching just a bit— and only then did he come up for a kiss. “There you go, that’s my baby.” he kissed your forehead.

You came first, clenching around him, vision whiting out as the ocean roared in your ears and James followed soon after, burying his face in your neck, spilling hot inside you with a broken sound that tore something open in your chest.

You stayed joined for a long time, shivering under the blanket, trading lazy kisses and softer touches— fingers tracing ribs, counting scars like constellations. You talked more. About the stupid things you’d miss— hospital food, playing mario kart in the common areas and the way kids laugh like nothing hurts.

But most of all? About the anger that came in waves, asking, why us, why now, why couldn’t we have had years?

The truth was— both of you were too close to the end to keep pretending you weren’t at the beginning of something. So later, recklessness took over. Because fuck it—you were dying anyway.

James dared you to run into the surf and you did, naked, screaming laughter as icy water shocked your skin, packed sand until the water rushed up to claim your ankles, then your calves, then your thighs. It hurt like hell— your lungs seized but you splashed him anyway.

He caught you in the shallows, half in the water, half on the land, where the tide licked greedily at the boundary like it wanted to swallow you whole. There was this liminal space, the wet sand shifting beneath your feet, unstable and treacherous, just like the fragile line between living and dying. Waves rolled in, foaming around your legs, pulling back with a hiss. And here you were, pulling him for another frantic fuck, loving each other right on the edge of it— bodies tangled where the two worlds met, salt and grit mixing with sweat and slick, permanence dissolving into something fluid and eternal in the moment.

Salt stung everywhere.

“Fuck, look at you,” he murmured against your ear, even as the cold water made you both shiver. His body covered yours, shielding you from the worst of the wind, his cock already hard again, heavy and insistent against your thigh. “My brave girl. So beautiful it hurts. So alive.”

You arched up into him, fingers digging into his wet shoulders, nails scraping through the sand that clung to his skin. The water lapped at your sides, teasing your breasts, your belly, cooling the heat building between your legs.

“James… please. I need you again.” Your voice was hoarse from earlier cries, but the need was sharper now, edged with desperation. The salt stung the places he’d bitten and sucked, a delicious burn that made you clench around nothing.

James kissed you deeply, tongue sliding against yours, tasting like ocean and the faint copper of whatever medicine still lingered in his blood. One hand cupped your face, thumb stroking your cheek with aching gentleness while the other slipped between your thighs, fingers parting your folds.

“So wet for me already,” he groaned, circling your clit with slow strokes. “That’s my gorgeous girl”

A wave crashed higher, splashing over your chest, and you gasped into his mouth. He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours. “You laugh so pretty.”

You rocked against his hand, grinding down as his fingers pushed inside you— two at first, stretching you open with tender care. The wet sand shifted under your back, molding to your body like it was trying to hold you in place while the water tugged you toward oblivion. It was messy, primal: grit abrading your skin, salt mixing with your arousal, the push and pull of the waves syncing with the rhythm of his fingers.

“James—fuck —more,” you begged, legs wrapping around his waist, heels digging into his ass. “I want you inside please.”

This was it. This was everything and you’d trade every remaining heartbeat for ten more minutes of his hands on you.

He pulled his fingers free, replacing them with the blunt head of his cock, rubbing it through your slickness. “Yeah? You want me to fuck you?” His voice dropped, dirty and loving all at once. “My sweet, filthy girl.” He pushed in slowly, inch by thick inch, the stretch burning beautifully against the cold water. You both moaned as he bottomed out, your walls fluttering around him, clenching greedily.

The first thrust was measured, deep, James’ hips rolling like the waves themselves—pulling back as the tide receded, slamming forward as it surged in. Sand scraped your shoulders, your ass, but the discomfort only heightened everything. “God, you feel so good,” he praised, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked even in the dim moonlight. “So warm around me. So perfect. My lucky girl.”

You cried out as he hit that spot inside you, nails raking down his back, leaving red trails that the salt would sting later. “Harder, James. Please, i can’t.”

He obliged, surrendering to each of his girls’ wishes, picking up pace, one hand bracing in the sand beside your head, the other gripping your thigh to spread you wider. “That’s it, baby. Let me hear you.”

You made the sure the sea heard how full he made you feel, moans getting louder.

“Look at your pretty pussy swallowing my cock. You’re doing so good for me— my strong, beautiful girl. Taking it like a champ.”

Pleasure coiled tight in your core, and a larger wave hit, soaking you completely. you gasped, clenching hard around him and your vision blurred, legs trembling. “James— I’m close—fuck—”

“Mmhh, poor thing,” he whispered, voice cracking with emotion as he leaned down to kiss your neck, sucking another mark into your skin while his hips kept that relentless rhythm. “It’s okay. You should come. I got you my sweet girl.”

James words broke you. The orgasm crashed over you harder than any wave, vision whiting out as your body seized around him, pulsing and fluttering, pulling him deeper. You screamed his name into the wind, nails digging in, back arching so sharply the sand shifted and gave way beneath you.

He kept praising you through it, voice rough and adoring: “Yes— fuck, that’s my girl. I love you.”

James followed you over soon after, burying himself to the hilt with a broken groan, spilling hot and deep inside you as another ye another wave washed over your conjoined bodies. You stayed locked together, trembling, as the tide gently rocked you. He collapsed half on top of you, careful not to crush, his face tucked into your neck, pressing soft kisses to your pulse point.

After a while, James you just laid there, not even caring about the pneumonia and whatever terrible diseases you were prone to, the salt surely stung but so did the love.

He traced patterns on your back, adoring your skin like it was his own, “If there’s an afterlife, I’m finding you there. We’ll do this right, no hospitals.”

You cried again and James held you through it, rocking you like you were something precious and breakable—which you arguably were. The night stretched and you shared the last of the smuggled snacks, feeding each other with sticky fingers, laughing when the wind stole crumbs.

Then came more touches, slower now. His mouth on your thighs, your tongue tracing the veins on his cock until he was hard again and you took him deep, choking a little because you wanted to feel so full of him. He returned the favor, eating you out with single-minded focus until you soaked his face and the blanket. You came down from the high tangled, whispering secrets no one else would ever hear.

See— there are conversations only dying people have the courage to finish. You told him your biggest regret: not saying yes to life sooner. For years, you’d mistaken survival for living, you kept waiting for the fear to disappear before allowing yourself joy, convinced there would always be another treatment, another doctor, another version of yourself brave enough to exist instead of merely endure. You postponed happiness until it became a habit. You treated tomorrow as something permanent.

That was until you met him, though.

You only wished you had arrived there sooner. Not because it would have spared you this ending— God no— but because it would have given you more time to love the life you’d spent so long refusing. You looked at him and realized death wasn’t what made your chest ache, it was finally understanding how beautiful living had always been, just as it was slipping beyond your reach.

James, when his turn came, admitted his fear of being forgotten. “They’ll remember the sick version,” he said. “Not the one who made you laugh tonight.”

“They won’t forget this,” you promised. “Not us. Not tonight.”

Dawn crept closer and the sky lightened to a bruised purple; you dressed slowly, stealing kisses between layers. The cab back was silent, hands clasped, bodies aching in the best and worst ways.

Every step toward the hospital felt like walking into the grave willingly. But you carried the night with you— the salt on your skin, the marks on your neck, the memory of him inside you while the ocean watched.

Back in the ward, alarms blared and nurses swarmed, you looked at James across the chaos and smiled. He smiled back, crooked and real, realizing that sickness was waiting with its arms opened wide enough to welcome the both of you.

Death would have you in the morning. But tonight—fuck, tonight you lived.

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SECRET AFFAIRS smut ever since your rough and turbulent break up with your boyfriend, james, he has been determined to prove that he will stop at nothing to get you back; no matter how low he has to stoop. and you swore to yourself that you would never give in. but after multiple intimate altercations between you two at a casual meetup in your mutual friends house, which lead to a situation not even you thought would take place, how will things turn when you finally fall victim to your ex boyfriend’s endless teasing and temptation?

@hnsbxby filthy i love their smuts omg

STAMINA smut

@angelsboutique I love them so

TAKE IT smut best friend James who’s always so patient and sweet but gets frustrated one day and just fucks the shit out of you

@kiswritting I love this account so so much 10/10 smuts chefs kiss

HUSBAND JAMES husband! james x wife! reader smut, 18+ content, somno, sad stuff, angsty, mention of miscarraiges

LIVE IN BF live-in bf! james x live-in gf! reader 18+ content, mdni, unprotected sex, comfy sex, baby-trapping,

@wxnizz amazing fanfics omg

BITTERSWEET. smut Your bestfriend helps you get over your ex

FIGHT DIRTY smut +18 james agrees to play the role of your protective boyfriend, only for the arrangement to turn into a dangerous obsession you never intended to happen.

@thvgia awesome works !

WORST BEHAVIOUR smut ! james is insufferable. he’s truly the worst. with his snotty “don’t talk to me” attitude, and his dirty looks—you seem to be the only one he has a soft spot for.

@babyonette i love their fic cocktail baby, check out their masterlist !

COCKTAIL BABY smut. a night out never excites you much. same old shit happens, just different day. when your friend invites you out to a bar on a tuesday of all days, you reluctantly agree. you find out that the bartender there is one, the hottest guy you’ve ever seen, and two, apparently very into you.

@dearhyul ohyul works